‘Listen O you people, listen with your own ears!’ Bholi cried. ‘My brave father is alive and well, and here she is mourning his death! Ari, your tongue may rot and fall out!’
‘Leprosy to you, not me! I never uprooted anyone’s home!’
Bholi loosened up and said, ‘My parents put mehndi on my hands, what is my fault! O Life of Life, call me unto You! O people, I will drown myself in the waters of Chenab!’
Goma grinned. ‘Ari, Chenab only accepts the beautiful ones. Look at your mug!’
‘If it weren’t better than yours, that husband of yours wouldn’t have come riding on a mare to wed me while you were still alive!’
Goma drew the cloth from her face and spat at Bholi, ‘Go you wide-faced one, if you give birth, I will burn myself alive with my husband’s name on my lips and become a sati. I will set my hair afire with wood from your stove.’
Bholi’s wails could be heard throughout the village. ‘Those who wanted to marry brought me to this house. And I the luckless one who gets tongue-lashings every moment. If I ever touch grain or water of this house while you are here, I will lick my own spit!’
When Hakam got news at his shop that there was a war raging at home again, he threw down his weighing scales and ran home. ‘These cussed harpies have put my life in such an iron vice that it is a torment day and night!’
Goma saw her husband entering through the door and ducked under the balcony. She watched as Hakam rained blows on Bholi lying prone on the cot, and Goma’s heart and soul knew such peace that laughing, she jumped over the neighbours’ balcony and reached the Shahs’ terrace in a trice.
Chachi Mehri saw her and scolded, ‘Why, you feckless one! Are you in your senses or not? Your kurta laces are all undone. Tie them!’
‘I untied them myself. Let me get some fresh air. Let my heart know some peace!’
Chachi Mehri threatened, ‘Don’t you go on this way, have you gone berserk?’
Goma chuckled with glee. ‘Chachi, I am so happy in my heart today, so happy that only the name of Rabb should remain!’
‘Goma, stop this hinting and stalling and come out with it.’
‘Then listen, Chachi, today my sauten got such fist-blows, such furious slaps that my chest feels light as a flower.’
‘Rein in your tongue, ri. If you yak too much, you will also get your bones broken by Hakam again!’
Goma sat down contentedly on the doorstep. ‘Let bones break of my vairan-enemy. Let Bholi’s heart burn to ashes. Today I am at peace, every last pore of my being.’
Then left hand on her waist, and clenching her right hand in a fist, Goma swung her hips like a nautch-girl, singing triumphantly about how the tables had turned:
‘Waah-waah ri waah-waah,
Ki pani Chenab ka!
Waah-waah ri waah-waah,
Hukm chala sahib ka!’
When huge karhais were set atop the stoves in the Shahs’ kitchen to cook halwa-puri, the rich aroma spread everywhere. Large platters were filled and distributed in the village throughout the day. Northern quarter. Lower quarter. The Thatti of Sweepers. The Goth of Sansis. No one could be overlooked even by mistake. When watermen Gangu and Lambu lifted the wicker baskets laden with hot puris, Shahji said, ‘See to it, Gangu Chacha, that no home or courtyard is left out. This is not a neighbourly sharing of wedding sweets. This is the holy prasad of yagna. The more it is shared, the more the punya and blessings received!’
Upstairs, with Lalishah in her lap, Shahni caressed the child’s head, then spread a blanket to lie down on and feed her precious baby. When she pulled away her nipple and wiped his mouth, her mother’s soul felt sated. Vaheguru, all Your munificence! That living, breathing woman’s body that didn’t cradle her son in her own lap, didn’t suckle him at her own breast, couldn’t truly be called a mother!
The smell of sweets being prepared spread warm, fragrant scents all around. Mouths watering, the appointed tasters would return every few minutes to check on the status of the boondi for the laddoos. ‘Mooley Shah, the gramflour is still a little bit hard. Not as succulent and soft as it should be.’
Moola Halwai was used to the ways of tasters. ‘Badshaho, I think it is fine, but you can taste it again if you like.’ Taking enough boondi to make a small laddoo, he gauged the taster’s intent. ‘Here, Kriparamji, taste it carefully. The sugar should be just right – neither more nor less.’
Kriparamji was oblivious to his sarcasm and grandly said, ‘Mooley Shah, when the wise men of the village have entrusted this task to our care, how can we let the sweet be less than perfect?’
