Zindaginama

by Krishna Sobti

Young Boota heaved a deep sigh. He gazed at the moon with all his fifteen-year-old thirst, and said, ‘I remember only two lines.’

  ‘Yaara, recite it quick. Now come on!’

  ‘Nor is there any faith in that faithless one

  Nor shame in that shameless one …’

  Gauhar and Jalalu crushed Boota in a bone-scrunching embrace. ‘Oye Boota Singh, you are one enlightened man! And you hid it from your friends so long!’

  Groups of young boys sprawled out on the sand and waxed fulsome on the full moon, reciting poetry, singing. The sweet soulful strains of tappas, kafis, Poorna-Bhagat and Sassi-Punnu were interspersed with the lingering plaintive notes of Mirza-Sahiban.

  When Sharifu emerged from a dip in the river, he took off his wet loincloth and slapped it on his thigh. ‘Oye, I am not embarrassed at myself but at you who stare.’

  Gauhar laughed. ‘Why this shame? You possess nothing unique. The whole world is made and moved by it.’

  Gulzari shook his head. ‘It’s not right to brag about it. Elders say that constantly thinking and talking about its prowess and play can make a man impotent.’

  All four looked away from their loincloths and scratched their heads.

  Peeroo … oo peero … oo. In the bright moonlight, flocks of flying birds swooped down, spreading out on the dazzling river. Peeroo … oo …

  ‘Those birds are phull-sunghni, the flower-sniffers.’

  ‘Na, make a bet, they are baboonis.’

  ‘They aren’t baboonis either. These are Sindh bulbulis.’

  ‘No, these are dhaula-charini. They fly in this season to Chitral Chaman leaving Pubbi behind.’

  Just then Kokla’s younger brother Doda Mirasi arrived, and took up a kafi in praise of the Lord as he sat down:

  ‘My being finds joy in Your service;

  Acknowledge my wishes and make them come true, my lord, whom I love

  The joy one begets is the fruit of worship

  I, Gaus, am beloved of You, Nabi, who shows the true path

  My being finds joy in Your service.’

  As Doda’s powerful voice rang upon the waves, the cool breezes of the Chenab caressed the anxious waiting eyes and lulled them to sleep.

  Early morning, Ladda woke to find the Shahs’ retainers carrying provisions to the tents. He shook awake Gauhar and Madad Ali. ‘The tents are looking alive! Let’s get done with the jungle-fields quickly. Shouldn’t still be busy with our ablutions when the dancers arrive!’

  From the north, the morning cast her rosy veil upon river and sky. Light glinted on the water. There, where the rafts came gliding shorewards, the young men’s eyes tangled with the colourful odhnis. Chests began to throb in excitement.

  Suddenly, there was an uproar. ‘Has anyone seen them before? No one has arrived from the Shahs’ house yet. Who will recognize them? How will we know which one is Buddhan and which Husna?’

  Kashi Shah dismounted from his horse to receive Buddhan and Husna. He cast a look around at the eager youths and boys gathered from nearby villages, and said in a crystal clear voice, ‘Barkhurdaro, this is naach-mujra in name alone; in truth, it is high art. Remember, singers and dancers are people of deep learning. And that is why they must be given their due respect.’

  The boys had no patience to listen. ‘Ji, we will certainly give them full respect! But first we should at least know which one is Buddhan and which Husna!’

  Chhote Shah clarified, ‘The one in the pink odhni is Husna, and the one in the wine-coloured odhni is Buddhan.’

  As the boats advanced shorewards, Boota shaded his eyes from the sun glinting on the water and said aloud, ‘Buddhan Kanjari looks just like my bebe in face and features.’

  Doda admonished, ‘Booteyshah, you do talk like the Sikh you are! O Singha, no one in the whole of Rawalpindi can equal Buddhan in taleem. One who can sing thumri and tappa like her hasn’t been born yet.’

  Raising himself on his tiptoes to have a better look, Jalalu said, ‘Oye. drop the blunt knife and behold Husna who is herself Heer of Jhang Sayal incarnate! Hai O Rabba! What a face, what beauty, what youth!’

  The boatmen had barely anchored the boats, when chhann …chhann … the bangles and anklets sang out. The pearl in Husna’s nosepin glinted like the true love of a queen. Jalalu, ruddy like wheat, put a hand on his heart and cried, ‘I shall die, yaaron! Rabba mine, I cannot bear such splendour!’ and hurled himself down on the sand.

