DRAMA IN THE DESERT

(A Story)

By N. R. DEOBHANKAR

(I)

In the Karachi prison the gong for breakfast had just sounded and there was a general buzz among the inmates. In the small side-yard, where B-class politicals were lodged, Dr. Mehra was watering plants. He had bathed, spread the daily washing, and was indulging in the contemplative mood of the morning. As he poured can after can for the thirsty flowers, their fragrance sweetened the summer air, and his thoughts embarked on their daily voyage to the world beyond the iron gates. It was nearly eighteen months since he was arrested for offering Satyagraha like thousands of other patriotic Indians. There were still some six months of his sentence to run.

“Come on, Doctor,” called out Prof. Gidwani. “There are others besides plants who want to survive,” he teased, “Breakfast has arrived and we are starving.” The other companions too raised a clamour, and Dr. Mehra hastily joined the waiting friends. Whatever the political crisis or personal worries, these victims of foreign rule had made it a point to launch the day with a cheerful assembly. They talked and laughed and ate the rough fare with

relish. Gradually the hubbub of gossip subsided, and the pile of sliced bread sank. Thus armed with sustenance, they were about to break up for the day’s labour, when Prof. Gidwani asked: “Do you know what a little bird whispered to me yesterday about a happy development?..”

Hardly had he finished the sentence when a flood of derisive laughter rose from all sides. “Have you forgotten our warning, Professor?” asked Hukum Chand, the Lawyer. “Did we not promise a lynching if that wretched bird was mentioned again?”

“The slickness with which your feathered friend invents lies is amazing, but not effective any longer,” retorted Lalwani, the Engineer.

“My God, how I burn with shame,” groaned Chunilal, the Editor, “when I think of the ease with which your whispering fraud used to pull our legs. Wasn’t it Dominion Status once, Indianisation of the Army next and General Amnesty every time?”

“But this tip is authentic, my friends,” pleaded the Professor. “Just hear me through, and you will...”

“I say, here comes the Jail Doctor,” interrupted Tiwari, the Scout Master. “Wonder what brings him so early.” Dr. Hassan Imam hailed the group warmly and hoped he was not interrupting their breakfast. There followed the usual greetings and pleasantries. Dr. Imam was a cultured individual, worthy of regard,–an exception to the servile personnel of the jail. “I suppose you wonder what brings me here at this hour,” he began. “Well, I won’t beat about the bush,” he continued. “There is important news for all of you. The Superintendent is signing a general release, and I am sent to prepare you for immediate discharge. It’s a privilege to bring the happy tidings.”

For a moment the six inmates were stunned with surprise. Then a clamour broke out for more details, and volleys of questions were fired. What lay behind this dramatic move? Was Gandhiji on fast again? Has the ban against the Congress been lifted? What about the C-class prisoners?...

Dr. Imam replied he had no authority to make a statement; but he believed that vital parleys were going on between the representatives of the British Parliament and the Indian leaders, and a general amnesty was declared. It would apply throughout the land and would cover the C-class also.

At this three or four of his comrades fell upon Prof. Gidwani with one accord, and began mobbing him in hilarious frolic. “So your Little Bird does stumble upon truth sometimes,” they cried and pommelled him some more.

While this excitement was on, Dr. Imam drew Dr. Mehra aside, bade him good-bye, wished success to the Congress cause and thanked him for the help he had rendered voluntarily in the prison hospital since his admission. “Your support in emergency operations was particularly invaluable, and I shall always remember it and miss you,” he admitted with feeling. “As a mark of gratitude I shall see that your garden is maintained and your tame squirrels do not starve,” he added to give the situation a light turn, and cover up the emotion he had just betrayed.

In less than a couple of hours the jail was denuded of its Congress prisoners. It does not take long to drop the prison uniform, don civil attire, pack a tooth brush in a haversack, sign one’s name in the dog-eared register, and walk out of the barred gates, held open by grinning sentries.

