Jeeona the Drummer | Randeep Wadehra

Jeeona said his morning prayers, folded the mat and kept it in a corner. Taking the pot off the chulha  he poured tea from it into a tumbler, pulled out a stale maize roti from a wooden box and began chewing at it with relish. Hot tea and maize roti – with salt and red pepper powder as fillings – was his favorite breakfast. After having finished eating he started getting ready for the day. He knew someone or the other in the village will come calling soon. This season it had been unusually cold, but the cane crop was rich. Jeeona knew there would be great demand for his labor in the fields. Nobody can work as much and as fast as Jeeona. The farmers paid him well both in cash and kind for his labor.
“Jeeona!” it was Jaswant, “are you alive or has your Allah claimed you?”
“O Jaswant, why do you speak ill this early in the morning, and that too in the Pir Baba’s presence? Why have you come?”
“Have you forgotten already? Today the sugarcane crop has to be harvested.”
The season of gur  and shakkar  and homemade liquor was approaching. Jeeona and other laborers like Yusuf the weaver and Kalu the teli  would be taking time off from their traditional trades to help in the harvesting. But, they would make up only a part of the workforce required for the job. People from other villages too would come and lend a helping hand. This used to be a tradition in the pre-partition Punjab.
The First World War had claimed a big chunk of the rural youth population. And the Second World War was now becoming increasingly vicious. Once again young men were being recruited in large numbers to go to distant lands to fight for the Crown.
Jeeona and other men, well into their middle age, were left behind to carry on the village chores under the village elders’ watchful eyes. He put on a faded cotton kurta, tied his turban, slipped on the jutti  and, carrying a long bamboo stick, accompanied Jaswant to the fields. There, old women had brought pitchers of buttermilk and loads of bread baked in tandoors . Clarified butter mixed with powdered sugar was the bonus.
All the men ate to their hearts’ content and then started the toil. The reaping continued for hours. When the mellow November sun reached overhead they stopped work to rest a while. Buttermilk was served in big tumblers, along with maize-flour roti and saag made of mustard leafs and other greens.
“Jeeona, have you received any letter from your son?” Yusuf asked.
“No.” Jeeona replied, wiping his buttermilk-drenched hairy lips.
“It has been a long time now. Where is he presently? Last time he was in Egypt fighting the Germans.” Kalu remarked as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I received his last letter from that front. He had written that he was promoted to the rank of Naik . But after that…”
Jaswant, Ramesh and Ram Swaroop were sitting on a cot. Being landowners, and from higher castes, they alone had this privilege. Pulling on the hookah Ramesh said, “Do you know they have made my nephew, Sagar, a Subedar  in the fauj ?”
“Really? Where is he posted now?” Jaswant asked.
“In Burma.” Ramesh said, “He had written that his platoon had wiped out a whole Japanese company in an action.”
“Did he kill the men from Netaji’s fauj too?” Ram Swaroop, who prided himself in being politically knowledgeable, asked.
“I don’t know.” Ramesh replied uneasily.
“He better not. Gandhiji says that India will become free after the War. If this comes true I am sure that Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s men will personally deal with traitors like your son who defend these foreign rulers against their own brothers.” Swaroop said ominously.
Changing the subject, Ramesh called out to Jeeona who was sitting on the ground among his peers some distance away, “Jeoona, your son was a great wrestler, the pride of our village. I remember you always would beat the drum enthusiastically whenever your son entered the arena.”
“True.” Kalu agreed, “But Jeeona himself was no mean wrestler during his youth. Remember, in the Baisakhi fair he defeated all the wrestlers in the area? Even today he can work for twenty hours a day without tiring.”
“You’re exaggerating.” Jeeona objected with rather feigned modesty, “But those were really great days. Things were cheap and we didn’t have to stand in a queue to get kerosene.”
“Nehruji says that in the Congress raj there will be no shortages.” Kalu said.
