When the two countries reached agreement, Gurpal was depressed, subdued and worried. He and Bari Ma sat in the courtyard talking about who knows what. But neither said anything to me. In those days Munni toddled and lisped – the news flew noisily and settled, like a whirlwind. No army came to fetch me.
Then I heard that the other country’s soldiers had sought out their girls and were taking them back. Where, to which country, after all? To which people?, I’d wondered at the time. Perhaps Bhai and Bhaiyya will come looking for me. They’d been expecting me for ages at the door of the magic land. I should go, definitely. I gathered the bundle of my hopes each day and look longingly at the turn at the end of the street.
That year in winter, the soldiers came to Sangrao to fetch me. Besides being Bhai and Bhaiyya’s sister, I’m also Munni’s mother. And I wondered, ‘Who knows who these people are, what that land is like?’ For the first time in my life, my faith faltered. The land of my dreams crumbled to dust and vanished from in front of me. My roots have dug deep into the soil of Sangrao. Who ever wants to dry up, wither and be destroyed? Every girl has to leave her parents’ home and go to her husband’s. Every bride marries and moves elsewhere. So what, if Bhaiyya and Bhai weren’t present at my departure? Gurpal had spread a welcome-carpet of corpses for me, reddened my path with blood, sacked town upon town to make fireworks for my wedding. People had celebrated my bridal night with screams and shouts and toing and froing. The whole atmosphere was infused with the smell of dust and smoke and blood, in accordance with the new traditions. He had brought me to Sangrao, among the fields of wheat, to a mud cell where I would spend the rest of my life in a house filled with the blue smoke of cow dung.
How long I had looked, after all these years, at the words on the pages of the book that Gurpal brought to read to Munni. And the words throbbed in my eyes. I suddenly recalled the stories Bhaiyya and Bhai had told me, saying, ‘Bibi, there are books with even better tales than these. Just get older and you’ll see what enjoyable things there are to read.’ When the army came to rescue me like the princess of fairytales, I hid. Why should I go with someone strange?, I ask you. Why aren’t Bhaiyya and Bhai here to collect me and see me off? Inside, I grew disheartened with them. I’m still upset.
As Munni lies beside me, she asks, ‘Ma, why don’t you go to Mama’s house, even at Diwali? Why doesn’t Mama ever send us sweets?’
Mama didn’t even set out to find me, Munni. They never came to rescue me. Who can find time to wander in search of someone else? Slowly, love finds crutches. Bhaiyya’s kids must be Munni’s age. When they ask about visiting their Mama, he won’t have to change the subject as I do, to keep a secret. Sometimes there are stories inside which can’t be brought to the tongue. So, when the brides of this street work their spinning wheels, singing songs in the shade of the neem trees, I keep quiet.
How much life there was in our courtyard! How much sweetness there is in parental melodies. The seasons change. Year on year, fathers and brothers come to see off the brides, and Asha, Rekha, Purna and Chandra’s feet don’t stay on the ground. Their words sound like songs. Seasons keep changing.
The girls come out of their rooms and ask about their brothers’ arrival. My heart beats in my throat and a nerve strains near my heart – it might burst. I extend my hand to chase away a crow and it falls dead beside me. Bari Ma has hopes of me. When I broke all links with my past life, Bari Ma and I formed a deeper bond. I have become her Lakshmi Bahu, her lucky daughter-in-law. She shows off the yarn spun by me with great affection. And when other women complain about their daughters-in-law, she spurs their resentment by singing my praises.
The fragrance of the grain meandering through the fields and the scent of the moist young wheat blend with the blue smoke and become a song – the sheltering sky filled with stars, single or in pairs, and the water in the spring, twisting into tiny waves, are all its words. If one day a youthful rider arrives, behind the peasants carrying bundles of fodder on their heads for the bullocks, and dismounts by my open doors, I will cry, ‘Bhaiyya!’ and hug him. Who have I stood waiting for at this door? How long after the death of my dear ones must I carry the corpses? Looking at these tortuous roads, the tears start spontaneously to my eyes.
