A Fine Family: A Novel Page 6

  Rumours flew about the house, many of them untrue: for example, that the railway bridge, which was the crucial link to the city, had been blown up. In the evening Big Uncle went out again, and he was arrested for breaking curfew. But fortunately he was released immediately through Bauji’s intercession. The entire family were enthused by the demonstrations of patriotic fervour; Bauji was shocked by the destruction of property. He warned of harsh British repression, which came the very next day. Police fired on unarmed crowds, there were mass arrests, and lathi charges broke up demonstrations. Official reports in Lyallpur said that eleven people died, forty were severely wounded. According to the people the count was at least three times bigger. Four Sikh students were killed while trying to raise the national flag over their college building. Karan miraculously escaped arrest, but the family dhobi was shot with his son, as they were passing the railway crossing on a bullock cart. The police sentry asked them to halt, but the washerman did not understand and he got scared; both he and his son ran and they were gunned down; the bullocks also died. At this news the entire family was thrown into a depression.

  There were long discussions at home in which Bauji often found himself isolated. He argued that the government reaction was to be expected since this rebellion was a grave threat to the Raj. It was wrong timing on Gandhi’s part to embarrass the British when the Japanese were poised to strike against eastern India. He knew that civil disobedience could play havoc with the defence of India and loathed the thought of a Japanese conquest. He felt deeply the misery of those who had come under Nazi, Fascist or Japanese domination.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Dewan Chand,’ said Chachi one evening, ‘the Quit India Movement is the outcome of British stubbornness. We were all frustrated and we needed this symbolic act of defiance.’

  ‘Hardly symbolic, Chachi?’ said Bauji.

  ‘Gandhi made it clear from the beginning that the Quit India Movement would be non-violent,’ said Karan.

  ‘How could it be, Karan?’ said Bauji.

  ‘It is the fault of English,’ said Tara. ‘It is they who put Gandhi in jail and there was no one to control the crowds afterwards.’

  The disturbances lasted for several weeks. At the end about a thousand people lost their lives throughout the country; over sixty thousand were arrested. However, calm was restored quickly in Lyallpur. Bauji had been deeply distressed by the violence but he was secretly pleased that at least the DC’s party had been cancelled because of the trouble. He wouldn’t have to tiresomely defend himself before Chachi, Karan and the others. Bhabo was also happy. Because of the curfew there was peace in the house from unwelcome callers and Bauji’s clients.

  After it was all over, Bauji matter-of-factly asked Big Uncle one day, ‘Tell me son, why did you have to go out in the middle of the curfew? Remember that evening when you were arrested?’

  ‘I went to the bazaar to get a haircut,’ replied Big Uncle.

  ‘Haircut?’ Bauji could not believe his ears.

  ‘I needed a haircut.’

  Bauji tried to control his temper. ‘In the middle of a curfew, he needed a haircut.’

  Big Uncle nodded. Tara giggled.

  ‘What is wrong with our family barber? He comes every day. Why do you have to go to the bazaar?’ asked Bauji.

  ‘He cuts hair too closely, and he doesn’t know how to make a puff. It’s the fashion these days,’ said Big Uncle.

  There was an uneasy pause. Bauji tried to hold himself but he did not succeed. ‘Bhabo!’ he roared, ‘This is not my son. He must have got exchanged in the hospital.’

  A week later, while the family was having lunch, a telegram came from the ashram saying that Tara’s marriage proposal had been accepted. There was immediate excitement, and everyone started to talk of Tara’s forthcoming marriage. Bauji felt relieved but Bhabo was not.

  ‘We shall finally have spirituality in this house,’ Bauji said jovially. ‘Now I shall get someone to tell me about this meditation business.’

  ‘You don’t need a son-in-law for that. Go and get initiated by the guru,’ said Bhaboji.

  The conversation was suddenly interrupted by a chorus of school boys at the gate. They were reading aloud the inscription on the newly installed letterbox outside: ‘Varma Billa, Dewan Chand Barma, BA, LL B, Advocate, Punjab High Court, Lahore, Punjab.’ Everyone smiled, except Bauji, who was visibly angry at his name being abused by every street urchin who wanted to test his command of the English language.

