Our parents, whom we addressed as ‘Pitaji’ and ‘Jhaiji’ were a study in contrast. Pitaji was a man in a hurry, forever chasing his self-assigned goals and objectives. He was an intense person: focused to the point of being ambitious. He was an achiever, in every sense of the term. Jhaiji, on the other hand was laid back, relaxed and content with her lot. She did her share of the domestic chores and having completed the task, she had time enough to prattle with her friends and neighbors. Pitaji was reserved to the extent of being a recluse. Jhaiji knew just about everyone in the neighborhood. Pitaji liked to dress well. For Jhaiji, clothes were a mere cover for the body. Pitaji kept an account of every penny spent, while Jhaiji took only as much money as was necessary for the daily needs. Pitaji wanted his sons to excel in studies, while Jhaiji kept snatching books from our hands and goaded us to go out and play. Pitaji was short tempered; forever on short fuse while Jhaiji had no temper at all. She was cool as a cucumber. Equanimity was the cornerstone of the edifice of her personality. Our parents were so different in so many ways, that they made an ideal set of parents, to bring up their brood of four sons. There was nothing special about the schools to which we went, but we all did well enough to make it to the prestigious Indian Institutes of Technology. The older two brothers went to IIT Kharagpur and the younger two to IIT Delhi. Jhaiji had received very little formal education. She could barely read and write Punjabi. But she was an excellent judge of people and she knew how a person would react. We learnt a lot from her.

Before reading this little story, it needs to be remembered that when this incident occurred, our mother was no more than 31 years old and had spent most of her childhood in a village near Sargodha. She had not seen much of life in cantonments and had never had the privilege of having a retinue of servants.

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 A Trespass Forgiven

Jhaiji treated the servants very kindly. For her, they were more like ‘companions’ than menial workers. She worked with them in the kitchen, and rarely said a harsh word. Consequently, no one ever left us. There was, however, one exception; Partap, whom Pitaji called ‘Partappa’. This little narrative is about him.

It was the beginning of the first winter after our independence, which we called ‘partition’. We had shifted from Jhelum to Meerut Cantonment and a very kindly Sub Area Commander had temporarily allotted a large house to Pitaji, so that he could provide shelter to his refugee relatives. Partap had recently joined us. The kitchen was located at some distance from the main building, so that the smoke emanating from the coal fire did not trouble us. Therefore, it was customary to employ a bearer to serve the food, since the cook could not deliver the ‘chapatis’ which were cooked when the food was consumed. The servants’ quarters were located about fifty yards away from the kitchen. During those days, even a junior officer could afford a retinue of six or seven servants, which included a sweeper, a washer man, and a gardener. Since most officers kept a cow or a buffalos and some dogs, a man was needed to look after the animals.

On that fateful night in November 1947, when we assembled for dinner, Partap did not show up. Consequently, the cook was running between the kitchen and the dining room with food. When Jhaiji enquired about him, she was told that he had suddenly taken ill. She was palpably concerned and wanted to check up on his health at once. But Pitaji had other things to worry about and chided her for being unduly attached with domestic help.

The dinner over, we retired to our respective bed rooms. We later learnt that Jhaiji warmed some milk for Partap and armed with a hurricane lamp, she headed for his room, all by herself. When there was no response to her knock at his door, she beckoned other servants. Her fear was that Partap’s condition may have taken a serious turn. The door was forced open, only to discover that Partap had bolted from the window at the other end of the room.

When Pitaji learned of this, his first reaction was to look for his purse, which had indeed been stolen, along with his Identity card, his wrist watch, and a costly fountain pen. It seems that he had drawn money from the bank on that day and Partap knew about it.

An emergency meeting of all adults was summoned and they were dispatched in different directions to apprehend Partap. The ‘operation’ was successful. Partap was found wrapped up in a blanket at the railway station, and when he saw our uncle, he started running away. But he was caught and confessed to his crime, at once. He had thrown the identity card in the hedge near the gate, and the rest of the booty was recovered from his person. It was well past mid-night by the time this process ended.

Partap was locked up in a room within the house, so that he could be handed over to the police, the next morning. But fate willed otherwise. Before the sun rose the next morning, Partap was gone. Jhaiji had opened the door, given him some money and told to vanish from Meerut. Her argument was that Partap was a mere child, who had sinned. He had sought forgiveness in all earnestness. Pitaji had recovered his valuables and therefore no damage had been done. She feared that the police would beat him mercilessly, and this delinquent child would turn into a hardened criminal. Since there was nothing more which could be done beyond saying a few unkind words to Jhaiji, no more was heard of this episode. Partap passed into the pages of our family history. For the sake of record, I may add that Jhaiji was merely 31 years old, then.

Over the years, I have sinned; and I have also been found out sometimes. Whenever I have apologized and sought atonement, I have been pardoned. Jhaiji forgave the trespass of somebody else’s son. The world has, in turn, been kind to her sinful and errant son!

A portrait of Jhaiji