There was a heavy silence that afternoon. Aliya was stitching metallic tasselled lace on to Chammi’s dupatta and speculating about her own future. If she were to fail her exams, what would happen? And if she passed, she had only one option—to get a BT and become a teacher. But would she be able to do a BT? Would Amma allow her to go to Aligarh and would Mamoo continue to send her the same amount of money?
A cuckoo warbled incessantly in the mango tree in the yard of the high school, and Najma Aunty’s snores were raising the roof in the next room. Aliya wished she could go to sleep as well, and snore that loudly. Then Najma Aunty would be startled out of her worry-free sleep and would have to sit around the whole afternoon waiting for time to pass.
Come, oh Lord, reside in my heart
A passer-by in search of the shadow of the Lord was walking through the gali to avoid the scorching sunshine.
She looked out into the gali for a moment and then began to stitch on the tassels again—many centuries had passed by but not much had changed in the attire of the Lord. How many he had laid to rest in their graves while never seeing the face of death himself.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Jameel, appearing suddenly.
Today he had come again to sit by her side after such a long time. Lo, another Lord had arrived. Aliya jumped and began stitching haphazardly.
‘I’m decorating Chammi’s dupatta.’
He picked up one end of the dupatta and began to flip it back and forth listlessly. Aliya saw from downcast eyes a certain madness had returned to his gaze. His face showed signs of fatigue with life. She could not comprehend the nature of this desire that simply wouldn’t die after being rebuffed so many times.
‘Oh, so you’re preparing Miss Chammi’s dowry?’ he asked, for the sake of starting a conversation.
‘Yes, Jameel, before it’s too late. Think hard about it.’
‘Aliya.’ Jameel lapsed into an angry silence. When he spoke a few moments later there was a quaver in his voice. ‘Are you happy tormenting me?’
‘Enough, really, you get angry over the tiniest things.’ She began to laugh. She thought that if the topic could be put off with a bit of laughter that would be the best, but Jameel was turning deadly serious again.
‘Aliya!’ he cried.
‘Hmmm . . . ?’ she murmured without even lifting her head.
‘Please just try on this dupatta and show me how it looks,’ he begged, his voice now heavy with desire.
‘Why?’
‘I just want to see what you will look like as a bride.’
‘I’ll stitch a dupatta like this for your bride as well.’
‘I have no bride.’
‘If you ask, I can bring you four wives.’
‘How is it hard to get wives? I’ll get plenty of those, but I’ll never get the bride I want. If you won’t bother to arrange my marriage, then fine.’
She was overwhelmed by the sadness in Jameel’s eyes. She stretched the dupatta out in her hands as though she were about to put it on. This time she would definitely do as Jameel asked. He seemed to enjoy watching her so. Then she started. If she put it on that day, it would have become a veil she would never be able to remove. It would become a blinder and fall before her eyes. One more Aunty would be born to wander aimlessly down the path of life, as the country continued on its quest for independence.
‘You want to put it on, but you’re a coward,’ said Jameel angrily. ‘What kind of girl are you?’
‘Cousin Jameel, take a lesson from your own mother’s life, please. Marry an uncomplicated woman. That’s all it takes; she’ll put up with everything.’
Jameel stared at her hard; perhaps he’d understood the depth of her sarcasm.
‘I don’t know what earth my father is made from, but it’s wrong to believe that sorrow for the nation delivers salvation from the sorrows of home, or that those participating in politics don’t love anyone.’ He stood to leave. ‘You could never understand the sorrow of a man who has never fulfilled a single desire.’
He waited a while before leaving, but Aliya did not respond. She didn’t want to either. At that moment, she didn’t have the strength to say anything bold before Jameel. She felt his sorrow, but the remedy was not within her power to give. She tried to return to stitching the dupatta but she didn’t feel like it. How weighty the silence felt after those hopeless words. For a long time she lay there staring about vacantly.
When she came downstairs in the evening, Kareeman Bua was sprinkling water in the garden. Jameel was seated on the metal chair, twisting his fingers about, and Uncle was pacing back and forth in the veranda as though waiting for something. His face was downcast and his eyes were red. Aunty was peeling potatoes on the takht, utterly unconcerned.
