Kahani

by Aamer Hussein

  “Counting on the fifty rupees I had, I thought we’d stint and save. But the problem was, where to stay? I asked the lady of the house for a little extra space; I’d be with her day and night, and do some extra work too. She refused.

  “The servant who had come with me offered: ‘Sister, don’t worry, I’ll arrange somewhere for you to live. There’s a temple nearby where a lot of people have taken shelter. You’re sure to find cover there.’ So, aunt, I accepted the job and the place to stay. The temple was full of people. I, too, claimed a little space, spread my blanket and seated my children. After a whole day’s wandering I felt completely spent. I sent for some food, fed them and put them to sleep, and then I wept in self pity half the night. I may have come down in life but the atmosphere in the temple was not for me. Next morning, I took both the children with me and started off. I went to the lady who’d given me the job, did her shopping, and then washed dishes.

  “Now I decided to take matters in my own hands. In this vast city, there must be some corner where we could seek refuge. There were several large mansions in that area. Taking my courage in both hands, I entered one of them, leaving the children outside. I found that four displaced families were occupying the mansion. They seemed to be very decent people. I told them my plight and asked for some space to live in. They felt sorry for me and told me to occupy the lodge that either the gatekeeper or servants must have lived in. I thanked them and I thanked my creator. I brought the children inside. The other tenants didn’t have any servants either so they employed me to do their shopping. Each family paid me five rupees. That gave me an immediate secure income of thirty rupees a month. The very next day, I took my son to the market. I already had the fifty rupees with me; I bought a straw mat, a clay pot, another pot for water, some lentils and spices, and a ladle. I also bought material for a proper set of clothes for each of the children, a needle and thread and a pair of scissors. All that cost me twenty rupees. I stitched the clothes the whole day. In the evening I freshened the little ones up by giving them a bath. I didn’t bother much about myself; after all, I was reduced to being a serving maid.

  “Next day I set out to look for more work. I saw a very grand looking mansion. I entered. It was inhabited by a large family, about twelve with some children. They were local people and seemed very comfortably off. They already had a cook but were looking for a maid. I was given a job at fifteen rupees a month. I sighed in relief. My job was to buy meat and groceries for five families, in differing quantities. Sometimes I’d talk the butcher into putting in an extra bit, which I’d add to the stew I made for the children. The inhabitants of the mansion used a lot of clarified butter in their cooking. It was winter, and a lot of fat would congeal in the dishes which I’d fill with boiling water so the ghee would rise to the surface. The next morning I was able to skim off a whole layer of congealed fat and use it to cook the children’s stew.”

  ‘I said, “Ughhh, my dear, weren’t you revolted?” Saliqa Begum replied, “Why aunt, what reason was there for revulsion? Haven’t you heard that when you’ve been starving for three days even forbidden food becomes lawful? Thank God, I didn’t have to demean myself by asking anyone for help. I can’t tell you; the days and nights of distress I have lived through! Wherever I worked, I’d collect turnip peels and discarded greens and bring them home. I’d taught my daughter how to clean and boil them, and when I came home I’d add chillies, salt, garlic and a little powdered mango to the soft leaves she’d prepared and stir fry them in a little oil. Or sometimes I’d cook lentils or split peas with lots of spices. For sweet I’d soak dried bits of bread and cook them with a bit of jaggery. It tasted delicious.”

  ‘“Where did you pick up all those tricks?” I asked her. “Trouble teaches you everything,” she replied. “It’s worth a hundred instructors. But you shouldn’t give in to distress. Do whatever you can, that’s my motto. Anyway, I had work, but the boy had nothing to occupy him. That was a constant concern.” “Why didn’t you get him admitted to a school?” I asked. “Aunt, he’d already read the Quran, and was in Class Six. He could read and write Urdu. I don’t hold with having your children’s tuition fees waived and then going around begging for books or for money to buy them with. Your classfellows laugh at you if you go to school with torn shoes and shabby clothes. My boy was a sensitive lad; I didn’t want him to have a sense of inferiority, or to dwell on differences between rich and poor at such a tender age, and have his spirit broken. Education today is hardly geared to the acquisition of knowledge: it’s a means to make money. Observing the way times were moving, that’s what I concentrated on: making money. A poor man, no matter how highly educated he may be, doesn’t earn a place in society. Well, Aunt, when the month was over and I got my wages, I prepared some samosas with minced meat, gave them to the boy, and made him stand with them by the gate of a school. They sold out straight away and I made one hundred per cent profit on them. I made a few more samosas every day. Our belief in the saying, ‘Action reaps rewards’, was justified.

  ‘“Six months later, I got an old wooden tea chest to use as a barrow and hired a lad to fry samosas them on the spot and sell them piping hot. Now all my son had to do was supervise him, and bring home the accounts and the takings in the evening. When I’d collected five hundred rupees, I added a few more items: lentil fritters, kebabs with chutney, and so on. Believe me, aunt, each buyer would spend a whole rupee at a time. For sweets, I’d make coconut fudge and semolina cakes, because they can be stored overnight and sold the next day. When I saw sales booming I added another type of kebab to the menu. I was blessed with divine help and within a year I had rented and was running my own shop. On the first floor of the building there was a flat with a bathroom so I moved in there, gave up my jobs and started managing the shop.