Moola chuckled to himself and proferred another fistful. ‘See if the boondi has caught the sugar syrup properly. Fill your mouth and heart with it and grade it carefully. Shouldn’t be that we lose half the sweets just in the tasting!’
When Kriparam ate the fistful of boondi, his very soul was sweetened. ‘Waah-waah, Mooleya, your hand is no less than that of the goddess of largesse! The sweetness is neither more nor less. It is just right!’
‘That boondi was worth two laddoos. If your sweet tooth cannot grasp the taste even now, then Moola is not worth his while, and you, badshaho, are not worthy of being a taster!’
Kriparam gave a slight nod of embarrassment, and muttering something about ghee, made himself scarce.
When Kashi Shah sent Bagga up with two bundles of new clothes, the women joyfully murmured auspicious words. Chachi put a coin on Bagga’s palm. ‘Live a long life! Khair sadke, you have brought the clothes of sagun!’
‘Chhote Shah says that the garments are in sets. The clothes of the Shah women are in one bundle, and those of relatives in the other. One set has gold trim and gota-zari flowers.’
When the bundles were opened, the rich fabrics lit the women’s hearts with longing. Chachi Mehri ran a caressing hand over the velvet salwar suit. ‘My Kashiram is unique in whatever he does. Presenting such heavy suits on his nephew’s birth, as if it is his marriage!’
Babo Mirasan leaned over and took Lali’s balaiyyan to ward off the evil eye. ‘Ari Shahnis-Khatranis, give birth to a son every winter. By Rabb’s grace, then there will always be piles of clothes and mounds of gold. It is said in akhyan that when the Hindu Shah weds a Hinduani, it is as if he’s brought home a female elephant! New gold jewellery and gorgeous clothes overflow on every occasion, right from the engagement to the birth of sons and grandsons!’
A wise elder scolded, ‘Chup ri, Babo! Every home celebrates its auspicious moments equally. What’s this comparison you make!’
Shahni agreed, ‘Babo, instead of singing songs of celebration, you’re focusing on the material gains of auspicious events. This is not intelligent talk!’
Babo grew red with embarrassment. ‘I am a stupid idiot, don’t mind what I say,’ and she got up and started dancing, clapping her hands to keep beat. She twirled and danced so merrily that all the women of the house, young and old, got up and joined her. Moola Halwai called out from below, ‘O dhiyo-dhiyaniyo, take it easy! The sweets will get spoiled by the dust you’re kicking up!’
The women gathered round the new clothes. ‘Bindradayi, count how many salwar suits of velvet there are.’
‘Six, Chachi. Five for the five aunts, and one for the boy’s mother.’
‘If you ask me, then the sixth suit is yours, for Lali’s aunt.’
‘Agreed, but then which one is my jithani’s, for Lali’s mother?’
Chachi, too, grew puzzled. ‘Kashiram should have given this more thought. If six, then why not the auspicious seven?’
Chhoti Shahni moodily said, ‘I shouldn’t be complaining, but all the scrimping and saving is always on me only!’
‘I say in peace and joy, Bindradayi, when your sons Gurudas and Kesholal were born, you too got gold and pearl-rich clothes!’
‘Of course I did, Chachi, but that was by the grace and generosity of my jeth raja, the Shah, wasn’t it?’
Sister-in-law Nandkauran teased, ‘Chhoti bharjaaee, both brothers
share the same purse. Rest, Kashi only would have selected your clothes!’
‘Now listen to this, what does your Sufi brother know about these matters!’
Chachi called out to Mabibi, ‘Mabibi, go downstairs and ask if he hasn’t forgotten the seventh suit at the shop!’
Mabibi returned and teased Chhoti Shahni, ‘Chhote Shah would never lose to you in this. The sixth suit is yours, and elder Shahni’s suit is mauve. It must be in the other bundle, open it and see.’
When the mauve velvet salwar suit was taken out, all eyes were dazzled. Silver and gold threadwork sequinned with true pearls. Chachi picked up the suit, kissed it and put it in Shahni’s lap. ‘Look at this, child, see the grace of your devar! What excellent colour! And why not? It is for his bharjaaee and the mother of his nephew. Badi bharjaaee, know that your devar has more than excelled himself in your service!’
