“It is time for you to go home,” he said.
“I know,” the boy said, making no effort to get up. “Will you go, if I play one more song?” The boy nodded. Dhido put the flute back to his lips and played as one possessed. The music stopped, and in the silence that followed, the boy sighed “I wish I could play like you.”
“You will. It is only a question of practice.”
“No,” the boy said quietly. It was now so dark that Dhido could not see his face. “I will never play like you.”
He got to his feet and called out to his goats.
“Your flute,” Dhido said, holding it out.
“Keep it,” the boy said. “Because I know I cannot ever play like you, I do not wish to play the flute again.” He herded his goats back towards the village and Dhido, putting the flute to his lips once again, played to lighten the boy’s way home. Long after he was sure the lad was out of earshot, Dhido played on to himself, late into the night, finally stretching himself upon the ground to snatch a few hours of sleep.
He was up at the crack of dawn and though weary and footsore, he was soon on his way again. All through the days that followed, he walked, stopping only when he could not bear the pain from his blistered feet any more. Occasionally a householder or passerby would take pity on him and give him something to eat. For the most part though, he went hungry, because he had carried no money to buy food and he was too proud to beg. He slept under whatever shelter he found, usually a grove of trees, or, if he was lucky, an abandoned hut. Once he was taken in by a woman who lived alone. She gave him food and a cot to sleep on. In return, Dhido played his flute for her and as she looked into his eyes by the light of the oil lamp, he wrought his spell upon her and they made brief, passionate love upon the string cot.
Back in Takht Hazara, the Ranjhas waited for Dhido’s return. But there was no sign of him neither the first evening, nor the next and when the third dusk fell, they knew that, true to his word, he had left forever. The brothers were relieved.
There had been talk in the village that the Panch should take up the matter of the injustice that had been done to Dhido. Now, with Dhido away, they hoped the talk would die a natural death and they would be left in peace to enjoy the fruits of their deceit.
The women, however, became quieter; they avoided each others eyes. In their hearts they knew that Dhido’s departure had not solved the problem, for they still desired him as much as they had always done. Nooran had had her revenge but it had brought her no sense of triumph, no lightness of the heart. She missed the evenings when she would hide behind the hut and feast her eyes on Dhido’s naked body. She missed carrying his meal to the grove and his easy banter while he ate. Most of all, she missed the magic of his flute and the look in his eyes that had driven her to him like a moth to the flame. At night, when her husband had had his will with her and gone to sleep, she would turn away from him, cover her mouth with her dupatta and weep silent tears of despair and remorse.
On the morning of the fifth day, Dhido saw, in the distance, a line of trees and knew that he was approaching the Chenab. Because his journey, unlike other journeys, was without a destination, the river was no landmark for him. Yet the thought of reaching it buoyed his flagging spirits, brought a spring to his weary footsteps and a smile to his lips.
The sun had begun its decline towards the western horizon and the cool evening breeze had sprung up by the time he came, at last, to the banks of the mighty river. He paused to take in the broad sweep of the waters. There was a group of boys at play. He watched them jump from a little mound on the bank, into the water, allow the current to carry them some way, then clamber ashore and come running back to repeat the manoeuvre. Dhido felt his heart lift with their carefree joy. Slowly, the weariness of the day, slipped away from him.
Across, on the other bank, Dhido saw a large and prosperous village. There, too, were people bathing in the waters and he saw on mud banks, along the river front, herds of cattle that had been driven down to drink before they returned home with their herdsmen. There were dozens of boats of various kinds on the waters, all heading towards the village. The sun was low on the horizon and against its orange glow, Dhido saw the silhouettes of birds, in tight military formation, all homeward bound.
The tranquility of the scene filled his heart and mind and he felt a deep stillness within, and all bitterness and anger fell away and were replaced by the mellow warmth of well-being. Without knowing the name of the village, Dhido knew that he had reached his destination. He stood there a long time, savouring the peace that had grown within him. Then he became aware that the shouting and laughter of the boys had ceased. He looked around and found that they had gone. The sun was now low on the horizon, and he knew that he too must be on his way, if he wanted to cross the river and reach the village before it grew dark. He hurried along the bank and soon came to a large and capacious boat, full of people, ready to cast off.
He ran the last few yards and called to the boatman, who was about to push away from the bank. The boatman waited for the young man to approach and as he came closer he took in his dirty clothes, the tattered shoes on his feet and the starved look on his face.
“You wish to cross over to Jhang?” he asked.
“If that is the name of the village, yes, I wish to cross over.”
“Slip a coin into my hand and I will gladly carry you across.”
“I have no money,” Dhido said simply.
“I thought as much. Do you think I do this work for charity that I should be ferrying beggars like you across?”
Dhido smarted at this insult but saw no point in arguing. He sat down on his haunches and watched the boat as it began to draw away. Suddenly he knew how to avenge the insult that the boatman had hurled at him. He reached for his flute and soon the soft, poignant notes of a mournful melody, wafted across the waters and worked the way he had known they would. The passengers, first in ones and twos, then all together, leapt from the boat and made their way back to the bank, unable to distance themselves from the haunting music. Once they were all on shore, crowding close around Dhido, drinking in the music, he stopped playing abruptly, in the middle of a bar.
