Tara felt excited at the mention of the party office. She said, ‘Bhaiji, that’s even better. I’ll go the party office with you. Zubeida is sure to be there.’
‘No, what would you do in that crowd?’ Puri ended the discussion.
Tara felt as if a rock had fallen on her heart. But she could not object; she was only a female. She sighed with despair and thought, let’s wait till tomorrow. I’ll ask Surendra to take me to the party office.
Puri had been called by Pandit Girdharilal, so he went in through the office door. Panditji welcomed him heartily. He asked after him and complained that he showed up like the Id moon—only once in a long time. He said, ‘Kashish and Dr Radhey Behari are both self-serving opportunists. No wonder a decent, upright young man like yourself couldn’t get along with them.’ He took off his glasses, put them down carefully, and said rubbing his chin, ‘Yes, now, about your story collection—bhai Vidhichand,’ he looked at his assistant, ‘get me the manuscript of Puriji’s short stories.’
He again looked at Puri, ‘These are fine stories, of very high calibre. The test of the skill of a writer, in fact, is in the short story. The shorter the better, but, barkhurdar, there’s no market for short stories. The product might be very good, but what use is it when it won’t sell.’
‘Of course,’ Puri acknowledged solemnly.
‘The market for short stories,’ Panditji said, still stroking his chin, ‘has been spoiled by the magazines. I mean, they can give the reader ten or twelve short stories at a price of five or six annas. Their profits and costs are covered by the advertisements. If we publish those stories, we’ll have to price them at one or one-and-a-half rupees. Who’ll buy from us? It’s bad, very bad.
‘The professional writer suffers. The amateurs are happy to get their work published free in the magazines. A magazine editor can employ one or two persons to translate from English. A few good stories from literary writers like yourself at twenty or twenty-five rupees each, and he has a story collection for only two hundred to two hundred fifty rupees a month. It’s a great injustice to writers. I’ve been down that road. It’s very sad.’
Did he call me to give this lecture? Puri thought. He had sensed that Kanak was in the living room. He waited for Panditji to finish so he could speak with her.
Puri agreed with Panditji, hoping to end the talk, ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Kanak could not hold back. She stood in the connecting door, said ‘namaste’ to Puri, and called, ‘Come to the living room before you leave.’
‘Who’s that? Kanni!’ asked Panditji. Running his hand over his close-cropped hair, he said, ‘The market is for textbooks at present. People have no taste for literature any more. Who can blame them? Where can anybody find money for books when they have difficulty just meeting their daily needs? A novel, however, has more sales potential. Mister Puri, suggest the name of a good novel. Not necessarily from English literature, that context is too foreign. Our readers can’t absorb it easily. Either from Hindi, or even better a Hindi translation of a Bengali novel, but some quality work. Let me think, what was the name? Kanchi had sent for it on your advice. She read aloud some passages to me too. That was very good.’
‘
A House Built upon Sand
,’ Puri reminded him.
‘Yes, of course,
A House Built upon Sand
,’ Panditji said with a smile. ‘The title is full of meaning, isn’t it? Kanchi read out parts of it to me. But, tell me, is the rest of it as interesting?’
‘Very engrossing,’ Puri assured him. ‘And purposeful. Schocken is considered to be one of Austria’s finest writers. The translation into Hindi has also been very successful.’
‘Oh, is that so? It’s a translation. Bhai Vidhichand, ask Kanchi to get us that novel,’ he asked Puri again, ‘
A House Built upon Sand
, right? Yes, ask her for that novel. Barkhurdar, will you be able to find the time to translate it?’
‘I’m working on something for Adayara Munavvar at present,’ Puri replied, ‘A textbook.’
‘That’s good, that’s fine,’ Panditji said. ‘On what subject?’
‘History,’ Puri said. ‘It’s time-consuming work. Professor Shah of the university is a member of the textbook committee and he’s the one behind it. His name will appear as the author.’
‘That’s bad,’ Panditji commiserated. ‘He’ll ask the publisher for at least five or six thousand rupees; you won’t get more than four or five hundred. That’s the practice, they all do the same thing.’
‘Yes,’ Puri had to accept the embarrassing fact. ‘I had no option.’
‘Such work is indeed time-consuming. Not less than three or four months’ labour, if it’s done properly. That’s cruel! But what alternative does the publisher have? Otherwise it won’t become a prescribed textbook. I’ll keep in mind that you can do such work. That’s good.’ He turned towards Vidhichand, ‘Yes, how many pages in the book?’ He handed the book to Vidhichand.
