I always wondered why these women were called ‘runaways’? They weren’t asked to run away. The word ‘runaway’ has a romantic connotation; the man and the woman have an equal role. Running away or eloping, to give it its more romantic name, is like a chasm that causes every nerve and sinew to tingle with excitement before the big leap across. But this is plain and simple abduction where a poor defenseless woman is picked up and locked away in a dark dingy hovel.
But the times were such that arguments and counter-arguments, sage counsels and philosophic musings held little value. During these days when, despite the heat of summer, people slept indoors with all the doors and windows shut, I too had shut and bolted the doors and windows of my mind — even though it was imperative that at a time like this, I keep them wide open. But what could I do? I could think of nothing better.
Rescued women were coming home. Retrieved women were going home.
This rescue and retrieval was in full swing to the accompaniment of other mundane business-like transactions. And, pen in hand, journalists, writers and poets were busy hunting their quarry. And a flood of poems, stories and articles kept eddying about endlessly. Pens would stumble and lose their way occasionally. Dismayed by the sheer numbers, the hunters were at a loss as to what to do.
I met a liaison officer who asked me, ‘Why do you look so lost?’
I gave no answer.
He told me a story:‘We have to travel all over looking for abducted women — from one city to another, from one village to the next, then the third, then fourth, from street to alley to by-lane, from one neighbourhood to another. It is with the greatest difficulty that these rare jewels come to our hands.’
I said to myself, ‘Pierced gems or unpierced ones?’
‘You have no idea of the difficulties we have to face. I’ll tell you a story … we have made countless trips across the border. The strangest thing is that on every trip I saw an old woman — a Muslim old woman. The first time I saw her she must have been middle aged. It was in the by-lanes of Jalandhar. She was dressed in torn filthy rags, her eyes were vacant, her hair matted and coated with dirt, and she looked lost and crazy with grief. She was in no state to look after herself, yet it was amply clear that her eyes were searching for someone.
‘A woman volunteer told me that grief had made her lose her mind. She was from Patiala. She had an only daughter whom she couldn’t find. Every effort was made to locate her, but with no luck. She was perhaps killed in the riots, but the old woman refused to accept that.
‘I saw her for the second time in Saharanpur, where the lorry drivers parked their vehicles. She looked frailer and dirtier than before. A film of muck coated her lips. Her hair was matted in dreadlocks like a sadhu’s. I tried to talk to her and persuade her to give up her blind hopeless search. I hardened my heart and spoke harshly to her, “Old woman, your daughter was killed.”
‘The mad woman looked at me and said, ‘Killed? … No.’ There was a steely resolve in her tone, ‘No one can kill her. No one can kill my daughter.’
‘And she went off on her blind, futile search.
‘I wondered — a search like this and that too blind? Why was the mad woman convinced that no one would raise a dagger against her daughter? That no sharp-edged blade or knife could come near her throat? Was she immortal? Or was it the old woman’s love for her daughter that was immortal? A mother’s love is, after all, immortal, so was she then simply searching for a mother’s love? Had she lost it somewhere…?
‘I saw her again on my third trip. The rags barely covered her body now and she was almost naked. I gave her some clothes but she refused to accept them.
‘I said to her, “Old woman, I am telling you the truth. Your daughter was killed in Patiala itself.”’
‘She answered with the same steely resolve, “You lie.”’
‘I tried to make her believe me, “No, no, I am telling you the truth. You have shed enough tears over her. Come with me now, I will take you to Pakistan.”’
‘She didn’t hear me and began to mumble to herself. In the middle of her muffled monologue, she was suddenly startled. This time the resolve in her voice was stronger than steel. “No! No one can kill my daughter.”’
‘I asked, “Why?”
‘The old woman answered softly, “She is beautiful. She is so beautiful that no one can kill her — no man can even raise his hand to slap her.”’
‘I wondered — could she really be so beautiful? In the eyes of every mother, her child is fairer than the sun and the moon. While it is possible that her daughter was indeed very beautiful, could these tempestuous times have left any beauty untarnished by Man’s callused hands? Perhaps the old woman is only fooling herself by holding on to that one slender thread? There are a thousand means of escape, but sorrow is the only cross-section that weaves a web of a hundred thousand converging roads.
‘I made several other trips across the border and saw the mad woman each time. She was reduced to nothing but skin and bones. She could barely see but her search continued — undaunted and stronger than ever. She believed as strongly as ever that her daughter was alive for the simple reason that no one could kill her.
‘The lady volunteer told me it was pointless trying to make her see reason. She was completely insane; it would be best to take her to Pakistan and admit her to a mental asylum.
‘But I didn’t agree. I could not take away the only thing that kept her going — her blind search for her daughter. I could not take her away from this huge madhouse where she could walk freely around for miles and slake the thirst of her blistered feet and lock her away in some cramped cell across the border.
‘I saw her for the last time in Amritsar. Her state was such that it brought tears to my eyes. This time I resolved to take her to Pakistan and put her in a mental asylum.
‘She was standing in Farid Chowk, looking about her with her near- blind eyes. There was a hustle and bustle in the marketplace. I was sitting with the lady volunteer and talking about an abducted girl who was reported to be living with a Hindu merchant in Sabuniya Bazaar. I finished my conversation and got up with the intention of telling the mad woman a bunch of lies and somehow get her to agree to come with me to Pakistan when a couple walked past. The girl had veiled her face but not fully. The man with her was a Sikh youth — a prime specimen of young manhood with chiseled features and robust good looks.
‘As the two walked past the mad woman, the young man stepped back a pace or two. He held the girl’s hand and pulled her against him. She pushed back her veil almost involuntarily. Framed against the white cotton of her veil, I saw a glowing pink face whose incredible beauty I cannot describe.
‘I was standing close beside them. The Sikh youth pointed the mad woman to the young Goddess of Beauty and whispered, “Your mother.”’
‘The girl looked at the mad woman and, in that one instant, forgot to hold on to her veil. Then she clutched the young man’s arm and spoke in a clenched tone, “Let’s go.”’
‘And the two walked away swiftly. The mad woman shouted, “Bhaagbhari! Bhaagbhari!”’
‘She was beside herself with excitement. I went to her and asked, “What’s the matter, old woman?”’
‘She was shaking. “I saw her!”’
‘Who? I asked.
‘The sightless balls sunk into two pits beneath her creased forehead came to life. “I saw my daughter — Bhaagbhari!”’
‘Once again I said to her, “But she died a long time ago.”’
‘She shouted, “You lie!”’
‘To convince her once and for all, this time I said, “I swear upon God — your daughter is dead.”’