This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (48 page)

On this sacred occasion of a marriage, Masterji had asked that the custom of indecent jokes and the singing of curses and abuse aimed at the groom not be observed. Sheelo still tried to bring in some humour to lighten the mood. She prompted Usha and Seeta to sing chants for Somraj:

‘Jija, jija, lachi dey, nahin to sakki chachi dey
(Brother-in-law, give us some cardamom, or else give us your aunt please).’

Somraj put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. Tara’s sister, cousins and other girls, with Sheelo in the lead, held out their hands for the customary gift. Somraj pretended to take something out of his pocket, but when he opened his fist in front of them it was empty.

The sister-in-laws, shouted again with glee, ‘
Jija, jija, lachi dey…’
He again put his hand into his pocket, but the girls refused to believe that he had anything in his pocket, and continued to swear and scold him:
nahin to sakki chachi dey, nahin to long-supari dey,
(if not, give us cloves and betel-nut please),
nahin to bhain kunwari dey
(if not, give us a maiden sister please).

Somraj again showed them his fist to quieten them.

Sheelo said cautiously, ‘First open your hand, then we’ll believe you.’

He opened his fist and showed cardamom, cloves and betel nut previously put in his pocket for this purpose. When Sheelo held out her hand, he pinched it instead of giving her anything.

The girls yelled with glee, and to pay him back for his trickery, began to chant other curses and abuse. They made him empty his pockets. Their shrieks of joy and laughter filled the whole floor.

Masterji had arranged for the proper ceremony of giving away the bride to be held in the aangan below. A priest chanted vedic mantras as the bride and groom performed havan. At the time, Sheelo and her group of girls were trying to steal and hide Somraj’s shoes, and to sew the hem of his jacket to the cushion he was sitting on. Somraj would stealthily move his hand back and attempt to squeeze their fingers or pinch their hands to foil them.

After the havan was over, Sheelo asked the newlyweds to play some games meant to familiarize them with one another, and to dispel their shyness. A
vessel filled with water mixed with milk was placed between the couple, a ring was thrown into it, and the first one to find it was declared the winner. During this and other games, Somraj continued to banter with the girls, making them laugh at his sallies.

All the customs and rituals were over by three in the morning. Meladei had laid out a bed in the big room in her house, and placed a table fan next to it on a bent-wire chair. Somraj was asked to rest there for what was left of the night.

Tara too was exhausted after sitting decorously for so long. Sheelo took her to the roof and both of them lay down together on a charpoy. Sheelo said, putting her arm around Tara’s shoulders, ‘See, how likeable he is. Such a good man! Now it’s up to you.’

Tara, her eyes closed, was thinking, ‘What’s past is past. My future and my life are now with him. I’ll do what I can, and try my best. It may not be that hard if I make the effort.’

Tara was made to have a bath in the morning, wear a new dress, and get ready for her send-off. Trunks with her trousseau were ready too, but only four could be fitted into the motorcars. The auspicious hour for her to depart from her home was at nine-thirty. Lala Sukhlal had said that he’d arrive at nine. He did so, with one of Somraj’s sisters.

As Bhagwanti, Sheelo’s mother, Meladei and others gali women led Tara downstairs, wearing clothes with gold and silver
gota
and her face veiled by a short
ghunghat
, all the laughter, teasing and merrymaking of last night turned into sobs and streams of tears. Tara too could not hold back her tears. Sheelo, Pushpa, Seeta and Birumal’s wife began to sing in a hushed, tear-soaked voice:

‘O father, I am still little.

My dolls are still lying in corners and alcoves of the house.

My days of playing with dolls are not yet over.

Why are you throwing me out?

I am being sent away.

My mother’s blouse is soaked with tears, my father is crying rivers, brothers are crying, the whole world is crying.

Only my sisters-in-law are happy.’

The women of the gali, tears running down their faces, went with Tara to the gali gate. Puri, Masterji, Ratan, Babu Govindram, Babu Ramjwaya and Kishori Lal found themselves moist-eyed.

