When you uproot a tribe, it scatters with the destructive power of an earthquake. Everything goes topsy-turvy. Up is down, and down is up.
Then laughter and weeping are unveiled as one gesture. A sigh too must hold some meaning. A cleaving. From our people, and theirs. From friends and relations. From kith and kin. But most of all, from one’s self. It has taken the suffering of many destructive cycles in the name of Hindus versus Muslims to render the people capable of articulating this. As though some lush green time has been flung into a forest fire. They’ve flown for their lives from the knife that has now been plunged into their backs. Into the back of time. The escapees in front, the killers behind. Savagery. The terror of violence.
There is a noise somewhere nearby. Time is running along. Is this a hint of the footfall of my time?
She started and opened her eyes.
A horn was honking outside. Time to go meet the Queen Mother.
She opened the door and motioned—I’m coming.
She changed her clothes, emptied her large purse and placed it in the pouch, glanced at her face in the compact, and as soon as she put on her high-heeled shoes the assurance of her gait returned.
Whatever is protected in you thus far is enough for today. When histories change, geographies too must change. Of families, of cities and villages, of buildings and of districts. Of courts and governments.
7
At the Queen Mother Sahiba of Sirohi’s palace: Kesar Vilas.
The adoptive Maharaja of Sirohi lives in Swaroop Vilas, and the Maharani, the Queen Mother, resides in Kesar Vilas.
A guard, outside, in the doorway.
Inside, a wide open veranda shimmering in the light of the setting sun. Authority must certainly have been used as building blocks to construct these walls at some point. The fort guards in their high, imposing turbans and their dense, squat moustaches seem to adorn the customs of the palace.
‘You will have to press your hands together and greet the Maharani Sahiba with the words “Khamma ghani”. That’s the customary greeting for her.’
She was silent.
They walked through a large lounge into an anteroom, where an English woman in a skirt and blouse appeared. Zutshi Sahib went forward and greeted her.
‘Please have a seat,’ she said.
She then disappeared through a doorway.
‘That is the Maharani’s companion. Miss William.’
‘Please come in.’
Miss William brought Zutshi Sahib inside, and after ten minutes she brought him back. Zutshi Sahib went back to the lounge.
Then Miss William came over to her. ‘I am Miss William, and you . . .’
‘I am Miss Sobti, I’ve come from Delhi for the preschool.’ She held out her hand.
Miss William reached out and shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Please come with me.’
In a large, high-ceilinged room crammed with furniture, the Maharani Sahiba was propped up on the sofa on bolsters, just as ranis and maharanis sit in stories. Miss William bowed slightly and said, ‘May I present Miss Sobti, here from Delhi.’
‘Good evening, Your Highness.’
‘Good evening.’
‘Please, sit by the Maharani.’
Who would commit the folly of calling the decor of a palace gaudy? Large oil paintings hung on the walls.
She sat on a single seat on the left side of the large sofa.
The Queen Mother wore a simple sari with a straight border that accentuated the charm of her face.
‘I trust you had no difficulty on your trip.’
‘No, indeed. Thank you.’
‘Was it crowded?’
‘No, it wasn’t. I had a reserved seat.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The State Guest House.’
‘And you are comfortable there?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘If it doesn’t agree with you, you may tell the Maharani Sahiba,’ said Miss William.
She smiled softly. ‘It’s fine for a couple of days.’
‘Where do you stay in Delhi?’ asked Miss William.
‘Atul Grove, Telegraph Lane.’
‘How far is that from Connaught Place?’
‘It’s quite near. Near the Constitution Club.’
Tea arrived.
Miss William rose briskly, as though recollecting something, and disappeared from the room.
Not seeing anyone coming to serve the tea, she asked boldly:
‘May I prepare your tea for you?’
The Maharani Sahiba nodded simply: Yes.
She prepared a cup and placed it before her.
‘Make some for yourself as well.’
She thought of Miss William and just then she appeared. Royal command! How much longer would all this go on?
‘Do you know about Ahmedabad’s school, Shreyas?’
‘I’ve not seen it, but I’ve certainly heard about it.’
‘You and Zutshi Sahib will go and see Shreyas. We wish to run this preschool on that model.’
‘Yes.’
Maharani Sahiba turned to Miss William:
‘Suggest to Divan Sahib that the two of them go to Ahmedabad. Also, arrange for Bai to stay at the European Guest House.’
‘Your Highness, I am grateful to you. But as of yet I have not been able to make up my mind if I will stay here or not.’
The Maharani laughed.
‘We have a river here in Sirohi, the Krishnavati. Whether you stay or not, you simply cannot return to Delhi without seeing it.’
‘Yes, certainly, I’ll not leave until I’ve seen the Krishnavati River. I already feel hesitant because of Mr Popat Lal from Ahmedabad, as per the suggestion of Zutshi Sahib!’
8
Here was Devla again.
