River of Fire

by Qurratulain Hyder

  “Yes.”

  “Look. You belong to this set-up as much as I do, so don’t be self-righteous.”

  “The workers get one rupee four annas a day as their wages?”

  “They do.”

  “Are the communists trying to organise them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do. You know everything damn well, because you’re sabotaging their attempt to form a trade union.”

  “Kamal,” Cyril lit a cigarette. “You know I once carried the world’s cross on my puny shoulders. It was futile, so I threw it off. You have rid yourself of this cross too, remember. Early tomorrow morning we’re leaving for Raj Shahi to have a dekko at a Paharpur Gupta sculpture. Now have your dinner and go to bed. Goodnight.”

  In Raj Shahi district the villas of Hindu zamindars stood very silent in the orchards. Their owners had migrated to India.

  “This area is an anthropologists’ paradise,” a documentary film-maker from the West told them at the Raj Shahi Circuit House. Kamal and Cyril accompanied the film unit to the beautiful interior of the district.

  “The Santhals are so poor they eat roots, yet they are so dignified,” the foreign camera-man exclaimed.

  “We’ll keep them hungry and dignified,” the young Bengali escort said in a bitter aside to Kamal. “Excellent subject for National Geographic.”

  “Cyril, East Pakistan is poised for a socialist revolution,” said Kamal happily.

  The day Cyril and Kamal were returning from Santhal country, the entire population of the last village on the way back gathered in front of the jeep. A jet black, astonishingly beautiful young girl stepped forward, garlanded the visitors with marigolds and bowed gracefully, hands folded. The village headman had tied a stick to the stump of his broken leg, and worn his only ragged shirt in their honour. He came limping to the end of the village to see them off. A lithe Santhal boy dived into a pond, plucked a red lotus with a long stalk and presented it to the departing guests.

  The Ganges flowed by the Circuit House in the Civil Lines of Raj Shahi town, and on the other bank lay Murshidabad, in India.

  The two friends spent the day in the museum looking at the exquisite Gupta sculpture, and after dinner they strolled by the starlit river.

  “The East humbles a person,” Cyril told Kamal reflectively. “When I first came to this amazing subcontinent and stayed in out-of-the-way dak bungalows, I marvelled at John Company’s efficiency. Then I learned that the Ommaya Caliphs had introduced a postal service throughout the Arab empire way back in the eighth century, and that there were dak chowkies every few miles in the Sultanate in India, complete with rest-houses and wells for couriers and travellers. The I.C.S. is still governing India and Pakistan, but we merely superimposed our system over Akbar’s administration . . .

  “In our library in Barnfield Hall, we have a rare manuscript of Prince Dara Shikoh’s translation of the Upanishads. The fly-leaf carries the name of Babu Radhey Charan who presented it to my forefather, Nabob Cyril. This country gentleman had worked as an accountant in Siraj-ud-Daulah’s government over there—” he pointed towards the river, “in Murshidabad.”

  A boat was coming towards the bank and for an instant, Kamal thought that Babu Radhey Charan, in court regalia, would step ashore. Instead, they heard a gunshot. The patrol boat went past with army jawans—the Ganges formed a natural frontier between India and East Pakistan. Kamal and Cyril turned back towards the circuit house and Cyril continued to talk about Dara Shikoh.

  “Do you realise,” he said accusingly, “how very Eurocentric even you people have become? The Upanishads were introduced in Europe though Dara Shikoh’s book, but only the Orientalist who translated the Persian book is remembered, not that unfortunate and amazing Mughal prince.”

  A second shot was fired in the distance.

  “Another smuggler shot. Or perhaps another border incident,” remarked Cyril pensively.

  On the way back to Dacca the train stopped at a busy pier of the Ganges and passengers boarded the waiting steamer. Ant-like swarms of coolies transferred luggage from the train to the boat carrying tons of heavy crates, ascending the treacherous gangplank, to the accompaniment of rhythmic noises. Third-class passengers came aboard and flopped down on the floor of the steamer across a grill. The place was teeming with old Hindus. Then the first-class passengers arrived. They went into the cabins, or loitered on the glistening deck. Binoculars and cameras were taken out, newspapers unfolded. Two smart West Pakistani Punjabi begums began knitting, two Bengali maulanas heatedly discussed Awami League politics. A high-ranking West Pakistani official relaxed inside a cabin, drinking beer. He was a former member of the Indian Civil Service now called Central Superior Services in Pakistan, and the Indian Administrative Service in India. Kamal and Cyril surveyed the scene as they stood in a far corner of the deck. What rigmarole was this? What kind of world had come into existence? How many millions of human lives had been lost in the process of the creation of this particular world, how many homes destroyed, how many millions became refugees and exiles? How many millions who used to starve then, continued to starve now?

