A Season for Martyrs: A Novel (17 page)

The other word that always gave Jan Mohammed solace was
Saeen,
the honorific that all Sindhi men used for one another. Whenever he called someone Saeen or someone called him by the same title, they were acknowledging each other as gentlemen, but more than that, as men of honor who could be trusted to uphold the principles of their world.

The days passed in a whirlwind of preparation until the morning of February 9. Jan Mohammed had been sick with nerves the night before and even vomited in the morning, refused to eat or drink anything but a glass of water, then rushed off to the Town Hall just after dawn. Turab Ali Shah woke at 6 a.m. and ate a full breakfast of fried sweetbreads, sweet paratha, fruit, and
lassi
. He bathed and dressed in his full Pir regalia of white robes and white turban, gilded waistcoat and handmade slippers. His
murids
were waiting outside on horseback, and he climbed majestically into his bullock cart to be escorted to the conference in style.

The Town Hall had been transformed from a sleepy little building into a hub of activity: men of importance bustled in and out of the doors, while peasants in their rough
lunghis
and
ajraks
milled around, pressing their faces at the windows to witness the proceedings inside. A troop of boy scouts from Hyderabad had even been assembled, and they ran hither and thither, directing visitors and guests to their seats. A trio of singers sang Sindhi folk songs and
surs
from Shah Abdul Latif’s
Risalo
to the accompaniment of the musicians from Lal Shahbaz Qalandar’s shrine in Sehwan. It was a cross between a
mela
and a court proceeding, and Larkana had never seen anything like it before.

Turab Ali Shah was nonplussed, thinking himself in good time for the opening ceremony, which was to consist of a long prayer recitation by the esteemed Maulana of Lucknow, and then the Address of Welcome by the chairman of the Reception Committee. But Turab Ali Shah realized with alarm that the speeches were already under way and now the president of the conference, the Pir of Jhando, was speaking to the audience from behind a long table set up on the stage. “My esteemed brothers, how many times have we heard that the British have a famous saying about us?”

The crowd murmured. They had heard the saying three thousand times before, but never tired of hearing it again.

“They say:
Respect the Baloch. Buy the Pashtuns. Oppress the Sindhis. Beat the Punjabis!
”

The crowd roared its displeasure.

“Look how they attempt to divide and conquer us! But we must not succumb! We must be united, not just with our Muslim brethren, but with our Hindu ones as well!” At this, he flung a hand out to acknowledge the presence of a small, dhoti-clad figure at the end of the table, who bowed in return and held his hands up in
namaste
to the Pir of Jhando.

The crowd clapped and cheered. “Marhaba, welcome, Gandhi-ji,
bhalley karein ayan
!”

Jan Mohammed glanced at Turab Ali Shah as he entered the room, his eyes shooting daggers at his friend’s tardiness; Turab Ali Shah lifted his hands in apology to Jan Mohammed and began to squeeze his way past the chairs until he reached the front row, climbed heavily up the stairs, and took his place among the conference organizers and speakers at the table. He sat down heavily, recognizing Makhdoom Moenuddin of Khiyari in the front row of guests, but not the man on his right—and here he did a double take, for it was not a man that sat next to him, but a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years of age. The boy was slight, with dry, sallow skin, and a stiff, unrelaxed posture, as if he had just got out of bed after a long illness. Still, he was leaning forward in his seat, listening to the Pir of Jhando with great concentration. His face was shining, his eyes fixed upon the great men in their robes and turbans, and he kept straining out of his chair, as if he too wanted to jump up and make a speech in the gaps between the Pir of Jhando’s words.

Turab Ali Shah gazed at the boy without curiosity—he must be one of the Makhdoom’s sons, or any of the other guests here, who had brought the boy along to witness some history. He turned his attention back onto the stage, where the speakers were thumping their hands on the table in support of the Pir of Jhando’s forceful rhetoric. The boy’s face faded from his mind and Turab Ali Shah did not notice him again for the rest of the conference.

One by one the guests stood up and made their own speeches. Maulana Shaukat Ali spoke movingly about British troops in the holy places in Arabia. “Some say that there have been acts of desecration in the Jaqirat al-Arab,” he said softly, bowing his head as if in prayer. “I have even heard reports that they had desecrated the tomb of the Prophet, peace be upon him—with the help of Sikh soldiers …” He raised his hands at the shocked outcry. “I know, I know, my brothers, it is shocking. It is an insult to Islam. We must stop it. We must work together to make the Khilafat strong. And cast out the British from India. Allah can only be pleased with our efforts to turn this Land of War back into a Land of Faith once again.”

