“Not yet.”
“How long can it be before it happens? May God the Most High have mercy on this country.” Abba Jan sighed.
“Maulana! In Amritsar — now there was a curfew! Anyone who once stuck his head out the window never got a chance to pull it back in again. The moment a head appeared, they fired.”
“Brother, when was all this?”
“Maulana, this happened at the time of Jallianwala Bagh. What a great fire was started then! For three nights no one lit a lamp in his house, there was so much light from the fire.”
“Oh?” Zakir looked with surprise at Khvajah Sahib.
“Yes, son! Would I tell a lie, now in my old age? It was the biggest petrol pump in Amritsar, the one where the Sahibs’ cars were filled with petrol. It burned for three days and three nights. The flames reached to the sky. Then what happened was that the bank was looted, then the looting spread to the cloth market. Then a curfew was imposed. It was a curfew like the wrath of God! When anybody stuck his head even a tiny bit out the window, there was the crack! of a rifle, and he dropped like a stone.”
“The Europeans did so many cruel things,” Abba Jan muttered.
“Maulana, everyone has oppressed us, the foreigners too and our own people too. Aren’t there cruel things going on right now?” He paused, then said, “But, really, the English were held in so much awe. What authority they had! Proclamation was made that whoever had looted any property should put it outside his house by evening. After that, the houses would be searched. I tell you, Maulana-ji, you won’t believe it, but people who hadn’t looted a scrap of cloth put their own property out in the street. People even piled their daughters’ dowries outside their houses. By evening, the streets of Amritsar were heaped with satins and brocades.”
Abba Jan listened in silence, smoking his huqqah. Then he cleared his throat and said, “God bless him, my venerable father always told how in ’57 there was such a strict curfew that they had to keep even the bodies of the dead in the house for three days sometimes. They couldn’t even get a piece of plain cloth for a shroud, and they couldn’t even get a grave for the burial. They would wrap the body in coarse sacking, and in the dark of night, making sure that no soldier was watching, they would bury the body right there in the lane.” He fell silent, then said sadly, “What hard times Muslims have faced!”
“But, Maulana, now what times are coming upon the Muslims?”
Abba Jan raised his forefinger toward the sky: “Only He knows.”
“Maulana! Let me tell you one thing: we’re destined to endure bad times at the hands of our sons. I tried to make Salamat see reason: ‘Son, your wits are wandering. Why do you ruin your throat yelling slogans?’ And what answer does he give me, but ‘We’re going to change the system!’”
Abba Jan said gravely, “Khvajah Sahib! In this world there have lived one hundred twenty-four thousand Prophets, and has the world changed?”
“No sir, it hasn’t changed.”
“Then when the Prophets haven’t been able to change the world, how will your boy and mine change it?”
“Maulana, you’re quite right. The world cannot change.”
“Khvajah Sahib, I’ve reached such an age — what times have come and then gone again! Each time I’ve seen the same result. Some hot-blooded types have had their blood cooled forever. As for the rest, they’ve looked out for their own interests, and made their own deals.”
“Sir, you’re absolutely right. Please, Maulana, tell this to that bastard Salamat.”
“His blood is still hot, he won’t be able to understand it yet. It can only be understood after living a long time. And Khvajah Sahib! I now no longer intervene, under any circumstances.”
“You’re very right. In Pakistan, there’s no point in speaking out.”
“Khvajah Sahib, there’s no point in speaking out anywhere.”
“Yes sir, exactly, exactly. Whoever speaks out is arrested. At least, we’ve seen this happen in Pakistan.”
Abba Jan silently slid the huqqah over toward himself, took the mouthpiece in his mouth, and was lost in thought.
Khvajah Sahib sat in silence. Then suddenly he addressed Zakir: “In the afternoon he was with you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then he didn’t go off with the procession?”
“I don’t know.”
“The bastard,” Khvajah Sahib muttered angrily. Then he said, “The truth is that his mother is very worried. I told her, ‘Count your blessings — you have sons. Be patient about your son,’ but she couldn’t be patient.” He paused, then said, “How could she be patient? One son went to Dhaka and got trapped there, one son is ruining himself here.”
“Have you had any letters from Karamat?”
“That’s the worry, that we haven’t had any letters from him.”
“Place your trust in Him.” Abba Jan gestured with his finger toward the sky.
“Well, we do place our trust in Him. Maulana Sahib! That Karamat of mine is so lovable, so obedient and respectful. Look how the Lord arranged it: the one who’s a vagabond and a ruffian is here grinding our hearts into powder, while the well-behaved one has gone and got trapped there, poor boy.” As he spoke, he stood up.
Abba Jan, smoking his huqqah, watched Khvajah Sahib. “Are you going?”
“Yes, I’ll go check at home. That worthless wretch might perhaps have come back.”
“Yes, go then.”
“Maulana Sahib, do pray for the wretch. His mother worries about him all the time.”
Abba Jan again raised his finger toward the sky: “He is the Protector.”
Khvajah Sahib took his leave, and Abba Jan picked up his huqqah and went inside. Zakir was very tired. The moment he lay down, he began to feel sleepy. He closed his eyes, but sleep was only hovering around him, it didn’t descend. He couldn’t tell how long he lay there with his eyes shut, half asleep and half awake. Suddenly someone banged on the door.
“‘Open this heavy door,* let me come in!’” Afzal’s voice came from outside.
He rose and opened the door. Afzal entered, and behind him Salamat and Ajmal.
“Zakir!” Afzal first looked at him, then gestured toward Salamat and Ajmaclass="underline" “I’ve forgiven these fellows, you forgive them too.”
He couldn’t decide how to answer Afzal. Afzal said imperiously, “I’m telling you, forgive them! I’ve taken them under my protection.” Then he said kindly, “Zakir, these two are good people.” As he spoke, he sat down in a chair and addressed Ajmaclass="underline" “Fellow! Bring out what you’ve got with you.”
Ajmal, sitting down in a chair, put his bag on the table. Opening it, he pulled out a bottle and placed it on the table. Zakir looked with fear and amazement at the bottle. “Yar, not here!”
“What?” Afzal looked attentively at him.
He said nervously, “Yar, you know my father is very strict in these matters.”
Salamat laughed contemptuously. “Your father!”
“Yar, that white-bearded fellow, that’s your father, isn’t he?” Afzal asked. “Never mind about him, he’s like my own child. I’ll explain to him, you go and bring some glasses.”
“Nothing can be explained to fathers.” Salamat laid down the law.
“Do you judge other people’s fathers by your own?” Afzal said.
“He’s not my father!” Salamat yelled.
“Then whose father is he?” Afzal asked innocently.
“I don’t know, but I know he’s not my father. I’m a bastard,” he said, grinding his teeth furiously.
“Is there any proof?”
“The proof is that I say it!”
“That’s no proof. Fellow! Before making this announcement, you should have asked your mother.”
“I did ask her.”