Zindaginama

by Krishna Sobti

  Kriparam was his government’s well-wisher at heart. ‘Badshaho, say what you like, but no dispensation offers first-aid to rebels. Whoever raises a voice will be crushed.’

  Ganda Singh was roused. ‘Our canal people, the Naharis rocked the government. Heads rolled, skulls cracked, houses burned. Bombs exploded at stations. But at least the sarkar’s onslaught of collecting more and still more revenue was halted. The reason being that now even the farmers were ready to kill or be killed! Badshaho, one cannot taste victory without being ready to suffer.’

  Shahji said, ‘Yes, and that is the basic meaning of Khatt-dharma, the warrior credo. Whatever little manipulation is possible is only in the argument of law. Remember what I say, if you want to destroy oppression, the oppressor, and the philosophy of oppression itself, prepare to sacrifice your life. Guru Gobind Sahib says: Jo tumhe prem karan ka chav, sir dhar tali gali meri aav. If you want to surrender to love, then put your head on your palm and come.’

  Jahandadji nodded. ‘The thing is that the canal area abounds in families of armymen. Jangi Laat, the governor defence advised the Sarkar to keep the forces loyal to the British separate from the rebels and revolutionaries; and to appease them anyhow instead.’

  Shahji nodded agreement. ‘There is another fact. The Jangi Laat is the real governor. In effect, it is he who wields the real power. The Civil Laat has only half his capacity. That is why he’s called Tunda Laat, the one-armed governor. He has only one hand of governance, and that is law. For the rest, the might of the army lies with the Jangi Laat.’

  ‘May Rabb do you good, this is the same as the case of Yaroni Padshah. Yaroni Padshah means half a padshah.’

  Munshi Ilmdin couldn’t contain himself. ‘God forbid if the self-willed faujis get roused, there will be dire consequences.’

  Maiyya Singh guffawed and said, ‘Faujiyo, don’t mind what I say. First a fauji, and a Jatt to boot! That’s a contradiction in itself. Sarkar must have thought, if these cruel ones rise up in rebellion there will be large-scale mutiny.’

  Karm Ilahiji took a long pull of satisfaction, enjoying himself greatly. ‘Ganda Singh, the British are not bad at assessing and identifying human nature. They have understood that the Khalsa community’s origin itself lies in rebellion. Wherever it saw injustice, it rose up that instant! Who can teach the Khalsas to fight?’

  Ganda Singh’s loose turban bristled crisp and starched without lifting a finger. ‘My dears, governments do not bend of their own will. If people are prepared for it, then either the government falls, or there is a call for inquilab.’

  Shahji gave them a knowing look, one that had seen the other end of the tunnel. He warned, ‘When our sons and grandsons are enrolled in the army lashkars, it is better to be cautious.’

  Deen Muhammad immediately caught on. ‘Shah Sahib, what news of our inquilabis? Their names are taken with much respect.’

  Chhote Shah said, ‘When the police overpowered Khudiram’s mate, he was beaten and tortured beyond limit. But that brave son of a mother didn’t break his silence. Didn’t name a single comrade. Fed up, the police chopped off his head, put it in a tin canister and sent it to Calcutta for identification.’

  ‘Balle balle O Shera! What a glorious death! That is pure, sacred martyrdom!’

  Kriparam remembered, ‘You had read out the news of freedom fighter Dheengra from the paper.’

  ‘He had gone abroad to study, and true son of his mother that he was, he went and fired a pistol at Curzon’s chest and declared that to die for one’s motherland was the holiest of acts. The warrior went smiling to his execution.’

  Meeranbakshji was worried. ‘Laat Curzon was not a bad man. Why was he killed?’

  ‘The name can be misleading, but the one who died was not Lord Curzon. Must be a cousin twice removed or something.’

  ‘Chaloji, at least this laat was saved. He earned a good name in Hindostan. Why fight with him?’

  Guruditt Singh said, ‘Meeranbaksh, one doesn’t hand out sweets and sheernis in enmities and battles. You either kill or are killed. The one who makes the first move has an advantage!’

  Shahji was reminded of something and his speech grew colourful. ‘History is full of fighting and insurrection. Once the seed of rebellion sprouts, there is no stopping the wars and battles. It was due to such a quarrel that the Gakkhars took Shahabuddin Ghauri’s life.’

  Jahandadji warmed up. ‘Shahji, let’s hear the qissa. I’ve heard it somewhere but don’t remember it well.’

