A Diwali Tale: The White Owl's Choice

The dark walls of the small bedroom pulsated with the old woman’s wheezing. On the other side of the bed, Amrin lay with her eyes closed trying to still the apprehensions swamping her. Spiralling her equilibrium out of control was a question that she had no answer to… how do I submit to a stranger simply because a maulvi says he is my husband?

Rustle! Rustle! Clink! Flap! Flap! Clink!

What is that? Amrin opened her eyes. The only window in the room had no curtains. Its glass panes were shut and foggy with the chill of an October night. Nevertheless, Amrin could make out the faint outline of large form filling the window frame. Swinging down her legs, she tiptoed to the window. With a forefinger, she wiped the glass clean and peered out. A large owl perched on the broad sill. As the clouds in the night sky floated away, moonbeams sprayed its feathers with molten silver. Large, dark eyes pierced the glass. They seem to drill into her very soul…uncovering its deepest secrets. Its hooked beak parted slightly as if it spoke. Not a sound came through the thick glass, yet Amrin was mesmerised.

The owl’s eyes were polished onyx…wholly hypnotic…fascinating…magical. Weird and beautiful, the creature enticed her, dragging her into a trance.

‘Has the white owl come?’

Amrin started as the trance lifted.

Her grandmother was sitting up in bed, a finger pointing shakily towards the window.

‘There is a white owl outside the window. I don’t know if it is the white owl,’ replied Amrin.

‘That is Lakshmi’s owl,’ said her grandmother, lying back.

Glancing back at the white owl that was still staring at her unblinkingly, Amrin climbed back into bed. Pulling up the thin covers, she turned to her grandmother and asked, ‘What do you mean, Daadijaan? Do you know the owl?’

‘The last time I saw the white owl,’ replied her grandmother, her voice quavering, ‘was before my wedding to your Dadajaan.’ Instantly, a fit of coughing seized her. Quickly, the girl went across and held a tumbler of water to her lips. Wetting her throat killed the coughing. Gently placing her head back on the pillow, Amrin whispered, ‘Daadijaan, tell me the story of the white owl.’ Even as a child, she had known a story lay hidden behind her grandmother’s cryptic remarks.

‘Amrinjaan, it is the story of Diwali. Every year, Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune flies across the land on her white owl. She observes people, their attitudes, their deeds and selects homes she wants to fill with her bounty on Diwali. In each of these home, she chooses a Lakshmi, through whom the Goddess bestows her blessings. Just before Diwali, she sends her faithful companion, the white owl, to check on the Lakshmis she has selected and validate her decision.’ Her grandmother’s voice faded and the sound of wheezing once again filled the room.

‘Is that why the white owl visits?’

Amrin’s eyes went back at the window. The Goddess’ owl still perched on the sill, but its head was turned away. It was fluffing out its feathers as if about to fly away.

‘Daadijaan, do you really believe in this myth? After all, the whole idea of worshipping Goddess Lakshmi on Diwali is of the Hindus,’ pointed out Amrin.

‘Do you know what they say when a girl-child is born?’ whispered her grandmother. ‘They say Lakshmi has entered their home because they hope that one day, the Goddess would choose their girl as Lakshmi.’

‘But we practise the tenets of Islam, Daadijaan. Isn’t it wrong for us to believe in these myths?’ Amrin persisted.

‘How does it matter, child,’ rasped her grandmother, ‘whether we are Hindus or Muslims? Our real strength grows when we believe in ourselves and our abilities.’

Amrin mulled over her grandmother’s views that exactly matched her father’s opinion. So often, she had heard him propounding to any willing listener, ‘We are neither Hindu nor Muslim. We are Indians. If we realise this fact, all communal discord in India will be over. Religion is our communication with God. It is not our identity.’

Amrin asked, ‘What happened when you saw the white owl? Were you chosen as Lakshmi? Did it bring you good fortune?’

Only a noisy breathing resounded in the room.

‘Did it, Daadijaan?’ Amrin asked, again.

‘Yes, Amrin. Did I not marry your Dadajaan? Did I not have a golden son? Did I not become the family’s favourite bride because only my son grew into adulthood?’

