This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 107
Mathur said in answer to Tara’s question, ‘I gave indisputable proof to the Prime Minister that the IAS is riddled with nepotism. Those who have qualified in the first division are being passed over in favour of others with only a third division results.’
‘What did the PM say?’ Tara asked.
‘What could he say? His only reply was, “Those who pass in the first division and come out at the top are mostly communists. How can such people be allowed into the IAS?”’
Mercy was pleased, ‘Communists don’t have to depend on scraps thrown to them. The PM should admit that communists can also be suitable candidates.’
‘But you’re not a communist?’ Tara asked Mathur.
‘No. I told the PM, “Neither do I believe in communism, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party.” He replied, “I don’t know what to say. Perhaps there’s something against you in your background report.”
‘I spoke plainly, “How can the background reports submitted by the CID and the bureaucrats be taken to be unbiased? Didn’t those hirelings of the British Imperial Indian army, those Brit-lovers, brand the former members of the INA as traitors? And didn’t the police and the bureaucrats, the former lackeys of the British, say that those who had participated in the revolutionary movement were not suitable for government service?” The PM just kept quiet, what could he answer?’
Mathur continued hotly, ‘Acharya Kriplani is completely justified in asking under what circumstances did the country have its revolution? And what became of the political ideals of Gandhiji? The slogans in praise of Gandhiji have begun to ring a bit hollow just two years after his death. The administration is now in the hands of a clique of former ICS officials, who have no idea of serving the people, but only of keeping their cushy jobs. They don’t believe in democracy, but only in bureaucracy. The legal system hasn’t changed and neither the police raj. Not only is it still possible to jail somebody without trial, but under the Defence of India Act the police have more powers than ever before and have become a law unto themselves. Even if a high court acquits people, the police arrest them again on a new charge. Such things make one want to hang his head in shame. The British government never censured Bhagat Singh’s statement at his trial for bombing the Assembly, but the present government has suspended the statements of Gandhi’s assassin Godse. Does that mean that they can’t reply to Godse’s accusations? Is it true democracy to gag someone unjustly? Kripalaniji is dead right when he says that revolution means a change of rulers. When did that revolution happen, I ask you?’
Tara said, ‘The changeover may not have been far-reaching enough, but it was certainly a major change that it is now the rule of our own people rather than of a foreign power. The machinery of administration and the administrators themselves can only carry out the government’s policies, and those who decide the policies are certainly different people.’
Mercy jumped in, ‘What’s all this talk about change? Things are worse than before. The capitalist class feels encouraged that power is in the hands of the party that survives mainly on their donations. And now the government has taken away even the right to strike from the poor working class. Price controls have been removed to allow the capitalists to earn even greater profit so that they can fill the Congress party coffers. What have people got from the so-called independence? The price of wheat and cloth is higher now than in war time. If there’re shortages of wheat and cloth, why can’t the government give everyone an equal share? Why do they give the capitalists a free hand to raise prices as much as they want?’
Tara lay down on her bed and switched off the light. The thoughts crowding her mind were not about the many injustices of the political situation, but rather about Sita and of anger and outrage at her recent loose behaviour. ‘The little fool should be made to realize the seriousness of her behaviour. But how? And why only take it out on her and not those who took advantage of her? Mercy is right when she complains that nobody punishes those who adulterate foodstuff for profit and make people sick, and black marketeers who let others die of starvation by raising the price of grain. But it’s the victims like Sita who are condemned as wrongdoers and treated like social outcasts.’
Her thoughts wandered, ‘Who would give her a job when in a few months time her condition as an unmarried mother-to-be becomes evident? Who will accept her as a wife if she didn’t go through with the treatment? The idiot says that she’ll pay me back by washing dishes. But where would she get the money to pay for the delivery? And what if she died in child birth? Who would employ her, an unmarried mother, as a servant? No Hindu family would contaminate themselves by accepting water touched by her.’ Yet another thought came to her, ‘Wouldn’t everyone cast me out if they knew what I had been through?’ Her body trembled involuntarily. In her imagination she saw Sita as a pariah, hungry and crying, with a baby in her arms, without the father of the baby at her side.
