This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (106 page)

‘My father owned the Naya Hind Press and publication house.’

‘Your father is Pandit Girdharilalji?’ The man’s eyes opened a little wider.

‘Yes.’

The man went silent, fixing his gaze on the floor. Kanak turned her eyes away. She would have liked for this sobre-looking man to talk about Lahore to pass the time.

Kanak heard him say ‘Excuse me,’ and looked back at him. ‘You came from Delhi hoping to get this job?’

Kanak nodded, and asked, ‘Do you live in Lucknow?’

He raised his eyes to answer her, ‘Yes,’ and asked hesitantly, ‘Is Panditji in trouble?’

‘Everyone’s in the same boat now. We had to leave behind the printing press, our house, and everything else. The house we found in Delhi is more like a ruin.’

When he spoke again after a few moments’ silence, Kanak saw that he was again looking at the floor, ‘I’ve come for the job of a Urdu journalist, but I’m working as a proofreader for an English daily.’

They both fell silent looking away.

‘Doesn’t Panditji know any Congress people here?’ He asked after some thought.

‘Hardly anyone,’ Kanak replied.

Alok returned walking briskly, ‘The director sahib has arrived in his office.’

‘Have you brought any references?’ the man asked Kanak.

‘Awasthiji, the parliamentary secretary, recommended me,’ Kanak confessed.

‘Then it’s a sure thing,’ Alok interjected. ‘Let’s see who’s summoned to appear first before the court,’ he said, and laughed at his own joke. ‘Let’s all wait for the interviews to be over, then go and a have coffee at the Coffee House.’

The peon went into the office when a bell rang, and returned to announce, ‘P.S. Gill shaab.’

Gill replied without getting up, ‘I don’t want to appear for the interview.’

Kanak looked at him with surprise, and took a deep breath.

The peon went into the office, returned and called out, ‘Miss Kanak Duttaji.’

After Kanak’s return and before he was summoned, Alok said, ‘Both of you please wait for me. We’re going to be colleagues. I’ll also be out in a few minutes.’

Gill asked Kanak after Alok went in, ‘Your interview went well?’

‘Can’t say now. Will know in a couple of days. You should have gone in for the interview.’

‘I already have a job.’

‘But you came for the interview.’

‘Yes, the pay was better here. I thought there wouldn’t be any other applicant for the Urdu position. The liaison officer had said so.’

‘The director asked me if I had worked with any newspaper and if I had done translations. What could I say? I just told him that I have no practical experience, but I have confidence that I can do the job. But in your case you had experience to qualify for this job.’

By being frank Kanak wanted to show that she appreciated Gill’s kindness, but his gesture still might not guarantee her getting the job.

‘No, no. It’s not that.’ Gill waved aside her thanks before looking at her, and said, ‘I wouldn’t have been hired because I had no recommendation.
Except two lines scribbled by the
Herald
’s editor. The liaison officer had advised me to come with a good recommendation. But from whom? I came only because I thought I would be the only candidate.’

They waited in silence for Alok. A thought crossed Kanak’s mind, and she said to Gill, ‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her.

‘You worked at
Sitara
? Probably you knew Jai Puriji?’

‘Sure, I did.’ he stopped when Alok returned.

‘My job is all settled.’ Alok seemed very pleased. ‘I knew it. They themselves invited me to appear here. Let’s go.’

As they were leaving, the peon came and salaamed. Alok gave him a rupee as baksheesh.

When they came out of the secretariat, Alok took his position in the middle to be able to talk to each of them. He began a detailed account of the director’s questions and the answers he had given. His report, longer than the interview itself, did not end till they reached the Coffee House. He was in really high spirits. Alok inquired about the questions Kanak had been asked, and gave his opinion on how she should have answered them.

Kanak’s spirits sank on being told that she had not answered properly.

Alok asked Gill, ‘You were the editor of the paper in Lahore?’

‘The owner was the editor, but I did all the work. It was a weekly.’

‘But you do copy-editing in English at the
Herald
?’ Alok said with surprise.

‘I can do that too. Now I’m working as a proofreader.’

‘Proofreader? How much do they pay you?’

‘Not much.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Eighty rupees.’

Kanak looked at Gill.

‘This job would have paid you three times as much,’ Alok said. ‘Your appointment was certain. It could be a bad move for you to miss the interview.’

