Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  ‘Once again, today, the Khalsa Panth needs the blood of the Guru’s Sikhs,’ he began in a voice trembling with intense emotion. ‘Time has come when our faith will be put to test. Time has come of our trial. The Maharaj has only one behest for this time: “Sacrifice! Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”’ (Die for the Panth! Die for the Panth! Die for the Panth!)

  A kind of golden dust filled Teja Singh’s mind. His ecstasy bordered on frenzy! All his emotions centred round the word ‘Sacrifice!’

  ‘Chant the Ardas, you Singhs of the Guru!’

  The entire congregation stood up, and with heads bowed, hands folded began chanting the hymns of the Gurvani in full-throated voices. The gurdwara resounded. The entire prayer was recited, which took quite some time. At the concluding words the chant was at its loudest:

  The Khalsa shall rule.

  None shall remain in subjugation!

  The chanting rose like waves, striking against the walls of the gurdwara.

  No sooner had the prayer been chanted, than the Nihang standing at the gate raised his hand and with his eyes closed, shouted the slogan in a voice so piercing that the veins of his throat swelled:

  ‘Jo Boley So Nihal!’ (Redemption to the one who responds).

  In answer to which the entire congregation, with hands raised responded with all the vocal strength at their command:

  ‘Sat Sri Akal!’

  There was a fresh upsurge of emotions. The raising of slogans added poignancy to the feelings of solidarity and sacrifice!

  Just then, from a distance came a piercing sound: ‘Nara-i-Takbir!’ followed by the resounding answer:

  ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’

  The Nihang at the gate once again clenched his fist and, raising it above his shoulders, was about to raise a slogan when Teja Singh stopped him.

  ‘Enough! The enemy has learnt about our presence!’ But the answering slogan of the Muslims brought home to the congregation something relating to the prevailing situation.

  ‘We do not want the enemy to know about our strength. We do not want them to know that the entire Sikh community has gathered in the gurdwara. It is a matter of strategy.’ And giving an exposition of the prevailing situation, he said, ‘We have tried to inform the highest authority of the district, the Deputy Commissioner Sahib Bahadur about the nefarious activities the Muslims have lately been indulging in. I know Richard Sahib personally. He is a gentleman, sagacious and justice-loving. This is the best that we could do, inform the highest authority about our situation. All sorts of news is reaching us. We have come to know that weapons are being stored in the house of Rahim, the oil-crusher, that a motor-car of blue colour came in the afternoon from the direction of the city and stopped outside the house of Fazal Din the school master, that some articles were taken out of the car and delivered to Master Fazal Din. This car has been going in different directions and stopping at different places. It has also come to our knowledge that the local Muslims have sent word to the Muslims of Muridpur that they should send men and weapons to them. We have tried hard to talk to Sheikh Ghulam Rasul and other Muslims of the village, but the fellows cannot be trusted.’

  ‘You have made no efforts. It is a lie.’

  Suddenly a voice was heard in the congregation. Silence fell on all sides. Who was this intruder? People in the gurdwara were enraged.

  A frail young man stood up.

  ‘We should not forget that we are being incited against the Muslims, and the Muslims against us. Due to rumours of all kinds tension is mounting and tempers are running high. On our part we should try our best to maintain contact with the Muslims and continue to interact with them, and see that violence does not break out.’

  ‘Sit down! Shut up!’

  Traitor! Who the hell is he?’

  ‘I won’t sit down. I must have my say. We must make every effort to meet Ghulam Rasul and other sober-minded Muslims of the village. If Ghulam Rasul is not amenable to reason there must be other peace-loving Muslims with whose cooperation we can maintain peace in the village. If they are getting weapons from Muridpur, aren’t we trying to get weapons from Kahuta? No one wants bloodshed. The Sikhs and Muslims of the village should meet one another and maintain peace in the village. Only this morning I met Ghulam Rasul and some other Muslims…’

  ‘What? What took you there? Is Ghulam Rasul your foster father?’

  ‘Allow me to speak. It is the ruffians from another village who will do the mischief. We should try our best to see that no outsider comes into the village. That can be done only if the peace-loving Sikhs and Muslims jointly stop them from coming. They are collecting weapons out of fear of us and we are doing the same out of fear of them.’

  ‘There is no trusting the Muslims. Sit down.’

