‘Girls, no matter how mischievous, truly are the cows of God: you may drive them where you want, but they won’t say a word,’ observed Aunty, wiping away her tears.
Aliya went into Chammi’s room a little while later and found her lying on her bed, lost in thought.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Bajiya?’ Chammi glowered at her, her eyes damp. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Ever since Sajidah came, I could see myself in her.’
‘Oh, silly! I only didn’t tell you because you’d get embarrassed and shut yourself up in your room. I can’t stand such shyness. Today you will get your mehndi. You’ll be seated in maiyon; so you can just start your shyness from today.’
‘All right then.’ Chammi stared at her wildly. There wasn’t the slightest bit of shyness there. She got up and squatted in the doorway of her room, and Aliya was reminded of Tehmina. She felt terribly anxious. What if Chammi also went crazy? She decided she would become Chammi’s shadow during this time. She wouldn’t let her do a thing.
And Aliya did stick to Chammi. Evening was approaching on tiptoe; Chammi sat about vacantly, as if defeated, and everyone else was busy. The children were making a lot of noise, Kareeman Bua was grinding up the Vazirabad mehndi, but Aliya felt stillness all around. Sita must have passed evenings like these in her forest exile. Oh, dear, why was a small pink hand taking shape out of the mehndi stone? Aliya covered her face in terror and then hugged Chammi and sat down as though that hand was pulling Chammi away from her.
After the evening prayer, Asrar Miyan called for the mirasis. Their harsh clanging voices could be heard in the courtyard. She got up from Chammi’s side and came out. The anguish of bitter past memories had already descended upon her and passed her by. On seeing her, the mirasis began to ask blessings:
Long life to the bride’s sister
Long life to the bride’s aunt
Sajidah was seated on the stool, arranging the mehndi on a tray. Amma and Aunty had dragged everything from the veranda and were unrolling the borrowed dhurrie, and Sajidah’s children crowded around attempting to run off with the mehndi. Aliya stood and watched the show for a little while and then went back to Chammi. She sat on her bed like a stranger, her feet dangling.
‘Bajiya, who will live in this room after I leave?’ Chammi asked when she saw her.
‘I’ll stay here, I’ll clean it every day and whenever you come, I’ll run off and leave it for you.’
Chammi suddenly got up and taking her dirty kurta from the hook, began to dust the bed and the table and chair. Aliya sat and watched her silently. Humans love their own spaces so much, but Chammi had no place of her own. She couldn’t call any place home. After cleaning up, Chammi sat down, covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Aliya hugged her.
‘What is this foolishness, Chammi? Everyone gets married some day.’
‘It’s true, Aliya Bajiya, but I will get married and no one will know.’ Chammi wept on and on.
‘If you had told me, I could have talked about getting you married to Manzoor, but he didn’t send a message either, Chammi, and then he left you heartlessly and went to war. So why are you thinking of him now?’
Chammi gave Aliya a strange look she could not understand.
‘What is it, Chammi?’ she asked with confusion.
‘It’s nothing, Bajiya.’ Chammi wiped her eyes and began laughing.
‘Take this gaslight inside, Kareeman Bua, and if everyone has had their tea, then . . .’ Asrar Miyan called out from the sitting room. Aliya felt sad. There was no reason to hope Kareeman Bua would give him any tea today.
‘Why don’t you try forgetting about tea sometime, Asrar Miyan—drink a glass of water today,’ Kareeman Bua answered with a laugh, and the mirasis grinned with her. Oh my, this Asrar Miyan seems to be an open secret, she thought.
Aliya wished she could claw all their faces off.
When Aunty, Sajidah and Amma came in with the mehndi tray and a yellow outfit, Chammi looked down and covered her face in her dupatta. According to custom, this suit and the mehndi should have come from the groom’s family but that had not happened. Who would come from so far away for that?
The beggar boy was singing outside main entrance:
The birds have destroyed the garden . . .
‘Run away, you evil little thing, shoo!’ growled Kareeman Bua.
Chammi silently put on her yellow suit beneath a sheet, and Sajidah applied mehndi to her hands and wiped away her tears.
