The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  Jameel pulled up a chair and sat by her bedside and began to stare at her deeply. She looked about, trying to put him off.

  ‘Your eyes are so beautiful. The poet must have been thinking of just such eyes when he compared them to paradise.’

  ‘Thank you, cousin Jameel,’ she said with a loud laugh. ‘This is not true paradise. Perhaps it is the false paradise of King Shaddad.’

  ‘Aliya Madam, making minarets of heads is not so great a crime as making fun of emotions.’

  ‘Is this also one of the finer points of poetry? Oh, I am sorry, instead of making fun of feelings, now I’ll go ahead and make towers out of heads,’ she retorted. She hid her hands under her quilt. ‘Jameel, if I pass the exam this time, it will be great, Najma Aunty’s erudition would get quite a shove,’ she said, trying to change the topic, but Jameel took no interest in it. He just sat silently with his head down. Chill air blew in through the open window, but she couldn’t even close it. Darkness snatches all light from emotions.

  ‘I know you don’t want to talk to me. You’re putting me off, Aliya. Can you not even respect my love?’

  ‘What are you talking about, I—I . . .’ She was startled to see tears in Jameel’s eyes and was stunned into silence.

  ‘Aliya!’ cried Jameel, and he lifted her up abruptly. She felt as though the shutters had closed and burning embers had been placed on her lips. All this had happened so fast, she couldn’t do a thing. She couldn’t even think, and when she tried to shove him away from her, he rested his head on her arm and sobbed like a baby, and she felt each tear like a boiling raindrop falling on her heart. She could even hear the sound of the drops falling. The light of those drops spread all about the room. She could see a clear path on which to run.

  She sat senseless and Jameel had lifted his head and stared at her with great sweetness. There was much pride and peace in that smile.

  ‘Enough, now please leave, Jameel Sahib,’ snapped Aliya, looking at him like a witch. ‘Please go make a fool of someone else. I am Aliya. Please go away, please, or I’ll scream so loudly that . . .’

  Jameel leant against the wall, staring at her. His eyes were screaming, You can’t love anyone, Aliya Begum, you truly are a witch.

  After he had left abruptly, Aliya closed the shutters again and began to sob.

  Jameel, you’ve poked magic needles into my body! What prince will come now and pull them out, she thought. After her heart felt lighter from crying, she began to laugh at her own idiocy. Enough, just stop it! Was she any better than Tehmina or Kusum—humph! Who knows how she had gone so mad. She picked up her course book and began to study peacefully. At some point the book fell from her hand on to her chest and she awoke suddenly from a shallow sleep.

  Why was Chammi standing right by her, barefoot, on such a cold night? Aliya put the book down on the table.

  ‘So, are you still awake, Bajiya?’ Chammi asked, hesitating on her way to the window.

  ‘But what are you doing wandering around in the cold like this?’ asked Aliya. ‘Come, get under the quilt, Chammi.’

  ‘Actually Manzoor said he’d be standing by the street lamp at midnight in the gali below. He asked me to stand in the window. You just go to sleep, I disturbed your sleep for no reason . . .’ blurted out Chammi, as she opened the door and rushed back out.

  ‘Oh, Chammi,’ Aliya called out but she must have already run down the stairs and into her room.

  She opened the shutters again and peered down into the gali. The fog had lifted. The dingy light of the moon covered the ground, but there was nothing else there.

  16

  The war continued on. Inflation had swept the house clean. In truth, Jameel’s tiny salary couldn’t have filled anyone’s stomach. How selfish everyone in the household had become. Amma’s brow was always creased. She’d come to hate the very sight of Uncle. She had a strong feeling that if the money from the shop were to come into the house, everything would be changed instantly. They would have the good fortune to eat in style. She was always threatening to leave for her brother’s house, and then Aunty would worry that this would bring dishonour to their household. Everyone would say that Uncle wasn’t even able to feed them. Meanwhile, Chammi was intent on quarrelling all the time. She’d secretly snatch Shakeel’s food from the hanging storage basket and eat it all up, and when he’d retaliate with insults, she’d laugh with glee or try to hit him. Najma Aunty would watch these altercations and turn her face away in disgust.

