In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  ‘No, Bhai Sahib is not standing for the municipality this time,’ said Shashi.

  ‘Then what are these voter lists you’re preparing?’

  ‘These are lists of Assembly voters! Mahatma Gandhi is talking to the viceroy—the elections will be in a year or two. That’s why these lists are being prepared.’

  ‘Seth Sahib must be standing for the Assembly?’

  ‘People are putting pressure on him to go into the Assembly,’ said Shashi. ‘The committee field seems very small for his talents.’

  ‘Then will he stand on behalf of the Unionist party or as an Independent?’ asked Chetan.

  ‘No, people are telling him to stand for the Congress.’

  ‘But Seth ji has never been a member of the Congress, he’s never even gone to jail.’

  ‘Going into the Assembly and going to jail are two different things,’ said Shashi in the manner of a politician. ‘People who are skilled at going to jail don’t necessarily have a talent for speaking in the Assembly as well. As for Congress membership, that’s just a matter of four annas. If the possibility of getting a ticket comes, that will be taken care of as well.’

  Chetan was silent. He thought of Lala Govindaram and his long service to the independence struggle.

  ‘Bhai Sahib has been going to the Congress Working Committee meetings. That’s where it will be decided. But on one side is the Hindu Mahasabha and on the other, the Unionist Party, which has the cooperation of the government. It’s not easy to fight against them. Bhai Sahib is under pressure from several quarters, but if he gets the Congress ticket, then he’ll stand on behalf of the Congress. He thinks that if the Congress goes into Assemblies, then they’ll show they can do better work than the government. If they are forced to come outside again, then when there’s another agreement, when we get self-rule, they’ll go back in. If Bhai Sahib goes into the Congress right now, then no one can stop him from becoming a minister when the time comes.’

  ‘But what’s the need to prepare lists so far in advance?’

  ‘This is Bhai Sahib’s way of doing things,’ said Shashi. ‘If we start finding out about voters now, it will be easy to find out who’s important in which mohalla, who has influence on how many people. If a voter’s name should be on the lists according to law but isn’t, then it will be included as well, and if Bhai Sahib stands from the Congress or from the Mahasabha or as an Independent, we’ll need these lists for sure, and we’ll need to meet important people right away.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he stand from the Unionist side?’

  ‘What he’s trying to do is get the Congress ticket, and some friends from the Punjab Congress Committee have even said that the competition will be stiff and it will cost thousands of rupees. If a Congress member wins, it will be good for the Congress as well. Bhai Sahib is thinking ahead. If he doesn’t get the Congress ticket, then we’ll see.’

  ‘So this is why Vir Sen was calling the Congress a bunch of businessmen,’ Chetan thought to himself. He was going to say something about Lala Govindaram when Seth Hardarshan pushed aside the curtain of the inner room and entered—he wore a fine milky-white homespun kurta, churidar pyjamas, a homespun achkan and a Gandhi cap. Whenever Chetan had seen him before, he’d always worn a silk kameez, cotton churidar pyjamas, a silk achkan and a cap. ‘So Seth ji has definitely decided to become a Congress member,’ he said to himself.

  Seth Hardarshan looked handsome in his homespun attire—he had a thin, sharp nose, and thin lips. He certainly did not look like a businessman. There was an innocence to his manner of speech that was instantly appealing. His name was apt. His parents must surely have thought of Krishna when they’d first laid eyes on him.

  *

  And just then, as he gazed at Seth Hardarshan, Chetan recollected the former owner of that mansion, Pandit Radharaman, advocate. Pandit Radharaman’s father had left him quite a bit of money and he had been a famous advocate himself. He was among the most eminent people in the city. Chetan had first seen him when he was in Class Five. He was standing for election for membership of the Municipal Committee at the time, and he had spent so much money on the election, and done so much publicity, and there were so many posters pasted up in every gali and bazaar, that even the city’s children were familiar with his name. When he won the election, there was a procession so magnificent that Chetan did not see its like again until Mahatma Gandhi came to town. There was a band, schoolboys, volunteers from the service committee—Chetan had seen the procession near Company Bagh, which was when he first laid eyes on Pandit Radharaman. He was forty or so at that time, quite fair, with slightly sunken cheeks, large, drooping moustaches, an achkan, churidar pyjamas, and a large turban on his head.

