Love Stories from Punjab

by Harish Dhillon

  There was not a moment to be lost. I looked for the first opportunity to be alone with my Aunt Biro. It wasn’t easy in the crush of relatives and wedding guests, but I got my chance at last. “I cannot go through with this marriage,” my voice was clear and steady. “I would rather die. Listen, aunt, you know there will be much carousing and revelry, these next four nights, and by the second watch, most of the menfolk will be dead to the world. Send word to Mirza, tell him he must come to fetch me at that hour, three nights from now. Tell him he must come or else he will hear that when they came to fetch me for the nikaah, they found not me, but my dead body.”

  Something in my voice and manner, convinced my aunt of my determination and she made no protest. “Yes. I will send for him. Have no fear, Sahiban, he will come to fetch you.”

  I went through the next three days calmly, secure in the knowledge that Mirza would come for me and if he didn’t, I knew exactly what I would do. On the edge of Heer’s grove, there was a bush of poisonous berries. The bush was in fruit now. I would gorge myself on the berries and return home only when it was too late for an antidote. Having decided on this course of action, I felt the strength return to me and was able to face all the festivities with equanimity.

  On the third day, Gulbano, Shamir’s wife, turned to me and said, “We must dress our Sahiban more suitably. Her nikaah is tomorrow and look at her today, wearing so drab and shoddy a dress!”

  “Yes, why not,” I said turning to her with a smile. “I shall wear one of my most beautiful dresses and deck myself up in the finest of my jewellery.”

  The morning was spent adorning me in a beautiful dress and heavy ornaments.

  Gulbano found great pleasure in making up my face and my hair and, as she worked on me with loving hands, I thought of all the pain and trouble that I had caused her. Perhaps she, too, thought of the bitterness that had lain between us and this was her way of making up, now that I was going away.

  She stood back and surveyed her handiwork and then she took a speck of surma on the tip of her little finger, from the corner of her eye, she put a tiny spot of black on the side of my forehead to ward off the evil eye.

  “Our Sahiban looks so beautiful today; her beauty would put even Heer to shame.”

  I felt a shiver run up my spine at the mention of Heer’s name and was suddenly filled with dark foreboding. I wondered if she had made the remark deliberately. But when I looked into her eyes, there were no shadows lurking there, no malice. Her eyes shone bright and clear with pride and with joy at the miracle she had wrought in my appearance. No, it was an innocent enough remark, made to compliment my beauty without thought or heed to any unlucky connotations. But all through the day, a sense of unease continued to haunt me. Would I, too, meet the same fate as Heer, a corpse decked up in bridal finery? Then, with great firmness of mind, I pushed the thought away.

  A pattern had been set since the day the bridegroom’s party arrived and this day too, the same pattern was followed. In the early evening, all the men, decked up in the finest of clothes, congregated at the old haveli. The haveli was not lived in now but used only for weddings and other celebrations. It was well decorated and lit and the courtyard was covered with rugs and strewn with cushions. The men lolled against these cushions and drank of the very generous supply of wine. Through eyes which became more glazed as the evening wore on, they took in the entertainment provided by a group of hired dancing girls. Gradually, they shed their inhibitions, till each movement of the girls was greeted with lewd and lascivious remarks, accompanied by raucous laughter.

  At this stage, the womenfolk, who had been enjoying the entertainment too, from screened verandahs, discreetly made their exit and returned home. At the end of the evening, dinner was served. After dinner, they returned home in ones and twos. I heard them as they passed the house, still laughing over a remark or singing a snatch of one of the songs they had been listening to. Then the sounds in the street died away and I heard from within the house, the sounds of lovemaking – the groaning of the men and the giggles of the girls. Then this too died away, and the deep silence was broken now, only by the sound of snoring. The minutes ticked away and then I heard the call of the night watchmen in the street, as they made their rounds. It was the second watch.

