Kanak had told Puri about meeting Gill in Lucknow, and about Gill’s generous nature and the understanding that had developed between them. As a proof of her devotion to Puri, she had even confessed, ‘Had I not lost my heart to you, I’d have surrendered to Gill. But you thief, you had already stolen my heart away. You kept your hold over me so that even when I was hundreds of miles away and there was no hope of seeing or meeting you again, your attraction kept a grip on me.’ She gave him an accusing look,
‘You played fast and loose here but made me stay faithful to you.’
Shame-faced, Puri replied, ‘Kanni, why do you want to remind me of my pain and desperation?’
‘Never mind my joking. Whom else can I joke with if not you?’ She made up for her comment by showing her love for him.
Whenever the subject of the need for an assistant editor came up, Puri would always think of Gill, and mention this to Siddhu and Kanak. Siddhu would say, ‘If Gill joined us, there would be nothing like it. In Lahore, he was the mainstay of
Sitara
weekly.’
Puri also thought the same, but was reluctant to invite him for two reasons.
In the past, Puri deferred to Gill as his senior in journalism, and had asked for Gill’s support in protesting his dismissal from
Pairokaar
.
Gill’s salary as a proofreader in Lucknow was under a hundred rupees per month, and Puri was willing to pay him 150. But would he agree to work under Puri, even for a higher salary? Puri was paying himself a monthly 250 rupees, which covered salaries for both himself and Kanak. Gill had no family. As a socialist and a comrade he should have agreed to an offer of 125. Had he worked as a ‘whole-timer’ for the party, he would have been paid only Rs 40 per month.
The other concern Puri had imagined was that Gill might begin to slip the Communist Party line into Puri’s weekly. Gill had been expelled from the Party, but nobody could trust these Communists! Even after a break-off from the party, from experience Puri knew the saying ‘once a communist, always a communist’. Puri had no intention of making a change in his name as the Managing Editor, and of Kanak as the Editor. Would Gill agree to leave his name out of the editorial board?’
For a beginner in a new business, experience is the best teacher. Experience had taught Puri that the secret of successfully managing and editing a weekly paper was not limited to the ability to write well. A foot soldier’s forte lies in his skilful use of arms, but a general seldom picks up a weapon. As a general’s ability is shown in leading his troops, a skilled editor knows how to marshal the talent of good writers. Instead of slogging away all day in writing an effective article, he knows how to use what others have written, on the right occasion and in the appropriate context. Puri’s resentment at his former editor Kashish began to subside, and turn against people like Raks who prided themselves in doing as little work as possible.
Instead of writing to Gill himself, Puri asked Kanak to do it. After requesting Gill’s help for old time’s sake, she explained the situation in plain words:
‘How can we ever hope to pay you what you deserve? But if Puriji and I can get by on the little we draw, we hope you can also do the same. You already know the weekly’s editorial policy. You may not fully agree with it, but that’s no reason for you to deny us your support. And without your name appearing on the editorial board, how could you be held responsible for its policy? Not only do we need your cooperation, but being a part of the team might mean something to you.’
Gill came to Jalandhar.
The office of the weekly had been in a single room upstairs, but now the space was inadequate. Also Puri and Kanak found little peace or privacy with the press below and the office next door. As luck would have it, a small house in the Vikrampur mohalla got vacant when its occupant, a government officer, was transferred to Simla. Puri had the house allotted in his name. A living space had to be found for Gill. By breaking down the brick stove in the kitchen upstairs at the press, enough space was created to fit in a charpoy, with a few feet to spare. Gill moved in.
Rikhiram had been running the press almost single-handedly. The printing of the weekly and outside jobs kept the press so busy that he often asked Puri to buy another treadle machine. On his suggestion Puri had already added Hindi and Punjabi Gurumukhi type fonts. In undivided Punjab the practice had been to print all government notices and documents in Urdu and English only, but now the Sikhs were demanding that government documents should be available in Gurumukhi also, and lately the Hindus had asked Hindi to be given an equal status. There was no shortage of work and new presses were being set up all over.
