This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 16
Puri tuned to Rampyari impatiently, ‘Where’s Chaitu? Should I go for a tonga?’
‘Ratan’s here,’ the women said and moved aside.
‘Mama… what happened?’ Ratan crouched over him.
‘Child…’ Dauloo opened his eyes again and cried, ‘I’m going to die.’ He put his arm around Ratan’s neck.
Tears flowed from Ratan’s eyes.
The tonga arrived.
Khushal Singh helped Ratan and Puri carry Dauloo to the tonga. All three went to hospital with the bleeding man. As they left, the children of the gali were weeping, and the women were wiping away tears.
The hospital’s emergency ward was filled with wounded, sitting and lying on beds and on the floor, groaning with pain and crying for help. There was bustle and urgency everywhere. The doctors were busy talking with police officers. The compounders and male nurses were muttering in frustration, ‘Sixty-three have been brought since this morning. Why do they bring the dead here? The hospital gets involved in police investigations.’
Ratan and Puri would talk to one person, and then plead with another. Nobody paid any attention. An old Muslim with a henna-dyed beard and tears in his eyes, waved a sheaf of currency notes at everyone in sight, begging them to attend to his young son. He did not know how to offer a bribe. All he got in return were rebukes.
Dr Prabhu Dayal arrived after about an hour. At his request, Dr Yunus, the doctor on emergency duty, examined Dauloo. Dauloo was immediately taken to the operating theatre. He was already unconscious. It took only a small dose of anaesthetic to put him to sleep. His wound was examined. It was deep and serious. Dr Yunus began to put in stitches.
A nurse was holding Dauloo’s wrist to feel his pulse. She said, ‘He’s sinking.’
He was immediately given an injection. The doctor said, ‘He will have to be given a blood transfusion.’
Puri and Ratan offered to give their blood for Dauloo. When they were told that only blood sterilized by the hospital could be used, Ratan paid twenty-four rupees, the price of eight ounces of blood.
Out of consideration for Dr Prabhu Dayal, Ratan and Puri were allowed to stay at Dauloo’s bedside until he regained consciousness, but Dauloo did not come out of his coma. Ratan wanted to take his body back to the gali for proper last rites.
Dr Yunus explained to Puri the legal implication of their case. According to the law, the hospital was obliged to report the death of someone suffering from a stab wound. The corpse would then be handed over to the police. Unless the civil surgeon or one of his deputies performed the autopsy to verify the cause of death, the police could not hand over the body for the last rites. There were already eleven corpses in the morgue. It was necessary to declare that the body could not be identified. Otherwise the people of the gali would be harassed in the investigation. Dauloo’s body was left at the hospital.
As Puri and Ratan came out of the hospital, the news of the approaching curfew was being announced on a loudspeaker. Someone at the hospital gate told them that several cases of arson had been reported from the Delhi Gate and Chowk Matti areas, in the wake of ferocious riots.
All the shops were closed in Shahalami bazaar. When Puri and Ratan reached their gali they found many people waiting outside their houses for news of Dauloo. Ratan burst into tears when he saw them. The news spread quickly. Men came and sat on the chabutaras. Women stood in doorways or at windows. Rampyari, Jeeva and Kartaro began to cry aloud. Almost every woman was wiping her teary eyes with her aanchal.
The Woman-of-the-Well was sitting in her doorway, her back against the open door. She said, ‘Dewanchand’s father had hired the poor man as his servant. He was quite a strapping lad then. Used to carry bales of cloth for them and milk their buffalo. He was a good man. Scrupulously honest and decent. Never said a bad word to anyone. Which boy or girl from the gali has not played in his lap.’
Dewanchand said, ‘I used to study then at Pandhe’s school. Hadn’t begun to look after the shop yet. Father had given him a room for free, and I never asked him for any rent either. The poor soul was from somewhere near Vaishno Devi in Jammu. I owe him one hundred and fifty rupees. If you all say so, that sum can be donated to some temple or to a cow shelter or wherever you all decide.’
All the young men and women and children of the gali had grown up with Dauloo mama around. Only the Woman-of-the-Well, Masterji and Govindram called him by his name; the rest addressed him as mama. He would hoist the children onto his shoulder and amuse them by making funny noises. Whenever a baby was born to someone in the gali, they would congratulate him and tell him that he now had another niece or nephew.
