There was chaos all around; absolute mayhem. People
were running around clutching bundles of colorful clothing, holding them as
closely to their chests as mothers would their children. Some had makeshift
weapons; some had taken their rusty swords of the walls, brandishing as
weapons; not decorations. The entire mohalla was choc-a block with people
trying to make a speedy getaway. Bullock carts were being harnessed; the odd
mule was being loaded with ration supplies, clothes, bric-à-brac with sentimental
attachments and children, all with hurried care. The women in veils were tying
their jewelry in small bundles to the drawstrings of their voluminous salwars.
Their long shirts could hide many such small bundles from view.
Meera Devi sat still in her huge courtyard looking out of the lattice window. Her expression was one of helplessness and terror. The pandemonium outside was now beating hard in her chest .She was regretting every moment of the loud and pompous refusal to her son and daughter-in-law, of joining them in Amritsar. It was a mere 3 hours journey in the Jeep that her son had been given by the Water Supplies department, where he was an officer. True; the roads were not in a very good shape now but once in Amritsar, in the government quarters, she would have been safe. Now she was stuck here in her haveli of 20 rooms and big vegetable garden with nobody to look after her except Naseebo. All the servants had fled a week ago, pilfering all items that they could, in their desperation. Even the chenille beddings and duvets had gone missing although it was scorching in this June heat.
She wrung her hands in despair. Her arthritis forbade her from walking or moving more than 10 paces without support. When Naseebo came back with the mule cart and driver, her cousin, she was shedding copious tears into her heavy dupatta. Naseebo had tied Meera’s gold and rubies necklaces in small velvet pouches to her salwar’s drawstrings, like the other evacuees. Naseebo had also acquired reliable information that Hindustani troops would join the Hindu cavalcade from their village after a mere 5 miles. Then they would be safe and Naseebo would leave Meera in safe hands and return to her own people, with her cousin, very reluctantly.
Her mother had served Meera ever since the latter had arrived as the zamindar’s bride. Naseebo had been born in the servant quarters at the back of the vegetable garden and Mira had taken and instant pity on the scrawny, dark girl who seemed to be breathing her last with every deep sigh like breath. Mira had forbidden Naseebo’s mother to kill her and bury her under the cot, like her other 5 sisters and had taken her under her wing. Her mother had been not sure of her surviving the first winter as it is. When she had refused to feed Naseebo her milk, Mira had asked the head servant to feed her the fat goat’s milk, which perhaps saved her from imminent death.
Now it was time for Naseebo to return the favor. She had served Mira with mindless devotion all through her 18 years of life. So much so that she had forgotten her own faith. She could recite the aarti perfectly, fasted during navratri and shravan with Mira but had trouble doing her own namaz and remembering the “aayats”. This was indulgently ignored till she was around 16-17. But then, with the scenario changing in Lahore and its adjoining areas, her mother had rediscovered her own faith and had Naseebo betrothed to her first cousin, Jamaal. And now Jamaal was accompanying them till they met the army and got safe passage till the Indian border.
So off they went - an assortment of people and animals, oddly quiet for all so terror-stricken, for wailing and weeping at their plight would have broken the reserve and let loose violent emotions bubbling right under its scabby surface. The Muslims of the village watched in equal calm, some eyes hungrily searching among the caravans for valuables which should have been left behind, some mistily for friends of long years departing in such bitter times, in such a manner. Meera could not even look up at her haveli for fear of breaking down in loud wails of grief. She kept her veiled head downcast and resorted to praying. Her son had left word with the village postmaster before the din this morning started .He would meet her at the border tomorrow morning and then take her to Amritsar. Thank God for Naseebo and her resourcefulness or she would have been stuck in her palatial house with nobody to escort her to safety.
But safety was a distant dream. Just 3 miles into the journey and they were ambushed by the waiting looters. The men were hacked in the first five minutes so was Jamaal, even before he could open his mouth to inform them of his Muslim status. Next they turned to the women. Here Naseebo finally managed to gasp out that she was not a Hindu, before they could proceed to tear off her clothes. She recounted her entire story of how she had accompanied Meera as a final act of protection for saving her own life, years back. Her attackers paused in their continuing ravage of the women. They looked at Meera, who was cowering behind Jamaal’s corpse and raised their hatchets to kill her, while Naseebo implored them to spare Meera, for she was old, frail and could not slake their lust.
And Meera too joined in, pleading with them, holding out her dear possessions in her hands, to take all of them but to spare her. The looters would have taken the baubles anyway, they jeered at her and then allowed her the chance to live if only she could give them something more precious than the jewels – a tasty morsel for them to enjoy perhaps, from the maid servants that they thought she had brought along. And so Meera pushed out Naseebo in front of her and asked them to take her. For she was a Hindu and not a Muslim as she had pretended to be. As evidence, she asked Naseebo to recite the aayats for the morning namaaz, which of course she faltered in. Now the looters, angered at being cheated, prodded Naseebo to declare her faith by correct incantations, but she failed. Enraged, the looters took Naseebo away to the nearby fields along with the other young girls and left Meera alone, as she was useless with her invalid status. She couldn’t raise an alarm anyways, she was so petrified.
