This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 133
Behind the veil of paper sheets, Tara collected herself enough in the next ten minutes to again become the firm and dispassionate government official. She said in a steady voice from behind the veil, ‘The reply will be sent by mail.’
To be a supplicant before Tara sitting magisterially in the officer’s chair was excruciatingly uncomfortable for Somraj, as if he was sitting on a bed of spikes. He got up as soon as he heard Tara’s reply, and stormed out of the room without saying a word. He went away without meeting anyone else in the office.
Somraj was an old hand at getting things done at government offices. He was not so naïve as to believe that his application could still be approved. He knew that if a minor clerk, leave aside the undersecretary, raised an objection about a lapse in procedural rules, even an official of the highest rank cannot ignore it. To cry before anyone about his failure was to invite humiliation on himself. He swallowed his anger and did nothing.
It was not very difficult for Tara to save herself the trouble of dealing with Somraj’s application. She could have ordered an inquiry into the case, or put the file aside for future consideration. The deputy secretary had given the order, ‘Get his work done today, if possible’, verbally and not in writing. His meaning was clear: Get this done somehow. She had to give him an answer.
For about forty minutes Tara browsed through the files on her desk while thinking anxiously about the answer she could give. There was no hitch in approving Somraj’s application. All she had to do was to reject an application that had been approved, and sanction a loan of Rs 25,000 to Somraj. No one would have raised an objection to the application being submitted late or about the missing inquiry. All she had to do was just obey order from above, but she could not bring herself to do it. Her heart rebelled. This was fraud, a lie, an outright deceit.
But how could she write what she felt in her remark on the application! How could she tell the deputy secretary over the telephone what she thought! She did not know if Somraj had pulled any strings. To accept the certificate from the State Congress Committee as true and to carry out the order of her senior officer would have been the correct procedure. Her responsibility ended there. But, then, to approve Somraj’s application would mean depriving someone eligible for his rightful claim. A number of similar incidents, she knew, took place every day in the secretariat. What would she accomplish by putting obstacles in the way of Somraj? Since she had not deliberately upset the apple cart so far, she had acquired a reputation as a strict officer, rather than a good officer.
Her heart protested. She would be writing the first remark, and will be responsible for the fraud carried out by following the correct procedure. ‘I won’t do this.’
Tara made up her mind and rang Mr Chari, ‘Sir, I see many problems with this case. I am sending the file back to you. Whatever instructions you write on it will be carried out.’
Mr Chari banged the receiver down without saying anything. Even if the minister’s PA had called, how could he write a remark approving the application without first receiving a note from the undersecretary? He could only endorse the undersecretary’s decision, not cut his hands off by himself taking the decision.
Tara could not help feeling worried and nervous after incurring her senior official’s wrath. She needed to share her worry and anger with someone. Without disclosing who the applicant was, she mentioned the incident to Narottam and also vented her frustration before Prabha Saxena. Both reassured her, ‘You don’t worry about these sycophantic crooks. It’s the fault of ministers who encourage these people! What harm can he do to you? If he writes an adverse remark in your report, you can challenge it. At the most, he can have you transferred to another ministry. He cannot ruin your record.’
Tara remembered the trouble she had with Bhanu Dutt soon after she had begun to work for the government. At that time Tara could depend on Home Secretary Rawat for support to fight any injustice. Rawat had retired and was now with the Public Service Commission. But she was still not scared; her feet were firmly planted in the civil service.
When the sudden appearance of Somraj had upset her, Tara had tried to clear her mind of worries by discussing the matter with her friends. What she could not share with anyone was the deeply buried pain and terrible memories that the sight of him had dug up. Thinking of the past would make her head reel.
‘Who ruined my life? That animal Somraj or that goonda who had abducted me? I fell into that butcher’s hands only because Somraj had been so cruel to me. Could I have lived with Somraj? Is this what thousands of women were fated to suffer? What was the crime for which we were punished?’ Images of the brutalized Muslim women seen on the road to Amritsar flashed in her memory. That memory gave her gooseflesh. ‘Was it necessary to have to live through the ordeal of crossing the Vaitarni, the mythological river between the material world and Paradise? And what Paradise did I find after going through that ordeal? My life is like a leaf blowing in the wind, no one knows what will happen next. Maybe I should end the life.’
