This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 68
Her crying did die away, gradually, on its own. She also became more relaxed and less negligent of her appearance. She would sweep and clean the rooms or help in the kitchen without being told to do so. She began washing her own clothes, and her hair too.
Jagdish and his father had not been able to come back for the rest of the family, but their letters arrived regularly. Their business was beginning to take hold, because of their past contacts, but they had not been able to find any accommodation. Both were still staying with a business associate, content that at least the boy, his sister and his mother were living without discomfort in Jalandhar. Beyji too had written back to tell them that they should look after their health and establish themselves first.
Narang had realized how hard it was to find a house in Delhi, so he bought one that had been partially destroyed in Karol Bagh and began restoring it. Making it habitable was taking some time, and Beyji was waiting word of its renovation being complete.
Puri too had got news of his family. Amar Chand, the younger brother of Professor Pran Nath, had heard the mention of Jaidev Puri’s name on the radio, and told Puri’s father about it. Master Ramlubhaya had had no idea of Jaidev’s whereabouts until then; he could have been still at Nainital or maybe had reached Lucknow. Masterji had been worried and distressed about not being able to contact Jaidev, but he believed that his son was safe, whether in Nainital or in Lucknow, and wrote to him immediately.
Jaidev’s father explained everything in detail: Bhola Pandhe’s Gali had been plundered and burnt down. Jaidev’s family, along with the families of Tikaram and Birumal, had been moved to the Devsamaj Mandir refugee camp in Krishna Nagar. At that time, Professor Nath was still lodged at a hotel. Nath had told Masterji to take his family to the sugar mill owned by the professor’s family at Sonwan in UP. And there they had all remained since then.
Arjun Lal Shah, the professor’s father, had given shelter to Jaidev’s family in recognition of Mastreji’s service to the family of Seth Gopal Shah. Masterji had been given a job as a clerk at the mill’s godown, and also acted as tutor to the children of the owner’s family in his spare time. He was earning, by God’s grace, about seventy rupees every month. They had a rent-free house in the mill compound, and free coal and firewood for their kitchen. Wheat, milk, ghee and such foodstuffs were relatively inexpensive in the countryside where they lived. But he had become anxious and distressed again after hearing news that Jaidev was in Jalandhar. He asked Puri to move at once to Sonwan. Jaidev’s mother was anxious to see her eldest son.
Beyji congratulated Puri on getting the news of his family. She also encouraged him, ‘You wouldn’t know this, Kakaji, but parents’ guts turn inside out in concern for their children. You must go and meet them.’ Sood also gave his approval, ‘Yes, go, and bring them back here with you.’
Puri did not want to neglect his duties for the sake of his family. Rikhiram was not showing the same zeal to supervise the press as he had done before his salary was decided. And Sood had been consulting Puri of late as a trusted friend in the process of outmanoeuvring his political opponents.
The Chhatrapati newspaper of Lahore was issuing a condensed daily edition in Jalandhar. At the suggestion of Sood, Puri occasionally wrote in it to explain the views of the left-wing Congress on the problems of refugees, and on the policies of the newly formed Congress government. The new government had appointed Sood as parliamentary secretary to win his support, but Sood and his group were not happy. They wanted Sood to have a seat in the council of ministers. Puri was busy in that campaign too.
In this life of relative comfort and ease, Puri had not forgotten the plight of other refugees. He had been appointed to several positions of trust connected with refugee settlement, and spent an hour or two every morning and evening at the office of the Sangh discharging his duties. The government scheme to distribute free clothing to the refugees operated under his supervision. He had also to keep his eye on another politician, Devi Das, who had been trying to wrest this responsibility out of his hands.
In addition to such weighty duties, Puri did not care to keep Praveen, Urmila and Beyji under his protection alone. Despite the presence of the ever-watchful Beyji, he constantly nursed the hopes of stealing a moment or two alone with Urmila. She was reverting to her old coquettish self, in fits of teasing and enticements. She whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t go.’
Puri sent his father a money order for one hundred rupees. He wrote to him in detail, giving a hint of his weighty problems, and asking the family not to put themselves out for money or anything else. He also wrote that he’d soon come to Sonwan to meet them all.
