The Tattoo on My Breast

By Ravi Rai

The year is 1942 and the province Sindh, where Sadhana, the childish granddaughter of a rich Sindhi grain merchant is getting married to Prakash, when Rehman, the meek, poor boy next door and Sadhana's childhood friend realizes his love for her.
On the other hand, Jinnah and Nehru have started displaying their influence on the young and the restless of the yet undivided India, where the several Gurdwara's Sikh flags are replaced with the green flag of Islam and Prakash becomes a fatality in one such crossfire.
Barely 15 days into her marriage and Sadhana is a widow. And Rehman is back in her life. But little does she know that her radical Hindu father has fixed her marriage to Sunil, a Sindhi millionaire running his looms in Dhakka, which is soon to become East Pakistan.
Sadhana and Rehman plan an escape but destiny plays a cruel role with the breakout of riots and Rehman is once again late in claiming his love. The Radcliffe line has been drawn and has divided India. The lovers had parted painfully.
Sadhana, now a nurse, is attending to the injured when she meets Sunil, the man she was slated to marry. His brother, Anil is a doctor at the hospital and has fallen in love with the young nurse. But Sadhana's heart only beats for Rehman. In this hour of difficulty, Sadhana's grandfather plans a sinister conspiracy and poisons Sadhana's mind against Rehman; causing her to marry Anil.
And just when connubial happiness begins to set in and Sadhana gets pregnant, Rehman returns for her causing her heart to beat for him once again. What will Dr. Anil, who till now was unaware of their undying love, do when he comes to know of Rehman's presence? Will Sadhana follow her heart or will she bind herself in chains that have always distanced her from her true love? Will Rehman accept a pregnant Sadhana as his soulmate or leave her at the crossroads once again?
To know more, read an epic tale of love, passion, emotion, drama and romance set in the times of partition through the eyes of our protagonist…Sadhana

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388271226

Ravi Rai

Ravi Rai was born in New Delhi into a lower middle class family. It took him almost 17 years to become an overnight success with his television serial Sailaab. He has written, produced and directed award-winning films and television serials such as Teacher, Thoda Hai Thode Ki Zaroorat Hai, Sparsh and Kashish. The winner of several industry awards, Ravi Rai is here with his dream, with his first book 'The Tattoo on My Breast'.

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AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

25 APRIL 2015, NEPAL

It was a bright, sunny afternoon. Around 11:56 NST, Sarita Tamang, Jiya Thapa, and Purnika Singh trudged along laughing through the busy Chame Sadak in Besishar on their way to school. Suddenly, the shops and the buildings around them started shaking and swaying before they crumbled and fell. Bricks and dust rained down in a heap of rubble. The pavements, which were there a second ago, disappeared. The girls ran for shelter.

A 7.8-magnitude earthquake had hit Nepal.

* * *

27 APRIL 2015, BELEARIC ISLANDS

It was early in the morning. The sheep had started grazing. Hundreds of house sparrows were chirping. The tall and dusky young man briskly walked up the cobbled street entering an old, big house made of stones and red roof tiles. The trees inside the boundary walls were laden with brightly coloured fruits like cherimoya and granada.

Abella hurled open her silken blanket and jumped out of bed on hearing the doorbell. She was in her thin-striped shirt with nothing underneath. Her shapely long legs gave her a taller stature. She pulled her hair at the back and buckled them together as she walked towards the door.

‘Aren’t you ready yet, Carino?’ the curly-haired Tita asked Abella, holding a carnation for her.

Within a few minutes, Abella was out of the shower. Abella put all her possessions in her tote bag that also included a small statue of Buddha. She shut her eyes and chanted something for 28 seconds till her watch beeped. Abella Alejandro was pretty, fair and 23.

‘Which part of Nepal are you going to?’

‘The Eastern district of Lamjung, the epicentre of the earthquake.’

‘And when do you think you will be back, querido?’

‘God only knows. Our hygiene team will be joining those from the British Red Cross. Tita, the earthquake, I believe, has killed more than 3,000 people and injured over 13,000 so far. It has been the worst natural disaster to strike Nepal in almost 80 years. The causalities are rising. To meet their needs and help them out will take ample time.’

Her straight and long, blonde hair bounced off her shapely round hips as she trekked along the planked wooden pathway towards her ferry to Valencia.

‘But don’t take long. I am going to miss you, honey.’

There was sadness in his eyes.

Augusta, the oceanliner, blew its first horn. She held Tita and kissed him long and passionately. Soon, the Augusta had sailed off the Palma coast.

The taxi from Valencia was taking her to Madrid. Abella was excited like a child to be on a voyage to the land of snake charmers and millions of fairy tales. She looked out and waved to a bunch of girls cycling to school. It reminded her of her excursion to England.

She was just 12 when she had gone to Clovelli village in East Birmingham, England, with her sister Vionna. It was dark, cloudy, and snowing. The wooden picket fences surrounding the old, eerie haunted house were covered with snow. The young schoolgirls from Spain were sitting quietly in front of Lydia, the 70-year-old crystal ball gazer.

‘Who will be my soulmate, Lydia?’Abella had asked Lydia as any young girl would have. Lydia’s loud laughter reverberated. Abella held Vionna’s hand tightly. Lydia touched the crystal ball with the wisdom wand. The ball blazed and illuminated. It revolved at a high speed. Lydia was chanting something all along. Lydia looked into the crystal maze and then stared piercingly into Abella’s eyes. Abella was terrified. Lydia went closer to her. Abella retracted a little. The other friends, too, moved backwards.

‘He will meet you on your 24th birthday on the East of the English country, in the coastal regions of India,’ Lydia announced to Abella in a very hoarse voice that would put male vocal tones to shame.

