by Gulzar
We had reached Wagah.
The sun was setting. With great pomp and ceremony, the flags of both countries were brought down. There were a few people on that side and some on our side. Film star Raj Babbar joined us. Noted human rights activist and lawyer from Pakistan Asma Jahangir was expected to join them on the other side. But she couldn’t come as her government had imposed restrictions on her.
At midnight, all of us lit our candles. Some photographs were taken. Slogans of Indo-Pak friendship were raised. We came back, a lump in our parched and choked throats.
We were expected to return to Delhi the next day. But
I wanted to go back to Sialkot. And so, I broached the subject again.
‘Nayar sahab, when your mother said she saw him in her dreams, did you ever ask her what Pir sahab looked like, about his face and appearance?’
Nayar sahab’s mood had changed by now. He smiled and said, ‘I started my career in investigative journalism. Of course, I asked her these details. And, indeed, I found him to be exactly as Mother had described him.’
‘Found him? Meaning…? You met him, that is…?’ I couldn’t quite find the words for what I wanted to ask.
But he smiled and said, ‘It was in 1975, when Mrs Indira Gandhi had declared the Emergency in India, and several political leaders and intellectuals had been arrested. I was one of them. That day was also a Friday, 24 July 1975. I was imprisoned in Tihar Jail. I was told it was only a temporary confinement. I would be released in a few days, they said. When I asked who had ordered my arrest, the warden – without taking any names – simply said: “Madam.” A few days passed but when there seemed to be no sign of my release, I asked the warden if I could send for some of my books and papers. The kind man agreed and also arranged for a table and table lamp.
‘Gradually, as time passed and my hopes of being released began to dwindle, one day I asked him: “When will I be released?”’
I was silent, and Nayar sahab too looked at me quietly. We were sitting in the lounge of Amritsar airport. Suddenly, it struck me and I said: ‘Asked him? Who? Whom did you ask?’
Perhaps he was waiting for this question. He said,
‘Pir sahab.’
‘And…?’
‘He came to me in my dream. He had a long white beard and was dressed in a flowing green robe. Just as Mother had described him. I don’t remember if his head was covered or not…’
‘And then?’
‘He said I would be released by the following Thursday.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes … he said: “I feel very cold, son. Give me your chadar.”’
Nayar sahab laughed.
‘And your release … I mean … did it happen on Thursday?’
‘No. I was very restless all day on Thursday. It isn’t as though I was badly off inside the prison but I was anxious about Pir sahab’s promise. I don’t know why I wanted the dream to come true. As always, I worked till late in the night and woke up late the next morning.
‘That day was a Friday again, 11 September 1975. The warden came and told me that the orders for my release had come. Incredulously, I asked: “When did they come?” He said, “The papers had come last night but by the time I came on duty it was quite late. You were working at your table and you have told us not to disturb you when you are working…”
‘I asked the warden loudly and clearly, “Yesterday? The orders came yesterday, that is, on Thursday?”
‘A bit warily, the warden replied, ‘Yes … did you have prior information?” Happily, I told him, “Yes, I had been informed.”’
That was not the end of the story. Nayar sahab continued, ‘When I told Ma about it, she said to me, “Go to Sialkot and offer a chadar at Pir sahab’s grave. He must really be cold.” Ma’s eyes were moist. I couldn’t go right away. Getting a visa wasn’t easy those days. Mother passed away in 1980 and it became all the more important to take a chadar for Pir sahab. By the time I eventually reached Sialkot, the entire area had undergone a sea change. Other people had come to live in what used to be our house. Several small shops had come up in the open space in front of it. In fact, there seemed to be a thriving market there. And I could not see the grave anywhere. I could only guess the approximate location of the peepal tree. But now there was neither the peepal nor the grave…
‘There was a shopkeeper whom I met several days in a row. He kept telling me that he had not seen a grave there. I was about to return when, one day, I met that same shopkeeper outside the market.
‘“Whose grave is it? Who are you looking for?” he asked me.
‘I told him, “It was a Pir sahab’s grave; my mother had great faith in him.” A bit sheepishly, he said, “Indeed there was a grave here; it was right next to my shop. We were refugees. All we had was the shop; it was a very cramped place. So, we removed the grave and took over the space so that we could live there.”
‘I came back. One day I went to the dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya and offered the chadar, the same one that I had taken with me to Sialkot.’
‘Did he ever come in your dream again?’ I asked.
‘No. Several times during difficult moments I have hoped that he would come in my dreams, that I could ask him things and he would give me answers. But he never came again. I think, like my mother, he has gone away. He too has found mukti.’
LoC
AFTER THE 1948 skirmish, the armed forces had more or less settled down for good along the Indian border. The barracks had become pucca and so had the bunkers. In the years leading up to 1965, it had almost become a tradition for armed battalions to come, settle down, only to be sent off again elsewhere. Life on the border had developed a rhythm of its own. Along with fiery rhetoric on both sides, the cross-border firing had become routine. In fact, whenever a minister came touring the area, it was normal for the forces stationed nearby to indulge in some firing. At times, they would enter some village and walk off with some sheep or goat; on such nights, there would be a feast at their camp. And when some civilians were killed, the newspapers got their headlines and the leaders got material for their speeches. The LoC crackled like a livewire.