(II)

On leaving the jail Prof. Gidwani carried off Dr. Mehra and Mr. Tiwari, the Scout Master, to his home in the city for a brief respite. After the long confinement they found normal life full of wonder. How thrilling it was to hear the laughter of children and the soft speech of women! How strange to see traffic in motion, feel the jostling of bazaar crowds, order a cup of tea in a restaurant! In the prison they had as much privacy as a gold-fish in a glass bowl. But here they could retire from public view at will. They could even sleep at nights without the armed sentry rattling their bars every two hours.

The four days under Prof. Gidwani’s hospitable roof passed happily and too soon. There were, of course, hectic discussions on the political situation. From here Mr. Tiwari was booked for the interior, and pressed Dr. Mehra to join him. Their destination was Malirpur, a small oasis in the Thar desert, where Tiwari had relatives. During their jail association a friendship had sprung between the energetic Scouter and the middle-aged Doctor. Apart from being a fervent Nationalist, Tiwari was active and resourceful and possessed a winsome personality.

Theirs was a leisurely journey. On the way they visited the Sukkur Barrage and saw how human ingenuity had tamed a giant force into a slave of man. Their itinerary also included the ruins of Mohenjo-Daro, which furnished evidence of the rich civilisation that existed in India when men still prowled as savages in other continents.

After the earlier journey by train, they jogged mile after mile in a horse-tonga, and had their hair matted with sand and their faces masked with dust. The last lap of the journey had to be covered on camel-back. The driver sat astride the neck of the beast and the two passengers rode tandem behind him on the hump.

“Somewhere here we pass through a bit of No-Man’s-Land,” informed Tiwari, as their ungainly mount shuffled along a narrow track, now skirting sand-dune, now swaying over undulating terrain in proper ship-of-the-desert style.

“Ah, here is the last outpost on this side,” he explained, when a clump of date-palms came into view and a few mud huts peeped in between. “We’ll have to do our foraging here, since there is a shop that will meet our needs. Afterwards we had better gallop through the next few miles as fast as our beasts will carry us.”

“Why, what’s the trouble?” inquired Dr. Mehra.

“The usual one,” answered his friend, “footpads and dacoits. The writ of the Police Chief doesn’t run here. By the way, you don’t carry any gold or jewellery, do you, Doctor?”

“Oh no,–only some cash for the trip.”

“I wish I could say the same,” repented Mr. Tiwari. “I have just realised that like a fool I agreed to deliver a costly necklace to my relative from his wealthy father-in-law. If we are waylaid I’m done for.”

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” consoled the Doctor.

On arriving at the watering point they were greeted by a sullen looking Bania who asked what they would have. After ordering tea and a supply of dates and ground-nuts, Tiwari led the way to a feeble spring amidst the cluster of huts. There they washed, stretched their cramped limbs and returned to the stall refreshed. The Bania dragged out a sagging cot, and placed their tea and supplies on an empty packing case. “We’ll want a third mug for our driver,” said the Doctor.

“He is watering his beast and doing his namaz. I’ll serve him when he is ready,” the man replied. “In the meantime”–and here he lowered his voice–“let me warn you...There is danger ahead...Be careful about your valuables...Hide them if you can...And don’t trust the driver.”

Mr. Tiwari and the Doctor looked significantly at each other. Turning to the shop-keeper Tiwari whispered: “I thought the Khan had retired.” The Bania shook his head and whispered: “Not retired. He and his son were away for a couple of years. Now they are back and at it again.”

Mr. Tiwari went up still closer to the man. “Look here, Lalaji,” he said in a voice hardly audible. “You must help me. I’m in a fix. You are a good man. Can I leave a costly ornament with you for a couple of days? It was rash of me to think I could carry it to Malirpur safely. Oblige me and keep it here. I’ll pick it up within a week on my return.”

