Footprints on Zero Line

by Gulzar

  A few people insisted on meeting the chaudhrain. She spoke to them with great patience: ‘Bhai, this was his last wish. The body is nothing but dust after all; burn it or bury it. Why should you object if his soul finds solace in cremation?’

  A certain gentleman grew especially agitated. He asked: ‘Will burning him bring solace to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ the chaudhrain answered briefly. ‘Fulfilling his last wish will bring me solace.’

  As the day progressed so did the chaudhrain’s anxiety. The task she wished to accomplish with accord and agreement was becoming prolonged and protracted. There was no complicated plot or mystery or secret behind the chaudhry’s wish. Nor was there a philosophy aligned to a particular religion or belief system. It was a simple, straightforward human desire: that not a single trace of him should remain after his death.

  ‘I am till I am; I won’t be when I cease to be.’

  Years ago, he had said this to his wife, but who has the time to go into such matters in any detail in one’s life. The chaudhry, however, had written it down in his will. Ensuring that his wish was fulfilled was, for the chaudhrain, proof of her love and loyalty. After all, it isn’t as though one should forget all one’s promises as soon as the person goes away.

  The chaudhrain tried to send Biru to fetch Pandit Ram Chandar but the pandit could not be found. His colleague said, ‘Look here, bhai, we must put tilak and recite mantras before burning the chaudhry.’

  ‘Arre bhai, how can you change the religion of a dead person?’

  ‘Don’t argue too much. We can’t set fire to a pyre without reciting shlokas from the Gita. If we don’t do that, the soul doesn’t find release. And if a soul does not find release, the restless soul will trouble all of us: it will torment you and me. We are deeply indebted to chaudhry sahab. We can’t do this to his soul.’

  Biru went away.

  Panna spotted Biru emerging from the pandit’s house. He went inside the mosque and informed the congregation.

  The fire that had almost died out flared up again. Four or five respected Musalman went so far as to announce their decision in unequivocal terms. They were especially indebted to the chaudhry; they could not bear to let his soul wander. They gave instructions for a grave to be dug in the graveyard behind the mosque.

  By the time evening fell, some more people gathered at the haveli. They had decided that the chaudhrain had to be intimidated, the chaudhry’s will had to be taken from her and burnt; without the will, what could the old woman do?

  Perhaps, the chaudhrain had sensed this. She hid the will, and when people tried to scare and bully her, she told them: ‘Ask Mullah Khairuddin; he has seen the will and read all of it.’

  ‘What if he denies it?’

  ‘If he places his hand on the Holy Quran and denies it, I will show it; otherwise…’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  ‘Or else you can see it in court.’

  That the matter could reach the court now became clear. It could even be that the chaudhrain would send for her lawyer, and the police, from the city. She could call the police and, in their presence, ensure that her decision was carried through. But what if she had already called them! For, how else could she put her husband’s corpse on slabs of ice and talk with such self-assurance?

  At night, news spreads like wildfire. Someone said: ‘A man has just been spotted going towards the city on a horse. The rider had swathed his head and face with cloth, and he was seen coming out of the chaudhry’s haveli.’

  One man had even seen the rider coming out of the chaudhry’s stable.

  According to Khadu, he had not just heard the wood being chopped in the haveli’s backyard but had also seen trees being felled.

  Without doubt, the chaudhrain was making arrangements for a pyre to be lit in her backyard. It made Kallu’s blood boil.

  ‘You cowards! A Musalman will be burnt on a pyre tonight and all of you will sit around watching the flames.’

  Kallu leapt out. Killing and bloodshed was his profession, but so what? After all, faith too counts for something.

  ‘Friends, not even one’s mother can be dearer than one’s faith.’

  Accompanied by four or five of his comrades, Kallu entered the haveli by scaling its rear wall. The old woman sat alone beside the corpse. Kallu’s axe sliced her head before she had time to react.

  They picked the chaudhry’s corpse and set off towards the rear of the mosque, where a grave had been dug. As they walked, Ramza asked, ‘What will happen when the chaudhrain’s body is found in the morning?’

