Land of Five Rivers Read online

  Bishen Singh took the bag of sweet corn and handed it over to a warder. He asked Fazal Din, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh?’

  Fazal Din looked somewhat puzzled and replied, ‘Where could it be? It’s in the same place where it always was.’

  Bishen Singh asked again: ‘In Pakistan or India?’

  ‘No, not in India; it’s in Pakistan,’ replied Fazal Din.

  Bishen Singh turned away mumbling ‘O, pardi, good good di, anekas di, bedhyana di, moong di dal of the Pakistan and Hindustan of dur phittey moonh.’

  Arrangements for the exchange of lunatics were completed. Lists with names of lunatics of either side had been exchanged and information sent to people concerned. The date was fixed.

  It was a bitterly cold morning. Bus loads of Sikh and Hindu lunatics left the Lahore asylum under heavy police escort. At the border at Wagah, the Superintendents of the two countries met and settled the details of the operation.

  Getting lunatics out of the buses and handing over custody to officers of the other side proved to be a very difficult task. Some refused to come off the bus; those that came out were difficult to control; a few broke loose and had to be recaptured. Those that were naked had to be clothed. No sooner were the clothes put on them than they tore them off their bodies. Some came out with vile abuse, other began to sing at the top of their voices. Some squabbled; others cried or roared with laughter. They created such a racket that one could not hear a word. The female lunatics added to the noise. And all this in the bitterest of cold when people’s teeth chattered like the scales of rattle snakes.

  Most of the lunatics resisted the exchange because they could not understand why they were being uprooted from one place and flung into another. Those of a gloomier disposition were yelling slogans ‘Long Live Pakistan’ or ‘Death to Pakistan.’ Some lost their tempers and were prevented from coming to blows in the very nick of time.

  At last came the turn of Bishen Singh. The Indian officer began to enter his name in the register. Bishen Singh asked him, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh? In India or Pakistan?’

  ‘In Pakistan.’

  That was all that Bishen Singh wanted to know. He turned and ran back to Pakistan. Pakistani soldiers apprehended him and tried to push him back towards India. Bishen Singh refused to budge. ‘Toba Tek Singh is on this side.’ He cried, and began to yell at the top of his voice, ‘O, pardi, good good di, anekas di, bedhyana di, moong di of Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan.’ They did their best to soothe him, to explain to him that Toba Tek Singh must have left for India; and that if any of that name was found in Pakistan he would be dispatched to India at once. Bishen Singh refused to be persuaded. They tried to use force. Bishen Singh planted himself on the dividing line and dug his swollen feet into the ground with such firmness that no one could move him.

  They let him be. He was soft in the head. There was no point using force; he would come round of his own — yes. They left him standing where he was and resumed the exchange of other lunatics.

  Shortly before sunrise, a weird cry rose from Bishen Singh’s throat. The man who had spent all the nights and days of the last fifteen years standing on his feet, now sprawled on the ground, face down. The barbed wire fence on one side marked the territory of India; another fence marked the territory of Pakistan. In the No Man’s Land between the two barbed-wire fences lay the body of Bishen Singh of village Toba Tek Singh.

  stench of kerosene

  Amrita Pritam

  Outside, a mare neighed. Guleri recognised the neighing and ran out of the house. The mare was from her parents, village. She put her head against its neck as if it were the door of her father’s house.

  Guleri’s parents lived in Chamba. A few miles from her husband’s village which was on high ground, the road curved and descended steeply down-hill. From this point one could see Chamba lying a long way away at one’s feet. Whenever Guleri was homesick she would take her husband Manak and go up to this point. She would see the homes of Chamba twinkling in the sunlight and would come back with her heart aglow with pride.

  Once every year, after the harvest had been gathered in, Guleri was allowed to spend a few days with her parents. They sent a man to Lakarmandi to bring her back to Chamba. Two of her friends too, who were also married to boys outside Chamba, came home at the same time of the year. The girls looked forward to this annual meeting, when they spent many hours everyday talking about their experiences, their joys and sorrows. They went about the streets together. Then there was the harvest festival. The girls would have new dresses made for occasion. They would have their duppattas dyed, starched and sprinkled with mica. They would buy glass bangles and silver ear-rings.

