The Weary Generations (33 page)

‘Gothic architecture went from Asia to Africa …' someone was saying.

The woman in dark glasses overheard this and shivered as if in horror. ‘Asia? Africa? Gothic? What nonsense!' she said in an even lower voice to her companion, continuing a largely one-sided conversation. ‘Now their general behaviour, rude and rather primitive, could perhaps be labelled as Gothic.' She uttered a small bark of a laugh. ‘But architecture? They
have
no architecture in Africa, you know.'

This bee-hum of talk was then interrupted by the arrival of the three guests from the last behli, the two Servants of India and the thin-faced pale man with spectacles. Iqbal Singh slowed down, seeing that they were now joined by one whom he considered his equal, the man with gold-rimmed glasses who was the editor of an English newspaper, and that the flow of talk would now inevitably tilt towards politics. During the brief pause that followed after everyone had retaken their seats, one of the Servants of India addressed the room without further ado.

‘This demand for the British army to go is completely unreasonable. Their job is only to defend out country, and they did this in the war, besides raising an army from the undisciplined masses of India. I don't see why, when their presence does not conflict with the running of the country, the civilian transfer of power cannot take place.'

‘True. Very true,' his companion added. ‘We are manufacturing no armaments in India. On top of that these are the days of battles in the air, aeroplanes fighting with other aeroplanes and all that.'

‘The greatest danger,' the newspaper editor said, patting with one hand an ashen cheek, ‘is of dictatorship, for that is the direction in which the extremist parties are taking the country.'

A Kashmiri Brahmin, who had been sitting quietly in a corner, now spoke up with passion. ‘Swaraj, Swaraj! What is it? This is the age of internationalism. The European and Socialist nations have fallen victim to isolation because of this madness of separatism and are now suffering from economic disaster. It will come, I tell you, it will come.'

‘This “direct action” advocated by some,' the editor, sitting up straight and again patting his cheek, said in English, ‘is not too far from terrorism – if not another name for it. There are constitutional means available.'

The woman nodded in agreement.

The Marhatta looked all round the room, preparing to speak. ‘First of all, we have to be clear about our objective. The time has not yet come for us to take control of the entire centre. We don't want Defence and Foreign Relations. But Finance and the general administration must be in our hands. That means,' he tapped his walking stick on the carpet and raised a finger, ‘only one thing: Dominion status.'

Iqbal Singh was about to open his mouth when the call for lunch came. Everybody left their words in the air and got up, making their way to the dining room.

This was a class that was rich, fairly rich and very rich, educated, calling itself liberal, indulging in anything between idle talk and lip-service, with
the chief objective of having a good time together, which gave it a sense of solidarity, besides the satisfaction of taking an ‘active' part in the historical development of their country. This was a class of people that was to remain, despite ‘reforms', largely intact and in command for many years – until the day of judgement was to arrive.

I
N THE MIDDLE
of a procession of protesters against the Simon Commission in Lahore Lala Lajpat Rai, a well-known philanthropist and politician, was hit on the back during a lathi charge ordered by a British police officer. Consequent to the Lala's death some time later, which was believed to have been caused by the blow (the police officer was later murdered), the Commission acquired a notoriety that raced ahead of it throughout the country. A call had gone out for a demonstration against the Commission on the day of their scheduled arrival in Lucknow.

The nature of the independence movement was such at the time that nobody knew the exact aim of these demonstrations; they were carried through simply as a form of defiance. In the end, what the demonstration achieved in Lucknow was far more precise than anyone had hoped for.

Azra's aim too was rather vague. She had no intention of being a frontline participant, yet she wanted to have some part in it, if only to stand aside and watch it go by. Why she wanted even to be an onlooker was something of which she had not been fully aware. It was rather like an occasion that holds an unknown promise and thereby becomes attractive. Or perhaps it was more complex: mildly ashamed, within her milieu, of her life with Naim on the one hand, she desired on the other to gain respect in the eyes of her husband.

On the morning of the day, large groups of men, with a scattering of women among them, coming not from the city itself but from small towns and villages all around, began to gather at the Congress office in the city. From there they marched in their thousands to the railway station.

