THERE ARE TIMES when emotion starts running counter to reason. When this happens, we find that our life’s journey has meandered away from its original course and placed us on some unknown path. There is a fork in the path, and we are unable to decide which way will be comfortable, and which one will be fraught with hardship. Our emotions often try to lead us astray, while the strength of our reason tries to bring us back to the right path.
Naseem spent much of the night undulating between the two currents. Boote Shah’s words had left her in a state of turmoil. Her attempts to analyse the situation logically were beginning to falter and she found herself being drawn ever deeper into the quagmire of her emotions.
Yusuf was her childhood friend, a headstrong fellow about whom she possessed a bucketful of memories, good and bad. Although she couldn’t erase those memories, she had somehow succeeded in setting them aside so that she could continue with her life. And yet, here he was again, seemingly present in every pore of her consciousness.
Before moving to Baba Bhana’s house, Naseem had lived in her old home that was next door to Yusuf’s place. The only child in his family, Yusuf had been spoilt silly by his parents and grandparents and developed a reputation for being aggressive and a bit of a bully even when he was a little boy. But he was also the clear leader amongst his contemporaries when it came to popular sports like kabbadi and gulli-danda. Growing up in the village, he had a robust physique, fair complexion and blue eyes that always sparkled with a hint of mischief.
Naseem and Yusuf had been friends since childhood, but at some point that friendship turned into affection and the affection bloomed into love. She wasn’t too sure about the timeline of this progression. But she was aware that her relationship with Yusuf was a bit like that tale of the man who bought a baby monkey because he found it cute. He showered his love and affection on the baby monkey, but as it grew up, its destructive antics became quite intolerable. The man still loved the monkey, but he also knew that they had to part. He eventually ended up paying some money to divest himself of the burden.
It is said that love blossoms when there is a meeting of minds. Naseem and Yusuf were as far apart in their character as the sky is from the earth and yet, there was some invisible thread that seemed to bind them. A girl as gentle as Naseem in love with a fellow as mercurial as Yusuf? The ways of the Lord are truly beyond the ken of mere mortals!
That night seemed endless. A multitude of thoughts assaulted Naseem’s consciousness, each wave cascading into a thousand streams. Images from years gone by rolled before her eyes, a new film playing every hour, usually featuring Yusuf in some form. The sequence of random thoughts and images continued until she heard the night watchman sound his customary ‘Beware!’ The three taps from his stick told her that three quarters of the night had passed, and dawn was approaching. Her eyes felt raw and gritty, as though sleep had taken the form of tiny grains of sand.
There is a certain sweetness about sleep but there is also a bitter taste when it eludes you. Naseem’s eyes were brimming with the two contrasts, as was her heart. Did she love him or did she loathe him? Or was it both? Like a pool of pure nectar that has been sullied by adding the venom of a snake. Her mind sifted through page after page of the book that captured every detail of her relationship with Yusuf. Each incident linked with Yusuf was examined minutely in an attempt to prepare a balance sheet of love and loathing. Did it show that love was the dominant sentiment? Naseem couldn’t be sure.
In evaluating Yusuf’s behaviour, Naseem acknowledged that he would do things for her that he wouldn’t deign doing for anyone else, things that no one could possibly associate with him. Who could imagine this impish lad, insouciant to the core, searching for new ways to win Naseem’s affections! And what about his other side? The slightest argument between them would provoke him into violence. Always the same story. He hits her. She cries. He can’t bear to see the tears in her eyes. He kneels before her and pleads that she forgive him.
And then? Then her heart melts. The anger and tears in her eyes are replaced by warmth and affection. Oh! How many times did they fight and make up in this manner? Only the Lord knows.
Lying in her bed, Naseem’s thoughts went to an incident during the harvest season when they were kids. Both families’ kept their harvest of freshly winnowed corn next to each other’s and someone had to keep an eye on the large heaps to prevent the odd thief from decamping with a sackful. This was a nice excuse for the elders to get together with their hookahs and gossip late into the night.
