by Bali Rai
‘It is a matter that is very dear to my heart, Gianniji,’ began Billah.
The priest smiled at him. ‘An affair of the heart or just close to it?’ he asked, wondering where he had seen Billah’s haunted expression recently. On whom.
Billah looked away before answering. ‘Of the heart,’ he admitted.
‘With a girl from the village?’
‘Yes.’
The priest set down his glass of tea on the tiled floor. He stood and walked over to the door, shutting it. Turning to Billah, he ran his hand through his thick, long beard. ‘And what is it you ask of me, child?’ he asked, unsure of where the conversation was going.
Billah looked up at the priest, wondering whether he had made the right choice. Without averting his gaze, he changed the subject slightly. ‘Tell me, Gianni-ji, is love something that God frowns upon?’
The priest was silent for a while, taken aback by the question. ‘Well . . . um . . . no, I don’t believe it is . . .’
‘Then why is it that we, as men, frown upon it?’ added Billah quickly.
‘I’m not sure that we do,’ answered the priest. ‘The love of our brothers is central to our religion.’
‘And our sisters – what of them?’
‘Our sisters too. But I believe that you are talking about a different kind of love. A love between one man and one woman.’
‘Yes, Gianni-ji, I am,’ said Billah.
‘Tell me – who is it that you are in love with?’
Billah looked away again. ‘Someone who is so pure and so beautiful that I cannot sleep when she is not there.’
The priest coughed and looked away too. If it had been possible to see the colour of his skin underneath his beard, it would have been red. ‘What you speak of,’ he began, ‘is it a situation from which there is no turning back?’
Billah looked at him once more. ‘Yes, Gianni-ji, it is.’
Billah expected the priest to shake his head, to curse him, to get angry. But the old man merely nodded and walked towards him, placing his hand on Billah’s shoulder once again.
‘My son, this is more difficult than you can imagine. Who is the girl of whom you speak?’
Billah felt a tear begin to fall down his cheek. ‘Kulwant. Kulwant Sandhu,’ he admitted.
‘I see,’ replied the priest, stroking his beard again.
‘I know that we have done wrong,’ said Billah, with tears in his eyes, ‘but I wish to make it right, Gianni-ji.’
‘You wish to marry this girl?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes.’
‘And you require me to talk to her father?’
Billah nodded.
‘This is difficult, my son. Our culture is such that a daughter’s honour is sacred.’
‘I cannot think of anything else to do,’ cried Billah.
‘You realize that I can talk to her father and to yours too, but that their reactions are not controlled by me?’
‘Yes – I do. But you speak of culture, Gianni-ji. I know that it is not our way. But am I wrong in the eyes of God, to feel such a way?’
‘As Sikhs we believe in marriage, my son. What you have done, it is hard to say if it is wrong. Sometimes these things cannot be controlled. Believe me, you are not the first one to talk to me of such things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. There are many things that happen that you youngsters are not party to. Love is a powerful feeling, Billah. But it is still a feeling given to us by our Lord.’
‘So I am not wrong then?’
The priest shook his head. ‘Whether you are right or wrong is between you and God, my son. It is not for other men to decide. Yet other men will judge you on this, and I fear that it will not be an easy verdict for you and that poor child,’ he said.
‘Will you speak to them for me? I do not wish them dishonour – I seek to become the brother of her brothers, her mother’s son.’
The priest sighed at Billah’s naiveté. ‘Billah, it may be too late. They will see your actions as a slight on their family name, on their izzat. It may be too much.’
‘So we have no chance, Gianni-ji?’
The priest thought for a moment and then he sat down beside Billah. ‘Tell me, who else knows of this affair, my son?’
‘Just my brother, Resham,’ replied Billah. ‘And he will not tell anyone else.’
‘So we could approach them without alluding to the real nature of your relationship with Kulwant?’
‘That is what I was thinking,’ admitted Billah. ‘But are you prepared to lie to them for me?’
