Going For A Curry

MUDFOG PRESS launches a new book of poems
about Mangla Dam
by
KHADIM HUSSAIN:

WALAYAT DEKO

THURSDAY 6TH. NOVEMBER 7.30 PM at the INTERNATIONAL CENTRE, 7 Abingdon Road, Middlesbrough.

Everyone welcome. Free entry and tea/coffee/biscuits. Come and join in an evening of great poetry reading.

‘See Britain!’ jokes the sophisticated stewardess to a young boy from rural Pakistan catching the English winter and its first fever on the plane’s steps. Khadim Hussain’s poems chart the highs and lows of countless such arrivals: dreams of prosperity that wake to mixed realities; memories of home irretrievable from time’s blank floods. He captures changing perspectives with bittersweet tenderness and wit, with inventive and revealing shifts of diction, rhythm and tone.

Hussain draws impressively on his historical knowledge and deep roots in the Asian community and, sometimes with a humorous flourish, sometimes with a profoundly moving vision, contemplates past, childhood and tradition in Pakistan and confronts realities and identity in modern Britain.
Andy Willoughby, Teesside poet and editor with Ek Zuban.

Khadim Hussain’s work carries all the ins and outs of Asian culture and heritage and will be read by all with a lot of interest. He is so much more than a local writer and is worthy of wide renown.
Hazrat Shah, Urdu poet and editor with Aaina and Tadeeb International.

The International Centre with readily available on-street parking and easy access is on Abingdon Road just off Borough Road. From the A66, take the A172 Marton Road and turn right into Borough Road, then first left into Abingdon Road. Tel. 01642 245967 if you need directions on the night.

In Walayat, the fabled land of
Streets paved with gold,
I pull loaded trolleys
Under neon lights.

