Calling Sehmat Read online

  HARINDER SIKKA

  CALLING SEHMAT

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CALLING SEHMAT

  Harinder Sikka is currently the group director, strategic business, Piramal Group. After graduating from Delhi University, he joined the Indian Navy. He was commissioned in January 1981 and took premature retirement in 1993 as a Lieutenant Commander.

  He recently produced a film, Nanak Shah Fakir, which won acclaim at the international film festivals in Cannes, Toronto and Los Angeles. The film won three national awards, including the Nargis Dutt Award for best feature film on national integration.

  Calling Sehmat is his second book. It is being made into a film, Raazi, by Meghna Gulzar, scheduled for release in May 2018.

  Sikka lives in New Delhi with his family.

  Prologue

  In the semi-darkness of dawn the muezzin called out, ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar . . .’ His passionate, full-throated appeal to the Almighty broke the stillness of the new day and slowly Maler Kotla began to stir. As if on cue, the sun gasped through the horizon, flushing the rapidly brightening sky with redness. Yet another day crept into the lives of its residents.

  Except for one.

  Standing tall and in full glory, the white marble haveli surrounded by lush green lawns had lost its main occupant in the wee hours. For the villagers, especially the women, it was not a mere structure of stone but a symbol of peace, a shrine which they could visit any time and be heard.

  With the arrival of the new day, the imposing bungalow of Sehmat Khan quietly slipped into mourning. Tej Khan, the elderly matriarch, and now the only other permanent occupant of the sprawling house, took one last look at her daughter, blissfully calm in death, and quietly closed the bedroom door. Blinking back tears, she made her way to the telephone and fumbled through the painstaking effort of calling up Samar Khan. As soon as she was greeted with a curt, ‘Yes?’ she said, ‘Ammi passed away in her sleep. Come home.’ She heard the faint sound of a tortured sigh from Samar’s end before he hung up. It was proof of the huge shock he had received. She too put the receiver back into the cradle.

  On the other end of the line, Samar Khan was shrouded with a sorrow that seemed to choke his very being. Two days ago, he had come to Delhi on duty from his field station in Amritsar and had requested a weekend leave. He had recently been promoted to the rank of Captain and had excitedly ordered new uniform and badges in which he intended to present himself to his mother. Sehmat had always felt proud and happy to see her son dressed smartly in military uniform. Gasping, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He would have to take on the responsibility of a lone surviving son, but it was easier said than done. His mind was in anguish, his vision blurred; tears welled up as if to distance themselves from the grief that ravaged his body.

  It seemed a lifetime before Captain Samar Khan could collect himself and call his Commanding Officer, Brigadier Parthasarthy, to seek permission for an emergency leave.

  As Samar Khan packed his bags with the essentials needed for the most poignant battle of his life, his Commanding Officer called up that one family member of Sehmat Khan whom she chose to live away from. One of whom no one was aware . . .

  Meanwhile, Samar Khan, dressed in his new uniform, got into his white Maruti car and was soon making his way through the barren streets of Delhi to National Highway 1 that would take him to the destination that was still an enigma to him. For once, the young Captain’s sensitive mind did not register the vivid tapestry of life in India, as village after village and small and large towns melted away. Instead, his mind ran through a kaleidoscope of images, sounds and fragrances associated with his mother . . . Sehmat Khan.

  She was an enigmatic beauty who came into his life when he was merely seven. Ammi, with her serene, almond-shaped eyes and tiny, soft hands; Ammi, with her white chiffon dupatta, edged with fine white lace; Ammi, who made a face when he teased her about her mesmerizing looks; Ammi, who grinned impishly, as she held out keys to the car she had gifted him two years ago; Ammi and her gods, heady on fragrant sandalwood incense sticks; Ammi, who stubbornly ignored him as he yelled at her to shift out from her godforsaken Maler Kotla; Ammi and her soothing, soft voice; Ammi, the most beautiful Indian spy who single-handedly ravaged Pakistan’s security system . . .

