The mirror by Gurdev Singh Ropana

April 6, 2009 at 3:38 am · Filed under Materials on Ceylon/Eelam/similar and tagged: The mirror by Gurdev Singh Ropana

He was a slim and athletic young man in his mid-twenties with a copper tan. His name was Dennis and he was from Paris. He was working on his PhD on Punjabi literature in the twentieth century. He was here in Delhi to collect books and meet local Punjabi writers. And that’s how I met him.

While reading novels of Kanwal and Gurdial Singh, he could not always understand Malwai (a dialect of Punjabi spoken in the Malwa region) words. When even the dictionaries failed to help him, he used to seek my aid.

One day, Dennis heard from his friends that I was going to my village, Ropana, for a few days, and in his halting Punjabi, he asked me: “May௪ I௪ accompany௪ you௪ if௪ go௪” He was hesitant because he did not want to be a burden on anyone. I told him that my mother lived in the village., so it wouldn’t be a problem. The stay there wouldn’t cost a penny, and we would only need to pay the bus fare. Naturally, he must come along.

He was excited and positively quivered with joy.

The next day, we took the Delhi-Ferozepur bus. On the way, he plied me with endless questions. I fed his curiosity, for it allowed me to praise the goodness and virtues of my people. By the time we were in Punjab, my paeans had scaled epic proportions. I was thrilled, because Dennis was lapping it all up. I had him totally.

We reached the village at three in the afternoon and got off at the bridge over the canal, just before the bus terminus. My home was on the far side of the village. Had we got off at the terminus, we would’ve had to walk right through the village. When they saw a foreigner, the villagers would have stared at him and asked all sorts of questions. I was quite tired at the time and in no mood for small talk.

Standing there on the bridge, Dennis looked around. Then he asked me in his unsure Punjabi: “Is௪ this௪ ௪ road௪ you௪ described… in௪ your௪ story௪ Hava (Wind)௪?”

Yes, I told him. This is the very road on which the people of the caravan had been massacred. The few who escaped had come here for refuge. The road from the base of the bridge leads across to the village of Dhigane, which my protagonist Madan reached towards the end of the story.

He had read my latest novel, Gori, a few days ago. He asked: “In௪ Gori௪ did௪ Dev௪ Mitho௪ go௪ looking௪ for௪ pebbles௪?” Dennis’ queries were like an antidote to my fatigue and I got into the mood for conversation once again.

We walked along the embankment by the cremation ground, where someone’s last rites were being performed. The pyre had been lit and flames licked the air. Some men stood around the burning corpse. An old bachelor must have died, I thought. We descended from the path and joined the mourners. Someone told me: “Boorha the rascal has passed away.”

All right, I thought, many young men’s lives have been saved.

Age had not improved Boorha’s ways. In fact, he had started tutoring a new generation of young men in the village. When a dancer grows old, she opens a school; Boorha had opened a sort of school for scoundrels. Under his tutelage, a boy would drop out of school, another would turn against his father, and Boorha would feel a perverse sense of achievement. He had ruined many homes. Far from wishing anyone well, he did not even make a pretence of it.

The men threw some logs onto the pyre and talked among themselves.

“This is the way to die.”

“No fever, no pain.”

“He was never sick, not even for a day.”

“A day is too long ௰ he wasn’t sick for even five minutes.”

“As though he’d done a lot of punn.”

“Yes, he never suffered.”

Dennis wanted to know what punn was. Then he asked whether the dead man had done a lot of punn, or good deeds. Was that why people were saying this? Briefly, in a low voice, I told him about Boorha’s character, and that he was a sinner of the first rank.

Boorha’s son Keharu saw me and walked over. As a condolence of sorts, I asked him, “Why, had Bhaiya fallen ill?”

Keharu was only too willing to tell us. Having repeated the tale so many times, he had it by rote. “No, he was not sick at all. In fact, he was perfectly all right. He didn’t even have a fever or a cold. He had had a hearty meal. He sat up late into the night with the boys. He was just fine when he went to bed. He closed the door and latched it. When I took him his pot of tea this morning, he did not answer when I called out. I pulled back the quilt to look at his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth shut. The eyes and mouth of a dead man are often open. But he seemed to be in a deep sleep. I put the pot of tea back on the stove to keep it warm. He was addicted to tea and liked it piping hot. Then I went about my chores. I even went down to the village to do a couple of errands. I returned and saw the pot was still on the stove. It was broad daylight. I called out again, but there was no reply. He would’ve replied if only he could speak; the voice had left his body. I uncovered his face and shook him by the arm. It was ice-cold. He had died in his sleep. That’s all.” Keharu pouted his lips in an effort to weep, but the tears eluded him.

Across from where we stood, someone was recalling how Dharam Singh had died ௰ such a God-fearing and religious man. He would eat only after his prayers. He was always the first to offer help if anyone was in trouble, or even in the slightest discomfort. But see how he died! He was bed-ridden for six months and had stinking bedsores. He could no longer attend to his own needs. All night, he cried out for death to come and claim him. But death takes its own time. He went through hell. Strange are the ways of God!

Everyone had something to say about Dharam Singh’s death. Then the discussion turned to the contrast between the two deaths ௰ Dharam Singh’s and Boorha’s ௰ one a pious man and the other a sinner. The God-fearing man died in pain while the sinner had a happy death. They were saying of Dharam Singh: “His good deeds were without number.” About Boorha, they said: “As if he had done any good deeds at all!”

