Thereupon, excited in the extreme, Kishen Singh clenched his fist towards the house of the Sheikh and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Why don’t you fire your guns now? Here, fire at me, I am standing before you! You thought you were hellishly brave! Now fire! Why don’t you?’
And the stocky, pot-bellied Kishen Singh, like a man in a frenzy, waving his hand and showing his clenched fist, danced behind the parapet wall.
At the back of the gurdwara, the fat butcher’s son, emptied the can of kerosene oil in the drain and hid the empty can under a projection, threw the dry rags into the gurdwara through a window and lighting a cigarette with the match-stick in his hand, went merrily puffing back home.
The aeroplane circled twice over the village. Quite a crowd of people had by then come out and were waving to the white sahib! After the third round, the aeroplane flew away towards other villages.
The atmosphere in the village changed radically. People started coming out into the open. There was little apprehension of any trouble erupting. Corpses began to be removed. People went back to their houses to check on their jewellery and household goods. The sevadars and the Nihangs began to wash the floors and to tidy up the gurdwara. On the other side under Sheikh Ghulam Rasul’s orders, the floors of the mosque were being washed. People of both communities were washing clean their respective holy places.
Over whichever village the aeroplane flew, hostilities ceased, drums stopped beating, slogan-shouting ceased, looting and burning stopped.
19
As you walked along the roads of the city, you sensed a change in the atmosphere. In front of the mosque in Qutab Din street, four soldiers in uniform sat in chairs. At every important crossing in the city, two or three armed soldiers were seen either sitting on terraces or standing by the roadside. Army pickets had been set up in the city. On the fourth day of the riots, an eighteen-hour curfew had been clamped on the city; on the fifth day, however, the curfew had been relaxed to twelve hours from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. The news had gone round that the Deputy Commissioner was doing the rounds of the city in an armoured car. Here and there a shopkeeper had begun sitting in his shop, with only one panel of the shop door open. Mounted constabulary patrolled the streets led by two officers with pistols hanging by their sides. Offices, schools and colleges were still closed. In the dark corners of lanes or at street turnings, small groups of men sat with lances and lathis in their hands and their faces half-covered, but after the imposition of the curfew and the setting up of pickets, the situation was no longer that of a disturbed city. People had begun to stir out, they would go from one locality to another, although still looking apprehensively to the right and left. The tenor of the news too had changed. It was strongly rumoured that two refugee camps would soon be set up, each having the capacity of accommodating refugees from twenty villages. Two government hospitals—one in the city and the other in the cantonment—were already attending to the treatment of the wounded and the disposal of dead bodies. In every piece of news, the name of the Deputy Commissioner figured prominently. His pipe between his teeth, he was seen everywhere. It was said about him that once, on one of his rounds during curfew hours, when he found a young fellow standing outside a hospital, he gave him two warnings and then shot him dead. By this single act, the whole city had been alerted. People understood that rioting would not longer be tolerated. The National Congress had set up a Relief Office inside a school building which was crowded all the time since refugees were pouring in from the villages. The Deputy Commissioner had visited even this relief office no less than three times. The impression gaining ground was that the government was keen to resolve the situation with the cooperation of the public bodies. And so, leaders of public bodies had begun to work with alacrity. So much so that even in Congress circles, the opinion about the Deputy Commissioner had begun to be revised. ‘A Deputy Commissioner may be only a cog in a machine but this particular Deputy Commissioner is different, he is sympathetic and capable.’ It was said that the day he shot down the young man outside a hospital, he could not sleep the whole night. Prof. Raghu Nath was of the view that the man was not cut for administrative service, that the man was too sensitive, gifted with too warm a heart, that the British Government had done grave injustice by appointing him to that administrative post. Even though some political activists sharply condemned him and held him directly responsible for all the mischief that had taken place.
On one of his rounds, the Deputy Commissioner’s jeep stopped outside the Health Officer’s residence. The Health Officer had been duly informed on the telephone that the Deputy Commissioner was on his way. Greatly excited, the Health Officer got ready, put on, instead of the usual workday clothes of coat, tie and trousers, his native Punjabi dress—a long silken kurta, a well-starched salwar and a pair of Peshawari chappals on his feet. His wife forthwith made arrangements for tea and coffee. The Deputy Commissioner came into the courtyard bringing with him the aroma of pipe tobacco. He did not take either tea or coffee. He merely stood in the courtyard and that too for a few minutes, and talked of business. As he shook hands with the Health Officer, he remarked, smilingly: ‘Even in these days you can be so particular about the clothes you wear, Mr Kapur. Nice. Very nice. The Indian dress suits you.’
Then, shaking hands with the Health Officer’s wife, who was in her dressing gown, he remarked, ‘The day doesn’t seem to have begun for you yet, Mrs Kapur.’ and turning to the Health Officer began talking about the business at hand.
‘It will be necessary to check up on the arrangements for the water-supply to the refugee camps,’ he said, in a manner as though talking to himself. ‘‘The drains have still not been dug for the outflow of the water.’ He smiled, shaking his head.
