by Rita Kothari
They embraced each other again.
‘I had written to you about Ghulam Hussain’s wedding,’ Shah sahib said, seating himself on a cot.
‘Yes, I did get the letter.’
‘Why didn’t you come then?’
What could he have said?
‘At least, you might have acknowledged the letter.’
He was suddenly filled with remorse and embarrassment. He had doubted Jaman’s affection and Shah sahib’s commitment, he had some explaining to do.
‘Jaman told me that you went away without eating this afternoon. Why?’
‘I wasn’t hungry. Even now, I am not hungry, because I had kebabs and rotis with the fakir.’
‘Really? How mean of you! I wish I’d been with you.’
After a few moments, he said, ‘Shah sahib, I should leave now.’
‘Wah, stubborn man, how can I let you go? At least, spend the night here.’
‘I am sorry. I had come to Hyderabad for some work, I couldn’t resist coming here, we are outsiders now.’
‘No … no … please don’t say that. This is your village. Your home, your belongings, everything is intact. You are free to take anything back anytime you wish.’
He returned to the station, with Shah sahib’s servant carrying his luggage. Puppy went with him. He crossed the same places, the same lanes, wells, gardens, fields—everything appeared to be ‘his own’. The servant walked ahead, he and Puppy followed.
Once they reached the water course, Puppy began to whimper. She had slowed down considerably. He snapped his fingers and goaded her to walk. But Puppy refused to move. He bent down and caressed her back, but she would not budge. He held her by her forelegs, and pulled her hard, but she shrugged and began to turn back.
His heart sank. He felt something precious had slipped through his fingers. He clicked his tongue and called out to her, ‘Puppy, Puppy.’ Puppy sped away. He did not like that. He also gathered speed and went after her, ‘Puppy, Puppy.’ Puppy ran faster, and he chased her to the village. She vanished in a blink.
Panting, and helpless, he stood there. He felt both failure and despair. He bit his lip and wiped his forehead. His heart overflowed with grief. With vacant eyes, he looked around. He felt that the street underneath his feet was unfamiliar, the fields unknown, the village facing him was also not his own.
The Claim
NARAYAN BHARTI
‘Ada, who is in charge of reimbursing claims here?’ Joharmal stood on the verandah of office number two in Kalyan Camp and asked the people who stood there.
‘Kaka, nobody will reimburse claims. This place is only for filing claims.’ One of the men standing there smiled at Joharmal’s ignorance as he replied to his query.
‘Kaka, come this way,’ said somebody who sat next to the typist, ‘I am also putting in an application. This deewan will type it.’
‘Bhau, people like us don’t know anything about this claim business. Of course, my son studies in an English school but the officers understand only their own language. If you don’t use their language, they say, you did not write this, you did not mention that. So I thought to myself, why skimp over a little money, I might as well pay the deewan for writing up the application.’
‘Come, sit.’ Somebody signalled Joharmal to sit down, without interrupting his own conversation.
‘Arre satguru,’ he said as sat heavily on a bench. ‘Manekmal told me yesterday that the government would reimburse us for the properties we had left behind. They are asking for written details regarding who left behind what and how much it was worth in Sindh. So I thought since we have left so much property behind, why don’t I also submit a written list?’ With this, Joharmal took out a roll of papers from his pocket.
‘Ada, you think the government will actually calculate the value and dole out cash? These are mere consolations. But our hearts urge us to do these things, so we do them. And then, by chance, if some lucky ones manage to receive compensation, we would look stupid and careless. So here we are. In any case, it can’t hurt to apply. What will be, will be. We are none the worse for it, I say,’ the man sitting next to Joharmal rambled on.
The typist tapped the keys on the typewriter and mumbled, ‘Main road to the west, Khan Muhammad’s house to the east, Seth Phagumal’s inn to the north. Area: 3000 square feet, two storeys.’
As he tapped the keys, he also glanced around to look at those who were waiting. One by one, he typed everybody’s application. Then turning to Joharmal, he said, ‘Yes, sain, tell me.’
‘Ada, you tell me what I should tell you. We left a world behind us, our prestige, friendships, everything. Allah knows when, but if God is willing, we will go back and once again resume our lives.’
