Lahore: Book 1 of The Partition Trilogy

Prologue

Delhi is the Indian Rome, some historians say.

Those myth-makers are Westerners.

There is a certain symmetry, one can grant. Rome has seven hills; Delhi has seven cities. Each new sultan, emperor, king built himself a new capital on the plains, each built to last, hubris the one defining constant. A poet sums it up well:

The one who occupied this throne before you

As assured of his immortality he was as you.

What remains of those seven cities – Indian historians count many more; the earliest from 3000 BCE – is ruins, mostly. Omen enough, one would think, for the British, never as prescient as poets.

Dismissing the augury, however, King George V lays the foundation stone for his imperial city during his 1911 tour of India – officially, the Delhi Durbar. The plan is to be around for the next 400 years, at least. They have been around for that much already. Time in which the colonial British Empire in India has amassed eleven provinces and 565 princely states. (The provinces are directly under British rule; so are the states, but they have nominal princes.) The plan is for George RI – Rex Imperator, aka King-Emperor – to hold onto the I, a suffix he has earned as the Emperor of India.

But, along comes Hitler to bust said plans.

When our story begins, in February 1947, Britain, bankrupted by WWII, is about to pull out of India. Churchill, who won Britain the war, even calls it ‘Operation Scuttle’. But he’s been booted out of office – for heroes fight wars, but seldom rebuild countries – the freedom movement in India is on the boil, and WWII has exposed the hypocrisy of British rule in India. The Labour government under Attlee wants its hands clean.

As the British scuttle, what is happening to India?

Let’s take a look.

1

Laur (February 1947)

‘Run!’

‘Wha-aat?’

‘Run, fool!’ Mehmood rasped, shoving his friend forward. The slogans had got shriller and more combative, the procession swollen with factions shouting conflicting demands. A clash was imminent.

‘What, Mehmood?’ Beli Ram grumbled.

They had been walking down Railway Road when a Muslim League protest march made its way from Anarkali Bazaar, waving green flags, holding aloft posters of Jinnah, demanding Pakistan. At Lohari Gate, younger men and some women – likely students – had joined the marchers, making very different demands: ‘Reinstate civil liberties!’, ‘Hindus–Muslims–Sikhs unite!’ The burka-clad League women beat their chests in syapa, ‘Khizar sarkar hai-hai!’ The female students chanted, ‘Long live Congress–League unity!’ and the male students repeated after them loudly. Now, they were all trying to out-shout each other – total tamasha. And here was Mehmood ruining—

‘Mooove!’ Mehmood hissed again.

A scream rang out, followed by scuffles, and shouts of ‘Grab the motherfucker!’, ‘Grab him now!’

Mehmood craned his neck to where a huddle had formed in the procession – manly arms raining fists down.

A man was dragged to the side, his white Gandhi cap aloft in the hand of another, who thrust it at his fellow marchers and yelled, ‘See! See the work of Congressmen … Harassing our women in plain sight!’ A thwack landed on the captive’s head. Reeling, he struggled to free himself. ‘Let me go! I did nothing!’

As Mehmood hovered at the edge of the crowd, he was reminded of his visit to Karachi’s Clifton Beach: One minute his feet were on the sand, the next, a breaker had snatched the ground from under him, toppling him over. The bright noon sun glinted off the blade of a spear.

‘Kill the infidel!’

The demand rang loud, puncturing the momentary stasis. A whistling above them. A flaming arrow descended upon the procession. The stink of oil and resin spread in the air. Another arrow followed. This found a direct hit, the crowd parting, distancing itself from the human firecracker that spun and shrieked as flames rose from his skullcap and coat-clad sleeves.

‘Hai! The Hindus are dropping bombs on us!’

The marchers ran pell-mell. Mehmood and Beli Ram were lifted with the surging crowd, before it became a stampede. As Beli Ram lurched to the ground, Mehmood hoisted him up by the collar of his kurta, pushing him to the side, where a narrow alley branched off ahead.

