‘Chachi’s order, Mabibi, I shall certainly try to sort out this mess.’
Shahni took some pouches out of her dupatta. Offering them to Salamat Ali, she said, ‘Lo ji, this message for my sister!’
‘Must be parandas, plait ribbons and Izaarband of raw silk from Seelam!’
‘Feroza behan had asked for gold and silver bankadis and gota gokhrus for dupattas and salwar-suits!’
Instantly, Chachi’s mind wandered towards Thanedar’s children.
‘Khair sadke puttarji, how old is my granddaughter now?’
It was as if Salamat Aliji was pulled off the high horse of age.
‘Ayesha beti has reached her mother’s shoulder.’
‘May Rabb bestow good luck. Wedding-barat is not very far.’
Shahni saved the occasion, ‘Enough. Chachi, my brother-in-law has deigned to come upstairs and you started settling in-laws and weddings. He himself has the aspect of a handsome bridegroom. Astride a horse, whichever road he may take, he gives it dash and grace.’
Salamat Ali was pleased.
‘Out of respect for Shahji, I don’t tease you as his friend or like a brother-in-law, then why this teasing-ribbing of a sister-in-law?’
Shahni started laughing sweetly. ‘Ji, tell my behnoo to lose some weight. Otherwise she’ll have to hear a lot of sitthanis, teasing songs, at her children’s weddings!’
God granted her prayers and her son returned home after serving a jail term of hard labour. Grandma Karam Bibi distributed a changair of dates in the whole village. All those who sweetened their mouths congratulated the old lady. ‘Khair sadke, your puttar has returned home.’
‘Rabb has looked kindly upon you, Bebe, now ask the gods for great-grandsons.’
‘Haan ri. With God’s grace, the boy has returned to his lands. Mercy of the One above.’
‘Bebe, when he eats food cooked by you, he’ll soon grow strong.’
The pind’s mutiyars hadn’t forgotten her son’s flirtations. Shirin at last mustered the courage to ask her, ‘Bebe, I’ve heard that those cursed jailers drive them very hard in jail.’
‘Na, my child, my Barkhurdar was a havildar in jail.’
Channi nudged Shirin and teased slyly, ‘Halaa Bebe! This is not punishment then, it’s an official post.’
Bebe was unheeding. ‘Daughter, the jailers were very happy with my son. When the order for release came, the jailor sent sweet sevaiyyan and halwa from home for my Barkhurdar.’
Channi stuffed a corner of dupatta in her mouth trying to suppress her laughter.
Bebe saw her. ‘Kyon ri girl, what is this nudge-and-wink? You think he has returned with his name sullied? Phitte moonh ri, you badmouth! My boy wasn’t accused of rape-assault! He was punished for saving his lands. One who can’t save his lands, his people, is a bastard.’
Shirin’s eyes sparkled. ‘Bebe, this is how people with real guts talk. Channi is stupid, don’t mind her.’
Shahni had just returned from the dharamshala after her prayers. When she met Bebe along the way, she congratulated her. ‘Mubarakein Bebe, mubarakein! By gods’ protections, the light has returned to your house.’
‘Khair mubarak, Shahni. Barkhurdar himself will come to the haveli to offer salaam to you.’
‘The one with good deeds, may Barkhurdar live and wake every morning. Rabba should bestow good luck on him. Bebe, now you marry off your grandson. In joy and peace, your courtyard should also resound with celebrations.’
‘May what you say come true, my child. My son Sarfaraaz is in jail for life. Till then I’ll live watching my grandson happy.’
Turning to go home, Bebe Karmo turned to Shirin, ‘Daughter, go ask your mother for a fistful of sevaiyyan. Barkhura loves ghee sevaiyyan. If I make some, he will eat happily.’
When Shirin returned with a handful of sevaiyyan in her jholi, Bebe was pleased. ‘Balihaari jaoon ri. May Allah bless you with good luck.’
Noticing the unlit hearth, Shirin said, ‘If there’s any work, Bebe, tell me. If you want, I’ll light the stove!’
‘Bless you, daughter, light the chulha and put the pot of sevaiyyan on it. When it’s done, I’ll sprinkle ghee-shakkar on it.’
Shirin put the pot on. ‘Bebe, I’ll knead the flour as well.’
Sitting inside, Bebe watched her with fond eyes. Lying on her cot, she propped her head on her elbow, and asked, ‘Kudi Shirin, why hasn’t your mother married you off yet?’
Shirin raised her eyes. ‘Bebe, sevaiyyan with milk, or ghee-shakkar?’
‘Barkhurdar likes it with ghee-shakkar.’
