Panditji’s letter did not arrive, but another did, from Kakaram, Nayyar’s clerk, who was now in Jalandhar. He had written to ask where Nayyar would want to resume his law practice. He recommended Jalandhar for this. It was expected that East Punjab’s temporary capital would be moved from Simla to Jalandhar. A rumour was abroad that the high court might also be situated there. Kakaram was from the Mukerian tehsil in the district of Jalandhar. Since several of his relatives were tehsil officials, he might be able to help get legal work for Nayyar. Scores of houses and farm lands in the district had been occupied by refugees from Lahore, Gujranwala and Lyalpur.
Nayyar asked Kanta. She would have preferred settling in the same city as her father, but did not want to let this opportunity slip through her fingers. In the evening Nayyar wrote to Kakaram, accepting his advice. He told his clerk to search for some small house in an uncongested area, and said that he would soon write about his intentions.
On 16 September, Panditji did not arrive, but a telegram came from him in the evening that asked Nayyar to come at once with his family. Instead of asking when Nayyar might arrive, he explained in telegraphese how to reach his house: From railway station to Faiz Bazaar, Sir Syed Ahmed Road, at end of Silwali Gali turn into Durrani Gali, Naya Hind Press.
It had taken the telegram two days to reach Nainital. The delay in delivery and particularly the terseness of the message sounded ominous, and made everybody’s imagination wander. Why couldn’t Panditji come to the railway station? And had his printing press been moved to Delhi?
Fleeing Lahore to save their lives, Pandit Girdharilal and his wife had arrived in Delhi on 13 August. The population of the whole country, it seemed to him, simultaneously had fled to Delhi. He did not know the city very well, and had no intention of taking shelter in a refugee camp. The hotels were all filled to capacity. After searching in vain for some frustrating hours,
a family from Multan staying at a newly constructed hotel in Faiz Bazaar agreed to rent him and his wife a corner of their room at five rupees per day.
Leaving his wife in the room to keep an eye on their belongings, Panditji would roam all day in search of a better dwelling place. The number of people who had moved to the city, in pursuit of lucrative business opportunities during the Second World War, was much larger than the housing available in Delhi and New Delhi could absorb. The rents in 1945 were 150 to 200 per cent more than those in 1939. To affluent families fleeing the towns and cities of western Punjab in March 1947, Delhi had seemed the safest and the closest destination. These rich refugees had been willing to pay any price for whatever accommodation they could get. Since 14 August the limitless flood of people ejected from Punjab had been pouring into the city. While the government of UP, as a precautionary measure, had banned the entry of refugees into the province, Delhi had thrown its gates wide open. But the city now did not have room even under its trees. And the new arrivals after the Partition, impervious to whether they had a roof over their heads, settled in any corner they could find.
Panditji had gone to see many of his old business acquaintances in the course of his search. He met Prof. N.C. Mathur too. He was welcomed with offerings of tea, mithai, lemonade and paan everywhere. Those he met offered every kind of help, except the assistance in finding a house. One or two even hinted with tongue in cheek, ‘…You Punjabis are having difficulty in getting houses? Those who’re really desperate do succeed in finding one. Look in the vicinity of Paharganj, Sabzi Mandi, Pataudi House, Matia Mahal and Bairam Khan Road.’
After meeting with disappointment everywhere, Panditji found, after searching intensely and non-stop for eight days, one room on the third floor of a house behind the Golcha Theatre, on Sir Syed Ahmed Road. It was just a room with makeshift brick walls, and a roof of corrugated iron. But it had a door that could be locked. He and his middle-aged wife had to climb down to the aangan on the ground floor to use the water tap and the lavatory. It wasn’t much of a home, but more like a place to cook and store their luggage, and take shelter when it rained. Now at least he could look for a proper house with a little more time and patience.
