Sukhjit Guldasta, Part 2: 'The Man-eater'
The second and concluding offering of the Sukhjit Guldasta: a translation of his short story.
“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”
In his autobiography “Main Jaisa Hu Main Waisa Kyu Hu,” Sukhjit narrates an incident from his early childhood. With the limited capital his father had put together by trucking across North India before marriage, the family had purchased farmland around the remote wooded tracts of the Machhiwara forest.
In this remote, untamed setting, a ceaseless state of terror engulfed little Sukhjit and his young mother, married in her late teens. The deep green fields were thronged with a plethora of snakes, forcing the family to practice constant vigilance, especially when they had to sleep. Sukhjit’s brother, still an innocent toddler, would often to found playing in sand, seconds away, perhaps, from a most dreadful death.
And then arrived the fateful day, as mother and son crossed the mud road leading to their house, that a cobra sprung up before them in the middle of the road. Sukhjit and his mother froze. It took but a split second for his mother, tired of this exhausting dance with fear, with dread and uncertainty, to make a decision. She shouted to Sukhjit, who stood a couple steps behind her: “Ve vaddeya (O elder one), bring me the thick staff from inside.”
Sukhjit writes that he has no memory of the subsequent events: on pure, single-minded instinct, he rushed into the house and ran out with the staff, and when his mother commanded him to beat the snake to death, he dispatched of the snake within a few moments, with a fury he had never experienced before, swinging the staff and bringing it crashing on the writhing serpent until it lay on the road mangled and still.
This, Sukhjit concludes, marked the moment he conquered fear. He never experienced it again.
Sukhjit’s brutality, je-m’en-foutisme, and bloody-mindedness (to borrow from Reynar Banham) are entwined with a fundamentally sensitive nature, a purity of disposition that marks all great Punjabi literature. Above all, his writing is fearless, in a world where fear is the pathway to hell, a palliative for the timid and the weak, fertile pasture for swindlers and cheats.
The Khalsa Chronicle proudly presents the second and final offering of the twin-petalled Sukhjit Guldastaa: a tale about a wretched bande-khaanee, a man-eater, titled ‘Bande Kaun Khanda Hai?’ This is Sukhjit at his most tragic, cynical and socially trenchant, but he deftly smuggles defiant knots of hope and resilience— charhdi-kala, clear-eyed, severe— into the narrative.
Bande Kaun Khandaa Hai?
Who Eats Men?
The whole of the village made its way to the dera1, raising cries of “We have caught him! We have caught him!” The dera had been inaugurated fairly recently: the langar2 hall and the Sant’s3 personal quarters were ready, the rest still under construction. The crowd, perched upon heaps of bricks, strained to catch a glimpse of the policeman and the man he had apprehended. The policeman kept his foul tongue in check, mindful of the Sant’s presence. The crowd encircled the two men as if they were performing tricks at a fair.
The Sant’s sewadaars4, who had helped catch this man and brought him to the dera, prowled the premise armed with nezas5 and safa-jangs6. The Sant sat gracefully on a chair. Next to him stood a gun-toting Singh, his eyes bloodshot, mustache twirled, beard coarsely trimmed. The ‘devout Bibi7,’ the Sant’s dear devotee, sat beside his chair, her hair tied in a topknot like Sikh men, covered with a patka8. She prayed an iron rosary in her hands, eyes closed, feigning a great sense of detachment from the whole scenario. Behind her sat ten or fifteen of the village’s women, most of them widows or abandoned by their husbands, seated cross-legged, heads covered with dupattas9, robed in spotless white clothes: the very picture of faith.
The crowd was keen to catch sight of the man who, for the past many days, had given the village sleepless nights. The devout Bibi was respected by the whole village, for she had given away all of her six kille10 of land for the Sant’s dera, had given up all worldly attachments, and moved to the dera with her young daughter to serve the Sant. The whole area sang praises of the Bibi. And this man had the gall to scrawl all over the village’s walls that this woman was a bande-khaanee, a maneater.
