Love Stories from Punjab Page 2

  The emperor received them with warmth, accepted their gifts with graciousness, listened to their request and then deferred to Afzal Khan. To Mirza’s practised eye, these were all motions that they were going through for he was sure the decision had been taken long ago. He did not reveal this, however, and when the royal firman, duly signed and sealed by the emperor, was handed to him by the Khan, he pretended to be overcome by the great generosity of the emperor and bowed so low, that his head touched the ground.

  Mirza would have preferred to commence his homeward journey at once, but the emperor had ordained that the Khan should spare no effort in entertaining their special guests. And so, perforce, they stayed in Delhi for a week, attending each night, the lavish and spectacular entertainment that had been arranged for them. At last, after the seventh day, Mirza begged permission to return. His agent, with one half of the caravan, went on towards Dacca and Mirza, with the other half, set out on his homeward journey.

  There was nothing in all the pomp and splendour, nothing in the obtaining of the firman that had touched Mirza. But now, as they moved out of Delhi, the prospect of finally meeting his potter, excited him. It began as a slight quickening of the pulse, a small exhilaration of the heart, but became a deep restlessness as they approached Hyderabad. They came, at last, one evening, to the doors of the serai outside the town.

  Yusuf, the caretaker of the serai, bade them welcome and ensured that their wants were fulfilled. The animals were unsaddled and relieved of their loads and then fed and watered. The entire party broke up into groups and sat around small cooking fires, revelling in the warmth of the flames in the chill evening air. Through it all, Mirza’s deep restlessness prevailed. He barely touched his food and when, at last, he retired to his room, he tossed and turned and was unable to sleep. Fighting the need to go out at once and look for his potter, he forced himself to stay in bed. The night wore on and at last the restlessness became so urgent that he could stay in bed no longer. He wandered out into the courtyard and sat beside the remains of one of the fires, staring into the embers as if he would find in them, answers to all life’s questions.

  It was here that Iqbal, his attendant, found him. He had been with him for many years, ever faithful and loyal and had, in course of time, become his friend and confidante. Mirza felt closer to him than to any other. Iqbal had sensed his restlessness, felt it grow as they travelled and had been troubled by it. Yet he had respected his master’s need for privacy and had not attempted to pry. Now, seeing that his master was so troubled that he could not eat, nor sleep, Iqbal felt compelled to try to draw him out.

  “What is it, master?” he asked, sitting down across the fire. “What is it that troubles you?”

  Mirza looked up and smiled at his friend. He would have liked to share his feelings with him, and in so doing, find some relief. But what could he tell him? That he was restless and excited at meeting an unknown potter? Would Iqbal understand? No, he would not and this would make him even more troubled and concerned than he was now. Far better to hold his peace.

  “It is nothing,” he said, reaching out over the embers and putting his hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps the excitement of these last few days has at last caught up with me and I am not able to come to terms with it. It is nothing. It will pass. Go to sleep, I too will turn in in a little while.”

  Iqbal did not believe this. He knew his master well, knew that all the grandeur of Shah Jehan’s court, the hospitality and attention they had received, the prospect of great material gain, meant nothing to Mirza. But once again, he knew better than to probe. He would tell him when he was ready, and certainly, before he told anyone else.

  “Good night then,” he said getting to his feet. “But do not stay out too long. The night air is treacherous in its chill.”

  “Good night,” Mirza called as he heard his friend’s soft footfalls recede and then return again, a short while later. Mirza did not look up, but felt the warmth of a shawl as it was wrapped around his shoulders. Without a word, Iqbal was gone again.

  Mirza stared into the embers still and his thoughts turned again to the potter. At last, after all these years, this moment was upon him. On the morrow he would come face-to-face with the man whom he had dreamt so often of meeting. He felt again the surge of excitement, and then, after a while, an overbearing fear that the potter would be very different from his imagining. There was still time, though. After the morning meal, he could order the striking of camp and they could be on their way back to Bokhara and he could keep his carefully painted portrait intact. He smiled at the futile thought. He had come too far and no matter what the consequences, he could not now return without meeting the man. A chill breeze struck up, and he drew Iqbal’s shawl closer around his shoulders and, getting to his feet, went into the serai.

