Columnists

The Fly in the Ointment:
Part I
Prem Kahani

T. SHER SINGH

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times … it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …”  [Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities]

Frankly, I don’t remember the details of how we first met and what we said or did then to break the ice. All I remember is being besotted by her from the moment I first set my eyes on her.

For months thereafter, she would tease me by describing in great detail how I had mumbled and fumbled. She could recall the precise colour of my turban, the print and design of my bush-shirt, the colour of my trousers, the state of my sandals.

It was at a party that we first met. I was studying for my Bachelor’s in English. She was in History. A mutual interest in one-act plays had drawn both of us to the reception. Exactly how we were introduced or stumbled into each other escapes me now. I was shy and an introvert then, so it would’ve had to be her to have initiated a conversation.

But I do remember I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, no matter where she was in the room. Not glamourous, just incredibly beautiful.

During the course of one of our conversations that evening -- we kept running into each other -- it came out that she was from out of town: Raziapur, a couple of hours’ drive away.

I recall it as a segue into a discussion on Razia Sultan, a 13th century empress of Delhi who I knew had inspired the naming of the town. Geek-like, I knew everything that was there to know about her: the daughter of a Spartacus-like character named Iltutmish, I had read about her history to distraction.

That is what must’ve impressed her that evening, I guess.

Did I know of the maqbara (mausoleum) a few miles outside Raziapur?

The Tomb of the Khush Pir, the Happy Saint! Yes, of course. I had been there a few times. A sprawling pre-Mughal edifice perched on the edge of a picturesque kund (tank), the former decrepit but still standing in its old and solid stone glory, the latter long-dried and covered with shrubs. The whole complex now lay hidden in the overgrowth of an ever-encroaching forest, deserted since Partition when the local Muslim population had fled to newly-carved Pakistan. Being a memorial dedicated to a Muslim saint, the locals had no interest in it and had abandoned it to the elements.

Did I know, she asked, that it had been commissioned by Razia in honour of the pir/saint from whom she had often sought spiritual guidance? Hence, the nearby township named after her.

No, I didn’t.       

Both of us seemed to know enough juicy little tid-bits about Razia to regale each other.

One thing led to another.

A few days later, I was able to cajole my father into borrowing his car. I picked her up at the university hostel where she was staying, and we headed eastwards for an hour, until we arrived at the village known far and wide for “Khush Pir ki Jalebiaa(n)” - small, bite-size jalebies (confections) of a concoction only to be found in this village and nowhere else in the world.

We left the highway, bounced along a shaded dirt-road and in a few minutes emerged from the cover of the forest only to be halted immediately by the sight of the great mausoleum and an arc of shorter structures that reached out from either side  ... all of them abandoned and in disrepair. There wasn’t a soul in sight, probably hadn’t been for some time, as it appeared from the trees that glowered down on each side of the perimeter.  

We walked around and explored the area, a third of a mile square. We’d brought along a hamper. So we picnicked in the cool shade under the main dome, looking out at the kund/tank that lay below us.

Again, one thing led to another.

And we fell in love.

*   *   *   *   *

They say youth is wasted on the young, wisdom on the old.

Now that I'm no longer young, and have had time to give this some thought, I don't agree.

With the benefit of hindsight, I’m glad now that the two of us, both in our late teens then, were not burdened with good sense.

Had we been, we would’ve avoided each other like the plague. Every bit of common sense would’ve militated against our being together. Fortunately, our brains were switched off.

To begin with, we were both from provincial, parochial, back-water worlds: that is, conservative and behind the times.

Dating was unheard of. In fact, any public contact between the opposite sexes, other than in family or social settings, was frowned upon ... discouraged ... prohibited.

That was not all. We had an even bigger problem: we belonged to different religions.

Riots were known to erupt, murders were not unknown, and endless feuds between families and communities continued for generations, when someone crossed the line. 

Ethnically, culturally, linguistically … in every way, we came from disparate worlds which never met or overlapped other than in the public forum.

To put all of the above in context, I hasten to add that that didn’t mean that nothing ’untoward’ happened. All the taboos added to the excitement and the pleasure; the risk and danger merely increased the lure of the forbidden apple.

I knew several people who were having “affairs” -- ’illicit’ liasons, known only to the parties involved or, at most, the closest confidants. If word got out, generally people kept a lid on the secret while gossiping about it nevertheless. Things got out of hand when the ‘elders’ in the community found out. And then, all hell would break loose.

None of it was given the slightest bit of thought by either of us. The thrill of being in each other’s company -- whenever it could be arranged, because each tryst had to be micro-managed to the nth degree with white lies and endless deceit, with no help from anyone else  -- left no room for rational thought towards consequences.

Except one uppermost concern: that no one should know of it. That much we knew. And we were relentless and meticulous in implementing it.

The primary task, therefore, was to establish a line of communication. It was an age before the advent of the miracle of cyberspace. Phones too were not reliable. We had only one phone line at home, and it was mostly for my father’s use. The concept of teenagers being umbilically linked with their friends by telephone was still to be discovered.

The mail was the only option.

Which meant one had to secure access on both sides. Even a single slip-up could have disastrous results.

I was fine. I had already secured privacy for my mail. And, the sheer bulk of my daily mail from penfriends guaranteed that anything coming from her would be buried in the pile.

Her solution was to confide in an aunt who allowed her to use the aunt’s address for my mailings. She would merely make a daily visit to her aunt and pick-up her mail. Sure, her uncle noticed the sudden escalation in the number of visits but chalked it off to growing affection between aunt and niece.

There was a world of negotiating and manouvering both of us had to go through before we could manage to meet each time. We could only meet in a secluded and isolated place. It had to promise privacy. it had to be free of the risk of anyone we knew stumbling upon us. No, even more, it had to guarantee that even no stranger would see us, since a young man and a woman, hanging around and obviously not married, were bound to raise instant suspicion: respecting the privacy of others was (and is) a virtue unknown on the subcontinent.

We needed a place where we could be for a few hours and were not rushed. Where we could move around and explore and talk freely.

We had to arrange our meetings around our school schedules. She had to deftly sneak away from friends. I had to not only explain my absence to my parents, but also finagle the use of the car for the period.

So we met once a week, on the average.

The mail. Therefore, became a central component of our relationship.

*   *   *   *   *

It is then my biggest challenge hit me between the eyes.

Language.

Our conversations, when we met, had a healthy sprinkling of English and Hindi. Both small talk and day-long, lengthy chats came easily. So did the bon mots which are the life-blood of endearment. 

But, letters?

The problem was that though we were both fluent in spoken English (the language of my choice) and spoken Hindi (hers), her written fluency was only in Hindi, mine only in English.

I could read Hindi well and understand it.

It wasn’t the case with her and English. She didn’t say anything but I knew as soon as we had exchanged our first few letters that there was a gap.

Hindi. H-m-m-m.

H-I-N-D-I?

Was this going to be the proverbial “fly in the ointment“?

CONTINUED TOMORROW ...

February 13, 2013  

read other articles in Columnists