The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  ‘What! Big brother has gone to jail again!’ She clutched her head. ‘What a bad reputation our family is getting! Everywhere you look, people are doing jail time!’

  By now, Jameel had managed to calm Aunty down, and she was watching the argument between him and Najma Aunty. No one responded to Najma Aunty at all. She loaded Chammi down with bundles of fabric and went upstairs to her room.

  As soon as she’d left, silence fell again. Aliya saw that Jameel sat hugging his mother, and looking very nice, and Shakeel had still not returned from paying the fare to the tonga driver. Aliya quietly got up and went to her room.

  12

  It had been four days since Jameel had gone to Lahore. Before his departure, Aunty had been in quite a state. It seemed she could accomplish absolutely nothing—how could she avoid this catastrophe? But Jameel had left all the same and she couldn’t do a thing about it. Since he’d left, the news in the papers had been painful to read. The newspaper salesmen were busting their guts out-shouting one another: ‘CLASH BETWEEN POLICE AND THE KHAKSARS!’ shouted one. So many of the Khaksars had been the targets of bullets these days. ‘POSSIBILITY OF OBSTRUCTION IN THE MUSLIM LEAGUE ASSEMBLY!’ cried another.

  Aunty listened to the voices of the newspaper sellers with her hand to her heart. Aliya would try to encourage her in every way, reason with her a thousand times that Jameel was a Muslim League supporter, not a Khaksar, but Aunty could find no peace. Chammi also became very quiet. She’d go early in the morning and ask for the paper from the neighbours and read it very attentively, then lie face down on her bed for hours. Ever since Uncle had left, the paper had stopped coming. And now who had the money to spend on it? If Chammi was in a generous mood, she would lend out the paper she’d borrowed, and Aunty would put on her thick glasses and read it, but she wouldn’t let anyone else touch the paper. ‘It’s not ours—it will get torn,’ she’d say.

  In those days, Chammi also abandoned her studies. No matter what Najma Aunty said, she would not pick up a book and look at it, whereas before, if Najma Aunty gave her a lesson to study, she would stroll about memorizing it for hours, and glance over at Aliya as if to say: If I don’t come out ahead of you, my name’s not Chammi!

  Every day, after coming home from teaching at the college, Najma Aunty would affectionately teach Chammi a few words, and in exchange, Chammi would be asked to do heaps of chores. After memorizing the lesson, Chammi had nothing to do but chores. If there weren’t clothes to iron, there were sandals to be polished to a shine. She’d dye the dupattas and pleat them so fine it made the skin on her fingers peel.

  ‘I’m going to hire a boy now to work for me,’ Najma Aunty would say insincerely after watching her work so hard.

  ‘What! What else am I good for, stop it! I’m not speaking to you any more,’ Chammi would cry, and wrap her arms around Najma Aunty’s neck earnestly. Najma would be pleased and give her another task that very moment.

  Six days had gone by, but Jameel still had not returned. Aunty wandered about anxiously and Amma kept blowing up at her agitation.

  ‘Really, Sister-in-law, why are you driving yourself mad? The son will follow in his father’s footsteps; just wash your hands of him now.’

  ‘But he was to be my protector,’ Aunty would lament; she could no longer tolerate the harsh reality of life.

  Aunty spent those six nights chopping betel nut. Aliya tossed and turned in her bed when she heard the crunch of the betel-nut cracker from the veranda. Night’s silence grew deeper. Her heart was heavy for Aunty. What is all this, what is this passion which leaves loved ones to roast in an oven of sorrow?

  The Lahore Resolution was accepted and eight crore Muslims would get their right. At the crack of dawn the newspaper seller came running, screaming, ‘NEWSPAPER MAN! NEWSPAPER MAN!’ People peered from their windows and doors and called out to him. Today the whole neighbourhood was up to buy the paper. Aliya peered out of the window. How bright the morning was. A man with a sacred thread about his neck and a small shiny brass pot in his hands was walking to the street-side tap to bathe. Now he would bathe and pray, hands clasped before an idol of God. Why do Hindus look so lovely when they pray? she wondered as she recalled Kusum.