The girls were dazed and dumbfounded. But Abella had a look of excitement on her face, which had become radiant. ‘He shall be your soulmate, she said.’

The Air France flight from Charles De Gaulle airport took off for Mumbai. Abella looked at the Eiffel Tower from the window of her plane as it soared high. She closed her eyes, thinking of who her soulmate could be.

ONE

1944, SUKKUR, SINDH

Around 35 miles north of Sukkur, somewhere in the Sindh province, the huge wooden gates of Kot Laluganj, the jail in Pano Aqil, opened its small tiny door to a man clad in a white salwar and a long Pathani shirt. He was around 45 years old. Not very tall, but stout, fair and round-faced. The jailor, along with his lawyer, standing nearby, walked up to him as he stepped out and looked at his Favre Leuba. He was perhaps looking out for someone.

‘Does your brother remember the time and the date of your release, Gobind?’

‘I am sure he does, Syeed. If he doesn’t, then nobody does.’

‘I just hope all is well with him on the way.’

‘Why? Who’s on the way, Tarachand?’ asked Syeed.

‘Gandhiji will be released either today or tomorrow, so may be…’ said Tarachand Jhamtani, Gobind’s lawyer.

‘Well, his release won’t have much of an impact here in Sindh, Tarachand. But Gobind’s release certainly will have celebrations in Sukkur,’ Syeed Rasool Pasha, the jailor, said in humour.

Suddenly, a green Aston Martin entered the jail premises. Gobind recognised his car. A smile beamed on his lips.

‘There, there he is.’

Gobind ran his fingers through his thick, dark black hair. Girdhar got down from the car and rushed towards his elder brother. There was a look of joy on the face of this lean man who looked much younger than his brother. With tears on the edge of his eyes, he hugged Gobind. Girdhar had made an effort to hold his tears, but failed to do so. The tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Gobind held his younger brother tightly to himself. He could feel the spasms as his younger brother wept. It took some time for Girdhar to calm down and be normal. Girdhar noticed the jail warden and the guards watching the brothers meet from a distance; he reluctantly moved away from the long-awaited embrace.

‘It certainly isn’t the first time they are watching a reunion like this,’ Tarachand said looking at the guards with a smile. ‘Just like doctors and dictators of wars and crime who witness accidents, loss of lives, death, misery and rare miracles every day of their lives, the jail wardens and janitors too experience the tearful partings and the more tearful reunions every hour of their lives.’

Syeed nodded in affirmation looking very closely at Gobind’s Aston Martin. Girdhar took the small bag, which had some essentials, toiletries and clothes, from Gobind and put it on the back seat of the car.

‘That’s a dream car, Gobind,’ said Syeed, running his fingers along the hot bonnet.

‘Thanks, Syeed.’

‘How much did you pay for this, Gobind?’

‘I think I had paid Rs 2,770 for this particular car, preferring it to the Plymouth Deluxe Coupe which was costing Rs 1,000 less. But the colour was important to me.’

‘I am not as lucky as you, Gobind. I like this car, but I know I can never buy it. I am just a salaried jail officer,’ Syeed said as a matter of fact.

‘You will, you will get it one day, and thank you, Syeed for whatever you did for me.’ Gobind cut the conversation short, not wanting to pursue the topics of affordability, inability and temptations.

Tarachand opened the door of the car for Gobind and he smiled and sat inside. ‘Tara, you can come with us; we can drop you home.’

‘No, thank you, Girdhar. Since I have come this far, I think I must visit my sister. She stays here in Pir Jo Goth nearby.’

The warden and the men at the jail gate waved out to Gobind. He, too, waved back at them. And soon the green Aston Martin was out of the jail premises. Syeed kept looking at the tempting car as it sped away.

Gobind and Syeed by now had become good friends.

Gobind had earlier been serving his sentence in Sukkur Jail where Hemu Kalani, the Sindhi freedom fighter was also housed. It was only during the hanging of Hemu Kalani on 21 January 1943 that some of the inmates of Sukkur Jail were shifted to other parts of the prisons in Sindh because of security reasons. Gobind had been shifted to Pano Aqil. It was here that he met Syeed Rasool Pasha who was the jailor.

It had all started with money being passed on to Syeed Rasool to look into the care and well-being of Gobind inside the jail. Around the same age as Gobind, Rasool Pasha and Gobind had hit a chord of friendship between themselves. Now, since a couple of years, Syeed had stopped taking money from Gobind’s family. But Dada, Gobind’s father, knew how to reimburse his favours. Dada and Girdhar helped Syeed buy a house near Rohri and got his children admitted to good schools using their influence. And Syeed remained indebted to them.

The car hugged the country roads to take Gobind home after seven long years. It was almost a two-hour drive for Gobind to meet his family. Kot Laluganj was situated between Sukkur and Pir Jo Goth, near Larkhano in Mirpur Khas. The roads leading from one town to another were wide and smooth.

‘The British are far ahead of the curve when it comes to planning for comforts, ease and the living standards of the people they rule. Water, electricity, roads, infrastructure, transportation, and rail and road networks are all laid out in such a manner that would be beneficial to people for centuries to come,’ Girdhar said looking at the roads.

‘Don’t forget that we, the ruled and the oppressed, pay huge amounts to the British companies and their engineers for this. What they have done to our cotton export, looms and weavers is not pardonable. These infrastructures have caused a huge decline in the GDP since they arrived.’

Gobind said it with an evident disgust for the British Raj as he looked outside passing through the docks of Shah Fazeel Jo Dhakko, where the merchants and their labourers were loading and unloading the cargo.

