The Women's Courtyard

by Khadija Mastur

  When he asked these questions Aliya would stroke his head, saying, ‘Uncle, please rest; you’re tired, Uncle.’ And he would close his eyes as though he saw a river of blood flowing before his very eyes.

  ‘It’s a sign of the times; time was if Hindus saw peril coming to the Muslims of their village, they would risk their lives to save them, and a Muslim laid down his life to protect the honour of a Hindu; there was such brotherhood they seemed to have been born from the same womb. But now what’s left? Both hold daggers in their hands.’ Kareeman Bua would sigh deeply on hearing news of the riots. There had been no riots in their own city, but everyone constantly worried about what would happen next.

  ‘Where must he be, my Shakeel?’ Aunty would weep on hearing news of riots in Bombay. ‘Your Pakistan has been created, Jameel, your father’s country has also become free, but now who will bring home my Shakeel?’

  ‘Everything will be fine, Amma, I’m sure he’s well. All these riots and such will be over in a few days,’ Jameel would reason with her, but his face remained pale with shock.

  One evening everyone sat silently drinking tea, when a letter came from Mamoo. He had written to Amma that he had committed his services to Pakistan and was soon to move there: If you two wish to come as well, respond immediately, and prepare for the journey.

  ‘Oh, just send a telegram right away, Jameel Miyan, what will it take for us to get ready? We are already completely prepared. Gracious! He is my brother after all, surely he can’t just leave me here alone.’ Amma’s face went pink with glee.

  Jameel panicked and looked around at everyone as though the rioters had just arrived at his door.

  ‘But why would you go, Aunty? You’re safe here. I would give my life for you.’ Today he looked at Aliya after a very long time. What beseeching eyes these were—but Aliya looked down.

  ‘If I don’t go, am I to live in Hindu cities? In Pakistan at least it will be our own government. Also, I can’t for one minute live without my brother, of course.’ Amma was so pleased she couldn’t contain herself.

  ‘Aliya won’t agree to go, Aunty, she won’t go, she just can’t go,’ said Jameel as though half mad.

  ‘You certainly have become quite the authority over her—who exactly is it that won’t go?’ Amma snapped. ‘Who are you to stop her?’

  ‘Do go, Aunty,’ said Jameel. He looked down, and Aliya felt suddenly as though she couldn’t go. Centuries would pass but she would not be able to stir from there.

  ‘I’ll go send a telegram right away saying that everyone is ready,’ he said, getting up and going outside.

  Aliya wished she could announce to everyone at the top of her lungs that she wouldn’t go—she couldn’t go, no one could make her! But she felt her throat pricked by hundreds of thorns. She couldn’t even speak one word; she just looked all around and then down. But to stay here—for what, for whom? she wondered, and then she began to chop betel nuts very calmly. Aliya Begum, if you were to stay, you would be stuck for ever in this swamp, she told herself.

  ‘Kareeman Bua, if everyone has finished drinking tea . . .’ Asrar Miyan called out from the sitting room and today Kareeman Bua began screaming at him like a witch:

  ‘My Gawwwwd, would someone please send this Asrar Miyan off to Pakistan as well! Everyone’s left and everyone will leave, but this one never goes anywhere!’

  The sound of Asrar Miyan coughing came from the sitting room and then all fell quiet

  ‘Will you truly go, Mazhar’s Bride?’ Aunty asked after a while.

  ‘Obviously,’ Amma replied abruptly.

  ‘But this is your home, Mazhar’s Bride, don’t leave me alone.’ Aunty closed her eyes brimming with tears; perhaps she feared the ghost of solitude.

  Aliya ran upstairs in search of refuge. The sunlight had turned yellow and climbed the high wall of the house across the way. Nesting birds in the schoolyard kicked up a constant din. Coming out into the open air, she breathed a sigh of relief and began pacing about and wondering, as travellers do, what would happen next. Maybe it would even be good; she would surely be happy after leaving here.

  When she returned downstairs everyone was sitting lost in their own thoughts. Only Kareeman Bua was muttering about something or other as she briskly toasted rotis. Where had Jameel gone? Why had he not yet returned? Aliya glanced over at the empty chair. Would this madman remember her or forget her, she wondered. The wick of the lantern was defective so two flames rose from it, and the chimney had gone black on one side. In the dim light, the faces of Amma, Aunty and Kareeman Bua all looked distorted.

