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  Fauji did not ask any more questions. He helped them both into the truck.

  Tiwari looked at Fauji sharply and muttered, ‘They have had it very cheap!’ Fauji pulled the plank back in place and climbed to his seat.

  His passengers seemed to have brought along everything but food and water. Some said they had left it with the other things they had unloaded at the chowk. Others had completely forgotten about food. When Baba’s grandson said, ‘I’m thirsty, Masi-ji, is there water?’, Tiwari looked at his wife, who replied, ‘I had brought some … but it was in the silver surahi I left behind at the chowk.’

  Des Raj’s family looked at each other. Panna took out a small container from her bundle and offered it to the child. ‘There is no glass, Kaka. Drink it straight from the container.’

  Kaka raised his voice and asked, ‘Baba, do you want to drink some water?’ Baba nodded and, as was common practice, he drank without touching the rim of the container to his lips. A lot was drunk and as much spilled. But who was to say anything at that moment? After him, the grandson drank whatever little was left.

  Guddu had woken up. He whispered to his mother, ‘I am hungry, Ma.’ Kanta had brought thick gur-bajra rotis. Sheikh’s wife had made them. She broke the rotis into pieces and handed one to her child, and also to the sardar kaka. She also extended some to Panna, who sat apart from the rest. The others had distanced themselves from her. Panna accepted a piece and expressed her gratitude by touching it to her forehead. Kanta took her to be a Musalman. But then why was she leaving? She could not ask now, but decided to do so later.

  After a while, Lala Des Raj slid closer to the rear window of the driver’s cabin. Peeping through it, he asked, ‘Fauji, can we get something to eat and drink on the way? That was a blunder … to leave the basket of food at the chowk.’

  Fauji replied, ‘No doubt it’s taking time, Lala-ji, but we are trying to stay clear of towns and cities.’

  ‘No, no, you’re right. That’s how it should be.’

  Lakhbeera said, ‘Look to your right at the basti we’ve just left behind – you see the smoke? It’s not from a mill or factory.’

  Lala Des Raj turned. He could make out that some houses were burning. No matter how long it took on this road, it was without doubt a wise choice.

  Over an hour later, a town loomed ahead.

  Fauji asked, ‘Shall we enter? There must be some shops open.’

  Lakhbeera said in a whisper, ‘Yes, go ahead. But keep the engine running. Just in case we have to make a run for it…’

  By then Fauji had entered the town. Hasanabad. It wasn’t a very big town and not very crowded either. But the tension in the air was palpable. Some shops were open. When the truck slowed down, some people turned to watch. Yet others came forward to peep inside.

  ‘Where is the truck from? What are you carrying?’ somebody shouted.

  You couldn’t tell from their faces and attire whether they were Hindus or Muslims. Before Fauji could decide on what to say, a person on a cycle grabbed the door of the truck.

  ‘You look like a Muslim. Where are you going?’

  Fauji replied sternly, ‘Nowhere. It’s none of your business.’ He removed the man’s hand from the door.

  Untroubled, the man kept pedalling away alongside the truck. ‘Really? So, shall we tell you where to go?’

  Lala-ji sidled up to the window. ‘Fauji, don’t stop here. We don’t want anything.’

  Lakhbeera urged his friend on. ‘Move fast, Fauji. This is not the right kind of place to stop.’

  Hearing the ruckus created by the cyclist, a man on an approaching motorcycle raised a hand to stop the truck. A truck approached from the opposite side. Fauji turned into a lane. He could not speed up. They could have got stuck in a narrow lane. But when he heard the motorcycle still following, Fauji switched gears and sped through, mowing down crates and other objects – a charpai here, a couple of drums there – till he reached an outer road. Lakhbeera kept shouting, ‘Left right, right left’ as Fauji negotiated the truck. They could hear some trunks at the back sliding and falling, and the suppressed groans of the people who were being thrown this way and that. But till such time as the sound of the motorcycle ceased, Fauji did not let up.

  After they had left the town well behind, Fauji asked Lakhbeera: ‘Shall we stop and check on the passengers sitting at the back?’

  ‘Not here. We’ll stop when we find a safe space.’