The priest smiled. ‘I will not lie, my son. I will just not tell them about it.’
‘That isn’t the same thing, Gianni-ji?’ asked Billah, confused.
‘If my words can prevent a clash between your two families then I will be doing our village a great service. I have seen these things lead to bloodshed and death, my son.’
‘So you will talk to them for me – for us?’
The priest sighed and then nodded his head before picking up his glass of tea and sipping from it. He looked at Billah with eyes of kindness and sympathy but inside he felt wary and unsure. He would appeal to both fathers. Talk of the greater love between God and man. Remind them that God would have no objection to such a union – regardless of any sin that had been committed. Any judgement was the preserve of the Lord, not the duty of men. Yet he was not confident that it would do any good. There was much pride in both families and culture was almost stronger than religion in the village. He doubted whether his appeal would work, but at the same time he resolved to try, knowing that if he failed, there would be blood spilled in the dust and lives lost. And that was something he could not allow to happen without trying, at least, to stop it.
He sighed and sipped a little more tea before turning to Billah. ‘Now, my son, tell me everything . . .’
As the priest stood and opened the doors once more, sunlight flooded into the room, bringing with it a newfound hope in Billah. It was as though he had unburdened himself of a great weight, something for which he was very grateful. He realized that there were no guarantees that his plan would succeed but it had to be worth a try, of that he was sure. Coming from the mouth of a man of God, surely his desire to marry Kulwant would be taken seriously. The priest coughed and told Billah to go home.
‘I must speak to the sarpanch first,’ said the priest.
The look on Billah’s face must have told its own tale because the priest set about explaining why he had to consult the local land magistrate.
‘Thekkar Singh is often called upon to settle disputes between two families, my son, and he knows your families well. Between us, I believe that we can find the right strategy with which to approach Kulwant’s father, as well as your own.’
Billah nodded again. ‘Thank you, Gianni-ji,’ he said, aware that the old man was taking a great burden upon himself. He didn’t have to do anything.
‘It is my duty to bring peace where I can, Billah. My duty. Come back and meet me here later this afternoon.’
Billah stood up and headed for the sunshine of midmorning. He looked out down the dirt track that led to the main part of the village, and smiled to himself. There was hope and renewed confidence in him as he set off for his father’s house.
BILLAH SPENT THE rest of the morning and early afternoon trying to concentrate on something other than his impending fate. First he made his way out to the fields to assist his brother Resham, who was tilling the land, telling him that everything was in hand. Resham asked Billah what he meant by this but he did not answer. Instead he took hold of the tiller and guided the buffalo bullock along its path, turning the topsoil evenly as he went, the toil showing in a slick, greasy layer of sweat across the water buffalo’s back. Resham sighed and followed the plough, picking out any large stones or fragments that were lying on the surface and throwing them as far beyond the field’s perimeter as he could. After an hour of silent work, the brothers stopped and took
shade under a tree, drinking from their water gourd and resting for a while.
Resham looked at his brother. ‘So, who did you speak to, Billah?’ he asked.
‘To the priest,’ said Billah, realizing that he no longer needed to hide what was happening. Certainly not from his brother.
‘Gianni-ji?’
‘Yes – I told him everything, bhai-ji. Everything.’
Resham wondered how the priest had taken his brother’s confession. Surely there was little that he could do to stop the affair somersaulting headlong into a feud between the two families. ‘I am not sure that even the Gianni-ji can help you, Billah,’ he said bluntly.
Billah shrugged. ‘Then it is in the hands of our Lord,’ he replied.
Resham looked out into the fields, past the panting water buffalo and the freshly turned furrows of earth. ‘I hope so,’ he said gently.
