|
|
 You told her a hundred times that you’d
washed your face just the day before, still she would give you
a sharp reprimand and say, ‘Then don’t eat food today; you
ate just yesterday!’ Now who could counter her and her
philosophy? While brushing our teeth her fingers often missed
the target and entered our nostrils. Sometimes her fingers
would descend on our cheek and smear the skin with the grainy
powder. With the five fingers of the other hand, she would
hold our neck in a firm grip — the way one does to an
over-charging cart driver, ready to give him a shove. In the
general cacophony, no one could hear anything. Just think
about it — if your complexion had remained a little dark
what could be the problem? We weren’t going to view a groom
— as Aapa would say when she had to make us wear untidy
clothes and we protested. Every day we had to subject
ourselves to rigorous soap-rubbing. If we protested, we were
told, ‘If you cry, I’ll rub the soap into your eyes!’ As
though she was not doing that already!
Even if your eyes burned, you
didn’t have the right to cry. Having crossed all these
hurdles, if one asked for food, one was greeted with jibes.
‘Shame! Don’t you have any patience? Come morning and she
begins cribbing for roti. Even the birds wouldn’t have
pecked at anything yet. If you get so hungry then tie some
rotis to your stomach when you go to sleep at night.’ Now
tell me, why were we made to wash our face then? Do birds wash
their faces? One washes one’s face before sitting down to
one’s meal. Fed up with getting her face washed every day,
one day Shaukat Aapa had said, ‘I’m not going to wash my
face today as I won’t be eating anything.’ They make fun
of her even today.
Then began
the breakfast. Aapa’s breakfast consisted of the leftover
kota and rotis from the previous night. She warned the kota
and sprinkled ghee and water on the rotis. We were given only
tea. Aapa didn’t drink tea as it dehydrated her. If she
forgot to mix sugar in the tea, there would be another hassle.
When I asked for sugar she would snap, ‘Damn! How much can I
do with just a pair of hands? I can hardly breathe. Dying for
sugar, ant that she is.’ Well, that was it. When after
complaining feebly for a while, I would drink the tea without
sugar, and she would exclaim: ‘Oh God, how greedy can you
be! Couldn’t you wait a minute? Drank it just like that!
Such greed — that, too, in a girl — that you didn’t feel
the difference!’
Being a girl
seems to have been my undoing!
Breakfast
over, I would barely have taken two, three rounds of the house
when someone would cry out — ‘Master Saheb is here.’ My
spirits would immediately flag. I wouldn’t have a clue what
to do. I cold never find the book even after a thorough
search. The inkwell would have turned over on the table on its
own. I would have forgotten to wipe the slate clean. Baaji
surely had stood with her full weight on the pen, breaking it
to pieces. From one corner of the house to the other. I would
keep looking for one thing or another. Eventually they would
be taken care of and then, sitting on the ciabuara, Master
Saheb would begin my instruction, which was seen as a solution
to the problem of female education.
One book
stuck to us like a curse. Abba’s frequent transfers meant
that we couldn’t have a permanent teacher. As and when we
went to a new place I had to start with the Muhanmat Ismail
Reader all over again. Looking at the shape and colour of the
book, I could recognise it as my own though I remained largely
a stranger to its contents. I didn’t know what the method of
instruction was; the teacher would cling tenaciously to it for
months together, but the light of knowledge would still elude
us.
My feckless
mind would wander far away from the book. I would look around
and feel pity for myself. Naseema, having finished scrubbing
the utensils, could be seen playing Kabaddi and my gaze would
irresistibly turn towards her antics. Mungia, having finished
with the cow-dung cakes, would be eating jamuns right before
me. Even Dhalu and Balka — mere puppies — would run around
in total freedom while I had to chant sentences like ‘Go to
the bridge’, ‘He is her brother-in-law’, ‘Ganga is
bigger than Yamuna’, and so on. My condition was really
pitiable.
When Master
Saheb was satisfied that I had had enough of a dressing down
and my arms and thighs had enough blue blobs (as I was a
member of the female species, Master Saheb wouldn’t hit me
but only gave me sweet pinches. Further, he would threaten to
kill me if I told the elders about it. When Aapa saw the blue
marks while bathing me, she would add one more mark to them
saying: ‘Why on earth do you go to places where you fall and
bruise your body?’), then came the turn for dictation. The
problem here was the ink. I did not know what scientific
method was applied to prepare ink I could never master its
exact thickness. So when I dipped the pen in the inkwell and
drew it up, congealed ink would dangle from its nib; at other
times I would shake the pen hard, but the ink would just
refuse to come.
What a relief
it was when the class was over! Satchel under the arm, fingers
drenched in smelly ink, I returned dispiritedly, dragging the
slate along. If someone showed the slightest sympathy, I would
break into tears. After all this, when I asked for food, I
would get the reply, ‘Eat me, oh yes!, The food would be
rotten — either too hot or too cold. If I asked for a piece
of meat, I would be told, ‘Tear out a piece from my body.’
If I said, ‘Give me egg as you’ve given to Chunnu’, pat
would come the reply, ‘Yes, I’ve brought the egg cage, so
I have to dole out eggs — as though my father is ...’ Poor
Aapa would be left with a meatless bone. Those who served food
usually had the worst fare. Curry would often run short, and
they would have to get a few eggs fried to make do.