Panditji had made reconnaissance tours on foot of mohallas behind the Golcha theatre. Except for the building of Rajaram Agarwal, his landlord, most other houses had been built recently. The families living in Koocha
Chelan and Delhi Gate bazaar until 14 August had been predominantly Muslim, but recently these areas were being crammed with refugees from the west. A number of houses around Pataudi House and in Chitli Kabar bazaar and Tiraha Bairam Khan were still occupied by Muslims. The atmosphere was tense with the news that a big confrontation was in the making. Rumours were rife that Muslims had collected firearms and built barricades in bazaars close to Paharganj. But all Panditji saw were families of frightened Muslims, lugging their possessions leaving the mohallas, and Punjabi Hindus with their belongings on their heads and backs, moving in. Some Hindus were rumoured to have been killed. Panditji had seen, on two occasions, Punjabi refugees with swords, spears and machetes roaming lanes deep in the heart of the mohallas. Policemen standing or sitting at bazaar intersections and gali corners with fixed bayonets were unable to stop murders and occasional bomb throwing. As anyone could see, the ‘transfer of population’ was taking place. Property deals were also being made between those wanting to leave and those arriving from the west.
The tin roof became so hot in the afternoons that Panditji could barely sit under it. Compared to the kind of life he had led in the past three decades, the present times were like the days he had spent in jail thirty-five years before. But he had been a young man then, with the fire of patriotic self-sacrifice in his heart. At age fifty-eight, all he could do was grin and bear it.
The lanes and galis to the south of Delhi Gate still housed Muslims. Panditji had no qualms about living among Muslims. His first concern was for a place that was airy, had a water supply and a healthy environment; a place where he could begin a new printing press business, if it was not possible to bring his old presses from Lahore. And he was willing to pay a good price for it.
The Muslims remaining in the galis could be seen sitting huddled in the thresholds and doorsteps of their homes. Panditji, so as not to scare or alarm them, would address them as bhaijaan, dear brother, and inquire, ‘Are their any empty houses in this gali?’
They would not answer, but stare with angry eyes and set faces. One looking particularly unhappy, sighed deeply and said, ‘Bhaijaan, finish us off and throw us out, then all the houses will be empty. But when we go, we’ll take a few of you with us. We have no place to go. We’ll be buried here. We were born on this ground and we’ll end up in this ground.’
A gentleman with a maulana-type beard walking past, wearing a khadi sherwani and a high Gandhi cap, stopped. The man who was speaking fell silent when he caught the maulana’s eye. Seeing everyone salaam the gentleman, Panditji too greeted him with an adaab arz, and said, ‘Why should you leave, bhaijaan? It’s your home, stay here. If there’s enough room next to you, let us stay too. We all belong to one people. One nation. It’s our bad luck that we had to flee, leaving behind a house and printing press, the fruit of my life’s work. But why complain? All we want is to go back to our homeland, but let it be how He wishes,’ he finished, pointing to the sky.
Panditji was in his habitual Congress-supporter dress of khadi pugaree, khadi jacket buttoned up to the neck, and pajamas. The khadi-wearing Muslim replied for the others, ‘Bhaijaan, such sectarian hatred is destroying the country and people. It’s the duty of nationalists like you and me to stop this barbarian behaviour. Bapu has dedicated his whole life to this cause. I wish that Maulana Shaukat Ali and Mohammed Ali were alive, and that Dr Ansari was here. Alas, what horrible incidents in Calcutta. Those fanatics threw bricks and rocks at the house of Gandhiji’s Muslim host. All panes of glass were smashed, and Bapu Gandhiji barely escaped, but just think how strong his belief is, if he has not given up. Only he, with God’s blessing can save the country now.’
Panditji expressed his agreement. He requested the maulana to look for any vacant houses in the mohalla, and started to walk away.
‘Sir, may I ask you for a favour?’ he heard a voice say behind his back.
Panditji turned around and saw that the maulana had followed him. ‘Please do tell me what it is, sir.’
‘You’re looking for a house, sir?’ asked the maulana. ‘A gentleman like you would want a nice, big place. Would you like to buy one? This Partition is permanent, believe me. Who knows if those leaving a house will ever return? Scores of Muslims go away every day. Even if the Partition is repealed, you would wind up with property in two cities. You should buy a property here.’
Panditji thought for a few moments, tapping the tip of his walking stick on the paved pathway. He said, ‘Maulana, a property transaction is a matter of careful study and investigation. At the moment, my need is for a rented house. Well, bhaijaan, no harm in having a look, if it’s no trouble.’
Panditji and the maulana walked a few steps down the gali. The gali branched off into another, a narrower one. At this point in the side gali
was a small gate. Just below the civic number, was painted on the gate: Sultan Pasand Zarda Factory, Owner: Syed Abdul Samad, Durrani Gali, Delhi Gate Bazaar, Delhi. The maulana knocked on the gate and called loudly, ‘Bijang! Bijang! Hey brother, Bijang!’
