It is lunchtime—always a joyous event—at the Trinjan. Everyone brings out small bundles of lunches wrapped in cloth, unrolls rotis, uncovers small earthenware jars of crushed onions and chutneys. A woman, whose husband had killed several boddards125 the week before when he went hunting with Lakhmi Das, has brought some peahen pickle she shares with everyone. There is a collective outcry of delight as women lick their fingers and cry, “Give us the recipe!”
“I tried to make peacock pickle but it wasn’t anything like this,” a woman says.
“Because females are tastier than males,” the pickle maker responds, to much laughter.
“But males are more beautiful with their thousand-eyed feathers fanned.”
“My hens look so ordinary while the cocks are so majestic,” one comments.
“Human males are beautiful, too!” Bissy, the bride-to-be, says.
“Your man is handsome!” A young girl smiles.
“And rich!” says another.
“I love this boddard pickle,” Bissy says, licking her fingers.
“We shouldn’t kill the boddards,” a vegetarian scolds. “The birds will die out without the females. Why do we eat such beautiful creatures, anyway? It is such a brutal thing to do!”
“I have a pet peacock couple that comes to my chabaara126 daily. They eat corn from my hand,” another relates. “I wish I didn’t eat them, but I am tied to my tongue. When I return from the fields after a day of heavy labor, and my husband has brought home a kill, I eat it.”
There is a lull in the conversation, each woman examining her own relationship to the brutal fact of eating fellow creatures.
“You once said that everything that exists, exists in God’s Great Heart, even evil and smallness, greed and lust, Bebe Nanaki. Then why should anyone be good if we all end up in the same place anyway?” a woman addresses herself to Nanaki.
“Perhaps it’s not a question of ending up anywhere but being here now. The present is everything. And here, in this Now, there is so very much to be gained by being good. The path of kindness and compassion is its own reward. Though there is suffering in every path, with goodness suffering takes wings and poison becomes nectar. This is the path that leads to God’s Heart—you fly into it instead of creeping along. On the other path, you perish before you get there. You don’t even glimpse paradise, you live and perish in Hell.”
“Which is also in God’s Heart?”
“Yes,” replies Nanaki. “Yes. If it weren’t so, how could sinners be redeemed?”
Bissy turns to Bebe Nanaki and confesses innocently, “Bebe jee, Baba is always warning us against Maya, but I have to admit I love it in all its forms! Clothes, jewelry, a nice big clean house, servants, soft beds and silken sheets, I love it all! I love these gold jhumkas127 with tiny coral beads my in-laws gave me for thaaka.128 I want more, with different-colored stones.”
“And that is why the All Knowing has blessed you with a rich man,” Bebe Nanaki laughs.
“I find I am also a little greedy. When I see something beautiful I want it!”
“I wanted the gypsy woman’s skirt!” Shai Tani admits. “I loved it so much!”
“And I love pretty stones that the river brings, and smooth pieces of wood, soft wool, and, of course, rababs!” Aziza adds.
“The other day I recited Baba’s Japji in the hope that I will stop wanting things, but came to the conclusion that my wanting was also the Great Giver’s hukum,” Bissy concludes.
The women laugh.
“There’s nothing wrong with loving lovely things,” Bebe Nanaki says gently. “God made the beautiful material world to be loved. All forms of Maya, whether natural or man-made are reminders of the beauty of the Creator. I love flowers, trees, sunrise, and sunset, the river as it winds its way to the sea, birds in flight, and lovely silken dupattas!”
“My father used to say that humans go astray because of the senses,” a woman says. “Does Baba also believe that?”
Nanaki laughs.
“How wonderful the senses are! On his travels Baba met a Brahmin who kept his eyes closed so he wouldn’t get any pleasure from them. He said that with his eyes closed he saw the secrets of the world. Baba took his lota and hid it behind him. Not being able to find it, the Brahmin got very agitated. Baba said, ‘If you know the secrets of the world, how come you don’t know your lota is right behind you?’ ”
“Now that I have Bebe Nanaki’s approval, I will enjoy it all!” Bissy exults.
“You will enjoy it more if you are not attached to your enjoyment, Bissy. Nothing is ours. Be ready to sacrifice it all when the Beloved’s hand reaches out for it. Separated from Akaal Purukh, Maya is just trash and a trap. Let me tell you a story as we work on Bissy’s phulkari about a woman who had forgotten the Beloved in her pursuit of Maya and how Baba awakened her.”
“But before you tell it, can I ask a question, Bebe Nanaki?” Aziza asks, diffidently.
“Of course you can,” Bebe Nanaki says, opening wide her arms. Aziza goes into them and allows herself to be hugged. “Ask, child.”
“What does Baba mean by the ‘anahad’129 shabad? I understand and love sound, music, words, that which my ears can hear, but what is the Unheard?”
“Ah!” Bebe Nanaki says, shutting her eyes. She is quiet a long time, and silence reigns in the hall.
“Can you hear this silence? You can hear anahad if you listen carefully, between the notes, between sa and re, the pause between them, the silence that makes all sound possible. It is the pause between two words, without which there would be no communication. Take another example: the anahad, which means unlimited, without end, is the invisible fabric of this world upon which everything that exists is woven, embroidered. It is the primal, invisible base and fundamental to all that is visible and heard.”