When things got really bad in this mutual playacting, it would seem as though everyone had given up on basic courtesies and etiquette. Relations would turn cold. To bring the warmth back, both sides would indulge in some fireworks and blood would flow hot once again. Some soldiers would be killed on this side and some on that. The headlines would be all about the numbers: five killed here, seven there. Mere statistics.
The bunkers belonging to the two sides were not far from each other. And sometimes when someone sang a plaintive mahiya from the hillock on that side,
Do patar anara de
Saadi gali lang mahiya
Haal puch ja bimaraan de…
O Beloved
For once come to my lane
And ask how this sick man is faring
…a soldier from this side would respond:
Do patar anara de
Pehre nahi hathde chana
Tere bhede bhede yaaran de…
How do I reach you, beloved
Your wicked lovers
Have their guards all around you
The hillocks facing each other were barely a shoulder’s width apart. If they could bend, they might even be able to hug each other. The muezzin’s call on that side could be heard here, and the one from here could be heard there.
Major Kulwant Singh had once even asked his junior captain, ‘Oye, didn’t we hear the azaan just a while ago; how come it is coming again after half an hour?’
Majeed had laughed. ‘Sir, it’s coming from the other side! Pakistan time is thirty minutes behind us.’
‘So whose azaan do you follow to pray?’
‘Whichever suits me on a given day, sir!’ He saluted and left.
Kulwant said to himself that there was something about Captain Majeed, for he had endeared himself so quickly. His smile spoke in such a manner as
though he had known him since his childhood and grown up holding Kulwant’s hand.
One night, Captain Majeed Ahmad sought permission to enter his tent. He had brought a tiffin box with him.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s meat, sir, cooked in my home.’
Kulwant kept his glass at a small peg table and got to his feet.
‘Oh? Why did you think of bringing this today?’
‘Today is Baqreid, sir. This is sacrificial meat; you will have it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, why not?’
Kulwant opened the tiffin box himself and said, as he helped himself to a piece of bhuna gosht, ‘Make a drink for yourself.’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Come on … have a drink. And … Eid Mubarak!’ With a piece of meat in one hand, he embraced Majeed three times in the customary Eid greeting.
‘There was a time when Phatto Masi used to make this with black gram for me. She was Mushtaq’s mother … they lived in Saharanpur. Have you ever eaten spicy black gram with bhuna gosht?’
Majeed was about to say something but stopped himself. After a pause, he said, ‘My sister has made it.’
‘She’s here? In Kashmir?’
‘Sir, she is here but…’
‘But what?’
‘She is in Zargul … on the other side.’
‘Arre!’ Kulwant was sucking at the piece of meat with his right hand, while with his left hand he poured a glass of whisky and offered it to Majeed.
‘Cheers … and Eid Mubarak once again! So how did your sister send this across…’
Majeed looked a bit uncomfortable. Kulwant asked him sternly, in typical military style, ‘Did you go to the other side?’
‘No, sir, never! Of course not!’
‘Then?’
‘My brother-in-law is a lieutenant-commander on the other side. My sister came to meet him. She sent it across.’
Kulwant picked his glass and took a sip. He closed the tiffin box and turned to stand directly in front of Majeed.
‘How did you manage that? What arrangements did you make?’
Majeed remained silent.
‘What’s the bandobast that you have worked out?’
Hesitantly, Majeed said, ‘There are several people in the village below whose homes are on this side but fields are on the other. In the same way, there are several villages that side whose homes and fields are divided. And families too, as well as relatives.’
More than the words, it was Captain Majeed’s voice that sounded true. After a while, when Kulwant took out some more meat on his plate, Majeed continued: ‘The commander on that side is a friend of yours, sir! I read one of your articles and that is how I know.’
Kulwant Singh froze. Immediately, one name sprang to his mind, and when Majeed took that name, tears came to his eyes.
‘Mushtaq Ahmad Khokhar … from Saharanpur.’
Kulwant’s hand trembled. He went to stand beside the window of the tent. Outside, some soldiers were marching across the camp, their steps rising and falling in perfect unison.
Majeed spoke in a low voice, ‘Commander Mushtaq Ahmad is my sister’s father-in-law, sir.’
‘What the…! Your sister is married to Naseema’s son?’ Naseema was Mushtaq’s wife.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oye, you…’ Kulwant blurted out, but could say no more for his throat was choked. He raised the glass, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Kulwant and Mushtaq were both from Saharanpur and had studied together at the Doon College. They had both trained at the Doon Military Academy. Mushtaq’s Ammi and Kulwant’s Biji were fast friends. Then the country was divided, and so was the army. Mushtaq went away to Pakistan with his family whereas Kulwant stayed on. And the two families never met each other again.
A few days later, Kulwant took a junior officer along and, far away from the camp, in the shadow of a hill, he contacted Mushtaq on the wireless. Needless to say, Mushtaq was taken aback; but after the initial surprise, the two friends exchanged the choicest abuses in Punjabi, so much so that their hearts opened up and their eyes began to fill up.