Now Kanak could not look at Gill. Alok advised Gill in a serious tone that he should try again next time there was a vacancy for a journalist in the Information Department. And since he would be working there, Alok assured Gill, he would definitely try to help Gill.

Over coffee, Alok advised Kanak to be more fluent in Hindi, ‘Now, as
you know, Hindi will be the national language. Who would care for Urdu or English?’ He assured Kanak that he would help her get her writings published in Hindi journals, and asked, ‘Do you write any poetry?’

Kanak said no. Alok began to recite a poem of his own ‘The Sound of Change’ and followed it by ‘The Stranger’. Kanak and Gill had no occasion to say anything. Their eyes met twice. She’s was dying to ask about Puri.

After the coffee, Alok offered to take Kanak by rickshaw to the Councillors Residence, but Kanak declined. He left, saying that he hoped to see Kanak at the office.

The Residence was on Gill’s way to his destination in Udayganj. Kanak broached the subject as they began walking towards it, ‘You said you knew Puriji?’

‘Yes, quite well. Is Puri in Delhi? Is he at some newspaper?’

‘I don’t know. There’s no news of him. He was neither with
Sardar
, nor with
Pairokaar
.’ Kanak’s enthusiasm began to wane.

‘He wouldn’t be at
Pairokaar
,’ Gill said. ‘Kashish treated him vary badly. I spoke in his support in that meeting of journalists.’

‘Puriji was in Nainital on the nineteenth of August. There has been no news of him since then’

‘I think he must be somewhere in UP. In Allahabad or Agra. He knows Hindi quite well.’

‘He went from Nainital to help his family in Lahore on the nineteenth of August.’

‘Nineteenth of August was a bad day. We were at Lala Moosa Camp then. It looked like as if we would all be killed there, but somehow we survived. One can never see the future.’

On their first meeting, as they walked in the winter sun surrounded by strangers, they felt a closeness because of their connection with Lahore, and Puri. And this gave Kanak an excuse to talk to him about Puri. She could not talk about Puri with her family without embarrassment, but with Gill she felt no hesitation. She had begun to have a feeling of trust and respect for Gill’s kind and generous heart.

Kanak asked, ‘Can you use your address to send a message for broadcast over the radio?’

Gill said, ‘Sure, but how many people really get to listen to the radio? Puri would hear the message only if he is at some camp. The place I’m staying at belonged to a Muslim who had fled from the city. I haven’t listened to
the radio even once in two months. But, surely there’s no harm in having the message broadcast.’

Kanak picked up the thread of the conversation, ‘Puriji helped me in my studies for quite some time. I wanted to sit for the Hindi Prabhakar exam. My father offered to pay him, but he refused. He encouraged me to write, and showed me how to improve. Pitaji really liked his short stories and wanted to publish a collection of them, but this political upheaval made that impossible. Puriji got two of my short stories published in the weekend edition of
Pairokaar
. Several articles were left unfinished. None of the contemporary writers can match his brilliance. We’d invited him to Nainital, that’s why I’m all the more worried.’

Gill agreed with Kanak, ‘Puri is a very good writer. I found his imagination really inspiring. I’ve known him for several years. He was two years junior to me. He was at Dayal Singh College, I was at Christian College. In ’40 and ’41 we met often at literary gatherings. We were together in the Quit India movement. Our meetings became less frequent because of our differences about the war in ’42, but this year in May he came to
Sitara
several times.’

Gill and Kanak reached the gate of the Councillors Residence. Gill slowed down and put his hands in his pockets, like someone who stops to think.

‘Do you have to go? Aren’t you enjoying the sunshine?’ Kanak asked.

‘I’m in no hurry. You want to walk more? The Station Road is just ahead.’

They walked up the slope. Kanak said, ‘Are you a member of the Communist Party?’

‘No. Not any more. I used to work in the editorial section of
Quami Jung
in ’43 and ’44.’

‘You probably knew Narendra, Asad, Pradyumna and others. Puriji was helping them to maintain peace in March, April and May of this year. Were you also with him then?’

‘I’d left the Party by the end of ’45.’

‘Why? Didn’t the Party support the demand for Pakistan?’ Kanak asked, surprised.

‘I was expelled from the Party.’