Tara felt a surge of anger at the unknown father of Sita’s child, and a twinge of compassion for Sita. Suddenly her body shuddered again as she thought: What if something unfortunate had happened as a result of what she herself had undergone? She and Sita in a way were sisters in misfortune. However, she had been bound and gagged as a prisoner, and Sita had participated without coercion. She tossed restlessly in bed for a long time before falling asleep.
The next day Tara first expressed her disgust at Sita’s folly, then explained to Mercy that she could not leave Sita in the lurch without helping her.
When Sita returned that evening, Tara spoke to her sternly, ‘The Devil take you for your hankering to have some so-called fun. After what you did I felt like never wanting to see you again. I’ll help you only if first of all you swear to behave in future properly and with some decency. What’s happened to those who promised you the monthly Rs 150? And what qualifications have you when you couldn’t even work as a low-grade dispatcher clerk. Take six months’ training and pick up something useful. Learn Hindi typing and shorthand. I’ll pay the fees for the courses. If you don’t agree to do that, get out now. My friend Mercy will take care of your problem and we’ll both foot the bill, but I won’t give a single paisa to you. I’ll give your mother fifty rupees every month for both of you, but I don’t promise to do it forever. If I see or hear about even the slightest misbehaviour on your part, you and your mother will be on your own and I couldn’t care less.’ Mathur had been very impressed with Tara’s cheerful nature and intelligence, and had become rather fond of her. Tara had turned twenty-two, which was a good age for marriage even for an educated woman like her. To Mathur it seemed unfortunate that she might never find a husband because there was nobody to find a possible suitor for her or to arrange a dowry. Tara was in government service and her salary of 300 rupees per month amounted to a dowry in itself. However, even without this additional benefit, Mathur felt that her winsome personality was enough to make any respectable and well-to-do man feel fortunate in having her as a wife.
Mathur had a variety of contacts in the community. He would sometimes bring his married sister over to meet Tara and Mercy, or invited them to his sister’s where other guests would also be present. He would introduce Tara to the company, and dutifully give detailed information later about some of them to her. One such person was Nityanand Tewari, a former student of Mathur with a PhD in history from the Delhi University and now working there as a lecturer. Tewari had been visiting Tara and Mercy for some time, either alone or with Mathur. He knew that Tara was fond of reading and often brought her a book or two. Tara too found Tewari’s personality and his conversation pleasing. Mathur often praised Tewari in the absence of the latter, and would explain how Tewari had achieved his success solely by dint of dogged determination and hard work. Tewari had recently accepted a higher position at Aligarh University, sixty miles from Delhi. When Tewari sometimes came all the way to visit her on a Sunday, Tara could not but feel uncomfortable.
Mathur felt some embarrassment broaching the subject of Tara’s attitude to her own prospect of marriage, but frequently told her in great detail some of the matches arranged through his counsel and effort. And how the couples thus united were living happily together. Confident of his own power of judgement and his ability to assess character and personality, he told Tara about four eligible bachelors of acceptable nature and family background, between the ages of twenty-five and forty who were earning anything from 400 to 2000 rupees per month. Whenever he found a chance to speak to Mercy alone, he would invariably inquire, ‘Did you sound Tara out? What are her ideas?’
Tara felt secure in the conviction that Mathur was an upright gentleman and her well-wisher, but was sometimes fed up with the repeated suggestions of marriage prospects. She complained to Mercy, ‘Didi, why don’t you talk Mathur out of this matchmaking? And why is he so concerned about fixing me up? Why do people think that an unmarried woman is a loose woman and that she must be pegged down? That a man must become her master?’
Chapter 10
AT THE TIME OF THE REFUGEE ASSOCIATION ELECTIONS IN 1948, JAIDEV PURI had come across Somraj Sahni, who was canvassing for Puri’s rival Prem Nath Gulati. Puri had learnt that Somraj’s family was also in Jalandhar and that his father Sukhlal had passed away in the beginning of the year.
