Zindaginama

by Krishna Sobti

  The shopkeeper has my sharpening wheel

  The shopkeeper’s jaggery have I

  The old woman has my jaggery

  The old woman’s sweets have I

  My sweets are with a wedding procession

  The wedding palanquin have I.”’

  ‘What happened then, Rabi behan?’

  ‘What could happen, Lali Shah? Boojo carried off the palanquin and the bride! Now go to sleep like a good child.’

  ‘Why are the schoolboys playing kabbadi on the river sands so late at night?’

  ‘Let them play. What’s it to you!’

  ‘Rabeyan behan, on the rooftop Karmo and Bimbo are going round and round in circles, holding hands in kikli.’

  Shahni called out, ‘No more talking now!’

  Lali heard his mother and started whimpering, ‘I will sleep only if Ma comes to bed with me.’

  Chachi admonished, ‘Don’t make him cry all the time, he will grow stubborn! It’s a matter of two pats or four. Put him to sleep.’

  Lali pulled at Rabeyan’s chunni and grew insistent.

  Rabeyan pretended to cry, ‘Oon … oon … Lalishah is hurting me, Shahni …’

  Shahni chided, ‘Stop it right now. I will put away the milk and come in a moment.’

  ‘Bachchi, milk recognizes the season. Sprinkle some cold water in the pot first.’

  Rabeyan spread the mattress on the small cot and softly hummed to Lali:

  ‘Eight harbours, nine boats

  Fourteen lengths around

  If you’re truly wise, tell me –

  How deep is underground?’

  Chachi called out, ‘Daughter Rabeyan, if you are singing Rasalu, then sing a bit louder. Let it come to other ears too!’

  ‘Eight harbours nine boats

  Fourteen lengths around

  If you can count the stars in the sky

  I’ll share the depth underground

  My heart’s flame burns as bright,

  As all the wood in the woods tonight.’

  A cool breeze from the river lulled the children asleep. Having wound up the kitchen for the day, the women came and sat on the cots. Shahni came to where Lali slept and called out to Bindradayi, ‘I say, the brothers haven’t returned yet.’

  Rabeyan lifted her head and stared into the dark, as if she’d heard something. Then nodded and said, ‘They are as good as home.’

  Chhoti Shahni joked, ‘Why, Rabeyan, do you have some divine lamp that you look into and see?’

  Rabeyan laughed lightly.

  Chachi Mehri said, ‘You sing something, Bindradayi. You used to sing it so well, that one – What Do I Do to Attain His Grace!’

  Khullar’s youngest son’s wife arrived to borrow curd. ‘As for us, what are we worth, at most we sing a ghodi or a suhag on occasion. Our lives are now bound to the pressures of domesticity. Just this stomach and its endless demands.’

  Veeravali arrived. ‘I say, you of the Khullars, one has only to pass the time somehow. Singing and poetry are for those who have leisure and contentment!’

  Shahni didn’t like this. ‘It is God’s gift and blessing. Or else, why wouldn’t you and I, too, string couplets in a trice?’

  Outspoken Goma stared long at Rabeyan’s marble-white face, then threw a pebble in the still waters. ‘Ari, no kafis can be strung without real heartache!’

  Chachi scolded, ‘Phitte moonh ri, who is this mischievous one, come to put heartache in innocent hearts!’

  Encouraged by Chachi, Shahni said lovingly, ‘Come, Rabi, sing. Let Goma’s mind also find illumination.’

  ‘Ji, Shahniji. What shall I sing?’

  Chachi commanded, ‘Dhiye, sing what you composed at Ramzan this time.’

  Sitting on the cot under the shade of stars, Rabeyan became a singing wave of the Chenab. The moonlight glinting on her braids showed off her sharp features to perfection. The dupatta tucked around her head fluttered in the wind, as though a song bird had come and sat on the ledge.

  ‘This long journey

  Oh soul,

  Which way do I turn?

  Four directions

  Four lamps

  How do I bear

  The blinding light

  Four illuminations

  One lamp

  My love

  One lamp

  My lord

  One lamp

  My heart

  Eyes burning bright

  As a flame

  Oh how can I

  Not go to meet

  The light

  Wherever I look it burns

  Wherever I look it rises

  My eyes

  My heart

  My body and soul

  Are all aflame

  O which way do I turn?’

  The hearts of the listeners throbbed to the impassioned voice.

