Difficult Daughters

by Kapur, Manju

  Virmati took the books with a sigh. ‘I know these bits,’ she said, flipping through the pages uninterestedly.

  Seeing her lack of enthusiasm, Harish added, ‘It refreshes the knowledge in my own mind when I read these books with you. I could never do something like this with her.’

  Virmati flushed with pleasure, and turned to her book with a glint in her eye.

  She then spent the morning diligently copying the main points of the text in her notebook. She tried to memorize what she had copied, but it was hard work. She didn’t see the point of what she was learning.

  She hated philosophy, although Harish called it a noble subject. It was dull, abstract and meaningless, but studying it was her only means of escape. She wished Harish had thought another subject suitable for her. She also wished it was not such an uphill task, being worthy of him.

  When it was time to go back to Lahore after the summer holidays, Virmati was secretly relieved.

  Harish looked downcast parting from her.

  ‘It is so lonely without you,’ he said sadly, sitting on the unmade bed, watching as she bustled about, packing her suitcases.

  ‘Our meetings in Lahore are much nicer,’ she said, caressing him with more fervour than she had during her entire visit.

  He smiled at her, but was silent during the trip to the station.

  *

  Monday, 5 November 1945. The INA courts martial open at Red Fort, Delhi. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru is the lawyer for the defence.

  Leela’s family is deeply involved in the whole issue. Leela is distraught, her husband is in the INA, his reputation and future are at stake. Patriot or traitor? Why should these things always be left to the people in power to decide? Kiran and Kaka feel their reputation is at stake too. What can they do to help their absent father?

  12 November is INA day. When Kiran reached school, assembly was going on. The principal was making rousing speeches. She talked about the INA, about the protests that were sweeping the country, about how the issue should be kept alive until the accused were released without a stain upon their honour. She then declared the school shut in order to commemorate INA day.

  Kiran conferred with her friends. ‘We must do something‚’ she said slowly. In the Lahore of the 1940s, it was not hard to decide what to do.

  ‘We must have a procession‚’ they decided. ‘Go from college to college and make everybody join us.’

  Yes, yes, they must.

  And the schoolgirls marched, marched through the streets of the fabled city, shouting

  Lal Quila tor do

  Azad Fauj chhor do,

  ending with ‘Subhash Zindabad’, though he had vanished, and nobody knew whether he was dead or alive.

  The spirit of the girls flowed out in aggregate voices, shouting to the students from Sanatan Dharam College for Women, Khalsa College for Girls, and Dayal Singh College to come and join them, and the procession grew and grew, until imperialism decided it was threatened.

  ‘Who are your leaders?’ asked the Punjab Police, as they bore down upon them.

  ‘Nobody. We ourselves.’

  Obviously, this was not to be believed. The insurgents were now using children to foment disturbance, thinking that their sex and age would protect them. They must be taught a lesson. They must be charged.

  ‘Shame, shame!’ cried the girls.

  ‘Toadies of the British!’ shouted Kiran.

  A policeman advanced upon her. She turned to run, and got the blow on her arm and shoulder. Shock and injury brought tears to her eyes. ‘Murdabad,’ she yelled, ‘Murdabad!’

  ‘Punjab Police Murdabad!’ the girls around her cried.

  ‘Punjab Police, hai, hai!’

  ‘Punjab Police Murdabad!’

  ‘Subhash Bose Zindabad!’

  The lathi charges increased, there was screaming, and a stampede. Brickbats began to fly. Blood was flowing down Kiran’s arm. The hurt made her think of her father, and forced her to go on.

  Meanwhile, Mr C. B. Clark, Commissioner, Punjab Police, had arranged for the principals of the three colleges to come and manage their students. All three of them understood the gravity of the situation. It would do no one any good if their students were injured in lathi charges. They realized that law and order had to be maintained at all costs. Even though our brave soldiers are facing a trial, this, my dear friends, will not help them. You have made your point.

