She was silent at first. Then she said, ‘Divan Sahib sent the car over this morning.’
After a few more steps, he asked, ‘Are you Sindhi?’
She was taken aback and replied, ‘Really, why are you asking that, Zutshi Sahib?’
‘Because there are loads of Sindhi refugees here. And if you fill out the refugee form, you will get free rations. You’ll get blankets and even quilts.’
Long silence.
To change the subject, she asked, ‘And how long have you been here, Zutshi Sahib?’
‘My father moved from Srinagar to Udaipur. Then he came here, and that’s how we settled here.’
Srinagar and Sirohi! There’s really no comparison, she thought to herself. Ah, but why compare?
The silenced desires of Lahore gaze into the waters of the Ravi.
Time—modern and ancient—began to jostle together alongside the jeep once more. That crowded atmosphere on this listless refugee afternoon in the unfamiliar city of Sirohi.
She felt tearful. What am I doing! Why do I feel like this? She hoped her shattered dreams would not appear infinitely lovelier to her than they had really been.
There is no need for illusion. That time, those lovely seasons, those months have already disappeared. Never to return.
They’ll never be back.
Partition: a word.
Refugee: a label. Looted, impoverished person. Camp dweller. The displaced can get free rations. Fill out the form so you can win a blanket too! Why am I thinking about this? It’s neither negative nor positive. Just a circumstance. Of being ripped up by one’s roots. Of being replanted elsewhere.
The new cannot be recognized from a moving jeep, nor can the old be forgotten. The palace and fort, which had appeared on the way to the Divan Sahib’s residence, now disappeared into the unknown. Left behind.
Enormous rust-coloured letters scrawled across the yellow whitewash of a dilapidated wall at the bend in the road ahead read:
MAY WE BOUND TOWARDS OUR DESTINATION SWIFT AS LIGHTNING AND WIND
Will there be any wayside refuge as we bound towards our destination?
Why can’t whatever survived this attack be rescued from destruction? Why can’t whoever made it through the murder and mayhem alive take care of themselves for the sake of others?
Why do you regret applying to that advertisement when you chose to do it yourself? You had it typed up and sent it in yourself via registered post through the Eastern Court mail. Now that you’ve got here, you’re backing away from your resolve. This city crouched in the hills seems small to you. Shake yourself out of this chill despair and lethargy. This won’t help you gather your forces to fight circumstances; it’s just self-pity, and self-pity is a swamp no one can rise above once they’ve sunk in.
She perked up and turned towards Zutshi Sahib.
‘Did you say something?’
‘Just that Divan Sahib is taking an interest in you. So don’t delay in making your decision. If you nitpick too much, it could also go against you. After all, you’ve come from so far just for work. I don’t know your situation—you must have had some troubles . . .’
‘Thank you, Zutshi Sahib,’ she cut him off. ‘I will think seriously about what you have said.’
Zutshi Sahib was silent for a moment, then said excitedly:
‘Look over there—that building up ahead. That’s Jeet Kunwerba Preschool. To the right is the office and staffroom. The Queen Mother Sahiba wants our school to be like the Shreyas School in Ahmedabad. Up ahead is the departmental storeroom. Just about everything can be got from there. There’s also an interesting story about how it was created. Maharaja Saroop Singh was telling his favourite thikanedars and jagirdars that there wasn’t much difference between Rajputs and businessmen. The Maharaja paused, then called in Nagar Seth with his son. The father and son stood with their hands clasped expectantly.
‘“Yes, Your Highness.”
‘With no introduction, the Maharaja ordered the son to remove his father’s turban. “If you can do that, one lakh for you,” he said.
‘The father instructed the son, “Do as you’re told. How can the Maharaja’s command be ignored!”
‘And so, the son did just that.
‘The Maharaja was pleased with his obedience.
‘“The money will arrive at your home tomorrow morning,” he said.
‘The two of them pressed their palms together in respectful greeting: “Khamma, Your Highness,” they said, and turned towards home.
