The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  The state of the household had worsened. Jameel didn’t even try to get a job, and instead worked all day in the Muslim League office, receiving a small compensation. He’d give his wages to Aunty and then disappear for the rest of the month, and the entire month would pass by in taking revenge on Aunty.

  In those days Uncle was cursed by the ill luck of Saturn. Today here, tomorrow there. England’s Labour government had decided to grant India independence, and Amma heard this news as though it were the sort of rumour spread in an opium den.

  Ever since the decision to grant independence, father and son had begun to feel disgusted at the mere sight of one another. Pakistan will be created, Pakistan will not be created! And in the midst of this conflict, Aliya kept thinking of Chammi. What would have happened if she were still living in the house today? Everyone would have died and gone to heaven before independence came along.

  Today when Uncle entered the house after being away for more than two weeks, he lay down peacefully on the bed near the veranda and stroked his head. After seeing him relaxing in the house after so many days away, Aliya got a cup of tea and sat near him. Uncle sat up and began drinking tea.

  ‘And so the English are saying that Hindustan will be free?’ Aunty also came over laughing.

  ‘Yes, all they have to do is make it free, but they’ll just mess things up for a little while longer—such a dishonest nation,’ said Uncle animatedly.

  ‘Then when we get independence, will you come back and sit at your shops?’ Aunty asked, her eyes burning with desire.

  ‘I’ll sit there, why not? You wait and see how the shops run after independence! Also, we will get assistance from our government to run our shop.’

  ‘Oh, our government will give assistance too? Oh, how lovely that will be.’ Aunty’s eyes shone.

  ‘Uncle, it’s so nice to have you here in the house today. When you’re here I feel as though . . .’ Aliya couldn’t say anything, her voice choked up.

  ‘And if I’m not your father, what am I, crazy girl?’ Uncle hugged her head to his chest. ‘When we get independence, I’ll make my daughter a bride, and I will bring her a magnificent educated groom, hmm?’ He looked over at Aunty and they both began to laugh, but Aliya, feeling the warmth of love against Uncle’s chest, began softly crying. She was praying to herself that Allah would quickly make this country independent and that Uncle would come back home, and then in the evenings he’d lie here and chat with Aunty, and he’d ask after Chammi, and he’d write for Sajidah to come to visit, and he’d look for a bride for Jameel, and he’d search for Shakeel and bring him home.

  ‘Silly girl! You’re crying.’ Uncle had felt the dampness of her tears through his homespun kurta. ‘Don’t cry, my daughter.’

  ‘Kareeman Bua, tell my brother that Hakim Sahib and Hardayal Babu have come.’ When Asrar Miyan called out, Uncle got up immediately. He even forgot that he was calming Aliya. She wiped away her tears on her own. How her heart overflowed. Now she wished she could weep in earnest.

  That night, Jameel spoke animatedly while everyone ate dinner.

  ‘Pakistan is as real as you and me sitting right here. No matter how many obstacles the Congress put in the way, they won’t be able to do a thing. How can anyone stop the demands of ten crore Muslims?’

  ‘So will all the Muslims go live in Pakistan?’ Aunty asked.

  ‘Of course not! What need would there be for that? Everyone will stay right where they are.’

  ‘But why would the Hindus let us stay, won’t they say, “Go to your own country!”’

  ‘But they will have Hindus living in our Pakistan as well. We won’t tell them to leave.’

  Once Aunty had understood Jameel’s argument she breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Yes, Jameel Miyan, this whole leaving thing is bad, I also could not leave this home.’ Kareeman Bua finally spoke up.

  ‘And since when am I leaving my home? I’ll just send Asrar Miyan to Pakistan.’ Jameel laughed cheerfully, and Kareeman Bua grinned with embarrassment and began clearing up the pots and pans.

  ‘Then you should take over one of your shops; Abba is so tired now. You will show him respect, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do anything you want, Amma; whatever you tell me to do, I’ll make it happen. Just let Pakistan be created first.’ As Jameel spoke, he looked in Aliya’s direction again and again and she continued to sit and eat on her own. For some reason she was very hungry these days.

