Zindaginama

by Krishna Sobti

  Reshma nudged her: ‘Why Rabi, what’s your worry? Even yours will happen, keep heart! If you ask me, I think Rabi will find a house as open and spacious as the Shahs’ haveli. And, shall I say it, her man too will be like –’

  Rabeyan covered Reshma’s lips with her hand. Reshma stopped laughing. ‘Kyon ri kyon?’

  ‘You will see me dead if you speak any further!’ said Rabeyan and got up to leave.

  Reshma asked, ‘Saheli, what did I say that upset you so?’

  Mitthi said, ‘If she has sworn you to say nothing, then just let it be.’

  ‘They had tried to get her engaged to Shera’s brother. Don’t know why it didn’t come about. Being devrani-jithani, both sisters Rabeyan and Fateh would have happily squabbled day and night.’

  When Channi saw Mitthi lost in thought, she teased, ‘But your life is made for sure. So why do you worry?’

  Mitthi’s pensive eyes filled with tears. ‘Listen, will you keep this to yourself? Swear by me!’

  ‘I swear. Now tell.’

  ‘Saheliye, you remember those Jammu men who had visited Shahni’s …?’

  ‘Yes, the two brothers. What of them?’

  ‘The younger of the two …’

  ‘Yes, Mitthiye, yes. Now speak up …’

  ‘What do I say!’ Mitthi hid her face in her hands. ‘He is hidden in my heart. He secretly gave me his handkerchief before leaving.’

  ‘Hai ri, I will die, Mitthiye! And you never breathed a word to me all this while!’

  Channi herself had lost her heart to the Dogra boys. She pondered over the problem and said, ‘Saheliye, after today, don’t ever mention his name. Even if you hide him in the darkest corner of your heart, your man will know. Men have many ways of knowing these things. They only have to touch you to know, the cussed creatures.’

  Shano leaned closer. ‘Must be Harbanso who told you.’

  ‘Malla, you now belong to someone else. Do one thing, pluck out his handsome face from your heart and give it to me for safekeeping. Whenever you visit your village, I will take it out and show you. I promise. Happy now?’ Channi teased.

  Mitthi’s wedding day arrived such that the clouds decided they, too, wanted to break that very day. Half the day went by waiting for the chooda – the wedding bangles ceremony – to begin. But the barber and the priest of the Duggals still did not arrive with the sagun of coconut and dates. People began to whisper and talk. ‘Have the boy’s people taken umbrage at something?’

  When at last their priest arrived, dripping wet in the rain, Mitthi’s people breathed easy. Her aunts congratulated Mitthi’s mother, ‘Vanto, badhaiyyan, the coconut and dates have arrived! Now the wedding is certain!’ The Duggals’ barber and priest were looked after with much fanfare and enthusiasm. Puri-halwa, kheer and khoya – all the necessary hospitality accorded to such important message-bearers.

  Such was the alignment of stars that it poured incessantly for two days. The boy’s wedding procession had a tough time reaching the village. Mud and slush the whole way; monsoon river in spate. The tongas got stuck midway and had to be traded in for horses. When the barat finally reached the village, every barati was soaking wet. The wise elders instructed the women on the girl’s side that the barat had reached after much trouble. There must be no teasing and taunting sitthanis sung before the peshkara ceremony.

  The entire village busied itself serving Mitthi’s barat. Mattresses were laid on the cots in the community centre. A fire was lit in one courtyard to dry their clothes. When hot kehva with almond and pistachios was served, the boy’s friends nudged Mitthi’s brothers. ‘Kyon ji, must we be content with just kehva after braving such rains?’

  Hukkahs were filled and readied for the barat. The baratis sprawled on the cots like a camp of royals. One got his feet pressed. Another got his back pounded with fists. Another got the barber to massage his head with oil.

  Shahji saw the halwai’s fire banking low and so called for the Miras to entertain the marriage party, cautioning Maulu Mirasi with a gesture. ‘Remain within your limits. The barat has had its patience tested enough as it is!’

  Maulu beat his duffli and sang out:

  ‘Listen O people,

  On Jioon Shah’s home

  Have descended the kings

  Of high name and valour

  The royal clan of Duggals

  Shah Ram Chand

  Shah Kishan Chand

  Shah Bishan Chand

  Shah Karam Chand

  Shah Dharam Chand

  Shah Diwan Chand

  Shah Dhyan Chand

  Shah Mehtab Chand

  Have brought a grand barat

  On two hundred horses

  To our humble village

  How do we honour

  Our royal guests?

