‘There is no space on the second page for all three reports. Can Dattatreya’s statement be moved to the third page?’ he asked.
‘Have a seat,’ Kashish gestured with his hand for the man to sit down. ‘Do you know Mister Jai Puri.’
The man nodded.
‘Mr Puri wants to join our newspaper. I was explaining to him how anyone wanting to serve literature or politics takes on a grave responsibility. Service entails sacrifice. What do Mahatma Gandhi, Pandit Nehru and Sardar Patel gain from serving the nation? A writer can express his view, that’s how his service is rewarded. We all know journalism means hard work and sacrifice and very little pay. It’s nothing but poverty and penance, isn’t it, Indranath-ji?
‘Journalism is unrelenting hard work, and one must learn it,’ Kashish went on. ‘All great writers spent their lives learning their craft. Take Tolstoy, for example. Did you know, he revised the first collection of his short stories a hundred times! There is no lack of talent in young men of today, it’s there, but the element of hard work is lacking. They don’t want to learn; all they want is instant fame, status and riches. If you don’t learn to, you won’t be able to drive a motorcar. You’ll cause an accident, you certainly will. A motorcar is not that important, but politics is all about the ship of state. The journalist can, if he wants, save or capsize the ship. It’s a tremendous responsibility!’ Kashish spread his arms to balance the heavy burden of responsibility.
‘You’re right, sir!’ Indranath said, ‘each word must be weighed before it is written.’
‘All right,’ said Kashish in a low and grave voice without looking at Puri, ‘You can work here but you’ll have to learn. Go and see Babu Banarasidas. You may start today, but the salary will be decided after seeing what you can do.’
He put on his glasses, shuffled some files and papers on his desk, and said to Indranath, ‘Listen, do the layout as you want. Just give proper importance to that statement by Sardar Patel.’ The grand offer of tea to Puri was not repeated.
Indranath got up, and so did Puri. He had been welcomed as an honoured guest, as an independent writer. He was leaving as a paid subordinate to Kashish. This was bitter medicine, but with a source of livelihood now at hand, swallowing it had been less difficult.
Puri’s hours at
Pairokaar
shifted from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon for one week, from four to nine in the evening the second,
and from nine to two a.m. in the third week. A newspaper has to be in the hands of its public when they wake up in the morning, at the same time that other competing newspapers reach their readers. The editorial and production staff of a newspaper works with that deadline in mind; they cannot, therefore, keep regular office hours. As the city sleeps, the journalists work all night at their desks under bright lights. The presses roll at great speed to print their reports. At daybreak, the newspapers prepare a digest of the events of the past twenty-four hours from every corner of the world for the townspeople. All this work goes on without a hitch. The reason being the owner or the chairman of the board or the managing editor of the newspaper tells a host of underpaid sub-editors, reporters and machine operators what to do, and instructions are understood and orders carried out, irrespective of the difficulties and inconveniences, by subordinates who have mouths to feed.
As citizens stir from their sleep in the morning the newspapers are ready with their offerings, each in a distinctive style and colour. The skill of the journalist lies in putting his likes and dislikes aside, and in shaping and colouring the news in accordance with his employer’s directives. Thousands read what he has written, but as he is anonymous, the question of his convenience or comfort does not arise. Sub-editors work like machines to prepare something to print on other machines. The work was Puri’s choice, but the choice of time of work could not be his. When he would eat or sleep was decided by the needs of the newspaper. Some day he would be the chief editor and work his own hours, but that day was still years away.
Puri was unable to go to Kanak’s house for days, but he did, whenever the opportunity presented itself. And when they did meet after these intervals, it was difficult to talk only about similes, metaphors and comical allegory in some poem. Kanak could not help complaining about not seeing him for so many days. Puri too liked telling her about his work and the people at the office. Her easy and unselfconscious manner and her enthusiasm for literature were giving way to listening to him in respectful silence. She did not any longer want to ask him to expand upon an interesting or complex couplet or quatrain. He must be exhausted after work, she would think. If Panditji got up in the middle of their evening tea for some reason, they would sit quietly for some time, and then both of them would be embarrassed by their silence.
Winter had begun. Puri found time to visit Kanak one afternoon, but
only after darkness had descended. He found Panditji sitting in the living room, wearing his turban and holding his walking stick, ready to go out. ‘Come, my boy,’ he welcomed Puri loudly and fondly. He asked after Puri and praised several articles published in
Pairokaar
, thus, indirectly, complimenting Puri’s work. He told Puri that a parcel full of Hindi books for Kanak had arrived.
