An old man entered the mortuary. The sheet was taken off the face of the corpse. He was startled and took a step back.
The policeman questioned, ‘Is this girl yours, Seth?’
The old man wiped drops of sweat, that cut like shards, from his forehead. He pressed his lips together and said, ‘This is not my daughter’s corpse. There is a mangalsutra round her neck. I’m Muslim. And my daughter was unmarried. This is the dead body of a newly married Hindu woman.’
The old man bent his head, covered his face with a handkerchief, and went out of the mortuary door.
A young man entered the mortuary. The sheet was removed from the face of the dead body, and stupefied, he took a step forward.
The policeman asked, ‘Is this your woman, Seth?’
The man rubbed his forehead, thought, shut his eyes, lowered his head, and explained, ‘I’m unmarried. My name is Nirmal Kumar. This woman is newlywed. See, there’s a mangalsutra round her neck. How can she be my wife, bhai?’
Then the young man covered his nose with his handkerchief and hurriedly exited the morgue.
*
The mortuary door was fastened with a lock from the outside. And then, all at once, throwing off the sheet from her face, the newlywed girl stretched herself and sat up. She seemed half asleep and half awake. And on her face, was the imprint of a smile, like one that had just been. The corpses nearby appeared fearful upon her waking up like this, but the girl was not at all frightened by the orphaned dead bodies by her side. With a laugh, she said to a beggar-woman’s corpse, ‘Don’t be alarmed, destitute woman! By evening some beggar will surely identify you and take you with him. Someone will certainly accompany you to the cremation ground. Because you have no sindoor in the parting of your hair, and no mangalsutra round your neck.’
And then, the girl, in a dreamy drowsy state, began to say to the foul-smelling corpse of the beggar-woman, ‘Who knows what your name is ... But before I came to this mortuary, my name was Zarina. Zarina Begum. My mother’s name was Rehana Begum. But I never saw her. Right from childhood, I only saw my father. My father, like all fathers, was a loving father. And this affection was, for him and me, the greatest misfortune. Love is another name for misfortune.’
The beggar-woman’s face had a wry smile. Scrunching up her nose, she said, ‘And that was my fate too! I recognise that misfortune. Move on!’
‘Move on … to where, my beggar-woman? We have now moved so far ahead – there is no road in front to walk on.’
The girl continued, ‘My father did not marry again because of me. Always kept me with him – Abbajan. You have seen my Abbajan, no?
‘The day before yesterday when we had tea together in the evening, Abbajan was not so old. Today he looked a hundred years old. In forty-eight hours, he covered a span of fifty years. That evening I asked him for permission to marry Nirmal. He knew of my friendship with Nirmal. He’d also heard some vague rumors. But to hear it from my mouth – he was not prepared for that. At first, he was surprised. Just like he was astonished today, when the sheet was taken off and he set eyes upon my dead face. Then he scolded me, “You, shut up!” He had said it in a ferocious tone. His voice made my hands shake and the teacup fell to the ground, spilling the muddy brown tea on my kameez. I got scared and began to cry. This was my final weapon to bring Abbajan around. It was a tried and tested formula – tears spilling from my eyes, and Abbajan would soften like wax, gathering me to his chest. And then, I would have my way, of course! But that evening, day before yesterday, I don’t know what happened to Abbajan. He screamed and yelled and brought the whole house down. Abdul bawarchi and Aaya-maa, and even the guard of the building, everyone left whatever they were doing and rushed to the top-floor balcony. And together, they all tried to calm him down. I had covered my neck with both my hands. I was not frightened of dying, only, I didn’t want to die by having my neck throttled. You see, I had to wear the mangalsutra round my neck. Aaya-maa hurried to get Deeba aunty; she had been my mother’s friend. She had studied with my mother, and was very fond of me. Abbajan also treated Deeba aunty like his own sister. But I don’t know what happened to Abbajan that time. He saw Deeba aunty and began to scream, “Who has called this Hindu woman here? Get out of my home! Everyone get out of my house! No Hindu has the right to be in my house. I’m Muslim, and my child will be only Muslim. After today, if a Hindu sets foot within my home, I will not spare him!” Abdul quickly took him to his room, and phoned up our family doctor, Doctor Sharma. Again, Abbajan shouted, “From today onwards, I will not be treated by any Hindu doctor.”
‘Deeba aunty brought me away to her own house. She did not take Abbajan’s rantings to heart. Tears were flowing down her face. For the first time, she reminisced about my mother in my presence and wept. For the first time, I too missed my Ammi. After spending my whole childhood with Abbajan, I had thought that even without a mother, children can grow up comfortably if their father is like my Abbajan. But yesterday evening, I sensed for the first time that Ammi does not just mean a relationship, but also a shield that protects the child from aggression, a bosom that dries tears, a shade that keeps out the harsh sun. And that was the day I realised for the first time, that religion must surely have been invented by a father. A mother has no religion. Or perhaps her faith is her child. If you don’t believe me, just look at baby Jesus in the lap of the Virgin Mother.
‘Deeba aunty called Nirmal to her house. He looked greatly perturbed – it was obvious. My foreboding, on the other hand, vanished at the sight of Nirmal. He was meeting me after four days. Deeba aunty said, “Both of you, don’t be afraid, I’m with you. Everything will be all right in a day or two.”
‘But Nirmal was more disturbed than me. He said, “Since yesterday, so many anonymous telephone calls have come for me, that if I turn to look towards any Muslim girl, it won’t turn out well for me.”
‘“Arre wah!” I laughed out loud. “Plenty of such calls used to come for me! That if I didn’t stop moving around with this Hindu boy, there’d be consequences.… I say … what consequences?”
