Jeena hated the way he referred to her unborn baby. She would go into a huff whenever she heard it but Karimdad’s tone was, as always, so loving that it transformed Jeena’s anger into an indescribable sweetness and she would wonder how so much love could be stuffed into that awful expression — ‘son of a sow’.
The rumours of a war between India and Pakistan had been floating for some time now. In fact, it had become a near-certainty shortly after the creation of Pakistan that there would be a war between the two countries. Although no one in the village knew exactly when the war might break out, whenever someone asked Karimdad about the imminent breakout of hostilities, he would answer briefly and succinctly: ‘It’ll happen when it’ll happen. What’s the point of thinking about it?’
Jeena was terrified at the very thought of war. She was, by nature, a peace-loving girl. The smallest tiff between friends made her unhappy. In any case she had seen enough looting and killing during the last riots that had also claimed the life of her dear brother. Terrified, she asked Karimdad one day, ‘Keeme, what’ll happen?’
Karimdad smiled and said, ‘How would I know whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy?’
This sort of rejoinder always made her mad but she would soon get caught up in Karimdad’s banter and forget all about the war clouds gathering over her head. Karimdad was strong, fearless and completely in love with Jeena. He had bought a rifle and learnt to take perfect aim. All this combined to lend courage to Jeena but every time she heard idle gossip from an equally scared friend or loose talk among the villagers, her fears would return.
One day, Bakhto, the midwife, who came to check on Jeena everyday, brought the news that the Indians were going to ‘close’ the river. Jeena didn’t know what that meant so she asked Bakhto, ‘What do you mean by closing the river?’
Bakhto answered, ‘The river that waters our crops.’
Jeena thought for a minute, then laughed and said, ‘You talk like a mad woman … Who can close a river; it’s a river, not a drain.’
Bakhto gently massaged Jeena’s distended belly and said, ‘I don’t know … I have told you what I’ve heard. They say the newspapers are full of it, too.’
‘Full of what?’ Jeena found it hard to believe.
Bakhto felt Jeena’s belly with her wrinkled hand and answered, ‘That they are going to close the river.’ Then she pulled down Jeena’s shirt and got to her feet speaking in the tone of one who knows, ‘If all stays well, the child will be born ten days from now.’
Jeena asked Karimdad about the river the moment he stepped foot inside the house. At first, Karimdad tried to fob off her insistent queries, but when Jeena kept repeating her question, he said, ‘Yes, I have heard something of the sort too.’
Jeena demanded, ‘What have you heard?’
‘The Indians are going to close our river.’
‘But why?’
‘So that our crops are ruined.’
By now Jeena was convinced that rivers could actually be closed. So all she could say, a bit helplessly, was this: ‘How cruel those people are!’
Upon hearing this, Karimdad smiled after a moment’s pause. He said, ‘Forget all this … Tell me, did Bakhto come?’
Jeena answered listlessly, ‘She did.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said the baby will be born ten days from now.’
Karimdad hurray-ed loudly, ‘And may he live long!’
Jeena showed her displeasure and muttered, ‘Look at you, rejoicing at a time like this … when God knows what sort of Karbala5will be visited upon us.’
Karimdad went to the chaupal where almost all the men from the village had gathered. Everyone was clustered around the village headman, Chaudhry Nathu, and was asking him questions about the closing of the river. Someone was busy showering abuse upon Pandit Nehru, another wishing every manner of mishaps for him, and yet another was resolutely refusing to admit that the course of a river could be changed at will. And there were some who believed that whatever was about to happen was a punishment for our own misdeeds and the only way to avert the calamity that hovered overhead was to go to the mosque and pray.
Karimdad sat in a corner and listened quietly to the talk that swirled about him. Chaudhry Nathu was the most vocal among those who were abusing the Indians. Karimdad turned restlessly from this side to the other as though acutely frustrated. Everyone agreed on one thing: closing the river was a dirty, low-down trick, that it was a petty, unscrupulous, and an extremely cruel thing to do, that it was a sin that matched the one perpetrated by Yazid1.
Karimdad coughed a couple of times as though preparing to say something. But when yet another shower of the choicest profanities erupted from Chaudhry Nathu’s mouth, Karimdad could no longer contain himself. He cried out, ‘Don’t abuse others, Chaudhry!’
A terrible mother-related profanity got stuck midway in the Chaudhry’s throat. He turned and looked strangely at Karimdad who was, at that moment, busy adjusting the turban on his head.
‘What did you say?’
Karimdad answered in a low but firm voice, ‘I said: don’t abuse others.’
Chaudhry Nathu spat out the profanity stuck in his throat and turned aggressively towards Karimdad, ‘Abuse who? How are they related to you?’ And then he looked around and addressed all those who had gathered at the chaupal. ‘Did you hear, people? He says don’t abuse others … Ask him: how are they related to him?’
Karimdad answered patiently, ‘Why would they be related to me? They are my enemies, what else?’
A loud, strained sort of laughter tore out of the Chaudhry’s throat with such force that it shook the hairs of his moustache. ‘Did you hear that? They are his enemies. And should one love one’s enemies, son?’
Karimdad answered in the tone of a dutiful son answering an elder, ‘No, Chaudhry, I didn’t say that. All I said was: don’t abuse others.’
Karimdad’s childhood friend, Miranbakhsh, who sat next to him, asked, ‘But why?’
Karimdad spoke directly to Miranbaksh, ‘What’s the point, yaar? They are trying to close the river and ruin your crops and you think you can abuse them and even the score? Does it make sense? One abuses when there is no other answer.’
Miranbakhsh asked, ‘Do you have an answer?’
Karimdad paused for a minute, then said, ‘The question is not mine alone; it involves thousands upon thousands of people. My answer can not be everyone’s answer. In such situations, one can come up with a satisfactory answer only after careful consideration. They can’t turn the course of the river in one day. It’ll take them years. Whereas here, you are taking just one second to vent your pent up venom against them in the form of expletives.’ He put one hand on Miranbakhsh’s shoulder and spoke with affection. ‘All I know is this, yaar: that it is wrong to call India unscrupulous, petty and cruel.’
Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu shouted, ‘Now hear this!’
Karimdad continued to address Miranbakhsh, ‘It is stupid, my dear friend, to expect mercy or favour from the enemy. When war breaks out and we begin to cry that they are using a bigger bore rifle, or that we are dropping smaller bombs while they are dropping bigger bombs, I ask you in all honesty, are such complaints right? A small knife can kill just as effectively as a big knife. Am I not telling the truth?’
Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu began to think, but soon showed his irritation. ‘But the issue here is that they are going to close our water… they want to kill us of hunger and thirst.’
Karimdad removed his hand from Miranbakhsh’s shoulder and addressed the Chaudhry, ‘When you have already declared someone as your enemy, why complain that he wants to kill you of hunger and thirst? If he doesn’t drive you to your death from hunger and thirst, if he doesn’t turn your green fields into arid wastelands, do you think he will instead send you pans full of pilau and pots full of sweet sharbat and plant gardens and groves for your leisure?’