An afternoon in June

In Lucknow this lovely town,
An afternoon of mid-june

Thick and laden mango groves
Resonate with lovely koel’s croon.

Hand-fans flick the scalding lu, while
On the window-sill pigeons buzz their tune.

Unaffected chatter of running children
Clamoring for their favorite Ice-cone.

Paro

When Miriyam was born there wasn't much happiness in the village. She was the third daughter in a row of a much below poverty line parents James Ekka and Sujata. Sujata was a daily wage labourer in the rice fields while James was a daily wage worker in a rice mill about 20 Km away. Their village Bisrampuri a clutch of mud and pucca houses, is on the cusp of forest land in north-Chhattisgarh.

James’ family had always lived a subsistence life in harsh surroundings. His ancestors had been wandering jungle dwellers. About fifty years ago his grand-father had been liberated by Father James. Lord Jesus had always held their hand since then. But when Miriyam came he was deeply disappointed. A man should have at least one son to support him in his old-age and how was he going to get dowry for three daughters? Unlike James, Sujata Ekka was thankful and did not have any complaints of Jesus. She was also not worried about the girls. She knew well that girls were as good as boys. Boys were likely to fall in bad company and take to crime or booze.

Both of them felt indebted to the Church of Fr. James and his clan especially Sister Stella. Sis Stella was a tribal herself and after spending many years in far away north India, had found her way back to the Lord. As Miriyam grew up, Sis. Stella became extremely fond of her. She was happy keeping Miriyam in the Church and Sujata was happy leaving her there all day. While the older daughters had got sucked in to the fight against hunger and poverty, Miriryam was a lucky child. Sis. Stella began teaching her how to read and write when she got a little older.

Miriyam was thirteen when she noticed a visitor to their village. He was a tall, coarse man of nearly forty. Bimla, her next door friend told her that his name was Fakhrudin and he had come from Mewat to take a Paro! There was another man with him. The villagers were treating them politely. They were not deferential but Fakhru seemed well accepted. When Miriyam went to meet Sis Stella later in the evening she asked,

'What is a Paro?'.
'Why do you want to know? You are still too young'
'But what is it? There is a man in the village today come to take a Paro'.
'I will tell you later, but you stay away from him. In fact do not go home. I'll tell your mother that you will be with me for a couple of days'.Miriyam agreed, because she really enjoyed staying with Sis. Stella, but was thoroughly intrigued.

Next couple of days she stayed at the Church. She would go to the fields and return there. She had started earning Fifteen rupees daily in the sowing season. When she returned home, she went to her neighbours wanting to find out more of Fakhrudin. Her friend Bimla was not home. 'She must have gone to the well' she thought. She saw Bimla's mother returning from the grocer.

'Where's Bimla? Masi' she said taking one heavy bag from her.
'Bimla's gone. She got married yesterday and left'
'Married? When? Why didn't I come to know?'
'We had told Sujata. She did not want you around. Come I'll give you some sweets.'They had reached home by now.

It was dark now and Bimla's mother went about lighting all the lamps after keeping the groceries in a corner near the stove. Miriyam was intrigued and kept on asking questions, 'Who is the groom? Where has she gone? Will she come back for harvesting?'

She got no reply. Bimla's mother was tinkering inside and came out with a plateful of sweets. 'You know they gave us twenty-five thousand. Bimla's father has gone to the city to see her off and also put the money in the post-office. We are thinking of buying a TV, but there is no electricity in the village so maybe we’ll buy a motor-cycle. It will become easier to go to the city'.

Miriyam got no answers. She could not even figure out if Bimla's mother's delight was on getting a good groom for her daughter or getting this huge sum of money. Later at night she asked her mother, 'Who was that man Fakhrudin and who has Bimla got married to?' 'Bimla's husband's name is Arif and she will be living in Mewat. Now got to sleep'. There was a decisive edge to her mother’s voice, which stopped her from speaking further.

Inevitably Miriyam and her questions found their way to Sis Stella next day. She stood with arms akimbo, determined to get answers. Sis. Stella avoided for a while but a thirteen-year-old's determination cannot be easily brushed aside. She began, 'Arif and Fakhru came from a village near Nuh in Mewat. Fakhru has come here a few times in the past. He comes with some of his relatives every second or third year and marries him off to a girl from the village. Pays the parents handsomely and takes the girl away. Bimla is now a Paro.'

