Fateh Ali’s turbaned head nodded in agreement. ‘This is called morale-boosting! Puttar Gameya, offer salaam to Shahji!’
‘Barkhurdar, now let’s see you preparing for the Shahpur fair!’
‘Shahji, if I defeat the Shahpurias this time, I promise to bow in the court of Pir Dandashah!’
The monsoon rains came and went at will! Chhamma chhamm! Jhamma jhamm!
Hissing in fury, the rains surged in, carried by cloud upon cloud, like regiments of brave men. Clapping and roaring with thunder like army battalions! Lightning glancing off their swords!
When the children sitting in the madarsa saw the elephantine cloud descend upon the Jummewala well, they gathered their books, impatient to leave.
‘Everyone out! Come on, let’s go! The armies are here!’
When Maulviji saw this stampede of kids, he immediately threatened them saying, ‘Oye, you sons of queens, don’t you dare! No one should leave the madarsa. Go and sit quietly inside.’ Maulviji’s voice rang out clear as the newly minted day. His voice was steel. ‘Gauhar Shanaas, separate the boys into two groups!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Where’s Bodda of Kala Kochhars?’
‘Ji, here I am, present!’
‘Is your brain bright right now?’
‘Janaab, seems to be!’
‘Then move, separate the nursery and the kindergarten from the seniors.’
Gauhar Shanaas and Bodda thwacked the little heads with heavy hands and herded them into a corner.
The little ones grew boisterous and chorused:
‘Size is better than wise
Prize is better than shrize
She is better than he
And shit’s bigger than pee.’
Maulviji’s voice thundered, ‘Shut up!’
Bodda’s younger brother Roda wasn’t afraid, nor did he shut up.
‘In north is mount Himala
In south is your fat Lala
In east is the country Burma
In west sits your fat amma.’
Gauhar Shanaas took the wooden slate board from his hand and hit him hard on the back. ‘Oye, still won’t shut up, will you?’
Maulviji called out, ‘If he still doesn’t listen, make a rooster out of him.’
Roda squealed: ‘I have shut up now, Maulviji! I’ve pulled my ears, see!’
‘Okay! Bodhraj, put a shine on these shirkers too!’
‘Ji Janaab!’
Bodda started firing questions at the little kids, his manner part himself, part Maulviji –
‘Leader among birds? Pigeon!
Chief among trees? Seeras!
First ploughing of the season? Neither Monday nor Saturday!
Selling of cows-buffaloes? Neither Saturday nor Sunday!
First five extractions of milk? To the earth!
The fair of Nurpur Shahan? Third Thursday of April!
Forever Mountain? Five miles from Rawalpindi!
If there’s lightning on April first? Granaries overflow with grain!’
Haulu, sitting in a corner, quipped, ‘Flush with grain, even the foolish are considered wise!’
Joga nudged Gauhar. ‘When we can’t see each other in the dark, how can we look for answers!’
Maulviji laughed. ‘Stupid! Bright minds are illuminated from within! Okay, Gauhar puttar, light the lamp.’
There was more nudging and whispering among the kids.
Shera couldn’t contain himself. ‘Maulviji, the rain is coming down in buckets. How are we going to cross the wide pit of Thalli Vand, the lower quarter, to go home?’
Maulviji continued pulling on his hukkah, unruffled.
Rakha thumped Shera’s neck. ‘Oye, look outside!’
The children began to clamour:
‘Hail comes tappatapp
Armies descend, dabbadabb!
Run, yaaron, run
Leave the madarsa, run!’
Maulviji banged three or four heads in the dark itself. ‘Sit properly, bhootno, little devils, else I’ll beat you to repentance.’
The bigger boys started whining and the younger ones pretended to cry.
Maulviji snarled, ‘Chupp oye chupp!’
When Gauhar lit a lamp and put it on the lid of the clay pot, he himself shone like a lamp among those he measured.
‘Gulzarilal, where are the Margalla hills?’
‘Near Rawalpindi, janaab!’
‘Well, where is the memorial of General Nicholson Bahadur?’
‘Ji, there only, near the Margalla Pass!’
‘Well done!’
‘Gauhar Shanaas, where’s Sindh-ki-Baab?’
‘Janaab, where the rivers Kabul and Sindh meet and become blue with the sky, there only is Sindh-ki-Baab!’
‘Rodeya, where’s the black and white mountain?’
‘Near Atak.’
