This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 88
‘Hmm. I misunderstood the whole thing, that’s why I felt bad. Grandmother was saying that you did not seem to be that kind of person, they must have forced a drink on her. Forgive me, don’t mind my asking.’
Tara had a good feeling because of Narottam’s anger for her concern. She said, ‘What you heard was rubbish. They did have drinks, but talked very sensibly. Why didn’t you show up? Rawat Sahib told many interesting facts about Gandhiji’s fast. He asked about you at dinner.’
‘Yes, I returned at nine. Didn’t want to intrude upon them. I had already made a plan to see a movie with a friend. Why was mummy shooting her mouth this morning?’
‘Let that go. She’s always has some comment to make.’
‘This work and this family’s atmosphere is not suited for you.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Rawat can get you a good government job if he wants. He’s the home secretary. He has guts. Do not misunderstand me, but he’s supposed to have a roving eye.’
‘How can I ask him? What’d sahib and madam think?’
‘Wait for the chance. Daddy also sucks up to him and Surya for his own work. Tell Dr Shyama to put in a word. Was Mr Dey there?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘He has to be there if Dr Shyama had come.’
‘You’re naughty.’
‘Everything goes. Daddy had told me that Rawat wanted to see me. I’ll have to go to meet him. I might talk about you if I get the chance.’
‘You’re so good.’
‘Good and naughty at the same time?’ Narottam said, raising his eyebrows.
‘As the occasion calls.’
‘Why don’t you explain?’
‘What’s the fun if I have to explain?’
Rawat had asked Narottam to come on Tuesday, 20 January at 5.30. Narottam played billiards quite well. They will have a couple of games at the Chelmsford Club, Rawat had said. Narottam telephoned Rawat’s bungalow exactly at 5.30 to inquire if sahib had come home. His orderly informed him that sahib has just arrived.
As Narottam was leaving, Tara also came out with Lalli and Puttan to take them to India Gate for a walk. Seeing her, Narottam said, ‘I’m going to meet Rawat. Will see if I can remind him about your job. Today is a good day, because he seldom comes back from the secretariat before seven or 7.30. When the ministers are working all night, how can the secretaries rest? Maybe he got off early for some reason. I’ll be back by eight.’
When Tara brought the children back at seven, Mrs Agarwal was talking with some one on the telephone. Madam said the moment she hung up, ‘These Punjabis may go to hell. What do these evil people want? Someone threw a hand grenade at Gandhiji.’
Tara just stared at her. Madam said angrily, ‘Some Punjabi threw a hand grenade at Mahatmaji’s prayer meeting. The explosion blew apart a wall, but not a hair was damaged on Gandhiji’s body. Who can harm him when God is protecting him?’
Narottam returned at 8.30. He told sahib the whole story as they sat on the dinning table. Tara listened from behind an open door. Narottam said that when he reached Rawat’s bungalow, he was told that Rawat had gone back to his office soon after his arrival at home. Narottam went on to the club, and it was there he learned that the explosion took place at the time of the evening prayer meeting. The grenade fell about 75 feet away from where Gandhiji was sitting. The damage was mainly to a section of a wall with some latticework. There were reportedly three culprits; two managed to escape but one was caught. His name was Madanlal Pahwa, a Punjabi from the North-West Frontier region. Gandhiji was not at all perturbed, he only laughed at people running around frenetically.
The next day’s newspaper carried extensive reports and photographs: Madanlal Pahwa had been evicted from a mosque in Delhi where he had been living. The police suspected a wide-ranging conspiracy behind the act, but was not ready to disclose the facts.
That evening’s conversation at AA had a different tone: the refugees have indeed been treated unfairly.
The whirlwind of peace efforts gradually quieted once their objective, to get the Mahatma to end his fast, was accomplished. People went back to their daily grind of life. A stream of hawkers came to the AA throughout the day. They carried on their shoulders and backs bolts of cloth, and dhurries, blankets and bedspreads; women with an assortment of baskets made of reeds and palm leaves, young boys with sewing paraphernalia, lace and hair ribbons, books, magazines and fountain pen ink; others bearing face powders and creams, and shoes and chappals. They were mostly Punjabi refugees.