She was even more confused, 'Will she be happy? What will happen to her? Will she ever come back? What's a Paro?' Sis Stella patiently looked at her and replied, 'There is always a risk in such marriages but even our marriages are risky. Fakhru has been a nice guy. He got four of our girls married and all of them have been fine so far. Bimla should be fine too. Don't know of she will ever come back here, but you never know..'

'And there was a film called Devdas, Paro was his beloved. They have taken the name from there.'

Fakhru's next visit did not happen for another three years. Miriyam had grown up and could easily read and write now. The village was more or less the same as before. Miriyam had started taking interest in the development work that Sis. Stella was doing by educating village children. She was pretty! Tall and dusky. It was her eyes that were really special. Deep and dark, framed beautifully by arched brows. Long lashes flipped furtively. And she was confident! She would fearlessly speak out even to the Sarpanch. One summer morning when there wasn't much work in the fields, she saw Fakhru walk up to her house accompanied by her father.

She quickly ran into the kitchen and tried to hear what the men were saying. Within five minutes Sujata too came home and got busy preparing lemonade for the guest. Miriyam's heart beat ran faster with a strange mix of anxiety and fear, when she could not bear it she covered her head and ran out to the church. Sis. Stella was away to the next village. 'Why can't she be around when I need her?' thought Miriyam in frustration. She went home at sunset. She could see that her mother was standing in the doorway; her father was sitting on a cot outside their house and with him was Fr. James.

'Why can't he select my Sushila? She is well trained in all house work, works hard in the fields, she is strong and polite.’ her mother was referring to her eldest daughter. ‘Miriyam is still a child'.
'What can you do about that? You could still say no, if you wish.' said her father.

They fell silent as Miriyam approached. She stood awhile waiting for her mother to tell her something but she gestured her to get inside. Fr. James got up, blessed both of them and left. She could easily make out that both her parents were under immense stress as they sat down for dinner. They ate quietly and when James got up to wash his hands, she asked Sujata, 'What is it?'

'Fakhru has asked for you. For himself'.


*** ***


She did not know how to react. Should she be outraged? Should she feel happy? After all Fakhru was a respected man in the village and he had chosen her for himself. What did the future hold in store for her? And there was always this small matter of Fifty thousand rupees which could potentially transform the life of her parents. All these were still unanswered questions as she sat curled up near a window in a train screeching towards Delhi.

A queer mix of becoming a martyr for the family and taking on life as a challenge had tilted her decision to go for it. The next few days passed in a blur as she was engaged and then married in the Church. She looked like an angel in a silky white dress. Fakhru behaved like a gentleman gave her light peck on her forehead and exchanged rings. He had handed over the bag with fifty thousand rupees to James. Sujata had wailed when Miriyam came to say good bye.

Miriyam went to say bye to Sis Stella in her room and found her running her rosary with her eyes streaming with tears. Miriyam put her arms around her neck and began weeping herself. Stella took off her own cross and put it around her neck.

'Never, ever be scared of anything. I know you are really brave and intelligent. Never feel helpless, remember that all you have to do is board a train came back home. But go on and see the world. On your terms'

'Aloo Puri?' her reverie broke when Fakhru offered her a paper plate from her window on the platform. She took it and ate quietly.

After nearly two days in the train, they reached Delhi early morning. They got off at New Delhi station and checked in to a small hotel in Paharganj. After having breakfast, Fakhru let her sleep a while as he went out to buy some stuff. It was evening when Fakhru came back. He had brought some clothes for her and two tickets to Munnabhai at Regal. She changed into the Punjabi suit he had brought and went out. What amazing sights? She was spell bound. Bright street-lights; Billboards and cars. So many of them. And so many people?

She was still in a daze when they came back around mid-night, but was chirping happily and skipping along. She was beginning to like the simple warmth of Fakhru. He had a sense of humour, laughed easily and was kind to her. As they walked up to their hotel, she realised that they were holding hands. As they entered the rickety lift, her heartbeat ran faster and palms began sweating.

