Nund Gupt ran like one possessed. He had abandoned his staff. The arched back had straightened out and his legs were moving at a tremendous pace. After every hundred strides, he would stop, listen to the passing wind and look at the sky above in a terrified way, and hearing the distant thunder, resume his run. He was going away from the city, heading straight towards the Zabarwan hills. Running madly, he passed several hutments and small villages on his way. Then, as a he approached a sleepy village, he heard the cries of women, shrieking women, “Who is crying? Who is shrieking?” He had cried out.
His marching feet brought him into the village square. There it was—all hell let loose. He could see parked military vehicles, and then beyond men in chains tied to the trees, women being dragged from their huts into the square where soldiers, like mad wolves were tearing their flesh. Nund Gupt stopped silent and stoned.
Women, women. Ah! women. Miserable women. Young and old women.Women, the first to suffer.
Nund Gupt spent the last of his tears and ran away—away from the men, away from the present, away from the past, away from time. Near the foot of the hill, he again halted; listening to the distant roar and seeing the clouds gather up in the sky, he began his ascent. The gush of energy seemed to wane. His march slowed, as step-by-step he negotiated the difficult terrain, falling here and jumping there, but continued with his uphill climb.
The clouds had thickened and a light drizzle was at hand. He had smelt rain in the passing breeze. He wanted to reach the peak of this hill before dark, for he knew he could not walk in the dark. With a renewed vigour, he resumed his ascent. The rain began to fall faster and faster, and as he was half way up the hill, it came down in torrents and gales. Drenched from head to foot, the frail old man continued to walk, avoiding the rocks and the thorny bushes.
By the time he reached the top of the hill, the rain had assumed monstrous proportions. He could not see anything now as a continuous sheet of water fell from the skies. Nund Gupt looked up towards the sky as darkness fell all around him. He lifted his hands up and began to pray, “Oh lord of the skies; Oh lord of the lands; Oh lord of the seas; Oh lord of days; Oh lord of nights, I pray only to thee, hold thy wrath, for they do not know who have gone astray; Oh lord of the heaven! I pray to thee! Take pity on their souls! Harm them not, for they do not know. Oh lord of the skies! Oh lord of the land!” Saying his prayer, Nund Gupt prostrated himself and remained in supplication.
It rained all through the night and the following day; in all it rained for forty days and forty nights. On the morning of the 41st day, when Nund Gupt lifted his head, he saw a clear beautiful blue sky. He thanked his lord up in the skies, and then lowering his gaze, he searched for his city. There lay a vast expanse of clear blue water in front of him.
The maharaja’s officials had been camping in the village for the last four days. They had spent all the time in enjoying the hospitality of the village nambardar, eating the best cuisine, with dozens of natives in attendance. They seemed to be having the time of their life. They had been to the nearest forest in search of game. But the purpose for which they had descended on this village remained unaccomplished. The division of the farm produce had not been undertaken, and that meant continued starvation for the village folk, who anyway had got used to the miserable existence. On the fourth day, the village headman had arranged a musical feast for the officials and Maqbool Dar had been summoned to be there with his band for the concert that evening.
Maqbool Dar was a village bard who wrote his own songs and sung them too. He had raised a band of his own and it had achieved a good degree of public acclaim in the area. People loved him for his songs, his clear and youthful voice. He would play almost all the musical instruments with considerable ease, but the matka was his favourite. To him, it was like playing with the simultaneously chaste and voluptuous body of his beloved, his fingers caressing her lips, playing at her neck or merely touching her bosom. He was a master in his own right but somewhat eccentric in his ways.
One more day, Maqbool Dar thought as he carried his hookah to the nearby stream, filled it with fresh cool water and returned to his hut. Setting it in front of him, he placed the tobacco in the chillum and picked a few embers of charcoal from the kangri and placed them on the tobacco. His hookah was ready. Squatting, he looked out of the window. A new day had begun. Drawing the first puff from the hookah, Maqbool Dar thought, ‘Is this day any way different from yesterday or will tomorrow be any way different from today?’ That was the question. This nation had lost its struggle for existence. For centuries, its days had been the same—monotonous, drab, and filled with drudgery and misery. Nothing was to happen. Nothing was to change. Nothing could happen. They had been condemned to this sort of existence. Maqbool Dar often thought that his cow was better than him. Even the dog in the street lived a more decent life than him and his fellow beings.
He deliberated on these questions and these ideas were reflected in his poems. The beloved in his songs was in fact not a woman of flesh and blood. He did not sing to a charming maid. He did not lament the separation from the tormenting damsel. He, in fact, sang to his country, lamenting the days that had been beautiful and bountiful. He prayed and beseeched his beloved to smile upon him. The fairy was in fact the fairy of destiny, which, it seemed, had been cross with him and his people for some sins or misdemeanor on their part.
Maqbool Dar had been called upon to sing today and sing for none other than the maharaja’s men. If they approved of his songs, then may be they would give him a hefty bakhsish. Maqbool Dar reflected on these possibilities and continued to smoke his hookah. Suddenly, a thought flashed in his mind. Yes, today could be different from yesterday if we do not care for tomorrow. Let us not care for tomorrow. But how can today be different from yesterday? Could it be? Yes, indeed, it could be. Maqbool Dar seemed to have unravelled a mystery. He seemed to have unlocked a jigsaw puzzle. And in doing so, he suddenly became afraid of his own thoughts. Maqbool Dar! What is going on in your mind? Are you possessed? Maqbool Dar! Arise and go to Peer Sahib. He will give a taweez and also the benefit of his holy breath. No, Maqbool Dar! Why are you scared? Today can be different from yesterday and this can be proved.
He left his window and his hut. He straightaway went to the hut of his friend Ajab Malik. Together, they took a walk towards the village shrine and there they met their third companion, Lassa Khan. Together, the three of them hatched a conspiracy against the state. An act of defiance was thus planned.
