‘Why should I have spoken to you?’
‘Aren’t you speaking to me now?’
Parkasho remained quiet for some time, then said softly: ‘Where is my mother?’
‘How should I know where your mother is. She is not in her house.’
A sigh rose from the inner depths of her being and her eyes brimmed with tears. She felt as though her parents had been left far behind and that she would never see them again.
‘Did you set fire to our tenement?’
‘No. People went to burn it down, but I stopped them. I put a lock there.’
His answer comforted her. She slowly lifted her hand and put it on Allah Rakha’s hand which rested on her waist.
Every person coming to the Relief Office had, as it were, brought with him, his bag of experiences. But no one had the ability to assess these experiences or to draw inferences from them. They all stared into vacancy and listened, with their ears pricked to whatever anyone said. A rumour would spread and people in the yard would stand up on their toes, or gather into knots in order to listen to what was being said. No one knew in which direction to turn, or what lay in store for him or her, or the kind of future it would be. It appeared as though a remorseless whirl of events would occur into the vortex of which they would all be sucked, none having either the capacity or the option to stay out, that no one would be able to take into his own hands the reins of his life. They moved about like puppets, when hungry they would put into their mouths whatever they would get, they could cry when tormented by the memory of what had happened to them, and from morning till night would listen to whatever anyone would say.
21
People were gathering in the college hall for a meeting of the Peace Committee. The place chosen for the meeting was, for once, non-controversial—the college was neither of the Hindus, nor of Muslims, it was run by a Christian Mission. The Principal too was not an Indian, he was an American missionary, a very sociable, peace-loving man. There was still time before the meeting commenced; all the prominent citizens, of all shades of opinion and party affiliations had been invited. Quite a few had already arrived and strolled up and down the long veranda exchanging views or stood inside the hall, lost in discussions.
The short-statured property dealer was saying to Sheikh Nur Elahi: ‘This is the right time to strike a bargain. Property prices are low. But soon they will begin to rise. I am the one who should know. If you have any intention of buying property, this is the time.’
‘The prices may fall further,’ the Sheikh commented.
‘They have already touched rock-bottom. How much more can they fall?’ the property dealer said. ‘Earlier I had myself sold land at Rs 1500 per ahata. The same ahata, in the same locality is now available at Rs 750.’ Then, putting his hand on the Sheikh’s elbow, and standing on his toes, added, ‘When conditions become peaceful, will the land-prices go up or come down?’
‘I shall think it over.’
‘Do. But do not keep thinking indefinitely. Earlier too you missed good bargains.’
After the riots a strong trend had set in—Muslims were keen to move out of Hindu localities, and likewise, Hindus and Sikhs from predominantly Muslim localities.
‘I shall try to bring down the price by another hundred rupees. This is a good bargain. You were keen to buy a house on the main road in a Muslim locality. Weren’t you?’
‘Yes, yes. I shall let you know soon.’
Had Sheikh Nur Elahi continued to stand there for another two minutes, there was every danger that the deal might have been struck; but he had succeeded in shaking off Munshi Ram, the property dealer and gone and joined the group of Municipal Councillors. For a while Munshi Ram continued to stand where he was, then he moved slowly over to Babu Prithmi Chand.
‘The house adjoining yours is on sale, Babuji.’
‘You call that pigsty a house?’
‘Even if it is a pigsty I would advise you to buy it. It is going darned cheap. You can pull it down and rebuild it as part of your house.’
‘What if Pakistan is formed?’
‘Oh, go on, Babuji, these are only gimmicks of the politicians.’ Then lowering his voice, added, ‘Even if it is formed, people are not going to run away from their homes.’
Munshi Ram did not want the day to pass without a bargain. It was not always that so many well-to-do people got together at one place.
Babu Prithmi Chand’s reaction was different: ‘When conditions become normal, no one would like to leave the locality he has been living in.’
‘Get such thoughts out of your mind, Babuji,’ said Munshi Ram.
