Nadeem Paracha October 10, 2004

Tags: partition , iconoclonism , satire

href="/tag/Pakistan">Pakistan”, said Jira, a well-built eleven year old ox.
“But why are we leaving Bombay? ”, asked Billu.
“Our home is in Pakistan now," sighed Jira.
“But where’s mother?” asked Billu.
“She’s dead and you know that. Why do you keep asking me the same question?” Jira was irritated.
“You never told me how she died. She was alive only a few months ago? Wasn’t she?” said Billu.
Jira closes his eyes as if trying to hide the few tears he thought that would soon start to trickle down his face.
“What a wonderful cow she was”, he said almost whispering to himself.
"How did she die, father?" Billu asked again.
"She was murdered" said Jira.
"Who murdered her? Why?" Billu was starting to feel restless, and for a moment wanted to break free and run back to Bombay across and against hundreds of ox-carts carrying thousands of Muslims to Pakistan.
"Who murdered my mother" he asked again.
"Our master?" said Jira.
"Haji saheb??" Billu was shocked. "Why?"
"She was slaughtered and then be-headed…"
But before Jira could complete his sentence, Billu interrupted: "My God! That was my mother’s head. Poor mother? Poor mother! And you still pull this murderer’s cart?!"
"Control yourself," said Jira. "It was a war. Haji sahib is a good Muslim. He’s an emotional man. He had to do it!"
"Poor Bhashu," said Billu. "He was my friend. Even mother liked him."
Bhashu was a young street pig in Bombay. Four months ago he was captured by a deranged Hindu fanatic, beheaded and his
head thrown inside a mosque.
"Haji sahib was there when Bhashu’s head was tossed inside the mosque," said Jira. "He just couldn’t take the insult. He went mad with rage. He came back, got hold of your mother, axed her head off and threw it inside a mandir. Do you remember the bloodshed after that?"
Billu’s legs went weak and his eyes swelled with tears. "Poor mother. Poor Bhashu." He kept saying this until Jira spoke again.
"It’s over. It was like a bad dream. We have Pakistan to look forward to. Land of the pure."
"Bull!" said Billu.
Jira was surprised.
"Bull," said Billu again. "See there. Up ahead. A stray bull."
A smile ran across Jira’s face. "A Pakistani bull. Up ahead. That’s our new home, son. That’s Pakistan."


