Love !

Shikwa-e-Khuda

Insaan Khuda sey;


Jis ko chahtay they ussi ko Gawaya

Khuda sey Roothtay hain Kay

Us Jaisa ek aur kyon nahi banaya.


Khuda Insaan Sey;

Ek hi To banaya hai

Is liya to chaha hai

Ek bhi na hoti

To Chahat bhi na hoti.

-----------------------------------

Sigh! Translation -:-(

Complaint-e-Khuda

Man complaining to God:

The One I loved, I Lost

Disappointed I am with GOD

Why a duplicate was not made!?*


God responding to Man;

One was meant to be made

Hence love remained

If even one was not to be

Love would cease to sway.

-------

*yes- this is a parody translation- the real thing is a bore.

Format and Title borrowed from Iqbal's Shikwa and Jawab-e-Shikwa.

Insult-e-Ghalib

Aye ghalib! Ishq* ka bana phirta hai tu charagh

Gumrah ho gaye hain, mohabbat ka kaisa hai yeh pursuroor andaz.

Ishq kay barey bol tunay likkhey,

Himmat nahi, ataq gaye hai halaq main dil kii baat.

Aye ustaad-e-hali,

Sikhaya nahi ishq tunay huddodon kay paar,

Tanhai mein rehgaye hain (teray chahney wale),

Dikha hi dey apnay bhujtay charagh ka kamal.

Sharabi phar kar tujhe, kartein hain khuda ko yaad,

Kyon kartey hain sarey, sharab ko badnaam!!?



On seeing the movie Mirza Ghalib, I clearly got the impression he was a weakling of a person

who would have loved to settle in NZ and live off tax payer funded unemployment benefit and munch KFC! Loser!


Sigh! Translation for the unfortunate;


Insult-e-Ghalib


O Ghalib! Regarded you are as the guiding light of Ishq

But lost we remain, such are the ways of love.

Spoken big word you have on Ishq

But will is lost – the words remain stuck in their throat

O Teacher of Hali!

Taught you have not, Ishq beyond the boundaries

Remain abandoned your followers

Hoping to see the miracle of you dimming lamp

The drunkard remembers God after reading you

Why is the wine blamed for everyone’s woes!?

* Passion/Lust

Tempratur-e-Ishq

Tax season is on and its getting hot in Saudi. Brothers Amar is probably busy or were busy with tax, and who knows what Anthony gets up to, and nobody is watching the world cup except for Bengalis and Sri Lankans-

and love is a hanging around a bit late in the air -

So for those delusional enough to beleive in love before marriage - there's a better substitute - Ishq (passion/Lust) - and I dedicate the verses below to all Passion laden Asshiqs -Salam-e-Ishq!!!



You are the summer in my shivering nights

You are the cool breeze in my humid days

But the stars guide if it were not for you

Hopeless I am without your soothing voice.

Life is a bit less, with no smile from you.


Without your shadow I die useless,

With your hand I live careless.

Your every breath makes me want to live

A hundred lives

But your one downcast look

Causes the pain of a lover’s death.

Shiver I do in the summer nights for you,

May cool breezy days become humid for you.

The 50 men who really understand women

The latest issue of The Observer has a very intriguing headline: "The 50 men who really understand women" . The brothers Amar Akbar Anthony cautiously went through this list and confirmed what we have always suspected - that we are not among these 50 men!

While the inscrutable ways of the female sex continue to puzzle us and cause us heartache, we take some comfort from the man who comes No.1 on the list. George Clooney, the man who really understands women, has stayed a bachelor his entire life.

Love: The Tale of King Bhartrihari

The complete story of Bhartrihari is not just a tale of a king, but also that of a lover, a poet, a grammarian, a philosopher, and an ascetic. This is only a small part of that tale.

One fine day, a devout Brahmin and his wife came to the court of King Bhartrihari, and supplicating before him, presented him with a strange looking piece of fruit. The Brahmin explained he had spent most of his life undertaking austere penances and meditations in praise of the Gods, and pleased with him, the Gods had blessed him and granted him this fruit, the amar-phal. Any one person who ate the fruit would have the gift of immortality. But the Brahmin did not desire to live forever while his wife, whom he loved dearly, should grow old and die, and therefore he had come to offer the fruit to the King.

