HANSULI' S DREAM

Author’s Note: Hansuli is a silver bracelet like ornament worn around neck by women in the hills of Garhwal and Kumaon. The name Hansuli symbolizes prosperity and happiness.

She had been convicted of homicide and awarded fourteen years rigorous imprisonment. The judge in his judgment said that he was taking a lenient view because of her two minor children.

Yes, she was the mother of two sons. Looking outside from the tiny holes in that police van, taking her to the central jail, she could see the trees, all running backwards. So were her thoughts; running back to painful memories, anguish over her broken dreams and the frightening thoughts of the future awaiting her sons.

The police van was winding along the curves of the hill road and her mind was sinking deep in the memory lane. What was that she could remember of her childhood?

Her name was Hansuli, the only daughter of the village grocer, Sukhram Sah. She was always pampered by her father and cursed by her mother for being careless and clumsy. She was very beautiful and her father was dotted on her.

"I will marry her to a prince and my daughter will dwell in riches." That was the dream of this shop keeper of a tiny hill village. There were no schools and in any case those days need was not felt to send girls to schools. A marriage in a good family was the ultimate wish of every girl’s father in this part of the world.

If the dreams of Sukhram Sah were to come true, Hansuli would have been married to some sepoy of the Garhwal Rifles or Kumaon Regiment or she would have been given in marriage to some one with a house and little land. Neither of them unfortunately came to happen for Sukhram Sah, one day after excessive drinking in a marriage feast died without leaving any assurance of his dreams.

Hansuli was then fifteen. Now the biggest ailment of her ailing mother was the young daughter who by all social norms was crossing the marriageable age.

"If alone I could get Hansuli married, I too could die a peaceful death", she would bemoan before every sympathizer, requesting every one of them to find a groom, any groom for that matter.

At last a groom was found for Hansuli. Ganpat Sah, the goldsmith in the next village had lost his wife. By local standards, Ganpat Sah was quite well off. He had a smithy shop, a servant, good paddy fields, pair of oxen, couple of cows and a buffalo. Perfect match as late Sukhram Sah would have called it. However there was a little snag. Ganpat Sah was nearing fifty and was already a grand father from his daughter's side.

"Look at his wealth and prosperity. Your daughter will live like a queen. Ganpat Sah promises to cover her with gold and he will also give you four thousand rupees," Hansuli’s mother was told by the matchmaker.

"And remember, there is no dearth of girls for rich men like him. On the other hand, your fatherless daughter is getting overage. You can not find any match for her, let alone such ideal match."

Hansuli was thus married off. She was a rich man's wife. On her first visit to her mother after marriage, she distributed sweets to all homes of her village, offered prayers to the local deity and gave two sarees to her mother. And of course, no one missed the Gulabad (gold necklace), ear-rings, a bulaak (V-shaped golden ring studded with diamonds) in the lower nose, a large nath (round shaped golden wire with precious stones) on the upper nose and the glittering bangles. She indeed looked like a queen.

Dhanpat Sah was rejuvenated in the company of his young beautiful wife. Hansuli gave birth to two sons. Ganpat Sah was overjoyed to have male descendants. Hansuli looked more charming and beautiful. Ganpat Sah's cup of happiness was full to the brim; rather overflowing.

Ganpat Sah could not hold the cup for long. Following summer, he was one of the victims of cholera epidemic in the villages around. Hansuli was left alone with her two sons and the world to face.

Ganpat Sah had a younger brother, Dhanpat Sah, who never approved of anything that his elder brother did. Dhanpat Sah was not happy when his elder brother married Hansuli. He had several reasons for his dislike for his elder brother, jealously being the foremost.

Dhanpat Sah had seven children; four daughters and three sons. He was a worried man, always swearing, cursing his fate and his brother in turn. "Why couldn't my elder brother give a little out of his riches to me, his only younger brother? Why should sons of the same father not help each other?” Dhanpat Sah often lamented.

Dhanpat Sah was further dejected when Hansuli gave birth to two sons for with it his hope of his brother dying without leaving any male descendent had been razed to dust. He cursed the day his brother married Hansuli, cursed his brother who according to him, despite one leg in the grave had married a young girl.

"What a perversion! When he should have devoted himself to prayers and weaned himself away from worldly allurements, he has brought a young bride to satisfy his lust.” Dhanpat Sah would lament before everyone he met.

The death of his elder brother therefore brought back glimpse of hope to Dhanpat Sah. If alone he could keep Hansuli in his fold, he could get a share from his brother's property. Hansuli was then twenty, a simple village woman unaware and incapable of comprehending Dhanpat Sah's designs. She had accepted him as the Karta (the head, the doer) of the family.

Hansuli helped generously when Dhanpat Sah's two daughters were married. She gave a part of her jewelry to her nieces and money to Dhanpat Sah for meeting other expenses.

Slowly, Dhanpat Sah had acquired authority in the household. He wanted his writ in all matters. Hansuli had to compromise for her sons were too young. The only wish, her only dream was to bring up her sons well; give them good education.

