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  ‘I want to go to Dilli. That’s what I paid you for.’

  ‘You and your damn money! There’s no way I’m going to Dilli. I’ll drop you off whenever everyone feels we’re at the border and safe. I have no idea where this border is and what it’s called. If you know, tell me.’

  Fauji moved away behind the bushes to relieve himself.

  Hardly half an hour had passed since they were back on the road when Fauji stopped the truck. The passengers looked at each other, questions writ large on their faces. Lakhbeera turned towards him, then to the direction Fauji was looking in. At some distance, in the middle of the road, a station wagon stood, blocking the way.

  ‘I don’t see anyone around,’ said Fauji.

  ‘It’s the same one.’

  ‘Same what?’

  ‘The one that overtook us this morning.’

  ‘Were there any passengers in it?’

  ‘It was full. There was a Sikh family. I saw women and children too.’

  ‘Well, no one’s here now.’ Fauji paused before adding, ‘Is it possible they have been looted?’

  ‘What if the car broke down and the passengers abandoned it?’

  Without further speculation, Fauji drove slowly towards the station wagon. Just then he spotted them: two sardars. They emerged from behind, guns in their hands. They wore what looked like army uniforms but without badges of any kind.

  Fauji stopped. Now, he could see the whole family in the wagon.

  One sardar came forward. ‘We’re out of fuel. Do you have petrol?’

  Fauji stepped out of the truck. Lakhbeera hurried to his side.

  ‘No,’ said Lakhbeera.

  The other sardar spoke. ‘In that case, we’ll take whatever is in your tank. If you create trouble, we will break open the fuel tank and take whatever we can.’

  Fauji and Lakhbeera looked at each other. Lakhbeera said, ‘We have a canister. Five gallons. You can take half.’ He pulled out the canister from underneath the truck. Without uttering a word, one of the sardars took it away and walked towards his car. The other one stood before them, his gun ready.

  The sardar emptied the canister into the station wagon’s tank. He started the car, flung away the empty canister, and called out to the second one, ‘Come along, Balliya!’

  That was when Lakhbeera caught hold of Billu.

  ‘You bastard, let’s see you get away now. The whole canister…’

  Billu pushed Lakhbeera and ran. Lakhbeera recovered and got to his feet. The sardar in the car shot at him. The other one fired at Fauji but missed. Another bullet hit Lakhbeera and he fell. The bullet had passed through his heart.

  None of the passengers in the truck moved. Everyone held their breath. The station wagon vanished from sight.

  Fauji dropped to his knees. Lakhbeera was dead. Fauji sobbed, beat his head and started hurling abuses in desperation. God knows who he abused and to what end. One by one, everyone stepped off the truck.

  It took Fauji an hour to compose himself. He had begun this journey only for his friend. If he had an option, he would have thrown away his keys, abandoned the truck and walked away. But there were women and children depending on him. Lakhbeera’s bedding lay on top of the truck above the driver’s seat. There was a small can of petrol too. Fauji threw them all to the ground.

  He wrapped the body in the bedding and began collecting wood. Des Raj suggested the corpse be buried, else it would take a long time. The sun was already on the descent. Fauji refused. ‘He was a Sikh … my friend. I will cremate him. Anyone in a hurry is free to leave.’

  Tiwari stood up.

  ‘Leave? How can we leave? We’ve already paid you. You are not taking us free of charge.’

  A thought crossed Fauji’s mind. Lakhbeera had put the cash in the pillow cover and wrapped the cover into the bedding. He pulled out the cover and tossed a fistful of notes in Tiwari’s direction.

  ‘Take your money. Take more than what you paid. I will not take you along.’ He flung the pillow cover at him.

  Lala-ji’s son had fetched a bundle of logs. He seemed to have grown up suddenly. He placed them on the improvised pyre. Fauji picked up the tin of petrol and poured almost all of its contents on the corpse and the wood.

  Des Raj said, ‘Don’t waste all of it…’

  The look in Fauji’s eyes silenced him.

  Fauji lit the pyre. Bending down on his knees and with both hands raised, he read out the fateha. Wiping his eyes, he turned towards his truck. Everyone climbed in. He told Panna, ‘You come here, in front. Sit with me.’