  Finally, I lost track of time and just as I had begun to despair that Mirza would not come, I heard a gentle tap upon the door. It was so soft, that if I had not been listening for it, I would have missed it. I got to my feet and then, as an after thought, I quickly drew the bangles off my wrists and the anklets off my feet and left them on my bed. I hurried to the door and, lowering the crossbar, opened it. There he was, framed in the doorway. He was wrapped in a heavy blanket, but there was no mistaking him. He clasped me in his arms for the briefest of moments and then led me out into the street. I paused to look back at the house that had, for so long, been my home and that I was now leaving, perhaps, forever; then I turned and we hurried down the street towards Aunt Biro’s house.

  We were halfway there, when we heard the sounds of drunken conversation in the street ahead. We paused, but there was no turning back now. We walked on, a little more studied, a little more deliberate in our gait and came face-to- face with two of my cousins. They stopped in their tracks.

  “Who is this?” they said. “Who is walking the streets so late?”

  “It is I, Sahiban,” I said with boldness I did not feel. “Aunt Biro has sent an urgent summons for me and I must go to her.”

  “Urgent summons? At this time? Something must be wrong. We will come with you.” They made to turn the way they had come. I sensed Mirza stiffen beside me and, in the dim light, I saw his hand grope for the dagger that he wore at his waist. I sent up a quick short prayer that he would not need it.

  “No, no,” I said trying to curb the anxiety in my voice. “It is late and your wives wait for you. You know how Aunt Biro is. She probably wants to talk to me about the parandi I am to wear in my hair or about some piece of jewellery. You know how she is. Please don’t worry.”

  They hesitated. Then the younger one took charge. “Still, we cannot let you venture alone so late at night.”

  “I am not alone,” I replied, indicating Mirza who stood beside me.

  “And who is this?” Once again I saw Mirza’s hand groping for the dagger.

  “Do you not know him? He is Muhamada, Aunt Biro’s servant.”

  “Muhamada? He does not walk like Muhamada,” the elder cousin said.

  My heart skipped a beat. I was sure now that we were discovered.

  “None of us walks like himself tonight,” Mirza said in a muffled voice.

  It was a moment before the words sank in. Then the two brothers looked at each other and broke into laughter. The elder one slapped his thigh and, amidst peals of laughter, he said, “That is good, very good.”

  “We will go on then,” the younger brother said. “Goodnight sister and goodnight to you, too. Muhamada.”

  “Goodnight,” I called and Mirza gave a mumbled reply to their farewell. We tried not to hurry, as the brothers walked past us. I was aware that they had stopped again and turned to look back at us.

  “I am sure that is not Muhamada. He does not walk like him,” the younger cousin said.

  “None of us walks like himself tonight,” the elder one retorted. Again they laughed. I heard their voices fade away.

  We hurried down the rest of the street, to Aunt Biro’s house. He left me at her doorway and went into the deep darkness of a narrow alley. He returned soon enough, leading his horse. Together we walked away from the village, the horse walking behind us and, it seemed to me, that she, with some fine, animal intuition, recognized the need for quiet and walked slowly with soft footfalls. When we were well away from the village, Mirza swung me up onto the saddle and climbed up beside me. The horse broke, almost at once, into a canter. A few minutes later, he led her into a gallop and I knew, at last, the truth of all the things that had been said about Shahzadi and th
e way Mirza rode her.

  They moved in one motion, as if the same spirit impelled them both, and for a while, I even felt jealous because I felt excluded. Mirza sensed this because he put his arm around my waist and held me close.

  The horse ran with the speed of the wind. Her hoofs barely touched the ground and it was as if he had grown wings. All through the night and well into the next day, we rode at the same breathless speed. In the late afternoon, we came to a spreading banyan tree with a small pond beside it. Mirza stopped and then guided Shahzadi to the base of the tree. He flung himself off and lifted me gently to the ground.

  “I must rest a while,” he said.

  “Is it wise?” I asked, as anxiety grew on me.

  “I have been in the saddle now, these last two nights and if I am to go on, I must rest and so must Shahzadi.”

  The strain of the last few days overtook me too, and I felt an urge to rest, though the anxiety within me would not be stilled. He saw this reflected in my face and put his arm around me and drew me close.