  ‘Ghauri mounted many assaults on Hindostan. Whenever he entered Punjab, he had to face the Gakkhars first. The Gakkhars ruled the whole of Pothohar. A brave warrior race if ever there was one. On the other hand, Ghauri was the very badshah of looting and oppression. Two hot-headed fearless Gakkhars, Sifar Khan and Nang Khan revolted. They took along Fidai Khan Khokhar and hatched a conspiracy. The Khokhars too were very impetuous and fierce.

  ‘Ghauri was returning to Ghazni from Lahore and had camped at Dhamiyak. Tents were put up. Lamps lit. Ghauri was resting free of care. On the other side, the enemy was alert. Finding an opportunity, the enemy attacked. First they killed the guards outside the tents. Then it was the shahenshah’s turn. They stabbed Ghauri twenty-two times and made a sieve of his body.’

  Ganda Singhji nodded. ‘All right, so the shahenshahi power was crushed and destroyed.’

  Kashi Shah spoke, ‘Yes, the Gakkhars were a fearless race. Every time the country was attacked, the Gakkhars would be there first to repulse the invaders. They won many wars, lost many. Endured many genocides. But in the end, they had to accept Islam.’

  Mauladadji said, ‘The Gakkhar king Hodi married Raja Rasalu’s daughter.’

  Jahandadji observed, ‘The clans of the Gakkhar Chaudharys of Ajnala, Mardan Ali Khan and Sultan Ali Khan have sent about fifty men to the army.’

  Fateh Aliji said, ‘Haiyyi shabash! That’s the place fit for such brave men. The rest are farmers. Their clan enjoys high prestige in Jhelum Sikandrayal Rohtas.’

  ‘Our Raja Mehmood Khan Sahib’s clan is also well known.’

  Shahji said with relish, ‘Badshaho, don’t forget Mukarrab Khan Gakkhar of Pindi. He ruled over the whole of Gujrat Jhelum. When the race of Bhangis rose, he had to leave and go.’

  In his mind, Ganda Singh was back in his platoon. He suddenly recalled something. ‘Jhelum-Rakkh’s descendant Ladha Sahib had two sons, Araz Khan and Mamira Khan who were uniformed majors in the Punjab mounted regiment. Their clan had a son named Regiment Bahadur.’

  Karm Ilahiji puffed up importantly. ‘Pray, what kind of a name is that? But why lie, it does sound quite impressive.’

  ‘Regiment Bahadur means platoon commander. Kashiram, the name Mamira Khan sounds familiar. Wasn’t he the one who was given the chair of chief justice?’

  Fakira indulged in a bit of self-praise. ‘The son of our aunt who lives in Sambaryal has just returned from Kalapani. My mother had gone to meet him. He says they yoke freedom fighters to the oil-press!’

  ‘That’s the limit! Such an insult to bravery! Yoking men like cattle!’

  ‘Let the Sarkar indulge in merciless oppression, the inquilabis are also warming up. If they get the chance, they won’t leave these monkeys alive. They will overthrow the government.’

  ‘Haanji, when our boys have decided to fight till the finish, then what is fear and what terror?’

  ‘They have guts and daring. O Ji, they threw a bomb at Laat Sahib riding his elephant in Delhi’s Chandni Chowk in broad daylight. The intent, only this: kill, or be killed.’

  Guruditt Singh revealed his trump card with much fanfare. ‘Listen to more! It so happened that the Calcutta administrator got a transfer to Lahore. Lahore’s inquilabis got whiff of the news. That’s it, as soon as the Sahib arrived in Lahore, his neck was chopped off!’

  Ganda Singh flared his nostrils. ‘This is, of course, a most auspicious exchange between the government and the freedom fighters. One offered the sagun of death by hanging, th
e other returned the favour and fired the shots as tambol.’

  Munshi Ilmdin said, ‘There is confirmed news that the Germans are sending pistols to our inquilabis via Kabul.’

  Chaudhary Fateh Ali said, ‘The ruler of Germany has had a tradition of friendship with our country. Chacha used to tell us that the German shah had extended a generous helping hand to our people during the Pai famine, or maybe the Markan famine. He sent one lakh gold coins in one go to Hindostan.’

  ‘Waah, now that is something!’

  Maiyya Singh sat up, thumped his chest and said, ‘I think they have some relations with London too. They are equals, after all. Must have married a daughter or sister. There is always some give and take, isn’t there?’