Amrin was silent. Is good fortune marriage, birthing a son and earning security? What place does love hold in this equation? Isn’t the sole purpose of choosing a Lakshmi is bringing happiness and comfort to the entire home? Shouldn’t a Lakshmi be like the earthen lamp that burns itself to dispel darkness around it? Amrin sighed and turned towards the moonlit window that still held the owl’s form. After a while, her breathing deepened as sleep overcame her.

Next morning, the entire haveli was humming with happy voices. Long years ago, this huge haveli situated in the narrow lanes of Daryaganj had been rented out to a number of families whose generations had lived here. Amrin was the only daughter of one such family, the Baigs; father, mother, grandmother and Amrin.

When her grandfather had taken up a tenancy in the haveli, the family had four rooms but dwindling finances had confined them now to only two rooms including a covered porch that ran the length of the rooms. The rest of the haveli was rented out to various families each holding the number of rooms they could afford to pay rent for. The families had lived together in this haveli for decades. Sharing joys and sorrows had bonded them closer than blood ties could. When Baig Sahab announced that Imitiaz Ali had sent a marriage offer for Amrin, excitement sizzled through the haveli.

A wedding!

In the aftermath of the horrifying pandemic, memories of joyful occasions had dimmed. Sickness and death had surrounded the haveli like a miasma that cut asunder with the bright ray of hope and happiness of this announcement.

No doubt, Imitiaz Ali was a widower. Though he meticulously dyed black his hair and beard, he was at least forty-nine years. His three children were grown, the eldest being fifteen years of age. On the other hand, Baig Saheb’s daughter was pretty with brown, oval eyes and masses of dark curls fetchingly framing a fair, heart-shaped face. She had graduated from Delhi University and held a job at a fancy Connaught Place store. Nevertheless, Imitiaz Ali owned Khas Biriyani, an eatery that had been doing well for years. Even during the pandemic when all other establishments had shut down one by one, Ali’s business had roared. When one takes into account Baig Sahab’s joblessness and failing health, the decent mahr offered by Ali made sense to accept. After all, Amrin was all of thirty years and long past marriageable age. How long could a man keep his daughter unmarried because her salary ran his home? What would people say?

All this had been discussed and argued endlessly. Eventually everyone in the haveli agreed that this marriage would profit all the concerned parties. All, except Amrin, whom nobody bothered to ask. Now, the haveli rang with laughter and loud voices in anticipation of a good time. Once again, life had deigned to throb within its walls where death had danced too many times over the last few months. Kitbah, the formal engagement between Imtiaz Ali and Amrin would be held the day after Diwali. The haveli residents pitched in whichever way to make it successful.

‘Chachijaan! Look at my salwar suit, now. See how I have taken in the chest and pinched the waist a little. It will fit Amrin perfectly now,’ Santoshbhabi, their neighbour next door, held up a satin ensemble that had clearly seen better days, ‘Wish you were a little plumper, my dear.’ She flung at Amrin, ‘Men like to hold on something.’ It triggered a burst of laughter from the women gathered in the courtyard while Amrin flushed, and her mother wagged a finger at Bhabi with a smile.

Well, Kish always says that thin women look more elegant. Unbidden, came the thought that Amrin pushed away, resolutely. No, I cannot…must not think of Kish. She hated Santoshbhabi’s hot pink shiny salwar lent to Amrin for the kitbah. She preferred soft pastel shades.

Across the yard, a group of women sat on the string cots with a green net fabric stretched across their laps. Fingers flashed nimbly as they sewed sequins on it creating a veil that would cover Amrin’s head decorously during the ceremony. This was the only detail of the engagement attire that her mother had spent a few precious rupees on. ‘The green veil would go so well with the pink suit,’ remarked Gulshanchachi.

Rather…, Amrin replied silently, I will look like the gaudy awning that is being trussed up now. She looked upwards at the men who had shinned up bamboo poles at four corners of the yard to tie a huge canvas patterned in red, green and yellow to the poles. It would roof the yard and serve as a lounge for the rooms were too small to accommodate the groom’s party and guests or the ceremony.

Suddenly, Amrin felt small. She was ashamed of her bitter rancour. After all, Abbu and Ammi were doing their best to secure her future by a marriage to a successful businessman. So what if he had been married before, was greying and had a paunch? The mahr he gifted would help Abbu with treatment for his ulcer, too.

