tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31610073271756337692024-03-13T10:56:49.673-07:00Mano JavedAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-90626422614891408532013-09-16T03:00:00.001-07:002013-09-16T04:30:38.677-07:00Salaam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 20pt;">Salaam<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Lahore</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> is chilled and smoggy this morning; the morning
traffic, anxious and edgy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">All at once, traffic
lights at the intersection blink and go dead. The brakes of a police van squeal
as it halts at the middle of the crossroads with a massive jerk. Round-tummied sentries tumble
out and scurry all over the intersection square, shouting at motor-cyclists, bikers,
rickshaw drivers, motorists and a painted school bus to move back and clear the
center…more …more and more. Passengers roll the window screens down and demand
to be given an explanation. Their demands, as always, go unheard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">In the dewy school-bus
windows, curious eyes behind quashed noses, watch the scurry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">The traffic stoppage has
started to work its mischief. Beggars percolate through the trail of whirring
engines. Salaam, the beggar boy who’s been staring at the school bus thoughtfully,
works some arithmetic in his head; the simple equation he knows. Switched off
traffic lights plus abundant police is equal to a traffic stoppage plus extra
collection of money. And extra money is reciprocal to a big meal at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daira.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">A big meal! Salaam slurps. A
smile dissolves in his artificially-frowning features. The shadow-man whose job
is to shadow the beggars working at this square all day, passes him a glare.
Salaam is not allowed to smile during begging time. He must save all the smiles for
the evening gathering at the <em>Daira</em> where he's sometimes made to dance and entertain older beggars.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Riders are grumbling fiercely
now. If it’s a minister for whom they’ve stopped the traffic, it’ll take 15
minutes. If it’s the CM, the Chief Minister, it’ll be no less than 30. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And then a rumor seeps down the squirmy
band of vehicles - fast as a bullet: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s the Prime Minister. The
PM.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Two greedy little ears devour the rumor. Salam
has no inkling of what distinguishes a minister from a CM or a CM from a PM. However, his
mental math is at work again. The word Prime Minister equals an even longer
stoppage and that means even more money and even more money means an even bigger
meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">He hides behind the big
graying tree, takes out the water-filled syringe from his pocket and presses
its piston close to his eyes. Water tears spread around his eye bags and skid
down his dirt-stained cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Work begins. Window after
window, he whines the new story his trainer at the <em>Daira </em>has taught him. As for
a veteran stage actor, the world hazes out as he plays the role of a heartsick orphan
who needs to collect twenty two hundred rupees for the burial of his mother who
has died last night. Coins and petti currency notes rain out from big hands
into Salaam’s small ones. He keeps stuffing them in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Tears dry up and he has to
rush to the tree to wet his eyes again. He sees that a row of beggars and
pedestrians holding small national flags has lined up along the edges of the
square. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Suddenly, a tall man thrusts
a flag in his hands and says: “You’ll get a hundred rupees for standing there
and shouting “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zinda-baad”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">The words ‘A hundred rupees’
have no appeal for Salaam. He can collect the amount in ten minutes by bringing that
extra woeful look to his face and, anyway, the money would go into <em>Ustaad</em>’s
kitty in the evening. But holding a flag and shouting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zinda-baad</i> sounds like fun... like precious minutes of a
mid-morning break in schools. Staring at the school</span><span style="font-size: 20pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">bus once again, he accepts
the flag from the tall man and joins the unkempt cheer-leaders. He flutters the flag this way and that, now smiling freely because shadow man is nowhere close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">To employ utmost vigilance, a
policeman with eagle-like mustaches is feeling the bodies of the cheerers holding
little green-and-white flags. He pulls it out if he feels anything suspicious;
cigarette packs, cheap wallets. Nothing serious has been found so far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s Salaam’s turn. The man with
eagle-like mustaches pats Salam’s body. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He feels his
secret pocket. A frown appears on his face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He draws out the object that has spawned the
frown and holds it up for his senior official to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s a syringe filled with
light brown liquid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">“Grab him!” the official
shouts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Curious eyes behind quashed
noses in the dewy school-bus windows, spread out with horror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">“A terrorist boy!” the
teacher in the bus whispers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And Salaam is hauled towards
the gigantic police van.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-89635162255468704882013-03-25T01:25:00.002-07:002013-12-30T08:45:04.461-08:00Lahore: Garnished with a Green Sprig<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lahore: A Green Sprig for Garnish<br />
<br />
<br />
As gently as features of a picture develop on photo-paper dipped in developing solution, domes and minarets shapen on the skyline. The city shakens itself free of the gray winter blanket. Bit by bit, fuzzy abstractness densifies into crystalline distinctness. Colors deepen out of the memory of the city. Lahore is suddenly the child that knows all its poems by heart.<br />
<br />
Spring takes off in my city.<br />
<br />
Air dances up and down the streets. Idle boys yell as a street batsman hits a ball and it goes flying to the sky. The hero glances at the female audience watching from the roof top. His eyes meet his favorite girl's and a promise is made.<br />
<br />
In a nearby park, perched at the extreme point on an eagled-out branch of the magnolia tree, the grasshopper ogles its stiff-lipped lover with a fatal, bulgy-eyed wanting. The air is loaded with love and every being in the garden is planning when and where to plant the perfect kiss. The gardener frowns as he bends on the bed of petunias and peers at an early bud - the only one that has opened. No less thrilled than an expectant father, he searches the newborn for a sign that would affirm that the seed was genuine. A smile dawns on his lips. (Yes! It's plum with flecks of lilac! It's mine!)<br />
<br />
In a posh mansion, a garden party reaches its crescendo. They are giving birthday bumps to the effeminate dress designer. "Ooh! Aah!" the designer bawls and everyone goes crazy with laughter..<br />
<br />
Right outside, on the grassy patch along the road, a scavenger boy takes a break from his trash hunt. Lying crosslegged, eyes half-closed, he dreams of bulky trash baskets.<br />
<br />
There's a big brouhaha outside the shopping mall. Yet another designer has launched her latest lawn-print collection. Uncouth housewives and sophisticated socialites all jostle for position near the sales counter. The combative ambience, the voluptuous want, and the cut-throat desperation...only cowards will return home empty handed. A seemingly composed shopper who's been watching the melee with distaste, mumbles 'Crazy Lahori Women' and bulldozes her way through the humid crush to the flowered and birded heaven on fabric.<br />
<br />
Eyes fixed on the kiteless sky in the hospital window somewhere in the city, a kite-loving Lahorite breathes his last. <br />
<br />
In a school close-by, teachers teach little children how to make unfliable, legal kites. The illegal ones, the ones that flew, can be painted in the drawing class, they say. The air sighs as the sweeper sweeps away the animated effigies; sad, cartoonish relic of a historic beauty.<br />
<br />
On the Canal Road, a moron poet kneels down at the edge of the canal and searches the inverted under-water world. Behind him, poplars rustle as the breeze brushes past. In the dappled shade of the trees, coins of light dance and play. The poet bites his finger to stop his heart from bursting of ecstasy. A moan is heard through the rustle. He looks around and sees some chopped trees piled nearby. <br />
<br />
"Don't cry!" he says to the chopped up trunks and looks around. On the clearing, where these trees stood till last week, a bill board has been raised. <br />
<br />
'Keep Lahore Clean and Green'.<br />
<br />
The poet reads aloud and laughs. he laughs till he falls on his back and rolls from side to side. Thousands of marigolds flocked along the side-walk raise their heads and listen.<br />
<br />
A just-migrated, hungry villager walking past wonders what a marigold flower tastes like.<br />
<br />
The echo of the moron's laugh rings out far and wide. Sleeping deep down in the soil, summer stretches its legs, readying itself to rise and rule. <br />
<br />
So, as long as it lasts, dear all, enjoy Lahore garnished with a green sprig.<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-52618523629579872832013-01-24T23:33:00.000-08:002013-09-16T04:34:22.790-07:00The Long Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Air blowing was cruelly chilly; snow fresh and soft. Two uniformed men sat on their haunches staring at a spot in the snow that was no different than any spot in the white abyss.<br />
<br />
Time went on and on. It went on long enough to make this story the longest ever. The men sat staring. The story became longer than imagined by the man who'd culled it .<br />
<br />
Finally, one of them spoke.<br />
<br />
"Why are we guarding a line that's not even really there?"<br />
<br />
NO END</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-27075182865805302562013-01-18T05:38:00.001-08:002013-09-16T03:06:21.300-07:00Lahore: Tastes Best When Served Cold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lahore: Tastes Best When Served Cold<br />
<br />
A gray cloud over my city with more liquor than it can contain in its belly; like a drunkard, gags all over. <br />
<br />
The first shower sweeps up the streets. A woman whips her washing off the rope. A homebound walker folds his shoulders in and quickens. In dewy school-bus windows, curious eyes behind quashed noses, watch the scurry. <br />
<br />
In the bush, a starved kitten mews for its mother.<br />
<br />
In coffee houses, showy teens damn the weather; vain college girls parade their frilly woollies; smug entrepreneurs waffle on about the dollar( ruppee? that old thing?); self-conscious juniors in office-suits with coffee mugs in their listening hands, do their best; chairbound fat women devour the great buffet and snicker about aging bimbos in a Kitty tea; the bimbos, easing their time-honored itch of showing off fancy furs, chat like its nobody's business; juicy waiters glide up and down the crammed aisles, carrying garnished trays and clouds of steam around; lovers nestle in dark corners, eyeing the non-lovers distastefully. <br />
<br />
Out in the smog, in a parked car, a yawny chauffeur snuggles behind the wheel, and dreams an impossible dream.<br />
<br />
Fog thickens and abstracts the kaleidoscopic bazaars. Liberty fuzzes. Shoppers become misty outlines of themselves and shops sit on silent haunches, waiting to be found. On the pavement, the roar of an unseen flame and cloudy puffs of alive steam charm the walkers into veering off course. An opportunist has set up a noodle stall that sells steaming noodles in paper cups. The warming smoothness, the ease of the slurp and the cossetting taste: handy cheap pleasure for all. The outer layer of the noodle crowd keeps shedding away and rebuilding around the old samosa stall where they huddle around the great frying wok and warm their hands on the fire. A hawker with a hot-box slung around his neck evolves from the mist and calls: "Garam aandaa-a-a-y!"<br />
<br />
On the walk, the begger curles up under a flimsy blanket, one scraggy hand poking out to cup the rain of coins.<br />
<br />
Lahore Sun will soon be back from its short hibernation. Three consecutive days it rises and shines on the shivering city and the fragile winter will frizzle away. But till then, ladies and gentlemen, I offer you Lahore: tastes best when served cold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-87949527616776212562013-01-12T00:51:00.001-08:002013-09-16T04:34:50.744-07:00Sardaaran<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><strong> Sardaaran</strong></o:p><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
On a crisp morning early this December, in the
veranda of a house in Gulberg where an international conference was going on, I
met a young girl from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It was the tea break and everyone was mingling and chatting. Sunlight sifting through the immense peepul trees was eerily balmy, the air fresh and scented. As I poured myself a steaming cup of tea, a sari-clad girl smiled at me from across the coffee dispenser. She introduced herself as Eesha, an architect from Gujarat, India. Coins of light danced on our faces as we chatted lightly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I am not coming.” Eesha said when we were at the topic of
the much-awaited <st1:place w:st="on">Gujarat</st1:place> tour planned for the
last day of the conference.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Why not?” <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“My visa status says: ‘<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>
Only’,” she sang in her sweet voice and the rest of our conversation revolved around the
futility of the prevailing visa policy between the two countries.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The irony of it all is that Eesha lives in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Gujarat</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I was thrilled to know that there’s a place in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region> with the same name as the state I live in. I thought that this chance I was getting
to go on a tourism spree around my home-state’s namesake was a godsend. But when
I read my visa detail…”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The devil has a reputation of being in the detail. Quite justified.
I could imagine what a damper her visa description must have been after all the
research she said she had done on the origin of the word <st1:place w:st="on">Gujarat</st1:place>
and the enigma behind the name similarity. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
For the next two days we met intermittently. As I knew her more, she was modest and forthcoming. Mostly we talked about
random womanly interests specially because we were bent at keeping it light as focusing on the minutiae
of the well-researched papers was anyhow quite strenuous; but the subject would swing
inevitably to the dreaded topic: The Aftermath of the Partition.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The week went by. The conference ended. Eesha and other guests of the
conference departed. I, normally a comfortable person, was going through a bout of odd
discomfort. I tried listening to the sound of the prickly voice that lives in my head and whose only job seems to give me a guilt trip when I'm least expecting it. It turned out that the insignificant case of Eesha’s visa constraint had
brought back an old and sad memory. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It had brought back Sardaaran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sardaaran was a tall and scrawny old woman with an
exceptionally brisk walk who used to roam in the streets of <st1:placename w:st="on">Old</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Muslim</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype>, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lahore</st1:city></st1:place>
in the nineteen-nineties. Those days, we had a house in that vicinity so bumping into Sardaaran was quite a possibility. Clad in
tattered rags, her hair spread around her head in matted ropes, she would
emerge from the end of the street and walk towards you at an alarming speed… as
if she had a score to settle. But then, she would walk past and vanish down the street,
oblivious to the telltale signs of fear she had spawned.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Totaly indifferent to people and vehicles on the road, she would sit on
the roadside green, scratching her head, whispering to herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes she would do civilly incorrect
actions like gathering her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shalwar </i>high
up on her thighs to reveal most of her long bony legs; sometimes even taking
off an indispensible piece of clothing. It was years later that I learned that
she hadn’t started this game. Civilization had been incorrect to her first.
More so than its prevailing indifference to her plight.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One chilly winter evening as I was enjoying a snuggle on my favorite seat beside the fireplace, the doorbell rang. Unwantingly, I went to answer it. I was shocked to see Sardaaran at the gate.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Give me coals. Give me coals!” she said abruptly.<br />
<br />
"Coals?" I asked, not quite getting what she meant.<br />
<br />
"Coals are good. Coals keep me warm. I will go; first give me coals," she muttered feverishly, her gaze fixed to the ground below.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My three-year old son who had followed me to the gate,
tugged at my sleeve, warning me to stay away in his own sweet way. Passing
him a reassuring smile and asking Sardaaran to wait for my return, I strode
back, my boy’s hand gripped firmly in mine. When I returned, I was holding a
small bag with a used sweater and shawl inside. With a smile, I
offered her the garments.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I want coals. Coals are good,” she said, not even glancing
at the woollies that I had pulled out of the bag for for her to see what
she was getting.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I don’t have coals, Sardaaran. No one uses coals any more. We have gas stoves now.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I want coals to keep me warm,” she said as if she hadn’t
heard me and walked off muttering, “Where will I get coals to keep me warm?”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I was rather angry at her for being ungrateful.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sardaaran died that winter. One morning she was found frozen
to death outside a tea stall on the nearby <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Wahdat
Road</st1:address></st1:street>. <br />
<br />
She was soon forgotten. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
Years later, Sardaaran’s
story was revealed to me by a household helper named Gaami. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
Sardaaran was one of the numerous
daughters of a local Sikh merchandiser who migrated to <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> when sectarian riots broke loose in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lahore</st1:city></st1:place> in 1947. Apparently,
round then, Sardaaran was in love with a young boy of a sound Muslim family, also
her father’s acquaintance. The boy had vowed that he would have no problem talking
his parents into allowing them to marry. Young, naive and deeply in love, Sardaaran had promised him that she would stay back in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lahore</st1:city></st1:place>
if and when exodus of Sikhs would become inevitable. Every one around knew it was coming up; that their destiny had been decided by some strangers with high-sounding family names in far-off hotel conference rooms.<br />
<br />
The day came sooner than they had expected<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
With incidents of looting and killing Hindu and Sikh families more common and intense, Sardaaran's family had to make an emergency
exit from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>.
Sardaran broke the news of her intentions to her shocked
parents at the last hour. The boy was there too to give them his word that Sardaaran would be well looked after and safe. Reluctantly, they left without Sardaaran. The boy took her to his widowed uncle who had already agreed on giving her temporary lodging in his house in Model Town. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
In the beginning things looked
good. Sardaraan and her fiancé would plan the upcoming wedding and he would often take her to meet his parents. They to were happy to have
her for lunch or dinner. But sunny days ended soon. The boy lost interest in
her and eventually married his cousin. Sardaaran had no option left but to serve as
a house-maid in the old uncle’s house, the only place under the sun upon which she had any claim left, however fragile.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
It was rumored that the old uncle’s fatherly
feelings towards Sardaaran were later thwarted by his ‘basic instincts’ and he made
her his sex partner; under duress or by her consent, nobody could ever tell. Eventually, people began to notice that Sardaaran was going a little fuzzy in the head. As her illness progressed, she became more disoriented and forgetful.
She would go grocery shoppping or trash dispensing and forget her way back. For hours she would roam on the roads of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Model</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town, asking people to escort her back</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
First there was one lustful man who took advantage of weak mental faculties. Then there was another. Then another. And another. Her custodians now took her as a source of disgrace for the
RESPECTABLE family. As a result, the doors of the house
were closed on her.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
Begum Shaheen Mirza, a kindhearted woman of the
neighborhood who had helped numerous displaced persons to reunite with their families, tried to dig out the whereabouts of Sardaaran’s
family from the archives of partition records. But there was no sign of them on the face of the earth. So, like many
homeless people who live on the roads and become hidden in plain sight, Sardaaran
also became a part of the milieu of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lahore</st1:city></st1:place>.
