Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  ‘Sorry? Are you out of your mind? Baba had made a sensible suggestion and in any case I wasn’t done with my studies then.’

  ‘If Baba’s suggestion was sensible, why were you ogling at Bhoori today? What’s worse, you began to weep. You think I didn’t notice your tears, although you held them back. I am your wife, don’t forget.’

  ‘Oh stop it, you silly woman. I knew you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Same thing. Why don’t you explain it to me then?’

  ‘Sushila, had you seen Bhoori in her prime, even you would have wept today. A sallow and skeletal face has replaced what was once a healthy round one. Her pale cheeks were so smooth and pink, it’s unbelievable. You should have seen her eyes then, they sparkled like stars, but now, poverty has made them sunken and lifeless. My heart breaks when I see poverty gnaw at the beauty of a tender sapling.’

  ‘Why is it heartbreaking?’

  ‘Sushi, do you remember how much you cried when little Saroj’s face was pockmarked after smallpox? Was it not heartbreaking?’

  ‘I feel bad about that even now.’

  ‘Sushi, just as beautiful monuments, streets, gardens, schools are a matter of pride, beautiful faces make communities proud. Bhoori had blossomed like a flower in the garden of Sindh; to see her beauty wilt, is, naturally very upsetting.’

  ‘How can you feel so upset about strangers? I just don’t understand.’

  ‘Are Sindhis strangers for me? Sushi! After leaving behind the beauty of our homes, and gardens, bridges and canals, all we could bring with us was the beauty of our people. We lost that as well in the throes of resettlement, isn’t that sad …’

  ‘Why did you become quiet … and why did you look happy when Bhoori was going away?’

  ‘I saw a new beauty in Bhoori then.’

  ‘Now what beauty are you talking about? You poets must mystify ordinary mortals.’

  ‘My Sushi, if you notice carefully, you will also see the new avatar of Bhoori’s beauty. A proud and hardworking Bhoori has replaced the carefree Bhoori of pre-Partition days. Did you notice her confidence?’

  ‘Oh sure, she sat like a queen on the chair.’

  ‘That’s her beauty, which I was so happy to see. She does not consider herself inferior to anybody. And why should she? As far she is concerned, everyone is the same, rich or poor. She does not owe allegiance to anybody. She works hard, and earns her keep. Although she has aged before her time, she is not bothered. Her husband earns little, but she has no grievance against him.’

  ‘Nor do I, against you!’

  ‘How naïve you are! Ask yourself honestly, you are full of complaints … about children not going to a convent school, about not buying enough, not travelling enough, and so on. You wouldn’t go anywhere alone, but how fearlessly Bhoori walks through the city all alone. Her self-respect guards her wherever she goes. She has emerged a strong person, free of superfluous concerns, and one who relies on hard work, not destiny. Arre … are you crying?’

  Nenu cupped his wife’s face in his hands.

  Boycott

  GORDHAN BHARTI

  The village of Aarazi was small to begin with, and following the migration of the Hindus, it shrank further and became a little neighbourhood. However, about twenty-odd Hindu trader families had not migrated, and they had continued to maintain a strong hold over the business in the village.

  To the east of the village, behind the tall date trees, was the Koli neighbourhood where one of the houses belonged to a Koli named Jaman. His family comprised of five people—Jaman, his wife and three children. Prior to Partition, Jaman toiled night and day at the weavers’ pit. He earned enough to have two decent meals a day. Of late, managing saag-roti even once a day was a struggle.

  Once when Jaman was busy doing a five-and-seven routine of weaving, Khamiso came barging in. He was the servant of the wadhero, Gul Muhammad Khan. Jaman promptly stood up, and with alacrity, offered Khamiso a low rope-cot to sit on and a hukka to puff.

  ‘Tell me, Ada Khamiso! What brings your gracious presence to this humble servant’s place?’ Jaman asked politely.

  ‘Nothing special, sainjin has asked you to come to the otak this evening,’ Khamiso snapped.

  Jaman’s heart started racing. Never before had he received such summons from the wadhero. After a few puffs at the hukka, Khamiso went away, but poor Jaman was subject to misery all day. Dressed in a new shalwaar, a new kurta, and with his best patko around his shoulders, Jaman presented himself at the wadhero’s otak, trembling like a terrified rabbit.

