This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (83 page)

‘That’s the kind of work I want to do. I need a break, and I need your help,’ Kanak said.

He nodded as he drew on his cigarette, ‘Sure, I’ll help you. The time is right, new events and new problems every day. Gandhiji’s in the city, so this is where the news is. A smart and respectable young woman such as yourself should be able to go anywhere. I’ll give you one of our press passes. Write about your observations, and see if you can figure out anything. There’s the refugee problem. In the early days your reports might need editing and rewriting. For that, I’ll be here, and also Mr Charkh.’

On their way back from
Sardar
, Kanak felt buoyed by Aseer’s response.

Nayyar was also supportive, ‘You can do well if this man helps you and gives you a break.’

Kanak stopped to buy a
Writing for the Press
from a large bookshop at Kashmiri Gate. Panditji gave his own creative advice, ‘Read through the “Around the Metropolis” and “Topics and Trends” columns in the newspaper.’

She and Panditji decided to attend Gandhiji’s prayer meeting at Karol Bagh that evening. The Mahatma had been holding these meetings in a different part of the city every evening to promote tolerance, compassion and goodwill between communities. The broadcast of his prayers could be heard via amplifiers at different points all over the city. But Kanak wanted to have the Mahatma’s darshan as well as to get some feeling of the spirit of the meeting.

Several Muslim women in burkas and Muslim men sat on one side at the open-air meeting place. Congress volunteers stood in a protective ring around them. Dhurries spread on the lawn provided seating space, but a large number of those present stood talking, or simply milled around. There were a few cries of protest, ‘This prayer meeting is a mockery. Gandhi is doing this only to appease the Muslims.’

Gandhiji, his granddaughters and the rest of his party arrived in four motor cars. Many members of the audience rushed to touch his feet as soon as he stepped out. Congress volunteers holding hands formed a circle
around Gandhiji to protect him from the crush of his admirers.

He was wearing just a loincloth. His head was slightly bent, his face sombre and sorrowful. He was the only one not fully dressed and stood out from everyone else. One did not have to enquire who he might be. He was not tall or fair or good looking, but his slim, wiry body and dark skin radiated a quiet dignity and a compelling presence.

Kanak felt a surge of respect for the man.

The volunteers barred others from approaching, but let the Muslim women approach him. The women wrapped their arms around his knees and broke into loud sobs. Tears fell from Gandhiji’s eyes. He put his hands on their burka-covered heads and asked them to have faith in Ishwar–Allah. He would put his own life at stake to protect them, he promised.

One of the women wept as she held an infant up to Gandhiji. ‘This baby’s an orphan,’ she said between her tears. ‘Both his parents were murdered.’

Gandhiji clasped the infant to his heart and prayed to God to bless and protect him.

Gandhiji and his group then began the proceeding by singing hymns from the Bhagawad Gita. Then they chanted bani from the Guru Granth Sahib, and began to recite verses from the Quran.

‘Stop! Gandhi murdabad! No reciting of the Quran. Down with Gandhi! We won’t listen to anything from the Quran!’ Chaos broke out. A crowd of angry rowdies were bent upon breaking up the assembly.

Many people sitting on dhurries called out, ‘Be quiet! Silence! Shame, shame on you!’

Gandhiji lapsed into silence. A hush fell over the rest of his group, also.

The brazen hostility of the protesters pained Kanak. Panditji was also upset and disgusted, ‘Tsk, tsk! What a shame!’

Gandhiji joined his hands and implored the crowd to listen to him quietly.

The angry and agitated crowd could not ignore Gandhiji’s request, and the commotion gradually subsided.

‘My brothers and sisters,’ Gandhiji’s pained, gentle but confident voice was heard to say, ‘Only trust in God can give us succour in this time of strife and misery. Ishwar and Allah are one. What objection can there be in an appeal to Him through any form of religion…’

‘We will certainly not listen to any reading from the Quran,’ some voices
from the crowd shouted back. ‘These verses encouraged others to slaughter thousands of our brothers. Those who recite these verses raped our mothers and sisters. You preach the message of non-violence and compassion for all. By reciting these verses, you are reminding us of the infamy of the killing of our families and our children, how our mothers and sisters were dishonoured. You are reminding us of our shame and misery. We will not tolerate it at any price.’ The suffering of the victims called for retribution in the shouts of the protestors. It was a scream of anger and agony.

The audience fell silent. Even those who had called out ‘Shame! shame!’ were quiet.