Chhoti Shahni threw a small tantrum. ‘I like the mauve one too. I already have a burgundy velvet suit from my wedding.’
Shahji’s sister Chandkauran offered a solution. ‘Chhoti bharjaaee, both are equally good. Give them to your bahus when Gurudas and Kesholal get married.’
‘No, that’s not true! This mauve colour is my heart’s desire. Say whatever you may like, but if I don’t please myself now, when will I do so? When I’m old?’
The older women grew irked with Chhoti Shahni. ‘Bindradayi, fall in line, ri! Your jithani has seen this joyous hour after a long wait and many prayers!’
‘Behna, I am twice as happy! But this is a matter of colour, of choice.’
In her joy, Shahni pleased her devarani. ‘Your desire, your choice is our pleasure. Khairon se, you are Lali’s chachi. Pick whichever you like.’
Bindradayi was delighted and said, ‘Jithani, I am made. But what if your dear devar is displeased, what then?’
‘Leave it be! I give you this of my own wish and pleasure. If your husband says anything, I will handle it.’
When Chachi Mehri saw the blue suit meant for her, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Bless your husband, Bindradayi, but you only tell me when am I going to wear this? Do I even have a son’s bride whom I can gift it to?’
‘What is this, Chachi? Rabeyan, give Lali to me,’ said Shahni and put her baby son in Chachi’s lap. ‘I swear to you, Chachi, this son is not mine but yours!’
Shahni picked out Mabibi’s suit from the bundle. ‘Here’s your tehmad-kurta, Mabibi. Stitch some flowers on your dupatta.’
Then she looked at Rabeyan. ‘A saffron jhagga salwar paired with a deep pink odhni! Look at your clothes, Rabeyan! Why, your feet won’t touch the ground in them!’
Chachi gazed long and fondly at the girl. ‘Dhiye, tuck gota flowers on your dupatta and keep it safe! Go, girls, call Noori, Mitri and Channi. Let them come and stitch gold trim on all the dupattas.’
The girls spread the dark pink dupattas on their knees and sat stitching toosh bankri flowers and trimming from the overflowing wicker baskets. The yellow lace bordering the magenta brought out the contrast beautifully, much like happy tidings cast a golden shimmer on sweet, beautiful days. Lali’s aunts, chachis and tais of the village all joined in to sing the Ghodi.
‘Tiny little raindrops
Little sweet showers of spring
O little one, happily wed
Your mother celebrates your coming.’
The Shahs had also arranged for a mujra-tamasha on this occasion. A dance by courtesans. The news created much stir.
‘Ji, it is heard that seventy-one hundred rupees have been paid in advance to Buddhan and Husna, the dancing girls of Lakhanwal.’
People stopped each other in the street and asked those in the Shahs’ service, ‘Hadn’t Chhote Shah shaken his head in a firm No at the birth of his own sons? So how is it a Yes this time?’
‘Badshaho, little Lalishah has been dearly begotten. Why shouldn’t people enjoy themselves a little? Why shouldn’t their hearts and eyes rejoice in his celebration?’
‘Indeed, the mere sight of those beauties sets hearts ablaze and quenches the thirst of the eyes.’
‘Waah! Such wisdom and insight in these matters!’
‘Muhammadina, we have heard that Umda Kanjari has gone to the Peeroshahi house to offer congratulations. That is why Buddhan and Husna have been invited instead.’
‘Nawab Ustaad, hope you’ve got some new clothes stitched for the mujra-tamasha? Those nymphs won’t spare you a glance in that garb!’
‘Badshaho, tell us if the nautch-girls are going to descend on the Shirinh well or on the pucca platform in front of the gurudwara?’
The young studs of the village sang Heer to while away the long hours of wait. Kokla touched the high notes in song:
‘One sweet couple in love,
Two roses in bloom,
True and pure,
Played a deathly game of love
In the reeds of the Chenab
‘People offer congratulations
Oh glory be to this Chenab
Where Heer herself fell in love
‘Sing high praise of these lovers
Who staked their lives on love
My life upon those large-hearted lovers
Who made their love their Rabb.’
