Chhote Shah laughed disarmingly. ‘Tayaji, yours is not a request but a command!’
Ganda Singh said softly into his ear, ‘Most certainly you will see the bibis. Kashiram, show them to Taya in this life itself. Or else this unfulfilled wish will keep bothering him in the next one too!’
‘Karm Ilahiji, for the Jatt farmer, any official, whether magistrate or block member, is the same. Why try to judge whether his status is high or low? It is not a soldier’s shoulder, after all, that one may look at his ribbons and tell if his platoon is Chaman Cheen or Lhasa Chitral.’
‘Absolutely true, Shah Sahib. You must have heard the one about Kurban Singh, son of Labana Balkar Singh of Tanda, who came home from his Chitral battalion, dressed up in his uniform every morning and went house to house, making a display of himself. His friends advised him: First, it’s not right to show off. Second, seeing your ribbons, new competitors will rise.’
‘Said fair and square, Chaudharyji. After all, other youths also possess bulging muscles and broad chests, don’t they? Chest thirty-five, thirty-six; height six or a bit less. Rest, if all parts of the machine are in working order. why wouldn’t all Jatt youths leave their ploughs and yokes to go and taste the highs of cantonment life? And then who will work the land?’
Fateh Aliji said, ‘Badshaho, in Tanda every home has a shoulder with an army ribbon. Jahandadji, aren’t the Labanas of Tanda in your platoon?’
‘Ji, of course they are! Tanda, Falian, Khairiyan, Shahpur, Gujrat – platoons abound in our area. The maternal grandson of Man Singh of Falian, Sujan Singh, and the nephew of Imdad Ali of Naushehra, Fariad Ali are posted in Rasoolpur Landikotal.’
‘Jahandadji, may Rabb do you good, to which platoon-batallion do our boys Miyandad and Bakhshash belong?’
‘Miyandad is 26 Punjab and Bakhshash Khan in the Punjabi Musalman.’
Ganda Singh was delighted. ‘Must be in 33 Punjab itself!’
‘Four to six platoons are attached to it: four are Punjabi Musalman, two Pathan and two Labana.’
At first Ganda Singh was happy. Then he grew misty-eyed. ‘Whither are those youthful seasons of the army now!’
‘Yaara Jahandad, can’t the season of spring return once more? And, as if after a long leave, both of us report on duty once again?’
Jahandadji smiled shortly. ‘Badshaho, why ask me? I am but yours to command!’
‘O 40 Punjaba, if it were in man’s own hands, then wouldn’t armies and platoons spare the enemy and arrest time itself!’
Fateh Aliji cleared his throat. ‘Ganda Singh, turn your mind around. There is nothing left in such talk. Look to your lands.’
Jahandadji caught the previous thread. ‘Shahji, the year Miandad was recruited, his platoon celebrated its fiftieth anniversary. It so happened that two subedar majors got their pension that very year. One was Subedar-Major Magar Singh Bahadur and the other, Subedar-Major Makhdud. General Bahadur Adam was pleased with them and ordered that the photographs of both officers be framed and presented to them as gifts. Not only this, both were given salutes upon leaving.’
‘Waah! Some respect, this!’
‘Hasn’t our boy Bakhshash Khan also got his colours?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Deen Muhammadji showered praise: ‘The entire clan is one of army men! Father and grandfather were also resplendent with their guns.’
Kakku Khan said, ‘Perhaps not on parade, but one has to toil on one’s lands as well. In truth, it is the uniform that makes a man grow in stature.’
‘But what would you call the Jatt farmer if he were to wear a uniform? Isn’t there a saying: “The Jatt who wears white clothes and eats chicken for lunch belongs nowhere.”’
Mauladadji said, ‘To each his own! Crops are coloured by the sweat of hands that toil, and by Allah’s munificence. Yes, it is true that one cannot till fields and raise crops wearing fine clothes and eating chicken or pulao.’
Shahji gracefully added, ‘Mauladadji, you have said a wise thing. If man doesn’t tug at the earth’s odhni like a child, why would she nurse him with milk? Our Ved-Shastras and scriptures also say that if Mother Earth is not nourished and appreciated with love and respect, then just like a mother’s breasts, the earth’s pores too don’t open up fully.’
Kriparam nodded. ‘Who can compare with our shastras! Such pearls and jewels abound in them.’
‘Forgive the disagreement, Kriparama, no doubt let the sacred texts expound all they like, but the praise, after all, is of our earth only, isn’t it!’