Kanak was in a state of inner confusion. Her mind was a whirling vortex of contradictory ideas of injustice, of revenge, of tolerance. Where was the solution… the answer? She fixed her eyes on Gandhiji in search of an answer.

Gandhiji spoke in a fearless voice, ‘Some of my brothers find objections to my reciting verses from the Quran. I do not want to hurt their feelings. But if I cannot recite those verses in this meeting, I will not quote any other religious book either.’

‘There’s no need! You don’t have to!’ The protesters shouted back disdainfully.

‘I humbly appeal to my Hindu and Sikh brothers and sisters in the name of human dignity,’ Gandhiji spoke again when the shouting had subsided. ‘All of our Muslim brothers and sisters remaining in Delhi are our responsibility, and of our Indian government. If one hair on their heads is harmed or they are threatened or endangered in any way, it will be like committing the most heinous crime, it will be a matter of utter shame for us…’

‘Thousands of Hindus are being murdered every day in Pakistan! They are robbed naked and thrown out of that country. Don’t you feel anything for them? Why don’t you go there?’ His opponents called defiantly.

Gandhiji again joined his hands solicitously and asked to be heard, ‘My heart feels the same pain for my brothers and sisters killed in Pakistan and for those being asked to leave Pakistan. I want to go to Pakistan. I will pray with joined hands to the Qaid-e-Azam for peace and mercy. I will ask him that all killing and bloodshed should stop, and peace be restored. All Hindu brothers and sisters should be able to return to their homes and live in peace, but before that it is important that Muslims who have left come back to live here. As long as the lives of Muslims in Delhi and in India continue to be in danger, how can I face the Pakistan government
and accuse them of murder and prejudice? How can I face them and ask them to restore peace? I am ready to stake my life for peace and order in both India and Pakistan.’

Afterwards, on the way home, Kanak fell into a moody silence. Panditji, his head bent, walked along pensively. After she had sulked for some time, Kanak blurted out, ‘Calls for revenge won’t put a stop to warlike feelings. Puriji said the same thing in his newspaper articles last March, and was thrown out of his job.’ ‘You’re absolutely right, beti,’ Panditji said.

Aseer was in his office in the late afternoon. He asked Kanak to have a seat in one of the easy chairs, after she handed him her report. He busily shuffled papers on his desk for some ten minutes, then rang for the peon. He ordered, ‘Give these papers to the manager, these to the deputy editor.’ Turning to Kanak, he counted the pages of her article and said, ‘Four minutes.’

He rang again for the peon after he had finished reading. When the peon came, he said, ‘Tea,’ and came and sat facing Kanak.

‘You have a really forceful style,’ he said in English, ‘but your viewpoint is off the mark. Politically, this is unsound. Such a point of view will be suicidal for Hindus. Gandhi has done considerable harm to us.’

Kanak thoughtfully rolled her scrap of handkerchief between her palms, choosing her words carefully so as not to offend Aseer, ‘I took the human approach. I myself saw those women sobbing bitterly. Tears were streaming from Gandhiji’s eyes…’

‘Thousands of Hindus are living in conditions far worse than ever faced by those burka-clad women! Don’t the Hindus need some place to live? Only yesterday, these same women and their brothers were clamouring for Pakistan. Doesn’t Gandhi know that? He’s preaching tolerance for the same Karol Bagh Muslims who fired upon Hindus with machine guns and Stens. Doctor Neelambar Joshi was murdered in the same Karol Bagh. Doesn’t Gandhi have any regrets for Doctor Joshi? Neelambar Joshi, the greatest surgeon of Hindustan or Pakistan, among the four or five best in the world! Wasn’t his murder a mockery of human values? And who murdered him? Not any stranger or outsider, but a Muslim doctor working at the same hospital. These are the values and compassion preached by Islam. Any faith that declares it a religious duty to wipe out all non-Muslims, a faith that
called the killing of Shradanand and Lekhram, and Rajpal pious acts of faith, Gandhi wants us to be tolerant towards that same religious creed! These people have always been enemies of civilized human behaviour. Just visit any old Hindu temple and you’ll see.’

‘That all was in the past. I meant to say that we should leave behind those feelings of enmity. Not as Hindus or Muslims, but as human beings…’

Aseer raised his eyebrows, ‘Are you a communist?’

‘No, I’m not. What made you ask that?’