Dhanpat Sah lacked the skills of a good goldsmith and soon lost the clientele of his elder brother’s time. He closed the goldsmithy and opened a grocery shop. It hurt Hansuli but she realized that the shop had to be used in some way or the other to sustain the family.

Dhanpat Sah was now growing in health as well in ambition. His amorous interests were increasing as well. Hansuli was a fully developed woman now, beautiful and appealing. Hansuli could sense his designs and avoided Dhanpat Sah as much as possible. Dhanpat Sah would come to her in the evenings on one pretext or the other and unduly delay his departure.

One evening, when in a drunken state, Dhanpat Sah came to Hansuli who was feeding her children. Sitting on a charpoy (wooden bed woven with coir ropes), he complained of body ache and several ailments that were chasing him ever since he had taken over the responsibilities of both houses.

"My wife has not brought a bit of luck that you brought to my elder brother," he told her. Then he lamented over his wife's apathy towards him.

"Now that he is no more, why don't you share this luck with me? After all this is an accepted custom and your sons will get a father,” Dhanpat Sah suggested to her.

Hansuli was fed up with Dhanpat Sah’s advances; she in fact loathed his visits. The money her husband had left was running out fast for Dhanpat Sah always complained of poor sale and damages due to pests and rats.

Hansuli was enraged with the latest suggestion. The altercation between them was heightened. For Dhanpat Sah it was the moment of decision. “Either I get over the arrogance of this woman and subjugate her or she would become independent of me for all times,” he told to himself.

"I am going to sleep in this house and you will be my woman hereafter. I know the young studs chasing you around. I will not allow that to happen; I will not allow the honour of my family sullied. I am the Karta of this family and you will hereafter obey me implicitly as your man."

Hansuli writhed with anger. The insinuation of infidelity on one hand and the right to molestation on the other was too much to bear.

"What do you mean, you rascal? Have you ever seen me talking to a man? Aren't you ashamed to speak thus to your elder brother's widow?"

Dhanpat Sah had no proof of the serious insinuation but he didn’t want to give up. “Every woman desires a man and it takes no time for a young woman like you to slip. In any case why this can’t this remain within the family?"

"Get out of my house and next time if you ever come here, I will char your face with a burning wood. You devil! Get out", shouting thus, she closed the door at Dhanpat Sah’s face and bolted the room from inside.

"I will teach you bitch a lesson. I will make you my woman and I will see who comes to your rescue." Dhanpat Sah went back muttering threats. He was annoyed with every one and he wanted to avenge his insult. Above all, he wanted that woman to capitulate to his desire.

In the middle of a night, in that hill village when it is pitch dark and even dogs find it too inconvenient to bark due to biting cold, Dhanpat Sah was heading towards the house of his late brother. With a sickle in his hand, Dhanpat Sah was writhing with anger and burning with lust. A full bottle of country liquor that he had drained down his throat had apparent effect; his legs were unsteady, his hands were shaking, and his senses were out of his control.

He wanted to overpower the sleeping woman and once done, he wanted to tame for all times. That was the plan. But it didn't work. Hansuli was young and stronger. After initial reversal, she regained her strength coming to know that the intruder was none other than the debauch brother of her late husband. Dhanpat Sah lost the battle, his clothes were torn and his breath failed. The influence of liquor had incited him to raid his brother's wife but sapped his body strength. And a hard blow of wood pulled out from the hearth did the final act. This time Hansuli closed the door behind him after giving him a couple of hard kicks.

With much difficulty, Dhanpat Sah could reach back his house, where waiting for him was his aging wife. First- aid was given by the elderly woman to the wounded who was now much more determined to oust Hansuli; the woman who had usurped the property of his brother.

A few weeks later when Hansuli was out of her house, attending a marriage, her house was gutted by fire. The iron box containing all her cash and valuable clothes was no more than a twisted ash container and the silver box containing her jewelry was no where. There were doubts in everyone's mind but nothing could be substantiated. The net result was that Hansuli was reduced to abject penury and she had no option but to take shelter in Dhanpat Sah’s house.

The elder son of Hansuli was six by now and she was very keen that he should be sent to the school. Dhanpat Sah was not in favour of this. He wanted the young lad to help him in the shop and to attend to errand jobs. Hansuli was no more than a domestic servant in the household. This she didn't object but her sons being treated as labourers was intolerable to her. There were altercations often. She was beaten by Dhanpat Sah who still smarted under the insult of his amorous adventures. He had not succeeded in taming Hansuli and that hurt his male ego.

One night, emboldened by the influence of liquor, he again assaulted Hansuli. This time Hansuli was beaten severely, her blouse shred to pieces, and her sari pulled down. Hansuli and her children wailed loudly and shouted for help. Dhanpat Sah was not prepared for such a turn of events. He didn't know what to do. Taking advantage of that, Hansuli ran out of the house in the semi-clothed condition towards the village chowk. Villages folks had come out, they saw her plight, but thought it proper to let it remain a matter within the family.

After some time, Hansuli returned to her place. She saw her sons smitten with fear and sobbing behind the door. Hansuli took the decision. “This village is no more livable for us. If I were to labour, and yet get insulted; I should rather to go to some unknown place where I will not be assaulted,” she thought.