May elephants sway at the door of the father-in-law
the mirasis began to sing and Aliya realized that she had asked Sajidah absolutely nothing about Chammi’s groom and his family.
Everyone came outside after applying the mehndi. Chammi did not lift her eyes even then.
‘Jameel had a very lovely suit made for your dowry,’ Aliya told her.
‘I see.’ Chammi glanced at her carelessly and began picking at her mehndi.
Oh, oh, there’s a thief in the attic, sister-in-law! Light the lamp
The mirasis continued to sing lustily. Seeing how listless the rituals were, they began singing popular gramophone hits instead of tired old traditional wedding songs.
‘Chammi, you’ll invite me to your new home, won’t you?’ Aliya asked, trying to distract her.
Look how beautifully the secret of hidden sorrow is kept
The arrow is in my heart but the archer hides behind the curtain
The mirasis were now singing qawwali songs non-stop.
‘How should I know!’ Chammi replied softly.
‘Okay, so you won’t invite me—now I know how much you love me,’ Aliya said, pretending to be put out. But Chammi didn’t really seem to be listening to anything at all.
If you are coming, come quickly, this is my last call to you
The mirasis were finally done singing. Chammi just sat there gazing emptily about the room. ‘If you are coming, come quickly, this is my last call to you,’ Chammi began to sing softly as Aliya watched her.
‘Why do you like this particular qawwali so much, Chammi?’ she asked sharply.
‘Really, it’s not like I’m calling out to anyone,’ Chammi snapped back. Aliya wished she could smack her. And if the one you wish would come never gets here, what will you do? Eat opium, you crazy girl? Die and go to your grave, leaving him to thrash about the bosom of the earth?
For a long time, neither spoke to the other, and when the mirasis had gone home, Chammi lay down on her bed. ‘You go upstairs and sleep in your own room now. You’ve been sitting here for ages with nothing to do,’ she said stiffly as she closed her eyes.
‘I’ll lie right here, by your side,’ said Aliya, hugging her affectionately. It was wrong of her to snap at Chammi; as it was, the poor thing’s heart was broken.
The day after tomorrow the groom’s procession would come, but Chammi’s father still had not arrived, and in the meantime, Uncle seemed to have no free time. Kareeman Bua was getting extremely worried.
‘Will Asrar Miyan have to greet the groom’s party? What will they say if they find out who he is? They will find out, won’t they?’ she kept muttering.
Aliya felt angry as she listened to her words and thought, ‘And if they didn’t find out, you would tell them, Kareeman Bua. You are the one who tells everyone about him, after all.’
There’d been quite a hustle and bustle since morning. The groom’s procession was coming at four o’clock in the afternoon. Aliya helped Kareeman Bua clean the sitting room. The white sheet covering the takht and the cases for the bolster had been changed for the groom to sit on. Outside, Asrar Miyan rushed about making arrangements. The schoolyard across the gali had been rented for a day. Tents had already been set up and the cauldrons of pulao and zardah were clanking away.
At around two o’clock, Aliya sat down by Amma, exhausted. The mirasis were singing at the top of their lungs.
Oh the beautiful young bridegroom has come, oh he has come
Amma and Aunty we
re serving the lady guests paan and such. Sajidah was dressing her children in new clothes, and Kareeman Bua, free of the worry of roti and pots, was rushing about clucking and chattering.
‘In Master’s day, there’d be mujras for ten days outside the house. All the very best courtesans came. The mirasis would come a whole month beforehand and sit with their drums, and when they left, their bags would be heavy with rupees. Oh my, what times those were.’
Aliya felt that the metal chair looked lonely and sad despite all the hubbub. Even today it sat in the yard, as before. Sajidah’s children had jumped all over it in their bare feet and covered it in dirt. When Aliya was going to sit with Chammi, she was suddenly possessed by some strange emotion and went and stood by it. She wiped off the dirt with the end of her sari and then walked away.
‘My father didn’t come, Bajiya?’ Chammi asked Aliya as soon as she saw her. She placed her hennaed hand on Aliya’s.
‘He didn’t come, Chammi; he’s sick. He sent two hundred rupees more for the food and so on,’ Aliya lied.
‘Perhaps the poor thing will come down with the sickness of death,’ Chammi muttered, looking about her with hatred. Then she lowered her head.
