by Gulzar
Kanta, the daughter-in-law, overheard their conversation. As it is, she lived in fear and now her blood ran cold. Somehow, she managed to disappear into the night with her son.
Tiwari and his wife searched high and low at every ashram and gurudwara, but found no trace of her. Fearing shame, they did not utter a word about it.
One day, Tiwari went looking for Chandu at the adda and came across Fauji.
‘There’s some stuff I want to send out,’ Tiwari said.
Fauji asked him, ‘What is it?’
‘Some people will go. I may go myself.’
‘In the truck?’
‘There will be some baggage as well.’
‘Where to?’
‘Meerut.’
Fauji found it fishy and chanced his luck. ‘Will get you to Delhi … I’ll take ten thousand. How many passengers?’
‘Hmph!’ said Tiwari, before he stormed away.
Once again, Fauji was filled with a strange foreboding.
Painti-Chhatti came up with another piece of explosive news.
‘Do you know what’s going on in your neighbourhood? All the Hindu men in Meeran village have been circumcised. All of them have turned Sunnis.’
No one wanted to believe this, but Painti-Chhatti put his hand over his heart and said, ‘I swear. First, they got together and formed a peace committee. There were just a few Hindu households. Everyone was called to the masjid and told, “See, we don’t want any violence here. We will protect you as best we can, but we are in the midst of madness. We are being pressured to mark houses belonging to Hindus. We have said that all Hindus have left. And those remaining have converted to Islam. Now, before they come for your lives, all you have to do is prove you are Musalman.”’
Pali asked, ‘So?’
‘So what? All agreed.’
‘And the women? What proof will they have?’ Pali asked.
Lakhbeera threw his shoe at him. ‘Oye, you son of a bitch, enough! Don’t you know where to stop? This is no joke. I hear a lot is happening on the other side too. The sardars have wreaked havoc!’
Painti-Chhatti said, ‘They have done no less. In fact, we hear that they have massacred a train full of people and sent it to Lahore from Amritsar. Even the rail tracks are red with blood.’
A deep silence descended over the gathering. Painti-Chhatti said again, ‘It’s not really the neighbours who kill, it’s their associates who do it. I have seen gangs of people wandering around. It’s almost as if they have been specifically engaged for this … to set fire, murder, loot. On top of this, they get money.’
‘Who gives them money?’
‘Those who receive what is looted. Committees have been set up. Wait and watch. These are the very people who will rule over us. These are the people who go from place to place spreading terror. They abduct women from the camps.’
‘Camps?’ a few chorused. ‘What camps?’
Painti-Chhatti kept moving around restlessly, gathering news and rumours alike. There was not a single day he was not on the road between Campbellpur and Rawalpindi. G.T. Road was growing more dangerous by the day, so he used bypasses that went through villages, small towns and cities. Grain markets continued to function; in fact, they witnessed frenzied business. If he had a slow day, he would grow restless to take to the road. The turbulence all around made him anxious. In his travels, he witnessed things he could not come to terms with. This was an aspect of humanity he had ever expected to see.
The year ’47 had dawned. The political climate was changing, and the situation on the ground was getting worse. As the date for Independence neared, freedom seemed more and more distant.
Here and there, military trucks were seen on the roads. People hoped that the army would help them cross the border. Those who had decided to leave began to gather together. Camps with barbed-wire fences were being set up for them.
Lakhbeera asked, ‘But who is organizing food for them?’
‘No one.’
Characteristically, Pritpal responded, ‘So?’
‘So, nothing! People from nearby villages distribute food and water. When one is hungry, caste, community and religion cease to matter. They are running from the very people who now feed them!’
Lakhbeera got up thoughtfully to attend to an errand inside. As he came out, he heard Hameed’s loud voice booming, arguing about jhatka and halal. Pali must have said something. He had the habit of instigating people. But when Lakhbeera came out and joined them, Hameed fell silent. Pali turned away.
That night, as Pali lay asleep on a charpai outside his shack, Hameed chopped his head off with one blow of a cleaver. No one in the city saw him after that.