‘Yes, yes, kaka. Now tell me your name.’
‘My name? Sain, Joharmal is my name.’
Tap … tap … tap … the typist began to type, ‘Johar … yes, kaka … Johar, son of …?’
‘Johar, son of Vasaimal.’
‘And your last name?’
‘Nagdev.’
The typist typed everything together, ‘So, now tell me, where was your village in Pakistan? And which taluka? Which district?’
‘Please write, village: Hallya, taluka: Kambar, zilla: Larkano.’
The typist went tick-tack-tick.
‘Have you brought any documents of your property?’
‘What kind?’
‘Details about the size of the land, the number of acres. How many plots? Location? Their measurement and value? Was the land leased or did you own it? If you were the owner, how much did you buy it for? Proof of possession? Any tax receipts from the talati’s office? All these details are necesary.’
A bewildered kaka looked at the typist. All this was a completely new language to him. He realized that he didn’t have any property deed documents. Manekmal had told him that whatever one mentioned got written down. But this is … I am a Sindhi, is that not sufficient evidence?
The typist looked at Joharmal, ‘How much property did you leave behind in Pakistan? Lands, houses or any other constructed property?’
Jolted out of a reverie, Joharmal replied, ‘Ada, now that’s a question I can answer. You had me lost earlier! All right, now write down.’
‘Joharmal, son of Vasaimal, nukka Nagdev, has left the whole of Sindh in Pakistan. Now he files a claim for Sindh. It should be returned to him. The proof is the fact that Joharmal is a Sindhi, his language is Sindhi and his civilization is Sindhi.’
‘Kaka, how can this be written? You must mention what belongs to you.’
‘Belongs to me? I have left Sindhri. If Sindhri is not my own, then is it somebody else’s? We Sindhis left all luxuries behind and got thrown into the midst of Marathas. And yet, you are asking me what have I left behind? You think I do not remember Sindh, that I have forgotten it? No, yaar, no. Never think that. Sindh is the fibre of our existence. I am a Sindhi and Sindhri is mine. I have a right to claim it. We are told that Punjabis got the Punjab, and they also have homes to stay in. What crimes have we committed against the sarkar that we can’t have even Sindh?’
Bemused, people watched him, and the deewan smiled.
Joharmal looked at everyone and continued, ‘Look here, we have left Sindh behind. Has the deewan been asking you such crooked questions too? Or is he pulling an old man’s leg?’
‘No, kaka, I am not making fun of you. I am telling you the truth. This is a government rule—says that individuals can file claims only for the property they owned and left behind, not for anything else. See, others have made me type down details of their lands and immovable properties: Topanmal, son of Godumal, Premchandani, village: Sajjawal, taluka: Mirukhan, zilla: Larkano. Two buildings, single storeyed. Area: 2000 square feet. Facing west. 50 hectares. Total value: Rs 15,000. This gentleman has filed a claim for fifteen thousand.’
Kaka’s face became pale. He had never imagined that Sindhis would forget Sindh like this and make a claim only for their own share.
He looked at the deewan, ‘Are you not a Sindhi? Were your forefathers not Sindhis? Did you not drink the waters of Darya Shah? Did you not bathe in the Sindhu? And yet, you tell me I can’t claim Sindh? Our inheritance, Sindh where our ancestors spent their lives, where we grew up—do we not have a right to it? I will not be able to meet Rajab, Ramzan and Mehboob ever again. Can I not file a claim for their friendship?’
Joharmal choked with emotion, and his face contorted with pain and his eyes misted over.
‘But, kaka …’
Joharmal cut in, ‘All right, deewan, never mind. Enough. I don’t want to file a claim, to hell with it. What do I claim? What do I make you write? My friendship has more value than my shop, my watan has … I came here because my daughter and son-in-law were making a fuss. Otherwise, you think I would have left Sindh?’
The typist realized that Joharmal was right. The truth of the matter was that they should get their Sindh back. He thought of his own deep friendship with Anwar, Hussain and Ahmed Ali. He used to go for a stroll with them to Ramzan Garden. Noor, Wadero Haji Urs’s niece, was so dear to him. During the last days before leaving Sindh, Noor had said to him, ‘Don’t forget me. Allah willing, you will come back to take charge of your shops and lands.’
