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May
God forgive Munni’s father; when he was alive, I held certain significance. It
has faded now. The daughter-in-law doesn’t give me any importance, and my son
is the master of his own volition. They both do as they wish, and I’m an odd
one out in their affairs. Who is there to ask after me now, besides? I spend my
days, sitting here on this cot, engaging my grandchildren in play.
I
desired to meet Munni. Her visit was expected by the end of January, but spring
has almost passed, and she has not yet showed her up. When I had been in good
health, I visited her myself. But now, it is difficult to bear with the din of
the buses with this oldness. I had entreated my son to go and ascertain Muni’s
wellbeing. He did go to his sister-in-law’s but he had no time for visiting
Munni.
I
feel so much for Munni. How affectionate I’m for her! How couldn’t I be, I am a
mother after all! Do all mothers not love their daughter in the same way?
The
reason for this affection is not just our mother-daughter relationship; one major
reason is the fact of us both being women.
Whenever
I visited my own ancestral village, my mother —
now in heaven —chided me, “Why have you come
after such a long time?” I remember I used to say, “As if you have only awaited
my arrival all this while.” Then my mother would tenderly kiss my forehead and reply,
“What else do you think?”
Now
that my heart goes out for my own daughter, I can fathom the depths of my mother’s
love.
Munni
has been married for fifteen or twenty years now, yet it feels like only
yesterday when she used to frolic in this very yard. When it came to Munni’s
marriage, her father — God forgive us — had remarked, “Indeed, daughters grow rapidly
like Persian lilac trees; how quickly she has attained youth.” He would, then, heave
a sigh, and say, “If God had not written it in their fates to belong to some
stranger, parents would not give even a single hair of theirs’ to him.”
I
intervened to break the seriousness of the situation, “We, too, were the
heartthrobs at our parents once, you know!”
A
couple of days prior to the day of visit of Munni’s prospective in-laws, her engagement
was quite conspicuous in the house. Together with her sister-in-law, she swiped
the entire house clean. Once the house had been tastefully decorated, its
beauty was unforeseen. It seemed as very different from what it had been before.
Afterward, she had stayed in her room accompanied by her friends for quite a
long time. Nothing was discernible from the outside; but I knew well what had
been transpiring within the closed door. I knew that Munni’s friends were in
earnest consultation to select her attire for the following day.
On
the day they visited for the matchmaking, Munni overcame by an unfamiliar
sensation. While walking about in the porch, she had been conscious all the
time that their gaze was fixed upon her. They had been assessing her demeanor against
the standards set by them. Poor Munni! — She
had been moving around in her own house, having draped a shawl of modesty
around herself. I felt much pity for her that day (Surely, my mother must have had
similar feelings for me.) Then arrived the moment —
the decisive moment — before the guests’
departure when a girl, free from any bond, exists only as a woman (If someone was
to see her as a daughter or a sister at that time, how would they point out her
mistakes?) Alongside the hope of appreciation lingers the fear of rejection.
And when, finally, Munni’s mother-in-law-to-be placed a rupee upon Munni’s palm
and bestowed her blessings upon the latter, tears welled up in my eyes. I was
not sure whether those tears meant joy or sorrow!
When
Munni had not been married, she meticulously attended to the upkeep of this
house. Not a thing was ever found out of place. Had there been a disorder, she
would swiftly spring into action to tackle it. This often led to her arguments
with her sister-in-law. I would often try to explain it to Munni, “Why do you bother
yourself with this house? Let the owners decide if they wish to take care or
not?” She always vehemently argued, “Why? Is this my house not mine?”
After
her marriage, I once questioned Munni, “Tell me something.” She asked, “What?”
I expressed my concern, “Now, whenever you visit, there are layers of dirt in
the rooms. Things lie scattered here and there. Why don’t you take care of
these things, now?” She replied, “Oh Mom! I feel scared.” I asked, “What are
you afraid of?” She said, “Of the family. They might assert that it is their
house. Whether they take care of it or not, why should I interfere?”
If
I had wanted to, I could have said that you always used to argue that this is your
house too, but now… But I kept quiet. Perhaps, I didn’t want to add to her
worries.
On
her third visit to the parental home, I inquired, “Are you happy with your
in-laws?”
She
smiled a bit and replied, “Yes, but the ambience of my dreams still matches
this house.”
I
reminisce about Munni’s childhood. Once, there was a wedding in the
neighborhood. In the late afternoon, as we were bidding adieu to the bride with
welling eyes, “Why are all of you crying?” Munni asked innocently, clinging to
my leg. I gently replied, “Because Rajji is departing for her home.” Munni asked,
“But if she is going to her own home, why is she crying then?” I reiterated, “Because
Rajji is departing for her home.” Upon hearing this, Munni, too, repeated her
question, “If she’s going to her home, why is she crying?” Instead of satisfying
her with another reply to her question, I tenderly lifted Munni into my arms
and showered her with my affectionate kisses, embracing her tightly.
