This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (34 page)

Puri tried to lose himself in his work. It was the only way for him to save himself from sinking into despair. He had never held a sum as large as 550 rupees in his hand. He had not been able to do any work the previous evening, nor the day before, and was trying to make up for that loss by working late, even after sunset.

‘Hey brother Jaddi! Did you hear of this new development?’ Tikaram called from the gali below.

As she lay in the veranda, Tara was alarmed by Tikaram’s call. Everything, she felt, was aimed at harming her and ruining her life. She pricked her ears to know what this new development was. Tikaram’s voice came again, ‘Look at this newspaper special. The Congress has agreed to the formation of Pakistan!’

Puri was always called to join in whenever the gali people discussed a newspaper report or any other political question.

As Puri went downstairs, Ratan called out in an angry voice that dripped sarcasm, ‘Bhappaji, you used to say that Hindu–Muslim unity would block attempts to create Pakistan. Now the Congress too has yielded to the demand for Pakistan. This is what happens when you talk of conciliation!’

Tikaram began to read aloud from the newspaper’s special edition.

With the increase in cases of arson in the city, the workload at the insurance firm where Tikaram worked had also increased. He returned late from his office every evening. He had bought the special editions of
Pairokaar
and
Siasat
on his way home. He was reading so loudly from both the newspapers that even Tara could hear him from where she lay.

Both newspapers had reported that the Congress had accepted in principle the partition of the country, but was not willing to let the whole of Punjab and Bengal be included into Pakistan. Only the Muslim-majority areas of West Punjab and East Bengal could be given to Pakistan. Neither could any part of the United Provinces become a part of Pakistan, nor any other province where Hindus formed the majority of the total population.

Siasat
also carried a statement by Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah, on behalf of the Muslim League, opposing the splitting up of Punjab and Bengal and demanding a corridor connecting the two provinces as an additional territorial claim for Pakistan.

Puri attempted an explanation, ‘The formation of Pakistan would probably mean a Muslim League government in Punjab. Whoever forms the ministry, Hindus and Muslims will have to live side by side in the galis and districts of Punjab. What does it matter to us whose ministry it is? Our concern should be about maintaining good relations with our Muslim neighbours.’

Tara could hear her brother talk from where she lay in the veranda. She thought in disgust: ‘What a hypocrite! Just listen to him talk of relations with Muslims! People like Ratan are at least more honest; they don’t pretend to be friends with those they regard as enemies. I’d rather be dead than have anything to do with such a devious, poisonous person. I must do something …’ She felt as if she had moved another step closer to death.

Tara’s ears again picked up the thread of conversation from the gali. Masterji was back from his tutoring job. Vijay had brought Babu Govindram his portable hookah as he relaxed on the chabutara. A discussion had begun
as to whether Lahore would remain in India or go to Pakistan? … What if the Muslims were 51 per cent of the population in the city? The Hindus owned over 80 per cent of the real estate.

‘That’s the reason why the Muslims are afraid of the Hindus,’ Puri said.

‘Muslims fear Hindus?’ Govindram objected. ‘The Hindus didn’t get hold of so much by stealing it from the Muslims!’

‘If they didn’t steal, did the Almighty send them the money to buy the property of others?’ Khushal Singh asked. ‘Didn’t we all see how Ghasita Ram got hold of two houses from those Muslim tinsmiths, the
kalaigeer
s, in their gali in next to no time.’

‘He bought them, and didn’t grab them by threatening with a lathi. He paid them handfuls of cash,’ Dewanchand explained.

‘Chachaji, money can sometimes hit harder than a lathi,’ Puri said quietly.

‘Wah, what an apt remark Jaddi’s made!’ Khushal Singh said. ‘It shows when someone’s had an education.’

They were still discussing the news reports when Doctor Prabhu Dayal returned home around 8 p.m. ‘Did you read the news?’ Babu Govindram asked him without removing the mouthpiece of hookah from his lips.

It was obvious from his silence and the glum look on his face that the doctor had indeed seen the newspapers. They all knew that the doctor’s ancestral home was in the Sargodha district, west of Lahore. Puri addressed him on behalf of all those sitting on the chabutara, ‘Doctor sahib, didn’t Gandhiji assert that Pakistan would be created over his dead body? You and Dr Radhey Behari were quite sure that the British would not accept the League’s demand for Pakistan. What happened?’ Puri was attempting to restore his image by redirecting the remark Ratan had earlier aimed at him.

