Two

  TWO

  TWO

  A Novel

  GULZAR

  INTRODUCTION BY PAVAN K. VARMA

  To Sardar Makhan Singh and Sujaan Kaur of Dina. Pakistan.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Gulzar

  Introduction by Pavan K. Varma

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  P.S. Section

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  This novel was originally written in Urdu. That’s my medium of writing. But then, it included many words and phrases in Punjabi, Saraiki and other dialects spoken in that area of Punjab which became Pakistan after Partition. I belong to that area. I was born in Dina, in the city of Jhelum, which is pronounced ‘Jehlum’ colloquially.

  Translating the novel into English became a bit of a hurdle.

  Sukrita Paul, a dear friend, took it upon herself to do it. But I was not at ease while reading it. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, another friend, tried to improve on it. Being a professional editor and writer in English, he did the job well. But still I was not at ease.

  It didn’t read like it read in Urdu, blending the tones and dialects I had used in the narrative.

  I put the novel away for a while.

  A lot has been written about the Partition. Sukrita herself has done a lot of work on the subject, and authored a book, Translating Partition. Her father, the celebrated Urdu writer Joginder Paul, had experienced the Partition and written a lot about it. So had I.

  But in this novel, I wished to examine the status of the refugees after the Partition. It took them decades to settle down and come to terms with the haunting memories. In fact, that process of settling down is still going on. Seventy years have passed.

  So, I took up the novel again and decided to work on the translation myself. You may not find ‘perfect’ or ‘proper’ English in it, but you will find stories of refugees, and how life planted them all over the world. A lot of Sukrita’s translated lines have remained in this. So have those of Shantanu’s.

  I am still not at ease with this.

  But then, I wanted this to be over as we complete seventy years of the Partition, this year, in 2017.

  GULZAR

  INTRODUCTION

  Imagine a compellingly chiselled poem expanded to become a story in prose. Or, imagine the opposite, a story compressed with such refined elegance that it becomes a poem. Or, take even a third alternative: a screenplay that could, if expanded, become a novel, and, if condensed, is transmuted into a poem.

  Gulzar’s first attempt at a longer work of fiction is all three in one: a poem, a screenplay, a novel. It is a poem because the imagery reads like one; it is a screenplay because each episode is like a picture unfolding before your eyes; and it is a novel because it tells a story in a format that is neither a poem nor a screenplay.

  Gulzar Saheb has often joked with me that he wished he could write a ‘full-length’ novel like I wrote once. I am glad that he hasn’t tried to. The reason for this is simple: his new work is of just the right length, longer than a short story, and shorter than a full-fledged novel. In doing so, it retains the dramatic brevity of a short story, but has the texture of a novel.

  A novella has been the subject of much literary scrutiny. It somehow defies conventional categorization, but in this very act of creative defiance lies the secret of its intense impact. The genre is not new. Munshi Premchand wrote several. So did Albert Camus (The Stranger), Ernest Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea) and George Orwell (Animal Farm), to mention but a few examples.

  A work of fiction is a work of fiction. Its size does not matter, so long as its impact and quality are indubitable. Why should the number of pages determine the quality of literary expression? Who decides how long a work of fiction should be? Should a story end when the reader is yearning for it to continue, or should it last till the reader begins to wonder when it will end? Fiction that is a tome is legitimate if it holds the attention of the reader; similarly, fiction that is shorter is equally valid if it keeps the reader enthralled. Limitations of any kind to the canvas of creative expression are arbitrary impositions of critics. The key question is whether the story being rendered is complete enough, whatever its length, to convey in a gripping manner the theme animating the writer.

  In his book Different Seasons, a collection of four novellas, Stephen King called the novella ‘an ill-defined and disreputable banana republic’. Perhaps, it was an act of overstated and deliberate self-deprecation, because his readers found them as readable as ever. On the other hand, the Irish writer Ian McEwan wrote in The New Yorker (12 October 2012) that ‘the novella is the perfect form of prose fiction’. It retains focus, moves at a faster pace, covers the same canvas as a novel but with far greater intensity, brings in necessary details but cuts out the unnecessary factual meanderings, and allows characters to blossom while omitting the verbal flab. It is as readable as a novel and, arguably, more satisfying than a short story. In other words, it is the perfect literary modus vivendi, offering to the reader a novel that is shorter than a work of fiction that is too long, and a work of fiction that is as satisfying as a novel but not too short.

