This Sangha which I joined had a long Sanskrit name. Every time I said
Rashtureeya
, the boys laughed. Every time I said
Savayam
, they laughed. So I simply called the Sangha by its English initials RSS.
I gave the five rupee note to my mother. She was very happy. She made some
halva
, gave some to the Sikh and his lady and their servants. She even gave a palmful to the dog. My father stopped taunting me.
I used to leave home early in the morning and dust the furniture. Then I got into my uniform and lined up with the boys. Our leader hoisted the saffron flag of the Sangha. We saluted it by holding our hands across our chests. This was followed by an hour of drill and wrestling. We were taught how to fight with sticks. They told us we would soon have guns and be taught to shoot. In the afternoon we had lectures on Hindu
dharma
and history. They told us of the greatness of Aryavrata, the land of the Aryans. They told us how the Mussalmans had come and destroyed our temples and massacred millions of innocent Hindus, abducted and raped Hindu women; how thousands of these noble Hindu women had burnt themselves on funeral pyres rather than be dishonoured by the Mussalmans. They exhorted us to fight for our
dharma
, cleanse Bharat of the unclean
maleechas
, Mussalmans as well Christians, who were also foreigners and ate our sacred cow-mother.
What right had the Mussalmans to be in Delhi or anywhere else in India when they had driven us, Hindus and Sikhs, out of their Pakistan? Why could we not take away their women and property as they had taken ours and send them packing to Pakistan or
gehennum
? Such questions were put to us every day.
One day the chief sent for me. ‘Are you number 840?’ I came to attention and saluted. ‘Is it correct that your sister was abducted in Pakistan?’ I replied ‘
Jee haan
.’ ‘Are you going to do nothing about it? How long will you keep sitting with one hand on the other?’ I did not know what he wanted me to do. I replied, ‘Sir, 840 can make a present of his life. He has nothing else to offer.’ The chief smiled, ‘We Hindus only know how to give our lives, not how to take the lives of others! It must change. Are you prepared to lead an attack on the Muslims of Delhi? Remember what they have done to your sister!’
Blood rushed into my face. I again sprang to attention, saluted and said, ‘Number 840 is ready to lay—ready for any sacrifice.’
The chief had a paper in front of him. He read out some numbers. ‘These boys will be with you. When you are ready for action, you will report to me. I shall see that the police do not come in your way.’
I saluted and left the room.
The real problem was to find out who was Muslim and who was not. As soon as the Mussalmans of Delhi heard what had happened in Karnal and Ambala and Amritsar and Jalandhar, they burnt their red fez caps and furry Jinnah
topees
and started wearing Gandhi caps instead. They shaved off their beards, gave up wearing
sherwani
coats, loose pyjamas and learnt to tie
dhotis
round their waists. Their women stopped wearing
burqas
when they went out and started to put red dots on their foreheads and say
namaste
. The only way we could tell if the fellow was a Mussalman was to see if his penis was circumcized. How could we stop everyone and say ‘Show me your cock?’ We could not go into action without careful planning and preparation. We began by marking Muslim homes and shops with swastikas. Muslim
goondas
got to know of this and put swastika marks on Hindu shops and homes. We changed our plans and decided to attack a few well-known stores owned by Muslims and watch the results. There was a big one in Connaught Circus in the centre of New Delhi. The chief approved of the plan and suggested a date for its execution.
As the day came closer I began to get nervous. I wanted all the Mussalmans to be dead but I was frightened of killing one. I wanted to run away from Delhi. There was no one I could talk to about the things going on in my mind. If I confided in my mother she was sure to kick up a fuss and tell my father or the Sikh lady.
The evening before we were to go into action I went home early. My mother was in the garage shelling peas for the Sikh’s kitchen and talking to the dog which was often with her. I laid down on my mattress. ‘
Vey
Shambia
!’ (his name was Simba), you have not seen my Lachmi, have you? Well, if these evil Mussalmans had not taken her, she would have been here with us. You would have seen her married. You would have seen the fireworks and heard the band. But her
kismet
!’ She slapped her forehead with both her hands and began to cry: ‘
Hai Lachmi
!