  As Rabeyan’s rich, sonorous voice tapered, Kashi Shah spoke from the dark. ‘Waah-waah, Rabi! May Rabb bless you with even more light, more enlightenment.’

  Hearing his voice, the women covered their heads. The younger Shah came nearer and put his hand on Rabeyan’s head. ‘Bibi rani has the gift of God. Your heart is a pure, unsullied sarovar.’

  Rabeyan adjusted the cloth on her head. Then she looked up – Shahji was standing there silently in the dark.

  ‘Rabeyan …’ Shahni was stunned to see Shahji.

  Chachi looked up and said to Shahni, ‘Child, get their hands and feet washed. Serve them food. Rabeyan, go feed your Abbu fresh, hot rotis today. And if you don’t feel like returning, sleep there tonight.’

  ‘Yes, Chachi.’ Rabeyan stood up and walked away as if ten years wiser.

  Trebles and deep murmurs floated on the village and dissolved into the sleep of children. The nightwatchman’s staff beat a staccato rhythm – keep awake.

  Rabeyan’s rich and sonorous song, echoing the words of Kabir, rose from Aliya’s hut and spread on the river sands:

  ‘My body a loom,

  My mind a tapestry,

  How do I weave Your worship?

  I worship one

  Whom no one worships,

  Keeping the divine fire alive

  All hours of day and night,

  But only You can discern

  What is simply spoken,

  What is truly felt.’

  Seeing the brothers sitting motionless, lost in Rabeyan’s soul-stirring notes, their plates untouched before them, Shahni’s heart sank. O Khwaja Khijr, O Pir of Life, how can we mere mortals have it within us to bring the two shores of a river together? Having reached one harbour, why this desire for another raft, another voyage? No … No … O Pir of the River, don’t tempt my lord; don’t float this mirage before his eyes.

  When grandson Laddha’s first letter and money order arrived, Dadi Hassa kissed the rupees in joy and handed them over to Laddha’s mother. ‘Khudavand Karim, all Your mercies, Your grace. Let cool winds keep blowing this way from the war front.’

  However not even a month had passed when the harsh news arrived. Loud wailing and cries rent the air. ‘Oh enemy, you have done ill by us, you have earned our wrath. Countless youths fighting in the war, and you picked my lion-hearted son to slay! Hai O Rabba!’

  Mothers’ hearts froze in fear. Neighbours put out the fires in their kitchens.

  Jumman’s mother, who had begun to avoid mothers of living sons since she had got the news of Jumman, now went and embraced Fatima in her grief. ‘Hai O, the boisterous pair of friends have now met up in heaven. O children, how will your broken and shattered mothers climb the tortuous mountain of life? Hai O Rabba, oh why didn’t us old women die before seeing this day!’

  Expectant mothers grew fearful and silently prayed to the Maker. Rabb ji, the children are in your shelter. May Your gaze remain merciful!

  The older men puffed at their hukkahs despondently. No one could think of anything to say.

  Finally, at his wit’s end, Muhammadin said, ‘Jahandadji, our little ones have all gone to war
, may they stay safe. Why don’t you narrate something diverting from your army days, some tales of the cantonments?’

  Karm Ilahiji grunted in agreement. ‘Yes, Chaudharyji, tell us something that will lessen this grief and heartache.’

  Jahandadji put aside his hukkah and took up an old story:

  ‘This is from the times when 14 Punjab was shifted from Peshawar to Jhansi. In those days, Sixth Madras was posted at Jhansi. Badshaho. The train carrying the platoon from Punjab, met with heavy rains the whole way. At Jhansi station, too, it was raining cats and dogs. As you all know, 14 Punjab is a platoon of Punjabi Musalmans and Pathans.

  ‘As our boys got off the train, there ensued one big hullabaloo. On one side our tall, strapping, well-built men, on the other the highly formal and fastidious Madras Platoon – men as though always fresh from a bath, uniforms sparkling clean and starched. Madras Platoon stood solemn, silent and proud, watching the Pathans and marvelling at the din and rumpus they were making; that too in the presence of their commanding captain! The Punjabis were ordered to load their luggage onto elephants. Elephants instead of horses! Badshaho, just imagine the scene! Compare our alert, elegant and sleek horses to those slow, lumbering, flaccid elephants! Large flappy ears, and a long trunk hanging in front. Our people are trained on horses; they have no experience of elephants! And then, as you know, the elephant is just a showpiece. Obstinate and indolent both by nature and in work. How can an elephant even compare with a horse and its beautifully sculpted body, its masculine gait?’