  ‘Oh, enough! Always the same old story, eating and drinking have become impossible!’ Amma had become infuriated as she listened. ‘Now you only believe people of your own community have any intelligence. Do you think the poor English are simply idiots—that they’ll just hand over independence and quietly go back to their own country? Go ahead and do all that nonsense for many more years, and you still won’t get freedom.’

  ‘Who thinks they are idiots? But now time is making them look like idiots; if they don’t leave, they’ll be thrown out all the same.’ Jameel was on a tear as well.

  ‘Glory be to God, what drivel are you on about!’ Amma got up in a huff. ‘Kareeman Bua, send my food to my room.’ As Amma started to leave, Jameel caught her.

  ‘Come on, forget it, Aunty, if I ever mention the word “independence” again, may I receive the punishment of a thief.’

  The conversation had turned humorous, but Amma’s mood had not been righted. As soon as she finished eating, she went into her room.

  Now that the cold of winter had dissipated they had begun to sleep on the veranda. The battered curtains had long since been wrapped up and stowed away. At this time of night, the moonlight shone into the veranda and gambolled about on the beds.

  Jameel was pacing around the courtyard after talking so much, Aliya was seated by Aunty chopping betel nut and Amma was off sulking in her room doing God knows what.

  ‘Where is my brother?’ asked Najma Aunty, who had come downstairs and perched next to Aunty. She looked a bit worried.

  ‘He must be in the sitting room, have him called in here,’ Aunty replied.

  ‘Look, Kareeman Bua, if there’s no one there with him, then call him in here,’ said Najma Aunty wearily.

  As soon as Uncle entered, Jameel went off to his own room. Aliya could not figure out what Najma Aunty could want to discuss that was making her so worried.

  ‘Brother,’ she began, ‘the thing is, I have found a life partner for myself, and I’ve come to inform you of that,’ she said brazenly.

  Everyone stared at her in astonishment. Uncle remained seated, his eyes downcast. Does a person simply abandon her manners when she does an MA in English? Najma Aunty could also have communicated through Aunty. Aliya glared at her with loathing.

  ‘Then go ahead and get married; just tell us the details, and we’ll immediately make arrangements.’ Aunty grinned sheepishly and began to laugh.

  ‘What arrangements will you make, exactly? Am I Chammi that the mirasis will be invited to my marriage? That drums will be played, and my dowry must be stitched? I myself am the dowry,’ retorted Najma Aunty haughtily.

  ‘I will take part whenever you wish,’ remarked Uncle. He stood up again and went back outside.

  ‘The ceremony can take place during summer vacation; after that we shall go to Simla,’ Najma Aunty announced to Aunty, and she too stood up.

  ‘But who is this gentleman?’ Aunty could not help but ask.

  ‘He is the brother of a lecturer at my college. He has also done an MA in English. He’s a very important businessman,’ she replied, as she went clacking up the stairs.

  Everyone was silent for a little while. But as soon as Jameel returned and began pacing again, Aunty announced softly, ‘Your Najma Aunty is getting married.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what she just came to tell you?’

  ‘Humph!’ said Aunty, who looked down and began making paan.

  ‘She won’t have drums, she won’t be made a bride of; what sort of a wedding is that? The times ha
ve changed. We used to have the girls sit in maiyon for a quarter of a month. They didn’t even see the shadows of their father or brothers,’ muttered Kareeman Bua as she washed the dishes.

  ‘She did all that studying and this is what she learns. Tell the qazi he better read the vows in English,’ joked Jameel, laughing out loud. ‘Truly it was the ill fate of the girls in this family that they weren’t given an education. Najma Aunty was the first girl in our family to be educated. Clearly, vanity made her turn out like this. The other educated girl here is our Aliya Bibi, and there’s a defect in her after all,’ he said, looking over at her in hope of praise.

  Aliya understood what defect he was signalling towards and she was enraged.

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped back, ‘if a woman attempts to move beyond the status of puppet, her brain is clearly defective. A man feels true joy on seeing a woman stupid. Najma Aunty’s way of doing things is wrong, but she has the right to arrange her own marriage.’

  ‘Who’s getting married?’ Amma asked, popping out of her room.

