Free Land of Five Rivers by Khushwant Singh

ago he was informed that his life-long friend Ghanshamdas had also been killed by mistake. He had been carrying a yellow scarf to one of his Muslim friends out in the fields, when he was surprised by the rioters who killed him, taking him to be a new convert. They did not wait to check who was who. They were busy people. They had to visit and plunder other villages too. For them the sight of a yellow scarf was enough to tell them of ‘converts.’
    While praying at the Martyrs field,
Babaji
(my grandfather) was still thinking of Ghanshamdas. Yes, true, he had to die some day. But this sudden and uncalled for death had given a new uncertainty to people, including
Babaji.
It meant that anyone who was carrying a yellow scarf, even if he was a Sikh or a Hindu, would not be spared. Where then was the guarantee of safety to converts? In fact those who had not accepted Sikhism were safer, for they were cautious, not caught so easily and hence not killed. Thus, absurdly, avowed Muslims were escaping while Sikhs were being slaughtered!
    Even though he was singing aloud the praises of Guru Gobind’s sons, the Five Beloved Ones, and the Forty Martyrs, his heart was crying over the calamitous riots towards the end when he was reciting verses in honour of those who had shared their wealth, fought sinners, offered sacrifice for the faith, suddenly his legs buckled beneath him. The mention of ‘sacrifices for the faith’ choked his throat. His
khunda
fell off on the ground. The rest of the prayer was completed by my father. Having finished the ceremony my father told me to go and offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. As I placed the
parsad
on their tombs, the crows from the
peepul
tree nearby came cawing and swooping and ate it up in no time. ‘Let the Martyrs remain hungry,’ I said to myself.
    As my father distributed
parsad
to everyone and was about to leave,
Babaji
came forward and held him there by his arm.
    â€˜Tell the boy to put some on the
Pirs
tombs too,’ he said pointing towards the
Pirs’
graveyard. Looking in that direction I remembered Noora. The
peepul
in the field reminded me of Rahmte who had frowned at me under it. Had she done it in love or in hatred? I would never know now.
    â€˜What do you mean?’ father asked
Babaji,
a little puzzled — ‘on the
Pirs’
tombs?’
    â€˜You remember the massacre,’
Babaji
whispered to father, after taking him beyond the boundary of the field. Perhaps he dared not say it within the Martyrs’ domain, afraid of their curse on his unbelief.
    â€˜Yes, I remember,’ father said bitterly.
    â€˜Those who were initiated have been killed, haven’t they?’
    â€˜So what?’ whispered my father still puzzled.
    â€˜Those who did not agree to initiation are saved, you know that.’
    â€˜I don’t understand,’ father said, frowning perplexedly. ‘Well, if you don’t, I can’t help it,’ snapped
Babaji,
a little irritated by my father’s denseness.
    â€˜Listen,’ he tried again, whispering very low to prevent the Martyrs overhearing. ‘Those who remained Muslims were saved, were they not? Well, who knows if tomorrow the
Pirs
don’t turn out to be more powerful than our Martyrs?’
    Suddenly enlightened, I ran and offered
parsad
at the
Pirs’
tombs. Father did not stop me.
    Perhaps the insinuation in
Babaji’s
remarks still escaped him?

t he death of shaikh burhanuddin

    Khwaja Ahmed Abbas
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  M y name is Shaikh Burhanuddin.
    When violence and murder became the order of the day in Delhi and the blood of Muslims flowed in the streets, I cursed my fate for having a Sikh for a neighbour. Far from expecting him to come to my rescue in times of trouble, as a good neighbour should, I could not tell when he would thrust his
kirpan
into my belly. The truth is that till then I used to find the Sikhs somewhat laughable. But I also disliked them and was