Dehati boliyan 1

Come! Let me take you on a journey through the villages of Punjab. These are the villages of India where romance is entirely unburdened by the weight of civilization and culture. Here, emotions play as freely as children. Love in this place is like gold mingled with the earth. Untainted by artificiality or pretense, the hearts of children, the youth, and the elderly beat in unison in these villages. At every step, you will encounter poetry—poetry that is completely liberated from the strictures of meter and the confines of formal vocabulary.

As you wander through the open air here, you will discover a new life breathing within you. You will feel that you, too, are capable of love; that within you lies the power to expand and embrace a passionate vastness; that you, too, can understand the language of the birds, and that the humming of the wind holds meaning for you as well. When swallows dive through the silent sky, when bats glide in endless rows toward the forests at dusk, when the bells around the necks of the returning cattle chime, and a captivating, dance-like trance settles over the atmosphere—your heart, too, will swell and contract with the rhythm of it all.

Look over there—mud houses lie sprawled across the earth. Rows of large cow-dung cakes stretch far along the walls. Even these earthen dwellings seem to love one another, for there is no distance between them. One rooftop embraces the next, creating a second open plain suspended above the ground. Charpoys lie overturned on these roofs. Long husks of sugarcane are scattered about. It is midday, and the sun is so blistering that even an eagle would abandon its egg. The atmosphere is steeped in a dreamy melancholy. Occasionally, the shrill cry of an eagle pierces the air, leaving a faint scratch upon the silence before fading away... But who has climbed up to the roof in this scorching heat? Ah, it is a *mutiyar* (young woman) of the village. Look at the way she walks barefoot across the blistering roof. There, she has stopped. Who is she waiting for? Whom are her eyes searching for? What is she gazing at through the cluster of acacia trees? How long will she stand there? Do her feet not burn? Perhaps she is the one who sang:

Kothey upar khalliyan

Meri sargiyan pair diyan talliyan

Mera yaar najar na aaway

[I stand upon the roof, and as I stand here, the soles of my feet have burned... yet my lover is nowhere to be seen.]

No, she has merely started gathering the dried sugarcane husks... But why does she keep glancing over toward the shade of the old banyan tree, where a young man stands holding a long staff? Could he be her someone? How the brass studs on his staff gleam! While we were watching the young man, another young woman appeared on the farthest roof, quite a distance away. You cannot make out much from this far, but look at how her *laung* (nose stud) sparkles. Was it about this very nose stud that the following was said?

Tere laung da peya lashkara

Haliyan ne hal dakk laye

[When your *laung* (nose stud) flashed, the plowmen halted their plows... thinking that lightning had struck and rain was on its way.]

Oh no, this is an entirely different matter... Look, the first girl is gesturing to the second. Perhaps she is calling her over. Then she leans forward and glances again toward the shade where the young man from the village is standing. He holds his staff in one hand, while with the other, he toys with the amulets hanging around his neck. Witnessing this scene brings to mind a *boli* (folk song) that every boy in this village knows by heart. How does it go...? Ah, yes...

Munda moh leya taveetan wala

Damri da sakk mal ke

[A strapping young man, who wore amulets to ward off misfortune, was captivated by a girl who simply rubbed a *damri's* worth of *sakk* (walnut or tree bark used to tint the lips).]

More gestures are being exchanged. The first girl is signaling the other to hurry over... Why doesn't she just say it plainly:

Kothey kothey aa Lachhiye

Tainu Banto da yaar vakhawan

[Come across the rooftops, Lachhi... Let me show you Banto's lover.]

Who knows? This young man twirling his mustache beneath the banyan tree might indeed be Banto's lover. And if not Banto's, then someone else's. After all, he has to be *someone's* lover. Just look at his posture. He wears a white khadi turban on his head and clearly thinks very highly of himself. Now that two young women have spotted him in this pose, every maiden in the village will soon know that he was standing under the banyan tree, sporting a white khadi turban. Oh, the gossip that will follow! Playful taunts will be tossed about, and ripples of laughter will echo around the village well for hours. And who knows, some mischievous girl might just break into a high-pitched song:

Sir bannh ke khaddar wa safa

Chandra shauqeen ho gaya

[Tying a khadi turban upon his head, the poor fellow fancies himself a gallant lover.]