  His eyes fell on the four men sitting on the floor. The first was Makhan Manghanhaar’s son Mehram, who earned his livelihood by playing the drum at weddings. Then came the butcher Gulu’s useless son Dilawar, who brought down parakeets or bulbuls or pigeons and sold them to earn his paan and beedi. The third person was Farzand Haider, the son of Jaan Muhammad, the ironsmith. Haider was not a bad sort, but was on his way to becoming like the rest, thanks to Dilawar’s company. The fourth person was Chhatu, Jaman’s caste-brother, a weaver like him and of whom it could be said, ‘Ba akhar paryo, Allah dyo.’ Basically, he had read a few verses of Koran which he blatantly quoted, and distorted, to inflame innocent Muslims.

  Next to this foursome, sitting on a rope-cot was miyan Abdulatak, clad in a sherwani, churidar and Jinnah cap, and next to him, on another cot was the wadhero sahib. Jaman knew Abdulatak Salar from his days as recruitment-incharge for the National Muslim Guard, a profession he had come to after failing his matriculation examination four times. Jaman had also joined the National Muslim Guard for a brief period, and had followed the routine of stomping about the village day in and day out, shouting deafening slogans for the Muslim League. He was also part of many inflammatory speeches against vaanyas and infidels to provoke simple villagers and followers of Islam. By doing this, you could earn four annas a day. In fact, the racket made by the National Guards was the single largest factor behind the Hindu migration. Once the affluent Hindus had left, the racket had also ceased.

  Jaman offered a stiff salute, and stood erect like a log of wood. The wadhero greeted him, ‘Come, Jaman, come and sit down.’

  Reassured by the wadhero’s words, Jaman’s spirits revived. He took off his jutis, and sat down on the floor with the rest.

  The wadhero said to Abdulatak Salar sahib, ‘Here’s your man!’

  Salar said, ‘I know him already. Miyan Jaman, you must have guessed that you have been called here for an extremely important reason. Listen, do you know that Pakistan will be formed very soon with a Muslim regime? Islam will spread to every nook and corner of the world.’

  ‘But, miyan Jaman,’ Salar continued, ‘as long as these vaanyas continue to be in Pakistan, Islamic rule cannot be established in absolute terms. Hence these infidels must be driven away. Right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Jaman chimed in.

  ‘In fact, we need only axes to get rid of these coward vaanyas, but the wadhero sahib is against violence.’

  ‘You are very right, huzoor.’ Jaman shook his head, ‘and, huzoor, what harm have these poor vaanyas done to us?’

  ‘Arre, lot of harm they’ve done. These vaanyas have sucked our blood. Am I telling lies?’

  Nonplussed, Jaman looked this way and that, and said, ‘No sarkar, how can you lie? But we can adopt a different method for driving them away.’

  ‘Look, you know that these vaanyas have not left because of their business. We’ll stop their business.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jaman replied with bravado. On further thought, he added, ‘But sir, that is a difficult job.’

  ‘Not at all. We will boycott these vaanyas. Do you follow me? Boycott means bahishkar, which means we will not buy anything from them. Right?’

  ‘Absolutely right.’

  ‘But this job will take months, so we need to begin our task immediately. And yes, you need to make a start. I have heard that you have the skills of a halwai. What kind of sweets can you make?’

  Jaman wa
s stunned for a moment, but quickly straightening his turban, he said, ‘Huzoor, I can make everything except halwa and mesu. Pakoda, pakwan, jalebi, revdi …’

  ‘Bas, bas, that’s enough. You start a halwai shop. These four will help you. All right, now all five of you go. But make sure the shop is open tomorrow … otherwise … I don’t have to tell you …’

  Jaman’s stomach lurched. How does a weaver suddenly become a halwai? But this was Salar sahib’s command, supported by the wadhero. To say no was to leap into the jaws of trouble.

  The next afternoon, all five friends gathered together at Dayal halwai’s shop. Dayal had left with his family for Hyderabad a few days ago, so his shop was lying abandoned. After cleaning up the shop, the five friends wondered how to begin business. Mehram said, ‘Yaaro, there are still two Hindu halwais in the village. It’s very difficult to compete with them. I suggest we stock only pakodas for a start.’ The rest agreed.

