This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (80 page)

Next day, 4 September, was the festival of Janmastami. Panditji’s wife,
despite her poor health, wanted to keep the ritual fast. After some cajoling and argument, she agreed to take some fruit and milk. The Muslim fruit-shops in Faiz Bazaar and near Delhi Gate were nearly all gone. Some refugees had begun selling cucumbers, guavas, bananas and corn-on-the-cob from makeshift stalls and pushcarts. How could Panditji allow his wife to eat such indigestible fruit in her fragile state of health? He walked towards the bazaar at Fatehpuri looking for better fruits.

When he reached Fatehpuri, he saw that shops were being boarded up and shut down. The bazaar buzzed with the news that Muslim policemen had taken up arms and rebelled. Panditji turned around and went back. Frightened neighbours were saying that riots had broken out in the mohallas around Delhi Gate and Pataudi House. There was talk of Muslims firing rifles and machine guns from their rooftops, and there were sounds of gunfire too. The siren for curfew wailed. Within minutes, as Panditji watched, armed soldiers marched towards the area. How could Panditji go to Syed’s house in such a situation? He joined the people sitting on platforms outside the Hindu shops that were still doing business, and sat there until evening. Sporadic gunfire continued all day. Passers-by would stop with further news. There was talk of a pitched battle in Paharganj, of heavy gunfire in bazaars barricaded by Muslims, and of Hindus who had cordoned off some Muslim mohallas and set them ablaze.

Sitting at Khoob Chand’s shop close to the entrance to his gali, Panditji heard other rumours: The Garhwali soldiers had finished off all Muslims in Hauz Kazi, and all buildings up to Ajmeri Gate had been burnt down. A Muslim mob had attacked Hindus in Karol Bagh, but were all shot dead. Two thousand Muslims had been killed in Paharganj. Someone said that in many places soldiers and civil guards had fired on Hindus, sixteen Hindus … no, twenty-four were killed. There was anger and resentment about firing on Hindus. People were openly cursing the Congress government and Pandit Nehru, ‘If they allow Hindus to be killed in Delhi, where will we all go?’

On 6 September there was a stricter enforcement of the curfew. Even Hindus were restricted from moving in the bazaars. Military personnel supervised the removal of corpses from lanes deep in the mohallas. Panditji sat at Khoob Chand’s shop. Next day people began to go out to buy groceries and other supplies. Panditji thought it unwise to go to Durrani Gali on that day also.

8 September. Panditji’s little room under its tin roof was boiling in the sun by 10 o’clock. His wife was making chapattis and a vegetable dish on a portable stove. He could not bear either to remain sitting under the hot roof, or sit idly at Khoob Chand’s shop. He went towards Syed’s house. Soldiers with bayonets stood at bends in the galis. In Silwali Gali, where Panditji had first met the maulana, there were charpoys in front of many doorways. Refugee women were going through their bundles of clothes and tin trunks. Panditji was surprised; where did these people come from, during the curfew? At the very end of the gali, only a door on the left and two on the right had the trademark Muslim sackcloth curtains. Outside Syed’s house in Durrani Gali, four armed soldiers sat on a small chabutara beside the gate.

Panditji knocked at the gate, ‘Syed sahib! Bhai Bijang!’

The soldiers looked at Panditji. As he was alone and unarmed, they said nothing. Panditji again called out to Syed and Bijang.

‘Who is it? Who are you?’ A frightened voice replied from inside.

Panditji gave his name. The gate opened slightly. Panditji entered and greeted Syed. The sun was bright in the aangan. Leaving Panditji near the threshold, Syed fetched a low stool. He called Karim, his son, to bring a second stool.

As Syed picked up the stool Panditji protested in embarrassment, ‘Tsk, tsk… what’re you doing, Syed Sahib! I’ll carry it myself … Isn’t Bijang here? Please don’t trouble yourself.’

Syed spoke despondently, ‘What can I tell you? There’s no flour in the house. We couldn’t even get milk for the baby yesterday. Oh, what savagery! Bijang has just gone to the bazaar to get some groceries.’

Panditji expressed great sorrow at the madness spreading in the city, and the whole country, ‘Syed Sahib, human beings have turned into animals. Exactly the same thing happened in Lahore. That procession on 11 August, with drawn swords, spears and machetes! Bhai sahib, at least here the government is punishing the rioters, and trying to maintain order. There the government itself confiscated their arms from Hindus, but the Muslims kept walking around with all kinds of weapons. The same sickness has reached here. Heavens above! What will our country come to?’

