Kahani

by Aamer Hussein

  When she recovered her health she was transferred from the hospital to the camp. She was irritated when people inquired about her close ones and relatives, turning hysterical on occasions, as if her inner world had been trampled by its experience of terror and injustice. Gradually people stopped asking.

  In the camp Parveen attached herself to a widow who loved her like her own daughter. She would spend her whole day in the camp educating the women and children and people would look at her pityingly. She became everyone’s apa. In the morning and evening it was usual for her to sit down with the younger children, who enjoyed their pupillage under her. Anxious mothers, dislocated from their homes, got some respite and they would sit and speculate in Punjabi with each other.

  ‘Hai nee, what a nice girl! What will become of her?’, one would ask.

  The other woman, overly emotional and sensitive to Parveen’s condition, would strike her breast with both hands and exclaim, ‘Oh, why did the kafirs plunder her honour?’

  In the camp young girls were being married off every day. Those women who are always on the lookout to marry off all the young girls in the world were on the lookout for a mate for Parveen, but to marry her required courage. The youthful male gaze would chase her the whole day – to escape it, Parveen would complete her daily tasks and, before the evening shadows darkened, leave for the fields and sit perched on the raised boundaries, lost for hours in unknown thoughts. Her eyes would search the distance … then she would return, head bowed, silent, her undulating walk suggestive of a sadhu returning to the city from his retreat. Parveen belonged to all. Everyone would fret on her behalf. Parents would worry as she walked with her dupatta pulled right to her forehead and her gaze lowered, attracting the attention of the simple folk. Mature men would respectfully step aside to allow her to pass. She was now in a position to command deference.

  She had no desire to achieve fame in her little camp world. She would meet the adults infrequently, spending all her time with the children. Everyone understood her needs. Those who themselves had broken hearts and whose wounds were fresh lacked the courage to probe hers.

  One evening when she was returning to camp as usual, she met Zainab. She had met and befriended Zainab in the camp. Zainab was around eighteen or twenty years old, from a rural background and with a missing father. After displacement her small family had been located in the camp. She was often seen roaming outside the camp, her eyes and feet running anxiously along the pathways traversing the fields in anticipation of her father. When he returned, they could be settled somewhere and then Zainab’s palms could be reddened with henna. Bad times were upon them. Mothers were always fearful, as Zainab and countless unwed young girls waited with their innumerable hidden desires for their fathers, brothers and would-be bridegrooms whose presence would ensure for them a carefree life. The daughters of Eve desire no more than this; to think beyond it is not possible for these simple village maidens. When news arrives of those who have died, they weep. When the message is of victory and life, they break into smiles. This is the extent of their emotions and their world.

  Zainab blocked Parveen’s path. Apa, you have given up talking about your own people, but do you think they have given up searching for you? Come, there is someone waiting for you there.’

  Parveen was taken aback and for a moment her sober face was shadowed by fear and terror.

  ‘Come, why have you halted?’

  Parveen took a few faltering steps. She did not address Zainab.

  ‘Apa, why are you afraid? Your relatives will not devour you. It’s not your fault …’ Zainab had drawn her own conclusions from Parveen’s confusion.

  The earth and the sky tilted as she saw Hassan in front of her. The universe began to destruct. There was one thought in her mind: ‘Why has he come? Why has he come? Why has he come?’

  Without lifting her eyes or replying to Hassan’s greeting, she stood trembling. Her resolve had abandoned her, she had no idea that she would prove to be so weak. Gradually her lips opened and her eyes lifted. ‘Salaam.’

  ‘Why are you so disturbed?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Then Hassan began talking. ‘I went to the hospital for some work one day. I asked about you and was told that you had been sent to camp. I happened to be passing this way today and here you are. That is good.’ He spoke in clipped sentences.

  ‘Yes, I’m delighted …’ Parveen responded formally. Zainab had

  left.

  ‘You recognize me, don’t you? You remember my name?’ Hassan asked again.

  ‘Yes, well … very well.’