The King was very pleased with this present, and rewarded the couple generously. But once they had left and the fruit was in his possession, he became uncertain of what to do with it. The obvious thing would be to eat it. To have the gift of immortality would make him equal in stature to the Gods! Further, was he not a good and just ruler, he reasoned, and therefore it would be for the betterment of his kingdom and subjects if he were to reign indefinitely.

But something in his heart stopped him from eating the fruit. It was love. Bhartrihari was obsessively in love with his Queen, and he could not bear the thought of living without her. It would be better that she should live, and he have the comfort of knowing that at least she would be with him the rest of his life. Better a few moments with her, he thought, than an eternity without! He went and gave his Queen the fruit.

The young Queen felt the same way too, but not about her husband. She was having an affair with the King's handsome and trusted advisor, who made her swoon with his suggestive glances. She accepted the fruit from her husband, but secretly gave it to the King's advisor.

The King's Advisor heart though was set on another woman. He was hopelessly enthralled with a long-eyed and slender-waisted poetry-reciting Courtesan of his acquaintance, and he wanted to impress her more than anything else in the world. He gave her the fruit.

Now the Courtesan had met and known many rich and great men, and she despised almost all of them, including the King's Advisor. But there was one man whose kindness and concern for others had captured her heart, and though her feelings remained unspoken, she was very much in love. She went and gave the fruit to the man she admired - the good King Bhartrihari.

Bhartrihari accepted the fruit from the Courtesan, and understood what had happened. He saw the infidelity of his wife, and also the love of the courtesan for him. He concluded:

She who is always in my thoughts prefers
Another man, and does not think of me.
Yet he seeks for another's love, not hers;
And some poor girl is grieving for my sake.
Why then, the devil take
Both her and him; and love; and her; and me

That night, Bhartrihari put on the robes of an ascetic and stole away, leaving behind his wife, his palace and his kingdom. Some say he never returned, renouncing all things and becoming a great philosopher and poet. Or less romantically, a grammarian. Some suggest that Bhartrihari was a man who could not make up his mind whether to follow the sensual or ascetic path. Each time he chose one path, he would see its deficiences and the attractions of the other. And so he would move back and forth from pleasure and renunciation. Who can say they know for sure the truth!

***

The tale of King Bhartrihari continues a haphazard survey of that universal predicament - the unreliability of love. We have previously seen in The Madness of King Shahryar, a different reaction from Bhartrihari's to a lover's infidelity. Poets appear a particularly miserable lot. Whether the Thabri, or Momin, or Ghalib, or Raaz, all their relationships seem to end badly. We saw failed romances wherever we looked, but we kept looking anyway. Sadly, we have not had time to correct the gender bias in our choices. We would have particularly liked to sympathise with poor Sita, whose husband Ram would tastelessly demand proof of fidelity from her after she had been kidnapped by a villain! We have wonderered whether monasticism isn't a better option, but like Bhartrihari, couldn't make up our mind. Not all love is so fickle though. We have sympathised with moths, who hurl themselves at their flame. We have admired the great romance of Hir and Ranjha, and sighed over our love of Madhuri. Ominously, all these great romances also end badly. In conclusion, we are no wiser than when we started, which was not very wise at all.


***

the moth and the flame

One must have sympathy for the flame. How can the flame understand the effect on the moth of their encounter? The flame is unaffected, how would it know the moth's hurt?

***

Munni Begum's La Pila De Saqiya though takes the other view:

Jo jalata hai kisiko, khud bhi jalta hai zaroor,
shamma bhi jalti rahi, parvana jal jane ke baad

What scorches another, surely also burns itself
the flame continued to burn after the moth was burnt

vikram and baital: the doom that befalls all men

How, indeed, could he hope to escape the doom which has fallen equally upon Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and dreadful Shiva the Three-eyed Destroyer[23]?

***

translation: he meets a woman.

vikram and baital: her exceeding beauty

By reason of her exceeding beauty, her face was a full moon shining in the clearest sky; her hair was the purple cloud of autumn when, gravid with rain, it hangs low over earth; and her complexion mocked the pale waxen hue of the large-flowered jasmine. Her eyes were those of the timid antelope; her lips were as red as those of the pomegranate's bud, and when they opened, from them distilled a fountain of ambrosia. Her neck was like a pigeon's; her hand the pink lining of the conch-shell; her waist a leopard's; her feet the softest lotuses. In a word, a model of grace and loveliness was Dangalah Rani, Raja Bhartari's last and youngest wife.