In the wee hours of the day, Hansuli left the house of her husband along with her two sons for an unknown destination. She took the first bus that was going to Gochar, a small town on way to the Hindu holy shrine of Badrinath.

It was now over three years that Hansuli was in the small town of Gochar. She was working in a small way side hotel which catered to the pilgrims to Badrinath during the summer months. Its owner, Than Singh, had a small room below the hotel which became the abode of Hansuli and her sons.

Than Singh was a jovial man in his early fifties. He talked a lot and enjoyed drinking in a company. He regaled his customers with jokes and was easily convinced by other person's arguments.

Than Singh would return to his village in the evening leaving the management of the tea-shop to Hansuli who would keep the place clean, start the oven in the morning and prepare tea for the early arrivals. Hansuli persuaded Than Singh to buy a buffalo so that the requirement of milk could be met locally. Than Singh admired Hansuli for bringing good luck to him.

Hansuli was satisfied. Both her sons were going to a school. In the afternoon they would come back and help her in serving the customers or delivering tea to other shops in that small market.

By now Hansuli knew that a widow was an object of desire and notwithstanding his good nature, Hansuli had realized that Than Singh was no exception. She therefore had to make a choice. She compromised this time and accepted the status of a servant and a mistress of Than Singh. It was a pragmatic arrangement that suited both the sides.

Than Singh helped Hansuli to acquire a piece of land adjoining the shop. Industrious as she was, she started growing vegetables in her land. Hansuli by now had some money of her own and she was bringing up her children well. She had forgotten her past, was happy with her present and cherished a dream for the future.

Her past but was dogging her. The word at last reached the remote village of Dhanpat Sah that his sister-in-law was working as a maid servant in a hotel in Gochar. Her newly acquired prosperity was told to him in multiple measures and of course he was told of her new status. It was this part of the information that inflamed the dormant ego of Dhanpat Sah. He decided to bring her back.

Gochar being a small town, Dhanpat Sah had no difficulty in locating Than Singh's hotel. He saw it from a distance and also saw his sister-in-law serving attending to the customers. He decided to wait till it was dark.

That fateful day, clouds had collected over the valley of river Alaknanda. It started drizzling by the evening and it was cold. Than Singh who had a good season that year, was in his element. He decided to celebrate the day's end with a bottle of liquor in the company of Hansuli.

The hotel had closed. Hansuli' sons now slept there, leaving the room below to their mother and Than Singh, her companion. Than Singh was enjoying his drink and Hansuli was cooking meals for him.

Suddenly, there was a big thud on the door and in came fully inebriated Dhanpat Sah giving a snide laugh to both of them.

He turned towards Hansuli and shouted, "So this is how you are bringing good name to the family. If you were so hungry of men, what was wrong with me, the younger brother of your husband? But you have the traits of a harlot, a prostitute and you need a new stud every night to satiate your lust." Then he suddenly lifted a burning wood from the hearth and moved towards Than Singh.

"First, I will teach you a lesson, you bastard!" He growled advancing towards Than Singh. Than Singh though younger and stronger than Dhanpat Sah was not prepared for such an awkward situation. He didn't want to create a scene. He was out of his wits, afraid of being denounced before his folks. Giving Dhanpat Sah a big push, he ran out of the house leaving Hansuli to deal with her visitor.

"And now you bitch, I will tell you what I am going to do with you. I will satiate your desire for ever," he said trying to catch hold of Hansuli. Hansuli once again cursed her fate.

"Go away, you devil. I have nothing to do with you. I left every bit of the property to you. I said not a word even when you burnt my house and took away all my gold and cash. Why don't you leave me and my children alone?"

"We will talk of that later. First you come to me, you bitch in heat", he said his voice slurring due to intoxication and excitement.

As he plunged towards her, Hansuli saw the sickle hanging on the wall. Mustering all her strength, she gave him a push and leaped for the sickle.

It was all in a flash. A full force blow and Dhanpat Sah was lying in a pool of blood shouting for help at the top of his failing voice.

Dhanpat Sah could not survive. Hansuli was tried for murder and the judge taking a lenient view sentenced her for fourteen years rigorous imprisonment. It was for meeting this punishment that she was being taken to the central jail.

As the van moved away, her thoughts returned to the small hill town of Gochar where her elder son washed the dishes and her younger son begged for alms

