‘Boota’s childhood was spent chasing camels, colts, jackals and squirrels. He would run after the rabbits jumping over hedges, his dog at his heels. He became so agile that he could chase a rabbit, catch it, let it go and catch it again. A rabbit can run four miles, a jackal about eight, a horse forty at the most and the fastest camel not more than fifty miles. But Boota can run a hundred...’
‘How long does it take him to cover that distance?’ I asked.
‘Twelve hours. A horse can run faster than Boota no doubt, but it cannot run a hundred miles at a stretch.’
Inder Singh looked at me and said, ‘If you doubt my word you can test it. Give him the papers and he will deliver them by tomorrow.’ He turned to Boota and said, ‘Boota, my son! Take these messages and deliver them to all the villages. Go, my lion.’
He handed Boota the letters, told him the names of the villages and gave him full instructions to deliver them to the proper persons.
The following day, the secretaries of the peasants’ unions assembled at the appointed time for the meeting. I asked each one of them, individually, who had given them the message. Each one replied, ‘Boota brought it.’
After the meeting was over, Kumar Sain, the lawyer, Jugal Kishore, the retired headmaster, Ajmer Singh, the judge, and a few others gathered around Boota and talked to him. We felt grieved that such a wonder was not known beyond his village.
‘If Boota had a chance to go to London and run a cross-country race, he would make the name of the little village of Bhagoo shine on the map of the world,’ declared the headmaster.
‘Our country is full of wonders,’ added Kumar Sain. ‘We have great divers, wrestlers and hunters but they waste their talent and die unknown.’
‘If Boota can run a hundred miles, no power on earth can stop him from attaining world fame,’ concluded the judge.
An aged military havaldar said, ‘His Highness the Maharaja of Patiala is very fond of games and sports. If somehow we can get this news to the ears of His Highness, he will surely send Boota to an international athletic tournament.’
A cunning, one-eyed petition-writer said, ‘Has anyone tested Boota to see if he can run a hundred miles?’
A bald-headed shopkeeper looked doubtfully at Boota and remarked, ‘A peasant’s sense of distance is very vague. If a man runs as much as thirty miles, he believes he has run a hundred.’
‘Why not arrange a race in our town,’ suggested the headmaster.’ The distance round the big common meadow is about 440 yards. If Boota completes four hundred rounds of this meadow, he will have run one hundred miles. All of us will watch and enjoy it. After this we can plan his future.’ Everybody was thrilled by this proposal.
I asked Boota Singh if he would like to run around the meadow. He blinked his eyes and merely said, ‘As you please.’
Maroo, the village drummer announced the news, ‘Listen, everybody! On Sunday morning at seven o’clock Boota Singh, the famous runner, will run a hundred miles race. The people of the town are requested to visit the common meadow and watch this wonderful spectacle.’ Dum! Dum! Dum!
Early on Sunday people gathered in the meadow to see Boota Singh. He was wearing dull, khaddar shorts and a flamecoloured kerchief tied round his long black hair which was rolled up on the top of his head into a big knot. At seven, the retired headmaster, who acted as the referee, whistled and Boota started his solitary race.
People continued to arrive till eight o’clock. The headmaster sat watching Boota going round and round the meadow with the same speed, in the same posture and with the same machine-like rhythm. The women came flouncing their skirts and sat at one side of the meadow, gossiping about village scandals, deaths and births and watching Boota going round and round.
At noon Boota stopped, drank a jug of milk which the drummer brought for him, changed his drenched shorts which were clinging to his body, combed his hair and twisted it into a ball on the top of his head, tied his kerchief around it and again started running. He ran on till evening and finished four hundred rounds of the meadow by-six-thirty, half an hour before his scheduled time. The sun was setting. In its rays the wisps of Boota’s hair, straggling from his flame-coloured kerchief, looked like glowing feathers. His chest heaved and over his bronze body perspiration streamed.
