This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 72
Kashish was delighted to meet the daughter of an old acquaintance. He was full of praise for the promise that Kanak had shown as a writer, and gave his word that Pairokaar would welcome her contributions in future, as well as help her in getting recognition as a journalist. He seemed ready to do anything to help the daughter of someone as respectable as Panditji.
‘But,’ he placed his elbows on the desk, interlaced the fingers of both hands, and spoke in English as if sharing a secret, ‘you’re just like my own daughter. Believe me, and I’m telling you the truth, that a newspaper office is not a place fit for a respectable woman. I’d never advice the daughter of my esteemed friend to work in one. Would it be proper for a young woman to work surrounded by so many men? There’s a lot of loose talk and indecent jokes in such places. Not fit for a girl from any respectable family. My advice would be to work at some school for girls, or do social work among women.’
Kashish thumped the desk with his hand, ‘Tell you what! I have an idea.’ He snapped his fingers, ‘Go to the camps and talk with refugee women. Listen to their stories and write them up with a little imagination. I’ll myself edit the text to improve it. That’s the work for someone with real talent. The staff of a newspaper mostly does routine work. We’ll publish your articles regularly, I promise.’
When they were outside, Nayyar blurted out, ‘Rogue! Felt like telling him so.’
Kanak agreed with her brother-in-law, ‘You can’t expect decent behaviour from people like him.’
Their meetings at two other, older newspapers were less than encouraging. One already had several apprentices; the other was disinclined to assume the burden of a new employee when they could not even accommodate their own trainees.
The premises of Sardar contained a motley assortment of printing press equipment. The presses stood on an unpaved floor under a temporary roof of tarpaulin and corrugated iron sheets. The office was in a room at the back of a veranda, with basic furniture of wood planks nailed together. A table fan placed on an upturned packing box in one corner turned at top speed. Stones and pieces of rusted metal served as paperweights on desks. A teleprinter stood ticking, next to a wall.
The owner–editor was not in. Sewa Ram Charkh, his deputy, was keeping an eye on everything. Nayyar spoke with him, then introduced Kanak and briefly mentioned her interest.
The businesslike Charkh did not seem happy at this interruption, even for the sake of a young woman. He did not ask Kanak and Nayyar to sit down. There were no extra chairs, or any extra room to put them. He listened to Nayyar with a pen in his hand, and then placed it in an inkwell. He spoke slowly, drawling his words, ‘Yes, yes! I understand, but if there was an opening we’d hire our former employees. On the staff of a newspaper, you work until late at night. For a woman.’
‘Sahib has arrived,’ a peon announced.
A youngish fit-looking man, wearing a dazzling white kurta, white churidar pajama trousers, a white well-ironed Gandhi cap with sharp creases, and sun glasses walked in. Everyone, including the middle-aged Charkh, left whatever they were doing and stoop up.
The sahib went through the cluttered room, picking his way carefully through the maze of furniture. He looked at Kanak and Nayyar. His dark glasses hid any expression in his eyes. Nayyar smilingly said namaste, and asked in English, ‘May I have a moment of your time?’
The sahib looked again at Kanak and stopped. He replied in English, ‘Sure, sure! Please come upstairs with me to my office.’
Upstairs were two rooms on either side of a small aangan. In one, two men sat working at a desk. Over the door to the second hung a cloth-lined chick blind. Beside it was a name plate: S.P. Aseer, Editor–Director.
The peon ran ahead and raised the blind. Aseer stepped aside, to let Kanak and Nayyar enter, ‘Please!’
A dhurrie covered the floor. In one corner stood a modern office desk, gleaming with polish, and three expensive-looking chairs. Four easy chairs around a low, circular table occupied the other half.
Aseer held out some papers in his hand to the peon, ‘Give these to the manager.’ Then he inquired the purpose of their visit. He had removed his dark glasses. Smallish eyes above his fleshy cheeks had a sharp look. Kanak thought him to be a serious person.
Nayyar went into a lengthy introduction of Panditji and Kanak, and a brief one of himself. He smiled as he explained that Kanak wanted to work at Sardar.
Aseer asked Kanak about her college education, and what work she had done in Lahore. He said, ‘You were probably also in the movement of ’42 and ’43? … People like us were involved in everything.’