‘Why? For what reason?’ Kanak pressed harder.

‘It’s a long story,’ Gill paused, then added hastily. ‘Because I cut off my hair. My parents were Sikhs. I too had uncut hair until 1945.’

Kanak scrutinized Gill’s face. He looked sober and friendly. She thought,
‘How would he look with a turban, his face covered with a beard?’ His short, crisp hair and clean-shaven face gave a feeling of confidence and trust. To forcibly stick a turban and a bushy beard on such a face, she felt, would have been such an injustice. She felt a surge of sympathy for him.

She could not help asking, ‘It should be a personal choice if one wants to cut his hair or shave his face. Why could it be a reason for the Party to expel someone? Narendra Singh and his sister Surendra were hardly orthodox.’

‘I know that communists are not superstitious or intolerant; they shouldn’t be. Many Sikh members in the Party didn’t believe in keeping their hair long. But the Punjab branch of the Party made it a rule that Sikh members must not cut their hair because this might antagonize people.’

Kanak said in agreement, ‘That would amount to deception, making people act contrary to their beliefs. That’s not fair.’

Gill agreed with Kanak but defended the Party, ‘It wasn’t deception, but more like political discipline for practical reasons.’

‘You did well to get rid of your hair! I wonder how you’d have looked if you still wore it long.’ Feeing self-conscious, she added quickly, ‘Well, you didn’t follow the rule for the sake of your private belief. It was a matter of principle. You did right.’

‘Yes, maybe…’ He walked along the footpath, his eyes on the ground. He did not finish his sentence, and seemed lost in thought. Kanak asked to break the silence, ‘Does a person’s own freedom and beliefs have no value?’

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, as if his thoughts were still elsewhere. ‘I lost the Party, I lost myself, I lost my family and I lost everything.’

‘What happened?’ Kanak asked gently.

Gill walked a few steps in silence, then said, still looking down, ‘My uncle disowned me when I cut my hair. My father had died when I was little. My mother died before I sat for my matriculation exam. I was raised by my uncle who also paid for my schooling. He was an overseer in the Canal Department. He was very upset and wrote to me to say that I should never show my face if I had really mutilated my hair. When I was in Rawalpindi studying at the college, I fell in love with a girl. Her father was a lawyer. We were attracted to each other even before I grew a beard. We had decided to get married when we were still young.

‘Saraswati was afraid that her father wouldn’t agree to our marriage because of my shaky finances. She also knew that I had no income, that I was devoting all my time to Party work. So she finished her BA in Rawalpindi,
and came to Lahore to train as a teacher. She wanted to begin earning some money so that we could get married. In Lahore we also had the chance to meet and talk to each other. She disliked long hair and bearded faces. When I met her in Rawalpindi in ’45, she said, “I’ll do anything for you, but can’t you get rid of this nuisance on your face?” I didn’t believe in keeping my hair untrimmed either. I asked permission from the Party when I returned to Lahore. They refused. I reasoned, “Why should I agree to something I didn’t believe in?” The Party said that it would set a wrong example, and still refused. I found that hard to accept. I got rid of my long hair and beard.’

Kanak said, giving a quick upward glance, ‘It would have been self-deception, going against one’s beliefs just to please other people.’

Gill replied, ‘No, the Party thought of it as self-discipline necessary to be in line with the masses.’

Gill’s voice seemed to come from far away as he walked with his eyes downcast. He spoke again after a few moments, ‘The training college for women in Lahore was closed in May after the riots. Saraswati had to go back to Rawalpindi. In the middle of August came the news of intense rioting in Rawalpindi. I left at once to help Saraswati and her family. It was chaos everywhere. It took me three days to reach Rawalpindi. By that time her house and the whole neighbourhood was burnt down. Not a single one of her family survived. I also had to take refuge in a camp. I met a Sikh carpenter there and his family, and came here with them in the first week of October. I at least got the proofreader’s job. Out there are thousands looking for work. You yourself saw that. Panditji was quite well off in Lahore. Why did you have to look for a job?’

Kanak listened without uttering a word. Lost in their conversation they reached the Aishbagh bridge past the railway station. The sun sliding towards the horizon shone into their eyes. They turned around in silence. Her mind searched for some way to break his painful silence as her heart went out to him. Gill stopped in front of the gate to the Councillors Residence.