Jasmine and Jinns

by Sadia Dehlvi

  Vimla Sindhi, who worked at the house of then Prime Minister Jawahar Lal Nehru, often visited our home. Nehru’s residence at Teen Murti was close to Shama Kothi. Vimlaji told Daddy that once, while passing by our house, Nehru noticed the crowd outside and enquired about it. He was informed that they were there to drink water. Nehru asked if there were any such arrangements for the crowds that poured into his home. On hearing the negative response, Nehru instructed that similar facilities be installed immediately.

  After our ancestral house was sold in 2002, I moved to a flat in Nizamuddin East. In continuation of Abba’s tradition, I tie a large matka, clay pot, containing drinking water to a tree opposite my home. These days matkas fitted with taps are easily available. It gladdens my heart to see local hawkers, drivers, maids and others who pass by quench their thirst. Another of Abba’s habits that I try to emulate is to not eat before feeding the birds. Abba would scatter some bajra in the lawn for the birds every day before sitting down to his lunch.

  I had heard from family elders that our house was often referred to as ‘Dilli ka Taj Mahal’. I thought it was an exaggeration, till some older friends from the city, including Satish Gujral, artist and architect, confirmed this story. He told me that in the sixties, architecture students were taken to look at the grand white exterior of Shama Kothi.

  Because of its corner location and impressive facade, Shama Kothi appeared larger than its actual size. Often, it would be mistaken for a hotel. Tourist buses and taxis regularly enquired about reservations. Most of them were headed for Hotel Diplomat, which was two buildings away at number nine. The hotel did not have an imposing hotel-like structure and could easily be missed. Sometimes, foreigners turned up in our home in the middle of the night asking for their rooms.

  The driveway of Shama Kothi led to a large porch with the main entrance door of the home. Through all the years we lived there, this door remained open. With so many open corridors around the house, it was impossible to lock it. So strangers sometimes knocked on our bedroom doors.

  This mix up with Hotel Diplomat created a comedy of errors. One summer night, Apa Saeeda, our family retainer, was sleeping in the verandah on her chaarpai. Expecting her cousin who lived in Calcutta to come visiting, Ammi had instructed Apa Saeeda that the guest room be provided for him. Ammi’s cousin was very fair, looked and dressed like a ‘Yurpean’ as Nani, my maternal grandmother, would say. Resembling a European was the ultimate compliment she gave someone!

  In the darkness of the night, Apa Saeeda was woken up by a fair skin visitor asking for his room. Mistaking him for Ammi’s cousin, she led him to the guest room. When she switched on the light, Apa Saeeda came face to face with the stranger. Scared, she screamed and came running into my bedroom. We sorted out the confusion and I directed him to Hotel Diplomat. A livid Apa Saeeda took the sleeping watchman to task.

  Amma and Abba with their family

  Abba did not interfere with the architect’s design except when it came to the cooking area. He believed that an outsider could never understand the kitchen requirements of us Dilliwalas. Kanvinde had no say in the kitchen and thus, it remained the shabbiest part of the house. The walls made of pindole, a yellowish substance made from kuchi mitti, unbaked earth, looked patchy against the swanky marble flooring in the rest of the house. I recall the bawarchikhana forever filled with smoke. Badruddin, the old bearded family khansaama, cook, blew with all his might at the chiptiyan, wooden shavings, over coal fuel with a phukni, heavy iron pipe, to raise the flames on the earthen stoves.

  The pantry adjoined the kitchen. Here, sugar, grains, rice, wheat, pulses and masalas were stored in large brown boriyan, jute sacks. Kitchen stocks were purchased in quantities of mann, not kilograms. One mann equals approximately forty kilograms. Wheat, lentils and rice were bought with the change of seasons. Ammi modernized the kitchen in the eighties, long after Badruddin died.

  My Apa Saeeda

  Apa Saeeda – A Childhood Bond

  Apa Saeeda was a sort of surrogate mother to my brothers and me, continually assuring, ‘Main tumhaare paas hoon na,’ I am with you. She bathed, clothed and fed us with motherly affection. She slept with us in our room. In the middle of the night, I often crawled out of bed and snuggled up to her. Her smell and touch comforted me like nothing else in the world. We loved her so much that at times the strong bond we shared made Ammi envious!

