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Mangu the tongawala [coachman] was considered a man of great wisdom among his friends. He had never seen the inside of a school, and in strictly academic terms was no more than a cipher, but there was nothing under the sun he did not know something about. All his fellow tongawalas at the adda, or tonga stand, were well aware of his versatility in worldly matters. He was always able to satisfy their curiosity about what was going on.

Recently, when he had learnt from one of his fares about a rumour that war was about to break out in Spain he had patted Gama Chaudhry across his broad shoulder and predicted in a statesmanlike manner, ‘You will see, Chaudhry, a war is going to break out in Spain in a few days.’ And when Gama Chaudhry had asked him where Spain was, Ustad Mangu had replied very soberly: ‘In Vilayat, where else?’

When war finally broke out in Spain and everybody came to know of it, every tonga driver at the Station adda, smoking his hookah, became convinced in his heart of Ustad Mangu’s greatness. At that hour, Ustad Mangu was driving his tonga on the dazzling surface of the Mall, exchanging views with his fare about the latest Hindu-Muslim rioting.

That evening when he returned to the adda, his face looked visibly perturbed. He sat down with his friends, took a long drag on the hookah, removed his khaki turban and said in a worried voice, ‘It is no doubt the result of a holy man’s curse that Hindus and Muslims keep slashing each other up every other day, I have heard it said by my elders that Akbar Badshah once showed disrespect to a saint, who angrily cursed him in these words: ‘Get out of my Sight! And, yes, your Hindustan will always be plagued by riots and disorder.’ And you can see for yourselves. Ever since the end of Akbar’s raj, what else has lndia known but riot after riot!’

He took deep breath, drew on his hookah reflectively and said, ‘These Congressites want to win lndia its freedom. Well, you take my word, they will get nowhere even if they keep bashing their heads against the wall for a thousand years. At the most, the Angrez will leave, but then you will get maybe the Italywala or the Russiawala. I have heard that the Russiawala is one tough fellow. But Hindustan will always remain enslaved. Yes, I forgot to tell you that part of the saint’s curse on Akbar which said that India will always be ruled by foreigners.’

Ustad Mangu had intense hatred for the British. He used to tell his friends that he hated them because they were ruling Hindustan against the will of the Indians and missed no opportunity to commit atrocities. However, the fact was that it was the gora soldiers of the cantonment who were responsible for Ustad Mangu’s rather low opinion of the British. They used to treat him like some lower creation of God, even worse than a dog. Nor was Ustad Mangu overly fond of their fair complexion. He would feel nauseated at the sight of a fair and ruddy gora soldier’s face. ‘Their red wrinkled faces remind me of a dead body whose skin is rotting away,’ he used to say.

After an argument with a drunken gora, he would remain depressed for the entire day. He would return to his adda in the evening and curse the man to his heart’s content, while smoking his Marble brand cigarette or taking long drags at his hookah.

He would deliver himself of a heavyweight curse, shake his head with its loosely tied turban and say, ‘Look at them, came to the door to borrow a light and the next thing you knew they owned the whole house. I am sick and tired of these offshoots of monkeys. The way they order us around, you would think we were their fathers’ servants!’

But even after such outbursts, his anger would show no sign of abating. As long as a friend was keeping him company, he would keep at it. ‘Look at this one, resembles a leper! Dead and rotting. I could knock him out cold with one blow, but the way he was throwing his git-pit at me, you would have thought he was going to kill me. I swear on your head, my first urge was to smash the damn fellow’s skull, but then I restrained myself. I mean it would have been below my dignity to hit this wretch.’ He would wipe his nose with the sleeve of his khaki uniform jacket and keep murmuring curses. ‘As God is my witness, I’m sick of suffering and humouring these Lat sahibs. Every time I look at their blighted faces, my blood begins to boil in my veins. We need a new law to get rid of these people. Only that can revive us, I swear on your life.’

One day Ustad Mangu picked up two fares from district courts. He gathered from their conversation that there was going to be a new constitution for India and he felt overwhelmed with joy at the news. The two Marwaris were in town to pursue a civil suit in the local court and, while on their way home, they were discussing the new constitution, the India Act.

‘It is said that from 1 April, there’s going to be a new constitution. Will that change everything?’

‘Not everything, but they say a lot will change. The Indians would be free.’

‘What about interest?‘ asked one.

