This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 67
Urmila would sit near them, or some distance away, and listen to their talk. Bored with the repeated reviews of her problem, she would go and lie down in the next room, or take up some chore about the house.
Lowering her voice, Beyji said to Puri, ‘I’d decided, no matter what people say, that I’d wait for six months and then enrol her into the women’s or some other college. She’s at the age when she can learn something and become self-supporting. Males are different, they all end up finding something or other to do. I worry for her. I want her to get some training, in the medical line if she can. What else is there for her? Whatever little I’ve saved, I want to spend, to give her a start in life. But for this upheaval I’d have had her signed up somewhere. We’ll see what’s possible once we’re in Delhi.’
In the days when the Narang family had been living well, and in comfort, in Lahore, Beyji had little time or inclination to go to a temple or attend keertan-singing sessions. Living the good life, she would say, without causing suffering to others was the true form of devotion. A group of refugee women, distraught with grief and traumatized by violence, and eager to throw themselves at God’s mercy, had been gathering near the press building, every morning and evening, to perform keertan in the hope of divine compassion. Beyji began attending these sessions to lighten her own grief. It was better to remember God, she said, than continually to remember one’s misfortunes.
Puri, out of politeness, walked a few steps with her, to see Beyji off when she went to the bazaar for shopping or to the keertan meetings. During those few minutes together, she confided in him comments that she avoided in front of Urmila. ‘What more can I say, kakaji. They say that when someone suffers a serious blow, their nature changes. But with the attitude that girl had, who knows if she’ll ever be serious about studying? Her lavan-phere ceremony was performed; otherwise she’s still a virgin. It’d be best to let a year or two pass, to let her heart become a bit lighter, and then find a suitable boy for her.’
Puri enthusiastically supported her view, ‘Give her the chance to get some education. Then think of settling her down. It’d be best if you did both. But you must do something. She can’t go on the way she is now.’
Urmila’s mute indifference to herself in reaction to her tragic past seemed to Puri a cruel twist of fate. Her sorrow wrenched at his heart. Married only for two months, after spending two days with her in-laws her husband was murdered, how was she to blame for this cruel blow that fate had dealt her? Her misfortune was the result of other people’s folly, of the war between two communities, for which others rather than the poor innocent were to be blamed. Puri and some like-minded and level-headed persons had tried, but had failed, to prevent the disastrous consequences of that confrontation. In her eyes, he must look as guilty as anyone, because of his helplessness to avert her misfortune.
In the depths of his heart, he felt guilty for another crime of omission. He had contributed to her misfortune by resisting her unquenchable, earthy desire for love, her lust for life as vibrant as an electric current. He was the one who had rejected her at the Murree hill resort, he had ignored her needs. He had let her suffer all the shame, the disrepute, the frustration and the blame for the incident. What would have happened if he had acted more boldly? An understanding mother like Beyji would surely have handled that situation diplomatically. Would Urmila have been able to avert her misfortune then?
Letters written in Urdu from Narang and Jagdish in Delhi arrived every fourth or fifth day, full of gratitude for Puri’s kindness and with the request that he reassure Beyji, Urmila and Praveen. Delhi had hardly any accommodation available, and they were trying to make some permanent arrangements before sending for the family. Jagdish sometimes included a brief note meant for his mother, written in Hindi. Puri read his letters aloud to Beyji and Urmila, adding, ‘Until some arrangement is made in Delhi, this is your home. Think of me as just the same as Jagdish or Praveen. And until I find something about my own people, you are my family. How can I let go of your affection and the comfort of your company?’
Eyes closed and palms joined, Beyji would pray to God to reunite Puri soon with his family, and assure him that she did in fact regard him in the same light as Jagdish.
Sitting in his office, Puri’s ears echoed with the din and rattle of the press machines, and his head spun with the thought of Urmila upstairs, vulnerable, cursed by fate, a bud that had been shattered by a hailstorm before it had opened. An afterthought would be the memory of the letter he had written to Kanak at Nainital. How the tragedy of Urmila would sadden her.
