‘Maulvi Sahib has said a special incantation over it,’ the hot, feverish air breathed out by her touched my ear.
I took the plate and wondered—Maulvi Sahib has read a special incantation over it. Now the malida will be offered to Rahat’s stomach, which was like a furnace, a furnace that had been kept warm with our blood for the last six months. The sanctified malida would fulfil the wish. Wedding trumpets rang in my ears. I rushed out to the roof to see the baraat. The groom’s face was adorned with a billowing flower wreath which touched the horse’s mane. Wearing the shahabi jora and laden with flowers, Bi Aapa stepped slowly and gingerly. The gold-embroidered suit shimmered. Bi Amma’s face bloomed like a flower. Bi Aapa lifted her bashful eyes for a moment and a tear of gratitude trickled down and got entangled like a star amidst the golden sequins.
‘All this is the result of your efforts,’ Bi Aapa’s silence seemed to say. Hamida felt a lump in her throat.
‘Go, my dear sister,’ Bi Aapa woke her up from her reverie. She got up with a start, wiped her eyes with the corner of her dupatta and made for the veranda.
‘This . . . this malida,’ Bi Aapa said, controlling her leaping heart. Her feet were trembling, as though she had entered a snake hole . . . And then the mountain moved . . . Rahat opened his mouth. Hamida stepped back. At a distance the shehnai of some wedding party screamed out as though it were being stifled. With shaking hands, she made a lump of the sacred malida and held it towards Rahat’s mouth.
Her hands were pulled by the mountain where they got drowned in the bottomless, putrid abyss. A big rock stifled her scream. The plate of sanctified malida tumbled from her hands and hit the lantern. The lantern fell on the ground, gasped a few times and gave out. In the courtyard, the women of the mohalla were singing songs praising the saint Mushkil Kusha.
In the morning Rahat left by train, after thanking them for their hospitality. His marriage had been fixed, and he was impatient to reach home.
After that, no one fried eggs, made paranthas or knitted a sweater in that household. Tuberculosis, which had been haunting Bi Aapa for a long time, now pounced on her. And she quietly surrendered her futile existence to its fatal embrace.
Then, once again, a clean sheet was spread on the couch in the seh-dari. The women of the mohalla gathered there. The white expanse of the shroud spread before Bi Amma like death’s mantle. She was shaking all over in the effort to control herself. Her eyebrow was twitching. The desolate wrinkles were howling, as though a thousand pythons were hissing in them.
Bi Amma straightened the fabric, then folded it in the shape of a square. And a thousand scissors ran through her heart. Today her face bore the marks of a terrible peace, a fatal contentment. Unlike the other suits of chauthi, this one would not have to be stitched.
All of a sudden, the young girls gathered in the seh-dari began to twitter like so many mynas. Flinging the past aside, Hamida went over to join them. The mark of the white cotton on the red twill. How many young girls would have merged their longings in its red, and how many unfortunate virgins would have mingled its white in the whiteness of their shrouds. And then, everyone became quiet. Bi Amma put in the last stitch and snapped the thread. Two large tears trickled slowly down her cotton-soft cheeks. The wrinkles on her face glowed, and she smiled. It was as though today she felt sure that Kubra’s wedding suit was finally complete and the trumpets would ring out any moment.
GAINDA
‘This is our shack,’ Gainda and I told ourselves as we crawled into the dense shrubbery. Sitting on our haunches, we began to tidy up the ground with both hands. In a little while we were squatting on the smooth floor of the shack without a care in the world. After a brief tête-à-tête, we began to play our favourite game—dulhan-dulhan. Gainda drew her smelly red dupatta over her face and sat huddled like a real bride. I lifted the veil gently and had a glimpse of her. Gainda’s round face turned crimson as a fresh wave of blood coursed through her veins. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, and she could barely stop herself from bursting into laughter.
‘It’s my turn now, Gainda . . . my turn,’ I said, seething with envy.
‘Hey, what’s going on here!’ Bhaiya lifted the branches and growled. In panic Gainda flung away her dupatta and plonked herself on the ground. Our hearts were beating wildly.
Not just Bhaiya, if anyone else had seen us playing the bride we would have been soundly thrashed. We always played this fascinating game stealthily.
