“Leave him,” Aftab, my second brother called. “Leave him. He will be dead soon enough.”
I drew back and looked down at Mirza. I looked with horror at his sword slashed body, at the blood that dripped now to the ground. I had done this to him and had no right to live. I looked around and saw, still at Shamir’s waist, my grandfather’s dagger, a family heirloom that Shamir had always worn with pride. I drew the dagger from its scabbard and held it up to plunge it into my breast.
“No,” Mirza cried in a voice that was surprisingly loud and clear. “Don’t do this. You mustn’t do this. I command you, on the strength of our love, give up all thought of death, and live.”
“You talk of love, and in the same breath, you condemn me to a fate more terrible than death.” I held the dagger, still, in my hand, but my hand had now fallen to my side. “You ask me to live when life will have no meaning. Each breath I draw without you, each moment I live, will be a curse. Take back your words, Mirza, and let me die. Give me a chance of peace, some hope of rest.”
“Oh Sahiban, Sahiban will you never change?” His words came in gasps now and I knew the end was near. “Will you never look beyond yourself? If you die now, our love will die with us. People will talk of it in hushed whispers and regard it as profane. You must live on and show the world its worth, show that there was no profanity in it. Let people see that it was a fine madness that transcended our bodies and lifted our souls to the sublime.” He paused, and then he smiled at me and in that soft, gentle voice, which I had come to love, he said, “It is not done yet. We have a few moments more. Hold me close to show me that you will do as I have asked.”
I went to him then, and held his head in my lap. I caressed his hair and covered his blood smeared face with kisses, and, in so doing, the weakness left my heart and the strength returned once more. He lay still, looking up into my eyes and I felt the life ebb slowly from him, while around us our pursuers stood in hushed silence. I did not feel the end. I only knew of it when I saw that the brightness had left his eyes, and though they looked up at me, they did not see me. I felt the numbness creep on me as I drew his lids gently down over his lifeless eyes.
My brother, Aftab, came up to me and held me by the arm.
“Come,” he said and I lifted Mirza’s head from my lap and lowered it to the ground and let myself be raised to my feet and led away. I did not look back again at my slain lover – not when my brother lifted me up on the saddle and not when he mounted up behind me and we rode away. I knew that there was nothing left in that body for me to love.
Numb and listless with shock, I drifted through the next few weeks. And yet, on the periphery of my mind, I registered some things I heard.
I heard how Shahzadi had gone, riderless, back to Danabad and that was how the Kharal Jatts had known that something terrible had happened to Mirza. I heard how the wonderful horse had led Binjal to his son’s lifeless body, and how, when the coffin was being lowered to the ground, the grief-stricken father had vowed that he would eat no food till his son’s death was avenged. I heard, too, how the maulvi, a brave, pious man, who performed the last rites, had chided the chieftan. It was Mirza who was to blame, the old man had said. The Sayals had done no more than Binjal himself would have done, if Sahiban had been his daughter. I heard how Tahir’s body had been borne back to Chandaran and of the loud lamentation that had gone up, of how the women folk who had come to welcome the bride in her doli, had mourned instead at the pier of their beloved son.
The story of the arrows had gone forth and I heard this too, as the women repeated it to each other. They looked at me, some of them, with suspicion and distrust and whispered that I was an inauspicious woman. I had been the cause of the death, not only of my brother and my fiancé, but of my lover too.
Slowly, the days dragged past and I marvel now at the patience with which my family treated me. Then, very gradually at first, and then in quick succession, memories of my days with Mirza swept over me and filled me with grief. In place of the numbness, came pain – a pain I could not bear to live with. Once again, I thought of ending my life. I stood on the bank of the river where the current was the swiftest and looked down into the swirling waters. One quick jump and I knew it would be over. I thought of the bush of poisonous berries still in fruit. I thought of the higher reaches of the haveli. One leap and I would be rid of the pain at last. But always, the memory of those last moments with Mirza and his parting behest, came back to haunt me and I knew that I had to learn to live, no matter what the pain and the agony.
As time passed, the sharpness of the pain left me. As I learned to live with its constant dull ache, I found myself being drawn again into the life around me. Strangely, my most poignant memories remained not of moments that had then seemed important to me, but others that I had not, till now, given much thought to. Words that I had not then paid much attention to, came back in snatches. I listened to them now and paid them great heed. I absorbed them and acted upon them.
“Why do you not wear some of your fine clothes?” my mother said to me one day, for the umpteenth time. “God knows you have more than enough of the very finest.”
“Yes and let every one remember that inauspicious marriage? How can you so lack in feeling?” I snapped at my mother. She drew back, at my bitter angry words. I saw the hurt in her eyes and my heart ached for her.
‘You have a bitter tongue,” Mirza had chided me one day when, in my thoughtlessness, I had said spiteful things to one of my friends. “You must learn to control it. There is no need for words that cause pain. Always remember that such pain is carefully nurtured by the recipient, only to be thrown back at you. Sweet words cost nothing – they come easier to the tongue and yet they build bridges and open up hearts.” At the time, I had thought that he was being partial to my friend with whom I had just quarrelled. I had said bitter things to him and had sulked for a day or two. Now when the memory of those words came back to me, I knew how right he had been. I went to my mother and drew her into a fierce embrace.
“Forgive me, mother,” I said, “for what I have said. I know that you love me and only mean well by me.”
My mother put her arms around me. “You do not need to ask forgiveness. Yes, I do love you and forgave you even before you asked to be forgiven.”
I sensed the amazement of the other women as they listened to me. I had never before, apologized for my harsh words. Over the next few months, I learnt that he had been right, indeed, when he had said that there was no need for words that cause hurt. Gradually, I learnt never again to use bitter words and this learning built many bridges for me and opened up many hearts.
