In 1947, after graduating from Punjab Engineering College, Lahore,
I was working as an engineer with the Indian railways and was
posted at Roorkee. I met a girl, fell in love with her, and wanted
to marry her. But in this land of arranged marriages, it was an
impossible dream, since the invisible shackles of tradition were
stronger than steel chains. I was struggling to build enough
courage to break the fetters, announce my decision, and face the
wrath of my elders.

One evening, I returned home after spending twelve hours in
supervising the repairs to the railway track breached by the
monsoon floods. As I tottered into the living room, I found my
father and mother relaxing on the sofas, sipping tea. I was
surprised at this sudden unannounced visit. Adopting the
traditional ritual, I greeted them by touching their feet with
folded hands.

My parents patted my back and blessed me. I dumped myself on
the recliner, took a deep breath, and released it through pursed
lips.

"You should have written to me, and I would have picked you up
from the railway station," I said.

"Don't mind it, we could use the tonga (one-horse-drawn
buggy)," Dad said with a grin.

Mom opened her purse, took out a date, and offered it to me.
"Bite it," she commanded.

I knew eating the date, received from a girl's parents,
resulted in an engagement. Suspecting this to be a trap, I stood up
and asked, "What's this meant for?"

"Your engagement, of course. We have accepted the hand of a
girl for you," Dad shouted.

"I'd like to see the girl before I tie my fate with her."
Dad thumped his foot and yelled, "That's impossible! I never
saw your mother."

"That was forty years ago. Times have changed," I said.
Dad threw an angry scowl. "Young man, times can't change our
sacred traditions."

My parents had cantankerous tempers, and realizing that I was
facing two fiery volcanoes, I took steps to limit the damage. I
got up and closed the doors so the servants wouldn't hear our
conversation.

I wanted to wiggle out of the ugly situation and asked, "Can
you show me a picture of the girl?"

"No, it would bring bad luck to your marriage," Dad said.

I scratched my chin. "All right, can you describe her?"

"Her uncle is a minister in the central government," Dad
gloated.


"What about the girl?" I questioned.

"She'll bring a big dowry," Mom smiled and said.

"Mom, I want to know something about the girl."

"She has one head, two hands, and two legs," Mom smirked.

"Can you give me the name of her father and his address?"

Dad opened his diary and read, "Pakhar Singh, 10 Sangat Road,
Civil Lines, Ludhiana, and his younger brother, Pritam Singh, is
our leader."

I felt as if I had been crushed by a freight train. I had seen
the girl, while I was student at Ludhiana College. She was fat,
ugly, and promiscuous. In fact, one of my classmates had slept
with her and openly bragged about it. Moreover, it was an open
secret that her uncle made her pregnant, and she had to get an
abortion.

I closed my eyes and sat speechless.

Dad bawled, "Bir, have you lost your tongue?"

I opened my eyes, rubbed my forehead, and said, "Look father,
everyone knows Pritam Singh loaded her, and she had to terminate
the pregnancy."

Dad's face turned red, his face muscles quivered, and he
shouted, "It's all dirty talk by Pritam Singh's political enemies.
He's a pious Sikh and prays daily at the Gurdwara (Sikh temple)."

I threw the date on the floor and said, "I don't want to live
in hell with a bitch who is sleeping with any person who comes near
her."

On noticing burning anger and rebellion in my eyes, Mom
changed her gears, and said in a mellifluous voice, "Bir, calm
down. I promise you that she'll be fine after your marriage."

I sat wordless and looked out of the window.

Dad stood up and began pacing the room. After a few rounds,
he stopped before me, raked his finger through his white flowing
beard, and said, "Son, be rational and don't hurt us and yourself.
Pritam Singh can destroy your future. Accept the offer and all of
us will be extremely happy."

I moaned, "What about my happiness?"

Mom looked straight into my eyes and said, "You have to make
a small sacrifice for your family."

I shook my head and said, "I don't want to marry anybody; I'm
happy as a bachelor."

Dad began hitting his right palm with the fist of his left
hand. I knew what was going through his mind. He could no longer
spank me as he used to do, since I had grown taller and stronger
than him. He stopped pummeling his hand and said, "I'm going to
ask you one more time. Are you willing to accept the offer?"

"No, never."

Dad picked up the date, wiped it, and inserted it in mom's
bag, and yelled, "All right, we'll return this date to Pritam
Singh. You're dead for us, and we'll never see your face."

My father and mother barged out of my house without looking
back at me. I was glad that I didn't run after them. I had lost my
parents, but had won the first battle in my struggle to marry a
girl of my choice.

