It seemed to her that the distance between the two sisters had somehow squeezed itself on to that stool.
‘Shanti Aunty,’ she began in a tone of false cheer. ‘Why such favouritism for your elder sister over your little niece?’
Shades of some old quarrel peeked from beneath Shanti Aunty’s heavy lashes.
‘Oho, my Punjabi-Gujarati niece,’ she teased, ‘you and your Shanti Aunty are refugees from over there, and my sister Prakash is a proper Indian Gujarati lady. How could there not be a difference? There’s only one stool in this home so it must be for her. It’s only thanks to her we have this roof to hide our heads.’
We’ve got off to a bad start, she thought to herself.
Shanti Aunty laughed and said, ‘Krishna, see how my sister looks like a proper Indian Gujarati lady in her cotton sari with the straight pallu? When she goes out with her handbag, who could ever say that she used to be a girl from Sambrial?’
She decided to cheer up Shanti Aunty with old memories.
‘What a beautiful home you had, Shanti Aunty. It was so nicely kept. And when Uncle had the halwai make me nishasta laddoos—I’ll never forget the taste!’
‘You’ve also seen Karianwala,’ said Prakash Aunty. ‘All that’s foreign now. When Krishna came to my house, she fell off a horse on the way. Nawab warned her, “Don’t tell Shanti right away. She’ll be upset. I have to go back tonight. First, I’ll drop off Chaudhry Begum’s horse, then I’ll go there after going to the village. The vermicelli Shanti makes is heavenly! Roasted and swimming in ghee with crystallized sugar. After I’ve eaten and gone off, you can mention your wounds. She’ll fix you right up with ghee and turmeric, she will, your aunty. She’s the cleverest of all my sisters.”’
‘Oh, oh, where have those days gone?’ lamented Shanti Aunty. ‘They’ve been swallowed up by the government. Now we’ve lost our homes and our homeland.’
‘How did you fall off your horse, Krishna?’ asked Prakash Aunty, trying to change the subject.
‘The horse leaned down to drink from a pond, and then a mare whinnied from the other side. The horse shied. Aunty, I kept pulling the reins hard but who knows why I thought, Now I’m done for! And all I could see was the hazy sky over the high hills. There’s no saving me now, I thought. My feet were in the stirrups. Somehow, the horse changed its pace, so I ended up falling off with the saddle. One foot must have been pulled from the stirrup, otherwise my head would have been pulled along the ground and I would have departed straight for heaven.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I must definitely have been unconscious for a little while. When Nawab Uncle reached me, he called out, “Hey, you! Hey, Indian girl from Delhi and Shimla that I know so well! Stand up, you! If you let your wounds cool off, you’ll never take a step again.”’
‘And then?’
‘There’s not much more to tell. I got up. Slowly picked up my feet and started walking. I was in pain, but I was moving. The Chaudhry in the nearby village fed me milk and ghee and gave Nawab Uncle a horse. He said, “Go, take this girl home and take my horse with you. Your horse will find its way home on its own.”’
Prakash Aunty laughed.
‘Tell me this, you Gujarati from that side, why did you do what Nawab told you to do?’
‘Because it seemed right to me. If I’d kicked up a fuss about the pain in my wound it would have wasted time. And his favourite food would have been wasted too. We didn’t know when Shanti Aunty would be serving it. He wasn’t looking forward to dinner, just vermicelli pudding. After walking so many miles, this seemed quite reasonable.’
For some reason, Prakash Aunty stiffened.
‘Well, really, what’s the point of repeating these old stories? Now let’s talk about here. About Indian Gujarat.’
Shanti Aunty stood up. ‘Well then, I’ll make some tea. The cardamom–cinnamon kind. That’s what will bring us joy; otherwise we’ll keep dwelling on the past.’
She was smitten with Shanti Aunty when she heard this. Such a huge difference between her Karianwala house and this tin hut.
Prakash Aunty’s lived here for years, she thought. And really, the Chief Engineer’s home has everything the heart could desire.
It was as though Shanti Aunty had read her mind. As she set the water on the stove, she said, ‘It’s only thanks to your Mukul Uncle that we have this roof over our heads. When we came here, all the well-to-do folks had pillows and quilts stitched for the refugees. And they gave us towels and printed bolts of Kathiawari fabric. Everyone banded together to help and that’s why we’re all sitting here today.’