  ‘Is the old woman dead?’

  ‘Her head has been split; she is unlikely to survive till morning.’

  Kallu paused and looked at the chaudhrain’s bedroom. Panna understood what was in Kallu’s mind.

  ‘Carry on, ustad; I know exactly what you are thinking. Everything will be taken care of.’

  Kallu carried on towards the graveyard.

  That night when the flames from the chaudhry’s bedroom leapt up to touch the skies, the entire qasba was filled with smoke.

  The living had been cremated.

  And the dead had been buried.

  Rams*

  SACHETGARH IS a tiny hamlet; it is on this side, in India. Sialkot is a large bustling town; it is on that side, in Pakistan.

  Captain Shaheen is a handsome retired army man; he lives in New York. He runs a restaurant named ‘Kashmir’. His office looks like a bunker at a battlefront. Its roof is festooned with a lattice of plastic leaves. Army caps hang on one side. Military-style boots litter the floor, and a uniform hangs on one wall.

  Amjad Islam Amjad, a well-known Urdu writer and poet from Pakistan, had invited me for lunch to this restaurant. And Vakil Ansari had come to take me there. He is from that side but he keeps inviting all the Urdu poets and writers from this side. In this way, he indulges his great love for Urdu.

  He had organized a celebration of the works of Gopichand Narang, an eminent Urdu litterateur from India, in several cities in America. He owns a hotel which is his source of income. Sardar Jafri from this side and Ahmed Faraz from that side have often stayed at his home. Vakil Ansari’s favourite statement is: ‘Life has been reduced to being like teetar-batair.’ Or else sometimes, ‘We are nothing but teetar-batair.’ It is a very original statement. I have never heard or read it anywhere – neither on this side, nor that!

  When inviting me to Captain Shaheen’s restaurant, Amjad Bhai had said, ‘If it’s Eastern food you are looking for in New York, you won’t find a better place than Shaheen’s.’ Amjad Bhai exercises enormous caution with his words; he does not call it Indian or Pakistani cuisine. In fact, he doesn’t even call it ‘Punjabi food’. Instead, he calls it ‘Eastern food’. And he goes to great lengths to avoid the word ‘Kashmir’.

  But Captain Shaheen, like all army men, is a courageous man. With a laugh, he said, ‘Both sides lay a claim over Kashmir. And that is why our restaurant is doing so well.’

  For some reason, he had resigned from the army in a huff. But he is still proud of having served in the army. ‘Had I stayed on for another month, I would have retired as a major, but I liked the prefix “captain” before my name.’

  He had fought in the 1971 war. And as he told us, ‘All the action had taken place in Bengal during that war. There were only minor skirmishes along the Punjab border.’ And he was involved in the action in a front in the Sialkot sector.

  He had grown a slight beard now and, while talking, had the habit of constantly patting his moustache.

  I asked, ‘What is the one emotion that makes a man a soldier?’

  ‘It’s a matter of style … the uniform has a glory of its own, and the cap spells rank … everything combines to give a man a certain personality. There is no desire to kill another or take a life…’ He laughed and then continued, ‘Our fight – India’s and Pakistan’s – is hardly a fight. We fight like schoolchildren … twisting an arm here or bumping a knee there, breaking someone’s s
late here or snatching the other’s slate there, poking someone with a nib here or spilling ink on the other there. Do you remember how we used to run from school to watch the fighting rams? Surely you must have gone too?’

  He seemed to be an extremely down-to-earth person. There was an incredible honesty in the way he spoke. I must have asked him something, because he said, ‘In the beginning, even a soldier is scared but after you have fired two or three bullets, you feel neither fear nor panic. When bullets are fired, the air is suffused with the smell of gunpowder. At the front, that smell gives you a high. And if the bullets don’t fly for a while, the spell can break. It isn’t necessary for the bullets to hit anyone.’ He paused, before continuing, ‘If a man becomes familiar with fear, it doesn’t remain a fear.’

  I felt as though he was saying that it was simply a matter of becoming familiar with death at the battlefront. It will happen when it happens.

