Some sort of a show was permitted to us only during the Dussehra holidays. The triangular drama of man, beauty and the devil represented by Rama, Sita and Ravana, respectively, was a great concession to us.
I was in the sixth or seventh standard when a theatrical company again strayed into Gurdaspur. I conspired with my younger brothers to persuade — force would, in fact, be the right word — father to take us to a show. We thought up a line of action and mugged up a few decisive sentences to waft our request to the heart of the man in father.
Our excitement grew with the decline of the day. Before the evening set in, we took our stand at the entrance, anxiously awaiting father’s arrival. We sighted Pitaji at last; he came home with a stick in hand and in a grave mood. We respectfully made way for him. Noticing our unusual behaviour, he gave us a faint smile of approbation.
Heartened, we followed him into the house. On the way I winked to my younger brother. Now was the moment to open the issue. Pitaji was in an amicable mood. My brother answered in sign language: ‘Don’t think I am a coward or that I have forgotten. Let Pitaji change and have his glass of sakanjbeen.’
As usual father put the stick in corner, sat down upon a charpoy, called our younger brother, Billoo, and began fondling him. The opportunity was not lost on him. Haltingly, he farmed the request: ‘Pitaji, take us to the theatre tonight.’
Hari, the younger brother, immediately lent support in perfect rehearsed words.
Father’s immediate reaction was to wave off that very serious proposition. But when he found us insistent, he said angrily: ‘Ankh ka jadoo’ (Magic of the eyes) is not meant for you. You are kids.’
‘But we must see it.’ I insisted with obvious vehemence. Hardly had I finished the sentence when a slap descended on my cheek. Sobbing, I made for the door. My brothers followed humbled and humiliated.
This incident broke our spirits immediately. For days we were afraid to show up in father’s presence. But all the time our teacher’s other exhortation continued to echo in our ears: ‘Man does not give up his efforts because of defeats and diffculties: failures are stepping stones to success.’
After the lapse of a week or so, the theatrical company announced its next play, the ‘Mahabharata.’ I called my brothers to a conference. We discussed the issue and unanimously decided to press our demand again, but this time first on mother.
We filed gingerly into her room. She smiled and asked, ‘Now whom is the army going to attack?’
We told her what we were after. Solemnly, she chanted father’s oft-repeated sermon. But finding us adamant, she thundered and threatened. We remained unimpressed and went on repeating: ‘Mataji, the Mahabarata is a religious play. You yourself often narrate stories from the epic. Why don’t you take us to the play?’
Cornered, she said: ‘Go and tell your father. He is after all the master of the house, not I?’
When father returned home in the evening, we put up our demand to him. He fretted and fumed, thundered and threatened and otherwise tried his utmost to wriggle out somehow. But the play was religious. Our demand could not be brushed aside.
That night father took us to the show. We were bursting with joy. This was our first victory.
We went into the theatrical hall — an improvisation for the occasion. Excitedly, we waited for the show to begin.
With the deafening explosion of a cracker, the curtain began rolling up — too slowly, we felt.
And nothing was visible on the stage: a thick wall of smoke stood between us and the stage. After the smoke dispersed we spotted out some male and female figures offering prayers in unison. The ritual over, the show began with one or two skits.
I was yawning and soon dozed off. I don’t know how long I remained unawake. I was rudely woken up by father. With clenched teeth and suppressed anger, he was saying: ‘You damned son of a sin! You son of a pig! I have had to spend hard-earned money only to see you go to sleep in the hall. Never ask me to take you anywhere again or you will regret it, I tell you.’
Jabbering, I woke up. I myself could not make out why I had dozed off.
I rubbed my eyes and looked at the stage. The Pandavas were locked in a gambling bout with their cousins, the Kauravas. With every throw of the dice, excitement rose in the hall. After losing all their worldly possessions, the Pandavas staked their common wife, Draupadi. Everyone was engrossed in the scene. I was pitying poor Draupadi and saying to myself: ‘If I were the Pandavas I would never stake Draupadi for the life of me.’
