‘Hai Tauba!’
The three sisters sitting on the bed looked up at the same time.
‘What an abominable face – that too, first thing in the morning! God knows what the rest of the day will be like,’ the little sister Shanno mumbled to herself.
Leaning to her left with the aid of a stick worn smooth, an old woman with an awkward gait, drenched in sweat and stinking of rotten fish, had entered the verandah and stood right at the foot of the bed. Her mouth open, she panted like a wretched dog, which only made her black, ghost face appear even more terrifying.
‘Truly, Cobra boot polish. Honestly, Baaji, does she appear human at all?’ And Shanno went looking for the children of the household so she could scare them. ‘Mammi, Nammi, where’s everyone?’
Mammi and Nammi emerged from their rooms, chirping, and erupted into shrieks. Their frightened faces, bunched about with golden curls, reddened like embers as they screamed, ‘Ammi! Ghost! Ammi! Ghost!’ and Shanno doubled up with laughter.
The middle sister Roshi didn’t like the drama. ‘She’s shown up with that beautiful face first thing in the morning but it’s not as if we are sitting around idle. The family is yet to have breakfast. The masons are pestering us. Now this old woman shows up!’
‘Bibi, the payment for the fish. It is due. I’m here for it. Eleven annas. And a rupee and a quarter from before.’ It was with great difficulty that she opened her mouth and got the words out.
‘What? You’re owed money? From when? The problems of this household are driving me mad as it is, and on top of that she wants eleven annas and a rupee and a quarter?’ Roshi yelled. ‘Shehla unknotted her aanchal and gave you eight of the eleven annas that same afternoon. So you want just three annas, right? How did it come to the whole eleven annas?’
The old woman opened her mouth to speak and the dark leathery folds parted to reveal a red tongue, red lips and yellow teeth. The pupils of her eyes moved rapidly as she said, ‘A rupee and a quarter. There’s that, no? And three annas of the eleven.’
Roshi covered up the baby in her lap with her aanchal. ‘Allah! The way she turns her eyes about while she talks!’
‘Hai Allah! Let it go. The children are crying,’ Shabrati’s girl, spreading out the washed chandni on the floor, whispered to Shireen. ‘Doesn’t everyone know, she’s a witch? I swear by Allah, she’s definitely a witch. Does anyone in my neighbourhood even talk to her? Goodness, no! She roasts up livers and eats them in the blink of an eye.’
Astonished, little Shireen looked up at her face. ‘Witch! What’s a witch?’
Roshi was annoyed at having to settle accounts first thing in the morning. The children, huddled inside the room for fear of the old woman, were still crying. Shireen and Roohi were staring at the old woman out of innocent eyes, trying to understand the meaning of witch. The breakfast was getting cold. The omelette and half-fried eggs were ready but with such a frost about, they wouldn’t remain edible for long. Shanno looked at the woman in anger.
‘Why didn’t you come even earlier, before dawn? Are we to forget all about eating and drinking and sit down with your accounts?’
‘She’s disloyal, Shanno Bobo. A tenant, but she shows up at the master’s wanting to get her accounts settled,’ said Kitaban, who sat at a distance fanning the food laid out on the dastarkhwaan.
Enraged, the old woman began to lament: she hadn’t asked for money all these days because this was the master’s house. And now this one’s calling her disloyal and that one, other names. She sat down on the gleaming staircase as if she were settling into a protest.
The children’s tears kept flowing. ‘Ammi, we won’t cry. Ammi, send her away,’ Nammi and Mammi yelled from behind the green doors, their eyes screwed shut.
‘Sure. Aren’t you disloyal? Aw, poor thing! As if we’re going to steal her money! A tenant, but the sort of words that come out of her mouth! Tauba, chhi! She isn’t the least bit ashamed. Are three annas even a thing?’ Kitaaban’s tongue was hard to stop once it got started and the old woman began to sob.
‘Hai Ram! Hai, just three annas? And what about the rupee and a quarter?’
A dozen maidservants had gathered around. Just look at that shining boil on her nose. Roohi looked closely and whispered to Shireen, ‘Arre bhai, she eats roasted livers. That’s why she gets such boils.’