  They had gone about fifteen miles when a station wagon with a wooden body, stuffed with passengers, overtook them and drove ahead. Rai Bahadur wished that he too had brought along his Buick. They would probably have made it faster and carried some more luggage too. But who knows. He sighed.

  Two miles further up, off the road, a bungalow came into view. It could have belonged to a wealthy family, but had clearly been ransacked. Fire had blackened its walls, windows and doors.

  Fauji looked at Lakhbeera, who was gaping at the sight. He said, ‘Seems to have been abandoned.’

  ‘Someone must live there,’ Lakhbeera reasoned.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. But it is secluded. We may find a water tap there. There may just be a well.’

  Fauji turned the truck in that direction.

  They stopped outside the gate and parked the truck, its front facing the road. Just in case. Lakhbeera said, ‘If there had been anyone in there, the sound of the truck should have drawn them out. You stay at the wheel … I’ll have a look.’

  Fauji also got down from the truck. ‘You’ll not go alone,’ he said.

  They were in the compound when a Pathan appeared. He held a lathi with brass fittings at one end.

  ‘Oye! Who’s there, oye?’ It seemed he had been expecting someone else. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Khan sa’ab, we need water. We have people travelling with us. They are thirsty.’

  The Pathan noticed the truck, seemingly for the first time. It was stationed outside. Suddenly, his voice toughened.

  ‘What have you come for? On what business? May Allah smite you hard! Get out, get out of here!’

  Khan’s voice was edged with anger and fear. His face had turned red. He could have used his lathi, but Fauji’s manner seemed to deter him.

  ‘We are not rioters, Khan. Allah-qasam, we are all desperate refugees. There are women … we have children with us. We only—’

  Suddenly, there were sounds from inside. Somebody was locked within. Upon being asked, the Pathan revealed that the house belonged to one Kavishwar Singh. Rioters had tried to burn it down. A few days back, they left two women locked inside a room.

  ‘They do bad things to them. Beat them and then tie them up. They keep coming and threaten to kill me.’

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Oye, sardar sahib has kept me as a chowkidar. When he comes back, how will I explain this?’

  So, it was duty that kept the naïve Pathan there. He seemed to have no idea that the nation was being torn into two, that freedom was coming and that Kavishwar Singh might never return.

  Fauji tried to explain the situation to him. He tried very hard. Lakhbeera pulled out a bundle of notes and pushed it into Khan’s pocket. ‘Khan, for Allah’s sake, save your life. Take this money and go back to Kabul … where are you from?’

  Khan stared at him wide-eyed and then, suddenly, took Fauji’s hand and said, ‘Oye, listen. You too are a Musalman. Do something good before you go. Take these two women with you. There, anywhere. Those people … Those sons of bastards will come again, rape them, sell them or kill them…’

  Before he could say anything more, Fauji held his hand and went to the room where the two women were locked up. They were sisters it seemed. They resembled each other and were around the same age.

  The two women did not stop trembling until they boarded the truck.

  Tiwari raised his eyebrows. ‘You demanded a lot of money from us, Fauji, and now you are picking up passengers at random! What will you do with them?’

&n
bsp; Fauji clenched his teeth. He would have exploded but controlled himself. No one said another word to him.

  The truck lurched into motion. The sisters sat huddled together. One of them began to chant the Gurbani under her breath. Both had an iron bangle on their arms. They were probably Sikhs.

  Once they had driven some distance, the people in the truck realized that, in all the confusion, they had forgotten to pick up water.

  It had been nearly half a day since Fauji had left the chowk.

  It had been half a day for those who had started from the chowk for the gurudwara, reciting prayers for peace. All of them had reached the gurudwara, including Avtar and Satya. They were worried about Master-ji, less so about Beeji. She was, after all, with the family at Dera.

  Master Karam Singh had woken up well before dawn that day – if he had slept at all.

  He had taken out his old brown canvas shoes and kept them under his mattress. They were very old. From the time he used to take PT class at school. The shoes fit tighter now. He had woken up at three in the morning and put them on. For a while, he lay in bed with his shoes on.

