The banks of the Ravi.
Boating.
Girls splashing into water, then a rescue.
Tea from the Standard.
The ostensibly strict Principal Sahiba’s elegant presence, and then those two boys. My! What a coincidence!
The face of the woman behind the counter at the Standard flashed in my mind. I must go thank her. Everything was wonderful.
So much better than a new kameez and dupatta.
My birthday evening had been so lovely.
But why did it grow dark so quickly?
The sun sank into stillness, bowing over the greenery. At the call from Miss Sabarwal, everything was packed up and the banks of the Ravi began to recede into the distance.
The bus echoed with singing. I was happy I’d been able to hold my party there, where I wanted, but sad I had no way of knowing if I would ever return there for my birthday again.
18
As soon as she sat down in the train from Sojat Road, a new journey began. From Sirohi to Ahmedabad and Ahmedabad to Bombay. She felt as though the tracks of her life were switching. On the seat across from her, Zutshi Sahib sat busily reading the paper in a sea of unknown faces. She rested her elbow in the window, fixed her eyes outside and began mentally to count up the money she’d brought with her. She’d seen countless trees flash by when a small tear of self-assurance slid into the corner of her eye. A tiny damp spot. Not all things were adverse. Some were also advantageous. Time to shake off that tumultuous chapter of life.
The inhabitants of that ancient, unfamiliar city had allotted her her favourite house. The tiny Gangawa Cottage, like a lovely dream, by the side of Swaroop Vilas. Green bamboo lattice along the sides and, above, a roof of red baked tiles. An ancient tree overspread the whole cottage. A well in front of the veranda. What else did one need to live?
A wide open bathroom, with clean, tiled floor! The veranda protected by the square wooden lattice. It would probably need a minimum of suitable furniture. A table and chairs on the veranda for dining. A study table. A bed for the bedroom. Flooring could be laid down in the third room. She’d have to write to the PWD again. Anyway, a three-room house was large for a person living alone. These days people were living six or seven to a room. The verandas outside were full too. At home, her grandmother and sickly Uncle Balraj were both squeezed into their small reading room. Two beds and two reading tables.
Balraj Uncle was so intelligent, but when it came to treatment he positively refused to go to the hospital. If my house is set up nicely, then I can invite Granny soon. Gangawa Cottage, built as it was, out in the open, would remind Granny of her farm. In her imagination she saw the table set out on the veranda and Granny sitting in her chair chatting away with a teacup in her hand. Tales of the British days. Her husband, Ray Sahib, had come from England to buy from the Ray Bahadurs a three-piece suit for 350 rupees to wear to the imperial coronation at the Delhi Durbar.
Granny also took an interest in the old settlements of the princely states. She needed an audience of attentive listeners. The daughter of the Nanda Divans of Eminabad, she was an expert in conversation. Grandfather’s third wife was famous for her vivacity and sparkling wit.
And now!
Now that she’d lost land and means, her face showed the ravages of shock. Her eyes were sunken and she did not look after her hair. She wept alone for weeks. She felt like a piece of old furniture now, living with her sons and daughters-in-law.
After Grandfather’s death, her decision to stay put at the Eminabad farm had not seemed strange to anybody. She chose not to live with any of her sons. Her own authority in her own home. She had full command. As each of her sons married, she separated their households into their own homes. She was happy, and her sons and daughters-in-law worry-free.
Whenever they visited, she devotedly cooked their favourite foods and then cheerfully bid them farewell. The grandchildren were all crazy for her stories. Hers weren’t tales of kings and queens, they were tales of British rulers and Bengali revolutionaries and the self-respect of desi people. The most interesting story of all was the one about Lord Hardinge’s procession in Chandni Chowk. Her sons Devraj, Prithviraj, Bodhraj, Dhanraj, Desraj and Lekhraj had been with the old house servant, Mahanand, and their teacher, Master Sahib.
