Next morning as she was leaving for the Council House, Mrs Pant took out some papers from her bag and muttered irritably, ‘These secretariat people are such bungling idiots. They’ve given me the forms in English. Today’s the last date. My reimbursement will be held up for no good reason.
‘Can you write English?’ she asked Kanak. When Kanak said ‘yes’, she said, ‘Fill these up for me, will you. I’ll sign. Or my travel allowance will be held up. These people are such a nuisance.’
Kanak began to fill up the claim form for a round trip to Mrs Pant’s hometown at the time of the Dussehra festival. She was thinking, ‘So many speeches in the Assembly were in English. Could Mrs Pant follow what was said?’
Mrs Pant said as she was leaving, ‘You saw the Assembly House yesterday. You’ll get bored sitting there again. I’ve to go there to record my attendance. Awasthiji will be in the Assembly till one. You can come later if you want to meet him. You know the way. Leave the key with Chhedilal. I’ll also speak with Awasthiji about you.’
In spite of her eagerness for finding work, Kanak had no desire to go to Awasthi’s office. She wondered: Couldn’t she do something else without asking someone like Awasthi for help? There must be newspapers in Lucknow. Or she could look for a job at some school. It was preferable to find work as a nurse in Lucknow than to go back and be a strain on her father’s finances.
She took out
The Innocent Sin
, a novel that she had brought with her. As she read, she found herself inadvertently comparing her own situation with Orissa, a character in the book. Another day passed. She had nothing else to do but worry. Sitting idle was making her uneasy. She had been here for only two days, she thought to comfort herself. The sun had set. She turned on the light and went back to her reading.
There was a knock on the door, ‘May I come in?’
Kanak went to the door and peered out. It was Awasthi.
‘Please come in,’ Kanak said, opening the door. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Where’s Mrs Pant? Not back yet?’ he asked.
Kanak offered Awasthi the armchair, took an ordinary chair herself and sat at some distance.
‘You didn’t come back yesterday, nor did you come today. I thought I’d look you up on my way back from the secretariat.’
‘I thought I’d be interrupting your important work. And since you had asked me to come, you’d remember the reason for my calling on you.’
‘Of course, I remember. Do you have any problems here?’
‘Ji, no. I’m quite comfortable.’
‘Don’t hesitate to tell me. Be frank. If you’re not comfortable, another place can be found for you,’ Awasthi said, as if giving her a chance to change her mind.
‘Ji, no. I’ve no problem here.’
‘I mean if you’re used to a different food, then feel free to tell Mrs Pant. Consider this your home.’
‘Ji, I’ve no problem or inconvenience here.’
Awasthi asked about her parents, where they were living in Delhi, and advised, ‘It’ll be better for you all in Lucknow than in Delhi. Ask all your family to come here.’
Kanak told him about her father buying the house in Durrani Gali, and described the incident with Syed.
Awasthi expressed his sympathy, ‘Gandhiji talks in terms of ideals, but it’s different in practice.’ He asked, ‘What type of job would you like to have?’
Kanak replied that she was willing to do any work, but she would prefer a government job to teaching in a girls’ school or at a women’s institution.
‘That’s the right attitude,’ he smiled slowly at her answer. ‘It’ll be done, believe me. And don’t despair. Yes, if you need anything, if you’re short of cash, don’t worry. Treat us like your family.’
‘Ji, no. I have enough.’
‘If you’re short of money, I’ll send you some,’ he smiled a little more widely.
‘Ji, no. I don’t need any.’
‘I’ll be angry if you stand on ceremony,’ Awasthi said, closing his eyes. His lips stretched so wide that red paan juice leaked at the corners.
‘Ji, I’ll let you know if I need anything,’ Kanak said, suppressing her disgust.
‘Achchha, I’ll go now.’
Kanak stood up politely to see him out.
‘Arey, sit, sit. You mustn’t get up. Ladies do not get up.’ He laughed loudly and remained seated. ‘How’s the food in the mess here?’
‘It is quite good.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll get meat dishes here. You’re used to eating meat, have some delivered from outside.’
‘I’m used to vegetarian food. Our family didn’t mind eating meat, though.’
‘Achchha, I’ll go now,’ he again said with a smile. Kanak stood up again.
‘No, don’t get up. I’ve missed Mrs Pant. She didn’t say when she’d be back?’
‘She came back quite late last night.’