When this girl laughs, the gold studs embedded in her teeth will laugh along with her. And who knows? Perhaps a mischievous boy is hiding behind a nearby bush. He might catch a glimpse of those gleaming, laughing studs, and as he gets up to head toward the fields, his lips might suddenly part, letting this *boli* take flight like a bird:

Mauj sunyara lai gaya

Jinnhe laiyan dandan vich mekhaan

[The real pleasure was had by the goldsmith, the one who hammered these studs into your teeth.]

When this boy returns to the village from the fields, and the hookah is passed around the *chaupal* (village square) in the evening, the young man with the white turban will be there too. Once he discovers how ruthlessly he was mocked while the women drew water at the well, he will be overcome with gloom and melancholy. Waking or sleeping, sitting or standing, the indifference of his beloved will torment him, until finally, these words rise from his chest like a heavy sigh:

Kalla takkrein te haal sunawan

Dukhaan vich peh gayi jindri

[Here, he addresses either a friend or himself: If you meet me alone, I will tell you my whole tale. My life has become engulfed in sorrows.]

It is entirely possible that, believing a friend to be sympathetic, he pours his heart out to him. But as fate would have it, they might quarrel over some trivial matter, and the very person he trusted as a confidant might broadcast his secret to the entire village. To this, someone is bound to say:

Yaari vich na wakeel banaiye

Larr ke dass dau ga

[One should never appoint an advocate in matters of love, for if you fall out, he will reveal all your secrets.]

Then, the wretched lover, realizing that his romance has ended in failure, will suddenly cry out while plowing the fields under the melancholy afternoon sun:

Meri lagdi kise na dekhi

Te tutt di nu jagg jaan da

[When she and I fell in love, no one even noticed, but now that the bond is broken, the whole world knows and mocks me.]

But who knows, perhaps his beloved also has something to say. Perhaps she loves him too but cannot express it, for these words would not escape her lips without reason:

Yaar si sarv da boota

Vehre vich la rakhdi

(Translation: My lover was like a cypress tree. I should have just planted him in my courtyard.)

Meanwhile, army recruitment will begin, and her tall, cypress-like lover will be sent off to the frontlines. Her world will become desolate. When the monsoon arrives, swings will be hung from the peepal trees, the *papeeha* birds will sing *peehu peehu* from the mango orchards, the koels will coo, and the entire village will rejoice. But she... she will gaze at the damp parapet of her house with hopeful eyes and cry out:

Bol ve nimaneya kawan

Koelan kook diyan

(Translation: Speak, oh wretched crow, the koels are cooing... [If a crow caws, it is traditionally believed that a loved one is about to arrive.])

With the field now empty, another lover will emerge in the village. Every day, he will pass by her house, hoping that one day she will surely call out to him, and they will converse through stolen glances and gestures. But this never happens. Finally, frustrated, he will say:

Kadi chandriye haak na maari

Chooray wali baanh kadh ke

(Translation: The word *chandri* cannot be directly translated. I have not found an exact synonym for it in Urdu. In Punjabi, *chandri* is used in various senses. Sometimes it is used in conversation to express sympathy. Here, it encompasses both love and complaint. He addresses her as *chandri* and says: You never extended your arm adorned with a *choora* [a set of ivory bangles worn by village women from the wrist to the elbow] to gesture to me, you never called me to your side.)

An era will pass. This tale of love will fade into a legend, and eventually, one day, this village beauty will be married off to someone else. Her wedding will spark whispers among the people. They will compare her to her husband, and some young man will cry out:

Munda rohi di kikar da ja tu

Viyah ke lai gaya chandar vargi

(Translation: Rohi di kikar refers to a specific type of acacia tree, whose wood is extremely rough and dark. This means that a man as dark and coarse as the acacia of the wasteland has married and taken away a bride as beautiful as the moon.)

The wedding night will arrive, bringing with it a thousand tremors. Huddled like a bundle on the bed, the bride will fold her henna-stained hands and plead with her husband, who is poised for cruelty:

Mainu ajj di raat na chherein

Mehndi wale hath jordi

(Translation: Do not touch me just for tonight; look, I fold my henna-stained hands before you.)

Will he listen? Will those folded, henna-stained hands awaken any mercy in the tyrant's heart...? Well, let us leave that story aside. This phase will pass one way or another, and the bride will grow accustomed to her new life. Then the quarrels will begin. One day, her husband will speak ill of her first lover. In that moment, she will place a stone upon her heart and remain silent, but in solitude, these words will escape her lips:

Mere yaar nu manda na bolein

Meri bhaanvein gutt patt layein

(Translation: You may tear my braid out by the roots, but do not speak ill of my lover.)

And... and then... a lifetime will pass just like this, and this legend will give birth to new legends in the village.

