PEENGH 3-

The word sits uncomfortably on my tongue but the meaning and the feeling is not strange. It is familiar, like a long-lost relative who just arrived unannounced and dragged a seat at the family table. Peengh, the word which speaks of unabashed joy, unfettered freedom and a laugh which rolls out from deep within.

Chaliye, ek kahani sunati hoon, hopefully describing the feeling. That feeling of unabashed , unashamed khula hua joy.

Raagini, that was the name given to Pt. OmkarNath Sharma’s granddaughter. Raagini, because when she arrived, he says, she was crying in perfect rhythm. ‘Na ek sur upar… na ek sur neeche. Bas pancham mein awaaz gunj gayi uski.” The family of Pt. Omkar Nath Sharma was well known…too well known, throughout India. He , his older son , Pt. Dina Nath Sharma, His younger son, Alok Nath Sharma, his 17 year old grandson, Raj Sharma were a formidable team of singers, musicians and song writers. And the women?

What about them? Arrey, there must be women in the house and I am sure they must be equally talented. Aha!! I see. You mean that I should have introduced the women too. Hmmm…my bad. Chaliye, milte hain, iss khandaan ke other half se. Better or not, kehna mushkil hai, because the women in this house have never stepped out of the courtyard. The big fat haveli with that big ornate gateway and that little tiny inside gate have never been opened for them. They are talented. No mistake, otherwise the Nath Sharma family would never have got them here, into the haveli. But…kya hai na, unki shaadi ho gayi hai. Bas yahi galti hui hai. Sabhi ne shaadi to kar li aur apne muhn par apni talent par ek big fat lock laga diya. Harrison ka…jo toote se bhi na toote. Vo wala.

The grandmother of the house, Sita Devi,used to play the sitar, now she just plays the role of the matriarch. Guardian of Parampara, pratistha aur Sanskaar. And the sanskaar says, no woman, however talented, will step out and show the world what she can do. Raagini was born with dance in her blood and rebellion in her heart. The only way to silence her crying was to play a tune on the flute or a thaap on the tabla. She would be mesmerized. Her eyes would dart here and there as her legs moved in perfect sync with the music. Her mother Swara watched silently. She knew exactly what awaited her daughter. Because once upon a time, Swara too had carried music inside her.

Years passed. Raagini grew, and so did her love for movement. Whenever riyaaz echoed through the haveli, her body responded before her mind did. Hands swayed, feet tapped, eyes sparkled.

Her father had warned them many times. “Dekho, hamare ghar ki betiyan naachti nahin hain. Us se kaho ki vo padhai par aur ghar ke kaam kaaz mein dhyan de. Ye sab seekh kar bahar tamasha banana hai, kya?” shayad Tamasha hi banana hai but Raagini khud ko rok nahin paati thi. So, ab, Kya?

Raagini would ask her mom everyday, “Ma, I want to learn dance. Pleas ma, tell Baba.” But Swara was silent. She knew the answer. She knew the pain of seeing her talent receive no recognition only derision.

That night at dinner, Raagini gathered all her courage and then when everyone, meaning the male members were seated and served, she spoke to her grandfather, “Dadu, main Dance sikhna chahti hoon. Please mujhe allow karein.” The silence was deafening. Raj, her brother looked up and smirked. Sita Devi, looked thunderous. No one said anything. Pt. Omkar Nath Sharma lowered his hand and raised his eyes. He looked at Raagini very closely. The fact that Raagini swayed to music was not hidden from him yet…He took a deep breath and said, “Ghar par sikho, bahar tak awaz nahin aani chahiye”. What just happened? Everyone was shocked but the verdict was given. Swara looked down with a smile as Raagini crowed, “Thank you Dadu… thank you”.

So came Pt. Jamna Lal to the household and Raagini’s classes started on the terrace, away from the main living rooms and baithak, away from the others in the house. The sound of ghungroo, the thaap of the table, tukras, paltas, tatkar, chakkar…slowly echoed in the lazy afternoons and the women of the house climbed up the stairs to sit and watch Raagini weave magic on the hot terrace. Sometimes Sita Devi hummed a forgotten tune, Swara spoke a half remembered bandish, “bat chalat nayi chuniri rang daari, aiso hatilo Sham murari…” slowly, the terrace became a stage, a hidden stage. A secret peengh where locked-away dreams finally began to sway freely.

Then came a day when Pandit ji said, “Raagini, you are ready. You should show your talent to the world.” Raagini was stunned as were the women on the terrace. There was silence and then Raagini slowly shook her head, “Nahin, pandit ji, hamari ghar ki auratein bahar apna hunar nahin dikhati.” Pandit ji was sad but he said, “Beta, yahin to tumhari pariksha hai. When you step on the stage, its not just you. It will be every woman of this house who has locked up her wish, her dreams and her talent. You have to show the men in your family that talent is given to all and your dance will not destroy the family , it will enhance their glory. Think about it, please.”

