A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There

by Krishna Sobti

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Hello, Baby, we met one evening at Kesar Vilas, didn’t we?’

  His Highness nodded slightly in agreement.

  The Governess’s hand was left hanging.

  ‘Tej Singh, I am your friend first, then your teacher—I will live here now, right near you.’

  ‘What section have you given Bai to stay in?’ Senior Ma ji Sahib asked Jay Singh Sahib.

  ‘Ma ji Sahib, the far corner of the first floor of the south wing.’

  Tej Singh turned naughtily to Senior Ma ji Sahib.

  ‘Ma ji Sahib, will this Ma’am please you, or no?’

  Junior Ma ji Sahib smiled secretly.

  When the Governess heard this, she stepped forward, took hold of Tej Singh’s hand and shook it.

  ‘My boy! Baby boy, we’ll meet after lunch.’

  This time, the tiny hand held on to hers.

  ‘Ma’am, why after lunch?’

  Tej Singh spoke like a grown-up.

  ‘I’m going to Gangawa, I’ll return with my luggage.’

  His Highness nodded his head as though he were granting her permission to do just that.

  He has exquisite royal manners, she thought to herself. This won’t be so hard for me.

  ‘It must be said of Mrs McFarlane that she didn’t try to fashion His Highness’s natural simplicity into a foreign form,’ remarked Jay Singh Sahib. ‘You will see, Ma’am, that the Maharaja, though small in age, was born with wisdom.

  ‘Please come this way, miss, we’ll also show you to your workroom. Bai Sahiba, this room is for you to work in and rest in the afternoons. The Maharaja Sahib spends some time in the afternoon with his Ma ji Sahibs. During that time, you can rest here. If you need to order anything for His Highness, you can do so. You will find all the names and addresses in the bureau. McFarlane Sahiba was always ordering materials.’

  How new this ancient world of Sirohi seemed to her. She went and stood in front of the bureau with the ADC Sahib.

  Below the closed panels, there were, in separate cubbyholes, the Sirohi Raj’s writing pad printed in golden letters with the coat of arms, small and large envelopes, stamps, a pencil holder, pen and ink. The panels of the bureau opened when the ADC Sahib pressed the brass bolt. Above these were three shelves. On one was the royal imperial crown of the British Raj, set with the Kohinoor diamond, on the second was Jawaharlal Nehru, and on the third, Mahatma Gandhi.

  Who needs history books?

  The cries in Gol Bagh in Lahore echoed in her ears—

  The government can’t snatch

  Vande mataram!

  The necklace from us poor folk

  Vande mataram!

  Those shouts like echoes—not from within her but from this room

  This room tucked away in a palace

  The new power of our ancient land tucked away in this room

  Here too, so much must have happened

  Surely the voices of the people had echoed here. The people stood tall, all about the country—those slogans must have reached here as well.

  Madar-e-vatan

  Long live

  Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose

  Long live

  The Indian National Army

  Long live

  From the Gol Bagh platform, the blood-soaked kameezes of our brave jawans fly high.

  ‘Young men, open your hearts and help the Indian National Army. They’ll make sacrifices for our country, they’ll be martyred for our homeland! Open your hearts . . .’

  Bags passed about the crowd begin jingling and clattering with donations.

  An announcement is being made:

  ‘Those at Lahore colleges, donate one day’s hostel-food allowance to the Indian National Army!’

  Long live the revolution!

  Indian CID officers’ hearts warm with patriotism; government eyes see new rays of light.

  They cannot snatch the government!

  Vande mataram

  Vande mataram

  Vande mataram

  Seeing the crowd’s enthusiasm, the English CID workers plot, and Gol Bagh also begins to echo with shouts of ‘Nara-e-takbeer!’

  ‘If you will call upon our prophet Rangeela Rasool with your impure plans, then we will exact a price in return that will turn your blood cold forever more!’

  Allahu Akbar!

  She called out soundlessly to the crowd arrayed inside her:

  It’s over

  Watch out

  Be careful

  Now your country is free

  And before her eyes, the kafilas began to spin.

  Again they trudged by on foot.

