He had built this house with a lot of enthusiasm.
*
Mirza Shams Ali Baig and his wife Saba often sat up at night on the balcony of their rented flat, deliberating and dissenting over various aspects regarding the layout and construction of their new house, and most of their discussions and debates concluded inconclusively without their reaching a concrete decision. At times while contemplating aloud, and at times in his dreams, Shams remained engrossed in thoughts regarding the construction of the house and in the morning, busied himself with putting them into action. It had already been settled with the Vice-chairman of the Development Authority, that as soon as the groundwork for the laying of the foundation was completed in accordance with all the rules and regulations, the blueprint of the structure would be cleared. At times, Sakina Phuphi would join them on the balcony.
Sakina Phuphi had brought up Shams. Shams’ mother had died soon after he was born. When she first came to Chatnaargarh as a new bride from Talib Nagar, the residents of mohallah Charagh Chayaan had lit up the entire qasbah. There were dazzling displays of firecrackers and sparklers. Long strings of fireworks lined the doorways of the haveli. As soon as the bride got off the palanquin and stepped onto the threshold, little tinsel flowers symbolising prosperity and benevolence were showered over her. The guests had gathered in the large veranda and arrangements were made for the bride’s seating in the sehdari or the veranda with three archways facing it. The sehdari was aglow with brightly lit chandeliers. Several silver platters and betel leaf containers had been placed gracefully here and there. The jasmine was blossoming in the garden of the haveli. Its fragrance spread all around. As soon as Sakina Begum’s silver bowl full of sherbet touched the new bride’s lips, it seemed as though the spring-time breeze burst into song. When one of the mirasins made the bride look at her reflection in the mirror, Sakina Begum gave her seven pearls in reward for conducting the ceremony. Gorgeously dressed women let out joyous congratulatory exclamations. Just then, one of the children opened the silver cage of the mynah and the bird flew away in a trice. No sooner had she seen this, than Sakina’s heart sank. Not even a year passed by after Shams was born when his mother left for her heavenly abode, leaving the haveli forlorn. Thereafter, Sakina’s father, Mirza Ashiq Ali Baig departed and one by one, several old hands at the haveli too passed away. Sakina’s mother had died earlier. Now, only Sham’s father Mirza Hamid Ali Baig and Sakina Phuphi remained. Hamid Ali was on the lookout for a suitable groom for his sister, but life had other plans for him. Soon Sakina found herself all alone in the haveli, surrounded by tall, ornate archways and the large, red stone courtyard, looking after the little child. By and by, the red stones began to weather with the moss that grew over them and the tall archways were reduced to ruins. Shams began to feel that he was fated to leave his haveli behind and look for other pastures. He first travelled to the city and took up an accommodation on rent and then, very enthusiastically he laid the foundation of a new house.
*
Now this new house was constructed. Shams and Saba sat on the spacious terrace of their elegant house watching the starlit sky. Phuphijan joined them. ‘Come Phuphijan,’ said Saba standing up, vacating her chair and inviting her to sit on it. She drew the stool close beside her and sat down.
‘Has Falak fallen asleep?’
‘Yes Phuphijan.’
‘Son, do you remember the ornate archways of ruins of the sehdari, in front of the veranda with the tiled roofing?’
‘Yes Phuphijan,’ he said and saying so, as he cast a glance at her, Sakina Phuphi appeared as decrepit as the old haveli enshrouded in darkness, and soon, hundreds of miles away, a house in a deserted qasbah began to dance before his eyes. After a short while, Saba and Phuphijan went inside but Shams remained seated, opening windows that looked into the past.
*
The lane was long. Our house stood at the end of it. Phuphijan told me that once upon a time, all the houses in the lane belonged to us. Long ago, the household help occupied them; then our relatives began moving into them, and then, everything was sold. Now, only the sehdari, the large veranda with the tiled roofing, two large rooms facing the west, and the courtyard remain. In the middle of the courtyard grew a tamarind tree and under it, stood a marble chowki. I was not permitted to go there but I always managed to steal my way to the tree, when nobody was watching. I never found anything odd about that tree, but yes, the tamarinds it bore were very large and proportionally sour.
What is it about this tree that...? I would hardly begin to ruminate and Phuphijan would appear out of nowhere, catch hold of my hand and begin heaving me away towards the veranda with the tiled roofing. One day, I made up my mind that after midnight, I would tiptoe across the veranda to the courtyard. Phuphijan would never get wind that I was under the tree, and till dawn I would … I did not know how to climb trees but I wished I could climb up to the highest branch and spend the night on it.
‘Phuphijan, can I sleep on the veranda tonight?’
‘On the veranda? Phuphijan sounded so stunned, one would have imagined it wasn’t the veranda of the haveli but a public meeting ground in some village I was talking about. Immediately, she replied: ‘No. The weather hasn’t changed yet.’
‘Phuphijan, the weather is very good. I’ll cover myself with a heavy blanket,’ I persisted and she became quiet.
