‘Take off your coat, babu.’ Liza commanded.
‘Oh, madam!’ said the babu acutely embarrassed.
‘Take it off, take it off. Hurry!’
Smiling, the babu took off his coat.
‘Good. Now unbutton your shirt.’
‘What, madam?’
‘Don’t say “What madam!” Say, “I beg your pardon, madam”. All right. Unbutton your shirt.’
The babu stood perplexed. Then putting his hand under his necktie, he undid all the three buttons.
‘Show me your thread.’
‘What, madam?’
‘Your thread. “What madam?” Show me your Hindu thread.’
The babu understood what the lady meant. The Memsahib was asking about the sacred thread, the yagyopaveet. The babu was not wearing any. After passing his matriculation examination he had cut off the tuft on his head, and on joining the intermediate class, had cast off the sacred thread.
‘I am not wearing any thread, madam.’
‘No thread? Then you are no Hindu.’
‘I am a Hindu, madam. I swear by God I am a Hindu.’
He was getting nervous again.
‘No, you are no Hindu. You told a lie. I shall tell your boss about it.’
The babu’s face suddenly turned pale.
‘I tell you sincerely, madam, I am a Hindu. My name is Roshan Lal,’ he said, as he buttoned his shirt and put on his coat.
‘Roshan Lal? But the cook’s name is Roshan Din and he is a Musalman.’
‘Yes, madam,’ the babu replied. It was difficult for him to explain the difference.
‘He is Roshan Din, madam. I am Roshan Lal. I am a Hindu. He is a Muslim.’
‘No. My husband told me you people have different names.’
Then, raising her forefinger, she said in a mock-angry voice, ‘No, babu, you told a lie. I shall tell your boss.’
The babu’s throat became parched and his heart started pounding. ‘There is trouble brewing in the city. It may be that the lady’s questions have something to do with it. What does the memsahib want?’
Suddenly Liza felt bored and sick at heart.
‘Go babu. I shall tell your boss everything.’
The babu picked up his file from the floor and went towards his table.
‘Babu!’ Liza shouted again.
The babu turned round.
‘Where is your boss?’
‘He is in his office, madam. He is very busy.’
‘Go. Get out of here… You and your boss!’ she almost shrieked.
‘Yes, madam!’ and the babu turned away, trembling in every limb.
As the babu left, her playful mood had turned into intense disgust. An acute sense of loneliness and desolation came over her. The babu, walking away with his shoulders bent, looked to her a slimy creature. How can Richard work with such people day in and day out? She heaved a long, painful sigh and turned to go in.
8
Each community in the town pursued a trade that was exclusive to them. Textile business was mostly in the hands of Hindus, business in leather goods was owned by Muslims; transport was run by Muslims, and grain merchants were Hindus. Petty jobs and professions, however, were pursued by both Hindus and Muslims.
The Shivala market was doing brisk busines. Looking at it, no one could say that there was tension in the town. The goldsmiths’ shops were crowded with village women in burqas buying or placing orders for silver jewellery. In front of Hakim Labh Ram’s dispensary two Kashmiri Muslims, pestles in hand, were pounding away at medicinal herbs, their noses covered with pieces of cloth; the hunchbacked halwai had, as usual, a crowd of customers at his shop; Santram, the vendor had arrived with his pushcart, punctually at one o’clock, as was his wont, and was slowly moving through the goldsmiths’ market towards the Shivala Bazaar, serving half a chhatank or more of halwa on a pipal leaf to every customer on the way. At the Shivala Bazaar, the tailor Khuda Baksh and his two brothers were Santram’s daily customers, besides many others.
