Once again he approached the door, but in such a way that he remained outside the piercing pool of light cast by the bulb. He peered inside. He could see a woman lying on a mat. He craned forward for a closer look; she appeared to be asleep. A dupatta covered her face. Her chest rose and fell with her breaths. He stepped closer and nearly screamed. He controlled himself and saw – a short distance away from the woman, a man lay on the uncovered floor. His head was smashed into pieces. A blood-smeared brick lay close by. He saw everything in the blink of an eye and rushed towards the stairs. He slipped and fell several times but heedless of his injuries tried his best to hold on to his senses. With great difficulty, he managed to reach home and spent the night having the most terrifying nightmares.
BY GOD
Muslims from there and Hindus from here were still crossing to and from. The camps were bursting at the seams. There wasn’t even space for putting the proverbial seed of sesame anywhere; yet, people were being stuffed into them. Food supplies were running short. Hygiene was abysmal. Diseases were spreading. But who had the time to care. Panic and chaos reigned.
It was the beginning of the year 1948. Probably it was the month of March. From this side and that, work had begun on rescuing ‘run-away’ women and children with the help of volunteers. Thousands of men, women, boys and girls were participating in this act of goodness. When I saw them thus engaged, I was seized by a strange happiness – so God was busy trying to remove the traces of Man’s misdeeds. He was trying to save those honours that had already been lost from further loot and pillage … But why?
So that Man might be saved from further stains and wounds on his virtue? So that he might quickly lick his bloodstained fingers and once again sit at the table with his fellow men, and partake of the good things? So that he might pick up the needle and thread of humanity and, while others still had their eyes closed, repair the torn fabric of chastity?
I could not be certain of anything … the efforts of these volunteers, however, seemed commendable.
Everyday they faced countless obstacles. There were unimaginable difficulties in their way because those who had kidnapped these women and girls were like mercury; up one minute, down another, here now, gone tomorrow. In one neighbourhood now, then in another. And no one was willing to part with any information.
These volunteers had the strangest stories to tell. One liaison officer told me of two girls in Saharanpur who refused to return to their parents. Another narrated how, once in Jalandhar, when they went to rescue an abducted girl, the captor’s entire family showed up to bid adieu as though their captive was a much-loved daughter-in-law setting off on a long journey. Several girls, fearful of meeting their parents again, committed suicide on the way. There were some who had succumbed to their tragedies and become weak. Some had become addicted to drink – when thirsty they would ask for alcohol instead of water and utter the filthiest of obscenities.
Whenever I thought of these abducted women and girls, all I could see were swollen, distended bellies. What would happen to these bellies? Who is the owner of that which lies stuffed in these bellies – India or Pakistan? And what of the nine months of labour? Who would pay the wages – India or Pakistan? Or would it all simply be put in the account of cruel Nature? Isn’t there a blank column somewhere in this ledger?
Rescued women were coming home. Retrieved women were going home.
I always wondered why these women were called ‘runaways’? They weren’t asked to run away. The word ‘runaway’ has a romantic connotation; the man and the woman have an equal role. Running away or eloping, to give it its more romantic name, is like a chasm that causes every nerve and sinew to tingle with excitement before the big leap across. But this is plain and simple abduction where a poor defenseless woman is picked up and locked away in a dark dingy hovel.
But the times were such that arguments and counter-arguments, sage counsels and philosophic musings held little value. During these days when, despite the heat of summer, people slept indoors with all the doors and windows shut, I too had shut and bolted the doors and windows of my mind – even though it was imperative that at a time like this, I keep them wide open. But what could I do? I could think of nothing better.
Rescued women were coming home. Retrieved women were going home.
This rescue and retrieval was in full swing to the accompaniment of other mundane business-like transactions. And, pen in hand, journalists, writers and poets were busy hunting their quarry. And a flood of poems, stories and articles kept eddying about endlessly. Pens would stumble and lose their way occasionally. Dismayed by the sheer numbers, the hunters were at a loss as to what to do.
