My Name Is Radha

Yazeed

The tumultuous events of 1947 came and flitted away like a few bad days appearing unexpectedly in an otherwise pleasant season.

Karim Dad hadn’t simply attributed the upheavals to Providence, sat back complacently and done nothing; rather, he had faced the storm valiantly, like a man. He sparred with the enemy forces quite a few times, not so much to bring them to their knees, but only to offer vigorous resistance. He knew the enemy was far too powerful, but he also knew that to lay down his arms would be an insult not just to himself but to every man. This, at any rate, was how others thought of him, those who had seen him fighting with those brutes and willingly putting his life in harm’s way. But if you asked Karim Dad whether he considered putting down his weapons before the enemy an insult, he would think long and hard, as though pondering a difficult mathematical question.

He didn’t know how to add or subtract, any more than how to multiply or divide. After the riots of ’47 were over, people sat down to take stock of the losses, both human and material. Karim Dad didn’t involve himself in this computation. All he knew was that the war had claimed the life of his father Rahim Dad, whose corpse he had carried on his shoulders and laid to rest in the grave he had dug by a well with his own hands.

There had been more incidents like this in the village. Hundreds of young and old men had been butchered; several girls abducted, some brutally raped. Those who had suffered these wounds were crying as much over their own ill fate as over the exceptional ruthlessness of the enemy. But not a single tear was ever spotted in Karim Dad’s eyes. He was proud of his father’s gallantry. Exhausted from fighting against a pack of rioters armed with dozens of lances and hatchets, the old man’s strength had given out and he had fallen. When the news of his death was brought to Karim Dad, he merely addressed his father’s spirit thus: ‘Look, yaar, this isn’t a nice thing to do. Didn’t I tell you to carry some weapon on you at all times!’

He then dug a pit by the well and interred his father’s dead body. Standing by the grave, he uttered a few words by way of the Fatiha: ‘Only God knows best about sins and recompense. But let me just wish you Paradise!’

The rioters had dispatched Rahim Dad — who had been not just a father but also a great friend to Karim Dad — with such fiendish cruelty, that any time people recalled his savage murder, they never failed to hurl obscenities at the murderers. At such times Karim Dad never spoke a word. Several of his flourishing grain fields had been completely laid to waste and two houses reduced to ashes, yet Karim Dad didn’t spare his losses a second thought. Now and then, though, one did hear him utter this much: ‘Whatever happened was due to our own failings.’ When asked what those failings were, he chose to remain silent.

While the village folks were still lamenting over their dead, Karim Dad got himself married to the same blossoming Jaina he’d had his eyes on for some time. Jaina was grieving. Her brother, a strapping youth, had been killed in the riots. He had been the only person left whom she could count on for support since the death of their parents. That she also loved Karim Dad dearly was beyond doubt, but the pain of losing her brother had cast a pall over that love somewhat. Her eyes, lively and smiling before, now never seemed free of tears.

Karim Dad couldn’t stand wailing and crying at all. The sight of a doleful Jaina annoyed him, but he chose not to mention it to her, thinking that, tender-hearted woman that she was, his words might hurt her feelings even more. However, one day he couldn’t hold back any more. He caught up with her in the field and gave her a piece of his mind. ‘Look, it’s been a whole year since the dead were shrouded and buried. Even they are probably tired of all this keening and wailing over them. Let go of it, my dear. Who knows how many more deaths we’re fated to see in this life. Save some tears for the future.’

Jaina took umbrage at his words, but what could she do? She was deeply in love with the man. During long bouts of solitude, she tried her best to conjure up some meaning in his words and, eventually, convinced herself that what he had said wasn’t all that unreasonable after all.

The elders opposed their marriage when the proposal was run past them; however, their opposition turned out to be quite weak. Excessive mourning had sapped their energies so completely that they couldn’t even hold on to oppositions that had every chance of success. And so Karim Dad got married. With the customary wedding fanfare and music, and after every ceremony was duly performed, Karim Dad brought his beloved Jaina home as his bride.

Since the rioting a year ago, the whole village had assumed something of the depressing air of a cemetery. Thus, when Karim Dad’s marriage arrangements got under way with a lot of hullabaloo and excitement, a vague feeling of trepidation swept over some people. They cringed and felt as though it wasn’t Karim Dad’s but some bhoot — pret’s^* wedding procession that was unfolding before them. Some friends informed Karim Dad about this reaction and he laughed his head off. One day, jokingly, he mentioned it to his new bride, who instantly began quaking with alarm.