‘Three hundred sixty-eight,’ Vidhichand said after checking.
‘Three hundred and sixty-eight,’ Panditji repeated the figure in English. He thought for a while, then asked, ‘Well, Mr Puri, tell me, what’s the current rate of good translation work from Hindi into Urdu?’
He had charged Adayara Munavvar, Puri recalled, eight annas per page for translating the English novel into Urdu. He pretended to try to remember the correct figure, then to do justice to the dignity of writers and translators, said, ‘One rupee per page, I’d say. It can be done for less, but you asked about the rate for really good translation. A well-known translator might ask for even more.’
‘How about twelve annas a page?’
‘Twelve annas is decent too. Quite appropriate, actually. Depends on the person doing the work.’
‘No, no, barkhurdar, it’s you who has to do it. Why should I have to ask anyone else? That’s why I chose something recommended by you, so that you might have some interest in the work.’
‘I’ll obey your order to do the work, but there’s no question of payment to me.’
‘No, no. That’s not proper. No work without payment. There should be a suitable reward for your time and effort. Bhai Vidhichand, how much would three hundred and sixty-eight pages come to, at twelve annas per page?’
Vidhichand said after calculating with pencil on paper, ‘Two hundred seventy-six rupees, sir.’
Puri had time to think. He said, ‘Panditji, I think I’ll finish this work first. I’ll be able to devote all my time to the history book afterwards.’
‘Barkhurdar, whichever way you prefer,’ Panditji said. He took the book from Vidhichand and placed it before Puri, ‘I could give you a cheque, but that would mean the hassle of cashing it. Vidhichand bhai, give Puriji one hundred rupees, and get him to sign a receipt for an advance.’
Panditji’s smile almost caused his eyes to disappear in the folds of his cheeks. Through half-shut eyes he looked at Puri, ‘I hope you don’t mind. It’s only for accounts. The income tax people want every little detail. What can I tell you?’
Puri was at a loss for words, with the emotions surging in his heart. He managed to get out, ‘Panditji, what’s the hurry with payment? Leave it for now. We can settle up later.’
‘Arrey, barkhurdar,’ Panditji said in a laughing voice, ‘I do know you don’t care for money. You’re a real jewel. But, business is business.’
Puri signed the slip of paper shyly without looking at it, took ten notes of ten rupees each from the hand of Panditji, and stuffed the money in his trouser pocket without counting it.
‘Do count the money,’ Panditji said.
‘It’s all right,’ Puri said smiling. ‘It’s just my reward for following your order.’
‘Oh, you’re a fine fellow. You’re a gem,’ Panditji said.
Puri found the words to say, ‘I’ll just say hello to Kanakji.’
‘Yes, sure, why not? The sisters must be waiting for you. You came here after such a long absence.’ Panditji waved in the direction of the living room.
Puri stepped into the living room and saw that Kanak’s eyes and face lit up with joy. His face too brightened at the sight of her. She was sitting at the corner of a sofa. Puri took the chair next to it.
She pretended to sulk, ‘I don’t want to talk to you. You didn’t come
because of me, but because Pitaji sent for you. It would be all the same for you if I died.’
Kanchan came in, ‘Oho, Puri bhaiji’s come after such a long time.’
Kanak asked her to bring tea.
Puri’s spirits were high because of the money in his pocket. But he wondered if Panditji had shown kindness to him at the urging of Kanak, or if he had paid Puri off for the obligation of tutoring Kanak all those months without accepting money. He asked Kanak, ‘Did you say anything to your father about translation work?’
‘We didn’t talk about it,’ Kanak said sincerely.
Puri was satisfied that the work had been given to him not as an act of kindness, but in recognition of his talent.
‘What were you talking about for so long? I’ve been waiting here forever.’ Kanak complained.
Panditji came in before Puri could answer, ‘Is someone getting tea for Puri?’
Kanak said, ‘Kanchi has gone for it.’
Panditji sat next to Kanak on the sofa and talked about the situation in Lahore and Punjab. The city had been quiet for over a week, but he was not hopeful for peace. The probability of a Congress–League–Akali coalition in Punjab had evaporated with one word from Jinnah Saheb. His decision was that the Congress must give half the positions in the national government to the Muslim League, and share the other half with the rest of the non-Muslim parties. Otherwise, the Muslim League might form a coalition with the Akalis, but not with the Congress in Punjab.
