The Eighteenth Parallel

by MITRAN, ASHOKA

  Chandru was still wheeling his bicycle. These days, it was nothing unusual for shopping centres to be deserted even during the day. Or for houses to be locked. A few hundred families from here had evacuated the town and gone to Bolaram about ten miles away. If the Indian troops stationed there were to be withdrawn according to the agreement, Bolaram would then cease to be a secure place.

  There was no change in the Nizam's trips to the mosque. He still went three times every day, the police whistles stopping all traffic for him as usual. His Razakars were very much in evidence everywhere. What if the Indian Government could not counter the Nizam's machinations?

  There were very few bicycles parked in front of the Arya Bhavan restaurant. It was started two years ago and had brought the real South Indian idli and coffee to Secunderabad. For just four annas you got a satisfying plate of two steamed idlis with the sambar as well as a cup of coffee. But four annas would be just enough to pay the library dues. If he had had the same four annas in British Indian coinage, it would be enough even for the matinee show of an English film. 'British Indian coinage' was not the right phrase any more. Now it was Indian coinage. But things had not changed in the schools of Hyderabad. The sums still went something like, 'British-Indian currency Rs 100 is the equivalent of Hyderabad halli currency Rs 116 as.10 p. 6. How much is Rs 30 in British Indian currency worth in Hyderabad Halli?' Chandru groped in his trouser pockets to make sure that his half-anna was still there. Ever since he stopped going to college, he never seemed to have any money on him. This half-anna bit had been lying around some where and had been a chance discovery.

  He had boycotted classes for quite a few days now. Mother had asked him about it when she found him at home all the time. He merely hemmed and hawed and left it at that. Before Father could take serious note of it, a big riot broke out in the city. Ten people were killed, eighty were seriously hurt, and schools and colleges were closed for a week. It was during this week that the Standstill Agreement had been signed. The implications of the agreement were not very clear. It seemed that the Indian Government and the Nizam had both agreed not to interfere in each others' affairs. But why should the Nizam interfere at all, Chandru wondered, in anything which concerned the rest of India? The man seemed to have got what he wanted, non-interference in his affairs while he ran an Islamic state in Hyderabad in perpetuity. For that matter the State had been under Muslim rule all these centuries. But the population had never been divided into warring groups till now. They had no reason to think of each other as enemies; none had lived in fear for his life or fled the place before now. But now, all at once, it had become important to find out where a person's loyalities lay. One had to prove it by joining one group and avoiding the others. The present Nizam needed slogans his forefathers had not needed for two-and-a-half centuries: 'Long live independent Hyderabad!'

  Chandru had reached the highest part of Kingsway. The street on the left would lead him to Monda and the spot where he had been attacked. If he just sat on his bicycle now and let it take him, he would roll along down the slope to the Bible House. The street to his right, leading to Ranigunj was the one he finally took past James Street. At Nallagutta, he stopped in front of a house and knocked on the door. A girl opened the door. She didn't wear a scarf over her neck. 'Is your father in?' Chandru asked. She went in without answering him, so Chandru followed her in. Her father, Syed, was resting on a cane easychair.

  'Come in, young man,' he said in Tamil.

  Chandru went and stood near him.

  'Sit down. Would you like to have some roti?'

  Chandru declined the offer. He said, 'Father's asked you to come home.'

  'You must have some tea then,' said Syed and called out to a woman in the house 'Ji, make some tea.' Then he repeated the order in Urdu, 'Chai banao.' Syed was a Tamil-speaking Muslim who had spent all his life in the southern Tamil towns of Cuddalore and Mayavaram. But now, having come to Secunderabad in his sixtieth year, he thought he should start speaking Urdu. To Chandru however he spoke in Tamil, using the 'da' of familiarity. 'Well then,' he said, 'why does your father want me?'

  'I don't know, mama. Actually I ought to have come yesterday, but I couldn't do that until now.'

  'Why didn't you come yesterday? Did you go to college?'

  'No, mama, there were no classes yesterday.'

  'Look at that! It's all because of the mischief-mongers, the Congresswalas. I hear they beat up college boys. Did anything like that happen to you?'

  'No,' Chandru said. 'It was the police who chased us a few times. And I don't know if Father told you this. I was beaten up here in Secunderabad by two Razakars.'

