My Name Is Radha

The Testament of Gurmukh Singh

From isolated incidents of stabbing, news began to trickle down of full-blown skirmishes between parties in which kirpans, swords and guns were being used, not to mention knives and cleavers. Now and then one also heard of homemade bombs going off.

Everyone in Amritsar was of the opinion that these communal riots would not last long. Once passions had cooled down the situation would return to normal. Riots had erupted in Amritsar before, but they had had a short life. Deathly commotion, in which murder and carnage took place, raged for a few days and then subsided on its own. If past experience was any indication, people believed that the fire, after it had spent its fury, would die down. This, however, didn’t happen. The rioting grew worse by the day.

Muslim residents of largely Hindu neighbourhoods began to flee. Likewise, Hindus in predominantly Muslim areas abandoned their homes for more secure locations, convinced that such moves were temporary, only until the atmosphere had been cleansed of its rioting furore.

Retired sub-judge Mian Abdul Hayy was not overly worried. He was absolutely sure that the situation would normalize before long. He lived with his eleven-year-old son, a daughter who was seventeen, and a servant of about seventy who had been with him for a long time. It was a small family. Notwithstanding his confidence, at the first signs of rioting the prudent Mian Sahib had stockpiled food. He didn’t have to worry about food supplies in case the situation — God forbid — took a turn for the worse and shops closed down for an indefinite period. His daughter Sughra, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as relaxed about the matter. Their three-storey house was quite a bit taller than the surrounding buildings. You could easily see almost three-quarters of the city from its upper floor. Sughra had noticed that not a day passed without some conflagration or other starting somewhere in the distance or close by. Earlier, the blare of fire engines could be heard as they sped by, but no longer. There were just too many fires.

The view at night was something else again. In the pitch dark, tall flames shot up like so many devas spewing fire, followed by strange noises that sounded dreadful with their mixture of ear-splitting cries of Har Har Mahadev! and Allahu Akbar!

Sughra did not mention her premonitions and fears to her father. He had already advised them not to be afraid; everything would be all right. And since Mian Sahib had been right most of the time before, she felt somewhat reassured. However, when the power and water supply was cut off, she couldn’t hold back and mentioned her anxiety to him, diffidently suggesting that they move temporarily to Sharifpur where other neighbouring Muslims were headed. But Mian Sahib stood firm by his opinion. ‘No need to panic,’ he said calmly. ‘The situation will get better very soon.’

The situation didn’t get better very soon. In fact, it rapidly worsened. The entire neighbourhood became empty of Muslims. On top of that, suddenly one day, Mian Sahib suffered a stroke that confined him to his bed. Basharat, his son, who had earlier spent most of his time playing alone inside the house, now scarcely left his father’s side and began to understand the precariousness of the situation.

The bazaar next to their house lay deserted. Dr Ghulam Mustafa’s dispensary had been shut some time ago, and from the balcony Sughra had seen padlocks hanging from Dr Gorand’s farther down. Mian Sahib’s condition was critical. Sughra was feeling terribly anxious, unable to think straight. She took Basharat aside and begged him, ‘For God’s sake, do something. I know it isn’t safe to step outside, but please go and fetch someone. Abbaji is very ill.’

Basharat did go, but returned immediately with a terribly pale face. He had seen a blood-drenched corpse in the chowk and a bunch of masked men busy pillaging a nearby shop. She hugged her terrified brother and tried to be patient, but she couldn’t bear the sight of her father. Mian Sahib’s right side had become totally paralysed, as if it had no life left in it. His speech had also become slurred. He talked mostly through gestures and seemed to be telling her not to worry, everything would be all right by the grace of God.

Nothing became all right. Ramzan Eid was two days away. Mian Sahib was sure that the current crisis would end before Eid, but now the atmosphere was thick with the premonition that the day of Eid might prove to be doomsday. From the top of the house only clouds of smoke could be seen rising from practically every part of the city. The horrifying sound of exploding bombs kept Sughra and Basharat on edge all night. Sughra had to stay awake to look after her father; the bombs seemed to be exploding inside her head. Panic-stricken, she looked now at her paralysed father, now at her terrified brother. The male servant Akbar, being an old man of seventy, wasn’t really much help. He just lay in his dingy little room coughing and spitting big globs of phlegm day and night. Finally, one day, Sughra had had enough with him and gave him a piece of her mind. ‘What are you good for, anyway? Don’t you see Mian Sahib’s condition? You are, to say the least, a thankless lout. Now, when you’re most needed to serve him, you laze about, faking asthma. Oh, those servants who eagerly laid down their lives to serve their masters are long gone!’

After she had vented her anger, Sughra left the old servant, only to begin to regret letting herself go when the poor man had done nothing wrong. She laid out his food on a tray and carried it to his room but found it empty. Basharat went through the entire house looking for him but the servant was nowhere to be found. The latch on his door was unfastened on the outside, which gave the impression that he had perhaps gone out to do something for Mian Sahib. Sughra prayed ardently for his success. Two days passed but Akbar didn’t return.

It was evening. The siblings had seen many such evenings in the past, enlivened by the boisterous commotion of the coming Eid, when their eyes stayed glued to the sky expecting to sight the new moon.

Eid was to be the following day, only the new moon needed to announce its arrival. How impatient they used to be for the announcement. And how annoyed when a stubborn piece of cloud wandered across the night sky and refused to budge from where the sighting of the moon was likely. Now it was clouds of smoke everywhere. Both climbed to the upper floor. Here and there on faraway roofs they saw human figures, but only as shadowy blotches. They couldn’t tell whether these figures were looking for the moon or watching the leaping flames.