Fear gripped Campbellpur like never before. So far turbulent, the town came to a standstill. Fear crippled everyone. Disturbing news started to pour from the other side of the city as well.
The piece of meat had dislodged from Fauji’s tooth. He advised Lakhbeera, ‘You must go away for a few days.’
‘Where?’
‘The other side!’
‘I have no one there. Everyone I know is here.’
Fauji said thoughtfully, ‘God knows where Hameed has gone. Lock up your dhaba and liquor shop and come. I’ll drop you off at Ujagar Singh’s. This is going to get worse.’
Lakhbeera found this reasonable, but it made him think: What can Hindustan offer me? Why should I leave my country for another? If Pakistan, so be it – this is my country.
The next day, Rai Bahadur Des Raj asked Fauji, ‘So, Faujdar, have you thought about … when should we leave?’
Fauji had decided. ‘Ji, let’s leave the day after, on Jumma … Friday.’
Lala Des Raj came closer and said, ‘Of course, there’s some baggage too, and I, along with my family, wish to leave this place. We’ll return after things settle down…’ He lowered his voice a little. ‘The situation doesn’t appear to be good at all … and there is no question of going by bus or train. It’s no longer one or two people, they are slaughtering trainloads. I don’t feel confident travelling by car either. I can think of no other way.’
‘How many are you?’
‘There will be my wife, daughter, son and me.’
Fauji tried to be as gentle as he could. ‘I know it may be difficult, but please don’t bring too much luggage. I have three or four more people to take along.’
Rai Bahadur hesitated a little. ‘Okay … who else?’
Before Lala-ji could say anything else, Fauji said, ‘They are leaving out of fear too. Look at the situation! I know some of them. And the truck belongs to Ujagar Singh. You know that. I’ll hand it over to him and come back. We must leave the rest to Allah…’
Lakhbeera brought news that Tiwari had come.
‘Really? What did he say?’
‘He’s ready to go to the other side. And he is also willing to give you the money you asked for.’
‘I had only mentioned it in passing. He’s Chandu’s man.’
‘He left an advance too. Here, look!’ Lakhbeera showed him a bundle of notes and said, ‘He’s not short of money – he’s a big wholesaler.’
Fauji placed his hands on Lakhbeera’s shoulders gently. ‘You haven’t said anything so far. If you come, we will go. There are some other people too. Or else, I stay with you. And from today, you will stay at my place, not at the dhaba.’
Lakhbeera agreed. ‘That incident with Pali left me … shaken. Let’s go … It seems even my dhaba’s days are numbered. We’ll take a call when we come back!’
When he tried handing over the money, Fauji pushed it firmly into Lakhbeera’s pocket.
‘Keep it. There’ll be more soon.’
That night, on the terrace, Fauji and Lakhbeera lay awake for a long time, watching the stars. Suddenly, Fauji asked, ‘Beere, tell me, what is freedom? Where does it come from? For whom?’
These questions were too profound for Lakhbeera. At length, he said, ‘The news about our departure has spread.’
‘People
have grown extra ears. They hear you even if you whisper into your pillow.’
Silence descended again. Fauji did not ask who had said what. At some point, they drifted into sleep. The sky above went its way, the earth below, its own.
The sun was yet to rise when the city woke up to a hushed hum. Many people made their way to the rooftops.
Muffled noises broke the silence. A long caravan of people walked along the city’s roads. Bundles on their heads, boxes on shoulders, children in their arms and dragging the elderly along. These people were leaving their land. Overnight, they had been assigned a new country.
While those leaving were terrified into silence, those watching were choked with emotion. Only footfalls echoed in the silence of the night.
Fauji saw them and so did Lakhbeera as they looked down. Umar Sheikh and his family were also on the roof of their house. Master Karam Singh watched too, with his daughter-in-law and son, all still as statues.
Nobody called out to anyone. No eyes met. People kept mushrooming on terraces, watching in silent remorse. It was hard to believe the unfolding tableau. Was this the face of freedom? Did freedom entail such trauma?
