Two

by Gulzar

  One day, in class, he inadvertently said, ‘Subhash-babu had urged us, “Give me blood and I’ll give you freedom.”’

  Children were excited and shouted, ‘Subhash-babu Zindabad!’ They had often heard this slogan. The headmaster, Stephen Menon, summoned Master Fazal to his office.

  Soon, Master Fazal’s house was raided. It was rumoured that some bomb-making tools were recovered, though no bomb was found.

  The police filed a case. To set an example to the students of the school, the British officer tied him to an easel and got him whipped in the school ground.

  It was quite a sight.

  Master Fazal was tied to the easel in the middle of the ground. The whole school, teachers and students, gathered around. A British officer circled him on horseback. Policemen stood at short distances, their rifles at the ready. A whip lashed his naked back at every command of the officer.

  ‘Keep whipping him till the sun sets,’ ordered the gora and galloped out of the school grounds.

  At that moment, Master Karam Singh emerged from the crowd, screaming. He rushed to shield Master Fazal, bearing the brunt of the lashes himself.

  Suddenly, the congregation erupted in chaos. Everybody leapt forward. The police fired in the air. In the melee, Karam Singh pulled Master Fazal down from the easel and fled, carrying him on his back. He ran into the back lane and knocked on the door of a house that belonged to one of his students. He hid Fazal there.

  For many days after, the police made the rounds of his house in search of Fazlu. Karam Singh would mark attendance on his behalf at the police station. Though the police found no evidence against him and the case was dismissed, Master Fazal was suspended from the school. He had to keep reporting to the police. They would summon him as and when they pleased. Sometimes, it was at Inspector Sharma’s order, other times, Verma’s. Both were stooges of the British. They tried to link him to any untoward incident that took place.

  Master Fazal had two sons. Both of them studied in the same school. In addition to paying their fees, Master Karam Singh organized some tuitions for Fazlu. Students came over to Fazlu’s house to study. His friendship with Karam Singh deepened. Such was the nature of their relationship that neither were there any obligations nor any overt show of gratitude. However, the call for Pakistan embroiled them in a debate.

  Master Fazal talked with wisdom and knowledge of history, while Karam Singh picked up information from newspapers. Karam Singh knew only what he read and what he heard.

  ‘Oye, listen, Fazlu, is the country a slate that Jinnah can break? Is it a slate we can divide between you and me? Does a country break? Oye, Hindustan is one country, na? It’s one land, how can it be broken?’ Karam Singh was a very sentimental man.

  Master Fazal then raised some questions that baffled Karam Singh.

  ‘Okay, tell me, Karme. Remember that land, the one owned by Deendayal? Don’t know how many acres. Wasn’t that divided? Divided into three parts: two parts went to the two sons and one was left for him.’

  ‘But that was a division of the family, Fazaldeen! The land did not break into two!’

  ‘This is the same, Karme. Jinnah is talking about the division of the country, not breaking the land.’

  Somewhat shaken, Karam Singh said, ‘But why, yaar? I have not done anything, nor have you! Why should our land be divided?’

  Gradually, Pakistan began to emerge on the map. It was clear now that Pakistan would have to be created.

  Once, Karam Singh innocently asked, ‘Fazlu, tell me something. If Pakistan is created, will you leave me and go away to Pakistan?’ He did not know that Pakistan was to be created right there, where he lived. When Fazal Master explained which areas were to go to Pakistan, Karam Singh smiled and said, ‘No worries then. First, there were the British. Now my own yaar will rule over me!’

  But when someone declared that Hindus and Sikhs would have to vacate their houses when Muslims migrated from Hindustan, Karam Singh was taken aback. To understand this new issue, he turned to Fazlu.

  Master Fazlu asked Karam Singh, ‘Why would the Muslims come from Hindustan?’

  ‘I never asked that stupid fellow!’

  ‘Karme, this is like the issue of Deendayal’s farm. Nobody is going to lift his land and carry it elsewhere. The land will remain where it is. Only those who till the land will be divided into two. Those who harvest it will be divided. The division takes place because one of them denies the rights of the other. Now, he cannot do so…’

  ‘Okay, what’s the problem then? Why are people screaming that the country has been partitioned? That it has been divided. You tell me, do you want Pakistan? If it’s good for you, I will surely fight for your rights. My yaar wants Pakistan. All right then, Pakistan Zindabad! Tell me, do you want Pakistan?’

