Zindaginama

By Krishna Sobti

It is sometime in the first decade of the 20th century. The British Imperialists have been in India for over 150 years. However, life in the small village of Shahpur in undivided Punjab has remained largely unchanged. The menfolk look to the wealthy and worldly-wise Shahji and his benevolent younger brother Kashi for support and advice, while it is Shahji's wife's home and hearth that is the centre of all celebrations for the women. Local disputes, trade, politics, a trickling of news from the Lahore newspaper are all discussed every evening at the Shah's haveli. But as the Ghadar Movement gains momentum elsewhere in Punjab and in Bengal, bringing into focus the excesses of the British, the simple village of Shahpur cannot help looking at itself. The discontent has set in. Krishna Sobti's magnum opus, Zindaginama brilliantly captures the story of India through a village where people of both faiths coexisted peacefully, living off the land. Detailing the intricately woven personal histories of a wide set of characters, she imbues each with a unique voice, enriching the text with their peculiar idiom. First published in Hindi in 1979, this is a magnificent portrait of India on the brink of its cataclysmic division.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperPerennial
• Release date: Apr 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9789351775898

Krishna Sobti

Krishna Sobti was born in 1925. Her first short story 'Lama' was published in 1944. Her early novels Channa (1954) and Dar Se Bichchuri (1958) marked Sobti as one of the voices in contemporary Hindi prose that could not be ignored. She won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1980 for Zindaginama and in 1996, she was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Fellowship. In 2005, the English translation of her novel Dil-o-Danish won the Hutch-Crossword Award. Neer Kanwal Mani has translated a variety of literary and non-literary texts. Her twelve books in translation include the comic Du-Rex ke Jalwe for United Nations Development Programme, four books from Th e Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis, two novels by Paulo Coelho along with folk narratives and oral epics for IGNCA, New Delhi. She translated Kerstin Ekman's Blackwater as a part of Indo-Swedish Writers Union Project in 2001-02. Moyna Mazumdar is an editor and occasional translator based out of Kolkata with an interest in literary translation, long walks and cycling.

Book preview

KRISHNA SOBTI

Translated from the Hindi by

Neer Kanwal Mani

with

Moyna Mazumdar

One fateful morning, I woke up with echoes of azaan in my ears, and before my eyes stood one minaret of the village mosque. I knew instinctively that I was committed to carry the powerful internal echo of this voice through the century.

While writing Zindaginama, I tried to focus on a precise visual and dramatic recall of peasant speech. The simple use of the visible and the audible created a world of its own. All I wanted was to paint the surge of humanity – their strong rustic faces, their noise. Yes, I had to create their speech – rough, potent, verbal – with the help of their spoken words and diction.

– Krishna Sobti

Indicative map of undivided Punjab as described in Zindaginama

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Translators’ Note

The Living Tree

Zindaginama

Glossary and Notes

About the Book

About the Authors

Praise for Zindaginama

Copyright

TRANSLATORS’ NOTE

Zindaginama is Krishna Sobti’s magnum opus, a giant patchwork tapestry in rich warm colours and vivid detail, that depicts the life and times of a small village in pre-Partition Punjab – a Punjab that once spread across the five divisions of Rawalpindi, Multan, Lahore, Jalandhar and Ambala. That world, that way of life, no longer exists, neither in India, nor in Pakistan. Much has changed in the last hundred years – the schism that ripped through the land as final as a Tectonic-shift – yet the past, beautifully evoked in this book, sparks the depths of our collective memory, hearkening back to a bond that predates the bitter events of recent history and puts the focus on a kinship that our souls intuitively thrill to and instinctively recognize. As it were, providing sources, completing fragments, giving body, words, rhythm and music to distantly recollected but oddly familiar snatches of some song.

Zindaginama was originally conceived of as a trilogy chronicling the life and times of the people of Punjab before, during and after the partition of India. The first part, comprising this volume, was called Zinda Rukh, The Living Tree and published in 1979. The latter two parts were never written, but the blueprint for the original trilogy has been outlined in the prologue, written in poetic form. It describes a land blessed with plenty, a land of doughty men and women, who gave true fight to the British, wrested Independence from them, and yet, sadly, acquiesced to Partition. The prologue describes the majestic geography of the land, a proud people, their customs, cares and celebrations, their passionate relationship with their land and rivers, and finally the winds of change sweeping across the country and reaching this golden land, disturbing the calm, but also awakening it. The story of the village is the story of the nation.

It is sometime in the first decade of the twentieth century. The British have been in power for over 150 years. However, life in Shahpur, Gujrat, has remained largely peaceful. All village affairs are led by the Shahs, the worldly-wise older brother, Shahji and his benevolent and devout younger sibling, Kashi Shah. The Shah Brothers are landowners and moneylenders and are at the helm of village politics and decision-making. Their frequent visits to Lahore and nearby cities keep them in touch with local, regional, national and international politics. The evening gatherings at the Shah haveli see an exchange and discussion of daily happenings. The newspaper from Lahore, an important source of information and opinion that helps to shape the village’s responses and reactions to the national and international events is read out, and many of the village elders contribute to the ensuing analyses and discussions. More and more men from the village are enlisting in the British army. They talk eagerly of British bounty, and then, of its excesses. From them the village learns of the revolutionaries fighting for India’s independence. As a national consciousness slowly begins to develop so does an awareness among the lower-castes of the injustices by their own people against them.