  Guleri always counted the days to the harvest. When autumn breezes cleared the skies of the monsoon clouds she thought of little besides her home in Chamba. She went about her daily chores — fed the cattle, cooked food for her husband’s parents and then sat back to work out how long it would be before someone would come for her from her parents’ village.

  And now, once again, it was time for her annual visit. She caressed the mare joyfully, greeted her father’s servant, Natu, and made ready to leave next day.

  Guleri did not have to put her excitement into words: the expression on her face was enough. Her husband, Manak, pulled at his hookah and closed his eyes. It seemed either as if he did not like the tobacco, or that he could not bear to face his wife.

  ‘You will come to the fair at Chamba, won’t you?’ ‘Come even if it is only for the day,’ she pleaded.

  Manak put aside his chillum but did not reply.

  ‘Why don’t you answer me?’ asked Guleri in little temper. ‘Shall I tell you something?’

  ‘I know what you are going to say: “I only go to my parents once in the year!” Well, you have never been stopped before.’

  ‘Then why do you want to stop me this time?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just this time,’ pleaded Manak.

  ‘Your mother has not said anything. Why do you stand in my way?’ Guleri was childishly stubborn.

  ‘My mother...’ Manak did not finish his sentence.

  On the long awaited morning, Guleri was ready long before dawn. She had no children and therefore no problem of either having to leave them with her husband’s parents or taking them with her. Natu saddled the mare as she took leave of Manak’s parents. They patted her head and blessed her.

  ‘I will come with you for a part of the way,’ said Manak.

  Guleri was happy as they set out. Under her duppatta she hid Manak’s flute.

  After the village of Khajiar, the road descended steeply to Chamba. There Guleri took out the flute from beneath her duppatta and gave it to Manak. She took Manak’s hand in hers and said, ‘Come now, play your flute!’ But Manak, lost in his thoughts paid no heed. ‘Why don’t you play your flute?’ asked Guleri, coaxingly. Manak looked at her sadly. Then, putting the flute to his lips, he blew a strange anguished wail of sound.

  ‘Guleri, do not go away,’ he begged her. ‘I ask you again, do not go this time.’ He handed her back the flute, unable to continue.

  ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘You come over on the day of the fair and we will return together. I promise you, I will not stay behind.’

  Manak did not ask again.

  They stopped by the roadside. Natu took the mare a few paces ahead to leave the couple alone. It crossed Manak’s mind that it was this time of the year, seven years ago, that he and his friends had come on this very road to go to the harvest festival in Chamba. And it was at this fair that Manak had first seen Guleri and they had bartered their hearts to each other. Later, managing to meet alone, Manak remembered taking her hand and telling her, ‘you are like unripe corn — full of milk.’

  ‘Cattle go for unripe corn,’ Guleri had replied, freeing her hand with a jerk. ‘Human beings like it better roasted. If you want me, go and ask for my hand from my father.’

  Amongst Manak’s kinsmen it was customary to settle the bride-price
before the wedding. Manak was nervous because he did not know the price Guleri’s father would demand from him. But Guleri’s father was prosperous and had lived in cities. He had sworn that he would not take money for his daughter, but would give her to a worthy young man of a good family. Manak, he had decided, answered these requirements and very soon after, Guleri and Manak were married. Deep in memories, Manak was roused by Guleri’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What are you dreaming of ?’ she teased him.

  Manak did not answer. The mare neighed impatiently and Guleri thinking of the journey ahead of her, arose to leave. ‘Do you know the bluebell wood a couple of miles from here?’ she asked, ‘It is said that anyone who goes through it becomes deaf.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seems to me as if you had passed through the bluebell wood; you do not hear anything that I say.’

  ‘You are right, Guleri. I cannot hear anything that you are saying to me,’ replied Manak with a deep sigh.

  Both of them looked at each other. Neither understood the other’s thoughts.

