Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  Two persons, one behind the other, entered the lane from the roadside. One of them, wearing spectacles, was plying along a cycle.

  ‘That is Babu Chunni Lal. He works in some office. He has a dog.’

  The patter of their shoes was heard as they went through the lane.

  The sound of footsteps was again heard. The ‘warriors’ put their eyes to the chink.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is some pedlar,’ Inder whispered.

  ‘No,’ said Shambhu. ‘He sells oils and scents. He comes from far away everyday at this time. He is a mlecch a bulky person, his peaked beard and moustaches dyed in henna, with two or three bags hanging from his shoulders and one on his back, came in sight, entering the lane from the side of the banyan tree. Due to the heavy load he was carrying, drops of perspiration had gathered on his forehead. There were swabs of cotton in his ears and a couple of long needles stuck into his turban.

  Ranvir felt as though something had moved behind his back. He turned round. Inder’s hand had gone to his pocket in which lay the long knife with a spring.

  Time was passing. The decisive moment had come. The man was a mleccha, loaded with bags so that he could neither run, nor defend himself, besides, he was tired—all these were favourable factors. Time was passing and the pedlar was moving farther and farther away into the lane. Ranvir made a sign, and the next moment, Inder had leapt into the lane. There was a flash of light as the door was opened, but Ranvir immediately shut the door.

  Not a sound anywhere. Ranvir and Shambhu stood behind the door with bated breath. Ranvir became extremely tense. He couldn’t control himself. He softly opened the door and looked out. The scent-seller, his back bent was walking unsteadily, swaying from side to side. And the tiny Inder followed him at some distance, his hand on his shirt-pocket.

  Ranvir was in a fix. He was too curious to know what was happening and yet could not open the door, whereas Shambhu was scared stiff, his legs trembling. The last glimpse Ranvir had was of Inder walking alongside the bulky pedlar when both of them were turning the corner in the lane.

  Shambhu bolted the door from inside.

  Both of them stood facing each other in the dark, breathing hard. Ranvir was becoming increasingly impatient to go out and see what was happening; for Shambhu it was becoming impossible even to keep standing.

  As they turned the corner, the scent-seller’s eyes fell on the boy. Because of the sound made by his own shoes the pedlar had not heard him approaching.

  The scent-seller smiled.

  ‘Where are you going, son, at this time of the day?’ and putting out his hand, patted him on his head.

  Inder stopped short and stared hard at the man’s face. His right hand was inside his pocket. Subconsciously he took note of the fact that the pedlar had bloated cheeks, and Masterji had once said that people with bloated cheeks were cowardly, that they had weak digestion and could not run, that they became breathless very soon. And the man was actually breathing hard.

  Inder was balancing himself before pouncing upon his victim. His eyes were still riveted on the pedlar’s face.

  To the scent-seller the boy appeared to be young and tender, perhaps he was walking with him for protection. Perhaps the boy was frightened. Everyone in the city was frightened that day.

  ‘Where do you live, child? Keep walking along with me. One should not stir out of the house on a day like this.’

  But Inder was not shaken in his resolve. He still had his eyes on the pedlar’s face.

  ‘You can come with me up to Teli Mohalla. If you have to go farther, I shall ask someone to accompany you. There is trouble in the city.’

  And without waiting for the boy’s reply, continued walking.

  For a brief moment, Inder paused and stood where he was, but then stepped forward and continued walking.

  There was silence all round. The houses around stood in utter darkness.

  ‘I too should not have come out on my round today.’ He said to Inder. ‘The town is stricken by drought, as it were. This is not a day for selling one’s wares. But then I thought, if I can make even a few annas, it will not be bad. If a pedlar sits at home, how will he eat?’ And the man laughed.

  They were getting close to the water tap, which was as yet dry. The stone slab under it had become hollow with time; a few wasps were hovering over it. Inder used to catch wasps here.

  ‘Even if only four cotton swabs are sold in a day, we make four annas, which is good enough,’ the scent-seller was saying, as though talking to himself. It seemed he wanted to talk, either to while away the time, or because it helped him somehow to walk through deserted streets.

