Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  ‘I told him to quote anything between twenty and thirty thousand rupees,’ said Teja Singhji, ‘but they are demanding two lakhs.’

  ‘They must have come to know that our position is no longer strong.’

  ‘How could they?’ retorted Hira Singh, the general merchant. ‘Our killings have in no way been fewer than theirs. It is our bad luck that we have run short of ammunition.’

  From a distance was heard the slogan:

  ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’

  ‘How much of jewellery and ornaments have we been able to collect?’

  Teja Singhji got up and went towards the box lying in front of the chowki of the Sacred Book and opening it, took the ornaments into his hand and tried to assess their value from their approximate weight.

  ‘They can’t fetch more than twenty to twenty-five thousand rupees. But they are demanding two lakhs!’ Teja Singh repeated, like the refrain of a song.

  ‘You alone can pay two lakhs, Teja Singhji, if you so desire. You have amassed quite a fortune.’

  But Teja Singhji thought it fit to ignore the comment.

  ‘Offer them a sum of fifty thousand.’

  ‘Fifty thousand is too little. I don’t think they will agree.’

  ‘To begin with, we must quote a low figure. If you will start from a low figure, it will be possible to strike a bargain at a lakh of rupees.’

  Teja Singh sent for the younger Granthi: ‘Try to strike a bargain for any amount up to one lakh rupees, starting from a low figure. We shall make the payment only after the outsiders have gone to the other side of the stream. Make it clear to them. Thereafter, they can send three of their men for money, our representatives will be standing with the money bags.’

  The younger Granthi folded his hands and said, ‘Truth resides on your tongue, Good Sir, but what if they insist that money must be paid first and then alone will the outsiders go across the stream?’

  At this the general merchant flared up: ‘Why? Are we Lahorias or Amritsarias that our word cannot be trusted? We are citizens of Sayedpur, and our word is carved on stone.’

  The Sikhs were as proud of being the inhabitants of Sayedpur as were the Muslims. Both took equal pride in the red soil of Sayedpur, its top-quality wheat, its orchards of lukat fruit, even in its severe winters and razor-sharp cold winds. Both took pride in the hospitality and liberality of the Sayedpur citizens, their sunny, hail-fellow-well-met temperaments. And ironically enough, while jumping into the fray against one another, both had boasted of their valour too, in the same vein, proudly striking their chests.

  The moon had risen, presenting, a frightful view to those on guard. If there was firing again, anything could happen—arson, loot, murder. All earlier moves had proved disastrous. It was a big blunder to have gathered in the gurdwara; it was a big blunder to have snapped contact with Sheikh Ghulam Rasul. There was no end to such blunders. Had these moves brought success, they would have been viewed as examples of excellent strategy.

  Some people sat chatting on the terrace of Sheikh Ghulam Rasul’s house. They too had not had the time to attend to their dead. But whereas the position of the gurdwara was like that of a house under siege, the house of the Sheikh had no such duress; it could maintain contact even with far-flung villages.

  The ‘mujahids’ sitting on the Sheikh’s terrace had come from outside. They were narrating their exploits and experiences to one another.

  ‘When we got into the lane, the karars began to run this way and that way. A Hindu girl went up to the roof of her house. As soon as we saw her, we ran after her. There were nearly ten of us. She was trying to jump over the low wall on the roof to go over to the adjoining house when she fell into our hands. Nabi, Lalu, Mira, Murtaza all had a go at her one by one.’

  ‘Is that true? Swear by your faith.’

  ‘By God it is true, every word of it. When my turn came there was no sound from her; she wouldn’t move. I looked at her; she was dead. I had been doing it to a dead body,’ he laughed a hollow kind of laughter, and turning his face to one side, spat on the floor.

  ‘I swear that it is true. Ask Jalal, he was also there.’

  Another mujahid had his own story to tell.

  ‘It is all a matter of chance,’ he was saying. ‘We caught hold of a bagri woman in a lane. My hand was working so well, I would chop off a head at one go. The woman began crying and begging: “Don’t-kill me,” she said, “All seven of you can have me as your keep.”’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then what? Aziza plunged his dagger into her bosom and she was finished there and then.’