  ‘“Aunt, I’d experienced poverty, so the first thing I did was to have an old fashioned oven built; I employed a baker, and ran a separate menu for the poor. Charging them only for the bread they ate, I’d give them lentils, or vegetables, free, to eat with it. The lentils I made very spicy, so you needed to eat less. Once a week I made meat curry and added some more economical dishes with gravy. Four annas’ worth was sufficient to satisfy a normal appetite. My place attracted hordes of customers.

  ‘“Aunt, what more can I tell you? My boy matriculated in three years. He’d always been intelligent, but he’d had to give up his studies after Class 6 and had been out of school and had no chance to study for a year. He studied hard on his own for two years to catch up. If I’d let him go to school, who knows what bad habits he might have picked up? A boy needs his father’s guidance in his formative years. I was out most of the day, building up the business. He might have left his sister alone and spent his time playing marbles with mates on the street, or flying kites …”

  ‘“I agree, my dear,” I said. “In the old days, playing marbles was frowned upon; but nowadays, in these new schools, it’s quite popular with the boys, and so is flying kites. Not only children, but men of all ages are mad about it and join in the fun.” Saliqa Begum responded, “You’re right: kite flying is an idle pursuit, a sport for the rich, but not for the havenots, how can they afford it? It’s addictive; I’ve seen children stooping to steal, pilfering books, pencils and paper from their classmates’ satchels, to indulge their habit … Thank God, my children haven’t acquired bad habits. Every night, I read them texts from religious books and warned them off lying, stealing and so on.”

  ‘I asked Saliqa Begum, “Do you still run your catering busines?” She replied: “Allah has rewarded my hard work with sweet fruits. By His grace, in this span of fifteen years, my son now owns a hotel. After expenses, we clear three thousand rupees a month. I’m looking around for a suitable girl for him.” I gave her a hearty pat on the back. “What about your daughter? She must have grown up too. You haven’t really said much about her. Is she married yet?”

  ‘Saliqa Begum said, “She got married five years ago. She has a daughter, too, bless
her. It’s her car I’ve come in.” I was impressed. I’d taught her to read and write Urdu myself. She’d learnt to cook at a tender age. All girls enjoy needlework and embroidery, anyway. Providence had blessed her with good looks. I’m not just saying this because I’m her mother, but everyone liked her. A widow with two sons and two daughter lived in the house next to us. We became close friends. Her daughters were in college. They started giving my daughter English lessons. All three of them, mother and daughters, adored her. My friend owned a lot of land. They were locals. My Saleema was just fifteen when she asked for her hand in marriage for one of her boys, but I kept putting her off: they were strangers, after all, and there was the fact that they were rich. I was frank with them; we’re not in your league, I told her. To which their response was that they were interested in Saleema, not in our social status. For three years I kept stalling. Then the boy sat his exams and got a job in the Civil Service. My neighbour became importunate. My girl was eighteen. People kept telling me not to accept their proposal; look for someone among your own countrymen, they said. But I didn’t agree with the idea of separation and bias: how long were we going to hold on to our sense of difference? There are good and bad people everywhere. I’d had a bitter experience with my own people in the refugee camp. People who were in and out of my house during my husband’s time turned coldly away from me. My husband’s own brothers and sisters were left behind; other relatives didn’t reach the new country. They were destined to be martyrs and I was destined to be a maidservant.’

  ‘Saliqa Begum seemed to have lost herself in sad thoughts. I tried to change her mood by asking her what had happened about her daughter’s marriage. She said, “I can’t tell you, Aunt, how many sleepless nights I spent, trying to come to the right decision. No one near enough to take advice from. The boy might be sensible and responsible, but he certainly had no experience. But considering Saleema was already eighteen, I thought that after matriculating she’d want to do her BA and then her Master’s; then she’d find a job, and she’d be past the age of marriage. I think a girl should marry by the time she’s twenty. Many girls are refusing to marry; they prefer to work instead. But there comes a time in a woman’s life when she needs a family around her, a companion for life. Some women become old maids, longing for that kind of fulfilment. Some then end up with married men, or boys much younger than themselves, callow youths who, after a few years, walk out on them. Even old men are on the lookout for brides of seventeen. Keeping all these possibilities in mind, I put my trust in God and accepted my neighbour’s proposal. They’ve been married now for five years, by God’s grace, and there’s complete harmony and trust between our families. The boy’s sisters are married too, and his brother has gone off and married a white woman in London. Saleema lives happily with her mother-in-law. I’ve taught my children obedience to the law of God first, and then to obey their parents and all elders.”

