Love Stories from Punjab

by Harish Dhillon

  “You are possessed by a fine madness, a strange enchantment which has created a separate world for you.” He was silent for a while, “May Allah protect you, my child!” he said then, as he got up to go.

  She looked down at the portrait and then at his retreating back. “The portrait,” she called after him. “You have forgotten the portrait.”

  He turned back to her.

  “Keep it, and may it bring you happiness.” He smiled and then turned, and was gone.

  It did indeed bring her happiness. She spent long hours gazing at it. After a while, it seemed that the man spoke to her and his words were as clear as if he sat beside her and what he said, influenced her life more significantly than the words of those around her. She knew then, that the artist had been right – the madness was indeed upon her and she had no way to fight it, no will to resist.

  The artist disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. She waited for him all the next morning, till the sun crossed its zenith, but he did not come. She learnt, later, that he had left, taking with him her one hope of being able to reach Punnu.

  Sassi knew that she was in love but it was not the love that she had learnt about from songs and stories or from her friends. There was no restlessness, no anxiety to be with her lover. She went about her daily chores with the same cheerfulness, the same serenity as she had done before.

  She began, now, to ask after all those who stopped at the serai and if they were from Kach Makran, she found opportunity to talk to them about the place and about the royal family. When she spoke about Punnu, she asked only after his health and his well-being. It was not long before people knew of her interest in him and this began to be talked about. There was amusement at her strange attachment.

  “It is madness,” people said. “But then such madness is expected from a woman who has lived so long without a man. It will pass as soon as she begins to live with a man.”

  An opportunity to be with a man soon did come her way – an offer of marriage from her cousin Ismail. He was a few years younger than her and they had grown up together. As he grew into manhood, he realized that his feelings for her had grown beyond friendship. He desired her, though he never let her know of this. He did not know how she felt about him. She never encouraged him, of course, but then, neither had she shown that she found his attentions repugnant. In fact, whenever he had sought opportunity to be alone with her, she had not disapproved.

  His parents were aware of his attachment. It wouldn’t be so bad a thing after all, they told themselves, even if he went to live with her. They had other sons, other daughters-in-law and he would have to share his home with them. If he married Sassi, he would have a home of his own. And he would be living just two houses down the street. Ismail’s father went to discuss the matter with his brother.

  Mahmood was more than pleased. He had begun to despair of ever finding a husband for his daughter and here was one, right on his doorstep. Ismail was a handsome boy; he had an affectionate nature and had always shown respect for his elders. He was hardworking and virtuous. Sassi could not have found a better husband and he a better son-in-law.

  Sassi’s reaction to the proposal surprised her father. “Ismail is a fine young man: handsome and strong and hard working. He has a sunny disposition and winsome ways. I am sure he will make a fine husband to some girl. But I am not that girl.” She heard her father’s sharp intake of breath but she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her mother’s face. “I have made my choice. It has been with me so long and become so much a part of me, I could not now marry another.”

  “And you didn’t tell us Sassi?” His voice was incredulous. “Did you think we would not respect your choice?” There was hurt in his voice, a feeling of betrayal.

  “I was afraid that you would laugh at me.”

  “I would never laugh at your love. You know that.” Then after a pause he added. “Who is he?”

  Sassi got to her feet and going into the house, returned with Punnu’s portrait. The mother looked closely at the picture and then handed it to her husband. He too looked at the painting for a long time. “He is a prince,” he said looking towards his daughter and there was a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “Yes, he is a prince. He is Punnu, the third son of Ahmad, the chief of Kach Makran.

  “And where did you meet him?” The disbelief was total now.

  “I have never met him,” Sassi said.

  “Never met him? This is madness.”

  Sassi knelt at his feet and looked up into his eyes.

  “Yes, it is madness and that is why I never told you of it.” She buried her face in her father’s lap and her body shook with suppressed sobs. The longing for her beloved that she had kept pent up within her found expression in an outburst of grief. He put his hand on her head and caressed her hair.