Dauloo would smile showing his toothless gums, and say with pride, ‘You’re telling me? You’ve all shitted and peed on me!’
Ever since Puri was very young, he remembered Dauloo selling things from his tin box in the galis of the neighbourhood. The box held many titbits for children: pieces of pateesa sweet, peppermint and other candies, sour mango leather and dried tamarind in their season, and churan, the tart mix of pulverized spices. The women of the gali, Meladei and Basant Kaur more than others, were constantly accusing Dauloo mama of giving their kids mango leather and dried tamarind on the sly to make friends with them. They would complain: ‘What a way to show your affection, mama! We’re fed up with having to treat them for sore throats.’
Meladei’s son Ratan, her second son Vijay and daughter Dammo had sweet voices and were particularly attached to Dauloo. He would teach them folk songs from the hills sung in his own language. If Usha and Hari imitated the singing, Masterji would shout at Dauloo for teaching children nonsensical songs.
Children living in the galis of Machchi Hatta, Kanjar Phalan, Vachchovali and Rang Mahal and also in the galis around Mochi Gate knew that Dauloo jabbered angrily if anyone said ‘banana’ in front of him. Children would begin to chant ‘banana, banana’ on seeing him, and Dauloo would curse them in his own particular way. The first part of the curse would be audible, and the rest would be lost in angry gasps and the breath escaping from his toothless mouth. The neighbourhood children often played a game. On seeing Dauloo approach with his box, they would ask their mothers for a paisa or two. They would show him the money from a distance, and ask with a serious expression, ‘Mama, I want to buy something.’
Dauloo would reply, ‘Come here, child! Come here, baby!’
The children would come closer and ask, ‘Mama, you have bananas?’
Dauloo would begin to curse them and beat the ground with a stick to scare them off.
The children would scamper off laughing in every direction. Dauloo would chase some for a distance when another child would come up from behind and shout, ‘Mama, banana!’ After playing this trick a couple of times, they would buy stuff worth a paisa or two.
As in the previous years, that year too the coloured water prepared for the celebration of the Holi festival were thrown at him before anyone else, turning his kurta into a collage of red, blue, green and yellow. The words ‘stupid’ or ‘ass’ carved into potato halves were first stamped as a joke on Dauloo’s back. And now, he was also the first victim of the bloodbath in the neighbourhood.
Remembering him, Masterji said, ‘He felt no greed or jealousy. He treated everyone with love. That’s the true way to worship God.’
The gali people unanimously decided to claim Dauloo’s body from the hospital, and to cremate it with all due rites.
Puri climbed the stairs to his house. Tara and Usha were both sitting close to the light, studying for their exams. Hari too was sitting on the ground on a mat and writing in an exercise book before him on a low desk. Their mother sat with Munni in her lap, mending the hem of the baby’s frock.
When Puri came in, mother said to her daughter in a tear-filled voice, ‘Usha, serve food to your brother. Munni will begin to cry if I get up.’
Usha usually did not do anything unless asked repeatedly, but Dauloo’s death had softened her too. She placed her open book on the mat and got up to serve the food without a word. Everyone was sad. The whole gali was quiet in mourning.
As he changed his clothes, Puri thought: When someone dies, you express your feelings of loss and grief to their relatives. The feeling of grief at the death of Dauloo mama was not for show. It was everyone’s personal grief. He had not belonged to anyone, but to everyone.
As the curfew ended at 5 o’clock in the morning of 5 March, the newspapers were delivered late. The front pages carried the news of the League’s failure to form a ministry. There was also news about the formation of the Anti-Pakistan League by the Hindus, the Sikhs and the Congress Party to oppose the demand for a League ministry and for Pakistan. Master Tara Singh had been unanimously appointed ‘the dictator’ of the new league. There were also reports about widespread riots in Rawalpindi, and of the success of the police in controlling the situation there, about firing on the meeting of Hindu–Sikh students in Lahore, about the incidents of rioting and arson in Chowk Matti, and also about sporadic knife attacks in Mazang and near Delhi Gate.
