Zahra

She was the first one to stand up to the visiting British inspector who wanted us to sing "God Save the King".  Instead we all stood up and sang "Sare jahan se achha" with Zahra leading the chorus, much to the embarrassment of the authorities. Ours was a small college in a small town meant for the children of elite parents.  Zahra came from a progressive Muslim family and wore a headscarf, probably as only token obeisance to tradition, but no veil, unlike the other poorer Muslim women we were accustomed to seeing.  Her father was the most influential advocate in town, and an important Congress leader. She was beautiful and a top notch student.  To me, a poor boy from a humble Kayastha family, and supported by a scholarship from a charitable organization, she seemed unattainable.  I envied Bhagat, the dashing rich kid, who smuggled revolutionary literature into class and bragged about how he was making bombs for an underground organization. Zahra's eyes would light up with admiration every time Bhagat would start sermonizing  his theories about how a mass uprising against colonial rule could come only through direct action led by a

few educated individuals. A regular crowd of starry eyed boys would gather around him, and they all wanted to handle the pistol he would sometimes bring. The girls who were much fewer in number sat in a different part of the room but listened with rapt attention - most of all Zahra. I would steal shy glances at her, and she seemed even more radiant and pretty when she discussed politics. The Quit India Movement came and went, the war raged in Europe, almost came to India but stopped just short, and we passed out of college and went our own ways.  Life in town went on in the same tardy way. My misgivings with the methods of Gandhi  led me to find solace at the feet of Golwalkar.  I was always a serious worker, whatever I set myself to do, and rose quickly through the ranks.

A few years later I was leading an angry mob on  "shikar" - the enemy was right in our midst, living in our towns and villages, and needed to be exterminated.  The newspapers carried photos of corpse laden trains arriving from Pakistan.  Our neighbors who had gone to work in Delhi returned with horror stories of thousands of Punjabi refugees - Hindu and Sikh, pouring into the capital. They cut down men after checking whether their organs were circumcised. Women were raped, their breasts cut off and stashed into gunny bags, young children had been massacred and burnt alive. Gandhi's Satyagraha had failed to protect Hindus in a land that was historically ours.  We raided the Muslim mohalla in town - we had to defend ourselves against the parasites. There was no one else to help us - our defence was our own responsibility. I wielded a pistol while the men had daggers, swords and clubs - and kerosene.  Rapes did happen as we went from house to house - the mob needed to vent its fury, and I was there to make sure no man escaped and that the job was done thoroughly. We set fire to a large haweli.  A woman came shrieking out of the house trying to protect an infant. They snatched the infant from her- and for maybe a second or two the men stood still. This woman was extra-ordinarily beautiful, and wore no burqa - just a headscarf.  There were twenty of us - all crazed beasts - and they all seemed to want their turn with her. I could not bear to see this happen. She seemed to have recognized me even in her state of frenzy. Some men had already suspected my masculine prowess for I had not been part of the rapes so far.  I promptly took out my pistol and shot Zahra in the chest, and told them in a steely voice, "Let's not get distracted and waste time on this bitch. There's lot more work to be done."  I had won a measure of respect from the men, with all my "self-control" and  organization, and the "shikar" went well for the day. Hindustan's honor was salvaged. And Zahra's too. I thought.