Syed said dejectedly, ‘It’s not fair that we should be made to pay for other people’s crimes.’

‘Certainly not, brother, of course not! This is savagery, madness.’

‘What has religion to do with such behaviour? This is sheer beastliness. We have always been nationalists. For me, Panditji, Ram and Rahim are one and the same, but people here are bent upon bloody murder. They kill according to the faces they see; without seeing what’s in the hearts. Good sir, what have you decided about the house?’

Panditji unbuttoned his jacket and took out some papers from an inside pocket. Syed looked through the documents. He agreed to an exchange of properties, but wanted five thousand rupees into the bargain. He said, ‘Sir, I’m handing over my house to you. The godown there has a stock of tobacco worth al least one thousand rupees, plus the ingredients for making zarda and kiwam. Your house might be newer and better, but all you’re offering are the documents and the key to the house. Who knows what we might find when we get to Lahore? Whether we can actually get possession of the house? Whom will we have to face and what problems may crop up?’

Panditji and Syed went into a long discussion. Panditji agreed to pay two thousand rupees in addition to the transfer of houses, but he also wanted a written guarantee that if he were ever to return to Lahore and live in his house, he’d be able to claim his house back without paying a penalty.

Syed put his hand on Panditji’s knee and implored him to accompany him and his family to the railway station.

There was no question of registering their agreement in a law court. Panditji and Syed decided to write the terms of agreement on duplicate sets of papers and sign them. Bijang had come back from the bazaar while the transaction was going on. He was a witness to what was discussed and agreed.

Then he came up to them. Holding his belongings tied into a bundle and with his khukri hanging from his shoulder, he said in his Nepali dialect, ‘First my wages.’ Having served Syed loyally and diligently, he was unwilling to give up his hard-earned pay.

Syed reassured Bijang, ‘Panditji is very kind and generous. He will retain you as the house guard.’ Syed explained the necessity of a guard in the present situation, and Panditji agreed with him. Syed said to Bijang, ‘We’ll move out after Panditji has moved in. I’ll pay you your salary and baksheesh too.’

Bijang put his bundle back in the doorway, but kept an eye on the proceedings.

Panditji brought along his wife and all their possessions before Syed vacated the house. Within a few hours of Syed’s departure, he established
a friendly relationship with Bijang as a fellow Hindu. Bijang’s name now became Bajrang. Bajrang had done his duty by serving his Muslim employer, but had never eaten anything touched by those he served from fear of being religiously defiled. He too was happy to have a Brahmin as his new master. He willingly helped ‘Ma Sahib’ to clean and sweep the house. He brought bucketfuls of water from the faucet to wash the aangan and the two rooms, then got some joss sticks from the bazaar and lit them all around the house.

It had been a month since Panditji had any chance to relax in the open air. Sitting on a charpoy in the aangan, he talked with Bajrang, ‘Thapa, how come a religious Hindu like yourself found a job with a beef-eating Muslim?’

For Bajrang there was no connection or conflict in his mind between his karma, his duty in this life, and his religious principles. He saw working for a living as his karma, and not eating anything touched by a Muslim as his dharma. Millions of Gurkhas, he said, who served in the armies of the beef-eating British and who gave their lives on the battlefield for their white masters, also went to paradise. While he was in the service of Syed, he too would have given his life to protect his master. That was in the line of duty. But he certainly would have welcomed the chance to kill other Muslims.

Maulvi Kasim Mohammed and Syed Abdul Samad wielded considerable influence among the habitants of Silwali Gali and Durrani Gali. Maulvi was a strong supporter of the Muslim League and Pakistan. He was convinced that once Pakistan was established, the power of the True Faith would soon take over Delhi and make it a part of Pakistan. He urged Muslims of neighbouring galis and mohallas to be ready to fight for their True Faith. Rioting after 15 August changed the situation in the city. Maulvi declared that living under kafirs was blasphemous, and left for Pakistan, along with several Muslim families.