Come! Let me take you on a journey through the villages of Punjab. These are the villages of India where romance is entirely unburdened by the weight of civilization and culture. Here, emotions play as freely as children. Love in this place is like gold mingled with the earth. Untainted by artificiality or pretense, the hearts of children, the youth, and the elderly beat in unison in these villages. At every step, you will encounter poetry—poetry that is completely liberated from the strictures of meter and the confines of formal vocabulary.

As you wander through the open air here, you will discover a new life breathing within you. You will feel that you, too, are capable of love; that within you lies the power to expand and embrace a passionate vastness; that you, too, can understand the language of the birds, and that the humming of the wind holds meaning for you as well. When swallows dive through the silent sky, when bats glide in endless rows toward the forests at dusk, when the bells around the necks of the returning cattle chime, and a captivating, dance-like trance settles over the atmosphere—your heart, too, will swell and contract with the rhythm of it all.

Look over there—mud houses lie sprawled across the earth. Rows of large cow-dung cakes stretch far along the walls. Even these earthen dwellings seem to love one another, for there is no distance between them. One rooftop embraces the next, creating a second open plain suspended above the ground. Charpoys lie overturned on these roofs. Long husks of sugarcane are scattered about. It is midday, and the sun is so blistering that even an eagle would abandon its egg. The atmosphere is steeped in a dreamy melancholy. Occasionally, the shrill cry of an eagle pierces the air, leaving a faint scratch upon the silence before fading away... But who has climbed up to the roof in this scorching heat? Ah, it is a *mutiyar* (young woman) of the village. Look at the way she walks barefoot across the blistering roof. There, she has stopped. Who is she waiting for? Whom are her eyes searching for? What is she gazing at through the cluster of acacia trees? How long will she stand there? Do her feet not burn? Perhaps she is the one who sang:

Kothey upar khalliyan

Meri sargiyan pair diyan talliyan

Mera yaar najar na aaway

[I stand upon the roof, and as I stand here, the soles of my feet have burned... yet my lover is nowhere to be seen.]

No, she has merely started gathering the dried sugarcane husks... But why does she keep glancing over toward the shade of the old banyan tree, where a young man stands holding a long staff? Could he be her someone? How the brass studs on his staff gleam! While we were watching the young man, another young woman appeared on the farthest roof, quite a distance away. You cannot make out much from this far, but look at how her *laung* (nose stud) sparkles. Was it about this very nose stud that the following was said?

Tere laung da peya lashkara

Haliyan ne hal dakk laye

[When your *laung* (nose stud) flashed, the plowmen halted their plows... thinking that lightning had struck and rain was on its way.]

Oh no, this is an entirely different matter... Look, the first girl is gesturing to the second. Perhaps she is calling her over. Then she leans forward and glances again toward the shade where the young man from the village is standing. He holds his staff in one hand, while with the other, he toys with the amulets hanging around his neck. Witnessing this scene brings to mind a *boli* (folk song) that every boy in this village knows by heart. How does it go...? Ah, yes...

Munda moh leya taveetan wala

Damri da sakk mal ke

[A strapping young man, who wore amulets to ward off misfortune, was captivated by a girl who simply rubbed a *damri's* worth of *sakk* (walnut or tree bark used to tint the lips).]

More gestures are being exchanged. The first girl is signaling the other to hurry over... Why doesn't she just say it plainly:

Kothey kothey aa Lachhiye

Tainu Banto da yaar vakhawan

[Come across the rooftops, Lachhi... Let me show you Banto's lover.]

Who knows? This young man twirling his mustache beneath the banyan tree might indeed be Banto's lover. And if not Banto's, then someone else's. After all, he has to be *someone's* lover. Just look at his posture. He wears a white khadi turban on his head and clearly thinks very highly of himself. Now that two young women have spotted him in this pose, every maiden in the village will soon know that he was standing under the banyan tree, sporting a white khadi turban. Oh, the gossip that will follow! Playful taunts will be tossed about, and ripples of laughter will echo around the village well for hours. And who knows, some mischievous girl might just break into a high-pitched song:

Sir bannh ke khaddar wa safa

Chandra shauqeen ho gaya

[Tying a khadi turban upon his head, the poor fellow fancies himself a gallant lover.]

When this girl laughs, the gold studs embedded in her teeth will laugh along with her. And who knows? Perhaps a mischievous boy is hiding behind a nearby bush. He might catch a glimpse of those gleaming, laughing studs, and as he gets up to head toward the fields, his lips might suddenly part, letting this *boli* take flight like a bird:

Mauj sunyara lai gaya

Jinnhe laiyan dandan vich mekhaan

[The real pleasure was had by the goldsmith, the one who hammered these studs into your teeth.]