Rawalpindi, Spring 1968

Billu was one of the oldest ox in the area. Now 22 years old he had spent eight years serving Haji Sahib on a small farm in Malir, Karachi. His father, Jira, was sacrificed by Haji Sahib on the Eid-ul-Azha of 1955. The same year when Billu was a strong 10-year-old he was included by Haji Sahib in his daughter’s dowry. Billu was soon in Rawalpindi at the resident of Haji Saheb’s son-in-law Col. Rafique Bajwa.
Here Billu had found and fallen in love with Rani a young brown cow owned by Col. Rafique’ lower-middle-class neighbours, Shabir Badhshah, his Bengali wife and their two sons, Kamran and Liaquat.
In 1958, after Field Marshal Ayub Khan imposed the first round of military rule in Pakistan, Col. Rafique was promoted and asked to form and head the new regime’s intelligence network in Karachi.
To celebrate the promotion, Col. Rafique had gifted Billu to Shabir Badshah, who claimed that he and his wife had prayed day and night for Col. Saheb’s promotion and well being.
Billu, however, found the claim to be utter nonsense and “typical petty-bourgeoise lies to attain impulsive bourgeoisie favors." But he was more than happy to set foot in his new master’s home where Rani stood aching, mooing and waiting for her Billu.
The "bourgeois" bit Billu had picked up from Rani who had heard it from Shabir Badshah’s eldest son, Kamran.
Kamran was a young 20-year-old communist and identified himself more with his Bengali mother than he did with his Punjabi father.
“Who are we?" Rani had asked Billu in the summer of 1956 the night they had planned to have a calf or two.
"Haji Sahib came from a wealthy Urdu-speaking family of traders in Bombay" he told her. "1 guess that makes me an Urdu-speaking immigrant as well."
" Kamran Sahib calls me a proud Bengali cow," said Rani, giggling. "But when he saw you he said that you reminded him of a fat Punjabi exploiter."
Billu had laughed loud: "Is Kamran sahib a communist or a ferocious Bengali nationalist?!"
In early 1962 Kamran had moved to Dhaka in East Pakistan along with his mother who had been divorced by Shabir
Badhshah because he wanted to marry another, already married, woman.
Shabir’s other son Liaquat who was doing his matriculation at the time stayed behind with his father. He was awestruck by military men and had all the inspiration to join the army. Once, in an emotional outburst, he had called his mother and brother "traitors!" And Shabir Badshah agreed.
By 1963 Billu and Rani already had two young calfs, a male and a female, Bubllu and Bubbly. By 1964 Shabir Badshah had decided to sacrifice Billu on 1965’s Eid-ul-Azha. After hearing this Rani had stopped giving milk.
Billu had tried hard to calm her: "You know I’ll go to heaven. I will be sacrificed in the name of Allah. You should be a proud cow."
But Rani would not stop weeping: "Why doesn’t everybody become a vegetarian like Kamran Sahib?!"
"Only Hindus are vegetarian?" Billu would say. "We are Muslims. This is Pakistan not Hindustan."
Billu survived the sacrifice though. Shabir Badhshah had died of a massive heart-attack a few days before the Eid-ul-Azha of 1965. His second wife, now a widow, wanted to sell Billu off but the onset of the India-Pakistan war that year delayed her plans.
But Billu was neither sold nor sacrificed the following year as well. Ironically, this time it was due to Liaquat who had returned to Pindi (from Sialkot) after fighting gallantly as a young army jawan in the war.
As the nation celebrated the "victory" Liaquat had returned a bitter young man all ready to quit the army and enroll himself in a college.
"We won the war on the battleground but lost it on the negotiating table," he told his surprised step-mother.
Meanwhile, he had begged his real mother and brother to return to Pindi. They did in late 1967.
In Dhaka, Kamran had become a 35-year-old activist and member of Sheikh Mujib-ur-Rahman’s Awami League. Liaquat had joined the leftist National Students Federation (NSF) at college and was active supporting and campaigning for one Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto who (along with radical middle-class college and university students and the urban working classes) had started an agitative movement against the Ayub dictatorship.
Liaquat had gifted young Bubbly to her real mother so she could raise her as a productive cow back in Dhaka.
"Farewell my beautiful daughter. Serve thy mistress well," said Billu to a weeping Bubbly”.
Her brother Bubblu was angry: "Shut up you nonsense! Bubbly’s a Punjabi. Not a bloody Bengali! She belongs here. With us!"
This infuriated Billu: "We are Pakistanis?" he half shouted and half coughed. "What Punjabi, what Bengali!"
After realizing that Bubblu just wouldn’t stop, he rammed his sharp horn into Bubblu’s right rump. Hurt, Bubblu barged out screaming, cursing, crying.
Bubbly left for Dhaka with Kamran and his mother. Liaquat got busy organizing protests against the Ayub dictatorship. In the Spring of 1967 Liaquat fell victim to a policeman’s bullet during one such protest gathering that had turned into a riot. And Billu was there too. Searching frantically for Bubblu.


