On this soil
Never again play
Never again play
In the shade
Of these thriving clans,
This gigantic living tree
Whose roots
Were entrenched
Embedded
Spread
Deep in the soil.
Never again will brides’ palanquins stop
Under the beri and sheesham trees;
Never again will bridegrooms’ mares,
In pomp and full regalia,
Pause on the outskirts of the village;
Never again will groups of women
In gold-trimmed choonars,
Bursting with motherly pride
At the wedding of their sons,
Spontaneously break into song;
Never again will the saucy,
Fair as milk
Daughters of Punjab
String couplets
To their lovers,
Calling to them
From the top of mud roofs.
Who will know,
Who will understand,
The pain of leaving one’s motherland
Of turning one’s face away from it?
The anguish!
The Jhelum and Chenab will continue to flow
On this earth
Breezy winds will continue to blow
On this earth.
As always.
The weather will change
Every season
As always.
Only we will not be here.
Not be here.
Never again be here.
Never.
The night of Sharad Punya. The mud-roofs of the village gleamed; one fresh coat of a full moon in early winter and everything – fields, barns, trees, shrubs – looked radiant. The sweet songs of the well shimmering in the moonlight called ecstatically to hearts. The sight of their sons and young ones returning with the oxen lit hearts with longing. The fragrant smoke rising from the cow-dung cakes in the open stoves scented each rooftop, each hearth.
Rabba, let these beautiful times stay with all men. Stand by them.
Above them, in the milky-white light, a formation of Turkish Bulbuls flew in a row, en route to far-off lands. The kids stared up at them.
‘Look! There comes another flock!’
‘Are these Bugg or Toka?’
‘Toka.’
‘No, they’re Bugg.’
‘Veerji, where are they going?’
‘Sister, they had come to our village to feed. Now that they don’t need to eat any more, they will go to your in-laws’ place,’ Mitthi’s brother, Meharban, teased.
‘Uff, Veera!’ Mitthi pinched her brother’s arm, then grinned toothily and said, ‘But who got engaged, me or you? Shall I tell everyone your intended’s name? It’s Doddo, Doddo!’
‘Hatt, marjani! Be off with you, you cheeky girl!’
Mitthi ran off to join a group of chattering girls playing hopscotch on the rooftop of the Shahs’ impressive haveli.
‘Here and there
Silver-ware
My Ma has
Long hair
Water brims in the well
Milk brims in the churn
In between
Ma is queen –
And now it’s my turn!’
The boys stretched luxuriously on the low-walled rooftop and looked out towards the great river. ‘Look over there, that’s Allah Rakkha’s boat, and that one coming into shore, that’s Shahji’s.’
‘There, in the rapids, sways the boat of the lord of the river, Khwaja Khijr.’
‘No one has ever seen his boat, but they say it’s always there.’
Channi approached quietly and pulled at her brother’s sleeve. ‘Please show me too, Veerji. Does the boat of the river pir never sink?’
‘Fold your hands in respect, Channiye. Khwaja Khijr is the saint of life itself. He is the one who creates whirlpools in the river, and only He can guide boats back to shore.’
Channi shut her eyes tight and turned her head towards the river with folded hands. Then she took a small peek: ‘Look, there are two moons in the river. Well, not two because one’s in the sky, the other’s in the water.’
‘It’s a reflection of the one above. Go, Channi, get a brass bowl from Shahni and I’ll hand the moon right in your hands.’
‘I’ll hold the bowl to my lips and drink the moon,’ Nikki of the Khullars said, sidling up to his friends.
While they waited for the bowl, Gholu took a mouthful of the sweet panjiri he clutched in his fist. The moment they smelt it the boys were after him for some. ‘Your mother has kept the Punya fast, has she?’
‘Na, Nikki Bebe is handing out prasad. To everyone!’
‘Come on everyone, let’s go to Nikki Bebe’s!’
And off they ran, forgetting the moon and the bowl, leaping from terrace to terrace as Mohre’s bebe yelled after them: ‘Arey, what would you lose if you went slower? Don’t go thumping like that. The mud is coming unstuck and ruining everything below. Not going into battle, after all, are you?’
