Bishen Singh took the bag of sweet corn and handed it over to a warder. He asked Fazal Din, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh?’
Fazal Din looked somewhat puzzled and replied, ‘Where could it be? It’s in the same place where it always was.’
Bishen Singh asked again: ‘In Pakistan or India?’
‘No, not in India; it’s in Pakistan,’ replied Fazal Din. Bishen Singh turned away mumbling ‘O pardi, good good di, anekas di, bedhyana di, moong di dal of di Pakistan and Hindustan of dur phittey moonh’
~
Arrangements for the exchange of lunatics were completed. Lists with names of lunatics of either side had been exchanged and information sent to the people concerned. The date was fixed.
It was a bitterly cold morning. Bus loads of Sikh and Hindu lunatics left the Lahore asylum under heavy police escort. At the border at Wagah, the superintendents of the two countries met and settled the details of the operation.
Getting lunatics out of the buses and handing over custody to officers of the other side proved to be a very difficult task. Some refused to come off the bus; those that came out were difficult to control: a few broke loose and had to be recaptured. Those that were naked had to be clothed. No sooner were the clothes put on them than they tore them off their bodies. Some came out with abuse, others began to sing at the top of their voices. Some squabbled; others cried or roared with laughter. They created such a racket that one could not hear a word. The female lunatics added to the noise. And all this in the bitterest of cold when people’s teeth chattered like the scales of rattlesnakes.
Most of the lunatics resisted the exchange because they could not understand why they were being uprooted from one place and flung into another. Those of a gloomier disposition were yelling slogans ‘Long Live Pakistan’ or ‘Death to Pakistan’. Some lost their tempers and were prevented from coming to blows in the very nick of time.
At last came the turn of Bishen Singh. The Indian officer began to enter his name in the register. Bishen Singh asked him, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh? In India or Pakistan?’
‘In Pakistan.’
That was all that Bishen Singh wanted to know. He turned and ran back to Pakistan. Pakistani soldiers apprehended him and tried to push him back towards India. Bishen Singh refused to budge. ‘Toba Tek Singh is on this side,’ he cried, and began to yell at the top of his voice, ‘O pardi, good good di, anekas di, bedhyana di, moong di of Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan.’ They did their best to soothe him, to explain to him that Toba Tek Singh must have left for India; and that if any one of that name was found in Pakistan he would be dispatched to India at once. Bishen Singh refused to be persuaded. They tried to use force. Bishen Singh planted himself on the dividing line and dug his swollen feet into the ground with such firmness that no one could move him.
They let him be. He was soft in the head. There was no point using force; he would come round of his own—yes. They left him standing where he was and resumed the exchange of the other lunatics.
Shortly before sunrise, a weird cry rose from Bishen Singh’s throat. The man who had spent all the nights and days of the last fifteen years standing on his feet, now sprawled on the ground face down. The barbed wire fence on one side marked the territory of India; another fence marked the territory of Pakistan. In the no-man’s land between the two barbed wire fences lay the body of Bishen Singh of village Toba Tek Singh.
The Death of Shaikh Burhanuddin
Translated from the Urdu by K.A. Abbas
My name is Shaikh Burhanuddin.
When violence and murder became the order of the day in Delhi and the blood of Muslims flowed in the streets, I cursed my fate for having a Sikh for a neighbour. Far from expecting him to come to my rescue in times of trouble, as a good neighbour should, I could not tell when he would thrust his kirpan into my belly. The truth is that till then I used to find the Sikhs somewhat laughable. But I also disliked them and was somewhat scared of them.
My hatred for the Sikhs began on the day when I first set my eyes on one. I could not have been more than six years old when I saw a Sikh sitting out in the sun combing his long hair. ‘Look,’ I yelled with revulsion, ‘a woman with a long beard!’ As I got older this dislike developed into hatred for the entire race.
It was a custom amongst old women of our household to heap all afflictions on our enemies. Thus for example if a child got pneumonia or broke its leg, they would say ‘a long time ago a Sikh, (or an Englishman), got pneumonia’; or, ‘a long time ago a Sikh, (or an Englishman), broke his leg’. When I was older I discovered that this referred to the year 1857 when the Sikh princes helped the feringhee (foreigner) to defeat the Hindus and Muslims in the War of Independence. I do not wish to propound a historical thesis but to explain the obsession, the suspicion and hatred which I bore towards the English and the Sikhs. I was more frightened of the English than of the Sikhs.
When I was ten years old, I happened to be travelling from Pelhi to Aligarh. I used to travel third class, or at the most in the intermediate class. That day I said to myself, ‘Let me for once travel second class and see what it feels like.’ I bought my ticket and I found an empty second class compartment. I jumped on the well-sprung seats; I went into the bathroom and leapt up to see my face in the mirror; I switched on all the fans. I played with the light switches. There were only a couple of minutes for the train to leave when four red-faced ‘tommies’ burst into the compartment, mouthing obscenities: everything was either ‘bloody’ or ‘damn’. I had one look at them and my desire to travel second class vanished.
I picked up my suitcase and ran out. I only stopped for breath when I got into a third class compartment crammed with natives. But as luck would have it it was full of Sikhs—their beards hanging down to their navels and dressed in nothing more than their underpants. I could not escape from them; but I kept my distance.
