This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (77 page)

He sat on one of the charpoys, took a deep sigh and called out to Praveen to get a drink of water. His concern for Urmila’s misery prevented him from asking her.

Nobody answered; neither Beyji, nor Praveen. Urmila, a dupatta wrapped around her head and shoulders and eyes downcast, brought a tumbler of water. She held it out to Puri.

‘Beyji and Praveen not home?’

Urmila shook her head to say no.

He accepted the tumbler and put it under the charpoy. He said in a breathy voice, ‘Urmi!’ and took her wet hand into his. She pulled hers back.

‘Urmi, don’t you know me any more,’ asked Puri, putting his arm around and pulling her closer as one tries to soothe a whimpering child.

Urmila did not say a word. She turned away and tried to wriggle free.

Puri held the hem of her kameez, and implored, ‘Listen to me just this once …’

Still silent, she yanked her shirtfront to free it from his grip. The cloth ripped. She scowled at him and kept an angry silence.

The ripping noise made him release his grip.

Flustered and embarrassed, Puri said, ‘Urmi, I sympathize with your sorrow, but you have to keep a brave front, no matter what happens in life.’

Urmila stood silently, a little away from him.

Praveen’s jubilant voice came from the foot of the stairs, ‘Bhappaji, look what I got!’

Praveen had called out towards the office, presuming that Puri was there. Beyji was a few steps behind him. They both carried bags of groceries.

Puri reached under the charpoy to retrieve the tumbler. He was still agitated from Urmila’s response to his emotional outburst, and Beyji was now back in the house. Who knows what she might tell her mother in
revenge, he thought nervously. Tension dried his throat. He gulped water slowly.

Praveen called out again on reaching the top of the stairs and brandished freshly roasted corn-on-the-cob, ‘Bhappaji, look at these!’

Puri found it difficult to share Praveen’s excitement.

Beyji noticed Puri’s serious expression, as he seemed to have difficulty in swallowing his drink of water. Urmila moved further away on hearing Beyji’s footsteps, and stood against the wall.

Beyji’s eyes travelled from Puri’s face to Urmila, standing in front of him. Her kameez looked freshly torn.

Beyji’s expression became solemn, at what she guessed had happened. She felt compelled to ask Urmila, ‘Why is your kameez torn?’

‘I was lying down, and it got snagged when I tried to get up.’ Urmila’s voice tailed off.

‘
Hai
, it got so little wear, it was almost new.’ Beyji wisely chose to limit her uneasiness to the tear in the kameez.

Puri did not accept the ear of corn offered by Praveen. Without meeting her eye, he told Beyji, ‘Rikhiram makes such mistakes at times that it makes your head spin.’ He got up and left.

Puri’s gloomy expression at dinner made Beyji inquire politely the reason for his anxiety. Sighing deeply to indicate his inner feelings, he replied, ‘I’ve had a letter from Delhi Radio that my message was broadcast twice, but got no reply from anyone in my family. These broadcasts reach most refugees. Why no answer? Who can tell?’

Beyji said kindly, ‘God bless those radio people. They may broadcast it again. Kakaji, who knows where people uprooted by this cataclysmic upheaval might have landed? There must be places without radios.’

Puri breathed easily again. Urmila must have said nothing to her mother.

Saddened by his failure to contact Kanak and despite his own disappointment, Puri had tried to comfort Urmila by sharing her sorrow. His kindness had met with a rebuff. At Murree she had been the one eager to yield to him, and now she couldn’t stand his touch! On top of his sorrow and pain this rejection wounded him really deeply.

What if Urmila had let out how her kameez was torn, Puri thought. ‘Why should I be angry at her? The poor girl once invited me to share her
unbridled love and passion; don’t I owe something to her for that? I must help her forget her pain. I’m a man, I can handle my pain, I must wait and face up to whatever comes. The circumstances that have kept Kanni away from me have to be overcome. Urmila is stuck in limbo; the poor thing needs my help.’

In Beyji’s presence, he spoke with Urmila as freely as usual, but anxiously awaited a chance to speak to her when they could be alone.

On the third day, Beyji and Praveen went to the keertan meeting in the morning. Puri went upstairs to Urmila and said in a voice trembling with emotion, ‘Urmi!’

Urmila, looking down, motioned as if to ask ‘what?’

‘You’re so annoyed with me that you won’t even speak to me?’

She shook her head in denial.

‘Listen!’ Puri said, reaching for her hand.