EMANCIPATION

An hour’s drive from Rishikesh, up stream of River Ganga, there is a small hamlet called Vyaasi. There are about a dozen small shops and two shabby tea vendors cum food joints in Vyaasi. The road has been widened at this point to facilitate parking of buses, vans, jeeps and cars carrying the pilgrims to and fro Kedarnath and Badrinath, the two holiest shrines of Hindus. The two tea vendors are busy the whole day serving hot, strongly brewed extra sweetened tea. The drivers’ fraternity enjoys the brew immensely and so would you provided you left your hygiene sensitivity behind and you are not a diabetic.
There is a track cutting across the road at Vyaasi. Its southern end going to Vyaas Ghaat, the bathing joint on the river bank and the upper end climbing up hill goes to an ashram popularly known as Vyaasi Ashram.
Vyaasi gets its name after the philosopher sage Vyaas, the author of the epic, Mahabharata and the eighteen Puraans, the Hindu mythology scriptures. It is believed that Vyaas lived in a cave here and thus the place got its name, Vyaasi. A cave exists but there is no archeological proof of it being the study room of sage Vyaas.
A point is worth mentioning here. Hindu mythology is too complex and confounding to inquisitive western mind and the basic reason for the same could be that it does not provide material proofs. That the men could walk on water or float in air; that there were celestial bodies crossing over from one planet to another; that a mere sprinkle of water could bless or annihilate a dynasty etc. are unresolved enigmas of Hindu mythology. Yet equally enigmatic is the fact that countless skeptical and truth seekers head east and particularly to these lesser known pockets of oriental mysteries.
From Vyaasi, climbing the track for nearly an hour, you reach the Vyaasi ashram. The ashram is not more than a mile from Vyaasi but the climb is stiff. There is a small temple in the center of the ashram. It is a Shiva temple.
Early in the morning as the sun comes out in the east, the snow on the far off Himalayan ranges glitters and in the foreground, the deodar and fir trees with their rich green coat sway with the morning breeze. Sitting by the side of the small Shiva temple, with low din of the river Ganga in the background, the audio visual spectacle is phenomenally beautiful. To the believers, it is simply divine.

A group of mendicants live in the ashram. In the hut on the right corner, which is a little bigger than the rest, lives an elderly person, they call him Swamiji. He is a man of large build, very fair, his head shaven and his forehead having three horizontal sandal paste lines, the typical identity of Shiva devotees.

One of the morning buses from Rishikesh delivers a bundle of newspapers to the tea vendors for the ashram since Swamiji is an avid reader. Swamiji is also fond of music. He has a music system and a sizeable collection of CDs. Swamiji makes it a point to bring new CDs whenever he goes to Rishikesh or any other place. These CDs are not restricted to Hindu hymns/ prayers only. Swamiji likes Jazz and Beatles equally. Besides personal taste, Swamiji has to cater for the large number of his followers coming from the West.

No one in the ashram knows what exactly the background of Swamiji was or of the visitors coming to the ashram, some of them come regularly every year. The only thing known for sure is that Swamiji was Henry Blackwell before he took to oriental spiritualism. Some unconfirmed sources say that he was the CEO of a stock brokering firm and his personal assets had touched the billion mark. His physique but suggests that he might have been an athlete or a marine commando. Story goes that he left his business and donated all his possession to a charity after his wife divorced him and married his junior partner and that he was pained when his son who he loved dearly refused to stay with him. But all these are unconfirmed stories. The known fact is that Henry Blackwell in his second incarnation as Swamiji had came to India about thirty years ago and settled in this ashram.

“I am convinced of one thing; that money can’t buy you peace,” he often tells his followers.

The temple is visited by the local populace on Mondays, the day of Lord Shiva. Between the months of July and August, when Shravan, the Hindu month dedicated to Lord Shiva generally falls, the number of visitors to the ashram goes high.
On the first Monday of the month of Shravan, the natives are bewildered and in fact, enamoured to see a white man carrying a brass pitcher of Ganga water on his head bare foot from the Vyaas Ghaat to the temple. The day has now become a local festival; the locals call it Paani Mela- the festival of (Ganga) Water Offering (to Shiva).
Local drummers and couple of bag pipers with couple of flag bearers walk in front of Swamiji. Behind him are thousands of believers carrying head load of water pots. The Swamiji performs the abhisek- that is chanting of mantras and pouring the water over the Shiv-Linga in side the small temple. The Swamiji then offers prayers and comes out, greeted by large crowd and the drummers. The ritual is then followed by rest the people.

The poverty stricken natives are overwhelmed to be present at the temple to seek the blessings of Lord Shiva through the Swamiji. They are the people of this land of Shiva with their tattered, darned clothes, sweat stained dark- generally black cap and some of them suffering from eczema because of poor hygiene.

The Swamiji says he has no desire or ambition. “We have to forgo all desires. Follow Buddha, the Tathagat, who surpassed grief over worldly losses and happiness over worldly gains.”

The poor natives too have no ambition; they are too humble to have any. They come there to propitiate Lord Shiva for safe return of their dear ones who mostly are in the armed forces, facing enemy bullets or the bullets of insurgents, Naxalites and Maoists. Or, it may be that one of their dear ones is terminally sick and they have come to pray for his recovery in the absence of any medical help. The brutal fact is that they come there with wishful wishing, which prepares them for the worst.

