Rani and Sukh

by Bali Rai

  He considered turning back to find his friend but he didn’t. Mohinder knew the way back to the village and Resham was sure he would be fine. Instead, he jogged round the edge of the field and past the copse of trees where Mohinder’s sister had seen the injured bird, heading for the village. He heard a noise in among the trees of the copse, a panting shortness of breath. Mohinder, perhaps, hiding, trying to catch his wind. He walked into the clump of trees, heading towards the sound, ready to tease his friend for hiding. As he approached, the panting grew louder and then he saw them. Two naked bodies, male and female, entwined on the ground. A hip, a breast, bare buttocks and then the face. Her face. It was Kulwant Sandhu, Mohinder’s youngest sister. Aware that he might be seen, he crouched behind a bush and tried to make out the man’s face. As he watched, the man turned over and Kulwant sat astride him, her face contorted, his hands cupping her full breasts. Resham’s heart started to beat faster and then it sank. He held back a cry of surprise and then stood up. Just before he could run away he looked into the eyes of both lovers. Right into Kulwant’s eyes and right into the hazel eyes of his own brother. Billah.

  Resham looked away in surprise and disgust and shame. And then he ran, hearing his brother calling after him but not stopping to reply. Not stopping for anything until he reached his father’s house . . .

  ‘YOU ARE MY brother – please let me tell them myself.’

  Billah pleaded with Resham in the early morning, hazy sunshine breaking through puffs of white, fluffy cloud. They hadn’t spoken the night before. Resham had instead ignored his younger brother, unsure of what he should do. In the early light of dawn, the brothers had made their way out to the cornfields, as far from the rest of the family as was possible, in order to talk about what Resham had seen. What he wished he hadn’t seen. He knew that what Billah was doing with Kulwant was wrong – it went against all the codes that had been impressed upon Resham from childhood.

  And yet he could not pretend that he hadn’t felt the same desires, the same impulses as Billah. And how could he betray his own brother, knowing that the Sandhus would be moved to injure him, at the very least, for defiling their youngest daughter? And then what would become of his fraternal relationship with Mohinder? He studied Billah’s eyes, weary and red from a night without sleep, a night full of fear and worry. Eyes which were pleading for a chance to explain.

  ‘Who will you tell?’ asked Resham.

  ‘Bhai-ji, I do not know who,’ admitted Billah.

  ‘Can there be anyone in the village who will not run to Kulwant’s father at the first opportunity? You have taken her izzat, my brother. It is a thing that cannot be easily forgiven. You have cut off her father’s nose.’

  Billah looked to the ground and then mumbled about love and stars and marriage. But Resham did not let him off so easily.

  ‘Marriage? Are you her father that you would settle her destiny for her? Can you not see where this will end, Billah?’

  ‘Bhai-ji, we are in love. We want to be together . . . it was meant to be this way.’

  ‘Haraamzadah – what will love do to help you when her father finds out? Have you never listened to the stories we have been told since we were children. Such affairs never end in happiness. Only in dishonour, sadness and death. And what of the shame to our own father?’

  ‘I will marry her,’ replied a steely-eyed Billah, his tone defiant, ‘or I will die – understand that, bhai-ji.’

  Resham saw it then – the determination, the passion that could have passed for a madness, there in his brother’s eyes, burning hot like the sun. He flinched, not from his brother’s words but from the intensity of his gaze. It was Resham’s turn to look away.

  ‘She is my life, bhai-ji. I will not settle for anyone else. If it means that we are to run away and be outcasts then so be it,’ continued Billah.

  ‘This is going to kill us all,’ said Resham softly, shaking his head.

  ‘Will you tell on us?’ asked Billah.

  ‘And see you killed? How can I? My own blood will be forfeit before such a thing could happen.’

  ‘But what of your friend, Mohinder?’

  Resham sighed as he looked at his brother. ‘It will end our friendship, my brother. Of that you can be sure.’

  ‘Even if we are married?’ said Billah. ‘For then we shall become brothers.’