Shanti Aunty picked up a sort of tablecloth from the trunk, spread it out on the mat and set out dishes of biscuits and chiwda. Then she began to pour tea into tiny cups.
‘No tea for me,’ said Prakash Aunty. ‘It’s time I went to the temple. I believe the car has come. Krishna, if you wish, stay here and chat with Shanti Aunty, or if you want to come with me to the temple, come along.’
‘No, Aunty, you go ahead. I’ll stay here. I want to see Savita and Sat too.’
After Prakash Aunty had left, she asked wickedly, ‘Well, well, what temple has Prakash Aunty started to visit?’
‘The Swami Narayan temple. My sister has become a devotee.’
‘The proper ladies of Rohit Mill go there too, I imagine.’
Shanti Aunty smiled faintly.
‘All the teachings of the Arya Samajis have washed away in the Sabarmati River here. Morning to night people circumambulate the Swami Narayan temple.’
Shanti Aunty’s giggles were like pebbles tossed at the tin walls of her hut.
‘Kishni, this is the accounting of religion these days. The English must also have used these ploys. Their managers must also have done something like what my sister is doing to establish their authority. You must understand, this is a new slavery that has begun since Independence. Where have the ways of Satyarth Prakash gone?’
‘Shanti Aunty, have you ever gone to that temple yourself?’
‘No, dear, why stray to paths outside my reach? You do remember the ways of Satyarth Prakash too, don’t you?’
‘Shanti Aunty, all that disappeared in the din of Partition. The ruins still stand before our eyes—the dust and earth flying up from the wreckage and the corpses of those senselessly killed.’
Shanti Aunty seemed to be recalling something.
‘Listen, Kishni, is that woman from Jalalpur still living behind you on Feroz Shah Road?’
‘Yes, she’s right there, Aunty. She stitches clothing day and night.’
‘Do you know whose daughter she is?’
‘She’s the daughter of Sain Ditta of Jalalpur; we ran into her in Delhi.’
‘You have no idea who you’ll run into in such tumultuous times. When I reached Delhi, I needed to have a suit stitched so I could wash up and change my clothes. I learnt there was a woman who did sewing in the servants’ quarters of the bungalows on Feroz Shah Road behind your house. I asked around and made it over there. She looked at me and I at her. “Sister, where are you from?” she asked.
‘“I’m from Jalalpur, and you?”
‘“I’m from Karianwala.”
‘“Are you Hando’s little daughter, Shanti?”
‘We both instantly understood and hugged and began wiping our eyes.
‘She was the daughter of Chaudhry Sain Ditta of Jalalpur, and was set to become our sister-in-law. She’d been engaged to our brother Nawab for two years. But then our father had a disagreement with the in-laws and the engagement was broken.
‘But this is all old news. Now who knows who escaped, who we’ll find survived—who knows any of it. They say . . .’
‘Aunty, why don’t we talk about ourselves? I have to catch a train tomorrow at this time.’
Shanti Aunty spent a long time talking about the old land—the property and home she’d left behind—how the Kashmiri nursemaid had protected Sat and Savita, her two children, and delivered them
safely to Kashmir. And they’d never have a chance to repay that debt. ‘May the Almighty fill her bag with a thousand blessings,’ she said. ‘Our beautifully decorated home lay empty and we were separated from it. We’ve received no letters or notice from there about who became the owner of our house. It must be that some poor soul came from here and reached our doorway there. There was no shortage of hand-stitched damask sheets, quilts, blankets. When I wrap myself in an embroidered bedspread, I laugh and think, God, you work in mysterious ways. With the strength of a pen, your leaders handed down a punishment to all humankind. Each according to their means, they may go abroad—to England, Canada, Africa. But darling, how is it just to uproot people like so many trees, cut them up, kill them? God, this was not right.’
Each of Aunty’s gold bangles on her wrists had a story to tell. She knew that as soon as Shanti had come to Delhi, whatever jewellery she had was sold. She said, trying to sound cheerful:
‘Shanti Aunty, you will settle down here now. You and Uncle will become whatever you wish. Your heart’s desire.’
