This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (49 page)

A light drizzle had begun to fall the next night, and had not stopped by half past eight in the morning. The weather did not encourage Kanak to go to Awasthi’s house and meet Mrs Pant. She did not feel much inclined to discuss social work in her troubled state of mind, but neither did she want to sit quietly and feel imprisoned in the cottage.

Nayyar, Kanta and Kanchan did not seem willing to accompany Kanak as an escort to Awasthi’s house. Kanak had seen a rickshaw carriage pulled by four persons for the first time in Nainital. The thought of riding in one, and seeing the coolies wheeze and gasp, especially on roads that climbed steeply, revolted her. She borrowed Kanta’s raincoat, took a small umbrella and set out alone to Awasthi’s bungalow.

Two persons, wearing khadi kurta-dhoti, the Gandhi cap and wrapped in shawls, were waiting in the veranda of Awasthi’s bungalow. He was in his office. When the orderly told him about Kanak’s arrival, he sent for her.

Awasthi did not get up when she entered, but just raised his eyes from a file before him and said, ‘Come, have a seat.’

Kanak said namaste and took a chair across from his desk. Awasthi went on, ‘I thought you mightn’t come because of the rain. You Punjabi women are really brave, real go-getters. The women from our own community are good-for-nothing. Someone must always accompany them as if they were a piece of baggage. Let’s get you some tea.’ He thumped at the bell on his desk.

Remembering the tea served to her two days before, Kanak put her palms together and made an excuse, ‘I’ve just had some with my breakfast. I’m not used to tea anyway. Don’t send for it, please.’

‘Yes, yes. You people like yogurt lassi.’ He let out a loud guffaw, then became serious and added, ‘Of course, lassi is very healthy. Achcha, have a paan.’ Awasthi opened a book-sized paan-box and offered it to Kanak.

Kanak had to accept one.

Mrs Pant was late, probably because of the rain. Awasthi talked about
other people from Punjab he had met in Delhi and Lucknow. He told Kanak, ‘Some Punjabi women are hired for government jobs in our province. They’re good workers.’

Kanak found an opening, ‘I do want to help with the social work. I’ve worked with the Congress organization in the past, and at the time of the Quit India movement of 1942. If my family has to leave Lahore, I’d feel better if I had some kind of job elsewhere.’

‘Wah, there’s no shortage of jobs or employment for you. Capable young women like you can help so much in the building of our nation. Just now it’s a patriotic thing to work for the government. The education department is being expanded. Then there’s my own department. There are jobs everywhere. You should come to Lucknow. You’ll definitely get some job. Just tell me what kind of work will suit you. No problem whatsoever.’

Awasthi pulled his feet up onto his chair and began to reminisce, ‘I’m really fond of Punjab. I was at the Congress convention in Lahore in 1929. Punjabi girls are so full of life. Their behaviour is so uninhibited.’ Some memory of that time brought a smile to his lips. ‘I always remember those times. I became friendly with many Punjabi families at the time of the Tripuri and Ramgarh conventions. Once I sent them parcels of Lucknow’s dussehri mangoes. Now the season’s over, otherwise I’d have got some for you too. The real fun is in eating mangoes in a mango grove. I’ll take you to one …’

Awasthi’s face took on a strange look, and his eyes were half-shut in a recollection of something. ‘Perhaps his mouth is watering at the thought of juicy Lucknow mangoes,’ Kanak thought.

After another hour’s wait, Kanak spoke up, ‘Mrs Pant probably won’t come now because of the rain.’

‘Yes, it seems unlikely. But don’t worry,’ Awasthi said to reassure her. ‘I’ll take you to her place some day. She comes here often. She’s a member of the UP Legislative Assembly. Feel free to come here whenever you want.’ As Kanak was leaving, Awasthi gave her the address of Mrs Pant’s bungalow.

So now Kanak had Awasthi’s promise of finding her a job. That took some load off her mind, and her thoughts were filled with plans for the future. In the hope of beginning her new life soon, she went to visit Mrs Pant in the afternoon of the third day after her meeting with Awasthi. Awasthi was there too, with another rather stout man with a huge paunch wearing khadi kurta-dhoti and cap, and a young woman in a khadi sari. Tea and freshly fried pakoras were on the table.

