The stallion stretched itself, almost flying across the plains one hot July afternoon. The rider was ruthless in pressing the animal on, for he was afraid. Afraid, to be captured by Kharak Singh's supporters, or to be seen by anyone who may report to him. On his person he carried a letter from Shere Singh, the half brother of Kharak Singh, the soon to be invested ruler of Lahore. The letter was addressed to Clerk, a British political agent posted in Ludhianna.
The messenger still had a good hour's travel. His horse was panting heavily, and would soon be broken. Still he knew where he could change the animal for a fresh steed. A cousin lived in a hamlet not more than fifteen minutes away. He would have to allay the man's concerns. They knew each other well enough for him to be provided with a horse while this one rested. He hated wasting good animals. He would not let this one die. The distance between Lahore and Ludhianna was great. He had travelled many days on almost as many steeds. His master Shere Singh required an answer from the British within two days. Events had sped up considerably in the capital since Maharaja Ranjit Singh had died only five days ago.
The rider reflected upon why he was here. Various factions in Lahore had had their beady eyes on the throne of Greater Punjab, until now occupied by Ranjit Singh who had himself been invited by the inhabitants of Lahore to invade forty years ago. Ranjit Singh was a strong king with a reputation as a ruthless fighter and wily politician. He had managed to keep the ghost people at bay. But his own kin and people! They were greedy for the throne. This greed extended to his master, Shere Singh, the old Lion's second son. Shere Singh was respected and feared. He was also seen as arrogant and pro-British. The messenger had been in his service for years and seen him walk and talk with the ghost people visiting the court at Lahore. Shere Singh spoke their strange git-mit tongue well. Indeed the rider had learnt a few words himself. But he had no opinions about who became king. As Shere Singh's servant he had to do his bidding. It was his station in life, dictated by birth into a low caste. Not to do so would mean risking execution. As would being caught. Still the subject of who would now become king seemed strange. The Sikhs had become so use to the lion of Punjab for the last forty years.
People had known for months that the Maharaja Ranjit Singh was ill. Hari Singh Nalwa did not trust the pale people and had begun a recruitment campaign using the Dal Khalsa and his battalions of the Fauj-I-Ain to gather anti-British support. Rightly he feared what Shere Singh would do. Nalwa supported Kharak Singh, as it was Ranjit Singh's wish. But for how long?
Then in the corners were the Dogra brothers, Dhyan Singh and Kharak's own son Nau Nihal. There were also the Hindus and Muslims waiting on the sidelines for the fall of the Sikhs, whom they say as oppressors. The court had instantly become alive with nefarious activity once the great king took his last breath. The fact that was so, was not as yet widely known outside of the gates of Lahore. Each faction had probably sent a messenger like himself to inform those who needed to know. Troops recruited in various parts of the country. Chieftains who would side with one sibling
against the next. In Shere Singh's case the pale people further a field in Ludhianna, out of the reach of Lahore's Empire on the other side of the Sutlej river. What else could the message be, but to ask the British for their support? One thing he did know. If he did not get the letter to the ghost man Clerk, he would be dead.
The messenger made it just in time to the hamlet. After a short explanation of the urgency of his needs, a quick meal of Daal with warm goat's milk, his cousin swapped the horses. The messenger was on his way again. When he arrived at the brittle edges of Ludhianna he slowed down, merging with the background. His head down the horse trotted towards the British emissary's house.

* * * * *

Sergeant McMurdo stood with one leg balanced perfectly on the beam traversing the wooden encasement of Clerk's house. He was a robust man, built like a bear, breast held not unlike a rooster puffed with pride playing the part of a pen's crier waking all and sundry to the new morning. It was not possible to miss McMurdo. When he inspected his men all stood to attention. This however was not all down to the image he played up to. The sergeant could be a complete beast towards his charge. He also always felt envious of his seniors.
The troops based in Ludhianna knew he would never make it to officer class, if for no reason but the fact he was common, the ideal cannon fodder Wellington had used in Spain to great effect years before. This particular reason alone warranted him (in his view anyway) the right to treat the native troops with even more disdain. Furthermore he could play the rooster with the darkies. In truth he detested his post.
McMurdo ate an apple, as he watched over the fence the passing faces of the heathen Indians. He tossed the core hard across the street, where the corpse of the fruit stung the face of a passer by hard. McMurdo smiled, his steely cold eyes meeting the peasant victim of his missile. Seeing the feared red coat of the British, the man quietly melted into the small crowd. McMurdo laughed out loud. " Cowards!"

The bull turned his back to the quiet buzz of the late afternoon crowd and looked around Clerk's courtyard. Clerk was officially here to protect the Company's vested interests with the local leadership. He enjoyed the status of a Nabob of sorts. He also lent the troops occasionally to the local powers to gain their favours.
The courtyard was speckled with the odd horse, the occasional British Redcoat, and a handful of native troops. One of them was pointing down the street towards something excitedly. McMurdo turned to view what they were looking at. At the far end of the fence a native dressed in dark sheets and a turban almost hiding his visage, had alighted from his horse and was speaking to the sepoy in charge of the gate. McMurdo pointed at one of the nearest natives and signalled him to follow him as he strode towards the stranger.
On reaching the gate he slapped the sepoy hard across the back of his head. Then glared at the cloaked stranger. Eyeing him from top to toe the sergeant ascertained that he was of no threat. Still he signalled to the others to raise their rifles.
" Bloody useless Indians" he muttered to himself. " What happened to ' Who goes there?' Shoot the bloody wog, don't barter with him!" For good measure he kicked the sepoy, who decided enough was enough.
" But sir…"
" Shut it!" then to the stranger, " Who are you and what do you want Gunga Din?"
" I've a message for Clerk Sahib, sahib." The rider said in a heavy accent using some of the vocabulary he had obtained in Shere Singh's service of the git-mit tongue.
" Hand it over then." He put his right hand out, curling each finger randomly towards himself.
" No. I give it to the Sahib only"
" Listen sunny Jim! Tell me the message. I'm the one in charge around here."
|| Can I trust him? || to the Sepoy in Punjabi. He had not ridden all that way to make any mistake.
|| You don't have a choice. Or we will have to shoot you.|| came the reply in their native language.
" Oi! Don't speak in that funny tongue! Talk to me darkie!!" Out of annoyance with his sepoy he kicked him in the back of his thigh.