  ‘Najma Aunty,’ Aliya replied.

  ‘Where did Big Brother arrange it?’

  ‘Big Brother did not, she arranged it herself,’ Aunty informed her.

  ‘Oh, enough, enough! Her older sister got married according to her own wishes and thanks to that, her fabulous son Safdar now sashays about on the bosom of the earth.’ Amma’s anger was in full force.

  No one gave any response. Aliya regretted Amma’s bitter tone. Amma went back into her room, and Jameel got up and started pacing and humming:

  My heart was not soothed, nor did the darkness of the mournful night disappear

  If I had known this, I wouldn’t have set my house on fire

  Ah, so he was bemoaning the defect in her mind, and she wasn’t able to soothe his heart. I never gave him colourful evenings. What greater defect could there be?

  ‘I’m just going out, Amma, I have some important work to do. I’ll be back late, so please lock the door,’ said Jameel as he went towards the door. ‘My heart was not soothed, nor did the darkness of the mournful night disappear’—even as he walked out of the door he continued to hum that song.

  Just then, Asrar Miyan’s gloomy voice emerged with fanfare in the bright moonlight: ‘Kareeman Bua, if everyone has eaten dinner . . .’

  Aliya climbed the stairs to her room.

  30

  It was extremely hot. Najma Aunty had already departed for Simla with her businessman. At her wedding, neither were drums played, nor did mirasis sing. Kareeman Bua’s heart was broken. What must one endure in these wretched times! Amma was constantly reminded of the late Salma Aunty after the wedding, which brought out her prayers for the death of Safdar. In the meantime there was an uproar all about the country. The Cabinet Mission had raised a ruckus and then returned home. The Muslim Leaguers had grown more important. If Uncle could help it, he’d never look at Jameel’s face at all; he’d begun to consider him a snake nurtured in his own sleeve. If at any time they came face-to-face, they’d taunt one another—‘All Muslim Leaguers are the sycophants of the British,’ Uncle would huff.

  ‘There’s no doubt about that, but since when has this friendship between your exalted Nehru and Lord Mountbatten been going on? And why is there such a special friendship between your Nehru and fair Lady Mountbatten,’ shot back Jameel, not one to back down.

  ‘You would ask such a question in your ignorance.’

  ‘Really, Jameel, don’t you tire of having debates outside the house?’ Aliya would say, jumping into the middle, and then Jameel would feel unable to stand up to his father.

  ‘Bah! The blood of every single Muslim being killed in the riots falls squarely at the door of the Muslim Leaguers.’ Uncle would sigh deeply.

  Jameel would stare at Aliya and remain silent. He was dying to respond, but he couldn’t say anything.

  Aunty continued to worry about Shakeel.

  ‘God knows where he must be! Hindus and Muslims are thirsting for one another’s blood,’ she would lament. In those days Aunty was tortured by her worries for Shakeel.

  Early that evening, a dust storm arose. Kareeman Bua was lighting the lanterns. Every single one had gone out simultaneously.

  ‘May they be destroyed, these dust storms,’ she muttered as she gathered the lanterns together and went into her room.

  ‘Garlands! Jasmine! Moti and chameli!’ called out the garland seller as he dashed through the gali.

  The storm was over in just a short while. A few drops of rain had fallen and released the fragrance of sweet earth, and songs played on gramophone records could be heard from the roofs of the mohalla.

  Father, my parents’ home slips away from me

  ‘Everyone eat dinner! Who knows if it will start to rain again—it’s still quite cloudy,’ called Kareeman Bua, and then she began to wipe the storm dust from the pots and pans. ‘Who knows why these blasted storms keep coming,’ she mumbled to herself.

  ‘In the old days there must not have been as many dust storms, Kareeman Bua?’ Jameel asked laughingly.

  ‘These dust storms always came, Jameel Miyan. They carried off all manner of precious things,’ Kareeman Bua responded seriously, not understanding his joke. ‘Once a storm carried off my georgette dupatta; I’d just washed it and hung it out on the clothes line.’ Kareeman Bua began to adjust the tattered dupatta on her head. ‘May these dust storms be destroyed,’ she repeated, as she picked up the plates and went out on to the veranda.