There is a retired school teacher, Satya Prasad who is not an inmate of the ashram but he is there almost every day. He was teaching English in a high school before his retirement. Both his sons did well in school and college and have migrated to bigger towns; in fact one of them is a medical practioner in the USA. After the death of his wife, Satya Prasad is living alone in his village, which is about three miles from the ashram. But he comes daily with a packet of dry lunch and some chutney. He is friendly with Swamiji because he can converse with Swamiji in English and he is proud of it.
Swamiji and Satya Prasad talk often on the purpose of life. Swamiji talks of emancipation, of moksha - the liberation of soul, weaning away your self from material desires.
“Concentrate on the divine cosmic power, the parmatma, leave everything unto Him.”
Satya Prasad yawns and often scratches his body parts. He has sees his folks in the villages where illiteracy, penury, sorcery, witch craft and jealously are the common traits. Satya Prasad believes getting two meals a day is the best definition of moksha.
“Swamiji, are you sincerely convinced that preaching spirituality will redeem these folks and they will have a better life?” He once asked Swamiji.
Swamiji was irritated. “You talk like an unbeliever, an agnostic.

Swamiji tries to explain from the scriptures quoting the verses from Gita and Bhagwat to Satya Prasad without much success. Swamiji preaches equanimity of mind, which he says will bring feeling of equality amongst all human beings and eradicate jealously. Satya Prasad often demurs - he wants it to be translated in to the lives of his people.
“Give them education, give them means of livelihood and that will take care of all other maladies,” Satya Prasad wants to impress upon Swamiji.
“Satya Prasad, it will take you time to understand His ways. We are too ignorant to judge Him and His will. I pray that the realization comes to you soon.” The matter rests there to start afresh on some other day.

Swamiji takes his morning tea that he makes himself in his electric kettle and thereafter he comes to river bed for daily ablutions and then goes into the thicket of the forest where he has made a small hut in woods for meditation.
Late in the evening Swamiji listens to the news. Some of the inmates join him when it is the Hindi bulletin. Mostly, Swamiji listens to BBC or CNN. Swamiji says it is our duty to be aware of what is happening around us without getting involved in it.

No one knows why Henry Blackwell had selected and opted to stay in such a remote place. He says he liked the locale, the view, the serenity, the quietude of the place.

"Can I stay here for a few days?" Henry Blackwell putting on an orange dhoti and a white kurta and with clean shaved head had asked one of the inmates when he had come to the ashram. There were only two sadhus staying in a single hut those days.
"Why not? It is all yours. We will be rather delighted to be in your company. Please share what ever is given by the Lord."
"Blessed be this land and blessed be you both," Henry Black had told them.

That was the beginning of Henry Blackwell’s new life. He himself does not remember when he was rechristened as Swamiji. It has been a long journey.
Swamiji propagates the doctrine of peace, love and Vedic knowledge. For his devotees, he is the ocean of knowledge and fountain of love and piety, divinity itself personified.

II

Swamiji was away on one of his visits to Rishikesh and due to return in the evening. It was late afternoon when a group of visitors came to the ashram and wanting to see him. Swamiji’s reference was enough for the inmates to welcome anyone in the ashram.
Soon the visitors started making enquiries about the personal life of Swamiji, which upset the inmates. There were too many uncomfortable questions.
"Does he listen to radio? Does he get letters from foreign countries? Any visitors, other than local pilgrims?"

The ashramites, ardent devotees of the Swamiji were
irritated by now.
"So many of his followers come here from abroad and
stay with us for weeks, some of them even for months," one of them mustered courage to respond.
“What business do you have to ask such questions? You certainly do not look Swamiji’s friends?" Another inmate questioned the propriety of the team.

"We are from Police, Central Bureau of Investigation. We have orders to enquire in to the conduct of your Swamiji and search the ashram."

That rattled all the inmates and the onlookers.

"You said he goes to forest hut every day for three to four hours," one of the officers asked.
“Yes.”
"What does he do there?
“He goes there for meditation."
“That is non sense. He has been fooling around all these years," said one of the police officers.

"Look, this man, feigning as Swamiji has been charged of murder. He is a fugitive, hiding from American law for last thirty years.”
The inmates were shocked. They couldn’t believe that their god man was a in fact a Satan.
“We respected him and in fact worshipped him,” they broke down.

When Swamiji arrived from Rishikesh by the late evening bus, he was apprehended at Vyaasi and taken to his ashram for further interrogation.

Next morning, as the Swamiji was being escorted to the district headquarters, he saw Satya Prasad on his way to the ashram to spend his day with him.
“I want to talk to this man for a few minutes,” Swamiji requested the senior police officer.
“It has to be in my presence,” The officer told him.
“Yes, of course,” Swamiji replied.

“Satya Prasad, my past has caught up with me. I have been arraigned for my involvement in the murder of my wife’s lover in Florida where I lived before coming to this place. It is true that I wanted to evade the law by remaining in this remote place in the garb of a sadhu. But this ashram became a place of learning for me. Here, I have come to peace with myself. Now I have no fears to face the law.”
Satya Prasad was baffled and so were others present there. No one could ever imagine what Swamiji had confessed.
“Satya Prasad, I have transferred all my money and property in your name for the benefit of the locals. I know you are the best judge of their needs. You know the best way of their emancipation.

Years have passed since Swamiji was taken away by the police. They say he was convicted and sentenced for life. Satya Prasad is no more. There but now remains Swami Henry Blackwell Polytechnic School in the idyllic vicinity of the Vyaas Ashram imparting modern education to the native children.