One of the businesses run by Lala Sukhlal Sahni in Lahore had been the transport of goods between East and West Punjab by the two trucks that he owned. After a Muslim mob had attacked and burnt down his house, he had fled Lahore with his family and arrived in Jalandhar two weeks before the Partition came into effect. Jalandhar had been evacuated by its Muslim population. Sukhlal had taken over a very large house in Basti Nigar Khan that had been abandoned by a family of Baigs, and had resumed his transport business, extending the service as far as Ambala. His customers were willing to pay any price in view of the impending chaos. In four months’ time he had been able to send Somraj to Delhi to buy another truck.
In Lahore Lala Sukhlal had been a part of Hindu Mahasabha, but he was also a supporter of Dr Radhey Behari and a member of his inner circle. Sukhlal had continued his association with the doctor in Jalandhar, and had sided with the anti-Sood camp in the factional in-fighting of the Congress party in Punjab. The struggle among the warring sections within the party vying for power and control had left its mark on the Refugee Association. Puri was in the Sood camp and Somraj was campaigning for Gulati, a candidate from the doctor’s group.
Puri had never harboured friendly feelings for Somraj. On the other hand, he had felt bitter that no attempt had been made to save his sister from the fire at Banni Hata. Now that his sister was presumed dead, he felt no obligation to show any deference to his brother-in-law. He felt that his social status was now elevated enough for him to refuse to be patronized by anybody. Therefore, if he met Somraj, he did not treat him in any special way except for a brief, business-like ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’.
When Masterji learned of the death of his daughter Tara, he counselled Puri, ‘Even if God granted only a short life to your sister, that does not mean that a connection formed in accordance with His will can be broken. We can’t just ignore our relationship with the Sahni family. They are living their karma, we should observe our duty too.’ Masterji, his wife, Puri and Kanak went to offer their condolences to the Sahni family.
When the two families met, the ritual to mourn Lala Sukhlal could not be observed properly and according to the old traditions of Lahore. Social mores and customs had changed in just a few months following the change in circumstances of the Punjabi people. As Masterji, Puri and also Somraj were of the opinion that the practice of the traditional elaborate grieving was unnecessary, the women of both families had to be content with a brief ceremony of mourning. Masterji expressed his regret at the delay in learning about the death of Sukhlal because of the turmoil of the times. He also paid tribute to the kindliness and the benevolent character of Sukhlal.
Puri was not only the editor of Nazir and the secretary of the Refugee Association, but was also seen as the right-hand man of Sood, the leader of the dominant group within the Congress. Somraj had become particularly friendly and respectful towards Puri. He had related a long story about the attack on his family’s Banni Hata residence and how the fire had gutted it. His eyes frequently filling with tears, he would assure Puri that no effort had been spared to rescue Tara. Showing burn scars on his arms and lower legs, he said, ‘It must all have been in the way God intended it. We had no interest left in the house or the property once she was gone, so we decided to abandon everything and leave the city.’
When Masterji had moved to the house in Basti Nigar Khan, Somraj had begun to help him in many ways. The supply of coal to his house, only a few hundred yards away, came from Masterji’s depot. One of Somraj’s trucks ferried shipments of coal from the railway station dump to the depot. He introduced several regular customers to Masterji and arranged for the slack to be sold to some furnace-burning businesses and kilns.
The women of both families gradually began to visit each other. If Somraj’s family needed a fresh supply of coal, his mother or sister or one of the nieces came to leave a message with the family of Masterji. The visiting women usually stayed for short chats. Familiarity leads to a sharing of secrets, especially among women. Since they have to depend on one another in times of crisis, they were always impatient to share the reasons for their problems.
Somraj’s elder sister Maheshan had been living with her parents after she became a widow. When she or Somraj’s mother came to visit, they would sit beside Tara’s mother and open their hearts as they dried their eyes on their aanchal, ‘We searched so hard before we brought home a bride who was pretty as the moon for our Somraj. She was such an angel, a devi. She foresaw the disaster that was coming upon us, so she left this world before suffering any disgrace. It must be God’s plan that we have to be outcasts in our own home,’ and they would begin to tell a story of their own misfortunes.