Shabrati nudged Shireen gently. ‘Aji, keep quiet. If she overhears you, by evening, you’re gone. You don’t know her.’
The old woman’s tears flowed freely and her black face gleamed brighter. The whites of her eyes seemed whiter, and the flesh around her squashy lips wobbled harder as she began to blubber.
‘You eat, drink and burp on a full belly, so you can talk. Those whose bellies are on fire, those who have starved for two days, they know what three annas mean and what a treasure a quarter and a rupee is – and that so long overdue. Why would she not claim her money? If she’s a tenant, a subject, then why does the master, who is king, not see that for two days, the fisher-woman hasn’t eaten a grain? And she isn’t here to beg. People do not go about squandering their money.’
She had begun to pant while talking. Listening to her coarse blubbering, the three sisters were getting seriously angry.
‘Sardar! Faizo! Why are you all standing there watching the show? Here’s three annas. Get her out of here,’ Roshi tossed the money out, all the while creaming the milk in the pot. ‘Do you think we’re beggars like yourself?’
Instead of stepping up, Sardar and Faizo retreated further.
‘Oh dear. She’s a witch. A witch.’
The old woman greedily gathered up the money and stared at Shanno.
‘And the rupee and a quarter?’
The girls, Johaya, Haseena, Badamiyaan, had all stopped wiping the floors and dusting the rooms and the furniture, and stood surrounding the old woman as if they were in a fairground. Eyes half-closed, shaking her head in a philosophical posture, she spoke now with longing.
‘In the master’s court where elephants were stabled and motor cars were lined up, our hunger was often stilled. Year on year, mounds upon mounds of rice were husked and pounded and gathered in the landlord’s homes by these same fisher-woman’s hands. That’s how these people spent six months of their lives, eating and feeding off the rice harvest. Families that had men to catch fish, they got by, but she who had nobody, once the rice pounding was done, she saw naught but mounds of sand on the banks of the river Son. Sometimes she’d get hired as a labourer, but who can find such work every day?’
Nikhat nudged Shanno. ‘Tauba! She’s poor, give it to her! Consider it charity.’
‘Oh yeah! Charity! Does she even understand charity? Just look at her cheek. The way she’s accosting us, it’s as if we were holding onto her life’s savings. A rupee and a quarter. Liar! Hypocrite!’
It was annoying. Nobody was having tea or breakfast. There was a commotion and the black-faced old woman was mumbling away at the centre of it. Johaya, Haseena and Badmiyan were whispering stories about witches.
‘Liver, heart and brains – that’s what they eat. Grandma used to say that Kallan Mian’s son was walking past, eating a guava, when the witch of the orchard checked him: What are you eating? That was it. The boy flapped about like a hen for a bit, and he was done.’
Shabrati joined their group and said, ‘Roshi Bobo and Shanno Bobo are pointlessly arguing with her. Arre, it’s only been a short time – six months since the mistress of the household died. And what a tragedy it was. Think of the trouble if something were to happen now. Tauba, as if a rupee and a quarter were a treasure. Arre, people here don’t know anything. In my neighbourhood, everyone keeps a safe distance from even her shadow.’
The three girls heard this and their faces blanched.
‘Hai Ram! It’s taking so long. Just give me my rupee and a quarter!’ Irritated, the old woman raised her voice.
‘I’m getting mad now,’ Roshi yelled. ‘Arre bhai, somebody ask her, what money? Due since when? Is it fair that anybody who’s short of money comes to the big house? Since when have you been owed, by whom? Nobody knows.’
Nikhat laughed. ‘Allah, tauba! What a commotion. It’s a rupee and a quarter, not a treasure. What will people say if they should hear? Great folks in this household! Here, let me pay.’
The festering blister in Shanno’s heart now burst open. ‘Keep your rupee. This is not about a rupee and a quarter. Don’t you see how this old woman has been misbehaving? What haven’t people received from this household? Why won’t she say clearly, ‘I’m hungry, give me food, give me money’? But she’s intent on settling accounts, so now I will settle her account. She’s a big one for accounting, so why won’t she say: since when has she been owed, by whom?’
‘She’s been blabbering for an hour,’ said Roshi irritably.