She pulled her hand back, but remained sitting.

Without trying to hold her hand again, he sighed deeply and said tenderly, ‘Listen Urmi, I know what you’re going through. There can’t be a greater pain, but it’s one that can be made to go away. I mean, it’s alright to grieve and wait for something to happen; but why mourn for ever,’ he sighed even more deeply. ‘And why think of something that can’t come true? Why let yourself waste away, pining and grieving? You have your whole life in front of you, Urmi.’

Urmila inclined her head, but made no reply.

Puri put his hand on her shoulder as he got up, saying, ‘Get hold of yourself, Urmi. Don’t ruin your life like this. Be brave and look forward.’

Urmila had not shrunk away from his touch. Puri was relieved. He said nothing more, and went to the bathroom to have a wash.

Beyji had returned by the time he came back. Urmila was crying, he saw, and her mother was consoling her by patting her head. Puri kept quiet. When a short while later, he found Beyji alone as he was going downstairs, he asked quietly, ‘What’s the matter? Why was Urmi crying? Is she all right?’

Tears appeared in Beyji’s eyes, ‘She doesn’t say anything. Kakaji, what else can she do but grieve!’ She began to cry, ‘Hadn’t shed tears like that for some time. I asked repeatedly, but she didn’t say a word.’

Puri took the newspaper along when he went up for lunch. He read
aloud the news of Gandhiji’s speech that India and Pakistan should have friendly and even brotherly relations. Both governments should invite back the refugees who had fled their homelands.

‘He’s a saint. What more can one want if that happens? God bless him! We had over two lakh rupees worth of stock in our godowns, we owned property. We just want to be able to live again like human beings.’ Beyji prayed to God with joined hands.

Puri had addressed his remarks to Urmila, in hopes that she would reply, but she remained silent. When he next went up for his afternoon drink of water, he saw that she was again weeping in silence.

He looked at Beyji with questioning eyes, but got no answer. Calling her affectionately ‘my dear’, he asked Urmila the reason for her tears. When she did not reply, he went back downstairs without saying anything more.

Next morning Puri was waiting for Beyji to leave for her keertan gathering. He went upstairs as soon as she had stepped out. Taking Urmila’s hand into his own, he asked gently, ‘Why were you crying yesterday, Urmi?’

She tried to pull back her hand, but he did not let go. He said, ‘
Mere sir ki kasam,
swear on my life, that you’ll tell me why you cried? You have to tell me.’ As if his right to know was even greater than Beyji’s.

Urmila burst into tears again.

Holding on to her hand, he put his arm around her shoulder, ‘A good, brave sensible girl like you shouldn’t cry like this. Take heart. Don’t let on to anyone what I’ve been saying to you. Beyji told me that that the rite of lavan-phere was performed only in name, that you never stayed with your husband. As it is, you didn’t even know him. You’re still a virgin. Beyji wants to let some time pass before …’

Whenever he got the chance, Puri would put his arm around her, pull her close, and press his chin on her head, and kiss the parting in her tousled hair. Tears would well up in Urmila’s eyes.

For about a week, Urmila could be seen weeping quietly once or twice during the day. Beyji’s worry knew no end. Puri advised, ‘She’s definitely not feeling well. Take her to a doctor, or I’ll have one come here.’

He had told Beyji to show her daughter to a doctor, but he knew that he himself was the cause of her tears, and was convinced that he alone could cure her. Her sorrow had hardened into a rock which the warmth of his affection and sympathy had melted, and it was now leaking out in
her tears. He was healing the pain that wrenched at her heart, and this gave him comfort and satisfaction. Consoling Urmila by taking her into his arms and kissing her hair filled him with a feeling of contentment and generosity, but also made his nerves tingle with a pleasant titillation that brought back memories of Kanak. Clutching the short and slender Urmila to his heart was less demanding and gave him more satisfaction than holding the robustly healthy Kanak, who was as tall as himself, in his arms.

Urmila was not willing to consult a doctor, nor would she allow one to visit her. Her mother found this increasingly worrisome. Urmila would retort in irritation, ‘Do you think I’m going to die? When did I cry? Did you see me cry?’

Her crying did die away, gradually, on its own. She also became more relaxed and less negligent of her appearance. She would sweep and clean the rooms or help in the kitchen without being told to do so. She began washing her own clothes, and her hair too.

