World Punjabi Congress

I actually died the day I was born. It was only the shrouding and burial ceremonies which kept me out of my grave for some time. Not that the ceremonies were part of any given religion. As a matter of fact, t hey included cremating the body, throwing it into the river and burying it standing up.

These years of rituals and formalities were hard to bear. Strange that even after actual death a man should be made to wait for the final act to be performed. I cannot think of a more horrendous injustice. It hung like a cloud over the nothingness that divided death and burial. The rituals to which the dead are subjected stretch from death itself to the rot and decay of what was once the body.

The many elements, which constitute death and the body’s ultimate disposal, are so hopelessly intertwined that it is difficult to tell where one begins and the other ends. How-ever, there are things, which are clearly identifiable. Like oil floating over water with which it can never mix no matter how hard you try. The experience is strange. Parts of it are totally incomprehensible. And yet there are elements a man can identify, even if fleetingly.

There were many who took part in the final rites. There was much to do. Easing my stiff eyelids over my stone dead yielding fingers. Washing the carcass. Perfuming the shroud. There was a bit to do for everybody. The helpers included my parents, some relations, friends and acquaintances, a few officials, an assortment of politicians and even some intellectuals. Then there was the final act of lowering the body into the grave and filling that gaping hole with earth. In kept everybody busy.

Children are the investment parents make. If a son is born, their faces light up with joy. But the birth of a son is like a gamble. Quite often, the parents lose, but generally speaking, it is a profitable venture.

Daughters are another story. They are seen as a sort of loss. However, while they are around, the parents use them, much as unpaid maids, until one day, with tears flowing down their eyes, they are sent away to strange house. So, in a way, daughters too are a kind of investment.

Let me tell you a story. The daughter of a house became a doctor. Her parents were not unmindful of the expense her education had involved over the years. When in her presence, they were sympathy and devotion itself. However, in between they would say something like: let her earn some money so that she can at least pay for the education we have given her. Let her put aside something for her dowry.

This hypocrisy led to the girl well that span of life, which is called youth, while remaining unwed. Her face began to sag. Naturally, there were no more suitors. When she finally came to comprehend the selfishness of her parents, it was too late in the day. So you could see her going about her business, a stethoscope hanging around her neck. At the beginning of each month, she would bring her earnings to her parents like a robot. She would neither cry, nor, for that matter, ever smile. She was never angry, nor could you say that she was happy. All emotion had been drained out of her.

I was one of those sons who are not a good gambling proposition. My parents thought they would get me to become a bara sahib. Sometimes they would want me to become a doctor, other times an engineer or an officer in the army, the basic idea being that, at some point, I should become a means of earning for them. It is quite impossible to predict what a child will become when he grows up.

Religion was handed over to me like a sealed packet. At school, I was made to take up subjects, which were my parents choice. Every day in my life was another reminder to them of their investment in the future. By the time I got to college, they were already making plans for my marriage. Milch cattle ask no questions of their owners. They are only allowed to wag their tails and wait for the admonishing stick across their buttocks. However, I was now old enough to think for myself.

There were the usual infatuations. Love letters to girls, which I waited breathlessly to be answered. Nor can I forget the day when a meaningless story I had written was published in the college magazine. My father, I will always remember, tore the magazine to shreds before giving it back to me. But I kept writing stories.

I was obvious that with my games, stories, poetry and preoccupation with books not used in the class, my chances of becoming a sound investment on the stock exchange no longer appeared very bright .My parents, therefore, decided that the best thing to straighten me out was marriage I was their investment and I had to be protected. I protested. I sulked. I even cried. But my future and already been mapped out for me.

The first time I took a drink, I almost puked with nausea. However, it was to be preferred to the misery I was being made to endure at home. Drinking became a part of the evening. It had its own glow, more soothing then the light of a bright sun. Before long, I reached a point where the dividing line between day and night disappeared.