‘Bebe, do you have any cloves-cardamom at home?’
‘Na ri. I am old and alone. Neither khichadi-pulav, nor phirni-sevaiyyan. When I keep the Ramzan fasts, all I have is a sip or two of milk. If that’s not enough, then a fistful of panjiri.’
Shirin pulled out the wood from the chulha. ‘Keep an eye on the pot, Bebe, lest the dog should spoil it. I’ll be a moment.’
Bebe Karmo lay on her cot and thought: ‘If a well-raised woman comes even for a few minutes, the whole courtyard-hearth shines bright. Rabba, did I go to call this lass? She came on her own.’
Hearing Shirin return, she asked, ‘Kyon ri, what did you bring?’
‘Bebe, only a few cardamoms and some almonds. The cardamoms were at home and I got the almonds from Shahni.’
Bebe sat up. Shirin’s glowing face in the light of chulha had the sheen of ripening crops.
‘Waah ri, you’re very accomplished, and a good hostess too. Tell me, why did you come to help?’
‘Bebe, is it a sin to help each other out?’ Then she mustered the courage to ask, ‘Bebe, now Barkhu will stay in the village only, na?’
Bebe frowned. First she glared at the girl, then laughed and said, ‘Why ri, I’m not some mesmerizing witch whose toothless face will compel my grandson to stay put. It’s a swinging mutiyar like you he will listen to!’
Shirin stood up happily. Shaking out her dohar, she covered her head and moved to the door. ‘Okay, Bebe, I’m going now. Father must be returning from the well. I’ll go and heat the tandoor. If you say, I can bring some rotis?’
‘Jiti reh, long life to you. Le ri, stop a while. Here comes Barkhurdar.’
‘Na, Bebe. What do I need to stay for? Just remove the pot from the fire and sprinkle ground sugar on the sevaiyyan.’
Barkhurdar stopped Shirin from leaving. ‘Kyon ji, you don’t recognize a person who has been to jail?’
‘Sadke. See, puttara, she ran around getting sevaiyyan with almonds and cardamom just for you.’
Shirin pressed the corner of her dupatta to her mouth and laughed, then raised her eyebrows, scolding him with her eyes, ‘Hatt parey, slick talk of the city folk! As if we don’t know that only tigers go to jail, not cowardly hyenas!’
Nodding her head, Bebe was pleased. ‘You are right, Shirin, tigers have lofty pursuits, who can contain their audacities?’
‘Jails, Bebe, jails!’
‘Halaa ji, as if.’
Barkhurdar’s chest filled with pleasure. Stretching out a hand, he caught hold of Shirin’s plait: ‘Shirin, you are in charge now. Tomorrow afternoon, if I don’t see you here with Bebe, I’ll carry you along with your father-grandfather home-door everything to this place.’
‘Murh re murh, don’t tease my daughter. Go, puttar, they must be waiting for you at home.’
Mischievous Shirin sent him a glance of sweet torture, and vanished in a trice.
After she had left, Barkhurdar took off his loose kurta and hung it on the peg.
‘Kyon re, do you think it the month of summer that you have removed your shirt?’
The medallion round Barkhurdar’s neck glinted. He took down the cot hanging from the wall. Sat for a while. Then stood up.
‘Kyon re kyon, get rid of your restlessness and sit peacefully. Now what are you thinking?’
Barkhurdar looked at the stove. ‘Bebe, Shirin had said to take the pot off the fire. Shall I do it?’
‘Yes.’
Barkhurdar removed the pot and sitting near the stove, started warming his hands.
When Karam Bebe saw this, she started speaking loudly, ‘Nothing to lose, arey, first you take off your kurta. Then you warm yourself with fire. Barkhurdar, swear upon my head. If you’ve come back, think of a stable life. Don’t let your heart wander. Go, sit with your friends awhile.’
Barkhurdar stood up. ‘Bebe, if I get a couple of hundred from the Shahs, I’ll till the land and plant tobacco. If not the Kandahari, then at least desi, the local variety.’
Hearing this, Bebe Karmo’s heart knew peace. Rabba, when a Jatt son starts looking towards his lands, then God willing, spring returns soon enough.
Watching her grandson’s back as he stepped out, Karmo was reminded of her son, Sarfaraaz. Hai ri, face besides, even his body and height was like his father’s.
Karam Bebe’s heart swelled with such fierce longing that she called out aloud, as if her jailed son was just outside, putting cattlefeed in the manger, ‘Sarfaraaz puttara, the evil-hearted ones put you in for life, but re, your mother has not shown less courage. Aa re aa. It’s time for you to come home. How long will your bebe live now, a year or six months? Aa ja, puttar. Come home, son.’
