"I killed him."
She was crying. He was crying. He hugged his mother, hiding his face deep in her embrace. She was in a shock herself to offer any further comfort to him.
Thoughts of last 24 hours’ events were like a storm in his head. It was a dark storm. No lightening. No thunder. Only clouds and dusty winds. The gentle touch of his mother, her fragrance in his breaths kept him from breaking apart in the storm. He wished he could be a little child in her arms, and she could hide him with her dupatta, shield him with her love, protect him with her care. But the loss was hers’ too. She was breaking apart as well. Maybe his presence in her embrace was a glue for her as well. Yet, the tears in her eyes and the pain in her cries was tearing at the seams of her soul. Her husband lay in front of her eyes.
She was crying. He was crying. He hugged his mother, hiding his face deep in her embrace. She was in a shock herself to offer any further comfort to him.
Thoughts of last 24 hours’ events were like a storm in his head. It was a dark storm. No lightening. No thunder. Only clouds and dusty winds. The gentle touch of his mother, her fragrance in his breaths kept him from breaking apart in the storm. He wished he could be a little child in her arms, and she could hide him with her dupatta, shield him with her love, protect him with her care. But the loss was hers’ too. She was breaking apart as well. Maybe his presence in her embrace was a glue for her as well. Yet, the tears in her eyes and the pain in her cries was tearing at the seams of her soul. Her husband lay in front of her eyes.
Only
yesterday afternoon Kulbir and his father were sitting here for lunch together.
“Papa
ji, I am going to Noor Mahal for the annual mela.”
“Which
kalakar is coming?”
“Shinda
Sardool.”
“He
is good. Take our Safari. But come back on time.”
Santokh Singh took out a bunch of one hundred rupee notes from the side pocket of his kurta and pushed into Kulbir’s hands.
Santokh Singh took out a bunch of one hundred rupee notes from the side pocket of his kurta and pushed into Kulbir’s hands.
Santokh
Singh, sarpanch of Deenpur village, had carried forward the family legacy. Yard
by yard he had increased family’s land holdings, brick by brick built a grand
kothi, hundred by hundred established a strong money lending business, and a
kind act by a kind act built a strong reputation in the area. He and his family
were now well to do, and well respected and having held his grandson in his
hands last year well content with God’s kindness. He paid forward the kindness
by going out of his way to help anyone and everyone in need.
His
elder son Kulbir didn’t look after work with the kind of sincerity he had hoped
for. But he was still young Santokh Singh thought. A few inches above six feet,
muscular build, curled moustaches, neatly trimmed beard, smartly tied turban, blue-green
eyes, fair skin, chiseled features, he was his eye’s cynosure. He ignored his son’s
odd misadventure. But Kulbir’s drinking and more importantly the company he
kept worried him.
Kulbir
took the Safari and along with his group of friends headed to Noor Mahal. It
was an hour’s drive from the village. Every summer Punjab witnesses hundreds of
melas. Each village, each town, each city has a dargah of some peer,
some saint, some guru. Each with their own respective legends. Each with their
own powers to offer boons. And over time people have started celebrating a day
every year at these dargahs. An annual Mela.
Now
a days the highlight of each mela is the kalakar. Plans are made all
year around, and collections arranged by volunteers to get the best possible kalakar
jodi. Noor Mahal mela always attracts large crowds and Shinda
Sardool is a famous kalakar.
Kulbir
and his friends stopped at a theka on the way. He bought drinks and
tandoori chicken for everyone. “Yaar Kulbir, are we going to Delhi next month?”
Gora asked. “Haven’t spoken with Papa ji yet. But he won’t say no. We will get
the money.” Kulbir was generous with his money and many in this group of
friends took advantage of that. They had few rounds of drinks before they got
on way again. By the time they reached the mela it was late afternoon.
Opening acts – folk singers, religious singers, bhands and their comic acts
were over. Shinda Sardool was at his second or third song.
“The
female associate of Shinda has changed. At Mand Mela last year his wife
accompanied him. Such beauty. Such body.” Harnek observed as they made their
way through the crowd.