  ‘God willing such a thing may occur but do not count on it. The anger of a dishonoured father outweighs much, bhai.’

  A sudden spark crossed Billah’s face. ‘Even the will of God?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The will of God, bhai-ji.’

  Resham shook his head. ‘Are you insane, Billah?’

  Billah didn’t answer. Instead he told his brother that he had to see someone, and ignoring Resham’s protests he made his way back to the village. Resham watched him leave and shook his head again. Deep inside he hoped against hope that his brother could save himself but there was a knowing, nagging feeling in Resham’s head. It reminded him of past trysts that had been discovered; of violent murders and feuding families. There were things that were sacred in life and amongst the very highest was the izzat of a family name, the honour of chaste daughters. He had discovered his brother’s affair. Soon enough someone else would too – someone who would not hesitate to inform Kulwant’s family. And then all hell would break loose. It was as inevitable as the rising of the sun each morning. Hope was a fine idea, thought Resham, but it was like fool’s gold where the dishonour of a jat Punjabi was concerned. What could Billah possibly do to make things right?

  Kulwant was kneeling beside an irrigation channel that ran between two separate fields, using the cool water to soothe her brow and wipe the bile from her chin and mouth. Her stomach was in turmoil, turning over and over, and hard as a stone tablet to the touch. Each day she found holding down her food harder and harder. And now, with the sleeplessness brought on by discovery, it was harder still. She sat back and stared out into the field, wanting to disappear amongst the crops and the tall grasses; to find another world, safe and secure and far away from the trouble that she felt brewing. There was not only the unspeakable shame of being seen by Resham Bains, naked with her lover, but also the more serious problem of her family being told of her love. Ever since she was a child she had been told stories by her mother, stories which told of loose women and love affairs, of rape and dishonour. The very essence that Kulwant had surrendered to Billah was the key that she had been told of by her mother. A key that was only to be given on the chosen night of matrimony, to the only man who would ever have access to it. A man chosen for her by her father.

  She thought of Billah’s strong arms, calming her as she panicked, after they had been seen.

  ‘He is my brother,’ Billah had assured her. ‘He will not betray me. Us.’

  ‘But what if you are wrong, my love?’ she had cried.

  ‘Then we will run away together, Kulwant. Somewhere far away where they cannot reach us or hurt us.’

  ‘I’m scared,’ she had told him, as he held her tightly.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘How can I not be? If my father finds out about us then he will kill you. I couldn’t bear that.’

  Billah looked away from her eyes for a moment, not wanting her to see the fleeting anxiety in his own.

  ‘I could not bear it if you went before me,’ continued Kulwant.

  Billah smiled kindly. ‘If I go before you,’ he told her, caressing her naked belly, ‘I will wait for you, up there in the night sky.’

  ‘But how will I cope without you? How will I find you if I need you?’

  ‘You will find me up there,’ he said, pointing to the Heavens. ‘At night. The brightest of all the stars.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Billah, reassuring her. ‘You won’t ever lose me. I will talk to Resham.’

  ‘I hope you are right . . .’

  Kulwant made to stand up but t
he turmoil in her belly proved too strong and she doubled over and threw up again, the bitter, burning taste of bile making her gag. She knelt once more and waited, knowing that another wave of nausea would soon hit her, just as it had done for over a week now. Splashing herself with water, she heard something rustling in the vegetation behind her, looking round to see what it was. Nothing appeared. Kulwant turned back to the irrigation channel, watching a small bird drink from it, some five feet from where she knelt. Trying to think of something other than nausea, she watched as the brown bird hopped onto the mounded edge of the channel, built up with soil and sand, and then dipped into the flow of water, before hopping back into the ears of corn.

  The morning sun was heading for its highest point in the sky and the humidity was rising along with more bile. Again Kulwant retched. Once, twice, and then on the third occasion cackling laughter broke out behind her. Momentarily without the strength to turn and see who was mocking her, Kulwant cupped handfuls of water and washed her face.

  ‘Sister, are you all right?’ came a female voice from behind her.

