‘You didn’t sleep, Aliya dear?’ asked Kareeman Bua after she had finished her prayers.
‘I wasn’t sleepy, Kareeman Bua, and . . .’ She fell silent.
‘Do you feel hungry, sweetie? I’ll start the fire and toast up a roti for you.’
‘No, Kareeman Bua, I was feeling sad listening to you read.’
‘Chammi’s father and Najma should have come as well. Chammi would have seen her father, and then, if nothing else, they would have laid eyes on the bed where their mother breathed her last. It’s the changing times—time was they couldn’t rest until they saw their mother,’ lamented Kareeman Bua.
‘You loved Granny so much, Kareeman Bua, I bet she felt the same way about you.’
‘Did Mistress love me?’ Kareeman Bua turned the question around. ‘You weren’t around for your granny’s time, my dear. Who knows if she loved anyone or not! Yes, it was only her youngest that she loved, the one who disappeared off to who knows where; the Khilafat Movement took him—but I was just a servant. Me, Aliya my dear, what standing did I have?’ Kareeman Bua pulled her kameez up as she sat down with her back to Aliya. There were black spots on her back, and white flesh protruded from one of these.
‘What’s this that’s happened, Kareeman Bua?’ asked Aliya. Kareeman Bua quickly pulled down the kameez.
‘My mother came in Mistress’s dowry; my father had died, and I was small. When I grew up a little, Mistress had me married to another servant in the house. It was a brand-new marriage. Because of this I made a slight error in my care of Mistress—this was my punishment for that, that’s all.’ Kareeman Bua bowed her head in thought.
Allah, what a puzzle was this Kareeman Bua. Even after enduring so much torture, she had been devoted to Granny as long as she’d remained alive, and even now she didn’t speak ill of her. Aliya stared at her in amazement.
‘I had eaten her salt my entire life and even now I eat the salt of her children. Salt carries great obligations, Aliya my dear. My mother, may God give her the fate of paradise, used to say that he who does not repay the obligations of salt will not be excused by God. Mistress, if I did any wrong, please do forgive me, so I can breathe happily in the next world.’
Kareeman Bua got up and began tidying the dirty pots and pans, and Aliya felt as though she had overturned an entire container of salt into her mouth and that it tasted more bitter to her than poison.
8
As the sun set, the hawkers swooped in for the kill, each shouting louder than the last. Children and men called out from rooftops and open windows, as everyone hailed their favourite hawkers to break their fasts. Aliya opened the window and glared out into the gali for a moment. The black gate of the high school across the way was closed, and a cuckoo sang from the thicket of trees. Who knows if Shakeel even goes to school or not, she thought. But who would care? If Uncle paid the slightest heed to the household, it wouldn’t fix everything, but . . . suddenly she missed Abba. She would definitely send him an Eid card this year. When she closed the window and came out on to the roof, she felt a slight chill in the air, but all the same she began to stroll about. Children shouted and flew kites from the roofs. Aliya remembered how, as a child, she’d once tried to fly a kite with the child of a Bhangi, and Abba had scolded her sternly. But she was still very fond of kites.
‘Aliya . . .’ Aunty came panting upstairs and stood by her, her face pink with effort. This happened to her every time she climbed the stairs; the very thought of it sent her into palpitations. ‘Here you go, your clothes,’ said Aunty. She laughed after her breathing had returned to normal and held out a bundle. ‘Dye the dupatta and pleat it, then stitch up the pyjamas on the sewing machine—you already have kurtas.’
Aliya opened the bundle with great interest and examined its contents. Inside gleamed a muslin dupatta from Dhaka and blue satin fabric for pyjamas.
‘But, Aunty, how could this be . . .?’
‘Hush, hush, put it on for sure tonight and enjoy your Eid.’ She turned to go. ‘It’s almost time to break the fast, you’re not coming downstairs?’
Allah, where had this clothing come from, who had bought it? No one in the house had clothing made for Eid at all. Aunty had brought it up with Uncle a couple of times, but every time he’d been embarrassed and retreated to his sitting room. So then who had brought this clothing for her? Had Jameel spent his tutoring money on her? Or had Uncle taken Abba’s place and bought it for her? Her heart began to beat with happiness. It must have been Uncle who had bought it.
