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  There was a guffaw of laughter.

  ‘He won’t come down like this,’ whispered Kashmiri Lal, who had started this mischief, to Bakshiji. ‘The more we try to stop him, the more adamant he’ll get.’ And Kashmiri Lal stepped forward and clapped his hands. Others followed suit.

  ‘Fine, well said, Jarnail! Wonderful!’

  ‘Sahiban, I am thankful to you for giving a patient ear to my stray thoughts. Not taking much of your valuable time, I would like to assure you that the day is not far when Hindustan will be free. The Congress shall achieve its goal and the pledge I had taken on the banks of the Ravi…’

  There was a loud applause.

  ‘Fine. Well said.’

  ‘Sahiban, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I shall address you again one of these days. Now, I would request you to repeat with me…’ and raising his voice, shouted, ‘Inquilab!’ Inquilab… Zindabad!’

  In response to which a few faint voices were heard saying ‘Zindabad!’

  ‘Can’t you shout loudly?’ said the Jarnail. ‘Don’t you eat two meals a day?’

  A loud answer came from somewhere:

  ‘Zindabad!’

  And the Jarnail, putting his cane stick under his arm stepped down from the stone slab.

  ‘Zindabad!’ The voice had come from the side of the slope; it was Master Ram Das who came, panting for breath.

  ‘Is this the time to come?’ Bakshiji asked him sharply.

  To which the answer came from Kashmiri Lal: ‘He got late because the calf sucked up all the cow’s milk.’

  Everyone burst out laughing. But Master Ram Das said soberly, ‘There will be no prabhat pheri today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Today’s been set aside for community work. That’s what was decided.’

  ‘Who took the decision?’

  ‘It was Gosainji who told me that the drains in the locality behind Imam Din street would be cleaned this morning.’

  ‘You are making excuses for coming late.’

  ‘Why do you say that? I have even left brooms and shovels in that locality. I left some last night and some more were deposited there this morning. In all there are five shovels, twelve brooms and five iron pans. They are all kept in Sher Khan’s house.’

  ‘Why were we not told about it?’

  ‘That’s why I have come running. When I came earlier, there was no one here.’

  ‘But there are no drains in that locality. What are you going to clean? Are you in your senses?’ said Kashmiri Lal.

  ‘There may be no regular drains there, but there are certainly kuchcha ones.’

  ‘There must be years of filth in those drains. Who’s going to clean them?’

  ‘We shall!’ shouted the Jarnail. ‘You are a coward and a traitor!’ He was suddenly peeved.

  ‘Programmes are changed without any prior intimation. If Gosainji had already decided, why were we not informed?’

  It was getting brighter. Those who had come prepared for prabhat pheri felt odd and uncomfortable at the sudden change in the programme.

  ‘Let’s at least get out of here,’ said Bakshiji, picking up his lantern. ‘We shall go singing from here. Start off, Ram Das,’ he added and stepped forward.

  Kashmiri Lal picked up the tricolour. ‘Left, right, left,’ shouted the Jarnail, marching right ahead. Ram Das cleared his throat and began singing the old, time-honoured song with which prabhat pheris invariably began and which was also invariably sung out of tune:

  Those wedded to the cause of freedom

  Are like the legendary lover, Majnu

  Deserts and forests are their home…

  Master Ram Das sang the first line and the group of activists, keeping time with their feet as they walked, repeated the lines, one after the other and headed towards Dhok Qutab-ud-Din.

  3

  Nathu heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped into the lane. It was still dark there, although on the roads, it was already daylight. He was eager to reach home as quickly as possible, and he hurried through the maze of lanes. Coming out of that stuffy, stinking hut into open air had refreshed him somewhat. After the hectic business of the night his mind was finally at rest in the half-awake dark lanes.

  In the distance, he saw two or three women with their earthen pitchers beside them, sitting by the municipal water tap, chatting in low tones, their glass bangles making a soft, jingling sound. They were waiting for the water to be turned on by the municipality. The familiar morning scene gladdened his heart.