  Apa Saeeda came from Baghpat and had been married in her early teens. Soon after the marriage, she learnt that her husband had remarried. Her dignity injured, Apa Saeeda walked out of the marriage. Ammi told me this story when I had grown up. Apa Saeeda herself never spoke about her hurtful past.

  Apa Saeeda entered our lives through her mother, who often visited Nana, my maternal grandfather’s house. She was friends with my grandmother and occasionally helped with housework. Ammi prevailed upon Apa Saeeda’s mother to allow her to live with us. Faheem, my elder brother, was then around five years of age, I was three and Vaseem, my younger brother, was a few months old. I have no recollection of life without Apa Saeeda’s soft, compassionate and reassuring face. With no children of her own, her world came to revolve around us three siblings. Images of her in a beige or white knee-length kurta, churidaar pyjama and crisp cotton dupatta remain alive in my heart.

  During the British period, some exclusive clubs, hotels and restaurants came up in the city. During the sixties and seventies, Ammi and Daddy went out almost every evening for high tea to Gaylord in Regal building at Connaught Place. We were never taken along to this ‘adult activity’. With a hectic social life, my parents were rarely home.

  Apa Saeeda kept us from complaining about their absence, coming up with ingenious ways to entertain us. When Ammi and Daddy went to the movies, we were left at home. Apa Saeeda promised us our own movies. As we lay on our beds, she handwove stories around the shadows of the traffic on the main road that fell on the bedroom wall. Since there was not much traffic then, we occasionally spotted the shadow of a bullock cart or a lorry. Apa Saeeda cleverly used her fingers to create animal shadows that became magnified with the reflected light falling on the wall. The Central Ridge Reserve Forest fell just across our home. We heard the nocturnal cries of hyenas and jackals. Apa Saeeda weaved these into the tales. An enchanting storyteller, her stories revolved around rajas, ranis, magicians and dacoits in villages. In the morning, we woke up to find popcorn packets and chocolates under our pillows, quietly placed there by our guilty parents.

  We went for walks around Diplomatic Enclave and frequently sat on the grass under the shade of the treess. In springtime, we collected kachnar flowers strewn on the pavements. Apa Saeeda tied these loosely to one end of her dupatta and brought them home. She cooked delicious dishes with these flowers.

  It was Apa Saeeda who initiated me into the art of cooking. She believed that girls must learn ghardaari, housekeeping skills. When I argued that Ammi never knew how to cook, she replied, ‘Your Ammi is a shahzadi, princess. May Allah always keep her in this grandiose style. There are a dozen of us to look after her needs. May Allah bless you with a similar destiny, but life cannot be trusted. Only Allah knows what your destiny is. If you go to your marital home and don’t know how to cook, they will blame me for bringing you up badly. And you know that I can put up with anything but beizzati, disrespect. Do you want people to point fingers at me?’ That sealed it for me. I loved Apa Saeeda with all my heart and soul. The mere thought that someone might dare defame her seemed sinful. So, when Apa Saeeda cooked, I watched and learned.

  She ensured that we ate our meals on time and without fussing about the contents of the spread. If we did not listen, she employed a standard trick. She would call out to one of the staff boys, ‘Rasheed, la mera burqa,’ get my burqa. This meant that Apa Saeeda was preparing to leave. She wore a white cotton tent-like burqa when going by bus for her occasional visit to Baghpat. Her sister’s family lived there. The threat always worked and we obeyed immediately since none of us wanted her to lea
ve.

  The same threat seemed to work with my parents. Apa Saeeda could not bear anyone, including Ammi, scolding us siblings. If Ammi became harsh with us, Apa Saeeda said, ‘Saaf baat hai, ham apne bachon ke saath ziyaadti nahin dekh saktey,’ making it clear that she would not put up with her children being rebuked. She protected us from punishments and we got away with quite a lot of mischief.

  Apa Saeeda took Ammi doing any chore as a great offence and insult to her person. If she found Ammi fiddling in the kitchen to even make a cup of tea, she would get upset saying, ‘Kya mai mar gayi?’ Am I dead? Ammi rarely got in Apa Saeeda’s way or dared comment that we were being overfed. She did once, and Apa Saeeda accused her of casting nazar, evil eye, on ‘her’ children and told her not to interfere in what ‘her’ kids ate.