‘Who’s there?’ someone growled back.
The maulana spoke soothingly, ‘It’s me, bhai Bijang, open up. Tell the women folk to observe purdah. I have someone with me.’
One half of the gate was cautiously opened. In the opening stood a gurkha, a khukri under his arm, barring the way.
As they entered, Panditji hesitated for a moment, and said, ‘Bhaijaan, I hope I can trust you.’
‘Have faith! I swear by Kalma Pak. Sir, the earth could not hide me if I lie,’ the maulana replied reassuringly.
The doorway led to a small inner courtyard to the right. A patch of ground with some jasmine and henna bushes, then a brick pavement, and then the two floors of an old-fashioned house. The archways seemed to have been bricked up and fitted with doors. To the right were two small rooms opening up onto the aangan. The white, lime-based plaster on the walls was crumbling, revealing reddish lakhori bricks. The wall to the left was of bigger, modern bricks. A water faucet, and several mixing vats were sunk into the floor. A few clay and aluminium vessels, a couple of wicker chaise longues and two charpoys. The aangan smelled of scented tobacco.
The maulana requested Panditji to take a seat and asked whether he would prefer tea or sherbet.
Panditji begged to be excused. He began the conversation by referring to the unsettled state of the country.
The maulana said in agreement, ‘What have things come to, quibla, respected sir, that we are short even of fresh betel leaves. It’s become impossible to go fifty steps to the bazaar. As your honoured self can see, there’s enough space for a mansion here. Around here it’s as famous as Syed’s Court. Our family has been in Delhi since the time of Emperor Shah Alam. All the land on the other side of that wall once belonged to our family. But it was just a matter of time. During the war, only a couple of years ago, the offer for this place was 50,000 rupees. Who knew at that time that doomsday was so close?’ The maulana took a deep breath. ‘That it was just a matter of time before we had to sell the ancestral property. You may measure it yourself with the chain, it’s 2242 square feet. The land
in the neighbourhood went for 7 to 8 rupees a square foot. It’s built solid, you can see; unlike the buildings of New Delhi, that crumble away if you so much as breathe on them. It will take at least 300 years for this type of brick to crumble. Been like this since I was born; not even the slightest bit of decay. It’s a matter of time. I’ll settle for twenty thousand. The knife’s at our throats, sir. What else can we do?’
A boy, about fifteen, had come and, after politely greeting Panditji, stood beside them. The maulana asked him, ‘Sahibzade, bring the folder with the property documents. This gentleman has to convince himself that he’s buying the property from its rightful owners.’
‘No, no, bhaijaan, a gentleman’s word is enough,’ said Panditji, tapping the floor with his stick. He screwed his eyes up thoughtfully as he spoke, ‘Bhaijaan, you’re quite right, but we’ve had to leave all behind and live like nomads.’ He took a deep breath, ‘Sir, I do understand your problem. Forgive my saying so, but the house we left behind was worth one-and-a-half times the price you mention, built in modern style, for our own use, with full electricity supply and fans, running water, flush toilets. We had to lock it all up and leave. You must have heard about Lahore’s Gwal Mandi, just like your Queen’s Road or Kashmiri Gate. I’ve all the papers with me. You may have a look at them.’
The boy brought back an old-style folder made from black chintz and tied with a cord, and gave it to the maulana. He opened it and as he handed Panditji a sheaf of electricity bills, payment receipts for house and water taxes, lease deeds and rent receipts for two rooms, said, ‘Your humble servant’s name is Syed Abdul Samad.’
Panditji flipped through the documents as if they were unimportant, and handed them back. He said, ‘Bhaijaan, my own situation is no different. We are, if not in the same boat, then in similar boats. Please take the trouble to come with me, or I can come back here with the documents for you to see. It’s befitting for a cultured gentleman like yourself to go to Lahore. If you feel that an exchange of property would be acceptable, then we two brothers can help each other.’
Syed did not want to trade, but wanted the purchase price in cash and was willing to accept fifteen instead of twenty thousand, even a mere ten thousand. Panditji requested him to examine the documents of the Lahore property, and promised to bring the papers the following morning.