  In the moonlit night, the younger Granthi was slowly going down the slope. The group of deputies from the Muslim side sent to negotiate peace-terms stood at the edge of the stream. Through one of the windows of the gurdwara the slope was clearly visible, and many had their eyes on it, watching the young Granthi with bated breath. In the moonlight only a figure in silhouette could be seen moving down the slope. Suddenly from the roof above came the sound of running feet and a Nihang shouting:

  ‘Turks are coming from the Western direction. The enemy has received succour from outside.’

  And soon enough the familiar war-cries along with the beating of drums were heard.

  ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’

  Teja Singh’s face fell. The elder Granthi who stood at the window watching his brother, suddenly called out to his brother: ‘Don’t go further, Mehar Singh! Come back!’

  But the younger Granthi did not hear. He continued going down, walking unsteadily over the pebbles and stones which lay scattered by the side of the stream.

  ‘Come back, Mehar Singh! Come back!’ shouted the elder Granthi. Thereupon others too joined in. The younger Granthi looked back once but then continued going down. The drum-beat and war-cries of the advancing marauders grew louder every minute. The mujahids standing at the edge of the stream responded to their compatriots with full-throated ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’

  Under the light of the moon the figure of the younger Granthi would again and again be lost from view because of the patches of light and shade.

  The view from the window was not so clear now. It appeared that some people had stepped forward to meet the younger Granthi; it also appeared as though the younger Granthi had been surrounded on all sides. It seemed to some as though a few lathis had been raised. Something glittered too in the light of the moon which was either a pick-axe or the naked sword of the younger Granthi.

  ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’ the slogan was again raised.

  Blood drained from Teja Singh’s face, and his heart sank within him. The elder Granthi, standing at the window, suddenly cried out:

  ‘Killed! They have killed my brother!’ and without a second thought rushed out of the gurdwara, and crossing the lane, ran barefoot down the slope.

  ‘Stop! Somebody stop him!’ someone shouted at the top of his voice at which the Nihang posted at the gate ran after the Granthi and by the time the latter had reached the middle of the slope, overtook him and putting his arm round his waist, lifted him up with both his arms and turned back.

  The drum-beat of the marauders was now heard from inside the village. Slogans were being raised from all sides. Once again bullets began to be showered and people were seen running in all directions.

  ‘Jo Boley So Nihal!

  ‘Sat Sri Akal!’

  The slogan pierced through the air.

  A group of Sikhs—the elder Granthi was among them—brandishing their swords, and challenging the enemy, their hair loosened, ran down the slope, as though determined to do or die!

  Inside the gurdwara, a large number of women and children sat huddled against the wall to the left. In the rising crescendo of shouting and shrieking, all the women had gathered in one place. The face of Jasbir Kaur was flushed as though she was in a state of frenzy. Her hand was on the handle of the kirpan, holding it tightly.

  Women had started chanting the Japji Sahib; their murmuring voice gradually grew louder.

 
; Flames of fire were seen rising from behind the houses standing at the end of the lane to the left, and the sky was turning crimson, even a deeper crimson than before.

  ‘Fire is rising from the lane near the school…It is Kishen Singh’s house burning!’

  The words fell on Jasbir’s ears too, but it seemed as though she had not heard them. A surge, a wave rose and fell within her, again and again. But she saw nothing clearly before her eyes, as though everything was floating, everything in a sort of twilight, everything going round and round, revolving round her. She was standing right under the light in the middle of the hall, and her face glowed as though with celestial light.

  The picket on the left collapsed. Under the light of the moon, some men were seen crawling up the slope. The Nihang Singh posted on the roof was the first one to see them. He promptly informed Kishen Singh, but Kishen Singh was so despondent, he merely shook his head. The number of dark figures crawling up the slope was increasing every minute. They became clearly visible now because of the fire in the lane. But where was the ammunition to stop them, or even to arrest their advance? Kishen Singh pressed the trigger once or twice but then sat down, in despair.