Fakhru opened the door to their room and switched on the lights. He locked the door and came and stood in front of her. He gently raised her chin and brushed his lips against her eyes. Her hair came loose and mouth was quivering as he ran his hands over her shoulders to take off her dupatta. He sat her on the bed and stretched to switch the lights off. Now there was only some diffused light from the street outside as he gently tugged at her shirt and took it off. Her tight smallish breasts pushed against her stiff chemise. He pulled that up and removed it. Her bronzed muscular body glistened in reflected light as she put her hands up to her face and lay back on the white bed-sheet. Fakhru ran light fingers from her hair down her arm over to her hip and pulled at her pyjama cord. It came loose and he slipped it off her legs. She squirmed and slipped under the blanket.

Fakhru took off his clothes and slipped under the blanket as well. He raised her face and gently kissed her on the mouth. She was shy but did not hold him back. His kisses moved from her mouth to her shoulders and she shuddered as he plucked at her hard nipples with his lips. First one then the other and then moved to her flat muscular belly as he lightly bit her in strangely pleasurable places. All the while his hands were gently moving on her thighs. Miriyam was on fire. She had not experienced anything like this before. She kept moving her legs against each other and was hugging Fakhru hard, taking deep audible breaths.

He was obviously an expert and understood that this was her first time. He did not hurry up at all. Let her rise to a frenzy, using his tongue in places she could never have dreamed of. When she thought she could not take any more, she called out to him. Fakhru then gently entered her. His control to gave way and he took her on a new journey. Miriyam had a silly smile on her face as she swayed to rocking of the bed. It was just like the train's rythm.

'Thank you' he said.
'Love you' she replied.

She woke up with the same smile. Her anxiety had all gone and she was now ready to take on life. They stayed most of the day indoors. Staying naked and unabashedly having sex over and over again. They got out in the evening and saw another movie in Connaught Place. Fakhru bought some gifts for his family from Janpath. Later they had dinner at a street cart and went up to their room.

As the bus pulled out from ISBT, her mind kept floating to Sis Stella and her village. Delhi's smooth roads and flyovers soon brought them to the mammoth glass and steel structures of Gurgaon. The glitz was missing in the morning but the grandeur was still awesome for a first timer. It took them nearly three hours to reach the small highway town of Nuh.

There a jeep was waiting to take them home.

Paro's Life

'Aye Paro, get up and cut this fodder for the buffalos'

It was day-break and her two day honey moon was over in a flash. She was under no illusion and was prepared for hard work.

There were celebrations at night and the entire village had turned up to see Fakhru's Paro. Fakhru lived in a large family. She could see that these people were much richer than her parents. There was electricity in every house. She also realized that his mother was the fulcrum of the family and ran everything.

'Aayee Ammee'

She was up and out with a smile on her face. It was almost noon when all the work got over and women sat down to eat. She sat together with the family and ate. Then packed food for the men and took the lunch boxes to the fields.

Five years passed doing just this, day in and day out. She remembered a few occasions when Fakhru took her out to Nuh to shop, but generally she was confined at home. She had thought of her parents, sisters and Stella many times but never got around to either writing to them nor asked Fakhru when he was going back there.

Then suddenly, Fakhru’s mother died. It seemed that the family’s bonding force had ebbed away. They lost the routine of doing the daily chores. She saw two of the brothers fighting over small issues. Fakhru went back to Chhattisgarh that year. He did not go to Bisrampuri but to another village in the south. Paro cried her heart out. She was desperate to get some news about her village. He came back after two weeks and told her that he did not get any girl. It meant that he did not get the money on this trip. She had earlier found out that he made nearly as much money from the groom as they gave to the bride’s family.

As she watched the family crumbling away, she got another jolt. Fakhru had brought someone home. He was from Firozpur he said. While she went out to serve them tea she heard them talking about her and they fell quiet as she approached. She was dumb-struck for a while. The scene from five years ago flashed past her eyes, when her father and mother fell quiet as she had approached.