The Chowk Matti incident was described in the Hindu newspapers as an attack on a peaceful march of Hindus passing through a Muslim mohalla. The Muslim papers reported it to be an unprovoked attack by Hindu mobs on Muslims. There were eighteen murders and over a hundred were wounded in Lahore in one day.
The gali people were pleased that the League ministry could not be formed. The spectre of Pakistan was on everyone’s mind, and anger against the League and the Muslims for the events of the previous day was brewing. They sat together, read the newspapers, expressed their views and discussed the events as usual. But Puri did not say a word to anyone.
Karam Chand Kashish was the director–editor of Pairokaar, and Banarasidas Sondhi its managing editor. They both had other, more important work to do than write for the paper. The three assistant editors, Bhagat Ram, Indranath and K.K. Chaddha, took turns writing editorials and commentaries. Puri was a sub-editor, but he was often given the responsibility of writing an editorial. The rest of the editorial staff worked in the newsroom, translated news into Urdu and edited copy. Before the copy was given to the calligraphers, Kashish and Banarasidas would sometimes glance at the editorials, commentaries and the lead articles; they were sent to the litho presses even if they could not read them beforehand.
Bhagat Ram had a bad cold, his eyes were red and watery. He had wrapped hot, freshly roasted chickpeas (that Sewa Ram had brought him from the bazaar) in a handkerchief, and was inhaling the vapours and putting the poultice to his forehead to relieve the congestion and be able to work. He had taken several days off in the past month on the occasion of the birth of a new child, and then because of the infant’s sickly condition. The assistant and the sub-editor usually shared the workload, but it was Bhagat Ram’s turn to write the editorial on 5 March and he did not have the courage to ask Banarasidas for another leave from the office. He looked pleadingly at Puri, ‘Puri, my friend, you can see my condition. Why don’t you write today’s editorial? I’ll do it when it’s your turn. Write something on Comrade Kapoor’s appeal for peace between the communities. What do you think?’
Puri thought for a few moments. He would not be able to join the funeral procession for Dauloo, but he would have a better opportunity to express his feelings for him.
When Puri left his office at 5 o’clock, he thought that Ratan, Mewa Ram, Bir Singh and others must have left with the bier for the Ram ka Bagh cremation ground. Perhaps they were back by now. He was often tired after finishing work. He had a vocation for writing, and had thought that writing for a newspaper would be easy and not a burden, but the previous year’s experience had taught him that it was another matter to write according to one’s imagination, inspiration and inclination. But to write on a given subject with a certain perspective and within a limited number of words was frustrating rather than heartening. However, today he had written and expressed what he felt in his heart, and that made him feel fulfilled.
He had gone to Kanak’s house two days before, on Sunday evening. Her brother-in-law Nayyar was there, and sat in the living room with them. Nayyar had come to ask Panditji’s advice about buying some land to build a house. What could Puri add to that conversation? He asked Kanak indirectly if they could go out, but she did not catch the hint. Puri did not feel comfortable in Nayyar’s presence; he always looked at Puri unseeingly. Puri realized that it would be difficult to talk alone with Kanak that evening, and had excused himself after a while.
Today, Puri wanted to go back home, wash his face and change his clothes, and go to Kanak’s house. When he reached the gali, he saw Masterji sitting on the chabutara below their house. The schools were closed for preparatory leave before the examinations. He looked sad. Since everyone in the gali was in mourning for Dauloo mama, Puri found that natural.
‘Son, I have very bad news,’ he said as Puri came by. ‘The son-in-law of Badhawa Mull Narang was murdered last night.’
‘How did you find out?’ Puri blurted out in shock and disbelief.
Masterji told him the source of the news, and said, ‘Son, people don’t mind if one doesn’t send good wishes on a happy occasion, but it wouldn’t be proper to fail to visit them at the time of a bereavement. Have some water or tea if you want, but let’s go to their house as soon as possible.’
Urmila had been married to a wholesaler of stationery goods, Kewal Krishna, the son of Daulat Ram Chaddha of Bhati Gate. As the tutor of Narang’s daughter Urmila and son Jagdish, Masterji had received mithai in invitation to attend her wedding. Masterji had gone to give his blessings to Urmila. Puri had found an excuse not to go, but an excuse now would be improper. There was no chance of visiting Kanak.