The smile was meant as a reminder to the Health Officer that a task assigned two days earlier had not so far been attended to.
‘All arrangements have been made, Sir, work will commence today.’
‘Good,’ said the Deputy Commissioner and smiled again.
‘I would like you to visit the village where women jumped into the well. Some disinfectant must be sprayed over the well, otherwise there is great danger of a contagion spreading.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Health Officer, but he felt somewhat shaken. People were running away from that village, seeking shelter in the city. It would be unsafe going there, he thought.
But the Deputy Commissioner was well aware of the situation.
‘It is the third day going,’ he went on. ‘The swollen dead bodies must have begun to decompose. A disinfectant must be sprayed. Do go there tomorrow morning.’ And then, to allay his discomfiture, added, ‘An armed police guard will go with you. There is nothing to fear.’
The Deputy Commissioner had his finger on the pulse, not only of the city but of the entire district.
The Health Officer’s wife, in the meanwhile, had changed her clothes and tied her hair into a knot, and was pressing for tea and coffee.
‘There will be time for tea, Mrs Kapur, but not now. Thank you,’ said the Deputy Commissioner smiling. Then, in his typical persuasive manner, added, ‘You too must lend a hand, Mrs Kapur. Two thousand cots will be delivered at the Refugee Camp today. We need to have beddings and clothes for them. I believe a small committee comprising of women can do a lot of good work. Do think it over, Mrs Kapur,’ and Richard again smiled and nodded his head.
Richard had this great quality in his character. He would give instructions in a manner as though he was suggesting a proposal to the other person, and seeking his opinion. The Health Officer’s wife felt flattered. The Deputy Commissioner was offering her the opportunity of her life. She would be working in close association with the Deputy Commissioner’s wife, what more did she want? But before she could give a reply, the Deputy Commissioner, taking the Health Officer along, had already crossed the yard and was going out of the gate.
‘What do you think about the disposal of dead bodies, Mr Kapur? I think the Municipal Committee can handle this w
ork very well—the bodies can be disposed of quietly. To let all and sundry know about it might create unnecessary tension. What do you think?’
The Health Officer was a hundred per cent in agreement.
‘That’s the only way, Sir, throw the bodies into pits and bury them. There can’t be a funeral for each deceased,’ the Health Officer said, then warming up, added, ‘At first they go and kill one another, and then expect the government to dispose of their dead too with proper ceremony.’
The Deputy Commissioner looked at the Health Officer through a corner of his eyes, paused for a moment, and then, smiling said, ‘Well, let’s get going. There’s a lot to do,’ and nodding his head got into his jeep.
Ten minutes later he was at the Relief Committee Office, giving a resume of the government plans concerning relief work, before a gathering of prominent citizens: ‘The markets have opened. Four wagons containing charcoal are already in the railway yard. Ten more wagons will have arrived by Tuesday. Twelve hour night curfew will have to continue for some more time, the army pickets and police patrolling will also continue. Dead bodies have been removed and the administration is attending to them. The post offices will reopen this afternoon. A lot of mail has accumulated and cannot be taken in hand. Those heaps of letters have been put outside the General Post Office. But so far as registered letters and parcels are concerned, every effort will be made to sort out and distribute them.’
Sometimes, while speaking, Richard’s face would get flushed and he would appear to be struggling for words like one who is not adept at speech making, but no word or phrase would be superfluous or out of place.
‘We would like public bodies to assist the administration in running the refugee camps. Arrangements have been made for the supply of rations, tents have been pitched as you know. We shall need some doctors, and quite a number of volunteers who can assist us in looking after the refugees.’
As he spoke, Richard’s penetrating eye recognized quite a few faces in the audience, and also sensed their likely reactions to what he was saying. Near the threshold stood the dark and fat Manohar Lal, his arms folded on his chest and a derisive, cynical smile on his lips. He was the very person who, before the commencement of the riots, had come with the delegation of citizens and had shouted all sorts of vituperative things against the government outside his office. He might again give vent to his spleen. There was also Dev Datt, the communist. Richard had twice sent him to jail for his inflammatory speeches among workers against the government, but of late, he had been working for peace in the town and had been trying to get the leaders of political parties together. He would not rake up any other issue. There was also Mr Bakshi, the elderly Congress leader and several others whom he knew, several lawyers whom he recognized. There was also one of ‘our own’ intelligence men, who was both a Congress activist and a functionary of the Socialist Party. This man might be vociferous in raising slogans, swear at the government and even use abusive language.
But Richard saw to it that he confined himself to simple statements and proposals and after giving his resume, promptly sat sown.
Hardly had Richard sat down, when Lala Lakshmi Narain stood up: ‘We assure the Deputy Commissioner Sahib Bahadur that the citizens and all the institutions shall wholeheartedly cooperate with the government. It is our great good fortune that so capable and sympathetic an officer is the head of the administration in the district and is present in our midst.’
Richard got up, took leave of the members of the Relief Committee and left. Lala Lakshmi Narain and some lawyers went running to escort him to his jeep. Thereafter the meeting was over in fifteen minutes.
