This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (135 page)

Chaddha returned to Delhi after a month. Very eager to meet Nath, he asked Tara to organize a meeting. Nath arrived at Tara’s flat at 4 p.m. on Sunday. Tara went downstairs when she heard Nath toot his horn, and took him to Mercy’s place in Daryaganj.

The only people present besides Mercy were Chaddha and Mathur. Chaddha and Nath had a long discussion. Mercy did not participate in deference to Nath, leaving the chore of hospitality to her ‘younger’ sister Tara. Mathur and Tara also kept out of the conversation.

Mrs Agarwal had not broken off her relations with Tara. She telephoned Tara from time to time, especially when she wanted new blouses made for herself, and would send her car to get Tara. She would say, ‘It’s no use asking the
mara
tailor. The stupid guy takes every kind of measurements, but still can’t give a good fitting.’ She always invited Tara on the birthday celebrations of her children.

Puttan’s birthday party was in the second week of November. Tara came back from the office, had her tea, changed her sari, and reached AA a little behind other guests. It was an informal, homely affair, and the
presence of scores of women and children set the room abuzz. The guests had formed three groups: children on one side, women on another, and a mixed gathering of women and men on the third. Several Gandhi caps were visible. By now Tara had begun to recognize the Congress party members. Several of them had come to her office to get some work done or to plead someone’s case.

Prasadji complained, as if he had a right to do so, ‘Taraji is seldom seen, like the Eid moon. She’s now a big government official. Why would she want to meet ordinary folks like us?’

‘How can you say that, bhai sahib! You are the raja’s kinfolk,’ Tara replied.

Mr Agarwal roared with laughter, and others joined in, ‘Wah! Wah! Well said! The raja’s kinfolk! Well said!’

Tara gave her congratulations to Mr and Mrs Agarwal.

Sarafji and Gopi Babu said Jai Hind to Tara. Mrs Agarwal said, putting her arm around Tara’s shoulder, ‘However big an official she may become, she’d always be like a younger sister to me.’

From bits of talk that she heard, Tara realized that the conversation was about the elections. Delhi was buzzing with news of the elections for the legislative assemblies and the Parliament only two months away: Who will be the candidates? Who will run on the Congress ticket? Who was most likely to win?

Tara, a present for Puttan in the folds of her aanchal, went towards the children’s corner to give him a kiss. When she came back she saw Prasadji and Gopi Babu talking to Mrs Agarwal. Tara hesitated, but Mrs Agarwal said pointing at her, ‘Ask her! Tara knows everything. Tara has seen her in the club so many times having drinks with De and Rawat Sahib.’

Gopi Babu said, his mouth full of paan and rubbing his eyes, ‘Arey, she has such a bad reputation, a woman with such a low character. I’ve known her for ages. When she used to live at Kashmiri Gate, she had an affair with Dr Jafri. He used to refer all the Muslim cases to her. Samarth, the agent of Malcolm Hayes, was always shacked up at her place. Now she has De in her clutches.’

Prasadji thrust his hands in his kurta pockets to push back his thin shoulders to make them look bigger. He said, straightening his back, ‘I have all the information about her. Singh and Mahashay are encouraging her. I won’t let her be a candidate and give the Congress a bad name. She has a bad character.’

Narottam was standing nearby. He pursed his lips on hearing this, and moved away.

The mudslinging was aimed at Dr Shyama. Tara knew that Shyama belonged to a faction in the Congress that opposed Prasadji and Mrs Agarwal.

Mrs Agarwal added, ‘She openly drinks at the club, smokes, gambles at cards, eats eggs, fish, meat, just like some Christian. What is it that she doesn’t do? Neither does she have anyone to keep a check on her, nor does she have any consideration for anyone. Ask poor Mrs De whose family she has ruined. Now she is going around meeting the members of the election board and begging for the Congress ticket. Also went to meet Dutt.’

Prasadji said challengingly, ‘How will Dutt help her? And who does this Shyama think herself to be? I brought her into the Congress party, I helped her establish her practice, and now she dares to defy me! My own cat snapping at me! I introduced her to all the important people she knows. I’ll turn her practice to ashes. Does she think that she’s the only lady doctor left in the city? There’s Miss Griffith, there are Barodkar, Mrs Charan, Singhal. She can do all the free cases she wants in the
bhangi
slums! That kind of popularity means nothing. I’ll make it impossible for her to live in Delhi!’

Tara called out to Lalli and went towards her. After exchanging a few words with her, she went to greet Dolly. Dolly first pretended to sulk, then complained in the mixed Hindi–English of a convent school student, ‘I wished you the moment you came in. But the way you ignored me! I felt like never speaking to you again.’

