Footprints on Zero Line

by Gulzar

  He would take the name of Allah with the same ease as he invoked Waheguru.

  Bebe would walk about the fort with her stick in one hand. Sometimes, her sons would tease her, ‘Bebe, it seems as though you were the queen of this fort in some previous birth! Perhaps it was you who had this fort built!’

  Tugging her dupatta tightly across her head, Bebe would say, ‘Of course! And all these people are my subjects!’

  Indeed, Bebe was like a queen!

  One day she walked up to the turret where Moni and Soni had set up their temporary kitchen.

  ‘How are you, beti? I see both of you going down every day. Do you go to the river bank?’ The river ran close by. People had begun to call the settlement near it the ‘utraai’.

  ‘No, Beeji, we take up whatever work we can find in the village at the back.’

  Moni picked up a canister and moved away. Soni kept talking to Bebe.

  ‘What work do you do?’

  ‘Anything, Ma, from washing clothes to scrubbing pots and pans, any kind of work…’

  ‘Do you make any money?’

  ‘They are poor people, Beeji; they don’t need servants. But sometimes they ask us to lend a hand with some odd job; or else sometimes they give us something just like that.’

  ‘Where are you from back there?’

  ‘Khorda zilla, Campbellpur. And you?’

  ‘We are from Dera Khail Khan. It is not far from Attock. Cambellpur was called Attock earlier.’

  Moni came back with the canister filled with water. As she set it down, she felt a sharp pain in her side.

  Bebe instantly asked, ‘Have you sprained your back? Come, let me rub it. You shouldn’t lift such heavy loads.’

  Then, looking towards Soni, she continued, ‘I have been observing the way she is walking; I know she’s pregnant. And that’s why I have come by. Don’t you have anyone with you?’

  The two sisters fell silent. Moni’s face was already pallid; it became more pale. Bebe understood.

  ‘I have given birth to nine sons, my dear. I know every inch of a woman’s body. I always wanted a daughter. But it wasn’t Waheguru’s wish.’

  In a muffled voice, Soni spoke up: ‘Your sons are with you? All of them?’

  ‘Three of them are here with me. Two have moved on ahead. Twelve to fourteen miles farther away there is a village in Kota; it’s called Alpha. I don’t quite know if it’s a village or a qasba. It’s named after some Englishman. They have gone to look at some land there. We used to farm back there too.’

  Gently rubbing Moni’s tummy, she asked: ‘Where is the father from?’

  Moni’s throat choked up; she couldn’t answer. But Soni lied. ‘He was killed in Khorda. Everyone was killed. We were saved by … by a truck driver … who … who was coming here with some refugees.’

  And Soni too choked up.

  Tapping her stick, Bebe climbed down from the turret and was lost in the fort.

  In the late afternoon, she returned. She said to Moni: ‘Look here, my child, if a woman is carrying her husband’s child in her womb she remains a suhagan, even after him. Here, wear this black thread around your neck; it’s a gold-plated cowrie. Consider it a mangalsutra and wear it. You are a married woman, not a widow.’ And turning an unmarried girl into a married woman, she went away.

  A strange sort of hide-and-seek began between Bebe and Moni. Before coming down the turret, Moni would peer to check if Bebe was strolling about. On her part, whenever Bebe would emerge from the western veranda, her eye would go straight to the turret. And in this hide-and-seek, one would always spot the other. Like all elderly ladies, Bebe would always offer some nugget of advice on the pregnancy or suggest some easily available home remedies. And she would always ask: ‘Do you feel like eating tart things? Shall I ask my son to get you some tamarind?’

  Moni would say neither yes nor no; she would just evade the issue.

  Once, when Bebe was sitting with them in the turret, Soni finally asked: ‘Why do you always enquire about tart things?’

  ‘If a woman hankers after tart things, they say, she will give birth to a daughter. I never wanted anything tart. Needlessly, I used to keep sending for tart star fruit and tamarind and keep eating those.’

  ‘But why, Bebe?’

  ‘See for yourself … I gave birth to nine sons. And the sons, in turn, had only sons. Our family is bereft of daughters. Never had any girls!’