The crowd cheered him. Two people carried him on their shoulders to the bazaar. The news hummed through the village. Boota said, ‘It is God’s will. His strength runs in my bones. That’s how I could run this hundred miles.’
We gave the news to a local paper and made plans to send him to Patiala for an interview with His Highness.
On the third day, Boota’s mother came from the village. She was about sixty years old, a stout peasant woman with thick lips like her son’s and small bleary eyes. She had come to take him back. We tried to convince her that a great future awaited Boota, but she would not listen to us. She said, ‘I can’t look after the farm. Who will drive away the jackals and rabbits from the crops? The old dog is dead. I am left with no one but my son. I can’t live without him.’
‘Old mother, your son is a world champion and you are holding him in a field under your skirt. His place is not in a remote village but in a city. The world must know about him. You are blocking his career. Don’t be selfish and ignorant and foolish. Leave him with us,’ we all implored.
She listened with distrust in her eyes and then repeated with a grunt, ‘I can’t live without my son. I must take him back with me.’
But when the judge said that an interview with His Highness was being arranged, she agreed.
‘Don’t worry, mother,’ said Boota. ‘Soon I shall go across the seven seas and run a hundred miles race in London and then the whole world will know me. Then we shall be rich and I shall come back to the village. Only I must have a chance to go to London.’
The following day she went back to the village, leaving her son.
He stayed with the retired judge at the outskirts of the town. The judge and his friends played bridge in the afternoon and Boota sat alone outside on the verandah, lost in his thoughts. We had sent two letters, one to the Officer of Sports in Patiala and the other to the Maharaja, and we awaited their replies. Early in the morning Boota would run with his long wild strides to the Post Office to bring mail to the judge. Sometimes in the afternoon he would race to the market and fetch betel leaves, cigarettes, ice or lemons for the people who played cards. The number of those who gathered at the judge’s bungalow to see Boota dwindled. The aura of novelty about him disappeared. Three weeks passed. Boota felt as if months had rolled by.
One day he said to me, ‘Sir, I know a man who was once in the court of the Maharaja of Patiala but now he is staying at Faridkot. He knows the Maharaja very well. If I go to him, he can easily introduce me. Then I can make my way.’
A week later Boota left for Faridkot.
After some time I heard that Boota had gone to Patiala. A long chain of references ultimately led him to the Maharaja’s aide-de-camp, who promised to arrange an interview with His Highness.
Meanwhile the country was partitioned. I shifted to Delhi and lost touch with Boota.
It was sometime in the middle of 1948, the time of the integration of States into the Union. Sardar Patel, the Deputy Prime Minister, was touring the country, negotiating with the Princes.
I was in Patiala that day. There was a big procession. Sardar Patel and the Maharaja sat side-by-side in an open car. People in multi-coloured turbans lined the streets. In the crowd I caught a glimpse of Boota. He was watching the car move sedately behind the military band with its gleaming instruments and well-laced liveries.
I asked him what had happened to his interview. He said, ‘Just now the Maharaja is busy with important affairs of State. When he is free, I shall have my interview.’
I returned to Delhi and did not see Boota for two years. But I kept hearing bits of news about him. He waited at Patiala for his interview. Each time some urgent State matter occupied the attention of
the Maharaja. The aide-de-camp asked Boota if he would like to take a job in Patiala instead of going back and forth to his village, wasting time and money. At the first opportunity he would be granted an interview and be sent to the Olympics. This appealed to Boota and he become a watchman in the Royal kitchen. His pay was like a stipend. He had little to do but sit on a small stool, yawn and bask in the sun or roam about in the garden.
Once more his mother came to take him back to her village. But Boota, who had come to know the routine of life in the town, with its delays and red-tape, asked her to return, assuring her that all their troubles would end as soon as he got his chance to go to London. He gave the old woman his salary of the last three months. She tied it in the fold of her skirt and went back to the village.