Meera lay stunned yet relieved among the scatter of bodies, blood and displaced clothes, smashed china and glass. She was safe. Soon, the army or another refugee entourage would come by and she would rouse herself and join them in their safe haven. She would reach her son somehow. Naseebo had done well; she had paid off her debt. After all, hadn’t Meera saved her from sure death so many years back? Now the score was even.
Meera Devi sat still in her huge courtyard looking out of the lattice window. Her expression was one of helplessness and terror. The pandemonium outside was now beating hard in her chest .She was regretting every moment of the loud and pompous refusal to her son and daughter-in-law, of joining them in Amritsar. It was a mere 3 hours journey in the Jeep that her son had been given by the Water Supplies department, where he was an officer. True; the roads were not in a very good shape now but once in Amritsar, in the government quarters, she would have been safe. Now she was stuck here in her haveli of 20 rooms and big vegetable garden with nobody to look after her except Naseebo. All the servants had fled a week ago, pilfering all items that they could, in their desperation. Even the chenille beddings and duvets had gone missing although it was scorching in this June heat.
She wrung her hands in despair. Her arthritis forbade her from walking or moving more than 10 paces without support. When Naseebo came back with the mule cart and driver, her cousin, she was shedding copious tears into her heavy dupatta. Naseebo had tied Meera’s gold and rubies necklaces in small velvet pouches to her salwar’s drawstrings, like the other evacuees. Naseebo had also acquired reliable information that Hindustani troops would join the Hindu cavalcade from their village after a mere 5 miles. Then they would be safe and Naseebo would leave Meera in safe hands and return to her own people, with her cousin, very reluctantly.
Her mother had served Meera ever since the latter had arrived as the zamindar’s bride. Naseebo had been born in the servant quarters at the back of the vegetable garden and Mira had taken and instant pity on the scrawny, dark girl who seemed to be breathing her last with every deep sigh like breath. Mira had forbidden Naseebo’s mother to kill her and bury her under the cot, like her other 5 sisters and had taken her under her wing. Her mother had been not sure of her surviving the first winter as it is. When she had refused to feed Naseebo her milk, Mira had asked the head servant to feed her the fat goat’s milk, which perhaps saved her from imminent death.
Now it was time for Naseebo to return the favor. She had served Mira with mindless devotion all through her 18 years of life. So much so that she had forgotten her own faith. She could recite the aarti perfectly, fasted during navratri and shravan with Mira but had trouble doing her own namaz and remembering the “aayats”. This was indulgently ignored till she was around 16-17. But then, with the scenario changing in Lahore and its adjoining areas, her mother had rediscovered her own faith and had Naseebo betrothed to her first cousin, Jamaal. And now Jamaal was accompanying them till they met the army and got safe passage till the Indian border.
So off they went - an assortment of people and animals, oddly quiet for all so terror-stricken, for wailing and weeping at their plight would have broken the reserve and let loose violent emotions bubbling right under its scabby surface. The Muslims of the village watched in equal calm, some eyes hungrily searching among the caravans for valuables which should have been left behind, some mistily for friends of long years departing in such bitter times, in such a manner. Meera could not even look up at her haveli for fear of breaking down in loud wails of grief. She kept her veiled head downcast and resorted to praying. Her son had left word with the village postmaster before the din this morning started .He would meet her at the border tomorrow morning and then take her to Amritsar. Thank God for Naseebo and her resourcefulness or she would have been stuck in her palatial house with nobody to escort her to safety.
But safety was a distant dream. Just 3 miles into the journey and they were ambushed by the waiting looters. The men were hacked in the first five minutes so was Jamaal, even before he could open his mouth to inform them of his Muslim status. Next they turned to the women. Here Naseebo finally managed to gasp out that she was not a Hindu, before they could proceed to tear off her clothes. She recounted her entire story of how she had accompanied Meera as a final act of protection for saving her own life, years back. Her attackers paused in their continuing ravage of the women. They looked at Meera, who was cowering behind Jamaal’s corpse and raised their hatchets to kill her, while Naseebo implored them to spare Meera, for she was old, frail and could not slake their lust.
And Meera too joined in, pleading with them, holding out her dear possessions in her hands, to take all of them but to spare her. The looters would have taken the baubles anyway, they jeered at her and then allowed her the chance to live if only she could give them something more precious than the jewels – a tasty morsel for them to enjoy perhaps, from the maid servants that they thought she had brought along. And so Meera pushed out Naseebo in front of her and asked them to take her. For she was a Hindu and not a Muslim as she had pretended to be. As evidence, she asked Naseebo to recite the aayats for the morning namaaz, which of course she faltered in. Now the looters, angered at being cheated, prodded Naseebo to declare her faith by correct incantations, but she failed. Enraged, the looters took Naseebo away to the nearby fields along with the other young girls and left Meera alone, as she was useless with her invalid status. She couldn’t raise an alarm anyways, she was so petrified.
Meera lay stunned yet relieved among the scatter of bodies, blood and displaced clothes, smashed china and glass. She was safe. Soon, the army or another refugee entourage would come by and she would rouse herself and join them in their safe haven. She would reach her son somehow. Naseebo had done well; she had paid off her debt. After all, hadn’t Meera saved her from sure death so many years back? Now the score was even.
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