“Don’t get carried away by these big people’s uttering. They have a tendency to forget their promises.” Yusuf said sagely.
Yusuf, who also doubled as the village watchman, had not been given a raise in his wages despite the promise made by the village Sarpanch . For him there was no difference between a sarpanch and a politician.
“But Nehruji is different.” Kalu protested, “He is Gandhiji’s chela .”
“I hope my son returns before March.” Jeeona said wistfully.
“I know your son’s marriage is due in April.” Yusuf said.
“Then we will enjoy your artistry on the drum.” Kalu added.
“Yes. I will play the drum that will make Pir Sahib happy enough to bless my son with a long and healthy life. I want my Abdul to sire a generation of wrestlers who will be as strong as the world champion Gama pehelwaan .” Jeeona mused dreamily, “And I want to play joyful beats during every wrestling bout featuring my son and even grandsons. I want to do my village proud.”
“I have no doubt you will do so. After all you stay in the house of Pir Baba himself!” Yusuf said.
It was now time for resuming the work; others had already started cutting and tying the cane in bundles. The three men picked up their sickles and joined the rest.
The joyful songs of village women mingled with the offbeat but happy tone of Jeeona’s singing.
After a week the postman arrived. His arrival was always an event.
The elders sitting on the village platform, women by the hearths, children in the streets and men in the fields paused. Hope and anxiety writ large on their faces. The postman, aware that he was the cynosure of all eyes, strutted to the peepal tree in the centre of the village and called out names of those whose letters he had brought.
One by one people took their mail and then eagerly asked a literate relative or friend to read out the contents. As the letters were read various shades of expressions from joy, to hope to despair flitted across the listeners’ faces.
Ramesh did a peacock-dance jig and announced, “My son has been made an honorary lieutenant, right on the front after the Japanese beat a hasty retreat in the face of his jabardast hamla .” There were sounds of congratulations from all around.
“Where is Jeeona?” the postman asked in a suddenly softened voice.
“I am here.” Jeeona came forward eagerly.
“This is for you.” He took out a sealed telegram and handed it to the drummer.
“Could you read it out to me, and why a telegram?”
Before the hesitating postman could open it an army jeep arrived. It stopped a few yards away from the gathering. A Major and two NCOs alighted.
“Who among you is Jeeona?” one of the NCOs asked politely.
“I am Jeeona, sahib, what is the matter…” the alarm on his face spewed forth in words.
The major moved forward and placed his hand on Jeeona’s shoulder.
He said softly, “Naik Abdul was a brave soldier. He killed twenty Germans single-handed in a bayonet charge. We are proud of him and shall always remain so…”
“Is he… killed?” Jeeona asked choking out the dreaded word.
The major bowed his head and signaled to the NCOs. They carried a neatly packed parcel containing Abdul’s uniform and personal belongings. With great respect they handed it over to Jeeona.
Hush enveloped the village.
Those who were eating sweets in celebration a moment ago shamefacedly threw them into the mud. Some sobbed. The wind came to a standstill. Dogs stopped barking and the birds stopped chirping.
Jeeona took the packet. His face impassive, he lurched homewards. Words of consolation from the village people failed to penetrate the numbness that wrapped his consciousness. On entering the Pirkhana  he quietly placed the parcel on the cot and bolted the doors. He sat down on the floor in a daze…
That night, for the first time, drumbeats from the Pirkhana sent a chill up the spine of the entire village.
It was relentless, plaintive, melancholy…asking the Pir Baba, “Why me Baba, why me?”
Nobody dared disturb the mourning drummer.
Next morning people found Jeeona lying on the floor, the parcel clasped to his chest, unblinking eyes fixed on the Holy Quran that was kept on a shelf.

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Indian Review | Author Profile | Randeep Wadehra writes on Indian Review | Indian Literature and Poetry from across the world.

Indian Review | Author Profile | Randeep Wadehra writes on Indian Review | Indian Literature and Poetry from across the world.