The next few days passed in a haze. As he finished Mrs. Sethi’s forehead and started painting her nose....
STORY
Based on true events
The next few days passed in a haze. As he finished Mrs. Sethi’s forehead and started painting her nose, the results of the referendums, assemblies and jirgahs all over India had been announced. Most of the Punjab province was going to Pakistan and the town of Baha’uddin was in it. As Ghazni sat listening to the nine o’clock broadcast on the radio at the local barber’s shop waiting for a haircut, Chattha sat down beside him.
“What do you think, child? Ready to finally stop paying your father’s debts?”
Ghazni stood up quickly, hoping Chattha wouldn’t badger him too much in a shop full of people, only to be pulled down by him again.
“Think this through, boy. I don’t give such good opportunities to most of my debtors. Do you want that girl of yours to grow into an old maid showing people around your stupid studio?”
“I know what I want to live as, Chattha,” Ghazni said through clenched teeth, trying to pull his arm out of the older man’s grip. “And a murderer isn’t it.”
“You’re not murdering, son,” Chattha shook his head with a grin. “Don’t you see? You’re a Leagui. You know better than me that you’ll only be taking back what’s rightfully yours. These Hindus, they’ve been eating us up these two centuries. It’s time we took some of it back.”
“Let go, Chattha.”
“Think about it, Ghazni. It won’t be long before I redact the offer.”
As Ghazni walked out of the shop, he could feel Chattha’s small, mean eyes boring into his back.
******************
What made Ghazni decide to do it eventually?
Was it the sight of his old mother sitting huddled in her armchair near the sole stove in the house? Was it the sight of Razzu, slaving away at the books on the billiard table, night after night? Was it the sight of Bala, who was working the third month in a row without receiving any sort of salary? Or perhaps it was the sight of the brand new Chevrolet Sethi Sahib acquired days after Chattha had first given the proposition to murder him. Perhaps it was the sight of the luxuriant carpets or the expensive paintings in the Sethi house that reminded him of what he’d had in his own home before his father’s mistakes.
It’s time we take some of it back, Chattha had said.
When Ghazni said I’ll do it to Chattha on the street with the hot noon sun beating down upon them, he had walked away without looking into Chattha’s approving eyes.
The rest of the plan had come together quickly. The men would be stationed outside the house, the signal would be a handkerchief waved from Sethi’s drawing room window and the wealth would be divided up as Ghazni liked.
“One thing, though, Ghazni,” Chattha had held up his finger warningly. “The Hindu girl? She’s mine.”
It was halal to kill Hindus, in Chattha’s religion, and it was halal to marry them, too.
“I don’t need the girl.” Ghazni had said gruffly, and he had realized what it meant to feel unclean on the inside. The girl wasn’t who she was; she was Sita, talkative, childish, trusting.
Many times a day, he would give his head a few firm shakes, hoping his conscience could be cajoled into sleeping for a few days, at least until the murder had been done. It became silent, occasionally, only to kick up a louder ruckus than before every time Sethi stopped him on his way to the Art Room to ask him about his debts or insist that he stop bringing his own lunch and dine with him and his daughter, or when Sita told him she wanted him to paint her birds for her as his part of the gentleman’s agreement.
******************
It was the night of August 5. Radio stations were screaming about the mess in Kashmir and Razia, Maa, Radha and Bala sat grouped around the radio, the fire in the small stove making their shadows dance around the room.
“Jinnah Ji will manage.” Maa’s voice carried down to his bedroom, full of hope, as he tucked the small, rather old Smith & Wesson into his belt. “He always manages. Remember that mess with the elections in ’46?”
“Even if he doesn’t, the people in Kashmir won’t lie low after this. Five thousand isn’t a small number.” Razia sounded angry.
Ghazni ran his fingers through his hair as he strode out of the northern wing, one hand inside a coat pocket.
It was when he was at the gate that opened out into the road that he felt her presence and turned to find her in the front door, watching him.
“Razzu,” he let out a deep breath. “I was just going for an errand.”
“Where?” her hair was falling into her face, covering her left eye. The dark green dupatta was wrapped snugly around her shoulders.
“An errand.” He cursed himself for not having thought of a cover story. “I need some paints.”
“You can get them in the morning.”
“I want to paint in the night.” He said resolutely. “Besides, the shop might get crowded in the morning.”
“There aren’t a lot of artists in Baha’uddin, Ghazni.” Had her voice trembled?
“Razzu, yaar,” he said, even as the pistol slung in his belt became heavier and colder. “Trust me, all right? It’s just an errand.”
“I’ve heard people are raiding houses and shops in the night.” She said, each word carefully, distinctly. Carefully, she crossed the small space between them to stand in front of him, eyes looking into his own, unfaltering. “Be careful!”
Ghazni looked into her eyes, both hands now in pockets, tightly squeezed.
“Don’t worry.”
“I will wait for you to return.”
“I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Gentleman’s agreement?” she asked with a small, sad smile.
“Gentle-” he began, but couldn’t complete the word. “Yes,” was all he managed before turning around and walking away.
A cloud swam in front of the moon and Razia sat down on the stone steps, clutching herself tightly, her face impassive, her eyes speaking volumes.
******************
Ghazni knocked once on the front door. As he waited for it to be opened, he looked around the gardens and the street outside. Chattha had hidden his men well.
The door opened. It was the uniformed butler.
Does he ever change? Ghazni thought as he asked to see Sethi Sahib.
He was led, once again, to the vast study, and sat down on the same sofa to wait for the man. Pulling the pistol out of his belt, he slipped it into the pocket of his coat, keeping a firm grip on the handle, a finger held ready at the trigger.
Three minutes later, Sethi walked in, tying his nightgown.
“Ghazni, m’boy,” he sat down onto the sofa beside him, his words slurred with sleep. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sir, I just needed to -” Ghazni cleared his throat. “To talk to you about something.”
“About what?” Sethi Sahib rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake. The time was ripe. If Ghazni shot him now, while he couldn’t fight back, and slipped out, Chattha would take care of the butler. No one else had seen him coming - except Razia. Gentleman’s agreement, she’d asked him. He hadn’t answered.
To be continued ...