  ‘Their skin is fair

  Their name is high

  Their endeavours high

  Their turbans smart.

  Their stride smart.

  Noses sharp.

  Brains sharp.

  Tongues sharp.

  Fists tight –’

  ‘Oye Mirasiya, mind your tongue!’

  ‘Ji, forgiveness! I mentioned someone else by mistake. Another marriage party had come here earlier. They were also Duggals. But I’ll be damned if they gave even a coin to the Miras.’

  ‘And where did these Duggals hail from?’

  ‘Your cousins, from Hafjabad.’

  The boy’s uncle grew impatient. ‘Give him some coins right now. Let him be happy!’

  The Miras promptly called out their praises:

  ‘Duggals’ gardens are lush,

  Their durbar, high.

  So listen people:

  Neelkot.

  Kachchkot.

  Vasantkot.

  Shahkot.

  Jaliwahan.

  Rajghat.

  Rangilpur.

  During Khalsa times,

  Duggals even crossed Jorkot,

  Entered Lakhanwal.

  Took over administration for the king.

  Wise and able,

  Earning many jagirs in appreciation.’

  Listening to such praise, the barat got into a good mood. The boy’s Dada Sahib put five takas on a turban, saying, ‘He has pleased us. A reward is due.’

  The boys gathered around the Miras. ‘Tell us some qissa, swaang.’

  ‘As you say, badshaho. So listen, shahenshaho, your humble servant here used to indulge in opium. It so happened that one day I grew careless, took more than usual, and flew the skies without a horse. Didn’t know if I was alive, didn’t know if I wasn’t! I was enjoying myself on my own when the all-knowing Dervish called out to me, “O Maulu Mirasia, Raja Indra has invited me to a grand feast and festivities in Indrapuri, celebrating its heavenly sights and pleasures. If you want to see the magnificent spectacles of Indra’s court, then get ready.”

  ‘Badshaho, what does it take for a Mirasi to get ready? My voice and my songs are always with me. So I got up and followed the Dervish.

  ‘We walked and walked, then walked some more, till we reached Tilla Gorakhnath. Someone called out from behind, “Jani Dervish, where are you off to?”

  ‘I asked the Dervish, whose voice it was.

  ‘“Raja Bharthari. Maharaj, we are off to visit Indra’s court. If you have a message for Indra Maharaj, we will convey it.”

  ‘“Na … na … na … Don’t even mention my name to him. If Indra lets his beautiful apsaras loose on me, where will I run hiding?”

  ‘“As you wish, Rajan. Though even if one were to come this way for four or six months, there is no harm in it. Would have livened up your old age a little.”

  ‘“Na na, no such antics now. And it’s not as if I hunger for such things any more. They cause needless trouble.”

  ‘“Maharaj, as you wish and as you command. If you don’t permit, what do we lose!”

  ‘We flew on and on, and after a long flight reached Kot-Kamaliya. When we looked below, there was
a river of horses. Horses and horses as far as the eye could see. Seeing so many magnificent horses, I grew greedy. Whispered in the Dervish’s ear, “Let us take a horse each, and arrive in Indrapuri in style.”

  ‘Just then, Shah Sikandar called out, “Be warned, don’t you dare covet my horses! My forces will soon start for our homeland!”

  ‘Shh! We gestured to each other and moved on. The Dervish said, “See, Maulu, Shah Sikandar’s soul is still astride his horse, eager to start for home.”

  ‘We walked and walked and walked, and reached Kabul. A thunderous voice called out, “Have the travellers come from Hindostan? From which palace, fort?”

  ‘The Dervish said in my ear, “That’s Shah Durrani. Huzoor, we started from your very own Gujrat Fort!”

  ‘“Excellent. You should have brought our poet Ishrat along with you. We would have had a poetry session.”

  ‘Carried aloft by the winds, our bodies lighter than petals, we crossed the Hindukush mountains. We flew on and on, higher and higher still. When we opened our eyes, lo and behold! Orchards of big, juicy red apples! Huge spreading trees of blood orange! Big, big bunches of luscious grapes! Enormous sweet pears! Huge Kandahari pomegranates! The orchards of Quetta, Chaman and Kashmir spread upon the blue skies! I couldn’t believe my eyes!