Upright, Beli Ram tried to weave his way through the agitated crowd. Assorted cries filled the air. Mehmood was close behind; he could hear him cussing as they tried to cut through the mob. Surely, they would get crushed. Beli Ram blindly struck for the right, where the alley’s dark mouth lay. Elbows in his face, prods in his back, his sweater ripping as he flailed through and stumbled out, one foot plonking into the drain that ran through the middle of the alley. Lifting his foot out, he limped forward – his eyes scanning for an exit as feet thundered close behind. The narrow lane was cold and dark in the shadows of the houses that bordered it. He shivered.

Was Mehmood still behind?

Beli Ram scrunched his eyes at the stampede. Two women were buffeted along by the mob. He thought he sighted his friend, but a rushing river of people separated them, a tributary of which was in the alley now, threatening to drown Beli Ram. He stumbled forward, seeking an open doorway he could take refuge in. But all doors, even windows, of the double-, triple-storeyed houses were shut as if against marauders. Feet thundered in his ears – or was it his thudding heart? A shove from behind sent him staggering. He stretched out his arms to steady himself. But his limbs were tossed about and his bones protested, as he was squeezed from all sides. He remembered being caught in a herd of hurrying buffaloes as a child, their sweaty, fleshy flanks suffocating him. Beli Ram tried not to panic. His feet left the ground. The horde shifted, shuffled and flung him against the wall of a house. He stuck out his hands and clung to the rough bricks.

His breath came rapidly. Sweat trickled into his eyes. But he would not let go of the chafing bricks. With his back firmly against the wall, Beli Ram inched forward, his wool sweater snagging on the uneven surface. Scraping his way along the wall, his hand came up against a damp disc, then several, and now the overpowering smell of cow dung enveloped him. A churning sound and the tinkle of bells came from a door that stood ajar, a few feet away from where he crouched. With an eye on the mob hurrying forward, Beli Ram slid against the cakes drying on the wall and scuttled his way to the door.

Stepping inside, he lost his footing as the ground suddenly dipped. It was dark. Beli swore as his head smacked against a sack. A heavy odour of mustard and piss assailed him. Gagging, he tried to stand up. His hands came away wet from the floor. Strange sounds filled the air: lumbering, squeaking, tinkling … He was trying to make sense of his surroundings when something bore into him, ramming him onto a sack. A rope smacked his face. No, it was a—

Beli Ram’s eyes picked their way through the darkness. A beast was treading in circles around the room, snorting warm air into the dankness. Blindfolded, it was oblivious to him and to the hungama outside, as it spun and turned an oil press. The big bull was approaching; its curving horns set to gore him. Beli dropped to the floor, plastering himself against the inside wall, and felt the bull’s breath wash over him. Narrowly escaping its flicking tail, he slipped out of the room.

The number of people in the alley had swollen. Beli licked his dry lips. All available space on the outside wall of the oil press was dotted with drying cakes of cow dung. In an alcove, a ladder inclined against the wall.

Beli Ram sprinted forward. He climbed up shakily, his feet slipping on the thin bamboo. On the roof, he crouched low to scour the lane and the main street where he had been separated from Mehmood.

They had been walking back from the railway station – skirting around the crowd of men carrying posters of Jinnah and shouting their demands for Pakistan – debating whether to go for biryani at Kareem’s or the samosas at Motiram Halwai’s, when their business had been hijacked by an unruly mob. What was happening to people? Going berserk at lunch hour? If they had filled their bellies in time, these men would be snoring by now, on cots under the winter sun.

And where was Mehmood?

Men continued to tumble through the narrow alleyway. Some fell, others clambered atop them. A banner that had slipped from someone’s grasp crumpled under hurried feet. A scuffle. Several hands trying to pry free a green flag held aloft by an arm. The man with the flag managed to break free and, sighting the ladder, started to clamber atop. Arms lunged at him, grabbing his pyjama-clad legs. Still clutching the flag, he hit out with one foot, sending an assailant teetering. Beli Ram watched, his throat constricting. The Muslim League man was nearly at the rooftop, in which case his pursuers would follow him up and find Beli Ram too. There was no other place he could run to. Of the adjoining rooftops, one was too far, the other too high …

The ladder creaked as the men in the alley pulled it away from the wall. For a moment, man and flag perched on a step, the ladder was an erect column. Until it arced away. Screams and splintering as the bamboo crashed onto the escaping men. Howls, cusses. The flag was now in the hands of a man who was ripping it with manic energy. As its erstwhile bearer scrambled to get away, another man pounced on him. The League man turned sideways, his face shocked as he faced his pursuer. The throng of men pulsing around them was sprinkled, their faces and clothing smeared by a sudden drizzle. Only, the drops were red. It was an unusual rain, something the men seemed to register as the man who had been carrying the flag suddenly slumped forward, a red line on his neck sputtering little jets of blood.