Unimportant, insignificant but permanently there. <o:p> </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>Occasionally, a kindhearted person would make an attempt to rehabilitate Sardaaran. But it was too late. Sardaaran was beyond help. Life on the road was her only truth. It was the only life she now knew.</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
Gaami, the cleaning lady who told me Sardaaran’s
story, stated an interesting fact about her. She said Sardaaran was very fond
tea. Roaming on the roads, she would stop at teashops and stare at
people consuming the hot drink. Teastall owners would take pity on her and give her a cupful - with an occasional bun or biscuit - and she would slurp it down with unshaking fervor; with ultimate focus; as if all bounties of the universe had shrunken and become a cup of tea; as if time had shrunken and become a moment; as if humanity had shrunken and become a demented old woman and was devoring its last food supply. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
I find it ironical that she died
outside the tea stall. Like a fated lover dying outside the home of his
lost love. Tea, perhaps, was Sardaaran's last link with tangible world; the only remnant of the person Sardaaran once was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 93.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Saradaran isn’t the only person destroyed by politicians' whims. Just in that particular incident, the politically glorious attempt of designing a new homeland for humans of a specific description, millions died, millions were humiliated and millions lost any connection whatsoever with the lives they knew. It's as if they had slept one night and woke up to an alien world. The tragic aftermath of the trans-exodus had left the world pondering: Was what happened a necessary muddle the people had to pass through to reach a state of social balance? or Was what happened so ugly that no social height could ever justify the horrors it had climbed through? Deep down in their hearts, everyone knew and knows the answer. No amount of glorification can cover up the volley of terror that went loose on both sides of the border when the ill-imagined exchange of populations took place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Eesha's constraint, a mere trifling compared to the attrocities mechanized by The Partition, just reminds me that sixty-six years past, we still
live under the pink cloud of the Bloody Partitiont. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-18991746333384878112013-01-04T22:43:00.000-08:002015-11-09T22:09:20.258-08:00The Woman with a Nose-pin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: 20pt;">The Woman with a Nose-Pin</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘There!’ Aziza Bano tugged at
the coolies’s sleeve and made a dash for the only vacant bench in the
room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Anyone who knew Aziza Bano
would be shocked to see her charging across the public waiting-room like twenty dogs were after her. Usually, she was calm and
composed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Why can’t I run when my legs can</em>? she thought, too exasperated to care about anything but procuring a sitting place to live the two hours wait through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And why the hell did it matter
that people on the railway station would judge her? </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Why, why, why was civilization so absolutely and pitilessly ridiculous?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She was dog tired and crestfallen; and, on top of everything, famishing, with not a morsel in her stomach. Had she been a child, she would’ve
put up an act of the wildest kind, like lying on her
back and kicking her limbs in the air. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh! it was a round-the-clock acting job being
‘The Graceful Middle-ager’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It had been a crazy morning. The first bad break, a burnt omelet; the second, a stand-all-the-way bus ride to the station and, on top of all that, the ticket seller munching a betel leaf, telling her; </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">'Your train's two hours late.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">this damper on the wasted hurry set off a</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> volley of expletives, waiting to break lose. She had something to say to everyone and everything in the world; from The Government to the beggar who saw her across the lobby to the cross-over bridge. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">"Scoundrels! Rogues!" she swore beneath her breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When, jostling her way through humid collars and over-ironed sleeves on the bridge, she had looked down at the platforms, she had seen that the crowd was crazy big on Platform number 4. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And when she was looking for a place to sit, no one had moved an inch to make space for her on
the wooden pews on the platform . Once, lowering herself down in an attempt to clench a few inches on the corner of a bench on which a fat woman lay snoring – her mouth open to the four elements – a fat leg had budged her off. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">At the tea-stall where they
sold milk-tea and soggy, cherry-jam dotted biscuits placed in dim glass boxes
to which the railway station flies clung like parting lovers, she had been elbowed and nudged till she was hungry no more.</span><br />
<br />
So this empty bench in the waiting room was nothing less than a little piece of heaven.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She shoved two little girls out of her way as she approximated near it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Dhump! <span style="font-size: 12pt;">the coolie threw her suitcase on the bench. </span><br />
<br />
Aziza Bano looked back at the<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> little girls who, to recover from the shock of being pushed by a mad old woman, were holding each others hands tightly and patting each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Civility gets you nowhere on a place as mean as this station, sweethearts. Look, I have this bench and you don't, </em>she thought<span style="font-size: 12pt;">. </span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
old coolie with big scraggy hands, who, until now, had put up with her hunt for a sitting space rather
patiently, was slow burning her now with his questioning eyes. She opened
her bulgy handbag to pay him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Quick please!” he urged as
she rummaged through the contents to fish for some change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Again, she wanted to swear
but, for the sake of convention, just mumbled, “In the name of God, please wait!”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Money safely tucked up his
sleeve, the coolie vanished in thin air. She put her handbag in the empty space
in the middle of the seat. Between suitcase, handbag and Aziza Bano, the bench
was fully taken. The planks of the bench felt a bit taut but the thought that she had brought a cushion, hoping it would see her through
the painful ride, comforted her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">For
some time she sat still, just sniffing now and then to understand the smell of
the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Phenyl and rank floor swabs!?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then she unzipped the bag and took the cushion out. The cushion behind her back and her fake
shatoosh shawl spread out on her legs like a blanket, she gave her an air of old proprietorship which
anyone would think twice before challenging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Looking
around, she saw that there was only one window in the room looking over the
platform; and no adornments except for a desolate-looking rubber plant in a cracked
earthen pot, its only two leaves hanging limp, threatening to fall any
moment. For furniture, there was a couch and a bench – her bench – and a few
wooden chairs, rickety and depressed, placed as and where passengers who had last sat on them, had left them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Across from her, on the
squeaky couch, three men sat grumbling against the government with lukewarm contempt that usually springs from prolonged familiarity; like nitpicking
wives. She noticed that one of the men – one in a crumpled blue shirt –
eyed her somewhat accusingly as if she too was one of the subjects of their nagging. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">To her right, along the wall,
a well-built man sleeping on a cheap foam mattress spread on the floor, opened
his eyes and raised his head to have a look at her. Unimpressed, he lay back and resumed his
snoring, as though there never was that moment of wakefulness in between. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Who wants his
attention anyhow! </em>a whisper reached her ears and, with it, a familiar whiff. She half-closed her eyes and sniffed. Yes, it was the starchy smell that came from her hostel matron and school principal who wore stiffened cotton saris. It was a smell that had sneaked into her childhood baggage and reached her present.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The man in the crumpled shirt glanced at her again and she felt being bridled in; as if her arms were tentacles that shrank on sensing male attention. Closeness to strange men had this effect on her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She pulled the neckline of
her lose <i>kamees </i>up to cover her lapels
and re-adjusted the drapes of her pale-blue <i>mulmul</i>
dupatta across her chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She wasn’t unaware
that she looked drab and unseemly in her old and limp khaddi-cotton <i>shalwar kamees, </i>a balding middle parting
and long and lifeless hair tied in a tight plait. Rather, she had a prickly sense of
being one of the stodgy hundreds. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>‘Stylishness is an advertisement of depravity,’</em> the whisperer spoke again., </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">'<em>And simplicity an equal of a 'Not Available’
board . If it hadn’t been for your plain looks, men would ogle you as they ogle women who make their availability felt and understood. You ought to be clean like moon's reflection on new snow, not shiny like a dog’s nose that’s filthy inside.’<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The approval filled Aziza Bano's heart with pride. She wanted to look at the whisperer but feared that her vanity might harm the miraculous touch with her past. So she envisioned in her mind, an unmade-up virtuous woman clad in a starched, cover-all, white cotton sari, the kind working women of her childhood used to wear. Oh how she had marveled at them as a child; the clean, principled lot of them; untarnished, inside and out; a bubble of purity in a sea of filth. . </span><br />
<br />
Thinking of filth put a damper on Aziza Bano's pride. She remembered that her handbag needed a thorough clean-up.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>'Don't fret, Bano; you meant to tidy up the handbag all along but there simply wasn't any time,'</em> the whisperer reassured her.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> 'Listen; what</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>
better use of two purposeless
hours here in an already sullied room. Do it now.'</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>So</em></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> she unzipped the bag and began rummaging through the miscellany, all set to weed out all things unwanted. But she just shuffled and shuffled.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The fact that it was quite normal for her to lose the urge of doing cleaning chores was presently locked behind a tightly shut iron in her head. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There were things in the
hodgepodge that hadn’t been used for years: a frayed leather wallet with Tahir’s
baby-picture in the picture slot, an empty lipstick case, the kind that comes with a mirror on the inside, a bunch of keys that had lost
their identity but not the mystic solemnity one confers upon old keys,
an old telephone diary with hundreds of phone numbers that needed to be copied somewhere,
a vintage cigarette lighter (a souvenir of good old days), reading glasses with real-metal rims and her
husband’s wrist watch that had stopped at four a.m. on a Wednesday years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Suddenly, all she wanted was
to hold the watch in her hands… to feel it on her wrist...to know how he must
have felt it on his...to smell it to see if his touch still lingered on it...to
hold it to her cheek...to her eyes...to her chest... Oh how she really really wanted to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Ah-h-h if it wasn’t so crowded here! If there weren’t men all around me! Looking</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So she just clasped the watch
in her fist so tight its metal dug into her flesh, leaving behind a ladder of
hollow shapes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">No! She couldn’t just throw
these old things away as if they didn't mean anything! For now, she would put them aside in a zipped side-pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Less for the sake of order.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">More for saving them from
being mishandled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">An elderly woman carrying a bakery bag full of used clothes and other articles in the circle of her arm, entered the waiting room.
She walked like a funny old penguin who, on each step, shifts its total weight from one leg to
the other. But then all penguins do that – old or young, funny
or serious. Aziza Bano saw her and looked away quickly, pretending not to have
seen her at all.</span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But the woman’s gaze was
fixed on Aziza Bano as she zeroed in on her. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Silly old cow! </em>She thinks<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I'm a weakling, a pushover; and she can snatch the bench away from me. </span></i><em>Can't she see all the vacant chairs!</em></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em> <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Quickly,
Aziza Bano put her handbag back on the empty middle space. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Is someone sitting here?" The old woman asked Aziza Bano, pointing at her suitcase.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Er-r-r yes; she just went to
the toilet.” Aziza Bano lied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Oh!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Not much affected by the denial, the woman headed to the wall, threw her bag on a roll of bedding placed along it. Then, slowly, with her hand on the wall
for support, lowered her bulky body down on the cushiony roll. For some time she wriggled this way and
that to reach a comfortable position, then became still. Aziza Bano pretended
not to see or know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The man snoring on the
mattress, stirred again. He raised his head a little to look at the old woman
who had just arrived and, as before, put his head down and resumed his snoring.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Despisable man! A typical
sample of an all-time creep! </em>the whisperer said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bees hummed in Aziza Bano’s
head. She had to wrench her attention back to her handbag-cleaning to ward the vexation off .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There were a few things that
she had recently thrown in for handing over for repairs: a bracelet whose
chains had muddled up to form a complex lump, a cell phone skeleton and a TV remote-control with a
sunken power button. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And there were a few things of
daily use: a money pouch, ball pens, a chit-pad, an inhaler, a small container
of hand lotion(picked from a hotel bathroom), a check-book with inch-long frayed edges, a half-used leaf
of aspirin, an extra hair-catch.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">There’s not a thing that
is absolutely useless; I wouldn’t survive a day without the aspirin, the remote
works fine accept for the power button and the bracelet will be good as new if
untangled. I’d be stupid if I threw them.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She began separating them into
the two main pockets of the bag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Ish-sh-sh!” she grimaced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A cocktail of crumbs from half-eaten
packets of biscuits, fried peanuts and potato crisps had found its way to all
corner of the bag, even the money in the pouch. It reminded her of the disgust in the sleepy bus conductor's eyes when she had wiped the debris off the fifty-rupee note before
handing it to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Best would be to tip the bag over, get rid of
the crumbs and set up the things all over again. </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Her eyes searched the room
for a waste-bin of some kind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The planter could do, she
thought. It was the article closest to a waste-bin with its thick topping of cigarette
stubs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Chaai wala; chaai wala!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A tea-boy selling tea in
chipped cups placed on a discolored plastic tray, had entered the room. His cups were
small and half-filled; the tea in them just about enough to soak a
biscuit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“C<i>haai! chaai!”</i> he chanted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">His calls reminded Aziza Bano how hungry she was. She looked around, waiting for someone else to make the first purchase. The sleeping man was sound asleep and the fat
old woman was reading <i>Jasoosi Digest,</i> a crime-fiction
tabloid that came with cover-pages showing half-naked juicy women's pictures. First, a burden lifted off Aziza
Bano's heart. because she had been worrying that the old woman might
be sulking at not getting a share of the bench. Clearly, she wasn't. But Aziza Bano was shocked to see what she was reading.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>Who reads such awful literature at this age?</em> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Chai madam?” the tea-boy pestered her again and again as if he had seen a potential tea drinker in
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
'How much for a cup?' she asked.<br />
<br />
'Ten only, madam jee.' he said with a grin.<br />
<br />
<em>Bloody rip offs! </em>she murmured.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And she almost died of chagrin when she noticed that the nail of
the tea-boy’s little finger was long, filed and painted red. The bees began humming in her head again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No!” she said aloud.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But the boy smile grew expectant as he stared at her hands digging at
unseen things in her handbag; as if he taking her to be kind enough to give him a tip without making a purchase. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Stubborn idiot!</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
Aziza Bano thought. <i>Or is he thinking of robbing me?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh how silly of me to even
think of tipping the bag over and putting my valuables on display here in the
middle of knee-crawling thugs. They’ll strip me bare in one second</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. Quickly, she zipped the bag shut and looked up
defiantly. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">'No tea for me,' she said loud and clear.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">At last, the tea boy moved on, smiling even more amusedly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The window, now, revealed the
morning flurry at its fullest. There was a long queue outside the toilets. More
shops had opened and thicker throngs built up around them. More passengers were heading to the waiting-room too. There were four men on
the couch now and the chairs too were almost all gone. Probably, a train
was about to arrive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Can’t be mine though; it isn’t time yet. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And she unzipped her handbag again
and buried her head in it, trying her best to look withdrawn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In
the jumble were some papers, many of which were surely useless. Their condition
ranged from new-n-crisp to pitifully tattered. She shook one of the latter kind
free of the tangle around it and crushed it into a ball. But just when she was
aiming at tossing it toward the planter, the letter-head flashed before
her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Shamas Dyers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No. This one's a must-keep. It’s the receipt of the fabric
I’ve given to the dyer to dip yellow.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">She remembered what a pain it had been to convey her vivid
perception of a beautiful yellow to the stodgy idiot. It had taken her one good hour and still he wasn't sure! ushsh! She remembered in the end she had told him to get hold of a</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> sursoon flowers and use that as a color sample.</span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Wah! What beautiful colors she had in her thoughts but they never became real in her real life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The dyer was another goon with the morals of a weasel on speed. He would eat up her fabric had he the slightest clue she had lost the receipt. So she ironed the paper out on her lap, folded it carefully and inserted it into a slot in
her wallet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Papers, she concluded, could
not be disposed of unless a thorough scrutiny was done. And there were so many in
there that she needed days to go through them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Lost something?” a voice
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She looked up. Something
shone. Through the dazzle, she saw that a dusky young woman was smiling at her
from the other end of the bench where a few moments ago her black suitcase had
been. The bag now stood on the floor beside Aziza Bano’s legs. The dazzle,
Aziza Bano deduced, had come from the tiny rhine-stone studded on one side of this
woman’s nose. She saw that the woman was holding a thermos – one of those
Made-in-China pieces that flocked the flee markets
of Lahore. It had a pattern of blue ribs and red stars – probably a version of
the U.S. flag. She also saw that the woman’s heart-shaped face
was spangled with little droplets of water and that her eyelashes were slick
after the wash they had just had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Lost something?” the woman
with a nose-pin asked again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano shook her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Will you p-please…” Aziza
Bano faltered, thinking of an excuse she could give to the cheeky woman for vacating</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the
bench.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Will I... ?” the woman
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Nothing!” Aziza Bano said,
giving up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">From the corner of her eyes,
Aziza Bano saw that the fat old woman had put the thriller down in her lap and had a bun and a black mug in her hands. She was gorging the dry morsels down her throat with big gulps of hot tea and making smacking noises that went straight to Aziza Bano's temple</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">As for the man on the
mattress, he was finally fully awake. He lay on his side, rubbing his eyes and
watching the young woman with an air of thrill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>So the lecher has found what he was looking for! </em>Aziza Bano fumed inside.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He yawned and stretched and propped up on his right elbow, balancing his jaw on the back of
his fisted hand. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She saw the woman slant her eyes
toward him and smile. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uh, uh! So she was one of them!<i> </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano quite knew the species. They were everywhere. In markets, flirting with shopkeepers to get discounts; on the roads, walking with a vulgar swing of the hips to attract male attention; in cars; in buses, patting their eyes at ogling strangers; and their eyes! and the way they rolled
them in delicious semi-circles along their upper eyelids or fixed them at downward angles to look coy and demure. Bitches. Titillating vamps. They had even spread out into the media and the politics. The bunch of woman sympathizers, who, through their feminist ideas, politicized their own or other women's traumatic relationships with men; just to attract the interest of a multitude of them. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano was sure that if a bomb was to explode on the platform, this woman wouldn't stop her show of wanton femininity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Unable to hold his
excitement, the man popped up in a cross-legged sitting posture in the middle of his mattress.. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The woman with a nose-pin
laughed…at nothing…nothing at all. </span><br />
<br />
Totally vexed <span style="font-size: 12pt;">by sheer
lewdness of this trifling, Aziza Bano opened the handbag for the third time
and shuffled through the things madly, this time ruining whatever order she had
brought about in the hodgepodge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Why why why do they do it in public? Isn’t it enough that
we have to put up with uncouth ways of commoners…I mean, the way the old woman is making those
nasty sounds and the continuity with which those men are chat-chat-chatting like idle wives…loathsome... but sufferable still…but these two are
simply impossible… look he has his hand on his crotch now; and she’s flashing
her diamond at him…I can’t believe she’s – she’s biting the corner of her lower lip...signals...more signals...the fanning of the flame of desire...the
dance of persuasion…as if they’re alone…as if we are all a bunch of idiots and won’t
notice. Why don’t they move to one corner and do what they want to </i><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">do? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Like dogs!</span></i><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And just then, that tiny
moment arrived when the braces reining her in, loosened. Oh how she dreaded this
freedom! This wandering astray!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There were pictures in her
head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Of them together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Of the details. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Moving pictures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She had to stop herself for
fear that the pictures would become too wild – too vivid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When it was over, she felt
sullied; her standards of correctness violated. Soon enough, shame would transform
into anger pointed at the pair playing the game of lust. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She tugged at the seam of her
neckline, allowing the clammy air trapped around her bosom to be refreshed a
bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Phewww!!! She exhaled a gust of
hot air. She was hot; very very hot; so hot that she would have peeled her
clothes off and thrown them in the face of this woman if she hadn’t been a Dignified
God-fearing woman and her world a Dignified God-controlled world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was a shrinking tingle
in the skin under her hair…a blaze on her face and an unyielding tautness in her shoulders and neck. And it didn’t end there. In her bosom, anger swelled till her
breathing was reduced to short gasps. Oh, how she
despised public demonstration of lust! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The young woman addressed her
once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Would you like some tea?”
