Page 60 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘And what about the Hindu minority in East Bengal?’ Ghulam said heatedly. ‘Are you saying that they must leave the only home they’ve ever known? Did Gandhi waste his time there this last winter and starve himself half to death for nothing?’
‘Gandhi is out of touch! Non-violence means nothing to Jinnah’s League or his half-caste lackey Suhrawardy who runs our city for the benefit of his own kind and not ours.’
‘It shouldn’t matter whether we’re Muslim or Hindu,’ Ghulam said in exasperation. ‘We all want the best for Bengal and India.’
‘We’re not all the same,’ his original opponent shouted. ‘We have an enemy within – and that’s the Muslim living among us pretending to be our friend while plotting to kill us.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Ghulam retorted.
Libby’s heart began to pound. The atmosphere simmered with hostility. She admired Ghulam for standing his ground yet was anxious on his behalf.
The Congress supporter standing beside him put a hand on his arm. ‘We don’t all believe that, Comrade, but sadly too many do. The only way to stem the bloodshed is to agree to some measure of partition. Give the League their Pakistan and let us get on with forging a new India. Don’t waste your energy fighting your fellow Indians when there are other battles to be won – such as taking power and wealth from the maharajahs.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the man in the crowd. ‘We want our own state for West Bengalis.’
‘Jai Hind!Victory to India!’
Then someone countered with a defiant chant: ‘Pakistan Zindabad!Long live Pakistan!’
The room erupted in shouts and argument. Libby saw the frustration on Ghulam’s face. He searched the room for support – perhaps looking for Fatima – and for an instant their eyes locked. His mouth fell open in astonishment. The exhortation that he was about to make died on his lips. People began to look round and stare at the women. Some started to mutter and ask questions but Libby didn’t understand. Moments later Ghulam was being manhandled from the platform as the meeting broke up in chaos.
Fatima gipped Libby’s arm. ‘We need to get out of here,’ she gasped. ‘It’s not safe.’
Her face was so worried that Libby did not argue. But as they tried to move towards the door, they were blocked by the press of people around them as others attempted to leave. The mood was volatile; some arguing, some anxious to be gone. Libby heard the word Britisher being hissed. Fatima squeezed her way through, hanging on to Libby’s arm. Then someone pushed between them in their eagerness to get out and the two women became separated.
Fatima looked on helplessly as she was carried on a sea of people towards the entrance while Libby was jostled and shoved in the opposite direction.
‘Go!’ Libby called. ‘I’ll see you outside!’
As Fatima disappeared from sight, the belligerent man in the black hat appeared beside her and pressed himself against her. He snarled at her with teeth stained red with paan.
‘Get out, Britisher spy!’
‘I’m no one’s spy!’ Libby glared back, trying to push him away. ‘I’m India born and bred – I’ve every right to be here.’
He spat in her face. ‘Quit India, Britisher whore.’
Libby recoiled, closing her eyes and wiping at her cheek. Her assailant cried out in fury. She opened her eyes to see him being grabbed from behind by a taller man, who shoved him out of the way. Libby gasped to see it was Ghulam. Without a word, Ghulam seized her handand barged his way through the throng of agitated people. He cut a way to the door, pulling her behind him. Men shouted threateningly. Heart slamming against her chest in fright, Libby clung on, fearful of being separated.
Minutes later they were out on the street. They looked around in vain for Fatima. The sun had now set. Oil lamps flickered in stalls and shadows loomed. He hurried her behind an old colonnade and its sheltering darkness.
Suddenly he rounded on her. ‘What on earth are you doing here with Fatima?’ he demanded.
‘I wanted to hear the debate,’ Libby panted. ‘I called round to your flat and Fatima was just on her way out.’
‘She had no right to bring you,’ he answered angrily.
‘Don’t blame your sister,’ said Libby, ‘I made her take me. And why shouldn’t I be here?’
‘Do you have any idea how dangerous you made it for her – and for you?’ he blazed. ‘This is no polite debating society – we’re fighting for India and passions are running high.’
‘I realise that—’
‘Yet you expect to swan in and spectate as if it was one of your pig-sticking shows.’
Libby was suddenly aware that he was still gripping her hand. She pulled free.
‘You think I came to lord it over you?’ she asked, impassioned and shaking with adrenaline. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. At least your sister knows I’m genuinely interested in India’s future – otherwise she wouldn’t have brought me.’