Puri would go upstairs for lunch, after being summoned by Praveen, usually around midday. He would also go upstairs around 10 o’clock, and then again around three to look in on Urmila. He would call, even if Beyji or Praveen were present, ‘Urmi, get me a glass of water.’
With downcast eyes, Urmila would silently bring him the water, and resume her position on the chatai with her back to the wall, or go quietly to sit somewhere else.
Puri thought that Urmila’s all-consuming grief was the reason for her silence and her reluctance to speak to him. But there was a pinch of guilt too in his thinking: Didn’t I cause her enough trouble at Murree? Why would she want to speak to me? Feeling ashamed of the wrong he had done, he now wanted to put things right.
Ignoring her silence and even the lack of any sign that she was paying attention, he would strike up some conversation in her presence with others about the problems and troubles people were facing after the Partition. He described Gandhiji’s efforts to keep communal peace in Delhi. Or he talked about women who had not married, or had been widowed, but still had accomplished something for themselves by getting an education. After completing the Hindi Prabhakar certificate, he said, one could qualify for a university bachelor’s degree and then a master’s. And if some young woman passed the two-and-a-half year L.M.P. course, she could lead a respectable life as a medical practitioner.
Beyji, already deeply indebted to Puri for his generosity, didn’t want to let him spend any more on the family. She said to him, ‘Kakaji, what do men know about cooking and groceries! Stop bothering about it.’ When she went for her keertan meeting in the mornings, either alone or with Praveen, she shopped for vegetables and other foodstuffs. When the need arose, she would get some in the evening too. She had not minded doing such jobs in Lahore when she had servants, and wasn’t embarrassed to do them now.
When Puri saw her leaving, he would say, ‘Why don’t you take Urmi along? A walk would do her good, change her mood.’ Urmila just shook her head in refusal if invited by her mother.
Puri had given Urmila some popular fiction to read. ‘Have you read anything?’ he would ask her. ‘What did you read?’
He had not heard a reply to his letter to Kanak. What became of it, he often thought. Probably they had moved to another city, and the letter had to be redirected. Enough time had passed for some kind of response since the letter had been sent by registered post. Maybe Nayyar is behind all this. Not a nice person, and so vain about his wealth and status, and jealous in the bargain.
In the afternoon of the twelfth day, his letter came back. On it was inscribed in red ink: Left station.
Puri’s heart sank. What else could he do to find her? He had lost his family, and now Kanak. His head buzzed. With eyes fixed unseeingly on the rafters overhead, he imagined: A vast flood has engulfed Lahore. The houses were coming down, crashing one by one. He had been absent on some business, and had returned to find the city inundated. Swift-moving streams were flowing through the bazaars, sweeping men and women along in its current. Hundreds of persons were being swept along into one immense swath of river. He had got hold of a floating beam and so was saved from drowning. He was searching for his family, but had found that they were gone. He saw Kanak, also holding on to a beam like himself. He called, but she did not hear. Next to her was Urmila, caught in a whirlpool, about to be pulled under. He was scared … his hands touched and grabbed Urmila by the hair.
Puri shook his head and made an effort to concentrate on the papers in front of him. His thoughts drifted off again. If Kanak had had to move away, couldn’t she leave instructions at the post office to forward her mail? She was not helpless and naive like Urmila; she was able to instruct others, to speak with clerks and officials. Didn’t she want to hear from him? What more could he do now?
His hands capped the fountain pen on the desk and put it into his shirt pocket. Biting his lip to suppress the disappointment welling up in his heart, he went upstairs.
He sat on one of the charpoys, took a deep sigh and called out to Praveen to get a drink of water. His concern for Urmila’s misery prevented him from asking her.
Nobody answered; neither Beyji, nor Praveen. Urmila, a dupatta wrapped around her head and shoulders and eyes downcast, brought a tumbler of water. She held it out to Puri.
‘Beyji and Praveen not home?’
Urmila shook her head to say no.
He accepted the tumbler and put it under the charpoy. He said in a breathy voice, ‘Urmi!’ and took her wet hand into his. She pulled hers back.