THE BLOOD RELATION

THE BLOOD RELATION


She was a Hindu Brahmin girl who had married, in fact eloped with her one time class mate, Parwej Qureshi, a Muslim boy. Nothing was considered a bigger stigma for a Brahmin family than the fact that its young daughter had married a Muslim boy. Had they been caught within the village borders, her father, Ram Kripal Mishra, an army sergeant would have had no second thought in shooting them down to salvage his family honour.
Ram Kripal Mishra commanded great respect amongst his people by virtue of his large landed property and rank of Subedar in the army. He liked to be addressed as Panditji though it was a strange coincidence that like Parwej’s father, Ram Kripal Mishra too was a carpenter by trade in the Corps of Engineers of the Indian army. Notwithstanding Ram Kripal’s carpentry trade in the army, Parwej Qureshi, a teacher in a school was not acceptable to the Mishra family as its son-in-law basically.

It was about twenty five years ago that Sumita and Parwej were in the same school and in the same class in a small town of Kalka in the foothills of Shivalik ranges. Parwej’s father had a small carpentry shop under a tin shed on the road side while Ram Kripal Mishra was posted in the Movement Control Unit of the Army at Kalka Railway Station.
Parwej was a handsome and intelligent lad. Sumita had developed a liking for him, though she was too cagey to express her feelings to Parwej or any of her friends.
Those days in a small town school in India, there were separate rows for girls in the class rooms and if playgrounds existed, boys played around and girls clustered at one end watching them. Sumita watched only one person, her eyes followed Parwej, whatever he did and wherever he went. Her feelings for Parwej, her desire to be near him was getting intense by the day though she was conscious of the deep community divide.

Ram Kripal Mishra had completed more than three years at Kalka. He was due for posting to a different station. The change was expected any time. In fact, his tenure had been extended on his request to let him stay at Kalka until his daughter had taken her secondary examination. Sumita knew it and the very thought upset her. The fact that it would take her away from Parwej pained her. Her heart cried but she had none to share her pain for she was too scared to give words to her feelings.

“My father has been posted to Udhampur,” one evening she mustered courage and told Parwej while returning from the school.
Parwej looked at her; he was baffled but said nothing.
“We will be shifting to our village near Karnal after the examinations are over.”
The developments were too sudden to unsettle even the cagey young man.
“You never mentioned it earlier.”
“I wanted to… but I was not sure whether you would be interested.”

That was true. Parwej had never tried to come close to her even though he had not failed to notice her looking at him attentively and doing small odd favours to him.
The impact of impending separation on the adolescent minds was reverberating.
“Sumita, I know you have been very nice and caring and believe me I always wanted to talk to you … somehow I could never pick up courage. You see, your folks would have never approved of it,” he said, his voice faltering.
“I don’t know if we will meet in future…. I will always remember you,” Sumita whispered.
Parwej was dumbfounded; he didn’t know what to say. They looked at each other silently.
“Parwej, will you reply if I write to you?” She was desperate but bold, wanting to be in touch with him.
“Yes I will, I promise….”
Sumita was overwhelmed. “Thank you Parwej. Please give me your address.”
Parwej paused for a while and said, “Sumita you know there is an insuperable religious barrier between us. Even though I could guess your feelings towards me, I deliberately behaved indifferently. At times, it was difficult and I cursed myself for it. But I wanted to avoid putting you to discomfiture of any kind.”
“Parwej, I am happy you feel that way. Perhaps, sometimes words are not required if the feelings are sincere. Thank you, thank you very much,” she said.
Parwej saw the tears rolling down her cheeks. They stood there frozen looking at each other. Parwej then took her hand in to his and pressed it softly.
The sun behind them was going below the skyline as they took the separate lanes for their homes.


For the rest of the week they tried to steal few minutes off and on exchanging some inane words expressing their feelings but apprehensive of spelling them. They both knew that the Mishra family would never approve of their marriage. In fact, both of them were aware that even a mention of it might cost them their lives.

On the first day of the final examination, Parwej came to Sumita and gave her a fountain pen. “It is a small gift from me. I wish this pen brings you good luck in the exams,” Parwej told her.
“Thank you. I know you will do very well. God bless you,” she said and then added after a little pause, “I will preserve this pen to the end of my life.”
Parwej saw her holding the gift between her palms and kissing it passionately.


Five years. They could not meet but they kept their promises. Sumita wrote to him as when she could manage stealthily and she had asked Parwej to write to her at the address of her trusted friend. Their friendship during this period blossomed steadily even though they were physically separated.

Sumita’s parents didn’t want her to continue her studies further.
“Matriculation is enough for you. You should now develop sewing, embroidery and culinary skills, which is what your in-laws would expect from you,” her father had told her. Her mother and the rest of the Mishra family had endorsed the view.
Parwej during this period had completed his graduation and soon thereafter got a job of a teacher in a private school. Sumita’s father who by this time had retired from service was looking for a suitable match for Sumita from his caste.
Sumita wrote to Parwej of her father’s plan. “Let’s meet early before it is too late,” she urged him.
“You know, your parents will never agree to our alliance. We have to take our own decision. Now it is for you to decide. I promise to be loyal to you all my life,” Parwej wrote to her adding that he will come to her village on hearing from her.

