Land of Five Rivers

by Khushwant Singh

  I lelt my patients and went with the man. Tai’s house was at the extreme end of Mohalla Varyaran. Climbing the flight of stairs I entered a dimly-lit room. Tai was reclining on her large pillows, breathing heavily. She was clutching her bosom with her right hand as if to keep her heart in its place. When she saw me, she smiled with relief. ‘Son, now that you’ve come, I will be saved.’

  ‘What’s the trouble, aunty?’

  ‘A call from the angel of death! I have had high fever for two days and then suddenly my body went cold (Tai’s eye-lids fluttered as she spoke). First, life went out of my legs; when I touched them they were icy cold; if I pinched them, I felt nothing. Then slowly life went out of my belly. And when it was about to depart from the rest of my body, I clutched at my kidney. (Tai emphasized this by clutching her heart with greater vigour) — So I grabbed at my kidney and yelled, “Is anyone there? Go and fetch Jai Kishen’s son Radha Kishen. He’s the only one who can cure me!” Now you are here — now I know I will live,’ she said with absolute conviction.

  I stretched out my hand towards tai’s right arm. ‘Give me your arm; I will feel your pulse.’

  She brushed away my hand with her left hand — ‘Hai, what kind of doctor are you!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t even know that I am holding my life with this hand. How can I let you feel the pulse in this arm?’

  In a few weeks tai was on her feet again. She had high blood pressure. When the pressure went down, she was able to walk about and resume her interest in the joys and sorrows of friends and strangers. Some months after she had got well, Uncle Bodh Raj passed away. He died of heart-failure in the house of his mistress.

  Tai did not allow his body to be brought to her house. His bier was taken from Shahi Mohalla. She would not accompany the cortege nor go to the cremation ground. Not a tear came to her eye. Without saying a word she broke up her marriage bangles, changed from her coloured garments into a plain white dhoti, rubbed away the vermillion powder in the parting of her hair and smeared a little ash on her forehead. That was all she did to conform to religious tradition.

  The plain white suited her grey hair and she looked comelier than before. There was some gossip amongst the relatives about the strange behaviour of tai Eesree. Everyone was a little surprised; some were even pained. But so great was their respect for tai Eesree that no one could dare to say anything to her.

  The years went by. My practice now extended beyond Mohalla Thakur Das to Kucha Karmal inside Shahalmi Gate up to the main square in Wachhowali. In the mornings I was at Mohalla Thakur Das and the evenings in Wachhowali. The days were spent in work and at times I was not able to see tai Eesree for a year or more. Nevertheless I got all her news from the women of the family. Uncle Bodh Raj had left all he had in the bank to Lachmi, but had willed a house and a shop in Jullundur to tai Eesree. This gave tai Eesree a rent of 150 rupees every month. She continued to live in Mohalla Varyaran as busy as before in her rituals and charities.

  One day after seeing a patient I happened to be passing through Shahi Mohalla. I suddenly thought of Uncle Bodh Raj and then of Lachmi who lived in Shahi Mohalla and from Lachmi my thoughts travelled to tai Eesree. I had a pang of conscience as, I had not been to see her for over twelve or fifteen months. I resolved to call on her at the first oppurtunity in the next day or two.

  I was still sunk in thought when I saw tai Eesree come out of a lane in the Mohalla. Instead of her usual gharara she was wearing a black one without any hem or ruffles. Even her kameez was a plain white one and she had a white muslin duppatta which she had wrapped round her head and chin making her look exactly like an early madonna.

  She saw me almost as soon as I saw her. And she suddenly seemed very embarrassed and turned back into the lane from which she was coming. I called out to her. My voice had a note of alarm in it. What was tai Eesree doing in the prostitutes’ quarter?

  ‘Tai Eesree!’ I cried ‘Tai Eesree!’

  She heard me and turned, facing me, head down, like a criminal pleading his guilt.

  ‘Tai Eesree, what are you doing here?’ I asked in surprise and anger.

