To my dear wife, Mani

  and

  To a mango sapling’s tale of eternal love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  31

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  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Afterword

  Other Books by the Author

  Praise for A Game of Fire

  About the Book

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Nanak Singh

  THIS BOOK IS really the second part or sequel of my novel Hymns in Blood. When I wrote a lengthy foreword for that, I wanted to give my readers a glimpse into my own thinking behind that novel. So there really isn’t very much new for me to say in this time. Or maybe there’s just a couple of things that I should mention, the ones to which I want to draw your attention.

  Those five and a half ill-fated months from 5 March to 15 August 1947! There’s a lot that I saw with my own eyes during those five and a half months, a lot that bruised my heart, so much that I gleaned from newspaper reports and official pronouncements and even more that I learned from my circle of friends and acquaintances. I have tried to present all of that to my readers through Hymns in Blood and A Game of Fire. In doing so, I have tried to don the mantle of both a novelist and a chronicler of historic events. In my earlier novels, the plot was usually a creation of my own imagination, but that is not the case with these two books. The characters depicted in them may not be real but the events that I’ve narrated are entirely true. I have, in fact, made a conscious effort to present them in a more or less chronological fashion. I can assure my readers that my account of the incidents related to Pothohar and Amritsar is authentic, accurate and recounted with all the honesty that I could muster.

  If I were to try and define myself in religious terms, I would say that I am just a humble Sikh who lives by the supreme dictum given to us by the Guru Granth Sahib, ‘Manas ki jaat sabhe eke pehchanbo’—recognize all of mankind as a single creed of humanity.

  I had this dictum in mind when I wrote these two novels. I acknowledge that in doing so, I’ve had to expose some harsh truths in ways that will make a few of my friends quite uncomfortable. But the truth must be told.

  That accursed year of 1947, that year when a wave of savagery, or should I say the sheer bestiality that ravaged the humanity of our people! Hindu, Muslim, Sikh—each community came under its evil spell. A Hindu or a Sikh saw a Muslim as the devil incarnate, a form of Shaitan himself. And the same was true the other way round. But if a person could somehow rise above the inferno of communal hatred and see the holocaust of 1947 through the words of that matchless dictum, if he could peer into the depths of his own heart, he will certainly hear an anguished call from Gurbani: ‘Jagat jalanda rakh lai, apni kirpa dhar’—the world is ablaze, please bestow Your mercy and save it!

  But is that the call I hear today? Not at all. Amidst the cacophony around me, I hear screams of ‘The Hindus are ablaze’ or ‘The Sikhs are ablaze’.

  And why don’t I join that chorus, folks ask me. Frankly, there is just no way that I could get myself to become a part of that group. So I continue to sing my own refrain, completely out of tune with the times.

  I’ve never really nursed any illusions that my ideals or principals are underpinned by some divine sanction. Nor do I get swayed by any praise that might come my way when I depict the reality of our lives in my novels. But yes, I’ve always tried to present my perspective with fairness and integrity. For that, I can perhaps take some legitimate pride. If I saw a Muslim wield his dagger mercilessly to slaughter innocent persons, I’ve described it without flinching. And when I saw a Hindu or Sikh commit some ghastly atrocity on a Muslim, I braced myself to present the true picture. I did this with the knowledge that many of my gentle readers may not have the constitution to stomach the unpleasant truth, that they would wince as they tried to swallow such a bitter dose of candour. You could say that my reluctance to sugar-coat this bitter pill is a failing on my part, or maybe a symptom of some other malaise. So be it.

  My fervent appeal to my readers is that they see this book as a historical narrative and not as a work of fiction. And while reading the book, they should abandon the jaundiced eye of sectarian feelings for a while. Who knows, after reading the book they may even discover the miraculous kohl that cures the jaundiced eye and even cleanses them of the communal virus.

  This book revolves around characters who are Sikh, Hindu and Muslims. But if my readers were to join me on that pristine peak of humanity from where I wrote this novel, they might observe that there are no Sikhs, Hindus or Muslims and understand the true meaning of ‘Manas ki jaat’.

  Amritsar

  5 September 1948

  Nanak Singh

  1

  ‘WHAT’S THE POINT of continuing with this charade? Why keep pounding the grain when it’s already crushed to dust? To hell with this Unity Council of yours and to hell with its great members! Thousands of our brothers are being slaughtered like goats and sheep; countless sisters being stripped naked, paraded in public and molested in broad daylight. You ought to drown in shame each time you call out for this “Unity” of yours. I don’t know if you lot are weirdly self-obsessed or … or … just plain impotent! If there’s any blood in your biceps, will it only stir when these Muslims enter your own homes, and your mothers and sisters are vio—’

  The young man’s face was flushed, each sentence exploding from his lips like molten lava from a volcanic eruption, his words crashing into the audience with the seismic force of tectonic plates. There was a stunned silence in the room, followed soon by a flicker of resentment.

  The speaker was a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three, possibly a college student if one went by his attire.

  They were inside a nondescript house located approximately midway between the Putlighar crossing and Khalsa College on the Grand Trunk Road as it traversed through Amritsar. A dozen young men sat around a table in a largish room in that house—six were Sikh, four Hindu and two Muslim.

