By: Smt. Kala Prakash
Translated by: Hashu Kewalramani
 

EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Harish was in raptures as the train moved out of Bombay Central. He was virtually dancing as he peeped out of the window, and then looking back into the compartment he shot a question,
"Where are we going?"

"Khanwahan," I replied, pulling him back.

"No, no, Mummy says it is Ahdamabad!"

Both my parents could not help smiling. Mother laughed as she related how the boy could not pronounce the word, "Ahmedabad", even after it had been dinned into his ears again and again.

Little Harish looked serious as he protested, "But Kali says that we are going to Khanwahan."

My other brother held his hand, explaining, "See, we are actually going to Ahmedabad, but Kali and I prefer to call it Khanwahan, our sweet, old village in Sind. Which name do you prefer?"

"Khawahan," he replied promptly.

"Then call it Khanwahan!"

"All right, I will call it Kahnwahan!" Harish looked contented as if he had last solved a riddle.

"So Khanwahan it really is," Mother exclaimed. "After all, have not all our relations settled down there?"

"Exactly!" I agreed. "That is really the reason why we call it Khanwahan. There will find our dear auntie's family, and Sita's family, and Mira's family, and Girdhari's family. Well, are they not all there?"

As I recounted these names, the familiar faces of all those rustic, simple but warm-hearted people of my old villages stood arrayed before my eyes. There was that middle-aged man in a dirty, black salwar and a red, embroidered rug wrapped round his shoulder, bowing respectfully as he moved forward. He was Sheikh
Juman!

I saw.that sweet, fragrant dawn as Juman took us in his bullock cart from Mahrabpur railway junction to our old village, Khanwahan. As the cart creaked forward, my father inquired, "Juman Mian, did you come all the way from Khanwahan so early before the dawn?"

"No, brother,"Juman answered as warm affection was oozing from eyes, "I brought some people to the station last evening and learnt that you were expected by the morning train. So, I decided to spend the night here."

The cart left Mahrabpur and entered the broad plains, the bright plains which symbolized the expansive hearts of my village people. On those plains stood lofty trees and green grass. The cool breeze wafted across the plain gave movement to the greenery around us, and the cooing of the birds was ethereal. We were hushed into silence for quite some time. As we drew nearer to our village, we saw those green fields, smiling and quivering as if to welcome us on our return home. The peasants were busy at their work.

How thrilling was the moment as we entered the village! The bullocks slowed down and the c art turned the pepul tree to enter a narrow lane. Under the ancient tree were silent, clay lamps which village women lit at dusk. As the cart was passing near the well round which I remembered the shop where we bought our
eatables, Pama suddenly pulled me by my chooni and broke my reverie. "Do you remember," he asked, "that garden where we used to go for a stroll early in the morning?"

I was back from Khanwahan into the train taking me to Ahmedabad. "Yes," I nodded. I sighed reminiscently, "What a huge garden it was! Once we almost lost inside it, and how thirsty we were!"

Pama prodded my memory by asking, "And where did we go then?"

"Oh, yes, I remember! Sadora's house. It was so near the garden!"

"Of course. And how warmly they welcomed us! They gave us buttermilk as well as milk, though we asked only for the water which they just refused to give."

"They were very poor people." I reminded Pama.

Harish was all ears.

"And, Kali, do you remember," Pama continued, "those sweet berries and mangoes and red roses?"

"Of course,' I laughed back. "Don't I remember?" How we used to return home with our aprons full of those roses so that we could make rose candy!"

All laughed. "Rose candy?" Harish asked inquisitively. "How did you make that rose candy?"

Pama suppressed his laughter as he explained, "Easy! We would stealthily carry those roses up the terrace of our house, open the big box of utensils lying there, pull out a large bowl and fill it with roses, sugar and a little water. We would then put it back into the box, and, behold! There you have the rose candy ready in the evening. And how sweet and fragrant!"

Pama tried to tickle Harish on his chin, but the boy looked grave. It seemed as if he were trying to remember all those good things.curd, butter, mangoes, berries, roses and that rose candy!

The train was running fast and with that speed our memories were switching back to those good, old days.
After some time, I asked, "Mother, grandpa must be fed up with that wretched refugee camp. He must be feeling cramped there. Over there in village, he lived in such an extensive dharamshala!"

Pama asked why he lived in the dharamshala when he owned such a big house. Dad explained that grandpa was the head of the village, and the dharamshala, a common property of the village, was under his care. It was there that the village celebrated all the weddings and other festivals. All the villagers wanted grandpa to remain there, and there her had set up home, as it seemed.