The village women are led by the older Shah’s pious and dutiful wife, Shahni. Her home is the focus of all celebrations and rituals. Weddings, betrothals, infidelities, children, romances, scandals, second wives, mothers-in-law, recipes, antidotes and small rivalries are all discussed here. The deepest confidences are fearlessly exchanged in her kitchen, around her hearth. Visiting Pirs and Fakirs, oracles, poets and soothsayers are all accorded much respect. Haunted by her inability to have a child, Shahni worships all gods. But sometimes goodness is not enough. The soulful voice and serene, simple beauty of Rabeyan and her mesmeric Sufi poetry has charmed everyone. Brought into the Shah household to care for and play with Shahni’s newly begot son, Lali Shah, Rabeyan’s unspoken yet intense longing for Shahji poises the narrative on razor’s edge.

The Shah haveli, its evening gatherings, and kitchen politics serve as a barometer of the change that is taking place in the country, and the world at large. Shahpur is a microcosm, a self-contained universe, in which the drama of human existence is played out in all its depth and sweep; the closely detailed personal histories of a wide set of characters and their interactions with the rest are each precisely and exquisitely defined by their class, caste, age, local customs and traditions. The language of exchange is also determined by the private and the public realm, education and the wider connotations of national and international politics. Each character is imbued with a voice and a temperament to match his or her unique private and public situation. Thus they each enrich the text with their peculiar idioms and signature abuses, their superstitions and robust humour, their coarseness, their profundity, their music and their wit, making the novel resound with the vitality of diverse voices in different dialects and registers.

Interspersed with beautiful verses and prayers from Classical languages like Persian and Sanskrit as well as Sufi poetry, Zindaginama is epic in scale and imagination. A winner of the Sahitya Academy Award, it is a landmark in Indian literature.

Zindaginama has been an engaging text in terms of translation strategies. All our energies have been focused on bringing the flavour and richness of life in the Gujrat Punjab of the first two decades of the twentieth century to the reader. The gradual shift from innocence to a consciousness of the political changes sweeping across the country; and the gradual awakening of a people to a new social order, form the movement of the text, in both the private and the public realm.

The text is polyphonic, and is mostly in form of conversations. The following decisions mark this translation.

1. Pronunciation:

Attention has been paid to how the words sound as well as read on the page. Punjabi as a language has a natural bounce, rhythm and a swing of its own, in keeping with the nature and temperament of its people.

Thus Bebe, which means ‘mother’ is also used to address a revered old lady of the village, would have acquired English connotation if it had been written as bebey.

2. Forms of address: prefixes and suffixes

In Punjabi, people usually begin a sentence with an expletive, interjection or an emotional burst, and a ji is added as a mark of respect if the elders are present. This ji is retained to convey the flavour of the conversation. Same way, Badshaho (O Kings) is used to show respect to the gathering. Other interjections used and retained in the translation are Malla (Well now!), Kyon (Why) Bas (Enough), pronounced as Bus, Phitte Moonh, pronounced as Phittey Moonh, meaning shame on your tongue; Ri, used to address a girl or a woman of a younger age or of a lower status; and Re (pronounced as Ray) and Oye, used to address a boy or a man of a younger age or of a lower status. Vadde (elder) is to be pronounced as Vaddey.

Form of address changes according to the context of exchange or relationship or the emotional mood. Thus Najiba, while being addressed may become Najibeya, Fatta may become Fatte (pronounced as Fattey) or Fatteya in an informal exchange. Mabibi being called out may be called as Mabibiye, Lakkhami may be addressed as Lakkhmiye, both ending with the sound ay.

3. Retaining specific terms and expressions of the source culture

Punjabi, Urdu, Persian and Hindi terms and phrases have been retained in places where they lend a specific flavour or nuance to the situation or utterance. As much as possible, their meaning, close as possible, has been conveyed through the context. This has also been done in places which showcase Sobti’s style, word- play or her turn of phrase. Thus terms such as maya-moh, taqdeer and tadbeer have been retained to convey the cultural nuances as well as how the text sounds in original.

4. Translation of verses

One of the most remarkable features of Zindaginama is how verses of all kinds and flavours are integral to the text: there is Sufi poetry, Waris Shah’s Heer in Punjabi, Bulle Shah’s kafis and other verses in Punjabi and Urdu, Shah Latif’s verses in Sindhi, Vishnusahastranam and Shlokas in Sanskrit, songs for each occasion and ditties and rhymes in local dialect.

Each verse has been translated keeping the meaning, the flavour, the occasion and the stylistic convention intact, so far as possible. But the clarity of the meaning has been retained if the style could not be.

We are grateful to Nandita Aggarwal who has lifted this translation so much closer to Krishna Sobti’s professed richness and variety of language. This translation has greatly benefitted from her formidable skills both as a participant as well as an editor, and her meticulous working out of details and nuances has helped us in putting forward this translation with a sense of confidence.

THE LIVING TREE

The stature

Not of pen

Nor writer

Nor writing, either.

Life spread

On sheets of paper

By itself

On its own

Like a tree risen from earth

With roots that go deep down

A gigantic living tree

History that is not

And history that is

Not the one

Recorded in chronicles

With proofs and evidence

Of might

Of dispensations

And their glorious reign

But the one

That flows

Along the sacred Bhagirathi

Of people’s consciousness;

Flourishes

Spreads

And stays alive

In the vital resilience

Of ordinary people.

