This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 74
He telephoned Birla House three times in twenty-five minutes. The secretary was with Gandhiji, he was told, busy doing correspondence, and would be available after an hour. As Panditji was coming back with the intention of telephoning later, he found that Gandhiji’s statement had also appeared in Hindi and Urdu newspapers. The editorial comments in these papers were critical of Gandhiji’s statement and his lack of compassion for refugees.
By nine o’clock, curious refugees began to gather in Durrani Gali. By ten o’ clock, their number swelled to over 200. Panditji’s throat was dry as a result of explaining the situation to people. Kanak and Kanchan left whatever they were doing to attend to inquisitive women who came inside. This gathering of commiserating women unnerved their mother. The girls calmed her down. ‘We’ll explain the situation to Gandhiji,’ they vowed. ‘If the police intervene again, we’ll sit in satyagraha here. We challenge the police to evict us from the house that we rightfully own!’
The excited crowd yelled threateningly, ‘We’ll see how Gandhi and Congress government remove a Hindu family from its house. If they remove one, they’ll remove all. Who’ll help us find a sanctuary?’
The size of the crowd and its anger had grown. Around eleven o’ clock, Panditji wanted to go out to telephone Birla House again. He had to push through the crowd thronging the gali. He had gone only a few steps when he heard that a detachment of police carrying lathis and rifles was on its way. He returned home, his heart quickened with suspense.
Loud slogans and cries went up: The house won’t be vacated! Down with Congress government! Gandhi murdabad!
Panditji’s family was in a shock; what might transpire! Their hearts were beating wildly. They were ready to battle for their right! From the commotion and excitement it appeared that the crowd was getting bigger. They were mortified, but could not leave the house. Suddenly there was the crackle of gunfire.
Panditji fell back on the charpoy in the doorway, his head in his hands. His eyes filled with tears. ‘There’ll be bloodshed because of us! Let go, beta,’ he said to Kanak and Kanchan standing next to him. ‘Whatever is His wish. If we must suffer, we must. Let’s go, let’s get out of this place.’
Kanchan protested, ‘Why, pitaji, where could we go?’
‘There’s no question of us going anywhere,’ Kanak cut her sister short. ‘We’re fighting for truth and justice. Why should others die for us? Let me go out!’ She hurried towards the gate, ‘Please move aside! Let me pass!’
‘Beta, beta! No!’ Panditji called out as he followed her, ‘Wait, you wait! Let me talk…’
Instead of letting her pass, the crowd yelled back, ‘Get back inside! The house will not be given up even if a thousand of us die!’
They shouted louder than before, ‘Congress government murdabad!’ ‘Down with Gandhi!’ ‘Down with Nehru!’
Panditji’s heart had begun to pound. He called out, ‘Did anybody get shot? Was anyone hurt?’
‘We don’t care! We’re all ready to die! Gandhi and Nehru will be responsible for our deaths!’ The crowd did not let him speak.
The shouting of slogans died down after half an hour, and the crowd thinned out. Some people had tried to take their lathis away from the policemen. The police had fired warning shots over their heads.
Panditji’s guess was that the police withdrew from the scene for the time being, only because the situation had got out of control. Some action still might be taken in favour of Syed, he thought, at the insistence of Gandhiji. He sent a telegram to Nayyar to come at once in order to advise him. There were constantly new obstacles to his attempts to meet Gandhiji. So he wrote an account of the incident and mailed it to Gandhiji, attaching the property documents as proof.
Gandhiji’s statement in support of Syed, besides the frightening incident at her own doorstep, had deeply upset and shocked Kanak. How she could explain this around to Aseer, she thought in embarrassment. It would be best for her, it seemed, if she kept quiet about her political ideals, and did something practical to earn a living. Lucknow could have provided such an opportunity, but her father had not agreed to her going there. Her brother-in-law would side with her father, she suspected. Her only hope now seemed to get some work through Sinha at the government department of information.
When Aseer reproached Kanak for having disappeared for so many days, she had to let out that the dispute in Durrani Gali was about her house.
‘You see! Now at least you know the truth about nationalist Muslims!’ said Aseer.