" Okay, Sahib. But If Clerk does not get this, you will regret it." The messenger boy clearly was not afraid. McMurdo had to respect him for that. " Tell him it is from Shere Singh, son of the Shere-e-Punjab."
McMurdo was not stupid. He knew who the Emperor of Punjab was. He never understood the policies of the Officer Class and merchants, but he knew this had to be important. He also knew that if he did not provide the stranger and his horse with food and water, Clerk might dress him down in front of these mongrels. If it was important. " Well what is it?"
The Messenger produced a letter sealed with red wax. McMurdo could not read. He was not going to let on although he suspected these Hindus could not even read their written words, let alone English. He nodded to the guard to allow the man in and took the letter and proceeded to the house, watched by the soldiers and the stranger. He turned once to catch one of them give their water carton to the Punjabi. A turbaned servant boy opened the door.
" I need to see Mister Clerk now boy." He was allowed in, and waited in the hall as the boy vanished. A few moments later the boy came back and waved McMurdo in. The sergeant puffed out his chest and strode past the boy into Clerk's study.
" Sir. I have a letter for you from…" he began.
" I know. I saw from the window." Clerk had his back turned to the brusque bull. He now revolved around and gently took the letter from the soldier. Breaking the seal he sat down behind his banker's desk, his eyes gliding down the page. McMurdo noticed that the writing did not look like the English letter he was use to seeing, but looked local. So the Maharaja's people could not read and write English either. Clerk could read and write in Punjabi and Urdu though.

The letter was in the Gurmukhi Punjabi script used by the Sikhs. Clerk read fast. The correspondence relayed how Shere Singh required the support of the British in terms of troops, silver and weapons. In return Shere Singh would guarantee a continued strong relationship with the British as they had had with him throughout his father's reign. There would be security for the East India Company. Shere Singh needed assistance to get him to the throne.
Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Lion of the Punjab was dead.
The king had died less than a week ago. This fact would soon be known across the Punjab. Shere Singh felt it was his duty to tell the company so they could make plans. For Shere Singh's benefit mainly, thought Clerk. Shere Singh did not think his brother Kharak Singh; the chosen heir would honour the treaty between the British and Shere-e-Punjab.
There would be pressure from the other raja's in the court such as the Dogras. The Muslims were bound to take the opportunity to split the Sikhs. The correspondence suggested this was not too improbable. The general Nalwa had began gathering support amongst the Khalsa and would need persuading to join Shere Singh's alliance with the British. The French man Allard was likely to retire now that the king was dead.
Only the Dogra, Gulab Singh and Kharak's son Nau Nihal would be able to gather any muscle to stop the British. Nau Nihal was not in Lahore and would be told the news via a messenger as Clerk had been. Clerk noted that this meant about now. Nalwa would carry on supporting Kharak. There was time however, as the new king had not been invested. Shere Singh then went on to ask Clerk to inform the governor-general Lord Auckland (whose sister Emily Eden knew him well) as soon as possible.
Clerk leant back in his chair. Without Ranjit the Khalsa would be lost as their rajas and generals fought amongst themselves for control. Intrigue raced in their veins whenever there was no war. There had been peace for the last four decades. The king had the foresight to run a secular government, but had placed no knew ideas or system to replace him. He had been the gel that held the whole territory together. Muslims populated the majority of Lahore. It could pay to entice them onto the British side, Clerk pondered. McMurdo was staring at him intently.
McMurdo watched Clerk produce a cinder box and ignite the letter, which he took to the fireplace and threw it in.
" Sergeant, that man is to be fed and provided with provisions. Make provisions for his horse as well."
" But sir.." Somewhat annoyed as he was going to do this anyway.
" No buts McMurdo. Do as you are asked. This is of significant importance. I need a courier to go to Patiala forthwith. I Know the Governor - General Lord Auckland is presently resident there."
" Yes Sir."

Clerk sat down and drafted a letter. McMurdo watched him, wondering what was so important that the Governor - General needed to know " Forthwith". Clerk was writing fast. He placed his quill down and reviewed what he had written.
" To Lord Auckland.

Dear Sir,
I have some important news to convey to you. The Maharaja of Punjab and Kashmir has expired in Lahore. He has chosen Kharak Singh, who you will remember as that rather puny and weak man that is constantly sick. In my opinion he poses no political threat to us or anyone else for that matter. We do have one advantage with this man on the throne. His first minister is Dhyan Singh who is friendly with the East India Company. Dhyan is also hated by Nau Nihal and not trusted by any of the generals, such as Nalwa. Chet Singh and the Dogras are also likely to destabilise the monarchy. It is not clear to me yet whether a Muslim rebellion is on the cards or to our advantage. This needs to be thought out.
If Shere Singh can maintain his influence in the court, access for company troops across the Sutlej river will remain and we can probably set up camp near the Khyber pass to control the Afghan border and any Russian activity. My advice is to support Shere Singh and encourage him like Cassius did Brutus. But I think it unwise to help him directly and openly to the throne. The Khalsa have been recruiting actively this year. The Sikhs do not have their shrewd leader anymore and feel insecure.
The military might of these people can not be underestimated. The damn veterans of Napoleon’s campaigns have trained them. Their father had employed the services of Frenchmen such as Allard, and Russians. There are estimated to be forty thousand men in the regular army. They have a practised artillery arm of four hundred guns and the centre of their forces the zealous Khalsa army. Its standards with the guns are at least on par with our own native army. As Ludhianna is on our side of the river we are safe. But I suggest an increase in the garrison."
He now raised the quill again. McMurdo shifted uneasily. Stupid man! The lower classes were useful but just did not understand policy. Which natives to treat with disdain and which with respect. Class and status was more important than colour or religion. This rule only did not apply with an Englishman's apparent equivalent amongst the natives. Clearly then the conqueror was superior. The British obsession with hierarchy suited the Maharajahs of India too. The caste system in India made it so that the majority of people were no better than working tools for the Brahmin and Kshatri classes, equivalent to the upper echelons of the British military, Industrialists and Merchants who used the company for their financial gain mainly by conquest. Not they had conquered all of India yet. The company's tentacles clasped kingdoms far and wide. Trading with the locals by selling them their own resources after being manufactured into finished goods through British superior industry was the key to success. This was policy. Backing one Nawab raja against another, depending upon economic comparative advantage. The company who gained for themselves and its coffers had employed many rogues and plunders. It was policy to move Clerk on now to another post. He was to be replaced by George Broadfoot and Richard Cust.
