This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (66 page)

‘Have some. It’ll cool you down. Make you feel better.’

She had spoken to Tara tenderly, but her voice became harsh again when she replied to the woman in the shalwar, ‘You were on the side of that thief! Just look at you! You wanted me to help you so that I too would become involved. Only you and I can feel some shame, but not her? What happened when she,’ she pointed to the naked woman, ‘took your kameez and put it on? How did you fight with her then! Why didn’t you give your kameez to her? You tore the kameez to pieces. Neither she nor you could use it. Now you’re supporting her! Have you no shame?’

Tara gradually pieced together the whole story that while she was unconscious, the naked woman wanted to steal Tara’s kameez for herself. Banti, the kameez-wearing woman, prevented this. The naked woman had offered Banti Tara’s shalwar, but she had refused to be a party to this dishonesty.

Tara gave Banti a look of gratitude.

The clothed women went and sat in the front of the room on the right of the aangan, and the naked and the half-naked women on the threshold of the room on the left. Banti remained beside Tara, urging her to take a
few sips from the can. Tara’s throat was parched, her tongue felt like a strip of dry leather, but she could not make herself swallow even a mouthful. The women continued to quarrel for a long time, and then sprawled out on the aangan floor and began to doze.

Tara sat for along time, her chin resting on her knees, assessing her new situation. It was clear that Amjad had removed her from Hafizji’s house and sent her here. And that she would have to remain here for some time.

It was a brick house. A half-moon, shining brightly overhead among puffy clouds, was gradually setting towards the west. About a quarter of the aangan was still visible in the moonlight. The aangan floor was also made of bricks. In one corner was a handpump. Rooms on either side. The sleeping women, with their faces or the backs of their heads resting on the ground, looked like corpses, face down and face up. The sounds of their breathing and snoring were the only evidence of their being alive.

Tara sat slumped in the centre of the aangan, where she had come out of her faint, thinking, sometimes staring into the dark and sometimes with her eyes closed, about all that had happened to her and was still happening. Then, cramped by her position, she too rolled over and stretched out on the floor. The moonlight became a wedge at the bottom of the wall, and then disappeared. The sky was filled with stars. She would begin to drift off, and then be awakened by the bites of mosquitoes. Then she would detect an overpowering stench all around. Her dupatta, that she could have drawn over her to protect herself from mosquitoes and could have wrapped around her nose against the stench, was gone.

In her half-waking state, she sensed the stars beginning to dim. Darkness began to fade as dawn drew near. Soon she was able to make out various objects scattered around the aangan. In one corner, next to the drain outlet in the wall, lay the badly battered bottom half of a light-brown tin trunk. Its top lay a few feet away. Also the remains of two tin containers, lidless. Pieces of clay pottery and
maratban
s, glazed clay jars, ropes and torn chatais lay about. Two broken pieces of mirror glass glinted dully. As it got brighter, she could see grains of wheat, rice and lentils wedged among the bricks of the floor. Two rooms had no doors. Evidence of looting and destruction was everywhere.

Tara had still not moved. She was staring idly in the direction of the drain outlet and the bottom half of the trunk. Banti came into view carrying a can full of water. She turned her back towards Tara, and sat over the drain
to relieve herself. Tara turned her face away in surprise and disgust.

Seeing Tara turn her face away, one of the women wearing shalwar-kameez said in the dialect of western Punjab, ‘What else can one do? We can’t get out of this aangan. The door to the stairs up to the roof is locked. What can we do? We’re managing as best we can.’

Tara, her face turned away, said nothing.

‘Satwant, pump up some water for me. Let me also scrub this can,’ said Banti to the woman as she walked over to the handpump.

Satwant went over to the pump and worked its loose and rusty handle up and down. Clackety-clack! Clickety-clack! it screeched. Banti rubbed her hands on the brick floor, as if it was gravel, to scrub them clean, and tried to clean the can, as if it was a utensil, also by scraping it on the floor.

Unmindful of the other women, Banti took off her kameez and handed it to Satwant. Satwant worked the pump as Banti sat under the spout of water, rubbing and rinsing her body, and chanting:

Har-har gange, kashi vishwanath gange
Nahatya dhotyan gai balaa, dharati mata da tikka la

After her wash was over, she sprinkled some water on her kameez, mumbling:

Naha-dho main chadi chaubare
Utton mile mainu Krishna pyare

She went to a corner, sat down and began to say her prayers.

