Delhi (19 page)

At this time there was a Yahoodi
fakeer
, Sarmad, who went about naked like a Naga
sadhu
. Sarmad told everyone in the bazaars that Dara would win. The people of Dilli were frightened of Sarmad because he was a friend of God and could ask Him for any favour he wanted. One day I casually told one of the Muslims at the
sarai
what
fakeer
Sarmad was saying. The Mussalman spat on the ground and exclaimed:
‘La haul valla quwwat
! That shameless fellow who dangles his penis before women! If I ever catch him alone I will cut it off and throw it to the dogs.’

Fakeer
Sarmad was wrong. The king’s sons fought each other as hungry dogs fight over a bone. Dara’s son, Sulaiman Shikoh, defeated Shuja. Meanwhile Murad and Aurangzeb defeated Dara, captured Agra and made their old father prisoner. Then this fellow Aurangzeb tricked his brother Murad: he got him drunk, tied him up and threw him into a dungeon. He then finished off Shuja, Dara and Dara’s sons. This was how we had a new badshah—Aurangzeb—while the old badshah Shah Jahan was still alive. The Mussalmans in the
sarai
were happy. They said that the new badshah was a good man. He did not drink wine; he did not have concubines or courtesans; he did not allow dancing and singing in the palace; he ate little, slept little and prayed a lot. He spent on himself only what he earned by making copies of their holy book and selling them. They said if all kings had been like him, Hindustan would have long ago been rid of
kafirs
. Alamgir was the name they used for him—’Alamgir,
Zinda Peer
, is a living saint,’ they said.

Lakhi Rai was not happy. The new badshah did not give him any contracts. One day many years later when I was eating his leftovers in his courtyard I told him that the Mussalmans said Aurangzeb was a man of God because he did not drink wine or womanize. He lost his temper and said ‘What about that slut Hira Bai?’ Then he got frightened and made me swear that I would never tell anyone of what he had said. But I could not get Hira Bai’s name out of my mind. I asked the Bania, who also sometimes gave me his leftovers, about her. He made a ring with the thumb and index finger of his left hand and pierced it with a finger of his right hand. ‘But that Hira Bai is dead,’ he said. The Bania did not like Aurangzeb because he had imposed
jazia
tax on the Hindus. ‘Don’t tell anyone I told you,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but a tribe called the Marathas are going to finish him. Their leader Shivaji has stuck a big bamboo pole up the bottoms of these Mughals. Haven’t you heard how this Shivaji tore out the bowels of one of the badshah’s generals with his hands? In the name of Rama, don’t breathe a word about this to anyone or they will slit my throat.’

I couldn’t keep secrets. One day I asked the Mussalman cook at the
sarai
if he had ever heard of Shivaji. He almost spat in my face. ‘Where did you pick up the name of that dirty
kafir
?’ he asked angrily. ‘He murdered the brave General Afzal Khan who was embracing him as a friend. That is the kind of
moozi
he is. The badshah has sent an army against him. If Allah wills, the rat will be flushed out of his hole and destroyed.
Inshallah
!’

Some months later the Mussalman cook gave me an extra large portion of leftovers. He looked very happy. ‘Have you heard of that Shivaji of yours? He has been captured and brought in chains to Agra. He will be sent to hell.’ When I told this to the Bania, he said it was a lie and that Shivaji had come of his own free will to talk to the king. For many days everyone in Dilli was talking of this man Shivaji. The Mussalmans said he was a great villain and that the king would cut off his head. The Hindus said he was a great hero. Then we heard that he had escaped and returned to his mountain kingdom in the Deccan. ‘Didn’t I tell you so?’ said the Bania to me. ‘They can never catch him. Ramji is his protector.’

The king was very angry. He ordered Hindu temples at Varanasi and Mathura to be destroyed. The Bania who was so frightened of the Mussalmans called the badshah a
zalim
. ‘Whenever there is too much
zulum,
’ he said ‘God sends an
avatar
to destroy
zalims
. It is written in the
Gita
.’ Even Lakhi Rai who kept up with the Mussalmans wagged his head and said, ‘This is
Kaliyuga
(the dark age), God will send an
avatar
to save us.’

The
zulum
went on but no
avatar
came to stop it. When the Jats and Brahmins of village Tilpat, which is a few
kos
in the direction of the rising sun, claimed land which belonged to their temple, the badshah sent his army against them and blew up their village. Their leader, Gokula Jat and all his supporters were brought to Dilli and executed. No
avatar
came to save them.