  Dark green tattoo on her chin and pearl-white teeth, Buddhan laughed, delighted. ‘Sadke on your fresh youth, Channa! The splendour is not of my glittering clothes or jewellery, it is the sheen of your young blood! Mother’s precious son, come rise and offer salaam to Husna pari!’ Then she looked at Boota with a soft, straight gaze. ‘My innocent badshah, you are but a child still. Even if you search the farthest corners of the earth, no mujran-dancer will you find who is called anyone’s bebe. And then, I am Buddhan Kanjari! But Singha, if you have called me Bebe, then touch my feet in pairipauna at least. Even I am overwhelmed by a desire to call you barkhurdar, my son!’

  Boota neither looked to his friends, nor paused to think. Stepped forward and said, ‘Pairipauna,’ touched Buddhan’s feet and touching his forehead, stood up.

  ‘Jeeta rah! Live long! Enjoy your youth, O Singha. Main sadke! Blessed be the Shahs’ village that has given me a son without asking.’ Buddhan turned to Chhote Shah. ‘My lap is rich with gifts and blessings today. Shah Sahib, did you ever hear of anyone calling a dancing girl his mother, even innocently? Praises and munificence of Zahira Pir Lakhandata Sakhi Sarwar! Many, many congratulations to you upon Lalishah’s birth, Shah Sahib!’

  ‘To you as well.’

  As Buddhan and Husna sashayed towards their tents, the young men went into raptures. Bakhtawar said, ‘Rabba, if only we knew, are the lucky juttis on their feet Pothohari or Saleemshahi?’

  Kashi Shah turned around solemn-faced and said, ‘Son, they are Saleemshahi, not Pothohari,’ and walked on as if he were attending a gathering of spiritually enlightened souls, a Surud-sama, not a raunchy village mujra.

  ‘Aspire to the lap of Bibi Fatima

  To the proud reign of Delhi

  To obey the writ of Kaba

  Aspire to reach Mecca.’

  As the weather cleared, groups of grimy kids came out to play in the Chuhad Thatti, the sweepers’ quarter of the village. Little girls in ragged, dirty salwar-kurtas began to play khainu.

  ‘Whose son was Bala Shah Noori? Amir Shah Noori’s son

  Whose son was Amir Shah Noori? Haider Shah Noori’s son

  Whose son was Haider Shah Noori? Habbat Tala Noori’s son

  Whose son was Habbat Tala Noori? Maula Mushquil Kusha’

  ‘Run, girls, run! The pir’s billy goat is on the loose! It will gore you with its horns, beware!’

  In a trice all the little girls, tucking their younger siblings into their sides, upped and fled.

  Rahma Musalli’s twin boys came tearing in from somewhere in great agitation. ‘A white-haired boy came out of the witches’ well and vanished on the common! We saw him with our own eyes! Run, people, run!’

  Children ran into the arms of their aunts and grandmothers.

  ‘Kyon, re, kyon, have the heavens fallen that you are running helter-skelter like this?’

  ‘Bebe, one-eyed Kanna of the Batras saw a white-haired boy climbing out of the well!’

  ‘Hai O Rabba!’ Bebe Sharbati instantly covered her head and bowed in prayer. ‘I beseech You to convey my prayer to the ultimate God. Evil eye, stay away! Baba Bala Shah, have mercy!’

  Batra Kanna’s mother roared out a warning, ‘Children, don’t go towards the common! An evil jinn has been sighted in broad daylight. Rabb have mercy!’

  Sukkhani’s infant son, who was asleep in his cradle suddenly broke out coughing and threw up milk. Perplexed, Sukkhani put down the vessel in her hand and took her child into her lap, rubbing his back vigorously. ‘Shoo off cough … shoo …’

  Dadi Dau
ni was chewing slowly, holding a thick roti in her hand. She called out, ‘Why, you uncouth woman, why are you making the child cry? Cuddle him, let him suckle.’

  Dauni had just taken the second bite when Sukkhani cried, ‘Hai ri Bebe, do what you can! I’m losing my son!’

  Dauni came running. ‘O Rabba mine, have mercy! Spare the child! He’s my only hope in this winter of life.’

  Sukkhani put a hand on the child’s chest to check for breath and screamed death. ‘O my enemy, my child is no more!’

  Wise old Jamalo came running from the adjacent house and standing outside the doorstep, roared a time-tested spell:

  ‘Kali chari char chari

  Kat-kat dehi ko khaye

  Pani bahaye samudra ka bhoot

  Chudail bhasm ho jaye

  Kali chari char chari kat-kat …’

  ‘Begone, sea demon! Smoulder to ashes, you witch!’

  When the child opened his eyes, both mother and grandmother broke down in relief.

  Bebe Jamalo caressed the child’s head and murmured, ‘Red horse. Red dress. Red crest. Red sign.’