Even in her present circumstances Banti continued to observe her customary rituals as best she could. Whilst still saying her prayers, she came back and sat beside Tara, and said, ‘Sister, you’ve been sitting in the same spot since yesterday evening. Haven’t even had one sip of water. What good will it do to you if you don’t eat or drink anything? Your suffering will increase, not lessen, if you get sick. You’re not at home, so don’t expect your family or relatives to feel bad and coax you if you don’t eat or drink anything. What will happen is only what the Parmeshwar Maharaj wants to happen. Get up and have a wash, and drink some water. I’ll fetch you some.’

Banti’s kind voice brought tears to Tara’s eyes. She replied slowly, through her parched tongue and lips, ‘Bahinji, it’s true that no one knows when
sickness and death might come, but why doesn’t death come to take me away! I’ve even given up trying to die. The only thing I want to do is die.’

‘Bahina, dying or living is not in the hands of us humans,’ Banti said. ‘You think you’re the only one that has suffered and endured? Sister, nobody came here in as good a condition as you. I can see the state you’re in, and I too have been through it, and have seen others suffer. We human beings always feel our own pain to be the greatest. Just look at others! You were only kidnapped. The only damage you suffered is this slight bruising of your face. Those brutes probably didn’t treat their own sisters and mothers that well. You’ve no idea what others have gone through,
na
?’

Banti sat with her chin propped on her knees as she spoke, ‘Maybe it’s no use saying it now, but let me tell you, when we heard that all the Hindus had fled from the neighbouring Dabboki village, we too got ready to leave. The Shaikhs living next to us told us to stay. They were the ones who brought all this suffering down on us. They never harmed us, that much is true. They always said that they’d help us. But God only knows what was in their hearts. The Pathans from the villages of Dabboki and Kachherian surrounded our joint home of five Hindu families in Chammoki village. We were thirty-six in all, counting all the men, women and children. There must have been five hundred of them, with swords, spears, hatchets and lathis in their hands. Baqar, of Dabboki, was their leader. What can I tell you, that scoundrel was one of our workers.

‘Not only Baqar, sister, we used to help everyone and anyone in the villages around ours. What farmer or landowner didn’t go to Hindus to borrow money? You know what they say, that they’re not Muslims if they’re not in debt! Hameedu, that scoundrel Baqar’s father, was such a nice person. There never was any problem as long as he was alive. At the time of both harvests, he himself brought grain, raw cotton, a couple of seers of ghee, whatever he could give, as the interest on his loan. But not only him, they were all good to us. You know, be nice to people, and they’ll be nice to you. When Shahji had to go to the railway station, Hameedu would bring his mare around the moment he found out. Shahji would ride his mare, and Hameedu would carry his bundle on his head up to the station. If we paid him a couple of annas, or a seer or two of grain, he accepted it gratefully. Never said a word of complaint. Used to say, ‘I’m in debt to you for your generosity. If I’m ungrateful, how will I face Khuda on the Judgement Day?’ And look at this Baqar, the same Hameedu’s son. Just because he’s learned
how to read and write, it has turned his head. It’s these city mullahs who went to villages and added fuel to the fire. And that scoundrel himself has been nothing but a thief and a robber since he grew up. He was the one leading them, the shameless creature.

‘Pali Shah said to him, “Take whatever you want from our houses. Just spare us and our children’s lives.”

‘They all assured us, “Give us all your weapons. Just take a few clothes, whatever jewellery the women are wearing, and enough cash to see you through wherever you want to go, and come to the well under the peepal tree. We’ll escort you to the station. Sister, what else could we do? They had all those weapons, guns too.’

Satwant, covering her left eye with one hand, had come to sit next to them. She interrupted Banti, ‘Bahina, the men of our village really fought back. The elder Sardarji in our family had a gun. Sodhi sahib is an army pensioner. He too had several guns. A crowd of thousands of Turks from the neighbouring villages followed our caravan for over ten miles. The sardars did not allow any one to come near. When we reached the railway station, the Muslim soldiers asked the men to surrender their guns, and allowed us to be attacked and robbed after we had boarded the train.’ She broke into loud sobs.

