The City of Death

Artwork by t h lisa

Ram was a middle-aged man, short and small-built, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, his shirt torn at one shoulder, his trousers crumpled and looking like a pair of slept-in pyjamas. He looked at the sky and sighed deeply.

He walked a few steps and then stopped, fear creeping over his face. As he stood there straining hard to listen, a noise drifted in from a mohalla on his left accompanied by cries of 'Kill! Kill!' A loud patter of feet and then he saw some people running towards him. Should he run back to his house? He fell back a couple of steps. The people standing in front of their houses had not moved; they were still standing there and talking as before. Feeling a bit reassured, he tried to make out what the hubbub was about. Dogs! Dogs barking and fighting in the next mohalla. So even dogs were flying at each other's throat! He tried to smile but the smile died on his face like a burst bubble.

It was going to be eight. The curfew had been lifted after many days--four hours in the morning and the same period of time in the afternoon.

'Be careful!' Ram's wife had warned him in a beseeching tone as he stepped out of his house.

What did she mean? Who wanted her advice? Wasn't he already scared enough?

'So you want that something should happen to me?' he barked at her.

His wife started sobbing and he felt sorry at his rudeness. But sentiments had no place in an atmosphere of fear; they were swept away like pebbles before onrushing floodwaters. Further on, two people joined Ram, which appeared to be pre-arranged, and they resumed their walk. Their faces looked pinched and they cast furtive glances at one another as they walked, as if they had committed a crime and were afraid of being found out.

'Any news?' one of them asked in a muffled voice.

'They stabbed a man near the railway station,' the other replied.

'A Hindu?'

'No, a Muslim.'

'Is it true they found a dead girl's body in Himmatganj?'

'Yes.'

'A Muslim?'

'No, a Hindu.'

Ram wordlessly listened to their talk and felt as if someone was twisting his heart.

They had come to the end of the lane where a brick wall took off and ran along the entire length of the next lane, obviously in an attempt to keep people apart, but it did not seem to have worked. Bricks had been pulled out in many places, creating gaps for people to pass through to the Muslim mohalla on the other side. After independence the people of both the mohallas had started living in amity, the Hindus buying milk from Muslim milk-sellers and the Muslims provided with credit in Hindu banias' shops. They attended each other's marriages and played cricket and football matches against one another.

Only two years ago, Jameel, a boy from the Muslim mohalla, had become very popular in Ram's mohalla. Fond of drama and music he had played the role of Subhadra in 'Veer Abhimanyu'--a mythological play--and had been so wrapped up his role that while lamenting Abhimanyu's death he had collapsed on-stage and injured his head badly on the boards. This one role alone had made him popular with the Hindus. But now everything had changed. Now people had taken to violence, generating fear and hatred. Jameel's popularity had ended with one stroke.

They walked past the wall, each vying with the other to stay in the middle and getting hedged out. Ram, who was walking along the edge of the lane, saw a young man come towards them, and looked around with alarm. Barefooted, wearing a dhoti, his thick tuft flying in the air, a sandal-paste mark on his forehead, he looked a professional pundit. And, as they soon learnt, with the lifting of the curfew, he had hastened to this locality to conduct a puja and was now headed home. He was looking for some co-religionists in whose company he could walk through the troubled zone.

'I'll come with you,' he had said breathlessly.

Grimly trying to keep close to the group he would often get dislodged and then jump back. His antics annoyed the others but they soon relented, thinking he was the most vulnerable of them all. His appearance alone would proclaim him to be the most Hindu among Hindus.

The narrow road looked bleak, like the parting of a widow's hair. Like last night's hazy dream, Ram remembered having seen burqa-clad women and shrill children whenever he passed by this road. But they were nowhere to be seen today. Nor was old Kariman, the wood-stall owner's mother whom Ram had often seen raucously calling out to her son, 'Eh, Shabbir!' There were only some people standing before a tea-shop, scowling at passers-by without raising their heads, their lips contorted in nasty smiles.

Ram and his friends accelerated their pace but their legs seemed to be giving in. After walking some distance they came to a Hindu basti--huts and tenements, straw roofs and garbage heaps. The drains were choked, the water in them black. An old man was sitting in front of his house, his body caught in a paroxysm of coughing.

'I think nothing of going out alone on a dark night,' the young pundit said, grinning. Then he walked off, throwing out his chest. He had come to his own basti.

On the main road, the two friends took a different route, leaving Ram standing there, gaping after them. Normally a busy thoroughfare, it now lay deserted. Only a stray rickshaw or two went past. Shops were closed. Even the temporary pavement cycle repair shops were missing. Sometimes a small group of seedy-looking people would suddenly appear at one end of the road and walking briskly, as suddenly disappear round the other end. Only a few minutes back, a small batch of Muslim workers had passed by, stumbling into each other like sheep. Ram walked on, every once in a while looking back over his shoulder, unsure of himself, like the jackal that had strayed into town. He thought there was some danger lurking in every corner. He seemed to be wallowing in an eerie silence in which even a small, muffled voice resounded like the cry of a charging crowd. He wished he had not stirred out of his house that morning. But go to work he must. He worked in a small establishment in the Civil Lines and absence from work meant a cut in his wages.

