This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 46
Since coming to Nainital, Kanak would go out of the house whenever possible for an hour or two before, and also after, lunch because of the cramped conditions and her disagreements with the family. Kanta and Nayyar realized that. They also knew that she spent her time sitting and reading beside the lake or in the library. They were uneasy that this would raise a few eyebrows among their acquaintances, but they tolerated it because of the stress under which she was living. For the past few days, Kanak had been spending even more time away from the cottage. There was a noticeable change in her attitude and behaviour, and the explanation for the puzzle was not long in coming.
On 8 August at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, Kanak changed her sari and said to Kanta, who was sitting in the veranda, ‘Bahinji, I’m going out for a while.’
‘No, no, Kanni. We’re invited for tea today at Mr Wadhwa’s. Mrs Wadhwa asked especially for you and Kanchan,’ Kanta said.
‘How can I go there with you?’ Kanak replied, then added a bit dejectedly. ‘Had you asked me before now, I wouldn’t have accepted Mrs Pant’s invitation. She’d wait for me.’
‘Have you told your jijaji?’ Kanta asked.
‘I’ve told you,’ Kanak stepped out of the veranda before her sister could reply. Kanta sat fuming, ‘What’s meaning of such a reply?’
Kanak and Puri had walked quite a distance along the Bhowali Road deep in conversation. Around half past six they returned along the Lower Mall Road, and took the road beside Albert Hall which ran down to the lake. This road twists and turns to keep the gradient gentle. Kanak and Puri had taken the third turn when they heard the sound of loud laughter and looked in that direction. Kanak had no idea that the Wadhwas lived on that road. Her gaze met that of Kanta, Nayyar and Mrs Wadhwa standing with others near the gate to their bungalow.
‘You couldn’t come when we invited you, and here you are, gallivanting around,’ Mrs Wadhwa called out to Kanak.
Kanak stopped as did Puri. Both were nervous, Kanak giving a sheepish smile as she thought up a reply.
Nayyar hailed Puri like an old friend, holding out his hand, ‘Hullo, Puri. Your meeting at Mrs Pant’s ended so soon? People like you find someone to discuss politics wherever you go.’
Without giving Puri a chance to reply, Nayyar began introducing him to Mr Wadhwa, ‘You probably haven’t met Mr Puri, but you must have heard his name. Arrey bhai, this is the well-known journalist and fiction writer Mr Puri.’
Mr Wadhwa replied in Punjabi, with a marked Peshawar accent, ‘Why don’t you come to the club, Puri sahib? That’s the place to meet people.’
Nayyar replied on Puri’s behalf, ‘Arrey bhai, he doesn’t have time to waste. Every second of his time is precious. All he needs is a pen, and then he’s lost in his imagination.’ By welcoming Puri enthusiastically, Nayyar had removed any possibility of Mr and Mrs Wadhwa being scandalized at seeing Kanak alone with a man.
Kanak and Puri had to walk back with Nayyar, Kanta and the others. Nayyar kept up a conversation with Puri, ‘When did you arrive in Nainital? Saw you today for the first time. It’s very difficult to a find a place to stay here. Where are you staying?’
When Nayyar was told that Puri was staying at the Astoria Hotel, he thought for a moment, then said with obvious surprise, ‘That’s a rather expensive place.’
Kanak was walking on Puri’s other side. She pressed his hand to warn him not to say anything.
Nayyar suppressed his surprise, ‘It must be comfortable and quiet there.’ He was talking as if he and Puri were old friends.
When they reached the path on the Mall Road that went up to Vimal Villa, Kanta excused herself from going to the club to first go and check up on Nano. Before turning towards the Capitol, Nayyar invited everyone, especially Puri, to come to the club. At the club, Nayyar introduced Puri to everyone they met as the distinguished journalist and writer from Lahore, and asked, ‘What will you have? Beer or whisky?’
Puri excused himself, ‘Thanks, but I don’t drink.’
‘Have some coffee, then.’
Nayyar joined the players at the bridge table. Kanchan was asked by a group of amateur players to join them. Puri and Kanak watched people play carom for a while, then went and sat by a table piled with newspapers and periodicals and began flipping through magazines. Puri leaned over and whispered into Kanak’s ear, ‘Will we have to sit here forever?’
