This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (47 page)

Puri, Ratan and Mewa Ram returned around four, having searched in all possible areas. The gali neighbours were still telling Khushal Singh and Kartaro not to lose heart. Some particularly fanatic Muslim officials, they explained to Bir Singh’s parents, arrested Sikh men under any flimsy pretext, just to harass them. ‘As soon as we’ve any knowledge of his whereabouts,
we’ll get him out.’ Every family in the gali was ready to put up bail for the missing man.

Sheelo and her mother stayed until five in the gali. Then Puri and Ratan escorted them back to their home.

Ratan and Mewa Ram took Puri, Tikaram and Birumal a little distance away from Khushal Singh. ‘We’ve been saying for several days,’ they said, ‘that it wasn’t safe for him to leave the gali. We ourselves were afraid to be with him. Only someone who knows us would have identified us as Hindus. There’s no problem in identifying a Sikh.’

Puri said with frustration, ‘Master Tara Singh has left Lahore, but not before waving his sword to threaten Muslims, turning every Sikh into an enemy of Muslims.’

Ratan said, keeping his voice low, ‘We’ve left no place unsearched. Who knows if someone stabbed him and threw the body into the canal outside Chardewari or into a burning building? How would anyone know? We thought it safest to send him to help out at the camp in the mansion of Rai Bahadur Badridas. There are only a few houses belonging to Muslims in that direction, near Kila Gujjar Singh.’

Everyone was back in the gali by nine. There was still no sign of Bir Singh. Khushal Singh lay on his charpoy, listless and quiet. His pugaree loosened, then fell to the ground by his head. His long hair fanned out. Tears flowed continuously from his eyes, just like the stream trickling from a crack in a broken pot. Men from the gali came and sat with him one after the other.

Kartaro beat her breast and wailed. Peeto let out shrieks as she wept. It’s a terrible thing to get the news of the death of a loved one. Kartaro was suffering the shock of the death of her strapping son by stages and degrees. Sometimes the grief hit her with full force, then lessened as someone held out hope of his being alive. Meladei, Purandei, Bhagwanti and Birumal’s wife all came and sat beside her. They would mention several reasons why Bir Singh might not have returned home, and ask his mother not to mourn him by beating her breast, ‘Hai, don’t say such inauspicious things, sister. Your son may live a hundred years.’ But the tone of their voices were not convincing.

Tara had received the pre-nuptial anointings, so it was not proper for her to go out of the house. She wanted to go and comfort Kartaro, but Bhagwanti objected, ‘No balli, no. It’s not fitting for you to go to her.’ When
Meladei heard Tara’s mother, she too joined in, ‘No question of your going. It would be an ill omen.’

Tara persisted. Puri said when he heard her insist, ‘How come it’s an ill omen to go and comfort someone?’ This was the first occasion he had said anything to support Tara for a long time. Tara went to see Kartaro for a few minutes, in spite of her mother’s objections.

Next day Meladei, Purandei and Birumal’s wife joined Kartaro in mourning for her son. Bhagwanti’s daughter was getting married the next day, and it was not auspicious for her to sit and cry.

Kartaro’s wailing had turned into cursing. She beat her breast vigorously and cursed Ratan, Puri and Mewa Ram that they had beguiled her innocent boy into going with them. She cursed their mothers, accusing them of doing away with her young son. She beat her breast and tore at her hair, praying to Waheguru that the women who had brought about the death of her son might lose their own sons, and that their families would die out childless.

For the mothers of Puri, Ratan and Mewa Ram her curse-laden mourning was intolerable. They could no longer sit with Kartaro.

Bhagwanti could not keep silent, ‘What didn’t we do to help her! Our boys risked their lives looking for her son. Maybe because this hag has such a black heart that God punished her.’

Puri and Tara both told their mother to keep her mouth shut. Masterji too scolded her, ‘Careful! She’s not in her right mind.’

The auspicious time for Tara’s wedding was on Sunday evening, but until the day before, the gali was in deep mourning for Bir Singh. Khushal Singh collected his family’s meagre belongings, and got ready to go back to the village in Doaba that he had left thirty years before. Kartaro was still beating her breast and cursing the whole gali. The women of the gali, wiping away their tears, walked with her in farewell to the end of the gali. Bhagwanti, Meladei and Mewa Ram’s mother stayed behind. Ratan, Puri, Mewa Ram and Tikaram went with the family to the station to see them off.