After a few moments of quiet reflection, he said in English, ‘Newspaper work has many sides: proofreading, copy-editing, columns, editorials. The truth is that if you want to do just copy-editing, news selection and translation, we may not have any vacancy. A number of experienced journalists are already looking for that type of work. If you are really interested and have talent—you’re a fiction writer aren’t you—your talent would be wasted in such work. You wouldn’t be able to do any serious work if you get stuck in such drudgery. My father made me go through the mill only as a learning experience. Remember, the real test of a journalist’s talent is not in the newspaper office, but in the field. The real skill is to analyse the situation, to grasp its essence, its presentation; to create news, to create opinion. If you want to do all that, you’re welcome. All famous journalists … I mean people like Gunther, Fisher, Ehrenburg, Paula Hicks, Iqbal … which of these ever worked in a newspaper office? They wouldn’t be what they turned out to be if they’d been stuck at some office job…’
Aseer opened a tin of cigarettes and offered it to Kanak, ‘Do you?’
‘Thanks. I don’t smoke.’
Aseer gave one to Nayyar and lit one himself.
‘That’s the kind of work I want to do. I need a break, and I need your help,’ Kanak said.
He nodded as he drew on his cigarette, ‘Sure, I’ll help you. The time is right, new events and new problems every day. Gandhiji’s in the city, so this is where the news is. A smart and respectable young woman such as yourself should be able to go anywhere. I’ll give you one of our press passes. Write about your observations, and see if you can figure out anything. There’s the refugee problem. In the early days your reports might need editing and rewriting. For that, I’ll be here, and also Mr Charkh.’
On their way back from Sardar, Kanak felt buoyed by Aseer’s response.
Nayyar was also supportive, ‘You can do well if this man helps you and gives you a break.’
Kanak stopped to buy a Writing for the Press from a large bookshop at Kashmiri Gate. Panditji gave his own creative advice, ‘Read through the “Around the Metropolis” and “Topics and Trends” columns in the newspaper.’
She and Panditji decided to attend Gandhiji’s prayer meeting at Karol Bagh that evening. The Mahatma had been holding these meetings in a different part of the city every evening to promote tolerance, compassion and goodwill between communities. The broadcast of his prayers could be heard via amplifiers at different points all over the city. But Kanak wanted to have the Mahatma’s darshan as well as to get some feeling of the spirit of the meeting.
Several Muslim women in burkas and Muslim men sat on one side at the open-air meeting place. Congress volunteers stood in a protective ring around them. Dhurries spread on the lawn provided seating space, but a large number of those present stood talking, or simply milled around. There were a few cries of protest, ‘This prayer meeting is a mockery. Gandhi is doing this only to appease the Muslims.’
Gandhiji, his granddaughters and the rest of his party arrived in four motor cars. Many members of the audience rushed to touch his feet as soon as he stepped out. Congress volunteers holding hands formed a circle around Gandhiji to protect him from the crush of his admirers.
He was wearing just a loincloth. His head was slightly bent, his face sombre and sorrowful. He was the only one not fully dressed and stood out from everyone else. One did not have to enquire who he might be. He was not tall or fair or good looking, but his slim, wiry body and dark skin radiated a quiet dignity and a compelling presence.
Kanak felt a surge of respect for the man.
The volunteers barred others from approaching, but let the Muslim women approach him. The women wrapped their arms around his knees and broke into loud sobs. Tears fell from Gandhiji’s eyes. He put his hands on their burka-covered heads and asked them to have faith in Ishwar–Allah. He would put his own life at stake to protect them, he promised.
One of the women wept as she held an infant up to Gandhiji. ‘This baby’s an orphan,’ she said between her tears. ‘Both his parents were murdered.’
Gandhiji clasped the infant to his heart and prayed to God to bless and protect him.
Gandhiji and his group then began the proceeding by singing hymns from the Bhagawad Gita. Then they chanted bani from the Guru Granth Sahib, and began to recite verses from the Quran.
‘Stop! Gandhi murdabad! No reciting of the Quran. Down with Gandhi! We won’t listen to anything from the Quran!’ Chaos broke out. A crowd of angry rowdies were bent upon breaking up the assembly.