  'What?' cried Syed. 'The Razakars hit you? Impossible. They're such harmless people. They are having a difficult time hiding from these Congressmen. Look at the number of houses the Congress has burnt. And all the shops they've looted. And what makes my blood boil is that they've raped women, they've gone into the houses and torn all the women's veils. How can they do this when the Nizam has done so much for them and kept them in luxury? They ought to lick his feet like dogs in gratitude, really. We won't brook any more insolence from them. We'll shoot them all down. Beware! Do you know what life is like outside the Nizam's State, with no rice, no sugar, no firewood, no cloth, everything rationed? I ought to know. I've been in Madras Presidency—no proper roads, no buses, no postal facilities. You won't find buses like ours here anywhere in the world, I tell you. What else do the Congressmen want? Half the jobs in this State are held by Hindus. Tell me, what more could you want?'

  'But the point is,' Chandru intervened, 'the majority of the population here is Hindu, which means you won't get anyone else for all the jobs.'

  'Why not? I ask you, why not? All the beggars here are Muslims. Do you know that? So many of them starve to death. And the number of Muslim refugees who have flocked to this place would run into millions. Are you by any chance a Congresswala? Tell me. Are you? Don't go spoiling your father's name. Tell me now.'

  'There are no Congressmen left in this State, mama. The party has been banned, the workers are all in jail.'

  'Worthless, all of them,' fumed Syed. 'They've spoilt the place. It appears they've been released now. That was all wrong. They ought to be churned up in the oil mill. Keep off these things, my boy. Take care.'

  'So when can we expect you, mama? Today?'

  'Not today. I have parade today.'

  'A military parade?'

  'No. Just civil volunteers. Why don't you join up? I'll ask them to take you. But you won't get any musket training.'

  'I'd rather not, mama.'

  'All right. You don't need all this training when we're here to die for you.'

  'I think I should leave now.'

  'Have your tea. She's making it specially for you. Ji, is the tea ready? Tayyar ho gaya?' asked Syed, switching over to Urdu again. The tea was terrible, too weak, the like of which Chandru had never tasted before. Poor Syed didn't even know how to make a good cup of tea like the Hyderabadis, he thought.

  As Chandru came out of Syed's house he met Syed's eldest son who was just coming in. The boy smiled at Chandru. He gave one the impression that he was in a perpetual dilemma. He had little of his father's passion and fervour. It could be that he hadn't been able to make any friends in this place. The father's new-found loyalties found no favour with the sons. In his native-village of Cuddalore he would not have worn such a vacuous expression. The son too would go to the parade tomorrow, the father was sure to drag him along. They would march, armed with some eighteenth-century firearms.

  This Syed and Chandru's father were childhood friends, friends from their days together in their native Tamil village. Father's attitude to Syed wasn't clear, but Syed still looked upon Father as a village schoolboy from Thanjavur district. And the way he went on about the atrocities of the Congress—he was so confident that his old friend would share every opinion of his. But Syed refused to realise that it was impossible in the Secunderabad of today for two men
as different as Syed and his Hindu friend to appraise things the same way. That even if they did, the consequences would be different for each of them.

  Syed's son was about the same age as Nasir Ali Khan and Masood. In spite of all the disturbing things that had been happening, the two were still their natural selves. Nasir's father was a high-ranking officer in the police and belonged to one of the oldest noble families of Hyderabad. They had not betrayed any panic in public till now, though what they might do if the situation worsened further was anybody's guess. Nasir's group in college never discussed politics openly. Nor did they evince the least interest in such matters. Why, as recently as two days ago, Nasir had sent word to Chandru to come to a cricket match the following Sunday. But Chandru couldn't very well play in a match in college when he was boycotting college, could he? Sundar Singh was sure to go, however. Not unduly bothered about the present unrest in the city, Sundar Singh regarded himself as nothing but a student of an English medium college. Also a sportsman, a cricketer, a player of music on the bulbultarang, an omnivorous eater of anything served in an Irani restaurant and a church-goer on Sundays in his best suit. It would appear that he went to church more for the suit than anything else. Morris was even freer than Sundar Singh. Anglo-Indians were the least concerned about the present situation. What a hassle-free existence his would be if only he'd been a Christian or an Anglo-Indian!

  Past Ranigunj and through another lane of Nallagutta, Chandru went to Narasimha Rao's house. Half a dozen houses in a row, all locked. They had been locked for some time now. The doors were covered with graffiti in chalk and charcoal—urchins' work. There were a few pictures too, a flagpole and a flag with a moon, a crescent moon. In this street which seemed to owe its allegiance to the crescent moon, the only house that was open was Narasimha Rao's. A number of families used to live in that building, but not any more. Chandru called out 'Narasimha Rao! Narasimha Rao!'