  He had hardly covered some distance when suddenly his foot struck against something, and he felt as though the thing had got scattered. It did not take long for Nathu to understand what it was, and the thought sent a shiver down his spine. Some unfortunate woman had placed a ‘spell’ right opposite someone’s house—a few pebbles tied in a rag, along with an image made from kneaded dough and pierced through with wooden needles—intended to transfer her misfortunes on to someone else. Nathu regarded it as a bad omen. After having spent such an awful night, the incident shook him in the extreme, but soon enough he regained his composure. Such a practice was generally carried out to protect a child from an evil eye. The thought gave Nathu some consolation, since he was himself childless.

  He was quite familiar with the area through which he was passing. The entire row of houses in this lane was inhabited by Muslim families. Some were washermen while some others butchers who had their meatshops at the corner of the lane. Mahamdu, the hamam-keeper too lived in that lane. Further down, there were houses in which Hindus and Sikhs lived. Beyond which again there were some Muslim houses. The houses at the far end of the lane were inhabited by Sikh families.

  As he passed by one of the houses, he heard someone praying: ‘Ya Allah, Kul Ki Khair, Kul Ka Bhala’. It was some old man arising uttering his little prayer, followed by yawning and coughing. People were waking up to greet the new day.

  At one place his foot fell into something sticky and slimy with a strong, pungent smell like that of cow dung. He steadied himself, extricated his foot from the half-broken pitcher. A swear-word was about to escape his lips when he suddenly understood what it was and a broad smile came to his lips. The ill effect of the ‘spell’ had been neutralized by this collision. Whenever the weather became hot and sultry, it was customary among young fellows in the town to fill a pitcher with cow dung and horse urine, and fling it into the entrance of some tight-fisted miser of the locality. It was commonly believed that the act would induce a shower.

  Opposite another house in the lane, a man was mixing fodder for his cow. From another house close by came the sound of cups and saucers and the jingle of glass bangles. Tea was being prepared. Just then, a woman, her head and shoulders covered, stepped out of a house with a katori in her hand, mumbling words of prayer. She was obviously going to a temple or a gurudwara to offer her morning prayers. How calm and peaceful were the beginnings of the day’s business. To cap it all came the sound of an ektaara from somewhere. It was some fakir on his morning round. Nathu was familiar with the voice but had never set eyes on the fakir. He had heard him singing softly, particularly during the Ramadan. As he drew near, Nathu saw that the fakir was a tall, elderly person, with a benign countenance like that of a dervish. Frail in body, with a sparse white beard, he was wearing a long cloak. A cloth bag was slung on one shoulder and he had on a skull cap. Nathu stopped to listen to the words of the fakir’s song.

  The birds are chirping merrily,

  while you, ignorant one,

  are still fast asleep…

  Nathu had often heard this song to the accompaniment of the fakir’s ektaara. Nathu took out a paisa from his shirt-pocket and gave it to the fakir.

  ‘May God be with you! May you be blessed with plenty!’ said the fakir.

  Nathu moved on.

  As he stepped out of the lane he found that it was much brighter outside. He was now in the street of the tongawallahs. Two or three tongas, with their shafts raised towards the sky, as
though in prayer, stood by the roadside. One of the tongawallahs was brushing his horse; close by two women sat on the ground making flat dung-cakes and sticking them on the wall behind them; a horse with a harness still on its back walked leisurely up and down the road, all by itself. Here too the day’s business was starting in a calm, peaceful atmosphere.

  Nathu felt as though he had come out to have a stroll. He did not want to be seen by anyone. His mind at peace, he strolled from one street to another.

  Where would the pushcart be at this time, the thought suddenly crossed Nathu’s mind. In which direction would it be going? It was a pointless question, but the thought impelled Nathu to walk faster. It might have already entered the cantonment, it might be at that very moment standing right at the gate of the veterinary hospital. To hell with it—Nathu uttered a swear-word. What did the veterinary surgeon need a pig for? It must have been to sell its meat somewhere. The thought of what he had gone through made him shiver, what with the stench in that stuffy room, the sweat, the grunts of the wretched creature which had licked his shins so hard that the skin had come off. To hell with Murad Ali. Nathu would wander wherever he liked. He put his hand on his pocket and felt the rustle of the five-rupee note. ‘What do I care? It is my well-earned money.’

