Her Man Gula

Qadir poured Kashmiri salt tea from the Samovar in several cups for his brothers and children who clustered about him in the compound. He did not quite fill Gula's cup as he did that of others. He burst out at Gula, "After all how long will this be, you Gula? You've not done an ounce of work for the last six months. The air of Punjab blessed you with the seasonal fever that absolutely spoiled you. Now you're better, you could work and not laze away."

"Well, yes," said Gula, feebly, reflectively, "I'll think.

"You'll think," retorted Qadir, pouring himself another cup and not asking Gula whether he would have more. "To hell with you, you're not the son of our father, you rascal "

Anger clouded Gula's face. But it was impotent anger. He had lost his nerve long ago after he returned from Lahore, a wrecked malarial patient. When he came home he did not find his wife there. She had been ill-treated by Qadir and Satara and she had gone to her father's house. That shocked him and his protracted illness disabled him from work. He had done no work for these many months. His wife, Habba, sweet, tall, brunette beauty, did not return. As the children, Qadir's and Satara's children played about him and Qadir helped himself to still another cup of salt tea and a crumb of a city cake, he over-turned his empty cup. His idle gaze flashed across the green fields to the distant snow-capped mountains catching the golden rays of a gorgeous autumnal sunset. Kites ponderously returned to their lofty Chinar nests. Some of them sailed smoothly in twos. With a pang he thought of his Habba and fell into a desperate reverie, quite unmindful of the oxen being tethered, the rattle penned, the children clamouring for more rice and the bleating of the calf and sheep.

Gala was really Ghulam Mohammad. They used to call him that before he migrated to Punjab, when he and his newly-married wife, Habba, worked hard in the field. Indoor, during long winter of Kashmir, Habba excelled at shawl-spinning and he beat all the villagers at basket-making. The shawl that her clever fingers turned out sold well in the town market. Villagers crowded him in the evening when he would repair their baskets or the wicker work of their Kangris - Kashmiri fire-pots. He was respected then. His friends would joke at him about his charmer of a wife. She was a houri, they would tease him. The cursed wander-lust had seized him as the winter had been heralded by late autumn. The Chinar leaves had fallen. And his happiness also did, as he found to his cost, later.

Against the protestations of his mother and wife, he had left fort he plains with a party of migratory peasants. There he fell a prey to malaria. He worked even in fever for he had to save money to get so many things for his parents, brothers, sisters and wife and, his nephews. He purchased some of their choice things as he, reduced to a mere skeleton, returned to his home in early spring. Scenes of humiliation and suffering rushed across his mind. But he had stood it all, heartened by the hope that he would return to his happy family. The spring that gave new life to everything took away his, as rude shocks encountered him at his home. Habba, whom Satara had attempted to rape, had run away swearing that she would never return to this home where "men were devils, and women, prostitutes." Cold welcome awaited Ghulam Mohammad at his home. He received it with all the grace that he could command. No me liked his presents much. They grudged nursing him back to health. Labour in the fields left no hand but his choleric old father to attend upon him. He became "Gala" - as his health failed him.

'Ill-fed and ill-nursed, Gula never quite regained his lost health. Habba, who used to call him "Her man, Gula," did not come back. He heard scandalous and fantastic rumours about her and all these agreed on the conclusion that she would divorce Gula, for he was not a match for her. That would cut him to the quick. So he lived on, dreaming away his sad days, not doing an ounce of work. He was dazed, lost, desperate. Pinned to the spot, he made no effort to shake himself as the sun disappeared behind the soothing, curving mountain-line. The glowing evening star, looking so bright and yet so lonely, painfully pictured Habba, his Habba, to him. He cursed himself and struck his forehead again and again with his outstretched hands.

Somebody came cowards him. From the step he discerned that it was his mother. He did not turn round.

She stopped just behind him. Maternal intuition gave her a sudden insight into her son's desperate mind, as she said sympathetically, placing her hand on his drooping head, "Ghulama, come in now. It's so late. We've all finished our meal, I've kept your rice in an earthen bowl over the hot cow-dung cinders in the fire-place."

A sigh escaped Gula as he bitterly thought that she alone soil called him, "Ghulama."

"All right, mother, I shall follow directly."

Mad thought's crowded his brain as he went to the stream no make water and to cleanse himself. Would he pray? Pray to whom? No, God and man had forsaken him. Reluctantly, he retraced hesitant steps to the cottage.

It was midnight. A starry sky played over the field. An owl screeched on the dark Chinar flanking the sinuous stream. Jackals howled behind the line of maidenly willows by the wide marsh. A flock of jungle birds, invisible in the sky, made quick flight above Gula. Their swift rustle and squeaky sounds disturbed the maddening reflections of Gula. The evening star was lost among the maze of stars now. But he saw a pale yellow star somewhere in the firmament and, curiously enough, it reminded him of Habba, the tanned roses of her oval cheeks. Indifferently, the golden star twinkled back at him, sending him no message of consolation.

