Why is it necessary for every single thing to have a reason? She got up and checked the chain on the door one more time. Turned off the light. Total darkness.
No.
The dim yellow light of the weak bulb in the bathroom almost reassured her. She touched her head. Maybe the light reached there too, or was that just nothing but darkness as well? Being uprooted from one’s old haunts, far from old attachments, and leaving behind one’s homeland, were these all the same thing? From Lahore to Delhi and Delhi to Sirohi—
How would she decipher this new script? A new princely alphabet! Was she coming to recognize the new landscape? A new atmosphere: What is this haze I’m emerging from? she wondered.
A choice: she’d filled out the MA form, and she’d applied to that advertisement she’d seen. It was a foreign feeling. She’d been of two minds: I should not be too far from us, and not too close to them. If only I’d gone back to the station—or should I just postpone this anxiety until tomorrow?
She closed her eyes. The striking of the bell. Twelve. Still long to morning.
All at once, the crunch of heavy boots, as though bits of an army were passing by. She panicked. The Belcha Party. From the Gujarat bullion market emerges a political party in military-style uniforms.
Are you afraid?
No.
The protected world inside the large wooden door of the haveli. That wooden gate three panels high, studded imposingly with brass nails.
In the wide-open yard, a small well with a paved platform. Ahead, the doorway—the main entrance to the haveli. Upstairs-downstairs, bedrooms, ramparts, sitting rooms and those narrow stairs going down to the cellars.
One day she’d opened that little gate.
Darkness, soaked in the stale stench of decay. Emptiness. And in that cave-like dirty cellar, what should appear to me but an owl. We started looking at one another, then I ran upstairs. I started shouting: ‘In the cellar, I saw—an owl! His eyes like two buttons!’
My grandmother scolded me: ‘Child, don’t say that word. You must have seen some other bird!’
‘No, Granny, no. I know it was an owl.’
Granny called me over to her. ‘Forget about it. You saw nothing at all.’
‘Why not, Granny?’
‘In whatever home this inauspicious sign takes hold, either the inhabitants cease to live or the building itself is destroyed.’
And so it had come to pass. The very city had slipped from beneath their feet.
She touched her forehead to make sure owl eyes had not sprung up there. Shut the door on old memories. There’s nothing for us there now. We are beyond that geography, that history, now.
Shake off those sights, those memories. Throw them away.
Go to sleep.
Granny had been at the Eminabad farm. She had run through the fields and reached the gurdwara at Rori Sahib.
Her youngest uncle had been left behind, his leg twisted in pain. The gun at the farm was of no use to him, the crowd advancing towards the farm. When he got the news, Maulu had taken her uncle down from the rooftop room. He placed him in a sack and lifted it on his shoulders. He covered his head with a shawl and stowed him in his hut. His wife sat before the hearth, cooking dinner, while Maulu went out and joined the mob, looting and killing. Late at night, when the crowd had broken up, Maulu threw Uncle’s sack over his shoulder and carried him through the fields to Rori Sahib.
Granny had given Maulu blessings, and Uncle had taken the handkerchief from his pocket and handed Maulu the licence for the gun. ‘Maulu!’ he said. ‘Give me your hand and take these keys to the storeroom. Consider this a promise: from today, the farm and the house are yours. Son, don’t let anyone else get their hands on them.’
Maulu had respectfully taken leave of Granny and disappeared into the darkness.
Uncle Dhanraj, who’d come down from Razmak, had left Rawalpindi by plane. He’d escaped with his family, but for months he secretly regretted that he’d never be able to get back the carpets he’d left with Thomas Cook. Whoever heard him complain of this would simply stare at him. That hell he escaped—didn’t he know what was going on? Remember that girl Dropada of Jalalpur Kikna? She stayed behind of her own volition and the enemies made her their mistress.
Her mother’s elder brother from Lala Musa searched for his only son in camps, the son’s blanket wrapped around his neck. He’d ask everyone he recognized: ‘Did you see him get on the train? He must have got on the wrong car.’