  Kulwant turned her head and saw Nimmo, the wife of one of the village labourers, a short, fat women whose appearance had been fashioned by her lowly status in life, the daughter of a lower caste family. A chooreeh. Nimmo wore the same clothes she always wore and on her feet were sandals so old that they had an odour of their own. Her hair was greasy and combed back with mustard oil, and her teeth, those that remained, were rotten. But her eyes were sharp and mischievous, her tongue renowned for its sarcasm, and her brain faster than that of almost anyone else in the village. And she possessed a heart so kind, so generous, that she was the favourite chooreeh of most of the higher caste youngsters.

  ‘I am fine, Nimmo,’ replied Kulwant, without the same politeness that she would have used to an elder of the same caste. Not that Kulwant noticed this. It was simply a natural response, one that she had been bred with.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, Kulwant, but you do not seem to be well.’

  ‘It is of no concern to you, Nimmo,’ snapped Kulwant, but was instantly ashamed of herself. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kulwant. I have not lived forty-five years as a chooreeh without becoming used to such things.’

  ‘I am not well,’ said Kulwant. ‘I’ve been sick for over a week now.’

  Nimmo walked over and held her palm to Kulwant’s forehead. She stood with her hand in place for a while and then crouched beside Kulwant. ‘You have slight fever, although I think that may be a reaction to being sick,’ she told her.

  ‘I can’t hold my food down,’ confided Kulwant.

  Nimmo looked into Kulwant’s eyes. ‘Just when you eat or all the time, child?’

  Kulwant looked away. ‘Just when I eat,’ she replied, lying. The nausea came on whether she had eaten or not.

  Nimmo’s eyes widened in surprise. She took her hand and held it at Kulwant’s belly, prodding at it with her thick, calloused fingers. ‘Sister, is there something I do not know?’ she asked, her years of wisdom bringing her to a conclusion that she did not wish to come to.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Kulwant, not looking at her.

  ‘You are like a tree in spring, Kulwant.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ replied Kulwant, beginning to cry.

  ‘Blossoming, child. Tell me – did a thief break into your heart or did you give him the key?’

  Kulwant gave a cry and grabbed hold of Nimmo, hugging her like a frightened child and weeping.

  Nimmo shook her head and swallowed hard. ‘Cry, sister, cry. Soon your father shall join you in your grief.’

  Kulwant tried to pretend she didn’t understand. Tried to pretend she didn’t know what Nimmo was saying to her. But the old chooreeh made it clear.

  ‘You are with child, sister. You have—’

  ‘NO!’ Kulwant tried to break free of Nimmo but was held even tighter.

  ‘Hai Rabbah – what are we to do?’ Nimmo asked of God.

  ‘Please . . . don’t tell my father . . . please,’ pleaded Kulwant, finally resigned to the fate that she had silently known was about to befall her. It had taken Nimmo to make it real.

  ‘Tell? Why would I tell your father, child? Do you think that I would welcome your dishonour? Your death?’

  Kulwant blinked through the tears. ‘My father would never . . .’ she began.

  Nimmo shook her head in sadness. ‘My child, to your father you are already dead . . . believe me.’

  Had anyone been in the vicinity of those fields they would have heard a wailing so loud, so plaintive, they might have presumed someone to have died.

  Later, almost an hour after Nimmo had chanced upon Kulwant, the two of them still sat in the same spot, entwined like mother and daughter. Nimmo had been going over and over the choices in front of her. She could easily have left the girl to her own devices, her own fate, but that was something she could not bring herself to do. The poor, stupid, wretched girl had no inkling of the severity of her situation. There was death and dishonour to come, Nimmo could sense it. It was inevitable. And Nimmo would not leave Kulwant to face it alone.

  There was the possibility of approaching Kulwant’s family herself, but what chance did she, as a chooreeh, stand against the rage of a jat? No, such an option would bring only trouble for Nimmo, and her family. She would find herself accused of leading the poor girl astray, of being a witch and poisoning the girl’s soul. There were poisons too, concoctions that she could give to Kulwant to take, which would flush from her the seed of her lover but take also the unborn child within. Yet such a thing could never occur without discovery, for the bleeding would tell a tale, and then there was also the question of God. Nimmo had no wish to go to her Maker with such a burden on her soul.

