Zindaginama

by Krishna Sobti

  Lah Bibi passed by carrying a bundle of cottonseeds on her head, ‘Kyon dhiyo, what’s the gossip?’ she asked.

  ‘Ma, we heard that war has been declared. The boys won’t rest until they get recruited.’

  Lah Bibi laughed fondly. ‘My Fattu was doing push-ups this morning. He’s set his heart on donning a uniform!’

  ‘My heart beats in fear for Bodda.’

  Two of Lah Bibi’s sons were already in the army. She said peaceably, ‘Bodda’s ma, Rabb is kind, fear not. The son destined to shine in uniform will shine come what may. The shoulder destined to be decorated with stripes will be, if the Maula wishes it. Don’t you worry.’

  After Lah Bibi left, the Kochhars’ daughter-in-law said, ‘Just listen to Lah Bibi talk! She thinks war is a child’s game – like saunchi and kabaddi!’

  ‘Jatti, she is a true Jatti. Sons and grandsons raise crops or they join the army, either is fine by her.’

  Banto of the Aroras taunted the Khatranis. ‘We are mere shopkeepers, behna, but why are the Khatrani mothers so scared? Why is their blood drying up? It is the Khatri karma to fight wars and battles. So let them bring their sons forward now!’

  Pasho of the Khullars flared up. ‘Kyon ri, why this topic of Khatri-Brahmin? Tell me, which mother will not be scared for her womb? War is staring our sons in the face, and here you are bent on settling caste differences! Phitte moonh ri! Shame on you!’

  Drums resounded in every village and the government order was announced:

  ‘Sons are the emblem

  And pride of a nation!

  The world-universe is our land!

  Heed the royal command,

  O youth, wars are not fought every day

  Luck doesn’t come knocking every day.’

  The recruiting officer stopped by the next day:

  ‘Barely has the War begun, and hordes upon hordes of strapping young men have gathered, all raring to go! Jatts, Singhs, Labanas, Rajputs, Awanas, Pathans, all you brave men, come join the battlefield! Sarkar will ensure the welfare of your families. Gentlemen, go and display bravery in the battlefield! Earn royal rewards and recommendations. Display them proudly in your homes! Barkhurdaro, once your family receives lands in gift from the government, you won’t lack for anything! Cows-buffaloes, horses-mares, mounds of wealth!’

  ‘O jawana become a recruit

  Get a uniform; get new boots.’

  ‘Mothers, sisters and housewives, allow your men to join the best of the best, the Punjab Army, to display valour in battle and return home draped in glory and honour. Remember, the foreign king himself dons the brave Tiwana Lancers’ uniform to encourage his royal army.’

  At a gesture from the recruiting officer, the official drummers shouted out:

  ‘Sarkar Bahadur zindabad!

  Brave Punjab zindabad!

  Tiwana Lancers zindabad!

  Zindabad bhai zindabad!

  Our armies zindabad!’

  Hordes of little children gathered round. The recruiting officers patted the little ones’ heads, and tempted the schoolgoing ones, saying, ‘Grow up fast, then we will measure your chests too.’

  The Chaudharys, wise elders of the village, arrived draped in dusty khes-dottahis. Chaudhary Jahandad Khan, Fateh Ali, Karm Ilahi, Miyan Khan and Meeranbaksh were joined by others not so influential. Greetings were exchanged. The recruiting officers began with polite praise. ‘Chaudharyji, the Sarkar has nothing to fear when you are there! So how many jawans are you sending this month?’

  Fateh Aliji cleared his throat and said, ‘Sahibji, every young man fit to be recruited has already reached your recruitment office. Yes, I cannot vouch for three–four young men who are the only sons of their parents. Those remaining are standing before you, still wiping their runny noses. Let them gain some height and muscle, the war is hardly going to end tomorrow.’

  The recruiting officer addressed Jahandadji, ‘Being a retired army man, it is your duty to help out in the war in every way possible.’

  ‘Absolutely, janab, I am an old loyalist of the Jangi Laat. Two of my sons are already in the army, from before the war.’

  Women gathered in droves. Mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers.

  Head covered in a black dupatta, tiny son tucked in her arm, Ayesha Bibi came forward to address the recruiting officer, ‘Sahib, our pind has put its best foot forward. Not a small thing, is it?’

  ‘Indeed, four of our pinds together have sent a hundred men. One full batallion. They can move mountains at will.’