Old Vadde Lala had just finished a satisfying meal of milk-paranthas and was sitting cross-legged on his cot when the young monkeys appeared.
‘Bebeji, we want prasad! Bebeji, some sweet panjiri!’
‘Come, my little ones, come! Nikkiye, give the boys some mats and asans.’
‘Saiyaan, the whole floor is clean. I plastered it today. They can sit wherever they like,’ Nikki Bebe announced.
The girls trooped in behind the boys. ‘Bebeji, is the prasad finished?’
‘Na ri na. Prasad never gets finished. Everyone can have some.’
‘Lalaji, a story! Lalaji, some riddles! Some katha from the times past!’ Having eaten their share the boys pestered Lalaji for stories.
Lala Vadde’s eyes recalled the Punya festival of his childhood. ‘Puttarji, which of you kids has been going to collect bers from the peernewali beries?’ he asked laughingly.
‘Lalaji, how could we? There’s a fierce guard dog there.’
‘Puttarji, there has to be a dog at the beries, or the beries would be bare by now. If no one were there to look after the beries, they would never have borne fruit, not even in my time.’
‘Lalaji, was Baba Pira around in those times too, with his long staff?’ Suthra of the Goldsmiths asked, wide-eyed.
Ma was overcome with affection for this young one. ‘Arey, not Peerna, but his grandfather. My children, the tree remains the same. Only the caretakers keep changing.’
The girls piped in, ‘Bebeji, we prefer mulberries.’
‘That’s good, daughters, eat your fill while you are in this village. Then you will go live with your in-laws.’
The young girls shook their intricately braided kide and meendies and giggled shyly.
‘Puttaro, who do you think planted these apple and beri trees?’
Chokha of the Lasoodewalas nodded his head. ‘Lalaji, I know.’
‘O father of Channmal, this one is wiser than his ancestors. Speak, son, speak.’
‘Lalaji, the grandfather of the grandfather of Baba Peerna of today planted these ber shrubs. And the saplings of these beries came from the Panchnad, the five rivers. That’s why their fruit is so sweet.’
The children began to clamour, ‘Lalaji, story! Lalaji, some stories, akhyan from the sacred books.’
‘Changa; okay, listen children, those of you who need to pee, go now; those who want water, drink now. You are not to disturb me later.’
Hoisting her baby brother on her hip, Shano got up and went from rooftop to rooftop calling out to all the women, ‘There’s a katha on at Bebe Nikki’s place and all are invited.’
By the time Shano returned, all the neighbourhood aunts, the chachis and tais, were huddled together.
‘Listen, my little ones, every son is his father’s avatar, his reincarnation.’
Immediately, all the boys started touching their heads
. ‘Ji, me too … me too … me too …’
Kalu stood up. ‘Bebeji, me too as well.’
‘A hundred blessings on you, son, why not you? You as well.’
Lalaji continued, ‘Every human being is his father born again. Remember, an avatar is one who has two hands. An avatar is one who has two feet. An avatar is one who has a face and forehead. Who has a torso. A front and a back. My children, an avatar is one who tills the soil with a plough and nourishes it with water. Satiates it. Plants seeds. Raises crops. Listen further: the first avatar was the Adi Purush Prajapati. Prajapati divided himself into two parts. One part gave rise to the oxen. The other to the mother cow …’
‘Lalaji, the ox and cow are brother and sister, right?’
‘You could say that.’
Jagtar of the lower quarter was thinking something else. ‘Na Ji, they are male and female. The cow is mated with the ox only.’
Deepo, Jagtar’s sister, slapped her brother’s back. ‘Shut up; one shouldn’t talk when elders are speaking.’
Lalaji stopped her with a gesture. ‘Enough, Jaatko! My children, listen further. Then the tree came into being. The cosmic tree.’
‘Ji, so that the cow and the ox could sit in its shade, that’s why, no?’
‘Which tree would that be? Pipal, banyan, gharek or kikar?’ Bholu, who was no less, inched forward curiously.
‘Lalaji, must be our pipalwala well’s pipal tree. How deep are the roots of that pipal?’ Mitthi asked.
‘Children, this tree was larger than all our trees. So large, that huge heads of cows and oxen rested in its shade. From this very cosmic tree was born this earth – the bhoolok. Our land. Then came the four directions and then the sky was formed. When all these were fixed in place, then Daksha was born to Aditi. After him the gods were born.’