ZINDAGINAMA

Like arms thrown around shoulders,

Rising, teasing.

Like milk-heavy breasts

This land of Chenab and Jhelum

Like a mother

Unlacing her kurta

Cascading milk.

Glinting on heaps of wheat

The sweet sunshine

Of early morn.

Fleeting, sweet

Cool breezes caress

Snowy peaks adorned

With silver chowkphool ornaments,

Rippling

Mustard-yellow fields,

Galloping across

Fortune-favoured Chenab’s

Frisky, amazing waters,

Whose drops of nectar

Grew trees of blood

Along boundaries of green.

On determined brows, on arrogant foreheads,

On proud moustaches, on wheat-coloured skin

On impressive, solid countenances–

The divine redness of wheat.

Clinking their bangles,

Radiant as fields of corn,

Sherbet-eyed

New brides,

Laughing and teasing,

Capturing hearts,

These passionate Heers

Of open, abundant Punjab

Standing in a downpour of sun

Stealing sidelong glances

From behind Phulkari veils

At their proud men

Arraigned resolute as gods,

On the boundaries of their fields.

So

Vibrant Punjab’s

Milk-rich homes.

On colourful peedhies sit the queens

Spinning skeins

Of finest cotton.

Fulsome, voluptuous,

Draped in thick khadi silk

The maharanis of toil.

Bending over glowing tandoors,

The godly aroma

Of ghee-soaked,

Thick, heavy rotis.

Touching their hands

To the dough

Awakening

Fanning

Enflaming

Life’s fragrance.

In star-glow,

In the still-dark,

Yoking his oxen to the plough,

The custodian of each field

Under wide-open skies

Grew golden crops

For centuries.

Always.

The youth of each generation

Each morning

Unshackling from slumber

His sleep-sweetened body

Paid homage to his land

On whose sustained hard work

Mothers, sisters, girlfriends

Cheerily renounced pots of nectar;

Let it flow.

This picture remained etched of manly Punjab.

The warrior temperament,

The mishri-sweet water.

In beating hearts,

In arms eager for battle,

In frolicsome rivers.

Dressed in green,

Preening, shocking

Bedecked, bride-like,

The soil of Punjab.

One’s eyes lifted

A thousand times,

The skies bent

A thousand times.

Time and again.

Fragrant motia flowers adorned

The bridegroom’s sehra

A million times.

The drums of Baisakhi and Lohri rolled

A million times.

Feet kept the beat

Of the bhangra and gidda.

Seeds grew

And mounds of golden harvest

Were piled everywhere.

In their bosoms

Mothers nurtured

The saplings of doughty

Daughters and sons

By propitiating sages, fakirs,

And with their reckless, doting love.

Whose flesh and bones were then tempered

By the biting cold

And blazing summer winds,

By goading and stoking

Their aggressive

Combative nature.

Suckling

Their warrior sons and daughters,

These brave-speaking women

Resplendent in their gold kanthas

And lakha rani-haars.

Under the laden beri trees

Lisping, chirping children played

Gulli-danda and saunchi

From dawn to dusk,

Leaping and catching

By turn.

In courtyards and bedrooms

Shimmering, auspicious raiments,

Baag and phulkari.

Granaries filled with maize and millet

Scenting each home

Within and without.

This prosperous land’s

Glowing prosperity

Gleamed in every eye,

Celebrating the sanctity

Of every hearth.

Pouring fist on fist,

Into vessels and pots.

To clothe and eat and enjoy

To heart’s desire.

Where every

Self-respecting, hard-working badshah

Cherished his turban

Like a crown,

And deeming his fields his fortune,

Bowed to them.

But torrents of poison

Closed in on

This favoured and flourishing

Land of Punjab;

All at once

The multitudes descended.

The assaults were innumerable

So too confrontations

With the enemy.

Dispensations changed

Many a time

But the broad-chested

And brave-hearted

Stood dauntless,

Never fearing to kill

Or be killed.

But today …?

Do the brave play

By a new set of rules?

Their weapons hang limp,

Their shoulders slump,

Their hands cannot bear

The weight of weapons.

Where is the surging anger of those who stood

Ready to fight

At the first call to arms?

Like a godly decree,

Are these decisions also

Irrevocable?

Turn your face

From home and hearth,

From the greenness

And your bejewelled crops.

Turn your back

On the green

The ripened grain

The azure skies.

We have exhausted

Our reservoir of good deeds

On this soil.

Now we have to part from our land,

Our mother,

Our mother’s mother,

And the mother of us all!

Out of her sweet shelter

And her shade.

Now her milk-laden breasts

Drip not milk

But blood.

Look back.

Don’t look back.

Run.

Leave behind

This water

This soil

That produced sapling warriors

Every spring, every season,

That infused the bones and flesh of men

With a zeal for work

And a zest for life,

Lighting flames

Igniting passion.

Farewell to the pride of waters

To five-rivered Punjab

To Jhelum and Chenab.

Farewell

To the memory of our ancestors

Whose children

Of milk and blood

Will never again play

In this dust

On this soil

Never again play

Never again play

In the shade

Of these thriving clans,

This gigantic living tree

Whose roots

Were entrenched

Embedded

Spread

Deep in the soil.