‘Near Atak!’ Maulviji lifted him off his seat by his ear. ‘First you say “Janaab” or “ji”! What did you understand?’
Roda placed a hand on his temple and said with alacrity, ‘Ji janaab!’
A voice came from behind the window:
‘Potato, plum, falsa
Kabul under Khalsa!’
‘Gauhar Shanaas, this is Shurli! Catch him and bring him to me!’
Chattaak! Pattaak! Maulviji slapped him twice. ‘So you have earned two plums for today?’
‘Janaab.’
‘Senior boys recount the guls – flowers.’
‘Gul-e-Lala
‘Gul-e-Yasmin
‘Gul-e-Palash
‘Gul-e-Shabr-Afroz
‘Gul-e-Soori
‘Gul-e-Hazara
‘Gul-e-Zafri!’
Haulu, from nursery, son of Bassra, the midwife, piped up, ‘Ji, shall I also tell one?’
Gauhar slapped him on the temple. ‘You don’t even know your aleph-be, and you want to make poetry? Sit!’
Maulviji called him lovingly, ‘Haulu Puttar, come here! Come to me!’
A cowering Haulu wiped his runny nose with his sleeve and came and stood near Maulviji.
‘Speak, little one, what did you want to say?’
‘Ji, shall I also name one gul?’
Maulviji granted permission with a nod.
‘Gul-e-Khudro!’
Maulviji was pleased. ‘Puttarji, where did you hear this?’
‘Janaab, from you!’
‘Boys, I want to say this. Haulu has some useful seed in his head! Gauhar Shanaas, take out a quill from the wooden chest. Haulu deserves a prize!’
Taking the quill, little Haulu blushed furiously and started chewing his nails.
Lightning zigzagged among claps of thunder, as though it had struck just outside the madarsa. The nursery and kindergarten kids started sobbing. ‘Hai O Bebe!’
‘Ji, my ma will be looking for me!’
‘Ji, my chacha will get worried!’
‘My lala …’
Maulviji removed the pipe of his hukkah from his mouth and started laughing. ‘Oye donkey’s puttars, have you wet your pants in fear? Sit quietly till the rain stops. Damodara, stand up and tell me who built the fort of Gujrat?’
Damodar, a short boy, started reciting his lesson by rote:
‘Gujrat Fort was made by Hindostan’s Mughal Emperor Akbar. In the time of the Mughal Sultanate, it was customary that whenever the king ordered a fort to be constructed, half the expenditure would be borne by the people and the other half by the government of Delhi. When Badshah Salamat ordered the fort to be constructed to protect the city, the Jatts of the area rebelled. They refused to bear the expenditure point blank. When Badshah Akbar explained to the chiefs of Gujjar tribes, they agreed. Choudhary Fateh Mohammad of the Varaich Pind Dinga took the responsibility of collecting the money upon himself. The rich Gujjar men of Deengaah gave sack-fuls of wealth. When the fort was completed, Badshah Salamat was pleased and named the city Gujrat Akbarabad. The Jatts were offended. They wrote a complaint to Delhi that it is not proper for the country
’s ruler to favour one caste over another. The fort belongs to Jatts as much as Gujjars, they said. Reply came: “Name can’t be changed after it’s been assigned. But yes, Jatts can name the area as per their liking, we will grant that!” Because the Jatts’ ancestors had come from Herat, they named their area “Herat”. Once the badshah came near Kunja on a deer hunt. Upon seeing the beautiful jungle he said, “Original Herat has the best horses and the Gujrat Herat has the best deer!” He asked his courtiers – which Gujrat should be considered better? This or that? And they replied, “Badshah Salamat, each is better than the other.”’
Just then Maulviji saw Fatta craning his neck to look outside, so he called out to him, ‘Fatteya, count the names of mountain passes.’
‘Khaiber, Khurram, Tochi, Gomal and, ji Rabb may do you good, Iran!’
‘Iran or Bolan?’
Fatta was in a hurry to leave, so he said carelessly, ‘Aahoji, whatever it is. Now give us leave. We should reach home. Look at the sky. Dark and thick with rain!’
Maulviji thundered, ‘O Jatta, for you there’s no difference between Iran and Bolan! Put out your hand!’ The cane cracked with such ferocity that the boys watched dry-mouthed.
‘Banteya, count the names of our area’s jungles, trees and vines.’
