The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  Jameel did not get along with his father. He just wrote bad love poetry, attended poetry recitations and roundly cursed editors on receiving rejections for ghazals he’d submitted to their journals.

  Whenever Uncle was at home, Aunty and Kareeman Bua spent the entire day preparing food for guests. Beef was fried in mustard oil in enormous metal pots, and for the Hindus they ordered puris and vegetable tarkaris from a shop. Kareeman Bua would mutter as she cooked piles of rotis, and tears would come to her eyes when she remembered the sweet scent of pure ghee from the good old days. All the same, the household did function, and everyone certainly ate their fill.

  Whenever household needs were mentioned to Uncle, he’d blush. For some reason, he’d look at everyone with embarrassment, rub his growing belly and then passionately try to reason with everyone.

  ‘When the country becomes free, all our troubles will go away; you all must think a bit more deeply.’

  ‘How deep should we go?’ Aunty would snap sometimes.

  ‘What Uncle means is, go jump in a well!’ When Chammi heard such things, she’d be sure to crack a joke, and Uncle would ignore her words as though he hadn’t heard a thing. Uncle somehow had infinite patience; whenever he was at home, someone would think up a real zinger for him, but he’d just laugh it off and put up with them, or go back out to the sitting room.

  To Aliya, Aunty was the cautionary tale in that house. Her eyes seemed filled with centuries of grief. She alone had taken on the burden of worrying about all these people. Asrar Miyan would sometimes manage to cut a bit of money from the shops to lessen her worries, but he himself would lie in the sitting room until late, calling out for a few rotis like a beggar.

  Despite all these things, Aliya liked Uncle very much, just as she deeply loved her own father, despite all her complaints. She could not understand why she still felt the stirrings of love in her heart towards these agents of the households’ sorrows and ruination. What sort of affection was this, what sort of love was this, that made her long for them at the slightest prompting? Whenever Uncle came home, she would drop everything she was doing and put out water on the stool for him to wash his hands and face. When he lay down exhausted on his bed after washing up, she’d sit by his side and gently massage his head. Uncle would embrace her and bless her, and then close his eyes peacefully, and Chammi would stuff the end of her dupatta into her mouth to stop her laughter, and cry, ‘Oh, my, Uncle is wiped out with exhaustion, work must have been so hard!’

  Aliya found life in this house more contentious and tiring than in her own home, but she kept herself occupied somehow or other. Uncle had given her the keys to his bookcases so that she could read his books and enlighten herself. Along with this he had also instructed her not to let Jameel get his hands on the keys. These books were of no importance to that useless hack, in his opinion. In the silence of the afternoon, she’d take out the books with great care and read them one by one. Her heart felt the greatest sympathy for all the characters in the books who had been shot in the struggle for freedom, fighting for the welfare of man, but she also feared them. She believed that such people loved no one: they got married, had children, then destroyed them. Their own homes had no part in the world. Their families were not mankind, they were thorns in the feet of love that injured you in just a short while. The fates of Amma, Aunty, Kusum and Tehmina all flashed before her eyes. At the age of seventeen or eighteen she’d already become so wise. How quickly worry and sorrow had snatched away her childhood.

  3

  A letter had come from Mamoo. He wrote to Amma that he wouldn’t send all the money at once, as per his wife’s advice, but rather, he’d send thirty rupees a month for Aliya’s education, and this could also be used for clothing and such. One shouldn’t have too much money on hand in bad times, he cautioned, or everyone else would have their eyes on it.

  Amma was very pleased with this letter and her hands shook with joy on receiving the money order three months later, but Aliya felt angry that for one thing he’d responded only after three months, and on top of that he’d decided to send only thirty rupees per month. Would she end up being a burden on Uncle during these hard times? It was useless saying anything to Amma. She didn’t want to upset her by criticizing Mamoo. She slipped off silently to her room, but she was enraged by his letter, and the letter she was longing to receive had not arrived. In those three months, Abba had written only one letter, in which he’d expressed his happiness that they’d gone to Uncle’s house and instructed Aliya to continue with her studies. But he wrote not a word about himself.

