This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 25
He had been thinking of putting off work on the textbook for a few days, and asking Tara to give more time to the translation of the novel. Tara herself came to him and mumbled nervously, ‘Bhaiji, I couldn’t go to Gwal Mandi yesterday. I feel bad because I told Narendra bhai that I’d come. I want to go some time today.’
‘Listen,’ Puri said. ‘Not today. If I work only on the translation with your help, we can finish half the book in two days. We can go the day after tomorrow, and I’ll hand over the manuscript to Pandit Girdharilal at the same time.’
Whenever she thought of her decision and her course of action, her head would spin and she would feel a shiver. While reading aloud to Puri from the novel, she was so distracted and preoccupied with what was to come that she kept on missing the continuity to the next line on the page. She would picture in her mind’s eye, her brother coming to Surendra’s house on his way back, and his puzzlement at not finding her there. How would her mother and Masterji react? … But, they’re the ones who paid no heed to my cries and forced me to run away from home. Am I not to resist as the noose is tightened around my neck? Can’t I run away to save myself if someone keeps pushing me towards the sacrificial altar? If I do run away, it’ll be good for all of us. At least my parents won’t have to sell the village house or take a loan. What about the money needed for my sisters and brothers? … It had also crossed her mind that she might have to stay at home for another few days, that Asad might ask her to come to meet him again in a day or two. ‘I’ll find another excuse to go out,’ she thought.
The translation of half of A House Built upon Sand was finished in the afternoon of 5 May. Puri went out for a short while, came back and immediately began revising the manuscript. He did not want to risk leaving a single mistake. He again took up his revision early on the next day. At about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, he and Tara went together to Gwal Mandi. He turned into Shaduram’s Gali, and Tara walked alone towards Surendra’s house. That’s what she wanted. To be alone.
Puri had gone to Panditji’s house ostensibly to show him the translation, so he went in through the office door. Panditji was on the telephone with some paper merchant. He signalled for Puri to take a chair. Puri waited for him to finish, but his ears were cocked to catch any sound coming from the living room. Once he turned around to look when he thought he heard something, but whoever it was, had gone past. Kanak or Kanchan, he couldn’t be sure.
Since he was talking on the telephone, Panditji had not been able to welcome Puri in his usual expansive style. He hung up, gave him a broad smile and said, ‘So, barkhurdar!’ He asked several questions about Puri’s health.
Puri had placed the folder with the manuscript on the desk. He said, opening it, ‘Panditji, I’ve managed to finish half the novel. Why don’t you look at it and tell me what you think?’
‘You’ve brought the translation? So soon? Let me see.’ He held out his hand.
He took the folder from Puri, read half of the first page, turned over fifteen or so pages and read another half page, leafed through twenty-five more sheets to read a paragraph, and then a paragraph at the very end. He put the manuscript back on the desk seemingly satisfied, and said, ‘Good! Very good! Fine work, wonderful expression. You’re a master, barkhurdar, no doubt of that. Very good.’
Panditji took off his glasses and put them on the desk, ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair as he looked at the ceiling, and called out, ‘Bhai Vidhichand, how’s that title page coming along? The printing press has been working to get the colour of that page right since this morning. What’s going on? Why don’t you get on your bicycle and go there to find out the reason. Ask Sawan Mull what problem is holding up the printing? If the block for the page has to be replaced, why can’t they begin work on something else? This is sloppy work!’
‘I’ll go,’ said Vidhichand and left.
Panditji stroked his hair for a few moments more before turning to Puri, ‘Your translation is excellent. Barkhurdar, you are a creative writer. For you translating someone else’s work can’t mean the same as creating your own. It’s a waste of time for you. First make a name for yourself and get your stories published in magazines. Then come out with a novel. You need a good publisher to back you up.’ He stroked his chin in silent contemplation.
Puri was encouraged by these words, and by this show of concern and sympathy for his future.
‘You did this in a very short time,’ Panditji said, again by way of praise.
