The Eighteenth Parallel

by MITRAN, ASHOKA

  There had been an incident in Bibinagar twenty miles from Secunderabad, a town chosen by Kasim Razvi for exemplary punishment. He got four Hyderabad Police trucks to carry his men there and set fire to a whole street of shops and reduced them to ashes. Houses and shops were looted. Three were killed and forty wounded, no one knew the exact number. But what really was shocking was the way the women...

  So the sugar had been bought. But Father wasn't finished yet. Having come this far, he'd do well to buy a few vegetables as well. They climbed onto the platform at Monda and bought a few things from the scattered stalls there. Father then went towards the market gate. At the gate was a clock tower. There used to be two food shops there, one on either side of the entrance. One was called Bharat Bhavan, the other Sholapurwala. Bharat Bhavan had shut shop, only Sholapurwala stayed on. Father bought a sweet called sone-mithai, for six annas.

  A peculiar sequence of events—Father returning from work–the house tense with the Kasim episode – Father waiting at Kasim's door, calling, 'Mr Kasim, Mr Kasim!' – the momentary stop at the closed oil shop – the ration shop owner telling them rice was no longer imported, only guns, and now here was father buying sweets! How did one link up this last fact with the rest?

  Father asked the vendor for a small piece of the sweet and gave it to Chandru. As a boy, he had always waited eagerly for this moment. Now he stood there, a young man with an undergrowth of a moustache, but Father still thought it fit to get a free sweet for him.

  When they left the shop Father asked him, 'How did you like it?'

  'It was good.'

  They met Dr Purushottam who was shutting his dispensary for the day. 'Just a minute, Mr Iyer,' he said when he saw Father. He was in the process of closing his clinic, arranging a series of vertical planks in their grooves. Only two planks remained. Father stood there for a moment, then took up a plank. Chandru held the lock. Together, they finished the boarding up and locked the place. The doctor wore his oversized trousers fastened at the waist with a necktie as he always did.

  The doctor and Father walked together, talking. Chandru followed a few paces behind. The doctor was narrating his woes which by now were common to most people. His wife, son, daughter-in-law and the grandchildren had all left. They had asked him to come along, but how was he to leave the dispensary? He had a boy to help him in the clinic but the boy too had fled, so now at opening time it seemed that the doctor first got into his clinic without removing all the planks. Then he swept and dusted the room himself before removing the other planks for the public. He was beginning to feel his age, more so with this routine of boarding over and dismantling the shop-front everyday. Only the night before, a plank had fallen on his right big toe.

  It was even worse at home, he said, where he had left the housekeeping to a maid, an awful woman who was feeding an army of her own at his expense in the days when everything was scarce. But he was afraid to challenge her, lest she should leave him. This was the plight of a man who had spent fifty years of his life for the sake of his family, working for them, caring for them, worrying for them. They had all gone now, leaving him to fend for himself. After all, was there any point in running away, he wondered. Would someone come and swallow them up here? Riots and disturbances had always been happening in this place. Had the whole population run away at any time? And what did these fools hope to do elsewhere? Settle down? How could they? No, they would have to return some day.

  Chandru and his father walked up to Dr Purushottam's house. Once he entered it, the house seemed to swallow him. They then retraced their steps, past the railway station and the Regimental Bazaar police station. The walk had calmed then somewhat. They still hadn't spoken to each other, but the lapse didn't appear significant any more.

  The May night was pleasant and balmy. The fragrance of the blossoming night-queen came in gusts through the darkness, you couldn't tell from where. The belief was that a snake was sure to be nearby wherever this sweet smell was present. But then, a snake would have its own smell, that of a raw potato. Yes, snakes did smell like that. But now there was nothing but the scent of the flowers all the way from Keyes High School to Lancer Barracks. The impartial largesse of the night-queen. Chandru wondered who had named it so aptly. This queen didn't bother in the least about matters like the country's independence or subjection.