Tara was transferred to the ministry of information as a result of the incident of the loan application. Although not a demotion, in a way it was her defeat and the victory of deceit, which left her deeply wounded.
Chapter 16
TWO YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE KANAK HAD LEFT JALANDHAR.
Kanta had gone to Delhi to try to change Kanak’s mind about returning to Jalandhar, but had been unsuccessful in her mission. Puri had come to meet Kanta on her return, but what could she tell him except, ‘Bhai, I tried to convince her as much as I could, but if she gets it into her head to say no, she doesn’t budge. Don’t you know that?’
But Puri did not give up. He wrote Kanak several letters, but she didn’t reply. He began to write almost every month to Panditji in a literary style, addressing him courteously as mohtarim, respected sir. He would write about his involvement in the assembly, in various committees, his public responsibilities and the hectic schedule at Nazir. He would express his concern about Jaya’s and Kanak’s health, ‘How does Jaya look now? What does she talk about? I haven’t seen her for so long. Would you be kind enough to send me her recent photograph? Does she remember her papa or not? You can imagine the state of the household. Without the mistress of the house.’
Panditji’s worry increased as time went by. He had comforted himself with the thought that the salve of time may eventually heal all hurts, but that hope had gradually dissipated. Kanchan and Narottam were married in May 1954, and they moved to Kanpur. Kanak began writing for several newspapers and was able to establish herself as a journalist in Delhi. She got regular assignments from a fortnightly. She taught Hindi three times a week at an embassy and earned something on the side by doing English to Hindi translations. She was able to make Rs 250–300 a month, sometimes a little more, but only after working very hard. She insisted on contracting out the Naya Hind Press at Rs 200 per month.
Panditji adopted new ways. He gave up tea, milk, meat and fruits, and just wanted to eat chapattis without the usual smearing of ghee, and boiled vegetables. When Kanak objected, he said, ‘Beta, it’s good for health to avoid eating certain things at my age. They cause a problem if I can’t digest them.’ Half-sleeved kurta and loose regular pajama trousers replaced his customary dress of long achkan coat, churidar pajama and turban. He felt the turban to be an unnecessary burden. He wanted to do his own laundry.
Kanak said irritably, ‘Pitaji, why do you want to do that?’
Panditji patiently explained, ‘Beta, I get some exercise this way. Since I lie on the bed the whole day, I don’t get hungry enough to eat even two chapattis. One must have appetite so that one can eat.’ He wanted to give up eating dinner for the sake of his health, but abandoned the idea when Kanak too refused to eat.
Jaya became Panditji’s only concern and delight. He would speak to her as if he was her age. He would teach her to speak English, make her learn spelling and practise multiplication tables. He would tell her stories. He was always ready to give her a bath, but could not comb her hair properly.
Gill came sometimes. Panditji liked to discuss the poetry of Iqbal, Ghalib and the Sufi shayars with him. When they talked about the current situation, Panditji always concluded by saying: A person can stay on the right path only when he’s selfless. Every generation has a role to play and obligations to meet in the march for social progress. The wish to take responsibility for the future and to form attachments with the present is of no use.
While discussing political or social issues, Panditji would begin to talk about life and death. He would then recite couplets about the inevitability of death:
The prison of life and the bondage of grief—in essence both are one.
Before death, how would a man find release from grief?
In the end he would say, ‘Barkhurdar, our body is a machine made of blood and flesh. When the machine is in motion, energy is produced which is our consciousness. One day the machine is bound to wear off. The worn-off machine will run erratically. Why mourn that? The lust for life is a matter of fun. Life is a play, isn’t it? A show must end sometime. Once the show is over no one stays behind. In the same way, our soul leaves the body just like that, without notice.’
