‘Varahmihir was a great scholar. Just looking at the lines on a hand or forehead, he could correctly tell the past and future. The people were most impressed. Requested him to stay the night saying, “Maharaj, night is falling. Please rest in our village tonight. May it be so destined that we, too, get an opportunity to serve you.”
‘Varahmihir replied, “The planets are aligned thus that if I were with my family, my wife would have conceived a very learned son tonight. A difference in time and place however makes me spend this hour in this village.”
‘At nightfall, a cot was laid for the astrologer in the hut near the well. Offering him milk, people folded their hands in pranam and left. Varahmihir had just closed his eyes when he heard a woman’s voice outside the hut: “Maharaj, please listen to what I have to say.”
‘“Who is it? Please come inside, mother.”
‘Mai came inside, lamp in hand. Bowed her head and said, “Maharaj, as you say, the constellations are right for you to bestow a son. Please sleep with my son’s wife, Maharaj. My clan will be blessed.”
‘Varahmihir made some calculations on his fingers and stood up. “All right, Mai,” he said, “I will be honoured to carry out your wishes.” So the Gujjari’s daughter-in-law got her wish fulfilled. Next morning, Varahmihir rose while it was still dark, bathed, finished his prayers, and continued on his way.
‘In time, the Gujjari begot a grandson. The boy was dark, but razor-sharp and subtle of intellect. His mother showered him with love and care. He grew up, and got busy with his lands.
‘One day, years later, Varahmihir came upon the same village. Recognized his son, and said, “Putr, I have come to take you with me. I have to teach you my art, impart my knowledge to you. Show you the three sacred places – Varanasi, Gaya, Prayag. Take you to the gurupeeth where I learnt astrology, to pay homage and perform sacred rituals. Come without wasting a moment, son, I don’t have much time.”
‘The boy replied, “Maharaj, I cannot leave my mother. This is my home and hearth. Here are my lands and crops. And here is my worship-worthy mother.”
“‘Putr, I know the writ of providence. You have to obey your father’s command.”
‘The mother busied herself in and around the house. Wept copiously. Would neither speak nor say a word to anyone. The boy resisted greatly and protested much. But Varahmihir was adamant. Took the boy with him.
‘They had just left the village when Varahmihir stopped at a field of ripened wheat. He saw the ears of wheat and barley growing together and asked the boy, “Why were these two seeds sown together?”
“‘Maharaj, wheat belongs to those who own the fields, and barley to those who till the land.”
‘Varahmihir was arrogant of his learning. Shook his head and said, “No, according to our sacred books of conduct and Shastra-Maryada, those who own the land also own the crops.”
‘The boy stood silent in thought. Then he lay face-down on the ground and touched his father’s feet with utmost respect in sashtang pranam. Stood up and said, “You are most learned and wise, Maharaj. If ripe crops are owned by those who own the land, then I, too, belong to my land. To my mother. Of you two, it is she who is earth. For me, it is she who is constant.” And he turned back towards the village.’
‘Waah-waah, look at the Gujjar son’s wisdom! Left the learned Brahmin speechless!’
Shahji looked at Chaudharyji and smiled. ‘Badshaho, now the matter of the caste of man is clear, is it not? The truth is that like a mother, the earth too is a treasure of knowledge and wisdom for man. There is no essence of life and living which the farmer-ploughman cannot unearth.’
Nawab had raised the wick of the lamp when Shahji saw Taya Tufail Singh’s son, Nasib Singh. As he entered the courtyard through the doorway and called out pairipauna to everyone, Deen Muhammad said, ‘Puttarji, you are a rare sight these days. This son of ours won’t rest until he becomes a great trader, Shahji. We saw a laden dachi in front of your shop yesterday, son. Khairon se, the goods must have arrived.’
‘What goods and what dachi? Chachaji, we have been ruined!’
Everyone grew alert. ‘Why barkhurdar, is everything all right?’
Nasib Singh took out a letter from under his turban and gave it to Shahji. ‘Shahji, baba has had a bad time of it. All our goods were looted in Bengal.’