  No one even looked in her direction as she passed through Najma Aunty’s room to go downstairs. Najma Aunty was busy getting ready to go to the college, and Chammi was picking things up and giving them to her, like a servant girl. God willing, Najma Aunty will actually teach you something, Chammi, Aliya prayed to herself. Poor Chammi had to pay such a steep price just to learn a few words.

  Tea was ready. Kareeman Bua was removing hot, ghee-smeared rotis from the pan. Aliya sat by Amma and Aunty on the takht and began drinking her tea. Shakeel was still sleeping; he’d get up a few minutes before going to school—and only because Aunty had forced him to get up for the past few days. Aliya’s tea was not even finished when the chain on the main door started to clank loudly and Kareeman Bua started and rushed over to it.

  It was a telegram from Jameel. He was fine and coming home soon. Aunty snatched up the telegram and hid it in one of the cups of the paandaan, then made a second cup of tea out of happiness.

  Aliya finished breakfast and went into the sitting room. This was the first time she was setting foot in there since Uncle had gone to jail. The table, chairs and glass-fronted cabinets were thick with dust. The large portrait of Gandhiji was growing dim. The white cover of the takht and the bolster cases had grown dirty. Fragments of Asrar Miyan’s smoked beedis were scattered everywhere. She tucked the end of her sari into her waistband and began tidying the room. Then she swept the floor, sat down on the takht and leant against the bolster. She kept feeling as though the door would open and Uncle would enter.

  After he’d gone to jail, he’d even written to her saying he was quite happy. The government’s bread was so delicious, he felt as though he were eating Kareeman Bua’s parathas. Despite recalling Uncle’s amusing letter, the sitting room felt deserted to her. She took a book from the shelf and went outside again.

  Najma Aunty had gone off to the college and for the first time in several days, Chammi was memorizing her lessons as she strolled about the yard.

  Aunty spent the day chattering, and that night, the sound of her betel-nut cracker retired early. Aliya studied peacefully until one o’clock in the morning.

  13

  Her exams were over. Now she wanted to take a vacation for a little while. How tired she was. She was sick of her course books. She spent her afternoons and evenings reading the books from Uncle’s library. All day long the hot summer wind blew and an owl hooted in the trees in front of the school. The afternoons were endless, and the scorching heat relentless. If it weren’t for Uncle’s books, she would have gone mad lying on her bed during those long afternoons, thinking and thinking. Also, she worried about the exam results. She was terrified at the mere thought of failing. If she failed, Najma Aunty would no longer have the slightest doubt about her complete ignorance. Even so, she kept taunting Aliya.

  ‘How easy people have made it to take the exams while sitting at home. The rest of us had to suffer through colleges and universities to take them. Now all you have to do is hire a teacher for fifteen rupees a month and cram what you need to.’

  Even after saying all these wonderful things, she continued to teach Chammi at home, but Chammi had not yet finished her primer, though several months had gone by.

  In those days, Jameel had taken an ordinary job. He handed over all his pay to Aunty and was the only person providing financial help in the house. The rest of his time was taken up with Muslim League activities. In those days, Aliya fled even his shadow, but that shadow was growing longer. The sunlight of his love for her was on the rise.

  Today a letter had come from Abba. He had written that he was waiting to hear about her results. He was well and fit as a fiddle. Sometimes he suffered from palpitations, which had perhaps been brought on by the heat. The jail doctor had given him medicine, which h
ad cured him completely. After Aliya read her this letter, Amma worried for a little while, and Aliya closed the door to her own room and wept for a long time. She could not even imagine her father being unwell, let alone him falling ill, and that too far from her eyes in a jail cell.

  The last days of June were terribly hot. A furious silence enveloped the afternoons. The voices of the hawkers were not even heard, but Chammi studied during those afternoons as if possessed. It was as though she’d vowed in her heart that either she would study until she became learned or she would remain ignorant forever. But even after so much labour, she wasn’t anywhere near finishing her second primer. Her fingers would cramp from writing. She could recite the entire lesson without hesitation but Najma Aunty’s criticisms never ended. Then Chammi would yawn and yawn, but she stubbornly continued to try to memorize it. Occasionally she would also glance over at Aliya through half-closed doors. Growing exhausted from reading, she’d put the book down on the table.