Master Karam Singh’s faith lay shattered. He spent the day chopping wood in the courtyard. Nobody stopped him. Neither Avtar Singh, nor his bahu. Both knew he was wrestling with himself. He only stopped to feed Bhuri. Once, he said to Avtar, ‘No one has brought your bebe. Maybe all of this is going on there too.’ Then he muttered to himself, ‘Ever since the World War started … Fazal used to say, doomsday is upon us. Now, I believe him.’
Restless, Karam Singh left the house for some time that day. When he returned, his face was pale and his lips were trembling. He called Bahu and said, ‘The city is shrouded in a deathly silence … wonder if it’s the lull before the storm. Beta, carefully put aside whatever money and valuables we have. Everybody is gathering at Jajhar Gurudwara. Perhaps from there…’ his voice choked as he said this, ‘some kafila will start moving, like the one we saw today. Or if the military men come, trucks may be used to get people out. Only Waheguru knows what’s in store!’ His voice faltered. He went inside, picked up a khes, spread it over Bhuri and left with the buffalo.
Satya asked, ‘Where are you headed?’
‘I’ll be back. Tell Avtar that Gyani-ji has asked everyone to gather at the chowk at dawn tomorrow. After the kirtan, we will all leave for the gurudwara.’
‘But where are you going with Bhuri, Bhapa-ji?’
‘We can’t abandon this helpless creature, beta. I’ll leave her with someone.’
The day grew darker; evening fell as if the heavens had thrown a net over the earth. The call of the azaan broke the silence. Once, this had been a calming sound. Master-ji would close his eyes and fold his hands. Now, he was gripped by fear. Earlier, he knew that the faithful were being called to worship in the masjid. Now, who knew why they were being summoned. The roads lay vacant. As he went through the bazaar, he saw some people sitting around the oven at Nanbai’s bakery. Some people craned their necks to see where he was taking the buffalo.
Master-ji turned into a lane.
Within the lane, in another gali, was Master Fazal’s house. Master-ji stood at the door for some time. His hand went up to knock, then fell to his side on its own. He tied the buffalo to the doorknob and left. After a while, when the buffalo moved, the door shook. Master Fazal opened the door and was surprised to see the animal. He lifted the khes and saw what was written on the animal’s back with a chalk: ‘I am sorry. I’m leaving Pakistan in your custody.’
In the morning, when Avtar Singh and his wife were ready to leave for the chowk, they discovered that Bhapa-ji was nowhere to be seen. They called out for him. Avtar said, ‘Could he have gone to Umar Sheikh’s place?’
‘How is that possible? It was from his rooftop last night that there were calls of “Allah hu Akbar”.’
Satya suddenly remembered. ‘Oh, he has gone to fetch Beeji.’
That is why he had been asking about Phajju, the man with the bullock cart.
At the Ghantaghar Chowk, Sikhs and Hindus had already gathered, carrying their little trunks. Most people were carrying bundles. Kirtan had commenced. Women, men and children … all were present. Their devotional chants spoke of unity, but their hearts pulsed with fear and anger. Their faces were clouded with sorrow. Five nihangs in saffron turbans stood in the front, holding naked swords. When the procession started moving towards the gurudwara, Avtar and his wife, carrying two small bundles, almost ran to join them.
At the same chowk, on the other side of the Ghantaghar, stood Fauji’s truck. His passengers had arrived, carrying a huge amount of luggage including gold wall clocks, silver utensils and much more.
He explained to them patiently, ‘Lala-ji, to carry this kind of baggage would mean inviting looters. People will not let us leave with all this. News has travelled ahead of us. Leave as poor travellers. Save your lives, that should be enough.’
Though he addressed Lala-ji, everyone present got the message. Some boxes were opened. A few bundles were repacked. Whatever was left behind was arranged properly and, god knows why, covered with a sheet. Lala-ji got in with his wife and two children. They had placed two trunks there earlier. When Lala Des Raj saw Panna with a small trunk and a bundle, he avoided making eye contact and hoped that no one saw Panna’s silent greeting. Only she had that special way of showing courtesy.
Seeing Kanta and Guddu, his grandson, Tiwari called Fauji aside and asked: ‘How have the mother and child landed here? From where did they get so much money?’
