This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (41 page)

Kanak tried to concentrate on reading or writing, simply to pass the time. She would attempt to write a short story or play based on her own problem, or try her hand at writing an article, but did not succeed in having her imagination wipe out the ugly reality facing her. In frustration she just tore up and threw away whatever she had written. She did not feel like talking or lamenting her bad luck, either. It had become very hot in June, and people felt like taking a nap in the afternoon, at the expense of losing sleep at night.

The incidents of arson and killings in the city had greatly increased since the second half of May, but that had had very little effect on the affluent society of Model Town. Here the conflict between Hindus and Muslims
and the issue of partition were purely verbal, although uttered in heated tones and mainly in English.

Nature too had been partial to this genteel colony of the affluent. Compared to the old city, it was cooler and breezier on the rooftops of Model Town at night. There were no tall buildings to prevent a breeze from blowing freely. The nights, whether moonlit or dark, were always pleasant, but for Kanak they were sheer torture. She would stare with sleepless eyes at the sky through her mosquito netting, and feel tormented by thoughts of Puri and the restrictions placed on her by her family. She could not drop off to sleep before midnight because of her unquiet mind, and because she had taken a siesta in the afternoon. She stayed downstairs and read aimlessly. The hot breeze of the first half of the night would turn cool and pleasant in the second half. It would remain cool for an hour after sunrise, lulling those sleeping on the rooftops into a deeper sleep.

Since Kanak fell asleep only late in the night, she slept until late into the morning too. A similar scene was played out on the rooftop of Mirza’s house next door.

‘Kanni! Kanni wake up! Come and look!’ Kanta’s loud call roused Kanak from her deep sleep. At once she smelled something burning. She got out of bed, pulling down the hem of her kameez.

Nayyar’s mother was saying, ‘… I’ve been watching this for some time. I woke all of you just now when I began to feel scared.’

Nayyar stood there in his striped nightclothes, his eyes raised to the sky. A red storm seemed to be brewing over the city towards the north. Dark flakes of debris, like kites cut loose from their strings and floating free, were swirling high in the sky against a fiery backdrop.

‘That’s a terrible fire.’ There was worry in Nayyar’s voice. ‘Difficult to say from this far where it might be.’ He went downstairs.

Kanta picked up the still sleeping Nano from her bed. When she and Kanak went downstairs, Nayyar was on the telephone. They both stood next to him in curiosity and suspense. Nayyar’s exclamations ‘What! Oh! Really! Achcha! My God!’ brought their hearts to their mouths in worry and anxiety. Nayyar hung up and said, ‘The fire’s burning in the bazaar inside the Shahalami Gate. It broke out around midnight. The flames can be seen from Gwal Mandi about a mile away, the air is filled with the heat given out by the flames, and there’s a horrible stench of burning. The rooftops at Gwal Mandi are thick with half-burnt paper and cloth thrown up by the
fire. There are rumours of shots being fired in the Shahalami area…’

Kanta’s curiosity was satisfied. The fire was a mile away from her parents’ home in Gwal Mandi. She set about her daily chores, but Kanak’s heart began to sink. Bhola Pandhe’s Gali was a long way inside the Shahalami Gate, but who could say?

‘Hello, Nayyar!’ Mirza called from his house. Begum Mirza’s voice came too, ‘Bahinji! Kanak!’

Kanak and Kanta walked with Nayyar towards the low boundary wall separating the two bungalows. Mirza said as they approached, ‘Look at this! It’s the beginning of the Apocalypse. Have your Hindustan and have your Pakistan! This is the end of the world. I called an uncle of Khadeeja in the old city. He lives in Chakki Gali, near Delhi Gate. The poor man was very distressed. He said that he could feel the heat beating out from the fire on his rooftop. He’s afraid that the fire could spread in any direction. The idiot thought that Hindus were setting fire to the whole of Lahore.’

‘The fire began in Shahalami. The Hindus will suffer the most there,’ Nayyar said.

Khadeeja replied to Nayyar, ‘Tauba, what savagery! No one sets fire to his own home.’

‘I didn’t like the scene I saw two days ago on the Mall Road,’ said Mirza. ‘You too must have seen the crowd gathered in front of the Assembly House. The Hindus shouting nara-e-Bajarangi! Muslims raising a shout of nara-e-Haideri! Tauba, tauba. If the police had not moved in, rivers of blood would have flowed. The tension of that situation came to a head last night.’

