Love Stories from Punjab

by Harish Dhillon

  “Perhaps she was the result of a liaison with a prince,” another woman from the bridegroom’s party said and all those who heard the remark, greeted it with laughter. Sassi felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks.

  “No, jokes aside, it does seem strange that two such ordinary looking people should have such an extraordinary looking child. But then strange are the ways of Allah.”

  “You speak truly,” the bride’s mother said. “Strange indeed are the ways of Allah! The child was brought to them by Allah in a strange fashion: in a wooden box, carried down on the water—”

  “—Hush, Fatima, the girl can hear you,” the bride’s grandmother warned. Sassi felt the eyes of all the women fixed on her. She felt her heart beating wildly. No, what she had heard could not be true. She was her parents’ daughter and this was surely a figment of a wild imagination.

  As soon as she could leave, without drawing attention to herself, she fled to the security of her home.

  There her parents found her, when they returned from the festivities.

  “What is it, Sassi?” her mother asked, “Why did you come away so early? Are you well, my child?”

  “I am well, mother.” There was sharpness to her voice which instantly brought a crease of anxiety to her mother’s brow.

  “Then why did you come away? You were greatly missed Your aunt was worried about you. She has sent you some phirni, knowing how much you love it. Come, eat my child, you’ve had nothing to eat all morning.”

  “I am not hungry, mother.”

  “Not hungry?” She put her hand on her daughter’s forehead. “No, there is no fever. Let me see your tongue.”

  “Leave me alone, mother. I said I am well.”

  The mother drew away, knowing it was best to leave her alone for the moment. Perhaps she had quarrelled with one of her friends. She would soon get over it and confide in her mother, as she had always done.

  The day passed, the shadows lengthened and Sassi still sat silently by herself. Her mother realized then, that it was more than a girlish squabble that troubled her daughter. She went again into Sassi’s room and found her still lying on her cot. She knelt on the floor beside her and, putting her hand on her head, gently caressed her hair. “Do not torment me any more, my child. Tell me what lies so heavily on your heart.”

  The tenderness in her voice touched Sassi’s heart and she burst out, “Tell me mother, is it true that I am not your daughter? That father found me in a box upon the river?”

  Nasib paused for a moment and then resumed her task of stroking her daughter’s hair. She felt a deep sadness come over her. So it had come, the moment she had known she would have to face one day; the day her daughter would be innocent no more. Keeping her hand on her daughter’s head, she said in a quiet, steady voice, “Yes. It is true that your father found you in a box upon the river. But it is not true that you are not our child.” She paused, considering each word that she would say. “You are. And dearer to us than anything in the world. Remember, Sassi, who was it who held your hand when you took your first tentative steps? And who were the people who took turns to hold you in their arms through the nights when you were sick?”

  Sassi looked into her mother’s eyes and other images flashed across her mind. Of returning from visits to relatives in far-flung villages and of her, crying because she could walk no more, and her father, tired and old and frail, joyously picking her up, and carrying her all the way home on his shoulders. Of hard days, when there was little food in the house and of her mother, scraping all there was in the pot into a bowl and giving it to her to eat, urging her to eat still more, her eyes dancing with happiness as she watched. Only when she had eaten her fill, Sassi remembered, and could eat no more, her mother had taken the bowl and shared what was left, with her husband.

  “Forgive me mother, for my thoughts”, the young girl said, the tears springing to her eyes. “It is not those who give birth that are parents to the child, but those who bring her up.” And she reached up and drew her mother’s head down to her breast. With that admission and that love-filled gesture, Sassi left her childhood behind and passed, at once, into womanhood. Everyone looking at her from that day on marvelled at her new found maturity.

  She was always polite, always soft-spoken, always kind and considerate. If there was one aspect of her character that was not always admired, it was the rigidity with which she stood by what she believed to be right. Once she took a stand, nothing could shake her from it – not the censure of her peers nor the remonstration of her elders, not the fear of being isolated.

  It was just such a stand that she took, when it came to the matter of her marriage. Offers for her hand had begun to pour in, as expected. The fame of her beauty and her sweet disposition had spread far and wide and there were suitors in ample number. But Sassi turned down each proposal . “I will marry only the man who will be willing to come here and live in my parents’ home after the marriage.”

  The old couple was touched by the sentiment that lay behind this decision. They were getting on in years and their daughter, worried for their health and welfare, could not bear to leave them. But they also knew that Sassi would, one day, have to go away. “Don’t be a fool,” her mother chided, gently at first, then with increasing severity. “It is a daughter’s destiny to leave her parents’ home and go to her husband. We know you do this for us and we love you the more for it. But our lives are over – each day we live, is a gift from God. We will not always be around and God forbid, if you are not married when that time comes, what will become of you? You will be alone, all alone in the world.”

  But Sassi remained implacable in her decision. To each chiding she shook her head and said in a soft, firm voice. “I will marry only the man who will stay here with you.”

