This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (130 page)

For the first few days Tara had her hands full organizing her new place.
The covered veranda next to the first-floor landing, she thought, could do as a sitting room for receiving guests. One room she turned into her bedroom; the other, slightly larger, she gave to Sita and her mother. There was another veranda at the back with the kitchen on one end. An old, heavy and ugly-looking dining table discarded by her landlord lay there. Tara covered it with a sheet of oilskin.

Behind the flat, just across the gali, was a row of small, dilapidated houses. What was until 1947 a poor Muslim neighbourhood was now inhabited by lower-middle-class Punjabi refugees. Tara and Sita were sitting in the back veranda eating lunch on Sunday when some men and women from the row of houses began to talk loudly:

‘Just look at those! Behaving like a
mem
!’

‘They look like mem!’

‘Wah, to me they appear to be Punjabi women!’

Two men sitting on the charpoy and eating from one thali, swore and said, ‘Aren’t they some show-offs! Having their meal sitting at a table!’

Tara and Sita picked up their thalis and went inside. Purandei came out of the kitchen and began to shout back, ‘We can do what we want in our own house! What’s to you! Aren’t you sitting on a charpoy and eating like a
mlechchha
—an unclean Muslim! There isn’t a girl as fine as my niece in the whole world. She’s a government official, an under-
sektari
. All she has to do is phone, and police will come and teach you a lesson!’

Sita sat alone for dinner in the veranda, and no one uttered a word. Tara joined her the next day.

Tara had more free time in her new flat. Among her few visitors was Mathur, who came around every Wednesday or Thursday at six o’clock. He had taken on the role of Tara’s elder brother and guardian. He would bring some fruits tied in his handkerchief, or some mithai or savoury
dal-moth
mixture.

Narottam always came by in the last week of the month to escort Tara to the club. In between if he read a good book, he would bring it for Tara. He came also to lighten his heart by talking to Tara if some comment made by his mother was troubling him. The issue of his engagement with Neelam was over, for which he had even more praise for Rawat than he previously did. Rawat had dropped the idea after sensing Narottam’s reluctance without bearing any ill will and had found another boy for his daughter.

Tara’s assistant Bhutt and Khushi Ram Mehta, an upper grade clerk,
also stopped by her house to see if she needed help. Tara would smile inwardly when Bhutt addressed her bahinji or mataji when he spoke with her at her home, but she was careful not to show it. Bhutt made sure to tell Tara about the latest gossip and report to her hearsays he had heard at the office. It was he who had told Tara that two clerks on her staff, Mahadeo and Bishwas, took a cut from the purchases made for the welfare centres. Since he could not provide any evidence in support of his accusation, Tara was unable to take any action.

Mehta had been particularly helpful in finding the accommodation for Tara. He had been living on Pachkuian Road in a similar flat for the last five years, but paid a monthly rent of Rs 45 at the old rate. As his monthly salary with allowances came to only Rs 220, he had to sublet one room. He paid a courtesy call every Sunday morning with his one-and-a-half-year-old daughter Guddi, prompting her to join her hands in greeting one and all, ‘Say
jai
to your aunt! Say jai to the junior aunt! Say jai to maaji!’

Mehta often said to Purandei, ‘Maaji, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ After Tara had moved in, he had also been helpful in buying kitchen utensils and groceries. His uncle had opened a grocery store in Paharganj bazaar, where packages of cleaned and picked lentils, spices and other similar items were sold. The business had flourished. Mehta bought groceries for Tara from that shop.

Ratan and Sheelo came around one day with Ghullu. Tara decided to ignore the disapproving look on the faces of Purandei and Sita, and treated Sheelo and Ratan with more care and affection than she normally would. When everyone sat down for a meal, Tara held Ghullu in her lap and made it a point to eat from one thali with the couple. Sita and Purandei quietly lowered their raised eyebrows.

Tara could see that Sheelo was pregnant. Although Karol Bagh was not far from her flat, she advised Sheelo, ‘The roads are not in a good condition around your area. I’d rather visit you than have you come all the way here.’

One evening Narottam turned up, and just after him, Mathur. Noticing a cardboard box in Mathur’s hand, Narottam asked, ‘Have you got pastries in there? My timing was good! I’ll also have some.’

‘Not pastries, bhai, look!’ Mathur handed the colourful box to Narottam. It carried the tag: Devi Chand, of Said Mittha, Lahore. In the box were burfi sweets.

