Nooran went out in the rain. She passed many people in the lanes, going about with gunny bags covering their heads and shoulders. The whole village was awake. In most houses she could see the dim flickers of oil lamps. Some were packing; others were helping them to pack. Most just talked with their friends. The women sat on the floors hugging each other and crying. It was as if in every home there had been a death.
Nooran shook the door of Jugga’s house. The chain on the other side rattled but there was no response. In the grey light she noticed the door was bolted from the outside. She undid the iron ring and went in. Jugga’s mother was out, probably visiting some Muslim friends. There was no light at all. Nooran sat down on a charpoy. She did not want to face Jugga’s mother alone nor did she want to go back home. She hoped something would happen—something which would make Jugga walk in. She sat and waited and hoped.
For an hour Nooran watched the grey shadows of clouds chasing each other. It drizzled and poured and poured and drizzled alternately. She heard the sound of footsteps cautiously picking their way through the muddy lane. They stopped outside the door. Someone shook the door.
‘Who is it?’ asked an old woman’s voice.
Nooran lost her nerve; she did not move.
‘Who is it?’ demanded the voice angrily. ‘Why don’t you speak?’
Nooran stood up and mumbled indistinctly, ‘Beybey.’
The old woman stepped in and quickly shut the door behind her.
‘Jugga! Jugga, is it you?’ she whispered. ‘Have they let you off?’
‘No, Beybey, it is I—Nooran. Chacha Imam Baksh’s daughter,’ answered the girl timidly.
‘Nooro? What brings you here at this hour?’ the old woman asked angrily.
‘Has Jugga come back?’
‘What have you to do with Jugga?’ his mother snapped. ‘You have sent him to jail. You have made him a budmash. Does your father know you go about to strangers’ houses at midnight like a tart?’
Nooran began to cry. ‘We are going away tomorrow.’ That did not soften the old woman’s heart.
‘What relation are you to us that you want to come to see us? You can go where you like.’
Nooran played her last card. ‘I cannot leave. Jugga has promised to marry me.’
‘Get out, you bitch!’ the old woman hissed, ‘You, a Muslim weaver’s daughter, marry a Sikh peasant! Get out, or I will go and tell your father and the whole village. Go to Pakistan! Leave my Jugga alone.’
Nooran felt heavy and lifeless. ‘All right, Beybey, I will go. Don’t be angry with me. When Jugga comes back just tell him I came to say “Sat Sri Akal.” The girl went down on her knees, clasped the old woman’s legs and began to sob. ‘Beybey, I am going away and will never come back again. Don’t be harsh to me just when I am leaving.’
Jugga’s mother stood stiff, without a trace of emotion on her face. Inside her, she felt a little weak and soft. ‘I will tell Jugga.’
Nooran stopped crying. Her sobs came at long intervals. She still held on to Jugga’s mother. Her head sank lower and lower till it touched the old woman’s feet.
‘Beybey.’
‘What have you to say now?’ She had a premonition of what was coming.
‘Beybey.’
‘Beybey! Beybey! Why don’t you say something?’ asked the woman, pushing Nooran away. ‘What is it?’
The girl swallowed the spittle in her mouth.
‘Beybey, I have Jugga’s child inside me. If I go to Pakistan they will kill it when they know it has a Sikh father.’
The old woman let Nooran’s head drop back on her feet. Nooran clutched them hard and began to cry again
‘How long have you had it?’
‘I have just found out. It is the second month.’
Jugga’s mother helped Nooran up and the two sat down on the charpoy. Nooran stopped sobbing.
‘I cannot keep you here,’ said the old woman at last. ‘I have enough trouble with the police already. When all this is over and Jugga comes back, he will go and get you from wherever you are. Does your father know?’
‘No! If he finds out he will marry me off to someone or murder me.’ She started crying again.
‘Oh, stop this whining,’ commanded the old woman sternly. ‘Why didn’t you think of it when you were at the mischief? I have already told you Jugga will get you as soon as he is out.’
Nooran stifled her sobs.
‘Beybey, don’t let him be too long.’