  Her family and friends, at first, listened to her refusal with amusement, touched with affection. It was no more than what they had expected. All dutiful daughters, reluctant to leave their parents, voiced the same sentiment when the subject of marriage was first broached to them. But with time, they grew out of it, and so, they were sure, would Sassi.

  “What will become of you when we are gone?” her father asked her after another of her refusals. “If you were married and safely settled in your husband’s home, we would be at peace with the world and ready, at last, to face our Maker.”

  “And what of me?” Sassi asked, looking straight into her father’s eyes, her voice little more than a whisper. “While you would be at peace and ready to face your Maker, I would not know a moment’s peace. In my waking hours and in my sleep, I would miss you and worry about you.” She paused to catch her breath and then wept on. “All my life you have placed my happiness before yours. Would you now, reverse all that you have done and buy your peace with my happiness?” Her voice broke and she turned and fled to her room. It was a moment before Mahmood could subdue the tears that had sprung to his eyes at his daughter’s words. Then he turned and went to her. He knelt beside her cot.

  “Hush, child,” he said gently. “Still you’re weeping. It shall be as you ask. You shall marry a man who is willing to live here with us.” As he spoke these words, he felt a great weight lift from his heart and he knew that though they had talked so bravely of her going away, they would not have been able to live without her – surely their lives would have ended before their time. Now, when suitors pressed for Sassi’s hand, it was not Sassi who turned them away but her father.

  “My daughter will marry only the man who will come to live with us.”

  “Have you, too, taken leave of your senses?” the mother asked. “Have you no shame? Will you sacrifice your daughter’s happiness for your selfish needs?”

  He only shook his head and said: “Whoever wishes to marry my daughter must accept my condition.”

  And he became as implacable in this resolve as Sassi was. And in the face of this combined determination of father and daughter, the mother, too, let all her misapprehensions slip away from her and was content to
wait for a son-in-law, who would abandon his parents and his home and accept their condition.

  The years slipped by and, one by one, Sassi’s friends got married and went to their new homes. They would come back, once in a while, bringing their children with them and Sassi would listen to their stories of their husbands and their homes. She would dandle their infants on her knees and when the children grew older, she would play games with them, tell them stories and sing lullabies to them. Once in a while, the longing would come upon her for a husband and children of her own. But she never forgot that her parents were old and frail now and would be helpless without her and so she remained firm in her resolve.

  Friends and relatives now mocked her stupidity and the selfishness of her parents.

  “It would be a different matter if Mahmood was a man of means, a man possessed of wealth and property,” they said. “There would be some point in the condition that they have laid. But why should a young man abandon all self-respect and come to live in a beggar’s home?”

  Sassi heard their comments and smiled. They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand. She knew in her heart that there was a young man, somewhere, who would understand, who would have so great a love for her that he would put all self-respect aside and, with no hope of inheritance, would still come to live with them. She was prepared to wait for this man for as long as it took him to come to her. Because she was so sure of this, she went through the motions of life with her accustomed serenity. The caustic comments finally ceased and were replaced by deep admiration for the girl who was prepared to make so great a sacrifice for her parents.

  The years were kind to Sassi. Where her friends had lost their youth and beauty with the burden of constant childbirth and their new responsibilities, Sassi, now on the threshold of her twenty-fifth year, remained as she had been when she was sixteen. There was no thickening of the waist and thighs for her, no dulling of the eyes and hair, no sallowing of the complexion. Her figure remained lithe and supple, her hair thick and lustrous, her eyes still sparkled and her complexion remained fresh and glowing. It was as if time had stood still for her.

  There was a tree on the bank of the river, an old spreading tree, and under this tree Sassi was wont to sit for a while, when she had done with her washing. One morning, when she made her way to her tree, she found that her place had been taken by a stranger. He sat against the tree trunk, bending over a sheet of paper. With quick, deft movements he sketched with a piece of charcoal. Scattered at his feet, were a dozen other sketches. So absorbed was he in his work, that he did not hear her coming. She paused besides him and, looking down, saw that he had been sketching her.

  He looked up then and caught her eye. He smiled and, putting his sketch aside, got to his feet.

  “Who are you and what is it you do?”

  “I am Sobha, an artist, and I have been making sketches of you. I hope to paint a portrait.” She felt a flash of anger at his presumption.

  “And you did not think to ask me?”

  “I did not think that you would mind. I am sorry,” and his voice and his words were so disarming, that her anger died as easily as it had risen. She saw now, that he was a middle-aged man, his beard streaked generously with grey. He had a lean, ascetic face and a thin, gaunt body. He was not an attractive man, but when he smiled, his face lit up with a radiant glow.

  “How can I be sure that you will do justice to me in your portrait?”

  “I will show you samples of my work and you can judge for yourself.”

  He bent down and reached into a cloth bag that lay on the ground. He pulled out a roll of paper and when he unrolled it and handed it to her; she saw that there were at least a dozen sheets rolled up together. She looked at each of them in turn. They were portraits, all of them, and all of them were beautiful. But she did not know the subjects and could not say how close they were to their originals. She came, then, to a portrait of Adam Jan, the zamindar, and looked at it a long time. She had seen the zamindar often enough, to recognize in the portrait, a true likeness. Yes, he was an exceptionally gifted artist.