‘Lalaji, that means we ourselves are gods, doesn’t it?’
Lalaji wagged his finger. ‘Na puttarji, gods never call themselves gods, and nor should you ever sing your own praise. So, listen, so Mata Aditi is the mother of the whole universe. Aditi is akash, the sky, and also dharati, the earth. And what is above, and beyond whatever exists, that too is Aditi.’
Nikka, son of Channmal, was no less than his grandpa. ‘Lalaji, is the pole-star also Aditi? The hanging basket of the seven stars also Aditi? Am I also Aditi? Are you also Aditi? Rivers too? And the wells as well?’
Nikka’s uncle, Bhagmall, thwacked his head. ‘Don’t interrupt.’
‘Jaatko, there are three levels of gods. Gods of the earth, gods of the sky, gods of the larger sphere.’
‘Lalaji, whoever dies goes to the larger sphere only. There are cots laid out on the shores of the Milky Way where the grandfathers of the world sit, smoking their hukkahs. Grandmas spin their wheels sitting on their peedhies,’ Bodda, who studied in a madarsa, piped up.
Bodda’s mother waved her hand from a few paces away. ‘Shut up!’
‘Children, time is divided into four yugs:
‘The sleeping Kalyug
‘The leaving Dwapar
‘The standing Treta and
‘The moving Satyug …’
‘What does Satyug move on? On train, on horse or on camel-back?’ Bholu’s mind was spinning again.
‘Puttarji, a yug moves on the wheel of time. Like you go on a pilgrimage by train, one makes journeys. Has anyone seen a train?’
‘Lalaji, I have! I went to Lalamoosa last year for my uncle’s wedding,’ Geenda called out.
‘Good! Very good.’
‘Remember this, the sun is the largest body in this and the nether world, in what is above or beneath, in earth and sky. He is the real king. He is the one who wears the crown, the reigning emperor of the cosmos. Now listen to the katha of the daughter of the sun. When the sun married off his daughter Suraja to Akash, the sky, he gave a shining white sheet to the daughter and his son-in-law which they spread to encompass the whole firmament.’
‘Lalaji, who spun the cotton for that sheet? Which grandma? Dadi or nani?’ Channi asked.
‘Listen Bantiye, to what your darling daughter is saying. Asks who spun the cloth? Then she will ask who embroidered the phulkari for her wedding dress,’ Bebe Nikki chuckled.
‘Listen further: The sheet went on unfurling ahead as dancing cows followed behind. Then came the blue horses pulling the golden chariot. Twelve of them; each smarter than the last. Mandal ka shringaar. The glory of the cosmos.’
Channi’s younger sister Chhanni wanted to talk about Suraja. ‘Bebeji, Suraja’s arms were laden with red chooda wedding bangles and silver, dangling kaliras, her forehead sparkled with dauni, her hair was plaited in chowk-phool, she was draped in an odhni glittering with gold trim and silver embroidery. But what was the colour of her wedding dress, Lalaji? Red or pink?’
‘Sirmuniya, come here, precious!’ Bebe stroked her head lovingly. ‘Le, look Lajwantiye, even at such a young age, your daughter’s heart is tangled in wedding finery, the chooda-kangan. Arrange her marriage quickly.’
‘The chariot with twelve horses kept moving on and on. The sky and the sun orbited the cosmos in all four directions!’
‘Ji, did the horses have seats or saddles?’
‘My dear child, the cloth seats were in seven colours and there were tinkling chimes of the wind at their feet.’
‘What happened then, Lalaji?’
‘Suraja gave birth to a son, Agankumar.’
Mitthi of the huge eyes knew what that meant as her mother had given birth to a son a few days ago. ‘Was Agankumar born in the chariot? How did Suraja lie down in the chariot? Was there a cot in it?’ she asked worriedly.
‘Keep quiet, first listen to what Lalaji says,’ Chachi Mehri poked her from behind.
Mitthi wouldn’t budge: ‘But, how could Suraja give birth if there was neither room nor bedroom?’
Women young and old sat with their chins cradled in their hands, smiling inside; breasts heavy with milk.