  Fauji started to raise the plank of the truck to close it. Tiwari approached the truck. Fauji shoved him away. ‘No. Go die in the wilderness.’

  Fauji shut the plank.

  ‘O, Fauji. My wife is in the truck. You keep all this…’

  When he held out the money, Fauji kicked the whole bundle into the pyre. He asked Tiwari’s wife, ‘Do you want to die with him?’

  The pale, frightened woman said nothing, but she shook her hand: no, no. She sobbed but shrank back into a corner of the truck.

  Fauji climbed back into the driver’s seat. Tiwari shouted at him, but Fauji paid no heed. He left with the rest of the passengers. Tiwari stood there, staring at the burning pyre.

  The truck had come a long way. The silence between Fauji and Panna had broken. Panna must have asked something and Fauji was saying, ‘My mother was the mistress of the nawab of Jaunpur. She used to sing. She sang very well, like you!’ The sun was growing dim. Clouds hung about like wet nappies. They were in a hilly region now. As the truck lumbered on with some effort, Fauji continued, ‘Once it so happened, she became pregnant. The nawab wanted the baby aborted. Amma ran away to Rawalpindi with her accompanist, the rabaab player.’

  ‘Why Rawalpindi? Was it her home town?’ Panna asked.

  ‘No … she hailed from somewhere on the same side. But Rawalpindi was a safe distance away from Jaunpur and her rabaabiya had close relatives there, I think.’

  Panna looked at him searchingly, as if trying to read some emotion on his face. But no shadow marred his impassive countenance. He continued, ‘A good fellow, the rabaabiya was. He used to say, “Except for the rabaab, I never learnt anything. What could I do? I had to bring you up. I was not prepared to join any kotha. For some time, I made a living running a tonga. It was hard. After the luxuries of the durbar, your mother could not cope with poverty. She went back to Jaunpur. I didn’t. What could I have done? How could I have fed you? You learnt the ways of the world on your own. Life teaches you.”’

  Fauji fell silent again.

  Panna said in a low voice, ‘I am a mere wandering mirasi, but you are a nawabzada.’

  When Fauji turned to look at her, Panna added: ‘Yes … really … the son of a nawab.’

  Fauji muttered, ‘Yes, the bastard of a nawab.’

  Lala Des Raj peeped through the window frame at the back of the cabin and said, ‘Miyanwali is not too far now, Fauji. Once we reach there, then … then Poonch … and then Jammu!’

  The truck had managed quite a distance uphill but there was still some way to go. It kept climbing at a steady pace, jerking and rickety. The sun was sliding down. A strange hum sounded in the distance. They stopped the truck to see what it was. Far below them, a caravan of refugees was passing by. It seemed small from the distance, but was enough of an indication for everyone that Fauji was on the right track.

  The sky was turning red. Another few miles and they could begin their descent. As soon as the truck reached the top, one of the front tyres deflated.

  ‘We’ll have to stop for a while,’ Fauji declared.

  It looked like it would rain soon. Something like a ruin stood some distance away. Fauji said, ‘Get down. It’ll take me a while to change the tyre. See if you can get to…’ His words trailed off as he picked up Guddu, carrying him off the truck.

  Broken liquor bottles littered the ruin. Looters! God bless them, they had left behind a matka of water.


  The darkness grew thicker. It began to drizzle. As he retrieved the spare, he felt a pang for Lakhbeera. He thought of Campbellpur, of the one-eyed window. Who remained in Campbellpur now? Everyone had left.

  He found it hard to believe that Campbellpur would have no Sikhs, no Hindus. No Pali. No Lakhbeera.

  Master Karam Singh was one of the few trying to return to Campbellpur. The day was drawing to a close here too. And nowadays the descending night felt like a shroud spreading over everyone.

  Hashmat had convinced him to stay for the day. He had promised Karam Singh that he would get him to Campbellpur. As night approached, Master-ji’s restlessness grew. He had suffered the last two nights the same way. His eyes were dry now. They were burning. But he could not sleep.

  Hashmat got up at midnight and readied his horse. Despite Baqar’s insistence, he had decided to do this himself. As a precaution, he gave Master-ji his salwar-kameez, wrapped him in a khes and placed a cap on his head.

  It was the last quarter of the night when the horse galloped out of the village. There were guards on patrol near the masjid. One of them was Baqar.