Boota stuck to his job. Often he felt tired of sitting. Unused to sedentary life, he would shoot off to the bazaar or to the market on the slightest pretext and wander about. Once he stayed off duty the whole day. The matter was reported to the manager of the household and then to the higher authorities. Boota was summoned, sharply rebuked, and threatened that if he left his post again, he would be summarily dismissed. Then there would be no possibility of his going to the athletic tournaments ever.
It frightened Boota. He blinked his timid eyes and promised to behave more responsibly in future. After the warning he become punctual and cautious.
A year later, I went to Patiala to appear as a witness in a case before the judicial court. After a tiring day, I was standmg on the road, waiting for some conveyance when I saw a cycle-rickshaw slowly approaching. Beside it hobbled an old woman with a stick. When the rickshaw came nearer I recognised Boota sitting in it. He was wearing near khaki shorts and fine leather shoes. His shirt and turban were new. He greeted me with a smile and the driver halted the rickshaw.
‘How are you, Boota?’ I asked.
‘By God’s grace and your kindness I am quite well, thank you,’ he replied. ‘His Highness is away at Chail, his summer place. As soon as he comes back, I will be granted an interview. My name is at the top of the list... I hear an athletic team is going to London in the autumn. I hope to be selected...’
I looked at him and asked why he was riding in a rickshaw.
The old woman heaved a sigh and moaned, ‘Oh, my son! My Boota was a free bird. Eternal sitting on a watchman’s stool has been hard on him. Blood has curdled in his thighs and has gathered in his knees. Look, how swollen they are! Oh, my heart!’
She beat her breast with her fists and wailed, ‘Now I am taking him to the hospital to have his knees treated.’
I looked at Boota. His once shield-like knees were now puffed and bulging.
He looked at me with his animal eyes. His lips opened like a freshly ploughed furrow and he said, ‘The doctor is treating me with electric instruments. In a week my knees will be healed and I shall be able to run. Then sir, I’ll go to London and run a hundred miles race...’
The rickshaw slowly crawled along and I stood there watching the mother and the son till they were lost in the distant curve of the road.
the night of the full moon
Kartar Singh Duggal
No one believed that Malan and Minnie were mother and daughter; they looked like sisters, Minnie was quite a bit taller than her mother. People said, ‘Malan, your daughter has grown into a lovely woman!’ They never stopped gaping at the girl. She was like a pearl and as charming as she was comely.
When Malan looked at her daughter she felt as if she was looking at herself. She too had been as young and as beautiful. She hadn’t aged much either. And there was somebody who was willing to go to the ends of the earth for her even now.
Why had her mind wandered to this man? He must be a dealer in pearls because every time she thought of him pearls dropped from her eyes! Her daughter was now a woman; it was unbecoming of her to think of a man. She had restrained herself all these years; why did her mind begin to waver? She must hold herself in check. Her daughter was due to wed in another week; she must not entertain such evil thoughts — never! never!
‘My very own, my dearest,’ he had written only yesterday ‘do not forget me.’ But every time he came to the village she sent him away without any encouragement. She shut her eyes as fast as she shut her door against him. He had refused to give her up. She was his life; without her he found no peace. He had spent many years waiting for her, pleading with her, suffering the pangs of love and passion. An age had passed and now the afternoon shadows had lengthened across life’s courtyard.
Malan knew in her heart that he would come that night. Every full moon lit night he knocked on her door. And tonight the moon would be full. The night would be cold, frosty and still. She had never unlatched her door for him. Would she tonight? She recalled a cold, moonlit night of many years ago. She was dancing in the mango grove when her duppatta had got caught in his hand. She had come to him bare-headed with the moonlight flecking her face with jasmine petals. He had put the duppatta across her shoulders — exactly the way it lay across her shoulders now. A shiver ran down Malan’s spine.
Minnie came down the lane, tall and as slender as a cypress. Fair and fragile, she looked as if the touch of a human hand would leave a stain on her. Modestly, she had her duppatta wrapped round her face, and her eyes lowered.