Soon there was the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs next to the living room. Kanak came into the room wearing a silk sari, carrying a long coat. Her face lit up when she saw Puri, but also sadness came into her eyes. She seemed to hesitate for a moment. Her younger sister Kanchan, dressed for going out, followed her into the room.
Panditji knocked with his stick on the floor, ‘Kanak dear, since Puri is here, you stay. Kanchi and I will go to Chaddha’s house. You can meet Vimla some other time. Your study comes first.’ He looked at Puri, ‘My boy, it was me who asked her to come along. But study is more important. Work is always first.’ He had a habit of saying his final sentences in English.
‘No, no. You all are dressed to go out. Please go ahead. I’ll come again tomorrow.’ Puri said considerately, not wanting to spoil the family outing.
Kanak looked helplessly at her father.
Panditji said decisively, ‘No, no, my dear fellow. Friends can be visited any time. Work is always first.’ He got up. As he was leaving, he said, ‘Get Puri some tea, dear.’ He smiled at Puri, ‘You must be tired after work. You’re very hard-working, I know.’
Kanak put her coat on the back of the sofa, and sat in the chair next to Puri. Being alone again made them silent. Each waited for the other to break the silence, but neither knew how.
‘Why are you so quiet?’ asked Puri.
‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘You say something.’ They again fell silent, enjoying each other’s presence.
Kanak remembered, ‘Let me get tea.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ Puri said. His emotion-laden voice sent a shiver through her body. She kept her eyes averted, and looked at the border of her sari as if searching for a special thread.
Seeing her quiet, he asked, ‘You feel like having tea?’
Kanak lifted her eyes for a moment, shook her head to say no, and resumed her search with trembling fingers for that special thread.
‘You have a strange look in your eyes,’ Puri found enough courage to use an intimate tone.
Every fibre in Kanak’s body tingled with excitement. She could look at him only for a second. ‘My eyes have a strange look? What about yours!’
What Puri had decided never to say came to his lips involuntarily, ‘Can I say something?’
Kanak nodded, full of anticipation.
‘You won’t mind?’
Kanak looked into his eyes and shook her head to assure him that she would not.
‘You promise?’ Puri wanted more assurance.
‘For what?’
‘That you won’t be angry.’
‘I won’t be.’
‘Give me your word.’ Puri held out his hand.
Kanak gave him a quick, upward look, then lowered her eyes. Her face was flushed. She placed her hand in his.
‘You’ve given me your word. You won’t break the vow?’ Puri asked in a trembling voice.
Kanak looked straight into his eyes, ‘Never.’ Having said what she felt in complete sincerity, she became serious. She let her hand stay in his.
To acknowledge the sincerity in her voice, he raised her hand and touched it to his forehead. He tried to control his voice, ‘I’ve asked you for a serious commitment. I know I may not be worthy of it. What do I have? Neither enough money, nor a status befitting you.’
Suppressing tears of happiness welling into her eyes and with quivering lips, Kanak said, ‘How can you say that! It’s me who’s not worthy of you. You’re a great artist, a writer.’ Unable to control herself, she covered her eyes with her aanchal and ran towards the kitchen.
Kanak told the servant to make tea, and returned with a book in her hand. She opened the book, placed a pencil between the pages to mark the place, and came and sat near Puri. Exercising her new-found right over him, she protested, ‘Why did you make that strange mention about being worthy?’
Puri was never able to be completely at ease in the affluent surroundings of her home or to forget his own poverty in the face of her easy, confident manner. He said, ‘You’re so kind and big-hearted, not telling you the truth would be a crime. I have very little money. My salary is only one hundred
rupees a month, but I have confidence in my ability to do better in future.’ Puri felt a relief pouring out his heart to Kanak about his economic situation.
Kanak’s eyes again brimmed with tears, ‘What’s money? I am not concerned with money. Everyone is aware of your talent and your capabilities?’
After that evening, they began to meet outside her home too. If Puri was busy in the evening, Kanak left the college and met him in the afternoon. The restaurants were mostly deserted at that hour. They would usually meet at the Standard on Mall Road. Never having felt any shortage of money, she was not concerned about it. Her family might not be rolling in riches, but she had no wish to amass wealth. Two of her friends were from rich families, and came to college in a motorcar. Kanak always had enough in her purse to hire a tonga. She would have happily taken the bus.
