This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 17
The gali people heard this in silence. They did not curse or blame the League as they had done in the days past. Puri did not disclose that he had written the editorial, but Tara guessed so. In praise of the article, she said, ‘I’ll ask everyone at the college to read the editorial.’
All of Puri’s acquaintances who read the editorial had something to say about it. Some liked its bold and direct language, others praised its message for unity and peace while some others praised Puri’s writing style. The communists too came to pat him on the back, and to explain to him the strategy of inspiring a bourgeois democratic revolution by uniting different factions of society. Some of Puri’s colleagues at Pairokaar were ambivalent, but Bhagat Ram was particularly concerned. He had heard that Sondhi had not liked the editorial. Puri didn’t care, what did one person’s opinion matter?
Puri felt buoyed up by this acknowledgement of his abilities and the power of his pen. When he returned home from the office, the previous day’s idea of visiting Kanak was on his mind. He washed his face, changed his clothes and went to Gwal Mandi.
He reached Kanak’s place at 6 o’clock. As fate would have it, her elder sister Kanta and Nayyar were present. Kanak rose from her chair to welcome him. Kanta had met Puri only a couple of times, and paid little attention to his arrival. Nayyar sat slouched in his chair; he did not move, but acknowledged Puri’s namaste with a nod of his head.
As Puri took a seat, Kanak said excitedly, ‘Today your piece was really powerful.’ She turned to Nayyar, ‘Did you see Puri-ji’s editorial?’
‘Where?’ Nayyar asked without enthusiasm.
‘In Pairokaar.’
‘I read the Tribune.’
‘Want me to read it to you?’ she asked, but did not get up to bring the paper. Puri did not like this cool response to his writing.
Kanak’s enthusiasm had been deflated by the memory of an incident a few days ago. Puri had told Kanak about the indifference shown by Nayyar towards him, and Kanak had replied, ‘Why do you bother about his behaviour? He doesn’t have time for art or literature. He only knows about legal matters and law courts, his concern is only with money and property.’
Kanak made excuses for Nayyar, but let her brother-in-law know about her annoyance. As in any modern family, the brother-in-law playfully teased, argued with and baited his wife’s sisters. Kanta had no brother, and that brought her husband even closer to her sisters. Kanak shared some of her secrets only with him. Being three years younger than Kanta, she was closest to and most intimate with Nayyar. Which young, unmarried woman would let go of the occasion to learn, from a safe distance, a bit about flirtation and seduction from her sister’s husband? Nayyar too would rather talk to Kanak than to her elder sister about certain matters.
Kanak asked her brother-in-law, ‘Why are you so cold towards Puri-ji? He’s our guest, we’re also grateful to him for his help.’
Nayyar showed surprise at her criticism. He said, ‘What can one talk about with him? He always seems nervous, out of place. He’s not used to the company of cultured people.’
Kanak’s defence of Puri gave Nayyar the opportunity to express a grudge he had been nursing for some time. He had felt that Kanak was moving away from him and inching closer towards Puri. He looked hard at her and asked, ‘Is that a feeling of respect for your tutor, or is there something else?’
‘Yes, there is!’ Kanak wanted to say, but she held back. She did not want to take such an important step without consulting Puri. She had not talked to him about letting her family know of her plans. Instead, she said to Nayyar, ‘You always see something where there’s nothing.’
‘What did I see?’
‘Why, are you jealous?’
‘Jealous?’ He turned his curiosity into a question, ‘Have I any reason to be jealous?’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. You always twist things around.’ She was angry and did not talk to him for two days. She decided that until she consulted Puri about broaching the subject of their affair to her family, she would be careful with her ‘devious’ brother-in-law.
Puri sat with Kanta and Nayyar, but they said little to him. There was no particular topic of conversation, but still Kanak was careful to speak with Puri and also to her sister and her husband. The conversation turned to the riots and then to Nayyar’s Muslim neighbour Mirza. Panditji was still in his office, trying to wind up his work. Nayyar was going to take all of them back to his house in Model Town.