  ‘Najma Aunty, I’ve memorized the entire primer, shouldn’t we start the third one now?’

  ‘Not yet, you must study exactly as I teach; this is not Urdu that any fool can learn it—this is English,’ she’d snap indignantly.

  ‘But I don’t want to study any more, this primer will never be finished, will it? My teacher thinks she’s so smart . . . as though I’m an idiot. Why don’t you just keep a servant to do your work? Najma Aunty, Allah created me to be a fool,’ cried Chammi, flinging the book, notebook and pen into the air.

  ‘My goodness, what nonsense are you talking, Chammi! How difficult it is to reason with fools. Remember, if the first and second primers are weak, it becomes difficult to study ahead. Study quickly tomorrow, and I will bring the third primer for you,’ said Najma with agitation and sat up. Her free servant was slipping from her grasp.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Najma Aunty! If I become worthy, whom will you call a fool!’ yelled Chammi, as she went stomping downstairs.

  ‘Well, that really is the limit! The ignorance in this family will never end; no one here is worth talking to or is any fun to talk to,’ Najma muttered to herself.

  Aliya got up and slammed the door to her room. ‘Oh, Najma Aunty, I know you full well,’ she murmured to herself, and then picked up her book and lay down again.

  Today, suddenly, clouds had begun to cover the sky. When a puff of cool, moist breeze blew in through the window, Aliya put down her book. She’d spent all the afternoons of the hot season awake and in pain. In this house, they didn’t have cane-and-cloth fans in the upstairs rooms at all. But of course, what servants were there here to pull the fans all afternoon?

  Ever since Chammi had stopped studying, her true form had come out. Storms kept erupting in the house. She quarrelled with everyone, or she’d wrap herself in a burqa and disappear into the mohalla. Everyone was disgusted with her, but Amma hated the very sight of her. ‘God knows where the messenger for her wedding has gone and died,’ she’d mutter.

  ‘Chammi, do you want me to teach you?’ asked Aliya, going into her room for the first time in many days. The moment her eyes fell on Granny’s empty bed she began to feel depressed.

  ‘But then Jameel Sahib will get angry with you,’ Chammi chuckled loudly.

  ‘For God’s sake, Chammi, don’t say such things.’

  ‘Okay, then, forget him. I too dislike mentioning his disgusting name. No one compares with Manzoor now. I swear to God he loves me so much.’ Chammi closed her eyes delightedly.

  ‘Chammi, no man truly loves anyone. Love yourself, why don’t you?’

  ‘Oh my, what a pretty lesson you teach! Jameel Sahib follows you around like a madman for no reason. This is the only love in the world, as long as there is love, if it stops, the game is over; listen to her—“love yourself”. In a few days you’ll say “love your father and all his wives”. This love of fathers and brothers is nothing, they’re all just a bunch of idiots, the bastards.’

  Realizing Chammi was beyond the pale, Aliya began to look around. A picture of Anwar Kamal Pasha and that year’s calendar had been added to the room. Who knows who had given them to her? She got up quietly and went away. Chammi had not even asked her to sit down. She was walking across the yard when she nearly ran into Najma Aunty on her way to Chammi’s room. She was absolutely shocked—it was an outrage! An ignorant girl had stopped doing her chores—her chores!—when she herself was such an educated woman. Aliya had to laugh.

  Chammi could not be won back, and now Najma Aunty had to huff and puff and iron her own saris. She had to burn her own coals. Tears started in her smarting eyes, and as she polished her sandals, the lines on her palms turned black.

  ‘Why doesn’t my brother Zafar even worry about whom to marry his daughter to? It’s not like he has to search for someone with an MA; he can do just as my brother did when he married off Sajidah,’ Najma would say. If Najma Aunty had anything to do with it, she would have married Chammi off to some desert of a household. The useless girl could die of thirst there for all she cared.

  ‘First you please get married yourself, Najma Aunty, you’re getting old,’ Chammi replied, twisting the knife.

  ‘Never! Why would I need to do that? People will beg for me, but no matter how much you beg, you won’t even bag a fifteen-rupee-a-month soldier.’

  Chammi laughed just to goad her. ‘If I get a soldier I’d have him arrest Najma Aunty first of all.’