Shahji pulled the lamp closer and read the letter aloud:
‘Calcutta
Date twenty-sixth, Month of Chaitra
Let this letter reach barkhurdar Nasib Singh from his baba Tufail Singh. Dear son, your father is safe with the grace of Vaheguru. I reached Calcutta from Patna Sahib during the Navratras. By Rabb’s grace, trade was good. And profit was good, too. But puttarji, there is mutiny in Calcutta city. There is so much animosity between the Hindus and Muslims here that if one community gets bribes from officers, the other gets lathis and bullets. The issue of swadeshi goods is just an excuse to provoke the British. The real root of the problem is the partition of Bengal. Bengalis are most grievously hurt over this. On top of that, the government is also indulging in the most terrible oppression imaginable. The Gorkha army hasn’t lagged behind in inflicting terror on the people either. Let everyone in the pind know that no one was left alive in our tenements. Young and old, all were riddled with bullets. I had gone to offer thanks to Vaheguru in His service on the day of Sankrant. So I was saved. Puttarji, His glories are infinite. His hand keeps His men safe. Don’t forget to go to the dharamshala to offer ardaas in my name. The mutineers set fire to all our goods along with the cloth shop. Nasib Singha, don’t take it to heart. In all this upheaval, my life was saved, millions earned. Yes, the Bengali babu is in great unrest here.
Puttarji, if something like this happens at home and there is an uprising against the sarkar, take whatever is in the shop and leave it with Kadir Parachha of Naushehra. The British Sarkar is inclined to favour Muslims these days.
By Vaheguru’s grace, if all goes well, I will reach the pind around Baisakhi. Say my Sat Sri Akal to all young and old in the village. Tell your bebe that the dark hour is past, so not to worry.
Puttar Nasib Singha, I have bought a beautiful echoing bell for our brown cow. When the haughty one walks, the whole village will hear. Even you will be pleased when you hear it ring.
Tell the majlis that fearing mutiny, the Calcutta governor has resigned and left!
Your baba,
Tufail Singh’
Everyone was shocked to hear the contents of the letter.
Shahji held the paper in his hand for a while, then touched his safa and said, ‘So the rumour that spread from Kamoki Mandi about the Red Raiding Party seems to have some truth in it.’
Nasib Singh grew fearful. ‘Shahji, if our Punjab is also partitioned like Bengal, what will happen to people like us?’
Mauladadji reassured him, saying, ‘Nasib Singha, it is good if Calcutta’s winds of change remain in Calcutta itself. There are no such fears here. The fact of the matter is that all these troubles and conflicts originate in city minds.’
Karm Ilahiji joined in agreement. ‘If you want the truth, these city people have neither any faith-conscience, nor panch-parmeshwar to dispense justice, nor any chaudharhatta to lend support, counsel, or hear complaints.’
‘If the sarpanch itself becomes quarrelsome in envy, pray who will resolve quarrels?’
Shahji tried to explain. ‘Chaudharyji, this issue is much bigger than petty quarrels and disputes. Kashiram, you read regularly and keep abreast of these things. What does the Lahore newspaper say about this?’
Ganda Singh flared up without waiting for an answer. ‘The matter that reaches the newspaper is like a woman who has sold her honour.’
Guruditt Singh, who had dozed off, woke up startled. ‘Shahji, if the beauties of Heera Mandi become powerful, who will care for mothers and sisters of good families?’
Untimely and utterly meaningless! Kriparam grew exasperated and said, ‘Waah, you are great, Khalsaji, truly great! We
were talking of Bengal, and your eyes are dazzled by the glitter and glamour of beauty markets. May everyone see such visions in their sleep and enjoy nautch-mujra without paying a paisa!’
Ganda Singh ignored him and continued, ‘Newspapers say this, say that. Oye, these drivel-spouting, disputing newspapers have become bigger than the Sarkar. A load of yackety-yack, rubbish and farce. This ink-guzzling print media has become more sovereign than the sarkar itself.’
‘No badshaho, these are the sarkar’s own foul deeds. It provokes the Hindus when it pleases, encourages the Muslims when convenient, and then the Sikhs. What to say of the poor Christians!’
‘Our Christians, ji, have got it made. Learn English; talk gibberish. The entire family of our Deedar Singh of Gujrat has become Christian! They are a known and well-respected clan.’
‘Khair-sallah, if they have chosen to be a part of the church-going community, we wish them well. Under British rule, they are only going to gain.’
Najiba, sitting on his haunches, said, ‘Fattu Musalli of the latrine cleaners went to Jalalpur and became a Christian. The new Christians will be heavily rewarded by the government.’
Shahji nodded his turbaned head. ‘Here, Deedar Singh Khalsa left his caste and community, and there, Dr Youngson got the title of Kaisar-e-Hind.’
