The evening before, they hadn’t spoken to Granny at all, as they were exhausted from the journey, and anyway, Granny had been suffering from an asthma attack. Now, when Granny saw Aliya, she held out her hands. The flesh sagged from her thin withered arms, but even in this state of extreme weakness, grandeur still emanated from her person. Aliya respectfully clasped her outstretched hands and rested her head gently on her chest. Chammi was tidying up her messy bed. No one had even blown out the lantern in the alcove from the night before.
‘Mazhar never comes! My eyes long to see him,’ sighed Granny. Aliya pursed her lips. Everyone had hidden from Granny that her son was in jail and that too for attempted murder.
‘He never gets time off, Granny, and now his workload has increased and that’s why he sent us all to stay here.’ She looked about, avoiding Granny’s gaze.
‘Thank goodness, everyone is gathering together again, who knows, perhaps your youngest uncle will come home as well.’ Granny’s eyes shone at the thought.
Chammi raised the chimney of the lantern and blew out the flame. There was nothing in the long room but two high black beds and two chairs. On the wall hung a portrait of Maulana Muhammad Ali Jauhar, its frame caked with the grime and dust of countless storms.
‘Has my dear Mazhar sent a letter?’
‘No, Granny, he’s always so busy.’ She felt pained at the thought of Abba.
‘That’s fine, that is the glory of men, that they work; now your youngest uncle . . .’ Granny propped herself up a bit on her bolster. ‘You do know, don’t you, that he went away during the Khilafat Movement and never came back. The Khilafat Movement was all the rage back then. I don’t like such things, but in other homes, women were embroidering caps and gathering donations. They wrote songs too. What was that lovely song?’ Granny pressed her temples as she tried to recall. ‘Yes, I remember: “Don’t worry about your old mother / Put your life into the Khilafat, my son.” But all these are senseless things; that’s how your big uncle got caught up in his ridiculousness. But who listens to me now, anyway? Perhaps he’ll come to his senses some day and . . .’
‘Oh my, this room is getting so dirty and on top of that, the smell of Granny’s spit and pee! But I’m not about to let my granny stay in some other room! This is my own room—Big Aunty says that I was born in this very room,’ said Chammi, as she rushed out, soon returning with a broom. Today she was suddenly thinking a lot about cleaning. She felt embarrassed by the filthy room and kept glancing over at Aliya, and Aliya was wondering to herself where Abba might be, which jail he might be in, when a letter from him might arrive.
Granny was out of breath after even this small amount of conversation, but when Chammi started kicking up dust with her broom, she had a violent asthma attack. She coughed so much she couldn’t breathe. Aliya was alarmed and began stroking her chest, but Chammi continued to sweep in a leisurely fashion. Sweat poured from Granny’s face and her eyes popped in distress. Aliya stood up in alarm. Kareeman Bua bustled in and sat by Granny, her hands covered in flour.
‘Mistress, Mistress . . .’ said Kareeman Bua, in an agitated attempt to soothe Granny. She held one hand on her own breast as though to stop her heart from sinking.
‘Oh dear! Chammi, quickly tell Aunty to call the doctor,’ cried Aliya, who was seeing a strong asthma attack for the first time.
‘Enough, you are too much, Bajiya! Does the doctor come for such a little thing? Granny gets these attacks all the time. There’s a sweet paste in a small box at the head of her bed. Give her a little pinch of that. Who has the money to call the doctor every time? You’re getting upset for no reason.’ Chammi hid her face in her dupatta to stop her laughter.
Aliya gazed at her with astonishment as Chammi pushed the dirt out of the doorway and into the courtyard. What if she fell ill herself, she worried. Abba always called for the doctor at the slightest sneeze, but here Chammi laughed at the mere mention of a doctor. The sound of coughing echoed throughout the house, but only Kareeman Bua seemed to hear it. Everyone else was engaged in their own activities. No one came rushing in. A little while later, Granny’s breathing returned to normal, and she lay down, exhausted. Kareeman Bua wiped the sweat from her face.
‘Now how are you feeling, Mistress?’ What pain there was in Kareeman Bua’s eyes! When Granny said, ‘Hmm,’ and closed her eyes, Kareeman Bua suddenly remembered she’d been kneading dough.