She had sent her sons to the rooftop rooms of her husband Ray Sahib’s friend Gauri Shankar. Along with them went a tiffin carrier bearing their food and drink. After the Laat Sahib’s elephant had disappeared from view, the children were still leaning against the balcony railing, when suddenly they heard a bomb exploding and a hubbub broke out in Chandni Chowk. Everyone was stuck wherever they were at that particular moment. The children did not return home until the next day. They had to stay all night long in Gauri Shankar’s rooms.
‘Master ji, Mahanand and the tiffin carrier from Calcutta looked after my sons well. Otherwise, what would the children have done with nothing to eat or drink?’
That same lively granny of ours had now fallen silent.
The train stopped.
She peered outside.
They had halted before the station because there was no signal.
She cradled her purse carefully and asked Zutshi Sahib:
‘Are there any large stations coming up? I’ll go have tea in the dining car and then come back here.’
‘What! What are you thinking? This isn’t the Frontier Mail. You’ll only get tea from the vendors.’
‘Oh!’
She sat back down.
The Frontier Mail.
A gaggle of girls going to Lahore stands before the Frontier Mail at the Delhi Station. Their playful laughter rings out. They’re returning to Lahore after the December vacation.
Will that sight ever be seen again? No. Now it will never return. The all-night warbling of us girls.
She began to think about her mother’s sister, Prakash Aunty, and her husband, Mukul Uncle, in Ahmedabad. A throng of refugee relations was also gathered at their home. Her mother’s younger sister, Shanti Bhalla Aunty, her husband and their children, Sat Prakash and Savita. Then there were all the paternal aunts and uncles of Mukul Uncle, and their families and in-laws. Some had stayed with her family in Delhi and now were moving on to Lucknow, Jaipur, Ambala, and some to Ahmedabad and Bombay. It was nice that if nothing else, they could at least get work at the mill with Mukul Uncle’s help. Her mother’s middle sister, Rampyari Aunty, and her husband, Uncle Vishvambhar Nath Nanda Sahib, who had come from Quetta to Ambala, were busy setting up the new city of Neelokheri and also helping to build the new capital in Chandigarh.
He had been among those to rebuild the city of Quetta, destroyed in the earthquake. Building new cities had become his area of expertise. At one point, S.K. Dey and the Gandhi of Baloch had come with him to their home. The Gandhi of Baloch was still a devotee of Gandhi. He was clad in a roomy salwar, long kameez and Pathani sandals. How remarkable it was to look upon him. The country had been broken in two. Pakistan had been created, and here he was, to what end? Whatever happened had happened, how could it be changed now!
She started, opened her purse and began fishing about in the small pocket for her cardamom. Not finding it, she closed the purse, wrapped the handle around her wrist, leaned back and shut her eyes.
One and a two and a three
My three big brothers and me
Oh, what fun it is
To have my rakhis three
Three sparkly tikas just for me
The train was in motion. The mother sitting near her with her veil down was nursing her baby. Her husband sat next to her, dozing between jerks of the train. His turban and moustaches accentuated the contours of his face. She wiped her eyes with the edge of her dupatta and pushed her dream away to Pakistan.
Go over there, dreams, scram! What’s the point of peeking over there, now that you’ve changed your disguise to fit in here?
I no longer owe anyone anything.
Her heart had been shaken when she’d seen Beembo’s mother w
eeping and beating her breast. Her daughter—my childhood friend—never made it to the soil of Mother India. Her complexion, bright as white milk, her golden hair and thick eyelashes.
Her mother beat her chest and wailed, ‘Alas, you enemies, better you had kept her there! You could have converted her and dressed her differently! Why did you have to cut off her arms!’
And she remembered: that night still hung suspended before her eyes, when she’d returned home at midnight and written out the story ‘Fear Not, I Will Protect You’ in her writing pad and sent it to Pratik the next afternoon.
When Beembo’s mother arrived, her weeping shook each and every one of them. She beat her breast and cursed Nehru, Jinnah and Gandhi, making everyone upset. ‘Oh, you government types, you chair-sitters, may you go where our sweet beloved newly-wed daughter went! If you didn’t have enough police or soldiers to save us all, why did you agree to the Partition? Bapu Gandhi, why are you silent? You made that Nehru your son, so why didn’t you get him to follow your orders?’
