Land of Five Rivers (9 page)

t
ai eesree

Krishen Chander

        I
was in my final year at the Grant Medical College, in Calcutta and had come to Lahore for a few days to attend my elder brother's wedding which was to take place in our ancestral home in Kucha Thakar Das close to Shahi Mohalla. It was there that I first met
tai
Eesree.

Tai
Eesree was not really my aunt; but she was the sort of person who made everyone want to call her
tai
— elder aunt. When her tonga came into our locality and someone shouted, ‘There's
tai
Eesree!' a crowd of people, both old and young, men as well as women, ran up to receive her. Some helped her alight from her tonga.

Tai
Eesree was an asthmatic and the slightest movement or speech, or even the sight of people left her out of breath. Some relatives produced money from their pockets to pay the tonga
wala
, but
tai
Eesree gave a wheezing cackle and told them that she had already paid. The way she spoke, struggling for breath, and her asthmatic laughter, was most attractive to me. The relatives looked crestfallen. They put their money back in their pockets and complained, ‘Why did you do that? You don't give us an opportunity to do anything for you.'
Tai
did not answer. She took a fan from the hand of a young girl standing beside her and came along smiling and fanning herself.

Tai
Eesree could not have been a day under sixty. Most of her hair had gone grey, making a pleasing frame for her brown, oval face. Everyone liked to hear her simple words, spoken through her asthmatic wheeze, but what fascinated me were her eyes. There was something about them which made me think of Mother Earth — of vast stretches of farmland and of deep flowing rivers — and at the same time they were full of boundless love and compassion, of fathomless innocence, and of sorrow unassuageable. To this day I have not met a woman with such eyes. They had that quality of timelessness which makes the biggest and the most difficult human problem appear insignificant.

Tai
Eesree wore a
gharara
of taffeta with a gold border; her shirt was of saffron silk embroidered with flowers. And her head was covered with a muslin
duppatta.
She wore gold bracelets on her arms. As she came into the courtyard there was a great commotion. Young brides and aunts, brothers' wives and their sisters-in-law, mother's sisters and father's brother's wives all ran up to touch her feet. A woman fetched a multi-coloured
peerhi, tai
Eesree smiled and sat down on it. She embraced all the women in turn, put her hand on their heads and blessed them.

And beside them a young girl, Savitri began to wave a hand-fan with great enthusiasm.
Tai
Eesree had brought a coloured wicker basket with her, it lay beside her feet by the
peerhi.
As she blessed each person she took out a four-
anna pice
from the basket and gave one to everybody in turn. She must have given away over a hundred four-
anna pices
in twenty minutes. When all the men and the women, boys, girls, infants had touched her feet and received their four
anna pice, tai
Eesree raised her chin and turned back to look at the girl fanning her. ‘Which one are you?' she asked.

‘I am Savitri,' replied the girl shyly.

‘Ai hai,
you are Jai Kishen's daughter! I had completely forgotten you. Come and embrace me...'

Tai
Eesree took the girl in her arms and kissed her face. By the time she had opened the basket and given the girl a four
anna pice,
all the women were in fits of laughter. Aunt Kartaro flashed her sapphire ring and explained,
‘Tai,
this Savitri is not Jai Kishen's daughter; she is the daughter of the untouchable Heero.'

‘Hai,
I am ruined!' wailed
tai
Eesree. She could hardly breathe.
‘Hai,
I will have to wash myself thoroughly. I even kissed her on the face. What am I to do?'

Tai
Eesree turned her bewildered eyes on the untouchable Savitri. The girl began to sob. This made
tai
relent at once. She took the girl in her arms again. ‘No, child, you mustn't cry! You are quite innocent; you are as pure as a goddess, a virgin goddess. God Himself lives in your undefiled little body. You should not cry. I have to wash because my religion says I must. No more tears. Here's another four
annas
for you...'

Tai
Eesree gave the girl a second four-
anna pice,
and the untouchable Savitri wiped her tears and began to smile.
Tai
Eesree then raised her arm to beckon. ‘Heeroo! Warm water for my bath. You too will get four
annas
.' The crowd in the courtyard was convulsed with laughter.

Many people called
Tai
Eesree the four-
anna
aunty; others called her the sponsor aunty. It was well-known that from the day elder uncle Bodh Raj had married
tai
Eesree to the present time, their marriage had not been consummated. Scandalmongers even said that before his marriage, young Bodh Raj had so many affairs with beautiful, sophisticated women that when he found himself wedded to a simple peasant-girl he took an instant dislike to her and left her strictly alone. He did not maltreat her in any way; he sent her Rs. 75 every month; and she lived with her in-laws in the village and served everyone who came. Uncle Bodh Raj had an iron-monger's business in Jullundur and often it was many years before he went to his village. Eesree's parents tried several times to persuade her to come home, but she refused. Her parents even wanted to arrange another marriage of her, but
tai
would not hear of it. She looked after her husband's parents so well that they began to cherish her more than they could have their own daughter. Uncle Bodh Raj's father, Malik Chand handed over all the keys of the house to
tai
Eesree. Her mother-in-law became so fond of her that she gave away all her gold ornaments to
tai
Eesree.

About other stout women in general one may be justified in wondering how they cope with the problems of their youth, but no one had any doubts about
tai
Eesree. One was sure that even on the day she was born, she must have raised her hand to bless her own mother and spoken to her in her sweet compassionate voice — ‘You have had to suffer much for my sake; here's a four
anna
bit for you!'

