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Authors: Khushwant Singh
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be Muslims at heart!’ It was Baba Phuman Singh, pausing to fling a pellet of opium into the hollow cavern of his mouth.
‘What else do you advise us to do?’
‘Feed them with pork,’ he said.
‘Our own people have been made to eat beef on that side of the border,’ said another.
Everyone agreed to feed pork to the Muslims gathered for initiation. Four or five pigs were killed and cooked immediately. This ceremony had been carried out in a similar manner in neighbouring villages also.
The Muslims listened and watched with the resigned passivity and indifference of those who no longer cared whether they live or die.
‘Our Gurus baptised with
parsad
only,’ my father whispered to
Babaji,
in mild protest.
‘Keep your mouth shut, man. Nothing like silence,’ he said and drifted towards the pots of meat to examine the quality.
In a little while all the Muslims were initiated into the Sikh religion. Wearing the five symbols of Sikhism they started swallowing the pieces of pork served to them.
‘We have always been Hindus. Only that blasted Aurangzeb made us change,’ one of them said in a futile effort to seek justification for his acts.
Babaji
and a jew other village elders, sat a little separately from the rest, in their own superior elite group of Sandhus.
‘The Maharaja of Patiala is a Sidhu,’ I heard him say. ‘Sidhu and Sandhu are equal. The only difference is that our
jagir
provides us only with opium while the maharaja’s gives him all the luxury he could dream of.’ The talk did not interest me.
‘Noora and his people are not being baptised?’ I asked my father. ‘Hush!’ my father silenced me, ‘I have delivered all the five symbols to them and they are wearing them. Noora’s father is a saintly person and respects us. I wouldn’t want him to feel disgraced in public. May be he does not want to take part.’
When my grandfather asked about the baptism of Badru and his family, my father managed to convince him that Badru had taken pork in his very presence. To allay any remaining doubts, father swore it solemnly and thus the whole of Badru’s family was also counted among the baptised.
And where was the lie in it? That day when I had demanded the peacock feather from Rahmte she was wearing a yellow
duppatta
on her head and a steel bangle on her wrist. Her father Badru and her brother Noora too were wearing yellow scarves around their necks and steel bangles on their wrists. Both were performing the
namaaz.
They would not have dared to pray the Muslim way had there been a witness. But then the only person present was myself and I was his pupil. They knew well that I would not tell anyone in the village that they were praying the Muslim way. How could I, who till the third standard had done my sums with the help of Rahmte?
It is still all so clear before my eyes, that day — Rahmte carrying the sheaf of fodder, Badru and Noora praying. The long
henna
-dyed beard of the holy man touched the ground as he bowed in prayer. His loose
lucknawi
shirt was a little dirty. I stood at some distance watching them all, when I heard sudden shouts of
‘Bole so nihal, sat sri akal.’
It was the Sikh cry and it sent us running for our lives in great terror. In the general panic Noora stumbled and fell on the ground. The running hoofs came to a stop and many a spear was jabbed viciously into his body. He lay there with his entrails hanging out. It was the last I saw of him.
I looked at the riders in yellow and blue and stood there dazed. They had already closed in on Badru. The saint pleaded with folded hands flourishing his yellow scarf and the steel bangle on his wrist to show he was a Sikh. A Nihang Sikh with fox-tail moustaches, playfully struck the wrist which was raised to exhibit the bangle, and cut it clean from the elbow. When Badru raised his other hand in abject imploration, the tyrant struck that off too.
‘Send this pig as well to Pakistan,’ someone shouted and ran towards
‘What else do you advise us to do?’
‘Feed them with pork,’ he said.
‘Our own people have been made to eat beef on that side of the border,’ said another.
Everyone agreed to feed pork to the Muslims gathered for initiation. Four or five pigs were killed and cooked immediately. This ceremony had been carried out in a similar manner in neighbouring villages also.
The Muslims listened and watched with the resigned passivity and indifference of those who no longer cared whether they live or die.
‘Our Gurus baptised with
parsad
only,’ my father whispered to
Babaji,
in mild protest.
‘Keep your mouth shut, man. Nothing like silence,’ he said and drifted towards the pots of meat to examine the quality.
In a little while all the Muslims were initiated into the Sikh religion. Wearing the five symbols of Sikhism they started swallowing the pieces of pork served to them.
‘We have always been Hindus. Only that blasted Aurangzeb made us change,’ one of them said in a futile effort to seek justification for his acts.
Babaji
and a jew other village elders, sat a little separately from the rest, in their own superior elite group of Sandhus.
‘The Maharaja of Patiala is a Sidhu,’ I heard him say. ‘Sidhu and Sandhu are equal. The only difference is that our
jagir
provides us only with opium while the maharaja’s gives him all the luxury he could dream of.’ The talk did not interest me.
‘Noora and his people are not being baptised?’ I asked my father. ‘Hush!’ my father silenced me, ‘I have delivered all the five symbols to them and they are wearing them. Noora’s father is a saintly person and respects us. I wouldn’t want him to feel disgraced in public. May be he does not want to take part.’
When my grandfather asked about the baptism of Badru and his family, my father managed to convince him that Badru had taken pork in his very presence. To allay any remaining doubts, father swore it solemnly and thus the whole of Badru’s family was also counted among the baptised.
And where was the lie in it? That day when I had demanded the peacock feather from Rahmte she was wearing a yellow
duppatta
on her head and a steel bangle on her wrist. Her father Badru and her brother Noora too were wearing yellow scarves around their necks and steel bangles on their wrists. Both were performing the
namaaz.
They would not have dared to pray the Muslim way had there been a witness. But then the only person present was myself and I was his pupil. They knew well that I would not tell anyone in the village that they were praying the Muslim way. How could I, who till the third standard had done my sums with the help of Rahmte?
It is still all so clear before my eyes, that day — Rahmte carrying the sheaf of fodder, Badru and Noora praying. The long
henna
-dyed beard of the holy man touched the ground as he bowed in prayer. His loose
lucknawi
shirt was a little dirty. I stood at some distance watching them all, when I heard sudden shouts of
‘Bole so nihal, sat sri akal.’
It was the Sikh cry and it sent us running for our lives in great terror. In the general panic Noora stumbled and fell on the ground. The running hoofs came to a stop and many a spear was jabbed viciously into his body. He lay there with his entrails hanging out. It was the last I saw of him.
I looked at the riders in yellow and blue and stood there dazed. They had already closed in on Badru. The saint pleaded with folded hands flourishing his yellow scarf and the steel bangle on his wrist to show he was a Sikh. A Nihang Sikh with fox-tail moustaches, playfully struck the wrist which was raised to exhibit the bangle, and cut it clean from the elbow. When Badru raised his other hand in abject imploration, the tyrant struck that off too.
‘Send this pig as well to Pakistan,’ someone shouted and ran towards
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