All along the front of the station there was a line of policemen, armed with rifles and lathis, facing the crowd. Behind them were the mounted police, reputed to be trained by the British cavalry, looking fearsome in their hard hats and dark uniforms. Between the mounted police and the
station was a narrow strip of open ground, including a road, where a number of British army and police officers, a few Indian dignitaries and Indian and British administrative officials moved about. The demonstrators took in the scene and stopped a little distance from the line of policemen at the front. For some time they milled about, then quietly began to sit down. Unwittingly, Azra got caught up in the crowd and found herself near the middle of it. Half the people, mainly simple peasants from villages, sat on the ground, covering a large area, with the rest of the great mass standing at the back. Azra was at the edge of those who were standing, mostly city and town activists carrying black banners and placards. All she could see behind her was a sea of heads and banners declaring ‘GO BACK SIMON', and in front of her another ocean, lower down, of black heads. She heard a party of peasants, sitting by her feet, speaking to each other and was amazed to hear them talking of their villages, of crops, of rain and of wives who were pregnant and could not put in enough work in the fields. One of them got out some tobacco from a fold of his tehmad while the other made a fire of a piece of wood in the clearing they created by drawing back a little on all sides. Thus they started a hukka that they had carried with them and each one took a pull at it to get it going and coughed and spoke of the quality of the tobacco that was stronger than the sharaab the Sikhs made from the bark of the kikar tree. They were little bothered about the demonstration, did not understand much of what was going on but were content to be there, among their own people.

Azra looked up and drew a sharp breath. Behind the line of mounted police she caught a glimpse of Pervez. He had been appointed an Extra Assistant Commissioner with the powers of a magistrate second class, but he was supposed to be at his post in Delhi. What is he doing here? she wondered. All at once she became extremely nervous. For the first time she became conscious not so much of where she was as who she was. Daughter of Nawab Ghulam Mohyyeddin of Roshan Pur, hostess in Roshan Mahal to people like the Chief Commissioner of Delhi, a visitor to the Governor's darbar on one occasion when she was a young girl, and sister of an administrative official of the realm! Had he seen her? She wanted to slip behind the standing crowd and leave. But she did not get the chance.

Suddenly, after a few impassioned slogans from the banner-carrying men, the line of policemen split apart and the mounted police behind them galloped towards the men sitting in the front, raising a small cloud of dust. The men were so surprised to see them that they barely moved from their places. As the horses reached the line of men looking up at them in astonishment, they were pulled up, their hooves shivering above the men's
heads as they reared. The riders turned around, went about twenty yards, turned around once again and came back at a gallop. This time the men on the ground stood up and ran back, shouting, not finding the room to escape and falling over each other, dispersing, in their attempts to evade the marauding horses, to left and right. Behind the horses the foot police ran up and started a lathi charge. Everybody was now on their feet and running, bumping into others, knocking them down, their skulls being broken by lathi blows raining on them, splitting their faces, bloodying them. Screams pierced the air. Ducking through the scramble, Azra caught a glancing blow from a baton, giving her a bruise on her brow that oozed a drop of blood. She stopped, less from the effect of the blow than shocked surprise at what was happening to her. She saw a policeman, his face twisted with anger, raise his lathi to a man who, cringing before the impending blow, had his own face steeped in fear and hatred. She stood still for a moment, wondering how this place could bring two men, completely unknown to one another, face to face as deadly enemies. She turned and saw before her a young man taking photographs with a heavy camera, supporting its long concertina nose with a hand underneath it. Almost paralysed, she stood there, not even trying to hide the bruise on her face, until the camera clicked and simultaneously a lathi fell on the young man, knocking him down on top of his camera. Then she ran away.

With one look at Naim, Azra forgot all about the difficulties she had encountered trying to obtain, on her own, an appointment to see her husband in gaol. She couldn't believe her eyes. Naim looked about half his former size. She could not speak for minutes other than to nod and shake her head in answer to Naim's questions: ‘Did you get my messages? I tried my best to send word. Are you all right?'

Finally she found her tongue. ‘Naim, you are – so – thin. What has happened?'

‘The food is not worth eating.' He laughed. ‘As someone said to me here, it's not my mother-in-law's house.'