Awasthi introduced Kanak to Mrs Pant with great enthusiasm. The heavily built man too praised the courage and dedication of Punjabi women. The young woman began to describe how her school in Nainital had not received proper funding from the government. She asked Awasthi to help her. Munching on a pakora, Awasthi said to her dryly, ‘Why do you worry? If funding is due according to the rules, you’ll get it. You should first petition the director of the department. Wait for his reply before coming to me for help.’ Despite his gruffness, the young woman’s smile showed she felt obliged to him for his consideration.

The man and the young woman got up and bid respectful farewells to Awasthi. After they left, Awasthi repeated his praise of Kanak, and said to Mrs Pant that she could have Kanak help her in the work of the Women’s Arts Centre.

Awasthi shook off his chappals, drew his feet up and sprawled on the big sofa chair. Kanak was sitting opposite him, occupying barely half of a similar chair. He said, ‘You make up your own mind about moving to Lucknow. You’ll surely get a job. I’m leaving for Lucknow on Sunday. You can come whenever you want. If you want, you can teach at some school. There are plenty of jobs, lots of them in the Public Relations Department. A salary of a hundred-and-fifty or two hundred rupees a month can easily be arranged. You can stay in Lucknow with Mrs Pant. What do you say, Mrs Pant?’

‘Arrey, why not? My home is her home too,’ Mrs Pant agreed.

Awasthi suddenly had an idea, ‘Let’s have a picnic, Mrs Pant, if the sky clears up the day after tomorrow as it did today. Have you seen the Naukuchia Lake?’ He asked Kanak, turning to her.

Kanak admitted that she had never even heard of it.

Awasthi said, ‘What’s so great about Nainital? The really scenic places are some distance away. And what lovely views! Mrs Pant, you’ll take care of the food. Same delicious chicken curry as last time.’ He turned and looked at Kanak, ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you? Punjabis usually don’t have such prejudices.’

Kanak admitted that she had no particular problem about eating meat.

Mrs Pant reminded Awasthi, ‘You’ll have to arrange for the motorcars.’

‘Don’t worry about that. How many motorcars?’

‘Let’s invite Shakuntala, and ask Verma too. What do you think? Maybe not, for it would get too crowded… You be at the bus station by nine o’clock,’ Mrs Pant said to Kanak.

Kanak could not refuse. As she walked back home, she was thinking, ‘What simple and well-meaning people! A bit unconventional, though. They still follow the Indian style of doing things. He’s a parliamentary secretary, but not at all officious.’ On reaching home she told Kanta and Nayyar about the promise of getting a job at a salary of two hundred rupees, and about the invitation to the picnic.

Both were silent for a while. Then Kanta asked, ‘You’ll go alone that far with them? There won’t be anybody else. Awasthi’s wife won’t go along for sure.’

‘What’s your objection after all?’ Kanak replied determinedly, ‘Mrs Pant will be there. She’s a member of the Legislative Assembly. Awasthi’s no ordinary person either; he’s a parliamentary secretary. Will all of you come with me too when I get the job?’

‘It would be proper to ask pitaji about this first,’ said Kanta.

‘I didn’t realize that I was a prisoner here,’ Kanak replied angrily. ‘I’m over twenty-one. Will I never be allowed to stand on my own two feet?’

Nayyar spoke up, ‘Why do you think that everyone is against you? Why should we presume that pitaji would object? Take Kanchan along with you to the picnic. What’s the problem if your sister goes with you? And two are better than one, in unfamiliar surroundings.’

When Kanak shared the bed with Kanchan that night, she lay on her side and thought for a long time, ‘…I can see a way out of this mess. I must take a bold step.’ Her life in her father’s household was over. The hope of finding a job had brought a complete change into her plans and thoughts. ‘Tomorrow I’ll send a letter to Puri and tell jijaji too. No one but I myself has the right to open any letter that comes for me. I’ll ask him to reply by registered mail, and to write “personal” on the envelope.’

The invitation for the picnic depended on the weather remaining clear. Rain had begun to fall even before dawn, and it was still raining in the late morning. Kanak felt uneasy at not being able to go to the picnic, but she had no control over the weather. The rain did not let up, but began to fall harder. By ten, everyone in the family was waiting for the postman. They had written several letters to Lahore, but no reply had come from Panditji in the past two weeks. Around this hour, everybody’s attention was focussed on the gate of the bungalow. Nayyar was reading
Readers’ Digest,
sprawled on an easy chair in the veranda. Kanchan sat beside him, knitting a sweater for Nano. Kanak was lying on a bed inside, lost in thoughts about her future.

‘There’s the mail, jijaji,’ Kanak heard Kanchan call, and came outside.

