by Rita Kothari
Murad visited Kongomal along with Kazi Atta Ali who said, ‘Kongomal, you are welcome to take the land, I will take the lease for some other piece of land. But yaar, do decide soon. It’s time to cultivate.’
In Kongomal’s otak, when the conversation over food once again veered towards the land lease, Kazi said, ‘Kongomal, don’t kick the goddess of wealth. In a year’s time, you will be minting money. I earned forty thousand from this bit of land.’
Eventually, the words poured out from Kongomal’s mouth, ‘All right, yaar, since you insist so much, let me take over the lease for a year and see.’
‘Will you forget about the shop then?’ Ali Murad teased him.
‘Not to worry. I will never forget the shop. I’ll open another one and give that to my younger brother.’
‘What do you plan to produce?’ Kazi asked.
Kongomal was flummoxed. ‘Yaar, you have to help me out in that matter.’
Ali Murad offered suggestions. ‘If you are willing take a calculated risk and bring a rusting machine with you from Jacobabad, cotton is a good possibility. It’ll be such a rewarding yield, I tell you.’
Kongomal didn’t let any grass grow under his feet. He took the train the very next day and left for Jacobabad. He was back in Thardi after a week, with the bilti of the rusting machine in his pocket. He had booked the machine himself at Jacobabad station.
However, a fortnight went by without any sign of the machine. Kazi complained, ‘Kongomal, you first took time to make a decision. Now the railway is dragging its feet. The time for sowing cotton seeds is past. Allah’s mercy be with you, why don’t you sow jowar seeds, instead? Otherwise, this moment shall also pass.’
Kongomal acted on this advice and promptly took charge of the field. Without the assurance of any written document, Kongomal had become a contractor, merely upon his friend’s word. He got hold of the haaris, gave them seeds and advanced them the taccavi money. In short, he left no stone unturned. And the harvest was a treat for sore eyes. Such splendour! Everyone said, ‘Kongomal is really fortunate.’ But Kongomal’s fate was yet to be decided.
Meanwhile, the golden bird of Sindh was injured. Not only was Pakistan formed, but the Hindu exodus had also begun. There was celebration on the one hand and despair on the other. There was no bridging these opposites. Kongomal was circumspect throughout this period. In any case, he was a strong-willed man. He had maintained social relations and friendships with people from various quarters, and especially with Muslim zamindars as well as officers. After becoming a contractor, he had formed influential links all the way up to the deputy collector and collector.
Meanwhile, the Hindus of Thardi, including Kongomal’s community members, had begun to cross the border. Kongomal continued to stay in Thardi. He made his brothers wait with him by telling them, ‘How dare anyone lay a finger on any of us?’
By and large, it was true that nobody dared touch Kongomal or his brother. However, a bigger conspiracy was brewing against Kongomal and its chief actor was the kazi, who resented the fact that the contract had gone to Kongomal. He suffered in silence when the zamindar brothers had silently resolved to repay Kongomal and became almost obstinate about leasing the land to him. The kazi had put up a gracious front then, and had, in fact, pretended to persuade Kongomal the most. Perhaps, the educated and shrewd kazi could foresee the outcome of changing circumstances and plan strategies that he could execute at the opportune moment.
Be that as it may, the sight of jowar swaying gently on the fertile field fanned the kazi’s desire for deceit. The first thing he did was to whisper to the elder brother, Hamid Khan, ‘Kongomal’s relatives have gone. I doubt if he and his brother will be able to hold out much longer. Before you know it, they’ll be gone to India.’
Hamid Khan was not as ‘bad’ as the kazi. Archly, he asked, ‘What do you mean?’
A flustered Kazi immediately quipped, ‘Bhautaar, Pakistan has been formed. The harvest from the fields will stay in Pakistan and that’s the way it should be.’
‘You mean to say we should be deceitful and betray Kongomal and usurp what is rightfully his?’
Licking his upper lip, the kazi replied, ‘Sain, I merely wish to say one thing. What belongs to Pakistan must stay within its boundaries. Pakistan is a new nation. It will need money.’
‘Don’t go down that road.’
