This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (7 page)

Jaidev remembered his ideal of a suitable life companion, of a spouse with an intellectual and artistic bent. ‘Saved myself from getting trapped in that quicksand just in time,’ he told himself.

JAIDEV PURI HAD SENT THE STORIES HE’D WRITTEN IN JAIL TO SEVERAL PLACES
for publication. He was already known as a young, promising writer, but these four stories had been specially praised and noticed. Two of them had appeared in the Sunday editions of
Pairokaar
and
Nishat
. All this praise had gone to his head, and although he had no job and no money in his pocket, he now began to hold his head even more proudly over his habitually erect back.

An introductory note about the author published with his story in
Pairokaar
said in florid, Farsi-heavy Urdu, ‘This publication has the honour of presenting, for the enjoyment of our readers, a story by that incomparable chronicler of human nature, Jaidev Puri, writer par excellence and foremost among new writers. Jai Puri is still young, but his literary maturity has left its mark on the forefront of world literature.’

Emissaries of various newspapers and magazines would seek out Jaidev and convey personal requests from their editors for his short stories, light essays and humorous sketches. No one ever talked of any payment for his work; as if they did not want to insult the writer by equating his immense talent with a few measly rupees. But Puri kept rolling in the throes of torment because he was unable to earn anything to help his family.

What’s the worth of my talent, he’d ask himself, if I have no place to work, not even a writing desk to practise that talent! I sit twiddling my thumbs while my father breaks his back working. My mother is overworked, always tired and short-tempered. My sisters worry over their clean clothes as if their lives depended on it. I don’t have proper, decent clothes for going out. Should I go and ask for work in some newspaper, he thought many times, those people are the least likely to refuse me. But buoyed up by the good reviews and compliments his stories had received and awash in a feeling of self-worth, he waited for a job to be offered to him. The problem was: what would he do until that offer came?

Puri got a novel to translate from Adayara Munavvar, an Urdu publisher. He completed a part of the work in a week’s time, hoping for payment, but the publisher was not too anxious to bring it out. Lekhram Sharma, a sub-editor at
Pairokaar
and an old acquaintance of Puri, knew about his
dilemma. Beside his newspaper job, Sharma occasionally did translation work for Naya Hind Publications. He suggested to Puri, ‘Why don’t you meet Pandit Girdharilal, the owner of Naya Hind? There might be a chance of some tutoring work. You have a good knowledge of Hindi.’

Kanak, the second daughter of Pandit Girdharilal, was studying for her MA in English literature and wanted to sit for a Hindi exam. There was a recent wave of interest in Punjab, especially among women, to learn the Hindi language. Puri, too, had passed the Prabhakar, an exam of competency in Hindi, when he was in the first year of his MA.

Pandit Girdharilal was an old nationalist of liberal views; his daughters could wear sari in public. Under her father’s influence, Kanak had begun to lean towards the Student Congress, the youth wing of the Congress party. She had often taken part in demonstrations and meetings at the time of the 1942 movement. Clad in a fine white khaddar sari, she stood out from the rest of the crowd. Puri had noticed her, but they’d never had occasion to speak to one another.

Panditji knew only Urdu and English. He was interested in literature; rather his interest in literature had led him into the publishing business. Kanak had been taught some Hindi at school, but her bent had been towards Urdu. She wanted to do her MA in English literature, and then pass the Munshi Fazil exam in Urdu. In a surge of nationalist feeling, she decided to appear for the Hindi Prabhakar exam.

Puri received a message that Panditji wanted to consult him about guiding Kanak in the study of literature, especially in the Hindi language. He found Kanak to be interested in literature and particularly respectful towards him as her tutor. She had read all the short stories and some poems that Puri had published; she had even read two of the stories to her literature-loving father. She introduced Puri to Mahendra Nayyar, her brother-in-law, as if it was Nayyar’s good fortune to meet him. Nayyar had a law practice in the high court, and lived in his own bungalow in Model Town.

Panditji broached the subject in a roundabout way. He was aware, he said, that time given by anyone with Puri’s reputation was worth a lot. Would Puri be able to help Kanak study Hindi language and literature three times a week, or whenever it was convenient for him to teach? Considering his time was valuable, what would be an appropriate sum to help the girl, whom he should regard as his sister, gain some appreciation of literature?

