‘If I fall in love with someone else, then you can complain that I was not truthful.’
‘All lies, a woman cannot keep from loving a man; according to tradition, she was even born of a man’s rib,’ replied Jameel excitedly.
‘All right, now I get it.’ She burst out laughing. ‘That’s why men deceive women, because they can’t forget the pain in the rib of our first father, Adam.’
Jameel also laughed spontaneously but then became serious again. ‘You are mine, Aliya. I speak truly when I say that I will do everything in life, I’m not like Safdar, who finished off Tehmina.’ Then he whispered, ‘Safdar is in Bombay, he’s a member of the Communist Party. He’s in jail these days.’
Aliya fell totally silent for a moment. She stared at Jameel with empty eyes. The past can come and ambush one’s thoughts so quickly.
‘Aliya, I will dedicate my entire life to you. Believe me, Aliya, I will do everything for you, but if you do not support me on the journey of life, I will grow weary, I won’t be able to accomplish anything.’
She looked hard at him. For heaven’s sake, what insipid clichéd things he says, she thought. The same sorts of things my sister Tehmina read of in stories before she died. How adept lovers are at using their tools of deception. She looked down. His eyes had a strange depth to them.
‘Well then, Jameel, start growing weary today. Shall I arrange for tea and so on?’ She laughed heartily. If she could turn the whole thing into a joke, maybe she’d escape, but Jameel’s mood was still deadly serious.
‘Look, Aliya,’ he moved towards her, then froze in place.
‘Oh here, please take your letter from the Muslim League office in Kanpur. I managed to snatch it up before Aunty saw it, because you know, Aunty doesn’t need to cope with that shock as well.’ Aliya took an envelope out of her notebook and placed it in Jameel’s hand signalling that the conversation was finished.
He stood with his head hanging, like a criminal. All of a sudden, the secret he’d kept hidden for so long had come out.
‘All right, then, happy Eid; please don’t mention the letter to Amma,’ he said and rushed away.
At that moment, Chammi was dragging Najma Aunty’s bedroll up the stairs into the big room; the hem of the suit from her departed mother’s bridal gift had torn in the effort.
Chammi, Najma Aunty will never appreciate this devotion from you. And why are you angry with me? Aliya wondered, gazing at Chammi affectionately. Then she closed her door again.
The neighbourhood children were now kicking up a huge ruckus as they returned from the Eidgah.
‘Kareeman Bua,’ called out Asrar Miyan, ‘please convey my greetings to my sisters-in-law and please wish them both a happy Eid as well.’
Aliya could hear the voice of Asrar Miyan shaking with joy as she walked down the stairs. How she wished she could say hello to him today. It was Eid, after all.
‘Be patient; I’ll send in vermicelli for you as well,’ Kareeman Bua replied light-heartedly.
Najma Aunty handed Kareeman Bua one rupee as a holiday gift. When she looked up at Aliya, Aliya turned around and walked back up to her room.
11
It was Sunday. After drinking tea, Uncle lay down on his bed before going into the sitting room. He looked a bit deflated. Aliya went and sat by him. She felt agitated seeing Uncle like this. Oh, poor Uncle, no one cares about him, she thought. If Aunty were not in this home, everyone would torment him. Everyone here cried only for their own troubles. No one asked about his troubles, and he was the one who put up with everything; his own sister made him feel ashamed, just because she had to contribute her own money towards food. Najma Aunty had forgotten that at one time it was thanks to Uncle’s money that she’d attained her education at all.
‘How are your studies going, my dear?’
‘They’re fine, Uncle, I hope you’re feeling well?’ She spoke with a heavy heart. ‘You don’t pay any attention to your health. You’re getting so weak. Maybe you should think of yourself from time to time as well.’
‘No worries, dear, I am quite well,’ replied Uncle, staring at Aliya with surprise. ‘But really, is there someone here who really cares for me? Can anyone even feel sympathetic towards me? I am the ghost of this house that has destroyed everything.’
She sensed a faint sadness in Uncle’s eyes that she felt he was trying to hide with laughter.
‘Oh my crazy girl, what do I need to rest for? I’m fit as a fiddle. No need to worry. Well, now tell me this, are you reading any books from my library?’