The women all stood in the corner looking at Raagini. Swara wished that she could gather her daughter in her arms and hold her tight as she broke her dreams but then clouds gathered, a lovely soft breeze began to blow and the madhumalati over the rails blew a cloud of fragrant flowers across the terrace. The winds changed and Sita Devi spoke, “Raagini, tum nachogi. Apne liye aur hamare liye. Hum sab tumhein us stage par ghungroo ke saath apni hunar ki pehchaan dete dekhna chahte hain aur ab tum akele nahin, hum sab tumhare saath rahenge.” Raagini was taken aback, “Aap …mere liye….Dadu ke khilaf…Dadi…kya vakei!” Sita Devi smiled, “Nahin beta, not just for you. Ab to ye hamari pehchaan ke liye bhi hai.” A burst of energy just ran around the women standing there. It felt as if assman jhook gaya, dharti naach uthi aur jaise pura sansaar ek saath ek lambi saans le raha ho. Jaise sab ki dhadkane ek saath, ek taal pe, akash nad ki tarah baj uthi ho.

Phir kya, phir aya exam ka din. Rajrang Auditorium mein programme. Everyone was invited. Men, obviously. So sabhi guni jan tayyar ho kar pahunch gaye. The exalted family of Pt. OmkarNath Sharma was seated in the first row. Parda utha, saamne stage par ek spotlight. Ek nartaki, phir Dheere se aur spotlights jisne stage ko jagmaga diya aur jo andhere mein chuppe the, unhein Roshni mein utar diya. “Huh”, Pt. Dina Nath Sharma, Alok Nath Sharma aur Raj Sharma thoda jhuke aur phir sunnn ho gaye. Sita Devi touched the strings of the Sitar and the first note trembled and swept around the audience. Swara  adjusted the mike and the first strains of the allaap began as Raagini turned and struck her feet thupp on the satge. Ghungroo  chehak uthe aur ek saath baj uthe as she turned in a graceful chakkar and became one with the dance.

The family was flabbergasted but the audience ….aha…aisa annad… aisi gayaki…aisa abhinaya…aha…adbhut. As the dance ended and Raagini stood breathless, the audience was silent and then unleashed a tsunami of claps and cheers. People saluted the artistry , the magic of the artists. “Pandit ji, aaj tak humne aapko suna tha. Kya maloom tha ki aisi adbut kala aapke ghar mein chupi hui hai. Hum to Ganga nahaye aisi kala dekh kar. Aapke Parivar ko shat shat pranaam.” Pandit ji was shocked. Even he had not thought that which he had locked up was so big and beautiful. He felt small…literally small as he looked at his wife of decades and her glowing face as she stroked her sitar and blew a kiss to her granddaughter. He understood that maybe it was the fear that she could easily overwhelm him that made him lock her talent up but now as the audience cheered them , he realized his pratistha had increased a thousand fold.

Today, if you visit the haveli, you will find music, dance and rhythm flowing from each corner of the house. Sahi kehta hain, hunar ko chupaya nahi ja sakta, na usse pinjare mein band kar ke rakha ja sakta hai. Vo to khusbbo hai, phalegi zaroor thik usi tarah jis tarah jhula asman choo hi leta hai. Bas ek dhakke ki zaroorat hoti hai aur vo kitni zor se lagana hai, vo to aap hi jano.

 

PEENGH

The word is unfamiliar, but the feeling is not.

In the north, where wheat bends under a wide blue sky, they call it Peengh.
Where I come from, where the rice bows low and heavy, it is Doli.

Different words. Same rhythm.
Up. Down. Rise. Fall.

Let’s call it a swing. A jhula.

In the courtyard of a sprawling haveli by the river stood a mango tree.
Old even then. Generous with shade. Home to a koel that announced every morning before the sun fully arrived.

And from one of its highest branches hung a swing.
Nothing grand—just a wooden plank and two thick ropes.

But it held the sky.

Every morning, children ran to it.
Every evening, the courtyard filled with the sound of laughter that refused to stay contained.

She was always the highest.

Dupatta flying, head thrown back, feet kicking against the wind as if she could outrun the earth itself.

Then one day, the swing was empty.

“Chalo, chalo, move away!” the gardener waved the children off.
The haveli was being dressed up.

The daughter of the house was getting married.

The same girl who once flew on the swing now sat still for hours.
Hands painted. Eyes lowered. Movements measured.

Somewhere, without saying it aloud, she knew—

something had ended.

Time, as it does, moved on without asking anyone.

The haveli aged.
The paint dulled.
The gates stayed closed longer than they opened.

The swing frayed.
The tree bent a little more each year.

The children grew into people with places to be, voices to soften, laughter to edit.

And then—Teej.

As if remembering itself, the house woke up.

The tree straightened.
The swing was restrung—strong ropes, polished wood.
The air filled with dholak beats, mehendi-darkened hands, songs that were bold and just a little wicked.

Women climbed onto the swing—hesitant at first, then not.

Heels kicked off.
Heads tilted back.
Laughter—full, throaty, unapologetic—rose again.