After he got a little acquainted with Kanak, the idea of being in her father’s pay became unpalatable to Puri. The bitter experience of tutoring Urmila was still fresh in his memory. His feeling of self-respect overrode his need for money. He agreed to tutor Kanak occasionally on the condition that no mention of money was ever made.

Puri began going to Gwal Mandi to tutor Kanak nearly every other day. Panditji was respected both in political and publishing-literary circles. Puri was pleased to gain entry into a well-regarded family. But he took care that neither Kanak’s family, nor his own got to know anything about his financial situation. He would dress in his best trousers and shirt while visiting them. His shoes would be polished.

Panditji’s press and warehouse were on Kele Wali Sarak, but his own office was on the ground floor of his residence in Sadhuram’s Gali. The family’s living room was next to his office. When he finished his office work around six and sat down for tea in the living room, he would call Kanak and his youngest daughter Kanchan to join him. Kanak’s mother was quiet and withdrawn, and seldom spoke more than two sentences at a time. If all the kitchen work were over, she would begin to wash clothes. When there were no dirty clothes, she would mend the washed clothes and sew on buttons. Or she would just pick and clean enough spices, lentils and grain for grinding to last the family a month. She always seemed busy. When she did not feel well, she would lie down in the aangan, cover herself and stay there until she felt better. She refused to join the rest of her family in the living room. She belonged to a different generation and was not willing to change.

Puri tutored Kanak in the living room. Panditji had brought up his daughters Kanta, Kanak and Kanchan in liberal tradition. They did not shut up or feel embarrassed in the company of men. When other families hired a young man to tutor their girls, an older relative would sit beside the girl to keep her company, and more to keep an eye on the male tutor. No such thing happened at Panditji’s house.

Puri began to visit Panditji’s house not as a paid tutor, but as someone of equal standing and status, and a welcome guest. He would turn up at five or later, if that suited him. Panditji had instructed that tea should be served to him. Sometimes Panditji would join Puri and Kanak, not to keep watch, but to enjoy poetry in the Brij dialect or the works of poets from other times. He would listen intently and say
wah wah
in appreciation. Sometimes
he would compare a couplet or the lines of a Hindi poem with an Urdu sher or lines from a ghazal. This would lead to a discussion on the finer points of literature, and from there on, to current political issues, Puri’s jail experience and many other topics. Sometimes Kanak would show Puri an article or short story she had written, and ask his advice.

Puri had been tutoring Kanak for only two weeks when the thought of seeing her in the evening began to fill his days. The memory of Urmila and the rage in his heart against women were blown away by the cultured and sophisticated behaviour of Kanak, just as earth scorched by the blazing sun of May and June is turned green and fertile by the monsoon rains. It was not that Puri had not felt attracted towards any other girl before meeting Kanak, but her company washed away even the remnants of bitter memories as the rising sun dispels the lingering mist of early dawn.

Was there any girl who did not appear attractive in the flower of her youth! But Kanak’s charm had a special appeal. She had a glowing, light tan complexion, a slim but developed figure that made her look tall. Her easy, unselfconscious manner left a lingering impression. The prestige and status of her family made her charm and elegance appear twice as attractive to the ambition-filled heart of Puri.

Aware of his own feelings towards Kanak, he would try to gauge how she felt for him. Then he would feel depressed and ashamed by his unemployment and the differences in their social and economic status. To be able to stand next to her and feel her equal, he needed the firm ground of employment beneath his feet.

Two months had now passed since his release from prison. His sixth short story had been published, and had received attention and praise like his earlier works. Editors of magazines and newspapers would ask him for his writing, but not if he needed a job. How long can I wait to be asked? he thought. Going to Kanak’s house made his own family’s poor circumstances more unbearable.

Feeling helpless, Puri went to Dr Prabhu Dayal, who lived across from him. The doctor had moved to Bhola Pandhe’s Gali just before Puri’s imprisonment. He had passed the MBBS examination in 1942. He could have easily found a good job in the army, but owing to his nationalist feelings, he was trying to set up an independent practice. He took part in the Congress party activities and worked as an assistant to Dr Radhey Behari; he was also helping the organization to prepare for the coming elections.