Although I feared the white man more than the Sikhs, I felt that he was more civilized: he wore the same kind of clothes as I. I also wanted to be able to say ‘damn’, ‘bloody fool’—the way he did. And like him I wanted to belong to the ruling class. The Englishman ate his food with forks and knives, I also wanted to learn to eat with forks and knives so that natives would look upon me as being as advanced and as civilized as the white man.
My Sikh-phobia was of a different kind. I had contempt for the Sikh. I was amazed at the stupidity of men who imitated women and grew their hair long. I must confess I did not like my hair cut too short; despite my father’s instructions to the contrary, I did not allow the barber to clip off more than a little when I went to him on Fridays. I grew a mop of hair so that when I played hockey or football it would blow about in the breeze like those of English sportsmen. My father often asked me, ‘Why do you let your hair grow like a woman’s?’ My father had primitive ideas and I took no notice of his views. If he had had his way he would have had all heads razored bald, and stuck artificial beards on people’s chins. That reminds me that the second reason for hating the Sikhs was their beards which made them look like savages.
There are beards and beards. There was my father’s beard, neatly trimmed in the French style; or my uncle’s which went into a sharp point under his chin. But what could you do with a beard to which no scissor was ever applied and which was allowed to grow like a wild bush—fed with a compost of oil, curd and goodness knows what! And, after it had grown a few feet, combed like hair on a woman’s head! My grandfather also had a very long beard which he combed . . . but then my grandfather was my grandfather and a Sikh is just a Sikh.
After I had passed my matriculation examination I was sent to the Muslim University at Aligarh. We boys who came from Delhi, or the United Provinces, looked down upon boys from the Punjab; they were crude rustics who did not know how to converse, how to behave at the table, or to deport themselves in polite company. All they could do was to drink large tumblers of buttermilk. Delicacies such as vermicelli with essence of kewra sprinkled on it, or the aroma of Lipton’s t
ea was alien to them. Their language was unsophisticated in the extreme, whenever they spoke to each other it seemed as if they were quarrelling. It was full of ‘ussi, tussi, saadey, twhaadey’—Heaven forbid! I kept my distance from the Punjabis.
But the warden of our hostel (god forgive him), gave me a Punjabi as a room-mate. When I realized that there was no escape, I decided to make the best of a bad bargain and be civil to the chap. After a few days we became quite friendly. This man was called Ghulam Rasul and he was from Rawalpindi. He was full of amusing anecdotes and was a good companion.
You might well ask how Ghulam Rasul gate-crashed into a story about the Sikhs. The fact of the matter is that Ghulam Rasul’s anecdotes were usually about the Sikhs. It is through these anecdotes that I got to know the racial characteristics, the habits and customs of this strange community. According to Ghulam Rasul the chief characteristics of the Sikhs were the following:
All Sikhs were stupid and idiotic. At noon-time they lost their senses altogether. There were many instances to prove this. For example, one day at 12 noon, a Sikh was cycling along Hall Bazaar in Amritsar when a constable, also a Sikh, stopped him and demanded, ‘Where is your light?’ The cyclist replied nervously, ‘Jemadar Sahib, I lit it when I left my home; it must have gone out just now.’ The constable threatened to run him in. A passer-by, yet another Sikh with a long white beard, intervened: ‘Brothers, there is no point in quarrelling over little things. If the light has gone out it can be lit again.’
Ghulam Rasul knew hundreds of anecdotes of this kind. When he told them in his Punjabi accent his audience was left helpless with laughter. One really enjoyed them best in Punjabi because the strange and incomprehensible behaviour of the uncouth Sikh was best described in his rustic lingo.
The Sikhs were not only stupid but incredibly filthy as well. Ghulam Rasul, who had known hundreds of them, told us how they never shaved their heads. And whereas we Muslims washed our hair thoroughly at least every Friday, the Sikhs who made a public exhibition of bathing in their underpamts, poured all kinds of filth like curd into their hair. I rub lime-juice and glycerine in my scalp. Although the glycerine is white and thick like curd, it is an altogether different thing—made by a well-known firm of perfumers of Europe. My glycerine came in a lovely bottle whereas the Sikhs’ curd came from the shop of a dirty sweetmeat-seller.
I would not have concerned myself with the manner of living of these people except that they were so haughty and ill-bred as to consider themselves as good warriors as the Muslims. It is known over the world that one Muslim can get the better of ten Hindus or Sikhs. But these Sikhs would not accept the superiority of the Muslim and would strut about like bantam cocks, twirling their moustaches and stroking their beards. Ghulam Rasul used to say that one day we Muslims would teach the Sikhs a lesson that they would never forget.
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 circumcized. They were converted to Islam. The Hindu press, as was its custom, vilified the Muslims. It reported that the Muslims had murdered Sikh women 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 Sikhs 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 sweepers. 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 I was telling my wife 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, raring 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 look-out 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 children. 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 the 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 independence 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 und
er 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 is in Delhi. And in Delhi besides the Golden Mosque there are the Jamma Masjid, the Red Fort, the mausolea of Nizamuddin and Emperor Humayun, the tomb and school of Safdar Jang—just about 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 realized that Delhi, which was once the footstool of the Muslim Empire, the centre of Islamic culture and civilization, 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 civilized Urdu; where men wear baggy salwars like their womenfolk, 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 commander-in-chief. At last 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.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 30