- from the Introduction of Vikram and the Vampire, translated by Richard Burton

poets and men of letters are always trying to describe the undescribeable - a woman's beauty.

vikram and baital: at first sight

Suddenly the eyes of the Raja's son and the [maiden] met. She started back with a little scream. He was fascinated by her beauty, and began to say to himself, " O thou vile Karma,[51] why worriest thou me?"

Hearing this, the maiden smiled encouragement, but the poor youth, between palpitation of the heart and hesitation about what to say, was so confused that his tongue crave to his teeth.

- from the beginning of Baital's first story, as translated by Richard Burton in Vikram and the Vampire

Whether a first century hindi tale of the fantastic, or a twenty-first century hollywood chick-flick, the first sight of the beauty invariably confounds the tongue of a good man.

The Thousand Eyes of Indra - I

It all began, as trouble often does, with a woman's beauty and a man's desire. Devaraja Indra, the Ruler of Heaven, Lord of the Overworld, husband of Devranee Indrayani and Playboy Extraordinaire, was feeling distracted from his duties...for his heart and his mind were secretly consumed by the thought of a woman.

Narrator: My brothers, men of this but-for-women-cursed world, husbands and lovers, sons of Adam, which one among you hasn't been enslaved by the beauty of a woman? Have you really never met a woman who has disturbed the beating of your heart, who made the blood rush from your liver to your head, and elsewhere lower below too, whose desire made you blind to all reason and logic, whose lust made you forget your duty to your parents and to the seven generations of your ancestors? It is true for all of you, admit it now! Because a woman is such a thing, nay, the only thing, that unleashes such storms of passion in a man's heart.

prelude

It all began, as trouble often does, with a woman's beauty and a man's desire. Devaraja Indra, the Ruler of Heaven, Lord of the Overworld, husband of Devranee Indrayani and Playboy Extraordinaire, was feeling distracted from his duties....

***

This is a story which is also being told in the world outside this blog...If it continues there, it will continue here. If not, then not.

in case anyone cares, a small addition to the beginning of The Love Story of Amur and Madhuri.

The Love Story of Amar and Madhuri

wherein Amar inflicts on the reader every cliche and formulaic phrase of pulp, low-brow romance, and takes the blog to new pornographic lows

Monks, I know of no other single form by which a man’s heart is so enslaved as it is by that of a woman. Monks, a woman’s form obsesses a man’s heart. Monks, I know of no other single sound by which a man’s heart is so enslaved as it is by the voice of a woman. Monks, a woman’s voice obsesses a man’s heart. Monks, I know of no other single scent... savour... touch by which a man’s heart is so enslaved as it is by the scent, savour, and touch of a woman. Monks, the scent, savour and touch of a woman obsess a man’s heart.
- The Buddha, in Anguttara Nikaya. From The Book of the Gradual Sayings (translator F.L. Woodward)

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love
- from the poem Locksley Hall by Alfred Tennyson

We don't deny we are romantics. Hot blooded young men we may be, and the summer months may inspire lust and unreason, but during these glorious long summer days we also like to linger over a drink or five and reflect on love and times past, contemplating what was and what might have been, and of course, what will never be.

It was in such a frame of mind that I wrote to Akbar and Anthony about Madhuri the other day. She left at the end of spring, but I still remember her fragrance, I still remember her loveliness. And in the heat of the summer, I find myself longing for her, and if you will excuse my indelicacy, to smell her, to touch her, to taste her again.

Akbar wrote back, thoroughly bemused. 'Are you sure there was a Madhuri?' he enquired. "I remember seeing you with an Ina, a Mina and a Dika, and also a Seeta and a Geeta, but not this Madhuri of whom you speak!"

Anthony wrote back to Akbar, "You don't remember Madhuri? The girl who used to smile at you in the library?"

Akbar: "Smiling at whom?! Amar? Was Madhuri at university with us? I can't remember meeting her at all! I seem to be forgetting lot of things these days, but nothing so significant as this Madhuri. Remind me who she was!"

So I wrote to them about a perfect day, the first time when...