  Bebe’s voice became a little muffled. She kept a hand on Moni’s shoulder and said: ‘Look here, Moni, if you give birth to a daughter, she is mine! I will raise her. I won’t take her away from you but I will be her grandmother. You can say what you want! But if it’s a boy, he’s yours. I have enough! You can shower all your love on him.’

  Bebe became teary-eyed. She got up and went away. Moni’s heart too became heavy. For the first time, she moved her hand over her belly and smiled.

  Soni felt very good.

  The Englishman that Bebe was talking about lived about twelve to fourteen miles away from Bundi. His house was burnt down during the Partition riots. It was said that the same people who had raised the saffron flag over Bundi Fort had set fire to the Englishman’s house. The Englishman was a big landowner; he owned about 100 acres of land in the village of Alpha. His workers and farmers were shareholders in his land. He had made this regulation himself and followed it. When British rule was coming to an end, he declared himself an Indian and began to claim the rights of an Indian citizen. People say that he would get up at night, mount his horse and inspect his lands – like the kings of olden times who would travel about their lands to find out how their subjects were faring. And how he loved his crops!

  But he failed to survive the riots. His home and hearth, his livestock – everything was looted. He could not bear to see his crops on fire. Like a madman he ran into the burning fields and was reduced to ashes.

  Afterwards, while the land was liberated, the famers and workers fell out among themselves. They sold whatever they could claim as their share and ran away.

  Punjab was not far away. The farmers and zamindars who had come from the other Punjab began to grab the land in these parts.

  Two of Bebe’s sons bought a large tract of land and set themselves up like the zamindars of yore. There was a broken-down old-fashioned haveli in the middle of the fields; they bought that too. Then they sent for Bebe to come and live with them.

  When the news reached Bebe, she immediately went up to the turret. Tapping her stick on the floor, she declared: ‘The two of you have to come with me!’

  A new practice had started since the Partition: of getting a house by making a token down payment called pagdi. Those who had managed to get away from that side with some money were now renting houses by paying in hard cash. They would even get rid of old tenants.

  Indeed, Bebe was the matriarch of a very big family. Her sons would give pagdi and set up houses in the villages along the fields. She was the head of this large clan. There was a lot of work to be done to cultivate the barren fields. Everyone was finding work. Bebe’s sons got a house for Soni and Moni in the village and set them up as their tenants.

  No matter where Moni was during the day, no matter what she did, she had to meet Bebe at least once every day. If, for some reason, she couldn’t go, Bebe would come to their house, tapping her stick.

  ‘You are sure to have a girl! The way you stomp your left foot when you walk…’

  Bebe was convinced. It would be a girl. Moni’s womb was filling up bit by bit. Sometimes she would get irritated and tell Soni, ‘I will sell her to a pimp!’

  ‘Give her to Bebe if you don’t want her.’

  One reason for coming away from Bundi with Bebe was precisely this. By now Moni had convinced herself that the baby in her womb was her dead husband’s. It wouldn’t matter what she looked like; after all, no one had seen her husband.

  But Bebe was convinced: ‘The girl will take after her mother. She will be even more beautiful than you!
’

  Bebe used the word ‘beautiful’ as though she had found it in a sacred book. ‘She will cause no end of trouble to all my grandchildren,’ she said and laughed.

  The night that the pains started, Bebe sat beside Moni all night long. Someone had fetched an old midwife from the village. She was a decrepit old woman. She could barely see but she had the most nimble hands. She had experience on her fingertips.

  Moni gave birth to a son…

  Bebe’s heart sank. Her eyes became moist. She said: ‘Waheguru is still angry with me.’

  Moni’s breasts welled up so much that she forgot she was an unmarried girl. She used to look at her son with eyes wide open, wonderstruck, as though she were watching a miracle. God knows where the anger and hatred with which she used to once beat her belly melted away. The poison turned into nectar in her breasts … or had she given birth to the blue-throated Shiva, who drank it all up!

  Bebe would keep coming by to check on them. Her affection hadn’t lessened. While she wasn’t as well off as she must have once been, she brought a silver spoon for the newborn baby. ‘When the first seed is sown in the fields, I will have your son’s naming ceremony in the gurudwara,’ she announced.