The conference went on for three days, and Pir Turab Ali Shah, it must be admitted, fell asleep during much of it. But even he was able to grasp the salient points: the pledging of large sums of money for the Khilafat, Angor, and Smyrna funds; the call to the Pirs to direct their
murids
to join the All-India Khilafat Movement and to consider emigrating to Afghanistan; the enjoinder to boycott government institutions and foreign goods. Gandhi’s contribution was that Indians should wear only simple, homespun cloth, and Turab Ali Shah caught some of the Pirs looking at each other in horror at this. None of them would be willing to take off their fine silk robes and gold-woven coats in favor of dowdy
khaddar
cloth! Nor would they be willing to renounce the British-given honors and awards, or resign their places from government service, even if they were merely honorary.

This, Turab Ali Shah thought to himself, would be the sticking point in the Khilafat Movement—not the principles, which were mighty enough, but the question of whether the Pirs would be willing to give up the privileges with which British rule had endowed them. Pir Turab Ali Shah doubted very much that any man of standing would be willing to make such sacrifices. It was all right for Gandhi, who had never known the taste of meat and could give up anything else after that first step, but the Sindhi Pirs, descendants of the Prophets and the saints and mystics of Sindh?
Astaghfirullah!

To his surprise, on the last day of the conference Turab Ali Shah found himself elected as an office-bearer in the Khilafat Committee, along with Pir Ali Anwar Shah, Taj Muhammed Amroti, and the Pir of Jhando. This pleased him greatly; Jan Mohammed told him that if this happened, he might become part of the All-India Congress Committee, and he began to entertain visions of himself traveling to Delhi, Bombay, and Calcutta, maybe even becoming one of its vice presidents …

“It’s going well, isn’t it, Saeen?” Jan Mohammed kept asking him, like a parrot begging for a cracker.

“Very well,” said Turab Ali Shah, for once abandoning his usual pessimism, and for this he was rewarded with a flower of a smile from his friend.

At last, it was over, with fiery exhortations of Hindu-Muslim unity, promises to send thousands of
murids
on a journey of migration—a
hijra
—to Afghanistan, and the growing confidence that the Pirs of Sindh, although a small drop in the ocean of India itself, could in fact influence decision-making if they banded together and showed the nation the strength of their brotherhood.

Jan Mohammed took to his bed for a week to rest from his exertions, while Turab Ali Shah went hunting for a week in the Thar Desert, returning with a fine cache of blackbuck that he distributed to all his friends across upper Sindh. He was thinking of contracting another marriage with the daughter of a minor Pir in Hala, so he sent extra meat to that household, hoping that the man would give Turab Ali Shah his youngest daughter without worrying too much that she would be the Pir’s third wife.

On his return from his hunting trip, he went over to see his friend Jan Mohammed, who had emerged from his seclusion and was sitting on the verandah of his
haveli
in Sindhri. The two men exchanged embraces and inquiries after each other’s crops, children, and cattle. Tea and refreshments were offered and partaken of. Then, as Turab Ali Shah settled back in his chair, enjoying the early morning weather, the fine dry air and a breeze as gentle as a mother’s caress, Jan Mohammed said, “Saeen, have you seen this?” He held out an invitation card for Turab Ali Shah to inspect; it was written in Sindhi on one side and a flowing Persian script on the other.

Turab Ali Shah gave it a cursory glance. He didn’t usually read his invitations; he had an assistant, a
munshi
whose education he had paid for, to look over all his correspondence, read him important articles from the newspaper, and take care of his household accounts. “I haven’t been back to my house,” said Turab Ali Shah offhandedly. “So I haven’t been able to see my social invitations as yet. What does it say?”

Jan Mohammed read out loud from the card.

Bismillah hir Rahman ur-Rahim

You are cordially invited to the Khilafat Conference in Sann on March 17, 1920.

The honorable Hakim Fateh Mohammed Sehwani is to preside.

The speakers who have graciously consented to grace this occasion:

Shaikh Abdul Majid Sindhi, Dr. Nur Mohammed, Shaikh Abdul Aziz, and Shaikh Abdul Salam (editor of
Al-Wahid
newspaper).