After my parents bustled out, I stretched on the sofa and
analyzed my situation: Pritam Singh was the railway minister and
could easily put me on a burning seat, but I had one safety: I had
entered the service through an open, written competition in which
the top five were selected out of five thousand, and I had a
written contract with the Secretary of State for India, London.
The British had left, but their contracts were honored by the
independent India. I was certain Pritam Singh, to avoid a legal
challenge and a public scandal, wouldn't fire me, but he would post
me where I could be hurt or even killed. Dad always boasted about
his firm stand in keeping the old traditions, and I was sure that
he would never see me again.

I took a shower and went to sleep.

Ten days after my parent's visit, I received the transfer
orders which dictated me to take charge of a party which was to
conduct the survey of the Ganges River near Patna, Bihar, for the
construction of a railway cum highway bridge. It was a perilous
task--living in tents in hostile surroundings. I closed my eyes
and covered my face under the umbrella of my hands.

My head clerk, an old Brahmin, with steel-frame glasses
covering his kind, brown eyes, entered my office with a file.

He cleared his throat with a dry cough and said, "Sir, are you
okay?"

I gave him the letter and said, "Nath, look where I'm being
transferred."

He adjusted his glasses, skipped through the letter, and said,
"Sir, I would advise you to report sick and avoid this."

"Why?"

"It's a sin to shackle the sacred river. If you tried, I'm
certain misfortune will fall upon you. You may not believe in the
curse, but the protestors are sure to murder you. You have been
kind to me, and I don't want to see you meeting a tragic end."

I couldn't reveal to him the part played by the railway
minister and mumbled, "I can't avoid this."

He raised his folded hands toward the ceiling, murmured a
prayer, and said, "I'll pray for your safety."

"Thanks, I do need it."

He moved to his room, leaving me alone to extinguish the
burning lava which was scorching by heart and mind.

I knew Ganges, the biggest river in India, was worshipped by
six hundred million Hindus. Every year millions took the holy dip
to wash their sins, and many came to die on its banks. The corpses
belonging to the rich were transported to its banks and cremated
near the flowing sacred waters. Millions brought the ashes of their
dead relatives and scattered those over its surface. My surveying
it could easily antagonize the worshippers, and they would use
force to stop me.

I stored my household goods in a rented place and joined my
new post as a planning engineer at Patna, Bihar. I had six survey
parties, each headed by an inspector. We made a colony with our
sixty tents on the banks of the scared river near a huge temple. I
was afraid of the public wrath and didn't erect any billboards
showing our identity.

We fixed the baseline on the southern bank of the river,
rented six rowboats, and started taking cross sections of the river
at fifty foot intervals, using theodolites and lead weights. It was
a slow, time-consuming job, but we trudged along. The waves and
strong winds rocked our boats, and sometimes our lines tangled with
corpses dumped by the poor people who couldn't afford to purchase
wood for cremation. They placed a few sticks in the mouth of the
corpse, ignited it, and threw it in the river, and let the vultures
chase and gouge it.

We could conceal our operation for a few days, but it was
impossible to hide our instruments. Soon our secret was out. A
bridge would have eliminated the need of the ferry and the boats,
plying at this location. They began harassing us by blocking our
alignment and work. One day a big motorboat rammed into the boat
on which I was working and overturned it. We were dumped in the
pounding waves, but survived with the help of our life jackets.
The boat floated down and was recovered two miles downstream. We
had lost all our instruments which we carried in that boat, but I
was glad that my crew survived.

There was a lull for a few days, and we were pleased and
thanked God.

After fifteen days, at seven in the morning, a threatening
group, lead by a potbellied priest, arrived before my tent. The
white lines on the priest's forehead collected into one ridge, he
shook his fist and yelled, "What are you doing with our sacred
river?"

"Surveying for the railway."

"What will you do with that?"

A lie would have landed me in more trouble, and I replied,
"The railway wants to build a bridge here."

The priest wiggled his finger and screamed, "Shame on you!
You people want to put shackles around our sacred mother; we'll
never permit that sacrilege. Pack up your tents and go back to
Delhi."

I folded my hands and said, "Holy priest, I can't do that, I
have to obey orders from my bosses."

"Mother Ganges is the highest boss in the universe; her wrath
can destroy you and your superiors."

"I do respect Mother Ganges, but please approach the

government at New Delhi. President Rajindera Parsad belongs to your
state, and you can easily contact him."

