by Rita Kothari
The coachman, before he left, said, ‘When you come again to our neighbourhood, ask for Muhammad the coachdriver. I’d feel honoured.’
The coachman went away but I stood there feeling miserable. How could I have doubted the intentions of such an affectionate, humble person like Muhammad? How joyous he had felt at having me as his passenger. And I had been suspicious. I felt ashamed of myself.
When I visited the neighbourhood of the Salaat community again, I asked for Muhammad. I called out his name during the performance.
‘Hakim, at your service,’ he replied.
‘Listen to the poetry of Badshah Zafar,’ I said.
‘I’m honoured, please,’ he said with joy.
After completing the song, I said, ‘I request Muhammad the coach-driver to come to the stage.’
I heard, ‘Sure, coming.’
My companions Ishu and Issar asked me, ‘Is he a good singer?’
‘He appreciates art,’ I replied.
Snaking his way through the crowd, Muhammad came right up to me and stood before me. I removed the garland from my neck and put it around his neck. There was thunderous applause from the audience. Muhammad said, ‘Deewan, you have shown great honour to a humble servant.’
I narrated the entire story to everyone, but did not tell them about my own weakness. When I mentioned in detail Muhammad’s generosity and affection, the audience congratulated him. Muhammad fell at my feet and I held him by his shoulders.
Taking a microphone in his hands, he said, ‘Glory to the deewan, for giving such respect to a poor man. He has sung for us without charging anything. I wish to declare that whenever this man gets into my coach, I will not any accept fare from him.’ He then hugged me tightly, ‘I’m your servant, test me.’
It was a heartbreaking moment. He and I shed copious tears, and every person in the audience was misty-eyed. I began to sing again. It was such pleasure.
Partition was effected. Migrations had begun. I was still in Karachi. It was 6 January 1948. At 11 in the morning I was returning home from college. After crossing Burns Road, I came to Artillery Road. A coach came up to me. I looked up to see Muhammad’s face. He addressed me gravely, ‘Come on in. Why are you walking today?’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, surprised.
‘You don’t know, deewan, death is dancing on the streets. There’s daylight robbery and stabbing right next to your house.’
I got into the coach, and on the way I saw the police trying to disperse crowds. Such drastic things were happening in Karachi and I had been so ignorant!
When I reached home, Muhammad said to me, ‘The military forces are arriving. Don’t come out of the house. If they impose martial law and curfew, I’ll come and stay with you. I will be your guard.’
Curfew was imposed. For a day or two, the demons of death walked through the streets. I did not need Muhammad at that time because a driver named Sukhi lived with us and he continued to reassure me. Meanwhile, the military took charge of the situation, terror subsided, and Hindu migration intensified. Those who had been determined to live in Sindh, under any circumstance, were also now desperate to leave.
Every morning, Muhammad would visit me. Willingly, he took me wherever I wanted to go. Once, while I was in his coach, he asked me, ‘Deewan, will you be leaving too?’
‘What do you desire?’ I asked.
‘You would have to go, deewan. Outsiders have come. Their motives are not good.’
‘Whatever He wishes me to do,’ I said.
‘Deewan, do let me know once you decide to leave.’
‘You want to come to Hindustan with me!’ I joked.
‘If someone as loving as you is not valued here, how would a poor man like me be valued there? I will not come to India, but I will certainly come up to the border to see you off! Will you go by plane or ship?’
Thinking of my belongings, I replied, ‘By ship.’
‘Use this poor man’s coach to go up to Kiamari docks. I’ll feel reassured if I see you off myself.’
The day of departure did arrive. Muhammad brought me to Kiamari. He took down the belongings from the coach, and offering a salaam, he said, ‘May grace follow your footsteps. May Allah give you a long life.’
I was carrying a sandalwood walking stick with me. I offered it to him, ‘Keep this as my parting gift, its fragrance will keep my memory alive for you.’
Shutting his eyes, he inhaled the fragrance, and said, ‘I’ll never forget you. But, deewan, I have a request to make.’
‘Yes, Muhammad,’ I said.