  She could not meet my eyes. ‘Son,’ she said, in a faltering tone, ‘What can I say? except that... that... I heard that that Lachmi woman was not well... very sick... so I thought perhaps I should go and see her...’

  ‘You came here to see Lachmi’ I screamed at her — ‘Lachmi that sluttish whore, the bitch that...’

  Tai Eesree raised her hand, and silenced me — ‘Na, na, son’ she said gently. ‘Don’t say anything against her.’ She raised her eyes and breathed a long sigh. ‘She was the only thing left by which I could remember my late husband. Today even that remembrance is gone.’

  When the riots flared up in 1947 we left Lahore and came to Jullundur because tai Eesree had a house there. She gave the top-floor for herself. Everyday she went to the refugee camp and gave whatever help she could. Sometimes she would return home with an orphan or two. In four or five months she had four boys and three girls living with her, because no trace could be found of their parents. She also let refugees use her courtyard and the yard at the back of the house.

  In a short while her house began to look like a caravanserai. Nevertheless, not once did an angry frown darken tai Eesree’s brow. She entered her own house as if she were a stranger and had been allowed in by the refugees to whom it belonged. Women have an obsession for personal possessions. But I have never met even a man — far less a woman — who had as little use for possessions. Perhaps nature had left a vacuum in that part of the head which longs for property. Whatever she owned was in trust for other people. When she came to Jullundur she began to eat only one meal a day, but she never complained.

  I was tense and easily irritated in those days and tai Eesree’s simple acceptance often annoyed me. I had lost a lucrative practice in Lahore and my house in Model Town had been left behind. And now I did not have a roof over my head — no clothes, nor money, not even enough for a square meal. We ate what we were given, when it was given, and if it wasn’t given, we went hungry. And during these days I was stricken with dysentery. Being a doctor myself I tried all the medicines I knew. But with an affliction like this one, one needs very careful dieting. How could I arrange that? My health deteriorated rapidly. For sometime I was able to conceal this from tai, but then she found out about it. She came to my room and spoke most anxiously: ‘Son, you take my advice, this is dysentery. Doctors know nothing about it. What you must do — and I’ll give you the fare — is to go straight to Gujranwala. In the goldsmiths’ lane lives Uncle Karim Bux, the barber. He has a wonderful medicine which can cure the worst type of dysentery. Your uncle had the same trouble about 20 years ago; it was uncle Karim Bux who rid him of it. He spent ten days in Gujranwala and came back to Jullundur absolutely fit and healthy.’

  I flared up. ‘For heaven’s sake, tai, don’t you know I cannot go to Gujranwala?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll give you money for the fare.’

  ‘Money is not the problem. Gujranwala is in Pakistan.’ ‘So what? Can’t we go there to get medicine. Our uncle Karim Bux...’

  ‘Tai, you know nothing,’ said I interrupting her irritably. ‘You go on making the most naive suggestions. The Muslims have now made a separate country for themselves; it is called Pakistan. Our country is known as Hindustan. No Hindustanis can go to Pakistan now, nor Pakistanis come to Hindustan. They have to have passports.’

  Tai’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. ‘Passcourt? Do you have to go to court for it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I replied in exasperation, to end the argument. It was too much bother to explain the details to the old crone.

  ‘No son, it’s not nice to go to court. Sons of respectable families never go to the courts. But our uncle Karim Bux...’

  ‘Karim Bux be damned!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. ‘You talk of twenty years ago: You don’t even know if your uncle Karim Bux is alive or dead, but you go on repeating his name like a parrot.’ />
  Tai turned away with tears in her eyes. After she had gone I felt stricken with remorse for my quick temper. Why had I hurt the simple, guileless woman? If tai was unable to grasp the complications of present day life, what fault was it of hers?

  It was a time of frayed nerves and tempers. At college I had always talked of revolution. Later, when I prospered in life and my practice flourished, the ardour for revolution was somewhat cooled; in due course the word itself vanished from my vocabulary. The difficult days at Jullundur revived my zeal for the revolution. I sought the company of likeminded people who too had nothing more to lose; we would foregather and discuss the revolution with great enthusiasm. The meetings were usually in my room, on the second floor of tai Eesree’s house. We would have many rounds of tea and discuss the problems of the world. I, working myself into a frenzy would wave a clenched fist and shout, ‘We are not being treated fairly. We should not expect any justice from these people. I am convinced there will be another inqilab (revolution) in this country and it must come soon.’

