When the evening lamps were lit, Pandaji returned.
He took out some sweet batashas from a knot tied in his scarf and put them in Shahni’s hand. ‘Badhaiyyan, Shahni, congratulations, sweeten your mouth. Kartaro’s wedding is finalized.’
Shahni called out to Chachi, ‘Call devarani Bindradayi …’
‘Badhaiyyan ri badhaiyyan! Kartaro’s engagement in the house of Kulluwal! Mabibi, call the girl here!’
When Kartaro entered carrying a jute cot from below, and saw Bhagwan Panda sitting there, her heart leapt to her mouth.
‘Kartari, finish your work and come here! Pandaji has come to bless you.’
Covering her head with her odhni, Kartaro came and stood by them.
‘Fold your hands and bow before Pandaji. He has brought your sagun!’
Kartaro kept staring stupidly. When Shahni’s words reached her, Kartaro threw herself into Shahni’s arms and started wailing loudly, ‘Na Shahniji, I won’t go to another’s house! I beg of you, don’t send me away!’
Chhoti Shahni first laughed, then pretended to scold her, ‘Chup ri, are you different from others? Queen or maid, each one is resplendent with her beloved husband!’
Kartaro’s happy heart overflowed with joy. She’d had no inkling of things, and suddenly this fortunate day had arrived! Hiding her eyes with her dupatta, she hugged Chachi. ‘Not me, Chachi, don’t send me to another’s house.’
Mabibi scolded her, ‘Show some intelligence. One shouldn’t spout silly things at such a beautiful hour. Thank God, your ties of fate were revealed by the words of an innocent boy!’
Shahni offered a bowl of milk to Pandaji. ‘Wet your throat, maharaj! Did the family from Kulluwal ask for anything?’
‘Bhagwan doesn’t hide anything. I told them everything clearly. The girl is of good character and in the Shahs’ protection …’ Pandaji emptied the bowl in one gulp, but didn’t wipe his mouth with his hand.
Chachi Mehri understood; she told Shahni, ‘Bring more milk with cow’s ghee in it. Let Bhagwan puttar relieve his tiredness!’
‘Shahni, add some coconut and dates and let the milk simmer for a while. Meanwhile I’ll recite from the Vishnusahasranam.’
‘Shree Ganeshaya Namah.
I bow to Lord Ganesha.
Vishnu, clad in yellow raiments; dark-skinned, with four arms.
Worshipping the One with a happy countenance all obstacles are overcome.
Namaskar to Narayan, Who is man and Himself finest in men.
Also sing glory to Goddess Saraswati.
I bow in obeisance to Vashishtha’s maternal grandson, Vyas,
The paternal grandson of Shakti, the dark-skinned Vyas.
Prayer to the son of Parashar, and son of Shukdev,
I bow to that Taponidhi, who has the treasure of ascetic discipline.
Namaskar to Vishnu who is Vyas, and to Vyas as Vishnu.
I bow to Vidhata Brahma and to the descendant of Vashishtha.
He is such a Brahma who is without four heads,
He is the Omniscient with two arms.
He is such a Shiva who is without the third eye,
Lord Badrayan, to Him, namaskar.’
Listening to Bhagwan Panda’s recitation of the thousand names of Vishnu in prayer, Kartaro felt as if these obscure words of God were keeping both worlds enjoined. Jai jai Sanskrit Maharani! Fools like us may not know the language or understand a word, but even then one experiences a celestial joy within and without, just listening to the words.
When all bowed with folded hands, Kartaro followed suit.
Bhagwan Panda said, ‘Jiyo beti, long life to you! Blossom and prosper in the new house. Remember always:
‘A snake, by its venom,
Pure water, by the lotus,
Night, by snowy mountains,
And a woman by her decorum and beauty –
Are graced.
Graceful is the horse outside a house in celebration
Grammar, speech, river and swan are grace in motion.’
Setting hearts afire with the love of life, the drums of Baisakhi resounded as though tides of fresh blood set hands and feet free to dance. The fresh, delicate leaves of pipal, borh, kikar, falan and neem glistened in the sun like the faces of newborn babes. Crops topped with different stages of ripening grain shimmered in various colours like odhnis light and dark, laid out in the sun to dry. Ghoni’s red husk. Dagar in greenish black. Moni without husk. Some in fresh spring yellow. Some ripening in red.
The Jatt men employed as daily wage labourers in ownership lands were like trees moving about. Sheaf upon sheaf of milky wheat was cut in heaps. Come noontime, when Mabibi, Kartaro and Bagga were seen approaching from afar carrying clay pots and changairs on their head, it was time to wipe off the sweat and stop for a much-needed break.