  Assured by the gentle snoring of Avtar and his wife that they wouldn’t wake up, he crept out of the house. He took the name of Waheguru as he slid open the latch of the door, closing it softly behind him. He then tiptoed across the lane. Once out of his area, he broke into a run. He was supposed to meet Phajju at Ganja Talao.

  The Talao was an hour away. He began to pant much before he had anticipated. He had not factored in his age. Fortunately, he had left home early. Phajju had warned him, ‘Bhapa-ji, the situation is not good. If I come into the lane, the sound of the cartwheels will wake up everyone.’

  Karam Singh had not informed the children that he was going to fetch his wife. If he had told them, would they have allowed it?

  Master-ji finally made it to the Talao and slumped under the age-old banyan tree, exhausted. Phajju had to call for him.

  When they started, the sound of the cart seemed very loud. They were scared that the sun would wake up. They were out of Campbellpur when the sun rose, and their hearts began to thud. They passed a village. Then another. In the next, they saw some people going towards the village after their fajr-namaz. Dera was still quite a distance away. Some young boys came forward and stopped the cart.

  ‘Hey, where are you taking the sardar?’

  Karam Singh stood up. He pushed his kirpan under his kurta to hide it. Phajju hurled two abuses at them and pulled out his sword from under a sack. He swung his naked sword in the air and urged his oxen forward. The startled boys darted out of their way. The boys were probably unarmed. No one followed Phajju and Master-ji.

  Phajju brought the cart to Dera and stopped it right in front of Nihal Singh’s house. The house was in a lane open from both ends. As soon as Master-ji stepped down, Phajju advised, ‘Bhapa-ji, don’t take Bibi back immediately. Stay with your in-laws for a few days. It’s dangerous.’ He left without waiting for an answer.

  Master-ji knocked at the door. It opened after a long while. Ghulam answered it and Tiger rushed out, barking. As soon as he saw Master-ji, Ghulam ushered him in and locked the door behind them. The house seemed vacant.

  Master-ji learnt that his wife Harnam Kaur had left for the border with her daughter’s in-laws. He was thunderstruck.

  ‘How did they go?’ He sounded flustered.

  ‘A special train for refugees was leaving from Dera Jamali. The local zamindar escorted them to the station. They told me to inform you, but under the circumstances, how could I have done that?’

  Just then, Hariram came out. Master-ji was surprised to see him. ‘Didn’t you go as well?’

  Hariram was an old family servant. He was wearing a withered Turkish cap. His eyes grew tearful.

  Ghulam said, ‘He refused to leave Tiger behind.’ Tiger was his pet dog.

  Hariram said, ‘How could I have left him here, Bhapa-ji? He was a tiny pup when he came and I…’ He could not complete his sentence. Tears began to flow from his eyes.

  ‘And if somebody sees you now?’

  He quickly removed his cap and showed him his head.

  ‘I have cut my choti – and Ghulam has given me this cap.’

  ‘You mean, for this dog…’

  ‘What “dog”, Sardar-ji? I brought him up like my son. If they say, I shall become a Musalman, but I will not abandon him.’

  Tiger, his tongue lolling, came and sat next to Hariram. Karam Singh patted his head gently.

  But he was in a spot now. How was he to go

  back? It occurred to him that he could borrow a horse from the zamindar, but how would he return it? Karam Singh spent the day trying to think of a way out.

  Lying in bed at night, Karam Singh grew restless. Finally, he did what he had done back home. After half the night had passed, he tiptoed out of the door and headed back towards Campbellpur. In the light of the half-moon, he could see a narrow path running through the fields; he followed it and eventually reached the road. But then he lost his way at some point and realized it only when he encountered a couple of pahalwans returning from their duty as guards at the masjid.

  This was just outside Bundyala village. This was a village mainly of Muslims, and seeing a Sikh under suspicious circumstances, they immediately became violent. Their eyes were bloodshot. Karam Singh tried to think up a convincing story, but that made it worse. The pahalwans pulled out their axe and sword. They took off his turban and tied it like a noose around his neck. Just then, a tall, tough-looking man emerged from the back and stopped them.

  ‘Oye, hold on! That’s my prey. I know this fellow.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s one of those old Khalsa rebels from Campbellpur. I need to settle an old score with him. Chhadh de.’