So they sent me here, all alone to shiver in the night, with his blanket on me, Gula thought. Their words still rang, sharp,biting and reproachful, in his ears. As he finished his frugal evening meal, for which they had spared so little of vegetable for him, Qadira had said, "This night I am tired. Satara is down with fever. Somebody must keep watch over the patch of maize which is ripe. I say, Sheikh give ear to me. Tell your stay-at-home Gula to go out and do this bit of soft work at least." The Sheikh, their father, had warmed up. His wife had whispered something to the Sheikh but still he had fulminated, "Gula is unearthly, a poet, a faqir, for aught I know. Sure, Gula, can go there. He knows how to sleep. And he has slept enough during the day..."These cutting remarks had continued. Even Satara from his sick bed had his say, adding a few more insulting remarks. Gula thought of Qadir's eldest son who had volunteered to come out with him but his wife had snatched him away, bluntly expressing her fears, "A bear might come there. I can't allow my light to risk a meeting with a bear."

Then Gula, taking up his old scythe, left his home. Nobody asked him whether his Kangri had enough fuel for the night. He had heard, "Thank Allah! he has left, let him never return, " coming presumably from Qadir, as the door was slammed after him. The dog, whom Habba used to love and feed so well, nestled close to him as he paused awhile in the compound. Dog and man, who is more faithful? Oh! it is the dog, he reasoned with a pang, as the dog sniffed him close all over. He heard the sound of his heavy wagging tail. And yet, he mused bitterly, Kashmiris say "a dog's face" to indicate rudeness, "like a dog" to insinuate faithlessness and shamelessness. Man was more faithless and shameless than dog could ever be. The dog barked away as it heard other dogs giving an alarm.

Alone, all alone, Gula reached the maize holding and there he lay down. Voluptuous images of Habba danced before his eyes. No, hang it, he reflected aggressively. This life is a burden. Do away with it. Very easy. All the miseries of this world will cease at one stroke. Somebody whispered, "No, don't do it, Ghulama." His mother admonished him. His split brain somehow echoed her words. He heard a rustle. The faint starlight showed nothing. Would that it were a bear! That would spare him the means with which to kill himself. He discerned a dark form advancing towards him. But it was small for a bear. Its eyes did not glow. It was his dog, the only faithful mature left in the world for him. The dog, coming dose to him, crouched. Its affectionate movements revived piercing memories of Habba. Too much for me. This world is too cruel for me! Fly away from it, he resolved. Stars appeared to fade away as mist spread over them. The mountain-line also dimmed suddenly. Why need he look about? Everything was now reeling. Let it. Gula felt his scythe. Its edge was rather blunt. It would do the work. He gave several hard blows to his neck in quick succession. They fell on the upper part of the neck. Blood, blood, blood! One
gasping breath; Gula fell down in a heap, the dog whining over him.

The police from the town called the entire village to the common. The body of Gula lay wrapped up in his blanket, on the ground. Noise, jostling and elbowing in the crowd. Everyone pressed near the body. The policemen kicked away urchins and slapped youngsters who pestered them. But they did not scare away the heads of families, to whom they said, "You rogues, you were not on good terms with the Sheikh. You've killed his son. We'll get you hanged one and all." The family heads lost their heads at this. They wept, cried, entreated like so many women. Policemen knew no mercy and never showed it. One of them confidently advised one villager as to the blackmail that could save him. Individual bargains were struck up by the freebooter-police.

No Hakim saw the body for there was none in the village. The police did not get any with them from the town for they took murder for granted. The Grand Old Man of the village was away in the city of Srinagar. He was the acknowledged local Hakim. None could take his place and none did.

The blustering sergeant was arriving, an urchin said. Two policemen left the place to receive him at the stream, wherein one had to wade in knee-deep water. As the sergeant appeared across the stream, the policemen saluted him, clumsily though. Then one kicked a villager with, "Wade across, carry the Thanadar Sahib on your back." The sergeant was ferried across like a bag of paddy. He did not so much as look at the rustic who carried him across, not to speak of thanking him. Villagers, their individual hush money settled by now by the police, ran to the sergeant, "Thanadar Sahib, save us. The extorting policemen ask us for money and paddy and fowl and flour." The sergeant, brandishing his baton, made his way to the body and rebuked the head policeman, after slightly shaking the dangling head, underneath which a tight dirty cloth served as a bandage on the wound, saying, "You've the body removed to the town doctor at once. I saw him at his residence just now and he will confirm death and give us his report."

The head policeman asked the sullen Sheikh to produce a cot and to arrange four men. A broken cot served as the precarious stretcher. While the body was laid on it, a woman's solitary cry rent the air and she moaned aloud, "Thanadar Sahib, Gula killed himself. I saw him lying prostrate in the field with the blood-stained scythe in his hand. Thanadar Sahib, don't be hard on the villagers. They're our good neighbours. Don't take away Qadir, I plead you. He is innocent.." No one heard her. The head policeman simply gave a shrug as the men left with the cot on their shoulders.