Questions emerged from the crowd: “Where was he found? Where was he caught?” Every day, in the village’s streets, he would write on the walls that the Bibi devours men. The Bibi who prayed her rosary, tied her hair like men, wore a patka, spotless white clothes, who looked like a soul descended from some celestial realm— day after day, this man had besmirched her name.
“Where was he caught? From the old fauji’s11 place, I’m sure. That nasty fellow! He has brainwashed many young boys over the years. Now he has brought this one to misery as well.” The crowd stood on its toes, eager to identify the man. Who was he? — it was Beeba — oh Beeba…!
The crowd fell silent. The women began to murmur amongst themselves: “Look at him! The Bibi’s own son! You bear a child in your womb for nine months, tend to him selflessly for years, and this is how you are repaid. What sufferings has she not endured?” The women vented, “This is why it is said, a barren womb is better than bearing a wicked offspring. There is none in the village has a heart as pure as the Bibi’s. What sleights does fate play?”
The conversation shifted from the ladies to the men: “Where is the old man? The fauji?”
“He is on his way here. He fled to the neighboring villages, saying he is going to bring an end to the dera’s land-grabbing ways. He will surely return with a gang of his fellow faujis. Our village is ruined.”
“As if! Ruination upon he who disdains both dharam12 and karam13. Oh, how eager that devilish fauji is to challenge the Sant!”
Speculation, hearsay and misgivings abounded freely. “Let’s see what that old man’s capable of!” boasted the policeman, twirling his mustache, observing the the Sant out the corner of his eye. The Sant looked pleased. The policeman, too, was a devotee of the Sant. In making his way into the Sant’s good books, he hoped to gain a proper police station instead of his rundown chowki14.
The police rarely interfered in the Sant’s affairs, for they were used to the Sant’s sewadaars dealing with miscreants by themselves. It was upon receiving word from the Sarpanch15 that the Sant’s men had caught the culprit, that the policeman had hurried to the dera, afraid they might end up beating the culprit to death, landing the Sarpanch in trouble.
The policeman’s kick sent Beeba reeling. The boy whimpered, “Water.”
Some men made to bring him water. Beeba’s teary-eyed sister cried to her mother, “Please ask them to stop beating up my veer16!” The impassive Bibi replied harshly, “Quiet, girl! No one here is anyone’s mother, none anyone’s brother. Everything here is merely the Sant’s maya17.”
Chants of “Satnam Waheguru18,” “Hail the Bibi,” and “Hail the Sant” issued from the women’s lips. The kicks delivered into Beeba’s sides drew the pity of Bibi’s daughter, but the Bibi was not to be stirred. The Sant, however, could not bear to see the girl’s anguish, and said to the policeman, “Enough, O devotee. You have punished the boy enough. Let the sangat19 do the rest.”
The Sant cleared his throat loudly and waved to the sangat. He ran his hand over his lustrous black beard, and with his munificent gaze upon the crowd, declared, “O saintly sangat, this bhujangi’s20 offence is unworthy of forgiveness, for he has blasphemed against the womb of such a mother who sacrificed her heart to sants, mahapurakhs21, kings and emperors. But the sangat is merciful. Should we not send him to the police station?”
Exclamations of “Satnam Waheguru” and “Hail the Sant” rang through the crowd, endorsing the Sant’s suggestion. Beeba’s face contorted with rage. His insides were set afire every time he heard someone praise his mother.
The Sant continued. “The fault lies with the evil old fauji, who has indoctrinated this poor boy and lured him into sullying the walls. Sants and mahapurakhs do not hanker after anyone’s property, O sangat. The whole of the earth belongs to the sants. They do not hunger after a little land,” so the Sant held forth. He had worked himself into a righteously offended temper. The crowd fell into a panic. “Forgive us, Sant ji! Forgive us!” The women fell prostrate at his feet, “Have mercy upon us! Us and our errant hearts. Spare us, please spare us! Do not curse the whole village because of this sinner.”