‘Well . . . we’re just playing,’ I said nonchalantly.
Bhaiya was in a good mood. He bent over to come in and squatted there with us. But soon he got bored.
‘You little devils—what do you mean, sitting here like this?’ he snapped, shielding his nose from the spreading branch. ‘And you, Gainda!’ He pinched her chubby cheek. ‘You’re wasting your time here. I’m going to tell Natha.’
Gainda opened her big brown eyes and looked around. ‘Arré baap re!’ she exclaimed, and ran away gathering her short skirt.
‘Oh Gainda, don’t go!’ I implored and tried to restrain her.
‘Dada will bash me up.’ She was scared of Bhaiya.
‘No, he won’t. You’ve already finished your chores.’
‘Okay, you can sit here,’ Bhaiya said gently, as he pulled her towards him. Then he turned to me. ‘But bibi, I’ll certainly get you thrashed. You’re spoiling your clothes romping on the ground.’
‘Do your worst. I don’t care!’ I was scared stiff and began to brush the dust off my clothes.
‘Gainda . . . Hey, Gainda . . . Where on earth are you?’ Bahu’s voice rang out. Gainda snatched her hands from Bhaiya’s grip and shot away like an arrow.
The game was ruined in a minute. I flew at Bhaiya and scratched him. ‘Go away,’ I screamed.
‘Witch,’ he hissed, grinding his teeth. He gave me a wallop and strode off.
§
‘Who should a widow dress herself for?’ Gainda asked philosophically.
‘Widow!’ I was grinding a piece of red brick on stone to make sindoor. Wiping it on my shirt, I asked in amazement, ‘Widow?’
‘Of course. I’m a widow.’ There seemed to be a trace of pride in her voice.
‘And I?’ I was dying with envy.
‘You?’ she said with barely concealed contempt. ‘You’re a virgin! Hee, hee, hee.’ She was making fun of me.
My heart sank. Gainda always slighted me. I could not compete with her in anything. She had been married off in the month of Baisakh the year before. All dressed up in red garments, she had become the sole owner of a set of glittering silver jewellery. For days together she strutted around showing off her finery. I, a wretched creature, was of no importance. I was either gaping at her or following her around like a wistful kitten. I counted her bangles, tied up her anklets or ran solicitously to lift her tinsel-trimmed dupatta when it touched the ground. Just how unjust could Amma be! I was reprimanded even if I drew the quilt over my face. Why? Oh, why?
‘Why are you fiddling with the quilt?’ she would yell, as though I would spoil it by using it as a veil!
If ever I asked for a dupatta, she would brush me off. ‘No. You’ll trail it in the muck, I know.’
Granted that I was younger than Gainda, but I wasn’t too young to be a bride. I was ready to spend my whole life with the bride’s veil over my face without complaint.
Gainda’s husband had died during the rainy season. The whole household had drowned in lamentations. Gainda’s glass bangles were smashed, and she cried her heart out.
‘Poor Gainda,’ everybody sympathized with her and cuddled her. No one paid any heed to me. They all said that I was still a mere child, too small.
To hell with it. How long would I remain ‘too small’? I had grown taller, and my blue salwar now reached my knees. Even the pink kurta had been handed down to Niru. My one and only shiny kurta had become too short. I was considered ‘too awkward’ when it came to the good things of life; and when some real issues were de
cided I was dismissed as a child. I could not decide—was I big or small? It was so confusing.
‘So you don’t deck yourself up any more?’ I asked Gainda idly.
‘When a girl’s husband is dead, whom will she deck herself up for?’ Gainda said stoically. ‘A wife wears sindoor or bangles for her husband only,’ she mouthed the cliché as though she believed in it firmly.
‘Look, Gainda, what a lot of sindoor we’ve made!’ I said as I gathered up the brick powder in my hand. Like a widow longing for sindoor, Gainda gazed at it wistfully. But soon we were smiling.
‘Don’t tell Bhabi . . . please . . .’ She drew closer, and we got ready to put on the make-up. With the deftness of an experienced woman, I arranged her dishevelled hair, dabbing it with water, and sprinkled sindoor in her parting. Gainda’s face flushed a deep red, and she hid her face shyly in her dupatta. Then she rolled over with laughter.