Kanchan was signing for the Express Delivery letter from the postman wrapped in his raincoat. ‘It’s from pitaji, for you,’ said Kanchan and handed the envelope to Nayyar. Kanta too came out and the three sisters stood behind Nayyar.

Nayyar had read only a couple of lines when he exclaimed, ‘Pitaji says that he received only one letter from us. He thinks that Muslim postmen are afraid to come to Gwal Mandi. He’s asked us to send all letters by registered mail.’ He began to read aloud.

From what Panditji had written, the situation in Lahore seemed very precarious: …The printing press had been closed since 13 July. People were really alarmed after the announcement that government employees had the option to choose posting to Pakistan or Hindustan. Everyone was anxious to know to which nation Lahore was to be allotted. The Muslim machine operators, litho artists and binders working at the press did not have the courage to come to Gwal Mandi. Hindus had fortified the area with barricades against the threat of attacks from the Muslim neighbourhoods that surrounded Gwal Mandi. Old Fateh Mohammed, the printing-press operator, had probably been murdered. There was no question of any sale of textbooks as schools all over Punjab had been shut down. The weather was terrible; very little rain, but high, oppressive humidity. Scores of people were transferring their businesses to the east.

Panditji was feeling sorry that he had invested a lot of money two years before in new printing machines. To where could he now transport these machines and his stocks of printed books? People had lost faith in leaders and the government. The banks were no longer seen as a secure place for one’s money. People were having their accounts transferred to branches of their banks outside Lahore, to Delhi or the United Provinces. They were emptying their safety deposit boxes of share certificates and securities, jewellery and other valuables. Panditji did not want to leave Lahore, but he had had his cash account transferred to the Delhi branch of his bank. The general feeling among Hindus was that they would remain, even if Lahore were to be included in Pakistan.

Panditji had advised Nayyar to think of getting his bank account temporarily transferred and to empty his safety deposit boxes. These could be replenished once things had quieted down. In the end, he had written that he too wanted to come to Nainital for a few days, but to leave Lahore
at this time would be unwise because it would be seen as running away in the face of danger.

No one spoke after the letter reading ended. Kanta broke the silence, ‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Nayyar said. ‘The worst that might happen is that Lahore would go to Pakistan. Do you think that over 100 million Muslims living in India would fit into the area between Lahore and Peshawar? If Muslims can live in Hindustan, so can Hindus in Lahore. Pakistan too would need doctors, lawyers and engineers. And what can I take away from Lahore—my house and family property?’

How could Kanta accept that her husband’s interpretation was better than that of her wise father? A woman considers her parents’ wisdom as her own. She said unhappily, ‘Pitaji wrote this letter after assessing the situation in Lahore. Are those people idiots who are getting out of the city? You’d like us to end up starving and without a roof over our heads …’

When Nayyar agreed to leave for Lahore that very evening, Kanta began to complain, ‘To hell with the property! When pitaji himself is thinking of getting out of Lahore, how can I let you go back there? What matters more to me—your life or the property? And what’ll you be able do on your own? You’re all thumbs without my help!’

Rajendra volunteered, ‘Why don’t I go instead?’ But that made sense to no one. It was the elder brother who knew all the intricacies of the paperwork of property and bank accounts. Kanak did not say anything; she was preoccupied with her own problems. Her father’s letter described how circumstances had changed. Now the question was: Where would she go? She did not want to be a burden on her father any longer. ‘I’ll settle down in Lucknow,’ she thought, but she first had to tell Puri about her decision and ask for his approval. The whole day and that night too she wallowed in indecision, weighing her options. Next morning at nine she told Nayyar about her intention of writing to Puri. She wrote him a long letter, asking him to come to Nainital. And if he couldn’t or wouldn’t come, she did not forget to add, she would have to go back to Lahore to see him.

When Panditji arranged for Kanak and Kanchan to go to Nainital with Nayyar, he had slipped three one hundred-rupee notes to Kanak and told her quietly, ‘Try to be as little a burden on Kanta as you can. Take care of Kanchan’s needs as well.’ Panditji knew that his daughter was a bit of a spendthrift. But in her state of emotional stress, Kanak had not needed
to use even one of the notes in Nainital. Puri’s financial situation was no secret to her. Whenever she thought of his problems, she did not feel like spending money pointlessly. She enclosed two one-hundred-rupee notes in her letter. She went to the post office, and to make sure that it reached Puri, sent the letter by registered mail.