  Of course, as is true of all literary genres, the success of the novella depends not on the nature of its structure alone, but far more importantly, on the literary dexterity of the person who writes it. When Gulzar embraces the format, the novella has met a truly consummate partner. As proof, one has only to read Two.

  Two is about the Partition of 1947, a cataclysmically tragic event that Gulzar lived through. Even as Independence drew nearer, British cartographers worked overtime to draw the boundaries of two nations, one India, the other Pakistan. What was one land became two, separated by an unbridgeable gap that made millions refugees overnight. Some ten to fifteen million people – men, women, children, young and old – were displaced by a destiny they did not choose. It is estimated that some two million lost their lives in the frenzied bloodbath that accompanied this division.

  Time erases wounds, but memories remain, like smouldering embers below the ash even when the fires of history appear to have died. Two is about those memories, those embers, recalled through a story that transports you to the agonies and dilemmas of ordinary people, both Hindus and Muslims, who suffered as a consequence of the Partition.

  It is written in Gulzar’s inimitable – and riveting – style. The narrative, involving a bunch of characters who could be you or me or people we know, unfolds, scene by scene, in a manner that brings the traumatic days leading up to 1947 vibrantly – even painfully – alive. Each character is unique, and will remain etched in our minds, not by the length of the description, but by the writer’s ability to make the portrayal come alive through just a flourish of linguistic colour, a trait, a gesture, an expression, a situation, a dialogue, or even an abuse.

  But Two does not end with the Partition. It carries us along, to decades later, where, in the strangest ways, the strands that unravelled in 1947 come together. In that journey, the 1984 riots against the Sikhs become a metaphor for the continuance of hate and violence in societies. The same emotions that made the Partition one of the most gory chapters of India’s modern history are now repeated in entirely different circumstances, only to prove the point that the irrational and warped furies that lurk just below the surface of ‘civilized’ societies can be easily triggered even when the past should have taught us to overcome them resolutely.

  Gulzar Saheb’s debut as a novelist is a spectacular one. Two is unputdownable because the narrative is in the hands of a craftsman for whom words are like clay in the hands of a master potter. Gulzar writes with the eye of a sensitive film-maker, the feel of a poet, and the touch of one who has himself been sing
ed for life by the story he narrates. Long after we put the book down, the characters, and the series of events in which they become pawns in the sweep of history, continue to haunt us. One continues to read the book long after having finished its last page.

  Pavan K. Varma

  PART ONE

  Master Fazal would say…

  ‘History is on the rampage, making giant strides. It’s happening right in front of us. The Second World War ended and Germany was broken into two pieces – East Germany and West Germany. The country was divided, but then it divided the people too. Earlier, they were one people, now they are two.

  ‘Six crore thirty lakh people lost their lives for this.’

  In Campbellpur, people would gather around him – like in a chaupal … a long pipe of a gurgling hookah would keep changing hands.

  Master Fazal added this time, ‘Another giant step of history is about to fall here – in Hindustan. Some forces are contemplating another partition, of land and people. Hindustan is to be divided into two and a new country named Pakistan to be created.

  ‘Once again, millions of lives will be at stake.’

  A hush fell on the gathering.

  ‘A million?’ Nabi whispered as he took a long drag from the hookah.

  He passed on the pipe to Master Fazal, who took a longer and deeper drag. People waited for his next comment.

  Master Fazal cleared his throat before passing the pipe to Rahman.

  ‘This arrogant, conceited history strides ahead with her head in the clouds and never looks down. She does not realize how she crushes millions of people beneath her feet. The common people. She doesn’t understand that one may cut a mountain in two, but people? It’s a hard task, Bhai, to cut one people into two. They bleed.’