Allah Rakkha hollered from a distance, ‘Come, you fortunate ones, hasten your steps. Baggeya, your pot must contain ghee, but that’ll come later. First we must have some lassi.’
Saffu wiped his forehead and offered his clay bowl to his aunt Mabibi. ‘Give, Phoophi! For me, your hand is good enough.’
Mabibi frowned. ‘Kyon re, nephew, are aunts only to give out lassi?’
Emptying his bowl, Saffu offered it to her again. ‘Phoophis are good for another thing also. Ask and I’ll tell you!’
‘Do tell, nephew, lest I should die with your wish unfulfilled.’
‘Aunts add a lump of butter to the lassi as well!’
‘Nephew, for this you spun such a long yarn?’
Meanwhile Vazeera teased Kartaro, ‘Behan, today it’s the friendship of ghee-shakkar na?’
‘Veera, true as the rupee has sixteen annas! Today I’ve brought you two thick rotis and ghee-shakkar!’
Karmdin threw a sheaf of wheat on the mound and sat down. ‘Bibi rani, us Jatt-Jattangars don’t need sweet rice and pulaos. What we need is thick strong rotis and ghee-shakkar to soothe our throats.’
Kartaro started putting ghee-shakkar on the rotis.
Meanwhile, Javinda, Fatta and Allah Ditta drank down the buttermilk and stood teasing Kartaro.
When Mabibi saw Kartaro losing her cool, she put a damper on the teasing men. ‘Veero, bless Kartaro. Bibi’s engagement has been fixed in Kulluwal!’
Kartaro blushed and hid her face in her chunni.
Mabibi teased, ‘First the congratulations, then the sweet sheerni. Kartaro is going to her in-laws after a long wait. Bless her from the bottom of your hearts. Every harvest she has brought you food.’
Allah Rakkha set the lassi down, wiped his hands on his tehmad and put his hand on Kartaro’s head in blessing. ‘Be happy in your home. May Rabb bestow good luck.’
Kartaro actually started sobbing. Vazeera, Fatta, Gullu and Jumman, all gathered round Kartaro. Mabibi half-cried, half-laughed. ‘Hain re, idiots, first let the story begin. She has only got engaged, when she sits in the doli, palanquin, then you can cry.’
Kartaro wiped her eyes and started handing out rotis from the changair.
When she saw Mehar Ali approach, Mabibi said, ‘Hain re, Mehar Ali, remember I am your aunt? Greet me with a dua-salaam sometimes!’
‘Salaam, khala.’
Tall and well-built, Mehar Ali’s swarthy face reflected the sheen of youth and hard work. When Mabibi put shakkar and ghee on his roti, he said, ‘Whom all will you feed, khala? You’re either khala-aunt or phoophi-aunt to the whole village.’
‘Listen, nephew, today I feed you not because of love, but because of your hard work. Rabb’s benedictions upon your toil.’
‘Halaa khala! You talk as if we ourselves are the owners of our lands. We till the soil, plant the seeds, water the crops and harvest the grain, but the fields are still owned by the Shahs only, na? Our share is just our wages – a few sheaves of wheat.’
Mabibi’s ears pricked up. ‘Why you gajaibi goley, you amazing cannonball, are you the only one doing labour for grain? Those who own the lands, what do they take instead of crops, wa
ges? Wage workers are already being paid as per their share.’
Mehar Ali ran a hand over his chest and pressed his hands to sides, then like a stubborn horse, refused to budge. ‘We are upto our knees in Shah’s debt. If the land in Kassoki could be freed from Shah’s hold, then we could eat some and save some.’
‘Don’t go on in this way, Mehara; show some sense. The Shahs help you out with money when needed, and cover for you in difficult times, and yet such arrogance in your head!’
Mehar Ali held his ground. ‘Khala, you yourself are in Shah’s service, you won’t understand these intricacies.’
Farman Ali was overcome with love at his son’s arguments, but he made a show of chiding him. ‘It’s said, if a Jatt is carefree, thieves will steal God Himself. The Shahs provide backing and good living for the labour class. The one who earns, rules. Puttarji, appreciate him whose food you eat!’
Mehar Ali looked at the food lying around. ‘Ji, labour and toil is the lot of the Jatt farmer and horse-riding and supervising the lot of the Shahs! Mount a horse, cast a glance at the fields, supervise, and come harvest, fill your stores with grain! Sweat flows of course, but whose? The workers’!’