Aren’t you forgetting the three children who come with the package…,reminded her obstinate heart.

Be quiet, Amrin admonished.

But a sinking feeling assailed her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes making her hide in the bedroom that she shared with her grandmother. Lying on the bed she looked up at the peeling walls. In places, flakes of whitewash hung precariously. As tears rolled down dampening the pillow with dark patches, Amrin contemplated, isn’t that what my life has become? The little joys that made each day bearable are now hanging… like these flakes…In time they would crumble to dust and disappear altogether. Tears coursed down faster as she buried her face in the pillow.

Only a few weeks ago, I had been so happy…

Kish and she had been sitting on their bench at Central Park in CP. As usual, they had not been speaking…just enjoying each other’s company.

Amrin went back to the memories spanning the last two years.

The first time, Kish had entered the HariRam Dry Fruits, where she worked, Amrin had been ringing up a customer’s bill. She had glanced up as the door swung open and then could not take her eyes away. Many smart, good-looking men came into the store for it was located at the more elegant of the CP blocks. But this man was different. The understated, stylish suit was a perfect fit on his tall, lean figure, an attractive patrician profile added to the self-assurance discernible in the tilt of his head. However, what intrigued Amrin was a vulnerability in the soft, grey eyes. It caught her by the throat.

‘Can I have the change, please?’ The lady standing before her had asked, breaking the spell. Amrin had apologised and proffered it. As the customer moved away, she turned around and fiddled with the jars on the shelves. Through the long mirror behind the shelves, she kept an eye on the young man. He had moved around the display counters before approaching her. Intentionally, Amrin did not turn around. Instead, she began to dust the jars.

‘Miss?’ His voice was deep and soft.

Amrin turned and met cool, grey eyes. Bemused, her heart skipped a beat. Maybe it had lasted just a moment, but the earth had stopped spinning. The world had dropped away and only the two of them existed in a bubble.

‘Miss?’ This time, a hint of amusement tinged the polite tone.

‘Yes!’ Amrin said on a reflex and then caught herself. She had to tear her eyes away before she could speak normally. ‘Yes, Sir. Can I help you?’

‘Thank you, Miss. Do you have figs?’

What did he thank me for? Is he being sarcastic about my silly behaviour? Her cheeks began to feel warm. She knew a flush was rising. It always did whenever she was embarrassed. Trying to steady a heart that was going hoppity-hop, she tried to speak calmly. ‘Yes, of course Sir.’ Placing a silver salver on the counter, she spooned a few dry figs on it. ‘Why don’t you try them, Sir?’ She also brought out an attractively packaged box of figs.

‘Please don’t call me ‘Sir’. It makes me feel like an old, doddering guy. My name is Kish.’ A disarming, friendly smile flashed across the lean face. He picked up a fig and bit into it, but his eyes remained on Amrin. ‘And what is your’s?’

‘Mine?’ Flustered, she shook her head.

‘Your name…,’ he clarified.

‘Umm…Amrin…Amrin Baig,’ she declared.

‘Miss Baig, I think I will take this box. Could you ring it up, please?’

‘Yes, Sir…I mean…I mean…Kish.’ The last word was almost a whisper. She had never called customers by their names, and nobody had ever called her ‘Miss Baig’.

Kish chewed on the fig as she worked the machine, acutely conscious of his gaze.

Since that day, Kish had frequently walked into the store. Sometimes, he asked for a bag of apricots or almonds or a box of walnuts in paper-thin shells from Kashmir. They exchanged a few words. Always courteous to Amrin, he often flashed his easy smile that took away her breath.

She remembered the day he invited her out for a cup of coffee, and she had said, ‘I am sorry, but I cannot leave the store. I am paid by the hour. In between opening and closing times, I have only one hour for lunch that the owner pays for. Any other time, I leave the store, my salary is deducted.’

Now, Kish began to appear the moment lunch hour started. Leisurely, they would amble along the boulevards of CP or sit at a bench in the Central Park. He would share her simple cold lunch of chapati, sabzi and pickles with great gusto. By a strange coincidence, both were great believers of wordless communication and even more strangely, it worked unusually well for them.

