This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (60 page)

It was from her father: ‘Left Lahore on the twelfth and arrived safely here on thirteenth evening. Letter follows.’

Kanak cried out in surprise; the telegram had been sent from Delhi.

Just as a sense of danger makes animals and birds cluster together, much in the same way everyone in the family gathered around Kanak. She handed the telegram to Nayyar.

Apparently, Pandit Girdharilal had reached Delhi with his wife, having made the decision to leave Lahore immediately after the incidents of 11 August.

‘The Gwal Mandi house is gone too. And the printing press … all those stocks!’ Kanta began to weep again, ‘What’ll become of us now?’

‘What are you saying? He’s reached Delhi safely along with your mother. Isn’t that something to be happy about? He said he was sending a letter. Wait for it.’ Nayyar said, as if he wanted everyone to control their feelings of grief.

But Kanta could not hide the emotions raging in her heart. She went to the bathroom, and began to sob loudly with her face covered with her aanchal. The others too turned their eyes aside and looked away, to hide their emotions.

There was all that lentil paste, ground and ready, Kanta remembered. How would the dish be cooked if she continued to cry?

Suppressing her sniffles and sobs, she got ready to fry the lentil balls. Her heart might be filled with sorrow, but she had given her word to provide the dish for the banquet at the club that very evening. That banquet had been arranged not for the sake of her family alone. Which Punjabi family
had remained untouched by the plundering of their homeland? It was not proper to let one’s personal problems get in the way of a celebration being held throughout the country. Of what importance was an individual’s existence before that of a country? This was a celebration of their country gaining independence.

Phool Singh, a native of Nainital, was surprised to know that the bare were to be fried in ghee, and not in mustard oil was prevalent in that region. They all had been wiping away their tears in silence as if their lips had been sewn shut, but the surprise shown by their servant loosened their tongues and made them exchange a few words.

They all took turns, two women shaping the paste into balls and dropping them into boiling ghee, and another scooping the fried balls out with a slotted ladle and soaking them in a pot of water. The water was then squeezed out and the bare were put in containers filled with yogurt, and sprinkled with various types of ground masala. It was a quarter past six by the time this work was over. After spending more than two hours working over the stove, the women were all drenched in perspiration.

Everyone must be ready by seven, Nayyar had told them in advance. Mahendra’s brother-in-law Ramprakash and Rajendra had dressed and left the cottage at six o’clock.

Kanak was aware that Puri would be waiting for her at seven, but she had to have a bath before that. Their cottage had only one bathroom, and they all needed hot water. This caused more delay. The women were also talking about which dresses to wear. Since they were going to an important event, they wanted to dress up as the occasion demanded. A woman’s fine clothes and jewellery are kept for such festive occasions. Subhadra wanted to wear a shalwar suit with gold and silver zari, brocade, and Kanta had also chosen for herself a zari-embroidered sari. Kanta asked her sisters to wear dresses with some zari in it, as well as some jewellery. Her view was that since everyone at the club would be dressed for the occasion, her family should not fall behind! Whatever was meant to happen had happened, but they still had to think of their good name. Such a festive occasion was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Kanak tried her best, but still could not get dressed and leave at the appointed time. Nayyar, in a dinner suit, stood waiting for them in the veranda, saying irritably over and over, ‘It’s half past seven! What’s keeping you all?’

The shops on the Mall Road were decorated with lights as if it was the Diwali festival. The road too was well lit. The crowd milled about shoulder to shoulder, like the audience leaving a theatre. Hawkers stood in the middle of the roadway, crying their wares loudly. Groups of people singing and dancing blocked the road here and there. Kanak was looking carefully to spot Puri in the jostling crowd, but she reached the Capitol, without seeing him.

Kanak finally saw Puri, but Nayyar, walking just a few steps behind her, called out, ‘Hullo Puri! Where did you get to all this time?’ He held out his hand to Puri.

Nayyar held on to Puri’s hand as he listened to Puri’s reply. He asked, ‘Did you accept an invitation from someone?’

‘I don’t understand. An invitation from whom, to do what?’

‘You’re our guest tonight for dinner at the club. Come along.’

