This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (59 page)

Puri hid his uneasiness as he answered, ‘She’s my cousin.’

A sarcastic smile came over the face of the PA sahib. He said in English, ‘How many young girls like her, do you suppose, someone as busy as the parliamentary secretary would be able to remember meeting? Why didn’t you bring Miss Kanak along to jog his memory?’ He switched to Hindi, ‘You Punjabis are really worth knowing, mister! You’re real go-getters. Any means is all right for you as long as it gets the job done.’

Puri writhed with anger at the sarcasm, and said in English, ‘What do you mean, sir?’

The PA too answered in English, ‘I don’t mean anything in particular. What I mean is that you people are really daring. Your women too can be very forward. They know how to say the right thing at the right time. Well, let’s deal with the reason you’re here. You’ve come from Punjab. How many Punjabis can we accommodate here? The Congress government already has the responsibility for making the newly born nation stand on its own two feet. How would the government cope if people like you want the government to assume the responsibility of providing jobs for you? Since you’re a well-known writer, you should work to encourage a spirit of self-sufficiency among others, rather than look to the government for help, as you’re doing. There are many newspapers in UP, and several in Lucknow. Look for a job with them.’

To save face, Puri had to say that he had come to Lucknow only because Awasthi had asked Kanak to tell him to do so. And that he didn’t care for a job as much as he wanted to help the new government. He got up, said namaste, and left.

Puri had now begun to feel a certain bitterness and anger towards Lucknow; he wanted to get away from the city that very evening. In a city famous for its tradition of courteous behaviour and polite manners, he had received nothing but rudeness and insult. Lucknow, it seemed to
him, had been cruel to him, as Lahore had been, only because he was poor. Nevertheless, since he had invested so much time and money in coming, he decided to stay another day and go round the offices of newspapers, to speak with journalists to find out about jobs.

The journalists he met wanted to know more about the situation in Lahore and Punjab rather than volunteering leads about jobs. The news of a train full of Hindus being massacred near Lahore, and of Hindus fleeing Punjab in large numbers had reached Lucknow. The journalists wanted to know whether the Hindus would give up Punjab, or were capable of offering resistance.

Puri tried to maintain a journalist’s objectivity in his replies, but he could not remain completely detached from the issue of his own self-respect and the good name of Hindus from Punjab. From his knowledge of the political manoeuvring in Punjab, he tried to assure his listeners that the Muslim League, the Hindu Mahasabha, and some extremists on both sides of the conflict were playing into the hands of the British. Whatever might be the outcome, the Hindus of Punjab had never accepted defeat in the past, they would not now.

He also found out that the salaries of journalists at Hindi newspapers in Lucknow were lower than those in Lahore. Two journalists who could read Urdu spoke to him with more sympathy. They offered him tea and paan, and explained to him that in order to get hired, one must have a mentor on the board of directors.

Puri returned to Nainital and told all this to Kanak. He could not think of anything else to do but to return to Lahore. There he could hope to do something on the basis of his contacts and acquaintances.

Kanak and Puri were sitting on a bench by the lake, beside the library, anxious about their future. They had believed that carried on the woolly clouds of the promises made by Awasthi, they could reach the seventh heaven of substantial and steady income. That cloud had dissipated and disappeared at the first touch of the sunshine of reality. Puri no longer dreamed about riding on that cloud, but had not stopped hoping for the security of a regular income so as not to wither away in a desert of poverty. He resented Awasthi’s two-facedness, and then Kanak’s naiveté in trusting Awasthi.

After hearing Puri’s story, Kanak felt equally downcast.

They heard loud noises behind them, and both turned around to look. A small jubilant crowd of local pahari people, with leaf cups of jalebies in their hands, was moving towards Mallital, singing, dancing, playing musical instruments, and whooping with joy.

It was not possible to talk any further in that clamour of music and cheering. Puri and Kanak silently watched the procession pass them by. All the people they had seen so far on the roads of Nainital, except the coolies that pulled rickshaws or carried heavy loads, were visitors and tourists. The pahari men they met at the club, the Pants, the Pandeys, the Joshis, the Bishts, the Sahs and the Rawats, except for the pahari-style hat, had worn the same clothes as the visitors from Lucknow, Delhi and Lahore. This crowd passing Puri and Kanak was of a different type.

