The Fallen Widow

39. Panchayat; Crowned

It was Sunday, the day of the crucial panchayat. Dhols blasted a pounding rhythm at Sang e Mar Mar Haveli announcing the beginning of a week long celebration of the new king of Jahanpur.

The villagers congregated at the panchayat early morning to grab the best seat. Some climbing trees for a bird's eye view, others standing on the tractors to get a glimpse of the stage.

Sixteen village leaders sat in a row with their black waist jackets over their white salwar kameez. Their white turbans reigning high in the air. Peer Haider was invited today to lead the prayer surrounded by his entourage. The buzz in the air was electric. There in the crowd in the midst of the women was Meh'r-Bano. Her face concealed with her black shawl she had her eyes set on the empty seat where Dilawar Baksh would sit. Her heart pounded like the beat of the dohl. Last night, she prayed for Jahanpur pleading to Allah for Jahanzaib to rise.

It was an hour later at eleven o'clock with the convoy of vehicles from Sang E Mar Mar haveli arrived. Wajahat Ali and his guards jumped out securing the panchayat and checked around for Muzammil's men. With his walking stick tapping the ground, Dilawar Baksh was dressed in his fine white Salwar Kameez, his grey waist jacket. Today, Dilawar-Baksh wore the crown of Jahanpur. A black turban set in a white band with a glimmering deep red ruby gemstone catching a reflection of the sun's light, blinding the villagers. The turban was worn on auspicious ceremonies.

The panchayat commenced with local mundane village issues. The lead village elders, Malik Jawad presided over the issues and made decisions glancing at Dilawar-Baksh for his approval. Every ruling was bringing the day closer to the ultimate decision; who would be the successor of Jahanpur? The guards were on high alert, any minute Shah Nawaz or Muzzamil could attack. The pressure was packed in the audience.

After the final ruling ended, silence encompassed the panchayat like a funeral. Hundreds of people packed the small space climbing high and wide. Women were allowed to the panchayat today to watching the crowing of the new leader. The birds perched on the branches, the cloud shaded the glare of the sun, and a cool breeze passed the panchayat.

"Today!" Dilawar-Baksh stood up with the aid of his walking stick. "You are all to witness the future of Jahanpur." He stepped forward on the raised platform and addressed every single person that attended. He looked up into the trees where boys hung onto the branches, he turned to the women and the babies they cradled in their lap.

"My ruling has come to an end. I am old and ready to retire. I have ruled for forty-two years with the blessing of Allah. Jahanpur was weak, looting, murders, pillaging of our villagers. But I, secured Jahanpur. It's strength it down to me." He fisted his left hand.
"Today, I will pass this turban and the jewel of Jahapur to my future heir." The crowd buzzed with excitement. They couldn't see Shah Nawaz or Jahanzaib. Meh'r-Bano chanted God's name breathing deeply.
"Please Allah, make it Jahanzaib."

A guard bought forward a plush red velvet cushion with a cube shaped box. Inside was the jewel of Jananpur. The village elders watched the ceremony with excitement. Dilawar Baksh raised his hand and signalled Wajahat Ali to bring forward Jahanzaib.

When Jahanzaib emerged from the SUV the audience gasped with surprise like they were seeing the ghost of Shah Jahan. Dressed in traditional white Salwar Kameez with his father's emblem on his right pocket, with a black waist jacket, his head bare ready to take the burden of Jahanpur on his head.

A nod of discontent passed the village elders as they murmured in disapproval.
"Yes!" Meh'r-Bano gasped with elation. She wanted to jump with joy.
The women around her glared at her.
"Shush!"
It didn't behove women to speak up at the panchayat.

Dilawar-Baksh's eyes widened with joy. His chest expanded and he whispered.
'Shah Jahan.'
It all worked out. If Shah Jahan couldn't take the helm of Jahanpur, it was his son's birth right. With his right hand on Jahanzaib's strong shoulder, Dilawar-Baksh introduced his grandson to the audience. A mixture of joy and disapproval rippled through the crowd. Villagers shook their head in obedience. There was no vote, no choice. The leader was decided by one man alone.
"What about Shah Nawaz?" Said Malik Jawad and stood up.
Dilawar-Baksh turned to the him with a face like thunder.
"This is my decision. Shah Nawaz is not fit to rule. Jahanzaib is the son of Shah Jahan, the next in line."
Malik Jawad stepped forward ready to share his discontent.
"Jahanzaib is an outsider. He can't speak our dialect. What will he do?"
"He will learn." Dilawar-Baksh nostrils flared with anger. He despised being questioned.
"Does he know our ways? Our culture? The laws of the panchayat?"
"Enough!" roared Dilawar-Baksh. Pounding his walking stick to the ground. "I have made up my mind.