Sheela was a woman – totally empty, but it was possible that one void had filled another.
Translated by Muhammad Umar Memon
It Happened in 1919
‘IT HAPPENED IN 1919. The whole of Punjab was up in arms against the Rowlatt Act. Sir Michael O’Dwyer had banned Gandhiji’s entry into the province under the Defence of India rules. He had been stopped at Pulwal, taken into custody and sent to Bombay. I believe if the British had not made this blunder, the Jallianwala Bagh incident would not have added a bloody page to the black history of their rule in India.’
I was on a train and the man sitting next to me had begun talking to me, just like that. I hadn’t interrupted him and so he had gone on.
‘Gandhiji was loved and respected by the people, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs alike. When news of the arrest reached Lahore, the entire city went on strike. Amritsar, where the story I am going to narrate happened, followed suit.
‘It is said that by the evening of 9 April, the deputy commissioner had received orders for the expulsion from Amritsar of the two leaders, Dr Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew, but was unwilling to implement them because, in his view, there was no likelihood of a breach of the peace. Protest meetings were being organized and no one was in favour of using violent methods.
‘I was a witness to a procession taken out to celebrate a Hindu festival, and I can assure you it was the most peaceful thing I ever saw. It faithfully kept to the route marked out by the officials, but this Sir Michael was half-mad. They said he refused to follow the deputy commissioner’s advice because he was convinced that Kitchlew and Satyapal were in Amritsar waiting for a signal from Gandhiji before proceeding to topple the government. In his view the protest meetings and processions were all part of this grand conspiracy.
‘The news of the expulsion of the two leaders spread like wildfire through the city, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty and fear. One could sense that disaster was about to strike. But, my friend, I can tell you that there was also a great deal of enthusiasm among the people. All businesses were closed. The city was quiet like a graveyard and there was a feeling of impending doom in the air.
‘After the first shock of the expulsions had died down, thousands of people gathered spontaneously to go in a procession to the deputy commissioner and call for the withdrawal of the orders. But, my friend, believe me, the times were out of joint. That this extremely reasonable request would be even heard was out of the question. Sir Michael was like a pharaoh and we were not surprised when he declared the gathering itself unlawful.
‘Amritsar, which was one of the greatest centres of the liberation struggle and which still proudly carries the wound of Jallianwala Bagh, is now of course changed but that is another story. Some people say that what happened in that great city in 1947 was also the fault of the British. But if you want my opinion, we ourselves are responsible for the bloodshed there in 1947. But that’s another matter…
‘The deputy commissioner’s house was in the Civil Lines. In fact, all senior officers and the big toadies of the Raj lived in that exclusive area. If you know your Amritsar, you will recall that bridge which links the city with the Civil Lines. You cross the bridge from the city and you are on the Mall, that earthly paradise created by the British rulers.
‘The protest procession began to move towards the Civil Lines. When I reached Hall Gate, word went round that British mounted troops were on guard at the bridge, but the crowd was undeterred and kept moving. I was also among them. We were all unarmed. I mean there wasn’t even a stick on any of us. The whole idea was to get to the deputy commissioner’s house and protest to him about the expulsion of the two leaders and demand their release. All peacefully.
‘When the crowd reached the bridge, the tommies opened fire, causing utter pandemonium. People began to run in all directions. There were no more than twenty to twenty-five soldiers, but they were armed and they were firing. I have never seen anything like it. Some were wounded by gunshots; others were trampled.
‘I stood well away from the fray at the edge of a big open gutter and someone pushed me into it. When the firing stopped, I crawled out. The crowd had dispersed. Many of the injured were lying on the road and the tommies on the bridge were having a good laugh. I’m not sure what my state of mind at the time was, but I think it couldn’t have been normal. In fact, I think I fainted when I fell in. It was only later that I was able to reconstruct the events.
