She saw the peak of a mountain merging with the sky. The trees at the top looked like saplings. Dark clouds hung low. Lightning crackled with deafening force as it struck here and there. At the top sat a bareheaded man. His tears were clearly visible. Manorama had a sinking feeling it was Amarnath. He wanted to come down but could not find a foothold. He turned ashen. All at once there was a clap of thunder, a flash of light, and Amarnath became invisible. Manorama woke up again with a scream. Her heart beat fast, her head spun. The moment she woke up her eyes streamed with tears. She stood up and with folded hands began to plead with God: ‘Lord, these terrible dreams of mine, who knows what he’s going through. You are a friend of the needy, have pity on me. I have no desire for wealth or property. I’ll be happy living in a hut—all I want is for him to be well. Please grant this little wish of mine.’
She again sat in her place. The beauty of the sunrise and the cool, pleasant breeze enchanted her. The night was over after all. Now she could stay awake. And there were so many things to see among the mountains. Herds of sheep along the hilly tracks, somewhere in the foothills were a herd of deer, and somewhere else a sea of fluttering lotuses. As Manorama gazed at it, she fell into a trance. But God knows when her unfortunate eyes closed once more.
She saw Amarnath riding across a bridge. Below, a river raged; the bridge was narrow, the horse occasionally neighed and tried to break free. Manorama’s hands and feet froze in fear. She began to shriek at the top of her voice: ‘Get off the horse, get off the horse.’ She leapt towards him and her eyes opened. The train sped along the platform of some station. Amarnath stood on the platform, bareheaded, barefoot. Manorama’s eyes were still filled with that terrible dream. When she saw Amarnath, she was afraid he would fall off the horse and slip into the river below. She immediately flung out her hands to catch him. When she was unable to do so, in that sleepwalking state, she opened the door of the carriage, and, reaching her hands out towards Amarnath, stepped off the train. She was startled. She felt as if someone had flung her up into the sky and slammed her to the earth. She felt a sharp shock and then lay unconscious.
It was Kabrai station. Amarnath had received the telegram and come to the station. But this was a mail train and didn’t stop there. Seeing Manorama fall, her arms outstretched, he had leaped towards her, shouting. But her fate was already sealed. Manorama had sacrificed herself at the altar of love.
Three days later, he reached home, bareheaded, barefoot and broken-hearted. Manorama’s dream had indeed come true.
Who could stay in this loveless place? He bequeathed his entire wealth to the Kashi Seva Samiti and now he roams all over the world, bareheaded, barefoot, like the man in Manorama’s dream. The astrologer’s prediction came true as well.
Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal
The Murder of Honour1
I have read the incredible and strange tales of the wonders of fortune in legends and histories. I have witnessed kings becoming beggars and beggars turning kings. Destiny is a deep secret. Women picked up as morsels from the streets were placed on thrones of gold while those intoxicated by the wine of wealth, and before whom destiny itself bowed, were reduced to dust in the wink of an eye. But the story of my sufferings has no precedent. Alas, when I recall those incidents of the past, my hair stands on end and I’m left wondering how and why I’m still alive. Beauty is the source of all desires, and oh! How many desires I had in my heart! But alas! They all perished at the hands of someone’s cruelty. How could I have known that a day will come when the one who was ready to give up his life at my smallest gestures would insult and debase me in this manner?
It has been three years since I first stepped into this house, which was a blooming garden at that time. I was the nightingale of this garden, flying in the air, singing merrily perched on its trees. I slept on a bed of roses. Saeed was mine and I was Saeed’s. We played the game of love by the side of the pool whose water was clear as crystal and sang the songs of passion along the rows of its flowers. The garden was host to our amorous trysts. Passing the wine of ecstasy, we addressed each other. He would tell me, ‘You are my life,’ and I would respond with, ‘You are my beloved.’ Our estate was huge. We had no worries. No sorrows existed; life, for us, was pleasure personified, an insatiable hunger. It was a magical spring where the flowers of desire bloomed and happiness reigned. The world was in tune with us, the sky our friend, and fortune in our favour.
One day, Saeed said to me, ‘My love! I have a request to make. Take care that your smiling lips do not turn it down. I want to gift all my property, all my estate, to you. For me, your love is enough, which is my greatest blessing. I want to erase my identity and become a fakir at your doorstep. You be my Noor Jahan and I will be your Salim, and spend my life drinking from the