‘When you reach India and recall the atrocities committed by Muslims, do please remember this poor Muhammad. Deewan, all human beings are not alike. All Muslims are not bad.’
I gathered my poor Muhammad into my arms, ‘My brother Muhammad, you are such a good human being. May Allah keep you safe and happy.’
A full-grown male was sobbing like a child. I could not control myself either.
There were also other friends at the port. I bade farewell to all of them and boarded the ship. The docks were swarming with people, but my eyes were fixed on Muhammad, the poor coach-driver. His face, and his voice, ‘Deewan, all Muslims are not bad,’ reverberated in my ears.
The ship set off. My friends who had come to see me off had left. But Muhammad continued to stand at the port. I waved a kerchief in his direction, while he raised the stick and waved. I heard an inner voice.
Tum zapt ki duniya meri barbad naa karna
Main yaad bhi aaun to mujhe yaad na karna
Raton ki kabhi tum meri nindiyan na urana
Aankhon se kabhi tum mere aansu na churana
Bhule se kabhi tum mere sapnon mein na aana
Barbad hun barbad ko barbad naa karna
Main yaad bhi aaun to mujhe yaad na karna
Try not to disrupt my little world
Try not to remember me, even when you remember me
Try not to ruin my sleep at night
Try not to take away tears from my eyes
Try not to enter into my dreams
Try not to ruin me, for I am ruined already
Try not to remember me, even when you remember me.
Fifteen years have gone by. I miss Sindh, I miss my companions, but most of all I miss poor, humble Muhammad. Surprisingly, I don’t miss my Hindu friends, but the memory of this humble and selfless friend haunts me. How do distances matter in love?
Shah has rightly said:
Ke odha e dor, ke dora bhi oda sipri
Ke samhaljan na kadan, ke a visran moor
Jiyan meenh kandia poor, tiyan dost varako dil sen.
Some are near yet far, some far ones are near, beloved,
Some are never in memory, some utterly unforgettable,
Like a pot around a buffalo’s neck, friends engulf our heart.
My Amma
KIRAT BABANI
That day, I stood at Grant Road station, waiting for a friend. The city of Bombay moves like the second hand on a watch. Ten minutes appear like ten hours here, whilst in the small town of Nawabshah in Sindh, one waited for a friend for hours, but the hours passed in the twinkling of an eye. From Sindh’s simplicity to Bombay’s convoluted python-like existence, it is no wonder the Sindhi refugees have found it so difficult to fit into this life. In addition to such change, they have also had to deal with loss of their watan, their spot of earth.
I looked at the indicator and once again at the hands of the clock. Not yet time for the train to arrive. The platform was a seething sea of humanity. Crowds of men on roads and local stations such that they appeared like the endless waves of the ocean. There is a local train every five minutes, and yet there are hordes of human beings who get in and out. Doesn’t life here ever come to a halt, not even to catch its breath? I wondered.
While I stood there, a crowd gathered near the stationmaster’s office. What could be the reason? Why would somebody care or waste time, especially when twenty-four hours don’t seem enough for
a day. I shifted my gaze from the passers-by to the swelling crowd. What was all the fuss about? The stationmaster can’t be making monkeys perform. Government officers do not have such latitude during office hours. In any case, in a city like Bombay, why would one bother to watch monkey tricks? For a moment, I was tempted to go and take a look at the tamasha, but I restrained myself and instead looked accusingly at the clock. I couldn’t resist for long, however. People were pushing their way into the crowd to peep at something. I too had a peek. The stationmaster sahib was talking to a local woman. Dressed in a sari, with a purse slung over her shoulder, she held a cigarette in one hand and used her other hand to explain something to the stationmaster in some incomprehensible, and to me, garbled tongue. I couldn’t hear anything, so I didn’t know what the matter was, but I realized that the onlookers were there to watch an Indian woman smoke!
