Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  Having narrated the parable, Karim Khan turned his eyes towards his listeners, one after the other and said, ‘The moral of the story is: a ruler can see what you and I, ordinary folk, cannot see. The British ruler has all-seeing eyes, otherwise how can it be possible that a handful of firanghis coming from across the seven seas should rule over so big a country? The firanghis are very wise, very subtle, very far-sighted…’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ said many of the listeners, nodding their heads.

  Nathu too was sitting at the nanbai’s shop, a glass of tea before him and in his hand a piece of dry rusk, which he would dip into his tea and nibble at, bit by bit. He too had been listening to Karim Khan’s story and it gave him a sense of reassurance. Ever since he had come out of that despicable hole, he had been wandering from one street to the other. He would prick up his ears every time he heard people talking about the pig. Sometimes he would think that people were talking about some other pig, and not the one he had killed. Nevertheless his heart would miss a beat. In the nanbai’s shop too, they had earlier been talking about the pig. But the narration of the elderly gentleman had given him considerable relief. If a riot did not break out, the incident would begin to look trivial. Since the ruler was far-sighted and alert, nothing untoward would happen.

  Nathu again put his hand on his pocket to feel the currency note lying in it. The crisp note rustled. That pleased him. It was nice of Murad Ali to have paid the entire amount in advance. Even if he had put an eight-anna piece on the palm of his hand, saying that the rest would be paid later, he couldn’t have refused, the poor skinner that he was. Since Murad Ali had been a man of his word, he too was expected to stand by him. But he had run away from that filthy hole; unmindful of Murad Ali’s clear instructions that he should wait for him there. But it was so suffocating in that room. On reaching the town, however, when he found everyone talking about the pig his heart sank.

  Nathu had been feeling extremely restless. The more nervous he became, the more confused he felt. He could not talk to anyone. He had been tricked. Using the veterinary surgeon as an alibi, Murad Ali had got the pig slaughtered by him, and got it thrown outside the mosque. But who could tell if it was the same pig? He had not seen the carcass on the steps of the mosque. What if people came to know that he was the man who had killed the pig? At times he wanted to go home and shut himself in. At others he felt like just knocking about the streets, from one lane to the other. There were other thoughts too that oppressed him. No, he wouldn’t go home. When night fell, he would go to Motia, the prostitute. If she asked for one rupee, he would pay her five. He would pass the whole night with her.

  The whole day passed thus, wandering about the streets, but when evening fell he suddenly began to miss his wife. Had he been in his colony he would have been sitting and chatting with his fellow-skinners, smoking his hookah. ‘No I shall go home’ he suddenly said to himself. ‘I’ll bathe, change my shirt, make my wife sit by my side and talk to her. As soon as I reach home I shall take her in my arms, I won’t even mention the name of Murad Ali; it is not necessary to tell her anything; no need to talk about that hateful business. It is only when I rest my head on her bosom that I shall have peace of mind. If I go to a prostitute, she will talk nastily, even abuse me. My wife is a quiet kind, she will give me comfort and courage. Instead of wasting money on the prostitute I will buy something for my wife. She will be pleased. She will say, “Why did you have to bring anything for me? I have everything.” She never makes any demands.’ He felt the warmth of her body in his close embrace, despite the distance that lay between them. He felt as though his mental anguish was ebbing out. It is only to one’s wife that one turns in moments of pain; she alone can relieve him of his mental suffering. She is blessed with infinite patience, her bosom is brimming with love.

  It was smoky inside the nanbai’s shop. On the two benches lying outside, sat two load-carriers cross-legged on each bench eating their meal out of tin-plates. Dipping their morsels of naan into the plate of lentils they ate hungrily. The water-carrier was again sprinkling the road.

  Suddenly the sound of a drum-beat was heard from far away. The porters turned their heads towards the sound. The drum was heard closer now. People sitting inside the nanbai’s shop fell silent; some of them came out.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some announcement, it seems,’ someone answered. Soon enough, a tonga appeared with the tricolour fluttering on its top. Someone sitting inside was beating away at the drum. The tonga came and stopped right in front of the nanbai’s shop. A man, sitting by the side of the tonga-driver, stood up. He began to make the announcement by first reciting a couplet, the purport of which was:

  ‘Pray, think for once of your country. Calamity is knocking at your door, and confabulations are going on high above, plotting to bring about your ruin.