Many people sitting on dhurries called out, ‘Be quiet! Silence! Shame, shame on you!’
Gandhiji lapsed into silence. A hush fell over the rest of his group, also.
The brazen hostility of the protesters pained Kanak. Panditji was also upset and disgusted, ‘Tsk, tsk! What a shame!’
Gandhiji joined his hands and implored the crowd to listen to him quietly.
The angry and agitated crowd could not ignore Gandhiji’s request, and the commotion gradually subsided.
‘My brothers and sisters,’ Gandhiji’s pained, gentle but confident voice was heard to say, ‘Only trust in God can give us succour in this time of strife and misery. Ishwar and Allah are one. What objection can there be in an appeal to Him through any form of religion…’
‘We will certainly not listen to any reading from the Quran,’ some voices from the crowd shouted back. ‘These verses encouraged others to slaughter thousands of our brothers. Those who recite these verses raped our mothers and sisters. You preach the message of non-violence and compassion for all. By reciting these verses, you are reminding us of the infamy of the killing of our families and our children, how our mothers and sisters were dishonoured. You are reminding us of our shame and misery. We will not tolerate it at any price.’ The suffering of the victims called for retribution in the shouts of the protestors. It was a scream of anger and agony.
The audience fell silent. Even those who had called out ‘Shame! shame!’ were quiet.
Kanak was in a state of inner confusion. Her mind was a whirling vortex of contradictory ideas of injustice, of revenge, of tolerance. Where was the solution… the answer? She fixed her eyes on Gandhiji in search of an answer.
Gandhiji spoke in a fearless voice, ‘Some of my brothers find objections to my reciting verses from the Quran. I do not want to hurt their feelings. But if I cannot recite those verses in this meeting, I will not quote any other religious book either.’
‘There’s no need! You don’t have to!’ The protesters shouted back disdainfully.
‘I humbly appeal to my Hindu and Sikh brothers and sisters in the name of human dignity,’ Gandhiji spoke again when the shouting had subsided. ‘All of our Muslim brothers and sisters remaining in Delhi are our responsibility, and of our Indian government. If one hair on their heads is harmed or they are threatened or endangered in any way, it will be like committing the most heinous crime, it will be a matter of utter shame for us…’
‘Thousands of Hindus are being murdered every day in Pakistan! They are robbed naked and thrown out of that country. Don’t you feel anything for them? Why don’t you go there?’ His opponents called defiantly.
Gandhiji again joined his hands solicitously and asked to be heard, ‘My heart feels the same pain for my brothers and sisters killed in Pakistan and for those being asked to leave Pakistan. I want to go to Pakistan. I will pray with joined hands to the Qaid-e-Azam for peace and mercy. I will ask him that all killing and bloodshed should stop, and peace be restored. All Hindu brothers and sisters should be able to return to their homes and live in peace, but before that it is important that Muslims who have left come back to live here. As long as the lives of Muslims in Delhi and in India continue to be in danger, how can I face the Pakistan government and accuse them of murder and prejudice? How can I face them and ask them to restore peace? I am ready to stake my life for peace and order in both India and Pakistan.’
Afterwards, on the way home, Kanak fell into a moody silence. Panditji, his head bent, walked along pensively. After she had sulked for some time, Kanak blurted out, ‘Calls for revenge won’t put a stop to warlike feelings. Puriji said the same thing in his newspaper articles last March, and was thrown out of his job.’ ‘You’re absolutely right, beti,’ Panditji said.
Aseer was in his office in the late afternoon. He asked Kanak to have a seat in one of the easy chairs, after she handed him her report. He busily shuffled papers on his desk for some ten minutes, then rang for the peon. He ordered, ‘Give these papers to the manager, these to the deputy editor.’ Turning to Kanak, he counted the pages of her article and said, ‘Four minutes.’
He rang again for the peon after he had finished reading. When the peon came, he said, ‘Tea,’ and came and sat facing Kanak.
‘You have a really forceful style,’ he said in English, ‘but your viewpoint is off the mark. Politically, this is unsound. Such a point of view will be suicidal for Hindus. Gandhi has done considerable harm to us.’