Kanak began to form a picture of her future in her mind. She had dropped the idea of appearing for the Munshi Fazil exam in Urdu literature after completing her MA. She now wanted to get into journalism, and eventually start her own literary magazine with Puri. She had no doubt that one day Puri would become a world-famous writer. Just like Premchand, Sharatchandra, Gorky, Hardy and Maugham. Their house would be surrounded by a small garden, a study with two desks in it…
IT DID NOT TAKE PURI LONG TO PROVE HIS WORTH AT
PAIROKAAR
.
HE WAS GIVEN
the job of translating the news from English that the teleprinter spewed out, and was soon asked to write editorial comments and opinion pieces. His views began to carry weight among his colleagues, and this sometimes resulted in minor differences of opinion with Kashish.
Kashish often reminded Puri, ‘Puri saheb, our paper has not published any of your short stories for a long time. You work for
Pairokaar
, your stories gets published in
Aarsi
. For us you’re a story-writer above all.’ Puri did not expect to be paid for his stories published in
Pairokaar,
so he sent them to other periodicals.
In his piece on the February 1946 Sailors’ Mutiny, Puri had made some barbed comments against the leaders of the Congress party and the Muslim League for their lack of compassion and support for the sailors. Readers had appreciated his comments, but Kashish had warned him: The popularity of the newspaper matters, but a political newspaper must not be swayed by public sentiment; its role rather is to give a direction to that sentiment.
The article also brought many of his friends back to Puri. These were members of the Student Federation and the Communist Party—Manzoor, Narendra Singh, Asad, Pradyumna, and others. They commended Puri for his views and invited him to a meeting at the Bradlaw Hall organized in support of the sailors of the Bombay revolt. Puri gave a spirited speech at the gathering. The comrades began to hope that they had found a fellow-traveller in Puri. But there were some differences that would distance him from them. Puri saw differently from the communists on the right to self-determination for religious communities. For Puri such a demand meant placing Hindus and Muslims on either side of a sectarian divide, which would result in the partition of the country into Hindustan and Pakistan.
The communists thought that the right to self-determination was the only way to sectarian harmony and to avert the partition of the country. They organized study circles to discuss this delicate issue. Tara and Kanak would occasionally show up at these meetings in the company of Surendra and Zubeida. Sometimes Puri talked to Tara at home about reports and
statements published in the newspapers, but always very briefly, and many questions remained unanswered. Puri could sense that she was beginning to lean towards the communists’ viewpoint, and was not pleased.
It was an April evening in Lahore. The city folk had put away the heavy quilts of winter and were enjoying the breezes of spring. Young women had shed the thick clothing that hid the curves of their bodies and were flitting like butterflies on Lawrence Road, and in the gardens of Anarkali and Mall Road outside the walled city. Their bright clothes competed with the flowers in the gardens and the flowers beds. Young men, their chests and shoulders braced in hope of brushing against the girls in passing, roamed the streets. That week Puri was working from nine to two in the morning. In the evening, he had met Kanak in Lawrence Garden and discussed their future plans together. His heart was filled with hope, and he now wanted to get to work.
Indranath handed him the day’s reports and suggested, ‘Give a banner headline to the news of the Senate Hall altercation.’
The news was: That day in the last session of the BA examinations at the university, the invigilating officer Professor Deen Mohammed objected to cheating by a student of the Sanatan Dharma College, Somraj Sahni, and ordered the student to surrender the answer book to him. When the student refused to comply with the order, the professor asked him to leave the Senate Hall. Before the chaprasis and guards could eject him, the student beat up the professor and left the Hall.
Puri read the whole report in one breath, frozen in his seat. Tara was foremost in his mind. He put the report away and thought, his chin cupped in his hands: If he deleted the news completely, he would have to answer to Kashish, but he himself felt disgust, not sympathy, towards Somraj
Puri edited the news report to omit the words ‘Sanatan Dharma College’ and ‘Sahni’ from the name of the student. Instead of ‘saw him cheating’ he wrote ‘mistook him to be cheating’. He changed the headline from ‘Altercation at the Senate Hall’ to ‘Confusion at the Senate Hall’. He found it difficult to concentrate on the work at hand, and had to stay an hour longer to finish it.
