Pul Sudhar

One of the bridges built across canals in undivided Punjab before partition at village Pul Sudhar near Ludhiana. Water was made to fall from a height to lend speed to its flow which helped run the grinding stones of the flourmill few yards down the stream. The mill has since been closed and the narrow bridge made entirely of bricks dismantled to give way to a new two-way bridge made of steel. pic by jaypee

 

From Punjab, with love

The smell of fresh earth mixed with oxygen-laden air, plucking fruits off trees, the sight of homemade butter melting on hot aloo parathas — Shivya Nath brings you a slice of rural life writing in The Hindu

  

As a kid, I’ve often heard my grandmother talk about growing up in our native Punjab. I pictured little boys and girls running across big fields, plucking sour fruits and wild flowers, returning home at noon to the aroma of curries made with veggies fresh off the farm and paranthas laden with home-made white butter. I never imagined waking up to these images someday, given how they seemed only to be romanticized in the memories of people I knew.

In a desperate attempt to break the monotony of Delhi’s city life, we’ve impulsively decided to board a train to Abohar, a small town in Ferozepur district of Punjab, a town that Google could tell us almost nothing about. Eight hours and a short drive later, I’ve found myself in the midst of a 400-acre fruit farm. I now sit by a gurgling stream, watching the first rays of sunrise through the white, thin barks of Eucalyptus trees. I extend my hand towards what look like snowflakes dotted on dark green shrubs, only they don’t melt at my touch. I am in the most fertile cotton belt of the country and November happens to be the plucking season.

The smell of fresh earth mixed with oxygen-laden air reminds me of A.R. Rahman; this must be the aroma of our soil he refers to in his music. Just like in my grandmother’s stories, a whiff of freshly cooked aloo parathas and homemade butter floats in the air as we approach the farmhouse we are staying at. Our host Kishan, from the nearby pind (a village in the native Punjabi), ensures that we have a hearty breakfast. Heftily built with a thick Punjabi accent, he was a little intimidating at first, but breaking the ice came naturally to him. After greeting us at the Abohar train station, he immediately offered that we drive his jeep to the farm, which, for the sake of survival, our half-asleep selves politely declined!

As we busily devour the yummy parathas, Kishan rolls his long moustache and invites us to dinner at his own house in the pind. We’ve all heard stories of Punjabi hospitality, but to experience it first hand is different altogether.

We walk along a narrow clearing with tall Eucalyptus trees on either side, past ripening guavas, brown fields of Basmati rice, bitter gourds hiding away in their roped enclosures, water chestnuts growing out of mucky green ponds, and women in saris expertly plucking cotton off the shrubs. I am tempted by the half-ripe kinnows that glow with an orange-green tinge atop short trees. Kishan, as though reading my mind, plucks a few and tosses them towards me, only to smile as he sees me cringe at their tanginess.

That night, we make our way to Kishan’s house in the pind. I have been to villages in other parts of India, but Punjab is different. Kishan’s house might be very basic, but it is soothingly airy and spacious, much more than the cramped little flats of Delhi that I’ve grown used to. Kishan offers the men drinks, while the women pass around a bottle of Coke, and conversation begins to flow at a homely pace. He talks about life in the pind, the future of his two sons, his romantic encounter with his wife in Jammu, and captivating tales about his extended family.

A few drinks later, Kishan’s wife, who had slipped away into the kitchen after exchanging a brief greeting with us, announces dinner. Laid on the table are saag and baingan ki sabzi, made from veggies fresh off the farm, and an assortment of other vegetables and lentils. In less than five minutes, we have forgotten our city manners; we are licking our fingers, sharing our plates, gossiping about people we barely know, and laughing at a friend who can barely understand Kishan’s alcohol-tinged Punjabi accent. While my friends struggle with the language, I am glad for bits of it I’ve subconsciously picked up while living in a Punjabi household, perhaps my only surviving Punjabi trait.

Evening turns to night, and as we part ways, Kishan offers to accompany us to the Indo-Pak border at Sadqi the next afternoon, with some homemade lassi for the way. He also promises to invite along his friend who lives close to the border and would make a good guide for all our questions. A single weekend in Punjab has convinced me that we, city-people, have much to learn about egalitarianism from our counterparts in rural India.

I suddenly understand what my grandmother meant when she said that living in Punjab is like being part of one big family, and I long to live in the world she grew up in.

The author specialises in digital marketing for rural tourism initiatives in India.

Punjab, 1940s

India-The Punjab, a silent teaching film distributed by Encyclopaedia Brittanica Films Inc about the undivided Punjab in the 1940s

I may be reborn as a human in Punjab

That I may be reborn as a human in Punjab,

to this very land I may return

To this hacked, chewed up earth,

in a modest home

Of a modest caste I may be known

On a leafless tree an unlucky bird

I may sing that very song of separation

On the moonless night I may visit His Pond of Nectar*

On the full-moon night I may bathe in the river Chenab of

love.

*Amritsar (lit. pond of nectar) – Sikhs’ holiest shrine

-Harbhajan Singh
(Translated by Madan Gopal Singh)
photograph by Amarjit Chandan





Bengali brides for Punjabi men

Men from Punjab's Malwa region, notorious for its skewed sex-ratio, are bringing girls from Bengal to marry, for a payment, reports Jatinder Preet in The Sunday Guardian

Nishabar Singh of Lehra in Sangrur district paid Rs 50,000 to arrange for a bride from Kolkata for his 35-year-old son Dulla. Tek Ram from the same village, who arranged the match, insists this does not amount to purchasing the bride. The money was for arrangements on weddings and other expenses, he claims. Among other expenses he includes the money that has to be paid to the person arranging the match in Kolkata.

Known as Teku in the area, he himself is married to a girl from Kolkata. Teku says he is just helping others who cannot find suitable brides in Punjab.

Take the case of Dulla, he explains. Dulla was a drug addict and was known to be a petty thief. His father Nishabar Singh, knowing well that he would not find a match for his "ageing" son in Punjab, approached Teku. Teku, who has his wife's family in Kolkata and has the experience of arranging many such inter-cultural matches, found a girl for Dulla.

"There is so much poverty there," he observes when recounting his first trip to Kolkata 15 years ago as an assistant to a truck driver. "It's not only about Dulla, I also helped a needy family who could not afford to spend on their daughter's marriage," he says.

A girl from another poor Bengali family was brought to Punjab by Mithu Singh of Lehragaga when his first wife died at childbirth. 35-year-old Mithu refuses to talk about it.

Puran Singh from village Khokhar found a Bengali bride after he could not find a suitable girl here. Similarly, another girl, Rinki from Kolkata is married to a truck driver from village Jawanda. Her sister Tikli is married into another Punjabi family in Malerkotla.

Teku says he has arranged around 25-30 such marriages in the area. There are many girls ready to be married to anybody who can pay for it, he claims. Teku talks of a girl in Kolkata whose family has approached him to look for a man in Punjab to marry her off. All he knows of the girl is that she is fair and is around 22-23 years of age. "It's my responsibility," he says, vouching for the girl as he cites his own marriage as a successful experiment.

His wife Pinki plays down the scope for any problems because of cultural differences. She was married to Teku 15 years ago and like any other girl who adopts her husband's family and their ways, she too has adapted herself, she says in fluent Punjabi. She asserts that she is happy here and adds, "Men are alike everywhere."