This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (131 page)

Tara was woken from a light sleep when Sita called out to her. Purandei said with affectionate concern, ‘Hai, you’ve had nothing to eat. Come, girls, I’ll serve you both.’

While they were eating, Sita said, ‘Bahinji, you left, but everyone was talking about you. Some woman said, “Hai, how lovely she is. Such a virtuous-looking face. Does not look more than twenty-two or twenty-three, but has attained such a high position. Very sober and sensible. Behaves so much like an elderly and wise lady.”’

‘Stop jabbering! As if I am not old!’ Tara interrupted her.

‘Ashes and dust on to heads of those who say so! Those who call you that are old and old are the daughters and daughters-in-law in their family! Certainly not you!’ Purandei came to Tara’s defence.

Deputy Secretary Batra rang Tara to tell her, ‘There are many queries about the report you prepared for the Planning Commission. The Commission has also asked for all kinds of details and explanations. I am forwarding their letter to you. I suggest that you find the answers to the queries and go personally to their office. I’ll inform Dr Nath. All right?’

Dr Nath was the economic advisor to the industries section of the Planning Commission. His office was in the Commission’s new edifice on Mansingh Road. Tara laboured over a new report that included answers to all the questions for three days. At 3 p.m. on the day of the appointment given by Dr Nath, she went to meet him with her peon carrying the files.

Dr Nath’s peon stood up on seeing a lady arrive, with her own peon in tow. He presented Tara with a chit of paper to jot down her name. Tara wrote: Undersecretary for Small Scale Industries, Women’s Section—Tara Puri.

The peon went in, returned and raised the curtain over the door for Tara to enter.

Dr Nath sat with his elbows on a large desk, listening to his stenographer read a letter that had been typed up. A ceiling fan turned leisurely in the pleasant warmth of early November. Without looking at Tara, he said in English as the stenographer read on, ‘Please wait for a minute. Have a seat.’

Tara sat down on the left side and looked at Dr Nath, her eyes widening at seeing Professor Dr Pran Nath! Scars from childhood on one temple and cheek when boiling water was poured over him to kill him! Tara could hear her heart pound. Her fingers went involuntarily to her lips. Then she sat straight and arranged her aanchal to collect herself.

When the stenographer finished reading, Dr Nath signed the letter and turned to face Tara. He stared at her for a few moments with unbelieving eyes, then looked at the chit on the desk. His face lit up. He took a deep breath before speaking, but no words came out. Then leaning forward, his eyes bright with excitement, he said in a more assured tone in English, ‘You are Tara!’ He looked again at the chit, ‘Tara Puri! You wrote your name. I can’t be dreaming. I cannot make a mistake in recognizing Tara.’

A storm of memories of the past five years was raging in Tara’s mind. To calm the emotions churning in her heart, she sat silently, her eyes downcast.

Dr Nath held out his hand, ‘Don’t you recognize me?’

She shook Dr Nath’s hand to confirm his guess, then pulled it back and entwined her fingers in an effort to steady herself.

Leaning further and with his eyes resting on her, Nath spoke from the heart, ‘What an absurd rumour, but Masterji himself told me, he was in tears. He was so distraught when he came to see me at the hotel. He said that you were on the top floor of your in-laws’ house, and could not be saved. Was all that nonsense?’

Nath broke off and Tara heard the loud clack of a typewriter from the next room. Memories were exploding in the fire of her own mind.

All the pains and memories in Tara’s heart were awakened, ready to spill out into the open. She wanted to cry out loud. What Nath had not done for her? The problem of lack of fee at the time of her joining BA had been resolved with his help. Her secret, for which she had injured herself to save her face before her brother, and later had thought of killing herself, Nath had known about that and had been sympathetic to her. He had not betrayed her confidence when that secret had become a cause for shame for her. But at the moment it was necessary to collect herself and not cry in front of a person she held in such high regard. She was no longer the same
dewy-eyed girl, but a gown-up person and a government official…. Her head was spinning. She just sat silent and unmoving, her fingers entwined, her teeth clenched. The clacking of typewriter became louder.