  ‘I know who my potential buyers are in every street of the town,’ he said. ‘A man with two wives is my potential client. He must buy scent; he will also buy henna and collyrium. An ageing man with a young wife will also buy scent. Shall I tell you more?’ He said wanting to entertain the boy.

  The scent-seller’s continuous monologue succeeded in steadying Inder and he was able to walk more confidently, his hand firmly on the handle of the knife. He was all concentration now, and his eyes were set on the scent-seller’s waist, as intently as Arjun’s must have been on the bird on the branch of the tree. The bag hanging from the left shoulder of the scent-seller swayed to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, exposing his thick cotton shirt covering his waist.

  The water-tap was left behind. Inder’s attention now centred on his right hand. He was aware of every step he took. It appeared as though the pattering of the pedlar’s shoes was marking time with the swaying bag.

  ‘In the bazaar, the cotton swabs sell more, whereas in the lanes, oil and scent are more in demand.’ The scent-seller was saying.

  Suddenly, Inder took a leap and made a quick movement. The pedlar felt as though something had moved with a flash on his left side. But before he could turn round to see what it was, he felt as though something had pricked him badly under the bag. Inder had struck accurately, and as instructed by the Sardar, had given a twist to the handle too, while the blade was still inside, and thus entangled it with the intestines.

  The scent-seller had hardly turned round when he saw the boy running away, with his back towards him. Even then he did not understand what had happened. He wanted to call the boy back, but then he noticed drops of blood falling on his shoes and felt as though something was tearing his waist. As yet the sensation was not so sharp, but it was soon followed by searing pain. The man became extremely nervous. Stricken with fear he shouted:

  ‘O, I have been killed!’

  He was so terribly frightened that he could hardly shout. He was dying, not so much from the wound inflicted on him, as from sheer fright. He still couldn’t believe that an innocent-looking boy could have attacked him. The load on his back and shoulders became unbearable, and it was under its weight that he fell face downward.

  Only a few seconds earlier he had clearly seen the boy’s running feet, but there was now no sign of the boy in the lane.

  ‘O, I have been killed!’ he whispered.

  A hoarse cry escaped his lips and his eyes rested on a patch of the deep-blue sky over and above the narrow lane, in which two or three kites were flying. Soon enough the number of kites seemed to increase and the patch of blue got blurred.

  13

  Nathu was deeply disturbed. Sitting outside his house he was puffing at his hookah incessantly. His heart would sink every time he heard about the killings. He would try again and again to console himself: ‘I am not a know-all. How could I know for what purpose I was being asked to kill a pig?’ For some time he would overcome his uneasiness and feel reassured. But he would again lose his peace of mind when he would hear about some other incident. ‘It is all the result of my doing.’ Since morning, his fellow-skinners in the colony had been sitting and chatting outside one another’s houses. Time and again, Nathu would go and sit with them. He would try to join in the conversation, but each time he tried, his throat would go dry and
his legs would tremble, and he would go back into his house. ‘Should I speak out? Tell my wife everything? She is a sensible woman, she will understand and I shall feel relieved.’ Sometimes he would wish he could gulp down a glassful of country-wine so that he could lie unconscious. ‘To tell my wife can be risky. Suppose, in an unguarded moment, in a casual conversation, she blurts out what really happened. What then? No one will spare me. I may be put behind bars. The police can put me under arrest and take me away. What will happen then? No one will believe me if I said that I had done the job on Murad Ali’s instructions. And Murad Ali is a Musalman. Will a Musalman get a pig killed so that it can be thrown outside a mosque?’ He would again become extremely restless. He would again try to divert his mind by arguing with himself: ‘It couldn’t have been the same pig that was thrown outside the mosque. I have not seen it, but any pig can be of black colour. Can’t there be two pigs of the same colour? I am worrying about it without any rhyme or reason. It was certainly some other pig.’ Reassured by such thoughts he would begin to chat and laugh with his wife. He would even go to his neighbour’s house and begin talking about the fire in the Grain Market. But such a state of mind would not last long. He had only to remember what had happened during the previous night—from the moment the pig was pushed into the filthy hut to the arrival of the pushcart under cover of darkness in that desolate area—the whole episode would be like a nightmare and he would relapse into the same jittery state of mind. ‘Will a veterinary surgeon procure a slaughtered pig in this way? “The pigs go roaming about there, get hold of one… a pushcart will come to take the carcass; don’t move out of the hut; wait for me.” Is this the way jobs are done?’ Nathu had a mind to go straight to Kalu, the scavenger and ask him where he had delivered the pig. Go straight to Murad Ali… ‘But what will Murad Ali say? If there is evil in his heart, he will push me out of his house, hold me guilty and get me arrested. He is quite capable of doing this.’