Suddenly someone was heard shouting near the door:
‘All the toadies have gathered here. Flatterers, sycophants all! I am not in the habit of mincing matters. I tell a fellow to his face what I think of him. Where was the government when the tension in the city was mounting? Couldn’t the curfew be clamped at that time? Where was the Sahib Bahadur then and what was he doing? We talk straight, at a fellow’s face…’ It was Manohar Lal, letting off steam.
But by then the jeep had left.
‘Enough, enough, what do we get by raking up such issues now?’
The members of the Relief Committee were getting up when one of them said to Manohar Lal as he passed by him: ‘What’s the point in abusing the government all the time? What do you gain by it?’
‘O Bakshiji, I am amazed at you, that you too should talk like this. Go home and ply the charkha, or sweep the lanes. You are not cut out for politics.’
‘Why do you shout? Don’t I know that riots are manoeuvred by the British? Hasn’t Gandhiji said so umpteen times?’
‘What were you doing then?’
‘Why, what have we not done? Didn’t we approach the Muslim League to work jointly with us to preserve peace in the city? Didn’t we go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask him urgently to take preventive measures, to station troops and so on, so as to prevent the riot from breaking out? And now when homeless refugees are pouring into the town, what should we do? Should we help them or should we go on abusing the government? Tell us what we should do, the big revolutionary that you are!’
‘I have seen many like you, Bakshiji, don’t force me to speak. Members of the Congress are seeking contracts from the government for supplies to the Refugee Camps.’
‘What am I to do if they are taking contracts?’
‘You have made them honored members of your organization. That’s what you have done. Put them on a pedestal.’
Just then, an activist went over to Manohar Lal and putting his hand round his waist took him out of the room.
‘Let go of me, yaar, I have seen many such fellows. They are all Gandhi’s parrots. Gandhi, sitting in Wardha makes statements, and they go on repeating them. They have no mind of their own. Why was the Deputy Commissioner invited? What business had he to come here?’
But his friend pulled him along right up to the gate. As they reached the gate, Manohar Lal stopped grumbling.
‘Out with a cigarette,’ Manohar Lal said to his friend. ‘Let me have a puff at least.’
Both the friends sat down on a projection near the gate.
Inwardly, Bakshi too had been feeling uneasy.
‘This is the role the British have all along played—they first bring about a riot and then quell it; they starve the people first and then give them bread; they render them homeless and then begin to provide shelter to them.’
Ever since the riots had broken out, Bakshi’s mind had been in a sort of mist. He kept saying to himself again and again that the British had again had the last word, had again had the better of them while his own hold on the situation had been feeble all along.
While Richard was out on his rounds, Liza was in the throes of acute boredom. She left her bedroom and came into the big living room. The rows upon rows of books looked as oppressive as ever before. It appeared to her as though time had stopped and everything was in a state of paralysis. If there was anything alive, it was the wily eyes of the Buddhas and the Bodhisattvas, who, from the dark corners in which they stood, kept looking at her and laying traps for her. She was now scared of even entering the room in the evening. The heads of the statuettes, standing at numerous places, looked to her like so many heads of cobras!
She went into the dining room. The atmosphere here was less oppressive. Here, there were flowers and the light was soft, and the room was free from statuettes and the unbearable burden of books. It had some warmth too because of the soft light; in which a person could relax, and forget a lot, as also remember a lot, as he pleased. Soft light was meant for relaxing, for making love, for sweet hugs and kisses. Liza felt as though her throat was parched and there was a prickly sensation in her eyes. Something was welling up in her again. Her restlessness increased. The coziness of the room soon gave her an appalling sense of desolation, which made her feel all the more restless. She got up, suppressing her sobs and went to the veranda that led to t
he kitchen, and once there, shouted at the top of her voice: ‘Waiter!’
From somewhere far away, making its way through innumerable doors, came the answer: ‘Mem Saab!’
And soon enough, the waiter came running into the Mem Sahib’s presence, a duster on his shoulder. It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon and he could anticipate what the Mem Sahib’s order would be. Mem Sahib gradually lost her patience and self-control any time between three and four-thirty in the afternoon and would shout for him, from wherever she happened to be, at the top of her voice: ‘Get me some beer! Chilled beer!’
Liza, sighing deeply returned to the dining room. She was wearing her house-gown of which the belt had not been tied. In the wilderness in which she lived, beer was her only solace.
When Richard returned home by eight o’clock in the evening, he found Liza dead drunk, and asleep, sprawling on the sofa. There was still some beer left in the bottle standing on the tea-poy. Liza’s head was hanging from the arm of the sofa, her hair covering half her face. The flaps of her house-gown having slipped, her knees lay bare.
‘Damn this country! Damn this life!’ muttered Richard, as he stood in front of the sofa.
On reaching home, Richard would find himself in a different world. It was his private world, his little England, with problems all its own, which were not even remotely related to the outside world. Within the home was his real life. In the outside world he pursued his profession, which was so extraneous to his ‘real’ life. Of course he had his books, his statuettes which belonged neither to one nor to the other world. He would bury himself in his books to forget both the worlds.
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