Our Favourite Indian Stories (28 page)

'Come and sit here,' one of the persons beckoned to Joharmal.

'Oh! God.' Sitting on the bench Joharmal said, 'Yesterday Manikamal was saying that the government will give compensation for the property left behind, that is why government is getting it in writing to assess how much is left. I thought, since we have forsaken so much property, why not give it in writing?' Taking out a
bidi
from his pocket Joharmal said. 'Brother! Do you think the government will count money and give cash? These are all only estimates; but every one is in a fix. If we don't give in writing and then by good luck, if the money is paid, then everyone will taunt and curse us. So let us remove this anxiety, then whatever is destined will happen. Even if we don't get anything we shall not be worse off than what we are now,' said one of the older men.

The typist continued typing and simultaneously kept on murmuring. 'The public road in the West, Khanmohomad's building towards East, the
caravansarai
of Seth Phagunmal. In the North — the area three thousand sq. feet, two storyed —Then he turned his eyes at the people sitting there. One by one, he typed the claim forms of all. Then, turning to Joharmal he asked, 'Yes Sir! Now you tell me.'

'Brother, whatever you ask me I shall answer. We have left our world, our honour, our friendships; everything of ours is left there. When will God have mercy on us that we shall again inhabit our homes?'

'Yes, uncle, what is your name?'

'Name? Sir, my name is Joharmal.'

The typist, making a sound of tick.... tick on the typewriter repeated, 'Joharmal...Yes, uncle....Joharmal....son of?'

'Joharmal son of Bhai Wasiomal.' The typist again began typing and asked, 'What is your surname?'

'Nangdev.'

The typist typed it. 'Okay. Where did you stay in Pakistan? Which
taluka
and district?'

'All right. Village Halla, Taluka Kamber, District Larkana.' The typist kept on typing. 'Have you brought the details of your property?'

'What details?'

'Details, such as, how many acres of land, how many houses and their location, total area and the estimated value? Whether the land was leasehold or outright purchase? If it was purchased, for how much? For proof have you got any documents or receipts from the Revenue Officer for the payment of taxes? What was the total value of the land? All these details are required.'

Uncle Joharmal was stupefied. All these things were new for him. He thought, 'I have not brought anything. Manikmal was saying that whatever you say, he will go on writing, but here... ! But I am after all a Sindhi. Is it not sufficient proof?'

Seeing uncle Joharmal immersed in thoughts, the typist again asked, 'How much property have you left in Pakistan? How many houses and other property?'

Reacting as if he were suddenly awakened from a dream, Joharmal said, 'Brother, say like that! My dear friend, you confused me. Okay, write. Joharmal son of Wasiomal, surname Nangdev. I have left all Sind in Pakistan. I am now putting in the claim that the whole Sind should be given back to him. The proof of it is that Joharmal is Sindhi, his language is Sindhi and his culture is Sindhi.'

'Uncle, how can that be written? How much belongs to you?'

'What have I left in Sind? I have left my Sind. If it is not my own, then whose is it? We Sindhis have left all comforts and have come here and still you are asking what I have left there? If you are thinking that I don't remember Sind or that I am forgetting it, then my dear Sir, you are wrong. Never entertain such ideas. Each nerve of ours is singing with memories of Sind. I am Sindhi and Sind is mine. I have a right to put in a claim for it. We hear that Punjabis got Punjab, Bengalees got Bengal, then what crime have we committed that we did not get our Sind?' Joharmal asked emotionally.

All those who were sitting there started laughing. Even the officer was smiling.

'But you be the judge,' turning to all, Joharmal said. 'You — we all have left our Sind. Is the officer asking you the same difficult questions? Or, taking me to be an old man, is he making fun of me?'

'No uncle. I am not joking. I am telling you honestly that it is a rule of the Government that any one who has left personal property, can put in a claim for it and not for anything else. See, everybody has put in a claim for his own houses and lands. Topanmal, son of Godumal Premchandani, of village Sajawal,
taluka
Mirokhan, district Larkana, two houses - one storeyed, area two thousand sq. feet, facing West; and land fifty acres — total property worth about Rs 15000/-. He has put in a claim for Rs 15000/-.'

