Again a turmoil arose among the monkeys. They came leaping and bounding from distant roofs. They stared wildly at the dead monkey lying in the middle of the road, and made as much noise as they possibly could.
The monkeys, tired and defeated, gradually fell silent. Many of them had begun to go back, when a strong, stout monkey came running from a distance to Pandit Hardayal’s high roof. His face was red with anger, and the hairs of his coat stood up like arrows. He leaped onto the pole, and shook it with such force that it swayed like a half-uprooted tree. Then he climbed up and attacked the wires with his whole strength. The instant he landed on them, he collapsed. For a moment he hung suspended, then fell half-dead to the ground. Bhagat-ji, Lala Mitthan Lal, and Chandi, all three again did their duty. When the water fell on him the monkey opened his eyes, looked helplessly at his sympathizers, and closed his eyes for the last time.
Leaping from roof to roof, the monkeys came. It seemed that they would all come down into the street, but they only milled about on the parapets, shrieking and screaming. Then suddenly they fell silent, as though some terror had gripped them. Then the walls began emptying.
Evening was coming. The stout monkey still lay in the street. On the nearby parapets there was not a single monkey. Rupnagar, offering up its three monkeys as a sacrifice, had entered the age of electricity, and the monkeys vanished so completely that for weeks not one was to be seen on any wall, roof, or tree. In fact even the big pipal tree near the Black Temple, where every day, in every season, monkeys could be seen leaping and jumping from branch to branch, was silent.
•
Rupnagar’s wild, uninhabited forest started from the Black Temple. On the walls and dome so much mold had grown, and then darkened with time, that the whole temple looked entirely black. Inside and outside all was empty, as though for centuries no conch shell had been blown and no priest had set foot here. The pipal was as tall as the temple, and monkeys were always swinging on its branches. Except for the days when some tall black-faced langur with a rope-like tail appeared, and the moment they saw him all the monkeys vanished. Beyond the Black Temple was Karbala, which except for the Tenth Day lay desolate the whole year, as though it was the real Karbala itself. At a little distance from it was a mound, on which by way of a building only a small turret still stood, which was called the Fort. Beyond that the Ravan Wood was utterly deserted, with wide expanses of wasteland and a huge banyan tree standing in its midst. On summer afternoons he went wandering with Bundu and Habib, and they left the town and came out this way. When they went on beyond the Black Temple, it seemed to him that he had entered some new continent — some great forest where at any moment he might encounter any sort of being. His heart began to pound.
Passing by the pipal tree, which was loud with the merrymaking of the Black Temple monkeys, he paused: “Yar—” he could say nothing more.
“What is it?” Habib asked carelessly.
“A man,” he said with fear in his voice.
“A man! Where?” Habib and Bundu were both startled.
“That one.” He pointed at the Fort, where a solitary man could be seen walking.
In that uninhabited forest, a man! Why? How? Is it even a man at all, or — But their fear even of a man was boundless. They at once took to their heels.
Bundu lived in the house too, for he was Auntie Sharifan’s son. Zakir was friends with Habib. How he used to wander with them both, and play the vagabond! But after Sabirah came, his wanderings gradually changed.
Sabirah. Before, he had only heard her name when Khalah Jan’s letters came from Gwalior and said, “Tahirah and Sabirah are well. We all send cordial greetings.” Khalah Jan lived in Gwalior, since her husband, who was Bi Amma’s nephew, had a job there. But one day a telegram arrived: her husband had passed away. Ammi, in the midst of making bread, overturned the pan and stood up.* Bi Amma wept and wailed aloud.
Then only a few days later a horse-cart, loaded down with luggage and passengers, hung all around with sheets, came and stopped before the gate. Abba Jan, bringing a long, wide shawl, came outside. He gave Zakir one corner of it to hold, and held the other himself. In one direction he thus made a protective screen, and in the other direction no men were coming. Then the horse-cart’s curtain was lifted. Khalah Jan got down. With Khalah Jan two girls, one Tahirah and the other Sabirah, whom Khalah Jan called Sabbo. She seemed to be just about his own age.
At first Sabirah kept her distance from him. With a kind of shyness he stayed away from her, but stole glances at her from the corner of his eye. Then, hesitantly, he approached her. “Come on, Sabbo, let’s play.”
•
“Zakir, my son,” Abba Jan said, as he entered, “It seems that again tonight these people won’t let us sleep.”
“Oh?” He crashed his way back from the forest.
“Son, are these people having a rally, or just being rowdy?”
“Abba Jan, this is how political movements are. People get enthusiastic, and then they get out of control.”
“What did you say — movement? Is this a movement? Son, have I not seen movements? Has any of them ever been bigger than the Khilafat Movement? And Maulana Muhammad Ali — oh God, oh God! When he spoke, it seemed that sparks were raining down. But not a single word ever fell below the standard of cultured speech. Well, that was Maulana Muhammad Ali; but I never saw a single volunteer say anything below the standard of cultured speech, either. They said, ‘Death to the English,’ and not a word more.” Abba Jan fell silent. Then, as though lost in memories, he began to mutter, “That venerable personage committed one fault: in the matter of shrines and tombs he supported Ibn Saud. May God the Most High forgive him this sin, and fill his grave with light. Afterwards he himself very much repented this support.”
He smiled inwardly: Abba Jan is a good one! Even now he’s still dreaming of the Khilafat Movement.
“And what are you doing?”
“I thought I’d prepare my lecture for the morning, but—”
“As though you could get any work done in this noise!” Abba Jan cut in.
“Yes, there’s a lot of noise, but perhaps tonight the rally will be over quickly. Yesterday it dragged on because of the leaders from outside.”
“Son, it doesn’t look to me as though it’ll be over quickly.” He paused, then said, “In my time there were rallies, too. If there was noise, it was before the rally. Then a speaker came on stage, and at once the people sat down respectfully. What a cultured time it was!”
Again he smiled: Abba Jan still hasn’t emerged from the time of the Khilafat Movement. But while he was forming the thought, it seemed that he too was following Abba Jan, moving into a past time. What a cultured time it was. If anyone spoke loudly, Abba Jan at once reprimanded him: “Child, I’m not deaf.” And when sometimes Tahirah spoke in a harsh voice, Bi Amma cut her off: “Girl, do you have a split bamboo for a throat?” And when Tahirah and her girlfriends, full of the joyful mood of the rainy season, swung high in the tall swings and laughed loudly, Bi Amma at once stopped them: “Daughter, what’s this noise, are the dishes breaking?” The rainy season, the swing, the songs, the ripe seeds of the neem tree—
“All right, I’m going. I’ll never get to sleep.” With these words, Abba Jan was going back. “And now you get some rest, too.”
Zakir let his words go in one ear and out the other. A distant voice was drawing him toward itself.
•
“Ripe neem seed, when will the rains come?
Long live my beloved brother, he’ll send a palanquin for me!”
What long long swings Tahirah was enjoying with her girlfriend, and how wistfully Sabirah was watching them! Just then Khalah Jan’s voice came from the kitchen, “Tahirah!”