‘That parrot,’ the older Nihang told me later, scratching the hair on his chest, ‘means the world to Soorma Singh; its all he has — it is his father, mother, sister, son, wife, elder-uncle, mother’s brother, brothers...everything.’
The Nihang spoke with great contempt. He did not realise that Soorma Singh’s lonely life had impressed me. He didn’t even bother to look my way. He was watching the lentil cauldron which was boiling over, like lava pouring out of a volcano. Streaks of lentils flowed down the side of the cauldron and sizzled to a dry stop as they were scorched by the fire below.
There was no point my telling the Nihang what I thought of Soorma Singh. To be quite truthful. I had not really given much thought to Soorma Singh. Only when I ran into him, did I dwell on him for a few moments. I could tell from the expression on the Nihang’s face that he was eager to talk to me. To encourage him I asked: ‘Can the parrot talk?’
‘Yes Sir! Soorma Singh has taught him a lot of things.’
‘Soorma Singh recites couplets of Guru Tegh Bahadur. He must have crammed his parrot with verses of Bulhey Shah and Baba Farid,’ I suggested.
‘No sir... he has not taught his parrot any such thing.’
‘Nihang Singhji, what has he taught his parrot to say?’
‘It says: “Come Sardar Manjeet Singhji.” That’s his real name...no one bothers with his real name. He is just Soorma Singh to everyone. Some people even call him Soormua Singh.’ The Nihang smiled and explained his joke. ‘Soormua means one with a pig’s snout.’ He continued. ‘He’s taught the bird many other things. Sentimental sentences and words of love.’
The younger Nihang took up the narrative. ‘My friend has also taught the parrot many kinds of abuse — “Soorma is a woman chaser; Soorma Singh is a great rascal; Soorma Singh is a real bastard...” ’
I wanted to change the subject. There was no way of doing so except by breaking out in loud laughter.
The elder Nihang noticed my discomfiture. He made a wry face and said. ‘Sir, this Soorma Singh is a big nuisance. He does not like lentils. If I cook a vegetable, he turns up his nose; and he finds faults with our chappaties. It never crosses his mind that we are not cooks. He should take the name of the great Guru and eat whatever is placed before him.’
I agreed that Soorma Singh should eat whatever came from the Guru’s kitchen without making a fuss. ‘If Soorma Singh does not like the gurdwara food, why doesn’t he cook his own?’ I asked.
‘That’s exactly what we feel too. But Gyaniji indulges him too much. He sings a couple of hymns in the morning service and Gyaniji thinks he is the greatest singer in the world. He has given Soorma Singh a separate room to live in.’
The other Nihang butted in, ‘You can hardly call it a room! Next to the latrines is a tiny store-room to stack wood, coal, flour, lentils and other kitchen rations. In one corner of this room Sardar Soorma Singh has laid his charpoy and hung his parrot cage.’
One night at about 10 p.m. the parrot began to squawk. I had never heard the bird before, but that night it was screaming as if a tiger had entered the cage. Many people came out of their rooms to find out what had happened. Then Soorma Singh also began to yell at the parrot. We could not hear what they were saying to each other.
The uproar continued for some time. Then Soorma Singh’s voice could be heard crying — ‘Help! Murder! He’s killing me.’
I took my flashlight and ran down the stairs. I saw the older Nihang run out of Soorma Singh’s room and disappear in the darkness of the latrines.
Soorma Singh continued to scream for help. Other people came on the scene. We took Soorma Singh to the first floor. He was suffering from shock. It appeared that one of the Nihangs had stolen into his room in the dark and tried to strangle him with his scarf.
Gyaniji was aroused by the din and came on the scene. The older Nihang who had quietly slipped back into his room was summoned. He explained that all he had done was to take food to Soorma Singh’s room and then returned to his own. He did not know what transpired after he had left.
It was obvious that the Nihang was lying. Even so someone came to his defence. ‘Soorma Singh is always bothering these poor chaps. They spend all their day serving in the Guru’s kitchen and then His Lordship expects to be served in his room.’