Amar: I still remember the first time I saw Madhuri...I was standing in the Quad, smoking a borrowed cigarette and exchanging jokes with my sidekicks, when she walked past and into my life. She had just arrived from Bombay a week before, but I didn't know that yet. As she strode confidently across the square, time itself seemed to stand still in silent admiration. A strong gust of wind blew her hair across her face, and she shook her head instinctively to clear her vision. That's when she saw me, standing there with my eyes on her, mouth wide open, cigarette falling out. She laughed, and life was never the same again.

You really don't remember Madhuri?

In fact, Akbar really did not remember. And with good reason. While the university days of 1997 and 1998 were certainly the halcyon days for the gang, Madhuri was not the girl I was describing above. In those days I didn't smoke, I didn't have side-kicks, but I did hang around in the Quad, and though this may have already happened in some Bollywood film, or indeed might one day when they find my script, it never happened in real life. The truth is as follows:

The True Story of Amar and Madhuri

I had first heard of Madhuri way back in my youth - everyone loved her, said such wonderful things about her. But growing up as I did, she seemed distant, unattainable, a vision of perfection only to be admired from far. I was curious about her, would have liked to have known her, but it was just not possible, I was always travelling in strange climes, she was at home and there too she moved in exclusive circles, our paths never seemed to cross, and so I slowly started to forget about her. But then this spring suddenly, out of the blue, we met in a fruit and vegetable shop in the dodgy desi area here in Phoren. It was an unlikely place to meet. But there she was, like me, far from home, a stranger in a distant land. It meant something. I fell in love at first sight. The romance was sweeter than anything I had ever known, and the affair was as passionate as it was brief. I have said it already, but I repeat myself for emphasis. Her fragrance, her beauty, her touch, and finally, her taste - I had never known anything like it. But all love ends in loss or death, and she left without warning as spring drew to a close.

And all that was left was Amar, and her memory. And now when I sit here with my wine glass and think of her, there is a verse from Khayyam which comes to mind.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

And that my friends, is the true story of Amar and Madhuri.

ps: While to me, she will always be Madhuri, I should probably disclose that you may also know her as the alphonso mango.

Aap ki Nazron ney samjha – Your ogling has understood *

Either I am infatuated or this song is too good. The poetry, the vocals and the rhythm just flow. Lata is at her best in this song . Dilip kumar once complemented her in the words ‘In ki awaaz Khuda ka ek karishma hai’ – ‘Her voice is the miracle of God.’

‘Kyon mein toofan sey daroon, mera sahil aap hain’ - ‘Why should I fear the storm when you are my shore’. I hope my future wife (whoever she maybe) says these bold words for me. (I may not hang around on the shore if there is a bloody toofan).

The reason for listening to so many love songs lately is the result of watching Fanaa. Twice that is or thrice actually - once on the laptop (pirated version Zindabaad), to copy out the missing words of poetry.

Why? It’s a gr8 film. Everybody hates it except me and amar. The film has everything. Action, romance, comedy, poetry, kids section, etc.etc.

Sure the nikah scene (marriage) was inconsistent and nonsense (u need six witnesses from both sides to have a nikah – oh well u can’t use rabbits in Kashmir wilderness), the drinking muslim guy was pathtic….but hey many muslims drink in the memory of their dead wives (especially at Duabi airport) it was all round good entertaiment. The rishi kapoor dummy floating under ice was hilarious.

At least from my point Pakistan also got to be a victim of Kashmiri terrorism.

The reason people hate this movie is because Amir Khan once again exceeded everyone’s expectations of the kind of genre he can act in.

Lag ja galey, kay phir yeh haseen raat ho na ho.

Come into my arms, as this night may never come again.


The context in which this song was played in the movie gave the song new meaning and life. Lovely song. However quite crude by desi standards, as the girl is openly inviting a man to hug her as this night may not be, and to ogle her as this moment may never come. Too bad Rehan Qadri is not a practicing Muslim and same for Ms. Impregnated before marriage twice abandoned Zoony.

Watching a desi film in an Inglistani (Brtish) cinema is an interesting experience. The turnover of people leaving the cinema is quite high…especially after the opening scene (which is song and dance generally). If not leaving then hooting is an excellent recourse. Genuine audiences who are regulars come in teams the size of indoor footall teams.

