‘Oh, aren’t they all dead yet?’ Panditji asked. ‘Must be hiding in the crevices. I’ll spray the furniture once again with DDT. Still have plenty left in the can.’
‘Yes, they are really sneaky. They bite you when you least expect them,’ Nayyar said, glancing at Kanak and Kanchan.
Nayyar and the two sisters continued to joke around till late at night, if only to prevent Panditji, Kanta or Nayyar’s mother from moaning about their woes and the misfortunes.
The lights were turned off and the family went to bed. As there were more of them than the number of beds and charpoys, Kanak had to share a bed, either with Kanchan or Kanta or her mother. It was Kanak’s eighth day in Delhi, and there was still no news of Puri. She felt relieved that in the darkness, no one could see her anxiety.
Thoughts continued to whirl in her mind: Pitaji says one should not be overcome by one’s difficulties…. Is it really hard to live in poverty? Most people do; the people of the next gali are in an even worse situation than ours. So many cook their meals on the earth of the gali, do their laundry too; they even sleep in the galis. And we consider ourselves badly off! Had we always lived like this, pitaji wouldn’t have thought of Puri as unsuitable. Who knows what he’s going through? A ripple of sadness ran through her body. She must write to Ramprakash tomorrow and ask if there was a letter for her. He’s such a lazy body; just the sort to forget to forward the letter if there was one.
Since her childhood Kanak had seriously nurtured the ambition to be a writer and a journalist. Her father had encouraged her. Puri had trained her for this work. She saw herself as his comrade and life companion in this field. If she didn’t begin realizing that goal now, when would she do so? Who knew what fate had in store? If it came to living her life alone, she would live it in his memory, doing what he had taught her. Thoughts of a tough, lonely life were on her mind when she dropped off to sleep.
In Delhi, the daily routine of Panditji’s family underwent a change. The daughters did not sleep till late in the morning. If they did, their mother would begin to do the housework quietly by herself. The sisters asked Panditji and Nayyar’s mother to wake them up around six o’clock. That day, Kanchan, soon after she got up, began cleaning the kitchenware left overnight. Kanta sat at the faucet washing the family’s clothes. Kanak
wrapped her dupatta around her head and nose, and swept the rooms and the aangan with a broom.
They heard a noise outside. It sounded like Bajrang was keeping some one from coming through the gate.
Kanta called out to Kanak to investigate.
Kanak draped the dupatta around her shoulders and went to the gate. She came back with a slim Punjabi girl in tow. Newspapers were tucked under the girl’s arm.
Regarding Kanta as the senior, the girl said to her, ‘Bahinji, do you take newspapers? May I deliver the paper every morning?’
A bit surprised, Kanta paused in her work and said, ‘Yes, sister, come, have a seat.’
The girl handed Kanak a newspaper, ‘Don’t ask anyone else to deliver. I shall come every day. No credit, though.’
Nayyar’ mother had also come out, she said, ‘Come, daughter, sit. Where are your people from? Who are your parents? Sit down for a moment.’
‘Maaji, what’s the point of asking me that? I’ll deliver the paper.’
Panditji stepped forward to greet the girl and wish her success. He paid her for the newspaper.
The girl left. From her speech and dress, she seemed to be educated and from a middle-class family.
‘Girls like us, our sisters, have to sell newspapers,’ Kanta dabbed at her eyes with her dhoti’s aanchal.
‘What’s the harm?’ said Kanak, ‘I will too, if the need arises.’
‘Bravo! That’s my lion-hearted daughter,’ Panditji roared approvingly. ‘These are the lion-hearted girls of Punjab. No one can kill the Punjabi people. They will survive! I saw with my own eyes people displaced in the Bengal famine, the earthquake victims of Bihar, those uprooted by the flood disasters in UP, all they did was to beg. But this is the real Punjabi spirit!’ He took off his glasses and used the end of his shirtfront to wipe away his tears.
Everyone was silent. Kanta resumed her washing. Kanchan went back to doing the dishes. Kanak again wrapped the dupatta around her head and face, and picked up the broom. After some time she fetched her father a parantha and a glassful of lassi. When the two were alone, she said, ‘Pitaji, I want to try to find a job here in some newspaper office.’
Panditji agreed, ‘Yes, beta, why not!’