Gill took the responsibility for the publication of
Nazir
. Now Puri’s presence was not required even when Kanak could not come to the office. Puri had many other commitments to keep him occupied. If he came to the press, he seldom stayed more than a couple of hours. Gill sometimes also wrote the editorial. Things had begun to move smoothly when calamity struck.
Puri was in the office of the paper one day when the chowkidar called out to him to come downstairs, ‘Bauji, come quickly. A clerk from the law court and a policeman are here.’
It’s probably some urgent printing job, Puri thought.
Rikhiram had been absent for three days. He had neither asked for leave, nor sent any explanation for his absence. Everyone at the press presumed him to be sick. Since no other employee could handle such an emergency, Puri had to go downstairs.
Puri felt the earth shift beneath his feet when he heard the reason for the court official’s visit. The bailiff had come to collect Rs 13,130 from Kamaal Press, and intended to repossess the press property in case the money was not paid.
Nonplussed and at a loss, Puri called Gill over. On examining the court order they realized that the court had issued a decree against Rikhiram, the manager of the Kamaal Press, that unless the sum of Rs 13,130 due to the moneylender Achharu Ram was paid, the press property would be seized. Neither Puri nor any of the staff had a clue about the indebtedness of the press.
Leaving Gill with the bailiff, Puri went to the bazaar to telephone Sood from Sardar Mehar Singh’s office. Sood was equally taken aback by the bailiff’s visit. He asked Mehar Singh to join with Lala Kripa Ram in using their influence to help Puri out, and to stand surety if necessary until Sood could fully investigate the case.
Puri explained to Mehar Singh and Kripa Ram that Rikhiram was not really the manager, but only an employee of the press and, therefore, had no authority to take out a loan. Also there was no record of a loan negotiated with Achharu Ram.
Mehar Singh and Kripa Ram knew a little about the workings of the law courts. Their conjecture was that Rikhiram had perpetrated some kind of fraud. The court had accepted as evidence that Rikhiram was in fact the manager and a representative of the press, and had issued writ in favour of Achharu Ram. Puri now had to file an appeal in the court, but that would have to come later. The press must immediately be saved from being seized.
Out of his regard for Sood, Mehar Singh agreed to be the custodian of Kamaal Press. It took the whole day to compile a list of all the property of the press. One copy was given to Achharu Ram, the other kept by the bailiff.
Puri and Gill went to Adda Hoshiarpur mohalla to search for Rikhiram. It was a while before they found his house in a gali. They could hear the sound of a treadle printing machine some distance away. They were told that Rikhiram had brought in the machine some days previously.
Rikhiram confronted Puri with blatant hostility, ‘Do whatever you want! Did you get the press from your father? I’ve as much right to this press as you. I had to give up a printing business of my own in Jhellum. What did
you
know about running a press? You got the press by licking the arses of Congress politicians, and now you’ve come to threaten me! The press should be mine, not yours. I’ve earned you a fortune in the last eighteen months and made a rich man out of a beggar. What have you done to show me your gratitude? And you have the gall to accuse me of stealing from you! Pay up thirteen thousand one hundred thirty rupees first, then look me in the face. I’ll see you in court.’
Later that evening Puri, Kanak and Gill went to see Nayyar. He and Kanta listened sympathetically to what had happened, but had many questions: How could the court accept Rikhiram as the manager or an authorized agent of the Kamaal Press? How could Achharu Ram advance him, an employee, such a large sum in the name of the press? Why had the court issued such a decree?
Puri explained that Rikhiram had received a number of summonses to appear before the law court. On several occasions he had asked for a leave of absence for half a day or the whole day to attend court hearings. Rikhiram had pretended that there had been a brawl in his mohalla, and that he had to appear as a witness to the incident.
In September 1947 Rikhiram had gone to Sood to ask his permission to reopen the Kamaal Press apparently abandoned by Isaac Mohammed, and had been told that the press belonged to Sood. In order to earn a living he was forced to take a job at the press.
In May 1948 Isaac Mohammed had returned to Jalandhar from Pakistan under a special travel permit. He had hoped that with Sood’s help, he might be able to get a reasonable price for the property he had entrusted to Sood’s care.
