Re: Folktales
the side ptory to codeys is that Sher Shah Suri..( who earned his name after he killed a lion with his bare hands) was just an ordinary Afghan nobleman who was invited to a banquet with Babar..Babar who came from a posh upbringing chided Sher Shah in front of all the people..saying look the Afghan eats with his arms on the table..his pride hurt at all the laughter Sher Shah swore to take revenge on the Mughals..and like any good Afghan he kept his promise
Re: Folktales
^ :)
At you service Ms daisy :Salute:
Ok the next story is very interesting ...
It was told by a great saint of our time, Ashfaq Ahmed. Many people know him as an author, writer.... rest of us know him as a teacher, guide and humanist and a great story teller.
The story goes like ...
Wait ! Ms daisy, I know this is a non-comercial thread ... but would you be kind enough to allow me a little advertisment ?? Poor story tellers live hand to mouth these days :(
Live by the code!!!!
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Long time ago there was a noble king, he was kind and just for his people. He used to visit the prisoners early in the morning to ask about their well being... If someone was to be executed, he would ask him his last wish and tried to fulllfil it.
The king had a clever prime minister, but due to some nasty incident King got furious and ordered prime minister's execution. So the day when the execution was scheduled, King, as usual went to see the prisoners and asked pm his last desire.
PM saw that king was riding a beautiful white horse. As he was prime minister, he knew about all the king's horses.... but it was not one of them.
' Your highness ! I saw you riding such a beautiful white horse, I have not seen it before ??' asked pm
*'Yes ! you are right, I bought few horses this morning from this Arab caravan passing through the city.. I speacially liked this horse ' *king replied
Hearing this, expressions on the face of pm changed, his eyes got widened and face started glowing with excitement..
My lord !! This is not and ordinary horse, I swear by your majesty, your holyness. This is a **flying horse* my lord !!! This horse can fly....* Pm shouted
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND ?? - King scolded
*Yes I know, I know these type of horses, I can recognise them You have to beleive me ! This horse can take you to the places flying all over the country LIKE A BIRD *
The sparkle in the eye's of prime minister, made the king a bit interested in knowing the details ....
Continued...
Re: Folktales
Aunty Daisy, your story is lovely, Princess Rauzeena sounds like a gem.
Re: Folktales
The toota huwa matka wali story is from my area of Pakistan i believe...
Soni Mahewal????
Mum told me a little about her crossing the river with the aid of the matka but it had holes in it and she drowned...well someone give us the full version hehe
Re: Folktales
In short the prime minister convinced the king that the horse is really a flying horse and all it need is some training.
The King agreed and asked the prime minister to tame the horse that it should fly on the commands of king whenever he wishes so. He allocated One years time to Pm to train the horse, he told him that he would be executed one year later same day ...
The prime minister came back to his house riding that horse and found his wife weeping, while expecting his dead body. He told his wife the whole story that how he made fool of king and convinced him that the horse is a flying horse... Upon hearing this wife enquired :
So it means king has given you only one year to live, after one year you will be executed ??
Yes ! thats true said the pm
Upon hearing this, wife again started crying that he would be dead after a year, she would be alone again, why he haven't asked for complete pardon ??
The pm tried to calm her down by saying that she should be thankful that he got a year's extention in life... at least we can enjoy this one year together and share eachother's company for some more time..
The wife kept weeping, nothing pm said was able to convince her, so after a few days, pm thought of visiting place around the country and enjoy his short life as much as he can before, the day of his execution...
So the wife kept crying and complaining, the pm kept visiting beautiful places meeting people and enjoying his life on that horse and the king waited for the horse to be trained so he may experience the bird's eye view.
Three months passed like this....
After that King fell ill and died natural death after a few days ... similarly the pm also got ill and he too died. The wife remained alive and heathy, to mourn the death of his husband and rest of the country mourned the death of King.....
The end
Morals ??
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.
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Re: Folktales
Nice stories guys. So far i’ve read the one about Wali Dada :k:. Have to read the rest too. Meanwhile here’s a bedtime story that my mum told me when i was 8 something.