  It was an evening in early March. The festival of Holi was around the corner, meaning that the winds had strengthened over the last couple of days, enveloping people in the streets and bazaars in clouds of dust. The young men who were sitting around the table had set up their Unity Council a couple of months back. The Council had started off with a fair bit of enthusiasm. Its first couple of meetings were attended by almost a hundred members, but those numbers had dwindled rapidly to the dozen present this evening. And if the fireworks on display today were any indication, it wouldn’t be long before the Council’s last rites were performed without much fanfare.

  The young man’s fiery discourse had left the others speechless, their faces reflecting a curious array of expressions ranging from fear and guilt to anger and indignation. Emotions were rising around the table as he continued his diatribe when a young Sikh, who was sitting next to the speaker, quickly rose from his chair. In a flash, his right hand moved to cover the speaker’s mouth and prevent him from causing further damage.

  ‘Sudharshan!’ the Sikh fumed. ‘Have you lost your senses? You forget that we are members of the Unity Council who’ve pledged to dowse the communal fire, not fan its flames through tirades like these. The terrible things that you’ve pointed out may well be true. But does that mean that we should also allow ourselves to be swept into this flood of communal hatred instead of trying to save others, as we had once—’

  Cutting him off mid-sentence, Sudarshan continued in the same blistering voice, ‘You’d better understand, Satnam, that the lofty purpose that brought us together is now a mirage. You won’t reach your goal even if you keep trying till the end of time. Mark my words, Satnam. We’ve reached a stage where we must fight fire with fire. I’ve heard the blood-curdling accounts of refugees fleeing the Frontier Province and my heart bleeds from a thousand cuts. I’ve taken a solemn vow that I’ll avenge the death of each one of my fellows by killing at least four of theirs. I haven’t come here today to attend this council of yours. I’ve come to get rid of its membership for good. Here you go!’ And, so saying, he reached inside his jacket to withdraw a piece of folded paper and flung it at Satnam.

  Satnam picked up the resignation letter and put it on the table without reading it. At the moment, he was more worried that today’s meeting would end in bloodshed. The two Muslim members sat across the table from him, their heads were lowered in anxiety even as they sensed the pointed gaze of the Hindus and Sikhs upon them.

  A young Hindu who was seated beside them piped up, ‘Sardar Satnam Singh ji, forgive me, but you can’t entirely dismiss Sudarshan’s comments. We need to refl ect deeply on what he has said. Frankly, I also feel that this Unity Council has become a bit of a farce. The disease of communal hatred has now spread throughout our body; the patient is in critical condition and the prescriptions coming out of this Unity Council will do nothing to cure him. Let’s be honest for a moment. Over the last couple of months, we’ve shouted ourselves hoarse calling for communal amity, printed and distributed thousands of pamphlets, published articles in major newspapers, stuck giant posters and given speeches—but has any of it resulted in something tangible? Have our efforts reduced the level of communal hatred? Not at all. If anything, it continues to increase with each passing day. And you are also aware of another grim reality. We are all at the mercy of Amritsar’s Muslim-dominated police force—the same people who are inciting their Muslim brethren to launch a jihad against their Hindu and Sikh neighbours?’

  ‘And remember this,’ chimed in another young Hindu, his western attire topped up with a very English-looking cap. ‘You can keep trying till the end of time, but there is absolutely no chance that your prescription will work. This council has now been around for over two months. Is there a single achievement that we can highlight, apart from wasting people’s time with these pointless meetings at one location or another? From the reports that I read in the newspapers, it is quite clear that the forbearance of Hindus and Sikhs is being exploited by the Muslims and they are becoming more aggressive by the day. The destruction wrought in Hazara and Pothohar is a living example of this trend.’

  ‘But Mr Kumar!’ Satnam turned around to address him. ‘In your opinion, what is the reason for this?’

  Kumar leaned forward towards Satnam as he spoke, ‘The reason is that right now, the fanaticism of the Muslims has crossed all limits. You can pull out the press clippings for the last one month and read about the violence in Hazara and Pothohar. I am sure that after reading them, you’ll also agree that this Unity Council of yours is utterly pointless. The other side is hurling bricks at you and you want to respond by throwing flowers at them? The sheer absurdity of your ideals!’

  ‘So, does this mean that…’ the Muslim named Ishaaq who was sitting three chairs away from Kumar interjected, ‘it must be an eye for an eye, that each action must be followed by a stronger reaction? If you think that approach is going to help our city or our nation, then I have to agree that this council of ours can offer no solution.’

  ‘Well, if I can be honest…’ Tarlochan Singh spoke from the seat on Satnam’s left. ‘The fact is that this council has automatically ceased to exist because of the lack of quorum in the last few meetings. A membership of around a hundred and the record shows attendance of barely a dozen!’

  Salmani, who was sitting next to Ishaaq, tried to get the attention of the others as he cleared his throat to speak, ‘We set up this council to try and keep religious bigotry at bay, but it seems to me that maybe 90 or 95 per cent of our own council are falling prey to the same bigotry. The heated address and resignation letter of a member like Sudarshan has given us ample evidence of this.’