The rumble and clatter of machines in operation in his own press had never stopped Puri from concentrating on his work; it rather inspired him to work on. It was like music to his ears, and gave him a sense of power and achievement. Along with this feeling of accomplishment and zest for work existed, as a pleasant tension, the thought of Urmila upstairs. But this chain of thought, like a pleasant tune running through his head, would be broken by the jarring note of the memory of Kanak. In that state of confusion, a curtain would descend over his mind, paralysing him. A picture of Kanak’s face, her eyes blazing and her expression stern, would appear on the curtain, and to one side, he would see the tiny face of Urmila, with her cute smile.
Puri knew that Kanak had some rights over him, but what about his own rights and responsibilities towards Urmila? If he owed something to Kanak, he also owed something to Urmila. Tall and independent, Kanak wanted to support him in his struggle, but Urmila needed to be held in his arms and supported by him.
The relief that Beyji had felt at Urmila shedding her stony indifference and behaving normally had turned into another worry for her. Urmila and Puri were becoming so obsessed with each other as to be oblivious to others around them.
One day Beyji could not help but scold her. Urmila shot back testily in reply, ‘What are you cooking up now in your mind! If you can’t stand to see me talking and laughing, just give me some rat poison.’
Beyji did not dare to grab Urmila by her plait and give her a couple of slaps as once she would have done. She was her daughter, but was now also a grown-up woman like herself. She shut her mouth, but made sure that Urmila got no chance to behave in a way that might call for rebuke. What could she say to Puri? His behaviour had been ostensibly beyond reproach. She thought of him as a good person, and she was under an obligation to him. The fault lay with her daughter. Urmila’s natural inclinations, lying dormant under her despair, were reawakening. Beyji was reminded of Urmila’s flirtations at Murree that had caused her so much shame. How could she fault others when her own coin was tainted? She was at a loss as to how to handle the girl. She could not bear to see her daughter crying silently and wasting away in grief. But Urmila’s now radiant and smiling face also caused her acute embarrassment. She would think, ‘How will her father and brother feel when they see her in this state?’ And she would tell herself, ‘It’s best if we can be rid of her by marrying her off somehow, and do so quietly, without further embarrassment. How would I face her father and brother? Spare them this humiliation, O God.’
In the first week of November, Puri had gone one evening to the office of the State Congress Committee, and from there to several meetings at different places, all through the night. He returned home at 9.30 the next morning. As he entered the house, Raldu told him that Beyji had sent for a tonga carriage at six in the morning, and gone to the railway station with Praveen and three suitcases. She had said that she was going to Delhi.
Puri knew that the train to Delhi left at 7.30 a.m. What could he do? He went upstairs and found Urmila lying on the chatai with her head shrouded in a dupatta. He called her name, and she broke into loud sobs. No explanation was needed, and nothing needed to be said. He sat beside her, and pulled her into an embrace. His hands wiped away her tears, and his lips pressed on hers to stifle her cries, ‘Don’t cry! Am I not here? Mere sir ki kasam, what is there to fear when we have each other?’
Urmila threw her arms around him, and burying her head in his chest, sobbed her heart out.
Chapter 2
WHEN PURI READ IN THE NEWSPAPERS IN NAINITAL THAT THE PAKISTAN government was evacuating Hindus from Lahore, he left immediately to be of help to his family. Kanak did not think it proper to stop him from leaving, even though it wrenched her heart.
From the day after his departure she had sunk into the deepest gloom at the thought of the danger he faced. Every nerve in her body ached for some news of him. In her anxiety she went through every newspaper available at the Library. The New Club was the place for news from Punjab. Many newly arriving Punjabis showed up there.
After the celebration dinner on 14 August, Puri had stayed in Nainital until the twentieth. Kanak had not felt like going to the Club during those evenings. To avoid being asked to accompany her family to the Club, she left the bungalow just before 6 o’clock every evening. But on the twenty-third, in her eagerness to get some news of Punjab, she offered to accompany Nayyar to the Club. At first, everything looked the same as the week before, but she soon noticed that the number of Punjabis had increased.