He would roar with laughter.
The bier is on the shoulders, the soul in heaven
The foot soldier has left the mounted one miles behind.
Gill would listen to Panditji totally engrossed, nodding appreciatively, as if listening to these philosophical clichés for the first time. He would think: The discussion about the cycle of birth and death and about soul has been the biggest pastime of the people of this country and the tradition has become the national pastime.
Kanak, sitting with them or busy with some chore nearby, would heave a deep sigh on hearing such talk. She didn’t like these discussions. She would think, ‘Pitaji is gradually cutting himself off from everything. If what will be will be, why worry about it.’
Panditji wanted to be free from all worries. He had no reason to worry about Kanta and Kanchan, but his worry for Kanak did not leave him alone even for a second. He had always regarded his second daughter as an extraordinary person. She had constantly caused him extraordinary problems. By causing her father more troubles, she had received more attention from him, just as parents worry more for a son or daughter who is sick or is in difficulty. Whenever Puri’s letter came, he’d show it to Kanak and say, ‘Let me know when you reply to him. I’ll also write him a note that you can enclose with your letter.’ Kanak would remain silent.
Panditji’s letters to Puri were always full of reassurance and sympathy for him. He would worry for days that preceded the writing of his reply, thinking, ‘What’ll become of this girl? It’s fortunate that so far Puri’s been patient and tolerant, but there’s a limit to everything. My daughter is ruining her future. It’s been three years she has broken off her relations, and there’s no sign that she’ll change her mind. Is her hurt so deep that even time cannot heal it? My life’s almost over. What’ll happen if Puri took his frustration out by doing something rash?’ Panditji had been preaching to Kanak the virtues of peace, tolerance and forgiveness for the past few months. Kanak had listened to him in silence. She behaved as though she had forgotten that she and Puri were a married couple. Her attitude had kept Panditji from discussing the matter with her.
Puri again wrote in October. There was an obvious tone of frustration on his part. He ended the letter by saying, ‘Pitaji, advise me what I should do in this matter? Don’t you agree that I’ve shown enough patience and understanding? Don’t I need to live in my home with my family? If I am being punished, what was my crime?’ Puri had evidently reached the end of his patience. The undertone of the letter sent Panditji to the depths of despair.
Kanak had just come back from work in the evening when Panditji called out to her. ‘Beta, there’s a letter from Puri. Let me know when you reply, I’ll also add a few lines,’ he said, handing her the letter. Panditji later found the same letter tucked in Deewan-e-Ghalib under his pillow. Kanak had said nothing about replying to the letter. Panditji had only one option left: to call Kanta from Jalandhar, and make one last effort to convince Kanak.
Panditji wrote twice to Kanta urging her to come to Delhi for two days for an unexplained urgent matter. Kanta wrote to Kanak asking her the reason for being called to Delhi. Kanak wrote back, ‘I don’t know the reason. Pitaji keeps his worries to himself, but he is definitely worried. What can I say? He’s asked you to come here, I haven’t met you for two years, so you must, must come. Bring Nano and Dheeru along.’
Kanta came to Delhi. After Kanak had left for work, Panditji showed Puri’s letter to Kanta and voiced concern, ‘Beta, we can’t blame Puri for his growing impatience. Three years have gone by. We should try to make Kanni understand the situation. Even if Puri had treated her shoddily, which mistake in this world can’t be forgiven? We should not sacrifice our life on account of past mistakes. Life is above and beyond such petty considerations. Beta, you’ve been like a mother to Kanni, you should try to explain to her that she’s in error.’
Kanta, her head bowed, thought for a while sitting across from her father on another charpoy. She did not want to prevaricate any more. Her father was wasting away worrying for Kanak. He had called her from Jalandhar to discuss the problem that had been nagging at him. Who else but she could present Kanak’s side of the story? And whom else could her father talk to about his worry but her? She could not just stand and watch him waste away. She had realized that Kanak will not return to Jalandhar. It wouldn’t have been fair to compel her to go back. As the eldest of Panditji’s children and mother of two of her own she had a responsibility towards her family.