‘No Muslim wants to live in a Hindu mohalla any longer. This is as sure as daylight. Whether Pakistan comes into being or not, this is sure as daylight.’
As he saw Lakshmi Narain approaching from a distance, Sheikh Nur Elahi remarked jokingly: ‘So you too have come, karar.’
As he drew closer, Sheikh Nur Elahi said more loudly, ‘So, you saw to it that the riot broke out. You couldn’t rest content otherwise.’
People standing around, laughed. Sheikh Nur Elahi and Lala Lakshmi Narain were on informal terms, both had studied together in the local Mission School, both were cloth merchants.
‘There is no trusting a karar, I tell you.’
On seeing them talking so cordially to one another, Sardar Mohan Singh who was standing on one side, said to the person standing close to him: ‘Come what may, ultimately we all have to live here. There may be ups and downs and fits of frenzy, but the reality is that all of us have to live here. Small tensions are of little consequence; even the utensils in a kitchen keep striking against one another. Neighbours too have quarrels, but the fact remains that all of us have to live here. To think of it, a neighbour is like one’s right hand.’
Both embraced each other. Deep inside, both were fanatics, but since they had been playmates in their younger days they had retained an air of friendly relations with each other. In times of need they would be helpful to each other too. But it was difficult nonetheless to fathom whether Sheikh Nur Elahi’s words were spoken in jest or were an expression of sheer hatred for the Hindus.
And then, added softly: ‘I got your bales shifted from the godown.’
Lakshmi Narain smiled. Thereupon Nur Elahi added jocularly: ‘At first, I said to myself, let the karar’s bales be put to flames, but then, something within me said, “No, a friend is a friend after all.”’
To people standing around such encounters among friends made a very pleasant and favourable impression.
Nur Elahi was saying, ‘It was not easy to get coolies that night. My son did not know what to do. But I said to him, “By whatever means you can, get the bales shifted, otherwise the Lala will make life hell for me.” Eventually, he managed to get two coolies from somewhere.’
Both of them laughed.
The jocularity, coupled with a measure of consideration for each other, was all very well, only it lacked sincerity. Within their hearts lurked aversion, even hatred. But both were elderly, worldly-wise businessmen, who knew well enough that they needed each other.
Standing on the steps facing a lawn, Hayat Baksh was describing the locality of some town to a Sardar: ‘In the evening when the lights would go up, the whole town would be lit up, the seaside, the roads, all looked so resplendent like a newly-wed bride.’
‘Whose panegyric are you singing, Hayat Baksh?’
‘It is Rangoon I am talking about. What a city! I was there during the war days. How can I describe it to you?’
Men from different communities were purposely avoiding any reference to the riots in their conversation. Otherwise who would talk about a town as pretty as a bride in the context of burning villages and the Grain Market in flames?’
At some distance from them, standing in the midst of a group, Babu Prithmi Chand was saying in his sharp, squeaky voice: ‘I said to them, “Fools that you are, do you think, by putting up an iron gate at the entrance to your lane, you will beco
me any the safer? Talk sense,” I said to them, “If an outsider will be prevented from coming in, a resident of the locality too, out on an errand, will find it difficult to come in. By getting the iron-gate fixed, you will be putting up a prison wall for yourselves. Talk sense,” I said.’
In another part of the veranda, Lala Shyam Lal had caught hold of the Statistics Babu and was taking him to one side: ‘You have to listen attentively to what I tell you. Let us sit down on this bench and talk.’
Both sat down. The Lala put his mouth close to the babu’s ear and said, ‘Who will be the Congress candidate for the Municipal Elections from our ward?’
‘I don’t know, Lalaji, at present everyone is engaged in relief work.’
‘Not everyone. Only you are engaged in relief work. But you must have heard something.’
‘No, Lalaji, I have not heard anything so far. But I doubt very much if under the prevailing conditions the Municipal Elections will at all take place.’