Lascar’s Tale

Allāh u Akbar! Allah is the greater, Allāh u Akbar! Allāh u Akbar! Allāh u Akbar!
My two companions and I were stunned, our minds still unable to comprehend, from looking in the window of a shop in Linthrope Road, Middlesbrough, transported into a mosque in an instant as if by magic.
How did I get here?
Where am I?
Is it a dream?
Questions danced in my head but like all good Muslims I faced east in reverence and tried to concentrate on the Islamic call to prayer.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasūlullāh! I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God, Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasūlullāh!
From the corner of my eye I spotted a distinguished looking middle aged man with a henna dyed beard, gesturing us to a place for Wudu, the ritual washing to be pure for prayer.
This was the beginning of a fantastic story, belonging among the ‘Arabian Nights’. Unbelievable as it might seem - some may even dismiss it as the ramblings of an old man. I must try to put pen to paper as best my limited skills will allow and give each reader the opportunity to judge for themselves.
Who am I?
I am known by many names, Sher Ali, chosen by my proud grandfather, Shera to my loving grandmother and mother, and to all people in the village of my birth. Ali to many white people, Sinbad, even Sinbad the curry man.
Born and nurtured in the paradise of Lunger Pur Baley, a village in the Punjab, shielded from the heat, the dust and the cruel world by the river Jhellum, fed by the melting glaciers of the Himalayan Mountains. In summer the mighty river Jhellum formed a protective cradle as it roared relentlessly by on its odyssey through the plains of the Punjab. The cool, crystal clear waters were a haven for beast and man. Others endured the sweltering summer nights; we harvested the breeze.
I was the youngest of my companions, Mohammed Yusuf, a middle-aged, with a short neatly trimmed beard and beardless Ejaz Ali in his mid-thirties. How did I a young and idealistic youth barely in his twenties born and bred in a farming community end up in the industrial Middlesbrough. A town of narrow streets, coal port and Iron works, bellowing out air laden with soot and other pollutants that turned the sky brown and choked you. The stench of rubbish and alcohol declared war on your nostrils.
The questions, however important had to wait. I was in a mosque, at prayer time, my sacred duty was prayer, the rest would ‘Inshallah’ be sorted.
We took our place and I was overcome by a warm comforting feeling as I realised that for the first time in two years, I was lost in a sea of brown faces. I did not stand out because of the colour of my skin or the attire I wore. Anxieties were replaced by tranquillity.
After the prayers finished; I was greeted by the distinguished looking middle aged man with henna dyed beard, “Assalam-u-Alaikum.”
Before he could introduce himself, I blurted out, “Who are you? Where is this? How did we get here?”
“You can call me ‘Wish Master’,” he said.
“The Wish Master?” repeated Mohammed Yusuf, “As in genie in the bottle?” he added.
“Gentleman!” said the stranger with a smile, “I will explain everything in time. I should have said Sher Ali’s Wish Master,” he added.
“I can not remember making a wish!” I retorted.
“Perhaps not, but the question you have been wrestling with for the past two weeks?”
“But how did you know?”
“I’m the Wish Master!”
“What question?” Yusuf and Ejaz asked in almost unison.
“Either to sail to Bombay tomorrow, and return to an arranged marriage or stay here and make a home with Sally,” I confessed. “Which is the right choice?”
“Perhaps it will become clear later,” declared the Wish Master. “You are my guests, allow me to show around.”
He led us out into a warm sunny afternoon, each side of the street was occupied by shiny metal machines of different sizes and colours. There was an alleyway in the centre which always remained clear to allow the machines to move both ways.
“Where is this?” I asked.
“You are in Middlesbrough.”
“Middlesbrough!
“Not your Middlesbrough of 1890. This is 2007, one hundred and seventeen years later,” said the Wish Master.
Our jaws dropped in disbelief; time travel was beyond our comprehension.
“Your Middlesbrough of dirt and grimed no more,” he added.
“What’s that?” Yusuf pointed to a bridge suspended about one hundred fifty feet in the air.
“That gentleman is Middlesbrough’s industrial legacy and most prominent landmark, the Transporter Bridge, built in 1911 to replace the ferry service. It connected Middlesbrough on the south bank to Port Clarence on the north bank.”
“What are these machines and why so many?” asked Ejaz beating Yusuf and I to it.
“They my friend are called ‘Cars’, like trains but instead of running tracks, they run on roads and each one is owned by a single person. The owner can travel to any destination at his connivance,” the Dream Master explained.
Our first sighting of Indian women in their kaleidoscopic salwar-kameez was like a dream. Indian women in Middlesbrough! Out shopping, the younger ones even appeared to be in men’s clothing; some were driving cars and Indian children playing in the street. Normally I would consider myself lucky, if I saw a dozen Indian faces at anytime.
In the mosque there were over a hundred and fifty worshippers, between the ages of ten and over eighty.
“The shipping companies employ Indian seaman, requiring us to return to the Indian port we sailed from. Why did the British government allow so many Indians to settle here?” I thought out aloud.
“This is not the time of the British empire. India gained independence in 1947 and there is no British empire,” the Wish Master explained.
“Have we conquered Britain?” Yusuf butted in before the stranger could finish.
“No! As I was saying these people are not ‘Indians’ but Pakistanis, in 1947 at the time of independence Britain partitioned India for the Hindus and Pakistan for the Muslims,” lectured the Wish Master.
“How did the old and young children manage the sea voyage?” I inquired, remembering my own arduous epic.
He explained about a new form of transport - an airship which can carry over three hundred people and travel very fast. It took only eight hours from Britain to Pakistan.
The guided tour included the part of the town known as St. Hilda’s, now called “Over the Border.” Not only the name was changed, gone was the famous Cannon Street, with tiny houses occupied by ten to fifteen souls, barefoot children in rags running around, no pubs, sailors of every nationality, no smoke or mud and dirt on the pathways. The houses, buildings, ship yards, Steel Mills, Pottery, Chemical works had all vanished as if they had never existed.
By early evening the enticing aroma of freshly made hanndi, samosas, pokras and sizzling kebabs was drifting with the wind as we travelled along Linthrope Road. Our mouths began to water and my stomach rumbled. The thought of proper Indian food in Middlesbrough was beyond my imagination.
Anticipating our desire the Wish Master took us to an Indian restaurant. The taste of which was almost forgotten during our sixteen long months away from home.
With a full stomach, my mind returned to my dilemma and the words of the Wish Master clearly rang in my ears “Perhaps it will become clear later.”
“How will it become clear?” I turned to the Wish Master.
“Look out the Window,” he gestured towards a gleaming vehicle much larger than the other cars.
A youth of around twenty, well dressed, with large gold chain around his neck, and rings around all fingers and a thick golden watch on his left wrist, slammed shut the driver’s side door and made his way towards the restaurant.
“Do you recognise the youth?” the Wish Master whispered to me.
“He looks familiar,” I said.
“Looks like you,” said Yousuf.
“He does,” agreed Ejaz.
“Your great grandson,” the Wish Master added.
“My GREAT GRANDSON!” I blurted out.
Every face turned and then quickly diverted, but the youth’s gaze remained transfixed and for an instant he smiled but remained puzzled.
“I know the face but can’t place it,” he said after a few seconds but to me it felt like hours.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Shaan,”
“Well Shaan, you might find this hard to believe but I’m your great grandfather Sher Ali,” I said with a nervous smile.
“You may look like my great grandfather when he was young, but he died when he was seventy and you’re my age,” he protested.
“Your usual table is ready Shaan Sahib”, said the waiter.
Shaan’s eyes remained fixed on us, even when he was dining. Half way through his meal he suddenly stopped, wiped his mouth and hand with a serviette and made his way to our table. He embraced me and whispered in to my ears “great grandfather I’m delighted.”
“What changed your mind?” I asked.
“I just remembered a photograph the family treasure. It’s of you and your two friends but you don’t look a day older,” he said. “How that possible?”
I let the Wish Master explain. We talked for an hour catching up on family gossip. My great grandson left us for something very important and promised to return in half an hour.
Bearing witnessing to the success of one of my descendants, filled with pride and joy “The right decision is to stay,” I said to the Wish Master.
“Perhaps!” he said, “but don’t you know the source of great grandson’s wealth?” he added in a sombre mood.
“What is it?” asked the son of seventeenth century.
“Drugs!” the word drilled into my brain and for a moment I was lost to my senses. My great grandson is a drug dealer. At last I understood the meaning of Wish Masters phrase “Perhaps it will become clear later.” Now I understand what one of the consequences of staying could be. I should go back home but what about Shaan? I couldn’t abandon him to the life of a drug dealer.
When he returned I pleaded with Shaan and compared his life as a drug dealer to that of a vampire feeding on the misery of poor addicted souls. They who would do anything for a fix, lie, cheat, steal, sell their bodies, rob and even kill to feed their habit.
“All drug dealers have short lives and no matter how rich they get, they never acquire respectability”, I argued. “Give up this life for the sake of the family’s honour,” I implored. Stories of all the hardships faced by the early sailors of my generation to earn an honest living had no effect. The youth was subdued by the glamorous lifestyle however brief the easy money it offered.
It was late, about ten in the evening even Shaan sensed we would soon be returning to our world.
“Gentleman it is time for me to depart, you will be returned to the same spot at the same time and people around you will not notice,” said the Wish Master.
I leaned over a whispered in his ear.
Instantly we were back at the shop window on Linthrope Road; it was about half past one in the afternoon. My companions were astounded to notice that Shaan was now a member of our party.
Shaan was too dazed to comment and the Wish Master disappeared, not bothering to explain how his time machine worked or if I would ever see him again.
My companions read my thoughts and promised to take Shaan with them when they sailed to Bombay the next morning and deliver him in to the hands of my father.