‘How is everyone at home?’ Gobind asked

‘How do you think they should be without you for seven long years, Dada?’

‘I hope no one ever spoke to anyone about my going to jail in all these years?’

‘No one uttered a word, brother. Neither did anyone ask the reason, nor did they seek explanations. And it will remain that way for the rest of our lives. You have a new life waiting ahead of you. You have a family that has longed for you. You have a business that had been orphaned without you. We need to begin and move on from here.’

Girdhar comforted his brother.

The sun was now slowly shaping into an orange ball setting far away and leaving its tinge on the flowing Indus. They were crossing Rohri, an important town connected to old Sukkur by Landsdowne Bridge, a pillarless bridge, one of the few bridges of its kind those days.

The kirtan was in full swing in the backyard of Gobind’s house when they reached. The gods had been decorated for the occasion. All the women from the neighbourhood were singing devotional songs in the praise of Rama and Krishna. Among the women was Nabeel, the only man, who was playing the dholak and singing bhajans with passion. He was completely engrossed in singing the hymns. In one corner of the house, a set of children were putting the kutty on small paper leaves. Kutty, made of sugar and wheat flour with some pieces of banana, mango, apple and dry fruits mixed in, was getting ready to be distributed to the guests. They were all waiting for Gobind to arrive.

Soon, the green Aston Martin entered the tapered Abid Lakhani Bakery lane of Sindhi Colony. A white palatial mansion stood waiting for Gobind. A white marble nameplate was inlaid on the entrance on which was inscribed in black and gold, Asanjo. In Sindhi it means ‘Ours’. The house appeared freshly painted. The porch, the open terraces, the verandas and the balconies were all decorated and lit up. Diyas were burning all along the top of boundary walls. It could have been mistaken for Diwali, the coming home of Lord Rama.

The car honked. Mian Badruddin opened the huge gates of Asanjo for his master’s homecoming. The sound of faith, the holy songs, were reaching a peak in terms of volume, rhythm, chorus and devotion from within the house.

Ram, Girdhar’s older son who was 15, rushed to the balcony and saw the car entering into the house. He quickly went, running down the marble staircase to the backyard, where Jaywanti, his pretty neighbour, was passionately singing the traditional song, ‘Mera Piya ghar aaya, O Ram ji.’ Ram’s voice resonated in the house. ‘Amma, Amma, Sheela maa, Nandhu, Dada has come.’ Sheela turned and looked at Ram. Water oozed out of her eyes. He had screamed with joy denting the devotion of the devotee. They all looked at him. The ever-quiet Ram was so excited to have his idol, Gobind, back that he had forgotten to obey the rules of religion.

Bindu, Komal, Sadhana, Dilip, who were cutting the fruits for the kutty, left everything halfway and ran outside towards the porch. Sheela quickly ran into her room and put on a little more sindoor and held her mangalsutra between her long fingers. Closing her eyes, she mutely chanted some mantras for the long life of her husband.

Gobind looked at the gleaming house. The lights stood out even more sparkling and glowing in the reflection of his watery eyes. Mian Badruddin was the first one to hold his master’s hands and touch them to both his eyes.

‘How have you been, Mian?’ Gobind asked the old man. Mian Badruddin tried to say something but could not utter a word; he was choked and broke down. Gobind patted his back. Girdhar quickly took Mian Badruddin aside, as there were members of the family waiting to meet Gobind.

His children, Sadhana, Komal, Ram and Dilip, were all standing there in front of Gobind. They were breathing hard as they had come running down to meet the man they loved the most. Bindu, Gobind’s elder daughter, came out lagging behind the others. She had a minor limp in her left leg. Gobind looked at his children. All of them had grown so much. Komal and Ram were only eight and ten years old when he had left them. Komal was 15 now and Ram was showing the beginnings of a moustache. Dilip was just six and Sadhana was a nine-year-old tomboy then. Today she was all dressed up like a young woman in a salwar kameez. The children hugged Gobind one by one.

Bhagwan came running in last and hugged his father with joy. ‘Nandhu Dadu, this is for you,’ he said it with a slur. Bhagwan, who was now 12, was the youngest child in the family. He was autistic. He was god’s special child. Bhagwan gave his father a wooden toy soldier. He had made it with his own hands in the school workshop he went to. Gobind hugged him tight. Bhagwan was completely oblivious of the emotion that came to the surface while parting and uniting. Gobind’s eyes were watery looking at his children. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he looked at his children. Gobind, through his blurred teary vision, saw Dada, his father, standing right in front of him. Gobind wiped his tears and walked towards the frail man. He touched Dada and Amma’s feet. Dada quickly grabbed his son into such a tight hug that Gobind could hear his father’s heart beating. It was quite some time before Dada released his son from his grasp.

‘Your beard has grown too long and your cheeks have sunk,’ the old man said, pulling his son’s cheek.

Amma, too, broke down the moment she hugged her son. The daughters-in-law of the house, Pushpa and Sheela, too, had begun to cry under the veils covering their faces. Both the women touched Gobind’s feet. Sheela could not look into the eyes of her husband. Her heart was beating faster and perhaps was even skipping some beats. Before Gobind stepped into the house, Pushpa performed the customary aarti for him at the threshold.

Nothing had changed much in the past seven years. Gobind walked into the Otak and stood in front of the only major change in the house. A huge picture of a young, beautiful girl, who looked exactly like Bindu—fair, pretty and chubby—hung from a wall. The photograph was garlanded and a diya burnt in front. There was a red powder tilak on her forehead. Gobind shut his moist eyes, folded his hands, and prayed. Tears were flowing again. Everyone stood still watching him. Gobind did not move for a very long time. In a perfect contrast to the quiet interiors, on the porch, the sound of devotion continued to grow louder.