The King and the Piece of Wood
There was once a very kind a merciful king. His people were very happy with him. He was a grateful person and was thankful to Allah for whatever he had thus he was not greedy and shared his land’s wealth equally with everyone, instead of hogging everything.
The king had however one wish. He wanted to go around his land and meet all the different kinds of people. So one day after weeks of preparation he entrusted his court’s affairs to his wife the queen and different ministers and went off alone to journey his land. All he took with him was some food and his horse. He also chose to hide his identity so that he can see people as their natural self and not as someone entertaining a king.
One day, after weeks of travelling and meeting various people, the king came across a well. He was thirsty and his horse needed water too so he decided to get some water from the well. He had previously obtained a bucket from one of the villages he had visited. Now the well was pretty dark so he couldnt tell if there was water in it or not. So he decides to tie a rope to the bucket and throw it in the well. Unfortunately the part that held the rope to the bucket snapped off and the bucket fell down in the well. Shortly after though he heard the bucket hit the ground. This meant that the well didnt have any water but wasnt very deep either. The king still wanted his bucket for any other wells he might find on his way. So he decides to go down the well and retrieve the bucket. He ties the rope to a nearby tree and climbs down the well.
Once at the bottom of the well the king picks up the bucket and is almost on his way back when he sees something. There was a tiny entrance built into the wall which seemed like it lead to another room. There was a faint light coming from it too. The curious king decides to investigate and check out what was inside. So he puts the bucket aside and goes into the entrance..
What does our king find inside? Could it be monsters? Could it be treasure? What could it be? To find out please wait for the next post.
Sincerely,
Captain Lota
Re: Folktales
Moral of the story is codey’s kids will have horrible bedtime stories to listen to.
Sincerely,
Captain Lota
Re: Folktales
my naanni ami used to tel us lot of stories everynight , when we wisited pakistan and stayed with her. But i cant remmeber them, saddly , because i would have love to give them on to my daughter, nephwes, nieces.
There was one about mangoes (aam) about a king and he seven wifes and seven sons, does anyone know this one.?
My daddi ami also told stories, but they were scary all and one of them and they always had happend to some one she knew. I think next time I wisit Pakistan i will ask my eldest phupo and write theses stories down.
Re: Folktales
ahhhh captain post again!
Re: Folktales
i never knew how to read urdu. But this strange boy in my class told me of a story called GULBUKAWLI. I went to the shop n bought this book always thinking i will read it myself when i will learn to read urdu.
i kept the book with myself. the story seemed mysterious to me at first and i loved it.
a few days back i came to know that GULBUKAWALI was a myth actually n NOOR JAHAN had performed in a movie based on this story.
how many of u know about this story.
Re: Folktales
I remember reading it long time back but ive forgotten the story. :S
Sincerely,
Captain Lota
Re: Folktales
iGj, Ive never heard of it
would you mind telling us please?
Re: Folktales
ever heard of "adha paiya", "kola dunch" or "lohay kai channay".... how about "hattam taye". or the "saif-almalook??????
Re: Folktales
does anybody know the stories of Mullah do piyaaza?
i used o know a lot of them but i've completely forgotten them all.
Re: Folktales
laila and majnu -
Re: Folktales
Sassi - The Lady of Bhambore
[This tale takes place in the Pakistani city of Bhambore, which is east of Karachi]
Fates were feared as well as revered by the denizens of Bhambore. The year was 1250, and the city of Bhambore where both Hindus and Muslims lived together in the spirit of love and camaraderie. Bhambore was just a dot on the map of South-Asia, housing a motley of sects and religions, seething with ritual and culture. One dice of commonality amongst these peoples was their Belief in Fate, and this Belief alone was to jolt one Brahmin family out of their warm hearth, and toss them into the river of a tragedy.
