This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 114
Nath broke off and Tara heard the loud clack of a typewriter from the next room. Memories were exploding in the fire of her own mind.
All the pains and memories in Tara’s heart were awakened, ready to spill out into the open. She wanted to cry out loud. What Nath had not done for her? The problem of lack of fee at the time of her joining BA had been resolved with his help. Her secret, for which she had injured herself to save her face before her brother, and later had thought of killing herself, Nath had known about that and had been sympathetic to her. He had not betrayed her confidence when that secret had become a cause for shame for her. But at the moment it was necessary to collect herself and not cry in front of a person she held in such high regard. She was no longer the same dewy-eyed girl, but a gown-up person and a government official…. Her head was spinning. She just sat silent and unmoving, her fingers entwined, her teeth clenched. The clacking of typewriter became louder.
Nath put his elbow on the desk. Leaning towards Tara, he picked up a round glass paperweight, made it spin like a top as he slowly recounted past incidents, ‘Masterji went to Sonwan. I remained in Lahore until the end of August. Such scenes of devastation, of people wreaking havoc! I was afraid that if I went out of the hotel, some Muslim bearer might recognize me and stick a knife into me. Inside the hotel it was safe because nearly all the guests were Europeans. Sitting idle in my room I used to think how simply incredible the theory of Hindus and Muslims being two peoples and two nations had once seemed, but then what was happening before my very eyes! Things don’t happen just because we passionately believe in something. If we Hindus saw those who were demanding Pakistan as our enemies, how could we force them to stay with us? If we, I mean collectively and as a community, have been considering a people as untouchable and unclean, wouldn’t it be deception to begin acknowledging them now as a part of us. Whatever might have been the historical reason for such behaviour, we have to pay the price for it now. The seed of partitioning the country as Hindustan and Pakistan was not sown by the British by allotting Hindus and Muslims proportional representation in government jobs on sectarian lines or by creating separate electorates for different communities. It was sown on the day when we Hindus began discriminating against the Muslims by calling them mlechchha. A Hindu may be subjugated and exploited by other Hindus branding him as untouchable because he sees himself as a part of the same religion. The Muslims have no such religious obligation, so why should they tolerate the insult of being considered untouchable? The device that we Hindus had used to protect our hegemony, the results of that ploy have come back to haunt us. What an irony!’
Nath took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and perhaps realizing that Tara was sitting tongue-tied, opened his eyes but looked at the paperweight that his fingers had been twirling, ‘When I was at Simla I wrote to Masterji at Sonwan. He wrote back, but I could not write again. I spent six months in Simla doing nothing. People were playing all kinds of politics to get appointed at the University of Punjab. Government of Punjab sent me to the Centre. The Centre packed me off to Bengal.
‘Bengal’s Chief Minster Ghosh wanted to develop the province in keeping with Gandhiji’s ideals. I thought I could be of use to him, but his ideas were at cross purposes with the interests of a lobby of politicians who were powerful in Bengal. They engineered Ghosh’s ouster. The new chief minister thought that as Ghosh’s man I had no place in his scheme of things. So for the past one year I have been here, helping to launch the First Five Year Plan.’
Tara sat silent and motionless as before, her fingers entwined.
Nath spun the paperweight a little harder, and asked, ‘Is Masterji here in Delhi? Is Puri also here?’
‘Jalandhar…’ Tara said, swallowing hard. Her throat was dry.
‘You’re here with your in-laws?’ Nath asked.
Tara shook her head.
‘Achcha, you’re here because of your job. You are holding a good position. You must have been selected through the Public Service Commission.’
Tara nodded.
‘Memories of Lahore came back when I saw you. You used to come to the house to tutor Kikka, Gulli and Bholi. The chaos of those days! The last time I went to your home, your hands were painted with henna and the bridal oils had been applied to you. You were looking so young. Now you look so serious, a lady in white.’
Tara raised her eyes. She gave a thin, wan smile.
‘Your in-laws, your husband,’ Nath smiled and asked, ‘where are they?’
Tara again bowed her head.
