A Life Incomplete, page 13
‘And how much help does she need?’
‘Not a whole lot. Just a kilo or so of wheat.’
‘But that’s hardly enough to feed her family.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I want her to be helped in a way that she can earn for herself, that she should get a job. Maybe you can keep her with you until she finds regular work.’
‘Instead, why don’t I simply send her a bag of flour and some other necessities?’
‘Because that would only make her lazy and dependent. I understand your reluctance to bring her into your home. You fear that she may end up pilfering at your place too. But I think that if you were to give her some proper attention, you will not only cure her habit of stealing stuff but you may actually make her a better person.’
‘All right. I’ll either keep her myself or will make sure that she gets a job with someone else. It might have been better, though, if you had counselled Kuldeep’s mother to retain her for the sake of his child.’
‘I’ve arranged for someone else to stay with them.’
‘Who?’
‘That girl…the one whose condition terrified you that night.’
‘She survived, Bhapa ji?’ Saroj looks at him in disbelief.
‘Not just survived but recovered sufficiently to take up a job. Though I do see a danger lurking there as well.’
‘What?’
‘Kuldeep seems to be eying her in a funny sort of way.’
‘Kuldeep? How can you say that, Bhapa ji? I am sure you have misunderstood,’ Saroj cries out. It is as if a dagger has pierced her heart.
‘No. I haven’t misunderstood anything. But I do worry. Anyhow, we will cross that bridge when we come to it. So, shall I send Radhia across to you?’
‘Sure. Please do,’ she replied. Her mind is already flying in another direction. Kuldeep? Could he really be falling for a maid? Who is she? How does she look? I didn’t even get a chance to see her properly that night. Not that there was much to see in that corpse!
‘Bhapa ji! What makes you think that Kuldeep might be.…’
Aware of her feelings, Waryam Singh explains, ‘I might have made a blunder. I wanted to make sure that the poor girl gets a regular job so that she does not slide back into a life of sin. But I am beginning to realize that you can’t wash away the sinful deeds of your past unless you undergo a rigorous penance.’
‘Who is she, Bhapa ji? Where did you find her?’ Saroj asks in consternation.
‘It happened one evening. I was returning from the city when I saw her under a tree by the side of the road. She was writhing in pain and her cries of agony were absolutely heartrending. I must confess that I was lost in my own thoughts and when I first heard her screams, my instinct was to keep walking. I couldn’t see her clearly in the darkness and I thought that this is just one of those clever beggars who pretend to be in severe distress so as to fleece a bit of money from an unsuspecting traveller. Yet, something persuaded me to retrace my steps. I had a flashlight with me and I have to say that a shiver went down my spine when she came into my view. Her clothes were in tatters and seemed to be soaked with blood and pus. The condition of her back was beyond description, her face was ashen, her cheeks hollow and it was quite clear that she was struggling for her life. She was conscious but her eyes were closed and she had no energy to utter a word. I tried to talk to her but her eyes remained shut. She heard my voice, though, and somehow moved her hand to her lips to indicate that she needed water. A tin mug and a small bundle of soiled clothes lay next to her. I picked up the mug and walked to a tap some distance away to fetch water. She took a couple of sips as I set the mug against her lips and seemed to draw some energy from the water. I asked her to let me know what ailed her so that I could try to help her if possible. She opened her eyes to look at me and mumbled something but I failed to decipher her words.’
Saroj heard him with rapt attention, her eyes wide open as though she was trying to visualize every scene of the unfolding drama. Waryam Singh paused for a while before resuming. ‘She reached behind her back to gradually pull up her shirt. It was horrible. I honestly felt my heart in my mouth when I saw that wound, so deep and rotting. It was so badly infected that I could actually see worms crawling around in that cesspool of blood and pus in the glow of my flashlight. Surely, that wound was too far gone to be cured and she wouldn’t last more than a few days, I thought. To spend time and effort on someone in that condition might end up being a total waste. Yet, I couldn’t leave her to die in that state. I carried her to a nearby house and propped her up against the verandah before going to fetch some milk for her. She felt a bit better after drinking it and I left her there to return home. It was only after I got your promise to help that I went back to the spot with a tonga and brought her home. That’s when you saw her. And next morning, I took her over to the hospital where she was able to get proper medical care.’