‘Children, listen carefully. Agankumar was the son to the daughter of the great sun, and the son to the son of the mighty ocean.’
‘How could Agankumar be the son to the ocean, Lalaji?’
‘The father of Agankumar was the lord and master of space and oceans. So when Agankumar was born, the rivers and rivulets gushed forth. Puttarji, this very Agankumar, he himself is the charioteer to all the gods and the father of fire and yagna.’
‘But Ji, how was fire born?’
‘My sons, fire was born out of the golden water. Clear, sacred water the colour of pure gold.’
Cradling her brother in the curve of her arm, Bholi was deep in thought. ‘Lalaji, this golden water, was it in a pitcher or a pot? Was the pot made of brass or clay?’
Lalaji nodded to himself as he considered the girl, then spoke lovingly, ‘Beti, this golden water was not in a small pot, but in a huge earthen pot. Demonstrated thus are the primordial truths of mankind: water spilled from this large kalash into the small gagar and flesh-and-bone humans sprang from it.’
‘Lalaji, please, the story of uncle moon, the channa mama, as well!’
‘My sons, the chandrama is alone. He has no friends, no relatives. No sire, no sons. Only the man who stands alone shares any fellow feeling with the moon. Watching the earth from the heavens above, the moon is hurting inside but never speaks of his hurt to anyone. Keeps all his anguish bottled inside. So the moon’s heart has turned into a piece of rock. It is stone cold.’
When Shahni drew in a long sigh at this, Chachi Mehri’s heart wept for her.
‘Lalaji, why doesn’t the heat of the sun melt the moon?’
‘Putri, the sun himself keeps away from the moon. Knows that if the moon’s anguish melts, pours out, waters will rise causing a cosmic flood, pralaya.’
‘Lalaji, how do we see two moons in the Chenab?’
‘Puttarji, there is only one moon. The other one is its reflection. Lo, listen to this now. The moon above, Chann, and our river Chenab are twins. During Suraja’s wedding, w
hen a sheet as white as light was spread in the firmament, the twins’ eyes were bedazzled. One ran this way, one that. That was it, both were separated.’
‘Bebeji, why didn’t their mother look for her children? What was she doing at that time?’
‘Daughter mine, she had already put milk and curds in the chati. How could she leave the churn? She had to make butter for her sons, didn’t she?’
‘When both sons were lost, what did she do with the butter?’
‘She must have turned it into ghee.’
‘Lalaji, what then?’
‘Children, when the brothers were separated, then one stood rooted where he was and the other fell headlong into the courtyard of Raja Himvan, the king of the icy mountains. The silent moon quietly turned inwards and grew cold, and the other, strong and wilful, started smashing and breaking the mountains of ice. Himvan thought, “I will banish him to pataal, the dark void beneath the earth.” But this wilful boy ran down the mountains and began sporting merrily on our earth, flexing his muscles.’
‘Allah-o-Akbar
Allah-o-Akbar
Allah-o-Akbar
Allah-o-Akbar
I am the witness that there is no other God aside from Allah
I am the witness that there is no other God aside from Allah
I am the witness that Mohammad is the messenger of Allah
I am the witness that Mohammad is the messenger of Allah
Walk the path of good deeds
Walk the path of good deeds
Walk the path of betterment
Walk the path of betterment
Instead of sleeping, spend time in prayer
Instead of sleeping, spend time in prayer.’
The calls from the masjid and the roosters rose simultaneously.
Wake up!
The rhythmic splash of the waterwheels turning on the beriwala well strung beads of music in the as yet unlit morning.
Shahni turned over and opened her eyes. Vaheguru! Vaheguru!
The holy darkness of pre-dawn – as if life on earth itself were drawing largesse from the well of life. As if Akal Purukh, the first man beyond time, was telling his people – Take, take more, still more! Live to the fullest, till life overflows, and drink this nectar, this manna that I give thee! Bounty from the God that giveth, showered upon the man who works. The true and only lord of this world, Sachche Patshah, nothing lacks for in Your darbar. Blessed indeed are we, your people, to have such lands to live, where grain is sweet as milk and water is nectar. Baba! Your mercy, Your blessings of plenty!
Zindaginama Page 2