Clerk had grown to love the Punjab and its people. He understood their thought patterns. Always three faced. He understood their caste system, which in his opinion was better managed than the British class system. He would miss the place. At least he was not required to move instantly. His replacement must be introduced to the post and educated beyond his brief before the transfer.
Clerk understood them to be very able. But the biggest change in forty years in a land they did not know, miles away from Cawnpore or Delhi would put them at a disadvantage without him staying on for a while. No he should not be bitter. He should advice the governor-general-general accordingly. The quill returned to the paper.
" I would advise that General Radcliffe's Dragoons accompany G Broadfoot and R Cust to Ludhianna and reinforce our troops. Most of Punjab will soon know. The funeral rites are probably been carried out now. I suggest I stay on a while to assist them. Please inform me of how station Ludhianna should proceed.
Yours Sincerely,
E Clerk "
McMurdo's wondering did not last too long, as Williams sealed a new letter and handed it over to him. " This is to be handed over to Lord Auckland."
" I'll get my best man on this, Sir."
" No, this correspondence is vital. You must go to Patiala. Take those two sepoys with you…"
"Sir, I don't.."
"..want to travel with them? Is that it?"
" No, I mean, Patiala is a day's ride..and.."
" Take your best horses. I think the company there may suit your temperament better. Harry, do you know that for everyone of us there are two hundred of them? Consider it. We need them to do our work. At times I can condone your behaviour. But sometimes it is not the right way. The company is out here to make a profit for its investors. The Empire needs as much influence amongst these Maharajahs. We use them to rule for us? Understood? That messenger will convey your behaviour to his master, whom we have convinced that we are more civilised than his people. I saw what happened from the window. Did you give the sepoy a chance to tell you what was happening? I thought so. Now fetch the Punjabi. I want to see him. Radcliffe is in Patiala at the moment. Maybe a few weeks with him will provide you with a change of scenery.."
" Sir, I like it here."
" Then start winning your men over to your side without using fear will you. I have enough problems here. When the time is right you will get your way. Go on, find a fast horse and send your best man then." Was he wasting his time trying to even explain to this common man?
" Sir!" McMurdo saluted and left. Bloody Clerk! Never mind, the sergeant liked it here, and here he would stay. He would just have to be more careful. He had no attention of leaving a city where he had his own Indian concubine and clout. Still Clerk would most probably be transferred at some point. They always are. Radcliffe did sound like a good proposition though. McMurdo had heard a fair few things about him. Now then, Peter Brown was a good rider. He ought to send those two sepoys with him though.
Shere Singh's message had been expediently conveyed to Clerk as he wished. Now it was going further up to inform those in charge. Clerk knew that ultimately it was meant for Lord Auckland's eyes, as Shere Singh and Emily Eden, the Governor - General's sister were good friends. Clerk was the British Political agent in Ludhianna and Lahore's contact with British Empire, in so far as it existed in India at this time. The British had lost one Empire in the new world. What had begun as trade for the silver of the Maharajahs and Nawabs over a hundred years ago, slowly led to strong influence as power in Delhi weakened and local lords fought each other either with French or British assistance. This eventually resulted in Lord Robert Clive grasping victory at Plassey and establishing a power base in Calcutta. Many alliances had been formed since then as British control outdid French influence. The Punjab had enjoyed peace with the upcoming Empire in guise of the East India Company. It was now needed as an ally.
Clerk knew what to convey to the Dead Maharajah's son, and thus had had the Punjabi messenger called in for one more errand. An alliance needed to be made quickly. Clerk knew the Indians were a treacherous bunch for whom self-interest ruled all decisions. He was already confident with what Lord Auckland would decide and thus now sent an appropriate message to the Sikh who would be King. Lahore would be as full of intrigue now as a Roman Play.

******

4 Wedding

The moon luminated Padori's roof tops, fields and yards. Not that Padori needed the assistance of Chand Mama. Harpal's house more than matched the sky's sparkling lights. Oil lamps and divas lit up the house; it's yard and street. There was a myriad of colourful decorations encasing the domicile, which heaved with scores of revellers.
A couple of Peahens delicately trotted on the roof as a Peacock spread its green fan; a plethora of blue grey eyes winking seductively at the charcoal females. Proud as the Peacock was, tonight the dapper don was outdone by Harpal's guests.
Opposite the house's entrance a pavilion made of rich Kashmir fabrics had been set up. Inside the village men sat wearing their finest salwar chemises, waists tied with chiffon belts. Reds, saffrons, pinks and blues. Their turbans were equally as flamboyant: neatly ironed and strapped around their heads with a starched tail fanning out with the confidence of the Peacock on the roof. Those who wanted to show their wealth off wore chalk white cottons and crisp silks stolen from the rainbow.
To one side of the pavilion sat Raggis with harmoniums, single stringed tumbees and symbols. They tunefully challenged the powerful beat of the tublas, sitars and Bhangra drums. A few men carried the large Bhangra drums strapped to their torsos competing with each other to see who played the best beats.
Other men randomly danced around the tent to the Bhangra beat, or with their male comrades balancing bottles of spirits on their heads. Generally getting plastered. Not everyone was inebriated. The more serious Sikhs sat aside talking whilst others banqueted on the hundreds of colourful meat, vegetable and sweet dishes available. Outside the tent children ran up and down the street setting off firecrackers and sparring each other with sparklers.
The women were even more spectacular than their men to behold. The younger ones wore lenghas and salwars that would put any rainbow to shame. Azores, reds, pink, creams, purples, saffrons, greens, yellows, golds, whites and blacks. Some with gold braided intricate swirls. From where the Peacock and Peahens perched the ladies (spinning three hundred and sixty degrees as they danced, their petticoats lifting) seemed to be spinning wheels.
The women moved in a circle, encouraging each other to take the space cleared for dancing. The older women chanted rude folk songs and incited each other with taunts and jibes. As each song reached the chorus two of them would start dancing around each other, clapping faces covered by their duputtas. This was known as the Giddha. Not all the men and women Bhangred and Giddhaed. Further away from the main pavilion was a more serene scene.
