This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (91 page)

‘Her salwar was covered with blood when she came in. Look…you
can see for yourselves. I was shocked and thought, what happened to her? She tried to hide the state of her clothes and threw herself down quickly,’ Sukhdet stated loudly.

Not getting any reply irritated Nihaldei. She spoke in a voice louder than the girl’s, ‘Yes, and just imagine what they were up to. One of them didn’t even come back. Wonder what they were doing all night? Just look what they’ve been through.’

‘What’s that to us? They’ll pay for it, whatever they’ve done,’ said Prasanno, the Brahmin woman.

‘May Maharaj damn them to the deepest hell,’ said Dhammo’s mother-in-law. ‘If I could help it, we wouldn’t stay here another moment. I’m just waiting for news of my daughter-in-law’s family so that I can get out of this place. I can’t bear to see such things. Why doesn’t God call me to Him?’

‘They went out to have fun! Maybe they met some really tough characters,’ Sukhdet said in a giggly voice.

Dammo’s mother-in-law raised her voice to outdo Nihaldei and Sukhdet, ‘That’s why they eat puris and halwa every morning! Poor women like us get to eat dry chapattis. You call this a camp? It’s nothing but a den of vice. May all these sluts go to hell! How can we stay here any longer? I have to think of my young daughter-in-law.’

‘Let’s go and complain to the camp officials! Let’s ask then if this is really a camp! I too have a young daughter. We don’t want these women here! The camp’s turning into a brothel! Come, let’s tell them.’ They all babbled on, except the old woman from Gujranwala, who lay curled up on her chatai.

Tara understood their allegations. This was yet another humiliation for someone who had already fallen into a bottomless well of misfortune; one who was sinking deeper and deeper, but who had no strength left to save herself by speaking up. Rather, she felt like someone against whose rotting, lifeless body hateful accusations were being hurled by her tormentors; one for whom the only escape now was in her corpse to be thrown into a raging fire or into a deep, fast-flowing river.

As she lay surrounded by jeering women, her head and face covered by her dupatta, she thought grimly that she’d soon be an outcast. They would grab by her plait and drag her away, ripping off her clothes. She was the object of their anger and hatred because she had fallen victim to her torturers, and they were angry because she had fought back, because she resisted being abused by Somraj and Nabbu.

In her imagination she saw that they had torn the clothes off another girl, and were dragging her through the bazaar, the same girl who had fired shots at the crowd attacking her. They were hacking her body to pieces, because she refused to say ‘Jai Hind’ but said ‘Pakistan Zindabad’ instead. The girl continued to yell defiantly, ‘You can’t put me down, do whatever you want with my dead body. I didn’t bend my head to you. If I die, it’s not because I lost, but because your brutality won.’ Tara imagined that she also desperately wanted to grab a gun, or a sword, so that she too could fight to her last breath. Then she wouldn’t feel any pain either, even if they cut her body to pieces.

The women surrounding Tara jabbered on. She did not understand their words, but she knew that God was being invoked to punish her. She thought in a daze, ‘God neither listens to them, nor does He listen to me.’

In her half-conscious state, she began to imagine that God was commanding her to appear before Him for punishment. She was being dragged before Him, and His face kept on changing in the same way as close-ups of different actors change on a cinema screen. God had a lush, black curly beard, a well-trimmed moustache, and a red fez on His head, His radiant face now flushed with anger! Holding a lota with a spout, He was standing beside a namaz prayer rug. Sometimes God appeared to have a clean-shaven face, just like a young boy’s, with mischievous eyes and a flute to his smiling lips. But God in all His guises ignored her and looked the other way.

‘Hey, listen! You, bibi,’ one of God’s angels ordered her. ‘Get up! Can’t you hear?’

‘Her name is Tara,’ Sukhdet said quickly.

‘O Tara bibi!’

It was not a dream, Tara realized. Someone was calling her name. She had to remove her dupatta and open her eyes. She recognized the face with its long, grey moustache and tiny gold rings in its ears. The camp peon was standing over her.

After their arrival, Bhajan Lal, the peon, had brought Tara and Banti to the hut reserved for women. Tara had seen him again at the registration tent.

‘Get up! You’ve to report to the camp office,’ he said to Tara.

Next to him stood Nihaldei, looking as if it was her orders the peon was giving, while the other women looked on.

‘I’m not feeling well right now. I’ll come later,’ Tara said. She had a
throbbing headache, and didn’t want to lose face in front of other women.

