Everything is well here. Desire the best of your honour’s welfare.

While writing to his old friend Fazal Din, Lobh Singh remembered that even in those days he (Fazal Din) used to correct him: 'You teach Urdu, Lobhe. Don’t you even know how to spell welfare?'

Don’t act too knowledgeable, Fazal Din – the less the vowel points, the more simple and pure the writing.

But…

Leave the buts. You teach English. You should know.

Both of them used to be teachers in a primary school in the Chonda district of the Pakistan side of Punjab.

Just ponder. Why is your English so simple that even the British children speak it with such fluency? Why can’t our children of Punjab speak such fluent Urdu?

Do you think of me as your student, Lobheya? Why are you conversing with me in Urdu?

You are replying in Urdu, so!

Ha……………haa…!

W ith the formation of Pakistan Lobh Singh had come to Delhi from his Chonda, quit his teaching and took to driving a taxi.

Once a home is left, friends, he would say, even while sitting it feels you are running somewhere.

After staying in Delhi for many years, one day he suddenly received an envelope with a Pakistani stamp, from Maulvi Fazal Din, Head Master, Chonda.

While reading the letter he was as though holding his old sincere friend Fazal Din in a close embrace…

Fazalya…oye…you became such a big maulvi there and I didn’t even know it?

Oye you, Head Master!

And the five waters of Punjab gushed from his eyes into his mouth and beard.

Is somebody dead, dad? His younger son Jaswant asked.

No, sonny, the dead has been revived.

Afterwards it became a routine with Lobh Singh to leave aside all work every month to write a letter to his friend Fazal Din.

Everything is well here. Desire the best of your honour’s welfare.

Your honour! Lobh Singh laughs uncontrollably. That black maulvi! Even his wife used to insult and shove him out of the house!



Coming after being beaten again today, Fazal Dine?

No, Lobheya, today is salary day, no.

My poor Dharam Kaur is down with fever even on salary day, buddy.
Lobh Singh’s wife suffered from intermittent fever.

Come on, I’ll take you to my uncle today itself. He is a big physician.
I am well and healthy, fool! It’s your sister-in-law who is sick!


But where was he well and wealthy? His wife’s sickness was eating his insides too. At the time of partition in 1947, so much fire was kindled that they were rendered homeless and came to Delhi. Had they not been compelled to leave Chonda, Dharam Kaur would have somehow been alive even today. But not even a year had passed after their arrival here when amidst much chaos he had to consign his Dharam Kaur to Wahe Guru.

True Sovereign! Until I finish my time here and reach you, take care of my charge.

The time seems to be up.

Lifting his head Lobh Singh asked himself: Then what am I doing here?
Restlessly passing his hand over his white beard he was lost in thought. They took off but where would he search, Wahe Guru? After so many years even Dharam Kaur would have become old like him but when she was dying, her face had acquired such a glow from the heat of the fever. He would sit on her bed holding her hand for hours as if, happen what may, he would stop her from leaving.

Don’t be agitated, Jassi’s father. I will not go.

She would lift his spirits.

Don’t be scared. I will not go. I know you’ll die if I go.

After Dharam Kaur’s demise, that’s really what happened but worse; even after dying Lobh Singh didn’t know he had to go on breathing. The whole world was the same and he used to ply his taxi here and there and eat and laugh and talk as usual but without his Dharam Kaur, he was just not living. When the time had come for Dharam Kaur to leave he held her hand more firmly but her hand just lay in his and don’t know when she went away. Before, at the most she would go from Chonda to her paternal home, Kotli Loharan and during that time he would write to her regularly every second day. Post Office Kotli Loharan, Tehsil Vazirabad, Zilla Gujranwala, Sardarni Dharam Kaur, c/o Sardar Ranjit Singh Ghodonwale. But where would he send the letter to her now?


But right now he is writing to his friend Fazal Din….

Desire the best of your honour’s welfare.

‘Your honour’ has tickled him again…with such an intimate friend, what is ‘your honour’? But it was as if he himself was reverentially sitting in the fourth standard of his primary school ….In Punjabi, you curse to your heart’s content and (express) love but when you write in Urdu you always address the addressee as ‘your honour’. He is thinking of Delhites, especially those, who even while engaged in a brawl would use foul language as……………your honour’s mother’s……………….you r honour’s sister’s!

A full-throated guffaw burst forth from his mouth!

Leaving his wife, Jaswant Singh comes running to see what has happened. Ever since he quit driving his taxi, his father would sometimes laugh and at others cry, involuntarily. He advised him to accompany the driver otherwise, he feared, he would go mad sitting alone. Lobh Singh as always tried to make his son understand: If you worry about me so much then why don’t you bring me a grandson soon?

