Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  ‘I asked for Razia Begum in the reception. That girl said Razia Begum Querishi was in Room 314!’ his voice was excited.

  ‘Is that supposed to have some special significance?’ She realized he was tipsy the moment she saw him almost tottering towards the sofa. Her tone was neutral.

  ‘Heheheheh…she didn’t ask for my room number or card. The surname would’ve been a real giveaway! I’m sure she would’ve asked why we were staying separately. Hahahahaha!’ He winked. She didn’t reply. Instead, she hardened her stare. Amir wasn’t scared now. He returned her gaze.

  ‘The bureaucrat who pays for this room might ask the same question. What do I tell him?’ He flashed a playful smile before continuing, ‘Anyway. Forget them. I want to stay with you. At least tonight.’

  ‘Did you plan that before coming here?’

  ‘Why should I? We’re husband and wife.’

  ‘Which means you have a right over me. Because you haven’t said talaq yet. You just want to keep me. Right?’

  ‘Right. And I won’t. Ever. Tell me now. I’ll give talaq to Zubeida. Right now! I want you. Only you. Always. Please,’ He got up and in a step, was close to her.

  It felt repulsive and a little scary but she summoned her will and said, ‘Amir. Go back to your place. We need to clear some things first.’ He returned to his place.

  ‘Don’t ever try this again. You know—you’ve shot countless rape scenes—it’s difficult for a man to really rape a woman unless she’s physically really very feeble or he has a weapon. And there’s no way somebody as drunk as you can rape someone.’

  ‘What’re you saying? Do you really think I came here to rape you? I know you’re angry and all but, come on! You’re my bibi. You’ll always be. I’ll never give you talaq. Never. Never. No talaq. I want you. Only you. You. I’ll give her talaq. From here…phone…phone…now. I’ll divorce Zubeida. I want you.’

  ‘Nobody can force even his wife to have sex. It’s illegal. The fact that we’ve both registered and are staying in separate rooms is proof enough that I’m not interested and that you’ve trespassed into my room.’

  ‘What nonsense! You seem to have decided that I’ve come here only to rape you!’

  ‘Yes. Because you’ve repeatedly insisted that you haven’t divorced me. You seem to forget that I can give you talaq as well.’

  ‘Yeah? No woman has that right…okay, let me ask you theoretically. Which woman has the right to pronounce talaq on her husband?’

  ‘This country’s Constitution gives me the right to legally quit the religion which has such a restriction regarding the rules of talaq. I’ll file a signed affidavit in court stating that I renounce Islam and that I want to return to the Hindu fold. Amir, I know enough law. I’ve read the judgement that says that any man or woman who quits her current religion can do so only according to the rules of the religion she or he has married into. But then I’ll go to the Supreme Court and raise a stink, saying that you’ve put me through immense mental torture by marrying another woman when you are still married to me. I’ll yell about the unfairness of it all—that you have the right to marry four women at a time at will. I’ll question the source, which gives you that right. Think about what that would do to your image.’

  ‘Wh…what? Say that again.’ He didn’t seem to fully comprehend what she said. When she repeated her words, his face fell. He felt empty again. The same morose emptiness that had lasted throughout the afternoon and until dinner. She was staring at him. He didn’t meet her gaze and looked down. After a long time, he got up, walked over and sat close to her. She said nothing. He suddenly held put her hands in his, leaned and whispered, ‘I know, I know you’re very angry with me because I married again. I understand your anger, I swear I do. But think about it. Doesn’t it tell you that I’m lonely without you?’

  She softened a little but in a moment collected herself and said, ‘What’s done is done. You married because you felt like it. But why her? You could’ve found someone who matched you? Someone who was equal to you in education and accomplishment? What can you share with this girl?’

  ‘You know we don’t allow girls to get educated. It’s prohibited. Only a few rich and educated families allow their girls to go and get whatever degree or doctorate they want. Who’d want his daughter to be the second wife of an old man like me?’

  She felt incredible pity for him when she heard this. Was this his drink talking? Or did he simply pour everything out, considering how emotionally vulnerable he was? Or was it a mix of both? She was unsure. She softened more and gently, affectionately squeezed his hand and said, ‘Zubeida. That’s her name, right? Send her to school again. Let her go to college after that. Find out what she loves and arrange for intensive coaching in those areas. In about eight to ten years, I’m sure she’ll become your equal.’