Soorma Singh leapt to his defence with all the power in his lungs. ‘All these fellows gang up in the kitchen to make fun of me; the Nihangs are particularly nasty to me. Sometimes they urinate in my lentil soup; at other times they’ll deliberately char my chappaties and slap them on my face. Just now when one of them brought me dinner he said “Here, you bastard, you parasite”...’
There was a commotion. Soorma Singh abused the Nihangs with all his might. Gyaniji pleaded with him, ‘If you go on yelling like this, you will lose your voice. How will you be able to sing tomorrow morning?’
The exchange of hot abuse was followed by soft words of peace. The Nihangs again threatened to leave for HemKund. Gyaniji dissuaded them from doing so. He wiped his nose with his scarf. My neighbours, the vendors of medicinal herbs, took Soorma Singh to their room while Gyaniji cooled the tempers of the Nihangs and sent them back to their quarters.
A few days later there was another party in the room next door. Amongst the distinguished company I espied the two Nihangs and Soorma Singh. Green jade cups were being passed round. I could also hear endearing abuse such as is used by friends for each other. This was Soorma Singh in a new incarnation, so different from the Soorma Singh of everyday life. His turban had fallen off his head and lay entangled between his legs; his beard was scattered untidily; his top-knot had loosened and his long hair lay about his shoulders; his dark glasses lay in his lap. He was flailing his arms like a windmill and bellowing like a mad bull. One would have thought that the houris of paradise were performing a nautch right in front of his sightless eyes. The party were pleading with him for couplets from Bulhey Shah or Baba Farid.
Soorma Singh made a few attempts to sing, but he was too drunk to get the notes right and the attempts ended in a camel like hurrumph. The failure angered Soorma Singh. He leapt to his feet, slapped his chest: ‘Hai, I am smitten!’
A chorus of voices demanded : ‘True Emperor! who could dare to smite you?’
Soorma Singh was in a world of his own. All he could say in reply was to repeat ‘Hai, I am smitten!’
The Nihangs sprinkled some cold water on Soorma Singh’s head — ‘You are hot in the head Soorma Singh! Repeat the name of the great God, Wahe Guru.’
The drops of cold water acted like magic. He put his hand over his ear and in his tear-laden voice sang:
‘Farid wake from the slumber! thy beard hath turned grey.
The future lies ahead of thee, the past is passed away.’
The men began to sway in ecstasy; their beards also swayed with them. Their eyes closed and a drunken stupor overcame them. Once Soorma Singh had begun, there was no stopping him; wherever his voice carried, it cast its spell. He had a vast repertoire of slokas beginning with ‘Farid, wake from thy slumber!’ He sang into the late hours of the night.
It was the magic of Soorma Singh’s voice which compelled an agnostic like me to go to the prayer hall every morning.
The gurdwara prayer hall was very spacious. Its bare white walls dazzled the eye. The floor was covered with coir matting on which was spread a blue durrie with a red border. On one side of the hall on a raised platform was the holy Granth. Usually Gyaniji sat on the platform. Behind him would be a boy waving the fly whisk. Above the Granth was a coloured awning festooned with red and yellow tassels. A couple of dozen large pictures were hung on the walls; some of these were of the Sikh Gurus; other depicted scenes from Sikh history.
When Soorma Singh entered the crowded hall, the congregation would be tense with excitement. On these occasions Soorma Singh dressed with great care; a clean white shirt and chooridars of handspun khaddar, a round white turban on his head, a blue scarf round his neck — and the dark glasses
with their lenses and frame glistening brightly. He also wore socks on these occasions. Instead of his staff, he would have his tambourin which he used as an accompaniment. People said that Soorma Singh’s renderings of the sacred hymns had pierced many a deaf ear and guided the listeners along the true and narrow path of religion.
This was not very incredible. If confirmed agnostics like me could be moved, those who were only wavering in their faith must surely have had their doubts cleared... I must admit that although his singing used to disturb me, it instilled peace in the minds of most people. I could seldom catch the words of the hymns. His voice had the force and flow of a hill torrent, the deep gloom of unseen, unknown caverns of the ocean ...I cannot really describe the quality of his voice except that to me Soorma Singh was nothing except his voice. It reflected his loneliness, his utter solitude in the wide, wide world, his agitated search, his unquenched thirst, his unappeased hunger; it was the cry of his soul, an agonising cry which rang through the melody of his songs...