“With
the way drunks crowd around singers at every mela Shinda did right to
keep his wife away.” Debu laughed at the memory of his own acts a few weeks ago
at the Shirki Shaw mela.
The
group of friends went straight for front rows. They were regulars at all the melas
in the area and the other regulars greeted them. Soon the race of throwing currency
notes over the singing lady started. Kulbir always reached home with empty
pockets after every mela. Drinking and dancing continued till the
program ended.
A
local friend invited them over to his house. They spent a few hours there and
by the time they started back it was dark. Harnek was driving Safari now.
On
the outskirts of Sultanpur Lodhi, a small sleepy town, about 8 kms from Deenpur,
a migrant colony had come up on one side of the road. Raa community
moved from town to town doing odd bits of work. The men folks worked as ironsmiths
and tinsmiths. Women tended to their goats and chicken and did odd manual jobs.
“These
Raa women are crafted like heroines,” Harnek said.
“Such
smooth skin, such neat figures, and always teasing. They are made for drinking.
Our women pale in front of them.” Debu agreed.
“Just
yesterday I spoke with one. She was asking five hundred. Five hundred sali
raa rand!” Debu added.
“Are
you sure? No matter what we say, I have heard Raa women don’t prostitute.
She must have been someone else.” Gora stayed sober the longest in this group.
He drank slowly but he drank the longest.
“I
know these rands. Don’t tell me otherwise. They all are. Just look at
how deep their kurtis are and they never wear chunnis.” Debu
protested violently.
A
girl stepped onto the road from the fields opposite to the colony.
“I
will prove it to you. You just stop the car now.” Debu shouted.
He
was out of the car in an instant and holding the girls arm shouted. “How much?”
The girl panicked. “Maayi” her shout for help came out a whisper.
Madness drove Debu. Others egged him on. “Kyun not agreeing to your
offer?” Harnek teased. “He doesn’t know how to make an offer” Kulbir added.
This infuriated Debu. He dragged the girl along, opened the rear door of Safari
and pulled her inside. “Chalo.”
Kulbir
woke up at the pump room in his fields. His father was there. He looked around.
And bit by bit last night’s events came back.
“Clean
up at the pump. We need to get home. Your mother is worried.”
“Where
are the others and the…” he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘girl’.
“Your
uncle took the car. Others as well. Girl is back at the colony. There will be panchayat
and police hearing this afternoon.”
There
was no corner in his house that could offer him solace. He lay in his room.
Door locked from inside. For years this feeling had haunted him that one day he
will lead himself to an early and ugly death. He always pictured it be a
painful death – killed in a fight with a knife slicing his face before finding
his neck, an accidental fire from his pistol in his groins, crashing his car
into a tree outside their home while no one was around, his Enfield slipping on
a wet road and a truck running over his body. That he will not lead himself to
death but to an absolute ruin was beyond his imagination. He lay in his bed and
pictured the ruins around. His mother and wife were not able to look at his
face. Once home, his father had not been able to say a word, not even a word of
reproach in the hours since. And his children – they looked scared. They knew
something had happened. And that something had taken their words away. Not a
sound came from the ruins around him.
The
hour of panchayat arrived. There was a knock on his door. Opening the door seemed
the most difficult act of his life. He dragged himself, one heavy step followed by
an even heavier one to the door. As the door swung open, he looked into his father’s
eyes. And he saw the shame in those proud eyes. That last look will haunt him
for the rest of his life. His father raised his hand and opened his mouth to
say something. The words didn’t come. The hand went to his heart, clutched the
shirt and skin around it, the mouth closed, face turned into a picture of agony
and he collapsed to ground.
All
hell broke loose.
The house that was silent since morning broke into a horror of shrieks. His uncle came running from next door. He picked his brother and felt for his pulse.
The house that was silent since morning broke into a horror of shrieks. His uncle came running from next door. He picked his brother and felt for his pulse.
“Bring
the car,” he shouted at his son who was running towards him.
Santokh
Singh was dead before they could get him into the car.
(a short story, written July 2019)
2 comments:
Liked it, keep it up
Relevant story regarding the prevailing circumstances of our society.
Nicely written
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