She asked, holding the flask up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Err-r-r no thanks,” Aziza
Bano answered, rotating her neck but not enough to make eye-contact
with her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Come on. Have some,” the
woman insisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano looked at her
face, still avoiding her eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I just got it from the shop
outside. It’s hot,” the woman tempted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay!” Aziza Bano said, hating herself for not having the nerve to say no.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The woman bent down to take out
mugs from a basket perched on the floor and laid them out. As she did so, her <i>dupatta</i>
slipped off from one of her shoulders and the neckline of her purple k<i>amees</i>
draped down to betray a generous glimpse of her body. Aziza Bano looked. She
saw that the woman’s breasts were small and wiry with a broad gap between them.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano looked away. She had
mad hornets in her head. She had ants eating at her fingertips from inside and butterflies in her stomach; and a loud buzz that rowed up and down her
blood stream. It lulled the octopus that lived in her, leaving her body to go free. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano looked back where the whisperer had stood. There was no one there. Then she looked at the woman with a nose-pin again. This time
there were no pictures in her head; just a heavenly vastness and a choice to go
free. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This time there was no
stopping herself. Y</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">es; there were times in
Aziza Bano’s life when her dreams became limitless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Like a bird soaring in an endlessly
open sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">With no ends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There were no domains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So there was no stopping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">How could she stop? You can
stop a thought but you can’t stop a feeling. You can not order your skin to stay warm if you're stranded out in a snow-storm! Can you? You can not command your nose not to smell once you have stepped into a shop of Arabian musk! No! No! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s there; really really there.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">For you to experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The woman felt Aziza Bano’s
gaze on her and looked up. Aziza Bano looked on in oblivion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Are you okay?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Uh-uh!” Aziza Bano
whispered, slowly stepping out of the wild dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The woman was pouring steaming hot tea in the three mugs she had laid down on the floor. Her cleavage and the contours of her ribs and spine against the
thin fabric of her <i>kamis,</i> were still
on display. The man was still rubbing his overnight stubble and staring at her
with a leer on his cracked-up sleepy lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It had gone on for too long. Aziza Bano felt as though she was trapped in
a slow-motioned movie scene. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The octopus wriggled. The
hornets shook their glassy wings and flew away. Her scalp shrank as a
fresh surge of annoyance welled up in her. She felt like killing herself for not having the
guts, like some senior women she knew had, of stopping the woman from her lewd toying-around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Finally, the woman with a nose-pin held a cup
of tea out to her which she took with a smile that quickly died at the corner of her lips.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Um-um,” she mumbled a thank
you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The woman picked up a plastic
bag from the basket and fished out a bun from it. And then the most incredible
thing happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Much to Aziza Bano’s
amazement, the woman with a nose-pin carried the bun and a filled mug over to
the man sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He accepted the bun and tea
with a grin and the woman returned. She gave the third cup and a bun to the man
in the crumpled blue shirt. And then she poured herself some tea in the lid of
the flask and sat back to enjoy her scanty drink. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“They’re all running late,”
the woman said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Hmmm?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“They're running late. Ours was to leave at 9:30
last night. We’ve been here since. Yours?” The woman asked, taking an unsure but
sizeable gulp from her tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“It leaves at 10:30,” Aziza
Bano answered, sparing the details to show that she had no inclination of going
on with the dialogue. She wasn't fully recovered from the shock of being exposed to
the most brazen brand of coquetry. <i> Fear none…make quick moves…share food with
fawning strangers</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is that the right time?” the
woman asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What?” Aziza Bano scowled
crankily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is 10:30 the right time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No; new time,” Aziza Bano
answered, once again, short and crisp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“It’s better to keep inquiring… and go home and come back if it's a long wait...I mean if you could help it. We thought of going back to the hotel last
night but…” the woman said, wincing as she spoke. Then she picked the bag in which a last bun was left and held it out to Aziza Bano.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">All of a sudden, Aziza Bano
was tired of hating her. And in that weak moment, curiosity killed the indifference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You don’t live in Lahore?”
she asked the woman, accepting the bun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No. We’re from Karachi. We
came to fight an inheritance claim. We’d rented a room in a hotel near the court,”
the woman answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We?” Aziza Bano questioned,
looking around. She had thought the woman was alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Yes; there are four of us. Haha!”
the woman laughed as she explained. “Not sitting together after our trip to the
toilet. Seats got taken, you see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Seats got taken?</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Aziza Bano repeated in her heart. <i>Had they been
sitting on this bench before I came?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Images raced through her
mind…the man on the mattress waiting for someone... the man in the blue shirt eyeing her worriedly...the old woman ambling
directly towards the bench…the woman with a nose-pin removing her suitcase from
the broken end of the bench and sitting there.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Seems you’ve had a pretty
rough night,” Aziza Bano said quickly to shirk the upsetting thoughts that were racing in her head. Although she had half construed what had happened, she still didn't feel like making room in her life for civilities for women of this sort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We’d bought a mattress to use
as an extra bed in the hotel,” the woman said, looking in the direction of the
man on the mattress. “It came in handy; we slept on it one by one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Color slowly drained out from
Aziza Bano’s flushed face. But no one in the room was interested enough to
notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was a hum in the air
now – like a distant thunder of clouds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“They’re repairing the toilet
next to this room so we used the one at the end of the platform,” she heard the
woman saying. “It’s a long walk from here. We were all fine but it was rather
painful for my…” she stopped and the expression on her face changed. She looked like she was trying to focus; perhaps she was trying to make out what the rumble seeping upward from the floor beneath their feet, was. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kukuuu!! A</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> siren hooted and the window shook with the tremor of an approaching train. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The scene in the window
transformed completely. Commotion had broken loose on Platform 4. Queues melted
and crowds thinned. Coolies carrying baggage in their hands and on their heads,
sprinted this way and that. People scurried about in the fear of being left behind.
Baggage, flasks, food-carriers, rolled-beddings were being piled up riskily close to the rail-track. Children were being called back from
their small exploits around the station and huddled in knots beside these
heaps. In next to no time, the sprawling throng condensed into a rope of
standing human bodies along the tracks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The wheels of the train
screeched and squealed. The brakes grunted and fell with a clang; and the train
jerked into a halt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The waiting room had emptied
except for the two frightened little girls and Aziza Bano. There had been a
sudden hubbub, a lunge at the luggage and it had all been over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Aziza Bano lay down on the
bench with her cushion under her head, free now that there were no men in the
room now. For a long time she kept thinking about the woman with a nose-pin and her fellow passengers.; the man in a crumpled blue shirt, the man on the mattress, the elderly woman.; about how they were related. Was the man
on the mattress her brother? Husband? father? Was the woman reading the digest
her mother? Mother-in-law? Grandmother? She realized there wasn’t enough
evidence from which she could make out the relationships. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She recollected glimpses of
their departure from the room: the man on the mattress leaping up and rolling
his mattress; the woman with a nose-pin carrying four black mugs to empty the
tea left in them in the planter; the man in the crumpled blue shirt lending his
hand to the elderly woman to stand up; their backs as they left the room; not
really together, neither properly </span>separated.<br />
<br />
She also remembered the young woman's small handbag - trim and weightless - dangling beside her hip as she walked away. . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Her bellied handbag was
hanging in the bend of her elbow on one side of the bench, the straps biting
into her flesh as they bore down with the bulk of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Once again Aziza Bano had
lost the urge to clean it up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-34830271928920966162012-12-27T04:18:00.002-08:002013-01-04T06:11:54.064-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
Thirteenth
</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
(adapted
from a true incident)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One, two, three, four, f… twelve
and then she herself – the thirteenth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
At the head of the squirming file
is Distrustful Old Man. The overseer gives him a
thin pile of red currency notes which he counts thrice. Distrustful Man does this on every pay day. He does this even though, like everyone else, he knows Overseer Jabbar doesn't cheat the payees in counts. His schemes for stripping the workers of their money
are indiscernible; or, in any case, not easy to catch; and not in the slightest
by means of a simple count with saliva-lubricated fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Twelve!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Let this be quick! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Twelve!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 3.0in;">
Distrustful Man
steps sideways to leave. Stops. Takes a step back. But Jabbar's icy glare makes him start off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eleven to go!</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This one’s bound to be quick. It is the turn of Heroin Addict who will grab his money with a shivering hand and stride off
toward the powder-boy who lingers in the shadow of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bairi</i> tree. The powder boy’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kamis
</i>pocket is sagging with the weight of the white powder wrapped in small conical
pouches made of hand-torn pieces of newspaper. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Heroin Addict paces toward the boy,
fast, as though he suspects that the pouches will all be sold out before he
completes his twelve strides.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Once again, she counts the heads aligned ahead of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ten!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Tenth from her, luckily, is another
quick riddance; yellow-eyed Disease Junkie whose latest contact, an overseas germ with a a difficult name, has left him looking like a deflated balloon, hollow inside a crumpled bag of limp hide. From the pay desk, Disease Junkie diectly goes to pay off his outstanding credit at the pharmacy (not to speak of the mounting credit at the quack doctors’ clinic)
before he returns to his tent, bent beat up his wife black-and-blue if she comes
up with one of her intrinsically erratic demands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
All of a sudden, Jabbar stands up.
Her heart lurches. But it’s only to let the errand boy wipe the table top above
which hundreds of slothful flees are hovering, collecting their share from the continent of dried tea and other remains of the meals Jabbar’s been eating through the day.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She turns her gaze towards the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti,</i> the sprawling stretch of tents and
huts, listening, trying to make out what goes on out there. But there are no
sounds other than shouts of street lads playing a game of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pithoo Garam</i> on the clearing near the swamp. Their high-spirited
calls clash with the hazy gloom of the twilight that has cloaked the tents. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What if one of the children shooed
away by their mothers – they are highly intolerant of rowdiness and annoyance at
this time of the day – enters her deserted tent? What if…?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A deadly chill spreads in her limbs like
ink dissolves in water. She curls her toes to stop her feet from gelling.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And she jolts her mind back to the
proceedings at the pay desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ten is gone. Money in being counted
to pay the person nine heads up the line from her!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It is Blind Woman’s Son who never
looks up to let his gaze meet the overseer’s eyes. He accepts the money offered
him rather bleakly; not yet looking at the money-lender who is standing a mere
four, five feet away. Holding the money in his hand, Blind Woman’s Son walks
straight towards the money-lender, gives him the pad of eleven red notes –
still not looking up(or around) – folds the two purple one (enough to buy 21 cigarettes; three a day for the next seven days)and deposits them
deep into his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shalwar </i>pocket, and,
with his gaze still raking the ground, walks away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One, two, three…eight! She counts
the heads again to be sure. Yes, there are eight left. Eight like eight corners
of a coffin. The image of a small coffin emerges.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The vision culls other images.
Dark gaping holes. And sounds. Shrill and lamenting! Unbearably shrill and lamenting! She
flinches. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Bang! A shutter falls! Veiling the
images; throttling the wails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Acrid smoke from fire made from kerosene oil on damp
firewood is stinging her eyes now. So... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti</i>
women have already started lighting fires in their hearths to cook their evening
meals. It’s earlier than their usual cooking time. Ah! It’s pay day. They are
impatient to cook and eat. They’ll all eat well today. Fools!!</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A queer thought pops up in her
head.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will
I eat tonight?</i> <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 171.0pt;">
It is Wise Man
facing Jabbar now. Wise Man is a bearded fellow who has no family. Just
pigeons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, how she
reveres his saintly judgment! His acumen which makes him see danger much before it becomes large enough to crush you to a numb pulp! Perhaps he knows that a laborer’ shoulders
are not strong enough to carry the weight of a family. Perhaps that is why he has no family. Just pigeons.
Pigeons are fine; low maintenance, non-complaining, less emotionally adhering,
and self-caring.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Wise Man's gone. That was quick. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">In spite of what happened when she went to tend to her sick baby during the tea break, she feels lucky there have been no holdups at the pay desk <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">. </span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em></em><br />
<em>Thank you God! </em><br />
<em></em> <br />
<em>God? Are you there</em>?</div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Some delay, however, is inevitable. The next disbursement can take long; very long. It<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">’s the turn of the payee who is seventh from her. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dark-eyed Female, her blatantly
protruding breasts half visible owing to the fact that many buttons on her
kurta front are missing, bangs Jabbar’s desk with her fist. He will now open
another ledger and show her a muddle of numbers and words scribbled on an
oil-stained page; and they will argue – a most friendly argument of course –
over some money that was once lent (no one knows by whom...to whom). She will
mock a frown and he will simper evilly. She will roll her eyes and he will tell
her to add and subtract certain numbers to and from other numbers. She will
bend down a bit too low to look into the ledger; his eyes will make the most of
this opportunity to closely graze through the dark treasure behind the clammy
fabric of her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kurta</i>. He’ll whisper.
She’ll whisper. Only when he will thrust in her hand, a clump of currency
notes that will seem a bit too thick as compared to ones the rest of them are
getting, will it all end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Turning her head towards the huts, she waits for it to be over.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A mushroom of smoke has haloed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti</i> from above. And there is a stench
on the breeze now. Every day, at this time, a shitty reek rises from the swamp
and sits on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti</i>, pressing all
other odors down. Is it that or...? She sniffs to know. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Back at the desk, the dark-eyed Female
has moved from the head of the queue; not to leave though; only to stand behind
Jabbar’s chair. And he has an ugly leer on his cigarette-stained lips now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Everyone takes a step forward. She
too takes a step forward and bends her head sideways to count the workers ahead of her in the pay queue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One, two, three… six! Six like six
sides of the coffin. Six little planks of wood. Why? Why do coffins have to
be so dreadfully small? Oh, so dreadfully small and stiffling!<br />
<br />
<em>Time should move faster. Can time move faster? Oh please time move faster!!</em></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It is the turn of Pubescent Boy who
has cultivated a limp moustache to prove that he is qualified to stand in the
row of adult workers and hence be paid full wages not half like other under-aged boys
who get paid on Thursdays. He usually chews at a twig or hums a Punjabi song or
takes a comb out from his pocket and starts combing his oiled hair to hide his
nervousness till Jabbar brings a money-bearing hand forward. Then he grabs the
money, quickly, denying Jabbar the loose moment in which he could change
his mind and tell him that he should come back on Thursday. Pubescent Boy, she
quite knows, is the kind who fight their fights to the end. What if a row begins? What
if? What if? It all depends on one man. Jabbar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But dark-eyed Female has had the
usual effect on him. He is flying high . He pays the boy without any
argument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Next is her next-door neighbor, Dutiful Father. He is a gaunt man, ghastly with ever eating lesser than what he
burns under the blazing sun through the day. He puts his sweating hands on the
grimy table-top, rests his weight on it and waits. Jabbar will now tell him off
for not doing enough work. Dutiful Father will explain that he's been unwell but
now he's fine.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She can fortell every conversation at the pay-desk because these are all characters of a world that she knows through and through. It's a world in which the builder is more moved by the slightest rise in cement rate than the fall of a worker from the tenth storey; in which the overseer does more free husbandry than the village bull and is as uncaring of the outcome. She can even see the future of dusky Female standing behind Jabbar’s chair; crystal clear: from pampered to pregnant to dumped.
How similar she appears to what she herself had looked like a year ago!
Hair-line a frame of two reddish-gold strands of hair bleached with
hydrogen-per-oxide; eye-brows shaven into two thin bows; lips and gums dyed a
deep red with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maswaak .</i> <br />
<br />
A smile rises
to her lips; a bitter, cheated smile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dutiful Father leaves. Every one
moves one step ahead; so does she. Leaning her head sideways, she starts the
head count again. One, two, th-th… She stops. The world swa-a-a-ys; her vision
wavers; her feet go heavy as if cupfuls of liquid iron have been injected
into them; her temples throb.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The world is about to topple over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
‘You’ve waited so long; you can
wait still more! You can! If I can, you can too!’ someone inside her yells to
someone else inside her. She wrenches the tumbling world backward to
fit it back into its old casing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Just four payees are left now.
Four, like four stumps of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">manji</i>
on which they lay the dead body once they know about the death; four like
four wheels of the NGO van that takes unclaimed dead-bodies to unknown, far-off
grave yards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She looks toward the huts again. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dusk is slowly eating up all shapes
and forms, reducing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti</i> to a
stark silhouette streched out against a gray brooding sky. Other than a shrill call
now and then, there are no sounds coming from that side now. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Why is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">basti </i>so still?? Why? It is not normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And her next thought is to run back
to her tent and pick up her baby in her arms; to hold it to her chest; to her
lips; press its cold cheek against hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She realizes that she isn’t numb;
that deep down she has been thinking about the baby sleeping in a sling in her
tent, throughout. Throughout reliving the instants that passed between her
running over to her tent during the tea-break to see her sick baby and running back. Throughout feeling the stiffness of her baby’s
cold body on her fingers. Throughout feeling that great need to cry out. And
throughout telling herself not to. Asking herself over and over: What is bigger? The cry
inside you or your want of snatching away this chance of redemption from
Jabbar? You have tolerated his indifference. But can you tolerate his compassion?<o:p> Can you?</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
No!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So, the stronger half of her mind
had drawn up a course of action for the weaker half.<br />
<br />
<em>‘Go numb and hold on to
the numbness,’</em> the strong voice had ordered. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em>Money. You'll need money? Some at least? Where would that come from?</em> The meek voice
had asked.<o:p> </o:p> <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s pay day</i>. <em>Jabbar owes you three days’s wages…900 rupees… and if you complete today’s
dehaari…300 rupees…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> you</span> will have enough for…</em> the strong voice had said.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And she had run back to the
building site. She had begun hauling stacks of bricks – wheelbarrow after
wheelbarrow – with a new, a much more passionate vigor. After all, only an hour
and a half was left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Blind Woman’s Second Son shifts his
weight from his right leg to left and right again, gearing up to receive his
six day’s wages; wages that the money lender will not snatch away; wages that
will light a fire in the blind woman’s cold hearth and keep feeding the fire
for the next six days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He runs away with the money.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He’s gone.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Three left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Two…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Three…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
All of a sudden her body craves
giving up. Her ear-canals cringe against the hammers pounding on her
ears. Her breasts pulsate with a raw anguish. She lets go. Stony body, loosens. Taut limbs liquefy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
From somewhere deep inside her, a
shriek tears toward her throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
‘Cash finished!’ Jabbar calls,
scratching his bald head; yawning and stretching his thick limbs far and wide, he
pushes his chair back to get up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A small whimper is heard above the
buzz of compliant grouses against scarcity of
pay-money. A nameless sigh. The three men in front of her as well as numerous others in the row behind
her disperse quickly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She hasn’t moved. She looks the
other way now, toward the road where buses that take people to strange
destinations, stop. Where to are all these people always going? How come she
doesn’t have anywhere to go? She often thinks of boarding one of the green,
tattooed buses and asking the man dangling out of the door like a loose
attachment of the lorry, to take her somewhere; to some other place; she
doesn’t know its name yet; she’ll ask someone about it; there ought to be one
out there for her.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An echo surfaces the sea of
thuds roaring around her. A word. Is it her name? Is someone calling her? She
looks towards the huts and sees the wife of Dutiful Father running towards her,
beating the air about her mad with two hysterically-flinging arms. On the other
side, a cloud of dust rises; a bus emerges from it and decelerates as it
approaches the bus-stop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
Suddenly, she runs.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-43825080425218314532012-12-20T05:22:00.000-08:002013-09-13T22:31:54.300-07:00The Scent of Haar-Singhaar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
The Scent of Haar-Singhaar
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
That afternoon we had new and more explicit plans of stealing the grapes hanging invitingly low in the portico of the railway mansion. Sagging with their own weight, the luscious bunches were so eye-catching, anyone who passed by the low gate would inevitably ogle them. We were dying to get to the grapes before Naghma, the street tomboy who had an impressive history of outsmarting us in the field. But it wasn't easy. The gardener, Maali Manna, mindful of proximate poachers and determined to see the grapes through, was keeping a round-the-clock surveillance. Bobby said that he had come to know through a reliable source that Maali Manna was in reality a snake that had lived for a hundred years and had acquired the power to transform into anything. Playing <em>Khoh</em> in our backyard on a dark night last week, he had scared the wits out of me, saying that the cat skulking along the edge of the wall was none other than Maali Manna himself; that he was following us because he knew that we were planning to get the grapes.</div>
<br />
Nothing could deter us though. We were all set for that afternoon. Bobby and I had had a heart-to-heart at school during lunch hour to firm the plan up. Comparing our recent accomplishments with that of Naghma’s gang’s, we had come to conclude that that the secret of their success was hidden in numbers: they were five and we were just three.<br />
<br />
“But Seemi’s begging to join. We’ll be four if you allow her,” I had argued.
