He sat down at the edge of the sofa and bending forward, kissed Liza on the cheek, as though performing a duty. Her body which he, at times, would clasp to himself with such intense ardour, felt coarse and fleshy and unalluring. Liza was again putting on weight, he thought, and crow’s feet had appeared under her eyes. Boredom was making her obese. On coming home, whenever he would see Liza in that state, his mind would be filled with revulsion.
‘Liza!’ he almost shouted into her ear, and, putting out his hand, brushed aside the tuft of hair on her forehead.
Liza was too drowsy to open her eyes. Seeing that Liza was in no position to go to the dining table to have dinner with him, he thought it would be better to put her to bed; Richard put his right hand under her head and the left one under her knees, and lifted her up. As he did so, Richard felt that Liza’s house-gown was wet under her, and his eyes fell on a roundish patch on the sofa. As he stood, his mind filled with repugnance, Richard shook. his head. ‘The story is beginning to repeat itself,’ he muttered.
Liza had only recently returned from home after spending nearly a year in London. Earlier, she had virtually run away from India out of boredom. ‘She may again run away,’ he was thinking, ‘or I shall have to get myself transferred to some other station.’
Looking at the patch on the sofa, Richard was reminded of a strange coincidence that had occurred, and a smile flickered on his lips. That sofa had been taken by him from Mr Lawrence, the Commissioner when the latter was leaving for Lucknow under transfer orders. When he had removed the cover from the sofa he had noticed an ugly patch on it; the kind of patch that he was seeing then. And he had learnt that the Commissioner’s wife too was a victim of boredom who would, when in her cups, wet the sofa either in a fit of laughter or of crying. The Commissioner too kept getting himself transferred to different stations, till at last his wife had left him and married a young army captain. Richard looked at his wife and again at the sofa. ‘A similar fate awaits this marriage too, it seems,’ he muttered to himself and lifting up Liza, carried her to the bedroom.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Liza had woken up, she had also sobered a little.
‘What is it, Richard? Where are you taking me?’
‘Your gown is wet under you, Liza, I am taking you to your room.’
But Liza did not catch the import of what Richard had said.
He put Liza down into an armchair by the bedside.
‘Shall we have dinner, Liza? Would you like to eat something?’
‘Eat? Eat what?’
Richard felt like holding her by her shoulders and giving her a big shake. That would wake her up at once. But he desisted from doing so. Instead, he kept looking at her, his hands on his waist.
Liza lifted her face, over which her hair had again tumbled.
‘Richard, are you a Hindu or a Musalman?’ she asked and laughed softly. ‘I didn’t know when you came. Have you come home to take lunch or dinner?’
For a moment Richard thought that Liza was being ironical, that she was not as drunk as she was pretending to be. He sat down on the bed in front of her and putting his hand on her arm, said, ‘I have too much work on hand these days, Liza, you must understand. The Grain Market in the city has been burnt down, and no fewer than a hundred and three villages razed to the ground.’
‘One hundred and three villages, and I know nothing about it? Did I sleep that long? Richard, you should have woken me up and told me. Such big events occurred and you did not tell me about them.’
‘Go to sleep, Liza. Change your clothes and go to sleep.’
‘Sit by me. I can’t sleep alone.’
‘Go to sleep, Liza. I have a lot of work to do.’
‘So many villages burnt down, Richard, and you still have work to do? What more is there for you to do?’
Richard stopped short. Is Liza being ironical? Has she developed an aversion for me that she is talking in this vein?
Like any drunk person, Liza too was babbling away, saying whatever came into her head. She got up from the chair and staggered to the bed and sat down close to Richard. She put her arm round Richard’s neck and her head on his chest. No, it cannot be aversion, he thought, she must have uttered these words unconsciously.
‘You don’t love me. I know you don’t love me. I know everything.’
Then, stroking Richard’s hair, said, ‘How many Hindus died, Richard, and how many Muslims? You must be knowing everything. What is Anaj Mandi, Richard?
