PANDIT GIRDHARILAL HAD GIVEN HIS CONSENT FOR PURI AND KANAK TO
have a civil marriage. Puri sent for his parents, his younger brother and two sisters before going to Delhi for the ceremony. His two-room apartment over the press office would be overcrowded, but he decided to sacrifice comfort for the sake of accommodating his family. He was candid with Kanak about all his family having lived in one room in Lahore.
Puri’s association with Sood was increasingly drawing him into the Congress party organization. He gave up his shirt and trousers for a simpler dress of a khadi kurta and pajama. Kanak made sure that he changed into a fresh outfit every day. If needed, she washed and ironed his clothes herself.
Over the entrance to the office, the signboard of
Nazir
was fixed next to that of the press. An extra desk was put in the office. Puri himself wrote the editorials, opinion pieces and the two columns of the satirical ‘Haat Bazaar Mein’—What I Heard in the Bazaar. The galloping inflation, nepotism and underhand corruption common in the British Raj had not disappeared, but as most people felt, seemed to have grown even more in the first months of the Congress party rule. Those who had suffered in silence and fear under foreign masters were now refusing to take things lying down. Their anger was becoming more vocal and they were openly critical of the government, ‘It was better to be governed by the British than by our own people. Now everyone flouts the law and accepts bribes with impunity.’ Gandhiji, when he was alive, often used to warn the new government not to indulge in ‘pomp and show and extravagance’ and used to remind the Congress to stay true to its ideals and the commitment to the people. That voice was now silent. Puri would write biting satires on such themes.
With the launch of
Nazir
, Puri found little time to supervise the press. Since time hung heavy on Masterji’s hands, Puri put his father in charge of the accounts. Kanak’s responsibility was to translate from English selected news and articles from other newspapers. Puri would also ask her to look out for certain articles in
Harijan
that carried Gandhiji’s warnings to the Congress government, and in
Crossroads
, the Communist Party organ, that criticized the government policies favouring capitalists and big industrialists.
Kanak would rewrite these for
Nazir
to reflect the viewpoint of ordinary people. After several days of back-breaking work, they both readied enough material for one issue of the weekly.
During her two-month-long stint as a government journalist in Lucknow, Kanak had often felt guilty about accepting a monthly salary of 250 rupees for sitting idle. Now in Jalandhar she was putting in a hard day’s work for which she would receive no payment. The last pages of
Nazir
came off the press on Thursday night. On Friday morning she read the new issue end to end. The elation and satisfaction that she felt was her reward. She had a deep sense of fulfilment that her life was worthwhile and had a purpose.
Puri’s mother Bhagwanti thought highly of her new daughter-in-law who, like her bright and clever son, could sit at a desk and work in an office. Mindful of the fact that Kanak came from an affluent and highly regarded family, the mother-in-law also deferred to her. But Kanak was not her ideal of a daughter-in-law. Even after becoming the mother of two children, Bhagwanti had never unveiled her face in the presence of her father-in-law. She thought: How can a daughter-in-law dare to open her mouth and jabber away to her husband in the presence of her in-laws? Who would respect or value such a woman?
Kanak did not draw down a ghunghat to cover her face in the presence of her father-in-law and audaciously addressed him as ‘pitaji’. As a token of her respect, she sometimes remembered to cover her head with the corner of her sari or dupatta when he was around. There were few occasions for Bhagwanti to discuss the household or the kitchen chores with her daughter-in-law, and little else that she could talk about with Kanak. Once in a while she would reminisce, with tears in her eyes, about Usha’s elder sister, ‘Tara also had studied up to BA level. It was in my poor daughter’s fate to die on her first night at her in-laws.’
Puri’s mother had not been able to satisfy her ambition of seeing her son as a bridegroom, riding a mare at the head of his bridal procession, with
sehra
—the wreath of flowers—around his head. She had had to hand out the congratulatory shagun and other customary gifts in the marriage of the son of Masterji’s elder brother and other relatives. Now when it was the time for herself to receive shagun in return, the daughter-in-law arrived quietly, just like a visiting friend or a relative. In Bhagwanti’s mind, the responsibility for her being deprived of shagun lay on Kanak.