I soon found myself buried under heaps of abuse and accusations from my parents, my relations and even my wife. My value on the stock exchange had suddenly dwindled. No-toriety was my lot now. “Why did he not die when he was born?”

I decided to revolt completely. I had my hair shaved off. I took up the mendicant’s red habit, with a necklace of coloured stones around my neck and the mystic’s traditional musical instrument in my hand. I felt like Shah Hussain reincarnated. I was a sinner and my Madhu was far away from me. I never found him, but in my search for him, I myself became both Hussain and Madhu.

No longer was I deluded by religious divisions. I was now the singing minstrel of God, dancing in the streets. Wilderness was my home as much as the settlements of men. I had finally demolished my parent’s dream stock exchange and, for the first time in my life, I was able to respect myself.

My friends had abandoned me because I was no longer a profitable prospect. I used to be the guinea pig that was employed to test the efficacy of their selfish and monstrous vaccines. To some, I was the godfather, to others a father confessor. There were those who would come and cry on my shoulder.

All the time I knew that I was being used. I was no more than a tool. Many reached high pinnacles of glory by stepping on my weary shoulders. I let them do that without complaint. But now that I was no longer of any practical benefit, one by one they began leaving me. Every one had a different excuse. They were no longer on my side, but on the side of my parents. I was offered moral counsel, even blackmailed, but I was now beyond these remonstrations. I had revolted.

I was like a wild fire and every hypocrisy that had once surrounded me was now burnt to ashes. And this included those I had once believed were my friends and companions.

I was abandoned without compunction. I was no use to anyone. These people wanted to live successful lives and I couldn’t help them there. In chorus I was denounced. “Misfit… victim of self –pity.. neurotic.”

But I was happy. I was rid of my friends. That day I drank to my heart’s content sang danced wildly.

The head of the department I was employed in phoned me one day and ordered me to send the girl who worked with me to his house that evening. Then he laughed and added: “and a bottle of scotch as well.” There was nothing I could say to him. That evening I bought myself a bottle of scotch and went to sleep while trying to finish it. Was I a pimp? A procurer?

Next morning, I placed my letter of resignation on the officer’s table. He gave me dirty look. “You are a misfit,” he growled. “ I am not a pimp,” I said. “In that case, you will remain unemployed,” he replied.

I seemed to be causing nothing but trouble to every one. Was there something wrong with me? Or was I alone on the right path and the others were misguided? Could I go on living like this? What was I to do?

I thought deeply, and then told myself. Sing and dance. Get yourself a bad name. Drink. Know yourself. That alone will be true. Everything else will be false. But who is to tell truth from falsehood? Who divides men into saints and sinners? The question stayed with me, until, bit-by-bit, step-by-step, I began to feel the emergence of a strange inner strength.

Now I knew. Whatever path I chose to follow, will be the right path. That alone will be the truth.

We had a torrid love affair. Whether this happened before my marriage or after it. I do not now recall. It doesn’t really matter because the division of life into pre or post-marital is completely artificial. It is like a line drawn on the sand. With one breath of air, it blows away. It is not essential that a man should love one woman in his life. I cannot distinguish between the three or four women I was in love with at various times. Their faces, their personalities, their been mutually indistinguishable. The way they made love, or looked at me, the way they lay themselves on the bed or walked, for instance, now appear almost identical. All of them are to me, therefore, one single woman.

She could be said to belong to what is known as the “jet set”. It was perfectly in order for her to flirt with a poet or a painter. People form that class determine their basic attitudes in accordance with they day’s fashion. When I met her, she had already been married many years. She told me that she was in love with her husband. He was handsome. He was rich. And he looked after her well. However, she said she always felt as if she was missing something. And all the years they had been married, he had never addressed her by her by her name. She said she was basically a taken for granted.

I asked her what she found in me that despite listing the virtues of her husband endlessly, she still felt impelled to come to me. She said while she was not short of admirers, she felt that alone could give her what had been missing in her life. She said I had given her what she had all along felt absent in her life. But to me it sounded as if she was planning to use me as a guinea pig. I told her to leave me alone. I said all my life I had been used by others. I was a man half-dead. “ Don’t join my band of torturers,” I told her.