Nath kept silent. After a few moments thought, he asked again, ‘What is Puri doing in Jalandhar?’
‘Newspaper…’
‘Which newspaper?’
‘Nazir.’
‘Nazir? Must be in Urdu. Never saw a copy. Doing well?’
Tara nodded.
Nath said, ‘You’ve hardly said a word. Tell me about yourself. You know I’d like to know about you.’
‘Some other…’ Tara said, again swallowing hard.
Nath briefly stared at Tara, then turning his gaze away, said, ‘It’s all right.’
The typewriter click-clacked: All right … all right … all right!
Nath kept his eyes averted to spare Tara further embarrassment. His fingers continued to twirl the paperweight. Then looking at his watch he said, ‘It’s half past four. I won’t be able to do any work now. I’m so happy meeting you that I won’t be able to concentrate.’
Overcome by a feeling of gratefulness, Tara bowed her head with a smile on her lips.
‘Come tomorrow by 10.30 or eleven, and we’ll work. Will you be able to? It won’t be inconvenient?’
‘No, no inconvenience at all,’ Tara assured him.
Reaching to ring for the peon, Nath asked, ‘Would you like some tea.’
‘If you want.’
Nath asked, ‘You have to go back to your office from here?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why don’t we have tea somewhere else. We’ll be able to talk. We are meeting after…must be over four years. Feels as if the world has been turned upside down in between.’
Tara lowered her eyes and nodded.
Nath selected some files from his desk and rang for his peon. When the peon came, he ordered, ‘Take these files to my place. Take the bus today. I’ll be back by seven or eight. And give back these files of memsahib to her peon.’
It was Nath who did the talking as he drove, ‘The house I found is quite far, beyond the Flag Staff, on Alipore Road. It’s about twelve miles to my office and back.’
Nath took Tara to the Royal to avoid the crowd in Connaught Place. She must also say something, Tara thought at the restaurant. She related the story of the Bhaudutt incident.
Nath dropped Tara at her flat at 7 p.m.
Tara said, ‘Please come up for a few minutes.’
‘Not today. Another time.’
In the new flat, Purandei lived as Tara’s bua, aunt, and Sita as her cousin. Purendei’s black coarse-silk lehanga had faded and worn out, and she wanted to get a new one. The traditional respectable dress for middle-class married women in Lahore and Amritsar, whether well-to-do or from lower levels, had been black lehanga, but Punjabi refugee women in Delhi, even older ones, had switched to wearing saris and dhotis. Tara and Sita advised Purandei, ‘Why are you so hung up on that depressive-looking garment. Follow others’ example and start wearing a dhoti over a petticoat, or get a tailor to make you a salwar.’
Along with her lehanga, Purandei also gave up her thick cotton chaddar coloured with ashes dissolved in water. She was now mindful of wearing clothes in keeping with Tara’s high social status. In February of that year Sita was hired, through Tara’s efforts, as a Hindi stenographer in the Department of Information at a monthly salary of Rs 125 including allowances.
Sita bought some new clothes on getting her first salary. Tara’s influence could be seen in her choice of clothes. Instead of satin and crepe in gaudy colours, she chose poplins in pastel shades and broadcloth. She also got two inexpensive, flower-patterned saris. She wanted to buy some dhotis for her mother.
Purandei protested affectionately, ‘How can you even utter such a thing? May Maharaj-ji save me from committing the sin of accepting money that my daughter has earned. I didn’t use your salary even when the times were tough. All I wish is that some day I may properly send you off to your in-laws. That’s all I want.’
Purandei could not keep to herself the news of her daughter becoming a government employee at such a good salary. She proudly complained to her neighbours Gurandei and Tayee, ‘I was so shocked when my daughter offered to buy me clothes.’