Beli Ram doubled over, his stomach heaving up to his throat.

Where was Mehmood?

2

Laur (February 1947)

The goondas in the lane below had just killed a man. For the sin of carrying a League flag? But Mehmood was not a Leaguer. And if ever he carried a flag, for whatever reason, he would have sense enough to ditch it in the nearest gutter at the first sign of trouble. That thought fortified Beli Ram momentarily.

When the shouts died down, he peered over the alleyway.

The mass of men had reduced to a trickle that snaked down the alley, avoiding the man lying spreadeagled on the brick-paved road, his blood pooling into the central drain. Further down, the bordering houses were taller, rendering the alley even darker. In a dim entrance archway, something shifted. Beli Ram leaned over the rooftop, craning his neck. A red coolie’s kurta merged with the shadows.

Mehmood!

Beli Ram collapsed in relief.

‘That was a close call, eh?’

Beli Ram, reeking of cow dung, tried again to get his friend to speak. But since they had skulked their way out of the alley and started walking back towards Kesari Hata, Mehmood had stayed as silent as a stone. Now he padded on, his leather jutti scrunching, a shawl draped over his lungi–kurta.

‘Tell you what? Let’s pick up freshly fried samosas from Pandu Halwai and I’ll make garma-garam cha, and we’ll have the best lunch ever!’

‘You think I’m worrying over a missed meal?’ Mehmood’s intent gaze was elsewhere as he worked the right tip of his moustache.

‘No?’ Beli Ram rubbed his chin. The mice scampering in his tummy since early noon were rampaging elephants now, but Mehmood acted as if he had eaten an entire cow at breakfast and not the tea and kulcha they had both bought from outside the railway station. His friend could be strange that way. Ahead, Shammi Joseph wiped the seat of his rickshaw, which was parked beside the chabutara of his house.

‘What, Shammi,’ Beli Ram hailed him, ‘done for the day already?’

Shammi turned his head. He had thick lustrous hair, one perpetual lock dangling over his forehead. Truth be told, he was so dashing that many of the young women of Kesari Hata had been in love with him until he went and married a much older Hindu widow. She converted right after their marriage. Tongues in the neighbourhood had wagged about the scandalous widow, the scandalous Christian church, and shameless Shammi. What really rankled the community was the fact that a Hindu widow with no prospect of remarriage could have set up home again with a virile young man. Every Sunday, when Lata Lily Joseph – dressed in a satiny salwar–kameez – stepped out for Mass with her husband, the women of the Hata, roosting on rooftops or chabutaras, went collectively cockeyed.

‘Didn’t you hear of the riot near Lohari Gate?’ Shammi shouted. His voice, perennially hoarse, sounded like a frog’s croak. Small mercies; one man should not have all the luck in the world. ‘Miscreants killed people and set fire to shops – I was at Anarkali when an agg da bamba raced down shrieking!’

‘Fire engine!’ Beli Ram squealed.

‘We were there, and had a narrow escape,’ Mehmood added. ‘Any idea who the goondas were?’

Shammi shrugged and moved to the rear of his rickshaw, continuing his wiping. He spoke louder. ‘The talk in Anarkali is the usual nowadays. The border between Pakistan and Hindustan, and where in Panjab it will be … Laur will be in Hindustan, Kishore Lala said, because the real estate in the city is in the hands of Hindus. But Chaudhry Shakur, the wholesaler, said Muslims are the majority in Panjab, and so on they went, back and forth, others adding their voices, and in the end, no one was listening to anyone.’