Someone said, pitying the old man, ‘Only one train made it out of Lala Musa. But not a single heartbeat survived in that train of corpses.’
‘Who knows, maybe he had the chance to board somewhere in the middle.’
‘Stay in the Amritsar camp, friend—some day you’ll find your son.’
Somewhere outside dogs began to bark.
The clock struck one.
She got up and sprinkled water on her face, peered out the window and tried going to sleep with her head at the foot of the bed.
Suddenly she woke with a start from a light sleep that still swam before her eyes. Was that a noise? She looked at her watch. It was close to morning. She went and stood at the nearest window. She looked outside. A faint light radiated from behind the hill. Day was breaking, like an old habit, stretching out anew. The blue of the sky and the murk of the brown earth coyly courted one another from each side. All that was visible was old, perhaps the very oldest: this earth, that sun and that hillock. As the sun rose, the brilliant scarves of sunlight rippled across the hills. Both ends of the slender scarf-trails began to take shape and the thickets of trees sparkled in the light of Suraj, the Sun God.
But how does this compare?
No. Why compare?
Fields bursting with crops. Earth, eternally greening. No shortage of water, nor sunlight, nor shade. It’s just that that is no longer our homeland. Don’t look over there. Don’t keep thinking about over there. Now it’s time to look ahead at the bend in the road, not behind.
Time.
Into this Time, the territory with which our existence was bound has been forever lost. It defined us. The earthquake of politics has swallowed it up. What was up has now come down. What was down has now been levelled. We are all beyond that border now, and that border is beyond us. Erase the unthinkable from your mental canvas. The outgoing government has punished us and the incoming government has taxed us.
Long live India!
Long live Pakistan!
Why won’t those voices disappear? Painful, like glass melting into our ears. Look ahead. Stop following that dream which has disappeared into a foreign country.
Someone tapped on the door. She started, and stepped gingerly over to the door as though a crowd stood outside.
‘Who is it?’
‘Bai ji, it’s me, Devla. I’ve come to ask about tea.’
A twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy in a loose turban.
‘If you’re bringing tea, then bring it.’
‘Bai ji, should I bring it plain in a cup, or . . .’
‘No, no. Bring the tea, milk and sugar all separate.’
‘In the kettle, right?’
‘Yes, bring that.’
He nodded his head, ‘Okay, Bai ji.’
She began to pace about the veranda as she waited for the tea.
When she didn’t see Devla coming, she went inside. She wrapped her shawl around her, shut the door, and began wandering about outside. Out front, she saw Devla walking along with a pot of milk.
‘You’re just bringing the milk now? When will I get my tea?’
He laughed.
‘The hearth was just lit in the kitchen, Bai ji.’
That seemed strange.
‘If the tea wasn’t ready, why did you come so early to ask about it, Devla?’
‘Sumer Singh Uncle told me, “Go and ask.”’
‘Who is Sumer Singh?’
‘The Kitchen in-Charge.’
She made a mental note: Error at
the beginning of the day, wait and see what happens next.
She went out towards the wide street to wander about.
The birds had begun chirping. Temple bells pealed. The noisy rhythm of the city had begun to sway softly in the air. Up ahead, in the open expanse, stood a building. Colwin High School. Colwin must have been the name of the British Commissioner or the Resident.
A Studebaker hummed down the street at a genteel pace, a banner fluttering above it. Someone from the royal family perhaps.
The wheels of the car infused her with fresh energy. A body in motion can speed ahead.
And you.
Even after arriving here, you’re still looking back.
Who knows why I’m always so moody.
It was already eight-thirty and she was still waiting for tea. Did the old princely clocks really run so slowly?
Devla appeared with the tray at exactly nine o’clock. He set it on the table and asked, ‘What time would you like breakfast?’
She looked at him with interest.
‘What can I get for breakfast?’
‘Paratha with yoghurt. Paratha with omelette.’