‘How are you feeling, Uncle?’ asked Aliya, drawing near to him.
‘I have a headache, my dear.’
Aunty started and looked up at her husband.
‘Kareeman Bua, quickly make up the bed, the courtyard is cooler now.’
‘May your pain be destroyed,’ prayed Kareeman Bua, taking the bed from the side of the veranda and setting it up in the courtyard.
Uncle lay down with his back to Jameel. Aliya felt aggrieved with his son for sitting nearby but not even asking after his father. All conversation between the two of them had ceased long ago.
‘Why have you been sitting at home for two days?’ Aunty asked, looking over at Jameel.
‘I lost my job, Amma, political people have no chance for survival in government offices.’
Aliya looked over at Jameel angrily. Oh, wonderful! And he was seeking a bride on this income? she thought. She gave Jameel a murderous look, then turned her face away.
‘Muslim Leaguers are most desired in the offices of the English Master,’ remarked Uncle without turning around.
‘That’s completely wrong. The truth is that one can only get a job when Congress members give a recommendation.’ Why should Jameel remain silent?
‘Humph!’
Both father and son flamed out in their own sarcasm and turned their faces away as though they didn’t consider one another worth talking to. Aliya looked over at Jameel reproachfully and began to softly massage Uncle’s head as she sat by his side. Amma emerged from the bathroom shaking her wet hair and when she saw everyone gathered in one place, she picked up the paandaan moodily and went and sat on the last bed.
‘Now what will happen?’ Aunty asked Jameel.
‘Don’t worry, Amma, I’m about to get a really great job; you’ll all live in luxury.’
‘Has anyone heard how Shakeel is doing?’ Aunty asked suddenly.
‘Amma, please don’t worry about him, he’s having a great time. He’s probably forgotten all about the hardships here,’ said Jameel, clearly lying again. He’d told Aliya the entire truth—that he had absolutely no idea where Shakeel was.
‘Well, may he be happy, wherever he is,’ sighed Aunty deeply.
‘Uncle, shall I set up your bed outside on the terrace, in the open air? That might help with the pain,’ said Aliya. She felt fearful to be around two strongly contrary points of view in the same place.
‘Yes, if you can get the bed set up there, that would be very nice.’ Uncle looked at her gratefully and then he stood up to go outside.
A procession of Congress children passed by in the gali making a lot of noise in a clumsy fashion.
‘May our flag fly high! Long live Congress! Gandhiji zindabad! Jawaharlal Nehru zindabad! Hindustan will not be divided! May our flag fly high!’
A faint smile crossed Uncle’s lips. His eyes shone. Jameel was laughing and Amma, who had been sitting silently chopping betel for a long time, finally burst out talking: ‘Let them get freedom in the first place and then these Hindustani people will have to learn how to rule.’
Everyone stayed silent. No one even responded to her. Uncle’s bed had been set up outside. He went out and Jameel again began twisting his fingers. The sound of the procession was drawi
ng near to their door. Chammi burst thumping out of her room like a madwoman.
‘If the procession goes by my house, I’ll lob lumps of dirt at them!’ she cried, rushing towards the door.
‘You watch your step! Don’t go anywhere; sit down immediately,’ thundered Jameel, cowing Chammi somehow. She stared at Jameel and began muttering, ‘Humph! Poor guy thing thinks he’s so great. If I don’t start a Muslim League procession here today, my name’s not Chammi!’
When the procession had passed by the door, Jameel changed his clothes and went out. It seemed Chammi had been waiting for him to leave; as soon as he was gone, she put on her burqa and went out herself. Aliya was not able to stop her.
‘It’s a sign of the times; before, if ladies left the house, three or four housemaids would be sent with them,’ complained Kareeman Bua, always irked when Chammi went out like this.