But in just a short while, she found out who it was. She could hear Shakeel speaking very clearly downstairs: ‘Jameel had clothes made for Bajiya, but nothing came for me. Do I have to get my Eid gift from my friends as well?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, you good-for-nothing!’ Aunty scolded him. ‘Is she not your sister? Why don’t you buy clothes for her yourself? Really, many boys like you feed their entire families.’
‘Yes, when you spend so much time outside the house, wear the clothes there—Jameel is a very good boy,’ said Amma, picking on Shakeel as well.
‘What have I ever got from this house? I guess my friends will have to give me my clothes too!’ Shakeel responded brashly.
‘If you too become like Bajiya, I swear to God, Jameel will make you ten suits of clothing, but no one’s going to care about you when you’re like this.’ Chammi let fly a volley of arrows that pierced Aliya’s heart.
Aliya laid the clothing down on the bed. For a moment, she felt that these were a gift of Jameel’s deep love, but the very next moment they felt clammy and shroud-like to her. A blue-lipped face peered out from the pile of clothing. She trembled, gathered it up and went into her room, stuffing everything into the trunk and locking it. God forbid—could she too be made a fool of? They’re all the same! Men are like quicksilver by nature. All they need is a bit of warmth, and then they climb and climb. Yesterday it was Chammi, now she was the beloved. After that, it will be someone else’s turn.
When she went back downstairs, everyone was basking in the afterglow of their iftar. Kareeman Bua was busy making rotis for dinner. Aunty and Amma were sitting on the beds in the veranda preparing and chewing paan, and Jameel was seated out in the cold on his metal chair, reading something by the light of a lantern placed on a stool. That chair seemed especially vacant during winter evenings; on winter afternoons, Chammi sat on the chair and sunbathed; and during summer and monsoon, the chair sat abandoned near the flower beds.
For a moment, Aliya worried Jameel might catch a cold. By now it had got quite chilly.
‘How are your studies going now? The exam is just around the corner,’ Jameel asked, walking over to her in the veranda.
‘They’re fine.’
Aliya had gone to sit by Amma. She did worry about what would happen if Jameel tried to test her. Even if Uncle didn’t give him the key to his library, she was still convinced of his intelligence.
‘Jameel, you should take a look at Aliya’s studies,’ said Amma.
‘Yes, I’ll definitely take a look, but of course these days I’m also preparing for the MA,’ replied Jameel, encouraged. He gave Aliya a sidelong glance.
Chammi had wandered out at some point to sit in the doorway of her own room.
‘Come over here, Chammi, it’s cold! Come sit in the veranda,’ urged Aunty.
‘I’m fine over here,’ retorted Chammi.
‘Last time too this happened—when war broke out it got expensive here, but that was a different time,’ said Aunty, ‘we didn’t even notice it in our homes. And if we did notice, in those days, my brother . . .’ She suddenly paused, then sighed deeply and continued. ‘In those days, Jameel here was already born, when we got news of my brother’s death.’ Aunty looked around at everyone, but they all sat silently, eyes downcast. ‘But now we feel the expenses . . . now circumstances . . .’ Aunty fell silent because Amma was frowning. Whenever Aunty spoke of expenses, Amma frowned.
‘Everyone eat dinner, otherwi
se it will get cold,’ said Kareeman Bua, spreading out the tablecloth.
Chammi suddenly leapt from her spot, and taking her portion from the plate, she rushed back into her room. Aliya was shocked when she saw her face. Oh my, why did Chammi get angry so quickly? If she had a cause to be angry that would be understandable. How she wished Chammi would just once go back to the way she’d been. Now there was no one to lovingly call her ‘Bajiya’. She glanced reproachfully over at Jameel, but he was staring at her. She started and looked down. Perhaps he’d begun to consider her his property after buying her clothing. Now she wished she could throw a really stinging barb right in his face.
‘But why is this war happening anyway?’ asked Aunty, looking over at Jameel. ‘There’s been a one- or two-paisa rise in the price of everything and that’s made the quality of food even worse.’
‘If you’re such a great supporter of Abba, why do you start quarrels with him?’ Jameel shot back.