Because of Panditji’s financial situation and other constraints, Kanak’s
send-off from her parents’ home in Delhi had been a brief and simple affair. Her bridal reception at her in-laws’ had been equally modest. Women from the families of Sardar Mehar Singh and Lala Kripa Ram of Mai Heeran Gate, and a few from the families that had settled in her gali had come to welcome her and offer the congratulatory shagun. Such an austere event had not satisfied Usha, and to brighten up the occasion, she had invited over four girls of her age from the gali. Kripa Ram’s daughter had brought the dholak. The girls had sat Kanak in their midst, and had sung tappas until midnight.
One of them had lamented about her sweetheart:
You have spread thorns in my way.
Those buttons in your shirt are fortunate
that they are next to your heart.
Another had taken up the male part:
When I return from the office,
I’ll take off the shirt
and put you next to my heart.
On Puri’s advice Usha had enrolled in a college. Bhagwanti was a little annoyed with her daughter who, of late, had begun to idolize her daughter-in-law. Usha refused to oil her hair and styled it in two loosely woven plaits, and her dupatta seldom stayed over her head. She imitated her sister-in-law’s manner in everything. She preferred tea to milk or lassi. It was fine for boys to behave like this, but Puri’s mother did not approve of girls drinking tea.
On her return from college, Usha would read some book or newspaper, or go and sit with her bhabhi in the office among a crowd of men. Bhagwanti did not say anything to the daughter-in-law, but nagged at Usha when Kanak was not listening, ‘Is that any way to behave? Girls should behave like girls. You don’t want to end up as a pen-pusher in some office, do you?’ She wanted her daughter to be married off soon. She could see the result of girls getting too much education.
Kanak had achieved her heart’s desire after much struggle and persistence. She was content to be working and blissful in togetherness; for her this was a honeymoon. Most of her day was spent in the office. She often worked until midnight, after Puri had gone to bed. Translating news
and features, selecting opinion pieces from other publications for
Nazir
, and proofreading was not quite the kind of literary work that she had dreamt about or the kind of work that was dear to her heart. She would remember: Aseer had rightly said that newspaper work was mostly routine. But not minding the daily grind, she conscientiously burnt the midnight oil.
Since the nights were hot and humid in the apartment, charpoys were laid out for Puri and Kanak to sleep on the roof in the open air. Exhausted by the heat and hard work, Kanak would go to the roof and put her arms around Puri deep in sleep in the cool air. She felt reluctant about disturbing the sleep of her equally exhausted husband, but her tired mind would not allow her to fall asleep. Sometimes she could not suppress a surge of desire, if she was his, he was hers too. Inspite of herself, she would wake him. Later she would feel guilty because of Puri’s annoyance.
One morning in July Kanak felt nauseous and her face looked pallid. Puri checked her pulse, felt her forehead and said to his mother, ‘Give her a few drops of the Amritdhara medicine, or should we call a doctor?’
His mother ostentatiously ignored his suggestion, ‘It’s nothing. She’ll be all right.’ She did not appreciate her son’s undue concern for his wife. She knew what was ailing the daughter-in-law. She thought to herself, ‘Must he pamper her so much?’
Kanak felt better by midday. She called out to Puri, and as he sat beside her, said shyly, ‘Maaji is probably suspecting something. Maybe she’s right.’
Puri looked worried and surprised. He said after a moment’s thought, ‘If that is so, let’s ask Mrs Channana from the hospital to examine you. The medical advice is to be particularly careful in such condition.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘If it’s true, you’ll be confined to the house. You won’t be able to help with
Nazir
.’
Despite Kanak’s shyness, Puri took her to see Mrs Channana the next day.
