‘What’s wrong?’ She asked earnestly, ‘Keep it. For my sake.’
Puri said in a serious voice, ‘It’s true that you know about my difficulty. I’m in need too, but I’ll feel worse if I take this. It’ll amount to my admitting my defeat. In fact, I’m not so hard up now. It’s the shame of being unemployed that’s most hurtful.’
‘I didn’t need the cash.’
‘You’re throwing away what you don’t need. You want me to pick it up because I’m broke?’
Kanak said, with hurt and disappointment, ‘Why do you say such things?’
‘Don’t insult my self-respect.’ Puri said in English.
The waiter returned. Puri left four annas for him as a tip, and pushed the rest of the money towards Kanak.
She felt wounded as she put the money back in her purse.
They came out of the restaurant. Puri hailed a tonga for Kanak to return to her home, and walked towards the party office.
As the tonga went towards Gwal Mandi, Kanak was happy to have been close to Puri after such a long time, but she also felt troubled by another thought, ‘Why did he refuse to accept help from me? If I can belong to him,
then why can’t what I have belong to him? Just because I’m a woman? Don’t I have the right to help him and share his troubles? He’ll have to accept my help. If he doesn’t, I’ll split my head open on the floor in protest in front of him. Won’t we both earn money together after our marriage? Will he then see any difference between what’s his and what’s mine?’
When she reached home, Muttu Baba was teaching sitar to Kanchan. He came twice a week. When Kanchan had her lessons, Panditji would have the door connecting the living room with his office closed to shut out the sound. Kanak climbed the steps straight to her room, lay down on the bed without changing her clothes, and using her right arm to pillow her head, closed her eyes and placed her left arm over her forehead. Her thoughts kept on returning to Puri’s refusal to accept her help. The sitar playing downstairs had reached a crescendo, drowning out all other sounds. Her surging thoughts so much merged with the music that she was oblivious when the playing ended.
‘Kanni!’ Kanchan called her, sitting on the bed. She was three years younger than Kanak, but had called her ‘Kanni’ since her childhood.
‘Yes?’ Kanak replied, jolted out of her reverie.
‘Did you borrow any money from Zubeida?’ Kanchan asked.
Kanak thought for a moment before replying, ‘Why, what happened?’
‘When you were out in the afternoon, Zubeida and Surendra came looking for you. When I said you’d gone out, they asked if you had gone to the meeting at the Communist Party office. They had come to take you along. As they were going back, Pitaji sent Vidhichand after them. Pitaji told them that you had gone to Zubeida’s house, and asked if Zubeida hadn’t seen you heading that way.
‘Zubeida said that she was at Surendra’s house.
‘Pitaji told Zubeida that you’d gone to return the money that you’d borrowed from her. Maybe you missed Zubeida on the way. So he wanted to return Zubeida seventy rupees because she might need the money?
‘Zubeida was surprised. She told him that you didn’t owe her anything. Pitaji wanted to give her back the money, but she refused to accept it.’
Kanak took a deep breath and said nothing. She was thinking: Why did Zubeida have to show up here today of all days? What would she do now? Pandit forgave everything but a lie. What would she tell him?
‘Did you ask her not to tell Pitaji?’ Kanchan asked.
When Kanak gave no answer, Kanchan got up and went out. Half an
hour later Jaggi the boy servant came to tell her, ‘Tea is served. Pitaji is waiting for you.’
Kanak knew that the hour of judgement had struck. To ward off the moment, she picked up a book from the bedside table and said, ‘Tell Kanchi to make tea for Pitaji. I’m busy reading.’
She knew that she would have to face her father again at 8 o’clock at the dinner table. She went down at 7.45 and said to her mother, ‘Mom, I didn’t have any tea. I’m hungry. Give me my dinner.’
She had a sinking feeling at the thought of having to explain her lie to her father. She was trying to postpone the moment of truth, but knew that that time would come sooner or later. Panditji sent for her again at nine. She had to go. Panditji was waiting in the stuffy, hot office so as to be able to speak to her in private. He asked her to sit on the chair to his right, and said, ‘Kanchi must have told you that Zubeida came here. I wanted to pay her back, but she refused.’
Kanak had brought the money with her. She put it before him and sat looking down.
‘It’s not about the money, beta, you keep it. I just wanted to know why you needed it?’
Kanak said nothing.