  The town was small and finding his potter posed no problem for Mirza. After the morning meal, he took up the pot that he had brought all the way from Bokhara for this purpose, and went out into the streets. He stopped at the first potter’s shop and showed it to the shopkeeper.

  “I am looking for the man who made this pot,” he said, holding it up. The shopkeeper took one glance at it and smiled, his teeth gleaming white and even in the morning light.

  “You are looking for Tulla. One can tell his pots a mile away, for the pots he makes are more beautiful and strong than those of any other potter.”

  “Yes, I have admired them long and have come all the way from Bokhara to meet him.”

  “You are Mirza, the merchant prince.” Mirza smiled and nodded his head. Obviously Hyderabad, like all small towns, kept tags on all who came and went.

  “Perhaps you will take Tulla’s pots back to Bokhara and set up a trade in them and our poor Tulla will, at last, be rich,” he teased.

  “Perhaps,” Mirza said replying to the banter. “Siraj,” the shopkeeper called to a little boy who was running down the street, “Take this gentleman to Tulla’s shop.” The little boy escorted Mirza down the street, for about a hundred yards, and then pointed to a shop.

  “There it is.” But when Mirza tried to force a coin upon him, he shook his head and ran away.

  Mirza stood across the street and watched an old man come out of the shop and add a few more pots to the display outside. He was older than he had imagined him to be and his beard was all white. But he had the same stoop, the same shuffle to his gait that Mirza had imagined he would have, and when he crossed the street and the old man looked up at him, there was the same frown on the brow, the same dilation of the eyes and yes, the same radiance on his face. It was so uncanny, that Mirza forgot all greetings, all politeness and stared unashamedly.

  “Asalam alaikum,” the old man said, raising his fingers to his forehead. “What brings a grandee like you to my humble shop? You should have sent for your needs and I would have delivered them at the serai.”

  Mirza wondered what his reaction would be if he told him the truth – that he had come all the way from Bokhara to meet him.

  “I want to take a few pots back to Bokhara and I want only the finest.”

  “They are all the finest,” the old man said softly, the statement of a long accepted fact, made with no trace of pride. “Take your pick. There are these outside the shop and more within.”

  Mirza scanned the pots carefully. They fell into two categories, those that were unabashedly robust and strong and those that combined this strength with a subtle delicacy. He followed the old man into the shop.

  “Are all these pots made by you?”

  The old man smiled.

  “I can see that you are a connoisseur sir, not everyone notices the difference. These are made by me,” he indicated the robust pots, “And these by my daughter Sohni,” he indicated the others and Mirza realized that what he had seen as a desire to experiment, was really the work of another potter.

  “Few notice the difference, or if they do, they are not ready to pay for the extra labour she puts in. But she will not lis
ten. I suppose she wishes to be better than me.”

  “That’s the way the world progresses, my friend, is it not?” Mirza said gently. “When our children wish to be better than us?”

  They lapsed into silence. As the silence lengthened, Mirza realized that his presence in the shop had begun to make the old man feel awkward. He turned again towards the pots and chose two of Tulla’s pots and three of Sohni’s. He paid the price that Tulla asked without any attempt to bargain.

  “I will deliver them at the serai,” Tulla said.

  Mirza knew it was time for him to go, but after all these years of waiting, he was loath to leave, not wanting this meeting to end.

  “Is there anything else you would be wanting?”

  “My caravans, on their return from India, often bring back some of your pots. I have long admired them and I hoped now to see you at work, to see how such beautiful pots are made.”

  “Sohni will still be at work, come, you can watch her as she sits at the wheel.”