  The letterbox had been Big Uncle’s brainchild. Thinking it the fashionable thing to do, Big Uncle had got a letterbox made by the carpenter and inscribed by a sign painter. Unfortunately the sign painter had written ‘Billa’ instead of ‘Villa’, and ‘Barma’ instead of ‘Varma’. Big Uncle had not bothered to have the mistake corrected, and hung it up on the main gate. Thus Bauji’s home had joined the small fashionable group of Lyallpur houses that had a letterbox with an English name. There were many admiring ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the younger set, in whose eyes Big Uncle was a big hero. Everyone was encouraged to write letters to each other to ‘try out’ the letterbox. A number of ‘trial letters’ were written in fact. But the mailman had to be repeatedly instructed to put the letters in the mail box, rather then delivering them personally. He was not too happy about the box, since he stood to lose a glass of buttermilk which he received when he delivered the mail personally.

  No one, however, anticipated the nuisance that this harmless idea of Big Uncle’s would create, as every school boy who passed by felt compelled to practice his newly learned skill loud enough to warm the heart of any fourth class school master. Bauji contained his anger, and calmly told Big Uncle that if he did not remove the letterbox in the next hour, he would receive a sharply diminished monthly allowance. He again reminded his son that he was more than convinced that the nurse must have accidentally switched him at the hospital when he was born.

  Bauji eventually won over Bhabo’s agreement to the marriage. He consoled her, ‘You should be happy Bhabo, Tara won’t have to work any more.’ He knew this would make an impression, because Tara’s working continued to be a liability in the eyes of Bhabo’s social set. Bhabo’s friends never failed to chide her about it.

  A couple of days later Bauji sent a confirmation in the traditional form to the bridegroom’s family. It consisted of trays of fruit and dry fruit—almonds, cashew nuts, raisins, dates, sweet lime, apples, bananas and pomegranate.

  To everyone’s surprise Bauji received a letter from Seva Ram informing him that he would be stopping in Lyallpur for a day on an inspection tour of the canal. He wrote that he would be accompanied by his English boss and an overseer, and he would stay at the Canal Rest House of the Irrigation Department. The news created a sensation in the house not only because it was somewhat irregular for a future son-in-law to visit like this, but also because everyone wanted to meet Seva Ram and see what he was like. Chachi insisted that she be invited ‘to meet the boy’. There was also the possibility that Seva Ram might bring the English boss, and they wondered how they were to treat him. Big Uncle said that they should leave the Englishman to him and he had already planned the English clothes he would wear for the occasion and what he would talk about. Karan thought it unpatriotic to play host to an Englishman in the midst of the Quit India Movement. Bauji put these speculations to rest, saying that it was highly unlikely that an Englishman would visit the Indian section of town during these troubled times. He promptly replied to Seva Ram inviting him to stay at Kacheri Bazaar and bring his colleagues to tea.

  In all the excitement no one bothered about Tara. She was nervous and afraid at the prospect of seeing her future husband. Bhabo made it clear to her that it would be inappropriate for her to meet him, let alone talk to him. She would have to be content with seeing him from the upstairs terrace. Bhabo was already upset by the strange way the marriage was being arranged and she did not want a scandal if it got known that her daughter had been seen with the boy before mar
riage. She could not understand why the boy’s parents were not in the picture.

  On the day Seva Ram was expected, Big Uncle brought advance information to Kacheri Bazaar that the Irrigation Department party had been seen going towards the canal headworks. Big Uncle made it his business to know what was happening in town. He had been loafing around the Clock Tower on his bicycle and one of the shopkeepers had casually mentioned that the Englishman’s car was noticed speeding in the direction of the canal. Thus everyone was ready when the Irrigation party arrived. Tea had been elaborately laid out and Bauji, Chachi, Bhabo were dressed and waiting. Even though it was the hot season, Bhabo and Chachi had worn silk. Big Uncle had stationed himself at the gate and he let the visitors in.