It was probably her temperament which made her relationship with her husband so peaceful. As far as their relatives were concerned, Uncle Bodh Raj was a good-fornothing
bon-viveur
drunkard and fornicator. What if he had made good in his iron business! He had no right to ruin the life of
tai
Eesree the way he had. But
tai
Eesree herself had no regret whatsoever at having wasted her life; from the way she spoke and behaved it did not seem as if she were even aware of the fact that someone had ruined her life. She was always chatting merrily, laughing, joining people in their fun; always sharing people's joys and sorrows, always ready to lend a hand. It was inevitable that if there was a celebration in the neighbourhood,
tai
Eesree would be there. And if someone was bereaved,
tai
Eesree was there too, to share their grief.

Tai
Eesree's husband had money, but not
tai
Eesree. The 75 rupees she received every month she invariably spent on other people. In those days money went a long way. The 75 rupees helped a lot of people in distress. But it wasn't
tai
Eesree's generosity that drew people to her. There were times when
tai
Eesree did not have a
pice
in her pocket and yet people flocked to her. On the contrary one often heard it said that merely to touch
tai
Eesree's feet, gave one peace of mind.

Uncle Bodh Raj was as satanic a man as
tai
Eesree was saintly. For thirty years he left
tai
Eesree to live with his parents in the village. When they died and the other members of the family had grown up, married and set up homes of their own, the house in the village was empty. Bodh Raj had no choice but to take
tai
Eesree to Jullundur. But
tai
Eesree was not able to stay there for more than a few days, because Bodh Raj attempted a liaison with the daughter of a respectable Pathan family from Pacca Bagh. The Pathans told
tai
Eesree that it was out of regard for her that they had spared the life of Bodh Raj and it would be best if she took her husband elsewhere. A few days later
tai
Eesree accompanied her husband to Lahore and rented a small house in Mohalla Varyaran. As luck would have it, even in Lahore Uncle Bodh Raj's business flourished. And at the same time he began to visit a prostitute Lachmi, who carried on her trade in Shahi Mohalla. The affair developed and finally Uncle Bodh Raj began to live with the whore, and seldom set foot in Mohalla Varyaran. But there was no trace of resentment in
tai
Eesree's face.

It was at the time when there was much talk of Uncle Bodh Raj's affair with the prostitute, when my elder brother's marriage took place. Bodh Raj did not come to the wedding but
tai
Eesree spent all her days and nights looking after the comforts of the guests. Her amiable ways smoothed the most uneven of tempers; scowls on people's faces turned to smiles.

I never heard
tai
Eesree criticise anyone, complain against fate, or seem out of her depth. Only once did I see in her a temporary disquiet.

This was during the wedding festivities. My elder brother was occupied all night with the wedding ceremonies. Early morning after the ceremony was over, the bride's people spread out the dowry for display. Those were old times when people gave coloured
peerhies
rather than the now fashionable sofa-sets; and beds with gaudily painted legs. Those were times when drawing rooms were known by their native names as
baithaks
or
diwan khanas.
But my elder brother's father-in-law was an executive officer in a Military cantonment; and the first Indian to have attained this rank. Consequently he gave his daughter a handsome dowry — all of it in the very latest style. Amongst our relatives this was the first time that anyone had given a sofa-set in a dowry.

The sofa-set was the main topic of conversation amongst our kinsmen. Women from distant localities came to the house to see the ‘English
peerhoo'
. This was also the first time that
tai
Eesree saw a sofa-set. She examined it with great care; then she felt it with her hands and kept mumbling to herself. Unable to contain herself she turned to me for an explanation.

‘Son, why is this thing called a sofa-set?'

How could I answer a question like that? I just shook my head — ‘I have no idea aunty.'

‘Why are the two chairs small and the third one long?' Again I did not know the answer and again shook my head to convey my ignorance.

Tai
pondered over the matter for quite some time, clearly perplexed. Suddenly her face lit up with a childish radiance as if she had found the answer. ‘Shall I tell you?'

‘Yes, aunty.'

She explained to us as if we were a bunch of little children. ‘Listen! I think the long sofa is meant for the time when the husband and wife are at peace with each other; then they can both sit on it. And whenever they have a quarrel they can sit separately on the two smaller ones. The English are a very wise race. No wonder they rule over us.'

Tai's
reasoning aroused a roar of laughter. But I noticed that
tai
herself was suddenly silent. Was she reminded of the life-long misunderstanding between her own husband and herself? I could not say for certain. But when I looked up at her, I caught a strange light in her eye, as if somewhere a door in her mind always kept firmly locked, had opened for an instant.

After taking my medical degree from Calcutta, I married a Bengali girl and set up as a doctor in Dharamtola. I tried hard for several years but could not build up a practice. Eventually my elder brother persuaded me to move to Lahore. He set me up in a shop in Kucha Thakar Das and I started my practice amongst my own kinsmen and neighbours. At Calcutta I had been a young novice without any experience; at Lahore I started with almost ten year's know-how of the art of trapping patients. Consequently I did quite well. I was kept busy at all hours of the day and night.

I had my own family by now, so life went round in a whirl, with no time to go anywhere.

I did not see
tai
Eesree for many years. But I had heard that she still lived in the same house in Mohalla Varyaran and that Uncle Bodh Raj lived in Shahi Mohalla with his prostitute mistress, Lachmi. And that, once in a while he dropped in, to find out how his wife was faring.

One morning when I was making out prescriptions for the crowd of patients in my clinic, a man from Mohalla Varyaran came along and said — ‘Doctor Sahib
, tai
Eesree is dying. Come along at once.'