The Wind
Carried All Away….
by IKRAMULLAH
(PartII)
In the open area beyond the jute curtain, cleaning the drain by the quarters, Kalu Bhangi asked in a worried voice, “Bibi, what happened? I'm coming in, so veil your head.” My mother drew her dupatta over the side of her face. Kalu entered-dark skin glistening under the sweat, the dhoti tied tautly around his waist, a badly soiled turban wrapped around the head, dark drops of filth dripping continuously on the floor from the broom in his hand! He tossed the broom to one side. “Children, make room.” He steered the sewing machine wheel back and forth. My cries were reaching heaven.
“Bhai, leave it lest it gets worse.”
“No, Bibi the finger has come out. Shabash, Massu, pull your finger out.” He pulled my trembling hand. The blood-drenched finger had been freed. I twisted and turned while holding the left wrist in my right hand. Kapil's mothe came in, panting in her soiled sari. The borders of her blouse were always lined with the dirt that accumulated in the creases of her ample belly. The smell of asafetida and turmeric wafted from her skin as always. “Massu, mother, don't worry, everything will be all right.”
“Kapil's mother, I don't have a good feeling about this.”
“Don't lose heart. Thank God's mercy that the injury is not serious.”
Kalu lifted me up and started towards the hospital. My mother came after us as far as the jute curtain.
“Go to his father first.”
“Bibi, don't worry.”
My cries had changed to sobbing. A procession of children followed us. A voice issued from Kalu's soiled moustache, which turned inward upon his upper lip: “Grown-ups get hurt every now and then. Crying doesn't become you.”
At a little distance from our quarters were the quarters for the Bhangis. There, in the open space in front of their homes, during Gugga's death anniversary, emerged a royal voice from beneath a soiled, bushy moustache, as Kalu sang in the evenings. A congregation of raised flags of various colours would be seen there. One could hear the drums, long steel tongs providing the rhythm, while food, which had been begged from different houses, would be cooked in a cauldron. Kalu would go on singing the refrain, rearranging at the same time the setting of his oppressive mustache. Then the rhythm of the drum and the steel tongs would gather and people would sigh and emit sad sounds reminiscent of the enveloping evening shadow. No one except the children of other communities showed any interest in their festivals.
“Will we get a share from what's cooking in the pot?”
“Hai, Massu, you are bad and greedy too! They are untouchables. Bhangis. Why should we eat their food?” Kamni was after all a Brahmin's daughter. If she didn't worry about untouchability, who would?
Manu's hands are too long, they stretch across centuries to erect a wall of hatred. But Kamni had poked holes in it with the finger of her feelings. To establish equality among people had become her religion. It was her father's desire that she become a doctor, to see her wearing the white coat. There would be a log line of patients outside. Money would pour from the sky. All hardships would fade away. The college administration kicked her out. Simply because she wanted to push all sorrows, hunger and injustices into the Indian Ocean before the next dawn broke. Crazy! Has anything like this ever happened?
“Why are you sitting here?” A guard stands before me. Why am I sitting here? “I don't mind getting up, bhai,” A big chunk of the night has passed, the silence -stricken street, well-stocked shops, a lonely man- certainly the guard has a reason. He tugs at the lock. All is okay. But suspicion refuses to budge. He is convinced something is fishy. Yet he can't put his finger on it.
As the body continues to melt it grows heavier. My legs have become stuffed with steel. Impossible to take another step! Walking a little will help as it will warm the body. It would have been better if I had died of a hear failure. But then I would not have been able to enjoy life to the fullest. My eyes have feasted on life today- huge morsels, big enough to stretch my mouth, choke the daylight out of me, pop out my eyes. The entire city has fallen asleep; it is time to go to the hut. No, this city doesn't sleep. Like a snake, even in sleep it keps one eye open. Even now there are tiny islands full of life in front of cinema halls, at the railway station and the taxi stands. Tea must be boiling, paans being prepared, and there must be something available to eat as well. All around me stand monstrous buildings staring in silence. And I, minuscule thing-worse than an ant-crawl on the street. It won't make a difference if I get crushed under someone's foot. Life keeps on being born and wiped out by the millions in this universe. The buildings inch towards me from all sides. Yes, they advance slowly, trying to narrow in on me. They speed up, running, oh… I feel dizzy. I should rest here on the footpath. The entire body is shivering- as though a hunting dog were chasing a fawn. The veins hammer at the temples. What, you give up? Death is not too painful. It knocks out the dying before he actually dies, just as the doctor does before the operation. One doesn't know much, doesn't feel anything and the doctor moves on once her work is done. Karmu the dhobi had gone to the bazaar to buy soda powder when someone knifed him because of his name: Karim Buksh. Jumping off his bicycle, he fell into the sewer. The cops put him on a cot and brought him to the hospital. Kalu Bhangi ran to his house. “Sardaran, Sardaran, Karmu's hurt. Let's go to the hospital.”
Outside the operation theatre, Sardaran continued to weep from behind her white shawl, leaning against a corner while holding her little Shado in her lap Her eyes were melting away and the tears disappeared into her shawl, but no sound emerged from her mouth.
A wave of terror spread through the living quarters of the hospital.
Everyone was struck with fear and bafflement. They had thought the riots were taking place only in cities. One heard random pieces news of someone being stabbed and considered them distant incidents. Now it had become an everyday thing which the mind had finally accepted. Every new attack was received with little bit of surprise, artificial disbelief, and quickly forgotten. But our neighbourhood was safe; how strange that the riots had reached our door. Hindus and Muslims, divided into little groups, began whispering things among themselves. Children started to feel nervous talking to each other. Distrust began showing in the eyes. Voices became harsh. Kamni had established a society with Zafar's assistance to serve those wounded in the riots. The society's eight to ten members belonged to every religion. I was a member too. We had been given a room in the hospital where we kept our things and waited for the call of duty, taking turns; we'd go out to collect donations. Along with serving milk, food and medicine to the injured, we would try and console the relatives as well. I entered the room, huffing. Kamni and Zafar were stirring sugar in the big milk container. Kapil washed mugs at the basin for milk.
'kamni, Kamni, someone stabbed Karmu .”
“What? Who?”
Zafar retailed with irritation, “Don't you know who'd do something like this? We're all fair game for reach other. Somebody mst have done his duty.”
Kamni grew dejected. “He'd done no harm to anyone. All he did as wash other people's dirty laundry.”
Zafar replied, “Who cares about that!”
Kapil replied, “Is he injured seriously?”
“ I didn't see, only heard he'd been stabbed in the belly. He is in the operation theatre at the moment.”