Joharmal's face became pale. He had never even thought or dreamt that Sindhis would forget their Sind like this and each would go his own way. Then, turning to the officer he said, 'Are you not Sindhi? Were your forefathers not Sindhis? Did you not drink water from the river of Sukkur? Did you not bathe in Sindhu River? And still you say that I cannot put in a claim for Sind? Our ancestral Sind, where our forefathers lived their life; where we grew up. Have we no right over it? I shall not be able to meet again brothers Rajab, Ramzan and Mahboob the barber again. Can I get back their friendship?'

Joharmal once again became emotional. Tears came to his eyes and his face became flushed. 'But uncle.....'

Stopping the typist in the middle, Joharmal said, 'Let it go — Sir, let it go. I have not to put in any claim. Let it go to hell! For what else shall I put in my claim? What particulars can I give you? My friendship was greater than my fields. It was my native place. It is because my son-in-law forced me and the daughters cried bitterly that we migrated...otherwise I would never have left Sind!'

The typist realised that what uncle Joharmal had said was hundred percent correct. The true claim is that we get our Sind back. He too had many friends in Sind — Anwer, Hussain Ahmed—all with whom he used to go to Ramzan Garden for a stroll. He loved Nooran, the niece of the Head of the village-Haji Urs. When he was coming to India for the last time, Nooran had told him, 'Don't forget me. If Allah wills, you will soon come back and inherit these fields and buildings.' All this flashed through his mind. The whole map of Sind rose before his eyes... fields, friends and the whole community. He thought, Korea was also partitioned like this and even today the people are fighting for united Korea.

Suddenly the typist said, 'Yes, Uncle. We shall surely go back to Sind. Sind is ours, yours and of every Sindhi. Your claim is right. It is the true claim. It may be wrong in the eyes and books of the government, but it is a real and original claim. It is not only your claim, but mine also and of every Sindhi. Uncle, don't be disappointed. The time is not far off when all Sindhis will wake up from their slumber and put in their claim for Sind... the claim for
Sindhiyat
! When there will be true democracy in India and Pakistan, this artificial wall will be demolished and you — all of us, shall certainly get our claim.'

Gangadhar Gadgil

The train was speeding through a region all burnt up by the summer heat. People sat squeezed up in odd postures in the overcrowded coaches. They twisted and turned their bodies in various positions to rest their sore and aching limbs. Some had dozed off and were leaning awkwardly against other people's shoulders. Some were wiping off the sweat that streaked down their faces and necks with the hanging ends of their turbans. One of them was drinking water and the lump in his throat moved up and down uncomfortably. The faces of the menfolk were ash-coloured and sticky with grime. The women's faces were blanched and drooping. Their dry hair fluttered lifelessly in the dry breeze.

The sun beat down mercilessly upon them through the windows. Gusts of hot wind brought in clouds of dust.

She sat there humped and squeezed in a crowded compartment— a baby in her lap. She had covered it with the end of her
sari
, and only its rickety legs jutted out from underneath. It whimpered and kicked when it woke up spasmodically. Then she gently stroked its head until it lapsed into an uneasy sleep. Her two little daughters sat next to her on the edge of the bench. They were skinny and odd looking. Narrow strips of foreheads, flat noses that broadened awkwardly at the tips, uncouth lips, receding, almost non-existent chins—that about summed up their looks. One of them was slightly bigger than the other. She had a fairer skin and had more flesh on her. The dark one, however, was more lively and alert. The fair one blinked constantly. The girls had been almost pushed off their seats by other people who had asked them time and again "to move up a little".. But that did not really bother them. They were used to discomfort. Besides, they were lost in the tremendous excitement of travelling by train. Their eyes, bright with wonder, pecked at everything around them. They whispered their comments into each other's ears.

