THE STEADY STREAM of love, affection, and respect showered on the Baba and Krishna by their hosts was helping their wounds to heal. It was natural that the loss of their closest relatives, the destruction of their homes and property, the forced exile from their land would have pushed the old man and the girl into the very depths of the valley of despair. But the sense of belonging provided by this small family had succeeded in gradually lifting their spirits.
The Baba, of course, had absorbed many a painful blow and seen plenty of ups and downs during his long years. That gave him the resilience and strength to deal with the murder of his only son, the abduction of his daughter-in-law and the catastrophic loss suffered by his closest friend’s family, although the lacerations in his heart did let out a cry of anguish from time to time. But what about the delicate eighteen-year-old girl who had been happy as a bulbul chirping amongst the flowers as she grew up under the protective shadow of the Baba? How did she deal with such a massive tragedy? The way she had managed to knit herself into the fabric of this family to fill the void in her life was nothing short of a miracle. Their warmth and care were like a balm for Krishna’s broken heart. Kesar Kaur had taken the place of her mother; and the yawning emptiness left by the demise of her older brother and of the one who had meant even more to her than her real brother—that emptiness had been filled by a young man who had appeared like a salve for her tortured soul. Even more important for her was the fact that her Baba had survived and was still around as a guardian angel. Every moment of his presence was like a breath of life for her.
So, you could say that Krishna was fairly well-adjusted into her new life. She had not only recovered from her own trauma but was even helping others to heal. Her job as a teacher in the makeshift school in their lane had given her a livelihood and a renewed sense of confidence. Her gentle demeanour and hard work had quickly won her the trust of the students and their parents and there was a consensus that she should get a proper appointment once the main school re-opened.
In addition to Urdu, she had also become proficient in reading Gurmukhi and had managed to go through a sizeable chunk of Satnam’s library. In a short span of time, her life had acquired a new set of wings that had her flying on a kind of trajectory that she could only have dreamt about. She was brimming with energy and enthusiasm, with ideas and ideals.
And yet, something was missing. The major wounds had healed but underneath their scars lay an abscess that would unexpectedly send a spasm of pain that could leave her off-balance and disoriented for hours. That ache in the depths of her heart seemed to awaken each time she went to the rooftop and peered across the low parapet into their neighbour’s courtyard. The sight of a small mango tree in the courtyard would singe her soul, take her mind back to the slender leaves of the one in her own courtyard. Every leaf, every branch of that tree was laden with memories of a childhood friend whose spirit seemed to be hovering around that mango tree.
She’d often chide herself, ‘What was so special about that fellow anyway? Such an unruly, stubborn, and immoral young man. Didn’t know how to talk or behave. Devoid of any redeeming trait. A thief and hooligan, immature, and ready to do anything for his whims. How could a blighter like him leave such an indelible imprint on every little nook of my heart that I can’t erase it, no matter how much I try?’ The poor girl seemed unaware that since the image had been imprinted on her heart without her permission, it wasn’t going to leave just because she wanted it to.
Pain of any kind tends to be distressing but try to imagine a pain that has no remedy, one that you can’t speak about to a single soul, you can’t even wince when it punches you in the gut, let alone cry out loud or shed a tear. How do you bear a pain like that?
There were times when Krishna would be sitting in solitude, tormented by this nagging ache and looking for some source of strength that would alleviate the pain or at least help her cope with it. And a frail, grey-haired Sufi fakir would appear before her eyes, swaying gently as he sang those verses that had become a part of her consciousness:
Let Allah o Allah be your song
And leave those sighs, so painful and long…
Wasting away those tears of yours
Like pearls ripped, from a necklace dear.
Grief that lies in this heart of yours
Just let it be and have no fear.
Let Allah o Allah be your song
And leave those sighs, so painful and long.
‘Just let it be and have no fear.’ A simple phrase that reflects a lifetime’s learning and experience. So easy to sing, but is it as easy to practice it in when it comes to your own life? She’d pose the question to herself, and the answer would always be a resounding ‘no’. The fakir’s song didn’t quite have the effect of a bucket of water that extinguishes the fire, but it did act like a heavy lid that covered the fire and reduced its intensity.
