Train to Pakistan (17 page)

Meet Singh turned back to the temple without answering the eager queries of the villagers.

The head constable’s visit had divided Mano Majra into two halves as neatly as a knife cuts through a pat of butter.

Muslims sat and moped in their houses. Rumours of atrocities committed by Sikhs on Muslims in Patiala, Ambala and Kapurthala, which they had heard and dismissed, came back to their minds. They had heard of gentlewomen having their veils
taken off, being stripped and marched down crowded streets to be raped in the marketplace. Many had eluded their would-be ravishers by killing themselves. They had heard of mosques being desecrated by the slaughter of pigs on the premises, and of copies of the holy Quran being torn up by infidels. Quite suddenly, every Sikh in Mano Majra became a stranger with an evil intent. His long hair and beard appeared barbarous, his kirpan menacingly anti-Muslim. For the first time, the name Pakistan came to mean something to them—a refuge where there were no Sikhs.

The Sikhs were sullen and angry. ‘Never trust a Mussulman,’ they said. The last Guru had warned them that Muslims had no loyalties. He was right. All through the Muslim period of Indian history, sons had imprisoned or killed their own fathers and brothers had blinded brothers to get the throne. And what had they done to the Sikhs? Executed two of their Gurus, assassinated another and butchered his infant children; hundreds of thousands had been put to the sword for no other offence than refusing to accept Islam; their temples had been desecrated by the slaughter of kine; the holy Granth had been torn to bits. And Muslims were never ones to respect women. Sikh refugees had told of women jumping into wells and burning themselves rather than fall into the hands of Muslims. Those who did not commit suicide were paraded naked in the streets, raped in public, and then murdered. Now a trainload of Sikhs massacred by Muslims had been cremated in Mano Majra. Hindus and Sikhs were fleeing from their homes in Pakistan and having to find shelter in Mano Majra. Then there was the murder of Ram Lal. No one knew who had killed him, but everyone knew Ram Lal was a Hindu; Sultana and his gang were Muslims and had fled to Pakistan. An unknown character—without turban or beard—had been loitering about the village. These were reasons enough to be angry with someone. So they decided to
be angry with the Muslims; Muslims were basely ungrateful. Logic was never a strong point with Sikhs; when they were roused, logic did not matter at all.

It was a gloomy night. The breeze that had swept away the clouds blew them back again. At first they came in fleecy strands of white. The moon wiped them off its face. Then they came in large billows, blotted out the moonlight and turned the sky a dull grey. The moon fought its way through, and occasionally, patches of the plain sparkled like silver. Later, clouds came in monstrous black formations and spread across the sky. Then, without any lightning or thunder, it began to rain.

A group of Sikh peasants gathered together in the house of the lambardar. They sat in a circle around a hurricane lantern—some on a charpai, others on the floor. Meet Singh was amongst them.

For a long time nobody said anything apart from repeating, ‘God is punishing us for our sins.’

‘Yes, God is punishing us for our sins.’

‘There is a lot of zulum in Pakistan.’

‘That is because He wants to punish us for our sins. Bad acts yield a bitter harvest.’

Then one of the younger men spoke. ‘What have we done to deserve this? We have looked upon the Muslims as our brothers and sisters. Why should they send somebody to spy on us?’

‘You mean Iqbal?’ Meet Singh said. ‘I had quite a long conversation with him. He had an iron bangle on his wrist like all of us Sikhs and told me that his mother had wanted him to wear it, so he wore it. He is a shaven Sikh. He does not smoke. And he came the day after the moneylender’s murder.’

‘Bhai, you get taken in easily,’ replied the same youth. ‘Does it hurt a Mussulman to wear an iron bangle or not smoke for a day—particularly if he has some important work to do?’

‘I may be a simple bhai,’ protested Meet Singh warmly, ‘but I know as well as you that the babu had nothing to do with the murder; he would not have been in the village afterwards if he had. That any fathead would understand.’

The youth felt a little abashed.

‘Besides that,’ continued Meet Singh more confidently, ‘they had already arrested Malli for the dacoity …’

‘How do you know what they had arrested Malli for?’ interrupted the youth triumphantly.

‘Yes, how do you know what the police know? They have released Malli. Have you ever known them to release murderers without a trial and acquittal?’ asked some others.