  Shahji said, ‘Quite true, Jahandadji. It is said, it was the horse that Rabb brought into existence first of all. What a perfectly chiselled form! An animal for sure, but even when the brave beast stands simply unadorned, man still pales in comparison.’

  Ganda Singh agreed, ‘Badshaho, a man astride a horse is a regal sight in itself.’

  Najiba’s brain too grew sharp. ‘Shahji, it’s something worth considering. If a man is astride a donkey, he’s either a washerman or a Kanjar nomad. Rest, he may well go about preening like he is the master of ceremonies, but no one will buy it.’

  The gathering erupted in guffaws.

  Guruditt Singh got excited. ‘Maharaj Ranjit Singh’s horse, Lali, was world famous. Sixteen hands long. Regal bearing. Colour blue. Legs black. Bands of gold around his fetlocks.’

  ‘Waah-waah! What a sight!’

  Fakira said, ‘The thing is, badshahs-shahenshahs have no dearth of gold and jewels amassed from loots and conquests; they can adorn their horses all they like. One must understand that the beast’s hide cannot be cast in gold, or else who would have done less?’

  Shahji added his bit, ‘Like great emperors and kings, their steeds have also been famous. Shah Durrani’s horses, Tarlan and Humdum earned a high name.’

  Fateh Aliji agreed, ‘Shahji, the fact is that a man is made and known by his mount.’

  Kakku Khan could contain himself no longer. ‘Those with mounts are many, but ji there’s a lot of people without horses too. If you ask me, if a man is walking on his own two feet, nothing comes close in comparison. It’s the grace and munificence of the living human body! A man carrying himself – rider and mount both in one whole, perfectly healthy body.’

  ‘Waah-waah! What a thing to say, Kakku Khan! You have made us happy.’

  Chaudhary Fateh Ali said, ‘Shahji, Kakku Khan and Najiba’s grandfather was famous even across the river. Rough of speech, but he made a strong impression.’

  Maiyya Singh woke up from a short nap. ‘Jahandad, the Pathan Platoon had reached Jhansi station … now resume the story.’

  ‘All right, listen. Seeing all the chaos and din, the Madras regiment raised its brows and looked at them in disdain. And their captain-commander looked at our platoon as a fifth-grader might look at nursery and first-graders. You see, the thing is that the Madrasi man is calm by nature. Likewise, compact in height and build and restrained in temperament. While our men take a lot of space and our platoons are equally loud and boisterous.’

  Ganda Singh laughed. ‘If the Bunekhal, Gilzai, and Durrani Pathans so much as raise their hefty yard-long arms, a bystander would think the men are in a brawl! Go on, Jahandad.’

  ‘So take it that the bhangra was danced at Jhansi station that day. But the havildar of our Punjabi Platoon, Major Gul Badshah, remained unfazed through it all and reigned supreme over Jhansi station like the Baloach Pathans on a mountain pass. Taut, sinewy body, fair skin. His mother was definitely an Englishwoman. The English Pathan had a dazzling presence. Just kept standing there, watching his troops, and smiling. Naturally, our platoon absolutely adored him, and how! Madras Platoon made a thousand faces, frowned and fidgeted in disapproval, but our Havildar Major was too busy basking in his own glory.’

  Mauladadji asked, ‘And what happened to the elephants?’

  ‘The mahouts tried to make the elephants sit down, calling out “dhakk … dhakk” and the Pathans kept laughing, teeth glinting in those faces like lightning. Amidst all the ruckus, the luggage began to be loaded onto the elephants. Just as the luggage was being secured with ropes, a train engine roared past. Bas ji, pure pandemonium broke loose! The elephants went berserk, running amok all over the platform, and the Pathan ranks just guffawed, grabbed the ropes hanging from their sides, and swung merrily with them! And then on top of that, it began to rain again! The next day, after things had calmed down, come evening the Pathans took up their sarnai and dhol and sang the “wounded heart” or Zakhmi-dil. The sombre mood caught on, and the atmosphere in the cantonment changed. The notes so heart-wrenching that all eyes welled up.’

  Kriparam asked, ‘And what might this Zakhmi-dil be?’

  ‘It is a Pathan composition, much like our own songs, tappas and kafis. One may or may not understand the words, but their melodies alone are enough to pierce your soul.’

  Guruditt Singh’s mind was elsewhere. ‘What happened to the Madras Platoon?’