Her premonition was true. She was sold off for thirty thousand rupees. She got barely an hour to pack her stuff and ride with Mazhar. Mazhar took her to Firozpur the same evening. Fakhru’s mother would never have allowed such a thing. It was another matter to bring wives for friends and cousins from Bihar but treating them as tradable material would have been an anathema to her. Again she got into a bus for an hour’s journey, she was crying. Five years of living with the people and now no one to even speak to her as she was leaving. What kind of people were these?

Mazhar was over fifty and had lost his wife to Malaria some years ago. He got talking to her. He had four children; the youngest boy was nearly six while eldest girl was nearly twenty. They too were a prosperous family but had a much smaller piece of land to till. Most of it was let out on contract. So the family did not have much physical work to do. Paro quickly took over the household chores, milking buffaloes in the morning and evening, cooking, cleaning and washing.

Their next door neighbour was a large household. Their son, Amjad had just come back from Hissar after completing his BA and was beginning to get involved in the family farm. Amjad used to visit Mazhar's house very often. There was talk in the house about suitability of Mazhar's daughter for Amjad. He did not like her somehow and the match fell through. It was almost a year later when the eldest daughter got married and went off.

Soon afterwards Paro found herself lonely. The younger kids would go to school and Mazhar had taken to drinking even during the day. She was mostly by herself at home. One of those days when Mazhar was away drinking at someone's house, Amjad came over and sat chatting. She began to talk about her village and her parents and childhood friends. Without wanting to, she started crying inconsolably. How that moment led to Amjad holding her gently and how that led to her bed she never knew. They were quite ashamed of this and never mentioned it again.

Mazhar died suddenly. He just did not wake up one morning. Doctor said heart-failure but Paro knew that it was alcohol that killed him. Suddenly there were three young children to feed and the whole world to guard against. She felt overwhelmed. Even before the ceremonies were done vultures began hovering over Mazhar’s property. Mazhar had a brother who refused to go back home, even proposed to marry her. Many other cousins sprouted up from nowhere. Even the eldest daughter came to claim a share. And Paro fought.

She fought all of them but kept losing things one by one. The lands were divided amongst Mazhar's siblings without even her knowledge. The village elders did not even consider her a lawful wife.

‘Wasn't she a Paro? No question of leaving the land to her’.

The elder of the children a boy of fifteen chose to take cash against some of the land and went to stay with his sister. The youngest two children a boy of seven and a girl of ten surprisingly were defiant and chose to stay with her in the same house. The final solution was to leave the house and the buffaloes to the younger children and Paro was allowed to stay there to take care of them.

Now she had no earnings and no future but responsibility of two innocent children. She cried many nights and could not see a way through. She finally decided to send the children off to their sister and go back to Bisrampuri. She was sure Lord Jesus and Sis Stella would welcome her to the Church. She was even more distraught with this decision. It meant that she had failed her life. She had left her home and after seven odd years she would be going back penurious and dependant. She hated it.

There was a smile on her face as she sat leaning her head on the window of the train rapidly taking her back to her village. The strong breeze was blowing her hair away. There was an immense anticipation on getting to meet her parents again and see her village once again. More than everything else she was feeling happy at winning the battle of the world. She had finally been able to solve the dilemma of how to bring up the children and succeed.

She, Paro was going back to her village after seven years to look for a Paro for Amjad.

Amjad had come the next day. He was very kind and had offered to help set her up. They discussed till late in the night he suggested that she do what Fakhru had been doing. He was looking for a bride too and would not mind being her first customer. She was so happy at this way out that she had kissed him and they made love till early morning.

Bajra party

I must say that Galatea had warned me before hand. She is naturally wary about new adventures, I dive into them with gusto. So I admire her prescience and also enjoy my little discoveries.

There were about ten of us sitting cross-legged on white sheets spread over mattresses laid out on the top-deck of a boat. The only protection from getting thrown overboard was to stay seated. If five of us had stood up on one side, centre of gravity would have shifted and we could have capsized. There were some musicians too, a guy on the tabla, another on the harmonium, two more were ghazal singers while another managed the amplifiers etc. Soon a skinny boy dressed as a waiter in black trousers, a white shirt, and amazingly a bow-tie crawled up from the lower deck. He was carrying a tray of glasses with coloured fluids.