Be My Valentine or Else?
I’ll scream and yell.
I’ll throw a tantrum,
It will serve you right …
So be My Valentine or Else!

I will not frown or fret,
Mope or pine,
I will get nasty,
It will serve you right …
So be My Valentine or Else!

Be My Valentine or Else!
I’ll spread rumours
You are gay,
Dress in lady’s clothing.
I can even be vicious
And spread rumours
You once bought a
Des O’ Connor LP!

My love sent me a Valentine,
She wonders why
I did not reply.
She did not include
A self stamped envelope.

I’ll be your love,
Will you be mine?
You can care for me,
Come rain or shine,
And in fifty years
When I’ll be dead and buried,
You can find another.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You know I love chocolates,
And I love you,
I know you love too,
So where are my chocolates?
You fool!

Plenty of love for my Valentine,
And millions of kisses,
I don’t care
If she’s someone else’s Mrs.

In Mirpur did Walayti Maharajas
Honour palaces decree:
Where, Jhellum the mighty river
Fed by glacial melt by glacial melt
Of the Himalayan Mountains;
Once relentlessly roared,
On its odyssey
Through the plains of the Punjab.

Jhellum tamed,
Ancestral land drowned by Mangla Dam.
People of the Khet,
Swept as if by the gushing water that;
Irrigated parched distant lands and
Drove giant turbines,
To every shore of the world
America, Canada and Walayat.