Saroj is overwhelmed by Waryam Singh’s narrative of that traumatic night. He is no ordinary human, she thinks. He is an angel who has descended from the heavens. In reverence, she bends down to touch his feet before raising her hands to her own forehead. ‘Bhapa ji, this world is not meant for beings like you. Your abode should be up in the heavens, along with the angels and the gods. I regret that until that evening, I had only met your physical form, not your soul. Perhaps that is the reason I held back and proved to be of no use to you.’
‘Saroj, why do you give so much importance to a small person like me? If I have done something good, the credit must go to my guru, my mentor who was also like a father to me. It was Giani Bagh Singh who made me realize the value of community service, of putting others before self. And I’ve been both unfortunate and ungrateful that I could not appreciate the importance of his words while he was still around. I would have spared no effort to serve him. Alas, it’s too late now.’
Saroj bowed her head in memory of the departed guru before continuing, ‘Bhapa ji, she must be so grateful to you. You’ve virtually given her a second life. I wish I had also used the opportunity to be of some service.’
Touched by her words, Waryam Singh smiles. ‘Saroj, I can assure you that there is no dearth of opportunities to serve. There are so many of god’s creatures who die an unjust death without even feeling the warm touch of a helping hand. You could dedicate your entire life to the cause and they still wouldn’t get a minute each.’
Saroj feels a ray of light descending to illuminate her soul and purge her mind of all her fears, her worries and her sorrows. Her eyes shine as if they have had a glimpse of heaven itself.
‘But how did the poor woman come to such grief? She must have told you something about herself,’ Saroj enquires.
‘Yes, she did,’ he replies. ‘She’s narrated her entire tale of woes. She comes from the hills, from a fairly well-to-do Hindu family. But she was barely five when she was lured away by some pimps.’
‘What do these pimps do, Bhapa ji?’
‘They are elderly women who used to be prostitutes and who have spent their lives carrying the burden of their sins. Once they are past their youth and their earnings dry up, they start working as agents for prostitution rings. They frequent poor villages in the hills or other areas affected by hunger or famine. Or they show up at big country fairs where they abduct young girls or buy them from desperate parents. Thereafter, they often sell them to other touts who will take them away to big cities and introduce them into the flesh trade. At times, they will also keep the girls until they mature so that they can be put to work as prostitutes and these pimps can live off their earnings. And it’s not limited to women alone. I’ve also known of men who are engaged in this business. Prakash is one of those unfortunate girls who ended up wasting precious years of her life in this wretched profession. She fell ill and got a nasty boil on her back that kept getting worse until she ended up in that miserable state.’
‘But Bhapa ji,’ she asks with a tremor in her voice, ‘didn’t anyone bother to get her treated?’
‘Who would have bothered to do that? The people she lived with were only interested in her earnings. They made some half-hearted sort of attempt in the beginning but when they saw the ailment linger, they threw her out like a fly out of milk. Who cares for anyone else these days? She spent some time in a charity hospital but even they had a mercenary attitude. If you can’t pay, you don’t get treated. She suffered for over a month before being labelled a hopeless case and getting shunted out. Soon, she was back on the streets, her condition deteriorating by the day. After I found her, I was able to get her admitted into a hospital and use some of my connections and also some money to get her treated.
‘Mercifully, she survived. I wanted to make sure that she didn’t sink again into the same morass. She, too, was desperate that she should stay out of the clutches of those greedy wolves who had kept her in a life of sin. She promised me that if I could find her some kind of employment, she would use the opportunity to change her life for good. So when Kuldeep’s mother asked me to find someone who could work at her home, I thought this would be the perfect chance for Prakash. I advised her that she should never reveal her real name or her past to anyone and, if necessary, she should describe herself as a widow. In the bazaar, she was called Putlibai but I suggested that Prakashwati would sound more respectable. But I am worried now that her flirtatious nature is again emerging from the shadows. My advice to her was like water off a duck’s back. To make matters worse, Kuldeep seems to be playing his own games with her. The whole business has got me regretting my decision to have her employed there. I just hope that Kuldeep doesn’t fall for her. I know that boy’s nature well. It’s like water lying in a flat plate; you never know which way it will drift.’