‘But the curfew was imposed on the same day. It was in force last night too,’ Nayyar expressed his doubts. ‘Few people are allowed out during the curfew hours. Armed police were patrolling the bazaars. Who would have had the chance to set such a large-scale fire? Even if they began by themselves in one place, they couldn’t have spread so quickly. There’s a fire brigade outpost nearby in Rang Mahal.’

‘Arrey bhai, with so much hatred in the hearts of both sets of people, there’s bound to be destruction and killing. What else can you expect when Hindus and Muslims are bent on wiping one another out? You know what happened at the Assembly the other day. That’s the root of this strife.’

Nayyar nodded his head in agreement.

‘What else can happen?’ Mirza switched to English. He could not carry on a discussion in Punjabi or Urdu. ‘Admittedly, western Punjab has a
Muslim majority and the eastern regions have a Hindu majority, but there are vast areas in the east where village after village is Muslim. My village is near Jalandhar. All the villages for miles around are Muslim. Obviously, those people would prefer an Islamic way of life…’

‘What about Lyalpur, Montgomery, Okada to the west? Those are all Hindu–Sikh villages,’ Nayyar interrupted, to remind him.

‘That’s just what I mean,’ Mirza replied. ‘Just look at the warped thinking of the Hindu members of the Legislative Assembly from our western Punjab, and the Muslim MLAs from the east! Not a single Muslim MLA voted in favour of remaining in Hindustan! If these people aren’t responsible for all this trouble, who is? Clearly, Jinnah will now be able to push forward his plan for shifting populations around. As far as I’m concerned, separating Hindus from Muslims and Muslims from Hindus and Sikhs, and uprooting people from the land of their forefathers is like attempting to separate one’s flesh from one’s bones.’

Neither Mirza nor Nayyar was happy about the antagonism between Hindus and Muslims. There was no quarrel between them; both wanted to encourage unity between the two communities, but they differed in their approaches to the question. Although their communities were at odds with each other, there own goodwill held their friendship together. That day, too, they rode together for safety’s sake to the high court in Mirza’s car.

By midday, Kanak was very restless. She wanted to telephone home for more news. The chances that her father would answer the telephone made her hold back. ‘I’ll tell pitaji that I want to speak with Kanchi,’ she thought. ‘But that little sneak will pass on to him what I ask her about, and he’ll think that I’m concerned only on account of Puriji. So be it! Yes, I want to find out about Puriji.’ Then she suddenly thought, ‘Why not telephone Sarla Sharma’s home near Shahalami?’

Sarla Sharma told her, ‘The fire is still blazing in Shahalami, Pari Mahal, Papad Mandi, Machchi Hatta and Kanjar Phalan. It didn’t spread towards Rang Mahal.’ Bhola Pandhe’s Gali was closer to Rang Mahal.

Kanak related all this to Kanta. The extent of the fire made both sisters anxious. That her husband had left and gone towards the city was increasing Kanta’s worry. She called again towards noon to know whether the fire had spread beyond Shahalami.

Nayyar came home earlier than usual. He said, ‘The fire that broke out at midnight has not been contained yet. Some parts of the Bajaj Hatta bazaar
too have burned down. All the fire engines in Lahore have been called in to fight the blaze. The water supply of the area is not strong enough for such a large number of engines. All the houses on the edge of the fire are being demolished to keep it from spreading any further.

‘I heard that a young Hindu man, angry at the blatant favouritism shown by a Muslim magistrate called Cheema, had fired a shot at him. It’s a well-known fact that the officials are openly favouring the communities to which they themselves belong. The young man was shot down on the spot at the magistrate’s order. Late at night, that same magistrate had the doors of stores owned by Hindus broken down in his presence. Kerosene was poured all around and the stores were set on fire. Hardly any shops are owned by Muslims in those bazaars. Those who came to extinguish the fire were shot dead for being out in the street during the hours of curfew.’

Nayyar told them, ‘There are many rumours about how this fire began, that it might be linked to the widespread panic among the Muslim community after the Rajgarh incident. This could be the revenge brought down upon the Hindus by some Muslim officials.’

The news made Kanak edgy, and she wanted to find out more. Nayyar understood her anxiety. He made enquiries everywhere he could, and told her that only the houses near the entrance to Bhola Pandhe’s Gali and Dhammi Gali had been demolished. The gali itself had not suffered any fire damage.