Kanak thoughtfully rolled her scrap of handkerchief between her palms, choosing her words carefully so as not to offend Aseer, ‘I took the human approach. I myself saw those women sobbing bitterly. Tears were streaming from Gandhiji’s eyes…’
‘Thousands of Hindus are living in conditions far worse than ever faced by those burka-clad women! Don’t the Hindus need some place to live? Only yesterday, these same women and their brothers were clamouring for Pakistan. Doesn’t Gandhi know that? He’s preaching tolerance for the same Karol Bagh Muslims who fired upon Hindus with machine guns and Stens. Doctor Neelambar Joshi was murdered in the same Karol Bagh. Doesn’t Gandhi have any regrets for Doctor Joshi? Neelambar Joshi, the greatest surgeon of Hindustan or Pakistan, among the four or five best in the world! Wasn’t his murder a mockery of human values? And who murdered him? Not any stranger or outsider, but a Muslim doctor working at the same hospital. These are the values and compassion preached by Islam. Any faith that declares it a religious duty to wipe out all non-Muslims, a faith that called the killing of Shradanand and Lekhram, and Rajpal pious acts of faith, Gandhi wants us to be tolerant towards that same religious creed! These people have always been enemies of civilized human behaviour. Just visit any old Hindu temple and you’ll see.’
‘That all was in the past. I meant to say that we should leave behind those feelings of enmity. Not as Hindus or Muslims, but as human beings…’
Aseer raised his eyebrows, ‘Are you a communist?’
‘No, I’m not. What made you ask that?’
‘That communist leader P.C. Joshi went to Gandhi a couple of days ago. Told him that they’ll form Home Guard units to protect Muslims. These people first betrayed the cause in the ’42 movement, then supported Jinnah, and now want to be Gandhi’s militia.’
The peon brought tea and two cups in a tray.
Aseer took out a key from his pocket and tossed it to the peon. The peon took a packet of biscuits from a cupboard, and put it in front of them.
‘Shall I pour tea for you?’ Kanak said.
‘That’s your privilege. For yourself also.’
Aseer began in English as he waited for the tea to cool, ‘Your style is more suited for fiction than for news reporting. Or is it just a young woman’s ardour?’ He smiled.
‘Ji, I’ve published three short stories. Jai Puriji also liked them very much. He taught me how to write fiction.’
‘Jai Puri…that Pairokaar chap? He was really a good writer. I know.’
‘Is he here in Delhi?’ Kanak asked nervously.
‘Can’t say. Must be with some newspaper, if he’s alive.’
That hurt Kanak, but she said nothing.
As he sipped his tea, Aseer explained, ‘Writing a short story is a different matter, you can take all kind of liberties. A newspaper aims to create public opinion. We’ll publish your report, after some editing. Look for it in tomorrow’s Sardar.’
Aseer called Harbans the peon. ‘Take these sheets to Charkhji,’ he ordered, ‘and bring me a slip of paper and the pen from the desk.’
Aseer scribbled two lines on the paper and handed it to the peon along with Kanak’s article. He took out a five-rupee note and gave it to the peon. ‘And buy a tin of Gold Flake cigarettes.’
Aseer said as he finished his tea, ‘You can also write about civic problems. Plenty of scope in that for a smart and educated young lady like yourself. Focus on government news from official circles. I can get you some introductions. What do you think?’
‘I’d be much obliged. Shall I make another cup for you?’
‘Sure, and for yourself too.’
After pouring him the second cup, Kanak excused herself, ‘One was enough for me.’
When Aseer had finished his second cup, Kanak said, ‘I’ll take leave of you. I’ve quite a distance to go, or I’ll be late.’
‘Where did your family find a house?’
‘In a gali behind Faiz Bazaar.’
‘I’ll make up for delaying you. I’ve to go into New Delhi, so I’ll give you a lift.’
‘It’ll be too much trouble for you.’
‘Not at all. Your father used to own a printing press?’
‘Yes, in Gwal Mandi. All that had to be left behind.’
‘We did manage to bring ours here, but it wasn’t easy. Had to bribe the police with a thousand rupees, otherwise we’d have lost machines worth thirty or forty thousand. Had to pay five thousand as a premium for this place, and then a rent of 500 per month. You can see how much space we’ve got. This is how our Hindu brothers lend a hand! Dam, rotten, scoundrels…’
