The Eighteenth Parallel (19 page)

Father cut in with, 'Now tell me how you are.'

'Oh fine,' said Syed 'No complaints. I've been made the captain of the Volunteers Corps in our locality, Nallagutta. See how honour is thrust on me ? If I had just kept to Mayavaram and Cuddalore in Madras Presidency, do you think any of this would have come my way ? No sir. Not at my age anyway.'

Father asked Syed if he would have something to eat.

'We've nothing but maize rotis to offer, of course. But there's brinjal to go with it. I know how much you like it.'

'I've already had some. In fact I asked your wife myself for some and then she told me about the water tap. I have opened the tap. Now don't you go blaming your neighbour for nothing. Actually it's you who lack experience in such matters.'

'How's everyone at home?' Father enquired. 'Did your son get a job?'

'Hyderabad is not like Madras, you know that. There's no dearth of jobs here. Everyone who comes here gets a job. My son is with me in the Volunteers Corps. How is it that you haven't visited us for so long?'

'I did come,' Father said, 'last week. But you were not home. You'd gone out somewhere.'

'Ah that,' said Syed. 'I'd gone to Razvi Sahib's meeting. That's what made me realise what these Congresswalas are up to. Our Nizam's PM lodged a protest with the Indian Government. Think of the people's plight when commodities that have been coming into the State all these years are suddenly stopped. He also complained against Indian planes flying over Hyderabad and do you know the sort of reply he got?'

'No, I don't,' Father said, 'No paper mentions these things, you know.'

'Now, the question we'd asked was, why are you starving our people? But in reply, they're asking us. "Why did you give 200 million rupees to Pakistan? Why do you hold all these meetings? Why do you do this, Why do you do that?" The wolf sitting in judgement over the sheep, that's what it is.'

'What's that about the 200 million?'

'Oh that. Our Nizam has lent it to Pakistan.' Syed explained. 'Look, Pakistan is a Muslim country. Isn't it natural for our Nizam to go to its help? If one Muslim doesn't help another, who will? And then, do you know what these refugees from Punjab did? They've burnt everything and ruined Pakistan before they came running to India. After all that, what right have you to question us? Who are you to ask us, "Why did you send money there? Why did you send men there?" These cowards will be the first to scamper away at the sound of a gun. None of their tricks with us. They shall be crushed.'

'Look Syed,' said Father. 'You proclaim Indian currency is not legal tender in Hyderabad, then how do you expect Indian goods to come in as usual? Credit me with some sense, will you?'

'What do we need Indian currency for? Haven't we had the Nizam's halli currency for generations here ? The British had their own currency, of course, and it was trustworthy. These white Gandhi capwallas are usurping the British chair now. But how can anyone trust their money?'

'You ought to be the Nizam's minister, really.'

'And I shall be, too,' Syed said, 'Someday, certainly. I find it impossible to keep quiet when such a lot of injustice is being done. My blood boils. And... another thing ... keep this to yourself.... It's about these Communists. We thought of them as mere scoundrels and thieves. Not at all. It is they who are now telling these whitecapwalas "Hands off Hyderabad!" You know that? They know what these Gandhi capwallas are like. At the first shot of war between the Nizam and India, our first supporters against India will be the communists. It's all being done very secretly. Don't breathe a word to a soul.'

4

For four days now no trains had entered or left the Nizam's State of Hyderabad. That had put an end to all mail, telegrams, Indian magazines and visitors. Hyderabad had become a land-locked island. Something else had also happened, as was proclaimed by Kasim's radio next door. The Father of Pakistan, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, was dead. Hardly eight months had passed since Gandhi's death. Kasim's radio kept mourning the 'Quaid-e-Azam', the supreme ruler's, death elaborately.

The press however was extremely cautious. A Muslim journalist' Shoyabullah Khan's blood had flowed and congealed on the streets of Hyderabad. His hands had been cut off and flung away on the streets for his having dared to write in the
Imroze
that it would not be a feasible proposition for Hyderabad to remain independent of India. Such sentiments coming from a Hindu journalist would have merited only a term in prison, perhaps. But how could a Muslim, an ungrateful wretch of a Muslim, write such things against the Nizam? How could a Muslim even harbour such thoughts? So he was shot dead as a warning—Beware, you treasonous vermin, you shall meet the same fate as that of the swine, beware!