The evening at Asanjo saw a lot of guests and relatives pouring in to meet Gobind. But none spoke about the cause or the reason of Gobind’s absence for seven long years, either to Gobind or about him to anyone.

Dada was dressed in loose white pyjamas and kurta with sleeveless jacket. The ubiquitous black Sindhi topi was perched firmly on his head. Dada stood near the boundary wall, gazing at the flickering bulb on the electric pole outside in front of their bungalow. Gobind walked towards him.

‘Dada.’

The old man turned and looked at Gobind. His eyes gleamed with joy looking at his son.

‘You look a lot of years younger without the beard, putta.’

Gobind smiled. He had been clean shaven.

’You know I had told Muddasar to shave you clean and to remove your moustaches too along with a nice haircut. Now you look so sparkling. Even the young women of Sindh will now fall for you,’ Dada said this with a pride and naughtiness to his elder son pulling both his cheeks once again. It was something that Dada did to Gobind since he was a child.

‘But why are you standing here alone, Dada? What are you looking at?’ Gobind asked.

‘Putta, this flickering bulb has been disturbing me a lot since months now,’ Dada said, still gazing at the flickering bulb.

‘Maybe the wiring connections are loose,’ Gobind said.

‘But Putta, it has been this way since a long time now. I do not know why these municipal authorites are not paying attention to the umpteen complaints that I have made in writing. I will again go there personally tomorrow and make yet another complaint to Ghanshyam. He’s our own man.’

‘Ram, Ram, Gobind bhautar.’

Suddenly the father-son conversation about the flickering bulb was interuppted. Gobind turned to the voice and found Hasan and his pretty petite wife, Shazia, standing in front of him with folded hands.

‘Oh! How are you Hasan, my brother?’ Gobind said as he hugged the gentle Hasan.

‘We shall be fine from now on, bhautar, as you are back,’ Hasan answered in his soft tone and with teary eyes. Shazia broke down.

‘Sister, don’t, I am back now. Stop crying,’ said Gobind, holding Shazia’s hand. ‘All has been well and all shall be well too.’

‘Yes.’

‘How is Rehman? Where is Suraiya?’ Gobind diverted the emotional trail. ‘I don’t see them.’

‘Suraiya is helping the women in the kitchen and Rehman must be around doing some work,’ Shazia concluded, wiping her tears with her chunni.

Hasan Mahmood Mallik and Shazia stayed just below Dada’s grand mansion. Adjoining Dada’s compound wall was Hasan’s small insignificant dwelling covered with asbestos sheets that were added as a shed to the house where one buffalo and two goats were tied up with some poultry straying around the house. Hasan Mallik, who was around 45 years old, was a meek, humble and poor man but also very honest and upright. Tilling Dada’s fields and selling milk and eggs in the neighbourhood were what earned him his bread and butter. Hasan and his son Rehman would often paint the houses of rich Hindus during Diwali, and those of wealthy Muslims during Eid. At times, they would take up some carpentry jobs, fix the taps or do any other sundry work to fight for their survival and continue their existence.

The huge kitchen in the backyard of Asanjo was at the busiest it had been in a while. Lots of women were working to make prasad in the form of dinner, which was to be served to all the guests who had come to meet Gobind. Some women had been hired and a few came in voluntarily from the neighbourhood for the occasion.

In the midst of merrymaking in the kitchen, Sadhana walked towards the kitchen desperately looking out for someone. Suriaya, fair and short with chiselled features, walked out with a bowl in her hand.

‘Aye, Suru, where’s your brother?’ Sadhana stopped Suraiya and asked her.

‘If anyone is ever looking out for Rehman bhaijaan, they come to you and ask about his whereabouts, but if Sadhu herself is searching for him, then I am sure that my brother is really lost,’ Suraiya said with a smile and moved forward.

‘Please Suru, it is urgent,’ Sadhana continued following her.

‘I really don’t know where he is Sadhu; I haven’t seen him since afternoon.’

‘Okay, then just tell him if you meet him that I am looking out for him. It’s urgent.’

Suraiya smiled and moved towards her destination. Sadhana had sent a warning to Rehman through his sister by mentioning the word ‘urgent’ twice in a collection of four sentences that she had exchanged with Suraiya.

Rehman, perched atop a bamboo ladder in the backyard, was getting the light bulb mended outside the kitchen. Sadhana, who had been frantically looking for him had finally spotted him. From down below, the tall Sadhana shouted at him.

‘Aye Rehman, come down.’

‘Why? What happened? What do you want now?’

‘Don’t ask me why and what, just come down.’

‘I can’t, I have to get this bulb changed immediately.’

‘So?’

‘The women outside the kitchen are finding it difficult to cook in the dim light.’

‘So?’

‘So? Means?’

‘Are these women more important to you than me?’

‘No, it’s not that ... But right now …’

‘Answer my question. Are these women more important to you than me?’

‘Listen, Sadhu …’

‘Are you coming down or shall I shake this ladder and make you fall?’

‘Only after I finish this job, Sadhu.’

‘Okay then, here you go.’

Sadhana started shaking the ladder and the thin weightless Rehman shuddered.

‘Okay, okay … Stop that, Sadhu. I am coming down. I am coming down.’

Rehman succumbed and gave in as he always did whenever it came to Sadhana and him. He left his job midway and hurriedly came climbing down the meek bamboo ladder. He looked at Sadhana and smiled with mischief in his eyes.

‘Yes, tell me what is bothering you and why you are in such a hurry?’ asked Rehman.

