River of Fire

by Qurratulain Hyder

  Cyril felt strange. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to convince himself that it was real, that a meaningless sequence of events had scooped him out of the lanes of Cambridge and deposited him in this boat, in this fantastic, beautiful land called East Bengal, Pakistan. He looked around again. A streak of bright yellow extended over the dark waters. A big sampan sailed past majestically, the moon rose slowly behind the willows.

  68. The Circuit House

  Happier times they had spent together continued to swill in their tumblers. Cyril Ashley gazed at the distant blue mountains across which lay the mysterious country of Burma.

  “Can we get there by candle-light?” he wondered.

  “How many miles to Babylon?” responded Kamal, in the same vein.

  A starving pye-dog climbed up onto the veranda through the wooden rails. Cyril gave the hungry visitor a meat pie.

  “He may have fled Red China,” Kamal said, looking soberly at the dog. “He is an anti-communist doggie. He’s come here in search of Freedom.”

  “You still talk like you used to in Cambridge!”

  “I dare say, you are frightfully observant,” Kamal replied, and gave the dog a chicken sandwich. “No Cyril, I can prove my bona fides.” He took out a brand new, shining green passport from his pocket and showed it to his friend.

  “Have you come here to plan the Karanaphully Paper Mills? Most people do.”

  “I have come here to eat my hat. Is it any of your bloody business? Haven’t you turned up to suck the blood of poor miserable Bengali labourers . . . like your famous ancestor did? Bah . . . Well. I admit I’m a lousy renegade. So?”

  He is about to go in for another bout of self-pity, thought Cyril gloomily and picked up his cup of tea.

  The Hon’ble Cyril Howard Ashley had reached the Chittagong Hill Tracts the day before after crossing many a river, hill and thicket on the tortuous way. He had journeyed from Srimangal to Chittagong, from where his tea was exported to the great markets of the world.

  On hearing the news that he had divorced Rose, his brother, Lord Ashley, heaved a sigh of relief—the prodigal had returned from Bohemia. Lord Ashley still owned tea gardens in Sylhet. One evening he called Cyril to his club near Green Park and said, “Would you like to become a tea-planter for a change? You’ll have plenty of time to do your Lord Cornwallis.”

  Cyril nodded in agreement. There was no further scope in life for argument.

  He was visiting the Hill Tracts on business. Last evening he had returned to Rangamati Circuit House and caught sight of a young man leaning on the veranda railing overlooking the Karanaphully River. On hearing his footfall the young man turned and saw him. It was Kamal Reza. “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” he grinned, and told Cyril how he had had to migrate from India to Pakistan. He was touring the East Wing before setting up a laboratory in Dacca. They talked of old friends. “I’ve been here more than three years,” said Cyril, “lost touch—”

  “Champa has become a barrister. She has come back to India. Talat keeps me informed. Soon after the Hindu Code Bill was passed Shanta obtained a divorce from her husband. She has married Bill Craig. And Nargis Cowasjee was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “On her honeymoon. Cruising aboard her own yacht. Allegedly by her British husband. Presumably for money.”

  The bamboo cinema-hall was located at the bend in the river. The Urdu dialogue of “Baiju Bawra”, the latest musical hit from India, became audible in the intense stillness of the night. Lata Mangeshkar’s crooning wafted across the Karanaphully, and Kamal listened thoughtfully. Lata’s voice is a bridge which unites the two enemy countries, he thought.

  “Are you aware of the existence of Lata Mangeshkar?” he asked Cyril, pointlessly.

  “Lata . . . Mang . . . who . . . ?” repeated Cyril, startled.

  The Head Cook brought fresh tea.

  The Governor-General of Pakistan, General Iskander Mirza, a former member of the British Indian Political Service, had returned to Karachi from Bandarban after an elephant-trapping expedition. The bamboo Circuit House had been specially redecorated for his visit, and the pomp and circumstance of the Governor-General’s visit had reminded the Head Cook of the good old days of Sir Fredric Bourne.

  “There must have been quite a do here last week,” said Kamal.

  “Yes, Huzoor, the Laat Saheb is as magnificent as the real white Laat Sahebs from before. Huzoor,” the cook glanced around and whispered, “the place is full of trouble-makers. They are over here, too. They are everywhere . . .”

