‘Enough! Oho! No one’s calling him names,’ Nayyar intervened. ‘I simply repeated to you what he said to me. What do you have to say about his pretending to be in the dark?’
‘This all is legal doubletalk,’ Kanak replied. ‘He didn’t confess that he was forcing his sister into that marriage.’
‘How could he admit that?’ Kanta said.
‘Well, his not knowing about that Somraj affair certainly showed him up in his true colours,’ Nayyar insisted.
Kanak got up and went inside the house. She lay down on her bed and covered her face with her aanchal.
PURI HAD GONE TO KANAK’S HOUSE AS A COURTESY AFTER HIS RELEASE FROM
the lock-up, but in return had received nothing but insults. That had upset him very much. He believed that Kanak was willing to do anything for him, to climb down from the reaches of her upper-middle-class status and stand by his side in the everyday life of the gali. But he could not forget or ignore the slight made by Nayyar.
So Puri began to reconsider: Would it be right for any self-respecting person to expect Kanak or any cultured, well-brought-up woman to live with him in his present situation without his losing his self-esteem? Why bring home flowers when one did not have a vase to put them in? There was no way he could silence Nayyar and Pandit Girdharilal without first getting rid of this stigma of unemployment and the chains of poverty. Unless he could bring Kanak home with due ceremony in his own motorcar, it would be a travesty to even think of asking her to come to him. And it would be perfectly justifiable for her family to insult him as they had done. He could not picture Kanak washing dishes or doing the laundry in the kitchen of his home in Bhola Pandhe’s Gali wearing an old torn shalwar like his sisters, or only a petticoat and blouse like his mother. He convinced himself that it had been a mistake to feel attracted to Kanak before having a solid ground beneath his feet. Why ruin her life, and his own into the bargain?
Puri made a determined effort to control his thoughts, and set about finishing what was left of the history book. He completed the work and its revision in four days. He had decided to go and see Ghaus Mohammed at five that afternoon and deliver the finished work. He wrapped up the manuscript in a neat packet. He was sitting and talking with Khushal Singh on the chabutara in front of the house of the Woman of the Well. After his shop had been destroyed in the Shahalami fire, Khushal Singh had begun selling his wares from the chabutara nearest to the bazaar. Mukund Lal had set up his own shop on the chabutara of Bajaj Dewanchand.
Tikaram usually came back late from the office. That day he returned before 4 o’clock. Seeing his strained expression, Khushal Singh inquired, ‘Babu, what’s the matter? Why this long face?’
Tikaram worked at the Said Mittha bazaar branch of his insurance company. The mansion of Kammu Shah had been burned down last night, he said, as had been the office of the insurance company next door to it. There had been a number of knifings in that area, and several persons had been killed. All the employees of his branch had been summoned to the McLeod Road office and told that for the next month they would have to work in the record section at that office. They would be reassigned after the month, and go wherever the company told them.
While Tikaram was telling his story, Ratan arrived. Since all the business in the city had come to a standstill, there was little to do at his uncle’s brokerage agency. Everyone knew that Babu Govindram had made money in wartime, and had built two houses in Krishna Nagar. He had continued to live in Bhola Pandhe’s Gali for the high rents he earned from the other properties. Ratan could not care less if there was no work at the agency; he had other things to take care of.
The Radcliffe Commission had not yet announced where the boundary would run between Hindustan and Pakistan, to the south and east of Lahore. Lahore’s status was still undetermined, but the district of Shaikhu Pura, across the river from Lahore, had been given to Pakistan. Scores of Hindu merchants, from towns and villages between Shaikhu Pura and Peshawar further to the north-west, were fleeing to the east. Camps for these seekers of refuge had been set up on the property of Rai Bahadur Badridas on Abbot Road, next to Ratan Talab outside Shahalami, in the Shiv temple of Melaram, in Gurudwara Shaheed Ganj near the fort, and in the neighbourhood of Gurudutt Bhawan. Ratan often went to one of these to help out. Mewa Ram and Bir Singh too, after he was released from the lock-up, went with him. These men also went to the railway station on behalf of the Hindu Defence Committee, to escort arriving Hindu travellers to their homes in the galis or to a refugee camp.
Birumal came back from his job at the post office just before five. He wanted to know the reason for the men of the gali to be huddled. Tikaram repeated the story of the burning of Kammu Shah’s mansion and his office building.