Three years later there was a worse
zulum
at Narnaul. A sect of
sadhus
called Satnamis were slain by the thousand. No
avatar
came to save them or punish the
zalim
badshah.

I asked Lakhi Rai about the coming of the
avatar
. He just shook his head. I asked him whether our Guru could be the
avatar
. ‘Which Guru?’ he asked. ‘There are so many. And all they do is to send their agents to collect money.’ That was strange talk from Lakhi Rai!

I began to lose faith in the Guru. The Mussalmans in the
sarai
made fun of him. ‘Who is this robber you worship?’ one fellow asked me. The
mullah
of the mosque (may his mouth be filled with dung!) said: ‘The badshah will soon bring this Guru of yours to the path of obedience and teach him that the only way of approaching Allah is through His only Messenger, Mohammed—upon Whom be peace.’ Although I knew nothing about this Guru I did not like Mussalmans talking like that about him. When the Guru was captured at Agra and brought to Dilli in chains, the Mussalmans mocked: ‘We told you this Guru of yours is a robber! The entire gang will be hanged.’

I saw the Guru and three Sikhs who had been arrested with him. I said to myself: ‘I
f he was an
avatar
he will save himself and
destroy the
zalims.’ I prayed that he would fly out of his cell or perform some other miracle so that I could show my face to the Mussalmans of Rikabganj.

But who cares for the prayers of poor untouchables? There was this judge Qazi Abdul Wahab. His Allah had made him so deaf that everyone called him
behra qazi
. He sentenced the Guru and his three followers to death. He ordered their bodies to be displayed in front of the
kotwali
for everyone to see. For the first time even the timid Lakhi Rai became brave. ‘This must not happen,’ he said to me. ‘The Guru has refused to save his life, but we must not allow them to dishonour his body.’ The rich contractor addressed me as Jaitaji. Before this he had always called me ‘Jaitoo’ or worse ‘O,
choorha
(sweeper).’ How was I to know Lakhi Rai was not a spy? I kept quiet. Silence is the best friend of the poor.

Strange things happened in Dilli that autumn. Dassehra passed without any Ram Lila or the burning of the effigies of Ravana and his brothers. The Hindus said the badshah had forbidden the celebration of Hindu festivals. The Muslims said that this was a lie and said they knew why Hindus were not celebrating their most important festival. A few days later came Diwali. Not a light in anyone’s house! Not a sound of a cracker! No fireworks! No one sending sweets to anyone! The whole world was like a dark, moonless night. You know how much darker the night looks when you expect millions of oil-lamps twinkling and there are none! So no Diwali for the Hindus. And the Mussalmans feeling as if ants were crawling up their bottoms! The
mullahji
of the
sarai
mosque asked Lakhi Rai very discreetly why he had not lit any lamps on Diwali night. ‘The death of a very near and dear one,’ he replied. ‘All the Hindus seem to have lost someone near and dear to them,’ exclaimed the
mullahji
very sarcastically. ‘I hope it is not because someone very near and very dear is going to die, yes?’

Lakhi Rai did not answer. The
mullahji
turned his temper on me. ‘And you, Jaitoo! Have you lost your mother’s mother that you did not light lamps at Diwali?’ I replied: ‘
Mullahji
in poor men’s houses there is a death every day. We never have enough oil to light a lamp. If you gave me money, I would have lit up every home in Rikabganj.’ He mumbled in his beard, ‘You have learnt to talk big, haven’t you?’

Everyone in Dilli was talking about the miracle the Guru would perform. They said anyone who raised his hand against him or his companions would go blind. The
Kotwal
could not find anyone in Dilli to carry out the sentence of death and had to send for one Jalaluddin all the way from Samana in the Punjab. This Jalaluddin hated the Sikhs and their Gurus.