Jagdish and his father had not been able to come back for the rest of the family, but their letters arrived regularly. Their business was beginning to take hold, because of their past contacts, but they had not been able to find any accommodation. Both were still staying with a business associate, content that at least the boy, his sister and his mother were living without discomfort in Jalandhar. Beyji too had written back to tell them that they should look after their health and establish themselves first.

Narang had realized how hard it was to find a house in Delhi, so he bought one that had been partially destroyed in Karol Bagh and began restoring it. Making it habitable was taking some time, and Beyji was waiting word of its renovation being complete.

Puri too had got news of his family. Amar Chand, the younger brother of Professor Pran Nath, had heard the mention of Jaidev Puri’s name on the radio, and told Puri’s father about it. Master Ramlubhaya had had no idea of Jaidev’s whereabouts until then; he could have been still at Nainital or maybe had reached Lucknow. Masterji had been worried and distressed about not being able to contact Jaidev, but he believed that his son was safe, whether in Nainital or in Lucknow, and wrote to him immediately.

Jaidev’s father explained everything in detail: Bhola Pandhe’s Gali had been plundered and burnt down. Jaidev’s family, along with the families of Tikaram and Birumal, had been moved to the Devsamaj Mandir refugee camp in Krishna Nagar. At that time, Professor Nath was still lodged at a
hotel. Nath had told Masterji to take his family to the sugar mill owned by the professor’s family at Sonwan in UP. And there they had all remained since then.

Arjun Lal Shah, the professor’s father, had given shelter to Jaidev’s family in recognition of Mastreji’s service to the family of Seth Gopal Shah. Masterji had been given a job as a clerk at the mill’s godown, and also acted as tutor to the children of the owner’s family in his spare time. He was earning, by God’s grace, about seventy rupees every month. They had a rent-free house in the mill compound, and free coal and firewood for their kitchen. Wheat, milk, ghee and such foodstuffs were relatively inexpensive in the countryside where they lived. But he had become anxious and distressed again after hearing news that Jaidev was in Jalandhar. He asked Puri to move at once to Sonwan. Jaidev’s mother was anxious to see her eldest son.

Beyji congratulated Puri on getting the news of his family. She also encouraged him, ‘You wouldn’t know this, Kakaji, but parents’ guts turn inside out in concern for their children. You must go and meet them.’ Sood also gave his approval, ‘Yes, go, and bring them back here with you.’

Puri did not want to neglect his duties for the sake of his family. Rikhiram was not showing the same zeal to supervise the press as he had done before his salary was decided. And Sood had been consulting Puri of late as a trusted friend in the process of outmanoeuvring his political opponents.

The
Chhatrapati
newspaper of Lahore was issuing a condensed daily edition in Jalandhar. At the suggestion of Sood, Puri occasionally wrote in it to explain the views of the left-wing Congress on the problems of refugees, and on the policies of the newly formed Congress government. The new government had appointed Sood as parliamentary secretary to win his support, but Sood and his group were not happy. They wanted Sood to have a seat in the council of ministers. Puri was busy in that campaign too.

In this life of relative comfort and ease, Puri had not forgotten the plight of other refugees. He had been appointed to several positions of trust connected with refugee settlement, and spent an hour or two every morning and evening at the office of the Sangh discharging his duties. The government scheme to distribute free clothing to the refugees operated under his supervision. He had also to keep his eye on another politician, Devi Das, who had been trying to wrest this responsibility out of his hands.

In addition to such weighty duties, Puri did not care to keep Praveen, Urmila and Beyji under his protection alone. Despite the presence of the
ever-watchful Beyji, he constantly nursed the hopes of stealing a moment or two alone with Urmila. She was reverting to her old coquettish self, in fits of teasing and enticements. She whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t go.’

Puri sent his father a money order for one hundred rupees. He wrote to him in detail, giving a hint of his weighty problems, and asking the family not to put themselves out for money or anything else. He also wrote that he’d soon come to Sonwan to meet them all.

The rumble and clatter of machines in operation in his own press had never stopped Puri from concentrating on his work; it rather inspired him to work on. It was like music to his ears, and gave him a sense of power and achievement. Along with this feeling of accomplishment and zest for work existed, as a pleasant tension, the thought of Urmila upstairs. But this chain of thought, like a pleasant tune running through his head, would be broken by the jarring note of the memory of Kanak. In that state of confusion, a curtain would descend over his mind, paralysing him. A picture of Kanak’s face, her eyes blazing and her expression stern, would appear on the curtain, and to one side, he would see the tiny face of Urmila, with her cute smile.