The small woodchopper at that time was adding lustre to the arsenal of the Youth League. It was lying on the window-sill along with the arrow-heads tidily arranged by Ranvir.
‘It is such a disorderly house. Where shall I look for it now?’ Lalaji grumbled again. He called over the servant and asked him: ‘Have you seen the woodchopper?’
‘It was somewhere in the house, Lalaji, but I have not seen it recently.’
‘If it was in the house, then, has it suddenly sprouted wings and flown away? Are you trying to fool me? Where has it disappeared?’
‘Honest to God, I do not know, Lalaji,’ Nanku said, standing in the doorway.
That very morning, out of anxiety for the safety of the Hindus, Lalaji had made a strong exhortation at the meeting held to discuss the deteriorating situation in the town. ‘It is imperative that we train our young men to wield a lathi. This cannot brook delay. And for this work I hereby donate five hundred rupees.’ Encouraged by his sense of concern, other members too had come forth and within a few minutes no less than two-thousand-five-hundred rupees had been collected. At that time he was hell-bent on confronting the enemy and had no thought of his own safety.
In reality, he was quite safe too. He was a man of means and lived in a spacious house, and was, besides, a prominent citizen. Who would lift his hand against a man of means? Muslim families lived in his immediate neighbourhood, but most of them belonged to the lower strata of society. Besides, being a businessman he had dealings with many Muslim traders and was on cordial terms with them. What was there to be afraid of?
But now, with the fire raging in the Grain Market, the situation had radically changed and his heart sank within him as he thought of it.
‘Are you listening? It seems our darling son has taken away the woodchopper and given it to the Youth League.’
‘How does it concern me? It is between you and your son. You have always regarded me as a know-nothing. Why should I meddle in your affairs?’
‘Did he tell you where he was going before he left?’
‘Who?’
‘What do you mean who? Ranvir, of course, who else?’
‘He didn’t say anything to me. It is to your speeches and sermons that he keeps listening, day in and day out. How should I know where he has gone? On a dreadful night like this, the boy is not at home.’
With an angry wave of his hand, Lalaji went back into the room. But what was the point—the woodchopper was not there. He picked up the four long sticks of the mosquito net standing in a corner of the room and came out. He gave one of the sticks to Nanku, the servant.
‘Now go downstairs and sit by the front door, holding this stick in your hand.’
He put the second stick against the wall near the bedstead on which sat his wife and their grown-up daughter. He held the third one in his own hand. But soon enough he felt rather odd holding the stick and put it back against the wall. Thereafter he went towards the staircase which led up to the family lavatory on the roof.
In the earlier riot too, the Grain Market had been set on fire. But there had been no killing then. This time the atmosphere was more tense and full of hatred.
The fire was spreading. Nearly half the sky had already turned copper-red with its glow. Down below, near the horizon, it rose in whirls, flames leapt up, curling like tongues of monstrous snakes towards the sky. The fire was spreading north. The scene reminded one of the Dussehra festival when Lanka was in flames and the fire enveloped the effigy of Ravana. Now and then a cloud of red dust would rise upward, turn into red smoke and disperse in the sky. The stars had lost their lustre. A little above the horizon the sky was burnished red, but above it a certain pallor blending with it gave it a pale-red colour.
Coming out of the lavatory, Lalaji stood at the parapet of his double-storeyed house. Against the background of the glowing sky, the sprawling clusters of flat-roofed single-storeyed houses spread far into the distance, looked like a picture in relief. On the roofs of neighbouring houses and even beyond, stood men and women and children, looking towards the Grain Market. Lalaji’s godown was located in a lane close to the Burra Bazaar, at some distance north-west of the Grain Market. He was somewhat relieved to find that the fire had not as yet spread in that direction.