<br />
<br />
“Seemi? The grown-ups’ spy? I don’t trust her. And look at her age. She’s six or something,” Bobby had said, pushing his sleeves back to bare his brawny arms.<br />
<br />
“She’s seven and one-and-a-half month!” I had said in his face, taking offence of Bobby disrespect of my cousin Seemi’s reliably mature age.<br />
<br />
"And two hours and five minutes! Hahaha.” he had laughed cruelly.
<br />
<br />
Lately, I had developed distaste for Bobby's bragging. Up until now, he had us in awe, behaving as if any other strength was inconsequential in the face of the single advantage that he had: AGE. Afterall, he was TWELVE.
<br />
<br />
“You can bring her along today. We’ll test her,” he had finally given his consent.
<br />
<br />
I was so excited for Seemi that as soon as I reached home, I ran across the road to my grandfather’s house where my cousins lived, to tell her the news. She was ecstatic. Then, I warned her of her probationary status.<br />
<br />
"If you do anything wrong today, you will never ever be a part of our group. Nevvver!!!"
<br />
<br />
"Why? I can climb a wall more quickly than any of you. Even Bobby," she boasted.<br />
<br />
“That's not important," I said.<br />
<br />
"Then what is?"<br />
<br />
"You'll know," I said, just to intrigue her. "Now listen. After lunch today, when K takes us to the drawing room to sleep, we’ll have to do some acting. Be sure: Eyes to close but not to fall asleep in real; okay? And wait for K's Big Snore. Not the first snore but the Big Snore. The one that jerks her up...like this. It will come; that’s for sure. That will be our go-ahead sign. We’ll slip out and meet up B. He’ll be waiting for us in the Estate Car."<br />
<br />
Not the least bit dazzled by my sign language, Seemi gave me an all-knowing smile, as if deciphering codes was nothing new for her.
I was desperate to impress her. She was as desperate to prove she was un-impressible. During lunch, she kept passing meaningful looks to me and Chino, for which I forgave her, thinking that she was new so she didn’t know how important it was to act normal and straight-faced before an exploit. But my patience was short-lived. <br />
<br />
Right after swallowing her last bite, she said to our aunt, Khalida Phuppo whom I had refered to as K, and who used to tend us during the afternoon, “Phuppo, I’m very sleepy and so are the others. Can you please take us to the drawing room to sleep."<br />
<br />
I could have thrashed her for this.
Who didn’t know that we hated being confined to the drawing room for the long summer afternoons? As feared, Khalida Phuppo became suspicious.
<br />
<br />
“You think I’m mad that I’ll believe that you want to sleep. Come on be quick and tell me what you all are up to,’ she said, eying all three of us doubtfully. I felt like wringing Seemi’s neck but all I could do was say with mock nonchallance, "We don't want to sleep. Take her if she wants to!"<br />
<br />
Eventually, we were herded towards the drawing room, which, for no known reason, was converted into the children’s room during the afternoon hours. In a few minutes we were all lying on the white sheets spread out on the carpet.<br />
<br />
"I'll tell you the story of the Lady-finger that could...” Khalida Phuppo said with a yawn.
<br />
<br />
“No. The King and His Seven wives,” I prompted.<br />
<br />
Invariably, Khalida Phuppo would fall asleep telling us one of her farfetched stories. She had a cache of them in her head from which she picked one and began a somewhat mechanical narration as soon as everyone was down and the lights went off. She was one of those grownups who naively think that all children ought to enjoy unbelievable tales of fanciful fairylands. Also that these tales make chidren dreamy and hence dozy. Actually, it was the other way round. Telling a story made her sleepy. And this particular tale of the king who had seven childless wives was so repetitive and long-drawn; she would become yawny and heavy-eyed right after she started. On record, her limit was the point when the king’s seventh wife eats a half-eaten mango and gives birth to a half-bodied boy. That afternoon, she was snoring way before; when the king’s fourth wife was doing her part of the mischief.
<br />
<br />
"Phuppo, Masi Resham is stealing cream from the fridge," I whispered in her ear to see if she was gone, finding no patience in myself for waiting for the Big Snore.
No reply came. She was down for the next two hours at least. I stood up and tapped Seemi and Chino with my toes. We sneaked out onto the veranda one by one. <br />
<br />
Life generally slept the hot afternoons through. On the cool, black-n-white floor of the veranda, under the creaking ceiling fan, our old servant, Laal-deen, lay wheezing in his kip. And under the haar-singhaar vine which had spread elaborately on the brick-lined portico of the house, two outdoor dogs were fast asleep too. We stopped to estimate the danger they posed. One of them opened his eyes and rolled them at us. Luckily, he wasn't curious enough. He made a lazy circle in the air with his tail and closed his eyes again. We tiptoed past them.
<br />
<br />
Once on the drive, we bolted towards the main gate and burst out on the deserted road. Nothing stirred the familiar afternoon tranquility. The only sounds that could be heard was a train engine clanking in the distance and pained grunts of a sick horse someone had tied with the trunk of the old peepul tree. Bobby, as planned, was hiding in the rusted, dust-coated Hillman that we called 'The Estate Car' – again, for no known reason. Year after year, the Estate Car had stood beside the gate, slowly sinking in the earth, so completely devoid of its original glory. It now looked as if it was just a car-shaped contour in the soil.
We ran and opened its only functional door. There, lying on his back on the floor of the back seat, his arms folded in a cross behind his head, was another sleeping figure. Our team head, Bobby.<br />
<br />
We woke him and he gave us The Plan. <br />
<br />
The Plan made me twitchy. Why had Seemi been given the central role? But I reserved my opinion. Soon, the four of us were heading towards the gate of the Railway mansion.<br />
<br />
We peeped through the chinks between the rickety planks of the wooden gate. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. At that decisive moment, Seemi asked the most ridiculous question: <br />
<br />
"Will they send us to jail if we’re caught?”
<br />
<br />
Instead of reprimanding her or slapping her as I wished he’d do at that moment, Bobby glared at me. I could see the line, ‘See; I told you!’ written clear and bold in his eyes. I placed a sharp little smack on Seemi’s head; but she was too thrilled to care.
Bobby unlatched the gate and we stepped in one by one. Chino hurried to hide in the giant <em>Niazbo</em> bush next to the gate from where she could keep an eye on both the road and the garden and would whistle – her whistle was the loudest – if there was danger. Bobby, Seemi and I crept towards our destination, the portico, that now seemed like it was miles away. We had barely reached the bend in the drive which was a few feet away from the porch when we heard a shriek-like whistle. Instantly we lay flat on our stomachs and began slithering towards the veranda on our right where we could hide behind the huge cane furniture. Seemi mimicked our tummy crawling so awkwardly, we would have laughed had circumstances allowed. Hiding behind the huge cane chairs, we waited and waited but no one appeared. I was dying to know why Chino had whistled and what had become of her. After waiting for what seemed a lifetime, Bobby crawled out and whispered. <br />
<br />
“Should we begin?”<br />
<br />
I looked around. Apparently, all was well. Bobby kneeled down and let Seemi climb on to his shoulders. Mounted on Bobby’s shoulders, Seemi’s hands could easily reach the grapes. She plucked the first bunch and passed it to Bobby, hands trembling. Bobby dropped it in the rucksack hanging on his side and went to stand under the next bunch. Bunch after bunch passed from small hand to big hand to rucksack. I, the sole audience of this pair proficiency, proudly watched our new accomplice and the team leader performing a miracle .
<br />
<br />
I could have burst with excitement. We had done it!
The rucksack was slumping with the weight of the grapes. I had come to the point of ultimate satisfaction. Just when I opened my mouth to signal the end of the feat, a shrill shriek pierced through the silence. <br />
<br />
It was Seemi. A big yellow bee hovering around the bunch she had just laid her hand on had probably stung her. Terrorized beyond senses, Bobby flung her down and took off. Seemi landed with a thud and her wails became even louder. Bobby’s calls “Run! Run!” diffused as he disappeared beyond the gate. The bee was still hovering and my eyes were glued to its. <br />
<br />
Bobby words were echoing in my ears:
"Maali Manna is a hundred-year-old snake; he can become anything he wants to.”<br />
<br />
Was it true? Was this bee Maali Manna?.<br />
<br />
Frightful images flashed in my head. I saw Seemi alone, locked up in Maali Manna's cottage, a giant dog keeping guard. I saw us both, handcuffed. I saw us both, dead, eaten by a tiger who had a giant black mustache like Maali Manna.
<br />
<br />
Seemi was crying bitterly. I was transfixed, with no idea of time; just a faint notion that a beautiful dream had turned into a nightmare.<br />
<br />
Then I heard that sound that woke me up to the world around me. Footsteps. My legs thawed and I leapt towards Seemi. Grabbing her arm, I took off. Someone shouted behind our backs: <br />
<br />
"Wait; don’t run."
<br />
<br />
I looked back. Manna Baba, a giant of six and a half feet, was taking sure, long strides towards us, his long gnarled arms waving in a way that looked as if he was swimming in the air. Strangely, I wasn’t intimidated. A rush of adrenaline in my bloodstream had drowned the fears.<br />
<br />
"Run Seemi! Run fast!" I yelled.<br />
<br />
Our heads held up in the air, we flew towards the gate. Reaching there, I breaked to a stop and looked back. He was gone. Vanished. I pushed the gate and we burst out.<br />
<br />
On the road, I put a hand on Seemi’s shoulder and escorted her back. There was no sign of Bobby or Chino. Seemi had forgotten her pain and begun pestering me with her silly questions: <br />
<br />
"Where’s Bobby? He has the grapes."<br />
<br />
I kept walking in silence, piecing broken parts of the incident together.<br />
<br />
Tied to the old peepul, the sick horse was aimlessly sniffing at something. I looked away but something prompted me to redirect my gaze to that thing lying in the horse's feet. The object had a strange shape. Like a stack of mudcovered marbles.<br />
<br />
I couldn't believe my eyes. Sodden in road grit, strewn here and there on the road side like unwanted trash, was The Fruit of our Labor. The precious grapes. Our grapes. Our precious grapes. I looked at Seemi. She had found a coin lying in the dust and was shining it against the side of her frock. I decided not to update her on the plight of our loot.
<br />
<br />
We walked past dogs, servants and a Laal Deen, into the drawing room.Chino was there, lying asleep – or pretending to be so – on the white sheet, face hidden under a pillow. I looked carefully. One of her toes twitched. I lay down next to her and tugged at her frock. She turned her face towards me.
<br />
<br />
“Why?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“I heard a snake hissing. I didn’t want to die so I whistled and came back.”
<br />
<br />
This was the third time she had made the same excuse for shying away from the climax scene. <br />
<br />
“Don’t lie, you coward!” ‘I whispered and turned towards Seemi and asked her to show me her bitten finger. Something had to be done before the swelling got too obvious. But her answer shocked me more than Chino’s excuse.<br />
<br />
"It didn’t sting me; but it was going to."
Suddenly, I wanted to leave this group of cowards and join Naghma, my rival, my worst enemy.
I could not control myself anymore. A volley of kicks, pinches and punches broke loose. Seemi, ever the small fry in such fights, was getting battered the most. So she started what she knew best. <br />
<br />
Threats.
<br />
<br />
"I’ll tell Khalida Puppo what you made me do today,” she said, her voice a little higher than the allowed level. Even while fighting, we had to follow the code.
<br />
<br />
“Lower your voice!”
I hissed.<br />
<br />
“I’ll tell her you’re all thieves,” she snapped, tears welling up in her black eyes.
<br />
<br />
The fight stopped. It had to. In my heart, I admitted that Mr. I’m-always-right was always right. Seemi should never have been recruited. I could have run and escaped along with him if she hadn’t been there.<br />
<br />
The commotion had roused Khalida Pupho. She reprimanded us for not letting her sleep, in her sweet ineffective manner. We all said our <em>Sorry Phuppos</em> and she turned her back at us and began snoring again. <br />
<br />
In the evening, Akbar, Lal Deen’s son, used to sprinkle water in the back yard. Chairs were set in a circle for the family to sit and chat the evening away. Some evenings were slow and dreary. Some, when we played our twilight games, fun-filled. But the best ones were when ice-cream machines were brought out and everyone joined in the making of the fruity delight.
<br />
<br />
That evening, Chino and I were trying our best to keep Seemi away from the evening assembly in the backyard, trying desperately to erase the afternoon’s incident from her memory by telling her hundreds of anecdotes from our school life which she, being a preschooler, loved listening to. At round seven, Lal Deen came looking for us as we sat on the stairs, Chino and I on the sides and our little hostage safely nestled between us.
<br />
<br />
“They’re making mango ice-cream. Want to help?” he asked, at a loss by the way Seemi sat quashed between us two. <br />
<br />
“Seemi, is everything okay?” he asked.
<br />
<br />
Seemi tried to free herself but both her hands were clasped in our fists. Laal Deen lingered behind the veranda pillars trying to infer our strange behaviour. <br />
<br />
We knew it was time to face the consequences. <br />
<br />
Together, the three of us walked towards the backyard.
My heart missed a beat when I saw Dada Jan, my grandfather, sitting majestically on his armchair, handsomely clad in a black Sherwani and red Romi cap. Since he was mostly surrounded by his friends and visitors in the evenings, the family got the pleasure of his company on rare occasions. Hence, there was hint of festivity in air of the backyard. Mangoes were being skinned, a pan of custard being heated and, on a piece of gunny-cloth, a bid slab of ice lay quietly melting.
<br />
<br />
Khalida Pupho had a basket of haar-singhaar flowers in her lap. On a <em>darri</em> spread on the floor, our other cousins, including our demure older sister Billi, were stringing flower necklaces and bracelets stamen-stem-stamen-stem. The fragrance of the pretty pink flowers combined with that of freshly sprinkled brick-flooring, was sitting on the courtyard. Occasionally, a whiff of moong lentil boiling in the kitchen came riding the soft breeze, stirring everyone’s appetite. <br />
<br />
We sat on the rug with our backs towards the circle of chairs. From the corners of my eyes, I looked at Dada-jan. He was narrating an exciting anecdote to entertain the women. Everyone else was listening and smiling.
And then I saw it: a plate full of raw grapes lying on a table at the center of the courtyard. I thought I was imagining. That my mind was playing a game. On the road, in the horse's feet, on this table; I was seeing grapes everywhere. I rubbed my eyes and shook my head. And I looked again. They were still there. Our Grapes. Slick and glossy after the rinse they had just been given.
<br />
<br />
I could not be mistaken that these were from next doors. I had been eying them every single day for the past four weeks. I had seen their color slowly lightening; from a deep bottle green to a gorgeous, gleaming apple green. I had watched their size grow a millionth of an inch every day; from a wheat grain to a bagatelle steel ball to a marble.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, there were welcoming yells and everyone stood up. Chino and I, not moving an inch from the rug on the floor, were buried under a storm of moving hips. The warm welcome was for Bobby and his mother, my grandfather’s niece. While everyone else was chanting greetings, Chino and I, stared at each other with color-drained faces – sure now that Bobby and had been called to complete the band of criminals and our case was ready for investigation.
<br />
<br />
Khalida Phuppo and others were still enjoying the frolic. I sat, numb in the limbs, waiting for the catastrophe. Time passed slowly. The handle of the ice-cream machine went round and round. My thoughts ran in circles too.<br />
<br />
‘What’s going on? If a trial has been planned, why is lemonade being served? If a prosecution is coming up, why is everyone wounding the handle of the ice-cream machine so cheerfully? If this cheerfulness is genuine, what are the grapes doing on that table? Why is Bobby here?’
<br />
<br />
Bobby hadn’t once glanced at any of us. He sat next to my grandfather, answering his questions about his school life in his most genteel manner. Tired of waiting,
I had joined the rest of my cousins in making haar-singhaar jewelry. Suddenly, Dada Jaan’s gaze fell on the center table. He got up, separated a grape from the bunch and put it in his mouth. For some time he munched it thoughtfully.
<br />
<br />
“these grapes are raw. who got them?” he asked no one in particular.
<br />
<br />
“No one. They're from Baig Sahib's garden. their gardener got them. said the little ones would like them,” Ammi said, pointing at us.
<br />
<br />
“Don’t let the children eat these; they are too sour. Sour grapes are the worst thing for a child’s throat.”
<br />
<br />
Ammi nodded. I smiled for the first time that evening. Chino smiled too. She got up and presented Phuppo the longest haar-singhar necklace . Overcome with joy, I stuck two little flowers in my ears and laughed. Bobby sprang up from his seat and joined us on the floor.<br />
<br />
“Manna Baba likes us. He’s not a snake,” I whispered in Bobby’s ear as Seemi clambered up behind me to listen.<br />
<br />
“He very well is. Sending grapes was just an excuse of witnessing our family sitting. He’s listening to every word we’re saying. Look, he’s right over there!” he said. <br />
<br />
Seemi and I looked where his finger was gesturing and saw a green worm crawling in the plate of grapes.
<br />
<br />
“Seemi look! He’s staring at you. He knows it was you who destroyed his precious fruit,” Bobby said.
And we all had to laugh loudly to muffle Seemi’s frightened shriek.
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-70627715148341184812012-12-16T22:25:00.002-08:002015-11-09T02:36:27.479-08:00Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rain</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The brooding summer afternoon quietly melted away. <br />
<br />
At length,
its silence was broken by a creaking sound. Perhaps somewhere in the house, a door had opened and its hinges complained of dryness. <br />
<br />
Popping out from the
bathroom on the terrace, Eela – her hair and her two-days-old clothes dripping a watery trail
– fled towards the veranda. The scheme was that she’d change into her green dress
at the last moment. She didn't want any wrinkles today. Wrinkles meant imperfection and she had a swank perfection in her mind. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Seeing her, Seema, her sister, did quite the opposite. She
darted toward the four-by-four roofless bathroom<o:p> </o:p>to take her turn to bathe. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Barefooted, Eela ran the length of the veranda, past the parking
of the rickety tricycles; past the explosion of soiled clothes around the
linen-vat; past the rusted wheel-chair; past the screeching floor-fan and past Naani
on her wobbly cot. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Bang!! <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She rammed into the door at the end of the veranda. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Inside the longish room which was originally a perpendicular
extension of the veranda, her two youngest sisters were asleep on the floor exactly
under the ceiling fan. Lulled by the dreary hum, they snored
softly.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Sh-sh-sh!” she froze as she saw them and pressed her fist to her mouth
to throttle the scream that wanted to wake them up.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No! No! No! What have
I to say to them? I have nothing. Really! </i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And, as if to deflect her attention from the girls, she
closed her eyes. A smile rose to her quivering lips. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Soundlessly, like a knowing indoor cat, she traced her way
around the four string-beds which took up most of the space in the room, to the
little mirror on the rear wall. She opened her eyes and looked into it. It held
a flushed face, vulnerable, with little tics beating under the skin of the lips
and jowls; yet invincible, with unswerving eyes that waited, listened, behind a
film of curious tears. As if they could see that somewhere a new world was
readying itself for her. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She bit into her lips and patted her flared-up cheeks with
her cool fingers.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stop! Oh stop! You’re mad!
