Ghalib at Dusk

by Nighat M Gandhi

  ‘Bhai sahib.’ The younger brother cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you must sell this house before you return?’

  The older brother glanced up from the India Today he was leafing through. ‘I have no need for a house in Allahabad. I had bought this one for Amma and Baba, but since they are both … but Rabia’s problem is there.’

  The house had been bought with the money bhai sahib sent from America. It didn’t cost much then because it was an old house in a crowded part of Kareli, but it needed constant repairs. It had high-ceilinged rooms with old fashioned roshandaans for ventilation and a garden with mango trees and a lovely terrace that was used by all of them to sit in the sun in winter, and to sleep in the sweltering nights when the power cuts started getting longer in the summer.

  The younger brother didn’t fail to catch the hint. Bhai sahib was asking to be offered the solution that would settle things comfortably for all involved. But etiquette couldn’t be violated. The solution had to be arrived at spontaneously, without appearing as if one or the other had suggested it first.

  ‘You’re right, bhai sahib. It’s always Rabia’s future I worry about. What’ll happen to her when we are no longer in this world to take care of her?’

  ‘Tell me what I can do for her. She’s my sister,’ the older brother sighed. ‘I’m ready to do anything.’

  The younger brother believed bhai sahib would do anything as long as he didn’t have to take Rabia back to America with him. The conversation was progressing in the right direction. It was not simply a matter of letting things meander to their inevitable end.

  ‘It is impossible to find a reasonable place on rent these days.’ He paused. ‘We need at least three bedrooms, one for Rabia—’

  ‘Look, I was thinking of selling this house. It’s too big and old. And the maintenance costs me a lot. I can buy a flat in Rabia’s name. How’s that? And all of you can live in it together.’

  ‘We’ll miss this house. Amma and Baba were so happy here. But you’re right, it is too big. And it’s very generous of you to think of us. I desire nothing but the best for my sister,’ the younger brother said.

  His eyes filled with tears. He did not wipe them off. Things had worked out after all. He felt relieved that America hadn’t changed bhai sahib enough to make him forget his family duty.

  The older brother felt happier than he had in the past few days. With a sigh he returned to his India Today. It wasn’t such a bad idea to buy a smaller place that would cost a fourth of the price this house would fetch. He would have to invent some lie to his wife about the poor real estate market in India. She had given him express instructions to invest all the money from the sale of the house in their two sons’ names. She had called his younger brother a parasite. ‘He’ll try his best not to let you sell the house,’ she had warned.

  He believed he was acting in his sister’s best interest by making arrangements for her to live in her familiar environment. Had it done her any good when she had come to the States five years ago with Amma? His mother had hoped America and American doctors could succeed where India and Indian doctors had failed. So she had persuaded him to send them the plane tickets. It turned out to be a sheer waste of money.

  After the first couple of days in the States, Rabia asked him every day when he was sending Amma and her back to India. She refused to see a psychiatrist. She even stopped taking the medication the Indian doctors had prescribed. She ate a pint of Häagen-Dazs ice cream in one sitting. His wife complained that she was always making tea in the kitchen. Rabia and his wife didn’t like each other. Rabia left sugar and milk lying on the counter and spilled tea deliberately just after the kitchen floor had been mopped by their once-a-week cleaning lady. She muttered incessantly in front of the TV. If you listened closely all you could make out was a string of abuses. She wore kurtas from one outfit and shalwars from another. She went to dinner parties dressed like that. Their American acquaintances thought she had a unique and fascinating perspective on life when she said apparently to no one in particular, in a loud voice, so that his wife seated across the room had to hang her head low: Our time is over. Let some new fools rule the world—something like that. Their Indian friends must have known though. Indian ladies, his wife’s friends, who were regulars at the weekend potlucks they hosted were too shrewd not to have guessed—a woman in her late thirties from a good family, educated—and unmarried?

  The cleaning lady they had had for eight years threatened to quit. It wasn’t easy to remove Rabia’s stains from the counter tops, the stove, the bath tub, the carpet.

  He felt relieved the day he drove his mother and sister to JFK airport and put them on the Air India flight back to Delhi.

