‘Oh how generous!’ some voices were heard saying. The gesture of the chairman was received with high acclaim.
A voice was heard saying, ‘This is the biggest shortcoming of the Hindu character. We think of digging a well only when we are thirsty. The situation is fast deteriorating; the Muslims have already stocked weapons in the Jama Masjid, whereas we are thinking now of buying lathis.’
To which the secretary was quick to retort, ‘Our Youth Wing is fully active and alert. The matter has received our full attention. Vanaprasthiji himself is taking keen, personal interest in the activities. Besides the study of scriptures and performance of rites and rituals, vanaprasthiji is devoting heart and soul to the sacred task of Hindu unity. I, however, welcome the generous offer of our esteemed chairman. His generosity always helps us tide over many a difficult situation. But I assure you, no stone will be left unturned in our preparations.’
Just then an elderly gentleman, who had been listening with his chin resting on his walking stick, and both legs drawn up under him on the seat of the chair, said in his thin, squeaking voice, ‘Brothers, all this is very fine. But I would say, first go and meet the Deputy Commissioner. Don’t wait even to drink a glass of water. Just go and meet him. This nuisance is not going to end soon. Meet him and tell him that the life and property of the Hindus is in grave danger.’
‘It is necessary to go to the Deputy Commissioner, no doubt, but Lalaji,’ said the vanaprasthi, intervening, ‘we have to depend on our own resources for our defence.’
‘O Maharaj, give training to your young men in lathi-wielding. Teach them to handle lances and swords also. But first go and meet the Deputy Commissioner. He is the man in authority. Not a sparrow can flutter its wings without his consent.’
‘But we cannot meet him today, it is Sunday.’
‘I say, go to his bungalow and meet him there. This is just the right time to do so.’
At this a Sikh gentleman raised his hand and said, ‘I am told that a deputation has already gone to meet the Deputy Commissioner.’
‘What sort of deputation? Who are the members of the deputation?’
‘It consists of some Congressmen and some members of the Muslim League.’
Silence fell on all sides.
‘Of what use is such a delegation? A separate delegation of Hindus and Sikhs must wait upon the Deputy Commissioner and tell him of the doings of the Muslims. If you go arm in arm with the Muslims what can you tell the Deputy Commissioner? The whole thing has been spoiled by the Congressmen. They keep pampering the Muslims.’
‘The mischief is spreading fast. I have heard that a cow too has been slaughtered and its limbs thrown outside the dharmashala of Mai Satto. I do not know if it is true, but it is strongly rumoured.’ The face of the vanaprasthi grew red with anger and his eyes became bloodshot. But he restrained himself and did not utter a word.
‘Streams of blood shall flow if a cow has been slaughtered,’ said the secretary, greatly agitated.
Everyone was silent. They all felt that some big mischief was afoot and that the Muslims would not stop at committing any outrage.
Thereupon they began considering seriously how best to unite the Hindus and the Sikhs on a large scale and draw up plans for joint defence. ‘What is the position of the Mohalla Committees?’ someone asked. ‘It is not easy to set up Mohalla Committees here. Muslims have infiltrated every mohalla. After the riots in 1926, two or three such mohallas did come up which had exclusive Hindu and Sikh population such as the Naya Mohalla, Rajpura, but in other mohallas the Muslims and Hindus are present in a mixed population. How can you form Mohalla Committees there?’
The question of mohalla committees received serious attention and was discussed for a long time. A subcommittee was formed to forge links with the Mohalla Committees wherever they existed forthwith and devise ways by which they could be activized at short notice, and quick contact established among them. A plan was drawn up to this effect.
‘What about the alarm-bell that was installed in the Shivala temple?’ An elderly gentleman said, ‘I think it should be checked too.’
‘Why, is there anything amiss?’
‘We should assure ourselves that it is in working order. It shouldn’t happen that when we need to ring the bell, we pull the rope and the rope snaps. We shouldn’t leave things to chance.’
Shivala temple stood on a high mound right in the heart of the city. It was surrounded by a cluster of shops.
‘Many years have passed since the bell was installed. It is time we got it overhauled.’ The old gentleman was saying. ‘It was way back in 1927 if I am not mistaken.’