The sun had set behind a haze of clouds; only a dim glow lit the mountains.
The foreman gave my belongings a quick appraising look and asked, ‘How many coolies will you require?’
‘One.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, I am alone.’
He began calculating the load the coolie would have to carry. I was on my bed reading a book; my small attache case was hidden underneath. I shut the book and explained, ‘There is only one bedding roll and a small suitcase.’ I got up and lifted the edge of the bed sheet. The foreman bent down to gauge the size of the case. ‘That will be two rupees, Sahib.’
‘How long will it take to get to the bus stand?’
‘Fifteen minutes less than an hour.’
‘Don’t forget I have to get on the 8.00 a.m. bus. The coolie should be here by a quarter to seven.’
‘Accha Sahib.’
The words ‘accha Sahib’ kept going round my head long after the foreman had gone. When I found the page of my book, I had to close the book. Once again there was an uproar. There was always an uproar of some kind or the other. It could be hymn-singing, quarrels between the women, the screaming of children. But this was from the ground floor, from Soorma Singh’s room. Were the Nihangs up to their tricks again?
My one thought was to save the voice of Soorma Singh. I leapt out of bed and went to the door. I saw the two Nihangs in the kitchen sipping tea out of their porcelain mugs. ‘What is the racket?’ I asked them.
They paused and listened. I ran down the steps. The noise was coming from Soorma Singh’s room. A small crowd had collected there. I looked in. A fat, ugly woman of about thirty-four was squatting on a charpoy with Soorma Singh on his knees on the floor beside her. A Sikh with a goatee was slapping Soorma Singh about the face.
This fellow was an urban type — short, pot-bellied, flabby, with small thin arms and hands like squirrel’s claws.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded a chorus of voices.
The Sikh with the goatee panted, ‘This man was staring at my wife...even after I told him to look the other way.’
In short, Soorma Singh’s crime was to have stared at the loathsome creature with eyes like hard-boiled eggs and a skin the colour of mud.
Gyaniji threaded his way through the crowd and came up to the man with the goatee. He put out his inflamed proboscis and protested. ‘Sir, this is Soorma Singh, he has no eyes. How could he have been gaping at anyone? There was no other room vacant, that is why I put you in his room. Where else can the poor fellow go?...’
Soorma Singh’s glasses had fallen off but his assailant had not bothered to look at his eyes. His wife was very cross and scolded her husband — ‘You never wait to find out anything before you get down to fisticuffs.’
The Sardarji was like a deflated balloon; he looked exactly like a squirrel with a beard. It was obvious that he was dominated by his wife. Some explanations were offered; the Sardarji picked up his bag and slipped out to go to the bazaar to buy vegetables, Gyaniji went to the door and spoke to the onlookers, ‘Gentlemen go and do your own work... this is not juggler’s performance.’
Gyaniji’s thin nasal voice commanded respect. The crowd dispersed. Gyaniji turned and admonished the woman with the bulging eyes, ‘Sister, Soorma Singh has a golden voice. You have arrived today; come to the service tomorrow morning and listen to him singing hymns. There is such magic in his voice that many who have gone astray, have been brought back to the path of righteousness.’
Just then the parrot made a few uncomplimentary remarks about Soorma Singh. Gyaniji glowered at the bird. His nose was as red as the parrot’s beak.
Gyaniji explained to the woman that this was the Nihang’s handiwork. Soorma Singh’s cup of sorrow brimmed over. He voiced a whole catalogue of the misdeeds of the Nihangs. The woman asked, ‘Soorma Singhji, whose word shall I accept, the Gyaniji’s or the parrot’s?’
‘That’s a very odd question to ask,’ protested Gyaniji and left the room still mauling his nose.
A small multi-coloured bird landed on the window sill and danced a pirouette.