“You don’t know what you are asking, Diwan Saheb,” the Bania replied. “With such a thing in my shack, my life won’t be worth that match-box on the counter. I’m sorry. It’s impossible...Ssh! Here comes your driver.” Then he hastened to the other end and placed a mug of tea and a saucerful of dates for the camel-keeper, who approached with his animal.

In spite of the disquieting warning, their spirits revived as they fell upon the dates and nuts and washed them down with a mugful of tea, made with a generous measure of goat’s milk. Thrusting the remaining victuals in their pockets and paying the Bania liberally they set off again.

(III)

It was still early morning and the desert heat was yet mild. Mr. Tiwari calculated they should reach Malirpur well before midday, provided a previous sand-storm had not effaced the camel track. They swayed in their joint saddle in silent unison, chewing dates and nuts, and gazing on the barren wastes that glared in the sun. Behind all the stillness and solitude there lurked a vague expectancy, a premonition of danger.

They must have covered some eight or ten miles, when a camel-rider came suddenly into view from behind a sand-dune. He pulled up across their path and waved his musket as a signal to halt. “Salam alekum, Diwan Saheben,” he called out, “This way, please”–and catching the rein of their camel turned into a side track. He wore a bedraggled uniform and resembled a Frontier Policeman. Mr. Tiwari returned the greeting, and objected that their destination lay the other way. “That’s all right, Diwan Saheb. You come to the Daroga and explain,” was the stolid reply. “It won’t take long. You’ve only to sign your name,” and he led the camel, “Is this a new chowki?” inquired the perturbed Tiwari. But the man vouchsafed no reply.

“This is beginning to look fishy,” remarked Tiwari in English with a dry smile. “Sorry, I dragged you into trouble.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” replied the Doctor. “I like adventure. An encounter with a live outlaw ought to be fun. I’m only worried about your costly ornament.”

After shuffling along for a couple of miles they came down a steep slope to a little valley, with an encampment bigger than the Bania’s and richer in palms and verdure. As they neared the flat-roofed houses, pariah dogs barked and children in tatters yelled. The party was conducted to a somewhat impressive structure of mud and stone, within a high stockade. Lying by its heavily studded doors were a couple of string cots on which lounged four or five hefty men in the balloon trousers and plumed turbans, sported by the Tribesmen of the North- West. Each had a musket within reach.

On entering the courtyard the travellers were asked to dismount, Their camel-man took down their leather boxes also, and placed these before an imperious looking grey-bearded old Pathan smoking a hookah. Taking him as the boss Mr. Tiwari asked him why they were brought there and what they wanted with their possessions.

“This is an Octroi Post and we search all smugglers,” was the surly reply. “Hand over your knapsacks, your cash, and be quick about it.” Then turning to one of his men he ordered: “Search the Kaffirs.”

The tourists were convinced now that they had fallen into the hands of the notorious outlaw. As resistance was worse than futile they submitted patiently. While the men ripped open the boxes, spilled the contents and grabbed the cash held out by the two victims, the old man spied the necklace and pounced upon it greedily. “Stuff their rags back into their boxes and turn them out on the road,” he barked, when the search yielded nothing more, except the two wrist-watches worn by the visitors. “Let the camel-man drop them at Malirpur.” Turning to the strangers he snarled: “Thank your stars that you escape alive. Do but attempt to betray this camp,–and your bodies, or those of your agents–will be feeding the desert vultures before the sun sets on your treachery. Now get out!”

Dr. Mehra could contain himself no longer. “Look here, Khan,” he burst out, “You don’t have to add insult to injury. The word treachery is polluted by your lips. Do you know what honest labour lies behind that cash you’ve robbed? Have you an idea of how an aged father had slaved to buy that ornament for a beloved daughter? And here you come and swoop down upon his life’s savings in a moment! Seek Allah’s forgiveness before you dare talk of treachery.”

“Shut up, you dog of an infidel,” yelled the enraged Pathan, stung by the taunt. “I’m d-md if I don’t blow out your brains here and now and silence your insolent tongue.” And he snatched a musket and was lifting it when quick as lightning, Tiwari stepped in front of the Doctor. “Go ahead, Khan! Fire away!” challenged the Scout Master. “Let your vultures feast upon two bodies instead of one.”

