One of my two fathers …

One of my two fathers killed the other one, and raped one of my two mothers, but someone else had raped his wife first and thrown her into a well. It is a complicated and confusing story. No one knows the details and wilful misremembering often led to outlandish narratives. There are many truths, many of which, viewed from certain angles are in fact lies, just as there are many lies which … You get what I am driving it. It was the tragedy and chaos of partition. Of India.

Arson

My story can only be understood if you take into account my view of partition, the politics, the massacres. But do I even have one view? You have seen the drawing of a cubic box. The six faces are all visible although they cross one another. That’s partition. You stare at it and latch on to its base, but after a while you realise that it no longer is, another square seems more appropriate. I will need to put to you my view, no I mean my views, often diverging and contradictory of, first the partition itself, but more poignantly the millions of lives, shattered and lost.

About one thing, there was never any controversy: independence. Perhaps a handful among the elite who had basked in the glamour of being British, the polo-playing, the shikari, the whisky-drinking classes, had not opened their arms wide enough to welcome it, but the bulk of the population, Hindu, Muslim, Parsi, Sikhs, Jains, the land-owners, big merchants, the untouchables, the manual workers, the unemployed, all clamoured for it. They formed a united front to demand the end of British rule. Independence was one thing, but partition was another beast. The creation of Pakistan was not, initially, a demand of the Muslim Congress. Mohammad Ali Jinnah had not wished for it, although he would become increasingly fanatical about it. The Mahatma certainly did not wish it to happen and neither did Jawaharlal Nehru.

A minority view (which I do not share), is that it was the Mahatma himself who convinced Jinnah to demand partition. Jinnah was only a Muslim by birth, he was not a regular or frequent visitor to the mosque, he married a non-Muslim and loved the single malt. He even indulged in ham sandwiches. His view was that religion was what divided India, and should be marginalised. Gandhi, on the other hand was all about atma, dharma and moksha, which meant that he was encouraging the Hindu population to become more Hindu and therefore less Indian. This was what made the Qaid-e-Azam reluctant to call his ally in the cause of independence Mahatma, the great soul. It’s been said that there existed deep personal animosity between the two men.

There is little doubt in my mind, however, that Gandhi did not harbour the least Hindutva tendency; he was a deeply spiritual man with malice towards none _ except possibly towards Jinnah. Like Gandhi, though not a spiritual man, he too wanted to see a united country, perhaps more so. Was a united India feasible? Many have mooted the point that Bengalis were one when it came to their love of Bekhti and Hilsa; both Hindus and Muslims exulted in the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore. It had been his view that religion was a personal matter and did not need to feature in relationships between neighbours. To Punjabis, Muslim, Hindu or Sikh, love of bhangra and ghidha, a taste for tandoori, were strong enough unifying factors. But the history of India is littered with irksome differences and animosity.

Many lay the Hindu-Muslim enmity at the door of the British coloniser, for his many ill-conceived laws and policies, and their shenanigans, among which divide and rule was the most notorious, but it cannot explain the intensity of the resentment and antagonism.

A few Mughal rulers like Emperor Akhbar and Dara Shikoh, son of emperor Shahjehan, for instance, perhaps recognising the potential fault line, took steps to minimise the latent and ever brewing tension, by getting their learned advisers to find similarities in Islamic and Hindu precepts. Shikoh went as far as to study the Upanishads, translating much of it. Akhbar suggested the creation of new religion encompassing the best in the two creeds. It is to be wondered what might have happened to India if it was Shikoh who had inherited the Shahjehan’s throne, but his bloodthirsty brother Aurangzeb had him murdered and became emperor instead. His wisdom stopped short of his reading that the religious dichotomy was likely to be a thorn in the flesh of a harmonious India, and he lacked the judgement that would have eliminated the obstacles. He thought that the solution was the forced conversion of the Hindu majority by wholesale killing of refractory Hindus and burning of their villages. In view of the much bigger numbers of Hindus, one wonders why his logic did not guide him to the forcible conversion of Muslims. I jest of course.

It is the mindless violence of partition that shocked the world. Nobody suspected that the well of hatred was so profound. With Muslims going to get their share of the land, it seemed obvious that there would be big movements of population. Muslims would want to go live in a land for Muslims, the land of the pure, and Hindus in the parts designed to become Pakistan would opt for relocation to India. If tensions and altercations arising from many potential bones of contention involved could be imagined, the scope of the violence shocked everybody. Fifteen million people would be displaced, and the massacres would lead to between one and two million people slaughtered. Raping soon became the currency of the attacks, with arson and looting the small change. The well was where dead bodies were thrown in. Most villages had Hindus and Muslims living together, often in perfect harmony, and they would almost all be attacked and burnt. Sometimes by Muslim rabble, who would loot, beat and rape the Hindus living there, including children, often very young girls, and kill whoever stood on their way. Hindu mobs would do the same to Muslim children and women and would cut the throats of the elderly Muslims.

