by Gulzar
‘Leave me, you old crone, or I will break your leg! Let go … Let go of me … or I will break every bone in your body!’ Ahmed screamed.
‘Come with me to Dinu … he will fix you!’
‘What can Dinu do to me?’
‘Is that how you talk about your father? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ Amma rapped Ahmed sharply at the back of his head. Several marbles bounced out of Ahmed’s pocket and rolled onto the street.
‘You old hag! You crone!’ Ahmed picked his marbles hurriedly and ran away.
‘You bastard, you mother-f***, come here!’ Standing in front of his shop at the far end of the street near the clock tower, Dinu the ironsmith called out to his son. This was Dinu’s special form of address. Dinu would begin his shower of abuses from early morning itself, starting with bastard and ending with mother-f*** and sister-f***. He was about forty-five years old and had a slight stoop. Wearing a cane cap on his head, a khaki military-style vest on top of a filthy lungi, he would struggle with the iron all day long. In the evening, after he had finished his work, when he would sit on the cot outside his shop, Mehmood would fill the huqqah and keep it beside him. Hanif and Akram would press his feet before they took leave for the day. Dinu would clear the snot from his nose and wipe his fingers on his lungi. Soon, Mehmood would lock the huqqah and cot inside the shop and go away while Dinu would come home, reciting ‘Alhamdo lillahe rabb-ul alimeen’.*
Dinu had been living in Fasih Building for over twenty years. Once upon a time, Basanti used to sell her flowers under this very jamun tree. And Dinu used to fix horseshoes at the crossing on the same road. Dinu and Basanti were in love with each other. When the tall and blue-eyed Basanti, with her basket of flowers atop her head, used to walk past the crossing, the muscles in Dinu’s arm would bulge and, with a loud expletive, he would hammer a nail hard into the horse’s hoof. Basanti would glance at him, smile and move on.
Then, Mallik of Sabzi Mandi gave 500 rupees to Basanti’s father, had a nikah performed with her and forcefully took her to his home. No one could do anything in the face of Mallik’s wealth – not the law, nor the force of Dinu’s hammer. Basanti came to Fasih Building and, from Basanti, turned into Malkani. In the past twenty years, Dinu had grown from one who fitted horseshoes into a full-fledged ironsmith. And on the same spot beside the road he had set up his own shop.
Sardar Sohan Singh lived above Dinu’s shop; he ran a moneylending business. He was full of grievances against Dinu: one that Dinu started pounding his irons early in the morning and ruined his sleep; the other, that Dinu uttered the filthiest of abuses in the loudest possible voice. He had aired his grievances against Dinu with nearly every inhabitant of the building but never to Dinu.
‘Now, tell me, what if he turns around and swears at me?’
But once when Dinu swore at his son, Nikka, Sohan Singh flew into a rage. When he cooled down somewhat, Dinu asked, ‘Sardar-ji, which bastard abused your son? I will fix the swine who even lifts his eyes at these children.’ Sardar Sohan Singh fell silent.
Tannn … tan. … tann…
Gajju turned around to look at the clock tower. It was striking ten. He put his child’s medicine in his pocket and began to walk faster. He saw Sardar Sohan Singh standing in front of his shop. He thought of changing tracks and going over to the other side but Sardar-ji had seen him.
‘Jai Ram-ji ki!’ Gajju came close and folded his hands in greeting. Sardar-ji nodded slightly in response.
‘Gajju, your second instalment…’
‘I will give it next month along with the next one, huzoor; my son has been ill…’
‘All right … here, take this charpai to the jamun. And call Mirza-ji; ask him to bring the chessboard along.’
Gajju placed the charpai under the tree and went to fetch Mirza-ji.
Noora, Mohan, Babu and Kallan were playing cards, sitting on a charpai. One of the cards had frayed so much that a piece of thin cardboard was being used in its place.
‘It’s a heart and not a club.’
‘Does this look like the face of a king to you?’
‘It looks like your father’s.’ Mohan flew into a rage.