Yusuf and Naseem would take advantage to scamper off to a large lasura tree nearby and chat for hours, narrating stories or talking about other boys and girls. The conversation would often turn towards exotic fruits or other delicacies. Something like, ‘Our melons last year were just amazing! This April should see our jujube tree, the one near the well, flower quite nicely…’ etc.
That evening, Yusuf suddenly exclaimed, ‘Hey Seema! Have you ever seen those Shimla peas? The ones that Ida’s family have planted? I must say that I was absolutely amazed when I saw them.’ Joining his fingertips together to extend his palms, he nudged her, ‘Look, Seema! Their pods are this big! And the peas taste so good … as sweet as our jaggery. God knows where they got the seeds?’
‘Ida’s chacha lives in the city. He must have bought the seeds there and sent them across. I’ve seen the plants, but I must say I haven’t tasted the peas,’ Naseem replied.
They met again at the lasura tree the following evening and Yusuf reached behind the tree trunk to pull out a small bundle. Carefully opening the package, he spread out a dozen or so pods of the Shimla peas before her.
‘Where did you get these from, Ranjheya?’ Naseem asked in surprise.
‘Near Ida’s well.’
‘How come?’
‘For you, of course.’
‘Did you steal them, Ranjheya?’
Yusuf was silent.
‘Please take them away,’ Naseem said in a tone that an affectionate mother might use with an errant son.
‘But I’ve brought them for you. Please try them, Seema,’ he implored.
‘Eat these? Eat these stolen peas? Are you crazy? Don’t you remember what Baba Bhanaji told us during our lesson the other day? He said that stolen property is akin to pork for Muslims and beef for Hindus. Go on, my dear fellow. Put these back in your bundle and leave them where they belong. Please do it or I’ll never speak with you again.’
Naseem’s request was completely unpalatable for Yusuf. Her entreaties fell on deaf ears. Yusuf was adamant that he would not return the pods. The argument continued for a while, ending only when a resounding slap landed on her cheek.
And the pods? They were angrily flung to the ground and Yusuf didn’t rest till he had crushed every single one of them under his shoes.
In Naseem’s eyes, Yusuf had not only erred but made matters worse by covering up for his sin with unwarranted aggression. Her tears seemed the only deterrent that worked and she soon found Yusuf kneeling at her feet and seeking forgiveness. The entire episode—from argument to aggression, and from contrition to compassion—must have lasted no more than fifteen minutes.
There was also that other incident around the time of the Eid festivities when all kinds of firecrackers were being sold in the village. Sometime earlier, she had casually mentioned to Yusuf, ‘You know what, Ranjheya?’ Extending her hands about a foot and a half apart from each other, she continued, ‘I long for the day when we have so, so … many firecrackers. So many that you and I can sit right through the night of Eid ul-Fitr and play with them to our heart’s content.’
Naseem had made the remark in passing but Yusuf had made a mental note of it. Sure enough, soon it was the night of Eid ul-Fitr and he went up to her home and whispered, ‘Come along! I have a surprise for you.’ He led her to the backyard of his house and pushed aside a bale of hay to reveal an old carton. She was stunned to see that it was full of fireworks of different kinds—crackers, sparklers, ground spinners, fountains and what not. But her wonderment quickly turned to anger as she got him to admit that he had stolen the money from his mother’s piggybank to buy the fireworks. Kicking the carton aside, she raged, ‘You shameless wretch! Stealing during the holy month of Ramzan! You will burn in the fires of Hell!’
Yusuf stepped back in trepidation. His mother would no doubt be angry when she discovered the theft but right now, he was more anxious about Naseem’s reaction.
‘But I’ve already bought them,’ he explained plaintively. ‘What do I do with them now?’
Naseem thought for a while before responding with barely concealed fury, ‘Just hand it to me, you dimwit.’ She took the carton and marched off to her house.