‘Enough oye Mehra, don’t act so grand. Be content or you’ll lose what food you’re getting.’
Mehar Ali lashed out, ‘Twenty-five paise interest on one rupee and one bundle grain for one bigha land? What little remains after that? Just enough to sustain the life of us poor devils.’
Farman Ali drained his lassi, ‘Son, stay in your limits. You want to grow berries on thorny shrubs? O simple one, the Shahs’ ownership is writ in their red ledgers. Whatever Shah wants is his own. Whatever sweat a Jatt lets flow, only that is his own.’
Mabibi said, ‘Mehar Ali, when you’re a Jatt, puttar, why adopt these ruling class airs? You’ve just learnt a few words in Masit. Arey, the Shahs’ ownership is not due to thievery and dacoity that you’re venting spleen on them!’
Mehar Ali angrily tore the ghee-smeared roti into four and put a piece into his mouth. ‘Milk and cream for the affluent Shahs, and buttermilk for us. Shame on our toil!’
‘Enough oye, you show-off. If you hope do the impossible and milk a sparrow, you’ll lose the parrots you hold!’
Mehar Ali’s face was grim as he, shielding his eyes, looked heavenwards. ‘Chacha, the sun that can’t be seen with the naked eye at high noon sets tamely come evening.’
Hearing this, Farman Ali’s breath was arrested in fear. This son of mine, will he settle with Shahs debts new and old? Idiot. He said, ‘Puttara, if a Jatt doesn’t have debts in his bundle, he is no less than an emperor! Karim, man of Khuda Himself, grows greens and then hands them over to others.’
That hit a nerve with Saffu, ‘Yaara, it seems to me that Rabb is also with those in white turbans.’
Allah Rakkha threatened, ‘You ingrates, are you doing it again? Talking like low-life workers. You eat the Shahs’ ghee, sugar and grain and insult them with the same mouth! Haven’t you heard that at the Katoches’, the workers get flour and the flatterers get rice? But our Shah never indulges in duplicity. Every year upon harvest, the ghee-rice that we eat keeps our souls satisfied till the next harvest. It is wrong to eat their salt and then backbite. The truth is that Shahs are Shah, because of their fate. Jatts are Jatt because of their fate, their taqdeer.’
Mehar Ali used the last ace up his sleeve. ‘All right, but ji, what of man’s endeavour, of his tadbeer?’
When the groups of life-loving, hard-working Jatts arrived at the Shah household, the fresh clay-washed courtyard shone bright and full of life: strong, well-built men whose faces shone like burnished wheat, their sideburns and moustaches as imposing as metal ornaments.
Near the tandoor, spreading sweet scent, stood huge deghbaras of rice, clay pots of ground sugar and vessels of ghee. The clay plates laid out in the courtyard seemed to wait, as if life itself waited with a beating heart.
The fragrance of cooking basmati rice spread upon the wind. When the cook Javinde Halvai picked a grain of rice to check if it was done, Shahji said, ‘Be liberal with the ghee, Javinde Chacha! Let it soak right through to the bottom.’
‘Lo ji, if you say, I can make it a kheer of ghee-chawal; but if you ask me, I have made these most lovingly.’
‘Bless you! These men have sweated it out in the harvesting. Their body and heart should be satiated to the soul, and when everything’s in plenty, nothing should lack in our efforts!’
Upstairs, a crowd of women and children gathered in the balcony.
Rows of Jatt men spread out in the courtyard as the plates were ceremonially handed out. Javinde Halvai ladled out the basmati rice, Shahji poured ghee and Chhote Shah sprinkled the sweetening of khand-boora on top. ‘Eat your fill, jawans, no one should lack for anything. Yes, Vazeereya, your fist is as big as a bowl and yet you eat a tiny mouthful. This is not fair!’
When Sharifu sitting alongside started to laugh, his strong white teeth set to chewing with gusto.
Rehmat gathered a neat fistful with his long fingers and put it in his mouth. When Miyan Khan saw this, he laughed. ‘Shahji, our Rehmat Pehlwan, the bodybuilder, defeated Malang Pehlwan in the Nashaiya’s fair!’
At this Shahji put another bowlful of rice in Rehmat’s plate and soaked it with ghee and boora! ‘Barkhurdar Khan, victory to he who wins, and love to he who stands by through thick and thin! Don’t lose in eating!’
‘God forbid, Shahji! Who wants to be defeated in eating khand-chawal?’