Some Punjabis played bridge, rummy, flush and other card games with the locals. Others sipped tea, coffee or a drink as they conversed with the other members. A group of them talked excitedly in the lounge. The newly arrived told breathtaking tales of escaping from the jaws of death. A young man just back from Rawalpindi and a mission to rescue the family of his in-laws was telling about his experience. It was not possible to travel by road or railway, so he had taken a flight from Amritsar. One could not go around safely in Rawalpindi without a police escort.
Others were talking about the vengeful attacks on Muslims in eastern Punjab. How all passengers in the Punjab Mail had been massacred near Ludhiana on 21 August, and similar attacks on trains to Pakistan in the cities of Ferozepur and Amritsar. Some tales of the atrocities were even more gruesome.
Kanak trembled at the thought of the hazards that Puri might have had to face. Losing their homes and property had left these Punjabis distraught with shock, embittered and desperate; they played the martyr, and pretended to be better and from a higher class than the locals. They gambled recklessly in card games to show that they did not care, and drank heavily. They all claimed to have suffered losses of five, ten or twenty lakhs. Kanak had seldom heard of anyone in Lahore being worth that much.
A young man wearing an ordinary, well-worn suit stood near Nayyar, with an angry expression and an embittered look in his eyes. He was talking loudly about his whole family being murdered, and about losing property worth lakhs. Seated across from him on a sofa next to two women, Kanak listened attentively. The danger and suffering the man had undergone tore at her heart.
The man put his hand amiably on Nayyar’s shoulder. ‘Have a whiskey,’ he said, as if wanting to put aside his own pain and suffering.
Nayyar accepted his offer.
The man summoned the bearer and ordered whiskey. Glass in hand, he resumed the story of his horrifying adventure. Nayyar and others listened to him sympathetically.
The man looked at the people gathered round him as he told his story. Kanak’s eyes, like the others’, were fixed at him. She did not like the way he looked into her eyes if their gaze happened to meet. She averted her eyes. Nayyar had barely taken a couple of swallows of his drink before the man drained his glass. He asked Nayyar to have another.
‘I still have mine. You go ahead,’ Nayyar said.
The man called for another. He finished his second before Nayyar had finished his first. The man insisted, ‘You’ll have to have another, to keep me company.’
Nayyar swallowed his drink and agreed to have half a peg.
Third drink in hand, the man concluded his story and launched into a bitter diatribe against the Indian government and the state of UP, ‘…Here they are firing upon people attacking the Muslims.’ He criticized Gandhiji and Prime Minister Nehru. He drained his glass, put his arm affably around Nayyar and offered him another drink for company’s sake. Nayyar politely refused, but the man ordered one more for himself.
The man’s excessive show of familiarity offended Kanak. She had never seen such vulgar consumption of alcohol in Lahore. Irritated by the man’s ogling glances, she turned her attention to others in the group. Most Punjabis were vehement in their demand for the expulsion of all Muslims from UP, Bombay, Madras, Bengal and other Indian provinces. ‘…Either we Punjabi refugees should be allowed to expropriate properties, lands and businesses from Muslims, or we should be given a free hand to make up for the losses that we’ve suffered.’
One of them disagreed, ‘That’s unrealistic! There’s such a thing as law and order. There are not many Muslims in India who own land and businesses.’
‘Whatever! We should have the chance to make good what we have had taken from us. We sweated and worked hard for what we had,’ another person replied angrily.
It was past 10.30. Kanak had made several signs to Nayyar that she wanted to leave. Nayyar held out his hand to the man who had been with him to say goodbye, ‘I’ll take my leave of you.’
‘You’re leaving? I too must be off. See you again. Please settle the bill, if you don’t mind.’
Nayyar looked at the man with surprise, ‘But…’ The man cut him short. ‘Baadshaho, what’s wrong? We’ve lost lakhs of rupees and never whined. This is only 8 or 10 rupees.’ He walked off towards the next room, his face tight.
Nayyar was taken aback. Sympathetic listeners to the man’s story stood around him. He smiled and signed the bill.
Kanak fumed at Nayyar as they came out of the Club, ‘What weird friends you have!’