Richard kept looking at her. ‘The more she drinks, the more unattractive she is becoming,’ he thought to himself. ‘A relationship of this kind cannot last long.’ Richard’s eyes rested on Liza’s face. His feelings towards her were rather indefinable. ‘Why not put an end to this relationship? Snap the marital tie. But this question needs to be viewed in the context of my career, my future prospects. This is a decisive moment in my career. So far I have done extremely well in implementing policies. But at this juncture, a delicate balance has to be maintained; it is extremely necessary to see that the discontent among the people does not explode against the government. People are impressed with my sincerity. They think I am a sagacious and efficient officer. At this time, therefore, it is extremely necessary to keep Liza by my side.’
He bent forward and kissed Liza on her cheek.
‘Listen, Liza,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I have to go to Sayedpur tomorrow, to get a disinfectant sprayed into a well in which many women and children jumped to their death. Why don’t you come along too? It is a lovely drive. From there we can proceed to Taxila. We can have a look at the museum there—it is a unique museum. What do you say? The entire area is very lovely.’
Liza looked at Richard with drowsy eyes. ‘Where do you want to take me for a drive, Richard? Will you take me for a drive through burning villages? I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to go anywhere.’
‘No, no, what’s the point in sticking on at home? The situation is different now. No one can move about freely,’ he said, trying to keep up the pretence of enthusiasm. ‘Now we can go out together. You have not seen the rural area, in these parts, it is lovely. The other day, in Sayedpur itself, while on my rounds I saw a lark. I heard it singing in an orchard. It is true. I never thought a lark was to be found in India. There are several other kinds of birds too, which you couldn’t have seen before.’
‘Is it the same place where women had drowned themselves?’
‘Yes, yes, the same. A stream flows near the well. It is a lovely stream. And across the stream is the fruit orchard.’
A fleeting smile appeared on Liza’s lips; and she kept looking at Richard’s face.
‘What sort of a person are you, Richard that in such places too you can see new kinds of birds and listen to the warbling of the lark?’
‘What is so strange about it, Liza? A person in the Civil Service develops the quality of mental detachment. If we were to get emotionally involved over every incident, administration would not go on for a single day.’
‘Not even when a hundred and three villages are burnt down?’
Richard paused a little and then said, ‘Not even then. This is not my country, Liza, nor are these people my countrymen.’
Liza kept looking at Richard’s face.
‘But you were planning to write a book about these people, Richard, about their racial origin. Isn’t that so?’
‘To write a book is something different, Liza. What has that to do with administration?’
Finding Liza unresponsive, Richard said, ‘Two camps are being set up for the refugees. I told the wife of the Health Officer this morning to take up relief work with other women. I believe you too could lend a hand in that work, collect clothes and things for the refugees, toys, etc. for their children and so on. It will give you a chance to move about…’
Liza still remained silent. Richard again bent forward and kissed her on the cheek, and stroking her hair with his right hand, added, ‘I must be going, Liza. There�
��s a lot of work waiting for me. At this time I should have been in my office.’
And he got up.
‘Shall see you later, Liza. Don’t wait for me. And be ready to go to the villages tomorrow morning. We shall start at eight o’clock.’ He left the room.
For a long time Liza sat looking towards the door. A shiver ran through her, and an oppressive silence again descended over the house.
20
‘I want figures, only figures, nothing but figures. Why don’t you understand? You start narrating an endless tale of woe and suffering. I am not here to listen to the whole “Ramayana.” Give me figures—how many dead, how many wounded, how much loss of property and goods. That is all.’
