Love Stories from Punjab

by Harish Dhillon

  He sat for a long time looking down at his calculations, wondering what it was that his daughter would do. It was not difficult to foresee. Where a daughter was concerned, it could only mean that she would be involved in an illicit love affair, perhaps bear an illegitimate child. He knew that this could be avoided. He would bring up his child to trust him, to have faith in him. Should she ever fall in love, he would be the first person she would turn to, and he would be all too happy to give the young couple his blessings.

  But what if she were to fall in love with a boy from a lower caste, or even a boy from another religion? He shuddered at the thought. No matter how much he came to love his daughter, he would never be able to accept that.

  He was filled with despair. What had started out as the happiest day of his life, suddenly seemed to be turning into the bleakest. The wick in the lamp burnt low and flickered and he reached out and turned it up. The room was filled, again, with a strong, steady light. Almost at once, he wished that he had let the lamp burn out – the darkness within him would have found a fit echo in the world without.

  His eyes stared fixedly ahead. Fate had dealt him too heavy a hand. Why him? What had he done to deserve this? Then, as quickly as he had asked himself this question, he brushed it aside. All his life, he had been a fatalist, believing in a pre-ordained destiny that each human being lived to fulfil. This was his destiny and he could not question it – he must learn to accept it.

  He turned to put his papers away and as he did so, a great restlessness overtook him. Whatever it was that she would do, he thought, whatever dishonour she would bring would not be to him alone but to the name of his father and his grandfather too – both worthy men, God rest their souls, who had lived virtuous lives and built blemishless reputations for themselves – reputations that still survived in Trap, long after they were gone. It would have been far better if his child had never been born, he mused despairingly, or if she had died at birth. Death – yes, that was the answer. It would not be the first time that a father had killed his infant daughter for fear of the future. It was so easy – a hand held firmly over her nose and mouth for a minute, little more, and the deed would be done. In the morning they would say that she had been born too weak to cope with the rigours of life. There would be a burial, a period of mourning and the baby would be forgotten. Then the memory of his joy as he had held his baby close to him resurfaced, and he knew that there was no escape. No matter what the stars foretold, he would never have the strength to murder his child.

  But his anxious mind still sought relief. Perhaps he would be long dead and gone before the course of destiny brought his daughter to that fateful crossroads. And then it would not matter, what she did or did not do. But even this thought brought him no solace. All through the growing years, when she should be bringing him much happiness as he watched her grow, he would be haunted by the thought of what the future held in store and all happiness and joy would turn to bitterness.

  No, there was no escape. He had never been wrong in casting the horoscopes of others and in reading them. He could not be wrong now. And knowing this, he could not risk keeping his daughter with him.

  He was a decisive man and he made a quick, clear decision. He could not kill her and he could not keep her. He would set her adrift on the river Sind, which flowed close to the village, and let destiny take its course. If she was destined to live, someone would find her and give her a home and the shame of what she did in the future would no longer be his.

  He looked around for something that would carry his daughter on the waters and his eyes rested on a wooden box, the repository of old horoscopes. He opened it. Yes, it was wide enough and deep enough to accommodate his child. He knotted up the horoscopes in a length of cloth and put the bundle back upon the ledge. Then he ran his hand around the inside of the box. It was rough, too rough for the soft tender skin of a new born baby. He remembered the bundle of cotton that his wife had been hoarding for a new quilt. He took a few handfuls from it and carefully padded the inside of the box, making a soft warm cushion for the baby. Then he looked for something to wrap her in. He remembered the length of fine, saffron coloured silk that the zamindar had given him, one of the many presents for casting his son’s horoscope. Yes, that would be appropriate. He brought it out now and unfolded it. It was too great a length for his purpose and he thought, for a while, to cut it. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled a small, sad smile. It was the only thing he would ever give his daughter – he could afford to be generous.

  He stole into the neighbouring room where Ramba slept, exhausted by her labour, one arm around her precious baby. He waited till she turned and drew her arm away. He went quietly up to the cot, picked up the sleeping infant and stole from the room. He held her against his chest and felt again, that deep warm glow of love that he had felt when he had first held her and which he knew he would never feel again. His horoscope had hinted at the birth of this child, a hint that had given him the strength to stand firm during those long sterile years. But there was no hint in his horoscope of another child and he knew that once he let this baby go, there would never be another. He pushed the thought away and turned to do what he knew he must.

