Love Stories from Punjab Read online

  LOVE STORIES FROM PUNJAB

  Hay House Publishers (India) Pvt. Ltd.

  Muskaan Complex, Plot No.3, B-2 Vasant Kunj, New Delhi-110 070, India

  Hay House Inc., PO Box 5100, Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100, USA

  Hay House UK, Ltd., Astley House, 33 Notting Hill Gate, London W11 3JQ, UK

  Hay House Australia Pty Ltd., 18/36 Ralph St., Alexandria NSW 2015, Australia

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  Hay House Publishing, Ltd., 17/F, One Hysan Ave., Causeway Bay, Hong Kong

  Raincoast, 9050 Shaughnessy St., Vancouver, BC V6P 6E5, Canada

  Email: [email protected]

  www.hayhouse.co.in

  Copyright © Harish Dhillon

  First published 1998 (UBSPD)

  Tenth reprint 2014

  The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by him. They have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-93-81398-99-9

  Printed and bound at

  Rajkamal Electric Press, Sonepat, Haryana (India)

  To

  Yogindra and Rajinder,

  in gratitude, for a lifetime of togetherness

  and to little

  Mannat,

  in the hope of a few years together

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  One

  Sohni Mahiwal

  Two

  Heer Ranjha

  Three

  Sassi Punnu

  Four

  Mirza Sahiban

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt gratitude to Ashok who commissioned this book, all those long years ago, and has had the faith to bring out a new edition now. I am grateful to Justice Savy Sodhi, for always having believed that this book was beautiful and thus bolstered my own, often faltering, belief.

  I am very grateful too, to Rohini Singh, who, despite her rigorous schedule, managed to find valuable time to edit this book. Her tremendous effort has gone a long way in providing “flesh and blood” to the various characters. My gratitude too, to my children and friends for being such patient listeners and excellent sounding boards; to Dr Ranbir Singh and Bhiminder for giving me all the source material; and to Nirmal and the late Gian Singh, for having typed out the manuscript for the original edition on a manual typewriter, not once, but twice.

  Finally, a very special thanks to all at Hay House, for giving me, once again, a book so beautiful that it is sheer joy merely to hold it in one’s hands. I may be forgiven for believing that they think of me as someone special!

  INTRODUCTION

  Twenty years is a long time for a book to remain in gestation. That was the period for which my friend, Ashok Chopra, carried the idea of this book in his head and in his heart. He made two aborted attempts to turn his dream into reality and then he turned to me. I, too, almost failed him. The day after I finished writing the book, my house burnt down – the manuscript was burnt along with it. I wrote it all over again and it was finally published in 1998. It enjoyed moderate success, though, Justice Savy Sodhi stoutly maintains that it is a truly beautiful book and deserves more success and attention than it has received.

  Ashok’s project was targeted at the younger, anglicized generation of Punjabis, which was fast losing touch with its rich cultural heritage. This book was to bring to this generation, a slice of this culture.

  Three months ago, almost seventeen years after the book was published, while my daughter and I were browsing through some books in a bookshop, two girls, both in their teens, walked in and asked for copies of Harish Dhillon’s Love Stories From Punjab. The proprietor indicated, in a stage whisper, that I was Harish Dhillon. They came to me then, told me how much they had loved the book and asked me to autograph their copies. The two teenagers belonged to the generation that came after the one for which this book was written. I am glad that I have been able to bring Ashok’s dream alive, not just for one but for two generations of young readers. Towards the end of 2013, Ashok, who is now head of Hay House, decided to publish a new, updated edition of the book with better production values. I am convinced that, with this new edition, Savy’s long standing regret that the book has not got the kind of attention that it deserves, will be laid to rest. Fortunately, I do not have any illusions about my writing ability. I know that the appeal of the book lies in the stories themselves and not in my telling of them.

  What accounts for the perennial appeal of these stories? Of course there are the facile, glib reasons like: “everyone loves a lover” and, Shelley’s “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.” But these are not reasons enough to explain the enduring appeal of our legendary stories, which go far beyond the classic Romeo and Juliet situation.

  The answer lies in their mystical appeal. They are, each one of them, an exposition of Sufi philosophy. They begin as perfect examples of “mohabbat”, the love of a man and a woman, a love of the body and the heart, a romantic love and then graduate to “ishq”, a love that goes beyond the desires of the flesh. This then transcends to “junoon”, a spiritual ecstacy that embraces all humanity and finally culminates in “ibaadat” a mystical love that becomes a love for God. In essence, the lover focuses all his thoughts and feelings upon the beloved. Then, from the beloved, the love radiates to embrace all humanity and suffuses the entire world with its light. Because of this, the lover is motivated to goodness towards all. He sees his beloved in everyone he meets, and thus, finds God.