  No one could accuse him of not having done the best for his family. Not only for his parents but also for his sister, and his brother. He had bought them this house, just two years after he got his Master’s in computer science and found a job. His wife had never stopped nagging him about it. He never denied that life was tough in India. Every time he came back, India seemed dirtier, more crowded, more corrupt, more impossible. But he had foreseen that, that’s why he had escaped. Escaped through hard work. Life wasn’t easy in America. But there was a difference—if you worked hard, you got somewhere. The hours he put in on weekends at his office didn’t go unnoticed. It was possible to overcome the unspoken resentment against foreigners and rise.

  In India they would have trampled him because he was a Muslim. That’s what he tried to tell his younger brother. He had even tried to persuade him to move to the States. But can you help those who are unwilling to help themselves? Why should everyone choose to work hard when they could get by without it?

  Their mother had been dead a month. The house in Kareli had been sold. The buyer was a real estate developer. He wanted to tear down the old house and put up a block of shops and flats. He had agreed to let them stay until they were ready to move. A new flat had been bought in Rabia’s name in Civil Lines. The older brother was leaving the day after tomorrow. He had already been away too long. His wife called every day.

  The two brothers entered the living room. Rabia was sitting on the sofa watching TV. The Lux beauty soap commercial came on. Rabia glanced at it for a moment before making up her mind. ‘Orient Fans,’ she said in a loud voice and got up and walked over to the window.

  ‘Rabia, how are you, my girl?’ The older brother asked in a cheerful voice.

  ‘How are you?’ she returned. ‘You going back to America soon? Send some nice chocolates. I love Kit-Kat.’

  ‘Do you know where that rascal Minoo is?’ she started. ‘I gave him ten rupees to bring jalebi. Where is he?’ She craned her neck out of the window into the dark street.

  ‘Rabia, listen, I need your signature on this paper,’ her older brother said, moving close to her and holding out a pen. ‘You remember how to sign your name?’

  Rabia stared at him. ‘Of course I know how to sign my name!’ she said, indignantly. Then she looked out of the window again. ‘I gave that badmaash Minoo ten rupees. Ten hours ago.’

  ‘Here, here is another ten rupees,’ the older brother said. ‘Now, come and sign this paper. It’s for your new flat.’

  ‘New flat?’ Rabia accepted the money but her disappointment over Minoo’s disappearance was not lessened. Reluctantly she took the pen, and on the blank spaces indicated by her brother, wrote her name with a flourish. Rabia Ahmed. Then she returned to the window.

  A minute later she saw something that made her run towards the front door. She could be heard saying, ‘What took you so long, you devil’s tail?’

  ‘Rabia-didi, the jalebiwalla said if you want fresh jalebi you have to wait. The ghee takes time to get hot,’ came Minoo’s nasal whine.

  The two brothers looked at each other. The older brother shrugged, gave the papers to the younger brother and left the room.

  Rabia came back to the living room clutching a small brown dried leaf package. She sat down on the sofa and tore the st
ring off the package. The sweet smell of sugar and ghee permeated the room. One by one, she ate the warm jalebis. Minoo, the servant boy, watched her eat from the door. She stopped eating suddenly. ‘Go away, you badmaash. Get out! You’re not getting any. Why did you take so long?’ she shouted. She wrapped up the remaining jalebis and got up.

  Minoo scuttled away.

  ‘Riffat! Rani!’ she called, hurrying towards their room. ‘Come, come quickly. Hot hot jalebis!’

  That night Jamila’s husband said: ‘Just think, if it were not for Rabia he would have sold the house and left us homeless. At least we have the flat now.’

  Jamila was worried. ‘What will happen to the flat if something happens to Rabia?’ she asked.

  ‘Who knows? We’re her guardians. Most likely bhai sahib will pass it on to us, if bhabi doesn’t convince him otherwise.’

  Jamila looked away at one of the mango trees that stood just outside their bedroom window. In the dark, the dry leaves sighed faintly. In a couple of months, with the coming of spring, the trees would be laden with shiny green raw mangoes. But she wouldn’t be there to shake the trees and collect the fruit to make chutney. She had tried not to become attached to anything in this house. She had never felt such fondness for the mango trees before. With the coming of the monsoons, the small green mangoes would bulge and ripen. Mellowed and sweetened with age, one by one they would begin to fall with their weight from the tree.

