Anger furrowed Sood’s brow as he spoke severely to Rikhiram, ‘Who says that what’s-its-name hillman has occupied the press? The press belongs to me and Raldu is my employee. That what’s-its-name Isaac operated the press on contract. If he’s gone that doesn’t mean that anyone else can occupy the press. What right does anybody have over my press? Don’t try anything foolish, I’m warning you. What’s anyone got to do with my press being run or not?’
Refugees from the west living in the houses neighbouring Kamaal Press had told Rikhiram a different story. Sood telephoned Chaudhari Makkhan Singh in Mai Heeran Gate bazaar in Rikhiram’s presence, ‘Sardarji, your bazaar people are spreading rumours. I’ll hold you responsible if any harm is done to Kamaal Press. Don’t forget.’
Rikhiram joined his palms together and begged that he might be allowed to operate the press on lease. He was ready to pay any reasonable fees. He also assured Sood that he’d pay for repairs if any machine was damaged in operation.
Sood told him to come back some other time to discuss the matter.
Rikhiram came again when Puri went to Amritsar in search of his family. Sood said to him, ‘Bhai, I won’t lease the press. We’ll run it ourselves.’ Rikhiram then requested that he be hired in the press as an employee. He had owned a press, and knew how to manage everything in the shop, he assured Sood, and could do most technical work himself. He was earning three to four hundred rupees as profit every month from his treadle and small litho machine. Fate was cruel to him; he and his family had barely escaped alive when those bastards had set fire to his press and house.
Jaidev Puri had been waiting impatiently to find work for the past six months; now he had the opportunity to run a business. He had had little experience of working in a printing press, but he chose not to admit that. Rikhiram had begged to be given the press on a six-month lease, and was ready to sign a promissory note for one thousand rupees. Sood stipulated that six months’ rent would have to be paid in advance, and that his brother would work as the manager. Rikhiram would have to pay the manager an
extra Rs 150 per month. These conditions were acceptable to Rikhiram, but he had no money to put down in advance. He had to accept work as an employee of the press.
Refugees who had been employed in printing presses began arriving seeking work soon after the press was in operation. They had been making inquires with Raldu even when the press was closed. Within days of the opening, a clerk from the ration office arrived to place an order for two hundred fifty thousand ration cards.
Puri quietly watched Rikhiram handle the working of the press. How many sheets of a particular size of paper, how many pages could be printed at one time on the press, how many impressions in an hour, how much it would cost and what price to demand from the customer. Rikhiram knew all this by heart. Just by the sound of the printing machine, he could tell the operator, ‘Nekram, look out, the driving-belt is loose. Oil the gears once more. Never ignore the machine; it is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth for us!’
If Rikhiram saw that the text typeset by the compositor would not be enough and the machine might stand idle, he would lend a hand by composing a few lines himself. Or justify the text if the lines were not properly aligned. Or adjust the key that regulated the pressure of the cylinder if the impression was not right. Or shout at the men cleaning the lithograph slabs. He would lean closer to Puri and murmur, ‘It’s not easy to keep these people up to the scratch. I know every inch of the press operations. So just tell me what you want to get done. If Soodji keeps sending work our way like this, I can earn that six-month advance money in no time at all. Wish I had such profitable work back in Jhelum.’
Puri did not interfere in the way Rikhiram ran the press, but he also did not turn a blind eye to anything. He himself prepared the invoices, but with Rikhiram’s advice. He reckoned up the jobs completed during the day. If the day’s output was worth forty or fifty rupees, he would calculate the profit minus the cost. He would feel proud at how much his work would bring in. Concern for his family and the memory of Kanak would fade in the midst of all this hustle and bustle, and he would feel that all this effort would one day remove the obstacles that were keeping him away from them.
The Kamaal Press was busy doing printing work for the orders pouring in from the supply office, the ration office, and also for the Congress party office. The presses operated all day until midnight, and sometimes all night.
The floor above the office had two small rooms, the kitchen, a bathroom and a small aangan. Isaac’s family had been able to carry away only their clothes, jewellery and a few kitchen utensils. They left behind a large bedstead, three charpoys, an old armchair, a rickety three-legged stool, an electric table fan that did not work, several tin trunks and other small items. The upper story was wired up with electrical outlets and had running water. Puri brought over his bedding from Sood’s house. He moved everything into the side room except for the bedstead, which he used at night. He ate his meals at a dhaba in the bazaar.