The general atmosphere was calm and stable. There was the usual traffic on the roads. The tension caused by the incident that morning had partly been diffused and partly submerged. Opposite Khuda Baksh’s shop at the corner of the lane, a municipal worker was standing on a ladder cleaning the chimney of the oil lamp fixed in the wall and replenishing it with oil. Every activity in the business of life appeared to be moving as rhythmically as part of a symphony. When Ibrahim the pedlar selling scents and oils with the bag on his back full of bottles big and small and another bag hanging from his shoulder, went from lane to lane shouting about his wares, it appeared as though his movements too were in keeping with that rhythm. So were the movements of the women with their earthen pitchers going to the water-taps, tongas plying on the roads, children going to school. Every activity gave the impression of having combined to create an inner harmony to which the heart of the town throbbed. It was to the same rhythm that people were born, grew up and became old, that generations came and went. This rhythm or symphony was the creation of centuries of communal living, of the inhabitants having come together in harmony. One would think that every activity was like a chord in a musical instrument, and if even one string snapped the instrument would produce only jarring notes.
It cannot be said that the even tenor of the town’s life was never disturbed. In recent years there had been the ebb and flow of many a current and cross-current. During the days of the freedom struggle, every now and then, the town would shake under the impact of surging emotions and movements. Then there were disturbing developments. Once every year, on the occasion of Guru Nanak’s birthday, a Sikh procession would be taken out and tension would grip the city. Will the procession pass in front of the Jama Masjid, with its band playing or will it take some other route? There was the fear that even a stray stone flung on the procession might lead to a communal riot. Similarly, on the occasion of Muharram, tension would mount when Muslims would take out tazias, beat their bare chests and shout ‘Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!’, perspiration dripping from their bodies, and pass through the streets of the town. But soon after, the atmosphere would cool down and life would regain its even tenor, linking itself once again with the inner rhythm. Once again its innate cheerfulness would return.
At the shop of Khuda Baksh the tailor, Sardar Hukam Singh’s wife was complaining loudly: ‘0 Bakshe, when will you ever learn to keep your word? Why aren’t my clothes ready? Why must I have to come to your shop again and again?’
Khuda Baksh smiled. He was familiarly addressed as Bakshe by the women of Hindu and Sikh families of the town. His shelves were heavily stacked with bundles of unstitched cloth, meant primarily for wedding dresses.
‘Bibi, you never bothered to send me the required cloth in time. Didn’t I keep reminding you of it throughout winter? You never bothered. After all it takes time to stitch clothes. God has given me only two hands, Bibi, not sixteen.’
‘What is the man saying? Throughout winter?’
‘Why, wasn’t your daughter betrothed fifteen days after the wedding of Shiv Ram’s son? Isn’t that so? Which month was it?’
Hukam Singh’s wife laughed. ‘He even remembers the dates. Now tell me clearly—when will my daughter’s suit be ready?’
‘Which is the auspicious day, Bibi, of the wedding?’
‘Look at the fellow. He knows the day of the girl’s betrothal but not her wedding day.’
‘Don’t I know? It is on the twenty-fifth of this month. Isn’t that so? Today is fifth. Have no fear, the suit will be ready on time.’
‘Nothing doing. Tell me the exact date. Don’t I know you? On the wedding day itself you will make us run to your shop again and again. Didn’t this happen on my Vidya’s marriage? The wedding party was already on its way and I was sending my man again and again for her gold-embroidered suit. Tell me the exact date when the suit will be ready.’
She had not yet finished talking when someone standing behind her threw a packet of light-green
silken cloth and a spool of gold-thread border into Bakshe’s lap.
‘Get the cloth measured, Bakshe, and if more cloth is required get it in my account from Budh Singh’s shop.’
It was another lady customer. Bakshe wet a corner of the cloth with his tongue and, taking his pencil from behind his right ear, put a mark on it and threw the packet and the spool on to the shelf by his side. The whole almirah was full of bundles and packets meant for wedding dresses.
‘Yes, yes, the suit will be ready. I shall deliver it at your house myself.’
‘You only know how to talk. If this time you fail me I shall never set foot in your shop again.’ And Hukam Singh’s wife turned and left the shop.
As she turned away, Khuda Baksh’s eyes fell on the wall of the Shivala opposite. He noticed some movement there. He looked intently. A man was standing on top of the wall doing something. It was the Gurkha watchman. What was he doing there? On the other side of the wall was the old temple whose shining dome could be seen from far and near. A bell had been installed on top of the wall and the Gurkha watchman appeared to be cleaning it.