‘Come join us, Muhammadin. We heard that you had gone to Jalalpur.’
Muhammadin lowered himself on his haunches. ‘I needed Tillar cottonseed. Left home at prayer time, and am back at sundown!’
‘Muhammadin, where was the dearth of Tillar seed in our own village? Isn’t as if you needed a maund or two. Ten, maximum fifteen kilos to a field of one acre. You should have taken it from Allah Rakkha.’
‘Shahji, Allah Rakkha has sown the Narma variety of cotton. I didn’t have a good crop last year. The cotton balls never opened up fully.’
‘Must be the lack of manure. Otherwise there’s no reason why Narma wouldn’t open up.’
‘Najibeya, you’ve sown Pona rice this time, isn’t it? Jalandhari or Saharanpuri?’
‘Jalandhari. I had a good crop last year.’
Muhammadin took a long pull at the hukkah, coughed and said, ‘My last crop went into clearing old debts. This time I have settled on Tillar instead of Narma. Let us see.’
Shahji understood the crux of the matter. ‘Muhammadin, is twenty-five per cent interest better, or one sheaf of grain per bigha land?’
‘You tell me, Shah Sahib. Neither is a thorny hedge much good, nor a hedge of thorns. The Jatt farmer loses both ways.’
Guruditt Singh admonished him. ‘Agreed you’re tired from walking about all day, Muhammadin, but why so full of grouses?’
Kashi Shah made light of it. ‘There’s no harm in letting off steam if you’re boiling within.’
Muhammadin again started off. ‘Badshaho, what happens with a debt of twenty-five annas on one rupee is this: sow interest today, it doubles in marriage tomorrow, and the day after it becomes fertile. So loan upon interest doesn’t suit us, for then jewellery and fine clothes become just a distant dream!’
Karm Ilahi, Najiba and Kakku Khan were all fettered to the Shahs’ ledgers. As Muhammadin talked, they pulled furiously on their chillums and hukkahs. Kashi Shah saw a frown gathering on his older brother’s brow and said, ‘Bhraji, even the government lets one off the hook once in a while. If Muhammadin gets some relief today, there is no harm in it.’
Shahji looked at his brother, cast a glance at his clients, and said to Chaudhary Fatehdin, ‘You are my witness, Chaudharyji. This Sufi brother of mine is forever gnawing away at the accounts. If I say no, then I am a lightweight, if I say yes, then my ledgers are lightened.’
Muhammadin said, ‘Shahji, this fucking swine-breed debt crawls at an ant’s pace to become an elephant. Now how should a man hold it? By its trunk or by its tail? What should I do?’
Mauladadji gestured with his hand. ‘Muhammadina, go easy. As it is, the Jatt language is coarse. Don’t make it coarser still! Shahji, don’t mind his words.’
Shahji laughed a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Mauladadji. All of us sitting here are sons of the same coarse language. We understand each other and make ourselves understood perfectly well.’
Najiba abruptly spoke up, ‘What use is the perfumed, sophisticated talk of city folk? One doesn’t know their Yes from their No!’
Guruditt Singh said, ‘Shahji, you must have heard that one about the Lahoris? A man from the village stayed as someone’s guest in Lahore. He slept well at night. Early morning, he thought of going sightseeing. About to leave, he innocently asked, “If the food is ready, shall I eat and go?” Housewife called from inside, “Food is ready, and the train is also ready. Do as you like. Either catch the train, or eat.” Our man said, “But
I am here for two, four days more at least!” Lahori said, “We don’t mind at all, khair sadke, but it shouldn’t be that your children grow sad missing you!”’
They all laughed at the pretentious ways of Lahoris and city-folk. What’s all this silly ding-ving! Isn’t it enough to simply say, Leave, or Stay!
The green scent of freshly-cut cattlefeed heaped up in the haveli courtyard wafted over the cots, lingering in the air.
Chhote Shah said, ‘Muhammadin had actually gone to Jalalpur to see a friend. The seeds were merely an excuse. So Ashq Muhammad is better now, isn’t he?’
‘Much better, Shahji. His blood was infected. Got it sucked by leeches, and now he’s fine.’
‘This disease is often treated this way. Leeches suck out the infected blood.’
‘Heard anything new at the town square?’
‘They said the government is passing an order that farmers shouldn’t cut trees standing in their fields without permission.’
‘This is too much! If trees are growing on one’s own field, a man will cut only as per his need and compulsion, isn’t it? Why beg the Sarkar for permission! And who’s this fucking pimp of a Sarkar anyway?’