Before she got into the motorcar, all her relatives, some still crying, again embraced Tara and bid her farewell. Tara was trying to overcome her own pain of separation from her family and their bitter tears, in the hope of belonging to a new family. A daughter is born, only to be sent away like this some day.

On 30 July, as on every other day just before dawn, the cries of the newspaper sellers were heard near the gali entrance, ‘Full liberty promised to Muslims in Hindustan, and to Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan!’ Copies of
Pairokaar
,
Chhatrapati
and
Siasat
were taken in by the gali people. Masterji and Puri went down to the gali.

Ratan read aloud from one newspaper: ‘15 August 1947 has been declared as the day for Hindustan’s independence and for the formation of Pakistan. The executive committees of both the Muslim League and Congress have issued statements that the new governments will guarantee the safety of minority Muslims in Hindustan and minority Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan. The minorities in both countries will have the same civil rights as the majority, as well as full freedom to practise their culture and religion. It has not yet been decided whether Lord Mountbatten will continue, for a period, as the joint chief administrative officer for both nations, or whether each nation will appoint its own governor general.’

Babu Govindram said contentedly, ‘What, after all, was achieved by the supporters of Pakistan? In place of the Unionist ministry, now it will be a League ministry. If Hindus continue to live in Pakistan, then the Muslims will have to include some Hindu members in the ministry for their own selfish reasons. They used to rule over the whole of Punjab, now they’ll have to be content with only half of it.’

Doctor Prabhu Dayal said, ‘What’s the problem if there is to be religious freedom and equal civil rights for all? If the Muslim League treats Hindus unkindly, won’t it have to think about the millions of Muslims living in UP, Bengal and Bombay?’

Masterji was wearing only a lungi. He had no shirt on. He spoke as he held his
janeyu
, the sacred thread, taut in both hands, and rubbed it on his back to relieve the itch from a heat rash, ‘Bhai, one should remain steadfast in his religious convictions. When Khilaji, Tugalak and Aurangzeb could not wipe out the religion of the Vedas, what chance can poor Jinnah and his Muslim League have?’

Babu Govindram said, letting out a sigh, ‘Why, then, all this murder and destruction, when after all and in spite of everything, everyone will remain where they were?’ They sat talking for over an hour.

Masterji said to Puri, ‘Kaka, get ready early today. Go to Mulkraj for his motorcar. His car will have to be driven back to him after Tara returns from her in-laws’ house. It’s a great favour from that good fellow. These days, nobody has any consideration for their former tutors. What do you think?’ he looked round the gathering for their approval.

‘I’ll leave soon,’ answered Puri, as he quickly went through the rest of the
Pairokaar
.

Lala Sukhlal had agreed that the bride would stay at her in-laws’ for a day and night, and then return to the home of her parents for about a week. Puri was to go and bring her to Bhola Pandhe’s Gali.

Babu Govindram had something to add, ‘There was no reason for Lala Sukhlal to hurry. He should have waited for a while, at least until things had quietened down. There was another auspicious period in two month’s time. Tara’s marriage could have been held properly then. Saheb, they have got pure gold. The girl is an incarnation of the goddess Lakshmi.’

All eyes turned towards the entrance to the gali. Babu Ramjwaya and his son Kishorilal could be seen walking in, silent and dishevelled. They were followed by Sheelo, her mother and Kishorilal’s wife, all sobbing. The gali people watched them approach in puzzled silence.

They wiped away their tears as they talked. When they got the news of the incident at Banni Hata, Babu Ramjwaya’s family had left for Bhola Pandhe’s Gali just as they were. After midnight in the Said Mittha neighbourhood, a crowd of Muslims had attacked several houses in Banni Hata lane and set them on fire. Shots were fired by both sides. There was no trace of Tara or the sister of Somraj’s father. The father of Madhodas, a neighbour, had not been able to escape either. Lala Sukhlal had received a bullet wound in the shoulder. Sukhlal’s house, as well as houses on both sides and Madhodas’s house across from his, had been gutted in the fire. The house behind Sukhlal’s house, where the Muslim Khoja lived, had also been burned down.

