With the possibility of Lahore going to Pakistan, many Hindus had begun to talk of leaving the city. But the people of Bhola Pandhe’s Gali, like those from so many others, vowed that they would never leave the homeland of their forefathers, that they would fight to the death for the right to stay in Lahore. From the demarcation of the boundary between Pakistan and Hindustan announced at the beginning of July, it seemed imminent that Lahore would go to Pakistan. However, Hindus living in most galis of Lahore and in the Bhola Pandhe’s Gali too, continued to believe that Lahore would not be given to Pakistan, as Hindus owned most of the city’s real estate. They were not going to give up their ancestral homes, no matter what happened. Nobody would be able to throw them out of their homes.
After the Shahalami fire, Ghasita Ram and Panna Lal had had the doors of their houses covered with iron sheets, locked them with huge padlocks and had left on pilgrimage to Mathura and Vrindavan to attend festivals held there in July and August. The people of the gali had looked down on them, but by the middle of July these neighbours too had begun to face an agonizing dilemma. The provincial government informed all its employees that every individual had the right to choose whether to stay and work in Hindustan or Pakistan and arrange a transfer accordingly. To the average person, this meant that the government was unable to take on the responsibility of protecting its Hindu employees in Pakistan, and its Muslim employees in Hindustan. Who could ordinary citizens depend on in such circumstances?
In Bhola Pandhe’s Gali, the only government employees were Babu Govindram, Doctor Prabhu Dayal, postal clerk Birumal, and Shaduram, who worked at the secretariat. These men would sit at the chabutara of Babu Govindram and discuss the situation late into the evening. Khushal Singh and Masterji joined them. Babu Govindram wanted all of them to stay in Lahore. Doctor Prabhu Dayal was in two minds. He was the only person in the gali who had visited other parts of India. He would say, rather sadly, ‘One can live and survive, if necessary, anywhere in the world, but the truth is, there’s no city like Lahore.’
The mere thought of being posted to a different place frightened Birumal. After he joined, he had worked for a few years in the Railway Mail Service. For several months at the beginning of 1940, his posting was to Cuttack,
quite a distance to the south-east. He would say, ‘Bhai, that country is totally different. They are also Hindus, but of a different sort. Their talk sounds like a pebble being shaken in a brass pot. The only clothes their women wear is around their waist. Bhai, their food is different, and so are their customs. They let boiled rice go stale before eating it. So many bugs that if the bedbugs didn’t hold you down, the mosquitoes might carry you away. So what if the Muslims of Lahore have turned into our enemies? At least they’re like us. Same language, same dress, their food too is almost the same. The only difference is that between a temple and a mosque.’ He said, uttering a curse, ‘It’s been ten years since I went to any temple. How long can we remain enemies?’
Masterji’s worries knew no bounds. All the necessary items had been collected for Tara’s trousseau. The loan he had taken against his Provident Fund, and from his brother for their house in their ancestral village, had been used up in the preparations for the wedding, now only nine days away. If he considered moving to another city, all the money spent would have been wasted, and the things they had collected for the trousseau would be useless. Babu Ramjwaya had obtained for him on credit the wheat, ghee and other foodstuffs needed during the wedding celebration at prices below the going rate. How could he carry all that away with him?
Masterji talked about all this with Bhagwanti and his elder son. All his worries revolved around one point: Could the wedding take place in the present situation, with a curfew in force almost every day? This was the astrologically auspicious period for marriages. Marriages were being performed here and there in the city. He always came to the same conclusion: If a marriage could be celebrated in anybody else’s house, it could happen at his too. It was all in the hands of God. Where would his family go away from Lahore? For the past twenty-seven years his life had been spent between his school and his home. Where else could he find work at his age? His heart sank whenever he thought over all this, and he would mutter, running his fingers through his hair, ‘God, you are our only, you are our last hope …’
Puri had lost all his attachment to Lahore. The city had been cruel to him in all manner of ways. Lahore had rejected him, he felt, and did not want him in her fold. Lahore favoured Kashish, who had unjustly fired him from his job; Lahore belonged to Kanak, who had stolen his heart; Lahore had taken sides with the stuck-up, conceited Nayyar and Girdharilal when they told him that he was socially inferior; Lahore had given its blessings
to Ramjwaya, Govindram, Ghasita Ram, Panna Lal, Sukhlal and his son Somraj, who owned property in its territory; not to Puri who had nothing to call his own. Maybe he would have better luck in finding work in Delhi or the United Provinces. Maybe he could earn good money in Bombay, writing dialogue and scripts for films. But how could he ask his parents to ignore the wedding set for a week hence and move out of Lahore? If the wedding was postponed, all the money they had spent would go to waste and an unmarried daughter would become a millstone around their necks. A sister or daughter was nothing but a problem for the family. It would be possible to leave Lahore, he thought, only if he could first get away and arrange for a job and a place to live.
