The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  Several of Uncle’s guests were seated in the sitting room outside, and Asrar Miyan had already popped his head out several times to take a peek.

  ‘Kareeman Bua, would you please send the iftari out a bit quickly? There are only two minutes left until the end of the fast,’ said Uncle, glancing at the watch hanging across his chest. Kareeman Bua got up, her back crooked, picked up two plates from the takht and rushed towards the sitting room. Asrar Miyan awaited them eagerly—when there were guests, he got to enjoy the feast, otherwise the poor fellow would not get to break his fast until it was too late and the food was practically tainted.

  Amma was seated on the takht in one corner chopping betel nut as though guarding the iftari. She had never performed menial tasks in her life. She did nothing here except for portioning out the food and drink, or criticizing the goods brought by Asrar Miyan, and suspiciously checking the bills he brought from the market.

  Once they heard the crack of the small canon from the nearby mosque, the kettledrums began, and Amma started doling out everyone’s portions on to their plates. Aliya picked up the carved copper jug and began pouring lemon sharbat into everyone’s glasses. Chammi’s plate lay untouched. She had only broken her fast with a few sips of sharbat.

  ‘Chammi, do eat something; you’ll get a tummy ache drinking sharbat on an empty stomach,’ said Aunty, but when she picked up the plate and tried to put it in Chammi’s hand, Chammi pushed it away.

  ‘She’ll eat of her own accord when she gets hungry,’ said Amma. Chammi remained silent.

  ‘She must still be upset about her note, the one Zafar Uncle sent. She tore it up and threw it away. She should have given it to me.’ Shakeel had broken his fast and was already feeling giddy.

  ‘I’d never give it to a beggar like you!’ snapped Chammi.

  ‘Good God, this girl is truly foul-mouthed,’ declared Uncle, staring at Chammi in surprise. ‘One of these days I’m going to pull her tongue right out.’

  ‘I’d never even let you touch my tongue. You spend all your time hanging around with Kaffirs and keep the fast just for show, but let me tell you, there’s a limit to hypocrisy!’ hissed Chammi, scowling with hatred.

  ‘Have you no shame? Does anyone speak to their uncle like this! Have you no respect!’ Aunty immediately scolded her. Her face was turning red with rage at the thought that Chammi would speak this way in front of her uncle.

  ‘I don’t have any uncles,’ said Chammi with complete indifference.

  ‘Hush, dear, why are you even talking to that ignorant fool?’ Uncle leant back on the large bolster and stretched his legs out.

  ‘Yes, no one even talk to me, I’m an ignorant fool! I will eat up all your fancy degrees, and I won’t even burp,’ snapped Chammi, as she stomped off to her room.

  ‘It’s the fourteenth century—now the cow will balance the earth on her other horn and the Day of Judgement will come,’ observed Kareeman Bua. She couldn’t talk back to anyone, so she was thinking of the Day of Judgement instead.

  ‘But really, there is a limit to foul language. You’ve raised a bull in the house, Sister-in-law,’ said Amma, laying into Aunty.

  ‘But now, see here, Mazhar’s Bride, this was her father’s fault. What will the child wear now?’ Whenever someone started picking on Chammi, Aunty immediately came to her defence.

  Everyone fell silent for a time. Uncle closed his eyes. Shakeel got involved with his schoolwork. Kareeman Bua began cleaning the lantern chimneys. But how could Chammi remain silent? She had not yet taken revenge for being given no new clothing. In her dark room she began to chirp out her doggerel:

  Tulsi was planted in Kashi, the goats ate it all up

  Gandhi and Nehru mourn, the mother of Kashi has died

  Uncle suddenly started. ‘Look, someone stop her,’ he said. ‘The Maulana Sahib and everyone are out there in the sitting room; what will they say? Her voice will reach them.’ Uncle was fuming.

  ‘Chammi, for God’s sake, do think a bit. There are guests seated outside.’ Aunty rushed towards Chammi’s room.

  ‘What’s it to you? I’m singing in my own room, this is my room! If I come and sing in your room, go ahead and forbid me. If they hear it outside, let them! Then at least they’ll find out that not everyone here is a Kaffir.’

  She began to sing again just to tease Uncle:

  Tulsi was planted . . .