  “Hush, my child, it will be alright. All will be well.” The strength of his love flowed through his hand to her, and her weeping was stilled.

  “I cannot help myself,” she said when her grief was at last stilled. She raised her head and looked again at her father.

  “Since the moment I saw this portrait, my life has ceased to be my own. It is as if he is always close to me and I have only to look over my shoulder to know what it is that I should say or do. All my thoughts and all my feelings revolve around him.”

  “You are bewitched,” the mother said in a hushed whisper. “May Allah have mercy on us.”

  “Hush,” the father said. “There is no bewitching, no charm cast by another. It is a strange enchantment which comes from within and works its own magic.” Sassi heard an echo of the artist’s words in what her father said. She put her head down again, on her father’s lap and his hands ran again through her hair.

  “My poor child, what will you do?” And there was such tenderness in his voice, it seemed his heart would break

  “There is little I can do, father, except wait for him, knowing that he will remain forever unaware of my existence.”

  Sassi was wrong. Punnu was aware of her existence. When traders who had passed through Bhambhor, returned home, they brought, among other things, stories of the etherially beautiful girl, who constantly sought news of Punnu. Punnu, with his remarkable good looks, knew that women were attracted to him, and over the years, he had exploited this attraction to the hilt. But to learn that a beautiful girl in far off Bhanbhor, was smitten by him, titilated his vanity and his curiosity. He plied the traders with questions. From their answers, a blurred, hazy picture formed in his mind and he began to feel attracted to this mysterious girl. Perhaps it would be worth his while to make a trip to India and meet her for himself. The thought remained a straw in the wind – strong when he had fresh news of Sassi, but passing away by the next day.

  Perhaps things might have remained the same for the “lovers” for the rest of their lives if the artist Sobha had not returned, once more, to Kach Makran.

  He was ushered into the Prince’s presence. “It is good to see you again, artist – you have been away a long time. I am sure you have at last completed my portrait.”

  “Yes. I did complete that portrait.”

  It was the portrait he had given to Sassi.

  “Where is it?”

  The artist hesitated a moment, wondering if he should tell a lie, then he decided against it.

  “I do not have it. I gave it away.”

  “Gave it away? Say that you sold it. Come, tell me what price was it that could be more than what I would pay: five measures of gold or two measures of the finest Basra pearls?”

  “It was a price greater than all the wealth of the world.”

  “Come, stop speaking in riddles,” the Prince said impatiently. “Tell me in plain words the price you received.”

  “A glimpse of divinity, a glimpse of a love so great that it threatened to blind me with its light.”

  “And did you marry her, the one who showed you this great love?”

  The artist hesitated, afraid that he had al
ready gone too far.

  “I wait for an answer,” the prince demanded, all the strength and arrogance of his position in his voice.

  “It was not love for me that she revealed, but love for you, and in return for this revelation, I gave her your portrait.”

  “And who was this girl, this stranger who loves me with such passion?”

  “She is a poor washerwoman, but she is more beautiful than any girl could hope to be. There is something divine and ethereal about her beauty as there is about her love for you.”

  “And her name is Sassi?” The artist nodded. “I have heard of her before and of her fascination for me – but never in such intense terms as you have described. Did you paint a portrait of her?”

  “No. She wouldn’t let me. But I did do some sketches; I could paint her portrait from these.”

  “Then let this be your commission.” The Prince turned to one of his courtiers.

  “Sheikhu, conduct the artist to a suitable apartment. Make sure he gets all he needs and make sure that he is not disturbed.”

  For a week the artist remained in his apartment, working at the portrait. Finally it was done, and he was content that he had done justice to the wonderful girl. There was a luminosity about the face he had painted, a transparency that let the viewer glimpse her very soul, suffused with love.