  Master Fazaldeen lowered his eyes. He was unable to answer. He was unable to say: ‘These Sharmas and Vermas are after my life and even call me a “sulla”. They humiliate us. That’s why Muslims want Pakistan!’

  Sometimes, Master Fazal offered amazing explanations. Master Karam Singh would say, ‘He has big eyes, he is the wide, open sky, the whole of it. He sees it all.’

  People were sitting on the rooftop, newspapers wrapped around their hand. Master Fazal was saying…

  ‘History is on the rampage, making giant strides. It’s happening right in front of us. The Second World War ended and Germany was broken into two pieces – East Germany and West Germany. The country was divided, but then it divided the people too. Earlier, they were one people, now they are two.

  ‘Six crore thirty lakh people lost their lives for this.’

  In Campbellpur, people would gather around him – like in a chaupal … a long pipe of a gurgling hookah would keep changing hands.

  Master Fazal added this time, ‘Another giant step of history is about to fall here – in Hindustan. Some forces are contemplating another partition, of land and people. Hindustan is to be divided into two and a new country named Pakistan created.

  ‘Once again, millions of lives will be at stake.’

  A hush fell on the gathering.

  ‘A million?’ Nabi whispered as he took a long drag from the hookah.

  He passed on the pipe to Master Fazal, who took a longer and deeper drag. People waited for his next comment.

  Master Fazal cleared his throat before passing the pipe to Rahman.

  ‘This arrogant, conceited history strides ahead with her head in the clouds and never looks down. She does not realize how she crushes millions of people beneath her feet. The common people. She doesn’t understand that one may cut a mountain in two, but people? It’s a hard task, Bhai to cut one people into two. They bleed.’

  A deep sigh coursed through the gathering. Master Fazal said, ‘History will keep on marching like this. The names of a few people will stick to her fabric. She will register those. There was Hitler, there was Mussolini, Churchill and Joseph Stalin, among others. This time, the names may be Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Jinnah, Subhash Bose! But the names of all the lakhs and crores who have lost their lives will be nowhere. They will be mere numbers in which all of us will be included!’

  This time, Fazaldeen took a long breath and said, ‘That is how this arrogant history walks with her head held high. She doesn’t deign to look down and see what she crushes beneath her feet. Doesn’t see that there are people below!’

  A piece of meat was stuck in the cavity of Fauji’s teeth. He was trying to pull it out with matchsticks that were piling up, broken, on the table. His gums started bleeding.

  Lakhbeera said, ‘Let it be, it will come out on its own. After all, it’s just a piece of meat. If it doesn’t come out, it will go in.’

  Pritpal was sitting with them. He said, ‘This is like Tiwari’s daughter-in-law. She is neither welcome in the family, nor thrown out.’

  Fauji had heard the story and looked at him, his eyes flashing. ‘Why are you obsessed with that lady?’ they seemed to say.

  Pritpal lo
oked away at once, picked up the glass and gulped down the drink, got up and left.

  Suddenly, there were loud sounds right outside the one-eyed window.

  Blurting out an abuse, Lakhbeera said: ‘It’s that f***ing Painti-Chhatti. He must have brought some provocative news again.’

  Painti-Chhatti had indeed brought disturbing news. ‘Musalmans have thrown a cow’s head into a Krishna mandir in Mirpur! Riots have erupted in the city. Hindus are running away, abandoning their homes.’

  ‘Where are they running off to?’ somebody asked.

  ‘Towards Hindustan.’

  ‘So where are we? We are in Hindustan, after all. Pakistan hasn’t been created yet.’

  ‘But it will be formed soon, it seems.’

  ‘Who knows where it will be formed. This side or the other side. Is there a place where there are no Muslims?’

  Pakistan had begun to take shape in the minds of the people. Only the declaration was awaited. It looked like there was no going back on the partition now. Even if the leaders wanted to turn the clock back, it was no longer possible. Anyone who tried would be killed.