Your attendance will be a great honor for our beloved Khilafat Movement.

Jeay Sindh!
Ghulam Murtaza Shah Sayed

“Ghulam Murtaza Shah? Who is that?” said Turab Ali Shah.

“I don’t know. Isn’t he in your
biraderi
?”

“If he is, I’ve never heard of him.”

“Me neither.” Jan Mohammed pulled his lips in a puzzled grimace. “It’s very odd, isn’t it, Saeen? I mean, the Khilafat Conference we organized … I don’t mean to brag, but people were saying it was truly a momentous occasion. All thanks to his grace, of course. But the committee has a reputation to uphold. We can’t have just any upstart deciding he wants to host a conference … there are standards to maintain …”

Turab Ali Shah realized, with a shock, that his friend was jealous.
Jealous!
What a womanish emotion. Men did not feel jealousy; of all men on this earth, Pirs least of all. Who could compare to any of them, in stature, reputation, position? But then Jan Mohammed had always been a sensitive one …

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out when we get there,” said Turab Ali Shah, and that settled the matter.

But Jan Mohammed was not content to let things rest there. He found out through his network of friends and relatives that this Ghulam Murtaza Shah was from a noble but poor Sayed family who faced many financial problems after his father had been murdered in a long-standing feud. Their land had been under the Court of Wards since 1906, and their agents and house servants had abandoned them when their fixed income from the courts proved insufficient to run a grand household in keeping with the style of the
sayeds
of Sindh.

This Ghulam Murtaza Shah had been homeschooled and kept in relative isolation because his mother and aunts feared that his father’s enemies were planning to kill him, too, so little was known about his character or his activities. But he had established an organization for the Sindhi Muslims of Sann, along the lines of the Hindu
panchayat,
which dealt with the community’s issues, and persuaded them to settle their matters amicably rather than lodging a thousand and one complaints at the police station over the pettiest of conflicts. And he had managed to persuade people to stop spending quite so lavishly on their children’s weddings, another pet habit of the Sindhis, who were essentially simple people but loved to show off to one another.

“If he could manage that, then he’s someone to be reckoned with,” Jan Mohammed reported to Turab Ali Shah. “Look at who he’s persuaded to come speak at this conference! I’m beginning to worry about all of this. No, don’t ask me why. I just have a bad feeling.”

“How old do you think he is?”

“Must be in his twenties? No older than that.”

Jan Mohammed sniffed virtuously. “The arrogance of youth!”

“You were young once, Jan Mohammed,” chided Turab Ali Shah.

“Maybe,” said Jan Mohammed, as if this too were a fact that could be disputed. “But I always knew my place!”

The two men traveled together to Sann the following week. Turab Ali Shah watched the world go by from the vantage point of his bullock cart, while Jan Mohammed sat on a gentle gray mare and clopped along beside him. They rode through acres of fields: wheat stalks swollen and heavy, ready for threshing; rice paddies shining under the March sun; mango orchards pregnant with the budding babies of fruit that would be perfumed and ripe by summertime. The canals snaked through the lands like ribbons of silver, and in the distance herdsmen drove their cattle into the shallow waters, where the animals drank and bathed like kings, lowing and grunting with pleasure. Turab Ali Shah breathed in the air that was rich with manure, silt, and heavy moisture, and knew that he was in a place where his forefathers had been buried, where he would be buried, where his sons would be buried when they died. No matter what happened in the world around them, this would never change.

But his heavy complacency was shaken when they alighted at Sann and went to the conference, which was held at the mausoleum of Makhdoom Bilawal. They passed through the pistachio-green walls of the shrine and walked through to the courtyard, where the tables had been set up and the guests sat in neat rows in front of it. Where their own conference had been noisy and messy, this one was organized and controlled; no sounds of tinny music, no shouts from passersby, no announcements to interrupt the speeches of the participants. The audience was filled with the familiar faces of the Khilafat Movement in Sindh, and the men were paying attention as they never had in their classrooms or mosques. As Turab Ali Shah and Jan Mohammed focused their eyes on the speakers’ table at the front, they recognized the various Maulanas, the editor of the
Al-Wahid
newspaper, and Hakim Sehwani with a baton in his hand, as if he were going to conduct an orchestra through a magnificent piece of music, a quiet hush of seriousness and dignity surrounding them all.