  ‘Fellow countrymen, this is to inform you that a public meeting, under the auspices of the District Congress Committee will take place this evening at six o’clock sharp, in Ganj Mandi, in which the efforts of the British rulers to disrupt India’s struggle for freedom through their perfidious policy of divide and rule will be fully exposed, and a fervent appeal will be made to all the citizens to preserve peace and tranquillity in the city at all costs. Citizens are requested to attend the meeting in large numbers.’

  On the back seat of the tonga sat the Jarnail with a big drum between his knees. It was Shankar who had stood up to make the announcement. He sat down in his seat. The drum-beat was resumed and the tonga moved away.

  As the tonga left, one coolie said to the other, ‘I was carrying a babu’s load from the Ganj Mandi when the babu said, “Azadi is coming. India will soon be free.” I laughed and said, “Babuji, what is that to me? I am carrying loads now and shall continue carrying them then.”’ And he burst out laughing, revealing the bright-red gums over his teeth. ‘Our lot is to carry loads,’ he repeated laughing.

  An elderly man with a beard, sitting inside the shop said, ‘Has that rascal been arrested or not who defiled the mosque? The swine! May his body be eaten up by worms, limb by limb.’

  ‘What happened was awful!’

  At this Karim Khan, the jolly old man with a twinkle in his eyes, said solemnly, ‘It is said in the Holy Book, “Man’s crops are standing by my orders; all man’s schemes work by my orders; without my command, standing crops shall wilt and perish, floods shall inundate the lands, causing havoc to city after city.” Everything is in God’s hands. Every task is accomplished by His divine will. His and His alone will be done.’

  People sitting around nodded their heads. The hookah continued to do its rounds. Outside the shop, one of the two coolies burst into song:

  O why are you bending so low.

  To stare at the folds of my salwar!

  It was the same coolie who, a little while earlier, had been laughing and reproducing the dialogue he had had with the babu.

  Nathu envied the man for his carefree, happy-go-lucky temperament.

  There were again some stirrings on the road. Pedestrians on their way stopped and stepped aside, their eyes turned towards the Jama Masjid nearby.

  ‘The Pir of Golra Sharif is here!’ Someone standing by the roadside said to the nanbai, and putting his hand on his heart waited for the Pir Sahib.

  The nanbai too stood up. All those sitting inside the shop came out and devoutly stood waiting for the Pir Sahib’s arrival.

  A tall, bearded man appeared. He was dressed in a long, black robe and had numerous necklaces of large beads round his neck. His long, flowing hair fell on the nape of his neck from under his turban. He had a bright, pious face and in his hand was a rosary. He was surrounded by a band of devoted followers.

  The nanbai went and stood in the middle of the road, his head bent and his hands on his thighs. As the Pir put out his left hand, the nanbai touched both his eyes to it one by one, and then putting his right hand on his heart continued to stand with his head bowed. The Pir raised his hand a li
ttle, and without uttering a word moved on. Almost everyone standing by the roadside went up to him, put the Pir’s hand to his eyes and received his blessing.

  ‘He is not a pir, he is a sage!’ said the nanbai coming back into his shop. ‘What radiance! What a glowing forehead!’

  Among the customers, some came back into the shop, while some others left for their homes. The Pir Sahib was now the topic of discussion inside the shop.

  ‘He is a pir with very high spiritual attainments. He can read a person’s mind merely by looking at him,’ the nanbai said. Then, turning towards those who were sitting inside the shop, said, ‘I once went on a pilgrimage to Golra Sharif. As I stood in his holy presence, he said to me, “Pick up some grains from that heap. What are you looking at me for?” From the heap of grains that lay on the ground in front of him, I bent down and picked up a handful, at which the Pir Sahib remarked, “Is that all? Only a hundred and seventy grains? You could have picked up more.” Amazed, I sat down and counted them. Not a grain more, not a grain less than a hundred and seventy.’