  Jameel finally re-entered the house and sat down on his chair. ‘I’ve sent out the telegram, Aunty,’ he said softly.

  ‘Don’t stay outside the house for so long; come back in the evenings. Who knows when things will turn bad here as well,’ said Aunty.

  ‘I have to go outside; Muslims are scared, but they have to be made to understand that they should stay put here and keep the situation peaceful here. I can’t get anything done by staying at home.’

  ‘For God’s sake, now that the country has become free, this new work has begun. Well, what’s it to me, anyway—you did put the right address on the telegram, didn’t you?’ Amma asked.

  ‘Rest assured, the address was correct.’

  ‘Well, anyway, we are going to Pakistan now, but you should worry about your own home, Jameel Miyan, look how bad it’s got already, and look at your mother too,’ said Amma, glancing sympathetically over at Aunty.

  ‘Who’s going to Pakistan?’ asked Uncle agitatedly the moment he set foot in the courtyard. He’d heard what Amma had said.

  ‘Aliya and I, who else?’ Amma snapped back.

  ‘No one can go, no one can set foot out of here without my permission! Why would you go to Pakistan? This is our country, we’ve made sacrifices, and now we’ll just leave it behind? Our time for enjoying it is about to arrive,’ cried Uncle with intense passion.

  ‘Mashallah, what a great protector you’ve turned out to be—you can’t support us, what hardships have we not endured since coming here? You were the one who snatched away my husband; you were the one who killed him! You made my daughter an orphan and now you have the gall to assert your authority.’ Amma’s voice trembled with rage.

  ‘Kareeman Bua, send my dinner into the sitting room,’ said Uncle, walking into the other room, head down.

  ‘Do you really want to take this revenge on Uncle before leaving? Uncle didn’t destroy anyone. Uncle didn’t invite anyone to join him. You listen to me today and listen well: I love Uncle just as much as I did Abba,’ Aliya declared, abandoning her dinner. She got up, washed her hands and went off to the sitting room. Whatever Amma may have said in reply, she did not hear.

  ‘Are you really going, dear?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle, since Amma wishes it,’ she replied helplessly.

  ‘These British have laid a trap for us: they’ve displaced people even as they left! All the same, don’t leave, daughter—try to reason with your mother, our time of happiness has come now.’

  ‘Uncle, I am all the support Amma has in the world, how can I abandon her? She is intent on going, but you don’t know how much I will suffer on leaving this house, you . . . you are . . .’ She covered her face in her hands and began to sob.

  ‘Your amma loathes me intensely, certainly, and I didn’t do anything for the two of you either, but now the time has come for the old joy to return, I am getting a really excellent job; then I hope to get a subsidy of ten to fifteen thousand rupees to run the shops, and I will resolve all of her complaints,’ he said, patting Aliya lovingly. ‘Has the oil run out in the house? The light from the lantern is growing dim; of course, now, inshallah, in a few days I’ll have the electricity reconnected. And why don’t you enrol in the MA programme now? I think I’ll definitely have you enrolled next year.’

  Aliya felt her heart breaking. She wiped her tears away and sat in silence. Deep down, she was suffocating, but she couldn’t even
say one word. God grant you happiness, Uncle, she asked for blessings in her heart of hearts, may God fulfil all your pleasant dreams. How could she explain to Uncle that she too wished to flee from here?

  Asrar Miyan was opening the door panels to enter. Aliya got up and went into the courtyard, where Amma and Aunty were discussing something or other. Jameel still sat on his chair, twisting his fingers. She stood for a moment in the courtyard, then went upstairs. The dew-drenched night looked bright as the moon sparkled in the centre of the sky. And tonight, as on every night, a gramophone record played on some nearby roof:

  A thief has been in your bundle, traveller, do wake up

  Slowly she began to stroll about the roof. How strange she felt—as though someone had snatched away all her capacity for thought and understanding. ‘Is this me?’ she asked herself, and hearing her own voice, she was astonished. Had she gone mad? To whom was she speaking? Once, as she turned, she saw Jameel standing mutely before her like a statue. She began to walk more rapidly. What had he come to say now? He had forgotten his promise.