If these tears fall on Munni, she’ll get up, anxious, and ask, ‘Ma, why are you crying?’ How will I explain my grief to Munni if she asks, ‘Ma, why are your eyes wet, even on Dusehra night? Are you tired?’
Gurpal has hoisted both boys onto his shoulders. Munni and I are going to Sangrao. Sita has accepted Ravana’s sanctuary, instead of a second exile. From where can I muster a second bout of incredulity to use as a crutch to support my faith?
The lights of life have distanced themselves from me like the lights of that town behind me, but I’m still unable to love the darkness, who knows why?
I’ve got to keep walking. Exhaustion is like a pain in every part of my body. But still, I’ve got to keep walking. In life’s fair, exiles and grove-dwellers are forced to move on and I comply, wondering if Bhai and Bhaiyya were ever sad for me.
I’m most scared of Munni. Tomorrow she’ll ask me the question again, and again no one will be able to answer it. Not Gurpal, nor I, nor, probably, Bari Ma.
Why are so many questions like that, so onerous and difficult, they can’t be answered by anyone?
The long winter night’s pain kindles a fire and recalls old dreams and listens to tales. Tell me, can tales be true? My heart is so wilful it won’t forget the past.
Is there any knowledge beyond Sangrao?
In the high and low streets of the village, the stench of urine and cow dung, mixed with the smell of grain, flows on with life’s torrent. Today is over. The days end like gusts of wind. Who knows how much of the journey remains?
Translated by Shahrukh Husain
FARKHANDA LODHI
Parbati
‘Kill!’ Was it a voice or an echoing memory?
‘Kill!’ It was advancing.
Guns roared … from both sides, from every side … and all round was the reverberating, recurring patriotic anthem.
‘Kill!’
Cannon, aeroplanes, sirens, whistles and the thumping of hearts. Then silence. Churning the silence, dividing consciousness, a cry.
‘Kill!’
A bullet whistled by, barely scraping her shoulder. Protecting her head, she bent over and started walking. The border was a few steps away. She had to get there. No sound but a hissing silence, a storm in the heart and a rumbling at the core of the earth. She tightened her grip on both arms.
Another bullet came from one side, from all sides. Rain, noise, fire, heat, thirst …
She inched forward, clasping her ears with both hands. Balanced and supported on her arms, she crossed the border before dawn broke. The rumble of the cannon had stopped – but now it grew louder and more rapid. There was still time for the day to break. The distinctive smell of gunpowder surrounded her, the smoke momentarily obscured the morning light.
She lay down in the cover of the bushes and tried to breathe deeply. There was no danger of anyone passing by here. ‘If I hear the sound of footsteps or see anyone coming, I’ll jump into the canal on the right,’ she decided with complete calm. For a long time she lay lost in thought, biting her painful, swollen lips. She had so many obstacles to face. The wounds on her knees were oozing fresh blood and she was aware of her chest wounds, stiff with caked dirt. ‘Where can I go in this condition?’ her mind kept reflecting.
The morning birds had not begun their chorus. Why were they silent? Fire and thunder had swallowed their happy contentment and the world appeared desolate. How quickly the world’s beauty had changed to mourning. She was choked by fear and hatred. A wave of revulsion, towards loved ones, strangers, even her own being, ran through her. Her inner self plunged into deeper and deeper darkness. The sun refused to come up. Cannon-balls thundered and the horizon was lit by temporary flares that would illuminate the sky and then suddenly die down. E
ach time she heard the rumble she feared a cannon-ball would land on her. She had chosen a bad spot to stop. Danger was imminent. She moved forwards. Further and further. The dread silence moaned palpably and shouted out, as children were orphaned and widowed women’s precious honour was plundered. The rumble of tanks and cars, slogans old and new, noise … People awoke and involved themselves in life’s struggles, but her mind was still asleep. Totally paralysed. How could she go among those people? She was almost naked, covered in blood. Her shirt hung in tatters from her breast. Ashamed of her condition, she hesitated for a fraction and then moved forward with renewed determination.