‘And?’
‘Paratha with chai.’
‘Okay, paratha with yoghurt.’
‘How many parathas should I bring?’
‘Just one.’
As she took her clothes from her suitcase, she became distracted. Will I like it here? Who knows. Perhaps I’m worrying too much. Has my desire to make decisions grown weak, or does insight make one capable of sensing what is to come? Nothing is in my hands now. But at least you are yourself. You read the advertisement in the paper. You learnt of the new situation here from Desai Uncle. On his suggestion, you looked at the gazetteer in the Secretariat Library. How can you be conflicted about staying here now? Why this apathy? She took the small packet Desai Uncle had given her from her suitcase. She put a copy of his letter to Divan Sahib in her purse.
A horn honked outside.
I hope it’s not for me!
The driver held out an envelope: ‘I’ve come to get you; Divan Sahib awaits you at breakfast,’ he said.
She felt light-hearted: she was ready to go. Seated in the jeep, she saw the city for the first time with open eyes.
But how intelligent is it to look for Lahore or Delhi in every city? she chided herself.
From the slopes of the high fort and palaces, the jeep turned down towards a dense colony.
A bazaar like any other: turbans and Gandhi caps on cushions. Clusters of ghaghras, cholis and orhnis dangling and fluttering like festive garlands of tambourines. The debate was still ongoing in the Delhi papers: Would Sirohi go to Rajasthan or Gujarat? The Ambaji temple is there. Under the pressure of the devotees, Sardar Patel’s insistence on bringing it into Gujarat would perhaps bear some fruit.
5
The Divan’s stunning pattedar stood at attention on the stairs, upholding the dignity of the kingdom of Sirohi, both new and old, in the turban on his head. The golden-red cummerbund about his waist was reminiscent of the attire of a warrior wielding a shield and sword. Really, who could ignore such a historical creature? The Divan’s powerful seal was affixed to the front of his turban. He glanced over Bai with a coolly experienced gaze, then nodded slightly and motioned with his hand: ‘Please enter. Divan Sahib is seated in the drawing room.’
She crossed the courtyard and saw that the floor was covered in a bright white cloth. The Divan’s mature, intelligent face lent a paternal demeanour to this ornamentation and decor as he leaned back on a bolster and pillow propped against the wall. His persona was completely the opposite of the usual Rajput mien. Divan Sahib’s legal pen rested neatly in the penholder on his low table, challenging the whims of the populace with controlled silence. Be patient. At times one must submit a request.
‘Good morning, sir!’
‘Come, daughter.’
Divan Sahib stood and greeted her in a simple, straightforward tone, ‘Let’s go over there. That’s where breakfast will be served.’
They crossed the threshold into the dining room. Two low square tables were joined and set for breakfast right in the centre of the room, with bolsters on all sides.
Divan Sahib’s place was at the north end. A tray of fruit was already set out.
She avoided the bolster to the east of Divan Sahib and was about to sit against the one across from him, when he said, ‘Sit here, daughter, next to me. I trust you had no troubles on the way?’
‘No, sir. I reached here comfortably.’
‘We had reserved a seat for you, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
She took Desai Uncle’s packet from her purse and held it out to Divan Sahib.
‘Desai and I are friends from Ahmedabad,’ he said. ‘We studied at the same school. We went our separate ways for college, but continued to see one another. When he got to Delhi, I’d finished law and moved out here.’
A shy young woman dressed in a lehenga and veiled in a dupatta placed the breakfast on the table. Hot halwa and puri-aloo.
Divan Sahib asked, ‘Do Desai and your father know one another?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Daughter, you will have no problems here whatsoever. If you grow fond of this city, then no more worries. It’s a small society. Of the old style. If you remain alert to that you’ll have no trouble. Time will pass pleasantly. People are nice. But, yes, they do keep an eye on one another.’
It seemed that Divan Sahib was going to interview her.
A spoonful of sweet chutney was placed on her plate.