The functionary of the Relief Committee (or the ‘Statistics Babu’ as he was called) with the register lying open before him, would get impatient with the refugees, would even shout irritably at them, but the refugees were such that they wouldn’t understand. One may keep sitting the whole day long, scribbling in one’s register, yet, at the end of the day, when the figures are summed up and the list finalized, not even two villages might have been covered. Who can make them understand—the Statistics Babu would say—one can’t speak roughly to them, or turn them out of one’s office—they would keep barging in, even if you did—nor do they observe any order, instead of one three refugees would start speaking at the same time—sometimes it would appear to the Statistics Babu as if hundreds of refugees were speaking at the same time, dinning their tales of woe into his ears. But what can one tell them? They have been rendered homeless, ruined and helpless, and have nowhere to go. They all keep bending over his table. If they didn’t start narrating their experiences, it would not take more than a few minutes to collect figures for the entire village. ‘Don’t tell me all this, give me just figures, only numbers,’ but Kartar Singh, the man sitting in front of him with his hands folded, would go on speaking.
‘I told him again; I said, “Imdad Khan, we were once playmates, you seem to have forgotten me.” It is morning time, babuji, I wouldn’t tell an untruth. The fact is, Imdad Khan did not first raise his hand against me.’
The babu was at his wits’ end. He asks for figures, whereas the refugees show him their wounds.
‘The sickle hit me on my forehead and tore this eye of mine. What do you say, babuji, will my eye be cured? My grandfather said, “Ganda Singh, don’t remove the bandage from your eye.” And I have not removed it since.’
These were not figures, these were lamentations.
Another fellow had come and was sitting in the chair in front of him.
The babu, without lifting his eyes from his register, went on asking questions and putting down answers:
‘Name?’
‘Harnam Singh.’
‘Father’s name?’
‘Sardar Gurdial Singh.’
‘Village?’
‘Dhok Elahi Baksh.’
‘Tehsil?’
‘Nurpur.’
‘How many houses belonging to the Sikhs and Hindus?’
‘Only one house. That was ours.’
The babu lifted his eyes. An elderly Sardar was answering his questions:
‘How have you come out alive?’
‘We had very good relations with Karim Khan. In the evening when…’
The babu raised his forefinger, asking him to keep quiet.
‘Any life lost?’
‘No, babuji, my wife and I have come out alive. But our son Iqbal Singh was in Nurpur; we have no news of him. And our daughter, Jasbir Kaur was in Sayedpur. She jumped into the well and is no more.’
The babu again raised his forefinger and the Sardar fell silent.
‘Come straight to the point. Any life lost?’
‘Our daughter died by drowning herself.
‘But she did not die in your village?’
‘No, babuji.’
‘Her death occurred in a different village. Talk only about your own village. Any material loss?’
‘Our shop and house were looted and burnt down. There was one big trunk, it was taken away. There were two gold bracelets lying in it. But I gave away the trunk myself to Ehsan Ali. Rajo, his wife, a very God-fearing woman…’
The babu had again raised his forefinger, and Harnam Singh had become silent.
‘The value of your shop?’
‘Let me ask my wife,’ and turning round he said, ‘Banto, what must be the value of our shop?’
‘Give me total value, including the goods. Hurry up. I have other work to do too.’
‘About seven or eight thousand. There was a piece of land at the back, besides some…’
‘Shall I put down ten thousand?’
‘Yes, I think you may.’
‘Do you want any goods to be recovered?’
‘Yes. There is a gun, babuji, a double-barrelled gun, left with Jalal Din Subedar in Adhiro.’
‘But you are not from Adhiro… You are from Dhok Elahi Baksh.’
‘We had run away from Dhok Elahi Baksh. We walked the whole night. The whole of next day we were in Ehsan Ali’s house. During the next night we again kept walking. In the morning, we were given shelter by Subedar Jalal Din at Adhiro. He is a noble soul. He gave us utensils to cook our own food…’
‘Enough, enough… What is the name of the Subedar and his address.’
Harnam Singh wanted to narrate the whole story of what had transpired at Adhiro. He also wanted that enquiries should be made about the whereabouts of his son, Iqbal Singh. But the babu would have none of it. He kept putting his forefinger to his lips and then dismissed him.
‘You can go now.’