Finally, when they had both caught their breath, Kulwant asked, ‘How is Phatto Masi?’
Mushtaq told him that Ammi had become very old. Her dearest wish was that she could travel to the shrine of the Sufi Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti and make an offering with her own hands. ‘Day and night she pines for the fulfilment of her wish. But Rabiya can’t leave the children to go with her. You don’t know Rabiya…’
‘I know Rabiya; she is Majeed’s sister, isn’t she?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Majeed is my junior…’
‘Oye!’ There was another shower of expletives accompanied by more tears.
‘Oye, look after him…’ Mushtaq said in a choked voice.
And then the two decided that Mushtaq would somehow arrange to send Ammi to Wagah. From there, Kulwant’s wife Santosh would come to take her to their home in Delhi. She would then take her on the pilgrimage to Ajmer and afterwards leave her in Saharanpur with Biji. They would spend some good time together. A great burden lifted from Mushtaq’s chest.
And then one day a message came from Mushtaq … Ammi’s visa had come through. Kulwant fixed a date for Santosh to come to the border. All the arrangements were in place. He only had to inform Mushtaq.
But that very day the defence minister showed up at the LoC and displays of strength began on both sides. Kulwant knew that this squall would pass in a couple of days. So what if he was not able to make contact over the wireless? It was only a matter of going to the village down the hill and sending someone across with a message. Majeed knew how to do that.
Still, the nagging worry did not leave him. Santosh told him that Biji had taken to calling every day from the telephone at the post office. ‘Phatto is coming, isn’t she? When you go to Wagah, how will you recognize her? Shall I come with you?’
Majeed came with the news. ‘Sir, the shelling from the Pakistani side has become very heavy.’
Kulwant was already feeling frustrated. He said, ‘Let wretched Pakistan go to hell, what about Phatto Masi?’
On the first of August, Pakistani forces attacked Chambh and crossed the LoC. On the twenty-eighth of August, Indian forces captured Haji Pir. On that very day, 28 August 1965, in Saharanpur, Phatto Masi was cooking meat with black gram and Biji was boiling the black gram when the news arrived – eleven soldiers had been killed on the LoC … one of them was Major Kulwant Singh.
Two Soldiers
PAKISTAN WAS created.
India was already there … so there was nothing to create!
For both, the age of snatching and grabbing was on in full swing.
‘I have given the inkpot; but I won’t give the pen!’
When the pen was given, the nib was snatched away. One broke the slate, while the other tore the schoolbag … just like schoolboys!
They had set out with hockey sticks. But they did not have a ball. And they could not see the goalposts. The umpire had retired and gone to England. So, what could they do? They began to fight…
It was the year 1965 … the boys had grown up by now. So, they started fighting again. Many stratagems were adopted. There were more tears than blood.
There was no sign of the border. After all there is no wall or gate. The platoons of soldiers would often get lost while fighting each other. Some went off in a westerly direction; others in an easterly direction.
Somehow a check post was left deserted somewhere.
Only two people were left there. One was a cook; he was Indian. The other was a driver or something else; he was Pakistani.
Be that as it may, both were sworn enemies of each other. Why were they enemies? Neither had an answer to this. Except for a gun each, neither had anything else. They had some bullets, yes, for a gun without bullets is … like a barren woman, isn’t it? … What could they do?
They fired their guns
at each other for a couple of hours and then they became bored. The Pakistani was near the well and so he had control over it. But he did not have either a bucket or a rope to draw its water.
The Indian had control over the check post where he had food but neither a fire to cook nor water to drink. There were sacks full of potatoes. There was even a tandoor, though it was kept outside the check post exactly in the line of fire from the well which was under the control of the Pakistani. And the Pakistani was sitting in wait to fire from his vantage point.
When they became bored with the bullets, they tried to kill each other with words.
The Indian said, ‘Bhootni-ke! Your army has left you behind, hasn’t it? To die?’
The Pakistani lobbed a stone in his direction and broke the glass of a window.
The Indian screamed, ‘You chirimaar! Why are you throwing stones? Have you come to fight with slings?’
After a pause, the man beside the well answered, ‘You didn’t go? When the rest of your soldiers fled with their tails between their legs? You would have saved your life if you had run away. Now there is no escape for you!’
The man inside the check post fired from his gun.
The reply came from the well, ‘Why are you firing in the air? Use your tongue.’
‘Why? Have you spent all your bullets?’
‘No, I have plenty left. In any case, one is enough for you!’
And he fired a bullet too.
The man from the check post said, ‘Why? Why are you wasting your bullets? What will you do when they are all gone?’
‘I will get more.’
‘From where? Will you get them from America?’
‘You also get your guns and missiles from there, and on top of that you also take bribes from them, saale baniye!’
The man inside the check post lobbed a potato towards the man at the well.
The man at the well laughed out loud.
‘A cook will always stay a cook! Fill your gun with potatoes!’
The man inside the check post asked in great surprise: ‘How do you know?’
The man at the well laughed again.
‘I was right, wasn’t I? … If you were a soldier, you would have used bullets, and not your tongue!’