  He again picked up his hookah. ‘To hell with Murad Ali and his pig! I have done nothing on purpose. Whatever I did, was done in ignorance. What about those who are setting fire and killing innocent pedestrians and committing such heinous crimes? Why are they indulging in such foul acts with wide open eyes? I have killed one pig. Of what consequence is the killing of one pig? If I am a criminal, aren’t they worse criminals? If I am guilty, aren’t they guilty too? What about those who have set fire to the Grain Market? I have not done anything deliberately. Whatever had to happen, has happened; I have nothing to do with it all…’

  Nathu thought of his father. He was a God-fearing man who always used to say, ‘Son, keep your hands clean. A man whose hands are clean, will never do an evil deed. Earn your bread with dignity and self-respect.’ As Nathu remembered his father’s words, tears came into his eyes. And his heart became heavy once again.

  Across the yard, a man walking along the road, had stopped and was looking intently towards the skinners’ colony. Nathu’s heart missed a beat. It seemed to him that the man was looking for him; as though he had come to spot out the man who had killed the pig.

  Nathu’s wife came out wiping her hands with a corner of her dhoti. Nathu again felt uneasy. He felt like telling her everything. ‘There should at least be someone to whom I can open my heart.’ Nathu’s eyes again turned towards the man standing across the yard.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ His wife said, then turning her eyes towards the road, asked, ‘Who is he? Do you know him?’

  ‘No. How should I know him?’ Nathu replied with a bewildered look in his eyes. ‘Why are you standing there? Go inside,’ he said brusquely.

  She promptly went into the room.

  Nathu again looked towards the road through the corner of his eyes. The man was moving away. On reaching the end of the yard, he lighted a cigarette and went away puffing at it.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ Nathu said to himself. ‘On a working day so many people come here on some business or the other.’

  He felt relieved. ‘It was wrong of me to have spoken so roughly with her.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said to her. ‘Make some tea for me.’

  His wife came and stood in the doorway. There was something about her which gave Nathu a sense of confidence. He felt more secure if she was by his side. Her presence in the house imparted a sense of stability. When she was not around, it was as though things were going haywire. Today too he was inwardly very keen that she sit close to him. She was never restless or tense or nervous; nothing ever seemed to gnaw at her heart. It was so, he thought, because she was physically buxom, not a dried-up stick as he was, with hollow cheeks and a perpetually worried mind. She was relaxed, with a steady, balanced mind and a warm presence.

  She came and stood on the threshold, a soft smile on her lips.

  ‘You generally don’t ask for tea at this time of the day. You seem to be enjoying a holiday today. Is that why you want tea?’

  ‘Am I enjoying a holiday? Do you think it is a holiday?’ Nathu said peevishly, ‘If you can’t make it, I shall make it myself. Why are you making such a fuss about it?’ So saying Nathu got up and went into the room.

  ‘Why are you cross? I shall make it for you in a minute.’

  ‘No, no, you needn’t bother. I shall make it myself.’

  ‘I would rather die than let you light the fire when I am around,’ she said and pulled him by his arm.

  Nathu stood up. He felt a stab of pain in his heart. For a second he stood undecided. Then, with all the eagerness of his heart, he clasped his wife to himself.

  ‘What is the matter with you today?’ His wife said, laughing. But in his ardent embraces she sensed his disquiet. There is something troubling him, otherwise he wouldn’t behave in this queer manner.

