This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (103 page)

Puri had every confidence in his own ability and competence as a writer. He knew that he could, by using his imagination, create plausible characters and situations as vehicles for his own ideas and opinions. He could invent, for his readers, something that never happened. He could, with pen and paper, invoke feelings and moods. He could describe any happening or incident in such as way as to make it believable. Being able to do so gave him a sense of satisfaction, and a confidence in his own prowess. Manipulating words and phrases, of which he had an inexhaustible supply, was for him merely child’s play.

He had gone to the district court to register the publication of
Nazir
. As he came out of the office of the press clerk, he saw Mahendra Nayyar on the veranda.

Nayyar called out cheerily, ‘Hello!’ and warmly shook Puri’s hand.

Puri was taken aback at meeting a relative of Kanak. He smiled weakly, and asked, ‘How long have you been here? You’ve begun to practise here? How’s the business?’

‘Bhai, it’ll naturally take a while to establish myself at a new place.’

‘Panditji is also here?’ Puri asked nervously. It would have been wrong not to ask. His pulse quickened at the thought of having his fears confirmed.

‘No, he is in Delhi. He hasn’t yet begun the printing business, but his house has the signboard of Naya Hind Press. It is in Durrani Gali, near the Delhi Gate Bazaar.’ Nayyar gave the address without being asked.

To hide his nervousness, Puri said in a preoccupied way, ‘I came here to file the application for the publication of a weekly magazine. There are also some problems about getting the quota of newsprint. I’m all alone, and have to manage the printing press as well. I am looking for an assistant.’

‘Congratulations! That’s great. You found something to suit your temperament and talents. Where do you live? Have you found a place?
Let’s meet again. If you give me your address I’ll come and visit you,’ Nayyar said amiably.

‘No. I haven’t found any place yet. I spend the night at the press office, or sometimes go over to Soodji’s house. Have you bought a house? How’s your practice coming along?’

‘I’ve sort of a place to live. I started only four months ago. I am new here. It all depends on one’s contacts and the people one knows.’

‘I’ll take you some day to meet Vishwa Nath Sood, the parliamentary secretary,’ said Puri. ‘This weekly is being brought out with his help.’

‘Sure. Thanks. At present I am applying for bail on behalf of the boys arrested for being members of the RSS. Soodji may not approve of that.’

‘I’m surprised that you are sympathetic to the RSS. The khadi jacket that you have on gives a different impression.’

‘This jacket! That’s interesting. I didn’t take along my legal attire to Nainital. We couldn’t get back to Lahore and had to get this one. Who has the cash for a vicuna jacket now?’

‘But are you sympathetic to the RSS? Especially after Gandhiji’s assassination?’

Nayyar laughed, ‘Puri, I am surprised to hear that. When you were arrested at the time of the Shahalami arson, had you gone there to set fire to anything? You know very well that one can be arrested for no good reason. Every member of the RSS could not have been involved in the plot to assassinate Gandhiji. And Godse also has the right to a fair trial.’

‘Well, you are trying to establish yourself as a lawyer. The supporters of the Hindu Mahasabha would certainly look kindly upon you after what you are doing,’ Puri said sarcastically, to settle an old score.

Nayyar stared hard into Puri’s eyes, ‘Thank you for your kind suggestion. Somebody who’s not afraid to get on the wrong side of the government will not beg for sympathy from the Mahasabha people.’

Puri’s expression grew serious.

‘Well, see you again.’ Nayyar walked off without shaking hands.

As Puri sat in a tonga on his way back from the district court, his thoughts went back to the news about Kanak. ‘Would Nayyar write to Delhi about meeting me? Why should he? He must be happy that I have lost contact with her. Even if he did write to Kanak’s father, that old devil probably would not tell his daughter.’ His mind remained preoccupied with Kanak until he reached the printing press.

