(A story from partition of India)
NAHME SHAH’S DREAM SHATTERED
by
Iqbal
Sachdeva
‘Koi
ek swar Qutab Road’ (Any one passenger to Qutab Road) hawked Nahme Shah, from
his horse drawn tonga, with that drowsy summer afternoon voice and soon dozed
off into a dream. He was one of those lucky survivors of the communal riots in
the aftermath of the partition of India, when about two million perished. Life
for him was never that miserable.
Gurnam,
Shah, Nahme Shah, as people addressed him with respect, was a well known money
lender land lord, with a heart larger than a lion. His writ ran in the
neighbouring areas of his home village Ajniawala and even echoed in the major
grain market like Mandi Chuharkana.
In
his dream, Nahme Shah, had risen with the first call of the cock, took his bath
under the hand pump water, geared by his servant, Mahroo - Mehruddin, slipped
into his freshly laundered sparkling white shirt and kimono, donned a big snow
white turban on his head, and then squat like a ‘yogi’ to say his morning prayer. As he turned his rosary to chant
‘Ram-Ram-Ram’, his gold ‘Murkis’ (ear
rings) shook and glistened in the subdued morning light.
His
wife, Veero Shahni, then brought his breakfast of a large glass of ‘Lassi’ (butter milk) topped with a lump
of butter and a couple of large ‘Aloo
pranthas’. Now he was ready for his days’ business.
Nahme
Shah was a rich man by many standards, and known for his large hearted and
considerate dealings. He was a good soul, but with a soft corner for some of
those women of the village, who had the dubious reputation of the danseuse.
His
large ‘Haveli’ had a palace like
brass studded large door which opened every morning with that familiar squeak
of the rusted dry hinges crying for oiling. Like every morning, Nahme Shah, sat
on the string woven large cot with enormous coloured pedestals, in his ‘Baithak’ (sitting room), with
multi-coloured glass windows opening on the street. His ‘Munshi’ (accountant) Dayal Chand sat on a carpet patch on the
floor, with red long account books, awaiting his orders.
His
house had a large compound with an open sky. There was a hand pump in one
corner, kitchen in the other and an ‘Ahlana’
(oven) with iron grill sunk into the wall, wherein a large earthen milk pot
kept simmering on cow dung cakes. The slow heating milk gave thick layers of ‘malai’ cream for serving the guests and
the family.
Behind
the compound was a ‘pasaar’ a large
high roofed room, with a swing for his five daughters and about a dozen grand
children, visiting him in every summar vacations. The farm land produced enough
grain to sell and store in the back rooms, ‘kothas’
with doors opening into the ‘pasaar’.
Across
the street, was another building, housing several milch animals, a couple of
horses, a well polished ‘rahisi’
(land lordly) tonga for Nahme Shah’s
personal use, donkeys to carry burden, and a ‘toka’ machine to shear fodder for animals. There was also a small
poultry to ensure egg supply for the family and occasional chicken curry for
Nahme Shah and his friends, which Mahroo, the bearded Muslim servant, would
cut, clean and cook in his quarters, in the stable. Like other women those
days, Veero Shahni would not allow her kitchen to be defiled by ‘sinful’ meat
cooking. Undoubtedly, she was a pious, religious and God fearing woman.
As
the night fell, lamps in Nahme Shah’s ‘baithak’
burnt bright and Nimmo, the rustic danseuse, as usual, came in, dressed up, to
entertain him and his friends who were generally rich land owners and farmers.
The police ‘thanedar’ was there too.
The drinks and dinner were on the house, and Nimmo often stayed over to comfort
him.
Nahme
Shah, as if, was a real ‘Shah’, the ruler of people’s hearts. As his wife,
Veero Shahni, would liberally gave away grain to some needy women, he himself
would never refuse help to anyone - business being business. He would often
write off loans for poor, waive off interest, and even return mortgaged family
jewels to someone, whose daughter was to get married.
‘Pind dian dhiyan bhainan sanjhian!’ (the
daughters and sisters of the village are common), he would say. No surprise,
many would come to seek his blessings.
A
man with a cool mind, Nahme Shah mostly kept smiling from under the canopy of
his prominent large turban and dominating snout. Yet no one dare to flout his
authority. The news that a small time friendly robber, Sheroo, Shamsudin, had
unknowingly robbed his visiting son-in-law, Lal Singh, of his horse, infuriated
him. An anguished message promptly brought the ‘robber’ to Shah’s feet with an
apology and the horse, and a confession of not knowing his relative. Shah,
however, pardoned him.
Whenever,
a new police ‘thanedar’ came on
posting, Nahme Shah would welcome him with a ‘gagar’ (brass pitcher) of milk, a bag of wheat and host an evening
party in his honour. Several petty rural officials were a part of his social
network. Once even ‘Angrez’ (British)
official ‘honoured’ him by being his guest, which gave him more clout in the
right places and fame in the area.
But
the scenes were changing. British Raj was on way out. Nehru and Jinnah were
rattling their sabres over the partition of India. The formation of Pakistan
was one day announced and all those not Muslims, fearing massacre and death,
fled to Hindustan. All, in the village had left but Nahme Shah, hoping against
hope, for normalcy. But the friends and turned foes. Now the local ‘Mullah’ (cleric) came to convert him,
cut his beard in a style and make him recite holy ‘Koran’. But Veero Shahni did not budge and would prefer death to
dishonour. All his five daughters and their families had fled and since God never
gave him a son, Nahme Shah had to fend for himself.
One
dark night, with the help of his trusted servant, Mahroo, Nahme Shah and his
wife, packed all their family jewels and escaped on horseback on way to
Hindustan. Hardly they had gone a few miles on the canal road, when his old
trusted ‘ decoit friend’ Sheroo, blocked his way, with his men, robbed him of
his wealth and horses, and pushed Nahme Shah, into the canal, which broke his
leg.
Nahme
Shah, had lost everything - houses, land, money, jewels, servants, friends,
horses, animals, tonga, donkeys, even Nimmo and the name and fame. His white
clothes were all smeared with dirt and he was a broken man. Somehow, with the
help of his wife, he limped to a nearby refugee camp, run by army, who sent
them, in an army truck, to Amritsar, in India.
Tracing
and tracking the whereabouts of his daughters and their families, Nahme Shah
finally, landed in Delhi, and started plying a tonga, to make a living.
His
great white turban had now given way to a tattered rag. His dignity and self
respect were gone. The soaring mercury numbed his head. He still walked with a
limp as the wound was taking long to heal. Suddenly, the policeman, with his
baton, nudged him on his broken leg and shook him out of his sleep. His dream
was shattered, as he cried out of pain.
With
blood shot eyes, Nahme Shah frowned at the cop. Back home, he would have killed
him for this insult, but helplessly hurled some choicest abuses for cop’s
mother and sister and his government, headed by no other than Nehru.
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