‘Badshaho, blame the excesses of the Naudaulatias of the canal area. They erected bungalows on their lands. Went around wearing gold necklaces, rings and jewellery. Seeing all this, naturally, Sarkar increased the revenue. When Jatts start wearing gold kanthas, take it that there is prosperity all around!’
Munshi Ilmdin, who had been sitting quietly for long, finally got his chance. ‘The Zamindari League had organized a big rally in Lahore sometime back. Miyan Shahabuddin, Miyan Muhammad Shafi and Sardar Ajit Singh made rousing speeches to the crowds.’
‘Kashi Shah, what does your newspaper say?’
‘Riots and disturbances are on the rise. Echoes of the song Pagdi sambhal o Jatta have reached up to Siyalkot cantonment even.’
Fateh Aliji removed the hukkah from his mouth. ‘I don’t like this attitude of the government. If the government feels threatened by a simple Jatt song then, do you think, if the entire country started singing this song, the phirangi Sarkar would surrender the throne and quit India?’
‘Actually, the Sarkar doesn’t approve of any provocative songs that sing about self-rule. When there was a rally about the Canals Act, Bankey Dayal, the owner of the daily Jhang Sayal, recited this nazm:
‘Pagdi sambhal o Jatta
Defend your turban, O Jatta
Even in the face of death
You are Ranjha,
Your beloved nation, Heer
Tread carefully, O Veer!’
‘Sarkar didn’t like it and began its routine of persecutions. Already harassed and under pressure because of the riots, it must have thought this was a call to rebellion!’
Guruditt Singh inclined his heavy turbaned head. ‘Of course, this was a clear message that the farmer’s turban, his pride and prestige was under threat.’
Kakku Khan said, ‘Ask them, what else does a Jatt farmer have if not his turban and ploughshare? Leave aside the canal-owners.’
Kashi Shah said, ‘The real complication is of dividing Bengal into two.’
Mauladadji thought of an apt analogy. ‘Shah Sahib, what is happening in Bengal is like two sons fighting each other on the instigation of some cousin. Ultimately, the family will have to break up.’
Munshiji nodded his head. ‘Divisions-breakups happen in every home. But there are also many instances of countries coming together to be one. Delhi is joined with Punjab. The Khan Desh has seen many ups and downs. Several parts of Assam state have also been split and scattered.’
‘Say what you like, but it was the canal-owners, the Naudaulatias, who threw the spanner in the works!’
‘The thing is that the Chenab Canal colony is dominated by Jatt jawans, and they dug in their heels.’
Karm Ilahiji nodded sagely. ‘That is all right, but what did the people gain? Lajpat Rai and Ajit Singh were banished by the government. All that remained, Shah Sahib, was for the public to shout slogans of shame upon the Sarkar!’
Fateh Aliji also grew angry. ‘There were riots in Rawalpindi. In Lahore, too. The Sarkar went about arresting people and clapping on handcuffs.’
‘My good men, after all the Sarkar, too, has to establish peace and order somehow, or doesn’t it?’
Kashi Shah spoke up: ‘The intentions and plans of the Sarkar are not very good. The weekly Punjabi published an article on bonded labour, and the Sarkar went and arrested the editor!’
Guruditt Singh asked, ‘I say, what’s this tangle of bonded labour?’
‘It happened like this. A British officer went on an inspection tour. Himself on horseback, and bearers carrying his luggage, on foot. When they had gone ten–twelve miles, the bearers said, “Sahib, let us pause for breath. We will continue after a drink of water.” Sahib ordered, “No! No stopping! Chalo!” The bearers tried running alongside the horse, and the whiteskin in his blind arrogance kept chasing his nose at a gallop. At nightfall, when the Gora bahadur and his high-handedness finally stopped at the canal bungalow, there was no sign of the men. When he returned the same way the next day, he found both the bearers lying dead midway.’
Nostrils flared in rage. ‘Shahji, this is the limit of cruelty and callousness!’
‘Oppression, ji, sheer oppression!’
‘There is more. Sarkar silenced them by paying fifty rupees to the family of each man, and buried the case. This was one incident, and the other one was about a hunter. Two hunters went to hunt. One English, one native. Accompanied by bearers. Upon returning, they informed that even before climbing up the hunting platform, the British shikari had shot his first shikar – a native.’
Guruditt Singh fumed, ‘Badshaho, power has gone to their heads!’