  The high-ranking Punjabi official emerged from his cabin and offered Kamal a cigarette. The river had become molten gold, shining brilliantly in the rays of the setting sun. A huge black jute cargo boat sailed past. Kamal watched it spellbound, experiencing a thrill.

  “Magnificent,” he muttered.

  “Ah,” the Punjabi official remarked. “As a matter of fact, these vistas look pretty only from a distance. If you have to actually live out here you begin to realise what is what when you deal with the locals. Lazy. Past masters of intrigue. Parochial. It’s a feat of endurance to govern them and keep them out of mischief.

  “I assure you, the Bengalis are a self-contained lot, what with their Tagore, their jute and all that. Believe me,” the official continued with spirit, “the day this region secedes from Pakistan I shall celebrate that happy event by remaining drunk for a whole week.”

  They were approaching Narayan Gunj. The sun shimmered in the purple clouds like a burning red caste-mark. Countless boats glided about sailing right up to the sharp outline where river and sky seemed to meet in infinity. A shrivelled old woman shot past, rowing her little canoe with amazing speed. A mighty overpowering distinct world existed over the mighty river. Soon little lamps lit up in the sampans, as though the river was celebrating the Festival of Lights. Muslim boatmen began chanting their prayers in their sailing craft. The wind rose and the masts swelled and fluttered like the gleaming white wings of a thousand cranes.

  Back in Dacca the two young men were soon reabsorbed in their respective work. They met at the Dacca Club in the evenings and returned to the rest house together. On a Sunday they went nosing around the medieval lanes of the city and came across old-fashioned horse-carriages rambling slowly through crooked, seventeenth-century streets. The Armenian churchyard was hidden behind the walls and arches of a meandering and mysterious Armani Tola, and they read Armenian names on old tombstones. Hatoon. Aram. Aratoon. Who were these people? How did they live, how did they die? Mrs. Hesipsima Harlary. Aratoon Gregory Sameon. Cathick Avietick Aram Thomas. Hatoon Aram Aratoon of “The Pagoda Tree”, Calcutta . . .

  Clouds flooded the night sky. The two friends sat in the rest house drawing-room. Cyril was reading a book of medieval Bengali folk songs, in translation.

  Champa flowers blossom around the pond. Dark clouds thunder in the sky. Emotions rise in my heart like a flooded stream in August. Stream! Why do you flow so fast, for you know not where you go—Pitcher! Drown yourself in the water like a drop of rain. I, too, am drowned like you.

  The pale blue light of the table-lamp looked weary. Lightning blazed across the black sky, typhoons raged in the distance.

  “I am leaving for Karachi via India tomorrow,” Kamal was saying. Cyril looked up.

  “Yes, I suppose you are,” he replied.

  “I’ll be seeing you off and on.”


  “I hope so.”

  Asoka leaves under the veranda heaved.

  The crow is dark, Cyril read, the koel is darker, and dark is the water of the Sanjakhali River . . . but her hair was the darkest . . .

  Outside, the rain played jal-tarang on a lily pond. Trees and aparjita flowers lit up for an instant when lightning flashed again. Cyril read aloud, “Old Ganga weeps uselessly beyond the champak trees.” He uttered in a strange voice, “Tell her that I have closed my ears against their call. I have tied my boat to the shore. Tell her.”

  “I will,” Kamal replied sombrely.

  The following morning Kamal left for Tejgaon airport and emplaned for India. From Dum Dum he went straight to Howrah station. At the platform he noticed a police officer coming towards him briskly. Unnerved, he felt for his passport and travel documents in his coat packet in order to assure himself that he had not entered India illegally. The police officer went his way without looking at him. Kamal continued to feel acutely miserable.