  When Nani Ma had reached Amritsar, the crowd from her kafila had spilled out, disorderly, all over the streets and sidewalks, into the galis and lanes. Broken and exhausted. Some had left their own along the way. The fortunate ones had made it to their new country. Relations and friends sought their people in the crowds, hoping that if any had arrived living, they could take them along. This freedom won at the price of bloody chaos . . . God grant that this murderous freedom, this escape from the British talons, would suit the survivors of Partition. Those who were sacrificed on both sides, those who perished, had been martyred for the homeland. And those who’d survived: may they carry the blessings of their new countries on their brows, may they enjoy a long life.

  An old soul, exhausted, uprooted from her home, sits dozing, head on her knees, at the doorstep of an unknown home in an unknown gali. Layers of earth and mud are caked on the swollen feet of the old woman. Staring at those feet, Engineer Vishvambhar Nath Nanda, who’d been displaced from Quetta, waited long for her to awaken. Perhaps she is one of ours. After about an hour, when the elderly woman lifted her head and opened her eyes, Vishvambhar Nath Nanda stood before her: he was her—Shahni’s—son-in-law. When he reached down to touch the living feet of his mother-in-law in greeting, the tired old eyes blinked slightly and a weak voice repeated the old familiar words, ‘May you live long, my son.’

  ‘Mother—Ma ji—you don’t recognize me! It’s me, your son-in-law, Vishvambhar, the husband of your daughter Rampyari. Now you recognize me, don’t you?’

  She nodded her head absent-mindedly, ‘Yes, may God keep you. Could you give me a sip of water, please?’

  The son-in-law went to the bend in the gali and brought back a glass of tea. He held it out ‘Here, Ma ji, wet your mouth.’ His mother-in-law put the glass to her lips. When she’d taken a sip, she felt revived.

  ‘Son, where are you?’ she asked.

  Her son-in-law came close and asked, ‘Do you recognize me, Ma ji? It’s me. Your son-in-law. I’ve come from Quetta.’

  Shahni Ma began to weep.

  ‘My life is yours, son.’ Then she took a long breath and asked fearfully, ‘Rampyari and my children . . .’

  ‘All are well at the camp,’ her son-in-law whispered loudly into her ear. ‘Ma ji, let’s go there.’

  ‘Thank God, son, what good fortune that the Almighty has brought us together. That I found you right at this moment. Otherwise, I’d have been finished off sitting right here.’

  An encampment of relatives in the house.

  Nani Ma, who had arrived after walking in the kafilas, had come to Delhi from Amritsar.

  After suddenly awaking from a sleep, she yawned and said, ‘They say Mahatma Gandhi is in Delhi these days. Oh, can someone please help me feast upon him with my own eyes?’

  ‘Have you gone mad, Bhabo?’ asked Kasturi Lal. ‘He who divided the country, had lakhs of people killed—you’d really go to gaze upon him?’

  Balwant Handa, who’d worked at an Urdu paper, said, to show his wisdom:

  ‘Gentlemen, the truth is something quite different. The Chitpavan Brahmin community started this bloody quarrel. This dispute was not actually against Gandhi, it was to make the Baniyas look low. They simply could not tolerate the fact that a Baniya Mahatma could get the respect that Brahmins do. The people worshipped him like a hol
y man.’

  Dhanpat, uprooted from Gujranwala, remarked, ‘My God, now this chap has started stirring up the dust of castes and Brahmins and Baniyas. Who knows when our country will be clear of this! And they’ve placed Dalits outside of the whole caste and community thing.’

  ‘This is God’s wrath. Gentlemen, it’s worth considering. Human beings all belong to the same species; their facial features, hands and legs similar. But why, then, this enmity between them?’

  ‘Hatreds and cruelties won’t work now.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, the contours of our free country will change.’

  One evening, Nani Ma was taken to a Gandhi prayer session.

  When she arrived, she clasped her hands together in a namaskar from far off.

  ‘Bapu, only the Almighty knows why this senseless thing Partition happened.’

  Bapu, so like a father, had taught everyone well.

  A light knocking on the windowpane.

  ‘Who is it?’