‘Call for Chammi,’ said Granny softly; so Aliya went to the doorway and called out to Chammi.
‘Tell her I’m coming after I wash my face; she calls for me all the time.’ Chammi was sitting on a stool in the yard washing her face and hands, muttering to herself. All the stories of Granny’s grandeur collapsed right before Aliya’s eyes.
‘Come quickly, Aliya, set the luggage up properly,’ called Amma from the veranda. So Aliya quietly slipped away. Granny was now sleeping peacefully, her eyes closed.
Cousin Jameel squatted out in the courtyard under the arch of the veranda. He looked exhausted after putting away all the luggage. She examined him carefully for a moment. He was good-looking, but his eyes were small and sunken. There was such depth in his eyes that one felt embarrassed examining them too closely.
Amma seemed irritable, as though she was on a long journey and her final destination still lay far off.
And when will this journey end? Aliya asked herself, as she walked over to her bedroll, which lay on one side in the yard. Her trunk and bedding had to be carried to the small room upstairs.
‘I’ll take it up, Bajiya!’ cried Chammi. The tattered hem of her skirt dragged along the ground as she began to pull the strap of the bedroll.
‘Get out of the way, you idiot.’ Jameel got up and began forcefully pulling the straps from Chammi’s hand.
‘Watch what you’re doing, Jameel! I don’t want to respond to you because Aliya is here, otherwise . . .’ Chammi’s face had turned red. ‘Out of the way, please, I’m going to take her bedding up myself.’ Chammi jerked Jameel’s hand away and dragged the bundle up the stairs. Jameel sat back down on the chair and began to watch the spectacle with great relish. Dust swirled all about as Chammi dragged the bedroll.
‘Oh, no, Chammi! You’ll fall! Why do you always invite trouble for yourself?’ Big Aunty stopped making paan and got up anxiously.
‘Let her fall, Amma, let me see her helpless too sometime,’ Jameel laughed awkwardly.
Oh my, how amazing! thought Aliya. It makes you happy to see her helpless, Jameel? Then you must be thrilled with me and Amma. She glanced at Jameel sarcastically and then looked down again. He’d been watching her out of the corner of his eye since they’d got there. She quickly followed Chammi up the stairs, but she’d already got the bedroll up. Chammi smiled very proudly when she saw Aliya.
‘Look, Bajiya, I brought it myself. Jameel thinks he’s so great, he just brought a little bit of luggage up and now he’s sitting down all tired; if he’d carried up the bedroll he’d be panting away.’ She laughed loudly. ‘Oh no! This hem ripped too,’ she exclaimed examining the hem of her pyjama as though she’d only just noticed it. How could she admit that the hem had already been torn when she’d taken the pyjama out of her chest to put it on. This ancient fabric that now protected her body had belonged to her late mother.
Aliya began to unroll the bedding with Chammi. Twilight had fallen, but the street lamp had not been turned on yet. She rolled up the bedding she’d slept on the night before and then made her bed with her own. In the meantime, Jameel had brought her trunk.
‘Aliya, this room will be good for you, won’t it? I used to sleep here before. Its greatest advantage is that you get the electric street lamp for free here. This is where I prepared for my BA—and if it weren’t for that I would probably have ruined my eyes with lantern light. The large room next door was always empty as well. No one ever came up here . . . just a bat every now and then.’ Jameel glanced over at Chammi out of the corner of his eye, but she had very quietly left the room
and walked out on to the open roof.
Was Tehmina really supposed to marry this creep? Aliya thought with disgust. Really, she wouldn’t have lasted more than a few days with him. Was this the same person she used to enjoy discussing with her sister?
Aliya set up her chest and, without saying anything to Jameel, went over to Chammi. She turned to look as she went; Jameel was rooted to the spot.
‘I can’t tell you how excited I was to meet you, Bajiya,’ said Chammi. ‘Uncle and Aunty had said such wonderful things about you. You’re educated, right? That’s why Uncle wanted to marry Tehmina to Jameel. But I’m completely ignorant, aren’t I, Bajiya?’
‘You are already sweet, Chammi. You don’t need to study! I’m happiest of all to have met you,’ she said.
‘I can write letters, and read too, I just haven’t been to school,’ Chammi told her proudly.