Over the months, a kind of bond grew between them that hardly needed any communion. For reasons, unknown even to them, they could easily fathom each other’s thoughts with uncanny accuracy. While walking past an ice cream vendor, Kish would stop to buy a pair of chocolate chip cones. AS he presented one to Amrin, she would burst into a delightful laugh, asking, ‘How did you know that I was craving an ice cream and a chocolate chip flavour, too?’

Just being in the presence of the other person brought so much contentment to Kish and Amrin, that the desire to know more about the other person did not really matter. Mostly they came to know about each other’s lives through casual comments and observations.

When Kish praised her mother’s cooking, he would inform Amrin of his own mother’s passing a few years ago and how much he missed home-cooked meals. He would point out casually how his grey eyes were an inheritance of the Dutch ancestry on his mother’s side, but he was more like his father and grandfather who were Sikhs from Punjab.

Noticing his expensive leather wallet and his elegant suits, Amrin deduced his affluent background. Kish, on the other hand, observed how her face lit up when she referred to her parents or grandmother. He knew that her family was rich in love which more than made up for the lack of money. He admired Amrin’s sense of filial duty as well as her sincere responsibility to her job.

Some facts came through natural conversations.

‘What does your name ‘Kish’ mean?’ Amrin asked, one day.

Kish threw back his head and laughed. ‘It does not mean anything. My name is actually Kanishka Gill, but my Dutch friends could not pronounce it. So they abbreviated it to Kish and the name stuck.’

‘You are from a Sikh family. So how come you live in the Netherlands?’

‘Well, my grandfather migrated to Amsterdam in the 1950s. My father grew up there and married my mother, who was Dutch. I was born there and studied in Amsterdam and London. When I began working at Green Energy, they sent me to their Indian branch at Delhi. Do you know my office is just above your store?’ he explained.

‘Really? And it’s not my store. I work there.’ She continued asking. ‘Is this the first time you have come to India?’ Kish nodded with a grin. ‘And do you like it here?’

‘I love it here,’ Kish proclaimed, flinging out his hands. ‘Now that’s enough about me. Tell me about yourself.’

‘My life is very boring. There is nothing much to tell,’ Amrin evaded him.

‘No, Amrin. You are not going to escape that easily. Tell me about your family,’ persisted Kish.

‘Well, my family has lived for three generations in Daryaganj, a part of the old city,’ she said hesitantly.

‘I would love to see that area. Does it have a lot of old monuments?’ Kish asked, eagerly.

‘Lots and lots. I will take you there, one day.’

‘I hope you don’t mind my asking this but how come your family did not move away to Pakistan?’

‘Because my grandfather believed his country was India and not Pakistan. My grandfather, grandmother and parents have never agreed with the notion that religion defines a nation,’ declared Amrin.

‘What, in their opinion, makes a nation?’ Kish wanted to know.

‘People, great and strong…,’ quoted Amrin.

‘…who stand and suffer long?’ came Kish’s pat repartee.

‘You know the poem, too?’ Amrin was delighted.

‘What does your father do?’

‘He is a chartered accountant by profession and worked in a construction supplier company for nearly twenty years until the pandemic stuck. But the lockdowns broke the business. The factory closed down and he lost his job. Ulcers and anxiety have made him so ill that he is not been working anymore,’ explained Amrin, her voice choking up.

‘And you?’ Kish tried to distract her.

‘When the lockdown began, I had just graduated with honours in English Literature. I was planning my Masters, and a doctorate in Medieval Literature but when Abbu lost his job. Once the shops opened, I applied and got this job. And here I am,’ she said with a smile.

‘Kissed goodbye to your dreams,’ Kish said, softly. ‘Let’s go back. Your lunch break is nearly over.’

Unconsciously, their amity grew deeper. Each passing day only brought an intense eagerness to spend time with each other. However, neither disclosed affection growing within their hearts, to the other. Amrin intentionally concealed her sentiments that would lead them nowhere. Kish’s world and society were in complete variance to her own. Besides, she was Muslim, and he was Sikh. Amrin was convinced that marriage did not involve only two people/ It is an alliance between two families. She was sure that Kish’s Sikh family would never accept a Muslim girl like her.  

She was determined that their friendship did not transform into a serious relationship that would bring only pain to both. Being with Kish was like a bright ray that lighted up Amrin’s dreary existence. She did not want anything to jeopardise the serenity of their friendship.