But Chandru could sense a difference in the air now. Mother seemed to have felt it even before he did. The radio had given up mourning! Now it was some sort of martial music the whole day with a wild thumping of drums. There were frenzied group songs about some flag and one song proclaimed 'We got Pakistan with a smile, we'll get Hindustan fighting!'

War—was a war really on?

No one stirred out of the house. Monday was a holiday. Father's office was closed over Jinnah's death. It was on Monday evening that news of the war came. Indian troops had entered Hyderabad State from the west and southeast. A state of emergency was proclaimed in the whole state—ARP measures to be observed in all cities. No lights were to be seen at night.

Mother put two locks each on the front and back doors. There was no rice at home, no vegetables. Not even water. Going without water for another day was a frightening prospect. They had not bathed or washed. Even going to the toilet was restricted. The buffalo provided some milk, the only thing that stood between them and starvation now.

On Tuesday, however, Father went to the office to forestall any action being taken against him for not coming to work. Seven or eight people had been dismissed from the Railways for no apparent reason, all of them with twentyeight and thirty years of service. Dismissal now would mean that he would forfeit even the tiny sum given at retirement. With no other job in sight, he would be be left on the streets with his family when old age was already creeping on him.

Lancer Barracks was, to all appearances, much the same. Morris and Terence, now grown like hefty bulls, were still on the banyan tree, swinging from its hanging roots.

Chandru was about to go towards the banyan when water started to come through the tap. He ran into the house and his mother and he filled up a few big vessels.

Kasim's family next door were also collecting water. Their radio was off. The whole of the previous day and night their radio had kept up a constant boom of martial songs. It was strangely silent now.

'Did you notice?' Mother asked Chandru.

'What?'

'A lot of people seem to have come to Kasim's house.'

She was right. But when did they come? They were not there yesterday, not during the day. They must have come after dark. But why? There was no Muslim festival on at this time.

When Chandru started for the banyan tree, Mother said, 'Please don't.' He went all the same. Morris was the first to say, 'How are you?'

'Any news?' Chandru asked him.

'What about?'

'Doesn't your father go to work?'

'With no trains running he's off duty all the time.'

'My father's gone to work.'

'But your father works in an office.'

'So you really don't know anything?'

'About the fight? Nothing definite. But Indian troops have entered Hyderabad. I'm going to the city today to find out.'

Father brought the news earlier than Morris—Indian troops were advancing towards Hyderabad city from all directions. Whenever there had been pitched battles, the Nizam's army had backed away or surrendered. Those who really fought for the Nizam were the Razakars with unkempt hair and soiled shirts. They had confronted Indian tanks with brandishing swords. Two thousand of them had been mown down in just ten minutes, a vain harvest indeed. But according to Hyderabad Radio the forces of Hyderabad were advancing everywhere. They were supposed to have captured Masulipatnam.

'Did the Communists fight alongside the Razakars?' Chandru asked his father.

Father was taken aback for a moment to find Chandru speaking to him. Then he said. 'I don't know. But the police and the military had been fighting them, decimating them all these years. So it's rather unlikely that they would take sides with the Razakars now.'

'Mr Syed said so, remember?'

'Oh, Syed,' said Father, 'you don't suppose the man's in his right mind, do you?'

Curfew was imposed in Secunderabad and Hyderabad. Anyone found on the streets after 6 p.m. was to be shot at sight. The announcement was couched between other bits such as 'The Nizam's forces march towards Delhi after capturing Masulipatnam on the east coast and Goa on the west coast'. 'The Indian Agent-General K.M. Munshi's residence in Bolaram is being guarded to protect him from a possible mob attack.'

Even after six in the evening, Chandru kept wandering the grounds of Lancer Barracks. It was not only the Hindu houses; the Anglo-Indian and Muslim houses were also shut, an occasional sliver of light sneaking out through the tiny gaps in the closed doors and windows. The place had already settled down for the night.

