OVERNIGHT, THIS IDYLLIC little village on the banks of the Soan had taken the shape of a small refugee camp. Even as the Baba’s belongings were being moved to the Chaudhry’s home, groups of Khatri families from several small villages near Chakri were heading for Gurudwara Gulab Singh to seek refuge. The gurudwara had a fair-sized sarai to accommodate pilgrims and the lodgings became a magnet for families fleeing from their own homes. The gurudwara’s proximity to a main road provided hope that some army lorries might pass that way and carry them to safety. Moreover, the gurudwara was a sturdy, two-storied structure with doors that wouldn’t succumb easily to an assault. The stone construction of the gurudwara also meant that it would be less vulnerable to the kind of arson attacks that had become so commonplace. But perhaps the best feature of the gurudwara was that its high rooftop provided an unimpeded view of the surrounding plains. A hostile group moving towards the gurudwara could be spotted from a distance. Beyond these physical advantages of the gurudwara, there was a less tangible but equally important factor. The Muslim population of Chakri was widely regarded as the most tolerant and trustworthy in this part of Pothohar.
By next morning, the gurudwara complex had become a temporary abode for a total group of around two hundred that included residents of Chakri itself and those who had streamed in from neighbouring villages.
Hearing about the influx of refugees, Baba Bhana and Boote Shah, accompanied by a few of their Muslim neighbours, rushed towards the gurudwara. Chaudhry Fazal Karim, meanwhile, had converted his spacious courtyard into a makeshift kitchen. The household’s largest pots and pans were pulled out and a clutch of mostly Muslim men and women had set about in earnest to feed the refugees. Some of the women were kneading dough and making chapatis while the men busied themselves ferrying the materials and stirring the pots with large ladles.
Upon entering the gurudwara premises, the Baba and his team observed that the refugees were still in a state of shock. They stared wide-eyed at the gurudwara’s gates, apprehensive that Death itself could arrive any moment. The state of parents with young daughters was especially woeful, their faces contorted with terror and their eyes fearful of some unknown catastrophe that was lurking around the corner.
It was about mid-day when the village received reports that the army had established a new camp in Chakwal from where lorries were being dispatched to riot-affected areas to bring refugees to safety. Chaudhry Fazal Karim heard the news and immediately ordered his son Fatta to take their best horse and head for the camp. Chakwal was around twenty miles from Chakri and his departure created a buzz around the gurudwara. God willing, Fatta would succeed in his mission and they might even see an army truck reach the gurudwara by nightfall.
The rest of the day was spent counting the minutes while the refugees waited for the army to come to their rescue. That embryonic sense of hope, however, was tinged with a foreboding that the marauders would arrive before the army and they would all be slaughtered. Their misgivings, it must be said, weren’t entirely unfounded. Over the course of the day, rumours had started to trickle into the gurudwara about suspicious goings on involving some Muslim youth from Chakri itself. It was said that they were hatching some nasty plot but nobody seemed to know what exactly was afoot.
The Baba and his compatriots went around the gurudwara, meeting each one of the new arrivals and reassuring them that they would be safe. They recounted their nightmares and listened patiently to his counsel. The conversations would usually end with the refrain, ‘Babaji! Why should we be afraid while you are around?’ But those words … they were mere words. The despair that had seeped into the very depths of their hearts was another matter.
When the refugees arrived at the gurudwara, they weren’t exactly empty-handed. Nor did they come laden with everything they had. A majority of them were carrying one or two trunks, a bedroll and the occasional bundle that often looked like some odds and ends had been rolled into a bedsheet. A few of them were also carrying some cash and jewellery, usually hidden within folds of clothing or inside a pillow or perhaps somewhere on their person.
The condition of Naseem’s mother, meanwhile, was deteriorating rapidly. As a result, Naseem had one leg at home to keep an eye on her mother and the other complying with the Baba’s instructions. Along with Aziz and Boote Shah, she was also volunteering at the gurudwara to serve food to the refugees. As for the Baba, he had taken it upon himself to provide solace to the poor souls, counselling fortitude and even providing a dose of religious and spiritual guidance which would be valuable if Death did come knocking on their doors.