  ‘He can cure any disease,’ remarked Karim Khan. ‘My grandson, now a grown-up lad by God’s grace, when only a small child, developed mumps. Both his cheeks were swollen. Someone advised me to take the child to Golra Sharif, and so I did. As I stood in his presence, the Pir Sahib asked me to put down the child before him. He picked up a big knife lying by his side and touched the child’s cheeks twice with it. Then, putting his right hand to his mouth, he spat on it, and smeared the sputum on the child’s cheeks. Just that, and asked me to take away the child. I made my obeisance and left. By the time we reached home the swelling had subsided and the child’s fever was gone.’

  ‘Holy men are blessed with healing powers. Near here, in Masiadi, there is a Baba Roda—the bald sadhu—he too has the healing touch.’

  ‘But the Pir Sahib does not touch kafirs with his hands. He hates infidels. Earlier, it was different. Anyone could go to him. Only, if an infidel came for treatment, he would feel his pulse with a stick—putting one end of the stick on his pulse and the other to his ear, and thus diagnose the disease. But now he does not permit any kafir to come near him.’

  ‘It is surprising how he has come to the town at this time of the year. Usually he comes in late summer.’

  ‘What difference does it make to holy men whether it is summer or winter.’

  ‘It may be that the news about the defiling of the mosque has reached him.’

  ‘He needs no telling. He must have come to know of it, on his own, intuitively.’

  ‘It is the holy man’s goodwill that is of paramount importance. Otherwise a pir-fakir has only to pronounce a curse and a whole city will be in ruins, reduced to dust!’

  ‘True! Very true!’

  ‘Will he deliver a sermon while he is here?’

  ‘He will certainly do so, if he stays on till Friday.’

  ‘Now that he has come, he will not go back without purging the city clean.’

  Shades of the afternoon were lengthening when Nathu left the nanbai’s shop. He felt light at heart. The apprehensions that had been gnawing at his heart had almost subsided. There was a lot of bustle and gaiety on the roads. Why should he allow that petty incident to torment him so much? People would curse the fellow who had put the carcass on the steps of the mosque and then dismiss it from their minds, calling the fellow a mad man. Besides, no one seemed to know how the pig was killed and by whom. Murad Ali was the only one who knew about it, and he, being a Muslim, would not tell anyone that he had got the heinous deed done.

  Nathu was intrigued by the surrounding scene. Outside a small shoe-shop, a man from a village was persuading his wife to buy a new pair of shoes for herself. ‘Why don’t you buy it? You don’t have an extra pair and the one you are wearing is worn-out.’

  ‘No, no, it is you who needs a good pair of shoes. You have to do so much of running about. Mine is serving me well still.’

  Nathu moved on. He felt good. He crossed the road and turned towards the right, and began walking at a leisurely pace. He passed by another row of nanbais’ shops. Spicy aromas arose from huge metal pots of cooked meat and the piles of naans heaped one on top of another. Nanbais’ shops were bursting with customers most of them coolies or families from surrounding villages who would come to these eating shops, tired and hungry after the day’s work. That particular bazaar was located at one end of the town, from where the villagers, after satisfying their hunger, would get on to their bullock-carts and set off on the long road towards their respective villages.

  Behind the row of nanbais’ shops, stood the imposing Jama Masjid. In the declining afternoon sun, it looked milky white as though newly washed. The mosque presented the familiar, everyday scene, with beggars sitting on the steps, labourers reclining or lying about and devotees going in or coming out. Suddenly Nathu saw a crowd of people coming out of its vaulted entrance. Everyone was picking up or puting on his pair of shoes and hurriedly coming down the steps. Nathu just stood and watched. It was only on rare occasions, such as Id, that people in such large numbers would be seen emerging from the mosque. Was there some sermon? Suddenly the Pir of Golra Sharif came to his mind. It may be that he had delivered the sermon and people were returning from it. His heart missed a beat. Perhaps all these hundreds of people had gathered to discuss the awful deed committed by him. The Pir too must have come to deliver a sermon concerning that deed.

