Love Stories from Punjab

by Harish Dhillon

  Within a week of his departure, I had all but forgotten him and if I did have any memory of him, it was of a poor child, with a running nose, who had carried my books to school.

  After a year or two, reports filtered in of his growing skill at riding. It was said that he rode his horse with the speed of the wind; that when he mounted her and urged her on to a gallop, her nostrils flared, her mane flew behind her and her feet scarcely touched the ground. There were other reports of his exceptional marksmanship with the bow and arrow. Munira, one of my friends, had gone to visit an aunt and at one of the village fairs, had watched Mirza win an archery competition. But these reports stirred nothing within me – no admiration for his achievements, no desire to meet him again.

  My world had moved on to another plane, in which there was no place for the little boy I once had known.

  Like Mirza, my body had filled out too. I walked now, erect and proud, and was aware that men felt compelled to stop and stare at me. My skin, which had always been flawless, now glowed with the exuberance of health and youth. My eyes, my nose, my hair – each feature drew admiration and envy wherever I went. People began to talk of my beauty. Some even compared me to my aunt, the famed and legendary beauty, Heer. All this praise could not but turn my head. I had always had in me a streak of arrogance and conceit, and the admiration that was lavished upon me now, brought this trait to the fore. I became vain and proud. I spent hours before my mirror, adorning myself and I treated, with open contempt, all those to whom God had been less generous.

  My brothers, all six of them, had always showered me with love. I was the youngest and their only sister.

  In my growing years, their affection had often been tinged with amusement. Now, as they watched me blossom, and saw the effect it had on those around, their amusement turned to pride.

  Where before, they had spoilt me with toys and sweetmeats, they now did so with beautiful clothes and expensive ornaments. This angered my sisters-in-law and I often overheard jealous quarrels between my brothers and their wives. But, vain and conceited as I had become, I only smiled and found in these quarrels, still more food to feed my pride. Here were six men, who placed their love for their sister above their love for their wives and children. I gloated secretly, as I became yet more heartless and spiteful to the poor slighted women.

  If more cause was needed to add to my self-centredness, it was provided by the fact that I was engaged to Tahir, the son of Nasir Khan, the chief of Chandaran. Not only was his clan the richest and most powerful in the region, but Tahir himself was the most eligible bachelor in Punjab. It was said that he had only to look at a girl, for the girl to be willing to give herself to him. He was an accomplished horseman and his swordsmanship was famous, far and wide. When my people spoke of Tahir, they did so with admiration. Listening to their talk, I thought how special I must be to be getting Tahir as my husband. My overblown pride became even more inflated.

  My vanity and self-centredness, detached me from most of the people in the village. Tired of my arrogance and vicious tongue, they learnt to avoid me. Where, as a child, I had been popular and well loved, as a young girl I was universally disliked. But the awareness of this did not upset me. After all, did I not have my brothers’ love, which was stronger and more powerful than the love that all the others could have given me? And did I not have Tahir as my fiancé?

  Gradually, I began to think of my life in Jhang, in my parents’ home, as a mere pause, a waiting for my real life in Chandaran, with Tahir. And I filled my existence with fantasies of my married life. I lived out these daydreams over and over again and each time the details became more real, more clearly defined, till they were like oft repeated memories of the past rather than visions of the future. I went over and over the meetings that I would have with Tahir, till I could capture the nuance of his voice as he said each word. I could see each gesture as he spoke and moved. I could feel the touch of his hand on my body, his caresses as he sought to rouse me to his love, and once this rousal was achieved, I lived and relived each response.

  These fantasies became the centre of my existence. They prevented me from eating, or sleeping. I lost weight and dark rings appeared under my eyes. I preferred to be left alone and avoided communication with all those around me.