  Tai Eesree overheard us one day. She came in, extremely worried and asked, ‘Son, are the Muslims coming?’

  ‘No aunty! who told you so?’

  ‘Who is this inqilab you said was on his way here?’

  Poor tai, she believed inqilab was the name of some Muslim. When we grasped what she was thinking, we went into fits of laughter.

  ‘How simple you are tai! Dear, aunty we are talking about an inqilab which is neither Hindu or Muslim. It belongs to all; we want to bring it here.’

  It was too much for tai, she shook her head and gave up. ‘All right, you boys go on with your discussion. I will bring you some tea.

  To help me out of my predicament, tai sold her gold bracelet. With the money I was able to take my family to Delhi, as Jullundur was still very unsettled and had a depressing atmosphere. I set up my practice anew in Delhi and in a few years I was on my feet again. My clinic was in Karol Bagh where a large number of refugees from Lahore had settled. Many knew me. Slowly but surely I got them to come to me and began to make a handsome income. In ten years I was able to build a house for myself and buy a car. I became the leading citizen of Karol Bagh. Once again I gave up the talk of revolution. The dysentery left me. So did the irritability. I became as amiable as a good doctor should be.

  After thirteen years I had occasion to return to Jullundur last March, to attend the wedding of a relative. In these thirteen years I had all but forgotten the existence of tai Eesree. One can make time for relations only when one has no patients. However, as soon as I got to Jullundur, my thoughts returned to her and all she had done for me; particularly the gold bangle which had helped me to resume my practice. I had never paid back the money. From Jullundur railway station I went straight to tai Eesree’s house.

  It was dusk. The air was laden with dust and smoke and the smell of oil. The voice of children returning to their homes filled the evening as I entered tai Eesree’s house.

  There was no one in the house besides tai Eesree, her head bowed in prayer. She had lit an oil lamp and was offering flowers to her god. At the sound of my footsteps she stepped back and called, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is I,’ I answered, entering and smiling at her.

  Tai came up another two paces but was unable to recognise me. Thirteen years is a long time! She had become somewhat deaf and her eyes were weak. Her face looked thinner than before and she walked very slowly.

  ‘I am Radha Kishen,’ I said softly.

  ‘Jai Kishen’s little boy?’ tai’s voice was full of emotion. Fearing she might hasten her step and lose her balance, I went up to her quickly and held her. She clung to me and began to cry. She blessed me a hundred times, kissed my face, patted me on the head, murmuring, ‘Son, where were you all these days? Where have you been? It’s been so long!’

  I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself and lowered my head. I tried to speak but the words would not come. Tai understood my embarrassment and changed the subject, asking, with her old asthmatic wheeze, ‘Is Saroj well and happy?’

  ‘Yes tai.’

  ‘And the elder boy?’

  ‘He is studying medicine.’

  ‘And the younger?’

  ‘He is in college.’

  ‘And Shanno and Banto?’

  ‘Both the girls are in college. I got Kamla married.’

  ‘Good, good!’ she nodded her head in satisfaction. ‘I also got Savitri married off,’ she said. ‘Pooran is at Roorki. Nimmi and Bumy found their parents. They took them away after six years of separation! Wasn’t that wonderful? I still hear from them from time to time. Only Gopi is left with me now. Next year he too will leave me, to work as an apprentice at the railway workshop.’

  This was an account of the orphans that tai had adopted during the riots.

  I scratched my chin sheepishly and said, ‘Tai, I haven’t yet paid the debt I owe you. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself for not having sent the money. I will send it to you as soon as I get back to Delhi.’

  ‘What kind of debt?’ asked tai very surprised.

  ‘You remember, the bracelet?’

  ‘Oh that!’ It came back to her and she smiled very softly. She stroked my head and said, ‘That was in payment of the debt I owed you.’