  ‘This is all the result of ignorance; if everyone were educated, would they be dying of hunger as they are now?’ she’d remark proudly as she gazed down on them from the throne of her spectacular education.

  Jameel would see and hear all this and look on in helpless silence. But despite those desperate times, Kareeman Bua hadn’t changed a bit. Great droves of fakirs had cropped up thanks to the war. Kareeman Bua would mourn the grand alms given out in old days, and slice away at bits and pieces of Asrar Miyan’s meals to hand out alms to them.

  Aliya felt nauseated by these shabby gifts. Oh dear, why was Asrar Miyan so pathetic? Couldn’t he at least lift a rupee or two from the shop? What would he get from his self-mortification by being so selfless and decent? After all, by behaving like this, he would hardly be called his father’s legitimate son. No matter what he did, he’d be called the child of the mistress. No one would remember him by his father’s name. Every day in this world would always remain a Day of Judgement for him.

  Even after seeing the household in such a terrible state, Uncle did not have a change of heart. The arrows of his objectives had damaged him so terribly that all other sorrows and pains seemed insignificant. ‘The war has brought independence very close,’ he’d say, looking around at everyone, but no one would answer. He would grow ashamed and look down, breaking off bits of roti and eating furtively like a criminal, and then make for the sitting room.

  The harsh cold of winter had abated. Aliya continued to prepare for her exam by keeping the gali window open until deep into the night and reading by the streetlight. In those days she had just completely left off thinking too hard about anything. Abba’s letters still gave her courage.

  It was late in the afternoon, and the sunlight had receded. Even though she had studied all afternoon, she didn’t leave the roof. Aliya was starting to feel the chill of the advancing shadows. She was studying hard, and when she lifted her head, she saw that Chammi stood near her. She’d been very quiet since the night before, and she’d walked by Aliya several times since morning. Aliya felt as though Chammi wanted to say something to her, but whenever Aliya looked towards her, she went away.

  ‘What is it, Chammi?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Bajiya, I just feel like sitting near you,’ she said, plopping down on the chair near her.

  This was the first time in so long that Chammi had affectionately called her Bajiya. She looked so adorable to Aliya. Chammi sat there looking lost and staring at her vacantly.

  ‘Well, there must be something, Chammi, otherwise why would you look at me like that?’ asked Aliya, pulling her near. Chammi laid her head down on her shoulder and began to weep.

  ‘That idiot Manzoor has enlisted in the army, Bajiya. He was someone I could lean on, but now he’s gone too,’ wept Chammi.

  ‘What! If he loved you, why would he go to war, silly? And now you’re missing him and crying; don’t be foolish, Chammi,’ said Aliya, hugging her.

  ‘Oh, I just suddenly started to cry for no reason. I was hardly in love with him. He loved me, so I started to like him, but on the bright side, someone did love me,’ said Chammi, laughing helplessly as she wiped away her tears.

  Aliya couldn’t think of anything to say. After all, what could she? ‘What about me, don’t I love you?’ she asked.

  ‘You? Do you love me, Bajiya?’ Chammi laughed loudly. Such ridicule there was in that reckless laugh. How could Aliya make her believe that she loved her? She sympathized with her. She was startled by Chammi’s laughter a
nd stared at her.

  ‘Look at this, Bajiya, the cuff of my pyjama is horribly ripped. I’m going downstairs to sew it up, then I’ll be back.’

  Chammi went thumping down the stairs and Aliya was left sitting with her book in her lap like an idiot. What she’d said was so unimportant to Chammi that Chammi had suddenly remembered she needed to stitch up the cuff of her pyjama. Chammi didn’t trust in her love one bit. The world had simply killed off her ability to trust. Aliya grieved for her.

  A crow perched on the roof wall cawed and flew away. The sunlight had climbed up the walls and disappeared. Now it was getting quite chilly. She gathered up her books and put them back in her room. After Chammi had left, she’d not been able to read even one word. She closed her eyes for a little while as she lay on her bed and then went downstairs. The marigolds and the gul-e-abbasis were showing signs of spring in the flower beds.

  Aliya plucked one flower and placed it in her hair, but when she saw Jameel standing under the archway of the veranda, staring at her amorously, she started and tossed the flower back into the bed. Somehow she sensed that adorning one’s self reveals feelings of love.