‘The Maharaja was quite encouraged by this incident, and he told the members of his court, “What I wished to show you has just come to pass before your eyes. A Baniya is a Baniya, and a Rajput a Rajput. If money is coming into his hands, a Baniya can’t let go of it for any price. But a Rajput has no regrets about letting go.”
‘His companions began to laugh.
‘The Maharaja cast a heated look about.
‘“Drama is one thing. Business another. I too only ask for loans from Nagar Seth.”’
She didn’t laugh.
She felt a bitterness wriggle in the folds of her heart. Must one sneer at others! Must people injure one another like this! This sort of thinking only insults other people.
‘And yes, this is Sirohi Raj’s European Guest House.’
She laughed. ‘After Independence that name seems a bit strange. It must be better than the desi guest house, but it could be given a new name.’
‘Are such things being done in Delhi now?’
‘Yes, Kingsway and Queensway have been changed to Rajpath and Janpath.’
‘Yes, a suggestion: if you want, you can ask Divan Sahib for a room at the European Guest House. He won’t refuse.’
She was secretly astonished—really, what could the implication of this proposal be!
She thought it best not to say anything.
‘These days there’s a crowd of Delhiites gathered in the European Guest House. Patel Sahib’s ministry is really quite active.’
‘Is much changing in local politics after Independence?’
‘The Praja Mandal movement has taken off. Popular ministers are being appointed on the recommendation of the Praja Mandal. The popular ministers will take care of the complaints of the people. This fresh, new breeze has swept in from Delhi.’
‘Where is your office, Zutshi Sahib?’
‘In the Colwin Building. That’s where I sit. I have a double charge. I’m the Superintendent of Education and the Principal of Colwin. This time our results have been good. The people are happy and so is the Queen Mother Sahiba.’
The jeep came to a stop before the long verandas of Colwin. A man in the enormous turban seated cross-legged upon the bench in front of the room stood up and greeted them.
‘Khamma, sir.’
‘Please come in!’
‘Will you take tea?’
She agreed.
Zutshi Sahib held out the key to the crockery cabinet to the chaprasi.
‘Take out the new tea set and make some nice tea for Miss Sahiba.’
While Zutshi Sahib took out important papers and forms, she began to suspect to herself that the tea was being prepared at a Devla-esque pace.
First, the set would be taken out of the cupboard. It would be washed and dried. The tea water would be boiled. The milk heated. Then the tray would be set, and only after that would it arrive in this room.
She looked towards Zutshi Sahib. He was busy reading files. His narrow nose and thin Kashmiri face somehow reassured her that his educational attempts were sincere.
The pile of files had made it from the table to the floor. Pen placed in penholder and towel lifted from behind his chair, he wiped his face and glanced at his wristwatch.
He laughed and said, ‘The fruit of waiting is sweet. Your tea has already left the kitchen.’
She looked towards the door. The tea tray, complete with decorated Kashmiri tea cosy, sat resplendent upon the table.
An embroidered Kashmiri t
ea cosy in this far-off city pleased her as though she were encountering an old friend.
She suddenly felt closer to this environment. Perhaps I have just been projecting my worries on to Zutshi Sahib, she thought.
‘I will have to go to Kashmir in a year or two!’ she said. ‘My grandmother’s maternal home is also in Srinagar. The names of her nephews are so interesting. They look Kashmiri, but their names are:
Jang Bahadur
Tek Bahadur
Tej Bahadur.’
Zutshi Sahib laughed.
‘Are you thinking of them or their bravery—their bahaduri?’
There was something in Zutshi Sahib’s laughter that she didn’t like.
‘I’d say both. But why do you draw such a distinction between the activities in Sirohi and those in Srinagar?’
‘They’re different and then again they’re not. Up there, they have Sheikh Sahib’s influence, and down here we have Gokul Bhai Bhatt. But tell me this, what sort of budget cutting is Delhi up to now? Nehru, and even Patel, cannot refrain from playing politics with one another. They’re both stubborn on their own points.’