‘Well,’ he said to Jaina, taking hold of her wrist with its beautiful, bright bracelet, ‘you can’t escape. You’re stuck with this bhoot for the rest of your life. Even Rahman Sain’s hocus-pocus can’t rid you of him.’

Jaina stuck her hennaed finger between her teeth, blushed a little, and got out only this much, ‘Kaimay, nothing seems to frighten you!’

Karim Dad ran the tip of his tongue over his reddish-brown moustache and smiled broadly. ‘What is there to frighten anyone? Fear doesn’t exist.’

By now, Jaina’s grief had subsided quite a bit. She was soon to be a mother. To see her in the fullness of her blossoming youth made Karim Dad enormously happy. He would say to her, ‘You were never so stunningly beautiful before, Jaina, I swear. If all this beauty is only for the sake of the baby who’s coming, I’ll have to fight with that little rascal, I’m telling you.’

Jaina would blush and quickly cover her big, bulging belly with her chador, which made him laugh and tease her even more. ‘Why are you hiding that thief? Don’t I know that all this dolling up is just for that little swine?’

At that Jaina would become serious. ‘Why are you swearing at the baby? After all it’s your own.’

‘And Karim Dad is the biggest swine of them all,’ he would say, his reddish-brown moustache quivering from the rumble of his laughter.

The ‘Little’ Eid came along, followed a couple of months later by the ‘Big’ Eid. Karim Dad celebrated both with equal fanfare and great fuss. The rioters had attacked his village twelve days before the Big Eid and his father Rahim Dad and Jaina’s brother Fazl Ilahi had both been murdered in that attack. Jaina cried a lot as she remembered their killings but, realizing how Karim Dad was predisposed to put any tragedy behind him, she couldn’t grieve as much as her own temperament called for.

Sometimes when she thought about it, she wondered how she could have begun to forget the most tragic incident of her life so imperceptibly. She had absolutely no memory of how her parents had died. Fazl Ilahi was six years older than her. He wasn’t just a brother; he had been both father and mother to her. She was absolutely sure that it was for her sake alone that he hadn’t married. And it was to save her honour that he had lost his life fighting the enemy — a fact known to the whole village. His death was truly the greatest catastrophe of her life, a veritable hell suddenly let loose upon her just twelve days before the Big Eid. Whenever she thought about that calamity now, the realization that she was drifting further away from its effects never failed to surprise her.

As the month of Muharram approached, for the first time Jaina expressed her desire to Karim Dad. She was very interested in seeing the decorated horse and the taziyas of Muharram. She had heard a lot about them from her girlfriends. She asked Karim Dad, ‘If I’m feeling up to it, will you take me to see the Muharram horse?’

‘I will, even if you aren’t feeling well, and the swine too,’ he replied with a smile.

She hated the word ‘swine’, took immediate offence to it and often lost her cool. But it was uttered with such endearing honesty that her bitterness was instantly transformed into an indescribable sweetness and she would begin to see how the word ‘swine’ could be filled with genuine affection and love.

The rumour of an imminent war between India and Pakistan had been circulating for quite some time. Actually, almost as soon as Pakistan was established it had been taken for granted that there would definitely be a war, but when was something the inhabitants of the village couldn’t say with any certainty. If anyone asked Karim Dad about it, his short answer invariably was, ‘It will be when it will be. What’s the point of losing sleep over it?’

But whenever Jaina heard about that dreaded event, it knocked the living daylights out of her. She was a peace-loving woman by nature. Even ordinary squabbles made her terribly nervous. Besides, during the previous mayhem she’d been witness to a great deal of carnage and bloodshed. Her own brother, Fazl Ilahi, had been mowed down in one such riot. She would cringe with an unknown fear and ask, ‘Kaimay, what will it be?’

Karim Dad would smile. ‘How would I know? Maybe a boy, maybe a girl.’

Such a cheerful reply made her feel even more helpless. Soon she would forget all about the dreaded war, focusing all her attention on whatever else Karim Dad was saying. He was a strong, fearless man who loved Jaina very much. After buying himself a rifle, he had quickly become an expert marksman. These things kept her spirits up. But now and then, when she was by the waterfront and heard from a terrified girlfriend of the rumours about war being spread by the village folk, she would instantly go into a daze.

One day, Bakhtu the midwife came for Jaina’s daily check-up and brought along the news that the Indians were about to stop the river. Jaina couldn’t understand. She asked, ‘About to stop the river. . which river?’

‘The one that waters our fields.’