‘Why blame Gandhiji?’ Prabhu Dayal answered, but with less than the usual conviction in his voice. ‘This was decided by Pandit Nehru, Sardar Patel and the Congress Working Committee. Gandhiji had nothing to do with the decision. He had made it absolutely clear that Nehru and Patel were responsible for running the government. They may have had to take into account the advice of so many people whom I don’t know about. I don’t wish, in my ignorance and naïvety, to pass any judgement on their actions. How can Gandhiji be held responsible if it was Nehru and Patel’s decision?’

‘Remaining true to your principles must also mean something,’ Ratan
contradicted him in a loud voice. ‘If the partition of the country was against the Congress’s stated principles, how could the Congress justify partition, even if Patel and Nehru approved it? Nehru and Patel themselves were against the partition of the country until just a few days ago.’

Puri supported Ratan, ‘What can one say of Nehru and Patel? They’re like weathervanes. While in Ahmedabad Jail in 1945, they claimed that the Quit India movement of 1942 was against the policy of the Congress. After they formed the ministry in 1946, they blatantly took credit for the same 1942 movement.’

The doctor did not dwell upon the loss of his ancestral home, ‘The real issue is the independence of the country and its future. What option did Nehru and Patel have? Refuse to accept the partition of the country and let it go to the dogs? It’s the British who are quietly encouraging the League to make absurd demands. Let’s first deal with the British, and then we’ll take care of the League too. In the game of politics, bhai, one has to make all sorts of compromises.’

‘And that’s the true meaning of Gandhiji’s pet principles of truth and non-violence?’ Ratan asked sarcastically.

Khushal Singh liked Ratan’s crack at the Congress. ‘Ratan is right! We too would like to know the true meaning of that kind of truth and non-violence! Jinnah is more honest by comparison. He tells you the facts face-to-face, after giving you a slap. Only Master Tara Singh can answer Jinnah.’

Ignoring these comments, the doctor said to Puri, ‘Let’s go to Dr Radhey Behari and find out how all this happened?’

Puri replied, ‘Am I to go to Dr Saheb’s? He’s probably still annoyed with me after that incident at
Pairokaar
. But if he and others had been able to form a Congress–League coalition ministry, all this surely could’ve been avoided.’

‘How could that be?’ the doctor asked. ‘Jinnah refused point blank. An interim ministry barely works. You know that. Jinnah’s condition for his support was that the ministry should have only League members. But you come along with me. Why are you hesitant? You don’t owe him anything. Let’s see what he says to you now. I’m afraid that we may have let Lahore slip through our fingers. Mark my words.’

Bhagwanti was in her kitchen. She came to the window and called Puri, ‘Kakaji, have your dinner before you go. We have to go to Basanti’s for a while. It’s the first day of the singing party at her place.’

Puri quickly finished his dinner and went to Dr Radhey Behari’s house
with Prabhu Dayal. Bhagwanti cleaned up the kitchen, and as she and Usha were leaving for Basanti’s place, she called out to Pushpa, ‘Come Pushpa, let’s spend some time at Basanti’s.’

Pushpa looked out of her window and replied, ‘Bahinji, give my excuses to Basanti bahin. My daughter’s not well; she keeps waking up and cries loudly. Can’t leave her in the care of my servant boy. It wouldn’t be proper to take her with me, either.’

Bhagwanti said in agreement, ‘No, no. You stay with your baby. You can go tomorrow.’ She and Usha left.

Masterji and Babu Govindram were resting on charpoys upstairs and talking in the open air. The city had had no curfew for the past two days. Ratan too was out somewhere. Hari and Vijay were playing with other children under the street light in the gali.

Tara was alone in the house. She lay on a chatai, preoccupied with her never-ending worries. She thought about her meeting with Asad at the Venus restaurant, and her brother’s reproaches afterwards. The sound of gali women singing the auspicious
suhag
song floated up from the direction of Ghasita Ram’s house:

Jayeen jayeen ve bavala us nagari …

Tara got up and called out from her window in the direction of Pushpa’s house, ‘Pushpa bahinji! Pushpa bahin!’

‘Is it you, Tara?’ came the reply. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘I’m all right. Are the doors to your house locked?’

‘No, the chain is not on. My servant boy has gone out. You want to come over? Will you be able to climb the stairs alone? Come along.’

When Tara reached her place, Pushpa said, ‘Come in. Are you well?’

‘I want to borrow some kerosene,’ Tara showed her the empty bottle. Pushpa had a Primus stove in her kitchen. She preferred using it to lighting a fire, and kept a can of kerosene in storage. Bhagwanti borrowed small amounts of kerosene now and then from Pushpa. It made starting a fire easy.