  They saw that they had no option. They dispersed. Kiran was in no state to ride her cycle home, her friends took her back in a tonga.

  Leela, flabbergasted, frightened. ‘What possessed you to go marching in this manner? One sacrifice in the family is not enough?’ Proud that the daughter had shown herself to be worthy of the father, but never saying it, no never, because Kiran was a girl, and girls had to be contained, and the earlier this process started, the less painful it would be.

  And Virmati. The child shows such courage, while I fret about my petty, domestic matters, at a time when the nation is on trial. I too must take a stand. I have tried adjustment and compromise, now I will try non-cooperation.

  *

  Through that winter the word ‘co-operate’ beckoned hard at Virmati. Harish informed her he could not go on like this, this was her second year away from him.

  It was getting very difficult for him at home. His trips up and down Lahore were silently and continuously resented. If he brought anything home for the children, it was felt he was wasting money. If he didn’t, it increased the feeling that all his time, concern, attention and finances were being swallowed up by that witch who, as it was, prevented him from giving anybody else their due.

  Kishori Devi to her son: ‘Beta, all of us have to make sacrifices. The end of the war has not brought prices down. If anything, the situation has become worse. Perhaps I should go home. With me, you have another mouth to feed. The rest of your family is your responsibility, but Guddiya and I can at least spare you that much.’

  ‘No, no, Amma. What are you saying? I cannot allow anything like that.’

  ‘Beta, I can see the situation for myself. After all, now you have to go to Lahore frequently. The ticket there and back –’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Amma, it is only a few annas!’

  ‘Every pice counts. Then it is not only the train ticket. Once a man steps out of his house, he begins to spend, no matter what. Besides, you should spend. She is your wife. It is only a pity she feels the need to run away all the time.’

  ‘She doesn’t feel the need. She was here for a whole year. Then you know what happened. I am the one who sent her to study.’

  ‘Beta, you are very good. How many husbands encourage their wives to study after their marriages? She has got a diamond – a diamond from heaven! But now with two bahus in the house, I can safely leave you. How many people can you support and look after? It is not fair. I do not wish to be a burden on you. Now you let me go. Things are cheaper in Kanpur. Here, everything is very expensive.’

  ‘There is no question of letting you go. If you leave, the whole family will have to leave with you‚’ said Harish obliquely, at the thought of living alone with Ganga. ‘It is out of the question. Let things settle down.’

  *

  ‘Viru, you have to come home, darling. I pine and long for you. I need you, I cannot bear this separation any longer. Is this why we married?’

  ‘I spent all summer with you at home‚’ reminded Virmati. She was disturbed by his manner.

  Harish, annoyed by her intransigence, went on. ‘At the end of your exams, thank God all this nonsense will be over. I have gone on keeping two households long enough.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ flared Virmati. ‘I didn’t ask you to send me here.’

  ‘You make it so difficult for yourself there. I think by now you have had enough time to adjust.’

  Virmati sat speechless.

  ‘My wives now know what to expect from each other,’ continued Harish. Virmati looked at him. Normally he never r
eferred to his ‘wives’. She was the wife, Ganga was the pronoun. Was Harish actually equating both of them? What had happened at home while she was away? Did she have to crawl back to that dressing-room to protect her conjugal rights?

  ‘We are not the same,’ she said, rather incoherently. ‘At least that is what you always led me to believe.’

  ‘She has her claims, just as you do,’ stated Harish flatly. ‘And she is not the one who is running away.’

  They’ve got him, thought Virmati, clenching her lips and staring at her husband with hatred.

  ‘Have you – and she?’ she stuttered. ‘Like last time? What excuse do you have now?’

  Harish did not pretend not to understand. After a moment he slowly said, ‘The situation is clear for all to see.’

  ‘What situation? If there is a situation, I don’t see it.’

  ‘How long can I remain alone? Here I am running after you all the time.’

  ‘Doing an MA was your idea, not mine!’