Nath put his elbow on the desk. Leaning towards Tara, he picked up a round glass paperweight, made it spin like a top as he slowly recounted past incidents, ‘Masterji went to Sonwan. I remained in Lahore until the end of August. Such scenes of devastation, of people wreaking havoc! I was afraid that if I went out of the hotel, some Muslim bearer might recognize me and stick a knife into me. Inside the hotel it was safe because nearly all the guests were Europeans. Sitting idle in my room I used to think how simply incredible the theory of Hindus and Muslims being two peoples and two nations had once seemed, but then what was happening before my very eyes! Things don’t happen just because we passionately believe in something. If we Hindus saw those who were demanding Pakistan as our enemies, how could we force them to stay with us? If we, I mean collectively and as a community, have been considering a people as untouchable and unclean, wouldn’t it be deception to begin acknowledging them now as a part of us. Whatever might have been the historical reason for such behaviour, we have to pay the price for it now. The seed of partitioning the country as Hindustan and Pakistan was not sown by the British by allotting Hindus and Muslims proportional representation in government jobs on sectarian lines or by creating separate electorates for different communities. It was sown on the day when we Hindus began discriminating against the Muslims by calling them mlechchha. A Hindu may be subjugated and exploited by other Hindus branding him as untouchable because he sees himself as a part of the same religion. The Muslims have no such religious obligation, so why should they tolerate the insult of being considered untouchable? The device that we Hindus had used to protect our hegemony, the results of that ploy have come back to haunt us. What an irony!’

Nath took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and perhaps realizing that Tara was sitting tongue-tied, opened his eyes but looked at the paperweight that his fingers had been twirling, ‘When I was at Simla I wrote to Masterji at Sonwan. He wrote back, but I could not write again. I spent six months in Simla doing nothing. People were playing all kinds of politics to get appointed at the University of Punjab. Government of Punjab sent me to the Centre. The Centre packed me off to Bengal.

‘Bengal’s Chief Minster Ghosh wanted to develop the province in
keeping with Gandhiji’s ideals. I thought I could be of use to him, but his ideas were at cross purposes with the interests of a lobby of politicians who were powerful in Bengal. They engineered Ghosh’s ouster. The new chief minister thought that as Ghosh’s man I had no place in his scheme of things. So for the past one year I have been here, helping to launch the First Five Year Plan.’

Tara sat silent and motionless as before, her fingers entwined.

Nath spun the paperweight a little harder, and asked, ‘Is Masterji here in Delhi? Is Puri also here?’

‘Jalandhar…’ Tara said, swallowing hard. Her throat was dry.

‘You’re here with your in-laws?’ Nath asked.

Tara shook her head.

‘Achcha, you’re here because of your job. You are holding a good position. You must have been selected through the Public Service Commission.’

Tara nodded.

‘Memories of Lahore came back when I saw you. You used to come to the house to tutor Kikka, Gulli and Bholi. The chaos of those days! The last time I went to your home, your hands were painted with henna and the bridal oils had been applied to you. You were looking so young. Now you look so serious, a lady in white.’

Tara raised her eyes. She gave a thin, wan smile.

‘Your in-laws, your husband,’ Nath smiled and asked, ‘where are they?’

Tara again bowed her head.

Nath kept silent. After a few moments thought, he asked again, ‘What is Puri doing in Jalandhar?’

‘Newspaper…’

‘Which newspaper?’

‘
Nazir
.’

‘
Nazir
? Must be in Urdu. Never saw a copy. Doing well?’

Tara nodded.

Nath said, ‘You’ve hardly said a word. Tell me about yourself. You know I’d like to know about you.’

‘Some other…’ Tara said, again swallowing hard.

Nath briefly stared at Tara, then turning his gaze away, said, ‘It’s all right.’

The typewriter click-clacked: All right … all right … all right!

Nath kept his eyes averted to spare Tara further embarrassment. His
fingers continued to twirl the paperweight. Then looking at his watch he said, ‘It’s half past four. I won’t be able to do any work now. I’m so happy meeting you that I won’t be able to concentrate.’

Overcome by a feeling of gratefulness, Tara bowed her head with a smile on her lips.

‘Come tomorrow by 10.30 or eleven, and we’ll work. Will you be able to? It won’t be inconvenient?’

‘No, no inconvenience at all,’ Tara assured him.

Reaching to ring for the peon, Nath asked, ‘Would you like some tea.’

‘If you want.’

Nath asked, ‘You have to go back to your office from here?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why don’t we have tea somewhere else. We’ll be able to talk. We are meeting after…must be over four years. Feels as if the world has been turned upside down in between.’