“Play, go on play! Why have you stopped?” one of the young women pleaded. The others joined in the chorus.
Dhido smiled to himself and looked across at the boatman, forlorn and frustrated, standing in the water, holding onto his boat, unable to understand the spell that had been cast upon his passengers.
“I’ll certainly play for you, but I, too, have to get to the other bank. Persuade the boatman to take me across and I’ll play for you all through the journey.” The passengers now turned to the boatman.
“Come Luddan, take him on board. What difference will one passenger make? And he will lighten your labour with his music.”
Luddan understood that he had been tricked, and his anger made him more adamant than before.
“Never will I take him across,” Luddan repeated. “Can’t you see the trick he has played on you? He is evil, his music is evil. He is inspired by the devil and has cast his wicked spell on you. If you fear God, leave him alone and have nothing further to do with him.”
“Stop being stupid, Luddan!” a buxom woman spoke up, “What evil can there be in such divine music and what harm can come from ferrying a weary, young man across the river?”
“You shut your mouth, woman,” the boatman retorted sharply and from the tone of his voice, Dhido realized that he was speaking to his wife, “or I will give you such a thrashing, you will rue the day you married me.” An uneasy silence fell over the crowd. Dhido watched the magic he had cast over the passengers melt before his eyes.
Luddan’s strong, firm voice broke the quiet. “It is getting late and I cannot tarry here any longer and be a part of your foolishness,” he said, adding, “All those who wish to go across, come back to the boat immediately. Those who wish to stay and listen to the young man do so, and may your discomforts during the night, lie square
ly on his head.” As they had come, first in ones and twos and then in a rush, the passengers returned to the boat, only a few turning to cast wistful glances at the stranger.
When the last few passengers were clambering into the boat, Dhido drew off his clothes and tied them up in a bundle. Into this bundle, he put his flute. He could hear murmurs from the boat as he did so, but he paid them no heed. Putting his bundle of clothes on his head, he waded out into the water.
“Look, look what he is doing. Surely he will drown.” It was the voice of Luddan’s wife, but if she sought to melt her husband’s heart, she did not succeed.
“And well he deserves to,” Luddan said loudly so that Dhido could hear him. “Let him drown and his bewitching music with him!”
Dhido reached beyond his depth and kicking out his legs, began to swim. Luddan drew more strongly on the oars and the boat pulled away. Dhido was not a strong swimmer and soon began to tire, as he pushed against the current.
“Look, look,” it was Luddan’s wife again. “He begins to drown. May his death be on your head. I rue the day I married you – I had no way of knowing that you were so cruel and heartless.” All eyes turned towards the swimmer and they saw that his strength was flagging. As the waters closed momentarily over his head, a loud clamour arose in the boat. Luddan had no choice but to turn his vessel around and row back towards Dhido. Strong, willing arms pulled the exhausted youth from the river and drew him onto the boat, where he lay, spluttering and gasping for air. Eager, loving hands wiped him dry. Someone produced a set of dry clothes and these were soon put on his shivering body. The exhaustion and hunger of the previous days, combined with the attempt to swim across, had made Dhido faint and he could only respond to all these gestures of goodwill with a nod of his head.
“Put him on Heer’s couch,” someone said, “Let him sleep.” Dhido was too weak to react to the name.
“Is that wise?” another asked, “You know how possessive she is about that couch. She will be livid when she hears that a stranger has had use of it.”
“Not when she knows that it was a matter of life and death.”
So Dhido found himself on a soft, luxurious couch and, lulled by the gentle movement of the boat, he soon fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
The boat drew to the opposite bank, but Dhido slept on. The passengers left, one by one, the women casting looks of longing and regret at the sleeping figure. They would have liked to stay and listen to his music when he awoke, but the call of waiting household chores and families that needed to be attended to, could not be denied and, reluctantly, they made their way home.
All except two young boys, who, still enraptured by the music they had heard, and with no responsibilities to pull them away, sat patiently on their haunches besides the boat, gazing at the stranger. Dhido stirred at last and, looking around, found that he was alone on the vessel. Then turning his eyes, he saw the two boys. He smiled. He knew why they were there. At least someone had been bound to him by the music that he had given them.
“What is it?” he asked, teasing the youngsters. “Why do you wait? Did you think I was dead?” The boys looked at each other and shifted uneasily on their feet.
“It is your music,” the younger one said and his voice told Dhido that, inspite of the soft down on his cheeks, he was little more than a child. “We hoped that you would awake and play for us again.” Dhido drew out his flute, and putting it to his lips, in the gathering darkness, he played sweet music for his audience of two.
