Years went by.
I left college. I ceased to be a student and became a clerk; then a head clerk. I left Aligarh and came to live in New Delhi. I was allotted government quarters. I got married. I had children.
The quarters next to mine were occupied by a Sikh who had been displaced from Rawalpindi. Despite the passage of years, I remembered what Ghulam Rasul had told me. As Ghulam Rasul had prophesied, the Sikhs had been taught a bitter lesson in humility at least, in the district of Rawalpindi. The Muslims had virtually wiped them out. The Sikhs boasted that they were great heroes; they flaunted their long kirpans. But they could not withstand the brave Muslims. The Sikhs’ beards were forcibly shaved. They were circumcised. They were converted to Islam. The Hindu press, as was its custom, vilified the Muslims. It reported that the Muslims had murdered Sikh woman and children. This was wholly contrary to Islamic tradition. No Muslim warrior was ever known to raise his hand against a woman or a child. The pictures of the corpses of women and children published in Hindu newspapers were obviously faked. I wouldn’t have put it beyond the Sikh to murder their own women and children in order to vilify the Muslims.
The Muslims were also accused of abducting Hindu and Sikh women. The truth of the matter is that such was the impact of the heroism of Muslims on the minds of Hindu and Sikh girls that they fell in love with young Muslims and insisted on going with them. These noble-minded young men had no option but to give them shelter and thus bring them to the true path of Islam. The bubble of Sikh bravery was burst. It did not matter how their leaders threatened the Muslims with their kirpans, the sight of the Sikhs who had fled from Rawalpindi filled my heart with pride in the greatness of Islam.
The Sikh who was my neighbour was about sixty years old. His beard had gone completely grey. Although he had barely escaped from the jaws of death, he was always laughing, displaying his teeth in the most vulgar fashion. It was evident that he was quite stupid. In the beginning he tried to draw me into his net by professions of friendship. Whenever I passed him he insisted on talking to me. I do not remember what kind of Sikh festival it was, when he sent me some sweet butter. My wife promptly gave it away to the sweepress. I did my best to have as little to do with him as I could. I snubbed him whenever I could. I knew that if I spoke a few words to him, he would be hard to shake off. Civil talk would encourage him to become familiar. It was known to me that Sikhs drew their sustenance from foul language. Why should I soil my lips by associating with such people!
One Sunday afternoon I was telling my wife of some anecdotes about the stupidity of the Sikhs. To prove my point, exactly at 12 o’clock, I sent my servant across to my Sikh neighbour to ask him the time. He sent back the reply, ‘Two minutes after 12.’ I remarked to my wife ‘You see, they are scared of even mentioning 12 o’clock!’ We both had a hearty laugh. After this, many a time when I wanted to make an ass of my Sikh neighbour, I would ask him, ‘Well, Sardarji has it struck twelve?’ The shameless creature would grin, baring all his teeth and answer, ‘Sir, for us it is always striking twelve.’ He would roar with laughter as if it were a great joke.
I was concerned about the safety of my children. One could never trust a Sikh. And this man had fled from Rawalpindi. He was sure to have a grudge against Muslims and to be on the lookout for an opportunity to avenge himself. I had told my wife never to allow the children to go near the Sikh’s quarters. But children are children. After a few days I saw my children playing with the Sikh’s little girl, Mohini, and his other grandchildren. This child, who was barely ten years old, was really as beautiful as her name indicated; she was fair and beautifully formed. These wretches have beautiful women. I recall Ghulam Rasul telling me that if all the Sikh men were to leave their women behind and clear out of Punjab, there would be no need for Muslims to go to paradise in search of houris.
The truth about the Sikhs was soon evident. After the thrashing in Rawalpindi, they fled like cowards to East Punjab. Here they found the Muslims weak and unprepared. So they began to kill them. Hundreds of thousands of Muslims were martyred; the blood of the faithful ran in streams. Thousands of women were stripped naked and made to parade through the streets. When Sikhs, fleeing from Western Punjab, came in large numbers to Delhi, it was evident that there would be trouble in the capital. I could not leave for Pakistan immediately. Consequently I sent away my wife and children by air, with my elder brother, and entrusted my own fate to God. I could not send much luggage by air. I booked an entire railway wagon to take my furniture and belongings. But on the day I was to load the wagon I got information that trains bound for PakIstan were being attacked by Sikh bands. Consequently my luggage stayed in my quarters in Delhi.