‘Bhai, you always talk without reason.’

‘Achha, if you are the ones with all the reason, tell me who threw the packet of bangles into Jugga’s house.’

‘How should we know?’ answered a chorus.

‘I will tell you. It was Jugga’s enemy Malli. You all know they had fallen out. Who else would dare insult Jugga except he?’

No one answered the question. Meet Singh went on aggressively to drive his point home. ‘And all this about Sultana, Sultana! What has that to do with the dacoity?’

‘Yes, Bhaiji, you may be right,’ said another youth. ‘But Lal is dead: why bother about him? The police will do that. Let Jugga, Malli and Sultana settle their quarrels. As for the babu, for all we care he can sleep with his mother. Our problem is: what are we to do with all these pigs we have with us? They have been eating our salt for generations and see what they have done! We have treated them like our own brothers. They have behaved like snakes.’

The temperature of the meeting went up suddenly. Meet Singh spoke angrily.

‘What have they done to you? Have they ousted you from
your lands or occupied your houses? Have they seduced your womenfolk? Tell me, what have they done?’

‘Ask the refugees what they have done to them,’ answered the truculent youth who had started the argument. ‘You mean to tell us that they are lying when they say that gurdwaras have been burned and people massacred?’

‘I was only talking of Mano Majra. What have our tenants done?’

‘They are Muslims.’

Meet Singh shrugged his shoulders.

The lambardar felt it was up to him to settle the argument.

‘What had to happen has happened,’ he said wisely. ‘We have to decide what we are to do now. These refugees who have turned up at the temple may do something which will bring a bad name on the village.’

The reference to ‘something’ changed the mood of the meeting. How could outsiders dare do ‘something’ to their fellow villagers? Here was another stumbling block to logic. Group loyalty was above reason. The youth who had referred to Muslims as pigs spoke haughtily: ‘We would like to see somebody raise his little finger against our tenants while we live!’

The lambardar snubbed him. ‘You are a hotheaded one. Sometimes you want to kill Muslims. Sometimes you want to kill refugees. We say something and you drag the talk to something else.’

‘All right, all right, Lambardara,’ retorted the young man, ‘if you are all that clever, you say something.’

‘Listen, brothers,’ said the lambardar lowering his voice. ‘This is no time to lose tempers. Nobody here wants to kill anyone. But who knows the intentions of other people? Today we have forty or fifty refugees, who by the grace of the Guru are a peaceful lot and they only talk. Tomorrow we may get
others who may have lost their mothers or sisters. Are we going to tell them: “Do not come to this village”? And if they do come, will we let them wreak vengeance on our tenants?’

‘You have said something worth a hundred thousand rupees,’ said an old man. ‘We should think about it.’

The peasants thought about their problem. They could not refuse shelter to refugees: hospitality was not a pastime but a sacred duty when those who sought it were homeless. Could they ask their Muslims to go? Quite emphatically not! Loyalty to a fellow villager was above all other considerations. Despite the words they had used, no one had the nerve to suggest throwing them out, even in a purely Sikh gathering. The mood of the assembly changed from anger to bewilderment.

After some time the lambardar spoke.

‘All Muslims of the neighbouring villages have been evacuated and taken to the refugee camp near Chundunnugger. Some have already gone away to Pakistan. Others have been sent to the bigger camp at Jullundur.’

‘Yes,’ added another. ‘Kapoora and Gujjoo Matta were evacuated last week. Mano Majra is the only place left where there are Muslims. What I would like to know is how these people asked their fellow villagers to leave. We could never say anything like that to our tenants, any more than we could tell our sons to get out of our homes. Is there anyone here who could say to the Muslims, “Brothers, you should go away from Mano Majra”?

Before anyone could answer, another villager came in and stood on the threshold. Everyone turned round to see, but they could not recognize him in the dim lamplight.

‘Who is it?’ asked the lambardar, shading his eyes from the lamp. ‘Come in.’

Imam Baksh came in. Two others followed him. They also were Muslims.

‘Salaam, Chacha Imam Baksh. Salaam, Khair Dina. Salaam, salaam.’

‘Sat Sri Akal, Lambardara. Sat Sri Akal,’ answered the Muslims.