  She was just thinking about this when Amma came upstairs. She was out of breath from climbing the stairs, but her face was pink with happiness. ‘My sister-in-law is so clever,’ she said. ‘She must know, after all, that everyone here is naked and hungry, and that we’d be robbed,’ Amma whispered. ‘Ask Jameel to arrange a teacher for you and you can take the exam from home.’

  ‘But, Amma, what can we afford with that money? We should shoulder all our own expenses. It won’t be long before Abba’s back; Uncle’s got him a very good lawyer. Abba will get the shortest possible sentence.’

  ‘Who knows? That officer didn’t even die, but the charge is murder. Who knows when he’ll come home? Oh dear, if he had any decency, he’d have spared a thought for his family . . .’ Amma was perhaps recalling bitter bygone days. Aliya had no way of knowing what she was thinking.

  ‘Mazhar’s Bride! Oh, Bride!’ Aunty called to Amma from the courtyard. Her cry was mingled with the voices of Shakeel and Chammi bickering.

  ‘Coming! Allah, what a disaster . . .’ Amma muttered. ‘We won’t ask them for more money than this. It’s your Uncle’s duty to look after our needs; after all it’s his brother’s fault we’re here. We didn’t come here of our own accord . . .’ Amma went downstairs without waiting for Aliya to reply.

  It was late afternoon. The sun was already low in the sky. Aliya lay face down on the bed for a long time. Outside, a toy seller shook a rattle and sang sweetly, ‘Rubber dolls! Buy a rubber doll! Buy a fun doll!’ Chammi was done quarrelling now and was playing a record on the gramophone with a worn-out needle. Aliya imagined that all the records would be ruined this way, and she resolved to tell Shakeel to get a new box of needles for Chammi.

  The sunlight had turned yellow by now. Kareeman Bua was noisily calling people to tea, but Aliya didn’t feel like going downstairs. She went on to the open roof and lay down on the bare cot, now burning hot from lying in the sun all day. The shouts of children playing on nearby roofs grew louder, and the sky was turning grey from the smoke that rose from nearby houses.

  The cot was still a bit too warm, so she got up and began to stroll about. She felt so dejected. Right then she wished she could just leave the house and go somewhere else. But where? Since she’d arrived here, she’d not once set foot outside the house. Whenever Chammi was in the mood, she’d throw on a burqa and wander from house to house, though only to Muslim homes, because she absolutely loathed Hindus. In this home, Aliya’s world was limited to books. She had taken the key to Uncle’s bookcase and hidden it in her bed. Kareeman Bua was calling out that it was time for tea, so she really had to go downstairs. But just then, Chammi came up with her teacup, her round face looking so grave it was almost foolish, and her eyes slightly pink.

  ‘What’s wrong, Chammi?’ asked Aliya as she took the cup.

  ‘Nothing, I just got a letter from my father.’

  ‘So everything’s okay, isn’t it?’ Chammi’s seriousness made her feel fearful.

  ‘No, Bajiya, He’s written that now he’ll send only ten rupees a month. I’ve got another little brother that was just born, so expenses have also increased. That’s why he’s reduced it by a full five rupees.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what’s wrong! Congratulations on your new brother, Chammi.’

  ‘Why have I started having brothers! God willing he’ll die; all my brothers and sisters died with my mother. Now I’m all alone,
I have no one.’

  ‘Don’t say such things, Chammi.’

  ‘Then you tell me, no matter how many times my father marries, no matter how many of his wives have spawn, will they all still be my brothers and sisters?’ Tears had started in her eyes. She looked so innocent at that moment—she had the sort of face that looked terribly innocent even when she was fighting or going red with rage.

  Aliya hugged Chammi. At that moment, Chammi’s father seemed the most heartless creature in the world. He’d pursued no other occupation in life besides changing wives. After the death of Chammi’s mother, he’d married twice and divorced both wives over the slightest things. He also had a strange way of getting divorced. He’d go into the sitting room and write out his divorce papers, then sent them to his wife. After that moment he’d begin to observe purdah from her. But the fourth wife had caused him a world of trouble. After giving birth to an endless succession of children, she had pinned him down so that he was powerless. In the meantime, Chammi had become a nuisance to all of them—her father ceased to shower her with affection and instead made her the scapegoat for his sorrows.