Morning gave way to noon, then evening arrived and thereafter, night. But no sound of any approaching truck or lorry. A few persons had gone to the roof of the gurudwara, their eyes trained in the direction of the road as they hid behind the parapet. The only thing they could see was the shimmering ribbon of Soan as the river meandered around the village. Nothing else.
In the last few hours, there were reports that a very large horde of marauders was heading in their direction from Dadhiyal. If the mob reached the gurudwara before the army, nobody would be able to save its occupants. Not the resolute men from the village, nor anyone else. You could almost smell the ominous scent of fear within the walls of the gurudwara.
The Baba, Boote Shah and Aziz stayed in the gurudwara as the two younger men served meals to the refugees. Sugara was getting worse by the hour and Rukman had joined Naseem in tending to her at the Chaudhry’s place. Hearing about Sugara’s condition, the three of them decided to leave the gurudwara and check on her.
The family found it impossible to get any sleep that night. Sugara needed constant attention, and there was too much going on in the village. Around fifty or sixty of the village’s Muslim residents took the responsibility to stand guard outside the gurudwara and patrol up and down the Khatri neighbourhood.
Fortunately, the night passed peacefully and the advent of dawn brought the welcome sounds that the gurdwara’s inhabitants had yearned for all night—the purring of a lorry motor could be heard in the distance, heading towards their own village. Within minutes, virtually the entire village—Khatri and Muslim alike—was rushing towards the road. They saw two army lorries standing near the banks of the Soan.
A group of four soldiers, each armed with a Sten gun, stood outside their respective lorry while a lieutenant shouted instructions. ‘Get into these trucks as quickly as possible. We will take as many as we can fit into these vehicles.’
His words triggered something of a pandemonium in the gurudwara. The bedrolls were packed and trunks and sundry packages were being gathered along with other belongings. A similar scene could also be witnessed at Chaudhry Fazal Karim’s house. Most of the Baba’s stuff was still packed the way they had brought it from his place. The Chaudhry and a couple of his compatriots started to haul it out of the storeroom. They were on the verge of leaving for the road when the Baba emerged after administering some medicine to Sugara. He beckoned them to stop immediately and keep his baggage back in the storeroom.
‘Why, Babaji?’ the Chaudhry asked sharply. ‘Why on earth did you stop them from taking your baggage to the lorry? We’ll lose your place in the lorries if we don’t hurry.’
‘Chaudhryji, let all the others secure their place first. We will see after that,’ he replied with his usual composure.
‘What nonsense is that, Babaji?’ the Chaudhry retorted with barely concealed irritation. ‘Do you really think that the two lorries can carry everyone?’
‘In that case, we’ll have to stay put.’
‘And why is that, Babaji?
‘Because no one from our family will leave till everyone else has left. I suggest, Chaudhryji, that you tell these boys to run across to the gurudwara to help the others. You and I can follow them and assist where we can. We must ensure that we can get the largest number into those trucks.’
The Chaudhry tried his best to reason with the Baba. His compatriots also joined in but the Baba would hear none of it. They had little option but to give in and reluctantly carried his belongings back to the storeroom before leaving for the gurudwara.
On reaching the gurudwara, they saw that Aziz, Boote Shah and Fatta were already helping the refugees carry their baggage to the trucks. Within minutes, both trucks were packed to the rafters. The trunks, bedrolls and other packages were spread along the floor of the truck with the refugees, young and old, perched gingerly on top. A few of the sturdier young men even managed to secure a foothold of sorts on the mudguards, dangling precariously from anything that might offer a semblance of support. There was no way that the entire lot of two hundred odd souls could be packed into the two vehicles and the fact that only forty or so remained was no small feat. But the desperation with which the last few families tried to squeeze themselves into a non-existent space finally provoked a sharp reprimand from the lieutenant. Two more trucks were going to follow these, he assured everyone. They should be here in the next couple of hours. But who among this stricken lot had the appetite for these promises? Who knew what calamity might fall upon them during those hours? Finally, the two trucks had to leave and the ones who couldn’t find a place trudged wearily back to the four walls of the gurudwara.