Never again will brides’ palanquins stop

Under the beri and sheesham trees;

Never again will bridegrooms’ mares,

In pomp and full regalia,

Pause on the outskirts of the village;

Never again will groups of women

In gold-trimmed choonars,

Bursting with motherly pride

At the wedding of their sons,

Spontaneously break into song;

Never again will the saucy,

Fair as milk

Daughters of Punjab

String couplets

To their lovers,

Calling to them

From the top of mud roofs.

Who will know,

Who will understand,

The pain of leaving one’s motherland

Of turning one’s face away from it?

The anguish!

The Jhelum and Chenab will continue to flow

On this earth

Breezy winds will continue to blow

On this earth.

As always.

The weather will change

Every season

As always.

Only we will not be here.

Not be here.

Never again be here.

Never.

The night of Sharad Punya. The mud-roofs of the village gleamed; one fresh coat of a full moon in early winter and everything – fields, barns, trees, shrubs – looked radiant. The sweet songs of the well shimmering in the moonlight called ecstatically to hearts. The sight of their sons and young ones returning with the oxen lit hearts with longing. The fragrant smoke rising from the cow-dung cakes in the open stoves scented each rooftop, each hearth.

Rabba, let these beautiful times stay with all men. Stand by them.

Above them, in the milky-white light, a formation of Turkish Bulbuls flew in a row, en route to far-off lands. The kids stared up at them.

‘Look! There comes another flock!’

‘Are these Bugg or Toka?’

‘Toka.’

‘No, they’re Bugg.’

‘Veerji, where are they going?’

‘Sister, they had come to our village to feed. Now that they don’t need to eat any more, they will go to your in-laws’ place,’ Mitthi’s brother, Meharban, teased.

‘Uff, Veera!’ Mitthi pinched her brother’s arm, then grinned toothily and said, ‘But who got engaged, me or you? Shall I tell everyone your intended’s name? It’s Doddo, Doddo!’

‘Hatt, marjani! Be off with you, you cheeky girl!’

Mitthi ran off to join a group of chattering girls playing hopscotch on the rooftop of the Shahs’ impressive haveli.

‘Here and there

Silver-ware

My Ma has

Long hair

Water brims in the well

Milk brims in the churn

In between

Ma is queen –

And now it’s my turn!’

The boys stretched luxuriously on the low-walled rooftop and looked out towards the great river. ‘Look over there, that’s Allah Rakkha’s boat, and that one coming into shore, that’s Shahji’s.’

‘There, in the rapids, sways the boat of the lord of the river, Khwaja Khijr.’

‘No one has ever seen his boat, but they say it’s always there.’

Channi approached quietly and pulled at her brother’s sleeve. ‘Please show me too, Veerji. Does the boat of the river pir never sink?’

‘Fold your hands in respect, Channiye. Khwaja Khijr is the saint of life itself. He is the one who creates whirlpools in the river, and only He can guide boats back to shore.’

Channi shut her eyes tight and turned her head towards the river with folded hands. Then she took a small peek: ‘Look, there are two moons in the river. Well, not two because one’s in the sky, the other’s in the water.’

‘It’s a reflection of the one above. Go, Channi, get a brass bowl from Shahni and I’ll hand the moon right in your hands.’

‘I’ll hold the bowl to my lips and drink the moon,’ Nikki of the Khullars said, sidling up to his friends.

While they waited for the bowl, Gholu took a mouthful of the sweet panjiri he clutched in his fist. The moment they smelt it the boys were after him for some. ‘Your mother has kept the Punya fast, has she?’

‘Na, Nikki Bebe is handing out prasad. To everyone!’

‘Come on everyone, let’s go to Nikki Bebe’s!’

And off they ran, forgetting the moon and the bowl, leaping from terrace to terrace as Mohre’s bebe yelled after them: ‘Arey, what would you lose if you went slower? Don’t go thumping like that. The mud is coming unstuck and ruining everything below. Not going into battle, after all, are you?’

Old Vadde Lala had just finished a satisfying meal of milk-paranthas and was sitting cross-legged on his cot when the young monkeys appeared.

‘Bebeji, we want prasad! Bebeji, some sweet panjiri!’

‘Come, my little ones, come! Nikkiye, give the boys some mats and asans.’

‘Saiyaan, the whole floor is clean. I plastered it today. They can sit wherever they like,’ Nikki Bebe announced.

The girls trooped in behind the boys. ‘Bebeji, is the prasad finished?’

‘Na ri na. Prasad never gets finished. Everyone can have some.’

‘Lalaji, a story! Lalaji, some riddles! Some katha from the times past!’ Having eaten their share the boys pestered Lalaji for stories.

Lala Vadde’s eyes recalled the Punya festival of his childhood. ‘Puttarji, which of you kids has been going to collect bers from the peernewali beries?’ he asked laughingly.

‘Lalaji, how could we? There’s a fierce guard dog there.’

‘Puttarji, there has to be a dog at the beries, or the beries would be bare by now. If no one were there to look after the beries, they would never have borne fruit, not even in my time.’

‘Lalaji, was Baba Pira around in those times too, with his long staff?’ Suthra of the Goldsmiths asked, wide-eyed.

Ma was overcome with affection for this young one. ‘Arey, not Peerna, but his grandfather. My children, the tree remains the same. Only the caretakers keep changing.’

The girls piped in, ‘Bebeji, we prefer mulberries.’

‘That’s good, daughters, eat your fill while you are in this village. Then you will go live with your in-laws.’

The young girls shook their intricately braided kide and meendies and giggled shyly.