‘Bai ji, today I will bring only parathas for breakfast. There won’t be any lunch.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Bai ji, starting this morning, they’ll be busy with a preparation of almonds and dry fruit. They dig a hole on the hill and put a deep pot of dried fruit and nuts in it and bury it in the ground and then plaster it with mud. Then, when lightning flashes and the rain falls, it soaks the hill. The extract that comes from the spices is so strong that just a couple of gulps knock a man unconscious. This is how we make a very strong type of liquor.’
‘Bai ji, Director Sahib was asking me if you will stay here or not.’
She, Bai, wasn’t sure what to say to the boy. Should she stay silent or proceed? Bai Sahiba, what should you reveal of your secrets?
‘Maharaja Saroop Singh, who adopted Maharaja Tej Singh, had forgotten all about his throne and become a degenerate. He started dining with Dholis—low-caste drummers—and living the high life. Bai ji, the Maharaja gave his girlfriend from that community the name Leelavati and made her his paswan. He laid gold at her feet and set her up in Bombay! He even gave her a bungalow. They say she also has a bungalow in Delhi, on Rajpur Road.’
‘Devla, what is a paswan?’
‘Bai ji, when the Maharaja folk place gold at the feet of a woman, she becomes the paswan of the royal family. The Dholis won over the Rajput Maharaja. The Dholis play such games—they lured him to Lucknow. The Maharaja passed away there. It was a Dholi man that delivered the news that the Maharaja had become a mlechha, a Muslim. Bai ji, after that, things became strained between the two palaces. The Queen Mother Maharani prefers Abhai Singh too much. Bai, now nothing will happen by their command. Delhi will rule over Sirohi now. That’s what the popular minister told the Rajputs. When they hear this, they are silent. Anyway, how can Tej Singh Maharaja fight Delhi? Bai ji, I will clear the thali now—you’ve stopped eating—was it too peppery? Bai, you should tell the cook to put fewer chillies in the food . . .’
He picked up the dishes and said to Bai, ‘You’ll be going to Kesar Vilas in the evening, right?’
As Bai latched the door, she laughe
d to herself, then began to feel angry—not just the city, the entire secret service! News from Colwin reaches even the cook at the desi guest house. How was she to survive here?
When she sat down with Zutshi Sahib in the jeep that evening, she thought to herself, There’s no need for an intelligence department here at all. Everyone knows everything that goes on in the royal government. As though the entire city is just one small neighbourhood.
9
Time: Early—before noon.
The far-seeing eyes peering out from the other side of the papers didn’t even blink. As though focused on someone on the upper side of the lower class.
‘Do take a look, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
‘When you are writing what you know to be true, then how could there be an error? You are educated, aren’t you?’
Munna Lal, standing to the right, was trying to guess her feelings by staring at her pen.
Hmm, so you understand this too, Sobti Bai—you understand the meaning of seniority.
She scanned the document carefully and fixed it a bit, then looked with curiosity at the turbaned face before her. It was possible that the other applicant was also about to arrive. Feeling reassured by what she had written, she read it again and pushed the paper forward.
His glasses rested exactly in the middle of his nose. They rose.
‘You forgot to write your home address. If it’s a camp, then write the name of the camp.’
The virtues and vices of more or less, good and evil, next and last, reading, writing and training, all are attached to a signature and a place.
She was filling in the joining report of the chief of the preschool. Day month year were set in bureaucratic custom, following princely time. Those little facts that fluttered their wings, eager to fly after emerging from the cage, she stilled with the stroke of her pen. It’s not the time for soaring into the sky—reality will now be bound to the modus operandi of this district. She uncapped her pen, and snuck a peak at her watch. Ten past ten. She read the text again carefully, then presented it before the ancient and influential vanity of the Head Clerk Sahib.
‘Please take a look. It’s all right, isn’t it?’
The turbaned head nodded slightly.
‘That’s for you to look to. When I look at it, I’ll look at it.’
She subdued an angry glance and said in a bitter tone that sounded casual, ‘Forgive me, but this is the joining report.’
‘I know. Tell me this, did Zutshi Sahib direct you to come here?’
She felt a shiver of annoyance, opened her purse and held out her appointment letter: ‘This was sent from your office. I have come in response to this.’
The two district clerks looked at one another and smiled as though to say, You will never fathom our princely ways.
After a long silence, she turned towards Munna Lal.
‘Now what will I have to do?’ she asked him politely.
‘If you wish, you may go to the preschool.’
‘Will there be anyone there?’
‘I can’t say, Hukum. Take a look as you leave—if it’s locked, then go to Colwin.’
For some reason, she then asked the turbaned gentleman, ‘Can you please give me my joining report?’
The old, experienced hand held out the paper, smiling.
She picked up a sheet of paper and copied out the report, then gave the original back to him.
‘Bai ji, what’s this?’
‘I’m keeping a copy of the joining report.’
She gathered the papers, put them in her purse and turned her steps towards the door.
Munna Lal called out pleasantly from behind:
‘Sobti Bai, you’re leaving your pen behind.’
As she turned back, he walked over and held the pen out to her.
‘It’s a Parker.’
The other voice piped up and interrupted: ‘Such an expensive pen for a refugee. Where must she have got it?’
