Vichhoda Read online

  HARINDER SIKKA

  VICHHODA

  In the shadow of longing...

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  EBURY PRESS

  VICHHODA

  Harinder Sikka has been with Piramal Enterprises Ltd for nearly three decades. He is currently the group director, strategic business. After graduating from Delhi University, he joined Indian Navy in 1979 and was commissioned in January 1981. He took premature retirement in 1993 as lieutenant commander.

  He produced a film, Nanak Shah Fakir, in 2015 on the life and teachings of Guru Nanak. The film won acclaim at the international film festivals in Cannes, Toronto and Los Angeles and was also screened at the Rashtrapati Bhavan by the then honourable President of India, Pranab Mukherjee. The film won three national awards, including the most coveted Nargis Dutt Award for best feature film on national integration.

  Calling Sehmat, his first book, was a national bestseller and has been published in many Indian languages. The book was also made into a film titled Raazi, starring Alia Bhatt, and was a box office success.

  Sikka lives in New Delhi with his family.

  To my parents and Ajayji Piramal

  1

  August 1947

  ‘Kill the Kafirs, burn them alive. No Hindu or Sikh should be spared . . .’ Hate-filled directives echoed in the Valley as young and old Muslim men ran through the narrow streets of Tadali village in Muzaffarabad, Kashmir, with naked, bloodstained swords in their hands. The village was to become part of Pakistan post Partition. The vicious venom being spewed by the local mullahs had brainwashed the Muslim youth almost overnight and filled them with hatred towards communities of other religions. With no regulatory body to be afraid of, the fundamentalists went on killing sprees with full gusto. It was as if some evil force had swished a magic wand and turned friends and immediate neighbours into arch-enemies. They sprinted out of their homes like pit bulls freed from chains and filled the Valley with the blood of innocents, leaving a burning trail of houses in their wake. They marched on to the streets like wild beasts, displaying human skulls as trophies on the tips of their spears and swords.

  The Sikhs provoked the ire of the fundamentalists even more. Being entrepreneurs, they had earned respect and jealousy in equal proportions. Despite being limited in number, they dominated all of Punjab and firmly held the purse strings of the important businesses. Even though Muslims benefited the most from their entrepreneurial skills, they remained discontent. They had been waiting for an opportunity to strike back. The word ‘Jihad’ acquired a new meaning. Instead of being a spiritual struggle to overcome ego, greed and lust, it was wrongly interpreted as the Prophet’s directive to wage wars against non-Muslims and used to justify the killing of innocent people.

  One Sikh family that suffered the most at their hands was that of Balwant Singh. Being the eldest of four brothers, Balwant had successfully expanded the business and taken it to great heights. Nearly one-third of the village population was under his direct or indirect employment. His palatial home was famously known as ‘Sardar House’, and he was treated no less than a king. He was a large-hearted man and gave soft loans to anyone in distress without discriminating on the basis of caste or creed, or worrying about returns. Spiritually inclined, Balwant donated a fixed percentage of his income to noble causes every month and took good care of anyone who knocked on his door. Yet, the Muslim clergy nursed a serious grudge against him. His big white house stood out like a sore thumb primarily for one reason—his school for the underprivileged. Balwant enjoyed generous patronage of the local British administrators and, as a result, was permitted to run a prominent ‘girls only’ school in the Valley. The school encouraged poor children, including Muslim girls, to study free of cost which became a bone of contention for the religious leaders who were of the opinion that educating Muslim girls was against the teachings of the Quran.