  ‘Those people say that Sikhs cannot be trusted.’

  ‘Sit down!’ an elderly man shouted, his lips trembling, ‘Who are you to butt in? Your mother’s milk has not yet dried on your lips and you have come to advise your elders?’

  Three or four Sardars stood up at different places.

  ‘Don’t you know that they have set fire to the Grain Market in the city?’

  ‘It is entirely the mischief of the British.’ Sohan Singh’s voice grew louder. ‘It is in our interest that the riot does not break out. Listen, Brothers, roads are being blocked. No bus has come from the city today. The entire area is inhabited by Muslims. If people from outside attack the village, how will you defend yourselves? Just think. How much assistance can you expect from Kahuta? What are you so confident about?’

  For some time there was silence in the hall.

  Then, Teja Singhji came and stood in the middle of the hall and said, his voice trembling: ‘It breaks my heart to see our misguided young men talk like this, and raise their voice against their own faith. Do we want bloodshed? I told Sheikh Ghulam Rasul myself and he put his hand on his heart and assured me that nothing untoward would happen in the village. But hardly had I turned my back when the Khalsa School was attacked, the school peon, a Brahmin, put to death and his wife carried away. I did not give this information earlier because I did not want that you should get worked up.’

  A wave of shock and indignation swept through the entire congregation.

  ‘You have been misinformed,’ said Sohan Singh. ‘The Khalsa School was attacked but it was not the Muslims from this village but gangsters coming from Dhok Ilahi Baksh who attacked it. Mir Dad, our comrade, who has come from the city, got there in time and he, along with two or three local boys intervened and saved the situation. The peon was only injured; he is not dead. And his wife was not carried away. She is very much present in the school premises.’

  ‘Who is this Mir Dad?’ one Sardar asked.

  ‘I saw this fellow sitting with Mir Dad in a tea-shop. God knows what confabulations were going on between them. At a time when Muslims are molesting our women, our boys are socializing with them.’ Then, turning to the same frail Sardar, he said, ‘What are you trying to teach us? Why don’t you go and teach the Muslims? Have the Sikhs, till now, killed anyone? Looted anyone’s house? And here is a fellow teaching us what we should do.’

  The atmosphere again became tense. The Nihang standing at the gate came over and gave the frail Sardar a blow on his neck.

  ‘Enough, enough! Don’t beat him.’

  A few persons, sitting nearby stood up and intervened, pulling away the Nihang.

  At the time when this flare-up was taking place in the gurdwara, in another part of the village, Mir Dad was being heckled by a few Muslims.

  In the butchers’ lane, though the shops were closed, three butchers sat on the projections of their shops, having a heated argument with Mir Dad.

  ‘You shut up. The Englishman was nowhere around. In the city so many Musalmans have been done to death; their bodies are still lying in the lanes. Were they killed by the Englishman? A pig was thrown outside a mosque; was that too done by the Englishman?’

  ‘Try to understand,’ said Mir Dad, with a wave
of his hand, ‘If Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims are united, the position of the Englishman becomes weak. If we keep fighting among ourselves, he remains strong.’

  It was the same hackneyed argument which these people had heard before. In the prevailing situation, it would cut no ice with them.

  ‘Go and massage your head with almond oil,’ the fat butcher said. ‘How has the firanghi harmed us? The Hindus and Muslims have been at daggers drawn all along. A kafir is a kafir and until he accepts the “faith” he is an enemy. To kill a kafir is a virtuous act.’

  ‘Listen, uncle,’ Mir Dad said. ‘Who is the ruler?’

  ‘Of course it is the Englishman, who else?’

  ‘And whose is the army?’

  ‘Of the Englishman.’

  ‘Then, can’t he stop us from fighting?’

  ‘He can, but he does not want to interfere in our religious matters. The Englishman is justice-loving.’

  “Which means that we should kill one another while he would call it a religious matter and keep watching it as a spectator. What sort of ruler is he?’

  The fat butcher grew angry.

  ‘Listen, you chit of a fellow, Mir Dad. The fight is between the Hindu and the Muslim. The Englishman has nothing to do with it. You stop jabbering. If you are your father’s real son, go to the gurdwara and tell them not to collect arms. If they agree let them leave all their weapons in the gurdwara and go to their houses. We too do not want bloodshed. We too shall go and sit in our homes. If you are the son of a real man, go and talk to them. Don’t go on blabbering here.’