‘It is Attlee’s recent announcement that has created this problem,’ Mehmood snorted.

‘But the goras departing is good riddance, no?’ Beli Ram asked.

‘Depends which king comes to power in Dilli – Jinnah, Nehru, Gandhi?’

‘Na,’ Shammi clucked, his head bobbing up from behind the rickshaw. ‘Things will change, our padre says. There will be elections and we will elect our own government. No more kings.’

‘Be it so, yaara,’ Mehmood hailed Shammi as they neared. ‘But tell me, the daily protests, the riots between brothers – why are all these occurring if not for the kingdom of Hindustan? This story is as old as Mahbharat.’

Shammi paused, arms resting on the folded canopy of his rickshaw. ‘In this battle, let us stay safe. If there’s life, then there’s the world.’ He crossed himself.

‘True,’ Beli Ram agreed and prodded his stomach. ‘But to stay alive, you have to eat!’ They had reached the rickshaw now and Beli Ram, staring at Shammi’s blue sweater-clad chest, thrust his neck forward. ‘Why this jewellery?’

Shammi Joseph plucked the locket dangling from a long chain around his neck and held it up for the two friends to view. ‘Cross. Cross of Yeshu.’

Beli Ram patted the air. ‘Aaho, that I know, but why are you wearing such a big cross like some padre?’

‘Our padre says it’s best to distinguish ourselves as Christians, so that in the fight between you people, we don’t get killed.’

‘Fight? Between us?’ Beli Ram looked from Mehmood to himself, frowning.

‘Aaho. Have you missed the protest marches taken out daily by menfolk of your religions? Why, even women are joining them nowadays, without burkas even!’

‘That!’ Beli Ram snorted. ‘That is the fight between the Muslim League and the RSS.’

‘Exactly,’ Shammi nodded. ‘Muslim and Hindu. Pakistan and Hindustan.’

In the dying rays of the February sun, the two friends proceeded down the lane. Beli Ram clucked as he examined his ripped sweater, hugging his arms close to his chest. With the sun gone, it had got chilly. Beside him, Mehmood adjusted his safa – firming the two short turras that unfurled from each side of the turban. Chabutaras had sprouted men – gossiping in groups or shouting across the narrow lane to one another. In the daytime, those terraces and rooftops were occupied by womenfolk, who sat chopping vegetables, oiling hair, doing embroidery or chatting amongst themselves as children played in the lane. They were cooking dinners now, and the smell of woodsmoke and cooking oil was in the air. The ancient banyan too had its own gathering of men – some perched atop the concrete plinth, some reclining on a jute cot. Beli Ram acknowledged the elders with a bowed head and a right arm that darted outwards in a ‘Pairipaina’. Except for a few grunts, the men stayed mostly silent amidst the gud-gud of hukkah. When they had walked ahead, Beli Ram could still feel their eyes on his back. To break the tension, he said, ‘Say, Mehmood, don’t you think Shammi’s padre is overreacting?’

Mehmood twirled the other end of his moustache. ‘What do you think of the silent uncles?’

Beli Ram shrugged.

‘Come on, Beli, spit it out. You know they were looking askance at me because nowadays, when they see me, they see a Muslim – not your childhood friend. Have you noticed how many of these men wear the white Gandhi cap when they step out of the Hata nowadays? As if in competition with the skullcaps selling wholesale in Anarkali!’

‘But, yaar, will wearing either cap make the chilli redder?’

‘What?’ Mehmood tossed his chin.

‘Aren’t Hindu, Sikh, Mussalman, Isai, Parsee like the spices in Panjab’s masala box? Assorted?’

Mehmood wove an arm around Beli’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Beli, my friend, you’re speaking sense when the rest of the world is behaving as if bitten by a rabid dog. So your sense has become nonsense, see!’

They had reached Beli Ram’s one-room-with-courtyard house. As he reached for the key in his pocket, Mehmood said, ‘Let’s go visit Kishan Singh soon. He is bound to have some news that will shed light on the situation.’