The Sant raised his arms, and the hysterical crowd simmered down, still anxious. “That evil fauji should be apprehended and presented before the Sant,” the Sant commanded in a voice brimming with fury, sending an electric current coursing through the guards’ bodies. They grabbed their weapons and twirled their mustaches. The gunmen’s eyes blazed red with frenzy, and their chests swelled with violence, eager to bring the fauji to justice.
The policeman figured this was the ideal moment to gain the Sant’s favor. He bowed theatrically and promised the Sant, “I will bring him to you, janaab22. I just need your hand over my head.”23 The Sant gave him his blessings, and he tore through the crowd as if embarking on some great quest. But neither him nor his companion forgot to touch the Sant’s feet.
The crowd roiled with chants of “Satnam Waheguru” and “Hail the Sant.” Beeba was brought to the langar hall and tied to a pillar with a chain, with a guard watching over him. His sister watched on with great grief in her heart, and yet she did nothing for fear of her mother.
— — -
Beeba, unmindful of his bruises, turned his thoughts to the fauji Baba. If these people ever got their hands on the old man, they would certainly not spare him. Beeba felt a moment of regret. Why did he have to go to the Baba’s motor24? Had Beeba not been captured there, the Baba would not have been embroiled in this mess. But who else did Beeba have to confide in, if not the old man? The Baba was the only one who had ever looked out for him. The village did not have principled men like him anymore. The rest were little better than dried leaves, drifting where the wind went.
As he sat up, Beeba caught sight of a white calf that stood outside the window.
The bruised and battered Beeba’s heart writhed with anguish. When he was little, his mother had brought this same calf’s mother from her parents’ household. Beeba used to come home from school and feed hay to the cow, the calf, and a second calf born soon after. The cow had no bovine traits to speak of: it used to run off every which way, barging into fields, running riot, refusing to come back. Her calf too had taken after her. The two of them used to trouble Beeba no end. The younger calf, Bholu, on the other hand, was very quiet and sweet. But the cow paid him little attention, fondly pampering her favorite calf.
Their house had a big door which was always latched. Next to it a smaller tin door, which the cow would always smack against with her horns, limbs or hind on her way out, causing a considerable racket. His mother and sister would rush out, irritable, hands smeared with dough or soot, asking him why he needed to take the cattle out in the first place. If they caught a scratch or a cut on the cow’s hide, Beeba would be brought to a world of hurt. As a bright student, he had never been punished at school. But his mother would give him a hiding with a stick, although he himself never raised the stick at the cow.
Whenever the cow ran headlong into the village, the calf would follow suit, forcing Beeba to give chase. The cow would finally return home, rattling the tin door. The Sant would be seated cross-legged on a bed, discoursing on a saakhee,25 with his mother and sister sitting on the floor before him, listening intently. A great aura prevailed. And then the cow and her calf would race inside, crashing into the door. The Sant, the mother and the sister would all be cry out in surprise, their contemplations disrupted.
The mother would jump to her feet, staring daggers at the breathless Beeba. Sometimes wearing a gash on his ankle, sometimes with a thorn stuck in his feet, at times having received an earful or a beating after his cow had run roughshod over someone’s fields, he would arrive in great pain, terribly thirsty. But he would quietly proceed to tie up the cattle, stung by his mother’s harsh words. He would go to the water tap, only to turn back and leave without quenching his thirst, wary of disrupting his mother’s meditations again.
He gradually took to visiting the Baba fauji’s motor to drink water and wash his face. Here he would finally let loose many doleful sighs. Sometimes the Baba fauji would run his hand over the boy’s head, speaking a few kind words, and Beeba would calm down. The Baba would often engage him in wise discussions, many of which went over his head. The Baba assured him that he would understand it all someday.