No sooner had the Pandavas lost Draupadi than Duryodhana, the Kaurava chief, ordered that she should be brought in. She was dragged to the stage as a slave. When she tried to rush out she was forced back again by her hair by Dushasana, Duryodhana’s mighty brother; she was made to sit in Duryodhana’s lap.
After these insults, Duryodhana ordered Dushasana to strip her.
Everyone in the hall craned his neck and fixed his anxious gaze on the stage. The God-fearing among the audience began chanting, ‘Ram Ram.’
When Dushasana began pulling off her sari, Draupadi closed her eyes, and with folded hands prayed for intervention by Lord Krishna, her brother: ‘Have pity on me. Come to my rescue and save me from this dishonour. You have saved the honour of millions. Save mine too.’
Her prayers were touching.
When half of her sari had been pulled off, excitement mounted to a crescendo in the audience. Lord Krishna had thrown no wrap from the sky to cover Draupadi’s shame.
Spectators started shouting: ‘Cast the wrap, cast the wrap.’
The more enthusiastic among them could not rest content with shouts. They stood up and began yelling for the wrap, gesticulating angrily. Youngsters climbed up the chairs and benches and began whistling, howling and thumping.
With a heavy thud, a bench broke down and the clamour was stilled momentarily, bringing audience and players to familiar dimensions.
In that pin-drop silence a voice confided from somewhere behind the curtains and drapery: ‘Lord Krishna won’t throw down the wrap tonight; his salary has been in arrears for the last four months.’
tai eesree
Krishen Chander
I was in my final year at the Grant Medical College, in Calcutta and had come to Lahore for a few days to attend my elder brother’s wedding which was to take place in our ancestral home in Kucha Thakar Das close to Shahi Mohalla. It was there that I first met tai Eesree.
Tai Eesree was not really my aunt; but she was the sort of person who made everyone want to call her tai — elder aunt. When her tonga came into our locality and someone shouted, ‘There’s tai Eesree!’ a crowd of people, both old and young, men as well as women, ran up to receive her. Some helped her alight from her tonga.
Tai Eesree was an asthmatic and the slightest movement or speech, or even the sight of people left her out of breath. Some relatives produced money from their pockets to pay the tongawala, but tai Eesree gave a wheezing cackle and told them that she had already paid. The way she spoke, struggling for breath, and her asthmatic laughter, was most attractive to me. The relatives looked crestfallen. They put their money back in their pockets and complained, ‘Why did you do that? You don’t give us an opportunity to do anything for you.’ Tai did not answer. She took a fan from the hand of a young girl standing beside her and came along smiling and fanning herself.
Tai Eesree could not have been a day under sixty. Most of her hair had gone grey, making a pleasing frame for her brown, oval face. Everyone liked to hear her simple words, spoken through her asthmatic wheeze, but what fascinated me were her eyes. There was something about them which made me think of Mother Earth — of vast stretches of farmland and of deep flowing rivers — and at the same time they were full of boundless love and compassion, of fathomless innocence, and of sorrow unassuageable. To this day I have not met a woman with such eyes. They had that quality of timelessness which makes the biggest and the most difficult human problem appear insignificant.
Tai Eesre
e wore a gharara of taffeta with a gold border; her shirt was of saffron silk embroidered with flowers. And her head was covered with a muslin duppatta. She wore gold bracelets on her arms. As she came into the courtyard there was a great commotion. Young brides and aunts, brothers’ wives and their sisters-in-law, mother’s sisters and father’s brother’s wives all ran up to touch her feet. A woman fetched a multi-coloured peerhi, tai Eesree smiled and sat down on it. She embraced all the women in turn, put her hand on their heads and blessed them.
And beside them a young girl, Savitri began to wave a hand-fan with great enthusiasm. Tai Eesree had brought a coloured wicker basket with her, it lay beside her feet by the peerhi. As she blessed each person she took out a four-anna pice from the basket and gave one to everybody in turn. She must have given away over a hundred four-anna pices in twenty minutes. When all the men and the women, boys, girls, infants had touched her feet and received their four anna pice, tai Eesree raised her chin and turned back to look at the girl fanning her. ‘Which one are you?’ she asked.