‘Affairs of the world do not come to a stop. I have already met the Deputy Commissioner. Elections will be held after two months. June 15 is the date fixed for filing in nominations. Therefore there is not much time left.’
‘I plead ignorance, Lalaji, I am sorry.’
‘One should go about in the world with eyes and ears open, son. Men of my generation will not be here for long now; it is you who have to take over.’ Then putting his mouth close to the babu’s ear, added, ‘I am standing for elections.’
The babu turned round and looked at the Lala’s face.
‘My information is that Mangal Sen will get the Congress ticket from our ward.’
‘But Lalaji, what for should you need the Congress ticket?’
But hardly had he put the question, when the babu, as in a flash, understood the change that had occurred in the situation. If a Hindu stood for elections now, he would need the support of the Congress, likewise if a Muslim stood for elections, he would need the support of the Muslim League. Such a polarization had taken place. Lala Shyam Lal was not an activist of the Congress. He was close to the Congress only to the extent of wearing clothes made from material resembling khadi.
‘What will be left of the Congress image if it gives tickets to such fellows?’ and again putting his mouth close to the babu’s ear he said, ‘He runs a gambling den. He runs two such dens. He is hand in glove with the police in running those dens. He dances attendance on Gandhiji and Pandit Nehru when they visit the town, but that does not make him a genuine Congress worker. He does not even wear khadi.’
‘He does,’ said the Statistics Babu.
‘It is only recently that he has started wearing khadi. He never wore it earlier. Nobody wears khadi in his house.’
Finding in the babu a patient listener, Lalaji went on: ‘He drinks beer. If you don’t believe me, go to the club in the Company’s Garden any evening and see for yourself. His father too was an addict.’ Thereupon, the Lala, twisting his facial muscles into a scowl, said venomously, ‘His father had a carbuncle, and he died of that carbuncle. This fellow too will one day die of carbuncle.’
The Statistics Babu did not know what exactly a carbuncle was, but he was surprised why Lalaji felt so bitter about Mangal Sen.
‘If I were to expose him, the fellow would be stark naked before the public in one day, but I say what’s the point, it is his own business how he lives. But then, he should not cheat people, throw dust into their eyes.’
‘But Lalaji, Mangal Sen is a member of the District Congress Committee, whereas you are not even a four-anna member of the Congress. How can you claim a ticket from the Congress?’
‘Who is asking for a ticket? All that I want is that the Congress should not put up its own candidate from this ward. If anyone wants to stand for election, let him stand in his individual capacity.’
Close to where they sat, Lala Lakshmi Narain was enquiring about some herbal medicine from Hayat Baksh. Hayat Baksh knew about some medicinal herbs, as for instance, about the herb that cured stone in the bladder; he would prepare the medicine himself and give it free of charge but would not disclose the prescription to anyone, since he was of the firm belief that a medicine lost its efficacy if the prescription was given out or if the person made money out of it.
Ranvir, Lala Lakshmi Narain’s son had sprained his foot. While running, his foot had fallen into a gutter, his knees too had been badly bruised. Hayat Baksh listened patiently about the boy’s ailment and then said, ‘No, no, no oil massage. This oil has a cooling effect. I have got some oil which Ashraf had brought from Lahore. That will relax the boy’s nerves. I shall send it on to you. Don’t worry; the boy will get well soon.’
Then, lowering his voice, said confidentially, ‘How did the boy sprain his foot?’ Then, lowering his voice still further, added, ‘I hear he has been taking part in some Youth Organization.’ Then, without waiting for Lakshmi Narain’s answer, said, ‘Do as I tell you. Send him away for a few days. There is a danger of arrests being made.’
Lala Lakshmi Narain pricked his ears but did not betray any nervousness.
‘He is only a child, barely fifteen years of age. What can a child do?…’ he said, but he made a mental note of the suggestion that the boy should be whisked away somewhere for a few days.