  The picket to the left having collapsed, another band of Sikhs, standing sword in hand outside the gurdwara, their hair hanging loose, rushed towards the end of the lane on the left. The Turks could attack the gurdwara only from that side, through that opening. A volley of fire followed by the shouts of ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’ rent the air.

  The band of Sardars brandishing their swords were soon swallowed up by the darkness at the end of the lane. Just at that time a group of women, emerged in a row from the gurdwara. At their head was Jasbir Kaur, her eyes half-open, her face flushed. Almost all the women had taken their dupattas off their heads and tied them round their waists. They were all bare-footed, their faces too were flushed. As though under a spell, they came out of the gurdwara.

  ‘The Turks are here! The Turks have come!’ Some of the women shouted, while some others chanted the verses of the Gurbani and still some others, shouted in frenzied voices: ‘I too shall go where my lion-brother has gone!’

  Some of them had their children with them. Two or three women had little babies in their arms, while some, holding their children by their hands, were pulling them along.

  Coming out of the gurdwara, the women turned to the right and after covering some distance, took to a narrow path from between two houses which went its zigzag way, down the slope right up to a well, at the bottom of the slope.

  The atmosphere resounded with cries and wailing. Tongues of flame now rose from two places, their shadows danced on the walls of houses, on the slope, on the cobbled street, and were reflected in the water of the stream, turning the water red, as it were.

  To the deafening noise was added the noise of doors being battered, and the shouts of plunderers. In front of the gurdwara, a Nihang Singh stood right in the middle of the lane, waving his lance and shouting: ‘Come, Turks, come if you dare! I challenge you, come!’

  The throng of women headed towards the well located at the foot of the slope. This was the well to which the women used to come every day to bathe, to wash their clothes, to gossip. They were now running fast towards it, as though under a spell. None knew why and wherefore they were heading towards it. Under the translucent light of the moon it appeared as though fairies were flying down to the well.

  Jasbir Kaur was the first one to jump into the well. She raised no slogan, nor did she call anyone’s name, she only uttered Wahe Guru and took the jump. After her, one by one, many women climbed up to the low wall of the well. Hari Singh’s wife climbed up stood there for a moment, then pulled up her four-year-old son on to the wall and holding him by the hand, jumped too. Deva Singh’s wife held the breast-fed child in her arms when she took the plunge. Prem Singh’s wife jumped, down, but her son was left standing on the wall. The child was pushed into the well by Gyan Singh’s wife, and thus sent back into the arms of his mother. Within a matter of minutes tens of women had gone into their watery grave, some of them along with their children.

  By the time the Turks actually entered the lane which led to the gurdwara, after walking over a heap of dead bodies at the entrance to the lane, there was not a single woman left in the gurdwara. The air was filled with the heart-rending cries of women and children coming from inside the well and were mingled with the loud shouts of ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ and ‘Sat Sri Akal.’

  The light of the moon turned pale. Slowly the day broke. The nightmarish atmosphere of the night began to be dispelled. Despite the smoke from the smouldering fires, a cool fresh breeze was blowing as it did every morning. The fields outside the village in which the wheat-crop had ripened softly waved under the breeze. The air was laden with the scent of the bursting lukat fruit. It also carried the soft fragrance of the wild rose which grew on bushes in this weather. Now and then parrots sitting on the branches would flutter their wings and chirping noisily fly off towards another tree or grove of trees. The colour of the water in the stream had already turned blue. Every gust of breeze would produce ripples on the surface of the water.

  It was difficult to say when, during the night, looting and arson had ceased. Not many houses had been set on fire, since in most localities Muslims and Sikhs lived in adjacent houses. The fire was still smouldering in the Khalsa School building and the flat-roofed houses located at the turn in the lane leading to the gurdwara, but the flames had largely subsided, and the colour of the dying flames had already turned pale.

  Within the gurdwara, one light was still burning. The War Council was still in session, its four members waiting, as it were, for the final fall of the curtain. Teja Singhji, tired and exhausted, with his head bowed sat disconsolate on a bag of wheat-grains in the store-room of the gurdwara. Kishen Singh still sat in his chair on the roof. A Nihang Singh, lance in hand, still stood guard at the entrance to the gurdwara.

