This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 53
Groups of young pahari women stood on the sides of the road, wearing dark red lehangas, black waistcoats and chaddars of various dark colours. Mindful of being in a city and from a sense of propriety, they had covered their heads and faces with the end of their chaddars. But to get a good view of the festivities and of the men singing and dancing, they were holding their head coverings with two fingers, just above their forehead. Their eyes were wide with wonder. For this festive occasion they had decked themselves out in heavy collars of silver, necklaces of silver beads of five, six and even seven strands, silver nose studs and nose rings, with brightly coloured bindis on their foreheads.
Kanak drew Puri’s attention to the young women, ‘Hai, look at them! How innocent and shy they look!’ Perhaps she was thinking about the similarities and differences between herself and those women; women of the same country and of the same generation, but with such different circumstances and lifestyles.
The men sang jubilantly, with one hand over an ear in the pose of a pahari singer:
Chilama ki peech
Dui dandoo beech …
Puri and Kanak listened and watched with fascination. They did not understand the words, and the tune was as unfamiliar as was the rhythm of the tambourines. Finding the road blocked, a pahari gentleman from the lower-middle class, wearing a clean suit of heavy khaki cotton, stopped beside their bench. He noticed the inconvenience caused to the tourists by his fellow paharis. For the inhabitants of Nainital and other locals, all visitors to the resort were presumably well-to-do. Anyone who could afford the leisure to stay for a couple of months in a place as expensive as Nainital, had to be well off.
To excuse the nuisance created by such country bumpkins before this prosperous-looking young man and woman, the pahari man explained with a laugh, ‘Aaj ye shale bi mastia riye hain. Even these oafs are enjoying themselves today.’
‘What are they singing about? What kind of song?’ asked Puri.
‘It’s just a country song, a folk tune from the hills around here,’ the pahari tried to play down the singing before this well-dressed couple. ‘At one time, sahib, these people would never dare to sing and dance like this on the Mall Road. It’s all a matter of time, sahib. Once such country folk and coolies couldn’t even walk on the Mall Road.’
Puri was curious about the song. He again asked about its meaning, but the pahari, afraid that he might himself be regarded as another yokel, did not want to repeat the words of the song or explain what they meant.
The procession passed by, and the pahari man too said namaste, and went on his way.
Puri and Kanak sunk back into their preoccupations, and went back to discussing possible sources of income. After his return from Lucknow, Puri had been feeling uneasy in the lap of luxury and comfort at the Astoria. He did not feel at ease there, nor deserving of it. More than ever, he felt that he had been able to stay there only because of Kanak’s kindness and consideration, which he might have to forego at any moment. He was desperate to flee this trap of artificial luxury and return to Lahore, where despite all his problems, he at least felt at home, among his own people, and where he could somehow earn a wage, no matter how little. Once again, any possibility for him and Kanak of being together in the future seemed as far beyond his reach as the dream of a one-legged person wanting to scale a mountain.
Kanak said to him resolutely, ‘Whatever may happen, let’s stay with each other today at the time of the declaration of independence.’
‘What independence, and for whom?’ Puri asked with frustration. ‘Whose homes and families are being destroyed? Whose lives are being sacrificed? All these politicians know is how to take credit for something others have sacrificed their lives to achieve. Who do they think they are? At the time of the Quit India movement in ’42, when Congress leaders and workers alike were being arrested indiscriminately, these very same people would telephone the police to come and arrest them in their homes so that they didn’t have to fear being roughed up during their arrest. I too risked my life for the country’s freedom. I too went to prison. All I get now are sermons about the importance of building the nation!’
‘We don’t owe them anything,’ said Kanak. ‘If anyone deserves to celebrate, it’s people like you. You didn’t go to prison for any reward. You and I are young and able. Why should we be dependent on anybody? We’ll face whatever comes. But I’m going to confront Awasthi, some day soon. Listen to me! You’ve waited for so long, just wait for five days more. Pitaji has written that he’ll arrive here on the eighteenth. We should go back to Lucknow together. I’ll see what Awasthi has to say to me to my face.’