Dr Radhey Behari had written a letter to the Rent Control Office, and in spite of the wartime housing shortage, a spacious house was allotted to Prabhu Dayal at a very low rent. Dr Radhey Behari was one of the main leaders of the Congress party, and an influential member of the Punjab Legislative Assembly. Ministers in Sir Khizr Hayat’s government sought his advice. His word was considered a command in the Hindu community.

Puri went with Prabhu Dayal to Dr Radhey Behari’s office. Prabhu Dayal introduced Puri by mentioning his loyalty to the Congress party’s programme and how he had been sent to prison for taking part in the underground movement. He also talked about Puri’s standing as a writer, and his own concern about Puri’s economic troubles. Dr Radhey Behari heard all this, and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Prabhu Dayal took Puri to Dr Radhey Behari’s house again one afternoon, when he was alone. He repeated what he had said about Puri’s work for the Congress party, the incident of his being sent to prison, and his literary reputation, and without mincing his words said, ‘Before going to jail, he was with the socialist faction. The elections are coming, and it’ll be better if he stayed with us. Why should others benefit from his skill?’

Dr Radhey Behari was the chairman of the board of directors of
Pairokaar
newspaper. He dictated a letter to the typist for the chief editor of
Pairokaar
, Karam Chand Kashish.

The editor of
Pairokaar
called Puri in as soon as his arrival was announced. In spite of the importance of his position and the difference in their ages, Kashish stood up to receive him and extended his arms in welcome. After shaking Puri’s hand, he held on to it for several seconds to show his affection and respect, saying, ‘Welcome! Welcome! Please have a seat.’ He made Puri sit down before settling back in his own chair. He offered him a cigarette from his cigarette case.

Puri did not smoke, out of deference to his father and also because he had had no chance to learn the habit. He had only smoked a couple of times before now. He lit the cigarette without hesitation and blew out the smoke. The screen of smoke will help in talking to the shrewd editor, he thought.

Kashish asked, ‘Mister Puri, your pleasure is my command. What will you have: tea, coffee or a cold drink?’

Puri was a bit flustered. He was not accustomed to such fine treatment except at Kanak’s place.

‘Please don’t bother,’ he said, ‘I don’t want anything at the moment.’

‘How can that be!’ Kashish protested, repeating his offer with twice the vehemence. ‘A promising and talented writer like you honours us by coming to this office, and we can’t have the good fortune of serving him tea! Well, would you like some cake or mithai with your tea?’

Puri had said no. He had to stick to his refusal, ‘I just had tea at a friend’s place.’

‘That’s all right.’ Kashish said. ‘Maybe later; there’s no hurry.’ He placed his elbows on the desk, entwined the fingers of both hands, and leaned towards Puri. His burning cigarette remained in the ashtray. He said again, ‘Puri saheb, tell me what you have for us. We’ll be publishing a special number on the occasion of Dussehra.’

In this torrent of praise Puri had no heart to show the letter recommending him for employment. He began to say, ‘I want to help you as much as I can…’

Kashish struck the desk with his fist in excitement, and asked eagerly, ‘What are you writing now? I want something that will touch the readers, capture their hearts.’

Puri tried to come back to the subject, ‘Editor saheb, I have to think of my time and of the circumstances…’

Kashish interrupted him, ‘Time! Inspiration comes to an artist like this.’ He snapped his fingers together. ‘Then it’s only a question of putting it to paper. I too write like that.’

Puri shifted in his chair, ‘One can’t get inspired when one is involved in other work. I want to earn my living through writing, beginning with your paper.’ Before Kashish could interject, he added, ‘Dr Radhey Behari has given me a letter for you.’ He placed the envelope on the desk.

Kashish’s face became serious at the name of Dr Radhey Behari. He took out the letter and read it. Placing the letter on the desk, he took off his glasses and began to rub his eyes with the cushion of his palms, as if now the mind rather than the eyes were needed. He lit a fresh cigarette, blew out the smoke towards the ceiling, and said, ‘My friend, it’s no joke to serve literature and politics.’ His voice now had a different tone. The door to his office opened and he paused. A young man wearing pajama and shirt and holding sheets of paper stepped in. Kashish asked him, ‘Yes, bhai?’