Syed did not want to be seen in open conflict with Maulvi. He advised his wavering neighbours to have patience, and to act according to the circumstances. After Maulvi left, the poor and uneducated Muslims looked up to Syed. He was against Muslims fleeing Delhi. His advice was to wait a little longer, but also to be prepared to defend themselves as a group. Twenty-five years ago, when the Congress party and the Khilafat group launched their joint movement against the British, Syed had been
sympathetic to Congress. Mindful of the present situation, he again took to wearing khadi clothes.

Muslim families remaining in Durrani Gali lost their courage when they saw Syed’s family slipping out, and began to leave en masse. ‘It’s better that they go,’ thought Panditji, ‘why keep people around whose presence might lead to trouble?’

Seeing Muslim families leave, a crowd of Punjabi refugees lugging their belongings and with women and children in tow, rushed in. Their number was far greater than the places available to house them. Scuffles broke out and the gali rang with arguments and shouts of those wanting to move in.

Worn out by the stress and fatigue of the past days, Panditji was lying stretched out on a charpoy and ruminating about the future. Hearing noises outside the gate of his house and Bajrang’s threatening and challenging voice, he got up to investigate. Bajrang had wedged himself between the two leaves of the gate. Outside was a horde of men and women clamouring to get in. Bajrang was growling at them to keep away.

Panditji called out from where he was, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ He tried to explain, ‘Friends, this house is occupied. There are people living here. Please look for a place somewhere else.’

The crowd insisted that there was an unoccupied courtyard inside, that there was plenty of space. They wanted to come in and see for themselves.

Panditji said, ‘You can say what you like, but the house belongs to us. We live here. Go somewhere else.’

A voice from the crowd shot back, ‘I suppose the house belongs to your father! The name on the gate is clearly a Muslim’s. You can stay in one part. We too need a place to live.’

He had bought the property, said Panditji. He offered to show them the documents to prove it.

Those wanting to come in angrily retorted, ‘You bought it! As if you got hold of the treasure of King Qarun? We too have left behind houses that we had bought and built ourselves. What if you claim to have bought the whole of Delhi? Do you want us to die in the streets?’

Seeing that verbal arguments and pleadings were a waste of time, two burly men from the crowd put their shoulders to one half of the gate, and pushed hard. Bajrang nearly crashed into Panditji as he was flung back.

The crowd rushed in.

Loudly protesting their high-handedness, Panditji spread his arms to block the surging crowd. He was pushed back. The commotion had brought his wife out of the house and she stood behind him. She threw both her arms around his head protectively.

Bajrang took a step back and pulled out his khukri from its scabbard hanging on the wall. Yelling ‘Har! Har!’ he charged at the crowd.

The crowd backed precipitately away, screaming and falling over one another.

‘Look out! Mind yourself!’ Commanded one of the soldiers, pointing his rifle at Bajrang, ‘Khabardar!’

The melee quieted down. The soldiers had not intervened till now, thinking it to be merely a row among Hindus.

The crowd demanded that the soldiers put Bajrang under arrest.

Panditji came forward to appeal to the soldiers against the high-handed attitude of the mob and to defend Bajrang.

A clamour of voices rose from the crowd, ‘There’s plenty of room inside. Why can’t we take shelter in the house? How can we go on suffering the worst of the weather?’

To end the dispute, the soldiers inquired how many there were in Panditji’s family.

Several refugees protested, ‘These two old fogies have so much space when so many others have to live in the street.’

The soldiers sided with the crowd.

Panditji explained that he had a big family. The rest of the family was expected in a day or two. He again offered to show the title deeds for the house, then threatened to telephone Prime Minister Nehru.

The soldiers chose to remember their duty to keep order than mete out justice. They ordered the crowd to disperse.

Panditji’s spectacles had been knocked off his face during the scuffle, his shirt was torn and he was out of breath. But he did not go inside to rest. He cleaned his glasses, and aided by his wife, immediately set to erasing the inscription on the gate with a lump of brick. He sent Bajrang to buy a stick of chalk, and wrote on the gate in Hindi and English: Naya Hind Press, Proprietor—Girdharilal Dutta. This house is fully occupied.

Utterly exhausted, he flopped down on the charpoy. He got up after half an hour and said to his wife, ‘It’s not over yet. People are bound to
complain that only two people are living in such a big house. You keep the gate locked from the inside. I’ll go and send a telegram to Nayyar in Nainital that they all should come here at once.’ He patted Bajrang on the back and told him to remain watchful and be on guard.