This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (128 page)

‘Who reads the book!’

‘But you have to do this for pitaji,’ Kanak said with pleading eyes.

‘Why not,’ said Puri, entwining his fingers with Kanak’s.

Unpleasant memories filled her with dread, but she did not want the evening to turn sour. She said with a smile, ‘I want to sleep. I was on a fast,
na
, and I’m feeling a little dizzy.’

‘What fast?’ asked Puri, reaching for her.

‘Wah, don’t you know? I observe only one, the Karwa chauth.’

‘That’s superstitious nonsense,’ he said, clasping her head to his chest.

Kanak took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. Pulling herself away at this moment would not have been a tactful thing to do. She did want a bit of romance, but…

TARA HAD BEGUN TO HAVE A SENSE OF EMOTIONAL STABILITY AFTER HER TWO
years with the department of rehabilitation. Sita, whom she had taken under her wing, had been training rather diligently to become a Hindi stenographer.

Ratan and Sheelo had at first lived together for five months in a by-lane off Pachkuian Road. Ratan had declared to his parents that either he would move back to their house with Sheelo, or stay separately. After five months of silence, Babu Govindram had finally yielded. Ratan’s mother had personally gone to Ratan’s rented room and had very affectionately brought Sheelo home as her daughter-in-law. She had said nothing about Sheelo’s arrival to her neighbours, and who was there to ask! One Sunday after he had moved back, Ratan had come to take Tara to his parents’ home. They had been very keen to meet her.

On that day when Tara had stayed with the family till late evening, Ratan had inquired about Puri, Masterji and chachi, Tara’s mother. Tara had simply said that her brother was the editor of
Nazir
in Jalandhar, and the rest of the family must also be fine.

Ratan had been too preoccupied with scratching out a living in Delhi to look at any newspaper. On knowing about Puri and others, he had excitedly told Tara about his plan to write to Puri and also about visiting him in Jalandhar.

Tara had replied in so many words that there was no need to meet anybody or to write to anyone about her. Sheelo had sensed what was on Tara’s mind, and had convinced Ratan and also her mother-in-law not to dig too much into her past. No need was felt to warn Babu Govindram.

Babu Govindram had applied for a government loan, on the basis of claims allowed for land and property that had been abandoned in West Pakistan, as compensation for his family home in Hafizabad and the two houses he had owned in Krishna Nagar in Lahore. He was an old hand at dealing with bureaucratic machinery, and knew all kinds of ways to get a job done at government offices. Ratan had informed his father that Tara was with the department that dealt with the claims, and that he should
not worry too much about the loan. Tara had indeed got the work done in next to no time. Babu Govindram, who did not expect to have the process completed so quickly even after spending an extra Rs 200, was brimming with affection and gratitude for Tara and wanted to do something to help her. He had asked Ratan for Puri’s address, and had told Ratan later that if a reply came to the letter he had written, he might visit Masterji and Bhagwanti in Jalandhar.

Ratan had guessed that his father must have written something about Tara. He decided to wait and see, without alarming her.

A few days later two envelopes mailed from Jalandhar were delivered at Babu Govindram’s address, one for him, the other for Tara care of him.

On his return home on the day of delivery, Ratan saw the envelope addressed to Tara. He went to Daryaganj the same evening and handing the envelope to Tara, said defensively, ‘I didn’t think it proper to tell anything about you to babuji. He couldn’t contain his eagerness and wrote to Puri bhappa. He wrote back that Masterji, your mother, Usha and Hari were all fine and hale and hearty. Puri bhappa is now married.’

Tara listened to Ratan with her eyes lowered. She opened the envelope after he left. In a long, affectionate letter, Puri reassured Tara that he would personally come to Delhi to know her story. He expressed surprise that Tara had not been able to get in touch with her family through radio messages or other means of contact. He assumed that Tara had not noticed
Nazir
because she had little practice of reading Urdu. He wanted her address so that he could keep in touch with her through letters. He also wrote that Kanak was now Tara’s sister-in-law, that Masterji’s coal depot was doing well, that the family’s finances were beginning to look up and that Tara should not hesitate to ask him if she needed money. After all this was the news of Somraj’s disgraceful behaviour, that he was living with his sister-in-law. Puri gave assurance that Somraj had not been told about her. Since Somraj lived close to Masterji’s home, Tara’s mother and father too were kept in dark about her so that he may not learn about her through them. Tara could write to Puri how she wanted it handled, and her wishes will be respected. Puri closed the letter by repeating the assurance that he would soon come to Delhi to meet her.