There was tenderness, humility and sweetness in the woman’s voice; it pierced through the deep dark of Soorma Singh’s world like a shaft, making a silver track as it went — a path which appeared to Soorma Singh to be leading to his goal.
the nuptial bed
Upendra Nath Ashk
Keshi looked up from his newly-wedded wife’s eyes to the head-board of the old-fashioned bed, in which was framed a miniature of his mother. She was a lovely woman, fine-featured with large eyes and curling lashes; a smile hovered on her slightly parted lips, revealing a row of pearl-white teeth. Unconsciously his mother’s image was projected on that of his bride’s. How closely the two women resembled each other! His head went into a whirl; a shiver ran down his body. He shook his head vigorously and tried to take his eyes off the picture. It was of no avail.
Till a few years ago, he had lain on his mother’s bosom just as he was now lying on his wife’s. The memories of those years came flooding back into his mind. Instead of kissing his bride’s almond eyes and eager lips, he slid off her body and lay down beside her like one utterly exhausted. He stared at the long strings of jasmine beads which hung like a canopy over his bed. His hand fell on the jasmine petals which were spread like a thick counterpane over the bed sheets. He wanted to leap from his bed and break out of the fragrant nuptial room in which he found himself imprisoned.
Keshi did not jump off the bed. He lay where he was, still and silent. What would his bride think! That fear alone kept him on the nuptial bed. He shook his head again, even more violently than before. But instead of ridding his mind of his mother’s image, it produced a myriad more, which came tumbling down through the spate.
...It is the same bed in the same room. His parents are lying side by side. He is staring at them from his cot in the verandah. How petite and pretty his mother looks beside his father.
...His mother is doing her hair in front of the mirror. He stares at her from behind the door. She is as beautiful as the fairy that his ayah tells of in her stories. His mother, seeing his reflection in the mirror, asks him to come to her. He goes to her and buries his face in her lap. She ruffles his hair with one hand and continues to comb her own with the other.
...What’s wrong with Papa? A man comes in to see him everyday. He has a pair of snakes hanging round his neck. He puts the tails of the serpents in his ears and feels Papa’s chest with their head. Then he sticks long needles in Papa’s arms. Papa does not cry but Keshi begins to howl. His mother clasps him to bosom and takes him to the next room.
...Papa is lying on the floor. He does not move. Everyone is crying. His mother is crying; she kisses him and continues to cry. Women help his mother to break all her bangles and then wipe off the vermillion in the parting of her hair. They drag Keshi out of her lap. He shrieks and howls but no one bothers to comfort him.
...It is the same bed. He
lies where his Papa had lain before him. His mother is beside him. She is dressed in a plain, white sari. The morning sun is streaming through the fanlight but she sleeps on, without a care in the world. He stares at her face. Her features are truly as delicate as a fairy’s. Her eyes are closed, her hair scattered about her shoulders. She is like the princess who was woken out of her spell by Prince Charming. He edges towards her and kisses her on the cheek. She opens her eyes, stretches her arms and takes him in her embrace. She kisses him on his forehead, eyes and lips.
...He lies with his head on his mother’s bosom. She tells him the story of the prince who crossed the seven seas to marry the princess of his heart’s desire. She finishes the story and asks him. ‘Will you marry a princess?’
‘I will marry you.’
‘Silly boy! Whoever heard of a son marrying his mother!’
She promises him that she will find him a bride just like herself.
‘Then I will have this bed as well,’ he says looking at his mother’s beautiful portrait in the head-rest.
‘Yes, of course! This bed will be my wedding present to you and your bride.’
‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?’ His bride turns over, feels his forehead and runs her fingers through his hair.
‘It’s nothing at all,’ he answers shaking his head to snap the chain of thought. He tries to laugh, it turns into a long sigh.
His mother had been true to her word. The bride that she had chosen for him was an exact image of herself — slender and comely. Her eyes were large, her features clear cut, het lips soft and her teeth glistened like a row of pearls. A large bed had been sent with the dowry; but his mother had fulfilled her old vow and laid out her own precious bed for him to consummate his wedlock. She had even given up her own bedroom to the bridal pair.
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