Leading the group would be a stocky sari clad aunty, who would keep making the most beautiful chic among the group move from seat to seat to avoid young hot blooded studs like me and amar from staring at her. Oh well….we saw what we had come to see.


Sadly as I am back in the land of two holy Holy mosques with out cinemas or theatres and I continue to look forward to another Amir Khan movie.


* Excuse the literal translation. The complete title should be ‘your eyes have accepted me as able for your love.’

The moth

It was not my intention to write anything, but a moth just fell on my head. I brushed it away, and it lay on the floor for a minute, before it started to move again. And then it flew straight back up to the lights on the ceiling, hovering and flittering around them like a compulsive-neurotic.

In classical urdu poetry, and I expect persian and other regional and desi languages too, the moth is a metaphor for the romantic, the lover. The light or flame that is the object of the moth's attentions [affections] represents the beloved. The moth is drawn to the flame the way a lover is to his beloved, but ultimately both the flame and the beloved are unattainable, and the ultimate fate of those who draw too close is to be consumed and destroyed by their own obsession. What compels a moth to hurtle to his own doom, of his own accord heading closer and closer to a fire that will destroy him? Who can explain this fatal attraction, this headlong plunge towards one's own destruction?

Lata sings in the song Aayega Aanewala of a lover's longing for her lost beloved. Here, the flame is absent, but even then there is a reference to the metaphor of the moth and the flame. The pain of the lover is described thus: deepak bagair kaise, parvane jal rahe hain? There is no flame, yet why do the moths still burn?

Meanwhile my moth has better sense than most. He has abandoned the light and is now cooling his passions in a corner of the room. Not all moths are as foolish as lovers.

On romantic tragedies

Amar and Akbar watched a romantic tragedy the other night. I watched it a week or so before my brothers, and when they asked me for my opinion, I did say that when all is said and done, Fanaa is a romantic tragedy. Now dear reader, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against romantic tragedies. I just think they are rather hard to do. And I’m not the only one. No less a person than the Bard thought so. Allow me to explain.

William Shakespeare wrote 37 plays. Romeo and Juliet was the 28th, so one can assume that he was a quite experienced storyteller when he penned the story that ends with a pair of star-cross’d lovers taking their lives.

Now how does this taking life business happen?

Friar Lawrence helps Juliet by providing a sleeping draught that will make everyone think she's dead. Romeo is then supposed to come to her tomb and take her away. When the wedding party arrives to greet Juliet next day they think she is dead. The Friar sends a colleague to warn Romeo to come to the Capulet's family monument, but the message doesn't get through. Instead, upon hearing that Juliet is dead, Romeo returns to Verona and takes poison and dies just as Juliet awakes from her drugged sleep. She learns what has happened from Friar Lawrence and stabs herself.

Romeo and Juliet, the first romantic tragedy the Bard penned, was a big hit. Upon finding the successful formula of the taking of multiple lives in confusing circumstances, he ended four of his remaining nine plays in similar manner.

In the rotten state of Denmark, Hamlet duels with Laertes where Claudius plots for Hamlet to die either on a poisoned rapier, or from poisoned wine. The plans go wrong, and basically everyone dies.

Okay, Hamlet is not a romantic tragedy you say. Hmmm, maybe, but Othello surely is. And how does the Moore of Venice meet his end? He accuses Desdemona of infidelity, and after a brief argument, smothers her (obviously someone named Ataullah — Othello in English — has Quranic licence (4:34) to smack their bitch up). Desdemona dies but says Othello is innocent. Eventually it is revealed that Iago is the villain, and Othello commits suicide.

Antony and Cleopetra is another romantic tragedy where Shakespeare used the multiple death formula. Here, Cleopatra goes to her tomb and sends a message to Antony that she is dead. Antony is devastated and decides to kill himself. But wait, he botches the suicide and wounds himself without dying. His followers take him to Cleopatra's tomb, where he dies in her arms. Of course Cleopatra wasn’t dead, but now that Antony is dead, what can she but to kill herself?

You see dear reader, romantic tragedies are not easy to do. They are actually so hard that upon finding a successful formula, even Shakespeare chose to stick to it rather than try something new.