  Baghpat remained a threatening word throughout my childhood. It symbolized something that took Apa Saeeda away from us. She had a niece called Waseema who lived in Baghpat. Apa Saeeda loved her and that made me feel jealous. I remember telling her that I wished Waseema would die so we could have her all to ourselves!

  On reaching the age of five, both my brothers and I were admitted to boarding schools in Shimla. Later, some of our cousins joined us in the school. Ammi was very no-nonsense mother and believed that Apa Saeeda’s and my grandmother’s mollycoddling and indulgence was spoiling us kids. My parents thought we needed discipline and sent us away from home.

  A family photo clicked at Mahatta & Co., Delhi, 1970

  A birthday party at home

  The girls of Shama Kothi were sent to Loreto Convent Tara Hall and the boys to Bishop Cotton School. The longest spells we came home for were the three-month long winter holidays. Convinced that the schools did not provide us enough nourishing food, Apa Saeeda pampered us with all kinds of food and fruit throughout the holidays. She tried hard to hide the tears that began flowing long before the holidays ended. Occasionally, she visited us in Shimla during our short school breaks.

  Apa Saeeda lived with us till around twenty years ago. Old and weak, she then moved to her family home in Baghpat. I feel blessed that she lived to hold my son in her arms. We pleaded with her to continue staying with us and wanted to look after her. She adamantly refused, saying she did not want to become a burden. Sometimes she came to visit us for a few days and at times we went to meet her.

  Some years ago, when I last met Apa Saeeda at Baghpat, she had been affected by Alzheimer’s disease. Despite her failing memory, she recognized me. I wrapped myself around her, laying my head in her lap as always. She blessed me and wanted to know if I had eaten. Clinging on to her, I wept and she wiped the tears. A few weeks later, we heard that she had left us forever. I went to Baghpat to grieve together with Apa Naeema, her sister, and Waseema. They showed me a little bundle consisting of all of Apa Saeeda’s belongings: a few clothes, her unused passport and some pictures of my brothers and me.

  Not a single day passes without memories of my wise and beautiful Apa Saeeda. The values she taught help me wade through life. Her cooking tips echo in my head as I stir the pot. Whenever I cook langar, food for distribution, I offer prayers for Apa Saeeda that her soul rest in peace. Inshallah, God willing, we shall meet on the other side.

  Abba, my brother and I in his lap

  Growing up with Amma and Abba

  My father had two younger brothers, Idrees Dehlvi and Ilyas Dehlvi, whom we called Badey uncle and Chotey uncle. Along with Abba and Daddy, they were a part of Shama and other Shama Group publications.

  The delightful aspect of growing up in a joint family was that there were many children. Badey uncle had two boys, Sajid and Kaleem, and Fridaus, a girl. Chotey uncle had three girls, Farah, Rasia and Sarah, and Mohsin, a boy. I was the eldest of the girls and my brother, the eldest of the boys. Both my uncles had women retainers for their families who were called Bua. One was referred to as Farah’s Bua, and the other as Fridaus’s Bua.

  Often, other cousins would come and spend days on end at Shama Kothi. Sometimes they went to school from our home. When close relatives left on a pilgrimage to Mecca or a holiday, they left their kids with Amma, my grandmother. Any given time, there were nearly a dozen or more kids prancing around.

  Our evenings were spent in the garden playing games like pithoo, aankhmicholi, langdi taang, chor sipahi and cricket. We could play in the garden till about fifteen minutes before sunset. We had to move indoors and could resume playing outdoors after the sun set completely. This time of dusk is referred to as dono waqt mil rahe hain, the meeting of two time frames. Amma and Apa Saeeda said it was the time when the jinns stepped out. Since jinns are known to harass young girls and boys, it was best to stay clear of them.