  ‘Good God, you ignorant fool! What a lunatic! I’m not saying a word, and here you are, out of control. Go ahead now, sing all you want.’ Uncle rushed towards her room. ‘Shut the sitting-room door, Shakeel,’ he said, turning to Shakeel. Then he slapped Chammi vigorously several times. Shakeel shut the door and stood still as though he were watching a show.

  ‘Tulsi was planted . . .’ Chammi shrieked loudly. ‘I will sing, I will sing!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Uncle pressed his hand against her mouth.

  Aunty separated her husband from Chammi, and Aliya stood in the doorway staring at Uncle in astonishment. How strangely he was asserting his authority over the household today, and just because his political beliefs were being mocked. Right at this moment, Uncle seemed like a political thug to her.

  ‘Glory be to God! You’ve raised your hand against a young girl, a motherless child!’ Aunty cried tearfully. She dragged Uncle out of the room, and then Aliya ran in and embraced Chammi, who was lying on the old bed, sobbing.

  ‘Bajiya, go outside,’ cried Chammi. Then she fell completely silent and lay down perfectly still, as though deeply contented.

  Aliya came outside and leant against the archway in the veranda.

  Aunty was weeping bitterly. ‘Now if you ever raise your hand against her again, remember I’ll give my own life for her. My heart is broken—she’s a motherless child! I raised her myself; I have affection for her in my heart.’ At that moment she didn’t even remember that poor Chammi had raised herself. Aunty had wanted to raise her, but she’d been so overwhelmed by endless work, she’d never even had the time to give Chammi her birthright.

  ‘I don’t speak to anyone in the house myself but this girl is exasperating. Tomorrow I’m writing a letter to my brother Zafar to get her married off to someone and get this cursed girl out of our house,’ said Uncle, before turning over and closing his eyes. Aunty wiped away her tears and began to make paan. Amma was lounging comfortably as though nothing had even happened.

  After the uproar, everything was silent. Uncle’s face was enflamed. His eyes kept fluttering open, then closing again. Right at that moment Jameel arrived.

  ‘Why is everyone so quiet? It’s Eid tomorrow!’ Jameel glanced over at Aliya, who looked as though she were dozing.

  ‘She’s been beaten,’ Shakeel leant over and told Jameel.

  ‘Who’s been beaten?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, really, it’s just that Chammi was chanting repeatedly, “Tulsi was planted . . .” There were guests in the sitting room, and then your father slapped her,’ said Aunty, making light of the matter, and then quickly stuffed a paan into her month.

  ‘But why did you beat her? You could have reasoned with her, you could have stopped her insolence, but what sort of justice is it to beat someone? She was just expressing her views. Why does that annoy you so much? If you don’t give people in your own house freedom of speech, how will you liberate your country? And even if your country gets freedom, how will you maintain it?’ Jameel blurted all this out passionately in one breath.

  ‘Son, don’t you confuse household matters with national politics, and don’t go about putting on intellectual airs. You know nothing,’ Uncle retorted with a stern look, then closed his eyes again.

  ‘And don’t you talk down to me about my intellect; you only paid for my education through primary school, then left me to play gulli–danda and went off to liberate the country—as though I wasn’t a citizen of your country, as though I had no right to live a good life too. I didn’t just do a BA, I’ve suffered too. Why don’t you tell me this: if you don’t care
about your own household, how can you care about such a big country with so many households? That was also really something that you sacrificed your own household to save all the others.’

  ‘Good heavens, what a coarse speech! What are you prattling on about? The meaning of independence and sacrifice is beyond your comprehension; why don’t you stick to your poetry, seek applause, bind the delicate wings of the nightingale with the veins of a flower and enjoy yourself?’ Uncle turned over.

  ‘Yes, sir, quite right. But . . .’ How could Jameel admit defeat in front of Aliya? He wanted to say something more, but Aunty began to beat her brow.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, this household is on the path to ruin. It’s just too much that the eldest son quarrels with his father! I swear to God, one of these days I’ll go ahead and drink poison,’ wailed Aunty.

  ‘Look, what Jameel is saying is right,’ said Amma in defence of Jameel, but he fell silent and went to sit helplessly on his metal chair, where he rubbed his hands together, lost in thought.