‘I was reading them, Uncle, but my exam is coming up, so I stopped doing everything else.’
‘It’s very important for a girl like you to read these books.’ Whenever Uncle was happy, he would start advising her to read the books in his library.
‘Uncle, what will happen when we get independence?’ she asked foolishly, trying to bring up his favourite topic. She’d never actually expressed her loathing for politics before him.
‘When we get independence, our work will be done! Everything about life will become simple. Do pray for me that I won’t die during the era of slavery.’
Uncle, may God always keep you well, she prayed to herself. Even after witnessing the destruction of these two households she still could not hate her father or her uncle.
Just then, the chain in the main door rattled loudly and she stood up quickly.
‘Wait, don’t you go, I’ll look,’ said Uncle. He went outside and returned promptly. Aunty was seated on the takht in the veranda with a small basket in front of her, sorting through spinach leaves. Uncle went over to her.
‘I’ve been summoned,’ he announced to her. He looked a bit worried.
‘Where to?’
‘To the English rulers. I’ll be back in four or five months. Please pack my bags.’
Aliya stood stock-still. Aunty threw the basket aside and got up quickly. Kareeman Bua rose up from among the dirty pots and pans and began to stare absent-mindedly at everyone. Aunty went into their room and began stuffing Uncle’s clothes into a suitcase.
‘What did anyone ever do to those bastards? Why must they go about arresting people every day? What will they do once they’ve got him? It’s not like they can keep everyone from speaking.’ Aunty was saying this as she looked over at Amma, and Amma, assigning blame for this new disaster to Uncle, gazed back scornfully.
‘Big Brother, you should repent now,’ she admonished. ‘Look after your own home and your children, everything has been ruined.’
But Uncle didn’t say a thing. He picked up his cane from the corner of the veranda and held the suitcase in his other hand.
‘Have I struggled through adversity my entire life so that he should repent? After all, what has he done wrong?’ Aunty wept with rage and sorrow.
The chain rattled loudly again and Uncle rushed over to the door.
‘Make your aunty see some sense, dear. I had raised the question of Chammi’s engagement; when you receive an answer from Zafar Uncle, make the decision,’ he said, patting Aliya on the back, then went outside.
After Uncle had left, the house was filled with silence. Aliya stood still, frozen, between the two open doors. Uncle was surrounded by eight men in the gali outside—he looked exactly like a groom to her. But what sort of wedding procession was this that seemed to squeeze her heart?
Aunty had picked up the basket of spinach again; Kareeman Bua again became lost in her pile of pots. A thin stream of water flowed from the faucet to fill the flower beds. The marigolds swayed in the light breeze. Oh, if only Aliya had picked just one flower to give to Uncle as a spring gift! But now it was too late.
On hearing that her husband was going to jail, Aunty began praying that the arms of the arresters would break. Aliya was astonished that Aunty was neither crying nor beating her breast, even as her own heart shook. She was remembering the time of her father’s arrest. Perhaps Aunty didn’t even know the meaning of jail and police. She well remembered one
incident from her childhood. Once two police officers had come to Dinu’s quarters. All the low-born people who lived there had hid fearfully in their homes and the women had begun to weep in lament. So was Aunty not afraid at all? Did she know nothing?
By now, the sunlight had descended from higher up the walls and crept into the yard.
‘Such tales have no impact on me, Sister-in-law,’ said Amma excitedly. ‘If you had stopped him from his activities, a prosperous household wouldn’t have been ruined. If you hadn’t supported him, he wouldn’t have had the nerve—really, I mean to say, it’s just too much!’
Aliya had dropped into the metal chair in the yard as though someone had knocked her over, and Aunty gave Amma no reply. Who knew what she was thinking? Then she spoke.
‘Mazhar’s Bride,’ Aunty said slowly. ‘When you were strict with your husband, what happened? No one can get in the way of another’s passion. I have put up with everything. Now, God willing, Jameel will bring me happiness. I have spent my entire life like this with my husband; he didn’t even have a chance to fully appreciate his wife.’ Aunty suddenly burst into tears and Amma hid her face in her knees.