  When they reached home they found Mr Syed of Nallagutta there. He began to rain Father with questions the moment he saw him. His tone was that of a childhood friend and he used the intimate suffix 'da' liberally. 'So we have a fool like you, do we?' he began. 'Your wife tells me your neighbour came and shouted at her. What else can it be if you don't allow him water? You seem to imagine you're still in the brahmin quarter of your village, Chattanapuram. You can't live like that here.' Then he turned upon Chandru—'So you seem to have said goodbye to your studies. I don't know why you're led by the nose by all those people. As the proverb goes a town divided is the vagrant's delight. It's their business to incite people. But why don't you have your wits about you?'

  Father went straight to the kitchen without saying a word. He left the sugar and vegetables there, came back, dragged a chair beside Syed's and sat down. Syed meanwhile kept up his harangue. 'You railway people are a troublesome lot, I tell you. All those refugees have come here, fearing for their lives and leaving house and home, but it looks as if they aren't given jobs in the railways. All these Naidus and Reddys seem to be blocking them. Now you tell me, are the railways your grandfather's bequest to you? Not at all. Everything belongs to the Nizam. Is it fair that his people should be denied employment in his railways? Sheer injustice, blackguardism.'

  Father cut in with, 'Now tell me how you are.'

  'Oh fine,' said Syed 'No complaints. I've been made the captain of the Volunteers Corps in our locality, Nallagutta. See how honour is thrust on me ? If I had just kept to Mayavaram and Cuddalore in Madras Presidency, do you think any of this would have come my way ? No sir. Not at my age anyway.'

  Father asked Syed if he would have something to eat.

  'We've nothing but maize rotis to offer, of course. But there's brinjal to go with it. I know how much you like it.'

  'I've already had some. In fact I asked your wife myself for some and then she told me about the water tap. I have opened the tap. Now don't you go blaming your neighbour for nothing. Actually it's you who lack experience in such matters.'

  'How's everyone at home?' Father enquired. 'Did your son get a job?'

  'Hyderabad is not like Madras, you know that. There's no dearth of jobs here. Everyone who comes here gets a job. My son is with me in the Volunteers Corps. How is it that you haven't visited us for so long?'

  'I did come,' Father said, 'last week. But you were not home. You'd gone out somewhere.'

  'Ah that,' said Syed. 'I'd gone to Razvi Sahib's meeting. That's what made me realise what these Congresswalas are up to. Our Nizam's PM lodged a protest with the Indian Government. Think of the people's plight when commodities that have been coming into the State all these years are suddenly stopped. He also complained against Indian planes flying over Hyderabad and do you know the sort of reply he got?'

  'No, I don't,' Father said, 'No paper mentions these things, you know.'

  'Now, the question we'd asked was, why are you starving our people? But in reply, they're asking us. "Why did you give 200 million rupees to Pakistan? Why do you hold all these meetings? Why do you do this, Why do you do that?" The wolf sitting in judgement over the sheep, that's what it is.'

  'What's that about the 200 million?'

  'Oh that. Our Nizam has lent it to Pakistan.' Syed explained. 'Look, Pakistan is a Muslim country. Isn't it natural for our Nizam to go to its help? If one Muslim doesn't help another, who will? And then, do you know what these refugees from Punjab did? They've burnt everything and ruined Pakistan before they came running to India. After all that, what right have you to question us? Who are you to ask us, "Why did you send money there? Why did you send men there?"
These cowards will be the first to scamper away at the sound of a gun. None of their tricks with us. They shall be crushed.'

  'Look Syed,' said Father. 'You proclaim Indian currency is not legal tender in Hyderabad, then how do you expect Indian goods to come in as usual? Credit me with some sense, will you?'

  'What do we need Indian currency for? Haven't we had the Nizam's halli currency for generations here ? The British had their own currency, of course, and it was trustworthy. These white Gandhi capwallas are usurping the British chair now. But how can anyone trust their money?'

  'You ought to be the Nizam's minister, really.'