To the left of the house a smaller tent protected a holy man reading from the holy Guru Granth Sahib to a more pious audience. A similar scenario occurred in one of the house's smaller rooms where a woman sat reciting Kirtan. The majority of guests were fully utilising the cool august night for partying. Weddings were one of the only times the villagers voraciously enjoyed themselves. It was often an excuse for a mini-carnival where the bride or groom's parents laid out a party to outdo others at entirely their own expense. The richer the person the bigger the party. For some this meant a great burden if one had a daughter. Dowries were traditional and the man's side could ask for anything.
Ranbir sat cross legged on her munja dressed in a crimson and gold braided wedding dress. Around her horde of women laughed, joked and sang. Some of them were applying mendhi to each others hands and feet. One sat with Rani and dextrously decorated her hands with intricate patterns by using the dark muddy paste. She had been at it for half an hour. It would take a further half hour to do her feet.
Ranbir was finding it hard to keep awake. She had had a make up artist apply a white powdery foundation to her face earlier on. The woman had sprinkled her forehead with white and red specks crawling above her eyebrows. She wore a single large ring in her nose, stringed with a gold chain to one of her earrings. Her wrists had copper and gold shells tied to them with dangling coconuts. These were meant to make her fertile. But it was the actual dress that annoyed her. It must have weighed around twenty pounds laced with a phalanx of glass mirrors on her blouse and heavy gold string in her dupatta. She could hardly move.
Earlier on in the day her mother and aunts using yoghurt and milk to make her skin sparkle had washed down Ranbir. She did not understand why she was going to be wearing a veil. She was glad of it though. Despite the cool night the dress was heavy with heat and the bath helped. Butterflies were slicing the inside of her belly with razor sharp wings. The pukkha waving sweet zephyrs above her head helped a little.
" There, you look like a princess." Smiled the make up artist.
" You think? How long will I have to keep still?"
" For a while yet. Just keep your hands stretched out. Once the colour has set in I'll remove the dye."
" This is so heavy! How long 'til they come?"
" They should be here in a couple of hours, then the fire ceremony can begin."
" What was it like when you got married?"
" Wonderful. Exciting," looking into Ranbir's eyes, " Really it was. But also scary. Don't worry though. At least you are marrying into the same village."

Someone laughed out loud. Ranbir gazed around the woman. Everyone was so happy. Jinda sat in one corner tapping the tubla as the girls sailed into a song. Jeetah and Preet were slapping their palms against each other to the beat. The room drowned her soul with its happiness.
Seesou walked into the room to inspect her daughter. She looked and smiled at her Rani. So sweet, so innocent. She was so happy for her she wanted to cry but suppressed the urge. Don't think about losing her! She could see by Ranbir's face that Rani wanted to speak to her.
Seesou slowly wadded past the ubiquitous woman to her daughter.
" Kiddha. How are you feeling my child?"
" Achaa. Okay, I suppose." Came the reply. " I think my hands might drop off."
" Hahaha. No they won't. You look beautiful sweetheart, you really do."
She turned to the other woman. " Thank you." The woman nodded and whisked herself away, leaving a spot for Seesou to sit down. So she seated herself.
" Rani, don't be afraid. This is wonderful! He is a good boy and his father is the most respectable man in the village. Even more than Sardar Ji."
" Ma, I feel happy..but I am terrified. I don't know what to do!"
" Don't be silly rajnee," she always called her rajnee out of affection. " You were born into this house. But you were borrowed. That is your real house. That is your family. You were meant to be given rajnee. I'm just so lucky to have looked after you for so many years." With that she hugged her daughter careful not to touch the outstretched hands. " Stop crying sweetheart!"
" You stop crying ma."
" I can't help it. Come on, liven up." Wiping her eyes, she turned to Jinda, " Play a nice song."
Downstairs the woman danced and danced passing two urns crowned with candles to each other and duelled with their poetic wit to the Jaggo Bayyah song. AN hour later someone shouted " They're here! They're here!"
* * * * *
Ranbir was virtually left alone after awhile. She sat quietly as Jinda and the Mendhi artist removed the paste. They too were silent. Her fear filtered into their thoughts that mixed with emotions of joy and utter dismay. Ranbir could hear their minds munching over the full reality of marriage. She could sense them choking at the prospect of marrying a stranger going into the jaws of the unknown. The fear of having to do things that sounded unpleasant; to bear children, to cook and clean. For someone strange to them. To someone who had to be seen as a god. Ranbir smelt the rancidity of their thoughts and they hers.
" I have seen Satwant. He is a pleasant looking boy. His father is one of the nicest people in the village. Headstrong and righteous. The boy works hard on his father's field. He is bound to be the same", Jinda bit her lower lip.
Ranbir looked head and focused on a diva set at the window's sill. The door opened and Seesou returned. She ushered the other two out. She then sat and held her daughter. All those years she had nurtured her pretty princess. Her Rani, her rajnee. It hurt deeply to have to give her away to a new family and a new uncertain life. Seesou had always known that daughters were never one's own. It was the way it was. It was the way it was meant to be she told herself.
Marrying off one's daughter was it entirely that bad. Much depended upon the man a girl would marry and even more on the family. The matriarch or patriarch of the house decided everything, depending on who had the stronger personality. Nand and Preetum were good people who were completely selfless. A girl could not stay with her parents forever. That was not natural! Men and women did have desires. Marriage prevented sin and had character. It was only proper to do so. And it was
proper to wed someone with a similar background, beliefs, income and social standing. The match must never be confined to the individuals alone; but both families must suit each other. The family interests were everything. God meant it that way and the elders decisions were final. Of course Ranbir knew all this, as Seesou had drummed this attitude into her on countless occasions. She should be glad her father did not match her off earlier. That was Nand's influence. Seesou knew that there would be no joy in repeating all this again to her daughter. What she needed was comforting.
" I remember when you were little rajnee," she smiled, " Every time you went playing in the fields with your cousins or around the village, you would always come home dirty, injured or crying. Your father and uncle would shout at them for failing to look after you. Sometimes they'd get slapped even if they weren't there. You always use to tell on them!"
" I did not. Well not always."
" Once you came home having cut yourself in the sugar cane fields. Your father went and made your uncle beat them despite them having been in the rice and paddy fields ploughing!"
Ranbir laughed. She always told her parents everything. " Ma, it ill be all right won't it?"