‘If you like, I can work harder and finish the whole thing in a week,’ Puri said to show his goodwill.
‘No, no, no! You don’t have to sweat it out. Take your time, do it when you get some free time or when you feel like it. Do it as a pastime. This is the time for selling textbooks. Even if I decide to hand it over for printing, I won’t be able to publish it any time before October or November.’
Puri was beginning to get uncomfortable with the tone of his voice. Panditji went on, ‘Of course, it’s a different matter if you need money. You can come to me without hesitation.’
It became obvious to Puri that Panditji had given him the work to help him out, but he had made that obvious without meaning to hurt him. What could Puri say to respond to such kindness? Panditji picked up a glass paperweight from his desk, and looked at it intently, trying to concentrate on his words, ‘You’re like family. There’s something I wanted to speak to you about. It’s good that you came.’
Puri felt alarmed.
‘It’s about Kanak,’ Panditji uttered almost inaudibly. Puri held his breath, as if the future of his relationship with Kanak hung in the balance and the next word from her father could tip the balance in his favour or against him.
Panditji thought for a few moments staring at the paperweight, then said firmly in English, ‘You have always regarded Kanak as a younger sister. Now it’s up to you to honour that relationship.’
With that sentence Panditji disarmed Puri, taking the starch out of his courage and his will to protest. He continued to speak in English, ‘She’s just over twenty. What does a girl that old know about life? What I mean is, that to be able to solve the problems faced by young people of her age, she needs some worldly experience. She’s done her BA. That’s a certain achievement, but not a very important one. She’s intelligent, and has a literary bent for which you deserve credit. What she knows about life she has learnt from books, not from experience. You know how one can be easily swayed by emotions at her age, and regret such feelings later on. You know that quite well.’
Seeing Puri sit in silence, Panditji laughed as if he had no doubts of Puri’s agreeing with him, ‘Heh, heh, heh! You’re a writer; you have imagination. You know what I’m saying.’
Puri did know what he was saying. He felt so upset he could hardly breathe. Panditji’s words fell on him like the blows of a mailed fist wrapped in a velvet glove of affection and politeness.
He went on before Puri could respond, alternating between Urdu and English, ‘These are natural, human failings. At one stage in their lives, all young men and women feel that romance is the goal of life. They are swayed by their emotions. But romance is an illusion, just a dream. When one begins to turn such dreams into reality, the result is bitterness and disappointment. You know what I mean. A commitment made in the romantic folly of youth means nothing.’
Puri wanted to protest in self-defence: Sure, she may be twenty-one, but what she said to me was not childish prattle. As if I’m the wily hunter, and she’s my unsuspecting quarry.
Panditji went on as if there was no question of Puri’s disagreement, ‘Maybe at her age she’s not too young for marriage. In our family too, girls are married off at sixteen or seventeen, but it’s the girl’s parents who make those decisions. It’s another matter when a girl wants to have a say in whom she marries and when; don’t you think? And marriage has a social and economic aspect, a wider implication. It may not survive outside that particular social and economic framework. The way someone has been brought up counts for a lot. You know that quite well. You’re very wise.’
Panditji continued to speak without giving Puri a chance to get a word in, ‘I’m not the one to impose unnecessary restrictions on my daughters about whom they should meet or talk to. You’ve seen that for yourself. I don’t want them to feel awkward in social situations. But if any social interaction can create or lead to misunderstandings, such interaction is best avoided. Why let people’s tongues wag? People recognize you. You have a reputation. Kanak too is known in many social circles. Why should people point the finger at both of you for nothing?’
‘I’m fully aware of my reputation and social standing,’ Puri forced out the words.
‘Of course. Certainly. I know that you’re a responsible young man,’ Panditji said, as if confiding in him, ‘That’s why I’m sharing my concerns with you. I think this matter should end here. Stop seeing Kanak for a while in the best interests of both of you. I know I can trust you in this matter.’