But how long would this work—a day, two days, maybe four? Yes, the fire would be supressed for a while, but it would be just an illusion. The lid, in fact, was made of inflammable material; it appeared to be heavy because it was damp. But once the heat below had dried the dampness, it was like fresh firewood that quickly fuelled the flame to a new intensity.
Krishna recalled the verses of the fakir and also read other poems and essays in an effort to smother the inferno within her heart, only to see it ignite again and again with renewed vigour. The circle of life continued amidst these recurrent outbreaks of fire and her relentless efforts to control it. On the face of it, she was leading a contented and fulfilling life. But the fires stoked by the festering abscess in her heart also continued unabated. To her friends and neighbours, she was a cheerful soul who could lift their spirits with her ready smile. None had any idea of the smouldering embers within her.
During her early days in Kesar Kaur’s home, she had observed Satnam’s serious and somewhat aloof disposition and had concluded that the man must be somewhat self-obsessed and disinterested in engaging with those around him. But her perspective changed as she started interacting with him through the course of her Gurmukhi lessons and got to know him better. His reserved nature, his measured speech, and his civic spirit were traits that she had grown to admire.
It was that part of the evening when the final rays of sunset are spreading a crimson hue over the darkening sky. The Baba was chatting with a couple of patients in the lobby. Kesar Kaur had gone to visit a neighbour and Munni and a couple of other girls from the lane were busy fussing over a pair of dolls in the room upstairs. After weeks of intense concentration, Krishna had finally mastered a few intricate knitting patterns and was working away in her room on a jumper for Satnam. She paused for a while, letting the knitting needles with the unfinished jumper rest on her knees as her mind drifted to the two poems she had read in the morning. She had memorized most of the text, but a few lines were still eluding her as she silently recited them.
Kesar Kaur was back to check if the sabzi for dinner had been cooked properly. Satisfied, she removed the pot and kept the griddle on the fire to make some chapatis. ‘Tell Munni to come down, dinner is ready,’ she instructed Kanhaiya. ‘Munni doesn’t seem too well,’ he came back and reported. ‘She has a headache and Krishna bibi is massaging her temples.’
She dashed upstairs and saw Munni lying in bed. Krishna was sitting by her side, caressing her forehead. Kesar Kaur knew from experience that a headache like this was usually the first sign of fever. Sure enough, she touched the child’s face and confirmed that the fever was rising.
‘I had this strong feeling,’ she looked at Krishna as she spoke. ‘I was sure that this girl is going to fall ill. Her feet don’t touch this house for a moment. Always out and about in the lane.’
‘Please don’t scold her, Maasi ji,’ Krishna pleaded.
‘You must have seen that she barely touched her food at lunch. I sensed that she was going to occupy this bed pretty soon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Krishna replied. ‘Bapu ji is preparing some medicine for her. He says that she has a problem in her gut.’
‘Bhabo,’ Munni wheezed as she looked guiltily at her mother. ‘My head really hurts.’
‘Maybe you should have spent some more time prancing around in the lane,’ Kesar Kaur’s voice was laced with affection even as she tried to display her annoyance. She gave Munni a hug and pulled her into her lap.
They heard the tap of the Baba’s walking stick as he entered the room carrying a small brass bowl. He dipped his index finger into the bowl and applied a thick paste on the child’s forehead. His other hand fished out a small black tablet from a pocket in his vest which he asked her to swallow with a sip of water.
Satnam came home after an hour and saw that Munni was in Krishna’s room, her head resting in the girl’s lap. The child’s face was flushed with fever and she appeared to be in a stupor, barely acknowledging his presence as he approached her.
Once dinner was over, Kesar Kaur wanted to take Munni upstairs but gave in to Krishna’s insistence that she would attend to the child. Munni was frequently breaking into a sweat and the Baba had advised that she should be protected from the hot summer breeze. The black tablet was administered to bring down the fever by allowing her to sweat.