  He went on, ‘In the beginning, when we are being trained, and our knees and elbows get scraped as we crawl on the ground, we wonder whether we should continue in this job or quit. But when you commit a mistake and your brigadier shouts at you and makes you stand up and asks you, “Where are you from? Speak up!”, believe me, the name of your village or your province doesn’t come to your lips. You feel such shame!’

  Perhaps, in the years ahead, that becomes a matter of honour for the soldier.

  Captain Shaheen continued, ‘Sachetgarh is a tiny village on that side, a village with a handful of houses. It had almost emptied out long ago, being so close to the front; those who had stayed too fled once we reached there. But it was necessary to inspect every house. If an area falls in your hands without a fight, there’s always the likelihood of the enemy having played some trick.’

  Captain Shaheen also told us that there is quite a bit of difference in the temperament of the people on this side and that.

  ‘It’s the same Punjab, but both the civilian and the soldier on this side are aggressive, whereas those on the other side are more cool-headed. The farms and villages and fields on that side extend right up to the border. On our side, we set up our check posts or settle our villages at least 200 to 300 yards from the border. Small groups of about five or six soldiers patrol up and down the border on both sides. Sometimes they are so close to each other that one can light the cigarette for another on the other side.

  ‘Most of the soldiers on this side are Punjabis, whereas on the other side you find mostly non-Punjabis. Yet the ones on this side usually call out and ask the ones on the other side: “Where are you from, bhai?”

  ‘If it is a Madrasi, he usually answers in English; or else usually one gets to hear an Urdu-like Hindi. After gaining control over Sachetgarh, I was searching the houses along with four or five soldiers when, upon pushing open the door of a shed, we spotted a scared boy crouching in a corner. The soldiers called me, “Sir-ji!”

  ‘The boy leapt and ran to hug me the moment I reached there. The soldiers pulled him away. I didn’t know what to do. When I asked about his mother and father, he couldn’t give any answer. He was terror-stricken and trembling. I told him to run away, but he didn’t. I put him in the jeep and took him to the last check post. I gave him food, set up a makeshift bed on the floor and told him to sleep. I told the soldiers not to say anything about the boy to anybody. Strictly speaking, he was our prisoner of war. It was my duty to inform my headquarters and have him sent to prison along with the other captives. But there was something about his innocent eyes; I couldn’t bear the thought of making him suffer in any way.

  ‘The next afternoon, I took off my military badges and went to that same village. There was a field a short distance away from the village. In the distance, I saw an elderly Sikh washing his hands and face at a tube-well. I called out, “Oye, Sardara, come here!”, and gestured to him to come closer. He came, wiping his face with the free end of his turban.

  ‘I asked him, “You didn’t go away?”

  ‘With great surprise he said, “Where?”

  ‘Everyone has left the village and gone … why haven’t you?

  ‘He lifted his hand and taunted: “I had left my village on that side, with you. Have you come to take my fields now?”

  ‘The sardar was looking angry. To pacify him, I said, “A seven- or eight-year-old boy from Sachetgarh has come to my side. His mother and father have possibly fled from this village.”

  ‘“So?”

  ‘“If I bring him here, will you take him to his parents?”

  ‘The sardar looked thoughtful. After a long time, he shook his head. “All right.”

  ‘I said, “I will come at five in the evening. I will bring him along.”

  ‘I had never seen such laughter bursting forth from behind such yellowing teeth. The sardar laughed as he said, “Let him go; take me instead. My village is on that side … ahead of Sialkot … Chhajra.” And swaying all the way, he went back. Even the name of his village was enough to make him heady.

  ‘I couldn’t go that evening. Our commander had come on a tour of inspection and it nearly cost us our lives to keep that boy hidden. We had fed him and hidden him in the ledge above the control room. When the commander went to the control room, we whisked the boy away and hid him among the sacks in the storeroom. Everyone was terrified because what we were doing was a crime in the eyes of the law and if were found out, several of us officers could get suspended. I seriously contemplated asking two of my soldiers to put the boy in a sack and throw him in the sardar’s field. We were in mortal dread as long as the commander was there.

