CITY FOLK WILL find it hard to comprehend the sheer exultation and rapture that the monsoon season brings to our villages. The girls of the village seem to live for the moment when they can celebrate the festivities of monsoon. The tree swings are in action and ‘higher, faster, louder’ seems to be the motto as the girls reach gravity-defying heights. They would gladly trade a lifetime in the heavens for the exhilaration of a single oscillation as they stand on the slim plank, grasping the twin ropes, and heaving their bodies into motion. The older women and the young are equally keen to join the merriment. Newlywed brides will travel a hundred miles from their in-laws’ home if required, but they will make it a point to be at their parents’ home during the monsoons.
It was still quite early in the morning. The sky was overcast and it had been raining steadily since dawn. The Baba had gone to check on a patient down the lane, Kesar Kaur was busy in a gossip session at the neighbour’s place, and Munni, who had literally seen a rebirth after a prolonged illness, was lying on Krishna’s bed and chatting with her. Post-recovery, she had developed this insecurity of constantly wanting Krishna by her side. No sooner had Krishna left for some errand that her calls for ‘Bhenji! Bhenji!’ would begin.
Krishna was standing under the black iron bars of the mugh with her arms outstretched. The mugh on the top floor had been left uncovered and raindrops coming through the bars were falling on her palms as she stood in a pose tailormade for an accomplished photographer. She was facing the room where Munni was lying in bed and had her back towards the main door. Her eyes were turned up towards the mugh, while her mind was playing out monsoon scenes from her village.
Fat drops of rain fell on her palms and ricocheted outwards in a gentle spray. The girl’s reverie was shattered abruptly when someone caught hold of her hand and pushed it downwards as an angry voice roared, ‘Have you forgotten your lesson, girl? How many times have I told you that you can’t stretch your hands out like that. Are you seeking alms or what?’
Such rage on the lips of her caring, affectionate Bapu ji? And the fury in his eyes! This was, perhaps, only the second time in her life that she had seen the Baba get so angry with her. The first time had been four or five months ago when Satnam had approached her while distributing chapatis among the new refugee arrivals and she had extended her hand to receive them. Then, too, the Baba had vehemently pulled her hand away.
She took a step back in fear. The wrath in the Baba’s eyes blew away like a leaf caught in the pre-monsoon breeze. His anger was replaced by the familiar expression of fatherly love. He stepped forward and pulled her close, his lips trembling as he spoke, ‘My child! Please don’t mind my words, my dear. These eyes of mine cannot bear the sight of you standing with your hands outstretched like that, even if you are doing it in jest. The moment I see you in that posture, I remember the words uttered by your father moments before he died. He had told me, “Don’t ever let my children hold their palms out before anyone.”’
Krishna clasped her arms around the Baba’s waist. A flood of old memories came rushing to her.
The Baba went to his room to hunt for some medicines and left after a while. He appeared to have come to fetch something that his patient needed urgently.
It was Sunday and Krishna had a fair amount of time on her hands. There were no classes with the girls and the Baba’s clinic was also closed. She went to lie down in her room as soon as the Baba left, her mind on the council’s meeting today as she waited for Satnam to return. Her thoughts had turned towards the rising tide of communal violence. She had spent many a sleepless night worrying about the seemingly inexorable trend where every attempt to quell the fires saw the flames rise even higher. Krishna prayed to the Almighty for a divine power that would help her bring a quick halt to the senseless bloodshed. But who could say when such a miracle might happen, if at all.
She had been restless all morning. The unending flow of reports in local papers about carnage in neighbouring towns and villages and the deteriorating situation in Amritsar itself had created a poison in the atmosphere that was suffocating her. But the Baba’s reference to their past had brought back memories that carried her away into a very different time and space. They managed to strum the long dormant chords of her mind’s veena and transported her into a world of music, dance and merriment. A string of memories swiftly unfolded, one scene playing after another in the kaleidoscope of her mind as she drifted in and out of the visuals.