One fateful evening, a baby girl was born in an illustrious Brahmin family, who were known to be pious, kind and god-fearing. According to the custom, a horoscope was drawn for this newborn babe as a guide to her future and upbringing. Unfortunately, the stars predicted nothing but a shadow of looming tragedies which could bring shame and dishonor to this Brahmin family. The unlucky stars were carved in tiny lines on the palms of her little hands. Predicting, that as a young girl she would fall in love with a boy of different faith, resulting in scandal and marriage. After reading this horoscope, the parents were devastated with grief and despair. Their love for their daughter was turned into the tides of simmering, churning horror, which they could neither drown, nor confront. The fates were leering at them with an open challenge, and they had to defy the very fates to save the pride and honor of their family. Their daughter was to be abandoned to her own cruel fate, where no shame could ever tarnish the family name. This child of fate was put into a basket of straw and left to the mercy of the waves in a small river.
The gentle currents of the river had carried this basket miles down to another village on the outskirts of Bhambore, where a washerman was pounding his own basket of linen on one rock of a washboard. Mohammed was the name of this kind man who earned his bread with the sweat of his brow and with the strength of his hands. Right now, beads of sweat were trickling down his wide brow, as he dealt mighty blows to the soiled sheets and coverlets. Snatching a pile into his arms, he was about to rinse them when he espied the basket, almost floating close to the shore. Tossing the bundle of linen to the ground, he reached out for the basket with great alacrity. The light of joy and warmth washed over his sturdy features, as he discovered the innocent treasure swaddled in softest of white silks.
Mohammed was a middle-aged man who had married late, though his wife was young and beautiful. Both had prayed and longed for a child, but had remained childless. This late afternoon, when Mohammed had seen this little girl swaddled in the white purity of peace as well as silks, his heart had leapt with joy. A gift from God, especially for them, Mohammed had almost swooned with rapture and gratitude. Forgetting about his laundry, and clutching the basket to his breast, he had raced home to share this miracle of life with his wife. The young bride was ecstatic, more so by the happiness of her husband, than by the prospect of being a mother to this beautiful girl. Immediately, the baby was adopted by them and named, Sassi.
Sassi was truly the child of Bhambore! No more a child, but a young maiden of fifteen summers, her beauty had bloomed like a fair rose, attracting envy and admiration from all. Her dark eyes and dark hair clear down to her waist were enough to make young men swoon with awe and desire. Her own youth was unfolding with the buds of desires, but no beau had impressed her to the extent to wear the chains of wedlock. Wedlock was far from her mind one citron evening when she roamed happily with her friend Rakhi in the town bazaar, making small purchases from the eager vendors whose enthusiasm was difficult to ignore.
This bazaar the size of a small, meandering valley was teeming with merchants from neighboring towns, who were wont to come here once a month to promote their own goods. Among them was one young merchant by the name of Pannu, who had come here the first time accompanied by his brothers. He was the youngest and most handsome of all the brothers, and endowed with an ardent spirit which could fly unbridled if his heart was touched. Four brothers in all, they were the sons of a wealthy chief from the town of Kech Mekran. An exception to the rule, they didn't come here every month but twice a year, for their town was about one hundred miles east of Bhambore. Punnu was assigned the stall of perfumes, selling as well as flirting with young ladies with the lighthearted gaiety of a carefree youth. Rakhi had just selected a bottle of musk and was ready to pay, when she was befuddled by the expression on Punnu's handsome face.
Punnu was not even aware that he had sold a bottle of musk, his gaze was arrested to Sassi, rapt and devouring. Sassi too was caught in abeyance, stricken more by the sparkle of admiration in his eyes than by the fire of mute reverence.
"The strings of my heart are broken, o fair maiden," Punnu murmured to himself, unable to tear his gaze away from this miracle divine. "Let me hear the music of your voice to mend my broken heart," he pleaded.
Sassi couldn't breathe a word, but the arrow of cupid buried deep in her heart was surfacing in her eyes, writing volumes with the ink of love. Wordless and sightless, their hearts were locked in the embrace of a Union Sublime, not ever to be sundered apart in the everlasting cycle of time and timelessness.