Mother explained further, "Grandpa was like a king there, holding his court where all came to offer their homage. There was plenty of fun and frolic and every evening grandpa was served with his glass of bhang and a royal hookah. And every child who come there would receive one pie from the good, old man."

Reminded of his own childhood days, Pama tickled Harish on his abdomen and exclaimed, "Yes, grandpa would then tickle you just like this, and scream, gid, gid, gid, gid."

Little Harish was roaring with laughter.

We looked for Harbhajan as we reach Ahmedabad. When we found him on platform, Harish asked, "Who is he?"

"Our cousin," I told him softly.

Harbhajan met us all by turn affectionately, complaining that it had taken us years to remember him. Dad rembraced him with tears in his eyes, and Mother protested, "Son, we have never forgotten you! But for these crushing railway fares, what is there to divide us?"

As we were approaching the Kubirnagar refugee camp, I asked Harbhajan if they had a specious courtyard where they live. He laughed mockingly. "Well," I turned to Pama, "No courtyard, no goats!"

Pama smiled shamefacedly. May be he remembered those goats that our uncle milched while Pama would grab a glass and swallow the warm milk on the spot.

As we reached the barrack, we found grandpa lying on a cot in the verandah, motionless, as if in a trance. The light had faded away from his eyes. He did not have the strength to meet us, as he did in Khanwahan, with those arms sprawling around us, hugging us, pressing us. Pama ran to him and clung to him just one
word, "Baba!"

What deep feeling lay pent-up that dear, old man as it surged and turned into silent tears trickling down his cheeks! He parted his dry lips in what was meant to be a smile. He kissed us on our forehead and said, "Here are my children at last with me!"

Harish also hugged him, but looked disappointed as he came back to whisper, "Not a pie for me! Nor did He scream, gid, gid, gid!" As I looked at grandpa's frail, doddering frame, I felt overwhelmed. I turned inside the barrack.

My aunt was there inside, packing her clothes in a basket while cousin Vindri cooking. Harbhajan's wife was busy dressing her little son. They met us affectionately, but I could feel the difference. How I wished that Auntie laughed, as she used to do over there, so that I could see those two, broken front teeth!
Harbhajan's wife should have been singing a lullaby as she dressed her child. Vindri should have been so much beside herself that she could have recovered her wits only when she smelt the food burning.

Where was all that lustre we saw shining on their faces-over there in Khanwahan?

We talked as Harish went out loafing his cousin's son. By the time he returned we were at our meals. He asked,  "And where is my meal?"

"Take it with your brother," Auntie suggested.

"No, I must have it separately," Harish insisted.

"Bless my child," Auntie replied, "just wait a little till I can get that plate from Pama."

Harish shook himself free from Auntie's arms and went straight on the floor, weeping.

"Why are you crying?" I asked frowning.

"Why does she keep me waiting for my meal?" Harish mumbled through his pouting lips.

"There is no spare plate. Either eat with us, or have a little patience!"

Harish whined, "But why does she not bring out a plate from that box?"

"Which box?" I asked in wonder.

"That box of utensils which is lying on the terrace," Harish replied without blinking.

We all laughed. Auntie borrowed a plate from the neighbouring barrack, and served a meal for Harish.

As we went out in the evening to visit a few people in the neighbourhood, we also visited Sadora who lived in the same camp. We had tea there, but Harish looked annoyed as he blurted out, "What is this" Butter and buttermilk for you, and only tea now that I am here! I put my palm across his mouth to silence him.

Next morning as soon as Harish woke up, he served an order, "We must now go to the garden!"

"Which garden?"

"Where you get those roses and made that rose candy!" Harish echoed back impishly.

"There is no such garden here, Harish!"

Harish did not relish this reply, and straight he went sprawling again on the floor, bawling and kicking up a racket as if he had been the victim of some grave injustice. Auntie offered him one anna, which he threw away in a corner. Dad invited him to go to the bazaar with him, but Harish flatly refused.

Harish was now crying with a rising tempo, and he could faint in the midst of those hysterical sobs. He kept moaning hoarsely, "Take me to the garden, I want to pluck those roses and mangoes and berries."

Mother could not stand it any longer. Striking him on his head, she shouted, "Idiot! Can't you understand?
This is not Khanwahan, this is Ahmedabad, baba, Ahmedabad! We left Khanwahan in Pakistan!"