A Life Incomplete, page 4
Satwant’s eyes brim with tears. She feels her empty bosom quiver with the release of milk. The Lord alone knows how she has longed to nurse her child against her breast since the day he was born…a longing that, till this day, has remained unfulfilled. Today, she can no longer control herself. She turns surreptitiously to look at Radhia, who is still engrossed in the drama playing out on the street. Like a burglar embarked on a major theft, Satwant furtively unbuttons her kameez and quickly thrusts a nipple into her child’s lips.
The child, no more than a couple of months old, seems to know intuitively that it is his own mother who is nursing him. As though he has been starving for ages, he suckles ferociously, seeking perhaps to find life itself in her shrunken breast.
Satwant is in a state of bliss, savouring a range of sensations that she has never before experienced. She had given birth to the child but it is only now that she feels like a mother. Ah! The ethereal beauty of motherhood, the exhilaration, the joy, the tranquillity that accompanies it! It makes her oblivious to the fact that her sickness could perhaps make her milk harmful to the child. It also makes her forget that a sentry has been appointed to keep a watchful eye on her. Transported to this stage, she has forgotten herself and also her child.
She is focused on one and just one thing – the inexplicable sense of elation that she is experiencing for the first time in her life. She feels every pore of her body immerse itself in the delight of this moment. Her mind is bereft of all other thoughts. Even the blueness of the sky outside embodies her soaring spirits.
Lost in her own newly discovered universe, Satwant’s eyes are closed. Suckling an infant for the first time can be painful for anyone, let alone for a mother who is coping with various ailments. Every time the child sucks fiercely, Satwant feels shafts of pain traverse her body. But the same shafts also carry the beauty of life itself. Can anyone other than a mother ever experience something like this?
A crackling voice emerges out of the blue and numbs her from head to toe, the shock so great that it even separates the child’s lips from her breast. ‘O, you accursed one! Why don’t you die? You might as well have poisoned the boy. Are you a mother or the she devil herself? Even the devil does not devour the one that is born from her womb,’ Gian Kaur screams as she tears the child away from Satwant’s breast.
Spouting abuse, Gian Kaur takes the child and disappears from the room. Radhia, still looking distracted, tries to focus on the room. Both appear shell-shocked as they look at each other in disbelief.
Sitting by her side, Radhia whispers, ‘What have you done, Bahu ji? How could you feed the baby your own milk? What on earth will happen now?’
Satwant finds herself trembling. Her body is drenched with cold sweat, not out of fear of her mother-in-law but the thought that she might have poisoned her child with milk that is perhaps contaminated by her own sickness. ‘Oh god! What have I done?’ she asks herself as a wave of remorse courses through her body. ‘What on earth came over me? What will be the fate of this poor child now?’
Turning towards the maid, she whispers the same question, ‘Radhia! What’s going to happen now?’
Radhia’s face is a picture of grief, her expression suggesting that she is devastated by concern for the child’s well-being. The reality, however, is something else. Deep down, the child’s welfare has never been her priority. Making, once again, a show of anxiety, she laments, ‘Bahu ji! What a calamity! Let us pray that the child comes to no harm.’
‘Radhia! For god’s sake do something,’ Satwant implores her with folded hands.
Smelling an opportunity, Radhia replies, ‘All right, Bahu ji! I’ll immediately fetch the doctor, though I have no idea what it’s going to cost.’
Satwant strips the gold ring off her finger and says, ‘Here! Spend whatever you have to and keep the rest. Just make sure that the child is safe. And don’t you ever bring him near me again. Never! Go now, my good sister. Hurry now.’
‘Yes, Bahu ji! I’ll go right away,’ Radhia mumbles as she leaves the room, her small eyes shining brighter than the gold she clutches in her palms.