Shahalami burned for three days before the fire could be put out. There was peace in the city for the next six days, the kind of peace that settles on a marketplace after two rival bulls have fought one another to a bloody standstill. Kanak had gone to Gwal Mandi on Monday morning with Nayyar to collect her clothing and books. Panditji asked about her health, about Kanta and Nano, about the fear that seemed to have gripped the city after the Shahalami fire, and then expressed his opinion that although the city had apparently been quiet for the past week, he wasn’t sure if it would be possible to live and do business in Lahore. He might have to, he said, move his press and publishing business to another city, maybe to Delhi, Lucknow or Allahabad. After she spoke to her father, Kanak was forced by her mother to drink a glass of buttermilk that she had just churned, with a blob of butter floating on the surface. Everyone behaved as if there had never been any quarrel or falling-out between Kanak and the family.

After she had spoken to everyone, Kanak picked up the issues of the Urdu daily newspaper and went upstairs to lie down. At Model Town, the only newspapers they subscribed to were the
Civil & Military Gazette
and the
Tribune,
both in English. The English newspapers reported the riots in brief and guarded terms, so as not to influence the public. Kanak saw the city news column in the Urdu newspaper, and read, ‘High-handed treatment meted out to several young men arrested during the curfew when they had gone out to extinguish the fire burning near the Shahalami Gate. The police have yet to bring them before a magistrate. All the men were in the lock-up at the Old Anarkali police station. They had been denied their legal rights and were being subjected to unduly harsh treatment…’ The newspaper also published the names of several men arrested at the site. Among them was Jaidev Puri.

Kanak’s heart missed a beat. She sat up with a start. ‘He’s in police custody! The newspaper report says that he’s being treated harshly. As it is, his mind must be in turmoil because of me. Shouldn’t I go to comfort him? He’s at the Old Anarkali police station. That’s only ten minutes run by tonga. I don’t care if anyone stops me! I’m going to go to him…’ She sat in a daze for several minutes, staring at the floor.

She went to her father, and said to him in a normal but firm voice, ‘Pitaji, I’m just going up to Suveera’s. Her daughter is sick. I’d better go now, or it’ll get too hot. I’ve got to go back to Model Town in the evening.’

‘With such a terrible situation all around, beta? Haven’t you heard about Doctor Shobha, the poor thing?’ Panditji was clearly against her going out.

Kanak had heard nothing about Doctor Shobha.

Panditji said, ‘Doctor Shobha Mongia, daughter of Doctor Raliaram Mongia, came to a horrible end. Doctor Raliaram used to run his medical practice in Bazaar Satthan. He purchased some land in Kila Gujjar Singh about twenty years ago, and built his dream house there, with attached clinic and dispensary. He moved into his new house in 1935. His daughter Shobha had taken her MBBS degree. A very bright and able girl. Father and daughter ran the medical practice together. Father Mongia was already well established. Shobha built up her obstetrics practice in about five years.

‘Kila Gujjar Singh is a Muslim neighbourhood, but the buildings are owned by Hindus. Very few households are Hindu. After that incident in May, those few Hindus abandoned their houses and moved to localities near
Krishna Nagar and Gurudutt Bhawan. Doctor Raliaram was also advised that in the present situation it wasn’t wise to stay in the neighbourhood. The doctor replied, “I’m not concerned with who’s Hindu and who’s Muslim. I’m only concerned about my clients. Whether Hindu or Muslim, my dharma is to attend to my patients. I have a hundred Muslim patients for every ten Hindus. Who’ll look after them? How will I face my Maker?” The doctor refused to budge.

‘The daughter was just like the father, kind-hearted and caring. Never refused to look at a patient, at any time, even at midnight. She used to joke: “How can one stop babies from coming? God alone decides their time of arrival, so how can humans do anything about it?” She practised moderation in everything, and always wore a white sari and a white coat over it. When Shahalami was burning, a Muslim man came to ask her for a home visit. The poor woman had just returned exhausted from another sick call. She hadn’t had time even to take her coat off. They say, she told him: Come back in two hours. But the man who’d come for help was desperate. The patient was in very bad shape, he pleaded.

‘Shobha handed her medical bag to the man. He had a tonga waiting. Fate played tricks; the family has their own car. Shobha too drove, and usually did her rounds by the car. But the father had taken the car elsewhere. Shobha got on the tonga. The man who had come to get her described later that the tonga had gone only about a hundred yards along the road towards the railway station when someone shouted, “That’s a Hindu woman! Hindani! Grab her! Catch her!”