  At the corner of the street stood the horses’ trough, Nathu turned to the right. Far away, he heard the chiming of the Sheikh’s tower-clock. Perhaps it was striking the hour of four. How clear the chimes were at that hour! During the day it was muffled by street noises. It appeared as though the sound was coming from the sky. Soon after came the sound of temple-bells, from the temple on top of a mound in the centre of the city. City sounds were increasing every minute—of doors opening, of men going out on their morning walk, coughing, pattering of sticks on the ground. A goatherd with his three goats was already on his round to sell goats’ milk. Nathu slowed his pace. He was enjoying his stroll in the cool morning air.

  The tongawallahs’ street had been left behind. Nathu walked along the railing of the spacious municipal grounds opposite the Imam Din Street. On the other side of the railing was the slope that joined the municipal grounds—the hub of activities in the town. In winter there were dog fights every Sunday morning with people betting heavily. If a badly-mauled dog tried to escape the field, those who had betted on it would block its way. The grounds were also the venue for pegging contests, drawing huge crowds; circus shows from touring circus companies such as Miss Tarabai’s Circus or Parshuram’s Circus. Baisakhi was celebrated here with drumbeats and wrestling-bouts. Of late, it had become the centre for political meetings primarily of the Muslim League and of the Belcha Party—meetings of the Congress took place in the Grain Market at a considerable distance from there.

  Nathu took out a bidi from his pocket and sat down on the railing to have a leisurely puff.

  Just then the sound of the Azan rang out from the mosque behind the Imam Din Street. It had became brighter by now and things looked clearer in the morning light. Nathu got down from the railing and putting out the bidi, headed towards the Imam Din Street. He had suddenly remembered that Murad Ali lived somewhere nearby, on the other side of the municipal grounds. He had seen Murad Ali coming from that direction once or twice. But then, Murad Ali was seen everywhere in the town—walking in the middle of the road, swinging his cane, his thick, bushy moustache almost covering his lips, so that even when he smiled or laughed his teeth could not be seen. Only his chubby cheeks bulged prominently and his small, penetrating eyes would blink. Maybe Murad Ali was strolling somewhere nearby even at that time. He had better leave the place, thought Nathu and quickened his pace. The fellow would be cross if he saw him loitering there. Murad Ali had given clear instructions that after delivering the carcass of the pig, Nathu should wait for him in the hut. But Nathu had run away from there. ‘Why the hell should I have stuck in that filthy hole? Besides, I have got my remuneration.’ Nathu again mumbled to himself.

  Nathu turned into a narrow lane and after walking a short distance, turned into another lane to the right which zigzaged towards the north. The sound of a song, sung by a group fell on his ears. As he walked further, the sound became louder and clearer. Nathu understood that the group was out on a prabhat pheri. In those days public meetings, processions, demonstrations, and prabhat pheris were a frequent sight. Nathu did not have a clear grasp of developments that were taking place around him. The air was thick with slogans of all sorts. Soon enough he saw a group of persons coming from the other side. It appeared to be a group of Congressmen because the man walking in front was carrying the tricolour flag of the Congress. As the group drew near, Nathu stepped to one side, and it passed him by, singing. There were eight or ten persons in all, a couple of them had Gandhi caps on their heads, while some wore fez caps. A couple of Sikhs too were among them. Both young and old comprised the group.

  As they passed by him, one of them raised a slogan: ‘Quomi Nara!’

  And the others answered, ‘Bande Mataram!’

  Hardly had they finished, when from a distance, the sound of another slogan was heard:

  ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’

  ‘Qaid-e-Azam Zindabad!’ (referring to Mr Jinnah).

  Nathu turned round. Three persons had suddenly appeared at the turn of the lane shouting slogans. It appeared to Nathu that they were standing in the middle of the lane trying to block the other group from proceeding further. One of them with gold-rimmed spectacles and a Turkish cap on his head, said challengingly: ‘Congress is the body of the Hindus. The Musalmans have nothing to do with it.’