Later that night when Yusuf was busy playing kabaddi with the boys, she took the carton back to his place and approached his mother. ‘Chachi, I am going to ask you for something. Will you agree?’
The entreaty of an innocent, beautiful young girl, expressed with such transparent sincerity! Even the most heartless man would find it hard to say no. There was no way that a woman, a mother would refuse her.
Once Yusuf’s mother had nodded in agreement, Naseem continued in the same earnest manner, ‘Chachi, Yusuf has committed a crime. And I’ve come to ask you to please, please forgive him.’
‘A crime? Yusuf?’
‘He has, Chachi. For God’s sake don’t get cross with him. Didn’t the Prophet say in the holy Quran that if you forgive an errant person’s sins during the month of Ramzan, you will get twice the blessings?’
Yusuf’s mother pulled Naseem to her bosom and held her in a warm embrace. Kissing her forehead, she said, ‘What can I say, my dear? The Lord knows everything. What’s new if he’s done something foolish today? He’s been like that since the day he was born.’
Memories of incidents like these, incidents big and small, flashed across Naseem’s mind as she lay still in her bed. Her thoughts drifted to another time, the day when she started to see Yusuf through the prism of romance and not merely as her childhood compatriot. She must have been around fourteen, making that transition from childhood to adolescence. Yusuf had also grown quite a bit taller and the hint of a moustache could be seen on his face. Those carefree days of playing together till late in the evening, of sitting in a quiet corner and chatting for hours … those days seemed to be receding like a distant dream. Yusuf had left the village and moved to Rawalpindi to work with his uncle.
Naseem heard one day that Yusuf had arrived in the village for the first time in a year and a half, and he was staying only for three or four days. The news hit her with the force of a tidal wave, overpowering her heart with a surge of emotions that she had never experienced before.
She spent the rest of the day and much of the night waiting for her sweetheart. She had been so sure that after a year and a half’s separation, he would turn up at her doorstep as soon as he arrived. Her spirits drooped with every passing hour, and it wasn’t till the following morning that the young daughter of one of their neighbours showed up with a message. ‘Yusuf asked you to come to the peepul tree in the grove once the other girls have finished playing.’
And what happened next? I don’t think there is any need for me to repeat all the details. Let me just say that in the four years that had elapsed, the dainty little seed of that Banarsi Langra mango has grown into a young tree which is swaying gently in Naseem’s courtyard, waiting perhaps to flower after the next monsoon rains.
Naseem hadn’t forgotten those moments before they parted, the crazed desperation with which he had sought her, the anger with which he had attacked her, the burning imprint of four fingers across her cheek as she had bolted from the grove.
But that imprint, that mark of revulsion didn’t stay very long on her cheek. It was washed away by a steady stream of tears and as the night progressed, the pain of the slap was also buried under the thoughts of the mango and its slender pit.
Somewhere in Naseem’s heart, an intense feeling of love for Yusuf started to grow. And along with that, the little mango pit also started to develop its own roots in the welcoming bosom of Mother Earth. Soon enough, a little plant began to emerge from the embrace of the mother, and a similar sapling of love also started to blossom within Naseem’s breast.
But the sapling of love was still a juvenile when it received a shock that sent tremors down to its very roots. Naseem had just heard that Yusuf had joined the police. The police! For as long as she could remember, the very mention of the words ‘police’ or ‘policeman’ had been enough to trigger her ire. News that Yusuf had joined the police force was akin to sprinkling a large measure of poison over the bubbling spring of her love.
But there’s this funny thing about humans, old or young, educated or unlettered, all of them possess two strong emotions—love and hate. The degree or intensity can vary but the presence of the two emotions can’t be denied. Isn’t it curious that Naseem hates ninety per cent of Yusuf’s habits but her love for him continues to endure? His joining the police had tilted the scales even further towards the other side, but not so much that the other feelings etched into the slate of her heart could be erased.