Nayyar kept his hold on Puri’s hand to make Puri walk beside him, and did not give Kanak a chance to get a word in edgeways. Kanak had begun to believe that Nayyar’s politeness towards Puri was only because of his snobbish and condescending attitude, but she did like the idea of inviting Puri to the banquet, after his disappointed and frustrated return from Lucknow. Now that Puri was going with them as a family friend, she thought, she’d be able to talk to him without reservations.

The hum of the crowd spilling out on the street gave an indication of the size of the gathering inside the club. As they entered, many people came forward to shake Nayyar’s hand. The Sikh transferred his whisky glass to his left hand, using his right to shake Nayyar’s hand vigorously, then to embrace him as he complained, ‘Yaar, late even on a day like this!’

Pandey approached them with long strides, unmindful of his drink slopping over. He pumped Nayyar’s hand, then shook hands with everyone else including Puri, surveyed the scene with the proud gaze of a victorious commander, and declared in English, ‘No political topics or discussion today. It’s the day of our liberation from foreign oppression.’

The lights and bright decorations inside the club were dazzling. Many men wore white khadi clothes and Gandhi caps, but many others like the Sikh, Pandey and Nayyar were in evening suits. The women wore glittering saris and shalwar suits.

The number of guests far exceeded the 200 dining room chairs available. Small groups were beginning to form of people acquainted with each other,
or from the same social circle. There were also separate groups of males, groups of business people and professionals, a mixed group of men and women, a group of women only. A good many had drinks in their hands. Some women sitting on one side of the room held small glasses with liqueurs of various colours.

Pandey took Nayyar by the arm and pointed, ‘The bar is in that corner. It’s eight o’clock now. Dinner is at nine. The inaugural session of the Constituent Assembly is to begin at eleven. The radio will broadcast a running commentary, and the speeches of the President and the Prime Minister.’

Pandey took a step towards Kanta, and asked, ‘Bhabhi, what’ll you have? Sherry, port, vermouth, crème de menthe, Cointreau?’

‘No, no!’ Kanta shook her head and her hand to decline the invitation.

‘You, madam? You? And how about you, miss?’ Pandey asked all the women. They all declined.

Nayyar was heading towards the bar with Ramprakash for a whisky. He stopped, and asked Puri, ‘Come on, have one with us.’

Puri shook his head.

Nayyar insisted, ‘This occasion won’t ever come again.’

Puri begged to be excused.

Nayyar asked again, out of politeness, ‘Half a peg?’

‘No, Nayyar. Never force a person,’ Pandey stopped Nayyar. ‘Don’t forget the rule about whisky. Never abuse whisky. Don’t offer it to someone who can’t appreciate it. And don’t offer it to someone who can’t hold it. We’ve only got forty-two bottles. And twelve bottles of rum. That’s all. There are Punjabi tipplers here, like you and sardarji. He needs one bottle all to himself.’

On several large tables in two halls, a great variety of Indian and Western-style meat and vegetable dishes, kebabs, snacks, rice, pilafs and breads, and mithai and desserts were piled in mounds or arranged on salvers and bowls, and cooking pots. At nine, several prominent and well-known members of the club went around inviting the guests to help themselves at the buffet.

The guests surrounded the food-laden tables. They served themselves helpings of what they wanted on plates, and stood around talking and eating. A great many did not come to the buffet table, but hovered in corners busily talking with drinks in their hands. For Subhadra and Urmila, eating standing up was a totally new experience. Kanak and Kanchan showed them how
to serve themselves. Kanak filled a plate for herself and one for Puri, and they both stood on one side of the room.

At quarter to eleven, no one was interested any longer in eating, and half the food piled on the tables remained untouched. Joshi, accompanied by Chawla, came up and complained, but with pride, ‘People hardly ate anything. Not one dish was finished. We worked so hard for nothing! I told everybody that I would take the blame if even one dish fell short. A whole bucketful of ice cream is lying untouched, but sahib, there’s not a drop of whisky or rum!’ He wiggled his thumb in self-vindication. ‘Visheshwar babu and Gairola are really angry. They couldn’t find even a glass of liquor. But they arrived late and the guys had cleaned out the bar by then. What could I do?’