Hai beti
! Where are you! May the accursed Mussalmans who took you go to hell.’ The dog came to her, sniffed in her ears and began to whine. My mother put her arms round its neck and hugged it. This was too much for me. ‘Why do you cry mother?’ I asked her. ‘I will teach these Mussalmans a lesson for what they have done to our Lachmi.’ After that I could not back out, could I?
I slept very poorly but was up before dawn when the jeep came to pick me up. The other boys were already at the headquarters. We said a short prayer, had tea and biscuits and were driven to Connaught Circus. I posted the boys at positions I had selected earlier and showed them the exact spot where the jeep would await us after we had done the job. We compared the time on the watches that had been given to us and I told them to look out for my signal. I had a sharp-pointed steel rod tucked inside the sleeve of my shirt.
I strolled along leisurely in the inner colonnade of the Circus. I saw shop-owners arrive, mumble prayers and unlock their shops. The Muslim store we had selected was still shut but four attendants were waiting outside. I passed by them. Despite their Gandhi caps, I could tell from their speech that they were Muslims. I had hardly gone a few paces when I saw a car mount the pavement opposite the store and pull up under a tree. One of the boys who recognized the owner dropped a small cane he was carrying to indicate ‘this is our man’. I took my position behind a pillar in the colonnade. The man put up the window-panes, locked the car, tried the handles and then sauntered across the road. He was a paunchy man about forty years old. He was dressed like a fashionable Delhiwalla: muslin
kurta
with gold embroidery down the middle; white, baggy trousers stiff with starch. He carried a silver
betel
-leaf-case in one hand, a tin of cigarettes and a matchbox in the other. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lower lip. He walked like a pregnant woman. The boys emerged from their places: three from one side, three from the other. I awaited my quarry. As he crossed the road and stepped into the colonnade, I came up behind him. The attendants bowed and said: ‘
As-Salaam-Valai-kum
.’ He nodded his head. He handed over his
betel
-case to one of the attendants and put his hand into his pocket to get the keys. I drew the steel rod from my sleeve and lunged it in the middle of his back. ‘
Hai Allah
!’ he screamed as he fell back on me. His eyes were wide with terror. I pulled out the rod and let him drop to the pavement. I blew my whistle. The boys fell upon the attendants. ‘
Bachao
(help); police;
mat maro
(don’t kill),’ they screamed. No one came to their help. Within a matter of seconds five Mussalmans lay on the pavement in puddles of blood groaning and writhing. We smashed the plate glass of the store-windows and rushed in. It was a shoe-store with other kinds of leather goods: bags, belts and wallets. I picked two large suitcases and stuffed them with whatever I could lay my hands on. I cleaned up the owner’s table which had a small radio set, a silver calendar and some fountain pens. By then many other people —
chowkidars
, peons, students were in the store taking whatever they could find. We took our haul to the jeep. By that time, the whole of Connaught Circus was in turmoil. Hindus and Sikhs began attacking Muslims and looting their shops. Police vans went around in circles, constables ran about blowing their whistles. We had no difficulty in getting away.
My hands and knees shook as if I had fever. My heart thumped against my chest —
dhug, dhug, dhug
. I could not talk. When we reached the headquarters I lay down on a
charpoy
. They gave me a mug of tea and two aspirin tablets. I put a cushion on my face to blot out the scene I had enacted. It was of no use. I saw the whites of the eyes of that Mussalman I had murdered. My ear-drum resounded with the scream, ‘
Hai Allah.
’ It went on and on and on till I was exhausted. I was not able to stand on my feet till the afternoon. Then I had a bath and felt better. I examined the things I had stolen. I put aside some things to take home and put the rest back in the other suitcase. I took the things to Sadar Bazaar. Since many Muslim shops had been looted I could not get very much. Nevertheless I came back with more than a hundred-and-fifty rupees. The radio alone fetched me a hundred.
On my way home I bought a flashlight for my father and a coloured muslin
dupatta
for my mother. I also bought some fruit and a small tin of clarified butter. I waited till it was dark so that no one in the Sikh’s house would see me come in with my big, new suitcase. I went straight into the garage. My mother was baking
chappaties
on an earthen stove.