Panditji’s view was, ‘The League would make absurd demands. Attlee has encouraged them by declaring that Britain will only accept a plan that has the support of the League. If you believe in democracy, the question doesn’t arise as to what the League or the Congress wants. Go along with whoever is in the majority…’
Puri agreed with Panditji’s views. In his presence, Puri and Kanak had no chance to talk about themselves. Puri could not sit forever. He got ready to leave.
Kanak said, ‘Wait a minute.’ She turned to her father and said, ‘Pitaji, I’ll go up to Shahalami with Puriji. I have some things to discuss with Sarla Sharma.’
‘Achcha, beta,’ Panditji had to agree. ‘Be back soon.’
Kanak changed her clothes quickly and went out with Puri. As they both reached the bazaar, she asked, ‘What did you two talk about? Tell me.’
‘Nothing special. Just about some translation work.’
‘Oh, as if I couldn’t hear,’ Kanak flashed her eyes at him.
‘What did you hear?’
‘You’re a fine fellow. You’re a jewel,’ She glanced at him sideways.
‘He said it just like that,’ Puri said modestly.
‘Why just like that! I’m sure he meant it. He praises you behind your back too.’
‘Praises me for what? In what connection?’ Puri was curious.
But Kanak would not tell him. They had reached the bazaar of Gwal Mandi. She said, ‘I’ll tell you. Let’s go for a walk. We can talk as we walk along.’
The sun was dipping behind the wide expanse of the city, its rays catching only the tops of the tall buildings. The breeze was pleasant. Many people were going for a stroll on Nisbet Road towards Mall Road and Lawrence Garden. Puri and Kanak turned on to Nisbet Road.
Kanak guardedly related the story of her asking Panditji for money to return to Zubeida, and of Zubeida’s showing up at her house in her absence. She said, ‘I was in a fix. I had to confess to him, but Pitaji had only good words and praise for you.’
Puri’s shoulders sagged a little, ‘I didn’t want a handout. To feel pity is one thing, to feel respect is another. You can’t respect the one you pity. I have good chances of getting more translation work. I wanted to solve my problem and be worthy of you in his eyes, without telling him about my problem.’
Kanak said sincerely, ‘You don’t know my father. For him, a man’s measure is his talent, not his money. He has always told us, “Depend on your skills and capabilities, not on your family or riches. Your fortune may melt away if you have no skills. If you have talent, you can build a palace of gold.”’ She smiled meaningfully, ‘He will leave everything to his daughters. He thinks you’re clever, calls you a jewel, he seems satisfied that he’s found what he was looking for.’
Kanak wanted to make up for her gaffe. She wanted to remove every trace of humiliation from his mind because of her action. They walked and talked for a long time, but still so much remained. From Nisbet Road they went to Mall Road, then through Lawrence Garden to Kashmir Valley.
Kanak did everything to reassure him, so that Puri wouldn’t continue to feel slighted.
Puri’s hurt pride was gradually soothed. His imagination took off. What Kanak had said was, after all, not implausible. He might some day have to manage the publication and Naya Hind Press of Pandit Girdharilal. His own writings would add to the worth of the business. Why not a magazine or a newsweekly? To be in control of a newspaper would give him so much power. That’d be the time to confront Kashish and Dr Radhey Behari. If Panditji wanted to test and evaluate a person before handing out such responsibility, that was his prerogative.
Their conversation ran on and on, with each confiding more and more in the other. Kanak thought of the time. Puri looked at his watch. It was nearly eight. Kanak was uneasy. It was late. Kanta and her brother-in-law might be visiting, she remembered. Then she saw the passage shaded with grape vines in Kashmir Valley. She led the way to it. Away from the light, she took Puri’s hands into hers and asked, ‘No more anger, I hope.’
‘No. It’s not anger. Maybe you understand the whole situation better than I.’
Kanak came closer and stood with their bodies touching, ‘Tell me the truth.’
Puri took her in his arms, and in reply kissed the lips she offered.
They walked with brisk steps, holding hands, towards the exit of the garden and the tonga stand. Puri said, ‘What might people think seeing us together?’
‘The right thing,’ was Kanak’s answer.