The story I set out to write, my own, is so outlandish, so counterintuitive that I need to set it in the context of the surreal events taking place. And I cannot do it without the help of Saadat Hasan Manto, who captured essence of the mindless bloodlust of the partition like no one else. He saw with absolute clarity the consequences of a Hindu-Muslim separation. He is often called the Anton Chekhov of the subcontinent. How can one abandon one’s dead ancestors and move to India if you’re Hindu, or Pakistan if you’re a Muslim? To which country does pre-partition literature belong? His most famous story Toba Tek Singh in which the governments of Pakistan and India have decided to carry out an exchange of lunatics in their asylums, the Hindus to India and the Muslims to Pakistan. Although they are all confused, unable to grasp the concept of one country splitting into two, Manto shows that they, the lunatics, were far saner than their governments. Two million dead and fifteen million displaced! The figures cannot be meaningfully grasped. Two million? Two hundred times the attendance of a football world cup final! Twenty million? The population on Mumbai! The reader does not possess enough compassion to spread on all these tragedies, but will find Manto’s story, Khol do, will haunt him or her:

Inter religious massacres have become so commonplace that people seeing bodies on the road would not even flinch. One Muslim girl, we’re never told her name, has been repeatedly beaten and raped by Hindu thugs, and left for dead in Wagah_ not a million miles from where I was born, in the village of Madani_has been rescued by Hindu volunteers, and taken to a ramshackle building being used by medics to treat casualties. A doctor and an attendant approaches the bed of the semi-conscious victim, and is overwhelmed by the stench and the heat. He sees a closed window, and pointing at it to his assistant, whispers, “Khol do”, open these, whereupon the victim of multiple rapes and beatings, fearing another attack opens up her legs. This story encapsulates all the horrors of partition.

I needed to set up a sound background for the reader if they are to understand all the aspects of my story.

• **

Victims of massacre

My name is Azize, I am a Muslim man who grew up in a Hindu

household. My Pitaji is Parmanand Hawoldar, and I have a didi, Veena two years older than me. I did not always know that they were not my birth relatives. Amma is Pitaji’s second wife, a loving mother to us, but she died shortly after we left home to go to uni, leaving Pitaji to lead a lonely life.

My Pitaji is a much respected man who is much loved in our gaon. He has the reputation of being a straight businessman. He possesses large swathes of land, and owns houses he rents out, which make him a very rich man. He might even be the richest man in the village. He has always provided much more for me and Veena than we needed. We both knew how to read his absolute love for us in his eyes. I cannot remember him ever being angry with either of us. As a child I found it strange that although we were Hindus, I was raised a Musselman. I had a Janab who turned up three times a week to teach me to read the Koran and to do salat. There were very few Muslims in the village, and instinctively I knew that Pitaji was not too happy with my mixing with them. Janab Abu Talib would come pick me up on Fridays to go to masjid, and he would take me back home afterwards, even when I was big enough to go everywhere by myself. I have suspected that Pitaji wanted it like this because he did not want me to fraternise with other Muslims. I was happy to have didi as my best friend. We have always been very close. Pitaji made sure Veena and I did well at school. Later, Didi would go to Madras Medical school in Chennai, and I to Kharagpur IIT. We’ve now both graduated.

I had always sensed that there was a mystery in my life, but something in me urged me not to look for it. Pitaji was a very pious man. He prayed continuously, was always poring into the Bhagavad or the Upanishad, and his every single action was guided by his beliefs. I thought that it was funny for this devout Hindu to take the trouble to read Hindi translations of the Koran so he could urge me along the virtuous path of Islam. Most Hindus I know are disparaging about Islam, calling Musselmans “those people who pray with their arse in the air”, just like Muslims who called Hindus boot parasti, worshipper of stones. It was never really virulent, but one felt it all the time.

All his life Pitaji talked of his ambition to go on the Char Dham, the much longed-for pilgrimage to the four most sacred shrines in Hinduism. His business commitment stood in the way of this ambition for a long time, for to visit all those sites would have taken him a minimum of six months. He said that using vehicles was cheating, he had to walk. Finally, he had sold more than half of his business assets, and having found reliable people to handle what was left, he started preparing for the big adventure. Veena and I had come back to the village at his bidding, as he wanted us all to spend a week together before leaving.