Fauji asked him, ‘Isn’t she your bahu?’
He refused point-blank. ‘No, ji. She is dead … but this one…’
Fauji cleared the confusion: ‘Umar Sheikh paid a good amount and said, help her cross the border and my Haj will be done. She is like my daughter, he said.’
Kanta and Guddu got on to the truck, somewhat frightened. Tiwari’s wife had already found a place.
Tiwari asked, ‘Shall I sit in front with you, Fauji?’
‘No, my friend will sit there. Lakhbeera! Come now, climb up. Let’s go … in the name of Allah.’
Winter was on its way out but the breeze still had a nip. The morning air was especially biting. Wrapped up in shawls and sheets, all of them resembled the bundles they were carrying. Only their heads peeped out. Their eyes were tearful. Some for leaving their motherland behind, others, perhaps, their valuables. It is not easy to leave behind one’s roots. Not knowing when, where or if at all they would grow new ones. They had seen branches fallen from trees, withering away in the dust.
With each mile, the hope that they would ever return began to recede.
Still, Rai Bahadur asked his wife, ‘Hope you didn’t leave the keys of the kothi at the chowk?’
The wife shook her head. ‘No, they are with me.’
It took the truck one-and-a-half hours to get out of the city. They saw no other truck on the way. A horse rider came into view at a distance. And then a bullock cart appeared, rattling along on its way. There was a strange kind of loneliness. No one spoke.
Lakhbeera was uncharacteristically quiet too. He surveyed the surroundings wide-eyed. Once, he glanced through the small rectangular window at the back of the driver’s cabin. There was no movement at the back. Both of Lala Des Raj’s children were asleep. Nine or ten years of age, his daughter looked older; on the other hand, his older son looked just nine or ten! His spectacles had slipped down from his nose. Panna’s eyes were closed but she was awake. Guddu lay sleeping in Kanta’s lap and Kanta was looking at the sky. It was only Tiwari whose eyes were fixed on Kanta. His wife was now beginning to doze off.
Fauji stopped the truck at a crossing. Lala-ji sat up, alert. Lakhbeera looked around. Fauji made a decision. ‘We’ll go via Moosa Khail. If all goes well, we will get on to G.T. Road ahead.’ The truck started to move again.
Rai Bahadur heard this, or gathered what was intended. He raised himself up on his knees,
peeped through the window and said, ‘Fauji, drive down the by-lanes to Miyanwali. It is better to go through small towns. There’s more danger in big cities.’
Fauji nodded and Des Raj sat down again.
They had only journeyed an hour or two before the sun was directly overhead. Though its warmth was soothing, the light exposed them all. Villages around them too became visible.
This was when a minor incident occurred. The truck was lumbering ahead on an uneven road when they saw a small caravan of people at some distance across the fields. Their turbans and attire made it obvious that they were Hindus. All together they must have been about a hundred or so. Fauji parked the truck behind a few trees. Just then, a ten-year-old Sikh boy came running. He was holding the hand of an old man, perhaps his grandfather. Fauji stepped out of the truck. The boy raised his hand on seeing him and shouted, ‘O bhai, are you going towards the border?’
This word ‘border’ had become rather common. Another word that was often heard these days was ‘refugee’. As the boy came closer, he repeated his question, adding, ‘Take my baba, he can’t walk any farther.’
Fauji asked, ‘And you? How will you go?’
Innocent desperation masked his face. ‘If there’s space, I’ll come too.’
‘And if not?’
‘I will … with those people there…’ He pointed to the caravan in the distance.
Fauji pulled down the plank at the back of the truck. ‘Come along, beta … climb up.’
The boy said to Baba, who was barely able to stand with the help of a stick: ‘Come, Baba … get into the truck.’
‘And your father and mother? Where are they?’ asked Fauji.
‘They were both killed by those people. They’d have killed me as well but Dada hid me among the buffalo’s fodder. And they did not do anything to Dada.’ The boy said this mechanically, almost as if he were reading out an essay. There wasn’t a trace of emotion in his voice.