Masterji had relaxed the rule of waking up at dawn for Tara and Puri. They both had to study until late at night for their examinations, and were now allowed to get up late in the morning. The time Masterji thought proper to get up from the bed, those last vestiges of early morning sleep were the
sweetest for Puri. Khushal Singh, his neighbour who ran the store selling papad and bariyan, would begin to sing
asaavari
at that hour:
Mother, the time to play is very short.
I got so engrossed in play that
I forgot all about my home and family…
Khushal Singh had an ear for music and he sang the morning-time song with such feeling that the people of the gali did not mind having their sleep disturbed by his voice. Everyone wanted to linger in bed, listening to his song with eyes closed in the languor of the early morning, but Masterji would begin to chant at the same time his morning bhajan in a loud and shrill voice:
Begetter of the world, mother of the world, we salute you…
That day Puri got up as soon as he heard the newspaper vendor arrive, and went to get a copy of
Pairokaar
.
Masterji had finished his bhajan and was about to close his eyes to pray when Puri showed him the newspaper report and said, ‘This news is not good.’
Masterji read the news and his mouth opened in surprise. He said after a few moments, ‘It can be about some other person.’
‘It was Sahni, from Sanatan Dharma College. I edited out the name,’ Puri told him.
‘He won’t get through this year again,’ Masterji was worried.
‘Not only will he not pass the exam, this may go even further,’ Puri said.
‘As God wishes.’ Masterji looked at his son with a worried expression, ‘This may be serious. He might be punished for punching the professor.’
‘He should be,’ Puri said without sympathy. ‘Professor Deen Mohammed will file a complaint with the registrar. He won’t keep quiet.’
‘What’s in the newspaper?’ called Bajaj Dewanchand from the gali below. His wobbly voice showed that he was chewing on a
datun
to clean his teeth.
‘Hindu student beat up Muslim professor!’ replied Tikaram.
‘Bravo!’ said Dewanchand. ‘He must have hassled the poor boy. These Mohammedans…’ He spat out a particularly vulgar expletive.
‘Masterji! What’re you doing?’ Babu Govindram called out.
‘I’m coming, bhai saheb,’ said Masterji, trying to hide the distress in his voice, and went downstairs.
Babu Govindram was holding a copy of the daily
Chhatrapati
. It had published the same news with the name of Somraj Sahni, a student of the Sanatan Dharma College. Being Masterji’s neighbour Govindram knew about Tara’s engagement. He said to Masterji in sympathy and concern, ‘What bad luck has befallen you! How could you know? Tara is such a bright girl and the boy has done this!’
All Masterji could say was ‘As God wishes.’ and hang his head in despair.
Everyone in the family had heard the news, but no one talked about it. Tara became quiet and withdrawn. She did not eat anything, nor did she go to college. ‘I have a headache,’ she said, and stayed in bed the whole day. Her friends at college did not know about her engagement, but she still wanted to jump into the well in the gali and kill herself in shame and embarrassment.
At the school Masterji’s colleagues had but one topic of conversation. Some of them were upset with such a travesty of discipline. Most of them agreed that if university professors were insulted in this way, an ordinary schoolmaster would not be safe walking alone on the street. Such students should be flogged in public, they should be sent to jail as punishment. As an example to others, they should be expelled for life from the university. Masterji said nothing, only let out sighs of remorse.
The next day’s newspapers again carried different versions of the report. The city correspondent of
Pairokaar
reported: Professors from all colleges and the university have appealed to the university registrar for quick and proper action to discourage undisciplined behaviour at the time of examinations.
The daily
Siasat
gave the news a pro-Muslim slant: Senate Hall altercation accused at large! Summons served on Somraj Sahni, a student of the Sanatan Dharma College, to appear before the magistrate’s court. Reliable sources have confirmed that the accused is still a fugitive. The police have launched a massive manhunt.
The daily
Chhatrapati
published another version of the news: Proof of sectarian cronyism! More revelations in the Senate Hall affair! A member of the Rashtriya Swayamsewak Sangh harassed by a professor belonging to
the Muslim League. Reliable sources have confirmed that Professor Deen Mohammed, a follower of the Muslim League, had long held a grudge against the Sanatan Dharma College student Somraj Sahni. The student could not escape being a victim of Muslim fanaticism. What else to expect from a Muslim League government?
