‘Why don’t you leave, silly girl? Did you wake me to see this? Goodbye,’ he said, hiding his face again.
‘Come quickly, Aliya,’ called Amma. Then Aliya realized that she really must go, that the tonga was waiting—but why wouldn’t her feet move? Why wasn’t she leaving, and why was there such darkness in this room?
‘Kareeman Bua, hurry up, it’s getting very late! And do give my blessings to Mazhar’s Bride and Aliya Bibi and tell them to forgive me if I’ve offended them in any way, and tell them that . . .’ Asrar Miyan’s voice trailed off.
‘God willing, your tongue will tire, Asrar Miyan!’ prayed Kareeman Bua angrily.
Aliya could hear everything that was being said, but her feet! Oh, if only someone would pull her away from there. If only she could leave this room.
‘You’re dragging your feet so that the aeroplane will fly off and leave us behind! The money my brother spent on the tickets will be wasted, and he will go mad when he doesn’t find us on the aeroplane!’ God only knows what else Amma would have said, when Aliya came running out of that room like a madwoman.
‘Your brother and sister-in-law couldn’t even wait for you for four or five days so that they could travel with us, and now you’re saying they’ll go mad because of us, humph!’ Aliya cried out, and then she hugged Aunty and began to sob.
33
After arriving in Lahore they had to stay with Mamoo for a few days at his government house. Things were such that Aliya had to spend all day shut up in a small room. All the time she kept wondering how she could spend her whole life in this vexing atmosphere. Of course, Amma was thrilled. Her long-standing desire to live with her brother and her British sister-in-law had now been fulfilled. She intended to live with them her entire life, and was offended when Aliya remained aloof from everyone else. If nothing else, she should at least practise speaking fluent English with her aunt, but Aliya performed only one task during those four days, which was to write long letters to Aunty and Uncle.
On the fifth day, Mamoo had the lock broken on a small vacant bungalow and forced Amma to move into her own home. He quietly explained to her that Englishwomen didn’t even like to live with their own mothers. Amma wanted to hide that conversation from Aliya, but when Aliya was moving to their new home, her aunt explained in broken Urdu that it was best for everyone to live apart. Living together was just so messy.
Everything was in its place in the new house. The dishes were lined up in order on the dining table, their patterns shrouded in dust. It felt as though someone was just about to emerge from behind the curtain and sit down to eat. The metal pots and pans were lined up in the cupboard in the kitchen and a few had rolled on to the floor and lay scattered about. Dust coated the rug and sofa in the drawing room and the flowers in the vase had withered and lay strewn about the table. Now only the dry black stems remained crammed into the vase. In the bedroom, the bed was made and the lamp on the bedside table lay on its side. In the small room next to this, there was a statue of Lord Krishna above the fireplace. His garland of flowers lay littered all about; only a yellow thread hung about his neck now.
‘Do get that out of here, dear; give it to the children outside, they can play with it,’ Amma had said several times since they’d arrived.
Aliya did not respond. The Krishna idol stayed there for several days. When it was no longer possible for Amma to manage things without using that room, Aliya picked it up and hid it in her trunk.
The days passed by monotonously. She’d grown bored from sitting around with nothing to do. No one had replied to her letters either. Who says distance renders memories all the more painful? Everyone had forgotten her. The memories were painful only for her.
Evenings were torment. Aid committees walked from house to house. ‘Help your refugee brothers,’ they’d say, ‘the caravans of refugees are coming, please help them.’ And Amma would weep, ‘But we are refugees ourselves!’ The committee members would go away again, but Aliya wished she could kick dust into Amma’s eyes and give them everything.
When Mamoo and his wife would sometimes come over in the evenings, Aliya wished she could go hide in a mouse hole. Amma would be flustered, she could not understand how to receive her sister-in-law properly.