  ‘Right. And I’ll be seventy by then. But that’s not the point. No amount of intensive coaching will help someone who’s not interested. You have no idea of her abilities.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  She felt bad for him. Her thoughts turned inward. She didn’t let go of his hand. After five minutes, she said, ‘One more thing: modern education is the only way for someone to develop their faculties. If you want your women to grow intellectually to a standard where they can become equal with a man like you, you need to stop feeding them only Islamic teachings in the name of education. But remember, every woman who gets a modern education will demand equality in all aspects of life: social, economic, political, marital and spiritual. She will ask uncomfortable questions. Why must God only be a male? Goddesses are equal in number to gods in Hinduism. And then there are goddesses who are more powerful than gods. Haven’t you heard of the story of the Goddess Chamundeshwari? The gods were powerless to counter the might of the demon Mahisha. They approached Durga, who took the form of Chamundeshwari and killed him in a battle. Pre-Islamic Arabia worshipped numerous female gods but once the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) took over, he banned the worship of female gods and left his followers with just the male Allah. An educated Muslim woman will ask why he banned worship of female gods. And it’s not just the women. Anybody whose mind is shaped by today’s education—which finds discrimination of any sort revolting—will become a feminist. That reminds me. About twenty years ago, I went to some programme organized by the Amateur Women Writers’ Association in Bangalore. A lady read out a short story she had written. It was based on Sita’s trial by fire episode. When Rama asks her to prove her chastity by telling her to jump into the fire and emerge unscathed, Sita asks him to join her because like him, even she wants to find out if he’s been faithful in her absence. This was the lady’s version of trial by fire. We were seven women in that reading session, including me. Another woman stood up and screamed, ‘That’s not enough. Change it. Make Sita hold his scruff and slap him at least four times on both cheeks!’ I told this to show you a small sample of the kind of mindset that works with respect to discrimination of any kind. And this has only increased of late—you’re aware of the kind of literature that’s being churned out about Kunti, Ahalya, Draupadi, Sita and Mandodari. Our feminist writers are depicting these women as balls of fire. You know that, don’t you?’

  He said nothing for a long time, and then nodded with a ‘Hmm.’ And she continued, ‘If you give this kind of education freely, openly to the women of your religion, they’ll ask precisely these questions and churn out precisely this kind of literature. From a purely biological perspective and for reproductive purposes, they’ll ask, is the distinction of male and female even necessary? If it is, they’ll ask, whose role is more important? And then an entirely different answer will emerge to the question of whether God should be male or female. You know, in my studies over these past five years, I’ve also done Vedanta. It says that the Ultimate and Eternal Reality called Brahman is neither male nor female. It is genderless. Vedanta texts refer to it in the neuter gender. Even that which is called Ishwara is nothing more than an aspect of Brahman. This w
orld is created out of the primordial cosmic energy contained in Brahman and this cosmic energy is conceptualized as Shakti. And Shakti is a female who gives birth to all creation and nurtures it through time and space. We need to seek refuge in and worship her. See what that means? That God is female. And that which is beyond God is genderless. All our worship through symbols, language, prayers and rituals is meant to finally reach this goddess. Those who are called gods—the males—play a subordinate role to this goddess like the bees that serve the queen bee. When critical enquiry reaches spiritual heights, every feminist becomes a practitioner of Vedanta. Gender difference occurs only at the level of nature and instinct. Vedanta doesn’t admit the existence of separate souls for male and female. Are your fellow-religionists prepared to allow such ideas? Amir?’

  Silence again. She turned and looked at him. His eyes were heavy with sleep, he had already slipped into an alcohol induced stupor. She felt let down. Her essay-length monologue had completely escaped him. She knew she had spoken spiritedly. She thought she was sharing her insights but it was wasted on him. She felt mildly depressed. Now the weight on her shoulder shook her out of it. Amir had leaned on her. He was dangerously close to sleeping right there on her bed. She got up, caught both his shoulders and shook him.

  ‘Amir! You’re very sleepy. Come, I’ll take you to your room.’