After noon had come and gone, the brothers headed back for the village, past a mound of drying dung patties that steamed in the oppressive heat and gave the air a smoked quality. These phatta would be used as fuel for fires once they had dried thoroughly, and there were always fresh supplies in the morning. The mound sat next to a piece of scrubland that had been left to wild hemp, the tall pungent plants adding to the smells of the village. Billah recalled chasing Kulwant through an entire field of hemp earlier in the summer, the foliage affording the lovers a degree of privacy that they had welcomed. He smiled as he led the bullock back to his father’s house. Soon there would be no need for clandestine meetings and secret places. Soon the entire village would learn of the love between them. Hope began to burn afresh inside him and he could hardly wait to return to the gurudwara, to hear what the priest had to say.
But wait is exactly what he had to do. Back at the house, Tarlochan, their eldest brother, made Resham and Billah clean out the hut that housed kindling for the fire and also doubled as a shed for the water buffalo when the weather was bad. Then they moved on to the feeding area for the herd, carrying iron buckets – bought from the travelling band of Romany that settled outside the village twice yearly – to the hand pump in the corner of the yard, returning with water to wash out the feeding trough. Straw, dung, dust and water were then swept away from the animals and collected by an open water channel that led from the yard out into the main sewerage channel and on into the cesspool. Once this task was done they washed themselves thoroughly at the hand pump, using bright-green soap and rags, before Billah, having dressed in clean clothes, made his way to the open kitchen area, where a pan of tea sat on the fire, simmering slowly, as his mother and Gian, his sister, prepared the evening meal of lentil dhal and fresh aubergine and aloo. Billah dipped a glass into the pan and then withdrew it, half full of spicy tea, which he blew on to cool it down. The strong, sweet aroma of thick cane sugar and creamy buffalo milk soothed him and began to quench his thirst even before he had taken a sip of the liquid.
He walked over to a manjah and sat down, wondering if he should make his way to the gurudwara yet. He stayed where he was for a few moments, drinking his tea, trying to work out what Kulwant’s father’s reaction would be. In his dreams he had often approached Harbhajan Sandhu and asked for Kulwant’s hand in marriage. Each time his prospective father-in-law had smiled and hugged him, telling him that he would make as fine a son-in-law as there could be. But his dreams were his own and he had no inkling of the fate that Kulwant’s father had in mind for her. There was no guarantee that the smiles and warmth of his nocturnal fantasies would become real. No guarantee at all. His only hope was the intervention of the Gianni-ji. Suddenly the tea stopped being a warming, calming beverage and became another obstacle to his future. What was he thinking of, sitting there, when his fate was in the hands of someone else?
He set aside his glass and stood up, his heart racing and his head beginning to pound as he headed for the gurudwara.
Nimmo found her quarry after two hours of searching the village and the land surrounding it. She would have found him sooner but she dared not ask the young man’s whereabouts. It would have drawn attention to her and questions would have been asked. After all, what would an old chooreeh want of a young jat? Instead she had visited the cornfields and rice paddies of his father, taken a trip to the watering hole and the trees in the spinney beyond it, and wandered the narrow gullies and passages of the village, just in case he had joined the other idle jat boys, hiding in the lower caste quarters, smoking and making crude jokes well out of the earshot of their fathers. She had even walked out to the disused square of land by the old well, through the tall grasses and hemp plants, watching out for the spirit of the old churayal, which was said to reside in the heart of a particularly ferocious cobra. But she had not found him.
And then, as she toyed with the notion of asking for him, realizing that time was getting on, he had appeared like an angel, walking briskly along the dirt track that led to the gurudwara, his beautiful features set deep in thought, his eyes determined, resolute.
Nimmo let him get closer to her before she whispered to him. ‘I have a message for you,’ she said.
Billah looked at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. What message could the old woman possibly have for him? ‘I have no time for your messages, Nimmo,’ he told her.
She smiled, showing rotten yellow teeth, decayed after years of illness, brought on by the deprivation that was part and parcel of her lowly status in the village. ‘You may have both the time and the need for my words, thief!’ she spat, hoping to shake him from his apathy.
He glared at her. ‘What! You dare call me thief? What are you talking about, Nimmo? Be gone, I’ve a very important task to attend to.’
