Border

by Kishore Chakravorty

Nakkoo was enjoying the forbidden pleasure. Crouched inside the hollow trunk of the large banyan tree, well hidden from outside, he was smoking bidi (hand-rolled cigarette), Lion Brand, the one he lifted from Ansari’s pan (tobacco) shop. He cupped his two hands, held the bidi in between, tilted his head backwards, and took deep, luxurious puffs, releasing rings of smoke, like a real grown-up. Seven months short of turning eleven, Nakkoo was way ahead of his generation, the half-clad, illiterate boys of Mianwala.

“Oye! Prince Shahzade, where have you vanished? Get going fast or else,” shouted Duddoo, his grandpa.

Startled, Nakkoo hid the bundle in the secret place and ran toward the shed to get the oxen harnessed and ready for the day’s work.

After a long drought, it rained. On the parched soil, baked so hot, the drops simply evaporated upon contact. Then came muddy puddles, croaking frogs, cool soothing breezes, smiles in faces hardened by hunger and neglect.

Before Partition, before the barbed-wire border, Mianwala had been a thriving, happy place. Hindus and Muslims shared an intimacy in spite of drinking from different wells, cursing each others’ religion, and taking extreme measures to avoid any physical touch. This intimacy derived from living side by side for generations, tied to the same soil. Both the Muslim festival Eid-ul-Fitr and the Hindu festival Maha Shiva Ratri were celebrated with the same gusto. It was not uncommon to see shaved-head Brahmins gorging themselves on sweet sewaii at the Eid celebrations, and the bearded Muslims getting high on the hemp leaves laced with sweet milk and turning hoarse chanting Bam-Bhole (Hail, Shiva!) in the Maha Shiva Ratri procession.

That was decades before Nakkoo was born. When his mother, Amina, a shy, sensuous woman with lotus face and a bust that wouldn’t hide behind the burka, set young hearts on fire. When his father, Khudabaksh, the wrestler, six feet tall, all bulging muscles, with a reputation for flattening opponents into submission, was himself flattened by Amina’s sway.

Their affair buzzed the village with excitement. Duddoo, who claimed a royal Persian lineage, “ninth-generation descendent of Nadir Shah,” refused to accept this match. Determined to block this dilution of his race, he marched to Amina’s house in the middle of the night with three armed guards. Khudabaksh, the lover Majnu, proved his mettle that night. He bared his hairy chest, thrust it onto his father’s sword, and proclaimed, “Allah Kasam! No one shall as much as touch a single strand of her hair.”

Duddoo’s royal Nadir Shahi blood froze in fright. Suddenly, he grew more concerned about his son’s health than the preservation of his royal lineage: “Chilly night. Cover yourself lest you catch cold.” Khudabaksh, the Majnu, the gallant savior of his girl, complied. Disappointed, the crowd dispersed.

The matter had assumed serious proportion. The dignity of the village was at stake. At the Mosque, the Imam held a hearing with his advisors. Both the fathers attended as observers—to hear the verdict and carry out the orders issued by that august body. The Imam listened to his counselors, who, withered with age, bored with their sedate life, tried to outdo each other in suggesting harsh punishments. The prospect of making the vivacious, lively pair writhe in pain gave the counselors unimaginable pleasure. The Imam, however, maintained a contemplative silence. He scratched his bald head, stroked his beard, but said nothing. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat, stiffened his torso, rolled up his eyes like a Sufi fakir in a trance and pronounced in a shrill, high-pitched voice, “Sanctify with fire they must. Send the boy away for one whole year and get the girl married elsewhere....”

Kishore K. Chakravorty lives in San Jose and works as an engineer at Intel. This is his first fiction in print. He notes: “A major portion of the India/Pakistan border is unmarked. Every year scores of children from both sides unknowingly stray across and get arrested. Some of them languish in jails meant for adult criminals for years before they are repatriated.” E-mail: kchakravorty@cs.com