For a day, the world loosened its grip.

And then—it tightened again.

She returned.

Not as a bride.

Not as a daughter visiting.

But as something people did not know where to place.

She stayed inside.

The anklets were gone.
The vermilion had been wiped clean.
Her hands—empty.

“Not a widow,” they whispered.
“Something else.”

That word travelled faster than truth ever does.

No one asked her what had happened.

No one saw the night she stood outside her own door.
No one heard the sound of something inside her breaking—not loudly, just enough.

No one noticed how she stopped finishing her sentences.

The call came too late.

By the time her father reached her, she was smaller than he remembered.
As if she had been folded into herself.

The doctor spoke in low, careful tones.
Words like loss.
Words like damage.
Words that do not leave once they enter a room.

Her father stood there, holding her hand, searching her face.

Not for answers.

For the child who used to wait by his desk with a drawing in hand.
For the girl who trusted the world because he told her it was safe.

He did not find her.

Her mother did not weep.

She stood very still. Then she said, quietly but without tremor—

“We are taking her home.”

That was all.

But something shifted.

Back in the haveli, doors opened again.

Not to guests.
To air.

The father stood at the threshold of her room more often than he sat.
As if guarding not just her—but the time he could not return.

They did not speak of what had happened.

But they did not pretend it hadn’t.

Days passed.

Then one afternoon, the sky changed.

Heavy. Waiting.
The kind of stillness that comes before rain breaks everything open.

The wind arrived first.

Not gently.

It pushed through windows, lifted curtains, unsettled the quiet that had settled too comfortably.

It moved through her room like it remembered her.

Come.

She looked out.

The mango tree swayed—not tired now, not defeated.

Alive.

The swing moved.

Not much. Just enough.

Waiting.

She stepped out.

Slowly at first.
Then faster.

The ground was warm beneath her feet. The air thick.

The first drop fell.

Then another.

By the time she reached the swing, the sky had given in.

She sat.

Held the ropes.

For a moment, she did nothing.

Then—

she pushed.

Once.

Again.

Higher.

The rain soaked through her clothes, her hair, her skin.
The wood was slick beneath her hands.

The swing rose.

The world tilted.

And something inside her—something that had been held down, pressed flat, silenced—

rose with it.

Her feet kicked the air.

Her head fell back.

And then—

she laughed.

Not carefully.

Not softly.

But fully.

The kind of laughter that does not care who is listening.

 

Thunder answered.

The wind wrapped around her.

The tree held.

On the verandah, her parents stood still.

They did not call her back.

Higher.

The past did not disappear.

But it loosened its grip.

For the second there,
she was not what had been done to her.

She was not what had been taken.

She was not what they had named her.

 

She was movement.

Breath.

Sky.

 

The swing soared.

And this time—

she did not hold back.

 

 

DHOLA AUR MARU

रेगिस्तान की रेतों में, इक प्रेम कहानी बसी थी,

ढोला नाम का राजकुमार, मारू रानी की हँसी थी।

 

बालपन में बंधा था बंधन, दो दिलों का मेल हुआ,

पर समय की चाल में, प्रेम का संदेश ही धुंधला हुआ।

 

मारू बैठी पाली में, ढोला दूर नरवर में था,

संदेशों की राहें बंद थीं, मन में प्रेम मगर गहरा था।

 

हर दिन वो ऊँटों से पूछे, “क्या ढोला आएगा?”

हर साँझ वो तारे गिनती, “क्या संदेशा लाएगा?”

 

ढोला को थी दूसरी रानी, मालवणी नाम सुहानी,

वो प्रेम में डूबा था, भूला अपनी बचपन की कहानी।

 

मारू ने भेजे संदेश कई, साधु बन कर आए कई,

पर मालवणी ने रोके सब, प्रेम की राहें हुईं कठिनाई।

 

एक दिन साधु ने चाल चली, गीतों में प्रेम जगाया,

ढोला का दिल फिर जागा, उसने मारू को अपनाया।

 

ऊँटों पर सवार हुए दोनों, रेगिस्तान की राह चली,

मालवणी ने भेजे सैनिक, प्रेम की राह फिर मुश्किल हुई।

 

मारू ने वीणा उठाई, स्वर में जादू बिखेरा,

सैनिकों के मन को छू लिया, प्रेम ने फिर से घेरा।

 

ढोला-मारू संग चले, रेतों में प्रेम की छाया,

राजस्थान की धरती ने, फिर अमर गाथा गाया।

 

आज भी जब ऊँट चले, रेतों में गीत सुनाई दे,

ढोला-मारू की प्रेम कथा, हर दिल को छू जाए रे।

 

Flying High

The joy of running with the wind in your hair,

Of endless circling with hands outstretched

Of feeling as if the wind picked you up

And flung you right into the clouds

Of dancing barefoot in puddles

Making the world shake with your laugh

Of knowing that there will be hands to

Catch you and guide you to the ground.

Knowing that I can fly high in the sky,

Yet my string is in safe hands

Connected to the ground , yet free.