This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (102 page)

‘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.

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.

Nine or ten months before, Puri could only dream to earn four hundred rupees per month or become the chief editor of some newspaper. Saying it aloud would have meant inviting ridicule. His belief in his own capabilities did make him aspire such success, but he knew that he would have to wait for several years to achieve it. Only Kanak had given him hopes of succeeding; she even considered him capable of working miracles. Puri’s imagination would soar to the zenith thinking of the confidence and trust she had in him.

Before the division of the country, Puri had attempted to climb the steep mountain of his ambition, but his foot had slipped. By resigning his subeditor’s job at
Pairokaar
, he had got stuck in the mire of unemployment. He was struggling to save himself from being swallowed up in that swamp when the political earthquake of Partition rocked the country and sent shock waves throughout the land. Great imposing institutions were shattered and fell to ground, and in their place appeared vast expanses of swampy wasteland. The mire in which Puri was trapped was engulfed by a surging flood. The force of its current swept Puri out, but only towards more disaster. In the middle of that powerful stream he felt his feet touch something solid, and he found himself perched on a submerged rock. As the waters receded, Puri realized that he was in fact on the roof of a fair-sized, well-built house. There was no one to challenge his right over the building; there was no one to question if the building belonged to him.

For the past four months, Puri had been sweating blood to make a success of Kamaal Press. Sood’s influence was proving a boon, and both government and private business continued to pour in. Having amassed a capital of three thousand rupees made his blood race with a thrill of excitement. His thoughts would turn to the possibility of using this capital to publish,
with Sood’s blessing, a weekly periodical sympathetic to Sood’s ideology. Puri had been given an indirect hint to that effect.

The newly developing opportunities fired his imagination.

Muslim officers predominated in the Punjab police before the Partition, but virtually all Muslim officers from East Punjab had opted for Pakistan. The number of Hindu police officers arriving from the west was much below the requirement, and the need for policing and administrative duties was growing every day. To meet this shortage, the Government of Punjab had created new posts of district and deputy commanders that were equivalent to superintendent and deputy superintendent of police, and began appointing trustworthy people to these positions of responsibility. In addition to the their status and administrative powers, these posts also carried salaries of 400 rupees per month for the senior and 200 for the junior appointments. It would not have been difficult for Puri to get appointed to one of these jobs with the help of Sood.

Puri broached the subject hesitantly with Sood by saying that if his salary was a burden on the press, he would like to apply, with Sood’s approval, for the rank of district commander.

His suggestion did not please Sood, ‘The job of a superintendent of police is to carry out the government’s orders, it carries little political weight. He who gives the orders and decides the policy is of far greater importance. Someone who owns a printing press has considerable political clout. Would it be wise to surrender that to another person? And why do you see yourself as a burden to the press? How much do you suppose Issac made from the press? Even if he turns up to claim his business back, all he can demand is its selling price. These old, worn-out machines can’t be more than half or one-third of their original value.’

Sood’s reply gave Puri the hope of turning his dream into reality.

The means of printing his weekly were already in Puri’s hands. Even if Soodji remained the owner of the newspaper, he’d be the editor-in-chief. The anticipation would send his pulse racing. Giving up the chance of a job that could pay 400 rupees a month made him feel proud of himself. Regardless of the situation under foreign rule, what would a superintendent of police amount to in comparison with the chief editor of a newspaper in a free country? He thought up a name for the weekly:
Nazir
, the spectator, one to express the feelings and problems of the public, as the faithful representative of the people.

It was bitterly cold in the last week of January. Puri shook off the attraction of the warmth of Urmila snuggling up to him, and got out of bed. The bone-chilling, icy wind and fog did not deter him. He reached Sood’s residence in Mandi Bazaar at six, before daybreak.

Sood had been appointed the parliamentary secretary, but this had had little effect on his daily routine or lifestyle. The number of people coming to see him had increased several-fold. Early morning was the only time one was sure to find him at home and to have a private conversation with him. Puri was known to be Sood’s friend and confidant. Sood’s private secretary or his old servant Sudama could not stop Puri from going into Sood’s bedroom.