I met a liaison officer who asked me, ‘Why do you look so lost?’
I gave no answer.
He told me a story:‘We have to travel all over looking for abducted women – from one city to another, from one village to the next, then the third, then fourth, from street to alley to by-lane, from one neighbourhood to another. It is with the greatest difficulty that these rare jewels come to our hands.’
I said to myself, ‘Pierced gems or unpierced ones?’
‘You have no idea of the difficulties we have to face. I’ll tell you a story … we have made countless trips across the border. The strangest thing is that on every trip I saw an old woman – a Muslim old woman. The first time I saw her she must have been middle aged. It was in the by-lanes of Jalandhar. She was dressed in torn filthy rags, her eyes were vacant, her hair matted and coated with dirt, and she looked lost and crazy with grief. She was in no state to look after herself, yet it was amply clear that her eyes were searching for someone.
‘A woman volunteer told me that grief had made her lose her mind. She was from Patiala. She had an only daughter whom she couldn’t find. Every effort was made to locate her, but with no luck. She was perhaps killed in the riots, but the old woman refused to accept that.
‘I saw her for the second time in Saharanpur, where the lorry drivers parked their vehicles. She looked frailer and dirtier than before. A film of muck coated her lips. Her hair was matted in dreadlocks like a sadhu’s. I tried to talk to her and persuade her to give up her blind hopeless search. I hardened my heart and spoke harshly to her, “Old woman, your daughter was killed.”
‘The mad woman looked at me and said, ‘Killed? … No.’ There was a steely resolve in her tone, ‘No one can kill her. No one can kill my daughter.’
‘And she went off on her blind, futile search.
‘I wondered – a search like this and that too blind? Why was the mad woman convinced that no one would raise a dagger against her daughter? That no sharp-edged blade or knife could come near her throat? Was she immortal? Or was it the old woman’s love for her daughter that was immortal? A mother’s love is, after all, immortal, so was she then simply searching for a mother’s love? Had she lost it somewhere…?
‘I saw her again on my third trip. The rags barely covered her body now and she was almost naked. I gave her some clothes but she refused to accept them.
‘I said to her, “Old woman, I am telling you the truth. Your daughter was killed in Patiala itself.”’
‘She answered with the same steely resolve, “You lie.”’
‘I tried to make her believe me, “No, no, I am telling you the truth. You have shed enough tears over her. Come with me now, I will take you to Pakistan.”’
‘She didn’t hear me and began to mumble to herself. In the middle of her muffled monologue, she was suddenly startled. This time the resolve in her voice was stronger than steel. “No! No one can kill my daughter.”’
‘I asked, “Why?”
‘The old woman answered softly, “She is beautiful. She is so beautiful that no one can kill her – no man can even raise his hand to slap her.”’
‘I wondered – could she really be so beautiful? In the eyes of every mother, her child is fairer than the sun and the moon. While it is possible that her daughter was indeed very beautiful, could these te
mpestuous times have left any beauty untarnished by Man’s callused hands? Perhaps the old woman is only fooling herself by holding on to that one slender thread? There are a thousand means of escape, but sorrow is the only cross-section that weaves a web of a hundred thousand converging roads.
‘I made several other trips across the border and saw the mad woman each time. She was reduced to nothing but skin and bones. She could barely see but her search continued – undaunted and stronger than ever. She believed as strongly as ever that her daughter was alive for the simple reason that no one could kill her.
‘The lady volunteer told me it was pointless trying to make her see reason. She was completely insane; it would be best to take her to Pakistan and admit her to a mental asylum.
‘But I didn’t agree. I could not take away the only thing that kept her going – her blind search for her daughter. I could not take her away from this huge madhouse where she could walk freely around for miles and slake the thirst of her blistered feet and lock her away in some cramped cell across the border.
‘I saw her for the last time in Amritsar. Her state was such that it brought tears to my eyes. This time I resolved to take her to Pakistan and put her in a mental asylum.
