Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  ‘Haji, do you recognize me?’

  ‘Oh … deewan sahib! You?’ Haji blinked his eyes vigorously, as if it were a daydream.

  ‘Here, take this luggage from me.’

  Haji took the suitcase and bedroll and put it in the horse-cart. And then he bent down to touch his feet.

  ‘Arre, arre … what are you doing?’ He drew his feet back and said, ‘So, how are you? You are all right?’

  Haji felt a lump in his throat. He tried to speak but tears streamed down his face and disappeared into his white beard. The tonga swaggered down the kuccha road, raising dust.

  He enquired gently, ‘Haji, your tonga looks old and so does your horse.’

  ‘What do I do, deewan sahib? Hindus went away from the village, who uses tongas now? While you were here, there was a good livelihood. Now, I don’t get enough to eat, how do I feed the horse?’

  While traversing the level crossing, the tonga slowed down. Attentively, he examined Haji and the horse. A wound on the horse’s body was attracting flies. The restless and exasperated horse was constantly trying to swat the flies with his tail.

  ‘Haji, why don’t you get this horse treated?’

  ‘Who would treat him, deewan sahib? Khanu hakim migrated along with you.’

  ‘But this wound will become septic.’

  ‘Never mind. Our country too also has a septic wound, don’t you think?’

  He could not respond. After the level crossing, Haji lashed the horse with a whip. The tonga gathered speed.

  ‘Deewan sahib! You have settled down in Ajmer, no?’

  ‘Yes, Haji.’

  ‘So tell me, sain, are you enjoying living in that country?’

  ‘There isn’t even sufficient water.’

  Haji laughed a dry and hollow laugh.

  ‘Why are you laughing, Haji?’

  ‘Nothing, sain, Allah plays strange games. You don’t have enough water, but it is we who are parched and withered.’

  Haji’s words were like a whiplash on him. He felt choked with emotion. Promptly, he looked around here and there and attempted in vain to whistle, in the hope of holding his tears back.

  Empty fields flanked the kuccha road on both sides. The earth sizzled like a frying pan in the heat of July. Dust flakes clung to his clothes, causing a repulsive grimy feeling. The tonga began to cross the bridge spanning the water course. He noticed that there was little water, but a few mud-spattered buffaloes. He remembered that in the past when he crossed the bridge, children swimming in the water had pestered him with, ‘Deewan sahib, paisa, please, paisa.’

  Gaily, he would take out from his pocket some copper coins and fling them in the air. The children would leap into the air and catch them. They would dive into the water to look for coins they had not caught. Sheru, the son of Ibrahim Chandia, would jump out of the water, naked and dripping, run behind his tonga all the way up to the village, help him with the luggage and see him off at his door. Today, there was neither water in the water course, nor any sign of the Chandia children. The huts in the vicinity looked empty.

  ‘Haji.’

  ‘Yes, deewan sahib.’

  ‘Where have these Chandias gone?’

  ‘They are right here.’

  ‘Then why does this place look deserted?’

  ‘Sain, at the time of Partition, government officers and leaders had made them shout so many slogans that they are left tired and speechless now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Haji laughed again. A sharp, piercing laugh. ‘Deewan sahib, the Chandias were labourers. Once the vaanyas left the villages, opportunities for business went down. In the absence of bales of cloth or sacks of grain, they now carry the burden of their unemployment on their backs.’

  ‘Haji, you sound like a philosopher today!’

  ‘Not me, deewan, ailing Sindh speaks through me.’

  The tonga had reached the outskirts of the village. On the left side, there was Peru’s field. On the right hand side, there were kuccha houses of the weavers and ironsmiths, and behind them, a decrepit mosque.

  ‘Haji.’

  ‘Yes, deewan sahib.’

  ‘How did this mosque crumble? When did this happen?’

  ‘Sain, last year, during the monsoon.’

  ‘It has still not been repaired?’

  ‘No sain,’ Haji’s voice was muffled. ‘Under Islamic rule, everything is left to Allah’s mercy.’

