Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  Lalaji heaved a sigh of relief and once again, with his hand tied behind his back began strolling up and down the room. Nanku too picked up the mosquito-net stick, went downstairs and sat down behind the door opening into the street.

  10

  As the day dawned, the town, as though stung by a cobra, bore a half-dead, half-alive appearance. The Grain Market was still burning; the fire-brigades of the municipality had long since given up fighting the fire. The smoke billowing from it continued to darken the sky, although during the night the sky had looked glowing red. Seventeen shops had been reduced to ashes.

  Shops all over the town were closed, except a shop here and there selling milk. Outside such shops stood small groups of people talking about the happenings of the previous night. Information about the killings was largely based on rumours. Residents of Gawalmandi said that many people had been killed in Ratta, while those in Ratta said that a lot of killing had taken place in the Committee Mohalla.

  At a road-crossing in Naya Mohalla lay the dead body of a horse. On the outskirts of the city, by the side of a road that led to the villages, the dead body of a middle-aged man had been found. Another dead body had been found in a graveyard on the western edge of the town. It was the dead body of an elderly Hindu in whose pocket some loose coins and a list of clothes required for some wedding had been found. A shoe shop on College Road and a tailoring shop adjoining it had been looted.

  Overnight, dividing lines had been drawn among the residential localities. No Muslim now dared go into a Hindu locality, nor a Hindu into a Muslim locality. Everyone was filled with fear and suspicion. At the entrance to the lanes and at road-crossings, small groups of people sat hidden from view, their faces half-covered, holding lances, knives and lathis in their hands. Wherever Hindu and Muslim neighbours stood together, their conversation contained one and only sentence repeated over and over again. ‘Very bad! What is happening is very bad!’ The conversation would come to a standstill there. The atmosphere had become heavy. Inwardly everyone knew that the crisis was not over, but no one knew what course the events would take.

  Doors of houses were shut tight. All business had come to a halt. All schools, colleges, offices were closed. A man walking in a street had the eerie feeling all the time that he was being watched from behind half-shut windows, from the dark entrances of houses, from crevices and peep-holes. People had shut themselves in. The only contact was through rumours. Those belonging to well-off families were preoccupied only with the question of their safety. In one day all public activity—the prabhat pheris, the constructive programmes and the like—had come to an end. Only the Jarnail, as was his wont, acting under his own compulsions, went along diverse roads and lanes and managed to reach the Congress office at the break of day, but seeing a big lock on the door waited for his comrades for a while, then climbed up the stone slab over the drain and began his speech:

  ‘Sahiban! I am sorry to say that since all the cowards are sitting in their houses like rats in their holes, we shall not be able to hold the prabhat pheri this morning. I would beg forgiveness of all of you and would appeal to you to maintain peace in the town at all costs. It is all the mischief of the British who make brother fight brother and shed his blood. Jai Hind!’ and alighting from the stone slab, marching in military style went out of sight in the darkness of a nearby lane.

  Ranvir did not return home that night, but Master Dev Vrat had managed to send word about his safety. That morning, Lalaji was still worried and did not know which way to turn when a blue-coloured Buick car stopped outside his house and the man who alighted from it was none other than Shah Nawaz himself. The tall, impressive-looking Shah Nawaz had come on his own. Though both of them knew each other well enough they were not on intimate terms. Within minutes of his arrival, the family—Lalaji, his wife and Vidya, their daughter—were seated in the car. Nanku alone had been left behind to guard the house.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep, Nanku. Be alert and guard the house. We are leaving the entire house in your charge,’ Lalaji had said.

  And the car sped away through the deserted streets in the direction of the cantonment. Here and there, stray individuals and groups standing by the roadside would turn round to look at them—Shah Nawaz, with his fair, shining face, a trusted friend among friends, a swanky tuft of his turban fluttering in the air, sat in the driver’s seat and Lala Lakshmi Narain sat by his side while the ladies were in the back seat. It was an act of courage to come out like this. Wherever Lalaji would notice a knot of persons standing by the roadside he would turn his face and look in another direction. His wife, on the other hand, sitting on the back seat was all praise for Shah Nawaz, showering blessings on him incessantly. ‘God lives in the hearts of people who help others in distress,’ she would say again and again.