Panditji said without reproach or anger, ‘Beta, if you needed money, you should have simply said so. You’ve never done such a thing before.’
Kanak sat on in silence.
Panditji said again in the same calm tone, ‘Beta, you know that you could have said: “I need some money, but I can’t say why.” I wouldn’t have minded that, but I did mind being lied to. All I have is yours. You had to hide something from me. That’s really sad.’
Kanak hid her face in her aanchal, but the shaking of her shoulders showed that she was sobbing.
Panditji said with a note of sadness in his voice, ‘Beta, you’re obviously not yourself at this moment. Go and rest. Come and talk to me tomorrow, or whenever you feel better. I’m not angry, beta; I’m only sad.’
Kanak went to her room and threw herself on the bed, weeping uncontrollably. She had not imagined she would be found out by her father so soon.
It took her an hour to compose herself. She went downstairs again. Panditji slept alone in a room next to his office. He was reading by the light
of a bedside lamp, and a table fan hummed in a corner. He did not hear Kanak come in. She moved a chair to show that she was there.
He looked at her and said, ‘Come, beta.’ and moved aside to let her sit on the bed.
Kanak’s spoke in a voice heavy with tears. She kept her eyes on her fingers, fiddling with the border of her sari, ‘I met Puriji’s sister Tara. She’s going to sit for her BA finals. Their family’s finances are in a really bad shape. He has lost his job at
Pairokaar
.’
‘Yes, I heard about that too,’ he said. ‘Kashish is a mean fellow. Dr Radhey Behari is no better; very unscrupulous. Oh, I see, Puri’s sister needed the money. You should’ve given it to her. I’d have been happy.’
‘They wouldn’t accept the money,’ Kanak said looking at the border of her sari.
‘Who … his sister?’ Panditji asked after a moment’s pause.
‘No, Puriji.’
‘You wanted to give it to Jaidev?’
Kanak nodded her head silently.
Panditji thought quietly holding his chin, then spoke in a tone of concern, ‘You didn’t say anything to me about helping Jaidev. He’s a decent intelligent fellow. He’s tutored you all this time. We’re obliged to him; in a way we’re indebted to him for his help. He never said a word to me.’
Kanak felt a little bolder. She said, ‘It’s a question of self-respect for him. He’d never ask anybody for help.’
Panditji sat thinking.
Kanak said after a moment’s silence, still looking at the fringe of her sari, ‘Pitaji, ask him to come and talk to you.’
Panditji replied with a thoughtful ‘um’. He said, ‘Achcha, beta, now go to bed.’
Kanak climbed the stairs back to her room with more confident steps. She had handled the situation cleverly, she thought. She fell asleep as soon as she lay down. The day’s events had exhausted her mind and body.
Panditji had easily seen through the web of lies his daughter had so cleverly woven in her youthful naïvety. Why did she have to do all this behind my back? he wondered. Kanak had not called Puri bhaiji as she had done in the past. Panditji had always had to be a little more careful with his ‘extra smart’ daughter. She had shown a lot of promise, but was also emotionally
fragile. Three years ago she had been willing to give up everything for a lecturer at the Christian College. He was married, and Kanak found out in time that he was leading her on.
Puri was satisfied with the result of the meeting held on Tuesday at the office of the Communist Party. On the very next day, the Railway Workers Union and the Student Federation jointly launched the Militant Peace Movement, led by Comrade Ibrahim to restore civic peace. Their processions were far bigger than those organized by the Muslim League and the Anti-Pakistan League. The dust raised by these processions hovered like a cloud over the column. Their slogans were: ‘Congress–League–Akalis unite! Hindus–Sikhs–Muslims are brothers! Death to sectarianism! Down with imperialism!’ These slogans were shouted with such force that those who heard them were both warned to keep the peace, and cautioned against breaking it. The Union formed peace patrols with the help of residents of various districts in the city, and it seemed for a while that civic peace might return once more.
Puri had thrown himself heart and soul into the compilation of the history textbook for Ghaus Mohammad. He slept on the roof at night because of the hot weather. He would begin work in the morning as soon as there was enough light to read. Summarizing the information from the three books recommended by Professor Shah and rewriting this in Urdu was not an easy task. In his first session, from six to eleven in the morning, he read the original in English, and then rewrote it in Urdu. At the most, he was able to write only five or six pages of his manuscript in one sitting.