  Hassan kept quiet for a while and then spoke: ‘I don’t know why I get the feeling that you’re a riddle and I want to decipher this riddle. Although I have no right. Even then …’

  Parveen smiled and gave Hassan the kind of look only a woman can. She forgot what she was about to say to him. Her eyes were quizzical. Then she said, ‘For a man each new woman is a riddle. Well, let’s talk of something else.’ Her tone was refined.

  ‘Parveen, I want to talk to you. Not of war. War is the scourge of God. I want to talk of forgiveness and mercy. I want to dream about peace and friendship with you…’

  Then Hassan kept quiet. Parveen was also silent. The stillness spoke and they listened and understood.

  ‘All right. I’ll go now. I’ll come again, God willing…’, he said as he left. Parveen, in a quandary, stood rooted to the spot, staring.

  Hassan would come for short visits. They would sit in a grove, sharing each other’s life stories and the happenings in the world. Parveen talked about her failures and incompetence and sought to convince Hassan of them. It was extremely worrying that Hassan was pursuing her. She would often think of what Hassan was looking for in her. Still, somewhere in Parveen’s heart and the deepest recesses of her soul, there was a hidden happiness which, despite her efforts, would spill from her eyes and which Hassan would recognize. Parveen’s mind would not accept this happiness. She was not convinced of it.

  While recounting an incident from his childhood, Hassan said to her, ‘Look, Peena, there are some matters in which one always remains a child. I think I’m still a child. When I was about five or six I would play in the lane outside. At times one can acquire wonderful things in play, can’t one?’

  He wanted the listener’s assent while telling his story. Parveen, absorbed in the tale, had forgotten her role.

  ‘God takes good care of human innocence. One day I found a pearl, coated in mud and dirt. So beautiful and lovely… at least it appeared that way to me. I cleaned it with spit and polished it on my shirt front. How it sparkled! Then I put it in my mouth and played with it. Peena! I still haven’t understood, why does one want to swallow the things one likes best? There is a spontaneity in a child’s desire which adults learn to repress. But the desire for spontaneity remains. I remember my mother scolded me for this antic and even slapped me. She would say, “Heaven knows what filth he picks up and pops into his mouth.” I sobbed for such a long time, clutching the pearl in my fist. Why did Mother not respect my desire? My tiny consciousness came awake that day and I shed tears of blood. I persuaded my elder sister to sew the pearl on the collar of my coat and hugged it close to me for many days. Perhaps others didn’t like it but I was very happy.’

  Parveen showed her appreciation of this unimportant event with tiny chuckles and Hassan was revived by the continuous magic of her femininity, falling on him as lightly as rain.

  The neighbouring country had unexpectedly attacked in the night, violating all established norms and practices. Many fronts had been opened up and Hassan had to run from one to another. The army was small and the size of the enemy substantial. One man had to do the work of four. Hassan was a lieutenant, and as in this war more officers were being martyred, Parveen began to fear for Hassan’s life and pray for him, ‘Let Hassan return safely. Make sure he does.’

  She sometimes felt as if Hassan was her purpose in life and beyond that purpose
there was no other world. He talked a lot whenever he came: his men were pushing back the enemy on all fronts, the enemy was being defeated, and so on. Parveen would sit silently staring at the sky, unmoved by the result. She could hear nothing beyond the sound of Hassan’s voice.

  Hassan was wounded in the arm by a bullet and got fifteen days leave so he took Parveen home. He was living in the midst of love and war, unmindful of what was permitted and what was not. It is death to retreat in conditions of love or war. Hassan was not prepared either to die physically or face the death of his love. His country was winning the war and it was his personal goal to win his love. A few days later Hassan got married.

  On her wedding day, Parveen imposed a silence on herself and sat lost in it. Despite Hassan’s insistence, she couldn’t describe her feelings. Then slowly a complete change came over her. She turned her entire attention to the home, laughing and chirping the whole day. This was Hassan’s home. It was her home. When Hassan was on duty she would sit on the prayer mat saying all kinds of prayers. She had texts framed from the revealed scriptures and the sayings of the Prophet and hung them on all the walls of the house. When Hassan came home he would find her increasingly drawn to religion. Parveen’s reactions forced Hassan to wonder about her more and more. A barely educated, average, middle-class woman living in a small community, what does she think and why does she behave this way? Why does she read religious and scholarly tracts? Why is she, in this day and age, becoming more and more obsessed with religion? And yet, as the rituals and ablutions to purify and cleanse grew, Parveen’s face became more fresh and radiant. Soon, peace was declared and the land revealed itself in the form of a mother.

