slapped it on Minnie’s palm. Minnie ran her eyes over her arms and counted the bangles; there were only eleven. The world swam before her eyes and then darkened.
The women exchanged glances. They had seen Minnie buy the bangles. Yes, there were ten and then two more. And she had specially asked for red ones.
The courtyard was full of babbling men and women. Minnie’s fiancee’s father edged his way through; his wife was behind him. They flung all the presents they had received in front of Malan; clothes, money and rings. The crowd gaped. Women touched their ears; young girls bit their finger nails. This was drama indeed. A broken engagement was a broken life. What would Minnie do, now that she would never find a husband? It served her right, shameless harlot!
Over the sound of their angry droning, there was a loud splash. For a moment the crowd was petrified. Then someone shouted, ‘The well!’ and understanding dawned.
Minnie was nowhere to be seen. The gentle Minnie who never raised her voice against anyone, who was as pure as the jasmine she wove into garlands. Minnie, who never tired of praying to her gods for the happiness of everyone she knew.
Suddenly sobered, people ran to the well. Only Malan sat where she was, numb with horror, unable to move. Her courtyard was empty — emptier than it ever had been, as empty as it always would be now.
h unger
Krishen Singh Dhodi
I t was the silver jubilee week of ‘The Blood of the Lover’ at the Nishat; the film had drawn a packed house for every showing of the preceding twenty-five weeks. That was not suprising as everyone has at one time or the other been in love; and everyone loved the film because they found their own life-story projected on the screen. The producer decided to celebrate the success by taking out a triumphal procession through the streets of the city. The publicity campaign was entrusted to a contractor, Sundar Singh.
Sundar Singh was a pleasant man of about forty-five. He lived in a house close by the Nishat. He lived alone because he did not have a relative in the world to share his home. He had employed a fifteen year old lad, Bachana Singh, to cook his meals for him. Bachana Singh gave his master the morning and the evening meal and spent the rest of the day parading through the streets sandwiched between cinema placards. For this he was paid Rs. 25 per month — all of which he gave to his widowed mother who lived in a refugee encampment.
The procession of the film ‘The Blood of the Lover’ started from the Nishat cinema at 8 a.m. Sundar Singh wore a bright red turban with starched plumes flaunting in the air. He carried a flag in his hand and ran up and down the procession shouting instructions. Heading the procession was Master Raja Lal’s brass band. Following the band was a truck bearing mammoth-size portraits of the stars of the film; one picture showed a fountain of blood pouring out of the heart of the lover and falling at the feet of his sweetheart. Following the truck were a row of bullock-carts decorated with hoardings; following the bullock-carts were sandwichmen; and last of all were little urchins carrying sticks with placards stuck to them. Amongst the urchins was Bachana Singh.
Bachana Singh wore a clean shirt and pyjama; he had even polished his shoes. But there was no sign of joy on his face. He trudged on silently in the last rank with his eyes downcast and an age-old melancholy in his drooping visage. And there was his employer Sundar Singh, strutting about with the airs of a Field Marshall now commanding the band to play another air; now ordering the bullock cart drivers to keep in line; and again bellowing at the little boys to march in step.
It was a grand spectacle. Although the procession had been organised by the rich, the people who marched in it were poor — the poor who had agreed to tramp through dusty streets to be able to fill their bellies. Anyone pausing to see their pale, emaciated
The women exchanged glances. They had seen Minnie buy the bangles. Yes, there were ten and then two more. And she had specially asked for red ones.
The courtyard was full of babbling men and women. Minnie’s fiancee’s father edged his way through; his wife was behind him. They flung all the presents they had received in front of Malan; clothes, money and rings. The crowd gaped. Women touched their ears; young girls bit their finger nails. This was drama indeed. A broken engagement was a broken life. What would Minnie do, now that she would never find a husband? It served her right, shameless harlot!
Over the sound of their angry droning, there was a loud splash. For a moment the crowd was petrified. Then someone shouted, ‘The well!’ and understanding dawned.
Minnie was nowhere to be seen. The gentle Minnie who never raised her voice against anyone, who was as pure as the jasmine she wove into garlands. Minnie, who never tired of praying to her gods for the happiness of everyone she knew.
Suddenly sobered, people ran to the well. Only Malan sat where she was, numb with horror, unable to move. Her courtyard was empty — emptier than it ever had been, as empty as it always would be now.
h unger
Krishen Singh Dhodi
I t was the silver jubilee week of ‘The Blood of the Lover’ at the Nishat; the film had drawn a packed house for every showing of the preceding twenty-five weeks. That was not suprising as everyone has at one time or the other been in love; and everyone loved the film because they found their own life-story projected on the screen. The producer decided to celebrate the success by taking out a triumphal procession through the streets of the city. The publicity campaign was entrusted to a contractor, Sundar Singh.
Sundar Singh was a pleasant man of about forty-five. He lived in a house close by the Nishat. He lived alone because he did not have a relative in the world to share his home. He had employed a fifteen year old lad, Bachana Singh, to cook his meals for him. Bachana Singh gave his master the morning and the evening meal and spent the rest of the day parading through the streets sandwiched between cinema placards. For this he was paid Rs. 25 per month — all of which he gave to his widowed mother who lived in a refugee encampment.
The procession of the film ‘The Blood of the Lover’ started from the Nishat cinema at 8 a.m. Sundar Singh wore a bright red turban with starched plumes flaunting in the air. He carried a flag in his hand and ran up and down the procession shouting instructions. Heading the procession was Master Raja Lal’s brass band. Following the band was a truck bearing mammoth-size portraits of the stars of the film; one picture showed a fountain of blood pouring out of the heart of the lover and falling at the feet of his sweetheart. Following the truck were a row of bullock-carts decorated with hoardings; following the bullock-carts were sandwichmen; and last of all were little urchins carrying sticks with placards stuck to them. Amongst the urchins was Bachana Singh.
Bachana Singh wore a clean shirt and pyjama; he had even polished his shoes. But there was no sign of joy on his face. He trudged on silently in the last rank with his eyes downcast and an age-old melancholy in his drooping visage. And there was his employer Sundar Singh, strutting about with the airs of a Field Marshall now commanding the band to play another air; now ordering the bullock cart drivers to keep in line; and again bellowing at the little boys to march in step.
It was a grand spectacle. Although the procession had been organised by the rich, the people who marched in it were poor — the poor who had agreed to tramp through dusty streets to be able to fill their bellies. Anyone pausing to see their pale, emaciated
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