‘That’s great!’ Narottam said. ‘Punjabi refugees have knocked some sense into the heads of Delhites, otherwise mithai used to be sold here in leaf cups from which flies rose in a swarm.’ He leaned forward excitedly in his chair, ‘My uncle came from Bhiwani to Delhi for a visit after several years. He felt nostalgic about eating chaat in Delhi, so I took him to Chandni Chowk for some. We were served chaat in plates, with a spoon. My uncle is orthodox Hindu, he thinks china or glassware is unclean. He said, a bit uncomfortably, “Bhai, I don’t want foreign-style chaat. Give me some on a leaf plate. Unless you can lick your finger after you have wiped the plate, you have not had chaat. All my life I have eaten chaat and puris in leaf plates, and drank water from clay tumblers. I’m too old to learn anything new.” The poor soul was completely nonplussed by what he saw in the city. He said, “Everything’s gone topsy-turvy in Delhi. It’s so much more crowded, crawling with people.” He kept on turning his eyes away from the sight of brassieres strung for display in stores.’

Tara looked away self-consciously.

Narottam begged her pardon, and continued, ‘That’s the logic of market economy. The more a thing sells, the more it is advertised. In Europe you see rows of stocking advertisements showing only women’s legs. For them the beauty of women lies in her legs…’

He said, looking at Tara, ‘If didi promises to forgive me, I’d like to say something.’

‘Yes, go ahead,’ Tara promised.

‘Here the boys and layabouts say to one another: Let’s go do some girl-watching to pass the time. In Europe the expression is: Let’s do some leg-watching to pass the time.’

‘Quiet, you shameless person!’ Tara chided him, trying not to smile.

Mathur broached a different subject, ‘The Punjabis have nearly run long-time Delhites out of business. They are such fierce competitors. Most of the business is now in their hands. Not only have the refugees settled in the districts of Lajpat Nagar and Karol Bagh, they are all over Chandni Chowk. Delhites are slowly awakening and have begun to learn from the Punjabis. Until now they used to take it easy and open their businesses sometime after ten o’clock.’

Mehta’s wife and his sister came up the stairs and into the room. The sister was gorgeously dressed and carried Guddi in her arms. When she saw Tara, Guddi held out her hands and said, ‘Bua, jai!’

The child also wore an expensive frock, her hair was styled in ringlets tied with a ribbon. Tara folded Guddi in her arms, gave her a kiss and put a piece of burfi in her mouth. Narottam and Mathur both said that the child looked pretty.

The guests explained the purpose of their visit without sitting down, ‘Tomorrow on the festival of Basant we are holding Guddi’s naming ceremony. Mehtaji has already asked you, but we thought we’d come by to remind you. We have invited a pundit, but Mehtaji said that the name will be selected by you.’

‘You came all the way for such a small thing! I surely will come.’

The visitors left.

‘Have you made many friends in the neighbourhood?’ Narottam asked.

‘One was the wife of Mehta, a clerk in my office, the other was his sister. Decent people.’

‘Clerk?’ Mathur said in surprise. ‘They were dressed and talked as if they came from the family of a New Delhi contractor, businessman, or some Rs 2000-a-month official. The people of UP and Delhi did not have the custom of dressing up. Nobody would have recognized those as belonging to a middle-class family.’

‘Why should they be recognized as one? Why should you be concerned how much property or cash they have? And why should they accept that they are poor?’ Tara asked. ‘Do they not have the right to dress as they want?’

Narottam said to Mathur, ‘Professor sahib, clothes do not belie one’s economic status.’

‘What does? How can you tell?’ Mathur asked.

‘The nails and the heels always give away. A working person cannot have soft hands and feet of an idle person. You are bound to see some rough and cracked skin.’

‘You’ve been really looking close, Nottan. What’ve you been up to, you oaf?’ Tara asked. ‘Do you like hands and feet of idle persons?’

‘I regard idle people as parasitic. I hate long painted nails.’ Narottam said. ‘I also wondered how people who dress like this can manage to do so.’

‘They are fond of good clothes and they like to spend on them. They don’t go begging to buy them,’ Tara said.

‘Assuming that they don’t, how
do
they manage on so little? Delhites seem to have also caught this disease.’ Mathur said worriedly.