She said there would be no physical relations between us. “We could always talk on the phone, couldn’t we?” She said, and then added, “off and on, we could perhaps meet. Nothing more.” I told her that would not work as we lived in a world where sex was part of life. I said two people could continue to meet, but they would remain strangers. Unless there was physical intimacy, they could never be lovers. Sexual relations, I told her, were, to me a part of a spiritual dimension. However, she couldn’t see my point. I told her I was never again going to be made a guinea pig. So we parted.

Before this episode, sexual relations had been no more than a mechanical union to me. But it was different now. I felt that only fools could live entire lives with the women they married. The same body, the same odors, the same techniques of making love, the same monotonous evenings and nights. How boring.

It was around this time that I met a woman who showed me aspects of sex I had never been aware of . I realized that Kok Shastra, The perfumed Garden, Havelock Ellis, Kinsey, Masters and Johnson were all a load of rubbish. How could scientific explanations even begin to convey the strange chemistry of body meeting body? All that they talked was textbook nonsense. It was for individual men and women to discover physical love for themselves. The search for the magic moment was their privilege alone. Who were these people and what right did they have to write manuals and issue instructions? Whay should one seek one’s sexual fulfillment through secondary sources?

She said to me, “I prefer my vibrator and, for you, I have a rubber sex doll. Only perversion can keep the spark of sex alive.” For a few days, it was all very nice, but only for a few days. The nausea returned. It is a strange game, this sex you feel sick if you don’t get it and you feel sick when you get it. I wondered who these women were who were trying to use me for their pleasure. The same bodies, the same love making methods, the same perversions. They were all the same, these women. Wives, sweethearts, mistresses, prostitutes were all trying to use me. I revolted. I ran into the streets. I danced the dance of freedom.

Another nail went into his coffin. The dead man looked around with his wide awake inner eye. Parents, friends, acquaintances, the whole lot of them were squatted on the floor, waiting for the body to be washed and the procession to start. There was still time. Most of the mourners were consulting their watches surreptitiously. The funeral was late because a famous politician’s arrival was awaited. He was expected to walk in front of the mourners.

It was a nice warm day in London. The cricket ground was brimming with spectators: Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, whites, blacks, women and children. They were all waiting for the match to start.Two players form teams A and B tossed a coin. Team a won and put team B in to bat.

There were no umpires, no captains and no twelfth men. Dyer the team A wicketkeeper, Bhagat Singh that of team B. Team A took the field. Team B opened with Kharal and Fatiana. From the bowler’s end, Elphinstone come in with a shiny new ball in his hand. After a long, bouncy run-up to the wicket, he sent down the first delivery. Kharal stepped for-ward and pushed it to mid-on where it was fielded. He passed it back to Elphinstone. There were no runs scored in the over, nor were there any no balls.

Barkley took up the other end, Fatiana facing him. There were no runs, but Berkley bowled a couple of no balls.The spectators were the umpires and it was they who were calling the no balls. The scoreboard kept moving.

One could see that tension between Kharal and Berkley and Elphinstone and Fatiana was mounting. Berkley was not only bowling no-balls but also sending down bouncers. How ever, Kharal was plying with growing confidence adding on to the total and trying, as far as possible, to face Berkley him-self. Some spectators were cheering, but the whites among them were obviously getting agitated.

Taking a longer than normal start, Berkely sent an extra-fast one down to Kharal and knocked out his middle stump. KHaral had been completely beaten by the delivery. The white spectators clapped wildly and Elphinstone stepped across and patted Berkley on the back. The next man in was Dhingre. Elphinstone was changed and Curzone willie brought on. He bowled medium fast off- breaks. Dhingre stepped forward and hit him for four. There was much applause. The game went on, though things became somewhat dull. The spectators began to clap to encourage Fatiana to get the game moving. Jumping out of his crease, Fatiana to get the game moving. Jumping out of his crease, he hit Berkley for a mighty six. However, in the next over, Curzon Willie captured his wicket. Gurdit singh was next in.