‘And you’re an enemy to your father!’ retorted Aunty.
‘Look, it’s obvious, whenever their interests are hurt or they feel greedy, there’s war,’ replied Jameel, speaking as though Aunty was two years old.
‘Oh, cut it out, look at you, just talking nonsense! You’ve never spoken properly; always been a joker.’ Aunty laughed.
‘What does any of this have to do with interest and greed, Jameel Miyan? It’s just a sign of the times—everything’s changed,’ interjected Kareeman Bua. Why should she keep quiet, after all?
‘This is all the fault of people like your father and Aliya’s father. It’s people like them who mess up and cause war, why wouldn’t there be war, when Aliya’s father is turning against the English?’ said Amma, expressing her opinion as well.
Jameel laughed heartily. ‘You’ve got that right; you’re so right, Aunty.’
‘If everyone’s eaten, please send in some dinner for me too, Kareeman Bua,’ called out Asrar Miyan faintly from the desolation of the sitting room.
Uncle was dining out somewhere, so had already departed with his guests, and now Asrar Miyan was languishing in there, waiting for his dinner after breaking his fast with a couple of chickpea-flour phulkas.
‘Hold your horses just a little bit, Asrar Miyan Sahib! I suppose I should decorate your tray and send it in before the family’s eaten?’ snapped Kareeman Bua.
There was such sarcasm in the way she called him ‘Asrar Miyan’. The mock respect was thick with ridicule, but somehow, when Uncle called him Asrar Miyan, the words carried with them a sense of sincerity and equality. Aliya had no idea why all these people didn’t spare a thought for Asrar Miyan.
Oh, Asrar Miyan, if I could, I would decorate the tray myself and send it in to you first of all, said Aliya to herself. She finished her dinner quickly and fled upstairs. Jameel had been eyeing her constantly and she felt incredibly oppressed. She couldn’t even eat in peace.
Once on her bed, she peacefully gathered her books, slid her pillow over and lay down in such a way that the street lamp in the gali would shine directly on her book. When she heard a tread on the stairs, she turned and looked. It was Jameel.
‘I thought I’d test you today,’ he said, sitting down near her.
‘I know it all; don’t waste your time. If I fail, don’t worry, next year is fine too,’ answered Aliya abruptly. The look in Jameel’s eyes spoke fluently of what subject he had actually come to test her on.
‘Will I be wasting my time by testing you, Aliya? Just think how much you upset me by saying such things. If you can’t love me, at least don’t cause me pain.’
‘Cousin Jameel,’ she said in a scolding tone, ‘don’t you feel ashamed when you say such things? Have you forgotten Chammi? She lives with you in this house too. I know everything.’
‘Chammi!’ Jameel looked down. ‘If you know, that’s for the best, but I will tell you truly that I never had any such love for her, I only love her as a sister. You must know that Abba has destroyed this household for politics, but I was not prepared to destroy it myself. Somehow I managed to keep my studies going. Some money Asrar Miyan saved up for me and some that Granny gave me secretly came in handy, but by the time I got my FA, the household had been ruined. Chammi bore all my remaining expenses. I’ll never forget it, but she began to take it the wrong way, and I was too fearful to make her see reason, and . . .’
‘And then suddenly after your BA you started making fun of her and making her see reason that way, right?’ she shot back. Despite having some pity for Jameel she didn’t back down.
‘Now what can I do?’ he asked.
‘Marry her, Jameel, she’s in love with you!’
‘Marry her?’ He jumped up. ‘I had no idea how much you hated me, Aliya, I’ve never loved anyone but you. Look into my eyes, Aliya.’ He grabbed hold of both her hands and placed his head in her lap.
‘I can leave for my mamoo’s house today, understand, Mr Jameel?’ Whom else could she name who would have any importance to him? She felt completely powerless.
‘You can’t go anywhere, Aliya Begum. Just today my mother was saying to Kareeman Bua and your mother that you would live in this house forever.’
‘Who said that? Who are they to decide such things?’ cried Aliya, pushing Jameel away from her like a madwoman. She stood and pulled him up from the bed. ‘Nobody can push me around. I am not Tehmina! Everyone thinks they’re so important.’
