Someone seemed to be calling him from home. He went in by the backyard door. Both his sisters had come home for lunch. The astrologer was asleep on the long plank of the swing.
'Chandru get some chilli ground for me, will you?' said Mother.
'Have you dried the pods well?'
'As dry as is possible in these winter days. Here, see for yourself.'
Chandru took a dried pod of red pepper and crushed it between his fingers. It felt limp. 'No, this won't do,' he said. 'They'll refuse to grind it; it's a waste, going all the way.'
'But there's not a pinch of powder left.'
'Let me pound some in the mortar for you, then.'
Mother wiped the mortar clean and Chandru sat down before it, iron pestle in hand. Mother filled the bowl of the mortar with the chilli and Chandru brought the pestle down on it with a loud thud. That was when he heard the front gate being opened. He could see it from where he sat—when Father left in the morning he had forgotten that Father had not eaten before he left for office and he would be home for lunch. Impossible to escape him now, the nuisance of it. Try as he might to avoid his father, he always seemed to slip somewhere and find himself trapped. But then was there anything wrong with an eldest son pounding chilli at home? Nothing. Why was it an unbearable embarrasment before Father now? But it was Father himself who seemed to find the situation awkward. It was rather difficult to understand him. He had hardly exchanged a dozen words with Chandru in the last two months. Today he did speak to him but it was just a few words. It looked as if it was Father who was trying to avoid him.
The astrologer was still asleep. Father had a leisurely meal. Mother served him only one maize roti. He soaked it in buttermilk and ate it.
Chandru's nose began to burn. He must have touched it after touching the chilli. By now the pods had been crushed to tiny pieces, but the seeds still remained whole. It seemed impossible to pound any further. Whenever his pestle missed the stuff at the bottom and struck the side of the mortar, a head-splitting 'klong!' reverberated through the house. But the astrologer slept on.
After she had served Father, Mother came and stirred the contents of the mortar with an iron ladle. Then she began to sift the powder. There were more rough pieces left on the sieve than powder under it.
Then Father left for the office again and Mother began to make maize rotis for the next meal. She found it difficult to knead and spread the dough, and she called Chandru. He went to help her without a word of protest.
The astrologer woke up at last just as Chandru's brother Pitchumani returned from school. A few minutes later the girls were also back. Mother called them in turn to come and eat their tiffin. But there were no takers for the maize rotis except the astrologer and Chandru. It was only when Father came back from the office and sat down with the astrologer with a. sheaf of horoscopes that the latter's visit began to take on some significance. They discussed each of their horoscopes. The astrologer had read these times without number and by now surely knew the past, present and future of everyone in the family. Bless the man, had it not been for his diagnosis of the malign influence of the seven-and-a-half-years' Saturn on Chandru, his parents, like any other parents would have been quite harsh with him at this time, naturally.
Night had fallen when all of them except Pitchumani left for the temple near the railway station. It couldn't have been less than a mile away. The astrologer also came along, but disappeared somewhere when they were nearing the temple. There were very few people in the temple. Since there was a mosque nearby, people were always very cautious in their worship. Bells were never rung loud. There was no singing or playing of instruments. But caution had reached egregious proportions now. The sacred Ashtotra chants in praise of Ganesha had now become intimate whispers.
They returned from the temple in their usual procession—Father first, followed by Chandru, then the two girls, with the rear brought up at a considerable distance by Mother. They had come just half a furlong when a friend of Father's accosted him, asked him something and then went away. Father looked agitated. Someone in coat and cap was approaching them from the opposite direction, and Father asked him 'Is it true ? Has Gandhi been shot?' Chandru went and stood by his father. The stranger replied in anger: 'He's been dead these two hours, and here you go wondering if he was really shot.'
2
The family procession lost its rhythm. Father walked a bit faster than usual. Mother and the girls also hurried, sensing the urgency. Chandru kept ahead of them all, in a half-run, and turned only once to look at them.
Charles Street rose and fell past Keyes High School, cut through Oxford Street, rose again and disappeared past the limit of Maredpalli. The street wore a deserted look, all three quarters of a mile of it, flanked on either side by the walled-in buildings which lay far in and were lost in the darkness.
