Bai agreed with a glance and Phuli Bai stood up and clasped her hands together, ‘Hukum, please write and say that we should stay in our own homes at night.’
‘But you didn’t want to stay at home,’ said Bai in astonishment.
Phuli Bai was silent and stared fixedly at the other side of the lattice.
‘Phuli Bai, is there some problem with staying here?’
‘No, Hukum . . .’
‘Then?’
Suddenly Phuli Bai began to cry.
‘Hukum Khamma, I’m scared in Gangawa.’
Bai set her cup down on the tray and said gently, ‘What are you afraid of, will you at least say that? Don’t talk in riddles!’
Phuli Bai clasped her hands together. ‘Hukum, this is a haunted house. No one wants to live here. You’re from outside. You don’t know the ghost stories. Bai ji, that’s why the Maharani Sahiba ordered a guard to remain here.’
Bai began to laugh.
‘Phuli Bai, ghosts don’t run away from guards. Stay here a few days. Nothing will happen to you.’
‘Bai ji, you’re from outside, what do you know! When someone dies at the palace, the body is placed here. You were asking about the square terrace in the side room, remember? Hukum, the funeral lamp is lit there.’
‘It’s not the only funeral lamp in Gangawa. They must burn in all homes some day, Phuli Bai. In four days, Zutshi Sahib and I are going to Bombay. Until then you will both have to stay here. If a ghost shows up during that time, I’ll come back and arrange for you to work somewhere else.’
Phuli Bai was choking with fear.
‘Hukum, please listen to me, it’s not right for you to live here. All of Sirohi knows that the ghosts rule at night at Gangawa, that they knock at the doors.’
Bai said sternly, ‘I do not believe in ghosts, nor in fear—you will both have to report for duty for these four nights.’
Phuli Bai fell silent and stood quietly weeping.
‘Look, I don’t care for crying and carrying on. I have no sympathy for such behaviour,’ she scolded.
The very same night she issued her admonishment, such an incident indeed came to pass. As she lay sleeping, a girl came to stand at the head of her bed in a red suit. The sound of footsteps, the clink of bangles.
‘Who is it?’
‘Oh, my Kishni! You don’t recognize the dead! It’s me, Beembo. Your childhood friend. Remember? I used to tease you:
Krishna Krishna
As thirsty as a well
How much water will you pull
How much thirst will you quench
As much nectar as you drink
That’s how long you’ll live.’
In her dream, she felt herself choking with fear.
She shrank back. ‘How did you get here, Beembo?’ she asked.
‘What’s it to the dead? We just wander about.’
‘Beembo, I didn’t see you in the camps.’
‘My husband and I crossed over to the shores of death on the night of our wedding. We got engaged in the afternoon, with the beating of tambourines at the haldi ritual, and at midnight, the pandit tied the red thread around my wrist and quietly recited the wedding sloka as we walked around the fire. When we started to hear shouts of Allahu Akbar and Har har Mahadev coming closer from the next neighbourhood, Ma pointed to the secret staircase—“Go, daughter, into the upstairs storage room,” she said. The two of us sat holding our breath and clasping hands, “Oh, God, if the murderous crowd ends up somewhere else, and if You have mercy on us, we’ll escape to the camps in the dead of night,” we said.’
‘Did you make it to the camps?’
‘No, Kishni, that wasn’t meant to be. Our enemies jumped from the neighbouring house and surrounded us. Those cruel men came barging in. They separated me from my groom, and after he tried to confront them, they cut off my bangled arms and threw them away, and in just a moment our lives had descended into darkness. The End.’
‘And now you’ve come here?’ she asked in a trembling voice.
‘To see my friend, to watch how you struggle as you forge new paths!’
Seeing Beembo, Kishni, she who feared not the ghosts, felt suffocated by terror.
‘Go now, Beembo! Go far, get out of here!’
Phuli Bai leaned over her and shook her by the shoulders and called out to her, ‘Get up, Bai, drink some water! Didn’t I tell you Gangawa was haunted? It’s haunted.’