Mrs Agarwal, out of idle curiosity, would glance through their wares, then say, ‘Arrey, this is all counterfeit stuff. I was taken in two times. They’re all frauds.’
Tara would look at the refugees and think of her family. Considering evrything, she had never lived so well as she was doing now. On 22 January, madam again gave her seventy-five rupees as salary. She still had thirty-five left over from the last month. She said hesitatingly, ‘Bahinji, I don’t need more at the moment. Deduct the price of coat from this if you want.’
‘Wah, do you suppose that coat cost only seventy-five? Don’t pretend to be that innocent. Dolly’s coat cost one hundred and ten. How would I know how much yours was for; no one told me anything.’
Tara thought that she’d pay Narottam back, and won’t hear a no from him. She knew that the coat was for ninety-six rupees.
Narottam protested as if he was hurt, ‘Why do you make this distinction between your money and mine. I never think twice about asking you when I need money. Didn’t I take three and a half rupees from you to buy cigarettes that day in Connaught Place?’
‘I’ll deduct that much from the ninety-six.’
‘Not acceptable. I didn’t say I was borrowing. The coat was bought because daddy had asked. You speak to him about it.’ He refused to talk about the money any more.
One thought worried Tara: that her parents, and brothers and sisters might be still at some camp. ‘Mother was so affectionate, but simple. Pitaji was so good-hearted, but the yoke of poverty broke his back. How they were coping, who knows. They sent me away just to get rid of their burden, so that others may not think badly of them.’ Tara felt that she was ready to forgive her parents, but not her elder brother. ‘He claimed to be progressive and a liberal. He did not care for caste differences when it came to his marriage. But he betrayed my trust.’
Another thought struck her: She could, if she wanted, find out about her family by giving her address on the radio, or by some other means. Or she could find out about Seth Gopal Shah’s family. Sahib knew about the Shahs, he might be able to trace them. But she won’t go and live with her family. She had one hundred rupees, she would send the money to help them. ‘Who knows where my in-laws’ family is? The house was set ablaze, but they must have been rescued. What if my parents felt obliged to send me back to live with the in-laws?’ Her mind weighed down by such dark thoughts. Tara quailed at the possibility, she took a deep breath, and told her self that there was no point in worrying about this.
On 30 January, madam had to go with Lalli and Puttan at five to the birthday party of Shuchi, the youngest daughter of their neighbour Duggal Sahib. On Saturday 31 January, Rawat had asked Mr and Mrs Agarwal and Narottam to dinner at the Chelmsford Club, and had specially invited Tara.
Tara said to Narottam, ‘I have never been to a club. I’m a little nervous. The strap of my chappal is broken. The children are going to Duggal Sahib’s. Let’s go to Connaught Place. I want to get a pair of sandals.’
When they reached Connaught Place at quarter past five, Narottam said, ‘Treat me first to a coffee at the Blue Nile. Then we’ll look for your sandals.’
They had not finished their coffee when a buzz of excitement filled the restaurant. People began getting up from their tables.
‘What’s going on?’ Narottam asked with surprise.
The restaurant’s manager approached them, ‘Excuse me, but we have to close. Gandhiji was assassinated at Birla House.’
Tara and Narottam were numb with disbelief. They left their coffee, and came out of the restaurant. Shopkeepers were pulling down the shutters and closing their stores. Groups of people stood around talking. Lorries full of armed policemen appeared on the streets. Tara and Narottam returned quickly to AA to listen to the news on the radio.
Instead of going to his room upstairs, Narottam switched on the radio in the drawing room and tuned to Delhi shortwave. Someone was reciting the Bhagavad Gita in a doleful voice. A news bulletin was broadcast shortly after:
This evening at fifteen minutes past five, when the Father of the Nation Mahatma Gandhi was heading towards his prayer meeting, a Hindu young man killed him by firing three shots from a pistol. Mahatmaji died when the bullets hit him. He uttered the words Ram! Ram! as he breathed his last. A young graduate student of the Lady Hardinge Medical College was present at the meeting place when shots were fired. The young woman immediately attended to Gandhiji. Dr Bhargava and Dr Jeevraj Mehta reached the spot in a few minutes and examined him. Gandhiji’s body was lifeless. India’s Governor General Lord Mountbatten, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Home Minister Sardar Vallabh Bhai Patel, Dr Rajendra Prasad, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad have arrived at Birla House.
