Free Delhi by Khushwant Singh Page B

Altamash. Like a common labourer he dug the earth for the Shamsi Talab at the site where the Sultan had seen the footprints of the Holy Prophet’s horse, Buraq, and carried stones on his head to build the mausoleum of the Saint Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. He saw the Qutub Minar completed in AD 1220. It was my grandfather who built the stone house along the Shamsi Talab where I was born and spent most of my life. He also served under Sultan Altamash’s daughter Razia Sultana who ruled over Hindustan for three-and-a-half years. My father, Lala Chagan Lal was a clerk in the
kotwali
(police station) of Mehrauli under the mighty Sultan Ghiasuddin Balban and served him for fifteen of the twenty years of his reign which lasted from AD 1265 to AD 1287. (My father died in the year AD 1280).
    Like my Kayastha forefathers, I was trained to be a scribe. A
pandit
taught me Sanskrit and Hindi. Through my father’s influence I was admitted to a
madrasa
to learn Arabic, Turki and Persian. At first I was treated roughly by the Turkish boys and the sons of Hindu converts to Islam. But when I learnt to speak Turki and dress like a Turk, they stopped bullying me. To save me being harassed, the
Maulvi
Sahib gave me a Muslim name, Abdul. The boys called me Abdullah.
    I was the only child of my parents. I had been betrothed to a girl, one of a family of seven who lived in Mathura. We were married when I was nine and my wife, Ram Dulari, only seven. Four years later, when I was old enough to cohabit, my parents sent the barber who had arranged my marriage to fetch my wife from Mathura. For reasons I will explain later, her parents refused to comply with our wishes. Then tragedy struck our home. My father died and a few days later my mother joined him. At thirteen I was left alone in the world.
    The
Kotwal
Sahib was very kind to me. When he came to offer his condolence, he also offered my father’s post to me.
    It was at that time that my Muslim friends suggested that if I accepted conversion to Islam my prospects would be brighter; I could even aspire to become
Kotwal
of Mehrauli. And I would have no trouble in finding a wife from amongst the new converts. If I was lucky I might even get a widow or a divorcee of pure Turkish, Persian or Afghan stock. ‘If you are Muslim,’ said one fellow who was full of witticisms, ‘you can have any woman you like. If you are up to it, you can have four at a time.’
     
    A Turk for toughness, for hands that never tire;
    An Indian for her rounded bosom bursting with milk;
    A Persian for her tight crotch and her coquetry;
    An Uzbeg to thrash as a lesson for the three.
     
    There was something, I do not know what, which held me back from being converted to Islam. I suspected that the reason why my wife’s parents had refused to send her to me was the rumour that my parents had adopted the ways of the Mussalmans. If I became a Muslim, they would say, ‘Didn’t we tell you? How could we give our daughter to an unclean
maleecha
?’
    On the last day of the obsequial ceremony for my mother, my wife’s uncle came from Mathura to condole with me. His real object was to find out what I was like and whether I observed Hindu customs. With his own eyes he saw that I had my head shaved, wore the sacred thread and fed Brahmins. I asked the barber to speak to him about sending my wife to me. The uncle did not say anything and returned to Mathura.
    After waiting for some days I approached the
Kotwal
Sahib. At that time people felt that fate had dealt harshly with me and were inclined to be sympathetic. The
Kotwal
Sahib made me write out a complaint against my wife’s parents for interfering with my conjugal rights. He forwarded it to the
Kotwal
of Mathura with a recommendation for immediate execution. If the family raised any objection, they were to be arrested and sent to Mehrauli.
    A week later my wife escorted by her younger sister and uncle arrived at my doorstep. After a few days her uncle and sister returned to