On romance

Amar talked about Hir Ranjha a while ago. This story is the subject of a Bollywood classic that has been described as the Punjabi Romeo and Juliet. Reading this, a sister pointed out that this description was inaccurate, because Hir and Ranjha, unlike the star-crossed lovers, did not come from feuding families. Countering it, a brother noted that the feuding family is irrelevant as the point of these tragedies is love not the feud.

Another brother noted that this great romance was not noted in that great arbiter of Desiana, its page 259 contains: Once upon a time there were Radha and Krishna, and Rama and Sita, and Laila and Majnu; also (because we are not unaffected by the West) Romeo and Juliet, and Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn.

This led to yet another sister making another observation: Angrez and Hollywood romances are from the West, sure, but Laila and Majnu are also from a land that is to the west of Desh. After much googling, we ascertained that the origin of the story of Laila Majnu is pre-Islamic Arabia (that is Jahiliya for you believers).

So, what is the West? And what is Desi? Difficult questions to answer, and Brothers A-A-A don’t pretend to have any, except to note that patatar (that is aloo) is also from somewhere else, but is aloo-ghobi not Desi?

Anyway, Laila Majnu is also the subject of a Bollywood classic, and the Bollywood version looks like it is set in the Islamic Republic of Romance. Check it out if you can, while I go and check out the Laila Majnu and Hir Ranjha of the Blighty.

Love is like baldness [cont.d]

and other insights from and thoughts on The Adventures of Hir and Ranjha by Waris Shah (transl. Usborne)

this continues from the first installment of Love is like baldness

Chapters 15 and 16: Hir's father decides it's time she gets married. He is tempted to give her to Ranjha - what better way than marriage to kill this romance? But a good muslim father must take into account many things. And so Hir is married off to the Kheras instead, because they are a. of much higher caste than the lowly Ranjhas, and b. the only fools in Punjab who have not heard of Hir's affair.

Chapter 17: Waris Shah builds the tension by switching from one emotional scene to another.

...thus did Hir lament on being parted with Ranjha
is followed immediately by
Meanwhile the buffaloes were ill at ease...

Chapter 17 cont.d: The Kheras must also be the most absent-minded people in Punjab. The large baraat heads back to their village Rangpur in celebratory mood, without noticing the romantic Ranjha following them. But surely they would have been aware of the beautiful new bride they were taking home, the new daughter of the village, the wife of one of their sons? But to hear Waris tell it, Hir finding herself alone and the Kheras merry making, made a signal to Ranjha, called him into her palanquin and embraced him tenderly.

These two are addicted to danger! Not for them running away, it has to be making out in the middle of the girl's wedding baraat or nothing.

Chapter 17 cont.d: There's an exciting and pointless tirade against the Jats generally. Sadly my translation omits it.

Chapter 18: Hir is now at her new home. Meanwhile, Ranjha resolves to become a fakir and 'bore his ears'. Not to mention everyone else's. He also decides to bring back Hir.

It is not clear why he needs to be a fakir to bring back Hir, or how being an ascetic is even consistent with pursuing his beloved. But anyhow...

Chapter 19: A year passes. Hir sends Ranjha a message. Ranjha rejoices and again resolves to become a fakir, and bring back Hir. Ranjha is somewhat lazy.

Chapter 20: Ranjha finds himself a holy man to be his Guru. The Guru likes what he sees: My lad, your looks are saucy... The guru continues dreamily: ...you have painted your eyes with lamp-black; you play on the flute and stare at women. You tie up cows and milk them. He makes it sound so kinky.

Love is like baldness*

and other insights from and thoughts on The Adventures of Hir and Ranjha by Waris Shah (transl. Usborne)

*Love is like baldness. You cannot get rid of it even in twelve years.

***
Introduction, Note 14,: The Chenab is the most romantic of all punjab rivers, and one of the most romantic anywhere. The romances of Hir and Ranjha, Sohni and Mahiwal and Mirza and Sahiban are all associated with the Chenab. Incidentally all of them are tragedies, the story in each case ending in the death of both lover and sweetheart. [note to self - avoid meeting girl near Chenab] The idea of 'getting married and living happily ever afterwards', so popular in Europe, seems to be alien to punjabi tradition [wonderful. what I thought was bad luck turns out to be a proud cultural tradition], where great love affairs are concerned. To the average punjabi, it might even appear cheap and vulgar.