  To which an elderly person from the other group replied: ‘Congress is everyone’s organization, of Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims. You know this well enough, Mahmud Sahib. There was a time when you too were with us.’ Saying so the elderly man stepped forward and put his arms around the man with the Turkish cap. Some persons laughed. Disengaging himself from the elderly man’s embrace, the man with the Turkish cap said, ‘It is the chicanery of the Hindus. We know this well enough, Bakshiji. You may say whatever you like but the incontrovertible truth is that the Congress is the body of the Hindus, and the Muslim League of the Muslims. The Congress cannot speak for the Muslims.’

  Both groups stood facing each other. They talked like friends, and they also exchanged diatribes.

  ‘See for yourself,’ Bakshiji said. ‘In our group there are Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims. There stands Aziz. Here is Hakimji.’

  ‘Aziz and Hakim are the dogs of the Hindus. We do not hate the Hindus, but we detest their dogs.’

  He said it with such vehemence that both the Muslim members of the Congress looked crestfallen.

  ‘Is Maulana Azad a Hindu or a Muslim?’

  ‘Maulana Azad is the biggest dog of the Hindus who goes wagging his tail before you.’

  The elderly man continued to talk patiently.

  ‘Freedom of Hindustan will be for the Hindus. It is in sovereign Pakistan alone that Muslims will be really free.’

  Just then, a thin emaciated Sardar, in soiled, crumpled clothes stepped forward, shouting: ‘Pakistan over my dead body!’

  Some members of the Congress laughed.

  ‘Silence, Jarnail!’ someone shouted.

  To Nathu too the Sardar’s loud exclamation had sounded odd. Seeing his friends laugh, Nathu concluded that the man must be crazy.

  But the man kept on shouting: ‘Gandhiji has said that Pakistan can only be formed over his dead body. I too say the same.’

  ‘Spit out your anger, Jarnail.’

  ‘Enough, Jarnail. Learn to keep quiet sometimes.’

  The Jarnail became furious.

  ‘No one can silence me. I am a soldier of Netaji Subhash Bose’s army. I know each one of you well enough…’

  There was much laughter.

  But when the group of Congressmen moved forward, resuming their prabhat pheri, the man with the Turkish cap blocked their way: ‘Muslims reside in this street. You can’t go there.’

  ‘Why can’t
we go there? You go raising slogans for Pakistan all over the town without let or hindrance, while here we are only singing patriotic songs.’

  The man with the Turkish cap softened somewhat.

  ‘You can go if you wish, but we shall not allow these dogs of yours to enter our street.’

  And he stretched his arms sideways so as to block the way.

  Just then Nathu’s eyes fell on Murad Ali. He was standing at the street-corner, at some distance from the man with the Turkish cap. Nathu trembled from head to foot.

  What is the man doing here? Nathu slowly crept to one side so as to hide behind the singing group. ‘Has the fellow seen me?’ When he felt that he was completely covered, and from where he stood he himself could not see Murad Ali, he tilted his head a little to see if Murad Ali was still there. The fellow was very much there, listening intently to what those people were saying.

  Nathu stepped back and slowly began to withdraw from the place. So long as those people kept arguing, he thought, Murad Ali would continue to stand there. ‘I had better get away from here.’ He said to himself. ‘If Murad Ali sees me, he will surely come to my tenement and demand an explanation.’ He continued to step backward for some distance, then turned round, and taking long strides turned a corner in the lane and then took to his heels.

  4

  They reined in their horses on reaching the top of the hill. Before them lay a vast plain stretching far into the distance, interspersed with mounds and small hillocks. A blue haze hung over the horizon. High above in the cerulean sky, kites glided with outstretched wings. Beyond the valley, the hill on their left tapered sharply down while the eastern flank, covered in a shimmering haze, barely revealed a range of low, reddish hills stretching far into the distance.

  Richard had succeeded in persuading Liza, his wife, to accompany him on his morning ride that day. He had long been eager to show her the spectacle of a sunrise over the valley, to present it to her as a kind of gift.