Sheelo and her mother began to cry loudly as they stepped into the gali. Bhagwanti looked out of her window, and without being told anything, screamed as she slapped her hand to her forehead. Masterji too began crying loudly as he stood in the gali.

There was pandemonium in Bhola Pandhe’s Gali. The family of Lala
Sukhlal had moved over to the house of Somraj’s uncle in Mohalla Mohalyan. Babu Ramjwaya, Masterji, Rajrani, Bhagwanti, Puri, Sheelo and Kishorilal, despite their own grief, had to go to offer their condolences to Tara’s in-laws.

In the evening, Puri, Ratan and Mewa Ram went to see the ruins of the burned-out houses in Banni Hata. Masterji’s wish was that if any remains of his daughter could be found, they might be committed to the Ravi River, after performing the havan ceremony so that her soul would rest in peace.

Generations of moneylending families had lived in Banni Hata, carrying on the business of lending money against sureties of jewellery and similar valuables. The houses had old-style heavy carved doors and wooden beams in the ceilings. It was difficult to save anything, once a house caught fire. Armed police had cordoned off the smouldering ruins. Some police personnel seemed to be carrying out an investigation by sifting through the debris. The public was being kept away from the scene. This was done so that the onlookers might not carry off any precious metals that might be found. People whose houses had been destroyed watched helplessly from a distance, as policemen went through the remains of their possessions, cursing the police under their breath, ‘…These are the very people who allowed the fire to be set. How else could the goondas attack during curfewtime? Now they are stealing away our gold and silver before our very eyes.’

As Puri, Ratan and Mewa Ram came out of Banni Hata lane and into the Said Mittha bazaar, they heard a stranger comment sarcastically, ‘…Sukhlal used to boast so much about his power and influence. People say that the Muslims have abducted his daughter-in-law. He’s saying that she died in the fire, just to save his face.’

Puri’s steps faltered as he trembled with anger upon hearing such an insulting remark. Mewa Ram reached out, grabbed the stranger by his collar, and punched him hard in the face.

‘Hey! Stop! What’s going on! Look at these idiots! Fighting their own people. That’s why the Hindus are unable to save themselves.’ Several people intervened and separated the two. Mewa Ram and the unknown accuser continued to hurl abuses at each others’ mothers and sisters, and shouting threats to break heads and spill blood. Puri and Ratan had to drag Mewa Ram away.

PANDIT GIRDHARILAL HAD THOUGHT IT BEST TO SEND KANAK AWAY FROM
Lahore for some time after Puri’s release from the police lock-up. All civil cases at the Lahore High Court had been postponed indefinitely after the latest wave of rioting and killing. Nayyar had not been able to find any accommodation in the Mussourie Hills, and had to settle for a small bungalow-type cottage in the hill station of Nainital. Nayyar, Kanta, along with Nayyar’s mother, Kanak and Kanchan went to Nainital.

Nainital was quite crowded. Although it was further to the east than Mussourie, it was teeming with well-off Punjabis and their families from western Punjab and Lahore. The main topic of conversation on all sides was the atrocities committed against Hindus in Punjab.

Two years previously, Nayyar had spent the high court summer recess in Nainital at the invitation of barrister Haksar of Allahabad, who also practised at Lahore. Nayyar was known in bridge-playing circles and several clubs of Nainital, and had become a member of the New Club soon after his arrival. He was addicted to bridge, and played it with care and skill. Unless his partner was totally incompetent, he mostly won his games. Kanta, Kanak and Kanchan would accompany him to the club as his guest relatives.

That evening, a large number of people wearing hand-spun khadi clothes and white, boat-shaped Gandhi caps had gathered at the club. A reception had been arranged in honour of Krishna Narayan Awasthi, the parliamentary secretary in the province’s Ministry of Industry and Civil Supplies. Nayyar was told that besides being parliamentary secretary, Awasthi was an influential member of the Congress party in the United Provinces, as well as the secretary of the Congress Parliamentary Board.

