THE STORY NEVER DIES

For him, who is no more, but is still there Like a rap on my memories; Like the warmth of the sun, like a touch to my senses. In spite of not being, h

THE STORY NEVER DIES

For him, who is no more, but is still there

Like a rap on my memories;

Like the warmth of the sun, like a touch to my senses.

In spite of not being, he is still present in me.

He himself was a story. A long narrative.  And in him, resided innumerable tales. ‘Does he farm these stories?’ we kids used to wonder.

Chhabbe Paji  was a treasure-house of stories. Even though he was old enough to be our father, everyone on my street used to call him ‘Paji’ or elder brother. Like a layered onion, there were many stories inside every story of his. Unbelievable tales! Listening to them, we kids would be transported to a different universe. Enchanted and speechless, we would wander around in the world of his stories. We would lose ourselves in the magical web of his words. Fairies, djinns, ghosts, gods, demons and witches – they would appear or disappear at his command. The impossible would become possible at one word from Chhabbe paji. The seasons would change. The directions would undulate. Nature would shower its abundance. Evil was brought to its knees and doubts would evaporate.

Chhabbe paji’s narratives extended from tales of Mahabharta and Ramayana to Alif Laila and Arabian Nights. Heer – Ranjha, Mirza- Sahiba, Sassi - -Punnu, Sohni - -Mahibal, Pooran Bhagat, Dulla Bhatti, raja Rasalu, Jiuna Maud and Kaima Malki – he had these folk tales memorized like a child says the table of two by rote. But the most interesting tales were the ones whose source we couldn’t determine even when we grew up. Did he spin those stories from his own imagination? From time to time, Chhabbe paji would leave for his village. His village was fifteen to twenty kilometres from the city of Amritsar. His absence struck me excruciatingly because I would be deprived of his tales. During those days of absence, I would wish that stories grew on trees like fruits. Then we kids could pick them at our leisure and enjoy them fully. Different genres of stories would be on separate trees. An orange type of story or a guava kind.

Sushant Supriye

Sometimes, on a holiday, Chhabbe Paji would leave for some work in town and would be gone till late at night. We kids waited longingly for him all day . Whenever he went missing like this, I would try to map out his activities for the day. Maybe, he went to the Golden Temple early in the morning. There he must have bowed to the Guru Granth Sahib and listened to the holy words of Gurbani. Then he must have taken a dip in the Holy Fountain and circumambulated the Darbar Sahib. He would surely have paid his obeisance to the Akal Takht and then tasted the delicious halwa sacrament. Outside the Darbar Sahib, he surely had a tasty breakfast of chole bhature. Later, he must have purchased papads and badis and then gone to buy clothes at Katra Jamail Singh. He must have snacked on creamy lassi and carrot halwa at Gyan Singh’s shop behind DAV College at Haal Gate. He must have got tasty gajak from a street side stall. Followed it up with an icecream cone at Crystal Chowk. On his way back, he must have stopped at Putlighar Chowk to buy fresh vegetables. He couldn’t have visited the library at Guru Nanak Dev University, carrying so many things. So, it was probably time for him to arrive home, my train of thoughts would conclude.

At times, Chhabbe paji appeared sad. His sadness continued for several days. We kids would wonder at the cause of his pain. Today, when I look back, I realize that, in those old days, people possessed a horde of laughter. However much they laughed, the well of their joy never dried up. But in the case of Chhabbe paji, by the time he inherited that wealth of laughter from his ancestors, there was hardly a penny left in it. He must be the poor heir to that old family which had been left with only sadness to pass on.

Often, Chhabbe paji would put his string cot in the street and sit there. Sometimes, we kids played marbles with him. Other times, we would string small stones on a twine and play with it.  He taught us chess or supervised us as we flew kites on his rooftop. Whenever his kite succeeded in cutting off another kite, the victorious shouts of the kids yelling ‘down, down’ would resound through the neighbourhood. Chhabbe paji was an expert kite flyer. His skills with the kite string and kite loops were well known far and wide. Other kite-flyers would shy away from entangling with his kite. But we kids would encourage him to cut down all the nearby kites.

We were six or seven boys. I, Karamjeet, Bittu, Shaney, Banti, Lovely and Titu. Sometimes, another friend, Tote, would accompany us. Chhabbe paji’s son Surinder and daughter Simran, inspite of being a few years older than us, often joined us in the games. We could not rest until Chhabbe paji had mowed down all other kites and we had looted them. Later, he would teach us the art of kite-flying and the tricks of entangling with other kites and cutting them off. It was like a crash-course in kite flying. Winding up the string roll, tying the prefect knot to the kite, letting it loose, letting it fly were some of the things he taught us.

As we tired of the kite flying, Chaiji (Chhabbe paji’s mom), would come to the roof top, bearing delicious snacks like rebdis, gajak and peanuts. She would also bring her son ginger tea with milk and cardamom. The kids would all touch her feet with respect and receive her blessings. Then we would all gather together and beg Chhabbe Paji for a story. We had become addicted to his stories. It was a yearning, an all - encompassing need, a passion for us.