Ratan breathed a silent curse, ‘The Hindus are just not fighting back. What’s to be done?’ He cursed again, ‘Muslim policemen are openly helping other Muslims. Between a hundred and a hundred-and-fifty displaced Hindus are arriving daily from the west …’
Birumal butted in, ‘Do you know what’s being done to the Muslims in the east? Yaqub works in our section, he’s from Bagwanpura. That bugger was crying. He lives in a two-room place. His father, his father-in-law and others fled from Kapoorthala and came to his house. His elder brother was murdered; his sister and sister-in-law were both kidnapped. There are now seventeen people in his two rooms. He was telling us that over two thousand people were crammed into the Bagwanpura Muslim camp. The stench is so bad that one can’t breathe.’
Puri got up from where he was sitting next to Khushal Singh, and said, ‘Achcha, I’ve to go. Just going up to Mori Gate.’
‘What? You’re out of your mind?’ Tikaram stopped him. ‘I’ve just told you how bad it was in that area. It’s not safe to go there on your own today.’
‘Bhai, I’ve got to go to get money someone owes me,’ Puri explained.
‘Let the money go to hell! No one goes there this evening!’ Khushal Singh said decisively.
‘What’s your hurry? Wait it out for today. I’ll go with you tomorrow morning around eight or nine,’ Ratan volunteered.
‘Not one but two people should go along to a place like that. Mori Gate is just beside Said Mittha,’ someone else said.
Puri had to give up his idea of going to Mori Gate. The thought of taking bodyguards to meet a person like Ghaus Mohammed was not agreeable. Next day around nine in the morning, he went alone, with the manuscript tucked under his arm. He did not go by way of Machchi Hatta and Shahalami, but rather through Vachchovali, Sheesha Moti and Sootar Mandi towards Lohari Gate. Mostly Hindus lived in this area. By and large the shops were open, but the bazaars were not crowded. In the intersection near Sootar Mandi, he saw Masood, carrying a similar but slightly smaller package like his own.
‘Hey bhai Puri!’ Masood hailed him. ‘I was horrified by the hellish sight Shahalami has become, I swear. Didn’t have the nerve to face that, so I was going round to your place by this route.’
Masood’s face looked haggard and drawn. His clothes, although seldom clean and tidy, now gave off a terrible stench of sweat. His usual black fur hat was missing too. Puri held out his hand, and asked, ‘Is everything all right? What can I do for you? Tell me!’
‘Everything’s going to hell!’ Masood said, letting out a deep sigh. ‘You probably don’t know. Poor Ghaus, may God grant him peace, has been killed.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Puri as the package almost fell from under his arm. He felt numbed with shock. His three months’ hard work, his dreams, the sum of five hundred and fifty rupees, all disappeared in that split second.
‘I was going to his place. The five hundred fifty he owed to me are gone too,’ Puri blurted out, showing the package under his arm. He composed himself, and added, ‘But what are five hundred? Even five hundred thousand are not worth someone’s life.’
‘Bhai, Ghaus was really a good human being,’ Masood let out another sigh. ‘There wasn’t one speck of religious prejudice in him. He was martyred because of his Muslim-looking
sharai
beard. Who knows what further atrocities these riots will bring?
‘He was stabbed with a kirpan in front of the S.P.S.K. Hall,’ Masood said. ‘The attacker ran away leaving the dagger stuck in Ghaus’s belly. When he fell, it pierced through to his back. I went just to meet him yesterday evening, and what I saw was his bier being carried out. My heart broke when I heard the whole story. Such a good-natured, outgoing person and not even ten persons could be found to mourn him. They took him to the cemetery in a police lorry. Only three people were allowed to attend his burial.’
Masood went on, ‘You know how we all depended on him. He had asked me to prepare notes for the middle school exam. We settled for one hundred rupees. I have the agreement in his handwriting. The notes are ready,’ Masood showed the package under his arm, ‘anyone can check these and verify them. I don’t have much money in hand and there are other problems too. I’ll give the manuscript away for seventy-five. I was on my way to your place. You have a good reputation. You have contacts with all kinds of publishers. You also know Pandit Girdharilal of Naya Hind Publications …’
‘Don’t even mention that scum. He’s so devious,’ Puri gave vent to his contempt.
Masood pressed on, ‘You’re a well-established writer. I consider you as my guru. Why don’t you have a look at the manuscript? Maybe you’d like to have it published under your name. Whatever you offer me, I’ll accept without haggling. You’re a fellow writer.’
‘No, no. Don’t even say a thing like that,’ Puri waved his hand in emphasis. ‘I’ll do what I can. Even if it gets published under my name, it would be wrong for me to accept your share of payment. All right, my friend, we’ll go our separate ways now. I’ll have to think about my manuscript too.’