  In a flat there would be no question of planting a tree even if she wanted to. She stifled the urge to cry and tell her husband she didn’t want to leave this house. She thought she’d come and see the trees once in a while on her way back from work and collect whatever fruit the construction men didn’t filch.

  Who wanted to live with a mad woman like Rabia? Who would if they could avoid it? If Rabia would’ve shown even a mad person’s version of affection or respect for Jamila, she would have recognized it. But there was nothing but venom for the world in Rabia. Jamila imagined Rabia dead and the flat coming to them. She let herself think for a few more minutes of a life unfettered with the constant supervision of Rabia.

  Two days later, the whole family piled in the old Fiat that had belonged to the older brother from his pre-America days, and went to see him off at the station. He was going to Delhi from where he would catch his flight to New York. He gave the children money, and stroked his sister-in-law’s covered head. ‘I’ll never forget what you have done for my family,’ he said. ‘When the time comes for your girls’ marriage, you can count on me to help.’

  Jamila stared at the ground, feeling grateful and burdened.

  ‘Now, Rabia,’ he said, turning to his sister, who stood with arms across her chest, looking vacantly about her, muttering. ‘You be a good girl, all right?’

  Rabia didn’t look at him.

  The indistinct haze of a woman’s voice announced something over the speakers in Hindi and English. The only really intelligible part was the train and platform number. They all said their final goodbyes, everyone except Rabia. The older brother climbed into the first class compartment where the coolie had just arranged his suitcases under his berth. He checked for his passport and airline ticket in the breast pocket of his jacket and waved from the glass window at the family members standing on the platform. They were waiting dutifully, with solemn faces, for his train to pull out of the station.

  On the way home the younger brother took a slight detour and went past the block of flats in Civil Lines, newly constructed, where they were going to move. ‘See that building, Riffat, Rani?’ he addressed his daughters. ‘That is going to be our new home. Way up there, on the sixth floor. You can see the whole of Civil Lines from the balcony.’

  ‘Baba, can we go up to the roof of our new flat and fly kites like we do from our terrace?’ Riffat asked.

  ‘All of you going to live in a new house?’ Rabia spoke for the first time.

  ‘Yes, Rabia, but you will also come and live with us,’ Jamila replied.

  Rabia smiled. For a very short instant her eyes lost their habitual vacant expression and she looked at the children, a wide smile on her face.

  ‘I also love flying kites,’ she said, her face full of mirth.

  Ghalib at Dusk

  ONE EVENING IN late August last year, I climbed up the narrow stairs to Babar bhai’s house near Tripathi Chowraha. I was a little out of breath as I reached the top of the steep stairs, and crossed the narrow landing that led to the wooden door of the house. The sky behind me, to the west, was melting into a palette of dull colours. Dense woolly clouds, grey and pink, hung low on the horizon. It had rained during the day and an evening shower could not be ruled out. I knocked on the door with the crumbly rusted chain on the doorframe. It always took them a while to answer the door. The wood of the door had cracked in places, and most of the pistachio green paint had peeled off, revealing the rot underneath. A similar green door, with a chain for a knocker, had belonged to the old, moss-laden house I had lived in as a child in Bangladesh.

  Babar bhai’s younger sister, Kamila, finally came to the door. She was wearing a faded shalwar-kameez, which was crumpled as if she had just got out of bed. Her face mirrored the grey and crumpled feel of her clothes.

  ‘Asalam-alai-kum, Nishat didi,’ Kamila said, managing a wan smile and stepping aside to let me in.

  ‘Walai-kum-salaam, Kamila,’ I returned the greeting warmly. I wanted to infect her with my cheerfulness. The wooden door creaked as Kamila closed it behind me. We were standing in an unlit hallway, which led out to an open aangan. To my right were three wooden cabinets built into the wall. Thick padlocks hung on all three of them. The dark wood and the padlocks made the hallway feel like a cheerless classroom. On one of my previous visits, I had asked about the cabinets and been told that they served as storage for Babar bhai’s vast collection of books. He had so many that all the bookshelves in the house weren’t enough.

  ‘I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time,’ I said, removing my mud-caked sandals and stepping out into the aangan. ‘I wanted to see Babar bhai. Is he home?’

