Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  ‘That is how a Hindu treats another Hindu. This has been so since times immemorial. Such is their character.’

  Hurt and angry, he went stomping back to the pavement.

  By now the others were walking down the slope, each on his own. A little ahead of Lakshmi Narain walked Hakim Abdul Ghani, an old Congress activist. At some distance ahead of him was Sardarji, while Hayat Baksh was walking ahead of all of them. He had taken off his coat and hung it over his right shoulder.

  Sitting down in the tonga, Bakshi had said, ‘Let us ask them if anyone wants a lift,’ to which Mehta’s reply had been categorical. ‘No one need be asked. How many can you accommodate? Let us get away from here as soon as possible. You can’t ask one and not ask the other. We can even take a turn to the left and get out of sight.’

  Bakshiji felt uneasy sitting in the tonga. It had been a bad decision getting into it. He felt irritated, as much with Mehta as with himself. ‘Why do I allow myself to be persuaded by fellows like Mehta. The members of the deputation had all come together. That is how we should have gone back too.’ Nevertheless there was nothing much he could do about it now.

  As the tonga drove past Hayat Baksh he remarked jokingly, ‘Running away, Bakshi? The karars that you are! You first stoke the fires and then run away!’

  They were on informal terms with each other, having grown up together in the same town. They could share a joke.

  Seing the Sardarji coming at some distance, Hayat Baksh remarked, ‘Bakshiji has decamped! Such is the character of these people!’

  But the Sardar continued walking with his head bent, without uttering a word.

  Walking at the tail-end of the line, Lakshmi Narain felt that he should increase his pace and join Hayat Baksh. They were passing through a Muslim locality and it would be safer to walk alongside Hayat Baksh.

  ‘What’s the big hurry? Let’s walk slowly,’ he shouted.

  Hearing his voice all three stopped. But Lakshmi Narain, taking long strides, went straight ahead, pattering his stick and joined Hayat Baksh.

  ‘It will be awful if a riot breaks out in the city,’ he said, as he joined Hayat Baksh.

  Hayat Baksh had sensed Lakshmi Narain’s motive. In a way it served Hayat Baksh’s interest too, because the locality on the other side of the bridge was predominantly Hindu and Hayat Baksh had to go through it in order to reach his house. The fear was largely baseless because all these gentlemen were well-known figures of the town, and it would not have been easy for anyone to raise his hand against any of them.

  Sitting in the tonga, Bakshi felt uneasy and irritated. Whenever he was overwhelmed by events or circumstances he would lose his equilibrium and clarity of mind.

  ‘Kites and vultures shall hover over the town, Mehtaji,’ he repeated peeping out of the tonga. ‘Take it from me, kites and vultures…’

  ‘We shall see what happens. The first thing is to reach the town.’

  ‘What difference will that make?’ said Bakshi irritably. ‘We are already in deep trouble.’

  Mehta was anxious but not as worked up as Bakshi.

  ‘The Deputy Commissioner at least gave us a patient hearing. The previous DC was such a haughty fellow, he would not even talk decently with us.’

  ‘What does he care? He doesn’t give a damn,’ Bakshi said irritably. ‘What patient hearing has he given us?’

  Bakshi’s thoughts then turned towards something else.

  ‘No one can be trusted,’ said Mehta.

  That further irritated Bakshi. ‘If Muslims cannot be trusted, can Hindus be trusted?’

  ‘Look Bakshiji, I shall tell you something. It may be a trivial thing, but for an intelligent person it is like a straw in the wind. This fellow, Mubarak Ali, who is a member of the District Congress Committee wears a khadi kurta and salwar, but his cap is not a Gandhi cap, it is a Peshawari fur cap. Muzaffar is the only Muslim Congressman who wears a Gandhi cap.’

  Bakshi took his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration off his face.

  ‘The Hindu Sabha people have formed Mohalla Committees but we have not done anything of the kind. We should at least have formed Peace Committees in every mohalla,’ said Mehta, wiping his neck.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mehta,’ Bakshi said, quivering with rage.

  ‘Why? Why should I be ashamed of myself? What sin have I committed?’