Unrelated associations get lodged in our consciousness. This incident reminded me of something else. I had just returned from Ajmer after staying there for two long years. I had come to India during Partition and those were my first two years. I was going over to see my refugee mother. How different this mother seemed from the one in Sindh! There my mother had perfect eyesight but now she had lost much of her vision. She was finding it so difficult to make rotis. In Sindh, my mother used to smoke chillum, while she smokes the hukka here. In Sindh, my mother used to observe rituals on the anniversary of my father’s death, while this one now only sheds a few tears on that day. My former mother back in Sindh had eight grandchildren, while this one has only five because the rest have died.
As I returned home very late one night, I was startled to see rings of smoke in the darkness. My old mother sat in the corner of the dingy quarters smoking a locally made beedi. I had grown up watching my amma smoke chillum, and had accepted that as natural. However, the sight of her smoking a beedi was rather shocking. ‘Amma, are you smoking a desi beedi?’
‘Yes, putta.’
‘Why, Amma? Didn’t you bring your chillum with you?’
‘Putta, I did. It’s lying here in the corner.’
‘So?’
‘Who has the energy left for preparing chillum, putta? In Sindh, when I sat down with a chillum, women from the neighbourhood came and sat beside me, and we talked for hours. We gossiped about all kinds of things. As long as the embers lasted in the chillum, we puffed away at it. Now there’s neither the physical energy to do these things, nor is there any joy. Nobody visits anybody now!’
‘Did you buy this little hukka?’
‘Sometimes, I put a bit of tobacco in the hukka and pretend it’s a chillum. When there isn’t enough money for tobacco, its best to smoke a beedi.’
The smoke emanating from the beedi in the silent darkness of the night kept me thinking. The rings of smoke gradually rose up in the air and collided against the ceiling, escaped through the windows and rose up into the sky. My thoughts thrashed about in my mind, flew through the windows, crossing boundaries. They reached my place of birth.
This watan of mine, this city of mine, this little house of mine! This mansion in which my parents spent a lifetime, and in which I was born. This cradle saw me grow up, this mansion saw me become an educated person. These walls, this picture, this lane where I played marbles. These playgrounds, where I played gilli-danda. This street, this market, this circle, this bazaar, and my friend’s house …
‘Putta!’
My reverie was broken.
‘Yes, Amma.’
‘Putta, don’t you want to marry?’
‘Marry! Why on earth?’
‘It’s my last wish, I wish to see my son flourish and grow. I wish to have that happiness as compensation for what I have lost.’
‘It has become difficult just to survive, and you talk of marriage!’
‘Why? A Congress government is ruling the country, and you have been an active Congress worker. Didn’t you say that once the nation becomes free, it would be good for everyone.’
‘I am not a Congress person any more. Thousands of us have quit the Congress.’
‘You underwent such hardships, endured imprisonment, and now the Congress …’
‘… maintaining surveillance on people like us, and filling up the prisons,’ I interrupted her.
‘Putta, don’t say that, let monsters perish.’
‘Amma, monsters don’t perish like that. We’ll have to wage a war against them.’
‘Putta, don’t say that. You have wasted your life in these wars for fifteen years. You have forgone comfort and joy. Now for the sake of this old mother, spend your life in peace.’
‘In peace! Amma, people who took away your happiness, your home, your hopes, your inheritance and memories, they betrayed millions, how do we let them go?’
‘But what can we do, anyway?’
‘I wish to bring back your happiness. I wish to go back to my country. I don’t wish to see myself and the next generations in exile.’
‘Will we go back to our motherland? Will we be able to see our house? You think I’ll be able to see the remnants of your father’s life?’
‘Yes, Amma, we’ll certainly go back.’
‘Who will come to receive us?’
‘My friend Qasim … my Rafiq Gulamo … will come to receive us. Our neighbour Khudadhar, our illiterate Mauso, my classmate Qadir, your friend Khatun—all of them will come to receive us. They will certainly come. Amma, we shall go.’
‘When will we go, putta?’
‘When our countrymen will put an end to the roguish rule there.’
‘God knows whether I’d be alive then. I have come close to death.’
‘If such is the case, sweet Amma, it is my solemn promise to you that I will take your ashes to our watan, submerge them in the sacred and sweet earth of our motherland, and sing songs of joy.’