She became conscious of her wounds throbbing; her awareness grew as she emerged slowly from an unconscious state. Now she was able to register the world of objects around her. The trees standing like spirits in the semi-darkness were really trees and the sun had yet to rise. Despite the smoke, it had risen. The world has to go about its business. In the nearby village, death challenged life and life answered back, resolutely making its way forward. It cannot stop. It must not stop.
She kept walking. The village was a few paces away. Not even an ant was visible; the mistreated and angry village curs were barking. Where had the people gone? Silence gripped all. She had reached the village boundaries.
Nothing was visible behind the fallen wall. There was nothing in the village to hold back the people. She wanted to weep: over the devastation in the village, over man’s helplessness and short-sightedness, or then to return to where she had come from and never set foot in this place again. There was a fierce desolation in her. She thought: The earth is our mother and look at the flames engulfing her breasts … why does she not die? Her sons destroy her, are destroyed themselves, and yet the air resounds with a single cry: ‘Kill!’
This is the game thought up by your wise sons. O, Mother! Maybe I will get killed in this game. If I live I will think long and hard of your condition. I don’t have the time now. Elastic time shrinks and expands, as in a game.
A hundred yards away the military jeeps were visible as they arrived and departed. All around were clouds of dust and smoke. Scraps of dry grass were ablaze. The standing ears of grain had been scorched and bony sticks from the old leafless tree were crackling in the flames. She wet her lips with her tongue. How thirsty she was! She would not survive. Her throat prickled with thistles. She was parched. She collapsed half alive on the mound of rubble. The sound of footsteps … closer … closer … and closer still and a voice telling somebody, ‘Kill her!’
‘Yes, yes. Kill her!’
She sat up with lightning speed and tried unsuccessfully to clothe her body. In front of her were two armed soldiers, staring at her meaningfully. Their probing looks went straight through her garments, entering her flesh, searching her mind and her heart. Her body stiffened in fear and apprehension of danger. Her power of speech had been usurped and her pupils felt as if they had turned to stone.
‘Why did you not leave with the village folk? Your condition is not good.’ Their tone reassured her. There were tears in her eyes.
‘What … what can I say? I have saved myself from those savage beasts in the last village. I have faced cruelty and violence to mingle with the earth of my land. You are my brothers. Finish me. Do me this favour.’ She spoke effortlessly and the soldiers were in a quandary: should they silence this talking parrot or allow her to die with her tale of woe locked in her? One of them went running off and returned with a thick cotton blanket, covering her body with it. The soldiers were restless, hesitating to make her fresh, beautiful body their target. Fire was raining down. The air was smouldering.
‘Do you have any relatives?’ one asked.
‘Let it be, yaar. Don’t waste time.’ The other shook his head.
‘Life or death?’ The first one persisted.
‘Whatever you can give.’ There was a note of challenge in her tone now and her voice was clear.
‘That is in God’s hands.’
The soldier looked back. His companion had long since left. He set off without another word. She was saved. She lay among a hail of cannon and gunpowder … nobody came to either rescue or finish her off. The defenders of her country were fighting. Could anything be more reassuring than that?
The afternoon went by. She was worn out by thirst and hunger. A small caravan stopped near her with its token presence of men, the women and children strangely subdued. They stood under the sheesham tree with terror-stricken faces, children crying in their mothers’ laps, their lips dry and pale. Then trucks and other vehicles drove up and the military police herded them in like cattle. A man who looked like an officer gave instructions in low tones. There was not the slightest fatigue visible on his face as he looked confidently around him. The soldiers were going about their work swiftly, their briskness and jokes relieving the atmosphere of sadness. The officer standing next to an old woman said, ‘Ma! Running away from death, are you? Why don’t you stay back? Let a useful man take your place.’ He laughed.