“Sufis call the primal sound saute surmad, the tone that fills the cosmos,” Nasreen adds. Aziza’s head swivels around in amazement at her mother.
“Ami, how do you know this?”
“I know a lot of things you don’t think I know,” Nasreen replies.
Aziza feels in awe of her mother. She asks, “Have you heard it, Ami?”
“Sometimes. Between the clattering of pots and pans,” Nasreen replies.
“Have you heard it, Bebe Nanaki?” Aziza asks.
“You don’t just hear it but become it when you fine-tune your body by listening to it, the way you listen to the notes of the rabab when you tune it. Ah, then you become the instrument that resonates unheard harmonies. I know you will experience it, little one, if you continue on the path of singing, making it your daily practice, the very heart of your day.”
Lunch is over and they all move to the communal task of embroidering Bissy’s phulkari, which is spread out on darees, eager to hear Bebe Nanaki’s story. The cotton cloth had been spun, sewn together, and dyed a dull madder red in earlier Trinjan meetings, and the intricate geometric pattern interspersed with flowers traced upon it. The central flower and much of the adjoining pattern is so well and densely embroidered that the foundation does not show. The women pick their colors of red, yellow, white, and orange silken floss and gather around the phulkari, each working on her own little corner.
“What is the story called?” Aziza asks Bebe Nanaki.
“The Golden Needle.”
“I know it!” Aziza cries. “Daadu told it to me! Daadi Jaan knows it too, but Ami doesn’t.”
“Where do I have time for stories?” Nasreen replies sadly. Aziza’s heart goes out to her mother.
“In his travels with Bhai Mardana jee, Baba came to a town where Duni Chand lived with his wife, Savitri. Though Duni Chand has made it into the pages of history, his wife hasn’t, but let me bring her in. Duni Chand had a reputation for being one of those unusual men who was good, honest, and wealthy, a rare combination. His wife, the source of his wealth, embroidered shawls.”
“In purples, violets, blues, and indigos,” Aziza adds. “And they were not topaas, but fine, fine stiches like Bebe Nanaki’s.”
“Yes, very fine, elegant work with well-crafted needles and silk threads on the finest of woven wools, with not a stitch out of place, everything aligned to the design, beautiful in conception, execution, and symmetry,” Bebe Nanaki describes. “She employed a hundred Kashmiri embroiderers, and her customers were the royalty of the country, rich merchants and businessmen. Duni Chand and his wife were good people who welcomed wandering holy men, minstrels, and housed them in a building they had made especially for them in their rambling compound. Their home was a luxurious palace. When Baba and Mardana jee arrived at the gate … ”
“Let’s describe the palace some more!” Bissy says. “The palace was surrounded by Moghul gardens that Savitri had personally designed with the help of the best architects and renowned gardeners. Fountains, miniature rivers of paradise, geometric designs, flowering bushes and trees with different-colored flowers and trellises upon trellises of roses, fruit trees, and mulberries. But their extensive property was surrounded by sprawling hovels of beggars, poor people, naked, hungry children, and starving cows and dogs,” Nanaki adds.
“Kids with snotty noses, no shoes, torn shirts or no shirts, their ribs showing, hungry dogs sniffing empty streets,” Aziza embellishes.
“When Baba and Mardana jee arrived at their gate, Duni Chand himself received them. He was most kind. Baba and Mardana jee were fed well, pampered with baths, massages, beds with clean sheets, and all the comfort we can imagine. Weary from their travels, they stayed for several days. Every morning and evening they sang and Duni Chand, but not Savitri, attended. She was too busy with her business. They had heard she was very beautiful and very proud of her beauty and skill. They saw paintings of her on the wall, all bedecked in silken clothes and jewels. Though Duni Chand attended Baba and Bhai Mardana’s kirtan, they got the feeling that he was lukewarm in his devotions, that he did it more out of a sense of duty than love. His passion lay in business, in accumulating and managing his wealth. Proud of his estate, he gave them a tour of his home, gardens, stables to show off his Kabuli horses and European buggies made of silver.
“On the way to the building that housed the embroiderers, Baba stooped and picked up something from the dirt. It was a needle made of gold. It caught a beam of light and shone brilliantly.
“ ‘Baba, this is Savitri’s favorite needle! She has been looking for it everywhere! She will be so happy to get this back!’ Duni Chand exclaimed, eagerly reaching for it. ‘It is made of solid gold and made by one of our famous goldsmiths.’ ”
“I have a favorite needle, too; this one!” one of the women at the Trinjan cries. “I have had it twenty years. I keep it pinned to me. I packed it in my dowry, pinned it to my wedding dress, in fact, as a symbol and reminder to mend the tears between my husband and myself as soon as they showed themselves. But that night I forgot it and my husband screamed out because it pierced him.”
“He got poked while his needle was poking you!” Shai Tani jokes. Some women laugh out loud while others were offended.
“This needle is easy to thread and it is so smooth it never snags on the cloth but goes in and out easily,” the woman continued.
