Chapter 46:
In the midst of protecting Muslims from slaughter of raullay Jagat had listened to Nehru's midnight "Tryst with Destiny" speech of August 15, 1947 ushering in independence; in the midst of the blood and gore of the partition when he saw his and Gandhi's idea of India crumble before his eyes, the "Tryst" speech had helped staunch the erosion of his faith in India's future.
Jagat's barely restored faith in the new country was being tested again as he poured over newspapers for the news of Gandhi's murder on January 30, 1948, perhaps more of harbinger of things to come than the Tryst speech, he was afraid; in Qaadian Gundu's son Dushmun had raped the sixteen year old Keeto of Gamma's extended family. On the way to their farms some men had heard Keeto's cries from Gundu's field of sugarcane; they stopped and hid behind the tall sugarcane a few yards away to listen but did nothing. Then the cries sopped and they saw Dushmun step out of the sugarcane, his soiled white shirt and pajama wearing tell tale signs of his crime. A little later they saw a sobbing Keeto walk out, the back of her ink kameez muddled. The witnesses still did nothing except whispering the scene into any ears that lent themselves to gossip. Jagat came to know about the witnesses and pleaded with them but none of them darted even whisper the truth to the police. The family complained to village elders who remained silent and unmoved to do anything about it. Jagat accompanied Keeto's parents to the superintendent of police in Zillapur but the police wouldn't even commence an investigation.
Qaadian's chamaarli fumed with anger.
The big landlord Desa's daughter, the sixteen year old Banto's wedding was two months away and by Qaadian's custom of child marriage, it had been long overdue. She was the only daughter of Desa Singh, next to Asa, Qaadian's most powerful zamindar. Desa had worried about Banto, the reigning beauty amongst the daughters of Qaadian's rich, might squander her virginity before her marriage and to preserve and protect it she had been tutored at home by a female teacher.
Every evening, accompanied by her mother, a female servant or a neighbour, a pot of water in hand, Banto walked ofer the thin berm between the same two fields of wheat to relieve herself in the sugarcane crop.
The Farmhand had been watching her movements because he was angry at Keeto's rape by Dushmun, the latest reminder, if one as at all needed, of the landlords' and caste's heinous hold over the lives of the untouchables and poor.
Rebellion and vengeance boiled in the Mazhabi farmland's bosom.
It was the season of wheat; set against a row of taller and less green sugarcane fields, millions of green wheat heads bent in waves created by the evening wind. Like she did most evenings Banto entered the tall sugarcane crop but his day she was alone. The Farmhand grabbed her, put a hand over her mouth and a gun to her head. It all happened so suddenly and in fright she was unable to scream but he saw that she had recognised him; he often worked in her father's land. He raped her at gun point and at the end, with a knife he slit her throat without letting her let out even a squeak.
Banto lay raped, naked, bloodied and dead.
To Farmhand, steeped in hatred of caste cruelty, a rape for a rape seemed the bluntest way to send the landlords of Qaadian a message. Revenge exacted and the message conveyed, Farmhand walked through the sugarcane field and away from the village.
About half a mile away from where farmhand had exited the sugarcane field Dushmun drove his motorbike to father Gundu's hut on a large parcel of their land. Farmhand who had been hiding saw the motor bike come to stop in front of the locked hut. The door opened and Dushmun lit a deeva. The farmhand confronted the tall muscular Dushmun,
"I have a gun. Turn around."
"What are you doing with the gun?" asked Dushmun as he turned and recognised the man.
"Same thing you do. Rape, kill or if the intended victim is lucky, just scare."
"Scare me? What have I done to you?"
Gun pointed at Dushmun, Farmhand saw women's clothing including chunnies and salwars hanging from the rear wall of the hut as well as a few bottle of hooch; he had heard about bodies buried behind the hut, he hadn't wanted to believe it because it was too painful to even imagine but now he had no choice.
"Please don't kill me," wailed Dushmun before the farmhand silently staring at the rear wall of the hut.
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