  ‘It is never good to try to ride in two boats at the same time. And that is exactly what you have been doing all along—one foot in the Congress and the other foot in the Hindu Sabha. You think nobody knows about it; well, everyone does.’

  ‘Will you come to save my life when a riot breaks out?’ said Mehta. ‘The entire area on the other side of the ditch is inhabited by Muslims, and my house is on the edge of it. In the event of a riot, will you come to protect me? Will Bapu come to save my life? In a situation like this, I can only rely on the Hindus of the locality. The fellow who comes with a big knife to attack me will not ask me whether I was a member of the Congress or of the Hindu Sabha… Why have you gone dumb now? Why don’t you speak?’

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mehta. It is in such times that a man’s integrity is put to test. You have gathered a lot of wealth and your brain is covered with thick layers of fat. If your house is located near the mohalla of the Muslims, is mine located in that of the Hindus?’

  ‘It makes no difference to you. You are a sadhu, without a wife or family. What will a fellow gain by killing you?’ Mehta said, getting excited. ‘I told you to throw out Latif from the Congress organization. I can give you in writing that he has links with the CID. He gives information to the police about each one of us. You know this as well as I do. But you would not do a thing. You would go on feeding the snake in the grass. Then there is Mubarak Ali. He is always hobnobbing with the League fellows. Gets money out of us and out of the Muslim League. He has had a house built of pucca bricks. And yet you choose to turn a blind eye to it.’

  ‘There are only a handful of Muslims in the organization. Shall we throw them out? Are you in your senses? If Latif is undesirable, does that mean everyone else is undesirable too? Is Hakimji who joined the Congress long before you did undesirable? Is Aziz Ahmed undesirable?’

  The tonga had by then reached the end of the slope and turned towards the bridge.

  Across the bridge, on the right, the Islamia school, was closed. Very few persons or vehicles were to be seen on the road. A few persons stood in a knot in the school compound.

  The other four members of the deputation were still walking down the slope. As Hayat Baksh passed by the offices of the Electric Supply Company, he met Maula Dad, standing by the roadside. Maula Dad worked as a clerk in the Electric Supply Company and was also a Muslim League activist.

  ‘What have you achieved by going to the Deputy Commissioner? You had gone to meet him, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Hardly had we sat down when there was some noise outside and the meeting dispersed. Everyone got up and left. What news of the town?’

  ‘Tension is mounting, they say. There has been some disturbance near Ratta. How is the situation there, at the back, from where you are coming?’

  By that time Hakim Abdul Ghani and the Sardar also had arrived. After having walked separately for some distance, they had begun to walk together. Since Hakimji was a Congress Muslim, the Sardar had little hesitation in walking alongside him.

  ‘A riot must not break out. It is an awful thing,’ said Lakshmi Narain.

  Maula Dad looked searchingly at Lakshmi Narain. ‘If it were left to the Hindus, a riot would certainly break out. It is we Muslims who are putting up with all kinds of provocations.’ His eyes fell on Hakimji and his temper rose. ‘This dog of the Hindus too had accompanied you? Whom does he represent?’

  Both fell silent. Pretending not to hear what Maula Dad had said, Hakimji, with his head turned, kept looking towards the bridge. But Maula Dad was exasperated. ‘It is not the Hindu who is the enemy of the Muslims, it is the
tail-wagging Musalman who goes after the Hindus and lives on the crumbs thrown to him.’

  ‘Listen, Maula Dad Sahib,’ Hakimji said patiently. ‘You can call me by any names you like, but the most important question is that of the freedom of India, of freeing the country from the British yoke. Hindu-Muslim differences are not the primary question.’

  ‘Shut up, you despicable dog,’ shouted Maula Dad, his eyes turning red and his lips trembling.

  ‘No, no, no, this is no time for an argument.’

  Lakshmi Narain suddenly felt weak in the legs, but the elderly Hayat Baksh was there to control the situation.

  ‘Move on, Hakimji, but your patrons have already gone in a tonga, leaving you in the lurch.’

  Hakimji slowly moved away. The Sardar went along with him. But Lakshmi Narain kept standing wbere he was.