  Sudarshan was still seething when he heard the comment and launched himself at Salmani with the same venom. ‘Let me make my position absolutely clear once again to Mr Salmani. If getting influenced by the savage killings of my brothers and the public dishonour of my sisters is bigotry, so be it. I am not at all embarrassed for failing your touchstone.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better be prepared, Mr Sudarshan,’ Salmani replied with rising anger. ‘Go ahead and seek your revenge wherever you want, but get ready to face the reprisals too.’

  ‘You aren’t going to scare us with such threats, Mr Salmani. The writing on the wall is clear. Hindus and Sikhs will have to sort out the Muslims and bring this matter to a definitive close.’

  ‘Looks like you are challenging the Muslims to step up and fight even as you sit in this council,’ Ishaaq rose indignantly. An animated chatter went around the table, forcing Satnam to get up from the table. He urged them to be quiet for a minute as he started.

  ‘Friends! I am shocked to see you immerse yourself in the same poison from which we had vowed to save our brothers. Don’t you remember when all of us sat together at my place, when we broke bread from the same plate and drank water from the same glass? Don’t you remember the pledge that all of us took that evening? The very thought that I must remind you of our pledge is deeply embarrassing. I wish I could find a way to revive the fervour that first brought us together, to get us to see events around us from that perspective. Sudarshan, I don’t dispute the facts that you have placed before us about Hazara and Pothohar. There is no doubt that the Muslims of those regions were incited to attack their Hindu and Sikh neighbours, to inflict all manner of brutality on them. But how does it help if we start doing the same over here to our Muslim compatriots, if we also start staining our hands with blood? If both sides begin to behave the same way, where will it all end? Won’t it ravage both sides until—’

  Iqbal Singh, one of the other members of the council, sprang to his feet and cut him mid-sentence as he roared, ‘For God’s sake let’s put an end to this holier-than-thou charade. Remember that old saying about rogues who can’t be fixed by words alone—they need a sound kick on their ass to set them right! Well, that’s what we face today.’

  ‘Sardar sahib!’ Salmani snarled. ‘Mind your language, will you! Don’t forget that the people that you are calling rogues and threatening with kicks also have a heart that beats for honour and dignity. Islam is the most universal religion, but if you insult Islam, beware that every faithful Muslim will be ready to shed rivers of blood in defence of his faith.’

  The council’s meeting had descended into pandemonium and was heading for a violent conclusion. But the war of words didn’t turn into a real bloodbath, and for that, we must give credit to Satnam Singh. It was only his calm demeanour and powers of persuasion that prevented the room from being drenched in blood that evening.

  2

  SAAWAN SINGH WAS from the Ramgarhia clan, a man with a genuine flair for business. When he passed away a couple of years ago, he had left a modest fortune of thirty or forty thousand rupees for his family.

  Satnam Singh was the second of Saawan Singh’s four children—two brothers and two sisters. His older sister was married into a family in Agra that owned a flourishing business and his younger brother, Narinder, was in Class Eight at Ramgarhia High School. That left the youngest, his sister Sukhwant. Barely five or six, she was the baby of the family whom everyone called Munni. An affectionate, happy, adorable child who was very much the favourite in the neighbourhood.

  Satnam and his family own two separate properties—a store in Katra Sher Singh that his father had bought and the house at the far end of Katra Ramgarhia where they lived. When Saawan Singh was alive, the business was mostly limited to electrical supplies; but once Satnam took charge of the store, he diversified into new products like gramophones, radios, etc. for which he was able to secure distribution rights. He was also a natural mechanic who loved to fix things. This helped him set up a thriving business for repairing broken radios.

  Satnam was around twenty-five and had studied up to FSc. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he looked somewhat stocky despite being above average in height. But then, he’d always been fond of regular exercise and had managed to avoid the kind of flab that has become so common amongst city-dwellers. If anything, his agility while moving and his poise while standing belied the sedentary nature of his occupation as the owner of a successful store.

  Having studied at the local college, he had acquired the sartorial style of the educated youth. His beard was neatly pressed against his face with the hair-fixing gel that had become quite popular of late. His multi-hued leheriya turban also represented a certain aesthetic—folds of muslin rolled in neat, equidistant layers to cover the ears and rise upwards, and a pointed front carefully perched over the middle of his forehead like the prow of a sleek canoe. A far cry from those ungainly structures that some young folks had started sporting these days.

  Through his years in school and college and even now when he was running his own business, Satnam had managed to steer clear of any kind of religious fanaticism. He was a devout Sikh, but he would never countenance disrespect of other religions. Over the years, this trait had helped him develop a distinctly multi-religious circle of friends. The wave of communal strife that had broken out in Punjab over the last few months had caused him a deeply personal anguish. He had to do something about it. And so, he had started reaching out within his relatively modest circle of friends and acquaintances, urging them to act as a force for peace in a rapidly unravelling situation. The Unity Council that brought Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs together on one platform was largely the fruit of his labour.

 

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