  Jahandad Khan and Ganda Singh both burst out laughing. ‘If German arms and ammunition come to us via Kabul, you can be certain we won’t get them! The thing is that the people of Kabul themselves wanted our old army rifles, but the sarkar didn’t agree. The Kabul king was exhausted. It is well known in the army that the Jangi Laat had decreed that even if all the old rifles of Hindostani soldiers had to be sunk in the sea, he would rather do that, than give them to the Afghanis.’

  The Laat got fulsome praise for this. ‘A very wise decision! Guns would have gone to the Afghanis, and the Kabailis’ bullets would have been aimed at our garrisons and cantonments! Killing and getting killed are as natural to the Baloach Pathan as breathing – it’s a matter of custom.’

  Shahji said, ‘British law will have a hard time there. Once it so happened that a Baloach caught his wife with someone else. That was it! In the heat of the moment two murders were committed. The case was tried in presence of the Jirga, the Afghan elders’ council. The British judge sentenced him to three years as per his knowledge and his law book. As soon as the judge read the sentence, loud laughter broke out. The British officer was perplexed, thought it must be some joke. He called the wise white beards and asked, “What is the matter?” They said, “Sahib, this sort of crime either gets two–three days, or a fine of rupees fifty at the most. Sahib will gradually get acquainted with our local laws and customs.”’

  ‘Shah Sahib, the judge must have been hard put to save face! He wouldn’t have known where to look,’ Fakira said.

  Kashi Shah clarified, ‘He must have written to his senior judge.’

  Karm Ilahiji stoked at his cooling chillum and nodded. ‘Quite right. This race is most ingenious when it comes to matters of writing. The clerk writes to his senior clerk, the senior writes to his senior, and his senior to an even higher senior! Shah Sahib, do clarify this as well. The Jangi Laat, lord governor defence is a bigshot all right. But whom does he answer to?’

  ‘It is like this, Chaudharyji, the governor defence presents himself before the secretary of Indian affairs who resides in England. If the secretary says yes, then yes; if he says no, then no it is.’

  ‘And Ji, what is the power of the Jangi Laat?’

  ‘Badshaho, the Jangi Laat is in charge of the country’s army. If he so much as signals with a tiny twirl of his moustache, the whole world will be thrown into disarray.’

  ‘A difference of opinion once arose between the Civil Laat and the Jangi Laat. Jangi Laat made such a clever move that Laat Curzon shat in his pants and resigned. And the Laat Jangi is still sitting pretty in his chair, ruling over the forces. Now isn’t that something!’ Jahandadji triumphantly threw in his trump, as knowledgeable as if the Jangi Laat were an elder of his clan.

  Hot and humid, not a leaf stirred. Everyone slowly gravitated to the village square where cots were laid out under the big old banyan. One, it was a Friday. On top of it, the sheer torpor. One would attempt getting up to work, then drop everything, flop down and join the others in the square. The well near the masjid was the only place that showed signs of life. Every now and then, someone would lower the rope, fill the small bucket and splash his face and neck. Another would yank off his kurta and pour a bucketful over his head to cool off.

  The reign of hot hukkahs came to a natural end.

  Kaudey Khan ran a hand over his henna-red hair and called out to his child, ‘Fill a pot from the sweet-water well. Take a lump of jaggery from ma and make some sherbet quickly.’

  ‘In a moment, Abbuji.’

  Kaudey Khan turned to Fateh Aliji and said, ‘This cussed thirst refuses to be quenched. The month of June blazes like a furnace inside and out. So hot, a crow’s eyes would fall out.’

  ‘So true. June sizzles and brings July, Sawan, the month of rains. If only God would grant a few showers, one would find some peace.’

  Allah Rakkha sat on his haunches scratching at his prickly heat. ‘Badshaho, hope it rains just enough for my millet to ripen right. Last year, it rained so heavily that my field got mould.’

  Vazeera grew worried for his own. ‘Chaudharyji, my crop too got worms.’

  ‘May Allah-Beli look on kindly, our prayers only to Him!’

  Shera and Barkhurdar came down from the well after a bath. Barkhurdar wore earrings and a kantha around his neck. Shera’s body was hard and lean, a nama hanging by a black thread glistened around his neck. When Shera wrapped the tamba snugly around his taut waist, his youth shone resplendent.

  Chaudhary Fateh Aliji’s gaze lingered on Shera for long moments. Say what you like, but this son of the Dhadiwalias had won the prized beauty of the village. Aliya’s daughter Fateh was no less than a princess after all. And the younger one Rabeyan was, of course, Lalamoosa – to which only few could aspire.