Sood stirred and stretched his limbs wearily to shake off the last residue of the previous day’s tiredness. He opened his eyes and saw Puri quietly sitting in a chair.

‘So early? What’s the matter?’ Sood asked.

Puri prefaced his answer by stressing the need for a weekly paper. He was willing, he said, to take on the responsibility of publishing such a weekly if he could hire an assistant editor at one hundred rupees per month.
Chhatrapati
newspaper was not in opposition to Sood, but its editorial policy was to support the faction of the Congress party holding ministerial responsibilities. It also held a virtual monopoly on government advertisements. Puri had eighteen hundred rupees in the bank. Payments of two thousand three hundred were due from the district courts, the ration office and the municipal board. He explained how his weekly could survive for three months even without any advertising revenue. Once it was well established, they could turn it into a daily newspaper.

Sood calculated the revenues from advertisements and from the sale of the weekly. He asked questions about the problems that might arise if there were no advertisements or if the agencies distributing the paper did not pay their bills. He thought quietly for a little, running his hand over his closely cropped hair, and then told Puri that he would recommend Puri’s application for the government-allotted quota of newsprint to publish the weekly.

Reassured, Puri was about to leave when Sood gestured for him to wait. Sood said, ‘I haven’t seen you for several days. When did you call your wife? You didn’t even mention that you had got married.’

‘Ji, I did not,’ Puri blurted out in the confusion of being taken off guard.
He had not prepared himself to answer any questions of that kind.

‘Who’s that girl staying at your place?’ Sood asked, knitting his brow.

Puri answered cautiously, in view of Sood’s question and the tone of his voice, ‘She’s the daughter of Badhawa Mullji Narang, of Lahore’s Manso Gali. He was very distressed at not finding some shelter for his family. I had asked them to come and stay with me. My father was a friend of Narangji, and a tutor of his son Jagdish. I’ve also tutored Urmila for some time.’

Puri rambled on in reply to the unexpected question and to explain the situation to Sood that Narangji and Jagdish had gone to Delhi in search of a house leaving Urmila, her mother and younger brother behind.

‘So, what’s-its-name, the girl’s mother and brother are also staying with you?’

‘Her mother was here. She left only a couple of days ago with her son. Jagdish had written that their father was not well,’ Puri said.

‘Then the mother went off, leaving her grown-up daughter alone with you! That’s scandalous!’ Sood said with an edge in his voice.

‘Ji, I had given them one room. Urmila is staying in that room.’

‘How can she live on her own? How could the mother just go away leaving her what’s-its-name grown-up daughter behind? There’s something fishy!’

Puri was caught in the web of his own explanations. To hide his nervousness, he said gravely in English, ‘That poor thing is really unfortunate. She became a widow in March, when the riots were just beginning. She was married for only two months.’

‘Then have the parents abandoned their widowed daughter?’

‘Ji, I don’t think so.’

‘Then you’ve taken what’s-its-name her over, have you?’ Sood’s voice became even harsher, ‘Have you no concern for your reputation?’

‘Bhai sahib, how can you say anything like that?’

‘How can I say anything like that!’ Sood rebuked him sharply. ‘Even if that girl is what’s-its-name a widow, that doesn’t excuse her staying with you away from her parents. What relation do you have with her? You must have been friendly with her before. What’ll people say? So far everyone’s under the impression that she’s your wife. That’s what I was told, that you had called your wife here. You live with her, you’re seen together, and she doesn’t dress like what’s-its-name a widow. Why doesn’t she go back to her parents? I’m saying this because someone asked me about it.’

‘Bhai sahib, people will say anything. The truth is that she had a difference of opinion with her parents.’

‘Difference of opinion? Is she what’s-its-name a communist? Is she well educated?’

‘No.’

‘What else does difference of opinion mean?’