Imitiaz Ali’s offer for her hand had been a bolt from the blue. Light had vanished from her life when Ali sent word that she must resign her job. On a hot summer afternoon when a scorching loo was blowing flurries of dust, Amrin told Kish everything. In the place of her heart, she placed a frozen piece of ice and declared it was not right that she and Kish should meet anymore. After all, she was now promised to another man. Kish said not a word. Only his eyes silently betrayed the pain her words had given. Those eyes had pierced through Amrin’s icy heart shattering it to smithereens. She had turned and run across the busy road blinded by tears. That was two months ago and the last time she had seen him.   

‘Amriiin! Amriin!’

The girl sat up with a start. Was it already noon? Was Ammi calling her to roll out the chapatis for the mid-day meal? Wiping her eyes with the corner of her dupatta, she rushed towards the kitchen in the porch. In one corner, a wooden latticed wall separated the cooking area from the rest of the porch which also served as a sitting room.  

That night, the white owl once again perched on the windowsill. It flapped its wings, fluffed out its feathers, stared through the windowpane at Amrin or watched the moon. Her grandmother paused her wheezing to remark, ‘A second visit…that’s a good omen.’

Amrin smiled. Placing a palm under her cheek, she watched silver moonlight sparkle across the white feathers until sleep weighed down her lids.

Diwali day dawned with clear blue skies. Amrin flung open the window. The white owl had gone. A nippy breeze caressed her face with the acrid smell of firecrackers stinging her nose. For some reason her mood lifted. She hummed under her breath as she helped her grandmother settle into her easy chair against the latticed kitchen wall where the morning sun beamed a warm patch.

This morning, the yard was empty. Sunlight filtering through the awning flung red, green and yellow patterns on its tiled floor. The neighbours were indoors cleaning, decorating, and preparing for the Lakshmi Puja to be held after sundown. Amrin stepped into the kitchen space. Her mother had already soaked the tiny, fried gramflour balls in syrup. Amrin began to roll the sticky balls into ladoos and arranging them on wide platters. To add to the bonhomie, her mother distributed ladoos to the haveli families every year on this occasion though the family did not actually celebrate Diwali.

‘Good morning! Can you please direct me to Mr Baig’s house?’ A deep voice boomed in the courtyard.

Curiously, Amrin peeped into the porch. A tall figure stood just outside. Dim light under the awning cast shadows on the face but the neat turban tied on his head proclaimed he was a Sikh. Behind him, Amrin glimpsed two uniformed attendants holding large, covered trays. Must have come to the wrong address, she thought returning to her task of rolling ladoos.

Her father’s voice came to them. ‘I am Mr Baig and this my home. How can I help you?’

‘Hello Mr Baig. I am Gurdiyal Singh Gill and I have come from the Netherlands to meet you. May I enter?’

Amrin’s head shot up. Gill? Netherlands! Who is this visitor?

She peered through the lattice and observed her father offering a seat to the gentleman. Grabbed in a charcoal grey suit, the only colour was from the yellow silk turban and a matching tie. Next to the debonair figure, her father looked quite drab. The attendants kept the trays on the low table and withdrew. Amrin watched as the gentleman courteously greeted her grandmother with folded hands before taking a seat. Her father sat down tentatively, his brows creased in bewilderment.

‘Mr Baig, I am sure you are wondering who I am and why I am here. You see, my son, Kanishka Gill and your daughter, Amrin are good friends. Well, maybe a little more than just friends.’

Amrin gasped as her father began to stammer and shake his head. ‘I…I am sorry, Mr Gill. I will talk to Amrin, and she will certainly end this foolishness…’

‘No, no Mr Baig,’ interrupted the visitor. He leaned forward to hold her father’s hands. ‘Let me put it simply. I am here, Mr Baig, to ask for your permission.’

‘Permission? For what?’ Mr Baig was nonplussed.

 ‘To marry my son to your daughter,’ he clarified. ‘It is true that you know nothing about my son or my family. Therefore, I thought it would be better to tell you everything in person. I beg you to hear everything before you take a decision, although a ‘no’ from you would break my son’s heart.’

Amrin could hardly believe her ears.