‘Do you mean to say that I didn’t know how to talk to them?’ Puri said with annoyance.
‘Hai, no such thing. I can never be as good as you. But I still want to remind Awasthi of the promise he made me,’ Kanak said gently to soothe his injured pride.
Puri’s anger boiled over. His belief was that if Kanak had accepted him as her husband, she no longer had any right to contradict him. He said, ‘You mean to flirt with him and get me a job? I would spit on such a job.’
‘What do you mean by flirting?’ His words stung Kanak.
‘If you choose to overlook what the PA meant, what can I do?’
Kanak thought for several moments before replying, ‘Why did you take the PA’s comment so much to heart? There are all types of people everywhere. Perhaps he reacted out of spite. Those bureaucrats are seldom helpful. It might have been different if you had met Awasthi. Maybe he was really busy at the time. We should go and meet Awasthi together.’
Puri was not to be placated.
Kanak said to him imploringly, ‘Are you always going to push me away? Our future depends on our being together.’
When Kanak returned to Vimal Villa at one o’clock, she found Nayyar reclining on an easy chair, silent and grim, with his hands clasped behind his head. Kanak’s first impression was that he was displeased with her having gone out. She went inside and saw that Kanta’s eyes were watery and red from wiping away tears.
Kanchan told her quietly, ‘Barrister Mirza sent an Express Delivery letter from Lahore. Some Muslim superintendent of police from Amritsar has broken open the locks of jijaji’s house in Model Town and installed himself in it. All Hindus have fled the area. Mirza has written that he telephoned the police and registered a complaint against the illegal occupation of the bungalow, but the police will be unlikely to take any action on a complaint against themselves.’
Kanak soon heard about other contents of the letter. Muslim refugees coming from the east had occupied both houses belonging to Nayyar in Tilak Gali in the Old Anarkali area, as well as most other houses in that gali. Mirza’s advice was that Nayyar should not return to Lahore for the moment, but should file a complaint from Nainital in the court of the Lahore District Commissioner against the illegal occupation of his property by persons unknown. And that Nayyar should send a letter appointing Mirza as his representative. Mirza had assured him that he would do whatever was within his power to protect Nayyar’s property.
Nayyar’s sister also had been crying. Kanta refused to eat any lunch; Kanak and Kanchan did not feel like eating either. Nayyar tried to eat a little to keep some semblance of self-control. Kanta’s eyes would fill with tears time and again. She said, ‘We were so dependent on the rents from our property. He seldom made more than four hundred rupees a month from his law practice.’
Tears flowed continuously from the eyes of Nayyar’s mother. She would dab them away, and address some unseen deity by joining her hands in prayer, ‘Wahe guruji, Parmeshwarji, we know whatever you wish will happen. Lord, you are the only one who can protect us.’
The mother-in-law of Nayyar’s sister Subhadra sat beside her and reminded her how the Saviour had helped others in distress, ‘He rescued the elephant from the jaws of the crocodile. He will save us too.’
Kanak was going to say some soothing words to her sister when they all heard the call, ‘Telegram!’
In the families of Nayyar and Panditji, telegrams did not always mean bad news. Still, both Kanak and Kanta were stricken for a moment by a sense of foreboding: What fresh disaster now! Kanak quickly went outside and signed for the telegram.
The telegram was addressed to Nayyar. Kanak opened it, not out of idle curiosity, but because she too wanted to shoulder the burden of this calamity, if there was one.
It was from her father: ‘Left Lahore on the twelfth and arrived safely here on thirteenth evening. Letter follows.’
Kanak cried out in surprise; the telegram had been sent from Delhi.
Just as a sense of danger makes animals and birds cluster together, much in the same way everyone in the family gathered around Kanak. She handed the telegram to Nayyar.
Apparently, Pandit Girdharilal had reached Delhi with his wife, having made the decision to leave Lahore immediately after the incidents of 11 August.
‘The Gwal Mandi house is gone too. And the printing press … all those stocks!’ Kanta began to weep again, ‘What’ll become of us now?’