After school Masterji went to his job to tutor the boys at Seth Gopal Shah’s mansion. On his return he was told that Babu Ramjwaya had sent for him. Babu Ramjwaya seldom picked up a newspaper. He got the news from his neighbours. He rebuked his younger brother for his stupidity, ‘Why did you not go and meet Lala Sukhlal after you got the news? Have you no concern about your relations with his family? He is their son, but he’s your daughter’s fiancé too. You must go and ask after the boy.’
Ramjwaya took Masterji to Lala Sukhlal’s place in Banni Hata. A couple of other men sat commiserating with him. Ramjwaya said, referring to the Senate Hall affair, ‘After Ramlubhaya heard the news, the poor man couldn’t eat anything. The situation is not clear. What exactly happened?’
Sukhlal hurled abuse at Professor Deen Mohammed, ‘He has the nerve to insult
my
son! Who cares for that registrar! I too have contacts in Governor Lord Jenkins’ office. That mother-fucker registrar will file a criminal charge against my son! He doesn’t know me yet. If I don’t give him a shoe beating on his own doorstep, you are free to believe that my father was an untouchable bhangi! What do you know! Not a single Muslim will be left alive in Lahore. We’re Surajvanshis, we’ll die but we won’t go back on our word!’
Ramjwaya asked with some hesitation, ‘The boy is not upset, is he?’
Sukhlal said nonchalantly, ‘I don’t care a fig about this darned BA! My boy’s not going to be a clerk or a petty accountant, you know!’
After the Second World War, the British government had sent three emissaries in 1946 to arrange the handover of power to Indians. The Cabinet Mission was meeting at Simla with the representatives of the Congress party and the Muslim League. The future of the country hung on the outcome of the possibility of an understanding between the former and the latter, between Hindus and Muslims. The people of Lahore seemed oblivious of the fateful moment in their preoccupation with the Senate Hall affair, the quarrel between a Muslim professor and a Hindu student. The matter of cheating at an exam had grown into a matter of religious tension between
two communities. At the time of the legislative elections two months earlier, Lala Sukhlal had campaigned vigorously for Dr Radhey Behari. He was also Dr Radhey Behari’s right-hand man and his chief lieutenant in the Hindu Mahasabha and the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh organizations. Doctor Saheb’s advice to Chief Minister Khizr Hayat Khan was that since the affair had become a sectarian issue the Hindus would be distrustful of his government unless the matter was hushed up.
Sir Khizr, the chief minister of Punjab, was in an uncomfortable position. After the 1946 elections, the number of Congress party and Muslim League members in the House had increased while that of his own Unionist Party had gone down. He could stay in power only with the support of the Congress members. The League’s behind-the-scene machinations were to bring his ministry down. He also had to deal with the question of undisciplined behaviour, and upholding the prestige of the university. The registrar of the university, Madanmohan, was bent upon moving the high court unless an equitable solution of the Deen Mohammed affair was found. Any agitation at this time could worsen the already delicate situation; the Congress party faction too had to be appeased. The government decided to appoint a committee to investigate the matter.
Puri told his family that he had learned from reliable sources that Professor Deen Mohammed had been posted away from Lahore as the principal of Peshawar College. The professor was apparently satisfied, and had accepted the promotion as a testimonial to his diligence. Members of the investigative committee wanted to put off any decision indefinitely.
The elder sister-in-law chided Tara’s mother, ‘What’s the use of sending your daughter to college? Her education is already equal to her fiancé’s! Is she going to work as a clerk or a schoolteacher after her marriage? Will she sing lullabies to her children in English? Only those living on Mall Road and in Gwal Mandi send their daughters to college. You know, we got our Sheelo married off right after high school. See how nicely she’s settled in at her in-laws! One’s daughter is like another’s property. When the boy’s not a BA graduate, letting Tara study for her BA would make a laughing stock of you.’
Tara’s mother agreed with her. Masterji had no recourse but to agree. ‘How can anyone go against God’s will?’ he said. Tara had been allowed to join the BA programme only at Puri’s insistence. She could now be persuaded through her elder brother.
When Puri sat down for his meal, his mother called Tara over before broaching the subject, ‘You tell her, son! If her in-laws don’t want it, what’s the point of continuing her studies? We can’t afford to displease them!’