Love Stories from Punjab Read online

  Then, as the days drifted into weeks and the weeks into months, and he did not see his beloved, the hope turned, at last, into an all-prevading despair which, like a terrible monster, gnawed at his heart and filled him with an intense, unrelenting pain – a pain from which he could get no reprieve, no respite. He became a man possessed. He forgot to eat, forgot to sleep. He forgot to wash or change his clothes. His beard, once neatly trimmed, became wild and unkept and coupled with the wildness in his eyes, gave him the look of one who had lost his mind. He took to wandering the streets of Hyderabad, of going down to the river Chenab and sitting on its bank, staring into the waters.

  Yusuf saw the change in his guest and was saddened by it. He tried to remonstrate, to make him see reason, but to no avail. Finally, he left him alone.

  One evening, long after it was dark, Mirza returned from his wandering, to find another guest in the serai. He sat on the steps of the verandah, a cup of wine in his hands, watching his attendant cook his evening meal. It was a pleasant evening and Mirza would have liked to sit out in the courtyard too. But he did not want to intrude on the stranger and, so, made towards his room. As he approached the steps, the stranger called out to him.

  “Good evening. You must be Mirza Izzat Baig from Bokhara,” and Mirza knew that Yusuf had talked about him. “I have heard of you and I am honoured to meet you. The night is young. Why don’t you join me for a cup of wine?”

  “I am honoured to meet you too and thank you for your invitation, but I do not drink.”

  “You do not know what you miss,” the stranger said and Mirza smiled at his jest.

  “At least sit with me for a while.”

  “That I will do, with pleasure.”

  The stranger made place for him on the steps and Mirza sat down beside him. There was no further conversation for sometime and the stranger took a few sips from his cup. Then he cleared his throat and spoke again.

  “You are a troubled man, deeply troubled. Yusuf has told me of it and I can see it in your eyes. Take a few sips: it will soften your pain.”

  Mirza shook his head.

  “Try it. Take a sip. If you do not like it, you can always let it be.”

  He held out his cup to Mirza. Mirza, not wishing to appear churlish, took the proffered cup and took a small sip. It was sweet and not unpleasant to the tongue and, when it went tingling down his body, he felt a comforting warmth flow through him. He took another sip and then another and then quaffed down what remained in the cup. The stranger smiled and took the empty cup from Mirza’s hands and refilled it.

  While he waited, Mirza felt the warmth spread through his body. He felt a lightening of the mind and, at last, the pain softened a little and became bearable.

  Long into the night, Mirza and the stranger sat on the verandah steps. They made little conversation as they drank cup after cup of the wine. At last, declining the stranger’s invitation to dinner, Mirza lurched to his feet and staggered back to his room. He threw himself on his cot and fell, at once, into a deep, drunken sleep. Visions of Sohni came to haunt him, as they always did, but they were no longer visions of despair, visions of never seeing her again, of Sohni turning away from him. In these visions she came willingly to him and smiled at him. She sat beside him and spoke to him. Sometimes, when he held out his arms, she let him hold her against his chest. He awoke in the morning with a heavy head, but he did not mind, for the pain in his heart had numbed a little.

  He lived now, only for the approach of darkness so that he could drown himself, once more, in wine. He knew he was destroying himself and yet, he could not stop, because it was the liquor alone that brought him comfort. It was a short step to begin drinking in the day too and he took it, soon enough. With this step, he destroyed what little dignity and self-respect had been left to him. He would stagger around the streets barefooted, his clothes stained and tattered and the street urchins would follow him, laughing and jeering and clapping their hands, sometimes pelting him with stones. But he paid them no heed. He lived only for a glimpse of Sohni and the glorious visions that came to him, when at last he fell into a drunken stupor.

  His face became so gaunt, that it was frightening to look upon and his body was reduced to a frame of skin and bones. His clothes hung loosely upon him, as upon a scarecrow, and his face and body remained caked with grime. There was a constant dribble down the sides of his mouth and white blobs in the corner of his eyes. His feet were chapped and his soles covered with festering blisters. And, yet, each morning, he presented himself at Tulla’s shop and bought more pots till Tulla had no pots to sell. At his wife’s greedy prompting, Tulla bought inferior pots – third-rate ones made by third-rate potters – and sold them at exorbitant prices to the besotted Mirza. Mirza made no comment and paid what he was asked – his eyes, all the time, fixed on the interior of the shop, still hoping that Sohni would appear.

  Mirza’s money ran out. He sold his hoard of pots at half the price and he sold the few belongings that were still left to him, so that he could buy still more pots and still more wine.

  All of Hyderabad buzzed with talk about the transformation that love had wrought in the rich, handsome prince. At first, the talk was all amusement and mockery at the demented fool. He was mad, they said and what he did was madness, so he deserved no pity, no compassion. But as time went on, the amusement and mockery turned to awe at the strength of his great love and people began to regard him with something akin to admiration. By implication, they held Sohni responsible for this transformation and there was a hint of hostility in their voices when they spoke of her or met her.