‘A rupee and a quarter, for fish.’ The old woman’s head swayed and rolled forward, and her voice was so soft, it sounded like the air escaping an inflatable doll.
‘We’ve been hearing this rupee-and-a-quarter, rupee-and-a-quarter for the last four hours, but who did you give the fish to? Who owes you?’
Perhaps her half-closed eyes caused Kitaban to feel some pity for the old woman.
‘You know my brother-in-law’s widow, right? She is owed the price for a se’r and a half of fish,’ the old woman haltingly said.
‘Now she’s making up tales. Liar. What a hypocrite! Go, Faizo, call her brother-in-law’s widow.’ Shanno was determined to settle this old woman’s account.
Hearing this, the old woman sat down comfortably on the steps, leaning against the foot of the bed as if she were determined to sort the wheat from the chaff.
For a while, the people of the household were spared the old woman’s blabber. They all sat down at the dastarkhwaan. Shanno didn’t feel like eating her breakfast though, and Faizo’s mother and Kitaban were adding fuel to the fire.
‘Arre, there’s scant respect ever since Begum Sahab was gone. What else? Would she have had the gumption to talk in such a familiar way? Everyone feels that the master is oblivious to the affairs of the household. Now she’s free to say anything, true or not. Money, my foot! If she needed it, she could just have opened her mouth and asked for it, said, we’re hungry. Let me have a bit of money, a bit of grain. Now I won’t let it pass without settling accounts in full. What a rude thing she is. Doesn’t know how to talk. She doesn’t know how to speak to the master. It’s as if, now Ammi-jaan’s gone, she can treat us anyhow.’
Shanno’s wounded heart received another blow and her eyes were swimming with tears.‘Did we ever have to deal with these people? They all came to Ammi-jaan but now with poor Ammi gone, who knows how many homes are starving? The way she’d give alms, without anyone finding out.
’Nikhat’s tears began to fall. Seeing Nikhat weeping, Roshi tried to make her position clear. ‘Look, this is not about what’s owed. It’s a made-up story. She’s says she’s here for what’s owed. Fine, then tell us, since when? A rupee and a quarter for fish? Do you remember it? But she’s sitting here with such nonsense, blabbering all this time.’
Sipping her tea, Nikhat grew morose. ‘Today’s breakfast, tea, everything’s been ruined. Besides, it turns the heart so, to think everyone’s eating and drinking except this poor old woman. Who knows how long she’s been hungry? The way she looks! It’s like an animal sitting there instead of a human being.’
‘Those glorious sarees that you’ve stuffed away inside trucks, turn them into flags and go about saying, Inqilab zindabad, inqilab zindabad!’ Shanno said irritably. Nikhat had been annoying the irate Shanno for a while now.
‘What great thing is accomplished by raising a flag? This is about humanity. After all we too are human, just like this poor old woman. And stinginess! It’s the worst thing in the world. You should remember that at least.’ Nikhat laughed.
‘Stinginess! Who’s being stingy? Don’t you see how this witchy old woman has been misbehaving? What do you care? You just sit around and watch the show.’ Roshi came to Shanno’s defence.
They hadn’t quite finished tea when Faizo brought in the old woman’s sister-in-law. Here was another portrait of misery and poverty. Sharp-eyed, yet teary. She was an old fish-woman, known to them since childhood. A very short old woman, with a taut face, a yellow tint glowing from under dark skin. She came right in and sat pressed up against the edge of Roshi’s bed.
‘It’s a hard time, child. A great grief. No peace in the day and no peace at night.’ And she burst into tears.
The latest problem was that the river Son was in flood. People had been trying to get driftwood out of the water. Along with other rowers, her son went out midstream to grab the large, precious pieces of wood. For two days, luck sided with him but on the third day, the torrent upturned the boat. Who can hope to survive such a flood? By God’s mercy, they were all good swimmers and managed to swim to the bank. Her son was brought home with a broken leg. His knee cap was dislodged and shattered to bits. And there was neither medicine nor treatment. At home, there’s not one paisa to spend. That was why she sent her older sister-in-law to ask for the rupee and a quarter that was owed.
‘Yes, yes, now ask her. Ask her now.’ The old woman seemed to come alive. Her black ghost skin began to gleam and she stared at everyone, her eyes wide.