‘I am not in a hurry at all.’

‘So why are your nostrils flaring and pumping like a bagpiper’s bag?’

‘What is the colour of my dress that I am wearing?’

Rehman looked at her dress and then looked at her.

‘Yellow.’

‘And what was colour of the bangles that I had asked you to get for me?’

‘Yellow.’

‘Then?’

‘What "then?’’’

‘What colour are these bangles that you got me?’

‘These too are yellow, but they have a little orange shade in them.’

‘But yellow means yellow.’

‘Yes, you are right, Sadhu, yellow means yellow.’

‘So?’

‘But Sadhu, these were the only ones available at Mulchand’s shop, and apart from his shop, all the other shops are far away. And then I had a lot of work to finish here as Nandhu Dadu was coming home.’

‘Nandho’ in Sindhi means small or the younger one. Since Dada was the eldest, Gobind was the next in hierarchy, and thus called the ‘younger Dada’ by the entire family and also by some in the neighbourhood.

‘So what if Nandhu Dadu was coming home?’

‘I was also told that a lot of guests were coming home for dinner. And then your command came at the last minute,’ Rehman said pushing his hair back from his face by jerking his head.

‘I don’t like it when you jerk your hair back like this. Never do that in front of me.’

‘Actually, my hair keeps falling on my forehead.’

‘Cut them short or keep a comb.’

Sadhana took off her bangles and placed them in Rehman’s hands.

‘What will I do with these bangles?’

‘Take them and preserve them. When you get married, give these bangles to your wife and tell her that they are a gift from a girl who stayed next door. I am not wearing them.’

Rehman looked down at those bangles in his hands and smiled.

‘Rehman Putta! What’s happening to the light? Why is it taking so much time?’ Amma’s voice came loud from the kitchen.

‘Amma, just two more minutes, it’s finished,’ Rehman replied.

‘Can I now climb back and finish my job?’ he asked for permission from his Sadhu.

Sadhana looked at him in anger squeezing her eyes. She flung her long plait backwards and walked away from him. Rehman stood there watching his childhood companion go away. Her straight and long black hair bounced off her shapely round hips. He waited for her to turn back. He knew she would and she did. She again flung her plait forward and moved carelessly and directionless towards no destination.

‘How pretty she looked in the yellow and white salwar kameez!’ Gobind thought when he looked at his naive and innocent daughter from a distance. The dimples perpetually engraved on her cheeks ornated her smile. Just till two years ago, Sadhana had been a tomboy.

Amidst thoughts of his beloved daughter, Gobind looked at his father laughing with his friends faraway in the lawns. They were singing songs of Pankaj Mallik, Mohammed Rafi and the great K.L. Saigal. Dada saw Gobind standing alone and walked upto him.

‘You guys are busy singing songs, Dada,’ Gobind said.

‘Yes Putta, but this Parasram thinks he’s Mohammed Rafi; he makes me laugh the moment he starts singing. Gobind Putta, I have to control my laughter and I cannot control it when he sings.’

Gobind looked at his father and smiled. Dada still had a child in him.

‘And you think you are Mohammed Rafi?’ Gobind asked his father.

‘No, I don’t think that, but everyone feels that my voice resembles his.’

‘Now from Pankaj Mallik to this new singer, Mohammed Rafi?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you have a magical voice, Dada.’

‘God has been kind to me putta.’

Dada took the compliment seriously. He was unaware that Gobind had pulled a fast one on him. Gobind pulled a chair and offered it to Dada.

‘I am fine, Gobind Putta. I am not tired as yet. I can still walk 10 kilometres. The day I get tired, I shall myself ask for a chair,’ Dada smiled and assured him. Gobind reciprocated with a smile and thanked the Almighty.

‘Putta, I have come to talk to you about something important.’

Gobind looked at Dada.

‘You remember the boy that I had spoken to you about for Bindu?’

‘Yes, Dada, I do remember you telling me when you had come to visit me in jail.’

‘Gobind, you will never use that word ‘jail’ again in any of the conversations ever within or outside the family,’ Dada declared this verdict in hushed tones. Gobind was silent. ‘Gobind Putta, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realise that the situation is over, you cannot move forward. You have gone through penance. Now forgive yourself for the sins that you did not commit deliberately.’

Gobind was moved by his father’s gesture.

‘Suresh, the boy, and his family would be coming to meet us tomorrow to talk about the marriage of our Bindiya. I just want you to be mentally prepared, as we shall be locking the date of the engagement and the marriage itself tomorrow. Though they have asked for a large dowry, Amma is negotiating right now with Vishni. This is the house we all think is very good for our Bindiya and should not be overlooked.’

‘But Dada, what about the other boy you had mentioned to me?’

Dada thought for a few seconds till he remembered.

‘Oh! That Jeevanlal’s nephew? Lachmandas’s elder son, Vinod?’

‘I don’t remember the names Dada.’

‘The ones who have a shop in Shikarpur, Choithram and Sons?’

‘Yes, the same boy, Dada. You had said that he, too, is a nice boy.’

‘Yes, he is a nice boy, but Putta, I think Shikarpur is a little too far.’

‘You think so Dada? It’s just about 45 minutes from here. That’s not too much. And if they are nice people with a flourishing business, then I don’t think we should let that go.’

‘This boy Suresh, too, has a shop in Sukkur, and they stay in Rohiri, just a bridge across. Bindiya would be closer to us.’

‘Dada, I have nothing to say when you have decided to go ahead with Suresh. And I know whatever you would do and take forward will be in the good interest of the family. Just talk to Girdhar once and see what he has to say.’