  The subject of the name came up every day. One day, quite out of the blue, Bebe asked: ‘What was your husband’s name?’

  Moni was already restless. She looked at Soni surreptitiously. Soni answered: ‘Tirlok Singh.’

  And instantly, Bebe said, ‘That’s it then! Keep that name. You will earn a place in all three worlds.’

  Neither sister understood what this meant but both nodded their head in agreement.

  Everyone began to call the boy ‘Loki’. He had extremely thick hair and his eyes were a shade of grey. His features didn’t quite resemble Moni but the thick hair made him look like a Tirlok Singh.

  As Loki grew, so did people’s attachment to him. Moni and Soni would work in the fields while Loki would play beside Bebe.

  Loki’s hair began to grow long. Bebe was very fond of braiding his hair and tying it in a bun on top of his head. When he began to walk on wobbly legs, she started taking him to the gurudwara. She would show him to her two sons who had had their hair chopped off.

  Once, Soni laughingly whispered in Moni’s ear: ‘Cut his hair; he will get lice. All Sikhs do.’

  ‘He is a Gur Sikh,’ Moni replied. ‘Why should I cut his hair? And if I do cut his hair, Bebe will have my head chopped off!’

  But then Moni did a very strange thing one day. She got a comb and a pair of scissors and chopped off his hair. She combed his hair this way and that and kept looking at his face closely. When Soni suddenly entered the room, she said, ‘See, Soni, his face looks like him. Doesn’t he look exactly like the man who used to rape us every day?’

  There was a madness in her eyes. Soni was scared.

  ‘You are mad … go away!’ Soni picked Loki up and went out.

  Bebe saw Loki’s hair cut short and turned her face away. She cried a great deal.

  Soni tried to explain. ‘God knows what got into her! The hair will grow back, Bebe, don’t cry.’

  All Bebe said was, ‘Waheguru is angry with me.’

  Moni didn’t set foot near Bebe after this incident. But Soni could see the madness in Moni’s eyes.

  Moni would keep staring at Loki. The poor innocent boy would run to her crying, ‘Ma … Ma…’

  And then one day all hell broke loose.

  Loki’s dead body was discovered in the well on the western field. Moni was nowhere to be found.

  The police came. Soni was taken away for questioning. The thanedar sahab filed the report but did not allow Soni to return home. He was convinced her sister would come looking for her. She couldn’t have absconded. And indeed that’s exactly what happened!

  Three or four days later a few policemen brought a hungry, emaciated, desolate-looking Moni to the police station. That mad frenzy was still in her eyes.

  When Soni approached her, Moni pushed her away. The policemen dragged her towards the lock-up. All Soni could do was cry.

  Eventually, the thanedar let Soni go, but where could she go? Once when she did go back home, all of Alpha Nagar seemed strange and distant. No one was willing to come close to her. Bebe refused to meet her. Two days later, when she returned to the police station, the thanedar told her that Moni had been sent to Kota Central Jail. She was showing signs of madness.

  With just a dupatta over her head and a pair of slippers on her feet, God knows how Soni managed to reach Kota.

  A window-like door opened in a gigantic doorway. A soldier stood on either side of it.

  ‘I have to meet the Jailor Sahab.’

  ‘What do you want from him?’

  ‘I want to meet my sister.’

  ‘Do you have an order or permit?’

  No one let her enter. Sometimes the Jailor Sahab’s jeep would come out and then go back in. She could only guess that this must be the Jailor Sahab. She would come close, fold her hands and say, ‘Salaam sahab!’ and he would go back in. Jailor Sahab saw her at the same spot for several days. She would be sitting propped up against the wall, looking exhausted. He asked one of his men to bring her in. Jailor Sahab had his quarters inside the jail. He had only one servant, named Yusuf, in the house; his wife and children lived in Aligarh.

  He questioned her when she came in, and that was when he understood that all this while when she had been saying ‘Salaam sahab!’ she had not been calling him by his name! Jailor Sahab laughed out loud. His name was Abdul Salaam Quraishi!

