Two Short Novels (17 page)

The carriage had jog-trotted quite fifty yards without anything happening.

Perhaps, he felt, that the sentries outside the house of Sardar Muhammad Jilani had seen the tonga issue from the exalted one’s residence and given the password to the other sentries. Still Ibil was playing with his own life, and that of his wife’s in escorting him. For, if the raiders had suspected that he, Maqbool Sherwani, had probably gone into the Jilani household (since they had come knocking on the door), then the very sight of the landlord’s servant would make them suspicious.

The rhythmic jolting of the horse carriage unnerved him, and he sweated inside the veil and quivered. The uneven ruts in the road shook him. And he found his mind emptying into the vacancy of suspense.

‘Who is there?’ suddenly a Pathan sentry challenged.

‘From the household of Sardar Jilani,’ answered Ibil.

Soon there was the clattering of hobnailed shoes and muffled voices.

The impulse to live hovered on the fearful threat of being found out. But Maqbool looked before him without stirring. Suddenly, the purdah at the back of the tonga was lifted by two soldiers.

‘Who?’ one of the Pathans barked.

‘Zenana,’ said Habiba.

For a while, the soldiers who had not spoken, lingered and stared hard at the forms.

‘Why do you annoy even females?’ Ibil said aggressively. ‘Among Muslims this is not done.’

The soldier dropped the curtain.

‘Go ahead,’ Ibil said to the coachman.

Maqbool had held his breath. The grip of his mouth was tight in spite of him and his eyes had closed. The miracle had happened again. Rescued from the very jaws of death! Would his luck hold out? he wondered. Instinctively, he found himself with the word Allah at the back of his head in thankfulness. And he reflected how strange it was that those who were, on principle, the life opposers, the family of the landlord, should have saved him at the risk of courting the displeasure of their newfound friends.

The carriage advanced slowly. But in order to keep the occupants at the back informed of where they were, Ibil went on directing the coachman: ‘There,’ he said, ‘stop by the shop of the confectioner. And wait here till I return!’

And, in a moment, the tonga came to a standstill.

‘Please alight and I will escort you,’ Ibil announced to the occupants.

Maqbool allowed Habiba to get down first. Then he got down. Ibil came near him and whispered: ‘The road is clear.’

And he led the way into the gulley.

Awkward and halting, in spite of his best efforts, Maqbool advanced with an affected slouching gait behind Ibil, his heart beating involuntarily.

As they got to the middle of the lane, Ibil said in an almost audible speech:

‘The sentries of this lane have taken the confectioner with them to identify someone they suspect
. . .
’

Habiba shushed him from behind the lifted headpiece of her burqah. And she led the train up to the door of Maqbool’s house. And she even took the initiative in striking the suspended latch of the door to summon the household from above. Fortunately, out of the fear of the raiders, the lane was empty, except for prying eyes, which only saw the females of Sardar Jilani’s house enter with the servant, Ibil, when the door was opened by Maqbool’s mother.

Habiba went to Maqbool’s mother and turning her eyes to the other form in burqah, whispered: ‘Maqbool.’

Maqbool’s mother was dazed and stared uncomprehendingly at the figure before her.

Maqbool seemed to have surveyed the hall through the eyepiece of the burqah, and, finding the place empty, he took off the veil.

His mother put her arms around him and clung to him weeping.

‘Mother, mother,’ he called to her to silence her.

‘I thought you were dead, Maqbool
. . .
,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought they had killed you!’

At that instant, Maqbool’s father came down, a lean, pale man with a grim and angry expression on his face.

Maqbool greeted him respectfully, almost as a stranger accosts an official: ‘
Salam alaikum
!’

The old man answered equally formally: ‘
Wa alaykum as-salam
!’

‘Where is Noor?’ Maqbool asked.

‘She is upstairs, son,’ his mother said. ‘So are other people — all waiting for you. Mahmdoo of the cookshop from Pattan is here. And his son, Gula. And others
. . .
we were all worried about you. Come
. . .
and you must be hungry
. . .
’

And she led the way upstairs.

‘When Gula went there at dawn to fetch you,’ said Mahmdoo, the fat confectioner, ‘and did not find you there, I thought that either the worst had happened and they had caught you, or that you had come home. So I asked the way here
. . .
I am happy you have come back safe. These
shaitans
are everywhere.’