‘This is a real cause for worry, Bhapa ji,’ Saroj agrees.
‘Anyway, let me see what I can do.’ Waryam Singh gets up to leave but Saroj asks him to wait.
‘The other day, you had wanted me to make a vow to you and I had said that I needed some more time to think about it.’
‘Well! Think a little more about it, Saroj,’ he cautions. ‘To live your life within the confines of a vow is a lot harder than merely taking a vow.’
‘The confines of a vow?’ she calls after him as he leaves. ‘What is that, Bhapa ji?’
‘Time will tell you!’ he replies.
19
If an animal goes out of control, you can use ropes and sticks to rein it in, but once the human mind has gone berserk, there is no rope that can shackle it. Once it leaves its moorings, it’s gone for good.
Several days have gone by without yielding any opportunity for Kuldeep to probe Prakash about her antecedents. Nor has she given him a chance to progress in that direction. The hunter, after casting the net for its prey, had quietly stepped aside to observe the prey move steadily in the direction of the bait. Prakash is skilled in the art of enticing men. Having lured Kuldeep, she has retreated a few steps so that she can observe him move towards her.
Kuldeep is confused and restless. Having toyed with him over the glass of milk, she has neither raised her eyes to look at him nor provided an opportunity when he could have a quiet word with her. Even when he calls for his customary glass of milk in the evening, she feigns some other preoccupation and requests Gian Kaur to take it up to him. The change in her attitude perplexes Kuldeep and intensifies his desire for her. He is assaulted by an entirely new set of doubts. ‘Why is she avoiding me like this? Was I too forward and is she afraid of me? Did she take offence at something I said? Maybe she was right to take offence. Is it right that I should have taken such liberties with another woman? Should I apologize to her? But I need an opportunity for that too.’
He is on the lookout for a suitable opportunity which eludes him for several days. And then fate provides him the opportunity quite unexpectedly. A rash has broken out on the child’s back. Conventional treatment has failed and despite various medicines and ointments, it shows little sign of abating. The child is in pain and Gian Kaur suggests that he be taken for a bath at Bhai Joga Singh’s gurudwara. The gurudwara has a formidable reputation for the healing properties of its large, open well. Its water, viscous and milky white with a strong smell of sulphur, is believed to be particularly effective in curing skin ailments.
It is a Sunday morning when his mother comes up to his room. ‘Son, the gurudwara is going to be pretty crowded today. I’d love to take the boy myself but I’m afraid my arthritis will make it really tough for me to carry him all the way. Why don’t you take him and give him a quick bath. The child is suffering.’
‘I have no problem with that but what do I do if he starts to cry. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle him,’ Kuldeep pleads.
‘Take Prakash along.’
Her words send a current through Kuldeep’s body but feigning disinterest, he mutters, ‘Oh, all right.’
Gian Kaur goes down to ask Prakash to change into something decent and accompany Kuldeep to the gurudwara. Kuldeep sees her as he descends the stairs from his room. He cannot believe his eyes. Dressed in a deep turquoise salwar and a canary-yellow kameez with a matching dupatta with elaborate chikan embroidery, she looks like a nymph that would fly away at any moment. She seems to have paid special attention to her hair which cascade down her shoulders and back. He pauses in shock. The clothes look familiar. Of course, they belonged to Satwant and have been happily given over to Prakash by his mother.
A few minutes later, they are on their way to the gurudwara, sitting on the ample rear seat of the tonga. Prakash’s dupatta is draped over her face, veiling it but not completely. Each time the tonga hits a little bump, he gets tantalizing glimpses of her cheeks, the sight plunging a fresh arrow of desire into his heart. The closed gate at a railway crossing brings the journey to a temporary halt. They are surrounded by a couple of lorries and a few other tongas. The tongawallah dismounts to tighten the harness, giving Kuldeep an opportunity to start a conversation. They haven’t exchanged a word so far. Kuldeep turns around to face her, his eyes burning with desire.