‘God forbid that it should have to ring again.’ One of the persons suddenly exclaimed.
The remark infuriated the vanaprasthi.
‘It is such thinking that has made cowards of Hindus,’ he said. ‘To be afraid of danger at every step. That is why we are given the derogatory nickname of karars and baniyas by the mlecchas.’
They all fell silent again. Everyone present held the same views, though they were agitated to a lesser degree than the vanaprasthi. They too believed that the Muslims were at the root of all mischief, but at the same time they did not want a riot to break out, for that would pose a serious danger to the life and property of both Hindus and Sikhs.
The deliberations went on for a long time. Matters concerning self-defence and measures for the prevention of a riot were discussed. Several suggestions were put forward concerning mohalla committees, formation of a Volunteer Corps to maintain contact with the Hindu and Sikh organizations of the town, provision for canisters of linseed oil, bags of sand, storage of water. During all these deliberations, like the refrain of a song, the elderly gentleman kept repeating his suggestion:
‘O Brothers, first of all, wait upon the Deputy Commissioner; don’t wait even to drink a glass of water, go and meet the Deputy Commissioner; as soon as this meeting ends, go straight to meet him. I too am willing to accompany you…’
It was finally decided that after the meeting, the secretary would stay back and through a peon circulate to all the members of the congregation the decisions concerning the storage of oil and coal. The secretary would establish contact with like-minded organizations, engage Gurkhas to serve as watchmen, speak to the secretary of the Sanatan Dharm Sabha to get the alarm-bell repaired and alert the Youth Wing. The other members of the core group except the vanasprasthi, would forthwith get into tongas and proceed to the bungalow of the Deputy Commissioner. The vanaprasthi, however, being a spiritual man, could not be expected to concern himself with mundane matters of the worldly householders.
On reaching home, the philanthropic chairman learnt that his son was not at home. It was a disturbing piece of information. He had a lurking fear that his young son might have been caught in the whirl of developments that were taking place in the town.
At the time when the chairman was returning home, Ranvir, his son, was somewhere in the narrow dingy lanes of the town, walking with bowed head behind his preceptor, Master Dev Vrat, the organizer of the Youth Wing’s akhara. The clatter of Master Dev Vrat’s heavy boots resounded in the lanes, while in the heart of the fifteen-year-old Ranvir, eager aspirations rose like ripples as he walked behind him. Every pore in his body throbbed with expectations. He was to be examined today and if he came out successful, he would receive his initiation.
It seemed that the town consisted of only crooked lanes; there was hardly a straight lane anywhere. For some distance a lane would appear to be moving straight, but then, from somewhere, a slanting lane, bent, as it were, under the weight of single-storeyed houses on either side, would join it and the lane would lose its sense of direction. Sometimes it would appear to t*** as though they were walking in a blind alley and that they would soon face a wall, but just as they would reach the end they would find a narrow slit and the lane would open out in a different direction. Dev Vrat’s heavy boots were familiar with all the lanes.
Ranvir was as yet only a boy, his
eyes shone with simple trust and eager curiosity. He lacked that sobriety which was so necessary for the initiation test. But the lack of sobriety was amply made up for by his enthusiasm, his sense of dedication to the cause, and by a strong determination to lay down his life at Masterji’s command.
When he was small, Master Dev Vrat used to tell Ranvir stories of valour. There was one of how Rana Pratap, for the first time, became conscious of his helpless situation when the only piece of bread left with him was eaten up by a cat. Ranvir would imagine Chetak, Rana Pratap’s horse, galloping away on the hills on the town’s outskirts. He would see Shivaji on horseback, poised on a high rock looking toward the Turkish hordes in the distance, or holding in his iron embrace the mleccha chief. It was Masterji who had taught him to tie different kinds of knots, to scale a wall with the help of a rope, about arrows that produced fire or rain on striking against their target.