The government had made an appeal to the people that they should desist from going to Birla House. Large crowds would aggravate the problem of traffic congestion. Further news would be broadcast again shortly.
Mrs Agarwal had heard the news at Duggal Sahib’s. She returned quickly leaving the children behind. She changed into a khadi sari. She was ready to go to Birla House, but had heard nothing from Mr Agarwal. Hawkers on bicycles with newspaper specials began to arrive soon after.
Tara saw to the children’s dinner, but ate nothing herself.
Mr Agarwal arrived at 7.45. Mrs Agarwal broke into tears on seeing him. Mr Agarwal left immediately for Birla Hose with her.
A news bulletin at eight next morning gave details of the arrangements made for Gandhiji’s last journey.
As a sign of mourning for the Father of the Nation and in his honour, the national flag would fly at half mast on all government buildings. The government has ordered that all offices and bazaars would remain closed for three days. Gandhiji’s body would be placed at 11.12 in an open balcony of Birla House for ten minutes for his last glimpse. His funeral procession would begin at 11.30 from Birla House. His cremation and last rites would be performed at Rajghat on the bank of the Yamuna River.
The Father of the Nation would be given a state funeral, with full national honours. The commander-in-chief of Indian army would make arrangements for the funeral procession. All branches of Indian armed forces and mounted soldiers would participate. Public was again reminded to stay away from the roads leading to Birla House. The route of the funeral cortege was described and people were asked to leave enough space for the cavalcade vehicle carrying the body and the soldiers to pass. Arrangements had been made so that everyone along the route would be able to pay his last respects to Gandhiji.
Mrs Agarwal listened attentively to the broadcast. She said to Tara that she and sahib would go to Birla House at nine, and from there to Rajghat. The funeral procession was likely to be enormous, and would make its way down Rajpath and India Gate. She asked Tara to take the children to the house of Vohra Sahib so that they could watch the procession from its roof, and said that she’d telephone Vohra Sahib. She had sent Nundlall earlier in the morning to get some garlands. She instructed Shivni to have some paranthas made for her to take along, because she and sahib would not come home for lunch.
Mournful music was continually being played on the radio. There were readings from the Bhagavad Gita, the Koran, the Bible, the Granth Sahib and the Zend-Avesta at regular intervals, and news about the route and about Gandhiji’s final rites were also broadcast.
The cortege was scheduled to reach India Gate at half past twelve. Narottam and Tara, with the children and Narottam’s grandmother, arrived at the Vohra residence on the intersection of Akbar Road near India Gate at 12.15. Shivni, with Lalli in her arms, had also come along.
Over one hundred people from the neighbourhood gathered on the roof of the Vohra residence. To the left and right of India Gate, as far as the eye could see, heads of densely packed men and women lining the boulevard looked like a surging black river. Groups of onlookers could be seen on the roof of every house around India Gate. People were perched on branches of trees, hung precariously from telephone and electric poles, and clung to every possible place where a bird or monkey could have perched.
The detachment of riders approached first. Their lances, with white pennants attached, were tilted forward as a sign of mourning. Following them were row after row of soldiers, their guns pointed downwards. Behind them came four rows of fifty soldiers each, pulling a large weapons carrier with ropes attached to the bumpers. Gandhiji’s body, covered with flowers and rose petals, lay on a raised platform, only his face showed.
Mrs Vohra was watching the cortege through binoculars. She gave a detailed description to others, ‘…Gandhiji’s son is sitting beside the body, and Sardar Patel is sitting near the feet of the body. Nehruji, Maulana Azad, Baldev Singh and Rajendra Babu are standing on the platform.’ Mrs Vohra lent the binocular to Narottam for a few minutes, and he let Tara use them for about thirty seconds. When Tara raised the binoculars to her eyes, she could clearly see the ashen faces of the leaders.