1972- Near the Wagah border

"Where are we going, uncle?” asked the young Sallu.
"Pakistan," said uncle.
The uncle was Babblu. And Sallu was Bubbly’s son. He had actually been recovered by Kamran from a nullah in Pindi and taken away to Dhaka where Kamran planned to sell him and raise more money for his little army of frustrated angry Bengali men fighting a guerilla war alongside the Mukti Bayanis against the "oppressive West Pakistanis."
The civil war in East Pakistan had turned into a war with India in late 1971. And both Bubblu and Sallu were returning to West Pakistan along with expelled men and women and refugees from East Pakistan which was now an independent homeland of the Bengali majority called
Bangladesh. Both were now the property of a Sindhi businessman who once ran a jute mill in Dhaka. He was returning with his family (whatever left of it) to his birth-place in Hala, Sindh.
They had spent many days as refugees in India and walked across that country to reach the Wagah border from where they were to enter Pakistan.
"Where are we going, uncle," Sallu asked again.
"I told you we are going to Pakistan?" said Bubblu, rather irritatingly.
"But we already were in Pakistan weren’t we? Our home was in Dhaka. Dhaka mother told me was in Pakistan," said Sallu.
"Not anymore" said Bubblu sadly.
"Where’s my father?" asked young Sallu.
"He was sacrificed by Kamran Saheb on Eid-ul-Azha three years ago," said Bubblu
"But wasn’t Kamran Saheb a kafir?" asked Sallu.
Bubblu kept quiet.
"How did mother die?" asked Sallu.
"She was slaughtered and beheaded," said Bubblu.
"How? By whom?" asked Sallu.
"By a few Bengali men," said Bubblu desperately wanting Sallu to shut-up.
Sallu remained silent for a while, anticipating Babblu would tell him why.
"They had found out that Kamran Saheb was actually an army infiltrator," Bubblu said. "So one day they came to kill him in his house but couldn’t find him. Kamran Saheb’s mother was there but she was already dying of T.B. You were sleeping. So when I saw them coming I pretended as if I was dead. I told your mother to do the same. But she ran towards you. They got hold of her, axed her head off and threw it inside Kamran Saheb’s house.
Sallu remained quiet.
"I never saw Kamran Sahib again," said Bubblu.
"What about our new owner, Shah Sahib?" asked Sallu.
"Don’t you remember? We both were whisked away by his teenage sons when we were roaming the streets of Dhaka?" asked Bubblu.
"I do," said Sallu. "Jeeay Bhutto!"
"Where did you hear that from?" asked Bubblu looking surprised.
"Can’t you hear it too? It’s coming from there”, said Sallu pointing towards a gathering of radiant young people up ahead.
Bubblu looked hard for it until his eyes got hold of the sight as well.
"Pakistan!" He said excitedly, but only for a moment. Because soon he was morose again.


Dadu, March 1984

Sallu sat comfortably chewing grass and waiting for a well deserved sleep. In his tiredness he had almost forgotten that he was no more in the fields of Shah Sahib in Hala but in the forests of Dadu along with the armed men of the notorious dacoit and highwayman, Gulu Chandio. The night before he had dreamt of tractors, he remembered how uncle Babblu hated tractors and the way they were replacing hard working ox in the cotton fields of Sindh. He smiled remembering what uncle Babblu had once said after watching a Sindhi peasant driving a tractor.
"He was right," thought Sallu. "If tractors are replacing us then humans should sacrifice THEM on bukra Eids! Their tyres are bigger than our rumps!"
Sallu was soon joined by Moti the Chandio gang’s pet dog.
"Dreaming of Billo again?" he asked
Billo was Sallu’s beloved back on the Shah Farm in Hala.
"I think more about my daughter Bhagi," said Sallu.
"You might never see them again, you know," said Moti, sitting besides Sallu.
"I know," said Sallu, with a deep sigh.
Moti turned his head towards the gang members who were relaxing around a fire. "How times have changed," he said.
"How do you mean?" asked Sallu.
"Only a year ago master Chandio was fighting a war for the rights of the people of Sindh against General Zia and the waderas like that Shah of yours. Do you remember?" asked Moti.
"Yes," sighed Sallu. How could he forget. Only a year ago his uncle Babllu was crushed under the wheels of an army convoy.
"Now look at him," said Moti his head still turned towards the gang. "Chandio now protects people like Shah."
“Well," said Sallu. "Shah gave him Rs 5 lakhs and an healthy ox."
“So many poor villagers died fighting against Zia," said Moti. "For what?
So that good men should turn into dacoits? Protected by waderas who are already protected by Zia? So that these men can now extort money from poor villagers? Poor Sindhis? Woof that!"
“Poor Pakistanis, you mean?" Asked Sallu.
“You are a Sindhi, my friend," said Moti.
“A Pakistani. That’s what I am," said Sallu proudly. "My grandfather was a Mohajir. My father was a Bengali. And my
uncle was a Punjabi"
“No Balochis and Pathans, aye" said Moti, sarcastically.
“My wife’s mother was a Pathan, and her grandmother was an Australian cow," said Sallu, smilingly.
“Zabardast,” said Moti. “By the way, Shah sahib is running in next year’s partyless elections. He has sent a gift to Chandio so he makes sure Shah Sahib reaches the parliament.”
"A gift? What, another Rs. 5 lakhs and an ox?" Asked Sallu.
"I wouldn’t have been so excited then," said Moti.
"What do you mean?" Asked Sallu.
"Shah sahib has sent a couple of dancing women for COMRADE Chandio," said Moti sarcastically.
"Yea, of course," said Sallu. "Perfect for the well being of the oppressed people of Sindh."
"But of course. Sindhu Desh zindabad!" Laughed Moti and started walking towards the warm comfort of the camp-fire.


