A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There
Page 2
Now, Qureishi Uncle patted her on the head and said, ‘Go, daughter, go, this is no time to stand outside.’
‘Uncle, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye. May you live long.’
She watched the tonga as it disappeared around the bend. Then she returned to the house. The last Pakistan Special was leaving today, so Rahat Hyder would also be going to the station. Instead of returning home, she turned suddenly towards Curzon Road. She lives on Barakhamba Lane, she thought. I’ll get there before she leaves. She walked quickly along the sidewalk of Keeling Road. The bird cries in the dense trees depressed her. From the intersection, she turned towards Barakhamba Lane.
Her ears were alert. Was that the jangling of tongas? No. The row of bungalows was silent. She stepped on to the veranda of the last bungalow: here hung that same PWD lock. She stared at it silently for a long time. Then she returned to the street. A man with a long face came and stood before her.
‘Miss Sahib, those people left last night for the camp in Purana Qila. Today their special train will leave. Rahat Apa left a note for you in the letter box. I took it and carefully placed it there myself—here you go.’
Her eyes smarted as she read the note:
We’ve left. Definitely do not try to come to Purana Qila. Goodbye.
—Rahat Hyder Tahir
She thanked the bearer and said farewell in her heart, erasing the proximity of Barakhamba Lane forever from her mind. The streets were deserted as before. Urging her legs forward with the encouraging thought that she was still alive, she left Keeling Road and turned towards Hailey Road. Were her ears ringing, or were there voices calling out from nearby? Har har Mahadev! The bloodthirsty voices of Lahore seemed present here as well. She was walking home quickly when the anxious pond behind Hailey Road warned in a quavering voice, This is no time for taking a walk. Someone might kill you. Understand, little girl. Mondays are very dangerous in Delhi. It was on a Monday that the city of Delhi slipped from the hands of the Mughals. It was on a Monday that the British seized the city too; you do notice what things are like today, don’t you? Go home—this is no afternoon for a stroll!
On Curzon Road a handful of cars diminished the silence—one drove by, and then another. The door of the house probably won’t be open, she thought. It won’t work to turn the knob quietly either. If I call out softly, maybe Jagdish Bhai will open it. If that didn’t work, a crowd of relatives would fall upon her. Someone or other would surely say to her: Oh dear! Where on earth had you gone off to at a time like this? These friends of yours be damned! She glanced surreptitiously towards Qureishi Uncle’s door. That door was now closed to them forever. The Partition and Independence of the country, all in one. The moment she set foot on the veranda she quickened her pace, as though she were about to confront an attack.
She didn’t have to knock on the door. It was ajar. Outside lay a pair of worn Peshawari slippers. So someone else’s relative had come fleeing and wounded from their homeland. Who knew what the calculation had been—one comes from here and one goes over there—murder, mayhem, madness on the way—some set off from here and went there, some turned their backs on everything over there and made it over here, and some were lost along the way . . .
The acid tones of her uncle from Marjai Chak swept over her:
‘Whom were you saying goodbye to just now? Really, we are suffocating here, and there you go still trusting the government. I say, burn it to ash! Burn down the government of the whites and its cowardly leaders that first instigated the Muslims and then tore apart our homeland.’
Before she chose to respond or not, Uncle closed his eyes and burrowed back inside himself. Defeated, all of them, with their bundles, their discoloured old trunks, their filthy dupattas, their faces—blazing with impotent rage—paralysed by a murderous hatred now cooled. One is stuck with the face of a lost young son, another with the branded tin bangles of a daughter: Oh lord, have mercy—her arms! Some recall elderly parents left behind. Homes turned to loony bins, all thanks to politics. The whole city full of beings ejected from their homes. Full of human rags. By stations, platforms, train tracks; down galis and lanes; in chowks and bazaars and ruins; massacres scattered everywhere—willy-nilly. As though Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s challenge had come true for Punjab, Bengal and Sindh: Let’s go to Delhi—we’ll die, we’ll be slaughtered, but let’s go anyway!
Delhi—India’s capital, Delhi, New Delhi, Shahjahanabad, Old Delhi, Chirag Delhi—not one, but many Delhis. It would be the first Diwali for free Pakistan. The flag would fly high. Allahu Akbar would be shouted. Voices would cry—Long live Pakistan, long live Muhammad Ali Jinnah! They fought, they won; we feared, we lost. Bapu Gandhi, you turned our homes, our land, our water all foreign. What sort of politics is this?
Sikander Lal’s dirty turban began to slip from his dozing head. Bitterly, he said, ‘Brother, this dark chapter of history has conquered politics: Jinnah raced Islamic horses, and Gandhi and Nehru raced Porus’s elephants. Jinnah created a nation by racing intellectual horses. And they took this group of elephants and broke the branches off the beloved trees and threw them down. The same old history.’
Baldev Raj Nanda, voracious reader of Urdu newspapers, remarked, as one might explain to the elderly, ‘Now what’s the point of such questioning? What had to happen happened. The question is, what will our government give us tomorrow, after Independence?’
2
Hind Rao had sons—four:
Siyo,
Thiyo,
Dhiyo,
Why bother naming the fourth?