  Bholu’s younger brother, Gholu had gone to Jalalpur to see his uncle in uniform. He stepped forward and recited the couplet he had heard:

  ‘From every home, send one:

  Either a donation, or a son.’

  Jaina of the Uttari Vand chided, ‘Be quiet, you. This may suit the city folk, not us. These are rich men’s airs. They will hide their sons at home and wave purses of donation before the government.’

  Just then Shahji appeared at the corner of the village yard. Tall, fair, spotless white turban on his head. His walk and demeanour, that of a man of means. Shahji had already pledged a donation in the office of the Suba Laat, the governor of the county, so the recruiting officer shook his hand warmly.

  Representatives of the village ensconced themselves on the cots. Some stood and smoked their hukkahs. Some squatted on their haunches. Nayab stood up and started his spiel:

  ‘August audience, the sarkar and emperor of Great Britain are grateful to all the parents who have sent their sons to the army or are preparing to do so. They are as mindful of the safety and security of their brave Hindostani subjects and soldiers as they are of their English forces. Pay attention, the British forces look smart in their hats while our sharp-featured men are resplendent in their safas. Safa-turbans are a man’s pride and prestige.’

  Tehsildar interrupted the Nayab. ‘First describe the Dogra turban.’

  ‘Janab, the Dogra pagg is seven-and-a-quarter yards long, the Sikh safa is seven yards, Punjabi Musalman five-and-a-half and the Pathani safa five-and-a-half yards.’

  The mothers and sisters didn’t like it that the Musalmani safa was shorter than the others. ‘Why this favouritism? The Sikh safa is seven yards, Dogri seven and a quarter. Sarkar had to go and be miserly only with the Punjabi Musalman and Pathan pagg!’

  Nayab replied most respectfully: ‘Bebe, what you say is right, no doubt, but a yard and a half does not make the royal treasury bankrupt. The Sarkar grants safas to its armies as per the custom of each race and clan.’

  Karm Ilahiji gestured with a hand. ‘Don’t worry about it, it is as per local custom. Jattis find two arm lengths of dupatti enough. Hinduanis need two-and-half-yard long bhochhans.’

  Ma Karbhari said to Hussaina standing by her, ‘Ari Hindus have lots of money, lots to spend, and lots to spread around.’

  ‘Listen, mothers and sisters! Each safa has its own glory, its special way of tying. Pathani safa – eight folds and a long tail, three folds on the left and the tail at the back tucked inside. Sikhi safa – one fold to the right, eight folds likewise to the left, the triangle of the pagg should remain visible in the centre.’

  ‘Son, tell us about the Dera Jatt safa.’

  ‘Here, listen. The Punjabi Musalman kullah has great style. Neither too short nor too long. Each fold four-fingers wide. First folded on the right, then left upon the tail. Bring the crest from behind and tuck it up front.’

  In their mind’s eyes, mothers could see their sons resplendent in the beautiful turbans. Ma Hakko untied a coin from the end of her dupatti and did a sirwarna of Nayab. ‘Main sadke, Nayaba, both my sons and grandsons must be tying their turbans just like this!’ Nayab immediately bent to touch her feet in pairipauna.

  ‘Long life to you, son, enjoy your youth!’

  Gauhar’s grandmother came forward. ‘I say, my grandson will get his roti smeared with ghee in the cantonment, won’t he?’

  ‘Of course, Bebe! Ask anyone you like. Karm
Narayan of Pindi Bahauddin sends shiploads of boys to war. Rest content regarding your children’s food and allowances.’

  For a moment, Bebe saw her Nikka standing before her eyes. ‘Puttara, he could have come home at least once in full uniform. Get him two-three days’ leave before he boards the ship!’

  ‘I will try, Bebe, but don’t worry about your barkhurdars. The Sarkar spares no effort in looking after the health and nourishment of its soldiers.’

  ‘Well, what do they get to eat?’

  ‘Wheat flour, three-quarters of a kilo …’

  ‘What! What did you say! Hai-hai, three-quarter kilo – just twelve chhatanks of flour? How many rotis would that make? Two at best, or three? Would a gram or ten fire their guns and cannons? Is it atta or precious ghee?’

  ‘Now listen – I’ll come to the ghee too – lentils two chhatanks, a quarter kilo, ghee one chhatank, meat gravy one kilo.’

  ‘Malla, don’t lie. A government that can’t make three-quarters of a kilo of flour into one kilo will give the boys one kilo of meat gravy per day? Don’t fool us, Nayaba!’