Bringing up the rear were thousands of marching soldiers. Behind them an unbroken stream of motor cars, four abreast, stretching for miles.
‘This ostentatious display of kingly grandeur and might is not in keeping with the ideals and beliefs of Gandhiji,’ a voice was heard from nearby.
Tara and Narottam turned around and saw that a young man wearing a khadi kurta and dhoti had uttered the words. His face had a contemptuous expression. Ignoring people staring at him with surprise, the young man continued, ‘Gandhiji, a servant of the downtrodden masses, who wanted to live in a colony of the untouchable bhangis, who opposed violent means and military might, would have never approved of such a display. He didn’t even like to be kept as a prisoner in Agha Khan’s palace. He thought the money spent on guarding him was an act of cruelty on the people of the country. Gandhiji preached to the government ministers to move out of their palatial bungalows and into huts. These people put him in a palace as soon as his voice was silenced.’
Narottam said what Tara had in mind, ‘This is merely an expression of our feelings, a show of reverence for him. The government is showing respect to him on behalf of the country’s people.’
The young man said, ‘According to Gandhiji’s beliefs, this wouldn’t be a show of respect, but a mockery of his principles. He’d have expected humility and compassion from a government that claims to follow his ideals, not a display of might and grandeur. The government is showing its power in his name. Gandhiji belonged to the poor and the oppressed, and this government of the rich has taken him away from those people.’
Some people turned exasperatedly away from the young man. Tara and Narottam listened in silence. The young man continued, addressing his words to them:
‘It’s been always like this. The saintly, when they are alive, belong to the poor. The rich expropriate them after their death. The Buddha begged for alms for his sustenance. After he achieved nirvana, kings became his messengers and representatives. The same happened to Christ, and that’s what is being done to this saint. Tomorrow these people will build a memorial to commemorate him, and bury his principles under its foundation. They build stupa shrines over the relic of a tooth of the Buddha, and in the name of spreading the Buddha’s philosophy of renunciation of the material world, invade other lands with vast armies to expand their empires. Just like the Buddha and Christ, they will not follow Gandhi’s ideals, but turn him into an avatar for worship.’
Mr and Mrs Agarwal returned to AA after six. Sahib was sombre and quiet, madam was constantly drying her tears. Some of their neighbours had gathered in the drawing room to hear about Gandhiji’s last rites. Tara stood in one corner.
Mrs Agarwal said, ‘…There were maunds of sandal wood, vats of ghee, huge piles of coconuts. Mountbatten Sahib, Lady Edwina and their daughters sat on the ground with Pandit Nehru and Sardar Patel. We were just behind them…’
She waited until the tears choking her throat cleared, then continued, ‘God resided in Mahatmaji’s heart. He had a premonition of his last day in earth. Everyone was saying at Birla House that he had declared seven days ago that “if my prayers are heard, I will not die on a bed. I’ll die from a bomb or a bullet.”
‘Yesterday morning a journalist asked him, “Are you going to Sewagram on the first of February?”
‘He asked, “Who says so?”
‘When the journalist replied that it was in the newspapers, he said, “Yes, the news is that Gandhi is going to Sewagram on February the first, but let’s see which Gandhi goes there.” He asked not to send the telegram about his arrival, and said, “Why spend money unnecessarily.”
‘He knew about what was going to happen and was laughing as he walked to the prayer meeting. Someone told him that two men had come to meet him from Kathiawar. He said, “Enough for now. I’ll meet them if I come back from the prayer.” He knew he won’t come back. That was the end of his earthly existence.’ She broke into sobs.
Mr Agarwal wiped his tears with a handkerchief. Others also dabbed at their tears.
‘Arrey bhai, he was an avatar of god,’ a voice said.
Many sighed deeply in agreement.
Chapter 5
WHEN ONE FALLS INTO THE PIT OF POVERTY, THE LACK OF OPPORTUNITIES become a wall that keeps him imprisoned. He is at his wit’s end trying to find a way out of that prison. But if any chance comes his way and becomes the ladder which he can climb and peer over the rim of the pit, he finds himself on the edge of freedom and success, and begins to see paths towards achieving his ambitions.