Sons of Mirpur,
Nurtured in glorious sunshine,
Fanned by gentle breeze.
In grey, cold and wet Walayat,
The fabled land of streets paved with gold,
Fortune they saught.
Where the sun is banished
During winter months;

Swore at Heathrow “punjah zar rupeah”,
Some “five years only”,
To earn the pot of gold,
Solution to all problems,
Pay for sister’s marriage,
Buy some more land,
Have a well dug in family land and
Build a palace with a water pump.

Dreamt of returning home,
In pomp and ceremony,
Like their predecessors the Dubai lahk patti,
Working on ships from the port of Dubai.
Carrying fortunes earned
In bundles on their heads.
Built chabaras with huge havalis,
And water pumps.

The new Dubai rajah,
In white magnificent pagri,
Matching starched salwar-kameez
Without a hint of stain,
Riding tall on a jet black mare,
Village’s elder’s inviting them,
To sit on their charpoy whilst
Women folk fetched palla’s of milk or lassi

The flower of the proud peasant stock,
Who had never left their beloved Mirpur,
Found lodging in the urban decay of
Inner towns and cities of industrial Britain.
Crammed eighteen to twenty,
In a small terraced house,
Four to a room
Shared a bed with night shift worker.

All in a rush to sleep on time,
In their shared rooms,
Dread of being late for work.
Dreaming of the summer nights,
On the roof top,
Half the night spent swapping stories,
Enthralled by the tales of a soldier or postman
On leave.

Shared kitchen and an outside toilet
And no bath.
Even in these conditions
And away from family life
The unbreakable hospitality system,
In a Muslim home a guest
Can never be refused hospitality
Was strictly adhered to.

They came clutching a piece of paper,
Bearing a name and address of,
Relatives, friends, from the same village,
Or district, some whom they had never met.
Welcomed as honoured guests,
Taught to cook for them
Helped in finding employment,
And lodgings.

Pampered Ranjha’s once sat cross legged,
Feasted on palk gosht, courgette and
Delicacies such as piya with,
Tandoori roti, achar and lassi,
Laboured to make trivial complaints,
Roti was too thin or
Rim was too thick,
Slightly too much salt in Haandi.

Pampered Ranjha’s crossed
Seven oceans to seek riches,
Forced by cruel stomach,
To cook,
Self taught,
Flatten the dough on tava
Light the gas and
Scrape off the chappati.

Shehri, dihatee zamidar, the landless peasant,
The educated and who had never been to school,
All confined in the dungeons
Of industrial society,
Competed at the bottom of the labour market,
For jobs indigenous people rejected,
Of harsh conditions and unsocial hours,
To power the British industry.

Life once governed by the rhythms of nature,
Woke to the ‘cock – a – doodle – doo!’
Of the cockerels or the dawn chorus,
Worked in the fields weather permitting,
Were in the realm of the clock,
Big Ben, the loudest alarm clock,
Not only woke the people in the room,
But the whole house, friend of all.

Reared in tradition to,
Respect elders, mothers, aunts, sisters,
Each having their own role
Cooking, cleaning, women’s work,
No man, irrespective of social position
Would ever be seen in a bawarchi khana,
But in Walayat society lacking women,
Through necessity became men’s work.

Monotony of rigorous work,
Cooking, cleaning, sleep and work,
Forgotten every Friday
By the Queen’s pounds.
Meticulously apportion every penny,
Rent, provisions, fares, cigarettes,
Share for the expense of the guest and
For his upkeep and to send to his family.

Remittances back home,
For money borrowed,
Support for extended family,
And every excess penny,
Hoarded like Scrooge,
For the dream of an honour palace,
In ancestral village,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja.

Sunday, Sabbath for the indigenous people,
The Pardesi’s ‘returned home’ in spirit.
Dressed in their finest salwar-kameez
Some in kurta and chaddar,
Gathered on this the only day,
To catch up on current news,
That mattered to them
Harvesting and embellishing on memories of desh.

Reel to reel tape recorder,
Echoing the sound of Punjab,
Singer and poet Alam Lohar and his melodious chimta.
Reciting Heer, Mirza Sahiba,
Rustic ballads, folk songs or
Jugni accompanied by jhori,
But it was his Saif ul Malooq
Brought tears to many of their eyes.