  My faithful band of friends, tried to include me in their activities. They would insist that I go out in the evenings, when they played on the riverbank or frolicked in the water. I allowed myself to be persuaded and went with them. But once there, I found it hard to join in their pursuits, which had begun to seem curiously childish to me. So I would sit at my favourite spot, sometimes watching their sport with mocking amusement, but for the most part lost in my fantasies of my husband-to-be.

  Absorbed in one of these reveries, one day, I did not hear the approach of the horse that came galloping towards me. No, that is not true. Now after all these years, when I sift through my memories of a time long gone, I have to admit that I did hear the horse as it approached; that some obscure area of my mind did register the drumbeat of approaching hooves.

  But I had become submerged in my fantasies and I did not permit myself to react to the sound. It was when there were loud shrieks from my friends as they gambolled in the water, that I abandoned my thoughts and turned, a little irritated, to the world around me. I saw on the riverbank, a horseman gazing down at my friends. He was a stranger, I was sure that I had never seen him before and yet I felt attracted to him. He was handsome – not as handsome as my Tahir of course, but more handsome than most men. But more than his looks, it was the aura of power that he exuded, as he sat on the white mare, that compelled attention. There was an ease, a confidence in the way he sat – the angle of his feet in the stirrups, the pressure of his knees against the horse’s flanks, his handling of the reins – that spoke of great skill, competence and control. There was an amused arrogance in the way his head was tilted back as he looked down at the girls he had startled in their play.

  Nasreen, the boldest of the group, had climbed back onto the bank now and, retrieving her chunni, had covered her bosom as it strained against her wet shirt.

  “Who are you,” she said with great severity, “that comes upon us while we are at play and ogles us in this indecent manner?”

  “Forgive me,” he said leaping off his horse in one smooth movement, “I did not mean to intrude or show any disrespect. I am a stranger, who has ridden hard and fast. I only stopped to request a drink of water to quench my thirst. Was that expecting too much?” There was banter in his voice and in his eyes and I could not help but feel attracted towards this charming stranger.

  “No, it was not expecting too much. To give a drink of water to a thirsty traveller is the least that we can do.” Nasreen picked up her pitcher from the bank and, going down to the water’s edge, she filled it and returned to the stranger. But when she sought to pour the water, the man did not cup his hand and hold it to his mouth, the way the thirsty do. Instead he stood there, looking arrogantly at my friend.

  “What is it?” she asked “You said that you were thirsty and I have brought you water.”

  “I cannot drink this water, thirsty as I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Do you ask why? Do you not see that you have dirtied it by holding your thumb over the edge of the pot till it is in the water?”

  Nasreen lowered her pitcher to the ground. I saw her face flush with embarrassment and I felt sorry for her. I had caught the stranger glancing at me, once, as he spoke, and I had seen his desire speak clearly in that glance. I understood the game that he was playing.

  By now, my friends had all crowded around and were taking in every word of the exchange. Nooran, who had always had a weakness for handsome men, now broke from the group and picking up her pitcher filled it from the river. But as she walked towards the stranger, unknown to her, a leaf fell from the tree above her and drifted down into the mouth of her vessel. So when she held up the pitcher to pour the water, once more the stran
ger did not cup his hands.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Did you not see that leaf fall into the pitcher? How can you expect me to drink such contaminated water?”

  One by one, the others took turns to bring him water and each time he found an excuse not to drink it. With each refusal, he glanced towards me and somehow managed to catch my eye and smile. Though I kept a serious expression on my face, I was amused at the ploy he was using to establish contact with me.

  When the last of my friends had been turned away, the girls went into a huddle and discussed what they should do. Then Nooran, taking on her usual role of spokesperson, broke away from the others and came to me.

  “Sahiban, will you try? He is thirsty and it would be inhospitable to turn him away.”

  “You have tried enough,” I said, the laughter rising to my voice. “I would not be patient with a man who treats my friends so churlishly. But you are right, we cannot turn a thirsty traveller away – it would be most inhospitable.”