After examining her nails intently for a few seconds, Kanta said, ‘Pitaji, it’s not Kanni’s fault.’
Although her head was bowed, Kanta could feel Panditji looking at her anxiously. How could such a brief explanation serve as an answer to his worry! It was necessary to give an explanation. In order to be neutral, she said in English, ‘They are having marital difficulties.’ Her explanation only deepened the mystery.
She made another effort, ‘Puri by nature is a very nervous person. Nayyar had consulted a specialist. The doctor thought that Puri has psychopathic personality. He just won’t leave poor Kanak in peace. He gets perverse satisfaction from tormenting her.’
Once the difficult part was over, Kanta added with emphasis, ‘He’s a good writer. He’s also a politician, knows how to talk, but he has no concern for morality. When Kanni first arrived at his house in Jalandhar, he was living with some refugee girl.’
‘Didn’t Kanni find out?’
‘How could she not find out? But she was in her defiant mood. She didn’t want to renege on the promise she had made to him. It seems that Puri is still obsessed with the same refugee girl.’
Kanta kept her head bowed. She heard her father sigh. She knew that he had understood.
Since Kanta was at home, Kanak came back from work at 3 p.m. thinking that her sister may want to go to the bazaar or to visit someone. She had said many good things about Tara to Kanta. ‘If my sister wants to meet Tara, I’ll take her there. Three of us can go to the bazaar or to the cinema.’
When Kanak did not find Kanta in her bedroom, she peered into Panditji’s room. Her father was sitting motionless on his bed. Kanta, her head bowed, was sitting on a charpoy. Kanak stepped back quietly.
When Kanta returned to her room, Kanak asked, ‘What’s the matter? Why is pitaji so upset?’
Kanta told Kanak about her talk with Panditji.
Kanak slapped her own forehead dejectedly, and said, ‘Why did you trouble him with all these problems? Can’t you see his health has deteriorated because he worries so much?’
‘His main worry is sending you back to Jalandhar. He’s called me here to convince you. If I hadn’t told him he’d have sulked thinking that you were being stubborn for no reason. Now it’s over and done with.’
‘What is over?’ Kanak’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I’m fated to cause problems for everyone.’ She clutched her forehead and lay down on the charpoy.
Jaya came in, calling ‘mummy, mummy!’ She pulled at her mother’s aanchal to tell that her frock had become wet while she was giving her doll a bath.
Kanak did not remove the aanchal from her face. Kanta lifted Jaya up tenderly and went to another room.
At five o’clock Kanta called, ‘Kanni, get up. I have to buy some clothes for Nano and Dheeru. Also some material for Nayyar’s trousers.’
Kanak got up, washed her face and changed into a fresh sari. She thought, ‘Jaya will insist on going out with us. I should change her frock and comb her hair. She must be in piatji’s room.’ The child liked being with her grandfather.
Kanak saw that Panditji was lying on the bed, eyes closed and arm pillowing his head. Jaya had got some pieces of coloured paper from the printing press, and was calling him over and over to show the paper. It was hard for Panditji to open his eyes, and he kept saying ‘Yes, beta! Yes, beta!’ without opening his eyes. Kanak went back quietly.
Kanta wanted to buy a present for Jaya. She asked, ‘You’re not taking Jaya along?’
‘Let her stay home, bahinji. If she’s home, she’ll be a distraction for pitaji. Otherwise…’
Kanak and Kanta crossed the aangan quietly so that Jaya may not hear, and went out.
Kanta went back to Jalandhar after two days. Kanak kept a close watch on Panditji. It killed her to see that she was the cause of all his worry and pain. Panditji did his best to hide his worry and behave in a normal way, but didn’t always succeed. He would sit on a reed chair, Deewan-e-Ghalib or Musaddas-e-Hali or the large-print edition of Gita in hand. Kanak would look sideways at him and find that he would be brooding, book in lap and temple resting on his hand. Kanak knew that he was worrying over her misfortune.