Masood continued to pester him, ‘I’m in dire need. Haven’t paid my rent for the last four months. Promised to pay Dawood, my landlord, on the hope of being paid for this job. He’ll throw my wife and children out into the street. You know my family, our women observe purdah. You keep this manuscript. If you can manage fifty right now, I’ll even accept that.’
‘Brother, I don’t have any cash, even at my home. My own situation isn’t very different.’ His own problems flashed through Puri’s mind. ‘I’ll let you know if I find some solution for you. I know where you live.’
Puri was trying to comfort Masood, but the thought of losing five hundred and fifty rupees, money for which he had worked so hard, was making him weak at the knees. ‘Is this only my misfortune,’ he thought, ‘or the misfortune of Lahore, of Punjab, of the whole country? What’ll be the outcome of all this? Why don’t I speak to Girdharilal?’ the thought came to him. He had an agreement for five hundred and fifty rupees signed by Ghaus Mohammed. Girdharilal would see with his own eyes that Puri could earn five hundred and fifty for just two months’ work. He’d be doing a favour to Girdharilal. Pandit can reach some settlement with Professor Shah. ‘You might have to fork out eight thousand now, but it’ll be you who’ll make twenty thousand later,’ he’d tell Girdharilal. But his anger and hatred for that family did not allow him to pursue that idea.
Puri thought, instead of Girdharilal, why shouldn’t he speak with someone at Dhanpat Rai & Sons, Educational Publishers? Any publisher would make money from a history textbook.
Surya Prakash, the owner of Dhanpat Rai & Sons, was a young man. He did not even make a show of grief upon hearing about the murder of Ghaus Mohammed. He said, ‘A history textbook published by us has been prescribed for the past five years. Shah wanted to replace that by the one that Ghaus was going to publish. You want us to pay Shah to throw out our own publication? The Muslim members of the textbook committee help Muslim publishers. They’ve been replacing books put out by Hindu publishers with those of Muslim publishers. We’d offered Shah ten thousand rupees. Just look at his dishonesty and bias. Well, God sees everything. There used to be no Muslim publishers. Now they’ve taken over the trade. And not only this trade. They’re taking over the whole country. We’re winding up our business in Lahore, and have decided to keep just a branch office here, and move our presses and publishing business to Delhi. You Hindu writers are cutting off your own roots by writing books for Muslim publishers. These
Muslims take great care of their own brothers and their community. And we Hindus don’t. All the Hindus want is money; it’s always money first for them. Look at what they’ve come down to, who used to own the whole book business in Lahore.’
When Puri returned after hearing Surya Prakash’s lecture on how to save the Hindu race, he felt as if the bars of an invisible cage were closing around him, imprisoning the spirit of the creative force in him. He lay down dejectedly on a charpoy. The manuscript of the history textbook, once worth five hundred and fifty rupees to him and eight thousand to Professor Shah, lay beside him. That fruit of several months’ labour was not even worth a pile of blank paper now. It couldn’t be used for anything except for wrapping up purchases in the grocer’s shop.
Masood’s face floated before his eyes. He recalled how Masood was willing to give up his manuscript for half the payment. Puri saw himself being driven to plead for a similar favour from someone. He had the ability to write brilliantly, but he didn’t have the resources to get his work published. ‘What choice is open to a poor person, other than working for others?’ he thought in despair. He had no recourse other than to enter into slavery, and work for those who owned the resources. He could not fall asleep for a long time that night. The memory of how insultingly Nayyar and Girdharilal had treated him intensified his pain at being penniless and down on his luck.
Next day, swallowing his pride, Puri went to the offices of several periodicals. Each time he had to wait until the editor was free to see him, but he made light of this annoyance by laughing at it. He asked them what they wanted him to write, and accepted the assignments they gave him.
Sitara
asked him for a romantic short story.
Khatoon
extracted from him the promise of a story on some social problem with a moral, and then asked him to translate an article on birth control from the English. Within one week, Puri managed to rework one of his old short stories and write two articles on topics suggested to him, and earned twenty rupees. He got fifteen in cash and the promise of five more.
The magazines wanted short stories, and were ready to pay him fifteen rupees for one. There was a time when stories had come to Puri effortlessly, but under pressure to write and in his disturbed state of mind, he could not think of any, no matter how hard he tried. In desperation he thought of
reading some story in English and of rewriting it in Urdu, but after another week he could not accomplish even that much.