  At teatime Parveen appeared different to Hassan. He began to look at her, embarrassing her with his unblinking gaze. Then he took her in his lap and she buried her face in his breast, till it seemed as if the entire universe was confined within the single, shared, warm breath of Hassan and Parveen. Eyes bathed in the clear springs of emotion sparkled, each was spellbound. Hassan broke it by asking, ‘Peena, why are you turning so religious? I’m astonished.’

  ‘I am trying to thank my Creator who has given me so much.’ Parveen spoke with difficulty. ‘Given me so much.’ She kept repeating under her breath, ‘Given me so much, given me…’

  Hassan looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘What has He given you?’ he asked mischievously.

  Parveen shyly lowered her eyes.

  ‘Oh, I see!’ And he kissed and kissed her eyes, drenching her in a shower of trust and intimacy. Like the morning star a single word pulsed in her mind: ‘Victory … victory … victory …’

  In spring the quality of air changes. Hassan got two promotions in quick succession. He attributed his success to Parveen’s lucky star. This woman was fortunate and her honest presence ensured a bright future for him, Hassan became Parveen’s worshipper. This softlimbed, dusky woman ruled over his senses, his heart and his home simultaneously. Her behaviour and her handling of household matters had so overwhelmed Hassan that he was no longer mindful of the world. Parveen combined in her person all the roles of a woman. Like a mother she knew how to upbraid him, she could tease and indulge him like a sister, and offer sacrifices and take pride in him like a wife.

  After his promotion Hassan was posted to another city and he moved with Parveen to a new house, far away from the world which had made her acquaintance. Both were pleased with the change. The routine of their nights and days altered and then a flower was soon to bloom in their own garden. Could anyone be more fortunate than Hassan? Peaceful days and the richness of life surged all around him.

  At the breakfast table, finding that Hassan was not in his usual high spirits, Parveen became anxious. Since their marriage he had not been quiet for a moment. His eyes looked burdened. Parveen felt a deep dread. ‘Hassan, what has happened to your eyes? Why are they so burdened?’

  Hassan put down his cup on the table and remained silent. He still didn’t look at Parveen. She grabbed him by both arms and shook him, nearly at the point of tears herself. ‘Why are you silent? Why don’t you tell me…?’

  ‘I wasn’t able to sleep at night,’ Hassan said in a feeble voice.

  ‘Why?’ Parveen asked impatiently. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’

  ‘I was hardly awake myself, I don’t know what state I was in. I kept having the most horrifying dream. I have been weeping since then.’

  Hassan threw his head back and looked at the ceiling. His eyes grew wet again. Hassan and tears? Parveen was amazed. This man who has played in blood on the battlefield, who has witnessed bodies piled before his eyes and triumphantly leapt over them as the victorious warrior, the courageous and brave soldier, can he be so weak and delicate?

  ‘Tell me the dream. It’ll lighten your burden.’

  ‘Why do you want to hear it, it’ll cause you pain …’

  ‘You have to tell me.’

  Hassan began to speak haltingly. ‘There’s a garden and it’s springtime,’ he said thoughtfully, as if he was pasting snapshots in an album and recalling forgotten names. His voice had deepened.

  ‘Two birds had lost their way and I built them a nest in which they began to live happily. Then somehow the nest caught fire, and their children were also in the nest. Peena…’ He stopped. ‘The blaze grew and I stood weeping. When I awoke my pillow was wet. I was burdened, as if I had set fire to the nest with my own hands. I am the guilty one who has caused the fire and consigned everything to the flames. I was not able to go back to sleep.’

  Parveen was lost listening to the story and waves of anguish swept over her face. She sat silent and trembling. Last night, half-asleep, she had heard the sound of Hassan’s footsteps and felt him bending over her face many times, and then she had turned over and gone back to sleep. Now Hassan was telling the story and everything in the house was suddenly quiet and sombre.

