Note: this is a translation of the original Urdu short story, “Gurmukh Singh Ki Wasiyat” by Saadat Hasan Manto.
At first there were one or two incidents of stabbing. Now there were frequent reports from both sides of fighting, in which, besides knives and daggers, kirpans, swords and even guns were frequently used. There were also some reports of country-bomb explosions.
Nearly everyone in Amritsar thought that these communal riots would not last for long. They thought the atmosphere would return to normal as soon as things cooled down. Several such riots had taken place in Amritsar before this, but they hadn’t lasted very long.
The mayhem of fighting and killing would last for ten or fifteen days, and then it would become peaceful. Consequently, on the strength of past experiences, people thought that this fire would extinguish itself and turn cold. But that didn’t happen. The fury of the riots just grew by the day.
The Muslims who lived in Hindu neighbourhoods began to flee. Similarly, the Hindus who lived in Muslim neighbourhoods left their homes and belongings and began looking for sanctuaries.
But in everybody’s opinion this was only a temporary arrangement, until such time as the air was cleansed of the poison of riots.
Miyan Abdul Hai, retired sub-judge, believed, one hundred per cent, that conditions would improve very soon. That was why he was not too worried. He had a eleven year old son and a daughter of seventeen. There was an old servant who was close to seventy. It was a small family.
When the riots began, Miyan-sahib had stored quite a lot of rations at home. It was a matter of some satisfaction for him that if, God forbid, conditions became a bit too bad, and shops and the like were closed, then there wouldn’t be any difficulty at least as far as food was concerned. But his young daughter, Sughara, was very worried.
Theirs was a three-storied house. It was quite tall compared to other buildings. From their roof, nearly three-quarters of the city was clearly visible. For some days now Sughara had seen that there was fire, whether near or far, somewhere or the other. Initially the clanging of the fire engine could be heard, but now, even that had stopped because fires were erupting all over.
At night now, it was entirely something else that was visible. In the dense darkness, huge flames rose, as if the gods were emitting fountains of fire from their mouths. Then there were strange noises which, joined together with the “Har Har Mahadev” and “Allahu Akbar” cries, became very frightening indeed.
Sughara never spoke about her fear and panic to her father because once, sitting at home, he had said that there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything would be fine.
Whatever Miyan-sahib said was usually sound. That was of some consolation to Sughara. But when the electricity was cut off and the water taps ran dry simultaneously, she told Miyan-sahib of her anxiety and, with trepidation, expressed the view that they should go to Sharifpur for a few days, where all the Muslims living nearby were gradually moving to. Miyan-sahib did not change his decision and he said, “There’s no need to worry unnecessarily. Things will improve very soon.”
But things did not improve very soon: they worsened by the day. The neighbourhood where Miyan Abdul Hai’s house was located was bereft of Muslims, and God’s ways were such that Miyan-sahib suffered a stroke, as a result of which he was bed-ridden. His son, Basharat, used to frolic in all kinds of play indoors, all by himself, running upstairs and downstairs. He now sat close to his father’s cot and began to sense what was happening.
The marketplace next to their building lay desolate. Dr Ghulam Mustafa’s dispensary lay blissfully closed. A little further away was Dr Guranditta. Sughara saw through the shutters that there were padlocks on his place too. Miyan-sahib’s condition was extremely worrying. Sughara was so anxious that she lost her cool.
She took Basharat aside and said, “For God’s sake, you must do something! I know that going out is dangerous. But go … go and call just anyone. Abbaji’s condition is very critical.”
Basharat went, but he returned very soon. His face had turned as pale as turmeric. He had seen a corpse on the crossroads, all bloody, and just nearby, a crowd of people looting a shop.
Sughara hugged her terrified brother and, invoking patience and gratitude, sat down. She could not bear to see her father’s plight now.
Miyan-sahib’s right side was completely paralysed, as if it were lifeless. His speech had also been affected and he communicated mostly with gestures which meant, “Sughara, there’s nothing to worry about. By the grace of God, everything will be fine.”
Nothing turned out right. The Ramadan fasts were about to end. Only two days remained. Miyan-sahib believed that the air would be completely pure before Eid. But now it seemed that the very day of Eid would be the day of apocalypse, because from the roof, clouds of smoke were now visible from virtually every part of the city. Sughara and Basharat could not sleep even a wink at night because the sound of bombs exploding was so terrifying.