‘I could hear angry chants in the distance. I began to walk. Going past the shrine of Zahra Pir, I was in Hall Gate in no time, where I found about thirty or forty boys throwing stones at the big clock which sits on top of the gate. They finally shattered its protective glass and the pieces fell on the road.
‘ “Let’s go and smash the queen’s statue,” someone shouted.
‘ “No, let’s set fire to the police headquarters.”
‘ “And all the banks too.”
‘ “What would be the point of that? Let’s go to the bridge and fight the tommy soldiers,” suggested another.
‘I recognized the author of the last proposal. He was Thaila kanjar – kanjar, because he was the son of a prostitute – otherwise Mohammad Tufail. He was quite notorious in Amritsar. He had got into the habit of drinking and gambling while still a boy. He had two sisters, Shamshad and Almas, who were considered the city’s most beautiful singing and dancing girls.
‘Shamshad was an accomplished singer and big landlords and the like used to travel from great distances to hear her perform. The sisters were not exactly enamoured of the doings of their brother, Thaila, and it was said that they had practically disowned him. However, through one excuse or the other, he was always able to get enough money from them to live in style. He liked to dress and eat well and drink to his heart’s content. He was a great storyteller, but unlike other people of his type he was never vulgar. He was tall, athletic and quite handsome, come to think of it.
‘However, the boys did not show much enthusiasm for his suggestion of taking on the tommies. Instead, they began to move towards the queen’s statue. Thaila was not the kind to give up so easily. He said to them, “Why are you wasting your energy? Why don’t you follow me? We’ll go and kill those tommies who have shot and killed so many innocent people. I swear by God, if we’re together, we can wring their necks with our bare hands.”
‘Some were already well on their way to the queen’s statue, but there were still some stragglers who began to follow Thaila in the direction of the bridge where the tommies stood guard. I thought the whole thing was suicidal and I had no desire to be part of it. I even shouted at Thaila, “Don’t do it, yaar, why are you bent upon getting yourself killed?”
‘He laughed. “Thaila just wants to demonstrate that he’s not afraid of their bullets,” he said cavalierly. Then he told the few who were willing to follow him, “Those among you who are afraid can leave now.”
‘No one left, which is understandable in such situations. Thaila started to walk briskly, setting the pace for his companions. There seemed to be no question of turning back now.
‘The distance between Hall Gate and the bridge is negligible, maybe less than a hundred yards. The approach to the bridge was being guarded by two mounted tommies. I heard the sound of fire as Thaila closed in, shouting revolutionary slogans. I thought he’d been hit, but no, he was still moving forward with great resolution. Some of the boys began to run in different directions. He turned and shouted, “Don’t run away…Let’s go get them.”
‘I heard more gunfire. Thaila’s back was momentarily towards the tommies, since he was trying to infuse some life into his retreating entourage. I saw him veer towards the soldiers and there were big red spots of blood on his silk shirt. He had been hit, but he kept advancing, like a wounded lion. There was more gunfire and he staggered, but then he regained his footing and leapt at the mounted tommy, bringing him down to the ground.
‘The other tommy became panic-stricken and began to fire his revolver recklessly. What happened afterwards is not clear, because I fainted.
‘When I came to, I found myself home. Some men who knew me had picked me up and brought me back. I heard from them that angry crowds had ransacked the town. The queen’s statue had been smashed and the town hall and three of the city bands had been set on fire. Five or six Europeans had been killed and the crowd had gone on a rampage.
‘The British officers were not bothered by the looting, but by the fact that European blood had been shed. And as you know, it was avenged at Jallianwala Bagh. The deputy commissioner handed the city over to General Dyer, so on 12 April the general marched through the streets at the head of columns of armed soldiers. Dozens of innocent people were arrested. On 13 April a protest meeting was organized in Jallianwala Bagh which General Dyer “dispersed” by ordering his Gurkha and Sikh soldiers to open fire on the unarmed crowed.