There was now a duel in progress between Dhingre and Curzon Willie. The batsman seemed to be determined to hit curzon for six. His chance came when Curzon bowled him a loose ball and stepping out, Dhingre swiped it for such a huge six that the ball skirted over the trees which lined the ground. The crowd went wild, both bowlers were changed and Reed and stevens brought on. Reed was a wily bowler and he soon got to Dhingre. However, Gurdit Singh was now well set land playing solid. Maulvi Brakat Ullah was the next batsman in.

Though I was watching the play, it was “Kama Gata Maro… Kama. Gata Maro… Kama Gata Maro” that was ringing in my ears.

Labour was being shipped to Alberta and British Co-lumbia from Singapore and Hong Kong via Shanghai. “Kama Gata Maro” and “Vancouver”, however, were forced to dock outside the port. Food ran short and condition on board began to worsen as days passed.

Reed came in to bowl and Gurdit swung his bat, sending the ball to the boundary. Four runs.The crowd roared with excitement.

Hassan Amir tried to get the passengers on the ship through immigration, but the whites were not prepared to listen to reason. “Go back,” was their answer.

As Maulvi Barkat Ullah swept a leg break from Stevens for four runs, tension among the two teams seemed to rise.

It was a hard-fought match. Gurdit had injured his finger from a Reed delivery and Bhakhna had run to the wicket to put something on it.

In san Francisco, some men sat together in a room, trying to think of ways to help the stranded passengers of “Kama Gata Maro”. They were also becoming aware of the injustices committed by the whites against their countrymen back home. And in their ears,the words of a revolutionary song rang loud and clear.

Now I remember. I was bareheaded. And I raised the slogan “Pagri Sambhal Jatta” hold high your honour, you tiller of the soil.

Some people stared at me. And among them, I recognized a few faces. Banke Dyal, Ajit Singh, Lajpat Rai, Dina Nath, Amir Chand. Suddenly, I was thrown on the ground by the impact of a tremendous explosion. But I alone heard the explosion and I alone saw the bomb being thrown.

Maulvi Barkat Ullah was finally caught by Hopkinson off Reed and Bhakhna walked in to bat. They brought on Eastwood, but now there was no restraining Gurdit and the new batsman. They were hitting the bowlers all over the place. The fielders were at their wits, end. The spectators were breathless with excitement and the expectation of something big.

When “kama Gata Maro” was finally allowed to come in, it was flying a huge flag, which said “Sat Sri Akal Allah –au- Akbar Bande Matram”. The whites were in panic. The passengers had refused to get into trains.Bullets were fired. Sticks were used with reckless ferocity. The earth become red with blood.

Bhakhna finally lost his wicket, but not before he and Gurdit had thrashed the bowling mercilessly.

Sarabha walked in and team asked for the new ball. The shimmering ball was given to Eastwood. He bowled unchanged for a long spell, but the two batsmen appeared to be firmly set. Hopkinson was out of breath after the punishment he had received. The whit sections of the crowd were raising slogans “Get them out. Get them out.”

Their prayers seemed to have been answered because in the next over, a ball shot through Sarabha’s defence, shattering his wickets and rolling all the way down to the boundary. The whites clapped so hard that their hands became redas beetroot. Eastwood and Hopkinson hugged each other.

The next batsman in was Mansha Singh. He walked to the wicket, plodding the ground angrily with his bat as he moved. It was the end of the over.The field changed and Gurdit was facing Hopkinson. He played every ball with his head down. There were no runs. Eastwood was bowling with fiery speed from the other end. As he ran in to bowl the last ball of the over, Mansha singh danced down the wicket and hit him for a resounding six over the pavilion. It was such a mighty hit that you could hardly even see the ball as it soared higher and higher. There was another bowling change and it succeeded when Mansha fell.