‘Well, this needs to be inquired. Should ask some lawyer tomorrow.’

The conversation between the two Marwaris sent Ustad Mangu to seventh heaven. Normally he was in the habit of abusing his horse for being slow and was not averse to making liberal use of the whip, but not today. Every now and then, he would look back at his two passengers, caress his moustache and loosen the horse’s reins affectionately. ‘Come on son, come on, show ’em how you take to the air.’

After dropping his fares he stopped at the Anarkall shop of his friend, Dino the sweetmeat vendor. He ordered a large glass of lassi, drank it down, belched with satisfaction, took the ends of his moustache in his mouth, sucked at them and said in a loud voice ‘The hell with ’em all.’

When he returned to the adda in the evening, contrary to routine, no one that he knew was around. A storm was roaring in his breast and he was dying to share the great news with his friends, that really great news which he simply had to get out of his system. But no one was around to hear it.

For about half an hour he paced about restlessly under the tin roof of the Station adda, his whip under his arm. His mind was on many things, good things that lay in the future. The news that a new constitution was to be implemented had brought him at the doorstep of a new world. He had switched on all the lights in his brain to carefully study the implications of the new law that was going to become operational in India from 1 April. The worried words of the Marwari about a change in the law governing interest or usury rang in his ears. A wave of happiness was coursing through his entire body. Quite a few times, he laughed under his thick moustache and hurled a few words of abuse at the Marwaris. ‘The new constitution is going to be like boiling hot water is to bugs who suck the blood of the poor,’ he said to himself.

He was very happy. A delightful cool settled over his heart when he thought of how the new constitution would send these white mice (he always called them by that name) scurrying hack into their holes for all times to come.

When the bald-headed Nathoo ambled into the adda some time later, his turban tucked under his arm, Ustad Mangu shook his hand vigorously and said in a loud voice, ‘Give me your hand, I have great news for you that would not only bring you immense joy but might even make hair grow back on your bald skull.’

Then, thoroughly enjoying himself, he went into a detailed description of the changes the new constitution was going to bring. ‘You just wait and see. Things are going to happen. You have my word, this Russian king is bound to do something big.’ And as he talked, he continued to slap Ganiu’s bald head, and with some force as well.

Ustad Mangu had heard many stories about the socialist system the Soviets had set up. There were many things he liked about their new laws and many of the new things they were doing, which was what had made him link the king of Russia with the India Act or the new constitution.He was convinced that the changes being brought in on 1 April were a direct result of the influence of the Russian king.

For the past several years, the Red Shirt movement in Peshawar and other cities had been much in the news. To Ustad Mangu, this movement was all tied up with the ‘king of Russia’ and, naturally, the new constitution. Then there were the frequent reports of bomb blasts in various Indian cities. Whenever Ustad Mangu heard that so many had been caught somewhere for possessing explosives or so many were going to be tried for treason, he interpeted it all to his great delight as preparation for the new constitution.

One day he had two barristers at the back of his tonga. They were vigorously criticizing the new constitution. He listened to them in silence. One of them was saying. ‘It is Section II of the Act that I can’t make sense of. It relates to the federation of India. No such federation exists in the world. From a political angle too, such a federation would be utterly wrong, in fact, one can say that this is going to be no federation.’

Since most of this conversation was being carried on in English, Ustad Mangu had only been able to follow the last bit. He came to the conclusion that these two barristers were opposed to the new constitution and did not want their country to be free. ‘Toady Wretches’ he muttered with contempt. Whenever he called someone a ‘toady wretch’ under his breath he felt greatly elated that he had applied the words correctly and that he could tell a good man from a toady.

Three days after this incident, he picked up three students from Government College who wanted to be taken to Mozang. He listened to them carefully as they talked.

‘The new constitution has raised my hopes. If so and so becomes a member of the assembly I will certainly be able to get a job in a government office.’

‘Oh! There are going to be many openings and, in that confusion, we will be able to lay our hands on something.’

‘Yes, yes, why not!’

‘And there’s bound to be a reduction in the number of all those unemployed graduates who have nowhere to go.’

This conversation was most thrilling as far as Ustad Mangu was concerned. The new constitution now appeared to him to be something bright and full of promise. The only thing he could compare the new constitution with was the splendid brass and gilt fittings he had purchased after careful examination a couple of years ago for his tonga from Choudhry Khuda Bux. When the fittings were new, the nickel-headed nails would shimmer and when brass had been worked in to the fittings it shone like gold. On the basis of that analogy also, it was essential that the new constitution should shine and glow.

