the story of a samiratin

Posted by Naved Ahmad
July 24, 2017

Self-Published

The Son of a Samiritan.

Jat calling! Flashes on the screen of my mother’s phone and the smile flashes on her face as she picked up the phone hurriedly .Asalamilkum baaji “Baaji until and unless you will not arrive we will not start Arti.” The caller was sure; his sister would not leave a single stone unturned to reach on time. My mom assured him on the phone “ we will surely be attending the marriage Insha’Allaha “.Language was Rajasthani, the tone was full of sisterly sublime love . The conversation went on for fifteen minutes. She will be there for her Nephew’s (Vinod) wedding and I am excited like any other Indian to be a part of family wedding at Pink city this November.

I, vividly remember, to my amazement  a huge palm folding my mother’s  eyes  from behind “pehchano kaun’ my mom without touching even reciprocating “wahi hoga Jat ka Chora” .Mamu always brings  Goonji special Rajasthani sweet for all of us whenever we visit our Maternal home during vacations .This tradition still continues .

It was chilly December night of 1970. My Maternal Grandfather, to whom we all fondly called Nana Abbu, posted in Phulera District of Rajasthan as a Headmaster in a Government college, father of three sons and three daughters opened the door half-asleep .Two, very young boys, stood outside, crying for help Master Saab! Master Saab! The younger was bleeding profusely. Nana Abu ,enquired “What happen Chithar” ?Rubbing his sleepy eyes .Chithar was elder and the student of the Master Saab in his school  “Master Saab iska haat aantey ki chakki mein aa gaya hai  “said Chithar and he continued “we don’t have any vehicle, we need to visit hospital immediately”. My Grandfather pulled out his jacket in a moment and vroomed his Rajdoot to hospital. The doctor said, “We had to amputate his left hand and we need the blood right now the headmaster who hailed from Uttar Pradesh donated his blood to the Rajasthani boy without giving a second thought.

The chagrined, grief stricken, young chitar crying inconsolably for his younger brother “fortunate are those who had brothers like chithar”, as my mother kept on narrating the heart-warming typical Indian anecdote. “Those were the days when the fit boys were considered for farming, the weaker for education, particularly in villages” as she continued the tale . Chithar my mom calls him Bhayo slept while keeping his head on Bhai Miyan’s (Nana Abu is Bhai Miyan for all her sons and daughters)   shoulder and kept on murmuring whole night. What will happen to my chotu? , Who will take care of him, we have no money, and chotu will not be able to work on fields, any more. That very day, very moment the headmaster becomes the father of four sons and three daughters. “Chotu will live with us and I will teach him” the Samaritan promised Bhayo those who keep promises they do not die the champion octogenarian still lives on and his promise is a Namkeen king of Jaipur whose name  is Sri Ram .

Why a Muslim lady tie love on the wrist of a Jat   why there will be no arti till she arrive why Sri ram is my mamu like Tayyab ,Ayyub and Yousuf . Love is beyond comprehension .

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