  When it was broad daylight, kites, vultures and crows arrived in large numbers and hovered over the village, and particularly in the vicinity of the village well. Many a vulture was already perched on the surrounding trees; some vultures with their sharp yellow beaks had landed on the wall of the well, where the bloated corpses were slowly rising towards the surface, or the mouth of the well. The lanes bore a deserted look. Dead bodies lying here and there, added to the gloom and sense of desolation all round. Footsteps of a man walking in a lane would produce a deafening sound. The marauders had left the village, carrying all the booty they could. On the path leading to the ‘well of death’, lay scattered hair-clips, ribbons, dupattas, broken pieces of bangles and the like, while the lanes in the village were littered with empty boxes, trunks, canisters and cots. telling the story of the scourge that had befallen the village. The doors of houses were either open or battered.

  But the rioting had not completely ceased. The young son of the fat butcher had stealthily gone to the backside of the gurdwara, carrying a can in his hand and was sprinkling kerosene oil on its windows.

  Suddenly a strange deep and buzzing sound was heard. What was that? It was heard by Teja Singh, sitting in the store room; by Kishen Singh, on duty on the roof of the gurdwara; it fell on the ears of everyone in the Sheikh’s house. They were all taken aback! The son of the fat butcher who was about to light the fire, stopped short not knowing what to do. What sort of sound was this? The low drone was getting louder. Some persons sitting inside houses, stepped out to find out what sound it was. Kishen Singh stood up from his chair and rushed to the parapet wall.

  It was an aeroplane. Flying over hills and valleys, with its wings outspread, it was coming towards the village, making its hoarse, buzzing sound. Sometimes, its wings would turn black, at others, they would glitter like silver. Sometimes its right wing would bend downward, at others its left wing. The aeroplane was, it would seem, out on a joy-flight.

  As it approached the village, people came out; they stood on raised platforms on roofs of houses and stared hard at the ae
roplane with breathless curiosity. While flying over the village, it dropped height so that one could see the pilot sitting in the cockpit—he was a white man, waving his hand to the people standing below. Some people could even see the smile on his lips. He was wearing big goggles over his eyes.

  ‘He smiled. I swear, I saw it with my own eyes,’ one boy said to another, standing in a yard outside their house.

  ‘He has white gloves on. He was waving his hand like this. Didn’t you see?’

  There would be no more disturbances. The news of the riots had reached the right ears, the ears of the firanghi; no shot would be fired now, nor a house set on fire. The fat butcher’s son, who had already sprinkled oil on the windows of the gurdwara, and had only to light a match-stick, hastily withdrew his hand and stood standing wide-eyed at the aeroplane.

  As he flew over the gurdwara, the white man sitting in the cockpit waved his hand. To Kishen Singh, standing on the roof, it appeared as though the white man had specially waved to him; that one soldier had saluted another fellow-soldier. Kishen Singh who till then had been feeling depressed, stood up to attention and clicking his heels gave a salute in return, and his heart leapt with joy. A soldier after all, was a soldier. During the war-days on the Burmese front, Kishen Singh would go every evening to meet Captain Jackson, his superior officer. And Captain Jackson would always lend an attentive ear to whatever he had to say. Not only that, he would always acknowledge his salute with a salute in return.

  Excited beyond words, Kishen Singh waved his hand and shouted: ‘God save the King, Sahib, God save the King!’

  The aeroplane had by then moved ahead and was flying over the Sheikh’s house. Kishen Singh stared wide-eyed towards it. People had run up to the roof of the Sheikh’s house too and were waving excitedly at the white man. Kishen Singh was keen to know if the white man, the British soldier, acknowledged the salutations too; and it actually appeared to him as though the pilot had withdrawn his gloved hand into the cockpit. Kishen Singh was thrilled at this and shouted: ‘Had you come a couple of days earlier, we would not have suffered so. But it is still OK Sahib!’