Puri, Kanak and Gill were flabbergasted. Kanak said with disbelief, ‘How’s that possible? How could the court issue such an order?’
Nayyar replied, ‘Why couldn’t the court do that! The promissory notes were submitted as documented proof that money was loaned. The borrower admitted to having taken up the loan. It’s a civil right to claim back any money owed to him and the legal system helps him do that.’
‘But shouldn’t the court have verified who the owner of the press really was?’ Puri asked.
‘The court had issued its summons in the name of Rikhiram, the manager of the press, and he had accepted the summons. He had appeared in the court in the name of the press and had declared under oath its legal obligation. No one had raised any objection before the court. The promissory notes had been on the letterhead of the press, rubber-stamped and apparently signed by the manager. What other judgment could the court have given?’ Nayyar replied.
‘The court judgment is miscarriage of justice,’ Kanak began to condemn the legal and the judicial system. ‘Everyone knows Puriji. The judge should have called him to court to explain who Rikhiram really was, what kind of person he was, how long he had been with the press, and in what capacity? The court could have made some inquiries as to who’s the real owner of the press.’
‘Kanni, you sometimes talk like an idiot!’ Nayyar rebuked her. ‘The law courts are objective and impartial to individual identities or allegations. The law says that if the judge personally knows any of the parties involved or has any prior knowledge of the case, he must disbar himself from hearing the case and transfer the case to another court.’
‘But why?’ Kanak said with surprise, ‘How could a judge dispense justice without knowing all the facts?’
‘So that lawyers get the chance to stretch the truth by their arguments!’ Gill spoke up.
Nayyar tried to explain, ‘According to jurisprudence, a bias for or against an individual might occur if the judge knows the persons or has a prior acquaintance with the facts.’
‘Why appoint those as judges who are prone to prejudice?’ Gill asked. ‘The legal system in an industrial–capitalist society operates like an automatic dispenser. Whoever controls the machine controls the system.’
Wishing to put an end to the discussion, Nayyar said to Puri, ‘Well, for the present you can only save your press by having access to the very same legal system. Do you want to save your press or not?’
‘You yourself have said that Achharu Ram probably handed over only around three thousand rupees to Rikhiram,’ Puri reminded Nayyar.
Gill added, ‘If so, wouldn’t the promissory notes be considered invalid or a fraud.’
‘Bhai, Achharu Ram may not have parted with even a half a paisa, but those promissory notes are still valid evidence. The truth is one thing,
what’s on the promissory notes is something else. How can the notes be considered invalid when the signatory acknowledges having signed them?’ Nayyar explained.
‘Even if no money actually changed hands?’ Kanak asked angrily.
‘Isn’t it fraud to sign a receipt for money without really receiving it?’ Gill added to Kanak’s question.
‘Rikhiram may not have received any cash.’ Nayyar slapped the tabletop to add emphasis to his answer, ‘But those promissory notes are legally admissible evidence.’
‘That means the law gives one the opportunity to commit fraud.’ Gill said.
‘A promissory note only means that the signatory admits accepting a repayable loan,’ Nayyar interrupted him to explain.
‘Then the wording should have been altered accordingly.’
Puri asked, ‘Why did nobody question whether Rikhiram has the signing power?’
‘Anybody and everybody has the right to sign a promissory note. And the law allows anybody to borrow or to lend money. You may say that your press is not bound by the promissory notes fraudulently signed by Rikhiram.’
‘Let’s say so,’ Kanak agreed.
‘It should have been the concern of Achharu Ram to check that out, but he was conspiring with Rikhiram anyway. The notes are on the official letterhead and with the rubber stamp of the press, and that’s proof enough for the court that Rikhiram was a representative of the press. The task of the court was now to confirm the right of Achharu Ram to issue a loan and to help him recover it.’
‘A capitalist government always takes the side of the loan giver. It doesn’t give a damn for the unfortunate borrower. There’s always a bias in favour of the banias,’ Gill said.
‘What makes you say that, comrade?’ Nayyar said to Gill, ‘When the zemindars had a powerful lobby in Punjab, didn’t they have that law passed for the transfer of farmland? It stipulated that any repossessed farmland seized from a bankrupt could not be bought by a bania or a moneylender, but only by another farmer.’
