LAJWANTI (Part I)
by RAJINDER SINGH BEDI
“This is the plant of touch-me-not; it shrivels at a mere touch.” so goes a Punjabi folk song.
The country was partitioned. Myraid wounded human beings staggered out of the shambles and wiped away the blood that stained their bodies. Then they turned their dazed eyes towards those whose bodies were whole and unscathed but whose hearts were torn and bleeding.
In every mohalla of the city of Ludhiana rehabilitation committees were set up. The work of giving relief to the displaced and the dispossessed, of settling them in jobs, on lands and in homes was carried on with intense fervour. But there was one aspect of this task which had been neglected. The slogan that this part of the programme articulated was: “Rehabilitate them in your hearts!'
However, the inmates of the temple of Narain Baba and the orthodox, conservative people who lived in its vicinity were staunchly opposed to it. To give an impetus to this programme, a committee was forced in mohalla Mulla Shukoor which lay near Narain Baba's temple. Babu Sunder Lal was elected secretary of this committee by a majority of eleven votes. It was the considered opinion of Vakil Saheb, chairman of Chauki Kalan, the old moharrir and the other worthies, that there was no one who could perform the duties of secretary with greater zeal and earnestness than Sunder Lal. Their confidence rested perhaps on the fact that Sunder Lal's own wife had been abducted-his wife Lajo had been abducted-his wife Lajo or Lajwanti, named after the touch-me-not plant.
At early dawn, when Sunder Lal led prabhat-pheris through the half- awakened streets, and his friends, Rasalu, Neki Ram and others sang in fervid chorus: “These are the tender touch-me-nots, my friend; they will shrivel and curl up if you so much as touch them…” it was only Sunder Lal's voice that would suddenly choke; and he would keep pace with his friends and followers mechanically and in utter silence. He would think of his Lajwanti whom wanton hands had not only touched but snatched from him. Where would she be now? What condition would she be in? What would she be thinking of her people? Would she ever return? And as his thoughts wandered the alleys of a sharp and searing pain, his legs would tremble on the hard, cold flagstones of the streets.
But by and by a stage came when he ceased to think about his Lajwanti. His own pain an suffering had been transcended and had become one with universal suffering, the pain of all mankind. To escape the sharp pangs of his own agony, he had plunged into social service, seeking to alleviate the agonies of others. Yet, whenever the inspired voices of his friends rang out, breaking the misty silence of the mornings, his own voice failed and he thought: How delicate is the human heart! A mere touch and it cracks like the most fragile glass, it withers like the Lajwanti leaves! But in the past he himself had ill treated his Lajwanti often enough, and not infrequently thrashed her, on the slightest pretext or even without provocation.
Sunder Lal's Lajwanti was a cheerful and slim girl of the village, a daughter of the soil. Her skin had been tanned to a deep ebony by too much exposure to the sun. Within her was some strange source of verve and vitality, an irrepressible joy and effervescence. Her restlessness was that of a dewdrop which rolls about on the large arvi leaf. The slenderness of her body was not because of ill health; on the contrary, it was a sign of good health. Sunder Lal, who had a tendency to obesity, had been apprehensive at first, but as he discovered that Lajo could bear any burden, submit to any form of pain and suffering and even to occasional bouts of thrashing, he had gradually increased his maltreatment of her. In time he became so confident of her forbearance that he lost sight of the limits at which the tolerance and patience of any human being can crack up. Indeed, Lajo herself assisted Sunder Lal in making him forget those limits, in making them dimmer, even non-existent. Since she was by nature unable to remain sad and brooding for long, she could not suppress her bright and innocent laughter at the slightest smile on Sunder La's face, even though they might have quarreled most bitterly just a little while before. And her only terms for a truce would be: “If you beat me again, I shall never speak to you.”
On each such occasion it was evident that she had forgotten all about the most recent torture. Like other girls of the village, she too believed that all husbands treated their wives in that manner. If any woman showed the slightest independence or rebelliousness, the other women would immediately condemn their subversive sister. A finger to their noses, they would proclaim: “Le, is he a man that he cannot control a chit of a woman?” And this maltreatment by husbands, the abusing and beating, had become an accepted convention among the womenfolk, even a theme for their songs. Lajo herself used to sing: “I shall not marry a youth from the city for he wears boots and my waist is dainty and tender.” But at the very first opportunity Lajo gave her heart away to a youth from the city whose name was Sunder Lal. He had come to Lajo's village with a marriage procession and had whispered into the groom's ears: “Your sister-in-law is spicy, my friend, your wife must also be pepper!” Having heard these words spoken by Sunder Lal, Lajo forgot that he wore heavy, ugly boots and that her waist was so very slim.
These were the memories that came winging through the years as Sunder Lal went about leading prabhat-pheris along the streets. And as these pods of nostalgia cracked and opened, Sunder Lal thought: Once, if only once, I get my Lajo back, I shall enshrine her in my heart. I shall tell others that these poor women were blameless, it was no fault of theirs that they were abducted, that they fell prey to the brutal passions of the rioters. A societywhich does not accept these innocent women is rotten and deserves to be destroyed. With all the eloquence at his command he pleaded and preached that such women be given the status normally accorded to wives, sisters, mothers and daughters in a home, and that not even by hint or suggestion should they ever be reminded of the heinous torments to which they had been subjected. Their hearts were torn and bleeding, for they were delicate, tender, like the touch-me-not plant.
So, to give a practical shape to the programme whose slogan was 'rehabilitate them in your hearts,' the committee of mohalla Mulla Shukoor organized many prabhat-pheris. The ideal time for them was four to five in the morning when there was no din and bustle in the streets, nor any problems of traffic. Even the pariah dogs that kept watch all night were quiet. Drowsy citizens in their cosy beds would mumble: “Those people again!” And sometimes with patience and sometimes with irritation they would listen to the inspired orations of Babu Sunder Lal. Women, safe and out of harm's way, lying complacent like cauliflowers, with husbands by their side like stems, would mutter in protest at the disturbance. Somewhere a child would open his eyes for a moment, and thinking that the sad chorus of the propagandists was just another song, he would fall asleep again.
Sometimes, however, a word settles in a niche of the mind, and even when one wakes up it does not pass. All day long it wanders through the mind like a blundering stranger. Often, men do not even understand it but keep repeating it to themselves mechanically. And because such words had by now settled in the minds of the people, when Miss Mridula Sarabhai brought over some abducted women as part of an exchange pact between India and Pakistan, several men of mohallah Mulla Shukoor volunteered to rehabilitate them in their homes. The Kinfolk of these women went to the outskirts of the town near Chauki Kalan to meet them. For a long moment the abducted women and their relatives stared at each other like strangers. Then, heads bent low, they walked back together to tackle the task of bringing new life to ruined homes, as Rasalu and Neki Ram and Sunder Lal shouted fervently: :Mahendra Singh Zindabad'……. “Sohan Lal Zindabad!' They kept on shouting till their throats became hoarse and dry.
But there were some amongst these abducted women whom their husbands, fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters refused to recognize. Rather, they cursed them: Why did they not die? Why did they not take poison to save their chastity? Why didn't they jump into a well to save their honour? They were cowards who basely and desperately clung to life. Why, thousands of women had killed themselves rather than surrender their honour and chastity!