  ‘What has come over you? Since last night you have been behaving in a strange sort of way. Tell me what is on your mind. I feel frightened.’

  ‘What have we to be afraid of? We have not set fire to anyone’s house.’ Nathu came out with this odd reply.

  His wife’s hand stopped stroking his back, but she did not disengage herself from him.

  Nathu became all the more agitated. He was behaving like a crazy person.

  Suddenly, the pig’s carcass flitted across his mind. It lay, right in the middle of the floor, with its legs raised and a pool of blood under it. Nathu trembled and went limp and cold in every limb. His shoulders were covered with cold sweat. It appeared to his wife as though his mind had again wandered off to something else. Suddenly Nathu tried to suppress a sob, and disentangling himself from his wife’s embrace, muttered, ‘No, not today. I don’t feel like it. See what is happening outside. People’s houses are burning.’

  And for a long time he stood where he was, as though in a daze. His wife grew anxious.

  ‘What is on your mind? Why have you become so quiet? Swear by me that you will tell me the truth.’

  Nathu stepped aside and quietly went and sat down on the cot.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There is something. You are hiding it from me.’

  ‘There is nothing,’ he said again.

  Nathu’s wife came over to him and stroking his hand said, ‘Why don’t you speak? Say something.’

  ‘I would tell you if there was anything to tell.’

  ‘Wait. I shall get you some tea.’

  ‘I don’t want tea.’

  ‘A little while ago you were asking for it. You were going to make it yourself. And now you don’t want it.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it.’

  ‘All right then, come to bed,’ she said laughing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you angry with me? You are losing your temper over every little thing,’ she said somewhat resentfully.

  Nathu remained quiet. He was actually behaving like a sulky child.

  ‘Where did you go last night? You have not told me anything,’ Nathu’s wife said, sitting down on the floor beside him.

  Nathu lo
oked at his wife, as though taken aback. ‘She has sensed it. Soon enough, everyone will know about it,’ Nathu trembled at the thought.

  ‘If you won’t tell me, I shall break my head against the wall. You have never concealed anything from me. Why are you doing so today?’

  Nathu’s eyes rested on his wife’s face. ‘If she suspects anything, then God knows what she must be thinking.’ His wife’s trusting and beseeching eyes were still looking at him.

  ‘Do you know why the Grain Market is burning?’

  ‘I know someone killed a pig and threw it outside a mosque. And then the Musalmans set fire to the Grain Market.’

  ‘I killed that pig.’

  Nathu’s wife turned pale.

  ‘Did you? Why did you commit such a loathsome act?’

  All the blood drained out of her face and she stared at her husband.

  ‘Did you throw the pig outside the mosque too?’

  ‘No. Kalu the scavenger took it on his pushcart.’

  ‘Kalu is a Musalman. How could he carry it?’

  ‘Kalu is not a Musalman. He is a Christian. He goes to church on Sundays.’

  Her eyes were still on Nathu’s face.

  ‘What a horrible thing you have done. But you are not to blame. You were tricked into doing it,’ she muttered, as though to herself But she had trembled while listening to Nathu’s account, and felt as though the shadow of some dreadful omen had fallen on their home which could not be eliminated even by fasts and prayers.

  His mind felt weighed down by the confession. Nathu was deeply troubled at heart. His wife raised her eyes and looked at him. On seeing him so unhappy, a surge of warm feeling rose in her heart. She got up and sat down by his side, and taking his hand into hers, said, ‘Now I know. I would say to myself, why is he so upset? But how could I know? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? It is wrong to keep your grief to yourself.’

  ‘Had I known what it involved, I wouldn’t have done it,’ Nathu muttered. ‘I was told that the veterinary surgeon had asked for a pig,’ said Nathu, sinking deeper into despondency. ‘I saw Murad Ali last night. But he wouldn’t talk to me. I ran after him, but he wouldn’t stop. He quickened his pace and went farther and farther away. He didn’t even care to talk to me.’ Nathu’s voice was again lost in doubt and uncertainty. He had once again begun to doubt whether he had actually seen Murad Ali or not.