Lost fragrance.

Which story should I write? Whenever I think of writing a story, so many stories surround me. The hands of some story have become rough from hard work, the hair of some story has become soil in the soil... There is no chunri on the head of some story... The butter-like body of some story has been riddled with the stuffing of Jahanj ... Some story's beautiful face is rotting with gunpowder and blood stains... Some story's arm is cut off... Some have no legs... Some have lost their eyes... Some's flesh is napalm. Got scorched by the fire of the bomb.

I look around. None of my stories are complete. No one's beauty has remained intact... even no one's clothes are able to cover the whole body... all are covered in the dark shadow of ugliness... but ugliness is also beauty. And the poet, and the writer, have been sharing beauty with Anjal and praising her beauty. So why should I wrap ugliness in a false sheet of beauty and show it to people. Why doesn't he take off the sheet and show it? But what is the need of this too? All my stories are born from the soil. And their feet are also on the soil. Even in their ugliness there is the pain of soil and this pain makes them ugly. But now I will not write ugly words. Because the wound of the soil... the sorrow of the soil... the touch of the soil is never ugly, but beautiful. The soil was like this even before the birth of man, but man has given wounds, sorrow, pain and ugliness to the soil... without seeing the face of man, soil has always given him shelter... and will continue . Man, soil and shelter.

But who is the one who snatches the shelter of soil from man?

Who took away my turban and my shoes which I had brought after selling my crops? The crop, which I had produced from the soil by shedding my sweat, mixing it with the soil. Some machine squeezed all the blood out of me, on the basis of which I was planning to feed myself and my children. Why is my stomach empty and my children are hungry even after giving all my blood to the machine? Who drew lines on my soil and why? What adventures of Algeria spoiled the beauty of Jamila? Who turned Vietnam's lush forests and tiny houses into a pile of ashes? Why and who shed blood in the Sahara desert and discolored the sand? Why did the whites throw blacks in jaggery out of hatred considering them as jaggery's brothers? If man is free by birth, then why has science made so many inventions to make him a slave? If the soil is holy, then why is its body being torn apart by wounding its chest everyday and bleeding it? If God is the refuge, then why is his refuge taken away from the human being? If God, soil, man and shelter are a square, then who is the helper who tries to erase these lines by wiping them? Nazi speaks English in Oxford accent and looks at me questioningly with thick syrupy eyes hearing Punjabi from my mouth: Rab Varga Aasra Tera,

long live friend

So what should I answer him? I say that God has many more

It's okay, the world has become very big. The problems have increased.

He is not empty, and Asra? Whose support and how, when the number of those people is thousand times more than the number of support. Those who take away shelter

Uncle Tahlsingh used to say right son! We are all stories. But there is no one to write to us. ,

Yes uncle, Tehalsingh! You were right It is just yesterday, when you here, as the son of this soil, used to enjoy the gold born of this soil. This soil loved you like dear sons. The fame of your mare running faster than the wind was in the whole area. People used to come from far and wide to see your beautiful cattle. No one in the whole of Punjab had buffaloes like yours. Your hallways, colorful cots and boxes, were full of colorful flowers and quilts. No needy person used to go empty-handed from your door. Despite being a great leader, you used to treat your servants like sons. He used to consider the sisters and daughters of the village as his sisters and daughters. You were a partner in everyone's pain.

Bhaini Saheb was sitting under the banyan tree of the Gurdwara with the Sangat. Food was being prepared for hundreds of guests in your mansion. Foolish boys were whispering in secret:

kanak khan de mare

Namdhari has come.

A fair was organized in the whole village. We small children had gone to see the Guru. Many other people had come from far and wide to have darshan of the Guru. You caught me and Pal Singh and made them stand in front of Guruji.

"These are my sons," you said. Pal's head was bare and he had a small bun tied tightly. Guruji first put his hand on his head and looked at you with questioning eyes as if asking who is this other Muslim boy? And you said "my brother's son".

And Guruji smilingly patted my head with both hands and blessed me.