‘Urmi, don’t you know me any more,’ asked Puri, putting his arm around and pulling her closer as one tries to soothe a whimpering child.
Urmila did not say a word. She turned away and tried to wriggle free.
Puri held the hem of her kameez, and implored, ‘Listen to me just this once …’
Still silent, she yanked her shirtfront to free it from his grip. The cloth ripped. She scowled at him and kept an angry silence.
The ripping noise made him release his grip.
Flustered and embarrassed, Puri said, ‘Urmi, I sympathize with your sorrow, but you have to keep a brave front, no matter what happens in life.’
Urmila stood silently, a little away from him.
Praveen’s jubilant voice came from the foot of the stairs, ‘Bhappaji, look what I got!’
Praveen had called out towards the office, presuming that Puri was there. Beyji was a few steps behind him. They both carried bags of groceries.
Puri reached under the charpoy to retrieve the tumbler. He was still agitated from Urmila’s response to his emotional outburst, and Beyji was now back in the house. Who knows what she might tell her mother in revenge, he thought nervously. Tension dried his throat. He gulped water slowly.
Praveen called out again on reaching the top of the stairs and brandished freshly roasted corn-on-the-cob, ‘Bhappaji, look at these!’
Puri found it difficult to share Praveen’s excitement.
Beyji noticed Puri’s serious expression, as he seemed to have difficulty in swallowing his drink of water. Urmila moved further away on hearing Beyji’s footsteps, and stood against the wall.
Beyji’s eyes travelled from Puri’s face to Urmila, standing in front of him. Her kameez looked freshly torn.
Beyji’s expression became solemn, at what she guessed had happened. She felt compelled to ask Urmila, ‘Why is your kameez torn?’
‘I was lying down, and it got snagged when I tried to get up.’ Urmila’s voice tailed off.
‘Hai, it got so little wear, it was almost new.’ Beyji wisely chose to limit her uneasiness to the tear in the kameez.
Puri did not accept the ear of corn offered by Praveen. Without meeting her eye, he told Beyji, ‘Rikhiram makes such mistakes at times that it makes your head spin.’ He got up and left.
Puri’s gloomy expression at dinner made Beyji inquire politely the reason for his anxiety. Sighing deeply to indicate his inner feelings, he replied, ‘I’ve had a letter from Delhi Radio that my message was broadcast twice, but got no reply from anyone in my family. These broadcasts reach most refugees. Why no answer? Who can tell?’
Beyji said kindly, ‘God bless those radio people. They may broadcast it again. Kakaji, who knows where people uprooted by this cataclysmic upheaval might have landed? There must be places without radios.’
Puri breathed easily again. Urmila must have said nothing to her mother.
Saddened by his failure to contact Kanak and despite his own disappointment, Puri had tried to comfort Urmila by sharing her sorrow. His kindness had met with a rebuff. At Murree she had been the one eager to yield to him, and now she couldn’t stand his touch! On top of his sorrow and pain this rejection wounded him really deeply.
What if Urmila had let out how her kameez was torn, Puri thought. ‘Why should I be angry at her? The poor girl once invited me to share her unbridled love and passion; don’t I owe something to her for that? I must help her forget her pain. I’m a man, I can handle my pain, I must wait and face up to whatever comes. The circumstances that have kept Kanni away from me have to be overcome. Urmila is stuck in limbo; the poor thing needs my help.’
In Beyji’s presence, he spoke with Urmila as freely as usual, but anxiously awaited a chance to speak to her when they could be alone.
On the third day, Beyji and Praveen went to the keertan meeting in the morning. Puri went upstairs to Urmila and said in a voice trembling with emotion, ‘Urmi!’
Urmila, looking down, motioned as if to ask ‘what?’
‘You’re so annoyed with me that you won’t even speak to me?’
She shook her head in denial.
‘Listen!’ Puri said, reaching for her hand.
She pulled her hand back, but remained sitting.