— — -
Beeba recalled his Bhuaa’s26 words.
One night, when he was no more than seven or eight, someone had visited their house. Mother had told them the man was his mama27. She left Beeba with his sister and went inside with the man. Beeba turned the household upside down, insisting he wanted to sleep in his mother’s room. His sister, barely eleven years of age, could not catch hold of him, and he knocked on his mother’s door incessantly. She stormed out of her room and thrashed him so ruthlessly that he went quiet, his body limb, unable to even cry. “I will kill you tonight!” his mother threatened. “I will boil you alive. I will not let you live.”
The following morning, Beeba developed a fever. His Bhuaa happened to visit the same day. She did not say a word to the mother, and silently nursed the poor boy in her lap. His sister told her Bhuaa about what had happened. The Bhuaa’s eyes welled up, and she hugged Beeba tightly, saying, “May God keep you safe. May no misfortune ever befall you, my child. You are my brother Chand veer’s legacy.”
Beeba’s father was no more. Having said this, the Bhuaa burst into tears. She regained her composure, and told them, “She wanted to kill you when you were in her womb.” Neither Beeba nor his sister understood her. His sister asked, “Bhuaa, if she had killed him, wouldn’t she have hurt herself too?” Beeba agreed.
“No, daughter. You won’t understand this now. You will when you’re older.” Their Bhuaa kissed them both, and said, “Stay safe. May Baba Nanak watch over you. I pray some sense dawns on your wretched no-good mother. She devoured my veer.”
When she said this, the two children asked in unison, “How can a man be eaten?”
“It happens, children. There are many women who are maneaters.” She sighed. The children looked on, clueless. “If you were to ask anyone from our parental village, they will tell you how rich and comfortable our family was. Once she arrived, the family fell apart. She never got along with her in-laws, nor with her sisters-in-law, for they didn’t let her run roughshod the household. That was all. She pricked and stung and ate away at my veer, little by little. She made him sell away his share of the land, and buy the arid land here. What was the use of living here, without family, without friends or well-wishers? What did she care? My veer was reduced to cattle tending to cattle, while she wore fancy clothes and did as she pleased.”
Their Bhuaa paused. Beeba’s sister prodded her, “And then, Bhuaa?”
“And then, my niece, my princess, fate conspired to bring my veer to ruin. Such a tall and handsome young man! But this witch hated him. She used to stay holed up in the chelas’28 houses all day. My veer, your father, would implore her not to go there. She paid him no heed. He was desperate, and one day, he hit her. She was livid. She was pregnant with you, Beeba. She threatened him, said she won’t bear his child. She would kill the child. She consumed all manners of soot, ash and filth. We barely managed to save her. This went on for a while. In the end, your disconsolate father went and attacked the chelas. But he was all alone…” She burst into tears, as did the children.
Their mother, who had been listening in on them this whole while, walked in and had a furious argument with their Bhuaa. She never stepped foot inside their house again.
Their mother gradually tried to win her children’s affections back. Her cajolement won Beeba’s sister over. Beeba, however, continued to be haunted by the thrashing he had received that night, and his Bhuaa’s words the morning after. He would often wake up screaming. In his dreams, his mother would sit on his chest, thrashing him, tearing his chest open with her sharp teeth and nails. Overwhelmed by a great weight bearing down upon his face and his chest, he would wake up. Sometimes, in his dreams, he would spot her leaving the chelas’ house, her mouth unhinged, wide open, and she would bite his head off clean. Paralyzed with fear, he could neither scream nor even breathe. His sister would jolt him awake.
— — -
Now, his sister jolted him awake, offering him a glass of milk. “Drink it, dear Beeba.” Her heart was heavy, for her brother was tied to a pillar like an animal. She tended to his wounds. He nodded towards the white calf standing outside the window, and asked his sister, “Where is the mother cow?”
