(Short Story)
SAADAT HASAN MANTO
Translated from Urdu by
MADAN GUPTA
To start with there were
only isolated incidents of stabbing. Now riots between the two communities had
become frequent. Besides knives and daggers, guns and swords were also
regularly used. Even locally-made bombs were exploded.
People in Amritsar were
generally of the view that the riots won’t last long. As soon as tempers cool,
things will quieten down. These were not the first communal riots. There had been
many in the past. But they had never lasted long. Ten or fifteen days of
killing and then there was peace. On past experience people were of the view
that the current trouble will also end soon. But this time it did not happen.
In fact, as days went by, the situation became worse. Muslims in Hindu
localities started evacuating. Similarly Hindus in predominantly Muslim areas
started moving to safer places. All these moves were, however, considered
temporary. There was confidence that things will come under control soon.
Mian Abdul Haye, retired
sub-judge, was absolutely certain that peace will be restored in a few days.
That is why he was not worried. He had a son aged eleven years and a daughter
aged seventeen. There was also an old servant around seventy. It was a small
family. As a matter of precaution, Mian Saheb had stored up rations so that,
God forbid, if the situation did not improve and the shops remained closed, at
least in the matter of food there would be nothing to worry.
Mian Saheb’s daughter
Sughra was, however, full of concern. Theirs was a three-storeyed house and was
much higher than the neighbouring buildings. From the roof-top could be seen
nearly three-fourth of the town. For a number of days Sughra had seen fires far
and near. To start with shrill bells of fire-brigades could be heard but then
this stopped. The reason was that practically everywhere there were fires. The
scene at night was terrifying. Flames leaped up in the darkness of the night as
if some dreadful dragon was vomitting fire. Strange sounds mingling with
slogans of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ and ‘Allah U-Akbar’ became fierce and
frightening.
Sughra did not share her
fears with her father because he had emphatically said that there was no cause
for anxiety. And he was seldom wrong. However, when the water and the electric
supply got disrupted, she mentioned her concern hesitatingly to her father and
suggested that they should shift to Sharifpura where a number of neighbouring
Muslim families had moved. Mian Saheb, however, did not change his decision and
said, “No need to get panicky un-necessarily. Things will normalise soon.”
But things did not
normalise. With the passing of days they, in fact, worsened. The locality in
which Mian Abdul Haye lived was now without any Muslim family. To make matters
worse, Mian Saheb had a sudden attack of paralysis and became an invalid. His
son, Basharat, who used to spend his time in the house with one game or
another, now stayed by his father’s bed. He also developed awareness about the gravity
of the situation.
The bazaar near their
house was deserted. Dr. Ghulam Mustafa’s dispensary lay closed for months. A
little distance away lived Dr. Guranditta Mal. Sughra had seen from the
house-top that his shop also lay locked up. Mian Saheb was very ill. Sughra was
at her wits end with worry. Taking Basharat aside one day, she said,
“Abbajaan’s condition is serious. I know that it is not safe to go out but you
will have to go and bring some help.” Basharat went. But within minutes he was
back. His face was deadly pale. In the “chawk” he had seen a dead-body drenched
in blood. Nearby men carrying swords and shields were ransacking a shop. Sughra
took her terrified brother in her embrace, thanking God for his safe return.
Her father’s condition continued to make her restless. Mian Saheb’s right side was without
any life. His speech had got impaired. He communicated only with gestures to
convey to Sughra that by God’s grace all will be well again.
The situation did not
change. Ramzan was coming to an end. Only two days of fasting were left. Mian
Saheb had been confident that things will quieten down before Id. But now it
looked that Id may herald the day of doom. From the roof could be seen clouds
of smoke rising from practically every part of the town. Terrifying bomb
explosions made it impossible to get any sleep at night. Sughra had in any case
to be awake to keep a vigil on her father. At times she felt that bomb blasts
were taking place in her brain. Helplessly she looked sometimes at her invalid
father and sometimes at her frightened brother. Seventy-year old Akbar was as
good as not being there. He mostly lay in his quarter coughing and spitting
mucus. One day in a fit of temper, Sughra scolded him saying, “There was a time
when servants sacrificed their lives for their masters. But look at you. Mian
Sabeb is seriously ill and needs help and here you are pretending that you are
down with acute asthma.” The release of pent-up anger made Sughra feel lighter
but on second thought she felt sorry that she had been harsh to the old man. In
the evening she went to his quarter with a plate of food. The quarter was
empty. Basharat looked all over the house but there was no trace of Akbar. The
front door lay unlatched. “Perhaps he has gone out to get some help,” Sughra
thought and prayed that he may succeed. But two days passed and Akbar did not
return.
It was evening. The Id
festival was only a day away. The excitement on this occasion in normal times
was still fresh in Sughra’s mind: eyes rivetted to the sky looking for the new
moon. How impatient did they get. How furious if a cloud came. And now how
different everything was. When she and Basharat went to the roof all that could
be seen were clouds of smoke. In the distance some human shadows were visible.
Whether they were looking for the moon or at the fires around, it was difficult
to say.