5
It is around nine in the morning. Radhia is in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes and muttering to herself, ‘God alone knows when I’ll get freedom from this wretched house. You work yourself to death day in and day out, and, to top it all, you also have to listen to their abuse…’
Gian Kaur, meanwhile, sits on the doorstep nearby. Her right hand moves rapidly over the beads of her rosary but her tongue works twice as fast. ‘You barren witch! You don’t deserve a child! Greedy and hell-bent on looting us! Damn widow…she won’t die and won’t leave us alone either…’
She is still in the middle of her tirade when a ferocious Radhia approaches her from the kitchen. Hands still smeared with the ash she has been using to scrub the dishes, she glares, ‘Enough of your abuses, Bibi ji. And to hell with this job! I have given birth to four children already. And god knows how many more he has in store for me. How dare you call me barren or a widow? How would you like me to use the same words on you?’
Gian Kaur had no idea that her mumbling has carried all the way to Radhia in the kitchen. She is clearly embarrassed by Radhia’s outburst; but to remain quiet now would mean a further loss of face. Relying on attack as the best form of defence, she yells back, ‘Why are you after my life, you miserable slut! Go and tend to your work. When have I abused you? I’ve only pointed out that it’s time to start cooking and you’ve just arrived. And the child! He’s cried himself hoarse. Shouldn’t you at least have thought of him?’
She hasn’t quite finished with her diatribe when a tall man approaches the doorway and smiles. ‘What’s up today, Bey ji? Why are you all worked up so early in the day?’
Waryam Singh’s unexpected arrival is fortuitous for Gian Kaur. She was looking for a way to get rid of Radhia but knows that the maid was not going to give up so easily. She also realizes that in this particular instance, she may have been unduly harsh on the maid. Seeing Waryam Singh, however, makes Radhia bite her lips in seething rage and withdraw into the kitchen to resume her work. Gian Kaur immediately changes her tone. Ushering Waryam Singh into the adjoining room where Sadhu Singh is reclining on a couch, she smiles. ‘I should thank the Lord that you have graced us with your presence.’
Waryam Singh leads a fairly lonely existence. There is hardly anyone around him that he can truly call his own. Yet, there are many who lay claim to his affection, call him their very own. He is a man of ordinary means, working as a pharmacist in a government hospital. He is around twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, good looking, well built and blessed with a sunny disposition. Not particularly soft spoken, his voice is known to take a gravelly edge when he is angry.
Little is known about his family, caste or home. There is speculation, though, that he is the adopted son of the late Giani Bagh Singh who was recognized in the community as a prominent leader of the Singh Sabha. There are some who insist that the Giani, in keeping with his pre-eminent position in the community and also as head priest of the local gurudwara, had no child of his own. Others, though, discount this theory and claim that Waryam was merely the favourite disciple of the Giani. And there are those who aver that the boy had grown up in an orphanage until the Giani had taken him under his wing. But Giani Bagh Singh, till his very end, had always introduced the young man as his own son.
Giani Bagh Singh, everyone agrees, was one of those rare examples of nobility that descends in our midst once in a generation or two. Paying scant regard to his own needs and even those of his family, he had dedicated his life to serving the community around him. People say that he had come to Peshawar from some other city but nobody from the present generation can recall when. He had lived up to the ripe old age of eighty, they say. He managed to raise a fortune of almost a hundred thousand rupees to construct a beautiful gurudwara near Sadar Bazaar and spent his final years in service of the institution that he had built.
Waryam Singh, on the other hand, does not have any special claim to fame. There is one quality though that he has clearly inherited from his mentor, and he possesses it in great abundance – an abiding, untiring commitment to serve the larger community. It is this remarkable trait that distinguishes him from others, that transforms him from an ordinary mortal into an extraordinary one.
The late Giani ji was highly regarded for his disdain for the comforts of life even though he spent his life providing these to others. He endeavoured to serve everyone, without the slightest consideration of caste, creed or faith. For the destitute of the city who had no food to eat, no clothes to wear, Giani ji was nothing short of a saviour. Conversant with the traditional Ayurveda school of medicine, he went out of his way to visit anyone who was sick. He tried his best to provide medicine and healing but if he found that the ailment was beyond his own capabilities, he would arrange for the patient to see a proper doctor even if he had to pay the doctor’s fee from his own pocket. It was, perhaps, for this reason that Giani ji was so keen to see Waryam Singh go to a medical school and graduate as a doctor. Waryam, however, was not inclined towards academic rigours and had to settle for joining the local government hospital as a pharmacist.