Sumita knew their move was dangerous but she wanted to see Parwej. The desire was intense relegating all diffidence to the side line.

“Come by the last bus on coming Sunday and when you get down, you would see an ochre building on the right. It is the village school. I will be waiting for you in the backyard.”

They met with the ferocity of hungry, starved lovers. The fire that was dormant all those years burst uncontrollably making them oblivious to all fear and apprehension. Their souls, minds and bodies had fused like molten lead losing the sense of any other existence beyond theirs.
When they returned to the physical world, they were unable to converse. They were breathing heavily and words would not come out. There were hundreds of big and small matters that Parwej wanted to tell Sumita and she wanted to tell Parwej. They had forgotten everything.
“I must leave now but tell me where will you stay tonight?” Sumita asked Parwej, setting her dress in order.
“I will walk back to the railway station and sleep on the platform.”
“Railway station is ten kilometers from here,” she said, worried.
“That is not the problem or the issue. What is important is that you have to make up your mind. If you are willing, we can leave the village right now and get married.”
“Please give me some time to think over,” Sumita said holding his hand and kissing it.
“Sumita, I can do nothing more than waiting. Please remember, I am always with you, whenever you want me.”

As they were coming out of the school gate, to their utter horror, the watchman of the school appeared from nowhere. He knew Sumita quite well and was surprised to see her in the company of a young man at that odd hour. He gave them a searching look.
“He is a distant relative of ours. I brought him here to show the school,” Sumita said walking past the glaring eyes of the watchman who smiled maliciously at the uncalled for information.

“Parwej, we are in serious trouble. In couple of hours, the whole village will know of my inexplicable presence at this isolated place at this hour and that too with a stranger.”
Parwej didn’t know what to say.
“Parwej, please run away as fast as you can, take lift from any vehicle going to the railway station and catch the first train to your place,” Sumita pleaded with Parwej who refused to leave her alone.
“Parwej, there is but one justice in this part of the world. That you, from a different community have been seen in the company of a Brahmin girl is reason enough to kill you and kill me. It will be a humiliating, insulting brutal death. Please run away … I will face whatever the fate has ordained for me.”
“It is our fate and we will face it together. I am not leaving you alone,” Parwej said holding her hand firmly.

The lovers finally decided to run away from the imminent danger vowing to face the world together. They had a streak of luck. A Petrol tanker gave them a lift up to railway station. They took the first train leaving the station and reached Rampur next evening, the place of Parwej’s work.

The school watchman lost no time in spreading the news of young couple found in the school courtyard. Soon the Mishra household was on fire. The women howled in side the four walls as men ran in every direction to catch the culprits.
Next morning, everyone of the village knew of the humiliating episode. In the afternoon there was a village panchayat and justice was remitted instantaneously. The errant couple was condemned to death by hanging publicly. The Mishra family was admonished and fined for not keeping a watch over their daughter. The penalty collected from them was given to a search party to trace the couple.

It was the most humiliating day in the life of Pandit Ram Kripal Mishra. He wished his daughter and her lover were caught and brought before him; he would have hacked them to pieces and burnt them.
Away from the Mishra household in a small dingy lane in Rampur, Parwej married Sumita in the presence of a Maulavi and a few of his friends.

II


Sumita missed her folks. She wrote a few letters to her father seeking his pardon. There was but no reply. Two years later they had a son. They named him Arif. Arif’s birth brought her happiness in half a measure for her parents were not there to share her happiness.
Sumita’s string of woes was not over for it was for sometime that Parwej had felt pain in his abdomen. He often missed his work. One evening when the pain was unbearable, Sumita took him to a hospital. The doctors after few tests told her that Parwej was having cancer and advised her to take him to a bigger town.
Sumita had no money. She wrote once again to her father and her brothers. “Parwej is dying for want of treatment. I need you at this moment. Please help me, come to my rescue.”
The reply from her father was brisk.
“For me, you died the day you brought shame to the family. We have already performed your shradh ceremony (performed for the deceased relations) and we all went to Hardwar for a bath in holy Ganga to absolve ourselves of the sins you did. You don’t exist for us any more and sooner the better if the man you are living with also dies.”

It was a long painful wait and she waited helplessly, watching Parwej grimace with pain and vomit blood, life oozing out of him and then one day Parwej died leaving her alone with a small child of three years.

Sumita decided to leave Rampur and move to Delhi for she wanted to get lost in the anonymity of the big city. There was only one thought in her mind.
“I will do anything and everything to bring up this child, give him good education and make him a worthy citizen like his father.”

Her first day in Delhi was horrible. For the whole day she went from house to house asking for a job.
In big cities people are suspicious and apprehensive. Carrying her child from one place to another, she was tired and her legs were aching. She was exasperated, didn’t know where to pass the night for she knew she may be picked up by the police or the vagabonds and she dreaded both the prospects.
She purchased a loaf of bread and entered a nullah on the side of a road, which lead to a depressed ground and then to a cemetery. She saw a hand pump and sat there and then took out the loaf of bread, which she shared with her son. She drank water from the hand pump and poured some in her son’s mouth.
It was dark and she could listen to the whizzing of the mosquitoes and echoing toad calls. She put her child on the ground next to her and rested against a tombstone. The fear of ghosts, which haunted her all her life had suddenly disappeared from her mind.