  ‘The Dervish prodded me, “Straighten your tehmad. Shouldn’t be that the women of the place take offence.”

  ‘Badshaho, this Miras grew greatly troubled upon hearing this. For neither had he good clothes, nor had he taken care of his appearance. Crestfallen, I walked behind the Dervish.

  ‘Revelries wherever I looked. Rich, colourful tents of pure silk stretched upon the skies. Fancy frills and festoons everywhere. The tinkling of anklets. Melodious strains of classical music. Beats of tabla. Soulful notes of the sarangi. Open-mouthed in wonder, one could only say, “Waah-waah!”

  ‘The Dervish admonished, “Quiet! This is Indra’s playground. You don’t praise the visions here. You only praise Indra. Here, only he can be praised.”

  ‘Listen further. Maharaja Indra, ever the playboy, immersed in women. Touches a necklace here, an anklet there. Gathers one beauty in his arms. Sits another in his lap. Kisses a necklace here, and someone’s tresses there …’

  The groom’s friends called out impatiently, ‘Now move ahead, you mule. Don’t make our mouths water.’

  ‘Badshaho, if you had such raging thirst, you should have brought the mujra-tamasha along with the barat. But all right, if you couldn’t, this Miras is at hand.

  ‘So then, gentlemen, behold Indra’s court: Apsaras, each more captivating, more alluring than the next. Sheer brocade dresses all aglitter. You couldn’t tell their clothes from their bodies. Bejewelled with pearls, diamonds and precious gems. And Lord Indra himself high on somras, the liquor of the gods.’

  ‘Oye, and here you dismissed us with cardamom-flavoured kehva.’

  ‘Have patience and listen further. The delicate bodies of the divine damsels bedecked with soft tassles and flounces. My heart was all aflutter. This is paradise. This is heaven. This is bliss. Absolute bliss.

  ‘Perchance, Maharaj Indra’s gaze happened to fall upon this Mirasi. Said to his secretary, “I have come to know that the famous Miras of Gujrat Punjab is present in our court today. He comes from a traditional Mirasi family. He should be accorded royal status and welcomed with due honour and respect.”

  ‘Respected guests, this Miras stood up in Lord Indra’s court and remembered his Maker, Rabb Rasool –

  ‘Allah most true, beloved of His disciples

  A glimpse of Allah, by grace of Hazrat!’

  ‘The Prime Minister asked, “What gotra does this Miras belong to? Peeplani, Sajani, Chhochhani, Posla or Mir Mirasi?”

  ‘“Mir Mirasi, your highness. We are followers of the world famous Guru Tan Husain!”

  ‘Maharaj Indra nodded. “I am familiar with your family tree. Your family flag is in our safekeeping. Tell me, what news of your village?”

  ‘“All safe and well, Maharaj.”

  ‘“How are the Shahs of the Pind?”

  ‘“Like you, in health and happiness.”

  ‘“And how are the Jatt peasants?”

  ‘“How they can be, being Jatt peasants?”

  ‘“And the labourers?”

  ‘“Passing time.”

  ‘“Why, they are getting a regular supply of water from us, aren’t they?”

  ‘“Forgiveness, Maharaj, the water they use is no longer yours but of the British Sarkar.”

  ‘“And what of the water that we send down as rains from the heavens?”

  ‘“Maharaj, that water turns into diamonds and pearls and reaches the palaces and temples.”

  ‘“Waah! We are pleased to hear that. Yes, and what is this British Sarkar like?”

  ‘“Maharaj, it is at war these days. Earlier, it was just Turkey. But now it is at loggerheads with other powers too.”

  ‘Hearing this, Indra Maharaj grew disinterested and said, “Let there be music!”

  ‘That was it, songs and dances began afresh; there was entertainment all around as usual. I spoke in the Dervish’s ear, “All the apsaras here are only wrapped around Indra Maharaj. We don’t count. Why tempt ourselves in vain, why thirst for them? And if we have come this far, let us go meet Allah Ta’ala, too.”

  ‘Maharaj Indra read our minds. He ordered, “Guard, escort them to Allah Mian’s door. And yes, offer my salaam to Him and say that Indra has enquired after his well-being.”

  ‘Dear baratis, this Miras sat up alert on hearing this. It must be that ever since Hindostan’s new governor general took over, relations between the Supreme Hindu God and Allah Ta’ala have apparently become formal and pleasant, just like two brand new samdhis, relatives newly linked by marriage.