Mewa Singh now walked in to bat. The two batsmen began to play steadily. The game grew somewhat dull and the spectators began to clap for action. The spinners were brought on, but their succession of leg-breaks, off-breaks and googlies seemed to have no effect on the two players. Mewa Singh broke the spell by lofting Hopkinson for Six. However, he was found leg before wicket at the next ball.

There were only two players left now-Bhagat Singh and Udham Singh. Team A asked for a break. Its players were seen whispering to one another. They seemed to be afraid of the last pair. Or perhaps they were trying to untangle the strategy of such renowned players being sent in last. It was between O Dwyer Dyer Scoot and Sanders that most of the whispered conversation seemed to be talking place. They changed fielding positions and Scott was sent behind the stumps. As Bhagat Singh walked in, the crowd roared sol loudly that birds flew out of the trees surrounding the ground.

There were so many people in Jallianwala Bagh that all you could see were heads. The whit e soldiers stood stiffly, their guns on the ready. Then all at once, bullets started coming down on the crowd like rain. People began to run in every direction. It was as if the world was coming to an end. There were dead bodies all over the ground.

Bhagat Singh was hitting fours in dazzling style. As Gurdit was by now a bit tired out, Bhagat was taking most of the bowling himself. He would take a run with the last ball of every over, move to the other end and resume his swashbuckling innings. Just for once he was unable to take a run with the last ball and Gurdit lost his wicket. It was O, dwyer who got him. The last man in was Udham Singh. The whites were happy that there would now be only one man to get rid of and the innings would be over. Miss Sherwood was growling at the batsmen.

I surveyed the crowed. I saw a man pull something out of his pocket. HE seemed to be feeling it, when it went off, blowing his skull to smithereens.In the excitement, nobody in the crowd noticed the corner where the man had been standing.

Bhagat Singh smashed Dyer for four. And then there was an explosion. Someone had lobbed a bomb at the whites. This was unforgivable provocation O ‘Dwyer ordered Dyer sanders joined the attack. But Bhagat sing was irresistible. He was hitting everything for four.

The crowd was in ecstasy over this scintillating performance, but the white section was sullen and silent. No amount of midfield tactical conferences between O ‘Dwyer Dyer Scott and Sanders seemed to be able to break the partnership.

The huge procession marching down the streets was raising slogans against the British government.The police began to baton-charge it.Lajpat Rai was one of those injured. He died later in the hospital.

Another Six.Team B supporters were on their feet. Bhagat Singh hit Sanders again, hard and high. The ball went like a bullet through the treetops, making some leaves fall to the ground.

Jalianwala Bagh. Jalianwala bagh.Udham Singh felt as if there was a fire burning wildly in his head. He couldn’t wait ot come face to face with O Dwyer. However, Bhagat was in such devastating form that he was keeping most of the bowling to himself.

At last, Udham Came to face O Dwyer. He played five balls without scoring, and then hit him out of the ground for a huge six. It created such an uproar that it seemed as if the entire kingdom of great Britain had been rocked by a massive earthquake.

Even the chandeliers in that room in Buckingham Palace shook where Dilip Singh had presented the Koh-I- Noor to Queen Victoria after looking at it for the last time in the light filtering through the window. In his heart he had cursed Daihousie and Logan.

And then the innings of team B came to an end. Bhagat Singh was still batting when Udham fell at the other end. The supporters of the two teams rushed into the ground. There were scuffles and it was obvious that further play was going to be difficult.

People were shouting slogans. “Bhagat Sing Zindabad” , “Inqilab Zindabad”, “Ram Mohammad Singh Azad Zindabad.”

The white police was now all over the place, making arrests. The more “wise” among the crowd were being advised not to mention inqilab. “Don’t throw crackers. Move cautiously. Negotiate coolly. Don’t hit sixes. Even fours should be hit only occasionally. Take singles or twos.”