‘Allah, only You can guide the raft of this household safely across. My life be sacrificed to Your glory. You do whatever You wish,’ sighed Kareeman Bua.
‘Kareeman Bua, if . . .’ Asrar Miyan called out weakly from the sitting room and Kareeman Bua interrupted him with a shriek.
‘Would it kill you not to drink tea for just one day! Pathetic thing, obsessed with his tea.’ Kareeman Bua poured Asrar Miyan’s tea out in the drain. ‘This wretch, this ill-omened one! He just won’t go away.’
‘Kareeman Bua, I was just going to say, if my brother’s bags didn’t travel with him, should I deliver them?’
‘They all went,’ snapped Kareeman Bua, who began sweeping the hearth.
So whatever happens, only Asrar Miyan is responsible—why can’t that poor worm born of a downpour of sins die quickly? Asrar Miyan, now you must take your time and wander about hungry until two o’clock, Aliya said to herself, and then she got up from her chair and hurried up the stairs. She could hardly make tea for Asrar Miyan in the presence of Amma and Kareeman Bua, so what was the point of sitting there? Her exams would start in four days, but she couldn’t imagine how she could study now.
It was after two in the afternoon. An owl hooted from a dead tree on the other side of the gali and its call only made the emptiness inside her grow. But all the same she was beginning to feel wretchedly hungry. Despite the fact that her heart was breaking with the shock, her hunger still would not stop. Though she was deeply saddened by Uncle’s departure today, her stomach refused to pay any heed.
She got up from her bed and went downstairs. The plates were set out on the takht. Amma was seated by the drain spitting out her paan, rinsing out the red juice, and Aunty was reclining near the tablecloth, perhaps dozing. Chammi and Najma Aunty had been off to the bazaar since morning and had not yet returned.
‘Why don’t you eat? How long are we going to wait for everyone else?’ asked Aunty, and Aliya sat down next to her. In the meantime, Jameel came into the house, dragging Shakeel after him. The moment they entered the house, Jameel began to shower Shakeel with blows.
‘He doesn’t study at all! He just wanders about all day like a bum. I just saw him roaming around with some serious loafers.’
‘Beat the rascal some more,’ cried Aunty angrily. ‘How else are we to keep the household under control with things as they are!’
‘They lend me their books to study!’ whimpered Shakeel, as he jumped about trying to avoid his brother’s blows and looking over at Aliya beseechingly.
‘Enough! Please stop, Jameel, he won’t stray any more,’ Aliya cried out, taking Shakeel’s side. Jameel stepped aside and began to wash his hands under the tap.
‘Really, why are you protecting him? He’ll never improve—I shall die wishing for it. He belongs in jail too,’ moaned Aunty.
‘Has Abba gone to jail again?’ asked Jameel, forgetting to wash his hands.
‘What else? The police came this morning at nine and took him away. Allah have mercy on us now,’ Amma replied immediately.
‘Great!’ Jameel began washing his hands again. ‘These Congress leaders can’t seem to do a thing without going to jail. Who knows what he’ll get out of making all these sacrifices for an all-Hindu party. And what a Hindu temperament he has too. Even these violent Hindu–Muslim riots have had no impact on him at all.’
‘Have you no shame, calling your father a Hindu? If he were a Hindu, how is it you were born a Muslim?’ cried Aunty, livid with anger. How could her husband be called a Hindu when she’d never even tasted the portions sent to them for Hindu holy days? How could the husband of a woman like that be a Hindu?
‘Okay, he’s not a strict Hindu; he’s a Muslim, but . . . ,’ giggled Jameel. His food was just sitting there, growing cold.
‘Now you must take care of this household. Are you waiting for my death?’ asked Aunty. She couldn’t even eat her meal peacefully.
‘I . . . I . . . that’s it, that’s what I’m thinking of,’ Jameel burst out. ‘I’m going to Lahore in a couple of days. When I get back, I’ll get a job,’ he said as he ate pensively.
All was silent for a while, but when Najma Aunty and Chammi entered loaded down with bundles, the silence was broken.
‘Oh, Shakeel, can you just get change for this rupee from somewhere and give the fare to the tonga driver?’ asked Najma Aunty, taking a rupee from her purse and holding it out to him. Shakeel was still sitting on the metal chair in the courtyard. No one had even asked him if he wanted anything to eat.