  ‘I will go now. You had better return home. You have come a long way,’ said Guleri gently.

  ‘You have walked all this distance. Better get on the mare,’ replied Manak.

  ‘Here, take your flute.’

  ‘You take it with you.’

  ‘Will you come and play it on the day of the fair?’ asked Guleri with a smile. The sun shone in her eyes. Manak turned his face away. Guleri perplexed, shrugged her shoulders and took the road to Chamba. Manak returned to his home.

  Entering the house, he slumped listless, on his charpoy. ‘You have been away a long time,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Did you go all the way to Chamba?’

  ‘Not all the way; only to the top of the hill,’ Manak’s voice was heavy.

  ‘Why do you croak like an old woman?’ asked his mother severely. ‘Be a man.’

  Manak wanted to retort, ‘You are a woman; why don’t you cry like one for a change!’ But he remained silent.

  Manak and Guleri had been married seven years, but she had never borne a child and Manak’s mother had made a secret resolve: ‘I will not let it go beyond the eighth year.’

  This year, true to her decision, she had paid Rs. 500 to get him a second wife and now she had waited, as Manak knew, for the time when Guleri went to her parents to bring in the new bride.

  Obedient to his mother and to custom, Manak’s body responded to the new woman. But his heart was dead within him.

  In the early hours of one morning he was smoking his chillum when an old friend happened to pass by. ‘Ho Bhavani, where are you going so early in the morning?’

  Bhavani stopped. He had a small bundle on his shoulder: ‘Nowhere in particular,’ he replied evasively.

  ‘You must be on your way to some place or the other,’ exclaimed Manak. ‘What about a smoke?’

  Bhavani sat down on his haunches and took the chillum from Manak’s hands. ‘I am going to Chamba for the fair,’ he replied at last.

  Bhavani’s words pierced through Manak’s heart like a needle.

  ‘Is the fair today?’

  ‘It is the same day every year,’ replied Bhavani drily.

  ‘Don’t you remember, we were in the same party seven years ago?’ Bhavani did not say any more but Manak was conscious of the other man’s rebuke and he felt uneasy. Bhavani put down the chillum and picked up his bundle. His flute was sticking out of the bundle. Bidding Manak farewell, he walked away. Manak’s eyes remained on the flute till Bhavani disappeared from view.

  Next afternoon when Manak was in his fields he saw Bhavani coming back but deliberately he looked the other way. He did not want to talk to Bhavani or hear anything about the fair. But Bhavani came round the other side and sat down in front of Manak. His face was sad, lightless as a cinder.

  ‘Guleri is dead,’ said Bhavani in a flat voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When she heard of your second marriage, she soaked her clothes in kerosene and set fire to them.’

  Manak, mute with pain, could only stare and feel his own life burning out.

  The days went by Manak resumed his work in the fields and ate his meals when they were given to him. But he was like a man dead, his face quite blank, his eyes empty.

  ‘I am not his spouse,’ complained his second wife. ‘I am just someone he happened to marry.’

  But quite soon she was pregnant and Manak’s mother was well pleased with her new daughter-in-law. She told Manak about his wife’s condition, but he looked as if he did not understand, and his eyes were still empty.

  His mother encouraged her daughter-in-law to bear with her husband’s moods for a few days. As soon as the child was born and placed in his father’s lap, she said, Manak would change.

  A son was duly born to Manak’s wife; and his mother, rejoicing, bathed the boy, dressed him in fine clothes and put him in Manak’s lap. Manak stared at the new born baby in his lap. He stared a long time uncomprehending, his face as usual, expressionless. Then suddenly the blank eyes filled with horror, and Manak began to scream. ‘Take him away!’ he shrieked hysterically, ‘Take him away! He stinks of kerosene.’

  lajwanti

  Rajinder Singh Bedi

  ‘The leaves of Lajwanti* wither

  with the touch of human hands.’

  A Punjabi folk song

  After the great holocaust when people had washed the blood from their bodies they turned their attention to those whose hearts had been torn by the Partition.