‘They do manage, somehow,’ Tara said. ‘It’s also a matter of finding ways
to manage. Go and watch from the veranda in the back. Notice the sorry state of the dwellings, and compare the clothes of young men and women going in and out of the front doors. They wash their clothes carefully, and if there is no iron in the house, they pay the ironing man with his handcart to iron the clothes. In my office you can judge from one’s dress who’s from Punjab, who is from UP or Bihar or Bengal. Punjabis seem to assert that they are as good as you are. How much they earn or how well off they are is none of your business. They don’t want to admit that they are going through a difficult time.’

‘But why this difference in temperament between Punjabis and people from other provinces of India? What could be the reason?’ Narottam posed a serious question.

Mathur knitted his brow as he ventured a guess, ‘It could be that the Punjabis did not have to face the same subjugation by the British after the Mutiny as did the people of UP and Bihar. The Punjabis were also given preference for recruitment into the police and the armed forces. I do not believe it is because of the climatic reasons.’

Mathur and Narottam continued to discuss the changes brought to Delhi by the Punjabi refugees.

On the day of the Basant festival, Tara went to Mehta’s flat with Sita. About forty people were present, including half a dozen clerks from Tara’s office. There were several people older than Tara, but it was she who was given most attention and respect. Feeling awkward, she sat among a group of women and tried to behave as if she was no different from others.

The ceremony was performed according to the Vedic rites. The air was thick with the scent of oblations in the
havan kund
, sacrificial fire, and everyone chanted Vedic mantras. After the fire ceremony was over, Mehta, his palms together, prayed to Tara, ‘My mataji requests that you give a name to the baby.’

Being given such honour and responsibility was making Tara break into a sweat. She replied, just to go along, ‘Any name that mataji takes to bless the child would be auspicious. Mataji, please say a name.’

The officiating priest said, ‘Deviji, with your permission, the baby’s grandmother and her parents would like to name the child after you. So that she may be as capable, upright and successful as you are.’

‘That’s right! That’s true!’ Many men and women nodded their assent.

Tara bowed her head. Her ears rang, as if a heavy brass vessel had crashed down to the floor and its reverberations were filling her mind. She thought to herself, ‘No! No one should have to go through what I had.’ With an effort she pulled herself together, gulping the lump in her throat as she managed to say softly, ‘May she be happy! May she keep well!’

The priest recited a mantra and made the augury that the baby may be as talented and famous as the intelligent, capable and courageous lady who has selected the name for her, and may shine in her life like dhruva the Pole Star.

‘This is as it should be! So be it!’ A hum rose from the gathering.

Guddi was placed in Tara’s lap to receive her blessings. She bit her lip to choke back her tears, and clasped the child to her heart.

After the rites, Mehta first offered a laddu to Tara, then began to hand out bags of prasad to the guests.

The priest launched into an Arya Samaji bhajan befitting the occasion:

‘Come let us all sing a song in His praise…’

And all others joined in.

Tara sat with her head bent. In her mind’s eye she saw a similar incident five years ago, the naming ceremony of her friend Surendra’s nephew was done according to the Sikh custom, instead of the havan ceremony, a Sikh priest had recited from the Granth Sahib. That day also the child, a boy, was named Tara Singh. Asad had whispered into her ear that she now had a namesake.

Tara found it difficult to stay any longer in the company of people. As soon as the bhajan singing was over, she pressed a congratulatory five-rupee bill into the child’s tiny fist, and begged off early from the party. Some girls and young women were going to play the dholak drum and sing tappas to the beat. Sita wanted to join them. Mehta offered to escort Tara back to her flat, but Tara declined, and left alone.

On reaching home she lay in her bed, thinking. Memories of Lahore kept returning to her mind. That day the prasad was not in the form of laddus, but as ghee-drenched halwa that could only be accepted reverently with one’s hands. How embarrassed Asad was because he did not have a handkerchief on him to clean his hands. She and Asad had walked from Gwal Mandi to her gali. That was the first time they had talked so frankly with each other. How their friendship had grown, how far in the future she had planned, what confidence it had given her! ‘Maybe I was gullible but he also had given me an assurance. Then he let me down, or did he? He had reasons
of his own. He certainly wasn’t selfish. He had tried to help me again, but only after I had been ruined. Had his pipe dream worked out, where would I have been today? In what situation? Would I have been able to live with it? Maybe whatever happened, happened for the better. Was I supposed to end up like this by some strange quirk of fate. Was I destined to become a victim of the country’s partition or was it the country’s destiny to be partitioned?’ Whenever she thought of Asad, she was overwhelmed by such memories. Then she would tell herself, ‘Let bygones be bygones. I am good as I am. Why do I have to admit that my sense of self has been destroyed?’