The stubborn moon did
not let the clouds of smoke hide it. Sughra sighted it, raised her hands and
prayed that her father may be well again. Basharat was annoyed that because of
riots there would be no festivities.
The day had still a few
more hours of fife. The evening shadows had not darkened yet. After sprinkling
water in the courtyard, Mian Saheb had been put there. He lay without making
any movement and gazed at the sky above, thinking God knows what. When Sughra
came down after seeing the moon and greeted him, he responded with a gesture
and gave an affectionate pat on Sughra’s bowed head with his unaffected hand.
Sughra could not hold back her tears. Seeing her, Mian Saheb could not hold
back his. To give her courage, he muttered with his damaged tongue, “God is
merciful. All will be well again.”
Just then there was a
knock at the door outside. Sughra looked towards Basharat. His face had
ashened. There was another knock. Sughra’s heart missed a beat. Mian Saheb
gestured to her to go and see who it was. Thinking that it may be old Akbar,
she said to Basharat, “Go and see. It may be Akbar.” Mian Saheb heard this and
shook his head in disagreement. “Who can it be then, Abbajaan?” Sughra asked. Mian Saheb
was putting pressure on his vocal chords when Basharat returned. His face was
white with fear and he was breathing heavily. Taking Sughra aside he
whispered, “It is a Sikh.”
Sughra shrieked, “A
Sikh? What does he want?”
“He wants the door to be
opened.”
Sughra pulled trembling
Basharat to her arms and went and sat on her father’s bed, looking at him with
vacant eyes. The lifeless thin lips of Mian Abdul Haye opened up in a smile. He
mumbled, “Go and open the door. It must be Gurmukh Singh” Basharat shook his
head to say that it was someone else. Mian Saheb said with finality in his
tone, “Sughra, go. It must be him.”
Sughra got up. She knew
Gurmukh Singh. Before his retirement, her father had done a favour to a man by
that name. Sughra did not remember the details. Perhaps he was saved from a
false case against him. Since then Gurmukh Singn used to bring a bagful of
home-made “savayans” (noodles) for them on the occasion of Id. Her father had
told him several times that he should not take this trouble but he had always
replied, with folded hands. “Mian Saheb, by the grace of God, you have
everything. This is only a small gift from a grateful, friend. The favour you
did to me cannot be repaid even by hundred generations of mine. May the
Almighty bring you happiness.”
Sardar Gurmukh Singh had
been bringing a bagful of “savayans” (noodles) for many years for Id. Sughra
was surprised that it did not occur to her that it must be him when she heard
the knock. But then the thought came why did Basharat say that it was someone
else. He had also seen Gurmukh Singh several times.
With these thoughts
Sughra went through the courtyard to the front door. She had not been able to
make up her mind whether she should open the door or only ask who it was. Just
then there was another knock. Breathing heavily she asked, “Who is there?” Basharat stood by her
side. Pointing to a crack in the door, he said to Sughra, “Look through this.”
Sughra looked through
the crack. It was not Gurmukh Singh who was an old man. The man who stood
outside was a youngster. As she stood appraising him through the crack, another
knock came. Sughra noticed that the man was carrying a paper bag in his hand –
the same sort that Gurmukh Singh used to bring. Turning away from the door she
asked loudly, “Who are you?”
The reply from outside
was, “I am Santokh, Sardar Gurmukh Singh’s son.”
Sughra’s fears were
allayed. Very politely she asked, “What brings you here!”
The man outside said,
“Where is Judge Saheb?”
“He is not well,” Sughra
replied.
Santokh Singh said, in a
voice showing concern, “Oh”. Then jingling the paper bag, he added, “I have
brought some homemade ‘savayans’ for Judge Saheb. Sardarji, my father, is no
more in this world. He has died.”
“Died!” asked Sughra
with concern.
The reply from outside
was, “Yes. He died a month ago. Before his death he said to me, ‘Son, I have
been taking homemade ‘savayans’ for the Judge Saheb for the last ten years for
Id. After me you will have to do this.’ I am here to keep my promise to my dead
father. Please take these ‘savayans’.”
Sughra was overcome with
emotion. Tears came to her eyes. She half-opened the door. Gurmukh Singh’s son
pushed the bag in. Sughra took it and said, “May God give Sardar Saheb the joys
of Paradise.”
Gurmukh Singh’s son said
after a pause, “Is Judge Saheb very ill?”
Sughra said yes in
confirmation.
“What is the ailment?”
“Paralysis.”
“Oh...” said Santokh.
“Had Sardarji been alive, he would have been very upset to hear this. Till his
very last breath he remembered the favour Judge Saheb did to him. He used to
say that Judge Saheb is an angel, not a human being. May God give him a long
life. Please convey my respects to him.” Before Sughra could make up her mind
whether to ask him to get a doctor, Santokh had got down the steps to go.
Hardly had Santokh gone
a few yards after leaving the Judge Saheb’s house when he encountered four
persons with their beards tied up with a protective covering. Two had burning
torches in their hands. The other two carried cans of kerosene oil and other
explosives. One of them said to santokh, “So you have done your job Sardarji,
have you?”
Santokh looked up.
The man said to his
companions, “Lets then put finishing touches to the job.”