All three brothers of Punnu, after counting their profits and packing their merchandise were about to leave, when they noticed that Punnu was sitting in his stall oblivious to time and place. Aggravated beyond measure, they pelted Punnu with reproof, urging him to pack and get ready for a journey to the next town. Punnu's only response was that he wanted to stay in Bhambore and had no wish to journey farther. Simmering with rage and cursing their own impatience, they departed without even asking the reason for his strange decision in wild contrast to his former eagerness in traveling.
Smitten with love and delirious with longings, Punnu was destined to find the home of his beloved. Besides, the town was small and every child in town could point to the house where the most beautiful Lady of Bhambore with long, raven hair resided. Once finding the house, Punnu prostrated himself before Sassi's parents, begging for the hand of their daughter in marriage.
Mohammad was delighted by the manners of this handsome youth, and finding Sassi willing, was thrown into a fit of exultance. His only condition for this marriage was that Punnu become a washerman and live with them, for they couldn't think to be parted from their one and only daughter. Punnu had no objection to earn his living by any means as long as Sassi was to be his bride.
Sassi was the loveliest and happiest of brides, and the entire town was invited to feasting and celebration on this auspicious day of her wedding with Punnu. This marriage was made in heaven, people could not help exclaim, even after the wedding vows were dissolved into weeks, and the loving couple could not endure to be parted as if they had not seen each other in centuries. Punnu's brothers, on their return journey toward Kech Mekran, halted at Bhambore, only to find their younger brother married and bewitched. All of them were heard urging him to return home along with his bride, but Punnu was adamant in staying with his in-laws, and renouncing all claims to the wealth of his parents. So the brothers had no choice but to depart, their hearts heavy with sorrow and disappointment.
Upon reaching Kech Mekran, all brothers were reprimanded by their father for neglecting their brother, and leaving him with the choice of marrying the daughter of a lowly washerman. He was so incensed in fact, that he had commanded all his three sons to ride back to Bhambore and drag Punnu home with whatever devices they could conjure, no matter what hurdles of arguments they had to confront and surpass. All three brothers, herded in one carriage, were back on the road toward Bhambore. On their way, they were quick to devise a plan, loading their carriage with drinks and gifts. Once in Bhambore, they offered costly gifts to Sassi and her parents, telling them that these were the tokens of love from their own parents to bless their son's marriage with the Lady of Bhambore. After enjoying a simple but delicious supper, they begged the hospitable hosts to spare Punnu for a few hours to settle the accounts of lands and merchandise with his brother. The parents of Sassi were too happy to grant them this leisure, making them comfortable on the verandah where they could discuss their affairs without intrusion. Sassi was kept inside to help her parents in cleaning and making arrangements for the comfort of the guests who were to stay there for the night.
Out on the verandah, the brothers were engaged more in filling the cup of Punnu with strong drinks than talking about matters relating trade or estate. Inside the house, Sassi was helping with the cleaning and preparing beds for the guests, for they had shown their intention in staying for the night.
Meanwhile, Punnu had become a victim to drunkenness much earlier than his brothers had anticipated. Totally intoxicated, he was hauled into the carriage, not in the least aware of his besotted self, nor of the perfidious schemes of his brothers. After putting everything in order and resting a while in wait for Punnu and his brothers to come in, Sassi had straggled onto the verandah. Her parents had gone to bed, and she was etched on the verandah like some fair apparition, her dark, silken hair caressed by night breeze. She stood there inert at first, her dark eyes searching the moonlit emptiness miles ahead. Suddenly, her heart was throbbing, and her psyche throwing open the gates of a presage which had been with her all evening. In a flash, she knew that those evil brothers had taken her Punnu away from her. She was swaying, her gaze cutting through the laughing, mocking stars like the shafts of lightning. Inside her very bosom was erupting forth a volcanic fury, and this fury alone was lending her the scepter of strength and madness. She was not swaying, but running! Running like a spirit mad and spirit provoked.
"Punnu, Punnu," the heartrending lament of Sassi was seducing the night into pitiful laments as she kept racing toward moonlit voids.