  He muttered something.

  ‘Your room number, Amir!’

  ‘Mmmmmmmmm.’

  She put his hand in his trouser pocket, extracted the key and read the room number—215. She put it back in his pocket. Then she put one hand on each of his shoulders and stood him up. She walked him slowly out of her room into the corridor. When they had covered some distance in this manner, she spotted the bellboy of her floor and signalled to him.

  ‘Here. Escort this sahib to his room. Take this key.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  She stood watching till both of them stepped into the lift.

  ~

  When she lay down on the bed, she found she was unable to sleep. The day’s events had deeply shaken her. She was appalled upon discovering the real intent of the seminar. And now Amir’s drunken blabber continued to churn long-buried feelings of emotional turmoil, like waves slapping her relentlessly. She sought solace in the thought that he had married again chiefly in a fit of anger. What did he expect? He deserves that hapless girl. But the churning resurfaced when she recalled his confession that he was lonely without her. With it came the realization that she too was lonely. For a moment she considered what he had said: ‘I’ll give her talaq and stay with you like before.’ It was tempting. Suddenly she felt guilty. If she gave in, she’d never be able to face herself again. Supporting a markedly unjust law that would bring that poor woman to the streets was unthinkable. Even otherwise, she realized that she no longer had the same love for him. She sat up, lay down, changed positions, closed her eyes only to open them again and finally lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her and she was glad when dawn broke.

  She got up, showered, dressed, finished breakfast and hailed a taxi. She sat in the backseat and looked out of the closed tinted window, at nothing in particular, when a signboard at the corner of a wide road caught her eye—Aurangzeb Road. She was surprised. Then she remembered that there was a road named after Akbar. Was Aurangzeb a historical figure really worth remembering with respect? She couldn’t fathom the mindset of independent India’s ruling elite. Or was it yet another rabbit in the vote-bank hat that dictated that one must equally respect every historical figure? Was it something more sinister? She knew the retort that would ensue: Aurangzeb is a historical reality and it’s our duty to remember him. Then why erase his deeds, equally a historical reality, from school textbooks? She intended to bring this up today at the seminar.

  She reached really early. Nobody had arrived yet. As she paced around in the portico, a thought struck her. It was a good idea to stay for a day longer in Delhi, book a taxi and visit important historical sites in and around the city. The Red Fort, Jama Masjid, Tughlaqabad, Humayun’s Tomb and other major and minor Muslim monuments and sites needed deeper study. It would help her further refine the novel’s manuscript. She saw a man of about fifty walking directly towards her.

  ‘Namaste. My name is Dr Rajavardhan, reader, history department, Allahabad University. You have no idea how much I loved your gutsy speech yesterday. You’re the only man here.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you support me yesterday?’ she asked him directly without masking the coldness in her voice.

  ‘Didn’t you declare yesterday that Muslim rule had emasculated all the men in India?’ He laughed at his own joke. He removed a small packet from his pocket, opened it, poured some tobacco on his right palm, added a pinch of white lime to it, rubbed it vigorously with his left thumb, chucked the mixture into his mouth and then, ‘You’ve registered yourself as Razia Begum but I can tell you’re not a Muslim by birth.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘No one who’s a Muslim by birth can even dream of saying the things you said yesterday. You had a love marriage and you converted because otherwise you would’ve been unable to marry. Am I right? And I’m sorry. I have no right to talk about your personal life.’

  She thought about this. It is likely the professor had told him about me after I left. She debated asking this man how he knew so much about her personal life but it would be unwise. She turned when she heard some noise—the professor’s special car, a privilege the ministry had granted him, had arrived. The doors opened and the professor and a special secretary of the ministry emerged. The secretary quickly made his way towards the hall to supervise the day’s arrangements. Dr Rajavardhan walked up to the professor and said, grinning widely, ‘Just a second, sir. I need to tell you something…’ he paused and then lowered his voice a little and said, ‘Palmistry is my hobby. Believe me, I don’t do this for money. Now if you give me the honour of showing your palm…’ He grabbed the professor’s right hand and turned it up without waiting for a reply. He adjusted his glasses a little, bent a bit and studied the palm with great seriousness. He let go of the hand and said, ‘So everything adds up to it. From whatever angle I see. You’re just a step from getting the highest honour. The highest! In India that means Bharat Ratna. Right, sir?’ Dr Rajavardhan now looked at the professor’s face directly. The professor glowed.