‘Puttaro, who do you think planted these apple and beri trees?’

Chokha of the Lasoodewalas nodded his head. ‘Lalaji, I know.’

‘O father of Channmal, this one is wiser than his ancestors. Speak, son, speak.’

‘Lalaji, the grandfather of the grandfather of Baba Peerna of today planted these ber shrubs. And the saplings of these beries came from the Panchnad, the five rivers. That’s why their fruit is so sweet.’

The children began to clamour, ‘Lalaji, story! Lalaji, some stories, akhyan from the sacred books.’

‘Changa; okay, listen children, those of you who need to pee, go now; those who want water, drink now. You are not to disturb me later.’

Hoisting her baby brother on her hip, Shano got up and went from rooftop to rooftop calling out to all the women, ‘There’s a katha on at Bebe Nikki’s place and all are invited.’

By the time Shano returned, all the neighbourhood aunts, the chachis and tais, were huddled together.

‘Listen, my little ones, every son is his father’s avatar, his reincarnation.’

Immediately, all the boys started touching their heads. ‘Ji, me too … me too … me too …’

Kalu stood up. ‘Bebeji, me too as well.’

‘A hundred blessings on you, son, why not you? You as well.’

Lalaji continued, ‘Every human being is his father born again. Remember, an avatar is one who has two hands. An avatar is one who has two feet. An avatar is one who has a face and forehead. Who has a torso. A front and a back. My children, an avatar is one who tills the soil with a plough and nourishes it with water. Satiates it. Plants seeds. Raises crops. Listen further: the first avatar was the Adi Purush Prajapati. Prajapati divided himself into two parts. One part gave rise to the oxen. The other to the mother cow …’

‘Lalaji, the ox and cow are brother and sister, right?’

‘You could say that.’

Jagtar of the lower quarter was thinking something else. ‘Na Ji, they are male and female. The cow is mated with the ox only.’

Deepo, Jagtar’s sister, slapped her brother’s back. ‘Shut up; one shouldn’t talk when elders are speaking.’

Lalaji stopped her with a gesture. ‘Enough, Jaatko! My children, listen further. Then the tree came into being. The cosmic tree.’

‘Ji, so that the cow and the ox could sit in its shade, that’s why, no?’

‘Which tree would that be? Pipal, banyan, gharek or kikar?’ Bholu, who was no less, inched forward curiously.

‘Lalaji, must be our pipalwala well’s pipal tree. How deep are the roots of that pipal?’ Mitthi asked.

‘Children, this tree was larger than all our trees. So large, that huge heads of cows and oxen rested in its shade. From this very cosmic tree was born this earth – the bhoolok. Our land. Then came the four directions and then the sky was formed. When all these were fixed in place, then Daksha was born to Aditi. After him the gods were born.’

‘Lalaji, that means we ourselves are gods, doesn’t it?’

Lalaji wagged his finger. ‘Na puttarji, gods never call themselves gods, and nor should you ever sing your own praise. So, listen, so Mata Aditi is the mother of the whole universe. Aditi is akash, the sky, and also dharati, the earth. And what is above, and beyond whatever exists, that too is Aditi.’

Nikka, son of Channmal, was no less than his grandpa. ‘Lalaji, is the pole-star also Aditi? The hanging basket of the seven stars also Aditi? Am I also Aditi? Are you also Aditi? Rivers too? And the wells as well?’

Nikka’s uncle, Bhagmall, thwacked his head. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

‘Jaatko, there are three levels of gods. Gods of the earth, gods of the sky, gods of the larger sphere.’

‘Lalaji, whoever dies goes to the larger sphere only. There are cots laid out on the shores of the Milky Way where the grandfathers of the world sit, smoking their hukkahs. Grandmas spin their wheels sitting on their peedhies,’ Bodda, who studied in a madarsa, piped up.

Bodda’s mother waved her hand from a few paces away. ‘Shut up!’

‘Children, time is divided into four yugs:

‘The sleeping Kalyug

‘The leaving Dwapar

‘The standing Treta and

‘The moving Satyug …’

‘What does Satyug move on? On train, on horse or on camel-back?’ Bholu’s mind was spinning again.

‘Puttarji, a yug moves on the wheel of time. Like you go on a pilgrimage by train, one makes journeys. Has anyone seen a train?’

‘Lalaji, I have! I went to Lalamoosa last year for my uncle’s wedding,’ Geenda called out.

‘Good! Very good.’

‘Remember this, the sun is the largest body in this and the nether world, in what is above or beneath, in earth and sky. He is the real king. He is the one who wears the crown, the reigning emperor of the cosmos. Now listen to the katha of the daughter of the sun. When the sun married off his daughter Suraja to Akash, the sky, he gave a shining white sheet to the daughter and his son-in-law which they spread to encompass the whole firmament.’

‘Lalaji, who spun the cotton for that sheet? Which grandma? Dadi or nani?’ Channi asked.

‘Listen Bantiye, to what your darling daughter is saying. Asks who spun the cloth? Then she will ask who embroidered the phulkari for her wedding dress,’ Bebe Nikki chuckled.

‘Listen further: The sheet went on unfurling ahead as dancing cows followed behind. Then came the blue horses pulling the golden chariot. Twelve of them; each smarter than the last. Mandal ka shringaar. The glory of the cosmos.’