She drank some water, looked around cautiously, checked the time on her watch and turned over. She laid her head down again and squeezed her eyes shut. Would all the other thousands of murdered people start wandering about as ghosts too, like Beembo?
17
My birthday is in February. The birthdays of all the children in our home were always celebrated with panache. New suits of clothes were ordered. New shoes. New shoes, and each child would be given whatever she wanted. After that, a whole year of studying hard.
That year, I was living in the hostel. I started cooking up plans. I could go for a day to my mother’s aunt’s house. Shamshad Begum’s home was not far—I could go to hear her sing.
No, no. Whenever I arrived at my great-aunt’s home, I started to clean. It was a fancy two-storey home, full of all sorts of decorations and conveniences, but devoid of any sense of order or neatness.
A sofa covered in golden tapestry, but in what condition? The pleats of a curtain droop. A carpet’s pale hues have darkened. Here, a basket lies on a windowsill; there, a vase; elsewhere, a saucerful of pickle or mathri. On the dining table lies a tray of leafy coriander. There was no shortage of servants, but I always got anxious looking after the housekeeping and started rushing about, putting things right. By then, the evening would have passed and the buzzing of the mosquitoes begun. Mohini Road, Nayi Colony. The stench of open drains pervaded the breeze, regardless of the weather. And I had the opportunity to visit there a couple of times a term. So why celebrate a birthday there?
No, no, not there.
At Granny’s farm.
But to go to Eminabad, one needed a holiday. Forget it, it would be fun right here in Anarkali. But no dahi ke bhalle. Kulfi, or falooda? Definitely not. We’d have a sick house on our hands. Indigestible.
Just as this plan was falling into place, a money order—next month’s allowance—arrived. It contained fifty extra rupees. It came with a directive: Buy yourself a kameez and dupatta for your birthday, on us. So now I turned my attention to clothing. A boski shirt and a Benarsi orhni with golden border from Banvasi’s.
But one night, as I was changing my clothes, I cast a glance over my suits and decided to put off my plan to buy something new. I had lots of clothes. I wasn’t going to waste this money on shopping.
That evening when I returned home from the badminton court, the girls at the hostel were getting ready to go out for Saturday night. Just one day a month. They got ready swiftly. Signed the register and went out.
‘Where to? Are you going to Anarkali?’ Harsharan asked.
‘You all go ahead. I have a few errands on the way, I’ll catch up with you.’
‘We’ll be at Kesari’s.’
I went to the Standard. I went in and put in my order for tea. I focused intently on each and every sip. For a little while I forgot all about the tea and mathri at the canteen.
The people at the counter glanced over at my table a couple of times. Perhaps I was waiting for someone? And then, as I sat there, I had a sudden epiphany.
I went up and paid my bill and then began to ask questions with my birthday party in mind. Why not a party here, if it’s not too expensive?
A man stood at the counter paying an advance.
His menu was: sandwiches, pastries, chicken pakoras, paneer pakoras, cold drinks and tea.
‘Is the party at your home or somewhere else?’
‘At my home.’
‘How many people?’
‘One hundred twenty.’
‘Time?’
‘5.30.�
�
‘Date?’
‘12 February.’
I was thrilled. 12 February was my father’s birthday.
The smart Anglo-Indian girl now turned towards me and asked, ‘Please tell me what I can do for you now, miss.’
‘I want to host a party for my birthday.’
‘At your college or somewhere else?’
I was completely astonished.
‘What do you mean by “somewhere else”?’
‘Wherever you like. We have a whole van. It can go anywhere.’
‘Would it be possible to have the party at the Ravi River?’
‘Why not? How many guests will there be?’
‘Give me five minutes.’
I wrote out a list with the names of twenty girls, and right at the top, I added the name of our Principal Sahiba. Twenty-one. I wrote out the menu on the same sheet of paper:
Pastry
Keema samosa
Sandwiches
Tea
Then I made a change:
Pastry
Vegetable samosa
Rasgulla
Tea
If my budget wouldn’t cover that, the pastries could be cut. I handed the list to the lady.