  The prince sat long, gazing at the portrait. “You were right artist, she is more beautiful than any girl could hope to be, and more beautiful than her is the love that shines in her eyes and irradiates her face.” He paused for a moment, loath to take his eyes off the portrait.

  “Sheikhu,” he called. “Give the artist two bags of the finest Basra pearls and five bags of gold. Is that reward enough?” he asked.

  “More than enough, your honour. You overwhelm me with your generosity.”

  “It is no more than what you deserve.” He turned again to his companion. “And Sheikhu we leave for Bhambhor at first light tomorrow. Make all preparations.”

  The caravan moved swiftly and reached on the evening of the eighth day. They camped in the serai and as Punnu sat beside a fire, warming his cold hands, he wondered, as he had done so often over the past eight days, what he would say to her when he finally met her. He had thought of so many openings, had rehearsed them again and again and then, realizing their inadequacy, had discarded them and searched for better ones. He knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He wanted to say that he was aware of her love for him and overwhelmed by it. He needed to express his regrets at letting her wait so long for him and he wanted to reassure her that he would strive to be worthy of her love and to love her equally in return. But he could not seem to find the right words to say what he wanted to, in the way he wanted to.

  Some words he tried seemed too artificial and stilted, others so complex that they distracted from the intensity of his feelings while still others seemed shorn of their beauty because they had been used too often by others. In the end he did not use any words at all.

  He stood alone, the next morning, under the tree the artist had told him of, watching her at work. As she spread her washing out to dry, she looked up and saw him standing there. She paused, and then abandoning her work, she ran towards him. They stood still, their eyes feeding on each other. Then, when her breast began to heave with sobs and the tears started to her eyes, he held out his arms and drew her into a close embrace. She put her face against his chest and held him close.

  Afterwards, they sat side by side on the riverbank and there was still no need for words. Occasionally, they would look at each other and smile. For the rest, they were content to sit in silence. At last he said, “Say something.”

  “What is there to say?”

  “Say anything, anything at all. I have looked at your face more closely, these last ten days, than I have looked at any face in my life. I know each curve, each line as well as if I have always lived with them. But I do not know your voice. Speak to me – I need to know your voice, as well as I know your face.”

  “They tell me that Makran is a beautiful place.”

  “Yes, it is beautiful and it will be more beautiful still, when you return to make it your home.”

  She looked at him and he saw the sparkle die in her eyes. When she smiled, it was a small, sad smile. “No. That will never be. My parents are old now, old and frail and I am their only child. There is little time left to them, but without me, they would die even before their time. I could not do this to them.”

  He was silent for a while and then he said, “Tell me about your parents.”

  Once the ice was broken, the words flowed almost as if they were attempting to make up for all the wasted years, in one morning. Then Sassi saw that the sun was well on its way to its zenith.

  “It is late. I must go. My parents have not had their midday meal.”

  He held her hand. “Will you come again soon?”

  She nodded, disengaged her hand and, without a backward glance, ran home.

  Her parents noticed the change in Sassi. She had always been a happy, cheerful girl but now it seemed to them, as she went about her daily chores, that there was a greater lightness in her step than before. The smiles came more readily to her face and she moved with a greater quickness in her movements. She took to being absent for long hours at a stretch and, on the third day, late at night, when she brought her father a tumbler of warm milk, he looked up into her face.

  “What is it, Sassi? Will you not tell your father what has happened?”

  She looked into his eyes and blushed.

  “He has come,” she said and looked away and fled from the room.

  Within a few days, the long hours that she spent alone with Punnu on the riverbank and in the serai, were noticed by others and commented upon. The gossip made its way back to the old couple. But it did not worry them, so wrapped up were they in their daughter’s happiness. They were curious to meet her lover though, to know what kind of man he was.

  “Will you ask him to come to see us?” the mother asked, as Sassi shouldered the bundle of washing to take down to the river.

  “He will come,” Sassi said gently.