Kishan Singh was a railway clerk whose home was in the railway quarters, close to Lahore Junction. In the evenings, he liked to sit in his garden and listen to the radio. He also read several newspapers – Dawn, The Tribune, Siasat – and was up to date on current affairs. Besides, his brother or cousin or somebody worked in Dilli in the Viceroy’s mansion as a durwan, was it?

‘Take it from me – all of this is the angrej’s mischief. Like Shakuni mama, always driving a wedge between brothers.’ Beli Ram opened the lock, unhooked the chain, and flung the wooden door open.

‘Are you saying you are not interested in a visit to old man Kishan?’

Beli Ram refused to rise to the bait. Mehmood knew he had a soft spot for Kishan Singh’s elder daughter, but really it was all a dream. What were the chances of a match between a poor illiterate Hindu coolie and the college-going daughter of a middle-class Sikh man? Visiting him was a good idea, though. And if he managed to catch sight of Pammi, even better. Beli Ram extended his arms in elaborate welcome, and ushered Mehmood into the courtyard. Mehmood took the cot that was reclining against a wall, set it down and made himself at home.

As Beli Ram made to shut the door, his gaze extended to where the men sat smoking and gossiping. Hukkah smoke drifted up to mingle with the dusk air as the giant banyan hulked over them. Beli Ram narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. Fool! he remonstrated himself. But he couldn’t escape the niggling feeling that a woman was sitting in the tree’s branches, swinging her legs. A churail. The story went that some nights, one could hear the tinkling of her anklets and her cackle too. Legend had it that many years ago a woman of Kesari Hata had died during childbirth and her spirit had made its home in the banyan. Her in-laws were cruel and this was her revenge, targeting the males of her family. In the end, the story went, she drove them mad or out of the lane.

Beli Ram shivered and shut the door.

3

Delhi (February 1947)

The interim government of India had been formed on 2 September 1946. Earlier, Britain, drained by WWII, had elected the Labour Party to power. Clement Attlee, the Prime Minister who booted out Churchill – of ‘I hate Indians’ fame – was also the Labour expert on India. As if rectifying his predecessor’s boorishness, Attlee hastened to announce the date for transfer of power from His Majesty’s Government to responsible Indian hands – no later than June 1948.

One of those ‘responsible Indian hands’, the home member in the interim government, Vallabhbhai Patel, stood at the window of his official residence studying the pre-dawn mist blanketing the garden. ‘You think someone’s there already?’

‘Sau taka,’ Manibehn replied, adjusting the folds of her shawl around her khadi saree.

‘Guess we’ll just have to dodge them then,’ Vallabh said.

‘Yes, Father. They’re aware your first meeting is at 5 a.m. They’ll wait.’

‘But my morning walk cannot!’ He swivelled from the window and buttoned up his jubba, the khadi waistcoat spun by his daughter. ‘You realize, Mani, that at seventy-one, I have lived more than three times the life of an average Indian? Some days, I feel myself an earthen vessel close to cracking.’

‘Which is why the exercise,’ Manibehn smiled, handing him the thick khadi shawl she had spun him especially for the Delhi winter.

Draping it over his shoulders, Vallabh said, ‘Though, what could be better for me than to find release while doing what I have accepted as my dharma, hmm?’

‘It’s been a long road, Father—’

‘But we aren’t there yet!’ Vallabh finished. He had had a late start in life, beginning school at the age of eight, passing his matriculation at twenty-two, graduating as barrister in England at the age of thirty-seven, joining the Congress Party at forty-two. Like the proverbial tortoise … Except, he had heard that Robert Clive’s tortoise, Advaita, was alive in Alipore Zoo in Calcutta, and, at 200 years of age, had outlived his master – the founder of the British Empire in India – by a century and half. As for Vallabh, he was still battling the British, thirty years on. At the door, slipping his feet into the customary country-made chappals, he stepped out.

A supplicant, seated on the porch, started as he saw a man slice through the mist as if hurrying to catch a train pulling out of a station. A woman scurried behind him. How was the supplicant to know that Vallabh, in the extensive time spent jailed by the English, had developed the habit of pacing back and forth because the grounds available for exercise were limited! He brought such briskness to his walking routine that an intelligence officer