  ‘Listen further, liquor one tin per week.’ Seeing the frowns of displeasure on the elderly brows, Nayab added, ‘Milk as per needed, kehva too. Sweets every week or ten days. Meaning, that our jawans won’t lack in food.’

  Najiba asked, ‘Kyon ji, we have heard that the government feeds the British forces better, that they are given almonds and pistachios ground into milk.’

  ‘Mere rumours. Badshaho, the British platoons are not the grinding brigade of the Brahmins of Kashi that they will cast aside the world and war to sit and pound dry fruit to make sherbets and thandais.’

  Loud laughter broke out.

  ‘Okay, now listen to British food allowances. Just so you have no doubts left. Meat gravy three-quarter kilo, bread three-quarter kilo, vegetables three-quarter kilo, rice four chhantank, liquor one tin and tea-sugar-kehva same as the natives.’

  The tehsildar stood up. ‘The Laat Sahib is well pleased at the recruitment from the tehsils of Gujrat, Kharian and Falian. Yes, you still have twenty to thirty boys in your pind who would do well to present themselves for recruitment. The village shouldn’t try to hide its young men.’

  Tota of the Khojis stood up. ‘Sahibji, the boys of the Naushehra Syeds had come to our village on horseback yesterday.’

  The Chaudharys caught each other’s eyes even as the recruiting officer announced, ‘Let it be known to all that the Sarkar has exempted the Syeds from recruitment.’

  Meeranbaksh said, ‘Agreed that the Syeds are holy men of God, but Sarkar will lose a lot of good men if they are not recruited. Is there just one type of Syed? Husaini, Zaidi, Jilani, Baghdadi, Jafri!’

  ‘Oh, let them be! Our areas don’t lack in warrior castes. Jatt, Gujjar, Gakkhar, Tiwana, Labana, Khokhar, Rajput …’

  ‘Now they will all get a chance to prove their valour!’

  Ten or twelve boys, who had been watching the proceedings from the rooftops, ran down the steps and came and stood before the recruiting officers. ‘Janab-ali, kindly measure our chests. We would also like to join the army.’

  ‘Chaudhary Sahib, do they have their parents’ permission?’

  ‘Ji!’

  ‘They should present themselves at Jalalpur on Wednesday.’

  When the names had been noted down, the wise elders requested the officers, ‘Sahib Bahadur, it is getting on to be evening. Do wet your throat with some milk-buttermilk before you leave.’

  The Sarkari contingent proceeded towards the haveli. Anxious mothers and grandmothers stopped them on the way.

  ‘Sahiba, my Nabiya joined a month back. Would he have boarded the ship by now?’

  ‘Son, you must have heard of Sikandar Varaich. His chest measurement and medical exam had taken place in Gujrat. The boy is one in a hundred. Bravest of the brave. Ask the Sarkar to acknowledge the boy.’

  Nayab humoured her, ‘Bebe, the Sarkar is very proud of her sons!’

  Lah Bibi arrived with pride and swagger, as if she were the mother of all faujis. Her voice rang out loud and clear: ‘Hakimo, now don’t you go awarding all the lands to the canal residents with turned-up hair. They have plenty already. Our sons and grandsons have gone to war, and we both, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, are working the lands. Sahiba, if mothers and wives don’t keep heart, tell us how the British army will shine resplendent? Tell the Zila Laat that we had sent two men to the forces earlier, and now, with His grace, we have sent two more to the cantonment.’

  At the Shahs’ haveli, the official contingent sprawled out regally on the cots. Bowls of hot milk were served, with soft flaky nankhatais and crunchy, round sweets.

  The tehsildar had just put a piece of nankhatai in his mouth when the gathering broke out in laughter. ‘Badshaho, the nankhatais are just half a finger in length, and you have broken off a tiny bit! Going by the Sarkar’s demeanour these days, you officers should be chewing up live men!’

  Jahandadji smiled at Ganda Singh. ‘Sahib Bahadur, our forces will rout the enemy and then feast on round sweets only. As for the nankhatai, it is for sharp and discerning officers like yourself.’

  Kriparam, irrepressible as usual, delivered a bouncer. ‘Badshaho, at least tell us before you go as to why this whole war started in the first place!’

  Ganda Singh came into his own. ‘Kriparama, what a question to ask! The Sarkar must be wanting to grab some piece of land or territory. Wars are hardly fought to further friendships now, are they?’