  ‘The sun is setting, and these fights and squabbles! The sorrows of this country have ruined everything,’ muttered Kareeman Bua as she walked around placing the lit lanterns all about.

  ‘To hell with you, you sympathizer.’ Chammi had noisily re-emerged and come to stand by Uncle’s bed. ‘Who can stop me? Yes, Tulsi was planted in Kashi and the goats ate it all!’ she screamed loudly.

  ‘My God,’ Uncle burst out laughing. ‘She’s completely insane.’

  As soon as Uncle laughed, Shakeel, Amma, Aunty and Jameel all began to laugh as well.

  ‘Yes, now it’s fine,’ said Chammi, drawing close to Jameel. ‘Go ahead and laugh, who told you to defend me? I won’t even look at the likes of you, now I’ll love people like him. You wasted your time kissing up to me to get your BA done.’ She turned again to go back into the room but then sat down in the doorway.

  For a few moments there was silence. Everyone stared at Jameel in surprise, and Amma stared the hardest. But Jameel simply sat flipping through the pages of Shakeel’s book with his eyes down, and Uncle cleared his throat as though something was stuck in it.

  ‘Today she even ripped up her five-rupee note; now, if she’d given it to me, I’d have had my Eid clothes stitched in minutes. I’m not going to carry her letters for her any more,’ said Shakeel.

  ‘And where did you take those letters?’ Amma asked in surprise.

  ‘I gave them to the son of the inspector, Manzoor Sahib,’ said Shakeel very innocently, looking over at Chammi.

  ‘Oh my, oh my!’ cried out both Amma and Aunty, who were floored by this explosive revelation.

  Everything was totally still. No one looked at anyone else. Chammi got up and nonchalantly walked up the stairs, ignoring their reactions. Aliya stared hard at Shakeel; she was afraid Uncle would now punish Chammi harshly. Suddenly eleven- or twelve-year-old Shakeel looked more like a knavish rascal to her.

  When Uncle turned over, Aliya trembled from head to toe. She felt as though he was about to get up and attack Chammi. But when he merely stayed lying down silently and turned away, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Well, this is too much, Big Brother, I must say,’ fumed Amma. She looked over at Uncle. ‘Did all the modesty in this home fly off with the money? Weren’t things bad enough in this family without Chammi making things worse? You go beat the stuffing out of her—don’t just lie there!’

  Uncle sat up.

  ‘Shakeel, bring the pen and paper from the sitting room. I’ll write a letter to Zafar myself. If he gives permission for her marriage, I’ll search for a boy.’

  Shakeel ran off and got pen and paper and Uncle sat up to write the letter. Would he shove Chammi off somewhere dreadful as he had with his own daughter, Aliya wondered to herself with a heavy heart. She sat down with her face covered, trying to keep her tears under control.

  ‘If I had my way, I’d break her bones. How happily the witch flitted out of here and went upstairs!’ Amma murmured, enraged.

  ‘Oh, look, everyone’s forgotten to look for the Eid moon!’ Shakeel started and used this as an excuse to jump up from the bed and run outside. Jameel was sitting still on his chair, completely unaware of Shakeel.

  Just then there was a loud knock on the door. It was a telegram from Najma Aunty. She would arrive the next morning.

  10

  Najma Aunty had arrived, along with her piles of luggage. She embraced only Aunty and avoided everyone else. This was the first time Aliya had seen her since she was a baby. Najma Aunty’s plucked eyebrows were sharp as the new crescent moon, she wore her short hair loose, and her true face could not be discerned beneath her make-up. Chammi forgot all else, and dressed up early in the morning, put on a decaying suit from her departed mother’s dowry, and really looked quite beautiful. Najma Aunty ignored her, but nonetheless, she burrowed her way in by her side. After all, she knew that Amma and Aunty strongly disliked her.

  Jameel sat silently on his metal chair; he was the one who’d gone to fetch Najma Aunty at the station. Uncle had gone off somewhere early in the morning after prayers.

  ‘Najma Aunty, there are more people in the house than there used to be,’ Jameel reminded her. Perhaps he was offended that she hadn’t even said one word to Aliya and her mother.

