As the day dawned, the town, as though stung by a cobra, bore a half-dead, half-alive appearance. The Grain Market was still burning; the fire-brigades of the municipality had long since given up fighting the fire. The smoke billowing from it continued to darken the sky, although during the night the sky had looked glowing red. Seventeen shops had been reduced to ashes.

Shops all over the town were closed, except a shop here and there selling milk. Outside such shops stood small groups of people talking about the happenings of the previous night. Information about the killings was largely based on rumours. Residents of Gawalmandi said that many people had been killed in Ratta, while those in Ratta said that a lot of killing had taken place in the Committee Mohalla.

At a road-crossing in Naya Mohalla lay the dead body of a horse. On the outskirts of the city, by the side of a road that led to the villages, the dead body of a middle-aged man had been found. Another dead body had been found in a graveyard on the western edge of the town. It was the dead body of an elderly Hindu in whose pocket some loose coins and a list of clothes required for some wedding had been found. A shoe shop on College Road and a tailoring shop adjoining it had been looted.

Overnight, dividing lines had been drawn among the residential localities.

No Muslim now dared go into a Hindu locality, nor a Hindu into a Muslim locality. Everyone was filled with fear and suspicion. At the entrance to the lanes and at road-crossings, small groups of people sat hidden from view, their faces half-covered, holding lances, knives and lathis in their hands. Wherever Hindu and Muslim neighbours stood together, their conversation contained one and only sentence repeated over and over again. ‘Very bad! What is happening is very bad!’ The conversation would come to a standstill there. The atmosphere had become heavy. Inwardly everyone knew that the crisis was not over, but no one knew what course the events would take.

Doors of houses were shut tight. All business had come to a halt. All schools, colleges, offices were closed. A man walking in a street had the eerie feeling all the time that he was being watched from behind half-shut windows, from the dark entrances of houses, from crevices and peep-holes. People had shut themselves in. The only contact was through rumours. Those belonging to well-off families were preoccupied only with the question of their safety. In one day all public activity – the prabhat pheris, the constructive programmes and the like – had come to an end. Only the Jarnail, as was his wont, acting under his own compulsions, went along diverse roads and lanes and managed to reach the Congress office at the break of day, but seeing a big lock on the door waited for his comrades for a while, then climbed up the stone slab over the drain and began his speech:

‘Sahiban! I am sorry to say that since all the cowards are sitting in their houses like rats in their holes, we shall not be able to hold the prabhat pheri this morning. I would beg forgiveness of all of you and would appeal to you to maintain peace in the town at all costs. It is all the mischief of the British who make brother fight brother and shed his blood. Jai Hind!’ and alighting from the stone slab, marching in military style went out of sight in the darkness of a nearby lane.

Ranvir did not return home that night, but Master Dev Vrat had managed to send word about his safety. That morning, Lalaji was still worried and did not know which way to turn when a blue-coloured Buick car stopped outside his house and the man who alighted from it was none other than Shah Nawaz himself. The tall, impressive-looking Shah Nawaz had come on his own. Though both of them knew each other well enough they were not on intimate terms. Within minutes of his arrival, the family—Lalaji, his wife and Vidya, their daughter—were seated in the car. Nanku alone had been left behind to guard the house.

‘Don’t go to sleep, Nanku. Be alert and guard the house. We are leaving the entire house in your charge,’ Lalaji had said.

And the car sped away through the deserted streets in the direction of the cantonment. Here and there, stray individuals and groups standing by the roadside would turn round to look at them – Shah Nawaz, with his fair, shining face, a trusted friend among friends, a swanky tuft of his turban fluttering in the air, sat in the driver’s seat and Lala Lakshmi Narain sat by his side while the ladies were in the back seat. It was an act of courage to come out like this. Wherever Lalaji would notice a knot of persons standing by the roadside he would turn his face and look in another direction. His wife, on the other hand, sitting on the back seat was all praise for Shah Nawaz, showering blessings on him incessantly. ‘God lives in the hearts of people who help others in distress,’ she would say again and again.

After dropping Lalaji and his family in the cantonment at a relative’s house, the Buick car again sped along the roads of the city. Shah Nawaz was now on his way to the house of his bosom friend, Raghu Nath. Shah Nawaz was not in the least worried about his own safety.

