Tara had reason to be nervous on a couple of occasions. Her brother had high regard for Asad, she knew, but she also felt that he did not like her being too close to him. Puri’s anger and irritation seemed to have grown in the past few days. She had a suspicion as to why, and could not blame her brother. She began to act more cautiously.
Her hunch was right. Puri had not been able to visit Kanak for a month.
He was in two minds: he wanted to meet her because of his feelings for her, but he held back because of his shame at being jobless. He had hidden his tender feelings under his resentment for her indifference and coolness at their last two meetings. In his rage he would remember the rumours about her ‘loose’ behaviour. In that mood of resentment he would think: First she pledges her everlasting love, and then shows such indifference! Maybe something is brewing between her and the brother-in-law! Who can trust such girls?
Puri began to despise any indication of a girl being too forward with men. He could disregard the remarks about Kanak’s spontaneity as the result of her sophisticated upper-class background, or accept it as the effect of her being attracted to his own forceful personality. But for his sister to behave in the same way could tarnish his own and his family’s honour. He did not want to let that happen. Tara began to take pains not to allow even the slightest slip-up.
After the news of Puri losing his job became known, the gali people had commiserated with him and cursed his boss’s unfairness. They would hush up in sympathy whenever he was around. Ratan’s brother Vijay was very fond of singing the
tappas
of Punjabi folk songs. He could learn the tune and the words of a song just by hearing it once, and would often break into song at any moment. Neighbours called him the ‘phonu-graph of the gali’. One morning when Puri was working at home, Vijay began to sing a
tappa
in a loud voice: ‘As she climbs on to the train, the guard blows his whistle meaningfully at her.’
Vijay was in the middle of the refrain when his song was cut short. Puri heard the boy’s mother scold him, ‘Be quiet, you bad boy! You’ve grown so tall, but have learned nothing. Your next-door neighbour has lost his job, and you continue to sing at the top of your voice.’ The boy lowered his voice and hummed his song.
The sympathetic silence for Puri’s problem lasted only a few days, but he could feel that Ratan, Bir Singh, Tikaram and others had drawn away from him. These men huddled on the chabutaras in the mornings and evenings talking in conspiratorial tones, but fell silent when Puri came near. Puri felt awkward, but he knew the reason. These men had joined the Anti-Pakistan League, and were helping to sabotage the efforts being made towards the inclusion of Punjab in Pakistan. After Clement Atlee’s proclamation of 16 February and the resignation of Sir Khizr, the possibility of the formation
of Pakistan had ceased to be a matter of bigger demonstrations, different opinions and discussions on the formation of the next government. It had, instead, become a confrontation between the two communities: the Hindu resistance to the Muslim demand for Pakistan, and the Muslim insistence on creating it. Puri was in favour of Hindu–Muslim unity. How could he be close to these men?
Puri again went to see the publisher for payment for his translation work. Ghaus Mohammad had no money on him, but promised to pay Puri something after three days. He also made another offer to Puri: to compile a history textbook for a lump sum of 500 rupees. Professor Shah of the university had suggested the names of three history books in English. Puri’s job would be to glean information from these books, and rewrite it in Urdu in about 300 pages. The textbook was to carry Professor Shah’s name as the author, and several established writers had refused the offer for that reason. Ghaus Mohammad was going to give Rs 8,000 to Professor Shah, but pay only Rs. 500 to the ghostwriter.
Puri smiled cynically when he heard the offer, ‘Mianji, such black marketeering in the field of learning and education?’
Ghaus Mohammad said without embarrassment, sweetening his words with typical Lahori terms of endearment, ‘
Sohanyo
, this is business. It’s not my idea, but the university professor’s who is blackmailing me. A payment of eight thousand rupees for his name on the book is the price of having it prescribed as a textbook.
Motiyanwalo
, don’t I know that an educated young man like you could write a better book than his. But, yaar, the book would be useless to me if it didn’t become a textbook. I don’t sell knowledge; I sell textbooks. If I don’t cough up the money, Pandit Girdharilal will offer Shah ten thousand. I too have to survive in this business. Badshaho, if you live in a coal mine, why complain when your hands get dirty?’
