The Eighteenth Parallel (21 page)

Chandru ran towards the mob with no thought for the consequences. It was just here that a riot had started once earlier—the same flour mill, the same tailor's shop. The doors of all the shops and houses in the street were closed now. It must have been the terrified screams of the women and children that Chandru had heard first.

Suddenly the people began to run in all directions, and the whole mob dissolved away, as if by magic. They disappeared down the surrounding lanes.

Even as Chandru wondered what had caused this, he knew the reason. A shot was heard—someone firing at someone else somewhere. Chandru ran through a lane, He found the whole neighbourhood awake. People stood outside. It was a predominantly Hindu locality. A lot of people had fled the town but a number still remained. There was no more need for them to cringe with fear. But the sight of them standing there made Chandru grow cold. He went through the twisting lanes at a half-run and reached the railway station. In front of those Irani restaurants where the gramophones had played even yesterday was a huge bonfire, the flames reaching twenty feet or more.

Things from the shop were being thrown into the fire, tables and chairs, cooking coal and firewood. A dozen people kept throwing crockery into the fire, the crash feeding the frenzy of the crowd of onlookers. This had been the flare of fire in the sky, visible as far as Chandru's house.

Chandru's fears lay centred elsewhere, because in these shops he knew that after an interval of a few days, new tables and chairs would be bought and business would go on as before. Since the same places were being attacked time and again in every riot in Regimental Bazaar, these attacks couldn't have been entirely unanticipated. The real horrors must be happening elsewhere.

Chandru ran on and turned at Station Road. At first every thing appeared dark, but the night lamps of the hospital shed some light on the street and slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the picture emerged. What he had feared had happened. The refugee shacks had been razed to the ground. Not a single one remained. The street was savagely strewn with broken pieces of pots and cooking pans, and with clothes, vegetables and foodstuff trodden underfoot. Street dogs roamed the place. Of the hundreds there even the evening before, not a person remained. They must have been attacked a few hours ago. Poor men and women, they had been living in peace there. Where could they all have vanished, without a trace ? This time round, did the refugees take away anything with them?—not that they had anything to take away!

There were sudden cries of 'Run,
run!'
A crowd was rushing in from the station. Even in the dark, even in that moment of crisis, this crowd had managed to recognise the community to which Chandru belonged. And they were urging him to run along with them and hide himself. There was probably another crowd behind, driving these people on. But it wouldn't be long before they met the same fate as the refugees.

Chandru ran towards the hospital. The huge doors of the hospital were all locked. At least twenty people ran with him. A sleepless night for all was the momentary thought that flashed through his mind.

He soon reached Monda. There was rioting in Monda as well. Sticks and stones flew in all directions. A part of the crowd had made a bonfire of cane baskets. The people ran about like black ghosts in the light of the fire. Their screams were not human either. Chandru ran towards the Islamia High School. There seemed to be people behind him, chasing him. Islamia School again, he thought, the same place where he had once been attacked.

Another mob came and ran on to the other side of the street. But how could one be sure that it was a Hindu group? They carried lighted torches. Chandru slipped into an alleyway by the side of the school. The mob with the torches spotted him and followed him with cries of 'Get him! Get him!'

Chandru climbed the wall of a house and jumped in. In a few seconds he heard the crowd run past the spot shouting, 'Get the bastard! Kill him!' They ran down the lane, rattling the doors and windows with their sticks.

In the house in which Chandru found himself, everyone was awake. With their instant recognition of his community came fear, and they shrank from him. It was just one of the thousand poor Muslim houses which had only one kerosene lamp to light the place. Three or four men; three or four women; three or four children; the ubiquitous old woman.

Together those three men could have killed him. But fear had sucked them dry. The place stank sharply. Before Chandru could get a hold on himself, something happened.