‘Wash your hands and eat first,’ said Aunty, but Najma Aunty was eager to open all the bundles and show everyone.
‘Really, I must say, prices have gone up on every fabric. Now can someone tell me if this silken fabric is going to be used as shrouds for white people?’ Najma Aunty looked at everyone, expecting praise for her joke. But they were all lost in their own sorrows. Chammi laughed heartily.
‘What will you do in Lahore? Are you planning on getting a job there?’ Aunty asked, looking over at Jameel.
‘There’s going to be an enormous Muslim League rally there. I’m just going to participate in that,’ said Jameel absent-mindedly.
‘What did you say? A rally?’ Aunty leapt up from her seat. ‘What, you too? I pinned all my hopes on you, and now you too?’ Aunty stared at Jameel like a madwoman. It seemed from her eyes that she might jump up and strangle him.
‘Stop! Enough! Only God can save this home now,’ cried Amma, setting down her food. Her hope of marrying Aliya to Jameel was perhaps dashed now, and Jameel sat quietly eating with his head down. His arrow had already left the bow.
‘If you too have got into politics, I might as well kill myself. I’ll eat poison one day! I’ve spent my life worrying; now I want some rest. I want everything, you crackpot! You may not go into politics.’ Aunty was slowly calming down. Jameel left his meal and put his arms around his mother’s neck, laughing.
‘Okay, that’s enough, Amma,’ he said.
Najma Aunty gathered up her bundles of fabric and placed them on the bed. None of these losers were even paying attention. She was livid. Kareeman Bua put food on the tray and set it before her, and she sat right where she was, by her bundles, and began to eat half-heartedly. Najma Aunty’s face was full of hatred, but today, Chammi, after a long time, was gazing at Jameel with great longing.
‘Didn’t I say every Muslim should join the Muslim League? Long live the Muslim League!’ shouted Chammi. But at that moment no one paid any attention to her joyful shouting of the slogan, now that Aunty had lost control. Aunty’s eyes were red from crying. Jameel patted her and gave her water, but nothing seemed to console her.
Aliya stared at Aunty with astonishment. My goodness, was this that same Aunty who had supported Uncle’s political life for so many years? She was always the first to defend
him. Yes, she always gave him an earful when her patience ran out, but she wouldn’t hear a word of criticism against him from anyone else. She was always tolerant of whatever Uncle was up to, and always cursed at the soldiers who came to arrest him, instead of growing weary. Was all that patience and control because she had pinned her hopes and desires on Jameel?
‘Amma, just you wait and see what a grand job I get. I’ll seat you on a silver throne, and your only job will be to eat paan, and my bride will wash your paan and bring it to you,’ said Jameel, trying to make his mother laugh at his promises of such pampering. But for some reason, when the word ‘bride’ was mentioned, Aliya felt him look up at her and she lowered her eyes.
‘Absurd! Who gets a job like that? No one gets a silver throne just like that! He’s got no training, no MA in English,’ said Najma Aunty scornfully, and Chammi began to laugh again. She felt so proud to be eating with Najma Aunty.
‘Hah! He was beating me, and now look, his own son has joined the League!’ cried Chammi, recalling the beating Uncle had given her. No one seemed to be feeling any sympathy for Aunty right then.
‘MA-pass people know nothing, Amma, I’m going to get a really grand job,’ retorted Jameel, fighting back.
Najma Aunty was enraged. ‘Good God, such people have the nerve to call an MA-pass ignorant these days? Well, it certainly is true that a little education is a dangerous thing. If such people didn’t take part in politics, they’d have nothing else to do. My big brother has accomplished something amazing, and what else could the poor thing do?’ She left off eating and gathered up her bundles. She’d said many sarcastic things about Uncle before. She’d joked about him knowing Arabic and Farsi and remarked several times that only people who are incapable of getting a degree study Arabic and Farsi.
‘Najma Aunty, your big brother went off to jail this morning at nine; when he returns, please do ask him where the arrow he shot has landed,’ Jameel replied sarcastically as he turned to look at her. For a moment she went pale.
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