‘Salaam, sahab.’
He thought of picking a huge stone and hitting him on the head with it.
The pimp said, ‘Take her. But please don’t trouble her too much and please do bring her back after an hour or two.’
‘All right.’
He stepped out of that big building on whose front had once hung a board that he had read countless times.
A tonga stood outside. He began to move towards it, with the woman following.
Once again the pimp raised his hand to salaam. Once again he was overcome with the urge to pick a huge stone and hit him on the head with it.
The tonga started. It took him to a seedy little hotel nearby. Somehow, he pulled himself out of the anxiety that had engulfed his brain and looked at the woman. She was wasted — from head to toe. Her eyelids were swollen. Her eyes were downcast. In fact, the entire upper part of her body was bent forward like a building that was about to topple over any second.
He said to her, ‘Raise your head a bit.’
With a terrible start she said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing. All I had said was, say something.’
Her eyes were bloodshot. They were red, as though someone had flung red-hot chillies in them. She remained quiet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Her tone burnt like acid.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Wherever you want me to be from.’
‘Why are you so curt?’
By now the woman had woken up fully. She looked at him with her chilly-bright eyes and said, ‘You get on with your job; I have to go.’
He said, ‘Where?’
The woman answered in a dry couldn’t-care-less tone, ‘Where you got me from.’
‘You can go now.’
‘You do what you have to do; why are you troubling me?’
Filling his voice with all the pain in his heart, he said. ‘I am not troubling you. I sympathize with you.’
This infuriated her. ‘I don’t need any sympathizer.’ And then, nearly shouting, she repeated, ‘You get on with your job and let me go.’
He came closer and attempted to pat her head, but she flung his hand away with a jerk.
‘I tell you — don’t trouble me. I have been awake for so many days. I have been awake ever since I have come here.’
He began to sympathize with her again.
‘Go to sleep … right here.’
The woman’s eyes became redder. In a sharp tone, she said, ‘I haven’t come here to sleep; this isn’t my home.’
‘Is that your home — where you have come from?’
The woman grew more agitated.
‘Uff! Stop this nonsense. I have no home. Why don’t you get on with your job! Or else take me back and take your money from that … that ….’ And she bit back a terrible obscenity.
He thought it was futile talking to the woman while she was in that state, or even showing her any sympathy. So, he said, ‘Come, I will take you back.’
And he took her back to the big building.
The next day, sitting in a seedy hotel in Kaisar Park, he narrated the entire incident to his friend. The friend was suitably sympathetic. He expressed the deepest shock and disgust and asked, ‘Was she young?’
He said, ‘I don’t know; I didn’t really see her properly. All I could think of was why didn’t I pick up a stone and crush the pimp’s head with it.’
The friend said, ‘Truly, that would have been a great mercy.’
He couldn’t sit in the hotel for very long with his friend. The previous day’s incident weighed on his mind. So he finished his tea and took leave of his friend.
The friend walked towards the tonga stand. His eyes searched for the pimp but couldn’t find him. It was past six. The big building loomed ahead, barely a few yards away. He walked towards it and soon was inside it.
People milled past him, but he reached the stairs quite easily. He saw the light spilling down the staircase. He looked up and began to climb the stairs on tiptoe. For a few minutes he stood silently at the topmost stair. Dazzling bright light spilled out of the room, but there wasn’t a sound to be heard. He crossed the landing. The door of the room was ajar. He looked around and peered inside the room. Before he could spot the bulb, its piercing light jabbed his eyes. He turned around to face the darkness outside and allow his eyes to get used to that dazzling light.
Once again he approached the door, but in such a way that he remained outside the piercing pool of light cast by the bulb. He peered inside. He could see a woman lying on a mat. He craned forward for a closer look; she appeared to be asleep. A dupatta covered her face. Her chest rose and fell with her breaths. He stepped closer and nearly screamed. He controlled himself and saw — a short distance away from the woman, a man lay on the uncovered floor. His head was smashed into pieces. A blood-smeared brick lay close by. He saw everything in the blink of an eye and rushed towards the stairs. He slipped and fell several times but heedless of his injuries tried his best to hold on to his senses. With great difficulty, he managed to reach home and spent the night having the most terrifying nightmares.
BY GOD
Muslims from there and Hindus from here were still crossing to and from. The camps were bursting at the seams. There wasn’t even space for putting the proverbial seed of sesame anywhere; yet, people were being stuffed into them. Food supplies were running short. Hygiene was abysmal. Diseases were spreading. But who had the time to care. Panic and chaos reigned.
It was the beginning of the year 1948. Probably it was the month of March. From this side and that, work had begun on rescuing ‘run-away’ women and children with the help of volunteers. Thousands of men, women, boys and girls were participating in this act of goodness. When I saw them thus engaged, I was seized by a strange happiness — so God was busy trying to remove the traces of Man’s misdeeds. He was trying to save those honours that had already been lost from further loot and pillage … But why?
So that Man might be saved from further stains and wounds on his virtue? So that he might quickly lick his bloodstained fingers and once again sit at the table with his fellow men, and partake of the good things? So that he might pick up the needle and thread of humanity and, while others still had their eyes closed, repair the torn fabric of chastity?
I could not be certain of anything … the efforts of these volunteers, however, seemed commendable.
Everyday they faced countless obstacles. There were unimaginable difficulties in their way because those who had kidnapped these women and girls were like mercury; up one minute, down another, here now, gone tomorrow. In one neighbourhood now, then in another. And no one was willing to part with any information.
These volunteers had the strangest stories to tell. One liaison officer told me of two girls in Saharanpur who refused to return to their parents. Another narrated how, once in Jalandhar, when they went to rescue an abducted girl, the captor’s entire family showed up to bid adieu as though their captive was a much-loved daughter-in-law setting off on a long journey. Several girls, fearful of meeting their parents again, committed suicide on the way. There were some who had succumbed to their tragedies and become weak. Some had become addicted to drink — when thirsty they would ask for alcohol instead of water and utter the filthiest of obscenities.
Whenever I thought of these abducted women and girls, all I could see were swollen, distended bellies. What would happen to these bellies? Who is the owner of that which lies stuffed in these bellies — India or Pakistan? And what of the nine months of labour? Who would pay the wages — India or Pakistan? Or would it all simply be put in the account of cruel Nature? Isn’t there a blank column somewhere in this ledger?
Rescued women were coming home. Retrieved women were going home.