Nonetheless, the idea of doing something for the ‘sake of Pakistan’ had its effect on Hamid Khan.
The kazi broached the subject differently with Ali Murad, the younger brother. ‘Ali, join the Muslim League. Sooner or later, you will become a minister.’
‘Minister!’ The thought was alluring. But Ali Murad knew it was easier said than done. ‘How can I? The regional Muslim League is dominated by Wadhero Jaan Muhammad. He …’
The kazi noticed that he had aimed well. He cut in, ‘In the interest of jamaat and religion, he will cease to be resentful about your success in the elections. However, you must do one thing to make matters easy.’
‘Tell me?’ Ali Murad asked, consumed with excitement.
Pat came the kazi’s reply, ‘Ask Kongomal to stay away from the yield.’
And without letting Ali Murad respond, the kazi continued, ‘Jaan Muhammad is far more bitter about Kongomal than you are.’
Ali’s humanity caused him to protest, ‘Kongomal is my friend. How can I …’
The cunning kazi touched the raw nerve, ‘Well, then, that’s your problem. You would have to choose between the good of your community or your friendship.’ And then, ‘You must think now about how long your friendship with Kongomal will last. And what kind of friendship it is, after all. He is waiting to make money out of the harvest and flee to India, so that the money earned in Pakistan can be invested in India.’
Ali Murad’s humanity struggled for one last time, and died. The kazi’s heart raced and pounded in his chest.
One of Ali Murad’s servants had warned Kongomal, ‘There is a conspiracy being hatched against you.’
Kongomal could not believe that a childhood friend who had shared food and wine with him would prove treacherous, especially since he had done him a favour and had accepted the contract at his insistence. He had never trusted the kazi, but the landowners were the two brothers. As for the land, the seeds had been sown, the crop winnowed and threshed, and there was now a bounty.
Kongomal estimated the value of the harvest to be at least thirty-five to forty thousand rupees. Although he must have spent about fourteen thousand on the machine, seeds, teccavi and other things, he was (according to the contract) entitled to a share worth twenty-four thousand. Kongomal was overjoyed with the yield and he decided not to pay attention to the informant. Those people had not shown any sign of change. Everything looked good.
He went to visit the zamindar brothers. There was not the slightest change in their hospitality. The same old kebabs and the same old alcohol. In the course of eating and drinking, he said, ‘Yaaro, by God’s grace my efforts have borne fruit. Come tomorrow, and let us share the harvest.’
Ali Murad exchanged a meaningful look with his elder brother.
‘Yaar, what’s the hurry?’ said Hamid Khan.
‘But I am in a hurry. My relatives have already migrated. My brothers are all packed and ready, waiting for me while I’ve been waiting for the harvest.’
The kazi spoke through Ali Murad, ‘Yaar, how can you just sell the new crop and go away? Not done. What is your problem here?’
Understanding dawned upon Kongomal. ‘One needs a social group. My relatives have gone. I’ll be incomplete if I stay back by myself.’
Hamid Khan said, ‘You have been taking care of the harvest, right? Now let this yield be here. It will not be divided and you shall not go. Yaar, we don’t want you to go.’
Kongomal was aghast. He hadn’t expected such a blatant response. He had meant to say, ‘Whether I go or not, that’s my wish. The yield issue must be resolved according to the contract.’ Instead, h
e pleaded, ‘Have mercy, please resolve the issue.’
But mercy had acquired wings and flown away from the demonic world of the zamindar brothers. They knew that they had numbers on their side.
Stacks of jowar lay in the barn. Kongomal kept looking at the grain, but its abundance did not soothe his eyes any more. In fact, it fuelled the fire of his emotional turmoil. His brothers advised him, ‘Forget it, when we are leaving behind homes and shops and so much else, why risk life over this harvest?’
Kongomal did not budge. He went to Mehad to meet his lawyer friend Parsram. On hearing everything, Parsram said, ‘You are churning water, Kongomal. It is Muslim rule now, the collectors are Muslims, the officers are Muslims. There are communal fires burning around us. Hindus are busy hiding their existence or leaving, and here you are, asking for trouble.’
For the first time, Kongomal was ambivalent. He was lost and confused. As he was leaving the court, he heard someone call out, ‘Bhai Kongomal.’