‘Chak-ghazi, Langa-rukkh, Dhool-rukkh, Mari-Kheekharan, Pind Tatar, Bhakkh Pabbi, Sadullapur …’
Maulviji got up and slapped him hard: ‘Oye! You swine, what is this Taish and Tassh of yours, this arrogance, this style! Speaking so fast as though you are the master! Studied everything in the womb and popped out, is it?’
Banta’s ears were burning. He kept glaring at Maulviji, one hand on his ear!
‘Numbskull, if you know the answer, what’s the rush to disgorge? Names are recounted as though they are coming to mind one at a time! This mistake should not be repeated!’
‘Habibeya!’
‘Ji, Habib is absent today. His buffalo has delivered.’
Nikka piped up, ‘Maulviji, now you will get milk and buttermilk regularly!’
‘Kesholal, give me the names of the oceans!’
‘Bahrul Kahil, Behre-Seen, Behre-Akhzar, Behre-Aswad, Behre-Dakiyanoos …’
‘Blunt brain! Calling Aukianoos Dakiyanoos! Come here!’
Kesholal pinched his own ears in contrition. ‘I mispronounced the name, Maulviji! Forgive me today! I will learn this a hundred times!’
‘Oye, this is your favourite tripping spot. What if you forget again?’
‘Na Janaab, I’ll remember.’
Suddenly Fatta got up. ‘Maulviji, I am off. Mark me on leave today!’
‘Moorkha, is it an off on my saying so or yours?’
Fatta Jatt was adamant. ‘Today Ji, these things don’t matter! Who will see to our cattle in this rain?’
Muddara of Uttari Vand also smelled an opportunity. He jumped and skipped and said, ‘Maulviji, phitte moonh mera, my oxen were ploughing in fields. Lo ji, I’m gone …’
Catching on, the little ones also set up an uproar. A stampede began.
Maulviji told Gauhar in a sweetly resigned voice, ‘Puttarji, let them go! O tiddo, you little pests, go! Go and have sweet hot poodas from your mothers.’
The small boys made pairs. Rolled up their pants and shielding their heads with their writing slates, ran towards home.
‘Lest they go astray:
Plough to the ox,
Sense to the stupid,
Grind to man,
Rein to horse.
Lest they go astray
O plough to the ox.’
Maulviji lovingly watched his little pupils disperse. Then he called out to the seniors, ‘Gauhar puttar, freshen my chillum! There must be some ember in the milk boiler. Yes, older boys should open the Pand Nama and recite, then later read Gulistan Bama’ani.’
Jagtar of the Raagis tried a last excuse. ‘My bebe had put kheer to cook for you. If I don’t go to fetch it, she will half kill me.’
‘Idiot, do you think I’ll give you an off if you mention “kheer’’! If you try to run such rings round me, I’ll box your pig snout!’
Suddenly Shurli gave a shout, ‘Run, run oye! The cat is at Maulviji’s milk!’
Gauhar pinched Shurli while still bent over the clay pot, and said loudly so that Maulviji could hear: ‘The cat just touched the rim of the pot, didn’t drink it! See, the layer of cream is still intact!’
Hearing this, Maulviji felt hungry.
‘Puttaro, refresh your memory of Sakhi Sarwar Lakhandata, then I’ll let you go!’
When Gauhar and Bodda took up the recitation, the rest of the boys joined in, chorusing in rote: ‘Around the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the fifth, Fitna rose from Arabia and set about establishing His Religion, “Jainab”. Father Syed Ahmed then left his country and came to live in Punjab’s Shah Kot. That he is our leader, have no confusion or doubt. Know him as Syed Hussaini, revere him as Allah-Rasool …’
When Shahni grew large with child her clothes didn’t fit any longer. Chachi Mehri went to Ismail tailor and got two loose jhablas stitched in black soof cotton.
‘Mabibi, soak these new clothes in water and spread them out. They will dry by evening.’
Mabibi didn’t like the thought of Shahni wearing black. She said, ‘I’ve seen Khatranis wearing black salwars but if you ask me, it’s the colour of mourning.’
Chachi glared at Mabibi. ‘After the dark black night shines the sun of morn, understand?’
‘Really true, Chachi, who can equal your intelligence!’ Shahni laughed as she lay sprawled on the cot with her elbow under her head. Glancing at them both she said, ‘Chachi! Look at me, I’ve whiled away the whole afternoon lazing about. Mabibi, hand me my wicker basket. Let me sort out some cotton at least.’
Chachi vetoed the idea. ‘Work is not running off, leaving you behind! Read some pothi-gutka, some holy books; by God’s grace, let the dark womb too fill with light.’