  The train began its westbound journey. Burdwan . . . Asansol . . . Patna . . . Mughalsarai . . . Banaras . . . Allahabad . . . hurtling through a strange, unknown land. A year ago this was his own country, the land of his forefathers. Today he was a foreigner here. He felt as though people were looking at him suspiciously. “You are a Pakistani,” they seemed to be saying, “Come to the police station. You ought to be in the lock-up. You are a Pakistani—Muslim spy—Muslim spy.” The wheels of the train also seemed to be repeating the same clangorous, harrowing, blood-curdling refrain—spy—traitor—spy—traitor—traitor—traitor—

  He opened his eyes, trembling. The train, as usual, glided into Charbagh Junction.

  Charbagh, Lucknow.

  Lucknow?

  He stayed in Golagunj with some relatives for a couple of days. Now he had to proceed to Dehra Dun to have their house deed verified for filing urban property compensation claims in Karachi. He left on the third day. He had nothing to do with Lucknow any more—why should he stay any longer? He was different now, and changed. Lucknow had changed too. Historical monuments were falling to pieces. Hazrat Ganj looked like a slum, the Mall was full of stray cattle. Lucknow had gone to seed.

  70. The Pomegranate Tree

  Talat had informed him from London that Champa was also back in India and, according to June Carter, staying with her uncle in Moradabad. Kamal had managed to have Moradabad added to his visa for India before leaving for Dacca, and had taken Champa’s Moradabad address from Sita Dixit who was still living in the same cottage in Chand Bagh.

  “Like Champa, I have also become a wallflower,” she said to Kamal with some unconscious inner satisfaction.

  The train from Lucknow reached Moradabad at midnight. The first-class waiting room, its regulation railway furniture redolent of British times, was empty. Kamal recalled how the family used to pass through Moradabad on their way to Dehra Dun: Qadeer and Hussaini would jump out of the servants’ coupe to appear like grinning genii at the compartment window. Kamal, Tehmina and Talat would stay awake waiting for the midnight wonders of Moradabad platform—tiny brass kitchenware for dolls, blunt Rampuri daggers for Kamal, velvet caps for the servants . . . Every railway station of his childhood had its own special gifts—the petha and miniature soapstone Taj Mahals of Agra, laddoos of Sandila, mangoes of Malihabad, oranges of Nagpur, brass toys of Banaras. Oh, India, India, why did you forsake me? A lump rose in his throat. He shook his head. No, this drooling sentimentality won’t do. He stretched himself out on an armchair and dozed. When he awoke, he had his breakfast in the first-class refreshment room, too, and recalled the spick and span Spencers of pre-Independence days. Wait a minute, have I started missing the splendours of colonial India? He came out of the railway station and hired a tonga.

  “Police station,” he said briefly. The tonga-wallah was a Muslim. He understood and took him to the thana where visiting Pakistanis’ arrivals and departures were recorded. The S.H.O. was a Muslim too. The Hindu constable wrote down the necessary details in Urdu calligraphy, taking Kamal by surprise. One year in Pakistan had already disoriented him about India. The police officers offered him steaming tea in a glass and discussed the latest Indo-Pak cricket match.

  He gave Champa’s address to the tonga-wallah and they made their way through the bazaar. The town seemed to be teeming with Muslims. In the streets people were shouting cheerfully to one another in colourful, colloquial Urdu. How had Partition solved the Muslim problem? Those who had migrated were only a fraction of Muslims in India. The bazaar walls displayed posters in Urdu announcing mushairas, qawwalis and saints’ festivals even though there was a preponderence of Hindi signboards on shops.

  The tonga reached a seedy locality. Broken terraces gaped in front of arched gates. A drowsy eagle sat on the white-washed wall of a little Shia mosque. Was this where Champa Baji actually belonged? She had always obliquely referred to a stately home in Moradabad.

  She needn’t have—why spend half her life fantasising about herself?

  A little window opened in a crudely carved wooden gate. He pushed it gently and peered into a damp, hay-filled, airless hall. A few cots lay in the semi-darkness. He lingered for a while uncertainly, then clambered in through the opening and immediately came upon a staircase. It was dark and narrow and crooked and seemed to belong to an earlier century. He called out several times but there was no response. After a few minutes he mustered up his courage and ascended the worn-out steps.