Kanak had come prepared to answer such sarcastic remarks. She replied, ‘Which social class or community doesn’t have some people like that? We bought our house legally, but the rest of the houses in our gali were taken over unlawfully.’
‘If Gandhi couldn’t stop Hindus being forced out of Punjab, what right has he to get their throats cut here? Is one nationalist Muslim more important than fifty thousand starving Hindus stranded at Bahawalpur? Look for yourself!’ Aseer pushed that day’s Tribune in front of her.
The report said: Fifty thousand Hindus were forcibly evacuated and sent to refugee camps in Bahawalpur. There they got only two chapattis to eat every other day. The supply of drinking water was woefully inadequate. Over one hundred have died of starvation.
Kanak made no reply. After a few moments of silence, she reminded Aseer, ‘You mentioned something about going to meet Sinha sahib.’
‘Oh yes. You’ve made me a bit of a laughing stock, like, as Sinha said, the best man who seemed keener on the marriage than the groom himself. He asked me several times about you. But you never showed up. Well, let’s go today. I was going to see him anyway. It’s six now; we’ll leave by seven or quarter past seven. Here, read the newspapers until then.’
The sun had set, the street lights were on, but there was still some light outside. Aseer’s car sliced through the congested traffic in Sadar Bazaar and reached the broad roads of New Delhi. He circled the Gol Dak Khana, and followed a hedge-lined narrow road to a small bungalow.
Aseer rang the bell. A servant peeped out, asked the visitor’s name, and pulled his head back.
Kanak and Aseer sat in the veranda on light wicker chairs.
Sinha came out a few minutes later, buttoning his achkan. Seeing Kanak, he welcomed her, calling her visit a happy surprise.
‘Sinha sahib, the achkan looks great on you,’ Aseer flattered him.
‘Bhai, what can you do? Everyone at the secretariat is having one made. As they say, the people of a kingdom emulate their king. If the prime minister likes the achkan, you have to have one.’
‘It really suits you…. What do you think?’ Aseer looked at Kanak.
‘Yes, it sits very well on him,’ Kanak had to admit.
‘Hey Jheengur! Get us some tea,’ Sinha turned his head and called out to the servant.
‘No, no, no. Ask Kanakji, we’ve just had a cup. Have you had yours?’ Aseer said.
After that Aseer and Sinha exchanged a few words in a hushed voice, ‘…You said… No, I haven’t got it yet.’ Kanak tried to ignore their whispered tête-à-tête.
‘…It’ll be done.’
‘You want me to send my manager over tomorrow?’
‘What’s the need? I have written a note on the file. Yes, Kanakji, what have you to say for yourself? How the world goes with you? … Splendid.’
Kanak found Sinha’s accent a bit strange. She had first noticed it at the club. He spoke English like other people, but there was a lilt to his words when he spoke Hindi. He drawled the syllables at the end of his sentences.
Aseer mentioned the incident at Durrani Gali; how Kanak’s family had barely escaped becoming the scapegoat in the controversy.
Kanak kept silent out of embarrassment.
Sinha said a few words against Gandhiji and then repeated his promise to help Kanak.
Aseer proposed, ‘Do you want to look in at the club, or shall we go somewhere else.’
Sinha did not feel up to facing the club crowd.
They decided to go to Connaught Place. After Aseer parked the car Kanak followed him and Sinha into the veranda in front of the circle of shops, and up a broad staircase. She had been to that restaurant once before with Nayyar, Kanchan and Anil Kapoor. She was feeling a little hesitant. She would have dressed differently had she known that they would be going there.
The place was abuzz with voices. A band was playing Western music. Sinha wanted to sit away from the crowd. The bearer opened the door to a private booth. Kanak had to enter first. The wood-panelled booth had couches on both sides of the table, and a chair on the far side. She took the chair. Aseer sat on the couch on her left, and Sinha on the couch to her right.
‘What shall I order?’ Aseer asked.
‘Whatever Kanakji wishes,’ Sinha said.
‘I don’t particularly feel like anything. I’ve already had tea. Could I have some pineapple juice?’
‘Wah, what’s that? Have a gimlet. Gin with lime juice.’
Kanak expressed her reluctance. Aseer insisted, ‘What’s your objection! I’m asking you to try it just once. You’ll be able to make your mind up only when you’ve tasted it. Leave it if you don’t like it.’