Pressed by grief and madness, she had become a wild spirit of the night, splintering the sky and the stars with the pincers of her despair. 'Punnu, Punnu', the shadows and alleyways were awakened by her cries, leaping after the silent night to comfort her agony and delirium. Not a living soul was her companion on this lacerating journey toward doom and annihilation. Mile after mile were dissolved under her blistered feet, her dress torn and her hair disheveled, but her cries of 'Punnu, Punnu' were like wildfire, licking their own flames with hungry tongues. Only one sleepless shepherd, tossing on his straw mattress, was the one to catch these strings of lament. Snatching the lantern from his bedside, the shepherd hurled himself out of his hut, but the cries were silenced. The silent night staring back at him through the cold, glittering eyes of the stars, innocent and peace-loving.
Plodding a few paces away, he stumbled over rocks and pebbles. Finally staggering and trying to gain his balance over the bleeding feet of a young girl. Her ebony eyes lit by the flood of moon, were fixed to the stars. Resting on the pillow of her own black, silken hair, her face had attained the purity and transparency of crystal, glowing in its own cold, cold orb of brilliance. The shepherd touched this lifeless miracle, and wept and sighed. Fetching a spade from his hut, he dug a grave on the same spot where this nameless Beauty had expired, and buried her most prayerfully and reverently. Being a pious and religious man, he sat down by the grave, hugging himself, his head tucked in between his knees. The reason for sitting beside the grave was his own religious conviction that a body could not be left alone the first night of its death. So he sat there patient and mournful, waiting for the dawn to return to his hut.
The carriage racing toward Kech Mekran had covered a considerable distance, when Punnu came to his senses. Discerning the trick of his brothers, he begged them to turn back. Since the brothers were adamant in taking him home, he became wild with rage, threatening to use violence if they did not stop the carriage. Barely, the carriage had come to a sudden halt, that he jumped out, and began racing back toward Bhambore. Like Sassi, he was seized with madness, tearing the silence of the night into lumps of agony by his wild cries, 'Sassi, Sassi'.
The pearly dawn was fading against the blush of its own cheeks, when the shepherd was awakened from his slumber by the same heart-rending cries he had heard not too long ago. But this time the voice was hoarse and heavy, repeating an equally alien name, which; perhaps, had a link to Punnu, he was thinking. Rubbing his eyes to forced awakening, he was about to follow the voice when a shadow whisked past him in the semblance of a man gone stark mad. 'Sassi, Sassi', the morning itself was singing one dolorous lament through the lips of this mad lover, who was not even aware of his own existence.
"Stop, young man," the shepherd cried after him. "Could this be your Sassi, a beautiful girl with dark eyes and dark, silken hair, whom I buried here in the middle of the night? She died..." he could not speak, as Punnu whirled around, as if stung by a serpent coiled around his neck.
Punnu staggered toward the grave, blind and stunned. Though his eyes were lit up by the sparks of agony, and his face was a convulsion of torment indescribable. The violence of his own madness had spoken to him that his Beloved was no more. Towering low over the grave, he clawed at his chest, insane and tormented.
"Sassi, Sassi! The Lady of Bhambore is calling me..." Punnu's nails had dug deep into his chest. Though the wounds were of the flesh, it seemed his heart was bleeding. It could have been, for he wailed like a wounded animal. "Sassi, Beloved," the pallor of the dusk itself split shuddering as he tumbled over the grave in one heap, his mournful cry silenced.
The shepherd wept again, digging another grave beside Sassi, and burying the mad Lover with sorrow deeper than his own loneliness and bewilderment.
The parents of Sassi, who had found and nurtured her with joy, now came mourning at the altar of their own Loss and Grief. The villagers of Bhambore, too, came in droves, to respect and revere the Memory of this Beautiful Miracle who had kindled their village with warmth and laughter. For a whole week they prayed and mourned over the fresh graves, drenched with numb, stinging grief. Trying to ward off the tormented spirits, splintering the night with their ceaseless cries, which they had not ever encountered before.
