•
So much noise in the bazaar, and all around the house so much silence. Only when the train came was the silence broken. After the train passed, silence again, and the railroad tracks stretching far away — which he, standing on the roof, stared at with wonder for a long time. His wonders too had traveled a long way, and had changed so much.
Khan Bahadur Uncle had built this house with the thought of retiring to live here on his pension. After spending his life in Raisina, he couldn’t tolerate the lanes of Vyaspur city itself. But even before it was time for his pension, he departed this world. This event had taken place long before Zakir came to Vyaspur. He had never seen Khan Bahadur Uncle, but after coming to Vyaspur he had seen the shadow of his greatness hovering over the whole family.
“Then my brother the late Khan Bahadur devised a trick: he became a rebel, and mingled with the rebels. He became such an excellent rebel that he was made chairman of his committee. But the rebels too had secret agents. One agent found him out. In the presence of the whole committee, he let the cat out of the bag: ‘This man is an informer for the English!’ Then at once the rebels whipped out pistols and aimed them at my brother.” Chacha Jan, in the midst of speaking, paused. Ache Bhai, Najib Bhai, Sahib Miyan, all were listening very intently.
“Then what happened?”
“Oh, my late brother was never a man to lose his head in a tight spot! He made such a speech that the rebels’ pistols turned toward the very rebel who had declared him an English agent.” Chacha Jan paused, then spoke again. “These rebels were so dangerous that if my brother the late Khan Bahadur hadn’t captured them, they would have brought the English to the same pass they were in during ’57! They were terrorists. They created turmoil all over India.”
In the family when a wedding took place and all the family members got together, Chacha Jan started telling stories like this about Khan Bahadur Uncle, and sons and nephews gathered round and listened as though they were hearing legends about some mythic hero.
“My brother the late Khan Bahadur had a silver leg.”
“A silver leg?” Najib Bhai asked in astonishment.
“Yes indeed! It happened like this: while he was pursuing Sultanah the Brigand, he leaped from a moving train. He broke the bone in his leg. Then in Raisina the Viceroy’s surgeon treated him, and removed his whole leg and attached a silver leg.”
They were all absorbed in wonder. Then Najib Bhai asked, “Then it was Uncle who captured Sultanah the Brigand?”
“Who else? Young Sahib, or even Young Sahib’s venerable father, could never have managed to catch him. Only my brother the Khan Bahadur had the courage to capture him! And who captured the Silk Handkerchief band?”
“The Silk Handkerchief band? Who were they?”
“Who were the Silk Handkerchief band?” Chacha Jan laughed: “My sons, what do you know about anything? The Silk Handkerchief band had made a complete plan for overthrowing English rule. In the nick of time my brother the late Khan Bahadur figured out their scheme, and snatched the silk handkerchief with their plans written on it.” He paused, then said, “My brother the late Khan Bahadur did great favors for the English. That’s why when he died, the Viceroy said, ‘Khan Bahadur’s death has broken my back.’”
“Brother, ask this nephew of yours whether he too plans to make something of himself like Uncle, or whether he’ll live an idle life.”
“Zakir, my son! You hear what your mother is asking — give her an answer. One thing I’ll tell you for sure: my brother the Khan Bahadur didn’t become the Khan Bahadur easily. How hard he worked! Can anyone today study as painstakingly as he studied? I’ll tell you what happened one time, his lantern ran out of oil. When he looked in the oil bottle, that was empty too. Do you know what he did? He caught fireflies and tied them in the end of Bi Amma’s dupattah, and by their light he studied until it was time for the morning prayer. Will anyone today believe this? But then, he received the fruit of his labor. When the results of the Matriculation exam were announced, he came in first for the whole of the United Provinces.”
•
He too was studying hard. The Matriculation exam was upon him. Night after night he sat up studying with a lantern lit, and day after day he settled himself under a mango tree in the school grounds. The school was closed to prepare for the exam. The classrooms were locked up, the verandahs empty, the playing fields silent. What a favorable atmosphere it was for studying! In the shade of the school’s single mango tree, he and Surendar both studied with concentration. When they grew tired, they would stare at the coal-tar road before them: sometimes a lorry passed by, and then again the road would be empty.
“Do you know where this lorry is going?” Surendar asked him.
“Where is it going?”
“Meerut.”
“Meerut? This lorry is going to Meerut? Have you seen Meerut? What is Meerut like?” In a single breath he asked so many questions.
He saw Meerut first through Surendar’s eyes. Now he was seeing it through his own. After their classes at the College were over, he and Surendar both used to set off toward the Company Gardens. The Cantonment, the world of the English, long silent oiled-looking streets between two rows of dense trees, going on and on until they were lost in the distance. Sometimes a white Englishman in white canvas shoes and white shirt and shorts, carrying a tennis racket, would hurry past them, quite close, and turn in at the Company Gardens gate. Sometimes a golden-haired, white-faced Memsahib passed by them, and they both watched her naked white calves until she vanished from sight. Then a dark-skinned maidservant would come by, with a child the color of milk seated in a carriage that she slowly pushed along.
“From here”—Surendar stopped during their walk—“the movement of ’57 started.”
“From here?” He looked at the place with amazement, and wondered what was special about it. As he kept on looking at it, and thinking about it, the awesomeness of the place gradually made itself felt.
“Surendar!” As they walked on, he suddenly asked, “How will Hitler get to London? There’s an ocean in between.”
“My friend, Hitler has a powder that you sprinkle on the ocean, and then it settles down and becomes like stone.”
Then back to the College where there was a crowd, there was turmoil, if Surendar hadn’t been there he would have been lost in the crush of boys. But then the whole crowd of boys was lost, along with Surendar. Passing along the verandah, one boy shouted a slogan: “Quit India!” The boys going to classes, the boys coming from classes, paused. Then in an instant a storm of slogans arose: “Quit India!” “Long live the revolution!” “Victory to Mahatma Gandhi!” Then the classroom windows began to break. Then someone shouted, “They’re coming!” Pell-mell flight, the emptying verandah, silence, in the silence the distant sound of galloping horses. The mounted police were coming to the College.
The verandahs, the rooms, the lawns stayed silent for weeks, for months. Here and there guards with truncheons, sometimes dozing, sometimes standing alertly at attention. A handful of Muslim boys, five or six in one class and two or three in another. But Professor Mukherji still gave his lectures just as loudly, and with just as much enthusiasm, as if nothing had happened.