Kundanlal, the elder brother of Lala Sukhlal, had owned a jewellery store in Gujranwala in western Punjab, and the income from his store had allowed him to buy two houses besides the one in which he himself lived. After his death the business suffered under the management of his eldest son, Kartaram. Dataram, Kartaram’s younger brother, was an employee in the post office department. Both families were barely making ends meet.
Kartaram was obese, with flabby folds of flesh and layers of fat over his neck area, making his neck-less face appear directly attached to his shoulders. This deformity had reduced his voice to a barely audible whisper. Everything frightened him. His wife Shanti was his direct opposite—slender, flamboyant and sharp-tongued. When the family was fleeing Gujranwala, Kartaram had tripped and broken his ankle at the railway station. Dataram somehow managed to bring his mother, his own wife and family and his injured brother and his wife to Jalandhar.
Lala Sukhlal had given shelter to his widowed sister-in-law and the rest of the family. After two-and-a-half months Dataram had been posted to Karnal. When he took his wife and daughter there, his mother also went with him. Kartaram and Shanti had remained behind in Jalandhar. Kartaram’s ankle had healed imperfectly and the doctor now wanted to reset it. Kartaram did not have the courage to face the pain, and was willing to walk with a limp for the rest of his life rather than undergo the surgery.
During that time Prem Nath Gulati was the secretary of the Refugee Association. Somraj sought his assistance in getting an abandoned shop in the Sarrafa Bazaar allotted in the name of his cousin, and Kartaram took over the empty store. From Gujranwala he had brought silver and gold to the value of Rs 10,000 and another Rs 3,000 in bank notes. Shanti had made him hand it all over to Somraj for safekeeping. When Kartaram asked for his gold and cash, Somraj would say, ‘It’s in the bank as collateral for a loan. I’ll pay you interest on it.’ Shanti would taunt her husband, ‘As if your new business is doing so well that you want the money returned so that you can throw it down the drain with the rest?’
Inarticulate with rage, Kartaram would mumble incoherently.
Encouraged by Bhagwanti’s expressions of commiseration, Somraj’s mother or sister would sit on the charpoy beside her and, head in hands, say, ‘We’ve become beggars in our own home, worse than slaves. Where could we go and do away with ourselves to escape from this shameful treatment. Shanti has taken over everything as if it belonged to her husband, and orders us around as the mistress of the household. We have to depend on the scraps thrown to us. Butter and ghee are considered too good for the likes of us. She’s taken over the control of her husband’s money and bosses him around. Such shameful behaviour!’
Next time, they would add to the story, ‘That witch has fed Somraj some magic potion. Or she knows a mantra that keeps him under her thumb. He simply refuses to listen to us. A pandit charged us two rupees for doing a puja that was supposed to bring Somraj back to his senses, but nothing happened. Then we gave a rupee and a quarter and a lock of hair from that witch’s comb to a naai to prepare a counter charm, but that didn’t work either. This kind of magic was known only to the Muslim fakirs. They would have driven an iron nail into the threshold and, in a flash, everything would have been alright. But all of them have gone to Pakistan.’
Maheshan said, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her embarrassment, ‘And that good-for-nothing mass of blubber feels no shame. A real man would have cut such a woman to pieces with a machete. She has put her poor husband’s charpoy down in the aangan below, and she herself sleeps in the upper storey. Everybody knows that, but neither she nor Somraj shows any shame or embarrassment. Nobody would have dared to behave like that in Lahore. That witch had a daughter born to her after marriage, but the baby died within six months. Since then she’s been barren. Such a barefaced hussy!’
Bhagwanti flew into a fury on hearing this. She still saw Somraj as her idealized son-in-law, to whom puja should be offered all his life. To her, Tara’s claim on Somraj’s home was still valid, and she found it unbearable that some khasamkhani—man-eating—slut should assert her claim over what was her daughter’s by right. She would not have minded if Somraj had remarried; men were expected to do that. Bhagwanti had invited Shanti to her own home and had given her the usual presents on festive occasions because she was a member of Somraj’s family. However, she was not willing to close her eyes to immoral and scandalous behaviour in the home of her dead daughter’s in-laws.