Kanak did not like to hear herself criticized as prejudiced. She thought she would try the drink, but very carefully. Aseer and Sinha asked for whiskey. Kanak sipped her drink gingerly; it tasted bitter-sweet and sharp, unusual but not unpleasant. She had to admit it tasted good. She took two mouthfuls to get a better idea of its taste.
Aseer and Sinha were conferring together, and Sinha interrupted their conversation to ask Kanak in English, ‘So, did you find it disagreeable?’
‘No, it doesn’t taste bad.’
‘Then drink up. Let’s have another round.’
‘This is enough for me. You go ahead.’
Kanak finished her drink when they both insisted.
Despite her refusals, the bearer brought two more whiskeys and another gimlet on a tray. Kanak was feeling a slight buzz, and a strange, tingling sensation. After the first sip of her second drink, her eyelids grew heavy and she felt light-headed. Feeling that she had done something wrong, she decided not to drink any more.
Sinha again insisted, but she refused to take another sip.
‘Why, do you feel any ill effects?’ Sinha asked with a smile.
‘I do feel a bit odd,’ she replied laughingly, then thought, what was there to laugh about!
‘Is it a bad feeling?’
‘No,’ she replied, then became serious.
‘Then have some more. Just to please me,’ Sinha said, touching her knee.
Kanak pulled back, saying she was sorry, but she didn’t want any more.
‘Just have a sip. How much more do I have to beg you?’ Sinha’s hand grasped her knee again.
The table shook as it was pushed back, knocking over Aseer’s drink. Kanak rose suddenly, her forehead furrowed in anger, ‘What is this? Let me out of here!’
‘Nonsense! What’s got into you?’ Aseer glowered at Kanak.
Kanak bit her lip angrily, ‘I want to leave! Let me out of here!’ Her nostrils trembled.
Sinha and Aseer looked at each other. Aseer asked her to sit down and listen to him calmly.
Kanak refused to sit down.
Aseer got up to make way for her. He said to Sinha, ‘I’ll walk with her to the door.’
Kanak stepped into the downstairs veranda, which was lit with dazzlingly bright lights. People were milling around. She had never been to Connaught Place alone. She was angry at herself for her own lack of judgement. Tension and gin were making her head swim. She knew which buses passed through Faiz Bazaar, but did not know where the bus stop was in Connaught Place, and was in no fit state to ask anybody for information.
‘Need a taxi?’ A taxi driver whose fare had just got out and was paying him, asked Kanak.
Kanak breathed a sigh of relief. She climbed into the taxi. The driver slid into the traffic and asked, ‘Where to?’
‘Faiz Bazaar,’ replied Kanak, thinking of another problem. She remembered that there were only ten annas in her handbag. What things have come to? she thought sadly. Ten or twenty rupees used to mean nothing to her. What could she do?
Kanak asked the driver to stop on Sir Syed Ahmed Road, beside the post office in Faiz Bazaar. He checked the meter and said, ‘One rupee and two annas.’
‘Bhai, I completely forgot. I’ve spent all the money in my purse. Wait here for two minutes, I’ll bring you your fare,’ she said helplessly.
‘Wah, wah,’ the driver replied in a loud voice, ‘such a big handbag, and it’s empty. You want me to wait here? Every minute costs me money. Why didn’t you check your purse before getting into my taxi?’
‘I’ll pay for the time you wait. It’s my fault, I admit.’
‘You are trying to pull one on me? I’m from Delhi, too. I could wait here till morning, and you wouldn’t come back,’ he spoke louder than before.
‘Come with me to my house if you don’t trust me,’ Kanak felt humiliated, but what else could she do?
The driver continued to shout. He directed his complaints to a shopkeeper nearby, ‘Just see how these ladies carry on! They go about with handbags as big as a postman’s sack, but don’t have even eighteen annas in it. And she wanted to ride in a taxi!’
Naseeb Rai, another shopkeeper at the corner of the gali, came over to investigate. Kanak was petrified with embarrassment at the driver’s rudeness. She tried to explain, ‘I’m not saying I won’t pay. I just forgot that I had no cash left in my purse. I’ll go and get the money. I’ll pay for the waiting time. If he doesn’t trust me, he can come with me.’