You can’t let them see how happy you are. It’s shameless to be so happy for yourself.</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And beyond the radiant face in the mirror, she saw a green set
of cotton <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shalwar-kamis</i> spangled with
minute yellow polka-dots, laid out beautifully on a string-bed. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In a dancing pose. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One arm outstretched, the other folded at the elbow and
placed on the chest looking like it was<o:p> waiting for a kathak dancer to slip into it.</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She stretched up on her toes and extended her right arm far
out; then bending the left one to place her hand on her panting chest… wh-o-o-o-sh!
she swirled around in a complete circle as if she herself was that awaited dancer.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh! I’ll be beautiful.</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And she swirled again; and again; and yet again. a stray nimbus cloud that had found its way in through the window, her dark hair showered little drops of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She stopped and looked at her green dress.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Look at you; so proud
and stiff; pretending as though you haven’t been worn countless times by each
one of us. </i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Bitches…what are you all bathing for?” Naani’s voice came
piercing the still afternoon air. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wasn’t it clever of me
to give you for a wash to the dhobi down the street? You so crisp! You so new! Oh, I must
remember to thank old Dhobi for all the starching and ironing he’s done! </i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Why didn’t I let your father wring your necks when he was
at it? Why? Oh why?” Naani wailed.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘omens are good. The
shopkeeper lent me the yellow dupatta for the evening! No guarantee! Ta-tha!
No advance! Ta-tha. And thum-m-m! He packs it and puts it in my hand. ‘Take
it home and try it. Pay me if you like it!’ Oh! It goes so well with the yellow
dots on the lovely lovely green!! The divine, the angelic green! </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She closed her eyes, threw her head back and swirled again.
There was no rain this time. The cloud had dried.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Evil souls must rot in hell one day. The man knew she had
slept with every man in the street; that’s how you all came,” Naani squealed.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 4.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh
I can’t wait to hear the ting-a-ling-a-ling of the ear-rings! </i>Eela stopped
and touched the lobes of her ears with both hands.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh! I’ll be beautiful. I will. And
they’ll choose me. Shush-sh-sh! Listen! The clock ticks: they will, they will;
the sleeping girls snore: they will, they will, the fan sings: they will, they
will. I can hear The grandmother of The Boy: ‘I choose her to be my
grandson’s wife. She’s the girl I and the grandmother before me have been
looking for." </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She swirled again and stumbled. Remembering that she had
promised herself to be silent, she put her hand on her gasping stomach and giggling without a sound,
she swayed towards the nearest bed. <br />
<br />
The purring and snoring went on,
uninterrupted.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A-a-a-a-ah! Allah!
Allah! A-ah! Show me the way to heaven! Set free my soul! Save me! Oh Great
one! Save me from sins and sinners! Free me from this pain! A-a-ah! This pain;
this life! O-o-oh so rotten! My evil daughter’s evil offspring! Shameless,
saucy women, dress up like sluts and go…Ah-h-h-h!!!” Naani’s repartee with God
was always long-drawn. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 4.5in;">
For her own convenience, Eela mentally
branded each day according to Naani’s mood on that day. There were Mute Days
and Ranting Days; there were Dead-relatives Days and Live-relatives Days. And today? Ah today
was just another of her Leg-ache Days. She had moaned through the morning and was
moaning the afternoon through. Eela had given her each of her four-hourly
painkillers – seven, eleven and three – on the dot - but they had failed to
silence her. Rather, her moans had grown louder and her protests for being given something stronger, more incitive. Like: <o:p> </o:p><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Stop painting your faces like sluts and give me my injection now;” and<o:p> “These two-a-paisa candies don’t work on me anymore. Give me something real, you bitch.”</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But the little voice at the back of Eela’s head had kept
telling her to hold back Naani’s morphine shot.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The only way to be sure
Naani’s moans do not drive the guests up the walls is to put her out when the
time is right.</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And it would save her the embarrassment of explaining the situation
to a traumatized audience. What in the world could she say? She couldn’t
possibly argue with the guests that her Naani had lost her mind and on top of that she knows a whole string of cuss words so...<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hahaha!” she had chuckled soundlessly.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<em>How would that sound? </em>she thought.<o:p> </o:p>“Ignore the old crone's swearing, auntie! She has a leg-ache and
when she has a leg-ache she swears like a cheated pimp whose cut wasn’t paid,”
she enunciated aloud and giggled at the sheer absurdity of it.<o:p> </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p><em>Shshshsh!</em> she put a finger on her lips.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>Oh how happy Naseem Sahib, her director, would be to see her do such an amazing piece of mime!</o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Really, she and all others in the family were as immune to Naani’s gibberish as they were to the mournful whine of the floor-fan, or to the monotonous dribble of water
from the leaking storage drum; or to the weaving and spreading that Majida did, of webs of sin and virtue.<br />
<br />
But they were unable to exactly construe – not that they cared
enough to apply their wits – how less-accustomed audiences judged Naani's avowals. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“She’s lost it,” some neighbors said.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Old age!” others remarked.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“She’s been through a lot in her life,” still others said,
hinting that her mental disfigurement was bound to have a sinister
story behind it and that, perhaps, the non-stop cussing wasn't totally unjustified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
Again, not that their opinion mattered.<br />
<br />
But that of the guests expected that
evening did. To Eela, at least. </div>
<br />
Breathless and woozy from her swirls, she collapsed on the taut weave of the
string-bed and slouched, mouth open and panting. then, falling back on the bed, she pressed a trembling hand to her eyes. <br />
<br />
"I'm too happy – too happy!" she whispered and tried to remember all the tragic scenes she had played to sober herself down.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She looked at the wall clock. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Four-thirty-five!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tea-tray and food
platters: Ready. Visitors’ room: Dusted and Decorated. Terrace and veranda:
Swept and Mopped (stuffing the explosion of dirty linen back into the vat will
take a minute). Now, only Naani needs to be quieted</i>. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> rishta</i> ladies
were scheduled to arrive at five-thirty which meant six (if not <st1:time hour="18" minute="30" w:st="on">six thirty</st1:time>). The drug took fifteen
minutes to take the desired effect. She would give it to her at five-forty-five
and Naani would freeze from six to <st1:time hour="19" minute="30" w:st="on">seven
thirty</st1:time>. The women would be long gone by then. If, by any chance,
they were still there, it wouldn’t matter. Under the effect of the drug, Naani’s tongue became so thick, no one, not even Eela, could make out the slurred nonsense. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She was sure the plan would work. She had tried a similar
one on their first visit.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With her breath back in place, she ran out of the room on
her toes and, taking little dancing steps back and forth, right and left; making eight-shaped loops up and down the veranda into the visitors’ room which was right next to Sisters’ Room.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The little room with its huddle of plastic sunflowers in a
narrow-mouthed brass vase, its multi-colored floral sofa-wraps and its pink
rinse of cheap wall-paint looked as if it was holding its breath and waiting.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perfect!</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then she fled the 39 steps down the narrow stairwell and mopped
her way back up; wiping off the muddy footmarks her brother Bhai Ji had just
left. It had rained the previous night so mud had accompanied every one coming
home that day.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Where’s my injection, you brazen slut? I'll tell your brother you acted in the college plays from where they go directly to the cinema and sleep with all the actors and...' Nani’s howls
echoed down the stairwell as she gathered layers of dirt in the folds of the
thorny jute-cloth. Even in her madness Naani could to hit one where one lives.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
After hiding the floor-swab behind
the old water heater on the terrace of which only a frail skeleton was left, she
sprinted towards the tiny kitchen which they shared with their sister-in-law
Majida. Six cups and saucers were perched at right angles from each
other on a bendy plastic tray which she had swathed with a starched white
cloth; and beside them a stack of quarter plates and some teaspoons in a little
basket. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh I wish like the cups, the plates too were a set!! </i>She worried.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
But the thought of letting a minor
defect spoil the perfection was unbearable; so she eased herself out of the
anxiety.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They won’t notice; I’m sure.</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
The two platters in which she had assembled
biscuits and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">samosas</i> could be seen
lying untouched on top of Majida Bhabi’s fridge with a cloud of flies was hovering
above them. She waved it away and covered the platters with a crochet-net
napkin.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good. The three dare-devils
haven’t messed up any of the arrangements until now. Seema will be taking over
soon. I’ll tell her she needs to stay in the kitchen to see that nothing goes wrong
at the last moment. Majida.could easily give the verdict that serving tea in borrowed crockery was a sin because it misled the guests. On that pretext she could even return it to the neighbors.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Everything was just right except for Majida’s obstinate sulk
– as blue and flagrant as Eela had first detected it that morning and
had tried to please her with an offer to prepare her boys’ breakfast. Although
Majida Bhabi had bestowed on her, the joy of cooking breakfast for the three
princes, she had withheld the pleasure of removing the moping look from her face. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Bhai Ji, their brother, however, had seemed in a good mood
as she had seen him climb up the stair-well a few minutes ago.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a bit tired. That’s all. Not looking like
he’s going through one of his wretched doldrums that ever end up in group
squabbles that ever end up in the siblings dividing up into two cold-warring
militias that ever....</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Eela! Eela!” she whispered to herself. “Stop right here!
Don’t you dare think bad things today!” <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Bhai Ji was anyway not needed in the visitors’ room as Eela
expected the guests to be all women. She had requested him to be home early
that evening just in case a surprise male guest turned up. Also, she thought,
to have a man around the house, especially one dressed in office clothes would
be impressive – a Dignified-Family thing.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My dear dear Bhai Ji! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s so good at heart! Look how he remembered
to be home an hour before his usual time. I know that he’d think a hundred
times before asking his mean boss a favor; but he did today; just for me.</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Come and clean me, Eela! Please come!” Naani called, her
voice suddenly transformed from a shrill bellow to a meek appeal.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s how mad she is,
</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Eela thought</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Knows exactly when to stop being a
blaspheming hag and become a dependent invalid! I’m lucky I haven’t changed as yet.</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Suddenly, time seemed short. She had to be quick now –
really quick.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The sisters shared all duties with her – all but this. She
was the only one in the house who had gradually developed a numb that saw her
through these 'Clean-up-Naani' sessions; a complete block-out of , first, teenage pride, then, the vanity of the twenties; a
deadness that made her remove the muck bare-handedly, unshakably; as though she
was an android programmed to do it.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She made a dash back to Sisters’ Room to look at the wall clock.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Five-thirteen! <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Oh no! Not a minute left to waste!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With the cleaning being taken care of, Seema made Naani a
quick cup of strong and sweetened milk-tea. She always did. As if it
compensated for not ever offering to do the washing!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As if!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Leaving Naani sipping her sweet tea in the cradle of Seema’s
arms and enjoying that short moment of after-wash newness, Eela ran to the old
cupboard in the jobless younger brother’s room at the other end of the veranda.
She took the keys out from where she had hidden them in the pocket of her
under-shirt and opened the lock. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A treasure unfolded itself into sight as she did so: a few odds
and ends of a century-old dinner set which Naani’s grandfather – a footman to a
British bureaucrat <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– had brought from England
where his English master had taken him as a recognition of his loyalty, a few
empty jewelry boxes, a bunch of Maa’s knitting needles, a cookie-tin which Maa
had converted into a sewing box, some poetry books she used to read and several
piles of folded loose fabrics which she had collected for her girls’ dowries and
which no one until now had dared remove from the cupboard.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Everything smelled of naphthalene and damp wood. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eela slid her fingers across a red silk piece, paper-thin
and very very smooth. Her eyelids dropped as her fingers slinked further into
the sinuous folds. She waited and listened; and listened and waited; for the
soft gasps of this new world that had slowly crept up unto her in the past few
weeks; that waited for her as she waited for it; the world of silken
walls and silken floors; of spongy cushions, velvety rugs; and petals
on her body which rustled as she moved; and trails that whispered behind.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Swish-swash!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh to carry the
whisper along!! As though you’re floating on a sea of silk!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ting-g-g! Tong-g-g-g! The clock chimed to announce the
beginning of the next half-hour. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Five-thirty!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eela eased out the fine-china curry-bowl from the top shelf
and, clasping it to her stomach, lifted its lid. Inside were a few vials of liquid
morphine, some disposable syringes and a doctor’s prescription. Quickly, she
removed a vial and a syringe and placed the bowl back in the cupboard.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
On her way back, she veered off towards the sleeping sisters, tickled their feet with her toe, and headed out. She stopped at the door, turned
around and looked at them.<o:p> Not a hair on them had moved as if they too were on morphine. </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“A-a-aw!” she pouted her lips at their sleeping forms.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
Suddenly she was filled with the
deepest, most ardent affection for the girls.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O-o-oh my little sweethearts!
Look at you! So young! So innocent! Who could say that you’re the bread winners
of the family? Eighteen and nineteen and working twelve hours every night at
the out-source
Call-Center. It's a wicked thought, waking you up for the guests. The least we can do
for you in return of your toils is to let you get enough sleep!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But, somehow it was impossible for her to walk out of the
room carrying the powerful blast of adoration in her bosom.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So she walked back and kneeled down beside them. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She felt so tender towards them, she could weep.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hush-sh-sh-sh!” she put her finger on her pouted lips and hushed
an imaginary intruder. Softly, she tucked a wisp of hair fluttering on her
youngest sister’s brow behind her ear. M-u-u-a-ah! She performed a keen touch-less
kiss for each of them. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Oh how I wish I could do something for you!” she whispered.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Meanwhile, a squabble had brewed outside. Their Married-and-Returned
sister whom they secretly called Nikki Naani and who lived on the two-room
fourth floor, was yelling at Seema from her terrace on the veranda roof. The
summary of her charges was that Seema had bathed out of turn and finished the
water that she had collected in the storage drum so painstakingly when water-pressure
had been good. Seema was combating the offensive fearlessly. This too was an
everyday thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s better if the
fights are all fought and over with before the guests come,</i> Eela thought as she headed
for Naani’s cot.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Naani’s groans muted when she saw her coming down the
veranda with her morphine. Her pinched eyes widened as much as they could, her
gaze fixed on Eela’s hands. Only when Eela had filled the medicine in the
syringe, did Naani look up at her face.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
All of a sudden, Naani raised both her arms towards Eela in
an asking-for-a-hug way. Eela didn’t take notice. Naani raised her neck and
extended her arms further up. Years-old smell of unwashed flesh filled Eela’s
nostrils. Curiously, she was as oblivious to Naani’s amiability as
she was to her curses. She raised the filled syringe in the air in front of her
eyes to see that there were no air-bubbles trapped in it. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“This is important,” the kind nurse who had taught Eela how
to give a shot had said. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Let’s turn over, Naani,” Eela said in a flat voice.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“My lovely; my precious; come here and hug Naani,” Naani said,
sounding as she had sounded ages ago when Maa was alive and Naani up and about.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eela performed a ghost of a hug and pushed Naani to her side
with her left hand. Then she nipped a thick gob of shriveled flesh between her fingers
and pressed the needle in. Slowly, the medicine entered Naani’s eagerly-raised
side.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
For a while, she stood by her grandmother’s bed, looking at
her taking uneven breaths as she lay still in anticipation of heavenly bliss
that had just pierced her body and entered in. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She looked at the dangly gold earrings in Naani’s ears. They
had dropped to the sides of her head, the little bells on their ends touching the
discolored pillow.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not now…she’s not
fully deadened yet. I’ll come back for the earrings when I’m dressed and ready.</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And she walked back to the Sisters’ Room with green-and-yellow
pictures of herself in her mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Luk chup jaana makai da daana…” </i>Naani’s sinking voice followed her.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">***<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the beginning there had been no sign of ill luck except that
the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> rishta</i> women had arrived very
late. The matchmaker, a pot-bellied woman with a permanent scowl and an avid
appetite for savories, however, had come on time to enforce the arrangements
she considered necessary.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Samosas and biscuits?’ she had cried disbelievingly. “My
dear girl, you ought to know by now that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rishta</i>
women expect special treatment. Now be quick to send Seema to get a roasted
chicken from the eatery at the corner of the street.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So she had had to wake one of her sleeping sisters to ask
for more money for the chicken.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Burly fumes of spices and roasted meat had swarmed up the stairs
ahead of Seema when she had returned holding a big paper pouch with ‘Lahore
Chargha’ printed on it. It had cheered the fussy match-maker a bit.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“They’re coming to finalize the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rishta</i> today,” she had promised, overwhelmed by the prospect of a lavish meal.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
They’d come a little after six-thirty when Naani had already
kicked her leg once, a sign that her stirring time wasn’t too far. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Everything else had been perfect – according to her wishes. She
had looked lovely in the noisy green-and-yellow dress and Naani’s ear-rings. Majida
Bhabi, although still unsmiling, had come and sat with the guests for her usual
fifteen minutes. Bhai Ji had peeped in and said his<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> salam</i>. And the Married-and-Returned sister, whose scruffy
appearance and coarse manners – not to mention her sweet-and-sour smells – could
have dampened the brilliance of the show, hadn’t showed up.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Knowing that her scheme to coincide Naani’s morphine slumber
with the guests’ visit hadn't done well, Eela had asked Seema to
spare the customary fifteen-minutes-after-arrival norm and serve tea right away.