  The chowkidar.

  Ma peered out.

  ‘What is it, chowkidar? Today, so early . . .’

  ‘Please lock the windows and doors. Don’t let your guests go out. There’s a big uproar in the city. Has Sahib come home from the office?’

  ‘No, but tell me what has happened?’

  ‘Sahiba, Bapu Gandhi has been shot.’

  ‘My God! So there was more to come! It is God’s wrath—who could have committed this heinous deed!’

  ‘Sahiba, right now we have no idea. Some say . . . that it was a refugee . . . some say a Muslim.’

  The crowd of looted uprooteds gathered on the verandas of the house.

  ‘What’s happened? Now what calamity has erupted?’

  Ma motioned with her hand, ‘Hush! Not here, all of you—inside. Some killer has shot Bapu Gandhi.’

  The old ladies began beating their brows. Horrible, horrible, so senseless! My God, who has earned this sin?

  The shouts of the newspaper sellers from outside began to rattle their hearts.

  Bapu had been shot at a prayer meeting at Birla House.

  The older refugees cursed and cried out, ‘Come now, what’s the use of being afraid now? Go outside and ask who the true killer was.’

  After a while, the voices began to fade as the cycles rode away, but then the din erupted anew.

  ‘The killer of Mahatma Gandhi was not a refugee, nor a Muslim, but a Hindu. A HINDU!’

  ‘Shame! Shame! Oh, killers! People kill enemies, foes, but here you are, going about committing patricide. May your family be forever destroyed! May their limbs never again awaken. The worthless ones could not save their own, so they felled a mahatma. A holy man who turned the English from the country by his wits.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, were you sleeping then?’

  Nani Ma, who had gone to Bapu’s prayer meeting just two days before, beat her breast and cried, ‘Oh, oh, patit paavan, Saviour of the Fallen, where did you go and hide at that moment? Bapu called out to you in prayer his whole life:

  Raghupati Raghav Rajaram

  Patit paavan

  Sitaram

  ‘Lord Rama, where did you disappear to? Your world has been divided, your sons have been murdered. You are seated upon your throne in a deep sleep.’

  The entire crowd of the house gathered together.

  The resonance of mourning from the radio. Hearts leapt to mouths on hearing it. This music that played—this was for Gandhi—smeared in blood. The country had been split in two, but:

  We are speaking from Lahore radio . . .

  A tearful announcement.

  Our Mahatma Gandhi . . .

  Our Dadi Ma, our granny, come from Eminabad, froze as she wiped her eyes. In the heavy voice of elders, she said, ‘Say what you will—thousands were murdered—but in our moment of grief, the Pakistanis have acted as our neighbours. They are remembering Gandhi as though he were a mahatma to them a little too.’

  Sobs washed through the room.

  In the evening it was announced on the radio:

  Please stand by for an important announcement. The father of the nation, Mahatma Gandhi, has been assassinated. He was killed by a Hindu.

  As soon as we heard from All India Radio that Mahatma Gandhi would make his final journey from India Gate towards Raj Ghat via Hardinge Bridge, we practically ran to Sikandara Road. A boundless sea of humanity stood in rows on the sidewalks and wept.

  At the very front of the procession stood Pandit Nehru and Sardar Patel. There were no eyes in the crowd that did not appear to be sobbing and weeping.

  And the old sights from the Kingsway Camp also paraded before her eyes.

  One day, in the morning, a police officer arrived. News spread throughout the camp that a girl had been found unconscious on the hill. A bad deed had been done to her the night before. Now she was in the hospital.

  The camp commander opened the register and took attendance of the girls:

  Dammo—present

  Teejee—present

  Kunto—present

  Champa—present

  Kamli—present

  Pushpa—present

  Vachni—no reply

  ‘The name “Vachni” is carved on the girl’s hand,’ said the camp commander.

  Someone went and called for the woman from Sargodha.

  Vachni’s mother came and stood directly before the table of the camp commander.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where is your daughter Vachni, mother?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ the mother said weakly.

  The voice thundered from the chair, ‘Where? Call for her!’