As Satwant wiped tears from her right eye, Tara was able to see her left eye. It was covered with a white film, and bulging. Satwant was ashamed of her deformity even in this distress.

Banti resumed her story without taking any heed of Satwant’s tears, ‘When all the five families gathered at the well, the Pathans surrounded us. The Shaikhs of our village also had a change of heart. They too sided with the crowd. Two ruffians of our village, Anwar and Liakat, joined Baqar. ‘Ya Ali! Allahu Akabar!’ they began yelling.

‘You can imagine!’ Banti dabbed her eyes. ‘With all that crowd around us.

‘Baqar said, “All young women to one side.”

‘Chacha Pali Shah begged him with folded hands, “Let us go, beta. Remember the promise you made to us.”

‘Baqar lifted the hatchet in his hand and struck Pali Shah on the neck. Blood gushed out. Pali Shah was dead before he could utter a sound. All of us were trembling like a leaf.

‘Baqar began to drag away my husband’s youngest sister Kasho. She
clung to me, and I put my arm around her. Liakat gave a shove to both of us, saying, “Let’s take her too.” I had my son Jaggi in my other arm. He got frightened and cried out. My mother-in-law took him from me….’

Satwant again interrupted, removing her hand from her eye, ‘I took my Mihinder and hid behind the trunks in the train compartment. When those butchers found me and pulled me out, they snatched the boy from my arms and threw him to the ground…’ Satwant beat her head with her hands and wailed, calling out the name of her son.

Banti continued, ignoring the wailing woman, ‘Prodding and pushing our men with lathis and hatchet butts, they ordered, “Get away at once! Those who do not leave quietly, those who turn around even to look, will be cut to pieces.” Everyone began walking away. Left behind were three young wives, and the three girls—Kasho, Satto and Phoola. They pulled children from the arms of the captives, and tossed them after the people who were leaving.

‘We just stood there, trembling and crying, and watching them leave. As our families were disappearing from sight, Baqar said, “Keep the three girls separately. Consider them as the spoils of jihad. Any pious follower of the Faith, who wants to marry them, may take one.’ He pulled at Satto’s arm, ‘This one’s mine.’

‘She wrenched her arm free. The well was close by. She jumped into it.

‘Phoola too tried, but Anwar hit her with a lathi and she fell to the ground. You know, a girl is only a girl.’ Banti wiped her tears with tips of her fingers, and flicked them off. ‘Kasho and Phoola were crying and struggling as they were taken away. I prayed to Baqar with joined hands, “Brother, those are your sisters.”

‘Baqar cursed at me, “She thinks herself to be somebody. Let’s take care of her.” He hit me in the chest with the butt of his hatchet and I fell.

‘Liakat too swore at me, “She thinks she’s so high and mighty.” I sometimes used to scold that badmaash. Whenever he came to our aangan to collect the laundry or to ask for some buttermilk, he would make lewd gestures at Satto. I not only told him off, but said to his mother too, “Don’t send him to our place.” Liakat was ripping my clothes off, so I pulled at his hair to ward him off. They all jumped on me. What can I say? I lashed out with my hands and feet, but what could a woman do to fight off such hefty men? Those bullies tied up my feet and hands, then tore off all my clothes. Can’t tell you how they hurt me, in front of all that crowd, with hatchet
handles and the ends of lathis. I just fainted.’ Banti covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed loudly.

Satwant had again covered her bad eye with her hand. She said, ‘Bahina, what woman was spared? Those animals didn’t treat women as women. May they all die childless, and may nobody be left in their family to mourn them. It would’ve been better if they’d just slit our throats. No words can tell what we went through. Only for the last five days, since coming here, can I say that my body hasn’t been abused.’ She continued to cover her bad eye, as if the bitterest of all the sufferings visited upon her was the shame of having an ugly eye.

Banti used her palms to wipe the tears running down her cheeks, and said, ‘When I came to again it was dark, around midnight. My hands and feet were still tied, and I was lying near the well. I kept on calling for water. I cried, I shouted, but no one answered. All around were the same neighbours who had been with us day and night, in happiness and in sorrow, in good times and bad. We used to spend all our time together, and did everything together except marry or eat with each other. How could they be so heartless?