The priest snickered, "All right, I'll see to it. Parsad
always worships at my temple, and he's a true devotee. I'm sure
you're doing this without his knowledge."

I thanked the priest with interlaced hands and bowed head, and
he withdrew his followers. My staff, hiding in their tents, felt
great relief, came out, and started their work. I had seen such
mobs burning property and killing people and was glad that we were
spared.

Next day a tall, muscular, dark man, with a thick, black bushy
mustache, parked his motorcycle in front of my office. He kicked
the flap of the tent and shouted, "Engineer, are you there?"
"Yes, please come in," I answered.

He strutted in and shouted, "Look mister, no person on earth
can build a bridge over the sacred river at this location; the
British tried and failed. Don't risk your life."

I stood up, proffered my hand, and said, "Please sit down."

He perched on the chair and introduced himself. I learned he
was son of the chief minister and owned and operated the ferry and
also controlled the police and criminal gangs.

On realizing that it was impossible for me to confront him, I
offered him a cup of tea, and a smile appeared on his thick lips.
I grabbed his hand and suggested, "Sinha, I'm willing to make
a deal with you."

He scowled. "What?"

"I propose in my report that Patna is not a suitable site and
a bridge downstream will cost less, and you permit us to complete
our work."

Sinha's face lit up, and he said, "I'm against your arresting
the sacred river at this holy place. The state, however, does need
a bridge, and I wouldn't object to its construction anywhere else."
I could easily notice that this fellow was only interested in
saving his ferry business. I locked into his eyes and said, "Will
you give me your political support?"

"Certainly."

"All right, then order your men to stop harassing us. I'll
show you my report before I submit it to my head office. Your
father can easily get it approved from the central government."

He smiled. "Don't worry, I'll keep my part of the bargain."
We shook hands over our deal. Next day we didn't have any
trouble using our boats.

A few days passed without any incidents, and we began feeling
more secure. One morning, I saw more than five hundred worshippers
marching out from the temple toward our camp. On hearing the angry
yells, I directed my surveyors to take their instruments and row
their boats to the middle of the river, and I stayed in the office.
The crowd flattened our tents and destroyed the furniture. I tried
to plead, but several persons slapped me and dragged me to the
river bank. I was preparing myself for a horrible end. Suddenly,
the ring leader, a young priest, flailed his arms and stopped the
mob from drowning me.

I scrambled up and said, "The head priest has permitted me to
complete my work."

The young priest snickered, "He's sick, and I'm in charge of
the temple and won't permit anyone harming our sacred mother."

He kicked me and spat on my face. Bruised and battered, I
watched the mob follow his example. The shouting of the angry
slogans lasted for thirty minutes. After giving vent to their
anger, the mob melted away. My staff came and dressed my wounds.
We erected our tents and salvaged our furniture. Luckily our
instruments were untouched and we could resume our work. I
approached the local police and reported the incident to my head
office in New Delhi.

The state gave a contingent of six constables to protect the
federal property, and we resumed our work. Salim, a tall, brawny
Muslim, who headed the police unit, became my close friend.

One day he came to my tent and said, "Sir, nobody is going to
permit you to build a bridge here. Why are you risking your life?"
"I've no choice but to do the job allotted to me."

"That's fine, but I'm sure an angry, fanatic mob is going to
burn your camp and hurt you. You're facing two giants: chief
minister's son and the temple priest. In case of riots, we have
clear orders to protect them and not you. My posting here, by the
state, is to hoodwink the federal government," he confided.

"Then I'm in deep trouble."

"Yes, surely you are. I, however, don't care for my orders
and will do my best to shield you."

He stretched his shoulders and continued, "Sir, you look
forlorn. Why don't you come with me and drown your worries?"

"Where?"

"Mujra party."

I had never seen a mujra, but had read much about it. I
thought it might relieve the terrible strain on my nerves and
replied, "All right, what time?"

"Nine."

He left with a handshake, and I worked on the drawings.

At night, I dressed myself in my old clothes, and Salim took
me to the street operated by the ladies of the night. We entered
a large decorated room. There was no furniture, and the floor was
covered with thick, red Persian rugs. Fragrance of incense,
flowers, and perfume saturated the area, and dim lights were
flickering in the corners. The musicians were playing bewitching
music, and a tall, beautiful girl, wearing a diaphanous dress, was
singing and dancing in a circle. Tiny gold bells on her ankles,
arms, and waist made melodious sounds which kept consonance with
her singing. Several persons, seated cross-legged, had formed a
big ring around her. We bowed, salaamed, and joined the group. I
was hesitant, but soon picked up the spirit of the party and like
others showered rupees over the girl as she came close to me in her
rounds. I glanced at a man seated next to me. He was fat with a
protruding belly and was wearing a turban and had whiskers like me.
I peered into his beady eyes and said, "Sat Sri Akal."