  Vachni’s mother covered her face with her dupatta and whispered, ‘Where could she be?’

  She must be somewhere around here.

  My Viva—what do I know? Only the Almighty must know—

  ‘Go, mother, sit in the jeep and go to Hindu Rao Hospital and identify your daughter.’

  Vachni’s mother began to beat her breast.

  ‘The people on the trains were slaughtered. Sons and daughters died. Oh God, you impotent enemies, may you never find peace—end the race of daughters!

  ‘Birth your sons from acacia trees, thorned acacia trees! Scoundrels! Wretches!’

  In the meantime, a shiny notice written in large letters hung on the board in front of the camp compound that caused a stir amongst the refugees.

  ‘The Laat Sahiba, Lady Mountbatten, is coming to visit the camp with Rameshwari Nehru. The clean-up of the camp has begun.’

  An enclosure had been created, and two large dhurries woven in jail had been spread out. Two cushioned chairs and one table were set out. Some flowerpots nearby.

  The camp inhabitants were instructed to wear clean clothes. The children’s hair was tidied and they were seated on the ground in the front rows.

  Then rows of women. Some orhnis in the middle began to sparkle among the ordinary clothes.

  The Laat Sahiba found this peculiar.

  Rameshwari Nehru said to the women, ‘Sisters! Our guest is surprised at how gaudy your sparkly star-studded dupattas and shawls look. Where did you get these expensive veils from? Memsahib is a bit taken aback by this.’

  The women who’d come from Multan rose and began a bitter tongue-lashing.

  ‘Sister! How could we greet the Laat Sahib’s wife in our filthy, wrinkled clothing? Those women who had managed to save their wedding orhnis and bring them here, they brought them out for today. We’ve all been ruined, but we had to show some respect for the Laat Sahiba.’

  26

  At Swaroop Vilas, a small table had been set out beside the long dining table with a special high-backed chair just the size of the Maharaja. On one side of the Maharaja, the Governess; on the other, Tej Singh’s ADC Jay Singh Sahib; and across, the ponderous figure of Colonel Sahib. A Rajput countenance. The faces of the servers as alert and ready as those of waiters at a large hotel. Once she had seen Prabhuda, the plate clearer, walking down the stairs, laughing. She�
�d felt this couldn’t possibly be the same boy who stood without moving a muscle, so that only his arm appeared to move when he suddenly picked up or put down a plate.

  At this table, in complete silence, all sorts of games began to be played during breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  A spoonful of porridge, two spoons of milk, and as soon as these are taken from the spoon, nausea.

  The signal goes out: Clear the plate.

  A second plate: egg and toast. If the egg is half-boiled, he wants it fully boiled. If it’s fully boiled, he doesn’t want the yolks.

  ‘Tej Singh, that was something you should have said first, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I wasn’t asked first.’

  ‘Please clear the plate.’

  ‘Now it’s fully boiled.’

  ‘But why is it peeled?’

  ‘Half-boiled.’

  As soon as the plate comes, Jay Singh Sahib reaches out and taps the egg gently with a fork; the shell softly cracks and the eating of the egg begins.

  ‘Enough. Fruit.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  The Governess watches from the corner of her eye as though she’s not looking. It feels as though her own eyes are locked in a closet, and in her place other people are watching the Maharaja.

  ‘Khamma ghani, khamma ghani.’

  They descend the stairs with a measured step.

  At the gate, the guard salutes.

  The procession of four cars advances along slowly.

  Ma’am says softly, ‘Dear child, your salute was not quite right today.’

  ‘How so, Ma’am?’

  ‘Your arm was not in the right place.’

  ‘Why are you saying that, Ma’am?’

  ‘It was too relaxed! Wasn’t it, Jay Singh Sahib?’

  ‘Yes, Bavasi, it was loose!’

  Returning from the long drive, Maharaja Tej Singh is seated for his rest. A glass of juice is set before him.

  As he sips it, Tej Singh wants clarification. He says, ‘Ma’am, now explain to me—what was wrong with my salute this morning?’

  Ma’am looks over at Jay Singh. ADC Sahib stands, straightens his arm, then salutes.