‘You’ve to come when they tell you! She talks as if she were a begum! Get up! You think this is your father’s house!’ Bhajan Lal spoke in a thick Jat accent.

‘Yes, why don’t you get up?’ Nihaldei waved her hand before Tara’s face to emphasize the peon’s command, ‘You were all right when you were gadding about the city all night!’

Tara closed her eyes and grit her teeth. She used her hands to push herself up to a sitting position, then to stand, and followed the peon out. As she stepped out of the hut she heard someone say, ‘Why do they allow such shameless hussies in the camp! Let them go to some whorehouse.’

For a horrifying moment Tara thought she would be thrown aside like useless rubbish, and that end now faced her. Her mind dulled by blinding headache, she tried to imagine what they might do to get rid of her! Why go to the camp office to meet further humiliation? The bridge over railway tracks was not far away; she could always jump in front of an oncoming train.

‘Get in!’ Tara raised her eyes. Bhajan Lal had pulled aside the tent fly.

Inside the tent were Vimalji and the young men who worked under him, but another woman was sitting in Vimalji’s chair behind the desk. She had a smooth, light brown complexion, her hair arranged in a bun in modern style, and a slender but full figure. She wore a well-tailored sleeveless blouse, a white voile sari, and inconspicuous make-up.

‘Is this the woman?’ the woman asked Vimalji in English.

Vimalji nodded his head. He looked at Tara and said, ‘This is Doctor Shyama, vice-president of the Refugee Relief Committee.’

Vimalji had spoken in English, to indicate to the woman that Tara understood English, adding, ‘Taraji was a teacher in Punjab.’

Doctor Shyama got up from her chair, and took a step towards a curtain that divided the tent. She said to Tara in English, ‘Please come in. We’ll talk inside,’ as she drew aside the curtain.

Shyama sat beside Tara on a takht and asked her in a soft, gentle voice, ‘Did anyone harass you? Any physical problems? Are you hurt?’

‘No, nothing. I have a terrible headache.’

Shyama checked Tara’s pulse, felt her forehead, and said, ‘No physical problems. Well, your elder sister also went out with you. Where is she? Did she stay behind?’

Shyama’s tone and her gentle behaviour brought tears to Tara’s eyes.
Unable to say anything, she cried softly. When she attempted to speak, no words came out from her dry throat and mouth.

Shyama guessed her condition. She got up quickly, pulled the curtain aside and asked for a tumbler of water. Tara finished the tumbler in one draught. As she wiped away her tears she described the previous evening’s incident, haltingly and in a low voice.

When Tara had finished, Shyama said, ‘Better change these clothes. Do you have any others?’

Tara asked, ‘Could you please find me some kind of work? I’m willing to do anything. After what I’ve been through with those women, I don’t want to go back to the hut.’

‘Don’t let those foul-mouthed wretches bother you,’ Shyama said reassuringly. ‘I don’t know many people in the school management committees, but I’ll try to find out. You can help with the running of the camp and the registration work till then. Just wait here and I’ll get some medicine for your headache,’ Shyama went out to the other half of the tent.

Shayma explained something to Vimalji and others in a low voice. Their voices were muffled, but Tara knew that they were talking about her, and about how she could be helped.

Bhajan called after a few minutes, ‘Bibiji, may I come in?’

He came in with a clay cup full of hot milk and three small packets of medicine. He put everything on a chair next to the takht, and said politely, in the tone of one willing to help, ‘I’ll get you some water.’

He brought some water for Tara to wash her face and hands.

Shyama came in and said, ‘Have one dose of the medicine now with milk, and rest. If the headache persists, take another after three hours.’

When Tara went back to the other side of the tent after a while, Shyama was still there. She advised Tara, ‘Go back to your hut and just ignore those women. I’ll certainly do something about you, and I’ll see you again. Try to take things easy for a while.’

Tara went back to the hut reluctantly. A cacophony of quarrelling voices was coming from the hut. She could hear Nihaldei, Sukhdet and Dhammo’s mother-in-law speaking very loudly. She went inside with some nervousness. Puzzled by their verbal duel, she went and lay down without looking at anyone.

Nihaldei and Sukhdet stood in the corner they were occupying. Facing them stood Dhammo’s mother-in-law, a few steps ahead of her corner.
They were like two competitors facing off in an arena. In a furious tirade of abuse they blamed the other for telling lies and for making false accusations against Tara, as well as for having brought down reprimands by the camp authorities.

