Now I am very happy, Bajiya. Jameel fusses over me, he loves my daughter very much, Bajiya, and can I tell you something? When I had my baby girl, I never even thought she was anyone but Jameel’s.
Aunty is very happy, and I’m looking after her very well. Kareeman Bua is also very happy; she says our own blood has come back among us. She goes around all the time holding the baby. She misses you very much. Now the house is in very nice shape. Only Aunty misses Shakeel so much. Okay, Bajiya, now I’ll be taking my leave. May Allah find a groom as handsome as the moon for my bajiya. Bajiya, now you get married too—very soon. Please give my regards to Aunty.
Yours,
Chammi
When she’d finished the letter, she began to look about. How empty and deserted she felt right now. ‘It’s a good thing that Chammi’s life has turned out well,’ she said in a voice that was not her own.
‘Who else would Jameel Miyan get, besides used-up old Chammi?’ Amma asked smugly.
Aliya went silently to her room and lay down and began to look about aimlessly. A little while later, she got up and prepared to go to the Walton Camp.
38
That day the doctor had begged her to marry him. He had said he would put everything in her name—the land and the house. He pledged to spend his entire life as her humble servant, and when he was saying all this, she felt like saying yes for a moment—she would bask in that protection he had to offer—but when she tried to agree, it felt very strange to her. A car, a house, a bank balance and this doctor who earns money curing the poor people of the Walton Camp—was that all she wanted? Was this person her only choice? Something possessed her to run from there crying, ‘No, no!’ and now she lay at home wondering what it was that she actually wanted. It had been a long time since she’d even thought of Jameel. She hadn’t responded to Aunty’s letters. She’d broken all bonds with them. Now she felt nothing for them.
Clouds had gathered thickly above. She came out of her room on to the lawn. The rains had turned the grass lush and green. As she strolled about in the damp air, she suddenly saw a person standing by the gate gazing at her.
‘May I come in, Aliya Bibi?’ he asked, and walked forward.
An attractive man of forty or so stood before her. Aliya stared at him in alarm. Where had she seen him before? Whom did he resemble? She tried to remember.
‘Who are you?’ she finally asked.
‘I am Safdar. You didn’t recognize me, Aliya Bibi? I often visit the house across the way. Today they mentioned your Mamoo and said that his sister lived right across the street. I couldn’t control myself, I longed to see you. Where is your mother? But actually, don’t inform her of my arrival,’ he murmured.
‘Safdar!’ Aliya spoke with difficulty. The past emerged before her, keening. ‘Oh, so now you’ve come. Please sit, what do you need?’ Aliya asked coldly.
‘Aliya Bibi, so much time has passed—twelve or thirteen years—even after all this time, you still hate me. Oh, but I’m wrong. You didn’t hate me. You remember, don’t you? You haven’t forgotten?’
Even after the passage of twelve or thirteen years, his voice hadn’t changed at all. It had the same humility, the same vulnerability.
‘Where do you live? Where are your wife and children?’ she asked, finding herself forced to talk with him. The vulnerability in his voice had melted her heart. She was remembering how once this person had spent the worst days of his life in her house.
‘My wife and children?’ He laughed sadly. ‘No woman has entered my life since Tehmina. Tell me about her, Aliya Bibi.’
‘After you left Tehmina and went away, and never asked after her, and wrote only one letter, forcing her to die? After that what is there to tell you? Now you want to cheer yourself up by learning that she ate poison. She refused to be married to Jameel. She was an idiot, so she died. You were wise, so you stayed alive, and now after such a long time, you are sitting before me in order to remind me of the past.’
‘I may be alive but I’m worse than dead. Do you think that if I’d stayed there, Aunty would have accepted me? That would have been impossible. A prosperous household would have been destroyed. That’s why I removed myself from her path. I even stopped taking any money. You can’t imagine what I had to do after that just to stay alive. My conscience is clear, however. I continued to do honest work, and in exchange for that, like Uncle, I spent time in jail. I didn’t know that Tehmina wouldn’t just forget me and give up her life.’ His voice began to shake with the weight of memories, and he fell silent and began to look about him.
