‘Who doesn’t let you? I will have his head! It’s them isn’t it, your Muslim League?’
‘No, Amma.’ Jameel would laugh loudly, and Aliya would go and take refuge in her room. She was sick of listening to such pointless conversations.
In the meantime, Chammi had fallen totally silent for a few days. Who knows what had happened to her—if someone said something she’d answer in an irritated tone. She’d come out of her room to eat and then go back silently. The most she’d do was play a record on the gramophone. All the good cheer had disappeared from her face. Seeing her so quiet, Aliya nearly melted with worry. What if Chammi suspected something about her marriage? What if she ruined Uncle’s honour? This was Chammi, not Sajidah. It could be that she was so quiet because she’d already spoken so much in her short life she was now exhausted, and who knows, perhaps she was mourning the separation from Manzoor. But since when had Chammi been in love with Manzoor? She only considered him a support; she enjoyed his love. Aliya wore herself out worrying about Chammi. She tried to make her speak, but Chammi always put her off.
Uncle had gone off to Delhi. The sitting room lay deserted. Jameel had also disappeared since morning. Chammi was silent, and the day, heavy with clouds, had grown extremely depressing. There was nothing for Aliya to distract herself with. Chammi’s dowry had been prepared, she’d tired of reading books from Uncle’s library and she simply didn’t know what to do. If nothing else, at least Chammi could annoy her and help her pass this day as it crept by. She could fight with her, make some noise and somehow chase this desolate silence away.
Aliya went and stood in Chammi’s doorway. ‘Won’t you come up to my room?’ she asked.
‘I’m feeling sleepy, Bajiya.’ Chammi turned over. She didn’t even bother to get up from her bed.
But two or three hours of steady rain seemed to wash away all the emptiness and boredom. When Jameel came home that evening, he looked quite pleased. Aliya wondered what on earth had made him so happy. What had he accomplished that he did not look morose even after seeing her? She had truly become a tazia for Jameel Bhai, a symbol of mourning.
‘Amma, a letter has come from Zafar Uncle in Hyderabad, and the funny thing is that it’s addressed to me.’ He sat down on the metal chair and looked around at everyone and laughed. ‘Who can it be that is writing to him and complaining about me? Who was it that announced my unemployment to him?’
‘Your Najma Aunty has been writing to him; she must have said something, otherwise he doesn’t even ask about anyone else,’ said Aunty.
‘The letter must have been full of complaints against me, but I’m not scared of anyone!’ cried Chammi, seated in her doorway.
‘What did he write?’ Amma asked.
‘He’s written telling me to come to Hyderabad. He says there’s no shortage of anything there—forget this whole Hindustan–Pakistan drama; there’s already a Pakistan right here.’ Jameel began to laugh.
‘Well, then, go; wherever there’s money, there’s everything else,’ Amma advised.
‘Then I will forget everything else. I won’t remember any of you, that’s what happens when you drink the water there.’
‘Oh, he just keeps talking nonsense,’ said Aunty angrily. ‘Why don’t you show us by getting some kind of job here?’
‘I have got a job, Amma. In fact, I’m about to go do it now!’ Jameel announced.
‘Where?’ Aunty’s eyes widened with curiosity.
‘I had requested to join the army, and I’ve been accepted and now your humble servant is about to send you piles of money.’
‘The army?’ Aunty’s eyes froze as though she had died. ‘Have you gone mad, my Jameel? Why don’t you just give me poison instead?’
‘Enough, Amma, thousands of men go into the army, but do they all die? And listen, if we don’t challenge Hitler, things will go worse than with the English. It won’t be easy to struggle against his slavery,’ Jameel tried to explain, but Aunty was the very picture of helplessness. Aliya wished she could scream at Jameel and call him a stinker, a scoundrel. So, he wasn’t going to make his unemployment go away; he was going to confront Hitler and he didn’t even know what a huge Hitler he’d become for his mother.
‘You should have your name removed, Jameel Miyan,’ said Kareeman Bua beseechingly, and Jameel burst out laughing.
‘Kareeman Bua, I’m going just for you! Your kitchen will be fully stocked, and you’ll forget bygone days.’