Next morning she collected her meager belongings and holding her son in her arms she went around the colonies seeking a job. For three days she went from door to door pleading for a job.
No one would trust her.
There was no money left with her. She had not been able to feed her son for two days. She then decided to beg. Her heart cried when she got two stale chapattis and left over vegetable.

“What would my father do if he were to see me begging and eating the leftover, filthy food,” the thought suddenly crossed her mind and then putting a morsel in her son’s mouth she smiled wryly.

That night she could not sleep. She remembered Parwej and she remembered her father and her mother who once loved her dearly. The night passed as she watched her son blissfully sleeping close to her chest.

Next morning she walked towards the slums along the nullah looking for some idle space. The sun was hot and she felt very weak. She could not walk any more and sat down near a garbage dump. The stink was unbearable but her legs were failing. Looking at her pale, listless son, at times she thought he was dead and then she would feel his pulse and place her hands over his nostrils. Fatigue and hunger finally took the toll, her eyes were hazy, her head reeled and she lost consciousness.


“You have fever and your child is also in very bad condition. Take some water,” she heard an old man and noticed that she was inside a small thatched hut.

Sumita hesitated.
The old man looked at Sumita and stretching a helping hand he said, “I will stay with the neighbours. You can stay here until you find some alternative shelter.”

Sumita was startled by the offer from an unknown person. She was amazed further to see everyone in that slum keen to help her. No one asked her past, her religion or her caste. It was selfless, spontaneous help for a fellow being. The old man on learning that she was an educated woman arranged a job for her in a private clinic. The neighbours helped her raise a hut.

It began with cleaning of floors and other menial jobs. Sumita was not disheartened; she took it in a proper stride. Over the years, she was given better jobs and finally made an office attendant. She had put Arif in a school. As he grew, young Arif watched his mother toiling for his bright future.
“You must work hard to uphold the name of your father,” Sumita often told Arif who even as a young child was determined to do so. He did very well in the school, qualified for a scholarship followed by a career in medicine.

It was nearly twenty years ago that Sumita had come to that slum colony. Arif was now a doctor and had taken up a job in the same clinic where his mother was now the Office Supervisor.
Sumita often remembered her past and she remembered her parents and her days with Parwej. For all these years she had been isolated from her folks physically though mentally she could not help.

One evening some one brought an old man to the clinic. He had fallen from a bus while getting off. He was seriously wounded and bleeding profusely.
The nurse on duty came running to Sumita and told her that there was an accident case and that the patient was sinking and that she should inform the police since it was a medico-legal case.
“Take him to OT. I will call Dr. Arif,” Sumita told the nurse as she picked up the phone to call the doctor.

That night and the following day, the patient was in the ICU after an operation. Sumita did not leave him even for a second despite the nurses telling her to take some rest. Dr. Arif noticed it and guessed that the patient was someone his mother knew and was perhaps close to her.
The patient was old, very weak and anaemic. Dr. Arif felt that he needs blood transfusion immediately. He was amused to learn that the blood group of the old man’s and that of his own was the same. Since no donor was available and the matching blood was not available in the clinic, he offered to donate his blood for the patient.

When the patient came to his senses he asked for water.
Sumita picked a glass of water and brought it to his lips. After a couple of sips, the patient opened his eyes. It was Pandit Ram Kripal Mishra looking at his daughter, Sumita.

Ram Kripal Singh was in a very weak condition. Sumita had told about him to her son. Dr. Arif and Sumita were taking care of him personally. Slowly he gained health and was now in a position to walk around.

“Sumita, my child, I know I have been harsh to you. You see, I could not have defied the panchayat.”
He paused for a little and then added, “Later, I didn’t help you when you asked for it since I could not reconcile to the fact that you, a Brahmin girl had married a Muslim. You see, there are social norms and traditions, which we must uphold lest there was a social anarchy ……. hope you understand.”
“Father, lets not talk of bygone days. Perhaps God willed it that way. I am happy that I was of some service to you.”

Ram Kripal Mishra wanted Sumita to accompany him to his village. “People have forgotten the episode and your mother is no more. Besides, here you are living a lonely life.”
Sumita declined the offer politely.
Ram Kripal Mishra was unhappy at his daughter’s decision. He was now keen to return to his village. He told Sumita, “But for you and that young doctor, I would have not survived. He is a highly skilled doctor. Besides, his blood is running in my veins. I will remain obliged to him forever.”
Sumita remained quiet.
Ram Kripal continued, he was quite enthused, “The doctor is very handsome ………. looks like a scion of a royal family…….. Do you know anything about his family?” He was inquisitive.
Sumita looked at the emaciated old man and then said in a low voice, “He is Dr. Arif Qureshi, the son of my ostracized Muslim husband.”