‘Girdhar has been consulted. He has done all the due investigation on Suresh and has given his nod, but your decision is important too.’

‘Dada, I trust Girdhar more than I trust myself because he’s a calm man unlike me. He would think 10 times before plunging into anything. So please move ahead with whatever you all feel is right for Bindiya.’

‘Great, I shall then inform Amma and Sheela about this.’

Saying this, Dada walked swiftly away from Gobind to where his friends were waiting for him. Gobind thought to himself, ‘True, my Dada can still walk up 10 kilometres today.’

Gobind now climbed upto his room. He had come up to have a cigarette. He needed the privacy to smoke. He never smoked in front of Dada, Amma, or any other elder as a mark of respect to them. In fact, if it weren’t for the puja in the house that day, Gobind surely would have had non-vegetarian food as well and a few drinks with Dada. It had been seven years since he hadn’t touched liquor. Gobind was standing at his window and smoking. He dragged a deep puff and enjoyed the cool breeze that was passing through the cross-ventilated big windows of his huge house. As far as the eye went, one could not see a house that would obstruct the winds from blowing to Dada’s house.

The door opened. Gobind turned and saw Sheela coming towards him with a thali in one hand and a glass of water in another. She looked very pretty in the peach sari. Her body still showed the curves that a man would desire in a woman. She was 42 and never came across as a mother of four, and that too of a girl who was about to marry.

‘You haven’t had anything to eat since you came back. Please have this,’ said Sheela, offering him some pakoras.

‘How have you been, Sohini?’ Gobind asked.

‘You know in the entire Ramayana, Maharishi Valmiki travelled all along with Lord Ram for 14 years wherever he went and described his journey to the readers till he came back. But never once did he talk about or depict the agony of the people who loved and longed for the Lord and were left behind by him in the palace for the fulfilment of a promise. He did not write much about the anguish of his family without him. But we can now understand their agony because we have gone through that suffering without you. With you being so far away from us, not once did we sleep peacefully, nor did once the family eat without remembering you and neither did once the family celebrate any festival without you. We all were as exiled as you were for us.’

Sheela choked and tears started flowing.

‘I cried every night thinking of you, whether you were okay.’

He looked at her but she could not look at him.

‘You have lost a lot of weight. Your face has become very small,’ Sheela said with shyness, wiping her tears. ‘Your cheeks too have sunk a lot.’

‘They will soon be okay, Sohini. Nothing to worry, I know the next thing on Amma’s agenda must be to take care of my health.’

‘You are right. She will be at it from tomorrow. We all know,’ Sheela smiled as Gobind held her hand.

Laughter and songs from below diverted their attention. Gobind looked far way at Dada with a great sense of pride and joy as he sang songs with his friends in one corner of the lawn.

‘How much Dada loves to party? He is so fond of get-togethers,’ Gobind suddenly changed the subject. Sheela knew that Gobind always felt uncomfortable whenever they had a conversation that involved only the two of them.

‘Yes, unlike you, Dada loves people, gatherings, songs, movies, and things that bring happiness to him and brings the family together. He is a very happy man and loves to remain happy all the time. May God grant him this till the end of his life,’ Sheela said.

‘I hope Dada has spoken to you about Bindiya’s marriage?’ she asked him.

‘Yes, Dada just mentioned it to me.’

‘They are coming tomorrow. You also take a look at the boy.’

‘Sheela, since you are the mother, just ask Bindiya once whether she likes the boy?’

‘From where she stands, she doesn’t have much of a choice, does she?’

‘Then Dada and Girdhar’s decision would be final and you know I do not go against Dada’s word. Our marriage, too, was Dada’s decision, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but have you been happy with their decision about your marriage?’

Sheela asked him with a dash of mischief. She looked at him and Gobind stared back at his beautiful wife. Gobind held her hand once again. She looked down as she could not meet his eyes. She was shy. He pulled her close and hugged her. The sound of the main gates opening aborted their moment of intimacy. The sound of the paddle and clutter of the bicycle made Gobind look out of the window. Gobind saw Rehman entering the big gates of Asanjo, paddling his worn-out bicycle. He got off, leaned his bicycle on the small brick wall, and ran inside.

‘Where is he coming from at this hour of the night?’

‘He had gone to change the bangles for Sadhu. Poor boy, Sadhu makes him run a lot and unnecessarily at times,’ Sheela said.

Gobind kept looking at the boy who was perhaps searching for his daughter. And in no time far away, he saw Sadhana fighting with Rehman.

Sadhana was fuming.

‘Where had you been?’ she asked him like a master.

‘Why? What happened now?’

‘The bulb in the backyard that you had fixed has stopped working once again.’

‘But I had replaced it.’

‘So what? It’s useless again. Everyone was looking for you.’

‘Who? Name someone.’

‘Why do you ask me so many questions? Answer simply, where were you?’ Rehman showed the bangles to her.

‘They are exactly yellow and match your dress now. I cycled all the way to Manjeera Muhalla and got these bangles for you from Munnawar’s shop. I got them exchanged with my future wife’s bangles,’ Rehman replied, jerking his head again to pull back the hair falling on his forehead. Rehman held her hand and placed the bangles on them. She looked at the bangles and again at him.

‘What is the point now? The function is over. People have seen me either with mismatched bangles or without them. What will I do with these bangles now?’

‘Wear them on your wedding day.’

‘No, let your wife wear them when you marry. Keep them for her.’

‘Okay.’

Rehman laughed aloud and turned away from a fuming Sadhana. She was expecting him to turn back. She knew he would, and he did. He jerked his hair back again and smiled at her. He soon disappeared into Dada’s house to do the chores waiting for him.