  He was also elected chair of the committee and, after that election, he began to participate in social affairs regularly. But eight or so years ago, news had spread through the city like wildfire one morning that Pandit Radharaman had gone bankrupt and run away from home in the dead of the night. Upon inquiring, Chetan had found out that for some years he’d been investing in the stock market and that he’d bought shares of cotton and lost lakhs of rupees. There was also a widespread rumour that he’d committed suicide.

  But a few days later, they found out that he’d gone to a friend’s house in Lahore and had now returned. A short while after that, they heard he’d surrendered all his property to the lenders and gone back to Lahore, where he’d set up a practice . . . And one day, Chetan had been walking towards Kot Kishanchand, when he saw that his mansion was being painted red on the dome above the enclosing walls, and yellow on the middle square parts. There he’d learned from a friend that Seth Hardarshan had bought the mansion, that he was a Tata agent, and had bought up Tata Steel company agencies in Jalandhar, Hoshiarpur, Ludhiana and Kapurthala. And just as Seth Dalmia’s name became famous all through the region a few years later when he purchased the shares and property of Punjab’s premier capitalist, Lal Harkishanlal, after he’d gone bankrupt, so too did Seth Hardarshan become the talk of the town among Jalandharites when he purchased Pandit Radharaman’s property.

  Although Seth Hardarshan was Punjabi, his father had done business in UP. Upon his death, the burden of his business fell on Seth Hardarshan’s shoulders. He was the one who’d taken the Tata agency and he was the one who’d bought all of Pandit Radharaman’s property and named his mansion ‘Hardarshan Villa’.

  *

  Seth Hardarshan had only studied up to his BA, but his conversation, manner and accent gave one the impression that he was highly educated and cultured. In the very beginning, when he’d first arrived, he used to wear a closed-neck coat, a dhoti and a black cap embroidered with a silk border, but since then he’d started wearing churidar pyjamas and an achkan.

  In the first Municipal Committee election he’d run as an Independent and got elected. This year, there had been a fair amount of opposition against him in the city. People thought he no longer kept good company; he’d started to drink and stories were spreading about his character; one side was insisting that it wouldn’t let him become a member of the Municipal Committee . . . but he wasn’t standing for election for the committee at all. He had his sights set higher . . .

  The moment he entered the room, he said to Shashi, ‘I’m off to meet with Rayzada Hansraj; just now I talked with Lahore on the phone, if he proposes my name then my nomination is assured.’

  Then his gaze fell upon Chetan. Chetan got up and greeted him. He walked over to him, patted him on the shoulder and asked how he was doing. Chetan gave an account of his doings with some embarrassment.

  ‘You, my friend, went off to Lahore and left our gatherings barren,’ Seth Hardarshan laughed—a sweet, charming laugh. ‘If you were still around, we’d have something to listen to now and then. We haven’t seen any writers around for years now.’

  ‘How could you have the time for literature and all that nowadays, Seth ji?’ Chetan laughed self-deprecatingly.

  ‘No, not at all!’ he replied
with a faint smile. ‘How long are you here? Let’s have a get-together.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said Chetan. ‘I’m on a three-month leave. I have to go and take care of some work. Hunar Sahib’s in town these days. He may be here a while, because he’s promised Lala Govindaram that if he stands for the Assembly, he’ll recite a new poem for every meeting.’

  Chetan had purposely said this to gauge his reaction. He thought Seth ji’s brow would contract slightly and his face would become clouded, but instead of scowling, he continued to smile sweetly. ‘Lala Govindaram has performed a great service,’ he said. ‘He should definitely run on behalf of the Congress.’ Then he stopped for a moment and added carelessly, ‘People are saying the same to me, but I haven’t done any service for the Congress. Lala Govindaram is the only one worthy of the position.’

  Chetan laughed to himself . . . ‘Hunar Sahib has recently done a translation of the second chapter of the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita,’ he said. ‘He’s also rendering the Upanishads into simple Urdu poetry. He wants to get them published as well, but you know the situation for writers, that’s what he’s working on these days . . .’

  ‘Please tell him to come and see me. This is virtuous work. If you do stay in town, do bring him over one evening and he can recite it to us as well.’