It was heart warming to see how the expression of the old man changed when we arrived, a winning smile taking over from his natural gloom. Didi and I had arranged to meet at Amritsar Station and continued the trip together to our village by bus. He was always dour at best, he rarely smiled and I have never seen him laugh. Amma had passed, and he had been living alone ever since, with Jagdish who doubled up as cook and mali. But for our visit, he had cooked everything himself. He hinted that this was probably the last time we would be together, as he was going on the Char Dham pilgrimage, from which he may never return. Death during the pilgrimage, when you were in an exalted stare, was something many wished for

But before I go, he said solemnly, I need to reveal to you a few secrets, now that you’ve become adults. We were sitting in the verandah opposite the small lake he had built on the grounds of the house. The sun had set and a few birds were trying to get dinner from what the bottom of the lake produced. The moon had made a timid appearance behind the clouds. Some koyals were still twittering in the background.

***

In the village, as in the whole of India, independence was something everybody had been looking forward to. He had kept aware of development by tuning in Akashvani _ did we know that it was Rabindranath Tagore who had referred to All India Radio as Akashvani_ the voice from the sky_ and remembers how shocked he was when the word partition began to be heard more and more. He and every Hindu he knew thought that cutting India in two was comparable to cutting a child in two. It seemed that it was the Muslims who were demanding this obscenity. We had lived together for centuries, so why break up now? He understood that that bamboo stick man Jinnah was being intransigeant. Then it dawned upon him that, like it or not, partition was inevitable. News of minor flare-ups between Hindus and Muslims in some distant villages reached him. It was clear by now that there would be a shift in population, as Muslims prepared to leave for Pakistan and Hindus from Muslim provinces earmarked as Pakistan, prepared to leave for India. It had occurred to him that this was a time bomb of incredible intensity. If you had land you would want to sell it, and the prospective buyer, understanding the advantageous position he was in, knew that they could to get what they wanted for next to nothing. This caused a lot of bad blood. Tempers became frayed, fights broke out, at first with words, then with fisticuffs, progressing to sticks and knives, and then the killing began. In no time at all it was open warfare between Muslims and Hindus. Old enmities which had been dormant began to resurface. This or that masjid had been erected on the site of an old mandil, and had therefore to be razed to the ground. A Hindu man had bought such and such a house from a Musselman and had defaulted on the payment, it had to be burnt. Do people even need sound excuses to start a fight when the zeitgeist was what it was?

Trains ferrying Hindus to India, and Muslims to Pakistan were not just attacked, they were invaded by armies armed with machetes and guns, and the passengers were murdered mutilated and set on fire. Where had all this hatred come from. The mildest man could be heard claiming that he would kill to defend the rights of his jati, his kaum. Only cowards fold their arms and smile when their women are being raped. Kill or be killed. Take your revenge before the enemy acts.

In our village, Hindus were in a minority, but my Pitaji had always been on good terms with the Muslims, many of whom had worked for him, and Bhagwan knows he had been very fair in his dealings with them. He felt that his Musselman neighbours would stop any harm happening to his family if Muslim brigands from outside attacked.

Although every village had its share of stories of generosity and kindness across the religious barriers, the various groups closed ranks. People who had once been good neighbours sold each other down the river. Children and babies were not spared. Houses, barns, stables and crops were set on fire. Elders who tried to stop these atrocities were called traitors and beaten to death.

Pitaji realised that there was nothing he would be able to do to protect himself and his family if Muslim thugs attacked. And they did. It was a dawn attack. They seemed drunk on bhang or hashish_ doesn’t their religion forbid alcohol? They were brandishing sticks, machetes, pick-axes, some even had guns. He went outside to look, and they grabbed him. Are you one of us, someone asked. La illaha illalla Muhammadur Rassullullah, he stammered. Tear down the kutta’s dhoti, someone said, and they did. They cackled obscenely on detecting his lie. Fucking Hindus have such small lund, one boy chortled, he could not have been over seventeen. No wonder their women like Muslim cocks. He needs to be punished for his lies. I condemn him to death. Let’s break his legs first. Let’s stab his eyes. Pitaji had not the slightest doubt that they meant business, and he froze. Suddenly he saw three or four thugs dragging Veena’s amma by the hair. We’re gonna gorge ourselves on Hindu pussy today they announced, whereupon the badmashi dealing with him stopped and rushed to join the rapists. He clearly remembered thinking that he would have no chance trying to rescue her, and that Veena would become an orphan if they killed him. He saw that the only course of action was to run. But he would convince himself afterwards that he had been motivated by cowardice.

Pitaji was now sobbing like a child and could not go on, and Veena rushed into the house to fetch him some iced water. When he calmed down, he explained that later they would find pieces of his Parvati in the well. One old Musselman beggar woman had hidden Veena under her baju, that’s how you were saved, Pitaji told her, hugging her in a fresh upsurge of sobs.