‘She was standing in Farid Chowk, looking about her with her near- blind eyes. There was a hustle and bustle in the marketplace. I was sitting with the lady volunteer and talking about an abducted girl who was reported to be living with a Hindu merchant in Sabuniya Bazaar. I finished my conversation and got up with the intention of telling the mad woman a bunch of lies and somehow get her to agree to come with me to Pakistan when a couple walked past. The girl had veiled her face but not fully. The man with her was a Sikh youth – a prime specimen of young manhood with chiseled features and robust good looks.
‘As the two walked past the mad woman, the young man stepped back a pace or two. He held the girl’s hand and pulled her against him. She pushed back her veil almost involuntarily. Framed against the white cotton of her veil, I saw a glowing pink face whose incredible beauty I cannot describe.
‘I was standing close beside them. The Sikh youth pointed the mad woman to the young Goddess of Beauty and whispered, “Your mother.”’
‘The girl looked at the mad woman and, in that one instant, forgot to hold on to her veil. Then she clutched the young man’s arm and spoke in a clenched tone, “Let’s go.”’
‘And the two walked away swiftly. The mad woman shouted, “Bhaagbhari! Bhaagbhari!”’
‘She was beside herself with excitement. I went to her and asked, “What’s the matter, old woman?”’
‘She was shaking. “I saw her!”’
‘Who? I asked.
‘The sightless balls sunk into two pits beneath her creased forehead came to life. “I saw my daughter – Bhaagbhari!”’
‘Once again I said to her, “But she died a long time ago.”’
‘She shouted, “You lie!”’
‘To convince her once and for all, this time I said, “I swear upon God – your daughter is dead.”’
‘She heard these words and fell down dead in the middle of the Chowk.’
YAZID
The riots of 1947 came and went. In much the same way as spells of bad weather come and go every season. It wasn’t as though Karimdad accepted everything that came his way as God’s will. No, he faced every vicissitude with manly fortitude. He had met hostile forces in a head-on collision – not necessarily to defeat them, but simply to meet them face to face. He knew that the enemy outnumbered him but he believed that it was an insult, not just to him but to all mankind, to give in when faced with trouble. To tell you the truth, this was the opinion others had of him – those who had seen him take on the most savage of men with the most amazing courage. But, if you were to ask Karimdad if he considered it an outrage for himself or all mankind to admit defeat in the face of opposition, he would no doubt fall into deep thought – as though you had asked him a complicated mathematical question.
Karimdad knew nothing of addition-subtraction or multiplication- division. The riots of ’47 came and went. People began to sit down and calculate the loss of lives and property. But Karimdad remained untouched by all this. All he knew was this: his father, Rahimdad, had been ‘spent’ in this war. He had picked his father’s corpse, carried it on his own shoulders and buried it beside a well.
The village had known several casualties. Thousands of young and old had been killed. Many girls had disappeared. Several had been raped in the most inhuman way possible. Those who had been afflicted sat and cried – they cried over their own misfortune and the heartless perpetrators of these crimes. But Karimdad did not shed a single tear. He was proud of his father’s valiant fight to the finish. His father had single-handedly fought 25-30 rioters who were armed to the teeth with swords and axes. When Karimdad had heard that his father had fallen down dead, after bravely fighting off the attackers, he had only these words to say to his dead father’s spirit: ‘Yaar, this isn’t done. I had told you to always keep at least one weapon handy with you.’
And he had picked up Rahimdad’s corpse, dug a hole beside the well and buried it. Then, he had stood beside the grave and by way of prayer said only this: ‘God keeps count of vices and virtues. May you be granted Paradise!’
The rioters had killed Rahimdad barbarically. Rahimdad, who was not just Karimdad’s father but also his dear friend. Whoever heard of his brutal murder cursed the savages who had butchered him, but Karimdad never uttered a word. Karimdad had also lost several ready-to-harvest crops. Two houses belonging to him had been burnt earlier. Yet, he never added these losses to the loss of his father. He would simply content himself by saying: ‘Whatever has happened has happened due to our own fault.’ And when someone would ask him what that fault was, he would remain quiet.