In a daze, she heard Mr Gill’s words. ‘You see, Mr Baig, my father emigrated to the Netherlands in 1953. Ever since our family has lived there. I lost my wife, a wonderful Dutch lady, some years ago. In Amsterdam, I own a business called Green Energy. We set up sustainable energy plants in European countries. Last year, I decided to bring my business to India and opened an office in Delhi. My son, Kanishka manages that office. Incidentally, it is located very near Amrin’s workplace. I think that is how they met.’

Owns Green Energy? And I thought Kish worked there. Why did he not tell me?

At that exact moment, her old keypad phone trilled. Slowly, Amrin picked it up. ‘I am sorry,’ said a familiar voice in her ear. ‘I should have warned you, but I was afraid.’

‘Afraid? Of what, Kish?’ Amrin whispered angrily.

‘Of your strong moral compass.’

There was silence as Amrin tried to comprehend his remark.

Kish tried to explain. ‘Look Amrin, I knew your heart’s desire. It was no different what was in my heart. But I also knew how close you are to your family. I knew you would do nothing to hurt them. If your family did not support or approve our relationship, you would rather choke your heart’s desire than go against their wishes. That is the reason I requested my father to visit your home.’

‘But…but…we are Muslim, and your family is Sikh. How can we marry?’ Amrin whispered fiercely.

Before Kish could reply, Amrin received her answer from beyond the lattice. ‘Mr Baig,’ Gurdiyal Gill declared, ‘My family and I do not believe religion can separate man from man or friend from friend. It does not matter whether one practises Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism, the Jewish or Christian religion. What matters is whether one practises the creed of humanity? In my family that practice is of utmost significance. In fact, many of my best friends in Amsterdam have migrated from Pakistan. From what Kish has been telling me, your family not only holds similar beliefs but actually practises them.’

Through the lattice, Amrin saw her father smile and nod. How many times has she heard her father proclaim the same ideology? That religion is not one’s identity…only deeds make you who you are…you can lay claim to only your deeds for they are your real identity.

She heard her father say, ‘There is no question of denying your request, Gurdiyal Singhji. Whatever makes Amrin happy will make us happy.’

‘I could not help overhearing my father’s words,’ Kish was saying on the phone. However, anxiety underlined his tone as he asked, ‘Does your father agree? Has he given permission?’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ Amrin could not say more as happiness choked her throat and tears streamed down her cheeks.

‘I love you,’ whispered Kish and disconnected.

Her grandmother turned her head to look at Amrin through the lattice. Triumph gleamed in the watery eyes.

Then she heard her father say, ‘But what will we say to Imtiaz Ali?’

Amrin held her breath. Was everything going to crash just when she had dared to begin dreaming?

‘I will take care of Ali. Don’t worry, Son,’ declared her grandmother, till now a silent spectator. In a strong voice without a single quaver, she affirmed, ‘You go ahead with the arrangements, Gurdiyal Singhji. Amrin will marry Kanishka.’

The two fathers happily shook hands.  The attendants began to uncover the silver trays piled high with sweets and fruits. Amrin’s mother rushed out of the kitchen holding a platter full of golden ladoos. Biting into a deliciously soft ladoo, Kish’s father began telling Mr Baig about how his Delhi office was in dire need of an experienced chartered accountant.

'You know,' he said, ' Kish would really appreciate your financial advice. Why don't you begin to consult him?' They chatted about the business and Amrin’s mother pressed into Mr Gill's hands a cup of her special ginger-lemon tea.

'Do you know, Baig Sahab,' added Mr Gill, 'Amsterdam has the best doctors in Europe? Let me arrange an appointment with them for your ulcer treatment. It will be a good excuse for you to visit us, too.'

'That will be too much trouble for you...,' began Mr Baig, but Kish's father did not allow him to go on.

'No, No Baig Sahab. No trouble at all,' he said. Swallowing the last of the ladoo, he said, 'I will send you the tickets as soon as I reach back.'

Suddenly, Amrin's  grandmother spoke up. Her loud voice cut through the babble.

 ‘I knew she would be our Lakshmi. I knew she is the white owl's best choice.’

Three faces turned to her each expressing varying degrees of perplexity. An enigmatic smile stretched the wrinkles on the old face. Only Amrin’s tear-streaked face nodded in comprehension.