‘That’s true,’ Gill agreed. ‘The laws always favour those who make them up or are able to influence their application.’
‘Are you dreaming about some perfect law that would be fair at all times and in all cases?’ Nayyar said sarcastically.
‘Well, how would it be if we presented proof that the press never received the loan?’ Puri asked.
‘How would you do that? Are the promissory notes proof enough or not?’ Nayyar cut Puri short, then added, ‘What you’ll have to prove is that Rikhiram had no right to sign the notes as the manager of the press.’
‘But we received no money. Why would we have taken out a loan when the press did not need one? And how did we spend all that money?’
‘Once again you are talking absolute nonsense. The court is not concerned with the fact whether the press got the money or not. There
is
evidence that the loan was made. The judge cannot know what is true or false, but can only make his decision on the basis of the evidence before him. The judge cannot ignore evidence even if it misrepresented the truth.’
‘Doesn’t common sense count for anything?’ Kanak and Gill spoke together. ‘It would mean that the law can be used to harass somebody by making up false evidence.’
‘Yes, that’s quite possible. The interpretation of the law is not a matter of common sense, but of specialized knowledge. If the only thing necessary in a law court was common sense, why would we need lawyers? Well, the first thing you should do is report to the police that Rikhiram fraudulently used your letterhead and the rubber stamp. The court order can be rescinded on these grounds alone. You will have to prove that Rikhiram in fact was neither the manager of the press nor authorized to represent you.’
There was no end to Puri’s problems at this time. Nayyar acted as his counsel without charging any money, otherwise he would have had to pay several hundred rupees in legal fees alone. But there was still the inconvenience of appearing before the court. Achharu Ram engaged a lawyer in defence of Rikhiram.
Puri presented in the court as evidence the letter from Issac Mohammed entrusting Kamaal Press to Sood. Sood had to testify as to appointing Puri the manager of the press. The stubs from the bank cheque books were presented in support of his testimony. The defence lawyer requested the court to take cognizance of Rikhiram’s signature as the manager on the receipt books and on the attendance register of the press. The hearings continued for a long time.
Puri and Kanak were exasperated to observe the legal wrangling and to see how lawyers, by legal hair-splitting, could make the dispensation of justice such a long and vexatious process. The law could be interpreted, they found, to suit either the plaintiff or the defendant. If both the parties were resourceful and had the funds, they could afford to hire legal aces who were expert in litigious minutiae. Even if they knew the facts, the litigants were bound by the court’s judgment because it had the legal machinery behind it to enforce the decision.
The court finally delivered its verdict in December 1949. The Kamaal Press was cleared of the responsibility for paying back the loan allegedly taken out by Rikhiram, but Puri was still not free of the annoyance of more court appearances. Rikhiram was now being tried for the criminal offence of fraudulent use of the press letterhead and rubber stamp.
Nayyar advised Puri to stay out of the criminal case. His recommendation was to let the police prosecute Rikhiram, and to avoid getting himself involved so as to not to waste time in what could be a further score of court appearances. The defence lawyer would drag Puri’s name through the mud during the cross-examination. And there would be no profit to the police in sending Rikhiram to jail. If anything, the police could only hope to benefit by receiving something under the table, editing the charge sheet favourably and letting Rikhiram off lightly.
Rikhiram was finally acquitted on the grounds of ‘insufficient evidence’. In the end, Puri had something to show for all his troubles. After the court case was over, Sood had the press officially allotted in his name to avoid any future problems.
THE FEELING OF PANIC AND CONFUSION BEDEVILLING THE EMPLOYEES OF THE
Department of Rehabilitation proved to be unfounded. The government support for the refugee camps was officially withdrawn on 31 March 1948, but the department staff continued to work as before. Although free rations were no longer distributed, refugees continued to occupy some of the camps. The majority of the occupants of the Kingsway Camp had been running various kinds of small businesses for some time. Now those who had been inactive so far also somehow scraped together enough resources to make some kind of a living. Long-time residents of Delhi were now seeing trades and professions never previously practised there. Makeshift shops would be set up even on relatively unfrequented roads. Refugees with handcarts offering to iron clothes on the spot appeared in the alleys. One did not even have to leave the house to pay bills for electricity, telephone or water. The refugees would take the bill, make the payment and bring back the receipt. The charge for being saved the trouble was only two annas. Shoppers now received their purchases in home-made paper bags. Those who had fled from Punjab now objected to the label
sharanarthi
—resourceless. They, instead, wanted to be known as
purusharthi
—resourceful.