  ‘What could have happened! They sat in the same train and headed back to their cantonment, what else.’

  Jahandadji’s fauji heart went back to his own cantonment for a while. ‘Badshaho, the defence governor was extremely pleased with our 14 Punjab. When he visited Jhansi on his inspection tour, he gave the platoon top honours! Ganda Singhji, I’m talking of the time when Sipahi Rahim Ali had won big accolades and rewards. Sipahi Dittu Dogra and Punjaba Singh were also with him.’

  All at once, the youthful form of Laddha came and stood before the gathering. Tall, sturdy of build. Moustache resplendent on his proud Jatt face.

  Guruditt Singh said, ‘My thoughts keep returning to young Laddha. These eyes saw him being born, growing up, and the news of his death, too, was heard by these very ears today. Such were the fates of sister Fatima and Bebe Hassa. Their faces have turned pale and haggard in a day.’

  ‘He was such an affectionate lad. When he received the recruitment slip, he was overjoyed and came to convey his regards and salaams to everyone.’

  Karm Ilahiji nodded. ‘God’s whims. It was writ, so it happened. Otherwise in a war, bullets are without count. The bullet finds the heart of one whose time has come.’

  Meeranbaksh said, ‘Badshaho, many old and young of our village are in the platoons. Have taken part in battles big and small. Those who had to die have died, but many have survived too.’

  ‘All these decisions and powers Rabb Rasool has kept in His own hands.’

  ‘True. Our Ganda Singhji has even gone to Africa, isn’t it, Khalsaji?’

  Ganda Singhji had shut his eyes; he didn’t open them.

  Shahji then turned the conversation towards Jahandadji. ‘Remember when you went to Tibet? Those were also cruel times.’

  ‘Badshaho, in Tibet there are only rivers and water. Couldn’t get a bite to eat anywhere. We route-marched up to Lhasa.’

  Munshi Ilmdin wasn’t impressed. ‘Jahandadji, what would the distance between Lhasa and Tibet be?’

  ‘About four hundred miles. Shahji, most useless
water I’ve ever seen, one can neither drink it nor boil it. Climate so foul that even the sturdy Dogras died of pneumonia. Couldn’t bear the cold. Eight English officers died and an estimated two hundred and fifty native troops. Hospitals overflowed.’

  Ganda Singh woke up in great consternation. ‘Krishmish is the most important festival of the English in winter. Once, the jawans were served so much egg pudding, they got the runs. That’s it, the order was passed that no more pudding would either be prepared in the mess or eaten!’

  ‘Yes, the well-being of the troops is foremost for the Sarkar. Shahji, the Tibetan leeches are deadly creatures. Once stuck, they don’t let go until they have sucked your blood dry. Terrain may be rocky, but the water there is hard. Only if a man has it in his fate to live can he live in such harsh conditions. We’ve seen so many die before their time, whether good or bad!’

  Ganda Singh said, ‘Tibetans are small of build and big of sword. No trace of beards and moustaches!’

  ‘Ganda Singhji, it is a cold region. Height and growth of people is less there. And hear this, if a Tibetan man thanks you, he sticks his tongue out and shows you his thumbs.’

  ‘Tauba-tauba … that doesn’t seem very polite!’

  ‘Badshaho, a tragic incident occurred there. A Pathan lifted a Tibetan down from his army yak. On alighting, the man first stuck out his tongue, then showed his thumbs. That was it, the Pathan turned red in the face and pulled out his pistol. Just then the subedar major turned up from somewhere, explained to the Pathan that as per his custom, the man was showing him respect.’

  This tale had been told many times before. But Shahji felt it necessary to encourage Jahandad Khanji. ‘Kashiram, hasn’t our Kabul Singh of Tanda often recounted how our forces had fought valiantly in Tibet? The newspapers of London talked about it. Got high praise and applause.’

  Puffed with praise of his platoon, Jahandadji’s moustache quivered ever so slightly. ‘Subedar Shabibullah, Havildar Sharif, Sipahi Akbar Shah, Subedar Major Jamal Ali and Lance Nayak Payayo received medals for their bravery!’

  Ganda Singh said, ‘Ishwar Singh Kotliwala also earned a good name. Extremely strong and handsome too. He was later sent to Somaliland.’

  Munshi Ilmdin was a little peeved by all the name-dropping. ‘Badshaho, tell me one thing. It would have been quite nice if our pind had also won some little medal or medallion through you. After all, you were already shining resplendent in the army!’