When Tara found out, she thought, ‘Bua didn’t complain when I got her new clothes, but she can’t accept Sita’s money because she gave birth to her. Or maybe, it’s just a ruse to save her daughter’s money.’ That called to her mind the rumours going around about Purandei in her gali in Lahore, the neighbours calling Purandei shameless, accusations of secret goings-on between her and Ghasita Ram and of her accepting packets of mithai on the sly from him, that her indiscretions were sure to ruin her daughter too. ‘Was doing that not immoral?’ Tara thought. ‘Is it really a sin to accept money from one’s daughter? Or a sin is only something for which one is afraid to be criticized.’
In the flat next to Tara lived Duli Chand Talwar, a real estate agent from Old Anarkali, Lahore, who had done quite well after coming to Delhi. He had purchased, soon after his arrival, several tracts of agriculture and some barren land on Mathura Road at four annas a square yard. He had begun to resell pieces of that land after marking it as residential plots. Now in 1950–1 the plots were being sold for Rs 8 to 10 a square yard. He owned two buildings with flats and shops in Kamala Nagar that brought him about Rs 1400 per month in rent. He also owned a Buick, but lived in a rented flat at Rs 125 per month. He had married off his two daughters. One of his two sons was helping him run the real estate business. He was about fifty years old, and had a florid complexion. Everyone in the neighbourhood called him Lalaji or Tayaji and his wife, by extension, Tayee.
Exercising her right as a neighbour, Tayee had become Tara’s self-appointed guardian. As there was a servant and a daughter-in-law to take care of her own household, she had plenty of time to keep an eye on her neighbours and offer them advice. Purandei had no male in the family except two young women of marriageable age, therefore Tayee took it upon herself to worry over them. She’d drop in to chat about the riff-raff moving into the neighbourhood, and in between, would inquire quietly about plans for marrying off Tara and Sita.
At the time Purandei had come to live with her, Tara had strictly instructed her not to talk to anyone about her family, about her marriage and about the incident of her in-laws’ house burning down.
Tayee seemed rather taken up with worrying over Tara, and showed it by praising her often. She would say, ‘There’s no hurry about the younger one. A twenty-year woman is not considered too old for marriage now. I married my younger one when she was twenty, after she had done her BA. But sister, it becomes tough to find a match for a girl who has had too much education. I should know, for the trouble I had in finding a match for my younger one. Your elder one is a BA–MA officer, you’d have to find a match who is higher than a BA–MA. If she’s 800–900 rupees a month officer, you’ll have to match her with an officer who earns at least Rs 1000 or more. It’s no joke to marry off your daughter. And she’s holding such a high position, but is docile like a dairy cow and so polite. Addresses everyone by using “ji”. When she talks, it feels as if flowers not words are falling out of her mouth. She’ll need someone who’s just right for her.’
Tayee would begin to talk about her nephew, ‘My brother’s younger son is an officer in the Forest Department. His salary is only a thousand a month, but by God’s grace, he manages to make a lot more over and above. He has an official car, half-a-dozen minders. The older is in the Railways. His salary isn’t that much, only five hundred a month, but he too has plenty of extra income. The younger one has an eight-year-old boy, studying at some English boarding school in Dehradun. His wife, poor soul, died of a heart attack at the time of her second delivery. The dear boy is hardly old, just around thirty-five. He had no shortage of marriage proposals, but says that he wants a match who is well-educated and intelligent. He has a position, you know. High officials, the deputy commissioner, magistrates often stay as house guests. Such a nice family.’
Tayee would repeat all this in the presence of Tara. She was waiting for some kind of signal from Purandei.
Sita had been behaving herself under the influence of Tara, and after her own bitter experience. Tara had noticed that the young woman, after living for some time under self-imposed constraints, had lately been acting a bit restless. She had learned songs she heard over the radio, particularly sad songs and those about love. She had a good voice and sometimes sang to herself in Hindi:
‘…It’s like watching someone’s youth turn to ashes…’
Or in Punjabi:
‘Long, and oh so dark, my sweetheart
Are the nights away from you…’
Purandei let Sita serve tea or sherbet to Mathur, Narottam and other male guests, but frowned upon her daughter sitting with them in the living room. To her mind it was different with Tara, who held a responsible position and was more matured, but Sita in her eyes was still naïve. Purandei of course forgot that Sita worked alongside young men in her office all day. Tara could not help but observe that Sita seldom came into the room when Mathur, Chaddha and others came by, but always passed through the room when Narottam was present. Sometime she would find an excuse to linger, adjusting and readjusting her dupatta or aanchal. Tara also detected Narottam’s eyes following Sita. She had not expected such behaviour from Narottam, but could not ignore what she saw.