Without trying to hold her hand again, he sighed deeply and said tenderly, ‘Listen Urmi, I know what you’re going through. There can’t be a greater pain, but it’s one that can be made to go away. I mean, it’s alright to grieve and wait for something to happen; but why mourn for ever,’ he sighed even more deeply. ‘And why think of something that can’t come true? Why let yourself waste away, pining and grieving? You have your whole life in front of you, Urmi.’
Urmila inclined her head, but made no reply.
Puri put his hand on her shoulder as he got up, saying, ‘Get hold of yourself, Urmi. Don’t ruin your life like this. Be brave and look forward.’
Urmila had not shrunk away from his touch. Puri was relieved. He said nothing more, and went to the bathroom to have a wash.
Beyji had returned by the time he came back. Urmila was crying, he saw, and her mother was consoling her by patting her head. Puri kept quiet. When a short while later, he found Beyji alone as he was going downstairs, he asked quietly, ‘What’s the matter? Why was Urmi crying? Is she all right?’
Tears appeared in Beyji’s eyes, ‘She doesn’t say anything. Kakaji, what else can she do but grieve!’ She began to cry, ‘Hadn’t shed tears like that for some time. I asked repeatedly, but she didn’t say a word.’
Puri took the newspaper along when he went up for lunch. He read aloud the news of Gandhiji’s speech that India and Pakistan should have friendly and even brotherly relations. Both governments should invite back the refugees who had fled their homelands.
‘He’s a saint. What more can one want if that happens? God bless him! We had over two lakh rupees worth of stock in our godowns, we owned property. We just want to be able to live again like human beings.’ Beyji prayed to God with joined hands.
Puri had addressed his remarks to Urmila, in hopes that she would reply, but she remained silent. When he next went up for his afternoon drink of water, he saw that she was again weeping in silence.
He looked at Beyji with questioning eyes, but got no answer. Calling her affectionately ‘my dear’, he asked Urmila the reason for her tears. When she did not reply, he went back downstairs without saying anything more.
Next morning Puri was waiting for Beyji to leave for her keertan gathering. He went upstairs as soon as she had stepped out. Taking Urmila’s hand into his own, he asked gently, ‘Why were you crying yesterday, Urmi?’
She tried to pull back her hand, but he did not let go. He said, ‘Mere sir ki kasam, swear on my life, that you’ll tell me why you cried? You have to tell me.’ As if his right to know was even greater than Beyji’s.
Urmila burst into tears again.
Holding on to her hand, he put his arm around her shoulder, ‘A good, brave sensible girl like you shouldn’t cry like this. Take heart. Don’t let on to anyone what I’ve been saying to you. Beyji told me that that the rite of lavan-phere was performed only in name, that you never stayed with your husband. As it is, you didn’t even know him. You’re still a virgin. Beyji wants to let some time pass before …’
Whenever he got the chance, Puri would put his arm around her, pull her close, and press his chin on her head, and kiss the parting in her tousled hair. Tears would well up in Urmila’s eyes.
For about a week, Urmila could be seen weeping quietly once or twice during the day. Beyji’s worry knew no end. Puri advised, ‘She’s definitely not feeling well. Take her to a doctor, or I’ll have one come here.’
He had told Beyji to show her daughter to a doctor, but he knew that he himself was the cause of her tears, and was convinced that he alone could cure her. Her sorrow had hardened into a rock which the warmth of his affection and sympathy had melted, and it was now leaking out in her tears. He was healing the pain that wrenched at her heart, and this gave him comfort and satisfaction. Consoling Urmila by taking her into his arms and kissing her hair filled him with a feeling of contentment and generosity, but also made his nerves tingle with a pleasant titillation that brought back memories of Kanak. Clutching the short and slender Urmila to his heart was less demanding and gave him more satisfaction than holding the robustly healthy Kanak, who was as tall as himself, in his arms.
Urmila was not willing to consult a doctor, nor would she allow one to visit her. Her mother found this increasingly worrisome. Urmila would retort in irritation, ‘Do you think I’m going to die? When did I cry? Did you see me cry?’