‘I want to ask who these people are, making these calls. Why do they have this keen interest in a Muslim girl and Hindu boy, or a Muslim boy and Hindu girl getting married or being friends? Will it trigger any change in the world order? Friendship, and marriage are an individual’s personal matter…. But Nirmal was scared out of his wits. He told me that his father had threatened to throw him out of the house and disinherit him.
‘I retorted, “That’s wonderful! Then we are completely free. No material possessions, no religion, just you and I.”
‘Deeba aunty had gone downstairs. Nirmal and I stood leaning against the railings of the balcony watching the angry afternoon sun rays losing themselves in the cool waves of the ocean. The red-hot sun looked exactly like Abbajan’s face, and I felt afraid to look at it straight. Just like I didn’t have it in me to face Abbajan.
‘I took Nirmal’s hand in mine – it was a cold hand. I was starting to get annoyed. “What has happened to you, Nirmal? Why have you become like this – as if I’m meeting you for the first time?”
‘Nirmal and I had met for the first time on Juhu beach – on the day of Holi. Small groups were frolicking in the sea after the festivities, and playing with colours. A group of boys and girls from our college was also there on the beach that day. Nirmal was the brother of my friend Sunita. That evening itself he came to our house with her. He had finished college and was now busy learning the ways of his father’s business.
‘My Abbajan is a lawyer – not rich, not poor. We were like that – never stayed hungry and never hurt anyone. Our fate was like the fate of the millions of middle-class people in our country. And just as unpredictable. And just as ordinary. And similarly filled with toil and strife. Nirmal was a rich man’s son, but those things never ever came between us. Between us was the shade of palm trees, the seashore, and the shadows of the half-lit alcove in the restaurant. Hand in hand, we went for long walks, and sipped coconut water. And we thrived in the free and open air. That was Nirmal’s life. That was my life.
‘The people who came to our house followed different faiths. Deeba aunty used to tie a rakhi on Abbajan’s wrist and put a tika on him, and Abbajan would give her money as shagun. Murli chacha came to our house on Eid and gave me Eidi. Nirmal would eagerly wait for Shab-e-Barat, and then gorge on large quantities of halwa. I loved the festival of Diwali – lights everywhere … radiance … beauty. Abdul would offer niyaaz for Gyarahvi, and Basanta would get prasad from the Mahalakshmi Temple, and we had both. Abbajan never said anything then. And we also didn’t receive any anonymous telephone calls. Then – if Nirmal and I decided that we wanted to, forever and ever, celebrate Eid, Diwali, Holi and Shab-e-Barat together, why should it be as if the heavens had fallen.
‘But I have no grouse with Abbajan. In the usual course of things, fathers do exactly this – although he shouldn’t have! It was Nirmal’s faintheartedness that hurt me. The light went out of me, and I had no idea how to fire up that cold and congealed Nirmal with the spark of courage and grit. I said to him, “Nirmal, do you remember, we had gone to Hanging Garden that day…”
‘He grunted, “Hmph!”
‘“From where we were sitting, Marine Drive looked so exquisite. Bombay looked like a beautifully done up bride. And the long line of lights from Marine Drive to Chowpatty looked like the mangalsutra round the bride’s neck. Didn’t it?”
‘Nirmal mumbled, “Yes…!”
‘“And there and then, we decided that when we got married, I’d wear a pretty mangalsutra round my neck … you remember?”
‘“I remember!” he answered.
‘I kept telling Nirmal a lot of things … everything. But Nirmal only listened in silence.
‘Then he went away. Saying that he would be back soon. I waited for him. I called him on the phone. Finally, I went to the Jaltarang Hotel in the evening. I wanted to wait for him in our favourite spot, but there was some other couple sitting there. Shaqi’s band was screaming, and Maria was crooning into the mike and swaying gently from side to side.
‘Silently, I stole to our spot. The girl was lovely, winsome, in the first flush of love. The boy got up. The girl also rose. She saw me. I looked at the boy. He did not see me. He was only looking at the girl. He kept looking at the girl. Then they went away.
‘Later I gazed at the mangalsutra I had kept in my bag. I turned my gaze upon the twenty years of life behind me. I looked out towards the Juhu shoreline. I looked at the horizon, pink from the sunset. I looked at the flowing water. For a long time, I watched the water flowing from my eyes soak into the sands of the sea. And when the sun sank, my hope sank. A whisper floated to my ear, “It’s time for the wedding ceremony!”
‘I took out the sleeping pills from my bag. And I sat down against a wall. Then I wore the mangalsutra round my neck.’
The girl became silent at this point. She lay down and pulled the sheet over herself. The beggar-woman too clamped her eyes shut. Suddenly the sound of a small voice, like that of a weak infant, reached her ears. ‘Beggar mother!’
The beggar-woman’s eyes flew wide open.
This voice came from within the same sheet.
‘You heard the story of this woman, my mother – how will I tell my story?’
*
The story first appeared in the collection Mitti ka Charagh: Afson ka Majmua, Nusrat Publishers, Lucknow, 1976.
*
Salma Siddiqui (1931-2017) was an Urdu novelist and prominent member of the Progressive Writers’ Movement. Her best known work is Sikandarnama (first appearing as short stories in Dharmyug, then published by the imprint Jnanpith), a work documenting the various idiosyncrasies of her domestic help, Sikander. Most of her other writing was destroyed in an unexpected monsoon shower, and the story above is one of few that have survived.
*
Meenakshi Jauhari is a poet, writer and translator, and has been writing for more than three decades. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in online and physical journals like Volume Poetry, Out of Print, The Little Magazine, Indian Literature (Sahitya Academy), eFiction, IIC Quarterly, CLRI and others. Her poetry volume The Fish Who Flew was published in 2019 by Writer's Workshop, Kolkata, India. She's currently working on translating a classical Urdu work into English.