  Ever since the communal trouble started, Mir Dad would go and sit wherever he would find four or five persons chatting—at the baker’s shop, at Ganda Singh’s tea-shop, at the village-well, or at the Sheikh’s courtyard and converse with them. People would listen to him because he had received some education, had travelled to Bombay, Lahore, Madras, and so on, and had also come from the city. He had originally come with the intention of meeting his brother Allah Dad in the village, and in due course of time to open a school here which could serve as a meeting place for the villagers where they could sit and talk about their affairs, where someone could read a newspaper to them, which could develop their understanding and widen their outlook and sphere of interests. But he had not been able to cut much ice with the people. The reason being that he had neither a piece of land of his own nor a roof over his head. He would sleep at night on a cot outside the baker’s shop. The village-folk thought that he had come to open a school in order to eke out a living for himself, whereas Mir Dad’s objective was to provide and develop a community centre in the village.

  At that particular juncture Dev Datt had sent him to the village to stay put there and try to prevent the riot from breaking out. Sohan Singh too had been sent for the same purpose. Both were activists of the same party, both had relatives living in that village. But with the tension mounting and all sorts of news pouring in, both of them were getting more and more isolated.

  It was while Mir Dad stood talking to the butcher that a small incident occurred nearby. In the dark part of the lane close by, sitting behind a sack-cloth curtain a man was listening to their conversation. He had been sent from the gurdwara to gather information about the plans of the enemy. Gopal Singh was his name. He had climbed over the back wall of an old widow’s house and posted himself there. The adjoining houses on both sides were those of Muslims. While listening to the dialogue between Mir Dad and the butcher, he lifted a corner of the sack-cloth curtain and quietly stepped into the lane and sat down behind the chabutra of the adjoining house. From there the words of their dialogue were more clearly audible. Since the doors of houses were shut and it was dark in the lane, Gopal Singh had calculated that in the event of any sound coming from anywhere, he would rush back into the widow’s house and hide behind the sack-cloth curtain. But he did not have the chance to do so. His ears were glued to the conversation when suddenly he heard an odd kind of sound behind him. He at once turned round. In the murky light of the lane, a man from the adjoining house had stepped out, and was advancing towards him. The man had stepped down from the projection, and was putting both his hands under his shirt-front, as though to pull out his dagger. Gopal Singh stood up, nervous in the extreme and a loud cry escaped his lips. Instead of turning to the sack-cloth curtain, he ran for his life and, in the confusion, collided against the man who, he thought, was taking out his dagger from under his shirt-front. In reality, before the collision took place, the man had untied the tape of his pajamas and had almost sat down by the drain to ease himself. In his nervousness Gopal Singh had not noticed that the man was old, bald and toothless, and almost blind. After the collision, the old man—Nur Din was his name—cried out loudly:

  ‘O, I am slain! O, I am killed!’

  All that had happened in the twinkling of an eye. As old Nuru’s cries and the sound of running feet fell on the ears of the butchers, two men picked up their lances and went after them. Ashraf, the butcher, pursued the man who was running, and threw his stick at him. The lance did not hit the informer, but as it fell close to him, he lost his nerve and began shouting:

  ‘O, save me! They are killing me!’

  Those who stood inside the lane shouted to Ashraf: ‘Come back! Don’t go farther! Come back!’

  Mir Dad, who too stood in the lane, went over to the old man and helped him stand up. Seeing this, the fat butcher shouted angrily at Mir Dad, ‘Haven’t you seen with your own eyes, rascal! Has Nur Din been attacked by an Englishman? Get out of my sight, this minute, or you shall have it from me! Leave at once. Go away’ and almost pushed Mir Dad out of the lane.

  ‘Homeless beggar! Has come here to bring about peace! Has neither a roof over his head nor anyone to call his own. Who the hell are you? Fellows whom even their mothers do not recognize come to show us the way! Bloody beggar, living on crumbs thrown by others.’

  At the end of the lane, Mir Dad again turned round to say something but the butcher again shouted fiercely at him, ‘Go! Get away from here! Bloody eunuch! I will give you one on the jaw and all your teeth will fall out! Go and lecture your father!’

