Excerpt from Simrita Dhir's The Song of Distant Bulbuls....by Rachhpal Sahota

California (US): Teej Festival will be celebrated in Punjab, Haryana and Chandigarh on Wednesday, August 7th. Babushahi presents an excerpt from The Song of Distant Bulbuls by Simrita Dhir, in which a rural Teej Carnival of yore comes alive, bringing to light the traditions associated with the festival while also offering glimpses of the composite, syncretic setup of Pre-partition Punjab.

The carnival was a riot of colors and excitement. Men, women, and children in bright clothes walked about, joking and laughing. Vendors were selling bangles, kites, trinkets, earthen vessels, mangoes, and wild berries. Kulfi and Gulab Jamun were also up for sale.

Gypsies from faraway lands stood in nooks, selling silver jewelry. Farther away, girls were doing kikli dances, singing songs, swinging on trees and praying for rain to come soon. 

Sammi bought deep blue bangles from a vendor and slipped them on, smiling at how the blue of the bangles offered a bold contrast to her green salwar kameez. Looking around, she spotted a group of girls that she knew and went and sat by them on a grassy patch.

Some of them had been married around the same time as her and now had as many as three children. The girls were visiting their parents for Teej. 

‘Oh, Sammi, how lovely it is to see you after so long,’ one of the girls, Basanto, said. 

‘Yes, it has been a while since I have stepped out from home. My Bibi was sick and then she died. It has been hard,’ Sammi said. 

‘It’s bound to be hard,’ another girl Premo said. ‘And what is the news of your soldier husband?’ 

‘There is no news,’ Sammi said, looking away.  ‘How tragic to be deserted in the prime of youth,’ yet another girl Nihalo said. ‘And you are so pretty too.’ 

‘A girl must have a pretty kismet,’ Basanto said. ‘Many a pretty-faced girl is left crying and then one hears of the plain-looking girl with a pretty kismet who goes on to marry a wealthy man and live in a palace. Kismet is all that matters.’ 

‘Hush, everyone,’ Premo said. ‘The gypsy girls from Sandal Bar are going to sing and dance now.’ 

Everyone gasped and began staring at the gypsy girls from Sandal Bar who had congregated in the middle of the meadow, right in front of where Sammi was sitting with the village girls. 

Sammi knew that Sandal Bar was the pastoral land in West Punjab. She had not visited that side of Punjab ever, far away as it was.

Only once had she ventured out of Punjab’s Malwa region, of which her village formed a part. That was when she had gone to visit the Golden Temple with Hari Singh right after their wedding. B

apuji who had visited Sandal Bar, said that it was lush forestland, where gypsy girls clad in colourful clothes were often seen singing and dancing along the banks of the River Chenab.

Sammi gazed at the gypsy girls. They matched Bapuji’s description of them. Dressed in red and black ghagras and cholis, chunnis loosely draped around their heads and shoulders, the gypsy girls were mysterious, brave and uninhibited. They wore chunky earrings, pendants and bracelets, their kohl-lined eyes and deep red lips accentuating their aura. 

Everyone at the carnival had now gathered in the meadow, eagerly waiting for the gypsies to start their performance. Sammi, too, was waiting breathlessly for the performance to begin, for it to divert her mind from the present. Basanto’s words had unnerved her.

It was truly not the girl with pretty looks but the one with a pretty kismet who basked in the joys of life, Sammi was thinking when the gypsy girls broke into a song, dancing slowly and tenderly to it.

They were moving around in a ring, swinging their arms and legs and clapping, immersing the surroundings with romance, their sensuous movements evoking images of their River Chenab, the silver ornaments in their hair shimmering in the light of the sun. 

How I adore you,

I dote on you, my Sammi! 

The camels go laden with goods,

There are bells around their necks, Oh, Sammi! 

High-storeyed is the house,

The oven burns hot.

I cook and count loaves,

He who’d eat them is faraway, Oh, Sammi! 

How I adore you,

I dote on you, my Sammi! 

Sammi’s heart skipped a beat on realizing that the song that the gypsy girls were singing and dancing to, was titled ‘Sammi’. It narrated a legend dating back to nearly a thousand years of a princess named Sammi who had been separated from her lover Dhola. The song and the accompanying dance were a portrayal of the pain and agony, love and longing of the princess for her lost lover. 

The pathos at the heart of the gypsies’ song and dance shook Sammi. The protagonist of the song was not just her namesake, but also the bearer of similar misfortune. The song was rendering afresh her plight and sorrow. Anguish began to simmer in her chest. She began walking away from the grassy patch even as the gypsies were bringing the song to a close, visions of camel caravans and jingling bells, forlorn homes and hot ovens, distant lands and separated lovers, crisscrossing her mind. 

Pushing away those images, Sammi had barely begun looking at the silver trinkets that were hung up for sale in a nook when she heard a voice. 

‘Sammi Bibi.’

Sammi turned around. That was Zulfi.

‘Salaam,’ she said.

‘Salaam.’

‘I was hoping to see you,’ Sammi said.

‘I went to Patiala the day before yesterday. Jasjit asked me to meet you. Do you have a date and time for your departure to the city?’ Zulfi’s voice was low pitched. 

‘Yes.’

Zulfi raised a finger, gesturing for her to be quiet. 

Looking around, he made doubly sure that no one was looking or listening. ‘Let us talk under the rosewood,’ he said, pointing to the tree that stood to a side. 

Sammi followed Zulfi to the rosewood. ‘Tell Jasjit that I will take the 6 a.m. train from Sangrur next Monday,’ she said. 

‘Monday is only a week away. I will leave for Patiala early tomorrow morning and let Jasjit know so that he may make the arrangements and reach the railway station in time on Monday to get you.’ 

‘I will step out of home at the crack of dawn. At 4 a.m.’ 

‘I will see you under the old banyan by the river,’ Zulfi said. ‘You needn’t worry about anything. I will arrange for a tanga to take us to town in time for the train. I will put you in the women’s compartment.’ 

Sammi nodded. She noticed that Zulfi’s eyes reflected the same emotions as hers—fortitude, strength, constancy. ‘I will be fine,’ Sammi said as though to reassure the two of them.

‘Yes, of course. Your Muslim brother carried your doli on your wedding day. And now as you set out on a yet newer journey, I will be there for you again,’ Zulfi said. Sammi gazed at Zulfi’s face. Their eyes met. In that moment, faith, caste and community vanished into the air, their shared ethos coming to bind them.

As Jasjit’s closest friend, Zulfi featured even in the earliest of Sammi’s childhood memories. Everything about him radiated goodness—his kind, dark brown eyes; his thoughtful words and acts; his unwavering capacity for friendship; his generous spirit.

She deemed herself lucky to have him by her side at yet another pivotal moment of her life. ‘4 a.m., Monday,’ she said waving slightly.He bowed and left.

Sammi continued standing under the rosewood.  An undefined vulnerability connected her to Zulfi. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she could sense it, acute as it was.She envisaged turbulence and upheaval in the future, dark, savage clouds raging on the horizon, Zulfi and her caught in the havoc.

Would they emerge stronger and more determined from the storm? Would they be able to transcend the divisive fault lines without sacrificing morality? A distant day held the answers. 

Excerpted with permission from The Song of Distant Bulbuls, Simrita Dhir, Speaking Tiger Books. (Simrita Dhir lectures at the University of California, San Diego. The Song of Distant Bulbuls is her second novel.)

August 10, 2024