A few days after the Diwali-without-lights, Jalaluddin cut off the heads of the Sikhs captured with the Guru. Jalaluddin did not go blind; nothing happened to him. Now it was the turn of the Guru. The
behra qazi
said, ‘Jalaluddin we’ll cut off the Guru’s head on Thursday. His body will be exposed to public gaze after prayer on Friday. Everyone in Dilli will see which is mightier, the sword of Islam or the neck of an infidel!’ Everyone in the world knows that whenever the blood of a good man is spilled in Dilli, the Great God who lives in the sky makes His anger known. On Thursday the sun came up like a ball of fire. Everyone said: ‘Something terrible is going to happen today.’ Even the Mussalmans were anxious and hoped the badshah who was away beyond the Punjab would get to know and would cancel the order of the
behra qazi
. The
Kotwal
told me that he had prayed all night. ‘It will be very bad for the Mussalmans if this Guru is martyred,’ he said shaking his head.

The Guru performed no miracle. With the name of God on his lips he permitted the monster Jalaluddin of Samana to sever his head from his body. The town-crier went round beating his drum and yelling that ‘justice’ had been done and that the Guru’s body would be exposed in front of the
kotwali
for two days and nights for all to see and learn a lesson.

I brought the news to Rikabganj. In the afternoon all the Sikhs and Hindus of Rikabganj gathered under a tree. No one said anything. The men sighed and the women wept. The Mussalmans of the
sarai
watched us from a distance. Even they seemed to be touched by our grief.

As I sat in that crowd listening to the sighing and whimpering a strange feeling came over me. We had done nothing to save the life of our Guru—and now they were going to expose his naked body to the gaze of crowds and for animals to tear and birds to peck! What kind of devotees were we? My blood boiled within me; I felt very hot and angry with myself. Most of the Guru’s disciples were high-born Kshatriyas and Jat peasants who boasted loudly of their bravery. They had done nothing to save their Guru. I, an untouchable, could teach these high-caste fellows how a Guru’s Sikh should act. It might cost me my life, but I would win the respect of the world for my untouchable brethren.

I slipped away. Lakhi Rai saw me get up and followed me. ‘I have some work for you Jaitaji,’ he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, adding meaningfully, ‘if you are man enough to do it.’ This was the first time he had touched me. I was not sure of this rich contractor—one can never be sure of rich people. I replied, ‘I have to be on duty at the
kotwali
.’ Lakhi Rai said: ‘I will come with you. I also have business at the
kotwali
.’ What was his game? I really did not care to find out. However, I felt not Lakhi Rai’s but my Guru’s hand on my shoulder. I was not afraid of anyone in the world—not of the badshah or the
behra qazi
or that Jalaluddin; not even of the Mughal soldiers or the
Kotwal
and his constabulary.

Lakhi Rai had several bullock carts lined up on the road. They were loaded with bales of cotton. His eight sons were with him. As he was a government contractor, he and his family were allowed to carry weapons. All the men were armed with swords and spears. Lakhi Rai always guarded his caravans in this way and everyone knew him. We left Rikabganj in the afternoon.

When we reached Paharganj, the sun suddenly disappeared. The wind dropped. Hundreds of kites began circling above us. We could see a dark brown wall come sweeping in from the west. As we came to the city wall, the circle of kites moved overhead towards the Royal Mosque. Then the storm overtook us with a fury I would not have thought possible.

The guards at Ajmeri Gate had muffled their faces with the ends of their turbans and waved us on. The storm swept us through Qazi-ka-Hauz, through Lal Kuan and past Begum Fatehpuri’s mosque into Chandni Chowk. We arrived at the
kotwali
.

Who knows the inscrutable designs of the Guru? The dust- storm had turned the day into night. Every door and window had been shut against the dust. The guards had bolted themselves in their barracks. And the only sound was the howling of the wind.

I had no difficulty in finding the Guru’s body. I touched his feet and then slung his body over my shoulders. I took his head in my hands and walked through the blinding dust-storm. Lakhi Rai and his sons also touched the Guru’s feet. We laid his body and head on one of the bullock carts, piled bales of cotton over it and turned our carts around. The same storm that had driven us into Chandni Chowk drove us backwards through the same bazaar, out of Ajmeri Gate to Paharganj. When we arrived at Rikabganj, the wind suddenly dropped and the dust disappeared. The night had come on.

Lakhi Rai’s wife and daughters-in-law had made a pyre of sandalwood in the centre of their courtyard. We placed the Guru’s body on it. All the family touched his feet. Lakhi Rai said a short prayer and lit the pyre. His wife brought out a shawl and wrapped the Guru’s head in it. ‘Take this to the Guru’s son in Anandpur,’ she said, handing me the bundle. ‘The Guru will take you there in safety.’