Thinking he was a Sikh, a fellow from my community, I wanted
to make friends with him. This person pivoted his head away from
me. I stretched my arms, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward
me. I was stunned to find the man behind that disguise was the
head priest. I smiled and winked at him. After two hours we left,
leaving the inebriated priest with the dancing girl.

The head priest had agreed to help me, but so far had not
given any real support, since he was afraid of annoying his
congregation. Now I thought the dancing girl could easily solve my
problem with him. I sought Salim's help. Next evening before the
mujra started, Salim took me to the dancing girl's house and
introduced me to her.

I had come fully prepared with my scheme and said, "Chamelli,
I have a sound business proposition."

"What?"

"You can make big money."

"How?"

"You convince your friend, the head priest, to allow me to
complete my survey of the river, and I'll propose the construction
of the bridge at Mokamah and not here. The land there is dirt
cheap now, but after the railway stations are built, it will rocket
into the sky. I'll give you the location of the stations before I
send my report, and you can grab the land and make a kill."

She raised her eyes in disbelief and said, "Well, if I invest
ten thousand rupees now, what return can I expect?"

"At least five hundred thousand after four years."

She giggled. "That's terrific. Lal won't be any problem; he
licks my feet. Come after midnight to my bedroom and we'll finalize
the deal."

Salim and I left the place, and after twelve we knocked at
Chamelli's bedroom. She opened the door, and we found the head
priest sprawled on the bed, and his disguise was on the floor.

Chamelli kissed the blushing priest and said, "Lal, here's my
friend, Salim, and his buddy, the railway engineer. They have a
very lucrative proposal for us." Then facing Salim she continued,
"Salim, ask your friend to clarify the whole thing."

I described the scheme. The priest was delighted. He shook my
hand to confirm the agreement and said, "Bring your staff to the
temple tomorrow morning, and I'll settle the whole affair."

Next morning, as arranged with the head priest, I took all my
staff to the temple and sat in the congregation. The priest stood
up, gestured toward me and announced, "Children, this railway
engineer is only measuring the sacred river and has promised not to
build the bridge here. I want all of you to help him so he can
complete his job and return to New Delhi."

There was a loud ovation from the crowd and many rushed to
shake my hand.

In nine months I completed my plans. Based upon the previous
flood data, I concluded: Patna is not the suitable location for the
construction of the bridge. I approached Sinha and the head
priest. Sinha asked his father to contact the prime minister and
the head priest got hold of the President. The plans to build the
bridge at Patna were dropped, and I was ordered to find another
suitable place, not far from Patna.

I moved my camp to Mokamah, forty miles downstream and
completed my survey of this location. Here the river was in a
single deep formation with firm stable banks and was an ideal place
for the bridge. I made detailed plans for the railway crossing and
the two railway stations, one on each side of the river. Before
submitting my report, I went to Patna and gave Chamelli and the
head priest complete information about the railway stations.

The site was approved and the construction of the bridge
started without any riots.

The railway minister, Pritam Singh, was disappointed at the
outcome of my efforts. He was thinking that I would fail, get
hurt, and finally come crawling to him, begging for his brother's
daughter's hand and a transfer with a promotion. He summoned me to
his office.

As I entered the huge room and greeted the railway minister,
he ignored my greetings and shouted, "Are you willing to accept my
proposal?"

I shook my head, and he kicked me out of his office.

When I reached my office at Mokamah, I found my transfer
orders which dictated me to take charge of the survey project on
the Indo-China border. India and China had frequent skirmishes
over the disputed land, and the previous engineer was killed by a
Chinese snipper. I was not phased, but feverishly implored the
Almighty. Somehow He heard my prayers. Ten days after I joined the
new job, China and India settled the land dispute and signed a
peace treaty, and Pritam Singh lost his election.

I completed the survey in one year and was posted back in
Punjab with a promotion. I got letters from Chamelli and the head
priest. They thanked me for their huge profits and requested me to
visit them whenever I happened to come to Patna.

All these incidents provided me with courage to face heavy
odds, and now breaking marriage traditions wasn't any problem. I
approached my dream girl. She eloped with me, and we were married
in a civil court. The curse of the Ganges River never touched me,
and I have a wonderful, happy married life.