‘What are you doing here now? Tell me something about yourself. Let’s not dig up old matters, I don’t have the strength to bear it,’ she said, trying to stop her tears.
For a short while there was complete silence. Aliya sat with her head down. She was remembering every single detail of bygone days. She was extremely sympathetic towards Safdar for no good reason. After all, how was it his fault? Tehmina had been weak; she didn’t have the courage to have things done according to her wishes. That’s how Amma had destroyed their home.
When Aliya looked up, Safdar was gazing at her with great desire and love. So much so that Aliya lowered her gaze, and he too started.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said again.
‘What is there to say? I’ve already been jailed again under the Safety Act since coming here, and now I feel quite exhausted. But now what I want is not to be exhausted, and to continue the struggle to stay alive and . . .’ He stopped in the middle of what he was saying.
For a little while, silence again reigned. It was quite an ungainly silence, as though no one knew what to say . . . today the man who had endured tortures in her home for ages sat before Aliya. He’d lived through hell before he committed any sins, was fed scrap meat and milk mixed with heaps of water; he was fed stale, rotten leftovers from several meals back, as prayers were made to hasten his death. His only fault was to be born of a poor father. They say that on the Day of Judgement, he will be called by his mother’s name. If only this world could be the Day of Judgement every day for Safdar, so that he might be remembered by the name of Salma Aunty, the landowner’s daughter. Surely then his value would increase.
As she thought about all this, she looked over at Safdar. What must he be thinking, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed? At this moment, he looked tormented. Just like the old Safdar. She remembered that when she would feel defeated by squabbles of the house and wander about with a weepy face, this same Safdar would show her the path to happiness and, for her sake, would bear Amma’s sharp glares that pierced his heart.
When she looked up at him again, she saw that he was gazing at her affectionately. Such strange glances that she felt agitated, and Safdar reddened with embarrassment. ‘Aliya Bibi, I still love Tehmina today as I always did. Today, I’m remembering all sorts of things as I sit here. Now that you’ve grown up, you look just like her. You’re exactly like her. Looking at you, it doesn’t even seem like she has died.’
She couldn’t respond at all. The cloud-weighted sky appeared so melancholy. She stared hard at him. Two tears had rolled from his eyes and down his cheeks. Did he really still love Tehmina the same way he always had? And was that why no other woman could come into his life? And today, was he only looking at her so lovingly because she looked like her sister? Aliya remembered how Safdar used to stare at Tehmina secretly, in just this way. Can love really survive so long? And now Safdar was so worn out; so much of his hair had gone white. Perhaps he’d never even taken a happy breath in his life.
‘Safdar, do I really look like Tehmina?’ she asked suddenly, and then felt alarmed at her own question.
‘Yes, yes, exactly like her,’ he said, again gazing at her strangely.
‘I keep forgetting that you are not her; if you were Tehmina, you would hide me in your heart, you’d give me all life’s happiness.’ He began to speak as if in a dream. ‘Become Tehmina, Aliya, become mine, I’m so very tired.’
He got up and leant over her. ‘Support me; Tehmina used to say that whatever I did, she would support me, and she said so many other things.’ He sat down again, as though he’d suddenly come to his senses.
Aliya closed her eyes. She was sinking into the sort of state that could carry a bride away, the first time she’s brought into the groom’s room. Her ears echoed with the howling of a windstorm. She had no idea what Safdar went on to say after sitting back in his chair—she didn’t hear a bit of it; she was completely deaf to his words.
‘Do you simply not plan to get up from here today?’ Amma called, coming out on to the veranda. ‘And who is that sitting over there?’ She walked over.
Aliya came to her senses and looked up at her. Amma was trying to recognize Safdar.
‘Assalam Aleikum, Aunty,’ Safdar mumbled, his face suddenly pale.
