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Authors: Khushwant Singh
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soon.’
Bachana opened his eyes. Sundar Sigh stood glowering over him. Bachana quickly shut his eyes and stretched himself on the charpoy again.
Sundar Singh picked up the charpoy from one end and tilted it over. Bachana rolled off and fell on the floor.
g ods on trial
Gulzar Singh Sandhu
N oora sat quietly under a mango tree by the tombs of the
Pirs
. He was absorbed in doing the home task given by his teacher. Rahmte, his sister, was cutting fodder from the Sikh Martyrs’ field, near the
Pirs’
graveyard.
The Martyrs entombed near our field are supposed to possess great miraculous powers transcending death, fire and time. We, of the Sikh religion have profound faith in them. So much so that I was not allowed even to take the school examination unless I pledged an offering to them. My grandfather believed that it was only because of the Martyr’s kind intercession that I never once failed in any examination.
That summer day, I was also sitting with Noora under the mango tree. While Noora was engrossed in homework I watched Rahmte, cutting fodder from our field. I liked her so much that I felt like talking about her to Noora.
‘Of your two sisters whom do you like more? Rahmte or Jaina?’ I asked.
‘Jaina,’ he said, naming the elder one that had been married for four years then.
‘Why don’t you like Rahmte?’ said I and was suddenly aware that I could be misunderstood.
‘She beat me once, which Jaina never did,’ he said casually, to my satisfaction and returned to his book. Assured that I was not misunderstood, I started watching the rhythmic movement of Rahmte’s limbs operating the sickle.
Just then something startled a peacock on the Martyrs’
peepul
tree, and it shot off into the air flapping its large wings with a heavy, muffled thud-thud. One of the feathers came off and sailed down to the ground. I was then a keen collector of peacock feathers. As I saw one sailing down in its rich dazzling colours, I threw down my book and ran for it. But it never touched the ground. Rahmte had grabbed it from the air before I could.
‘Hand it to me,’ I said a little tensely.
‘I got it first,’ she replied coldly.
‘None of that!’ I threatened, ‘You have to give it to me.’
‘Oh, I have to, have I?’ she scoffed. ‘In that case I shan’t!’
‘Come on, hand it over and I’ll never ask anything more from you.’ I tried to sound suggestive and grown up. She flushed.
‘Take it, there,’ she said curtly throwing the feather away. She collected the fodder into a sheaf, picked it up and started home. I could not take my eyes from her slender figure, straining under the weight of the sheaf. I was left wondering whether I had really offended her.
Back in the graveyard I found Noora’s father the saintly Badru, saying his
namaaz.
Noora stood by humbly. Both the father and the son had incongruous yellow scarves, the symbol of the Sikh religion, around their necks, for they, along with others, had recently agreed to ‘conversion.’ These were the days of communal riots and the yellow scarf guaranteed security to the Muslim minority in East Punjab.
The Partition of the country had torn India into two parts and conversion had been made a condition by the Sikhs, for those Muslims staying on in India, in retaliation to a similar declaration by Muslims in Pakistan for any Hindus or Sikhs there. The majority, no doubt, in our area were Muslims, and that too of the orthodox sect of Sunnis. But what could they do? They were in India and whoever did not convert to Sikhism was killed.
After the invitation for conversion a huge number of steel bangles, wooden crescent combs and yellow scarves were procured for an elaborate conversion ceremony. Just when the
parsad,
the sanctified sweet, was being prepared for initiating the Muslims to the Sikh religion, a phlegmatic voice said:
‘What good is this initiation, bound by outward symbols? These cannot deter them from continuing to
Bachana opened his eyes. Sundar Sigh stood glowering over him. Bachana quickly shut his eyes and stretched himself on the charpoy again.
Sundar Singh picked up the charpoy from one end and tilted it over. Bachana rolled off and fell on the floor.
g ods on trial
Gulzar Singh Sandhu
N oora sat quietly under a mango tree by the tombs of the
Pirs
. He was absorbed in doing the home task given by his teacher. Rahmte, his sister, was cutting fodder from the Sikh Martyrs’ field, near the
Pirs’
graveyard.
The Martyrs entombed near our field are supposed to possess great miraculous powers transcending death, fire and time. We, of the Sikh religion have profound faith in them. So much so that I was not allowed even to take the school examination unless I pledged an offering to them. My grandfather believed that it was only because of the Martyr’s kind intercession that I never once failed in any examination.
That summer day, I was also sitting with Noora under the mango tree. While Noora was engrossed in homework I watched Rahmte, cutting fodder from our field. I liked her so much that I felt like talking about her to Noora.
‘Of your two sisters whom do you like more? Rahmte or Jaina?’ I asked.
‘Jaina,’ he said, naming the elder one that had been married for four years then.
‘Why don’t you like Rahmte?’ said I and was suddenly aware that I could be misunderstood.
‘She beat me once, which Jaina never did,’ he said casually, to my satisfaction and returned to his book. Assured that I was not misunderstood, I started watching the rhythmic movement of Rahmte’s limbs operating the sickle.
Just then something startled a peacock on the Martyrs’
peepul
tree, and it shot off into the air flapping its large wings with a heavy, muffled thud-thud. One of the feathers came off and sailed down to the ground. I was then a keen collector of peacock feathers. As I saw one sailing down in its rich dazzling colours, I threw down my book and ran for it. But it never touched the ground. Rahmte had grabbed it from the air before I could.
‘Hand it to me,’ I said a little tensely.
‘I got it first,’ she replied coldly.
‘None of that!’ I threatened, ‘You have to give it to me.’
‘Oh, I have to, have I?’ she scoffed. ‘In that case I shan’t!’
‘Come on, hand it over and I’ll never ask anything more from you.’ I tried to sound suggestive and grown up. She flushed.
‘Take it, there,’ she said curtly throwing the feather away. She collected the fodder into a sheaf, picked it up and started home. I could not take my eyes from her slender figure, straining under the weight of the sheaf. I was left wondering whether I had really offended her.
Back in the graveyard I found Noora’s father the saintly Badru, saying his
namaaz.
Noora stood by humbly. Both the father and the son had incongruous yellow scarves, the symbol of the Sikh religion, around their necks, for they, along with others, had recently agreed to ‘conversion.’ These were the days of communal riots and the yellow scarf guaranteed security to the Muslim minority in East Punjab.
The Partition of the country had torn India into two parts and conversion had been made a condition by the Sikhs, for those Muslims staying on in India, in retaliation to a similar declaration by Muslims in Pakistan for any Hindus or Sikhs there. The majority, no doubt, in our area were Muslims, and that too of the orthodox sect of Sunnis. But what could they do? They were in India and whoever did not convert to Sikhism was killed.
After the invitation for conversion a huge number of steel bangles, wooden crescent combs and yellow scarves were procured for an elaborate conversion ceremony. Just when the
parsad,
the sanctified sweet, was being prepared for initiating the Muslims to the Sikh religion, a phlegmatic voice said:
‘What good is this initiation, bound by outward symbols? These cannot deter them from continuing to
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