The male members of the club usually favoured Western-style suits. Those who wore khadi clothes as a matter of principle wore Indian-style suits of fine woollen khadi. Nayyar and Kanak had never seen government officials wearing khadi suits in Lahore, and such a display of national sentiment in UP impressed both of them. Awasthi was wearing a kurta and dhoti of cotton khadi, a woollen Nehru jacket and a Gandhi cap. He also wore ordinary chappals, was of average height, slim built and dark
complexion, and trickles of paan juice collected at the corners of his mouth. From the hair greying at his temples, his age appeared to be around forty. Everyone present was eager to speak to him and shake his hand. There were only half a dozen women from UP in the gathering, but among those from Punjab, the number of women equalled that of the men.

Nayyar’s introduction to Awasthi was very brief, but he stepped forward when Kanak was presented to Awasthi, ‘Kanak is the daughter of Punjab’s veteran political leader Pandit Girdharilal. Panditji was an associate of Lala Lajpat Rai, Lala Hardayal and Sardar Ajit Singh. He was jailed during the 1911–14 freedom movement. Kanak is an MA and a very talented and fine writer. Many of her short stories and articles have been published.’

As Awasthi sat down to tea, he gave a special invitation to Kanak, ‘Please join me.’ Nayyar and Kanak sat with him at his table.

Nayyar and his family had been in Nainital for less than a week when his brother Rajendra arrived with their brother-in-law’s mother, his two young children, and his adult sister. They told stories of several Hindu neighbourhoods in the town of Sargodha being ravaged, and of Hindu women kidnapped in broad daylight.

Mahendra and Rajendra searched everywhere in Nainital for a larger bungalow and also in the surrounding hills. Not a single house was vacant so they had to make do with the small bungalow in which no one could have a moment’s solitude or quiet. In the presence of three boisterous children and two old women eager to prove their piety, there was hardly an occasion to sit and reflect, or have peace to read or write.

In the morning Nayyar’s mother would chant from the
Japaji Saheb
, the holy book of the Sikhs, for a long time. Sometimes she would add
Sukhmani Saheb
to her intonations. If she was still not satisfied with such a display of devotion, she would recite prayers to Hanuman, the Ganga, or any other prayer that she knew. Not to be outdone, the mother of Nayyar’s brother-in-law would first chant prayers to the figures of the various gods she had brought along in a small rattan box. Then she would don her silver-framed spectacles, and read aloud from a large-print copy of the
Bhagawat
scripture. Sometimes one old woman would preach the importance of dharma and indifference to worldly things to the other, and sometimes the second would explain a religious tenet sanctimoniously to the first. They both firmly believed that only their form of worship and prayer would save their families from the curse of God that had fallen on them.

Nayyar, Kanta and Kanak were bothered by this babble of religious precepts, but had to keep quiet. Nayyar would say, ‘The Hindus don’t want to leave any god unworshipped. After they’ve finished with their own, they don’t mind worshipping the neighbours’ gods too.’

Kanak’s comment was, ‘Despite having innumerable gods to protect them, the Hindus have to run around to save their lives.’

Nayyar would pretend to explain, ‘No, the Hindus don’t expect to be protected by their gods. It’s rather the other way round, the Hindus feed and clothe them, carry them around, and protect them.’

Inside the bungalow the din of prayer and worship rose, and so did the clamour of children’s voices. Outside, the Nainital rain seldom let up. It was not possible to while away the time by taking walks or reading on a bench beside the lake.