"Punnu, Punnu...Sassi, Sassi..." the night-long vigils of the friends and family could not soothe these anguished spirits, their own hearts torn and pleading.
Weeks were dissolved into months and months into years, but the nights in Bhambore were not ever to entertain peace and silence. Even after centuries, the air still repeats in sibilant notes the tragic names of this young couple. "Punnu, Punnu". "Sassi, Sassi."
Re: Folktales
If you say so CrashDummie.
So, the curious king manages to squeeze himself in through the tiny entrance. Once inside, he discovered he was in a tiny room of sorts with a oil lamp burning on the other side of the room. Next to the oil lamp was a man sitting on the floor and praying.
The king decided to go and talk to the praying man. So he walked over and greeted him. The praying man seemed like a nice and kind person and didnt hesitate to pause and talk to the king. The king asked him why he was praying in such a place and why not go outside and pray at a more normal place. The praying man replied that he has been in that room praying for a few months now and will not leave until he knows his prayers have been accepted. The king asked him how he would know if his prayers have been accepted or not. At that the praying man pointed to a piece of wood lying on the ground and said that when his prayers got accepted, that piece of wood will turn green.
The king was a bit confused but still found the praying man’s explanation plausible. He asked the praying man if he would allow him (the king) to sit there and pray too. The king also humbly promised that he will not disturb the praying man in his prayers. The praying man agrees to let the king stay there with him. The king then gets an idea. He looks around the room and finds another piece of wood lying in a corner. He then tells the praying man that he too will not leave that room until his prayers were accepted, and he would know his prayers have been accepted only when that piece of wood had turned green.
So they both sat down in their own little corners and started praying. A couple days went by and they both continued praying without bothering each other. The king was a very patient man and he wasnt about to give up that easy.
On the third day sometime around the afternoon something happened. The king heard some sounds coming from outside. They were of a woman who was crying. By instinct the king wanted to go see what the matter was. He decided to get up and go outside. Before he stepped out, he asked the praying man to if he would like to join him. The praying man replied that his prayer was more important and he wouldnt leave it for anything. The king understood and decided to go out by himself. He got out of the room and climbed back up the well using the same rope.
So, what did the king find out when he got to the top of the well? Was it really someone crying? Was it someone pretenting to be in trouble? Was it a trap?
To find out answers to these questions and more, tune in to my next post!
Sincerely,
Captain Lota
Re: Folktales
The Prince and the Moon
When a young prince saw the full moon on a clear night he wanted it near him. His mother and all the servants tried to convince him that the moon could not come down to earth, but he insisted and was very sad. Being a prince the whole royal household was upset and had to think of something to appease him. Then finally one servant brought a bucket of water and told the young prince to look into the bucket. The delighted prince saw the reflection of the moon and .....
...they all lived happily ever after.
And then all the Birbal stories I just love them.
Re: Folktales
Lota loves folktales. Come on please post some!
Sincerely,
Captain Lota
Re: Folktales
Sohni Mahiwal
Sometime during the late Mughal period, there lived in a town on the banks of the Chenab, or one of its branches, a potter (kumhar) named Tulla. (The town is identified either as present day Gujrat or one of the nearby towns.) Tulla was a master craftsman and his earthenware was bought and sold throughout Northern India and even exported to Central Asia. To the potter and his wife was born a daughter. She was such a beautiful child that they named her Sohni, meaning beautiful in Punjabi.
Sohni spent her childhood playing and observing things in her father’s workshop. She watched clay kneaded and molded on the wheel into different shaped pots and pitchers, dried in the sun, and then fired and baked. Sohni grew up not only into a beautiful, young woman but also an accomplished artist who made floral designs on the pots and pitchers that came off her father’s wheel.