  He was a staunch Hindu. At the time of Partition, he was the first to leave his village and go to Ajmer. On seeing a mosque razed to ground during the riots in Ajmer, he had not felt an iota of remorse. But now, something snapped inside him when he saw his village mosque damaged. Wiping perspiration off his forehead, he took a deep breath and swept his eyes across the landscape. The little fish market in the village was empty. Instead, two blood-smeared carcasses hung outside. Even in this scorching heat, a couple of crows pecked in vain at the scattered residue of mutton and fish.

  The tonga moved very slowly. On the right side was the school where he had studied for eight years. Incidents of his childhood flashed before his eyes. During recess, he had made surreptitious visits to the neighbouring garden and stolen guavas, pharwas and mangoes. One day, the gardener had given him a sound beating. His grandmother had also ticked him off. She had bought for him plenty of fruit from the fruit-vendor Naaru. But the fruits bought with money did not taste as sweet as the stolen mangoes and unripe pharwas.

  ‘Deewan sahib … deewan sahib!’

  ‘… Ah …’ Startled, he looked up to see that the tonga had reached Raghunath’s well.

  From this point on, the lanes were much too narrow for the tonga. He jumped out of the vehicle and took out a rupee from his pocket and placed it on Haji’s palm.

  ‘No, deewan sahib! That’s a lot.’

  ‘Have fun, Haji, this may be my only visit.’

  ‘Why sain … don’t say that … but this rupee is …’

  ‘No, no this is your reward.’

  He held Haji’s hand in his own very affectionately, but was taken aback. It was burning. ‘Haji, you are burning with fever.’

  ‘Yes, sain.’

  ‘You take this tonga home, and I will manage my luggage.’

  Once Haji had left, he felt lonely. He looked at the peepal tree near the well. His childhood friend Hasu used to say that seven goddesses haunted the tree. During the month of Kartik, he used to participate in the prabhat pheri, when about twenty children would go around from one neighbourhood to another, enthusiastically singing holy songs. The moment they came to Raghunath’s well and saw the peepal tree, they lost both pitch and strength. Once, in a moment of child-like bravado, he had declared to Hasu that he would not only climb the peepal tree on a moonless night, but also bring down with him a branch of the tree. Through courage and doggedness, he had somehow managed to spend a dark night on the tree. However, when he jumped off the tree with a broken piece of branch and sprinted, he felt that the seven goddesses were shrieking at him and chasing him. Terrified, he was laid up in bed for the next three days.

  He was now thirty-two years old. He did not have the superstitions and fears of childhood anymore, but he could still feel the colossal presence of the peepal tree hovering over him, with its many arms spread wide.

  With his suitcase and bedroll, he walked towards Shah sahib’s haveli. At the time of Partition, he had left his house keys there. He was convinced then that Partition was unnatural and temporary, and that within a year, he would not only return to Sindh, but live in his village house once again.

  The lanes he was walking through were empty. The house doors seemed bolted. Why would anyone come home in such murderous heat? He reached the haveli to find its main door closed. There was no sign of human life. Gently, he went up to the main door and pressed the bell. A few minutes later, Jaman the servant came out. ‘Oh, deewan sahib, it’s you! Welcome, welcome. Please come in.’

  ‘Is Shah sahib home?’

  �
�Sain has gone out. He will return in the evening. Why don’t you come in?’

  ‘That’s fine. Just keep this luggage here.’

  ‘Won’t you come in? Won’t you eat something?’

  ‘No, thanks, I am not hungry.’

  ‘But in this scorching heat …’

  ‘Jaman, please get me the keys to my house. I wish to see it first.’

  Jaman took his luggage and quickly went in, and within no time returned with the keys.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No … that’s not necessary.’

  ‘But …’ Jaman hesitated. ‘I just wanted to tell you that an immigrant family from UP lives in the otak of your house.’

  ‘Hmm …’ For a moment, he was speechless. ‘Never mind, at least the house is …’

  ‘Oh sure. Sain has made sure that your furniture and belongings are safe, and has moved them from the otak to the house. What could we do? The government rule …’

  While walking towards his home, he had a feeling that Jaman’s voice lacked some conviction. His invitation did not have the same force, and his hospitality felt different. By renting out his otak to the refugees, Shah sahib had behaved like an outsider with him. His heart felt heavy, and loneliness engulfed him.