Jalal grew expansive and said, ‘Shahji, Sikandarey’s belly, khairon se, is like a field. All that he eats is used up.’
Shahji, pleased, thumped his back. ‘Balle balle Sikandarey! The whole village is proud of your fame!’
Choudhary Fateh Ali chuckled. ‘It will be well if our Jalal also achieves something and becomes Jalaluddin!’
Kashishah turned, holding the sweetening platter in his hand and said, ‘Both are the same, Jalal or Jalaluddin. The difference is only in name.’
The elder Shah shook his head. ‘No, Kashiram, the difference is not of name, but of deeds. Lo, listen, if your profession is dacoity, then the name is Jalalu. If one’s generous by nature, then the name is Jalaluddin. If one has prayer beads in hand and recites the name of God, then the name is Syed Jalalshah!’
Kashishah spoke in the Sufi manner of remembering God, ‘Praise be to that Rabb who made this world!’
Shahji looked at his younger brother and said proudly, ‘Kashiram! The prestige of clan, faith and home – all are safe in the hands of a brother like you. Watching you, I grow tall with pride.’
Kashishah folded his hands before his older brother. ‘Bhraji, whatever I am, I owe to your care, your blessings. Else what am I worth?’
The eyes in the balcony grew moist. Shahni wiped her tears and putting a hand on Kashishah’s wife’s shoulder, said, ‘Did you hear? This devar of mine, what sweet things he says! May this pair of Ram-Lakhan live and wake every morning! Long life to them!’
‘I say, bachchi, last year this courtyard was overflowing with men! Why are the crowds not so thick this time?’
‘Chachi, khairon se, this is only the first group. The ripest crop, the crown harvest is still standing tall in the fields. Half the men are there, looking after it.’
Chachi Mehri ran an eye over the men below. ‘I can’t see our Mehar!’
Mehar’s Chacha heard Chachi’s voice and called out from below, ‘I’ve sent the boy to Salamatgarh, Chachi! He’ll return tomorrow.’
‘Lo, it wasn’t like he had summons from the court, that he didn’t attend this yagna-utsav!’
Farman Ali’s voice grew louder still. ‘Chachi, Mehar’s cousin was to come from Khayuda. Every year he gets pure rose petals from Kataasraj. If Mehar also gets us a packet, then we can also make gulkand.’
Shahji asked Taya Maiyya Singh, ‘Why is our Kabul absent?’
‘Na, puttarji, he’s not absent. He’s just gone to the well. He’ll be here soon
!’
Kabul’s friend Mehram laughed: ‘Shahji, who can resist the scent of ghee chawal that he won’t come to the feast?’
Taya Tufail Singh cast a warning glance at this cocky youngster and scolded, ‘Oye, tighten your tamba! Learn to sit among men!’
When Sultan of Uttari Vand arrived, he got fulsome praise from those who looked at him. Tall and hard, a well-made body. When he put his hand in the kanali, the whole village’s admiring eyes were upon him.
‘Hain ri, khair sadke, see his looks! Like a bridegroom, you know! Haan ri, what carriage! Rising tides of youth in the fortnight of a waxing moon! Nose as though carved with a sword!’
When Virsa of Labanas arrived in a striped tehmad, the two cocks faced each other, unfurling their crests.
Shahji understood, and immediately wiped the scowl from his face: ‘Eat and drink! Be happy in your hearts.’
When Nabia Mirasi arrived, beating his drum, young and old rose to the resounding beat.
Stealing the beat from the drum, Maddi let his feet embellish the rhythm.
Kanda put his hand to his ear and the lyrics reverberated in his rich sonorous voice:
‘Month of Chait, and mild the showers,
Yaaron, mighty are the powers!
Kabul and Kandahar have fallen!
On either shore battalions await,
The next confrontation.
What’s to fear, my friend?
We all die in the end.’
In the heat of winning the Marjaichakk case, the Shah brothers opened their ledger books and fates were decided in the language of figures. Dipping his kilach pen into the brass inkpot, Kashishah turned to his older brother, Shahji. ‘There’s a letter from the old Maulviji of Jhal. He sent it through the camel trader Murardas. Says if you help in building the masjid, the village will be blessed with minarets.’
His brother replied, ‘Sufiji, what is your advice? In these religious things, it is your writ that runs.’
‘Bhraji, why think in these holy matters? Both mandir and masjid are lord’s places!’
‘Munnawwar Tawi’s land transfer hasn’t been done yet.’
Zindaginama Page 10