‘Jai Bhuvanowali Devi, the Goddess of high abodes, Your glory
Jai Saanche Darbaarwali, Goddess of true benediction,
Always Your glories Forever.’
On the first day of the nine-night Navratra festival, each household would spread some soil in a corner of their house and plant a few grains of wheat and barley. Some hung a piece of brocade before the nook, others planted seeds in a mud pot, still others in a shallow clay pot. The tenth day was, of course, Dussehra.
When the dates of Eid and Dussehra fell one after another, young and old alike knew great joy.
Crisp new fabric crackled in the hands of dressmakers. Lacha-tehmads of thick cotton, kurta-jhaggas of khasha, the soothan-salwars of daresh and patpati, short lungis and tehmads – the whole village converged on Darshan Singh’s textile shop.
‘Show me that fine chheent, the tiny polka-dotted one, brother!’
‘Show some patterned khaddar, chacha!’
‘Give me black soof for a salwar!’
‘Sister Vazeero, why don’t you buy some bukhara fabric for your daughter-in-law?’
‘Here, if you want to send a dress to your daughter on Diwali, then take this Daryaaee Kabuli!’
‘Na, show me the inky one, with light and shade. And a dupatta of doriya.’
‘Veera, give me two lachas. One red. One green. And give me striped edging for the bottom.’
‘Here, Jaina Bibi, take a dupatti also. If the odhni is not new, how will the ensemble look good?’
Darshan Singh cast a sparkling look at the phummans dangling in Jaina Bibi’s ears, laughed and asked, ‘Payment in kind this time too, or …?’
‘Veera, two kilos of cow’s ghee, for sure. Give me something worth wearing!’
Gajjan Singh unfurled a bolt of shiny chamki before Satto Khatrani. ‘Looks good, wears well.’
‘Na re, show me some strong cloth, that lasts long! This one has neither strength nor a good weave.’
‘Darshan Singh, throw me the chheent of Multan. Strong as iron, bharjaaee. Man may wear out but not this cloth.’
Karam Bibi called out from a distance, ‘Take these, veera, these cotton skeins. Your nephews are after me for new shirts. Say, show me some jaffarkhani at least.’
When Rasooli asked for gabroon, Gajjan Singh asked, ‘Daughter, at least tell me what you want to stitch!’
‘Gauhar’s pajama.’
‘My child, don’t take this. Take this striped one, it has a wider girth!’
Kunti of Chiras covered her head and said, ‘Veerji, two dupattas of kitchen mulmul.’
‘Bharjaaee, don’t mind what I say. Nobody is going to carry clothes to the heavens. This stinginess with oneself is not good. La, Darshan Singh, cut two dupattas of superfine chhabbi mulmul!’
Come afternoon, all the mutiyars became rangrezans, dyeing cloth on the open rooftops. Stirring pigments in large vats, they began dyeing their odhnis.
‘Ari, dip the odhni in the vat of magenta, and sprinkle some mica in the starch.’
‘Hain ri, such dark colour for the dark Mitri! It won’t suit her.’
Mohre’s bebe brought her daughter-in-law’s dupatta. ‘If you’ve made dark pink, then dye Bachano’s dupatta as well.’
‘Bebe, let your bahu come up for air sometimes. Send her upstairs. She will dye it herself.’
Bebe didn’t retaliate. Gave a thin smile, threw the dupatta on the cot and said while going downstairs, ‘Lo ri kudiyo-chidiyo, you chattering girls, continue with your discussions! I’ll send Bachano upstairs.’
Shibbo doubled with laughter. ‘Hai ri, I’m dead! Caught Bebe right on the spot today!’
Reshma of the Beriwalas came up. She tied some white mulmul into so many knots that it became a solid bundle. ‘Kyon ri Reshma, are you dyeing lehariya stripes?’
‘No, not stripes, but stars.’
‘Which colour?’
‘Ferozi.’
Her friends teased, ‘Waah ri gul-dodo, the little bud doesn’t like any other colour but turquoise!’
Reshma put a pinch of alum in the vat and soaked the dupatta in colour. Girls young and full-bodied gathered around. Cradling siblings with runny noses in the crooks of their arms, they stood there, keenly examining the packets of colours, as if hoping someday to become dyers themselves.
Mabibi arrived, a mulmul dupatta in hand. ‘Reshmo, do you know how to tie and dye a two-coloured lehariya?’
‘Give, I’ll do it. When your man comes home on Eid, he’ll wrap himself around you as if tied with a magic charm.’
