All night a light rain fell and the clouds thundered so loudly, the heart shook with fear. For a while hail fell, and when it hit the closed shutters on the window it felt as though someone was hurling clods of earth at the house. She finally fell asleep as the rain grew lighter, but it was a very shallow sleep. In her dream she saw Jameel. He was fleeing somewhere, trying to avoid getting hit by hail. When Aliya called out to him loudly, he stopped. ‘I’m not speaking to you, Aliya,’ he said, and then her eyes opened. The thunder rumbled loudly. ‘May God bring him back safely,’ Aliya restlessly murmured in prayer. ‘May Jameel remain safe and may Aunty’s love not suffer.’ But she avoided thinking about how Jameel had forced his way into her dreams.
It was extremely cold that morning. The wall around the rooftop terrace and the courtyard were still wet from the night’s rain. She opened the shutters. Wails of mourning came from somewhere far off. Who had died? She got out of bed. Several men had recently been killed in the war. But there had been no wailing all the way out here; they had just happened to hear the news. Of course now the whole mohalla had been cut off from their home; when Chammi used to wander about the neighbourhood, she’d always come home and tell them all the news: who had been killed on the front, whose daughter was getting married, where a boy had been born, who had gone to jail for their party and which old man had succumbed to a lengthy illness.
She went downstairs quickly. The metal chair in the courtyard shone after being washed clean by the night’s rain, and the plants in the flower beds sagged from being pelted with hail. She went and sat quietly on the takht where Amma and Aunty were silently listening to the sounds of weeping and drinking their tea. Kareeman Bua was frying parathas and asking blessings for the welfare of their home.
‘Who died?’ Aunty asked as though speaking to herself.
The front door banged open and a sweeperess came into the courtyard with a large open basket hanging from her waist. ‘The inspector’s eldest son Manzoor was killed at war. Mercy, what a strong young man he was, his mother is devastated,’ she announced standing in the courtyard. Then she got to work.
‘Take me, I’m going,’ Aunty put her hands on her chest and bent over. ‘Oh, my Jameel.’
‘He’ll be fine, Aunty; he’ll be completely safe. He won’t go to the front, he’s doing other work.’ Aliya held on to her. The paratha burned on the pan as Kareeman Bua gave Aunty some water to drink.
‘Try to be brave, Sister-in-law; if Allah wishes it, Jameel will be fine. Calcutta isn’t far from here; you can send Asrar Miyan there to find out how he’s doing,’ said Amma, in an attempt to soothe her, but Aunty would not calm down.
‘Did Manzoor die?’ Uncle asked. He had slept late and was just getting up. His face was turning red. ‘These English rulers are playing Holi with our blood, just for the sake of their own interests.’
Amma grimaced but did not say anything at that moment. Aunty had by now brought herself under control and sat up. The sound of weeping had faded away, then disappeared.
‘And I heard that Zainab Begum’s boy has been captured by the Germans,’ the sweeper announced on her way out.
Uncle was seated on the stool, washing his face and hands. When Aliya saw his hands trembling, she panicked.
‘Do you feel all right, Uncle?’ she asked, drawing close to him.
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ he laughed weakly.
‘So many days with no letter from Jameel,’ complained Aunty in a voice quavering with foreboding.
The weak sunlight of winter had climbed down the walls and spread into the courtyard. When Najma Aunty came downstairs to go to the college, Kareeman Bua told her the news. ‘Najma dear, the eldest son of the inspector was killed at war, may Allah bring Jameel Miyan back safely.’
‘What is the ill fate of this household that no one can get enough education to comfortably earn a living?’ asked Najma Aunty anxiously.
‘Yes, and since you received the very best education, you are winning the greatest battles,’ retorted Aliya, getting up the nerve to speak in English.
‘Oh! And who told you to go ahead and speak bad English? You did a BA sitting at home, so you think, oh, I am worthy,’ said Najma Aunty, attacking her viciously. She sounded so contemptuous that Aliya wished she could be buried in the earth right then and there.
‘Now, Najma, don’t put on airs. Whose money did you use to become so admirable? You were given this reward after you cut the throats of your sisters-in-law. As long as my brother is alive I will not sit idly by and listen to people like you . . .’ Amma stopped herself from saying more.