‘The fire-arrow, when shot, goes piercing through the air, sparks flying from its head. Such fire-arrows were shot during the great Mahabharata war. The arrow would go flying at top-speed and eventually strike against the shield of a Kaurava warrior causing it to erupt in flames. It would continue coursing through the air—the arrow never fell to the ground, instead it flew round and round the entire battlefield and flames of fire leapt up from all sides. Its point had only to strike against the head-gear of a warrior, or merely grate against the canopy of a chariot and flames of fire would erupt. The fire-arrow turned back only after setting fire to the enemy’s entire camp like a victorious warrior, with dazzling light shooting out of it as though it had set the whole firmament on fire.’
It was Masteriji who had told him that the technique to make a bomb or an aeroplane was inscribed in the Vedas. It was from his mouth too that Ranvir had heard about the powers of Yoga-Shakti. ‘A man who has Yoga-Shakti can accomplish anything. Once, on the slopes of the Himalayas, a Yogiraj, already at the peak of his yogic powers, was in deep meditation when a mleccha tried to distract him. Mlecchas are unclean people, they don’t bathe, don’t even wash their hands after toilet, eat from one another’s plate, they have no regular hour of going to toilet, so, the mleccha came and stood right in front of the yogi and stared hard at him. His abominable shadow had hardly fallen on the yogi when the yogi opened his eyes. The next moment, a ray of light shot out of the yogi’s eyes, and the mleccha was reduced to a heap of ashes.’
The mleccha would appear before Ranvir’s eyes again and again—in his neighbourhood, the cobbler who sat by the roadside was a mleccha, the tonga-driver who lived right opposite his house was a mleccha; Hamid, his classmate, was a mleccha too; the fakir who came to beg for alms was a mleccha; the family that lived in his immediate neighbourhood was also a mleccha family. It must have been one such mleccha who had gone to interfere with the samadhi of the Yogiraj, on the Himalayas.
Ranvir was the only one, from among the eight aspirants who had been chosen for the initiation test. Everyone was scared stiff of Master Dev Vrat who, in his heavy black boots, his khaki shorts, his loud thunderous voice and his menacing demeanour would strike terror in every heart. He could thrash anyone at any time. But this test was an undercover affair; only those young men knew anything about it who had passed the test and they would never divulge its contents to anyone.
The lanes looked deserted. It would sometimes appear to Ranvir as though the lane, at some distance was plunged in darkness, but on drawing near he would find that it was only a gaping dark hole in a wall, caused by the partial collapse of another wall.
Master Dev Vrat came to a halt opposite a discoloured, drab-looking door in a long wall. He pushed the door open. Ranvir’s heart pounded with expectations, although when they had entered the dark lane, he had felt somewhat nervous. They stepped into a spacious courtyard on the other side of which stood a kothari with a tarpaulin curtain hanging over the door. A pile of bricks and stones lay on one side towards the left of the courtyard. The place sent shivers down Ranvir’s spine. Masterji crossed the courtyard to the other side and knocked at the door. Someone inside coughed and the shuffling of feet was heard. ‘It is I, Dev Vrat’, Masterji called out. The door opened. In front of them stood an elderly Gurkha chowkidar, who folded his hands immediately on seeing Dev Vrat. It was dark inside the room. A charpai lay on one side. Against the right-hand wall stood a lathi. On the floor lay an upturned hookah. From a peg in the wall hung the chowkidar’s khaki woollen overcoat and a bayonet.
Just then they heard the clucking of hens. Ranvir turned round and saw five or six white hens in a big basket.
Masterji put his arms round Ranvir’s shoulders and led him into the backyard, a narrow slit of a place, across which stood the high wall of the adjoining house. The Gurkha followed, carrying a cackling hen in one hand and a big knife in the other.
‘Ranvir, you slaughter this hen. This is your initiation test. You have to prove how mentally tough you are.’ So saying, Dev Vrat guided Ranvir to the middle of the yard.
‘An Arya youth must possess strength of mind, speech and action. Here, take this knife and get down to work.’
Ranvir felt as though an eerie silence had fallen on all sides. A pile of broken bricks and blood-stained feathers lay scattered about. Close by was a stone slab blackened with the blood of slaughtered hens.
‘Sit down and put one foot of the hen tightly under your right foot.’ Dev Vrat twisted the hen’s wings together and after a while the hen lay still. All it could do was croak fiercely.