  ‘Are you going home?’ Maula Dad asked Hayat Baksh. ‘Won’t you come to the League Office?’

  ‘I shall be there later. You go along.’

  Maula Dad understood why Hayat Baksh had tagged Lakshmi Narain to himself. Putting his hand on his heart he said respectfully to Lakshmi Narain: ‘Rest assured, Lalaji, as long as we are there, nobody dare touch even a hair on your head.’

  Hayat Baksh and Lakshmi Narain too moved on.

  By twelve noon, Liza leisurely walked towards the door opening in the veranda outside. Pushing aside the curtain, she looked out. Dazzling hot sun, like a shimmering sheet of glass covered the garden. Trembling vapour seemed to rise from the ground. It was already scorching hot. Liza pulled back the curtain.

  As she passed by the fireplace, her eyes fell on a statuette in the middle of the mantelpiece. Some Hindu god, with a big paunch, red and white lines drawn across his forehead, sat there laughing. Liza felt sick. It looked so awfully ugly. Wherefrom had Richard picked it up?

  She came into the large drawing room. With idols and statuettes all over the place, she felt as though everything around her had become lifeless, as though they were not statuettes but heads of the dead Buddha. It gave her the creeps. She felt suffocated in a house so stacked with books and statuettes. Wherever she went, she felt as though the Buddha heads were peeping at her through the corner of their eyes. Richard had only to go out of the house when these objects became dead-wood for her. And yet she had to spend the endlessly long day, in the company of these statuettes and piles of books. She couldn’t take her eyes off them, even if she wanted to, as she went from one room to another. Inadvertently, she came and stood in front of a Buddha statue. Out of idle curiosity she pressed an electric button. Truly enough, Buddha’s face lit up with a soft smile. She switched off the light. The smile vanished. She pressed the button again. The smile returned. But it also appeared as though the Buddha was eyeing her through the corner of his eyes. She immediately switched off the light.

  Liza returned to her room. As she entered, she was greeted by a soft, tinkling sound. Right in front of the window, above the bedstead, hung a tiny brass bell. With every whiff of air, the tiny bell tinkled softly, as though wafting from far away. This sweet, musical sound could be heard throughout the day. It was a new addition to the house, brought by Richard from somewhere before Liza’s arrival, to welcome her with.

  Just then, a sharp sound suddenly fell on Liza’s ears. She looked around but for some time could not see anything. Then her eyes fell oh a lizard lying on her dressing table. It had apparently fallen from the wall, close to the electric lamp. It was in convulsions, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly, it stopped moving and lay still. It was dead. The hot summer caused lizards to die everyday. Despite its numerous spacious rooms, the bungalow in which they lived was an old one, built at a time when the British rule had just struck roots in the Punjab.

  Two years earlier when they were living in a different bungalow, a snake, nearly a yard-and-a-half long, had once crawled out of the servants’ quarter. It would sometimes get under the cots, or would be seen slithering along the wall in the veranda. Liza had got so scared that for several days after that, she would not open the window leading into the veranda. Nor would she open her wardrobe, fearing that a cobra might be lying curled in it. Within days after that incident, she had left for England.

  Liza pressed the button of the call bell and came out into the veranda.

  Before coming to India, Liza had made many plans. She would collect specimens of village handicrafts, travel extensively, practise photography, get herself photographed sitting on the back of a tiger, go about wearing a sari. But now it seemed to her that she was destined to endure the scorching heat, imprisonment in a big bungalow, never-ending days, Buddha statuettes, lizards and snakes. Life outside the bungalow was no less monotonous. There was the British officers’ club no doubt, but in the hierarchical relationship that existed there—the overassertive commissioner’s wife, about whom it was said that she exercised the commissioner’s authority more than the commissioner himself, the Brigadier’s wife who socialized with other officers’ wives strictly on the basis of seniority, while Richard was comparatively a junior officer—Liza felt ignored. Though there were parties every other day and dance parties every Saturday night, the days seemed interminably long. It was then that she got into the habit of drinking beer. Getting bored with going from one room to another the whole day long, she found in beer the only way to keep off boredom.