  ‘It may rain tonight as well,’ said Jameel, looking over at Aliya.

  ‘God willing; then we’ll get a break from this heat.’

  After dinner, Amma and Aunty opened up the paandaan. Kareeman Bua was gathering the leftover gravy from the other plates into a cup for Asrar Miyan. Jameel had gone back to sit on his chair.

  Where is Uncle? thought Aliya as she climbed the stairs. This cold food will only ruin his health further. At the very least, he should come home early at night.

  The night was damp as tear-stained eyes. After making up her bed on the roof, Aliya began to stroll slowly about. ‘Oh, Allah, the time simply doesn’t pass,’ she murmured. The gramophone records played continuously:

  In vain I was dishonoured, darling, just for you

  ‘Oh, there’s a very nice breeze up here,’ observed Jameel, coming upstairs as well. He began strolling with her.

  She stayed quiet. Night, solitude, the swelling clouds and now Jameel. Her heart felt weighed down, as though she were trapped in a storm. What was this strange terror? She wished she could pick Jameel up and toss him into the gali below. She leant over the wall and began peering down, where the sugar-cane hawker walked by, shouting out, his tray illuminated by a lamp with two wicks.

  ‘Aliya,’ Jameel addressed her in an emotional voice.

  ‘What is it?’ She turned indignantly.

  ‘So many things—but you have become so deaf to me.’

  ‘What’s left to say? You’ve already said everything and I’ve already listened. Don’t you ever tire of repeating these things over and over?’

  Jameel stood next to her and leant over to peer at her in the dark. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face and she felt as though her face was being torched by the hot June wind. She moved away and went and sat on her bed and rubbed her face with both her hands.

  ‘Why are you so cruel and unfeeling towards me?’ he asked, drawing near again. What was this huge gulf that could not be bridged? He leant over and looked into her eyes. Aliya saw a darkness even blacker than clouds shrouding his eyes, but despite those clouds a hot summer wind blew. Aliya felt her heart would melt.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said, sliding to one side.

  ‘May I sit on your bed? On your bed I’ll feel as though . . .’

  Aliya had the sensation of being embraced by a cloud of hornets.

  ‘Jameel Sahib, you have become stubborn when it comes to me. You senselessly wish to prove that if you don’t get
me, you will die, you’ll be destroyed, you’ll never find a more wonderful girl in this lifetime than me, but I know that if I leave your sight this very day, you’ll find someone else. You must have once felt something like this for Chammi, and . . .’ Her voice became tearful and she hid her face in her knees and began to weep. Right at that moment, she was feeling extremely weak.

  ‘What? Are you really so disgusted with me that—don’t cry, Aliya.’ Jameel panicked and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Calm down now, I won’t say anything, I want to make you smile throughout your life; I don’t mean to make you cry.’ He took his hands away from her shoulders. ‘Now I won’t demand anything of you, I don’t even have the right. I swear you won’t be troubled by me any more. There, you’re happy now, right?’

  What could she say? She continued to sob.

  ‘Don’t cry, Aliya Bibi.’ He stood far from her, like a criminal. ‘If you don’t want to be my life companion, that’s fine. Life will continue on. How many people really live a happy life, anyway? But for now, do calm down; I won’t say anything to you any more.’ His voice shook.

  For a few minutes he stood there silently and then went quickly downstairs.

  ‘Kareeman Bua, my brother will be home by midnight; if everyone has eaten please send some dinner for me too.’ Asrar Miyan’s voice rent the stillness of the night.

  Aliya wiped away her tears and lay down perfectly still. It was very dark. The gathering clouds looked menacing. Would it rain so hard tonight a deluge would come? Tonight she would surely drown. She hadn’t even fashioned a boat to protect herself! She closed her eyes.

  31

  Pakistan had been created. The League leaders had already departed for Karachi, the capital of the country. In Punjab a bloody Holi was being played out. Uncle seemed felled by the shock. He lay like an invalid in his sitting room, asking everyone, ‘What has happened? What is happening? How did Hindus and Muslims suddenly become mortal enemies? Who taught them to do this? Who snatched the love from their hearts?’