‘He will hurry for his own sake. If he does not get you he will have to buy a wife and there is not a pice or trinket left with us. He will get you if he wants a wife. Have no fear.’
A vague hope filled Nooran’s being. She felt as if she belonged to the house and the house to her; the charpoy she sat on, the buffalo, Jugga’s mother, all were hers. She could come back even if Jugga failed to turn up. She could tell them she was married. The thought of her father came like a dark cloud over her lunar hopes. She would slip away without telling him. The moon shone again.
‘Beybey, if I get the chance I will come to say Sat Sri Akal in the morning. Sat Sri Akal. I must go and pack.’ Nooran hugged the old woman passionately. ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ she said a little breathlessly again and went out.
Jugga’s mother sat on her charpoy staring into the dark for several hours.
Not many people slept in Mano Majra that night. They went from house to house—talking, crying, swearing love and friendship, assuring each other that this would soon be over. Life, they said, would be as it always had been.
Imam Baksh came back from his round of Muslim homes before Nooran had returned. Nothing had been packed. He was too depressed to be angry with her. It was as hard on the young as the old. She must have gone to see some of her friends. He started pottering around looking for gunny bags, tin cannisters and trunks. A few minutes later Nooran came in.
‘Have you seen all your girl friends? Let us get this done before we sleep,’ said Imam Baksh.
‘You go to bed. I will put the things in. There is not much to do—and you must be tired,’ she answered.
‘Yes, I am a little tired,’ he said sitting down on his charpoy. ‘You pack the clothes now. We can put in the cooking utensils in the morning after you have cooked something for the journey.’ Imam Baksh stretched himself on the bed and fell asleep.
There was not much for Nooran to do. A Punjabi peasant’s baggage consists of little besides a change of clothes, a quilt and a pillow, a couple of pitchers, cooking utensils, and perhaps a brass plate and a copper tumbler or two. All that can be put on the only piece of furniture they possess—a charpoy. Nooran put her own and her father’s clothes in a battered grey steel trunk which had been with them ever since she could remember. She lit a fire in the hearth to bake a few chapatties for the next day. Within half an hour she had done the cooking. She rinsed the utensils and put them in a gunny bag. Flour, salt and the spices that remained went in biscuit and cigarette tins, which in their turn went inside an empty kerosene oil can with a wood top. The packing was over. All that remained was to roll her quilt round the pillow, put the odds and ends on the charpoy and the charpoy on the buffalo. She could carry the piece of broken mirror in her hand.
It rained intermittently all night. Early in the morning it became a regular downpour. Villagers who had stayed up most of the night fell asleep in the monotonous patter of rain and the opiate of the fresh morning breeze.
The tooting of motor horns and the high note of truck engines in low gear ploughing their way through the slush and mud woke the entire village. The convoy went around Mano Majra looking for a lane wide enough to let their trucks in. In front was a jeep fitted with a loudspeaker. There were two officers in it—a Sikh (the one who had come after the ghost train) and a Muslim. Behind the jeep were a dozen trucks. One of the trucks was full of Pathan soldiers and another one full of Sikhs. They were all armed with sten-guns.
The convoy came to a halt outside the village. Only the jeep could make its way through
. It drove up to the centre and stopped beside the platform under the peepul tree. The two officers stepped out. The Sikh asked one of the villagers to fetch the lambardar. The Muslim was joined by the Pathan soldiers. He sent them out in batches of three to knock at every door and ask the Muslims to come out. For a few minutes Mano Majra echoed to cries of ‘All Muslims going to Pakistan come out at once. Come! All Muslims. Out at once.’
Slowly the Muslims began to come out of their homes, driving their cattle and their bullock carts loaded with charpoys, rolls of bedding, tin trunks, kerosene oil tins, earthen pitchers and brass utensils. The rest of Mano Majra came out to see them off.
The two officers and the lambardar were the last to come out of the village. The jeep followed them. They were talking and gesticulating animatedly. Most of the talking was between the Muslim officer and the lambardar.