Aunty was close to tears. ‘I’d feel calmer if you just ran off like Shakeel, instead of going to war,’ she wept.
‘My dear Amma,’ said Jameel, embracing her. ‘Amma, it’s not like I’ll pick up a gun and fight! I’ll be fighting with a pen. I’ll just write propaganda against Hitler, and I’ll be looking after my mother.’
‘You won’t fight?’ Aunty asked, regarding him with suspicion.
‘Absolutely not, Amma, I’ll do other types of work instead.’
‘What sort of work?’ Najma Aunty asked. Somehow she’d slipped in to sit among them all at that moment.
‘I’m going into the army,’ Jameel responded immediately.
‘That’s a very good idea; there’s really no other job you could get with so little education,’ sighed Najma Aunty with contentment.
‘Quite right. You should thank God so few women are educated around here, otherwise you’d be going about unemployed as well.’
Najma Aunty returned whence she came—how could she put up with these fools! There wasn’t the slightest bit of respect worthy of someone like her. Aliya felt like laughing.
‘Put your hand on my head and swear that you won’t fight.’ Aunty placed Jameel’s hand on her head.
‘On this beloved head I swear, Amma,’ chuckled Jameel.
Then everyone else started laughing as well, and Chammi, who had been sitting silently for so long, suddenly went into her room, her face red.
19
Jameel was gone. He had come to take his leave of Aliya in her room in the middle of the night and sat by her on a chair for a long time, swinging his legs. Both were silent as it rained steadily outside. Aliya felt angry at her own weakness. Why didn’t she speak? What sorrow did she announce by her silence? Time continued to pass by. The rain grew lighter. She felt suffocated by the silence and by Jameel’s proximity.
‘You’re leaving in the morning?’ she asked, gathering up the courage to speak.
‘Yes, I am leaving. So?’ he answered stiffly and began looking about. His eyes were filled with the pain of suppressed desire.
‘Is it a crime to ask?’ Aliya looked down. She felt injured by his reply.
‘Aliya, will you think about me?’ he asked, suddenly grabbing her hands.
‘No! Why would I think about you? You’re nothing more than a first cousin to me. I don’t wish to consider you anything else. The truth is that I have no faith at all in the love of any man, and if at some point I do begin to have faith, it wouldn’t be in someone like you. It wouldn’t be in anyone like my father or yours. Those who are consumed by the needs of others are always unaware of their own households. And anyway, if I ever do fall in love, I have no way of telling you what sort of man he would be. I’m telling you all this so that you won’t go far off and still think of me. When you live far from home and leave everyone behind, memories can become distressing. So please relieve yourself of that distress right here and now. This household and Aunty hold no importance for you. How many more days will she even live?’ Tears had come to Aliya’s eyes. She didn’t know why she wanted to sob right now.
‘It was good that you said all that. Even if you hadn’t, I would have known. Anyway, I will tell you that my mother is very dear to me, and as far as the needs of others go, my own needs concern me more. This need consumes me like a fire, but I don’t feel a thing. Indeed, I wish I had a companion to fan the flames. What is the difference between you, me and Chammi, after all? Well, goodbye.’
He stood up.
‘But tell m
e one thing,’ he added. ‘Do you ever desire revenge? Because I believe that no matter what man does, he always wants revenge. I too want revenge before I leave. Perhaps this will act as a balm for me when I am far away.’
Jameel looked into her eyes and she began to tremble.
‘What sort of revenge?’ she asked, acting ignorant, as though she didn’t know.
For a short while, silence reigned. Jameel was watching her. There was bitterness in his eyes, the sorrow of losing something, and yearning to gain something.
‘What revenge can I offer you?’ she asked, startling him, and now she was unable to meet his gaze.
‘Just this . . .’ He moved forward and grabbed her in his arms and began kissing her like a madman. He pressed her against his chest and she wasn’t able to resist him at all. She wasn’t even able to push him away angrily. She had no idea how all this had happened so fast and how she was allowing it, when suddenly he practically threw her on the bed and left, and she began to weep with despair. But what had she agreed to offer him as revenge? She fell asleep chastising herself.
Jameel left very early in the morning while she still slept. Chammi came and woke her up to complain.