‘However, I was telling you about Thaila and what I saw with my own eyes. Only God is without blemish and Thaila was, let’s not forget, the son of a prostitute and he used to practise every evil in the book. But he was brave. I tell you he had already been hit when he exhorted his companions not to run away but to move forward. He was so intoxicated with enthusiasm at the time that he did not realize he had been hit. He was shot twice more, once in the back and then in the chest. They pumped his young body full of molten lead.
‘I didn’t see it, but I’m told that when Thaila’s bullet-ridden body was pulled away both his hands were dug into the tommy’s throat. They just couldn’t get his grip to loosen. The tommy had of course been well and truly dispatched to hell.
‘Thaila’s bullet-torn body was handed over to his family the next day. It seemed the other tommy had emptied the entire magazine of his revolver into him. He must have been dead by then, but the devil had nevertheless gone on.
‘It is said that when Thaila’s body was brought to his mohalla it was a shattering scene. It’s true he wasn’t exactly the apple of his family’s eye, but when they saw his minced-up remains, there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen anywhere. His sisters, Shamshad and Almas, fainted.
‘My friend, I have heard that in the French Revolution, it was a prostitute who was the first to fall. Mohammad Tufail was also a prostitute’s son, so whether it was the first bullet of the revolution which hit him or the tenth or the fiftieth, nobody really bothered to find out because socially he did not matter. I have a feeling that when they finally make a list of those who died in this bloodbath in Punjab, Thaila kanjar’s name won’t be included. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone would even bother about a list.
‘Those were terrible days. The monster they call martial law held the city in its grip. Thaila was buried amid great hurry and confusion, as if his death was a grave crime which his family should obliterate from the record. What can I say except that Thaila died and Thaila was buried.’
My companion stopped speaking. The train was moving at breakneck speed. Suddenly I felt as if the clickety-clack of its powerful wheels was intoning the words ‘Thaila died, Thaila buried…Thaila died, Thaila buried…Thaila died, Thaila buried.’ There was no dividing line between his death and his burial. He had died and in the next instant he had been buried. ‘You were going to say something,’ I said to my companion.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘yes…there is a sad part of the story which I haven’t yet come to.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘As I have already told you, he had two sisters, Shamshad and Almas, both very beautiful. Shamshad was tall, with fine features, big eyes, and she was a superb thumri singer. They say she had taken music lessons from the great Khan Sahib Fateh Ali Khan. Almas, the other one, was unmusical, but she was a fantastic dancer. When she danced it seemed as if every cell of her body was undulating with the music. Oh! They say there was a magic in her eyes which nobody could resist…
‘Well, my friend, it is said that someone who was trying to make his number with the British told them about Thaila’s sisters and how beautiful and gifted they were. So it was decided that to avenge the death of that English woman what was the name of that witch? Miss Sherwood I think…the two girls should be summoned for an evening of pleasure. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘These are delicate matters, but I would say that when it comes to something like this, even dancing girls and prostitutes are like our sisters and mothers. But I tell you, our people have no concept of national honour. So, you can guess what happened.
‘The police received orders from the powers that be and an inspector personally went to the house of the girls and said that the sahib log had expressed a desire to be entertained by them.
‘And to think that the earth on the grave of their brother was still fresh. He hadn’t even been dead two days and there were these orders: come and dance in our imperial presence. No greater torture could have been devised! Do you think that it even occurred to those who issued these orders that even women like Shamshad and Almas could have a sense of honour? What do you think?’
But he was speaking more to himself than to me. Nevertheless, I ventured, ‘Yes, surely they too have a sense of honour.’
‘Quite right. After all, Thaila was their brother. He hadn’t lost his life in a gambling brawl or a fit of drunkenness. He had volunteered to drink the cup of martyrdom like a valiant national hero.
‘Yes, it’s true he was born of a prostitute, but a prostitute is also a mother and Shamshad and Almas were his sisters first and dancing girls later. They had fainted when they had brought Thaila’s bullet-ridden body home, and it was heart-breaking to hear them bewail the martyrdom of their brother.’