‘Ji, she wants to get some more education. She wants to be self-supporting.’

‘And her parents weren’t willing to let her study?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What have you got to do with this? How are you involved? Are you attracted to her?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Are you engaged to anyone, or want to marry someone?’

‘Ji, there was some talk, but nothing came of it. That fizzled out because of the Partition,’ Puri said, to convince himself of the honesty of his intentions towards Urmila.

‘Whom did your family talk to about your marriage? Must have been some people in Lahore. Where are they now?’

‘Nothing was decided,’ Puri said to make himself look better in the eyes of Sood. ‘Pandit Girdharilal talked with me casually about it a couple of times. I had just resigned from
Pairokaar
. Everything was so uncertain; what could I say?’

‘Which Pandit Girdharilal? The one who took part in the freedom movement, who owned the Naya Hind Publications?’

‘Ji, yes, but no decision was made. Now I’m in no hurry. Let my family come here first.’

‘You’re a stupid ass. You say you couldn’t find anything about what’s-its-name Pandit Girdharilal? That’s not likely. Did you try?’

‘They were all in Nainital. I wrote a letter at their Nainital address at the end of September. It wasn’t answered.’

‘Who stays put in the hills at the end of September? They must be the ones who called you to Nainital. Didn’t you like his daughter?’

‘Bhaiji, it was nothing like that, and I was not quite myself at that time.’

‘Let’s forget all that nonsense. You write to this one’s parents to take her away. If they don’t, we’ll have her packed off to the Vanita Ashram or some other hostel for women. Such rumours are not good for people in
the political arena. People will jump at any chance to sling mud at you, and you give them reason to do so.’

Puri’s mind was reeling as he went back to the press. He had prepared himself to talk about a different matter, and when Sood brought up the subject of Urmila all he had to offer was a lame excuse. How could he throw Urmila out? Send her where? But what would he tell Kanak? He and Kanak were as good as married, even if there was no legal ceremony.

A worrying thought niggled at the back of his mind. It was a blunder to get involved with Urmila, but the circumstances overpowered him. Kanak, whatever she meant to him, was away from him now. Urmila was near, and she was totally dependent on him. He thought, he would wait for a while and hedge his bets, and try to salvage the situation. He could not leave Urmila in the lurch. But what would he say to Kanak if she came? Two wives…what a web he was caught in.

Puri’s problem was further complicated by the letters that his father had written to him recently. In his first letter, Masterji had been quite contented, with God’s grace and blessing, in his present situation, but Puri’s mother was very anxious to be with her son. Puri had got his salary increased to two hundred rupees per month so as to be able to help his family, and had been regularly sending fifty rupees every month to his father. Soon Masterji’s letters began to speak more of problems than of contentment. So far he had been tutoring his younger son Hardev at home, and the boy would lose a year if he did not present himself for the examination. The school nearest to their home was in the city of Basti. Hardev had to be sent to a boarding school to continue his studies.

Usha, his second daughter, had passed her matriculation exam in Lahore. She wanted to go to college. She had already lost a year. What else could they do for a sixteen-year-old girl except let her continue her studies? The family had few acquaintances in Sonwan and, therefore, could not think of finding a suitable match for her. Masterji wanted to come to Jalandhar to give his son and daughter proper schooling.

Puri’s concern, if his family came to Jalandhar, was Urmila. Masterji could take over Rikhiram’s job, but where would he hide Urmila? He had been making excuses to his father that he had not found a house, and that he was still living with a friend. That it was not easy to find a dwelling, and once he did find one, he would ask them to come, or would come himself
to bring them back to Jalandhar. He also asked that his brother should be sent to the boarding school in Basti.

Puri had pinned all his hopes on the possibility of getting the newsprint quota for the weekly by the end of February. He would sit, with his elbows on the desk and chin cupped in his hand, in the midst of the clatter of machines and revel in the thoughts of how to make his weekly more eye-catching and influential—just as a would-be mother about to deliver her first child ruminates about the child in her womb.