  ‘You did not owe me anything, tai!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Son, this life itself is a debt we owe other people,’ said tai in a grave voice. ‘One should always keep repaying parts of it. Did you come into this world on your own? No, your parents gave you life. Don’t you then owe the debt of your life to someone else? If we did not repay this debt, how would the world progress? The day of reckoning will come... Son, that is why I say I paid the debt I owed you. You must pay the debt you owe to someone else. Always redeem your debt — that should be the law of life.’ So long a sermon left tai completely out of breath.

  What could I say to her? What can the shadow say to the light? I heard what she had to say and kept my silence. She too was silent for a while and then she spoke again, ‘Neither my hands nor my feet are any good now; otherwise I’d have cooked a meal for you. When Gopi comes back, he will make something for you. You mustn’t leave before I have given you something to eat... yes?’

  I said humbly, ‘Tai please don’t bother about it now. Everything we eat today is because of you.’ I spoke slowly, ‘I came to attend Tej Pal’s wedding. From the railway station I came straight to your house, but I must now join the wedding party.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘I too was invited. But I have been feeling out of sorts for the last two days and have decided not to go. I have sent them a present. You pat Tej Pal on the head on my behalf and give him my blessings.’

  ‘Most certainly, aunty,’ I said, bending down to touch her feet. She clasped me to her bosom. With her hand on my head, she blessed me a hundred times. ‘Son,’ she said suddenly as I turned to go, ‘can you do something for me?’

  ‘You only have to say it.’

  ‘Please come and see me tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Why, aunty,’ I laughed, ‘What’s the matter? I’ve only just seen you now!’

  Tai spoke haltingly. ‘My eyesight is very bad; at night I cannot see at all. If you were to come sometime in the daytime I could have a good look at you. I haven’t seen you for thirteen years, son.’

  My eyes filled with tears. I replied — ‘I will certainly come, aunty.’

  Next morning more wedding guests were due to arrive and a few of us went to the railway station to receive them. On our way back, I recalled my promise, asked my companions to excuse me and went towards tai Eesree’s house. Around the corner of the lane on which she lived, there were little groups of people standing with their heads lowered. I ignored them and quickened my pace. On the ground floor of her house many others were gathered, all of them in tears. Tai Eesree had died that morning, while I was at the railway station.

  They had laid her on the floor of her room wrapped in a white sheet. Her face was uncover
ed. There was an odour of burning camphor and incense. A pandit was chanting Vedic mantras.

  Tai Eesree’s eyes were shut, her child-like face already grey. It had something of an eternal loneliness in it, a peace, a dissolution in fathomless dreams which made it look, not like the face of the tai Eesree that I had known, but of the vast earth itself — the earth in whose eyes ran the rivers of the world, in whose lap were a hundred thousand valleys where human habitations were sheltered by smiling mountains; mountains, from which rose the fragrance of selfless love and the radiance of innocence.

  I was standing at her feet gazing on her face when someone put a right hand on my shoulder. I turned round and saw a young man. His eyes were swollen with weeping.

  ‘I am Gopi Nath,’ he said softly.

  I realised who he was but made no comment. I did not know what to say.

  ‘I went to look for you in Tej Pal’s house; you had left for the railway station.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘Tai asked for you several times this morning. She knew you would come to see her. She waited for you till her last breath. When she knew she could wait no longer, she said to me — “When my son Radha Kishen comes, give him this.”

  Gopi Nath stretched out his hand and placed a four anna pice in the flat of my palm.

  I broke down and cried.

  I do not know where tai Eesree is today, but if she is in heaven I am certain that even now she is sitting on her coloured peerhi, with her open wicker basket at her feet, patting the heads of the gods and giving them each a four anna pice.

  the blind alley

  Gurmukh Singh Jeet

  Despite numerous efforts, inder could not shake off the effects of yesterday’s happenings. So far he had been spared worries in his life, but the very first impact had sent him off the rails. The more he tried to forget the unfortunate incident, the deeper grew the furrows left by it on his mind.