The Eighteenth Parallel

by MITRAN, ASHOKA

  The demonstrators who had sat as a disciplined group until now begin to run amuck. There is some attempt to control the general stampeding, but there is no stopping them any more. They run everywhere, staggering and falling and getting up. Chandru screamed 'Amma!' as he felt a rough shod foot on his back. Then he got up and started to run.

  He had no idea where he was heading. The roar of the procession was still strident because of the adults in it. There were policemen in front and on the right. A row of small dwellings lined the left side of the street. The gaps between the houses were already filled with people, with more and more trying to squeeze in.

  The first shell burst. A wave of foul smell and a column of smoke. Eyes began to burn and shrieks filled the air—Amma! Amma! Chandru dashed blindly towards a lane, not stopping to pick up the books that fell from his hand. Hundreds of men pressed forward from behind. If it turned out to be a blind alley, they couldn't all get in. On an impulse, Chandru poked a hand through a sack-cloth curtain and pushed. There was a door behind the screen which gave way. He let himself in, closed the door behind him and forced himself into a mud house. A modest place but a house all the same. Just behind the door was a washing place with a few battered old aluminium vessels. The puddle of dirty water at the mouth of the drain was covered with flies. Two hens scurried away flapping their wings. A figure was now visible inside the house, an old woman. She was emaciated and the cloth she wore couldn't possibly absorb any more grime. She opened her mouth. The upper front teeth were missing, the rest of the teeth large and stained. Before she could scream, Chandru extended his arms in a gesture of begging—no, she did not scream.

  Masood couldn't have any inkling of all that was happening. Nor could all those others, those sherwani-clad people. But the way Masood and his friends looked at the students in the procession the next day was eloquent with contempt—so you think the likes of you can overthrow our Nizam, do you?

  Chandru had seen the Nizam twice, both times as he passed them on the street. The police used to whistle down all traffic to a stop whenever the Nizam's car passed, mostly on a visit to the mosque. The Nizam would be sitting in a corner of the back seat, a shrivelled up figure occupying a tiny fraction of the seat.

  Dislodging this man shouldn't prove much of a feat even for Chandru. This Nizam, His Exalted Highness Mir Usman Ali Khan Bahadur blah blah blah and that toothless old woman may have been brother and sister in some earlier birth. But then, Muslims don't have rebirths, do they? Even so, the old woman had an amazing likeness to the Nizam. Not that it would make any difference to her whether she was ruled by a Nizam or a Shivaji or an Asoka. Though not a beggar, she lived in degrading poverty, squalor and starvation, like the generations before her and after her. She could have been brought down with a blow of a breath or killed with a single blow of the hand. But she had understood his entreaty. She had not betrayed him to the police. But for her, Chandru would have been among the fifteen or so people whose heads had been broken that day. But Masood? Masood had a way of knowing all that.

  Professor Ranga was going on and on about Shakespeare. John of Gaunt's wisdom, patience, tolerance and patriotism. Patriotism that had survived service under an arrogant king. John of Gaunt, an aristocrat related to the king, must have enjoyed all the good things of life in his time, mused Chandru. What about the poor people of those times, people like this poor old woman who must have formed the majority of the population? Would they too have declaimed themselves like John of Gaunt, spouting philosophy, idealism, advice? Were persons like them ever heard to speak? Did that old woman of Hyderabad ever have a voice ? If Shakespeare chose to make her speak, would he leave out the punning and obfuscating? Would it still be two meanings a word and four explanations a sentence?

  Chandru clasped his hands tightly to his forehead as if to contain an explosion. He leaned forward and laid his head on the desk. Masood opened his eyes and winked at Chandru, his head still on the desk. Chandru turned his face away. Masood gave Chandru's ear a slow twist. Chandru turned, bridling, and said 'Leave me alone, will you?'

  'Come now, don't get cross with me, friend,' said Masood in tones of endearment. And winked again. It was no ordinary wink.

  The class was over. It was time for the science and history sections to go their different ways. Chandru overtook Masood and walked quickly towards the science block. Two teams were at a game of cricket on the playing fields.

  Chandru told himself—in future, don't run away. Don't ever.