  “Over here . . .”? Kamal felt as though desperate terrorists lurked in the surrounding forests—any moment they could attack the Circuit House and kill him. Then maybe he would be called a martyr. The thought consoled him.

  Kamal and Cyril stayed in Rangamati for a week.

  The local rajah, who was the chief of one of the hill tribes of East Pakistan, had been educated at Oxford. He invited Cyril and Kamal to dinner. In the Raj Bari across the river, Kamal saw the touching spectacle of a dying Princely India. A little cannon adorned the garden, nearby stood a white stone temple. The modest royal mansion was lighted by dim electric bulbs. The hall was lined with oil portraits of royal ancestors in Mughal dress. “Some of these fellows included the Mughal governors of Bengal and Assam,” Cyril promptly enlightened Kamal in an undertone, referring to a tattered volume of the Imperial Gazetteers of this region which lay on a shelf in the Circuit House drawing-room. “Therefore, racially, this chap is partly Mughal. His religion is Hindu-Buddhist, and ethnically he may even be Mongol or Tibeto-Burman. The labyrinths of Indian history can drive one up the wall.”

  “Have you come from Pakistan?” the Rajmata graciously asked Kamal.

  He was a bit confused. Isn’t this Pakistan as well? Or is it? He pondered the question. What exactly is meant by country? This Raj Bari and the special world contained within it belong to which country—India or Pakistan?

  “You must visit Sitakund,” the Rajmata suggested. “There are sulphur deposits on top of the hill and a fire burns all year round in the temple. It’s a beautiful place.”

  When they took their leave Kamal made a formal bow, unconsciously reverting to the feudal etiquette of Lucknow. “Goodbye, Rani Saheba, Raja Saheb,” he said with a flourish. The next morning they motored down to Chittagong and boarded a train for Sitakund. A ticket-checker entered the compartment, saw their tickets and leaned against the wall.

  “Do sit down. Do you smoke?” Kamal offered him a cigarette. He stared at Kamal in disbelief. Then he sat down at the edge of the seat with some hesitation.

  “Do you belong to this part of the province?” Kamal asked, to put him at ease.

  “Yes, sir. My village is right there, across the betelnut grove,” he replied pointing out of the window.

  During the journey, Kamal learned many other things about him. The ticket-checker was suffering from T.B., he was low-paid and had to support five marriageable sisters. He was not at all satisfied with the present ministry at Dacca.

  His political insight was amazing. He argued like a university student and spoke fluent English. A mere tubercular babu whose life was spent checking tickets on a branch line of East Bengal Railways.

  “Before the creation of Pakistan one hardly ever came across a Muslim travelling first or second class, the Bengali Muslims were so depressed economically,” he continued earnestly. “Now I feel thrilled when I see my own brethren-in-Islam lounging in air-conditioned coaches.”

  The train approached the next halt.

  “Shall I tell you something,” the ticket-checker rose from the seat and addressed Kamal, “I have been travelling on this line since 1947. You are the first high-ranking official from West Pakistan who has spoken to me courteously, and asked me to sit down. I will always remember you.” He got out of the compartment and vanished into the crowd.

  “We would like to visit Sitaji’s Temple,” Kamal said to a passing coolie when they got off at a wayside station.


  “Do not go there at this time, Saheb. The hilltop is very high, there are leopards and pythons and it will get quite late by the time you come back,” the Station Master said respectfully, coming forward.

  “No, we have got to go,” Cyril insisted.

  Immediately the news of their arrival spread in the hamlet. A palanquin was brought on to the platform, and the young girl sitting inside peeped through its red curtains.

  “Our Maulvi Saheb’s daughter. She is going back to her inlaws’ house,” a coolie informed them.

  Now the railway constable approached the visitors. “Come with me, Saheb, if you insist, I’ll take you to the village.” They came out on the mud track. The cool air was full of the sweet smell of wild roses. The police constable immediately started discussing politics—high prices, artificial famine, the Awami League, A.K. Fazlul Haque. Kamal’s head reeled. Every single individual in this province seemed to have a distressingly acute political consciousness. There was no doubt that he was in Bengal.

  Soon Kamal noticed that a little boy had started following them along the way and he was saying something to the constable in Chittagongian dialect.