‘Silence please! Silence please! Listen! Listen!’

The buzz of conversation in the halls died down. A radio announcer’s voice, speaking in English, was heard:

‘… The members of the Constituent Assembly have taken their seats. Dr Rajendra Prasad, President of the Assembly, is entering the hall. Dr Rajendra Prasad is wearing white khadi clothes.

‘The visitors’ galleries are filled with distinguished guests. Ambassadors and members of the diplomatic corps are sitting on both sides of the President’s chair. The time is five minutes past eleven. Srimati Sucheta Kripalani and Srimati Nandita Kripalani will now sing Vande Mataram …’

The sound of the national song being sung came over the radio. Those wearing suits and European-style clothes stood to attention. Many unfamiliar with this Western protocol, mainly those wearing khadi clothes, had no idea of how to show respect for the national song. They stood in a slouch, as if they were spectators at some sports event.

‘… At this momentous time in our history, we are assuming power after years of long struggle …’

‘That’s Dr Rajendra Prasad speaking,’ someone said.

‘In Hindi! In Hindi!’ Several voices said, with surprise.

Nayyar had never been taught Hindi. He could not understand the meaning of what was said in formal Hindi. But to hear the President of the country speak in the language of the people was a wonderful feeling.

Dr Rajendra Prasad said, ‘…We thank Almighty God, who decides the fates of men and nations. We offer our gratitude to Mahatma Gandhi, the Father of the Nation, the Guru of the Nation, and our guide. We offer our
gratitude also to all those who suffered and made sacrifices and contributed to the struggle for India’s independence…’

Kanak nudged Puri’s arm, as if to say, ‘Listen, this is meant for you. Who can forget what you did for the country?’ Her heart was filled with pride.

The crowd was in no mood to be silent and listen to speeches, nor did they want to have anything explained or spelled out to them. They all knew that in a few minutes’ time, at the stroke of midnight, their country too would become a free and sovereign nation like the other nations of the world. The centuries-long ignominy of being enslaved would come to an end. That was enough for them. All they wanted to hear, and waited for, was the stroke of the midnight hour.

The radio was still broadcasting other speeches from the Assembly House in Delhi, but the club was filled again with the hum of conversation.

‘Nehru! Panditji! Jawaharlalji! Pandit Nehru!’ Several voices called and a hush fell upon the hall.

Pandit Nehru’s voice said, ‘Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time has come when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially…. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people, and to the still larger cause of humanity. This is no time for petty and destructive criticism, no time for ill will or blaming others. We have to build the noble mansion of a free India where all her children may dwell….’

But the crowd did not want to hear about pledges of dedication or about building any noble mansion. They did not care what price they had paid, or what ransom had been extracted from them, for this freedom. Nor were they worried about what they would get out of their liberty. Not to be free was a matter of national humiliation. All they wanted to hear was the stroke of twelve ring out.

The buzz of conversation rose again in the hall, drowning out the broadcast of Nehru’s speech.

Musical chimes preceding the sound of a clock striking the hours was heard from the speaker, and then the chimes: Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Kanak and Puri quietly held each other’s hand. Through the echoes of the twelfth stroke reverberating on the radio, came the auspicious sound of blast of a conch shell. And then a loud call, ‘Long live the Fifteenth of August!’

The crowd erupted en masse.

‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

‘Long live Mother India! Long live Mahatma Gandhi!’

Men and women leaped for joy. They hugged and slapped each other on the back. Most of the people in this crowd were from the upper-middle class, who either worked for, or had benefited from, the government, who had never been so bold as to rebel against the foreign oppressor or take part in the fight for freedom. But tonight, a feeling long suppressed in their inmost hearts, the desire to be free, had resurfaced in a burst of joy.

‘A toast to independence! A toast to independence!’

Nayyar and Pandey turned around when they heard someone call.

Joshi was approaching them with a bottle of whisky in his hand. ‘Yaar, I had hidden one bottle, to toast the nation’s freedom!’

‘Oh, you’re a brick!’ Pandey responded with unsuppressed glee.