Puri knew that besides being the editor and the manager of the weekly, he might have to write most of the articles himself for the first few issues. He wanted to have good, solid material for the first four issues. He desperately felt the need for an assistant, someone who was like-minded and carried the same flame in his heart—someone committed to journalism, with enthusiasm to match, who would intuitively know what Puri was thinking and put it flawlessly into language. And they would between them turn the weekly into a vibrant voice that would touch the hearts of people. Kanak shared his dream, but she was not with him when the time had come to turn the dream into reality. Had she been there, they would have worked as one and achieved great new heights. Kanak’s dream was to have a small house of their own, both of them at their desks, writing and creating. Now Urmila had taken Kanak’s place. How had it happened? But it had happened, and that was a fact.

And how long could Puri’s memory of his feelings for Kanak and of her capabilities compete against the overwhelming presence of Urmila. Her large eyes shinning with invitation, the glowing complexion, the golden hair, the naturally pink lips that looked like rose petals. To hold her in his arms, to clasp her to his chest, to incline his head to kiss her lips, all this made Puri feel like a man. Sometimes Kanak’s face would float into this procession of images. Puri would be filled with a smug self-satisfaction at having had two women surrender to him in succession. In his mind he would compare both of them. Kanak as tall as he was. Kanak marching shoulder to shoulder alongside him. Kanak able to discuss and analyse social issues and politics. And Urmila just burying her face in his chest and leaving herself open to his wishes. Kanak was a comrade and companion, Urmila an adoring lover and a devoted, unquestioning follower.

Puri had bungled his explanation of Urmila’s presence in his home. It was necessary to retrieve the situation and give it some appearance of respectability. He had to keep secret his liaison with her, and go through the pretence of getting her accepted as his wife. He could, with Sood’s help, get Urmila admitted into some college, Puri thought. She could stay, just to satisfy Sood, with another family for some time. Then he would have a proper marriage for everyone to see, and bring her home. Masterji would also be happy if things were done in that way. Nayyar had told him the address of Kanak’s father, but it was best not to act on it.

Puri began to write the text for a poster to advertise the launch of
Nazir
.
His plan was to have the posters displayed in all the big towns between Jalandhar and Delhi. Any fears about the success of
Nazir
would have meant doubts about his own capabilities and worth. Such doubts never crossed his mind. Carried away by heady ambition, Puri imagined: The weekly would be advertised widely. People would see his name as the editor, and talk about him. His body trembled with excitement and the fountain pen almost slipped out of his fingers. Could Kanak, with her interest in current affairs and the habit of keeping up with contemporary literature, fail to come across
Nazir
? He put the pen on the desk, took a deep breath and rested his head between his hands. What should he do? What might happen?

Puri began to daydream that Kanak had come, crying and claiming her right over Puri inspite of Urmila’s presence. She pleaded as tears streamed from her eyes, ‘But you had accepted me as your wife before Urmila came to live with you.’

After wallowing in self-disgust and loathing, Puri decided that this was no time for silly sentimentalism. ‘Did Kanak ever make any effort to find me? I was separated from my family, destitute, hungry, and forced to beg so that I could eat. She faced no danger and had the means of contacting me. I’ll tell her: It was you who forgot me. What did you do to find me?’

He thought of another argument in self-defence, ‘Would someone as liberal and adventurous as Kanak be still waiting for me? As long as I was in the picture, she tried hard to get me. She won that game. In her need for sensation and thrill, she must be after another adventure. She’s not the kind that dedicates herself to one man and sits around and mopes all her life.’

He picked up his pen again and began to write, as the publisher of the weekly, a blurb to promote it, using superlatives that had been applied by others to his work. It claimed how an experienced and distinguished writer like Jai Puri could contribute to the success of
Nazir
. The advertisement was meant to attract people’s attention to a new publication, which had such a celebrated personality as the editor. He gave the text he had penned to the calligraphist, instructing him to write the banner headline in a bold, ornamental script for a poster in the size of 18 x 22 inches.

The poster campaign was barely a week old when three unemployed young men, with a literary bent and desirous of a chance to prove their talent and industry, showed up to meet the famous writer and future editor of
Nazir
. Some erstwhile journalists, from newspapers and magazines that had closed down in Lahore and with more experience than Puri himself,
also came seeking employment. Puri was in no hurry to choose his assistant. He wanted to take his time to examine the writings of the young aspirants, and then make his selection. He was interviewing one such candidate in his office when a middle-aged man entered and called out in a tremulous voice, ‘Kakaji! Jaidev!’