‘Must be your mother’s.’ Noora also got enraged. He threw the cards down and got to his feet.
‘Noora, do you want to play marbles?’ Ahmed called out from the other side of the jamun tree.
Now they were short of one hand. The game stopped. Mohan’s hands were busy shuffling the cards.
‘There … Iqbal is coming. Call him over.’
Iqbal’s eyes were glued to the jamun tree. He waved his hand.
‘So, huzoor, what is going on?’
‘Yaar, we were playing cards but Noora ran off. Come and have a game with us.’
‘I can’t, huzoor, I have to distribute this huge bundle of mail.’
‘Come on, yaar, you can do that later. It isn’t as if you deliver the mail on time daily.’
‘Oh no, huzoor, I will lose my job if the government comes to know.’
‘Oh come on, sit down, how will the government come to know?’ Mohan held Iqbal by his hand and made him sit down on the charpai.
‘Iqbal, is there a letter for me?’ Mirza-ji asked, tossing a pawn in one hand.
‘No, huzoor, there is one for Lala-ji.’
Lala Lekhraj, who was explaining a move to Sohan Singh, got to his feet.
‘Watch out, save your white, Mirza-ji.’ Sardar-ji twirled his moustache and looked at Mirza-ji. Mirza-ji was engrossed in figuring out his next move.
Tann-tann-tann…
By the time the clock tower struck twelve, life under the jamun would be in full swing. All day long there would be a hustle and bustle under the tree but the afternoon was by far the busiest time. Children would return from their schools and come running here to play marbles or langar. The labourers, who returned from their duty at 3 or 4 a.m., would wake up and, after their meal, would settle down for a game of cards or chausar or chess. Others living in Fasih Building too would come here in search of some shade, telling stories and gossiping. While some of the older ones would sit at one side engrossed in discussing politics.
‘Well, Congress or Muslim League … the goal is freedom,’ Vaid-ji would say decisively.
Jaichand would elaborate. ‘That’s true, Vaid-ji! The first thing to do is to get rid of the goras. The rest we will decide. After all, we are brothers. We will fight but we will come to a mutual understanding.’
‘Ji, sir, after all, Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs are brothers,’ Sardar Sohan Singh would agree.
Lala Lekhraj would sit silently and listen. Often, he would simply walk away. He worked at a senior level at the Ganesh Mill. Among the labourers he would often be heard saying, ‘Bhaiyon, if the English want, they can put an end to all those people who speak against them. But they don’t say anything. They ensure everyone has food and clothes and a roof over their head. What is wrong with them?’
Nikka, Veera and Shoki would climb the tree. They would dangle the langar on the paan-seller’s shop. Sometimes, when the string slackened a bit, the stone would hit the Lala’s bald pate. Startled, he would sit up.
The boys would break into peals of laughter.
Several times during the day, a screeching voice would emerge from the stairs in front of the jamun and stretch from one end of the road to the other.
‘Geo … rg … iiee!’
‘I am here, Ma!’ George would shout back.
Babu would look towards the stairs and wink outrageously at her. Flora would smile and go back inside.
And sometimes, fed up of the heat of the furnace, Dinu would pick up his huqqah and, wiping his nose with his lungi, come and sit under the shade of the jamun. Some children would gather around the Chinaman as he made his rounds selling his Chinese fabrics and tease him.
‘Chini chacha, chu-chu, Chini chacha, chu-chu!’
By the time evening fell, the hustle and bustle would die down somewhat. The children would return hom
e. The excitement of chess and chausar too would abate. Amma would gather her wares back in her basket. The sound of the temple bells would hang heavily in the air.
A nameless sadness would spread over the jamun tree. The leaves would begin to droop. The long, sturdy branches would rest on the two facing buildings, like a father’s protective hands. Many children had grown to maturity under this jamun tree that stood solemnly, hiding thousands of secrets in its bosom.
When 1947 came around, the chess game between Sohan Singh and Mirza took an ugly turn. Communal riots erupted. Streams of blood sprang forth and splattered across the face of the jamun tree.