Marriages were indeed taking place, but they were lacklustre and brief affairs, even duller than the marriage of Ghasita Ram’s daughter in June. There was a sense of panic all around. Families of the girls feared that if they left the city and moved away without going through with the marriage, who knew if they would ever meet the other family again? And these were hardly marriages as marriages used to be. A very small number of people from the groom’s family, either together or one by one, would arrive at the bride’s house. There was no question of holding the elaborate welcoming
mukut
ceremony, or of singing or playing music. The
phere
ceremony, of going around the fire seven times, was performed without any fanfare, and the bride was given away. The groom would make his way back to his gali sometimes on foot, or in a borrowed motorcar. The girl’s trousseau and gifts would be taken quietly to the groom’s house. Both Masterji and Ramjwaya were concerned whether Lala Sukhlal would agree to such a low-key and colourless marriage ceremony for his son.
Tara’s parents did not have the courage to mention postponing the wedding, even for a short time. They had had a hard time suppressing the rumour of Tara’s unwillingness to go through with the marriage. Lala Sukhlal and Somraj might interpret their request for a delay in unpredictable ways. Both Masterji and Babu Ramjwaya were compelled to go along with whatever Lala Sukhlal wished in this matter. It was better to be rid of the burden of the unmarried daughter, they would tell themselves, for she had to leave her family some day. Who was to know what the future held in store for her?
The rumour of Tara’s opposition to the marriage had reached Lala Sukhlal’s ears. Spluttering with anger, he had sworn at Babu Ramjwaya
and Masterji hurling various degrees of abuse at them, and had threatened to have them beaten with shoes in front of all the people in the bazaar, ‘What do I care for that pauper’s daughter? There’s no shortage of people offering us a dowry of fifty thousand rupees. Her family had knelt and put their pugarees at my feet, and begged me a hundred times to accept their offer of an engagement.’
Babu Ramjwaya and Masterji had to place their hat and pugaree at his feet, and swear a hundred times that the rumour was false. In spite of his bluster, Lala Sukhlal knew that the Senate Hall affair had cast a shadow on his son’s reputation. The story of his son’s engagement being cancelled because of that affair would certainly not have helped to ensure his engagement elsewhere.
Babu Ramjwaya and Masterji went to see Lala Sukhlal to get his orders and instructions about the marriage ceremony. Lala raised his voice a bit as he spoke, ‘Arrey, we have no intention of causing any trouble for you people. We’ll have to do what the times call for. We’ll do what our dharma calls for, not put on some empty show. The scriptures tell us what our dharma, what our duty is. All those rituals and customs are not worth the effort in the present situation. I’ll arrange for passes for the curfew. As I said, not more than eight or ten persons will go to your place, and we’ll get the wedding over and done with. Your good name and ours amount to the same thing.’
On the evening of 23 July, when Masterji returned to the gali, his face showed the strain of a difficult situation. He loosened his jacket as he sat down on the chabutara. He let out a sigh, and said to Babu Govindram, ‘Now you’ll have to see the whole thing through. Lala Sukhlal wants the wedding to take place on Sunday.’
Dammo, Peeto and other children spread the news around the whole gali in seconds. Pushpa was showing her servant boy how to sauté the
guchchi
vegetable in a particular way, but she could not restrain herself when she heard the news and went straight to her window and called, ‘Bahinji!’
She addressed both Bhagwanti and Meladei as bahinji. Sometimes when she meant to call one of them, the other would answer, or both would answer together. Puri and Ratan were both about her age. She felt awkward calling out their names loudly. Tara was an adult and Usha too was turning sixteen.
