An Unforgettable Anecdote

                                                           Shivachand

                                    Kirti Nath Jha

‘Shivachand !’ The name was called.

However, before I could dispose of the previous patient the next had already occupied the vacant chair in front of my desk.

‘Shivachand?’ I enquired.

‘That’s right, Sir.’

Patient’s face attracted my attention first, being an eye specialist. And naturally so. For whatever reason they come, they all have some eye disease; cataract, glaucoma, squint or, painful watering eyes. Nonetheless, what really attracted my attention about this patient were the crescent moon and star tattooed prominently on the right side of his face, just below the hairline.

It was amazing, I thought. A crescent moon and star on a Hindu’s forehead! If truth be told, I could not overcome my curiosity.

‘Shivcahnd, are you a Mohammedan?’

Shivachand broke into a loud laugh. But, soon regaining his composure he remarked,

‘Sir, I don’t really know how to answer your good self but I owe my life to this tattoo alone’ and he lapsed into deep contemplation.

‘OK ?’ I remarked still surprised.

‘It’s true, but difficult to believe. May be, no one will trust me with my story now. It was hard to believe it in those turbulent times too.’ Shivchand lapsed into contemplation for a moment. Then he beagn, ‘ It’s a long story ,but an unforgettable incident.’He began ; ‘When I was yet a child, We lived in a small village in the present state of Haryana. An agitation for a ‘sacred homeland for the pure- the Pakistan’ was at its peak.Children as we were, we had no knowledge of it then. But this story is neither about my village, nor about Pakistan.This is a story about Farzana, my elder sister’s friend, who loved us like her own children.Farzana was married in a Muslim dominated village, on the other side of the present Indo-Pakistan border that did not exist then. My elder sister too was married in a nearby village but on the Indian side. It was usual for us to have holidays with my sister for she really indulged us.

Farzana didi and my sister kept in touch with each other through Farzana’s  didi’s husband, who was a engine driver. Since my sister and Farzana didi were very close friends. Farzana didi’s husband often obliged us with a joyrides in his engine-cabin to his village and back. It was on one such occasion that when I reached Farzana didi’s house the village was engulfed in a sudden communal flare–up. Therefore, that day, when she saw me at her doorstep a deep sense of fear and foreboding overcame her.

‘What brought you here, today!' -she asked me half scolding in an anguished tone.-‘God only knows what will happen to you.’She continued shaking her head for a while.

‘How old were you then, Shivachand?’-I interrupted.

‘Count it yourself, Sir.This year I’m fifty- three. I shall proceed on pension the next year.’

After this brief interruption, Shivachand was back to his story again:

‘Sensing the trouble erupting in the village Farzana didi immediately took me to inner precincts

of her house and had me concealed under a heap of hay .But, Sir, it is amazing to think of it today, how the angry villagers smelt my presence there. In no time, large crowds of angry rioters had started trooping to didi's house.Swearing and abusing they all demanded, ‘hand us over the child born of an infidel’. They all cursed her for this sacrilegious act, when their own brethren were unsafe elsewhere. Sir, I have no words to describe her courage. She single handedly tried to ward them all off. But when the crowd started getting restive, she ran inside her house, brought her own son, who would be barely four then, if I remember it correctly, and threw him to the ground in front of them and shouted ‘you need a child to kill, alright? Take him.’

The crowd got stunned for a moment at her audacity and retreated a few steps. Soon, they all  huddled themselves into quick confabulation and returned immediately to warn Farzana didi’s father-in –law, who was ,so far, watching all this with equanimity from one corner of the veranda.

‘Look, enough is enough. What she is doing isn’t proper in these troubled times.’ The village headman declared.‘But what has happened has happened. Now ask Farzana to return the boy back to his village as soon as possible.’ The headman decreed.

Now as Shivachand story was coming to a close, his voice chocked with emotions. But he continued in the same breath, ‘Sir, that day I was born again. Overnight Farzana didi shaved my head off, pony and all, got my forehead tattooed with what you see here today and she sent me off, back to my village, by the next goods train ,hidden amongst the heaps of coal in a steam engine storage-space.’

                    I looked up at the clock .It was already two-thirty in the afternoon. The OPD already wore a deserted look. I quickly disposed Shivachand off, telling him, soon we would talk again.

His story left a deep impression on me for a long time. I mentioned the saga of this fearless mother to a number of my friends. A few of them, both  curious and sceptical, visited my hospital ward for Shivachand remained there for over a month more. For those of you who would find it hard to believe, suffice it to say that Shivachand is still serving in his military unit cherishing the memories of his long-lost benefactor.

For one, whenever I remember Shivachand’s tattooed face, I bow in reverence and praise of that worthy mother with the shloka from Durgasaptashati:

            One who permeates the universe,

           And who symbolizes all women and wisdom,

            O’ mother you are above all praises!