From behind the parapet wall, as Lalaji viewed the scene his eyes fell on three men standing on the roof of the neighbouring house looking towards the raging fire. They were none other than Fateh Din, his younger brother and their elderly father. Fateh Din turned his head and saw Lalaji standing behind the parapet wall. ‘Hell-fire has broken loose, Lalaji! How terrible!’ Lalaji did not answer, and Fateh Din added in a reassuring tone: ‘Have no fear, Lalaji. No one will dare look with an evil eye towards your house. He will have to settle with us before he raises his hand against you.’
‘Of course, of course!’ Lalaji said. ‘A neighbour is like one’s right hand. I am fortunate to have neighbours like you.’
‘Have no fear! It is hooligans who create trouble and harass decent people. All of us have to live in the same town after all, so why should there be any conflict? What do you say, Lalaji?’
‘Of course, of course!’ said Lalaji.
Lalaji trusted Fateh Din’s words and yet did not trust them. For the last twenty years that he had been living in that house, not once had he had any complaint. Yet the fact remained that they were Muslims. As things stood he had little reason to feel unsafe. If anyone set fire to his house, the fire would spread and engulf the entire mohalla of Muslim houses. Besides, that very morning a person no less than the president of the Muslim League, Hayat Baksh, had assured him that so long as he was around, none dare do any harm to him. As for his godown, there was little to worry either. The entire lot of goods was insured. Even so the situation could worsen any time and the Muslims could not be trusted.
It was primarily about Ranvir that Lalaji was worried. Ranvir had chosen to be away from home on such a dreadful night. Being of an impetuous nature the boy might land himself into trouble. Most likely, Master Dev Vrat would keep him back at his place. One of Ranvir’s friends too had told him that evening that all the boys were with Masterji. Yet who could tell, the boy might turn his steps towards the Grain Market.
It was then that the sound of the alarm bell fell on his ears. It came as a reassuring sound for him. He had strongly proposed at the meeting that the old bell should be repaired and a new rope attached to it, and he was happy that his proposal had been implemented. But at the same time the sound of the alarm bell appeared to be too feeble to be of much use against the raging fire.
‘On one side the alarm bell is ringing and on the other, the Grain Market is being gutted down. It will be the undoing of the Hindus,’ Lalaji muttered as he strolled up and down, with his hands joined behind his back. Each time he thought of his daughter in the house, his heart would skip a beat. ‘If the trouble worsens, how will I cope with the situation? And Ranvir is loitering about God knows where. An unruly boy who doesn’t listen to anyone, always harping on social service, service to the nation. What social service can a fellow do who has no thought of his parents?’ At times he would imagine Ranvir heading towards the Grain Market where the fires were raging and the thought would send a shiver down his spine. ‘Other people too have sons who go to learn to wield a lathi. But they don’t loiter about the streets at a time like this. Thinks he is a great hero, or something.’ Lalaji was angry with himself too. At the meetings while others keep their counsels to themselves and do not utter a word, I go on babbling. They made me part with no less than five hundred rupees, whereas no one else donated more than a hundred rupees. If any untoward thing happens to me, none of those good-for-nothings will come to my help. And here I am, like a forsaken man doomed in a Muslim locality.’
Standing behind the parapet wall Lalaji looked below. It was very dark there. Near the railing, both mother and daughter were sitting on a cot, close to each other. His wife was asking their daughter to pray. ‘Recite the Gayatri Man
tra, child. Pray.’ And their daughter putting her clasped hands in her lap had begun to recite the holy Gayatri Mantra.
From the roof Lalaji asked in a low voice: ‘Are you listening, Ranvir’s mother? Has Ranvir come?’
‘No, he has not.’
‘Speak in low tones. Can’t you speak in low tones?’
Lalaji again began pacing the roof. He would try to reassure himself again and again, ‘If they set fire to my house, the entire lane will be gutted.’ But at last he could not hold out any longer and came down.
On coming down, however, he felt differently: ‘Why are you sitting so glumly, Ranvir’s mother? What is there to be nervous about? Have courage. Buck up!’
Lalaji’s wife remained silent. She was of course anxious about Ranvir. ‘He is telling me to buck up, whereas he himself has been to the lavatory three times.’
