A Haversack is more popularly known in Indian Army as 'Chhota Pitthoo' It is an inseparable part of a soldier's equipment in the field. There are regulation items which must go into it; items of immediate use with easy access; things like the mess tin containing food, field dressing, hand towel (we call it ‘Towel Hand), etc. Officers always managed to keep one extra item in their haversacks: A book. That is probably the reason why most army officers are well-read and knowledgeable. Unassuming as they are, they never show off their knowledge. Till, that is, they retire and are invited to participate in TV debates as ‘defence experts. Unfortunately, there is a common misunderstanding in public that only those who have no better option in the fields of intellectual pursuits join the army! I remember one officer relating his experience.
“I was visiting an old friend from my college days. We were talking about the impressionist painters and the ‘Blue Period’ of Picasso. After a while, the young son of my friend who was intently listening to our conversation asked, “Uncle, how come you know so much about such topics? We thought that only the rough and tough kind of people who have nothing to do with the world of art or literature join the army!”
I too was one of those who carried books in my ‘pack’.
Remember Romesh of the Illustrated Weekly of India of whom I had made a brief mention in my first post? I remember that he was from Lucknow, the culture capital of India. Thinking of Lucknow, Agra, and other magnificent cities of Uttar Pradesh, took me to a short story written by a famous Maharashtrian author Ranjit Desai. He was a prolific multi-genre writer. His story had made such an impact on my mind that more than fifty years on, I still remember it almost verbatim. When I first narrated it to my commando friend Sudhir Gauriar way back in late 1970s, he was so touched that he asked me to translate it in Hindi or English and share it with the reading public. My first attempt was in my mother tongue. It became an instant hit. I am now sharing it in this blog, in English, this time.
“CHAMELI”
By Ranjit Desai
I was a marketing manager of a company in Mumbai. My business trips took me to most parts of Northern India. When it came to visiting Agra, my wish had always been to see the Taj in a full moon night. It did not happen for a long time. Then came the day when it was the night of the Blue Moon.
My meetings lasted all day. It was late evening. I left my hotel to find a tonga – the horse carriage which would take me to the Taj.
I wore simple clothes. There was chill in the air. I covered myself with a Kashmir shawl and stopped by the usual paan shop which was close to my hotel. I ordered a pair of maghai paan with a little bit of Benaras Zarda (processed tobacco). A woman casually sauntered over. I did not pay any attention to her, but the subtle aroma of the henna perfume that she wore made her presence felt. The paan-wallah suggestively asked her, “Kyon Chameli, paan khaogi?” (Hi, Chameli, would you like a paan?)
The woman paused for a second and said, “Yes, why not? If the gentleman who has just ordered maghai graciously offers me a pair, I would love to have it,” she said with a light laughter.
Her voice with a hint of the lightest of the light laughter sounded like a peal of silver bells. Her reply was clear enough to announce her profession. What surprised me was her use of chaste Urdu words. And the lilt in her voice which displayed her Lucknow accent was enough to attract attention. Curious that I was, I now looked at her.
She was dressed in gaudy sari. She had tied her hair in a loose bun, and the pallu of her sari was just hanging over the bun stylishly.
When I looked at her, she too turned her head to look at me. In the process, a small strand of her hair became loose, and fell on her cheek like an Urdu letter L (Laam).
She smiled at me. Her teeth sparkled like pearls. She had a dark complexion with a well-proportioned oval face. It almost put her on the borderline of being beautiful which was probably crushed by the ravages of her profession. The outstanding feature of her face were her eyes. Big dark eyes, with an ocean of sadness in them, they hit me hard. I felt both pity and compassion for this young woman. A thought passed through my mind : Has she ever been to see the Taj on a moonlit night?
“Yes, Babu Saheb, won’t you offer me a paan?” she asked, now with suggestive eyes and voice.
That woke me from my thoughts.