  ‘Have you truly decided to go?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, as she paced.

  ‘You’re making a mistake in leaving here. Didn’t you once say that distance makes memories more distressing? I don’t think you’ll be happy there.’

  ‘I can be happy anywhere. But you had promised that you would never speak of such things to me.’

  ‘What things am I speaking of?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘You are indebted to me—do remember that you will have to repay this debt,’ he said as he turned to leave. ‘You will be happy there, right?’ he stopped and asked.

  She was silent. Jameel stood there for a little while and then he left, and she felt that this time she’d truly lost everything.

  When she grew tired from pacing, she sat down to write Chammi a letter. She had to inform her of their departure.

  32

  This night shoulders the burden of mountains—someone please make it pass. When would she receive tidings of morning? In the morning, she was to leave and free herself of this agony. Everyone was talking, everyone spoke at once—yet all the same there was silence everywhere! What lunar date was it? So far the moon had not come out. Aliya watched everyone as she chopped betel nuts. Jameel, weary of conversation, was seated on his chair humming a melody:

  Give me more life—my story is still incomplete

  My death will not truly express my sorrow

  Jameel had not left the house all day. That day he had nothing but leisure, as though all work was done, and now he had nothing to do at all.

  ‘Sister-in-law, I’m leaving—but remember one thing for me: if you don’t get Big Brother and Jameel Miyan under control, your entire life will pass you by like this. Now that independence has been achieved, what excuse do they have! Father and son both still wander about all day like bums.’ Amma was lecturing Aunty.

  Give me more life—my story is still incomplete . . . my story is still incomplete

  Jameel kept repeating the same couplet.

  What was he trying to point out by reciting those same lines again and again? What was he saying to her? Aliya began cracking the betel nuts rapidly. How wonderful it would be if Allah could make her deaf right now.

  ‘Mazhar’s Bride, I feel my heart sinking; this used to be a full household. Then everything fell apart as we watched. It’s a sign of the times. No one can do anything about it. May I be sacrificed to that Master who made one country out of two; our Muslims have their own government, but we are left behind,’ said Kareeman Bua, beside herself with the shock of separation.

  ‘You come too, Kareeman Bua,’ said Amma with great sincerity.

  ‘Mazhar’s Bride, I pray that only my dead body will leave this house. If I were to leave today, how could I show my face to my late mistress after dying? Why would I ever stir from the place where I’ve been set down?’

  When Sita set foot outside the line drawn by Ram, Ravana carried her away, thought Aliya. Sita knowingly disobeyed Ram’s orders when he was still living, but you, Kareeman Bua, you cannot disobey the command of your departed mistress. All the same, Sita remained Sita, and you will remain Kareeman Bua. Who will know your story? Who will write your tale? Aliya glanced tearfully at Kareeman Bua. How vivid was the sorrow of separation etched on her face in the dim yellow lantern light!

  ‘Mazhar’s Bride, even now you can change your decision. Don’t go.’ Aunty’s voice was growing tearful.

  Give me more life—my story is still incomplete

  Jameel, totally indifferent to all their conversation, seemed lost in his passion for that couplet.

  ‘Allah, please make this night pass, or I will not survive,’ prayed Aliya. She set aside her betel-nut cracker and looked around. The moon was rising, lighting up the night sky.

  ‘A letter has come from Chammi—what has she written, Aliya?’ asked Aunty.

  ‘She has written, Congratulations on going to Pakistan, definitely do go. Please kiss that pure land for me, and send me a bit of earth from there. I will smear it in the parting of my hair. It is my misfortune that I can’t go there myself. Send everyone my blessings and greetings,’ Aliya recited everything she remembered of the letter.

  ‘Did she write anything else?’ Aunty asked.

  ‘Just hello to everyone, I have the letter upstairs.’

  My death will not truly express my sorrow

  Jameel continued to recite his couplet, still ignoring them all.