Puri was uncomfortable at being ignored by the company. He got up and asked to be excused. Kanta and Nayyar made no show of asking him to stay. In the circumstance, Kanak did not ask him to stay either, and let him leave.
Puri was furious as he came out of her house. What’s the matter, he thought, why this insulting and indifferent behaviour? Kanak had behaved oddly last time too. He wouldn’t visit her in future. No, he would meet her outside and demand an explanation.
He felt upset by Kanak’s demeanour till he drifted into sleep that night.
On 7 March, as Puri stepped into the office, he found Bhagat Ram waiting for him. Bhagat Ram motioned Puri to follow him to the balcony that overlooked the bazaar. He was obviously worried.
‘It’s a disaster!’ Bhagat Ram pointed towards Kashish’s office and said, ‘He says that we have betrayed the Congress and the Hindus, that filthy columnists have infiltrated Pairokaar. He says that he was suspicious of you from the beginning, that you stabbed the Congress in the back last year at the time of the sailors’ revolt. He is also angry with me that I let you write the editorial. You know I wasn’t well, I didn’t even read what you had written. You could have written all that the next day.’
‘I’ll take the responsibility for what I wrote,’ Puri said to soothe Bhagat Ram.
Kashish sent for Puri. When Puri entered his office, he found Kashish waiting with a grave expression on his face, ready for an encounter. On his head was a starched and ironed white Gandhi cap. His fingers were intertwined; he was sitting erect and well back in his chair. On his desk was the editorial written by Puri, marked in places with a green pencil.
In reply to the namaste offered by Puri, he pointed to the editorial on the desk and asked, ‘What foolishness is this?’
Puri tried to answer calmly, ‘Panditji, in my opinion I didn’t write anything foolish. It was an appeal to douse the raging fires of communal disturbance. I thought that was in line with the policy of the Congress.’
‘Oh, very clever! You think I can’t see how you’ve stabbed the Congress and the Hindus in the back, behind a show of sorry sentiments.’
Puri swallowed this deliberate insult and said, ‘In my view I didn’t write a word against the policy and the interest of the Congress.’
‘To accuse the Congress leaders of bloodshed and provocation, to call them devious and dishonest, is that in the interest of the Congress?’ Kashish asked sharply. ‘To suggest that it yield to the pressure from the League, is that in the interest of the Congress?’
‘I wrote all that on the basis of facts. I heard the speeches, and the newspaper reported the same. I didn’t ask the Congress to surrender. I have also pointed out the folly of the League,’ Puri tried to explain.
‘Oh, very clever! You’ll tell both the Congress and the League what to do? You’ve come here to teach your bosses how to write! Spare us your devious ways. Go back and show your tricks to people from whom you learned them!’ Kashish said threateningly.
Puri could not hold back, ‘Sure! I don’t want to work at a place where I have to suppress the facts!’
‘Is that so?’ Kashish said sarcastically. ‘You already have some agreement with the League. Get out! We don’t need traitors here!’
Puri got up in anger and shouted back, ‘You’re the traitor!’
Kashish’s eyes became red with rage. He pressed a switch on his desk. A bell outside his office door rang. Puri went on, ‘You’ve betrayed the Congress, the country, your people. I spit on your job!’
In the next room others were inquiring from the peon about the uproar in Kashish’s office. The peon came running at the sound of the bell.
Puri had opened the door; he got out before the peon could enter the office. He heard Kashish yell, ‘Throw this man out! He’s not allowed back in the office.’
Chapter 8
THE NEWS OF JAIDEV PURI LEAVING HIS JOB AT PAIROKAAR, OR OF HIS BEING FIRED from the newspaper, spread quickly among the journalists of Lahore, but not a single report of the incident appeared in the press. The newspapers might have differed in their political affiliations and sectarian beliefs, but there were no disagreements among them about keeping employees in line.