  Striking a match in the tunnel-like gloom he soon emerged onto a first floor courtyard, and a room. Its only furniture was a dusty armchair and a four-poster. The trellised balcony overlooked the mosque down below where a solitary maulvi was reciting the Holy Book. He sat near the ablution tank. A plateful of something was placed near his prayer-rug. Straining his eyes Kamal saw that it contained fried liver.

  Soon the heads of a few street urchins appeared above the mosque wall. The boys began chanting in a monotone: “Goat-liver, goat-liver, Mulla-ji’s legs shiver!” This was obviously some kind of local prank! He probably detested the sight of goat’s liver and the plate had been placed near his prayer-mat as the result of a wager. So, life was passing peacefully in this obscure little neighbourhood, too!

  Kamal went downstairs again and came out into the lane, puzzled by the silence. He espied the local cemetery on a grassy slope adjoining the mosque. Living souls, dead souls. Where are you, Champa Baji? A goat bleated, tied under a shed. A girl peeped through a high window in an ancient wall and moved away the moment she noticed Kamal staring blankly at her. He trudged round the mosque and came upon another gate which seemed to be a replica of the gate-house he had already visited. He reached a sagging terrace and rattled the chain.

  “Who is it?” somebody called hoarsely from within. Kamal’s own voice drowned in his parched throat. He had never felt more dismayed.

  “Who is it, I say?” An old woman in tight black pyjamas looked out of the gate-window.

  “It’s me . . .” he faltered.

  “What’s that? Tell us your name, beta.”

  “Kamal Reza. From Pakistan.”

  The crone went in and after a few minutes came shuffling back to open the window.

  “Come in, come in, beta,” she said absently, chewing paan in her toothless mouth.

  He went in, ducking his head through the window. A solitary pomegranate tree stood in the middle of the courtyard. How was it that from Andalusia to Bihar they had always planted a pomegranate tree inside their homes? What was its significance? Most Muslim houses, humble or grand, had a pomegranate tree—they had one, too, in their garhi in Kalyanpur. Kamal was lost in thought. Then he saw Champa—she was sitting on a wooden divan inside the dalaan.

  “Champa Baji!”

  “Kamal!! Good god!!!” She rose slowly and began to smoothen the faded counterpane.

  “I trespassed into the house in front,” he said. “Sorry I’ve turned up like this, but there was no time to inform you.”

/>   “Everybody has gone to Barey Abba’s place. Let’s go there, we must have a long, long chat,” she said calmly and took down a light, quilted wrap from the washing line. She covered herself with it, ready to leave. They came out into the lane. “We do not wear the new-fangled burqas out here, chaddars and dulais are still the proper thing,” she explained. Then she led Kamal into a by-lane which branched off from the mosque and continued along the grave-yard slope. Weeds and little peepul tendrils stuck out of the ancient walls on either side.

  He followed her timidly into the courtyard where a few chairs and cots were placed in a semi-circle. The sharp smell of fried spices wafted out of the kitchen.

  “Barey Abba, this is Kamal Reza,” he heard Champa’s voice call out in the darkness.

  “Aha! Welcome, welcome, son,” the old man who had been lying on one of the cots said warmly, sitting up. “Sit down, here on this chair. No, no, not on this—this one is more comfortable. You have honoured us indeed with your kind visit.”

  A young girl went into the kitchen, another sat in the veranda, studying. A pile of books lay in front of her on the table. “My cousins,” Champa said to Kamal, “the one in the kitchen is Zebun, she has just done her M.A. in sociology from Aligarh Muslim University. The one over there is Mariam Zamani, doing her M.Sc. in agriculture. They were babies when I went to Lucknow for my B.A. Why are you so quiet, Kamal? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Champa Baji.”

  Her uncle talked to him at some length in a slow, dolorous tone, going over the same old topics—the impending war between India and Pakistan, the distressing economic problems. “We U.P. Muslims have been ruined because of the creation of Pakistan,” he concluded.

  “Why is this place so quiet? Where has everybody gone?” Kamal’s voice trailed off.

  “Over there—where you have gone,” replied the old man. “Most of our family members packed up and left with just a few old fogeys like myself here. The place will be haunted by ghosts after we die.”