Tara could help him in this work as history was one of her subjects in the BA, but she did not know any Urdu. The movement for civic peace that Puri had helped to start was growing, but he could not give as much time to the movement as before. Some days he would try to write three or four pages more in the afternoon. His heart’s desire was to get those 550 rupees from Adayara Munavvar, and thus, prove his right to be heard by his father and his uncle.
If he continues to get work like this, he thought, why bother to find another job? ‘The publisher will make a profit of 20,000 rupees, he will also spend 10,000 rupees to buy someone’s name as the author of the book, but he will pay me only 500. However, cash is cash.’ He would let them
exploit him for the moment, if that resulted in his survival. If he could put an end to his exploitation by making compromises sooner or later, he was ready for that too.
The city was mostly quiet. Puri was giving all his time and attention to his work, but Tara’s desperation and anguish knew no bounds. Masterji and Bhagwanti often talked about the selling of their part of the house in Naroval village to Babu Ramjwaya, in order to meet the expenses of the wedding. They talked about buying clothes and jewellery for Tara. Bhagwanti went to her sister-in-law’s to consult her, and Sheelo’s mother herself came to see how things were going.
To begin the preparations for the wedding, Bhagwanti bought silk materials and lace borders for two sets of bridal shalwar-kameez. Meladei, Pushpa, Rampyari and Jeeva sat with Tara’s mother to decide on the style and fashion of the clothes. They talked among themselves so that Tara could hear, ‘Who can cut and sew better than Tara? What could be better than her designing the clothes according to her own taste? Nowadays, many girls help make their own trousseau. There’s no shame in that.’
To Tara, the bridal dress being prepared for her had all the appearance of a shroud for a corpse. When everything was made ready, they would swathe her body in that shroud and hand it over to that goonda—her bridegroom. Her brother just stood by in silence. With teeth clenched, she said to herself: ‘No, I’ll never let that happen. I’ll run away from home. As it is, they’re pushing me out. Asad had asked: Would I be able to cross this gulf between our faiths, communities and families? I did say to him that I would, if only he held my hand. I’ll tell him that the time has come to give me that support. We’ll go somewhere together, anywhere.’
In his anxiety to finish the textbook as soon as possible, Puri seldom went out. Tara was on tenterhooks all week, waiting for her brother to go to a demonstration or to some meeting. She wanted to go along too, to try to find Asad to talk to him and decide what she should do.
It was past eleven in the morning. Puri sat and worked on his history book in the shade of the barsati on the roof. Usha came up to tell him that Vidhichand from Naya Hind Publications had come for him. On his way downstairs, Puri put on a shirt which he took from the rope slung across one side of the room that held their clothes, and with the fountain pen in his hand to show that he was working, went down to the gali.
Vidhichand said that Panditji Girdharilal has sent a message that he would
like to speak to Puri about the collection of his short stories. Vidhichand had met Puri before, he added by way of emphasis, ‘Panditji had asked me to call you the day before yesterday, but I couldn’t come till now. Come over to his office today, if you can.’
‘Bhai, I’m really busy, can’t say about today.’ Puri said, scratching his head with his pen. ‘That manuscript for Adayara Munavvar is due soon. If I’m in your neighbourhood in the evening, I might stop by.’
When he went back upstairs, Puri said to Usha, ‘Ushi, launder a shirt and trousers for me.’ He told Tara, ‘When they’re dry, just iron them at the neighbour’s or at Pushpa’s.’
‘Ushi, do it now,’ Tara said quickly. ‘I’ll iron them nicely. Bhai, I’ll come with you. Kanak had come here to see me and I should return the visit. I haven’t seen Surendra for such a long time. She must be annoyed with me!’ There was a chance of meeting Asad at Surendra’s. ‘Everyone but me seems to be going around. I’ve been stuck here for the past month. The farthest I go is across the gali. I need to stretch my legs too.’
‘All right.’ Puri agreed, and then realized that it might not be such a good idea to let Tara visit Kanak. Her contact with Kanak’s family would just reveal more of his own desperate circumstances. And what if Tara talked about being married against her will? What impression would that leave? He said after some thought, ‘I won’t stay for more than five minutes at Panditji’s. I also want to go to the party office. I’ve to go out again tomorrow or the day after. You can go to Surendra’s then.’