" Of course dear. I love you a lot. We will always be around the corner." She squeezed her daughter tight. " Wipe those tears away. They'll stain your face. The only thing that worries me darling is whether you will be able to do it."
" Do what?"
" You know. These men are so demanding that way."
" Ma, you’re embarrassing me. I am already nervous about that. The thought of him touching me, his breath, his…" she broke away.
" Chi-chi..let us pray and clean our thoughts. Don't think of it child. What must be done must be. He will be after an heir you know. And it must be a male."
" You said his father was not that way inclined?"
" Rajnee, there's what people say. And then there's what people want. Trust me honour is important, and they are no different then the rest of us." Seesou could not comprehend it being any other way. She initially had felt insulted when they didn't want a dowry. It felt wrong, despite it saving the bride's family a great financial burden. Money would have had to been borrowed from the Sardar, who would have charged severe interest. Many people had to pawn their gold, or buy more than they could afford to give to the girl's in-laws. She remembered back to the day Preetum and Taro had come over to directly ask for Ranbir's hand in marriage. Apparently Nand had woken up that very morning and made his decision.
Avatar and Preetum had come in the early hours of the morning after sending their men on to the fields. It was market day.
" Sat Sri akal, sister." Seesou had looked up to see who stood in the entrance. The twelve year old girl stood smiling next to her mother.
" Sat Sri akal. Come in sit down." She had been crouching down on the floor sweeping the dust with her wicker broom. Harpal sat in the corner eating next to Rani.
" Sat Sri Akal Bhaji." Preetum placed her hand together.
" Sat Sri akal, Sister." He wiped his moustache. " Morning, morning, walking you have come?"
" Yes sir. Taro say hello to your uncle." She did. Seesou indicated for them to sit down next to her. They did. Seesou had always liked Preetum. She smiled at the tall svelte woman. She had always wondered how she had managed to look so young. There was only some white hair hugging the centre parting on Preetum's head. The rest was as black as eyeliner.
" I better be going" Harpal got up. " Leave you ladies to yourselves"
" No please stay brother. We are her to discuss a serious matter." Preetum said

Taro looked at Rani as she gazed back. Rani smiled. They knew each other a little. Rani had seen the young girl play at the well, near the stream and outside the village Gurdwara. Taro seemed to have been staring intensely at her. Then she heard why, not knowing what to do but look down at the floor.
" Sister Ji, children get older. Look at this sweet one. One day we have to give them away. We have come to ask for Ranbir."
"Chuck day phatey! " Harpal exclaimed. He looked down at Rani, " I could be no happier than this! Seesou, what you say? It's right, it's right, eh?"
Seesou smiled at the embraced Rani. She had been so worried for so long about this. Only Preetum and Nand would have the front to come up and ask directly about this. No matchmaker. Rani left the room. " It's okay. Just shy."
" Taro why don't you go and talk to her?" Preetum requested. Harpal came and sat next to his wife. Both of them looked rotund compared to their guest. Still, Preetum thought, their daughter was very similar to herself and Taro.
" Sister, you can tell Nand from me the answer is yes. I am honoured that my child should marry into the Sandhu family." He beamed. " Would you like some cha? Seesou make some tea."
Outside Taro sat smiling inanely at Ranbir. Ranbir was churning some yoghurt. The vessel had a long pole in the centre with a thick cotton yard long cloth twisted around it. She pulled this with her left and right hand, spinning the stick, which mixed the milk. She eventually looked up at Taro. " What's your brother like?"
" Handsome. Brave. At times silly. He is nice."
Yeah right. Little sister doing her bit. Clearly looking forward to the weeding. She would have to ask her own friends. Some of their brothers would know him. She had seen him often, but knowing him like that was not enough. Mind you he wasn't that bad looking from what she recalled. Better ask Jinda. She had no doubt her father had said yes. There was no discussion with him in things like this. He made the choice and the decision. " Have you ever made yoghurt? You have. Good, come over here and help. Tell all about your brother."
Harpal had been so relieved after they had left. He had held out on his daughter's marriage taking Nand's advise, despite Seesou's complaints. Seesou hated what people had said about rajnee. Now all that was by the by.
Seesou lifted her daughter's head by the chin. " Today is the most important day of your life. It is the beginning of your real life. Enjoy it. I'll be sitting next to you to make sure your fine. The ceremony starts tonight, so it will be fairly cool. Mind you don't let your dupatta drop towards the fire. And never let go of your palah? Okay. Let him walk around the fire first. Get up after him, and sit down after him. Your brothers will all be there to take you around. Now rest. I'll get Jinda to bring you some nice warm almond milk."
Seesou kissed her rajnee's forehead. She fought hard to stop the welling in her eyes from sprouting.
* * * * *

" They're here! They're here!"
Harpal hurried out of the pavilion. At the end of the street he could see Nand's Barat, the wedding party. " Okay. Set everything up now. Get the flower petals! Someone get the priest, hurry!"
Harpal rushed on ahead to the middle of the street, next to the second pavilion. His brothers, brothers-in-law, father and father-in-law quickly joined him. Other male relatives gathered round and they all began to sing as sitar players strummed welcoming tunes. Harpal watched as two score men dressed entirely in red walked down the street, many carrying poles with spinning fireworks. Others carried large sparklers churning out fountains of sharp orange needles. Behind them a brass band followed. Then came a row of men with red cylindrical containers on their heads with gifts, despite Nand's public comments against bearing them. In the middle of the Crimson crowd a white horse danced to the beat of a Bhangra drum.
Astride the horse sat a decorated groom. He wore a long glittery ' Nehru' jacket and a scarlet turban with a feather jutting out of a fastened broach at its front. A thick string was tied around the turban from which dangled a garland of flowers; a curtain covering his face.
The procession stopped twenty yards in front of the pavilion. The priest had arrived and had taken down a few names on a piece of paper. He then went over to the Barat and spoke to Nand Singh. The men who had carried the containers and the musicians parted. Satwant's house strutted to the front and he alighted, passing his sword down to the nearest person. He took it back and walked over to Nand's side.
" Everyone please put your hands together." The priest stood in the middle like a referee and prayed, as everyone became silent. Most of the men had emerged from the pavilions and the women from the house. The women were standing away from the men, with Seasou in front. The whole village was there along with some outsiders.