His reputation for selfless service takes Waryam into homes that would normally have remained out of bounds to someone coming from his strata of society. His work has earned him the affectionate sobriquet ‘Bhapa ji’ usually reserved for an older brother. It has also made him ubiquitous in this part of the town. A family could be organizing a wedding or planning a function, Waryam is the first port of call. Once he takes charge, they don’t need to worry about minor details. Bhapa ji sorts out the problems, sees things through. Neither fatigue nor sleep, neither hunger nor thirst distracts him from the responsibility that he cheerfully takes upon himself.
Womenfolk tend to be particularly reliant upon him, provoking, no doubt, a fair amount of jealousy amongst a section of the male population. And in his hospital, other employees are expected to put in a full day’s work but Waryam is free to come and go pretty much as he pleases. It is not unusual to see the other pharmacists and at times even a couple of doctors step in to handle his official responsibilities. As for Waryam, he can mostly be seen hurrying along the alleys and by-lanes of one neighbourhood or another, dropping off a bag of flour to one family or responding to another’s plea that they had run out of firewood. No sooner has he finished one chore than he is being summoned for the next one, this time a request from the woman whose child has been coughing since daybreak. Without a murmur, Waryam lifts the toddler on to his shoulder and marches off to the hospital.
Waryam’s relationship with these families goes well beyond meeting requirements like these. He is also their friend, philosopher and guide, intervening to restore peace between squabbling couples, brokering a marriage deal between two families, helping the office clerk whose wife wants to travel to her parents’ place or the one whose wife is coming back after visiting her parents. Bhapa ji can always be relied upon to offer sound counsel and even volunteer where required.
Depending on their age, women in the neighbourhood relate to him as his grandmother, mother, aunt, sister or niece. He sits beside anyone and chats for hours, listening to the most personal details of the family’s financial position, the relationships between the woman and her mother-in-law and much else.
The circle of Waryam’s relationships also includes influential officials from various departments of the government. The main contractor at the commissariat, the head clerk at the municipality, the chief constable at the police station – all are considered his friends. Little wonder, then, that he often gets waylaid by a motley group ranging from the habitual free loaders to the genuinely needy. Like Bhanu the porter with his plea, ‘Bhapa ji, I’d asked you for a pair of those thick army socks. Look at the sorry state of my feet, the way the heels have cracked.’ Or Duni, the confectioner complaining, ‘Must I live on your promises alone? All I asked for was a measly pair of shoes.’ Or Mantua, the betel-leaf seller reminding, ‘Bhai Waryam! I had requested you for a blanket.’ Amidst all this, Waryam makes reassuring noises as he hurries along towards his next errand.
Waryam was heading for Sadhu Singh’s house, having learnt that Kuldeep’s wife had fallen ill shortly after his imprisonment. After spending a few minutes with the patient, he figured out that with the possible exception of Sadhu Singh, no one else in the household paid the slightest attention to her deteriorating health. Without hesitation, he took upon himself the duty to visit their house twice a day to enquire about Satwant’s health, noting her temperature and getting her medicines from the hospital.
Immediately after ushering Waryam Singh into her husband’s room, Gian Kaur starts to unburden herself about Radhia’s conduct, taking care that Radhia does not once again tune into her scalding tirade. She could have gone on and on with her litany of complaints about the maid but for her husband interrupting her. Lying on his bed and wracked by a fresh bout of coughing, he calls, ‘Deep’s mother! Will you get me a cup of tea?’
