‘God forbid! What sort of laughter is this?’
In the midst of the choking, Abba would lift his bloodshot eyes and smile helplessly. The coughing would stop after sometime, leaving him panting.
‘Why don’t you take some medicine? I’ve asked you time and again to do so.’
‘The doctor at the main hospital says that I’ll need injections. He also advises me to take a litre of milk and fifty grams of butter daily.’
‘Shame on them, these doctors! The cough is already there, and on top of it he’s advising you to take fat. Won’t it create more phlegm? Show yourself to some hakeem.’
‘I will.’ Abba would draw on the hookah and choke once again.
‘A curse on this hookah! It’s because of this that you’ve got the cough. Do you ever think of your grown-up daughter?’
Abba would cast a pitiful look at Kubra’s youth. Kubra had grown up to be a young woman. Whoever said that she had ‘become’ a young woman? It was as though right from the day of her bismillah ceremony she had been hearing intimations of her approaching youth and had been cowering back from it. What kind of youth was this that fairies never danced before her eyes, nor did curled ringlets play coquettishly with her cheeks? She did not experience any storm raging in her breast, neither did she impetuously ask the monsoon clouds the whereabouts of her beloved. Adolescence crept up on her unawares, with silent steps, as it were, and left her no one knew when! Sweet years gave way to sour ones, and finally they became bitter.
One day Abba stumbled on the threshold and fell on his face. Neither a hakeem’s prescription nor a doctor’s could get him on his feet again.
After that, Hamida gave up making demands for sweet roti, and Kubra’s marriage proposals somehow lost their way. It was as if no one ever knew that behind the sack cloth curtain someone’s youth was at its last gasp. And there was another whose youth was raising its head like a serpent’s hood.
But Bi Amma’s routine did not change. She would spread the colourful snippets in the same way on the seh-dari and continue her doll game.
During the month of Shab-e-baraat, scrounging and economizing, she somehow managed to buy a crêpe dupatta that cost her seven and a half rupees. She just had to buy it. A telegram had arrived from Kubra’s maternal uncle saying that his eldest son Rahat was coming to stay with them during his police training. Bi Amma began to drive herself mad with worry. It seemed as though it was not Rahat but a veritable baraat that had arrived on the threshold. And she had not yet chipped the gold leaf for the bride’s hair parting!
Too nervous to do anything by herself, she sent for Bundu’s mother who was her moohboli behn, her adopted sister. The message was: ‘Sister, you will find me dead if you don’t come immediately.’
Then the two women began their hushed whispers. Once in a while they would glance at Kubra who, sitting on the veranda, was winnowing rice. She knew well what these whispers were about.
Bi Amma pulled out the clove-shaped earrings weighing four massas from her ears and handed them over to her adopted sister so that she could buy a tola of fettered gold, six massas of gold leaf and stars, and a quarter yard of twill.
The room in the front was swept and dusted clean. A little lime was brought, and Kubra painted the walls with her own hands. The walls became sparkling white but the skin of her palm came off because of the lime, and that is why when she sat down to grind spices that evening, her head began to spin and she fell. She kept tossing and turning all night long, partly because of her palms, and partly because Rahat was to arrive by the morning train.
‘Oh God, dear God! Let Aapa be blessed with good fortune this time. Oh God, I shall say a hundred voluntary prayers in Your exalted presence,’ Hamida prayed after her fajr namaaz, the dawn prayers.
By the time Rahat arrived, Kubra had already hidden herself in the mosquito-infested room. Rahat helped himself to the breakfast of sewaiyaan and parantha and retired to the sitting room. Then Kubra came out from the room with halting steps like a newly wedded bride and picked up the used dishes.
‘Bi Aapa, let me wash them for you,’ Hamida said mischievously.
‘No.’ Kubra became bashful and lowered her head.
Hamida kept teasing while Bi Amma smiled and stitched the gold lace on the dupatta. The gold flowerets, the cockades and the silver anklets went the way of the clove-shaped earrings. And finally the bangles, too, which Manjhle Maamu had given her on the day marking the end of her mourning after Abba’s death. Eating simple food herself, she would fry paranthas, kofta and meat pulao for Rahat every other day. The aroma of kofta and meat pulao filled the air. She would swallow her dry morsels with water but feed her would-be son-in-law rich meat dishes.
