Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram
Patitpavan Sita Ram.

I had never heard this song before. It sounded very nice. Then they sang:

Ishwar Allah Terey Nam
Sab Ko Sammati Day Bhagwan.

That also sounded nice. A young man sitting near me muttered: ‘Not Ishwar Allah but Mohammed Allah Terey Nam.’

When the hymn ended, a bearded Mussalman came and sat beside the Mahatma. He opened a book and drew the microphone towards his beard. He began to intone something. The young men beside me began to shout: ‘Shut up. . . . the Mussalmans have ravished our mothers and sisters . . . . we will not allow the Quran to be read in our country anymore.’ They jumped up and began yelling, ‘Bharat Mata ki jai.’

The Mahatma drew the microphone towards him and in a toothless, frog-croaking voice said, ‘Brothers and sisters, I will continue to respect all religions. If you do not agree with me, do not come to my prayer meetings. If you cause interruption, I will pray alone. Go back to your homes and ponder if it is right that our independence should end in this way, in the killing of brother by brother.’ He stood up, said namaskar and went away.

Before I knew what was happening, the police surrounded us. I was pushed along and forced to get into a van along with the other boys. They continued to shout ‘Bharat Mata ki jai,’ till there was no one to hear them.

The officer-in-charge who was sitting with the driver turned back and said, ‘Mahatma Buddhoo (stupid) ki jai!’ The young men laughed. The constables and the van-driver also laughed. ‘Sub-inspector sahib, don’t take us too far,’ said one of the young men.

‘Wherever you like! But please do not go back to Birla House,’ he said joining the palms of his hands, ‘otherwise they will slit my throat.’

‘Just let us off near the Birla temple; we have no more programmes for the day,’ the young man assured him.

We were dropped at the Birla temple. It was then that one of the boys noticed me ‘Arre! Who are you? What troop are you?’ he asked. ‘I know no troop-shoop,’ I replied and explained that I was a refugee and had been arrested by mistake. They had a big laugh. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ another boy asked, ‘Or are you one of the Old Man’s Mussalman-loving disciples?’ I told them that my sister had been abducted in Pakistan; how could I be a Mussalman-lover? ‘You are a big, strong Punjabi,’ said a fellow who appeared to be their leader. ‘You should be like a true Kshatriya fighting for the Hindu dharma.’ He patted me on my back and felt my muscles. No one had ever called me big and strong before.