This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (3 page)

In the title of a memoir of Yashpal after his death, Bhisham Sahni called him the ‘Harbinger of a New World Order’. Sahni was a cosmopolitan Marxist writer who had lived for six years in Moscow, taught English literature in a college of the University of Delhi for a living, and would himself go on to write
Tamas
, one of the most highly acclaimed novels on the Partition. He went on to say:

Over the last fifty-odd years…world literature has given us many great and engaged writers who include figures such as Pablo Neruda, Nazim Hikmet, Louis Aragon, Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Mahmoud Darwish. Yashpal stands in the same distinguished rank as them. (Sahni, in Madhuresh, ed.,
Krantikari Yashpal
[Allahabad: Lokbharati, 1979], p. 37; my translation)

By many other Hindi writers and critics, this novel by Yashpal has been often compared with
War and Peace
, so much so that, with his eyesight failing, Yashpal arranged for someone to come and read Tolstoy’s great work to him—perhaps to figure out what the fuss was all about. Now, readers in English will have the joy of reading Yashpal’s magnum opus and of figuring out these lofty and enviable comparisons for themselves.

Harish Trivedi

BOTH DAUGHTERS-IN-LAW WERE PRESENT WHEN THE OLD WOMAN BREATHED
her last.

The elder told the younger to announce the death of their mother-in-law with a scream of unbearable pain, mindful of the ritual at the hour of terrible grief.

The younger one was at such a loss that she could not do this right. To observe the tradition properly, the elder went to the window herself and cried out in the required loud, heart-rending voice, as an eagle might cry in agony when pierced by an arrow.

The people in the gali were awakened from their sleep. Meladei, Kartaro, Basant Kaur, Purandei, Jeeva and other neighbours came quickly. The women began to wail and beat their chests. In between their cries of grief, they would console themselves, ‘The old woman’s time had come. She’d had the good fortune to see the faces of her grandchildren, a reward for her actions of her past life, no doubt.’

The men were gathered on the chabutaras, the raised platforms, beside the front steps of the house. They all mourned the loss of the mother of Master Ramlubhaya and Babu Ramjwaya, and of her guiding presence. They consoled her sons by reminding them that human beings were mortal and it was an impermanent world.

The old woman had lived mostly in the home of her older son, Babu Ramjwaya who worked at the railway parcels office, where he had been employed for twenty-six years. He had bought two dilapidated houses in Uchchi Gali in the neighbourhood of Peepul Behera, and had two new three-storey houses built there. Then, getting greedy, he had even rented out half of his own house.

Ramjwaya’s elder son was already married. He and his new bride took over one room of the house. But, even though everyone else in their household was well taken care of, there was no room for the old mother. What would an old woman need a little extra room for, they all thought.

Ramjwaya’s wife had a testy temperament which only increased after becoming the owner of two houses. If the mother-in-law ranted with the irritability of old age, the daughter-in-law, who had recently become a
mother-in-law herself, could not rest easy without delivering some angry, biting retort. Whenever there was such an exchange, the old woman would think back on the merits of her elder son’s first wife. She would then put all her clothes in a small bundle and go to Bhola Pandhe’s Gali to the house of her younger son, Master Ramlubhaya, with her bundle under her arm. After a few days, Ramjwaya would go and bring his mother back again, or the old woman would grow annoyed by the lack of space in the house and return to Uchchi Gali to see her elder son’s children. But when she arrived at the younger son’s house in the winter of 1946, she came down with a bad cold, which turned into pneumonia. Both sons did all they could, but their mother’s time had come.

Master Ramlubhaya was a teacher at the Dayanand Anglo-Vedic (D.A.V.) School. Belonging to the reformist Hindu Arya Samaj movement, he was himself a reformist in his beliefs. According to him, the rituals performed to assuage the grief and to cleanse the house after their mother’s death were hymn singing and the havan ceremony. The women of the gali were dismayed when they heard about the proposal to sing subdued bhajans and to perform the fire ceremony, instead of the customary mourning ritual of syapa. They raised objections saying, ‘Goodness, how can this be allowed? She was a good woman, she had grandsons and granddaughters … and she’d even seen the face of her grandson’s bride before she died. If her bier isn’t decorated properly and a syapa not held, what will be done when a young person dies?’

The old woman had died in Master Ramlubhaya’s house, so her bier was carried out from his doorway. But she was also Babu Ramjwaya’s mother, so when it came to whether or not the old woman’s last rites were to take place with the established decorum his honour was in question as well.