‘Friend? I saw him today for the first time. Wonder whose guest he was? What else could I do? People are turning into such goondas!’
A whole week passed without any letter from Puri. Kanak was confident that he would send some news, wherever and in whatever condition he might be. ‘Don’t you know how worried I’d be?’ Vexed by the tormenting thoughts of what might have gone wrong, she would curse herself, ‘Why did I let him leave? If he had to, I should have arranged for him to go by air. Or I could have gone with him. We would face the dangers together. And would have been together if…’
As a result of how she had been brought up to believe, and encouraged to think by her father, Kanak could not imagine any other differences between her own and a man’s abilities, except physical strength. But from the accounts and stories she had recently heard and been told, it seemed that being a girl or a woman was the worst fate one could imagine.
Nayyar’s hostility to her feelings for Puri was fresh in her mind, but Kanak still forced herself to ask for his help in finding out about Puri. Nayyar himself was distraught with worry on account of his own problems. He had come to Nainital with only two thousand rupees in his pocket. He usually made payments by bank cheques. He had written a cheque for the rent for their bungalow for July. All the shopkeepers with whom he had credit were paid by cheques at the month’s end. On 8 or 9 August, he had written to his bank in Lahore to send a draft of one thousand rupees drawn on the Nainital branch of either the Allahabad Bank or the Imperial Bank. Neither had the letter, nor his telegram sent as a reminder, been answered.
His bank would send the draft once the storm had died down after 15 August, Nayyar had thought; it was only a matter of time. His worries knew no end when he heard, at the end of August, that an embargo had been imposed on the transfer of funds from one country to the other between Pakistan and India. The outlays spent on his own and his brother-in-law’s family and on his two sisters-in-law were his responsibility. He regretted not following Panditji’s advice to transfer his accounts to a bank in India, and not going back to Lahore to empty his safety deposit boxes of the family’s jewellery and property deeds. What would he do for a living if he couldn’t return to Lahore? He had little time or inclination to listen to Kanak’s problems.
Kanta was in a daze too. To her, it seemed she was to blame for everything. She was the one who controlled the housekeeping budgets. Would she lose face before others? Would the family be brought to starvation? How could she ask her father for anything? He himself had barely managed to flee to Delhi, and had not been able to find proper accommodation in the three weeks he had been there. Nayyar had invited him to Nainital, but he had deferred, so as to avoid the embarrassment of being a burden.
Kanta could not pretend to be happy and carefree like Nayyar. She didn’t want her brother-in-law’s family and Nayyar’s sister to know about their financial hardships, but she also had to cope with the dwindling funds. The amount of ghee used for cooking was drastically reduced. A single vegetable dish and daal replaced the two vegetable dishes, meat course and the daal on which they usually dined. She had her own daughter and three children of Nayyar’s sisters to care for. Instead of four seers of milk per day, she began buying one-and-a-half seers. But her efforts to manage the household had the opposite effect. The pressure to make do with less money led to an explosive situation.
The mother of her brother-in-law looked on these austerity measures as a personal affront. Since her childhood, she had been in the habit of having a glass of milk before she went to bed, and a glass of fresh buttermilk on an empty stomach in the morning. Without such a diet, she suffered from dryness of skin, constipation, and dizziness. The mother-in-law remarked testily, ‘If milk’s become so dear, we’ll get one-and-a-half seers separately for ourselves. We had two milch buffaloes in our backyard back home.’
Nayyar got a shock when he saw that his sister Subhadra ignored their financial difficulties and sided with her mother-in-law’s unreasonable attitude. Her complaints were even more bizarre, ‘…When we first arrived, they bought mangoes and peaches every other day. Our children have become such a burden that they’ve stopped buying fruit. Now we’re being asked to eat chapattis with only daal at both meals. All three sisters like to gad about. They stuff themselves at some restaurant every time they go out, but there’s no money when we’re concerned. Had we found a bungalow for our family, we wouldn’t have had to face such humiliation. If we’ve become a liability, I’ll cook whatever skimpy meals we eat on a separate brazier in the veranda.’ She began to cry.