In the early evening Puri, wearing only a vest and lungi because of the heat, was helping Tara’s mother and Sheelo to pack Tara’s trousseau in the tin trunks bought for the purpose. Masterji, his hand waving a fan, squatted close by, watching them. He was wearing only a lungi.

Ratan quickly came up the stairs. He said, ‘Professor Pran Nath has come to see you. I’ll bring him up.’

Masterji sprang up to standing position. Puri too dropped whatever he was doing. In deference to his status and to express his thanks for the help given by the professor, Masterji had personally invited him to his daughter’s wedding. As a courtesy and out of politeness, he had invited his own headmaster too. But, so far, only a couple of Masterji’s colleagues, teachers in the middle school grades like himself, had come and offered their help. He had not expected the headmaster or Professor Pran Nath to come and lend a hand in the preparation of the wedding.

Puri and Masterji both quickly donned their shirts. Puri called, ‘Usha! Hari! Get a chair from Ratan’s house.’ He reached for his pajamas hanging on a peg and went to the veranda to change. Bhagwanti and Sheelo left the room.

As Nath entered the room, he joined his palms and said
pairipaina
to Masterji. Masterji was both flustered and deeply moved by the professor’s graciousness. ‘Namasteji, welcome! Bless you!’ he mumbled several greetings in a row. Usha had brought the chair, but had got only one. Masterji asked the professor to take a seat.

‘You take the chair,’ replied Nath, and sitting down on a tin trunk next to the wall, said, ‘Hope it doesn’t break. I’m quite heavy. Right, where’s Tara?’

Puri said namaste and stood beside him. Masterji said, rubbing his hands together, ‘Professor saheb, it was very kind of you …’

‘That’s not right, Masterji,’ Nath cut him short. ‘Why do you address me as professor saheb? You know my name.’

Masterji was so moved that he was at a complete loss for words. He choked back his tears with an effort.

‘Tell me where can I lend a hand in the preparations? I couldn’t come earlier, was really swamped with work.’

Masterji could only join his palms in reply. No words came from his mouth.

Nath turned to Puri, ‘So, what’re you up to?’

Vijay brought another chair made of bent wire, and a metal seat. The professor got up from the trunk and sat on the chair. He described how all the members of his family had gone to Lucknow. The family owned a sugar mill in UP. Their mansion in Lahore had been burnt to the ground, but had been insured for 350,000 rupees.

Tara came and said namaste.

Nath got up from his chair.

Masterji and Puri said, ‘Please remain seated.’ Offering the chair to Tara Nath said, ‘No, no. You take the chair. You’re the heroine today,’ he added in English.

‘Doctor saheb, do please sit down. I’ve been sitting the whole day.’ Tara said in embarrassment, but with a polite and friendly smile.

‘No, no. Till today you were a girl, so it was a different matter. Tonight you shall be a lady.’

Tara hung her head in embarrassed silence.

‘Come and sit down,’ Nath said to her.

Tara was about to sit on the trunk, but the professor took the trunk and made her sit on the chair.

Masterji got up from his chair and said to the professor, ‘I’ll be back in a minute. You sit here.’ Puri knew that his father was going to get something to offer the professor.

‘You sit here,’ Nath gestured for Puri to take the chair, and turning towards Tara, said, ‘What’s that on your forehead?’

Puri looked away. Tara ran her hand across her forehead, and said, ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Was that scar always there?’

Tara looked down and nodded, ‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t notice before,’ Nath changed the subject. ‘So, they’ve applied the bridal oils on you. You’re smart, you are wearing dark-coloured clothes so it won’t show.’

Tara replied, again looking down shyly, ‘No, it’s not that.’

Nath asked Puri in English, ‘From which place will the groom’s party be coming? What about that stupid boy she’d been engaged to?’

‘Kakaji, come here,’ Masterji called from inside the house.

‘Coming,’ said Puri, and left without answering Nath.

‘Doctor saheb, you didn’t go to any hill station this summer?’ Tara asked.

‘How can I? My family left, telling me to settle the insurance claim.’ Nath talked about several other things, about how the city was being ruined. ‘Who knows what will happen next?’ he wondered.

Puri returned, a plate of mithai in one hand, the other holding a glass of water. Masterji was behind him. Puri asked the professor, as he came into the room, ‘What have you decided, doctor saheb? You’ll also have to make up your mind whether to stay in Pakistan or work in Hindustan.’