Gandhiji had left Calcutta with the mission of trying to restore calm in western Pakistan, but reports of the situation in Delhi made him hang his head in shame and pain. How could he accomplish anything in Pakistan unless peace first prevailed in India? He made a vow not to leave Delhi unless there was complete peace in the city, even if he had to sacrifice his life in the effort. The Congress government put the city under very strict military control. Orders were given to shoot rioters and troublemakers at sight. Army regiments from southern India were called in to replace soldiers from Garhwal and Sikh regiments. These new soldiers could not distinguish between the Hindu and Muslim inhabitants of northern India.
The majority of Muslims living in Delhi had been moved into evacuee camps. Those who did not want to leave Delhi had been funnelled into Urdu Bazaar, Ajmeri Gate and Hauz Kazi mohallas, and cordoned off by armed soldiers for their safety.
Girls and women from the families of Hindu refugees faced a different problem. Of necessity they had to go out to do their daily housekeeping chores. Since the new arrivals were strangers to one another, there were instances of inconsiderate behaviour and calling of remarks against women. Sometimes two groups of Hindu refugees complaining about the harassment and eve-teasing of their daughters and sisters clashed with each other. Panditji’s daughters began going out only when escorted by Nayyar or his younger brother.
Kanak, Kanchan and Nayyar went out one morning to do some shopping and also for a breath of fresh air. As they stepped out, Kanak said to her brother-in-law, ‘Jiai, you’ll soon go off to Jalandhar. Help me today. I want to visit some newspaper offices. I’m totally unfamiliar with the bazaars and roads here.’
They discussed which newspapers they should go to. Besides several old well-established English, Hindi and Urdu newspapers, the Urdu dailies
Pairokaar
and
Sardar
had begun publishing from the city a month ago.
Nayyar said, ‘If you’re serious about taking up journalism as a profession, in my opinion you should begin at some English daily, even as an apprentice, for some months.’
‘Why?’
Nayyar replied, ‘I think that the atmosphere of an English newspaper office would be more to your liking and taste. Urdu newspapers don’t
seem to have high professional standards. It would not be appropriate for a woman to work there.’
Nayyar was speaking in English, so Kanak also protested in English, ‘What nonsense!’ She suspected that Nayyar was having a dig at Puri. ‘I don’t believe so. Neither do I have sufficient command of English, nor am I able to express myself well in English.’ She began to argue, ‘And how can we reach the masses through English?’
‘I don’t know about that. But it’s the English papers that sell the most,’ Nayyar tried to explain his reasoning.
‘Excuse me,’ said Kanak, ‘but that’s a rather servile attitude, a result of foreign domination. If you count the readers of all the newspapers published in the vernacular languages, the readers of English newspapers wouldn’t amount to much. I’m more at home in my own language.’
‘Do as you please,’ Nayyar ended the conversation.
Nayyar and Kanak first went to the office of
Pairokaar
. Kanak was introduced to its editor Karam Chand Kashish as the daughter of Pandit Girdharilal, the nationalist leader of Lahore. Kashish was reminded that
Pairokaar
had already published an article by Kanak, and a short story written by her had appeared in its weekly magazine. Several other articles written by Kanak were also mentioned. She explained her wish to work at
Pairokaar
, and asked for the editor’s help and advice.
Kashish was delighted to meet the daughter of an old acquaintance. He was full of praise for the promise that Kanak had shown as a writer, and gave his word that
Pairokaar
would welcome her contributions in future, as well as help her in getting recognition as a journalist. He seemed ready to do anything to help the daughter of someone as respectable as Panditji.
‘But,’ he placed his elbows on the desk, interlaced the fingers of both hands, and spoke in English as if sharing a secret, ‘you’re just like my own daughter. Believe me, and I’m telling you the truth, that a newspaper office is not a place fit for a respectable woman. I’d never advice the daughter of my esteemed friend to work in one. Would it be proper for a young woman to work surrounded by so many men? There’s a lot of loose talk and indecent jokes in such places. Not fit for a girl from any respectable family. My advice would be to work at some school for girls, or do social work among women.’
Kashish thumped the desk with his hand, ‘Tell you what! I have an idea.’
He snapped his fingers, ‘Go to the camps and talk with refugee women. Listen to their stories and write them up with a little imagination. I’ll myself edit the text to improve it. That’s the work for someone with real talent. The staff of a newspaper mostly does routine work. We’ll publish your articles regularly, I promise.’