Puri stood up and said, ‘Pairipaina.’ He squeezed out from between the chair and the desk and bent forward to touch the feet of his father’s elder brother. He offered Babu Ramjwaya a chair, and standing beside him, asked, ‘When did you arrive? I thought of going to Hoshiarpur to meet you after I got my father’s letter, but couldn’t manage. There’s no one here but me. Just couldn’t get away.’

Puri told the applicant for the assistant editor’s job to come back another time, and inquired after his aunt, and his cousins Kishor Chand and Sheelo.

Babu Ramjwaya’s appearance had shocked him. It was the same man whom Puri could not dare to contradict even if he said something unreasonable, whose wishes even his father could not oppose. Instead of his customary turban of fine, starched muslin, his uncle was wearing an ordinary old black cap. His moustache had turned completely white, and the glow of a rich diet had vanished from his complexion, which now looked sallow and pasty. Instead of a tailored wool jacket, he wore the blue uniform issued by the railway. If Masterji had not written in his last letter about his elder brother, Puri would have had difficulty in recognizing his taya in his baggy trousers, with an old cloth sack in his hand.

After Masterji had found his son’s address through the radio, he had been diligently searching for his relatives and friends. The information centre for refugees who had worked for the railways was in Ambala. Masterji had written to his elder brother care of the Ambala centre. Three months later a reply came from his brother that after spending a month and a half at some refugee camp, he was now posted to Hoshiarpur railway station. Masterji wrote to his son that Babu Ramjwaya was facing a difficult time, and as Hoshiarpur was quite close to Jalandhar, Puri must go and visit his taya. They wanted him to solve every problem immediately, Puri thought to himself in irritation. How could Masterji know about the dilemmas and tribulations his son faced?

It was four in the afternoon, but Puri asked Babu Ramjwaya, ‘Should I get lunch for you?’

‘No, son. I ate before leaving home.’

Puri summoned the lad working as assistant on the treadle machine. He took him outside, gave him a rupee, and asked him to get half a seer of hot milk, and some snacks.

Babu Ramjwaya had learnt from his brother’s letter that Jaidev had found a job that paid one hundred and fifty rupees per month. He congratulated Jaidev, and continued in the same breath, ‘Son, we have been ruined. We owned two three-storeyed houses in Lahore, and now all of us have to live in one room. We couldn’t bring anything away with us. We had fifty-seven tolas of gold ornaments, but had we brought that along the police would have taken it.’ He said in a whisper, ‘We buried it in one of the houses. Let’s hope God allows us go back some day. Kishor Chand has no job. You are the only dependable one, who’s gainfully employed. We all have to look to you for help, beta. What are a hundred and twenty rupees a month in these expensive times? We got more than one-and-a-half times as much in rent in Lahore. Kishor Chand made about a hundred to a hundred and fifty each month. I was in the parcel office at the Lahore station. That had a few moneymaking sidelines. And as you know, we got our rations cheap from the village.’

Puri was talking with his taya when Rikhiram came to ask, ‘Bhaiji, it’s five o’clock. Do you want us to stop, or should the cylinder machine continue to operate. About three thousand impressions remain.’

‘Bhai, do whatever is necessary. Check also the work marked out for tomorrow’s schedule,’ Puri spoke like the manager of the press.

‘Kakaji, won’t you be going home?’ Babu Ramjwaya looked at his old wristwatch. ‘Where are you living? Your father just gave the address of this press. I had to inquire at a few places to find you.’

Puri did not answer him immediately. He looked around to see if any one was close enough to hear. He picked up a red pencil from the desk and grasping it tightly, said, ‘Tayaji, it’s so hard to find any place. I’ve looked everywhere. I want to bring father and mother here. Hari and Usha can’t get proper schooling where they are. I sometimes go over to Soodji’s place, or spend the night at the Congress office, or on the bench right here.’

Puri was in the middle of his explanation when Rikhiram came back. Puri stopped and asked, ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘The job on the treadle is finished. The litho-cylinder can run up to eight o’clock. Are you staying on? May I go now if I am not needed?’

Puri generously gave him permission to leave.