'Pehle boss ko do, What will you have boss?'
'Whatever. I am not fussy'
'Whiskey lao whiskey'

So I was handed a finger print stained glass of amber fluid with streaks of tiny bubbles promising to be whiskey-soda. It was about nine o'clock when we began drifting away from the shore. This barge was about twenty feet from bow to stern with two decks, both kind of half height. You can only crawl in and remain seated. We had to take our shoes off since the upper deck was fully carpeted. This vessel (an apt term) had nothing to move it forward, so they had tied a motored tug-boat to its starboard side.

Mild breeze blew across us as the band screeched some Ghazals and hindi film numbers. Soon there was some commotion and a very pretty woman, dressed in full royal nautch-girl regalia climbed up to the upper deck. She bent low and did a salaam to all of us and plonked herself on the floor. The musicians fussed about her and placed a mike in front of her. Then she sang. I was worried that the party should not de-generate into something which we all might regret later. I spoke to my local rep and asked him to ensure that all this was limited to singing.

This was my introduction to the holy city of Varanasi. So named since the land lies between river Varuna and Assi. The oldest continually inhabited city in the world. This seat of learning in ancient India has been referred to as 'Kashi - the Luminous' in Rig Veda. The holy city never sleeps and gets huge number of tourists from all over the world. All these bits of information were fed to me as the band played Ghulam Ali's 'Hungama'.

Soon we were drifting past holiest of all cremation grounds, Manikarnika Ghat. Myth has it that its the gateway to heaven. It burns all day and night liberating sinful humans from cycle of birth and re-birth. The fire for every pyre must come from the house of Dom Maharaj, the keeper of the Ghat since ages.

The music kept on and soon the group on the Bajra got involved in it and started singing themselves. All this while the boat kept drifting up and down the Ganges. I got to see a lot of history and mythology of India. Since it was night, it was easy to drift into time and imagine the fiery debates between Sankaracharya and the local pundits on these very Ghats that led to the revival of Hinduism. I could imagine long rows of saffron robed, tonsured monks getting off on these Ghats and proceeding to Sarnath for the first sermon of Buddha. I could hear the chanting of couplets by Tulsidas as he wrote the Ramacharitmanas on Tulsi Ghat. I could easily sense the panic stricken citizens of Benaras as they ran for their lives in small boats running away from the rampaging soldiers of Aurangzeb.

I was in this reverie when two things happened. Gal called and the boat stopped with a thud. She was just checking me out before going off to sleep. I told her that we had just crash-landed on the moon. I could see a very high mud-bank almost in our face. This must be Mughal-sarai side, the twin town separated by the Ganges and North India's largest railway junction, I thought to myself. 'But what are we doing here?' I asked the fellow next to me. He gave a sheepish smile, raised his little finger and jumped off the boat himself. I turned and saw the surreal image of a mountain of mud in reflected light from the barge and guys facing the mount as if drawing money from an ATM. We started back in fifteen minutes and the boat seemed to be lighter.

I was up at five next morning and reached Kashi Vishwanath Temple well before six. True to form the narrow lanes were buzzing with activity. Shopkeepers looking fresh and bathed were selling garlands and other offerings. There were long queues of devotees from all parts of India for the darshan. I was surprised to see that a large majority were Tamilians. Even more suprised to hear the shopkeepers conversing with them in fluent Tamil. Compulsions of a tourism led economy I guess!

Other than this larger than life religion, history and mythology, common man's life in Varanasi is very tough. They get power only for twelve hours in a day; roads were last repaired it seemed by the British and the working conditions in the traditional Saree manufacturing industry are pathetic. And above all the holy river is dying.

As I headed back to Lucknow the remaining thoughts in my mind were of an awsome accumulation of time and faith in a single place. What history? One could spend a lifetime and not know it all. My mind also wandered to the colossal waste of opportunity. Opprtunity for Indians to discover their past, for foreigners to see a working acient civilization a human Jurassic park.

Having prayed at the holiest of all Hindu temples, I might make it on the salvation train, just about. Till then the citizens of this holy city will continue to suffer the callousness of modern day rulers.

PS: I was told that so many foriegn tourists visit Kashi because it finds a mention in the Bible. If any of you can confirm this, do let me know.