On the 15th of August, India celebrated its independence. What interest could I have in the idependence of India! I spent the day lying in bed reading Dawn and the Pakistan Times. Both the papers had strong words to say about the manner in which India had gained its freedom and proved conclusively how the Hindus and the British had conspired to destroy the Muslims. It was only our leader, the great Mohammed Ali Jinnah, who was able to thwart their evil designs and win Pakistan for the Muslims. The English had knuckled under because of Hindu and Sikh pressure and handed over Amritsar to India. Amritsar, as the world knows, is a purely Muslim city. Its famous Golden Mosque — or am I mixing it up with the Golden Temple! — yes of course, the Golden Mosque there are the Jama Masjid, the Red Fort, the mausolea of Nizamuddin and Emperor Humayun, the tomb and school of Safdar Jang — just everything worthwhile bears imprints of Islamic rule. Even so this Delhi (which should really be called after its Muslim builder Shahjahan as Shahjahanabad) was to suffer the indignity of having the flag of Hindu imperialism unfurled on its ramparts.
My heart seemed rent asunder. I could have shed tears of blood. My cup of sorrow was full to the brim when I realised that Delhi, which was once the footstool of the Muslim Empire, the centre of Islamic culture and civilisation, had been snatched out of our hands. Instead we were to have the desert wastes of Western Punjab, Sindh and Baluchistan inhabited by an uncouth and uncultured people. We were to go to a land where people do not know how to talk in civilised Urdu; where men wear baggy salwars like their women folk, where they eat thick bread four pounds in weight instead of the delicate wafers we eat at home!
I steeled myself. I would have to make this sacrifice for my great leader, Jinnah, and for my new country, Pakistan. Nevertheless the thought of having to leave Delhi was most depressing.
When I emerged from my room in the evening, my Sikh neighbour bared his fangs and asked, ‘Brother, did you not go out to see the celebrations?’ I felt like setting fire to his beard.
One morning the news spread of a general massacre in old Delhi. Muslim homes were burnt in Karol Bagh. Muslim shops in Chandni Chowk were looted. This then was a sample of Hindu rule! I said to myself, ‘New Delhi is really an English city; Lord Mountbatten lives here as well as the Commanderin-Chief. At least in New Delhi no hand will be raised against Muslims.’ With this self assurance I started towards my office. I had to settle the business of my provident fund; I had delayed going to Pakistan in order to do so. I had only got as far as Gole Market when I ran into a Hindu colleague in the office. He said, ‘What on earth are you up to? Go back at once and do not come out of your house. The rioters are killing Muslims in Connaught Circus.’ I hurried back home.
I had barely got to my quarters when I ran into my Sikh neighbour. He began to reassure me. ‘Sheikhji, do not worry! As long as I am alive no one will raise a hand against you.’ I said to myself: ‘How much fraud is hidden behind this man’s bread! He is obviously pleased that the Muslims are being massacred, but expresses sympathy to win my confidence; or is he trying to taunt me?’ I was the only Muslim living in the block, perhaps I was the only one on the road.
I did not want these people’s kindness or sympathy. I went inside my quarter and said to myself, ‘If I have to die, I will kill at least ten or twenty men before they get me.’ I went to my
room where beneath my bed I kept my doublebarrelled gun. I had also collected quite a hoard of cartridges.
I searched the house, but could not find the gun.
‘What is huzoor looking for?’ asked my faithful servant, Mohammed.
‘What happened to my gun?’
He did not answer. But I could tell from the way he looked that he had either hidden it or stolen it.
‘Why don’t you answer?’ I asked him angrily.
Then he came out with the truth. He had stolen my gun and given it to some of his friends who were collecting arms to defend the Muslims in Daryaganj.
‘We have hundreds of guns, several machine guns, ten revolvers and a cannon. We will slaughter these infidels; we will roast them alive.’
