Going For A Curry

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.