‘You’re not at all happy to meet her, you’ll never be happy to meet anyone here, you’re just showing off and trying to act like educated girls do,’ said Jameel with amusement, and he began strolling about the roof, swinging his arms. Neither of the girls had even noticed him walking over and standing behind them.
‘Who knows what has happened to Jameel today. Now that he’s seen you he’s been putting on airs. Bajiya, it used to be he couldn’t do anything without me.’ Chammi glanced at Jameel sideways.
‘I’m telling you to go downstairs now, Chammi.’ For some reason Jameel had suddenly turned serious.
‘Why should I? My father also owns a share of this house! I can go where I want to, you think you’re so . . .’
‘Okay, then I’ll leave,’ Jameel said, and strode off downstairs.
All this conversation seemed quite odd to Aliya. She looked at Chammi with surprise.
‘Bajiya, don’t let it bother you, things like this happen here every second.’ Chammi looked quite embarrassed.
‘All right then, I think I’ll set up my books now,’ said Aliya. Suddenly the thought of her education began to worry her. Dear God, how would she study now? Where would the money come from? But then she recalled that Amma had stored up quite a bit of money with her brother and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Chammi suddenly remembered something she had to do for Granny and quickly ran downstairs. As Aliya arranged her books on the table, she was pleased to see that Jameel had spread a tablecloth on it. It was the same tablecloth that had been on Jameel’s table the night before. Well, then, he did respect her.
Once her books were arranged, she started gazing out of the window into the gali below. A circle of light lay beneath the street lamp and a hawker was coming from the other end of the lane. On his head he balanced a tray decorated with a lamp with two wicks.
‘Come downstairs, Aliya, dear!’ She heard Aunty call out in her heavy voice and stood up quickly.
Downstairs, Amma was coming out of Granny’s room.
‘It’s got colder since last night’s rain,’ she said, ‘so Granny’s health is worse. Cold is the worst enemy of that illness.’
Aliya went into Granny’s room as well. Chammi was sitting on her bed, mending old clothes and happily humming an old ghazal:
These are pieces of my heart that are emerging as tears
She suddenly forgot her song when she saw Aliya, and tried to hide the pile of old clothing under the quilt. ‘Granny is totally fine now, Bajiya,’ she assured her.
Aliya perched on Granny’s bed frame. Granny lay motionless with her eyes closed. Her chest still rose and fell. Aliya was reminded of a blacksmith’s bellows she had seen as a child. Who knew when the fire of life would be extinguished? Tears of sympathy came to her eyes. The light from the lantern in the large alcove was growing dim. Aliya quietly hid Granny’s hands beneath the quilt.
Kareeman Bua came into the room, bent over double, and leant forward to examine Granny.
‘Mistress,’ she called softly. On receiving no answer, she padded softly away. Her hands were smeared with damp ash.
‘Is Granny sleeping?’ Shakeel asked as he peered in from the doorway.
‘If she’s sleeping, what’s it to you?’ Chammi replied jeeringly.
‘Shut up, hotshot,’ Shakeel snapped.
‘Come on, Granny is sleeping, do be quiet, dear Shakeel,’ said Aliya anxiously as she stood up.
‘Aliya Bajiya, I need some money, I have to buy books.’
‘Granny’s not well right now,’ said Aliya, trying to reason with him.
‘Of course she’ll give you money, she’s got piles! You’ve taken everything while pressing her feet, he’s a swindler, he is,’ Chammi snapped. ‘There were so many guineas, and you spent them all, every one.’
‘But you’ve never pressed her feet; poor Granny is lying there in pain, and this one lazes around like a queen,’ Shakeel retorted.
‘Don’t talk to me, you wretch, just wait and see what I’m going to do to you.’ Chammi jumped up from her bed. Granny opened her eyes for a moment and then moaned and turned over. Aliya pulled Shakeel outside. Kareeman Bua was setting out the lantern on the stool in the yard. She muttered something to herself and then went into the veranda.
‘Really, Shakeel, you’re growing up now, but you still quarrel; Chammi is much older than you,’ Aliya pressed his shoulder, but he said nothing. He wiped a tear with his sleeve and stood with his head down.
‘It’s wrong to quarrel, my brother,’ said Aliya giving him a hug.