The entire conversation came back to life, the map of Sindh flashed before his eyes—its streets, parks, people. He thought of how Korea was also divided and its people were struggling for a united country.
Suddenly he spoke up, ‘Kaka, we will go back to Sindh, we will surely do that. Sindh belongs to us, to you, me and every Sindhi. Your claim is valid, it may appear invalid in legal and government accounts, but it is a true claim, a right one. Don’t be sad, kaka, times are not far when Sindhis will realize this and file such a claim. A claim for Sindh, for Sindhiyat. When there is truly democratic rule in India and Pakistan, these man-made barriers will be razed to the ground and you and I will get what is due to us.’
The Document
NARAYAN BHARTI
Manghanmal sat on a stringed cot outside the ‘barrack’ rifling through various papers that he had brought with him from Sindh—documents, letters, receipts. He threw a cursory glance at each one of them, muttering something under his breath; at other times slapping his forehead with, ‘Abbo, kismet … otherwise …’ He sorted the documents into separate piles.
Some days ago, he had received a circular from the claims office that said: ‘You are expected to remain present on such and such date at 11 a.m. in Camp 2 office. Please be there on time and bring with you all documents and evidential proofs with copies. In case of your absence, a unilateral decision shall be taken.’
Manghanmal had filed a claim for land as well as constructed property. The circular he had received referred to his claim for property in Sindh. Hence, he was busy looking for supporting documents and sorting out the rest of the papers as well.
His eyes fell on one particular document. As he read it, the plan of his house unfolded like a film before his eyes. His house, the one with the cattle pond, was situated in the oil-miller’s colony. Soomar the oil-miller had a house next to his. Soomar used to till Chandanmal’s land. There was a place next to the terrace to store fodder. One, two, three houses—the documents unfolded. Some were ten years old, others twenty, while some dated back to more than thirty-forty years ago. Some of the properties had been bought before the beginnings of his memory, whereas he clearly remembered the construction of others. He vividly remembered the house where Siddiq the carpenter had made doors and windows and other sundry objects. Manghanmal used to tease him by calling him ‘Bhaalu’. The sight of the document brought many such stories to his mind. One by one, what a great number of documents he leafed through! While going through them, his eyes came to rest upon the words, ‘Rasul Baksh, son of Nabi Baksh Manghariyo, resident of village Miral.’ His eyes moved downwards to read further.
I, the undersigned, Rasool Baksh, son of Nabi Baksh of the Manghariyo community, and cultivator by profession, 30 years old, resident of village Miral, taluka Kaambar, district Larkano, own a house in village Miral, taluka Kaambar, district Larkano. The said property has three rooms, a living room and a neem tree. To its east is a madrassa where Muslim boys study, distance 33 feet. To its west is the house of Ali Hassan Gurmani, 33 feet. To its north is a common street, 21 feet. To its south is Khairal’s house, 21 feet. The main door of the house faces the east and the outlet for water from the terrace faces the common street.
I agree to sell the above-mentioned property of my own free will, to use and to enjoy, to Seth Manghanmal, son of Seth Kauromal, Hindu Lohana by caste, age 36 years, trader by profession, living in village Miral, for an amount of rupees two hundred.
Manghanmal could not read any further. His heart felt heavy with emotion. Images flashed before him—Rasool Baksh’s house, his wife, his little son whom Rasool Baksh would sometimes bring to the fields. While passing Manghanmal’s shop, the boy would say in his child-like stammer, ‘Bhautaar, will you not make me your cowherd? I will take your cattle for grazing.’ Then, making clicking sounds with his tongue, he would pretend to herd his imaginary cows and run away. While collecting the harvest, Manghanmal would give a wooden bowl filled with grain to Rasool Baksh and say, ‘Here, this is for your Ramzan.’
A smile played upon Manghanmal’s lips when he thought of all this. About thirteen or fourteen months prior to Partition, Rasool Baksh had come to him early one morning. He said, ‘Bhautaar, I urgently need seeds otherwise the field will dry up and I will be a ruined man. Would you please lend me some money?’