‘Hold it tight,’ he shouted and sat down by Ranvir’s side, ‘Now get going.’
Ranvir’s forehead was covered with cold sweat and his face turned deathly pale. Masterji saw that the boy was feeling sick.
‘Ranvir!’ he shouted and gave the boy a stinging slap. Ranvir bent double and fell on the floor. His head was reeling. The Gurkha stood where he was. Ranvir looked as though he was about to burst into tears but his nausea abated.
‘Get up, Ranvir,’ said Masterji in a stern voice. Ranvir slowly rose and looked at Masterji’s with scared eyes.
‘There is nothing difficult about it. Let me show you.’
He put the hen’s foot under the heel of his heavy boot. The hen’s eyes became glazed and then closed. Masterji held the neck of the hen in his left hand and moved the blade of the knife on it just once. Blood spurted out, some spilling on Masterji’s hand. The hen’s head fell on the floor, near his heavy boot, but Dev Vrat continued to press the hen’s artery, a white little thing which struggled as if to free itself. The bird’s body heaved and trembled, and became motionless. Feathers soaked in blood, lay on the floor close to Ranvir. Masterji flung the dead hen to one side and stood up. ‘Go, fetch another one from inside,’ he ordered the Gurkha.
Master Dev Vrat saw that Ranvir had vomited and was sitting with his head in both his hands, breathing hard. He felt like giving him another slap but restrained himself. A little later, he said, somewhat persuasively, ‘You are being given another chance. How will a young man who cannot slaughter a hen, kill an enemy? You are being given another five minutes to prove your mettle. If you fail again you will not be inducted.’ So saying Masterji turned round and went into the room.
Five minutes later when he came out, the hen lay convulsing on the floor near the wall, its blood, splashed all over the place. Ranvir was sitting on the ground with his right hand pressed tightly between his thighs. Masterji immediately guessed that the hen had pecked at his hand which meant that Ranvir had succeeded only in wounding the bird, not in beheading it. Unable to control the bird, he had used the knife on its wriggling head, and at the sight of blood spurting out of its neck, had forthwith, released the bird.
The wounded hen leapt up again and again in agony, splattering blood as it flew about. Blood spurted from its neck.
But Ranvir had passed the test.
‘Stand up, Ranvir!’ Masterji said, patting him on the back. ‘You have the necessary strength of will, you have determination too, even though your hand is
still not very steady. You have passed the initiation test.’ He bent down, dipped his finger in the blood on the stone slab and put a teeka with it on Ranvir’s forehead, thus inducting him into the category of the initiates.
Ranvir still stood in a daze, his head reeling. But on hearing Masterji’s words, though vaguely, he felt gratified.
They had managed to procure all the necessary things except cauldrons that were needed for boiling oil. Everything had been arranged neatly on the window-sill—three knives, a dagger, and a kirpan. Ten lathis had been stacked in one corner of the room, each had a brass-head with spikes at the other end. On the wall hung three bows and arrows. Bodhraj could shoot an arrow lying down. He could take aim at a target by listening to a sound, or by looking at its reflection in a mirror. He could even cut a hanging thread into two with his arrow. He had pointed metal-heads fixed to his arrows, and expatiated on their special features to his fellow ‘warriors’.
‘If you rub arsenic on the arrow tip, it will become a poison-arrow; if you rub camphor on it, it will become a fire-arrow, that is, it will produce fire wherever it strikes; if you put blue vitriol on it, it will produce poison gas on striking its target.’
Dharam Vir had managed to filch his uncle’s leather-belt which had empty cartridges fitted into it. That too was hanging on the wall. The room looked like an arsenal store, and in acknowledgement to that, Ranvir had put up a sign-board saying ‘Arsenal’ in bold letters right above the door.
But the most important of vanaprasthiji’s instructions concerning the boiling of linseed oil had not yet been implemented. None of the young men had been able to secure a cauldron big enough to boil a canful of oil. A can of oil however had been obtained and it was lying against a wall on one side. Each representative of the youth committee had contributed four annas from his pocket money to meet part of its cost, the balance was to be paid to the provision store later. Now, the cauldron was the only hitch. Even the temple, where every other day congregational lunches took place, did not have one.
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