Little Book Of Red Lies | Shubman Gill ✓

40. A daughter returns to Punjab

Kavya Arora

I hold the railing of the Non AC coach of the Jan Nayak express. It is late into the night. Cool Breeze blows my messy hair away. I inhale deeply. The pitch black night sky, the rhythmic to and fro of the wheat fields, the chilly September Air, and in each of them, Punjab welcomes me.

I clutch the railing firmly as I allow myself to sink in its embrace.

My parents were born in Amritsar but circumstances brought them to Mumbai. Yet they never stopped talking about their beloved Ambarsar. Like every child, I had grown up listening to anecdotes from their childhood which was laden with simplicity. Even though I had not seen their time, their stories echoed with fond laughter. Laughter that I heard even today.

The spark in their eyes when they spoke of Amritsar always fascinated me. They had promised to show me all their dear childhood spots in the Summer vacation of 2010. But they died before they could do so. After Mumma and Papa passed away I neither had the heart nor the desire to visit their land. Our land.

I feel some movement behind me and when I turn I see Rahul, drawing his shawl closer as he murmurs, sleepily, "Why did we run away from Mumbai, again?"

I couldn't have asked for a better brother. Rahul was the only one who understood my agony without explaining it. When I had asked him if he would come with me to Amritsar for a couple of weeks, he agreed within a heartbeat. And for a guy who had taken a gap year to recover from everything that had been happening in his life, it was a big thing to ask. Maybe from a guy. But not from a brother, I believe.

I smile, analysing if he's too sleepy to hear the complexities of the decision.

"Because, ek toh I didn't want to stay in Mumbai. At least not after everything that has happened."

He rubs his sleep away to meet me with scrutiny.

"You're avoiding Shubman." He puts it into words easily.

"And Sara." I add.

He studies my face for a moment before stating in the most matter of fact, lawyer like voice of his, "You love Shubman."

I am in awe of his deduction skills.

"But I don't want to cause any further problems in his and Sara's life. They've been through a lot. They deserve to be happy. With each other. Mera kya hai, I'll take some time and then I shall be fine."

Rahul raises his eyebrows as if to ask, "Will you?" But I am glad that he doesn't voice it. For, I don't want to think about it. Yet.

"And secondly. I wanted to see if our parents' birthplace would give me some comfort."

Upon hearing that, Rahul takes a step forward and envelopes me in a hug.

"I can't imagine how you spent these 6 months."

The answer was 1789 kilometres away, in Mumbai.

******

The first thing I do after we check in a lodge, is take an electric rickshaw to the Golden temple.

Rahul refuses to accompany me. According to him, I need to make this journey alone. And as the richshaw stops outside the big white entrance, I realise why. I feel too many emotions and nothing all at once. I'm sad. Angry. I'm yearning. I'm broken. Hurt. Bruised. I feel the pain. Swallowing a lump, I get rid of my footwear. And get a number card in exchange.

Merely holding the silver plate makes me nostalgic. I want to collapse on a chair and weep as I read the familiar Gurmukhi scripts that says, "79"

Holding on to it and the memories of my mother teaching me the Punjabi numbers, I cover my head with a yellow dupatta. Me and my heaviness awaits the cleansing waters of the entrance.

I dip my feet into the water. When I step out, I feel a bit better. Taking tentative steps forward, I enter the Gurdwara.

There are devotees all around me. They are moving with surity. Some directly proceed for the line to enter the Golden Temple. Some are doing a Parikrama. Some are consuming the warm water available every 15-20 steps. Some sit, chanting Waheguru's name. Some are eating the Prasad.

Everyone seems to feel belonged. Strangely enough, I feel the same. My knees without any instruction from my brain fall to the ground and I bow. My forehead touches the cool marble floor and I mumble, "Waheguru."

One mention of his name signifies so much. It contains gratitude for all the times He protected me. Along with this, there are apologies. After my parents died, I had refused to visit a Gurdwara. I believed I had nothing left to pray for. I believed that even if I prayed, He would not grant me anything because He was angry at me.

I was a child who had lost her faith in God.

But today, I let Him reach me. I opened myself to Him. Opened the box of complaints. The cupboard of gratitude. And I spoke. Spoke to him in my mind, until words bled from my eyes.

Sitting in His abode I allowed myself to be comforted by His presence. And when I closed my eyes to pray for my parents, in a rare retrieval of memory, I saw them smile.

At least for a moment, I had experienced peace.

*****

A/n -

Eh Kaisi Majboori Ho Gayi, Ke Sajna Ton Doori Ho Gayi,
What sort of powerlessness is it to be away from my beloved?

Te Veleyan De Nal Vagh Di, Eh Jind Kadon Poori Ho Gayi,
I didn't know how quickly my life had gone.

Beganeya Di Rah Chod Ke, Main Apni Muhar Mod Lan,
I'd quit following outsiders and instead forge my own way.

Je Aithon Kadi Ravi Langh Jave, Hayati Punjabi Ban Ja Ve,
If the mighty river Ravi runs through here, I will feel the presence of Punjab.

~ Ravi, Sajjad Ali