All the dandies from the surrounding villages and hamlets, it seemed, had gathered in Nainital on the occasion of the Independence Day celebrations. They wore close-fitting black hats, like coconut halves, skullcaps, and black waistcoats decorated with two or three rows of stitching in white thread. Their tight, narrow trousers had been fastened over their shirts like riding breeches. Kohl and
surma
ringed their eyes, and their foreheads glistened with hair oil and perspiration. Instead of neckties, they had multi coloured scarves or cords knotted around their necks. Even on this overcast day many wore sunglasses as an adornment, and others carried flashlights in the full glare of noon. This group of pahari youths was rattling tambourines and singing.

Groups of young pahari women stood on the sides of the road, wearing dark red lehangas, black waistcoats and chaddars of various dark colours. Mindful of being in a city and from a sense of propriety, they had covered their heads and faces with the end of their chaddars. But to get a good view of the festivities and of the men singing and dancing, they were holding their head coverings with two fingers, just above their forehead. Their eyes were wide with wonder. For this festive occasion they had decked themselves out in heavy collars of silver, necklaces of silver beads of five, six and even seven strands, silver nose studs and nose rings, with brightly coloured bindis on their foreheads.

Kanak drew Puri’s attention to the young women, ‘Hai, look at them! How innocent and shy they look!’ Perhaps she was thinking about the similarities and differences between herself and those women; women of the same country and of the same generation, but with such different circumstances and lifestyles.

The men sang jubilantly, with one hand over an ear in the pose of a pahari singer:

Chilama ki peech
Dui dandoo beech
…

Puri and Kanak listened and watched with fascination. They did not understand the words, and the tune was as unfamiliar as was the rhythm of the tambourines. Finding the road blocked, a pahari gentleman from the lower-middle class, wearing a clean suit of heavy khaki cotton, stopped beside their bench. He noticed the inconvenience caused to the tourists by his fellow paharis. For the inhabitants of Nainital and other locals, all visitors to the resort were presumably well-to-do. Anyone who could afford the leisure to stay for a couple of months in a place as expensive as Nainital, had to be well off.

To excuse the nuisance created by such country bumpkins before this prosperous-looking young man and woman, the pahari man explained with a laugh, ‘
Aaj ye shale bi mastia riye hain.
Even these oafs are enjoying themselves today.’

‘What are they singing about? What kind of song?’ asked Puri.

‘It’s just a country song, a folk tune from the hills around here,’ the pahari tried to play down the singing before this well-dressed couple. ‘At one time, sahib, these people would never dare to sing and dance like this on the Mall Road. It’s all a matter of time, sahib. Once such country folk and coolies couldn’t even walk on the Mall Road.’

Puri was curious about the song. He again asked about its meaning, but the pahari, afraid that he might himself be regarded as another yokel, did not want to repeat the words of the song or explain what they meant.

The procession passed by, and the pahari man too said namaste, and went on his way.

Puri and Kanak sunk back into their preoccupations, and went back to discussing possible sources of income. After his return from Lucknow, Puri had been feeling uneasy in the lap of luxury and comfort at the Astoria. He did not feel at ease there, nor deserving of it. More than ever, he felt that he had been able to stay there only because of Kanak’s kindness and consideration, which he might have to forego at any moment. He was desperate to flee this trap of artificial luxury and return to Lahore, where
despite all his problems, he at least felt at home, among his own people, and where he could somehow earn a wage, no matter how little. Once again, any possibility for him and Kanak of being together in the future seemed as far beyond his reach as the dream of a one-legged person wanting to scale a mountain.

Kanak said to him resolutely, ‘Whatever may happen, let’s stay with each other today at the time of the declaration of independence.’

‘What independence, and for whom?’ Puri asked with frustration. ‘Whose homes and families are being destroyed? Whose lives are being sacrificed? All these politicians know is how to take credit for something others have sacrificed their lives to achieve. Who do they think they are? At the time of the Quit India movement in ’42, when Congress leaders and workers alike were being arrested indiscriminately, these very same people would telephone the police to come and arrest them in their homes so that they didn’t have to fear being roughed up during their arrest. I too risked my life for the country’s freedom. I too went to prison. All I get now are sermons about the importance of building the nation!’

