Gurumukh Singh’s Last Wish

GURMUKH SINGH'S LAST WISH

(Short Story)

SAADAT HASAN MANTO

Translated from Urdu by
MADAN GUPTA

To start with there were only isolated incidents of stabbing. Now riots between the two communities had become frequent. Besides knives and daggers, guns and swords were also regularly used. Even locally-made bombs were exploded.

People in Amritsar were generally of the view that the riots won’t last long. As soon as tempers cool, things will quieten down. These were not the first communal riots. There had been many in the past. But they had never lasted long. Ten or fifteen days of killing and then there was peace. On past experience people were of the view that the current trouble will also end soon. But this time it did not happen. In fact, as days went by, the situation became worse. Muslims in Hindu localities started evacuating. Similarly Hindus in predominantly Muslim areas started moving to safer places. All these moves were, however, considered temporary. There was confidence that things will come under control soon.

Mian Abdul Haye, retired sub-judge, was absolutely certain that peace will be restored in a few days. That is why he was not worried. He had a son aged eleven years and a daughter aged seventeen. There was also an old servant around seventy. It was a small family. As a matter of precaution, Mian Saheb had stored up rations so that, God forbid, if the situation did not improve and the shops remained closed, at least in the matter of food there would be nothing to worry.

Mian Saheb’s daughter Sughra was, however, full of concern. Theirs was a three-storeyed house and was much higher than the neighbouring buildings. From the roof-top could be seen nearly three-fourth of the town. For a number of days Sughra had seen fires far and near. To start with shrill bells of fire-brigades could be heard but then this stopped. The reason was that practically everywhere there were fires. The scene at night was terrifying. Flames leaped up in the darkness of the night as if some dreadful dragon was vomitting fire. Strange sounds mingling with slogans of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ and ‘Allah U-Akbar’became fierce and frightening.

Sughra did not share her fears with her father because he had emphatically said that there was no cause for anxiety. And he was seldom wrong. However, when the water and the electric supply got disrupted, she mentioned her concern hesitatingly to her father and suggested that they should shift to Sharifpura where a number of neighbouring Muslim families had moved. Mian Saheb, however, did not change his decision and said, “No need to get panicky un-necessarily. Things will normalise soon.”

But things did not normalise. With the passing of days they, in fact, worsened. The locality in which Mian Abdul Haye lived was now without any Muslim family. To make matters worse, Mian Saheb had a sudden attack of paralysis and became an invalid. His son, Basharat, who used to spend his time in the house with one game or another, now stayed by his father’s bed. He also developed awareness about the gravity of the situation.

The bazaar near their house was deserted. Dr. Ghulam Mustafa’s dispensary lay closed for months. A little distance away lived Dr. Guranditta Mal. Sughra had seen from the house-top that his shop also lay locked up. Mian Saheb was very ill. Sughra was at her wits end with worry. Taking Basharat aside one day, she said, “Abbajaan’s condition is serious. I know that it is not safe to go out but you will have to go and bring some help.” Basharat went. But within minutes he was . His face was deadly pale. In the “chawk” he had seen a dead-body drenched in blood. Nearby men carrying swords and shields were ransacking a shop. Sughra took her terrified brother in her embrace, thanking God for his safe return. Her father’s condition continued tomake her restless. Mian Saheb’s right side was without any life. His speech had got impaired. He communicated only with gestures to convey to Sughra that by God’s grace all will be well again.

The situation did not change. Ramzan was coming to an end. Only two days of fasting were left. Mian Saheb had been confident that things will quieten down before Id. But now it looked that Id may herald the day of doom. From the roof could be seen clouds of smoke rising from practically every part of the town. Terrifying bomb explosions made it impossible to get any sleep at night. Sughra had in any case to be awake to keep a vigil on her father. At times she felt that bomb blasts were taking place in her brain. Helplessly she looked sometimes at her invalid father and sometimes at her frightened brother. Seventy-year old Akbar was as good as not being there. He mostly lay in his quarter coughing and spitting mucus. One day in a fit of temper, Sughra scolded him saying, “There was a time when servants sacrificed their lives for their masters. But look at you. Mian Sabeb is seriously ill and needs help and here you are pretending that you are down with acute asthma.” The release of pent-up anger made Sughra feel lighter but on second thought she felt sorry that she had been harsh to the old man. In the evening she went to his quarter with a plate of food. The quarter was empty. Basharat looked all over the house but there was no trace of Akbar. The front door lay unlatched. “Perhaps he has gone out to get some help,” Sughra thought and prayed that he may succeed. But two days passed and Akbar did not return.

It was evening. The Id festival was only a day away. The excitement on this occasion in normal times was still fresh in Sughra’s mind: eyes rivetted to the sky looking for the new moon. How impatient did they get. How furious if a cloud came. And now how different everything was. When she and Basharat went to the roof all that could be seen were clouds of smoke. In the distance some human shadows were visible. Whether they were looking for the moon or at the fires around, it was difficult to say.