Sternly, Manghanmal reminded him, ‘Miyan, you already owe me almost two hundred rupees, which you have yet not returned. You want more? I don’t run a charity house here. It is futile asking me, I suggest you go to somebody else.’ Putting his chillum away, Manghanmal slipped his feet into his mojdis and got ready to leave.
Rasool Baksh, who was sitting on the threshold, took off his head-cloth, placed it at Manghanmal’s feet and said, ‘Bhautaar, please oblige me this time. I will do whatever you ask me to do. I don’t have a single object to mortgage. My wife is not left with a single piece of jewellery, not even her wedding necklace. That has also been mortgaged with Jasu vaanya. We needed clothes, surely we couldn’t do without them. There is no avoiding food and clothes, is there?’
‘All right, miyan, all right. Now that you are here, I cannot let you return empty-handed. Yaar, you have tilled for us and made our ancestral land fertile. You have a right to come to us, where else would you go? After all, we also share bonds of love and affection. But you see, times are changing. Who can trust the coming generations? Surely, we don’t want to be knocking about in court rooms. I suggest you borrow fifty rupees from me right now. Add that to the hundred and fifty rupees from your previous debt, it makes it two hundred. For that amount, you write your house off and give it to me.’ After saying this, Manghanmal fell silent.
Rasool Baksh was in a dilemma. ‘Bhautaar, all I have now is this house, now that too …’
Manghanmal interrupted him, ‘Miyan, who is taking it away from you? You may continue to live there, like you always have. When Allah gives you enough, execute a new document and become the owner of your place once again. The house is with you even now. Stay there, you have my word. But as a token commitment, pay me two rupees every month. Really speaking, I would not have charged you even that but you see, one has to live among one’s kin. The same banias would tell each other, sain, do you know Manghanmal gave Rasool … You understand, you are a man of the world.’
Usually, that was how documents came to be drafted. Manghanmal was thinking about all of this, while looking at the documents. He began to wonder, ‘Where must Rasool be now? Would he be thinking of me?’
But this one thought came as a shock: If he, Manghanmal, were to show this document to the claims section and seek compensation, it would mean that the Pakistan government would confiscate the house from Rasool and auction it to recover the money. And where wou
ld Rasool live then? Manghanmal remembered how much Rasool Baksh had slaved for him. Even towards the end, when the attitude of every Muslim had changed for the worse, he had remained steadfast. Even the wadhero of the village had instructed everyone to prevent the banias from taking away their possessions. These belong to the Muslims, he had claimed. Despite the times, Rasool Baksh helped Manghanmal escape to Larkano with all his belongings. Not only that, he came all the way to Hyderabad to see him off at the railway station. Poor man, he even refused to accept money for the fare despite Manghamal’s insistence.
He said, ‘No, bhautaar, no! You have fed us all our lives. This was my duty. The Koran also teaches us to be kind to our neighbours.’
‘And I would snatch away his house?’ The very thought filled Manghanmal with pain. Thinking of Rasool Baksh, thinking of Sindh, his eyes misted. As his tears fell on the document, they blurred the ink of the words.
The Neighbour
SHEIKH AYAZ
While Khanu the barber was busy cutting hair inside his saloon, a parade of perspiring, reckless, arrogant, strong, young men from the National Muslim Guard stomped past his shop—left, right, left. Seated on a chair, Sheth Shyamdas turned his gaze to the road. His face betrayed fear, helplessness and hatred.
‘Khanu, who is this man with a moon-and-stars banner?’ the sheth asked apprehensively.
‘That one? That’s Salaar Khan Muhammad. He is an ironsmith.’
‘Khanu,’ the sheth made an effort to repose faith in him, ‘what are these people up to now? You think they’ll create a ruckus and cause riots?’
Although Khanu was with the Muslim League, and held Islam in great regard, his interaction with his clients was amiable. ‘Sheth, why would they do that? They are merely doing their drills.’
‘My dear man, they can do that in the akhada of Ramamoorty or Wahid Baksh, na? Why do they have to do left-right-left in the middle of the street? I tell you, I will be going off to Jodhpur tomorrow, along with my wife and children.’