Tara was lost in thought after reading the letter. There was no one with whom she could share it. Her past life flashed through her mind, her life in the gali in Lahore, her reluctance to marrying Somraj, her brother’s
attitude, her first night with her husband … terrible, hellish experiences. Now she was on her own, not dependent on anybody. She didn’t want to lose her independence. ‘I have nothing to do with Somraj, he can do what he wants. It’s good too that pitaji and mother were not told.’

Even though it was disquieting, she read the letter again three times in the next three days. She thought about what to write in her reply, whether she should reply at all. On the third day, when the panic in her mind and her distress subsided a little, she began to wonder if there was more to the letter than met her eye. Puri had asked to be told in advance if she wanted to come to Jalandhar rather than that he wanted her to come! Somraj and others had not been told about her! Puri would do what she would tell him to do!

She thought, ‘He would be inconvenienced if I arrived without notice. If I do not reply, everything would remain as it is. Why should I blow into a dying fire to rekindle it, and get ashes blown in my face for nothing?’ She did not feel the need to ask her brother for anything. It was better to leave the letter unanswered, she decided.

The storm raging in Tara’s mind gradually dissipated. She knew that in future she will have to be independent and self-reliant. The rumours surfaced again that the government intended to phase out the Department of Rehabilitation once the task of settling and helping the refugees was accomplished. Tara’s friends and well-wishers like Narottam, Rawat and Dr Shyama encouraged her to apply for the Public Service Commission. In keeping with the Prime Minister’s progressive views, a special provision had been made to induct qualified women into government jobs. In May of 1950 Tara was selected for the Central Secretariat Services.

Tara’s new appointment as an undersecretary was to the post of the director of the Women Welfare Centres. She was now entitled to government accommodation. But, the number of officers and clerks in the new government had grown like wild grass in the rainy season, and officers appointed before Tara or transferred to Delhi from other cities had been waiting to be allotted houses. There had been an increment in Tara’s salary and she had begun to receive a conveyance allowance of Rs 50 per month. A peon was put at her disposal. She could now easily afford to live by herself, but renting a whole dwelling just for one person seemed excessive. She also would have had to hire servants, and what she had heard about men hired as help behaving more and more discourteously and sometimes
improperly had frightened her. She was quite content to continue to live and share expenses with Mercy as a paying guest. Very conscious of the fact that people would notice her new social status, the only change she had allowed in her dress was changing into a crisp white sari every day that had been washed and starched by a dhobi. She had also begun to feel uneasy about waiting for the bus in a queue, and mostly took a taxi.

On learning about her conveyance allowance, Mercy and others advised Tara, ‘Gazetted officers like you are eligible for automobile loans. It would be convenient for you and befitting your position if you get a small car.’ Mathur and Narottam offered to assist her in the selection and purchase of a car.

Tara replied a little sheepishly, ‘You must be pulling my leg! I will be responsible for organizations that help and aid women who earn as little as 12 annas and one rupee a day, and you want me to go to inspect them on a motor car?’

‘Forget such romantic idealism,’ Narottam replied, with Mercy and Mathur listening. ‘You are a representative of the government and of the President of India. The President resides in a huge palace. He is not embarrassed by the sight of shanty towns or of the homeless sleeping on footpaths. People like us are government servants, who symbolize the power and the prestige of the administration. If you want to be a bleeding-heart liberal, better join the movement of Vinoba Bhave or become a member of the Communist Party and carry on the struggle on the party wage.’

Her inability to answer such an argument did not make Tara change her mind about owning a car, but an unexpected combination of circumstances arose three months later.

In July of that year Chaddha came out of hiding after more than two years. The room he had been living in a lane behind Shradanand Bazaar before going underground was repossessed and rented out during his absence by his landlord to another person at twice the rent.

On getting Chaddha back after such a long separation, Mercy did not want him to be out of her sight even for a few hours. She made an audacious decision and asked him to move in with her, then applied for a court marriage. She could barely contain her happiness and thrill. Her lips were constantly spread in a smile, her large eyes shone with delight. The surge of blood in her veins made her smooth, bronze complexion glow. Bubbling with excitement, she chirped all day.

