The Rain

Suraiya slowly opened her eyes. The whole village was in an uproar. Laughter and excited voices could be heard everywhere. When her eyes adjusted to the new and brighter environment she noticed what the uproar was all about. Dark clouds had gathered on the sky, the wind had picked up, and it had gotten a little cooler. She could smell the smell of rain in the air. She took a deep breath and sighed. They had come again. God knows whether they will be more generous this time or not. Last year they had come and gone. Not a drop had fallen. The crop had gone bad, the wells had dried up and the farmers had sustained heavy losses.

She changed her posture on the charpoy and dusted the dirt away from her white clothes. She had started wearing white since she had started living in this village. No other color appealed to her. It was as if this barren color represented the inner emptiness, suffering and pain that were hidden inside of her.

She looked at the young girls who were dancing and swinging on the swings. It reminded her of her younger days in her village. How happy she was. Help her mother with the household chores, play with her brothers and sisters and day would fly by. She wouldn’t even know it. And now to pass a single hour would be like to live through a century.

The scene reminded her of the bandish she used to sing in Gaud Malhar, “Piyari Laad say jhoolay, laadli laad karat”. She rolled again. These thoughts would not let her live. They would not let go of her. She started thinking. Meanwhile the village folk started to sing and dance, welcoming the rain. Her first thought was of being kidnapped from her village and being taken with a lot of other girls to the city and sold in the market.

The first recollection of that place was a gali with houses on both the sides. Sounds of singing and dancing could be heard. Dancing girls could be seen dancing on the balconies. She was taken to an especially big house and taken inside. Sweet notes of a thumri had greeted her. She did not know what it was at that time but it had sounded very pleasant. She still remembers them, “Jhoola dalo re skahi, sawan ki badariya ghir ghir aayo”.

It had not taken a lot of time to make the deal. It was over in a couple of minutes. Her new owner was a magnificent lady of a certain class and style. She was not strict but rather motherly and affectionate. She started to learn dance and singing from her first week. She did not like dancing but liked singing very much. Her Ustad had told her that she has a very nice voice and can sing very well. She remembered the first bandish that she ever learned. It was in Raga Todi, “Ab mori nayia par karo tum, Hazrat Nizamudin Auliya”. She started singing it under her breath but quickly stopped, realizing the fact that somebody might hear her singing.

So where was she? Yeah, at the time when she learned her first bandish. How happy she was. She missed her family and parents for a couple of weeks but then had adjusted to the new atmosphere. It was a very luxurious atmosphere that prevailed here. She was given expensive jewelry and beautiful clothes to wear. And then the day had come. Suddenly and abruptly! She had not realized that her bust size been increasing because of the good nutrition and she had been becoming prettier by the day. She never realized that she had become perfect to be sold. How had it been so abrupt? Perhaps there was something in the air and water of “chowk”, the most notorious place in Lucknow.

She still remembers the bandish she sang in her first mujra. A beautiful piece in raga Jhinjhoti, “Bawari bhai main tu piya say nayna lagai kay”. She couldn’t figure out at that time why the nawab had kept staring at her chest rather than concentrating on her singing. But she figured that out after the mujra. All the accompanists left slowly and she was left alone. The nawab had sex with her. He was drunk and full of lust. A man transformed into a horrific beast.

Obviously he had paid a lot for a virgin girl but had no idea how to have sex with one. He mauled her well. First it was her oRhini, and then it was her kameez. He ripped both of them apart. Next it was her pajamas. One by one all the clothing was forcefully taken off. She was left with no clothes and no dignity. A woman, who is known as the giver of birth to mankind. The mother, sister and wife. Lying there stark naked, while the nawab eyed her with lust and hunger, she prayed that the ground would split apart and consume her disgraced being. But nothing of that sort happened.

What happened was more horrific and traumatic than she could have imagined. She was aching, sore and bleeding after that terrible experience. It was horrible. That night the “older and experienced” ladies of the house gave her some special treatment. She felt better the next morning, but could not digest the effect of the trauma.

This became a regular routine after that. The nawab wanted her thrice a week. His name was Akbar Ali Khan and had been married twice before. He was really not interested in her personality or her being. All he liked was a nice bandish in his favorite raga while he drank. After that it was all ferocious sex.