  ‘So I am seeing, my dear,’ she replied. ‘I’m absolutely worn out from such a long journey! And where is my brother? He must have gone off to pontificate about his politics somewhere . . . and you, Aliya, tell me, are you studying at all now . . . or no?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m about to take the FA exam,’ Aliya replied softly.

  ‘Great, great!’ Najma Aunty’s face showed marked disdain.

  ‘And you, Jameel, young man, what are you up to?’ she asked Jameel.

  ‘Nothing, I just finished the BA and now I’m sitting around,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh my, what can be accomplished with just a BA? One is still totally ignorant. A little education can be a dangerous thing. What you should do is an MA or a BT; now look at me—whatever college I teach at, I’ll be embraced with open arms! But if you do an MA, do it in English; an Urdu MA any fool can do.’

  ‘Well, that settles it. I’ll also do an MA in English some day.’

  ‘But really, what was brother Mazhar thinking, going off to jail like that? I mean, it’s just too much! Has he even written any letters? Or is he silent out of shame? He’s not written me a single letter.’ Najma Aunty was addressing Amma, but Amma continued making paan as though she hadn’t heard a thing.

  Aliya felt wounded by the thought that even Abba’s sister considered him a criminal. She wished she could cut off her tongue—it was right of Amma not to answer her.

  ‘And oh, yes, little Chammi! Have you studied something as well, or no?’ asked Najma Aunty. In return for Chammi’s show of extreme love, she patted her on the back. Chammi hung her head in shame. She looked truly mortified at her ignorance.

  ‘Now I’m here to get a job,’ announced Najma Aunty. ‘So, starting tomorrow, I’ll begin teaching Chammi. The poor thing’s been left ignorant and no one’s paid her any attention. This is the reason for this family’s ill fate—none of the girls have been educated.’ Najma Aunty had lumped Aliya in with the other ignoramuses. ‘So, Chammi, why don’t you put away my towel, soap and so forth in the bathroom? I think I’ll just wash my hands and face and then celebrate Eid a bit.’

  Chammi raced after Najma Aunty when she stood up, but her foot got caught in the hem of her pyjama. Today she’d got all dressed up and totally ignored Jameel. She hadn’t even looked in his direction once, as if to make it clear that her dressing up was not for him, but for Manzoor.

  Kareeman Bua made tea for Najma Aunty and placed it on the takht very tastefully and then became engrossed in cooking noodles. ‘We used to have vermicelli cooked by the maund on Eid, but those days are gone now. May Allah give our Master good sense, everything has been lost,’ Kareeman Bua was muttering as she cooked the two seers of vermicelli w
ith saffron.

  ‘You change your clothes too, Aliya my child,’ said Aunty. ‘When the neighbourhood ladies start visiting, what will they say when they see you? You didn’t even stitch your new clothes.’

  ‘I didn’t have time, Aunty,’ she said softly. Jameel was looking at her reproachfully. ‘I’ll change my clothes right away.’

  She stood up to go to her room. Najma Aunty had already come out of the bathroom and sat down to drink tea.

  As she climbed the stairs, Aliya turned to see that Shakeel was entering the house chewing paan and wearing a garland around his neck, but when he saw Jameel was there, he pulled the garland off and crumpled it in his fist.

  Aliya stayed sitting in her room after she changed her clothes. How would Eid be for Abba, sitting in jail? she wondered sadly.

  ‘You won’t embrace me on Eid, Aliya?’ Jameel had come upstairs as well.

  The children and the hawkers in the gali were growing louder and louder. She closed the shutters.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what? You won’t give me a hug? This is the day when even enemies embrace, and I’m not your enemy.’

  ‘I don’t consider you anything at all.’

  ‘Considering me nothing at all is extremely offensive.’

  ‘Please, Jameel, don’t say such twisted things to me, please be a good man. I have no interest in romance. I find men and women who deceive one another with love extremely annoying.’

  ‘Have you found some book on this topic in Abba’s library?’ Jameel glanced at her sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, I got it from the library for which you have not been given the key.’ She laughed loudly and Jameel became suddenly serious.

  ‘Aliya, the more you spurn me, the closer I feel to you. If you don’t support me, I won’t be able to do anything in the world.’ His face turned red, and sorrow spilled from his eyes. Aliya looked down. She felt right then that she must avoid looking in his eyes, or who knew what would happen.