‘That communist leader P.C. Joshi went to Gandhi a couple of days ago. Told him that they’ll form Home Guard units to protect Muslims. These people first betrayed the cause in the ’42 movement, then supported Jinnah, and now want to be Gandhi’s militia.’

The peon brought tea and two cups in a tray.

Aseer took out a key from his pocket and tossed it to the peon. The peon took a packet of biscuits from a cupboard, and put it in front of them.

‘Shall I pour tea for you?’ Kanak said.

‘That’s your privilege. For yourself also.’

Aseer began in English as he waited for the tea to cool, ‘Your style is more suited for fiction than for news reporting. Or is it just a young woman’s ardour?’ He smiled.

‘Ji, I’ve published three short stories. Jai Puriji also liked them very much. He taught me how to write fiction.’

‘Jai Puri…that
Pairokaar
chap? He was really a good writer. I know.’

‘Is he here in Delhi?’ Kanak asked nervously.

‘Can’t say. Must be with some newspaper, if he’s alive.’

That hurt Kanak, but she said nothing.

As he sipped his tea, Aseer explained, ‘Writing a short story is a different matter, you can take all kind of liberties. A newspaper aims to create public opinion. We’ll publish your report, after some editing. Look for it in tomorrow’s
Sardar
.’

Aseer called Harbans the peon. ‘Take these sheets to Charkhji,’ he ordered, ‘and bring me a slip of paper and the pen from the desk.’

Aseer scribbled two lines on the paper and handed it to the peon along with Kanak’s article. He took out a five-rupee note and gave it to the peon. ‘And buy a tin of Gold Flake cigarettes.’

Aseer said as he finished his tea, ‘You can also write about civic problems.
Plenty of scope in that for a smart and educated young lady like yourself. Focus on government news from official circles. I can get you some introductions. What do you think?’

‘I’d be much obliged. Shall I make another cup for you?’

‘Sure, and for yourself too.’

After pouring him the second cup, Kanak excused herself, ‘One was enough for me.’

When Aseer had finished his second cup, Kanak said, ‘I’ll take leave of you. I’ve quite a distance to go, or I’ll be late.’

‘Where did your family find a house?’

‘In a gali behind Faiz Bazaar.’

‘I’ll make up for delaying you. I’ve to go into New Delhi, so I’ll give you a lift.’

‘It’ll be too much trouble for you.’

‘Not at all. Your father used to own a printing press?’

‘Yes, in Gwal Mandi. All that had to be left behind.’

‘We did manage to bring ours here, but it wasn’t easy. Had to bribe the police with a thousand rupees, otherwise we’d have lost machines worth thirty or forty thousand. Had to pay five thousand as a premium for this place, and then a rent of 500 per month. You can see how much space we’ve got. This is how our Hindu brothers lend a hand! Dam, rotten, scoundrels…’

The peon came back with the tin of cigarettes. Aseer turned the lid to cut it open. He pulled up one cigarette and held the tin out to Kanak, ‘You take the first one. It’s always the best.’

Kanak was annoyed as she had told him that she didn’t smoke only three days before. She smiled politely before saying, ‘Thanks. I don’t smoke.’

‘Really! Never! Not even after a cup of tea or to keep others company?’ He lit his cigarette.

‘No. Never tried one.’

‘What’s the harm in trying? I’ve often seen high society ladies smoke in public. It is quite accepted now. What changes the past couple of months have brought! All the old stigmas and etiquette have disappeared. New styles of living in a new world. The most urgent need is to get oneself settled in.’

‘That’s quite a tall order, though.’

‘Harbans,’ Aseer called again, ‘ask the manager sahib to send me today’s mail. I have to leave.’

Aseer checked through the typed letters for five minutes, signed them, and led Kanak downstairs.

Tonga carriages and motor vehicles jammed the road they were on. The footpaths could not contain all the pedestrians thronging the road. Time and again Kanak squirmed nervously in her seat in case the car would run over that man, or collide with that truck. Aseer drove with confidence, weaving his way through the traffic.

Kanak had to praise his skill, ‘You drive like an expert. Marvellous! You change the gears so smoothly that one does not notice.’

‘You drive?’

‘No, no. We didn’t own a car. I’ve learnt a bit in my sister’s car, but I’m scared even if the road is empty.’

Aseer kept the conversation going. ‘Give us Society News and Society Gossip-type stuff. I’ll see that you get introduced around…’ When he dropped her off in Faiz Bazaar, he again reminded her to keep on writing for
Sardar
.