  Four and a half hours later, turning southwards from Ludhiana, Samar Khan manoeuvred his car through the dusty, narrow roads that brought him closer to his mother. Approaching Maler Kotla, he was struck for the umpteenth time by how little the town had changed over the past two decades. His mother often mentioned that the town had not changed in three centuries. ‘The women of our villages must be educated if our country has to grow,’ she often remarked. Samar couldn’t agree more. A few hours from Delhi, and he observed the changing profile of women, from office-goers to the ones living in abject poverty, becoming slaves to the system. But why did his mother choose to settle down in Maler Kotla of all places? He knew the answer deep within, even if it would never convince him. He remembered Sehmat telling him the history of Maler Kotla and why it was so protected by the Sikhs of Punjab.

  The princely state of Maler Kotla came into being in 1454 CE when the Governor of Lahore and Sirhind, Sheikh Sadruddin Sadr-i-Jahan, married the daughter of Sultan Bahlul Khan Lodi of Delhi and was given a cluster of villages in dowry.

  In the early eighteenth century, the predominantly Muslim region had witnessed a surge in the population of Sikhs and Hindus, won over by the teachings of Guru Nanak. The Governor of Sirhind, Nawab Wazir Khan, captured the young sons of Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh guru, after the battle at Anandpur, and agreed to release them on one condition: they embraced Islam. With a conviction that belied their age, Zorawar and Fateh Singh, the nine and seven-year-old sons of Guru Gobind Singh, expressed a desire to embrace death instead.

  Baffled and amazed at the audacity of the two young boys, Wazir Khan did not hesitate to order that the proud boys be walled in for slow death. Aghast at his cruelty, Sher Mohammed Khan, the nawab of Maler Kotla and a distant relative of Wazir Khan, protested vehemently and walked out of the court, but his protests were in vain. Sher Mohammed, however, earned blessings from the tenth Sikh guru for his display of humanity and courage.

  Since then Maler Kotla had remained under the protective umbrella of the Sikhs and had prospered. Such was the power of the blessings of the tenth Sikh guru that even during the bloodiest of the Hindu-Muslim riots post Independence in 1947, Maler Kotla was peaceful, even as the rest of the nation was nearly torn apart.

  Manoeuvring through the sleepy town flanked by the prosperous cities of Ludhiana, Patiala and Nabha, Samar drove into Maler Kotla without even glancing at the vast fields of cotton, aniseed, mustard, paddy and wheat. At almost every passing milestone, he saw one tall structure or the other in the shape of a gurdwara, temple or a mosque, an indication of how deeply spiritual the population was. And almost on each occasion, one thought overpowered his mind, first slipping in insidiously, fading away, and then returning with disturbing vengeance. ‘Why can’t the rest of the country learn from these people what it mea
ns to be an Indian?’ he muttered under his breath, as if to give vent to his bridled anguish, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. ‘How long will we suffer this caste and religious divide at the hands of our politicians?’ He had answers to none of these questions. His only hope was his mother, but she had left him without even saying goodbye.

  With this, his thoughts turned to his mother. Ever since he was born, Samar had witnessed numerous problems that she had to face due to the caste divide. Even though he remained a mute spectator on each such occasion, his mind recorded every incident and carried it forward like a recurring deposit in a bank.

  The final leg of the journey was the most difficult yet. The intense heat of the summer and the grief in the atmosphere were telling on his handsome features. As his vehicle closed the distance, often reduced to a near crawl because of the potholed roads and dirt tracks, Samar began to feel the same tightening of his chest that had gripped him when he had heard the news of his mother’s death. Curious village women eyed him from beneath their bright dupattas. The destination of this white Maruti, bearing a Delhi registration number, was probably obvious to them as his mother was a known figure.

  Samar brought his dusty car to a halt in front of the gates of his mother’s home and honked for the gardener to open it. Through the bars of the gates, he could see his grandmother sitting on a cane garden chair, motionless, waiting. She looked calm, a fading smile belying the solemnity of grief. No one could tell that she had lost her only daughter.