‘You . . . ?’ On recognizing him, Amma began gesticulating wildly. ‘Why have you come here? Will you never leave this household alone? Everything has been destroyed! What have you left to destroy now?’
‘I . . . I came to see you, I wanted to see you all, but now I will leave, Aunty.’ When he looked at Aliya with farewell eyes she felt her heart would burst.
‘He will not leave, Amma. I have decided that he will stay with me forever. Please make us two one,’ Aliya said with determination, her eyes downcast.
‘God forbid! Shame on you for sitting out here so long with Aliya, seducing her like this!’ Amma’s eyes boiled with rage. ‘You get out of here right now!’
‘I’m not mute like Tehmina, Amma. He will not go.’ Aliya felt thorns prick her throat.
Amma stared at her with bulging eyes. ‘Did you get all this education just so this could happen?’
‘I am doing nothing wrong,’ she replied composedly. Safdar sat before her, a picture of vulnerability. Aliya looked at him affectionately. He had dedicated his whole life to others, but no one had become his, no one had supported him; now she would definitely support him.
‘Yes, certainly, get married, you have my permission, I’ll go to my brother’s house tomorrow; even if I’m dying, I won’t waive the mother’s milk right you owe me. I’ll rejoice at that moment when you ruined yourself during my lifetime. Just like Salma. May this man spend his life in jail, and may you languish at home.’
‘I will wait for him, Amma, and I won’t languish. I will also not die like Salma Aunty,’ she replied softly.
Amma placed her sari border on her eyes. Her body was shaking.
‘Aunty, you won’t go anywhere,’ Safdar said beseechingly. ‘I will look after you. I’ve changed the direction of my life—if the world is destroyed, so be it, it has nothing to do with me. I will just earn money now, enjoy myself; now I will fulfil the dreams of owning a car and a house. I cannot go to jail now. Right now I’m trying to get an import–export licence. I’ll get it very soon. Aunty, I’m going to become an important man now, please do accept me.’
‘What?’ Aliya stared at Safdar as though he were a stranger.
What, is this now your life’s goal, such a tiny thing? Aliya felt as though she had travelled here from far off, through desert lands. Flat-out exhausted. Thirsty for many lifetimes. Please, could someone pour just a few drops of water down her throat?
‘First you make something of yourself, then we’ll see. Only then will I fulfil Aliya’s desire,’ Amma said very craftily to put the matter off.
‘I’m not getting married, Amma. You listen too, Safdar, I’m not getting married.’ Aliya stood up from her chair. ‘Now when you come here, please keep in mind that I still miss my sister, Tehmina. I wish to be released from that memory!’
She ran quickly to her room. ‘Goodbye!’ she called.
And as she lay stricken on her bed, she felt Chammi running—thump thump thump—across her chest, crying, ‘I won, Bajiya, I won!’ And she wrapped her arms tightly across her bosom.
Afterword
‘If you think . . . that anything like romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid, lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto.’
—Charlotte Brontë, Shirley
I. The Brontë Sisters of Urdu Literature
Khadija Mastur and her sister, Hajira Masroor, have been called the Brontë sisters of Urdu literature. This comparison seems to have been made primarily on a biographical basis— they’d led tragic lives, were meek and unassuming in person, but wrote with conviction. But from a feminist perspective, the comparison is quite apt. Khadija Mastur wrote two novels and five collections of short stories in her fifty-five years, and it is a rare story that does not contain a critique of patriarchy, chauvinism and misogyny. Happy endings are few and far between.