Another small Muslim locality. People standing in small bunches on the road glared at him as he passed them. His body went limp with fright but he doggedly kept on for fear of running into some trouble. Then he saw a young man of about twenty wearing a vest and lungi running towards him, brandishing a knife. Ram had, in fact, seen him from a distance and had felt so petrified that he had lost his voice and could not even shout to the riot police who had been patrolling that area and were still within hailing distance. The young man came advancing. Ram quickly stepped aside. The man ran past him laughing and disappeared into a side lane.

Ram had almost stopped breathing. His teeth clattered. For an instant the faces of his wife and children rose before his eyes.

Another man, wearing a lungi and kameez, was heading for him. 'Babuji, go your way,' the man said. 'There's nothing to fear. These outsiders bring a bad name to the mohalla. You look the other way for a minute and things start happening. Oh, what bad times! You buy milk from Majid, don't you?'

Ram looked at the man intently but failed to place him. Was the fellow trying to play some trick on him?

'Yes,' he answered without stopping.

'Majid is my uncle. You just walk on. There's nothing to fear. But one thing, Babuji, stay indoors for another two or three days. These are bad times.'

Ram kept walking as if in a trance. He felt that the young man was still chasing him, brandishing the knife in the air.

His confidence returned as he reached the crossing. People were going about, looking lost. Ram stood there, bewildered. Everybody seemed to be trying to escape from something. A rickshaw was coming in his direction. 'Civil Lines!' the rickshawallah cried, 'One passenger!'

The hood of the rickshaw was pulled over to the front. So Ram could not see the other occupant of the rickshaw. He quickly settled the fare and got in. A tremor ran through his body as he settled on the seat and looked sideways. It was a bearded Muslim, hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, wearing a thin shirt and pyjamas. He gave Ram a hostile look.

The rickshaw started. They sat there glued to the edges of their seats to keep their bodies from touching. Ram noticed that the man's eyes frequently travelled to his waist and his trouser pockets. Ram knew why. He himself was keeping a watchful eye on the man's waist.

Eight or ten people were standing on the footpath in front of an eatery, three of them hefty, like wrestlers. One of them pointed towards the rickshaw, and the others, following his gaze, glared at it. 'Ya Khuda!' the man in the rickshaw muttered.

Ram looked at him startled. The man was holding his head against the hood of the rickshaw, his eyes wide and his knees shaking. Ram knew why the man was looking so frightened. Only a short while ago he had himself had a similar experience.

'Pull yourself together, you hear me!' Ram shook the old man's shoulder.

He gave Ram a helpless look. No sound came from his mouth.

'Are you ill?'

'No…no,' the man mumbled.

'Don't be scared,' Ram said matter-of-factly. 'There's nothing to be scared about.'

Ram was surprised at the tone of his voice. He had uttered the reassuring words mechanically, without meaning anything by them. Would he have said these words so blandly a few days ago. when he was still human, a feeling man?

The rickshaw had left the eatery far behind. The bearded man was now sitting up straight and looking better. 'What bad times!' he muttered.

'Yes, we are passing through bad times,' Ram echoed the old man's feelings.

'People are dying like rats. Yes, like rats in a plague.'

'Yes, both Hindus and Muslims--they are dying like rats.'

'It's only the poor that get killed. I live from day to day. I earn and eat. We've gone without food for three days.'

'Where do you work?' Ram asked.

'National Tailoring House. A grown-up can put up with hunger, but not the children. How can one bear to see the children starving before one's own eyes? I had to come out today.'

'Yes, I know. That's how things are.'

'Believe me, women have deserted their houses and are living in others' houses cooped up like hens. People are starving. Some have sold their bicycles, others their watches. Some have even pawned their wives' ornaments.'

'Both sides are to blame.'

'I know. Nobody is above board. I've a couple of Hindu friends. But now they avoid me. Why blame them? I also try to avoid them.'

'That's the whole trouble. And one reason why we're always down and out.'

'True, if we learn to live in amity no one would dare push us around like this.'

They fell silent. Their bravado seemed to have run thin. Like a sick man losing his appetite, Ram had lost his urge to talk. The rickshaw was going at a fast pace and they sat looking into the distance. Sometimes even the truth had a false ring. Did the man really mean it? It flashed through Ram's mind that the fellow had kept agreeing with him just to save his skin.

They reached the Civil Lines. The bearded man asked the rickshaw-driver to stop this side of the crossing. He paid his fare and walked off without looking back. He had walked a couple of steps when he abruptly stopped as if he had remembered something. He came back to Ram and smiled.

'I don't know whether I'll live through the day to be able to get back home in the evening,' the old man said. 'Well, goodbye. God willing, we shall meet again.'

He turned and swiftly walked away, throwing out his legs outlandishly. The rickshaw resumed its journey. Ram got down at the crossing. His eyes were filled with tears. Whether they were tears of gratitude for the old man or tears of helplessness at his own plight, he could not decide. But the painful situation seemed to give him a vicarious satisfaction. Although he was still feeling too shaken to savour any happiness or feel sad, yet his heart softened towards the old man. The man, whom a short time ago he had taken for a murderer, was tender like a lamb!

He looked around as he walked. Everything looked so cheerful and bright--the green trees, broad roads, beautiful shops. Then he remembered that he had to return in the evening by the same route and his heart became leaden as if a heavy weight had been placed on it. A sharp wind had risen, sounding like a woman moaning. Since the riots started the koel must have called countless times but he had never taken any notice of it. But now it sang on and on.

Amarkant, born in Uttar Pradesh in 1925, wrote four collections of short stories and half a dozen novels in Hindi. Sayid Mahnowar is an academic/translator.