‘These are hard times, my child,’ she would try to pacify Hamida who would go into a sulk seeing her mother’s behaviour.
‘So we have to starve to feed the “son-in-law”,’ Hamida thought.
Bi Aapa would get up at the crack of dawn and begin doing her chores like a machine. Taking just a glass of water herself, she would fry paranthas for Rahat and keep the milk on the boil until a thick layer of cream formed over it. If she could, she would have cut some fat out of her own body and stuffed it in the parantha. And why not? After all, one day he was going to be her very own. Whatever he earned, he would pass on to her. Who does not water a plant that gives fruit? And, when flowers would blossom and the fruit-laden branch would bend low, all the backbiting women would be shamed. This thought made my Bi Aapa’s face glow with bridal anticipation. The sound of the shehnai rang in her ears as she swept Rahat’s room to keep it spotless. She arranged his clothes lovingly, as though they talked to her. She washed his dirty socks, his stinking vests and handkerchiefs filled with mucous. And on his oil-smeared pillow cover she embroidered ‘Sweet Dreams’.
But things did not progress quite as expected. Rahat stuffed himself with eggs and paranthas at breakfast and went out. On his return he ate kofta and went to sleep. Bi Amma’s adopted sister whispered her disappointment.
‘Poor boy! He’s very shy,’ Bi Amma offered the alibi.
‘That’s all right. But we should get some hints from his gestures or looks.’
‘God forbid that my daughters exchange glances with anyone! No one has ever seen as much as her pallu,’ said Bi Amma with pride.
‘Oh dear, no one’s asking her to come out of purdah.’ Considering Bi Aapa’s swollen pimples, she had to admire Bi Amma’s foresight. ‘Dear sister, you’re really a simpleton. I’m not suggesting that at all. This wretched younger one—when will she be of use, if not now?’ She looked at me and broke into a laugh.
‘You good-for-nothing girl! You must chat and share jokes with your brother-in-law, you crazy child.’
‘But what do you want me to do, Khala?’
‘Why don’t you chat with Rahat Mian?’
‘I feel shy.’
‘Just look at her! He won’t eat you up, will he?’ Bi Amma said angrily.
‘Oh no . . . but . . .’ I could not say anything.
They pondered over the issue. After much thinking, kebabs were made with mustard seeds. That day, Bi Aapa also smiled quite a few times.
She whispered to me, ‘Look, don’t start laughing. That’ll ruin the whole game.’
‘I won’t,’ I promised.
‘Do take your meal, please,’ I said as I lowered the tray of food on the stool.
Rahat took out the water tumbler from under his bed and while washing his hands he looked at me from top to toe. I immediately took to my heels. My heart was beating wildly. Oh my God, what piercing eyes he had!
‘You wretched girl, just go and see how he reacts. You’re going to spoil the fun.’
Aapa looked at me. There was pleading in her eyes. In them, one could see images of departing wedding parties and the sadness of old wedding clothes. I lowered my head, returned to Rahat’s room and stood there leaning against the pillar.
Rahat ate quietly without looking at me. Seeing him e
ating those mustard seed kebabs I should have laughed and made fun of him. ‘Are you enjoying these mustard seed kebabs, dear brother-in-law?’ I should have teased, but it was as though someone had clutched at my throat.
Bi Amma got angry and called me back, cursing me under her breath. How could I tell her that the wretched fellow, far from telling the difference, seemed to be enjoying the food!
‘Rahat Bhai, how did you like the kofta?’ I asked, tutored by Bi Amma.
There was no reply.
‘Hey girl, go and ask him properly,’ Bi Amma nudged me.
‘Please say something.’
‘You brought them and I ate. They must be good.’
‘What a stupid boy!’ Bi Amma could not restrain herself.
‘Why, you couldn’t make out that the kebabs you ate were made of mustard seeds?’
‘Mustard seeds? But I eat the same stuff every day. I’ve got used to eating mustard seeds and hay.’
Bi Amma’s face fell. Bi Aapa could not lift her eyes. The following day she sewed twice her normal measure.
In the evening when I took his meal to him, Rahat said, ‘Tell me what you have brought today? Paranthas made of sawdust?’
‘Don’t you like the food here?’ I asked, stung by his remark.