‘You may add one more item.’
‘How about biscuits?’
‘Pakoras or aloo tikiyas?’
‘Ma’am, I have a small budget.’
‘How much?’
I counted up in my head the money my grandmothers and great-aunt had sent me. I thought, I can afford it.
‘Ma’am, two hundred.’
She looked at me with interest and said, ‘That’s fine, that will work.’
A one-hundred-rupee advance.
I counted out ten ten-rupee notes from my purse as though each one was extremely precious. As though they were one-thousand-rupee notes.
Date, time and place.
Altogether, twenty-one guests.
‘Increase the number of guests. Make it twenty-five. And if it goes over two hundred, then cut one item. We’ll adjust it. Leave it to me. I get a discount—I’ll make the order in my name. I want to see you happy.’
‘Thanks, Ma’am.’
Two days before my birthday, I invited the girls. I’d also got some advice.
The next day, in the morning, I stood outside the Principal’s office. I’d been summoned.
‘What brings you here?’
‘Ma’am, my birthday is the day after tomorrow. We all want you to come to the party. Please, Ma’am.’
The Principal Sahiba took an interest in me.
‘Where’s the party? At the canteen or on the lawn?’
‘Ma’am, on the banks of the Ravi.’
‘Is it a picnic or a birthday party? How will you get there?’
‘Ma’am, when I asked the transporter, he said they would take out the car, but only with the Principal Sahiba’s permission.’
‘No, the college cannot pay for such trips.’
‘Ma’am, permission can be got from you.’
‘But who will pay for the trip? Will you?’
‘No, Ma’am! Let this be a surprise. The burden will not fall on the college.’
The stern expression on the Principal’s face suggested everything was off.
‘Then tell me: Who will pay?’
‘Ma’am, the girls will all pay for themselves. They will contribute in lieu of a birthday present.’
The Principal smiled. ‘That’s a good way to get there. I’ll come. And yes, have you asked Mrs Pandit or not? Have you invited her?’
‘Ma’am, the Assistant Warden Sahiba is on vacation. That’s why she’s not coming.’
‘All right then, you may go.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
That Ravi afternoon by the riverbank sparkled with the festive finery of girls. Colourful dupattas and fresh river breezes. They wore red, yellow, blue-striped, printed tops and long braids plaited with swinging parande.
The imposing height of the Principal Sahiba. A unique glow to her face. Her hair pulled back in a small bun. A white sari with a wide border. Kanchan Lata Sabarwal. A unique personality. A born principal. A crisp and influential voice.
As soon as we got out of the bus and sat down on the banks, we started splashing water on our hands and faces. How lovely! What fun! How delightful, the feel of the water on the skin.
The girls began to splash one another with handfuls of water.
Then slowly the cuffs of salwars rose and wading along the shores began.
The Principal Sahiba called out a warning:
‘Don’t go in too far. The current is strong in the middle.’
On the other side of the broad banks of the Ravi, Noor Jahan’s tomb stood silently, head held high.
Someone said, ‘How nice it would be if our college had a boating club as well.’
Miss Sabarwal nodded. ‘Yes, we can think about that.’
‘Ma’am, when is the Managing Committee meeting?’ asked the senior physical instructor, Satvanti.
Principal Sahiba scolded her with her eyes. ‘Leave that to me,’ she said. ‘Enjoy yourselves here.’
Laji from Kohat and Svarn Seth, who had never been
room-mates, began to stroll along slowly. They ended up far ahead as they waded through the sand.
When they returned, they were seated in the Medical College Boat, drifting towards us. Behind them came another boat—empty.
Amazing! Ask and ye shall receive.
The boat came ashore. Laji and Svarn Seth both got out, laughing. The girls surrounded them. How did you get them?
‘It was Svarn Seth’s magical nose . . .’