  Campbellpur was as much a city as a qasba. Not quite a well-knit city, but sprawling clusters. Rather like pockets stitched into a coat. There’s a settlement on its outskirts, close to the highway, much like a sleeve of that coat, referred to as the adda. Trucks moved in and out of the basti the whole day, keeping the fire in the dhabas burning. When they drove away, life in the basti would settle down. People would hang around in small groups. Some belonged to this basti, others were small-time traders from nearby towns.

  The year was 1946. The country had not yet been divided, but people had begun to drift apart. Passing trucks left some rumours hanging, while city folk too added their own wings to them. It all began at a dhaba in Campbellpur, the dark shack at the back of Lakhbeera’s dhaba.

  Fauji hollered at Hameed, ‘M’hidya, hand me a soda!’

  At times, Fauji needed the soda just to get the bitter drink down his throat. Lakhbeera, the owner of the dhaba, would send for another plate of liver. Hameed, his trusted aide who managed the dhaba, would rush to deliver. Fauji and Lakhbeera were thick as thieves. Fauji did not get along with anyone else. They would drink for hours, sitting by the one-eyed window – one of its panes was broken while the others remained shut. It offered Lakhbeera the only glimpse of the adda outside.

  Lakhbeera gulped the drunk and said, ‘This fellow, Painti-Chhatti, always leaves behind some provocative news, yaar!’ Painti-Chhatti, or 3536, was the owner of a truck and was always referred to by its number.

  Fauji talked very little. His eyes scanned the room like a torch in the dark as he poured the soda into his drink.

  Lakhbeera was itching to spit out some news, but Fauji did not encourage him. He knew what Lakhbeera wanted to say. Nowadays, gossip smouldered everywhere.

  Fauji was not really an army man. There was nothing fauji-like about him. Maybe it was his khaki jacket that got him the name. He wore it day in and day out. A dozen buttons shone on the front – that is why he had bought it. Though he never washed the jacket, he kept those buttons gleaming. Like his gleaming eyes. He had sharp eyes which retained all that he saw.

  Unable to hold back any longer, Lakhbeera blurted out, ‘Painti-Chhatti was saying that Musalmans stripped Hindu women and paraded them naked in Sheikhupura.’

  Fauji remained silent.

  ‘Why?’ Lakhbeera raged. ‘Are all the Khalsas dead?’

  Fauji’s eyes recorded this too.

  Lakhbeera took a sip, swallowing the news with it. ‘Don’t Muslims have mothers and sisters?’ he muttered. ‘F*** Painti-Chhatti’s sister!’

  Rumours gradually became news. And the news began to ferment. People believed whatever they heard.

  Someone said, ‘Musalmans have abducted Tiwari’s daughter-in-law!’

  ‘Tiwari must have got it done himself! He has been wanting this for long.’

  ‘What is his problem with her?’ Pali enquired.

  ‘She is a widow. Tiwari’s son died four years ago. His grandson is five years old.’

  ‘So?’ Pritpal pouted.

  ‘The girl wanted to take her son away. To her parents.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Tiwari did not want to part with his grandchild. One night, the mother-in-law threw her out of the house.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She spent the night in Sheikh Umar’s house. It’s he who brought her back in the morning.’

  A long pause followed before Pali asked again, ‘So?’

  ‘F*** your “so”, shut up now!’

  After another pause, Pritpal spoke once again: ‘So where was I that night?’

  There was an explosion of laughter.

  Campbellpur had yet another pocket. This was deep in the city, and thickly populated. Someone shot off a rumour in M.B. Middle School that the day Pakistan is created, all Hindus would have to vacate their homes and leave for Hindustan.

  ‘Why?’ inquired Master Karam Singh.

  ‘Because Muslims coming from Hindustan will need houses to live in. Where else will they live? On the roads?’

  Master Karam Singh had never been able to comprehend political issues. And when he could not understand something, he had one recourse: Master Fazal.