Prasanno came and sat beside Tara, ‘Sister, when did you come back? I wasn’t here when you returned. I was washing clothes at the water tap. I’ve just found out what happened. They told lies about you. Now let them face the consequence. It’s good that they got shouted at. Now they don’t know what to do.’

The slanging match had attracted women from other huts. Tara squirmed with embarrassment at their questions. Even if her accusers had been proven wrong, it still reminded her of her humiliation. The neighbours returned to their huts, but not before satisfying their curiosity, and advising the quarrelling women to keep peace and live together in harmony.

The confrontation ended with both sides deciding to ignore the existence of their opponent. Silence prevailed in the hut in the afternoon, with everyone dozing off on their chatais.

‘Bibi Taradeviji,’ Bhajan’s heavily accented voice was heard from the doorway of the hut. ‘Doctor memsahib has sent clothes for you. Please come and take them.’

As Tara was slow in getting up, Prasanno went to the entrance and said, ‘Give the clothes to me. I’ll hand them to her.’

‘No, no, mai,’ Bhajan refused. ‘I’ll hand them myself. I’ll only give them to the person I’ve been told to deliver to.’

Bhajan came inside. He had a bundle under his arm and a slip of paper in his hand.

By now the women were wide awake. They got up to examine the bundle Bhajan had brought. Prasanno said to Tara, ‘Sister, just check that what it says on the chit is in there.’

‘How do I know what’s in it and what’s not! I swear by the Ganga if I even so much as opened it. Go ahead, open it and look,’ Bhajan proclaimed his innocence.

What he had brought was wrapped in a blanket. Prasanno unrolled it on Tara’s chatai. The blanket was not new, but of good quality and little used. There was one bed sheet. A few more clothes were rolled in a white towel. Prasanno undid those too. It had two cotton saris, one sky-blue and the other with a checked pattern. Two half-sleeved blouses, two petticoats.
Everything was washed and ironed, and had the smell of a well-kept, prosperous home. There was also a bar of Sunlight soap.

The women’s eyes widened in amazement. Nihaldei came over and began examining the quality of the cloth.

When Bhajan left, Nihaldei said, ‘These dhotis have been worn, but they’re still in good condition. The material is fine, and good quality.’

Sukhdet also came to look at the blouses and the petticoats. Dhammo and her mother-in-law watched from their corner.

Prasanno said to Tara, ‘Come on, get up now, sister. Have a bath and change your clothes. Don’t worry about the clothes you were wearing; I’ll wash those when I do the other laundry. What difference would a few more clothes make? There’s plenty of soap.’ Nihaldei made the same offer to Tara.

‘I’ll be back in a little while,’ said Tara, getting up.

‘Hai, that place’s filthy. Your feet are unshod. Here, use my slippers, take my lota too. I always say whoever wants it is welcome to use it,’ Nihaldei said in a friendly tone.

Tara had her bath in the enclosure reserved for women. After her bath and a change of clothes, she looked like a different person. Sukhdet lent Tara her own comb and mirror. Tara saw herself in a mirror for the first time in two months; a strange-looking, sallow, sickly face stared back at her. She spread the blanket on the chatai and lay down. She thought of Banti, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

Next morning, after she had washed, Tara didn’t feel like lying idly in the hut. She went to the camp office to see if she could be of any help. The office, buzzing with voices, fell silent when a respectable-looking woman walked in.

Vimalji said in welcome, ‘Come on, come in, Tara bahinji.’

The two junior volunteers offered their chairs to Tara.

Their sudden silence embarrassed Tara. She said, ‘The Doctor sahiba told me yesterday that…’ she slipped into Punjabi in the middle of speaking Hindi, and completed the sentence in English, ‘I came to ask you if I could offer any help.’

Vimalji replied as he cleaned his ear with a matchstick, ‘Bahinji, the real work is to collect groceries, clothes and money from the people of this city, and get aid from the government. That is being done by Khanna Saheb, Mahashayji, Prasadji, Doctor Shyama, Mrs Agarwal and Dayavantiji. Only
those who have the right contacts can do that kind of work. Our job is to distribute whatever aid we receive. We might get ten or twenty requests for help or assistance, or someone wanting to have his name broadcast over the radio might show up. There’s another, rather tedious job. The deputy commissioner has asked all camps for a copy of the list of their residents. Each camp will forward that information to the Kingsway Camp. Our list is one hundred and thirteen pages long. You can help copy that.’