Isaac had a tragic story to tell. He had been resettled in Sakkhar, in the Sindh province of Pakistan. The Sindhi language was incomprehensible to him, and the city was full of Urdu-speaking Muslims who had fled from the United Provinces and Bihar. These Muslims considered refugees from Punjab as uncouth and made fun of Punjabi and Sindhi speakers. They also thought that a person was not a true Muslim if he could not speak Urdu.
The Hindus and Sikhs forced to leave the cities now in Pakistan had
been mostly shopkeepers, tradesmen and professionals. Muslims who had gone to Pakistan from India were mainly artisans and office workers. What could such people know about keeping shops or practising trades? As a means of subsistence Isaac had been allotted the shop of a Hindu herbs and spice dealer. But the goods in stock were completely unfamiliar to him. His children ate up some of the almonds, raisins and other dried nuts and fruits; he disposed off the rest at whatever price he could get. The stock might have been worth thousands, but for him it was worthless. What could he know about medicinal herbs, or the difference between dry pomegranate seeds and dry cumin seeds? He had sold half a gunny sack of black peppercorns for three rupees a seer. In Jalandhar he found that the rate was thirty to forty rupees a seer. The poor man tore at his hair in frustration. One customer would ask for
banafsha
, another for
neelofar
, and the third for
gazawan
; for him they were all the same. Sometimes his mother was able to identify some herb used as medicine. Old-timers knew about such things. Any gunny sack he undid or any box he opened brought on a fit of sneezing. And then there was the constant fear of selling something poisonous instead of a medicinal herb. It would have been another matter if he had been selling wheat, lentils or millet. Whenever a customer came, he would say, ‘Listen bhai, if you can find what you’re looking for here, please take it.’
Isaac spoke to his former neighbour, the watchmaker Haji Imamdin of Mai Heeran Gate, who had also been sent to Sakkhar. Imamdin had been allotted a liquor store formerly owned by a Hindu. Haji, as a devout Muslim, could not even handle anything alcoholic. Government officials would drop in and walk out with a bottle without paying. Or some moneyed connoisseurs would pick out a bottle worth fifty rupees, and drop a ten-rupee note at the cash counter on their way out. The store was emptied out and he got little or nothing in return. Imamdin had gone to Lahore to get the tools needed for his profession, but could not afford to buy them. The going price was five times the standard. The poor man was forced to go without eating even though it was not yet the month of Ramazan.
Puri had welcomed Isaac back warmly, had installed him upstairs at the press and had treated him hospitably with paranthas and lassi. Isaac was happy to see that his press was operating well. He was entitled to search for and retrieve any gold or silver or jewellery that might have been buried
in the house. But no refugee from India had the right to dispose off their abandoned property. Sood, of course, would not have allowed any illegal transactions.
Rikhiram had told the tale of his own woes to Issac, and said that it was perhaps his fate that he had to abandon his own press in Jhellum. Sood had instructed Puri to buy out Issac by paying him 2000 rupees, and for that purpose, had also arranged for Puri to take out a loan of 1000 rupees from Lala Kripa Ram.
Issac had gone back a disappointed man, but Rikhiram, with a feeling of revenge in his heart, had hatched a plot with Achharu Ram the moneylender. He had a free hand at the press. He surreptitiously used the rubber stamp ‘For Kamaal Press, Manager’ on several sheets of official letterhead, signed as manager promissory notes totalling Rs 12,000 at 6 per cent interest, backdating them at short time intervals, and took for himself Rs 3,000 cash from Achharu Ram.
Nayyar said that Rikhiram probably had told Achharu Ram that the press was being run in partnership between him and Puri, and that he would attest before the court that he had taken out the loans. The court would then issue a decree. He had probably also told the moneylender that Puri would never be able to repay Rs 12,000, and that he and Achharu Ram would become joint owners of the press and earn at least of seven to eight hundred per month. The press machines alone were worth at least Rs 15,000. In case the press was auctioned, Achharu Ram would be able to buy it by paying a maximum of seven to eight thousand extra for a property worth over Rs 15,000. And that Achharu Ram had probably thought that even if Puri managed to prove his 50 per cent ownership, Achharu Ram would still be legally entitled to the other 50 per cent of the press.