Aliya stayed silent. After all, what could she say? Liars don’t have a leg to stand on. Would it have hurt Zafar Uncle to come? But then, why would he—it would disturb his peace. Why should he stir from his Hyderabadi paradise?
Only a little time now remained before the procession arrived. She looked hard at Chammi, who sat still, looking shy. She saw no signs of danger on her face. She stood up, because she too needed to get ready.
‘Kareeman Bua, listen to something I have to say, Kareeman Bua!’ called out Asrar Miyan, but Kareeman Bua had fallen deaf. Really, was she not going to do anything for Asrar Miyan on this special day?
Aliya screwed up her courage and called back to Asrar Miyan herself.
‘I brought these clothes for little Chammi; please give them to her for me, I couldn’t do any more than this.’ Asrar Miyan’s voice was flooded in tears and his outstretched hand trembled. Kareeman Bua’s hearing suddenly became sharp—‘This is not for you to do, Aliya,’ she said, taking the bundle from Aliya’s hand.
Amma and Aunty looked the clothing over. ‘My, what nice fabric it is, this is what Asrar Miyan has given to Chammi,’ Aliya said proudly.
‘Asrar Miyan has? Well, well, isn’t that amazing, to be generous with another’s money,’ Kareeman Bua fussed. ‘It’s a sign of the times, that Asrar Miyan would give suits to the girls of this household. May Allah keep Mistress in heaven—she used to give her old clothes to Asrar Miyan’s mother.’
‘Well, now the clothing has come, after all. We’ll say this suit has come from her uncle. Asrar Miyan must have cut the money from his shop, after all,’ Amma immediately decided.
‘All right, Mazhar’s Bride,’ said Kareeman Bua, sighing with relief.
Aliya picked up the bundle of clothing as though she were touching some immensely sacred object. She wished she could scream out loud, tell everyone that Asrar Miyan brought it, that this was a gift of his love out of the goodness of his heart, but she couldn’t say anything at all. She softly put the clothing on the bed and went upstairs to her room.
Najma Aunty was sitting in her room doing her make-up. She wore a gold-embroidered sari and looked extremely disgusted. Until then she had not taken part in anything, but today she felt forced to say farewell to Chammi.
Aliya changed her sari and went downstairs again. The sunlight had turned yellow and climbed the walls. Everyone awaited the groom’s procession. She went and sat by Chammi. When they heard the commotion of the approaching procession, Chammi blanched.
‘Bajiya!’ she called out as though frightened of something.
‘What is it, Chammi?’ Aliya hugged her.
‘It’s nothing. You won’t leave my side, will you? I feel scared.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Chammi,’ she said, wrapping her arms around her trembling cousin. But what was happening to her? She was trembling herself as well.
Amma, Aunty, Sajidah and Kareeman Bua all came into the room. Kareeman Bua held a tray arranged with the wedding suit, a gift from the in-laws, jewellery and a wedding garland.
‘Pull across the curtain, they’re coming for the nikah,’ Asrar Miyan called out, and Kareeman Bua stretched out the curtain, putting everyone in purdah. They sat down silently behind it.
‘At least today the big Master should have been at home, to read out the nikah for his niece. What a tragedy—it’s God’s will that Asrar Miyan is having it read out. God, please keep her happy,’ Kareeman Bua wept.
Chammi replied, ‘Yes,’ so easily that Aliya was astonished. She had worried that the groom’s party would be left standing in the doorway until the Day of Judgement. The witnesses would have to wait centuries to hear that word, and not even a mighty storm could have pushed aside the curtain.
The witnesses went back and the mirasis began to sing the congratulations:
Oh, congratulations, the wedding garland has come from your in-laws!
And Aliya was left feeling as though the singing voices were coming from miles away.
Sajidah dressed Chammi in a red suit and made a bride of her in that short time. Aliya stayed seated to one side as though paralysed. When everyone had left the room, she flipped up Chammi’s veil. Was she truly this beautiful?
‘The wedding had to happen, so it happened, game over, money gone,’ Chammi whispered, opening her eyes. Aliya said nothing. What sort of mood was this that made it impossible to speak or listen until the end of time?