‘Oh no, son’, she screamed in her vernacular. ‘I’ll tuck myself into a corner.’
‘Is life that precious?’
‘Yes, son, I don’t want to die at the hands of those kafirs. Death will visit all one day.’
‘Ma! This is a chance for martyrdom,’ the soldier told the old woman.
‘Martyrdom is a result of one’s actions, son! I am useless. What martyrdom is there for me?’
Everyone was laughing and work continued as if nothing had happened, as if people had woken up from a night’s sleep to find that the morning had dawned on a new age, a new world, and the desire to discover this new world, and apprehension at what they might find, had distracted them all. The women were silent, fear lurking in their eyes. The joy and verve of the men concealed a deep anxiety which compelled the officer to repeatedly look towards the east and the soldiers to herd the women and children like cattle.
She was wounded so she was made to lie down in a jeep. Her face wore the pallor of death and she was being removed to a hospital so she could be revived. She shouted profanities.
‘Kill me … no, no … kill me … how will I face my own? … no, no … I am not in a position to return … my brother will commit suicide when he sees me … how will my mother show her face to anyone? I beseech you in the name of the honour of your women … for the sake of your wives’ chastity and loyalty, leave me here. Savage beasts have plundered me. Let dogs tear me to pieces. I have no one to call my own now. I don’t even belong to myself.’
She kept babbling and the jeep kept driving at full speed. The two sitting in front paid no heed to her nonsense, treating her like a piece of baggage. It was their responsibility to deliver her to her destination and that was all. The jeep stopped and one man got out. His place was taken up by empty cartons and bundles. The road was full of people. Their emotions brimmed over in the slogans they were shouting. Young boys poked their heads into the jeep and stared and she thought irritably, why doesn’t the jeep start? Why was she being transported in this manner? Was it her funeral procession?
‘This is my funeral procession …’ She raised her voice and was enraged by the lack of feeling in the man sitting in the front seat. He was refusing to hear her. Has everyone turned to stone? What has happened to all of them? They’ve all become puppets, puppets manipulated by time and politics, she thought, and screamed at the man sitting near her, ‘Are you deaf?’
‘I don’t have the time.’
She got up and bent over the front seat. ‘You don’t have the time? Not even the time to get rid of me?’
The man driving the jeep turned round to look and felt her breath on his temples. ‘I won’t get rid of you,’ he said deliberately, ‘because you’re young and not bad-looking.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘Why don’t you lie down? Don’t add to my problems.’
She had come to ask him questions, talk to him, and here she was being told off. The jeep kept grinding on. The fresh air revived her slightly. ‘What
will you do with me?’
‘Pickle you.’
She kept quiet. There was no reason to say anything further.
The jeep entered the compound of a huge building and stopped. Bearers came forward with a stretcher. She descended, spurning all help.
‘All right. Salaam.’ She stopped.
‘Wa’eikum asalaam.’ The man had put on a pair of dark glasses and was looking at her: a woman wrapped in a cotton blanket, encrusted with dirt, hair in disarray and tears streaking the filthy face. She looked like a mad woman.
‘What’s your name?’ The man’s heart filled with sympathy and pity for the solitary woman.
‘Nothing …’
‘Nothing is no name.’
‘Parveen’, she answered shortly, lost in thought.
‘Parveen’, the man repeated and added, ‘Peena’.
She smiled interrogatively, as if to say, ‘What is my destination now?’
The man took off his dark glasses and gave her a deep look. ‘I’m Hassan. Anything I can do for you?’
‘Nothing …’, Parveen answered angrily. She had been disappointed in Hassan. A strange disappointment.
‘All right. Khuda hafiz’. Hassan walked away.
‘Khuda hafiz’. Parveen’s hand kept waving for a while. She had softened towards him again and people looked with surprise at this peasant woman with the appearance of a sadhu, who stood there waving goodbye in such a courteous manner till the jeep was out of view. But there was terror on her face. Pure terror.
Kahani Page 12