‘Friends, remember your beloveds and offer salaam to Mai Heer! Both Heer and Ranjha are present with us in this majlis. People say in akhyan that each time this peerless couple’s love will be sung in the world, the hearts of lovers and the eyes of beloveds will glow in love’s radiance, luminous as the moon. Each time the plaintive notes of Heer flow upon the winds, Heer of Sayals and Ranjha of Takht Hazara join these gatherings in spirit. Look there – there in her blood-red wedding dress stands Heer herself. And on that side, in the clothes of a dervish, Ranjha Sai of Takht Hazara waits near the riverbank, his soul tied to Heer’s wedding odhni. Yaaron, let us salute these matchless lovers!’
‘Accept our salaam, Mai Heer!’ The boys stood up and offered salaams, as Kokla spread his arms wide and sang:
‘Lovers’ paths are full of light
The sun shines within them
The sun shines without
Lovers’ souls are enlightened.’
Bakhtawar, who was lying on the sands propped on one elbow, sat up. ‘Mai Heer has her sacred tomb in Jhang Sayala. I will reach there for sure one day. That is what I’ve promised God!’
Gholu teased, ‘Yaar Bakhtawar, take Noori along with you. Khair sadke, she was faithful to you even in your absence.’
Ladda came and sat near. ‘I have cut the cattlefeed and heaped it up. Rabb knows if I’ll find time once the dance-mujra begins. You know what my father is like, na? Might start grumbling and nagging in the middle of the function itself!’
The fourteenth-day moon. Riverside tents and full arrangements readied for the artistes of high learning and culture. Proper flooring, finely inlaid boxes of betel leaf and condiments, perfume holders, spittoons, changairs, candelabras and claypots of water on stands. All the dashing young men and local studs from the villages nearby began to gather on the riverbank. Every now and then one would dive into the river with a splash.
Someone brought news from the Shah household. ‘Friends, the women from Lakhanwal will arrive early morning by boat.’
‘Lo ji, then tonight will be spent here itself, by the riverbank.’
‘As our sun will rise here in the sky, two other moons will rise in the east.’
Bodda of the Kochchars thwacked Jalalu on the back. ‘The sarangis and tablas are still silent, and you’ve already lost your head! At daybreak, does the sun rise or the moon?’
‘Let the cursed world say what it likes, we shall call our Buddhan and Husna moons only.’
‘If you say so, but the world is yet to hear the story of morning moons!’
Kokla laughed. ‘Badshaho, even that’s no problem. Just narrate the qissa to my chacha, and he will set it to tune.’
Boota rewound his hair into a top-knot. ‘My father was telling my grandmothe
r that Kunjahwali Gauharjan’s claps sound like ringing bells.’
‘Leave it, yaar. Are our Mirasi-Nakkals any less at clapping? Spread palms, clap aloud and get applause for the asking. But ji, singers and dancers deserve everything they earn by merit of their high art and learning, their taleem.’
‘Oh come on! They sing a few lines, tinkle their anklets, and ensnare the hearts of men. What else do they know?’
Madad Ali’s eyes grew wide. ‘It is said that a kanjari can destroy a man with her kiss,’ he said, wetting his lips with his tongue.
Boota Singh was adamant. ‘It is not necessary that kanjaris allow everyone to touch them. Their clothes and jewellery are the finest, and their beauty unparalleled.’
Jalalu interrupted, ‘Oye kalandaro, arguing about what you’ve not even seen, only heard! So Booteya, say when were you born, when did you go to Lahore, and when did you see a kanjari?’
‘Swear by Rabb, I speak of what I saw with my own eyes. I had gone to Sauddare for my chhote mama’s wedding. They had called the Kunjahwali Mumtaz.’
‘Miser, you never mentioned this before! If a man even once sets his eyes upon a kanjari, beholds her dazzling aspect, wouldn’t he go mad with longing and wander about singing couplets night and day?’
‘Fine. Don’t believe me! These kanjaris are so enchanting that a man can go into a trance just watching their delicate hands offering salaam, and lay down his life.’
‘So tell us, Booteya, what was the kunjahwali wearing?’
Walking the skies, Boota raised a proud forehead. ‘Every conceivable adornment and shringaar. Jewellery, glittering peshwaz studded with pearls and sequins, a dupatta edged with gold lace. Tikka on her forehead. Ratan-chowk aarsi ornaments on her wrists. Pure gold earrings.’
Maulu was convinced. He leaned over and asked, ‘Do you remember what the kunjahwali sang?’
Gauhar Shanaas butted in, ‘Must be some couplet about a lover and his beloved!’
Zindaginama Page 20