  Hashmat left Karam Singh off at the Campbellpur Ghantaghar Chowk, offering to accompany him up to the gurudwara. Master-ji refused and made him go back. He feared for his saviour’s life. Karam Singh hurried to the gurudwara on foot, and was shocked to see that only two granthis remained there. The rest had left.

  He did not stay either. He thought of going to Fazal’s, but found himself in front of his own lane as he walked in a daze. It was quiet. He met no one. Campbellpur seemed to have become a ghost town. He stood at the front door. The latch was open, the way his children had left it. He entered, closing the door behind him. In the courtyard, Bhuri’s place lay vacant. He sat in the courtyard for a long time, overcome by sleep.

  Shaking himself awake, he entered the bedroom, and held his breath. His wife, her eyes wide open, lay on the bed. Lifeless. A blue froth oozed from her mouth, drying on the pillow. He clutched at his chest, frozen. He could not bring himself to touch her. Not even to close her eyes. He felt a strange contentment. It was all over.

  When the sky shed its darkness, he got up. He collected the pieces of wood. It had taken days to cut them. He prepared the pyre. From the kitchen, he fetched tins of pure ghee and emptied them over the logs.

  He went inside and covered his wife’s body. Her cracked feet spoke of how far she must have run on roads strewn with dust and pebbles. Blood streaked her heels. He cleaned them. He brought the body out and lay it on the wood. He lit the fire and sat there, resting his head against the pyre.

  The sky shed its dark attire and draped itself in morning light. The sun woke them up.

  Resting against the wall, Fauji had fallen asleep. He blinked, got up and went to the rooftop to find Panna sitting there, her head wrapped in a dupatta. She moved a little when he sat down beside her.

  He looked around the ruin. Two of the truck’s tyres were flat now. It looked as though the truck were sitting on its knees. The stepney was lying at a distance. Some baggage was scattered around it.

  He asked Panna, ‘When did they all leave?’

  ‘Last night … a caravan was passing by down below, carrying torches. One by one everybody went along. They gave up on the truck.’

  Fauji said, ‘I was half-asleep, didn’t bother to stop anyone.’

  He stood up and walked to the other end of the roof. Without turning back, he called out, ‘Panna, come here…’

  He looked over to his right. A huge caravan was going the other way. Limping and crawling. On carts, on foot, with bundles on their heads. They seemed to be worse off than what they had seen so far.

  ‘They are going to Pakistan,’ Fauji said.

  ‘Where is that?’ asked Panna.

  Fauji had no answer. ‘It will be somewhere. Someday.’

  They stood on the rooftop for a long time, watching the never-ending caravan. Then slowly, they returned to where they had been sitting.

  Fauji said, ‘Panna, I can’t take you to the border. This truck will have to be abandoned now.’

  ‘And you? Where will you go?’ she asked.

  Just then, Kaka came running from the truck.

  ‘O bhai, maiyya, Baba is dead!’ he said, panting. ‘My Baba is dead. What do I do?’

  Panna called out, ‘Come up, Kaka!’

  Small batches of refugees were still passing by from the left of the mountain.

  When Kaka came up, Panna rose to her feet and hugged him. ‘Beta … you come along with me!’ She had made her decision and said to Fauji, ‘We’ll go now.’ She explained to Kaka that Fauji would perform the last rites for Baba. ‘There’s no need to remain here any longer, beta.’

  After Panna left with Kaka, Fauji walked out of the ruin all alone, leaving behind Baba’s body. He walked slowly, turning right of the mountain, from where a long caravan moved towards an unknown destination.

  PART TWO

  Freedom arrived all right, but it came drenched in blood, wounded … the body slashed in different places. Some limbs were amputated, some left hanging, deformed, scarred.

  As Master Fazal used to say, ‘Millions will be crushed under the feet of this conceited history. The wounds will take decades to heal, centuries to overcome the trauma.’

  The partition was supposed to happen over Bapu’s body. And so it did. He was the first to go, felled by bullets – his killer a Hindu like him. He was India’s Rashtra Pitah – Father of the Nation. Muhammad Ali Jinnah followed soon after. Pakistan’s Qaid-e-Azam – Father of the Nation. Both countries lost their father’s refuge.

