Knock, knock, knock — very soft, very sweet, a very inviting knock. Who could it be but he! The prowler in the moonlit nights. Suddenly the moon went behind a cloud and it was absolutely dark.
In a moment, Malan’s feet took her across the dark courtyard. With trembling hands she undid the latch. Another moment and she was in his arms. Their lips met; their teeth ground against each other. Passion that had been held in check for over twenty years burst its banks and carried them on the flood.
Malan did not know how they went to the bo tree outside the village. She did not remember how they went into the field beside the bo tree — nor how long they stayed there. She was woken by the train which passed by the village in the early hours of the dawn. She extricated herself from her lover’s embrace, covered her face with her duppatta and hurried back to her home.
She slipped off the bangles from her arms and put them back beside her daughter’s pillow. She folded her daughter’s sequined duppatta, took her own back and went to her charpoy. She fell asleep at once and slept as she had never slept before — almost as if she were making up for a lifetime of sleeplessness.
When she woke, the sun was streaming into the courtyard.
‘How you slept, like a little babe!’ teased Minnie. Minnie had swept the rooms and the courtyard and cooked the morning meal. She had bathed and was ready to go to the temple. She had tied jasmine flowers in her duppatta to offer to the gods.
As soon as Minnie left, Malan stretched herself lazily on a charpoy in the courtyard. She was filled with sleep and her head was filled with dreams.
A soft breeze began to blow. Warm sunshine spread in the courtyard. Malan felt like a bowl of milk, full to the brim — with a few petals of jasmine floating on it. It was a strange heady intoxication. Her eyes would close, open, and then close again.
‘O Malan! Where’s that slut?’ cried a voice suddenly. Malan felt as if someone had slapped her face.
‘Never heard of such goings on!’ said another voice, ‘and only four days to her wedding!’
‘What has my daughter done?’ shrieked Malan rising up in anger. ‘She is as innocent as a calf.’
There were derisive exclamations. Then someone sneered, ‘Your little calf has been on the dung heap all night.’
Malan’s body went cold, her life-blood draining from her veins; a deathly pallor spread over her face.
Lajo, her neighbour, was speaking. ‘It was barely dark when the bitch walked off with a stranger. I had got up to relieve myself when I saw them go away into the fields, with their arms entwined around each other’s waists. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. We have to watch the interests of our daughters. I’ve never heard of anyone blacken the faces of her parents in this way.’
Malan sat still as if turned to stone. She did not seem to hear what was being said.
The village watchman took up Lajo’s story.
‘Sister-in-law, Malan,’ he said trying to attract her attention.
‘What is it, Jumma?’ Her voice seemed to come out of the depths of a deep well.
‘Bhabhi, this is not the sort of thing one can talk about easily. An awful thing happened in the village last night. My hair has gone grey with the years I’ve been watchman of the village, but never have I known such a scandal. Your daughter blackened her face with someone under the bo tree. Twice I passed within ten paces of them. There they were locked together, limb joined to limb; oblivious of all but each other. I kept guard over your house. I said to myself “The wedding is to take place in another four days; the house must be full of new dresses and ornaments and the door wide open!” I left at dawn. I don’t know what time your daughter came back after whoring. If she were my child I would break every bone in her body.’
Malan gazed at the watchman, stunned.
Jumma was followed by Ratna, the zemindar. He was in a rage.
‘Where is that slut?’ he roared. ‘Couldn’t she find another field for whoring?’ Ratna leapt about as he spoke. The neighbours came out of their homes to watch and listen. Ratna continued. ‘I was on my way to the well when I saw her come out of the field with her face wrapped in the sequined duppatta. I thought that the girl had come out to ease herself; but then her lover emerged from the other end of the same field. I saw them with my own eyes.’
At that moment, Minnie tore her way through the crowd. She had heard all that had been said about her. ‘You are lying, uncle!’ she shrieked.
‘You dare call me a liar, you little trollop! You ill starred wretch! And how did a broken red bangle happen to be in my field?’ He untied the knot in his shawl, took out a piece of red bangle and slapped it on Minnie’s palm. Minnie ran her eyes over her arms and counted the bangles; there were only eleven. The world swam before her eyes and then darkened.