The car went past the Jama Masjid in the direction of Mai Satto’s water tank. Drab, single-storeyed houses lined either side of the road; small dingy shops, their canvas awnings supported by bamboo dotted the road. The area bore a dilapidated look. It was a Muslim locality. After crossing a ramshackle bridge the car proceeded towards Syed Mohalla. Here the scene changed radically. Pucca double-storeyed houses with balconies and terraces, and here and there window panes of tinted glass, stood on both sides of the road. Mostly Hindu lawyers, contractors and businessmen lived here. Shah Nawaz was on friendly terms with many of them. As he drove, Shah Nawaz was quite conscious of the fact that many a curious pair of eyes was looking at him from behind windows and half-shut doors. But he was also confident that all those who saw him knew well enough the kind of man he was. Despite this, he accelerated the speed of the car.

On reaching Mai Satto’s tank, he turned towards the right. He was now passing through a mixed locality. All sorts of people lived or worked here – there was a long row of shoe-makers’ shops who were all Sikhs hailing originally from Hoshiarpur and who specialized in making jooties. The shops were closed. A little beyond, stood a row of mud-houses, their walls covered with hundreds of dung-cakes. The locality wore a deserted look. A little farther, was the scavengers’ colony. Shah Nawaz had by then considerably slowed the speed of the car. It did not look like a riot-affected area. Two little children were chasing each other round an electric pole. Nearby was a group of urchins standing in a circle. Shah Nawaz could not help looking at them. Inside the circle lay a little girl on the ground, her shirt uplifted, and on her bare thighs sat a little boy who too had lifted up his shirt. The children around them were roaring with laughter. ‘Bastards!’ muttered Shah Nawaz, and laughed. ‘They couldn’t think of another game.’ This part of the town appeared to be free from tension.

Looking at Shah Nawaz, a man with an imposing personality, a firm physique, elegantly dressed with polished shoes and a fluttering turra, one could not imagine that he could harbour any mean or petty thoughts. It was said about him that if on seeing a girl he smiled at her, the girl would smile back. But that was years ago. Now he was a staid, worldly-wise person, owner of two petrol pumps and a transport company whose cars and trucks plied in all directions, a dependable friend and a sociable, cheerful fellow.

Loyalty to friends was an article of faith with him. When the trouble started he had gone to Raghu Nath’s house to find out how the family was faring. In close proximity to Raghu Nath’s house was the shop of a nanbai, Fakira by name.

‘Look Fakira,’ Shah Nawaz had said to him ‘Listen, with your ears open...

Nobody must go near this house.’

The car was now speeding along one of the main roads. It was now a more open area, the road was broad and the houses on either side at a distance from the road. It was a Muslim locality and the speed of the car was slow. Maula Dad was standing at the turn of the road, which led to Bhabarkhana. Behind him, on the projection of a shop sat five or six persons with lathis and lances in their hands, their faces half-covered. Maula Dad was, as usual, dressed in a queer costume—khaki breeches and a green silken kerchief round his neck. He stepped forward when he saw Shah Nawaz’s car approaching.

‘What news?’ Shah Nawaz asked applying brakes to his car.

‘What news should I give you, Khanji? The kafirs have done to death a poor Musalman in the mohalla at the back,’ Maula Dad said angrily, almost foaming at the mouth.

Maula Dad’s eyes blazed with anger.

‘You go about hugging kafirs,’ he seemed to say, ‘and socialize with them while the Muslims are being butchered,’ but he did not say anything. Maula Dad knew well enough that he could not dream of having access to places which were within easy reach of Shah Nawaz. Shah Nawaz was on friendly terms even with the Deputy Commissioner of the town, whereas Maula Dad had not gone beyond the four walls of the Municipal Corporation.

‘We too have slaughtered five kafirs. Sons of…!’

Shah Nawaz pretended not to have heard what Maula Dad said and started the car.

Hardly had the car moved, when from a side-lane emerged a crowd of people heading towards the road. They were all walking silently, with their heads bowed, as they crossed the road. It was a funeral procession. At the head of it walked Hayat Baksh in his white shirt and salwar with a kulla (a skull cap worn under a turban) on his head. The soft patter of their feet appeared to be stroking the air. It must be the funeral of the Musalman who had been killed, thought Shah Nawaz.

Excerpted with permission from Tamas, Bhisham Sahni, translated from the Hindi by the author, Penguin Books.