Mathur’s visits became more frequent, and other comrades often showed up to meet Chaddha. Long discussions ensued; the topic generally the same: a criticism of the Communist Party line by some, and its defence by others. They discussed P.C. Joshi’s policy of ‘strengthening Nehru’s hands’, the call given by B.T. Ranadive for socialist revolution, and engaged in passionate polemics of the bourgeois democratic revolution, role of the working classes in a democratic revolution, the danger of bourgeois monopoly, and the people’s democratic revolution.

These discussions bored Tara. Chaddha was for the policy of eliminating feudalism and the capitalist hegemony with the help of national bourgeoisie. His primary concern was agrarian reforms, the ending of zamindar’s rights over agricultural property and the nationalization of heavy industry. In his view, the abolition of the ‘privy purses’ of the former royals by the Congress was a step towards democracy.

Mathur and Tewari supported the socialist agenda of the Communist Party, but strongly objected to the current party line. They did not consider the Communist Party of India to be an independent entity, but only an arm of the international communist movement. They were critical that the CPI did not decide its policies in accordance with India’s needs, but to conform to the strategy of international communist movement.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Chaddha would ask. ‘An end to a capitalist and exploitive system in any country would be conducive to democracy. How can such progressive international cooperation be against the national interest of any country? Does the Congress government accept international aid to solve the food crisis in the country, or not? Has your government not taken the Kashmir problem to the court of international opinion? Did the government not seek help and loans from the USA, Britain and also from the Soviet Union to develop the nation’s industry?’

‘That’s what I meant,’ Mathur said. ‘The USA and Britain are helping us to only keep us dependent on them. You must remember that they help us only in the production of consumer goods, not in establishing heavy industries or in setting up production of weapons of defence. The Soviet Union is also mainly concerned about increasing its influence.’

‘That is because the capitalist nations have an imperialist agenda,’ Chaddha said by way of a warning. ‘You should learn from the example of the Soviets helping China and Korea.’

Tara jumped in support of Chaddha, ‘The Congress government has
been forced to postpone its declared goal of nationalization of industries to appease the USA and Britain. Why doesn’t the Congress carry out the resolution adopted at its Karachi convention twenty years ago?’

‘The government has sold out to the capitalists,’ Mercy said in disgust.

‘No, no,’ Mathur attempted to correct everyone, ‘CPI does not give importance to our national situation, but to the dictates of the international communist movement. When they realized that it was possible for the communists to come to power in China, saw socialist states being formed in the Eastern Europe, heard of attempts at revolutions in eastern Burma and Indonesia, they became ready to launch the socialist revolution in India also.’

Moving to the edge of his chair, Narottam said, ‘Sir,’—he still called Chaddha ‘sir’ out of an old habit—‘the comrades were all set to install the dictatorship of the proletariat in India. There is an old comrade acquaintance of mine,’ he said turning to Tara, ‘you know him too. The same comrade who used to come to AA to sell party literature to me. I met him again in Connaught Place last year when I returned from Calcutta. He had copies of his new short story collection on him. He gave me one, and said, “I wrote these in a new style. Give me your opinion when you have read them.”’

‘That comrade really writes well,’ Tara recalled. ‘I have read one of his story collections.’

‘That’s true, but listen to this. The comrade came again to the AA after about a fortnight. I had read his new work. I said with some reservation, “Bhai, I didn’t like the stories of your new collection as much as the last one.”

‘The comrade blew up at me, “Why would you like them? You want bourgeois trash and sex. Progressive literature is not your cup of tea. That is your class nature.”

‘I tried to explain, “But that’s not true. I liked your first collection.”

‘He said, “You liked the earlier one because then it was still not the time to say things plainly. Now I have clinched the issues from a working-class point of view.”

‘I made another attempt to explain to him, “But progressive literature can also be good fiction. I enjoy reading Gorky, Mykovsky, Fast, Hemingway and Alexi Tolstoy.” I also mentioned a couple of Hindi and Urdu writers.

‘The comrade continued to rage, “I don’t buy your explanation. My previous writing was just bourgeois frippery. The time for all that is long past. The decisive moment is here. It’s your class nature. You can’t escape it now.” The comrade got up angrily to leave.