  ‘I’m totally alone, Bajiya! But everyone likes you, even Jameel. Whenever he comes in, he just hangs around you.’ She laughed sarcastically.

  Aliya trembled and glanced at Chammi. She saw in that moment Tehmina’s lush green mehndi plant dried up and turned black, and the last drops of water from Kusum’s white sari soaked into the ground. My heavens, I won’t be stupid as they had been. No such thing will happen to me, least of all with that idiot! Why, Uncle wouldn’t even give him the keys to his bookcase.

  ‘Chammi, you’re such a child! What must you think of me? Even if ten Jameels came along, do you think I’d let them ruin me?’

  Chammi stared hard into Aliya’s eyes as though searching for the truth; then feeling reassured, she hugged her. ‘That’s what I thought. I thought, our Bajiya could hardly be like that.’ She laughed very proudly. ‘But, Bajiya, tell me, how am I to survive now with so little money?’

  ‘Nobody ever even sends me ten rupees, Chammi,’ she said, thinking of Abba.

  ‘What, won’t my ten rupees belong to you as well, Bajiya?’ Chammi pouted and picked up the teacup.

  ‘Sure, that’s fine. But then I won’t give you one paisa of it,’ said Aliya to cheer her up.

  ‘Oh, and Bajiya, there’s going to be a rally tomorrow in my room.’ It seemed Chammi had already forgotten everything.

  ‘What sort of rally?’ Aliya looked at her with surprise.

  ‘Why, a Muslim League rally, of course, Bajiya!’

  ‘But Uncle will be angry—why don’t you just join the Muslim League as a member in your heart?’ asked Aliya, trying to reason with her.

  ‘Who is he to get angry with me? Do I forbid him from going to Congress Kaffir rallies?’

  ‘But what good will come from you being in the Muslim League?’ asked Aliya. She felt sad that everyone here was quite mad.

  ‘None—I’m just a Muslim, so I belong in the Muslim League.’ Chammi laughed proudly. ‘I’ll give people sweets—bataashey—Bajiya, those will be good, won’t they?’

  ‘Chammi, you’ve got so little money, and you need to make it last the whole month; why are you pointlessly getting involved in such things?’ Aliya again tried to reason with her.

  ‘What? What does this have to do with money? I would sacrifice my life for the Muslim League, our Kaffir uncle will see!’ Then she suddenly dashed downstairs, as though she’d just remembered something.

  ‘Oh, Chammi! Why are you trying to get yourself in trouble?’ Aunty was calling from downstairs. Aliya moved away from the roof and stood by the window in the large room. From there she could see the courtyard downstairs.

  ‘She’s an extremely disobedient girl. I’ve seen the new way of women also going to rallies—have men not ruined enough homes that way?’ Amma was sitting on the bed in the yard, chopping betel nut.

  ‘I do what I want,’ said Chammi in her peculiar way, and she put on the burqa she was holding and went outside.

  ‘What can I do? Even when her uncle gets mad at her, I feel sad.’ Aunty was perched beside Amma. Granny began to cough loudly, so Kareeman Bua quickly rushed off to her room.

  4

  In the evening a long, threadbare dhurrie was rolled out in Chammi’s room and all the mohalla’s children started coming in and sitting down. Granny’s bed had been moved to a corner of the courtyard. Kareeman Bua had sprinkled water around it. Granny held a small fan in her hand and gently waved it as she listened to the din of Chammi and the children in disapproving silence. There were signs of distress on her face. Aliya sat down at the head of the bed and took the fan from her hand and began fanning Granny herself.

  ‘Come, Bajiya, you come to my rally too,’ urged Chammi, as she grasped Aliya’s hand and tried to pull her away.

  ‘Not me, Chammi, I don’t like such things at all.’

  ‘Then don’t come, the rally will hardly be ruined without you,’ said Chammi with a pout. ‘I always knew you’d take Uncle’s side!’

  ‘If you knew, then good. Aliya doesn’t go in for such foolish things,’ Amma snarled at Chammi, but Chammi gave no answer and her face fell as she quickly went into her room and started shouting slogans with the children.