Jaina thought for a while and then said with a smile, ‘Mausi, have you gone mad? Who can stop rivers? They aren’t just any old street drain.’

Rubbing Jaina’s belly gently, Bakhtu replied, ‘Bibi, I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I heard. This information has even appeared in newspapers.’

‘What information?’ Jaina was still finding it hard to believe.

Feeling Jaina’s stomach with her wrinkled hand, the old woman said, ‘The same. . about stopping the river.’ Then she pulled Jaina’s shirt down over her stomach and said with the confidence of a seasoned obstetrician, ‘God willing, you’ll have your baby in exactly ten days.’

When Karim Dad came home, the first thing Jaina asked him about was this rumour about the river. At first he tried to evade the question, but when she persisted, he said casually, ‘Yes, I’ve heard something like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Just that the Hindustan-wallahs will divert the waters of our rivers.’

‘Why?’

‘To ruin our crops,’ Karim Dad replied.

The answer convinced Jaina that rivers could be stopped from flowing. With a feeling of utter despondency she merely said, ‘How cruel they are.’

This time around, Karim Dad took some time to smile. ‘But tell me, did Mausi Bakhtu visit you today?’

‘She did,’ Jaina replied half-heartedly.

‘What did she say?’

‘That the baby will be born exactly ten days from today.’

‘Zindabad!’ Karim Dad cried out boisterously.

Jaina was furious. She muttered, ‘You’re making merry, while only God knows what calamity awaits us.’

Karim Dad got up and left for the chaupal.^* Here, practically all the men of the village were crowding around Chaudhry Natthu asking him about this news of cutting off the water to their river. One man was roundly swearing at Pandit Nehru, another was cursing Indians without letting up, a third was persistently denying that the waters of a river could be diverted. There were also some in whose opinion what lay ahead was punishment for their own sins, best averted by collective prayer in the mosque.

Karim Dad sat quietly in a corner listening to their exchange. Chaudhry Natthu was the most effusive among those swearing at the Indians. Karim Dad was shifting so often in his seat that it gave the impression this sort of conversation was making him very nervous. The men were all saying with one voice that cutting off the water was a very nasty act indeed, the height of meanness, downright vile, a most horrid oppression, a sin, the very same conduct as Yazeed’s.

Karim Dad cleared his throat a few times as if preparing to say something. When another volley of the coarsest obscenities rose to the Chaudhry’s mouth, he yelled, ‘Chaudhry, don’t call anyone bad names!’

The swear word for doing something to the lower anatomy of the Indians’ mother caught in the Chaudhry’s throat. He turned around and directed a mighty strange look towards Karim Dad, who, meanwhile, had busied himself arranging his turban on his head. ‘Huh. . what did you say?’

In a soft but firm voice Karim Dad responded, ‘Just that you shouldn’t swear at anyone.’

The word that was caught in the Chaudhry’s throat now shot out of his mouth with incredible force. He asked sharply, ‘Anyone? Who the hell are they to you?’

Now the Chaudhry addressed the folks gathered in the chaupal. ‘You heard him, didn’t you? He says don’t rebuke anyone. Ask him: Who are they to him?’

With tremendous poise and self-control Karim Dad replied, ‘Who are they to me? Well, they are my enemies.’

Something resembling raucous laughter rose from the Chaudhry’s throat so loudly that the bristles of his moustache flew to either side of his lips from the force. ‘You heard him. They’re his enemies. So we should love them. Right, boy?’

And Karim Dad, in the manner of a deferential boy, answered, ‘No, Chaudhry, I’m not asking you to love them. I only ask that they shouldn’t be called bad names.’

Karim Dad’s bosom buddy Miran Bakhsh, who was sitting right next to him, asked, ‘Why?’

‘What’s the point of it, yaar? They want to make your fields barren and you think that all you need in order to get even with them is a few insults. That isn’t smart, is it? Insults are the recourse of people who have run out of answers.’

‘And you, do you have an answer?’ asked Miran Bakhsh.

‘Whether I have one or not is not the issue,’ Karim Dad said after a pause. ‘This matter concerns tens of thousands, indeed hundreds of thousands. A single person’s answer can’t stand as the answer for everyone. Such matters require a lot of deep thought and deliberation. . to devise a solid plan of action. They cannot divert the course of the water in one day. It’ll take them years. And, pray tell, is your strategy simply to hurl obscenities at them for a few minutes and let out all your rage?’ He put his hand on Miran Bakhsh’s shoulder and added with genuine affection, ‘All I know, yaar, is that, somehow, even calling Hindustan mean, despicable, vile and tyrannical is wrong.’