  Sohni saw their looks and heard their talk and she smarted at the unfairness of it all. How could they be so blind, she thought bitterly, how could they hold her to blame? She had done nothing to encourage him, or lead him on. The moment she had read his intention, she had quietly stepped aside. How could they hold her responsible for what the wretched man had done to himself? A deep, smouldering anger built up inside her and she longed to confront the man. This longing became a determination that would not be denied.

  One night, long after her parents were asleep, Sohni wrapped her head in a covering and quietly let herself out into the street. It was a bright moonlit night, but mercifully, the street was deserted. She hurried to the serai. The huge door of the serai was closed, but not bolted, and she pushed it open with some effort. The door creaked as it moved and in answer to the sound, a horse, tethered in the courtyard, neighed and pawed the ground with his hooves. Sohni paused, and her heart stood still. She was sure the sound was loud enough to wake the sleeping and she would be discovered. She had an overwhelming urge to turn and run. But then the determination to meet the man face to face, came upon her again, strong and clear, and she stepped into the serai.

  She looked around carefully, first at the outhouses and then the courtyard; there was no movement there, except for the restless shuffling of the horse. Her eyes stopped at a long row of rooms, each opening off a verandah. She knew that these were the apartments occupied by travellers and she would find Mirza in one of them.

  The verandah was bathed in bright moonlight and she could see each joint in the stone paving. Each room had a large barred window, open now because of the summer heat and, as she stopped at the first window and looked in, she saw shafts of moonlight falling through the window onto the occupant of the bed. He slept with his face towards the open window and she saw that it was not the man she sought.

  She moved swiftly to the next window. The occupant slept with his back to her. She waited patiently for him to turn towards the window. But the moments ticked away. As she stood there, wondering what she should do, the silence of the night was broken by the sound of someone coughing. The sound startled her and she slid quickly into the shadows. Her heart beat wildly. She had pushed her luck too far: she would be discovered. But even as the fear came upon her, the coughing went on and on – a long, long spell of wracking cough. The pain in it touched her and she turned and ran down
the verandah to the room from which the sound came. The door was ajar and she went inside. There was a pitcher on the window sill and a cup beside it and she turned and filled the cup with water. As she did so, she noted with wry amusement, that both the pitcher and the cup had been made by her.

  She turned back to the bed and putting her hand, gently, under the man’s neck, lifted his head and held the cup to his lips.

  “Drink,” she said. He sipped at the cup and his cough was stilled. She lowered his head upon the pillow and as she did so, he turned his face to her. The moonlight fell full upon his face and she saw, at last, that this was Mirza.

  Time stopped. Sohni stepped back, overcome by the transformation that love had wought upon this man. She looked at his matted hair, his wild unkept beard, now streaked generously with grey. She saw the gauntness of his face, the wildness in his eyes and the lines of misery and pain that criss-crossed his face. She saw the pathetic, skeletal frame of his body and the poor state of his clothes. She remembered the way he had been when she had first seen him – strong and proud, handsome and richly attired, and she could not believe that he had become what he had become.

  He smiled up at her then and his face was transformed. And she saw in him a little of the man she had first seen. In a voice, which was so soft that she had to lean down to hear the words, he said:

  “It is so real, this dream I dream of you. It is as if I could reach up and touch your beloved face.”

  Her heart went out to the miserable man and all the pain that he had been through. She knelt beside him.

  “It is no dream,” she said. “I am here with you.” She put her hand on his forehead and he reached up and took it and held it in his own. And all the time, a small, beatific smile played at his lips. As he held her hand, the enormity of his love quite overcame her, and she put her head beside his head on the pillow and wept.

  “Do not weep,” he said putting his hand gently on her cheek. “I want your love,” he said. “And if I cannot have that, I do not want your pity or your compassion.”

  She did not speak, and after a while, her tears stopped and her weeping was stilled. She wiped her tears.

  “Make room for me,” she said, in an urgent whisper and he moved his body to the edge of the cot. She lay down beside him and he cradled her in his arms and as she lay there, she felt greater warmth, greater peace, than she had ever known. And cradled in each other’s arms, their hearts beating each to each, she drifted off, at last, into a deep untroubled sleep.

  He lay awake, looking into her sleeping face, marvelling at her presence, not willing to believe that this could be. Then, in the early hours of the morning, he shook her gently awake. “It is time to go,” he said.

  She lingered for a moment and then rose from the bed.

  “Will you come again?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said and, with one quick backward glance, she was gone.

  She came again the next night and he took her in his arms and held her close. He kissed her lightly on her head, her cheeks, her lips and felt her arms tighten around him. Her lips found his and she kissed him, first lightly and then with increasing passion. His hands caressed her body and he saw, in her responses, urgency as deep as his. But at the last moment he drew away.

  “Sohni,” he said, “I must tell you something.”

  “Hush,” she said, “this is no moment for words. Save them for another day.” And she drew his head down and kissed him full on the lips again and he let the waves roll over him.

  Then, when their loving was done, they slept. He woke her again, when it was time, and she slipped on her clothes and kissed him lightly on the brow, before she left.

  “Will you come tonight?” he asked, not daring to believe she would and she chuckled softly and said, “Need you ask?” And she was gone.