Tara immediately spoke with Narottam, ‘Nottan, what’s going on? Come clean if you have any intentions towards her.’
‘Didi, how could you say that?’
‘Then why are you leading her on?’
‘What if a woman challenges you to flirt?’ Narottam said to avoid being cornered.
Tara felt deeply hurt.
‘What if your dallying gets her into trouble?’
‘No such thing. I don’t intend to go that far.’
‘For you it might be innocent fun. What if she thought you were serious about her? She isn’t all that sophisticated, just a simple girl from the back lanes of the city. She actually wants someone to settle down with.’
‘Achcha, no more of this,’ Narottam said.
‘Anyway, Nottan, what’s all this I’ve been hearing about you?’ Tara decided to have her say after broaching the subject. ‘I don’t approve of it.’
‘What?’
‘About your acting like a bhanvara, bumblebee. A new girlfriend everyday. It was Lavang Vyas two or three months ago. Then it was Rekha. Then Meena. Now it’s Deva.’
‘Deva? How can you, didi? She is Dolly’s teacher at the Miranda College, much older than I am. Have you ever met her? She’s the serious, academic type, no chance of any misunderstanding there.’
‘All right, may be not her. But is it proper to give hopes to others, have a good time and then drop them? Aren’t you afraid of getting a bad reputation?’
‘Didi, I never gave anybody any hopes. I don’t chase anyone. They want to get me in the catch-me game, and I slip out.’ Narottam said with a smile, ‘It’s not me who’s being a bhanvara. It’s just that there are butterflies all around me.’
‘Nonsense!’ Tara said with a frown. She knew she could scold Narottam for his own good. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I know who I am. I have no illusions about me, that’s why I am not fooled. They are just a bunch of leeches who want to cadge off others. They are looking for a fat catch, and I don’t want to be their prey.’
‘Isn’t it egotistical of you to think that those women are so completely besotted with you that they can’t see how badly you treat them, and you can discard them when you want.’
‘None of them is besotted with me; all they want is to flirt.’ Narottam moved to the edge of his chair, ‘They are the ones who are willing to take a gamble. And no risk is too big for them. I don’t want to gamble, so I just let go of them.’
‘If this is not being egotistical, what is?’
Narottam said with great seriousness, ‘Didi, you call me an egoist! Show me one from all these who’d want to be my partner or companion for life. All they want is someone to feed them all their lives. These women don’t see the person, just how much money he has, and compete fiercely for one who has money. To love someone and to take advantage of someone are not one and the same thing. Name me one who’d be willing to stand beside me and face the challenges and struggles of life? Suppose I am in Chaddha’s position tomorrow. Will any one of these be willing to make sacrifices as Mercy has done? People say bad things about Dr Shyama, but I think that woman has moral courage. She does not deceive anyone to take advantage of him…’
Tara took a deep breath, and sat silently, her chin resting on her fist. ‘This boy is fighting his own demons,’ she was thinking.
About two months after Guddi’s naming ceremony, her mother Saroj broached a subject rather hesitatingly with Tara. The younger uncle of her husband had owned a big cloth store in Okada, Punjab. When he came to Delhi as a refugee, he did not have enough money to open another store. Therefore he opened a small store to sell buckets, trunks and small stoves made of iron and steel. Soon he began to manufacture tin boxes and containers by hand, then bought a machine to do the job. That business was now earning him over Rs 1000 per month. Since his son, who had done his BA, did not want a job that paid only Rs 150 or 200 per month, he had joined the family business. Mehta’s aunt had come to the naming ceremony. When she had found out that Sita was a Brahmin, she had asked Saroj to convey the message of a marriage alliance to Tara.