The moon turned out to be one brazen body. It managed to peek through the cloud cover. Sughra quickly raised her hands and offered a prayer to God to restore her father’s health, while Basharat twisted inside with displeasure over the riots that had ruined the delights of Eid.

The sun hadn’t yet gone down fully, in other words, the evening darkness hadn’t quite set in. Mian Sahib’s cot, on which he lay immobile, was set out on the floor sprinkled with water. His eyes were fixed on the distant sky, thinking something difficult to guess. After sighting the moon Sughra came and said salaam to him. He acknowledged it with a movement of his hand. As she bowed her head, he patted it with his good hand with tender affection. Tears dripped from her eyes, and Mian Sahib was so overcome with emotion that his own eyes also became moist. He laboured with his paralysed tongue to console her. ‘The blessed and gracious God will put everything right.’

Just then they were surprised by a sudden knock at the door. Sughra was struck with terror. She glanced at Basharat. His face blanched.

The knock came again. ‘Go and see who it is,’ Mian Sahib told Sughra.

Sughra thought that the old man Akbar had returned. A flicker ran through her eyes. She grabbed Basharat’s arm and said, ‘Go and see. Perhaps it’s Akbar.’

Mian Sahib shook his head, as if he meant to say, ‘No, it’s not Akbar.’

‘Who else could it be, Abbaji?’

As Mian Abdul Hayy was struggling to say something, Basharat returned, looking terribly frightened and breathless. He moved Sughra away from Mian Sahib’s cot and said in undertones, ‘It’s some Sikh.’

‘A Sikh!’ Sughra screamed. ‘What does he want?’

‘He’s asking me to open the door.’

Trembling, Sughra pulled Basharat to her bosom and plunked down on Mian Sahib’s cot, looking at her father with listless eyes.

A strange smile swept over Mian Abdul Hayy’s thin, lifeless lips. ‘Go open the door. It’s Gurmukh Singh.’

Basharat shook his head. ‘No, it’s someone else.’

‘It’s him,’ Mian Sahib slurred decisively. ‘Sughra, go and open the door.’

Sughra stood up. She knew Gurmukh Singh. Before retiring, her father had done something for him, but her memory about the favour was hazy. Perhaps he had saved Gurmukh Singh from some fraudulent case that was brought against him. Since then he had always brought them a gift bag of rumaali sevaiyan on Chhoti Eid. Her father told the man several times, ‘Sardarji, there really is no need to inconvenience yourself.’ But the latter would respectfully join his hands and say, ‘Mian Sahib, by the grace of Wahe Guruji you have everything. It’s just a small gift that I bring on the occasion of Eid to express my gratitude. Even a hundred generations of mine could never pay you back for the immense favour you did for me. May God keep you happy!’

Sardar Gurmukh Singh had been bringing this gift on the eve of Eid from as far back as Sughra could remember. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of him when the knock sounded. And why did Basharat say, ‘No, it’s someone else,’ when he, too, had seen Gurmukh Singh many times? Who else could it be? Thinking along these lines, she approached the deorhi. Should she open the door or just ask from inside. She hadn’t made up her mind quite yet when there was a louder, more insistent knock. Her heart began to pound loudly. With great difficulty she asked, ‘Who is it?’

Basharat was standing close by. He pointed at a chink in the door and asked her to peek through it.

She peeked. It was not Gurmukh Singh; he was quite old. The man who stood outside on the stoop looked young. Her eyes were still glued to the chink when the man knocked again. She saw he had a paper bag in his hands, just like the one Gurmukh Singh used to bring.

She took her eyes off the chink and asked in a loud voice, ‘Who are you?’

‘I. . I’m Gurmukh Singh’s son Santokh.’

Much of her fear had subsided by then. ‘What brings you here today?’ she asked politely.

‘Where is Judge Sahib?’ he asked.

‘He is ill.’

‘Oh,’ Sardar Santokh said regretfully. ‘These,’ he shook the paper bag, ‘these are sevaiyan. Sardarji is no longer with us. He passed away.’

‘Passed away?’ Sughra quickly asked.

‘Yes, about a month ago. As he was dying, he told me, “Son, I’ve been bringing sevaiyan to Judge Sahib every Chhoti Eid for the past ten years. You should do the same when I’m gone.” I promised him. I’m making good on my promise. Here, please accept this.’

Sughra was so touched her eyes welled up with tears. She opened the door a crack and took the proffered bag. ‘May God give Sardarji a place in Heaven,’ she said.

After a pause Gurmukh Singh’s son asked, ‘Judge Sahib is ill?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is wrong?’

‘He had a stroke.’

‘Oh! Had Sardarji been alive, he’d have felt very sad. He remembered Judge Sahib’s kindness to his dying day. He used to say, “He is not a human but a god.” May God give him long life. Please give him my salaams.’

Before Sughra could decide whether to ask him to arrange for a doctor to visit Judge Sahib, Santokh Singh had gone. He had walked a few steps when four masked men approached him. Two of them held burning torches and the other two a can of kerosene and other flammable materials. One of them asked, ‘So, Sardarji, you’re done with your job?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, shall we take care of the Judge Sahib now?’ the man asked, laughing behind his mask.

‘Yes. . as you like,’ Sardar Gurmukh Singh’s son said and walked away.