The babu dealing with figures had got what he wanted. He had picked out the grains, the rest was all chaff. Just chaff. But sometimes, the babu could not help lending an ear to what the refugee was saying, the account would be so compelling that it would entice his mind and heart.
‘Why, babuji, it may be that my Sukhwant did not jump into the well. Who knows, she may be still hiding in the village, along with her son. You see, Asa Singh was wounded and I had gone to fetch a charpai from my house. It was then that I saw a large number of women coming out of the gurdwara. Sukhwant was also among them. How could I know where they were going? Her hands were raised high and her wrapper was hanging round her neck. When I came back with the charpai, Sukhwant was standing in the middle of the lane. She had stayed back, she had not gone with the other women; our son, Gurmeet, was standing on the raised platform of the gurdwara. At that time the light in the lane would sometimes become dim. It was because of the flames from the school building which was on fire, which would sometimes flare up and sometimes subside. I noticed that Sukhwant was nervous. She had never been nervous before. She came back, came back to her son. Again when the flames of fire rose, I noticed that she was again standing in the middle of the lane, trembling all over. “Sukho, what are you doing?” I shouted. But then, where was the time to think or say anything. If at that time, Sukhwant’s eyes had fallen on me, she wouldn’t have taken Gurmeet with her. She went towards her son and again stopped short. How could I know what was on her mind? Just then, a loud noise was heard from the outskirts of the village. Slogans of “Ya Ali! Ya Ali!” were heard. And Sukhwant leapt back, picked up Gurmeet in her arms and began running towards the group of women. The last I saw of her, her green wrapper was fluttering in the air and she was turning the corner at the end of the lane. Then she vanished from sight. That is why I say, babuji, it may be my Sukhwant did not jump into the well. It may be she did not take little Gurmeet with her. Who knows, he may be loitering about near the well, babuji, can’t you find out?’
But in the entire episode there were no statistics, no figures. The recovery of living beings was not his job. That was being looked after by Dev Raj—all the work relating to recovery, whether it was jewellery or household goods or living persons.
‘Sardarji,’ the babu said. ‘It is the third time you have come to me, and you repeat the same story ev
ery time you come. It is not my job to listen to all this.’
But the Sardar continued sitting and looking hard at the babu’s face. ‘Clinging to what hope he comes running to me. How can I make him understand that I can do nothing for him in this regard?’
‘Sardarji,’ the babu said in low tones, ‘Next Monday a bus will go to your village. I shall ask Dev Rajji to take you along too. But don’t tell anyone about it; otherwise any number of people would want to go there.’
But to no effect. The Sardar was still going on with his story.
‘If my son is hiding somewhere, on seeing me he will come running to me. Or will shout to me from wherever he is: “Search me out, papa, search me out!” as he used to do at home. Every time I came home, he would hide behind a door and shout, “Search me out! Search me out, papa!”…’
The babu quietly got up from the chair and went out of the office.
It was when one came out and stood on the balcony that one realized what a vast concourse of refugees had gathered in the compound of the Relief Office. The compound was teeming with refugees. They were sitting in groups everywhere, on the raised projection at the back from where the vanaprasthi used to deliver his sermons and expatiate on the grandeur of Vedic religion; refugees were sitting even on the steps.
‘Don’t cry, Ganda Singh,’ the babu heard someone say. An elderly man was trying to console someone, ‘Those that have gone are now in God’s care, dear to the Lord. They have made supreme sacrifice for the Panth. They have become immortal.’
‘Wahe Guru! Wahe Guru!
‘Sat Naam, Sache Padshah!’ three or four Sardars sitting on the steps prayed.
The Statistics Babu was still standing on the balcony when another Sardar, with large eyes and a bulky frame, came over to him. He too had been ‘pestering’ him a good deal. He came and, as was his habit, put his mouth close to the babu’s ear, and said, ‘You said that a bus would leave. When will it leave? I hope it will surely go.’
‘I shall let you know when it leaves, even though it is not part of my job…’
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