A chance to earn Rs 500 for two months’ work was no ordinary matter for Puri, but being a ghostwriter seemed like closing the door on his future as an author. Ghaus again said, ‘Well, think about it. Let me be frank, Masood agreed to do the work, but I like your language and style better. I’ll wait for you until Friday. When you come to collect your money, borrow these three books and look them over. For this work, I’ll pay you the moment you hand me the manuscript.’
Puri went to see Ghaus Mohammad on Friday after sunset. The publisher’s office was at his residence in Noora Bhishti’s Gali, inside Mori
Gate, a predominently Muslim area. Even the cloth-sellers and sweet-makers were Muslim. Usually after sunset was the busiest time for shopping, but Puri was surprised to find the bazaar deserted and most shops closed.
Puri heard Ghaus Mohammad’s voice before reaching his office. They saw each other through the open window. Puri raised his hand to his forehead in salaam. Ghaus replied in the same way.
The front door was open. Puri asked, ‘May I come in?’ and went inside. Ghaus silently motioned Puri to sit on a modha, the low stool made of wicker and jute. He was sitting on a bed-like
takht
and speaking angrily to a man sitting beside him on another modha. The man got up as soon as Puri entered. Ghaus bid him farewell rather brusquely.
Puri found Ghaus showing an uncharacteristic reserve and calm in his speech. He did ask people to come back several times before making a payment, but he was always a sweet-talker. He would effusively welcome his visitors with, ‘Come in, sohanyo! Welcome, motiyanwalyo! Good to see you, bhadshaho!’ His kohl-lined eyes, would shine in welcome, over his fair-complexioned face, framed by a fringe of trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. To some he would offer mithai, tea and lassi. He was particularly proud of lassi blended with
pera
sweet, and the vermicelli
faluda
from Fazaldin’s shop in his neighbourhood. He would walk his visitors to the end of the gali, hold their hand in both of his and shake it many times before letting go, bidding them
khuda hafiz
before they left.
Puri sensed from Ghaus’s reaction that he was surprised to see him at this time. But Puri needed his payment, and sat down with the resolve of not leaving unless he got it.
After the other visitor had walked away some distance, Ghaus motioned Puri to come to the modha near him and, scratching his beard, asked in a grave voice, ‘How did you reach here? Didn’t you notice anything in the bazaar?’
Ghaus spat out his habitual swearword, and pointed at Puri’s trousers, ‘This dress is the best! Doesn’t reveal if one is Hindu or Muslim. That’s why no one stopped you. Me, I have this,’ he again uttered the same expletive and grabbed his beard, ‘the divine radiance, the signpost of being a Muslim attached to my face.’
‘Anything the matter?’ said Puri. ‘Many shops were closed.’
Ghaus kept on holding his beard, ‘May Allah forgive their sins! These dimwits murdered a poor man. Near that end of the gali,’ he pointed
towards Mori Gate, ‘a cobbler from somewhere to the east, maybe the United Provinces, used to sit. They killed him. I saw him lying in a pool of blood on his spot on my way back. He was still alive, and moaning. I’ve been feeling sick since then. His body lay there for four hours; the police carted it away just now.’
‘No one took him to the hospital? Puri asked.
‘I’ve had enough of being a Good Samaritan. A good plot for a story for you to write. You were here last on Monday. After that I went with Mian Mohsin to help him on an errand up to Bhati Gate. Right before our eyes, a man slit the stomach of a Sikh villager who must have been unaware of the tension in the city, and melted into the crowd. We took the Sikh on a tonga to the Bhati Gate police station, thinking they would take him to the hospital.
‘The head constable began to interrogate us. He asked us about the cash and other stuff belonging to the Sikh?
‘We were flabbergasted. I said: We brought him here because he was injured. You’re accusing us of a crime!
‘The head constable said: Mister, that’s the seasoned criminal’s ruse to avoid being blamed for a crime. Please remain here. You may go after we’ve conducted an investigation.
‘It was scary, you’ll agree. Anyway, I said to the head constable: Very well, my good man, allow me to make a telephone call. Let me ask Additional Magistrate Bakar Hussain to bail me out.’
Ghaus smiled, ‘Then, mian, the head constable got up from behind his desk. He saluted me and begged my pardon for being rude. He said: Shaikhji, how many can we take to the hospital? The inspector general saheb orders us to do only policing work and not get involved in this mess. If someone needed medical help, he said, they’d reach the hospital by themselves. The job of the police is not to transport corpses. Just stick to your official duties.’