Manzoor, Hira Singh, Asad, Narendra Singh and Mahajan did their best to organize a united show of protest by the journalists of Lahore against the unjust treatment of Puri by his editor. A number of assistant and sub-editors were in sympathy with Puri’s views. These sympathizers were willing to voice their support, but on condition that all the journalists from all the newspapers joined them. Few of Puri’s friends were confident of his getting any kind of general support. A section of the city’s journalists found Puri’s right to express his opinion to be morally justified, but harmful to the commercial interests of the paper. Puri, in their opinion, should have toed the line. There were some others who thought that Puri’s comments amounted to bad political judgement. The communists did not succeed in uniting the journalists in support of Puri.
On the evening of 8 March, curfew was imposed in the Bhati Darwaza, Delhi Gate, Said Mittha and Mazang areas after rioting went out of hand in those neighbourhoods. The communists waited two days before calling a meeting of the city’s Printing Press Workers Union, and had a motion passed in support of Puri’s call for communal harmony and condemning the injustice done to him by Pairokaar.
The union meeting was held in the evening outside Chardewari, in a garden near Mori Gate. Several people spoke, and then Asad stood up to praise Puri’s journalistic and literary abilities. Citing his courage, Asad said that this exemplary journalist and writer had empathy for others’ suffering. Asad read Puri’s editorial from Pairokaar to the gathering, and asked, ‘You be the judges: is this an appeal for Hindu–Muslin unity or an attempt to besmirch someone’s reputation?’
Asad declared, ‘We intend to send a copy of Puri’s article to Mahatma Gandhi, and ask for his opinion as to whether the writer is guilty of slander. We hope that the Pairokaar management will honour Mahatmaji’s verdict. The newspapers demand freedom of the press from the government. We ask, do they give their journalists the same freedom to express their views? Is freedom of the press and of speech meant only for the owners of the newspapers? What about freedom of expression for those who do not own a newspaper or a printing press? Such one-sided freedom will not be in the public good, and will also serve the interests of the newspaper bosses.’
Asad appealed to the public, ‘The sacrifice made by Comrade Puri for the sake of communal peace should not be in vain. The workers of Lahore should raise their voices in support of his demand that the Congress, the League and the Akalis stop playing into the hands of the British imperialists in the hope of getting ministerial positions, and that they work together to form a common front to take back the administration from the governor.’
Hira Singh and Pradyumna also spoke. The gist of their speeches was that British imperialists, who manipulated the two Hindustani peoples by their ‘divide and rule’ policy, were the enemy in the struggle for independence. But greater and more dangerous enemies were those who were turning the struggle for political autonomy into a sectarian confrontation. The independence and unity of India rested on harmony between Hindus and Muslims. The negative consequences of gaining the political upper hand by inciting communal hatred and rivalry, and of working hand in glove with British civil servants, were obvious to everyone.
‘Friends, terrible news has come of widespread riots in Amritsar earlier today. The commercial hub of Punjab is in flames. The people behind this conflagration are safely ensconced in their palatial houses, leaving you and me to be the victims of this inferno of hatred. Our brother Puri was doing something sacred; he was working, fearlessly and selflessly, to defend the man in the street. We appeal to all journalists of the country to follow Comrade Puri’s example. The struggle for our country’s independence and for uplifting the masses cannot be safe in the hands of leaders who want to incite sectarian hatred for their own devious ends. The working class must strive for the unconditional unity of the people. We, the workers of this country, in one united voice, offer our praises to Comrade Puri for doing his duty. Victory to Comrade Puri!’
Puri was deeply moved by these generous tributes. When he stood up to express his thanks, he had to make an effort to control his emotions and clear the lump in his throat, ‘I am much obliged to you, my friends, for your recognition of my efforts. For the sake of my conscience, I am willing to walk away from hundreds of jobs if need be. Hindu–Sikh–Muslim unity is the first step towards gaining freedom from slavery under foreign domination. The Congress has always stood, and will always stand, for this ideal. Subhash Bose’s Indian National Army was a living proof of the strength of our unity. I pledge my word here before you all that I’ll never shirk from sacrificing my life for that ideal.’ The audience cheered and clapped.