Main neevan mera murshid uccha: I am lowly, my spiritual is guided by high
ucchiyaa Jayi nal laglaii: linked with the high ones
Tay bari museebat payi: caused such a heartache
Sadaqa jaavaan Mohammed: May I die for Mohammed
Jis neviyaan naal nibhaaii: Who have protected the lowly ones!
Spontaneously son of Punjab would recite
Literate, illiterate or never been to school,
We are as poets.

Brought families to England
For comfort and dreams of better education.
Children, the new underclass
Persevered and made home in their adopted country,
The dream of honour palace,
In ancestral village,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja
Burnt even brighter.

The elusive goal could never be reached.
Youth, quietly made way for middle-aged,
Hair turned white, muscles of steel turned into flab,
Joints ravaged by arthritis.
The dream of honour palace,
In ancestral village,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja
Dimmed, not an iota.

The thrift in Walayt,
An example of opulence back in Mirpur
In quest of the impossible dream,
The best honour palace,
In ancestral village,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja
Spent rupees like water,
Boasting of sacks full in Walayti bank.

A rare sight to behold,
Walayti millionaire’s kothi,
Like a poster stuck by a genie
On a Tuckki, in a Kush or in between,
Pathway which even goats negotiate with care.
Some dreams manifested in paddy field or some remote area,
Where lone person dare not venture,
Even in the protection of the sun.

Three storeys Kothi in quarter of an acre,
Baithaks separate for males and females
Walayati toilets – separate for men and women,
Bedrooms all with en – suite,
Each floor, its own large Walayati Kitchen and dining room.
Twelve foot haveli where orange, mulberry and banyan trees
Swayed in the gentle breeze perfumed by rose bushes,
All under the protective gaze of roof top garage.

Sumptuous parties,
Gathered all the clan,
Near and far, rich or poor,
Neighbours, friend and foe.
Hired the best chefs
Chicken, Bakara, Biryani, Pilau, Zarda, nans
No expense spared,
When the Walayati Maharaja held court.

In harsh light of reality
Alone and fortune gone,
Footsteps echoed in the vast palace,
He was overcome with dread,
His sacred quest,
The honour palace in ancestral village,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja
Was a white elephant.

In the tempest for the first time
Walayti Maharaja heard the
Chorus of his descendants,
This is our home!
We’re not going back,
To our ancestral village,
Not even for palace,
Worthy of Walayti Maharaja.

Once was a figure of respect,
Now target of ridicule
Once they bowed and
Dared not utter an unkind word,
Openly mocked;
Who is coming to stay?
Your children or grandchildren or
Will a large paddock be the guardian?

Should I lock the gate and,
Leave the fruits of labourers,
For the eyes of ghosts and genies,
Or in some strangers care,
Question the sole occupant of the mind.
Sort the poorest and poor and
The most honest of the honest
A pious man.

He who toiled under the burning sun,
To earn honest roti for his family,
First sign of rain awake to water drops,
Bouncing upon his forehead,
Could only dream of a descent roof.
Lived by the dim light of a lamp,
Drank the water,
Carried by women folk from the village well.

Six months provisions for
The sake of his children,
With electric lighting even in courtyard and
Monthly electricity bill paid from England.
Hot and cold water on tap.
Once humble peasant,
Even in dream dared to dream to
Enjoy the fruits of Walayati pounds.

Promised to care for it,
Never forgotten
And treat it

From the Walayti Maharajah,
Who swept pounds from street?
Sort every opportunity to extort more,
Damage caused by rain,
Court yard wall damaged by animals, by traffic,
Dreamt up expenses and even
Forwarded bill of twenty thousand rupees
For pruning trees.

In a terraced house
In some inner town or city of Britain,
The Walayti Maharaja,
Reduced to general labourer again,
Struggling to meet the bills of both worlds,
Sort news of his beloved palace,
Begging any from that area,
All turned away at the gate.

Begged a close relative,
Visiting Pakistan for news,
Of his beloved palace,
Promised too all expenses incurred.
The emissary only gained access
With the liberal use of rupees
To the local finest,
And only for half an hour.

The Walayti labourer eager for new,
Met the relative at airport,
For news of his honour palace,
In ancestral village.
Ground floor is used to tether mules,
First floor had goats and,
I did go up to the second floor,
He reported with mocking eyes.