She reached up and touched her long braid. Terrified, she wondered, Do girls with long hair live long? Was Beembo’s hair thin, tangled and fine?
What is this nonsense you are thinking? Think about what notes we need to take to see Shreyas. Why not mark the list sent by Talakshi, to figure out what we want for the preschool?
The shelves and seats shouldn’t be too high. So that a child’s hand can easily reach them. There should be an open shelf right next to the entrance door, for the children’s shoes. There should be a long, low table for snack. Should the snack be provided by the preschool? That will depend on the budget. Would it be right to dress such small children in uniforms? What sort of children would there be in Sirohi?
What is this you are thinking? It doesn’t matter where children are from, they’re all the same. Little kids.
She opened her attaché case and took out her diary. She uncapped her pen.
‘Sobti Bai, what are you about to do now?’ asked Zutshi Sahib. ‘Please put away your pen and paper. We’re about to arrive in Ahmedabad.’
She closed her attaché case, checked her luggage and began looking out the window. The vastness of the Indian terrain! How large our country is. Rajasthan’s borders reach out to Gujarat.
Sometimes settlements and people must also be pushed across borders.
A Gujarat here. A Gujarat there.
19
After viewing the neat and tidy children of Shreyas and the expert practices of their school, she and Zutshi Sahib went to Rohit Mill and entered the yard, where a whole new world was unveiled before their eyes. The high towers, chimneys, water tanks, warehouses, labourer homes and supervisor bungalows created the impression of an entire town. There was no need to search for the home of the Chief Engineer. The moment they asked, security brought them right up to the bungalow. Mukul Uncle was taking his tea on the veranda, oblivious to the mischief being fomented by his children nearby, who kept switching the electricity on and off on the veranda.
‘Namaskar, Uncle ji.’
‘Come in, dear, come in.’
‘Uncle ji, please meet Zutshi Sahib, our Educational Director.’
Mukul Uncle stood up and shook hands with Zutshi Sahib.
‘Please come in, have a seat. We just received Krishna’s letter today. We were waiting for you.’
Two more cups of tea were prepared and brought out and, along with that, two dishes of chiwda.
This style of serving tea to guests seemed strange and off-putting to her.
The servant had cleared the extra dishes and was about to bring them inside, when Uncle said, ‘Take Zutshi Sahib’s suitcase to the guest house. Zutshi Sahib, we are putting you up there. We’ll also show you the mill. We’re about to change to the night shift.’
‘Why are you going to the trouble of the guest house?’ asked Zutshi Sahib.
‘No trouble at all. You’ll be quite comfortable there.’
‘Mukul Sahib, how long have you been in Ahmedabad?’
‘I did the inter exam in Punjab, then came here to stay with my uncle Gulzarilal Nanda. I continued my studies here, pursued engineering, and was hired here as well.’
After tea, Mukul Uncle and Zutshi Sahib went off to the guest house. The children began pulling all the veranda chairs away.
‘Don’t pull away the chairs or there won’t be anywhere to sit,’ she said, trying to stop them.
‘But we’re going to turn them into a train and make a circle around the whole veranda.’
‘Ah. So what school do you study in?’
‘What does it matter to you where we study?’
‘Didi, where have you come from?’ asked Subhash.
‘I’ve come from Delhi.’
Devi chanted:
The kitty came from Delhi
The kitty wears a necklace
The kitty wears earrings
The kitty has a nose ring
The kitty wears bells on its paws
She quite enjoyed hearing this. The children had made up an excellent poem.
‘Okay, kids!’ she said affectionately. ‘Now tell me all of your names.’
‘Why should we tell you?’
‘Because I’m only going to call you by your names. And I can’t call you all by one name.’
‘I’m Subhash.’
‘I’m Satish.’
‘I’m Devi.’
‘I’m Subodh.’