After sitting idly at home for a while, she applied for a job at a high school. Her application was quickly accepted, and having something to do saved her from much torture and sadness. All the same, as soon as she reached home from school every day, she’d ask if any letters had come from Uncle and Aunty. Amma was deeply annoyed by her daily questioning, and would blow up at her in reply.
One day, when Mamoo had come to visit alone, he told them that he’d had the bungalow allotted in Amma’s name. Now they would not have to leave under any circumstances. Then he gave them a few receipts for the furniture and so forth, so that if anyone asked, they could show these and say they had come here and bought everything; that this house had just been full of junk.
Amma continued to be pleased by her brother’s actions. ‘If you have a brother, he should be like him. He thinks only of my comfort. Among the English they don’t follow the custom of everyone descending on one another’s heads all the time. If they had a custom like that my brother would not separate from me for one minute.’
Aliya listened quietly. She couldn’t understand what was going on. Who was making off with whose rights? Where did these receipts come from, and how had this house come to be hers? But whom could Aliya ask all this? Amma was just Amma. Now that she received Aliya’s salary and had become a homeowner, she was just as arrogant and self-satisfied as before.
Time dragged by. Aliya would wander about agitated when she got home from school. There was no one to visit in the nearby homes either. Where had all these people come from to settle here? No one knew anything about anyone else.
Amma did not even have the time to look in her direction. The entire day was spent in looking after the house. They had hired a maid for ten rupees a month; if she put something down a little too hard, Amma would be enraged—‘We’ve bought all these very expensive things and you can’t control yourself! Try to do things sensibly.’
Not long after, Mamoo was transferred to Karachi. Amma wept and wept and was in a terrible state as he bid them farewell. Her sister-in-law smiled when she saw Amma’s agitation: ‘Even our children goes very far from home, but no one every cries.’
Aliya felt neither shock nor joy at their leaving. If they left they left. What connection did she really have to those people? Since coming here, Mamoo had said several times that Aliya, like her father, disliked him deeply. When she heard this, she laughed. At this time she strongly missed Abba. But now she’d left even his grave behind in another country. All links had been broken. No one had even answered her letters.
34
The riots had ended. One just read of a few incidents here and there. Now both countries were insisting on establishing peace. Aliya wasn’t interested in this at all. Really, what was the point of such innocence?
After Mamoo’s departure, Aliya gave up purdah. She knew no one here; what was the point of clutching on to old customs? In order to fill her idle time, she had started volunteering at the Walton Camp for refugees. She’d rest a bit after coming home from school and then leave by bus. Teaching the children there for free made her feel oddly contented. The dust of all her activity helped dim the old memories.
Amma was extremely disgruntled about Aliya’s visits to the Walton Camp; whenever she came home, some unpleasant thing or another would happen. On such occasions Aliya would remain silent. She did not wish to make things worse on her part.
One day, when she returned at six in the evening, Amma was seated on a chair on the dry lawn as if waiting for her.
‘Why do you go there?’ she demanded harshly. ‘What do you get out of that useless work?’
‘I get peace,’ Aliya answered gently.
‘Like father, like daughter; do you wish to ruin me now as well?’
‘There’s nothing you can do?’ Amma asked angrily.
‘Yes, there’s nothing I can do.’ She got up and went inside. She didn’t even turn around to look and see that Amma was crying into her sari border.
Once she was alone in her room, she thought for a long time about what she should do. She couldn’t make Amma happy; to keep her happy she would have to stay in this home that belonged to someone else. How would she rid herself of the loneliness that tormented her? Where could she flee to escape the ghosts of memories that hovered about all around her? Time could just continue to pass; she needed help. As she was thinking this, the doctor at the Walton Camp came to mind for some reason. He was a good man, poor thing.
That night Amma ate dinner alone. She didn’t even complain.