  ‘Yes, but look at all the other things you are doing. Getting involved with Swarna Lata, with Leela, with Kiran, with anybody and everybody except your husband.’

  Virmati’s head was spinning. Distress enveloped her heart. She tried to think, but it was too painful. Whatever else she did, she would not go back to Amritsar during the holidays. Direct action was needed. She refused to fight Ganga with cunning, guile or seduction. If Harish’s love for her wasn’t strong enough to survive an MA, it certainly wasn’t going to survive a lifetime. She thought of how often he had said he would die for her, and decided men were liars. She didn’t care if she never had a home, children, if she cut off her nose to spite her face. Right now, everything about her was aching so much, to cut off her nose would be a relief. At least the incision would be definite, sharp and localized.

  *

  Ganga sees her influence growing at home. She secretly exults at her husband’s occasional fits of sadness, though her serious face and devoted, red bindi deny that she could ever harbour a thought that did not directly pertain to his well-being.

  When she tentatively presses his legs, he does not object. She takes to doing this every day. She talks of the activities of their children, of the well-being of his mother and sister, of household concerns, and desperately tries to weave a family structure that includes them both.

  *

  Virmati said she was going to stay in Lahore that summer. She hadn’t done too well in her exams, she might have to repeat the year.

  Her husband said nothing. He was determined to teach his wife a lesson.

  He could afford to wait. Time, like everything else, was on his side. Besides, he really loved Virmati. For her own happiness, a little harshness might be necessary. Meanwhile, he found himself looking at Ganga’s breasts, squashed against her blouse, as she bent over his feet and legs, pressing them, eyes downcast, bindi and kaajal smudged. He could see the black beads of her mangalsutra coming together, and plunging unseen into the depths and folds of that lush topography. The visual contrast appealed to him: colours, dark and pale; textures, hard and soft; size, large and small. He wondered why she wore her mangalsutra inside her blouse. One day he reached in and pulled it out gently, and was flattered by the look of abject gratitude on Ganga’s face.

  *

  1946 saw unrest all over the country. The postal, telegraph, general and municipal strikes couldn’t be controlled.

  The Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs were agitated. Many Muslims don’t want Pakistan. Dr Khan Sahib says, ‘I have no desire to understand Pakistan.’ Abdul Ghaffar Khan says, ‘How can we divide ouselves and live?’ Dr Syed Hossain, Chairman of the National Committee for Indian Freedom at Washington, states that unity has been a historical fact from the time of Akbar. Sir Khizar Hyat Khan accuses the British of being the father and mother of Pakistan. Still, the idea of Pakistan seems more of a reality day by day.

  ‘You cannot equate us. This is ridiculous. We are the majority,’ the Congress points out.

  The Muslim League: ‘We are equal. We demand equal representation.’

  The Cabinet Misssion to India, Cripps, Alexander and Pethick Lawrence, is sent to resolve the issue. What will be the exact composition of loyalties in the future government of India? After four months of meetings, hearings and deputations, they are unable to satisfy anyone. They return to England amid accusations and counter-accusations.

  *

  In mid-August the killings in Calcutta start. They go on and on. The drops of blood in the distance come nearer and nearer. Only now it is not drops, but floods. The sewers of Calcutta are clotted with corpses, they float down the Hoogly, they lie scattered in the streets.

  People die – roasted, quartered, chopped, mutilated, turning, turning, meat on a spit – are raped and converted in rampages gone mad, and leave a legacy of thousands of tales of sorrow, thousands more episodes shrouded in silence.

  Meanwhile, the Interim Government struggles through endless rounds of meetings between representatives of every major party in the country.

  *

  Virmati felt afraid. She was good at ignoring things not actually under her nose, but she was deeply affected by the Calcutta ravages. Bengal and Punjab, the two states that the Hindus and the Muslims were going to fight over. If this had happened in Bengal, could Punjab be far behind?

  In Amritsar, too, there were disturbances. A squabble here, a murder there. Patrols of like religions were formed. There was talk of sending Ganga and the children home to Kanpur.