‘No doubt with my gun you will roast the infidels in Daryaganj, but who will defend me here? I am the only Mussulman amongst these savages. If I am murdered, who will answer for it?’
I persuaded him to steal his way to Daryaganj to bring back my gun and couple of hundred cartridges. When he left I was convinced that I would never see him again. I was all alone. On the mantlepiece was a family photograph. My wife and children stared silently at me. My eyes filled with tears at the thought that I would never see them again. I was comforted with the thought that they were safe in Pakistan. Why had I been tempted by my paltry providend fund and not gone with them? I heard the crowd yelling.
‘Sat Sri Akal...’
‘Har Har Mahadev.’
The yelling came closer and closer. They were rioters — the bearers of my death warrant. I was like a wounded deer, running hither and thither, with the hunters’ hounds in full pursuit. There was no escape. The door was made of very thin wood and glass panes. The rioters would smash their way in.
‘Sat Sri Akal...’
‘Har Har Mahadev.’
They were coming closer and closer; death was coming closer and closer. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My Sikh neighbour walked in — ‘Sheikhji, come into my quarters at once.’ Without a second thought I ran into the Sikh’s verandah and hid behind the columns. A shot hit the wall above my head. A truck drew up and about a dozen young men climbed down. Their leader had a list in his hand — ‘Quarter No. 8 — Sheikh Burhanuddin’. He read my name and ordered his gang to go ahead. They invaded my quarter and under my very eyes proceeded to destroy my home. My furniture, boxes, pictures, books, druggets and carpets, even the dirty linen was carried into the truck. Robbers! Thugs! Cut-throats!
As for the Sikh, who had pretended to sympathise with me, he was no less a robber than they! He was pleading with the rioters: ‘Gentlemen, stop! We have prior claim over our neighbour’s property. We must get our share of the loot.’ He beckoned to his sons and daughters. All of them gathered to pick up whatever they could lay their hands on. One took my trousers; another a suitcase.
They even grabbed the family photograph. They took the loot to their quarters.
You bloody Sikh! If God grants me life I will settle my score with you. At this moment I cannot even protest. The rioters are armed and only a few yards away from me. If they get to know of my presence...
‘Please come in.’
My eyes fell on the unsheathed kirpan in the hands of the Sikh. He was inviting me to come in. The bearded monster looked more frightful after he had soiled his hands with my property. There was the glittering blade of his kirpan inviting me to my doom. There was no time to argue. The only choice was between the guns of the rioters and the sabre of the Sikh. I decided, rather the kirpan of the old man than ten armed gangsters. I went into the room hesitantly, silently.
‘Not here, come in further,’ I went into the inner room like a goat following a butcher. The glint of the blade of the kirpan was almost blinding.
‘Here you are, take your things,’ said the Sikh.
He and his children put all the stuff they had pretended to loot, in front of me. His old woman said, ‘Son, I am sorry we were not able to save more.’
I was dumb-founded.
The gangsters had dragged out my steel almirah and were trying to smash it open. ‘It would be simpler if we could find the keys,’ said someone.
‘The keys can only be found in Pakistan. That cowardly son of a filthy Muslim has decamped,’ replied another.
Little Mohini answered back: ‘Sheikhji is not a coward. He had not run off to Pakistan.’
‘Where is he blackening his face?’
‘Why should he be blackening his face? He is in...’ Mohini realised her mistake and stopped in her sentence. Blood mounted in her father’s face. He locked me in the inside room, gave his kirpan to his son and went out to face the mob.
I do not know what exactly took place outside. I heard the sound of blows; then Mohini crying; then the Sikh yelling full-blooded abuse in Punjabi. And then a shot and the Sikh’s cry of pain ‘hai.’
I heard a truck engine starting up and then there was a petrified silence.
When I was taken out of my prison my Sikh neighbour was lying on a charpoy. Beside him lay a torn and bloodstained shirt. His new shirt also was oozing with blood. His son had gone to telephone for the doctor.
‘Sardarji, what have you done?’ I do not know how these words came out of my lips. The world of hate in which I had lived all these years, lay in ruins about me.
‘Sardarji, why did you do this?’ I asked him again.
‘Son, I had a debt to pay.’