I was like a man who is put on a heart lung machine. He is on the border of life and death. Bhagat Singh’s scintillating performance had caused a flutter in my being. I felt a vague desire to stay alive. Of course, I could see that those around me had given me up as dead. Once the oxygen, which keeps a dying man alive, runs out, he has to be taken off the oxygen tent. This is what happened to me. And what I was spared to see with my own eyes caused me to die a second time.

The flag that had once fluttered so merrily over “Kama Gat Maro” was in tatters. There was arson, murder, barbarity and hate. It ruled the land. I watched it all. The examples set by Kharal, Bhagat and Dulla had been forgotten. Waris Shah lay in his grave, watching it happen in silence. Farid, Nanak, Shah Hussain, Bulleh, Bahu and Mian Mohammad were also watching what was going on.But they were quiet. Ranjha was plying his flute blissfully.Unmindful of the running waters of the Chenab, Mahinwal was busy frying fish.Mirza lay in deep slumber, his quiver hanging by the tree. The Qazis Khairas, Kaidos, Tulleys, Kheeways, Chaddhars, Mir Shamirs and Tahir Begs held the world in thrall. Dullah’s Neeli, Kharal, Sawi, Mirza’s Bukki were without their riders.The Heers, Sonis and Sahibans were being slaughtered with dull edged knives.

Bhagat, Kharal, come to us. I shouted.But nobody came. I got out of the heart-lung machine. I was losing my breath. All around me was darkness. I could hear a voice.

From this point on, I remember nothings. Arrange-ments had already been made for digging my grave. The formalities of burial were being finalized.

Man cannot live out life under the great open canopy of the sky. He needs foods, clothing and shelter. But this creates divisions among men. Why do men love their country? Isn’t there something contrived about the division of the world into states and that of faith into religions?

If poets are not permitted to lend a hand in the building of their country, society become lopsided.

Who am I? What am I? The question nagged me. The answers eluded me. My search ended at Mohnjodaro and Harrapa. Perhaps it is a futile search, I said to myself. Whoever I am, I am, what I am at this given moment. What is my being today, is my real being. And now even that is extinct.

“Friends and comrades: Be prepared to offer sacrifices because the nation is in a deep crisis. We are passing through difficult times. We will sooner shed our blood than allow any harm to come to our country.

“Zindabad… Zindabad…. Inqilab Zindabad,” the lusty slogans reverberated through the air.

The speaker loosened the knot of his silk necktie and said: “the revolution shall come. Workers, peasants, landless labourers, the oppressed of the earth shall rise and destroy the exploiting classes.”

The leader straightened his necktie again. He got into a chauffeur driven Mercedes and returned to his suite in the city’s most expensive hotel. He opened a bottle of deluxe whisky.

The raised their glasses to the Revolution. He placed his feet on the table and accidentally put them over Das Kapital. One by one,his friends left.

He took off his wig and laid it on the table. He reversed the portraits of Marx, Engels and Lenin which hung on the wall to reveal pictures of women in various erotic poses. He walked up to each of them in turn, his eyes now a deep red. He downed his glass and whistled.

A young girl stepped out of the adjoining bedroom. Her scanty clothes, one could see, had left nothing to the imagination. She came and sat next to him on the sofa. He said something to her with his eyes.

He said, “I only think of Asia being Red when the girl I am with is also red.”

He was an ordinary day labourer. That evening, he comes home with the good news: the Revolution is on its way. Just a matter of days. His wife threw herself into his arms.

She had not experienced such happiness for years. In fact, as time had passed, she had become bored with marriage. They hadn’t made love for long a time. She did not think he was any longer capable of it.

“Today, our religion is calling on us to stand up and be counted. Let’s demonstrate our unity. Let’s defend the ideology of this country. Let’s speak the word of truth in front of unjust rulers. He, who denies his faith today, will surely end up in hell.”