‘What did the PM say?’ Tara asked.
‘What could he say? His only reply was, “Those who pass in the first division and come out at the top are mostly communists. How can such people be allowed into the IAS?”’
Mercy was pleased, ‘Communists don’t have to depend on scraps thrown to them. The PM should admit that communists can also be suitable candidates.’
‘But you’re not a communist?’ Tara asked Mathur.
‘No. I told the PM, “Neither do I believe in communism, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party.” He replied, “I don’t know what to say. Perhaps there’s something against you in your background report.”
‘I spoke plainly, “How can the background reports submitted by the CID and the bureaucrats be taken to be unbiased? Didn’t those hirelings of the British Imperial Indian army, those Brit-lovers, brand the former members of the INA as traitors? And didn’t the police and the bureaucrats, the former lackeys of the British, say that those who had participated in the revolutionary movement were not suitable for government service?” The PM just kept quiet, what could he answer?’
Mathur continued hotly, ‘Acharya Kriplani is completely justified in asking under what circumstances did the country have its revolution? And what became of the political ideals of Gandhiji? The slogans in praise of Gandhiji have begun to ring a bit hollow just two years after his death. The administration is now in the hands of a clique of former ICS officials, who have no idea of serving the people, but only of keeping their cushy jobs. They don’t believe in democracy, but only in bureaucracy. The legal system hasn’t changed and neither the police raj. Not only is it still possible to jail somebody without trial, but under the Defence of India Act the police have more powers than ever before and have become a law unto themselves. Even if a high court acquits people, the police arrest them again on a new charge. Such things make one want to hang his head in shame. The British government never censured Bhagat Singh’s statement at his trial for bombing the Assembly, but the present government has suspended the statements of Gandhi’s assassin Godse. Does that mean that they can’t reply to Godse’s accusations? Is it true democracy to gag someone unjustly? Kripalaniji is dead right when he says that revolution means a change of rulers. When did that revolution happen, I ask you?’
Tara said, ‘The changeover may not have been far-reaching enough, but it was certainly a major change that it is now the rule of our own people rather than of a foreign power. The machinery of administration and the administrators themselves can only carry out the government’s policies, and those who decide the policies are certainly different people.’
Mercy jumped in, ‘What’s all this talk about change? Things are worse than before. The capitalist class feels encouraged that power is in the hands of the party that survives mainly on their donations. And now the government has taken away even the right to strike from the poor working class. Price controls have been removed to allow the capitalists to earn even greater profit so that they can fill the Congress party coffers. What have people got from the so-called independence? The price of wheat and cloth is higher now than in war time. If there’re shortages of wheat and cloth, why can’t the government give everyone an equal share? Why do they give the capitalists a free hand to raise prices as much as they want?’
Tara lay down on her bed and switched off the light. The thoughts crowding her mind were not about the many injustices of the political situation, but rather about Sita and of anger and outrage at her recent loose behaviour. ‘The little fool should be made to realize the seriousness of her behaviour. But how? And why only take it out on her and not those who took advantage of her? Mercy is right when she complains that nobody punishes those who adulterate foodstuff for profit and make people sick, and black marketeers who let others die of starvation by raising the price of grain. But it’s the victims like Sita who are condemned as wrongdoers and treated like social outcasts.’
Her thoughts wandered, ‘Who would give her a job when in a few months time her condition as an unmarried mother-to-be becomes evident? Who will accept her as a wife if she didn’t go through with the treatment? The idiot says that she’ll pay me back by washing dishes. But where would she get the money to pay for the delivery? And what if she died in child birth? Who would employ her, an unmarried mother, as a servant? No Hindu family would contaminate themselves by accepting water touched by her.’ Yet another thought came to her, ‘Wouldn’t everyone cast me out if they knew what I had been through?’ Her body trembled involuntarily. In her imagination she saw Sita as a pariah, hungry and crying, with a baby in her arms, without the father of the baby at her side.