‘What are you doing?’ I chided her. ‘It’ll get messy.’
‘Now it’s your turn,’ said Gainda as she dabbed my hair with water.
‘And what about my bindi?’ I asked, my eyes screwed up.
‘Sure, I’ll take care of it,’ she reassured me.
Soon we had completed our make-up. Sindoor in our partings, bindis on our forehead and dupattas drawn over our faces we sat demurely in a corner. We stole glances at each other’s face and were struck by our own beauty. This made us all the more bashful.
Seeing Bhaiya coming, Gainda blushed all over. We hurriedly rubbed off our bindis and started laughing sheepishly. Bhaiya brushed me aside and went up to Gainda. She felt terribly shy. Grinding his teeth, Bhaiya pinched her cheeks hard. ‘Ah, ah’—she shrank within herself.
‘What the hell is this?’ Bhaiya kicked the mound of brick powder in disgust. His loose kurta got stained as he tried to sit on it.
‘This is sindoor. We made it,’ I said proudly.
Bhaiya poked his finger in it and pressed Gainda’s leg with his own. ‘Come on, let me put sindoor on you.’ Bhaiya sprinkled sindoor in Gainda’s parting.
‘No!’ She rubbed it off with her palm.
‘Bhaiya, Gainda is a widow. She doesn’t wear sindoor.’ I tried to impress him with my knowledge.
‘Doesn’t she? . . . The witch. Let me . . . see . . .’ He clasped both her hands and pushed her over.
Gainda hid her face.
‘Gainda, I won’t talk to you ever again.’ This made Gainda uncover her face after all.
‘Gainda,’ Bhaiya sidled up to her. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Go away.’ She looked even more beautiful.
I tried to be coy like her. For hours together we would talk about marriage and feel bashful. Bhaiya could not even dream of what Aapa and Nanhi talked about and which we overheard, hiding under the bed.
‘Why go away?’ Bhaiya nudged her with his elbow. ‘Tell me, will you marry . . .’
The sound of Bahu’s anklets startled us. She was coming to the well. ‘Gainda!’ she bellowed, and the next moment she was upon us. ‘Hey raand, what are you doing here?’ Go, warm the iron,’ she growled. Gainda tried to slink away quietly, but Bahu leapt and caught her by her plaits. ‘And how dare you braid your hair and make the parting?’ She gave her a whack. Gainda made good her escape. Bhaiya and I winced.
Bahu’s tyranny left me seething with anger. Whenever she beat Gainda, I would pay her back some way or the other. That day, too, the moment she went out of sight, I threw a handful of ashes in her pure, transparent starch. In the evening, Bhaiya gave Natha two sharp blows for ironing the shirt collars clumsily.
§
‘Smell it,’ Gainda thrust her blouse-front into my nose.
‘Arré wah! Where did you get attar?’
‘Bhaiya!’ She cackled. I suppressed my envy and smiled.
‘Gainda!’ Bhaiya called out from the veranda. ‘Take this coat for ironing.’ She gave me a knowing wink and left smiling.
How did Gainda walk? With a supple gait as though she had not a bone in her body. When I walked, it was like a galloping mare. I am . . . oh God! I began to feel unsettled.
Burning with jealousy I made for the garden, and there engaged myself in riling the water in the tank with a stick. The red brick sindoor powder still lay where it had been. Bhaiya sprinkled attar on Gainda. Perhaps he had forgotten me. But why? Or did he do so deliberately? Come to think of it, I was his own sister. And Gainda? She was nothing to him. I detested Bhaiya at that moment and kept on churning the muck furiously.
‘Stop! What are you doing, bibi?’ Mewaram yelled from behind me. I gazed at Mewa. ‘He’s nothing to me,’ I said to myself. His hands were filthy. He never cleaned them. He was always digging dirt. Well, never mind.
‘Mewa. Come here for a minute,’ I crooned softly and started gazing at the water trickling down from the stick drop by drop.
‘What is it?’ He turned nonchalantly. Sliding his cap over his eyes, he scratched his nape.
‘Take this sindoor, and sprinkle it on my head,’ I ordered him demurely.
‘You call this sindoor?’ He laughed heartily and turned away.
‘Listen . . . I . . . a widow. Wait a minute.’ I had a new idea.