  A six-foot Englishman entered, followed by a very short Seva Ram and the Overseer. All three men wore sola topees which they took off as soon as they came in.

  ‘Well, well! Come in, come in,’ said Chachi.

  ‘Welcome!’ said Bauji, getting up and going towards them. ‘Do sit down.’

  As they sat down they were offered tea. But they were hot and thirsty and preferred cold drinks instead. Seva Ram in his easy going way tried to put everyone at ease. He asked Bauji about Lyallpur. He made small talk with Big Uncle. But everyone (except Seva Ram) was clearly uneasy. The Englishman was not stiff but he was unused to such a social situation. He thought everyone was staring at him. Bauji’s family wanted to please him but this only added to his discomfort.

  ‘Did you have a strenuous day?’ asked Chachi.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Seva Ram with an engaging smile. ‘As a matter of fact it was one of our easier days.’ He looked warmly at the Englishman and then at the Overseer, as he tried to include them in the conversation.

  ‘Don’t trust a word he says. He works like a horse,’ said the Englishman.

  Seva Ram again smiled and Bauji noticed that it was a smile of great sweetness. It was not a flashing or brilliant smile, but a smile he remembered from the ashram which lit his face with an inner light. Seva Ram seemed about to speak but he did not say anything for a long time and the others soon began to find the silence awkward. He looked vacantly in the air, his face grave and intent. They kept waiting, curious to know what it was all about. When he began to speak it was as though he were continuing the conversation without being aware of the long silence.

  ‘Guruji sends his regards to you. He was touched that you came all the way to the ashram.’

  ‘Yes, I too was moved by the atmosphere of the ashram and his message. You will of course stay here with us, won’t you?’

  ‘No, I think I shall stay at the Canal Rest House. It’s quite comfortable and I am here on work after all.’ Seva Ram turned his head and looked at his two colleagues without embarrassment, but with an expression in his eyes that was at once scrutinizing and amused.

  By now Big Uncle was busy telling jokes to the Englishman, who roared with laughter. The atmosphere thawed. Seva Ram, realizing that Bhabo did not speak English, addressed her in Punjabi. He also brought the Overseer into the conversation. Bhabo asked the Overseer about his family, and she looked up occasionally to see if Tara was watching from above. Seva Ram did not expect to meet Tara. He was also too shy to ask for her. Everyone seemed to slowly relax.

  Chachi was struck by the fact that Seva Ram treated his superior and his junior in exactly the same way. He was not excessively deferential to his boss nor haughty or off-hand with his subordinate. He looked them both in the eye in the same sincere way and tried to make them feel equally comfortable. Later, when the visitors had gone Chachi mentioned this to the family. Bauji and the others agreed with her that this was a most remarkable quality. Most Indians, they felt, were very conscious of position and power and did not behave normally either with people above or below them. Seva Ram was indeed exceptional.

  Bauji turned to Seva Ram and asked him about a dilemma that he had been grappling with ever since his meeting with the guru.

  ‘If it turns out that what the guru says is true—that there is a life of the spirit,’ said Bauji, ‘then not to participate in it is clearly wrong. But if it turns out not to be true, then I certainly wouldn’t want to live in this world like a passenger. You see, an old man like me doesn’t have much time left in the world. Whatever little bit I have, I want to savour it. I like being involved. I like this world with all its imperfections. I don’t want to give it up.’

  ‘Bauji,’ replied Seva Ram with a smile, ‘it is a matter of choice. If there is a world of spirit and you do not participate in it, you will have truly lost something. If, on the other hand, there is none, and you remain ignorant of it, then you haven’t lost anything. The third possibility is that if you work hard, meditate and try to attain the Infinite and there turns out to be none, then too you haven’t lost anything except your effort. Finally, if there is a spiritual world and you attain it through meditation, then you have obviously won.

  ‘I believe you have no choice,’ concluded Seva Ram, ‘but to try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.’