When they were outside, Nayyar blurted out, ‘Rogue! Felt like telling him so.’
Kanak agreed with her brother-in-law, ‘You can’t expect decent behaviour from people like him.’
Their meetings at two other, older newspapers were less than encouraging. One already had several apprentices; the other was disinclined to assume the burden of a new employee when they could not even accommodate their own trainees.
The premises of
Sardar
contained a motley assortment of printing press equipment. The presses stood on an unpaved floor under a temporary roof of tarpaulin and corrugated iron sheets. The office was in a room at the back of a veranda, with basic furniture of wood planks nailed together. A table fan placed on an upturned packing box in one corner turned at top speed. Stones and pieces of rusted metal served as paperweights on desks. A teleprinter stood ticking, next to a wall.
The owner–editor was not in. Sewa Ram Charkh, his deputy, was keeping an eye on everything. Nayyar spoke with him, then introduced Kanak and briefly mentioned her interest.
The businesslike Charkh did not seem happy at this interruption, even for the sake of a young woman. He did not ask Kanak and Nayyar to sit down. There were no extra chairs, or any extra room to put them. He listened to Nayyar with a pen in his hand, and then placed it in an inkwell. He spoke slowly, drawling his words, ‘Yes, yes! I understand, but if there was an opening we’d hire our former employees. On the staff of a newspaper, you work until late at night. For a woman.’
‘Sahib has arrived,’ a peon announced.
A youngish fit-looking man, wearing a dazzling white kurta, white churidar pajama trousers, a white well-ironed Gandhi cap with sharp creases, and sun glasses walked in. Everyone, including the middle-aged Charkh, left whatever they were doing and stoop up.
The sahib went through the cluttered room, picking his way carefully
through the maze of furniture. He looked at Kanak and Nayyar. His dark glasses hid any expression in his eyes. Nayyar smilingly said namaste, and asked in English, ‘May I have a moment of your time?’
The sahib looked again at Kanak and stopped. He replied in English, ‘Sure, sure! Please come upstairs with me to my office.’
Upstairs were two rooms on either side of a small aangan. In one, two men sat working at a desk. Over the door to the second hung a cloth-lined
chick
blind. Beside it was a name plate: S.P. Aseer, Editor–Director.
The peon ran ahead and raised the blind. Aseer stepped aside, to let Kanak and Nayyar enter, ‘Please!’
A dhurrie covered the floor. In one corner stood a modern office desk, gleaming with polish, and three expensive-looking chairs. Four easy chairs around a low, circular table occupied the other half.
Aseer held out some papers in his hand to the peon, ‘Give these to the manager.’ Then he inquired the purpose of their visit. He had removed his dark glasses. Smallish eyes above his fleshy cheeks had a sharp look. Kanak thought him to be a serious person.
Nayyar went into a lengthy introduction of Panditji and Kanak, and a brief one of himself. He smiled as he explained that Kanak wanted to work at
Sardar
.
Aseer asked Kanak about her college education, and what work she had done in Lahore. He said, ‘You were probably also in the movement of ’42 and ’43? … People like us were involved in everything.’
After a few moments of quiet reflection, he said in English, ‘Newspaper work has many sides: proofreading, copy-editing, columns, editorials. The truth is that if you want to do just copy-editing, news selection and translation, we may not have any vacancy. A number of experienced journalists are already looking for that type of work. If you are really interested and have talent—you’re a fiction writer aren’t you—your talent would be wasted in such work. You wouldn’t be able to do any serious work if you get stuck in such drudgery. My father made me go through the mill only as a learning experience. Remember, the real test of a journalist’s talent is not in the newspaper office, but in the field. The real skill is to analyse the situation, to grasp its essence, its presentation; to create news, to create opinion. If you want to do all that, you’re welcome. All famous journalists … I mean people like Gunther, Fisher, Ehrenburg, Paula Hicks, Iqbal … which of these ever worked in a newspaper office? They wouldn’t
be what they turned out to be if they’d been stuck at some office job…’
Aseer opened a tin of cigarettes and offered it to Kanak, ‘Do you?’
‘Thanks. I don’t smoke.’
Aseer gave one to Nayyar and lit one himself.