The following is an edited excerpt from Haroon Khalid’s recently published book
It was the night of nights, the night of destiny. It was a night when gods, demons and humans alike, those who were still trapped in the travails of this life, those who burned in the eternity of hell and those who sipped the nectar of immortality in the heavens, all became one and set their sights on Jhang. In their maddening rage, the apsaras of the court of Indra kicked around the mattresses and the pillows, trying so very hard to regain the attention of the court, of Indra himself.
The houris of Jannah were not faring that well either. Just a moment ago, they had been playing the daf, drinking from golden goblets and singing heavenly songs. And now those seats had been abandoned, the juice from the golden goblets spilt on the floor, as all of heaven cast its eyes upon the Earth. Responding to the cries and laments, the monsoon wind rose like an army of soldiers from the Bay of Bengal. With lightning speed, as if it were the army of Hulagu Khan that had in time immemorial decapitated thousands of heads in Punjab and lit a bonfire of the heads to warm itself, it reached Jhang. Here these mercenary soldiers impregnated the clouds which blocked the view between heaven and earth, between its occupants and me. They unleashed a flurry of tears, crying on behalf of the apsaras and houris, crying that a more beautiful creature now existed on earth, in Jhang.
The Chenab was fuming with rage. As if intoxicated, she swirled like a bull in heat. She had to see for herself, make sure that the rumours were true. Daughter of the great Himalayas, the home of Shiva, the ascetic, the ultimate jogi, she had been hearing stories through her long arduous journey, in search of her lover, whom she had promised to meet at the Sindh coast. She raced in the direction of Jhang. Oblivious to the pain of separation that her lover experienced in her absence, she headed off now in a different direction.
Cover photo of From Waris to Heer: A Novel of Punjab.
Finally, reaching her destination, finally reaching Jhang, she prostrated outside its tall towers, its tall buildings and its tall mound. She pleaded and begged for just one sight of her Heer, for whom she had broken her journey, for whom she had delayed her union. Like an invading force of Afghans marching into Punjab, she had progressed uninterrupted, until she had reached Jhang, the crown jewel of all cities, glorious as Lahore was once. If only someone had stopped the Afghans the way Jhang halted her journey, the way Jhang humbled her. She had come not as a conqueror but as a beggar, she said.
My father, the most kind-hearted man, sire to the most beautiful girl in the world, could not ignore her wishes. He took Chenab’s hand in his own, placed a little flood water in the palm of his hand and poured it over my forehead, as if this was not the water of the Chenab but of the Ganga or the Abe Zamzam.
She caressed my face and ran her fingers through my hair. She was assured that the rumours were true. That I was indeed the most beautiful girl ever to be born in Punjab. For if there is a river that knows beauty, then it is indeed the Chenab.
On that fateful night, as she held my face in her hands, she saw before her eyes the unfolding of my complete life. She had already become a participant in the love story of Punjab. She changed her direction permanently that day so that she could see for herself this immortal love legend that was to unfold on her banks.
Flowers bloomed on the land that had been blessed by the daughter of the Himalayas as she receded to continue towards her beloved. All these flowers faced Jhang, for they too wanted to see the most beautiful thing there was to see. These flowers did not have to wait for spring to come. They smiled, sang and danced in the breeze and celebrated basant the day I stepped on the ground. The trees turned greener and their shadows became darker.
Assured by my laughter, the sun rose from the east. Throughout the day, it travelled through the sky to catch a glimpse of me from different angles. The moon existed to guard me. All night long, it kept the world illuminated, on the lookout for anything or anyone who could threaten me.
I had spent many nights with the moon in its loneliness. I had lent it my ear to hear its tale of woe. Sometimes when it had cried to its heart’s content, it stared back at me with enquiring eyes, urging me to share with its lonely heart some stories of my misery. I had nothing to share, nothing to cry about.
When with the moon, I did not have the heart to tell it that I had no complaints in the house of Chuchak. I could never summon up the courage to tell it that I did not need any protection. I did not tell the moon the tales of my fierce character, of my bravery. I had waged wars and led armies in the qissa penned by Damodar. That battle is not part of this qissa so I will not delve into it any further.
While I don’t fight armies in this qissa being penned by our Waris, I still retain my valour. I am a symbol of beauty and pride, but don’t forget that I am also a metaphor for rebellion, for action and agency. Our Ranjha might be the symbol of the divine, but what will happen to the divine if there is no devotee? Would the divine be able to retain its divinity, if that divinity is not recognised, not worshipped? The divine is an object of worship and without being worshipped, it is nothing but an object. It is through the finite nature of the devotee that the infinity of the divine is recognised.
The devotee is not a helpless, passive partner in this relationship, but rather the agent, the shaper of events, who makes this relationship progress.
Don’t be mistaken. This is not the story of Heer–Ranjha but rather the story of Heer — Waris’s Heer, from Waris to Heer. You might be tempted to see the parallels between Ranjha and our poet, our creator, our Waris, but it is really I who truly represent him. It is in my voice that the devotees speak — from Shah Hussain to Bulleh Shah, and now Waris. Sometimes I take the form of Radha, sometimes that of a nameless housewife, but it is always I, at the centre of it all, who become the symbol of a Sufi, a devotee, while Ranjha becomes the symbol of the divine. I make possible the union between the devotee and the divine, the disintegration of the male in my female body. For neither is there a distinction between a devotee and the divine, nor is there any distinction between the male and the female.
I am Waris and Waris is Heer.