  He picked up the box and the length of silk and stole out of his home. He walked through the dark towards the river and, after a few hundred yards, he felt the soft sand under his bare feet. It had not rained for many months and the waters flowed low in their course. He had to walk another twenty yards before he saw the dark line of the water against the whiteness of the sand. He paused then, and lowered his burden to the ground. He unfolded the length of silk and wrapped the baby in it. He lowered her into the box. He felt again the weakening of his resolve and the desire to hold her, one last time, in his arms. But he knew that if he gave in now, he would never be able to let his daughter go. He closed the lid of the box and carried it down to the river. He waded through the water till it was above his waist and he could feel the current pulling at his knees. Then he held the box away from him with outstretched arms and let the river carry it away. He stood there, for a moment, fighting the urge to try and clutch it, to pull it back, but it was already too late. Slowly, he made his way home. He would have to pretend surprise when it was discovered that the baby was missing. He would have to make pretence of looking for her, in ascribing to the various conjectures about her mysterious disappearance. He shrugged his shoulders knowing that this would not be difficult – nothing could be, after what he had just done.

  The morning dawned at last – a bleak, grey day, the sky overcast with clouds. Mahmood stood knee-deep in cold water, pounding the dirty clothes against a rock. Hour after hour he worked and when it seemed that his weak old arms could pound no longer, he stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow and from his cheeks. This was not a suitable morning for his work, for there was no sun to dry his washing when he spread it out upon the riverbank. But some of his clients had a pressing need for their clean laundry and he had come down to the river in the early morning, on the chance that the sun would break through. He looked up at the sky now, as he paused in his work, and saw in the east, midway between the horizon and the zenith, a pale watery sun making a brave effort to break through the clouds. He turned and sat down on a rock for a few moments of rest. As he sat, he glanced upstream. He saw a neat rectangular object, very much like a box, floating down upon the current towards him. He jumped into the water and swam to intercept it. He clutched at it as it floated past, then holding it firmly under his arm. he swam to the bank. He sat down, still panting with his effort and waited to catch his breath before opening the mysterious object.

  The sky was lighter now and when he did, at last, open the box, he could hardly believe what he saw: a beautiful little baby lying asleep inside. His heart filled with joy at the unexpectedness of his discovery. As if responding to his impulse, the baby opened her eyes, and, afterwards, he swore, that just for a moment, her face had crinkled into the most beautiful of smiles: a smile that finally
even drew the sun through the clouds and bathed the world in its radiance. Then the baby began to wail. He snatched her from the box and scrambled to his feet. Forgetting his washing, and holding the baby close to his chest, he ran all the way home, to his little hut in Bhambhor.

  His wife, Nasib, looked up from her cooking, as he broke into the courtyard. He was too short of breath to be able to say anything. He simply held the baby out to her and, wordlessly, she took her in her arms. The baby too, as if sensing the enormity of the moment, forgot to cry. The moment stretched on. The old dhobi, still panting from his exertion, looked down at his wife as she held the baby to her breast. There was a glow on her face and he basked in its radiance. Then the baby began to cry again and the spell was broken.

  “She is hungry,” he said, still gasping.

  “How do you know it is a girl?” the woman asked, getting to her feet and busying herself with preparing a feed for the infant.

  “I could feel it as I held her to my heart,” he said simply. “All my life I have craved for a daughter and as I held her close, that craving was, finally, stilled.”

  Nasib said no more. But late at night, after the labours of the day had ended and they sat looking down at the sleeping infant, she gave voice to the thought that had haunted her all day. “Tomorrow we must seek the parents and tell them we have found their baby.”

  “Yes, if they want their baby found.”

  She looked up at him and saw a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips. “What do you mean?” she wondered at the smile.

  “No one who wishes for his baby to be found, would put her in a box and cast her away on the river.”

  She mused on this for a while. “But someone who wished the family harm; who wished the baby harm could do this.”

  “And risk the chance of the baby being found, and the evil deed travel back to them. There are easier and more effective ways of dealing with an enemy’s child.”

  “Yes, that is true. But we must still make the effort.”

  “Where will we start? What do we have to go on?”

  “You could start with the box you brought back with your washing – the box in which you found her.”

  “That is not much to go by. It is an ordinary box, the kind that every household has. Why, you have one which could easily be a twin to it.”

  “There is the silk. It is rich and expensive.”

  “Not rich or expensive enough to be unique. You have ironed hundreds of garments made of this very cloth.”

  “Stop it!” she said, sharpness in her voice. “Stop making excuses. It is late now and we must sleep. But in the morning, you will begin your search. You will go to all the villages along the river upstream from here, both on the left bank and on the right, and make enquiries after the baby.”

  But when they were at last in bed, she lay awake thinking how wonderful it would be if the parents were never found and the baby could be truly theirs.

  In the days that followed, Mahmood set himself a new routine. He awoke early in the morning, while it was still dark, and combed the neighbouring countryside.

  He walked miles and miles during the day and returned only late into the night, weary, thirsty, hungry and footsore. He always found his wife waiting for him when he entered the courtyard. He would see by the light of the lamp, anxiety cloud her face, a pale shadow of the fear that he knew, lay heavily on her heart. He would shake his head and see the shadow lift, to reveal a smile of relief. His heart would lift, too, at her relief and all his weariness would fall away.

  “I am hungry,” he would say.

