you for tea.’ The boy told him quietly, in a sad voice, ‘Sister got a good thrashing. Beyji beat her with the curtain rod. Don’t tell father.’
Beyji looked upset. She gave Jaidev a cup of tea and some snacks, and said, ‘Son, where did you go at lunchtime? Did you eat something?’ She could not hide the distress in her voice.
Jaidev was expecting a different reaction from her. He sat quietly for a few moments, his head down, and then said in an apologetic and guilt-laden voice, ‘I’m going back to Lahore in the evening.’
‘Why, son?’ she asked. ‘I said nothing to you, did not blame you. The fault lies with us; it’s our fate. Don’t say anything to her father. When he is angry or hurt, his blood pressure shoots up.’
Jaidev bit his cheek to stop tears welling up in his eyes.
He did not see Urmila for the next three days. Once he caught a glimpse of her back, but her head and face were wrapped in her dupatta. On the fourth day Praveen told him, ‘Masterji, sister is waiting for her lessons.’
Jaidev looked briefly at Urmila sitting at the desk. There was a dark welt on her forehead, below her golden hair. A bandage was tied round her left arm. Without looking at her, Jaidev said, ‘Read the same poem.’
‘You’re heartless. Don’t you want to see what happened to me?’ He heard.
Puri had decided to keep his cool. He said in stern voice, looking at the book, ‘You want the rest of your bones broken?’
‘I was beaten up; why are
you
scared?’
‘So?’ He looked at her.
‘Let them beat me again if they want. What’s to fear now? I didn’t take that beating for nothing.’
Jaidev closed his eyes and thought. His blood was racing again, a sour taste in his mouth. With his eyes on the book, he began to explain the meaning and context of the poem.
‘Won’t listen! Won’t study! Won’t listen!’ Urmila kept interrupting him.
Jaidev got up and went to his room.
Around noon there was a knock on his door. Beyji came in. Her eyes were swollen from wiping away tears. She held out five ten-rupee notes, and said, ‘This was owed to you.’ She gave him another note, ‘Here’s your fare.’
She was leaving when Jaidev said with some discomfort, ‘You didn’t have to. I could be of no service to you; only caused you embarrassment.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Beyji turned around and dabbed her eyes again with the aanchal of her sari, ‘I asked you. I should be sorry. Whom can I fault when our coin is tainted? Son, please keep all this to yourself.’
Jaidev’s family was surprised to see him return from Murree. People of the gali questioned him too. Jaidev said nothing, but he was full of bitterness. His thoughts kept turning back to Urmila. I wasn’t man enough … She was so pretty … couldn’t we get married? Beyji wouldn’t have objected. She was so passionate and intense. But I was their employee. Marriage is more than sex. My feelings for her were purely physical. She nearly caught me. She really forced herself upon me.
Jaidev remembered his ideal of a suitable life companion, of a spouse with an intellectual and artistic bent. ‘Saved myself from getting trapped in that quicksand just in time,’ he told himself.
Chapter 3
JAIDEV PURI HAD SENT THE STORIES HE’D WRITTEN IN JAIL TO SEVERAL PLACES for publication. He was already known as a young, promising writer, but these four stories had been specially praised and noticed. Two of them had appeared in the Sunday editions of
Pairokaar
and
Nishat
. All this praise had gone to his head, and although he had no job and no money in his pocket, he now began to hold his head even more proudly over his habitually erect back.
An introductory note about the author published with his story in
Pairokaar
said in florid, Farsi-heavy Urdu, ‘This publication has the honour of presenting, for the enjoyment of our readers, a story by that incomparable chronicler of human nature, Jaidev Puri, writer par excellence and foremost
Beyji looked upset. She gave Jaidev a cup of tea and some snacks, and said, ‘Son, where did you go at lunchtime? Did you eat something?’ She could not hide the distress in her voice.
Jaidev was expecting a different reaction from her. He sat quietly for a few moments, his head down, and then said in an apologetic and guilt-laden voice, ‘I’m going back to Lahore in the evening.’
‘Why, son?’ she asked. ‘I said nothing to you, did not blame you. The fault lies with us; it’s our fate. Don’t say anything to her father. When he is angry or hurt, his blood pressure shoots up.’
Jaidev bit his cheek to stop tears welling up in his eyes.
He did not see Urmila for the next three days. Once he caught a glimpse of her back, but her head and face were wrapped in her dupatta. On the fourth day Praveen told him, ‘Masterji, sister is waiting for her lessons.’
Jaidev looked briefly at Urmila sitting at the desk. There was a dark welt on her forehead, below her golden hair. A bandage was tied round her left arm. Without looking at her, Jaidev said, ‘Read the same poem.’
‘You’re heartless. Don’t you want to see what happened to me?’ He heard.
Puri had decided to keep his cool. He said in stern voice, looking at the book, ‘You want the rest of your bones broken?’
‘I was beaten up; why are
you
scared?’
‘So?’ He looked at her.
‘Let them beat me again if they want. What’s to fear now? I didn’t take that beating for nothing.’
Jaidev closed his eyes and thought. His blood was racing again, a sour taste in his mouth. With his eyes on the book, he began to explain the meaning and context of the poem.
‘Won’t listen! Won’t study! Won’t listen!’ Urmila kept interrupting him.
Jaidev got up and went to his room.
Around noon there was a knock on his door. Beyji came in. Her eyes were swollen from wiping away tears. She held out five ten-rupee notes, and said, ‘This was owed to you.’ She gave him another note, ‘Here’s your fare.’
She was leaving when Jaidev said with some discomfort, ‘You didn’t have to. I could be of no service to you; only caused you embarrassment.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Beyji turned around and dabbed her eyes again with the aanchal of her sari, ‘I asked you. I should be sorry. Whom can I fault when our coin is tainted? Son, please keep all this to yourself.’
Jaidev’s family was surprised to see him return from Murree. People of the gali questioned him too. Jaidev said nothing, but he was full of bitterness. His thoughts kept turning back to Urmila. I wasn’t man enough … She was so pretty … couldn’t we get married? Beyji wouldn’t have objected. She was so passionate and intense. But I was their employee. Marriage is more than sex. My feelings for her were purely physical. She nearly caught me. She really forced herself upon me.
Jaidev remembered his ideal of a suitable life companion, of a spouse with an intellectual and artistic bent. ‘Saved myself from getting trapped in that quicksand just in time,’ he told himself.
Chapter 3
JAIDEV PURI HAD SENT THE STORIES HE’D WRITTEN IN JAIL TO SEVERAL PLACES for publication. He was already known as a young, promising writer, but these four stories had been specially praised and noticed. Two of them had appeared in the Sunday editions of
Pairokaar
and
Nishat
. All this praise had gone to his head, and although he had no job and no money in his pocket, he now began to hold his head even more proudly over his habitually erect back.
An introductory note about the author published with his story in
Pairokaar
said in florid, Farsi-heavy Urdu, ‘This publication has the honour of presenting, for the enjoyment of our readers, a story by that incomparable chronicler of human nature, Jaidev Puri, writer par excellence and foremost
Similar Books