His beloved palace,
With chips flooring polished for a week,
Sang–e-mar-mar tiles,
Truck loads from Balochistan,
Bright green, blue, golden yellow and red
Non drip paint lovingly carried from England,
Life’s toil and dreams,
Fit only for hooves.

Gathered every penny with,
Return ticket in hand,
Like a Jogi stood,
In front of lakh rupee gate,
For the master of the house,
To dispense alms,
A beggar in own honour palace,
Worthy of a Walayti Maharaja.

Like a stranger
Led to Baithak.
I’m a poor man,
Where can I go?
Was the mantra
Of once a pious man,
But like a master pickpocket,
Sizing the pockets of his quarry,
Ready to pounce.
To reap the harvest of another.

With the help of local good and great,
And substantial rupees changing hands,
The honour palace was liberated.

Bakara (Bak ara): a Billy goat. The best meat in Pakistan.
Biryani: Persian, brought to India by the Moguls. Traditionally, rice baked between layers goats’ meat, flavoured with spices and topped with edible silver vark (foil). It is normally served on special family occasions and feast days. It was developed to an art form in the kitchens of the Indian Mogul emperors, where it was served with gold vark.
Chabara (Chab ara): Double storey
Dihatee (Di-ha-tee): Country folk
Lahk: means 100000
lahk patti: Millionaire
Tuchki (Tuck-Key): small hill
Zarda: Sweet rice of many colours, containing almonds, coconut chips, sultanas and pistachios. Literally means yellow.

“It’s a Boy!” prounced the midwife,
“Alhamdullilah,” praise be to Allah, said the mother.

Distribute mataii, Indian sweetmeats,
To the whole village and all the relatives.

Those born with a silver spoon,
Or even in a presidential palace,
Envy the destiny of this poor
Mirpuri peasant’s son.

My son,
The beloved nephew of Reshma,
My sister in Walayat,
Whose daughter he will marry
And settle in Walayat.

Like Majnun
Living lost memories
Lonely in mela

Majnun: Obsessed. Madly or desperately in love. Celebrated lover of Laila.
Mela: a fair

I a Musafir
On life’s short journey
Only my deeds undying.

Musafir: a traveller

In the cool evening breeze,
Excited boys of all ages gathered,
On mehra ground near the bayan tree.

Uncles, fathers and grandfathers,
Sat cross legged, on the edge,
In the cool evening breeze.

Toddlers proudly wearing their lahngota,
Played kabbadi,
On mehra ground near the bayan tree.

Shahbash! Shahbash!
Words of pride and encouragement filled the air,
In the cool evening breeze.

Some wrestled, few with lahngotas missing,
Ran to their fathers,
On mehra ground near the bayan tree.

Beaming fathers and grandfathers,
Lovely picked up the palwans and sat,
In the cool evening breeze,
On mehra ground near the bayan tree.

Lahngota (Lahn - gota): Wrestling costume, normally a loincloth, in this case like a nappy.
Mehra (Meh- rra): When the land is ploughed and levelled, normally using a thick plank bullocks, weighted down with least three people.
Palwan (Pal

Bury me not in cemetery
Cover not my grave
With gravel and cement.

Sacrifice no flowers,
Upon my grave
Leave nature

Get up!
You’ll be late for school!
Did you wash your face?
Behind the ears too?
Clean your teeth and use a fresh miswak
Comb your hair!
Hurry up, eat your breakfast
And change your clothes!
Walk on the path to school
Not through the fields!

If only….
I was a Maali,
Weeding and watering the plants.
Wake up at my leisure
Eat breakfast at my pace
Not brother to change my night clothing.

My salwar and Kameez
Soiled with dust
From weeding and digging
And walking through fields of crops.
The sign of my industry.

If only....
I was a Charwan
Tending the Majjh by the river glades.
I’d lean against a tree or lay on the soft grass
In its shade and play my flute
To my heart’s content.
I’d carry my lathi over my shoulder
Like Maula Jatt’s gandasa
Strutting across my domain
Return to the village at milking time.
If only ….

Charwan: herdsman
Gandasa: an axe like blade
Lathi: staff
Majjah: female buffalo
Maali: gardener
Maula Jatt: the hero of Punjabi film, tougher than Rambo.
Miswak: a softened stick used as a toothbrush