Tara swore that she was telling the truth that she did not see Dolly and that she herself was looking for her. Dolly was appeased and began to admire Tara’s sari, ‘Hai, you are looking so sweet!’ She rolled her eyes, ‘You look dazzling!’

Tara walked over to commiserate with Maaji, then stood talking with Narottam. She was waiting for some guests to leave, for her own early departure would have certainly been noticed by Mrs Agarwal. Sarafji, Prasadji and Gopi Babu had left. Narottam had promised to drop her home.

Mrs Agarwal again said to Tara, ‘What do I care? I don’t give a hoot about the stipend for the MLAs. All these people pestered me into becoming a candidate. I would win even if I were to run as an independent. She won’t be allowed to run on the Congress ticket and, on top of that, will have to face embarrassment. Try and tell her what’s good for her. She listens to you.’

Tara did not like to hear unkind things about Shyama. She was grateful to Shyama for her help. Shyama always treated her with affection when they met. Mercy was generally disdainful of the Congress party members, but Shyama was among the handful that she called ‘unselfish’ and ‘honest’. ‘Shyama is the true doctor,’ Mercy would say. ‘She’s not greedy for money. Anybody can call her any time of the day or night. If the patient is really poor, she gives them a couple of rupees out of her own pocket for medicines and milk.’ But Mercy too had heard rumours about Shyama’s romantic liaisons. She had also told Tara that De’s wife, who went around disparaging Shyama, had no spotless reputation. As a private nurse, Mercy often heard rumours about the scandalous liaisons of the upper-class society.

Tara returned home, but the gossip about Shyama was on her mind. She herself had seen Shyama smoking and drinking quite openly at dinners, but her heart refused to hold it against the doctor. Mrs Agarwal took a small drink now and then, Tara thought, but after a little pretence. She allowed herself to be persuaded to accept a drink, and then criticized others for doing the same behind their backs. Shyama took a drink freely, and did not criticize others for doing it. ‘Some people loathe food cooked with onions. Mrs Agarwal also thought eating meat was worse than drinking.’

A thought came to Tara’s mind, ‘Could the quarrel between Mr and Mrs Nath have happened because of me? Mercy had said so. Perhaps someone spread rumours about Shyama. Perhaps Mrs De did so, in a fit of jealousy. But Shayma is not at all a bad person, she’s so kind. I want nothing to do with election politics or with their squabbling. Why are they ganging up against that poor soul?’

Tara had not met Shyama for a long time. The last they had seen each other was at Shyama’s bungalow about a year ago. Tara decided, on next Sunday, that she would rather go and visit Shyama than spend the day alone.

Shyama lived quite far, on Rajpur Road. When Tara prudently telephoned her bungalow before going over, Shyama asked, ‘Why, what’s the matter? Are you feeling well? You don’t have to be shy. Want me to come and examine you this afternoon?’

Tara tried to reassure her, ‘Bahinji, I just wanted to see you. It’s been a while since we met.’

‘Then come over. You are more than welcome. Come at four. We are playing bridge. You join us.’

‘Bahinji, I never learned to play bridge. I’ll come around seven.’

‘Do you play flash?’

‘No, bahinji. Only if I must.’

Shyama insisted, ‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t play. Come early and have tea here.’

Tara reached Shyama’s place at seven. Chairs and tables were set out in the veranda, but the place was empty.

Shyama’s gardener and maid explained, ‘Someone came around two o’clock and took her to see a patient. She hasn’t returned. Guest mems and sahibs came but went back.’

Tara had paid off the taxi before speaking to the gardener. She was asking the gardener to get her a taxi when Shyama arrived, driving her small car. She said to Tara, ‘Hai, you have been waiting all along and were now going back?’

Shyama escorted Tara inside as she inquired about her. She looked tired. When they sat on the sofa, she leant her head back wearily, ‘It was such an abnormal case. Anyway, both the mother and the baby are safe. It’s been such a long time since I saw you. You thought of me at last. You don’t have free time now that you are such a big official.’

‘Don’t say that, bahinji,’ Tara said politely.

‘No, no. I said it without meaning anything. You’re very sweet. I don’t know why I felt there was a bond between us when I first saw you,’ Shyama said, putting her hand on Tara’s shoulder. ‘Remember?’

‘How can I not remember? It’s been a long time since I saw you last. I’ve been thinking about you,’ Tara said, her heart melting.

Shyama hugged her briefly, then said, ‘Want some tea?’

‘I had some before I came, but I will give you company.’

‘Bindo,’ Shyama called out. ‘Get us some tea.’ She said to Tara, ‘Wait a minute. Let me freshen up. I am really very tired.’