  Shera spread out his wet hair, sat down on a stone in the shade, and took up Bulle Shah.

  ‘Nor an Arab

  Nor of Lahore

  Nor am I Hindi

  Nor of Nagaur

  I am no Hindu

  Nor a Turk

  Nor of Peshawar

  Nor do I reside

  In Nadaun

  Bulla says I know not

  Who I am,

  Bulla ki jaane mein kaun …’

  Karm Ilahiji was overjoyed. ‘Waah O waah, Baba Bulle Shah, praises to you! You have strung beads in a necklace! Pure pearls. Puttar Shera, you have a gifted voice. Sing another one! Let good words come to the ears.’

  Fateh Aliji was lying on his cot, head resting on his elbow. He sat up. ‘Puttarji, your voice is such as if one has cast pure notes on the great Chenab, saying go, ride and flow with the waves. Waah O Maula, the munificence of river Chenab to Punjab, and of Baba Bulle Shah. And Baba Waris Shah, no less! Who poured his very life-breath and soul into his couplets and kafias and said, “Go people, sing and keep your spirit alive and resonant forever.”’

  Hearing to this, Shera came into his own:

  ‘Neither Hindu nor Muslim am I

  At Trinjan, forsaking pride, spin I

  Neither Sunni nor Shiya am I

  Peace with all is my chosen way

  Neither hungry nor sated am I

  Neither I laugh nor do I cry

  Neither uprooted nor rooted am I

  Neither a sinner nor devout am I

  The way of good and evil is not mine

  Says Bulle Shah, in every heart He resides

  Hindu, Turk, He casts both aside.’

  ‘Waah … Waah … Waah … Puttarji, what words, and what a voice!’ The wise elders praised Shera lavishly, but kept their eyes averted. Maula, all Your grace. The same brats who played gulli-danda just yesterday are all grown up and worthy of sitting amongst us today. Khair sadke, the new wave is already rising. Time races.

  Mauladadji got up from his cot and spread out his mat. Prostrated in sajda after Wazu. Offered namaz and took his time in Ruku.

  At some distance from the mangers built along the walls, small boys came out to challenge each other in the manner of playing saunchi:

  ‘Frost in the month of Kartik

  In Magh the earth was frozen

  In Poh the armies came in full

  And chilled all Hindostan.’

  One elder called out, ‘O you stupid kids, let
Poh be for now, call Sawan instead.’

  The children began afresh:

  ‘Auliya Mauliya pour and rain

  Fill my granary up with grain

  Let the birds not thirst in vain

  Auliya Mauliya pour and rain.’

  Sawal Khoji’s young son Toto came running up to them, breathless. Grimy shirt above, naked down below.

  Shaunka teased, ‘Oye Toteya, where’s your tambi? Tell your bebe to clothe you properly, or mice will nibble away your musalmani.’

  Little Toto hid his penis with his hand and said to Mauladadji, ‘Chacha Sahib, there is a man sleeping under a kikar tree across the sand dunes. There are several bundles tied around his neck. Under his head is a trunk and his face is covered with a safa. His clothes smell of Taya Tufail Singh of the many shops.’

  Muhammad Ali and Chaudhary Fateh Ali were very pleased. ‘Ball of wonder, such keen intelligence! The child is all of five, and just look where his eyes go and what they observe! It is as if Sawal Khoji’s father, Kametha has been reincarnated. Puttar Toteya, come here.’

  Mauladadji smacked the boy’s head affectionately. ‘Our Tota puttar is bright as a lamp. Come son, let’s go see whom you have found. Shaunkiya, go to the shop and tell Nasib Singh to come quickly with some sherbet-lassi. Even if it is not Taya Tufail Singh, he must be thirsty.’

  When the message reached Nasib Singh, he came hurrying with a pot of buttermilk. The children ran over the burning sands and gathered around the sleeping Baba in the blink of an eye. Hearing their chatter, Taya lifted the cloth from his eyes and saw the little ones crowding around him. He threatened affectionately, ‘Oye you mischievous pests, it’s high noon, how did you get wind that Taya has stopped to catch his breath outside the village?’

  Shaunka came forward and offered his salaam. ‘Tayaji, little Tota of the Khojis came and told everyone at the square that a man was lying under the kikar tree. And he looks like Nasib Singh’s father from his clothes.’