  In the end there was only one solution. Nimmo would have to hide the girl away, let her family assume that she had disappeared, died maybe, or run away. Run away. Yes – that was the only thing for it. Nimmo would have to approach the girl’s lover, break to him the consequences of his actions, and suggest that they go far away, to the city perhaps. Somewhere where they could not be found.

  She rose from the ground and pulled Kulwant up to her side, telling her that she would take her to a safe place. Kulwant still wept, but the strength was gone now, and she felt as light as a feather in Nimmo’s arms. As they walked, Nimmo asked her about her lover.

  ‘What is the name of this thief to whom you gave the key to yourself, child?’ she enquired.

  Kulwant, weak and feverish, fought within herself. Why should she tell? Why should she . . . ?

  ‘I must know,’ argued Nimmo, ‘so that I may approach him and tell him that you are undone. That you must, both of you, hurry away from here, before it is too late.’

  Kulwant looked at her saviour and relented. After all, what was left to her now? What else could she do? The fate that had brought her to her jaan would be their only guide from now on . . .

  ‘Billah,’ she whispered weakly.

  Nimmo heard the name and sighed to herself. Sandhu and Bains. Two large families, led by patriarchs who would have killed a man for laying even a finger upon their daughters. Two proud jat men, friends, both betrayed by their youngest offspring. There would be war. She sighed and continued to guide her charge to a place of safety, hoping that she could get to Billah before Kulwant was missed by her family.

  GIANNI-JI LIT THE sticks of incense and let them burn for a few moments before blowing on them, watching the flame pare down to a single glowing ember, the thick, sweet smoke swirling into the air and immediately filling the room with the scent of rose and jasmine. Repeating his prayer over and over, he sat back on a grass mat and let his mind wander, lost in thought. Later he would have to organize the langar at the gurudwara, the communal meal, but for now he was content to let his meditations take him away to the place where his mind met the words and the will of the Guru. Often he would stay locked in contemplation for almost an hour, unable
to do anything else, oblivious to the outside world. But this morning was different. He heard footsteps making their way across the flagstone courtyard that stood to the side of the temple, the wooden door to his rooms creaked open and a voice called out to him.

  ‘Gianni-ji, are you here?’

  He opened his eyes and rose, his knees sounding like hinges that had been rusting for years. He offered a quick finishing prayer and then made his way from the inner sanctum of the gurudwara, through to his own rooms, and then out into the entrance, where he saw Billah Bains, his eyes red and swollen, his gaze lost somewhere between fear and resolve.

  ‘Billah? What brings you here so early in the morning?’ he asked the boy.

  Billah looked down at his feet, unsure of how he would begin.

  ‘Come, this is your house as much as it is mine. Sit.’

  ‘Forgive me, Gianni-ji, for intruding on your prayers,’ said Billah, sitting down.

  The priest sat next to him. ‘It is of no consequence, my child. God is always with us, whether we pray or not,’ he assured Billah.

  ‘I had nowhere else to go.’

  The priest considered Billah’s words for a moment before speaking. ‘A serious thing indeed it must be if you cannot take it to your own father.’

  ‘I am in trouble, Gianni-ji. I need your help.’

  The priest nodded his head slowly. He stood up and put his hand on Billah’s shoulder. ‘Let me get you some tea, child. You look as though you have been fighting demons all night long.’

  Billah nodded and sat back on the woven, wooden-framed manjah, his back resting against the sky-blue coloured plaster of the wall. The priest returned with two glasses of steaming tea, spiced with cardamoms, ginger and cloves, handing one to Billah, who blew on the tea’s surface before sipping at it.

  ‘Thank you, Gianni-ji,’ he said, as the warming, spicy fluid relaxed him slightly.

  ‘Now, what is it that you cannot tell your father?’ asked the priest, sitting beside Billah once more.