By 1 April, Ustad Mangu had heard a great deal about the new constitution, both for and against. However, nothing could change the concept of the new constitution that he had formed in his mind. He was confident that come 1 April, everything would become clear. He was sure that what the new constitution would usher in would soothe his heart.

At last, the thirty-one days of March drew to a close. There were still a few silent night hours left before the dawn of 1 April and the weather was unusually cool, the breeze quite fresh. Ustad Mangu rose early, went to the stable, set up his tonga and took to the road.

He was extraordinarily happy today because he was going to witness the coming in of the new constitution.

In the cold morning fog, he went round the broad and narrow streets of the city but everything looked old, like the sky. His eyes wanted to see things taking on a new colour but, except for the new plume made of colourful feathers that rested on his horse head, everything looked old. He had bought this new plume from Chaudhry Khuda Bux for fourteen annas and a half to celebrate the new constitution.

The road lay black under his horse’s hooves. The lamp posts that stood at regular intervals looked the same. The shop signs had not changed. The way people moved about, the sound made by the tiny bells tied around his horse’s neck were not new either. Nothing was new, but Ustad Mangu was not disappointed.

Perhaps it was too early in the morning. All the shops were still closed. This he found consoling. It also occurred to him that the courts did not start work until nine, so how could the new constitution be at work just yet.

He was in front of Government College when the tower clock imperiously struck nine. The students walking out through the main entrance were smartly dressed, but somehow their clothes looked shabby to Ustad Mangu. He wanted to see something startling and dramatic.

He turned his tonga left towards Anarkall. Half the shops were already open. There were crowds of people at sweetmeat stalls, and general traders were busy with their customers, their wares displayed invitingly in their windows. Overhead, on the power lines perched several pigeons, quarrelling with each other. But none of this held any interest whatever for Ustad Mangu. He wanted to see the new constitution as clearly as he could see his horse.

Ustad Mangu was one of those people who cannot stand the suspense of waiting. When his first child was to be born he had spent the last four or five months in a state of great agitation. While he was sure that the child would come to be born one day, he found it hard to keep waiting. He wanted to take a look at his child, just once. It could then take its time getting born. It was because of this desire that he could not overcome that he had pressed his sick wife’s belly and put his ear to it in an attempt to find out something about the baby, but he had had no luck.

One day he had screamed at his wife in exasperation, ‘What’s the matter with you! All day long you lie in bed as if you were dead. Why don’t you get up and walk about to gain some strength? If You keep lying there like a flat piece of wood, do you think you will be able to give birth?’

Ustad Manou was temperamentally impatient. He wanted to see every cause have an effect, and he was always curious about it. Once his wife, Gangawati, watching his impatient antics, had said to him. ‘You haven’t even begun digging the well and already you’re dying to have a drink.’

This morning he was not as impatient as be normally should have been. He had come out early to take a look at the new constitution with his own eyes, in the same way he used to wait for hours to catch a glimpse of Gandhiji and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru being taken out in a procession.

Geat leaders, in Ustad Mangu’s view, were those who were profusely garlanded when taken out in public. Anyone bedecked in garlands of marigolds was a great man in Ustad Mangu’s book. And if because of the milling crowds a couple of near-clashes took place, the leader’s stature grew in Ustad Mangu’s eyes. He wanted to measure the new constitution by the same yardstick.

From Anarkall he turned towards the Mall, driving his tonga slowly on its shiny surface, In front of an auto showroom, he found a fare bound for the cantonment. They settled the price and were soon on their way. Ustad Mangu whipped his horse into action and said to himself, ‘This is just as well. One might find out something about the new constitution in the cantonment.’

He dropped his passenger at his destination, lit a cigarette, which he placed between the last two fingers of his left hand, and eased himself into a cushion in the rear of the tonga. When Ustad Mangu was not looking for a new fare, or when he wanted to think about some past incident, he would move into the rear seat of the tonga, with the reins of his horse wound around his left hand. On such occasions, his horse after neighing a little would begin to move forward at a gentle pace, glad to be spared the daily grind of cantering ahead.