  “Prafulla here says he will take you to the temple,” the constable told Kamal.

  “Hello, Prafulla.” Cyril and Kamal solemnly shook hands with the boy.

  The mud street of the bazaar had been freshly sprinkled with water. People gathered in front of little shops, chatting and reading newspapers. Cyril entered the tiny bazaar like a white giant. They stopped in front of a little bamboo restaurant. Inside, a few men squatted on wooden benches reading Bengali newspapers. A gramophone blared a Tagore song sung by Laila Arjumand Bano, East Pakistan’s famous crooner. The bamboo walls displayed advertisements for the latest Bengali films from Calcutta. This was another world, entirely different from West Pakistan. “We want very hot tea on our return,” Kamal said to the restaurant owner “we are off to the Hill.” The villagers had already brought fruit and sweets for them from their homes.

  “You are our guests, it is our duty to serve you, sir,” a bearded Muslim said to Kamal, urging him to eat the bananas.

  “Were these the very people who butchered one another in 1947?” Kamal wondered, bewildered.

  “Every individual mind,” Cyril remarked, “is the net result of a million years of evolution. Sometimes the animal part of the brain takes over.”

  They made for the hill accompanied by a very serious-faced Prafulla. Local Hindus had started preparations for Saraswati Puja although it was many months away. A number of beautiful and fragile clay statues of the goddess lay about on the grass, painted a shining white. The village potters had placed them outside in the sun to dry. After a short distance they came upon a red-stone tank surrounded by red-stone temples. A curtain of banyan branches hung over the tank steps. They came into another harbour where young girls sat chatting at the edge of a pool.

  Through dense foliage, winding stairs led to the hill-top. Ancient, bell-shaped Hindu monasteries stood hidden among the trees all the way up to the peak. Nameless yogis were buried in their sitting postures in these tombs. The fire burned in the sulphur deposits on the peak.

  “Queen Sita was left here for a few days by Ravana before he kidnapped her and took her to Ceylon,” Prafulla informed them in a matter-of-fact kind of running commentary. Sadhus were going downhill. Cyril and Kamal began climbing the stairs again. Now the top was not very far. A waterfall sang under a broken arch. The whistles of homing magpies, the rustling of leaves, the ripples of the cascade, the slow hissing of sulphur flames and the chanting of mantras mingled together and rose slowly like heavy incense. Prafulla climbed up like a contented monkey. “Saheb, be careful,” he warned, “the place is full of scorpions and snakes.”

  Sunlight faded in the leaping dark. “Let’s go back. We have to catch the eleven o’clock train,” Kamal reminded Cyril after a few minutes.

  At the village tea-house their return was being anxiously awaited. They went in like old inhabitants and sat down on a wooden bench. Cups of sweet steaming tea, cheap biscuits and local sweetmeats were placed in front of them reverently. The hosts stood at a respectful distance, shy and eager to please. They did not accept any payment from the “pilgrims”. Many villagers accompanied them to the station. Prafulla was walking beside them, silent like an old friend.

  Urchins did not pester them for bakshish, and Prafulla refused to accept a tip. He looked very hurt when Kamal offered him a five-rupee note.

  “Ban Bibi1 will look after you in your journey,” the constable said as their train arrived.

  1 Fatima, daughter of the Prophet, is revered as the patroness of the woods by the forest-dwelling Muslims of East Bengal

  69. The Tea Planter

  Having crossed streams, forests and the picturesque regions of Maulvi Bazaar, Kamal and Cyril finally arrived at Cyril Ashley’s headquarters at Srimangal, Sylhet district. His bungalow stood on a hillock, its lights visible from a distance.

  All of a sudden Kamal felt that the old familiar Cyril Ashley had, through some mystic transformation, turned into a Burra Saheb, the traditional White tea-planter. His car entered the imposing porch. Head held high, holding his handkerchief to his nose and looking straight ahead, Cyril ascended the veranda steps. His household staff rushed forward to take his solar hat and binoculars from him. Some labourers who were standing outside, kow-towed meekly. Cyril called out in a peremptory voice: “Abdul Rahman, pani lagao—” Then he walked majestically towards the guest-room. “Take your bath first. Dinner at nine,” he said to Kamal.