“Goes in and out so easily!” Shai Tani repeats.
There is more laughter and more annoyance.
“The shadows are lengthening. Let me go on with my story,” Bebe Nanaki says. “Duni Chand was about to run back to the house to tell Savitri about the happy recovery of her needle when he stopped and said, reluctantly, ‘But Baba, since you found it, keep it. My wife has others, I know, because I got some more made from the goldsmith and she loves them.’ ”
“ ‘I don’t want it,’ Baba said.
“ ‘I insist,’ Duni Chand said magnanimously.
“ ‘All right,’ Baba said, taking it and looking at it. ‘But keep it for me for the time being. I don’t have a place for it. I will take it from you in the afterlife.’
“Duni Chand laughed at the joke, took the needle and pinned it to his shawl for safekeeping. Later that evening, Baba and Mardana sang for several hours and were about to retire for the night when Duni Chand returned, accompanied by his wife.
“Savitri fell at Baba’s feet.
“ ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for opening my sewn-shut eyes.’
“Duni Chand explained in a confused sort of way:
“ I took the needle to her and explained how you had found it and how I had offered it to you and you had said, ‘I will take it from you in the afterlife.’ She looked at me blankly, her jaw dropped, her eyes grew wide, and she sat totally still for a while. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked her, and she cried ‘You fool! You fool. Don’t you understand that we cannot take anything with us? Not even a needle? There are no pockets in shrouds, nor in our bodies?’ ‘I’m not a fool,’ I replied. ‘I know that!’ ‘No, you don’t! You say you know it but you don’t,’ she cried, casting away the shawl she was embroidering, and then she ran to you.
“Duni Chand’s wife began to take off all the jewels she was wearing and heaped them at Baba’s feet.
“ ‘Bibi, sell them and do some good with the money,’ Baba said.
“ ‘You’re a wise, enlightened man,’ Duni Chand said. ‘Baba, please show us a way so we never have to part with our wealth. Look at all these expensive things I love so much! If I put them in storage before I die, could you ensure that when I reincarnate I can have them again?’
“ ‘You can take untold riches into your next life, but not these baubles,’ Baba replied. Duni Chand fell at his feet and prayed to know how his wealth might accompany him. Baba Nanak answered, ‘Give some of it away in God’s name, feed the poor, nurture the sick and the feeble with your funds, and that portion shall accompany you.’
“ ‘Baba,’ Savitri said, ‘Give us your understanding and wisdom. Teach us how we may live well in this life and in the next.’
“Baba said, ‘She alone is known as the Lord’s bride who embroiders her gown with the Name If a woman becomes virtuous and turn her heart into a thread, the Beloved will string Himself on it like a priceless gem.’
“While Duni Chand was still disturbed at the thought of leaving his treasure behind one day, Savitri was really affected by Baba’s words. Baba was affected, too, for his eyes closed, and his face became softly emotional as bani came to him.”
“Daadu Jaan took out his rabab and sat down, like this,” Aziza demonstrates, holding her rabab and playing the alaap of Siree raag.
“Savitri and Duni Chand did exactly what Baba told them to do,” Nanaki says, picking up her rabab. “They built smaller buildings for the poor, opened schools, hospitals, free kitchens, and also a shelter for stray animals.”
Both of them play chords to whose accompaniment Bebe Nanaki explains the meaning of the shabad they are about to sing: “When the pitcher of the body bursts, there is terrible pain; those who are caught by the Minister of Death regret and repent. Crying out, ‘Mine! Mine!’ They depart, leaving their bodies, their wealth, and their loved ones. Without the Name wealth makes you lose your way.”
After her translation and explanation, Bebe Nanaki and Aziza play and sing together:
ghat binsai dukh aglo jam pakrhai pachhutaa-ay,
mayree mayree kar ga-ay tan dhan kalat na saath
bin naavai dhan baad hai bhoolo maarag aath
The shadows are beginning to melt, and they all know their Trinjan day is fast coming to an end. Shai Tani picks up her dholak and says in her characteristic way, “Come, come, this child Bissy is about to get married. Let’s prepare her for what is to come with some songs.”
Many earthy, gutsy, exuberant, bawdy songs are sung to much merriment. In the middle of their singing, Bhai Buddha walks into the Trinjan. All the women look up. It is highly unusual for a male to walk in. His face looks drawn and sad. He stands and looks at the women, his gaze moving from Mata Sulakhni to Nanaki, who are sitting close by. He hesitates a moment, then walks up to them and whispers. Mata Sulakhni screams while Nanaki stands up, her dupatta and thread falling to the floor. Bhai Buddha escorts them out, the women collapsing on either side of him.
A flutter of fear, a shudder runs through the women as they whisper to each other, “Something has happened. Something dreadful has happened to their family.”
125. Peahens, which are drabber-looking than peacocks.
126. The rooftop of a village home is connected with the roofs of other homes with a small wall between them. A great deal of social interaction, including love trysts, takes place on the chabaara.
127. Dangling earrings.
128. A pre-engagement ceremony where the boy and girl are promised to each other.
129. Unheard sound. Explained in detail below.