Channi’s younger sister Chhanni wanted to talk about Suraja. ‘Bebeji, Suraja’s arms were laden with red chooda wedding bangles and silver, dangling kaliras, her forehead sparkled with dauni, her hair was plaited in chowk-phool, she was draped in an odhni glittering with gold trim and silver embroidery. But what was the colour of her wedding dress, Lalaji? Red or pink?’

‘Sirmuniya, come here, precious!’ Bebe stroked her head lovingly. ‘Le, look Lajwantiye, even at such a young age, your daughter’s heart is tangled in wedding finery, the chooda-kangan. Arrange her marriage quickly.’

‘The chariot with twelve horses kept moving on and on. The sky and the sun orbited the cosmos in all four directions!’

‘Ji, did the horses have seats or saddles?’

‘My dear child, the cloth seats were in seven colours and there were tinkling chimes of the wind at their feet.’

‘What happened then, Lalaji?’

‘Suraja gave birth to a son, Agankumar.’

Mitthi of the huge eyes knew what that meant as her mother had given birth to a son a few days ago. ‘Was Agankumar born in the chariot? How did Suraja lie down in the chariot? Was there a cot in it?’ she asked worriedly.

‘Keep quiet, first listen to what Lalaji says,’ Chachi Mehri poked her from behind.

Mitthi wouldn’t budge: ‘But, how could Suraja give birth if there was neither room nor bedroom?’

Women young and old sat with their chins cradled in their hands, smiling inside; breasts heavy with milk.

‘Children, listen carefully. Agankumar was the son to the daughter of the great sun, and the son to the son of the mighty ocean.’

‘How could Agankumar be the son to the ocean, Lalaji?’

‘The father of Agankumar was the lord and master of space and oceans. So when Agankumar was born, the rivers and rivulets gushed forth. Puttarji, this very Agankumar, he himself is the charioteer to all the gods and the father of fire and yagna.’

‘But Ji, how was fire born?’

‘My sons, fire was born out of the golden water. Clear, sacred water the colour of pure gold.’

Cradling her brother in the curve of her arm, Bholi was deep in thought. ‘Lalaji, this golden water, was it in a pitcher or a pot? Was the pot made of brass or clay?’

Lalaji nodded to himself as he considered the girl, then spoke lovingly, ‘Beti, this golden water was not in a small pot, but in a huge earthen pot. Demonstrated thus are the primordial truths of mankind: water spilled from this large kalash into the small gagar and flesh-and-bone humans sprang from it.’

‘Lalaji, please, the story of uncle moon, the channa mama, as well!’

‘My sons, the chandrama is alone. He has no friends, no relatives. No sire, no sons. Only the man who stands alone shares any fellow feeling with the moon. Watching the earth from the heavens above, the moon is hurting inside but never speaks of his hurt to anyone. Keeps all his anguish bottled inside. So the moon’s heart has turned into a piece of rock. It is stone cold.’

When Shahni drew in a long sigh at this, Chachi Mehri’s heart wept for her.

‘Lalaji, why doesn’t the heat of the sun melt the moon?’

‘Putri, the sun himself keeps away from the moon. Knows that if the moon’s anguish melts, pours out, waters will rise causing a cosmic flood, pralaya.’

‘Lalaji, how do we see two moons in the Chenab?’

‘Puttarji, there is only one moon. The other one is its reflection. Lo, listen to this now. The moon above, Chann, and our river Chenab are twins. During Suraja’s wedding, when a sheet as white as light was spread in the firmament, the twins’ eyes were bedazzled. One ran this way, one that. That was it, both were separated.’

‘Bebeji, why didn’t their mother look for her children? What was she doing at that time?’

‘Daughter mine, she had already put milk and curds in the chati. How could she leave the churn? She had to make butter for her sons, didn’t she?’

‘When both sons were lost, what did she do with the butter?’

‘She must have turned it into ghee.’

‘Lalaji, what then?’

‘Children, when the brothers were separated, then one stood rooted where he was and the other fell headlong into the courtyard of Raja Himvan, the king of the icy mountains. The silent moon quietly turned inwards and grew cold, and the other, strong and wilful, started smashing and breaking the mountains of ice. Himvan thought, I will banish him to pataal, the dark void beneath the earth. But this wilful boy ran down the mountains and began sporting merrily on our earth, flexing his muscles.’

‘Allah-o-Akbar

Allah-o-Akbar

Allah-o-Akbar

Allah-o-Akbar

I am the witness that there is no other God aside from Allah

I am the witness that there is no other God aside from Allah

I am the witness that Mohammad is the messenger of Allah

I am the witness that Mohammad is the messenger of Allah

Walk the path of good deeds

Walk the path of good deeds

Walk the path of betterment

Walk the path of betterment

Instead of sleeping, spend time in prayer

Instead of sleeping, spend time in prayer.’

The calls from the masjid and the roosters rose simultaneously.

Wake up!

The rhythmic splash of the waterwheels turning on the beriwala well strung beads of music in the as yet unlit morning.

Shahni turned over and opened her eyes. Vaheguru! Vaheguru!

The holy darkness of pre-dawn – as if life on earth itself were drawing largesse from the well of life. As if Akal Purukh, the first man beyond time, was telling his people – Take, take more, still more! Live to the fullest, till life overflows, and drink this nectar, this manna that I give thee! Bounty from the God that giveth, showered upon the man who works. The true and only lord of this world, Sachche Patshah, nothing lacks for in Your darbar. Blessed indeed are we, your people, to have such lands to live, where grain is sweet as milk and water is nectar. Baba! Your mercy, Your blessings of plenty!