Although everyone was suppose to be praying, Satwant scanned the milni crowd from behind the string of flowers masking his face. The objective of the milni was to introduce the two families and exchange gifts. The latter was not going to happen due to his father's strict instructions apparently. It was a pointless gesture he thought, really, as most of the people knew each other. Still he did not know all of them and was still curious.
" Wahi guru ji ki Khalsa, Wahi guru ji ki Fateh!"
Everyone went down on both knees and touched the ground, put their hands together and stood up again. Satwant found this awkward, but managed. He was only too aware that all eyes were on him. And his eyes were on them. He recognised Harpal instantly. Harpal wore an amber turban and a white salwar, as did the men who were standing near him. They must have been his brothers, nephews and other such relatives, he thought.
The first to walk over had been Harpal from the girl's family and Satwant's father from his. They met in the centre, where garlands were placed around their respective necks. The two of them then had hugged each other before they returned to their posts. The next transaction was between Harpal's father and an old man from Satwant's party who had been designated the same status. They introduced themselves and proceeded through the same mechanical actions. Uncles, brothers-in-laws, amid all manners of important relatives. All of them male.
Satwant had zoomed in only on the two cousin brothers with any serious attention. Krishan had been given the honour of playing brother to Satwant. It was he who had gone forward and introduced himself to the two brothers separately in the milni manner. The second brother dwarfed Krishan in stature. The moment they hugged each other, he had lifted Krishan up off the ground to great applause from his tribe. It was a show of strength to publicly display which family was stronger. Krishan may not have been a great choice, Satwant decided.
What Satwant had noticed about the older sibling was how thin and gaunt he looked in relation to his height. His countenance was sombre. Sattee decided he was the thinker. The thinker's skin was as course as a coconut's husk. It had partly seemed that way due to the high degree of bushy hair that peeped through his shirtsleeves and salwar's neck. This had given him a swarthy shady complexion.
In contrast to the hirsute thinker the second brother was taller and broader. He appeared to be almost hairless. He had yellow cream skin and a hooked nose. Satwant decided that he looked like a bully. These boys would be aware of the fact that he would inherit their uncle's land and could be jealous. He would have to keep his eyes on them although he did not care for Harpal's property. He had seen them around since his childhood and on memory was sure that they were arrogant. He could not recall their names, so had listened out carefully as the priest had introduced them to Krishan. Johd Singh and Dhial Singh.
No one offered any clothes or gold jewellery. The guests were now ushered into the great pavilion. Those men who had brought the containers passed them to the Bihari servants who gave them to women. No show was made of this.
Inside the tent everyone sat down on the floor in rows and columns. In front of them were metal thalees. Harpal's relatives and guests scurried about offering water and tea; samasas and sweets; and daal and vegetables, all accompanied by rotis. Once everyone had finished eating Satwant with some fatherly guidance led the procession out of the tent. While all the guests had been eating, the wedding fire had been set up in the smaller tent.
The guests that could fit into the tent entered and walked up the aisle to the fire in the centre where a priest sat reciting from the Guru Granth Sahib. They bowed, placed coins in front of the makeshift alter and then they sat down either on the male or female side of the tent. Satwant had come in and done likewise. He then sat next to his father and waited. He could not sit in front of the altar without his wife to be. If anyone could stop the marriage it was now!
The priest asked everyone to stand up in prayer as recited the Jap Ji Sahib. Some people knew the words to it and simultaneously whispered the Mool Mantra, the basic belief upon which their faith was based.
" There is but one God. ( He) is the supreme truth. The creator is without fear and without hate. ( He) The omnipresent, pervades the universe, and is not born, nor dies to be born again. By ( his) grace shall one worship (him). Before time itself existed, there was truth. When time began it's path, (he) was the truth. Even now, ( he) is the truth and always shall truth prevail."
" (He) can not be known by thought alone, although one may think a hundred thousand times, in solemn silence or in deep meditation. Fasting does bring virtue, but does not appease the hunger for truth. None of these, or a hundred thousand other tools can reach God. God is the truth, but how shall the truth be known? How can the veil of false illusion be torn? O Nanak, and so proceeds the divine writ, the righteous path and let it be yours"
" For by (him) are all forms created and are given blessed life. By ( him) some are elevated to excellence and others born without; some by his word have pleasure, others pain. By ( his) grace some are saved, while others doomed to die, to relive and then die again. He will encompass all. O Nanak, (he) who knows has no ego and no pride….God is the destroyer, preserver and creator, God is the goddess and the goddess is God ( for men are vain to presume gender and image), words to describe are hard to find, and one would venture if one knew. This alone my teacher ( Nanak) taught, for there is but one lord of all creation and forget ( him) not."
He ended with a vibrant " Wahi guru ji ki Khalsa, Wahi guru ji ki fateh." Then everyone sat down.
Satwant watched the priest throw some powder into the fire, which sizzled and roared. It felt like the oxygen was leaving the tent. He starred hard at the flames. The fire smiled back at him with a large crescent gash, revealing tiger sharp incisors, all lined up to go to war. Satwant blinked. There was a loud noise: a rumbling akin to an earthquake, as kraken like a ' thing' ascended from the flames.
Satwant startled, shot up and ran falling over the bowling pins of guests. He stayed bent down shaking. " What's the matter? What's going on?" everyone seemed to have asked. Staying down on his knees and refusing to look, he pointed towards the wedding altar.
" What?" came the voices.
" That!"
" There's nothing there but the priest?"
" No." He sat up and peered over their turbans. " That thing!"
The beast had stretched itself out of the fire, its orange glow softening down to reveal a shaggy man at least seven feet tall.
" Him! Who is he? What is he!" Satwant toppled back and instinctively lifted his arms to protect himself.
" I am your life. I am your life." The beast's gravely voice replied. " I am your soul."
" Go away!"
" No. I have come for you."
" Leave me alone!" Satwant heard a whoosh sound. He dared again to look. The man-beast had blown out balloons of fire all over the oblivious crowd, who were burned to cinders.
" leave them!" Satwant had found himself standing up.
The beast turned towards him. Satwant noticed for the first time that the creature had ten faces. A normal one at the front (The visage was ugly, with its oily beard swimming beneath it!) and four little ones on the left and right sides of the head, where his ears should have been. As the creature turned to burn the women, Satwant observed that the back of its head had a young cruel female face.
" Who are you!" he exclaimed.
" Your life. Your soul," came the reply.