‘Not exactly. It seems somewhat strange. If it is mustard seed kebabs someday, on other days it is curry that tastes like hay!’
I boiled with rage. We ate dry rotis to provide him with plentiful food and stuff him with paranthas dripping with ghee. My Bi Aapa could not buy jushanda for herself but she got him milk and cream. I walked away in a huff.
Bi Amma’s adopted sister’s scheme worked, and Rahat began to spend a greater part of the day at home. Bi Aapa was always busy at the hearth, Bi Amma occupied herself with stitching the jora for chauthi, and Rahat’s filthy eyes stung my heart like arrows. He would tease me for nothing while eating, saying that he wanted some water or a pinch of salt. And he would make suggestive remarks. Embarrassed, I would go and sit beside Bi Aapa. I felt like asking her point blank whose goat he was and who would supply him with fodder! Dear sister, I won’t be able to noose this bull for you. But Bi Aapa’s tangled hair was covered with flying ash from the hearth . . . Oh no! My heart missed a beat. I picked up a strand of her hair that had become grey and tucked it into her plait. A curse on this cold! The poor girl’s hair had begun to turn grey.
Rahat called me once again on some pretext.
‘Hunh!’ I was stung. But Bi Aapa looked at me with the gaze of a slaughtered chicken and I had to go.
‘Are you angry with me?’ Rahat grabbed my wrist as he took the water tumbler. I was scared out of my wits. I snatched my hands away and ran from there.
‘What was he saying?’ Bi Aapa asked in a voice smothered with modesty. I stared at her mutely.
He was saying, ‘Who cooked the food? Simply delicious! I could go on eating . . . devouring the hand that cooked the food . . . Oh no! What I mean is . . . kissing the hand,’ I blurted out hurriedly and clasped Bi Aapa’s rough hand reeking of turmeric and coriander. I was in tears. ‘These hands,’ I thought ‘that remain busy, like bonded slaves, from morning till night grounding spices, drawing water, chopping onions, laying the bed, cleaning shoes. When will their slavery end? Will there be no buyers for them? Will no one ever kiss them lovingly? Will henna never adorn them? Will they never be perfumed with the bridal attar?’ I wanted to scream out.
‘What else was he saying?’ Bi Aapa’s hands were rough, but she had such a sweet and lilting voice that if Rahat had ears . . . but he had neither ears nor nose . . . only the hell of a stomach.
‘Well, he was saying—“Tell your Bi Aapa not to work so hard . . . and to take jushanda for her cough.”’
‘You’re lying!’
‘Not me. It’s he who is a liar. Your . . .’
‘Silly girl!’ she shut me up.
‘Look, I’ve completed knitting the sweater. Please take it to him. But you must promise that you won’t mention my name.’
‘No, Bi Aapa, no. Don’t give him the sweater. Your body which is just a bag of bones needs it badly,’ I wanted to tell her, but couldn’t bring myself to do so.
‘Aapa Bi, what will you wear?’
‘Come on, I don’t need it really. It’s always scorching hot near the hearth.’
Seeing the sweater, Rahat puckered up one of his eyebrows mischievously and said, ‘Did you knit it?’
‘No!’
‘Then I can’t wear it.’
I felt like scratching his face. ‘Villain! A lump of clay! This sweater was knitted by hands that are living slaves. Woven in each of its stitches are the longings of an ill-fated woman. The hands that knitted it are meant to rock the cradle. Clasp these hands, you ass! They will serve as oars and save your lifeboat from tumultuous storms. They may not play musical notes on the sitar, may not show the Manipuri or Bharatnatyam mudras; they have not been trained to dance on the keyboard of a piano, nor have they learnt how to arrange flowers, but these are the hands that toil from morning to evening to provide you sumptuous food, and mend your clothes; they remain soaked in soap and soda water, bear the flames of the hearth. They wash your filth so that you can maintain your dazzling image of a hypocrite. Hard work has bruised them. Glass bangles have never tinkled on them. No one has ever held them lovingly!’
But I stayed mute. Bi Amma says that my friends have vitiated my mind with their newfangled ideas—frightening thoughts about death, hunger and famine, about throbbing hearts being silenced forever.
‘Why don’t you wear this sweater? Your shirt looks so flimsy.’
