Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  ‘It is an insult to the Sikh community. The Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee alone represents the Sikhs.’

  Dev Datt leapt forward again:

  ‘Gentlemen, this will not lead us anywhere; and we shall not be able to do any work. We have to fight against communal elements. It is not important who gets the representation. What is important is that the Peace Committee becomes the joint forum of all communities, so that all of us, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, can issue an appeal for peace from a joint platform. Keeping this in view I propose that Janab Hayat Baksh, Bakshiji and Bhai Jodh Singhji be elected as vice presidents of the Peace Committee.’

  ‘Agreed! It is right. Now move to the next item.’

  A voice was heard. Someone clapped. And then there was more clapping and thus no chance was given to anyone opposed to the proposal to raise his voice. The proposal was adopted unanimously.

  Master Ram Das got up:

  ‘For the post of general secretary I propose the name of Comrade Dev Datt. He is a tireless worker; it is thanks to his efforts that we have all assembled here today. The next few days are going to be rather challenging. The Peace Committee will have to be very alert and persevering. Comrade Dev Datt is eminently suited for this post.’

  ‘Are all other young men dead in the town?’ It was Manohar Lal, standing near the door with his arms folded on his chest.

  ‘I want to know if this work can only be done by lackeys of the British government and traitors of the nation, the communists? Are there no suitable young men left in the town? As a mark of protest, I refuse to participate in the deliberations of the meeting.’

  And he turned round to walk out of the hall.

  ‘Wait, Manohar Lal. Don’t behave like a child. Allow some work to be done.’

  But Manohar Lal, still in his tantrums, shouted back: ‘Let me be. I have seen many like him. Manohar Lal is not afraid of anyone. We talk straight at a fellow’s face.’

  But some young Congress members held him back. One of them put his arm around Manohar Lal’s waist, lifted him up and lugged him back into the hall.

  ‘All toadies of the government have gathered here. I know each one of them.’

  ‘Silence! Silence!’

  ‘I second the name of Comrade Dev Datt.’

  ‘I support him.’

  Loud applause. Once again the meeting appeared to proceed smoothly.

  But when it came to the election of Working Committee members all sorts of names began to be thrown up—Lakshmi Narain, Mayyadas, Shah Nawaz. Suddenly some Muslim members got up all together and went towards the door. At their head was Maula Dad.

  ‘Hindus are in a majority on this Committee. We cannot work on such a Committee. This meeting is nothing but a trickery of the Hindus.’

  Ten persons, including Dev Datt ran after them to dissuade them from walking out of the meeting. There was quite a scene near the door for some time. Eventually, a formula was evolved for the election of members to the Working Committee, viz, that the Committee, consisting of a total of fifteen members will have on it, seven Muslims, five Hindus and three Sikhs. A discussion ensued which went on for a long time, so much so that people began to grow tired. In the end, the formula was accepted and Lala Lakshmi Narain, was also included, as also Mangal Sen, Shah Nawaz and quite a few others. Poor Lala Shyam Lal’s name was not proposed by anyone. He kept pulling at the Statistics Babu’s coat for a long time but the latter continued to waver and vacillate. At last Lala Shyam stood up:

  ‘I would request that I too should be permitted to serve on this Committee.’

  ‘All the seats have been filled. Please sit down,’ said Mangal Sen.

  Another gentleman got up.

  ‘I see no harm if one more Hindu, one Sikh and one Muslim are added to the Committee.’

  ‘This cannot be done.’ Mangal Sen said again, ‘How can you go on adding more and more names?’

  The matter was still under discussion when the blaring sound of a loudspeaker was heard and Comrade Dev Datt went over to where the president sat, and addressing the audience, said, ‘Gentlemen, the bus for Peace is here. We shall set out on our mission right from here and now. I would request that besides the president and the vice presidents all those who wish to come along are most welcome. Please get into the bus. As you know, a loudspeaker has been fitted into the bus. The bus will keep stopping at regular intervals on the way, and our eminent leaders, by turns, will address the citizens and appeal to them to maintain peace in the city.’

  The meeting dispersed, people began stepping out.