Tara felt a surge of anger at the unknown father of Sita’s child, and a twinge of compassion for Sita. Suddenly her body shuddered again as she thought: What if something unfortunate had happened as a result of what she herself had undergone? She and Sita in a way were sisters in misfortune. However, she had been bound and gagged as a prisoner, and Sita had participated without coercion. She tossed restlessly in bed for a long time before falling asleep.
The next day Tara first expressed her disgust at Sita’s folly, then explained to Mercy that she could not leave Sita in the lurch without helping her.
When Sita returned that evening, Tara spoke to her sternly, ‘The Devil take you for your hankering to have some so-called fun. After what you did I felt like never wanting to see you again. I’ll help you only if first of all you swear to behave in future properly and with some decency. What’s happened to those who promised you the monthly Rs 150? And what qualifications have you when you couldn’t even work as a low-grade dispatcher clerk. Take six months’ training and pick up something useful. Learn Hindi typing and shorthand. I’ll pay the fees for the courses. If you don’t agree to do that, get out now. My friend Mercy will take care of your problem and we’ll both foot the bill, but I won’t give a single paisa to you. I’ll give your mother fifty rupees every month for both of you, but I don’t promise to do it forever. If I see or hear about even the slightest misbehaviour on your part, you and your mother will be on your own and I couldn’t care less.’ Mathur had been very impressed with Tara’s cheerful nature and intelligence, and had become rather fond of her. Tara had turned twenty-two, which was a good age for marriage even for an educated woman like her. To Mathur it seemed unfortunate that she might never find a husband because there was nobody to find a possible suitor for her or to arrange a dowry. Tara was in government service and her salary of 300 rupees per month amounted to a dowry in itself. However, even without this additional benefit, Mathur felt that her winsome personality was enough to make any respectable and well-to-do man feel fortunate in having her as a wife.
Mathur had a variety of contacts in the community. He would sometimes bring his married sister over to meet Tara and Mercy, or invited them to his sister’s where other guests would also be present. He would introduce Tara to the company, and dutifully give detailed information later about some of them to her. One such person was Nityanand Tewari, a former student of Mathur with a PhD in history from the Delhi University and now working there as a lecturer. Tewari had been visiting Tara and Mercy for some time, either alone or with Mathur. He knew that Tara was fond of reading and often brought her a book or two. Tara too found Tewari’s personality and his conversation pleasing. Mathur often praised Tewari in the absence of the latter, and would explain how Tewari had achieved his success solely by dint of dogged determination and hard work. Tewari had recently accepted a higher position at Aligarh University, sixty miles from Delhi. When Tewari sometimes came all the way to visit her on a Sunday, Tara could not but feel uncomfortable.
Mathur felt some embarrassment broaching the subject of Tara’s attitude to her own prospect of marriage, but frequently told her in great detail some of the matches arranged through his counsel and effort. And how the couples thus united were living happily together. Confident of his own power of judgement and his ability to assess character and personality, he told Tara about four eligible bachelors of acceptable nature and family background, between the ages of twenty-five and forty who were earning anything from 400 to 2000 rupees per month. Whenever he found a chance to speak to Mercy alone, he would invariably inquire, ‘Did you sound Tara out? What are her ideas?’
Tara felt secure in the conviction that Mathur was an upright gentleman and her well-wisher, but was sometimes fed up with the repeated suggestions of marriage prospects. She complained to Mercy, ‘Didi, why don’t you talk Mathur out of this matchmaking? And why is he so concerned about fixing me up? Why do people think that an unmarried woman is a loose woman and that she must be pegged down? That a man must become her master?’
Chapter 10
AT THE TIME OF THE REFUGEE ASSOCIATION ELECTIONS IN 1948, JAIDEV PURI had come across Somraj Sahni, who was canvassing for Puri’s rival Prem Nath Gulati. Puri had learnt that Somraj’s family was also in Jalandhar and that his father Sukhlal had passed away in the beginning of the year.