  4

  The impact of Vidutalai, the Tamil song on freedom that I sang was beyond all my expectations. The meetings of the Tamil association of our college used to be the least attended. The Telugu and Urdu association meetings always found the hall full to overflowing, but the Tamil meetings were mostly addressed to vacant chairs. A few students from other groups would come and sit with us for the first ten or fifteen minutes and then leave. Of the few Tamil-speaking teachers in our college, none except the Tamil pandit came to the Tamil meetings . The principal, being the president of all college associations, would adorn the central chair on the dais for five minutes. Not for a moment did I realise that Professor Tambimuthu was among those present when I sang about freedom: 'Vidutalai'. How could I when I was in a state of delirium throughout, call it ecstasy if you think the word also suggests an uncontrollable tremor of the mind and body. When Professor Tambimuthu smiled at me, my first thought as usual was that it must be meant for someone else, but it wasn't. Professor Tambimuthu taught us chemistry. I was not on smiling terms with anyone on the staff. In fact, I had become so adept at hiding myself that you could have pointed me out as an exemplar of anonymity. But there were occasions that challenged my claims to anonymity and here was one in the shape of Professor Tambimuthu. That evening found me standing in his room.

  'Well, well, you're a Tamil boy, are you ?' he said in Tamil and wanted to know my name. Mind you, I had been his student for well over four months. Besides, I had once broken the stopper of the jar containing hydrogen sulphide making the whole class pinch their noses and run. Besides which I also shared my table and cupboard with the only presentable girl in the group. To crown it all, I had made this Tambimuthu himself call me an idiot. Despite all that, I seemed to have somehow managed to keep my name hidden from him. Anyway, I told him my name now.

  'I didn't know you could sing,' he said.

  My thoughts went back to the principal of my high school. He had begun the interview in much the same fashion. And then he had gone on to put me on the stage in a saree and had watched the fun.

  'What song was that?' Professor Tambimuthu asked.

  'Which one sir?'

  'The one you sang on Tamil Day.'

  'You mean Vidutalai sir?'

  'Ah, yes. Say it again.'

  'Vidutalai.'

  'Sing it now.'

  'Here, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Now,sir?'

  'Yes now. Is it getting late for you to go home?'

  'Yes sir... No sir'

  'Won't take you more than two minutes, my boy. It was wonderful that day, you know'.

  'I don't know sir.'

  'Now get on with it.'

  So I sang Vidutalai in that chemistry room haunted by spirits of Egyptian alchemists and Madame Curie, a curious amalgam altogether.

  'Well, write it down for me, will you?'

  I blinked as usual. 'Sir, this is a Tamil song. It can only be written in Tamil.'

  'And you think I don't know Tamil?'

  'No sir... All right, sir.'

  I tore a sheet from the chemistry practicals notebook and wrote the song down, correcting lines that had sounded wrong when I sang, and in the process spoilt the lines that had been correct. Professor Tambimuthu took the sheet in his hand and scrutinised it.

  'May I go now, sir?'

  'What's the hurry, sit down.'

  I continued to stand. I was afraid he might leave the subject of my singing and move on to my lessons. Also, my thoughts we
re with Coverley Papers, our set text for that year. For some obscure reason, the boys' nickname for Tambimuthu was Will Honeycomb. You may remember that he was the worthless son of a noble family, vain and fond of hunting and women.

  'Sing it again,' said the professor.

  'Again, sir?'

  'Yes. Again.'

  I took the sheet back from him, because I had written my own version of the song in it, and it wouldn't do to change the words while I sang again. This time, he joined me in the singing. I felt uncomfortable. What if somebody should hear our duet ? While I sang nervously off-key, the professor himself didn't seem to be a great believer in sticking to any pitch. So between ourselves, we produced the whole range of sounds that the human voice was capable of. Professor Tambimuthu was extremely happy. I had never imagined that music had such powers. He confessed, 'This is the first time ever that I'm singing a Tamil song.'

  'Shall I go now, sir?'

  'Wait. Why are you in such a great hurry? Can't you get a bus at this time?'

  'I've come by bicycle, sir.'

  'That makes it easier still. You can go whenever you please. Now, I'm going to sing the song by myself. See if it's all right.'