The women exchanged glances. They had seen Minnie buy the bangles. Yes, there were ten and then two more. And she had specially asked for red ones.
The courtyard was full of babbling men and women. Minnie’s fiancee’s father edged his way through; his wife was behind him. They flung all the presents they had received in front of Malan; clothes, money and rings. The crowd gaped. Women touched their ears; young girls bit their finger nails. This was drama indeed. A broken engagement was a broken life. What would Minnie do, now that she would never find a husband? It served her right, shameless harlot!
Over the sound of their angry droning, there was a loud splash. For a moment the crowd was petrified. Then someone shouted, ‘The well!’ and understanding dawned.
Minnie was nowhere to be seen. The gentle Minnie who never raised her voice against anyone, who was as pure as the jasmine she wove into garlands. Minnie, who never tired of praying to her gods for the happiness of everyone she knew.
Suddenly sobered, people ran to the well. Only Malan sat where she was, numb with horror, unable to move. Her courtyard was empty — emptier than it ever had been, as empty as it always would be now.
hunger
Krishen Singh Dhodi
It was the silver jubilee week of ‘The Blood of the Lover’ at the Nishat; the film had drawn a packed house for every showing of the preceding twenty-five weeks. That was not suprising as everyone has at one time or the other been in love; and everyone loved the film because they found their own life-story projected on the screen. The producer decided to celebrate the success by taking out a triumphal procession through the streets of the city. The publicity campaign was entrusted to a contractor, Sundar Singh.
Sundar Singh was a pleasant man of about forty-five. He lived in a house close by the Nishat. He lived alone because he did not have a relative in the world to share his home. He had employed a fifteen year old lad, Bachana Singh, to cook his meals for him. Bachana Singh gave his master the morning and the evening meal and spent the rest of the day parading through the streets sandwiched between cinema placards. For this he was paid Rs. 25 per month — all of which he gave to his widowed mother who lived in a refugee encampment.
The procession of the film ‘The Blood of the Lover’ started from the Nishat cinema at 8 a.m. Sundar Singh wore a bright red turban with starched plumes flaunting in the air. He carried a flag in his hand and ran up and down the procession shouting instructions. Heading the procession was Master Raja Lal’s brass band. Following the band was a truck bearing mammoth-size portraits of the stars of the film; one picture showed a fountain of blood pouring out of the heart of the lover and falling at the feet of his sweetheart. Following the truck were a row of bullock-carts decorated with hoardings; following the bullock-carts were sandwichmen; and last of all were little urchins carrying sticks with placards stuck to them. Amongst the urchins was Bachana Singh.
Bachana Singh wore a clean shirt and pyjama; he had even polished his shoes. But there was no sign of joy on his face. He trudged on silently in the last rank with his eyes downcast and an age-old melancholy in his drooping visage. And there was his employer Sundar Singh, strutting about with the airs of a Field Marshall now commanding the band
to play another air; now ordering the bullock cart drivers to keep in line; and again bellowing at the little boys to march in step.
It was a grand spectacle. Although the procession had been organised by the rich, the people who marched in it were poor — the poor who had agreed to tramp through dusty streets to be able to fill their bellies. Anyone pausing to see their pale, emaciated faces would have concluded that the procession was intended to advertise poverty — poverty which had celebrated a hundred thousand silver and golden jubilees.
The procession entered the city. It went along the main thoroughfare, the Mall, past the city’s biggest bakery. The bakery bore a large sign-board picturing a giant-size loaf with the legend ‘Delbis.’ Bachana Singh’s eyes fell on the picture; his mouth filled with saliva; he ran his tongue over his lips. He stopped in front of the bakery and stood entranced gaping at the board. Sundar Singh’s harsh voice pierced through his eardrum. ‘Oi Bachania! oi, you son of a witch! keep moving.’
Bachana Singh ran to catch up with his rank. But his thoughts stayed behind with the loaf of bread. He marched on with the procession; his mind stuck to the hoarding; his feet went one way, his heart the other. He pondered over the hard life he led.