  However, over a period of time, the school gained a name for its good governance, discipline and education. Despite being located in a Muslim area, it boasted a high percentage of Muslim students, which the fundamentalists found difficult to digest, and thus they opposed it vehemently. But the wealthy and powerful Balwant brushed their objections aside each time and kept them at a safe distance. They were enraged by the snub but also scared to stand up to the powerful sardar and hence sulked in isolation. The British administration was uncompromising when it came to rules. Punishments for disobedience and violence were severe and dispensed quickly. Hence, whenever the pitch of their murmur rose above the acceptable decibel level, Balwant reminded them of the Riot Act. But his trust in the British administration was his undoing. He was unaware of the level of hatred that was brewing in the minds of the imams, moulvis and other fundamentalists. The sudden announcement of Partition brought all these feelings to the fore, and without the British police to regulate the town, they wreaked vengeance. Their leaders used loudspeakers in masjids to spew hatred. The volcano of hate exploded and the burning lava flowed in the direction of the Sardar House. It took Balwant by complete surprise and engulfed his entire family.

  This was hard for Balwant to digest. Even in his wildest dreams, he had not imagined that his own Muslim friends, especially those who had taken umpteen favours and had sworn by him, would lead a riotous mob in the direction of his house. They were holding weapons, hurling abuses and baying for his blood. Panic-stricken and in deep shock, he quickly gathered his entire family of twelve, which included his three brothers, their wives and children, including four teenage daughters, into one room and bolted it from inside. Being the eldest, he stood with his back to the front door. That’s when he saw their horrified faces. Things had escalated so quickly that none of them had had the time to contemplate. It was only then they understood the gravity of the situation and the danger they were in. The look on Balwant’s face distressed them even more. ‘I have helped each one of these mullahs for decades, given them rock-solid support in their times of need. And today they have declared us enemies because we are not Muslims? Just because some gora sitting in his plush office in London has drawn a vague line on the map? These select traitors have put a blot on the entire Muslim community. How are we to ever trust each other again?’ Balwant muttered.

  Meanwhile, with every passing moment, the chorus outside was growing louder, adding to the tension and fear. Balwant peeped out from the small window and saw hundreds of rioters flashing burning torches. In the background, he could see other Hindu houses being looted and burnt. The brainwashed crowd was mercilessly chopping the heads and other body parts of the Hindus, leaving cries, screams and flames behind. He could hear chants of ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The shouting brigade soon reached Balwant Singh’s home, and in a single attempt broke down the tall steel gate. Within moments, they reached the strong teakwood entrance door and began beating the polished structure with spears, hammers and swords.

  ‘We shall fight!’ said Balwant hurriedly to his brothers in a voice that was shaky with emotions but firm. ‘Let no one be taken alive,’ he continued and looked at his wife, Priti, who rushed to his side. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘Please kill us all first. Make sure that no girl is left alive to be raped by these bastards. Please, Balwant, are you listening?’ she said, pummelling her husband’s chest with her fists.

  Balwant froze on hearing these words. He looked at his wife in disbel
ief, mentally mustering up the courage to take the dreadful step. He knew he didn’t have a lot of time as the front door had begun to shake violently, threatening to collapse any moment. Balwant walked towards his brothers, folded his hands and said in a polite tone, ‘If this is what Waheguru demands of us, then so be it. We shall comply.’

  The chants outside grew louder as the mob became more restless and violent. Huddled together, the family members joined their hands to say their last prayer. Outside, a new conspiracy was brewing. Unable to break down the strong wooden door, the mob had decided to set the house on fire. By the time the family finished its prayers, the house was engulfed in flames. The brothers raised their swords and screamed the battle cry, ‘Jo bole so nihal, Sat Sri Akal [He who chants the lord’s name stays blessed]!’ Then, with tears rolling down their cheeks, they slashed at their daughters with weapons. One by one, all the teenage girls fell to the ground and lay in pools of blood. The middle-aged women came next. They cried out aloud, wept bitterly and shut their eyes in pain. Each one of them knew the consequences of being taken alive.

