Thousand Years | A Shubman Gill & Ishan Kishan Fanfiction ✓

Ranjit and Manraj

1798 AD, Moga

Manraj served hot rotis, one after the other to all the devotees seated in front of him. Some of them blessed him for his selfless service, under their breath but he heard all the blessings. He was tempted to tell them that his service was utterly selfish. With every act of serving he whispered a prayer with one recurrent name : Ranjit, Ranjit, Ranjit. Sadda Ranjit. His Ranjit.

*****

1798 AD, Lahore

Ranjit was telling himself stories. Some were actual instances from his childhood and others were tales he had fabricated in this cold prison to warm him during winters. He did not have the luxury of space. Squished into the stone-cold dungeons were two dozens of sepoys who were now prisoners of war. Each had an iron grip on some memory that kept them alive. For some of the older prisoners, it was the memory of their children's laughter. The smiling and at times flushed faces of their wives. The sensation of soft hair combined with the tenderness of the heads of their newborns.

For others it was the memory of their parents, proudly blessing them to win the battles. Or their siblings who would have grown into responsible adults, hopefully!

But for Ranjit, it was one person whose name left his lips with more fervour than breath - Manraj. Manraj. Manraj.

*****

An old man grabbed Manraj’s hand after he released the roti in his plate.

“I come here everyday. Everyday, I see you helping. Sometimes you are serving, sometimes you are cleaning. I cannot help but notice a vigour in your movements. I apologise for being intrusive but is there something you crave, my child?”

Manraj swallowed. It had been six years, two months and thirteen days since his young best friend, burning with passion for freedom had left for the war but had not returned.

“I do, Tauji.” He admitted, addressing the man as his uncle.

“I wish to be reunited with my friend.” He promised the man that he will tell him the complete story once he served all the empty plates and the two decided to take a walk later.

*****

“Is he your son?” A man next to Ranjit enquired. Ranjit let out a weak laugh.

“No.”

“Your brother.” This time the man sounded more certain only to be disappointed again.

“Manraj is my best friend.” Ranjit attempted a feeble smile despite the bodyache that had clogged his bones due to starvation.

The man looked at him with disbelief. He found it difficult to fathom that in the darkest hours, this man in front of him was religiously chanting his best friend’s name. Ranjit was not amused by his response. He had foreseen it. This was not the first time he was being asked to clarify his relationship with Manraj.

It saddened him how underwhelming people felt about a relationship when the title of best friend was used as compared to the milieu of formal blood ties. On days when he had eaten and could gather strength, he loved having healthy arguments with people about the multifaceted and overarching nature of friendship.

Yes, Manraj, in other prisoners words was ‘just’ a friend. But he was so much more to Ranjit.

He was the only person who had heartily encouraged him to pursue his dream of freedom. Everyone else believed that freedom was something that only the extraordinary should pursue. An ordinary farmer's son on the other hand, like Ranjit should continue farming instead and extinguish the fire within him.

But Manraj was unabashedly proud of his friend. The day when Ranjit got appointed as a sepoy in the army, Manraj had distributed sweets in the whole Moga.

And Ranjit was certain that Manraj would be awaiting his arrival, having faith that his friend was still alive.

Ranjit had only one wish. He wanted to tell his friend that everyday he fed himself their memories. Whenever he was yearning for something sweet, he would think of his appointment. And when he wanted something savoury, he would reminisce about their childhood that had been filled with banter and lassi drinking competitions.

At times, even savoury dishes get spoiled by the bitterness of accidentally fallen lemon seeds, but how would Ranjit explain the world that his friend had robbed his life of any bitterness?

As Manraj bowed his head in prayer, his vibrations of chanting travelled to Ranjit, making him slightly more strong.

*****

1800 AD, Lahore.

Ranjit had been hearing rumours that the authorities were considering releasing the prisoners. Everyone including him, wanted to believe the rumours. But no one did.

Yet when the doors of the dungeon were opened, glances were cast around as the men helped each other to get on their feet and escape.

They stopped to loot the shops, for some had to make long journeys to their home.

Ranjit did not want to resort to looting but nobody believed the longbearded, unkempt man with mosquitos roaming around him that he was their hero who had fought in the war, eight years ago and although defeated, was now eager to return home.

With food in his stomach and his sack, Ranjit began his journey.

*****

“How are you certain that…” the old man hesitated. Manraj smiled, presuming what he wanted to ask.

“My friend is alive?” He completed. The old man nodded.

“Ranjit has this glow around him. And he pulls people into it. It is a light that comes with giving everything. If you speak to him, you would have every fragment of his attention. If you see him smile, you would see this brilliant toothy grin and two dimples on his cheeks. That is Ranjit. He lives fully. Before he left for the war, I had known him for twenty one years. He lighted his light within me too. I live a little more wholeheartedly because of him. And I like to believe that if something were to happen to him, my zest to live would dammpen too.”

And since destiny is after all a tale created by someone who might synchronise elements for the perfect story every once in a while, the skies rumbled with thunder and rain arrived.

Manraj looked up, attributing the change in atmosphere less to weather and more to the fulfillment of his prayer.

A dishevelled man surrounded by a stale odour was dragging himself to his friend. And when Manraj's eyes found him, he wept with the clouds, running to him.

Ranjit’s cheeks were hurting from the smile, his heart was hurting from the love that radiated on Manraj's face and his feet were hurting from the exercise but when Manraj embraced his dirty, bruised and unruly form, Ranjit healed.

“Ranjitey!!” Manjraj screamed, tears streaming from his eyes. He had a thousand questions for his friend but he asked the most important one which made the old man weep for it was so simple yet so full of affection.

“Do you want to drink some Lassi?”