Pirani

The Brohis were coming down from the hills. The winter had just
set in. The cold, dry wind was sweeping down the dust and the
gravel ahead of them . They had two or three bullocks and one
camel. Two dogs with wagging tails followed them. The men were
barefooted, their shalwars(trousers) short and torn. On their
heads they wore conical, embroidered caps full of dust and dirt.
The women donned long robes with pretty embroidered designs now
shredded and fa ding away as a result of long wear.

On the bullocks
they had loaded huge sacks full of twine and ropes twisted out of
goat s hair. The young children sat huddled on the sacks, the
parents driving the animals with their sticks as they kept
humming, Hee, hoon, hee, honn.... with their beards they looked
handsome and dignified, but penury-stricken and weather-bitten.
They pitched their camp on a secluded spot where they distributed
pieces of dry bread. From another cloth bag they took out some
lumps of dried curd which they put in pitchers full of water. Each
one gulped down a few draughts.

Little Pirani, hardly nine years
old, clapped her hands as she cried, We are now in Sindh! "We will
have such good things and so many!" Her father took off his cap and
scratched his head full of lice. The mother looked annoyed. Other
children were also dreaming of the good and sweet things awaiting
them on the plains. In the valley of Sindh, they built for
themselves small shacks made of hay. They slept on hay and put on
sli ppers made of hay. They sold the ropes and bamboo sticks.
Sometimes, they starved by turn. The winter was over. It was time
to return to the hills. The poor children went without good things.
Pirani's father looked at his wife's face meaningfully. There was
anger and desolation in the glances they exchanged. The wife felt
scared and looked at Pirani's shirt which she had washed only that
morning. There was no defiance in her silent, miserable eyes.

Pirani's father approached the neighboring village and greeted the
people with a loud, Salamalaikum. He asked, Brothers, does any body
need a girl for marriage? He meant to sell his little daughter:
For the Sindhi peasant it is not easy to get a wife. Many girls are
pledged as soon as they are born. It costs money to have a wife.

Lalu's father looked at his adolescent son
who had a husky voice and the bare trace of a beard. Both Lalu and
his father accompanied the Brohi to his hamlet. The Brohi dogs
barked as they saw the Sindhi strangers approaching. Pirani, her
hair loose and her back uncovered, ran and held her mother tightly
by the shirt. Lalu's father felt her body. Pirani's father, anxious
to strike a good bargain, exhorted: She has lots of flesh. she is no
weakling!

The dogs would not stop barking and they
kept it up till they had followed the strangers back to the
outskirts of the hamlet. the dogs then wagged their tails as if
they had done their duty. Outside the hamlet, after considerable high-haggling the bargain was struck for sixty rupees!

The Brohis were now getting ready to return to the hungry hills.
They pulled down the shacks and loaded the bullocks. The children
kept chattering about the hills and the babble trees on the hills.
Lalu's village was on the way. Pirani's mother walked abreast,
almost touching her daughter, while the father offered his finger
for Pirani to hold. Are we returning home? asked Pirani. The father
nodded. He could feel a corrosive void turning and twisting within
him. The mother felt as if something heavy were hammering within her
breast, trying to get out.

Lalu's People were waiting. As they drew nearer, Pirani's mother
twitched convulsively and clasped her daughter. Lifting her high,
she pressed Pirani to her bosom. The mother and daughter were
panting, their hearts pounding fast, their eyes panic-stricken.
Others stood around them. The father with his trembling hands
lurched forward and tore away his daughter with a look of finality.

The mother broke down, her heart crushed, her very
vitals cut into pieces. She screamed, Pirani, oh, my little
Pirani! The girl shrieked back... The birds flew away in panic.
Lalu s father took hold of Pirani who lay huddled on the ground.
Pirani's father was sobbing, his tears flowing down his cheeks and
through his beard to the ground. But he was holding his trembling
wife and pulling her back. The caravan started moving.

Pirani was hysterical, crying for her father and mother. The mother
was being dragged away, but her loud lament rent the air from afar.
Oh, Allah , my Pirani, baby Pirani, may the hills be on fire, may
Sindh prosper, oh, my little Pirani! They dragged the struggling child
inside her new home. But she was slipping away from their hands,
kicking, biting, screaming and bouncing like a rubber ball. Lalu ran
inside and soon brought a piece of jigger which was put into Pirani's
mouth. But the sweet came out gurgling. The child's delicate
throat was hoarse with cries. Between tears and hiccups she kept
moaning about her father and mother. In vain.

Lalu was in a fury now.
He brought out a dagger and opening his eyes wide, he thundered:
Now, will you shut up before I carve you in pieces?

Little Pirani,
rolling on the dust, gave a scream with all that was left of her
strength. The goat in the courtyard pricked up her ears and started
licking her kid. A woman hugged her daughter in fright.



Yes, Pirani
is still alive today. One of her sons is a policeman, and the other a
life convict in a prison.