The next day when Aliya came home from school, she felt sad. She felt as though her heart would sink. The weather was growing warmer but somehow it felt very cold to her. She decided she would rest; today she wouldn’t go anywhere. After eating she shut the door and lay down to sleep. She tossed and turned for a long time, but sleep just wouldn’t come. Growing weary, she picked up a newspaper. Today she hadn’t even given the paper a cursory glance before going to school; she just hadn’t felt like it.
After glancing over two or three large headlines, her eyes froze on one news item—about a famous Muslim Congress leader who had been killed. Nehru had expressed his condolences and donated a three thousand–rupee gift to the family of the deceased. He had severely censured Hindu–Muslim hatred. When she read Uncle’s name in the article, she hid her face in her hands. She stood up like a madwoman, then fell upon her bed. She felt such pain in her heart. She hadn’t even seen him before she left, and now he was gone forever. She pounded her head against the bedrail and wept for a long time. Now she would never see Uncle again. This feeling tortured her so terribly that she couldn’t think of anything else.
Evening had fallen, and darkness crept into the room. She’d grown exhausted from weeping. Amma had knocked on the door several times and gone away. She opened her swollen eyes with difficulty and came out of the room, trampling over the scattered pages of the newspaper.
‘Goodness, what has happened to you?’ asked Amma in alarm when she saw Aliya’s red face and swollen eyes.
‘Some Hindu has ambushed Uncle and murdered him,’ she said quietly. All that crying had calmed her.
‘Oh my, oh my! This is what he gets in exchange for being a slave to the Hindus his entire life?’ Amma cried tearfully. She dried her tears in her sari. ‘Oh dear, my poor sister-in-law, how must she feel now? She didn’t even inform us.’
Aliya left Amma to her own devices and went out on to the lawn. Was that all, Uncle? Was this the end that such a magnificent life came to? A three thousand–rupee grant and condolences? Who knew if he had ever got the ten- or fifteen-thousand rupees for the cloth shops or not. Had the electricity been reconnected? Was everyone weeping over Uncle’s body in that same yellow lantern light? How must Jameel be feeling? Had death scrubbed away all their differences?
She spent a long time bent over at the table in the lamplight writing a letter to Aunty that night, and Amma talked and talked: How must Sister-in-law be feeling? And Big Brother, he had never rested in his lifetime and never let others rest either. He had destroyed a prosperous home. What did they get? The very people whom he helped killed him in a foreign land. Oh dear! They should come to Pakistan from that land of unbelievers. What was the point of staying there, really? And now there’s that Jameel Miyan; he’s sure to turn out just as fantastic.
When Aliya had finished the letter, she sealed it in the envelope.
‘Go to sleep, Amma,’ she said, turning off the lamp and lying down on her bed. A little while later, she could hear Amma snoring, but she continued to stare into the darkness at nothing, her eyes wide open. Who had brought Uncle’s shrouded body from so far away and placed it here? Asrar Miyan, don’t you touch Uncle, Kareeman Bua will get angry! Kareeman Bua, don’t read the Quran Sharif so loudly. It aggravates our grief. One feels as though it’s not just Uncle who has died, but a whole world. Read quietly, Kareeman Bua . . . She felt alarmed and closed her eyes, but how could she shut her ears? She could hear Kareeman Bua reading the holy Quran continuously from far, far away, from Uncle’s country, and Aunty’s keening tore at her ears.
‘Oh, Allah, please make this night pass,’ she murmured as she sat up. They say that people even fall asleep at the gallows, so why couldn’t she? How is it that such false sayings have been made famous, yet no one corrects them?
When she got up in the morning, she felt exhausted with fatigue and shock. Sunlight had entered the veranda and Amma was busy preparing breakfast with the maid. Aliya began to get ready for school as usual. Amma glanced at her as though to ask what the need was for such shock. Despite Amma’s and the maid’s insistence, she departed for school without eating breakfast.
When she returned at one o’clock, she practically fell on to the easy chair that lay in the sunlight, and when the maid placed her food in front of her, she began to eat as though she was swallowing bitter bread. Amma was still busy with her housework.