“We gave her away to a gaushala29. She was of no use to us anymore,” she replied. Beeba looked at her, then at the calf. He wanted to slap the glass of milk away. The sangat had had their meal and left. The guards too were gone. His sister offered him the glass of milk again, and begrudgingly took a few sips. His eyes betrayed sorrow, anger, an agitated storm of passions.
“Why don’t you bring me poison instead?” he snapped at his sister. She did not respond. She got up and quietly left.
Beeba thought to himself, the Baba would not have left so quickly. He would have made sure I finished the glass of milk. There were times when Beeba would show up at the Baba’s motor after receiving a beating, and the Baba would offer his own meal to him. Despite the Boy’s stubborn protests, the Baba would always persuade him to finish the meal.
Now, as then, it was only the old man who could save him, if at all. He had gone to pull together an assembly of men against the Sant. He would surely arrive by the evening. He had left the moment the Sant’s men had caught him and taken him away.
It was after many days that he had visited the Baba’s motor today. The Baba had asked him, “Where have you been hiding these past few days?”
“What else was I to do?” sighed Beeba. “They are baying for my blood.”
“Who?” asked the Baba.
Beeba flared. “Don’t act clueless! You know everything. My mother has given away everything we own to the Sant, and he has opened his dera on our land.” He paused, overcome with emotion. He persevered, “Now, the land is in my name. My mother prostrates herself before the Sant, but the land isn’t his property, is it? This is why they’re looking for me. They will force me to give up my rights over the land and then kill me. The Sant has influence over the police and the government, after all.” He paused. “At first, the gurdwara’s Bhai was troubled by these developments. Now he too can be found carrying baskets to the dera. Only owls hoot in the gurdwara.” Beeba sighed and squatted on the ground.
The fauji Baba was well aware, of course, that Beeba had been hiding in the homes of local landowners. Being a committed comrade30, the Baba had been discharged early from the army, but he continued to maintain his links and connections. The landowners were on good terms with the Baba, and shared his contempt for the dera’s land-grabbing methods.
“Do you go there too?” Beeba asked, nodding towards the dera that stood in the distance.
The Baba turned and considered the landscape. “The dera resounds with praises of the great devout Bibi.”
Beeba scowled. “So, you have taken to calling her the devout Bibi too?”
The Baba replied, “Beeba, the whole world does. Shouldn’t I?” He laughed.
Beeba retorted, “The world can call her whatever it wishes. You shouldn’t. You ought to call her what she is: a maneater.” A pause. “Baba, you used to assure me these deras will soon come to be obsolete. But they have gone from strength to strength. There’s one on my own land.”
The Baba did not say a word for a long time. No explanation seemed to occur to him. He kept running his fingers through his beard, gazing at the dera. At last, he looked at Beeba, and said, “Beeba, my son, I doubt you have ever witnessed the death of a man long plagued by sickness.” Beeba shook his head. The Baba continued, “Right before such a man dies, in those final few moments, his face lights up. It becomes blissful. He appears to be healthy. Elder folk call this a sambhaala31. The naïve take it to mean he has recovered. But the wise know his time has come.”
Beeba’s eyes swam with hope as well as doubt. The Baba reassured him, “This is the sambhaala of these deras. This is the end of the line for them.” He added, “If you hadn’t been absent all these days, we could have come up with some legal action. We could have approached someone, gone to the police station, tried with the court.”
“The police, the courts, all belong to them. But there are other ways to deal with them.”
It was hard to tell what the Baba made of this statement. “Beeba, my son, you used to be such an innocent child.”
Beeba did not reply. Then, in a soft voice, he asked, “Do you remember, Baba, when my mother had sold off our little calf Bholu?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I wept and wept, for Bholu had been my dearest friend. But my mother sold him to the goat herders. He did not want to go, but my mother handed him off to them anyway. They had exchanged him for a few goats, and I ran up to fight them. You had dragged me away. I had protested, cried that he was a kind and naïve calf, a guileless creature, and you had replied, there is no one in this world that cares for the kind or the naïve.”