  “Do not worry Sahiban, they will never catch up with us. We have a headstart of at least six hours and Shahzadi’s speed has further lengthened the distance between us. An hour or two of rest, will not endanger us.” So saying, Mirza sank down to the ground. The horse drank at the pond and then began to crop on the tufts of grass that grew around.

  Mirza put his bow and quiver at the base of the tree trunk. Then he drew me down upon the ground and his hands caressed my body. Desire for him grew strong and when his lips searched for mine, I responded with intense hunger. As we made love, all anxiety left me and I found, again, the complete fulfilment that I had always found with Mirza. He held me close, when he had finished, and then exhausted, he drifted off to sleep, one arm still around my shoulders. I looked at him as he slept and smiled to myself. So, my Mirza had come for me. Nothing mattered now – not capture, not death. Cradled in his arms, I too fell asleep.

  As I slept, a dream stole upon me I dreamt that when I awoke, I found that we were surrounded by a ring of horsemen. Gently, I nudged Mirza and whispered to him that we had been found. In one quick sweep, Mirza caught up his bow and arrows and leapt up onto a branch of the tree. There, hidden by the thick leaves, he took careful aim and let fly his arrows one by one. One by one, his pursuers fell. I watched my brothers fall – first Shamir, the eldest, then the others in quick succession and, as each of them fell, I felt sorrow well up within me, till I choked upon it. I awoke with a start, relieved that it had all been a dream. And yet, the sorrow and the grief, did not altogether leave me, because I knew, that if the pursuers did catch up with us, my dream would come true.

  I had seen his skill with the bow when he had shot the mango out of the bird’s beak and I was certain that, with an aim so sure and true, he would kill all his pursuers, including my brothers. I shuddered at the thought. I dwelt on the unstinting kindness they had lavished upon me all these years. I thought of their wives, all become widows because of Mirza, and their lovely, cheerful children all orphaned and I knew that if this were to happen, I would find no joy with my lover. All happiness would turn to bitter, barren dust. I would not carry the burden of this guilt, I could not let this happen.

  My eyes caught sight of Mirza’s quiver. I drew the arrows out, two at a time, and holding them across my bent knee, I snapped them in two and threw them as far as I could, towards the pond. There was but one arrow left in the quiver, when I heard Mirza stir beside me. I turned again to him, afraid that he would awake and discover my perfidy. I lay down beside him.

  He hugged me close, for a while, and then turned away and was sound asleep again.

  I lay awake beside him, thinking of the enormity of what I had done. The pursuers would have the advantage of large numbers and Mirza’s only chance against them had been with his arrows. Without them, he would be helpless. I had no delusion about my brothers. Their pride had been hurt and they had been dishonoured. They would not hesitate to corner Mirza and hack him to death. And I would have to stand by and see him cut to pieces. Cold fear settled in my heart. Perhaps it would be as Mirza had said, l attempted to reassure myself; we had too great a start for them to catch up with us. But this thought brought small comfort to me. When he awoke and discovered what I had done, I would probably lose him as surely as if he had been killed. Confused and restless, I lay in my lover’s arms, more lonely and miserable than I had ever been through those long months, when he had been away from me.

  They must have come upon us quietly, because I did not hear their approach. Perhaps they had seen the horse from a distance and had crept upon us with the stealth of thieves or, perhaps, I was so preoccupied with my thoughts, that I had not heard their approaching. I looked up from the ground where I lay, and saw not twenty yards away, a horseman standing quietly, looking down upon us. When I glanced to his left I saw another and then another. Then I looked quickly around and saw the rest. It was indeed as I had dreamt – they had formed a circle around us, cutting off all escape. How had it happened? Mirza had been so sure that we had a headstart of many hours. Yet it could not have been more than an hour or two since we stopped. Immediately, my mind went back to my two cousins in the street and I knew that they had not been deceived. As if in a trance, I acted out my dream. I nudged Mirza and spoke into his ears, “They have found us, Mirza. They are all around.” He did not respond to my words but by the stillness of his breathing, I knew that he had heard. Then, quick as a flash of lightening, he had caught up his bow and quiver and leapt into the tree. Some of the horsemen made to bear down upon us, but Shamir held them back.