One of the businesses run by Lala Sukhlal Sahni in Lahore had been the transport of goods between East and West Punjab by the two trucks that he owned. After a Muslim mob had attacked and burnt down his house, he had fled Lahore with his family and arrived in Jalandhar two weeks before the Partition came into effect. Jalandhar had been evacuated by its Muslim population. Sukhlal had taken over a very large house in Basti Nigar Khan that had been abandoned by a family of Baigs, and had resumed his transport business, extending the service as far as Ambala. His customers were willing to pay any price in view of the impending chaos. In four months’ time he had been able to send Somraj to Delhi to buy another truck.
In Lahore Lala Sukhlal had been a part of Hindu Mahasabha, but he was also a supporter of Dr Radhey Behari and a member of his inner circle. Sukhlal had continued his association with the doctor in Jalandhar, and had sided with the anti-Sood camp in the factional in-fighting of the Congress party in Punjab. The struggle among the warring sections within the party vying for power and control had left its mark on the Refugee Association. Puri was in the Sood camp and Somraj was campaigning for Gulati, a candidate from the doctor’s group.
Puri had never harboured friendly feelings for Somraj. On the other hand, he had felt bitter that no attempt had been made to save his sister from the fire at Banni Hata. Now that his sister was presumed dead, he felt no obligation to show any deference to his brother-in-law. He felt that his social status was now elevated enough for him to refuse to be patronized by anybody. Therefore, if he met Somraj, he did not treat him in any special way except for a brief, business-like ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’.
When Masterji learned of the death of his daughter Tara, he counselled Puri, ‘Even if God granted only a short life to your sister, that does not mean that a connection formed in accordance with His will can be broken. We can’t just ignore our relationship with the Sahni family. They are living their karma, we should observe our duty too.’ Masterji, his wife, Puri and Kanak went to offer their condolences to the Sahni family.
When the two families met, the ritual to mourn Lala Sukhlal could not be observed properly and according to the old traditions of Lahore. Social mores and customs had changed in just a few months following the change in circumstances of the Punjabi people. As Masterji, Puri and also Somraj were of the opinion that the practice of the traditional elaborate grieving was unnecessary, the women of both families had to be content with a brief ceremony of mourning. Masterji expressed his regret at the delay in learning about the death of Sukhlal because of the turmoil of the times. He also paid tribute to the kindliness and the benevolent character of Sukhlal.
Puri was not only the editor of Nazir and the secretary of the Refugee Association, but was also seen as the right-hand man of Sood, the leader of the dominant group within the Congress. Somraj had become particularly friendly and respectful towards Puri. He had related a long story about the attack on his family’s Banni Hata residence and how the fire had gutted it. His eyes frequently filling with tears, he would assure Puri that no effort had been spared to rescue Tara. Showing burn scars on his arms and lower legs, he said, ‘It must all have been in the way God intended it. We had no interest left in the house or the property once she was gone, so we decided to abandon everything and leave the city.’
When Masterji had moved to the house in Basti Nigar Khan, Somraj had begun to help him in many ways. The supply of coal to his house, only a few hundred yards away, came from Masterji’s depot. One of Somraj’s trucks ferried shipments of coal from the railway station dump to the depot. He introduced several regular customers to Masterji and arranged for the slack to be sold to some furnace-burning businesses and kilns.
The women of both families gradually began to visit each other. If Somraj’s family needed a fresh supply of coal, his mother or sister or one of the nieces came to leave a message with the family of Masterji. The visiting women usually stayed for short chats. Familiarity leads to a sharing of secrets, especially among women. Since they have to depend on one another in times of crisis, they were always impatient to share the reasons for their problems.
Somraj’s elder sister Maheshan had been living with her parents after she became a widow. When she or Somraj’s mother came to visit, they would sit beside Tara’s mother and open their hearts as they dried their eyes on their aanchal, ‘We searched so hard before we brought home a bride who was pretty as the moon for our Somraj. She was such an angel, a devi. She foresaw the disaster that was coming upon us, so she left this world before suffering any disgrace. It must be God’s plan that we have to be outcasts in our own home,’ and they would begin to tell a story of their own misfortunes.