Kanak remained standing. Awasthi got up, ‘Come and see me again. I’ll let you know.’ He paused, and said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself; I’ll come to give you the news myself. But don’t worry about anything.’
He smiled and seemed ready to leave but hesitated. He put his hand on Kanak’s shoulder as if to reassure her. Kanak detested his touch. She felt no hesitation at shaking hands with a man, but Awasthi’s touch did not seem that innocent. After he had gone, she smiled to herself and thought scornfully: The only thing Congress party people have learnt from Gandhiji is to feel free to paw any girl or woman. Every one of them thinks he is the Father of the Nation.
Thoughts continued to swirl in her mind when she went to bed after dinner. She was determined to become self-supporting. So many days had passed and she had not been able to do anything about her resolve to search for Puri. A radio broadcast was her only resource. How long would she go on living with the fear that her father would hear the broadcast of her message to Puri? Still, it was not possible without reaching a decision to continue in Lucknow. The memory of those evenings spent with Puri in Nainital’s Astoria Hotel made her tingle with warmth and yearning. Her body ached for his touch, and tears flowed from her eyes. She was not the type to sit around moping, but in her loneliness, she wrapped her head in the sheet and cried her heart out.
A week passed without any news of a job for her. She had written to her
father that she was staying with a member of the UPs Legislative Assembly, Mrs Pant, and that there was some hope of finding work soon with the help of Awasthi, the parliamentary secretary. But when she wrote to her sister and brother-in-law in Jalandhar, it was not with as much conviction, ‘Nothing is certain so far, but I must be patient. It is natural that this will take some time.’ As if she wanted to draw comfort from her own words.
Kanak was finding it increasingly dreary and monotonous to while away the hours sitting in Mrs Pant’s room and waiting for news from Awasthi. Seeing her bored and listless one evening, Mrs Pant offered to take her to Hazaratganj for a cup of coffee. Thakur Murli Dhar Singh, another MLA living in the residence, came along.
Thakur cut a rather imposing figure. His khadi kurta and cashmere vest fitted snugly over his broad shoulders and rotund belly. When he found out about Kanak’s search for a job, he assured her that he could definitely get her appointed as a schoolteacher in Sitapur at one hundred and fifty rupees per month.
She did not immediately agree to go to yet another unknown city. She thanked him and said, ‘Awasthiji is already trying for me. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll certainly ask you.’
Awasthi showed up again the next evening. Mrs Pant was there and she sent for tea. While they all were having tea, Mrs Pant said that she had some urgent work with one Shastriji, finished her tea and left.
Awasthi talked to Kanak as if an emotional intimacy existed between them, ‘You came here because of the promise I made to you, so have confidence in me. Don’t be shy with me.’ He smiled, put his hand under the shawl around his shoulders, and took out five ten-rupee notes from an inside pocket. He took Kanak’s hand, and putting the money into it, said, ‘You’re short of money. Why didn’t you ask me?’
Kanak pulled back her hand. Her face turned serious, ‘I’m not short of cash. I want to be self-supporting. I’ll ask my father for money if I need any.’ She told Awasthi about the promise made by Thakur to get her a job in Sitapur, and added, ‘If you want I can ask Thakur Sahib.’
Awasthi stared at her for a moment. He put the money back in his pocket and said in a serious tone, ‘Well, that’s all right. I came to tell you to write an application to the director of the Information Department for a job as a journalist, and give it to me tomorrow. Don’t forget to mention your
publications. No need to be depressed.’ He did not stay much longer, and before he left, he reminded Kanak not to lose confidence in him.
There was no chance of Mrs Pant returning early. Kanak was feeling hungry, so she went to the dinning hall. There was no one there. She had not finished her dinner when Thakur peered in. He came into the room, saying how happy he was to see Kanak again, and sat next to her. He summoned Bechu, the mess servant. ‘Go, boy, and bring half a pao of rabari from that shop on the corner,’ he said, tossing an eight-anna coin onto the table.
Thakur offered the leaf cup full of sweet milk pudding to Kanak. She shook her head and declined, but Thakur persisted, ignoring her reply as if he had a right to insist.
Kanak always paid for her meals herself. She took out a two-rupee note from her purse and put it on the table. Thakur told Bechu not to accept the money from her, but charge it to his account. Kanak asked Bechu to bring back her change.
Thakur picked up the note and tried to put it back into Kanak’s purse.