Watching Reshma tie the bandezi, Mabibi asked, ‘From where did you learn this art?’
‘Last year I’d gone to my aunt’s house in Multan. Her neighbours were Kakkezayi Pathans. Their lady of the house painted such beautiful, intricate patterns that one could only take Rabb’s name in wonder. If you mix red in pink, you get atashi gulabi. Yellow in green makes it grape angoori. Red dipped in black makes it unabi. Green in blue makes it ferozi. If you want to dye saloo, the wedding dupatta, then boil majeeth, dip the cloth in gooseberry water, and sprinkle some alum.’
‘You are one talented girl, ri! When you go to your in-laws’, the whole world will seek your advice.’
Here colourful odhnis fluttered in the wind, there the girls started getting calls from home. ‘Ari aao ri, come lend a hand in household work too. These colourful chunris can’t be had for food!’
In Uttari Vand, the process of making Eid sevaiyyans got underway. Flour dough was pushed into the press, the heavy handle turned, and fine vermicelli accumulated in slowly growing mounds on the stick-mesh underneath. The tandoor of the Machchis was kept busy from morn to night.
Suleiman’s wide grin grew wider when he saw such a heavy rush at his tandoor, and he admonished his kid brother Sharifoo, ‘Don’t roll your eyes this way and that. Work. Give, Bebe Akbari, give me the dough. I’ll do it in a trice!’
‘Live and wake every morn, puttara, my dough is not for sevaiyyan, it’s barley flour. It’ll be roasted in the tandoor only.’
When Meeran proffered a cap full of fine flour, Suleiman winked. ‘May your caps live forever!’
‘And may your tandoor be always busy, Suleiman. And may fish continue to be fried and roasted!’
Hajjan, wife of Hajiji, who’d performed the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca, proffered her tabakh of dough. ‘May you enjoy your youth, puttar Suleiman, do mine quickly too!’
Sharifoo looked at her. ‘Hajjan Chachi, life leaves the body in one breath, but sevaiyyan takes its own time.’
Suleiman nudged his brother. ‘Don’t waste your time yakking!’
Chachi thought the older brother was scolding the younger one because of her. She said, ‘Ma is happy. Take your time!
’
Kadar Kalal, who made country liquor, had come by looking for Meeran. When he saw Suleiman, he grew cocky. ‘Say, Suleiman, on whose little finger are you spinning today?’
Impatience was writ large on Noora Jatti’s face. She shoved her wicker plate to the fore and pointed her nose at Suleiman. ‘Listen up! Eid doesn’t come every day. Either handle the tandoor or spin yarns with your good-for-nothing friends!’
Suleiman started buttering her up for old times’ sake. ‘You will see me dead, Noora, if you return without sevaiyyan. Now give me your plate!’
Handing over her plate, Noora’s cruel eyes devoured Suleiman. ‘Trapping beautiful women in your net, Machhi Suleiman, did you think that by heating a tandoor day and night, you too have grown macho and virile?’
Suleiman grinned. ‘Forgive me, Noora! Suleiman is your slave who served you in times past!’
Noora started laughing. ‘Hain re, you flirt, who did you leave without serving!’
Suleiman grew cocky. ‘Noora, whether the fish is a tiny poong or a big daroori, thrash in the net it must!’ Suleiman turned the handle of the press, then avoiding the little kids with big ears, added softly, ‘Lambardarne, each fish is different. Don’t mind. Blunt knives are not so sharp now!’
Noora, once infamously known as Yaarni Jatti, descended to her customary tactics. ‘Shut up, oye, ishqi tiddey, you lovelorn pipsqueak, countless manhoods have been vanquished in pussy worship. What, then, are you?’
Suleiman saluted her laughingly. ‘Sadke on your everlasting youth, Noora! Even though you throw abuse in this face, I have always been devoted to you!’
Noora purred affectionately, ‘Leave it, re. But tell me this, what about your saucy wife then, your Lachho Bandari?’
The whole pasaar sparkled in the golden sunlight. First Shahni saw two minarets. A-glimmer. Then a pristine courtyard bathed in celestial glow. A beautiful baby boy toddled about in the courtyard. Black-thread phummanis in his ears; a black thread girdle around his waist. As if a rishikumar, a little sage, had descended from somewhere! Thumak-thumak. What’s this! As if little bells tinkled on the feet of Krishna-Kanhai. A herd of cows followed him about. The black cow had barely appeared before her eyes when Shahni woke up. Shriram! Shriram! What a divine countenance You’ve shown me in my dream! Celestial light all around! The All-merciful protects!
Zindaginama Page 8