‘What is he doing that for?’ Khuda Baksh said to one of his assistants, who sat working on a sewing machine close by.
‘The bell is being repaired, it seems,’ the shop assistant answered.
‘God forbid that it should ring again,’ Khuda Baksh exclaimed.
Both fell silent.
The bell had been put up after the communal riots of 1926. Its weather-beaten metal was no longer as bright as it used to be. Much of the plaster on the wall too had cracked and fallen off. Khuda Baksh was then a young man of twenty or so, madly interested in bodybuilding exercises, and had just joined his father in the tailoring business. It was in those very days that the bell had been installed. Khuda Baksh was now an elderly man; there was hardly a wedding in the town for which his services as a tailor were not sought after. The man perched on the wall too was the same Gurkha chowkidar—Ram Bali by name—who had originally installed the bell. After the riots, his services had been retained because of his alertness, integrity and spirit of service. Wrinkles had since appeared on his face and his hair had greyed. But as a watchman he was still as alert as he used to be.
A low ringing sound emanated from the bell. Khuda Baksh’s eyes again turned towards the wall. The Gurkha chowkidar was tying a new rope to the bell. The pulley had been oiled and the bell was once again shining and ringing as before.
‘I tremble when I hear that sound,’ Khuda Baksh said. ‘The first time the alarm bell was rung when the Grain Market had been set on fire and half the sky was covered with the glow of its flames.’
Perched on the wall, the Gurkha was still rubbing the bell with a duster so as to bring out its shine, as though for some festival or an auspicious day. A new, white rope was now hanging by its side.
From the wall, Khuda Baksh’s eyes turned towards the neighbouring goldsmith’s shop where an elderly villager and his wife were persuading their young daughter to buy a pair of earrings.
‘Why don’t you take it if it has caught your fancy? Only hurry up. We have a lot else to do before going back to the village.’
The girl’s eyes were shining. She would put the earrings to her ears again and again and show them to her mother.
‘How do they look on me, Ma?’
She was unable to make up her mind.
Khuda Baksh’s eyes again went back towards the wall of the temple. The old watchman was now getting down from the wall.
‘Ya Allah!’ muttered Khuda Baksh and turned his face away.
It was a common practice at Fazal-din, the nanbai’s shop, in the afternoons, when the hot sun was on the decline and there was little work to do, for friends from here and there to gather for a leisurely chat. With the hookah going around, all subjects under the sun would be discussed.
To begin with, the discussion had centred round the morning incident that the whole town was talking about. But then it branched out to other topics. Old Karim Khan was rambling on how impossible it was for an ordinary man to fathom what was in the mind of the ruler. ‘The man in authority takes a long view of things; each one of his actions reflects his far-sightedness. It is beyond the ken of an ordinary man to see what the man in authority can see.’
‘Musa said to Khizr one day,’ continued Karim Khan, “Please take me on as your pupil…” Listen Jilani, listen attentively. This is a very instructive story…Now Musa was much younger in age, but he was aspiring to become a seer, a prophet. Till then he had not become one. Khizr was already a prophet. You are following me, aren’t you? And was older in age too. Everyone held him in very high esteem.’ Karim Khan went on. There was a glint of a smile in his eyes. Whenever he laughed, he would slap his thigh and all those sitting around would smile too.
‘So, one day, Musa said to Khizr, “Make me your pupil” and Khizr replied “All right, I shall make you my pupil, but on one condition.”
“What is that?” asked Musa.
“That you will keep your mouth shut at whatever I do. You will not utter a word.”
“I agree,” replied Musa.
‘And so Khizr took him on as his pupil. Now Khizr wanted to impart to him an important lesson. What was that lesson? The lesson was: It is God Almighty alone who sees everything. It is not given to us humans to see everything. We may rack our brains and go into cause and effect but to no purpose. It is God who is all-seeing; it is God the Merciful who alone is omnipotent. And Khizr said, “You will not utter a word. I may do anything, say anything, and you will keep your mouth shut.”’