In any case, Sughara had to stay awake to nurse her father. But now she felt as if these explosions were taking place inside her head. Sometimes she looked in the direction of her nearly-dead father, and sometimes at her brother who clung to her. There was the seventy-year-old servant, Akbar, who may just as well not have been there. All day and all night, he lay in his room, coughing away and spitting out phlegm.
One day, driven to exasperation, Sughara screamed at him, “What are you made of? Can’t you see the state Miyan-sahib is in? The truth is that you are a thankless parasite! When it’s time to be of service, you lie here, with asthma as your excuse. There have been followers who have even sacrificed their lives for their masters!”
Having unburdened her heart Sughara left. Later she felt remorse and regretted that she had shouted at and scolded the poor man. When she took the dinner plate that night to his room, she found it empty. Basharat searched all over the house but he was not to be found. The door leading out was unlatched, which meant that he had gone to try to do something for Miyan-sahib. Sughara prayed fervently to God to grant him success. But two days passed and he did not return.
It was evening. Sughara and Basharat had seen several such evenings, when the merriment of Eid unfolded, when their eyes used to be focused on the moon in the sky. The next day was Eid, only the moon’s confirmation of that remained. How restless they used to be for this sign! If the moon in the sky was covered over with a tuft of cloud, how frustrated they became! But now there were clouds of smoke in all directions.
Sughara and Basharat climbed up to the roof. Far away, in a few places, people’s shadows appeared like stains upon the buildings. But it wasn’t clear whether they were gazing at the moon or at the flames erupting and spreading across different places. The moon too was so obstinate that it shone through the cloak of smoke. Sughara raised her hands and prayed for God’s blessings to restore her father’s health. Basharat felt frustrated that because of this trouble a nice Eid had been spoilt.
Daylight had not entirely disappeared. That is to say, evening’s ink had not yet become clotted. Miyan-sahib’s cot was laid out in the untidy courtyard. He lay on that, his eyes cast on the distant heavens. Who knows what he was thinking. After gazing at the Eid moon, when Sughara went close to him and did her salaam, he replied in gestures. As Sughara bowed her head, he lifted the arm that was unaffected and patted her head affectionately. When tears dropped from Sughara’s eyes, Miyan-sahib’s eyes too became wet, but by way of consolation, with great difficulty, he uttered these words with his nearly-dead tongue: “God Almighty will make everything fine!” At that very moment there was some knocking on the door. Sughara’s heart stopped beating. She looked towards Basharat whose face had turned white like paper. There was knocking on the door again. Miyan-sahib said to Sughara, “See who it is.”
Sughara thought that perhaps it might be the old man Akbar. At that thought her eyes brightened. Clutching Basharat’s arm, she said, “Go and see, maybe Akbar’s come.” Hearing this, Miyan-sahib shook his head in rebuttal, as if to say, “No, its not Akbar.” Sughara asked, “Then who else could it be, Abbaji?” Miyan Abdul Hai strained his tongue and tried to say something. Just then Basharat returned. He was very frightened. His breath came in gasps. Pulling Sughara away from Miyan-sahib’s cot, he said softly “It’s a Sikh!”
Sughara screamed out, “A Sikh! What does he say?” Basharat said, “He says, ‘Open the door!” Trembling, Sughara pulled Basharat and clutched him tight. Sitting down on her father’s cot, she looked at him, devastated.
A strange smile formed on Miyan Abdul Hai’s thin, lifeless lips. “Go… its Gurmukh Singh!” Basharat shook his head in defiance, “It’s somebody else!”
In a voice full of decisiveness, Miyan-sahib said, “Go, Sughara, it is him.”
Notes:
kirpan: a ritual dagger that members of the Sikh faith are always supposed to carry.
salaam: paying respect to and taking the blessings of elders.
About the author: Saadat Hasan Manto was born in 1912 in India. He was a prolific story-writer in the Urdu language. Manto's stories look at the lives of the underdog, the infamous and the outcast, and expose the dark secrets in society. Manto lived through the times that saw communal madness and the partition of India, and he has portrayed that period in its tragic human dimension. His name is still largely unknown internationally, though he should rank with writers like Chekov and Maupassant. Manto had written thousands of stories but only a few hundred have been translated into English. He died in 1955 in Pakistan.
Translator: V RAMASWAMY lives in Kolkata, India. His translation of the early stories of the Bengali anti-establishment writer, Subimal Misra, The Golden Gandhi Statue from America, was published in 2010.
