SATNAM HEADED FOR Loon Mandi to meet some friends as per their plan. With each step, he felt that some of the key components of the machinery that constituted his chest had shaken loose from their moorings. Some were clattering noisily like an open window in a storm, while others had moved around and were getting tangled with their neighbours. His legs appeared to be faltering for no apparent reason and he had the feeling that instead of walking, he was awkwardly dragging himself forward. What had happened to him? Why was that sentence still ringing in his ears, ‘And those noble ideals of your Unity Council? Were they merely castles of sand?’
A couple of hours later, he was heading back home with a spring in his step. His mind was at peace, free of the turmoil created by the morning’s conversation with Krishna. The turnaround from his sinking spirits in the morning to his current buoyant mood was palpable. He had sat with his friends and devised a plan that was bound to succeed. The quickness of his strides was being matched by the speed at which his train of thought was moving. ‘Our plan is bound to work. One blow from the ironsmith is bigger than a hundred from the goldsmith, goes the saying. There is no other way of dealing with the daily barrage of incidents by the Muslim League. In one stroke, half a dozen Muslim neighbourhoods will be razed to the ground and up to a thousand Muslims will be heading for the gates of Hell to pay for their sins. That ought to bring some peace to this city.’
He hurried through the bazaars, mindful that the growing number of violent episodes in the city had shrunk the curfew window to barely two hours. There wasn’t much time left to reach home.
As he approached the Loon Mandi chowk, he saw a small crowd gathering near a fire. He raced towards the chowk and the scene unfolding before him shook him to his very core. A tonga was going up in flames and a corpse lay spreadeagled on its back next to one of the large wooden wheels. The body was drenched in blood. The victim must have been around forty years old or so and the short, trimmed beard suggested that he was a Muslim. His body bore at least eight or nine major wounds. The right arm had been virtually hacked off the shoulder and was lying twisted under his back. A huge gash above his eyebrows had opened up his skull from which a steady trickle of blood was oozing along with a portion of his brain. His left thigh was badly slashed, leaving a part of the bone exposed under the flesh. Even worse was the way his stomach had been gouged, drawing out a trail of intestines. In the stifling mid-day heat, the unholy grime of blood, dust and innards had already attracted a swarm of flies.
Satnam’s lips let out an anguished wail as his eyes tried to turn away from the mangled body. But there was something else that held his attention, something that left his own heart slashed by a thousand cuts.
The victim was wearing a long, blood-soaked kurta that had been ripped open at the top. The head of a small wooden rattle with pink and blue stripes was poking out of his pocket. The rest of the toy was still inside the pocket. A coarse, chequered napkin was lying near the body; its knot had loosened, spilling a handful of sweet puffed rice on the ground.
‘Uff! You unfortunate children,’ cried Satnam’s tormented heart. ‘You must be waiting for your toys and sweets, the ones you probably asked your Abba to bring when he was preparing his tonga in the morning. How would you know that you won’t see him again even if you wait till eternity.’
He couldn’t stay there any longer. Trying to keep a surging tide of emotions in check, he had barely taken a few steps when his eyes fell on a skinny mare standing a short distance away, its harness still on its back and two leather straps scraping against the ground. It was using its long tail to swish the flies away even as its eyes remained glued to the corpse. The lost expression in her eyes suggested that she was aware of her owner’s fate.
Satnam took a few more steps when he heard a commotion from the chowk. He turned around and saw that one person was busily pouring some kerosene on the corpse from a tin can, while another had a matchbox in his hand. Stepping back a couple of yards, he lit a match and threw it towards the corpse. Within minutes, a second blaze had joined the one from the burning tonga.
Unable to watch, Satnam hurried away from the scene.