Puri and Kanak both felt uncomfortable at the club, and found the presence of others, their laughter and conversation meaningless and unbearable.
‘I can’t leave with you just now.’
Puri reminded Kanak, ‘Make up your mind tonight or tomorrow morning about going to Lucknow. We’re wasting our time here.’ He found nothing appealing at the club. Around half past eight he got up to leave. Nayyar did not get up from his table, but shook his hand vigorously, said ‘Goodnight, see you again,’ and went back to his card game.
Nayyar and Kanak did not speak to each other at the club.
Next day, it became apparent from Nayyar’s behaviour that he had not objected to Kanak going out with Puri the previous evening only to avoid unpleasant gossip. Kanak found him as distant and uncommunicative as before.
‘I really don’t care for his angry silence,’ Kanak thought, but how could she tell her sister and Nayyar in that situation about her plans for going to Lucknow? They would have instantly guessed that she was going with Puri, but time was running out for her. Puri was growing impatient. They both had decided to begin their new life on 15 August, the day the country was going to gain its independence
Nayyar, awaiting the call to breakfast, was walking between the flowerbeds near the veranda, casually dressed in a cardigan and trousers. Kanak hovered nearby, looking for an opportunity to speak with him, but discouraged by his serious and unwelcoming expression. Kanta was combing Nano’s hair, forming ringlets and tying them with ribbons. Kanak took the comb from her sister, and while tying the bows, she mentioned Awasthi’s assurance of getting her a job, and asked for permission to go to Lucknow that evening or the following day.
Kanta too was annoyed after the incident of the previous evening. She gave a terse answer, ‘Are you out of your mind? Do you want to go because you’re afraid that it’s costing pitaji and us too much to feed you the two chapattis that you eat? And how would you go alone that far, to a strange land?’
‘I’ll have to go wherever I can find a job. After all, women who want to be self-sufficient go to work somewhere or other. How do men manage? There are other working women who don’t live with their families. Bahinji, what funny things you’re saying! Why would pitaji object to this?’ Kanak did not want to argue, so she said all this lightly.
Kanta did not want her in-laws’ family to hear this exchange, and went to the veranda taking Nano with her. She spoke in a voice that Nayyar could hear, ‘If you’re so sure, write and ask pitaji. We won’t interfere then.’
Nayyar saw that Kanta meant him to hear that remark, and walked over. Kanta went on, ‘She wants to leave for Lucknow today. Says she wants to take up a job and become self-sufficient. I told her to write to pitaji and get his permission.’
‘That’s the right thing to do,’ Nayyar agreed with his wife.
‘It’ll take so many days to get an answer from Lahore,’ Kanak said. ‘I want to leave today or tomorrow.’
‘Do you have to leave on a certain day, or do you have an arrangement to go with somebody?’ Nayyar asked.
‘What’s the problem if I do?’ Kanak replied angrily.
‘It becomes a problem when others, like us, find it a problem,’ he replied. ‘Why give people a chance to say unkind things? You should behave with some decorum until you’re a married woman.’
‘Didn’t you two meet or want to meet before you got married?’ Kanak thought her answer would silence him.
‘Whatever we did, we did it in such a way as not to cause others to gossip,’ Kanta said by way of a rebuke. ‘We didn’t go over the line as you two are doing.’
‘What line have I crossed?’ Kanak asked. ‘What did I do that you didn’t?’
Nayyar spoke in a soothing tone, ‘There were others who put limits on our behaviour. We’re doing the same with you. That’s why you’re angry with us. But it’s for your own good.’
‘You can well understand that it’s natural for us to want to be together. Why are you weighing that against the conventions?’ Kanak tried again to overcome his opposition, ‘Think about your own past.’
‘I do. But sometimes it becomes necessary to put limits on what’s natural. That’s civilized behaviour. Behaviour becomes conventional before people call it socially acceptable. Speed is a feature of a motorcar, but if the motorcar has no brakes, that attribute can become deadly.’
Kanak did not appreciate Nayyar’s high-flown reasoning. In her irritation she retreated into herself. She sat down and wrote a letter to her father, and went to the post office to mail it. She went on to Puri’s hotel and told him all that had happened. After much discussion, Puri had to decide to go alone to meet Awasthi in Lucknow. Kanak gave him the addresses of Awasthi and Mrs Pant, and all the other information that she had. She also wrote a letter to Awasthi for Puri to carry with him.