It was time for the prayer after sundown. Phuphijan picked up the large decanter and sat down on the reed stool to perform her ablutions. That day, I was feeling very uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell what I wanted. I left the house and went out into the lane, without informing Phuphijan, and slowly, I began walking towards the chowk. Some of the doors of the houses in the lane were shut, some partially open and then, there were the houses whose doors had weathered and broken down. Jute curtains had replaced them. The hens that spent the whole day pecking grain had been shut in their coops by now. As I reached a door covered with a jute curtain, my feet stopped of their own accord. I felt like taking a peek inside. Somehow, I felt that something strange lay concealed inside. Although, I often visited these houses – at times by will, and at others, when I was invited and yet, I wonder why, today I had this strange desire to peek into this house. I began to walk. I kept walking. I imagined I was in a magical world; the curtain would lift, and I would stand face to face with all that the curtains hid behind them. I would see how the night descended on those tiny courtyards; how the sun set on them and how the moon appeared from there. How the white sheets spread on the reed cots appeared? Did the people sleeping on them look like corpses in their shrouds?
What a long lane this is! It just doesn’t seem to end!
I wonder when darkness fell. Now, people had begun to set out of their homes for the night prayer and I had managed to go around the corner. At the end of the lane stood a lamp post. Every evening at sundown, a government employee would come with an oil container and pour kerosene oil into it. As night fell another employee would come by and light the lamp. It did not need extinguishing in the morning. The oil would get used up and the lamp would go out of its own accord. I found my shadow on the wall of the corner house quite frightening under the light of this streetlamp. I got the feeling that my head was missing; only my arms and legs were there, and they too had been affected by a kind of paralysis. Neither was I stepping on firm ground, nor could my hands move in tandem with my feet. It seemed to me that they were hanging lifelessly from my shoulders like long, lifeless ropes. I tried to walk but my legs began to wobble.
I wanted to go to the market and make a round of the whole place. I wanted to see how the bazaar looked at this time of the night. What did the corner general trader sell after stoves in the houses had been extinguished? I wanted to walk down the goldsmiths' lane too. I had heard that they bought merchandise at night instead of selling their products; that groups of traders came from afar and sold jewels to the astute goldsmiths. I wanted to walk down the lane where the travelling traders of sundry goods lived and see for myself, how they cleared up and shut shop at night, so that they could reopen them in the morning, refreshed after the night’s sleep. What did the ironsmiths, carpenters, horse-shoe smiths, and tinners do at night?
I had hardly reached the Kala Mahal when I was greeted with merry laughter from a shrill voice. Was I imagining this or was it for real? I couldn’t fathom. Of their own accord, my feet retraced their steps, and I began walking homeward. As I entered the main entrance, I thought to myself: Do I want to take a look at everything by confining myself within the four walls of this haveli? Is this really possible? How can I get out of this haveli? I don’t even have the permission to walk up to the tamarind tree at night!
I reached home to see that Phuphijan had folded her prayer mat and was about to begin counting her prayer beads. I wanted to sit by her side but lay down on the takht in the veranda instead. Phuphijan came close to me, blew her breath over me to shield me from malevolent forces, then read the Quranic prayer for protection seven times, cupped her hands and blew into them. Then she clapped three times, and trusting that she had put everything in God’s protection, became tranquil. She then brought out a coverlet for me and placed it on my bed, went into her room and closed the door gently. My bedding had been spread out on the takht. I covered my legs with the coverlet, and turning onto my right, I closed my eyes. I thought to myself that once Phuphijan had fallen asleep, I would get up and go and spend the night on the marble chowki under the tamarind tree. However, in a short while, I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I slept. When I awoke and looked at the door leading into her room, it looked securely shut, but I got the feeling that it wasn’t bolted from inside. I wanted to prise it open gently and check but refrained from doing so and instead, walked slowly in the direction of the tamarind tree in the courtyard. And what did I see when I approached it? An elderly gentleman with a spotlessly white beard wearing white robes, his head covered with a white headdress, stood under the shade of the tamarind tree. Moonlight spread over the courtyard but the tiny leaves on the tree caused darkness to spread under it. Yet the whiteness of the marble chowki and the purity of the elderly gentleman’s white robes created a sort of halo.
Who was this?
At first, I stopped right there, in the middle of the courtyard and contemplated turning back but unintentionally, my feet took me towards the shadow of the wall and then, concealing myself in the darkness, I reached fairly close to the elderly gentleman. On reaching closer, I was taken aback to realise that he was none other than Sakina Phuphi. The white dupatta was wrapped around her head in such a way that it seemed she was wearing some headgear, and in the front, it fell in a way that made it look like a long white beard. Phuphijan climbed onto the chowki and began to offer her prayer. I noticed that her prostrations were inordinately long and likewise, when she offered the salam, she spent a long time at it … as though she had forgotten what she was doing. She did this several times. When this continued for a long time, I came, noiselessly, and sat by her side. This time she raised her hands in prayer and was overcome with emotion. She was weeping silently in the presence of her Lord:
My Lord, show me the way. I have suffered a thousand hardships; safeguarded the dignity of the family; never asked anyone for help. I ate what you offered and thanked you for it. Darkness spreads all around me. The lands yield nothing. The trees in the mango orchard are old and shed their blossoms before they bear fruit. What shall I do? O Merciful One, have mercy on us. Shams is growing up. Time flies – just another year or two … then higher education in the city and then marriage….