Within Lancer Barracks, the houses had very dim lights, a measure of economy, perhaps also a ruse to ensure that the place drew no attention. There was safety in going through life unnoticed. But strangely nobody was even listening to the radio today.
Chandru saw Morris at the banyan tree. It had been a while since they had exchanged words. Morris too was getting to be an adult. He too must have been burdened with anxiety about his future. But now he saw Chandru and said, 'Hello.'
'Any news?' asked Chandru.
'What about?'
'Gandhi.'
'Gandhi who?'
'Mahatma Gandhi.'
'Oh,' said Morris. 'What about him?'
'I heard he's been shot dead.'
'Really?'
Morris lifted his arms and caught at a hanging root of the banyan. He would start swinging soon, even in this dark night, thought Chandru and asked him, 'Don't you know anything?'
'No,' said Morris and began to swing on an aerial root just as Chandru had expected.
Chandru let him swing and went home. He remembered about the keys only when he reached there. It was always Mother who had the keys and whoever reached home earlier had to wait for her. Chandru didn't want to wait. He ran back the way he came. A surprised Morris asked him, 'What man?' Chandru hurried off without stopping to answer him. At the top of the street he met Father.
'Where are you off to again?' he asked.
'To get the key.'
'Why? Isn't Pitchumani at home?'
Chandru ran back home. He had forgotten that they hadn't locked the house today because his brother had stayed back. Morris again, on the way. But he didn't say anything to Chandru this time. When he reached home Chandru asked his brother, 'Why're you sitting in the dark? Can't you put the lights on?'
Pitchumani didn't reply. When Chandru ran to the radio and switched it on, he came and stood by him and watched. The radio usually needed a minute to warm up. But twice the time passed and no sounds were heard. 'Ai, why don't you put the light on?' he asked his brother and flicked a switch on himself. A half-hearted yellow gleam appeared in the bulb.
'Why is it so dim?' he asked his brother. This was the first time in four or five months that Chandru was speaking to him.
'How do I know?' came his brother's reply.
Chandru came out and peeped into their neighbour, Mr Kasim's house. Mr Kasim's radio was never silent at eight in the evening. But today his house was quiet. The lights too were dim.
Father, Mother and the others reached the house. 'Why don't you switch on the radio?' asked Mother. Father must have told her about Gandhi. 'The radio isn't working,' said Chandru. Mother went in to look for the hurricane lantern.
Chandru fumbled among the contents of the drawer for the few coins he kept there, about four annas. He took the money and went out. Mother was discussing something with Father, she'd forgotten all about dinner. Gandhiji's death had affected her schedule as well.
For the first time Chandru noticed that no radios or electric lights were on in the whole of Lancer Barracks. Oil lamps were lit, but they only served to exaggerate the darkness beneath the twenty- foot high roof. When he
walked past Morris' house, Mr Mannas' voice called out, 'You, man? So Gandhi's dead?'
'Who told you, sir?' asked Chandru.
'My son.'
'Who? Terence?'
'No, Morris.'
Without a word, Chandru hurried away. There were four or five persons with Morris under the banyan now. Without turning to look at them, Chandru went on to the street. There was no one on the street. He walked towards the clock tower. Oxford street too would be empty, with its long high walls on either side, protecting the houses tucked in somewhere in the interior. The spacious grounds of these houses posed a maintenance problem and were left to go to seed, full of grass and snakes. He had seen snakes lying on the road crushed by the wheels of passing cars and motorcycles. It was mid-winter now and snakes were not seen at night during the cold months. Well, if they did choose to come out now, running away was all he could do.
Even without sighting any snake, Chandru began to run, sandals flapping against heels—padak, padak, padak. Good in a way, he thought. Any stray snake inclined to come out off-season could take warning from the noise and hide itself.