‘Are there any new development efforts? In the field of education?’
‘How to explain it? How will we undertake new efforts? The Rajput here does not study because he suffers from Rajput-ness. The Baniya does not study because he is afflicted with shop-mindedness, and the poor Bhils and Garasiyas do not study because they suffer from poverty.’
‘Is there any sympathy between the Praja Mandal and the royal family?’
Zutshi Sahib began to laugh.
‘Both are influenced by Gujarati-ness. Look, what is happening here is that the royal family is expanding towards Gujarat through marriage. And then, of course, the Ambaji temple is located in Sirohi’s district. There has been much movement there from Gujarat. The Queen Mother is from Kutch and Bhuj. She is the head of the Regency Council. The Chief of the Chamber of Princes, the Jam Sahib of Nawanagar, is the son-in-law of Sirohi. Gulab Kunwerba Sahiba is the Maharani of Nawanagar! She has quite a bit of pull with the people in Delhi. You must have also met Sardar Patel yourself.’
She burst out laughing.
Zutshi Sahib looked at her, astounded.
‘What did I say, miss, to make you laugh? Please tell me, please tell me.’
‘Zutshi Sahib, besides the Indian government, Delhi is also crammed with ordinary people like me. These days, even more so than usual. Wherever you look you see nothing but refugees. We look at the pictures of leaders in the papers every morning, same as you.’
‘What you say is right. Now it is they who will rule. The rajas and maharajas and jagirdars and thikanedars have already come to power in the government.’
She had only just picked up her teacup when Zutshi Sahib looked at her searchingly and asked, ‘So have you made a decision yet?’
‘To what do you refer?’ she asked innocently.
Zutshi Sahib’s voice turned bitter and hard as it reached her, ‘I’m asking whether or not you will join here.’
‘Please forgive me,’ she said politely. ‘I will take some more time—until tomorrow!’
‘Look, I can say from my own experience that you should not dither over this. Let me tell you that in the last announcement of the selection, Divan Sahib had his hopes set on the number-two candidate, a Mr Popat Lal. He has taught at such institutions as Ahmedabad’s Shreyas.’
‘I am grateful that you are telling me this,’ she said smoothly.
By now Zutshi Sahib looked rather distressed.
‘Do you know that no one expected you to come here? Number Two has even been granted an interview.’
She glanced disenchantedly out the window in response. She could hear Zutshi Sahib speaking softly.
‘You will also have to be taken to Kesar Vilas. To meet the Queen Mother. You will have to appear there at four-thirty. The transport will reach you at four o’clock. We’ll go from here together.
‘Yes, sir.’
Zutshi Sahib walked her towards the jeep.
‘Rest up after you’ve eaten. You’re tired from the journey; otherwise, why would you have asked the timings for the Erinpura bus as soon as you arrived here?’
She said nothing in reply and got into the jeep.
6
When she returned to her room, the lunch thali came in right after her.
Devla.
The smell of boiled rice and peppery spices fried in ghee rose up from the thali of washed moong daal, sour pumpkin and papad.
She’d only swallowed a few spoonfuls when her eyes began to water.
She took a sip of water and pushed the thali away.
She called out to Devla standing outside on the veranda.
‘Devla Bhai, come here. Clear the dishes.’
Devla was worried when he saw the still-full thali.
‘Bai ji, was it too peppery? Maharaj put in fewer chillies. I’ll have him make a paratha and bring it for you!’
‘No. I’m not hungry. I ate a puri this morning.’
As soon as Devla went outside, she shut the door. She pulled the curtain across against the sunlight streaming through the front window and hooked it to the screen. This makeshift curtain arrangement annoyed her.
She opened her suitcase, took out a new night suit and placed it at the head of the bed.
Such queer images began to swim before her eyes as she tried to fall asleep.