  An old woman looked out. Chandru asked her in Telugu if Narasimha Rao was in. She gestured with her hand to indicate 'No'. Narasimha Rao had not been seen for a fortnight or more. He had disappeared even before the college closed after the disturbances in the city. It was he who had taken Chandru and several others to a strange place and got them to sign in blood and had ordered them not to go to college. What was to be done now? Could anything be achieved by just drifting like this, doing nothing?

  'When will he come back?' Chandru asked the woman.

  'I don't know.'

  'He is here, isn't he ?'

  'I don't know anything,' the woman said in Telegu and went in, while Chandru continued, 'I'm his friend. We're classmates.'

  Silence. A child came into view and slammed the door shut. Chandru stood there for a while and then left. From a corner of the window the curtain was lifted just a little and an eye seemed to be looking through it. Chandru caught the eye just then. It was Narasimha Rao's.

  6

  Colleges and schools had reopened after the disturbances. The half-yearly and selection exams were over, the Christmas holidays would soon begin. The rain had thinned and it was getting warm again. Mornings were misty. The Husain Sagar lake lay calm and the force of the wind on the Tank Bund had lessened considerably. Walking or riding along the Bund during the day was a pleasant experience in these winter months. The Nawab of Chhatari who had followed Mirza Ismail as the Chief Minister of Hyderabad had also been dismissed. During the time the Nawab of Chattari was in office as the President of Nizam's executive council, the Razakars held a rally in front of his residence. Apparently, he didn't repeat their slogans with the necessary amount of enthusiasm, and the Razakars surrounded his house and pulled out one half of his moustache – a long and lovingly tended specimen – by its roots. When the Nawab left, the Nizam didn't even express a word of thanks to him for his services. The present incumbent, Laiq Ali, was not likely to be subjected to the same treatment as his predecessor—he didn't sport a moustache, for one thing. More importantly, this minister had the approval of Kasim Razvi, the leader of the Razakars. Laiq Ali had not yet turned his attention to the Tank Bund. It remained as last renovated by Sir Mirza Ismail. One had to concede this much to Mirza Ismail—he had really beautified the mile-long stretch. He didn't like the view of the lake to be blocked by a wall and so had put railings in its place. The battlement-like sit-outs on the pier had been demolished and rebuilt at the level of the pavement to enable people to walk in and have their fill of fresh air. These were small changes but they transformed the Bund into a lovelier place.

  Chandru walked to the sit-out, parked his bicycle, and surveyed the scene. Far away to his left stood a building resembling the bow of a ship—the Boat Club. Behind it was the Osmania Technical Institute which had the appearance of an eighteenth-century castle with fortifications. From where he stood, Chandru could see all the sides of the lake. On the opposite side, across two miles of water were a few bungalows with the Banjara hills in the background. To his right a railway bridge spanned a canal fed by the lake. If you stood watching from here when a train entered the bridge, a clear four seconds would pass before you heard the first sounds of the train rolling past the steel girders of the bridge. What is the speed of sound? About a thousand feet per second. A four-second lag would mean some four thousand feet from the point, so the bridge must be four thousand feet away, about three quarters of a mile, that is.

  Chandru stood watching the bridge, the trees and the few scattered buildings. And beyond everything, the pale blue sky hung with low clouds. In the days when he attended college regularly, he had often wished to spend a few minutes on this balcony, but had never found the time. He wasn't going to college now, though the classes went on as usual. There was time at last for a few minutes on the Tank Bund. The question was how much longer it would be possible to do things like this. Narasimha Rao had got his signature in blood – together with a number of other bloody signatures – for the Quit College Movement Nizam College was the only college in that area offering instruction in English. He had almost quit it. Now what? That was what he wanted to ask of Narasimha Rao. The man had been in his house all the time that Chandru was being fobbed off by his mother or sister with an 'I don't know anything'. Imagine placing one's trust in this man and signing in blood, blood that was thicker than water, thicker than ink no doubt, and couldn't be taken lightly.

  There was not much traffic on the Tank Bund. The double-decker buses newly bought by the Nizam's government sped past smoothly. The old buses still plied, each emitting its own cloud of smoke. But with these new buses one couldn't tell that they had engines. That was perhaps the inspiration behind Syed's eloquence.