‘Ridiculous! I don’t even want to look at you people. The Farsi writer Sa’di Sahib has said that one should flee from fools as though they were flying arrows.’ With this, she abandoned her breakfast and went outside to go to the college.
‘Kareeman Bua, tell Mazhar’s Bride not to worry, I will find out how Jameel Miyan is doing. And if everyone has had their breakfast, then . . .’ Asrar Miyan called out weakly from the sitting room.
‘You go ahead and let everyone do their worrying, Asrar Miyan, and here you go, eat your breakfast . . .’ Kareeman Bua took the cup of tea and ghee-smeared roti and lunged towards him as though she were throwing them in his face.
‘Do tell him to go and find out how Jameel is. What else is this good-for-nothing fit for,’ Amma said to Kareeman Bua, but Kareeman Bua continued to gather up the dirty dishes and pots in deep silence.
The mourning from Manzoor’s house had grown loud again. Aunty sat around sadly. When a fakir passed through the gali calling out, she took a paisa from the little cup in the paandaan and handed it to Kareeman Bua.
In the afternoon a letter and money order arrived from Jameel. Aunty trembled with joy and the intermittent sounds of mourning no longer seemed so heart-rending. She spoke constantly about Jameel as Kareeman Bua prepared maleedah to place as an offering on the tomb. God had fulfilled her prayer. A letter had come from Jameel.
22
The pleasant days of February brought tidings of spring, but why did Uncle’s face look so pale? His hands and feet were withered and his belly was bloated. Gandhiji had fasted in jail for twenty-one days. He’d risked his life for independence, and as a result, Uncle had given up all comforts as well. He was always off, wandering about, or else entertaining a crowd of friends in the sitting room. They were constantly cooking up new schemes. Aliya was pained to see Uncle’s poor health. Allah, what sort of man was Uncle? He never asked after Jameel. He had no idea if Shakeel was dead or alive. Aunty was drowning in her sorrows but Uncle never turned around to look. He was consumed with fear that Gandhiji would die. For several days Aliya had been trying to figure out how to make Uncle pay heed to his own ill health.
One night, when everyone had emptied the sitting room, she went to sit by him. He was lying down exhausted. In the yellow light of the lantern, he looked even weaker than usual.
‘You do know that Gandhiji has been fasting in jail? I know he’ll never die, but . . .’
‘Yes, Uncle, I know, I read it in the newspaper, but . . .’ She choked on her words.
‘If, God forbid, anything should happen to him, the British rulers will forget all their craftiness. A great storm will erupt that will cost them even more than war,’ said Uncle, sitting up with excitement.
‘That’s good, Uncle, that’s good,’ she said weakly. Now, how could she reason with him, what could she say? She began to caress his head gently. ‘Uncle, you don’t ever worry about your own health, but we all depend on you.’
‘Oh, yes, that. I’ve told Asrar Miyan to get Hakim Mahmud Sahib to mix a herbal electuary for me. After that it will take no time for my health to return. He’s a very reputable hakim and very advanced in his ideas about independence for our nation. I’ve also noticed that I’ve been feeling a bit weak these days. Could you just raise the flame in the lamp a bit? As soon as we get freedom, I’ll get the electricity connected again. This lantern light does not allow me read
at night.’
Aliya rose and raised the wick of the lantern. Who knew what would happen after independence? But then it would be time to serve the nation—and when would there be time to reconnect the electricity? This household will continue to drown in darkness, Aliya thought to herself. She went and sat at the head of Uncle’s bed again. There was such joy on his face at that moment. Perhaps fancies of independence danced in his head.
‘Then everything will be wonderful, Uncle,’ she said, defeated.
‘You read my books, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I read them, Uncle.’
‘How is Najma? I haven’t seen her for many days.’
‘She doesn’t sit among fools, but she is fine.’
‘Despite all her studying, that girl is hollow as a dome. That is the precise aim of British education.’ Uncle sighed deeply. Aliya did not respond. He had closed his eyes and was perhaps preparing to sleep. When he began snoring after just a short while, Aliya tiptoed away to her own room.