  The old man led him through the shop to a small courtyard at the back. There, in one corner, was a potter’s wheel at which a girl sat working. Tulla made to move towards her but Mirza held him back with a gentle touch upon his arm. The two men stood in the shadows, watching the girl as she worked. Her face was bent over her work and there was little of it that Mirza could see. But he saw the deft, strong fingers as they pressed in upon the wet clay and drew the formless lump into the shape she desired. In a matter of moments, the clay was drawn into an ewer. Then, as she worked on the lip, a strand of hair fell across her forehead and clouded her eyes. She drew one mud-smeared hand from her work and lifted it to her forehead to brush the hair away. As she did so, she caught sight of the men and, forgetting her work, she scrambled to her feet, the wheel still whirling, the ewer with it. Mirza looked at the girl, and in that time suspended moment, what he saw took his breath away.

  She was beautiful, beautiful beyond words. But it was not merely the beauty of her face, though that was very beautiful, nor was it merely the beauty of form, though that too was beautiful beyond compare. Her real beauty lay in the dignity and pride with which she stood; the strength that exuded from every fibre of her being – strength coupled with tender vulnerability. The strength she derived from the clay at her feet – clay that she could, with a master’s touch, transform into a thing of utter beauty. The air of vulnerability came from the streaks of the same clay that smeared her brow. Mirza’s heart stood still. He knew that he would never be the same again. She took a step towards them and the magic moment was shattered.

  “Look, Sohni,” the old man said, glancing once at Mirza before turning again towards his daughter, “We have here, at last, a true admirer of our work, a connoisseur.” And in the tone of his voice, Mirza sensed the hope that he would buy some more of their pots.

  Sohni came towards them now, wiping her hands on her dupatta. “I hope you will buy some of our pots,” she said looking directly into Mirza’s eyes.

  “That he has done already. Will you do me the honour of partaking of some refreshment with me?” the old man asked.

  “Yes, I would be glad to.”

  “Sohni, attend to it.”

  The two men went back into the shop and Tulla made a place for his guest to sit and they talked of many things. Mirza spoke briefly of Bokhara and of his mission to Delhi and Tulla spoke at length about his daughter. How his wife and he had been childless for so many years that they had given up all hope of ever knowing the joy of parenthood. And then how, when the sap in their veins had all but dried, Allah, in his bountiful wisdom, had seen fit to bless them with a child. He spoke with pride of the beauty of his child, of her sweet disposition and how she won the hearts of all who came to know her.

  Soon, Sohni came into the shop and placed food before them. Mirza’s eyes never once left her face, while she was in the shop and they followed her, when she left the shop and disappeared into the interior. Mirza ate of the frugal food with an appetite he had not known for a long time and all the while he ate, his eyes kept darting to the back of the shop, hoping to catch another glimpse of Sohni. When he was at last done with eating, he thanked the old man and returned to the serai.

  All through the day, the image of the girl, as she stood beside her wheel, kept coming back to his mind and each time he saw, again, all that he had seen then. There was no restlessness now, no fear and no excitement. There was only a deep calm, a deep stillness, a deep contentment. He knew that he had been right to come. The portrait of his potter had indeed been a false one and had now fallen to pieces. But he did not mind because in reality, his potter far outshone the portrait that he had so carefully painted.

  “What time shall we leave tomorrow?” Iqbal asked that evening.

  “No, not tomorrow. I am tired and would rest another day.” Iqbal made no comment and went to convey the news to the others.

  When Tulla opened his shop next morning, he found Mirza waiting in the street outside.

  “The pots I bought yesterday are so beautiful that I want to take some more back with me.”

  They went back into the shop and played out the movements they had enacted the day before. Mirza spent long hours choosing pots. At the appropriate moment, Tulla asked: “Will you do me the honour to partake of some refreshments with me?”

  And once again Sohni brought food into the shop and set it before them and Mirza’s eyes were fixed upon her from the moment she entered to the moment she left.

  Once again Mirza thanked the old man and left the shop.

  Again that evening, Iqbal asked: “When do we leave tomorrow?”

  And again Mirza answered. “Not tomorrow. I need another day here in Hyderabad.” Again Iqbal offered no comment and went off to tell the others.