  ‘We left Indra’s court and walked on. And on. And on. All the fruits, flowers, greens and greenery, everything was left behind. Barrenness and desolation as far as the eye could see. We were increasingly perplexed and worried. The all-knowing Jani Dervish said, “Wherever you can see hoors, the heavenly beauties, know that it is Allah Ta’ala’s domain.”

  ‘As we walked on, we came upon a masjid. There was a small well alongside, with a wheel and a pot hanging by a rope. The guard stopped and said, “Here, this is the place you wanted to reach.”

  ‘We went forward. We saw an old man sitting on a cot, smoking a hukkah. In his eyes, he wore the kohl of eagle egg. We went up to him and said, “Janab, we have come from the land of Punjab to meet Allah Ta’ala!”

  ‘“Come, come.”

  ‘“Janab, if you could get Him to meet us, we will be eternally grateful to you.”

  ‘The old man said, “Yes, speak. I only am known by that name …”

  ‘This Mirasi couldn’t contain himself. Said, “O Rabba mine, where the splendour of Maharaj Indra’s Indrapuri – those ostentatious revelries, glittering diamonds and gems, divine beauties, and scenes of merry-making – and where this, Your reign! O Badshah of badshahs, how is it that despite Your absolute supremacy over both body and soul, Your kingdom is in such a shambles?”

  ‘“Look here, son, there is no need to get so upset. Actually, Bulaki Shah came and confiscated all my assets upon non-payment of dues just a little while ago, and auctioned them all for bankruptcy.”

  ‘“O Maula! Bankrupt, and You! Parwardigar, but these troubles and fates are the lot of Jatt peasants. Why did You allow him to do so, my Lord?”

  ‘“Maulu, my son, Bulaki Shah’s case was false and his papers were false too. But to fight the case in court, I would have had to borrow money from the Shah only, isn’t it? So I decreed that if my property was being auctioned, let it be. Don’t be sad, my son. One day, we will find a solution to this too. Indra Maharaj’s offspring keeps such a tight hold on wealth and prosperity that it doesn’t even come close to our boundaries.”

  ‘The all-knowing Jani Dervish bowed low and said, “O Garibparwar, then create new boundaries for
your people.”’

  The wedding guests laughed and laughed. Maulu’s jholi filled with coins.

  The five wise village elders came and requested with folded hands. ‘Maharaj, please partake of whatever humble fare we’ve been able to provide.’

  The delicious aroma of a variety of delicacies wafted from the janjghar. When the rows of guests sat down to the feast, the Panch Chaudharys of the village served them with such grace and respect, as if the gods themselves had arrived with a wedding procession. Maulu called out in ringing tones, ‘People, the gods of Indrapuri have come to the house of our honorable Jioon Das. Long live the god-made couple, daughter Mitthi Rani and groom Raja Mehtab Chand!’

  As daughters returned home, night descended on the village. The last red rays of the sun darkened the trees and hid behind the inky blackness. The moon swam over the bowl of the skies. Tiny pinpricks of light glimmered. Earthen lamps, diyas and guls burned softly, and embers of wood and dung pats glowed in the earthen stoves.

  The music of wells being worked, the tinkling bells of oxen. The tremulous cries and joyous shrieks of little infants, tugging at heartstrings. Wishes of love and well-being murmured softly to one another. The night of love shone radiant. Little sisters fed younger brothers roti and lulled them to sleep. One posed riddles. Another told a story.

  Rabeyan said, ‘Listen, Lali, listen!’

  ‘Rabi behan, tell me the story of Boojo.’

  ‘So once upon a time, there was one Boojo.’

  ‘What was a Boojo, Rabi behan?’

  ‘Boojo was a naughty monkey. Boojo walked and walked and walked and reached a village. A barber was sitting under a kikar tree. He was going to shave a Jatt. Boojo leapt up and snatched the barber’s razor. The barber called out, “What’s this, Boojo, what’s this! Let’s have a deal. Let’s have a deal.”

  ‘So Buckteeth Boojo grinned and sang:

  “The barber has the Jatt’s hair

  The barber’s razor have I

  The stropper has my razor

  The stropper’s wheel have I.”

  ‘The Jatt said:

  “Let’s make a deal

  Let’s make a deal

  The barber has my hair

  The stropper has my knife

  The stropper’s wheel have I