  After the last woman had been slain, the brothers took a step back and looked at the bodies lying on the floor, their faces pale, their eyes brimming with tears. However, there was no time to mourn or even get into a huddle. Soon, the burning door came crashing down and fell inwards, letting the rioters into the courtyard. Not finding anyone there, they started banging on the door of the room where the family had locked itself in. The brothers shouted the battle cry once again, ‘Jo bole so nihal . . .’ and launched a fierce counter-attack. They thrust and slashed at their enemies with their swords, killing the first set of attackers. The second, third and fourth lot met the same fate. But the rioters kept pouring in. The communal bloodbath continued till Balwant and his brothers were stabbed to death. An eerie silence descended over the house after the carnage was over. The floor was covered with dead bodies, severed limbs and a thick layer of blood.

  Zarif Islam, the oldest fanatic leader amongst the mullahs, stepped forward and glanced at the heap of human flesh. He was taken aback by the unexpected retaliation and was angry to see so many of his men killed by just a handful of untrained Sikhs. His hate-filled eyes scanned the spacious hall and stopped when they saw a familiar face. The dead boy was lying under a broken table, his legs partially hidden under the heap. Suddenly something struck him. Was it? Zarif recognized the bold stripes on the long shirt. Hoping against hope, he quickly bent down and with some effort pushed aside the wooden table which was blocking his view. It was his own son, Anwar, lying in a pool of blood! His eyes popped out as excruciating pain shot through his chest. He fell on the floor, writhing in agony. Others came running and tried to calm him down but failed. His loud screams echoed in the empty hall. He held his son’s face and placed it on his lap. ‘My own son has sacrificed himself fighting the Kafirs for the sake of our faith. No Sikh or Hindu should be left alive in the Valley. Get rid of them all, kill them, burn them, destroy them, now! Leave me alone. Go, go, go!’ he screamed.

  The mob acknowledged his words in unison and, following the mullah’s dictate, began exiting in a hurry. They rushed towards the next building, fire torches in hand, and set it alight. Having had their fill, they moved on, and the street was once again engulfed in silence. In the distance, one could hear the shrill battle cry, but other than that, there was only the stillness of death and dying.

  Zarif sat numbly next to his son’s body and continued to sob uncontrollably. It is said that no pain is greater than losing one’s child. At this point, he had completely forgotten his own cruelty and was absorbed in his misery which seemed unique to him. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay home? But you didn’t listen to me. Now see what has happened. O Allah, what have I done to deserve this? Why couldn’t you have some mercy on me? What will I do now? Anwar was my only child. How will I live without him?’ he wailed, but there was no one to hear his cries.

  Meanwhile, the raging fire had spread to other parts of the house. It had swallowed the wooden furniture and other inflammable materials. Realizing the extent of the danger he was in, Zarif tried to stand up in a hurry but slipped and fell on his face. His clothes were soaked in blood that his followers had shed. It now struck him that he could be the next victim of this fire. Shaken and scared, he somehow managed to stand up and run towards the door, trampling the dead bodies under his feet. He reached the exit but slipped again and fell on the broken wooden door that was drenched in kerosene oil. His clothes caught fire, and in no time he was aflame.

  He ran out with his hands up in the air and cried out aloud. His screams echoed wildly across the Valley, merging with the hundreds of other painful cries. His followers were too busy looting, burning and killing in the name of Allah, the merciful.

  There was no help for the one who’d killed in the name of God . . .

  2

  As dawn broke, the sunrays lit up the blackened, half-burnt structure of what was once Balwant Singh’s palatial haveli. Moulvi Syed Zade, Balwant’s old friend and neighbour, stepped into the broken house with the help of his walking stick. ‘Ya Khuda!’ he exclaimed in deep pain and horror as he walked past the mutilated bodies. His eyes brimmed with tears as he scanned the room and saw the destruction. He bent down to take a closer look at the faces which had escaped the fire. The hurt and pain deepened the wrinkles on his face. The lifeless bodies of the two young boys in green and red shirts were his sons’. He touched their faces one by one and felt their pulse. The sword hanging loosely from one of their hands rolled out on to the wooden floor. With some difficulty, he managed to stand up, looked at the dead faces of his sons again and spoke in a soft but firm tone, ‘I didn’t expect you both to become such savages. I am ashamed to call you my sons. I regret to say that you don’t even deserve a respectful burial for the heinous crimes you have committed. What face will you show Allah? Is this what Islam has taught you?’ He shook his head in disapproval.