  They contributed a rupee each and after handing the money over to Jaman, they disappeared. Jaman bought oil, gram flour and masala with five rupees; and made the batter, fried pakodas, and waited for customers. He was sure that at least a few customers would turn up on the first day, but when a horde of villagers gathered outside his shop, he realized that they were merely spectators. They had probably assembled to mock him. Jaman mustered up some courage and asked, ‘What are you gaping at? There’s no monkey show going on here. Only customers interested in doing business are welcome to stay, the rest may get lost.’

  ‘Miyan, are you insane?’ Varyal Khan bellowed, ‘Don’t you know it’s beyond Muslim competence to run a shop? Stop making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘Arre, did your ancestors know how to run a shop?’ another one shouted at him. ‘Why have you given up your precious skill and stooped to this dirty work?’

  ‘What do you know, Muhammad Khan?’ a third mocked. ‘Haven’t you heard, the Kolis are small-brained?’ The crowd jeered.

  Jaman was aghast. Before he could say anything, a fourth person hollered, ‘Pick up this offspring of a Koli, he will ruin our faith along with his.’ Cacophony followed.

  Frightened, Jaman folded his hands, ‘Yaaro, what can I do? This is the wadhero’s command. I am a slave to his orders.’

  ‘Wadhero’s command?’ Varyal Khan asked in astonishment. ‘Never mind, close this shop, we’ll sort this out with the wadhero.’

  When all the villagers heard Salar sahib’s lecture, ‘Islam is in danger’ at the wadhero’s otak, and understood the scheme about boycott, the wind began to blow in a different direction. After all, nobody could challenge the fact that ‘Muslims should also run shops’. They unanimously decided that no Muslim would buy anything from a vaanya.

  Once people had dispersed, Abdulatak explained to Jaman, ‘See Jaman, you still need to understand two things. One is that you can’t run a shop with such little capital.’

  ‘But sir, I am a poor man with a family to feed. How would I have larger capital?’

  ‘Why, don’t you have any savings?’

  ‘I have put away some fifty or sixty rupees for a rainy day.’

  ‘Arre, Allahtala will help you on a rainy day. You will have to invest these sixty rupees. This will be good for Islam.’

  Reluctantly, Jaman agreed.

  After a pause, Abdulatak said, ‘You will have to sell on credit.’

  ‘Credit?’

  ‘Yes, you see, you will have only Muslim customers. They have been used to buying things on credit from the vaanyas, who recover the amount every full-moon. If you don’t do the same, they will be forced to go to the vaanyas.’

  The matter was beyond dispute. Jaman swallowed his tears and said, ‘Alright huzoor, I will maintain a credit book also.’

  ‘Well done. Now keep the shop spick and span, and give the vaanyas a run for their money.’

  ‘All right.’ Jaman returned home.

  He felt as if he was being pushed into an abyss. Nonetheless, the shop looked very posh. Haider made cut-outs from green paper and stuck moon and stars on them. Jaman dusted and scrubbed the walls and removed all stains. He poured his creative energies into writing slogans. An Urdu couplet calligraphed with a flourish, decorated the door frame:

  For your ignorance is needed, a sentry at your door

  Allah-Akbar on your lips, in your hand a sword.

  After putting everything on display, Jaman called out, ‘Come, come, Islami pakoda, Islami jalebi—hot and soft, garam garam, naram naram!’ The wave of slogan-shouting brought so many Muslims to Jaman’s shop that he was sure he would become a rich man in a short time. But it had hardly been a month, when armed with his credit book, a breathless and woeful looking Jaman entered the wadhero’s otak. Astonished, the wadhero asked, ‘Arre miyan, Jaman, what happened?’

  Tearfully, Jaman replied, ‘Garibparvar, I’m dead and destroyed. My home is ruined.’

  ‘Patience, patience, miyan,’ the wadhero said calmly. ‘Tell me, how’s the shop doing?’

  ‘Closed for the past three days.’ In desperation, Jaman added, ‘How do I run it? People have not paid a paisa.’

  ‘Why? Why?’

  ‘Everyone is evading payment.’ Jaman opened the account book, and pointed out the long list of defaulters.

  ‘Look at this, Kamru, Khudu and Piru have blatantly refused to pay.’

  ‘Why? What do they have to say?’