The child is asleep, his head resting comfortably against Prakash’s shoulder. She catches Kuldeep’s glance and lowers her eyes. He loses his nerve and looks away.
He turns his face to the other side, suggesting that he was trying to see if the gate was about to open. His mind is humming with a jumble of thoughts. What did I read in that split second when our eyes met? he wonders. Anger…? No, it wasn’t that. Love, then…? No. Not that either. There was no real trace of that. Hatred, perhaps…? No, it couldn’t be that. She would have turned her face away instead of gently lowering her eyes if she felt that way.
The gate creaks open with a shudder and the tonga resumes its journey. Kuldeep feels his heartbeat pick up in unison with the hooves of the horse.
The tonga comes to a halt near the Dabgari Gate and they alight. They walk through the gate, Prakash following a few steps behind Kuldeep. She has pulled the dupatta further down her face to veil it properly. Every now and then, Kuldeep catches a glimpse of her dress through the corner of his eye. He has a surreal feeling that it is Satwant, not Prakash, who is behind him.
As they approach a fork in the street, Kuldeep takes the lane on the right, while Prakash keeps going straight. ‘It’s this way, Prakash,’ he calls out. ‘Looks like you’ve never been to Bhai Joga Singh’s gurudwara.’ In response, she tilts her head towards him and raises her veil. Their eyes lock and Kuldeep feels his pulse racing. She looks at him in a way that leaves him breathless and weak in the knees. Anything could have happened but a horde of Sunday visitors heading for the gurudwara envelops them from all sides, carrying them in its flow. The magical moment comes to an abrupt end.
Passing though several by-lanes and alleyways, they reach the street that leads into Bhai Joga Singh’s gurudwara. The crowd here is so thick that it is difficult to move. Managing the child in the midst of the swarm of devotees is a challenge and Prakash tries to carry him on her shoulder so that he does not get pushed around. It works for a while, until a surge in the crowd causes her to stumble and the child almost falls to the ground. Kuldeep reacts quickly to grab him and positions himself next to Prakash to protect her. Progress is difficult, the limited space in the lane squeezed further by vendors trying to hawk a variety of street foods and bric-a-brac to the visitors, and by beggars trying to extract some alms out of them. The multitudes coming to the gurudwara each Sunday are a real bonanza for them.
For the women of Peshawar, the assortment of samosas, spiced gram and other mouth-watering savouries that accost them on their weekly visit to the gurudwara pose a real challenge. Each vendor has his own portable stall that comprises of a rickety bamboo tripod standing about chesthigh. A large, shallow basket is perched on the tripod, displaying the chutneys, spices and other ingredients that accompany the savoury. The scrawny fellow making the gol gappas seems to be one of the more popular ones. Next to his basket, on a smaller tripod, is a small earthen pot containing spicy kanji. He is surrounded by about a dozen women arranged in a tight little circle around his twin tripods. His hands move at lightning speed, stuffing small bits of potato into the round gol gappas before scooping a dollop of kanji into them and placing them on a palm leaf that serves as the plate for the customer. The ladies focus on the tricky business of popping the whole gol gappa into their mouths without spilling any of the kanji on their Sunday-wear. But the crowds bearing down on them are unforgiving. An elbow knocks the gol gappa out of a woman’s hand inches before it reaches its destination, leaving her mouth open in unfulfilled anticipation. Another has her plate crushed against her neighbour’s stomach, unleashing angry accusations of carelessness and worse. A third, unbalanced by a push from a burly passer-by, almost falls on the vendor’s basket. Lightning reflexes, honed by years of practice in working in similar environments, has the wiry fellow dive in time to save his wares. ‘Watch out, Bibi!’ he yells as the matron, mouth filled with a gol gappa, mumbles an incoherent response. The situation is no different for the vendors selling an assortment of cosmetics, buttons, threads and other similar stuff, though this pales in comparison to the scenes outside the shoekeeper’s stall. There is a melee in the narrow space where visitors struggle to balance on one leg to remove their shoes and hand them over to the volunteers manning the stall so that they can wash their feet before entering the gurudwara premises.