‘What is it, bibi?’ He stopped and turned towards me.
‘Mewa . . . will you marry . . .?’ I asked with a fluttering heart.
‘Marry! But I’m already married.’ He began to knock the handle of the khurpi on a tree trunk.
‘When?’ I asked in a deadpan voice.
‘Oh God! It’s been ages,’ he said as though it was nothing.
‘I see. So you’re a widower?’ I had decided for him.
‘Oh no!’ He laughed. ‘My malin is sitting there in the hut.’
‘Are you married to malin, then?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Hmm.’ And he walked off.
‘So, the crone whom I thought was Mewaram’s mother was actually his wife! What a strange world!’ I thought to myself and began to stir the stick more vigorously . . . I bent down to smell my chemise to get a whiff of the perfume, but there was none. On the contrary, there was the stink of the gravy I had spilled that morning. I was piqued.
§
Gainda was going towards Bhaiya’s room with silent steps, carrying a pile of dried clothes wrapped in a towel. I looked through a chink in the door, curious, and followed her quietly like a kitten. Gainda sat on the floor counting the clothes while Bhaiya stood in a corner scratching his head.
‘Wrong! You can’t count,’ he said abruptly as he clasped both her hands. She lifted her eyes for a fleeting moment to look at Bhaiya, frowned, and then broke into a smile. When he tried to grab her, she ducked and threw herself on the carpet face down and would not get up. When Bhaiya tickled her on her waist, she sprang up. Then, as Bhaiya moved closer, she gave him a sharp slap across his face.
It was a miracle that I did not faint from the shock. Slap Bhaiya! Bhaiya, who was feared by everyone in the house. How did she dare to slap him? I was ready to bolt as I thought Bhaiya would now strangle her to death. He grabbed her two hands and pulled her towards him. I held my breath . . . oh no! I ran away, overwhelmed by fear and wonder, and paused only when I reached the dense cluster of the kamarakhs. With my heart pounding like bellows, my ears buzzing, my tongue parched and my body shaking all over, I crouched there nervously for a long time.
I sat there lost in thought—first with eyes closed and then, with eyes wide open. But I could not make head or tail of it. Why didn’t I understand such a lot of things? In the desolate, hot afternoon I waged a weary struggle to unravel strange riddles but could not. My eyes brimmed over with tears as though someone had beaten me severely.
I saw Gainda leap to the veranda. Only she could provide answers to my queries. Gainda always shared her secrets with me.
‘What happened?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Nothing,’ she said dismissively. But soon after, we sat in a quiet corner and talked of many ‘strange’ incidents. Gainda was a trea
sure trove of such events.
‘But . . . why all this?’ I wondered as I listened to her.
Gainda went off to prepare the starch, but I kept sitting there, lost in thought. My mind rambled on—I thought of picking up little kamarakh beads and stringing them into a necklace, completing the canal that I had dug the previous day to water the plants, going to the shrubbery to have a look-in or, at least, ascertain where the partridge had begun to lay eggs. But I wasn’t interested in any of this that day. No game held any appeal for me. All I wanted was to sit quietly, eyes closed, and dream of a tiny little bride, and go on dreaming about her. What could I do, after all? Just look at Gainda! And me? The sound of Mewa’s footsteps startled me. A sweet thought, a desire invaded my mind once again, and hiding my face with both hands I threw myself on the ground, face down.
‘Tch . . . tch . . . bibi, why are you wallowing in the dirt? Get up! Quick!’ he said.
I imagined someone was trying to lift me, and I wouldn’t move. Someone was tickling me . . . but . . .
‘Get up, or I’ll tell Bhaiya that you’re spoiling your dress,’ he threatened standing at a distance like a pole, not the way Bhaiya had stood, scratching his head. Totally indifferent to my feelings, he was paring a bamboo stick.
‘Will you get up or . . .’ He strode off to complain to Bhaiya. Just imagine how I fumed in anger.
‘Pig! Who the hell are you? . . . Take this . . .’ I screamed and hurled a pebble at his knee.
‘Hey . . . just wait! I’ll get you nicely whacked. She wanders all afternoon in the scorching sun and rolls in dirt. Try to stop her and . . . Wait!’ He limped away, wincing.
Manto and Chughtai Page 16