  Guruditt Singh went further and said, ‘Eyed the Fort of Jamrud and ordered forces to leave their cantonments. Launched one massive Ranjit Singh-like manoeuvre – and land, fort all taken under control.’

  Munshi Ilmdin was irked. ‘Khalsaji, what all you have lumped together, and I didn’t quite understand why.’

  ‘What is there to understand! The intent is clear. Launched attack, conquered territory.’

  ‘The question is, what did the British lack that they suddenly declared war? Even in peaceful times, armies are always gainfully employed.’

  ‘The thing is, badshaho, that a government has to indulge in these games now and then. After all, empires don’t maintain guns and cannons to kill flies. You taunt and provoke someone, or someone uses you to incite someone else. If your side is deemed stronger, you issue a challenge. If successful, you grab them by the neck.’

  Shahji agreed with Fateh Aliji: ‘Absolutely, Chaudhary Sahib. A dispensation has only two essential tasks – ruling over the world, and having the world to rule over.’

  ‘Nayabji, which districts are leading in recruitment?’

  ‘Badshaho, going by the numbers, the first and leading state in the whole of India is the state of Punjab, and in Punjab, our four districts – Shahpur, Gujrat, Jhelum and Rawalpindi.’

  The tehsildar then elaborated his claim. ‘It is like this: at the time of declaring war, our forces had one lakh Punjabis. Meaning that in Punjab, one in every twenty-eight men is in the army, Shah Sahib, and one in hundred and fifty in the rest of India.’

  ‘Haiyyi shabash! That is praiseworthy indeed!’

  ‘Here’s more. Gujrat – four thousand, Shahpur – five thousand, Rawalpindi – fifteen thousand, Jhelum – twelve thousand.’

  Karm Ilahiji’s enthusiasm cooled somewhat. ‘So going by these figures our district is not the first and foremost.’

  The recruiting officer tactfully said, ‘No, Chaudharyji, as per the average, our tehsil Khariyan of district Gujrat leads the pack.’

  Kundan Chira said, ‘I have heard that the pound has been devalued again.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. These ups and downs in bullion and markets happen all the time.’

  ‘Don’t say that, badshaho, all the government banks were on the verge of bankruptcy the day the war was declared.’

  Tehsildar said, ‘It was a rumour, so it flew. People were reassured that their money will not be used without their consent.’

  Ganda Singh fl
ared up needlessly. ‘This was a total lie. The Sarkar told the wealthy Hindus of Gujranwala in Lahore to put their money in the banks overnight so that daily payments could continue. The brother-in-law of my brother-in-law works as a cashier in Punjab National Bank. He has passed class ten.’

  Tehsildar frowned. ‘Tell me the boy’s name.’

  Ganda Singh promptly said, ‘What will you do with his name? He joined the army long back.’

  The sarkari contingent didn’t like this. ‘Khalsaji, we hope you haven’t been talking to the rebels and inquilabis?’

  ‘Na ji, but tell me one thing. Why did Sarkar ban visas to Canada and subject our men to so much harassment, why? This oppression will not be tolerated, let the Sarkar know this!’

  The tehsildar was displeased. ‘Shah Sahib, what is this! I hope your village is not in cahoots with the wrong kind of people.’

  ‘Na janab, set your mind at rest. This is an old family of faujis. The eldest son was in the army – he was killed in Africa. The younger one is also in the army, from before the war. And Ganda Singh himself is a retired army pensioner.’

  ‘My old platoon is 33 Punjab.’

  ‘Waah!’ Tehsildar went forward and shook his hand. ‘I did see the list of army pensioners …’

  ‘Doubtless you can confirm, my name must be there. Nayak Ganda Singh, number 6685.’

  Just then Babo Mirasan came down the steps and stood in front of the haveli. Seeing the recruiting officers, she pulled her dupatta low over her forehead like a new bride, and clapping her hands sharp as a temple bell she sang:

  ‘By order of the Sarkar

  The boy’s mother shall never work

  By order of the Sarkar

  The girl’s mother shall never rest.’

  Tehsildar enjoyed this rhyme. At his nod, Nayab took out a coin and gave it to Babo. Pleased, Babo joyfully called out fateh, the slogan of victory:

  ‘O moustached badshah, victory to you!

  O bald badshah, victory to you!

  O fat queen, victory to you!

  O brave commander, victory to you!’