  “Your claim is justified,” she said. “You are a wonderful artist.” She shuffled the Zamindar’s portrait aside and looked at the next painting. The man in it was handsome – in some ways more handsome than any man she had seen in her life. Each feature was finely chiselled and perfect and there was perfection, too, in the harmony with which the features had been put together.

  But his looks and their impact was marred by a slight thickening of the jowls, and small pouches under the eyes – reflections both of an easy, indolent life, and of over-indulgence. His dress was rich, as were the jewels that he wore. She looked back at the face and into the eyes. There was a sparkle there, a hint of amused arrogance. But behind the sparkle, was something she recognized from having often seen it in her own eyes, when she looked into her mirror: a steely resolve, an ability to stick resolutely by a decision, once it had been made. She shook her head; she was being fanciful. Surely one couldn’t read so much in a two dimensional portrait.

  She was conscious of the artist’s eyes fixed upon her and realized that she had looked too long at that particular portrait. She quickly put it back in among the others, and looked up at the artist. She caught a speculative gleam in his eyes.

  “And do you only paint portraits?” she asked, hoping to distract him. But before he replied, a smile flashed across his face and she knew that he was not deceived.

  “Yes, I only paint portraits. That is where my skill lies and it is through this skill that I earn my living. God has been kind to me – I have not lacked commissions.”

  “You deserve your success,” she said handing the sheaf of portraits back to him. Then loath to be parted from her ‘prince’, she said, “That is a beautiful portrait.”

  “I could paint just as beautiful a portrait of you,” he said slyly, as he rolled up the pictures again and tied them up with a length of string.

  She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t let you do that.”

  She turned to go and as she walked away, he called after her. “Think upon it.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she dare ask to see the portrait again. She decided against it and walked away.

  All that day and in her sleep that night, she was haunted by the ‘prince’. She felt she had known him all her life. She knew the feeling was ridiculous and she tried to push it aside. But again and again, she saw him in her mind’s eye and by the time she awoke the next morning, he had become the focus of her life. When she looked into her mirror, there was a soft radiance, a glow to her face that had not been there before.

  She had no doubt that the artist would come again to the river. But when she had done with her washing and looked towards the tree, she did not see him. If he did not come again, she would lose her only link with the prince: yes, she had made up her mind that it was a prince because only a prince would carry that air of absolute authority. She pushed the fear of losing her connection with her prince aside. Allah would not be so unkind. Surely the artist would come again to the river.

  She lingered over her washing till the other women, waiting on the bank, grew impatient, “How much longer will you be, Sassi? We can’t wait here all day.”

  “You go on,” she said, scrubbing a garment. “I will come when I am done.”

  Muttering under their breaths, the others walked away and Sassi busied herself with her work. When she had finished, she finally spotted the artist. She abandoned her washing and hurried up to meet him.

  “I thought, perhaps, you would not come,” she said unable to disssemble.

  “And leave you without your prince?” he teased. “Here, I’ve brought him for you,” he said, handing her the portrait. She took it in her hands and sat down beside him. She gazed long at that now familiar face and when she spoke, it was with her eyes still upon the picture.

  “Then he is indeed a prince?”

  “Yes. He is Punnu, the third son of Ahmad, the chief of Kach Mak
ran.”

  “How far is Kach Makran?”

  “Fifteen days by camel, ten if you have a swift horse.”

  “It is indeed very far,” she said in a soft low voice, tinged with sadness. She could not make such a long journey, and he, unaware of her existence, would have no reason to come. “There are merchants from there who sometimes stop for a night or two at the serai and those who can afford it, buy goods from them. What kind of place is this Kach Makran?”

  “It is a fair place. The air is sweet and mild and the soil fertile so that each season yields a rich harvest of grain and fruit. There are numerous springs and their waters are clean and cool and sweet. The people trade with many countries and are rich and prosperous, hospitable and generous.”

  He lapsed into silence and she continued to gaze at the picture. The silence stretched on.

  “And the prince? Do you not want to know about the prince?” His voice was little more than a whisper, but he sat so close to her that she heard him clearly and there was no mistaking the affectionate teasing in his voice. She looked up into his eyes, and paused before she spoke, deliberating on what she would say.

  “Of course I want to know about the prince – my prince. But I couldn’t bear it if you were to say something unkind. I know that he is mortal and like all mortals he has his share of weaknesses but I couldn’t bear it if you talked about them.” He was silent for a while, taken aback at the intensity in her voice.

  “Is it so bad already?”

  “Bad? No I can’t say it is bad. I have slept well last night and there has been no loss of appetite. But I do not think there has been a moment since I saw this portrait that I have not thought of him. I have painted a picture of him just as you have, but my picture speaks and moves and thinks and feels. For the first time in my life, I feel I have found a man to whom I would gladly surrender my entire being and follow wherever he chose to lead.” She paused and looked again into the artist’s eyes. He put his hand on her head and, when he spoke, his voice was tender and compassionate.