“Come dear children. It is story time,” Chhabbe Paji’s  booming voice was like a beacon, bringing our lost ships to anchor at the shores.
We kids often wondered how he knew so many stories. I still remember his pearly teeth smiling through the thick beard. He always wore a blue turban.

“Son, the sky is blue and so is the ocean. It is a peaceful colour, with great depths,” he would explain. That’s why the curtains at his home were also blue. Surely, his mother tells him these stories, we told each other. To look at Chai ji and to listen to her was like riding in a time-machine and visiting the good, old days. As I look back now, this is what occurs to me. Every wrinkle on her face held a thousand years. Every word of hers was like an echo from a primitive time. But sitting in her lap was very relaxing.
Then there was Chhabbe Paji’s son, Surinder. Talking to him was like travelling to the future in a time-machine. That’s how I feel on retrospection. He always talked about things like the Hailey’s Comet, Shoemaker comet, big bang, black hole, radio telescope, red star, light years etc. He wanted to do his post graduation in Astro-Physics from Guru Nanak Dev University. He dreamed of joining the NASA and going on space flights. But we kids hardly understood all that he talked about. It was enough for us that he was Chhabbe paji’s son. I sometimes watched the night sky from his telescope. His daughter, Simran, was then eighteen years old. She was a beautiful girl with sharp features and a wheatish complexion. I liked being with her and talking to her. I was thirteen by then and whenever, her youthful body fragrance hit my nostrils, I would feel intoxicated. Then, I wanted to be around her even more.
Sometimes, Chhabbe Paji would leave for his ancestral village ‘Chadhdi kalaan’, which was fifteen to twenty kilometres away from Amritsar. Once, during the school holidays, I insisted on accompanying him. My father was Chhabe paji’s friend. So, on Paji’s assurance, he let me go with him.

“Don’t you worry. He is like my son. Also, Surinder and Simran are with me. We all will take good care of him,” Chhabbe Paji smilingly convinced my father as he saw the worry on his face.

As I look back now, I feel that there is a familial affinity in the rural countryside, a sense of belonging, which is completely different from the unfamiliar alienation of the cities.

For as long as I was in his village, we would bathe in the waters of the tube well and have our lunch in the fields. I climbed on a tractor for the first time. Even at his age, Chhabbe Paji looked quite attractive in his lungi and kurta. When he flexed his biceps, his muscles would bulge up. He was a tall and strong Jaat Sikh. I still remember riding on his powerful shoulders, as we roamed the mustard fields.

“Son, eat well and build your body,” he would say. He was a foodie, like a true Amritsarian.
His mother, Chaiji, had also accompanied us. I have never eaten a more delicious dish of Makke di roti and sarson da saag, as she made that day. Her fingers had magic. That day, when we were alone, Simran sang the popular folk song, ‘Come behind me and watch out for my nosepin’ for me. We had walked out to the fields. Simran was wearing a pink suit with phulkari work. Just then, a gust of wind blew away with her duppatta. I ran fast and caught it. As I returned it, she kissed my forehead fondly. “You are so pretty,” I managed to utter the words, blushing hard.
“Shush, liar,” she replied in fake anger, even as her eyes shone with joy and she laughed.  That day, I found her very enticing. I was crazy about her free, tinkling laughter.
That very evening, Chhabbe Paji narrated a touching story which brings tears to my eyes even today.
“Son, today, I will tell you a true story. We won the Indo-Pakistan war in 1971, but after the sacrifice of a lot of our brave soldiers,” he began the story.

“When the war was over, dozens of our soldiers were missing. Their families were searching for them intensely. After about two months or more, one such soldier called up his family. Over the phone, he said that he had been injured in the battle but had been saved by a fellow soldier at great risk to his life. The other fellow was hurt so badly that they had to amputate both his hands and one of his legs to save him.”

“The soldier asked his family if his handicapped brother in arms could now stay with them. That man had no one. Therefore, the soldier requested his family to make the poor man a part of theirs.” We all were listening intently to the tale.

“But the soldier’s family didn’t give him permission to bring his disabled friend home. They were unwilling to bear the burden of a disabled guy. Hearing this, the soldier put down the phone.”
“What happened next, Paji?” I asked
“Son, since that day, the family of that soldier could never find him. He never called home again,” Paji replied in a heavy voice.
“Why so, Paji?” I wanted to know.
“It was so because the soldier’s story about his disabled friend was false. Actually, the soldier himself had become disabled after the war. He called his home to know whether his family would consider him a burden. To test them, he made up the story about an injured friend. Their words broke his heart. He never went home again.” There was deep pain hidden in Paji’s voice.
Our eyes had also become teary at the story.
“How do you know all this, Paji?” I couldn’t help asking.
“I know this story, son, because it is the tale of my best friend.” Paji himself was on the verge of tears.
On looking back, those years seem like a lost age. An ancient tale. A previous birth.