  He too had a large axe in his hands. Swiftly, he took hold of the turban and pulled Master-ji on to another path.

  ‘Come here, Sardara! I have an old score to settle with you.’

  His friends cautioned him, ‘Be careful. We’ve taken away his kirpan, all right.’

  They showed him the kirpan and moved on towards the village. The tall chap kicked Karam Singh with his heel and said: ‘Come on, move!’

  ‘Wh-where…?’

  ‘Move, I said! There is a butcher’s basti at the end of the village.’

  They made their way to the basti. He pushed Karam Singh into a house and quickly closed the door behind him. His wife came out. No sooner had she screamed, the father rushed out.

  ‘Oye, Baqar! What’s this? Who is he?’

  Karam Singh’s loose hair partly revealed his face. Baqar handed him the turban and said, ‘The guards were going to kill him. I caught hold of him and brought him here.’

  Master-ji pulled aside his hair as he recognized Baqar’s father. He was still standing in the courtyard. His eyes filled up with tears and his throat choked. ‘Hashmat?’ Master-ji whispered the name.

  Holding him by the hand, Hashmat brought him into the room.

  Hashmat was a butcher by profession. At one time, he wanted his son, Baqar, to be educated. He had gone to admit him in a school. Some bigots raised objections due to his religion and status. Master-ji had fought with many to get Baqar his admission. The next year, the issue was brought up again. Karam Singh was adamant. Master Fazal had done all he could to help Karam, but Rai Bahadur Des Raj had bribed an English officer to expel the boy. Even after the incident, Master Karam Singh taught Baqar at his home for a year. Finally, the

  boy abandoned his studies to participate in local dangals.

  Karam Singh was keen to reach Campbellpur as soon as he could. Avtar and Satya might still be in the gurudwara. The caravan may not have left so early. But Hashmat would not allow that. He told Karam Singh how news spread in their small village. In fact, someone had even come to their door enquiring about Baqar. Hashmat had told him that he hadn’t returned after his night watch yet. After Master-ji had had his bath, Hashmat persuaded him to dress up i
n the style of his own community of butchers, tying a tehmad around his waist. He told Karam Singh to keep his beard open. But what about the hair? Neither of them dared to address that.

  In the afternoon, there was another incident. On a road a little farther from Bundyala, the one that stretched towards G.T. Road, a long convoy of military trucks passed by. Hindus and Sikhs were leaving the country. People climbed to their rooftops to see this. Master-ji wanted to see too. When he persisted, Hashmat convinced him to wear a Pathani fur cap.

  A whisper coursed through the entire village. ‘Hindus and Sikhs have left…’ A lot of people choked up. Many were in tears. Something had come apart, leaving behind an emptiness.

  The caravan of military trucks with refugees turned towards G.T. Road. It was at this point that Fauji had told Lakhbeera: ‘We’ll go via Moosa Khail. If all goes well, we’ll get on to G.T. Road ahead.’

  But he did not turn towards G.T. Road. After passing through the city of Khorda, and leaving behind Kavishwar Singh’s kothi, the road was uneven, but there was no immediate danger. However, there was one minor irritant: the old Sikh Baba had urinated in his pyjamas. Kaka was terribly embarrassed.

  ‘Now, what have you done, Babbe!’ He did not know what to say. He took off Babbe’s turban and started to wipe the floor with it. What else could he have done? Baba’s mouth was half-open and he was sleeping. People had covered their noses. But Panna gently patted Kaka’s head and made him sit beside her. She gathered the damp turban and threw it out. She said in rustic Punjabi, ‘Sutt de, Kaka. Throw it away, we’ll get another.’

  When Des Raj conveyed the news, Fauji eased the truck to the side of the road. He got off and walked to the back of the truck. Lowering the plank, he announced, ‘Anyone wanting to shit or pee may do so now.’

  As far as the eye could see, there were jagged fields and uneven roads. A patchy forest lay in the distance. Some of Fauji’s passengers stepped off.

  Tiwari asked, ‘What time do you think we’ll reach?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I mean … where are we going?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Fauji’s voice had an edge.