He was a Dalit meant to pick up the trash.
Islamuddin also had sons—four:
Arab
Pathan
Turk
Mughal
Siyo awoke from a deep sleep and burped. Victory to Siyaram! he cried.
Thiyo got up, cleared his throat noisily, and yelled, Victory to Bajrang Bali!
Dhiyo got up, wiped himself down with a waist cloth, and growled, Har har Mahadev!
All three carried on, screaming into the air:
Victory to Siyaram!
Victory to Bajrang Bali!
Har har Mahadev!
Then, a voice:
Why just your voice?
Why not mine?
If not mine, then not yours
If not yours, then none
And each began to rupture the din of the others.
They choked one another’s voices from their throats. In the midst of this, Uncle Hind’s son, Thiyo Khan, stood, twirled his moustaches and began snarling in earnest, like a hawker, or a marauder.
Nara-e-takbeer
Ya Ali
Allahu Akbar
The voices pierced one another, turned to smoke and began to bubble up among the populace. In a short while, red-yellow flames licked the sky. Leaping and jumping from house to house, they touched the heavens.
Har har Mahadev
Victory to Bajrang Bali
Victory to Siyaram
Soon, dolls of flesh and bone began to burn. To ash. Severed, half-burnt arms, torsos, necks, lying in piles like old pieces of junk. Lumps of flesh.
Blood . . . blood . . . blood.
Who is the killer? Who is the criminal? Who is the revolutionary? Enmity among friends is evil. Friendship among enemies—also evil. But now all the friends and enemies are gone.
Enemy . . . enemy—
A few surviving friends saving one another.
The rivers, streams, brooks of prosperity have all been divided. The tale of Partition is being written—a new document in the independence of the nation.
Loose, printed ladies’ smocks and salwars, shawls; men’s salwars, tahmads, pyjamas rushed from homes. Reaching death or clinging to life in moments of suspicion. Limping feet and defenceless eyes burning with helplessness.
Where are they going?
Why are we being forced from our homes?
Decisions have been made.
Distances have
increased.
What was here is now there.
What was there is here.
The Jhelum and Chenab were silent. The Ganga and Jamuna were silent.
Allahu Akbar
Nara-e-takbeer
Har har Mahadev
Towards us. Towards them—whatever moves you make—run . . . flee . . . abandon the useless ones—the old and the sick, the ones who can’t run. They can no longer live. Whether they’re ours, or theirs, let them go. Let them fall. Let them die. This torn dress can’t be mended. The mortal enemies of each search out one another and kill.
Who will escape these murderous cries?
The ones who escape will live.
Run, flee—we must drink the water of the new country now, not the old. We must leave the old country. We must cross the new borders.
Don’t look back.
Run ahead.
Leave your homes behind.
We’re running in both directions.
We that are not you, you that are no longer us.
You’re not you
and we’re not we.
What did you say?
Say it again.
Ram Das
Ram Prasad
Ram Prakash
Ram Krishan
Ram Chander
Ram Suhas
Ram Alok
Ram Kumar
Abdul Gani
Abdul Hamid
Abdul Gaffar
Abdul Majid
Abdul Karim
Abdul Kadir
Abdul Rehman
Abdul Shakur
Who is far?
Who is near?
Far from whom?
Near to whom?
Allahu Akbar
Har har Mahadev
Who’s the sinner?
Who’s the criminal?
Who is witness to the crime?
One dagger-plunging hand. Another, match-striking, lighting an oil-soaked rag.
One stands far off, gathering a crowd.
A clutch of terrified men and women holding their breath in a jungle of half-dead, frightened voices: They just came—we just went—we just died—don’t make a sound. Let them
pass by.
Piles upon piles of corpses, mounting ever higher.
A wake of vultures roots about.
Rings on hands grown cold; necklaces encircle throats.
Knowledge and faith.
Gita and Quran.
Both nibble at their nails.
The tombs of the Sufis are silent.
Temples stare on in shock.
Both silently touch their fingernails to see that their pincers are sharp. These will be effective in the dark.
Pounding hearts, fear, terror, dread, screams and shrieks.
Burning, blazing, smouldering days
Amongst all these how did it disappear—
That anthem that warmed our hearts—
Ham bulbulein hain iski, yeh gulistan hamara
We are the nightingales, this is our rose garden.
But we don’t chirp, we snarl.
Now we are sharpened knives.
We are the fuse that lights the fire.
We are molten violence slitting enemy throats.
We are the cleaver that lops off the arms of brides.
We are cleavers.
We are not we any more, we are weapons.
We are players of games of ambush and defeat.
All political arguments have come together here as one.
Death—death—death!
Now the saviours and the hungry dogs have become one, who will open the police ledger?
Shut up. Don’t talk gibberish.
Completely silent.
Look at that, a procession of corpses—
It recoils near the little half-dead girls. They too grab hold of our fingers, hoping to increase their number; they wish to stamp our hands.
The death vote.
Our history is yet to be written.
Efforts are ongoing.