‘But too busy looting to be very vigilant,’ Maqbool put in. ‘Even their leader, Khurshid Anwar, is sitting comfortably at Sardar Jilani’s house to take his tribute from there, before he will do anything else. And he said his men must collect enough to compensate themselves before moving on to Srinagar — ’

‘One lakh is what he demands,’ said Ibil, who, like all servants in a feudal household, seemed to know everything that was going on. ‘Sardar Sahib had promised him fifty thousand, which is all he had in cash. The Master had gone to fetch that from the safe in the shop when you came home.’

All those assembled uttered moans of wonder and horror when they heard such big sums being mentioned. Only Maqbool protested: ‘I would like to stop him from paying that money to this robber and crook!’

‘Son, you use strong words,’ Maqbool’s father intervened sternly.

‘Such robbery with violence calls for strong words, father!’ said Maqbool.

‘Now, no quarrel in your household,’ the mother said. ‘The tea is ready. Noor, my child, bring the
samovar
over here and I will pour it.’

Maqbool’s sister, Noor, an even featured girl, slightly disfigured by the pimples of youth, which she had squeezed, came over with the samovar and crouched near the company demurely, keeping her bright big eyes lowered even as she drew the headcloth over her forehead.

‘You have always encouraged these children to disobedience,’ said the father turning to the mother.

‘Begum Jilani also believes that the highest thing in life is obedience!’ Maqbool said. ‘All the old people believe in obedience. We must accept and not rebel. All that happens to us is due to the fate ordained by Allah! Say five prayers a day, keep the fasts and obey — and die in the process!’

The tone of mockery in Maqbool’s voice disturbed his mother who wanted the happy family reunion to last out in the atmosphere of cordiality. So long as her chickens were safe in her coop, she felt no concern about anything outside.

The father remained silent at the rebuke, which his son had administered to him by implication. Then he burst out from the strange cavern of his fears and frustration.

‘What can we do against such odds; I ask you! The salvation of our souls lies in the hands of Allah and his prophets. If we pray, perhaps Allah will hear our prayers
. . .
’

‘But father,’ Noor ventured, ‘our brother loves the weak. He has been working for others. How can you expect him to rest content with prayers. Allah does not seem to hear — ’

‘Silent
. . .
Noor, and don’t blaspheme!’ shouted the father. ‘I should not have sent you to that school!’

‘Pour the tea, child,’ the mother consoled Noor quickly lest the girl should burst into tears as she usually did at the least little rebuke.

‘Allah has sent his apostles, the Pakistanis, our “Muslim brethren”, to liberate us by depriving us of our breath!’ said Maqbool with a caustic and bitter humour.

‘The whole house is in revolt against me!’ protested the father.

‘To be sure!’ Mahmdoo intervened, out of embarrassment at the family quarrel. ‘But, all the same, Maqbool Sahib has been known as the friend of broken people! He is a worthy son. And you ought not to feel that he is doing anything wrong if he wants us to struggle against the invaders. Our leaders have sent him to Baramula.’

This silenced the company. And Maqbool’s mother used the tense calm to serve tea to everyone. Noor looked at her brother surreptitiously from the corners of her eyes, full of admiration for her brother, who had actually been talking to the great in Srinagar. Gula broke the reserve by saying naively:

‘Maqbool, brother, when shall we go to Pattan to collect the motor cycle? Will you take me to Srinagar on it?’

At this Mahmdoo laughed a brief laugh and then turned on his son:

‘We are all in danger of our lives — and you, fool, think only of the motor cycle!’

‘The trouble with our leaders,’ began Maqbool’s father, ‘is that they are idealists! They love the poor, but do not realise that the poor cannot love them. All the people want is bread. And, for the rest they lie about unheeding on the dung heaps! And they have no thought of Allah . . . ’

‘You should be in Srinagar, father,’ said Maqbool, ‘to see how much those whom you despise work. It is not their fault if they are unheeding. You know how the
Angrezi Sarkar
has ground us down and made life as cheap as dust
. . . .
Do you think that we do not believe in anything?
. . .
But we cannot save the soul of a person without saving his body
. . . .
We must survive
. . . .
The trouble is that, in spite of their prayers, they have lost faith — they no longer seek to live by any truth in their lives
. . .
’

