“Soodha, will you work or just scamper around in your red ‘ghaghra’ (skirt) and ‘choli’ (blouse)? And, cover your head with a ‘dupatta’ (scarf). You bring shame to us!” yelled a middle-aged lady.
Soodha was a vivacious 21-year-old girl. On some evenings, she slipped a yellow “genda” (marigold) flower behind her ear. At the age of 10 in 1931, I would watch her from our office window, in Tandalianwala (in undivided India, now in Pakistan). She was as pretty as a princess. I nicknamed her the “genda-kudi” (marigold girl).
Childhood is a magnificent phase. Every day is astonishing. You do not understand everything, so you just preserve situations in the recesses of your mind. Today’s happenings gradually metamorphose into memories in later years. Then, there is time to unravel the events you witnessed as a child.
My father insisted I complete my daily homework in his office. As luck would have it, my desk was by a window.
Thus, my childhood years were enriched with a window overlooking the “mandi” (market). From that small window I watched life unfold.
I saw migrant labourers arrive annually to tend to the wheat crop, after the harvest.
About 300 men and women came from Surat province in western India (now in Gujarat in India).
They set up tents to stay, in a corner of the market. They worked throughout the day, cleaning the wheat crop, packing it in gunny bags and covering the mounds with tarpaulin sheets at dusk.
Sitting by my window, I frequently observed Kailash, the son of our neighbour Lala Parbat, chatting animatedly with Soodha or her father.
Much later I learnt that the flower behind Soodha’s ear was a signal to Kailash that they could rendezvous after dusk under the banyan tree.
So, Kailash would hang around to learn if his sweetheart had positioned a marigold behind her ear. I was intrigued to see this furtive romance between a migrant labourer girl and the son of a prominent businessman.
Kailash was miserable when he was not watching Soodha. He would not eat. He neglected his studies. He became consumed by his passion for her.
But I was not the only one who was intrigued by the mystery of the occasional “genda” flower behind Soodha’s ear.
One dusky evening, as Kailash waited for Soodha, two shadows pounced on him from the thick foliage of the tree. The shadows rained blows on him. He fought back. But the shadows were unrelenting. Kailash fled. He reached his house to find his nose bleeding profusely.
Next day all the migrant labourers, led by the two shadows, who were Soodha’s father and brother, met my father. They protested that the youngsters of our town were debasing their women.
My father hurried to Lala Parbat’s shop and counselled him to send his son to Lahore for some months.
Lalaji saw the wisdom in this counsel. The alternative was to face a massive walk out by the migrant labourers. The mounds of wheat would rot. To save further ignominy, Kailash was despatched to Lahore.
So the wheat crop survived that year in Tandalianwala. However, I never saw Soodha again.
After that day, no young man in town dared to look at any migrant girl.
Kailash never returned either. Some said he tracked Soodha to her village and married her, but I do not know for sure.
Over the years, I have wondered why religion, caste and community play an overriding role in alliances between youngsters in India.
Inter-community marriages are frequent in cities now. However, such liaisons are frowned upon in rural areas.
Even 83 years on whenever I see a marigold flower anywhere, I remember Soodha, my childhood marigold-girl and wonder what became of her.
Hari Chand Aneja is a nonagenarian former corporate executive who now keeps busy with charity work