The expense of providing the elaborate decorations needed for the bier of such a fortunate woman was not within the reach of a poor schoolteacher. Ramjwaya also felt distressed and ashamed that his mother, who had lived in his house in the city, had died in the home of his younger brother. Thus, though their mother’s last rites were performed in his younger brother’s house in Bhola Pandhe’s Gali, Ramjwaya took care of all the expenditure and provisions so that he could make an appropriate show of respect towards his mother.

Masterji lived on the top floor of a rented house. There was a common faucet in the aangan, the inner courtyard, and the rooms around it contained
the landlord’s cloth warehouse. There were only a large room, a kitchen and a veranda upstairs. But in accordance with tradition, the syapa gathering could not take place on the top floor. The in-laws of Babu Ramjwaya and Masterji, and other relatives from their ancestral village were expected to come. In the house adjacent to Masterji’s lived the postal worker Babu Birumal and the insurance company clerk Tikaram. There was a three-foot-wide path that ran next to the two houses, at the end of which was another small courtyard. All the gali ceremonies and mourning gatherings took place in this open space. The straw mats for the syapa ceremony were spread out here.

Upon hearing the news of the old woman’s death, the sisters of the Buddh Samaj arrived. This group advocated eradicating outdated rituals from society, replacing them instead with socially uplifting customs. The sisters asked the family to shun the evil custom of syapa, and to sing devotional bhajans urging detachment from the world. The elder daughter-in-law refused to listen to the sisters, saying, ‘How can we abandon our old customs and be embarrassed in front of everyone? People will talk about us and say we were afraid of spending money…’

So Ramjwaya’s wife sent for Kaula the naun. Kaula was considered to be an expert at performing syapa. In keeping with custom all the women who participated in the syapa, wore black lehangas and large cotton chadars made of thick muslin, coloured with diluted ashes. The women from the community and acquaintances came in ordinary clothing. Of the women in the family, only the young unmarried ones and recent brides were exempted from wearing mourning clothes. When mourning an old man or woman, the family usually made some sort of display to show the success in the life of the deceased. The ritual on such occasions was for the old person’s unmarried granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law to dress up in special jewellery and clothing and sit near the circle. The naun sat between both the daughters-in-law. The other women sat in orderly circles, so that the ones with the closest relationship to the deceased were nearest to the daughters-in-law, and those with more distant ties further away.

Kaula the naun introduced the first cry of the mourning chant, ‘Say the name of Ram, dear sisters.’ The women imitated her in unison.

The naun chanted laments remembering the old woman, ‘Who had a full and flourishing family, beloved mother.’ The women took up the refrain, ‘Hai-hai, beloved mother.’

The naun said, ‘Who ruled over the household, beloved mother.’

The women repeated, ‘Hai-hai, beloved mother.’

The naun said, ‘Mistress of many houses and gardens, beloved mother.’

The women followed, ‘Hai-hai, beloved mother.’

Then the women began to beat their chests with their hands in a steady rhythm. The naun called out the words of the mourning litany in a pain-filled, tremulous voice, and the women kept saying ‘hai-hai, hai-hai’, beating their chests with both hands. There was a definite pattern in this tradition of mourning and breast-beating. The women’s hands fell sometimes on their chests, sometimes, in sequence, on their thighs and chests, then on their thighs, chests and cheeks. In accordance with signals from Kaula, this performance was enacted in a slow rhythm, sometimes more quickly and then at times at an intensely fast pace; sometimes the women were seated and sometimes they stood.

The naun led this ceremony with alertness and discipline. If a woman fell out of rhythm, the naun could eject her from the gathering. If someone with closed eyes or, on the other side of a wall, heard the women, it would have seemed to them that a squad of well-drilled soldiers was doing the quick march, about-turns and marking time.

The intensity of a syapa is always proportionate to the grief caused by the bereavement. The grief is enhanced for a death that has occurred in the fullness of youth and less so for the death of an old person. The death of Ramjwaya’s mother was an occasion where the joy was greater than the grief. But no slackness was shown in the performance of the ceremonies. Whatever negligence the old woman faced in her lifetime was compensated for with respect after her death.

Each stage of the refrain and the chest-beating lasted for four or five minutes. During the intervals, when they rested, the women talked about syapa ceremonies that they had attended in the past, and also probable marriage engagements. Distant relations and other women from the community who came would sit close to the mourning women and talk about other things, or work on the handiwork they had brought along. Their presence was taken as their participation.