Shanti Aunty gave a hollow laugh.
‘You are quite right. The people from there are here, and those from here are there. Those that were killed in the middle can send their claims to the Almighty. He can do as he pleases. He can fulfil them or rip them up and throw them away.’
The two laughed together.
‘Sometimes when I pick up my crocheting,’ said Shanti Aunty, ‘I think about how different our good, green earth was from these mill settlements full of labourers. If we stay a while amongst them, then we’ll become just like them, like my sister Prakash. When in Rome . . . You know, she is always after me—“Shanti, give up your salwar kameez and wear cotton saris,” she says. Mukul Sahib has set up your uncle at the mill. He looks after the books. And now he’s started talking like the people here, kemcho, he says . . .’
‘Aunty, what’s wrong with that? The Gujrat district there has gone to the Pakistanis—now you’ve got this one, the Indian Gujarat.’
‘Tell me this, where you’ve got a job, is that also in Gujarat?’
‘No, Aunty. It is sometimes in Gujarat and sometimes in Rajputana, Rajasthan. There are the same battles there too. Since the Gujaratis’ temple, the Ambaji temple, is in Rajasthan, Gujarat is putting up a fuss, saying that since this is Ambaji’s temple, Sirohi must be in Gujarat.’
Just then, the two children, Savita and Sat, returned home with Bhalla Uncle. They took off their shoes and placed them in the corner, then came and greeted her with a namaste.
‘Show each of your bags to Didi. Sing the baby song.’
She was happy. She thought, How nicely Shanti Aunty and Bhalla Uncle are bringing them up. What a difference between these children and Prakash Aunty’s naughty rascals.
‘Didi, you stay with us today,’ said Sat. ‘Ma will make noodle pudding for you.’
Savita pulled the edge of her dupatta.
‘I’ll tell you a story, Didi: In the king’s garden, there was coriander, fenugreek, spinach . . .’ she began.
She instantly fell in love with Savita.
‘What! The king grows vegetables in his garden?’
In independent India, everyone is equal, large and small. But, it seems, the notion of kings and queens will still linger in the popular imagination.
Bhalla Uncle laughed enchantingly. And he was no less than a prince himself. The eldest son of a wealthy father, his stepmother had objected to leaving the haveli to him and had cut him off right after she’d married his father. There had been much derision in the community, but his father had maintained a stance worthy of King Dasharatha. And the son and daughter-in-law, Bhalla Uncle and Shanti Aunty, had also put up with it. They said nothing.
One night, his father had come. He’d expressed his love for them both and then begun to weep.
‘I was powerless. I have done you wrong, my son. All the same, I have a right to forgiveness. You must continue to live apart from me.’
This incident was upsetting for Bhalla Uncle. But what was the point of repeating it?
‘Go, children, right now you go finish your schoolwork, and in the meantime, I’ll go drop Krishna Didi off at Prakash Aunty’s.’
The children opened their bags, took out their notebooks and began to work.
She leaned over and gave each of them a kiss.
‘Namaste, Didi.’
‘Namaste, Didi. Please come back tomorrow evening.’
She felt a bit better when they said this; she would return.
When Shanti Aunty and Bhalla Uncle came to drop her off at Prakash Aunty’s house, they pointed out a few houses on the way. ‘These are all our neighbours. Their troubles and worries are even worse than ours, you know.’
Someone wept and shrieked at the top of their lungs at the side of the road.
She shrank back and asked, ‘Aunty, who is that? Is this another . . . ?’
‘Yes, this is another victim of our fate; no one from her family survived. Somehow, she ended up under a pile of corpses. Now she’s lost her mind. She doesn’t eat or drink. It’s not yet night and she’s already begun to beat her breast and wail like one possessed.’
‘Leaders, thieves!’ the woman shrieked. ‘The world is spitting on you! Your thrones and crowns will be snatched away. You will feel the sighs of the blameless ones. I’ll pray night and day—wahe guru, please punish them!
‘Criminals! Oh!
‘Oh! Enemies, oh, oh!’
When she heard this, the soles of her feet began to tingle.
Right outside the gate, Uncle and Aunty said affectionately, ‘We’re not coming inside. We have to feed the children. Yes, and in Bombay you will see Nani Ma, your grandmother, won’t you!’