You’ve really gone mad, dad. Are grandsons sold in the market that you sit in a taxi and buy them in a jiffy, he asked him. You need to labour for grandsons, dad.

Then labour, sonny.

In the adjacent room Jaswant’s wife giggled softly and Jaswant too smiled repeatedly shaking his head.

Lobh Singh thought of some letter of Fazal Din in which he had written that in all he has fifteen grandsons and five grand daughters. That means my lion Head Master has gone from one to twenty!

Had he been around somewhere he would have asked for one or two of them at the time of their birth itself and brought them home. He would have bathed them with his own hands, combed and parted their hair…

Now, how can it be that our Fazal Dina would not have acceded to my wish…even if he hadn’t, I would have brought them by force…If they are yours Fazal Dine, aren’t they mine too? Read your Book carefully, Head Master. It has clear orders to share and eat with friends and buddies. The benediction is for the entire society. But his Allah keep him happy and my Wahe Guru, me. Why would he decline my wish?

Carried away by his avarice and ardent desire Lobh Singh has parked his taxi in front of Fazal Din’s house. While honking the horn of his taxi he has gathered all his grandsons and grand daughters, loaded them in his taxi and has whisked them off to Delhi…

Look at this Qutub Minar!...This is the Governor General’s Office!...There! The Red Fort!...

Yes, brother, give everybody one kulfi each…Eat sonny…the kulfi’s bite is as sharp as the scissors’ here, clears away the throat…ha...hahaa…

Arey, oh Shabboo, where are you off to? Come here, let’s go to Chandni Chowk on foot from here...Come…steady...be careful…

Lobh Singh is exhausted taking the children on a tour all the while sitting here. Panting with happiness, he collapses in his room.

Everything is well here…yeah; everything is well and good here...

Khee, khee, khee...haa...haaaaaaaaaa…

He hears the miffled laughter of his son and daughter-in-law from the adjacent room and he asks himself with great contentment as to how else can everything be well?...

Even when the whole game had been ruined, seven eight years ago, I had informed Fazal Din that everything was well. When my elder son, Jaswinder passed away in a car accident I was rendered homeless in such a way that even the mind and heart were left with no space to reside. But if I couldn’t even keep my friend happy from here, then why should I sadden him? Or if there were no other options left except to convey such news then the basket of sorrows should be opened slowly…slowly…so that only the tail of the black cobra is visible at first.

Jaswinder Singh is your son’s name?

Yes, why?

He was the one who took the taxi yesterday?

Why? What happened?

His taxi hit a motorcycle yesterday and the rider died on the spot.

My son is blameless, Sir. He is a very responsible driver.

Yes, but at the same instant a truck climbed up his taxi from the rear and …and the black cobra had spread its hood but by now Lobh Singh’s courage too had strengthened.


Jaswinder was to be married a week after the accident. Lobh Singh had invited each and every member of the local branch of the taxi drivers’ union. The Commissioner of Public Transport had stood from his chair to shake his hand and had assured him of attending his son’s wedding. It was the first wedding of the house and he had decided it would be with great pomp and parade. And he would, on that day, have a couple of sips of wine, an indulgence having once abandoned, he had vowed never to take up again…

Wahe Guru is our man and knows that what is living if even such a minor slip cannot be indulged in on such a grand day. I’ll have Him also sit by my side and tell Him, my brother, you too taste two drops today. No?…No, my Sovereign, take, take…For my sake, take….

And a little further away he himself is walking bhangra style attired in a flowing salwar kameez and a striped saffron turban covering his head and repeatedly sprinkling kewra water on the guests. The faces of the guests are glowing like lanterns and guffaws are bursting forth like crackers and …and…what is this?…

The entire marriage procession is being suddenly lifted from the surface of the earth and along with it the orchestra is ascending towards the moon and the stars and only Lobh Singh and his younger son have been left behind on the earth and are madly shouting…Brother!…Jaswinder!...Windre!…re!
Stop, sonny!…and then rendered helpless, he is rubbing his palms and as his turban comes undone and rolls down on his shoulders he is informing the passersby…A very virtuous son, Sir...pleasingly virtuous! He has gone up to seek the blessings of his dead mother, Sir!…

Lobh Singh is crying softly.

What’s the matter, dad? This time Jaswant calls from his room itself.
Nothing.

Lobh Singh stands up and cleans his face with a wet towel and returns to sit on his bed.

Everything is well here...Where is everything well?...But Wahe Guru’s order has to be considered well and accepted. Everything is well, son. Clearing his voice he assures him. Rest now.

He has again picked up the letter in his hands and has started writing...

Further news is that time doesn’t seem to pass away. Day and night I lie still and silent. Only those moments seem worthwhile when I catch a few winks and reach my Chonda.