  Yusuf saw the blood stains on the sheet in the morning, but held his peace. He washed out the blood and offered no comment. He saw his guest sit before a mirror and trim his beard and bathe and change his clothes; the old man knew what had happened, but still kept quiet.

  When he was done with his ablutions, Mirza turned to the caretaker and said, “Give me something to eat, Yusuf. I am so hungry, I could eat a horse.” And when the old man set the food before him, Mirza did eat as if he could eat a horse. The old man smiled silently to himself. And later in the morning, when he saw the shards of broken wine cups and wine jars piled up in the verandah outside Mirza’s room and saw the stains the wine had made on the floor as it dribbled across the paving stones, he sent a silent prayer to heaven that this would last.

  The lovers met each night and made love each night, as if there would be no other. Then, at the end of the week, as she turned to go, Mirza reached out and caught Sohni’s hand and held her back. “This is not enough,” he whispered, “this coming together like thieves in the darkness of the night. I want more, I need more. I need to meet you in the day to see your face. I need to talk of all the things that lovers talk about.”

  “And have me become the talk of the town?” she snapped back, but in her heart she knew that he was right. She, too, had begun to crave what he did. These meetings at night had become insufficient now.

  “There is a thick copse of trees on the left bank of the river, two miles from the town. It is a haunted place and no one goes to it. We could meet there. Will you wait for me there?”

  “Today and every day. And if you do not come, it is no matter, for I will know that it is only because you cannot come and you will come when you can.”

  And so they met, in the copse, when they could. They would talk of all the things that lovers talk about and more. At last, they felt they knew each other. They would make love, passionate and fulfilling love, but the making of love ceased to be the focus of their meetings. They learnt much from each other, especially she from him, because he was older and more experienced of the world.

  “We are burdened by our mortality,” he said to her one day. “And in all that we do and in all that we try to achieve, we fight this mortality, hoping somehow to become immortal. But it is all futile! The only measure of immortality that we can ever gain, is in the way we affect the lives of others. If we are good to them, the good comes back to us. So we must learn to curb all that is evil and hurtful in us and only let our goodness go out to others.”

  And at another time he said, “We are all playthings in the hands of destiny. But we do not believe this. We dream and we plot and plan to make our dreams come true. Then, with one sweep of the hand, Allah dashes all our dreams and all our schemes to pieces. All that we must do, is make the most of what we have, make the most of now.”

  They learnt of each other’s habits and each other’s preferences. He learnt that, though she did not attach much importance to food, there was one delicacy that she could not resist: Mahasheer, caught fresh from the river, roasted lightly on a thin piece of slate and sprinkled lightly with lemon juice and salt. He took to catching fish while he waited for her and, when she came, cooked it for her. As he watched her eat, all the love of the world was in his eyes and when the juices dribbled down the side of her mouth as she ate, he reached out and wiped them away, as gently as you would wipe the mouth of a child.

  It was a safe place, the corpse, and as Sohni had said, no one came close to it. For months, their meetings remained screened from the eyes of others. Then, lulled into a false security by the safety of the place, the lovers became careless. Their comings and goings were noticed, first by one, and then by many others and soon Hyderabad was buzzing with the gossip.

  It was not long before the gossip reached Tulla’s ears. “People talk of Sohni and Mirza,” he said to his wife one night when he was sure that Sohni had gone to sleep, “and it is not well that they talk.”

  The old woman had seen the stars in her daughter’s eyes but had not read their meaning. She had deceived herself into believing that the gleam was the natural result of oncoming womanhood.

  “People have seen them alone
together and it is said they are lovers.” The woman did not say anything but she knew the truth of what her husband said as surely as if she had seen them with her own eyes.

  “What will we do now?” the old man said and there was great weariness in his voice. “Our honour is all that we have and that too has been reduced to dust.”

  “It is not too late. We must take matters in hand and arrange her marriage as quickly as we can.”

  “Who will marry her now, when all know that she has become Mirza’s plaything?”

  The old woman knew this to be true. They had known that their daughter was beauteous beyond compare, so beautiful that she drew admiring glances wherever she went; that people were compelled to look at her again when they had looked at her once. They had hoped that with such beauty, she would marry well. Of course, they were pragmatic people, Tulla and his wife, and they knew that even with her great beauty, there would be no handsome prince waiting in the wings, to come and claim her. But they had hoped that she would find a handsome young man in their community, who would love and cherish her and give her all the happiness he could. But this hope, too, was now dashed to the ground.

  The mother cast her mind around and she knew that they had just one chance – Sheru, the son of Baba Nizam, her husband’s cousin. He was a widower, much older than Sohni, ugly, surly, indolent and given much to wine. His parents had made a bid for Sohni’s hand two years ago, a bid that Tulla and his wife had brushed gently and firmly aside. But all their gentleness had been of no avail, because Nizam had taken the refusal to heart and, smarting under the insult, had cut off all contact with Tulla’s family. Yet, in spite of all this, Nizam was their only hope. They must put all their dreams, their self-respect aside and grovel at Nizam’s feet and beg for Sheru’s hand. He might still refuse, but the old woman thought otherwise because she had often seen the burning lust in Sheru’s eyes as he cast them over Sohni’s young body.