While working at the
Pairokaar
, if Puri had to go to the printing press to make corrections to the final copy or carry out some errand, the awful din of the machines, the all-pervasive grime that soiled hands and clothes, and the smell of ink, cleaning fluid and rubber compound nauseated him. Now the bang, clang and clatter of the machines seemed stimulating and comforting, he did not mind if his hands or clothes got dirty. In fact an interruption stoppage in the rhythm of the machines gave him a feeling of loss.
Rikhiram had not bothered to negotiate his salary at the time of his employment. He had said, with a touch of bravado, ‘Give me whatever seems proper after you’ve seen what I can do.’
The press had been operating for three weeks when Rikhiram mentioned to Puri how tight his financial situation was. He enquired what his salary would be, and requested an advance against it.
‘Let me first consult Soodji,’ said Puri. ‘but before I do that, tell me how much you’re asking?’
‘You’ve been here watching, brother. You’ve seen that I can manage everything,’ Rikhiram pleaded. ‘We do 45, at times even 60 or 65 rupees worth of work every day. You can bring in more jobs, however many, and I’ll get them done. I’ve a large family. I need at least 7 or 8 rupees a day, and may be more for sickness and such, God forbid! Back home, we lived fairly well, always fed our kids milk and lassi. Why’d I ask more? I know you won’t offer me less than 250 a month.’
Puri knew Rikhiram was right, but still the sum seemed exorbitant. He said, ‘I’ll tell Bhaiji. Can’t commit myself without asking him. He owns the press; so whatever he says goes.’
Puri conferred with Sood. Sood mulled over the output of the press, and
then telephoned two printing-press owners for advice. He sat and stared out of the window, cracking his toes and moving his hand thoughtfully over his closely cropped hair, and said, ‘The government’s decision is not to allow the removal of any what’s-its-name machinery to Pakistan. The Pakistan government too has banned the export of machinery, but the press still belongs to Isaac. You’ll have to pay him some what’s-its-name money. Don’t leave any cash at the press. I’ll give you a letter of introduction; go and deposit it in the bank tomorrow. Get what’s-its-name a cheque book. It’s a lot less hassle when you pay by cheque. Understand? And his demand for Rs 250 is nonsense. What press will pay Rs 250? What’ll the owner earn? The investment for what’s-its-name machines, rent, interest charges, all these have to be taken into account. All he does is supervise; you’ve probably picked up enough savvy by now. One hundred is quite enough. Give him five or ten more if you think he’s worth it, and useful. Not over 125, no way. If he doesn’t agree, tell him to buzz off. It’s not a bloody charity.’
Puri said with some embarrassment. ‘What about me? So far I’ve been a burden on you. I’ve kept an account of whatever I spent on myself. I need to get some clothes made, and there’re all kinds of daily expenses.’
‘Tell me what you want,’ replied Sood.
‘Whatever you say is fine with me.’
‘Have you heard anything about your family?’
‘I gave Delhi radio my address, care of you. If there’s any news, it’ll be sent here.’ The government radio services broadcast information about families separated in the chaos of the massive exodus, from one country to the other.
Puri usually ate at a dhaba close to the entrance to the gali of Bahadurgarh, near Mai Heeran Gate. Next to it was the market square, where an amplifier broadcast news bulletins with names, and the old and new addresses of persons separated from their families. He listened carefully while he ate, but he could not neglect his work and sit there all day listening. He had mailed his family’s old Lahore address and his new address to the radio station. No reply had come, so far.
Sood pondered over his words, and then said, ‘Your people are not here yet; so take 125 or 150 for yourself. We’ll settle up when they arrive.’
Puri was more than happy as he couldn’t have hoped for more.
Rikhiram’s face fell when he was offered only 100 rupees per month. He said, ‘Bhai, why such unfair treatment?’
Puri sympathized with Rikhiram’s plight, but had to adopt a managerial attitude, ‘My hands are tied. Those are my orders. I can recommend that you get a bit more, but Bhaiji’s word will be final.’
When Rikhiram did not seem happy with 125 rupees per month, Puri repeated Sood’s words sternly, ‘What about you and the people that you hired back home? How much did you pay them?’
Rikhiram had inquired at several other presses. No one was willing to pay even that much. He bit his lip and kept quiet.