  But that night, after the evening meal, when Sohni scrubbed the utensils, she looked at her mother and said: “I do not like the way that man looks at me.” Her mother looked up from her darning and looked closely at her child and understanding came into her eyes.

  “You will not go before him tomorrow. I will take the refreshments to him.”

  And later still, when the old couple lay side by side in bed, the old man mused.

  “He is a strange man, this Mirza Izzat Baig and I do not understand him. If he is so enamoured by our work, why does he not buy all the pots in the shop all at once, instead of buying a handful at a time?’

  “You are turning senile,” the old woman said sharply. “It is not your pots that he comes for he comes for our daughter, Sohni.”

  “Shut your mouth, woman! How dare you suggest such a thing? He is old enough to be her father.”

  “That kind is most dangerous. Have you not seen the way he looks at her?”

  Casting his mind back on the last two days, Tulla did remember the way Mirza had looked at Sohni, when she came into the shop. His wife was right and he poor, stupid, old fool had believed all that Mirza had said.

  The next day, when Mirza came to the shop, it was not Sohni who served the refreshments, but her mother. He lingered on long after he had any reason to do so, hoping to catch one fleeting glimpse of her. At last, he had to admit to himself, that he would not see her that day, and thanking the old man, he returned to the serai. That evening, Iqbal did not ask him the usual question and Mirza offered no explanation. His followers tacitly accepted the fact that their leader, for his own reasons, had decided to stay a few more days in Hyderabad.

  Day after day, Mirza went to Tulla’s shop and day after day he returned without catching a glimpse of his beloved. A restlessness came upon him again. Day after day, the pile of pots in the courtyard of the serai grew bigger and bigger till it was as if Mirza’s apartment had become the potter’s shop and Mirza the potter.

  In a small town like Hyderabad, Mirza’s strange behaviour was noted and commented upon. Everywhere that Sohni went, she received amused glances, till irritated by these looks, she chose not to go out at all. In the serai too, Mirza’s followers became
aware that their leader tarried because of the potter’s daughter. They resented this. Their master’s lust for the potter’s daughter was keeping them away from their homes and their loved ones. There were murmurs of discontent and in spite of Iqbal’s best efforts, it was not long before these murmurs reached Mirza’s ears.

  One night, he called Iqbal to his side: “The caravan must move on without me. It is not right that I should keep you all from home for so long.”

  “I will stay with you.”

  “No, you must go. I don’t know how long I will be here.”

  “I will stay with you.” Mirza looked into his friend’s eyes and saw the anxiety there and looked away.

  “Is it the potter’s daughter?” Iqbal asked. Mirza nodded his head.

  “Yes. It is the potter’s daughter. She has taken possession of my entire being. My every breath cries for her and I cannot tear myself away from her.”

  “Why do you not take her with you? God knows the old man, her father, will be happy enough to have her make a life with you.”

  “I love her too much to do that to her. I will not insult my love by proposing that she come away as my concubine.”

  “Marry her then. Men have married below their status before now.”

  Mirza shook his head.

  “You do not understand, I have four wives already, each of them loving and faithful and loyal. I cannot do them the injustice of seeking divorce, with no more a valid reason than my obsession with a beautiful young girl.”

  Iqbal understood, at last, his friend’s predicament. He understood, too, that no purpose would be served by his staying on here in Hyderabad. If he was to serve his friend’s cause, he must go back to Bokhara and explain his friend’s plight to his wives. Then, if they truly loved him, one of them would make place for the girl.

  “I must prepare for the morning’s departure.” Mirza looked away, not wishing his friend to see his relief at his going.

  Before the caravan left the next morning, Mirza went around, exchanging farewells. Some avoided his eyes as they said goodbye, others cried openly and a few begged him to come with them. To all he gave the same gentle smile. He watched the departing caravan from the serai gate till all that was left to see were the clouds of dust raised by the animals. He felt no grief, no sense of loss at the departure, only the hope with which he greeted each dawn, the hope that today, at last, he would be vouchsafed a glimpse of his beloved Sohni.