At first there were one or two incidents of stabbing. Now there were frequent reports from both sides of fighting, in which, besides knives and daggers, kirpans, swords and even guns were frequently used. There were also some reports of country-bomb explosions.
Nearly everyone in Amritsar thought that these communal riots would not last for long. They thought the atmosphere would return to normal as soon as things cooled down. Several such riots had taken place in Amritsar before this, but they hadn’t lasted very long.
The mayhem of fighting and killing would last for ten or fifteen days, and then it would become peaceful. Consequently, on the strength of past experiences, people thought that this fire would extinguish itself and turn cold. But that didn’t happen. The fury of the riots just grew by the day.
The Muslims who lived in Hindu neighbourhoods began to flee. Similarly, the Hindus who lived in Muslim neighbourhoods left their homes and belongings and began looking for sanctuaries.
But in everybody’s opinion this was only a temporary arrangement, until such time as the air was cleansed of the poison of riots.
Miyan Abdul Hai, retired sub-judge, believed, one hundred per cent, that conditions would improve very soon. That was why he was not too worried. He had a eleven year old son and a daughter of seventeen. There was an old servant who was close to seventy. It was a small family.
When the riots began, Miyan-sahib had stored quite a lot of rations at home. It was a matter of some satisfaction for him that if, God forbid, conditions became a bit too bad, and shops and the like were closed, then there wouldn’t be any difficulty at least as far as food was concerned. But his young daughter, Sughara, was very worried.
Theirs was a three-storied house. It was quite tall compared to other buildings. From their roof, nearly three-quarters of the city was clearly visible. For some days now Sughara had seen that there was fire, whether near or far, somewhere or the other. Initially the clanging of the fire engine could be heard, but now, even that had stopped because fires were erupting all over.
At night now, it was entirely something else that was visible. In the dense darkness, huge flames rose, as if the gods were emitting fountains of fire from their mouths. Then there were strange noises which, joined together with the “Har Har Mahadev” and “Allahu Akbar” cries, became very frightening indeed.
Sughara never spoke about her fear and panic to her father because once, sitting at home, he had said that there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything would be fine.
Whatever Miyan-sahib said was usually sound. That was of some consolation to Sughara. But when the electricity was cut off and the water taps ran dry simultaneously, she told Miyan-sahib of her anxiety and, with trepidation, expressed the view that they should go to Sharifpur for a few days, where all the Muslims living nearby were gradually moving to. Miyan-sahib did not change his decision and he said, “There’s no need to worry unnecessarily. Things will improve very soon.”
But things did not improve very soon: they worsened by the day. The neighbourhood where Miyan Abdul Hai’s house was located was bereft of Muslims, and God’s ways were such that Miyan-sahib suffered a stroke, as a result of which he was bed-ridden. His son, Basharat, used to frolic in all kinds of play indoors, all by himself, running upstairs and downstairs. He now sat close to his father’s cot and began to sense what was happening.
The marketplace next to their building lay desolate. Dr Ghulam Mustafa’s dispensary lay blissfully closed. A little further away was Dr Guranditta. Sughara saw through the shutters that there were padlocks on his place too. Miyan-sahib’s condition was extremely worrying. Sughara was so anxious that she lost her cool.
She took Basharat aside and said, “For God’s sake, you must do something! I know that going out is dangerous. But go … go and call just anyone. Abbaji’s condition is very critical.”
Basharat went, but he returned very soon. His face had turned as pale as turmeric. He had seen a corpse on the crossroads, all bloody, and just nearby, a crowd of people looting a shop.
Sughara hugged her terrified brother and, invoking patience and gratitude, sat down. She could not bear to see her father’s plight now.
Miyan-sahib’s right side was completely paralysed, as if it were lifeless. His speech had also been affected and he communicated mostly with gestures which meant, “Sughara, there’s nothing to worry about. By the grace of God, everything will be fine.”
Nothing turned out right. The Ramadan fasts were about to end. Only two days remained. Miyan-sahib believed that the air would be completely pure before Eid. But now it seemed that the very day of Eid would be the day of apocalypse, because from the roof, clouds of smoke were now visible from virtually every part of the city. Sughara and Basharat could not sleep even a wink at night because the sound of bombs exploding was so terrifying.