The sergeant curiously eyeing the scythe, saw to it that each and every head of a family gave the cash and kind to the head constable that was demanded of them. One rowdy villager, Qadir and the Sheikh were handcuffed.

A strange and sad bustle prevailed in the village as the red turbans left for the town.

Dust-laden tattered mats covered the mud-plastered floor of the big room of the Thana. The sergeant-known as the Thanadar-more occupied with his hookah than with the grovelling appeals of prisoners, tried to look as stern as he could. He said to a policeman, who stood guard over them, "Just shout and call one of these lazy policemen. What are they doing with the crowd in the compound?

In response to the call, a policeman half in uniform and half in mufti, appeared and made an awkward motion of a salute. "I say " came forcibly from the Thanadar, "Why has not the dead mans wife been produced so far? I am told she lives in the nearby hamlet. Send another policeman and hurry her here. Despatch another to Doctor Sahib for his report. If he wants me, let me know directly." Another apology of a salute. The policeman sneaked away while the sergeant righteously shot at the still unruly villager. "You speak of the National Party and of your city leaders. You dare to threaten me! You don't know I am as good as the Tehsildar before whom you'll all be produced tomorrow. Then you'll see, you bastards, I'll have you shut away in prison for at least one year."

"I don't mind", fired back the villager, waving his handcuffed arms, I'll be heard. You'll see how I'll speak against all your zoolum:'

Qadir put his hand over the mouth of the revolutionary and appealed to the sergeant, "Thanadar Sahib, he's a fool. He does not know what he is talking about. He has heard too many speeches in the city where big leaders speak only and do nothing. Excuse him, sir. He is a fool."

The sergeant momentarily fell into a moody silence. Nobody spoke for awhile. The dust-mantled clock hanging over his head had long since stopped ticking. The crowd, now forced away, collected about the mosque. There were shouts. Why?

In came Habba, escorted by two policemen and followed by several nervous villagers. She looked bewitching even though beads of tears .. clung to her long eyelashes and flowed down her flushed cheeks. The dirty red pheran-Kashmiri gown-set off her brunette complexion. She looked about the room but she was not abashed on finding everybody looking at her.

The Thanadar wistfully, with half-closed eyes, drunken with her beauty, stared at her, as wicked ideas popped up in his mind. Oh sure. he comforted himself, she was within his grasp all right. Aloud he said, trying to look his authoritative best, "Tell us all about your dead husband. Why did you desert him, you prostitute?"

Looking fierce as a tigress held at bay, Habba darted back, "Thanadar Sahib, I've nothing of the prostitute in me. I left the house because of Qadir and Satara disgraceful goondas that they are. But, sir, let me go. Let me have a last look at my husband before he is buried. The villagers were saying that a devil has entered his body. Oh! my Allah!"

Wrenching herself free from the policemen, she fled downstairs melodramatically.

In the stuffy out-patients' room, the Doctor, still wearing his home clothes, bent over the patient whom he had bandaged. The restless policeman spoke aside to a villager, "This new doctor is a boy. What does he think of himself? Why does he not pronounce the fellow as dead? After all we'll have a lot of trouble with the dead body of this Punjab-returned peasant yet."

The Doctor motioned to the policeman to maintain silence. Habha entered just then, shouting, weeping, "My husband! What've they done to you? I loved you, my man Gula. What a lightning has fallen upon me? I shall die now. Let me die." She struck her head against the clumsy cot and swooned off.

Pacing about the verandah outside, the Doctor smoked and thought hard. His children ran about and disturbed him. Convinced of his diagnosis that it was a case of prolonged coma, he took fresh score of the patient's symptoms and developments. He was sure that the upper part of the trachea was not mortally wounded. Life had not quite ebbed away from the body. It might return. He had used all possible restoratives. Life should return. The case intrigued him. He heard a cry from the room, "Doctor Sahib, the devil has again entered the body."

The Doctor ran back. To his great professional pleasure, he saw the patient kick his legs again and again. A motion of life-clear and distinct. He felt his pulse. Yes, life, the precious flame, was coming back.

And it did.

As Gula opened his eyes and looked blankly at Habba, his Habba, streams of tears running down her cheeks, the Doctor had the greatest difficulty in convincing the villagers that the devil had not entered the body. Still they persisted, "Gula is twice-born. Gula is a saint. Gala has returned from the clutches of Izrahil (Angel of Death)."

The Doctor was happily puffing at a cigarette but he only said, "Have it as you will but now remove the patient. Let me change my clothes."

"I shall take my man Gula to my father's home," declared Habba, between tears and ecstasy. "He will live with my parents."

A gloom fell on the Thana as the villagers swelled in a crowd outside, demanding release of the prisoners and the return of the fleeced blackmail.

The nervous sergeant released the prisoners, begging the agitators to keep quiet.

Most of the extorted blackmail filtered back.