The Eighteenth Parallel (13 page)

'Shall I go now, sir?'

'Wait. Why are you in such a great hurry? Can't you get a bus at this time?'

'I've come by bicycle, sir.'

'That makes it easier still. You can go whenever you please. Now, I'm going to sing the song by myself. See if it's all right.'

And Professor Tambimuthu sang. He explored all those domains of music the rest of us could never have known existed. In the last line of the song each repetition of the thrice repeated word 'Vidutalai' rises higher than the last and I had taught him to strike a really high note at the conclusion. Tambimuthu's voice didn't go very high though his eyeballs kept rolling higher and higher.

Then he asked me proudly, 'Was that all right?'

'Yes sir,' I lied.

'I pick up songs at the first hearing. As for this song, I've been singing it ever since I heard you that day.'

I didn't say anything.

'Whose lyric is this?' he asked.

'Bharati's.'

'Who?'

'Bharati, sir'

'Who's he? Is he alive now?'

The only thing I knew at that time about the greatest Tamil poet of this century was that
Kalki
magazine had started a collection for a memorial to be built in his name in Ettayapuram, his birth place. Long lists of donors – several pages of it – were published week after week in this magazine, I knew more about these people than about the poet. My father had donated some money as well, and his name had appeared in the lists. My knowledge of twentieth century Tamil literature was confined to the Tamil weeklies
Ananda Vikatan
and
Kalki
which appeared late in our city. It seemed that Tamil migrants like Tambimuthu had lost even that sort of contact with Tamil. I wondered when his people had migrated to Hyderabad.

So there we were, Tambimuthu and I, in the year of Indian Independence, paying homage to our national poet by singing his song of freedom.

'A wonderful song,' said Professor Tambimuthu, 'To think I wouldn't have known about it, if you hadn't sung it that day.'

'I know two more songs, sir, Actually I had wanted to sing one of the two that day, but they're a bit long.'

'Will you teach them to me?'

'Not today, sir.'

'No. Some other time. And look here'.

'Yes sir.'

'Don't tell anyone.'

I didn't know what it was I was not to tell.

'I mean... about my learning the song.'

'All right, sir.' And then I made a big blunder. I said, 'Even Telugu people want to learn this song, sir.'

'I see.. Who?'

'Narasimha Rao, sir.'

'Who's Narasimha Rao?'

'A student in the A batch, sir. A Congress leader.'

At the mention of Congress, the professor's face clouded over.

'Be careful. Don't mix with them.'

'But that may not be possible, sir.'

Professor Tambimuthu stiffened. 'I tell you this because you are a Tamil boy. Don't get mixed up in all this.'

'But I have even given my signature, sir.' I showed him my finger.

'What?'

'We put down our names in blood, sir.'

'What nonsense!'

I took warning. 'Can I go now, sir?'

'What's all this about signatures?'

I stood silent. He won't sing any more freedom songs, I thought.

'What was that about signatures?'

'We've been made to take a pledge, sir.'

'What pledge?' Tambimuthu rebuked me sharply, standing up.

'We're going to demonstrate in front of the college from the first of December.'

'Get out! Get out!'

I darted to the door. But before I was out, the professor called out, 'Chandrasekhar!'

I turned to look at him.

'Come here.'

1 went to his table again. He went and closed the door, plunging the darkening room into further darkness. Dusk was falling outside.

'Tell me the whole thing.' I stood determined not to tell him anything, and he sensed it. 'Look, Chandrasekhar,' he said, 'I don't want you to go to the dogs. Let the others do what they like. If there is another strike or demonstration, the trouble-makers will be rusticated.'

I didn't know the exact meaning of 'rustication', but I knew it must be some sort of punishment.

'Trust me and tell me. It'll stand you in good stead later on.'

My resolve weakened and I told him how I went with Narasimha Rao to meet the leader of the Hyderabad State Congress, that I had been distributing pamphlets among students known to me.

'Do you have any on you now?'

'No sir.'

'What was the pamphlet about?'