In any case, Sughara had to stay awake to nurse her father. But now she felt as if these explosions were taking place inside her head. Sometimes she looked in the direction of her nearly-dead father, and sometimes at her brother who clung to her. There was the seventy-year-old servant, Akbar, who may just as well not have been there. All day and all night, he lay in his room, coughing away and spitting out phlegm.
One day, driven to exasperation, Sughara screamed at him, “What are you made of? Can’t you see the state Miyan-sahib is in? The truth is that you are a thankless parasite! When it’s time to be of service, you lie here, with asthma as your excuse. There have been followers who have even sacrificed their lives for their masters!”
Having unburdened her heart Sughara left. Later she felt remorse and regretted that she had shouted at and scolded the poor man. When she took the dinner plate that night to his room, she found it empty. Basharat searched all over the house but he was not to be found. The door leading out was unlatched, which meant that he had gone to try to do something for Miyan-sahib. Sughara prayed fervently to God to grant him success. But two days passed and he did not return.
It was evening. Sughara and Basharat had seen several such evenings, when the merriment of Eid unfolded, when their eyes used to be focused on the moon in the sky. The next day was Eid, only the moon’s confirmation of that remained. How restless they used to be for this sign! If the moon in the sky was covered over with a tuft of cloud, how frustrated they became! But now there were clouds of smoke in all directions.
Sughara and Basharat climbed up to the roof. Far away, in a few places, people’s shadows appeared like stains upon the buildings. But it wasn’t clear whether they were gazing at the moon or at the flames erupting and spreading across different places. The moon too was so obstinate that it shone through the cloak of smoke. Sughara raised her hands and prayed for God’s blessings to restore her father’s health. Basharat felt frustrated that because of this trouble a nice Eid had been spoilt.
Daylight had not entirely disappeared. That is to say, evening’s ink had not yet become clotted. Miyan-sahib’s cot was laid out in the untidy courtyard. He lay on that, his eyes cast on the distant heavens. Who knows what he was thinking. After gazing at the Eid moon, when Sughara went close to him and did her salaam, he replied in gestures. As Sughara bowed her head, he lifted the arm that was unaffected and patted her head affectionately. When tears dropped from Sughara’s eyes, Miyan-sahib’s eyes too became wet, but by way of consolation, with great difficulty, he uttered these words with his nearly-dead tongue: “God Almighty will make everything fine!” At that very moment there was some knocking on the door. Sughara’s heart stopped beating. She looked towards Basharat whose face had turned white like paper. There was knocking on the door again. Miyan-sahib said to Sughara, “See who it is.”
Sughara thought that perhaps it might be the old man Akbar. At that thought her eyes brightened. Clutching Basharat’s arm, she said, “Go and see, maybe Akbar’s come.” Hearing this, Miyan-sahib shook his head in rebuttal, as if to say, “No, its not Akbar.” Sughara asked, “Then who else could it be, Abbaji?” Miyan Abdul Hai strained his tongue and tried to say something. Just then Basharat returned. He was very frightened. His breath came in gasps. Pulling Sughara away from Miyan-sahib’s cot, he said softly “It’s a Sikh!”
Sughara screamed out, “A Sikh! What does he say?” Basharat said, “He says, ‘Open the door!” Trembling, Sughara pulled Basharat and clutched him tight. Sitting down on her father’s cot, she looked at him, devastated.
A strange smile formed on Miyan Abdul Hai’s thin, lifeless lips. “Go… its Gurmukh Singh!” Basharat shook his head in defiance, “It’s somebody else!”
In a voice full of decisiveness, Miyan-sahib said, “Go, Sughara, it is him.”
Notes:
kirpan: a ritual dagger that members of the Sikh faith are always supposed to carry.
salaam: paying respect to and taking the blessings of elders.
About the author: Saadat Hasan Manto was born in 1912 in India. He was a prolific story-writer in the Urdu language. Manto's stories look at the lives of the underdog, the infamous and the outcast, and expose the dark secrets in society. Manto lived through the times that saw communal madness and the partition of India, and he has portrayed that period in its tragic human dimension. His name is still largely unknown internationally, though he should rank with writers like Chekov and Maupassant. Manto had written thousands of stories but only a few hundred have been translated into English. He died in 1955 in Pakistan.
Translator: V RAMASWAMY lives in Kolkata, India. His translation of the early stories of the Bengali anti-establishment writer, Subimal Misra, The Golden Gandhi Statue from America, was published in 2010.