***

Chapter 1: We are introduced to Ranjha. He doesn't do any work, preferring to spend his days admiring his reflection, putting yoghurt in his long hair, singing and playing the flute. He is his father's favourite child, who may have thought Ranjha was his daughter.

His father dies, and Ranjha finds that 'evil days have fallen upon me'! He has to work for a living now, you see. He decides to leave the village.

***

Chapter 5: Ranjha sees the beautiful Hir for the first time. His chat-up line is: 'Be gentle with me, sweet heart.' Hir is so impressed, she goes and sits in his lap before another word is exchanged.

Small talk follows [what is your name and caste? how much is your salary? may I be a leper and lose my sight and limbs if i seek any husband save Ranjha]

Hir decides that she must convince her father to hire Ranjha as a cowherd. Cowherding may not be a glamorous profession, but Hir knows it offers opportunities to the young lovers for discreet and frequent romantic liaisons.

***

Chapter 7: 'Their soft eyes were lotus buds and their teeth like rows of pearls.' Ranjha finds himself in charge of a very attractive herd of buffaloes.

***

Chapter 8: Hir goes to see Ranjha in the 'forest', where he has taken the buffaloes for grazing. There they exchange sweet-nothings:

Ranjha: 'The word of women, boys, hemp smokers and bhang smokers cannot be trusted,'
Hir: 'I am yours to do with as you will. You may sell me in the bazaar if it so pleases you.'

Their relationship is blossoming. Hir begins to visit Ranjha every day.

***

Chapter 9: Hir's mother Milka knows what is going on, and she disapproves: 'Daughters who are disobedient to their parents are not daughters but prostitutes' she sniffs.

While Hir did tell Ranjha in the previous chapter that he could pimp her if he liked, we feel Milka is exaggerating matters. But as we will see throughout the story, Hir's family like to exaggerate a lot.

Note 2 for the chapter states: The expression [daughters who are...] is by no means unfamiliar in the punjab villages even now. [now = ?]

***

Chapter 9 cont.d: Hir's family have now all learnt of the affair. They have lots of creative ideas to set things right.

Kaidu, Hir's uncle: 'Marry a naughty girl as soon as you can. Or else break her head and cut her into small pieces'

Milki, Hir's mother: 'You bad girl, you should be drowned in the deep stream for causing such a scandal'

Chuckak, Hir's father: 'Why did you not suffocate her when she was born, Milki, or poison her when she was a baby?'

***

Chapter 10: doesn't make any sense to me. First Ranjha gets fired, then the romantically inclined buffaloes refuse to eat and generally get in trouble, then Ranjha is asked to come back, and so we are back to where we started.

But one must also find time to admire the neat sexual double-standards. While Hir was previously called a hussy and a prostitute and threatened with murder by her own family, Ranjha is called friend by Hir's father and merely relieved of his job.

Then there's the offer Hir's mother makes to Ranjha to return to his job. Come back and milk our buffaloes and spread Hir's couch. They don't mean he is to be the domestic help either. Our cattle, our wealth...and Hir are all yours

It seems that family honour and scandal and a daughter's chastity are all subordinate to the welfare of the family buffaloes. This is good news for our lovers.

Meanwhile, I have the uneasy suspicion that Hir is not the only one in love with Ranjha. I am thinking of course of the buffaloes.

***

Chapter 11: Hir's family don't know what to make of chapter 1O either. So they pretend it never happened and continue where chapter 9 left off:

Chuchak, Hir's father: 'Rip open her belly with a sickle, pierce her eyes with a needle, and smash her head with a milking stool' By now he is just showing off.

Your correspondents feels too ill to eavesdrop further on this family conversation, and withdraws.

***

Chapter 12: This chapter's highlight is a passage of great ethnological interest - a comparison of emotional amorant characteristics of various womenfolk of Desh. This stuff is pure gold.

...the love of a sikh woman is as violent as the current of the chenab...the bengali woman's love is fitful. the hindustani's is childish...the love of a khatri woman is as soft as dough. The hill woman loves openly but the peshawar woman in secret.

The young men of Desh who find this useful may also wish to refer to the Kamasutra, which provides a similar comparison in respect of the physical amorant preferences of the women of Desh.

A word of caution: The information provided in the texts may be out of date, and any attempt to rely on or apply it to contemporary Desi women is done at your own risk.

***

end of part one