Kongomal turned and saw Inspector Atta Allah striding towards him. He knew him well. He had been a sub-inspector in Thardi once. He had landed himself in a controversial case of police atrocity and his services would have been suspended had Kongomal not intervened and rescued him. A wave of hope rose in Kongomal momentarily, but he reminded himself, ‘He’s also a Muslim.’
In the meantime, Atta Allah was shaking his hand warmly, ‘Kongomal, what brings you to Mehad?’
Kongomal felt uncertain about confiding in Atta Allah. Finally, he said to himself, ‘What harm can there be in telling him?’ Right there, outside the court, he shared the story of his woes with Atta Allah.
‘Bhai Kongomal, all fingers are not alike. All Muslims are not bad either. Also, I am indebted to you. I have been waiting for the right moment all these years to repay my debt. Allah has finally created this opportunity. I will not let it go. You owe me your investment money and profit. Give me a week’s time.’
Kongomal was not fully reassured, ‘Don’t forget that Ali Murad is an assembly member.’
‘So what, Kongomal?’ said an unfazed Atta Allah, ‘as they say, a thug gets around a thief. We policemen have a hundred ways of handling situations. I have stopped using police threats after my previous experience, but for your sake, and for the sake of justice, I will try it once again. I’ll try it in such a way that not only would the zamindar brothers give you your share, but also rub their noses to the ground.’
Atta Allah pulled out a blank paper from a folder he was carrying and gave it to Kongomal. Then he removed his fountain pen from his pocket and handing that over, he said, ‘Sign this, and quietly go back to Thardi. Don’t mention our meeting to anyone. In a week’s time, everything will be fine.’
Kongomal signed the paper, but on his way back to Thardi, he began to regret it. Atta Allah may have felt gratitude towards him in the past, but who could tell if sentiments of Islamic brotherhood would not override his gratitude? After all, Ali Murad was also under obligation to Kongomal, and see what happened? Forget profit, even Kongomal’s capital investment was stuck. Atta Allah would need Ali Murad in the long run. Ali Murad would not let him go, and eventually Atta Allah would have to concede to Ali Murad. Had he dug his own grave? Kongomal wondered. Despondent and resigned to the outcome, he continued to stay in Thardi.
Five days later, one of Jaan Muhammad’s servants informed him, ‘Inspector Atta Allah from Mehad has come. He wants to see you.’ Kongomal reached the wadhero’s otak. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing: Ali Murad had laid his turban at Atta Allah’s feet and was begging, ‘Please, I’ll do whatever you ask me to do. For God’s sake, withdraw the warrant.’
Atta Allah signalled to Kongomal to sit down, and facing Ali Murad, he said, ‘Ali Murad, you are smug because you are an assembly member, your brother is smug because he is an established zamindar, and the kazi is smug because he is the custodian of religion. You see, I am only an ordinary policeman. I am merely following the orders of the court.’
Wadhero Jaan Muhammad pleaded, ‘Atta Allah, we are all co-religionists.’
Atta Allah stormed, ‘Shut up, Jaan Muhammad. Don’t force me to arrest you on grounds of obstruction of justice.’
The entire room was filled with policemen. Over a dozen of them carried guns. Wadhero Jaan Muhammad looked so pale, as if turmeric had been poured over him.
Sternly, Atta repeated, ‘Does the Merciful One teach you to rob people of their rights? Tell me, does Islam ask you to grab the property of non-Muslims and then drive them away? Why aren’t you answering?’
Hamid Khan joined his palms, ‘Kongomal, withdraw the petition. We will do whatever you want. Here and now.’
Kongomal stood nonplussed and looked around. He wasn’t aware of the nature of the petition he had supposedly made.
Atta Allah spoke to him, ‘Kongomal, you will not be able to withdraw the charges even if you wish to. On the contrary, you would be arrested for making false charges.’
Kongomal looked at him in incomprehension. With élan, Atta Allah continued, ‘Ali Murad, can you arrange for twenty thousand immediately?’
Hamid Khan bellowed, ‘Where are we to get twenty thousand from?’