Keharu’s state was quite pathetic. His father’s painless passing had annoyed the villagers, who did not consider him worthy of such a death. Wrapping his shawl around him, he stood by the trunk of the peepul tree, as though to make a formal speech.

“Actually, his one good deed helped him. That’s why he didn’t suffer,” Keharu said.

Everyone fell silent, trying to recall this good deed. Had it been done in secret? What was it that had made Boorha’s passing so easy?

“When the caravan passed this way during the riots,” Keharu said, “Bapu had brought salvation to thirty suckling babies. That punn saved him.”

During the Partition in 1947, a caravan fifteen or twenty miles long had passed down the road through the village. The looters had pulled out men and women from the rear of the caravan, killed the men and the old women and took away the young women. Then more rioters would arrive to carry on the carnage. And so it went on. People were being slaughtered at the rear, but the caravan moved on. The road was littered with corpses. Fearing the outbreak of an epidemic, the villagers started removing the bodies and found some infants who were still alive. They brought them to the village dharamshala. But they still faced a problem: what was to be done with these babies? Some of them were adopted by people from the neighbouring villages, but thirty little ones were still left over. They were hardly a few months old. Within a week, the villagers grew tired of them. Who likes to care for the children of strangers? It’s not easy to look after children. A palaver began. Someone said that the babies should be sent to Pakistan. Another favoured sending them to an orphanage. But who’d take them there? It was a dangerous time and no one wanted to risk his life.

“Let’s just send them to their salvation,” Boorha suggested. “Who’s waiting to greet them with sweets in Pakistan anyway?”

But who could kill these innocent infants? No one wanted to do it. If they could, then those who had attacked the caravan would have killed them too ௰ the looters who had taken away their mothers. Everyone was shaken.

“Come, I’ll do the good deed,” Boorha said in the end. “Why is it so difficult? They need just one gentle stroke each. Or they will be destitute all their lives, these motherless wretches.”

Boorha took them to the canal, finished each one with a single stroke of the sword and threw the corpses in the water. This was the good deed that Keharu had referred to, which had earned his father an easy death.

Keharu’s tale was incomprehensible to Dennis, so I repeated it for his benefit.

“Did௪ you௪ see௪ it?” Dennis asked Keharu.

Keharu’s tone changed to that reserved for strangers. “Yes, I saw it; saw it all. I was thirteen then. We piled the children in a cart and took them there,” he said.

“How old were the babies?” Dennis asked.

“They were small, very small,” Keharu said, spreading out his hands to indicate their size. “Just this much. They were still nursing. This punn saw him through.”

“Were௪ they௪ cut௪ up௪ with௪ a௪ sword௪?”

Keharu slashed the air with his hand.

“Just one stroke and the head was off.”

Dennis trembled. The colour faded from his coppery face and it turned white. He gestured to me to move on. He couldn’t speak.

We walked through the crowd and returned to the path. Dennis put his bag down on the ground and stared at it, at if he was debating whether to open it. Then he started stroking his face, probing the skin with his fingertips as though to gauge its altered colour. Then he turned his face away and threw up. I caught hold of his shoulders to support him. He vomited three times.

There was a water tank on the other side of the path. I sat him down there and he rinsed out his mouth. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, he apologised to me: “I௪ am௪ sorry௪ I should௪ be௪ strong௪ forgive௪ me௪ a௪ person௪ should௪ not௪ be௪ weak,” he said.

My mother took good care of this foreigner, so far from home and country. She gave him warm water to wash himself. She served him tea and asked him about his country, but Dennis was reserved.

To cheer him up, I took him to visit my uncle. He gave us whiskey and fried chicken. But Dennis was mostly silent, speaking only when spoken to. His curiosity seemed to have died. He ate very little. His silence denied me the opportunity to praise our traditional hospitality. I had wanted to show him how my people cared even for an uninvited guest.

We gave him the room on the terrace. It was well lit, with a tube-light and a lamp. He would be able to read there. He asked me to share the room with him, but made no more conversation. He covered himself with a quilt and lay down.

Around midnight, I was woken by his voice. I peeped out of my quilt and saw that he had switched on all the lights. Sitting up in bed, he was talking to himself in French. From the little French I knew I could make out that he was saying, “Even after thirty-five years they think of it as a good deed. Really! My daughter is three months old௪ a tiny suckling baby௪”

Then he fell back on the bed and tossed about as though he was in the throes of a poison, muttering through clenched teeth. I could hear his teeth grinding. The bed was creaking and I was frightened.

I gathered my courage. “Are you awake?”

He leaped straight up out of bed, trembling and white-faced. He picked up the mirror from the mantelpiece and stared at himself, rubbing his neck.

“What is it, Dennis?”

“I needed to look in the mirror ௰ my baby is three months old.”

“I don’t understand what the mirror has to do with it.”

“I don’t understand it either ௰ but I want to look in the mirror௪ or I feel sick௪ I’m sorry, I’ve woken you up. I couldn’t help it.” He kept apologising and I kept asking him about the mirror, but he couldn’t explain.

Then he asked, “The caravan that man was referring to, isn’t that the same caravan in your story Hava?”

Yes, it was, I told him.

“Why௪ why didn’t you write about the incident of the babies?”

I wasn’t expecting this. I could have offered several arguments, but I knew he was saying that I could only write in praise of my people. I could only tell him that I had forgotten about it.

He took the early morning bus back to Delhi. Despite my pleading, he did not stay.

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Translated from the Punjabi story ‘Sheesha’ by TLM and Nirupama Dutt

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