When this boy returns to the village from the fields, and the hookah is passed around the *chaupal* (village square) in the evening, the young man with the white turban will be there too. Once he discovers how ruthlessly he was mocked while the women drew water at the well, he will be overcome with gloom and melancholy. Waking or sleeping, sitting or standing, the indifference of his beloved will torment him, until finally, these words rise from his chest like a heavy sigh:

Kalla takkrein te haal sunawan

Dukhaan vich peh gayi jindri

[Here, he addresses either a friend or himself: If you meet me alone, I will tell you my whole tale. My life has become engulfed in sorrows.]

It is entirely possible that, believing a friend to be sympathetic, he pours his heart out to him. But as fate would have it, they might quarrel over some trivial matter, and the very person he trusted as a confidant might broadcast his secret to the entire village. To this, someone is bound to say:

Yaari vich na wakeel banaiye

Larr ke dass dau ga

[One should never appoint an advocate in matters of love, for if you fall out, he will reveal all your secrets.]

Then, the wretched lover, realizing that his romance has ended in failure, will suddenly cry out while plowing the fields under the melancholy afternoon sun:

Meri lagdi kise na dekhi

Te tutt di nu jagg jaan da

[When she and I fell in love, no one even noticed, but now that the bond is broken, the whole world knows and mocks me.]

But who knows, perhaps his beloved also has something to say. Perhaps she loves him too but cannot express it, for these words would not escape her lips without reason:

Yaar si sarv da boota

Vehre vich la rakhdi

(Translation: My lover was like a cypress tree. I should have just planted him in my courtyard.)

Meanwhile, army recruitment will begin, and her tall, cypress-like lover will be sent off to the frontlines. Her world will become desolate. When the monsoon arrives, swings will be hung from the peepal trees, the *papeeha* birds will sing *peehu peehu* from the mango orchards, the koels will coo, and the entire village will rejoice. But she... she will gaze at the damp parapet of her house with hopeful eyes and cry out:

Bol ve nimaneya kawan

Koelan kook diyan

(Translation: Speak, oh wretched crow, the koels are cooing... [If a crow caws, it is traditionally believed that a loved one is about to arrive.])

With the field now empty, another lover will emerge in the village. Every day, he will pass by her house, hoping that one day she will surely call out to him, and they will converse through stolen glances and gestures. But this never happens. Finally, frustrated, he will say:

Kadi chandriye haak na maari

Chooray wali baanh kadh ke

(Translation: The word *chandri* cannot be directly translated. I have not found an exact synonym for it in Urdu. In Punjabi, *chandri* is used in various senses. Sometimes it is used in conversation to express sympathy. Here, it encompasses both love and complaint. He addresses her as *chandri* and says: You never extended your arm adorned with a *choora* [a set of ivory bangles worn by village women from the wrist to the elbow] to gesture to me, you never called me to your side.)

An era will pass. This tale of love will fade into a legend, and eventually, one day, this village beauty will be married off to someone else. Her wedding will spark whispers among the people. They will compare her to her husband, and some young man will cry out:

Munda rohi di kikar da ja tu

Viyah ke lai gaya chandar vargi

(Translation: Rohi di kikar refers to a specific type of acacia tree, whose wood is extremely rough and dark. This means that a man as dark and coarse as the acacia of the wasteland has married and taken away a bride as beautiful as the moon.)

The wedding night will arrive, bringing with it a thousand tremors. Huddled like a bundle on the bed, the bride will fold her henna-stained hands and plead with her husband, who is poised for cruelty:

Mainu ajj di raat na chherein

Mehndi wale hath jordi

(Translation: Do not touch me just for tonight; look, I fold my henna-stained hands before you.)

Will he listen? Will those folded, henna-stained hands awaken any mercy in the tyrant's heart...? Well, let us leave that story aside. This phase will pass one way or another, and the bride will grow accustomed to her new life. Then the quarrels will begin. One day, her husband will speak ill of her first lover. In that moment, she will place a stone upon her heart and remain silent, but in solitude, these words will escape her lips:

Mere yaar nu manda na bolein

Meri bhaanvein gutt patt layein

(Translation: You may tear my braid out by the roots, but do not speak ill of my lover.)

And... and then... a lifetime will pass just like this, and this legend will give birth to new legends in the village.