In the meantime, word spread in the village of the stranger and his music. Word also spread of how he had almost drowned in the river and had to be pulled out and put on Heer’s couch to recoup. When this news reached Heer’s ears, she was angry, as expected, and gathering her playmates, she stormed down to the river’s bank to look for the villain who had caused such commotion. As she came running down to the waters, strange, wild music wafted up to her ears, slowing her step, pulling her magnetically towards it. Anger slipped away from her heart, which was now filled with feelings and longings that she could not name.
And so, with soft, stealthy steps, she came to the river’s edge, holding her very breath for fear that he would notice her intrusion and break from his playing. She stole quietly down to the boat and took her place with the boys. Her friends, taking their cue from their leader, came, one by one, and joined the little group. If he noticed their coming, Dhido gave no indication of it. He played without a break, slipping gently from one melody to another and his small audience sat lapping up each melody as if their lives depended on it, their eyes never leaving the player’s face.
Dhido raised his eyes just once and caught Heer’s eyes. Their glances held for a moment, a long moment, and Heer knew that her life would never be the same again.
Finally, the music ceased, though its echoes lingered on in the gathering dark and the heavy silence. The boys slipped away but Heer and her friends stayed on. Dhido looked again at Heer. She was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and she was his, he could see it in her eyes. He smiled, a small mocking smile that brought a hot flush to her cheeks.
“Who are you?” she asked, without any of the strident arrogance that was her hallmark, when she spoke to anyone other than her father.
“I am Dhido of the Ranjha clan from Takht Hazara. And you? Who are you?”
“I am Heer, the only daughter of Chuchak Khan, the head of all the Sayals.”
So this was Heer! He looked at her face again. Even in the gathering darkness there was no mistaking the ethereal beauty that radiated from her face. Yes, her fame was well deserved, and thanks to his musical gift, here she was now, at his feet, caught in his spell, waiting only for a sign to give herself to him.
“I am tired,” he said, stretching out his arms, “and I look for a place to rest.”
“Yes, yes,” she said scrambling to her feet, the eagerness not for all to see. Her eyes never left his face and the desire burned in them so strongly that he had to look away. “Come. I will take you to a suitable place.”
Heer led Dhido to Mithi’s home. She was sure that she, the barber woman, alone of all her married friends, would take Ranjha in without question and without demur.
And so it was. Mithi listened to Heer’s request, nodded and then turned to make Dhido welcome.
That evening Malliki, Heer’s mother, noticed that her daughter wore an air of distraction and, when she sat down to her evening meal, she merely picked at her food.
“Don’t be a fool, Heer,” she chided. “So what if a stranger used your couch? It will not be less beautiful or less comfortable for that.” Heer turned her face away to hide her smile. How her mother had been deceived! She could not sense the soft, dull pain in her daughter’s heart, nor what really troubled her.
“Heer, Heer beta, where is my hookah?” her father called and she was glad to be called away before the conversation went any further.
She turned her attention to filling her father’s hookah with the same care that she had given it for as long as she could remember, proud that he should want it done only by her. Her father watched her fondly. His daughter was not like the other girls; she was proud and fearless, undaunted by trouble.
“Come, sit beside me,” he said, drawing to one side of the couch to make place for her. He took the hookah from her hand and drew on the pipe, filling his lungs with the smoke of the strong tobbaco.
“Now tell me what tricks you have been upto today. I hope your mischief did not embrace my brother Kaidon again!” Heer and her band of friends, who followed her blindly, often played tricks and pranks on the less unfortunate inhabitants of the village. A favourite target with them was Kaidon, a lame kinsman of Chuchak, who lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the village with his two cows and four goats. Because of his handicap and because of his evil and vicious tongue, he had never found a partner to share his frugal life and in later years, had made a virtue of necessity by adopting the garb of an ascetic. The girls r
egularly ridiculed Kaidon’s lameness to his face and when he made answer, they went to the extent of snatching away his stick, which he used as his crutch, so that he was forced to crawl to his hut, while the passersby all stood around and laughed. When Kaidon attempted to retaliate by abusing his tormentors, they cursed him, as he lay on the ground and using their shoes rained blows upon him. Once, just once, upset by the reports that he had heard, Chuchak made a half-hearted attempt to remonstrate with his daughter. The next day, Kaidon’s hut was destroyed in a mysterious fire. Kaidon suffered all the pain and humiliation in silence. Denied any kind of redress, he bitterly chalked up, in his heart, all the harm that was being done to him and waited patiently for an opportunity for revenge.
Heer giggled at the mention of Kaidon and hid her face in her chunni.
“So you have been troubling him,” Chuchak said with mock severity. “Tell me what happened.”
And Heer told him how Kaidon had been caught peeping at one of her friend’s while she bathed. On catching him, the girls had surrounded him, knocked him down and beat him with their shoes till he begged for mercy. Even as Heer spoke of the poor lame man, who had been so severly dealt with, her mind kept wandering back to the handsome stranger. Had he eaten? Had Mithi given him a comfortable bed? She pushed these thoughts aside and forced herself to talk about her uncle with the gaiety and amusement that she was wont to do. But late at night, as she lay awake in bed, her thoughts turned again to the stranger.
Love Stories from Punjab Page 8