  He reached his house and for a while, he stood rooted to the ground, watching. The alcoves were being eaten up by termites. The colourful pictures he had painted on the walls during diwali had been washed off by rain.

  ‘Eh, fellow, what are you gaping at?’

  Startled, he turned around. A dusky-looking man stood at the door of his otak. It didn’t take him long to realize that the dusky Urdu-speaking man was the tenant. Momentarily, he was gripped by a desire to slap him and say, ‘How dare you talk to me like that, idiot. You think this belongs to your forefathers?’

  But not a word escaped his lips. He walked forward, turned the key in the lock and shut the door from inside. Suddenly he felt stifled, and he took hasty, long strides to reach the open part of the house. Bits and pieces of broken cots were scattered around him. The tulsi plant had withered, for want of water. His grandmother used to visit the village lake for a bath, return with a pot full of water and pour it over the plant. In the evenings, she would light a small lamp under the plant.

  He stepped forward, and turning keys in different locks, he kept opening rooms one after another. The rooms were dirty and messy, with things strewn all around. The walls had cobwebs. The kitchen, the grain store, stacks of firewood and cowdung, the bathroom, the first room, the second one, the swing, the almirah, the little wooden temple, his grandmother’s puja seat, his blind aunt’s dark and dingy room. The moment he stepped into this room, darkness enveloped him. Swiftly, he came out, and lay down on the swing with his eyes shut.

  He got up after an hour or so, locked up all the doors, and came out of the house. The sun had dipped into the horizon. He crossed the lane and paused at the edge of the lake. First, he splashed water on his face, then he removed his shoes and socks and soaked his feet in water. He felt very relaxed.

  The edge of the lake was dense with neem and sarhan trees. As a child, he used to sit under precisely the same trees and play with the children in his neighbourhood. Once, they had staged a mock-wedding. He was the husband and Zeenat, the daughter of Razat the washerman, was his wife. Tied by the marital knot, they walked in a procession around the village. Children had drummed their fingers on tin boxes, distributed sweets and proclaimed to all and sundry, ‘It’s Zeenat and Girdhar’s wedding.’ His father and Zeenat’s mother witnessed the tamasha. That innocent wedding did not bring any harm to the Hindu religion nor did it endanger the Islamic faith. On the contrary, everyone found it funny. If children of today were to play at such a marriage … Imagining the consequences sent a shudder through this body. He took his feet out of the water. Loneliness … suffocation … fatigue …

  Coming here was a serious mistake, he thought. He didn’t have anybody to talk to. No family, no relatives, no friends and no companions. His village was not his own. His house was not his own. He was alone, all alone.

  He was jolted by the sharp and sudden bark of a dog. Although he had his back towards the bark, he understood that the barking dog was heading towards him. He promptly stood up, but tripped and almost fell into the water. He stood inside the water, ready to face the dog. But this preparation was not necessary, for the animal that stood before him was his very own pet, Puppy. She had stopped barking, instead she whimpered tentatively.

  ‘Puppy, Puppy, come, come,’ affectionately, he called out to her.

  She wagged her tail from side to side. He immediately came out of the lake, his trouser bottoms dripping with water. The moment he hitched up his trousers, Puppy put her forelegs on his knees. He caressed Puppy’s back lovingly. Her whimpering got louder, and she began to sniff at his body.

  ‘Hush, dirty girl!’ He patted her gently. She tried to bury her face in his legs. He found it quite pleasant. In fact, a strange sense of relief washed over him. He wrung the water out of the bottoms of his trousers, and began to walk, whistling, while Puppy followed him. He was not alone anymore.

  His body was aching with fatigue, but he continued to walk to the other side of the lake. Two shadows walked before him, one was his and the other Puppy’s. He felt as if four people were walking together now. Canal, fields, trees, groves, he passed them all and arrived at the cremation ground of the village.

  He had witnessed the bodies of his mother, his sister-in-law, his younger brother and some of his friends consigned to fire here. He used to imagine his own body on a funeral pyre in the same place. Dust to dust, he would meet his ancestors. But that was not possible anymore. His habitation was thousands of miles away now. Instead of the muddy earth of Sindh, his ashes would merge with the dry sand of Rajasthan. Through moist eyelashes, he looked at the broken roofs of the crematorium under which he could still see scatterings of ash. Some remnants do exist, everything has not been destroyed, he thought.