  And Professor Tambimuthu sang. He explored all those domains of music the rest of us could never have known existed. In the last line of the song each repetition of the thrice repeated word 'Vidutalai' rises higher than the last and I had taught him to strike a really high note at the conclusion. Tambimuthu's voice didn't go very high though his eyeballs kept rolling higher and higher.

  Then he asked me proudly, 'Was that all right?'

  'Yes sir,' I lied.

  'I pick up songs at the first hearing. As for this song, I've been singing it ever since I heard you that day.'

  I didn't say anything.

  'Whose lyric is this?' he asked.

  'Bharati's.'

  'Who?'

  'Bharati, sir'

  'Who's he? Is he alive now?'

  The only thing I knew at that time about the greatest Tamil poet of this century was that Kalki magazine had started a collection for a memorial to be built in his name in Ettayapuram, his birth place. Long lists of donors – several pages of it – were published week after week in this magazine, I knew more about these people than about the poet. My father had donated some money as well, and his name had appeared in the lists. My knowledge of twentieth century Tamil literature was confined to the Tamil weeklies Ananda Vikatan and Kalki which appeared late in our city. It seemed that Tamil migrants like Tambimuthu had lost even that sort of contact with Tamil. I wondered when his people had migrated to Hyderabad.

  So there we were, Tambimuthu and I, in the year of Indian Independence, paying homage to our national poet by singing his song of freedom.

  'A wonderful song,' said Professor Tambimuthu, 'To think I wouldn't have known about it, if you hadn't sung it that day.'

  'I know two more songs, sir, Actually I had wanted to sing one of the two that day, but they're a bit long.'

  'Will you teach them to me?'

  'Not today, sir.'

  'No. Some other time. And look here'.

  'Yes sir.'

  'Don't tell anyone.'

  I didn't know what it was I was not to tell.

  'I mean... about my learning the song.'

  'All right, sir.' And then I made a big blunder. I said, 'Even Telugu people want to learn this song, sir.'

  'I see.. Who?'

  'Narasimha Rao, sir.'

  'Who's Narasimha Rao?'

  'A student in the A batch, sir. A Congress leader.'

  At the mention of Congress, the professor's face clouded over.

  'Be careful. Don't mix with them.'

  'But that may not be possible, sir.'

  Professor Tambimuthu stiffened. 'I tell you this because you are a Tamil boy. Don't get mixed up in all this.'

  'But I have even given my signature, sir.' I showed him my finger.

  'What?'

  'We put down our names in blood, sir.'

  'What nonsense!'

  I took warning. 'Can I go now, sir?'

  'What's all this about signatures?'

  I stood silent. He won't sing any more freedom songs, I thought.

  'What was that about signatures?'

  'We've been made to take a pledge, sir.'

  'What pledge?' Tambimuthu rebuked me sharply, standing up.

  'We're going to demonstrate in front of the college from the first of December.'

  'Get out! Get out!'

  I darted to the door. But before I was out, the professor called out, 'Chandrasekhar!'

  I turned to look at him.

  'Come here.'

  1 went to his table again. He went and closed the door, plunging the darkening room into further darkness. Dusk was falling outside.

  'Tell me the whole thing.' I stood determined not to tell him anything, and he sensed it. 'Look, Chandrasekhar,' he said, 'I don't want you to go to the dogs. Let the others do what they like. If there is another strike or demonstration, the trouble-makers will be rusticated.'

  I didn't know the exact meaning of 'rustication', but I knew it must be some sort of punishment.

  'Trust me and tell me. It'll stand you in good stead later on.'

  My resolve weakened and I told him how I went with Narasimha Rao to meet the leader of the Hyderabad State Congress, that I had been distributing pamphlets among students known to me.

  'Do you have any on you now?'

  'No sir.'

  'What was the pamphlet about?'

  I gave him some details. Digambar Rao Bindu had had a meeting with Vallabhbhai Patel in Delhi and it was decided that the college students of Hyderabad should intensify their struggle against the oppression of the Nizam–Razakar combine. The first step was a two-page pledge followed by signatures and there had been fifteen who had signed with me. In blood. I nicked my finger and blood spurted out. Besides me, three other students dipped their pens in my blood and signed. Compared with the pledge written in ink, the names in blood were dim, nearly illegible. Blood didn't seem to be proper material for writing on paper.