‘Bajiya, you just kept sleeping, you didn’t even come down to say goodbye to Jameel. It would have been nice if he hadn’t left for a few more days.’
‘Why?’ Aliya started as she got out of bed and looked at Chammi. What difference would a few more days have made to Chammi?
‘He just shouldn’t have gone,’ replied Chammi, confused. ‘Poor Aunty is so sad. Even Jameel has brought her no happiness. Why do mothers raise children? I’m the best one, since I raised myself. No one is sad for me.’ Chammi sighed deeply.
‘Yes, poor Aunty gets no happiness,’ agreed Aliya, and she went downstairs holding Chammi’s hand.
Shakeel was lost, Jameel had gone to war—poor Aunty looked like a parched bird in summer.
‘May Allah keep him well; at least money will come into the house, Sister-in-law, that will give you some happiness,’ Amma reasoned with Aunty, who sat sighing.
‘It’s a sign of the times, nowadays the descendants of my late Master are all scattered about looking for jobs. There once was a time when wealth came walking into our home and there was no one to pick it up and put it away,’ lamented Kareeman Bua, her eyes darting about vacantly.
In the afternoon, Aunty handed Aliya a bundle of fabric.
‘This is the cloth Jameel has given for Chammi; he wanted you to stitch it. He’s considerate of everyone, but these bad times have forced him to go far away. If he had got some nice job here, he’d have had no reason to go.’
‘God will bring him back safely, Aunty, don’t you worry,’ Aliya assured her, taking the fabric and going off to her room. She wished she could show Chammi these clothes and tell her that Jameel had left them for her, but for what? How could she answer that? She was scared of Chammi. There were only fifteen days left for the wedding.
That evening, Uncle returned from Delhi. When he learnt that Jameel had joined the army, he immediately began to lament.
‘Good God, what else could have happened with that worthless fool, he will only create Pakistan with the help of the English. They are all sycophants when it comes to the British.’
‘So, do you think he should have helped the cursed kaffirs?’ Amma immediately retorted. Uncle hung his head.
‘Please change your clothes and freshen up, Uncle, you must be tired from your journey. Why don’t you rest a while?’ suggested Aliya, trying to change the subject. Her heart ached on seeing Uncle’s tired face. He’d come home after so many days, and needed to rest now.
Kareeman Bua was preparing tea and Aunty was unpacking his box. Aliya picked up his things and put them away in his room. After changing his clothes, Uncle lay down on the bed in Aunty’s room. Perhaps he was so tired he didn’t even feel like going into the sitting room. Kareeman Bua placed a lantern on the teapoy by the head of the bed. Aliya sat by his side and began massaging his head.
‘I’m afraid these Leaguers will divide the country,’ Uncle said sadly.
‘Yes, I am too,’ agreed Aliya to put him at ease.
‘As you’ve seen, Jameel went into the army—my own child!’
‘It was horrible what he did, Uncle,’ she agreed. How could she tell him that if Jameel had not gone to war, there would be no other way to feed their bellies?
‘Has Mazhar sent a letter?’
‘Nothing has come for a few days,’ she said sorrowfully. How she longed for Abba’s letters. She started twisting the end of her sari so hard the fabric began to unravel.
‘It’s got very old,’ she laughed sadly.
‘Oh yes, your clothes must be getting quite old. You’ve had nothing new made, after all.’ Uncle also laughed with embarrassment.
‘Actually I have some new outfits set aside,’ she lied boldly. For some reason she couldn’t bear to see Uncle ashamed for even one moment.
Uncle began to think about something, and closed his eyes as if he was sleeping. Aliya tiptoed back to the veranda. How quickly night had come to the room, while outside the Maghrib prayer had not yet arrived. Kareeman Bua was cleaning the chimneys of the lanterns and Chammi was seated on the chair in the yard feeding stale bread to a beggar boy about ten years old.