At the Department of Rehabilitation the workload had increased rather than lessened. The minister had refused to allow the hiring of additional staff because, in his opinion, two employees less were better than one too many. The department had now been allotted the task of approving small business loans, and of investigating refugee claims for land and property that had been abandoned in what was now Pakistan. Tara had been given the responsibility of checking the claim applications.
She was going through the claims file when one applicant’s name Mohanlal Tandon with father’s name as Motilal Tandon of Sheeshamoti Gali, Lahore, caught her attention. It brought back memories of Sheelo—of their childhood together, of Sheelo’s mischievous and ebullient nature, of friendly quarrels with her and of a cousin who had kept no secrets from Tara. Sheelo’s affair with Ratan and its consequence flashed through Tara’s
mind. The address on the application form was: House No. 1315, Shakti Nagar, Sabzi Mandi, Delhi, and it stated that Mohanlal was now working as a clerk in the Education Division of the Central Secretariat. Tara could find out the exact location of his office and contact him, but she decided to meet Sheelo first.
For office workers forced to sit on hard chairs from ten to five, six days a week, the greatest pleasure on a Sunday is the luxury of stretching out on charpoys for an afternoon siesta. It was the last Sunday of June. Taking this day to be its last opportunity to prove its might, the loo was blowing with all its fury over the roads, the tarmac surface of which had softened in the heat of the sun. The loo also reached into the remote recesses of the bazaars, and into the surrounding mazes of narrow winding lanes and alleys. The shopkeepers, not expecting any customers at this hour in the heat, napped behind hessian curtains lowered over their storefronts. Taxis, tongas and rickshaws were parked in any available shady spot, with their drivers dozing off in wait for the heat and the loo to subside. The only sound to break this lull was the Punjabi-accented cries of purusharthis selling blocks of ice, sherbets and ice cream. Even the loo was unable to wither away their spirit of enterprise.
The force of the loo was felt even more in the new, sparsely built areas of Daryaganj. Mercy had had thick hessian curtains over her windows and in the veranda since the beginning of May, but the air circulated by ceiling fans in her rooms remained hot. Old Chimmo was sleeping in the kitchen after wetting the floor to keep it cool. Mercy had taken up regular work on weekdays from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the clinic of Dr Ayyar. She was in deep sleep. Tara lay on her bed; what came to her was not sleep, but memories of Sheelo.
She forced herself to kill time until four o’clock. Then unable to wait any longer, got up and changed her sari. She went to the kitchen to ask Chimmo to lock the door at the bottom of the stairs behind her. Chimmo asked her not to go out in the heat and the loo, but Tara ignored her advice, and left.
On reaching Shakti Nagar the taxi driver asked Tara where to drop her. The locality was only partially built up. On one side of the main road was a row of newly constructed, two-storeyed houses; shanties and straw-covered huts filled the other side. The rays of the sinking sun lit up the fronts of the houses with dazzling brightness.
Tara gave the address to the driver. The driver checked out the house numbers as he drove slowly. He called out to some children playing with
spinning tops nearby to ask for the house of Mohanlal Tandon from Lahore.
Three children came over, and eagerly pointed to where Mohanlal lived. They led Tara through the veranda and the aangan to the back of the house.
The scene that met her eyes reminded her of Punjab. The shady backyard of the house held several charpoys and chatai mats. Groups of two or three women sat together, each with some piece of work in her hand, and talked in loud voices. Laundry hung on clothes lines. A few feet away was a gathering of men seated on two charpoys facing one another and chatting as they passed around the stem of a hookah. The women sat with their backs to the men in a show of propriety. At the rear of the house were several garages with their doors wide open. Charpoys and other household furnishings piled inside indicated that these also had been turned into living quarters.