" Why are you here?" Satwant believed if he engaged the monster in conversation, he would save the lives of the remaining guests, who still had not moved! What about the girl Ranbir? She was innocent; he could not let her die.
" But you will. But you will," The beast breathed.
How horrible! The demon could read his thoughts!
" I am your thoughts. I am your thoughts,"
" You can't be!"
" I am your soul. Your soul."
" Why are you here? Why , I mean, if you are my thoughts, why are you…as you…are?!"
" I am how you be. I am how you be."
" What does that mean?"
" Kill her. Kill her. You don't want to be here. You don't want to be here," and then all ten mouths together " Leave now. Leave now."
" No. I know you can read my thoughts, but I don't care. Go. Or I'll kill you!" Satwant pulled out his wedding sword and waved it at the beast.
Satwant, don't you see? I've come here to save you. To save you. From deep deep down down your soul soul.
Satwant did not care, he lashed out with the blade. One head was torn. The beast screamed. Loud in his head. In my head? If he is me, and my soul, reader of my mind? No! Screamed the beast's voice and resounded in his mind. Yes, thought Satwant. He imagined the heads falling off. And sure enough each head exploded with each thought.
" I'm not afraid of you anymore!" Sattee declared. He drew images in his mind of all the nasty things he would do to it. He would burn it. He would slice its arms off. He would stretch each hair on its body slowly pulling them out.
" No. Please Satwant, I beg of you, don't think such thoughts!"
" Oh yes. I will kill you."
" I feel no evil towards you. I am here to save you. Save you. Your soul, your soul. I will never hurt you!"
In his mind Satwant replied, don't be so stupid! You jumped out of the fire at me. I never asked you here. In fact, you are not here. Your in my mind! Get out! I'll slide you across hot coals, you beast!
All that was left of the beast were its charred body and front and back faces. It fell and writhed on the floor as Satwant lifted his sword. The oily beard was no longer oily. It had become a crisp. The countenance was no longer dark. It looked up at the angry Satwant, who eyed all the dead charcoal guests sitting there, still waiting for the wedding ceremony. He looked back at the beast. It was his own face looking up!
" No!," don't do this, Satwant thought.
The creature turned his face away from him. The female face weeped. It was as Krishan had described.
" You would kill me master, before we are wed?"
Noooo! Satwant threw his sword away into the fire. She did not deserve this and nor did he. " The Khalsa needs you. The Tarana Dal needs you." He heard Hari Singh Nalwa far away. He felt breathless and his eyes heavy. He fought to stay awake. He felt a hand on his shoulder. This jolted him. He looked around him. Everyone was alive! His father! His mother! Everyone. He looked at the fire. It winked at him. You would kill me master, before we are wed?
It was the worst nightmare he could have had. He felt the sweat pour down his body like a waterfall. It was going to be okay. It was. He had taken in a sharp intake of death. Only there was no death. Just a murmur from his soul?
" Hey, mister commitment!" The hand was Krishan's. " Here she comes."
" Son, take your place." Nand got Satwant up and seated him at the alter.
* * * * *
Ranbir breathed in deeply. Jinda , Preet and her mother helped her up. Seesou kissed her forehead and then pulled the veil down. Ranbir looked at her mother through the gauze. " Don't leave me Mum!" she squeezed her mother's fingers. " I won't child."
" Please. I love you, mama." Her mother smiled back from behind the gauze. It was not enough to fog out the new world she was embarking on. She would be with a complete stranger!
" Bring her out slowly. I've got to go on ahead." Seesou said to her sister, who now took Ranbir with Jinda.
Through the gauze she watched her mother slip into the wedding. The dress was heavy. She could hardly move. Her aunt, massee ji and friends support was welcome. They took her out of the room, the other women and girls following. Down the steep clay stairs, through the small court yard, past the watchful eyes of the Peacock and it's hens. She felt pangs not too dissimilar to hunger. At the house's entrance she was joined by Johd and Dhial. They took over the task of walking her to the alter. One on each side, they slowly matched her heavy steps, and reassured her. They could not see it, but she smiled up at them through her mask. She reminded herself of the story her mother had told her. How she got these two into trouble! Now here they were, right by her side. Her two rocks! She did not look up, but had maintained a steady focus on the ground before her.
Dhial pushed aside the wedding tent's mouth. A hundred faces peered up at them. Only the groom had his back turned, as he was seated at the alter. Slowly and carefully Ranbir's cousins and friends took her forward until they arrived at the alter. Dhial and Johd moved aside, bowed to the priest and then they sat down. Her masee and Jinda helped her onto her knees. She bowed and prayed. Prayed that the ground would swallow her up. Prayed that she could get up, despite the heavy dress. She did not want to be embarrassed. Then she really would want the earth to swallow her!
Jinda helped her up and had allowed Ranbir to lean on her, to enable her to sit crossed legged next to the groom. Jinda then sat behind her; her knee pushed into Rani's back for support in case she fainted. The masee sat to Ranbir's side. Jinda saw that the grooms female entourage also sat around him. He looked alone to her though.
Ranbir kept her head down. She wanted to look respectful and demure. The veil allowed her the scope to view the priest, fire and people on the other side of the centrally placed square alter. In this she could just about see Satwant, although his face was hidden behind a fountain of flowers. She could hardly move. The dress was too heavy. She felt like taking it off and putting it in his arms se he could feel how heavy it was, What she was going through. She thanked god that the august night was not that humid. This was going to take hours, she thought. These weddings were known to go through the night until the dawn emerged. Some were shorter, some took a whole day. From what she knew of the Sandhus, this would be a relatively short affair. Relative to which type, she wondered? She tried to steal another glance at him, worried he might catch her. As the prayers went on, she became more relaxed. She thought his eyes could be seen in the metal surface of the shield. Was her also observing her? How could he not be?
The priest's tone changed. He threw more powder into the flames. The fire was hot and with the suit Ranbir wore, she found it difficult to breath. She wanted to remove the veil. It had not been a good idea after all. Still, the holy man's voice suggested it would be time soon to get up and walk around the fire, as he ordered them to be committed to each other.
Dhial, Johd, and some other male cousins stood up and walked to the square. They then sat around it forming a circle, with Dhial sitting nearest his cousin sister, and Johd nearest Satwant. They were there to assist Ranbir around the fire, just in case she fainted.