Like a wild cat I scratched his face, nose and shirt front and pulled his hair. Then I ran back to my room and fell on the bed. Bi Aapa put the last roti on the tawa, washed her hands hurriedly, wiped them on her pallu and then came to sit by me.
‘What did he say?’ she could not resist asking, her heart beating fast.
‘Bi Aapa, Rahat Bhai is not a good person.’ I resolved to tell her everything today.
‘Why?’ she smiled.
‘I don’t like him. Look, all my bangles have been smashed to bits,’ I said tremulously.
‘He’s so mischievous!’ she said, blushing coyly.
‘Bi Aapa . . . Please listen to me. Rahat is not a good person,’ I said angrily. ‘I’ll tell Bi Amma today.’
‘What is it?’ asked Bi Amma as she was spreading the prayer mat.
‘Just look at my bangles, Bi Amma!’
‘Rahat has smashed them?’ Bi Amma chirped joyfully.
‘Yes.’
‘Good! You pester him endlessly! And why are you complaining so much? As though you’re made of wax and would melt at his touch!’ Then she comforted me: ‘Take your revenge on the chauthi ceremony. Tease him as much as you can so that he doesn’t forget it, ever.’ Saying this, she began her prayers.
Once again, there was a conference between Bi Amma and her adopted sister, and seeing that the matter was proceeding fruitfully towards the desired goal, they smiled happily.
‘Silly girl, you’re no use at all! I tell you, we used to make life miserable for our brothers-in-law.’
And then she proceeded to describe how to tease brothers-in-law. She recounted how two of her maternal uncle’s daughters for whom there was no prospect of marriage at all were married merely by the inventiveness of teasing and mischief.
‘One of the grooms was Hakeemji. When young girls teased him he would become bashful and have nervous fits. Eventually he sent word to the uncle saying that he would consider it an honour to become his son-in-law. The second one was a clerk in the viceroy’s secretariat. The moment girls came to know that he had arrived in the house they would begin to play pranks on him. Sometimes they stuffed hot chillies in the paan; sometimes they fed him sewaiyaan with salt rather than sugar . . . But, can you believe it, he began to come every day. Rain or thunderstorm, he would arrive unfailingly. Eventually, he approached an acquaintance to arrange his
marriage in the family. When asked, “Which girl?”, he said, “With either one.” God is my witness that I am telling no lies—if you looked at the elder sister, you would think of an approaching banshee. About the younger one, the less said the better. If her one eye faced east, the other one faced west. Her father gave fifteen tolas of gold in dowry and arranged a job for the groom in the Burra Sahib’s office.’
‘Well, if one can afford to give fifteen tolas of gold as dowry and a job in the Burra Sahib’s office thrown in, there should be no dearth of suitable boys.’
‘That is not the point, sister. Nowadays, the hearts of marriageable boys are like eggplants on a plate—you can tilt them anyway you like.’
Rahat was not an eggplant, but a mountain. I could be crushed under his weight, I thought. Then I looked towards Aapa. Sitting quietly in the veranda, she was kneading dough and listening to everything. Had it been in her power, she would have split the bosom of the earth and vanished underneath along with her curse of spinsterhood.
Did my sister hunger after men? No. She had already shrivelled up at the mere thought of such a hunger. The thought of a man did not come to her as a longing, but as an answer to her need for food and clothing. She was a widow’s burden and must not continue to remain so.
However, even after all the hints and innuendoes, Rahat Mian did not spill the beans, nor did any marriage proposal come from his family. Overcome by despair, Bi Amma pawned her anklets and arranged a niyaaz dedicated to Pir Mushkil Kusha, the patron saint. Through the afternoon, girls of the mohalla made a racket in the courtyard. Bi Aapa retired to the mosquito-infested room where mosquitoes sucked up the last drops of her blood. Exhausted, Bi Amma sat on the chauki, putting the last stitches on the suit of the chauthi. Today, her face bore the marks of destinations.
It was the last stage, the impasse would soon come to an end. Today, her wrinkles once again shimmered like lit-up candles. Bi Aapa’s friends were teasing her, and she was trying hard to make a blush appear on her face with her last drops of blood. For the past several days her fever had not remitted. Like a candle in its last gasp, her face would light up for a moment and then fade out. She beckoned me to her side, removed her pallu and handed over to me the plate which contained the sweets consecrated by the niyaaz.
Manto and Chughtai Page 15