  The bungalow was full of expensive teak furniture, its walls decorated with tiger-skin, and stag and bison heads. Kamal felt as though he had stepped back into the India of 1938. He remembered a similar atmosphere from Gulfishan in Lucknow and Khyaban in Dehra Dun. Abdur Rahman brought back memories of Amir Khan, and when Cyril called out to the chauffeur, Kamal thought for a moment that Qadeer would come running.

  Exile, exile . . . Oh my god, why did you let me become an exile . . . ? He lay himself down on an armchair in his room and covered his eyes with his hands.

  Servants were passing through the jute-carpeted gallery. The Bengali accountant hovered in the veranda, a representative of the labourers sat on the porch steps. They were all waiting for Cyril. The hush of obeisance pervaded the bungalow. The bearer, the khidmatgar, the cook, the ‘boy’ and the Anglo-Indian clerk, Joseph Lawrence, the peons, all stood about deferentially. Cyril Saheb had returned after several weeks and a number of affairs needed his immediate attention. There was only one Cyril Ashley but his personal staff seemed to include any number of men. The gardener, the ‘grass-cut’, the syce, the water-carrier, the chowkidar. His personal motor-launch was tied to a jetty nearby.

  He was the same Cyril Howard Ashley who, just a short while back, had ambled in the quiet lanes of Cambridge with books by Baudelaire and Mallarme in his hand, and eaten fish and chips in a restaurant in the demoralising company of Michael and Denis.

  In the morning they had their breakfast in the ‘morning room’, after which Cyril put on his sola topi and they climbed into his Mercedes. The accountants and clerks led by Joseph Lawrence and Peter Jackson, climbed into a number of jeeps and the whole procession advanced towards the tea-gardens. Cyril showed Kamal his factory, after which they went on to the Planters’ Club where Cyril continued enlightening Kamal on the various aspects of high finance. Then he discussed the day’s Narayan Gunj Share Market with his fellow-planters and glanced through the financial pages of Calcutta’s Statesman and Amrita Bazar Patrika, and Dacca’s Morning News. They were sipping beer before lunch, when Kamal disappeared.

  “Have you seen Mr. Reza?” Cyril asked Peter Jackson after a while.

  “Er . . . I think I saw him going towards the tea-gardens with Nurul Islam Chowdhry, sir,” came his reply, heavy with meaning.

  “Nurul Islam Chowdhry . . . ?” Cyril repeated. Chowdhry was the labourers’ spokesman and had come to me
et him the night before. He had been told to come to the office in the morning. Cyril drove out to his estate in search of his friend, and parked his car under a flame-of-the-forest. He walked down to the shrubs. The trees were full of birdsong, and the sun, streaming through delicate branches, made lovely patterns of light and shade on the undulating surface of the tea-garden.

  He heard the tinkling of glass bangles. A Purbi girl was dextrously plucking tea-leaves, but as soon as she saw him she pulled the anchal of her sari over her dusky face. The Burra Saheb stood right in front, and smiled. Drifting on a slow current of thought he came ashore and asked her in kitchen Bengali, “What is your name?”

  “My name? Champa . . .”

  “Champa,” he repeated, as though he had heard the name for the first time. “Champa,” he mumbled again. “Nice name . . . Champa . . . ,” and made off rapidly towards the car. The girl gazed after him, somewhat amazed, as he vanished in the light-and-shade of the slender trees. Champa, and a whole generation of workers, had come across all sorts of Britons on these estates—eccentric, arrogant, good-hearted, drunk—this particular Burra Saheb was mad.

  Cyril returned to the Club and threw himself into a deep armchair. Elizabeth II smiled down at him from the mantelpiece. In another photograph, an English lady, in a sola hat and pre-1914 high-necked dress sat perched uncomfortably in an elephant-howdah. The Maharaja of Cooch Behar sat near her. The English lady’s condescending expression reminded Cyril of his own grandmother, Lady Penelope Ashley of Barnfield Hall, who came to India for an occasional tiger-shoot.

  “Good morning Granny,” he whispered hoarsely and wondered again at Kamal’s whereabouts.

  Kamal returned to the bungalow late at night. Cyril waited for him in the drawing-room.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded crossly, when Kamal entered.

  “Oh, nowhere in particular,” came the nonchalant reply.

  “Did you go to the labourers’ village?”