The month spent at Murree came alive in Puri’s memory. Brash and irrepressible Urmila, with flirtation in her eyes. Married yesterday, today a widow; such were the consequences of this Hindu–Muslim conflict. That pinkish glaze of passion in her eyes, with those lovely tears… those eyes would now be shedding tears of grief. The song of love that the cheerful girl wanted to sing was drowned in her fate.
Lala Badhawa Mull Narang sat in mourning with his eyes closed, his hand on his forehead, surrounded by people. There was but one topic of conversation: Only two months had passed since the wedding. The family could have waited for two more months. Who can change what is ordained by Fate. The bride had spent hardly any time with her in-laws. Once she had stayed for two days, then for four. She had been at her own parents’ mostly, the poor thing. When they heard the news, the crying parents took the daughter back to her in-laws. They would bring her home after the mourning period; how can she remain there now?
Puri spent the night thinking about Urmila’s lust for life, and her dark, sorrow-filled future. He tried to imagine how she might have behaved with her husband after the marriage. Maybe she had fallen in love with other men too before she got married. She longed for love, and to be loved. Now, as a widow, she had become unworthy of giving or receiving love for the rest of her life.
On the morning of 6 March, the inhabitants of Bhola Pandhe’s Gali and of other galis in the neighbourhood were surprised to see a sidebar column entitled ‘Dauloo Mama’ beside the editorial in Pairokaar. Doctor Prabhu Dayal read it aloud:
Dauloo mama, how many children in how many galis in the town of Lahore called you ‘mama’ because they regarded you as an uncle. Every day of your life you made hundreds of children laugh, and now you have left them crying bitterly for you. What cruel Fate took away the source of laughter of these innocents? Whose enemy were you, mama? Mama had nothing to do with the Unionists, nor did he belong to the League. He was a human being, just a human being. His murder was the murder of human values. Who’s behind this craving for the blood of humanity? Dauloo mama had no quarrel with any one, not even for a place to sleep or for a piece of bread. In whose path was he an obstacle to power and glory?
Mama, when God asks you the name of your murderer, whom would you point at? Does He not know that those leaders behind the incitement to your murder use innocents like you as stepping-stones to the seat of power. Will the public not someday judge those leaders for making a mockery of human ideals? Can the deception and the betrayal of the ordinary people for selfish reasons be called protecting religion and democracy?
Ratan clutched Puri’s arm and whispered in a decisive tone, ‘Bhai, I swear that I will avenge the murder of Dauloo mama!’
Puri could not say anything in reply. The same incident had such a different effect on him and on Ratan.
Doctor Prabhu Dayal next read the editorial to everyone:
To the leaders of the League and the Congress! Both your organizations owe their origin to the desire to free the country from slavery. Today, all of you are in the dock for handing over the administration of Punjab to the governor. Today you are all claiming a lackey of the imperialist power and an inveterate turncoat as your ally, and the anti-imperialist forces to be your enemy. The very same person who ordered lathi-charges on peaceful demonstrations of the League, is being called ‘a brother of the League’. What has happened to the slogans of Hindu–Muslim unity of the past two months, and of the promises to end the draconian laws of the imperialist masters? The same Khizr who put the Congress leaders in prison during the War and sold out to British imperialists, today has become a blood brother of these Congress leaders!
Remember that the Congress has been as much a representative of the Muslims since its inception as of the Hindus. By tearing off the green colour from its flag the Congress has cut off one of its hands. To fight the foreign aggressor by forming a united front, Mahatma Gandhi and Pandit Nehru are willing to join hands with the League in forming a national government, but in spite of the League’s majority in the Punjab Assembly, the Congress leaders are reluctant to join its ministry here. If the Muslims have the confidence in the Congress governments in eight provinces, why won’t the Hindus accept one League government? The downfall of the Unionist ministry is the defeat of imperialism and its henchmen. This defeat is a victory for the Congress demand for democratic and civic liberties. Fomenting age-old enmities or threats to break up ministries formed by other political parties will not solve any problem. Passive resistance of satyagraha to violent suppression by the imperialists, but brandishing swords to threaten the League, does such double-faced behaviour represent your diplomacy and courage? Is the killing of so many innocents in one day not enough for you? Don’t let the enemy turn you into human torches so that he can dance in their light.
