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Authors: Khushwant Singh
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me.
Sending one to Pakistan was a common phrase for killing a Muslim.
‘He’s a Sikh one, you fool,’ a voice checked him. It was the Nihang Sikh who had speared Noora.
From his saddle he lifted me up and put me in his lap.
I do not know what happened after that, for I lost consciousness.
When I came to my senses next day I was lying in bed in the verandah. My mother’s eyes were red and swollen with crying.
‘He’s saved, don’t you worry
.
It was only shock. He is just a child after all.’
Babaji
was talking to my mother.
‘It was almost the end of him,’ my mother said wiping her tears and rubbing my limbs.
‘What a dreadful shock for you, my son! God protect you, God bless you,’ she said wiping my face with her
duppatta
.
‘Bless and be blessed afterwards, first give offerings to the Martyrs who saved his life,’ said
Babaji
and everyone agreed to this proposal. They started making preparations for the Martyrs.
Chokingly, I told my mother about Noora’s death and asked her in a trembling voice if she knew anything about Rahmte. She told me in tears that Jaina and Rahmte were abducted by the crusading rioters along with other Muslim girls of the village. Many were murdered, about fifty of them. Whoever was seen with a new yellow scarf and bright steel bangle was killed.
Meanwhile the whole of the village made ready to offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. Though it was a quiet evening, everyone was frightened. Baba Phuman Singh was absolutely stunned. He was almost out of his wits. Just a while ago he was informed that his life-long friend Ghanshamdas had also been killed by mistake. He had been carrying a yellow scarf to one of his Muslim friends out in the fields, when he was surprised by the rioters who killed him, taking him to be a new convert. They did not wait to check who was who. They were busy people. They had to visit and plunder other villages too. For them the sight of a yellow scarf was enough to tell them of ‘converts.’
While praying at the Martyrs field,
Babaji
(my grandfather) was still thinking of Ghanshamdas. Yes, true, he had to die some day. But this sudden and uncalled for death had given a new uncertainty to people, including
Babaji.
It meant that anyone who was carrying a yellow scarf, even if he was a Sikh or a Hindu, would not be spared. Where then was the guarantee of safety to converts? In fact those who had not accepted Sikhism were safer, for they were cautious, not caught so easily and hence not killed. Thus, absurdly, avowed Muslims were escaping while Sikhs were being slaughtered!
Even though he was singing aloud the praises of Guru Gobind’s sons, the Five Beloved Ones, and the Forty Martyrs, his heart was crying over the calamitous riots towards the end when he was reciting verses in honour of those who had shared their wealth, fought sinners, offered sacrifice for the faith, suddenly his legs buckled beneath him. The mention of ‘sacrifices for the faith’ choked his throat. His
khunda
fell off on the ground. The rest of the prayer was completed by my father. Having finished the ceremony my father told me to go and offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. As I placed the
parsad
on their tombs, the crows from the
peepul
tree nearby came cawing and swooping and ate it up in no time. ‘Let the Martyrs remain hungry,’ I said to myself.
As my father distributed
parsad
to everyone and was about to leave,
Babaji
came forward and held him there by his arm.
‘Tell the boy to put some on the
Pirs
tombs too,’ he said pointing towards the
Pirs’
graveyard. Looking in that direction I remembered Noora. The
peepul
in the field reminded me of Rahmte who had frowned at me under it. Had she done it in love or in hatred? I would never know now.
‘What do you mean?’ father asked
Babaji,
a little puzzled — ‘on the
Pirs’
tombs?’
‘You remember the massacre,’
Babaji
whispered to father, after taking him beyond the boundary of the field. Perhaps he dared not say it within
Sending one to Pakistan was a common phrase for killing a Muslim.
‘He’s a Sikh one, you fool,’ a voice checked him. It was the Nihang Sikh who had speared Noora.
From his saddle he lifted me up and put me in his lap.
I do not know what happened after that, for I lost consciousness.
When I came to my senses next day I was lying in bed in the verandah. My mother’s eyes were red and swollen with crying.
‘He’s saved, don’t you worry
.
It was only shock. He is just a child after all.’
Babaji
was talking to my mother.
‘It was almost the end of him,’ my mother said wiping her tears and rubbing my limbs.
‘What a dreadful shock for you, my son! God protect you, God bless you,’ she said wiping my face with her
duppatta
.
‘Bless and be blessed afterwards, first give offerings to the Martyrs who saved his life,’ said
Babaji
and everyone agreed to this proposal. They started making preparations for the Martyrs.
Chokingly, I told my mother about Noora’s death and asked her in a trembling voice if she knew anything about Rahmte. She told me in tears that Jaina and Rahmte were abducted by the crusading rioters along with other Muslim girls of the village. Many were murdered, about fifty of them. Whoever was seen with a new yellow scarf and bright steel bangle was killed.
Meanwhile the whole of the village made ready to offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. Though it was a quiet evening, everyone was frightened. Baba Phuman Singh was absolutely stunned. He was almost out of his wits. Just a while ago he was informed that his life-long friend Ghanshamdas had also been killed by mistake. He had been carrying a yellow scarf to one of his Muslim friends out in the fields, when he was surprised by the rioters who killed him, taking him to be a new convert. They did not wait to check who was who. They were busy people. They had to visit and plunder other villages too. For them the sight of a yellow scarf was enough to tell them of ‘converts.’
While praying at the Martyrs field,
Babaji
(my grandfather) was still thinking of Ghanshamdas. Yes, true, he had to die some day. But this sudden and uncalled for death had given a new uncertainty to people, including
Babaji.
It meant that anyone who was carrying a yellow scarf, even if he was a Sikh or a Hindu, would not be spared. Where then was the guarantee of safety to converts? In fact those who had not accepted Sikhism were safer, for they were cautious, not caught so easily and hence not killed. Thus, absurdly, avowed Muslims were escaping while Sikhs were being slaughtered!
Even though he was singing aloud the praises of Guru Gobind’s sons, the Five Beloved Ones, and the Forty Martyrs, his heart was crying over the calamitous riots towards the end when he was reciting verses in honour of those who had shared their wealth, fought sinners, offered sacrifice for the faith, suddenly his legs buckled beneath him. The mention of ‘sacrifices for the faith’ choked his throat. His
khunda
fell off on the ground. The rest of the prayer was completed by my father. Having finished the ceremony my father told me to go and offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. As I placed the
parsad
on their tombs, the crows from the
peepul
tree nearby came cawing and swooping and ate it up in no time. ‘Let the Martyrs remain hungry,’ I said to myself.
As my father distributed
parsad
to everyone and was about to leave,
Babaji
came forward and held him there by his arm.
‘Tell the boy to put some on the
Pirs
tombs too,’ he said pointing towards the
Pirs’
graveyard. Looking in that direction I remembered Noora. The
peepul
in the field reminded me of Rahmte who had frowned at me under it. Had she done it in love or in hatred? I would never know now.
‘What do you mean?’ father asked
Babaji,
a little puzzled — ‘on the
Pirs’
tombs?’
‘You remember the massacre,’
Babaji
whispered to father, after taking him beyond the boundary of the field. Perhaps he dared not say it within
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