There are countries where the police is respected and perhaps even liked by the people. But not in our country. Here, every single police official is an object of loathing. Strange, isn’t it? That a department established with the avowed purpose of protecting our life and property evokes this kind of sentiment in us? That the very sight of the red turban of a policeman can either make us fearful or get us to turn our faces away in revulsion. But why should it be so? Are we at fault or is it the nature of the police department itself? Maybe neither of us should be blamed because the responsibility really lies with the British government. They should reflect carefully on the kind of persons they choose. It is true that every now and then, some decent folks do somehow land up at senior positions in the department. But if you get down to the level of constables, you will be hard-pressed to find a single one who conveys a sense of decency, honesty or even a respect for the law. This shouldn’t come as a surprise because constables are mainly recruited on the basis of their robust physique and other superficial attributes. You could, of course, complain to the government—that it ought to recruit better educated persons with sound moral character. The government has a ready response for you. Its doors are open for such persons; the problem is that well-educated and decent individuals don’t want to join the police department. So how can you blame the government?
But is that argument good enough to exonerate the government of its culpability? After all, the government can afford to pay as much as a hundred rupees per month to an ordinary mechanic in a workshop. It can even pay two or two and a half rupees a day to an unskilled female who serves them. And for the ones chosen to protect us? The government says that it can’t afford to pay them more than thirty or forty rupees a month. What does that tell us about the mentality of the government itself?
The public’s biggest grievance against the police relates to bribery and corruption. Indeed, bribery appears to be synonymous with the police department and it is easy to lay the blame on the miserly salaries of the policemen. But what about the public? Shouldn’t they also bear a part of the responsibility? Why can’t people understand that giving a bribe and receiving a bribe are two sides of the same coin? When you raise this issue with the bribe-givers, they have a simplistic response—that bribes enable them to surmount unnecessary hurdles so that they can go about their business. Take the case of a typical government contractor. He can play fast and loose with the law and make as much as two hundred thousand rupees of illegal profit from a single contract. And if his transgressions come to light, he happily gives a small part of his ill-gotten gains as bribe to sort things out. In the rare instance that the bribe doesn’t work and the matter goes up to a court, the judge may impose a penalty of some two thousand rupees or so. That’s as good as getting a license to engage in corruption. Keep making your illicit profits and if you get caught, pay your tithe to the government and go back to business as usual! When the system is rotten to the core, who do you blame for what?
Enough said! It is what it is. Young Naseem may not have been aware of all these intricacies but she was pretty clear in her mind that policemen are bad characters, that they have a reputation of being brutal and violent, and that people have good reasons to either hate or fear them. Her impressions weren’t just based on hearsay either. She had seen the police abuse and beat people with her own eyes. Like the day the police had thrashed a poor labourer so badly he remained unconscious for quite a while. And that other time when a posse of policemen had rained blows on some perfectly respectable persons, apparently because they were investigating a theft and were frustrated they couldn’t find the thief.
So Yusuf had joined the police! Her body trembled with the shock. He could also have joined the army, gone off to war and gotten wounded by an enemy bullet. Would that have been a bigger shock for Naseem? Maybe not.
As the weeks went by, Naseem forced herself to reconcile with the new reality. She thought that the effect of the poison sprinkled into the bubbling spring of her love was wearing off and she could again nurture a positive feeling about Yusuf. That was when a second bombshell dropped.
Yusuf, it was rumoured, had settled in Rawalpindi after marrying a woman of ill-repute. The news left the young girl’s dreams in tatters. Her hopes of a life of bliss with Yusuf had rapidly evaporated. ‘Could anyone imagine that he would act in this fashion?’ she asked herself. But life doesn’t unfold according to one’s expectations—there are times when it runs counter to them. And there are times when the improbable, even the impossible, happens before our very eyes.