JAIDEV PURI KNEW THAT THE TRANSLATION OF
A HOUSE BUILT UPON SAND
WOULD
be simpler and less demanding than the compilation of the history textbook. In the morning, with a fresh mind, he worked first on the textbook. In the afternoon he read a few pages of the novel. As a writer himself, he realized that to rewrite the well-crafted story in another language and style would be a real challenge. This he found very agreeable. After translating four pages of the novel in two hours, he thought of a new approach. Instead of reading a paragraph from the original and rewriting it in Urdu, it would be easier to write it straight into Urdu if someone read the Hindi version aloud to him. It would just be a matter of changing the script and a few words, since Hindi and Urdu shared the same grammar and syntax.
It was stiflingly hot in the room. Puri was working in one corner of the veranda, and in another Tara lay stretched out on a mat studying for her exam.
‘Tara!’ Puri called. ‘I’m thirsty. Bring me some water.’
Tara brought him a glass of water. She looked troubled and depressed as she now did most of the time. As she went back after handing him the glass, Puri said, ‘Studies going well?’
‘I’m coping as well as I can,’ she answered, wiping her wet hands on the dupatta around her shoulders.
Puri drained the glass. He said, ‘I’ve an idea. You’ve been reading your textbook for quite some time. If you think you’ve had enough for a while, why don’t you read this novel in Hindi aloud and I’ll rewrite it in Urdu? The sooner it’s finished, the sooner I’ll get paid.’
Tara agreed. She had not read the novel, so she read through the first four pages, which caught her interest. She began to read aloud to Puri. She became so engrossed in it that she began to read faster than Puri could write. Until now, she had not had much time to read novels.
Tara read aloud to Puri till 7 o’clock in the evening, and with her help he was able to translate nine pages in three hours. He felt so encouraged that he could not stop himself from sharing his excitement with Tara. This was their secret, and he wanted it to remain between them. He spoke to
her quietly in English, ‘It took some of your time, but I’ve managed to do work worth seven rupees in this short period. I’ve already accepted one hundred rupees in advance for this work. I spent five hours on the history textbook in the morning, and completed four pages of that too, which is worth another six or seven rupees. I want to be through with this by the first week of July. All in all, about seven or eight hundred rupees. Once I’ve established my contacts and more work begins to come my way, I’ll be able to face up to tayaji. I can’t do that now. I know how you feel at being forced to marry a man like Somraj. This is sheer injustice. I can see what’s going on, but how can I say anything now?’
Tara stared at the floor as he spoke. She wanted to ask him: What’s the good of speaking out and why would anyone listen when it’s too late? Why not say it now? She also thought: He knows it’s not fair to me. If he can’t tell the family, he can help me in some other way. With my brother willing to help, everything is possible. She told herself: He’ll solve his own problems in the end, but then Kanak’s people are liberal-minded, and not so orthodox in their outlook.
For the next three days Puri worked on the textbook in the morning, and at the translation in the afternoon. On the evening of 30 April, a messenger came from the Communist Party office, with a letter for him from Comrade Manzoor. It was a request for him to speak on communal harmony and goodwill at the May Day rally the next evening.
Tara went to the rally with her brother. Asad too was present. This was their first meeting in a month, but what could she tell him in the midst of so many people and with her brother nearby. There were only five other girls and all of them were asked to sit on the dais behind the chairman of the rally. Surendra had not been able to attend.
Tara’s chance came when Puri got up to speak. Asad came up behind where she sat. His eyes held many questions.
‘I can’t say anything now,’ she said to him in a hurried whisper.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s a matter of life and death!’
‘How do we meet?’ Asad asked.
‘I can come to Surendra’s.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. I’ll try next week.’
Puri was a good speaker, and always spoke brilliantly on the issue of
civic peace. Asad, Manzoor, Narendra Singh and others too congratulated him on his speech.
Tara asked Narendra Singh, ‘Bhaiji, couldn’t Surendra come?’
‘She has fever again,’ Singh replied. ‘It’s malaria. She won’t take quinine, so what can anyone do?’
Tara spoke rather loudly so that her brother could hear, ‘Tell her that I’ll come to see her for sure in the next couple of days. First I couldn’t go out because of the unrest, and also I barely get time away from my studies.’
On 5 May, Tara said to her brother as she began to read aloud to him, ‘Bhaiji, I’ve given my word that I’d go and visit Surendra today. Are you going in that direction around 5 o’clock, or should I go by myself?’