Lobh Singh hears his mother’s voice from a distance of fifty-five, sixty years.
Lobheya!...Lobheya!

Yes, ma!

Lobh Singh frantically calls out becoming the same ma’s Lobheya.
Go, son, look. Fazala is calling at the door.

What a life it was! It had taken everything under its charge and our job was to just live and grow up...Lobh Singh sighed and took to writing again…

Can’t it be possible that your honour fill pockets with the soil of my Chonda and come to meet me? If the visa is not given, just sneak through. What have we got to do with those big people’s fights? We small people would meet just to embrace each other. Why should anyone have any objection to that? Just come over quietly, my son Jaswant Singh will take care of the rest.

The playful whisperings of his son and daughter-in-law sound pleasant to Lobh Singh’s ears and he was as if smilingly playing with his giggling grandson...

Oh brother Kesar Singha! Oh Gulab Singha!Oh mother’s boy, Motebar Singha!
And mother’s boy Mothebar Singh is constantly responding with shrieks and squeals of joy...But where is he?

Amused, Lobh Singh has again picked up the letter.

Further news is I’ve been left all alone. When I completed my sixty-fifth birthday a few months back Jaswant stopped me from driving my taxi and made me sit at home. First I thought I’ll slap him and make him understand – the taxi is mine, I am mine, who are you to come in between? But the truth is, this taxi driving business is no longer under my control. I can only race imaginary horses now. If I had the Head Mastership then I would have filled in the wrong age like you (he cuts off ‘you’ and writes ‘your honour’) and passed off another ten, eleven years. But enough is enough. Even your honour should seek pension and start conducting children’s classes at home. Continue to act as a Head Master even after retirement, and then be sent off to the mental asylum within six months. Ha...haa...haa!

Lobh Singh has stopped moving his pen. Once a well-dressed old mad cap sat in his taxi and grandly ordered him: Let’s go.

Where?

Back.

Lobh Singh couldn’t control his laughter.

The taxi can only go in front.

But I have to go at my back.

Then Sir, what is the need to sit in a car? Just walk down in your heart.

As if Lobh Singh is sitting in his own taxi today.

Where?

Chonde.

Chonde?

He laughs thinking himself to be mad.

There is only one way there, sky after sky, so be a dove and fly off, Sirs.
Why?...Why?

Brother Viryam Singh was his wife Dharam Kaur’s brother as well as his buddy.

Brother used to ask him why he wished to return to Chonda when he had to take off after being looted and plundered.

Because Chonda is my refuge, brother.

When his life would be choked with the memories of Chonda he would leave aside everything and rush to brother Viryam Singh in Saharanpur where he had settled after leaving Pakistan.

Brother would at once ask: Why Lobheya, you are here to go to Chonda?
He would reply, open the bottle; we’ll talk after reaching Chonda.

If for some reason he could not go to brother he would sit down to write him a letter.

Brother Viryam Singh – Sat Sri Akal. Everything is well here. Desire the best of your honour’s welfare. Further news is, quickly uncork the bottle. We have to reach Chonda at once.

Even these days Lobh Singh is carried away by his desire to write to brother Viryam Singh. But on which address would one write to a dead one? Had he been alive then Lobh Singh would have himself gone on foot to Saharanpur, towards left in Kucha-e-Dilbaran, at the threshold of the fourth house, to hand over the letter. But don’t know at which address Wahe Guru stations the dead ones. Yet, he once unwittingly sent a letter to brother Viryam Singh that came back or maybe it returned to its correct address because when we address someone after his demise, then we ourselves have to hear it on his behalf. The dead are dead; nevertheless we must live them.

Lobh Singh droops off and while in slumber, he dreams of roaming around and while roaming he loses the way and comes out of the dream in the dream itself...

Here...this is the Primary School of Chonda. The unfinished road in front of the school leads directly to his house. She...there, at the entrance, Dharam Kaur is waiting for him. Even during her sickness, she daily stood so awaiting his return. He stops to look at her to his heart’s content…Looks as if my woman is lying dispersed and desolate like the yellow flowers of mustard. Staring at her he suddenly jumps...Here I am covetously gazing at her while she is burning with fever there! He rushes towards her but mid way through sees that she has collapsed on the ground, smiling.

Jassi!

Jaswant!!

Dharmo!!!

Jaswant comes rushing out of his room.

What happened, father?

Nothing.

Lobh Singh is gaining control over his inner turmoil.

Go to sleep, daddy. Jaswant tells him and looking here and there spots the half written letter.

Writing a letter? He asks.

Wiping his face with a towel, Lobh Singh replies:

Yes, to your uncle from Chonda.

You’ve gone mad, daddy.

Taking pity on his father, Jaswant informs him that the uncle from Chonda has been long dead.