A few lights were on and some people were standing near the clock tower. The noise of the electric motors of the Allauddin Ice Factory was audible. Gossip had it that the Allauddin family were not in the good books of the Nizam and that he had financed another Allauddin, a relative of this Allauddin, to start a factory called 'G. Allauddin Ice-fruit Factory.' There was a demand for ice cream and ice fruit even in winter! With so much electricity being consumed, this place was sure to have a radio. Could he go in and find out about Gandhiji? Kingsway was also deserted. That was unusual on a Friday, because on Fridays the shops were generally open till 9.30 at night. Perhaps some news could be had from a cinema hall. Evening papers like the Hyderabad Bulletin might carry the news. Why, he could have bought a copy by now if only he'd thought of going to the railway station. What had made him come this way to the clock tower? He ought to have asked that angry man on the road for more details, the one who said Gandhi had been dead for two hours. But how could he when Father was there? Father could have asked him but didn't. Why? Did he by any chance dislike Gandhi? Could anyone dislike Gandhi? Except the person who shot him? Who was he? A Muslim?
Chandru felt a sudden surge of heat course through his veins. A Muslim? If he did turn out to be a Muslim, he would kill ten Muslims with his own hands. A hundred perhaps. As many as possible. Including the Nizam and Kasim Razvi. As if the Muslims would oblige him and stand in a row, necks all stretched to be hacked down. Those who did stand these days, offering their necks, were all Hindus. And also those poor Lambadis. By the way, were the Lambadis Hindus or Muslims?
Chandru went to the Minerva Hall. The evening show seemed to have ended and the crowd had left. The betelnut stall was open, with a boy keeping shop. Chandru asked him in Telugu, 'Know anything about Gandhiji?'
'Yes sir. A madman has killed him.'
'How do you know?'
'We heard it on the radio. By 7.30 the news had spread and all shops downed their shutters here and in Kingsway.'
'But we around the railway station know absolutely nothing about it.'
'Well, the whole city knows.'
Not the whole of it, thought Chandru. Or perhaps Lancer Barracks was not part of the city. With no power, even radios denied, Lancer Barracks was not the least concerned about this soul, Gandhi. And in any case, all those Anglo-Indians and Muslim Razakars of Lancer Barracks had never at any time considered Gandhi. No. Never. Gandhi and all that was none of their business. Chandru felt bitter.
Was Gandhi really dead? Oh no! He had always said he would live to be a hundred and twentyfive. This must be just a rumour. The news appeared to have come over the radio. But what if the radio had lied? Like in those war days? When the British claimed the Germans lied and the Japs said the British lied? This must surely be a lie. How could Gandhi die? Think of all those fasts he had been through. The twentyone-day fast, with those constant reports of 'He's dying... dying... dying...' But he had survived.
Chandru went as far as the Tivoli Cinema in search of a newspaper. The owners of the cinema were also the proprietors of the Hyderabad Bulletin. So this was the one place where the paper should be available. Boys with bundles of the paper were always seen hawking it in Tivoli. But Chandru had seen them only in the afternoons and evenings. It was rather foolish to expect them to hawk newspapers at this time of night when they had wound up for the day.
That night's show had been cancelled at the Tivoli. All the betelnut stalls and stores attached to the cinema had also been closed. Only the manager's room was open. Chandru went and stood at the door. The man inside asked, 'Who's that?'
'I'd like to get a copy of the Bulletin, please,' said Chandru.
'But we're closed.'When Chandru made to go, he said, 'Take my copy if you like'. Then he took out the newspaper from the drawer and handed it to Chandru. Chandru turned the pages hurriedly. The single sheet of paper was folded in four. News items and advertisements: 'G. Ramachari Appointed to Hyderabad's Council.' That would mean that this Hindu would have to serve under the fanatic Muslim Chief Minister, Laiq Ali. Then there had been another rally by the Ittihad-ul-Muslimin the organisation of Kasim Razvi. 'Atrocities of the Indian Government: Plot to Starve and Subdue the Twenty Million People of Hyderabad!' proclaimed the paper and went on: 'The Indian Government Denies Hyderabad Essential Commodities—Petrol, Diesel, Medicines, Food, Manufactured Goods, Cars, Lorries, Chlorine Needed for Purifying Water.'