Bachana Singh got up at six every morning to give his master breakfast consisting of tea, toast cut out of a small loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter. Sundar Singh used up all the butter and the bread leaving only the crust of the toast for his servant — this Bachana washed down with his own cup of tea. It was Bachana Singh’s dream that one day he would eat a whole loaf of Delbis with a pat of butter. Since he gave his wages to his mother, there was nothing to spare for luxuries such as these. Once when Sundar Singh had felt a little under the weather, he had taken only one toast and given the rest of the loaf to his servant. Bachana still cherished the memory of that day and prayed that his master would again be indisposed and the entire loaf and the pat of butter would fall to the servant’s share. The picture in the bakery made him so ravenously hungry that he imagined himself swallowing the entire loaf in one big gulp.
After breakfast Sundar Singh used to stroke his paunch and repeat: ‘Great Guru, Emperor True! I thank Thee a hundred thousand times. Guru Gobind, Lord of the Plumes, all that Thy humble servant gets is but Thy gift; Thou givest and Thy humble servant’s hunger is appeased’. And then Sundar Singh would emit a long, satisfied belch.
Bachana heard these words of thanksgiving every morning. How strange, he wondered, that the True Emperor should give to some and not to others! That He should give Sundar Singh a whole loaf with butter every day and him only the leftover crust! Silk shirts to Sundar Singh and tattered rags to Bachana! And then poor Bachana Singh would resume his breakfast of dry crust dipped in tea.
Sometimes Bachana asked himself why he had never thanked the Guru, the True Emperor. So one day he blurted out: ‘Great Guru, True Emperor! For what I have received I thank Thee a hundred thousand times!’ And immediately after he had uttered the words he felt a little silly; what had he to thank the Guru for? Just for the dry crust of bread? The thanks were due from Sundar Singh because he did get a whole loaf and butter every day. If he (Bachana) gave thanks for the crust, that’s all the Guru would ever give him!
Once Sundar Singh went off toast for a few days; he began to take milk instead for his breakfast. Poor Bachana was deprived even of his scrap of toast. No wonder the mere picture of a loaf of bread made him drool at the mouth. He resolved to buy the bread and the butter; but where was the money to come from?
When he returned home after parading the streets, he was very tired. His limbs ached, and the longing for bread and butter gnawed at his inside. His master, Sundar Singh came back, changed into a suit and left to go to a reception given by the producer of the ‘The Blood of the Lover.’
Bachana Singh had no means of raising a loan; he had asked his companion on the parade to give him eight annas but no one would lend the money; perhaps they were as hard up as he. Or did they suspect he would never be able to return the loan? Bachana tried to get a loaf and butter from the cinema restaurant; that also failed. Sundar Singh had given instructions that nothing was to be given on credit to his servant. Bachana Singh lay down on his charpoy. He was hungry.
Before he fell asleep, Bachana said a short prayer — his heart was too full for more. He hadn’t asked for a million rupees or motor cars or bungalows — only a small loaf of bread and half a pat of butter. Even that was denied him! He prayed fervently. ‘Great Guru, True Emperor, I have forsaken others and come to Your door. People say You are the Great Giver. I too have seen Your generosity towards the proprietor of the Nishat cinema and to contractor Sundar Singh. But why give You not to me and a hundred thousand others like me? Who else can we turn to? If You really are the Great Giver, then give Your servant a loaf of bread. Otherwise I will conclude that You are the Guru of the chosen few and I shall find a new Guru of my own.’ Bachana Singh’s eyes closed in sleep.
Late in the night he awoke with an eerie feeling. His room was lit with strange effulgence. A bright glittering figure dismounted from a horse and entered his room. A white hawk fluttered on his hand. Of course, it was Guru Govind Singh Himself! Bachana rushed and bowed his head to the Guru’s feet and then offered the Guru his humble three-legged stool. The guru embraced Bachana.
‘My son, you thought of me in your prayers!’