‘Gracious, the whole day passes by but the work doesn’t end; there’s so much work to do in a bungalow. Maid, water the plants on the veranda, they’re getting dry.’ Amma was speaking continuously. ‘Maid, why didn’t you just put the food on the table in the room? If there’s a table and chair, a person can eat happily. We had a terrible habit in our old home of sitting and eating on the takht.’
Today you die, tomorrow is another day, but no one weeps for you any more? Today Amma was exposing the flaws of the customs of the place she came from. If they hadn’t got this bungalow, how would all these secrets have been revealed?
After eating, Aliya got up to go to the Walton Camp. Amma turned to look at her, then again became engaged in her work, without making any objection.
When Aliya returned in the evening, she was somewhat calmer. At the camp, the doctor had encouraged her affectionately. He had made her leave early, given her two sleeping pills and advised her to take them that night, definitely. She had an extreme need for sleep. He was a good and kind man, Aliya decided, as she took the sleeping pills before going to sleep that night.
35
When she came home from school she saw an envelope lying on her bed. Aunty had at last sent a reply. She had despaired of ever getting one.
She opened the envelope and began to read the letter quickly:
Dearest Aliya,
I received your letter, but was too upset to reply right away. You saw how unkind Uncle turned out; I supported him my entire life and now he has left me all alone. How can I explain to you how it all happened? I tried to stop him from going to Delhi. Who knew what things were like there? But he didn’t listen, and went off to meet with Nehru. Some Hindu ambushed him and made a martyr of him there. He left talking and laughing, and when he returned a lock had already been affixed to his lips. Thankfully, people there who knew him recognized his body and brought him here with respect, otherwise we would have missed even a chance to see him one last time. Daughter, please pray that now Allah will preserve the honour of your Aunty and quickly carry her away as well.
Nehru had announced that he planned to give us a gift of three thousand rupees but your cousin Jameel refused to accept the donation. Jameel was so upset by his father’s death that he still turns pale when he hears his name. Jameel remained unemployed for quite a long time. He did look for work but found nothing. We began to starve at home. Thanks be to God that your Uncle’s Congress friends forced your cousin Jameel to take a job as assistant jailer. He secured this job with much pleading, and that too because of the services your Uncle had rendered. May God reward those friends of his.
It’s been many days now since your Uncle passed away, but I keep imagining he’s just
about to come out of the sitting room. Kareeman Bua misses you and your mother very much. She’s become very weak. As soon as she heard the news of your Uncle’s death, she shoved Asrar Miyan right out of the house. Who knows where he went? He hasn’t returned yet.
If you see Shakeel anywhere, please tell him how his mother’s heart breaks for him. Who knows how many more days I will live, Aliya? May I just see his face one more time.
As soon as Hindustan seized Hyderabad, your Uncle Zafar moved to Karachi. He has written that he still hasn’t even found a place to stay. May Allah be merciful, your Najma Aunty is not happy in her new home, and she’s thinking of getting divorced. I tried to reason with her, but she doesn’t listen; she says her husband is a fool, that he can’t even speak two words of English properly. She is extremely embarrassed to be married to such a man. Her friend tricked her into marrying him; he has only studied till class twelve.
Please send my blessings to your mother. I’m just surviving now, this treacherous world won’t quit me, otherwise I’d have died along with your uncle. Please do keep writing to us.
Yours,
Aunty
After reading the letter, Aliya leant back against the chair. If only Uncle had taken Asrar Miyan with him to Delhi. Maybe someone would have had mercy on him and slit his throat with a sharp knife as well. She closed her eyes to hide her tears from Amma.
‘Who is the letter from?’ Amma asked.
‘Aunty. She sends you her blessings.’
‘That is really too much, writing after so many days! She hardly considers us part of the family. Tell me what she’s written.’
‘Read it yourself, Amma, I’m tired,’ she replied without opening her eyes.
The Women's Courtyard Page 26