  “Stay back,” he called. “You know what a marksman he is. Draw further back till he has exhausted his arrows.”

  The circle of horsemen moved slowly backwards. I heard the singing of the bowstring as Mirza fired his arrow. It found its mark in the chest of one of the riders. There was a sharp cry and then the horseman keeled forward and fell from his saddle; his face turned towards me. I looked into the face. It was Tahir. A feeling of hopelessness, a sense of waste swept over me as I looked upon that handsome face. He had been brutal to me in his lovemaking, this man, and I had preferred Mirza to him. Yet, in many ways, he had been, as my brother Shamir had said, worth ten of Mirza. He had been handsome and strong, a good son, a good brother and would have made, for some other woman, a good husband.

  One of his kinsmen made to ride towards his body. “Stop, stop!” Shamir commanded, “Would you want to meet the same fate? Be patient. You will have your turn.” The rider retreated and the ring of horsemen drew further back.

  “Sahiban, Sahiban!” I heard Mirza’s voice, soft and urgent, call out to me from the branches above my head.

  “My arrows have fallen to the ground. Pick them up quickly and hand them to me.”

  But I knew that there were no arrows on the ground – none that I could hand up to him. And so, unmoving, I stood, the traitor that I was, with my back towards the tree trunk. There was a movement amongst the leaves and I saw his face peering down at me. “What is it, Sahiban? Do you not hear me? The arrows, they have fallen from my quiver. Quick, give them to me.”

  Still I stood, unable to move or speak. Impatient, he finally leapt from the tree and scanned the ground for the missing arrows. He saw them, then, the broken arrows, in the grass near the pond, and knew what I had done.

  “Why Sahiban, why?” I looked into his eyes and saw in them, complete defeat. He smiled then, a small sad smile that made my heart churn and the tears start in my eyes.

  “I understand Sahiban,” he said, in a quiet, steady voice. “I understand what you have done and why you have done it and I forgive you for doing it.” For the briefest of moments, his hand rested on my shoulder and then he drew it away, threw his now usless bow to the ground and stepped out from under the shadow of the tree.

  The circle of horseman still held back, not understanding nor believing what they saw.

  “You are a man of honour, Shamir,” Mirza called ou
t to my brother. “Give me then, the honour of single combat and spare me the ignominy of being butchered and quartered, like an animal.”

  “No animal would do what you did. But yes, I am a man of honour and will grant you what you ask,” my brother replied, and springing from his horse, he drew his sword. Mirza, too, went upto Shahzadi and drew his sword from where it hung besides the saddle.

  It was a fierce duel and evenly fought, and as I stood clasping the trunk of the tree, I wished that it would have no end. At last, Mirza saw an opening and, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust his sword deep into my brother’s side and drew it forth again. The sword fell from Shamir’s hand. He clutched at the gaping wound and took a few staggering steps towards me. He stood still. His body swayed, then his knees buckled under him and he fell to the ground. I ran to him and cradled his head in my lap. He clutched at my hand and as he looked into my eyes, he opened his lips and tried to speak. But the wound was deep and the blood gushed from it like a torrent and left him too weak to speak. He made one last effort to raise his head, then, defeated, he slumped back onto my lap, as his life ebbed away.

  “Get him,” Saif, my youngest brother, called. “Get the bloody murderer.”

  They rode in upon my Mirza then, and slashed at him with their swords. He fought back as best he could, but it was of no use. Before my very eyes, I saw the swords thrust into his body again and again. I saw him go down upon his knees. He tried to get up but had no strength left and slumped on his side upon the ground. Saif flung himself off from his horse and his sword raised high above his head, charged on my fallen lover. I threw myself upon Mirza.

  “Enough, enough,” I cried. “For Allah’s sake, have mercy. Have you not done enough to him already? Leave me, at least, his body.”