Seema, as always, had emerged the champion of the show with balancing herself
perfectly between little-sister modesty and brisk hospitality. She had even
managed to keep the flies out when tea was laid.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.0pt 297.0pt;">
They had left them for the
expected leave-them-alone-to-eat ten minutes. From the parting in the curtain drawn
across the door between the visitors’ room and the Sisters’ Room, Eela had seen
that the women were devouring the savories. Although a part of her wished some
roasted chicken was left for the two younger sisters’ dinner, seeing
them eating doggishly gave her some reassurance. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s a sign of
consent. Everything’s okay. I should stop worrying.</i><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Later, the bearded woman with molten eyes who, they said,
was The Boy’s grandmother by blood relation – the real grandmother had died
last month leaving the ‘Quest for The Daughter-in-law’ in the middle – had even
showed signs of announcing her consent. Time and again – or perhaps only when
her eyes met Eela’s – she would thrust her hand into her handbag and fumble for
something. Each time she had done that, Eela’s heart had lurched frighteningly.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What does she have in
there? The Ring? The Boy’s photo? Or just talli-tarai?</i> (money presented to
the would-be bride when the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rishta </i>is
confirmed)<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But again and again, the hand had emerged bare. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Say something! Show a
sign! Give a signal!</i> Eela had first pleaded with her in her head. But
slowly she had become tired of waiting.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leave if you want to
do it in your next visit. Please leave before Naani starts bombarding me! Stand up and leave,</i> she had implored
with them inside her head.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Darkness had fully cloaked the terrace outside, swallowing
all shapes and forms. The sounds of the evening show coming from Bhai Ji’s room
established that the time was somewhere between eight and <st1:time hour="8" minute="30" w:st="on">eight thirty</st1:time>. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Iches…s’uts…e’il ’omen.” In the veranda, palpable syllables
had begun encrusting Naani’s blurry mumbles. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eela had stopped hoping for anything good to happen. She had
sat upright on her chair with her eyes fixed on the floor,
on a mosquito waving its legs, jerking itself to a slow and painful death.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“It’s late enough; we must leave,” one of the women had said
to the match-maker. The match-maker had answered with a loud burp. The sanction
burp. She had been avoiding Eela’s gaze for some time now but had shown no signs
of remorse that her promise of announcement of rishta had not been fulfilled.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A sigh had risen up from Eela’s stomach and escaped through
her circled lips. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There had been hope again. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m sure they’ll make
the announcement in the next visit. It’s blessing enough that they’re leaving
before Naani fully awake</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">, Eela had
thought.</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eela had stood up first of all. They had looked at her in
surprise and stood up too. The drill of slipping into their uniform, the black <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">burquas</i>, had been performed in perfect synchronization:
One, Two, Three, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bend</st1:place></st1:city>
and Pick; One, Two, Three, Arms Stretch Out; One, Two, Three, Slip-in! <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then they had kissed Eela one by one; the three older ones
with practiced poise, the only younger one a little self-consciously. And
finally they had followed each other out of the room onto the shadowy terrace
and from there to the stairwell.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Just when the last of them was stepping into the stairwell,
an earsplitting peal of thunder had been heard. For an instant, lightning had
filled every nook and corner of the house with a blinding brilliance and then
it had gone pitch dark. The electric-supply had failed.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Someone, bring a lantern or a candle!” the matchmaker had
commanded.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And, as if in retribution of the severity in her voice, rain
had come down with vigor. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Right from the first moment, it was a thorough downpour!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There had been whispers in the stairwell. A conflict
brewing. Eela had held her breath. Waiting. Praying.<o:p> </o:p>Ah! They had turned around and filed back toward the
visitors’ room like a row of black wolves prowling about in the dark.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Seema had run to the kitchen to snatch
the lantern before someone else got it. She had lit it and hung it up with a
nail dug in the crown of visitors’ room door.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
The lantern hanging in the doorway
had swayed in the breeze. Its trembling light had played up each line and every
puff on the women’s faces. The pink walls had turned a magical red with dark silhouettes
flickering on them like upsized shadow puppets.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Outside, the boys had shrieked as
they flitted about the terrace, soaking themselves in the rain. Their shouts
had become louder and shriller with every passing instant. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had felt a chilling fear.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
She and Seema had stood in the
doorway, looking at each other. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
The show had outlived its planned
age. The next act would be a total surprise. Sooner or later the Married-and-Returned
sister would storm in, carrying her naked-bottomed baby and her assortment of smells,
bad-mouthing the weather or Seema’s brazenness or some other thing. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Bhai Ji would emerge from his room
wearing a perforated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dhoti </i>around his
legs and nothing on top. Nothing-g-g. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Majida Bhabi’s mask would peal off
and her teeth would show. And through the teeth, she’d bid a quick clearing up
of the kitchen.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
And Naani!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Oh Naani!<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Darkness and hunger would hurl her
down a deeper darker stupor. She’d swear so loud, her voice would kill all other
sounds: that of rain, of the boys’, of the laughter of the ghost-audience of
the evening show. Yes. A live show would begin, the alive live show:<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt; text-align: center;">
‘The
Best of Naani’s Blaspheme’<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That, at
least, can be avoided. There are more vials and syringes in the cupboard</i>.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
And without wasting another
second, she had run through the fitful jets of rain that swept up the veranda,
to the unemployed brother’s room, leaving Seema wondering what she was up to.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
She had appeared a few minutes
later, arms on her sides, her right hand curled into a tight fist. The green
dress had gone moist and limp and smelled of stale starch. She had walked past
a perplexed Seema straight to Naani’s bed in the middle of the veranda. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“My dear girls, I think we could all
do with a cup of tea each,” she had heard the match-maker’s pushy voice. Oh how she hated that woman in that moment.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
For a few seconds Eela had just
stood beside Naani watching her wince now and then to throw off the oblivion
sitting heavy on her. Moments later, she had bent down and shook Naani's arm. Her eyelids had torn open.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“A’e… h-h… the’e… h-h… men in the…
h-h… house...whoooo...whoooo?” she had asked between gasps.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had looked back toward the
visitors’ room. Through the open door she could see the silhouettes. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Why are there s-s-sounds in that
’oom? Who h-h ha’e you called to sleep with you?” Naani had stuttered.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Naani I have something for you.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
And she had brought her hand close
to Naani’s eyes and opened her fist for her to see what she was holding.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Anothe’ injection?” Naani’s voice
had gone squeaky with gratitude.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Yes, another injection.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
At that moment lightening had
flashed and the earrings hanging down Eela’s jowls had lit up. Two luminous
chandeliers, one on each side of a heart-shaped silhouette.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“You’re wearing my ear-rings you stinking
slut…” shock had roused Naani fully.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Let’s turn over, Naani,” she had
said coolly.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“You stole my ear-rings, you
thief! Come on; take them off.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had remained silent.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“I know what you’re up to. It is
not my medicine that you’ve filled in the injection. It’s poison. You’re doing
this so I fall dead forever and you carry on with your business of sleeping
with strange men.” Naani’s squeals had been full of loathing but she hadn’t
stopped trying to turn to her side.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Naani’s words had reminded Eela of
what the kind nurse had said about an overdose of morphine.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“One a day is the maximum that the
old hag can survive. It’ll kill her if you give her more.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
A rattle of pans and crockery
coming from the direction of the kitchen had blended with the sound of rain
crashing down on concrete roofs and tin awnings. Seema, it had seemed, had
complied to make more tea for the guests. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had raised the syringe in the
air in front of her eyes and squinted to make sure there were no air bubbles in
it. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Come on; put me to sleep! Give me
the poison.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had bent down and pinched a clump
of wilted muscle in her fingers.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“You think I’ll leave you alone? Leave
you free to sin? I’ll haunt this house when I die. I’ll never leave you alone!
Never! And that pimp brother of yours; where has he run off to? He eats his
sisters earnings like a…”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
Eela had placed the needle on the
raised roll of muscle and pressed it in. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
In that instant in which her
fingers had curled around the tube of the syringe and her thumb had got fixed
on its rear end, ready to press the liquid in, lightening had flashed; and in
the fleeting brilliance, she had seen Maa and Naani grinding spices on the
terrace.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
A crystal clear winter day on the
terrace; colorful kites soaring in the sky above; a carpet of red chilies
spread out on the floor; Maa’s lithe arms gathering the chilies in glossy red
heaps; a stone urn half-filled with a batch ready to be crushed; Naani standing
above it, pounding the crunchy contents with a wooden pestle; creamy puffs of
air ballooning the washing on the washing-line; Naani and Maa sneezing and laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
In the moments that followed, she
had believed in that vision and nothing else. The dribbling green dress, the
women and her efforts to please them, Naani’s curses, her sisters’ sleepless
nights, the boys’ wild shrieks as they played in the rain; the rain; the
thunder; everything had zoomed out and become a distant haze.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
And she had pulled the needle out
of the ready flesh. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Why, my sweetheart?” Naani had asked,
looking at a point beyond her shoulder. She could probably not make out her
face because of the dark.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Why don’t you go? Why don’t you
just die?” she had whispered and pushed Naani’s haunch gently.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Are you taking my injection away?
Don’t do that, my child,” Naani had pleaded, still looking beyond her.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
But Eela had straightened up and turned
around. There, standing only a few feet behind her, had been the youngest of
the guests, her face gone bloodless with shock and fear. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
They had stood face-to-face for a
few instants.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
“Give me that injection Eela! My
child! Keep my ear-rings but give me the injection,” Naani had begged. Her
shaking voice had echoed back and forth in the veranda.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
And Eela had walked down to Sisters’
Room where her sisters had started getting ready to go to work. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
***</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 261.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-34063189287151222432012-12-10T22:44:00.005-08:002015-11-09T02:44:49.165-08:00Mangoes of Steel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Mangoes of Steel <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Amaa hated May. She called it: The</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Month of Dust.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">and that turbulent afternoon too, in spite of shuttered
windows and drawn curtains, fine grit had found its way in and coated all surfaces, alive
and dead. Amaa, with her small platoon of household helpers, was fighting a
losing battle. She had armed everyone with kerchiefs, old pillow-cases and
surplus <i>dupattas</i> which they were stuffing into every chink and slot that
linked the raging outdoor world to Amaa’s fragile realm – her frilled, crocheted,
lace-edged, hand-woven world. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">From time to time, Amaa would pull her eyes away from the cleaning squad and look at the girls. When she did, they instantly blew their nostrils into wads of tissue paper that were given to them for this purpose. Soon, like other things that Amaa made them do, it became a
game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“My turn; hoomph!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“My turn; hoomph!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And they showed each other brown clouds forming on the tissue. What else could they play? Amaa had covered
the toy racks and board-game drawers with sheets. And she had turned down the
appeal to go to their next-door friend Reema’s much before the storm had come, saying
that now that there was a tooth-paste bill-board erected in her front yard, it
would be dangerous to play anywhere close to it. Yes, she knew that Neha’s
wedding was two days away but, no, they still couldn't go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And then the storm had
come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“See. What if you’d gone?” Amaa
had said triumphantly, clearly very proud of her Mothers’ Instinct that, she
said, always gave her the warning vibes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Better safe than sorry, dear. The
board might fall or something!” she had said, and walked off as they began
playing a just-discovered clapping game: ‘Fall or something’ – double clap – ‘ball
or something’ – double clap – ‘tall or something’ – double clap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The girls desperately wanted to
be let out in spite of the persistent storm and the bill-board. It was only two
days to Neha’s wedding and her dowry was still incomplete. This week it was
Reema’s turn to be Neha’s mother and hence enjoy its custody – and that of the
sewing paraphernalia – so they could not work on Neha’s wedding dress or string
Neha’s jewelry unless they were at Reema’s. Besides, they weren’t afraid
of the bill-board knocking them down. Bill-boards were meant to stand not fall.
Everyone knew that accept Amaa. Moon Bhai and his friends – Moon Bhai was the teenage
show-off who lived in the last house down the street – often climbed the
slanting bars that held the shampoo bill-board in his garden, to touch the
bottom edge of the green shampoo bottle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The girls were now kneeling
down on the floor beside the landing window, their eyes following leaves,
papers and plastic bags being jostled up, up and up. Sometimes the object they followed,
would vanish in the dense haze in the gray sky. They dutifully pointed out to
each other anything unusual that they spotted flying. So far, they had seen
flailing an orange flannel cloth, a lightblue-darkblue striped sock, the
bearded face of a <i>maulana</i> on a torn poster, a <i>biah</i> nest, a piece
of a net of some kind( maybe from someone’s badminton court) and a nylon
national flag tied to a long plastic rope that happily floundered behind it.
From time to time, there were faceless crashing sounds that left everyone thinking
‘What was that?’ The wind whooped and howled, and smacked the window panes,
wobbling them mercilessly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is it more posssible a toothpaste
big-board can fall and less possible a shampoo big-board can fall?” Uzzie asked
Selma, nodding her head a bit in expectation of the answer being in affirmative.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Silly stupid you are, Uzzie,”
Selma said, furrows that had appeared on her forehead for worrying that the
wedding preparations would not be good enough, deepening a little more. She
always said this when a question, a rogue one amongst hundreds that Uzzie
asked every day, threw her off-balance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uzzie was used to hearing the
words ‘silly stupid you are, Uzzie’ and thought they had no viable meaning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is it, Selma?” she asked, her
nostrils squashed against the glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Well; yes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is it because it’s bigger?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Well; yes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is it bigger because they need
more space for drawing the big teeth than the gianty woman with long hair?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We-e-ll, yes! but ‘gianty
woman’ is wrong English,” Selma said, amazed that her little sister had come up with a wonderful analogy about bill-board sizes; but sounding as if she thought that Uzzie’s had solved the
mystery by fluke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Is that why Amaa isn’t letting
us go nextdoors; that they have a big-board that is too big because it’s a
toothpaste big-board and we’d die if it fell on us?” Uzzie said in one breath,
putting the whole thing together in one long question. She always did in the
end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Bill-board not big-board,
stupid,” said Selma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But Uzzie was sure the word was
big-board not bill-board. But she didn’t know who to go to for correcting the
universal mistake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Months ago, when they had first
heard that ‘The Government’ had planned to make a flyover bridge over their
street, Baba had told Amaa that it was ‘a violation’ and the Residents’ Committee
would never let it actually happen. There had been meetings at Moon Bhai’s where
all the men had put their heads together – literally, considering the size of
Moon Bhai’s dinner table – to come up with a scheme to stop the bridge from
being raised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But the bridge had come up before
the scheme. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And then ‘The
Government’ had allowed Bill-boards. When the first one was raised on the other
side of the bridge, Baba told Amaa that it was ‘a violatation’ and the Residents’ Committee would see that the
horrendous configuration was removed. Again, the men had met at Moon Bhai’s. But
in less than a month’s time, another one had popped up from one of the front
yards in their lane. There had been an avalanche since. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Baba seldom
spoke after that; and he did not go to the committee meetings any more. The
girls hadn't met or seen 'The Government' but they both thought that, in many ways, she was resposible for the dreadful
silence at their dinner table these days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bill-boards had multiplied as
fast as Amaa’s vegetable crops did when the sprouting season came; a yield of
steel and screen-print plastic; two pictured caravans parked along both
parapets of the overhead bridge, showing off the colored sides to the commuters
on the bridge and bad ones to the dwellers down in the alley. There were
suitcase-size juice cans with manicured fruit; milk tetra-packs, showing foreign-looking
cows; half-open cookie packs with cookies sliding out, thin females with fat
lips, wearing colorful voile prints and lolling on divans; legs wearing jeans
(just legs); a beautiful bride who, closer-up, looked like a clown wearing
jewelry and a classroom of children with made-up faces and slick hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uzzie best liked the one which
was shaped like a bar of chocolate whose wrapper was peeled off a bit from one
corner to reveal the luscious chocolate inside and a little man crouching down
and licking. She would daydream that the chocolate bar was real and that she
was climbing up the steel bars to snap off a piece. Sometimes, when it was
hot, she would walk to the window that overlooked the road, half expecting to
see the chocolate melting and dribbling down.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It took an hour for the storm
to tame down into a harmless breeze. When it did, Selma whispered in Uzzie’s
ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Ask her if we can go to Bi
Ji’s. Kunnu Khala might have sewed the red dress by now; and she’s doing
other things too. You want Neha’s wedding to be good <i>na</i> Uzzie?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uzzie nodded and, straddling
the wooden railing, slid down the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can we go to Bi Ji’s house, Amaa?
The wind has stopped and Bi Ji doesn’t have a big-board in her garden,” Uzzie
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The dirt-mark on Uzzie’s frock – from straddling the railing – was worrying Amaa. They could both tell it was. Amaa’s eyes were fixed on it
and she wasn’t really listening to Uzzie. On the landing, Selma waited, holding
her breath in dread of a refusal coming up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can we, Amaa?” Uzzie shouted
in Amaa’s ear, shrill and loud, as Amaa spanked her frock free of dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Uh-huh! But stay inside and
don’t be gone long. And don’t be in the way; Bi Ji and Kunnu Khala are busy
packing stuff,” Amaa said inattentively, her gaze now following the broom with
which the maid was sweeping dust off the floor, onto a dust-pan. Uzzie could
see that Amaa had a shriek in her mouth, ready to be released in case the broom
touched the cream upholstery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We will,” Uzzie said, “and we’ll
be careful that our frocks don’t get dirty,” she said, forseeing the advice
coming up or, perhaps, just to please Amaa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They sneaked out of the front door
rather quietly, afraid that Amaa would change her mind and call them back. Outside,
a cool breeze touched their cheeks and blew their hair back from their faces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The ever-sparkling floor of
their veranda was littered with leaves and twigs and pieces of a broken
hanging-pot. Amaa’s pride and joy, the pretty little front yard looked like it
had been given a quick spin in Amaa’s mixing machine. The bougainvillea bush
hung desolate, stripped of each of its little balloons of purple flowers. The
green fabric that had been the summer-roof of the drive in Reema’s house had
flown over to their side and was hanging from the roof banister like a huge
flag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The tapering alley, with the
houses on one side and the cemented wall that held the bridge on the other, lay
deserted. The hideous mixture of graffiti and paper-posters on the wall looked
as if someone with good taste had been tampering with it. The wind had shredded
the posters and they flapped about like streamers; the graffiti had a film of
dust on it that had dulled the florescent colors into soft pastels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They hopped and skipped the
small distance to Bi Ji’s, their eyes squinted to keep out the grit in the
breeze that, although much weakened, was still blowing. They sang:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Tum kis ko lene aaey ho, aaey ho, thanday mausam mai?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hum tum ko lene aaey hai, aaey hai, thanday mausam
mai.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Elderly Bi Ji and her daughter
Kunnu Khala had been a part of their lives since as far as their memories went.