‘I am Savitri,’ replied the girl shyly.
‘Ai hai, you are Jai Kishen’s daughter! I had completely forgotten you. Come and embrace me...’
Tai Eesree took the girl in her arms and kissed her face. By the time she had opened the basket and given the girl a fouranna pice, all the women were in fits of laughter. Aunt Kartaro flashed her sapphire ring and explained, ‘Tai, this Savitri is not Jai Kishen’s daughter; she is the daughter of the untouchable Heero.’
‘Hai, I am ruined!’ wailed tai Eesree. She could hardly breathe. ‘Hai, I will have to wash myself thoroughly. I even kissed her on the face. What am I to do?’
Tai Eesree turned her bewildered eyes on the untouchable Savitri. The girl began to sob. This made tai relent at once. She took the girl in her arms again. ‘No, child, you mustn’t cry! You are quite innocent; you are as pure as a goddess, a virgin goddess. God Himself lives in your undefiled little body. You should not cry. I have to wash because my religion says I must. No more tears. Here’s another four annas for you...’
Tai Eesree gave the girl a second four-anna pice, and the untouchable Savitri wiped her tears and began to smile. Tai Eesree then raised her arm to beckon. ‘Heeroo! Warm water for my bath. You too will get four annas.’ The crowd in the courtyard was convulsed with laughter.
Many people called Tai Eesree the four-anna aunty; others called her the sponsor aunty. It was well-known that from the day elder uncle Bodh Raj had married tai Eesree to the present time, their marriage had not been consummated. Scandalmongers even said that before his marriage, young Bodh Raj had so many affairs with beautiful, sophisticated women that when he found himself wedded to a simple peasant-girl he took an instant dislike to her and left her strictly alone. He did not maltreat her in any way; he sent her Rs. 75 every month; and she lived with her in-laws in the village and served everyone who came. Uncle Bodh Raj had an iron-monger’s business in Jullundur and often it was many years before he went to his village. Eesree’s parents tried several times to persuade her to come home, but she refused. Her parents even wanted to arrange another marriage of her, but tai would not hear of it. She looked after her husband’s parents so well that they began to cherish her more than they could have their own daughter. Uncle Bodh Raj’s father, Malik Chand handed over all the keys of the house to tai Eesree. Her mother-in-law became so fond of her that she gave away all her gold ornaments to tai Eesree.
About other stout women in general one may be justified in wondering how they cope with the problems of their youth, but no one had any doubts about tai Eesree. One was sure that even on the day she was born, she must have raised her hand to bless her own mother and spoken to her in her sweet compassionate voice — ‘You have had to suffer much for my sake; here’s a four anna bit for you!’
It was probably her temperament which made her relationship with her husband so peaceful. As far as their relatives were concerned, Uncle Bodh Raj was a good-fornothing bon-viveur drunkard and fornicator. What if he had made good in his iron business! He had no right to ruin the life of tai Eesree the way he had. But tai Eesree herself had no regret whatsoever at having wasted her life; from the way she spoke and behaved it did not seem as if she were even aware of the fact that someone had ruined her life. She was always chatting merrily, laughing, joining people in their fun; always sharing people’s joys and sorrows, always ready to lend a hand. It was inevitable that if there was a celebration in the neighbourhood, tai Eesree would be there. And if someone was bereaved, tai Eesree was there too, to share their grief.
Tai Eesree’s husband had money, but not tai Eesree. The 75 rupees she received every month she invariably spent on other people. In those days money went a long way. The 75 rupees helped a lot of people in distress. But it wasn’t tai Eesree’s generosity that drew people to her. There were times when tai Eesree did not have a pice in her pocket and yet people flocked to her. On the contrary one often heard it said that merely to touch tai Eesree’s feet, gave one peace of mind.