Then an outburst of Razakar rhetoric—'Is Hyderabad a leasehold of the Indian Government? It is a quirk of history that the jailbirds of yesterday should now be oppressing princes of the old lineage. Here in Hyderabad we have a three-centuries old royal house blessed by Allah. A line of seven generations of kings. But now, the days of the Indian blackguards are numbered. The foam- topped waves of the Bay of Bengal shall soon wash the feet of our Rustom-I-Dewan, Arastu-i-zamon, Lt. General, Muzaffar-al-Mulk, Wal-Mumaik, Fateh Jung Sippah Salar Mir Usman Ali Khan Bahadur Nizam-ul-Mulk, Asaf Jah. The waters of the Arabian Sea shall wet the beautiful sandals of the Nizam, the faithful ally of the British Government. The sacred Asaf Jahi flag shall fly over the Red Fort at Delhi.'
Chandru scanned every page and every inch of the Bulletin but there was nothing about Gandhi. So Gandhi was not dead then.
'Why are you giving the papers back? Don't you want them?'
'It was just that somebody began a rumour that Gandhi is dead. I thought I should check.'
'That's no rumour, boy. It's true. That's why we've cancelled tonight's show.'
'God! It's true, then!'
'Yes my boy, true, sadly true.'
'But there's nothing in the papers.'
'This issue was printed at four.'
'Not a single word in it.'
'He was not dead then,' he said with grief in his voice, and turned the knobs of a radio that was lying in a corner. It did not look like a radio at all from where Chandru stood. As the man turned its knobs, it presented a simulation of mustard seeds spluttering in hot oil. The man was about to switch it off when suddenly he sat up straight and alert, and fine-tuned the set. He said 'Listen. That's Pandit Nehru.' The voice spoke in English.
'The light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere. The light has gone out, I said, and yet I was wrong. For the light that shone in this country was no ordinary light. The light that has illumined this country for these many, many years will illumine this country for many more years, and a thousand years later that light will be seen in this country and the world will see it and it will give solace to innumerable hearts. For that light represented something more than the immediate present, it represented the living, the eternal truths.'
The radio went on but Chandru came out of the room. A cinema hall in a remote corner of the town had killed Gandhi. Gandhi was really and truly dead. The darkness of the January night seemed intensified by the trees on the road. There w
as darkness everywhere. The light had gone. It was no ordinary light. And yet at that time his mind had had room only for the details of the physical reality. There was nothing left for him to do now but to go back home—a two-and-a-half mile walk from Tivoli. It was the Cantonment area where until recently military trucks hurtled up and down like demons. The army had gone away now, though ghosts of it probably hovered over the cemetery on the parade grounds. There had to be quite a few of the Christian variety. Even Tivoli Cinema was supposed to have its resident ghost. If all who died became ghosts could Gandhi also have become one? Could he at least see Gandhi's ghost?
He had never seen Gandhi. The names of all those places Gandhi had visited, all the places he had stayed in, sounded like places in some imaginary world: Wardha, Yeravda Prison, Sevagram, Sabarmati, Noakhali, Hindi Prachar Sabha of Madras.
Ah, the Hindi Prachar Sabha in Madras. Gandhi had come down to Madras, to visit this organisation, but never Hyderabad State. He had visited every part of India but not Secunderabad. Was it that the people here had no love for him? No need of him?
'Gandhi! Gandhi!' Chandru screamed the name as he ran. His voice stilled the insects of the night for a moment. From somewhere on the darkened branches of a tree a bird cried back in distress. Chandru left the road and ran across the parade grounds wailing, 'Gandhi...! Gandhi...!' The grounds were large—even hundreds of military trucks and troops together would hardly cover a small part of it. The vast barren land had tree-lined roads on all sides, but the trees had now merged with the darkness of the night and were invisible. The vast expanse of the sky was sprinkled with tiny stars. A small bush tripped him up and Chandru fell flat on his face. The ground had been flattened hard with red earth, the colour of which was not distinguishable at night but there were many big and small stones with edges sharp enough to hurt. He was hurt badly. Blood trickled from his head down to his lips. Chandru sat up and began to pound and kick and pummel the earth. 'You're dead now, dead, dead, dead.'
The Eighteenth Parallel Page 14