“--- Mubara got married. Three years went by. There was a maid, the patriarch’s confidant, in the household. She told Fateh Khan, Mubara’s father: ‘your son didn’t exchange a word with his wife during the last three years. He didn’t even accept a glass of water offered by her. He is the only son you have. Arrange for his second marriage. Otherwise he would leave this world without an issue’. Fateh Khan got up, entered the house and caressed his daughter-in-law’s head and started crying. ‘Child, you didn’t fail me in my expectations. If it was one of his first cousins in your place, second night after the marriage, the matter would have been in the public knowledge. Three long years! And you haven’t uttered a word. Nor you informed your parents. My son is no longer in my control. Here are the keys of the family lockers. You shall rule the roost as long as I live’.

After days Fateh Khan died. She also lost her parents. Now it was Mubara’s time. Disreputable women of all sorts sneaked into the house. Nobody would bother about Bharit, Mubara’s wife. It was Ranjit Singh’s era. Mubara had the lease of the ‘Bar’ (Karana Bar, Shahpur, Sargodha area) for revenue collection. He suffered loss of Rupee one hundred thousand. He was in no position to pay such an amount. He defaulted. The state officials raided and arrested him. He was presented before Ranjit Singh who said; ‘Pay one hundred thousand you owe’.‘I can’t’, Mubara replied. He was given life term. And in those days life term meant the whole of one’s life. He was imprisoned in the Samman Burj of the Lahore Fort. The Mekans, his tribesmen, were delighted that there would be no heir to his inheritance. Bharit remained steadfast. The other women melted away as they were all predators. Six months after sentencing Mubara, a thought occurred to Ranjit Singh that he had thrown a person behind the bars who owed him one hundred thousand and extra money was being wasted on his upkeep out of official coffers. If the prisoner died, how would he recover such an amount? No one can face the rising rivers and the kings in rage. The king was furious. He summoned Hari Singh Nalwa (his ace general). Nalwa was the man who had conquered territories from Kashmir to Waziristan. ‘Take a posse of one hundred Sikh soldiers and besiege Kot Bhai Khan. Capture Mubara’s wife, plunder his possessions and sell his lands. Bring here whatever he has. The dues must be recovered’, ordered the king.

A young cobbler from Kot Bhai Khan, who had got some education, was employed as an orderly in the Ranjit Singh’s court. He heard the order. His father had come to Lahore to see him. ‘We have been the recipients of Mekans’ largesse for so many generations. Their female quarters are about to be violated. Sikhs are a hard drinking lot. They will grab Bharit and God knows what will happen to her. Rush back and take her to a safe place’, he requested his father. ‘Son, I am an old fogy and it’s a long travel from Lahore’ replied the father. The son arranged a fast moving camel. The way was all jungle. The aged cobbler though dehydrated didn’t stop even for a sip of water and reached his town. ‘My child, royal order has been issued. Day after tomorrow at noon a contingent of a hundred Sikh soldiers will be here. Take whatever you can and runaway’, he said. ‘Dear elder, you did such a great job but gave me such a poor piece of advice. If I run away, the man in the grave (her dead father-in-law) would be cursed for bringing me here into his family from outside of his tribe. Loyalty demands that I should be in prison with Mubara though you know how he has treated me. Good of you to have informed me’, she said.

She ordered her servants to go out and ask all the turbaned from among her subjects and tribesmen to come to her house. The people assembled. ‘Crisis time is upon me. Hundred Sikh soldiers are about to land at my house and you have to be at their service. Look, there is my garden. If you feel water is in short supply, dig a new well. Clean the lot. Arrange one hundred beds with fine cushions and all the trappings. And mind their horses too. It cheers up the riders when they see their mounts taken care of,’ she said. Everybody got to their work. The Sikh troops arrived on the third day and what Hari Singh faced was a multitude. ‘You are here to fight me’? ‘No Sir, we stand here ready to serve you’, replied the crowd. As the troops dismounted, they got royal treatment. They whiled away eight days. They were offered lavish meals and delicacies one after the other, day in day out. On the day eighth, Hari Singh Nalwa said in wonder: ‘I have seen the people serving me but not the host. I am anxious to meet him. He seems to be self-destructive in his generous hospitality. I haven’t seen such a host before. He definitely wants to solicit some favour from me’. Where is Mubara’s father?’ he asked. ‘He is dead, sir’. ‘Who is the host then, his mother’? ‘She too is dead’. ‘Is it his brother’? ‘He has none sir’. ‘So it must be his son who is taking care of me’? ‘How could he have a son? He never spoke to his woman all his life’.‘Who the hell is my host after all’? ‘The same woman sir’, answered the servants. ‘Who is she’? ‘She is from the Bharat tribe’. Hari Singh exclaimed, ‘I have trampled the lands from Kashmir to Waziristan. I have come across so many ladies of elite families. This is the first woman I see with so different a mettle. Such a faithful woman for such a faithless man! ---’.

Note: The narration is translation of a chunk from Mian Kamal Din’s story ‘Ra Sahab Bhatti’. — soofi01@hotmail.com

Published in Dawn, August 14th, 2015

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