Shah Faisal Coloney, Karachi,1989

Bhagi sat chewing grass alongside dozens of bukras, cows and ox at a makeshift bukra-mandi in Shah Faisal Colony.
She had been sold by Shah Sahib’s youngest son who had been kicked out of his house in Hala because he fell in love and married a prostitute in Karachi. He spent his life like a lower-middle-class man with his wife in a small flat in Gulshan. Recently he had managed to steal Bhagi with his old servant friend in Hala and had sold her to a bukra-mandi trader.
"Bhagi jee, ay Bhagi jee," this was Shabo another cow at the mandi trying to get Bhagi’s attention. "Bhagijee, too much tension in the area, no?"
Bhagi nodded, and kept chewing her grass.
"Bhagi jee, ay bhagijee. Look that bull. How he is staring at us, no?" said Shabo.
Bhagi nodded again.
"Bhagi jee, I think he is a Mohajir. In Shah Faisal Colony, he will be bought and kept as a pet while you will be slaughtered," said Shabo.
"And why is that?" asked Bhagi.
"You are a Sindhi, no?" said Shabo.
"Pakistani," said Bhagi.
"He, he, he, he," This was Haqu a Balochi goat. "Actually we’ll all get slaughtered. It’s Eid time, bhai. "
"Well, at the moment humans are just too busy slaughtering themselves in this city,” said Bhagi.
"These Mohajirs no?" said Shabo.
"Shut-up, Shabo?" said Haqu. "If that bull hears you he’ll rip your guts apart."
"Well, it’ll be better then being gunned-down by a Kalashnikov," said Bhagi.
"He, he, he, he." This was Haqu again.
"Oh my God! That Mohajir bull is coming here," said Shabo turning cow yellow.
"Ahdab," said the bull to Bhagi.
"Bhali kari aye," said Bhagi.
Hearing this Haqu went yellow as well.
"Sindhis," asked the bull.
"Pakistani," said Bhagi.
"Pleased to meet you. I am one as well," said the bull.
“A Sindhi?" Asked Shabo, still yellow.
"No. A Pakistani," said the bull, smilingly.
Their conversation was rudely interrupted with the loud sounds of rapid gunfire.
"Oh, no. Not again," said Haqu.
"Bloody Mohajirs, no?" said Shabo.
"No," said the bull as he hit the ground, downed by a stray bullet. "Pakistani. Pakistani ! "
As all hell broke lose Bhagi kept standing over the bull’s dying body. Expressionless.
"Run, you idiot, run," shouted Haqu.
The chaos soon turned into a gun-battie between PPP and MQM activists.
"Where’s the police, no?" shouted Shabo as she was pushed into a waiting Suzuki pick-up by her owner.
The owner tried to do the same with Bhagi. Not to save her but to steal her. But Bhagi wouldn’t budge. She bent down to kiss the dying bull.
“What stupid Juliet, no,” Shabo screamed, pleading Bhagi to get in the pickup with her. “He’s a bloody Mohajir, killed by a Mohajir. What Pakistani, Pakistani, no? All traitors, no?! Come Bhagi, come please. Let’s get out of here,no!!”
“Yes!” said Bhagi jumping into the pickup.