After news came in of bloody riots, looting and arson in Amritsar, a group of communist workers went there to help with peace efforts. They asked Puri to go with them. Puri was shaken by the enormity of the destruction in the carnage. Their efforts quickly succeeded in restoring peace. Enemies of the previous day embraced their opponents and asked for their forgiveness. Puri felt hopeful.
The communists, some Congress workers who opposed sectarian discord, the socialists and other liberal-minded people, launched a movement for communal and civic harmony in Lahore. They held meetings in various parts of the city and began peace patrols with the help of the Railway Workers Union. Puri was always invited to these meetings, and he too participated with a sense of purpose. Sitting idle at home was intolerable for him. He was always treated like a leader and a hero at these meetings. The recognition of his sacrifice encouraged him, but this feeling alone could not meet the needs of his daily life. The long faces of his mother and Masterji bespoke their regrets about his losing the job. They had become an object of sympathy and pity for the gali people. Puri felt like a limb cut off from a tree, its leaves and shoots gradually withering away.
At the suggestion of Asad and Pradyumna, Puri had sent a copy of his Pairokaar articles and a description of the treatment meted out to him to Mahatma Gandhi by registered mail. With Gandhiji’s moral support, he hoped to gain some standing in political circles. But three weeks passed without any answer. His communist friends had asked like-minded staff workers of other newspapers to look for a job for Puri, but that effort too proved fruitless.
Puri was deeply frustrated by the resulting lack of money, more so since he had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle in the past year. He had bought several things on credit on the assurance of getting one hundred rupees at the end of each month. The shame of not being able to settle his debts was as painful as an insect boring into his skull.
Pairokaar owed Puri his salary for February. But he could not bear the thought of going to the office and demanding it. Bhagat Ram and Indranath had warned him not to expect his outstanding salary to be delivered to his home. Kashish was not even willing to hear the mention of Puri’s name. Puri found it maddening that he could not afford to hire a tonga, have his shirts laundered or even get a haircut. He used to hand over most of his salary to his mother, and the family scraped by on the combined salaries of father and son. How could he ask her for money now, when he was not earning a single rupee? The hot months of summer had begun. The middle-class people of Lahore wore either white shirts and trousers, or white linen suits. Such elegance had now moved beyond Puri’s reach.
In those days of difficulty and anxiety, Puri often thought about Kanak. The memory of her indifferent behaviour in the presence of Nayyar still gnawed at him. He wanted to tell her about his misfortunes, but meeting her would mean telling her about losing his job. This predicament was making him drift like a leaf blown down the street in a windstorm. He thought it better not to go and see her in his impoverished situation, and risk a blow to his self-respect.
Puri had the ability and the inclination to work. In fact, he desperately wanted to work, but the chance to do so was being denied him. And this denial meant a half-empty stomach, a lack of clean clothes and the frustration of being unemployed. There was no hope of finding work with any Lahore newspaper. He often thought of going to another city, but could not muster the courage to try his luck without some assurance of work. Gather your wits, he told himself, you’re better known in the field of literature and journalism now than when you were just a beginner at Pairokaar. He decided to become a freelance writer.
He wrote two satirical articles on Kashish and titled them: ‘The Wily Writer’, and ‘Mr Big Editor’. One was published in Sitara, the other in Bhanmati. Despite widespread praise, all Puri got for them was ten rupees each.
Puri pondered: Is literature and art worth so little? At least 4,000 or 5,000 persons must have read my articles. He reasoned: What more can I expect? I write just to entertain the readers. What more should an entertainer expect? Like other street jugglers and pavement artists, if I stood and read aloud my work in the garden outside Chardewari, maybe people would throw a paisa or two to me. I might be able to earn fifty rupees a day, but being a white-collar gentleman, I can’t bring myself to do that. He smiled at himself: I am penniless, but I still want respect. That’s the height of my folly. Prestige is measured by one’s means. For my means I must depend on magazines and newspapers.