The stubborn moon did not let the clouds of smoke hide it. Sughra sighted it, raised her hands and prayed that her father may be well again. Basharat was annoyed that because of riots there would be no festivities.

The day had still a few more hours of fife. The evening shadows had not darkened yet. After sprinkling water in the courtyard, Mian Saheb had been put there. He lay without making any movement and gazed at the sky above, thinking God knows what. When Sughra came down after seeing the moon and greeted him, he responded with a gesture and gave an affection­ate pat on Sughra’s bowed head with his unaffected hand. Sughra could not hold her tears. Seeing her, Mian Saheb could not hold his. To give her courage, he muttered with his damaged tongue, “God is merciful. All will be well again.”

Just then there was a knock at the door outside. Sughra looked towards Basharat. His face had ashened. There was another knock. Sughra’s heart missed a beat. Mian Saheb gestur­ed to her to go and see who it was. Thinking that it may be old Akbar, she said to Basharat, “Go and see. It may be Akbar.” Mian Saheb heard this and shook his head in disagreement. “Who can it be then, Abbajaan?” Sughra asked. Mian Saheb was putting pressure on his vocal chords when Basharat returned. His face was white with fear and he was breathing heavily. Tak­ing Sughra aside he whispered, “It is a Sikh.”

Sughra shrieked, “A Sikh? What does he want?”

“He wants the door to be opened.”

Sughra pulled trembling Basharat to her arms and went and sat on her father’s bed, looking at him with vacant eyes. The lifeless thin lips of Mian Abdul Haye opened up in a smile. He mumbled, “Go and open the door. It must be Gurmukh Singh” Basharat shook his head to say that it was someone else. Mian Saheb said with finality in his tone, “Sughra, go. It must be him.”

Sughra got up. She knew Gurmukh Singh. Before his retire­ment, her father had done a favour to a man by that name. Sughra did not remember the details. Perhaps he was saved from a false case against him. Since then Gurmukh Singn used to bring a bagful of home-made “savayans” (noodles) for them on the occasion of Id. Her father had told him several times that he should not take this trouble but he had always replied, with folded hands. “Mian Saheb, by the grace of God, you have everything. This is only a small gift from a grateful, friend. The favour you did to me cannot be repaid even by hundred generations of mine. May the Almighty bring you happiness.”

Sardar Gurmukh Singh had been bringing a bagful of “savayans” (noodles) for many years for Id. Sughra was surprised that it did not occur to her that it must be him when she heard the knock. But then the thought came why did Basharat say that it was someone else. He had also seen Gurmukh Singh several times.

With these thoughts Sughra went through the courtyard to the front door. She had not been able to make up her mind whether she should open the door or only ask who it was. Just then there was another knock. Breathing heavily she asked, “Who is there?” Basharat stood by her side. Pointing to a crack in the door, he said to Sughra, “Look through this.”

Sughra looked through the crack. It was not Gurmukh Singh who was an old man. The man who stood outside was a youngster. As she stood appraising him through the crack, another knock came. Sughra noticed that the man was carrying a paper bag in his hand – the same sort that Gurmukh Singh used to bring. Turning away from the door she asked loudly, “Who are you?”

The reply from outside was, “I am Santokh, Sardar Gurmukh Singh’s son.”

Sughra’s fears were allayed. Very politely she asked, “What brings you here!”

The man outside said, “Where is Judge Saheb?”

“He is not well,” Sughra replied.

Santokh Singh said, in a voice showing concern, “Oh”. Then jingling the paper bag, he added, “I have brought some home­made ‘savayans’ for Judge Saheb. Sardarji, my father, is no more in this world. He has died.”

“Died!” asked Sughra with concern.

The reply from outside was, “Yes. He died a month ago. Before his death he said to me, ‘Son, I have been taking home­made ‘savayans’ for the Judge Saheb for the last ten years for Id. After me you will have to do this.’ I am here to keep my promise to my dead father. Please take these ‘savayans’.”

Sughra was overcome with emotion. Tears came to her eyes. She half-opened the door. Gurmukh Singh’s son pushed the bag in. Sughra took it and said, “May God give Sardar Saheb the joys of Paradise.”

Gurmukh Singh’s son said after a pause, “Is Judge Saheb very ill?”

Sughra said yes in confirmation.

“What is the ailment?”
“Paralysis.”

“Oh...” said Santokh. “Had Sardarji been alive, he would have been very upset to hear this. Till his very last breath he remembered the favour Judge Saheb did to him. He used to say that Judge Saheb is an angel, not a human being. May God give him a long life. Please convey my respects to him.” Before Sughra could make up her mind whether to ask him to get a doctor, Santokh had got down the steps to go.

Hardly had Santokh gone a few yards after leaving the Judge Saheb’s house when he encountered four persons with their beards tied up with a protective covering. Two had burning torches in their hands. The other two carried cans of kerosene oil and other explosives. One of them said to santokh, “So you have done your job Sardarji, have you?”

Santokh looked up.

The man said to his companions, “Lets then put finishing touches to the job.”