I was standing on the road, waiting for a bus, the last bus of the day. His car came to a stop right across the road from me. He was offering me a lift home. I thanked him and got in next to him. I didn’t realize at the time who he was. I looked at him again as the car drove forward and then I knew who he was. I had seen his picture in the papers and read his speeches.

I asked him if he would be so kind as to drop me at the next bus stop . But he insisted that he would like to drop leader should be driving around all by himself at night. Why had he offered to pick me up from the bus stand?

However, the mystery was soon resolved. He slowed down the car and I felt his hand sliding up my thigh. I looked at him and he laughed. His hand began to move higher. A strange sensation.

Then, without warning, he took a U-turn and stepped on the accelerator. He put his hand on me again, only more confidently. “Let’s go to my place,” he suggested. “Spend a couple of hours there and you can have five hundred rupees.”

I didn’t know how exactly to react. I didn’t what to tell him that I knew who he was. But I decided that I would jump out of the car at the first opportunity, but I didn’t want him to get suspicious, so I told him: “Okay, I shall go with you.”

Suddenly he had to brake the car. We had run into a red traffic light. I threw open the door and jumped out. I crossed the road and began to run. He waited for a few minutes and then reached out to shut the swinging door before speeding away. I watched his tail-lights recede into the distance.

A few days later, I ran into him at a wedding and al though I knew that he had recognized me, he pretended he hadn’t

I got to know more about his peculiar habit from men who hadn’t jumped out of his car, but gone with him.A few hours spent in the great politician’s bedroom had earned them money and some had even managed to find jobs, import permits and industrial licenses.

“Religion teaches us tolerance and gives us the strength to overcome our baser instincts. We must strive to bring about a moral order in this country.”

The old white colonel drank from his glass of whisky for a long time. Then he pressed a buzzer.Two young army officers appeared, pushing a half naked girl in front of them. The colonel looked at them appreciatively, calmly placed his hand on the girl’s breasts and said: “I shall change your racial stock. We will seed your future generations. Only then should you even entertain the idea of revolt.”

All night long, the girl’s screams could be heard. Then she was pushed out of the colonel’s room. But the hide and seek game which had been devised to change racial stocks continued until early morning.

When they were finally finished, the two officers carried her to the main highway a few miles away, but she was no longer conscious. Her thighs were covered with a film of congealed blood. They put her down in the middle of the road, got into a jeep, reversed it and then thrust it forward at great speed, crushing her under their wheels.

“Idiots,” he shouted, “you killed her. How does that help us! We are going to change their racial stock, aren’t we?”

The officers were quick to learn. From then on, they picked up the women they fancied, raped them and pushed them out.

Many longhaired, dark skinned girls chose to kill themselves rather than submit to the standard treatment.

Those who did not have the courage to do so, be came the unwilling mothers of the “new Race”.

There was bloodshed in the land. Officers and soldiers were massacred with barbaric glee whenever opportunity arose. Their eyes were gouged out, their women taken away, raped and shorn of their breasts.

When the “new race” came to maturity, it found that its begetters were no longer around. But they had their mothers and the great offering they had made at the feet of the goddess of liberation.

Grenades and Molotov cocktails were being lobbed in the streets. Sten guns barked through the night. Where high buildings once stood, there was nothing but debris. Men were dying everywhere and politicians were playing musical chairs. There was turmoil in the land.

I could bear it no longer. I got myself a barrel of kerosene, put a box of matches in my pocket and walked to the biggest square in the city.

I began to speak to the people. I denounced both the government and the opposition. I was like a mad man, Laughing and crying at the same time. People were gathering around me one by one and soon there was a large crowd surrounding me.

I could see. I could hear. But I couldn’t speak. I was being fed through tubes. My parents, friends and relations had sent for doctors from all over, even abroad.

Their verdict was unanimous. “ This patient is already dead. Clinically, at east. However, he can be kept “ alive”-for some years at least”.