Puri’s face fell. It took a few moments for him to gather enough courage to say, ‘Please forgive me. Although I’ve been careful not to be the first to start anything that might give Kanak any wrong notions about my intentions, still I have in a way given my word to her about us.’
‘Oh-oh-oh! No, no, no!’ Panditji did not let him continue, ‘I’m not putting any blame on you. Anyone can say such silly things when they’re young; such is the folly of youth. Forget that bit. I’d meant to say something in the interests of your future. What I mean is, you should avoid what is not suitable for you. Why get into trouble?’
Panditji had used very subtle language to tell Puri that he was unsuitable for Kanak. An insulted Puri shot back, ‘You may have your own ideas on who’s suitable or unsuitable, but may I ask what is your basis for weighing somebody as suitable or not? How do you measure a person’s worth?’
‘Oh-oh-oh! No, no, no!’ Panditji waved both his hands to emphasize his disagreement. ‘Barkhurdar, I have already said that you’re a talented, hard-working and responsible young man. What I meant was the overall situation, status … class consciousness … things like that. You know … I mean … keep away from what’s not suitable for you.’
‘What you mean is money!’ Puri raised his voice angrily. ‘You’re probably well off, but I never came to your house uninvited. I tutored your daughter, but never took a paisa as fee. You don’t want the translation done, I’ll return your hundred rupees. But you’ve no right to put me down. And it wasn’t me, but Kanak who first…’
Puri controlled himself and fell silent on seeing the expression on Panditji’s face.
Panditji spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, ‘Barkhurdar, I am pained to see that you’ve misunderstood me. I have a great and a deep respect for you. I’m telling you this because I consider you as my esteemed friend and associate. I acknowledge my indebtedness to you, and now I’m asking for your help once again. What do one hundred rupees mean to a promising young man like you? You probably can earn that much in one day. You can have any sum of money from me, whenever you say so.’
‘No, sir, thank you very much.’ Puri replied through clenched teeth. ‘But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to speak with Kanakji just once for a few minutes about your ideas of …’
‘Oh-oh-oh! Barkhurdar!’ Panditji interrupted him, ‘Why only once? You may speak to her as often as you like. She’s like a sister to you, after all, but at this time… I mean … at this time it may not be proper because she’ll just feel sorry and humiliated for her mistake. And, as I’ve said, it’s better to let bygones be bygones.’
‘Namaste!’ Puri said sharply as he got up, and leaving the manuscript on the desk, went out of the room.
‘Namaste, namaste, namaste … barkhurdar!’ Panditji repeated until Puri was out of the room. He was sure that he had avoided hurting Puri’s feelings.
Puri was seething with anger as he left the office of Naya Hind Publications. Unable to think of anything but the insult to which he had been subjected, he walked with hurried steps along Amritdhara Road up to the gali where Narendra Sigh’s house was. He did not want to see or talk with anyone in his state of agitation. He kept on going and reached Kele Wali Sarak. Thoughts churned about in his mind, ‘I knew this was going to happen, that’s why I was avoiding that house. It’s all my fault. I made the mistake of believing Kanak. She misled me into going to see her father, and just think how brutally I’ve been humiliated. If she’s so smart and confident of being able to handle everything, why didn’t she come into the office? I should have known she was playing games with me. Didn’t they tell me that she was like that? I’ve let her pull the wool over my eyes.’
But was she also trying to fool me that evening in the Lawrence Garden? Puri wondered. It didn’t seem that way. Has she been brainwashed by her father? Has she begun to see everything from his point of view? What made her say those beautiful words, and what did she base them on? When he realized that, lost in his thoughts, he had reached the railway station, he turned round and went back.
When Tara reached Surendra’s house, she welcomed Tara with mock anger, ‘You bad girl, I’m not going to talk to you. My brother told me on May Day that you’d come in a couple of days. You call this long time just a couple of days? Go away!’