Tara lowered her eyes and nodded.

Nath selected some files from his desk and rang for his peon. When the peon came, he ordered, ‘Take these files to my place. Take the bus today. I’ll be back by seven or eight. And give back these files of memsahib to her peon.’

It was Nath who did the talking as he drove, ‘The house I found is quite far, beyond the Flag Staff, on Alipore Road. It’s about twelve miles to my office and back.’

Nath took Tara to the Royal to avoid the crowd in Connaught Place. She must also say something, Tara thought at the restaurant. She related the story of the Bhaudutt incident.

Nath dropped Tara at her flat at 7 p.m.

Tara said, ‘Please come up for a few minutes.’

‘Not today. Another time.’

In the new flat, Purandei lived as Tara’s bua, aunt, and Sita as her cousin. Purendei’s black coarse-silk lehanga had faded and worn out, and she wanted to get a new one. The traditional respectable dress for middle-class married women in Lahore and Amritsar, whether well-to-do or from lower levels, had been black lehanga, but Punjabi refugee women in Delhi, even older ones, had switched to wearing saris and dhotis. Tara and Sita advised
Purandei, ‘Why are you so hung up on that depressive-looking garment. Follow others’ example and start wearing a dhoti over a petticoat, or get a tailor to make you a salwar.’

Along with her lehanga, Purandei also gave up her thick cotton chaddar coloured with ashes dissolved in water. She was now mindful of wearing clothes in keeping with Tara’s high social status. In February of that year Sita was hired, through Tara’s efforts, as a Hindi stenographer in the Department of Information at a monthly salary of Rs 125 including allowances.

Sita bought some new clothes on getting her first salary. Tara’s influence could be seen in her choice of clothes. Instead of satin and crepe in gaudy colours, she chose poplins in pastel shades and broadcloth. She also got two inexpensive, flower-patterned saris. She wanted to buy some dhotis for her mother.

Purandei protested affectionately, ‘How can you even utter such a thing? May Maharaj-ji save me from committing the sin of accepting money that my daughter has earned. I didn’t use your salary even when the times were tough. All I wish is that some day I may properly send you off to your in-laws. That’s all I want.’

Purandei could not keep to herself the news of her daughter becoming a government employee at such a good salary. She proudly complained to her neighbours Gurandei and Tayee, ‘I was so shocked when my daughter offered to buy me clothes.’

When Tara found out, she thought, ‘Bua didn’t complain when I got her new clothes, but she can’t accept Sita’s money because she gave birth to her. Or maybe, it’s just a ruse to save her daughter’s money.’ That called to her mind the rumours going around about Purandei in her gali in Lahore, the neighbours calling Purandei shameless, accusations of secret goings-on between her and Ghasita Ram and of her accepting packets of mithai on the sly from him, that her indiscretions were sure to ruin her daughter too. ‘Was doing that not immoral?’ Tara thought. ‘Is it really a sin to accept money from one’s daughter? Or a sin is only something for which one is afraid to be criticized.’

In the flat next to Tara lived Duli Chand Talwar, a real estate agent from Old Anarkali, Lahore, who had done quite well after coming to Delhi. He had purchased, soon after his arrival, several tracts of agriculture and some
barren land on Mathura Road at four annas a square yard. He had begun to resell pieces of that land after marking it as residential plots. Now in 1950–1 the plots were being sold for Rs 8 to 10 a square yard. He owned two buildings with flats and shops in Kamala Nagar that brought him about Rs 1400 per month in rent. He also owned a Buick, but lived in a rented flat at Rs 125 per month. He had married off his two daughters. One of his two sons was helping him run the real estate business. He was about fifty years old, and had a florid complexion. Everyone in the neighbourhood called him Lalaji or Tayaji and his wife, by extension, Tayee.

Exercising her right as a neighbour, Tayee had become Tara’s self-appointed guardian. As there was a servant and a daughter-in-law to take care of her own household, she had plenty of time to keep an eye on her neighbours and offer them advice. Purandei had no male in the family except two young women of marriageable age, therefore Tayee took it upon herself to worry over them. She’d drop in to chat about the riff-raff moving into the neighbourhood, and in between, would inquire quietly about plans for marrying off Tara and Sita.