Shahni said, ‘Mabibi, Rabeyan hasn’t come today. She could have sung Bulle Shah. She sings the lyrics of Barahmasa, the song of twelve months, so sweetly that the body and heart find new life.’
‘What you say is true, child. These Arais have a god-given gift! A voice so sweet that all the pleasures of sadness, happiness, and enjoyment spill from her notes! When those sweet notes reach one’s ears, the soul of man finds new meaning.’
Just then footsteps sounded on the steps. ‘Aa ri Rabeyan, you’ve a long life!’
An old faded dupatta over a salwar suit of Multani chheent, skin so milky that the very touch would sully it. Lifting the thick dohar from her head, Rabeyan gathered the golden hair spilling over her forehead and asked Shahni, ‘Shall I give you a head massage? I’d left a bowl of ghee in the window for it to warm.’
‘Hassa will be here soon, balli Rabeyan, you’re better off singing!’
Chachi cut her short. ‘Let the girl do some work also, else how will she get into the habit? Daughter, you’ve heard Kartaro being praised, haven’t you? The whole village sings her praises. Her husband is very happy. She’s proven to be a very good housewife, takes care of the whole house!’
Rabeyan smiled. She stood behind Shahni and started loosening her plait. She was dripping ghee into her tresses and massaging the roots when Shahji walked in. Shahni covered her head. Rabeyan stood still as a statue, one foot on the cot.
Shahji smiled affectionately at Rabeyan. ‘Rabeyan, what have you taken up instead of stringing pearls into tunes? Shahni, don’t make such a talented girl do such mundane tasks.’ Shahji stood for a while watching the girl. ‘She has a god-given gift. Shahni, Rabeyan is a good girl. She has been blessed by the learned hand of Goddess Saraswati herself.’
Shahni watched the girl fondly, her half-ripe, golden, wheat-coloured tresses loosely covered by her simple dupatta; the bloom of new spring on her milky skin.
Chachi said lovingly, ‘Sing, daughter, sing something for Shahji! He praises you from his heart!’
&nb
sp; Rabeyan looked at Shahni.
She nodded. ‘Sing balli, let him hear something sweet!’
Rabeyan directed a shy, maidenly glance towards Shahji, and then covering herself decorously with her odhni, took up Bulle Shah’s Kafi:
‘I will ignite the fire of the sun …
My sweet love I will win
From this heart, oceans deep,
I shall raise a wave so high
My sweet love I will win
I will become the cloud
I will disperse the rains
Neither married, nor a maiden
But in my lap will play a son
A twin miracle
I will sing
My sweet love
I will win.’
‘Shriram! Shriram! Jiye jage, ri Rabyan! Live and rise every morn! What notes, what voice and what praise of Baba Bulle Shah!’
When Shahni wiped her wet eyes, she saw Shahji’s eyes glowing like the sun. Pleasure played on his forehead. He said, ‘Sweet-speaking Rabeyan, Aliya told me you have written a seh-harfi, the list of three letter words. If I happen to visit Siyalkot, then I’ll show it to Ustaad Inayat Shahji.’
Rabeyan’s face bloomed as though receiving rain. She bit the edge of her chunni between her teeth and lowered her eyes, blushing.
Shahji said, ‘Shahni, acknowledge the girl’s singing. Give her something.’
Giving a hand to the sweet burden of her womb, Shahni got up and for some reason found both joy and melancholy in her heart. When she went into her pasaar and opened the wooden chest, she rebuked herself: Turn your thoughts ri. Why envy this little girl?
Shahni pulled out a red-chilli patterned phulkari from its mulmul covering, brought it and put it in Rabeyan’s lap. ‘Rabeyan ri, cover yourself with it this winter.’
Rabeyan’s eyes shone. ‘I am dead, Shahniji! How can I wear it? This is only worn at weddings!’
‘Enough ri,’ Chachi Mehri scolded lovingly. ‘Are you so different that you’re above marriage and weddings?’
When Shahni saw Shahji head towards the baithak, God knows what possessed her. She stopped him and said, ‘Before going, listen to Saawan, the song of rains from Rabeyan! Come now, sing that dohara!’
‘Saawan, the beautiful month, when drops fall to earth as rain Clouds pour forth to the sound of celestial drums, to the heart’s satiation
The raga of rain resounds till the divine heralds prepare to leave
Zindaginama Page 13