  This intertwining of Sufi philosophy in the love stories, would probably account for the fact that the central characters in all these stories are Muslims. What has always intrigued me, and till recently, remained a question mark, is the fact that the action of almost all these stories, took place along the banks of the Chenab. Was there, as one commentary suggested, something magical and unique about the waters of the Chenab? I probed and probed for a satisfacatory answer. Then some days ago, Dr Nasir Naqvi, Director, Sufi Centre, Punjabi University, Patiala, pointed out that, since at that time, Multan was such a great centre of Sufi learning, it was natural that this influence should be felt very strongly in the areas along the Chenab.

  At the outset, I must admit, as I did in the introduction to the original edition, that I am no authority on Punjabi literature or Punjabi folklore. So researching these stories has been a fascinating journey of discovery for me.

  I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the various versions of these tales, as well as commentaries on them, and listening to the poignant, heart-rending, and yet uplifting renditions of these epics in song. The most moving rendition of Waris Shah’s version of Heer, that I have heard, came from Alankar Singh of the Department of music, Punjabi University. A close second, amazingly, was from a Russian student, at the Department of Punjabi Studies, Moscow University.

  I have borrowed, unashamedly, from different sources and have permitted myself the poetic licence of taking a few liberties, albeit based on excerpts culled from the lesser known versions of the stories as well as from oral tradition. In no case, have the essentials been tampered with.

  The original version of the book had five, quiet reprints. I hope this new version will enjoy the same kind of printi
ng history, so that seventeen years from now, one of my grandchildren will have the delightful experience of hearing two young girls, ask the proprietor of a bookshop: “Have you got Harish Dhillon’s Love Stories from Punjab?”And Ashok’s dream will find fulfilment in yet another generation of young readers from the Punjab.

  Harish Dhillon

  Mohan Baoli

  January 2014

  One

  SOHNI MAHIWAL

  Bokhara was an important link on the trade routes between the East and the West. Mirza Izzat Baig based his fortune upon this fact – this coupled with his ability to take risks. He had the rare capacity to treat success, failure, loss and gain with equal indifference and so took risks, when other merchants were afraid to do so. His gambles usually paid off and his fortune grew as steadily as his standing as the leading merchant prince of Bokhara.

  His critics, cynical of his success, sneered that he could afford to take chances because he had the means to do so. Those who knew him better, smiled at this because they knew it was not true. His “indifference” was, in fact, born of a peaceful detachment that he had always possessed, one that permeated all aspects of his life. He was a dutiful husband and showered affection on his wives, all four of them. He was a loving father and gave his children all they wanted, and more. He gave to charity unstintingly and took an active part in all social and community activities. But always, it seemed that there was a part of him that he held back. Always there was a lack of fervour, an absence of any intensity of emotion as if nothing could touch the core of his being. Nothing, that is, except the return of his caravans from India.

  At these times a subtle anxiety, an almost imperceptible restlessness, seemed to envelope Mirza. Most people did not perceive it, but those who were close, noticed the cocking of an eyebrow at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, the smallest of pauses in his speech. They wondered at this, because there was nothing visibly special about his trade with India and there was nothing special about the welcome he extended to the caravan on its return.

  He greeted his agent to India and all the staff, as he did the staff of all returning caravans. Those travellers, who lived in Bokhara itself, were given lavish refreshments and generous gifts and sent off home. The others, after the feasting, were conducted to the comfortable apartments that had been prepared for them. It was no more and no less than what he had always done and those who had noticed his restlessness, the expectancy that had preceded the arrival, wondered even more about it.

  No one saw that when all had gone to bed, the merchant prince went silently to the stables. He stopped at the doors, where the debris of the long journey had been abandoned. He sifted through the piles of tattered tents and frayed ropes, of broken implements and damaged saddles, till he found the pots that had been used for carrying food and water. He looked, carefully, at each and then carried a selected few up to his apartment.

  There, when he was at last alone, he bolted the door, and picking up each pot in turn, held it in his lap and caressed it, the way a lover caresses the body of his beloved. All detachment fell away from him then, and he felt such deep and intense happiness that it brought tears to his eyes. His fingers travelled lovingly over each pot till he knew each turn of the wheel that had created it, each pressure of the fingers that had wrought its shape.

  They were sturdy vessels, of unvarying shape and design. Yet there was a fineness to them that could only have been honed by practice: when the potter made a dozen pots of the same shape day after day, year after year. He had long known these pots, long learnt to recognize that they originated from the small provincial town of Hyderabad in India. In recent years, he had noticed a subtle change in some of them – a slight elongation of the neck, a delicate turning down of the lip. It was as if the potter, at last sure of himself, now wished to experiment, to try and find a more complete self- realization.