‘We don’t owe them anything,’ said Kanak. ‘If anyone deserves to celebrate, it’s people like you. You didn’t go to prison for any reward. You and I are young and able. Why should we be dependent on anybody? We’ll face whatever comes. But I’m going to confront Awasthi, some day soon. Listen to me! You’ve waited for so long, just wait for five days more. Pitaji has written that he’ll arrive here on the eighteenth. We should go back to Lucknow together. I’ll see what Awasthi has to say to me to my face.’

‘Do you mean to say that I didn’t know how to talk to them?’ Puri said with annoyance.

‘Hai, no such thing. I can never be as good as you. But I still want to remind Awasthi of the promise he made me,’ Kanak said gently to soothe his injured pride.

Puri’s anger boiled over. His belief was that if Kanak had accepted him as her husband, she no longer had any right to contradict him. He said, ‘You mean to flirt with him and get me a job? I would spit on such a job.’

‘What do you mean by flirting?’ His words stung Kanak.

‘If you choose to overlook what the PA meant, what can I do?’

Kanak thought for several moments before replying, ‘Why did you take the PA’s comment so much to heart? There are all types of people everywhere. Perhaps he reacted out of spite. Those bureaucrats are seldom
helpful. It might have been different if you had met Awasthi. Maybe he was really busy at the time. We should go and meet Awasthi together.’

Puri was not to be placated.

Kanak said to him imploringly, ‘Are you always going to push me away? Our future depends on our being together.’

When Kanak returned to Vimal Villa at one o’clock, she found Nayyar reclining on an easy chair, silent and grim, with his hands clasped behind his head. Kanak’s first impression was that he was displeased with her having gone out. She went inside and saw that Kanta’s eyes were watery and red from wiping away tears.

Kanchan told her quietly, ‘Barrister Mirza sent an Express Delivery letter from Lahore. Some Muslim superintendent of police from Amritsar has broken open the locks of jijaji’s house in Model Town and installed himself in it. All Hindus have fled the area. Mirza has written that he telephoned the police and registered a complaint against the illegal occupation of the bungalow, but the police will be unlikely to take any action on a complaint against themselves.’

Kanak soon heard about other contents of the letter. Muslim refugees coming from the east had occupied both houses belonging to Nayyar in Tilak Gali in the Old Anarkali area, as well as most other houses in that gali. Mirza’s advice was that Nayyar should not return to Lahore for the moment, but should file a complaint from Nainital in the court of the Lahore District Commissioner against the illegal occupation of his property by persons unknown. And that Nayyar should send a letter appointing Mirza as his representative. Mirza had assured him that he would do whatever was within his power to protect Nayyar’s property.

Nayyar’s sister also had been crying. Kanta refused to eat any lunch; Kanak and Kanchan did not feel like eating either. Nayyar tried to eat a little to keep some semblance of self-control. Kanta’s eyes would fill with tears time and again. She said, ‘We were so dependent on the rents from our property. He seldom made more than four hundred rupees a month from his law practice.’

Tears flowed continuously from the eyes of Nayyar’s mother. She would dab them away, and address some unseen deity by joining her hands in prayer, ‘Wahe guruji, Parmeshwarji, we know whatever you wish will happen. Lord, you are the only one who can protect us.’

The mother-in-law of Nayyar’s sister Subhadra sat beside her and reminded her how the Saviour had helped others in distress, ‘He rescued the elephant from the jaws of the crocodile. He will save us too.’

Kanak was going to say some soothing words to her sister when they all heard the call, ‘Telegram!’

In the families of Nayyar and Panditji, telegrams did not always mean bad news. Still, both Kanak and Kanta were stricken for a moment by a sense of foreboding: What fresh disaster now! Kanak quickly went outside and signed for the telegram.

The telegram was addressed to Nayyar. Kanak opened it, not out of idle curiosity, but because she too wanted to shoulder the burden of this calamity, if there was one.