  The bus for Peace stood there in all its glory, pink and white stripes painted on it. On the roof of the bus, at both ends, facing the road, fluttered the flags of the Congress and the Muslim League. Two amplifiers, one in front and the other at the back of the bus, had been fitted. ‘Put up a Union Jack too on the bus,’ shouted Manohar Lal sarcastically. As the members came out, the air resounded with slogans: ‘Long Live Hindu Muslim Unity!’

  ‘Peace Committee Zindabad!’

  ‘Hindus and Muslims are one!’

  The bystanders peered into the bus to see who it was that was raising the slogans. On the seat next to that of the driver sat a man, holding a microphone in his hand. Many did not recognize him, but some did. Nathu was dead, or he would have recognized him at once. It was Murad Ali, the dark-complexioned Murad Ali, with bristling moustaches, his thin cane lying between his legs, peering to the right and left with his small ferretty eyes and raising slogans with all the passion at his command.

  There was a brief discussion before they set out on their Peace Mission—who should sit in which seat and who should be the first speaker, and which slogans were to be raised.

  The Presidents of the Congress and the Muslim League sat, not one behind the other, but side by side, on the seats behind the driver.

  For some time there was confusion. The bus had got heavily crowded partly because some people intended to get down on the way near their houses. Manohar Lal was still throwing tantrums.

  ‘I refuse to sit in a bus in which a communist, a traitor to the country, is sitting.’

  Dev Datt, who was standing on the footboard of the bus, said: ‘Manohar Lal, we don’t mince matters. We are not the tail of the Congress. We are professional revolutionaries. We are working to bring about peaceful conditions in the town and to that end it is necessary to bring together the leaders of all the parties, including your party of which you are the sole follower. We too know who is what; but the need of the hour is to bring all parties on one platform.’

  ‘The peace you are talking about,’ said Manohar Lal sardonically, ‘has already been brought about by your British master. It was he who instigated the riots, now it is he who is working for peace.’

  Standing in the veranda Lala Shyam Lal had begun canvassing for support for the forthcoming Municipal Elections for which he was standing from such and such a ward. In the meanwhile Mangal Sen had jumped into the bus and had gone and sat down in one of the front seats. On seeing him, Lala Shyam Lal, piqued in the extreme, whimpered. ‘No one tells me to get into the bus, no one asks me,’ and lunged forward, and pushing his way through the bystanders climbed into the bus, breathing hard.

  Sitting beside the president of the Muslim League, Bakshiji was looking towards the road, but was feeling extremely sad.

  ‘Kites shall hover, kites and vultures shall continue to hover for long…’

  Just then, Murad Ali, sitting next to the driver, began raising slogans and in the midst of resounding slogans the Peace Bus set out on its Peace Mission.

  Sitting opposite each other in the soft, mellow light of the dining room, Richard and Liza sat ruminating over their future plans. Liza had regained her composure. Richard too had little work to do that day. Life in the town had begun to move, more or less, on an even keel. Junior officers had assumed control of their departments.

  ‘I had very much wanted to continue living here, do a bit of work in the Taxila museu
m; study the genealogy of the local inhabitants, but it doesn’t seem likely that I shall live here for long.’

  Liza was inwardly pleased to hear the tidings.

  ‘Will you be transferred? Will you be promoted, Richard?’

  Richard smiled. He did not say anything.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me? Are you really going to be promoted?’

  ‘It is not a question of promotion, Liza. If there are disturbances in a place, the government usually effects a change of personnel at the higher level, senior officers are transferred and new officers sent in.’

  ‘Shall we have to leave soon?’

  ‘Perhaps. I do not know for certain.’

  ‘But you said you wanted to live here, to work in the Taxila museum, didn’t you? To write your book…’

  Richard shrugged his shoulders. He then lighted his pipe and, stretching his legs under the table, said, ‘Wherefrom should I begin?’

  ‘Begin what, Richard?’ said Liza, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘You wanted to know about the developments that had taken place here, didn’t you?’

  This time it was Liza who shrugged her shoulders, as though to say, ‘You may or may not, Richard. It makes little difference.’

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  First published by Penguin Books India 2001

  Copyright © Bhisham Sahni 2001

  Front cover: Scene from the TV film Tamas based on the novel by Bhisham Sahni, produced by Govind Nihalani

  All rights reserved

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book.

  ISBN: 978-01-4306-368-1

  This digital edition published in 2013.

  e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-731-6