  'And I shall be, too,' Syed said, 'Someday, certainly. I find it impossible to keep quiet when such a lot of injustice is being done. My blood boils. And... another thing ... keep this to yourself.... It's about these Communists. We thought of them as mere scoundrels and thieves. Not at all. It is they who are now telling these whitecapwalas "Hands off Hyderabad!" You know that? They know what these Gandhi capwallas are like. At the first shot of war between the Nizam and India, our first supporters against India will be the communists. It's all being done very secretly. Don't breathe a word to a soul.'

  4

  For four days now no trains had entered or left the Nizam's State of Hyderabad. That had put an end to all mail, telegrams, Indian magazines and visitors. Hyderabad had become a land-locked island. Something else had also happened, as was proclaimed by Kasim's radio next door. The Father of Pakistan, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, was dead. Hardly eight months had passed since Gandhi's death. Kasim's radio kept mourning the 'Quaid-e-Azam', the supreme ruler's, death elaborately.

  The press however was extremely cautious. A Muslim journalist' Shoyabullah Khan's blood had flowed and congealed on the streets of Hyderabad. His hands had been cut off and flung away on the streets for his having dared to write in the Imroze that it would not be a feasible proposition for Hyderabad to remain independent of India. Such sentiments coming from a Hindu journalist would have merited only a term in prison, perhaps. But how could a Muslim, an ungrateful wretch of a Muslim, write such things against the Nizam? How could a Muslim even harbour such thoughts? So he was shot dead as a warning—Beware, you treasonous vermin, you shall meet the same fate as that of the swine, beware!

  But Chandru could sense a difference in the air now. Mother seemed to have felt it even before he did. The radio had given up mourning! Now it was some sort of martial music the whole day with a wild thumping of drums. There were frenzied group songs about some flag and one song proclaimed 'We got Pakistan with a smile, we'll get Hindustan fighting!'

  War—was a war really on?

  No one stirred out of the house. Monday was a holiday. Father's office was closed over Jinnah's death. It was on Monday evening that news of the war came. Indian troops had entered Hyderabad State from the west and southeast. A state of emergency was proclaimed in the whole state—ARP measures to be observed in all cities. No lights were to be seen at night.

  Mother put two locks each on the front and back doors. There was no rice at home, no vegetables. Not even water. Going without water for another day was a frightening prospect. They had not bathed or washed. Even going to the toilet was restricted. The buffalo provided some milk, the only thing that stood between them and starvation now.

  On Tuesday, however, Father went to the office to forestall any action being taken against him for not coming to work. Seven or eight people had been dismissed from the Railways for no apparent reason, all of them with twentyeight and thirty years of service. Dismissal now would mean that he would forfeit even the tiny sum given at retirement. With no other job in sight, he would be be left on the streets with his family when old age was already creeping on him.

  Lancer Barracks was, to all appearances, much the same. Morris and Terence, now grown like hefty bulls, were still on the banyan tree, swinging from its hanging roots.

  Chandru was about to go towards the banyan when water started to come through the tap. He ran into the house and his mother and he filled up a few big vessels.

  Kasim's family next door were also collecting water. Their radio was off. The whole of the previous day and night their radio had kept up a constant boom of martial songs. It was strangely silent now.

  'Did you notice?' Mother asked Chandru.

  'What?'

  'A lot of people seem to have come to Kasim's house.'

  She was right. But when did they come? They were not there yesterday, not during the day. They must have come after dark. But why? There was no Muslim festival on at this time.

  When Chandru started for the banyan tree, Mother said, 'Please don't.' He went all the same. Morris was the first to say, 'How are you?'

  'Any news?' Chandru asked him.

  'What about?'

  'Doesn't your father go to work?'

  'With no trains running he's off duty all the time.'

  'My father's gone to work.'

  'But your father works in an office.'

  'So you really don't know anything?'

  'About the fight? Nothing definite. But Indian troops have entered Hyderabad. I'm going to the city today to find out.'