A dhurrie was spread out on the chabutara to make a reception area for the men so that they could observe the mourning. Both brothers had shaved their heads and faces. The brothers sat in the midst of their guests,
heads bowed. The redness of weeping lingered in their eyes. People came and sat near them quietly for a minute or two at first. Then the visitors would begin to talk about the love and kindness of parents. They expressed sympathy for the two brothers now that the shade and shield of their mother’s guiding hand had been lifted from their heads. They would go away after repeating the precept of obtaining peace of mind through indifference to worldly things.

Babu Ramjwaya and Masterji would join their palms together and say, ‘Please come again,’ and thank them for their condolences. This was the sign for the guests that they could get up and leave; they would not go away until they received this kind of signal from the mourning family two or three times.

In this practice of mourning, all these efforts of vigilance, care and control were necessary so that the bereaved minds would not have a chance to dwell over the shock of grief. Grief was thus turned into a ritual duty as also a psychological remedy for mastering it and then releasing it.

On the fourth day after the death, the final rites were carried out. Ramjwaya’s daughter-in-law came dressed in jewellery and special clothing. Masterji’s daughter Tara, and Ramjwaya’s daughter Sheelo, also had to wear new, colourful silk clothing and sit near the mourners for a while.

In the afternoon, Sheelo and Tara took their little brothers and sisters to Masterji’s house to chat and have something to eat and drink. They asked Sheelo’s sister-in-law to come with them too, but she said she had a headache and went back home.

Sheelo usually liked to nibble on salty or sweet tit-bits as she chatted. Because she got engaged six months ago, she had received two rupees at her grandmother’s funeral rites. Poor Tara was not engaged yet, so she didn’t get any gift or money. Before leaving for Tara’s house, Sheelo went to the bazaar at the entrance to the gali and bought two annas’ worth of freshly fried
mongra
in leaf cups.

Tara’s house was empty. Her elder brother Jaidev was away at college. Tara gave a rubber doll and a rattle to her one-year-old sister, spread out a straw chatai and lay down next to Sheelo. They placed the leaf cups between them, and chewing on the snacks, they began to talk.

Sheelo said, ‘You know, my Bhabhi got a lehanga, a dupatta and five rupees! Still she kept complaining. She wanted ten rupees instead. And you
saw that when we asked her, she didn’t come to your house. Said she had a headache. What a liar! When she gets home she’ll go to her room with my brother, close the door, and do you-know-what. She’s so shameless that she doesn’t even care what time of day it is.’

‘What?’ Tara asked.

‘Oh!’ Sheelo smiled and said in a knowing voice, ‘I peeked through a crack in the door and saw them. Haven’t you ever seen it?’

Tara’s face reddened with embarrassment, ‘There’s only one room in the house. Brother and Masterji sleep in the veranda. One night when I woke up to go to toilet …’ Tara hid her face with both hands.

Overcome with laughter and embarrassment, she could hardly speak, ‘Hai, how to tell you! Hari, he’s only a child, and little Peeto who lives right across from our house; the girl who was wandering around without any shirt just now. Hai, how can I say it? They began to do… whatever in Peeto’s aangan. When Kartaro Auntie saw them, she dragged Hari over to mother and started to fight with her, “What’re you teaching the children? Have you no shame?”’

‘Mother shot back, “It was probably you who taught them. Your Peeto is older than my boy.” They had a big fight.

‘When Masterji came and heard, he gave Hari one good thrashing. He shouted at mother too, “Why don’t you put some underwear on that boy?” That’s what our house is like. Peeto’s house is just as small. These poor kids see things and think it’s just a game. I get so embarrassed, it’s so shameful.’

Sheelo added her bit in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Guess what? I’ve seen father and mother too.’ She asked after some thought, ‘Are you afraid of boys?’

Tara replied, ‘Some boys are bad. They tease so much I can’t stand it.’

Sheelo said, ‘You know Baldev from our gali, I really like him. He’s so shameless, he winks every time I look at him.’

They heard the sound of footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. Sheelo asked, ‘Your brother?’

Tara said, ‘It’s probably Ratan.’

The door to the room was already open. Ratan, the son of Babu Govindram, the neighbour from the other half of the house, peered in with books under his arm, and asked, ‘Auntie hasn’t come back from the mourning yet? My mother isn’t back as well.’

Tara answered back curtly, ‘How can they be back so soon?’ Ratan went away.

Sheelo had met Ratan several times before at Tara’s house. He was studying in the eleventh standard, and was about three years older than Tara. He was fair and tall and beginning to show a moustache.

Sheelo smiled and looked into Tara’s eyes, ‘My, he’s turned out to be a real good-looker. Doesn’t he talk to you?’