  Punnu tried to find out all he could about Sassi and her family. His informant was the keeper of the serai. But what he told Punnu, was little more than what Punnu knew already.” Her devotion to her parents is well known,” the old man said in conclusion. “And so is her obsession for you. Now that you have come, it will be interesting to see how she resolves her dilemma; interesting to see what choice she makes: you or her parents.”

  “Perhaps she will not have to make a choice,” Punnu said.

  And abandoning his rich clothes and his jewels, Punnu donned the poor, tattered clothes of a washerman, and in the morning, when Sassi came down to the river and began her washing, she found him standing knee-deep in the water waiting for her. As she began her work, he reached out to help her. She looked up once from her washing to smile at him, but for the rest, it was as if it was the most natural thing in the world that the Prince from Makran should be playing the role of a washerman.

  He was clumsy at his work, and awkward, because he had never before worked with his hands. But he was eager to earn Sassi’s approval and so proved to be a quick learner. It was only a matter of days, before he was washing clothes as efficiently as if he had been doing this all his life. News of this spread through the town and people flocked to the riverbank to marvel at this transformation. There was some jeering at first, and then a sense of wonder. Punnu ignored it all and, after a while, people learnt to accept what had happened and to leave the lovers alone.

  Then, late one afternoon, after the two of them had folded all the dried washing and tied it up in a bundle, he said simply, “I will carry it home for you.” She smiled and he heaved the bundle on his back and, together, they made their way to her simple abode.

  The parents looked up, startled, as the young couple crossed the threshold. But th
e awkwardness lasted only a moment and then the mother said, “Come, come and sit. You must be tired after the labours of the day. I will get you something to eat.”

  “I will do that, mother,” Sassi said and, onto an earthen platter, she ladled some of the food she had cooked that morning and set it before Punnu. And he, sitting cross legged on the floor, ate of it with relish as if this simple, spartan food was the kind of food he had eaten all his life. Looking at him, as he ate, the parents thought how right he was for their Sassi; how right she had been to wait all these long years for him. They smiled fondly and, at last, felt that their cup of joy was full to the brim.

  When he had finished, Punnu washed his hands and went and took his place beside Mahmood. The old man passed him his hookah and he drew at the pipe and then passed the hookah back to the old man. When they had sat thus for a few minutes, he cleared his throat and spoke, “You know why I am here and I know that I have your consent. I have no intention of taking Sassi away from you and ask only for a little corner in your home, and for a place in your hearts and life.”

  “That you have already. You have proved, if proof were necessary, that you love our daughter.”

  “Then, will you talk to the maulvi? Will you fix the nikah for tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? Is that not too soon?”

  “Even this moment would not be too soon. My Sassi has waited too long for me.”

  So the nikah was performed the next day – a simple quiet ceremony – a washerman’s ceremony, with no hint that the bridegroom was a prince. After the ceremony, Punnu gave all the money he had to his retainers, wished them an affectionate farewell and sent them back to Makran.

  “Tell my father and my brothers not to worry about me. I am well and as happy as any mortal can hope to be. Tell them, I will soon bring my bride to visit them in Makran.”

  And having watched them leave, he made his way to his new home.

  From the beginning, it was as if he had always been there. When people asked about his home and his family, he answered in monosyllables and the questioning soon ceased. Gradually, he merged into his new environment and with long hours spent in the sun, with standing in the river day after day, doing strenuous, back-breaking work, he soon acquired a lean, hard body and a bronzed, sun-burnt complexion. But though he showed a face of great serenity to the world, Sassi knew that the adjustment had not been an easy one for him. Sometimes, when he returned home after a hard day’s labour, she noticed that he barely touched the food that was put before him and she knew that he found the simple, frugal fare, unpalatable. Often he would excuse himself and go for a walk along the riverbank and she would find him, hours later, sitting under their tree, lost in thought. She understood then, that he felt cramped by the limited confines of their little hut and longed for the spaciousness of his palace.