While thus he spoke without fear, a tall, broad-shouldered young man rushed to the scene. “Abbajan, what’s all this excitement?” he asked, removing the musket from the old man’s hand. He turned to the travellers with the same question, when all of a sudden his mouth fell open, and he stood staring at Dr. Mehra like one hypnotised. “Ya Khuda! Whom do I see? Is this a dream?...You were at Karachi, were you not?” he stammered.

“Yes,” replied the Doctor briefly.

“Are you not a doctor?”

“I am,–what about it?” he asked puzzled.

Upon this the youth fell upon the Doctor’s neck and hugged him like a bear and cried “Don’t you recognise me, Doctor Saheb?”

“Sorry, I can’t remember,” the Doctor replied still perplexed.

“But you must, Dr. Saheb,–you must. Look, look here” and he lifted his flowing kurta and pulled his baggy pyjama below the navel.

“My God!” exclaimed the Doctor, staring at the scar over the right groin. “The appendix case...You mean you were in Karachi Jail?”

“Ssh! Don’t mention that place...Nobody must know here. Listen, Abbajan, but for this Khilafati Doctor, I was dead that night when illness struck me down with the swiftness of lightning. Dr. Imam, the Government Doctor had to send for him, and it was he who saved me. Dr. Imam himself told me so.”

The old Pathan rushed to the Doctor, spread his sinewy arms and enfolded him with tears in his eyes. “Forgive me, brother, I didn’t know. You saved my son, and what a return I was making you!” He embraced Tiwari with equal warmth and exclaimed, “What can I say to you, Brother? You too are our kin for, any one who risks his life for a friend is as good as a Pathan. Ya Allah! Thy mercy is great. Thou hast saved thy slave from a terrible deed...Ah! Dr. Saheb, to us you are a Farishta indeed!...And you raised our Khilafat banner too, did you,–like Mahomed Ali and Shoukat Ali? Your Gandhi is great,–a regular Pathan, if you know what I mean...You call yourself Congress now, don’t you? Yes, we in these parts watch your brave fight against the Firanghee. But I’m wandering from the point. Do me a favour, Dr. Saheb, and demand something as a token of my gratitude. You’ve given me back my Ansari. Ask anything and I pledge a Pathan’s word that it will be yours. Come on, do not hesitate.”

Dr. Mehra was listening to the land-buccaneer with rapt attention. “I can see you’ve a big heart, Khan,” he replied slowly. “And yet I hesitate for fear I may be refused. What I want above every thing else from you is to give up this profession of the road, and take to a mode of life more worthy of your heritage. As your well-wisher, nay as your brother, I ask this of you, and nothing more.”

Here Ansari, the son, embraced the Doctor once more. “Exactly my sentiments, Dr. Saheb,” he put in. “This is what I’ve been begging of Abbajan since the day he and I were taken to...to the place you mentioned. We were...away...for two years and returned only six months ago. There is shame in my heart, and I want to make a living differently. I want to trade in saffron and shawls, in carpets and furs, in fruit and nuts, and make my fortune the honest way.”

“So be it, my son,” replied the father with a deep sigh. “I give my word to the Doctor and I must keep it.” Upon this there was a round of embracing once more.

The rest of the story is briefly told. The Pathan begged the visitors to prolong their stay, but being in a hurry, they had to decline. After a sumptuous repast of khamir-roti, goat’s milk, rare fruit and creamed coffee, served by Ansari himself, they proceeded to Malirpur, each on a separate camel of the finest breed. At parting, besides Tiwari’s necklace, they were loaded with local presents and sincere good-wishes. The desert valley was echoing with the veteran outlaw’s Khuda-Hafiz! ¹ as the two ‘guests’ faded from view.

¹ “God be with you!”

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