Love and anger, meeting and separation, joy and anguish. An array of contradictory emotions was getting entangled in ways that left Krishna dangling between the heavens and the netherworld. One dimension allowed her aspirations to soar among the clouds, the other threatened to crash them into the ground. She felt her heart sink as she oscillated from one pole to the other.
She got up in frustration, walked across to the adjacent room, picked up a slim book and turned to a page, her eyes indifferent as she gazed at it. There was just one short verse printed in the middle—the rest of the page was blank. These poets can be quite cavalier in their methods, she thought. What was the point of wasting an entire page on just two lines? She read the verse carefully, then read it again before closing her eyes to soak in its import. Those two lines appeared to capture the entire story of her life, not just the past but also the present. The verse was titled ‘A Crane Separated from its Flock’, and it read:
Swaying with these flowers is a joy for sure
And yet, my heart sinks
Staring at these lines, Krishna felt that the verse had taken the form of the koonj, the demoiselle crane that makes its hazardous winter journey from distant lands. Like the plaintive cry of a crane that has been separated from its flock and is flying on its own in the vast blue sky, the two lines stood alone in the white expanse of the page. She soon imagined the crane perched in a verdant garden, swaying gently on a branch amidst the fragrance of blossoms. But the crane’s thoughts have drifted to the joy of flying with her companions and it sobs as it recalls the picturesque banks of a river in a distant land and sings:
Swaying with these flowers is a joy for sure
And yet, my heart sinks
Krishna imagined that she, too, was like that koonj. The lush valleys of the Pothohar, the grassy banks of the Soan, joyous swims in its cool waters, singing and dancing with the girls till the wee hours on moonlit nights, the games played under the warm embrace of the pipal tree. The monsoon rains, soaring in gay abandon on swings under the acacia and jujube trees, the aroma of sweet pooras being fried in simmering ghee, the special songs of the season … these scenes unfolded in her mind in quick succession.
‘My land! My home! My watan! Oh, the joy of that simple word! My “watan”!’
For a while, her disillusionment with the bloodshed and violence in the world around her evaporated. Fountains of blood bursting out of wounded bodies, homes going up in flames and other haunting images dimmed briefly. Krishna had stepped into a realm of romance and fantasy.
The tryst with fantasy didn’t last long. The idealized pictures of her beloved watan were also getting tarnished and smeared with blood. A voice rose within her, ‘Krishna! Which watan are you dreaming about? That land and those people who snatched your two loving brothers from you? The one that robbed your adoptive father of his wealth? No, Krishna, no. That isn’t your home. That is now the land of murderers and plunderers…’
Even as the two opposing thoughts jostled with one another, a third image stayed firmly embedded in her kaleidoscope—a young mango tree with long, tender leaves standing in the middle of a courtyard. With the innocence of a carefree child, Krishna allowed her mind to push aside the other issues so that it could linger around the tree. ‘I am sure it would have borne fruit this season. It must have hundreds of little green mangoes, swaying on their branches as they wait to ripen. And they are going to be so, so sweet when they are ripe. Will they turn out to be as large and delicious as the one I had with Yusuf on a moonlit night? A mango so large it has to be sliced up like a melon before you can eat it!’
‘A mango that must be sliced with a knife!’ The thought sent shockwaves through her body, each wave creating fresh eddies in her rapidly flowing stream of thoughts. Where had they carried her? She felt strangely detached from her body, weightless and formless. She was blending into the slender pit of that mango itself.
Krishna spent the day in her own world even as she waited for Satnam. He had gone for a Unity Council meeting. The tough restrictions imposed by the curfew on the movement of women had prevented Krishna from participating.
Evening gave way to nightfall and the entire family waited for Satnam. Dinner was ready, but Munni was the only one who took a few bites. The others were worried sick about Satnam’s absence. It just wasn’t like him to be out so late without informing anyone. In times like these! Kesar Kaur and Krishna kept each other busy as they speculated over possible reasons for the delay, their anxiety mounting with every passing hour.
The familiar sound of a jeep honking as it came to a halt at the entrance of their lane finally allowed them to heave a sigh of relief.