That evening, the press ran until 10 o’clock. Puri ate his meal at the dhaba, and lay down on the bedstead upstairs. September was coming to an end. The rains were late, and it had been showery since the day before. Every window in the room was open, letting in gusts of cool air. He did not feel like sleeping. He thought of writing a letter. He still remembered Kanak’s address at Vimal Villa in Nainital, but then she might have moved to Delhi or some other town.
He had bought himself a fountain pen. One day when there was a break in the work, he had a fine letterhead printed on bond paper. On the left appeared ‘J.D. Puri, Manager’, on the right his address ‘Kamaal Press, Mai Heeran Gate, Jalandhar’. Mentioning that his salary was Rs 200 per month did not seem an exaggeration. Kanak would be happy to read that. Didn’t Sood say that he would reconsider the salary after his family arrived?
His imagination did not stop there. Sood’s words came into his mind: The government has banned export of all machinery. Isaac won’t be able to cart off his press to Pakistan. Puri even imagined that the press would be his after the money was paid. Should he tell Kanak so? What hadn’t he gone through in the past two months? But now he was managing a printing press, anything was possible in the future. But wouldn’t that be bravado … reaching for a star! His owning the press depended on Sood, but there was no doubt about the 200 rupees monthly salary. Things were falling into place. It might be possible to find time to do some writing in the mornings or the evenings. He could certainly say to Kanak that the kind of life he had imagined for them was about to begin. Let it be in Jalandhar, if not Lucknow. If he did not have the prestige of a government position, at least he had the independence of being his own master. What’ll Kanak think of this, what’ll she say?
Rikhiram’s distressed face after he was refused 250 rupees appeared before Puri’s eyes. He had peremptorily rejected Rikhiram’s demand.
But, then, every paisa had to be pinched in managing the press, and he had to get the most out of every paisa that had to be spent. His imagination would take off and he would slip into doing some quick mental arithmetic, calculating that the salaries for two press-machine operators and their helpers, a compositor, a calligraphist, Rikhiram and himself didn’t add up to much above twenty rupees a day, or an average of about three rupees per head. The electricity bill and the cost of inks and the compound for rollers couldn’t be more than another twenty rupees per day, when the work done could be costed at 60 or 70 rupees. Even if the overheads were thirty rupees per day, a large margin of profit remained for the owner. Suppose there were more than two machines! A press-machine operator’s salary was twenty rupees per month. Imagine what the owner could save for himself after he had paid off the workers! He recalled the discussions on the surplus value of labour in the study circle run by the communists. His thoughts wandered … in factories that had eight, ten or twenty thousand workers, if the owners put away even half a rupee per worker per day … His head spun at the thought of such huge profit margins.
He shook his head to drive away such thoughts and got out of bed, switched on the light, and began composing a letter to Kanak. Memories of the past weeks interrupted his writing several times. He ended the letter when he heard the chimes in the distance striking one o’clock, and sealed the envelope to send to Nainital first thing next day by registered post. The desire to be close to Kanak made his blood race through his veins; it inflamed his mind. The gong sounded two o’clock before he fell asleep.
A large poster for the District Congress Committee was being printed on the litho-cylinder. This job, for 10,000 posters, had to be finished by evening. The treadle was doing tickets for a bus company. The lads working as helpers didn’t have a free minute. Puri didn’t want to interrupt the printing. He approved the final proofs for the next job for the treadle, and stepped out to go to the dhaba for a quick lunch. The sky had cleared after the previous night’s rain, and the hot midday sun blazed relentlessly overhead.
Puri turned into the bazaar and stopped dead in his tracks. On his right Jagdish with an attaché case in hand was coming up to him, and Praveen balancing a trunk on his shoulder. Behind them walked Badhawa Mull Narang and Beyji, with Urmila in between. Narang too carried an attaché case and Beyji held a much larger one. Urmila was carrying the bedding
rolled up in a dhurrie and tied with a dhoti or dupatta twisted into a rope. Their bodies were drenched in sweat. The weight of his burden was making the elder Narang gasp for breath. A mask of worry and gloom covered Beyji’s face. Urmila looked exactly as Puri had seen her four weeks before on 26 August at the Islamia College camp: her head submissively bowed, a pale and sickly face, hair unkempt and tangled, like an eagle’s nest.