  When the child started suckling, Dadi Dauni took his balaiyyan, ‘Saain khair sadke! Rabba, You returned the child to us!’

  Jamalo took the coin from Dauni, tied it in her dupatta and consoled her, ‘By God’s grace, I managed to save your darling grandson. Put a scrap of iron and leaves of lemon and dharek under his sheet.’

  ‘Certainly, Bebe. Whose spirit-shadow was it?’

  Jamalo silently remembered all her pirs-murshids and whispered, ‘That same one, the white-haired son of the Awanas. His own uncle killed him on the sly. His soul still roams at large in the village. He returns every other year, comes out of the well and vanishes on the common. Last year he went and hid in Husaina’s room. I threatened and scolded him to my capacity. He didn’t budge. In the end, the Tibbiwala exorcist came and exorcised Sultan. He had possessed Sultan! Tibbiwala burnt some red chillies and threatened, “You are dust now, playful one. You are no more. Forget this place. Turn away from here. Speak, what do you have to say and to whom?”

  ‘The ghost said, “That low-life Musalli, he slayed me. He attacked me from behind, not on my chest, the coward! I will exact revenge!” Tibbiwala roared, “I will turn your back into your chest! Now go! Leave!” Scared, the ghost left with the wind. Tibbiwala Baba asked for and got two annas for this feat.’

  Before leaving, Jamalo said to Dauni, ‘I say, offer choorma prasad in the name of Baba Lal. May all Seven Shields of the pirs and paigambars keep the little one! And don’t be miserly about twenty-five or fifty annas!’

  News arrived from the Gujrat courts that the district commissioner would be touring the area.

  The two government officials of the village, the patwari and lambardar took out their greying turbans and gave them to the washerman, Ladda Dhobi. ‘Here, Laddeya, do something to bring out the colour and shine. It is heard that the new Sahib gets really upset if he sees grimy turbans. Do some magic so that our inspection passes off without trouble.’

  ‘Certainly, badshaho, the Zila Laat will remember the village that gave him the most respendent salaams.’ Ladde picked up the turbans and weighed them in his hands, as if weighing the heads of both the lambardar and the patwari. He shook them out, flapped them, and after careful inspection, declared, ‘Badshaho, these mulmuls are worn out. Even so, I will try and make them worthy of regard.’ With that, he crumpled them up and threw them into his clay pot.

  Maulu Mirasi was munching popcorn nearby. He raised a hand in mock protest. ‘Oye Laddeya, what’s this! Throwing two government turbans together into one vessel? Badshaho, this worthless washerman has done what should land him straight in jail!’

  Lambardar and Dhonkalmal Patwari both went red with embarrassment. Ladda quickly saved the occasion, saying, ‘Badshaho, the hakam, the high officer who has crisp white turbans bowing before him, his government itself is better than the best, isn’t it?’

  Maulu Mirasi stepped up and touched Ladda’s beard. ‘One up to you, Laddey Shah! If you start making such wise remarks, we Mirasis are going to lose our miras and our living!’ Then he caustically added, ‘If you ask me, why do they need their turbans washed and starched at all? Sarkari officers are visible from afar, like well-fed bulls. Patwari Sahib, we have heard that the Zila Laat is a man of great blast and bombast. But then, what is it to us? It is you officers who will have to answer to him. Us commoners must rest content just looking at Sahib Bahadur!’

  Ladda cut in, ‘Maulu, it’s not as if you have to receive ownership of lands from the hakam!’

  ‘Na, Ji, God forbid! Rabb-Rasool has already bestowed the wealth of a happy, carefree life to us Mirasis. Patwariji, if you so command, we can present a song in praise to the Sahib?’

  Lambardar caught the patwari’s eye and glared. ‘Be warned, Mauluya, you better stay away from the visit. This Hakam is harsh and strict.’

  ‘That’s really the limit, motiyowalo! We must neither flatter nor criticize this hakam. May the pimp who doesn’t appreciate the Mirasi’s art rot in hell. May our clients prosper and be happy. Do we make our living on the say-so of these pink monkey faces? They descend like wasps on crops and buzz off after having their fill!’

  Ladda remembered an old incident. ‘Mauluya, you remember the story of one-eyed Hodi Khan of Layalpur? When Young Sahib of the canals was to return to England, there was a big function in his honour. Hodi Khan strung a rhyme in praise of Young Sahib and the British Raj. That was it; Hodi got lavish praise. Quite a few Britishers were present at the function. They were so puffed up listening to their own virtues that they recommended a title for Hodi. Now badshaho, Hodi was one sharp fellow. He bowed, offered salaams and said, “Whatever Sarkar gives is most appreciated. But my humble submission is that giving a title to a one-eyed man won’t add to the Sarkar’s prestige. Even if I become Khan Sahib, people will still call me One-eyed Hodi. Sahib, on the other hand, if you grant me land, the Sarkar’s promise will be honoured, and my heart, too, will be happy.”’