Some women raised their heads to look at the visitor.
The children escorting Tara announced, ‘She’s come to visit Bau Mohanlal!’ They showed Tara to one of the rooms, calling out, ‘Ghullu’s mum! Chaachi! Someone’s here to see Ghullu’s mum.’
The door to the room was ajar. Tara went in. A woman lay on a large charpoy, her face covered with her dupatta. She got up on hearing the call. A baby was asleep, draped in cotton netting, beside the woman.
The woman on the charpoy was Sheelo. How much she had changed! Ashen-faced, with dark circles under her eyes and tangles of unkempt hair… but undoubtedly Sheelo. She just stared at Tara with sleep-filled eyes.
‘Sheelo!’ Tara called out, and rushed to her. She held Sheelo tightly in her arms and put her cheek against hers as tears flowed from her eyes.
Sheelo tried to push Tara away so as to be able to look at her face, and stared in disbelief, ‘Tara! You are Tara!’ as if she was unsure of what she was seeing.
Wrapping her arms around Sheelo, Tara buried her tear-stained face in her breast. Sheelo once again lifted Tara’s face as if to confirm the reality of what she had seen, hugged her tightly and wailed, ‘Hai, my cousin! They said you had been burned to death. May those be damned who said you had died! My cousin…’
Sheelo had cried out so loud that the baby woke with a start and burst out crying. Tara freed herself from Sheelo’s embrace, and took the child in her arms, ‘Hai, sadake—may all your misfortunes fall on me! Don’t you cry now.’ Sheelo again put her arms around Tara as if not wanting to let her go.
Hearing Sheelo’s wail, several women came and peered into the room curiously. Guessing that some lost family member had turned up, one said to another, ‘Two separated sister have met. May Rabba bring together also those who haven’t found their loved ones.’
It took Sheelo some time to gather herself. She took Tara’s face in both her hands, and asked, ‘Muree, Where have you been? What happened to you? So you must have got out alive?’
Tara nodded in reply to her last question, and asked, ‘Where’s Mohanji?’
Sheelo said as if she had not heard, ‘Were you in Jalandhar? Where did you come from today?’
‘I’ve been here in Delhi?’
‘Is jijaji also here?’
Tara bowed her head and gestured to indicate that she did not know. To avoid further questions from Sheelo, she began to inquire about Sheelo’s family, and about their journey from Lahore to Delhi.
‘Those who died were the lucky ones! As thousands of us accepted our fates and went wherever God sent us, we did the same and ended up here in Delhi,’ Sheelo said briefly, and repeated her question.
Tara replied, her head bowed, ‘Don’t ask me anymore about all that. Maybe I did die in the fire, or maybe it was all a terrible nightmare. I don’t remember anything except that when I woke up I was in some refugee camp in Delhi. Then I found a job with a rich family here. Now I am in government service.’
Ghullu had moved from Tara’s lap to his mother’s. Tara again took him in her arms to hide the pain arising in her heart. She rubbed his nose with hers, gazed into his eyes, and cooed, ‘Baby mine, don’t you want to come to your aunty!’
Tara’s show of affection won the child over. Sheelo, chin on her knee, was sitting quietly. Then, wiping her tears, she began to reply slowly to Tara’s questions.
‘We were at the DAV College Camp in Lahore, two families crammed in one small room. It was so hot and muggy. Ghullu became sick. You couldn’t get anything at that place. One seer of wheat cost a rupee, so did milk. My husband refused to buy milk, you know how he is. Ratan had refused to speak to me until now, but that did not stop him from looking for me. Your family was at the Dev Samaj Camp. One day he came, looked at Ghullu and asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
‘I began to cry, “He hasn’t had any milk. We are starving and I have no money to buy anything.” He forced me to accept fifty rupees. I gave the money to my husband and said, first of all get some milk for the child. When we went to Ferozepur, he tracked us down there too. Ghullu was having diarrhoea and cramps. I asked and asked my husband to get a doctor, but neither he nor his parents would listen to me. When he came, I was in tears, and begged him to save my baby. He got the chief medical officer to examine Ghullu, and paid the doctor out of his own pocket. That was the beginning of the problem. My husband and his mother began to swear at me and ask what connection he had with me.