Ganda Singh didn’t waiver. ‘All that is fine. But what will you do with the printing press and the newspapers?’
Shahji smiled a sly smile. ‘Badshaho, the cat taught the lion, and the lion came to eat the cat. Meaning, that having learnt English, the people of Hindostan will now fight the British regime itself! Jahandadji, now Urdu, Persian, Multani and Lehandi will be of no use.’
Najiba’s thoughts were on Shahji’s ledgers. ‘Shah Sahib, but what of the figures? Will your accounts still run on the same figures, or will that, too, change now?’
The dark fortnight of the waning moon. Two pairs of two each fell silently into step.
Sikandara stood up from the seat of the water-wheel well of the pirs as the night darkened at the first hour of midnight. Wrapping his face and head in a dottahi, he skirted the common and entered the Khullars’ street. Threw a roti to silence the barking dogs, leapt across Kehar Singh’s open room, and climbed up to the roof of the stable. Sniffed around cautiously in the dark and descended the steps to the back of the haveli. Cows, buffaloes, and the mares of Javinde Shah and Lorinde Shah. And right in front, Katha Singh’s Mushqui horse. Parvardigar, now what is this new mess? Labana Katha Singh of Tanda is a dead shot. If Labana is sleeping upstairs, then the night is ruined!
Behind the mounds of fodder, Mustafa snuck up to the wall of the cold storage. Ran a blind hand over the mud wall and began to scrape it slowly with a stone. The wall grew thinner. Mustafa’s ears pricked up. Fass … fass … Is it Naubatiya, or are the cows and buffaloes having a scratch against the stable wall?
A hand descended heavily on his neck. ‘Who is it?’
Mustafa whispered, ‘Katha Singh’s horse is tied in the stable!’
Naubatiya was startled, but calmly gestured and said: ‘The rope is already secured to the attic. No point quitting now.’ Raised a finger heavenwards. ‘Leave it to Him!’
Mustafa measured the hole in the wall with his hand, and crawled in. Outside, glued to the shoulder-high wall, Naubatiya quartered his ears. A fourth towards stable-keeper Kehar Singh’s room, a fourth to the stable door, one-fourth on Mustafa’s rustlings, and one towards Tatta Sansi.
Tatta Sansi was in high spirits because of the commissions he’d earned as a pimp last fortnight. With him were Taja and Khushiya. Both alert and agile, hidden underneath the stable stairs.
Mustafa opened the wooden box with a crowbar. Put his hand in, took the pouches of jewellery and tucked them into his waistband. Then he shoved aside the huge pile of quilts and opened the bolt soundlessly. Lifted the heavy lid, groped around till the bag of guineas came into his hand. Alert, he listened to his own footsteps, and gave the bag to Naubatiya just as the sound of feet running over the roof was heard.
‘O, they’ve killed me! O, they’ve robbed me! Hai-hai, my bangles!’
The steps of the haveli and stable resounded with thumping feet.
Mustafa and Naubatiya inched along the mound of fodder and reached the main gate. They opened the bolt amidst the clamour and jumped into the street, calling out as they ran, ‘O catch them, people, catch them! The Shahs have been robbed!’
Upstairs, the daughter of the Khullars was nursing her child by lamp-light when the door opened with a crash and Taja and Khushiya appeared as though ghosts, their faces swathed in rough cloth. Petrified, Toti could neither scream nor whimper. Khushiya shoved a long stick into her gold bangles and pulled brutally so that she screamed in pain, ‘Hai o!’ Taja quickly stuffed Toti’s dupatta into her mouth, but the child was disturbed and started crying. Toti’s mother, sleeping alongside, woke up with a start. ‘Kyon ri, why are you making the boy cry?’
Toti hiccoughed, ‘Dacoits, Ma, dacoits!’
Both men ran towards the balcony, and lunged for it, but missed the rope by an inch.
Katha Singh, who was the Khullars’ guest for the night, had just sat down to relieve himself on the roof of the attic when the uproar started below. Feet pounding over the roof, Taja and Khushiya were about to grab the rope when Katha Singh, still squatting, grabbed their necks with two broad hands and banged their skulls together. ‘Oye, who’s this?’
Taja wriggled and squirmed mightily, but Katha Singh’s hold didn’t give. ‘Oye kutteyo-khassiyo, did you come to rob, or to crap in your pants?’