“Yes, of course. But tell me, have you seen the Taj on a moonlit night?” I asked almost instinctively.
Chameli looked at the sky, the rising moon and laughed without restraint.
“In my profession, Babu saheb? Be it the dark night or full moon night, our nights are spent within the four walls of…” she said with a tinge of sadness.
Was there a little moisture in her eyes when she said that?
“I will pay you for your time if you come with me to see the Taj tonight. Nothing else. No nonsense. Want to come?”
She looked at the Paan Wallah. He nodded as if to guarantee that I was a person she could trust.
I hired a carriage for a return journey. On our way, Chameli sat in the carriage at least a foot away from me as promised.
It took us about thirty minutes to reach the Taj. Both of us were lost in our thoughts. She, probably with some apprehension; I with that expectation of watching the Taj in its full splendour.
We reached the monument. There were hardly any people in the precinct at that time of the night. I selected a bench which gave us the full view of the Taj. Chameli, as promised, sat almost a yard away from me.
The moon rose and enveloped the world with its silvery, regal beauty. Only, this time it appeared that it had ordered the entire Milky Way to pour its floodlight on the Taj. It shone the whole environments, filled our hearts with that sea of love, sucked us in that vastness of nature which makes one forget one’s human existence to become a part of the universe.
I do not know how long I sat there. Not only my eyes, but the whole of my body was soaking in the beauty of the moon, the Taj – nay, the whole universe. The unreal sound which sages call ‘anahad’ sound and only the people in its frequency can hear it was pouring into my ears. This time it was recreating the notes of Sindhi Bhairavi played by Pandit Ravi Shankar and Khan Sahib Ali Akbar Khan in their joogalbandhi. Tabla rhythm came from the lightning fingers of Pandit Kishan Maharaj and Ustad Allah Rakha.
Suddenly I realised that Chameli had come closer and had put her head on my shoulder; for how long, I did not know. I tried to move away, but she said with a beseeching voice that was mixed with a plea I could not assuage; call it begging for mercy, compassion or even long lost love.
“Please, Babu Saheb, let me be. Just for one more moment, please. Allow me to savour this invisible rain of beauty. Never in my life I had dreamed that I would ever have such moments of bliss and see for myself the benevolent creation of the Almighty. Let me drench myself in this moment of happiness.. Just one more lamha (moment) please.”
I could not refuse.
We sat there for some time. A little later Chameli moved slightly away, dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari and said, “I am ready to go, sir.”
When we reached the paan shop, it was closed. I took out my wallet, paid the tonga-wallah and turned with a bunch of currency notes to Chameli.
She just held my hand and said, “No, Babu saheb. I will not accept money. What you gave me tonight is a treasure. It’ll last me a lifetime. Please allow me have the pleasure of your company for the rest of the evening..”
I patted Chameli’s head, said goodbye, and walked away. I felt as if she stood there staring at my back in disbelief.
I left for Mumbai early next morning.
A few months later, I had another meeting in Agra. I did not have much time and had to leave early that evening. After a late lunch, I went to the same paan shop.
The paan wallahs have astounding memory! When they see an old customer approaching their shop, they know the kind of paan they eat and start making one, He saw me, and with a smile said, “Pair of Maghai, with Benares zarda, saheb?”
I nodded. As he passed me the paan, he said, “Sir, what magic spell did you cast on Chameli that night? The following morning, she came to my shop and said that if you ever came to my shop, just tell you that she would never forget the gift you gave her. She said that what you gave her completely changed her perspective of life, renewed her faith in beautiful things God has created and manifested them through human love. She said that night her body was purified by the lights falling from the heaven and did not want to taint it . She simply said goodbye to me and left. She has never come back. God only knows what had pushed her in that profession. One thing is certain: she came from a good family, but what is nobility when it becomes a prey to circumstances?”
I went on to become a director in my company. No more tours. I have not visited Agra since. The memory left by Chameli was good enough to last me the rest of my life.