‘You talk some sense, son,’ conceded the father looking away from Maqbool and turning to his hookah, which Noor had filled for him. And he continued: ‘But then often you become mad and talk like a fanatic!
. . .
’

‘He is young,’ apologised the mother. ‘And he has reduced himself to a skeleton rushing about. He neglects to eat or drink — and he has become impatient. I would like to feed him on good food for at least a month when all this is over. Mahmdoo, you must send us some good butter from Pattan. I hear the cowherds come to your shop daily with milk and butter
. . .
’

‘To be sure, the mother of Maqbool,’ assured Mahmdoo. ‘I shall send you the good ghee as soon as this blight — ’

There was the sound of knocking at the door and the faces of the whole company became pale. For a moment, the suspense hung before their wide open eyes.

Maqbool’s mother looked out of the window of the sitting room and quickly turned to reassure everyone: ‘Juma and his brothers!
. . .
’

‘We shall beg your permission to go,’ said Ibil. And he turned to Habiba, who had sat huddled up in her
burqah by the shoes on the door.

Maqbool got up and saw Ibil to the door, so that he could give him some cash for his trouble. Inside the little hall, beyond the doorway, he put a ten rupee note into Ibil’s hand and shook the closed fist warmly with both his own hands
. . .

Noor came up to him as he turned and said: ‘Brother, take me with you to Srinagar if you go again. I can ride on the back of your motor cycle.’

Maqbool touched her cheek tenderly and said in a bantering manner:

‘Noori, you will first have to get mother to allow you to wear a salwar
and kurta
rather than this Kashmiri gown before you can become a soldier.’

‘Nothing of the kind!’ warned the mother who had overheard. ‘No girl of mine will become a soldier. I won’t trust her out of this home, with those brutes about!
. . .
’

‘But mother,’ assured Maqbool. ‘All the young boys and girls in Srinagar have joined the military and are learning to use guns!’

‘Father, I also want to go to Srinagar,’ said Gula impetuously. ‘Send me with Maqbool!’

‘And we too want to go there!’ shouted Juma. ‘To Srinagar — ’

‘War is no joke,’ Maqbool’s father answered. ‘There are bullets about.’

‘Hatto, he has just come from Srinagar,’ added Mahmdoo. ‘He can’t go back there without running into danger!
. . .
’

‘But we can’t sit here, twiddling our thumbs,’ said Juma.

‘Especially when there is no work,’ said Qadri, who was the most gentle of the three brothers.

‘And I for one am through with work at the factory,’ said Saleem Bux. ‘I want to join the army —’

‘And see the world!’ mocked Mahmdoo.

‘It is good to hear this talk,’ commented Maqbool. ‘At least the young want to do something
. . . .
Not like all the old ones who want to cave in
. . . .
In Srinagar even the old have enlisted in the volunteer corps — ’

‘I suppose even the old people learn to recognise the needful when someone can make the choice for them,’ said Mahmdoo. ‘We had lost everything. Now there is a cause!
. . .
’

‘I understand the rich not being able to make a choice,’ said Maqbool. ‘I have met Muratib Ali and Ghulam Jilani. They were good friends of mine. But they are behaving like weaklings, because they are privileged. For those who are not privileged the choice is easier. We must fight against the violent destroyers of life — with violence. There is such a thing as goodness and honesty — as there is evil and lies! We are not, like the Pakistanis, exhorting people to go and slaughter! We are innocent enough. And we have been attacked. We have to fight against the invasion
. . . .
Against the tribesmen — ours is the human response of pity for those whom they have despoiled!
. . .
’

The fact that he was standing as he said all this gave his words authority, though he deliberately avoided an oratorical tone of speech. For he had a horror of claptrap and mere shouting, being essentially a reserved adolescent, recognising few imperatives except those which flowed from the poet and school-teacher in him.

His father sensed the truth of his words and stole out to the kitchen to help himself to more live coal for his
hookah
.

The warmth which came from Maqbool’s physique drew Noor to him more ardently than she might, at that age, have been drawn to by any lover. Her face glowed as she removed the empty cups from before the guests and poured tea for the newcomers. Then she saw Maqbool’s cup lying full of cold tea.

‘But,’ she said with her own small voiced humour now
that father was out of audible distance. ‘Your cup is full to overflowing!
. . .
’