Lalaji moved away from the railing—and went towards his room.
A little later Lalaji’s wife became somewhat suspicious. ‘Vidya, go and see why your father has gone into his room.’
Vidya went and found Lalaji changing his clothes, he had taken off his small dhoti and was putting on his pajamas.
‘He is getting ready to go out.’ Vidya came back and told her mother.
‘O Lord, no one can tell what your father may be up to,’ and getting down from the cot went straight to her husband’s room: ‘You will see me dead if you step out of the house.’
‘What? Shall I keep sitting at home feeling helpless? I must find out where the boy is.’
‘And you will leave your grown-up daughter in my care on a night like this?’ she said nervously.
‘My son has gone out of the house. Should I, like a woman, put on bangles and sit at home?’
‘He is not your son alone, he is my son too. Where will you go looking for him? The school is long since closed. He is a sensible boy, he must have stayed back somewhere. One of his friends too had told us that all the boys were at Masterji’s house. How many times did I tell you that you should not try to make a Hindu warrior out of your son; that he should devote his time to study, play games, eat well and become a strong boy. But you wouldn’t listen. You insisted on his taking part in drills and exercises and lathi-wielding, knowing fully well that we were destined to live our whole life in a Muslim city. To live in the ocean and make an enemy of crocodiles, who will call it wise? You are seeing the result now…’
‘Don’t keep lecturing me all the time. What is wrong with him being in the Youth League? One must do some work for the country and society.’
‘Then work for the country and society and face the consequences. But on a night like this, I won’t let you go out, whatever you may say.’
Lalaji gave up the idea of going out of the house. He had not expected that the riot would take such a fierce turn. He hated the Muslims, and he was sure that the British authority would keep them under control.
His wife was saying: ‘Other people make it a point to be on the right side of government officers, they socialize with their neighbours, whether Hindus or Muslims. Look at your own in-laws, their Muslim friends keep walking in and out of their house all the time, whereas you have not cultivated anyone, neither officers nor neighbours.’
The fact of the matter was that he too had been thinking on these very lines. His wife had, as it were, taken the words out of his mouth. Their in-laws were certainly on very cordial terms with some Muslims, with Shah Nawaz, for instance, who was a very influential person, ran a transport company and a petrol pump. They even ate together. Why not get in touch with Shah Nawaz and with his help get away with our daughter to a safer place, even for a few days, say to the cantonment area? But how to go about it?
Somewhere far away slogans were being raised. The sound of ‘Allah-O-Akbar!’ came again and again. Soon the same slogan began to be raised in the near vicinity, and to Lalaji’s consternation, began to be repeated from the roofs of neighbouring houses too! The whole atmosphere resounded with slogans. From the side of the Shivala temple the Hindu slogan: ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ was also heard occasionally, but it was not repeated anywhere in Lalaji’s neighbourhood. It made Lalaji shiver with apprehension.
‘Tell Nanku to come upstairs,’ Lalaji said to his wife.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘Don’t question everything I say. Just call him. I want him to carry a letter from me.’
Dumbfounded, she stared at her husband’s face.
‘At this time of the night? Where do you want to send him?’ She thought that he wanted to send Nanku in search of Ranvir.
‘Where will he go looking for Ranvir? We have had word that the boy is with Masterji. Why should you be so nervous? Have faith in God and wait patiently till morning.’
‘I am not sending him to look for Ranvir; it is some other work.’
‘Listen, my good sir, why do you want to send this poor man anywhere at this time of the night when hell has broken loose? He does not know anybody, nor does anyone know him.’
‘Why must you oppose whatever I say? We have young Vidya on our hands. It is not advisable that we should continue to stay here. I want him to take a letter to the in-laws. I want them to ask their friend Shah Nawaz to take us out of here.’
The wife pondered for a while and then said, ‘This work too can wait till morning. This is not the time for it. Do you think, on getting your letter, our in-laws will go running to Shah Nawaz’s house to seek his help? What are you saying?’