At 4 o’clock, Kanak took Puri to the terminus from which buses left for Kathgodam railway station.
Puri went to Lucknow, leaving Kanak in a fix. She was sure that he would write and ask her to join him as soon as he found a job. But what would she do if her father didn’t reply before then? Would they be together on the day when the country achieved its independence? ‘He might come to take me back,’ she thought. She had mailed the letter to her father on the ninth. A reply by the twelfth was possible, but not certain. A letter from Puri should arrive by the thirteenth for sure. She wouldn’t wait after the thirteenth, come what may. She would be in Lucknow.
Between the months of April and September, there were two mail deliveries per day in Nainital. At both times, Kanak waited with her eyes on the gate. More than her father’s reply, she was anxious for a letter from Puri. She wanted to receive it herself from the postman. On the thirteenth the postman came around noon. Kanak was the first to go and collect the mail. It was an express delivery, addressed to Nayyar. Kanak recognized her father’s handwriting before giving it to him.
Nayyar first read the letter to himself before reading it aloud. Panditji had received Kanak’s letter on the morning of eleventh at 9 o’clock. He had written a reply immediately, and had it mailed at the General Post Office. In essence, he asked Kanak to wait. The assurance by the Muslim League and Congress to safeguard the rights of the minorities had had positive results, he wrote. The situation was comparatively peaceful. He welcomed Kanak’s intention of becoming independent and working for the government in the newly independent country. But he also asked her to wait before going so far away, until he had a chance to make some inquiries of his own. He ended the letter by saying that if the transfer of power went on peacefully on the fifteenth, there was every likelihood that peace would prevail. He would reach Nainital by the eighteenth, and discuss all these matters with the family.
Kanak was piqued by what she saw as her father’s old habit. He’ll neither say yes, nor no. He would tie her up with an elastic leash; one could go a certain distance, but not too far. Kanak declared at once, without mincing her words, ‘I’ve given my word to Awasthi. If I receive a letter from Lucknow any time now, I’ll have to go there.’
Kanta was really annoyed, ‘What new ways have you learned? Baba, we don’t want to hold you back. Get married first, and then go. Then it’s your problem.’
Nayyar also said to Kanta so that Kanak could hear, ‘If you were going to ignore pitaji’s advice, what was the point of asking him for it?’
Kanak remained steadfast in her resolve. She wouldn’t be able to stay back, she knew, once Puri asked her to come. She began to say something in reply to Kanta. The newspaper-seller arrived at that very moment.
Nayyar was glancing at the first page as he listened to Kanak. He spoke up, ‘Lord Mountbatten will arrive in Karachi tomorrow at 10 o’clock to hand over the administration to the government of Pakistan. At midnight on 14 August, Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah will be the new Governor General of Pakistan. India’s Constituent Assembly, under the presidency of Dr Rajendra Prasad, will assume power in Delhi at midnight.’
He continued in the same breath, ‘The train was stopped at the Lahore station because not a single person on it was found to be alive. It is estimated that over one thousand Hindu men, women and children were massacred at the Shahdara station. Then the train full of corpses was sent on to Lahore station. Afraid of the consequences of letting the train go further east, the railway authorities halted the train at Lahore. No information about the names and addresses of the murdered passengers was available.’ The newspaper also carried reports of wide-ranging cases of arson in Lahore city, and of a mass exodus of Hindus from the city.
‘Pitaji wrote the letter on the morning of the eleventh, and all hell broke loose in the afternoon!’ Kanta’s voice was quavering with fear. Everybody was quiet. Who could say what other disasters had occurred?
Kanak could not think of anything. Her mind was numbed by the cries of over one thousand men, women and children begging for their lives, and the thought of their being slaughtered with swords, spears and gunfire.