Puri said, ‘Help me finish twelve pages by five o’clock, and I’ll get through a hundred pages of the translation. After that I’ll go with you, or you can go on alone.’
They managed to finish by five. Puri said, ‘Everything seems normal up towards Gwal Mandi. You go to Surendra’s. I’ll go and show what I’ve done on the history book to Ghaus Mohammad. I want to be sure that he’s satisfied; he might want to have the manuscript checked by someone else.’
Tara got what she wanted. She said to her mother, so that she would not object, that her brother knew that she was going alone to Surendra’s for an hour or so.
Puri left. Tara had begun to put a waist cord in a laundered shalwar, when she heard Usha’s excited voice, ‘Ma! Tara! Sheelo bahin is here. She’s brought her baby too. Hai, he’s so cute, rosy just like a doll. Has lovely round, blue eyes.’
Usha called her sister, who was four years her senior, ‘Tara’ like everyone else. Sheelo was three months younger than Tara, but Usha had begun to call her Sheelo bahin or bahinji out of respect to her married status.
Tara flinched; the shalwar fell from her hands. A sinking feeling washed over her. Sheelo had come to her house for the first time with her son. She could not leave now. She had to jump up and show her delight by holding the baby to her breast and kissing him over and over.
In the month of March, when the rioting was at its peak, a son had been born to Sheelo. Masterji, Bhagwanti and Tara had gone to visit and congratulate her in-laws. It was not safe to take the usual route through the bazaars, and they had to pass through Hindu areas to reach the house
of Sheelo’s in-laws in Sheesha Moti. Forty days after the baby’s birth, Babu Ramjwaya’s daughter was allowed to go to her parents’ house. Everyone from Tara’s family had gone to visit her there too. At that time, as she held the baby, Tara had said to Sheelo, ‘Hai, he’s really pretty, much more than you.’
Making sure that no one was around, Sheelo had replied. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? Just think of the seed that produced this fruit. I’ll come to your house and show Ratan his son. I’ll see how he can ignore me then.’
The gali women began to gather at Bhagwanti’s house as the news of Sheelo and her son’s visit spread. Sheelo’s body had filled out. Everyone noticed the glow on her face and the sparkle in her eyes. Her old clothes had taken on a nice, snug fit, but there was hardly any difference in her waistline. Kartaro said teasingly, ‘Your body always blooms after the first birth. Wait till you have more.’
Tara dropped her gaze to show her embarrassment. Bhagwanti swore at Kartaro, ‘Aren’t you ashamed to talk like that when there are unmarried girls present. Think of your own daughter.’
Kartaro did not shut up. She nodded towards Tara, ‘Her time has come too. How long now, three months if not two.’
Bhagwati said angrily, ‘Phitemunh! Shut up!’ Kartaro laughed even louder.
After the women left, Sheelo said to her aunt with a grim face, ‘Chachi, there is something else. When my husband came to see me yesterday from Sheesha Moti, he was very upset. He had run into Somraj somewhere in the bazaar. They both were classmates, you know. Somraj said to him: I heard that your sister-in-law tells everyone that she doesn’t like me. Tell me if that’s true. If it is, tell her to forget about marrying me. But before that, I’ll take her by her braid and teach her a lesson right here in the bazaar. I know how to handle the likes of her, these college students.’ Sheelo gave Tara a worried look, ‘Did you go to some kind of meeting at Mori Gate? Somraj probably saw you there somewhere.’
Bhagwanti cringed when she heard this, then broke into a litany of curses, ‘These gossip-mongers, these bachchepitte,
randichadne
, may they be without sons for seven generations. My daughter never uttered a word. She’s so quiet that you’d think she had no tongue in her head.’ She said to Sheelo, ‘Daughter, you tell your husband to make sure that Somraj knows the truth. There are mean people in this gali, who can’t bear to see anyone
happy. God save us from such neighbours. May they burn in hell for seven generations! When your husband comes again, call me; or maybe I better go with you to Sheesha Moti to see him.’
Tara sat with bated breath, pretending not to hear. She was not supposed to have a say in this matter. Her mother turned to her and said, ‘Stay home from now on. And don’t dare take a step out of the gali.’