Girija Bhabhi, another MLA, came into the room. ‘What’s this? What’s the problem here?’ she asked.
Thakur shrank away, then laughed sheepishly, ‘Look at her, bhabhiji, she’s our guest. Isn’t her insistence on paying for her meal herself contrary to our Lucknow etiquette?’
‘I want to pay for my own meals. One can be a guest only for a day or two,’ Kanak put the money back on the table.
‘She’s so mule-headed, bhabhiji, and unreasonable,’ Thakur said, grinning apologetically, and left quickly.
‘I’ll take the change later,’ Kanak said to Bechu, and began walking away.
‘Hey, girl, hold on, sit down for a minute,’ Girija Bhabhi said sharply in precise Urdu, in a voice slightly softened by the folds of fat around her throat
Girija Bhabhi had the kind of figure that overflowed a chair, a very fair complexion, and a bearing that commanded everyone’s respect. Most people addressed her as bhabhi—sister-in-law; some called her ‘mummy’. She was a veteran Congress party worker, and came from a well-known and distinguished family.
Kanak sat down next to her.
‘I’ve noticed you around here for several days. You’re staying with that woman from Nainital, what’s-her-name, Mrs Pant? What do you do? Are you a Punjabi refugee?’ Bhabhi asked, her fair, fleshy brow furrowed.
Feeling a little nervous, Kanak hastily spoke about herself, describing how she had met Awasthi and Mrs Pant, and why she had come to Lucknow, adding in a worried voice, ‘I’ve been here for eight days. Only yesterday I was told to submit an application for a job, which I did.’
‘If they really wanted to offer you a job, they should have asked you to send your application by mail, rather than ask a young woman to leave her family and come here,’ Bhabhi’s raised eyebrows deepened the furrows on her forehead.
Such a negative observation upset Kanak.
Bhabhi continued, ‘Beti, be cautious with these kind of people. Be on your guard, understand. It seems that you were brought up in a liberal-minded family. These people are small-minded, they keep their womenfolk in purdah, and jump at any chance to flirt with anybody’s daughters and sisters. Watch out, your reputation is in your own hands. If you see anything fishy, go home at once, or come and tell me. I’ll find you a decent family to stay with. Listen, mention my name to Awasthi. Ask him to tell me about the vacancy for which he sent in your application, and who’s dealing with it.’
After a wait of three weeks, Kanak got a call for an interview from the director of the Information Department. The director’s peon ushered Kanak into an anteroom where two young men were sitting and talking. Both stood up to welcome her. One was of a slim build, wore glasses that were a bit large for his swarthy face, and was dressed in a dark-brown achkan and a Gandhi cap. The other, taller and well built, wore khaki, military-style bush shirt and trousers. He was clean-shaven, his tanned face had a peculiar inexplicable cast, and a penetrating gaze.
‘Bahinji, have you also come for the interview?’ The achkan-clad man asked as Kanak took a chair.
‘Yes,’ Kanak replied.
‘For a Hindi or Urdu language position?’
‘I’m more fluent in Urdu. But I know Hindi also.’
‘Then you applied for the Urdu post?’ he asked with a smile, showing his paan-stained teeth.
Kanak nodded in agreement.
The man stood up, and pulling his achkan straight, said, ‘Your humble servant Shiv Prasad Tewari, “Alok”. I’m a freelance journalist, and also write poetry. I am often invited to poetic gatherings. Mr Gill is from Punjab.’
The other man remained silent and merely gave a civil nod to acknowledge Kanak’s namaste.
Alok looked at his wristwatch and asked the peon with a large tilak painted on his forehead, ‘What do you think, pandit? The sahib should arrive by eleven?’
‘He’s usually here by eleven or 11.30,’ the peon replied, moving a wad of chewing tobacco to the other cheek.
‘Shuklaji hasn’t arrived?’
When the peon nodded in affirmation, Alok said, ‘I’ll look in on Shuklaji for two minutes. Call me when the sahib arrives.’ He went out when the peon agreed.
Kanak sat staring at the blank wall, hands around her purse.
‘You used to live in Lahore?’
‘Yes,’ Kanak replied, turning to face the other man.
‘I seem to remember seeing you there at the time of the ’42 movement.’
‘You were in Lahore too?’
‘I was with
Sitara
. Is your family in Lucknow too?’
‘My parents and sister are in Delhi. I came here alone.’
‘You were probably in the Student Congress. Was your father in service or a businessman?’