‘Mianji, it’s obvious that the British are making us fight,’ Puri said in agreement.
‘That poor easterner became a victim of the communal hatred. Today around noontime, some goonda threw a firecracker inside Bhishti ki Maseet mosque. No harm was done. You know, Muslims live in Bhishti ki Gali, and around the mosque all the houses belong to Muslims. The rumour spread that Hindus had dropped a bomb from an airplane. That some jinn threw the bomb. The savages murdered the innocent man. He had been sitting
near the entrance of the gali for the last four years. Was that poor bugger denying them their Pakistan? What savagery,
tauba
!’
Puri thought for a moment. He felt shaken, but he still said, ‘Mian, I’m really in need. I’ve come for my payment.’
‘Um,’ said Ghaus holding his beard. ‘The situation is really bad. It’s better that I escort you up to the S.P.S.K. Hall.’
Puri waited in suspense for a few moments. Then he said, ‘So Mianji, I’ll take leave of you.’
‘Yes, let’s go.
Lillah
…’ said Ghaus getting up. He saw disappointment on Puri’s face, and said, ‘I have your money inside here.’ He patted the achkan over his breast pocket, ‘You can have it when we reach a safe place. If some one knifed you on the way, the money would be neither yours nor mine. I won’t stand around to take it out of your pocket.’
Puri felt a shiver of fear, but said nothing and walked out with Ghaus.
When they reached the bridge near the S.P.S.K. Hall outside Mori Gate, Ghaus handed the cash to Puri and said, ‘I won’t go beyond this point, brother. Khuda hafiz.’ He held Puri’s hand in his own, ‘Puri yaar, do that history book for me. I’ll pay fifty rupees more, just for your sake.’
‘Mianji, you know; this is taking unfair advantage of us poor writers.’ Puri expressed his reluctance. ‘You always want us to remain nameless.’
‘Yaar, I’ve thrown in fifty more, just because it’s you. Think of future business between us. I’ll wait a couple of days for you to make up your mind. When it’s quietened down a bit, come and get the English books.’
‘Mianji, don’t mind, but I won’t be able to help you,’ said Puri, and put the cash in his trouser pocket. He did not cut through the Chardewari garden as usual, but went towards Shahalami by Railway Road beside the S.P.S.K. Hall. The flow of motorcars, tongas, bicycles and pedestrians on this road was normal. There was no visible effect of the incident inside Mori Gate. By adding fifty rupees to his original offer, Ghaus had put Puri in a terrible dilemma: whether to maintain his self-respect and dignity as a writer, or live with the stigma of unemployment and the need for money to help his family. He was intensely aware of his own vulnerability. But yielding to those who took advantage of the circumstances of people like Masood Khan and himself would have meant harming and sabotaging his future. And if somebody can make him do something to his own detriment, he can also easily be persuaded to sell his conscience to the detriment of society or country. He suddenly recalled what constable Waheed was doing that
day at the demonstration in Anarkali! What, for that matter, does Kashish do in the name of the Congress? The person behind today’s bomb incident at the mosque too would have been someone similar, he thought. And why do Indians work in the police forces of the British Raj, for the sake of money! Let Ghaus wait, I won’t destroy my future by being a ghostwriter.
The crowd had thinned in the bazaar. As Puri stepped into his gali, he saw three men running to enter it from the other end. He made out in the light of the street lamp that they had wrapped pugrees around their heads so as to hide their faces. Puri recognized them. Mewa Ram, Bir Singh and Ratan went into their houses. They too had seen Puri. Puri was surprised and alarmed, but he chose to say nothing. Ratan had a pistol in his hand, the other two had daggers.
His mother asked as he came up, ‘What happened? There were loud explosions in the bazaar.’
Puri thought for a moment before replying, ‘I didn’t see anything in Machchi Hatta bazaar.’
Usha said, ‘The noise came from the Mochi Gate side, mother. There was some screaming too.’
Puri went to the window. He heard the noise of people screaming in the distance, somewhere behind Ghasita Ram’s house. He took off his shirt and trousers, tied on a lungi, and was about to sit down in his undervest for his meal in the kitchen when he heard Ratan call, ‘Puri bhaiji!’
Puri went to the stairs and asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Bhaiji, I kept my promise. I avenged Dauloo mama’s murder.’ Ratan seemed rather agitated.