Ali Murad added, ‘And Kongomal has spent only about seven thousand.’
‘You think he’ll take the rusting machine worth seven thousand to India? And can he? He is also entitled to a profit of six thousand. The long and the short of it is that you give him twenty thousand or get ready for imprisonment. And remember, application for bail can be made only in Mehad. Today is Saturday. Don’t expect bail till Monday at least,’ Atta Allah said.
Ali Murad, Kazi and Jaan Muhammad withdrew to a corner and talked in hushed voices, with Atta Allah’s permission. After ten minutes, Jaan Muhammad said, ‘We can arrange for ten thousand tonight and I take responsibility for the rest. It’ll be arranged in a week’s time.’
‘I will be here for a week then. You have to bear the expenses for chicken and alcohol,’ Atta Allah’s voice had no trace of humour.
Within a week, Kongomal received the second instalment of ten thousand rupees.
‘Thanks a million,’ he said to Atta Allah.
‘I have yet not repaid you for the favour you did to me. However, should you wish to thank me, just do this: mention in India that there do exist faithful Muslims, and there are also some with a sense of gratitude.’
Familiar Strangers
GORDHAN BHARTI
No sooner had the train stopped at Bubak station, than he jumped off it with his suitcase and bedroll. He knew that this small station would not have any porter. Two years ago, the porter Qasim would have run up to him and picked up his luggage. Out of sheer habit, he stood there for a few minutes waiting for Qasim till suddenly he realized it was a mistake.
‘Where must Qasim be,’ he wondered, ‘there’s been such upheaval in these two years that the world is beyond recognition.’
He was visiting his village like an outsider—his first visit after Partition.
With the suitcase in his right hand, and the bedroll in his left, he threw a cursory glance around him. A mile away from the station, he saw signs of his little village, Aarazi, and his eyes misted over. On a hillock stood the mosque and the temple, rubbing shoulders with each other, and yet, the peepal and date trees had created a barrier between them. The white dome of the mosque and the red kalash of the temple stood, sulking, with their backs to each other. One faced the east, the other the west.
The smell of opium and the stink of dead fish assaulted his nostrils. He turned to his left. The heat of a scorching mid-day sun was making the ice melt and drip from the fish baskets. Piles and piles of gunny sacks filled with tobacco and opium lay abandoned like unclaimed bodies, next to the weighing scale. In the past, he used to find the odour of dead fish offensive, but it didn’t seem that bad today. He silently swallowed the pungent smell of tobacco that singed his throat. The pleasing fragrance of opium created a hazy glow in his mind, and brought back
flashes of his former life …
Bubak Road
He read the words again and again, illuminated by a lamp post. He was gripped by the desire to move his fingers lovingly over them, like he would on the soft hair of his little son, Kukku.
Everything is just the same! This station, this platform, these fish baskets, these gunny sacks with tobacco and opium, this bell hanging from the neem tree, this barbed wire and this wooden door marked ‘Exit’ …
‘Eh Mister! Ticket … ticket …’
His feet froze. On earlier occasions, while leaving this platform, he had hardly ever been asked to show a ticket. But now, the Punjabi officer’s eyes bored into him. He put his suitcase and bedroll down, and rummaged through his pockets. He fished out the ticket and extended it to the man.
‘Hm …’ The officer looked at the ticket with hate-filled eyes and grunted.
‘Put your bag and bedroll on the scale.’
Swallowing the insult, he looked at the bushy moustaches, the vest soaked with perspiration and the striped sarong of this impertinent man. He knew that the Punjabi-speaking man was harassing him. Helplessly, he put the bedroll on the weighing scale.
‘Take it away.’ The officer kicked the bedroll with these words.
He felt tempted to walk away with his belongings and take the next train back home. Some moments ago, everything had appeared ‘his own’ but now he realized that some things were, some were not. Holding his luggage in both hands, he walked out of the station, heavy-hearted. There was a tonga under the tamarind tree. Its wheels were muddy, its mudguards torn and crooked, its seats tattered, and its horse sickly and emaciated …
‘Haji … Haji …!’
He called out to the old man sleeping on the passenger seat. Haji woke up with a start. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned.