I gave him some details. Digambar Rao Bindu had had a meeting with Vallabhbhai Patel in Delhi and it was decided that the college students of Hyderabad should intensify their struggle against the oppression of the Nizam–Razakar combine. The first step was a two-page pledge followed by signatures and there had been fifteen who had signed with me. In blood. I nicked my finger and blood spurted out. Besides me, three other students dipped their pens in my blood and signed. Compared with the pledge written in ink, the names in blood were dim, nearly illegible. Blood didn't seem to be proper material for writing on paper.

I had never seen Professor Tambimuthu in such a sombre mood. 'Were any girls involved?'

'Yes sir. A few But none from our college.'

'Did you sign because of the girls?'

'Oh no sir. It wasn't like that.'

Professor Tambimuthu stood up. 'I promise not to report this,' he said. 'But I can tell that it's not going to do you any good. Idealism is a good thing, no doubt. Don't I have it myself? Why do you think I learnt this song on freedom from you? Inspiring, indeed. But then, this is no place for idealism. Look at me. I've been in this college for twenty years. Yet, when I asked for a year's leave to go to England, I was asked to resign my job and go. I should have been made the vice-principal long ago, but I wasn't even considered for the post. If I recommended a student for a scholarship, he would be the first to be rejected. To survive in this place one must wear a red cap or a turban. Mere cropped heads like me don't get anywhere.' I found it incredible that a chemistry professor should speak so candidly.

'Chandrasekhar, these are trying times;' he went on. 'It's better to complete your studies here in Hyderabad and spend your life here, whether you like it or not. Students from Hyderabad State get no recognition elsewhere. There are no jobs anywhere for them. Hyderabad's merging with India is not going to help you in any way. I know how it is. Nobody outside respects a Hyderabad man. All that's not going to change overnight. Till now we had Englishmen above us; hereafter it will be Gandhi cap people. The're all the same, I tell you, as far as we are concerned, there's no escape for us.' I was afraid he might begin to cry. I came out of the room. It was quite dark outside. Professor Tambimuthu called out from inside the room. 'That wound in your finger, did you put some iodine or something on it? It may get septic.'

5

The
Hindu
had started to reappear in Hyderabad. That evening, the attender at Somasundaram Library had dumped a bundle of about ten days' issues before Chandru and at six he had locked the library and left. When Chandru went the next day hoping to glance through the lot, he only found the day's paper on the table.

Chandru left after a cursory reading of a single day's offering. This reading room charged only four annas a month, but he was overdue by about a fortnight. So far, the attender hadn't said anything, but asking for the
Hindu
would surely draw forth a curt reminder from him. Let me see your four annas before you enter again.

Only the
Hindu,
which came from Madras, covered cricket news well. The Indian Express had flashy headlines but not enough detail. Anyway, it had also been banned here in Hyderabad, since it carried vicious attacks against the Nizam and his Government every day. When the
Hindu
was also banned, one had to be content with the three local newspapers, the
Deccan Chronicle,
the
Hyderabad Bulletin
and the
Daily News.
All three were four-page tabloids with no room for cricket. Chandru walked along Kingsway wheeling his bicycle. Yesterday's heavy downpour had cooled the city down considerably. Even otherwise, it had been quite pleasant in the last ten or fifteen days. A 'Standstill Agreement' had been reached between the Nizam and the Indian Government, and it was to be in force for a year. The Hyderabad problem had been solved, which meant some relief for the Government of India, but there were graver problems facing it: Kashmir, refugee riots in Delhi, Mahatma Gandhi's fast. But in the midst of all this, an Indian cricket team had gone to Australia for the first time. The match in Perth was nothing to write home about. But in Adelaide things had been different. Bradman had hit a century. Lala Amarnath had made a 144 there. And he had been stumped by Saggers off a ball by Dooland. The
Hindu
had a photograph showing Amarnath and Saggers smiling. In the next match in Melbourne Amarnath had made an unbeaten 228. India had beaten an all-Australian team in Sydney with Mankad taking eight wickets. Again, in Brisbane, Lala Amarnath made an unbeaten 172. Everyone was singing the praises of the Lala in Australia and India but little was heard of it in the Hyderabad newspapers. India, for all they cared, might have been an alien country. But there wasn't a single player from Hyderabad State on the Indian team-not Ghulam Ahmad, or E.B. Aibara, or Bhoopati, the Tamil player. One had to depend on the infrequently available
Hindu
from Madras for the cricket score. Newspapers from outside the state which had not been banned were available in Hyderabad the next day, because Madras to Hyderabad was a night and a day by train, a journey increasingly being undertaken from the Hyderabad end. Many people had left Hyderabad.