‘Yes, Father!’ replied Bachana folding the palms of his hands and dropping his eyes.
‘Why did you think of me, son?’ asked the Guru with great kindness.
‘Emperor True! You know the innermost secrets of our hearts; You know of my suffering!’
‘Son, ask what you wish and it will be granted.’ Bachana remained silent.
‘Son, be not shy! Ask for what your heart wills most.’
‘Emperor True! Will You really give me what I ask?’
‘Yes son; you thought of me in the truthfulness of your heart. For this whatever your heart wills will be granted.’
‘Give me a small loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter,’ blurted Bachana smacking his lips.
‘A loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter! Four and three — that is only seven annas worth per day! Son, know the status of the one who gives and then ask. Ask for happiness in this life and the life to come; ask for dominion over the globe and I shall grant it to you; I can make you King of the three worlds.’
‘No my Lord! I do not want dominion or power. It was different in your age; today King’s heads roll in the dust and are kicked about by common people. All I need is a loaf of bread. And many who are as poor as I also need bread. I do not wish to own a kingdom; but I also do not want to spend a lifetime in hunger and want. Appease my hunger in this life; I will not bother about life hereafter.’
‘You will get all you want and quite soon in the life to come you will have everything in full measure. I will have to come back to this world again; not to save India from the perils of a foreign invasion but to give every Indian bread and butter. Wait for my return.’
‘True Emperor! I have waited long. Don’t take more time, come as soon as you can.’
‘I will not be long.’
The effulgent figure remounted the horse and vanished.
‘Oi Bachania! Get up you lazy lout! Its almost afternoon and you are still in bed. Get up and get my Delbis and butter.’
Bachana had gone to bed very late; then there was that strange dream! When he heard the word Delbis, he rose with a start — but still in his dream world.
‘True Emperor! You have really come — and sooner than you promised! Where is my Delbis and my pat of butter?’
Sundar Singh gave the boy a quizzical glance. ‘Oi, whose father are you talking to? You didn’t drug yourself with hashish, did you? Do I get the breakfast for you, or you for me? Hurry up you slug-a-bed and get my Delbis and butter.’
‘Someone there is who is going to get Delbis and butter for me; soon, very soon.’
Bachana opened his ey
es. Sundar Sigh stood glowering over him. Bachana quickly shut his eyes and stretched himself on the charpoy again.
Sundar Singh picked up the charpoy from one end and tilted it over. Bachana rolled off and fell on the floor.
gods on trial
Gulzar Singh Sandhu
Noora sat quietly under a mango tree by the tombs of the Pirs. He was absorbed in doing the home task given by his teacher. Rahmte, his sister, was cutting fodder from the Sikh Martyrs’ field, near the Pirs’ graveyard.
The Martyrs entombed near our field are supposed to possess great miraculous powers transcending death, fire and time. We, of the Sikh religion have profound faith in them. So much so that I was not allowed even to take the school examination unless I pledged an offering to them. My grandfather believed that it was only because of the Martyr’s kind intercession that I never once failed in any examination.
That summer day, I was also sitting with Noora under the mango tree. While Noora was engrossed in homework I watched Rahmte, cutting fodder from our field. I liked her so much that I felt like talking about her to Noora.
‘Of your two sisters whom do you like more? Rahmte or Jaina?’ I asked.
‘Jaina,’ he said, naming the elder one that had been married for four years then.
‘Why don’t you like Rahmte?’ said I and was suddenly aware that I could be misunderstood.
‘She beat me once, which Jaina never did,’ he said casually, to my satisfaction and returned to his book. Assured that I was not misunderstood, I started watching the rhythmic movement of Rahmte’s limbs operating the sickle.
Just then something startled a peacock on the Martyrs’ peepul tree, and it shot off into the air flapping its large wings with a heavy, muffled thud-thud. One of the feathers came off and sailed down to the ground. I was then a keen collector of peacock feathers. As I saw one sailing down in its rich dazzling colours, I threw down my book and ran for it. But it never touched the ground. Rahmte had grabbed it from the air before I could.
Land of Five Rivers Page 5