‘What are you saying? He’s reached Delhi safely along with your mother. Isn’t that something to be happy about? He said he was sending a letter. Wait for it.’ Nayyar said, as if he wanted everyone to control their feelings of grief.
But Kanta could not hide the emotions raging in her heart. She went to the bathroom, and began to sob loudly with her face covered with her aanchal. The others too turned their eyes aside and looked away, to hide their emotions.
There was all that lentil paste, ground and ready, Kanta remembered. How would the dish be cooked if she continued to cry?
Suppressing her sniffles and sobs, she got ready to fry the lentil balls. Her heart might be filled with sorrow, but she had given her word to provide the dish for the banquet at the club that very evening. That banquet had been arranged not for the sake of her family alone. Which Punjabi family had remained untouched by the plundering of their homeland? It was not proper to let one’s personal problems get in the way of a celebration being held throughout the country. Of what importance was an individual’s existence before that of a country? This was a celebration of their country gaining independence.
Phool Singh, a native of Nainital, was surprised to know that the bare were to be fried in ghee, and not in mustard oil was prevalent in that region. They all had been wiping away their tears in silence as if their lips had been sewn shut, but the surprise shown by their servant loosened their tongues and made them exchange a few words.
They all took turns, two women shaping the paste into balls and dropping them into boiling ghee, and another scooping the fried balls out with a slotted ladle and soaking them in a pot of water. The water was then squeezed out and the bare were put in containers filled with yogurt, and sprinkled with various types of ground masala. It was a quarter past six by the time this work was over. After spending more than two hours working over the stove, the women were all drenched in perspiration.
Everyone must be ready by seven, Nayyar had told them in advance. Mahendra’s brother-in-law Ramprakash and Rajendra had dressed and left the cottage at six o’clock.
Kanak was aware that Puri would be waiting for her at seven, but she had to have a bath before that. Their cottage had only one bathroom, and they all needed hot water. This caused more delay. The women were also talking about which dresses to wear. Since they were going to an important event, they wanted to dress up as the occasion demanded. A woman’s fine clothes and jewellery are kept for such festive occasions. Subhadra wanted to wear a shalwar suit with gold and silver zari, brocade, and Kanta had also chosen for herself a zari-embroidered sari. Kanta asked her sisters to wear dresses with some zari in it, as well as some jewellery. Her view was that since everyone at the club would be dressed for the occasion, her family should not fall behind! Whatever was meant to happen had happened, but they still had to think of their good name. Such a festive occasion was a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Kanak tried her best, but still could not get dressed and leave at the appointed time. Nayyar, in a dinner suit, stood waiting for them in the veranda, saying irritably over and over, ‘It’s half past seven! What’s keeping you all?’
The shops on the Mall Road were decorated with lights as if it was the Diwali festival. The road too was well lit. The crowd milled about shoulder to shoulder, like the audience leaving a theatre. Hawkers stood in the middle of the roadway, crying their wares loudly. Groups of people singing and dancing blocked the road here and there. Kanak was looking carefully to spot Puri in the jostling crowd, but she reached the Capitol, without seeing him.
Kanak finally saw Puri, but Nayyar, walking just a few steps behind her, called out, ‘Hullo Puri! Where did you get to all this time?’ He held out his hand to Puri.
Nayyar held on to Puri’s hand as he listened to Puri’s reply. He asked, ‘Did you accept an invitation from someone?’
‘I don’t understand. An invitation from whom, to do what?’
‘You’re our guest tonight for dinner at the club. Come along.’
Nayyar kept his hold on Puri’s hand to make Puri walk beside him, and did not give Kanak a chance to get a word in edgeways. Kanak had begun to believe that Nayyar’s politeness towards Puri was only because of his snobbish and condescending attitude, but she did like the idea of inviting Puri to the banquet, after his disappointed and frustrated return from Lucknow. Now that Puri was going with them as a family friend, she thought, she’d be able to talk to him without reservations.