There was no reason to distrust what the Divan Sahib was saying. There was also no reason to distrust what the Principal Sahib was saying. How is it my fault that Mr Popat Lal, the number-two candidate, is being kept back? I’m here because I was invited. Let them figure out what’s what. Yes, but why are you so confused? Keep your eye out for what appears at the next bend in the road.
Sleep a little.
The moment she shuts her eyes, she feels her back against a train seat. She hears a long shriek. She starts and looks out the window. Erinpura Station! And here is the large water tank on the platform, lying on its side, and the empty clay water cups are strewn about nearby.
Her throat is dry. If only she could get some water!
What’s this? The train has started moving backwards.
A thick stream of water. She drinks to her heart’s content from a cupped palm. She wets her face and head. Sprinkles droplets on her throat. But what is this station? Eminabad. Now she is walking towards her farm through the rosewood grove. She can hear the sound of the pump from a distance. Puff-puff-puff.
Then a sweet smell, the kind that only comes from ripened fields.
She jumps up again and goes to sit in the train. The engine is in front but the train is going backwards. The engine is pushing her backwards.
She panics and opens her eyes.
The refreshment room at Delhi Station. She gets off and takes tea with her father. Overbridge. The train on the small line. The luggage has been stowed inside. She is listening to her father through the window.
‘You don’t insist on it, I acknowledge that, but I don’t think you’ll be able to stay there. The warp and woof of princely states is a whole different matter. Since this is your first job, perhaps there’s no harm in going. You can take it simply as an experience.’
Father holds out a sealed envelope to her.
‘You should have no trouble or hesitation in returning. That’s what this is for!’
‘Thank you, Father,’ she laughs. ‘I won’t open it until I truly need it.’
Father shakes his head.
‘I know. And do remember that you filled out the MA form as well.’
‘Yes.’
‘Be careful on the way . . .’
The train begins to slip away from the platform and Father looks smaller and smaller through the window frame.
The train has arrived on the meter gauge rails. Ordinary, medium-sized, dimly lit settlements.
They are pulling into Sarai Rohilla Station.
A small, self-contained station tak
ing form in the shadow of Shakur Basti.
She looks outside. None of the excitement of a large station here. A rather filthy crowd on the platform, pushing and shoving one another and making a ruckus. Women with burqa veils lifted. Refugees carrying abandoned villages and towns in old tin trunks. Leftover odds and ends.
And who’s this?
Naveen ji and Bhagwati Charan Verma ji are here. But this is not a station for political leaders.
Naveen ji and Bhagwati Charan Verma ji peer into her compartment.
‘Hello, Naveen ji; Verma ji, namaskar. How did you get here? I am going to Sirohi.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Leaving Delhi to work in Sirohi!’
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she says gravely.
‘Look, Bhagwati ji and I went over to your home to tell you Padmaja is coming tomorrow. She needs a girl like you. She needs a secretary. So pack up your things, hurry, hurry. The train doesn’t stop here long.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. If I like it there, I’ll stay. If not, I’ll come back. I won’t be able to work with Padmaja ji. I have no interest in that sort of job. I’ve already worked on a campus.’
‘How would it be to work with me! You’ll have no complaints at all.’
‘You know, Naveen ji, I won’t do such work against my will. Definitely not with friends or neighbours.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When you come back, you must come to Delhi and nowhere else,’ said Bhagwati ji.
The train departs.
5, Windsor Place! How very far this is from home. First Achint Ram ji, then Purushottam Das Tandon, then a few minutes by foot, and Naveen ji. And Bhagwati ji in Canning Lane.
Naveen ji had introduced her to Sarla. She looked so shiny in her blue sari. The two of them were made for one another—though there’s a wide gap in their ages. After spending years in jail, one does hope for Naveen ji that this is something permanent for him.
She lowers the shutter on the window. She casts a wary eye at the fellow passengers and places her purse beneath her head in preparation to sleep. And watches the endless deserted spaces flying by the window in the darkness. So many voices mingle with the sound of the train.
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 4