  ‘I embraced Saliqa Begum and said, “What a wise woman you turned out to be! I’d never have thought so all those years ago.” “Aunt”, she said, “in these last fifteen years I’ve learnt wisdom and observed the ways of the world. I’ve now come to the conclusion that, in this era, only the rich are respectable. When I lived in a shed and cooked in a clay pot, and vegetable peelings piled up in the corner of my room, and I went around washing up people’s dirty dishes and doing their shopping, with tangled hair and greasy old clothes, people talked down to me, and I was neither respectable, nor prudent, nor efficient. Now I’m all of those things. People bow and scrape in my presence. My drawing room is compared to the pavilions of Mughal Emperors. My bedrooms have expensive beds in them festooned with mosquito nets. People copy my hand-embroidered table cloths. My dining table is considered unique, and my cutlery and crockery are praised. All of a sudden I’m so praiseworthy and full of accomplishments. My dress sense is excellent. People come to me for advice and suggestions when they’re preparing trousseaux for their girls. And why? Only because I have money. I remember the days when fine ladies would look down their noses and say, Oh, look at these refugees and the filth they carry around! Can’t you even buy a pennyworth of soap? I just kept quiet while my eyes filled with tears. What could I do? I had only one set of clothes. But I didn’t give up, I persevered. Now this is the only advice I give to people: If you want to be respectable, learn to make money.”

  ‘“My dear”, I said, “not everyone has been working hard like you. Lots of people have made quick money by forgery and tricks. People who lived in hovels have laid claim to great houses. Someone who once had a guava tree in his courtyard came here and acquired a whole orchard. Large families who shared one house in the old country have a home for each member of the family here.”

  ‘“But Aunt, didn’t the Government officials make any inquiries into their claims?”

  ‘“Long live fabrication,” I said. “Family papers were destroyed in the riots. People produced four false witnesses by handing out twenty-rupee notes to each of them. The Government had only recently opened a new department and the newcomers and the unemployed had their chance. Many of them lined the pockets of their own families. It’s like the saying: Even a blind man distributing sweets will only give them to his own.”

  ‘Saliqa Begum took her leave. But I kept thinking of her for several days. Her story ends here. Next time, perhaps, I’ll tell you the true story of Lady Ruin, and the mess she made of her life.’

  Translated by Sabeeha Ahmed Husain

  FAHMIDA RIAZ

  Some Misaddressed Letters

  1

  When ‘B’ was murdered in a bleak cell of Kot Lakhpat gaol in Pakistan, Amina was in Delhi. Someone had knocked at the door of her hotel room in the morning. Amina opened the door. It was one of the host poets. He did not come inside. He looked pale, almost guilty.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Amina, not at all thinking about ‘B’. She thought the poetry recital had been cancelled.

  ‘They’ve hanged him,’ he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. They had dragged the case against ‘B’ so long that the Indians had become deeply involved.

  Amina felt numb and cold.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, at four o’clock.’

  Numbness again. Many thoughts flitted through her mind. Then she said, listening carefully to her own words, ‘I always knew. I told Murad so many times. But Murad wouldn’t believe I always knew. Murad is so hopelessly over-optimistic. Naive, that’s what he is.’

  As she finished her querulous flat outburst, she was already taking decisions. Various statements of politicians and the intelligentsia that she had collected to save ‘B’ were now useless. Better tear them up right here. But the books? How to smuggle them to Karachi? Earlier, a friend in the airlines had promised to quietly carry the packets. Now he may not. She must meet him and retrieve them. She must keep her appointment in the Pakistan embassy. In the evening there was a mushaira at the ambassador’s residence. She must go there as well. Act normal.

  In the Pakistan embassy there was a diplomat who had had the queerest relations with Amina. One important part of it was that during the course of the fifteen years that they had known each other, the two letters Amina had sent him had come back to her stamped all over, ‘Address incorrect’. They had wandered from place to place, from one desk to another, and finally, not finding the addressee anywhere, were sent back to her by the post office. Between the sending of the two letters there was a space of several years. They were sent to two different countries. This was a strange coincidence and Amina often wondered if providence had something to do with the twice-repeated non-delivery.

  But Amina was truly fond of this friend of hers. Their friendship of mistaken addresses was long, untarnished, undemanding and gentle.

  Long ago, when she was still in college and he had just joined the Department of Foreign Services, they had met and instantly liked each other. Amina had fallen in love with him but he had gently discouraged her. However, young aspiring poets in India
are by literary tradition trained not to register the clearest message of rejection. Indeed, some of the best poetry sings of such unilateral passions. It is a poetry of savouring one’s own longing and the many wondrous ways in which it manifests itself. In the Indian classics, this love is like the stilled flame of the candle upon which the yogi and the sufi fix their gaze. (In other cultures this one-sided perseverance may appear entirely useless and laughable!)

  For Amina, her love for this young man was like the legendary flame in the faraway palace on which the washerman fixed his gaze as he stood in the freezing waters of the Yamuna through a long, cold night. You do not notice when the first lights of dawn gently unveil the sky and the flame melts into daylight, imperceptibly bringing into relief the sprawling landscape, the vision of the palace itself on the distant banks of the Yamuna.