  He felt faintly hopeful. He picked up a fistful of ashes and touched his forehead with them. Tears flowed down his face. The touch of the ashes did something to him, he went down on his knees and sobbed like a child. He didn’t know for how many hours he had buried his head and cried like a baby. Puppy licked his hands gently. On another occasion, he would have kicked her for doing this, but he found it welcome this time. He wiped his hands with a kerchief and stroked Puppy lovingly.

  The shadows had disappeared. He got up, and instead of going to the house, he walked towards the village bazaar. Puppy walked beside him, her tail wagging. People of the village, who had been hibernating inside their houses at mid-day, had now come out. The moment he reached the bazaar, Ramzan the butcher, called out his name loudly, ‘Deewan sahib! When did you come?’

  ‘Arre, you are here?’ Chhuti the weaver also called out loudly and jumped out of his shop.

  Yaqub the tailor forgot about his shop and came running, ‘Welcome deewan, you are welcome, our eyes have longed …’

  And in this way, a crowd gathered around him. Excited and overjoyed, everyone spoke loudly, and a barrage of questions rained down upon him.

  ‘Is Amma all right?’

  ‘Is master sahib keeping well?’

  ‘Your children must be studying Hindi, no?’

  ‘So sain, do you miss us or not?’

  ‘We swear by Allah, we are desolate without you.’

  ‘Not desolate, sain, orphans.’

  Words and emotions, tears and conversation merged and mingled. When he got ready to leave, he felt a lightness within himself. With Puppy by his side, he reached the other end of the bazaar. Outside Jaan Muhammad’s sweet shop, a fakir played the ektara and sang:

  To hell with your mansions, Umar

  My nation is only the Maleer

  My soul pines for my people

  Although you have the body, Umar

  Suddenly, like the string of the ektara, the fakir’s voice snapped.
‘Deewan, it’s you!’ He put his ektara down, and looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Go on, fakir, sing, let the rhythm continue …’

  ‘Really?’ Bachayo fakir resumed his singing. With his hands upon his ears, he raised the pitch and sang a doha.

  Let my nation have every breath of mine

  Another doha followed.

  Barren otaks … beseechers gone … just us, left staring

  In the midst of his singing, Bachayo got up and in a trancelike state, he began dancing:

  My friend at the doorstep …

  He began to think, ‘This is really strange, we have the same music as them, the same poetry which Bachayo fakir sings here, Kalu bhagat sings over there. Shah, Sachal, Sami belong to them, and also to us. How did they escape Partition?’

  Overwhelmed, he took out a rupee from his pocket when Bachayo fakir finished singing. Offering that to him, he said, ‘Fakir, my dear fakir, fie upon you, you made dry wounds raw.’

  Looking at the rupee, the fakir smiled. Then throwing it at Jaan Muhammad, he said, ‘Jaan, give me kebabs and rotis.’

  Fakir stretched his hand out and offered kebab and rotis to him. ‘Sit, deewan, let’s eat together.’

  For a moment, he hesitated. He was not a vegetarian, but he avoided meat and fish if he could, and particularly kebabs because he was put off by the smell. God knows why, he couldn’t turn the fakir’s invitation down. He tore a little piece of roti and first fed Puppy, and then he too began to eat.

  When he returned to Shah sahib’s mansion in the evening, his heart raced with joy and anticipation. Shah Sahib was puffing at the hukka and sitting on a cot. On seeing him, he put away the hukka quickly and hugged him, ‘Welcome, deewan, welcome. You have honoured us today.’

  He was overjoyed, while Shah sahib held him by his shoulders and studied his face. He mumbled, ‘What is this? It’s been two years and your forehead has lines of worry, and this silver streak in the middle of your hair.’

  ‘Enough, Shah sahib,’ he heaved a sigh, ‘the hair has also been partitioned.’

  Shah was at a loss for words. Then looking into the distance, he said almost inaudibly, ‘It may take years, but eventually all hair will turn grey and look the same.’