TWO

It was five in the morning and yet dark outside. Dada opened the door of his house. He came to a small wooden closet outside and took out his white Bata canvas shoes. Dada sat down on the peengha , a large rectangular wooden plank suspended by thick iron chains hanging through the ceiling, and put on his shoes.

Though it was summer, the cool breeze that blew from the river Indus, which was quite near to Asanjo, kept everything cool. And there were no skyscrapers and high-rise buildings then that would block the share of wind and sunlight that belonged to the individuals.

In the exterior of Dada’s house and his shop were placed big huge earthen pots covered with wet red cloth that kept the water in the pots cool during the summers. The water was filled in them for travellers and passers-by who were thirsty. Small packets of gur and chana were also kept there so that they did not drink water empty stomach. Those days giving only water to people was not considered a pure act of showing human kindness.

Dada cleaned the pots every day in the mornings and filled fresh water in them. Mian Badruddin or Rehman could have done that too for Dada, but Dada and his sons believed that some pious works should be done with your own hands. One’s physical attribution to the social work was important.

It was now time for the birds to come. Dada took out some bajra from a sack lying in one of the corners of the house and sprinkled them on a large aluminum plate especially made to feed sparrows and pigeons. He then filled the open earthen vessel with water for the birds. He went up to the courtyard, and plucked neem leaves from the tree, washed them from a tap right there, and put them in his mouth. Chewing the leaves, the old man set off for his routine morning walk to the Indus.

Sati, the limping she-dog, followed Dada till Sundar’s shop at the end of the lane wagging her tail. Sundar had just opened his shop and was yet setting the things. Dada would buy a packet of biscuits from Sunder’s small shop every morning, open them and feed it to Sati with absolute ease and without any hurry. Dada always kept this time of feeding the birds and Sati well before the friends gathered at Parasram’s photo studio to depart from there.

‘Hare Ram Dada.’ The short Sundar handed over a packet of J.B. Mangharam biscuits to Dada.

‘Hare Ram putta,’ Dada said giving him the money.

Dada slowly opened the packet. Though there were Parle Glucose biscuits too, Dada prefered to buy Mangharam products as Mangharam was himself a fellow Sindhi from Sukkur. Mangharam had introduced these glucose biscuits which were called ‘Energy Food’. They were primarily made for the consumption of the army, but they eventually became popular with children.

Munni emerged from behind Parasram’s house with a long broom and a bucket in her hands. Her daughter Kulbi followed her. Munni was the sweeper woman who went to every house of the Abid Lakhani Bakery lane and the areas around to clean the toilets along with her daughter Kulbi.

‘Dada Sain, Ram Ram,’ Munni politely wished Dada who was feeding Sati the biscuits.

‘Ram Ram, Munni putta. How are you?’

‘Raham Maalik,’ Munni bowed down to Dada.

The lecherous Sundar quickly tried to have a glimpse of her full breasts inside her blouse as she bent a little. He never missed a chance on that. Munni was always in colourful swinging skirts and her blouse had excellent mirror work with padded bodice wrapping her well-toned breasts. On her arms were clattering big bangles made up of animal bones till her elbow from the wrists, covering the tattoed name of her husband on one arm and her name on the other.

‘Kulbi, say Ram Ram to Dada.’ Munni commanded her daughter. Kulbi too bowed down and wished Dada. Kulbi was around 13 years and was attaining puberty. Her body had just started taking shape.

Munni wanted the biscuits too. She moved a little into the shop.

‘Aye Munni, stay afar, don’t come near and don’t touch anything in my shop,’ Sundar very disrespectfully humiliated Munni. Dada noticed it. He did not like the way Sundar spoke to her but kept silent. Sundar was short-tempered and an impolite man to everyone in the neighbourhood but to Dada. Dada quickly gave Munni a packet of biscuits from his quota.

Dada saw Sundar still ogling at Munni’s body from the corner of his eyes. But he ignored.

‘Is the Saheb ready?’ Dada asked Munni referring to Parasram.

‘Yes Dada, he would be here any minute,’ Munni smiled and she left for her work.

The men folk, the five famous friends—Jamshed Cyrus Mistry, Dada Hukmatrai, Parasram and Nissar Mohammed met every morning religiously at Parasram’s photo studio which was at the end of the Abid Lakhani Bakery lane or at the beginning of the lane from the other side. From there they would go for a walk to the Indus River chewing neem twigs and cleaning their teeth. Politics was always the topic among them, either while going or while coming back.

They were waiting for Jamshed.

‘Dada, let’s skip our morning walk today,’ Jamshed briskly came out of his restaurant, ‘The Light of Persia’ across the road, and made a request. Dada wondered and looked at him. ‘Let’s listen to the radio. Maybe Bapuji will get released in sometime. What do you say?’

Mahatma Gandhi was serving his sentence in the Aga Khan Palace in Poona. He had been arrested and imprisoned in August 1942, almost 21 months before along with his wife Kasturba, his secretary and associate Mahadev Desai, and Indian independence activist Sarojini Naidu for telling the British to quit India. The Quit India Movement was a civil disobedience movement and a mass remonstrative protest in response to Gandhiji’s satyagraha, demanding an orderly British withdrawal from India. The British had declined to grant immediate independence, saying that it was possible only after the end of World War II. Erratic and random small-scale violence had erupted across the country. The British had arrested and imprisoned thousands of leaders, curbing their civil rights and freedom of speech. Mahatma Gandhi had been imprisoned in this palace.