‘Did they go?’ I asked.
My companion answered after a pause, ‘Yes, yes, they went all right. They were dressed to kill.’ There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
‘They went to their hosts of the evening and they looked stunning. They say it was quite an orgy. The two sisters displayed their art with fascinating skill. In their silks and brocades they looked like the fairy queens of Mt Caucasus. There was much drinking and merrymaking and they danced and sang all night.
‘And it is said that at two in the morning the guest of honour indicated that the party was over.’
‘The party was over, the party was over’ the wheels intoned as the train ran headlong along the tracks. I cleared my mind of this intrusion and asked my companion, ‘What happened then?’
Taking his eyes away from the passing phantasmagoria of trees and power lines, he said in a determined voice, ‘They tore off their silks and brocades and stood there naked and they said…look at us…we are Thaila’s sisters…that martyr whose beautiful body you peppered with your bullets because inside that body dwelt a spirit which was in love with this land yes, we are his beautiful sisters come, burn our fragrant bodies with the red-hot irons of your lust but before you do that, allow us to spit in your faces once.’ He fell silent as if he did not wish to say any more.
‘What happened then?’
Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘They…they were shot dead.’
I did not say anything. The train stopped. He sent for a porter and asked him to pick up his bags. As he was about to leave, I said to him, ‘I have a feeling that the story you have just told me has a false ending.’
He was startled. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because there was indescribable agony in your voice when you reached the end.’
He swallowed. ‘Yes, those bitches…’ he paused, ‘they dishonoured their martyred brother’s name.’
He stepped onto the platform and was gone.
Translated by Khalid Hasan
The Woman in the Red Raincoat
THIS DATES BACK to the time when both East and West Punjab were being ravaged by bloody communal riots between Hindus and Muslim
s. It had been raining hard for many days and the fire which men had been unable to put out had been extinguished by nature. However, there was no let-up in the murderous attacks on the innocent, nor was the honour of young women safe. Gangs of young men were still on the prowl and abductions of helpless and terrified girls were common.
On the face of it, murder, arson and looting are really not so difficult to commit as some people think. However, my friend ‘S’ had not found the going so easy.
But before I tell you his story, let me introduce ‘S.’ He’s a man of ordinary looks and build and is as much interested in getting something for nothing as most of us are. But he isn’t cruel by nature. It is another matter that he became the perpetrator of a strange tragedy, though he did not quite realize at the time what was happening.
He was just an ordinary student when we were in school, fond of games, but not very sporting. He was always the first to get into a fight when an argument developed during a game. Although he never quite played fair, he was an honest fighter.
He was interested in painting, but he had to leave college after only one year. Next we knew, he had opened a bicycle shop in the city.
When the riots began, his was one of the first shops to be burnt down. Having nothing else to do, he joined the roaming bands of looters and arsonists, nothing extraordinary at the time. It was really more by way of entertainment and diversion than out of a feeling of communal revenge, I would say. Those were strange times. This is his story and it is in his own words.
* * *
—
‘It was really pouring down. It seemed as if the skies would burst. In my entire life, I had never seen such rain. I was at home, sitting on my balcony, smoking a cigarette. In front of me lay a large pile of goods I had looted from various shops and houses with the rest of the gang. However, I was not interested in them. They had burnt down my shop but, believe me, it did not really seem to matter, mainly because I had seen so much looting and destruction that nothing made any sense any longer. The noise of the rain was difficult to ignore but, strangely enough, all I was conscious of was a dry and barren silence. There was a stench in the air. Even my cigarette smelt unpleasant. I’m not sure I was thinking even. I was in a kind of daze. Very difficult to explain. Suddenly a shiver ran down my spine and a powerful desire to run out and pick up a girl took hold of me. The rain had become even heavier. I got up, put on my raincoat and, fortifying myself with a fresh tin of cigarettes from the pile of loot, went out in the rain.
The Dog of Tithwal Page 31