Sohni’s town was located on the trading route between Delhi and Central Asia, and trading caravans often made a stopover here. One such caravan that stopped here included a young, handsome trader from Bukhara, named Izzat Baig. While checking out the merchandise in town, Izzat Baig came upon Tulla’s workshop where he spotted Sohni sitting in a corner of the workshop painting floral designs on the pots. Izzat Baig was taken by Sohni’s rustic beauty and charm and couldn’t take his eyes off her. In order to linger at the workshop, he started purchasing random pieces of pottery. He returned the next day and made some more purchases at Tulla’s shop. His purchases were a pretext to be around Sohni for as long as he could. This became Izzat Baig’s routine until he had squandered most of his money.
When the time came for his caravan to leave, Izzat Baig found it impossible to leave Sohni’s town. He told his companions to leave, and that he would follow later. He took up permanent residence in the town and would visit Sohni at her father’s shop on one pretext or the other. Sohni also began to feel the heat of Izzat Baig’s love and gradually began to melt. The two started meeting secretly.
Izzat Baig soon ran out of money and started taking up odd jobs with different people, including Sohni’s father. One such job was that of grazing people’s cattle — mainly buffaloes. Because of his newfound occupation people started calling him Mahiwal, a short variation of Majhan-wala or the buffalo-man. That name stayed with him for the rest of his life — and thereafter.
Sohni and Mahiwal’s clandestine meetings soon became the talk of the town. When Sohni’s father came to know about the affair he hurriedly arranged Sohni’s marriage with one of her cousins, also a potter, and, ignoring Sohni’s protests and entreaties, bundled her off to her new home in a village somewhere on the other side of the river.
Mahiwal was devastated. He left town and became a wanderer, searching for Sohni’s whereabouts. Eventually, he found her house and managed to meet her in the guise of a beggar and gave her his new address — a hut across the river. Sohni’s husband, meanwhile, discovering that he could not win Sohni’s heart no matter what he did to please her, started spending more time away from home on business trips. Taking advantage of her husband’s absence, Sohni started meeting Mahiwal regularly. She would swim across the river at night with the help of a large water pitcher (gharra), a common swimming aid in the villages even today. They would spend most of the night together in Mahiwal’s hut and Sohni would swim back home before the crack of dawn. On reaching her side of the river, she would hide the pitcher in a bush to be used for her next trip the following night.
One day, Sohni’s sister-in-law (her husband’s sister) came visiting. Suspecting something unusual about Sohni’s nocturnal movements, she started spying on her. She followed Sohn,i one night, and saw her take out the pitcher from the bush, wade into the river and swim across. She reported the matter to her mother (Sohni’s mother-in-law). Both of them, rather than informing Sohni’s husband, decided to get rid of Sohni. This, they believed, was the only way to save their family’s honor. The sister-in-law quietly took out Sohni’s pitcher from the bush and replaced it with sun-dried, unbaked pitcher.
As usual, Sohni set out at night for her meeting with Mahiwal, picked the pitcher from the bush, as she always did, and entered the river. It was a stormy night. The river was in high flood. Sohni was soon engulfed in water. She discovered, to her horror, that the pitcher had begun to dissolve and disintegrate.
What shall she do now? Different thoughts rushed through Sohni’s mind. Abandon the trip? Or continue trying to swim without the help of a pitcher — and drown? Her inner struggle at this point is best expressed in a saraiki song made memorable by Pathanay Khan in his inimitable voice: Sohni gharray nu aakhdi aj mainu yaar mila gharrya
Roughly translated and paraphrased the song runs as follows:
Sohni (addressing the pitcher):
It’s dark and the river is in flood
There is water all around me
How am I going to meet Mahiwal?
If I keep going, I will surely drown
And if I turn back
I would be going back on my promise
And letting Mahiwal down
I beg you (O pitcher!), with folded hands,
Help me meet my Mahiwal
You always did it, please do it tonight, too
(The pitcher replies):
I wish I, too, were baked in the fire of love, like you are
But I am not. I apologize; I cannot help
Hearing Sohni’s cries, Mahiwal, from the other side, jumped into the river to save her. He barely managed to reach her. As the story goes, their bodies were washed ashore, and were found the next day, lying next to each other.
With their death, Sohni and Mahiwal entered into the world of legends and lore. And, in their death the sinners became saints.