As suddenly as he had started coming, he stopped. She heard that his wife had given birth to a son and he had vowed to give up on his vices for his son. Whether that was true or he had found a better virgin girl some place else, Suraiya could never find out. During that period, a young boy started coming to the house, and used to bring rich customers with him. His name was Bashir Hussian. He was handsome and Suriya fell in love with him. The feeling was mutual. They used to meet quietly and secretly. Sometimes in Suraiya’s room, sometimes outside or sometimes in the kitchen. Surprisingly he never touched her and never seemed interested in her physical assets which by now had become quiet large and prominent. They planned to elope and get married.

The tensions in the country were rising. The Muslims and the Hindus were asking for a separate homeland from the war-weakened English. A week before they had planned to elope, the great independence took place. They were forced to abandon their quarters and run. They very tactfully cut themselves away from their troupe and started towards the border. They were Muslims; they would go and lead sane lives amongst their own folk in Pakistan. Amongst fire, blood and massacre they managed to get to Lahore.

They saw everything in that journey. Infants being poked and slain by swords and lances. The Sikhs were merciless and furious. She saw unborn children being taken out by a sword from a pregnant women’s womb. The turbaned folk were carrying their duties towards their homeland in a very staunch manner. That is why she loved it when they were humiliated, persecuted and banished in 1983. Any Muslim with a conscience and a true knowledge of the events would love that. They massacred us and they deserved that. They deserved even more!

After coming to Lahore Bashir had discovered that he knew no art that could earn the bread for both of them. So he transformed from a nice loving person to a pimp. He wanted her to sing and have sex. So they started again in the famous Shahi Muhala of Lahore. Took them sometime but their business started flourishing. Suraiya’s dreams had been shattered by Bashir’s transformation. The only person in the world who had ever told her that he wanted to take her out this meat-market had instead dragged her back into it. Now he had started to have sex with her as well.

His lust for her had overcome his love. So now for him, she was nothing more than an object that he could use to fulfill his desires. When she resisted he used to hit her and forcefully do it. So she stopped resisting. Some months later she became pregnant. Whether it was Bashir’s baby or somebody else’s they could not figure out. Asim had the same face and features as Bashir’s so she concluded that it was probably his baby. Asim was beautiful and cuddly. He became prettier day by day. Suraiya wanted to give his son a better life and a better education. Send him to school, just like the other children who she used to watch from her window in the morning. She wanted to get him out of this heinous market.

But nothing of that sort happened. Asim was murdered by another pimp, when he found out that Asim was pimping his girl behind his back. Bashir, who had also become an alcoholic could not take the loss, and died a couple of days later. Suraiya was left with nothing. The only people she could force herself to love and call family were dead. She was alone. The night Bashir was buried she had decided, that she would go back to her village. Go back and live amongst her own folk.

There was no place for her in this world. So one night she had quietly packed her belongings and left for India. With the help of a pimp she knew, she crossed the border without much hassle. The price she paid on both the sides of the border was to have sex with the army chief in charge. It did not even take that much time. Fifteen minutes for the first one and ten for the other. By now, sex was not something she enjoyed or felt like having. It was routine for her and she did not mind it. She did not even feel it. It was as natural for her, as it would be for a driver to drive a car.

She had entered her village on a hot summer evening. She had gotten off the train and walked to the village. It was a long and arduous walk. The sun shone brightly and mercilessly, and she was drenched in sweat, by the time she reached the outskirts. She had collapsed due to de-hydration and fatigue. A small village boy had seen her fell down and had summoned some people. A couple of very kind women had taken her inside their house and nursed her.

She was fed and taken care of for two whole days by complete strangers. She could not bring herself to believe this treatment. The world she had seen was ruthless, selfish, and dark. This small, village, occupied by warm and unselfish people with simple needs, was a whole new world. They got happy by small things, and tried to find reasons to remain happy. Happiness was the main driving force behind these people. They remained happy, celebrated, and had warm and kind hearts.

In this small, isolated village, with illiterate farmers, Suraiya found life for the first time in her life. She understood that life was not all about snatching whatever little others have, but giving whatever you could share.

She again changed her posture on the charpoy. Suddenly, she could feel, the cold drops of rain falling down and hitting her being. She felt for the first time in her life as if with every drop falling upon her, her sins were being washed away. She let it fall on her. She wanted them to fall on her. She wanted to be free. Free as the wind. Free of her sins. The rain came pouring down and she laid the there, eyes closed, a little smile on her lips, feeling the energy of the drops flow through her being. She remembered the fabulous “bandish” she had learned from her Ustad in Ramdasi Malhar: “Aye, chaye badra kare kale. Aeri aali andhi, kali bijri chamkay. Pawan chalat, sanan, sanan. Piya bin jiyera nikso hi jaye. Aye chaye badra kare kale. “