  ‘If I stay, I’ll definitely bring him by.’

  ‘All right then, you must excuse me now. I have to go out for work.’

  ‘If you are going by car, could you please drop me by Adda Hoshiarpur?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  And Chetan said goodbye to Shashi Seth.

  ‘Where does this Hunar Sahib live?’ asked Seth Hardarshan suddenly. Then, without waiting for Chetan’s reply, he remarked to Shashi, ‘Shashi, send someone to invite him here.’

  ‘He has many haunts,’ said Chetan. ‘But rest assured, I’ll send him over.’

  *

  Vir Sen was still wandering about outside. Chetan said goodbye to him in passing, but he did not respond.

  36

  Although he’d promised he’d go straight to Hunar Sahib and send him to Seth Hardarshan after he took his leave at Adda Hoshiarpur, when he arrived below Lala Govindaram’s room after going through Puriyan Mohalla and Qila Mohalla, he didn’t feel like going upstairs. After speaking with Seth Hardarshan, he was firmly convinced that the Congress ticket would go to Seth Hardarshan, and not to Lala Govindaram. But this didn’t make Chetan as sad as when Seth Hardarshan confirmed in a way that this independence struggle, which the people considered their own struggle, and for the sake of which thousands of people in Jallianwallah Bagh had been slaughtered, taking bullets to their chests, and thousands and thousands had gone to jail and climbed smiling to the gallows, was actually considered by the country’s capitalists to belong to them. ‘This is the reason (this was how Seth Hardarshan explained it to him) why Birla welcomed Mahatma Gandhi when he came from Africa. He put his home, his lands and his purse at his service . . .’

  ‘So are the people in this struggle something like soldiers, who come in handy in battles between ambitious politicians or emperors?’ thought Chetan. ‘Will the condition of ordinary people remain the same when the country becomes free? If the English haven’t left the country yet, and already Seth Hardarshan can join the Congress without having given the slightest aid in the struggle for the country’s freedom, when the country is free, his own friends and relations wouldn’t have authority over it. What would happen to Bansi the vegetable seller then, and to Lala Govindaram, and the thousands of volunteers like them and to their children and grandchildren?’ And Chetan felt extremely sad. In Puriyan Mohalla, he’d walked below Kunti’s window; he even turned and glanced back, and saw the window was closed—but instead of thinking about Kunti, he walked along pondering this problem. He stopped for a moment below Lala Govindaram’s window. At one point, the thought occurred to him that he should go up and warn Lala Govindaram that Seth Hardarshan was making every effort to snatch away his authority, but then he walked on. He thought he’d talk to Hunar Sahib that night and tell him about it.

  *

  He was walking quickly out of Bohar Wala Bazaar, when suddenly a man sitting at a shop jumped up, rushed over, and grabbed Chetan by the arm.

  Chetan started and turned.

  ‘Ah, Sarchashma!’12 cried Chetan on seeing his old classmate.

  ‘What’s new, Mr Poet Laureate?’

  And the two of them burst out laughing.

  ‘Sarchashma’ linked arms with him and walked him back to his shop.

  ‘When did you get back from Lahore?’

  ‘I went to Shimla for three months—I’ve been back three or four days.’

  ‘You’ll stay a while, won’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m leaving today or tomorrow. But you tell me, how’s your shop doing—did you write anything more, or are you still just a Sarchashma-e-Zindagi?’13

  ‘The shop is going great—take a look, I have a new signboard.’

  Chetan looked up—the board was fixed above the shop, right in the middle of the bazaar.

  BHATIJE DI HATTI, it said in Punjabi—‘The Nephew’s Shop’.

  ‘How did this “Nephew’s Shop” signboard replace “Lala Amarnath, Second-Hand Bookseller”?’ asked Chetan, sitting down on the stoop right outside the shop. ‘Has your nephew joined you?’

  Lala Amarnath slapped Chetan’s hands and guffawed loudly, and instead of walking around to sit on his cushion, he leapt over the one-and-a-half-foot-high counter and sat down.

  ‘No, there’s no nephew, I’m the one who’s become the nephew, and even those boys whose uncle I actually am call me nephew, and I have great fun with it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute, but first tell me this: will you drink lassi or shikanji?’

  ‘No, I won’t drink anything.’