  Those who had hoped the partition would not happen used to say, ‘Bapu will not allow it. Pakistan will be created on Bapu’s dead body or, if it happens, Bapu will drop dead.’ Those who feared losing their homes did not want the partition. Those who knew they could remain where they were, were ready for it.

  The seeds sown by the British had sprouted thorns which had begun to prick. They were masters of their craft. If Fazal was being hounded by a Verma or a Sharma, Rai Bahadur had a Rahim or a Karim after him. A case had been filed against Rai Bahadur Des Raj, who had a relationship with Panna Bai, the kothe-wali. It was alleged that he had killed Usman Pathan with the help of an English officer named Gary Tomson. Usman had called Panna Bai his concubine and made claims over her earnings. It appears that Gary had a scuffle with Usman after a drink or two, and shot him with a revolver. The revolver belonged to Rai Bahadur. Gary’s ordeal ended with him migrating to England, but Rai Bahadur was left fielding the case. He now had to appear before either Inspector Rahimullah or Sub-inspector Karimullah.

  Rai Bahadur used to wear a Pathani turban over a golden ‘kulla’. A silk shirt with a starched cotton shalwar was his regular dress. He looked every inch a nawab. Inspector Rahim resented that. The first thing he would do whenever Rai Bahadur reported to him was to make him remove his turban and keep it on the table. He mocked him, ‘Wear a topi, Lala, a topi. This turban is for Pathans, not for lalas!’

  If he had his way, Rai Bahadur would have shot both of them. Rahim as well as Karim! But the goras who could help him were on their way out. On his way back from the police station, he would go to Panna’s kotha to get over the trauma. In a way, she was also obliged to him. It was because of him she could save whatever she earned. Otherwise, Usman would have left her with nothing.

  She was the daughter of mirasis. Usman had seen her at a wedding, singing. He enticed her and eloped with her from Amritsar. Got her to recite the Kalma and made her go through a sham nikaah. Alcoholic and debauched as he was, the home soon became a kotha. Usman had another house. In Peshawar, where his wife and two young sons lived. Once, he took Panna Bai there. He got such a thrashing from his father-in-law, he came running back. After this, all earnings from his in-laws ceased and Panna became his sole provider.

  Rai Bahadur sat facing Karimullah. The turban lay to a side. Karimullah asked, ‘Lala-ji, now that the English are leaving, why not return the title of Rai Bahadur? What value will it have after they leave?’

  ‘Let them leave. It will come off on its own. It’s only because I am Rai Bahadur that you ask me to sit. Or else you’d keep me standing!’

  Karimullah broke into a laugh and said, ‘How long, Lala-ji! This case too will go away on its own. Neither will you be here nor will I have any queries.’

  ‘Why?’ Rai Bahadur asked. ‘Where will I go and why won’t you ask questions?’

  ‘You won’t be here once Pakistan is created. You will go away to your country.’

  He did not say ‘Hindustan’.

  Rai Bahadur asked, ‘If Pakistan is created, will you people turn us out?’

  Rahimullah entered the room. He replied, ‘Why would we turn you out, Lala-ji? You are our neighbours, our countrymen. But with all the killings in your country, will the people here remain quiet? If they lose their head, how long can we protect you?’

  Des Raj gaped at him, speechless.

  Karim got up and Rahim took his seat.

  Before Pakistan took shape on the map, it started taking shape in the minds of the people. This was true of both Hindus and Muslims. The untouchables had been similarly alienated centuries ago. This time, it was not the wells and the temples but the land itself that was separated. A division that split identities.

  As the year 1946 approached its end, the borders of the partition started emerging. As the date of independence came closer, freedom seemed to move further away.

  That very evening, when Rai Bahadur dropped in at Panna’s, she was not home. People no longer visited the place as often as they used to. He was greeted by Shamima, the maid. Whenever Rai Bahadur visited, he carried his whiskey in a silver pocket flask. Shamima always made his drink from it.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Rai Bahadur.

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’ Shamima took the silver flask from him and went inside. Rai Bahadur reclined on the divan.

  ‘This hasn’t happened before. She never goes anywhere at this time of the day.’