  Mir Dad, his shoulders bent, moved away. Earlier, some people would listen to him and would even nod their heads to what he said, but now such people were nowhere to be seen. Even this man, the fat butcher used to talk to him in a friendly way, laugh and chat with him, but now his eyes were bloodshot.

  Gopal Singh, the spy, kept running and shouting for help, right up to the gate of the gurdwara. On hearing his cries a wave of anger surged through the congregation. People came out in great agitation. All discipline went haywire. Both the Nihangs on gate-duty rushed out; and the Nihangs posted on the roof came running down the staircase.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  Those inside the gurdwara stood up.

  No fewer than ten persons examined Gopal Singh’s body limb by limb. There was no sign of any injury anywhere. He was breathless and his throat was dry. He tried hard but could not comprehend what had actually happened.

  ‘He was coming straight to attack me.’

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Teja Singhji.

  ‘Baba Nura,’ he blurted out the name unwittingly. A split-second before running away, he had recognized Baba Nura.

  ‘What? The blind Baba Nura?’

  ‘How could I know who it was? He had come out of Baba Nura’s house…’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘People came after me from the Butchers’ Lane. They threw sticks at me.’

  People in large numbers had come out into the lane, while one Sardar was persuading them to go back into the gurdwara:

  ‘There is nothing to worry. The Singh Khalsa has come back from the enemy-lines safe and sound. He has had a narrow escape, though. Go in, please!’

  When Gopal Singh was able to breathe more freely, Teja Singhji asked him in a whisper: ‘What did you find out? What are their plans?’

  ‘Mir Dad was blab
bering away. I couldn’t listen clearly. The fat butcher was telling him, “Tell the folks in the gurdwara to go back to their houses, and we too will go back to ours”… he was saying something like this.’ The congregation again gathered in the gurdwara. Gopal Singh, by his shouting, had added considerably to the excitement. The kirtan was resumed. The sound of cymbals, tablas and harmonium grew louder.

  ‘What do you have to say now, Sardar?’ A man, standing in the middle of the hall was shouting at Sohan Singh, ‘He has barely managed to come back alive. The Muslims tried their best to kill him. And here you are, trying to teach us what we should do.’

  Another angry member of the congregation shouted, ‘This man should be thrown into a dungeon, kept in solitary confinement! We cannot trust him. Who knows he may be spying for them.’

  At this Nihang Singh stepped forward and gave another blow to Sohan Singh on his jaw.

  ‘Enough, enough!’

  ‘Go and give your sermons to your blood-relatives, in whose lap you are sitting all the time. Get out of here!’

  The kirtan was resumed.

  Shades of evening had begun to fall. Two large lamps, which resembled chandeliers, hanging from the roof, one to the right and the other to the left of the raised platform on which lay the Holy Book, were lighted. Under the blue turban of Sardar Teja Singh, his white beard and the white shawl over his shoulders, became all the more pronounced. Light also fell on the excited faces of women. Their eyes reflected apprehension as also boundless devotion. Here and there a young girl looked at the unusual scene with curious eyes. Among these young women was Jasbir too—the daughter of Harnam Singh, the tea-shop owner. She had been married in that very village. She had inherited from her father the intensely devotional frame of mind. At the time of the chanting of the Ardas, the only voice which did not harmonize with the voice of the rest of the congregation was that of Jasbir. A thin, somewhat shrill voice but she sang supremely unconscious of everything. A short kirpan tied with a black ribbon-band, hung from her waist. Everyone in the congregation was familiar with this voice and everyone called her ‘the daughter of the Guru’. Her broad, beaming face was flushed most of all. Jasbir would wash the steps of the gurdwara with her own hands, she had embroidered the silken cloth-piece covering the Holy Book. It was from her effusive heart that all sorts of initiatives would spring. She would stand up on her own and start fanning the congregation, would serve cool water, keep watch over the shoes of the congregation. In moments of ecstatic elation, would even wipe their shoes with a part of the dupatta with which she covered her head, and put them before the members to wear, nay, even help them put them on with her own hands. Ever since the crisis began, her eyes were riveted on Teja Singhji’s face, as though she expected a divine message from his lips; and her ears were all too eager to hear it. A sentiment, very similar, coursed through the hearts and minds of all the members of the congregation.