Kundanlal, the elder brother of Lala Sukhlal, had owned a jewellery store in Gujranwala in western Punjab, and the income from his store had allowed him to buy two houses besides the one in which he himself lived. After his death the business suffered under the management of his eldest son, Kartaram. Dataram, Kartaram’s younger brother, was an employee in the post office department. Both families were barely making ends meet.
Kartaram was obese, with flabby folds of flesh and layers of fat over his neck area, making his neck-less face appear directly attached to his shoulders. This deformity had reduced his voice to a barely audible whisper. Everything frightened him. His wife Shanti was his direct opposite—slender, flamboyant and sharp-tongued. When the family was fleeing Gujranwala, Kartaram had tripped and broken his ankle at the railway station. Dataram somehow managed to bring his mother, his own wife and family and his injured brother and his wife to Jalandhar.
Lala Sukhlal had given shelter to his widowed sister-in-law and the rest of the family. After two-and-a-half months Dataram had been posted to Karnal. When he took his wife and daughter there, his mother also went with him. Kartaram and Shanti had remained behind in Jalandhar. Kartaram’s ankle had healed imperfectly and the doctor now wanted to reset it. Kartaram did not have the courage to face the pain, and was willing to walk with a limp for the rest of his life rather than undergo the surgery.
During that time Prem Nath Gulati was the secretary of the Refugee Association. Somraj sought his assistance in getting an abandoned shop in the Sarrafa Bazaar allotted in the name of his cousin, and Kartaram took over the empty store. From Gujranwala he had brought silver and gold to the value of Rs 10,000 and another Rs 3,000 in bank notes. Shanti had made him hand it all over to Somraj for safekeeping. When Kartaram asked for his gold and cash, Somraj would say, ‘It’s in the bank as collateral for a loan. I’ll pay you interest on it.’ Shanti would taunt her husband, ‘As if your new business is doing so well that you want the money returned so that you can throw it down the drain with the rest?’
Inarticulate with rage, Kartaram would mumble incoherently.
Encouraged by Bhagwanti’s expressions of commiseration, Somraj’s mother or sister would sit on the charpoy beside her and, head in hands, say, ‘We’ve become beggars in our own home, worse than slaves. Where could we go and do away with ourselves to escape from this shameful treatment. Shanti has taken over everything as if it belonged to her husband, and orders us around as the mistress of the household. We have to depend on the scraps thrown to us. Butter and ghee are considered too good for the likes of us. She’s taken over the control of her husband’s money and bosses him around. Such shameful behaviour!’
Next time, they would add to the story, ‘That witch has fed Somraj some magic potion. Or she knows a mantra that keeps him under her thumb. He simply refuses to listen to us. A pandit charged us two rupees for doing a puja that was supposed to bring Somraj back to his senses, but nothing happened. Then we gave a rupee and a quarter and a lock of hair from that witch’s comb to a naai to prepare a counter charm, but that didn’t work either. This kind of magic was known only to the Muslim fakirs. They would have driven an iron nail into the threshold and, in a flash, everything would have been alright. But all of them have gone to Pakistan.’
Maheshan said, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her embarrassment, ‘And that good-for-nothing mass of blubber feels no shame. A real man would have cut such a woman to pieces with a machete. She has put her poor husband’s charpoy down in the aangan below, and she herself sleeps in the upper storey. Everybody knows that, but neither she nor Somraj shows any shame or embarrassment. Nobody would have dared to behave like that in Lahore. That witch had a daughter born to her after marriage, but the baby died within six months. Since then she’s been barren. Such a barefaced hussy!’
Bhagwanti flew into a fury on hearing this. She still saw Somraj as her idealized son-in-law, to whom puja should be offered all his life. To her, Tara’s claim on Somraj’s home was still valid, and she found it unbearable that some khasamkhani—man-eating—slut should assert her claim over what was her daughter’s by right. She would not have minded if Somraj had remarried; men were expected to do that. Bhagwanti had invited Shanti to her own home and had given her the usual presents on festive occasions because she was a member of Somraj’s family. However, she was not willing to close her eyes to immoral and scandalous behaviour in the home of her dead daughter’s in-laws.