Bi Ji was Amaa’s aunt (her mother’s sister) and lived three doors down the
street. She loved using foul words and knew the funniest of stories about Amaa’s
childhood – stories that they could never refer to in Amaa’s presence. They
were stories in which Amaa and her sisters had lice in their hair as big as
little tadpoles(Bi Ji’s exact words); in which Amaa picked her nose and
sometimes swallowed the little blobs of phlegm she picked; in which Amaa held
out dried droppings of a goat on the palm of her hand and asked if they were
playing marbles. If Amaa ever found out that her Perfect-Woman Image was being
tarnished, that she was being accused of having any connection with lice and
phlegm-blobs and goat-droppings – any whatsoever – she would force them to stay
away from the ‘Nutty Old Woman’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They couldn’t really construe –
not that they tried very hard – the exact nature of the relationship between
Amaa and Bi Ji. Although, superficially, the two were at daggers drawn, there
was something between them which ran deeper than the apparent hatred. For
instance, Amaa was unable to hide the troubled look that came to her eyes
whenever the topic of Bi Ji’s migration to Sialkot was brought up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Cut out in the left leaf of the
steel gate, there was a little gate that was open as usual and swinging back
and forth. Huge rectangular wooden containers which the girls had seen being
unloaded the night before, were stacked in the small front garden. An enormous
canvas cloth was stretched above the containers and it made the garden look
like the back of a big truck carrying a load of big boxes. The canvas was
probably the only relocatable object that the storm had been unable to
relocate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> They entered and ran
towards the darkened side-passage to go to the back of the house. Both sides
of the passage were lined with sacks full of useless items, leaking tubs and
buckets, cracked flower-pots, old
hose-pipes, broken chairs and other bits of furniture. Sprawling along the
parallel walls, the twin cities of plastic, wood and metal lay unperturbed by
the storm. Rain, however, would have been a totally different prospect. When Kunnu
Khala had last washed the passage with a hose-pipe, hundreds of white ants and
grey crickets had sailed off towards the drain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Inside Bi Ji’s house, packed
and sealed cartons were stacked along the walls of the living room which had
been stripped of all accessories and small furniture. Only two old sofas which
could easily be told apart from the sofas in the drawing room because of their
tea stains and cigarette holes, lay facing each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yes! The biggest secret the
girls’ had hidden from the world was: ‘Kunnu Khala Smokes!’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bi Ji and Kunnu Khala were
standing beside the dining table on which they had laid out a huge quantity of
spoons and forks and other cutlery in rows and other patterns in which Uzzie
became immediately interested. The women both wore baggy <i>shalwar-kamises</i>
made of limp voile with vague, hodgepodge prints. There was a little box full of
rubber bands and all possible kinds of pins, lying open on one side. The rubber-bands
were wilted and sticky, and the pins had fused with them to make little spiky
lumps which looked like steel porpoises. On the other end of the table, an old sewing machine lay amidst an array of silk pieces and spools of thread. A doll-sized red dress was sprawled on the upper curve of the machine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What are you two doing running
lose in this dust in these lovely new frocks? I find it very strange that our
dear ‘Miss Clean’ let you out. Don’t you too, Kunnu?” Bi Ji remarked, seeing
the girls slip in through the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kunnu Khala looked at the girls
fondly and said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“These frocks are old Bi Ji;
they’re just starched,” Selma explained, hurrying towards the sewing machine and picking the red dress. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bi Ji’s eyes, big and flowy like
two shelled eggs behind the thick glasses of her specs, stared at their crisp
muslin frocks – baby pink, baby blue. For no viable reason. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What’s this?” Uzzie asked,
pointing at the cutlery, looking at it as if never before had she seen a spoon
or a fork. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">No one answered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“When are you leaving Bi Ji?”
Uzzie asked, desperate for attention. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bi Ji had sold off her house to
a man who wanted to convert it into a factory where they would sew T-shirts.
But before doing that, Bi Ji had made sure that she had told the neighbours,
all and sundry, that she thought they were all cowards who had failed in peventing
the mortification inflicted on them. Also, that she couldn’t possibly live in the
‘mouth of a cement alligator that had grown freak metal teeth’ – Bi Ji conjured
a fanciful metaphor to dramatize every situation’ – so she was moving to her
house in Sialkot which she had inherited from her father. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’ve told you a hundred times
Uzzie; on Sunday,” Bi Ji said a litttle crossly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Will you ever come back? I
mean ‘ev-v-ver’.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Why don’t you ask ‘Miss Clean’
to bring you all down to Sialkot every vacation; hm-m-m? It’s her hometown too.
She should; shouldn’t she Kunnu? They could even come this summer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kunnu Khala smiled and nodded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“The fear is that if I were to
ask my dear niece to bring you all down, she’d go all haughty totty and say, ‘Bi
Ji! What will I gain from forcing my girls to endure a bumpy car ride and a stay
in a house full of dust mites and lizards – not to speak of the compulsion of
walking through streets with open drains?
A reunion with my relatives? I’m sorry; I can’t risk the girls’ health... blah,
blah, blah!.” Bi Ji said, mimicking Amaa’s cultivated accent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The girls laughed. Strangely,
Amaa’s obsession with cleanliness was a topic that seemed never to be done-with
with Bi Ji.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Meanwhile, Selma had moved to
stand very close to Kunnu Khala.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Kunnu Khala?” she whispered,
searching Kunnu Khala’s eyes worriedly. “Neha’s dress doesn't have all the gold <em>gota </em>you said you'd put on it," she whined.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“After this, Selma. We'll complete the <em>gota </em>work today."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“And have you found the </span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">doli</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">*?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Oh no! It totally slipped my
mind! When’s the wedding?” Kunnu Khala asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“In two days. On Saturday,”
Selma said, looking even more anxious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sure it’s not in the
packed boxes. I packed them all myself. The cupboards…they are almost empty…if
it’s still in the house, it should be in the kitchen somewhere. That’s the only
place left,” she said, thinking aloud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“If? You never said ‘if’
before,” Selma whimpered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“That old <i>doli </i>that you
played with as a little girl?” Bi Ji interrupted. “Haven’t seen it for years. I’m
pretty much sure we gave it away…”</span><span style="color: grey; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No, no. I’m sure I still have
it,” Kunnu Khala said, looking at Selma to see how far she had believed Bi Ji’s
decree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> “Neha and her husband can
go off in Aadi’s red car, Selma. He said he could take off the roof with his
Dad’s little-one hammer,” Uzzie said in her pre-school English to please Kunnu
Khala who never failed to enjoy her mistakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“‘Little one hammer’ is wrong
English,” Selma said in a small voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Listen Selma; I’ll make you a
new <i>doli</i> if I don’t find the old one,” Kunnu Khala reassured. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“By tomorrow?” Selma asked,
happy now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“By tomorrow evening,” Kunnu
Khala promised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They watched Kunnu Khala and Bi
Ji pile up stacks of matching cutlery in sets of dozens and tie them up with
the ever-lengthening rubber bands. Uzzie recounted each set. (She got very
excited when a counting mistake was corrected on her advice.) Selma watched everything
through wide, thinking eyes, her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her
hands. Afterwards, Kunnu Khala sat on the window-sill and lit a cigarette and Bi
Ji went to the toilet, muttering vague details of her purpose of going there,
saying that she’d be leaving the door unlocked from inside. Uzzie stuck her
tongue out and clamped her nostrils tightly shut to display her distaste for Bi
Ji’s disclaimer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was a sound coming from
the backyard; some kind of rhythmic thumps. Uzzie noticed it first and ran to
the window to see what was going on. In the middle of the clutter – as if what
the storm had done wasn’t enough – a bearded man was chopping down the old
mango tree in the backyard with a big axe; the tree that Selma could climb and
she couldn’t. Last Sunday, Selma had picked about a hundred raw mangoes from dangerously
far branches and she and Kunnu Khala had together made and jarred a pan full of
mango chutney.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Kunnu Khala, why’s he doing that?”
Uzzie looked at Kunnu Khala and asked, feeling secretly pleased that, with the
tree gone, Selma would not be able to show-off her tree-climbing skills. Then
she remembered that it didn’t matter anymore because, after Sunday, they
wouldn’t be coming to Bi Ji’s house, ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">E-v-v-ver!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“That man’s a freak,” Kunnu
Khala muttered. “He’s been chopping that tree since six in the morning. The storm
looked like it was going to blow forever but he didn’t leave. As soon as it was
gone, he began again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“But why is he doing that?”
Uzzie repeated her question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“The man who bought the house
is getting the yard cleared. He’s going to make a store-house there.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Oh no!” cried Selma, all of a
sudden. Then she ran to the window and looked outside. “Stop him Kunnu Khala.
It’s still your house till Sunday.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Listen to me, girls; I’ll show
you the dress now. It’s so beautiful, you’ll go...” and she did an exaggerated
enactment of passing out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“And I’ll paint the <i>doli</i>
red and decorate it with the left-over green brocade...!” she went on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">But Selma’s gaze was fixed. As
she looked on, tears welled up in her eyes and condensed along their lower
rims, threatening to brim over at any moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then, not giving anyone a
chance to prepare for what she was about to do, she tore across the room to the
back door, threw it open and burst out like a bullet. Kunnu Khala charged after
her, yelling her name. Bi Ji shouted from inside the toilet, asking what was
going on. Uzzie too made off in panic. All she could think about was that the
man on the tree had a huge axe and Selma had nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uzzie stood frozen at the door,
watching the man standing on a low, level branch, the blade of his axe
reflecting the slanting beams of sun, looking in amazement at the little girl
in a fluffy pale-pink outfit, streaking towards him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When she was close enough,
Selma braked to a stop, applying the same power with which she had started the
run, and shook the branch vehemently, crying, “Stop it, you bastard,” again and
again. Uzzie was shocked even more. ‘Bastard’ was a word Uzzie did not know and
had thought that Selma did not know either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">For a very brief while, the man
stood holding the upper branches, unaffected by the jerks and laughing at
Selma’s foolish attempts at throwing him off. But in next to no time he could
be heard shrieking at the top of his voice. Then he fell off. Quickly, he
rolled himself up and sat holding his foot up, crying like a child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Selma had
bitten the man with the axe, on his right heel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; tab-stops: 351.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He hadn’t
bled because his heel was fibrous and woody, but it was wet with Selma’s spit
and had an arc of red tooth-marks that had risen from below his skin. He rubbed
the thorny skin on the sides of the wound and wept. Kunnu Khala crouched down
beside him and spoke to him gently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Selma just shivered and
shivered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then Bi Ji spouted out from the
back door, swearing at everyone: Selma, Kunnu Khala, the man. Even at Uzzie.
For no good reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Seeing Bi Ji storming towards
them, Kunnu Khala stood up and embraced Selma in her arms protectively.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Go inside, Bi Ji! Just go in!
Nothing’s happened; just go in!” she said in a croaky voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What’s gotten into you, girl?
Ordering me to go in! I have to sort this thing out. These little imps can’t be
allowed to…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Leave it to me, Bi Ji. I’ll
sort it out. She’s not in her right mind. And I’ve offered to take the man to a
doctor but he says he wants some money instead. Uzzie, run and get my handbag
from the dining room and the yellow ointment from the drawer,” Kunnu Khala said,
her tone flat and her voice gruff. Uzzie pondered which Kunnu Khala’s real
voice was: this or the birdy tuneful voice they had always heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bi Ji inspected the man’s foot
from a distance, her eyes two runny yokes behind the thick glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Go and see if the rice is
done, Bi Ji,” Kunnu Khala said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Don’t lie. There’s no fire
under the rice pan,” Bi Ji said, staring at Selma accusingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Then light the fire, Bi Ji.
It’s almost dinner time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some time later, when Selma had
said her apology, the man’s wound had been tended to, he had been given the
money he wanted and had hobbled out through the side-passage; and Bi Ji had
crossed half the length of the yard to go in, Kunnu Khala again spoke in a
voice that was even more flatter and thicker than when she had spoken before.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Nothing’s happened and we are
not telling anyone any stories Bi Ji; not even their mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">For a long time she sat there
on the grass, rocking Selma in her arms till both of them became the old Kunnu
Khala and Selma. Later, Uzzie slowly went close to them and put her little hand
on Kunnu Khala’s cold cheek. She patted Kunnu Khala’s head like a grown-up and then
twisted a stray salt-n-pepper lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Why don’t you ever color your
hair, Kunnu Khala?” she asked, probing Kunnu Khala’s face for signs of
normalcy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Just like that, Uzzie?” Kunnu
Khala said in a voice that was almost a sob now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Again and again, Selma glanced
at the mis-shapen mango tree from the corners of her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Where did the little mangoes
all go? There are none left on the tree?” she asked quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We didn’t want them Selma, so
they took them,” Kunnu Khala said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Selma nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It was getting dark. Kunnu
Khala had a buzzy black haze above her head that she would repeatedly wag away;
but it would reappear instantly. Finally she said that the mosquitoes wanted
the garden to themselves so they must all go in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">On the way in, she told the
girls that she wanted them to have dinner with Bi Ji and her. There was pea-<i>pulao</i>
that she had started cooking earlier and she would make <i>raita </i>to go with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The prospect of eating Kunnu
Khala’s pea-<i>pulao</i> made Uzzie so happy, she smiled and nodded in spite of
the post-accident solemnity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A few steps from the door,
Selma stopped and looked up at Kunnu Khala’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Do you have to go Kunnu Khala?
Do you really have to?” she asked in a small voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kunnu Khala didn’t look back at
Selma; she just nodded. Then she tugged at her hand, urging her to walk again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What do you think of Uzzie’s
idea, Selma? Don’t you think she’s right? There are no <i>dolis</i> these days.
What about decorating Aadi’s little red car with flowers from the <i>chameli</i>
bush and…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“But I want a <i>doli</i> for
Neha!” Selma moaned and now Kunnu Khala looked at her through the mist in her
eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I was just joking, Selma!” she
said in a voice that was a mix of laughing and crying. “I’ll make you a
beautiful <i>doli </i>tomorrow.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It was dark and Selma was hopelessly
quiet when they walked down to their house, each holding a hand of the maid
whom Amaa had sent to fetch them.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Mangoes!” Uzzie said, to
please Selma, pointing at the bill-board at the starting point of the bridge on
the other side of it, the only one whose good side could be seen from the
alley. Selma and the maid looked up. A woman with parted lips was facing
upwards with a just-landed drop-shaped drop of mango juice on her lower lip
which had probably fallen off the tilted juice can at the top of the board.
Behind the woman, there were three mangoes; yellow, ripe and glossy; hanging
from a branch of a tree, the rest of which could not be shown on the
board. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Selma turned her eyes back to
the road ahead and walked on in silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div>
Footnotes<br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>doli</em>: a palanquin; it was used in South Asia as a ladies' commuter, especially a bride on her wedding day. Here it refers to a
toy palanquin</span><span style="color: grey; font-size: 10pt;">.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-84059240777762730992012-12-09T22:12:00.003-08:002013-01-31T09:00:38.909-08:00Night Bus to Sialkot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #c00000; font-size: 20pt; text-align: center;">Night Bus to
Sialkot</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #c00000; font-size: 16pt;">Mano Javed<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>An Account of Memories and
Anecdotes Associated with my Childhood </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hometown Sialkot is noted for
being the birth place of many scholars, two of them the most famous Urdu
poets of the twentieth century. I don’t consider this a coincidence. There is
an enigma associated with the city – a magic utterly unique.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Known history of Sialkot goes back
five thousand years when it was established by Raja Sul and was called Sakal. The
city was re-founded by Raja Salbhan of the Sia cast who renamed the city, Sialkot.
More recently, the British established a posh cantonment in the north
of the old city and set up schools, clubs and hospitals.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<w:wrap type="square">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><i>My life began in the
‘European Ward’ of the United Christian Hospital on the Paris Road in Sialkot</i>. If you notice, every noun in this sentence reflects the changed post-colonial
culture; every noun except ‘Sialkot’. Sialkot is a mysterious word with epic
folklore and wonderful history enfolded in it. It is home – the place where the
roots of my soul are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Our
house was on Paris Road as well. As a child surrounded by Anglophiles of
all sorts and varieties, I was really proud to say, ‘We live on the Paris Road’ and
secretly looked down upon all who had homes in areas with local names like Kashmiri
Mohalla, Rangpora or Puran Nagar. My parents named me Yasmine after the flower.
The European nuns, who ran the Convent I went to, pronounced it Jazmin. It made
me immensely proud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Little did I know that it would
take another twenty years for me to begin putting my pride in the right places.)
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone in Sialkot had a second name.
It could either be an appealing alteration of the real name or based on habits
or looks, sometimes even on the oldies’ whims. I was nicknamed Mano, an endearing
version of ‘cat’. Why? Probably they fell short of ideas after my older sister
had been called Billy (cat too) because of her light coloring; or maybe just
because it was a cute word, easy on the tongue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIxzkgo26vMHx9nAXMcN0X5d3p_Y8kIJYBvhFA1tWYBsw_j-k5I54JQLPQD-vPPcOWC7Iyb5_LcrEPn85GB07kEcZlvrOXzuUHsaxxMIteFPXWtM0t2aNyAfkV5sGeoUovdDcKkT2phY/s1600/01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIxzkgo26vMHx9nAXMcN0X5d3p_Y8kIJYBvhFA1tWYBsw_j-k5I54JQLPQD-vPPcOWC7Iyb5_LcrEPn85GB07kEcZlvrOXzuUHsaxxMIteFPXWtM0t2aNyAfkV5sGeoUovdDcKkT2phY/s320/01.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Paris Road was an unusual place to live – a patchwork
of houses, mansions, shops and office buildings of all sorts and sizes. It was
like a crazy-quilt on which you could find anything if you searched long
enough. Stringed between rows of one-room shops and </span>offices were state complexes like
the General Post Office and the Chamber of Commerce. Facing or sharing sides with ordinary houses
were state-owned mansions where the resident Session Judge and the Postmaster
resided. The most sightly was a stately private mansion called Paris Pillars after which
the road was named. Shops, however, were mostly of humble origin. I remember a
minuscule one called ‘<em>Willayat Di Hatti’</em> where we bought <i>chooran</i> and <i>imli</i>
wrapped in newspaper bits that were difficult to detach from the gooey
contents. I can bet if all the bits of soggy newspaper I swallowed while licking<em>
chooran</em> were collected, they would come to a week’s supply of my daily paper.
Magnificent Paris Pillars and humble Willayat Di Hatti were at a stone’s throw
from each other. That’s what Paris road was like.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next-door to us was the humungous mansion
of the District Railway Chief.
The mansion had huge front and back yards. The house was nestled between
elderly trees and unruly vines which were pruned only once a year and when they
were, the place began looking as bare as a shorn sheep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not everything had been modified
by the British Raj. Away from this cultivated and changing world, deep in
the labyrinth of narrow streets of the old city, life roamed in its
rudimentary form. More modest parts of our extended family lived in these rather humble localities like
Kashmiri Mohalla, Rangpora and Pooran Nagar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpUcPAgBbYBXxSNdZ2rr9e7rns5w4ukGDqDyUamcnesdD_t7oUdZLsjzEY2YHCpnpPShXznz1MvJ0CPSdCo0FEvWE9cjf5v2MmeS-_9E2ceHxCGImSnL3sE9_0lb6RfTPPGSSBsDvfnQ/s1600/02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpUcPAgBbYBXxSNdZ2rr9e7rns5w4ukGDqDyUamcnesdD_t7oUdZLsjzEY2YHCpnpPShXznz1MvJ0CPSdCo0FEvWE9cjf5v2MmeS-_9E2ceHxCGImSnL3sE9_0lb6RfTPPGSSBsDvfnQ/s320/02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
One most remarkable house everyone
called <em>Vaira </em>was in Kashmiri Mohalla. <em>Vaira </em>was a small compound with a
shared central courtyard<i> </i>in which many families related to each other -
by blood or history - lived. Although it was never accounted
in the company of our westernized peers at the Convent, but visiting Vaira was a great entertainment at any given time. Women of <em>Vaira </em>almost all
had a unique, a very demonstrative sense of humor which was the most prominent
feature of their personalities. From the nicknames they assigned their children
and servants to their facial expression and body language, humor reflected in
everything. There were names like <i>Nich</i> and <i>Gud</i>. Nich was a slight
household helper who got this name because of her tendency of sneezing and
Gud got the name when she started school and immediately took up excessive use
of the word ‘good’. Invariably, on our visits, two or three recent comical
incidents were narrated by the women. Passing from mouth to mouth every
incident had become more and more amusing and detailed. Particulars, sometimes
fictitious, had got attached to it. I still remember many of the anecdotes. Another
skill these women excelled at was mimicry. As children we benefited from the
mimicry only but as we grew older, the pun and witticism in their remarks and
narratives could be enjoyed too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I strongly believe that no day in <em>Vaira</em>
went unadorned by a highlight, be it the visit of a relative or a squabble
among the women. Men, however, were less demonstrative in their behavior but no
less witty. Their anecdotes revolved more round acquaintances and friends
rather than members of the family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another refreshing peculiarity of
<em>Vaira</em> (accredited in retrospect) was the unrestrained environment. There were
no gender-based divisions accept for the fact that men went out to work and
women looked after the house chores. Women had equal, if not more, share in
family conversations and decisions; some smoked <i>huqqa</i> in the presence of
men while some had said goodbye to bad marriages and were living happy single
lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women, generally, were apt in
cleanliness but didn’t fuss a lot about cooking. This trait, probably, was
widespread and it was due to this feature that every <i>mohalla</i> had its own
small food bazaars. Right next to <em>Vaira</em> was a bazaar called Do-darwaaze.