  There was also talk of Ganga refusing. For her husband’s sake. Who would stand by his side?

  Kishori Devi felt she was living in a place where the law had no sanctity any more. Two men had died in what had begun as a simple argument over the price of some vegetables. This was in the old city, but Harish’s college was in the gullies of the old city too.

  Ordinary events assumed an ugly communal hue.

  One day, two Muslim youths started quarrelling in the crowded bazaar. A Hindu tried to separate them. The Muslims turned on the Hindu and started beating him up. Passers-by joined in the fray. Brickbats and soda-water bottles were flung about. The police were called, and they fired in the air. The crowd melted away. It was only 8 October, 1946, with another ten months to go before Independence.

  ‘Beta, it is time for us to leave this place‚’ Kishori Devi told her son. ‘Your kind of job you will find in any university of the United Provinces.’

  ‘My work is here,’ replied Harish with a vague look.

  ‘After independence, there will be work everywhere. You can never want for a job,’ persisted his mother. ‘Bring Virmati and come. It is time everybody at home saw her.’

  The idea of travelling with his two wives to his home town sent shivers down Harish’s spine. He could not imagine Virmati coming willingly, though it was not a point he had to consider very carefully. She might protest, but ultimately she had to do as he said. Still, right now, he did not want to make things any worse than they already were between them. He looked at Ganga, engaged in housework as always. She was so convenient, he wished she attracted him more.

  One afternoon Guddiya came from school terrified. A strange man had followed her all the way home, whistling and calling. Guddiya could say nothing else about him, but that he was young and Muslim. Guddiya was well-developed, and her mother’s fears instantly increased tenfold.

  She spoke to her daughter-in-law.

  Then she had a long talk with her son. It was agreed that they would leave first. Harish and Virmati could follow once the house was wound up.

  *

  Virmati heard of their departure with mixed feelings. Harish was there, in an empty house, waiting. She knew, though he might never admit it, that he had chosen to stay behind for her. On the other hand, they had been married for three years, and somewhere along the way, the prize had tarnished.

  For the moment, however, with the unrest in both cities, the most practical solution was to go home to Amritsar and her
husband. She left Lahore next morning to start her life as a housewife. She had not been as happy studying the second time. The city had changed, she herself had changed. Perhaps things will be different later, she thought as she left. I will come back next March, do my exams, and see about a job.

  XXVI

  10 p.m., 2 March, 1947. Defeated by the year-long attack on him by the Muslim League, the Punjab Premier, Malik Sir Khizar Hayat Khan Tiwana, head of a Muslim, Hindu and Sikh coalition ministry, resigns without consulting his colleagues.

  3 March. The MLAs, belonging to the Muslim League, are delighted. They start to dance with glee on the Assembly floor.

  Pakistan Zindabad

  Pakistan Zindabad

  they clamour, while unfurling their flag in the Assembly. Master Tara Singh leaps upon it, tears it to pieces, and on the steps of the main entrance to the Punjab Assembly pulls out his sword, brandishes it and shouts:

  Pakistan Murdabad

  Sat Sri Akal.

  The Hindu and Sikh crowds respond:

  Muslim League Murdabad

  Coalition Ministry Zindabad

  Akhand Hindustan Zindabad.

  By 5 March it is clear that no coalition or single-party rule is possible in the Punjab. The Punjab Assembly is prorogued.

  Governor’s rule under Section 93 of the Government of India Act is proclaimed.

  Massive killings start on a province-wide scale.

  Reading old newspapers, I live through each day as though it were the present. Reports of massacres increase steadily as Independence approaches. My heart breaks. The paper I am reading is a Hindu one, and the disbelief about the breakup of our country that they credit to Hindu and Muslim alike seems incredibly pathetic and naïve. No, no, I want to shout down all those years, what you thought was so impossible was possible. It became true. I want to wail and sob. The loss is mine as well as theirs.