  Samar slowly got out of his car. Somewhere, a brainfever bird was making incessant calls, imploring the summer to hasten. A warm breeze swept through. Samar looked every bit an army man in his crisp olive greens and peaked cap. He looked up and smiled ruefully as the only national flag in the region, perched atop a civilian home, fluttered almost surreally in the sudden swirl of breeze and dropped to inertness just as swiftly.

  The natives knew little of Sehmat’s past. Many were not even sure of her religion. Yet, she was adored by the women for the manner in which she had fought for their rights and helped them gain their self-esteem. The men too held her in great awe for her far-reaching influence. The Sarpanch, village head, almost feared her because beneath her extremely helpful and meek exterior, he had witnessed her steely resolve, her uncanny intelligence. He was often surprised by the innovative methods with which she solved many of the village issues. She was an integral part of the village panchayat’s think tank, someone who had ready solutions to all their problems.

  Samar quickly walked to his grandmother and helped her get on her feet. He gazed into her eyes, well aware of the emotions that were building up, waiting for the right moment to pour out. She did not speak. Her smile widened, but quickly changed into a grief-filled expression; rheumy eyes leading to an eventual avalanche of emotional outpouring. Samar had anticipated it all and took her into his strong arms, letting her head rest close to his chest. She broke down for the first time since she had last seen Sehmat. There was little that he could say or do to console his grandmother. The reality had sunk in but the acceptance was yet to come. The soldier in him battled bravely to keep his own emotions from surfacing. He helped her gently sit in the cane chair and pulled another close by, sitting beside her without letting go of her hand. The two sat motionless for some time. Then the old woman looked at Samar with pools of sorrow in her eyes, gently caressed his hair with her trembling fingers and said, ‘She is upstairs. Go and see her.’

  Samar nodded, and stood up, swallowing the lump in his throat. ‘Thank you, Badi Ma,’ he said. As he climbed the steps of the house, an aura of familiarity assailed Samar Khan. Every inch of the place echoed with his mother’s presence. Even as the life-size portraits of the legendary Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev, Rajguru, Ram Prasad Bismil and Khudiram Bose hung on the outer walls, a selfless, courageous woman lay inside on her bed in eternal peace. She had passed away into the unknown world, unsung, just the way she had wished. Pushing the brass handle of the door very gently, lest he disturb her peace, Samar stepped in gingerly, throwing away the sure-footedness of military training, only to be taken aback by his mother’s shy smile speaking to him from a simple black-and-white picture hanging on the wall.

  Sehmat lay on the bed that overlooked the front lawns. The room was airy and open though shadowed by the national flag; the deathly serenity on her face reflecting the shadows of the fluttering flag. Samar was suddenly struck with the awareness that she would never open her eyes and arms to him. She lay covered in a sheet, head draped with a chiffon dupatta, the texture of which was permanently etched on his heart and mind. Wisps of smoke from her favourite sandalwood incense sticks trailed towards the huge windows. Sunlight streamed generously into her room, illuminating her lifeless body and face.

  Sehmat Khan had shared her private space with only those who were most dear to her—her gods and her son. Allah, Ganesha, Krishna, Jesus and Wahe Guru were all accorded a place of worship in her sanctum. The other wall had numerous pictures of Samar at various stages of his growing up. Samar watched as the smoke from the incense sticks formed a cloud-like cloak over the metallic figures representing the Muslim, the Hindu, the Christian and the Sikh faiths. A thick wooden plate supported them all, the base of which carried an encrypted message in bold capitals, Ek Onkar—there is but one God.

  He remembered how proud his mother had been when she had first seen him in his military uniform. ‘Respect this uniform, son,’ she had said, running her hands on his shoulders, enjoying the feel of the metallic stars on the uniform of the newly commissioned officer. ‘And your soul will respect you. Don’t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that you will learn to be brave. You have a duty towards your nation and you must never weigh it with the materialistic pittance that you may sometimes receive in return. There is no greater reward than to live and die for your country, knowing that you have done your part.’