Surendra chattered on without giving Tara a chance to say anything, ‘Neither do you visit anybody, nor do you invite anyone to your house.’ She spoke so that her mother could hear, ‘Ma, she’s studied her textbooks so much that the pages have turned white. Always gets the highest marks. Hasn’t told anyone where her house is, in case other people may come and interrupt her studies, and she might have to make them a cup of tea. Ma, don’t you offer her anything to eat or drink.’
‘Keep quiet, silly girl. Why wouldn’t I?’ Surendra’s mother replied. ‘Isn’t she my daughter too? Nice girls are like that. She’s not like you and your brother. He thinks he’s in charge of everything. And you roam all over the town like a nagar-naun, behaving as if you were a bigger leader even than he.’
‘Ma, you too have begun to sing her praises.’ Surendra pouted. ‘She’s very deep. She knows the vashikaran mantra that puts magic spells over everyone and holds them captive. Watch out for her.’ Surendra looked sideways at Tara.
Her mother got up, ‘You sisters keep me out of your childish squabbles! Tara beti, will you also have the red-coloured hot water, what they call tea, in this heat, or sherbet? I could make you some sherbet with phalsa berries’
‘What’s the hurry, ma?’ Surendra said. ‘She’s not a guest. If she wants something, she’ll ask for it.’ Tara explained that she’d meant to come one day as promised, but her cousin had come to visit with her first-born child.
‘I know the truth!’ Surendra whispered knowingly.
‘What do you know?’
‘Why you’ve come here.’
‘Why then?’ Tara showed her surprise.
‘Stop pretending,’ Surendra said, keeping her voice down. ‘He comes here every morning and waits for you. This morning too. Said that he’ll wait one more day, and if you don’t show up, he’ll take me along and go to your place to ask about you. He knows which gali to go to, and where your house is in it.’
‘Who does?’ asked Tara, raising her eyebrows in puzzlement.
‘Hai, your playing innocent will kill me. You’re really a deep one, you sly thing. You’ve picked the real pearl out of a basket of imitations, and you want to keep it a secret?’
‘Tell me. Stop talking in riddles,’ Tara showed her irritation. ‘Who was asking about me?’
‘You don’t really trust me, do you?’ Surendra said, with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
‘Don’t tease me, please. Tell me. I beg of you. You’re my best pal,’ Tara said, accepting defeat.
‘Whom did you promise on May Day that you’d come to Surendra’s house?’
Tara tried to keep up her pretence. ‘Who?’
‘All right. Keep it up. I’m not telling you anything,’ Surendra gestured with her thumb in refusal.
Tara’s face turned crimson. They were both sitting on a dhurrie on the floor. She put her hand on Surendra’s feet, and said, ‘Please tell me. Here, I’m touching your feet in appeal.’
‘Yes, touch my feet, call me sister-in-law,’ Surendra turned serious. ‘That’s my right.’
‘Hai, have some shame! What are you saying?’ Tara was embarrassed.
‘Well, Asad bhai has adopted me as his sister. He’s asked me to tie a rakhi on his wrist, and formally became my brother. He said that he found this custom of sisters tying a thread on their brothers’ wrist very pleasant and meaningful.’
Tara sat in thought, her chin resting on her fist.
‘What’s troubling you?’ Surendra said. ‘Asad bhai too seemed very upset.’
‘I don’t know how to explain,’ Tara said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘What is it? Give me some idea, so that I can help.’
‘Let me first talk to him. Then I’ll tell you.’
‘Don’t you have faith in me?’ Surendra said grumpily.
‘It’s not that, but there’s another problem. Please don’t feel bad about it, sister.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Can’t I meet him anywhere now?’ Tara asked uneasily.
‘My brother has gone with Asad, Pradyumna and others to the railway workshops. They hold a meeting every day outside the workshop gate. They return around eight o’clock in the evening.’
‘Then it’s not my lucky day.’
‘Come tomorrow. At what time can you be here?’