Mrs Channana knew Puri as the editor of
Nazir
. On being told that Kanak was helping in the editing of the weekly, the doctor welcomed her warmly. After examining Kanak, the doctor chided her affectionately, ‘Haven’t you been foolish! Married only for four months, and got this millstone around your neck. You should have enjoyed yourself for at least a year. This was going to happen anyway. Puriji tells me that you write very well, and are very good at editing. This would be the end of your editorship. Will you sit in the office with the baby clinging to your breast like a monkey? If you feel unwell in the first week of pregnancy, how will you do your editing
later? A professional woman must tread with care. I was married off when I was in the third year of medical school. I took every precaution, but still slipped. The delivery was due around the time of the final exam and I’d have lost a whole year. You know how much a year of medical school costs! And then to be the butt of jokes. Think again, it won’t be so hard at this stage.’
When Puri was invited to a public function or social event, he liked to take Kanak along. He thought that being accompanied by an educated and cultured wife gave him an elevated status and importance in the eyes of society. Kanak’s help was also needed for editing
Nazir
, and hiring an assistant would have meant parting with another 125 rupees or so every month. He was also in no hurry to be elevated to the rank of father. Kanak could imagine the thrill of having a lovely, cuddly baby in her lap, but disliked the idea of failing to be a companion and help to her husband in his work.
The mother-in-law sulked in silence after Kanak had recovered completely. She quietly begged forgiveness from God for the sinful ways of the new generation. Now if she saw Usha spending too much time with Kanak, she would reprimand her, ‘Don’t you have anything else to do? Won’t you ever learn how to run a house, or will you stay a layabout all your life?’
Sood had not said anything to Puri about the salary he could draw for himself or for Kanak. But there was a tacit understanding that the press and the weekly belonged to Puri. What could he pay himself for something that was his own? Although in three months’ time
Nazir
had become popular with its readers and had built a reputation for itself, it had attracted very few advertisements. The profit earned through the printing press was Puri’s main income.
He had been too busy to scout out business for the press. He left that responsibility to Rikhiram, and raised his salary by twenty-five rupees a month to keep him happy. Masterji continued to keep the account ledgers besides keeping an eye on the petty cashbox and the general working of the press. His habit of not overlooking even the slightest irregularity and of accounting for the last paisa often led to arguments between him and Rikhiram. He never failed to object to Rikhiram slipping a couple of annas to the clerk at the railway parcel office or half a rupee to the peon at the law court to grease their palms.
Rikhiram would say, ‘Everyone does it.’
Masterji would reply, ‘A bribe is a bribe. Whether of one paisa or of a thousand rupees.’
Puri would keep quiet. Both Masterji and Rikhiram would take his silence for approval.
One evening the press had to work overtime. Rikhiram separated out the reams of paper for the District Board printing job at four forms per sheet, and left. That stock ran out at 7.30 and the machine operator sent a message to ask whether he should stop work. Masterji came downstairs and found that only twenty reams had been used, and five apparently remained. He told the machine operator to print the remaining five.
Next morning, Rikhiram complained that Masterji had wasted five reams of paper. Masterji tried to correct him, ‘The job order was for 50,000 forms. Do the sum yourself. You had given paper for only 40,000. Were the five extra reams needed or not?’
Rikhiram shouted at Masterji in front of the workers, ‘You think you’re the only one who can count? Why do you meddle in things you don’t understand? Paper worth sixty-five rupees got wasted because of you. Should I now give the clerks at the Board office their cut out of my own pocket?’
Masterji did not know much about the printing business, but he was not so naïve as not to suspect what Rikhiram was up to. Evidently, he was planning to deliver 40,000 printed forms but charge for 50,000, and save five reams of paper in the bargain. There would have been an overcharge Rs 80 in the invoice. Masterji found this unacceptable. He knew about shady deals in government departments and had some inkling of what his elder brother Ramjwaya had been doing, but for him dishonesty was still a sin—now more than ever, when his fellow countrymen where masters of their own destiny. His family’s benefactor Sood was the parliamentary secretary in that government. To defraud one’s own people!
Puri often voiced his disapproval of bribing and other corrupt practices in
Nazir
. Masterji felt proud that his clever son was fighting for justice and truth—the very son, who once gave up a job for the sake of his principles. So he complained to his son about Rikhiram’s lack of scruples and how he had humiliated him in front of the staff. Puri told him to keep quiet about it.