Beeba looked at the Baba, who stood with his arms outstretched. Before Beeba could hug the Baba, many rough hands grabbed hold of Beeba, like an eagle’s talons. The Sant’s thugs, casting threatening looks at the Baba, carried the boy off.
— — -
The sangat rushed into the hall, ready for their meal. Left and right echoed cries of “Satnam Waheguru,” “Satnam, parshada,” “Daalaan, Waheguru” “Paani, Waheguru” “Mirchaan, Waheguru” “Chaa, Waheguru” “Ambb, Waheguru.”32 Many among the crowd stole glances towards Beeba, who sat chained to the pillar. But considering the guards’ bloody eyes and twirled mustaches, they kept their distance.
Beeba did not eat a morsel of food, nor did he drink a sip of water, or respond to anyone. He awaited the Baba fauji. He was sure the old man would arrive with a gang of armymen and rescue him. He would banish this demon masquerading as a Sant. Lost in thought, he imagined the calf chasing the Sant, followed by hysterical men in long cloaks and long breeches.
The evening slowly eased into night, but the Baba did not arrive. Perhaps he had been arrested. Perhaps he had not found anyone in the neighboring villages, all men reduced to dried leaves. Perhaps the Baba himself was scared. Beeba contemplated many such scenarios, and with a cry he bumped his head against the pillar.
Outside the langar hall, a divaan33 was underway on the open field. The Sant took a seat on pristine white sheets. Musicians sat ready with drums, tongs, horns and strings. The devotees assembled around the Sant. The Sant began his discourse: “Once there lived a prostitute named Ganika34. She would trap birds in flight.35 She ruined many households this way. One day, a sant showed up. It is these sants who are entrusted with the task of ferrying sinners across the world-ocean. The sant gifted Ganika a parrot, who chanted, ‘Raam, Raam36,’ to help carry the sinful Ganika across the ocean. And so, her sins were absolved. Whatever goodwill or misfortune her actions had accrued, she gratefully assigned to the Sant.”
The sangat held its breath in rapt silence. “My dear sangat, let us now read a shabad37,” the Sant closed his eyes, raised a hand, and ecstatically began to sing.
“De santaan ne tota Ganika taar ditti. De santaan ne tota Ganika taar ditti.— The Sant gifted a parrot, and so ferried Ganika across. The Sant gifted a parrot, and so ferried Ganika across.”
The drums resounded, as did the tongs and strings and horns, and the Sant and his devotees alike began singing manically:
“De santaan ne tota Ganika taar ditti, De santaan ne tota Ganika taar ditti.”
As they sang, the divan was overcome by a euphoric fervor. And then, who knows what came over the devout Bibi: she grabbed a pair of tongs from one of the musicians and started clattering it, singing hysterically, walking in circles. Her song turned to shrieks:
“De santaan ne tota… De santaan ne tota…”
Her hair came undone. She started convulsing, her head spinning, as if possessed.
“Ganika taar ditti… Ganika taar ditti…”
She fell face first on the ground, and went quiet.
Some women began to pick her up, but the Sant commanded, “No! She has attained a transcendental state. She is connected with the Guru’s lotus-feet. This state is only bestowed upon the blessed. Blessed is the devout Bibi, blessed is her fortune!”
De santaan ne tota Ganika taar ditti. Beeba understood what this parrot was, for he was no longer a child. He had conquered his fear. It was the parrot that lured and beguiled devotees, that conducted their unending dance with anxieties and fears. Beholding the devout Bibi’s beatific state, many women aspired to emulate her. Some men too, entranced by the Sant’s parrot, wished to attain the Bibi’s state. How could any devotee think otherwise, when the Sant himself had declared her blessed? The sangat hailed the Bibi. The Sant’s sewadaars raised cries of “Blessed is the Sant, blessed is the Bibi!”