Both sides of the bazaar were lined with food shops and food trolleys we
usually call <i>rairhies</i>. At most of theses joints, food was being freshly
fried, cooked or grilled. Each shop was not only different from others in
respect of the assortment of items on sale but also flavors and recipes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the heart of the bazaar, there
was a food shop where a green-eyed fat woman sold <i>pakoras</i> and fried
whole fish. The fish called po<i>ong </i>was very small (not bigger than a
finger) and extremely flavorful. There was hardly a trip to <em>Vaira </em>when we were
not served this fish with tea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3aYCYdEdNb7pHzbhiO8P54eQA57OkrPe1JyS74Rx9dVjAWMEQSqK6YFDECJBuQBjS3H1Zu3Gk9rINpeH8BnTqSbIzLcAVy8Dqlq2nTajgBJTtH9C0mOkJY3QNiUqBFZ7NedZIO2K_Dk/s1600/05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3aYCYdEdNb7pHzbhiO8P54eQA57OkrPe1JyS74Rx9dVjAWMEQSqK6YFDECJBuQBjS3H1Zu3Gk9rINpeH8BnTqSbIzLcAVy8Dqlq2nTajgBJTtH9C0mOkJY3QNiUqBFZ7NedZIO2K_Dk/s320/05.jpg" width="259" /></a>Walking through the maze of narrow
alleyways of the Kashmiri Mohalla, we emerged on a slightly wider street across
which another family related to us lived in a house nicknamed <i>Mama-ji-ke</i>.
It was thus named because it belonged to a character known as Mama Ji, my
grandmother’s step brother. Major portion of the house was shared by Mama Ji and
his sons while a small wing was occupied by a family recently migrated from
Kashmir. One of the members of this other family was a coy and bashful girl called
Chiri. She was the most sought-after and the most gossiped-about girl, loved by
boys – hated by mothers. Mothers thought that she was too forward and wily. I
see no reason behind this supposition except that Chiri invariably attracted
male attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The interesting characteristic of
the residents of <i>Mama-ji-ke</i> was their lack of traveling experience and exposure
to modern-day changes. So much so that they were quite unable to distinguish
between Dhaka and Bombay, between London and Lahore thinking these were all mystical
magical cities visited only by the adventurous of the lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The children of <i>Mama-ji-ke</i> were
overawed when we visited, staring at us with their jaws dropped down till their
lapels. They secretly thought that although we were fortunate in worldly ways,
we were quite ungodly. To them going to an English school was synonymous to
being an infidel. One of their teenaged boys once<i> </i>dared beyond his
siblings’ imagination and asked me; “I’ve heard they teach you Christian
prayers in your school?” My religious ego was injured beyond repair and I was
about to say, “They don’t!” but he ran away saying, “You’ll rot in hell for
going to that school.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tara, one of Mama Ji’s grandsons,
was invariably sent off to buy a certain food item from the market.
Unpretentious house-women prepared some homely savories like boiled eggs
sprinkled with black pepper and salt; another popular one was slivered guavas
sprinkled with black salt. When tea was served, first a high table was brought out
from somewhere, placed in the center of the room and dusted in the presence of
the visitors. Then a crumpled table cloth was dug out from a drawer in the
visitors’ room and spread on that table. Tara, invariably, was behind schedule
so home-made dishes were laid out one by one and tea announced. By the time Tara
returned, we were all full up to our throats. My mother used to say that he lingered
back in the market deliberately because like this he got to eat the food that
he had brought. We used to wonder why, if he was an established foot-dragger,
was he always the one chosen to go to the market. But I guess that’s how the<i>
Mamaji-ke’s </i>residents were: floating in the world, unwary of and immune to
the pressures which end up in amending routines and habits. We used to think
they were stupid and gullible; but in retrospect, they seemed to be
unconsciously doing what everyone craves for in the busy cosmopolitan cities of
today: to channel the energies to the present moment to be able to live it genuinely
and artlessly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost everyone I knew in Sialkot
had at least once visited Imam Sahib, the handsome shrine on top of a hill. It
is the tomb of Imam Ali, the patron Saint of Sialkot. The locals have immense
faith in the Saint’s post-humus energies. Many claimed that their prayers never
went unheard at Imam Sahib. Even those who don’t share this faith, were
impressed by the dwarfing structure and the cool, charismatic atmosphere of the
shrine. Every moment spent there is a moment of cosmic tranquility. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twice every year there was weeks-long
fair or <i>mela</i> activity around the vicinity of the tomb: once close to Eid
and the second time on the <i>Urs</i> or death anniversary of Imam Sahib. The <i>mela</i>
brought a season of festivity for locals and villagers from nearby townships
and villages. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother allowed us to enjoy a
day at the <i>mela </i>with our cook Maasi Zainab at least once every season. For
our day out, we wore our best clothes with matching ribbons braided in out
plaits. Each of us had his or her own little wad of money to spend at the fair.
We left for the <i>mela</i> brimming with energy and returned exhausted after
the entertainment spree. The mela offered the same attractions year after year; small circuses, kaleidoscopes, string
walkers, lucky dips, and freak shows. <i>Maut ka Kunwa,</i> in which the motor
biker rode up the walls of a wooden well, was our favorite show.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You could have
tattoos made on your arm or hands. My father had a peacock tattoo on his arm
from one of his childhood visits. Somehow the custom of tattoo-making at melas
had become old-fashioned and obsolete when our generation came along.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the mela stalls, we could buy cheap
bead jewelry, bangles, toys, greeting cards, souvenirs, hair adornments and
what not. Food ranging from very
simple and basic to a full-fledged meal could be enjoyed. My favorite was <i>lobia chaat</i>, a
very simple lentil and onion salad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Readymade food was not restricted
to the <i>mela </i>only. There were many famous food joints at various points
in the city, most of them having take-home facility only. Eating out was a
rarity and only possible in the few restaurants in the Cantt. In the old city,
beside the usual barbecue and <i>salans</i>, there was still-water fried fish.
The Kashmiris were specialists in making <i>murabba</i> and <i>achar</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The city was so small, it was
practically possible to walk from one end to the other. Till the nineteen
seventies, there were very few cars and even well-to-do people either walked
from place to place or rode on horse-driven<i> tangas. </i>To hire a <i>tanga,</i>
one had to stand on the roadside and wait for one to pass by. While waiting for
an empty one to come along, it wasn’t a bad idea to shout at the <i>tanga wala</i>
of an already hired tanga to come back after dropping the <i>sawari.</i> Oh
what joy it was to ride those unadorned but shapely wooden carriages which were
the only form of public transport available up until the nineties! In summers,
the ride was breezy and cheering but in winter it was a different story
altogether. Especially if you were riding in the front seat, facing the wind,
you would end up with a frozen nose and smarting eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOh3rV8IAdwYlQ4-PPiIpBfPYH6-ztO-F9LEWuFbk7EazDaxkLRKzTxse62QVJfBd5Q4s0IrARFuY-VBf2EkWmbvHiTgCms3SIZ0Q9Z1MWOkPYGzXsfwH_TeqBZZGLF54hIcaH2pnQAo/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOh3rV8IAdwYlQ4-PPiIpBfPYH6-ztO-F9LEWuFbk7EazDaxkLRKzTxse62QVJfBd5Q4s0IrARFuY-VBf2EkWmbvHiTgCms3SIZ0Q9Z1MWOkPYGzXsfwH_TeqBZZGLF54hIcaH2pnQAo/s320/03.jpg" width="237" /></a>Weddings! Each one proved to be
totally different from the other. There was one in which two groups of
<em>meerasans</em>(dholak singers) competed so heatedly and their voices became so deafening
that all the babies at the wedding began crying and the overeager competitors had to be shown the
way out of the house. There was one in which the <i>barat </i>was so late, the
wedding lunch was served at dinner time. At still another <i>bhaands,</i> self-invited professional humorists who emerged out of the blue and were
known for making politician jokes, made fun of a politician who turned out to
be the bridegroom’s uncle. The bridegroom’s family
took it as a conspiracy against their eminent relative. There was a tiff and the
wedding was called off there and then. It eventually took place at a later date
and in a stiff and quiet atmosphere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When a wedding in the family was
coming up, frenzy broke out even if it was a year away. New clothes were made,
food stocks were built and houses white-washed. Family relations and friends
arrived from far-off places weeks before the wedding and became house guests, either at
the wedding house or those of close relations. No one minded accommodating guests
for their relatives. Hence, a wedding was not only a festivity spree, but a great
family reunion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">For children there was no behavior code at weddings
and even funerals. At both, we used to assemble in knots and play outdoor games
like <i>Stappoo</i> and <i>pakran-pakrai</i>. Outside </span>the tent or the house where a
wedding or funeral was going on, trivial <i>rairhi</i> food-sellers arrived
automatically. Children began pestering their mothers for money to buy <i>paapars</i>,
fried <em>daal </em>or candy floss.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could go on describing the the remarkable quirks and idiosyncrasies of people and culture of
Sialkot and there would still be more to say.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I cherish the years I
lived in Sialkot but when I was living that life, the worth was undiscovered. Rather
there was a nonstop, nagging sense of deprivation, maybe because my mother’s
family was in Lahore and we used to spend our summer vacation in Lahore in our
grandparents’ house. Life in Lahore, being faster and more happening, seemed
more enjoyable compared to life in Sialkot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much later when I was married and
settled I began missing Sialkot. Slowly, the craving became more and more
intense. It was at some point of time in the years when my children were babies
that my sister and I took to the practice of visiting Sialkot on one weekend
every month. At that time, Daewoo had started a bus service between Sialkot and
Lahore. We used to take the night bus to Sialkot on Fridays and return on
Sunday or Monday. The two days that we spent there, we tried our best to
replicate our childhood. We would visit <em>Vaira, Kothi, Almaaman</em> and other relatives’
houses. Our outdoor days were spent in the tranquil galleries circling the tomb
of Imam Sahib or walking along the spice shops of Lihaai Bazaar; either merging
with the dense throng of shoppers’ in Kaamandi or driving to to the cloth shops where we used to buy fabrics as girls. And, not to
forget the most important activity, eating at our favorite roadside <i>khokhas </i>and
<i>rairhies.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were reliving what was already
lived. Or were trying to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for the sake of reality in
this hopelessly real world of three-dimensional humans, it has to be said: Time
is a non-revisit-able domain, a non-replicable service. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those days I wrote a long poem
that eventually got lost in the heaps of papers stuffed in the drawers of my study.
But I can still recall a few lines:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I were a tree,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKZfXAhws5_p7Mb6TwIlwPtihowLqQCw72OVx0wZ8vSMxv3hYKHer7dVYH2PuNDvzzRXfzXb5ksFBZrioCmfOMEZn4_HRbX51g7rMe_dbl0QwUuRbLkRIebVpdmaYtMSyWzqqOX1b_Rw/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKZfXAhws5_p7Mb6TwIlwPtihowLqQCw72OVx0wZ8vSMxv3hYKHer7dVYH2PuNDvzzRXfzXb5ksFBZrioCmfOMEZn4_HRbX51g7rMe_dbl0QwUuRbLkRIebVpdmaYtMSyWzqqOX1b_Rw/s320/04.jpg" width="320" /></a>With my feet within the soil;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep and sucking life from the
dust;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dust of my home <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dust of my mother’s ashes <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father’s remains<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my arms out in the milieu <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wide and sopping life from the air<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air of my home<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air of my sisters’ scent<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brothers’ breath;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my head up in the heavens<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
High and in oneness with the sky<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sky of my home<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sky of my world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of my immortal being.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Ahhh!!! I’m only human<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unwanted, unanchored<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wandering feet amble out<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking me away from all that I am</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will ever be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often think about my role in
Sialkot’s history. I think: “If I can no more be a part of it, why can’t I be an
ardent admirer – a passionate narrator." I think, ‘It took me 40 years to
realize that I am not Jazmin of the Convent but Yasmeen of the migrated-from-Jammu
Sialkot-settled Kashmiris; it should not take another forty to express my
homage. I feel a strong urge to give my honor, a tangible existence. <br />
<br />
Off and
on, I had drafted some pieces based on my childhood experiences. I
began digging them out, hoping something could be done some day. <br />
<br />
And as the saying goes: <em>What you seek, is seeking you! </em> One day at work as my colleague Saima Arif and I discussed the possibility of compiling the short stories, the idea of chronicling the known history of the Sialkot and fusing it with my anecdotal narrative emerged from nowhere. Saima, a linguist and scholar, agreed to take up writing the history part. Together, we decided to name the book: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Night Bus to Sialkot” <br />
<br />
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-74395394827184152552011-09-29T05:00:00.000-07:002011-12-29T05:39:48.375-08:00Feet that Fit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;"></span><br />
<div align="left"><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;"><div align="left"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>Feet that Fit</strong></span><br />
<br />
For punishing,</div><div align="left"><br />
For not fitting in shoes they craft,</div><div align="left"><br />
For other men;</div><br />
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">The</span>y chopped off my toes and laughed.<br />
</span></div><div align="left">Flesh will heal,<br />
</div><div align="left">And also nails that have been halved,<br />
</div><div align="left">They arrogantly said,<br />
</div><div align="left">And in place of this giant we will graft,<br />
</div><div align="left">A small big-toe,<br />
</div><div align="left">A toe that knows its place, that isn’t daft,<br />
</div><div align="left">But nice and tame,</div><div align="left"><br />
A toe that nicely fits into shoes we craft,</div><div align="left"><br />
For all men.</div><br />
And having said that, again they laughed.<br />
<div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161007327175633769.post-24241297579496790802011-05-08T01:42:00.000-07:002011-09-25T08:23:38.678-07:00Don't Think Like Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="postBody" style="color: #777777;"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="100"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="103"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="102"><div closure_uid_f1sb1c="99"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="102"><div closure_uid_snz4t0="99">I am writing this post on the afternoon of the World Cup Semi-final match between India and Pakistan, 2011, unable to enjoy the game which holds tremendous potential of entertainment, thinking about sullen matters. As in our lounge, green T-shirts with throbbing hearts inside them flash about, I sit outside in the yard, my laptop in my lap. I feel that there's no place in that room for someone who wants to enjoy a game of cricket between two highly skilled teams without being hugely in favour of one. I hate being left out but I can't help it. </div></div></div><div closure_uid_f1sb1c="99"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_f1sb1c="99"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="105"><div closure_uid_snz4t0="101">My words might arouse scorn in many readers but I write them still. I write them because I have a right to share my thoughts.</div></div></div></div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="102"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="102"><div closure_uid_f1sb1c="104"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="104">So bear with me and think about this:</div></div></div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="100"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="100"><div closure_uid_f1sb1c="105"><div closure_uid_snz4t0="105">Why and when did <em>not hating 'The Enemy'</em> become equivocal to not loving the home-soil? Who decided it was so? Why on a day when, for once, the whole country, anticipating a miraculous win in <em>The Enemy’s Cricket Ground,</em> reverberates with cries of common joy, I am simply unable to enjoy this rare oneness? Is it my suspicious disposition that comes in the way of this exceptional opportunity of flaunting patriotism?</div></div></div><br />
<div closure_uid_6m5zet="110">Think about this:</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="112">Are ‘being born to be free’ and ‘living with the consciousness that you were born to be free’ two totally different levels of existence? </div><br />
<div closure_uid_6m5zet="113"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="108">If you agree, think about this: </div></div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="114"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="107">If people who belong to this second category of existence prefer to believe and say that nationalism could be (and is being) used as a control tool by certain entitities, should they be immediately dismissed? Should they be judged before they are heard? Should this apparently insipid argument be crushed under the weight of colorful remonstrations of nationalists endlessly putting their throbbing national loyalty and aching religious fervor on public show?</div></div><br />
<div closure_uid_6m5zet="115">Think about this:</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="116"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="109"><div closure_uid_snz4t0="106">Someone says that August 1, 2009 mob attack on Christians of Gojra, Pakistan was a part of a series of events aiming at transforming Pakistan into an Islamic theocratic state. Is this person necessarily pro-west or pro-India? What if this person thinks that the February 28th, 2002 attacks on Muslims of Gujarat India were backed by the fascist BJP Government and are equally, if not more, condemnable? Would you still label this person, pro-India? </div></div></div><br />
Do any of the following headlines affect you any less or any more?<br />
<div closure_uid_6m5zet="123" closure_uid_snz4t0="107"><br />
</div><strong>Ahmedabad India, February 2002: At Least 140 killed, 60 of Them Burned Alive, in Two Muslim Housing Colonies as Mob Frenzy Reached its Crescendo During the “Gujarat Bandh” Called by the Vishwa Hindu Parishad</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Jenin, Palestine, April 2002: More Than a 100 Palestinians Killed by Israeli Forces. Many of the Dead Still Lie Where They Fell</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Gojra, Pakistan, August 2009: Muslim Militants Attack Gojra’s Christian Town, Burning Alive Women and Children. 76 Houses Burnt to Ashes</strong><br />
<br />
<strong closure_uid_6m5zet="120">Lahore, Pakistan, May 28, 2010: Gunmen Kill 80 in Attacks on Ahmadi Mosques; More than 100 Injured</strong><br />
<br />
<div closure_uid_6m5zet="118"><div closure_uid_ygyw5e="110">In my view, if your thinking is free of national and religious prejudices, none of these headlines would affect you any differently. If you see with a clean eye, these are all stories of atrocities committed by the powerful against the powerless (in most cases backed by states that are wheeled by corporate giants whose magnitude has become too overawing for OUR little ‘Global Village’).</div></div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="122"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="119">Don’t think like me;</div><div closure_uid_6m5zet="124">But at least think. </div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07903106332574360632noreply@blogger.com0