  After dropping Lalaji and his family in the cantonment at a relative’s house, the Buick car again sped along the roads of the city. Shah Nawaz was now on his way to the house of his bosom friend, Raghu Nath. Shah Nawaz was not in the least worried about his own safety.

  The car went past the Jama Masjid in the direction of Mai Satto’s water tank. Drab, single-storeyed houses lined either side of the road; small dingy shops, their canvas awnings supported by bamboo dotted the road. The area bore a dilapidated look. It was a Muslim locality. After crossing a ramshackle bridge the car proceeded towards Syed Mohalla. Here the scene changed radically. Pucca double-storeyed houses with balconies and terraces, and here and there window panes of tinted glass, stood on both sides of the road. Mostly Hindu lawyers, contractors and businessmen lived here. Shah Nawaz was on friendly terms with many of them. As he drove, Shah Nawaz was quite conscious of the fact that many a curious pair of eyes was looking at him from behind windows and half-shut doors. But he was also confident that all those who saw him knew well enough the kind of man he was. Despite this, he accelerated the speed of the car.

  On reaching Mai Satto’s tank, he turned towards the right. He was now passing through a mixed locality. All sorts of people lived or worked here—there was a long row of shoe-makers’ shops who were all Sikhs hailing originally from Hoshiarpur and who specialized in making jooties. The shops were closed. A little beyond, stood a row of mud-houses, their walls covered with hundreds of dung-cakes. The locality wore a deserted look. A little farther, was the scavengers’ colony. Shah Nawaz had by then considerably slowed the speed of the car. It did not look like a riot-affected area. Two little children were chasing each other round an electric pole. Nearby was a group of urchins standing in a circle. Shah Nawaz could not help looking at them. Inside the circle lay a little girl on the ground, her shirt uplifted, and on her bare thighs sat a little boy who too had lifted up his shirt. The children around them were roaring with laughter. ‘Bastards!’ muttered Shah Nawaz, and laughed. ‘They couldn’t think of another game.’ This part of the town appeared to be free from tension.

  Looking at Shah Nawaz, a man with an imposing personality, a firm physique, elegantly dressed with polished shoes and a fluttering turra, one could not imagine that he could harbour any mean or petty thoughts. It was said about him that if on seeing a girl he smiled at her, the girl would smile back. But that was years ago. Now he was a staid, worldly-wise person, owner of two petrol pumps and a transport company whose cars and trucks plied in all directions, a dependable friend and a sociable, cheerful fellow.

  Loyalty to friends was an article of faith with him. When the trouble started he had gone to Raghu Nath’s house to find out how the family was faring. In close proximity to Raghu Nath’s house was the shop of a nanbai, Fakira by name.

  ‘Look Fakira,’ Shah Nawaz had said to him ‘Listen, with your ears open. If anyone dares look at my friend’s house with an evil eye, I shall catch hold of you and skin you alive. Nobody must go near this house.’

  The car was now speeding along one of the main roads. It was now a more open area, the road was broad and the houses on either side at a distance from the road. It was a Muslim locality
and the speed of the car was slow. Maula Dad was standing at the turn of the road, which led to Bhabarkhana. Behind him, on the projection of a shop sat five or six persons with lathis and lances in their hands, their faces half-covered. Maula Dad was, as usual, dressed in a queer costume—khaki breeches and a green silken kerchief round his neck. He stepped forward when he saw Shah Nawaz’s car approaching.

  ‘What news?’ Shah Nawaz asked applying brakes to his car.

  ‘What news should I give you, Khanji? The kafirs have done to death a poor Musalman in the mohalla at the back,’ Maula Dad said angrily, almost foaming at the mouth.

  Maula Dad’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘You go about hugging kafirs,’ he seemed to say, ‘and socialize with them while the Muslims are being butchered,’ but he did not say anything. Maula Dad knew well enough that he could not dream of having access to places which were within easy reach of Shah Nawaz. Shah Nawaz was on friendly terms even with the Deputy Commissioner of the town, whereas Maula Dad had not gone beyond the four walls of the Municipal Corporation.

  ‘We too have slaughtered five kafirs. Sons of…!’