‘Then we moved to the refugee camp in Kurukshetra. He used to come there also every couple of weeks to check up on me, and that created more problems. How could I tell him not to come! My father-in-law was offered a job in Simla, my husband got a job in Delhi. Ratan comes here also at least once every month. He lives in some mohalla in Delhi called Karol Bagh…’ Sheelo put her forehead on her knees and started to sob.
Tara made Sheelo swear that she would tell the truth, and asked, ‘Anything else troubling you?’
Seeing his mother sob, Ghullu also began to cry. Tara pressed the child to her heart to soothe him.
Sheelo dried her eyes and called out through the door, ‘Suman! Come here for a second, dear.’
A girl of about nine came running. Sheelo kissed her cheek and said, ‘Look after Ghullu for me. Here’s one anna. Buy some mithai and you both share it.’
Speaking fondly to Ghullu, Suman took him away.
Sheelo broke down and wept, then said, ‘Last month my mother-in-law and her daughter were visiting. Ratan showed up one day when they had gone to the bazaar. He had brought two tins of baby food, a few oranges and pomegranates, and some lengths of cloth. He had brought such stuff before and my husband had not objected, so I accepted the things. My sister-in-law kicked up a great fuss when she found out. She said, “Why is that fellow so concerned about Ghullu? How come Ghullu resembles him so much!” From that day on my husband became suspicious and asks me every day, “Did you have something going with that fellow? Tell me the truth, whose child is Ghullu really?” I said, “If you doubt me, just kill me.” One day he told me, “If you’re a faithful wife, a sati, you’ll stick your hand in the fire
to prove your loyalty.” The next day, “Put your hand on my head and swear that you’ll become a widow if you’re not telling the truth.” What should I do, do tell me. He left in a huff this morning and hasn’t come back yet.’
Sheelo said after both sat quietly for some time, ‘I’m paying for my sins. Sometimes I feel like setting myself and Ghullu on fire so that this suffering might end. I can’t stand this anymore.’ She began to cry again.
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Tara said sternly as she put her hand over Sheelo’s mouth. ‘I’ll take you away with me if he’s so harsh to you. I’ll rent a place just for the two of us.’ She explained to Sheelo her living arrangement with Mercy.
Sheelo’s eyes brimmed with tears, ‘I don’t know. I just wish that I and my baby were both dead, but then I think of Ratan, and of what he might do!’
‘Why don’t you just go and live with him?’
‘Are you mad? How can I! I’ll blacken my name and the family’s name!’ Sheelo slapped her forehead despondently, ‘I’m tied to this no-good man because I too walked around the fire seven times with him. I’ve never said so till now, but I really never desired him. It’s my dharma to live with him because I’m married to him. Since he’s begun to act like this, even his touch feels repulsive. And this good-for-nothing can’t live without me. He fights with me, yells at me, makes me cry, but doesn’t leave me alone. If I push him away, he becomes even more abusive. What can I do now?’ She began to cry again.
Tara sighed deeply, and said, ‘You have to find some way to get out of this mess.’
‘Only my death can put an end to it.’
Tara said, ‘Listen, don’t do anything foolish.’ She wrote down her address and Mercy’s telephone number and gave them to Sheelo, then added her own office telephone number. She asked for Ratan’s address in Karol Bagh. When she offered Sheelo some money, Sheelo refused, ‘If he sees the notes he’ll think that Ratan had come. I’ll be in trouble again.’
Tara said, to reassure her, ‘Achcha, I’ll leave now. I’ll come again next Sunday. Call Ghullu. I’d like to kiss him before I go.’
‘Hai, you mean you’ll leave without eating anything in my place?’
Tara said after a moment’s thought, ‘All right. Let’s get something. What’d you like?’
‘Wah, you think I don’t remember?’ Sheelo said with a smile. ‘You loved
moongra
and
chhole-kulche
from Ramditta’s shop. Remember how we both
used to run and get it from him in the Machchi Hatta bazaar? I’ll ask one of our neighbours’ kids. All those things from Lahore are also available here.’