Shahni took her salwar off the peg, laced her kurta, gathered her hair and wrapped her shawl in a tight bukkal over her head and shoulders. Then, glancing at Shahji’s room and having looked her fill, walked down the mud steps.

She had just pushed the door to the deorhi when the huge door of the haveli drew open.

‘Salaam, Shahni!’

‘Salaam, Channa. A long life to you.’

It was Shahni’s habit to look into the stables every morning.

A diya glimmered, a pale light in the nook. Three horses. Each more ready than the other. Both the whites, Shahzada, the prince, and Badshah, the king, instantly alert, neighed out a challenge, like thunder daring the hawk. Lakha Gulkher, the dark one, saw Shahni and whickered. As if asking – So Shahni, want to go to the river?

Na re na! Shahni patted the horse lovingly. ‘Malla, this Lakha has the forehead of a true warrior.’

‘Shahni, don’t praise him. He is one stubborn devil. If he gets to know that a novice is sitting in the saddle, God help the fellow. Last year, the Shah of Alamgarh had to do hot fomentations for a whole month! This one went like the wind, knowing him to be a novice, and flung him over the Maujoki sand dunes.’

Shahni laughed. ‘That’s all right, Nawab, but he and you are together day and night. He knows you, doesn’t he?’

The new mother, a Veerkundi buffalo, wrestled to break free when she saw Shahni.

‘Why, you are an angry one! Nawab, has her colic subsided?’ Shahni asked, thumping her stoutly.

‘Yesterday I added some mango pickle and ajwain seeds to her feed.’

Then Shahni caressed the calf. ‘Malla, this one also seems restless. Give him mustard oil in sour buttermilk. That should shake out any stubbornness.’

The new jhoti, the female buffalo from Begowal, lifted her head.

‘Is she still sad, this queen, this Malka Maharani of ours? She gave milk yesterday, na?’

‘A little. The calf was suckling her but as soon as we pulled him away, she pulled back her milk.’

Shahni went to the corner to check the cow’s manger and ran her hand lovingly over her. ‘This is our Kapila Gai, our gods’ gift.’

‘Don’t get taken in by her demure looks. She is a hot-blooded, heartless one. If her calf is not in front of her for even a minute she turns green and yellow with anger.’

Shahni patted the calf lovingly: ‘Sadke jaoon, be happy with your mother for two days or four, then God willing, you will go to the fields.’

‘May God will so! He has already begun to gallop. He will be a bull the moment he leaves his mother.’

As she walked out of the stables, Shahni looked at the row of huge five-ser brass pots shining in the courtyard, and bowed her head. Your munificence, O Lord.

The stars were still visible in the sky when she neared Miyankhan’s stable.

Ditta, the nightwatchman, coughed discreetly.

Shahni walked out into the village common.

The old Banyan tree was alive with birds.

Suddenly Shahni’s feet froze on the spot! Shahji’s first wife, Ambaryalwali, stood right there in the flesh, herself, incarnate! Replete with red wedding dupatta, a gold gota-rich salwar kameez and her sparkling gold nose-pin.

Shahni was stricken with fear. Today, after so many years – Vaheguru … Vaheguru …

She bowed her head and prayed with folded hands: ‘Ancestor mine, beyond life and death, yet mistress of this home and hearth. I am your servant, yours to command.’

Shahni opened her eyes, just in time to first glimpse Ambaryalwali’s receding back, and then her footless shadow, disappear in thin air.

Shahni’s feet had turned to stone, as if someone had yanked the very life force from her body and mind.

The first red rays of the sun were anointing a tilak on the forehead of day when Shahni finally reached the beriwala well. She bowed her head and folded her hands. ‘Your glory, O God; only you could have created this union of day and night. Created this leela, this sacred play of the spheres and the universe.’

Ladda, sitting on his seat, saw Shahni going towards the open bath, and immediately covered his face and head with the thick dottahi cloth lying next to him.

Quickly disrobing, Shahni put her clothes on the ledge and, sitting down, scrubbed herself clean. But as she was splashing her face, the vision of Ambaryalwali came back to her. She untied her hair and, speaking in her mind, beseeched, ‘Behna ri! Please don’t cast the evil eye on me. I’ve never sullied your name in either speech or thought.’

After bathing, Shahni went to the prayer hut to worship. Her heart found solace listening to the recital of religious scriptures. Vaheguru, you know what is in the heart of each living being. You are the life of life:

‘Pen in hand, You write our destiny on our foreheads

The beauty we see in the universe is through eyes given by You

But I have no voice to sing Your praise

Blessed I am when I attain a glimpse of You

Only in the company of saints does my soul know virtue

With joy I dedicate all my shringaar, my adornments, unto You

And am fulfilled only thus.

With great longing I prepare the bed for His arrival

Blessed is one who begets her Lord; a diamond on her forehead,

Decked in her finest

With all sixteen shringaars,

Kajal-eyed, betel-stained lips, a necklace around my throat

I await Him.

If my Lord deigns to come, I shall be fulfilled

And all in vain, without Him

If my adornments are true,

This home is blessed.’

Satvachan, truly said! Finding peace, Shahni bowed her head in the guru’s darbar and then touching a pinch of dust from the front door to her head, started for home.

Arais of the vegetable-selling caste, had laid out their stock of fresh greens in front of the dharamshala.