The friends soon gathered at The Light of Persia. It was a big Irani restaurant on the edge of Abid Lakhani Bakery Lane. Right opposite Parasram’s photo studio, The Light of Persia was the last stop for the friends to come and enjoy their tea, ommlette, bun and butter after their morning walks. Jamshed Cyrus Mistry owned this Irani café and a theatre, Alexendra, which showed English movies. This all he had inherited from his forefathers who had migrated from Persia to Sindh during the Muslim conquest and persecution around mid-7th century.

In India, they were all waiting for the day of Mahatama Gandhi’s release. They were all glued to their radio sets. The Radio Saigon or the Azad Hind Radio, Rangoon was giving the news in details of the Mahatma’s release from Aga Khan Palace. The Hindus or the Parsis, the Sikhs or the Christians, as well as the Muslims of the then undivided and complete India, were all concerned about Bapu. That was the kind of reverence people had for this frail man.

Meanwhile at Asanjo, Gobind too had woken up early in the morning. He climbed down the white makrana-marbled staircase and passed the kitchen. The family’s women were already working there. Pushpa covered her head as he passed and Sheela quickly touched his feet covering her head as quickly with a veil. ‘Hare Ram, Amma,’ Gobind wished his mother. ‘Hare Ram, Putta,’ she wished him back. Bindu was already in the kitchen with her head covered. ‘Bindiya Putta, make tea for your Nandhu dadu, he’s up,’ Gobind heard his mother’s voice as he walked out towards the porch.

Gobind felt nice as he came out. It was his first morning in the house after seven long years in jail. Gobind looked at the street outside. People were still sleeping and the sun was yet to come out completely. He immediately walked to the shed in the backyard of his house to meet Krishna and Radha, his two beloved holy cows. There was a strange emotion that he had towards the cows. Gobind loved Radha and Krishna immensely. He patted his mother cows and stroked them with love. They too greeted him with love. His mother cows had not forgotten him. ‘I shall come back to you after my bath,’ he told them.

Gobind came outside and stood near the porch. At a far distance on a terrace across the street, Gobind saw his neighbour Jaywanti taking the clothes off a wire that had been put to dry overnight. There was a faint smile on his lips. Jaywanti, too, smiled from a distance. Gobind’s gaze was suddenly broken by a voice. ‘Hedan, the tea.’ Gobind turned to find Sheela standing there with tea. Sheela had seen Jaywanti far away on the terrace of her house. She had captured the mutual greetings between the two. Gobind took the tea and sat down on the peengha. Sheela looked at the terrace across the street once again but Jaywanti was not there. She had gone. There was a smile on Sheela’s lips.

The gates of Asanjo opened and Hasan entered with newspapers in his hand.

‘Ram Ram, Bhautar,’ Hasan bowed and greeted Gobind.

‘Ram Ram, Hasan bhai,’ Gobind reciprocated.

‘What a nice feeling to see you early in the morning.’

‘Yes Hasan, what a great feeling to see the Sukkur morning.’

‘We missed you all these years,’ Hasan said, humbly handing over the newspapers to him. ‘Bhautar, anything you need, you must tell me. I am just a hand’s distance away from you and always at your service.’

‘Of course Hasan, if it’s not you then whom?’

‘I shall leave now, as I need to distribute more papers to other houses.’

Saying this with folded hands, the meek and humble Hasan rode out of the house on his one-paddled cluttering bicycle.

The Tribune in English and Haal-e-watan in Sindhi were the two newspapers that came to Dada’s house regularly. Gobind opened The Tribune. The front-page headlines of the newspaper ‘India shall always be one single nation is an unbelievable fairy tale’ had shaken up Gobind early in the morning. He immediately went into thoughts.

Just then, Sadhana briskly ran past her parents.

‘Aye Sadhu, why you are up so early? And where are you running off to?’ Sheela asked her daughter with authority.

‘To Suraiya’s house.’

‘This early in the morning? Why?’

‘You don’t talk to me, Sheela, I had told you to wake me up early in the morning, but you didn’t.’

‘Aye, Sadhu … Come back,’ Sheela called to her in anger.

‘Rehman is teaching me how to milk the cows.’

‘What will you do by learning that, my sona?’ Gobind asked his daughter.

‘I shall milk Radha and Krishna every day and bring the milk home, dada. Then we will not have to buy the milk from Rehman,’ the innocent girl said laughing aloud and running away to the neighbourhood. Sadhana jumped over the meek wall dividing the two disproportionate houses and in less than a second she was in that house where Rehman, her childhood friend, was already milking Mohtarma, the buffalo. Sadhana stood angrily looking at Rehman. She was upset with him. Rehman had read her mood and her emotions on her face. And perhaps he knew the reasons too.

‘You have already started milking Mohtarma,’ Sadhana was livid with him. She turned to go back, but he held her hand.

‘Ohhh.’ She withered in pain. Sadhana tried to pull her hand away. ‘What happened, Sadhu?’

‘I am going back.’

‘Why?’

‘You did not wait for me.’

‘I did wait for a long time.’

‘What was the hurry of milking the cows before I came?’

‘Listen, Sadhu, I am already late. You were to come early but you came late.’

‘I had told Sheela to wake me up, but she did not wake me up. I woke up on my own.’

‘Sadhu, people are waiting for the milk to be delivered at their doorsteps. And if I am late, then they will not take milk from me from tomorrow. Why don’t you understand that?’

What more could he explain to her? Sometimes just to stay alive and survive was an act of courage. But the princess next door did not understand that at all. The skill of survival of the poor was an act of amusement for this rich girl. Sadhana released her hand by force and moved. He caught her hand again. She again cried in pain. This time he noticed.

‘What happened to your hand?’

He saw the scratches on it. She did not answer.

‘How did this