Jameel gazed at her red-hot face with astonishment, then quietly turned away, mortified. As he was going down the stairs, Aliya muttered to herself, ‘Useless sham poet—Uncle won’t even give you the key to his library!’
9
Tomorrow it would be Eid. Today, Chammi’s father’s money order had come. Chammi rushed eagerly to sign for it, but when she saw it was only five rupees, her face went red. There was a note on the coupon telling her to have her Eid clothing made with the money. Chammi accepted the five-rupee note and then, standing right in the middle of the courtyard, she ripped it to shreds and threw it to the ground. Everyone cried out in astonishment.
‘The shroud for my father’s fourth wife will cost more than that! Who knows why people even have children; they should just raise puppies,’ she cried. Then she sat down on the bed.
‘Chammi! You’ve gone mad, you could have got such a nice suit for five rupees,’ scolded Aunty, who jumped up and started gathering the shredded bits of the note in her palm as though she intended to save them.
‘Who told you to speak?’ retorted Chammi, standing up. ‘If he were really worried about an outfit for me, wouldn’t he have sent the money order earlier? Are fairies supposed to come in the middle of the night and stitch it for me?’ She stomped off to her room.
Aunty blew on the shreds and scattered them, then sat down on the stool and opened the paan box.
Kareeman Bua finished scrubbing a pot, washed her hands and stood up. She picked up the scraps of the note, tied them into the border of her sari and sat back down to clean the grime off more pots. ‘Allah take this useless paper! Back in the day, there were real silver rupees, golden ashrafis and guineas. I’d like to see anyone try ripping those up.’
Kareeman Bua continued to mutter and Aliya sat under the arch of the veranda, quietly listening. She kept glancing towards Chammi’s room. Who knew what she was doing, lying alone in that desolate and dreary room, tormenting herself. That room gave Aliya the chills. So many days had passed since Granny’s death, but she still felt she could see her wistful eyes darting about the room. She still felt the rasping of her sharp breaths. How could Chammi be made to see reason? Aliya was extremely displeased—Really, Uncle Zafar, isn’t Chammi your daughter? Do one’s children die off with one’s wife?
She went upstairs to her room and began to flip through her course books. Try though she might, she just didn’t feel like studying. Instead, she was troubled by thoughts of Chammi. One day, Chammi would finish herself off if she carried on like this.
The sun was sinking behind the school buildi
ng outside the window. There was much commotion downstairs as the time for breaking the fast drew near. Aliya gathered her books together and piled them on the teapoy. She squatted in the window and began to look outside. Sugar-cane hawkers sang out, balancing metal trays on their heads adorned with garlands of flowers. Aliya didn’t know why she enjoyed their crude voices so much, but suddenly she felt sad. Evenings always filled her with sorrow; she felt overwhelmed by a strange mood.
She jumped down from the window. It was nearly time to break the fast, so she went downstairs to help Kareeman Bua. She felt such compassion for her. Kareeman Bua’s back had grown crooked from sitting doubled over the hearth all day. She often wondered why she wouldn’t just run away. All she received in life was shabby cast-off clothing and the bread and salt of her master. With that much labour she could get a job for ten or fifteen rupees a month at any home. The fruit of one’s labour is only money, but perhaps Kareeman Bua had never even dreamed such things. How proudly she used to declare that her mother had come with Mistress’s dowry! Her mother had served her Mistress until her death, and now she prayed that she might be useful to Uncle. Aliya found it surprising that she’d never seen Kareeman Bua grow dissatisfied with this family. She never tired of her work. Even in these debased times, she was still respectful. She never spoke with a raised voice under any circumstances.
A bedspread covered the takht and the food for iftar had been set out. Aunty was squeezing lime over fried chana. Kareeman Bua rested limply, perhaps feeling weak from the fast. Uncle was seated on the bare string cot in the veranda. He’d taken his watch from his pocket and hung it across his chest, and Shakeel, who sat by him, leant over to check the time again and again. Jameel had cracked down on him recently, so he hadn’t been able to leave the house for too long at a stretch. Chammi stood in the doorway of her room, her ankles visible below the torn filthy hem of her pyjamas. When she saw Aliya, she walked softly over and sat down next to Shakeel without saying anything.
The Women's Courtyard Page 11