‘Listen to this!’ Chaudhry Natthu blurted out instead of Miran Bakhsh.

However, Karim Dad continued his conversation with Miran Bakhsh. ‘It’s foolishness to expect mercy from the enemy. Once the battle has begun, lamenting that the enemy is using large-bore rifles while we have small-bore, that our bombs are fairly small and theirs are much larger. . Tell me, honestly, is that any kind of complaint? Whether it’s a small knife or a large knife, both can be used to kill. Am I wrong?’

It was the Chaudhry, again, who started thinking, but got discombobulated in a second. ‘But the issue. .’ he said with irritation, ‘the issue is that they’re stopping the water. They want to starve us to death.’

Karim Dad removed his hand from Miran Bakhsh’s shoulder and spoke directly to the Chaudhry. ‘Chaudhry, when you’ve designated someone as your enemy, why complain that he wants to kill you by means of hunger and thirst? Did you think he would send you great big pots of sumptuous pilafs and pitchers of ice-cooled fruit juice from across the border, rather than laying waste to your lush fields and crops? Did you think he would plant gardens for your enjoyment?’

The Chaudhry lost his cool. ‘Damn you, what nonsense is this?’

Miran Bakhsh, too, asked Karim Dad softly, ‘Yes, yaar, what nonsense is this?’

‘It isn’t nonsense, Miran Bakhsha,’ Karim Dad attempted to reason with his friend. ‘Just think a little: In a battle what wouldn’t one opponent do to defeat the other. When a wrestler, all set for the bout, descends into the arena, he has every right to use whatever manoeuvres he sees fit. .’

‘Makes sense,’ Miran Bakhsh agreed, shaking his shaven head.

Karim Dad smiled. ‘Well then, stopping the river also makes sense. For us it’s an atrocity, but for them it’s entirely admissible.’

‘You call it admissible?’ the Chaudhry butted in. ‘When your tongue is hanging out from thirst, we’ll see whether such an atrocity is still admissible. When your kids are begging for a single morsel of food, will you still call it admissible?’

Karim Dad ran his tongue over his parched lips and replied, ‘Yes, Chaudhry, even then. Why do you only remember that he’s our enemy and conveniently forget that we’re just as much his enemy? If we had it in our power, we would cut his food and water supply too. Now that the enemy is able and about to do that, we’ll certainly have to think of a way to counter his move. And futile name-calling won’t do that. The enemy won’t send rivers of milk flowing your way, Chaudhry Natthu! If he could, he would poison every drop of your water. You call it plain inequity, plain bestiality because you don’t like this way of killing. Isn’t it a bit odd that even before the war has begun you’re setting up conditions, as if it is a marriage contract and you have the freedom to set down your conditions? To tell the enemy, “Don’t kill me by starvation and thirst, but, by all means, kill me with a gun that is of such and such bore.” This, in fact, is the real nonsense. Think about it with a cool head.’

This was all that was needed to send the Chaudhry to the height of his irritation. ‘So bring some ice and cool my head!’

‘This too is my responsibility now.’ Karim Dad laughed tapping Miran Bakhsh on the shoulder, and then got up and walked out of the chaupal.

Just as he was stepping inside the deorhi of his house, he saw Bakhtu coming out. A toothless smile appeared on her lips when she saw Karim Dad.

‘Congratulations, Kaimay. You’ve got a boy, the very image of the moon. Now think about a nice name for him.’

‘Name?’ Karim Dad thought for a moment. ‘Yazeed. . that’ll do, yes, Yazeed.’

Bakhtu the midwife was stunned, her face dropped, while an overjoyed Karim Dad barged into the house shouting jubilantly. Jaina was lying on the charpoy, looking paler than before, with a cotton-ball of a little baby boy beside her, sucking away at his thumb. Karim Dad looked at the baby with a mix of affection and pride. He tweaked the baby’s cheek playfully with his finger and muttered, ‘Oh my Yazeed!’

A shocked scream escaped from Jaina’s lips, ‘Yazeed?’

Looking closely at his son’s face and its features, Karim Dad affirmed, ‘Yes, Yazeed. That’s his name.’

Jaina’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, ‘What are you saying, Kaimay — Yazeed?’

He smiled. ‘So what’s wrong with it? It’s just a name.’

‘But whose name. . Think!’ was all she could say.

Karim Dad replied in a grave tone of voice, ‘It isn’t necessary that he should turn out to be the same Yazeed, the one who cut off the water; this one will make it flow again.’