  Shah Nawaz pretended not to have heard what Maula Dad said and started the car.

  Hardly had the car moved, when from a side-lane emerged a crowd of people heading towards the road. They were all walking silently, with their heads bowed, as they crossed the road. It was a funeral procession. At the head of it walked Hayat Baksh in his white shirt and salwar with a kulla (a skull cap worn under a turban) on his head. The soft patter of their feet appeared to be stroking the air. It must be the funeral of the Musalman who had been killed, thought Shah Nawaz. Behind the coffin walked two small boys, who, he guessed were the sons of the deceased.

  Passing through the gate, Shah Nawaz parked the car under a tree and swinging the key-ring in his hand, walked towards the bungalow. Raghu Nath’s wife was the first to see him from behind a curtained window and was overjoyed.

  Knocking at the door, Shah Nawaz shouted: ‘O karar! do you hear? Open the door!’

  Raghu Nath’s wife ran towards the bathroom: ‘Shah Nawaz is here! I shall attend to him. Don’t take too long!’ Shah Nawaz’s voice was again heard: ‘O Yabu (a jocular mode of address among friends), now that you have begun living in a bungalow, you don’t even open the door!’

  Raghu Nath’s wife opened the door.

  ‘Salaam Bhabhi, where is my yaar?’ he said and walked into the sitting room.

  ‘He is in the bathroom,’ she said and sat down in a chair near him.

  ‘How do you find it here, bhabhi? Any problem? You did the right thing, getting out of that place.’

  ‘It is all right here, but no place can be as good as one’s home. We don’t know if we shall ever be able to go back to our own house,’ she said and her eyes filled with tears.

  Shah Nawaz felt deeply touched.

  ‘If I am alive, I shall see you safely back into your house. Rest assured.’

  Raghu Nath’s wife did not observe purdah from Shah Nawaz. And Raghu Nath felt proud of the fact that his closest friend was a Muslim.

  ‘How is it that you always come alone, never bring Fatima with you?’

  ‘There is trouble in the city, bhabhi. You think I have come out on an excursion?’

  ‘She had only to sit in the car. If you can come, why can’t she?’

  Just then Raghu Nath appeared.

  ‘Come, yabu, here too you must go to the toilet every five minutes. You have come away to a safe place, kafir, and are still shitting all the time.’

  Both embraced each other. Shah Nawaz became sentimental. ‘I would rather lay down my life than see any harm come to him. If anyone dare so much as touch him, I shall skin him alive.’

  As bhabhi got up to go, Shah Nawaz stopped her. ‘Where are you going, bhabhi? I am not going to eat here.’

  ‘Janaki,’ said Raghu Nath to his wife. ‘This man will keep saying no. But you go and prepare the meal.’

  ‘You want me to eat bhindi, I don’t eat bhindi. Bhabhi, don’t cook anything for me.’

  But Janaki had left. Shah Nawaz shouted after her: ‘I am in a hurry, bhabhi. I have come only for a couple of minutes.’

  Janaki came back: ‘You may not take your lunch with us, but you can have some tea with snacks.’

  ‘I knew you were not very serious about lunch. But OK, let it be tea. I shall have tea.’

  As the friends sat down, Raghu Nath said in a sombre tone: ‘Things have taken a bad turn. One feels so bad. Brother killing brother.’

  But after saying this, Raghu Nath suddenly felt that his utterance had created some sort of a distance between them. Their mutual relationship had been on a different plane whereas the Hindu-Muslim relationship was a different matter. He had, by this utterance, unwittingly linked the two kinds of relationships, their personal relationship with that existing between the two communities, about which both of them had their own individual perceptions.

  ‘I am told the trouble is spreading to the villages too,’ Raghu Nath said.

  There was little scope for further conversation on this issue. Both felt awkward and embarrassed. It cast a pall over their informal, friendly dialogue.

  ‘Come off it, yabu, talk about yourself,’ said Shah Nawaz, changing the subject. ‘Do you know whom I met yesterday? I met Bhim, of all the people.’

  ‘Which Bhim are you talking about?’ Raghu Nath asked and both of them burst out laughing. Bhim had been their classmate during school days, the son of a very junior postal official but who would always introduce himself by his father’s designation. That was why all his friends used to make fun of him.