  Lambardar and Patwari laughed with the others, but their hearts grew heavy with regret. Each to his destiny! They had dedicated their entire life in service of the government, but had never got a chance to earn such a reward.

  Maulu, too, started cursing Hodi Khan. ‘Oye one-eyed Kanjara, were the Miras of the place dead or lying sick on their rooftops that you had to go show off your cock before Young Sahib? You worthless pimp!’

  When Patwari and Lambardar saw the Mirasi getting out of hand, they got up to leave, saying, ‘Prepare the turbans by evening, Laddeya.’

  ‘Certainly, my badshahs, how can one delay the turbans that rule? The orders of the Laat Bahadur run on the strength of these very turbans.’

  In the afternoon, a crowd gathered in wait of the Zila Laat. Ruddy countenances in greying turbans and kheses ensconced themselves on the cots. Some sat on their haunches, smoking hukkahs. Some stood around, waiting. Shahji ran an eye over the crowd, saw the respectable gathering and nodded to himself in satisfaction. He saw the Patwari’s crisp headgear and called out, ‘Dhonkalmalji, you look good in that turban!’

  Muhammadin chuckled. ‘Khair sadke, mica-white turban and starched kullah, Shah Sahib, our Patwari looks no less than a bridegroom!’

  Ganda Singh lit up. ‘Dhonkalmalji, you are in fine fettle. That’s reason enough to have one or two more wives. Maybe someone needy will get decent food and clothes in your care. You have no dearth of wealth. Even if she eats day and night, you won’t feel the pinch.’

  Karm Ilahi looked at Fateh Ali and laughed to himself, enjoying a private thought. ‘I say Fateh Aliji, our Muslim friends are better off in this respect. If you are feeling flush with money, have another nikah read. After all, where there are so many, what is one more!’

  Mauladadji, who was deep in thought, solemnly nodded. ‘What you say is right. The wife who eats will work as well.’

  Maiyya Singh sparked up. ‘Why, Mauladad, do you have a
new bharjaaee in mind? If so then make me the go-between!’

  Laughter shook the cots and enveloped the proud gathering.

  Shahji said, ‘Dhonkalmalji, arrange your documents and letters. People will complain before the sahib, and your head will be on the block.’

  ‘Shahji, in effect we only deal with the village headmen and landlords. For the rest, British law books can be consulted. We are only followers of the law, that is all.’

  Mauladadji laughed. ‘Dhonkalmalji, who can enumerate the many wisdoms of a patwari’s office? But tell me something, surely your pots must be overflowing with guineas by now?’

  ‘Office by dynasty, and wealth by prosperity!’

  Shahji’s wit had a razor’s edge. ‘Jahandadji, it’s not fair on Dhonkalmalji. Sarkari officers do not go begging from people. It is people who forcibly stuff their pockets!’

  Guruditt Singh recounted his recent experience. ‘Such offices are acquired only by sheer luck and past karmas. One works hard to scrape together enough grain, another gathers a crop of pearls!’

  Najiba, who was sitting on his haunches, stood up. ‘Badshaho, by and large, it can be said that prosperity and joys of wealth are for those who are born Hindu in this life.’

  Chaudhary Fateh Ali sneaked a sly glance at Shahji, and quietly changed the topic in a voice roughened by coughing and smoke by saying, ‘Shahji, if the Sarkar were to seat a paper cut-out on an English horse, the force of British law would even bring that alive!’

  ‘Aafreen-Aafreen!’ Shahji showered praise. ‘You have gleaned the very essence of the matter, Chaudharyji!’

  Chhote Shah acknowledged Guruditt Singh. ‘What you say also has truth, but why throw stones at others, Dhonkalmalji?’

  Jahandadji nodded. ‘That’s right. If a man gets a government post, why would he work?’

  ‘In Khalsa Raj too, wealth and money was earned in plenty. Diwan Sawanmal of Multan owned seventy-eighty lakhs, not counting his secret wealth. Uncountable gold, pearls, plots, lands. Lahna Singh Majithia owned crores. And listen to this – when Lahna Singh went on pilgrimage, his entourage of two thousand five hundred cost one crore. Jamadar Khushhal Singh of Meerut reached Benaras and donated six lakhs to the poor and the priests!’