When Bhagwanti came to her window, Pushpa said, ‘We’ll carry out the ceremony of applying the haldi paste to the girl tomorrow.’
Kartaro spoke up from her window, ‘Why not? Sure! Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, only four days left before the wedding. We held that ceremony a month before my marriage.’
‘Ma, bahinji says that she doesn’t want to be bothered with the haldi.’ Usha came and announced Tara’s objection. There were only four days left before her elder sister’s wedding, and she could not call her by her name in front of others.
‘Wah!’ Pushpa and Kartaro both protested. ‘We’re going to anoint her with the paste. She can wash it off later if she wants. And we won’t let her change her clothes either. Otherwise how would she look beautiful on the day of the wedding?’
Bhagwanti said to her neighbours, ‘Sisters, daughters, it’s up to you to arrange everything. You don’t have to ask me.’
Seeta called out from her doorway, ‘Auntie, let’s have singing at least for four days.’
‘No more singing at anybody’s place any more. This cursed curfew is on all the time,’ Meladei said grouchily, to remind everyone.
‘What’s curfew got to do with it? We’ll sing inside the house,’ Seeta said.
Pushpa agreed with her, ‘Yes, we’ll be singing indoors. And since the twentieth, the curfew time is from eleven at night till four in the morning.’
Tikaram pointed out from the chabutara where he was sitting, ‘Bhabhi, don’t be foolish. What else does curfew mean? It’s forbidden to sing or play any instrument or even make noise during curfew. Why invite trouble for such a small thing?’
Bir Singh called out from his doorway, ‘It’s only forbidden for us Hindus to sing!’ He uttered an obscenity. ‘The Muslim asses of Mochi Gate begin to bray their prayers at four in the morning, “Lord, call me to Medina.” Nothing is forbidden for them. We’ll have to pack them off to their Medina.’
‘Bir Singh, my son,’ Babu Govindram explained patiently. ‘The curfew ends at four in the morning only because those wretches can eat well before beginning their Ramadan fast. And it begins again at eleven for their convenience. Bhai, these Muslim officials really have a lot of cheek.’
Meladei listening from the window above said, ‘Whatever the reason, at least we get some relief.’
Masterji did not want her to have any doubt, ‘Who cares about giving us relief? It is so for their own for religious reasons.’
‘Well, there’s no curfew during the day.’ Pushpa suggested. ‘We’ll sing in the afternoon.’
Next morning Babu Govindram, the doctor, Birumal and Tikaram went off to their jobs, and Masterji to his tutoring. The schools all over the city had been closed for a month after the Shahalami fire. Ratan and Bir Singh returned to the gali from the railway station around ten after escorting the Hindus arriving from the west to the camps. Seeta called out to Ratan, ‘Bhappaji, we’ll sing in the afternoon. You and Puri bhai go and bring Sheelo bahin from Uchchi Gali.’
‘Achcha,’ said Ratan and went up the stairs to his house.
There was no one in the gali.
Bir Singh pursed his lips and looked threateningly at Seeta, ‘Asking everyone but me, what have I done to invite your spite?’
Seeta stared back at him, shrugged her shoulders coquettishly and went back to her house.
After the incidents in Kila Gujjar Singh and Mazang, girls and women were not allowed to go out alone, even by way of the galis. Two men, instead of one, would escort them from now on. When Pushpa reminded Puri and Bir Singh again after eleven, they went off to bring Sheelo from her home.
When they retuned with Sheelo, Dammo called out loudly, ‘A letter came for Jaddi bhappa.’
The postman knew everyone in the gali. Instead of coming back to deliver the registered letter, he had asked Tara to sign for the letter addressed to Jaidev Puri.
Hari explained to Puri, ‘A letter arrived, under registered cover. Tara bahin signed for it.’
When Tara signed and accepted the registered letter for Puri, her mother said with curiosity, ‘Girl, open the letter and read what’s in it.’
According to her mother, a letter coming to the house was a letter for everyone in the family. Anyone could read it. Tara read the name of the sender, and said, ‘No, baba, I won’t open it. It’s for my brother, let him open it. How can a letter addressed to one person be opened by anybody else?’ Tara placed the letter on the top shelf of the cupboard. Her mother had never heard such a thing before, but she could not go against her educated son and daughter. She waited impatiently.