Uncle Bodh Raj was as satanic a man as tai Eesree was saintly. For thirty years he left tai Eesree to live with his parents in the village. When they died and the other members of the family had grown up, married and set up homes of their own, the house in the village was empty. Bodh Raj had no choice but to take tai Eesree to Jullundur. But tai Eesree was not able to stay there for more than a few days, because Bodh Raj attempted a liaison with the daughter of a respectable Pathan family from Pacca Bagh. The Pathans told tai Eesree that it was out of regard for her that they had spared the life of Bodh Raj and it would be best if she took her husband elsewhere. A few days later tai Eesree accompanied her husband to Lahore and rented a small house in Mohalla Varyaran. As luck would have it, even in Lahore Uncle Bodh Raj’s business flourished. And at the same time he began to visit a prostitute Lachmi, who carried on her trade in Shahi Mohalla. The affair developed and finally Uncle Bodh Raj began to live with the whore, and seldom set foot in Mohalla Varyaran. But there was no trace of resentment in tai Eesree’s face.
It was at the time when there was much talk of Uncle Bodh Raj’s affair with the prostitute, when my elder brother’s marriage took place. Bodh Raj did not come to the wedding but tai Eesree spent all her days and nights looking after the comforts of the guests. Her amiable ways smoothed the most uneven of tempers; scowls on people’s faces turned to smiles.
I never heard tai Eesree criticise anyone, complain against fate, or seem out of her depth. Only once did I see in her a temporary disquiet.
This was during the wedding festivities. My elder brother was occupied all night with the wedding ceremonies. Early morning after the ceremony was over, the bride’s people spread out the dowry for display. Those were old times when people gave coloured peerhies rather than the now fashionable sofa-sets; and beds with gaudily painted legs. Those were times when drawing rooms were known by their native names as baithaks or diwan khanas. But my elder brother’s father-in-law was an executive officer in a Military cantonment; and the first Indian to have attained this rank. Consequently he gave his daughter a handsome dowry — all of it in the very latest style. Amongst our relatives this was the first time that anyone had given a sofa-set in a dowry.
The sofa-set was the main topic of conversation amongst our kinsmen. Women from distant localities came to the house to see the ‘English peerhoo’. This was also the first time that tai Eesree saw a sofa-set. She examined it with great care; then she felt it with her hands and kept mumbling to herself. Unable to contain herself she turned to me for an explanation.
‘Son, why is this thing called a sofa-set?’
How could I answer a question like that? I just shook my head — ‘I have no idea aunty.’
‘Why are the two chairs small and the third one long?’ Again I did not know the answer and again shook my head to convey my ignorance.
Tai pondered over the matter for quite some time, clearly perplexed. Suddenly her face lit up with a childish
radiance as if she had found the answer. ‘Shall I tell you?’
‘Yes, aunty.’
She explained to us as if we were a bunch of little children. ‘Listen! I think the long sofa is meant for the time when the husband and wife are at peace with each other; then they can both sit on it. And whenever they have a quarrel they can sit separately on the two smaller ones. The English are a very wise race. No wonder they rule over us.’
Tai’s reasoning aroused a roar of laughter. But I noticed that tai herself was suddenly silent. Was she reminded of the life-long misunderstanding between her own husband and herself? I could not say for certain. But when I looked up at her, I caught a strange light in her eye, as if somewhere a door in her mind always kept firmly locked, had opened for an instant.
After taking my medical degree from Calcutta, I married a Bengali girl and set up as a doctor in Dharamtola. I tried hard for several years but could not build up a practice. Eventually my elder brother persuaded me to move to Lahore. He set me up in a shop in Kucha Thakar Das and I started my practice amongst my own kinsmen and neighbours. At Calcutta I had been a young novice without any experience; at Lahore I started with almost ten year’s know-how of the art of trapping patients. Consequently I did quite well. I was kept busy at all hours of the day and night.
I had my own family by now, so life went round in a whirl, with no time to go anywhere.
I did not see tai Eesree for many years. But I had heard that she still lived in the same house in Mohalla Varyaran and that Uncle Bodh Raj lived in Shahi Mohalla with his prostitute mistress, Lachmi. And that, once in a while he dropped in, to find out how his wife was faring.
One morning when I was making out prescriptions for the crowd of patients in my clinic, a man from Mohalla Varyaran came along and said — ‘Doctor Sahib, tai Eesree is dying. Come along at once.’
Land of Five Rivers Page 8