  Unknown to the potter, far away, Mirza sat, long into the stillness of the night, caressing each pot in turn and conjuring up in his mind’s eye the picture of the man who had made them. He had, over the years, with the skill of a fine painter, adding one stroke at a time, painted, in his mind, a portrait of his potter. Unlike the work of a painter, however, his portrait was never complete. Over the years, it had evolved from the picture of a young, hesitant lad to that of a middle aged man. He closed his eyes now and looked carefully at it. He saw a lean and ascetic face, a dark brown beard flecked generously with grey. He saw the eyes wide and dilated with the constant effort of looking closely at his pots as he made them. He saw the brow creased with the constant worry of trying to make both ends meet. And yet, when he looked closely behind all this, he saw radiance, born of confidence, pride and contentment. His potter enjoyed the work he did; he knew that he made better pots than any other and this was recompense enough for all the deprivation that life imposed upon him. Then he saw the potter, walking back to his work, and saw the stoop in his back, which came from bending so long over his wheel; he noticed the shuffle in his gait, there because of the pain in his knees, in itself a result of sitting too long on his haunches.

  Mirza opened his eyes and smiled to himself. He knew he was being fanciful. Was it really possible to know the potter so intimately merely from knowing his pots? But then, he told himself, did we not recognize our make, too, from knowing the men and women He had fashioned?

  The thought reassured him, the smile disappeared and he closed his eyes and looked again at his portrait.

  How often Mirza had longed to go out to Hyderabad to meet this man! And yet, even when the longing was upon him, he was realistic enough to admit that the real potter might well turn out to be very different from the picture he carried of him in his mind. If this were to happen, his carefully painted portrait would, forever, be destroyed. Since he could not bear this to happen, even when the opportunity to go out and meet the potter came his way, he hesitated to take it.

  Then arose a situation which would not be brushed aside. A caravan returned from India and his agent brought exciting news. He had obtained a private audience with Afzal Khan, the most influential nobleman in the great emperor Shah Jahan’s court. The agent had asked for the monopoly of the export of fine Dacca muslin to the west. The Khan had been gracious and attentive and had listened carefully to the request and said he would consider it. The Khan’s secretary had come, the next morning, and whispered into the agent’s ears that if his merchant prince could come to Delhi, the great Khan would arrange an audience with the Emperor and, for a suitable consideration, would secure for him what he sought.

  There was great excitement at this news in Mirza’s home and amongst Mirza’s followers. Dacca muslin was a commodity in great demand. He must make the journey soon and clinch the deal as quickly as possible. Mirza listened to the excited buzzing around him, but remained unmoved. He smiled to himself – an audience with the Emperor: he had seen so many kings and queens that one more would make no difference. As for wealth: he had, already, more than he knew what to do with. And yet, as he lay awake at night, the old longing stirred within him again. He knew he could not resist this chance to meet his potter and if his carefully painted portrait was to be destroyed – so be it. With the taking of this decision, the detachment slipped away from him and he joined in the preparations for the journey.

  A great caravan was assembled and those who were to go with him were chosen with care, both for their diplomatic skills and their adeptness at public relations. New clothes, suitable for an audience with the emperor and befitting the status of the merchant prince and his entourage, were ordered. However, the greatest care and attention were reserved for the choosing of suitable presents for the emperor and his courtiers. For these, Mirza personally spent days searching through the vast treasure house that he had built up over the years.

  For the emperor, he chose a pair of antique, damascened daggers, their scabbards decorated with elaborate geometric patterns, worked in gold thread, their hilt studded with precious stones. Then, there was a se
t of large lapis lazuli bowls, turned so finely on the lathe, that, when you held them up to the light, you could see through them. On the outside they were decorated with a floral pattern, worked in gold and rubies and pieces of the finest jade. Finally, he chose a triple string of the finest Basra pearls, each pearl the size of his thumb nail and two beautiful antique carpets, the likes of which he was sure the emperor had never seen.

  He did not know what consideration the Khan would expect for making the concession possible. So he chose a hoard of the finest cut and polished stones – diamonds, rubies and emeralds, a ransom fit for an emperor. Then he selected lesser items to be given to lesser courtiers. Finally he was content that on this count, no one would find his generosity wanting.

  At last the caravan set out and all of Bokhara came out to watch them leave. His well-wishers shouted “God speed” and “Good luck” after him and he smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. His rivals stood around in sullen silence, frowning at his good fortune. To them too, he gave a smile and a nod of the head. The caravan made good time and was in sight of the walls of Delhi sooner than they had expected it to be.

  An emissary had been sent on ahead to announce their arrival and there was a high-powered reception committee waiting to receive them at the gates. They were ushered to a grand haveli, which had been requisitioned for this purpose, and courtiers of sufficient seniority had been charged with attending to their every need. Mirza’s followers were gratified that the welcome and the hospitality befitted the status of their prince and were sure that this bode well for the transaction that was to take place. Their conviction was not misplaced, for on the very next day, a meeting took place between Afza Khan and Mirza and, on the day that followed, was scheduled an audience with the emperor.