The father of the girls sat opposite, dozing, resting his head awkwardly on the back of the seat. His heavy face was glazed with sweat. His jaw had dropped and his half-open mouth made him look all the more querulous.

The luggage lay at their feet between the seats. There was a brass water-flask and two non-descript steel trunks. One of them, given to the woman by her mother, was in some sort of shape, but the other was battered and in a ramshackle condition. Its padlock had come off so that it had to be tied up with a clothesline. It was too big to be pushed under the seat. So it lay there between the seats, making it impossible for the woman to stretch her legs. This one had been given to the woman by her mother-in-law. A rolled up mattress lay on the steel box. The clothes bundled inside it hung out from its sides.

The woman was seated by the window. Less than twenty-five, she looked even younger. She had a stunted body that looked deceptively girlish. She was as simple-hearted as a child. She had never had the opportunity of experiencing the exuberance of youth and the fullness of maturity. Nor was she ever likely to have it.

She wore a faded
sari
.. After all, she was the mother of three children and nothing better was expected of her! She sat modestly with drooping shoulders. She was bending over the child to make it lie in a comfortable position. For years now she had been bending like this with children in her lap or over her work, so that sitting with a bent back had become her habitual posture. Her sagging breasts were a pitiful sight. She looked fragile and lifeless. Her hair was limp and dull. The child had pulled at it in one fit of ill temper and a strand of hair lay across her cheek like a scar.

Time and again the child sucked at her breast and drained away a few drops of milk.

Her daughters were pecking at everything with bright eager eyes. They whispered in each other's ears through cupped hands and giggled. The younger one espied the loose end of a man's turban, hanging oddly over his ear.

'Oh, mother!' she exclaimed, closing her mouth with her palm.

'What is it?' asked the elder sister shaking her by the shoulder.

The younger one jerked her finger at the man's turban. But the elder sister was clumsy and did not understand. So she kept on shaking the other girl by the shoulder. The younger sister giggled again and shook her head self-importantly. She would not tell the elder sister until she was close to tears. When at last she had enough fun out of teasing her, she relented.

'Do you really want me to tell?' she asked.

'Yes, yes,' pleaded the other girl.

So the younger sister told her about the loose end of the turban and then both of them started giggling. They put their palms across their mouths and giggled uncontrollably.

They laughed until they attracted their mother's attention and made her envious. That is really what they were looking forward to. The mother impatiently shook her elder daughter by the shoulder and asked, 'What is it? Tell me. What is it?'

'Shall I tell?' asked the girl, turning to her sister.

'Um, hum! No, indeed,' said the younger girl and emitted a malicious giggle. So the elder one giggled too and pushed her mother's hand off her shoulder.

The two girls treated their mother as if she were a younger and stupid sister of theirs. This added spice to their petty pleasures.

The mother looked downcast. She felt stupid and lonesome because she was not let into their secret. She shook them by the shoulder and pleaded with them. But the girls grew more and more coy. They just giggled. Rolled their eyes and giggled.

The woman lost her temper. She raised her girlish voice and shouted, 'What is this? Why don't you tell me?'

This disturbed her husband's sleep. He irately waved his hand across his nose. The woman froze with fright. So did the girls. They all eyed the man with fear. But luckily he dozed off again and they all celebrated their narrow escape from his anger with a secret exchange of smiles.

'Aha! Aha! That served her right,' exclaimed the girls when they had recovered from the fright, waving a pointed finger teasingly in front of their mother's face.

This annoyed her all the more and she pinched one of the girls. The girl squirmed with pain. She wanted to scream. But she paused and thought the better of it. The scream would have awakened their father and he would have shouted at her mother. He might very likely have slapped her too. A stinging slap across the cheek! She did not want to risk it. So she kept quiet. But she gave her mother an injured look and shook her little finger to indicate that she was no longer on speaking terms with her. The younger girl, too, did the same. They knew they could make their mother pretty miserable that way.