  Tucking his peaked cap under his left armpit, Captain Samar Khan clicked his heels to attention. Tears escaped from his tightly shut eyes as he offered prayers for the unsung heroine of India. He stood proudly as Sehmat would have expected him to. Flattening the right palm at the peak, he saluted smartly. Then lightly touching his mother’s forehead he whispered, ‘I will, Ammi . . . I will . . .’

  His words hung in the room as he slowly walked out.

  Holding the banister, he stepped on each wooden stair as gently as he could, looking at the picture frames of the numerous heroes. And as he walked down, a strange feeling gripped him, as if Sehmat were in all those frames, smiling at him, blessing him.

  When he emerged through the main door, he looked at the lawns, which were now beginning to fill up with villagers who had come to inquire about their saviour and guide. On seeing him, they rushed towards him. Samar knew most of them personally. He had spent his childhood with them, and respected and loved them for their simple, uncomplicated nature. He could read their expressions and realized it was time to reveal the truth. Without exchanging courtesies with the local politicians who had managed to take their position in the front row, he walked back a few steps and climbed the stairs to the portico. Turning towards the crowd, he folded his palms in a gesture of greeting.

  ‘Dear elders and friends,’ he began, ‘Sehmat Khan, my mother, was no ordinary person. She was a soldier who lived with only one mission—of safeguarding the country’s interest. And she continued to do so till she passed away this morning.’ Samar had barely finished when the sound of gasps with looks of disbelief filled the air. Tej Khan who’d been listening intently sat down immediately, trying to balance herself, and shut her eyes, hoping for a miracle to undo the ruthless certainty of nature. As if on cue, the crowd sat down too, stunned at the news of who they thought Sehmat was. Now they were inquisitive to learn more. Their faces reflected sympathy and pain. Seated on their haunches, they inched forward, in order to catch every word. As if divided by a fine line, the women sat with their children on one side of the lawn while the men sat a lit
tle distance away.

  Their eyes were moist, some were sobbing. Sehmat was their messiah who’d always had their back and had transformed their lives as well as Maler Kotla. The town had transformed into a cleaner place since she’d made it her home. The government machinery had set into motion a mass cleaning process. Perpetually blocked sewers began flowing freely, power supply didn’t get interrupted at regular intervals and even local liquor shops adhered to specific timings while conducting business. The local officials couldn’t understand her status, but were wary of the mysterious aura that surrounded her. The reason was: Sehmat never came to the forefront. The people in general and women in particular had sensed the importance and the clout that their new next-door neighbour carried about her. They were touched by her politeness, warmth and helpful attitude. Her casual visits to the local markets, residential areas, healthcare centres and schools were invariably followed up by different officials scurrying about to set the prevailing problems in order. Most women were also indebted to her for the money they received in times of need, a debt they never paid back. Sehmat was known for writing off such loans.

  The tricolour above fluttered again, taking Samar down memory lane, helping him recall his mother’s glorious past, the things he knew first-hand and those that he’d heard only from others. He could now piece together her brilliant life as a spy . . .

  1

  Sehmat was the only child of Tejashwari Singh and Hidayat Khan, a successful and rich Kashmiri businessman settled in the Valley for many decades. Tej, as Tejashwari was fondly called, belonged to a rich Delhi-based Punjabi Hindu family.

  Hidayat and Tej fell in love during her visit to Srinagar. On a cold winter afternoon Tej was walking around the serene surroundings of the Himalayan paradise and, on an impulse, entered one of the boutiques selling pashmina shawls. The beauty of the designs was such that they pulled her towards themselves and soon she was looking through the many that were displayed inside the shop. Tej was wondering what to take back to Delhi for her friends, when a pleasant voice drew her attention from behind.