Homes began to be looted. Dinu’s corpse was thrown under the jamun. Someone said, ‘He is a Musalman!’ Another said, ‘Burn him so that he goes to hell!’ A third began to chop off branches from the jamun tree and pile them on top of the corpse. Another brought things from Dinu’s house and flung them over him. A tin box fell on the dead man’s chest and all the marbles tumbled out.
Someone was pulling Ahmed’s dead body by the leg and throwing it on top of the blazing pyre when he stopped suddenly. Everyone gathered around.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Nikka.’
‘Burn him quickly before Sohan Singh finds out.’
The people from Fasih Building cut down all the branches on their side and burnt two more corpses.
Dead bodies kept burning and the branches of the jamun kept getting chopped.
And the goras were defeated.
The Scent of Man
AS THE palm tree began to grow upwards, it took its shadow up with it. For, it would get burnt if it were to stay on the ground.
The palm had grown upwards so that it could peep into the valley. It wanted to know where the smoke rose from every day and spread all over the valley. It could see the trunk of the smoke but not its roots.
When the kite sat on its branches with a piece of meat between her claws, the palm asked, ‘Phuphi, where does this smoke come from?’
‘From the basti of human beings.’
‘What are they burning?’
‘Human beings.’
‘Who is burning them?’
‘Human beings.’
‘Why are they burning?’
The kite had no answer to this, nor any proof.
Again, smoke billowed out from somewhere in the valley. The kite simply said, ‘Aadam-boo … The scent of Man,’ and flew away.
The palm clamped its nostrils. The smoke carried the scent of Man.
The smoke rose from Lal Chowk. Anmol had a shop there. He didn’t do anything wrong, yet one day he was ruined. Two terrorists entered the house in front of his shop and began to shower bullets blindly in all directions.
He was amazed. How do the terrorists get here? No one knew. Where do they come from? Again, no one had a clue. They had AK-47s and countless ammunition, bullets, grenades, rocket launchers and so on. There were police on all sides. Then how did they manage to get past with all this?
Sometimes it seems like all of this is a performance. A drama is being staged and the terrorists will be shot dead when it reaches its climax. Sometimes two … sometimes four … a couple of soldiers or policemen too get killed. And sometimes some innocent characters as well.
Anyhow, that is what happened. In the beginning of the play itself, a few innocent passers-by were killed. Anmol escaped through the back door of his shop.
Then the military reached the spot. They entered Anmol’s shop and made it their vantage post. They began to lob shells at the house in front of it. The house caught fire. A few bombs were thrown at the shop too. The entire neighbourhood emptied out. After a seventy-two-hour exchange of fire, the terrorists, by now hungry and thirsty, were shot dead. The corpses of innocent pedestrians were taken away and the bodies of the slain terrorists were dumped on the road.
Anmol was devastated. There was nothing left in his shop so there was no reason to lock it. He left everything as it was and sat at home.
Someone advised him: ‘Write to the government. You will get compensation.’
The local leader reasoned with him, ‘Are you mad? It isn’t a question of one shop; it concerns all of India and all of Pakistan. We shall have to prove that these terrorists had come from Pakistan.’
Innocent Anmol didn’t quite understand. He asked, ‘Sir, who should I write to in Pakistan?’
The leader laughed. ‘First let us gather evidence.’
A neighbour tried to explain. ‘For sixty years both countries have only been gathering proof.’
‘What will they do with all the proof?’ Anmol asked.
‘When they sit down for a dialogue, they will play a game of cards with it. There, that’s my proof … that’s yours.’
The palm tree became sad. Listlessly, the kite swooped into the valley. She had grown accustomed to the scent of Man. She was forever searching for it.
Several days later when she returned to perch on the palm, the tree said to her: ‘Phuphi, your wings are coated with dust.’
‘Yes, I have travelled a great distance.’
‘And your eyes are filled with amazement and exhaustion.’
‘Yes, I have seen some truly incredible sights.’
Before the palm could ask anything else, she spoke up.