‘Come, Shahni, come.’

‘Let her come this way, ri, Jawaharan, let me make my first sale. Take these, Shahni, these radishes are sweet as they were grown alongside wheat!’

Hukam Bibi proffered some sarson ka saag. ‘Take this, Shahni, the fruits of the season, greener than green.’

Fateh showed her shiny black brinjals. ‘Shahni, take these for the guests at least.’

Shahni bought the vegetables and greens and as she gathered them in her jholi she glanced at Aliya’s daughter, Fateh. White as milk, Kashmiri skin. Taut, ripe-bodied. Her fulsome breasts straining under the folds of her odhni. Just looking at her could whet your appetite.

‘Fateh ri, come to the haveli at noon.’

‘Halaa, okay, Shahni!’

Nazam Bibi of Uttari Vand – the northern quarter of the village – teased, ‘Go on, girl, now is your chance to ask for more. If you can get more then why settle for less?’

Fateh’s laugh was coy, sweet as mishri. ‘Le lo ri, soft and tender squash, sweet radishes grown alongside wheat!’ she simpered.

Nazam bibi cackled: ‘Ari sahelri, my friend, don’t go selling all that is salt and sweet, raw and ripe today itself. There’s a lot of time to go yet!’

Reaching the janjghar, the community centre, Shahni covered her head, walking fast as she took the ironsmiths’ street to reach the haveli.

Climbing the steps to her home, she saw that the diya was still alight in the nook. Afraid, she called out, ‘Mabibi, are you all right? The sun is up and you have left the lamp burning. After sunrise, don’t show disrespect to the deepak! Maharaj have mercy! Without the sun no day is beautiful; without the lamp, no night!’

While Shahni started work in the kitchen, Kartaro washed the brass pots and lined them on the ledge.

Shahni picked up a burning cowpat from under the pot in which the milk had been left on slow simmer through the night, and used it to light the stove to start the day’s cooking.

Putting the milk to boil, she admonished Kartaro, ‘Keep an eye on it, Kartaro, don’t let smoke spoil the milk.’

Shahni sat down to churn the milk and the sound of it swishing about the pot resounded off the walls and doors.

Beads of milk shot out from the pot.

She dipped her finger into the milk. It wasn’t ready yet.

‘Kartaro balli, give me some warm water. Let me add some to the milk so that the butter separates nicely.’

She had just gathered the butter into the taulbaaz and covered the chati with a cloth when Shahji arrived. When he sat down, Shahni said, ‘Maine kaha ji, during winter you can bathe by our well.’

‘Na, Shahni, I’ll always bathe in the river our ancestors bathed in. Why don’t you bathe by the small storage tank near the well? When Bebe was alive, this well was used a lot.’

Shahni guessed that Shahji had been remembering his mother. Revered is she who now resides in heaven. Oh, the radiance of her when she bathed! And she had been as beautiful as she had been accomplished.

‘Right here, where you sit, Shahni, every morning at sunrise, my mother’s heavy bangles kept time with the milk churn. Kashi and I would lie in the pasaar, the inner room, learning our tables. And the moment the churn stopped, we would leap up for our share of makkhan-mishri. Bebe would sprinkle almonds and sugar crystals on the butter, and give it to us; we would down it with a bowl of buttermilk, then rush to the stables and take the horses for a gallop!’

‘Ji, where have those good times, those sweet images of the past, gone? But, may God will it good, Shahji, I had a real fright today.’

Shahji stared at her.

‘I saw the elder one by the corner of the masjid. Clothes all ashimmer. Standing there in flesh and blood …’

Shahji got up abruptly. ‘Finish with the milk and curds, Shahni, and then come inside.’

Shahni filled the kneading bowl with gramflour, added some ghee and a pinch of salt and ajwain.

‘Kartaro, knead the besan firm. Then heat up the tandoor. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Shahni, I thought that you’d take it the wrong way … so I didn’t tell you about it. Last fortnight, Gauraja came to me in a dream as well,’ her husband confessed the moment Shahni appeared before him.

Shahni started trembling with fear. ‘Shahji, how did she look in the dream? Did she say anything?’

Shahji stared at Shahni with strange eyes, as if he were in two minds about whether to speak! ‘She lived with me for only a short while, and I was insatiable. Trishna. Whenever she appears in my dreams, she mouths the same taunt: "Shahji, where is my son, my jatak? Who will secure the bloodline, the kul-vansh?" and saying so, she laughs and disappears.’

Shahni started to cry. ‘God has blessed this house with plenty, it’s only I who haven’t measured up.’

‘Shahni, no one can win over fate. Perhaps, if you gave away a girl from Ambaryalwali’s family in marriage, we might be able to break the jinx.’

Shahni’s heart missed a beat. Then quickly rallying her strength, she said, ‘If you agree with me, then adopt a son!’

Shahji understood Shahni’s heartache. ‘These decisions, the final word, is all yours. Do what you like,’ he said gently.

Shahni’s heart was gladdened by her husband’s assurance. She protested, ‘No, you are the wise one, what am I worth.’

Shahji was about to say something, then stopped, a smile playing on his lips.

‘Shahji, why hold back, say what you were going to say.’

‘Shahni, after one is dead, who cares if it is your own blood or another’s? Tradition simply demands a son to secure the lineage.’

Shahni wanted to cling to her husband, to weep out her heartache, but she