Naseeb Rai scolded the driver, ‘Watch your mouth, my good man.’ He knew both Panditji and Kanak. ‘Don’t you see whom you’re speaking to? Is that the way to speak to a lady? Take your fare and get lost. How much is it? Speak up.’
‘Go home, daughter. There’s no hurry to send back the money,’ Naseeb Rai said reassuringly.
Kanak tried to pull herself together, so as not to upset her father, as she walked back home. The moment she reached the house, she said, ‘Pitaji, give me some money. I got into a bit of a jam today.’ ‘Why, what happened, beti?’ Panditji wanted to know.
‘I got on the wrong bus at Tees Hazari, which took me to Sadar. The bus conductor told me to catch the bus for Connaught Place, and then take the bus to Faiz Bazaar. When I reached Connaught Place I found that I had no money left in my purse. Had to take a taxi. Borrowed money from the shopkeeper at the corner of the gali to pay the taxi. So give me eighteen annas. I want to pay him back.’
Panditji said by way of assurance, ‘Must be Nasseb Rai. You relax, I’ll pay him back tomorrow.’
Kanak did not want Naseeb Rai to tell her father about the taxi driver’s impertinence. Taking Kanchan with her, she went back and gave the shopkeeper his money.
Nayyar arrived two days later. Although he had seen the documents for the sale and exchange of properties when he had come down from Nainital, he and Panditji examined them again. Nayyar pointed out that the deed of sale had not been signed in the presence of any witnesses. Panditji explained the situation to two of his trusted neighbours, Jawahar Singh and Gur Dittan Mull. Both insisted on adding their signatures, and entered the date as 8 September 1947.
Kanak told Nayyar about her differences of opinion with the editor of Sardar, and said that she had no hope of finding work with a Delhi newspaper. She wanted to go to Lucknow to take advantage of the opportunity available there, she said.
Nayyar disagreed, ‘Whatever your outlook, if you want to succeed in a profession, be faithful to its code. Do it as your obligation to your employer. Once we take on a client, whoever or whatever he might be, we put his interest first.’
‘Yes, then you admit that you play the hypocrite, by being honest within your dishonesty. I can’t condone any wrongdoing just for the sake of earning a living. That means I should steal if the need arises? There are others who give up their jobs for the sake of their principles.’ She said, thinking of Puri.
‘If you want to behave that way, be a Gandhi. Then people would accept your ideas just because of who you are. Don’t you know that those who don’t care for their job may find that their job doesn’t care for them?’ After matching Kanak’s hard words with his own, Nayyar changed the subject, ‘Well, whatever happened, I think if Aseer is willing to help you, you should take advantage of his offer.’
‘Nothing is possible there. He’s a despicable person. I don’t want to see him ever again,’ Kanak said, her head lowered, and described the events of that evening.
Nayyar thought that she was not blameless. ‘Why did you accept the drink? I didn’t expect that kind of behaviour from you. You yourself behaved appallingly.’
‘How did I behave appallingly? Don’t you drink yourself? You’ve told me many times that there’s no harm in it if you have only a small one. You yourself have given drinks to Bahinji.’
‘There’s a time and place for everything. It depends where you are, and with whom.’
‘Achcha, it was all my fault. Still I don’t think I did anything improper. But I’ll never work for Aseer.’
‘What if something untoward happens in Lucknow?’
‘Why should it happen? And if it does, can’t I handle it as I did here in Delhi? Tell Pitaji to lock me up in some box.’ She burst into tears.
Nayyar was forced to agree with her.
Chapter 3
A TEEMING MULTITUDE OF HARRIED HINDUS, DRIVEN OUT OF THEIR homeland, was winding its way towards East Punjab in search of refuge. They travelled in vehicles and on foot, escorted by Indian soldiers. One such convoy arrived at a refugee camp in Amritsar. The passengers began to unload whatever little they had been able to carry with them. At the head of the convoy was a truckload of armed soldiers, and just behind it, a station wagon with the women rescued from Shaikhupura. These women had nothing to unload; all they had were the clothes on their backs. Led by Kaushalya Devi, this group was the first to enter the camp through a gate in the boundary wall.