Close to the college gate, two college peons sat on a bench talking to one another. One said to the other: ‘We poor people are such ignorant fools, we go breaking one another’s head. These well-to-do people are so wise and sensible. They are all here, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs. See how cordially they are meeting one another.’
The representatives of almost all the political parties had arrived, except Bakshi who was being awaited. Dev Datt was happy at heart that at last, going from house to house, he had succeeded in getting all the leaders under one roof. His organizational skill was again manifest, in the way, at the very commencement of the meeting, he had proposed the name of Mr Herbert, the Principal of the Christian College, as the chairperson for the meeting. Mr Herbert, an elderly person, an American, had taught three generations of local students; he was not an Englishman, nor was he a Hindu, Sikh or Musalman. In the midst of loud applause, he came and sat down in the President’s chair. People from the veranda sauntered into the hall one by one and took their seats. Just then a heated argument started between a young Muslim League Member and a Congress activist.
The Muslim League Member sprang up on his feet and shouted: ‘No one can stop us from achieving the goal of Pakistan. Bakshiji, (who had in the meanwhile arrived) had better give up this farce, once and for all and admit that the Congress is the organization of the Hindus, and I shall hug him to my heart. The Congress cannot speak for the Muslims; the Congress does not represent the Muslims.’
Such an utterance used to be heard frequently enough even before the riots. Just then another raised the slogan: ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’ This was followed by many voices shouting: ‘Silence! Silence!’
Mr Herbert stood up:
‘Gentlemen, at this delicate juncture, we should all strive together to improve the atmosphere in the town. Eminent personalities of the town are present here. Their voices will be heard with respect by the people. I am of the view that a Peace Committee should be set up here and now and that the members of the Peace Committee should go into every mohalla, into every locality of the town and spread the message of peace. The Peace Committee should comprise of representatives of all the political parties. I believe a bus could be arranged, fitted with a microphone and loudspeaker, in which representatives of all political parties could go from place to place making a fervent appeal for peace. This will have a salutary effect.’
The proposal was greeted with loud applause.
Suddenly a person stood up. It was Shah Nawaz: ‘I shall make the necessary arrangement for the bus.’
There was again a loud applause. Dev Datt came forward and said, ‘We learn that the arrangement for the bus will be made by the government.’
Again, there was loud ap
plause. Shah Nawaz was still standing: ‘I shall pay for petrol,’ he said.
‘O Fine! Bravo! Wonderful!’
At this another person got up and said, ‘Gentlemen, before drawing up the programme, won’t it be better to set up a regular committee, elect the office-bearers and proceed in a systematic manner?’
That was a danger signal—the question of elections was being raised. Dev Datt immediately stepped forward and said, ‘I propose there should be three vice presidents of this Peace Committee. I propose the names of Janab Hayat Baksh…’
‘Please wait!’ someone shouted. ‘Let us first decide about the number of vice presidents we should have, whether three or more or less. I would propose that there should be five vice presidents. The more vice presidents we have, the more representative will the Peace Committee be.’
A Sardarji raised his hand: ‘Let the number of vice presidents remain three: one Hindu, one Muslim and one Sikh. The Executive Committee may be expanded to accommodate as many persons as you like.’
‘The question of Hindu and Muslim should not be raised here. This is a Peace Committee.’ Dev Datt was again on his feet. ‘Eminent leaders from all political parties should be included. My proposal is: Janab Hayat Baksh from Muslim League, Bakshiji from the Congress and Bhai Jodh Singhji from the Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee should be elected as vice presidents.
One person got up:
‘If representation on the Peace Committee has to be on the basis of political parties, then I would propose that presidents of all the three political parties should ipso facto be on the Committee in their capacity as presidents. Their names should not be mentioned.’
Lala Lakshmi Narain was on his feet.
‘I am deeply pained to see that you have named three political parties but forgotten the Hindu Sabha. Isn’t it a political party too?’
‘No. Hindu Sabha is not a political party.’
‘If it is not a political party, then the Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee is also not a political party.’
Five or six persons got up, all together.
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