Karim Khan had passed on the hookah and Jilani was now puffing away at it. The afternoon was on the decline, the water-carrier had already sprinkled water on the ground in front of the shop, the odour of wet earth filled the air, the traffic on the road had eased, and only occasionally a man would be seen going towards the Jama Masjid for his afternoon prayer.
‘So, God bless you,’ continued Karim Khan. ‘The next day, Khizr set out on a journey to the next village, and Musa went along with him. Later on Musa became a great seer, a great prophet, but at that time he was only a pupil of Khizr. Now listen, Jilani. Are you listening? It is a very instructive story. So, both set out. On the way they came to a river. They found a boat tied to the river-bank, it was used by people to cross the river. Both sat down in the boat and the boatman began to row them across. After a little while Musa saw that Khizr was making a hole in the bottom of the boat It was a brand new boat, probably bought only the day before, and here was Khizr boring a hole in its bottom. He finished boring one hole and started drilling another. Musa cried out, “What in God’s name are you doing? The boat will sink and we shall both be drowned.”
‘Khizr put his forefinger to his lips making a sign to him to keep quiet. Musa was extremely nervous, because the boat was getting flooded with water, but he kept his peace, since he had given his word to Khizr. After some time Khizr put stoppers in each one of the holes he had made, but by then the bottom of the boat had been badly damaged. Reaching the other side, both of them stepped out of the boat and, God be praised, resumed their journey.
‘They had walked a little distance when they saw a little boy playing on the ground. As they passed by, Khizr picked up the boy and without a word, wrung his neck and strangled him to death. “What?” shrieked Musa. “You have put an innocent child to death!” But Khizr put his finger to his lips, ordering him to keep quite.
‘“How can I keep quiet?” shouted Musa. “You have twisted the neck of a little child, and you want me to keep quiet! You did not even know him. Never before have you set foot in this village. How had this innocent child offended you?” Musa was deeply troubled. In reality he too was a prophet, only a prophet in the making.’ Karim Khan said, shaking his head, ‘Now, God be praised, both of them again resumed their journey. After covering some distance, they passed through a village. On reaching the other end of the village they came across a dilapidated boundary wall. Musa jumped o
ver to the other side at one go, but as he turned round he saw Khizr standing by it, picking up the bricks lying on the ground, one by one, and putting them on the wall, as though repairing it.
‘Musa turned back. “Sir, you put to death the little boy who had merely opened his eyes on the world, and here you are, repairing an old, dilapidated wall. What is the matter? I can’t make head or tail of what you are doing.” Khizr again put his forefinger to his lips to indicate to Musa to keep quiet. Musa again fell silent.
‘They went further, on and on, till they came to a garden in which, under the shade of a big tree, bubbled a lovely spring. Both washed their hands and feet and sat down to rest. Khizr said:
‘“Listen, my dear. You had strongly protested when I bore holes into the bottom of that boat. Well, the fact of the matter is that the ruler of that village is a tyrant. For his own merry-making he takes away the boats of poor people. I thought if I made holes in the bottom of the boat, his men will not carry it away and the boatman will not be deprived of his livelihood.”
‘Musa was listening with rapt attention. “But why did you kill that innocent child?” he asked.
‘“Well,” Khizr said “That boy was a bastard, born of sin, the progeny of a cruel and wicked man. I could foresee that when he would grow up, he too would be a heartless, vicious man, a torment for innocent people. Now tell me, was my conduct right or wrong?”
‘Musa fell to thinking, his head bowed.
‘“Why did you repair that broken-down wall? For whose benefit did you do that?”
‘And Khizr’s reply was:
‘“There is an explanation to that also. Under that wall lies buried a treasure, a fabulous treasure. But the villagers know nothing about it. They are poor, needy people. I wanted to help them. While ploughing their fields when they will come upon the wall, they will find it an impediment, an obstacle in their way and will, one day, pull it down and throw the bricks out of their fields. They will then discover this treasure which will make them wealthy and prosperous. They will then have bread to eat and clothes to wear. Now tell me, how was I wrong in what I did?”’
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