‘I could have arranged to have it sent from the homes of friends here if I'd known,' she said.

‘Don't worry, I won't die for a long time yet,' he said, laughing again. ‘But you could try to get me out of here.'

‘Yes. Yes of course.'

‘Does Roshan Agha know?'

‘Not yet – I think. Oh, Naim,' she wept. ‘Why? Why did it have to happen?'

‘Azra,' Naim said to her calmly, ‘I did not set out to get myself arrested. It just happened. I am not the only one, there are hundreds more like me rotting in gaol. Look, I am healthy, except that I am thinner. It has done me no harm, it makes it easier for my feet to carry my weight. Look.' Cheerily he spread his arms to indicate his well-being. His empty left sleeve hung limply. He lowered his arms. Azra's eyes were fixed upon the sleeve. Naim began in embarrassment to twist the sleeve in his right hand. ‘Oh, they took it away. They said it looked like a weapon with which I could shoot them.' He laughed yet again. ‘But it is safe. I will get it back when I leave.'

‘Dirty pigs,' Azra said angrily. ‘Animals.'

‘Listen to me, Azra, you shouldn't come here. It's not a fit place for you to visit. I'll be out sooner or later. Because there was no trial and no conviction, there is no fixed term to my imprisonment. I was even told recently that if I write a note regretting my actions and promising not to repeat them, I could be shown mercy and let out immediately. But I am not going to do that.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's not fair to the others. I'll be all right, you shouldn't worry too much. Tell me, how are things?'

Naim's mood had helped to lessen Azra's grief. ‘We demonstrated against the Simon Commission,' she told him.

‘Did you? Where?'

‘Here in Lucknow. Didn't you know they were coming here?'

‘We get no news from outside. What happened then?'

‘Oh, you should've seen it, we were thousands and thousands. The Commission didn't even leave the train.'

‘They didn't?'

‘No. They heard the people shouting “Go back, Simon” and decided not to get off here.'

‘You made them run? Wonderful.'

‘Yes, isn't it? I wish you could have seen it.'

Naim laughed. ‘Just now you were saying I should recant and beg for mercy.'

‘That was just so you could get out,' Azra said, laughing lightly for the first time.

The guards cut short the meeting and led Naim away.

‘I am having food sent to you from Shukla Auntie's house,' Azra shouted to him.

‘No, don't, it will never reach me. I will be all right,' he said.

It was after she was gone and Naim was in his cell that he felt his need for Azra as he had never done before. The cell looked more like a grave than it usually did. As he passed his hand over his body he remembered the touch of Azra's hands and, strangely, remembered all the grave-like places he had been in, the trenches in the battlefields, the half-room in the south where he had spent some nights with a young girl called Sheelah. He had been lonely at times in those places, but never like this. This is the worst, he thought.

‘Come on,' Harnam said to Naim the next morning during the rest period after the water chukker. ‘The blind pickpocket is leaving.'

The pickpocket was an extraordinary man. He was a blind beggar, but begging was only a front. Being blind, he would bump into people in the bazaar. His skill was manifold. On first impact, he knew immediately, without touching them with a hand, whether the other was well-off or poor. Ignoring the poor, he would aim for the rich. Further, with the very same impact he figured out what type of clothing the person was wearing – a suit, a shalwar-kameez, a jacket or a shirwani – and where the money, the wallet, the valuables would be. Only then would his fingers go to work. Nine times out of ten he got away with it. The one time he was caught he would be sent back to gaol for a few months. All the long-term inmates knew him, but it was the first time Naim had seen the old beggar and heard the stories of his exploits and expertise. He had a home, a wife and nine children. He had taught his old mates in gaol some of his skills and volunteered to do the same for Naim, which Naim declined, laughing and thanking him for the offer. This time when he was gaoled his feet had bad sores on them. Every once in a while, the sores raised a tremendous itch. When the itch came he scratched at them with fury, cutting into the sores with his sharp nails, making them bleed. His own explanation for the sores was that ‘business' had not been so good lately and feeding eleven mouths had become difficult. So when his old shoes fell apart, he begged for a time only for shoes and nothing else. But nobody gave him their old shoes. With his feet becoming worse, his day of discharge from the gaol arrived.