She walked back into the room and stood near the table.
‘I received this for my birthday,’ she said softly. ‘Any objections?’
The gentleman was not looking at her but staring at a handwritten paper.
The behaviour here, the etiquette, will you be able to get used to it? she asked herself.
She went outside and set out on the road that had brought her there.
You walk as if you’re exhausted! What’s happened to your courage? You came here all by yourself. No one forced you. Devla could have been telling you stories, but you took your cue from him.
Yes, these deceptive tricks belong to this place. That’s what’s bothering me.
Don’t say such a thing. Your behaviour is also a bit confusing.
No—not confusing—I’m protecting my rights.
Women walked towards her in red and blue lehengas, veils down. Sunlight. Breeze. An amazing sight revealed. All hidden behind clothing. Veils and dupattas!
Refugee Madame, you are indeed fortunate. You can see and understand. You can read circumstances circumspectly. There is Partition here as well. Where are these people from? Were they born and raised here? You are from the outside. This is what makes you a refugee.
A jeep appeared at the bend in the road ahead.
Was that Zutshi Sahib?
Indeed.
The car drove up and stopped.
‘Sobti Bai, why are you here so early in the morning?’
‘I had gone to the District Office. For the joining report.’
‘What sort of joining report? You didn’t even deem it necessary to ask me?’
‘I waited for you yesterday evening. Then I thought you must be busy with something important.’
From the back seat, a wheat-complexioned face watched her silently. Perhaps this was Mr Popat Lal of Ahmedabad.
‘Where should I go now?’ she asked politely.
‘You’re asking me? Go wherever you think best. Ask whoever is giving you advice.’
‘Sir, no one is giving me advice, I can think for myself.’
The car continued on.
The driver appeared to be gesturing to her: Please go to Colwin!
When the jeep had disappeared from view, she laughed for some reason. She felt as though she were part of that large refugee crowd that went to Nehru ji’s residence to beg him to find roofs to shelter them—they were done with tents and sidewalks.
Nehru ji had reassured them, ‘Please give us a little more time, the government is thinking very seriously about this. We are deeply concerned about your accommodations.’
When the refugee crowd emerged murmuring from the gate, two wise men had said, ‘Listen carefully to what we have to say. The government can only act slowly; it moves at the pace of an elephant. The two of us saw something over by the Eid Gah yesterday. There were Muslim houses with locks hanging on the doors. Let’s go over there. A place for the weary to sleep!’
More voices arose: ‘Let’s also take our children and families over there!’
The wise men said: ‘Listen, let’s go over there and grab the places first.’
‘How far is it?’
‘What does it matter? Hold on to your slippers. Let’s get going.’
When the crowd reached the Eid Gah street, they began running. Whatever anyone could grab—chains, locks, doors that could be broken—they went inside and made their mark. They improvised roofs over their heads for their families.
And now this honest local lad Devla had come forward to help a refugee.
‘Bai ji, we hear they’re not going to hire you!’
It had been in response to this remark that she had made her final decision: I’d like to see them get me out of here! I’ll present the joining report!
She looked once more at her appointment letter, just to make sure she wasn’t making a mistake.
No.
There were no more riddles left to bother her when she got up in the morning.
Next stop, the District Office!
An
d now she was walking towards Colwin. For some reason all her troubles had disappeared. She felt lighter now.
10
The evening before, when they were returning from Kesar Vilas, Zutshi Sahib had asked her as he dropped her off at the guest house, ‘You don’t have to go anywhere, right? We’re invited to dine at the Medical Officer’s house. We’ll pick you up from here. You won’t be too tired, will you?’
‘No, I won’t!’
She rested. It would be good to write a letter home. She took out paper and pen but then thought, I should do this tomorrow. Today I really have nothing to announce.
Evening had seamlessly turned to night. She looked out the window. The dense thicket of trees had turned a deep greenish black. Stars in the sky. After the echoing temple bells, a sudden silence had fallen.
She looked at her watch.
A quarter to nine.
She got up and walked around the veranda a couple of times. No sign of the jeep whatsoever.
She came inside and sat down in a leisurely fashion. She smiled as she thought. A question mark had perhaps dangled from their final exchange about the invitation.
You won’t be too tired, will you?
No, I won’t!
A knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
Devla.
‘Shall I bring the thali, Bai ji?’
She nodded her head—yes.
Devla made a special effort to wipe down the teapoy. He set down the thali, covered with another thali.
He went outside and brought back a water glass and jug.
She looked at the boy encouragingly. He certainly knew how to solicit a tip!
No, she was thinking the wrong way. Perhaps for the rest of her time here it wouldn’t be good to give anyone a tip.
‘Bai ji, will you take sugar in your yoghurt?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Devla went away and brought back a dish with sugar in it.
‘Bai ji, what time will you take your bus?’
She began to listen to Devla’s words with interest.
‘How do you know that I’m leaving?’
‘Bai ji, that Mr Popat Lal who’s come from Ahmedabad, he’s the one who will be hired for the preschool.’
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 5