Outside, a chill breeze moaned and a few patches of cloud blew about. Amma and Aunty must have been sleeping in their rooms but Kareeman Bua still sat by the hearth, warming her old bones. Aliya quietly climbed the stairs.
Najma Aunty was still up reading. Aliya closed the door between their rooms and lay down on her bed. The hooting of an owl came from the direction of the high school and some stray dogs fought and howled in the gali. The night felt frightening to her and she recalled what Kareeman Bua had once said: ‘When dogs howl, a calamity is near.’ Now what calamity was left to come, and how must Abba be spending his days in jail?
How did she pass the night? It seemed instead that the night had passed her by. Such agitation, such anxiety—as she lay there awake, she began to feel a burning in her eyes. ‘Allah-Allah,’ she moaned softly over and over, and the dogs continued their howling in the gali. In the last watch of the night, a deep darkness spread about the room after the street lamps went out. When the roosters began to crow at dawn, she fell asleep peacefully. Thoughts of morning drove all dread from her mind.
Her eyes opened suddenly when she heard someone rattling the chain on the door. Then the trembling voice of Najma Aunty pierced her ears.
‘Oh God! My brother Mazhar has died in jail!’
With this, Amma began to scream. Aunty wailed, and Aliya could clearly hear Kareeman Bua beating her chest. All the same, she remained lying on her bed perfectly still. She stared all about her, eyes wide open. How had this morning turned to night? Where had the sun disappeared to? Had Abba truly died?
She wanted to weep, to scream. She could feel her heart breaking, but she could do nothing, and when Kareeman Bua came to her side, beating her breast, she held Aliya tightly to her bosom and brought her downstairs, practically pulling her along. Where was the life in her legs?
Uncle stood in the courtyard. Was that really Uncle? Was he really alive? What had happened to him? Uncle didn’t even look at her. She stood right next to him. Amma wept uncontrollably and thrashed about, her eyes filled with a strange helplessness, tinged with pain. Her face radiated wretchedness.
Aliya walked unsteadily towards Amma and embraced her. And it was then that she felt she too could weep.
‘The British must have killed him, he didn’t die on his own, he couldn’t die, he’s my brother . . .’ Uncle clutched at the metal chair and sat down. ‘I’m going to get him,’ he said, placing his hands on his knees and then standing up laboriously.
‘Let’s go quickly, Big Brother,’ Asrar Miyan called out tearfully from the sitting room; at that moment, Kareeman Bua did not even hear his voice.
Everyone was worn out from crying. By now they were seated as mourners on the dhurrie spread out in the veranda. The sunlight had climbed from the courtyard up the walls and the crows cawed continuously. Really, whose arrival could they be announcing now? Proverbs mean nothing. Aliya wished she could smack the crows sitting on the wall and make them fly away.
Everyone’s eyes were glued to the front door. It was evening-prayer time and Uncle had still not returned with Abba. Whenever there was the slightest sound of footsteps in the gali everyone would start. When a fakir walked by crying out, he seemed to wail in mourning.
Kareeman Bua prepared a hearth in the courtyard and put a large pot of water on the fire. She read from the holy Quran in her lap as she blew on the damp sticks of wood. How chill the wind felt in the courtyard.
Now they heard the sound of many footsteps in the gali and the voice of Asrar Miyan calling out, ‘Pull across the curtain, Brother Mazhar has come.’
The storm broke afresh. When the men went into the sitting room after placing Abba’s body on the bed set out in the veranda, Aliya ran over. Amma wept as she banged her head against the bed frame. Najma Aunty cried out for her beloved brother. Aunty sat with her arms around Amma, and Kareeman Bua continued to read from the holy Quran with her head bowed.
Aliya slipped the sheet from Abba’s face. Was this really him? She tried to recognize her father, but jail had left nothing behind. ‘Uncle,’ Aliya pulled at her uncle’s hand. He stood at the head of his brother’s bed in silence, his head down.
‘They murdered my brother, he did not even earn a reward for killing an English ruler and they gave him such a great punishment. I’ll tell everyone I am carrying out his bier as a protest procession,’ Uncle cried out excitedly.