The people in the house had obviously discussed this eventuality and had prepared for it in advance. From among the group of women, a girl of about sixteen came forward and stood before Chandru. She said, 'Please spare us, I implore you.' Even as she spoke, she started to unbutton her dress. She took off her long kameez. In a second she had untied the knots of her pyjama strings, and now she stood before him naked. Even in the dim light, one could count the ribs sticking out of her emaciated body.

Chandru let out an anguished cry: 'No,
no
!' His head swam. He felt sick as the bitter gorge rose in his throat. He swallowed it down, turned and ran to the wall and jumped out. Once in the street, he ran like a person possessed. Even the burnt-down shacks of the refugees had not affected him so. But this girl – and his first glimpse of a naked female body – had devastated him. She had abased herself and, by her act, had reduced him to nothing. Such self-abasement for the sake of her family—she herself was no more than a child. It seemed that in this world no one was exempt from degradation, not even children. This, this was the price they had to pay for their survival.

To think that he was the cause for this depravity! How was he to rid himself of the stain? Would he ever be able to?

As he ran on, he grew dimly aware of the first streaks of dawn.

About the Author

Ashokamitran (born 1931, Secunderabad) is one of the most distinguished of contemporary Tamil writers. He began writing as early as 1954. His first novel,
Karainda Nizhalgal
was published in 1969, followed by seven others of which
Tanneer
(1973),
Padinettavadu Atchakodu
(The Eighteenth Parallel) (1977), and
Indru
(1984) are the best known. He has published eight collections of short stories, and short novels. His contribution to the field of literary criticism has been rich and includes reviews, the co-authorship of
Moonru Parvaigal
(1984) and the editing of several literary anthologies as well as contributions to journals. His novels and short stories have been extensively translated.

Among his other interests are theatre and film and he has served on several film appreciation and certification panels. He has received the distinguished Ilakkiya Chintanai awards on several occasions for his novels and short fiction and was honoured in 1985, 1987 and 1990 with the Government of Tamilnadu awards for fiction of the year. He was also awarded a creative writing fellowship by the University of Iowa as part of its International Writing Program.

Ashokamitran lives and works in Madras. He has three sons.

Gomathi Narayanan completed her postgraduate and doctoral studies in Kerala and Delhi and was also on the teaching and research faculties of both universities. Her translations from Tamil literary materials and her articles have appeared in
Indian Literature
(Sahitya Akademi) and other periodicals. Her published materials include
Anuvum Namum
(1963) which won the Madras University award for popular work in the field of science.
The Sahibs and the Natives,
a comparative study of Anglo-Indian and Indo-Anglian fiction, was published in 1986.

The Eighteenth Parallel
is Gomathi Narayanan's first major work in translation. She lives in Madras where she also teaches part-time.

The Eighteenth Parallel
is a work of fiction and as such should not be seen to present authentic history, notwithstanding the mention of some historical persons and events.

'You mean to say the Nizam who was crowned today asked you to give me these seven rotis?'

'Yes, holy one. He chose them himself.'

The Sufi mystic's eyes narrowed for a moment. 'How generous! How charitable of him to give me this shrivelled-up bread, no better than dried leaves! What a pity! His line will dry up with the seventh generation.'

Traditional story from the Deccan,
eighteenth century

'Is Hyderabad a leasehold of the Government of India? It is a quirk of history that the jailbirds of yesterday should now be harassing princes of noble lineage. Here in Hyderabad we have a royal line of three centuries blessed by Allah. The atrocities of the rogue Indian government can't go on for long. The foamy waves of the Bay of Bengal shall soon caress the feet of our beloved Rustom-I-Dewan, Arastu-i-Zamon, Lt General, Muzaffar-al-Mulk, Wal-Mumaik, Fateh Jung Sippah Salaar Mir Usman Ali Khan Bahadur Nizam-ul-Mulk, Asaf Jah, G.C.S.I., G.C.B.E. The waters of the Arabian Sea shall wet the golden sandals of our beloved Nizam. The sacred Asaf Jahi flag shall fly over the ramparts of the Red Fort at Delhi.

a Razakar speech (1948)