  “Yes, yes,” she would respond, eager now to feed him, secure in the knowledge that the baby was theirs – at least for another day.

  After those first few days, his search became less earnest and, after a week, half-hearted and desultory. After ten days, by tacit agreement, the couple gave up the search and found great pleasure in this strange and unexpected gift – a child in their lives when they had long given up the hope of one.

  They named her Sassi and the days seemed too short for them to savour all the joys she brought them. As the baby grew, each day brought something for them to delight in: the first downy hair on her bald head, the first gurgling sounds she made, the first time she turned over on her side, the first time she responded to her name, the first syllable she spoke.

  Each moment was etched clearly in their minds and many years later, when she was gone, they could conjure up pictures of these times as clearly and vividly as if an artist had painted them and left them to the old couple as a gift.

  Sassi was a beautiful child and as she grew into a young girl, she drew praise and admiration from all quarters. Superstitious as she was, Nasib learnt to ward off the ill effects of such admiration – she always put kajal in her daughter’s eyes and a small spot of kajal on the girl’s temple. She made sure that there was, always, a black thread on the girl’s wrist and later, she went to a nearby dargah and got a taviz and tied it around her right arm, as she had been advised to do. Having done this, she was at peace, content to sit back and enjoy the praise and adulation that was lavished upon her child.

  Sassi came home one day, with a beautiful doll. It was made from colourful rags, stuffed with cotton and dressed as a bride. The dress was beautiful and the doll perfect in every detail, down to the miniature gold bangles she wore on her wrist and the little sequins that spangled her veil.

  “It is very pretty,” the mother said when she had examined it closely. “Whose doll is it?”

  “It is mine.”

  “Yours? Who gave it to you?”

  “No one gave it to me – I took it. It was Tahira’s but she would not let me play with it. So I hit her and took it away. It is now mine.”

  “No, it is not yours – it can never be yours.”

  “No, it is mine now – I am going to keep it.”

  Nasib caught the child’s arm in a tight grip and dragged her to the door.

  “Where are you going?” her husband asked.

  “I am taking her back to apologize to Tahira; to apologize and to return the doll.”

  “Let her keep it for one night,” the old man said and, going up to his wife, tried to disengage the child’s arm. “There can be no harm in letting her keep it for just one night.”

  “You keep out of this!” the woman snapped at her husband.

  “Come,” she said as she dragged the child away.

  Later at night, when Sassi had cried herself to sleep and the old couple lay side by side in bed, the husband said softly, “See how the poor child has cried herself to sleep. There was no need for such harshness. We could have taken the doll back in the morning. She would have been quite willing to give it up.”

  “It would have been more difficult in the morning. By then she would have convinced herself that the doll was really hers.”

  The old man chuckled softly. “That would have been no problem. I know Sulaiman well – he would have let me pay for the doll and then it would have been truly Sassi’s.”

  “And what else will you pay for?” The voice was soft and low. “We are poor people. All our lives we have lived with want and learned to accept it. Our Sassi, too, will come face-to-face with things that she wants but cannot have. Is it right that she learns to snatch these things from those who have them, with the expectation that you will go and pay for them all?” She sighed deeply.

  Mahmood was silent in the face of his wife’s good sense. “Remember always that Sassi is not ours. She is God’s – we merely hold her in trust and because we hold her in trust, we must do the best by her. When our time comes and we are face-to-face with our Maker, let us be able to tell Him that we fulfilled His trust – that we brought her up to be a good, decent human being.”

  They were silent for a while and then she turned and put her hand on her husband’s chest. “Do you think it was easy for me? To see her beautiful face so contorted with misery and yet to insist that the doll must go back at once?”
<
br />   The husband turned and held his wife in his arms. “You put me to shame,” he said. “You are right and I must learn from you. When we are gone, we must leave behind a good, strong individual. Whoever looks at her, should be able to say that her parents did well by her.”

  With such right-minded parents, it was little wonder that Sassi grew up to be the embodiment of decency, content with her lot, serene in her poverty, ever willing to share the little she had with others. The little town loved her and took her to its collective heart.

  When Sassi was about twelve years old, there was a wedding in the community and Mahmood, still not always able to resist the impulse to spoil his daughter, had spent more than he could afford on a beautiful dress for her. She was already a stunning beauty and in that rich dress, she looked as radiant as the bride. When she was called upon to join in the singing and dancing, she quickly became the centre of attention and all eyes turned to her.

  “Who is she?” Sassi heard the voice rise loud and clear in the babble around her. From the corner of her eye she saw that it was the bridegroom’s mother who spoke. “I have never seen so pretty a girl. She would make a good bride for Hashim, my second son.”

  “She is Sassi, Mahmood’s daughter.”

  “Mahmood’s daughter? It can’t be. How did so ugly a man beget so beautiful a child? And the mother, Nasib, is not much to look at either.”