Aliya went outside silently. Chammi’s female in-laws were seated proudly on the white sheet of the takht in the milky-white light of the gas lamp, consuming paan after paan and chewing great quantities of tobacco. In the midst of them all sat Najma Aunty, the heroine of her time.
‘How educated is the groom?’ she asked them.
‘To class eight—no need for him to be educated, he has twenty bighas of land and two buffalo, thanks be to Allah,’ Chammi’s mother-in-law told her proudly.
‘Fine, what more could Chammi need?’ remarked Najma Aunty smiling scornfully at the ignorant farm women.
Then a mirasi lifted Chammi and brought her outside, causing a huge stir among the women. Everyone fell upon her. Outside, the groom had arrived with the little boy who would be his best man, his rugged country complexion showing clearly beneath his flipped-up wedding garland.
Aliya wished she could hide her face. This was Chammi’s groom! Chammi who used to be in love with Jameel and was bursting with pride at attracting Manzoor. And this was all she got in return. The way Chammi looked at her groom when the mirasis began to perform the ritual of the mirror made the mirasis cover their mouths in shock.
After dinner, Chammi’s luggage was prepared for departure. The dowry items were being loaded on to tongas in the gali and the mirasis sang tearfully:
You gave my brothers a palace and two-storey house and to me you gave a foreign country, oh my rich father!
Aunty and Kareeman Bua both wept. Amma was lost in thought, her head down, and Najma Aunty waited disgustedly for the fools’ party to end.
‘Oh, my, Bajiya, where did Uncle find such a wonderful groom?’ asked Chammi. She placed her head in Aliya’s lap and began to sob softly. Aliya hugged her and wanted to say something comforting, but she did not get the chance, for it was then that the very fine groom lifted Chammi up among the cackles of the mirasis and seated her in the curtained tonga. Aliya stifled her screams—Ravana had carried off Sita. Jameel, if only you could have been Ram.
21
After Chammi left, the house became utterly wretched. The Muslim League and Congress parties had departed from the household. No one needled anyone else. Everyone was as peaceful as a still pond. Uncle happily came and went from the house. There was no longer any need to close the door of the sitting room. No slogans against the blasted Congress party echoed in the cour
tyard. Aunty lowered the curtains and sat on the takht. The coals continued to crackle in the clay oven. Amma and Aunty sat and warmed their hands, lost in thought. No one spoke of Chammi. No one waited for her letters. It was as though she had never lived in that house.
The household was in good shape in those days. Jameel’s salary had put a bit of life back in the hearth, and Kareeman Bua was so busy, she spoke little of bygone days. Now what troubled her was that Uncle insisted on having his food cooked in a separate pot. He had very clearly refused to have even one paisa of Jameel’s salary spent on him. In taking this job, Jameel had sided with the British. ‘I did not know that Jameel, my own child, would one day become my enemy,’ Uncle had said several times to Aliya, and she was stunned at his agitation. She’d sit and wonder for hours where all these separate streams of thought come from that consume mankind, and how these prompt people to cut all ties and bonds and throw them away. Uncle was the father of no one, nor the uncle, nor the husband, and this was why Chammi had been shipped off to Lanka with Ravana. Sajidah was now occupied with slapping all her family’s greatness and wealth together with cow dung and shaping it into patties. Shakeel had run away and Jameel had fanned the fire of his love in his mother’s heart and then gone off to extinguish the flames of fascism.
It was getting very cold out. Aliya would either lie in the sun on the roof and distract herself with books from Uncle’s library or else wander about like a lost soul. Amma stayed engrossed in herself. Lengthy letters drowning in love continued to arrive from Mamoo. Aliya tried to avoid reading those letters as much as possible. She had not even mentioned going to Aligarh next year to Amma; all the same, she had decided that she would definitely go. Every now and then, letters also came from Abba; reading these would fill her with new life, and she’d restlessly begin to count the days until his release.
How does one fill empty time? Whom should she speak to? Sometimes Aliya felt so confused she burst into tears. If only Najma Aunty considered her worthy of conversation. But she’d only done a BA in Urdu, so she was a complete fool in Najma Aunty’s eyes.
The Women's Courtyard Page 19