‘I have no arrangement to take all this luggage with bullock carts, beds, pots and pans. This convoy is not going to Pakistan by road. We are taking them to the Chundunnager refugee camp and from there by train to Lahore. They can only take their clothes, bedding, cash and jewellery. Tell them to leave everything else here. You can look after it.’
The news that the Mano Majra Muslims were going to Pakistan came as a surprise. The lambardar had believed they would only go to the refugee camp for a few days and then return.
‘No, Sahib, we cannot say anything,’ replied the lambardar. ‘If it was for a day or two we could look after their belongings. As you are going to Pakistan, it may be many months before they return. Property is a bad thing: it poisons people’s minds. No, we will not touch anything. We will only look after their houses.’
The Muslim officer was irritated. ‘I have no time to argue. You see yourself that all I have is a dozen trucks. I cannot put buffaloes and bullock carts in them.’
‘No, Sahib,’ retorted the lambardar stubbornly. ‘You can say what you like and you can be angry with us, but we will not touch our brothers’ properties. You want us to become enemies?’
‘Wah, wah, lambardar Sahib,’ answered the Muslim laughing loudly. ‘Shabash! Yesterday you wanted to kill them, today you call them brothers. You may change your mind again tomorrow.’
‘Do not taunt us like this, Captain Sahib. We are brothers and will always remain brothers.’
‘All right, all right, lambardara. You are brothers,’ the officer said. ‘I grant you that, but I still cannot take all this stuff. You consult the Sardar Officer and your fellow-villagers about it. I will deal with the Muslims.’
The Muslim officer got on the jeep and addressed the crowd. He chose his words carefully.
‘We have a dozen trucks and all you people who are going to Pakistan must get on them in ten minutes. We have other villages to evacuate later on. The only luggage you can take with you is what you can carry—nothing more. You can leave your cattle, bullock carts, charpoys, pitchers, and so on with your friends in the village. If we get a chance, we will bring these things out for you later. I give you ten minutes to settle your affairs. Then the convoy will move.’
The Muslims left their bullock carts and thronged round the jeep, protesting and talking loudly. The Muslim officer who had stepped off the jeep went back to the microphone.
‘Silence! I warn you, the convoy will move in ten minutes—whether you are on it or not will be no concern of mine.’
Sikh peasants who had stood apart heard the order and went to the Sikh officer for advice. The officer took no notice of them; he continued staring contemptuously over the upturned collar of his raincoat at the men, cattle, carts and trucks steaming in the slush and rain.
‘Why, Sardar Sahib,’ asked Meet Singh nervously, ‘is not the lambardar right? One should not touch another’s property. There is always danger of misunderstanding.’
The officer looked Meet Singh up and down.
‘You are quite right, Bhaiji, there is some danger of being misunderstood. One should never touch another’s property; one should never look at another’s woman. One should just let others take one’s goods and sleep with one’s sisters. The only way people like you will understand anything is by being sent over to Pakistan: have your sisters and mothers raped in front of you, have your clothes taken off, and be sent back with a kick and spit on your behinds.’
The officer’s speech was a slap in the face to all the peasants. But someone sniggered. Everyone turned around to look. It was Malli with his five companions. With them were a few young refugees who were staying at the Sikh temple. None of them belonged to Mano Majra.
‘Sir, the people of this village are famous for their charity,’ said Malli smiling. ‘They cannot look after themselves, how can they look after other people? But do not bother, Sardar Sahib, we will take care of Muslim property. You can tell the other officer to leave it with us. It will be quite safe if you can detail some of your soldiers to prevent looting by these people.’
There was complete confusion. People ran hither and thither shouting at the tops of their voices. Despite the Muslim officer’s tone of finality, villagers clamoured around him protesting and full of suggestions. He came up to his Sikh colleague surrounded by his bewildered co-religionists.
‘Can you make arrangements for taking over what is left behind?’
Before the Sikh could answer, a babel of protests burst from all sides. The Sikh remained tight-lipped and aloof.
The Muslim officer turned around sharply. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled.
The murmuring died down. He spoke again, punctuating each word with a stab of his forefinger.