  Chandru mounted his bicycle and pedalled slowly towards Hyderabad. The third hour in the morning session must be on now in college, with the lunch break to follow. Table-tennis players would have a hurried lunch and rush to the Salar Jung Hall. The table-tennis tournaments were probably on now. Chandru too could have played, if only he'd gone to college. Very few science students played table-tennis. The fun and games were all for the arts students. They had a lively time in college. At any tournament, you'd find all the history girls there. Miss Taraporewala, Miss Ananda Rao and Miss Naidu who made up the 'Diamond Set' were sure to be there. Miss Taraporewala came to college in a blue Ford Deluxe. There was only one more car of the same model in Hyderabad which was usually found parked in front of Abdul Khader and Sons. They had two big shops, one in Secunderabad, and this one in Hyderabad. They were the owners of the Grand Ice Cream Parlour near Fateh Maidan. Ice cream was served with a special kind of biscuit in the parlour. You got a feel of fibres when you bit into it, you didn't get such wafers anywhere else. An ice cream cup cost eight annas. The 'Diamond Set' ate ice cream every day. It was worth going to college, if not for anything else, just to have a look at Miss Taraporewala, her silky softness, with the veins on her neck showing as if seen through fine tissue-paper. She wore rimless glasses.

  If Chandru got a chance in the table-tennis tournament, he might ask he
r to be his partner for the mixed doubles—she was in great demand. Chandru had never spoken to her. This benighted maths-physics-chemistry group restricted one's company to Sundar Singh, Lakshman Rao and Tambimuthu. What was one to make of Professor Tambimuthu's rash mania for Tamil songs? He ought to be content teaching chemistry. Or if he must sing, let him set Avogadro's hypothesis and the periodic table to music. By the way, what had happened to Padma Sivarao? A nice quiet girl, Padma Sivarao. She usually took four days' leave for every two days she attended class. Had she by any chance joined the Quit College Movement? Would a boycott by Padma Sivarao persuade the Nizam to bring Hyderabad into the Indian Union? At the end of the Tank Bund Chandru turned left towards Basheer Bagh. Just a ten-minute ride to college now. But what was he going to do there? Sit down in some corner and eat the puris he had brought with him? If he happened to meet someone a conversation couldn't be avoided. What if he went to class? But blood was thicker than ink. When he reached the crossroads at Fateh Maidan, Chandru didn't go to the Nizam College, he took the road that went round the tree in the direction of Nampalli. On the way to Nampalli were the Public Gardens which housed the zoo, a nice place to spend a few hours in until college was out. He could go home after that.

  Amazing, wasn't it, the way he was getting sucked in deeper and deeper into these hopeless muddles with no apparent initiative, no real effort on his part? At home the burden of the buffalo fell on him—as if it was his sole responsibility to keep it away from the church premises and the police officer's house. It had been a long time now that they had stopped playing cricket near home. Several of the boys had left Secunderabad. Those who remained could muster neither the enthusiasm nor their elders' permission to play. The playfield had now been taken over by the Muslim boys for hockey in the evenings and for martial training in the mornings when they did 'left-right' marching. Morris and Terence seemed to have grown up overnight. So it was goodbye to games like tip-cat and monkeys-on-trees. He could join the college cricket groups. Nasir Ali Khan would still let him play. But then his first day at the nets had been such a disaster.And then there was this obsession of his with girls. Yet somehow his mind didn't dwell for long on any single girl. It was Pyari Begum for a second, an Anglo-Indian girl the next. Thoughts of Nagaratnam at the Secunderabad bus-stand. The Regimental Bazaar brought memories of whats-her-name of the paraiah settlement—Pushpa. Once he had crossed over to the other side of the Tank Bund, his thoughts hovered on a Padma Sivarao or a Taraporewala or an Anandarao. He was never able to recall any of their faces clearly. This little failing of his could not have escaped them. What girl would care for a boy who failed to recognise her? He had such a hazy memory for faces. Even the Mannas girls were so aloof these days. Was that too because of the muddy state of his mind? What he needed to do was forget everything else and concentrate on his studies. But of all the lectures he had attended in the past four months, nothing, absolutely nothing, seemed to have registered in his mind. Worse, he had now set his name to a pledge that he would not attend any classes. And so here he was on his way to the zoo during class hours. Supposing he now went to the boy in whose house they had all met for the signature campaign and tried to find out...