Though the Brontës’ books are often described as romances, they too took a bleak view of male behaviour. The Brontës sometimes came up with a ‘happy’ ending, though it often feels tacked on, for the sake of the formula. ‘Reader, I married him’—Charlotte Brontë’s famous last line in Jane Eyre cannot be seen as a truly happy ending to the brutal tale. After all, our romantic hero is by now old, blind, disabled and semi-homeless. Mr Rochester, as has been explored in countless retellings and analyses, is not a very nice man: one who locked up his mentally ill Creole first wife in the attic, and then lied about her very existence. It is only when Mr Rochester is tragically maimed and reduced in the eyes of society that Jane Eyre can hope for a relationship built on trust and mutual respect. In fact, throughout their works, it is clear that the Brontës did not have a high opinion of male motivations and behaviour—as with Anne Brontë’s description of married life in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, in which even the supposedly positive character of the male narrator often behaves poorly himself; or the unappealing and disappointing male love interests in Charlotte Brontë’s Villette.
Unlike the Brontës, Mastur and Masroor came of age writing at a time when there was a strong progressive writers’ movement. Though they could have chosen to write romances, they were politically engaged, Mastur for a time serving as the head of the Pakistani Progressive Writers’ Association. Because of her political views, shaped in part by a youth marked by poverty and deprivation, Mastur felt no obligation to deliver happy endings to her readers. It is clear from her writings that she saw patriarchy and classism as systemic poisons that destroy and kill women intellectually, emotionally and physically.
Not that Mastur treated her female characters with unstinting kindness either. Far from it. In characters such as Aliya’s mother and grandmother in The Women’s Courtyard, Mastur paints a detailed and unforgiving portrait of the role that women play in perpetuating the rigid bonds of patriarchy and class hierarchy. Indeed, Aliya’s mother and grandmother play active roles in destroying the lives of those who dare step outside the boundaries of tradition. The behaviour of these women is so brutal at times that they end up looking far worse than the actual patriarchs in the family, whom Aliya regards with love and respect despite their neglect of their families in favour of outside political involvement. Aliya’s mother is by far the most toxic character in the novel; she makes it clear that she considers her mother-in-law a flawed role model, one who ruined the family by failing to poison her own daughter when she was discovered in a romantic liaison with a lower-class man.
Aliya herself wonders what it is that makes her so forgiving of her father’s and uncle’s neglect of their families’ welfare:
How she wished that Amma hadn’t driven anyone from the house; it was Safdar who had divided everyone, and then Abba was so busy with his animosity towards the English that he wouldn’t even turn and look at anyone. He didn’t even acknowledge her love. But she couldn’t say any of this out loud. She herself wondered why, despite Abba’s indi
fference, she still loved him the most. Abba’s affectionate eyes were so expressive. She’d never been able to say even one word against him (see p. 77).
Aliya sees her father and uncle as brilliant, politically principled men, even as their families are slowly wiped out financially and emotionally by their failure to step into their roles as patriarchs. But Aliya’s love is an intrinsic part of patriarchy as well—she has infinite forgiveness for her male elders, but little sympathy for the shrewish women who work desperately to keep the family and class structure in place.
Still, Aliya knows that the worst thing she can do to perpetuate the system is to step into the role awaiting her as a wife—specifically as wife to her cousin Jameel. Despite her suppressed love for Jameel, and a certain physical attraction to him, she sees capitulation to his advances as a sure way to end up just like her mother and aunt: a whinging housewife with a neglectful and politically active husband. The only way she can see clear to break the cycle is by refusing to marry. Implicit in this choice is the belief that marriage is a tool to perpetuate the system of patriarchy, a notion that is still radical more than fifty years after the publication of the novel.
II. A Claustrophobic Life
When we consider the setting of The Women’s Courtyard, and many other stories by Mastur, the Brontë comparison breaks down. Brontë heroines may live bleak lives, but they are also proto-flâneuses. An unhappy Brontë heroine is always free to walk out of the door and go charging off across the moors. Lucy Snowe walks all over the town of Villette, night and day, when she is upset. If one is poor, one might take a horrible position as a governess in a rich family and earn a meagre living, away from unpleasant family. Certainly, there are barriers to what they can do in their lives, but those are nothing like the virtual imprisonment of the courtyard, or āngan, in a traditional South Asian home.
The Women's Courtyard Page 28