  I had never seen Professor Tambimuthu in such a sombre mood. 'Were any girls involved?'

  'Yes sir. A few But none from our college.'

  'Did you sign because of the girls?'

  'Oh no sir. It wasn't like that.'

  Professor Tambimuthu stood up. 'I promise not to report this,' he said. 'But I can tell that it's not going to do you any good. Idealism is a good thing, no doubt. Don't I have it myself? Why do you think I learnt this song on freedom from you? Inspiring, indeed. But then, this is no place for idealism. Look at me. I've been in this college for twenty years. Yet, when I asked for a year's leave to go to England, I was asked to resign my job and go. I should have been made the vice-principal long ago, but I wasn't even considered for the post. If I recommended a student for a scholarship, he would be the first to be rejected. To survive in this place one must wear a red cap or a turban. Mere cropped heads like me don't get anywhere.' I found it incredible that a chemistry professor should speak so candidly.

  'Chandrasekhar, these are trying times;' he went on. 'It's better to complete your studies here in Hyderabad and spend your life here, whether you like it or not. Students from Hyderabad State get no recognition elsewhere. There are no jobs anywhere for them. Hyderabad's merging with India is not going to help you in any way. I know how it is. Nobody outside respects a Hyderabad man. All that's not going to change overnight. Till now we had Englishmen above us; hereafter it will be Gandhi cap people. The're all the same, I tell you, as far as we are concerned, there's no escape for us.' I was afraid he might begin to cry. I came out of the room. It was quite dark outside. Professor Tambimuthu called out from inside the room. 'That wound in your finger, did you put some iodine or something on it? It may get septic.'

  5

  The Hindu had started to reappear in Hyderabad. That evening, the attender at Somasundaram Library had
dumped a bundle of about ten days' issues before Chandru and at six he had locked the library and left. When Chandru went the next day hoping to glance through the lot, he only found the day's paper on the table.

  Chandru left after a cursory reading of a single day's offering. This reading room charged only four annas a month, but he was overdue by about a fortnight. So far, the attender hadn't said anything, but asking for the Hindu would surely draw forth a curt reminder from him. Let me see your four annas before you enter again.

  Only the Hindu, which came from Madras, covered cricket news well. The Indian Express had flashy headlines but not enough detail. Anyway, it had also been banned here in Hyderabad, since it carried vicious attacks against the Nizam and his Government every day. When the Hindu was also banned, one had to be content with the three local newspapers, the Deccan Chronicle, the Hyderabad Bulletin and the Daily News. All three were four-page tabloids with no room for cricket. Chandru walked along Kingsway wheeling his bicycle. Yesterday's heavy downpour had cooled the city down considerably. Even otherwise, it had been quite pleasant in the last ten or fifteen days. A 'Standstill Agreement' had been reached between the Nizam and the Indian Government, and it was to be in force for a year. The Hyderabad problem had been solved, which meant some relief for the Government of India, but there were graver problems facing it: Kashmir, refugee riots in Delhi, Mahatma Gandhi's fast. But in the midst of all this, an Indian cricket team had gone to Australia for the first time. The match in Perth was nothing to write home about. But in Adelaide things had been different. Bradman had hit a century. Lala Amarnath had made a 144 there. And he had been stumped by Saggers off a ball by Dooland. The Hindu had a photograph showing Amarnath and Saggers smiling. In the next match in Melbourne Amarnath had made an unbeaten 228. India had beaten an all-Australian team in Sydney with Mankad taking eight wickets. Again, in Brisbane, Lala Amarnath made an unbeaten 172. Everyone was singing the praises of the Lala in Australia and India but little was heard of it in the Hyderabad newspapers. India, for all they cared, might have been an alien country. But there wasn't a single player from Hyderabad State on the Indian team-not Ghulam Ahmad, or E.B. Aibara, or Bhoopati, the Tamil player. One had to depend on the infrequently available Hindu from Madras for the cricket score. Newspapers from outside the state which had not been banned were available in Hyderabad the next day, because Madras to Hyderabad was a night and a day by train, a journey increasingly being undertaken from the Hyderabad end. Many people had left Hyderabad.