As he came out he looked at Oxford Street, a long stretch with ups and downs till it reached the Wazir Sultan buildings and was then lost to sight. The sun, now ready to plunge behind the buildings, seemed to call him. But how safe was it to follow the sun which was about to be quenched when there were fires flaming everywhere?

Chandru wanted to put his trust in the sun. His idea of a curfew was very hazy. 'Shoot at sight'—with what? A pistol? A rifle? Wouldn't the culprit run away before anyone could take aim? A man on the run may be shot on open ground or a straight road, but on these meandering lanes and bylanes? If the man entered a house, would they shoot at the house? At the front door? Through a window? Or at the roof?

Oxford Street offered little scope for finding out as policemen were rarely seen in this area. One had to go to the clock tower. But there was no policeman even at the clock tower today. The place was completely deserted, not a person was about.

But there was, or rather were. Two policemen, the sole occupants of a dilapidated bus, which rattled past. One of them spotted Chandru and shouted. 'Go on, get away home!' The bus didn't slow down and was soon gone, leaving behind a smell of groundnut oil, as if a feast for a hundred had been cooked there.

Chandru returned home watching his long shadow all the way. The shadow started from his feet about ten or twelve feet long, but it seemed to have a will of its own.

Wandering all over the place. 'Don't watch your shadow, you'll grow thin.'—Who had said that? Never mind who. Anyway, shodow-watching was quite worth the risk. His shadow was dancing in front of him, trying to tell him something. But alas, in some unknown tongue. Shadow, Shadow tell me true.

Chandru had a good look at neighbour Kasim's house before he went in. The window had been secured with wooden board nailed to the frame so that it couldn't be opened. One of the double doors in front had also received the same kind of reinforcement.

Chandru hadn't entered his house yet when Kasim's door opened and a man came out. He didn't see Chandru. He sat down near the wall for about a minute, then stood up. A man of around fifty, someone Chandru had never seen there before. As the man was tying his pyjama strings, his eyes fell on Chandru. He salaamed him, two very humble salaams. Then he went into the house and bolted the door. Kasim's house stood silent once more.

It was on Wednesday that the city threw off its silence. There was no news on Hyderabad Radio or war cries. It was film songs all the time. The townspeople were up and about, somewhat more than was usual. There weren't many policemen about and those that were around looked rather shaken. People could be seen everywhere, standing about in groups, their talk open and free. Passenger-riding on bicycles was prohibited but was now seen everywhere even near the police stations. Police stations for that matter appeared deserted. The Regimental Bazaar police station usually had a permanent display of swords and firearms which could be seen from the road. These had now been removed.

Were there so many people still left in the city one wondered looking at the crowds. Only men were seen out on the streets, Hindus. Chandru went to the railway station. The buses weren't plying. They were all parked in a row. Red-shirted porters enjoyed a game of dice in the shade with squares drawn on the ground. At the Nizam's customs booth, the tall woman sat alone with the door ajar. SPG School and a few shops in front of the station were closed. Two Irani restaurants were open, a gramaphone played in each.

Chandru walked along Station Road, with the KEM Hospital on one side and the refugee shacks on the other. Smoke curled up from many of the shacks. Few city people passed this way. And the refugees didn't seem too eager to communicate with others. Nor did they bother about what was happening in the rest of the world. Their wash, also in tatters, was spread on the fence of the hospital. Their pitiable clothes and possessions went well with their sunken cheeks and eyes. A year had gone by since they first came to live in these three-foot bamboo shanties.

Chandru found a refugee looking him straight in the eye and smiling. If he had even a single anna on him, Chandru would have bought some snacks from him. But now what could he do in return for that smile? Nothing.

In Monda Market, the shops were still closed, but there were lots of people moving about, talking. Such a scene would not have met one's eyes two days ago. Not that anybody knew anything specific even now. But one thing was certain—Indian troops were out to punish the Nizam. All troubles were about to end. Maybe in a week's time, maybe two weeks, or a month at the most.

Despite this new surge of hope, the city was restrained. Order was kept, the law was obeyed. Perhaps the people were being very cautious because the present turn in the affairs seemed too good to be true.