The hum of the crowd spilling out on the street gave an indication of the size of the gathering inside the club. As they entered, many people came forward to shake Nayyar’s hand. The Sikh transferred his whisky glass to his left hand, using his right to shake Nayyar’s hand vigorously, then to embrace him as he complained, ‘Yaar, late even on a day like this!’
Pandey approached them with long strides, unmindful of his drink slopping over. He pumped Nayyar’s hand, then shook hands with everyone else including Puri, surveyed the scene with the proud gaze of a victorious commander, and declared in English, ‘No political topics or discussion today. It’s the day of our liberation from foreign oppression.’
The lights and bright decorations inside the club were dazzling. Many men wore white khadi clothes and Gandhi caps, but many others like the Sikh, Pandey and Nayyar were in evening suits. The women wore glittering saris and shalwar suits.
The number of guests far exceeded the 200 dining room chairs available. Small groups were beginning to form of people acquainted with each other, or from the same social circle. There were also separate groups of males, groups of business people and professionals, a mixed group of men and women, a group of women only. A good many had drinks in their hands. Some women sitting on one side of the room held small glasses with liqueurs of various colours.
Pandey took Nayyar by the arm and pointed, ‘The bar is in that corner. It’s eight o’clock now. Dinner is at nine. The inaugural session of the Constituent Assembly is to begin at eleven. The radio will broadcast a running commentary, and the speeches of the President and the Prime Minister.’
Pandey took a step towards Kanta, and asked, ‘Bhabhi, what’ll you have? Sherry, port, vermouth, crème de menthe, Cointreau?’
‘No, no!’ Kanta shook her head and her hand to decline the invitation.
‘You, madam? You? And how about you, miss?’ Pandey asked all the women. They all declined.
Nayyar was heading towards the bar with Ramprakash for a whisky. He stopped, and asked Puri, ‘Come on, have one with us.’
Puri shook his head.
Nayyar insisted, ‘This occasion won’t ever come again.’
Puri begged to be excused.
Nayyar asked again, out of politeness, ‘Half a peg?’
‘No, Nayyar. Never force a person,’ Pandey stopped Nayyar. ‘Don’t forget the rule about whisky. Never abuse whisky. Don’t offer it to someone who can’t appreciate it. And don’t offer it to someone who can’t hold it. We’ve only got forty-two bottles. And twelve bottles of rum. That’s all. There are Punjabi tipplers here, like you and sardarji. He needs one bottle all to himself.’
On several large tables in two halls, a great variety of Indian and Western-style meat and vegetable dishes, kebabs, snacks, rice, pilafs and breads, and mithai and desserts were piled in mounds or arranged on salvers and bowls, and cooking pots. At nine, several prominent and well-known members of the club went around inviting the guests to help themselves at the buffet.
The guests surrounded the food-laden tables. They served themselves helpings of what they wanted on plates, and stood around talking and eating. A great many did not come to the buffet table, but hovered in corners busily talking with drinks in their hands. For Subhadra and Urmila, eating standing up was a totally new experience. Kanak and Kanchan showed them how to serve themselves. Kanak filled a plate for herself and one for Puri, and they both stood on one side of the room.
At quarter to eleven, no one was interested any longer in eating, and half the food piled on the tables remained untouched. Joshi, accompanied by Chawla, came up and complained, but with pride, ‘People hardly ate anything. Not one dish was finished. We worked so hard for nothing! I told everybody that I would take the blame if even one dish fell short. A whole bucketful of ice cream is lying untouched, but sahib, there’s not a drop of whisky or rum!’ He wiggled his thumb in self-vindication. ‘Visheshwar babu and Gairola are really angry. They couldn’t find even a glass of liquor. But they arrived late and the guys had cleaned out the bar by then. What could I do?’
‘Silence please! Silence please! Listen! Listen!’
The buzz of conversation in the halls died down. A radio announcer’s voice, speaking in English, was heard:
‘… The members of the Constituent Assembly have taken their seats. Dr Rajendra Prasad, President of the Assembly, is entering the hall. Dr Rajendra Prasad is wearing white khadi clothes.