  Neither of them spoke to each other till Hassan’s departure for the office. A heavy fear blanketed their hearts and they were hesitant to see each other’s faces. Can people all of a sudden turn into distant strangers, like uncertain, faceless shadows? Time’s slate reflected two such shadows: trembling, helpless and sorrowful.

  As he left, Hassan reminded her, ‘Be ready. Today we’ll go for a long drive. I don’t want that horrifying dream to be repeated tonight. Maybe walking around will make me feel better. You’re looking tired as well.’ He stooped to kiss Parveen on the forehead on his way out and then left without doing so. There was a determination in his stride which had been absent earlier. Parveen felt a twinge and then a wave of unknown hope and longing swept over her.

  They set out for their outing in the early evening. Hassan was driving the jeep himself. The early evening moon shifted slowly to the west. Parveen sat quietly, clutching her locket in her fist, lost in thought. Hassan had brought her the locket this evening; on the little tablet was inscribed ‘Allah’. God’s name in her fist, and in her heart a world of danger and fear. On the way a dread stillness and Hassan’s silence.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she finally asked.

  ‘You know I always surprise you.’ Hassan spoke as little as possible.

  ‘Yes, you’ve always amazed me …’ She was comforted by his response. She was so used to Hassan’s ways that she did not attempt to go into any further details.

  ‘Go to sleep.’ Hassan rested her head on his shoulders. The jeep kept moving and Parveen appeared to be asleep. Hassan stopped his jeep and very carefully helped Parveen down, as if she were made of fragile glass, and supporting her, began to walk. Perhaps this was the desired destination.

  It was the late evening of a chilly night. Now they were on foot. The sand was shifting beneath their feet and the moments slid slowly by.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Hassan?’ Parveen asked once more, close to tears. She was pregnant and she couldn’t walk very far. Her feet were losing their grip on the sand. But Hassan was dragging her now. The desert was silent except for the wind rustling
through the bushes and the sound of shifting sand. Overhead a field of stars spanned the horizon.

  Hassan stopped. He held Parveen tightly to him, then kissed her and set her apart. He was panting from the journey and the heavy burden he was carrying inside him.

  ‘Parbati! Go! Khuda hafiz.’ He set off.

  A scream escaped Parbati. The dark made it difficult for them to read each other’s expressions.

  ‘Parbati, don’t forget. You have something of mine in safe keeping.’ He stopped and spoke, and then his shadow disappeared behind the bushes.

  ‘Hassan! Hassan!’ Parbati ran after him and fell down. Her arms fluttered in the air, her hands pressed her mouth to stifle the cries lest they rent asunder the heart of silence. Hassan had left.

  Shiv had left Parbati. Adam had pushed Eve alone out of paradise. At this moment she was neither Parbati nor Parveen, but just woman, a worshipper of love and the flower-bearing earth. She lay face down weeping on the desert and her locket with ‘Allah’ inscribed on it kept rolling in the sand. She was scattered by the trinity of the desert: God, Adam and Eve. Separated by politics.

  ‘Hassan, Hassan, Hassan’. Parbati’s golden dream had ended.

  Night was almost over. The light of a new dawn spread its rays on the horizon. A man bending over her was saying, ‘Beat her to death, yaar.’ And with presence of mind she announced, ‘I am Parbati. Colonel Mehta’s wife’. She didn’t want to die.

  On this side of the border she was Mrs Mehta again. Shrimati Parbati Mehta, Colonel Mehta’s wife. She had a clear dusky colouring, was petite but perfectly proportioned, and had a black mole on the left cheekbone as well as the mark of a wound aslant the brow. Her expression was sober. The government circulated her description in the newspapers and disseminated it in handbills. During the war she had set out to spy in the enemy camp. For a while she kept them informed of her whereabouts, then her world changed. Her passion and fervour, like a limpid stream, found fresh channels and a new, rich existence. This way had been opened to her by Hassan. Hassan had watered her garden. She was the mother of his unborn child. The thought of motherhood had elevated her worth in her own eyes: she felt important and splendid. She felt she had come into her own, had penetrated the secrets of her own being. She who was a person in her own right but whom people had taunted as an unproductive woman, infertile earth, her breast was full of treasures now.