‘No, this was all thanks to Laji’s bubbly voice.’
‘Tell us properly,’ Satvanti asked in her twanging tone. ‘How did you get two boats at once? And what will we have to give the two boatmen?’
‘Nothing, Ma’am, nothing at all. The boys that were swimming offered us the boats themselves. They said they were just sitting around, empty. “Please bring them back at five o’clock,” they said. Ma’am, what more could we want? This is it!’
Peals of laughter and happiness. Two boats, two turns each. In the very last turn went Savitri Sood, Gobindi Issar and Kalpana and Sudarshan Saini from Africa.
The boat strayed a bit from the shore. It began to look smaller and smaller. Suddenly something happened. Sudarshan stood up excitedly in the boat and it rocked, then it began to pull the falling, sinking girls forward.
‘Help! Help!’
Saviours were not far. They’d been swimming nearby. The boatmen pulled two girls out, and the swimmers took care of the rest. They were the boys from the college that owned the boats, and they saved the girls and brought them ashore. They turned over their wet bodies and began patting them on the back.
The girls hadn’t swallowed much water. They opened their eyes.
The boys and the boatmen were congratulated.
‘Thank you so much. We are grateful to you. Now we will look after them.’
The girls looked at one another and smiled.
When they glanced over at the two swimmers, I invited them to join our party.
‘It’s my birthday party. Please come. We’d all be so delighted. We’ll wait for you right here.’ They nodded and waved and said they would come back.
Wet dupattas began to dry and the girls rescued from the water cursed and teased one another playfully.
‘Sudarshan Saini, what were you thinking, standing up in that boat? What did you get up to see? You can see Noor Jahan’s tomb sitting down.’
Amid the uproar of drying the wet girls, the Standard mobile van suddenly came to a halt before us. The tables were brought out smartly. Square tablecloths were spread over them. Lovely crockery.
The waiter came near and held out a chit. It listed: Birthday party, name, address and college name.
He salaamed and asked, ‘Miss Sahib, how long until we set out the tea?’
‘
In half an hour.’
Despite the girls falling into the water, the breeze began to caress the face of poetry-loving Miss Sabarwal. It was that kind of place.
‘Ma’am, please recite some poetry to us.’
‘You all start first.’
But then her eye alighted on me and Principal Sahiba suddenly asked in a strict tone, ‘How many people did you order for?’
‘Twenty-five, Ma’am.’
‘Why twenty-five? We’re only twenty-one, aren’t we?’
‘Ma’am, there’s also the driver and cleaner. There’s just two left. Ma’am, that’s why we invited two more.’
The girls began to tease: ‘Ma’am, either Sobti must know these two, or the ones who fell in the water do. What do you say, Sudarshan Saini? Who knows, maybe those boys are from Africa as well!’
The girls’ bangles began to jingle.
Tea had already been set out. Right in the middle of the table sat a trayful of biscuits with a card that sparkled with these words: Best wishes on your birthday. The fresh scent of samosas frying in the Standard van began to waft through the air.
The girls leapt about when they saw the two boys arrive in blazers. Now that they had joined them, the girls began to flutter about as though the Principal Sahiba were not even there.
When the tea arrived, the party came together nicely. Punjabi folk songs, ghazals, poetry and recitations of Heer.
I was requested to recite something last of all.
A poem by Narendra Sharma ‘Pravasi’:
Who knows when we shall meet after disbanding for today
We’ll shoot apart as stars of the same firmament from today
We’ll travel far apart forever from each other from today
As each bank of the Sindhu may never join again
Who knows when we shall meet after disbanding for today
The girls turned naughty and began to tease one another. Why should they be sad?
We’ll meet again
We’ll meet here
We’ll meet for sure
The sinking sun came to rest behind the greenery. The stillness of the riverbank signalled: It’s late now, go now.
And that evening—what an evening it was! If I hadn’t given it so much thought, how could I have pulled it off?
A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There Page 8