People made room for them and waited for Imam Baksh to begin.

Imam Baksh combed his beard with his fingers.

‘Well, brothers, what is your decision about us?’ he asked quietly.

There was an awkward silence. Everyone looked at the lambardar.

‘Why ask us?’ answered the lambardar. ‘This is your village as much as ours.’

‘You have heard what is being said! All the neighbouring villages have been evacuated. Only we are left. If you want us to go too, we will go.’

Meet Singh began to sniff. He felt it was not for him to speak. He had said his bit. Besides, he was only a priest who lived on what the villagers gave him. One of the younger men spoke.

‘It is like this, Uncle Imam Baksh. As long as we are here nobody will dare to touch you. We die first and then you can look after yourselves.’

‘Yes,’ added another warmly, ‘we first, then you. If anyone raises his eyebrows at you we will rape his mother.’

‘Mother, sister and daughter,’ added the others.

Imam Baksh wiped a tear from his eyes and blew his nose in the hem of his shirt.

‘What have we to do with Pakistan? We were born here. So were our ancestors. We have lived amongst you as brothers.’ Imam Baksh broke down. Meet Singh clasped him in his arms and began to sob. Several of the people started crying quietly and blowing their noses.

The lambardar spoke: ‘Yes, you are our brothers. As far as we are concerned, you and your children and your grandchildren can live here as long as you like. If anyone speaks rudely to you, your wives or your children, it will be us first and our wives and children before a single hair of your heads is touched. But Chacha, we are so few and the strangers coming from Pakistan are coming in thousands. Who will be responsible for what they do?’

‘Yes,’ agreed the others, ‘as far as we are concerned you are all right, but what about these refugees?’

‘I have heard that some villages were surrounded by mobs many thousands strong, all armed with guns and spears. There was no question of resistance.’

‘We are not afraid of mobs,’ replied another quickly. ‘Let them come! We will give them such a beating they will not dare to look at Mano Majra again.’

Nobody took notice of the challenger; the boast sounded too hollow to be taken seriously. Imam Baksh blew his nose again, ‘What do you advice us to do then, brothers?’ he asked, choking with emotion.

‘Uncle,’ said the lambardar in a heavy voice, ‘it is very hard for me to say, but seeing the sort of time we live in, I would advise you to go to the refugee camp while this trouble is on. You lock your houses with your belongings. We will look after your cattle till you come back.’

The lambardar’s voice created a tense stillness. Villagers held their breath for fear of being heard. The lambardar himself felt that he ought to say something quickly to dispel the effect of his words.

‘Until yesterday,’ he began again loudly, ‘in case of trouble we could have helped you to cross the river by the ford. Now it has been raining for two days; the river has risen. The only crossings are by trains and road bridges—you know what is
happening there! It is for your own safety that I advise you to take shelter in the camp for a few days, and then you can come back. As far as we are concerned,’ he repeated warmly, ‘if you decide to stay on, you are most welcome to do so. We will defend you with our lives.’

No one had any doubts about the import of the lambardar’s words. They sat with their heads bowed till Imam Baksh stood up.

‘All right,’ he said solemnly, ‘if we have to go, we better pack up our bedding and belongings. It will take us more than one night to clear out of homes it has taken our fathers and grandfathers hundreds of years to make.’

The lambardar felt a strong sense of guilt and was overcome with emotion. He got up and embraced Imam Baksh and started to cry loudly. Sikh and Muslim villagers fell into each other’s arms and wept like children. Imam Baksh gently got out of the lambardar’s embrace. ‘There is no need to cry,’ he said between sobs. ‘This is the way of the world—

Not forever does the bulbul sing

In balmy shades of bowers,

Not forever lasts the spring

Nor ever blossom flowers.

Not forever reigneth joy,

Sets the sun on days of bliss,

Friendships not forever last,

They know not life, who know not this.

‘They know not life, who know not this,’ repeated many others with sighs. ‘Yes, Uncle Imam Baksh. This is life.’

Imam Baksh and his companions left the meeting in tears.

Before going round to other Muslim homes, Imam Baksh went
to his own hut attached to the mosque. Nooran was already in bed. An oil lamp burned in a niche in the wall.