‘You all have good memories. Repeat after me:
The Punjabi woman came in a suit
The Bengali woman came in a sari
The Marathi woman came in a laangar
The Gujarati woman came in a dhoti
The Rajput woman came in a lehenga
Just then, Prakash Aunty came out on to the veranda. She laughed.
‘Krishna, this girl is always rhyming words like in Punjabi couplets.’
‘Prakash Aunty, please do something! Please spend some time working on the children.’
Prakash Aunty rolled her eyes.
‘Look, my children aren’t all that bad. They’re naughty. But they’re innocent. Of course, we don’t lay down the law like you do in your house.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean we don’t say don’t do that, don’t go there. None of this. None of that. It imprisons the children’s dreams, doesn’t it?’
‘But Aunty, it’s just discipline. We have plenty of liberty; we can say whatever we wish to our elders. But we speak politely. We don’t use the informal you, and we don’t grab or jump up and down.’
Prakash Aunty brushed her words aside.
‘Your house is like an office. Even the children are wise and grown-up there. Well, come on, let me take you to see your younger aunt.’
Aunty opened up the wardrobe and took out a fresh cotton sari. Then she opened up the lower section and took out some fabric and placed it before her niece.
‘Look, this is what you should do. You’re going to Bombay, have this stitched up there.’
‘Prakash Aunty, how can I carry all this? I’m taking only a small suitcase and an attaché case. Let me leave it here for now, please. Anyway, how am I supposed to go running around after tailors in Bombay?’
‘There are some tailors sitting right near here. If you want, I’ll have it stitched up tomorrow during the day.’
‘Aunty, there’s no room. It won’t fit in my suitcase.’
Her aunt took out a canvas bag and placed all three pieces in it. Also a packet of chiwda and biscuits.
As she changed her sari, her aunt asked, ‘Did you manage to bring back all your things from Lahore?’
‘No. How much can you take in one bag? That’s all I took. Two books and some clothing. The rest of it—warm- and cool-weather shawls, sweaters, coat, shoes—all was left behind.’
‘Oh well, no sense in crying over it now. It happened to everyone, and it happened to us too. Look at Shanti. She arrived empty-handed. We had to provide her with ev
ery single thing.’
‘How far does Shanti Aunty live from here?’
‘Very close. Let’s go.’
Before closing the wardrobe, her aunt said, ‘If you want to wear a cotton sari, I’ll take one out for you. It’s a special kind, made for the wives of seths—for well-to-do ladies. I bought a whole dozen. The fabric is fine and it has a lovely border and pallu.’
‘No, Aunty, I don’t wear saris. Only once did I wear a homespun one, for having my picture taken.’
Her aunt tucked her key-bunch in at her waist and said, ‘Why do you always wear Muslim clothes? Ghararas and kameezes. Where you’ll be working, they won’t like that. It’s a Hindu princely state. Why ever should we wear their clothes after Partition?’
‘Aunty, it wasn’t a fight over clothing. It was a fight over daily bread, farming and jobs.’
‘Look, next time you come here, wear a salwar instead of wearing a gharara.’
She frowned and replied, ‘Then I’ll never come here. I’m not about to change my favourite clothing.’
Her aunt laughed.
‘You’ve got a job now, but you’re still every bit as stubborn.’
At a short distance, rows of temporary houses in the mill yard. Tin roofs and walls made only of tin. One of these was Shanti Aunty’s home. When they knocked on the door, the whole house seemed to unfold. Shanti Aunty stood before them encased in tin.
She had the same round, shining eyes, that same curly hair going white and that same enchanting smile on her lips. She was skinny, but a firebrand. Her lovely aunt. She conjured this younger aunt’s old Karianwala house within herself and called out chirpily, ‘Shanti Aunty, I’m here!’
The aunt and niece held out their arms to one another. Gently, so that no Partition tears might fall. They beamed, and avoided one another’s eyes, and tried to avoid tearing up.
A pile of crocheted bags lay in a large basket in the corner. Was this what Shanti Aunty was doing—was she selling them in the bazaar?
Shanti Aunty set out a stool on the mat and said to Prakash Aunty, ‘Sister ji, please sit.’
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 9