Ustad Mangu was trying to work out if the present system of allotting tonga number plates would change with the new law, when he felt someone calling out to him. When he turned to look, he found a gora standing under a lamp post at the far end of the road, beckoning to him.

As already noted, Ustad Mangu had intense hatred for the British. When he saw that his new customer was a gora, feelings of hatred rose in his heart. His first instinct was to pay no attention to him and just leave him where he was. But then he felt that it would be foolish to give the man’s money a miss. The fourteen annas and a half he had spent on the plume should be recovered from these people, he decided.

He neatly turned around his tonga on the empty road, flicked his whip and was at the lamp post in no time. Without moving from his comfortable perch, he asked in a leisurely manner. ‘Sahib Bahadur, where do you want to be taken?’

He had spoken these words with undisguised irony. When he had called him ‘Sahib Bahadur’, his upper lip, covered by his moustache, had moved lower, while a thin line that ran from his nostril to his lower chin had trembled and deepened as if knife across a brown slab of shisham wood. His entire face was laughing, but inside his chest roared a fire ready to consume the gora.

The gora, who was trying to draw on a cigarette by standing close to the lamp post to protect himself from the breeze, turned and moved towards the tonga. He was about to place his foot on the foothold when his eyes met Ustad Mangu’s and it seemed as if two loaded guns had fired at each other and their discharge had met in mid-air and risen towards the sky in a ball of fire.

Ustad Mangu freed his left hand of the reins that he had wrapped around it and glared at the gora standing in front of him, as if he would eat every bit of him alive. The gora, meanwhile was busy dusting his blue trousers of something that couldn’t be seen, or perhaps he was trying to protect this part of his body from Ustad Mangu’s assault.

‘Do you want to go or are you again going to make trouble?’ the gora asked.

‘It is the same man,’ Ustad Mangu said to himself. He was quite sure it was the same fellow with whom he had clashed the year before. That uncalled for argument had happened because the gora was sozzled, Ustad Mangu had borne the insults hurled at him in silence. He could have smashed the man into little bits, but he had remained passive because he knew that in such quarrels it was tongawalas mostly who suffered the wrath of the law.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Ustad Mangu asked, thinking about the previous year’s argument and the new constitution of 1 April. His tone was sharp like the stroke of a whip.

‘Hira Mahdi,’ the gora answered.

‘The fare would be five rupees,’ Ustad Mangu’s moustache trembled.

‘Five rupees! Five rupees! Are you . . .?’ the gora screamed in disbelief.

‘Yes. yes. five rupees,’ Ustad Mangu said, clenching his big right fist tightly. ‘Are you interested or will you keep making idle talk?’

The gora, remembering their last encounter, had decided not to be awed by the barrel-chested Ustad Mangu. He felt that the man’s skull was again itching for punishment. This encouraging thought made him advance towards the tonga. With his swagger stick, he motioned Ustad Mangu to get down. The polished cane touched Ustad Mangu’s thigh two or three times. Ustad Mangu, standing up, looked down at the short-statured gora as if the sheer weight of a single glance would grind him down. Then his fist rose like an arrow leaving a bow and landed heavily on the gora’s chin. He pushed the man aside, got down from his tonga and began to hit him all over his body.

The astonished gora made several efforts to save himself from the heavy blows raining down on him, but when he noticed that his assailant was in a rage bordering on madness and flames were shooting forth from his eyes, he began to scream. His screams only made Ustad Mangu work his arms faster. He was thrashing the gora to his heart’s content while shouting, ‘The same cockiness even on 1 April! Well, sonny hey, it is our Raj now.’

A crowd gathered. Two policemen appeared from somewhere and, with great difficulty managed to rescue the Englishman. There stood Ustad Mangu, one policeman to his left and one to his right, his broad chest heaving because he was breathless. Foaming at the mouth, with his smiling eyes he was looking at the astonished crowd and saying in a breathless voice, ‘Those days are gone, friends, when they ruled the roost. There is a new constitution now, fellows, a new constitution.’

The poor gors with his disfigured face was looking foolishly, sometimes at Ustad Mangu, other times at the crowd.

Ustad Mangu was taken by police constables to the station. All along the way, and even inside the station, he kept screaming, ‘New constitution, new constitution!’ but nobody paid attention to him.

‘New constitution, new constitution! What rubbish are you talking? Its the same old constitution.’

And he was locked up.