Pitaji was now benumbed, like a zombie. He did not eat, did not sleep, did not wash, did not pray. Even the thought of little Veena was not enough to make him react.

The Hindus of Bukhti village approached the remaining Hindus of Madani and for the first time Pitaji realised that he was still alive. He was an enthusiastic revanchard, and helped Manilall and Rajan plan the annihilation of Bukhti. The village where you were born, he told me.

A group of over a hundred avengers, armed to the teeth marched on Bhukti one dawn. Latiff Baig had lived in Madani as a child, and he and Pitaji had been best friends. Together they had played gulli danda, they had climbed coconut trees, fished in the river, stolen mangoes and guavas, but the family had moved when his uncle died and he inherited a few bighas in Bukhti. When Latiff saw him at the head of the attackers, the expression of terror on his face disappeared, to be replaced by a big smile. There was a woman by his side who must have been his wife.

“Your amma,” he told me. Latiff Baig was my father.

Pitaji ignored the welcoming smie, and swivelling on his heels, with the stick in his outstretched hand held tight, he brought it on the neck of his erstwhile friend with all his might. For all he knew, Latiff might have died on the spot, but others joined in and they continued beating the dead man with unabated frenzy. Then Manilall grabbed the woman, and echoing the familiar words he had heard before, “let’s sample some Chuslim pussy now, bhayyon,” he dragged my mother away. Pitaji gleefully joined in.

After having committed the greatest sin ever against my mother, and after everybody had satisfied their lust, they beat her to a pulp. Even as he was still in that frenzied state, he remembers asking himself where did people who were usually too squeamish to cut the head off a chicken, who avoided treading on a cockroach, find the obscene strength to hit a woman who had done nothing to them. Where had the hatred lay hidden? These thoughts did not temper his rage. He was hitting her with his bare fists, but Ranjan pushed everybody aside and grabbed the woman by the throat, and putting his hands round her throat he strangled her. She fought for her life with all her might for a while, but they could all see that her body had become lifeless. They had mutilated Parvati’s body and thrown her in the well, and this thought obsessed him. Where’s the well? He asked a young Hindu lad who had been watching, transfixed. And he pointed its location. He did not remember much, but he knew that he had helped drag the dead woman to it and kicked her down it.

That was first night in a long time, and also the last time he had a full night’s sleep. Only the thought of Veena kept him from begging Bhagwan to take his life. He has little recollection of how he lived the next three months. He was almost always drunk.

The English left and India became free, but nobody he knew had not lost family to a massacre. Often the number was close to twenty close relatives.

When he found out that old Hajra was looking after young Azize, he went to see her and promised her money so she would continue, but everyday he felt more guilty. Buy him some clothes, he would urge her, make sure you give him plenty of milk. Still he was sinking deep into depression. When he heard that the Mahatma was spending time in Patiala, he made up his mind to go pay him his respects, and ask for his help. It was a four hundred-mile journey, and leaving Veena in the care of Anjali who was a devoted naukar, he made his way to Patiala.

The Mahatma never refused to see anybody, but rarely did he see people one to one. Pitaji was lucky that he was made an exception.

“Gandhiji,” he remembers saying, “after the incredibly bad things I have done, in my next life, I will be a sewer rat.” The saintly man laughed gently.

“A sewer rat? They have an interesting life,” he said, “and I have read that they are a resourceful lot, did you know that they live in communities and help each other? They bring food to the old rats who are too weak to go looking for it. But, you’ve got something on your chest, so off with it. I hear you travelled four hundred miles to come see me.”

And Pitaji related to the Mahatma the events in Madani and Bukhti.

“Millions of people did some very shameful things during those turbulent times, but, my son, not many have recognised their sins. So I can say that you can be forgiven one day.”

He revealed his innermost thoughts to the Mahatma, and the latter listened to every single word.

“If you’re looking for Bhagwan’s forgiveness, you must begin by forgiving yourself.”

“No, Gandhiji, I am unredeemable. The people who killed my Parvati did not know me, but Latiff Baig had been my good friend, and, and …” He could not continue.

“There are a number of things you can do, the little Musselman boy_”

“Azize? I will take him in my home.”

“A good beginning, but there’s more.”

“I beg you, Mahatma, instruct me.”

“I will look after him like my own.”

“You can do more.”

“His family was Musselman, no doubt had Latiff lived, he would have seen to it that the boy got a sound Muslim upbringing, now, if you take him to live with you, my advice is to see to it that young Azize be brought up as a good Muslim.”