‘Granny loves me, she says that I’m like our youngest uncle—that’s why Chammi gets jealous of me. Also because Granny keeps giving me money for books. Chammi hates that most of all; but who else can I ask, you tell me? My father, Jameel, Amma—all of them just start yelling if you bring up money.’ Shakeel began sobbing like an innocent child.
‘I have two rupees. Will you take them?’ asked Aliya. Shakeel hugged her tightly for joy. ‘You can get the money from me in the morning and go buy your books.’
‘Okay, Bajiya.’
She pushed aside the canvas curtain and entered the veranda. Amma and Aunty were sitting on the takht. Amma was totally silent, but Aunty was cheerfully chopping betel nut. The moment she saw Shakeel, she turned towards him. ‘Do you even study or do you just wander about? I’ll be surprised if you don’t fail your exams.’
‘I don’t wander about, I study with my friend. I don’t even have all the books! You’re always scolding me for no reason,’ retorted Shakeel. Aliya saw that Amma was regarding Shakeel with alarm and disgust.
‘Bajiya, when I take my Middle Exam, I’ll study at the school across the street; it’s such a big school!’ Shakeel sat down next to Kareeman Bua near the hearth.
‘Spring is coming,’ said Kareeman Bua, as she lit the lantern and went to put it in the sitting room. When she returned, she sat down to knead the dough. ‘May Allah keep Master well; even if he’s not here, there still should be light in his room.’
‘When will Uncle come home?’ asked Aliya.
‘When his rally is over.’ Aunty laughed helplessly. ‘If Jameel comes home soon, at least he’ll get a warm roti to eat.’
‘God willing, Master Mazhar will send a letter from jail telling us he’s well. Lord, you alone can protect us.’ Kareeman Bua kneaded the dough and placed the chapati pan over the fire.
Aliya felt her heart ache. She loved Abba so much, though she’d never known a cheery home, and she understood Abba to be responsible for Amma’s bitter existence. She’d come to hate politics—Abba’s goals were so crude, but all the same, she loved him dearly. She felt so peaceful under his protection, but now she was bereft of that protective love.
‘Bajiya, you won’t study in college now?’ Shakeel looked very cheerful now that he knew two rupees were coming to him. The new red school building across the gali was the object of his aspirations. He had high hopes for fleeing his own run-down middle school.
Aliya remained silent, and Amma glanced at her sadly. There was resolve in Aliya’s eyes. Thoughts of Abba made her so uneasy th
at, despite the insistence of Kareeman Bua and Aunty, she just couldn’t eat much, and got up from her dinner quickly. Kareeman Bua continued to mumble, ‘Everyone in the house now only eats like a bird and that lout Asrar Miyan eats so much, my hands ache from cooking, and . . .’
2
In a few days, Aliya knew all of what went on in the house. Uncle, after selling off his estate, had opened two large fabric shops, which at some point he used to run himself. He had built this beautiful house with great pride. In those days there was much bounty, and everyone had been happy, but when his passion had turned to politics, the running of the shops had grown sluggish under Asrar Miyan’s supervision. And whatever earnings they had were now squandered on donations and various other political activities. Uncle had already gone to jail several times and had been chained up and sentenced to solitary confinement. There were huge black callouses on his ankles, and when he washed his feet he’d gaze at those callouses with pride and affection. He was such a stalwart Congress member that he could not tolerate any Muslim-only parties. He even doubted that they were true Muslims. In his eyes, anyone who was a member of any party besides Congress was a traitor to the country.
Uncle was so wrapped up in his own world that he’d forgotten all about his household. He’d married off his first-born and only daughter to an ordinary boy, simply because he was a Congress man. From that time until the present moment, his daughter had spent her life patting out dung cakes in her courtyard and raising her four children. After all, when did Uncle have the time to worry about his daughter’s future or find her a well-to-do family? Aunty had fretted when the daughter had reached a marriageable age, but Uncle could think of no better man than his political comrade. But after just a short while, Uncle had come to loathe that worthy young man, because he’d left politics and got caught up in his few acres of land and his wife and children. Uncle never went to his daughter’s home again.
He’d enrolled Jameel in a free primary school and had not the slightest notion how his eldest son had studied his way to a BA. When Shakeel was old enough to go to school, Jameel had beaten him soundly, and then forcibly enrolled him in the same primary school where he himself had studied.
The Women's Courtyard Page 7