Then uncle, your beautiful mare, which you had taken from Maharaja Kapurthala for ten thousand at that time, gave birth to a foal after great hopes and sadhars. Your life was in that girl. I came to know much later that the baby girl was very valuable. At that time the baby girl was about six months old when I went to your house to play. Sone Dilwali Chachi hugged me tightly in both arms and put her hand on my head. Had kissed his forehead and had made him sit on his lap. After making bread crumbs, adding sugar, she started feeding me. By this time Pal had arrived and we both had come to the haveli while playing. Bhai Ratan Singh was in the haveli at that time. His monkey was putting sugarcane in the wheel like men. Brother was removing dirt from the boiling juice by adding soda. (I still remember brother's jaggery used to be the whitest and cleanest in the whole village.) Nikku Christian was blowing air with a bellows. Brother seemed to be hidden in the smoke coming out of the bellows and the jaggery. But he saw Pal and me.

"Juice P.

"Eat jaggery.

"Suck the sugarcane.

"Sit down boy! Veer's cot was spread in the sun.

Give. ,

GBhai Ratan Singh gave me so many orders at once. But my attention went towards that girl. Pal and I went to the baby girl and started looking at her. The baby girl was looking like a very beautiful picture. Don't know from where Tehelsingh came and don't know in what foolishness I climbed on his lap. I insisted on sitting on the child. There is so much understanding in a child of seven years! But uncle, you didn't dissuade me even once, nor did you explain, and holding that innocent and precious baby girl, knotted the reins, cut her short and gave her the reins. The man who was where he was, remained a statue of surprise. Brother left the cooked jaggery and stood up. Everyone was looking at you, uncle. With the foolishness of a child, you also became a child, but no one had the guts and courage to interfere in your work. Then you took off the shoulder-cloth, put it on the jumping, dancing, nervous and upset as well as exhausted baby girl and then put the saddle on that innocent, innocent and beautiful back and tightened the saddle. Today I think that this much sorrow and shock was enough for the life of a six-month-old gentle baby girl. But uncle, then you made me sit on it, holding it from the front, made me go around the haveli two times and the baby girl fell down and died due to grief and shock. The beautiful foal of Maharaja Kapurthala's beloved mare, whom you had achieved with so much effort and hope! But there was not a single wrinkle on your forehead, no one even raised an umph, except my father, when he heard it, he was angry with both me and you. But you only laughed.

Uncle Today I am a child. I am wise I have become round after stumbling like a stone. Have seen the cold and heat of the world and have also seen the cities of half the world and have also seen their residents. Have also tried to test and understand them. Today those things seem like things of dreams, lost dreams. How unlucky is the man whose dreams are lost. Today I think uncle, you were my father's brother. You had exchanged turban with him. You weren't his real brother, were you? But the love you gave me, none of my real uncles even gave that much love. It is said that the blood relation is very old, but still you were dearer to me than relatives. Why was I dearer, dearer and closer to you than your pal?

Then there was such a storm that pierced the human being and made the land deserted. Raavi and Vasantar grew fiercer and the waves came out foaming at the mouth. There was water gushing all around. You took only a couple of things from the full mansion and the full house, then my uncles, Taye and Abba took that cart under guard of heifers, images and guns. Aunt, pal, sister, you and Ratto were on the car and we went to the bridge with amazement for your safety around you. You too had become exhausted and those who were about to leave you too. Fear of robbery, murder, assault etc. on the way. And when you and my father reached the bridge and hugged each other, both started crying bitterly. How my father wept like a child when he saw you passing through the camp and over the bridge and looking back again and again! You went ahead and got lost in the crowd, but why did we stand on the bridge crying till evening? And after losing you, they returned to their ruined homes and yours. At that time I was eight years old and now I am thirty eight years old. I had never seen my father cry even in the toughest of times, except that day. Now their eyes get extinguished just at your name.

And today in a village of Mukerian, refugee Tahl Singh is not known how happy he is. And now I don't know whether Palsingh has any dream in his bright almond eyes like me in his head with half gray hair?

Uncle Tehalsingh used to say, "We are all stories but there is no one to write us."

Look uncle, I remember your story and someday I will write it too. Today, stories are standing around me in a circle, there is a noise of doom all around.

My stories are bloody. Their heads are bare, hair disheveled and bodies wounded. I have a broken pen in my hands and a broken vessel, in which I left home to seek happiness for my stories. I have tears in my eyes. I can't even see my way. My condition is also similar to my stories. And I think how do I write a story?