  ‘You must have German blood in your veins that makes you so fond of beer,’ Richard would say in jest. But Liza’s addiction increased with time. Sometimes, when Richard would come home for lunch, he would find Liza sprawled on a sofa, her eyes swollen. Amidst hugs and kisses and hiccups, she would swear again and again that she would give up the habit. But the next day again she would find it impossible to pass time.

  This time however, she had returned with a more positive frame of mind. She had come fully resolved to take interest in Richard’s activities, both administrative and otherwise, as also in those relating to public welfare.

  She tried to figure out for herself the kind of work the Association for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was doing and how she could associate herself with it. ‘What assignment should I take in it?’ Liza was thus ruminating when the ‘khansama’ came into the room and Liza was strongly tempted to tell him to get her some beer, but she desisted. The khansama was a new recruit and did not know anything about her weakness. ‘What sort of assignment will it be? Shall I be required to go from street to street, getting stray dogs and old horses shot one by one? Or, being the first lady of the district, be only a presiding officer and the actual work will be done by the underlings?’

  Liza was in a queer state of mind. There was the horror of boredom, but there was also the consciousness of being the wife of the virtual ruler of the district with a huge bungalow to live in and a retinue of servants and waiters; there was insufferable boredom, but there was also the strong sense of personal importance as the mistress of the house.

  ‘Memsahib!’

  The khansama stood before her, waiting for her orders.

  ‘There is a dead lizard on the dressing table in my room. Go and remove it.’

  ‘Huzoor!’ said the khansama, then bowed and left.

  Liza walked over to the window opening into the veranda. On lifting the curtain she was again faced with the glaring light of the midday sun. But she also noticed Richard’s office-clerk sitting behind a small table on one side of the veranda. He was sorting out letters—a dark-complexioned young clerk with glistening white teeth who would say ‘Yes sir’ twice to every sentence uttered by Richard, always shaking his head sideways. On seeing him Liza smiled. The babu knew English. It was always interesting to talk to him. Liza came over into the veranda by way of the dining room.

  ‘Babu!’ Liza shouted, in the same way as Richard did, and sat down in a chair near the door.

  The babu shut his file and came running.

  ‘Yes sir, yes madam!’

  Besides his dark complexion and glistening white teeth it seemed as though every l
imb of his body had been screwed into his torso, because one or the other of his limbs would always hang down to one side with a jerk. Sometimes it would be his right shoulder that would bend down or the left knee while his mouth would always remain open.

  ‘You Hindu, babu?’ ‘Yes, Madam,’ the babu replied somewhat embarrassed. Liza was pleased with her discovery. ‘I guessed right!’ ‘Yes, madam!’

  Liza stared at him. But the longer she looked, the more confused she became. On what basis had she surmised that he was a Hindu? Surely not on the basis of the clothes—coat, a pair of trousers and necktie that he was wearing. She became contemplative. What are those signs by which a Hindu can be recognized? She got up, and putting out her hand searched through his hair for that distinctive something that distinguished a Hindu from a Muslim.

  The babu became nervous. A man of nearly thirty years of age, he had been working as stenographer in the Deputy Commissioner’s office for the last ten years. Liza was the first woman, and that too the wife of a Deputy Commissioner, who spoke to him with such familiarity. The wives of other Deputy Commissioners had always been curt and indifferent towards him.

  At the far end of the veranda, near the passage that led to the kitchen, stood the khansama, the gardener and the cook, all looking towards them.

  ‘No, it isn’t here!’ Liza said.

  The babu again became nervous. The faint smile that had appeared on his lips vanished.

  ‘You are no Hindu. You told a lie.’

  ‘No, madam, I am a Hindu, a Brahmin Hindu.’

  ‘Oh, no. Where is your tuft, in that case?’

  There was danger of a riot breaking out in the city and he had, with great difficulty, managed to reach the office. He had felt somewhat reassured by the way the lady was treating him, and a broad smile appeared on his swarthy face, showing his glistening white teeth.

  ‘I have no tuft, madam.’

  ‘Then you are no Hindu,’ Liza said, laughing, shaking her forefinger at him. ‘You told a lie!’

  ‘No, madam, I am a Hindu.’