‘Can’t say. The university isn’t being split up,’ replied Nath. ‘There’s a suggestion of setting up another university in east Punjab. Madanmohan Singh’s name has been suggested for the registrar’s position. He’d definitely take it. As for the advisor’s post, who knows who’ll be appointed as the new governor of Punjab? He may or may not want me. Jenkins is scheming to keep Pakistan in the British dominion. I think the outcome of the talks should be known this week. Mountabatten will force some kind of decision.’

‘The loss of your mansion must have cost your family millions. But that was God’s will,’ Masterji said sympathetically.

‘It was insured, for three and half lakhs. Six months ago it was perhaps worth more.’

Masterji joined his palms in appeal and asked Nath to have some mithai.

‘Wah, that’s not as it should be. I’ve come to lend a hand at your daughter’s wedding, not to sit and eat mithai. Don’t treat me as a guest from the groom’s party.’ Nath looked at Puri, ‘Tell me something I can usefully do.’

‘There’s not much left to do,’ said Masterji. ‘The times are such that we could hardly arrange anything. Otherwise, we would have put ourselves out more, and we’d certainly have asked you. I had thought of borrowing the cooking utensils for the feast and other stuff from your mansion. Now if we can somehow get through the phere ceremony, that’ll be enough.’

Masterji again asked Nath to have some mithai. Nath ate a laddoo, and drank half a glass of water.

Nath reached into his pocket and handed Masterji a small square box, ‘This is from me. Should’ve got Tara something more useful. Achcha,’ he looked at Puri, ‘a good fountain pen for you when you get married, okay?’

‘Your blessing is all I need,’ Puri said with his palms together.

Masterji accepted the proffered box, saying ‘no, no’ over and over and opened it. It held a pair of small, jewel-studded earrings. Masterji held out the case towards Nath, saying, ‘No, bhai, no. Please don’t lay such a load of gratitude on us.’

‘How can you say that?’ said Nath. ‘It’s my right. I’m as close to you as Puri.’

Masterji was again moved beyond words. Nath got up, said namaste respectfully to Masterji, and said to Tara in English, ‘The best of luck to you. Have a happy, healthy and long married life. Hope to find you so happy
at our next meeting that you don’t recognize me.’ He laughed and went downstairs, chuckling.

Tara stood silently, her head bowed in farewell and gratitude.

Tara’s heart and mind were in turmoil. She wrapped her head in her dupatta and lay down. Behind her closed eyes, words in giant flaming letters appeared against a darkened sky, ‘You like Asad? He’s a good chap… Your father’s elder brother has got you engaged to some stupid boy… My family thinks I’m attracted to you.’

Tara did not want to see those words, but they seemed to have been burned into her mind by a branding iron. She felt anger against herself rising in her heart. What’s the meaning of such thoughts? These were past mistakes. Why did Professor Saheb have to turn up at this moment? She lay for about an hour struggling with her memories.

Six years ago, at the time of the first marriage of Somraj after he passed out of high school, Lala Sukhlal Sahni had hired the famous brass band of Bau, with all its twenty-five musicians in pugarees and colourful uniforms, to lead the bridal procession. He often mentioned the hiring of the band in his conversation. Now the times were different. This time he went, with only eight of his relatives in borrowed motorcars, to Bhola Pandhe’s Gali for the marriage of his son.

Somraj was not wearing mukut, the ceremonial headgear in the shape of a crown with a small plume, and
sehra
, the wreath of flowers around his head. He had wrapped only a couple of garlands around his pink silk pugaree. The bride’s family had not put up a loudspeaker to play music. Meladei, Sheelo, Pushpa, Usha and Seeta sang a few verses of conventional songs caricaturing the groom, but in voices that could not be heard outside the gali. Somraj’s father took part in the ceremonies that welcomed the groom and his party, had dinner with the other guests, and went back home. Left behind were Somraj with his young nephew, who was acting as
sarbala
, the best man. Lala Sukhlal was to return in the morning to take the bride home.

The custom of
jaimal
, the traditional adorning of the groom with garlands as he enters the bride’s home, was performed. Before the phere ceremony, the women of the gali took Somraj upstairs for the ritual of ‘getting to know the groom’. Meladei had given her big room for this purpose. Sheelo was particularly troubled by the low-key activities of Tara’s wedding in comparison to the air of noisy festivity and the large number of guests who
had come to her own wedding three years before. Somraj looked stern without his wedding crown and the wreath of flowers covering his face, as if his heart was not in the marriage or some residue of Tara’s reluctance to be married was still at the back of his mind. Sheelo tried to cheer him up and banish his misgivings by being playful and jovial.