‘What’ll you do with kerosene at this hour?’

‘My mother put out the kitchen fire. I just wanted to warm some milk.’

‘You should’ve brought the milk here and warmed it over the stove,’ Pushpa noticed that Tara looked very depressed, and did not raise her eyes.

‘I’ll warm it at my place.’

Tara knew where the can of kerosene was kept. The can worked with a simple, handpump made of tin tubing. Pushpa could hear the sound of the creaky pump working. How much kerosene did Tara need? she wondered.

Tara was quietly going towards the stairs with the bottle held under her dupatta. Pushpa grabbed her arm, took the bottle from her hand and raised it against the ceiling light. She saw that the bottle was full.

‘What do you need so much kerosene for?’

Tara stood without answering, looking down.

Pushpa’s eyes widened when she understood. ‘Hai, you were…!’ she said, and fell silent. She put the bottle away on one side, pulled Tara close to her and put her arm around her, ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘Nothing. Just wanted to warm some milk.’

‘Taro, have you gone mad! What happened?’ She held Tara by both her arms and shook her, then led her to a bed. She made Tara sit beside her, and gave her a hug, ‘I think I know what’s going on. Did you quarrel with your brother, or with your mother?’

Tara shook her head without looking at Pushpa.

‘Look at me!’ Pushpa insisted.

Tara could not meet her eyes.

‘Should I call Bhagwanti bahinji and tell her?’ Pushpa scolded her.

‘No, no.’ Tara begged her with joined hands.

Pushpa broke into tears as she held Tara close. Tara remained silent and unmoved for a few seconds, then she too began to cry.

‘Swear with your hand on my head that you’ll tell me the truth,’ said Pushpa.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Then why have you kept quiet until now? Should’ve opened your mouth long before.’

‘I didn’t keep quiet. I did speak out before.’

‘What? We never heard you say anything!’ Pushpa was obviously surprised. ‘I could speak with your mother, but now, when all preparations are over, how will she feel?’

‘There’s no need. It’s no use now.’ Tara let out a deep sigh and sat still as a stone.

When Tara returned home after about an hour, she left the bottle of kerosene behind at Pushpa’s house.

Next morning the news spread quickly in the galis and neighbourhoods.
From the top of tall buildings owned by the Hindus in the Sareen Mohalla, shots were fired just before dawn at clusters of one-storeyed houses of Muslims in the neighbourhood. Seven people sleeping on the roofs of their houses had been killed. There was also news of knifings and of kirpan attacks near the Badshahi Masjid and the Bawli Saheb areas. The curfew was not yet in force, but most bazaars in Lohe ka Talab, Tibbi Bazaar and Rang Mahal had been closed.

Sheelo’s husband Mohanlal asked her not to go to Bhola Pandhe Gali during such unrest. Sheelo insisted, ‘Around the corner is the bazaar with shops owned by Hindus. Then the rest of the way is through galis. Drop me off. I can ignore the invitation to the singing party, but Tara has been injured, and I can’t refuse to go to see her.’

Mohanlal replied, ‘Good soul, I don’t think it’s wise to go anywhere in the present situation. If you want to go alone, go ahead. I’m staying here.’ Mohanlal didn’t even go to his office that day. Sheelo sat fuming with frustration. How could she go ahead and show that she was bolder than her husband? It would be an insult to her, if her husband’s cowardice became known.

Sheelo could not attend the singing party at Ghasita Ram’s house, but no singing could be held that evening in any case. The gali women had assembled on Ghasita Ram’s roof instead of the stuffy, hot indoors. Later in the evening, an arrow with an incendiary head had fallen on the roof of Mukund Lal’s house. This arrowhead was different from the one that had fallen on Masterji’s roof. The rag tied on its head was wrapped tightly like a bandage, and had caught fire after hitting the roof.

Ratan and Bir Singh had gone over to look at the arrow. Bir Singh exclaimed with surprise, ‘Just look at this! Who taught these sister-lovers our technique?’

On the night before, Ratan, Mewa Ram, Bir Singh and Tikaram had gone to the rooftops of Panna Lal, Prabhu Dayal and Khushal Singh, and had used large bows to shoot arrows with similar incendiary heads in a south-easterly direction. The arrow that had fallen on Mukund Lal’s roof had caused no damage, but the women did not want to sit any longer in the open air, nor did they feel much like singing.