I told my mother that I had spent my month’s wages to get these things. I spread the
dupatta
on her shoulder. She hugged me and cried. She heard my father’s footsteps and ran out to get him. She was so excited that all she could say was ‘
Vekh, vekh
(See, see).’ I took the lantern from my father’s hand and gave him the flashlight. He was like a child with a new toy. He pressed the button and played the beam on the walls of the garage. They tried out the shoes, patted the wallets and the suitcase. They were very happy.
I could not sleep. I was afraid of shutting my eyes. I was frightened of the ghost of the man I had killed. He kept on crying, ‘
Hai Allah
’ in my ears. I waited for the crunch of my father’s footsteps on the gravel and his cry, ‘
Khabardar
ho
!’ to reassure me that I was safe. I began to shiver and moan. I pretended I was having a nightmare. My mother woke up and asked me what was wrong. I moaned louder. She came over and took my head in her lap. I put my arms round her waist and feigned sleep. She rubbed my back. After a while she lay down beside me. My shivering stopped. I felt warm and safe and unafraid. I tightened my arms round her bosom, put my right leg over her and drew her closer to me. Then I fell asleep. The morning after the killing I complain that my bowels are loose and stay at home for the next five days. In any case I could not have gone out because riots have broken out in different parts of the city. The Muslims are being flushed out, their properties are being looted, their shops and businesses are being taken over and their homes occupied. They are fleeing in the hundreds of thousands to Pakistan. Those that remain are herded into the Purana Qila and the big mosques. The first battle for Delhi has been won. But much more remains to be done. We have to fight these Mussalman-loving Hindus like Gandhi and Nehru, drive out the remaining Muslims to Pakistan and wipe out all traces of Islam from our Bharatvarsha.
Gandhi is our enemy number one. He says: ‘Get out of the mosques and Muslims’ homes.’ I want to ask him: ‘
Oi
, Old Man if we got out of their mosques and homes, where are we to live? On the pavements? It does not behove you who lives in Seth Birla’s palace to talk like this.’
Nehru is our enemy number two. He calls us
goondas
. I want to ask him: ‘
Oi
Pandit, where was your police and your army when Mussalman
goondas
were slitting our throats?’
Sardar Patel is our friend. ‘They are not thieves and dacoits but love their country,’ he says. Only to please Gandhi and Nehru he adds that we are ‘misguided’. The police are also our friends. And why not? Most of the new police are refugees from the Punjab. They know the truth about the Mussalmans and are not beguiled by the Gandhi-Nehru
bakvas
.
One day the Sangha chief says to me ‘We must know what this Gandhi fellow is up to. Number 840 you will attend the Old Man’s meetings and report what he says and who comes to see him.’
I am given money to buy a white Gandhi cap, a thick, handspun
khaddar
shirt and trousers and a woollen shawl. I start going to Birla House in the early hours. I take down the names of people who come to the meeting. I make note of all the
buk buk
I hear about Hindus and Mussalmans being brothers.
I learn to imitate Gandhi’s voice. When I report what I have heard I use the same toothless, gummy Gujarati-Hindi: ‘I am waiting for the direction of the inner voice...straining my ear to catch the whispering of the inner voice and waiting for its command.’ Everyone roars with laughter. I can also imitate his gestures. I sit cross-legged, wrap the shawl over my head and continue: ‘I am in a furnace. There is a raging fire all around. We are trampling humanity underfoot...I am groping for light. ‘I strike a match to show how. ‘I can as yet only catch faint rays of it.’ I bring the match close to my nose. ‘When I see in full blaze the
dosti
(friendship) of Delhi then it will really become
dili
(rooted) in the heart.’ They double over their bellies. The boys rename me Gandhiji Maharaj. They say that if the Old Fellow had been a member of our Sangha he would not have got a more appropriate number than mine. 840 is twice 420 which is the section of the penal code defining fraud—and Gandhi is a double fraud.
The Sangha chief tells us that we should gird up our loins because soon war will break out between India and Pakistan. We must finish Pakistan once and for all and plant the saffron flag of Hindu
dharma
on the Khyber Pass.
Our chief is right. Pakistani tribesmen invade Kashmir. Every day we expect India to declare war on Pakistan. But Gandhi goes on croaking about peace and love. As if that is not bad enough he says India owes Pakistan a lot of money and must pay up at once.