Half a Rupee: Stories by Gulzar Page A

headquarters and throw him into a jail along with other prisoners. But there was something in his eyes, his innocence perhaps, that made me wish the poor boy well.
    ‘After noon the next day, I took out my badge-shadge and went on a patrol to the same border village. On a farm a little away from the village I found an old Sikh rinsing his mouth at the tubewell. I shouted, “Sardarji … oye … come here!” He looked in my direction and I gestured to him to come over. When he came near me, wiping his hands on the tail end of his turban, I asked him, “You haven’t gone?”
    ‘He looked at me, a little taken aback, “Where?”
    ‘“Everybody else has gone. Left the village. Why haven’t you?”
    ‘“Lai … I have already left my village on the other side with you,” he said pointing across the border with both his hands. “What have you come here for now … to grab my fields?”
    ‘The Sikh seemed to be in a rage. I tried to pacify him and said, “A kid from Suchitgarh … about seven or eight years old … has strolled over to our side. I believe his parents have left the village.”
    ‘“So?”
    ‘“If I bring him over, will you take him to his parents?”
    ‘The sardar fell in deep thought. After a long pause he nodded, “All right.”
    ‘I asked him to come back at five in the evening. Never till then had I seen a smile glint off such yellowed, decaying teeth. The old Sikh laughed, “Let the boy off. Imprison me instead. Take me with you. My village is over on that side. A little further down from Sialkot. Chajra.” He sounded ecstatic—drunk just on the name of his village.
    ‘I could not make it back to the village that evening. Our commander was paying us a visit. And it took all our efforts to keep the boy hidden from him. We fed him and then hoisted him on to the loft of the control room. When the commander wanted to inspect the control room, we pulled him down from the loft and bundled him behind the gunny sacks of the storeroom and then later quickly locked him in the latrine behind the barracks. It was totally illegal to keep him with us. Heads would roll if the commander were to get a whiff of him. There was a moment when I was on the verge of ordering my soldiers to tie him in a gunny sack and dump him in the old Sikh’s field. A sword kept dangling over our heads all through the commander’s stay.
    ‘News from the eastern front, from Bengal, had begun to pour in. And it depressed the hell out of us. The Indian armed forces were with the Mukti Bahini and Yahya Khan … well … leave that be.’
    There was a long pause. Captain Shaheen’s eyes had begun to soften, I could discern a hint of hurt pride in them. His face was criss-crossed with emotions. Finally, he spoke again.
    ‘The next day too there was a lot of troop movement. The day whittled away. The sun was about to set when I reached the border along with the kid. I was surprised to see the old Sikh still waiting there. There was a small troop of four or five soldiers with him. One of them stepped forward and addressed me, “Captain or Major?” Soldiers do not wear their ranks in ribbons at the front, but still it is not difficult to make out an officeramongst the ranks. The soldier who spoke was also either a Captain or a Major. I stepped forward, shook his hand and handed the boy over to him. “He’s from Suchitgarh. We found him hiding in one of the village houses,” I said.
    ‘“So … where are you from … who are your parents?” the officer asked him, a little sternly.
    ‘The boy shuddered once again. He raised his eyes in my direction and said, “Chacha … I am not from this side … I am from the other side,” he gestured in our direction, towards our side, “from Chajra, a little further down from Sialkot.”
    ‘We were all stunned. I looked at the old Sikh. A smile once again glinted off his yellowed teeth. He moved towards the boy, ruffled his hair with the fondness reserved for one’s own and