Aliya peered outside from behind the shutters. Uncle lay peacefully with his legs stretched out on his nice, clean bed and Asrar Miyan sat near him in his easy chair, talking. The moon seemed to be rising out of the dense pipal tree in front. Aliya wished she too could go and sit outside on the terrace, listen to Asrar Miyan’s words, and see him up close. How did he speak, what did he talk about? What must the eyes of this offspring of her grandfather’s ignoble habits look like? His face must betray a recognition of his low status in the family, but what else must it express? Beyond recognizing himself for who he was, what other expressions must radiate from his face? What must he think about? And after learning all this, she would secretly call him ‘Asrar Uncle’, just once. She’d tell him that he too was dear to her, just like Uncle. That she had the greatest respect for him, and that she wanted just once to serve him, and she would pull from his heart all the arrows that Kareeman Bua had shot at him and throw them away. She’d tell him not to take offence at anything Kareeman Bua said. She would tell him that Kareeman Bua was no one’s enemy and that she wouldn’t say such things if it weren’t for the horrid debt of the Master’s salt.
‘Aliya dear, would you make me a paan,’ asked Aunty, and Aliya came and sat on the takht, opened the paandaan and began preparing paans. She couldn’t go outside and sit on the terrace and this filled her with a strange sense of helplessness.
They could hear the call to prayer coming from the neighbourhood mosque. Out of deference, she pulled the edge of her sari over her head. Kareeman Bua was quickly lighting all the lanterns.
‘May Allah keep Shakeel safe and sound,’ Aunty prayed with both hands outstretched. How sad she was at that moment, and how full of maternal affection.
Darkness had settled in on all sides but Chammi had yet to return home. Aliya was needlessly worrying, of course; no one else in the house had even asked where she’d gone. A little while later, Chammi was back, out of breath, her face red.
‘Oh, Bajiya, I’ve prepared such an amazing procession! You will be stunned! It’s going to come by here in just a little while. Azra’s mother made the flag, Tahira’s mother gave a bottle of kerosene and I prepared the torches. We gathered all the boys in the neighbourhood. Oh my, when Uncle sees it, he will be stunned. I instructed all the children to shout slogans more loudly in front of my door.’
Chammi said all this in one breath. Then she threw her burqa to one side and began pacing about as she waited for the procession. Chammi’s joy knew no bounds at that moment. Aliya said nothing to her. She worried that this procession of small children would cause a riot in their house. She thought it best to sneak up to her room. The sound of children calling out slogans was coming from far off.
As she passed through the large room, she saw that Najma Aunty lay on her neatly made bed, reading a thick book. When it was hot, the large roof was Najma Aunty’s headquarters, so Aliya spent her time on the small roof next to her own room. How could she spend time with someone as important as Najma Aunty?
The procession had drawn near. The children cried out their slogans lustily: ‘Long live the Muslim League! Quaid-e-Azam zindabad! Pakistan will be created! There will be no Hindu raj! There will be no Brahmin raj!’ Aliya leant over the roof wall and peered into the gali. Two large boys holding torches aloft walked at the very front.
‘The scoundrel didn’t let me look!’ cried Chammi, running upstairs. She stood next to Aliya, half hanging over the wall. ‘Oh my, what a glorious procession it is! That uncle of yours didn’t let me watch the procession. His Lordship burned up and turned to ash.’
‘Chammi, stand back a bit and watch, otherwise your body could end up being paraded by the procession as well,’ admonished Aliya, pulling Chammi’s back from the ledge.
‘Oh, Bajiya, didn’t I make the most wonderful torches?’ Chammi looked over at her, eager for praise. ‘Today your uncle is going to stop dead in his tracks.’
‘Chammi, what are you talking about? All I’ve learnt is that you are no Leaguer, you just cooked this ruse up to make him mad.’
‘Oh, I certainly am a Leaguer,’ she said, objecting in embarrassment. She threw her arm around Aliya’s neck and swung about.
When the procession had disappeared round the bend of the gali, Chammi lay down exhausted on Aliya’s bed and began to sigh deeply, and Aliya continued to pace silently—how long would Chammi stay here annoying everyone? After all, one day she would go to her own home, and who knew if that home would truly become hers or not, or whether Chammi would be loved there or not? Would she spend her life there thinking of ways to get revenge on everyone else?
‘Aliya, dear! Chammi! Come down, both of you, and eat!’ called Kareeman Bua.