My mother got up from the corner, very slowly and came to my string cot. She kissed my forehead. ‘Putta, you have my blessings.’ Her eyes shed warm tears that fell on my face.
I hugged her tightly and said, ‘My Amma.’
My friend punched me so hard on the back that I was startled. ‘You are lost in a world of your own all the time. You’ve really become strange these days. Look at your eyes, they are wet with tears,’ he said.
The two of us sped on, out of the platform.
Obligation
GOBIND MALHI
Kongomal was from the village of Thardi in district Mehad. He was young, friendly and active. Since he was a Hindu, he had close relations with Hindus, but he was also friendly with the Muslims of his village. His friendship with the wadhero, Jaan Muhammad, went back to childhood days. He was also a ‘drinking companion’ of the zamindar, Ali Murad, who lived seven miles away from the village. During the Sindh assembly elections of 1946, Kongomal found himself in a huge dilemma because both Jaan Muhammad and Ali Murad had filed in nomination papers. Both of them needed Kongomal’s support.
Kongomal stood by Ali Murad. First, he and Ali Murad were of the same age and second, Ali Murad was not a Muslim League candidate. In fact, even Jaan Muhammad was only superficially involved in the League. His relationship with fundamentalism and dogma was recent, and was more for the sake of gaining access to positions of power in the government. Jaan Muhammad continued to have amicable relations with the Hindus of Thardi, but lost his hold on Kongomal who openly urged Muslims to vote for Ali Murad. All the same, Jaan Muhammad would come to watch chaubaaz, a dice game, outside Kongomal’s shop. He would even sit next to Kongomal on the wooden bench at the shop. He did not hurl accusations at Kongomal for supporting Ali Murad.
Meanwhile, elections took place and Ali Murad was one of the few Muslims who had managed to defeat Muslim League candidates. Triumphant, Ali Murad went directly to Kongomal. He embraced him affectionately, ‘Yaar Kongo, I have won by only a few votes. Had you not canvassed assiduously for me, I would have certainly lost. I am under obligation to you.’
‘Yaar, what else are friendships for? The
re’s no need to thank me.’
Ali Murad held him by his hand, ‘Kongo, leave the shop and come with me. Your brother will take care of the shop. Let’s go to the bungalow and celebrate. There will be a public mehfil tomorrow in which only close friends will participate. Today, there is a special mehfil for just you, me and Ado.’
It was winter so Ali Murad picked up not whisky, but two bottles of brandy and took Kongomal with him in his beautifully decorated carriage. Hamid Khan, Ali Murad’s ado or elder brother, welcomed him—warmer than ever before. The three friends sat down in the verandah, making short work of the roasted chicken, sipping alcohol and gossiping. Suddenly, Hamid Khan addressed Ali Murad, ‘You know that land of ours next to the kazi’s village? Why don’t we give that to Kongomal?’
‘I don’t want any land, yaar. Whatever I did was spontaneous, as a friend. That is all.’
Laughing, Hamid Khan said, ‘Yaar, we are also giving you land in the spirit of friendship, not repaying you. In any case, we don’t cultivate the land, we lease it. We lease it to you for life from this moment.’
Ali Murad joined in, ‘Yaar, for friendship’s sake, don’t say no. Others earn on account of us all the time, it would be such a pleasure to see you also earn by our gesture. Come on, honour Ado’s request, will you?’
Kongomal kept dilly-dallying till the end of the mehfil. On returning home, he mentioned the offer to his brother and other relatives, and he was told, ‘The offer has come from them, you did not go seeking it. Secondly, it is normal practice for them to lease out the land. You give them their share during the harvest and stop carrying the burden of their obligation. Matter over.’
Even Jaan Muhammad gave Kongo the same advice. ‘Kongo, don’t mull over this too much and miss the golden opportunity. Your investment in the land would amount to some ten to twelve thousand rupees. As against that, you would have a yield worth thirty thousand. If you dither any longer, the contract may go to Kazi Atta Ali. Hamid and Ali would hardly let the field remain uncultivated till you take a decision.’