After a short while Tara heard Shyama call from behind the curtain over the door to the next room, ‘Why don’t you come here?’

Shyama was wearing a dressing gown. She asked Tara to take the sofa next to the bed. ‘Tara, don’t mind. I’m really exhausted,’ she said lying down on the bed on her side, facing Tara.

The maid brought tea. Tara pulled the tray towards her and began to pour.

Shyama asked, ‘Tell me, how do you spend your time?’

‘Nothing special. Divide my time between office and home. I had gone to AA this Thursday. It was Puttan’s birthday. You didn’t come.’

‘It’s better to keep those people at a distance,’ Shyama said, sipping her tea.

‘What’s going on, bahinji?’ Tara said to start the conversation.

‘What do you mean?’ Shayma asked gravely. Then said, ‘I’ll have another cup.’

Taking a sip from her second cup, she said, ‘I’m sick and tired of these people and the Congress. If I let all that go, it’s only my patients’ cases and loneliness for me. I had thought that today I would play bridge for three or four hours and that will provide some diversion. And I had to go and attend to the darned case.’

She fell silent, leaving her tea unfinished and gazing at the wall.

‘What’s the matter? You look worried,’ Tara ventured.

‘What is there except worry,’ Shyama gave a deep sigh.

‘What’s this argument about who’ll be the Congress candidate?’ Tara asked.

‘The problem is that three seats are reserved for women candidates. Mrs Agarwal wants to contest on the Congress ticket. Prasad is backing her. Some people have proposed my name, which started all the trouble. They don’t want Mrs Agarwal, and they have a point. What did Mrs Agarwal do before 1947? She used to toady to the wives of angraize secretaries. She’s a complete dolt, and what will she do in the assembly? She’s paid some people to back her. But why bring up the question of men and women candidates? Why not send those to the assembly who understand politics, finance and the working of administration. Mahashayji is having my name dragged through the mud by insisting on my candidacy.’

Tara said after remaining quiet for a few moments, ‘Why do you give them the chance to talk such rot about you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bahinji, please don’t take this as backbiting, but I feel bad when someone bad mouths you. I really have a great regard for you.’

‘Who was saying what?’

‘The same person, Mrs Agarwal. Nobody believes her, but it hurts to hear such slanderous comments. She was telling those Congresswallahs whatnot about you in connection with Mrs De.’

Shyama turned and lay on her back. She closed her eyes.

Tara too remained quiet. Silence fell in the room. When Tara looked at Shayma she saw that Shayma was pressing her temples with her fingers.

‘You have a headache? Want me your massage your temples?’

‘Un-huh.’

Tara sat on the bed and began to massage Shyama’s temples. After about two minutes Shyama said, ‘That’s enough.’

‘It’s all right. Let me. My fingers are not yet tired.’

‘I don’t have a headache. I am just tense.’

‘Why, what is it?’ Tara asked, putting her hand on Shyama’s forehead.

‘Come, sit next to me,’ Shyama said, making space for Tara.

‘What’s the matter, didi? You look upset.’

‘I don’t know what to do with my life. Maybe it’s my fault that I did not get married. Maybe women who stay closeted in their homes are better than we are. The grind of household work, worrying about their children probably keeps their mind free of any thoughts. Their bellies are full, their sexual needs are met, but I couldn’t live like one of them. If a woman has to be kept bound and gagged, why let her express her individuality and assert her independence? If I had a husband, I’m sure he’d feel compelled to beat me to death. Perhaps I would have changed and turned into a mute animal who never strains at the leash, one who comes back and stands mooing in front of the house even after it had been shooed away.’

Shyama fell silent. Tara was quiet too, deep in thought.

Shyama again said, ‘I am already thirty-three. Should I marry now? Whom should I marry, some boy of twenty-four or twenty-five? Which eligible male waits for marriage until he’s thirty-five or forty? Should I steal another woman’s husband? Once men could forcibly carry off the women they desired. But times have changed. Had I wanted to steal somebody’s husband, it wouldn’t have been impossible to do so. But neither have I ever thought of it, nor do I want to do it. What’s De’s wife afraid of? She thinks that I’ll take away the horse that pulls the cart of her household, but I’ll not do so. If I spend half an hour or an hour in his company, what do I rob her of? He’s her man, lives with her. He’s the breadwinner, provides her with a roof over her head, and she bullies him in return. She is what she is because of his position. Without him she’d be left a destitute. If I exchange a few words with him once in a while, will it rob the family in a way that they will starve? Or should I just pair up with anyone who comes by as
if I were a cow or a sheep? Every male I could want to be with is already burdened with family responsibilities.’