  Shamima brought him his drink. She sat a little distance away, resting her back against a door.

  ‘The city is drying up, Rai Sahib. I feel I should go back to my village. I am here only for the sake of this girl. Otherwise, she will be left alone.’

  Rai Bahadur turned over to his side against the bolster. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ll go to P’shor. Usman brought me from there.’

  Des Raj sighed. ‘Everyone is talking about leaving. One can feel the tremors on the earth’s surface – waiting to erupt the moment one steps on it.’

  Just then, Jamil Miya turned up. ‘Arre bhai, where is Panna? Doesn’t she sit in the Diwankhana anymore?’

  Shamima shook her head.

  Jamil Miya said, ‘Well, a friend from Britain is visiting and I thought I’ll have him entertained. Shall I bring him over? Or shall I take her? But where has she gone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Shamima.

  ‘Okay. Bring me some paan.’

  Shamima was unable to refuse. After all, he was an old patron. She went in to prepare the paan. Jamil turned to Rai Bahadur. ‘Achha, Rai Bahadur, tell me – will Lahore remain here or will it go to the other side?’

  ‘Where will it go? It will remain where it is.’

  Jamil laughed. ‘Wonderful!’

  Shamima returned. Jamil put some coins on the tray, took the paan and left.

  Rai Bahadur took a long deep breath and muttered, ‘Even lines have begun to be drawn now.’

  That evening, Panna went to see Fauji at the adda.

  Fauji drove Ujagar Singh’s trucks. Ujagar Singh lived somewhere in old Delhi but often visited Campbellpur on work. Though Fauji was an employee, he also had a share in Ujagar Singh’s business. That’s why he enjoyed a different status amongst the truck drivers. At some point, he had been friends with Usman Khan. He used to get crates of Scotch whiskey for Usman from the cantonment at concessional rates and deliver them at the kotha. That was where he first met Panna. He always treated her as Usman’s wife, and was a man of great integrity. He said little but held firmly to what he said.

  Panna had come with what remained of her savings and jewellery, all tied in a little bundle. Fauji was getting himself a massage on the rooftop. He sent the masseur away the moment she arrived and pulled the khes over his tehmad before he sat down. When Panna opened her bundle, he was startled.

  ‘What are you up to? Why have you brought all t
hese to me?’

  ‘Please take me to my parents.’

  ‘Parents…?’

  ‘If only I could go back to the soil I came from. Here, I found neither home, nor my motherland! I have brought whatever is left with me. Take me to the place from where Usman uprooted me … my roots lie scattered, broken.’

  ‘Are you mad, Panna? Is this any time to travel anywhere? Haven’t you heard of all the chaos in the country? You know Ujagar Singh, don’t you, my boss and partner … lives that side. In Dilli. He is stuck there. No news, no letter. Post offices are closed … trains are stranded. I hear, some go halfway and return, while others come halfway and go back…’

  ‘That’s why I have come to you. You keep going to Amritsar.’

  ‘I go up to Ludhiana or Jullundur too. If only there were some way out!’

  Silence lingered between them for a while. Fauji slowly tied the bundle and handed it back to her, placing his hand over hers.

  ‘Don’t worry. If I go, I will definitely take you along … even if I have to take you in potato sacks. Keep this money. It will be useful there if not here.’

  As he stood up, the tehmad threatened to slip. ‘Oye f***—’ He grabbed at it.

  Panna turned her eyes away and left.

  The axe fell right in the middle and the log split into two.

  Master Karam Singh stood in his courtyard, chopping wood. His turban had slid down to his neck. His daughter-in-law came out of the kitchen and said, ‘Bhapa-ji, why are you cutting so much wood? There’s enough.’

  ‘Never mind. It’ll come handy.’

  After a while, tired, he rested the axe against a wall and started to tie his turban properly. Ever since the schools had closed, it was difficult to pass the time. Avtar, his elder son, had gone to meet his sister’s in-laws four villages away. At Derewalan. That is where Karam Singh’s daughter Nikki had been married. Avtar had also taken his mother along. He was to have returned in three or four hours. They may have stopped for lunch, but now evening was upon them.