  Master Fazal had also said that a few names would stick to the fabric of time. And so they did. Pakistan’s first prime minister Liaquat Ali was shot dead by his own countryman. Time took his name into safekeeping. A few years later, India’s prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru passed away. Time engraved his name too.

  The decades began rolling down. Raids across the border became commonplace. At times by tribes in military fatigues, at others by army men dressed as tribes.

  If Master Fazal were alive, he would have said that the boys had started going to school. Breaking each other’s slate, spilling inkpots, jabbing each other with pen nibs.

  Refugee caravans gathered at camps, then began to spread out like pathways emerging from a jungle. People began to stoke their kitchen fires with whatever wood they could lay their hands on – damp or dry. Smoke filled the air. Famine, unemployment and hopelessness scaled new highs. History had seldom witnessed lost souls on such a scale.

  The refugees who had started out with Fauji began to disperse once they crossed over to Hindustan. They went in all directions. Someone knew a village. Another was aware of some city. Thousands started marching along rail tracks, hoping for some train to turn up or maybe a station which would provide them some direction. Refugee camps began sprouting all over. Mandirs and gurudwaras overflowed with sharanarthis. A new term was coined in place of refugees: ‘sharanarthis’. Fauji’s musafirs were all lost, like a few grains in a bounty of crops.

  Kanta had travelled well past Attari with Guddu. A knowledgeable soul said, ‘We’ve reached Amritsar – this must be the border.’

  Tiwari’s wife Damayanti had vomited a number of times on the way. She was running a high fever. After Tiwari had been left behind, she would not let go of her daughter-in-law. Stumbling, falling, she stuck around with Kanta. Many people fell by the wayside, injured, knocked down by high fever. No one stopped to enquire. Many died but no one stopped to mourn. God knows how Damayanti kept dragging herself along. Before she reached Amritsar, she suffered a severe bout of stomach ache and doubled over in pain under a tree. Kanta stopped for a moment, wondering if Damayanti had fainted. She put Guddu down, and after a minute or two started walking again, joining the weary caravan on its way.

  Kanta took refuge in Gurudwara Harmandir Sahib, Amritsar. The langar there offered food twice a day. It was quite astounding how so much d
aal-roti and so many volunteers kept turning up under such circumstances. The crowd kept swelling. Kanta tied one end of her dupatta to Guddu’s waist. The fear of losing him in the horde never left her.

  One day, at the langar, Guddu’s eyes fell on a man who seemed to be searching for someone frantically. He looked like he had lost his mind. His beard was overgrown, hair unkempt. Guddu thought that he looked rather familiar. When he pointed out the man to Kanta, she gasped. She immediately covered her son’s face with her dupatta.

  It was her father-in-law. Tiwari. How had he managed to reach here? Without wasting a moment, Kanta left not only the gurudwara but the camp itself.

  Kanta was extremely distressed. Her parents were in Delhi. She had been trying to get across some news to them for days, but to no avail. Post offices were closed. Telephone lines were down. All exchanges had failed. Everyone advised her to go to the CTO, Amritsar. Keep trying, they said. Only the radio was operational. Names and addresses of refugees were announced on it from six in the morning to ten at night. A volunteer of the Hindu Mahasabha had promised to broadcast her whereabouts on it. But he could not say when her turn would come.

  Kanta could never overcome the fear of being seen by Tiwari. He could snatch the boy away. Wandering around the streets, she came to a road that people said connected Amritsar to Delhi. Kanta started walking on that road. It would reach Delhi someday. Even if it took months. She wasn’t alone on that road either. Thousands kept marching on it day and night.

  Soni and Moni had crossed the border and reached Amritsar to find the entire city turned into a large refugee camp. Besides the government-run camps, small groups of tents kept cropping up wherever they found space. Leave aside the border of the country, it was difficult to make out the city’s boundaries. No one knew where they were. Men and women, young and old, drifted from one camp to another like dry leaves scattered by the wind.

  There were many who had managed to reach Hindustan with their families intact, but lost each other in the chaos here. They were too bewildered to realize which way they were going. Those who had brought their wealth along were trying to shake off their relatives. Some were looking for cities they had read about, heard about or corresponded with. On the way, if they made friends, they would tag along.