Careful now! There are some blind turns in the tale ahead.
“Decades ago, there was an age of innocence,
When childhood blossomed with joy,
A chaste presence, under the heavens.
Childhood was like the wings of birds,
Childhood was the soaring of kites,
Childhood was the cozy lap of Chaiji,
Childhood was the stories of Chhabe Paji”
                                                    —- From my diary;

With the passage of time, I was growing up. I don’t know when thorns had emerged on my path. I felt cheated by time. I had been robbed of my innocence. Maybe this awareness was the start of my journey into adulthood. Actually, the dangerous period of terrorism had started in Punjab.
In view of the deteriorating conditions there, my parents had sent me to Delhi to continue my studies.
“May God help you, son!” Chhabbe Paji had hugged me goodbye. Our voices were hoarse and our eyes were wet.
Slowly, my visits to Amritsar were on the decrease. Terrorism was at its height in Punjab. Bigoted Sikh extremists were taking Hindu passengers off the buses and killing them. On the other hand, innocent Sikh youths were dying at the hands of the armed forces. There was panic everywhere. Painful events were taking place. The rivers of Punjab were on fire. Lives were in peril. My father rented out his Amritsar house at low rates and our whole family shifted to Delhi.
We later learnt that Chhabe Paji had become a victim of the extensive counter attack mounted by the armed forces during Operation Bluestar in June, 1984. Somebody in his village had a personal score to settle with him.  That man had a relative in the police. He falsely pointed his fingers at Chhabe Paji and the latter was labelled a category ‘A’ terrorist and arrested and lodged in Jodhpur prison. He protested his innocence and swore on God and his children, but nobody believed him. He rotted in Jodhpur prison for many years. He was finally released in 1994-95 because of ill health. In the meantime, his relatives had married off Simran to an aging industrialist. But that mismatched union did not last long. By the time Chhabbe Paji was released from prison and reached home, his daughter had finally managed to secure a divorce after a long fight of three years. The whereabouts of his young son, Surinder, had been unknown for the last one and a half years.

During that time, I had a dream one night. In it, I saw the cheerful Chhabbe Paji of the past, crying in the present. It seemed like he was crying in a vacuum, because although I could see the tears, I was unable to hear anything.

Another sequence from my dream:  in the future, his son, Surinder, has returned from a journey to a faraway galaxy and finding his father in tears in the present, is searching in the past for his laughing father. He wants to take his joyous father from the past to the future but his tearful present stands like an obstacle. Somehow, the path to the future to which Surinder wants to take his father, lies through America. But Chhabbe Paji  is unacquainted with the smell of green dollars. He does not know English and the ringtone of his mobile is ‘Satnam Waheguru’. On the other hand, the caller tune of Surinder’s phone is some blasting pop song of Michael Jackson, which Chhabbe Paji is unable to comprehend. Surinder has also started speaking in some strange language and the father-son duo are unable to understand each other. There my dream ended.

After his release from the prison, when I went to Amritsar to meet Chhabbe paji, his appearance scared me. He was a shadow of his former self, looking like a ruined structure.
“Paji, tell me a story,” I said to him, taking his trembling hand in mine.
“All my stories are dead, son. The sea of tales inside me has dried up,” he replied in a quivering voice.
“No, Paji. Stories never die. The immortal tree of tales always stays green.” The words came out of my mouth of their own volition.
“Son, what will happen to Simran when I am gone?” his eyes were pools of darkness.
“Have faith in Waheguru, Paji. Everything will be alright.” I tried to hold his trembling fingers steady in my hands.
Simran was sitting next to him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

‘When sorrow sits beside me,
My shadow remains unseen by me.
I just feel a grey presence,
Of the steel flowing through my veins.
I just smell the putrid essence,
Of the rot inside me.
My eyelids feel heavy with,
The burden of unseen sights.’
                                                  —-  I wrote in my diary that night.

Now, Chhabbe Paji is no more.
His two brothers had already settled in the USA. They had forgotten their country and their relatives and the dollar was now their only soulmate. His only sister had migrated to Australia with her husband. His son, Surinder, wanted to go to the USA. It was later learnt that he had been victimised by some agents. He had been arrested while trying to enter Europe illegally and was now rotting in an Italian prison. He was released by great efforts from the Indian embassy in Italy. Chaiji is also no more. She could not bear the sorrow of her son’s death.
I am now married and have two kids. My son is twelve and my daughter, seven. Now, I retell the stories of Chhabe paji to my kids. I had told him that stories never die. Chhabbe paji still lives inside me. Every Sunday, I take my wife and kids to a nearby orphanage. There, I narrate the tales heard from Chhabbe paji to them. The kids enjoy my stories and laugh uproariously, as do my own children. I am involved in the struggle to preserve the integrity of their pure and innocent laughter. My wife and the mother of my kids, Simran, joins me in this effort. Oh yes! I married Simran.  That is what Chhabbe Paji would have wanted.

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- Sushant Supriye

A-5001 ,

Gaur Green City ,

Vaibhav Khand,

Indirapuram,

Ghaziabad-201014

UP

INDIA .

M : 8512070086

email : sushant1968@gmail.com