One foreign doctor told my family. “This man needs mercy killing.” This diagnosis was followed by a long discussion on the morality or otherwise of mercy killing.

Nobody had the courage to say: Have mercy on this poor fellow. Put him to sleep.

One day, finally, on the excuse that my agony was far too great, they decided to kill me.

The politician , who had once picked me up on the excuse of dropping me home, assured my family and friends that there would be no public reaction to my killing. “ I guarantee that,” he told them.

The next day they told the doctors: We can’t bear his suffering any longer. End it for him. The doctors were not quit sure, but the politician was brought in to quell their doubts.

I was given an injection. There were smiles al round. However, when I took my last breath, their faces fell momentarily. Some even tired to bring tears to their eyes.

The only signs of life were in my eyes. One blind intellectual persuaded my family to donate my eyes to the eye bank. They placed a pen in my dead hand and had it scribble my signature across a printed form. It was now legal. My gaping sockets were filled in with plastic eyeballs.

The bank placed my eyes carefully in ice. Then they carted in the blind intellectual to the operation theatre.

My eyes were now his. A few days later, they took off his bandage. For the first time, he could see. People, trees, flowers, animals, birds, books-every thing.

Everybody played his assigned role when I was lowered into the grave. A fistful of earth was ceremonially thrown into the fearful cavity. Lavender waters were sprinkled over the mound of fresh earth. Someone found a brick to mark the direction in which my head pointed.

The night fell. Suddenly I as conscious of a light in the distance moving towards me. When it came close, it was three pairs of hands cradling an earthen lamp.

“Friends,” I shouted, “You have come at last. Why did you take so long?”

Fakhar Zaman, Writer, Politician and journalist is among the very few Pakistan writers who are internationally known. He writes in three languages: Urdu, Punjabi & English and has published thirtytwo books. His most celebrated works have been in his mother tongue Punjabi. His five Punjabi books were banned by military regime in 1978 and ban lifted by Lahore High Court after 18 years in 1996.

His famous novel ‘The Prisoner’ & few other writings have been translated into several languages of the world. Doctoral & Mphil theses have been written on his novels, poetry and plays.

These novels were among those which were proscribed by martial law regime of General Zia Ul Haq. These novel have also been translated into other languages.

Fakhar Zaman was a member of Parliament when Mr. Z.A. Bhutto was removed in a coup d tat on July 5, 1977. He suffered a lot during military dictatorship from imprisonment to banning and publically burning of books and other victimization.

Fakhar Zaman is the former Federal Minister and the Chairman of Pakistan Academy of letters and also National Commission on History and culture during Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto from 1993 to 1997.

He has been the President of Democratic writers Association of Pakistan and chairman of National Committee for the World decade for Cultural Development (UNESCO).Presently he is the Chairman of World Punjabi Congress.

Fakhar Zaman published and edited English and Urdu monthlies and Punjabi weekly, all banned by successive Military Regimes. He has struggled for democracy and liberalism undauntedly and victimized by totalitarian and despotic regimes. He is a member of the central executive committee of Pakistan Peoples Party and President of its Cultural Wing.

Fakhar Zaman is widely traveled in most part of the world. He holds masters degrees and law degrees from home and abroad.

Fakhar Zaman’s novels are the first political novels that depict the horrifying inside story of the gulags in Martial law period. His books have received many international awards.He was awarded the prestigious National Award for Literature—Sitara-e—Imtiaz in 1994.

Fakhar Zaman was declared the BEST PUNJABI NOVELIST OF 20^TH CENTURY by the literary and cultural organizations of India and Pakistan and bestowed MILLINEUM AWARD in Delhi in 2001.

He lives in Lahore.(Tel-92-42-5833435 Mob:92-3037357261----Fax-92-42-5835585—Email: falwn@brain.net.pk)

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Khalid Hasan, is a renowned journalist, writer, columnist and translator He has authored three books and translated works of famous Urdu short story writer Saadat Hasan Manto.


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