Nayyar spent most of his time at the club playing bridge. In the evenings, he would take a peg or two of whisky, and discuss the complexities of legal cases at the Lahore and Allahabad High Courts. Kanchan played carom at the club. She too was fond of bridge, and the players in the beginners’ group sometimes asked her to join them. None of this interested Kanak. She had had enough of Nainital and the club after one week. She wanted to write something on the subject of family interference in the marriage of a daughter. But more than anything else, she wanted to sit and reflect: what next? Only four days remained of the period she had promised Nayyar to observe for not making any contact with Puri. All Nayyar had done during this time was to try to show Kanak that Puri was not fit for her. Kanak avoided Nayyar’s company for that reason. She could not hear anything said against Puri. She was beginning to feel that she had been brought to Nainital to be a prisoner and her resolve in reaction had become even firmer, ‘Let them do what
they
want. I’ll do what
I
want.’

When there was some respite from the rain, Kanak left Vimal Villa. She would walk a distance towards Tallital or Mallital, find an unoccupied bench, and sit facing the lake. ‘Maybe I should take a vow never to get married, as a show of protest,’ she would think, ‘and try to find some kind of a job.’ Then she would remember the promise made to Puri as he held her hand, and her repeated assurances to him, and think of leaving her family. She was the cause of nothing but trouble to her family, and felt herself persecuted into the bargain. She must find a job, in view of Puri’s financial situation, and even more in view of his fragile self-esteem.

There was no rain in the afternoon. Kanak was walking on the road that skirted the lake looking for a vacant bench. The road was filled with colourful saris, Punjabi-style women’s shalwar suits, and smartly dressed young men. She saw Awasthi coming from the opposite direction with two other men. He said namaste to her first, and she responded politely. Awasthi stepped away from his companions and asked her how she was doing. Then he said, ‘Come with your sister and brother-in-law and have tea at my bungalow.’ He gave her his address, and asked, ‘When will you come?’

‘I’ll ask jijaji. Whenever he’s free,’ Kanak said with some hesitation.

‘Tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you’ve got the time. Just telephone to confirm.’

Nayyar was pleased at the invitation from the parliamentary secretary. Kanak telephoned to fix a time. Nayyar, Kanta and Kanak dressed with particular care when they went to Awasthi’s bungalow. Awasthi was sitting on a chaise longue in the veranda, surrounded by a small group. Nayyar and Kanak felt awkward at having come at a time when he was busy. Awasthi got up to welcome them and led them inside to the living room, leaving the others to wait outside.

The tea was served without care or ceremony. The china was cheap, chipped and cracked, and the stains of spilt tea and rings on the tablecloth were evidence that no particular care was taken in serving tea. The three of them exchanged glances of surprise. The fair-sized room did not lack furniture, but negligence and sloppiness in housekeeping were evident everywhere. Awasthi was making up for the deficiencies in the chinaware and snacks with his effusive welcome. He inquired about the political past of Kanak’s father and his publishing business in Lahore, about Kanak’s literary efforts and her future plans in considerable detail. He told funny stories. He talked about his experiences on tour with Govind Ballabh Pant and Jawahar Lal Nehru, and many others.

No other member of Awasthi’s family had joined them. After a while Kanta asked with some hesitation, ‘Won’t Mrs Awasthi join us?’

Awasthi replied without embarrassment, ‘She won’t touch chinaware, as she thinks it unclean. She’s not fond of tea either. Women of our family keep to their old-fashioned ways. They observe purdah too. If you’d like to meet her, she’s inside.’

When both Kanta and Kanak said ‘Certainly! Of course!’ Awasthi led them through a curtain to another room inside the house. When they both
returned, Nayyar saw that they could barely speak as their cheeks were stuffed with paan.

Awasthi asked Kanta and Kanak, especially Kanak, ‘You’re an educated and enlightened young woman. You should help us in social work and contribute to our nation building. You have time to spare. You’ll be in Nainital for the next couple of months. A certain Mrs K. Pant is doing good work here. You should meet her. She has established a Women’s Arts Centre and other institutions in Nainital. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow at nine in the morning. You should both come then.’

As Nayyar, Kanta and Kanak got up to leave, they were again offered paan. They each picked up one rolled leaf, but Awasthi laughingly pointed out that paan was invariably offered two pieces at a time, and it was polite to accept both at once. As they came out of Awasthi’s bungalow and turned the corner onto the road, Kanta and Kanak went to side and spat out the paan. Four paans were enough for them for a whole month.