Chandru was still wheeling his bicycle. These days, it was nothing unusual for shopping centres to be deserted even during the day. Or for houses to be locked. A few hundred families from here had evacuated the town and gone to Bolaram about ten miles away. If the Indian troops stationed there were to be withdrawn according to the agreement, Bolaram would then cease to be a secure place.

There was no change in the Nizam's trips to the mosque. He still went three times every day, the police whistles stopping all traffic for him as usual. His Razakars were very much in evidence everywhere. What if the Indian Government could not counter the Nizam's machinations?

There were very few bicycles parked in front of the Arya Bhavan restaurant. It was started two years ago and had brought the real South Indian idli and coffee to Secunderabad. For just four annas you got a satisfying plate of two steamed idlis with the sambar as well as a cup of coffee. But four annas would be just enough to pay the library dues. If he had had the same four annas in British Indian coinage, it would be enough even for the matinee show of an English film. 'British Indian coinage' was not the right phrase any more. Now it was Indian coinage. But things had not changed in the schools of Hyderabad. The sums still went something like, 'British-Indian currency Rs 100 is the equivalent of Hyderabad halli currency Rs 116 as.10 p. 6. How much is Rs 30 in British Indian currency worth in Hyderabad Halli?' Chandru groped in his trouser pockets to make sure that his half-anna was still there. Ever since he stopped going to college, he never seemed to have any money on him. This half-anna bit had been lying around some where and had been a chance discovery.

He had boycotted classes for quite a few days now. Mother had asked him about it when she found him at home all the time. He merely hemmed and hawed and left it at that. Before Father could take serious note of it, a big riot broke out in the city. Ten people were killed, eighty were seriously hurt, and schools and colleges were closed for a week. It was during this week that the Standstill Agreement had been signed. The implications of the agreement were not very clear. It seemed that the Indian Government and the Nizam had both agreed not to interfere in each others' affairs. But why should the Nizam interfere at all, Chandru wondered, in anything which concerned the rest of India? The man seemed to have got what he wanted, non-interference in his affairs while he ran an Islamic state in Hyderabad in perpetuity. For that matter the State had been under Muslim rule all these centuries. But the population had never been divided into warring groups till now. They had no reason to think of each other as enemies; none had lived in fear for his life or fled the place before now. But now, all at once, it had become important to find out where a person's loyalities lay. One had to prove it by joining one group and avoiding the others. The present Nizam needed slogans his forefathers had not needed for two-and-a-half centuries: 'Long live independent Hyderabad!'

Chandru had reached the highest part of Kingsway. The street on the left would lead him to Monda and the spot where he had been attacked. If he just sat on his bicycle now and let it take him, he would roll along down the slope to the Bible House. The street to his right, leading to Ranigunj was the one he finally took past James Street. At Nallagutta, he stopped in front of a house and knocked on the door. A girl opened the door. She didn't wear a scarf over her neck. 'Is your father in?' Chandru asked. She went in without answering him, so Chandru followed her in. Her father, Syed, was resting on a cane easychair.

'Come in, young man,' he said in Tamil.

Chandru went and stood near him.

'Sit down. Would you like to have some roti?'

Chandru declined the offer. He said, 'Father's asked you to come home.'

'You must have some tea then,' said Syed and called out to a woman in the house 'Ji, make some tea.' Then he repeated the order in Urdu, 'Chai banao.' Syed was a Tamil-speaking Muslim who had spent all his life in the southern Tamil towns of Cuddalore and Mayavaram. But now, having come to Secunderabad in his sixtieth year, he thought he should start speaking Urdu. To Chandru however he spoke in Tamil, using the 'da' of familiarity. 'Well then,' he said, 'why does your father want me?'