‘What kind of a debt?’
‘In Rawalpindi there was a Muslim like you who sacrificed his life to save mine and the honour of my family.’
‘What was his name, Sardarji?’
‘Ghulam Rasul.’
Fate had played a cruel trick on me. The clock on the wall started to strike... 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... The Sikh turned towards the clock and smiled. He reminded me of my grandfather with his twelve-inch beard. How closely the two resembled each other!
...6...7...8...9...We counted in silence.
He smiled again. His white beard and long white hair were like a halo, effulgent with a divine light... 10... 11... 12... The clock stopped striking.
I could almost hear him say: ‘For us Sikhs, it is always 12 o’clock!’
But the bearded lips, still smiling, were silent. And I knew he was already in some distant world, where the striking of clocks counted for nothing, where violence and mockery were powerless to hurt him.
the mahabharata retold
Satindra Singh
Until the partition of the Indian subcontinent in August 1947, Gurdaspur was a small town. Life crawled on without change, without excitement. Its inhabitants were completely unaware of the brightness of life.
True, there was some variety and colour in its otherwise drab and seemingly changless existence when religious festivals came. On Dussehra, there was some gaiety and pageantry when the effigy of the demon king, Ravana, was burnt amidst the deafening exploding of crackers. On Diwali, the festival of earthen lamps, too, there was some commotion and some excitement and some change in the ancient routine of life. Holi was also celebrated with joyous abandon, with sprinkling of colours and coloured water. On Baisakhi, the rustic and sturdy peasants performed bhangra dances in order to celebrate the coming of the harvest when the golden wheat swayed delicately in the spring breeze.
The routine of life was also somewhat ruffled in a pleasant way on the occasion of the birth anniversaries of Guru Nanak Dev and Guru Gobind Singh. On these auspicious occasions, robust and bearded Sikhs, naked swords in hand, led the procession, heads bowed before the holy Granth carried shoulder-high in a palanquin.
There was also some change in the lazy and colourless stream of life on Eid and Shab-e-baraat when puritanical Muslims let themselves go.
On all these occasions, flung far and few between, children put on new clothes and were allowed to while away their time — playing.
Besides these religious — and necessarily communal festivals — children had opportunities to celebrate common events
without consideration of caste or community. Though not regular, such occasions were looked forward to with great keenness.
One of these was the arrival of the road-roller during the summer season. For us it was a day to keep away from school. We did not come home for our mid-day meals and the ordained siesta thereafter. All this, of course, meant the birch both at school and at home. But who cared? We exultingly followed the road-roller from one end of the main street to another. Its whistle sent us into ecstasy. We stopped our ears with our fingers, closed our eyes and felt lifted up and floating in the air.
The only thing that dwarfed the road-roller in our estimation was the arrival of a circus, a theatrical company or a touring cinema. For that was a completely new world for us. The arrival of anyone of these threw Gurdaspur into unusual activity, sweet and colourful. We hovered around its encampment like flies around jaggery in grocer Nathu’s shop.
What transpired inside was always a mystery to us. Our elders did not take us to those shows. Nor were we allowed to go unescorted. If we ever insisted on accompanying them, they turned round and angrily reminded us that, ‘Sons and daughters of gentle folk do not go to these exhibitions of vulgarity.’ Sometimes they said: ‘When you grow up and begin understanding the facts of life, then you may go and see such performances. But not now, you mealy-mouthed kids.’
If we persisted we were scolded, spanked and shut up. Our parents firmly believed that if we ever happened to see a film show or a theatrical performance, we would go astray from the narrow, straight path of virtue and miss the purpose of life. Any return to correct life would then be as impossible as caressing the sky.
Whether this was the truth and nothing but the truth our infantile reasoning could not figure out fully. But a film or a theatrical performance always remained an unextinguished craving. How to satisfy it was a problem forcing us to all manner of scheming.
At school, teachers dinned into our ears the glory of unquestioned obedience to parents; to hurt the feelings of parents even unwittingly or to fail to respect their wishes, even whims, was the depth of degradation. In the tussle between craving and duty we found the former was always stronger.
Land of Five Rivers Page 7
