lives any more.’
‘But what are you saying?’ protested Mahmdoo. ‘I would rather be with you than cooking for the raiders all night under Babu Ishaq’s orders! And, after I took sides with you, he would surely have betrayed me to the murderers. You don’t know Ishaq! He believes he is a great man, because he is a school teacher.’
The warm breath issued out of Mahmdoo’s mouth in wisps of smoke as he sat by Maqbool and spoke these words. And his peculiar devotion, born through the chivalry of the host, which had made Mahmdoo come so far, overflowed into space. Maqbool was sure that though he could not see the face of his companion, there would be tears in the cook’s eyes. He would feel lonely, when the father and son would leave him, as he had now decided they must, but the wheel of time was turning in his brain and he felt he must turn with it.
‘You came with me!’ he began in a gentle whisper, ‘because my presence with you forced you to take my side in the argument with Ishaq. You would have cooked for Ishaq and his friends out of sheer necessity. I cannot expect you to face possible death for something you may not understand. Perhaps, tomorrow, after you have been in Baramula, you may know what I mean. Even I ran away to Srinagar, thinking everything was lost in Baramula. But I have come back, because I believe help will come to us. I do not want you to stay with me tonight —’
‘Sire!’ Mahmdoo protested.
‘No, if you believe in me, you will have to obey my orders,’ said Maqbool sharply. ‘You can do something for me. By then you will have time to think and become stranger in your faith. You take Gula to Juma’s house. In the morning, if you think the road is clear, send Gula to me here with a message. This plan has to be carried out. Otherwise, all three of us will die a needless death.’
Mahmdoo had no words against this logic. Besides, the suggestion to go met the curve of his own inner desire for safety. Maqbool had guessed rightly.
‘I would like to sleep here by Gula — but if you say I must go, I will go . . . . ’ Mahmdoo said by way of apology.
‘If anything happens to me,’ Maqbool said, ‘Gula can take that motorcycle I have left behind your shop. The locksmith’s son in Baramula will teach him how to ride it.’
‘What inauspicious talk you do!’ protested Mahmdoo.
‘Go then —’
Mahmdoo tried to lift his son Gula in his arms. The boy was heavy. So Maqbool got up and, raising Gula from the hay bed, put him silently on Mahmdoo’s back like a sack. Having once been a coolie, Mahmdoo could carry the weight easier that way.
‘May Allah be with you,’ Mahmdoo mumbled.
‘Send Gula if you can in the morning,’ Maqbool repeated his request. And, as the man walked away slowly, he began to scoop out some hay from the stack before making a cave for himself.
As soon as he lay down anyhow, he was filled with warmth for Mahmdoo, who had put himself into this awkward situation through the old Kashmiri sense of chivalry.
The hay had been piled up very compactly. He found that the bushels he had detached were only four feet long. And he was uncomfortable as he lay curled up like a baby. So he took another two bushels out from the side.
For a little while, he felt too desolate to go to sleep. It was strange that now, after the heat of the walk had died down in his body, he began to miss the presence of Mahmdoo and Gula and felt lonely — a kind of emptiness tinged with an endless series of anxieties, vague and amorphous, like menacing shadows cast by the captors of Baramula.
But, outside, the wind rushed through the poplars with a cold swish. Instinctively he clung to himself and pillowed his head with his left arm. Now he felt snug and calm and lay listening to the breeze and to the wetness of the earth sucking up its own moisture. And the fatigue of his body rose like the smell of country liquor to his head and closed his eyes, dissolving his heavy body into the
‘But what are you saying?’ protested Mahmdoo. ‘I would rather be with you than cooking for the raiders all night under Babu Ishaq’s orders! And, after I took sides with you, he would surely have betrayed me to the murderers. You don’t know Ishaq! He believes he is a great man, because he is a school teacher.’
The warm breath issued out of Mahmdoo’s mouth in wisps of smoke as he sat by Maqbool and spoke these words. And his peculiar devotion, born through the chivalry of the host, which had made Mahmdoo come so far, overflowed into space. Maqbool was sure that though he could not see the face of his companion, there would be tears in the cook’s eyes. He would feel lonely, when the father and son would leave him, as he had now decided they must, but the wheel of time was turning in his brain and he felt he must turn with it.
‘You came with me!’ he began in a gentle whisper, ‘because my presence with you forced you to take my side in the argument with Ishaq. You would have cooked for Ishaq and his friends out of sheer necessity. I cannot expect you to face possible death for something you may not understand. Perhaps, tomorrow, after you have been in Baramula, you may know what I mean. Even I ran away to Srinagar, thinking everything was lost in Baramula. But I have come back, because I believe help will come to us. I do not want you to stay with me tonight —’
‘Sire!’ Mahmdoo protested.
‘No, if you believe in me, you will have to obey my orders,’ said Maqbool sharply. ‘You can do something for me. By then you will have time to think and become stranger in your faith. You take Gula to Juma’s house. In the morning, if you think the road is clear, send Gula to me here with a message. This plan has to be carried out. Otherwise, all three of us will die a needless death.’
Mahmdoo had no words against this logic. Besides, the suggestion to go met the curve of his own inner desire for safety. Maqbool had guessed rightly.
‘I would like to sleep here by Gula — but if you say I must go, I will go . . . . ’ Mahmdoo said by way of apology.
‘If anything happens to me,’ Maqbool said, ‘Gula can take that motorcycle I have left behind your shop. The locksmith’s son in Baramula will teach him how to ride it.’
‘What inauspicious talk you do!’ protested Mahmdoo.
‘Go then —’
Mahmdoo tried to lift his son Gula in his arms. The boy was heavy. So Maqbool got up and, raising Gula from the hay bed, put him silently on Mahmdoo’s back like a sack. Having once been a coolie, Mahmdoo could carry the weight easier that way.
‘May Allah be with you,’ Mahmdoo mumbled.
‘Send Gula if you can in the morning,’ Maqbool repeated his request. And, as the man walked away slowly, he began to scoop out some hay from the stack before making a cave for himself.
As soon as he lay down anyhow, he was filled with warmth for Mahmdoo, who had put himself into this awkward situation through the old Kashmiri sense of chivalry.
The hay had been piled up very compactly. He found that the bushels he had detached were only four feet long. And he was uncomfortable as he lay curled up like a baby. So he took another two bushels out from the side.
For a little while, he felt too desolate to go to sleep. It was strange that now, after the heat of the walk had died down in his body, he began to miss the presence of Mahmdoo and Gula and felt lonely — a kind of emptiness tinged with an endless series of anxieties, vague and amorphous, like menacing shadows cast by the captors of Baramula.
But, outside, the wind rushed through the poplars with a cold swish. Instinctively he clung to himself and pillowed his head with his left arm. Now he felt snug and calm and lay listening to the breeze and to the wetness of the earth sucking up its own moisture. And the fatigue of his body rose like the smell of country liquor to his head and closed his eyes, dissolving his heavy body into the
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