A Suitable Boy(554)

15.12


MAAN and Firoz were sauntering along through the dark lane of Katra Mast towards Misri Mandi when Maan stopped suddenly. The sounds he heard approaching them were not those he had expected. They were the sounds neither of a tazia procession – and surely it was too late for a tazia procession – nor the joyful sounds of Bharat Milaap. The sound of drums had stopped on either side – and neither ‘Hassan! Hussain!’ nor ‘Jai Siyaram!’ could be heard. Instead he made out the ominous, inchoate sounds of a mob, broken by screams of pain or passion – or shouts of ‘Har har Mahadeva’. This aggressive invocation of Shiva would not have sounded out of place yesterday – but today it chilled his blood.

He let go of Firoz’s hand and turned him around by the shoulders. ‘Run!’ he said, his mouth dry with fear. ‘Run.’ His heart was pounding. Firoz stared at him but did not move.

The crowd was rushing down the lane now. The sounds grew closer. Maan looked around him in desperation. The shops were all closed, their shutters down. There were no side-lanes within immediate reach.

‘Get back, Firoz –’ said Maan, trembling. ‘Get back – run! There’s nowhere to hide here –’

‘What’s the matter – isn’t it the procession?’ Firoz’s mouth opened as he registered the terror in Maan’s eyes.

‘Just listen to me,’ Maan gasped – ‘Do as I say. Run back! Run back towards the Imambara. I’ll delay them for a minute or two. That’ll be enough. They’ll stop me first.’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ said Firoz.

‘Firoz, you fool, this is a Hindu mob. I’m not in danger. But I won’t be all right if I come with you. God knows what will be happening there by now. If there’s rioting going on, they’ll be killing Hindus there.’

‘No –’



‘Oh God –’

By now the crowd had almost reached them, and it was too late to flee. Ahead of the pack was a young man, who looked as if he was drunk. His kurta was torn and he was bleeding from a cut along his ribs. He had a bloodstained lathi in his hand, and he made for Maan and Firoz. Behind him – though it was dark and difficult to see – must have been some twenty or thirty men, armed with spears and knives or flaming torches doused in kerosene.

‘Mussalmans – kill them also –’

‘We’re not Mussalmans,’ said Maan immediately, not looking at Firoz. He tried to control his voice, but it was high-pitched with terror.

‘We can find that out quickly enough,’ said the young man nastily. Maan looked at him – he had a lean, clean-shaven face – a handsome face, but one that was full of madness and rage and hatred. Who was he? Who were these people? Maan recognized none of them in the darkness. What had happened? How had the peacefulness of the Bharat Milaap suddenly turned into a riot? And what, he thought, his brain seizing up with fear, what was going to happen?

Suddenly, as if by a miracle, the fog of fear dispersed from his mind.

‘No need to find out who we are,’ he said in a deeper voice. ‘We were frightened because we thought at first you might be Muslims. We couldn’t hear what you were shouting.’

‘Recite the Gayatri Mantra,’ sneered the young man.

Maan promptly recited the few sacred syllables. ‘Now go –’ he said. ‘Don’t threaten innocent people. Be on your way. Jai Siyaram! Har har Mahadeval’ He could not keep the rising mockery out of his voice.

The young man hesitated.

Someone in the crowd cried: ‘The other’s a Muslim. Why would he be dressed like that?’

‘Yes, that’s certain.’

‘Take off his fancy dress.’

Firoz had started trembling again. This encouraged them.

‘See if he’s circumcized.’

‘Kill the cruel, cow-murdering haramzada – cut the sister-fucker’s throat.’

‘What are you?’ said the young man, prodding Firoz in the stomach with his bloodstained lathi.‘Quick – speak – speak, before I use this on your head –’

Firoz flinched and trembled. The blood on the lathi had stained his white sherwani. He did not lack courage normally, but now – in the face of such wild, unreasoning danger – he found he had lost his voice. How could he argue with a mob? He swallowed and said: ‘I am what I am. What’s that to you?’

Maan was looking desperately around him. He knew there was no time to talk. Suddenly in the erratic, terrifying light of the blazing torches his eyes fell on someone he thought he recognized.

‘Nand Kishor!’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing here in this gang? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You’re supposed to be a teacher.’ Nand Kishor, a middle-aged, bespectacled man, looked sullen.