  ‘Reports of the action in Bengal were reaching us; they were extremely discouraging for us. The Indian forces were supporting the Mukti Bahini, and Yahya Khan … anyway, let it be…’ He fell silent.

  There was a long pause; the captain’s eyes became moist. Finally, he said: ‘The next day too there was a great deal of movement of different armed battalions. The entire day passed in this manner. It was almost evening and the sun was about to set when I took the boy and reached the border. I was surprised to see the sardar waiting there for me. A small picket of four or five soldiers was with him. One of the soldiers asked me, “Are you a captain or a major?” We don’t wear our stripes on the front but a senior officer is easy to spot. The man asking me was a captain or major too. I went up and shook hands with him. Then, I handed the boy over.

  ‘He is from here … we found him hiding in a house in Sachetgarh.’

  ‘The officer asked the boy sternly, “So, boy, where are you from? Who are your parents?”

  ‘The boy looked scared again. He lifted his eyes and looked towards me, and said: “Chacha, I am not from here; I am from there.” And he pointed towards our side. “A little ahead of Sialkot … I am from Chhajra.”

  ‘Everyone was dumbstruck.

  ‘I looked at the sardar. His yellow teeth were showing. He stepped forward and put his hand on the boy’s head. Eyes brimming with tears, he asked, “Really? You are from Chhajra, are you?”

  ‘I shouted at the boy, “So what were you doing here?”

  ‘Tears flowed from his eyes. The boy answered, “I had run away from school to see the fighting.”’

  Captain Shaheen was telling us, ‘Believe me, both of us army men stood in front of that boy like two foolish headmasters. And our faces were looking like those of rams.’

  The Jamun Tree

  ‘GEO … rg … iiee!’ A reedy, shrill voice echoed from one end of the road to the other. George’s mother, Flora, was a middle-aged woman. She was dark of complexion but had sharp well-defined features. She was standing on the stairs and calling out.

  ‘Picks up his marbles and sets out as soon as the day begins. Come home … your papa is calling you.’

  ‘Coming, Mummy. Let me finish this game,’ George yelled from the other side of the road.

  Hearing Flora’s voice, Babu, who lived next door, stuck his neck out and winked outrageously at her. Flora smiled and went back inside.

 
; Ahmed wiped the stickiness from his eyes with his fingers. He selected a small marble, positioned it in the crook of his finger with great style, twisting his lips all the while, and tossed it in the air. The big marble landed in the groove and the moment it found its target, the small marble too got into its groove, a bit like a timid mouse entering its burrow. Once again, Ahmed had won. George took out the last marble from his pocket, wiped it against his shorts and, with a last piteous glance, handed it over to Ahmed.

  ‘Never mind, beta,’ eight-year-old George was telling nine-year-old Ahmed. ‘You always win when we play unti and the marble has to be positioned in the crook of the finger. Try the other version with me – gutthi…’

  ‘Is that so? Let’s play now.’

  ‘Let Papa go to the office; I’ll come back later.’ George ran across the street and clambered up the stairs.

  Ahmed tipped the contents of his bulging pocket on his palm and sat back, resting his back against the jamun tree. He separated the good marbles from the bad, put them in his mouth to wet them and rubbed them till they gleamed; then, he put them away in his potli.

  The clock tower struck seven.

  ‘Hurry up, Amma, I’m getting late for school.’

  ‘Here, beta, here … take this,’ Amma said, putting two-paisa worth of gur sev in Nikka’s pocket.

  ‘Hey you, Nikka! What about the marble due on you!’

  Nikka stopped in his tracks, petrified. He looked at Amma for help.

  ‘Let it go, boy. Let him go to school,’ Amma said, fiddling with her basket.

  Ahmed stepped forward and grabbed Nikka’s schoolbag.

  ‘You won’t listen, will you,’ Amma said as she reached out for Ahmed while Ahmed lunged for Nikka’s pocket, grabbed a couple of gur sev and popped them into his mouth.

  Amma held Ahmed by his shirt and said, ‘Come with me to Dinu … You good-for-nothing wastrel … You start troubling all the kids in the neighbourhood from morning.’