‘Yes, very important. If you are not to be undone, thief,’ smiled Nimmo. Now she had his attention.
‘Again you call me thief. Tell me – have I stolen anything from you?’
‘Not me, Billah. But you have stolen.’
A terrible chill entered Billah’s heart. For a moment he thought that the old woman knew of his real purpose, but then he shook the thought away. ‘Get away from me, you hag!’ he shouted. ‘What do you know of my affairs?’
Nimmo ignored his raised voice and stepped in front of him, so that she was blocking his path. ‘I know that you have stolen and I know that you are undone. Your key has unlocked something more than you imagined.’
Billah shook his head but did not move her from his path. Men did not raise hands to women, no matter what supposed station they held in life. Instead he lowered his voice. ‘Nimmo, will you stop speaking in riddles and tell me what it is that you speak of – in the name of God?’
‘Your tree is blossoming, child, as a flower in spring.’
Billah felt another icy sensation engulf his body. How could she . . . ?
‘Now you begin to hear me, Billah,’ said Nimmo, seeing the dawning of realization in his sparkling eyes.
‘How—?’ he began, before she shushed him.
‘Not only have you stolen a father’s honour—’
‘How do you know of this?’ demanded Billah, glaring at Nimmo.
‘I have spoken to your love, Billah. I know everything. More than you even.’
Billah looked about them. They were alone. In a whisper he asked Nimmo what else she knew.
‘You are to be a father – you who are not yet fully a man.’
‘NO! It cannot be,’ cried Billah, his heart sinking. Not because he did not wish a child to be born of his love for Kulwant, but because the news added a dangerous new twist to their fate.
‘What did you think would happen? If you water your crops each day then they will ripen,’ teased Nimmo, but only for a second or two. She could see the panic, the fear, rising in him.
He put his head in his hands. ‘But I am truly undone,’ he said with resignation.
‘That you are, boy,’ answered Nimmo. ‘That you are.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he told her. ‘I have spoken to Gianni-ji – he is this very minute readying to t
alk to Kulwant’s father, to ask for her hand on my behalf—’
Nimmo took the name of their Lord. ‘Then we have no time,’ she said.
‘I must take Kulwant away from her father’s house before he and Gianni-ji speak,’ replied Billah.
Nimmo shook her head. ‘Are you so slow of mind? How do you think that I know of all this?’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘I have already hidden the poor girl from her family – you must come with me! Now!’
Billah calmed himself and thought for a moment. ‘Who else knows? Who else except you and me?’
‘No one, Billah, but before the next full moon everyone will know and you will not be married before then. You are undone!’
Nimmo took his arm and tried to lead him. Was the young boy so stupid? Even if Harbhajan Sandhu accepted him as a husband, the family would know that Kulwant was pregnant before too long. It could not be hidden.
She tugged at his arm. ‘Come, away!’
Billah looked to the Heavens. Is this what fate had in store for them – to run and hide like criminals?
‘Come along, Billah. Your only hope is to run away – to the city – it is not safe here. They will realize she is missing at dusk. Hurry!’
Billah shook himself into action. The day was already beginning to seep away and the light fingers of dusk were appearing on the horizon. It would be dark very soon.
‘You go to her,’ he said, his voice showing newfound authority. ‘I must get some belongings from my father’s house. We cannot run without some supplies.’
‘But there is no time—’
‘I will be quick, Nimmo. I promise. Now hurry back to Kulwant and tell her that I will be along as soon as I can. We’ll leave here this very night.’
Nimmo wanted to tell him that he had no time. That they needed to leave that very moment, only she couldn’t. She saw determination in his eyes. So she told him where Kulwant was hidden instead. As he walked away briskly, heading home, she turned and made her way back to Kulwant, praying that she had done the right thing. That the two young lovers would be able to get away and that her own involvement would not lead to trouble for her family. A father’s rage was a terrible thing indeed.