  ‘Oh dear, now what am I to do, Mazhar’s Bride, her uncle’s in the sitting room; if he hears the slogans, what will happen? I’ve told her again and again, “If you hold a rally, at least read Milad at the beginning,” but she doesn’t listen to me,’ fretted Aunty, who seemed quite upset by Chammi’s rally. ‘Really, what was her father thinking; why doesn’t he just have the marriage vows read over her and get her settled?’

  ‘Let he who enjoys it get married,’ retorted Chammi from the doorway, before getting back to work.

  ‘Oh dear, Shakeel, do get up and close the sitting room door so the noise doesn’t reach there.’ Despite the fact that Aunty disliked what Chammi had said, she still seemed to be protecting her.

  ‘Why should I close it? If Abba breaks her bones one of these days, it’ll be a good thing,’ snapped Shakeel, jumping up excitedly. He had been sitting and patching his school bag nearby.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense. Chammi is much older than you.’ Aunty stared at him angrily and Kareeman Bua got up to put the tea things on the tray. She closed the door of the sitting room and then began again to set the tea out. After shouting slogans, the children were singing along with Chammi:

  The tulsi was planted in Kashi; the goats ate it all up

  Mourn, Gandhiji, the Hindu grandmother’s dead!

  At this spontaneously composed song, Aliya burst out laughing, but when she saw Uncle standing by the door of the sitting room, she got worried and called out to Chammi. Chammi turned and saw, and then began calmly handing out bataashey to the children.

  ‘Good God, this mad fool of a girl won’t listen to reason. I’ll break her bones one day.’ Uncle stormed out into the yard, his face pink with rage, and the children took off in a swarm. One of the children’s sweets fell to the ground and broke into pieces and he gazed up at Uncle with frightened eyes as he picked it up.

  ‘Oh, well, you’re very intelligent, aren’t you? Are you taunting me for my ignorance after giving me such a wonderful education?’ Chammi saw no reason to keep quiet.

  When Uncle lunged towards her, Aunty intervened. ‘Mercy! What is this madness? You’d raise your hand against a young girl?’ She began to hyperventilate.

  ‘Oh, come on, Aunty, let him beat me, it will make him feel so much better,’ challenged Chammi obstinately.

  Aliya wanted to grab Chammi’s hand and take her back to the room but Chammi pushed her away. Kareeman Bua stood there dumbstruck and Granny’s breathing became laboured as she attempted to say something, but Amma just sat there on the bed, watching it all like a spectator.

  ‘Chammi, go inside, sweetie, won’t you listen to me?’ Aliya attempted to coax Chammi, but Chammi just looked a
t her strangely, before going back into her room.

  ‘What should I do? How everyone frustrates me, Aliya dear! You try to reason with these people,’ said Uncle sadly as he looked over at Aliya. His anger had dissolved; he felt powerless and wanted encouragement. A short while later, he returned to the sitting room with his head down, and for a while there was silence all around.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, that I should be forced to witness such things in my own lifetime!’ Kareeman Bua sat down on her stool and was speaking to herself. ‘And this is the family of the late Master Muzaffar; he must be rolling over in his grave, right now!’

  As night began to fall, Kareeman Bua lit the lanterns and placed them all about and made up the beds in the courtyard. Chammi could be heard sobbing softly in her room.

  ‘What will become of Chammi?’ Granny asked softly, looking at Aliya. By now her breathing was under control. ‘My love for everyone doesn’t let me die.’

  Aliya didn’t know what to say. She held on to Granny’s hand. Life was so full of confusion. Chammi didn’t care about Granny at all, but even when she was lying on her bed, she was a support to Aliya.

  ‘What’s happened, Aliya Madam?’ asked Jameel when he entered the house. He came and sat down on the rusty metal chair. ‘Everyone’s so quiet right now.’

  Hearing Jameel call her ‘Aliya Madam’ made her feel as though he were spewing venom. She remained silent.

  ‘There was a Muslim League rally here; then your father scolded Chammi. That’s all,’ replied Amma rebelliously.

  ‘Great! Great!’ He laughed loudly. ‘Then I imagine my father must be livid right now. Amazing! What a great man he is, my father, isn’t he? And this home is a wonderful example of that. He’s been a slave to the Congress for years and hasn’t been able to get me a job even though we have Congress rule now.’ Jameel laughed again.