  ‘The rascal has been living in this very town for the last two years and hasn’t even bothered to meet us,’ Shah Nawaz said and again started laughing, clapping his hands. ‘I recognized him at once from a distance and I shouted, Deputy Assistant Postmaster sahib!” The fellow stood stock-still! But when he recognized me he met me very warmly.’

  Bhabhi had brought in tea.

  ‘I have a favour to ask, Khanji,’ she said, putting down the tray.

  Both of them felt relieved on bhabhi’s arrival. It was awkward for them to talk about the riots, yet in the kind of atmosphere that prevailed, to talk about childhood pranks and jokes also sounded hollow.

  ‘Yes, bhabhi, what can I do for you?’

  ‘If it is not inconvenient… if it is not going out of your way…’

  ‘Why are you hesitating, bhabhi, tell me.’

  ‘There is a box of jewellery lying in the house. It contains all our family ornaments. When we left the house, we couldn’t bring anything except a few articles of use.’

  ‘That is no problem. Where is the box lying?’

  ‘It is in our small luggage room on the mezzanine floor.’

  Shah Nawaz knew every nook and corner of their house.

  ‘But the room must be locked.’

  ‘I shall give you the keys and also explain to you where exactly the box is kept.’

  ‘No problem. I can bring it to you even today.’

  ‘Milkhi, our servant is there. He will open the lock for you.’

  ‘Milkhi is very much there, I know. I went there this morning on my round. I keep pulling him up.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He has the whole house to himself, bhabhi. He must be cooking for himself in the kitchen.’

  ‘The provisions in the house are enough to last him a year,’ Raghu Nath’s wife said. ‘Then, shall I get you the keys?’

  Shah Nawaz felt elated at the thought that so much trust was reposed in him, that bhabhi was handing over keys for jewellery worth thousands of rupees, that she regarded him as one of their own.

  Janaki came in, the bunch of keys jingling in her hand.

  ‘What if I decamp with all the jewellery, bhabhi?’

  ‘Even if you throw away the box, Khanji, I shall say, “Forget it! “’

  She picked out the right key and explained at length the exact locati
on of the box.

  A little while later, Shah Nawaz got up to leave. Both the friends stepped out of the house together and stood by the car.

  ‘I have no words to thank you, Shah Nawaz. You have done for me what no one else would have done.’

  This was a spontaneous expression of gratitude straight from the heart.

  ‘Shut up, karar!’ Shah Nawaz retorted. ‘Go back in and sit on the shit-pot,’ and opening the door of the car, got in.

  Raghu Nath stood where he was, overwhelmed and somewhat nonplussed.

  ‘Go in, go back to the house, don’t bore me.’

  Deeply moved, Raghu Nath put out his hand for a handshake.

  ‘Go in, go in, I can’t dirty my hand! Talk to someone who knows you! Why are you eating up my brain? I have seen many like you,’ he said, speaking in the bantering language of their boyhood days, and started the car.

  It was late in the afternoon when Shah Nawaz arrived at Raghu Nath’s ancestral house to get the jewellery box.

  Milkhi took time to open the door.

  ‘Who is it, kind sir?’

  ‘Open the door. It is Shah Nawaz.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Open the door. It is Shah Nawaz.’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, Khanji! Just a minute, Khanji! The door is locked from inside, I shall run and get the key, Khanji. It is lying on top of the fireplace.’

  As Shah Nawaz turned round, he saw, across the road, Feroz Khan, the hide-seller, standing like a statue, on the projection of his godown, staring hard at him. Shah Nawaz looked away. But it seemed to him that Feroz was still looking at him with intense hatred in his eyes, which seemed to say: ‘Even today you are kneeling at the door of the kafirs.’

  A tonga passed by. Maula Dad in his queer costume of khaki breeches and a fluttering green scarf was making a round of Muslim localities in an open tonga. He laughed as his eyes fell on Shah Nawaz and waving his right arm longer than necessary, shouted: ‘Salaam-e-leiqum!’

  Shah Nawaz felt embarrassed. He felt angry at the servant who was taking so long to open the door.