  I could feel the stranger’s eyes on Nooran and me, as we held our whispered consultation. Impatient now, he raised his voice and called, even while I was making the move to get to my feet.

  “Will no one quench a traveller’s thirst? Are the people of Jhang, then, so inhospitable? Or is it that the waters of your Chenab are not worth drinking?”

  I was proud of my village and proud of my river and I was stung to the quick by his taunts.

  “The people of Jhang are famous for their hospitality. You must come from very far indeed, not to have heard of it. As for our river – the waters of our Chenab are so sweet that those who drink of them but once, forget all others.”

  I saw the flash of amusement on his face and knew that I had done exactly what he had intended me to do.

  I walked quickly down to the river, filled my pitcher and walked back to him. He cupped his hand and I tipped my pitcher and poured water out for him, but though he held his mouth to his hand, he did not drink. His eyes remained fixed upon my face.

  “What is it?” I asked after a while, turning the mouth of my pitcher up and holding it against my hip. “It seems you are not thirsty after all.”

  “I was thirsty,” he said in a low whisper, so that his voice reached my ears alone.” But one glimpse of your divine beauty has quenched my thirst.”

  I had heard remarks like these so often before, that I was bored by them. They flattered my vanity yes, but I usually treated them with bland indifference. Yet now, I could not resist the desire to tease the stranger, to flirt with him a little.

  “This is not what other men tell me – other men say that one glimpse of my face and my body arouses a deep thirst in them.”

  Laughter flashed in my eyes as I allowed them to travel over his body. I had to admit that there was much to admire. He was lean and sinewy, and he exuded strength and virility.

  “They speak of the thirst of the body. I speak of the thirst of the soul.”

  “Now you begin to speak in riddles.”

  “No. I speak plainly. One look at your face has brought stillness to my soul that it has not known before.”

  I looked into his eyes, as he spoke, and I was troubled and disturbed by the sincerity I glimpsed in them. No one had spoken such words to me before and I had to admit that I felt drawn to him.

  “If you still do not understand my meaning, come to Heer’s grove tonight and I will make myself clearer.” He had lowered his voice further and even I, standing as close to him as I was, had to strain my ears to catch his words. I felt trapped. I had no intention of going to him that night but I did not know how to parry his suggestion.

  For a long moment, he stood there looking at me, his eyes taking in each feature of my face in turn. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down, as he attempted to swallow the emotion that had gripped him.

  “Sahiban? Do you not know me, Sahiban? Have the years wrought such a change in me that you cannot, now, recognize your Mirza?” He put his hand gently on my cheek and it was my turn, now, to look into his face with wonder and amazement. My eyes filled with tender tears at the memory of that little boy, so helpless before the wrath of the maulvi.

  “Yes,” my voice, too, was little more than a whisper. “The years have, indeed, wrought great change in you. You have grown to be amongst the handsomest of men – you were not thus when I knew you last.” His hand moved to the nape of my neck and he drew me roughly to him and folded me in a tight embrace. Behind us, I heard the whispers of my friends fall away into silence as they looked. But I did not care what they thought.

  “You were not thus either, Sahiban,” he whispered into my ear. “With the beauty of your soul shining in your eyes, the radiance of good deeds glowing on your face.” His words made me uncomfortable because I, self-centred, vain and arrogant, knew that my soul was far from beautiful and there were no good deeds that I could claim credit for.

  At last he drew away, but as he did so, he said, “You will come tonight?”

  I did not look into his eyes, nor did I speak. I simply nodded my head in answer.

  Then I turned to my friends and said, “Do you not know this traveller?” I watched my friends’ faces as they looked closely at our visitor, but in none of them did I see any sign of recognition. Finally, they all turned to me, awaiting the answer. “He is Mirza,” I said.

  One of the girls laughed, another said disbelievingly,”No, it can’t be!”

  “I thought there was something familiar about him. But that was only because I saw him at the archery contest,” Munira added. The girls crowded around Mirza. He exchanged greetings and news with each of them and soon it seemed as if he had never been away. Darkness gathered.