  ‘Then have a lemon soda.’

  ‘Arré, no, yaar, tell me your story!’

  But Lala ji told the soda-water seller next door to open up a lemonade, and then said, ‘You remember, don’t you, when I opened a shop next to the Panjpir Primary School, five years ago today . . .’

  ‘. . . and you strung copies of Sarchashma-e-Zindagi along ropes all around the shop,’ finished Chetan, guffawing loudly. He held out his hand and Lala Amarnath slapped it with his own wide palm, laughing just as loudly.

  *

  Amarnath had been a classmate of Chetan’s. He was of medium height, with a wide forehead, face, hands and feet. He was neither particularly quick in his studies, nor a slowpoke. In Class Eight, Chetan had attempted to write a novel. In those days, after reading Chandrakanta and Bhoot Nath and a few books of Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes (which the Urdu translator had transcribed as ‘Holuhmz’, and which they all read with that pronunciation), Chetan had begun to write a detective novel in imitation of them, and he’d read a couple of chapters aloud to Amarnath. Then the two of them got together and cooked up schemes for getting it calligraphed and printed. Urdu printing was done at Shyam Press on Station Road, and right near the press was the Calligraphy Centre, so the two friends wandered over there to inquire about rates for having it calligraphed and printed.

  But by the time he reached Class Nine, Chetan had begun writing poetry, and his novel fell by the wayside, or rather, he completely forgot about it. One day, Amarnath brought him home on the way back from school. He lived in Mohalla Mendruan, and it was right on the way. Chetan was astonished when he entered the sitting room. A rope was tied from one wall of the sitting room to the other, and from it hung numerous copies of a book, its pages spread out on each side like bird feathers. To the right lay a pile of copies of the same book on a low desk. Lala Amarnath had picked up a copy from that pile and placed it in Chetan’s hand. A paper-bound book of five formes, double demy size! The heavy cover paper was a deep pink, and on it was written in large round letters:

  Sarchashma-e-Zindagi

  Kalme-zarrĩ-rakam Lala Ama
rnath Mehndru14

  Chetan flipped through a couple of pages. On them were written essays on living life, in fairly difficult Urdu (which Amarnath had Persianized). The first essay was on the power of desire—who knows where he’d come up with the ideas to prepare the book. Chetan didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t like the language, nor did he like the style. Although he felt extremely jealous of Amarnath, he dismissed his work, and said to himself, ‘He’s a stupid guy, he’s going to write a stupid book.’ He gave great praise for his writing and printing of the book. Then he asked, ‘Did you sell some too?’

  ‘I just got it printed today,’ Amarnath had said. ‘All these copies were prepared last night; this morning, before going to school, I got all of these cut by Taj Ram binders in Bhairon Bazaar. Now I’ll worry about selling them.’

  ‘So did you bind them yourself?’

  ‘What else? This is a simple paper binding. I’ll put on the cardboard covers myself.’

  Chetan offered him much praise for the binding. He had thought Amarnath would give him a copy of Sarchashma-e-Zindagi. But when Amarnath took the book from his hand and placed it back on the pile, speaking enthusiastically all the while, Chetan felt offended and held out his hand to depart. Amarnath came with him as far as the door. After he had shaken hands with him and come outside, he was burning with envy—Amarnath, whom no one at school knew as a writer, had become a man of letters and he, who considered himself a poet, story writer, novelist and who knows what else, was just wandering about aimlessly.

  ‘Chetan . . . Chetan!’

  Chetan turned when he heard his name being called. Amarnath was running after him with a book in his hand.

  ‘Yaar, I forgot to give you the book!’ And he held out the book in both his hands and presented it to him as a gift.

  Although Amarnath had corrected his mistake, and Chetan’s ego had been somewhat appeased, he was still unable to read it, even when he tried. If it were poetry, a story or novel, he’d have finished it on the way home, but he didn’t understand any of the titles in the table of contents: The Power of Desire; Self-Confidence; Ego; Vahadete Vajood.15 Although, like some of the other youths in the Punjab, he also wrote Urdu poetry, he had not read Urdu regularly. In class, he studied Hindi and Sanskrit—‘Where on earth did the bastard lift all this stuff from?’ he asked himself as he placed the book in the cupboard.