Another day, I remember, a beggar came to our door – an old, lean man with a skeletal body.
“Will someone show some kindness to this poor old man? No morsel of food has passed these lips these last three days.”
I was impatient to be done with the household chores and did not want to take time off to attend to the beggar. I knew that if I ignored him, he would go away.
“May Allah bless you and all of yours!” he called again. “Take pity on this starving soul.”
I ignored him still and when I looked up again, he had moved from the door. Then Mirza’s words came back to me, “We have so much and there are so many who have nothing. We lose nothing by giving something away to them but it means so much to them. In this giving, we show our gratitude to God for the bounty that he has bestowed upon us.”
I ran out to the door and looked down the street. There he was, calling out at our neighbour’s door.
“Baba, Baba,” I called, urgency in my voice, “Come back, please come back.”
He looked at me, bewildered to hear a plea in my voice, when, a moment before he had seen in me only undisguised, arrogant indifference. He did not respond to my cry but I ran out to him, held his arm and led him back into our courtyard. I seated him upon a stool and holding up a pitcher of water, I poured it on his hands and feet to wash the dust away. I put some f
ood on a platter and set it before him and when he said he had had enough, I forced a little more upon him.
All this time, I was aware of a soft whispering behind me and I knew that I had, again, amazed the women of my household. When the old man had done with eating, I once again poured water from the pitcher for him to wash his hands.
“God bless you, my child,” he said putting his hand upon my head. “May He grant every boon of your heart. May He give you a handsome husband and a hundred sons.” Saying this, he walked out of the door, “I don’t know about the husband and the sons,” my mother said coming to me, “but Allah will surely reward you richly.” She held my face in her hands and kissed me on my forehead and I felt greater tenderness in that one gesture than I had ever received from her before.
I remember another incident. There was a wedding in our clan and the women of the household had spent hours agonizing over what they would wear. “Sahiban, can I borrow your gold bracelet? It will go well with the clothes that I will wear,” Meheru, my youngest sister-in-law, asked. I knew exactly which one she meant. It was a beautiful bracelet, and the envy of all who laid eyes on it. I was still possessive about my material belongings, and hated to share them with others.
“No,” I said sharply, “I cannot lend it to you. I mean to wear it myself.” As I spoke, I remembered what Mirza had said the day he had abandoned me to go to the rescue of that poor cart driver.
“We would be poor souls indeed if we did not place the needs of others above our own.” All desire to wear that bracelet dropped away from me.
“No, wait,” I called out to Meheru. “Perhaps the bangles would go better with the clothes that I am to wear. You can have the bracelet – come let me give it to you.” I led her to my room and gave it to her and as I looked into her eyes I knew that she was not deceived. She knew that I had given her the bracelet because I wanted her to wear it.
“You are too kind,” she said in a soft broken voice.
“Hush,” I said. “Do not read meaning into such a simple gesture.”
Over the next few months, Mirza’s words came so often to me that they ceased to be his and became my own. I began to live my life the way he had lived his – a life full of kindness and compassion for all around me. I was aware that people around me marvelled at the change that had been wrought in me because I marvelled at it myself. I lived, now, a life that had no room for selfishness, no room for arrogance and pride, no room for anger and bitter words. I forgot my own hurt and my own tragedy and thought only of the hurt and tragedy that filled the lives of others, and after a while, this became an obsession. Gradually, I learnt not to think too often and too deeply about Mirza.
When, after a year, another proposal of marriage came my way, I sensed my father’s need to get his daughter a husband and a home of her own. And in response to this need, I suppressed my own inclination and accepted the offer.
Sadiq was a fine man, older than I, yet simple and without guile. He was tender, affectionate and protective. That first night, when he came to me and took me, I was overcome with anguish at the comparison that arose in my mind, between Mirza’s lovemaking and his. And then I did what Mirza had done – I made my desire subservient to his, made the giving of pleasure the sole aim of my lovemaking.
“There can be no other like you,” my husband said, and I found more pleasure in these words than I had found in the many things Mirza had said. We grew close together, my husband and I, and were bound by a bond of deep affection, of complete understanding. God was kind to us and blessed us with seven children in as many years – good, strong, beautiful children, who brought joy and pride to us as they grew up, each of them going on to lead useful, virtuous lives.
And so it is, that I sit now in the winter sun, content with what Allah has given me, counting my numerous blessings and not wasting any time or energy in useless regrets, or musing over what might have been. Yet, as I have earlier said, sometimes I do think of Mirza and when I do, I think of what I did to him. It was a difficult choice – this choice between my lover and my brothers – and I know that there are those who think of me as a faithless woman, who betrayed her lover’s trust at the moment when he needed it most. I have relived that moment again and agan, mused over what I did and thought about what options were open to me. There were none. I know now, that I did only what Mirza himself would have done, what he would have wanted me to do. I placed the need of others above my own. I chose my own grief above the grief of my brothers’ wives and their children. I know that he understood and approved, and before his death, he forgave me. Secure in this knowledge, I do not care what others think. If I had to relive it all again, I would still do what I did then – I would break Mirza’s arrows.
I also know that if I had died with him, posterity would have sung songs in praise of our love and Mirza and I would have become the stuff of legends, like my aunt Heer and Ranjha. By choosing to live, I condemned myself, for all time, to be remembered as the faithless, feckless woman who betrayed her lover. But in the life that I have lived since my lover’s death, I know that I have lived the way he would have liked me to; I have spoken the words that he would have and performed the deeds that he would have been proud of. I have become him. Through me, Mirza has continued to live. Could a beloved have done more for her lover?
Love Stories from Punjab Page 24