  Then, with some effort, he started walking towards the broken door, manoeuvring around the bodies. Blood had coagulated on the floor and become a thick, dark-brownish-maroon paste that stuck to his shoes each time he stepped forward. Most of the furniture and over a dozen bodies were burnt beyond recognition. Pinching his nostrils, he was about to exit when he heard a soft, pain-ridden voice. He halted, turned and carefully looked around again. He saw a body move slightly. He walked closer to where the sound was coming from and found a teenage girl writhing and moaning. She was badly wounded and unable to move. He rushed to her side and checked her pulse—she was alive. A moment later, using all his strength, he lifted her up. He put his right arm beneath her left and let her head gently rest on his right shoulder. He cautiously walked out with his delicate load on to the empty street which was engulfed in deathly silence. He tiptoed to his house and managed to get inside safely without anyone noticing them. He took her to the living room and put her on the cot. Then he went back to the door and through the peephole carefully scanned the houses around. Satisfied that no one was watching him, he locked the door and went back in.

  Bibi Amrit Kaur, the beautiful teenage daughter of his best friend, was breathing, albeit heavily. He rushed to the kitchen and came back with a pot of warm water. Using pieces of cloth, he cleaned the wounds on her arms and shoulders. He looked at her injuries carefully. He could see a deep gash on her neck that had been bleeding profusely and now had a chunk of dried blood on it. Syed dipped the cloth in warm water again and cleaned the lesion very slowly and carefully. He then went to the kitchen and brought a tray containing three copper bowls of various sizes and shapes filled with turmeric powder, mustard oil and hot water. Like most elderly villagers, Syed too was well versed in home-made remedies and knew about the antiseptic qualities of turmeric. He put the hot oil and turmeric powder in equal proportions into the copper vessel, stirred the mixture and then ran a thread through the thick, yellow paste. He then sterilized the needle by placing it in the same mixture. She whimpered when he lifted her he
ad and placed another pillow under it, but remained in a semi-conscious state.

  Syed looked up and said a small prayer, asking Allah to give him the strength to do what he was about to and that it be beneficial for her. Then, using the needle and thread he had just sterilized, he began sewing the two ends of the gash. Tiny drops of blood oozed out each time the needle entered from one end and emerged from the other. Syed knew that if she was awake, this would have been very painful. The dim light from the bedside lamp was not enough and he had to squint to see clearly. She was badly injured and many of her body parts bore signs of the assault. She had lost a lot of blood and her chances of survival looked bleak. But Syed Zade was not one to give up. He tirelessly attended to her injuries and painstakingly applied the turmeric concoction on her wounds. Two hours later, he stood up and looked at his work. His back was aching but his eyes had an expression of satisfaction. He covered the wounds with betel leaves and wrapped them in shreds that came from a torn bed sheet. This was all he could do. This and pray.

  His eyes were shut but his lips were moving; he was asking the biggest doctor of the universe to intervene. When she developed a fever, he wiped her forehead and palms with cold water to bring the temperature down.

  Bibi remained unconscious the next day as well, but her fever did not come back. Syed didn’t leave her side. Almost twenty hours later, in the middle of the night, she opened her eyes and became conscious of the extreme soreness and pain in her neck. She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes and then turned her gaze towards Syed. She recognized him and tried to speak but only tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t move her head; her lips were parched and flaky. ‘Kill me, Baba . . .’ she whispered as fresh tears filled her eyes. ‘I don’t want to live . . . Please, let me go to my parents . . .’ she sobbed. Syed noticed that she was straining the muscles of her neck to talk. The deep gash on her neck, which Syed had somehow stitched together, was threatening to reopen, and the excruciating pain was making her faint.