Minnie was returning from the temple. She had prayed to the gods, she said softly to her mother, to grant her wish. She had prayed to the gods to grant everybody all their wishes.
Malan smiled. Something stirred her fancy. If her wish could be granted, she thought to herself, what would she ask for?
‘Father has not returned!’ complained Minnie.
‘He is not expected back today; it will be a thousand blessings if he gets back by tomorrow. He has a lot of things to buy. At weddings and feasts it’s better to have a little more than to run short,’ explained Malan.
Minnie took off her sequined duppatta and spread it on her mother’s shoulders. She took her mother’s plain duppatta, instead and went into the kitchen.
The light of the full moon came through the branches and sprinkled itself on Malan’s face. The full moon always did something to her. It made her feel like one drunk. In another four days women would come to her courtyard to sing wedding songs. They would put henna on the palms and the soles of her daughter’s feet. They would help her with her bridal clothes; load her with ornaments. How would her daughter look in bright red silk? And then the groom would come on horseback and take her to his own home and make love to her. He would kiss the henna away from the girl’s palms and the soles of her feet.
It wasn’t so very long ago that all this had happened to her, Malan. But Minnie’s father had not once kissed the soles of her feet, nor ever pressed her palms against his eyes. He always came home tired; he ate his meal and fell fast asleep. Only the desire to have a son would occasionally arouse him at midnight. And then it was over so quickly that Malan had to spend hours counting the stars to cool down and get back to sleep. These midnight efforts had produced a daughter every year. The girls came to the world uninvited and departed without leave. Only one, Minnie remained. She was the replica of her mother; like the fruit of a tree that bears only one. Minnie had large gazelle eyes — the eyes of Malan. Her long black hair fell down to her waist. And she had a full-bosomed wantoness which often made Malan think that all her frustrated passions had been rekindled in her daughter’s body.
Minnie scrubbed the kitchen utensils, bolted the door of the courtyard and went to bed in her own room. Malan was left alone.
It was late. The moon was so dazzlingly bright that it seemed to be focussing all its light in that one courtyard. Was it cold? Not really. Just pleasantly cool. Malan asked herself why she sat alone in the courtyard under the night of the full moon. Was she expecting someone? Minnie had gone to bed and her father had gone away to the city. Why was he away on a night like this? On full moon nights she used to keep herself indoors away from temptation. But tonight she had her daughter’
s sequined duppatta wrapped about her face. The sequins glistened in the silvery moonlight; it seemed as if the stars were entangled in her hair; they twinkled on her eyelashes, on her face and on her shoulders. A night-jar called from the mango grove: uk, uk, uk. It would call like that all through the night — uk, uk, uk.
Her thoughts carried her with them. Her daughter would be married in a week’s time. Then she would be left alone — all alone in the huge courtyard. A shiver ran through her body. The empty courtyard would terrify her. She would have to learn to live by herself. Her husband was too occupied with the pursuit of money; his money-lending and debt-collecting. He came back late in the evening only to collapse on his charpoy. She had often asked him why he involved himself in so many affairs, but it had not made any difference.
Malan went indoors and saw her daughter fast asleep — as dead to the world as only the young can be. Her red bangles lay beside her pillow. Silly girl! She had only to turn in her sleep and they would be crushed. Malan picked them up to put them on the mantlepiece. Before she knew it, she had slipped them on her own arms; six on one, six on the other. They glistened even in the dark. They were new; her daughter had only bought them the day before from the bangle-seller.
Malan came out in the moonlit courtyard — the sequined duppatta on her head and her arms a-jingle-jangle with bright red glass bangles. She felt like a bride — warm, lusty. Blood surged in her veins.
There was a gentle knock on the door. It was he. It was the same knock — a nervous, hesitant knock. He was there as he had written in his letter he would be: ‘On the full moonlit night of December, I will knock at your door. If you are willing, open the door; if you are not willing, let it be. I will continue to knock at your door as I have always done.’
Land of Five Rivers Page 4