  Soni was weak with exhaustion. Jailor Sahab asked Yusuf to bring her some water. Then he gave her something to eat. That evening when he sat in the lawn and heard her entire story, he felt as though someone had wrung his heart.

  Moni was a murderer. He needed an order from someone higher up if Soni was to meet Moni. But after a day’s hesitation, Salaam sahab took this responsibility upon himself. He put Soni in his jeep and took her to meet Moni. He drove the jeep himself.

  Moni was kept in solitary confinement. There was a veranda outside her cell. A woman constable went inside to tell her that her sister had come to visit her. But Moni refused to come out.

  ‘I don’t want to meet her.’

  ‘She’s standing outside.’

  ‘Let her.’

  Soni could hear the exchange.

  The constable came out. Soni went to stand beside the bars of the door. She peered inside. Moni was sitting curled up against the wall. She turned to look at Soni and then slowly got up and came near the door. The madness hadn’t quite left her eyes. With great patience, Soni asked her: ‘Moni, do you know what you have done?’

  Bitterly, she answered: ‘Yes…’ She paused before adding, ‘He killed so many Hindus in Campbellpur. So what if I have killed one small Musalman?’

  Salaam sahab was driving the jeep. He was travelling from Kota to Alpha Nagar with Soni. They were going to find out if Loki was still lying in some morgue or whether someone had buried him.

  Kuldip Nayar and Pir Sahab

  IT WAS a Friday, the evening of 14 August 1998, and I was travelling in a car towards Wagah border with Kuldip Nayar.

  Nayar sahab has been doing this for years. He reaches Wagah in the evening of 14 August, along with some writers, artists and intellectuals; and during the change of guards when the flags of both countries are lowered, he and his companions raise slogans for Indo-Pak friendship. At midnight, when the date changes, they light candles to usher in the dawn of freedom.

  It was a long straight road. Dusk was falling.

  Nayar sahab was telling me, ‘If this road were to continue in the same straight way, with no gate and no obstacle, no one to ask for your visa and no one to see your passport, and if I could return after wandering around Pakistan, what would I rob from that country? There is no shortage of robbers in this country, or that. There is no need for robbers to come from outside.’ And then, after a pause, he continued, ‘After all, that is
my land too! A big part of me still lives there!’

  There must have been a question in my eyes, for he said: ‘My school is there, the madrasa I went to, my teacher Dina Nath and Maulvi Muhammad Ismail, my primer for “Aleph, Be…”, my schoolbag – everything is there. My roots are there; I only cut my branches and brought them along with me…’

  Nayar sahab’s voice quivered. That day he mentioned Sialkot several times – where his home used to be.

  ‘Uncles and aunts from my father’s side had their houses close by. There was a huge open space in front of our house; it had no wall demarcating it as an enclosure. A little ahead, the other houses started. There was so much land that no one needed to grab other people’s land. A large dense peepal tree stood on one side of this open space; it was closest to our house. There was a grave under the tree; no one knew who was buried in it. But our mother had dinned it into our heads that it was the grave of “Pir sahab”.

  ‘Mother used to put the vermillion used in puja on the tree and place a diya on the grave. After which she would wipe her vermillion-smeared finger on the grave. She would offer the aarti to the tree, sending the light from the diya towards it, and then leave the diya on the crumbling edge of the grave. The same bhog that was offered to the peepal would be offered to Pir sahab. If something happened in our home that upset her, she would go and sit under the peepal, her back resting against its trunk, and talk to her Pir-ji. Sometimes she would cry too. And having thus lightened her sorrows, she would get up and come home. She would bring Pir sahab along. Thanks to her, Pir sahab could never find mukti!

  ‘During my examinations, I remember, she would tell me to leave the house only after bowing my head in obeisance at his grave. It could be examinations, festivals, sorrows or joys, small occasions or big occasions – Pir sahab was included in everything!’

  Sometimes Nayar sahab uses very colloquial Punjabi words. Now he was saying, ‘If you needed an answer to something, Pir sahab would be asked. We never got an answer but Mother always received some signs. Sometimes she would even say that he had come in her dreams and given her an answer.’