  ‘Who knows what our Muslim country will be like, whether you’ll get a home quickly or not? Don’t stay in a hotel, Mazhar’s Bride! You’ll get sick from the food there,’ advised Kareeman Bua, anxious about their future.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Kareeman Bua, I will write a letter as soon as I get there,’ Amma said.

  It was now striking midnight. The night was growing cold, but everyone stayed up. Aliya wished she could just run upstairs somehow.

  ‘All right then, I’m going to sleep now, goodbye,’ said Jameel, standing up from his chair. ‘Give me more life,’ he recited, as he went into his room.

  The outside door to the sitting room opened and closed. Uncle hadn’t come in even for a moment, though Aliya had been waiting for him. The stray dogs howled in the gali. If only sleep would come. She felt as though there were hot peppers pricking her eyes. The day she had first come here and spent the night in that same room, she hadn’t been able to sleep all night long, and tonight, now that she was leaving, sleep had again forsaken her. So many feelings tore at her heart—Jameel had said not one word to her. Would he not even speak to her as she left? Was there nothing left to say now? Allah, what must Uncle be thinking? She was going away and leaving him. And Chammi, may God grant her the good fortune of going to Pakistan.

  Morning came and found her still awake. The sounds of clanking of pots and conversation drifted upstairs. She looked around the room with a farewell glance, then went downstairs.

  Breakfast was ready. She sat down with Amma and Aunty. From the open doors of the room, she saw Jameel was still asleep with the sheet pulled over his face. Really, he was so uncivil. It was too much. Here she was leaving, and he hadn’t even opened his eyes—as though he was sleeping the sleep of death. How his pompous slumber grieved her! He could always go back to sleep again once she left, after all.

  After breakfast, Amma began to arrange all the luggage. Except for their clothing and two light blankets, they’d filled Chammi’s room with rest of the luggage for whenever a good time came for them to take it all away.

  ‘The tongas have come,’ Asrar Miyan called from outside.

  She quickly ran to the sitting room. Would Uncle also stay asleep today?

  ‘Your Uncle went somewhere very early this morning. He said that he had work to do, and he also said he wouldn’t be able to see everyone off,’ said Kareeman Bua tearfully.

  ‘Kareeman Bua, he should have said that there was no time to w
aste sitting around, waiting to say goodbye to us,’ said Amma, making a face. ‘Sister-in-law, please keep my luggage safe, please keep a lock on that room,’ Amma instructed her once more.

  Allah, if only their seats today were not reserved, if only she could stay today, how could she leave without saying goodbye to Uncle? Aliya sat down exhausted.

  ‘Get up, Jameel, your sister and aunt are leaving. Come bid farewell to them,’ Aunty called out to Jameel for the third time but he didn’t move a bit.

  ‘Hurry up, Kareeman Bua, aeroplane don’t wait for anyone. It will fly away on time,’ Asrar Miyan called out again.

  ‘God forbid. My brother will be waiting for us today at the Lahore airport; if he doesn’t find us, his heart will break,’ Amma said nervously, wrapping herself in a burqa. ‘Now hurry up, will you?’ she snapped, looking over at Aliya who still sat, unable to think.

  ‘It’s getting quite late! It would be better to get them there earlier.’ Asrar Miyan just would not stop.

  ‘Please, will someone send this Asrar Miyan to Pakistan as well!’ cried Kareeman Bua, weeping copious tears.

  Kareeman Bua and Aunty were embracing Amma and weeping, but Aliya just stood there dumbstruck, not even crying.

  ‘If you see Shakeel over there, definitely write and tell me,’ whispered Aunty as she hugged Aliya. ‘Remember me! Now go, I’m entrusting you to God,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Oh, Jameel, hey! Get up now!’ she yelled loudly.

  ‘I’m leaving. I’ll go see him myself,’ said Aliya.

  ‘Why will you go see him? He doesn’t want to see us off, out of hatred,’ said Amma with a frown. ‘Now let’s just go quickly.’

  ‘I’m going, goodbye,’ said Aliya, pulling the sheet off Jameel’s face. Then she stepped back with embarrassment. His swollen, damp eyes told their own tale. She panicked and shut her eyes. But even with her eyes shut, his eyes managed to make their way into her vision.