From “I Am Not Ghaznavi” by Gurbachan Singh Bhullar, translated from the Punjabi by Paramjit Singh Ramana.

To meet Jassi after so many years was like crossing the protective boundary I had drawn around myself.

There is no special reason why I had not seen her for so many years, nor had I taken any firm vow about it. I had just decided, a casual decision taken almost unconsciously. To be clear, I never felt like she was cut off from me. She has always been close to me in a unique manner. Physically away but very much still a part of my thoughts.

I can’t even imagine that I could consider my relationship with Jassi an insignificant incident or a finished chapter of the book of my life and turn the page and move on. Rather, in sharp contrast, whenever I remember her, I unconsciously start humming lines from a film song: When you call me your own, I begin to feel proud of myself.

Sitting next to Jassi, whenever I would hum this song, she would remark that I knew only one song to express my admiration for her. Or she would tell me that I would never be able to fool her no matter how hard I tried. She might taunt me by saying that she was not sure if I was praising her by singing that song but that I was definitely thinking of myself as the hero of a Hindi movie. She knew how much I disliked the heroes of Bombay-made Hindi movies. In reality, I never tried to fool her nor ever considered myself a hero of a movie. I was really proud of my friendship with her. Jassi was a beautiful girl, very beautiful. To call her exceptionally beautiful would be no exaggeration.

It is said that beauty is not an attribute of an object itself. Rather, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. But Jassi’s beauty is not a result of my perception. Even if it is because of my perception, it is a totally unrelated issue. Because she is pretty even without my eyes appreciating her. Very pretty, exceptionally pretty. Whenever I think of her, I take out from its box a pen she gifted me and write something new, or read her comments, some sincere, some naughty, written in the margins of my books.

I always also take out a one-line letter that Raju wrote to me. I have already read this letter a hundred times. Now I don’t have to read it, I just have a look at it. I like to look at that letter. By now it is completely etched in my memory, commas, full stops, and all. Many years after she separated from me, Raju saw her once at Ludhiana railway station. Raju is my bosom friend and he knows very well what my relationship with her was like and how significant she was to me. She had met Raju once or twice, but she was not so friendly with Raju that she could discuss with him her relationship with me. Jassi had been accompanied by a man. Maybe he was her husband. Without any doubt, he must have been her husband. So, Raju didn’t talk to her.

But there on the railway station he wrote and posted a one-line letter to me. He had written: “I saw Jassi at the railway station just now, I wanted to send my eyes to you.” I had replied to Raju that there was no need to send the eyes. I have the ability to see her from where I am. To have a glimpse of her, I have never felt the need to open the album and to look at her photograph. The imprint of her features is as fresh in my consciousness as is the idol that is always in front of your eyes. She is no less than an idol placed on the shelf of my mind. Many girls are beautiful. In a sense, every girl is beautiful, one way or another. But some are very beautiful. And a few rare ones are exceptionally so. But what is the meaning of the beauty of the flower that has been given prominence by trimming the foliage around it. Then that flower dances arrogantly in the wind as if that flower alone exists in the garden. The real beauty is that the flower should be as and where it is. Anyone looking at its splendour should exclaim spontaneously, “What a miracle of nature! Wah, Kartar! Bow to the creator!”

In addition to being very pretty, Jassi was an aberration of a commonly believed rule of nature. It is often said that the girls who are blessed with beauty are often denied the gift of intelligence and wisdom by the Almighty. But human beings often break such rules of nature; perhaps sometimes nature itself does not follow its own rules. Along with a matchless appearance, she had been blessed with a highly perceptive mind as if she were a golden bowl filled with amrit.

The inner and outer beauty of Jassi was highlighted by her sheer simplicity. She had no vanity, made no use of her looks. She combed her hair if she felt like it, otherwise just ignored it. If she felt like it, she ironed her clothes, otherwise wore them as they were. Once she gave me a photograph of her with dishevelled hair and her chunni carelessly thrown over her shoulders. She said that she had got that photograph taken because she needed one for some form.

“You must have had this snap taken from a tripod camera, where the photographer ducks under a cloth cover to take the photo,” I teased her. “Yes, I had this snap taken at a fair,” Jassi replied in a similar bantering tone. “Then, like the women going to a fair, you should have displayed your arm with the wristwatch,” I continued, extending my left arm forward! Today, when Raju called me as I got ready to leave to see Jassi, I had an urge to look at her photograph again. But I only had to think about her and her image appeared in front of my eyes, full and clear. Even today her image was as clear and fresh in my mind as it was when we used to see each other every day. The same graceful beauty, the same intelligence, simplicity, and innocence. Thinking of her, I had a unique feeling and experience – as if someone had suddenly switched on the lights in a temple and a smiling idol stood in front of me.

Excerpted with permission from “I Am Not Ghaznavi” by Gurbachan Singh Bhullar, translated from the Punjabi by Paramjit Singh Ramana in The Greatest Punjabi Stories Ever Told, selected and edited by Renuka Singh and Balbir Madhopuri, Aleph Book Company.