  His faith in Master Fazal was as strong as it was in the Guru Granth Sahib. Karam Singh would often say, ‘Oye, he has read it all. He knows them all, all the bhagats of Granth Sahib: Bhagat Kabir, Bhagat Namdev, Bhagat Farid, Bhagat Bulleh Shah … he can recite them all.’

  Karam Singh and Fazaldeen were old friends. Both taught at the Middle School. Fazal taught history and Karam Singh, arithmetic. The headmaster was some Anglo-Indian. His name suggested that he was south Indian, Stephen Menon. He had converted from Santosh Menon to Stephen Menon. Though Fazaldeen was junior headmaster, he wielded the authority of the senior headmaster. Menon was a science teacher, but since he was often away in Lahore, Master Fazaldeen would end up taking his classes.

  ‘Oye, why do you take his burden for no reason? He spends half the year in L’hore anyway.’

  ‘His dark-skinned mem lives there in Lahore, Karme. She has a big accommodation there … given by the government. She too is a teacher, na.’

  ‘What does she teach?’

  ‘Bible! Don’t you know they hold Bible classes in missionary schools?’

  ‘Oye, to hell with him and his mem! Let him share half his salary with you!’

  Fazlu master had the habit of rumbling the hookah like a Chaudhri. After a puff or two, he smiled.

  ‘Karmu … you won’t understand. You are, after all, a sardar. You’ll get it a little later.’

  ‘Okay, explain it to me.’

  ‘See, I have started to understand some fundamental formulae after reading his science books. Have you heard of Rash Behari Bose?’

  ‘Yes, yes. The Bengali rebel! The one who hurled a bomb at the white people.’

  ‘Did he get the bomb from Japan?’ asked Fazal.

  ‘No, no – he made it himself, he and that other one … the Allahabad guy, what’s his name … Chandra Shekhar…’

  ‘So, if we don’t teach science to our children, how will another Azad and Bhagat Singh emerge? How will we get independence? Let Menon go to hell. My purpose is to prepare these children…’

&nbs
p; Fazaldeen’s voice fell to a whisper.

  Karam Singh’s eyes opened in wonder. Inserting a finger into his turban, he kept trying to cajole his ears out. Now, banging a hand on Master Fazaldeen’s, he shouted in a full-throated voice: ‘Zindabad, my very own yaar, Fazlu!’

  He was so loud that Fazlu’s begum came rushing. Both the sons also peeped in from behind. Fazlu quickly brought the situation under control.

  ‘No, no, all’s well! My yaar Karmu gets excited at times. Get another glass of sharbat for him.’

  As soon as his wife left, Fazlu tried to explain yet again, in a whisper. ‘These matters need to be kept under wraps. They are not to be announced. In fact, even one’s own thoughts should not be heard.’

  ‘Fazaldeen, you know me.’ Now Karam Singh’s voice too became a whisper. ‘I keep your words locked in my heart. No one will get even a whiff!’ He moved closer to Fazaldeen and whispered, ‘Oye, can you make a bomb?’

  It hadn’t been long since they had exchanged these words … yet by 1946 nobody thought about them anymore. They had been covered in dust and grime.

  Europe was aflame. The Second World War scorched its lands, spewed cinders. No part of the world was left unscathed, and Hindustan was flailing for its independence. Freedom campaigns were gathering momentum … and Master Fazal thought it was quite futile to be teaching about Henry the First or Henry the Second in his history class. These were not times to entertain children with the adventures of Robinson Crusoe. While teaching history, Fazal would invariably drift into explaining the context of the war. Both the sparks of war as well as the embers of his desire for independence burned in his heart.

  ‘It’s not politics I am talking about. It’s simple … if the Hindustani army goes to fight on behalf of…’ He paused, stopped himself from saying ‘the British’, and said, ‘…the Allied forces, it will be an army of slaves of the British. If they are independent, they could be fighting for their friends. But it must be ascertained who amongst the Allied forces are friends and who enemies. Subhash-babu…’ He halted several times as he talked. As far as the British were concerned, Subhash-babu was an enemy because he had aligned with Hitler. For Master Fazal, he was the hero of the freedom struggle.