Angered by the untimely demand, she proceeds to direct at her husband the ire that she had reserved for Radhia. ‘The hell with your tea! This heat has turned the place into an inferno. Doesn’t leave anyone the energy to lift a finger. And all you can think of is your tea!’ Picking up her rosary, she furiously counts the beads and recites the opening sections of the Mool Mantra prayer before picking up the threads of her interrupted diatribe. ‘Useless, good for nothing! Tucks in a ball of opium in the morning and snores away. Wakes up and he wants tea. Tea and opium; that’s all he cares about,’ she bemoans. ‘Isn’t he just the perfect specimen of that adage of opium lovers: Intoxicate yourself, sleep long and deep, fret not over anything, and leave the rest to fate.’
A few more rasping coughs, each heavily loaded with phlegm, and Sadhu Singh calls again, ‘My good woman! This cough is killing me. I am sure a cup of tea will give me a few moments of relief. But if you think it is too much trouble for you, I’ll try to get up and make some myself.’
‘Of course! I am sure you will,’ she crackles with sarcasm as she finishes the cycle of counting the 108 beads in the rosary.
‘Why get angry, Bey ji. I’ll go make it for him. Look how frail he’s become. You should be serving your husband as you would serve god!’ Waryam Singh gently chides.
Reminded of the scriptures which enjoin a woman to treat her husband like god, the religiously minded Gian Kaur mellows visibly to say, ‘Veera, when have I ever said no to him? Where would I be without him? All I wanted to say was that a hot cup of tea is not the best thing for him in this blazing heat. It will only harm his innards. I will gladly make him a cup if he wants one. Whatever I said was for his own good.’
‘And may I give you some good news?’ Waryam Singh opens the newspaper he is carrying. ‘The Guru ka Bagh prisoners are going to be released soon.’
‘Really?’ she exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘How soon, Veera? I will shower you with sweets, bearer of good tidings. When will my son be freed?’
‘Maybe another five or six days,’ Waryam Singh declares after looking again at the paper.
‘Rock the cradle for a while, will you. May your husband live long,’ Gian Kaur calls out to Radhia as sounds of a crying child wafts across from the other room.
Radhia walks across to rock the cradle while Gian Kaur, elated by news of the release of the prisoners, speaks to her with a new-found affection. ‘Look here, girl. Please don’t mind anything that I may have said in anger. You know how this wretched tongue of mine goes out of control. You are like a daughter to me and daughters should never take offence at anything their mothers might say. Here! Take this money and buy something for your kids on your way back.’
Turning towards Waryam Singh, she says, ‘Just think of her poor kids. Who should they look up to? Their father is drunk all day. If they are able to get two square meals a day, it is only due to the efforts of this girl. Otherwise, who knows what their fate would have been. I wouldn’t even wish an enemy to be addicted to liquor the way their father is! So, Veera, is it confirmed that they will be released in five or six days?’
‘Yes, Beyji. That’s what it says right here, that the government will soon announce their release.’
For Radhia, the kindness in the tone of her mistress is an entirely new experience. She forgets the abuse hurled at her earlier. Beaming, she turns her attention to the cradle and starts to hum a lullaby as she rocks it.
Come hither, O sleep, come
To the eyes of my little one
Gian Kaur busies herself with tea for her husband. Waryam Singh gets up to go to the room upstairs.
6
Waryam Singh finds Satwant asleep as he enters the room. Asleep, but not quite. Her eyes, neither fully open nor properly shut, lend her face the scary countenance of a corpse. He tiptoes across the room and gingerly perches himself on the edge of the stool near her bed. Her face is pallid and the hollows beneath her eyes so pronounced that he allows himself a quiet sigh of relief when he notices her gently heaving chest.
Seeing her open her eyes, he enquires, ‘So, how are you feeling, Satwant?’
‘Bhapa ji?’ She turns her face towards him. ‘When did you come?’
‘Just a few minutes back.’ He picks up the thermometer from the alcove, gives it a couple of quick tugs to reset the mercury and places it between her lips.
‘How’s the fever today, Bhapa ji?’
‘Just above a hundred.’
‘No, Bhapa ji.’
‘And why not?’
‘Seems quite a bit higher than that to me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
The worried look on Waryam Singh’s face is enough to tell the patient that her fever today must be somewhere in the range of 103. It tends to be around 101 or 102 on most days, and today she feels it is perceptibly worse.