I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. Quietly, I went and embraced her and began to cry uncontrollably. Stunned, she jumped and let out a scream but when she realised it was me, she began to cry irrepressibly too. She laid me down by her side, my head in her lap. Her tears fell on my cheeks; they felt like a shower of cool dewdrops washed in the moonlight, falling from the tamarind leaves.
‘Phuphijan, I’m grown up now. Any work…’
‘Work?’
‘Yes, a shop or…’
She placed her hand on my mouth, preventing me from speaking any further.
‘Don’t say such things, son. You have a lot to study yet, and prosper much. ‘
‘But several of my friends are…’
So are you too planning on being a shopkeeper? Will you sit on your haunches all day and request customers to buy your wares? This kind of thing is unheard of in our family. Bhaijan and Abba Huzoor, May the Lord bless them with the highest place in Paradise, will never forgive me.’
‘But you too…’
‘Me? What do I do? Arrey, tailoring and embroidering are talents. We’re able to stay in touch with our old acquaintances, owing to my work. Young girls nowadays have no idea how to sew or embroider – and, anyway I don’t go to any bazaar…’
‘But…’
‘But what, son? As of now there remain families in the basti, who will keep our secrets and uphold our respect. The roofs our ancestors built to protect us are still intact. This tree … this tamarind tree protects us with its shade. Don’t you think like this my dear! Bhaijan’s shroud mustn’t have sullied in his grave yet!
*
He didn’t wait to listen to what Phuphijan had to say and one day, he sold off the remaining land; set up a shop, sold some merchandise; travelled every step of the way; moved from one city to another; got married; lived in far-off places in rented houses and then, very enthusiastically, he began to have his own house constructed.
*
Today, as he was sitting on the airy terrace of this new house lost in thought, Phuphijan came up once again.
‘Arrey, it’s time for the post-midnight prayer. Haven’t you slept yet?’
‘I was waiting for you – I was waiting for you to wake up so that I can talk to you …’
‘Yes, tell me.’
‘Phuphijan, by the grace of the Lord, the business has prospered since we came to the city. He has blessed us abundantly – He has given us such a lovely house – several bedrooms, a lounge, a drawing room, a kitchen, washrooms, a balcony, a portico, canopy and terrace. Everything is in accordance with our requirements and our will, but…’
‘But?’
‘But when I close my eyes and imagine the layout of this house …’
‘What happens?’ Sakina Phuphi’s nervousness was increasing.
‘Can you tell the directions in which the rooms stand in this house?’
‘Of course! Why not? Look, on the right-hand side …’
‘Not like this Phuphijan. Close your eyes and tell me.’
Sakina Phuphi closed her eyes.
‘Look, two rooms facing the West; the large, veranda with the tiled roofing, and in front of it, the sehdari … the large courtyard of red stone … the pitcher stands along the walls of the courtyard; decorated archways – the tamarind tree on that side and under it the marble chowki – the long lane outside – jute curtains – the lamp post – Kala Mahal and Chanda’s inn-house behind it.’
‘Stop Phuphijan!’
Sakina Phuphi opened her eyes to find Shams kneeling in front of her. Suddenly, she was reminded of her Abba Huzoor, Mirza Ashiq Ali Baig sitting on his haunches on the marble chowki in his long, starched kurta and crinkled, embroidered, mul-mul, do-palli cap, counting his prayer beads. Perturbed, she averted her glance from Shams and began looking around at the new house with inert eyes.
*
Professor Tariq Chhatari is an Urdu fiction writer and critic. He has published a collection of short stories, Baagh ka Darwaza, (Educational Book House, Aligarh, 2001 republished in 2011 and 2019); and has edited a volume of essays, Jadeed Afsana; (Urdu-Hind) published by Educational Boook House, Aligarh, 1993 republished 2019 by Brown Books. His novels and fiction have been translated into several Indian languages including Hindi, Telegu, Marathi, Punjabi and also in English. He is the recipient of the Uttar Pradesh Urdu Akademi Lifetime Achievement Award for fiction. He has also received the Lamhi Samman for fiction. Several full-length studies have been conducted on his art of writing fiction. He worked with All India Radio for close to a decade before joining the Department of Urdu at Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh. He lives in Aligarh.
*
Fatima Rizvi is Professor in the Department of English and Modern European languages, University of Lucknow. Her areas of academic interest include Colonial and Postcolonial studies, Translation studies, and Urdu studies. She translates Urdu and Hindi. Her research papers have been published in journals of national and international repute and anthologies of critical essays. She has published Beyond the Stars and Other Stories, Women Unlimited, 2021, a translation of Qurratulain Hyder’s Sitaron se Aage (1947); is co-editing Understanding Disability: Interdisciplinary Critical Approaches for Springer and translating stories and essays for Summer Medley: A Qurratulain Hyder Miscellany. She was awarded the Meenakshi Mukherjee Memorial Prize for excellence in academic research (2018), and the Jawad Memorial Prize (2019), for Urdu – English translation.
Her translation from Urdu to English of a story by Munshi Premchand has appeared in Out of Print.