While the rest of the village was still grieving after the recent riots, Karimdad decided to get married – to the dusky belle, Jeena, on whom he had been keeping an eye for a long time. Jeena was grief stricken. Her brother, a strapping youth, had been killed in the riots. He had been her only support after the death of her parents. There was no doubt that Jeena loved Karimdad dearly but the tragic loss of her brother had turned even her love into heartache; her once ever-smiling eyes were now always brimming with sorrow.
Karimdad hated crying and sobbing. He felt frustrated whenever he saw Jeena looking unhappy. But he always refrained from admonishing her because she was a woman and he thought his rebukes might hurt her aching heart even more. One day, he caught hold of her when they were both out on their fields and said, ‘It has been a whole year since we buried our dead. By now even they must be weary of this mourning. Let go of your sorrow, my dear. Who knows how many deaths we have to see in the years ahead. Save your tears for what lies ahead.’
Jeena did not like his words. But because she loved him, she thought long and hard over what he had said. In solitude, she searched for the meaning behind his words and, at long last, came around to convincing herself that Karimdad was right.
When the subject of Karimdad’s marriage to Jeena was first broached, the village elders were against it. But their opposition was weak. They had grown so weary of the constant state of mourning that they no longer had the conviction for carrying on with any sort of sustained opposition. Therefore, Karimdad was duly married. Musicians and singers were called. Every ritual was performed. And Karimdad brought his beloved home as his legally wedded wife.
The village had turned into a vast graveyard a year after the riots. When Karimdad’s wedding procession wound through the village amidst shouts and cries, some villagers were initially scared. They thought it was a ghostly parade. When Karimdad’s friends told him about it, he laughed loudly. But when Karimdad laughingly narrated the incident to his new bride, she shivered with fright.
Karimdad took Jeena’s red-bangled wrist in his hand and said, ‘This ghost will haunt you for the rest of your life … even the village sorcerer will not be able to rid you of
me with his witchcraft.’
Jeena put the tip of her hennaed finger between her teeth and mumbled shyly, ‘Keeme, you are scared of nothing!’
Karimdad licked his brownish-black moustaches with the tip of his tongue and smiled, ‘Why should one be scared of anything?’
The sharp edge of Jeena’s grief was becoming dull. She was about to become a mother. Karimdad saw her blossoming womanhood and was pleased. ‘By God, Jeena, you have never looked so ravishing! If you have become so beautiful only for the sake of my about-to-be-born baby, then he and I will never be friends.’
Jeena shyly hid the bump in her middle under her shawl. Karimdad laughed and teased her even more, ‘Why do you hide it? Do you think I don’t know that you have taken all this trouble with your appearance because of that son of a sow?’
Jeena grew suddenly serious and said, ‘How can you call your own child by a bad name?’
Karimdad’s blackish-brown moustaches began to quiver with a smile. ‘Karimdad is the biggest pig of ’em all.’
The first Eid2came. Then the second one3. Karimdad celebrated both festivals with fervour. The rioters had attacked his village twelve days before the last Eid when both Rahimdad and Jeena’s brother, Fazal Ilahi, had been killed. Jeena had shed copious tears in memory of both. But in the company of one who resolutely refused to harbour any trace of sorrowful memories, she could not mourn them as much as she would have wanted to.
Whenever Jeena paused to take stock of her life, she was amazed at how quickly she was forgetting the greatest tragedy of her life. She had no memory of her parents’ death. Fazal Ilahi had been six years older than her. He had been her mother, father, brother all rolled into one. Jeena knew well enough that her brother had not married for her sake. And the entire village knew that Fazal Ilahi had lost his life trying to save his sister’s honour. Clearly, his death was the single-most tragic accident of her life. A calamity had befallen her, quite without warning, exactly twelve days before the second Eid. Whenever she thought about it, she was struck with amazement at how far she had drifted away from the shock and sorrow of that fateful incident.
Naked Voices Page 11