But Beeba was unmoved. He did not know the fear the parrot affected to vanquish.
Beeba looked for his sister among the devotees, but she was nowhere to be found. The divaan concluded, and the devotees left for their homes. The white calf wailed into the darkness, and Beeba’s heart smouldered with fury. If he could, he would reduce the whole world to ash. He trembled with rage, struggling against the chains. He glared at all of the world as if he would chew it alive. He yearned to consume poison.
The stench of alcohol singed his nostrils. He turned around, surprised, and found the guards drinking next to the hall. He listened to their conversation, which was littered with bitter remarks: “The Sant is a scoundrel. A blight. There lies his Ganika, face down. Now he has designs upon her daughter. This Ganika will spend the rest of her life washing utensils. Go, wake her up.”
Beeba felt numb. A pang of pity arose in his heart for this Ganika. She was, after all, his mother. No, he told himself, she is Ganika. A cruel maneater, in fact. The devout Bibi shifted, and her eyes met his. He felt an urge to spit in her direction, but his mouth was parched.
Outside, the white calf cried out again. Something came over the devout Bibi. She picked up the tong and broke into a hobbling sprint towards the hall. Beeba braced himself, afraid she might repeat the beatings from that night years ago.
But she headed straight for the calf. The guards chased after her. The calf trembled like a leaf as the Bibi flogged his hide with the Sant’s tongs. The poor creature strained against his leash with all his might.
Beeba gnawed at his chains, overwhelmed with an apocalyptic despair. He screamed, “O Baba fauji!”
A monastery, camp or residence associated with a religious leader, popular in North India. Jacob Copeman defines deras as "monasteries or the extended residential sites of religious leaders; frequently just glossed as sect." (lit. ‘camp, abode, monastery’)
The Sikh institution of community meals, prepared, organized and served by volunteers and volunteer organizations
Saint
Servicemen, volunteers and helpers associated with a religious organization or leader
Spears
Axes
Venerable term for an elderly woman, or one who has earned great spiritual merit
A kerchief wrapped and tied over the head during a religious ceremony
A long piece of fabric draped loosely over the head and shoulders, similar to a scarf
An acre
Armyman, soldier
Correctness of conduct, duty, faith, religiosity
Actions, deeds. Also, the chain of causes and effects, rewards and punishments, conjured by one’s actions, intentions, etc.
A police station (lit. ‘a small stool or bench’)
Village headman
A term of affection for one’s elder brother, cousin, friend (lit. ‘hero, brave’)
Illusion, deception, simulation
A sacred phrase central to Sikh religiosity, translating to “True is the Name, O [of] wonderous Guru.”
Congregation
A young faithful (lit. ‘small/newborn snake’)
Religious individuals who have achieved great spiritual merit (lit. ‘great men’)
A term of respect, akin to ‘sir,’ also ‘your honor, your excellency, your majesty,’ etc.
Idiomatic. The policeman asks her the Sant’s blessings or favor.
Agricultural tube-wells or borewells, a common sight in Punjab’s fields
Historical account, anecdote
Aunt, father’s sister
Uncle, mother’s brother
The Sant’s entourage, followers
Cow shelter
Communist
From the verb ‘sambhaalna’: to bolster, to recover, to regain one’s balance, to steady oneself. Also: festive gifts to a newly married bride by her in-laws or parents; often sweets, clothes, jewelry (another term being ‘sandhaaraa’).
Food being offered during langar by volunteers: roti (flatbread), lentils, water, chillies, tea, mangoes.
Court, assembly
Literally, a courtesan, dancer, (derogatory) prostitute. A recurring figure in devotional tales and anecdotes.
Idiomatic: wayward men, clients, patrons
The Hindu god-king Rama. Divine names as a conduit to the ineffable divine.
Religious hymn (lit. ‘tone, note, word, speech’)