  After throwing away the flower she saw that Jameel’s eyes had lost their lustre. He sat down dejectedly on the metal chair.

  Amma was sitting on the takht chopping betel nut and Aunty was sorting through the split chickpeas. Her face was lined with hardship. All those sorrows, all those pains had marred the elegance of her face and they continued to leave their mark. Moreover, for the last few days, she’d been overwhelmed by a new sorrow. Shakeel hadn’t come home in two days. Jameel had searched for him but learnt nothing. Who knows how far he had wandered in search of books.

  ‘Evenings are always sad,’ remarked Jameel, looking over at Aliya.

  ‘That’s just poetry, I’m not feeling any kind of sadness.’ Aliya laughed and went and sat by Amma on the takht and began to clean out the cups of the paandaan.

  ‘I have such a lovely, finely crafted ghazal before me that now all my poetry seems meaningless; I’ve given up all this poetry business. Have you read Faiz and Nadeem?’ he asked.

  Aliya remained silent. Really, how could she consider herself a ghazal? This Jameel was really something, always finding his own meanings in everything—now she was starting to feel angry.

  ‘You’d never find Faiz or Nadeem in your uncle’s library,’ he laughed. ‘Tell me, have any more books on Gandhi been published then?’ Jameel was perhaps taking revenge on her for throwing away the flower. She continued to clean out the paandaan diligently. She didn’t even look up, as if she wasn’t even aware that anyone was addressing her. She hadn’t been thinking about Jameel at all, but for some reason she had begun to feel nervous around him.

  ‘Did you search for Shakeel today as well? But then when would you ever have time for your Muslim League?’ asked Aunty, looking up from picking pebbles from the dal.

  ‘Amma, don’t you worry about him now. He’s gone to Bombay; he’ll make lots of money there and eat well,’ answered Jameel, to everyone’s surprise.

  ‘In Bombay? So far?’ Aunty’s voice quavered. ‘What, isn’t he ashamed to run off! He didn’t even think of his own mother!’ She clutched at her heart and began to weep.

  Aliya jumped from the takht, rushed over to Aunty and took her in her arms.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Aunty, he’ll come back.’

  ‘Why would he come back, Aliya Madam?’ asked Jameel. ‘What is there here for him? And now he’ll hardly worry about us. He’s gone to make his own way or ruin himself; but he must have thought there was nothing left for him in this troublesome way of life.’ Sarcasm flashed from Jameel’s eyes.

  ‘Jameel Miyan, what can anyone do, it was his father’s responsibility to worry about the household, to watch after his children, put them through school, get them training. The poor thing wandered about like a bum; your father never bothered to look around and find out what was going on,’ said Amma, taking the opportunity to cast aspersions against Uncle. She was just forced to keep her mouth shut when he was present. Nobody could snatch from her the belief that Uncle was solely responsible for all the destruction in their family. Everyone else was innocent. She averred with great faith that if the foundation is laid crooked the whole house will follow suit.

  Jameel was lost in thought, his head bowed. Aunty continued to weep, her head hidden in her dupatta. The child born of her womb had spit on her sorrows and abandoned her. No matter how much of a wastrel he’d become, she was his mother, and still had some hope in him.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Sister-in-law. When the country becomes free, Shakeel will also surely return,’ joked Amma.

  ‘And when our country becomes free, all the English people will tuck their tails between their legs and flee the country; there won’t be a single English person left in our Pakistan,’ interjected Chammi, coming out of her room.

  ‘My God, if Aunty hears one more time about Shakeel running away, her heart will burst from the shock,’ Aliya muttered softly. ‘Can’t everyone just drop the topic for a short while?’ she asked sternly.

  Everyone fell silent. The evening was growing lonely and sad, and it seemed to Aliya that Shakeel had not merely run away but that his funeral procession had just left the house. How Aunty wept and wailed.

  ‘Amma, don’t cry for him, he’s really not worth it,’ said Jameel, going over to his mother. ‘After all, I’m still here—your caretaker.’

  ‘You go on and abandon me too,’ sobbed Aunty.

  ‘Where would I go, Amma? I’ll stay with you from this lifetime to the next—I have no other companion in this world,’ he said, glancing stealthily over at Aliya. This made her nervous and she took shelter behind Aunty.