Pushpa called to Tara from her window, ‘Bring your cousin over. She and I are in the same boat. We’ll chat for a while. You come too.’ A daughter had been born to her at the end of February, just a few days before Sheelo gave birth. The two of them had become pals. Pushpa sent her servant to the bazaar for some mithai as a treat for Sheelo.
Seeing Tara silent at Pushpa’s house, Sheelo said to her, ‘Arrey, why such a long face?’ She told Pushpa about Somraj’s anger and began to console Tara, ‘Don’t you see why he gets angry with you? Why, it’s because he loves you. He’s no man unless he flies off the handle and gets angry with you. You have to knuckle under him. If he can’t scold you, he can’t love you either. A quick temper is becoming in a man.
‘My man is just a lump of dough. Always afraid of getting sick, of catching something. I wish that sometimes he’d shout at me so that I could sulk and then he’d have to butter me up. As things stand now, I may stay in a huff and not eat anything the whole day, but he won’t guess a thing. All he will have to offer is to ask me to eat something or I’ll get a queasy stomach.’
‘Arrey, what should I tell you about my doctor?’ Pushpa asked with a meaningful smile. ‘First he makes me cry, then does such things to humour me that I just can’t tell you.’
Pushpa talked about her husband, and Sheelo told ribald tales of her elder brother and his wife. They both laughed loud and hard. Since no elder was around, Tara did not need to act coy. But she wasn’t listening to them either. Once or twice she just spread her lips in a smile.
Sheelo looked out of the window at the sky, and said, ‘Let’s go back to your place.’
Tara caught the hint. She too said, ‘Yes, let’s. I have to help my mother in the kitchen.’
When they went back, Tara’s mother fondly told Sheelo, ‘You can’t leave just now. Have dinner with us, then I’ll send you home with someone to keep you company till you get there.’
In the month of May in Lahore, it is bright on the rooftops till 7.30 or 8
o’clock in the evening. Sheelo said, ‘Chachi, the baby will be uncomfortable in the heat down here. I’ll take him to the roof.’
‘Yes, sure,’ Bhagwanti agreed, and called out to Usha, ‘Go up on the roof, girl, and spread a dhurrie on a charpoy for the baby.’
Usha did so without complaining for the sake of her newborn nephew, and came back downstairs. Lying on the bed on his back, Sheelo’s forty-five-day old son gazed at something invisible up in the blue sky, his tiny toothless mouth letting out gurgles of joy. He waved his chubby feet and hands around, filling his mother, and Tara too, with joy and pride.
Sheelo said, looking at her son, ‘Say, isn’t he cute? Would Ratan be able to resist holding him? Why won’t he speak to me?’
They heard Vijay calling Ratan from his side of the house, ‘Bhappaji, sister Sheelo’s here. She’s brought her baby too.’
Tara rose to go downstairs, leaving Sheelo alone on the roof. She heard Ratan speaking to his mother on the other side, ‘Jhhai, I’m ready to eat if you’ve made the chapattis.’
His mother replied, ‘I’m almost finished. But first, go and look at Sheelo’s little boy. Your sister has come for the first time with her baby.’
Ratan came to Tara’s side and called, ‘Auntie!’
His eyes met Tara’s. She said, ‘Sheelo is upstairs in the fresh air with her son.’
Ratan climbed the stairs with slow, measured steps, as if in no hurry.
Tara went and lay down in the veranda. Once upon a time, Ratan used to fly to Sheelo’s side at the mere sight of her, or at the sound of her voice, she thought. It’s not the same now. But he did ask Sheelo to elope with him. And why hadn’t she, if she really loved him? Her love should have given her courage. Why put up with someone for whom she has no feelings? She’s being dishonest to both men, Tara thought.
Soon she heard Ratan’s steps coming back down. Tara had been appalled by Sheelo’s duplicity, but she was also curious to know what Ratan might have said to her. She went to the roof and saw Sheelo wiping away her tears.
‘What happened?’ Tara asked gently.
Sheelo burst out crying.
‘Tell me,’ Tara insisted.
‘He refused to listen to me,’ Sheelo whimpered. ‘He didn’t even touch my baby.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Come away with me.” Said that he’ll be responsible for whatever happens; he will do whatever he has to to support me. He accused me of giving his child to another man, of letting him down. He said that that’s not true love, that he and I should be willing to bear the consequences of our love.’
‘He’s right,’ Tara blurted out.
‘Sure, you can say that. Because it’s not you who’s had to deal with the problem.’