18
She had passed the exam, but now an entire year was being wasted. She hadn’t been able to go to Aligarh to do a BT, and it was all because she didn’t want to write with her own pen to Mamoo to ask for more money. When she had discussed it with Amma, Amma had told her very affectionately to write to Mamoo and ask him to send more money. Aliya had absolutely refused, and even said that she didn’t like writing him letters. From that day on, Amma had been cross with her. She was outraged to discover animosity for her brother and British sister-in-law in the heart of her only child. After that, she’d stopped speaking to Aliya, and thus a valuable year had been lost in the stand-off.
‘But if she just did a BA in Urdu that would be quite something; what else can she do, the poor thing,’ Najma Aunty had blurted out one day. Perhaps she’d become convinced that this was it for Aliya’s education. When Aliya heard this, she turned her face away in disgust. Najma Aunty was her father’s sister. She didn’t want to argue with her. If things weren’t so bad, she would even just do an MA in Urdu. Urdu was her mother tongue, after all. It was the language of her beloved uncle. Uncle hated even the language of the English. It was on his recommendation that she had done her BA in Urdu as well. She herself did not hate the English language, nor was she incapable of studying it. She could do an MA in English and shove it in Najma Aunty’s face, but to do that she’d have to circumvent Uncle’s authority.
The twentieth of September had been fixed for Chammi’s wedding. Despite Amma refusing over and over, Aliya had prepared Chammi’s entire dowry. Asrar Miyan, had scoured the bazaar and brought back pots and pans for the dowry. An engraved lota, bowls, a jug, a spittoon, a paandaan, two pots and six plates. When all these were being placed in the large trunk, Kareeman Bua sat clutching her head for a long time. Her eyes were forced to witness an era when the granddaughter of her late master would be given such a paltry dowry. In better times, such a modest dowry would be given to the daughters of maidservants upon their departure. Really the only difference was that those pots and pans had not been engraved. When Aunty got up after packing up the pots, Kareeman Bua burst into floods of tears. Aunty reasoned with her and, with great difficulty, managed to calm her down. What would be the point if Chammi were to find out beforehand? Everyone was afraid of her. What if she were to refuse the marriage Uncle had arranged?
Aunty waited desperately for the wedding day to arrive. Her dau
ghter Sajidah was also coming to take part in the wedding. It had been ages since Sajidah’s own wedding, but Aunty had not been able to escape her household tasks for even one day to go visit her daughter. In the beginning, Sajidah had visited the house regularly. Then she finally gave up on everyone. Who was going to be excited on her behalf? Aliya had only ever heard her mentioned a handful of times. And then who would give her gifts of clothing and jewellery at her parent’s home if she returned triumphantly to her marital home? Of course, her husband had also avoided coming there ever since he’d quit the Congress party. And thus Uncle had been lost as well. How could he show his face around him?
As the wedding day approached, Aliya was tormented with worry about what gift to give Chammi. Amma had taken out a musty old suit from her own dowry and set it aside for Chammi, thus discharging her duty. She hadn’t even taken Aliya’s advice on this matter. Aliya keenly felt her mother’s viciousness. And Aunty was no less anxious than Aliya. She gave Jameel daily nudges to arrange for money to go buy some clothing for Chammi. Jameel heard what she said but remained silent. Nowadays the house’s expenses were somewhat taken care of by his tutoring jobs. He didn’t seem especially concerned about his job prospects otherwise. Being a Muslim League worker had apparently freed him of the worries of the world, but Aunty was not yet willing to admit defeat when it came to Jameel. Whenever he came home, she’d start after him.
‘When will you get a job? Inflation is destroying this household. We have hardly anything in the house and Chammi’s wedding is coming soon. Has your Muslim League promised to give anything for that?’
‘Everything will work out, Amma, don’t you worry,’ Jameel would say, ashamed. ‘I’m not like Abba that I’ll just sit by and watch the household get destroyed.’
‘Don’t insult your father. Do something yourself to show us.’
‘Amma, I’m prepared to do anything, but no one will let me.’ Then he’d glance over at Aliya, and she would look away.
The Women's Courtyard Page 17