‘Taste that, it’s good.’
She felt a bit wary.
‘Once, Desai got off the train to see me on his way from Delhi to Ahmedabad and arrived here without warning. He said, “Thakur, I must commend you. You’ve settled into a very ancient world.”
‘“I know the strengths of your Delhi,” I replied. “The old British Raj and Delhi must be exactly the same as always. Am I wrong?”
‘We two laughed at one another in our own style.’
She could tell that Divan Sahib’s ancient eyes had their own way of seeing things.
She finished chewing and said, ‘Yesterday, when I was coming from the station, I too was wondering why I had come so far.’
‘At a tough time you decided to take action, and that pleased me. Look, daughter, there’s no need to make a decision in haste. I understand. If you can stay here, we will be happy, and if you make up your mind to go back, we will file your visit away as an interview. Your travel expenses will be reimbursed.’
‘Thank you, I am grateful. But Divan Sahib, that would not be right.’
‘No, don’t think like that. On our side, nothing is left to be done. You are free to find any condition here at all displeasing. We will simply say we did not care for the candidate.’
Worried now, she said, ‘Sir, say whatever you wish, but not that. This is my first interview.’
‘I understand. What city are you from in Pakistan?’
‘Gujrat.’
Divan Sahib laughed.
‘As it happens, I am also from Gujrat. My ancestors also came from there to here. From Sitalabad. It must have been somewhere right around Gujrat.
‘Yes, Gujrat is in the foothills of Jammu and Kashmir. The old trail to Kashmir starts right from there. All the fields where the Mughal emperors pitched their camps are now called Shah Jehangir Field.
‘Our legends and historical stories are so interesting. You’ve read Tod’s Rajasthan?’
‘No, indeed, I only looked at the gazetteer before coming. Desai Uncle urged me to.’
‘Ah, I see! Daughter, when you came from Lahore, what college were you studying at? Kinnaird?’
‘No, sir, I wasn’t admitted there. I wasn’t a good enough student. So I went to Fateh Chand College.’
‘How was the hostel?’
‘Fine.’
‘And Montessori education—you have a first class in that. Did you
do the course in Delhi?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you find it interesting?’
‘I used it to teach the children in the camp when I was working there. The institutions that were running such schools for refugees educated some of us. I was inspired by them.’
‘You have been invited here on your own merits. Desai doesn’t enter into it at all. You haven’t been invited due to his recommendation. But, yes, you do know where we will get the Montessori supplies for the preschool, don’t you? There’s only one firm in Bombay—Talakshi and Company.’
‘Thank you, sir. If I work here, I will not give you any opportunity for complaint.’
‘Your principal’s testimonial was quite interesting.’
‘Yes, she herself is a very good poet and she has praised my own small efforts. She encourages me.’
‘Have you published anything?’
‘Yes, sir, one story, “Sikka Badal Gaya”—“The Currency Has Changed”. It was published in Pratik.’
‘What sort of a journal is Pratik?’
‘Very serious and literary. The editor is the great Hindi poet and novelist Agyeya.’
The guard placed a red satchel in the front room, glanced over at the table from a distance, then went outside. She looked up at the wall clock. Then at her wristwatch.
‘Sit for now,’ said the Divan Sahib. ‘Zutshi Sahib must be on his way.’
She had just popped fennel and cardamom in her mouth when the guard glanced in and announced, ‘Hukum, Director Sahib.’
She and Divan Sahib returned to the sitting room. Still standing, Divan Sahib said, ‘Show her whatever you’d like to show her. She is the daughter of a friend of a friend. Do make sure she likes Sirohi—that way, our preschool will turn out well.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Daughter, if there’s any problem, Zutshi Sahib will take care of it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right then, namaskar!’
People waited outside in the courtyard as the guard gathered their papers together.
As they walked down the stairs, Zutshi Sahib asked, ‘Did Divan Sahib invite you here, or did you just come on your own to meet with him?’
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 3
