Sense of an ending in Sooni

Gulzar Singh Sandhu

PARTITION had not only torn India into two parts, but the worst part was the condition of conversion laid down for the stay of Muslims in the new Bharat, and that of Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan. The majority in our area were Muslims. But what could they do? Whoever did not convert to Sikhism was a target or had to leave for Pakistan. No sooner had they shown their willingness for conversion that a huge number of steel bangles, wooden crescent combs and yellow scarves and turbans were procured for an elaborate ceremony. This had been carried out in neighbouring villages too. The Muslims watched with the resigned passivity and indifference of those who no longer cared whether they live or die.

Soon, almost all the Muslims were initiated into the Sikh religion. Wearing the five symbols of Sikhism, one of them said, “We have always been Hindus, only that blasted Aurangzeb made us change,” in a futile effort to seek justification for this act. As a young boy of 13, I witnessed the entire ceremony in my village Sooni of Hoshiarpur. That day is so clear before my eyes. Badru, his daughters Rahmte and Jaina, as also his son Noora, wearing the Sikh symbols and sporting yellow scarves and turban.

It was all well in the village for three days. I was helping my father in the fields when we heard a sort of war cry, “Bole So Nihal” and “Har Har Mahadev”, by a huge crowd of armed people entering our village.

I looked at the raiders and stood there dazed. They had already closed in on Badru. He pleaded with folded hands, flourishing his yellow scarf and steel bangle. A Nihang Sikh playfully struck the wrist which was raised to exhibit the bangle, and cut it clean. When Badru raised his other hand in abject imploration, the tyrant struck that off too.

I do not know what happened after that, for I had lost consciousness. When I came to my senses, I was lying on a bed. My mother’s eyes were red and swollen with crying.

Chokingly, I told her about Noora’s death and asked in a trembling voice if she knew anything about Rahmte. She told me that Jaina and Rahmte along with half-a-dozen other Muslim girls of the village were abducted by the rioters. Whichever male Muslim was seen with a new yellow turban and bright steel bangle was killed. In fact, those couple of Muslims who had not accepted Sikhism were safer, for they were not caught so easily.

These saviours of religion had come to my village at the height of noon, in blistering sunshine, with spares and guns. They were like locusts. Every Mussalman was every Hindu’s enemy. A host of them had collected from 20 villages to raid our tiny village — pocketing jewellery and cash, slaughtering men and assaulting women. Folded hands were chopped off, bowed heads severed; 23 males were slaughtered and seven women violated.

How did all of this happen and why? Nobody had an answer. Everybody, Sikh and Hindu, grieved the death of fellow villagers. Uncle could not sleep for many nights. For a full week, he dared not face a Mussalman. It was after a week that he somewhat regained his peace of mind, and that only from the knowledge that worse things had happened in the neighbouring village of Gobindpur. The stench of unburied bodies rent the air.

Everything returned to the old routine rather quickly. There were fairs, festivals, wrestling tournaments and public theatre shows. A mere five months after the killings, there was a rush at the gurdwara of village Pathlawa. Nearly the whole of Sooni was present. Bards and songsters were singing. Under the magic of such songs, nobody was concerned about what had occurred. While I was playing with my friends, uncle put his hand on my shoulders, and said, “Where is your mother and other women? Call them back.”

“What is the matter?” Uncle’s wife asked.

“Not much, but let us go to our village. It is not good for you women to be any longer in the gurdwara here,” his tone was serious.

“Even so, I would like to know,” his wife insisted.

“Some people from neighbouring villages have been killed in our village. When the news of their death reaches them, people from there may set out after you here.”

The trouble had arisen over Jaina, who had been a close friend of uncle’s daughter Parkash. Very few people knew that Jaina had been abducted by Preetinder Singh alias Preetoo of Jeendowall village. But they could not have done anything to rescue her. After all, she was not the only girl abducted in that raid. Over half-a-dozen other Muslim girls of the village had been abducted, one of them newly married who happened to be visiting.

The crux of the situation was that Jaina had run away from Preetoo’s house at night and returned to Sooni to take shelter at uncle’s house, on the strength of her friendship with Parkash. Uncle took her under his wings. She could live for some time with his daughters, and when peace would be fully restored, her family might take her away. Even otherwise, he could not drive her out of this house in her plight.

Preetoo and his companions, on the other hand, had decided to carry Jaina away by force once again. The day of the Pathlawa fair was deemed most suitable for the raid, since most of the villagers would be away. There were two others with Preetoo. One had a .303 rifle, another carried a pistol, and the third a double-barreled shotgun. They were riding horses, which they had left outside the village. They had been informed that Jaina, Parkash and some companions of the latter had not gone to the fair. Jaina would not have enjoyed the songs of Sikh and Hindu glory in Pathlawa. She had to be kept company at home. As the three of them entered the village, they enquired from a youth about the house where Jaina was staying. He guessed their motive at once and sent them straight to Jaina’s parents’ old house, now half in ruins.

As they entered the house, the shrewd youth bolted the door from outside and informed the villagers. Within minutes, men and women who had not gone to the fair surrounded the house. Uncle brought a gun. Others were armed with spears and axes. These weapons had been acquired during the August killings. They now wanted to avenge the outrage when Hindu and Sikh raiders committed murders and assaulted Muslims, and the villagers had looked on, helpless.

They had a feeling like that of a hunt. Some blocked all the paths out of the village. Others climbed on to the roof. They would not let the culprits escape. Preetoo’s companions would not come out of the big room of the house. Preetoo fired shots from the courtyard and the villagers took cover behind the buttressing ridge, showering brickbats on Preetoo. As soon as the door was unbolted from outside, Preetoo tried to escape. Young men of the village knocked him down in the lane.

The other two would not come out. The villagers opened a hole in the roof and threatened to set the house on fire. This worked. Both men fell to uncle’s bullets as soon as they came out of the house.

Uncle did not know how the police would view the incident. But that made no difference. The villagers had saved the honour of a daughter of the village. Uncle’s face did not evince any sign of heroic feeling, but the village was happy that it had avenged the killing of Muslims in August who stood converted then.

— The Chandigarh-based writer is an acclaimed author

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