Kanta said with irritation, ‘What strange people! They keep their women inside, in purdah, but like to socialize with other people’s wives and daughters. I won’t ever come here again.’ She added in anger, ‘Their wives are to stay indoors, and sit on their bed slicing betel nut to chew with their paan, and we’re supposed to do social work! Did you know,’ she said disapprovingly, ‘that these UP women chew tobacco with their paan?’

Nayyar pacified her, ‘Why get angry? Kanni is finding it difficult to while away her time here. No harm if she meets a few people. Nobody can force her to do anything against her will.’

As they reached the path beside the Grand Hotel that led to their cottage, Nayyar said, ‘Let’s go to the club. It’s only seven o’clock. Why be confined to the house at this hour?’

‘Jijaji, we have time. I wanted to have a talk with you,’ said Kanak. ‘There’s never a chance with that crowd at home. I don’t want you to lose your temper in front of the others, either.’

Kanta guessed what her sister wanted to talk about. She got edgy on such occasions, because Kanak was prone to making sharp comments in the heat of discussion. She said, ‘I’ll go and check on Nano. I’ll send her out for a stroll. You people go on and talk about whatever you want on the way to the club. But don’t be too late. Come home before eleven.’ She began to climb up the hill to the bungalow.

Nayyar knew, but still asked, ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘You made me promise to keep away from him for sixty days. Tomorrow is the sixtieth day,’ Kanak said what she had been rehearsing in her mind.

‘What’s the point of this warning?’ Nayyar asked after a moment’s reflection.

‘It’s neither a warning nor a challenge,’ Kanak said. ‘The time for me to wait is over.’ She added, ‘I too have a mind and a heart of my own.’

‘Can’t you wait a bit longer? Do you want to get married immediately?’ Nayyar asked.

‘Immediately or not, whether I can wait or not, that’s not the point. I must think of the anxiety and suspense that is tormenting him. Aren’t you bothered at all that pitaji has not sent any letter? Wouldn’t I be bothered?’

Both of them had reached the Capitol, where the road forked off to the club, but Kanak had not finished what she had to say. They turned around. Nayyar thought for a few moments before asking, ‘I told you about Puri’s treatment of his sister. Did you try to find out anything about that? I offered to take you to their gali.’

‘Find out from whom? And what do I do then? I have to trust someone,’ she replied. ‘I have faith in him’

‘You mean, I lied to you?’

‘I can’t believe him to be dishonest.’

They walked for a while in silence. Kanak spoke first, ‘You told me that if I didn’t change my mind you wouldn’t go against me.’

Nayyar made an effort to speak without any emotion in his voice, ‘Yes, I’ll not put any obstacle in your way, but then I won’t support or approve of your decision either. We’ll just tell ourselves that we have no responsibility towards you. What else can we do?’

‘Responsibility? Or keeping me shut up and dependent? Why should everybody go on feeling responsible for me?’ Kanak was boiling inwardly, but she kept silent. They both walked in silence up to the post office and towards Mallital.

Nayyar said, ‘I can’t do anything to help you at the moment. I want to go to the club. I’m going back.’ Kanak too turned around. When they reached the path leading to their cottage, Kanak went on, and Nayyar continued on his way to the club.

Kanak halted halfway along the path to the cottage. It was not yet dark, cloudy but not raining. ‘What’ll I do at the cottage?’ she thought. She came
back to the road and walked in the direction of the library, looking for an unoccupied bench facing the lake. ‘Jijaji doesn’t even want to talk about us! What’ll I do?’ she sat thinking. Puri’s mental anguish, the promise she had made as he held her hand; what she had told him in Lawrence Garden… Just the two of them living as a couple in a small house, oblivious to everything around them, she in Puri’s arms…She peered at her wristwatch; it was 8.30. She got up and went back to the cottage.