Satwant got up, and was followed at a slight delay by Ranbir, holding tightly onto her pallah. He then walked around the fire clockwise followed slowly by her. Must not let go! She thought. He was walking to fast! Dhial and the others had got up and took her by the shoulders as she passed each one of them. They then passed her onto the next brother in the chain. She found this comforting. Each round they completed the circle, the more practised her groom had become at keeping a leisurely pace. She assumed one of his relatives might have indicated to him to do this. Dhial would take her, Johd pass her to her masee to sit her down. And so it went. At first Rani was nervous, but later she had become indifferent. The whole thing had been like a dream, an out of body experience where she was not the one getting marriage. But she was, and found it exciting. She was really pleased when the last lama had been taken. The music became livelier, and after a few words in what sounded like Sanskrit to her, they were declared man and wife.
People stood up and picked their way to the Raggis, who were playing musical instruments, and placed money before them to show appreciation for their efforts. Ranbir felt this was just to show everyone else how much money they were willing to give.
One of Satwant's uncles made a speech. Couples snaking their way up the aisle to place garland necklaces around their heads, and money into their pallahs followed this. The result was when the two of them finally stood up, their necks weighed heavily with garlands and money, and just froze on one spot, unable to move.
The Guru Granth Sahib was taken out of the tent and it was cleared quickly. The Bride’s family escorted everyone to the main tent where a table was set up with more food. And so everyone (except the heavily laden Groom and Bride who remained sitting on to Chairs like a King and Queen on their thrones) ate and partied for a few more hours.
When it was all over the bride was taken back into Harpal's house as Satwant sat next to his father and waited in the tent. The majority of the guests now started going home. The close family and friends stayed to watch Satwant collect his bride from her parent's house.
Satwant and his best man, the Sarwallah, Krishan were the first in the queue that formed outside the house's gate. A long ribbon had been tied across the threshold ceremoniously to prevent them from entering the house. Krishan was required to negotiate the groom's entrance. Plenty of jokes were exchanged, as Ranbir's family's girls barricaded the doorway, demanding money and gold rings for each one of them. Krishan attempted to pay as little as possible. When it had seemed like they would not let them in, the men behind Krishan and Satwant tried to push them into the door amongst much laughter and merriment. Eventually Krishan borrowed Satwant's sword and cut the ribbon, and the groom was allowed in. Both of them then sat in the house's courtyard on two chairs. Tradition meant that the groom should be given a goblet of milk, which Krishan had to taste first just in case it was laced by anything. It had salt and he found himself spitting it out as everyone laughed. After some more fun the house went solemn as if some dark shadow had passed over it sending a chill down Ranbir's family's spines.
It was time for Ranbir to leave her maternal home. Forever.
Satwant and Krishan's eyes met during all of this and Satwant gave away his thoughts, which traced back over time to a conversation they had had after he missed his opportunity on market day. There was no flaming monster then. Just a clear-cut desire on Satwant's part saying, " I do not want to marry." Krishan had laughed when he heard how Sattee had failed to join the Khalsa. Nand and Harpal had already struck the deal, and Satwant mopped around feeling sorry for himself. Krishan had come to him with news of Ranbir. It was not received with enthusiasm.
" What's a matter with you? If you don't want her, then let me ask for her. She is so perfect." Krishan had said,
" Then have her. What do I care? I don't have a choice, they'd marry me to whoever they want!"
" Pargal, Fool! Forget the Khalsa! You did not have it in you that day!"
" If you are calling me a cowa.."
" I am not! well not as far as all that army rubbish goes."
" leave me alone. I don't want her. Even if they make me marry her."
Krishan had then paused and immediately broke into song.
" Imperfect, I seek perfect;
Unwanted, crave to be,
Desired, fail to see,
Requited, love so select.
Happy, yet unhappy;
Desired dreams shattered,
As if they mattered.
Victim trapped, thrown key.
Charge! Futile the chase,
Focus fierily on pretty face.
Retreat! Give in to reason,
Least leap out of season.
Loved? Nay! Unloved!
Should have loved, but
Back her way shoved;
No way out for this Jat.
Am aiming for silk,
Now have no cotton.
Thing I foolishly forgotten,
Like cat without milk.
Perfect, I got imperfect.
Who wait, lose out,
Close quick, have clout.
Dreamy desires deflect."
" Oh shut up!"
" You really don't know a good thing when you got one, eh? Fine, but after such a rejection why would anyone want to still join? Do you have no sense of embarrassment? Like Dad said, your a farmer!" Krishan waved him away.
" Go away! I was not rejected!"
" Delusion. Who you kidding? Marry her man!"
" Even if I don't love her?"
" Love? You don't even know her yet"
" And your point is Sattee?"
" Forget it. Okay I'll marry her. Why not. Maybe then you lot will leave me alone. But I can never love her or care for her."
" Do you love any girl? No, I did not think so. You Jat's just love yourself. You forget you were never the warriors. The Kshatris were. The Gurus were all Kshatris. I am never going to get through to you. Run away, I don't care. I'll marry her."
" Haven't we been there before? I don't think so."
" Oh, let's see. ' I want to be a warrior' Haven't we been there before? If I was you I'd start thinking about your wedding."
" You are such an insolent low life!" At which point Satwant threw one of his sandals at Krishan. Imperfect I seek perfect. Krishan's words rang in his head.
And on the wedding day as Satwant and Krishan exchanged looks, the same thought laced through his mind. He could not really glimpse her at the alter, though he had tried. He looked up as Krishan moved off the seat. They were bringing her down.
Ranbir sat on the chair. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. She was so distraught with the knowledge that she was leaving he family, her loved ones, and her husband seemed oblivious to her. Her mother came and cuddled her, her chest heaving with joy and sadness. The sadness only a mother letting her daughter go forever could understand or feel. Then her father clasped her, their two bodies joined in harmony as they cried, unable to control the pangs of love and fear. Then Dhial and Johd. Ranbir felt Jinda place rice in her hands. When she had calmed down, both her and her husband were given a glass of milk to share from. They then got up, with Ranbir throwing the rice in front of her, and behind, to all four corners. She then followed her husband out of the only life she had known, led by the pallah. Her mother had clung to her all the way out to the palanquin that had come to carry her to Satwant's house. Her family entered the palanquin one at a time to give her a final hug. Then Satwant took her away from her mama.

Continued Final Part (3)>>>>>