As soon as she saw Aliya, Chammi began to praise him. ‘He sings really well, Bajiya, I heard him sing at Zeenat’s mother’s house. Okay, sing now,’ Chammi ordered him. After cleaning his hands and face on the hem of his shirt, the boy closed his eyes and began to sing:
The birds have destroyed the garden, they pecked every leaf
Aliya liked his voice very much. She was listening happily, but who knows what happened to Chammi—she suddenly began sobbing and ran into her room, and the boy got nervous and glanced around at everyone. Then he gathered up his begging bundle and ran off frightened. Aliya was left agitated. What did Chammi hear in his singing that caused her to weep? Then she saw that Aunty was also wiping her tears away.
‘The times are such that beggar boys can sit beside respectable young ladies and sing,’ Kareeman Bua muttered as she hung a lantern in the archway of the veranda.
‘Kareeman Bua, make me a cup of tea, my head has begun to ache from reading,’ ordered Najma Aunty, peering out of her window, so Kareeman Bua scooted over to the hearth.
Aliya looked up at Najma Aunty and then away. Such dark circles had developed under her eyes from reading thick books in English all the time. Really, why was she reading them; what use would they come to? She just did it so that she could be proud of speaking proper English.
Now darkness was falling and the metal chair in the yard was plunged into gloom. Would Jameel have arrived by now? Aliya kept wondering.
‘Kareeman Bua, Prakash Babu has come, please tell my brother,’ called Asrar Miyan from the sitting room.
‘They never let him have a moment’s rest. He’s sleeping; he won’t come right now!’ Kareeman Bua told him angrily, but Uncle seemed to have been waiting for Asrar Miyan’s call.
20
Four days before the wedding, Sajidah arrived with her four children in tow. Aunty embraced her long-lost daughter and wept for a long time, before filling her in on all the important news: of Shakeel’s running away, of Jameel joining the army and of hiding the wedding from Chammi. Hearing so much painful news, Sajidah went pale and sat a long time lamenting her separation from her brothers.
Aliya had heard from her mother that Sajidah was extremely beautiful, but she saw no signs of that beauty now. Sajidah was a pile of bones gathered up in a sack of pale skin. She behaved so affectionately towards Aliya that Aliya was constantly reminded of Tehmina.
When Sajidah arrived, even Najma Aunty was forced to come down to greet her. Instead of embracing her, she remained aloof.
‘You look quite unhealthy, Sajidah,’ Najma Aunty remarked after examining her carefully.
‘The children torment me, Najma Aunty, and on top
of that, I have heaps of housework, and have to look after two water buffalo.’
‘So does your husband plough?’ Najma Aunty asked contemptuously.
‘Yes, he does, Najma Aunty.’
‘How educated is he?’
‘To class ten, Najma Aunty,’ replied Sajidah proudly.
‘Well, then, that’s fine; what else could he do with so little studying, poor thing? And Sajidah, your children look naughty—educate them well, at the very least have them do an MA in English.’
‘I’ll definitely educate them, Najma Aunty.’
Sajidah’s face fell and Najma Aunty retreated back upstairs. Aliya sat on the takht listening to the whole dialogue in distress.
Ever since Sajidah had come home, Kareeman Bua looked quite cheerful. The children were kicking up a ruckus all around the house and Kareeman Bua happily washed the dirty hand of one, then the face of another, while giving a piece of roti to a third to calm the child down.
When Uncle came home at night, he stuck by his daughter. He was in the midst of speaking delightedly when Chammi all at once became very excited. All her seriousness was upended and she gathered all the children together and made them chant slogans: ‘Long live the Muslim League! Pakistan will be created! No Hindu rule, no Brahmin rule!’ The children gathered around Chammi, joining in. Uncle silently slipped into the sitting room.
‘May these cursed slogans go to hell! Come here, all of you! Watch out, whoever makes noise! How can you think of shouting such things in a wedding house?’ Sajidah began pulling her children away and sitting them down.
‘But who is getting married?’ Chammi laughed victoriously.
‘You are, who else?’ snapped Amma in Chammi’s general direction. Everyone looked nervously at Chammi. Aliya felt alarmed. Chammi looked around at everyone, flabbergasted, and then went into her room with her head down. Aunty took a deep sigh of relief. Whatever she had feared from Chammi had not occurred. She didn’t say a word—contrary to all expectations, she simply hung her head in surrender.
The Women's Courtyard Page 18