  Father brought the news earlier than Morris—Indian troops were advancing towards Hyderabad city from all directions. Whenever there had been pitched battles, the Nizam's army had backed away or surrendered. Those who really fought for the Nizam were the Razakars with unkempt hair and soiled shirts. They had confronted Indian tanks with brandishing swords. Two thousand of them had been mown down in just ten minutes, a vain harvest indeed. But according to Hyderabad Radio the forces of Hyderabad were advancing everywhere. They were supposed to have captured Masulipatnam.

  'Did the Communists fight alongside the Razakars?' Chandru asked his father.

  Father was taken aback for a moment to find Chandru speaking to him. Then he said. 'I don't know. But the police and the military had been fighting them, decimating them all these years. So it's rather unlikely that they would take sides with the Razakars now.'

  'Mr Syed said so, remember?'

  'Oh, Syed,' said Father, 'you don't suppose the man's in his right mind, do you?'

  Curfew was imposed in Secunderabad and Hyderabad. Anyone found on the streets after 6 p.m. was to be shot at sight. The announcement was couched between other bits such as 'The Nizam's forces march towards Delhi after capturing Masulipatnam on the east coast and Goa on the west coast'. 'The Indian Agent-General K.M. Munshi's residence in Bolaram is being guarded to protect him from a possible mob attack.'

  Even after six in the evening, Chandru kept wandering the grounds of Lancer Barracks. It was not only the Hindu houses; the Anglo-Indian and Muslim houses were also shut, an occasional sliver of light sneaking out through the tiny gaps in the closed doors and windows. The place had already settled down for the night.

  As he came out he looked at Oxford Street, a long stretch with ups and downs till it reached the Wazir Sultan buildings and was then lost to sight. The sun, now ready to plunge behind the buildings, seemed to call him. But how safe was it to follow the sun which was about to be quenched when there were fires flaming everywhere?

  Chandru wanted to put his trust in the sun. His idea of a curfew was very hazy. 'Shoot at sight'—with what? A pistol? A rifle? Wouldn't the culprit run away before anyone could take aim? A man on the run may be shot on open ground or a straight road, but on these meandering lanes and bylanes? If the man entered a house, would they shoot at the house? At the front door? Through a window? Or at the roof?

  Oxford Street offered little scope for finding out as policemen were rarely seen in this area. One had to go to the clock tower. But there was no policeman even at the clock tower today. The place was completely deserted, not a person was about.

  But there was, or rather were. Two policemen, the sole occupants of a dilapidated bus, which rattled past. One of them spotted Chandru and shouted. 'Go on, get away home!' The bus didn't slow down and was soon gone, leaving behind a smell of ground
nut oil, as if a feast for a hundred had been cooked there.

  Chandru returned home watching his long shadow all the way. The shadow started from his feet about ten or twelve feet long, but it seemed to have a will of its own.

  Wandering all over the place. 'Don't watch your shadow, you'll grow thin.'—Who had said that? Never mind who. Anyway, shodow-watching was quite worth the risk. His shadow was dancing in front of him, trying to tell him something. But alas, in some unknown tongue. Shadow, Shadow tell me true.

  Chandru had a good look at neighbour Kasim's house before he went in. The window had been secured with wooden board nailed to the frame so that it couldn't be opened. One of the double doors in front had also received the same kind of reinforcement.

  Chandru hadn't entered his house yet when Kasim's door opened and a man came out. He didn't see Chandru. He sat down near the wall for about a minute, then stood up. A man of around fifty, someone Chandru had never seen there before. As the man was tying his pyjama strings, his eyes fell on Chandru. He salaamed him, two very humble salaams. Then he went into the house and bolted the door. Kasim's house stood silent once more.

  It was on Wednesday that the city threw off its silence. There was no news on Hyderabad Radio or war cries. It was film songs all the time. The townspeople were up and about, somewhat more than was usual. There weren't many policemen about and those that were around looked rather shaken. People could be seen everywhere, standing about in groups, their talk open and free. Passenger-riding on bicycles was prohibited but was now seen everywhere even near the police stations. Police stations for that matter appeared deserted. The Regimental Bazaar police station usually had a permanent display of swords and firearms which could be seen from the road. These had now been removed.