Chapter 15
LALA SUKHLAL, ALONG WITH A SISTER OF SOMRAJ, ESCORTED HIS SON’S BRIDE to her in-laws’ house. Their motorcar halted at the entrance of the Banni Hata Gali. Somraj’s mother and sisters came out to receive the bride, helped her to step down, her face veiled by the ghunghat, and led her to the doorway of the house. No brass band or fireworks celebrated the joyous occasion of her arrival as they had when the palanquin of Somraj’s first bride had arrived on his doorstep, but his mother, happy at having a pretty daughter-in-law that she had hand-picked, carried out all the rituals for a new bride entering the house. A niece of Somraj, with a brass lota full of water on her outstretched palm, stood beside the entrance. As the new bride crossed the threshold into her new home, the mother-in-law poured a bowlful of mustard oil on both sides of the entrance.
Tara was made to sit in a room filled with the women of her in-laws’ household. Her mother had dressed her in clothes of heavily embroidered silk. In the sultry heat of the July day, her body was bathed in perspiration. A portable electric fan was turning at one side of the room, but the draught it produced did not reach Tara through the circle of women.
The custom of unveiling the bride’s face for the first time was performed. After being called several times, Lala Sukhlal came up, coughing, and sat in front of Tara. After her face was unveiled for him, he presented her with a gold necklace, gave her his blessing and got up. Next was her mother-in-law, and she too gave her a similar gold ornament and her blessing. Several women who were close relatives took part in the little ceremony, presenting her with a pair of earrings or a ring. Somraj’s mother and sisters mentioned each woman’s name and her relation to the family. Some women from the community and neighbours in the gali, according to their closeness to the family, dropped notes and coins of five, two, one or one-quarter rupees in Tara’s lap.
They all commented happily, ‘The bride is pretty and respectful,’ and congratulated Tara’s mother-in-law. Somraj’s mother, in return, thanked them and wished happiness and prosperity to their families.
Amid the din of voices, some words of one of Somraj’s sisters reached Tara’s ears, ‘I don’t say she isn’t good-looking, but she’s not as breathtakingly beautiful as we were led to believe.’
Another voice said, ‘I heard that she’s very proud of having finished her BA.’
The first voice answered, ‘BA my foot! And she’d better keep her snootiness for her own parents’ home!’
Tara had the first taste of what she’d be facing at her in-laws.
The mother-in-law called to one of her daughters, ‘Maheshan, put out some clothes for your bhabhi. Let the poor thing have a bath. She’s drenched in sweat.’
The mother-in-law spoke with obvious affection for the bride of her choice. The indifference in the sister-in-law’s tone was equally obvious, ‘I’ve to look after things in the kitchen. All these people have to eat. You’ll blame me afterwards if nothing is done.’
The mother-in-law went and brought Tara a change of clothes, ‘Come, daughter, take a bath.’ She showed Tara the bathroom.
Although the wedding, given the state of unrest in the city, was performed without the usual elaborate ceremonial, nevertheless about twenty close friends and relatives had been invited for a feast. The whole house was filled with the savoury smells of cooking and spices, the clanging of pots and pans, and repeated calls to the guests to sit down for the meal.
After her bath, Tara had to wear another set of clothes of embroidered silk. When she returned to the room, her mother-in-law sent some food in a thali for her. What bride can feel like eating amidst the stress and tension of her first day in the new surroundings of her in-laws’? Tara was more thirsty than hungry. She took a glass of iced water, but there was no way she could avoid eating. She feared that a refusal to eat might be seen as an affectation. She somehow swallowed two puris. All the while she was conscious of the eyes of the girls and women around her watching how she broke off a piece of puri with her fingers, how she raised it to her lips, and how she drank from her glass. After she had finished eating, her mother-in-law asked the young girls sitting around her to give her some space to lie down and rest.
After dinner, around ten, one of the sisters-in-law asked Tara to follow her to a room on the third floor of the house and showed her to a bed. The room was brightly lit, and a dhurrie covered the floor. The blades of a ceiling fan spun overhead. Three large calendars hung on the walls. One showed Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, in the uniform of the commander-in-chief of the Indian National Army, holding the national tricolour. In the second, Sita, standing beside Lord Ram in a forest, was pointing at a golden deer. The third was an advertisement for some soap; a young woman with ample bosom putting on a blouse with her arms raised and the corner of her aanchal held between her teeth. On the wall behind the headboard of the bed hung the photograph of some old man in a thick, old-fashioned frame.