  The rain-greyed walls of the aangan that secluded it from the neighbouring houses looked damp and spongy, bathed in the pearly light of early evening.

  ‘He’s home. Where can he go?’ Kamila replied, walking ahead of me. ‘But somebody’s with him.’

  The despondency in Kamila’s voice made me uncomfortable. ‘I should’ve called before coming,’ I said, looking down at the neatly painted pots with plants that stood like soldiers against the decaying walls.

  ‘The visitor will be leaving soon,’ Kamila said. ‘It’s just one of his students. Why don’t you come and sit with us for a while?’

  ‘I love this aangan,’ I said, walking over the cemented floor. Dark green moss covered it in places where the cement had cracked. The ground beneath my bare feet was cool and moist, having soaked up the day’s rain. ‘I love these old houses of Allahabad. One by one, they’re disappearing,’ I went on. ‘They have so much space. You would never think so much space existed if you look up at the house from the street. And such serenity. When the power goes off, you can even sleep out here. Do you do that?’

  ‘Sometimes. But these days it rains so often. And the mosquitoes Kamila said in a grave voice matching the grey of the aangan floor.

  Somebody was sitting on a charpai in the centre of the aangan. As I got closer, I saw it was Aunty, Kamila and Amila and Babar bhai’s mother. Her body was fully covered with a whitish dupatta and she was bent over a bowl. She appeared shapeless in the fading light, the contours of her body rendered formless by the dupatta. She raised her head and greeted me in a barely audible voice. Like her daughter’s, her smile carried the faintest impression of a smile. Her lips barely parted to show her teeth.

  ‘I was wondering if it was you, Nishat. You’ve come after a long time,’ Aunty said.

  ‘I hardly have any time. With the children and the housework,’ I said. ‘You know how it is.’

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bsp; She nodded and pointed with the small knife in her hand to a chair next to the charpai.

  I sat down and Aunty went back to her work. She was slicing bhindi. She worked slowly as if hurrying the task would have robbed her of the pleasure. Telltale colours of the just-ended day streaked the sky. I gazed at the puffy clouds over Aunty’s stooped shoulders. I was content to sit there, away from kids and housework, watching the sky, and listening to the eerie silence that comes on at dusk. There were the birds of course, clamouring to settle down in the trees. But even their noisy chatter seemed a part of the quietness that evening. I watched Aunty slicing the bhindi. The slices fell softly into the bowl. There was a slow melancholy filling the air. The sight of Aunty, old and unsmiling, the dying day, the mechanical fall of the bhindis, the lifeless way Kamila had greeted me, the greying walls of the aangan, all of it whispered of an inexplicable loss.

  The air began to cool. But warmth seemed to radiate from the sun-baked walls and floor of the aangan. This was the time—a tryst between night and day, when I was both at peace and restless. I hummed the lines of a Faiz poem in my mind:

  Yeh dhoop kinara

  Shaam dhale

  Milte hain donon waqt jahaan

  Jo raat na din jo aaj na kal

  Pal bhar ko amar

  Pal bhar mein dhoaan.

  This fringe of sunlight,

  As dusk descends,

  And day meets night.

  Neither day nor night,

  Nor today nor tomorrow,

  Eternal at one moment,

  Merely mist in another.

  I had come to discuss Urdu poetry with Babar bhai. To ask him about some couplets of Ghalib’s which I had difficulty interpreting. My knowledge of Urdu poetry was sketchy and I was trying to build it up. It was foolish to come seeking clarification of bits of poetry when there was so much else I needed to attend to. But I came because this house, with its rotting wooden door and spacious aangan carried the feel of my childhood house. A house with a green door. A house where dadi-amma had made guava jelly in the quiet of winter evenings. Aunty was like my dadi-amma, and Babar bhai’s sisters were my aunts, flitting about the aangan, shadow-like, carrying and fetching for my grandmother, who sat radiant in the glow of the mud stove, in a corner of the aangan, stirring the simmering pot of pulp with a long ladle, the air around her perfumed with the heady fragrance of ripened fruit. I would lurk in a corner of the covered porch, waiting for her to take the pot off the fire and pour the frothy ruby red liquid into jars, to carry my own jar to a safe place where I could burrow a finger into the soft jelly and lick it.