THE ADVENT OF the February–March month of Phagun is accompanied by an endearing mingling of mood, colour and fragrance. The vegetation starts to shake off the effects of autumn and winter to emerge with a youthful vigour. Colourful buds appear on branches that had become dry, lifeless twigs over the preceding months. The air around the trees is suffused with the delicate scents bursting forth from the buds.
The young boys and girls from villages in our countryside also draw inspiration from the rejuvenation taking place around them, creating a tumult of new desires, new aspirations. Acres of mustard fields acquire a golden hue and every nook and corner is resplendent with a riot of colours. The youth try to emulate these by making sure that the turbans sported by the boys and the dupattas donned by the girls are dyed in the brightest shades.
Phagun, it seems, is the month when Mother Nature and mankind walk shoulder to shoulder, each in sync with the other. The latter part of Phagun brings stronger winds that shake the branches and create a shower of fresh flowers as Nature starts to celebrate the colourful festival of Holi. Our people have taken their cue from Nature since time immemorial and their own celebrations of Holi during the last week of Phagun reflect their joy and anticipation over the imminent arrival of Spring. The hues of Nature are replicated in the heaps of coloured powders prepared for Holi. Young or old, everyone joins in the festivities and makes sure that a dab or two of colour is applied, if not sprinkled through a bottle of water, on anyone that they can catch.
It was now the latter part of the beautiful month of Phagun and who would have imagined that the blessings of Spring were about to be replaced by an unprecedented ordeal—that our Punjabi brethren would play Holi with blood and not with the floral shades of Nature. Who would have imagined that we Punjabis—known across the length and breadth of the country for our bravery, our generosity, our camaraderie and bonhomie—that we Punjabis would mark the end of Phagun by abandoning our humanity, taking on the form of the Devil himself?
It was during the second half of this ill-fated Phagun that the ominous clouds of communal strife first seen in the cities started to blow towards the peaceful countryside. Sectarian passions were being aroused among the guileless inhabitants of these villages.
Initially, it was the larger villages that fell prey to this deadly epidemic but it was only a matter of time before it started to envelop the smaller hamlets in its vicious embrace.
Chakri wasn’t exactly a hamlet but neither did it fall in the category of the large villages. That could be one reason it hadn’t fallen victim to the first wave of this epidemic of communal violence.
The strong bonds of kinship between the different communities in this village had been formed over the generations. Nor was this unique to Chakri. It could, in fact, be described as one of the defining characteristics of the entire Pothohar region. Each person depended on the other for their well-being. They were tied to each other by their shared interests. Each community followed its own religious practices and rituals and there was never a trace of prejudice amongst any of them. The occasional attempt by some overzealous soul to create friction was quickly snuffed out to restore the same spirit of fraternal amity with which they had lived over the centuries.
That spirit stayed intact in Chakri even when they started to receive news reports about the outbreak of sectarian strife in several nearby cities. They failed to stir any communal passions as long as they were read out merely as ‘reports’. But that started to change when Munshi Abdul Rahman and some of his acolytes took to spicing up the reports with their own toxic assertions before spreading them among the unsuspecting villagers. His campaign sent a wave of anxiety through the Khatri community, particularly when they saw him draw the allegiance of some of the young hotheads of the village. The Munshi’s message carried a certain appeal for these youngsters and they secretly attended his meetings, though none of them would have dared say as much in the presence of their elders. They knew that the elders were keeping a watchful eye and there was an uproar in the family whenever a youngster was seen associating with the Munshi’s agenda.
The wave of sectarian violence that had started in Rawalpindi was inexorably making its way towards Chakri. The residents of the village could sense its approach and were on the alert. The elders of the Muslim community saw the danger and called for an urgent meeting that was attended by virtually anyone of standing. One by one, they placed their hand on the holy Quran and solemnly swore they would protect the Khatris of the village to their last breath, that they would be ready to shed their last drop of blood to ensure the safety of their non-Muslim brethren. But they were also increasingly mindful of a threat from within, the fact that many of their own youth could be seen hanging around Munshi Abdul Rahman. The danger from that threat seemed to multiply overnight when a scrawny, unkempt sort of Moulvi appeared out of nowhere and became a constant presence by the Munshi’s side.
The Khatris of the village were living through a perilous phase. If they saw any silver lining during these grim times, it came from the robust defiance of their Muslim neighbours who often showed their machismo by thumping their chests and asserting, ‘Brothers! Please stop worrying. No one is going to touch you. To reach you, they will have to cross our dead bodies first.’
The Khatris initially sought solace in the unequivocal assurances given by the elders of the village who had taken the onus of protecting their non-Muslim neighbours. But news trickling in from other villages soon started to erode their confidence. Until now, the looting of Khatri properties in other villages of their region had been attributed to bands of plunderers who had drifted in from other areas. There was the occasional incident where some Muslim residents of the village also joined in the plunder, but such cases were few and far between. By and large, the Muslim communities stood by their Khatri brothers and made a valiant endeavour to protect their lives and properties. But the bands were becoming larger and more violent, and the locals often found themselves powerless to protect their wards. There were times when they found it prudent to step out of the way and avoid the wrath of the marauding hordes. And then there were those whose avarice got the better of their morality. If some Khatris had abandoned their homes and fled to escape the marauders, these worthy locals would quickly reach the houses ahead of the horde to sneak away with the more expensive possessions. This wasn’t motivated by any sense of antagonism towards their neighbours. They were simply driven by the logic that if outsiders were going to help themselves to gold, jewellery and other valuables worth tens of thousands of rupees, why should they deny themselves the rare opportunity to acquire instant prosperity. This is quite a normal human impulse and should be understood for what it is.
As the Khatris of Chakri heard these tales from nearby villages, their anxiety about the future grew. Would their Muslim brothers actually sacrifice their own lives to protect them? Maybe not, they worried. But even in these tumultuous times, there was one house in Chakri that maintained its equanimity. Each time a group of Khatris approached Baba Bhana and argued that it was time to leave their beloved village, he would respond, ‘Friends! There is no point in arguing with Fate. We cannot change what the Lord has written.’