  “It is time I went home to my Aunt Biro,” he said finally. He bade us farewell, mounted his horse and was gone.

  As we made our way back to the village, the other girls voiced their amazement and admiration for the change that time had wrought in Mirza. I held my peace, but I could not help the warmth that I felt in my heart as I listened to their words. It was the pride of hearing praise, for something that was mine.

  “Mirza is here,” I announced as soon as I entered the courtyard of my house. “He has changed so much that I did not recognize him.” There were a few questions about him and then we went about our daily, evening chores. After the evening meal was over, I said, “I am going to visit my Aunt Biro, I want to meet Mirza.” I expected some opposition to be voiced to this suggestion.

  “Don’t be too long,” was all that my mother said. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that, in their minds, he was still as they had seen him last, a little boy, and so could see no harm in my going to meet him.

  I hurried from the house and down the street and found him waiting for me outside Aunt Biro’s house. We hurried away from the village and across the fields to the grove of trees. It was a happy choice for a meeting place. It had been the place where my aunt, the legendary Heer, had kept her trysts with her Ranjha and where she lay buried. Here, on Thursday nights, in her memory and in the memory of her love, someone would light a small earthen lamp. Apart from this solitary gesture however, the heavy burden of guilt the Sayals carried, made them stay away from the grove.

  There was little chance of anyone wandering in upon us and discovering us, while we were there.

  We sat close to the little marhi and it was as I had been afraid it would be. He did not talk of my beauty, of the magic of my eyes, the lustre of my hair or of my sensuous body. Instead, he talked, first of how love strengthened one’s soul and motivated one towards kindness and compassion. Then, when I told him that his conversation was beyond my comprehension, he talked about his home and his horse and about his sister Sheebo, whom he loved very much. I was disappointed, but I held my peace. I would be meeting him just this once so I could afford to be polite. But when an hour or two later, we got up to make our way home, he pulled me into a quick, tight embrace and asked, “Will you come tomorrow?”

  And e
ven though I had been bored with this meeting, something made me nod my head and say, “Yes, I will.”

  The next night was a Thursday night. Traditionaly diyas are lit on Muslim graves on this day, and in the flickering light of the lamp that had been lit on Heer’s grave, I feasted my eyes on Mirza’s handsome face and his lean strong body.

  “Why do you sit so far?” he asked and I moved closer to him. “Do you know that you are so beautiful that I cannot find the words to describe your beauty?”

  His words brought me great happiness and I felt my cheeks grow warm, though I did not dare look into his face.

  A gust of wind shook the trees above us and sent a chill through my body. He saw me shiver and putting his arm around my shoulders, drew me close. I felt the warmth of his body course through mine. I glanced down and saw the stirring under his tehmat. I was no virgin and I knew what I must do. I reached out and closed my hand over his manhood. I felt a deep sigh surge through his body as he pulled me close and held me to his chest. Then he drew away, looked into my face and, with great tenderness, brushed the stray strands of hair away and caressed my cheeks. The love in this gesture quite overwhelmed me and my frame shook with suppressed sobs. At this, he drew me close again and his lips touched my hair lightly. I drew away and his lips found my cheeks, my forehead, my nose and, at last, my lips. It was a long tender kiss which turned to passion. Then his hands caressed my body. With great care, he built up my pleasure, drew me to a peak and touched the very core of my being. My body quivered with excitement, when he at last took me. But even in the taking, there was attention more to my needs than to his own. No man had held his own passion in abeyance for so long to give me pleasure and I felt the tears start in my eyes.

  As we made love, a deep fulfilment suffused me and I knew that he had bound me to him with a strong, unbreakable bond. When he, at last, came to his shuddering climax, he did not draw away at once as other men had done. He held me close, and once again, his lips reached tenderly for my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, my hair. Tears coursed down my cheeks.