20
Bombay.
A vast world unfurled alongside the platform. How different from Lahore, Calcutta and Delhi. Different and unique.
Her mother’s maternal uncle from Poona had sharp eyes and recognized her right away. He came up and patted her on the head.
‘Are you all right, then, little Krishna?’ he asked.
She pressed her palms together in greeting. ‘Yes, Great Uncle! Zutshi Sahib, please meet my great-uncle. Uncle, this is our director, Zutshi Sahib, I wrote about him in a letter to you.’
‘Yes, dear. Thanks to you, we’re also getting a chance to catch a glimpse of him.’
Great Uncle again shook Zutshi Sahib’s hand. More warmly than before. ‘Our Krishna had written about you in a letter to us. You are the Director of the department and have come to Bombay to make some purchases. Now please do tell me, which direction are you headed, where will you stay?’
‘Colaba Devi.’
‘Then please come in this car. Jagan Bhai, get the address from Zutshi Sahib. Yes, Zutshi Sahib, is this your first trip to Bombay, or have you come before?’
‘I’ve come before.’
‘Krishna dear, you come in this car.’
She turned towards Zutshi Sahib. ‘We’re meeting on Hornby Road at Talakshi, at eleven o’clock, is that correct?’
‘Will you be able to get there on time? How will you get there?’
‘I’ll get directions from Great Uncle Sahib!’
‘Okay, we’ll meet tomorrow morning.’
Great Uncle Sahib paid the coolie.
‘First you met your mother’s uncle; now you must meet your own uncle,’ said Great Uncle. ‘Kashinath, meet your niece, Krishna. You’ve never met before.’
Kashinath Uncle said hello. He held out his hand to her in recognition. Great Uncle Sahib said, ‘You’re meeting for the first time, but you must have heard each other’s names?’
‘Yes, we have.’
She looked over at Kashinath Uncle and smiled.
On the way, everyone kept asking questions about one another’s interests. All at once, Great Uncle interrupted: ‘Careful, Kashinath, we have a precious treasure with us, the daughter of my niece, Durga. You only have to worry about the niece side of things
. But if anything goes wrong, I’ll be hit with a double charge!
‘You see, for one thing, I’m Krishna’s mother’s uncle; for another, she’s a Sobti daughter and I’m also a Sobti. But there’s a slight difference. She’s a Gujarat Sobti and I’m from Alamgarh. Look at Sanyog, my sister—she’s a Sobti daughter—married into the Handas, and Krishna’s mother—she’s a Handa daughter—married into the Sobtis. What I mean to say is, she needs to be treated properly.’
She laughed to herself. They’d reached Matunga King Circle.
The car came to a stop before the house.
She was about to get out when Great Uncle Sahib motioned for her to stop, ‘No, no, dear, stop right now.’
‘Papa ji, why are you stopping her?’
‘We have to give her a surprise. Stop, stop.’
‘Kashinath Uncle, Great Uncle Sahib seems to have a very colourful personality,’ she observed.
Kashinath Uncle laughed heartily, as though they weren’t speaking of his father but of his son.
‘Whenever Papa ji is at our house, we have loads of fun. When he comes from Poona the whole atmosphere changes. The real Punjab comes to stay.’
Great Uncle Sahib called out, ‘Come, children, we have a custom in Alamgarh of dripping oil at the threshold when a guest comes. I went inside and saw that there was no mustard oil! Kashinath’s fragrant oil cannot be used for this auspicious task. What do you say, daughter Krishna?’
She laughed.
‘You saw my eldest son, Baijnath, in Delhi, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Great Uncle Sahib.’
‘Now come and meet your aunt. She has the same name as you—Krishna. But she’s older than you. In age and also in deeds. In college, she was a political leader. She’s even seen the inside of a jail. We’re all in awe of her. Have a seat.’
Tea arrived, and in the meantime, Great Uncle Sahib placed a photo before her—‘Look, do you recognize this lady, or no?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? That’s my grandmother, Nani Ma.’
‘Are you absolutely sure? I hope you’re not just saying, “Oh, that’s my nani, that’s my dadi,” like refugees filling out false claims.’
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 10