  Najma Aunty would run off angrily to her room, because who needs an ignorant girl like Chammi? After raising a storm in the house, Chammi would wrap herself in her burqa and go out visiting from house to house in the mohalla, and when she returned, she’d be wildly enthusiastic and full of gossip.

  ‘Oh, remember Kallu’s mother’s other son?’ she’d blurt out. ‘He joined a labour party, and it’s underground. Good God, how can they possibly live beneath the ground?’ Chammi had learnt a few words of beginner’s English from Najma Aunty which she always translated literally.

  ‘Oh, the poor widow,’ Aunty sighed deeply. ‘That’s why that unlucky woman has stopped coming over here for quite a while; it used to be that she’d leave the house every six months.’

  ‘And, Aunty, Mahmud’s mother was sobbing. Mahmud’s gone off to war. What could have possessed the bastard to be so heartless to his mother?’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, how sad the poor thing must be feeling!’

  ‘Humph.’ Who knows why Chammi’s mood would always sour as she relayed all the news. ‘What I’m saying is, that beloved son of yours who wanders around like a vagrant night and day—why not send him to war? That jerk Shakeel filched a one-anna coin from under my pillow at some point yesterday. May God break his hands.’

  Aunty would purse her lips with restraint and keep so quiet that everyone would be surprised. She was the only one who was willing to put up with Chammi. She never complained, and when Chammi couldn’t get a rise out of her, she’d go lie down in her room with her face covered.

  14

  That day there had been quite an uproar in the house. Asrar Miyan had asked for tea early in the morning, but that day even Kareeman Bua forgave him this transgression. For perhaps the very first time in her life, she had actually handed him his tea tray before everyone else. That was because Uncle had been released from Allahabad Jail and was to arrive in the station at eight that morning. Aunty was beaming. She shook Jameel, who was sleeping, again and again, so that he too could welcome his father at the station. But every time she woke him, he made up some excuse: He couldn’t sleep at night because of the thunder, or he had a headache. Today he could not even go to the office—and he was also running a bit of a fever. And when the time to go to the station was past, Jameel got up, quickly drank tea, got dressed and flew to his office.

  ‘Shakeel, my brother, go buy four garlands for Uncle,’ said Aliya, placing a two-anna piece in his hand. He didn’t look at all happy. Though he had very little to do with his father, he was already feeling more restricted.

  ‘
Get twenty or twenty-five garlands for me from somewhere as well, Shakeel; Uncle is coming here after performing a great feat,’ interjected Chammi, giggling, and she went and sat in the rope swing hanging from the ring in her doorway and began to swing back and forth. This swing had been installed there during the rainy season and hadn’t been taken down yet. To the annoyance of everyone, she sang:

  Place the palanquin beneath the neem tree, oh, traveller

  The joyous month of Saavan is here, is here

  Shakeel went out. Kareeman Bua was measuring a quarter seer of wheat into the small basket so that she could give alms on behalf of Uncle.

  Oh! What will it be like to see Uncle again? wondered Aliya, and her heart leapt with happiness. She went quickly up to her room and began to peer into the gali from her window. Time was passing sluggishly. One day, Abba too would come home this way, she thought, and a sharp pain of sorrow pierced her heart. But there were still five years left to go.

  A sadhu walked down the street covered in ash, wrapped in a red loin cloth, holding a pair of tongs.

  ‘Give alms, child, and all your dreams will come true,’ he called out, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Forgive me, Baba,’ said Kareeman Bua, glancing outside and then quickly pulling her head back in. ‘He probably doesn’t even notice whose house it is; he just stands outside stark naked, the imbecile,’ she said loudly and burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, go on, Kareeman Bua, just give Uncle’s alms to some Hindu,’ Chammi immediately advised and then began to sing:

  I used to play with dolls in my palace

  But, O, now my husband has sent the palanquin bearers!

  ‘May Allah keep you,’ said another fakir wearing a necklace of thick beads who came to stand before the door.

  Kareeman Bua held out the half-anna coin to him. ‘Come after a little while and take grains as well, Babaji,’ she said. Ever since the war had started, the ranks of the fakirs had swelled.