  Seva Ram had spoken all this lightly, almost gaily, as if to suggest to the others that this was small talk, of little consequence. Chachi became conscious of the melodiousness of his voice as he spoke.

  Bauji thought that his argument was very persuasive. But later on reflection he couldn’t bring himself to agree. He felt strongly that he had everything to lose by making the spiritual effort. He loved this life too dearly to risk losing it—even to a more perfect world. If opting for the spiritual world meant giving up this one, or living in it like a passenger, then he might as well choose the imperfect one.

  After the visitors had gone, Tara came rushing down with her sisters.

  ‘But he is so short,’ moaned Tara.

  ‘In front of the Englishman he looked like a pygmy,’ said Big Uncle with a laugh.

  ‘He eats so little, no wonder,’ said Bhabo. ‘He hardly touched anything.’

  ‘What do you think of him, Chachi?’

  ‘Of course, he’ sattractive. There’s something modest and friendly and gentle in him that is very appealing. He’s got a lot of self-possession for so young a man. He isn’t quite like any of the other boys I’ve met.’

  ‘Well, you can marry him then. I don’t like him,’ said Tara and she ran upstairs with tears in her eyes.

  6

  Bhabo’s day started early. She woke up at dawn, bathed and churned butter from milk. As she churned, she sang devotional songs by the Rajput princess, Mira. These poems passionately recounted Mira’s love affair with her god and lover, Krishna. After she finished churning butter, she got dressed in a white cotton sari and went off to the temple.

  Like most Hindus, Bhabo believed that God was present in all temples. So she alternated between the gurdwara of the Sikhs, which was situated in Kacheri Bazaar, diagonally opposite their house, the Shiva temple of the orthodox Hindus, and the prayer hall of the reformist Arya Samaj. Big Uncle once asked Bhabo not to go to all the temples but to choose one and visit it regularly. She innocently replied that she wanted to make sure that at least one god would listen to her.

  Bhabo’s choice of temple on a particular day often depended on whom she expected to meet, for her social life frequently started at the temple. She would often meet a friend and go off with her. Her social life consisted of consoling her friends when there was a death in the family or congratulating them on engagements, marriages and births. Since she did not discriminate between the rich and the poor or the powerful and the humble, she was welcome everywhere. Virtually every day there was either a birth, a death, an engagement or a marriage in her wide circle of friends, and so she always had somewhere to go. In the case of a death, the mourning lasted for thirteen days, and loyal friends were expected to visit daily. Thus her problem was to choose where to go.

  Today, however, her mind was troubled. She was uneasy about her daughter’s forthcoming marriage. She was concerned that the boy’s side had not come to see
Tara. Nor had her family barber gone to find out about the boy’s family background. Everything was most irregular, and she wanted to avoid her friends and their uncomfortable questions relating to the marriage. She decided to go to the Sikh gurdwara near the house, thinking that she would be least likely to meet her friends there. But she miscalculated. All her friends, in their starched white cotton saris, were there this morning, almost as if they had read her mind.

  ‘Bhabo, your daughter is going to be married and you don’t even know the family? Is your family barber asleep?’ Her friends voiced her worries.

  Bhabo told them about the guru, Bauji’s journey to the ashram, and Seva Ram’s visit to Lyallpur.

  Bhabo patiently explained that the guru meant a great deal to the boy, even more than his own family.

  ‘If it was my daughter, I would have personally gone to see the family.’

  ‘I don’t understand where your Bauji finds these boys. As for us, my dear, we have always gone in for landowning families when it comes to finding matches for our daughters,’ said another with a superior air.

  ‘What can you expect, sister: who will marry a girl who has been working? We warned you two years ago when your daughter started going out.’

  ‘Your family may be professionals, Bhabo, but you shouldn’t throw away our good traditions.’

  Bhabo returned home thoroughly humiliated. The family discovered her distress when she did not come down from her room at noon. For years Bhabo had faithfully adhered to a routine: between noon and one she would serve buttermilk and thick wheat rotis to anyone who came by the house. Consequently, a stream of poor people regularly came to receive her charity.