At noon, we
would be made to lie down in a row. The khus matting and the
punkah would fight off the heat and curfew would be imposed
upon us.
***
As we came
out of the khus room, Chunnu and Shamim would run to play
games, but, being a girl, I would play with dolls. They say
playing with dolls teaches one good conduct. My aversion to
dolls was infinite. How could one play with them? They were
just lumps of rags in the shape of children and stood nowhere
in comparison with the English dolls, which did not get spoilt
even if you washed them. Our dolls, on the other hand, turned
into dead mice in two days.
The game
usually consisted of the marriage of dolls. I had many dolls,
but only one filthy gudda. By turns, he would become the
divine lover of all the dolls. If I asked the elders to get me
some more guddas, they, for some psychological reasons, would
instruct me to play with dolls and say that there was no need
for guddas.
Hardly would
the session with the Master Saheb be over when Maulvi Saheb
would arrive, unnerving me. I would feel like lying down and
resting, but no. I would be given a jerk and made to stand up.
Eventually I would grab the first book of the Arabic Reader
and proceed towards the study. If I stopped to drink water on
the way, Chunnu would also stop, insisting that he must go
with me. Even if I drained several glasses, he would continue
to stand and wait for me there, and not go on by himself
despite my chiding.
***
Aapa’s
status in the house was comparable to that of Mussolini or
Hitler. Form time to time, she would issue commands regarding
the improvement of our morals. As I finished the first sipara,
or chapter, she got worried about my welfare and ordered that
I should be taught recitation of the Quran, which would ensure
a smooth passage through this world and the world hereafter.
Heaven’s windows would open up to me. However, this sinner
was not destined to learn recitation. Either a cacophony of
voices came out of my throat or it seemed as though someone
was tightening a noose around my neck, and it got tighter as
it reached the letter ‘qaf’ while I tried to resolve
mystical issues. Chunnu would smile at my pitiable fate.
Shamim, smiling derisively, would follow each gesture of mine
so that he could mimic it later before others and drive me to
tears. Meanwhile, if any wedding party or some exciting
pageant passed by, we would involuntarily exclaim, ‘Maulvi
Saheb, there’s a wedding party.’ Immediately Maulvi
Sahebhands would descend on our cheeks in a torrent of slaps,
and we would start sobbing. Ostensibly, Maulvi Saheb only
shook me by the shoulders, but he very deftly joined his thumb
and forefinger and pinched me so severely that it would make
me writhe in pain.
Maulvi Saheb
had warned us, the infidels, that we must chant ‘la hawla
vala’ as soon as we heard the beat of drums, because, on the
day of Judgement, Dajjal would arrive to the accompaniment of
drums. Music lovers would be drawn by his music and led to
hell by him. A hush would descend on us as we contemplated the
virtues to be cultivated for the hereafter.
The lesson
being over, we would run to the kitchen to see Aapa frying
something. But she wouldn’t allow us so much as a peep. ‘Get
lost, or I’ll hit you with the ladle. If you touch the lagni,
I’ll pour the boiling oil on your hand; and if you ask for
atta once more, I’ll put a live ember on your palm.’
***
There was no
place where we could play. ‘Don’t play on the bed, it’ll
sag! ‘Don’t jump on the boards, the noise will burst the
eardrums!’ There was no space on the chabutara; we weren’t
allowed to play in the courtyard, which contained Aapa’s
fancy flowerbeds. Inside the house we stumbled on the stone
slab, the lota toppled over; sometimes we stepped on the brass
plate or our feet got entangled in children’s cribs. If not
these, then the bamboo pole leaning at the corner would choose
to slide down on our head and the soap case would leap from
its place, dangle by the drain precariously before finally
landing on the sleeping dog. That would invite a torrent of
curses from the elders: ‘What a miserable life! O God, take
these children away or send death to me. Do such children
exist anywhere in the world? If they did, then why should
anyone live?’ After such relentless chiding, we would be
made to sit down quietly. ‘If you move, I’ll break your
bones.’
At night we
would be sent to bed with the pious wish — ‘Off to hell.’
Well, before going there we would laugh our heads off. The
laughter simply wouldn’t stop. ‘If you even breathe now I’ll
stifle you to death,’ came the last threat. Now when sleep
finally came, in the place of sweet dreams we would dream of
bulls, dogs, monkeys or owls coming in droves... The one-anna
coins were littered everywhere. We gathered them up happily.
But the moment we woke up and opened our eyes, we would find
our fists still clenched with no coins inside. We burst into
tears, ‘No peace even at night. Hush! If you don’t shut
up, I’ll hand you to the dog.’ Then came morning, and
there would be Aapa with the tooth powder and us standing
before her.
***
For me, it’s
now a soft brush and a scented paste. No teacher is ever
allowed to come except for the music teacher, and even he is
sometimes shown the door if I feel lazy. The fact is, we aren’t
children anymore without a care in the world! Carefree life,
innocence, simple talk, sound sleep. Alas! if only childhood
could... once more... oh, well —
Lifting the veil. Selected
writings of Ismat Chughtai,
Penguin India pages 261, Rs 250.
|
THE
other day when I was tidying up the library, I chanced upon
some old issues of Asmat. I glanced at one of the titles, and
my mind raced back in time. The write-up was by Hijab Ismail,
and the title was ‘Childhood’.