  ‘They claim you don’t have to pay in Pakistan. Hussain and Gulamu are also turning a deaf ear to my demands.’

  ‘Now what happened to them?’

  ‘Happened? They used to print ajraks for Hindus, but since the Hindus have left, Hussain and Gulamu have no means of earning. Muhammad and Ahmed are also in a similar situation.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘What will they say? They were coolies, they used to carry cloth bundles from the station to their bullock-carts for Hindu cloth merchants, Kodemal and Haasemal. They earned five or ten rupees for their services. Now there’s neither Kodemal nor Haasemal.’

  ‘Allah, these vaanyas will haunt us till doomsday,’ the wadhero sighed, ‘while they were here, they exploited us. Now that they have gone, they have left us in the lurch.’

  ‘Look, I get caught between them and the rest. My poor little Jinu is on her deathbed, but I don’t have the wherewithal to treat her. I have money neither for a doctor, nor for the charms that Rajab dhobi would have given her for five rupees. Where do I get that from? I don’t expect any help from others. I hope you will not refuse me. You also owe me quite a lot of money.’

  ‘Me?’ the wadhero raised his eyebrows. ‘Miyan, have you had opium or what?’

  Turning the pages quickly and nervously, Jaman said, ‘It’s all written down, lord of the poor, garibparvar, mithai worth five rupees on 10 August.’

  ‘Mithai for five rupees? What did I get that for?’

  Jaman scratched his head, ‘Yes, sain, there were officers from Karachi. It was for them.’

  ‘Arre waah! You are a strange creature, aren’t you?’ the wadhero smirked. ‘Miyan, they were minister’s people. You think they would rob you? Give them some time to reach Karachi, at least. They will pay you twice over.’

  Jaman knew very well that the reward would never be conferred upon him. Irritated by the wadhero’s cunning, he said, ‘Sarkar, you had ordered sweets worth twenty-five rupees on 15 August.’

  ‘On 15 August? I don’t remember that. What did I order that for?’

  ‘Sain, I am referring to the sweets you distributed among villagers during the celebrations.’

  ‘Waah re waah, you are such a fool!’ The wadhero threw his head back and laughed, ‘Miyan, I didn’t eat that sweet by myself. It was a celebration for the formation of Pakistan. It was your religious duty to give sweets on that occasion. The creation of Pakistan has benefitted not just me, but everybody.’

  Jaman’s blood boiled over. He shouted, ‘How did we benefit from Pakistan? Business went down, and we lost all our savings. W
e were the ones who participated in those processions, shouted slogans, come rain, come shine, thirsty and hungry … and you …’

  ‘Yes … yes … let us hear, what are you blabbering?’

  ‘I am not blabbering. I am speaking the bare truth. You usurped the land and homes of the vaanyas, you have swallowed up their cash. The vaanyas went. Refugees came. You are earning a hefty rent from them. You make them toil for you, then you feed them … as for their voluptuous women, you …’

  ‘Hold your tongue, you shameless man.’

  ‘I will not hold my tongue. Pakistan has been formed for heavy-turbaned people like you, not for us poor.’

  ‘How dare you? Arre Khamisa, kick this son of a Koli and throw him out.’

  Jaman wanted to say more, but before he could do that Khamisa picked him up and threw him out of the otak.

  ‘Son of a pig, how dare you violate sainjin’s dignity?’

  Jaman fell to the floor, and kicks rained down on him. He felt dizzy, a cascade of abuses continued to flow from the otak. ‘Son of a Koli, I have driven you out of the otak, next time you say something, I will have you thrown out of the village. Bloody cur …’

  A stumbling and staggering Jaman made an effort to rise from the ground and dust his clothes. He realized that long before the vaanyas, it was he who had been boycotted.

  Holi

  AMAR JALEEL

  As usual, he scampered in. With his school bag slung on his shoulder, he headed towards the kitchen. I watched him from the window of my room. Barely five years old, boisterous in spirit and body, he is my youngest nephew. I like him a lot, and he’s truly pretty, like a porcelain doll. Bhabhi often makes him wear shorts and shirts in bright and vibrant colours. I call him Holi because he is so endearing.

  He came out of the kitchen with his lunch and put the thali on the table. He must have been quite famished to have forgotten to wash his hands. As he brought his chair closer to the table, I said to him,‘Holi.’