  In every street and bylane they set up a rehabilitating committee. In the beginning people worked with great enthusiasm to rehabilitate refugees in work camps, on the land and in homes. But there still remained the task of rehabilitating abducted women, those that were recovered and brought back home: and over this they ran into difficulties. The slogan of the supporters was ‘Rehabilitate them in your hearts.’ It was strongly opposed by people living in the vicinity of the temple of Narain Bawa.

  The campaign was started by the residents of Mulla Shakoor. They set up a Rehabilitation of Hearts Committee. A local lawyer was elected president. But the more important post of secretary went to Babu Sunder Lal who got a majority of eleven votes over his rival. It was the opinion of the old petition writer and many other respectable citizens of the locality that no one would work more zealously than Sunder Lal, because amongst the women abducted during the riots, and not recovered, was Sunder Lal’s wife, Lajwanti.

  The Rehabilitation of Hearts Committee daily took out a procession through the streets in the early hours of the morning. They sang as they went along. Whenever his friends Rasalu and Neki Ram started singing ‘the leaves of lajwanti wither with the touch of human hands,’ Sunder Lal would fall silent. He would walk as if in a daze. Where in the name of God was Lajwanti? Was she thinking of him? Would she ever come back?...and his steps would falter on the even surface of the brick-paved road.

  Sunder Lal had abandoned all hope of finding Lajwanti. He had made his loss a part of the general loss. He had drowned his personal sorrow by plunging into social service. Even so, whenever he raised his voice to join the chorus, he could not avoid thinking —‘How fragile is the human heart’ ...exactly like the lajwanti...one only has to bring a finger close to it and its leaves curl up.

  He had behaved very badly towards his Lajwanti; he had allowed himself to be irritated with everything she did — even with the way she stood up or sat down, the way she cooked and the way she served his food; he had thrashed her at every pretext.

  His poor Lajo who was as slender as the cypress! Life in the open air and sunshine had tanned her skin and filled her with an animal vitality. She ran about the lanes in her village with the mercurial grace of dew drops on a leaf. Her slim figure was full of robust health. When he first saw her, Sunder Lal was a little dismayed. But when he saw that Lajwanti took in her stride every adversity including the chastisement he gave her, he increased the dose of thrashing. He was unaware of the li
mit of human endurance. And Lajwanti’s reactions were of little help; even after the most violent beating all Sunder Lal had to do was to smile and the girl would break into giggles: ‘If you beat me again, I’ll never speak to you.’

  Lajo forgot everything about the thrashing as soon as it was over; all men beat their wives. If they did not and let them have their way, women were the first to start talking... ‘What kind of man is he! He can’t manage a chit of a girl like her!’

  They made songs of the beatings men gave their wives. Lajo herself sang a couplet which ran somewhat as follows:

  ‘I will not marry a city lad

  city lads wear boots

  And I have such a small bottom.’

  Nevertheless the first time Lajo met a boy from the city she fell in love with him; this was Sunder Lal. He had come with the bridegroom’s party at Lajwanti’s sister’s wedding. His eyes had fallen on Lajwanti and he had whispered in the bridegroom’s ear, ‘Your sister-in-law is quite a saucy morsel; your bride’s likely to be a dainty dish old chap!’ Lajo had overheard Sunder Lal. The words went to her head. She did not notice the enormous boots Sunder Lal was wearing; she also forgot that her behind was small.

  Such were the thoughts that coursed round Sunder Lal’s head when he went out singing in the morning procession. He would say to himself, ‘If I got another chance, just one more chance, I would really rehabilitate her in my heart. I could set an example to the people and tell them — these poor women are not to blame, they were victimised by lecherous ravishers. A society which refuses to accept these helpless women is rotten beyond redemption and deserves to be liquidated.’ He agitated for the rehabilitation of abducted women and for according them the respect due to a wife, mother, daughter and sister in any home. He exhorted the men never to remind these women of their past experiences because they had become as sensitive as the lajwanti and would, like the leaves of the plant, wither when a finger was pointed towards them.