Munni
was only a child when once she had come running and asked, “Mom! Should I tell you
something funny?” I replied, “Go ahead.” She began by saying that Auntie had
gone somewhere as a guest. Curiously, I asked Auntie, “Where have you come back
from?” “From my village,” replied Auntie. I asked her, “Whose village this one
is, then?” She replied, “Your uncle’s.” Munni couldn’t control her laughter, telling
me this.
In
a world where by simply repeating the word ‘talaaq’(divorce) three
times, a woman can be exiled from a place —
at any stage of her life —where she has been living at, how can she ever claim
that place to be her own? Though this thought obsessed my mind, but I refrained
from sharing it with Munni, because I didn’t want to dampen her joyous spirits
with perplexing thoughts.
When
it had not been much time after Munni’s marriage, I would ponder over the idea
of asking her to stay with us for six months during her next visit. But, I always
dismissed my whim with a chuckle. What right do we hold over her now? Then I would
sing a folk saying:
Parents
Nurture
their daughters with love,
To,
one day, distance themselves.
And
I would think that… It was now solely the discretion of her owner — whether he
allows her to stay or not. Nevertheless, is it not a great blessing for daughters
when they thrive in their in-laws’ house?
Once
Munni’s father-in-law came to take her back home. Coincidentally, Munni’s
childhood friend Salma also arrived from her in-laws’ house. Now, Munni yearned
to spend a few days with Salma to sit together, and to listen and share each
other’s stories. Munni wanted us to refuse and not send her away with her
father-in-law just then. But her father-in-law had come to take her for the
first time; we couldn’t return him alone, like that. So, Munni had to go along.
Once
Munni’s aunt had been visiting us and Munni also arrived. Her aunt insisted, “Munni
should come with us this time.” Before I could have responded, Munni is now
another’s possession, we cannot send her, Munni said, “I would have gone,
but I haven’t taken permission to go to aunt’s place. If I go anywhere on my
own, my in-laws get angry.”
Now,
on her arrival, I exclaim, “What kept you away so long?” She replies that she
doesn’t get any free time due to household chores. In anger, I retort, “God
only knows what kind of work are you stuck with?”
Although,
on the inside, I feel satisfied that she has been busy taking care of her own household.
Daughters
should be given some gifts when they leave back for their in-laws’ home. They
should never be sent away empty-handed. Although they, by no means, are dependent
on these gifts, but daughters do have expectations from the parental home. They
always take pride in the things they are gifted from their parents. Last time,
when my daughter was about to leave after having hugged me, I said, “Wait,
Munni! Take some jaggery from here.” While saying it, I glanced at my
daughter-in-law, indicating her that she should go and get something in a small
bag. But, she kept seated, unmoving. And when I got up to go inside, Munni said,
“No, Mom… Let it be. How will I carry the weight of it with me?” And she stepped
out of the threshold.
Perhaps,
Munni had sensed something…
This house, which I
was once the sole possessor of, now belongs to my daughter-in-law. Like Munni, even
I feel scared now. I think many times before I touch anything here!
….
(Translated from Punjabi by Eesha Narang )
****
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Authors
Khalid Farhad Dhariwal, born in Pasrur, Sialkot, Pakistan, on July 10, 1978, is a prominent Punjabi short story writer and a translator. Besides his mother language Punjabi, he is also well versed in Urdu, Hindi and Sindhi languages. His debut collection of short stories, 'Watandara’ (The Exchange) was published in 2007. This collection garnered widespread acclaim in literary circles. It was reviewed extensively in literary sessions and journals, with many critics providing their insights. Khalid has been honored with several literary awards, including the prestigious Pakistan Writers Guild Award for his fiction.
View all postsEesha Narang is M.A., M.Phil. (English) from Delhi University. She is an educator and has been teaching as Assistant Professor (English) at DAV College, Abohar since 2019. She is also a writer, a poetess and a translator. She has two books of translated poetry from Punjabi to English to her credit viz., 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 and 𝘔𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘥 𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. Her own maiden collection of poems in Punjabi “𝘐𝘩 𝘝𝘪 𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯” has been published in 2023. She has recently published a book of translations of Punjabi Short Stories to English titled “QUILTING”.
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It is really a great story of Khalid Farhad Dhariwal that so elaborately tells the themes of maternal love, longing, and the bittersweet passage of time. Eesha Narang skillfully keeps the story’s emotions and cultural richness intact with clear and beautiful language. Congratulations both of you and stay blessed…………….
Superb
Great