‘Who will stage a protest?’ Amma suddenly tensed and stood up. ‘When he lived, he belonged to you; he was your shadow. Now he’s mine, and no one can commit any sacrilege against his body.’
Uncle bowed his head, deflated.
They took Abba away. There was an uproar, then a tapering off. In the final sight, what desire there is—she was stunned as she wondered why she could not imagine Abba when she closed her eyes.
That night, at around eleven, Asrar Miyan and Uncle returned from the cemetery. By then the tears had abated and the burden of patience had settled on their chests.
‘Kareeman Bua, tell Mazhar’s Bride that if I could die in his stead I would assuredly do so, but humans are helpless before the will of God.’ Asrar Miyan’s voice ripped through the silence.
‘You cannot die, Asrar Miyan, you will remain alive, you cannot die!’ screamed Kareeman Bua, cursing Asrar Miyan’s very existence as she read from the holy Quran.
On the third day, in the evening, Zafar Uncle and Mamoo both arrived from Hyderabad. Amma was overcome with emotion when she saw her brother. She seemed to implore him with her eyes, but Mamoo looked away—he didn’t want to see anything. After all, his English wife would hardly consent to the suicidal act of supporting her husband’s family.
Zafar Uncle was crushed by the shock and said again and again that if his brother had lived in Hyderabad, this calamity would never have happened. That very evening he set out again for the protected territory of his kingdom. He promised to help Amma in every way.
Several days later, a letter came from Chammi. Perhaps she’d written it weeping. The tears had spread ink everywhere. At the end she’d written that she didn’t want to come back—what connection could there be between the small village where she now lived and her former home? Even now she wrote nothing of herself. A letter also came from Jameel, saying that his Uncle Mazhar could never die. He would live on forever. He wrote that he would visit home on a two-day vacation.
23
How quickly spring flew by that year. Loads of gul-e-abbasis and sunflowers bloomed but somehow none looked attractive. As soon as the mango trees blossomed, the cuckoos began to sing. But Aliya felt too despondent to enjoy all this. She’d become inconsolable since Abba’s death.
Amma was always lost in thought, her head bowed, and Aunty would try to divert her by talking about all sorts of things, but nothing could dim Amma’s worries; who knows what she was thinking about? Aliya would sit by her side for hours but she never said what was on her mind.
It had started to get extremely hot. In the early evenings, when the sky grew
yellow, the children outside would start making a racket, crying out, ‘A yellow dust storm is coming, a yellow dust storm is coming!’ There were hardly any days without dust storms. The loo wind blew all day, with whirlwinds spinning about, and Aliya lay in her tiny room and pondered her future. The days dragged on and on. Now she wished she could flee. Every single thing in this house had become nightmarish for her. Whenever she entered Granny’s old room, she imagined she could hear her rapid breathing. She saw Abba’s body lying on every single bed in the courtyard and when she set eyes on the metal chair, for some reason she felt she was going mad, and the desire to flee would take hold of her. Jameel also did not come to give her encouragement, as though the death of her father had been such an ordinary thing to him; she had begun to hate him.
When the sunlight had climbed up the walls and disappeared, Aliya came out of her room on to the roof. Najma Aunty was still dozing in her room. Recently, she too had seemed changed. She lay about with an open book on her chest thinking about God knows what. Aliya wondered if Najma Aunty’s English would grow weak if this continued.
Boys flew red and yellow kites on nearby roofs, shouting out in glee, ‘I cut one down!’ The candy hawker selling rose-scented sugar-cane pieces seemed to have parked himself down below in the gali. Aliya sat watching and counting kites with interest for a while but soon tired of it. Today she felt listless and upset. She lay down on the bed that had roasted all day in the sun and covered her face.
‘Aliya!’
‘Amma,’ Aliya started and got up. She was stunned to see that Amma had come upstairs. It had been ages since she’d even set foot on the stairs. She never came to talk to her alone. And since Abba’s death, she’d been completely vacant and lost.
‘Will you go to Aligarh to do your BT?’ Amma asked, sitting by Aliya.
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