But Lalaji would not budge.
‘Once an idea gets stuck in his head, it’s impossible to make him change his mind,’ she muttered to herself.
‘How do you know he will take your letter to the right place? He is such an idiot.’
‘Why not, he has to. What are we keeping him for, otherwise? He has only to cross a few lanes and he will be at their house in no time.’
‘Why must you be so adamant? Even if we have to move out of this place, it cannot be done before morning. Of what use is it to write to anyone at this time? You will only embarrass the in-laws.’ Lalaji paused a little as though undecided. ‘No,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We must leave this house this very night.’
‘Why should you be so worried? Are you afraid of the neighbours? I am not. Pray to God and relax,’ said his wife and thereafter did not utter a word.
At the thought of their grown-up daughter, the mother too lost her equanimity of mind. ‘Maybe he is right, maybe we should get away from here without any loss of time. There must be some good reason why he has become so restless. If anything untoward happens, where shall we conceal our daughter?’
‘Tell Nanku to take one of the sticks of the mosquito net with him,’ said Lalaji, expressing his sense of concern for Nanku’s safety.
Handing the letter to Nanku, Lalaji gave him detailed instructions: ‘If you find that there is trouble anywhere along the way, avoid that route and get into some by-lane. Try to take the Gurkha chowkidar from the temple with you. But the letter must be delivered. Understand? Now, go.’
But before Nanku left, Lalaji’s wife again protested, greatly perturbed: ‘I would again beseech you, wait patiently till morning. Leave yourself in God’s hands. We shall see what can be done tomorrow. Nanku too is the son of some mother. Don’t push him into the jaws of death.’
‘No, no, nothing will happen to him. He is not a weakling.’
Just then the sound of running footsteps was heard from the sidelane. The sound became louder as the footsteps drew near. On that night every sound seemed abnormally loud. It struck the ears as well as the heart. Someone was running for his life.
Lalaji stopped in his steps. He suddenly felt weak in the legs. His heart began to throb violently. Are these Ranvir’s footsteps? Is it Ranvir running back home?
But how can anyone make out by merely listening to the sound of running footsteps?
Suddenly, the sound of another pair of running feet was heard. It seemed someone, having turned the corner and comin
g into the lane, was chasing the person who was trying to run away.
Then suddenly, a cry was heard, piercing the darkness of the night, ‘Bachao! Bachao!’
The sound of running feet, not of one but of two persons, coming from the back part of the lane was heard by both the mother and the daughter sitting on the cot. It was also heard by those standing on the roofs of nearby houses.
‘Help! Help! Help!’
The terror-stricken voice was heard again. It was a shrill voice of some desperate, terribly frightened person. It was impossible to make out if it was Ranvir’s voice. The voice of frightened people, running for their lives and crying for help has the same tenor.
Then came the sound of some object being thrown—either a stick or a stone, which hit the nearby wall and making a loud, pattering sound fell on the ground.
‘Get him! Catch hold of him! Kill him!’
Then the person who had been shouting for help seemed to have gone out of the lane for the patter of his running feet suddenly grew faint and distant while that of his pursuers grew louder.
Was the object thrown on Ranvir? Has he escaped unhurt? Has Ranvir reached home safe? Then, any moment, there should be a knock on the door.
The pursuing feet too had gone out of the lane. Lalaji’s heart was pounding while his ears were glued to the door down below, opening into the street.
But there was no knock on the door.
Lalaji felt somewhat relieved and his limp feet came back to life. He walked over to the balcony to see if he could make out who the pursuers were and who the pursued. But the road was empty. Across the road, on the roof of the mud-house, stood men, women and children, motionless as statues. They too must have heard the sound of running feet.
Then three persons emerged from the lane opposite and crossed the road. Their faces were half-covered and they had lathis in their hands, and they were all breathless.
‘The Sikh has escaped. If he had not started running, we wouldn’t have chased him,’ one of them was saying.
They re-entered the sidelane and the sound of their footsteps gradually receded into the distance.
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