  Aunty quieted down with just the slightest encouragement from Jameel. What else could she do? She’d led her entire life against her own wishes. She’d always followed the whims of others, bearing her tolerance upon her bosom.

  ‘May God protect this house from destruction,’ Kareeman Bua prayed as she lit the lanterns. Everyone else listened to the sound of the call to prayer with great reverence. Najma Aunty peered out of her window and looked down, then stepped back as though to say, ‘Die, fools, you will all be punished like this. Everyone will starve to death until they run away.’

  Around eight o’clock that night, when Uncle entered the house, a deep silence had spread throughout. Kareeman Bua had covered the takht with a tablecloth and set out the food.

  ‘Shakeel has run away; he’s in Bombay,’ Aunty announced to him tearfully.

  ‘What! He ran away? But why did he do it, the dog?’ Uncle’s face was turning red with rage. ‘If he comes back, I’ll break all his bones. Has he no shame?’

  ‘Why would you break his bones? What have you done for him? You didn’t even remember that Shakeel was also your child,’ Aunty fired back. Today for the first time she was intent on a fight with Uncle in front of everyone.

  ‘He . . . he . . . I had said that he shouldn’t have done that,’ Uncle snapped and then bowed his head and began to eat quickly. When Chammi started to laugh with her hand over her mouth in her typical manner, Aunty stared at her hard and she went back into her room.

  Aliya listened and watched unhappily and was left pining. Seeing Uncle’s head bowed, her heart was filled with compassion. If only everyone would leave him alone. They should let him enjoy himself. But no one here was prepared to forgive him.

  After dinner, when Uncle went into the sitting room, Aliya managed to get Aunty to eat after much pleading. Today Aunty didn’t even have it in her to fill her empty belly.

  As Aliya was lying down on her bed, Asrar Miyan’s shaky voice pierced her heart: ‘Kareeman Bua, ask Shakeel’s mother if I should to go to Bombay and look for him.’ Was that really his voice? She couldn’t believe it.

  17

  When Aliya finally lifted her head to look around after the exam, spring had already departed, and summer’s heat had settled into the air. N
o matter how much they watered the flower beds the plants looked lacklustre. Their leaves withered and fell, baby birds gasped with thirst, and Kareeman Bua never stopped fanning herself as she cooked. No matter how many buckets of water were sprinkled about the courtyard to cool it down in the evening, no one found any relief from the heat. Everything burned.

  During those hot, empty days, Aunty had entrusted Aliya with enough fabric for five suits of clothing for Chammi’s dowry. In the afternoons, when all was still, Aliya would sit at the sewing machine to stitch the fabric. Aunty couldn’t accomplish anything any more. She was subdued all the time and enjoyed nothing at all, and of course, Amma couldn’t stand Chammi. If it were up to her, she’d have used the dowry fabric to sew a shroud for Chammi. That left Aliya to throw her heart into stitching the dowry and pray throughout that Chammi would meet with a good fortune.

  And then there was Chammi herself, unaware of the turn her fate was about to take, running about the house raising hell. Whatever small degree of gravity Manzoor’s love had produced in her had now evaporated. Whenever she saw Uncle, she could think of nothing but Pakistan. She’d hurl abuses at the British until Amma was beside herself, and when she’d grown exhausted from tormenting absolutely everyone, she’d come to Aliya.

  ‘Oh, Bajiya, whose clothes are you sewing? My God, how lovely they are! But who will wear them?’ she would ask coquettishly.

  ‘These belong to someone, Chammi.’ Aliya would make excuses uncertainly, hoping Chammi would not guess the truth.

  ‘Give me one of these dupattas—I’ll sew tinsel on to it and wear it,’ she said, lifting the pleated dupatta and twisting it. ‘Look how wrinkled my dupatta is becoming.’

  ‘Let go, Chammi, the pleats will come out,’ said Aliya, trying to pull the dupatta back.

  ‘But whose dowry is this for? The poor thing can’t tell me, my tongue grows tired.’ Chammi was intent on fighting out of curiosity.

  ‘I’ll beat you, if you fight me.’ When Aliya very sweetly attempted to pull rank, Chammi began to laugh.