  Nathu walked past the Jama Masjid. At the farther end of the building was a ditch. All the dirty water of the town flowed into it and was carried out of the city. Nathu came and stood against the railing of the ditch. As he looked down, his eyes fell on a man of dark complexion lying utterly naked on a narrow ledge below the railing, with a talisman round his neck. A tin-box was hanging by a nail driven into the wall above him. The ledge was so narrow that if the man turned his side while asleep, he would surely fall into the ditch. Nathu thought that for all he knew, this man too might be a fakir of high spiritual attainments. He gazed at him intently.

  Suddenly the fakir sat up, stared at him and began shaking his head violently, as a man who is crazy or in a trance does.

  Nathu turned away and began looking towards the bazaar. After a while when he looked back, the man was no longer shaking his head; instead, he was beckoning him with his forefinger. Nathu felt confused. He was afraid lest the fakir should cast a magic spell on him or pronounce a curse. He took out a one-anna coin from his pocket and threw it in front of the fakir. The latter picked it up and threw it into the ditch, and staring hard at Nathu, again beckoned him. Nathu trembled with fear and left the place.

  The Bara Bazaar, the main market of the town, bore a festive look. At the two shops of aerated water, which stood side by side and were decked with long rows of coloured bottles, sat the neatly dressed shopkeepers, filling glass after glass with lemon squash and passing them on to customers. Those who sold flower-garlands on the pavement, had already arrived. Close to the aerated water shops were stalls selling meat cutlets and kababs. Round the corner was the prostitutes’ lane with a wine-shop in front. Nathu stood undecided by the roadside.

  By the roadside, stood a few tongas with shining well-polished harnesses and feather-plumes fluttering on the heads of horses, lending a festive air to the atmosphere. Now and then a tonga would stop in the middle of the road, with some wealthy landlord sitting inside chatting with a couple of friends, all of them in their well-starched clothes and turbans.

  Nathu again felt reassured and relaxed and continued strolling about. People had come out to have a good time. As evening fell, the fun and gaiety increased. And Nathu, elated, went straight to the stall of meat kababs and bought eight-annas worth of kababs. Then walking over to the wine-shop, he settled down on a bench outside. He ate the kababs with zest and then put the glass of country wine to his lips.

  The street lights went up. The odour of wet earth from the sprinkling of water blended with the smell of flowers and Nathu felt inebriated. He
did not remember when he had bought a garland of flowers and put it round his neck. He even did not remember that after getting up from the wine-shop he had crossed the wide Raja Bazaar Road and gone into the prostitutes’ lane.

  It was then that he saw Murad Ali coming towards him. It was Murad Ali, wasn’t it?—In his long coat coming down to his knees, his thin cane-stick, his bristling black moustaches—the short, stoutish figure of Murad Ali. Or was he dreaming? Like an apparition Murad Ali moved from street to street, swinging his cane-stick. Did a man, with the name of Murad Ali really exist or was he a figment of his imagination? No, no, it was really Murad Ali, coming from the side of the Grain Market, by way of the lane. Had Nathu not been a little high, he would have hidden behind the projection of some house. But Nathu was in high spirits. He came and stood right in the middle of the street. He had not had much to drink. For a low-caste skinner, two tumblers of wine are like water. It was only that after having knocked about the whole day, he had seen someone he knew, to whom he could talk. Of a sudden, Nathu felt elated and confident. ‘Whatever job we take up, we do it to perfection!’ he mumbled to himself.

  ‘Salaam huzoor!’

  Nathu stepped forward and greeted him jovially.

  ‘Salaam huzoor!’ he said again, standing erect, with his chest out.

  Murad Ali, taken aback, stopped in his steps, but only for a moment. Looking at Nathu with his sharp, piercing eyes, he grasped the situation and without acknowledging Nathu’s greetings or uttering a word, moved on.

  ‘Salaam huzoor! I am Nathu. Don’t you recognize me?’ Nathu said and laughed.

  By then, Murad Ali had moved ahead.

  Confused, Nathu stood in the middle of the street and again shouted: ‘Huzoor! Murad Ali Sahib!’

  But Murad Ali did not stop or turn round.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to Nathu: ‘Murad Ali must know that I have done the job. He must not be under any misapprehension. He must not think that I am loitering about without doing the job.’