Shahji added his own bit. ‘When the police clapped handcuffs on Pindidas of the Hind daily and Athaawale of Punjabi, huge crowds gathered. This atmosphere of anger and unrest cannot be good for the country.’
Najiba leaned towards Fakira and started whispering. So Deen Muhammadji asked him, ‘Why, Najibeya, what’s the matter?’
‘Na Ji, what could the matter be? I was merely telling Fakira that see, the Shahs have all the latest news and views. Advice and assistance, that too is with the Shahs. Accounts, writs and rights of land, wealth-prosperity, all that a man can want, they have! They are truly what one calls “sahib-e-nasib” – men of fortune!’
Fateh Aliji removed his mouth from the hukkah and opined, ‘Barkhurdar, these are all the gifts of intelligence and wisdom. Jatt or Shah, it is only taleem, education, that makes one shine.’
Cursed Goma’s sauten, Bholi, her husband’s second wife, finished her meal and felt at peace with the world. She lit a dried dung-pat under the milk boiler, put the milk to simmer, and then sat down to push the dough through a press for home-made sevaiyyan.
Thank Rabb, at last I can breathe easy! Let my sauten live apart; eat apart. Nagging, nitpicking every day. That sworn enemy of mine got a jolly thrashing from the husband last night! You only tell me, my heart, what was my fault? I’d just stepped towards him with a bowl of milk when the bitch Goma gave me a shove and yanked my plait. Started a tiresome harangue: ‘Bitch, let him look to me, too, sometimes! And you cruel one, you are not the only one born with two wives. Religion permitting, people keep four wives. But they are mindful of the old and new, today with this one, tomorrow with the other. Hain ri Kanjariye, you lowly slut, ten years he’s been my husband. You arrive just yesterday, and take possession of my man! Hai-hai, may your cot burn to cinders!’ Well, naturally, he had to get up and thrash her. And just as well. She will back off for a few days at least.
Bholi looked up to the first floor where Goma lived, and sang a song taunting her about her lowly barber caste:
‘Waah-waah ri waah-waah,
Ki pull ajwain ka,
Waah ri waah-waah,
Ki nakhra Naain ka.’
Goma looked down. ‘
Get away, curses on your tongue! Sitting pretty, making sevaiyyan for your husband. Ari, why don’t you put a pinch of poison in the flour!’
Bholi looked up and said sweetly, ‘If you say so, I can put some in your food! Be done with you for good! At least then I can breathe easy.’
‘Haan, ri, haan, you daughter of the daughter-trading Dalals! Wait till I get my hands around your neck! Have patience, that day isn’t far!’
Bholi flared up and said, ‘Let the whole world hear my vairan’s talk! Has anyone heard of such vile abuse at the hands of a jealous sauten? Ari, if my parents are daughter-traders, then yours at least are well-respected, well-known shahukars. So how did such blameless ones give away an infertile daughter in marriage?’
Neighbour Veeranwali couldn’t bear such venom. ‘Rein in your tongue, Bholiye. She is already burnt at your hands. Time hasn’t spared her either. Man has no control over the womb and lap, sister mine. That is a gift of the gods.’
Enraged, Bholi pulled out a burning stick of wood. ‘Ari sauteney, you won’t escape my hands today. I will set your head on fire! Even if I go to Kalapani for murder, I will be happy. At least I’ll be done with this daily mayhem and misery for good!’
Goma, looking down from her balcony, said, ‘Low-caste, have some fear. The One above is watching!’
Bholi started hiccoughing loudly. ‘Hai Rabba, You have shackled my destiny to such a peg that living and waking every moment I see nothing but my sauten. Hai o …!’
‘Shut up, you pretender! It was you who came as a sauten to hapless Goma. On top of that, such wailing and breast-beating! This is torture for a woman, sheer torture!’ Veeranwali rebuked.
Bholi’s chest heaved with indignation. ‘Ari, you outsiders, my sauten’s sympathizers, I didn’t carry my palanquin to this house myself. Ask this barren stump, if only she had birthed something, even a pup, I too would have found another home!’
Goma’s eyes smouldered. She pulled her dupatta over her face and started flaying herself, imploring her dead mother and wailing, ‘Ari o you sitting in the heavens, why did you give birth to this luckless one? And if you did, why did you marry me off to this hairless pimp? O mother, take me with you, and if not, put my sauten to sleep in the cremation ground!’ And Goma began to beat her chest, loudly berating Bholi and her entire clan.
Zindaginama Page 19