3
A train breaking through the stillness. The past, and a desolate landscape, rush alongside it. A wasteland of rocky cliffs. Thorny bushes and foreignness. A succession of small hills. What happened to the lush yellow fields of mustard? Where have those leafy, shade-giving trees gone? What happened to the dirt roads? The glittering ripples of the Chenab River? The sparkling clean sand? Here was the solid earth of Rajputana in its stead, hidden in the wrinkle of hills that ran alongside the train.
She took the envelope from her purse. Read the slip of paper once more:
Princely State of Sirohi
Railway Station Erinpura
Sporadic settlements had begun to appear. She pulled out her luggage, stowed cowering beneath the seat, and fixed her eyes outside the window.
The train was slowing down. A flat, silent platform baking in the afternoon sun. A green railing. A gate leading out. That’s it? Nothing more?
The train stopped.
She pulled out her suitcase and unloaded it. Then her holdall and bag. Checked her purse. Looked around. Ahead of her she saw a tiny personage. He wore a kurta, dhoti, slip-on shoes and a black boat-shaped cap. He strode towards her.
When he drew close, he greeted her: ‘You’ve come from Delhi, is it?’
She nodded: ‘Yes.’
‘My name is Munna Lal. I’ve been sent to pick you up. Please come outside. I’ll get your bags.’
But her feet seemed reluctant. They weren’t prepared to comply. Go back. Did you really have to come here? Yes, she did. From one internal uprooting to another. What will you do? She’d come all this way chasing after that advertisement. She felt strange.
‘Come, come, the bus is waiting for you.’
‘Can I get a cup of tea here?’
‘The bus is about to leave. Maybe you can get some tea in Bavanvar. You sit in the front seat, and I’ll load the luggage.’
An old, brittle, wheezing bus from way back when.
She looked around and out the window—as though dust had got in her eyes.
She opened her purse, took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, pretending to brush away the dust.
Paving pebbles from long ago.
Should you go back? Yes, why not? You still could. You have enough money for the ticket.
Yes, I do.
Then?
Then what?
All the same, there’s something—
She looked at the seat in front of her indecisively—her throat felt dry. Would she get any water, she asked.
‘You’ll get some at Bavanvar.’
‘How far is Bavanvar from here?’
‘It’s coming right up.’
She started to close her eyes, then opened them.
‘Can you get a bus from there to the station?’
‘Why? Why, Bai ji, why are you asking that? You did get the letter sent from here, didn’t you?’
‘It’s not that.’
Munna Lal ji took off his little cap, scratched his head, then put the cap back in place and asked worriedly, ‘You didn’t leave anything behind at the station? You just had three bags, right?’
She said nothing. Just nodded. Yes, nothing more.
This far-off kingdom of Sirohi. It won’t work out for me here. I left home for a job. Now I want to go back.
What are you worried about?
I can’t even tell myself why I’m so uncertain. As I was arriving here, I wondered what my dilemma was. Why had I become so disenchanted already?
Is it because of leaving your homeland, Gujrat?
Or Lahore?
Or Delhi?
Look, you need to shake off this gloom. Gloominess doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix a thing. Whatever happened, happened.
The bus had come to a stop in Bavanvar. She got down. Munna Lal was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d gone off in search of tea. I could have done that myself, she thought. I’m giving him trouble, she thought.
‘What about you?’
‘No, I don’t drink it much. Will you go to the temple?’
‘Yes.’
The entrance door: inside was a colourful woven tapestry. Idols large and small. When she came back outside, she saw a hut built high among the rocks. One by one, she began to recollect each thing that had happened.
She cast an apathetic eye over the rocky slope. The thin, rippling shade of the two or three trees on the side of the hill, and the pond crouching below. On its mossy green surface: mosquitoes and bugs. A tall, strong figure strode along, far below. He had long legs and arms, and on his head, a turban decorated with an outer wrapping. He sat in the shade, tore a round piece of roti from his turban cloth and pushed the rest back in again. Then he began to place in his mouth morsels of that most blessed thing in the world. When he was done, he stood up, a human of real flesh and blood, and went to squat by the bank of the pond. He spread the edges of his turban cloth over his mouth and leaned down to gulp the water. She was quite amazed to see him shake off the moss, mosquitoes and bugs stuck to the outside of the cloth. For the first time, she saw the imperfections in the water. As she walked back to the bus, the soles of her feet felt lifeless. Their old haveli was gone, the wooden gate studded with brass nails, the brick well with the raised platform, the doorway. The narrow stairway going down into the cellars. Don’t think about there any more. She had studied a gazetteer of Rajputana before coming. The princely states, the mansions, the masters of the mansions, palaces and estates; handmaidens and slave girls, Bhil and Garasiya skirts, cholis, dhotis and turbans, colourful dupattas.
4
She tossed and turned in her new room. The sleeplessness of a new place. In the guest house of princely Sirohi she had neither her own home, nor her own room. A big, heavy, old-fashioned bed. A cheap knock-off of something real. Whitewash on the flimsy blue walls. Splatters of white on the windowpanes. The wood of the doors covered in cheap, discoloured paint. Curtains hanging haphazardly in the windows. Without meaning. Without reason.