‘I saw heads without torsos, whose eyes were wide open … and torsos without heads which people were preparing to burn.’
The local leader informed them that Pakistani forces had attacked the border last night and beheaded five of our soldiers, and taken their heads away.
‘But what will they do with the heads?’
‘They will keep them in a cupboard like evidence.’
‘And what about their torsos?’
‘Our government is asking for the heads so that the torsos can be identified. All the torsos have the same sort of uniform and the bodies have no identifying features whatsoever.’
‘Surely their pockets would have the photographs of their wives and children? Or maybe a letter from their mother?’
‘No, nothing at all. They cut their pockets too and took everything away.’
True to his name, Anmol said something quite priceless. ‘When the two countries sit together for a dialogue, is it possible that they bring the heads and we carry our torsos. We can fit the two and find out who the people were.’
The neighbour said, ‘There is no need for that. Once the men have enlisted in the army, they are only a number. On which day, in which place, how many were killed … no one asks who was killed.’
Two days later, the local leader came with the news that all five torsos were being burnt. Because the proof had changed and it had been established that on that night the Pakistani terrorists had worn Indian uniforms and infiltrated into our side. Our soldiers captured them, beheaded them and threw the heads across the border.
The neighbour asked, ‘But what is the proof that those corpses are of Pakistani terrorists? And only the uniform is of the Indian army?’
The local leader smiled. ‘This is the greatest thing about our investigation. We have found out that the thread used in stitching those uniforms is from Pakistan.’
In utter vexation, the palm shed the leaf on which the kite had perched.
The palm leaf lay on the ground and kept getting drier and drier. God knows what annoyed the wind one day; as she swept and cleaned, she blew the leaf and flung it into the valley below. The palm looked from up above and saw a part of it entangled in some wire, dangling in the valley.
Anmol’s shop was completely burnt. All he had was a small house. He and his wife lived on the first floor, and a cow lived downstairs. Anmol opened a shop in the ground floor and tied the cow outside. In a few days, someone untied
the cow and took it away. Or perhaps she herself ran away along with her rope and peg. Anmol searched everywhere for her, in homes, neighbourhoods, pastures, in the hope that he might spot her somewhere.
The neighbour asked, ‘Any clue? A
ny proof?’
‘No trace of her hooves, no sign of her rope!’
‘She may have gone across the border.’
Anmol sighed and said, ‘If I hear a burp from that side, I might get a proof.’
‘Burp? Who…’ The neighbour was about to say more but he stopped.
One night, again, there was a lot of gunfire. Somewhere far away on the border some bombs fell too. A lot of smoke rose in the valley. The palm stayed awake all night.
A lot of Indian soldiers, carrying a lot of guns, were climbing a hill. Pakistani forces were firing at them from the top of the hill. The Indian squad took shelter behind some bushes and dispersed. Some explosions were heard on the check post at the top of the hill … and then their forces too dispersed.
The local leader announced, ‘The Indian forces have captured the Pakistani post … they have found a great deal of ammunition and guns.’
‘Whose?’ Anmol asked.
‘Pakistan’s … they had Chinese markings,’ the local leader answered with complete assurance.
‘What does that prove?’ the neighbour asked.
‘Our guns have American markings.’
‘We had one proof,’ the local leader told them, ‘but that has slipped from our hands.’
‘What was that?’
‘There was a corpse!’
Both Anmol and the neighbour looked up at the leader.
‘There was firing from both sides, and our platoon was still climbing the hill when one of our officers lobbed a grenade and reached the check post at the peak all by himself. The Pakistani forces had abandoned it and fled by then. But they had left behind the dead body of one of their comrades.’
Saying this, the leader fell silent.
‘Then?’ they asked.
‘Our officer, the one who had reached the top, was a sardar.’
Again, he fell silent.
This time, the neighbour asked: ‘And? What happened then?’
‘Morning was about to dawn. The sound of gunfire had died out. There was utter silence. And the sardar stood at the check post all alone. He turned the corpse around. There were no stripes on the uniform but from his appearance the man looked like an officer.’