August 14, 1997 – Somewhere between Hindustan and Pakistan

“Where are you going, sister?" asked Duby, a stray cat stuck inside a bogy of a train carrying people and merchandise from Pakistan to Amritsar. This particular bogy had a cow (an aged Bhagi), two horses (Timmy and Boby) and a mouse, Micky.
“Where are you going, sister," asked Duby again.
"Amritsar, I think," said Bhagi. “I still give milk, y’know."
"I’m sure you do, aunt. Who’s your owner?" asked Duby.
“He’s a nice man. He has relatives in Bombay. They are very poor. So he has decided to gift me to them," said Bhagi.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Said Boby. "Let me introduce to you THE horse that drank milk! Our nation’s blood," he said, pointing towards Timmy, the other horse.
"Oh, yes," said Timmy. “What about you, you pig! Carrying boring, drunk, decadent aristocrats, those kalay angraiz on
polo fields."
“Feudals," screamed Bobby.
"Capitalists," cried Timmy.
"You," said Duby the cat, turning towards a scampering Micky, the mouse. “I’ll eat you, you little delicious twit!"
“You can’t," said Micky.
“Why not?" Asked Duby;
“Because your ancestors were Sudhras and mine were Brahmins," laughed Micky.
This made Bhagi laugh. “You know," she said. "My great grandfather was an Indian Muslim."
“So what?" asked Timmy.
“He was friends with a Hindu Pig?" said Bhagi.
"Tobaa, tobaa," said Duby.
“So what you stupid cat," said Mickey.
“He wasn’t EATING him. We’re all made by the same God."
“Yes, but I’ll eat YOU," said Duby.
"Over YOUR dead body," said Mickey.
“Yes...what?! No, you twit!" Cried Duby, making everybody laugh.
Bhagi took a deep sigh. "Exactly fifty years ago my great grandfather and his father came to Pakistan in search of a dream. Fifty years later I’m going back in search of peace."
“Peace? In India?" asked Duby. “How do you know that those BJP fanatics won’t chop your head off and throw it inside a mosque?"
“No problem," said Mickey. "We’ll axe off a cow’s head and throw it inside a mandir."
"Yea?" said Timmy excitedly.
“I was being sarcastic you stupid horse," said Mickey.
Bhagi smiled again. "By peace I meant death. I’m old and dying. I’ll like to die in a land where my elders saw a dream. Not in a land where that dream has turned into a nightmare."
Soon the train stopped at a station. Bhagi’s bogy was opened for some air. Opposite it was another bogy, but of a train going to Pakistan. There sat another old cow. She waved her ears to Bhagi.
“Where are you going, sister, and what is your name?” asked Bhagi.
“My name’s Puni, I am a Hindu and I am going back to where my grandparents came from," she said.
"Where?" asked Bhagi.
“Khairpur. My grandparents ran off to Hindustan during partition," said Puni.
“But why are you going back?” asked Bhagi. .
"We went to Hindustan in search of a dream. I am going back in search of peace. Don’t want to die in a land of broken dreams.”
Bhagi remained silent. As the train started to move she turned towards Mickey.
“Son. Do you know about any train that leaves for Iran?”