  ‘You really think so? Now I don’t really believe in these things…I mean, palmistry and astrology, all those things. But I don’t want to discourage you and because you’ve read my palm, tell me what else do you see?’

  Dr Rajavardhan grinned deliberately, his lips parting slowly, drops of tobacco juice dripping from his mouth. He ignored it and examined the professor’s hand again. It was clear to Lakshmi that he was a master guesser—he would ‘predict’ people’s future through a quick analysis of the person’s behaviour.

  It was Lakshmi’s turn in the evening.

  ‘Madam, can I see your hand?’

  ‘People who have expectations from future are drawn to astrology. I have no such expectation. Oh, and your guess about my personal life was right. Congratulations! You’re very talented.’

  He laughed loudly and said, ‘I have no talent. I overheard a conversation about you yesterday. That’s how I know about your personal life. I knew that you were also a part of the Progressive Movement in the past. And then, lots of folks here know that you converted to Islam just so you could marry. Professor Sastri had included your name in the hope of using you as a powerful votary of their “national integration” project but you did a complete U-turn. You have no idea of the kind of shock you’ve given him. The minister is shocked, too. He gets a report of the proceedings of the conference twice a day. A kind of who-said-what, what’s the general consensus of the gathering…that kind of report. The minister questioned Professor Sastri on his choice of you, a Muslim woman who went against the…ummm…agenda. In his defence, the professor told him about your back
ground, your life, etc.’

  His words more than confirmed her suspicion that this assemblage was a carefully-chosen coterie of yes men. She recalled the events of today. Though she knew it was futile to argue with the mindless distortion right in her presence, she couldn’t resist interrupting the speakers at regular intervals. ‘…this is not what the primary sources say! It’s not scientific to discard what Muslim court historians have themselves recorded…unless we accept the bitterest truths of history, we’ll be unable to learn the true lessons that history is ready to teach us…Hindu society has genuinely admitted Manu’s mistakes, has apologized for those mistakes and has for the past hundred years been correcting them. This country has made it illegal for anybody to discriminate against Dalits and backward sections of the Hindu society. They’re given legal and police protection. Discrimination is punished pretty severely. They’ve been allowed to become priests at temples. Why aren’t we allowing the same opportunity for the Muslim society to reform itself? Reform begins with education, with understanding the mistakes that have been committed. And this understanding comes from a factual reading of history as it happened.’

  To this, a clean-shaven professor had asked her in a very polite tone, ‘Let’s accept that what you say about the atrocities of Muslim rulers is true. However, is it right to use that as a reason to victimize our Muslim brethren today? To fan hatred against them? Will that achieve national integration?’

  ‘The purpose of reading history is not to deride or vilify anybody. And it shouldn’t be. At best, the study of history should help us to honestly, dispassionately understand the rights and wrongs of people we regard as our ancestors and use those lessons to shape our present and future. And that involves looking at the truth without colouring it; that involves utter honesty—to come face-to-face with the truth and seminars like this are preventing that from happening. You’re right. Today’s Muslims aren’t responsible for what Muslim kings did in the past. But unless they honestly accept the truth that yes, their ancestors did commit those atrocities, it’ll simply mean that they continue to justify those atrocities. As recent as…kind of in our own times, the Japanese openly, honestly expressed their regret over what they had done to Korea. What does that tell us? And then we have the example of Germany, which not only apologized but has sworn never to commit the horrible crime that the Nazis had perpetrated—you know what message that sends? It says: we do not subscribe to the crimes of our ancestors, we’re different, we’re human and we’re decent. And you good people here, you aren’t letting the Muslims of this country develop this sort of moral courage. Realization—that’s what accepting bitter truths brings us. Realization comes when we honestly accept the mistakes of the past and that automatically builds the responsibility that will prevent us from repeating those same mistakes. You will better succeed at achieving national integration and brotherhood if they’re built on the foundation of truth. Like the Hindu society has acknowledged the mistakes of Manu. Right?’