hillock on the other side would belt out a
mahiya
in a plaintive note—
Do pattar anara de
O my beloved
For once come into my lane
For once inquire
How this sick man is faring …
And the soldiers on this side would sing a retort—
Do pattar anara de
How to reach you
O my beloved,
There are guards all around you
Of your wicked suitors.
The hillocks that faced each other across the border were just a shoulder apart, so close together that if they stooped they would be hugging each other. The
azan
from that side could be heard on this side, and from this side on the other. Once Major Kulwant Singh had even asked his junior captain, ‘Oye, the
azan
was heard just a little while ago, wasn’t it? Why is there an
azan
again after half an hour?’
Majeed had begun to laugh, This time it is from the other side, sir. The Pakistani time is thirty minutes behind us, you see.’
‘So, whose
azan
do you follow to the prayers?’
‘Whichever one suits me on that particular day, sir.’ Captain Majeed had clicked his heels together, saluted the major and walked off.
Kulwant thought that there must be something about young Majeed that he had become so pally with him so soon. His smile seemed to suggest he had grown up holding his hand.
One night, Majeed sought his permission to enter his tent and placed a tiffin carrier on the teapoy.
‘What is it?’
‘Mutton, sir. Homemade.’
Kulwant kept the glass on the table and stood up.
‘Great! How come? What’s the occasion?’
‘Bakr-i-Id, sir! This is the sacrificial lamb. You will have it, sir?’
‘Yes, yes … why not?’ Kulwant opened the tiffin carrier himself and picking up a piece of the roasted mutton, said, ‘Make yourself a drink.’
‘No sir, thank you!’
‘Come on. Make a drink. Id mubarak!’
With the mutton chop dangling from his fingers, he embraced Majeed thrice.
‘Once upon a time, Fattu Masi would roast these delicately for us. Mushtaq’s ammi. Long ago in Saharanpur.’ He looked at Majeed, ‘Have you ever savoured
ghuggni
made of black chickpeas along with mutton roast? It is simply to die for.’
Majeed wanted to say something but checked himself. Then with some deliberation he said, ‘This roast has been sent over by my sister.’
‘She lives here? In Kashmir?’
‘Yes sir. In Kashmir, but …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But what?’
‘She lives in Zargul … on the other side.’
‘Arre!’ Kulwant was sucking the marrow from a succulent bone which he held in his right hand as he poured a drink for Majeed from his left, ‘Cheers! Once again, Id mubarak!’
After he clinked his glass with Majeed’s, he asked him, ‘So, how did your sister send this across?’
Majeed could feel the air stiffen a bit. He began to feel a little uncomfortable. Kulwant asked him with stringent military precision, ‘Did you go over to the other side?’
‘No, sir! I’ve never been. Not even once.’
‘Then?’ The word hung in the air.
‘My brother-in-law’s the lieutenant commander on the other side. My sister came over to meet him.’
Kulwant picked up his glass and sipped his whiskey. It had grown warm now. He slapped the tiffin carrier shut and stood authoritatively in front of Majeed. ‘How did you manage to bring this across? What’s the bundobast between the two of you?’
Majeed kept quiet.
‘What was the bundobust?’ Kulwant thundered.
‘In the village below, there are a lot of men whose houses are on this side but their farms on the other,’ Majeed began to stutter in answer. ‘There are men in a similar situation in villages on the other side too whose houses and farms are thus divided. Families and relations too. So …’
Kulwant Singh had more faith in Majeed’s voice than the words he had cobbled together. A pregnant pause—and then when Kulwant put some more roast on his plate, Majeed said, ‘The commander on the other side is a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir? I know because I have read an
mahiya
in a plaintive note—
Do pattar anara de
O my beloved
For once come into my lane
For once inquire
How this sick man is faring …
And the soldiers on this side would sing a retort—
Do pattar anara de
How to reach you
O my beloved,
There are guards all around you
Of your wicked suitors.
The hillocks that faced each other across the border were just a shoulder apart, so close together that if they stooped they would be hugging each other. The
azan
from that side could be heard on this side, and from this side on the other. Once Major Kulwant Singh had even asked his junior captain, ‘Oye, the
azan
was heard just a little while ago, wasn’t it? Why is there an
azan
again after half an hour?’
Majeed had begun to laugh, This time it is from the other side, sir. The Pakistani time is thirty minutes behind us, you see.’
‘So, whose
azan
do you follow to the prayers?’
‘Whichever one suits me on that particular day, sir.’ Captain Majeed had clicked his heels together, saluted the major and walked off.
Kulwant thought that there must be something about young Majeed that he had become so pally with him so soon. His smile seemed to suggest he had grown up holding his hand.
One night, Majeed sought his permission to enter his tent and placed a tiffin carrier on the teapoy.
‘What is it?’
‘Mutton, sir. Homemade.’
Kulwant kept the glass on the table and stood up.
‘Great! How come? What’s the occasion?’
‘Bakr-i-Id, sir! This is the sacrificial lamb. You will have it, sir?’
‘Yes, yes … why not?’ Kulwant opened the tiffin carrier himself and picking up a piece of the roasted mutton, said, ‘Make yourself a drink.’
‘No sir, thank you!’
‘Come on. Make a drink. Id mubarak!’
With the mutton chop dangling from his fingers, he embraced Majeed thrice.
‘Once upon a time, Fattu Masi would roast these delicately for us. Mushtaq’s ammi. Long ago in Saharanpur.’ He looked at Majeed, ‘Have you ever savoured
ghuggni
made of black chickpeas along with mutton roast? It is simply to die for.’
Majeed wanted to say something but checked himself. Then with some deliberation he said, ‘This roast has been sent over by my sister.’
‘She lives here? In Kashmir?’
‘Yes sir. In Kashmir, but …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But what?’
‘She lives in Zargul … on the other side.’
‘Arre!’ Kulwant was sucking the marrow from a succulent bone which he held in his right hand as he poured a drink for Majeed from his left, ‘Cheers! Once again, Id mubarak!’
After he clinked his glass with Majeed’s, he asked him, ‘So, how did your sister send this across?’
Majeed could feel the air stiffen a bit. He began to feel a little uncomfortable. Kulwant asked him with stringent military precision, ‘Did you go over to the other side?’
‘No, sir! I’ve never been. Not even once.’
‘Then?’ The word hung in the air.
‘My brother-in-law’s the lieutenant commander on the other side. My sister came over to meet him.’
Kulwant picked up his glass and sipped his whiskey. It had grown warm now. He slapped the tiffin carrier shut and stood authoritatively in front of Majeed. ‘How did you manage to bring this across? What’s the bundobast between the two of you?’
Majeed kept quiet.
‘What was the bundobust?’ Kulwant thundered.
‘In the village below, there are a lot of men whose houses are on this side but their farms on the other,’ Majeed began to stutter in answer. ‘There are men in a similar situation in villages on the other side too whose houses and farms are thus divided. Families and relations too. So …’
Kulwant Singh had more faith in Majeed’s voice than the words he had cobbled together. A pregnant pause—and then when Kulwant put some more roast on his plate, Majeed said, ‘The commander on the other side is a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir? I know because I have read an
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