‘I give you five minutes to get into the trucks with just as much luggage as you can carry in your hands. Those who are not in will be left behind. And this is the last time I will say it.’
‘It is all settled,’ said the Sikh officer, speaking softly in Punjabi. ‘I have arranged that these people from the next village will look after the cattle, carts and houses till it is over. I will have a list made and sent over to you.’
His colleague did not reply. He had a sardonic smile on his face. Mano Majra Sikhs and Muslims looked on helplessly.
There was no time to make arrangements. There was no time even to say good-bye. Truck engines were started. Pathan soldiers rounded up the Muslims, drove them back to the carts for a brief minute or two, and then on to the trucks. In the confusion of rain, mud and soldiers herding the peasants about with the muzzles of their sten-guns sticking in their backs, the villagers saw little of each other. All they could do was to shout their last farewells from the trucks. The Muslim officer drove his jeep round the convoy to see that all was in order and then came to say goodbye to his Sikh colleague. The two shook hands mechanically, without a smile or a trace of emotion. The jeep took its place in front of the line of trucks. The microphone blared forth once more to announce that they were ready to move. The officer shouted ‘Pakistan!’ His soldiers answered in a chorus ‘Forever!’ The convoy slushed its way towards Chundunnagar. The Sikhs watched them till they were out of sight. They wiped the tears off their faces and turned back to their homes with heavy hearts.
~
Mano Majra’s cup of sorrow was not yet full. The Sikh officer summoned the lambardar. All the villagers came with him—no one wanted to be left alone. Sikh soldiers threw a cordon round them. The officer told the villagers that he had decided to appoint Malli custodian of the evacuated Muslims’ property. Anyone interfering with him or his men would be shot.
Malli’s gang and the refugees then unyoked the bullocks, looted the carts, and drove the cows and buffaloes away.
All that morning, people sat in their homes and stared despondently through their open doors. They saw Malli’s men and the refugees ransack Muslim houses. They saw Sikh soldiers come and go as if on their beats. They heard the piteous lowing of cattle as they were beaten and dragged along. They heard the loud cackle of hens and roosters silenced by the slash of the knife. But they did nothing but sit and sigh.
A shepherd boy, who ha
d been out gathering mushrooms, came back with the news that the river had risen. No one took any notice of him. They only wished that it would rise more and drown the whole of Mano Majra along with them, their women, children and cattle—provided it also drowned Malli, his gang, the refugees, and the soldiers.
While the men sighed and groaned, the rain fell in a steady downpour and the Sutlej continued to rise. It spread on either side of the central piers which normally contained the winter channel, and joined the pools round the other piers into one broad stream. It stretched right across the bridge, licking the dam which separated it from the fields of Mano Majra. It ran over the many little islands in the river-bed till only the tops of the bushes that grew on them could be seen. Colonies of cormorants and terns which were used to roosting there flew over to the banks and then to the bridge—over which no trains had run for two days.
In the afternoon, another villager went around to the houses shouting ‘Oi Banta Singh, the river is rising! Oi Daleep Singha, the river has risen! Oi listen, it is already up to the dam!’ The people just looked up with their melancholy eyes signifying, ‘We have heard that before.’
Then another man came with the same message, ‘The river has risen.’ Then another, and another, till everyone was saying, ‘Do you know, the river has risen!’
At last the lambardar went out to see for himself. Yes, the river had risen. Two days of rain could not have caused it; it must have poured in the mountains after the melting of the snows. Sluice gates of canals had probably been closed to prevent the flood from bursting their banks; so there was no outlet except the river. The friendly sluggish stream of grey had become a menacing and tumultuous spread of muddy brown. The piers of the bridge were all that remained, solid and contemptuously defiant of the river. Their pointed edges clove through the sheet of water and let it vent its impotent rage in a swirl of eddies and whirlpools. Rain beat upon the surface, pockmarking it all over. The Sutlej was a terrifying sight.
By evening, Mano Majra had forgotten about its Muslims and Malli’s misdeeds. The river had become the main topic of conversation. Once more women stood on the rooftops looking to the west. Men started going in turns to the embankment to report on the situation.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 38