When Lorinde Shah came up, both the rascals got such a thrashing that stars broke out of their eyes. ‘Hai O Rabba! Hai O! Hai-hai!’
Katha Singh pulled in the rope from the balcony, tied them up fair and square, and shoved them down the steps of the attic. Then he fetched his gun from his baithak, and pointing it at them, said, ‘Tell us the names of your pals, or you won’t be …’
Khushiya’s mouth was bleeding. ‘A drop of water … then anything you ask.’
Katha Singh wet their throats, sat down on the cot and lovingly said, ‘Kyon oye, you must be knowing the names of the stars that shone this first hour of midnight. Names and addresses both …’
As if recalling some long forgotten story, they chanted, ‘Sikandar, son of Jahangira, Naubatiya, son of …’
‘Oye, leave out their parentage, you numbskulls. Just names should suffice.’
‘Ji, Tatta Sansi of Saranki and … and … ji, Mustafa.’
‘Is that all? Do you see this hand? Are you chatting with your father or answering Katha Singh Labana? I will thrash you so, your grave and soul will become one!’
Khushiya wet his lips with his tongue. ‘Forgiveness, badshaho, one more man is involved, the keeper of this stable, Kehar Singh.’
Taja started shivering. Kehar Singh’s muscles will exact deadly revenge. Bleeding limbs and joints throbbed anew. ‘Forgiveness, Sardarji, forgiveness! Your goods and money are safe. The dachi must be midway to Gujrat by now.’
Sardar Katha Singh laughed at such naiveté. ‘Javinde Shah, do you see, here they were dreaming of becoming Jagga dacoit. O Kanjaro, there is a difference between dacoity and cattle-stealing.’ Katha Singh stretched out on the cot, pulled his shawl from under his head, and said to Lorinde Shah, ‘Go catch the camel on the road. It must be behind the Momadipur masjid. Why, that is where you had agreed to meet, isn’t it, you idiots?’
Both squatted on their haunches and pulled their ears. ‘Hundred per cent correct, badshaho.’
Katha Singh gave the boys a long look. ‘Try to remember, you fools, just whose dachi-mare was used in this bankrupt marriage procession?’
‘Haider Shah’s, of Pind Dadankhan.’
Katha Singh shook his head in disgust. ‘Neither the body, nor the balls. Javinde Shah, give them some milk and medicine and let them go. They will come in handy at the police station.’ Then he coughed and spat a large gob of spit at
their feet. ‘Oye you dickless idiots, you don’t even deserve decent abuse. You drip piss with every breath; your eyes leak tears. Idiots, tucking in your tehmads and walking off to be famous dacoits! Shit-cloths, only if one has the wind in their feet, chimes in their ears, lamps in their eyes, a brain of steel, and a chest with a mountain of patience and courage, only then does one embark upon a dacoity. This is nothing but leaking piss at first fright!’
Mustafa and Naubatiya had barely tied the camel to its stake and hung their clothes up on the peg when the entire pind woke in consternation. Angry neighing horses of the Khullars of Alamgarh and the saddles of well-fed policemen arrived in the village with such fanfare that both Uttari Vand and Thalli Vand resounded with their hoof beats.
‘Hai-hai, ri, God’s injustice! Why this host of high turbans? What’s this! Dacoity in far-off Alamgarh, and the police set up in our village!’
‘May Rabb be kind, I’ve heard a rumour about Mustafa of the Shirinh well …’
‘Rein in your tongue,’ Fakira warned Husaina. ‘Until the police have completed their investigations, don’t you take any names.’
‘Fakira is right, Husaina. Rabb knows who will be slaughtered now and whose troubles are about to begin.’
Chachi Mehri craned her neck from the balcony. ‘Hain ri, what’s all this uproar so early in the morning?’
‘Chachi, it is heard there’s been a dacoity at the Khullars of Alamgarh.’
‘Then why has the police-raiding party come here? Wonder who committed this crime!’
Shahni’s mind instantly went to her people. ‘I say, Chachi, someone must have come from the Khullars. Let me quickly heat the karhai and make some sweet poodas.’
‘Do as you like, bachchi, but as per custom, they will not eat. On the contrary, they will bring sagun-gifts for their daughters. Khairon se, one is you, one Ragi’s daughter-in-law, and one is Karmo of Mussallis. May their daughters live happily and prosper, the Shahs of Alamgarh are known for their generosity – they are rich both in name and wealth.’
Zindaginama Page 26