  Playtime was interrupted in the early evening for doodh ka waqt, milk break. Apa Saeeda and the two Bua brought glasses of milk, which had to be drunk before we could resume play. Tea for children remained out of the question. When Apa Saeeda drank tea and I wished to sip some, she frowned and retorted, ‘Chai se dimaagh mey khushki ho jayegi, doodh piyo,’ tea dehydrates the brain, drink milk. Childhood habits die hard and all of us continue to be obsessed with a daily milk fix.

  When we kids fought amongst ourselves, the three women took sides, with each defending their brood and accusing the other kids of bad behaviour. But like us, they quickly resumed their friendship, becoming a watchful trio again. A favourite outdoor activity was cycling. We rented cycles from the local market at two rupees an hour. With the roads not being crowded, we were permitted to cycle in the neighbourhood. On returning, Apa Saeeda readied our snack of French toast. I doubt if those were French in origin, but that’s what we called the slices of fried toast that were dipped in batter made from egg, milk and sugar. It made for a healthy and wholesome snack. Thick potato fries with tomato ketchup was another favourite. So were Britannia bread slices topped with condensed milk or layers of fresh malai, cream, and honey.

  After the sunset, when the jinns had passed, Amma packed us off in our Comet and Dodge convertible cars to India Gate for ice cream. A company called ‘Joy Ice Creams’ first introduced mango duet ice cream bars. It became a reputed brand but disappeared after some years. In a promotional scheme, the company once offered a pack of playing cards on the purchase of two mango duet bars. We bought them by the dozen and ended up with stacks of cards. That’s when we learnt to play cards, but secretly, as the elders disapproved. We mostly played something called teen do paanch, three, two and five. Once Abba spotted us playing a card game and made us throw away all the packs in the garbage can. He said playing cards could lead to the bad habit of gambling, something haram, not permissible in our religion.

  One of the few restaurants that my parents took us to was an open-air place called Rambles. This wonderful restaurant stood where the Palika Bazaar parking is today. In the seventies, Rambles was a very popular hangout. We loved going there especially on summer evenings. I relished their cold coffee with ice cream, while my younger brother went straight for the Banana Split. An Archies comic junkie, he loved Jughead’s favourite ice cream. This, along with chicken sandwiches, was part of our staple order at Rambles.

  The large number of children frolicking around in Shama Kothi sometimes misled outsiders into thinking that a play school existed on the premises. I remember a stranger walking into the garden and asking Amma about it. After replying in the negative, Amma told us to go and play in the smaller garden that was covered with a larger hedge. This made us less visible from the main road. Amma whispered, ‘Nazar lag jayegi,’ scared of the evil eye being cast on her large brood.

  Warding off nazar is typically done with food items. Apa Saeeda would make us lie down and would then take seven whole red chillies with unbroken stems. She circled them around us seven times, ensuring the chillies touched our bodies. Then she burnt them at the stove. If there were no dhaans, fumes to choke the breath, Apa Saeeda would tell Amma, ‘Nazar jal gayi,’ the evil has been warded off.

  My mother preferred removing the evil eye with eggs
. She made us stand while circling our bodies three times with one whole raw egg. She would then ask us to throw it over the left shoulder in a garbage bin and ensure that the egg broke. If afflicted with a sickness that needed an immediate antidote, three eggs were used one after the other. Ammi still practices this method. Now that we live in flats, the eggs are flushed down the toilet. I hate to confess this, but I do the same thing to Arman Ali, my son who is now twenty-four years old!

  Me as a child

  My brother Faheem and I

  To keep the house protected from bala, tribulations, every mangal, Tuesday, and hafta, Saturday mornings, Amma had cheechdey, inedible meat scraps, littered on the terrace for cheel kavey, kites and crows. These scraps of meat were purchased separately from the butcher. Ammi also did this through the many decades we lived at Shama Kothi. After having shifted to a flat without terrace rights, such indulgences are no longer possible. Ammi remains content to feed the birds bajra and the crows with breadcrumbs on her balcony. In mohallas of the old city, vendors still go around selling scraps of meat, mostly phepdey, goat lungs, for people to feed the crows.

  Most families in our community provide food for at least one or two people every day. Often it is sent to a local mosque for the Imam and his students or companions. This is charity given from whatever is cooked for the family. Food is shared with the belief that God will grant ‘Risq main barakat,’ an increase in provisions.