There is a part of our personality that we guard jealously from prying eyes. We try to make sure that it is safely hidden away behind a thick curtain. But that doesn’t prevent a strong gust from lifting the curtain in a way that a section of the portrait becomes visible to the public, warts and all. Reports of Yusuf’s latest indiscretion had arrived like that gust, revealing other facets of an individual whom Naseem thought she knew so well from childhood. As tongues started to wag in the village, more stories about him began tumbling in by the day. Tales about his thieving, his gambling, and his whoring that poor Naseem had to listen to from women young and old. And she cursed herself for being such a fool, lamenting her own blindness in the face of so much evidence. But did she manage to expel Yusuf from the innermost recesses of her heart? The embers were still there—she thought the pain-drenched breath from her sobs would be enough to extinguish them for good. Instead, it seemed to stoke the fires.
That tree … that mango tree in the courtyard! That tree is the root of all my woes, she thought to herself. No matter how reprehensible Yusuf’s character, she wouldn’t be able to get him out of her system unless she tackled the source of the problem.
She spent the afternoon pondering over the dilemma. The sun had started to wind up its business for the day and was moving towards a secluded corner, when Naseem leapt from her bed with new resolve. She went to the rear of the house and soon emerged with a woodcutter’s axe. Heading straight for the young tree, she lifted the axe and delivered a blow on its slender trunk.
She didn’t miss her target, but neither did the blow have the force to fell the tree in one stroke. Perhaps the delicate arms didn’t have the required strength for the task. Perhaps the trunk wasn’t as thin as she had imagined it to be. Or perhaps, during the split second between lifting the axe and delivering the blow, Naseem had lost the will to finish the job. Her arms had the power when she lifted the axe, but her hands were lifeless by the time the axe struck the trunk. An ugly gash emerged at the point where metal had met wood. She banished any thoughts of raising the axe a second time and hurriedly put it aside. Eyes transfixed on the trunk, she gazed fearfully at the wound she had inflicted on it. The mango tree no longer appeared as inanimate; it had become an embodiment of a sentient being.
A few minutes later, Naseem was kneading some mud and cow dung together into a thick paste which she applied in layers on the laceration. Her prayers were answered and the tree continued to flourish in her courtyard.
The lacerations in her own heart were also beginning to heal, albeit gradually. She felt that the pain constantly gnawing inside her was beginning to subside. Naseem was convinced that since Yusuf had already exited from her world, it was only a question of time before he would clear out of her thoughts too. But the unexpected was again lurking around the corner, this time in the form of some fresh reports about Yusuf. ‘That wretched woman, the one with whom Yusuf had a marriage contract … Well, she’s left him. And not just that. She’s also cleaned up everything she could lay her hands on.’
The stories brought a fresh turbulence to Naseem’s fragile state. Yusuf’s name was once again on the lips of the village folk. Tales of his previous misadventures were retold with great relish, each one providing the fodder for a renewed round of entertainment. A few days passed, the novelty wore off and the gossip slowly died.
Barely a month had passed before the village was once again aflutter with news that some of its residents had recently seen Yusuf. He looked a different man, they said. He was Mister Mohammed Yusuf, Police Constable, now. Tall, handsome and well built, attired in a policeman’s uniform.
Naseem felt a burning rage when she heard that Yusuf was in the neighbourhood. A volcano was building up inside her, it’s fiery lava barely contained within the rim. She would have been ready to slap anyone who even dared mention Yusuf’s name within earshot. But did she dare to slap the one who had sat by Yusuf’s side for hours, taking his name ever so sweetly?
And so, her mind flitted from one thought to another as the hours of the night ticked away and the watchman could be heard calling out ‘Beware’ to announce the third quarter. Naseem’s eyes felt raw from lack of sleep but she told herself that she had taken a firm decision. There was no way that she was going to meet Yusuf; she would not see his face, nor would she let herself think about him. And yet, no sooner had the rooster crowed than she sprang from her bed and was out of the door with the alacrity of one who is chasing a thief.