‘Oh dear! This has been nasty. The money’s yours and I get the brunt of it.’ Grinding her teeth, the old woman addressed her sister-in-law.
‘So tell us! When was the fish purchased? Who bought it? How many days has it been?’ Shanno said gently, her manner conciliatory.
A throng of maids and nurses stood engrossed, waiting for a decision. Faizo and Sardar had also dropped their chores and were standing there watching the show. Right then, Khilaayi Bua returned from the market with a bag filled with vegetables and curry.
‘Ain hai! What’s this, a fairground?’ said Khilaayi Bua as she came closer. She was breathless. ‘Arre, what’s happening? Is someone here to settle a dispute?’
She looked at everyone’s face in surprise. Khilaayi Bua was an old employee in the household and was much respected since she had come here as part of Begum Sahab’s trousseau and all the children had been raised by her.
‘No, Bua. It’s nothing. Just that I’m owed for my fish.’ The second fish-woman’s sharp eyes had discerned that stiff talk wouldn’t help.
‘Yes, Khalaayi Bua. You tell us! When was a se’r and a half of fish bought for a rupee and a quarter? Tauba, we’ve been pestered for four hours.’ Roshi was sick of this story now.
‘When? When was it bought? I don’t remember!’ said Khilaayi Bua, resting against the foot of the bed.
And Nikhat took a rupee and a quarter from her bag and threw it in front of the old woman.
‘Take it. End the story now!’
The old woman’s worn out, cracked and blackened fingers greedily gathered up the money and held it tight in her fist.
‘Now tell us who you gave the fish to, and when,’ Shanno said irritably.
‘It’s been eight months, child. Before going to Patna. I gave our mistress a se’r and a half of fish, Khalaayi Bua was also present at the time,’ the fish-woman said in a weepy tone. ‘God, if only I could accept the money from her hands!’
And everyone’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Ammi owed you?’ Shanno and Roshi said at the same time, their voices filled with longing. A deep sigh escaped Nikhat. Khilaayi Bua let out a long bellow.
‘Yes, yes, it happened in front of me. On this very spot, the poor thing had taken the fish.’ Khilaayi Bua had been their mother’s companion in childhood, youth, and for a while, in old age. Now, in her lonely state, she would often sigh deep. An abject sorrow engulfed the household. All heads were bowed.
The old woman, who had been dozing off where she sat with her neck lolling about, was startled.
‘Ain! What?’
Her spotted red lips stretched horribly across her dark face. The wobbly bundle of dark skin in filthy clothes crept forward until she was close to Roshi. Distressed by the smell of rotting fish, all three sisters surreptitiously covered their noses, one with her hand, another with the newspaper and the third, with her aanchal.
The old woman’s terrifying face was once again blooming.
‘What? The mistress owed it?’ With trembling fingers, she respectfully put the money down on Roshi’s bed. ‘No, no, child! Hai, I won’t take the money she owed from any other hands, and I won’t allow anyone else to take it. Hai, our mistress was father and mother to us.’
The old woman’s face split helplessly and tears spread over the wrinkles on her black face. Red-eyed, she stared at her sister-in-law’s greedy eyes that were fixed upon the money lying on the bed.
‘This rupee and a quarter won’t last the rest of your days.’ She grabbed her sister-in-law’s hand and pulled. The people of the household tried a thousand tactics to get her to accept the money but the old woman would not touch it. And just as she had arrived, empty-handed and wobbling, she went away, leaning on her cane and tilting to the left. Everyone in the household looked at her in surprise.
‘She’s crazy, the wretch. Crazy,’ and Faizo laughed. But as soon as she was gone, Johaya said loudly, ‘She was a witch, I swear by Allah! A total witch.’
Roshi kissed the baby girl in her lap and wondered, ‘Was she really a witch? A witch?’
*
This story, titled ‘Dain’ in the original Urdu first appeared in the collection Dain aur Doosre Afsane, Maktaba Adab, Ramna Road, Patna.
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Shakeela Akhtar was one of the earliest women writers of Urdu fiction in the twentieth century. Born and buried in Bihar, she was obviously deeply rooted in the local landscape, local dialects and, if we are to use this story as any indication, in the texture of its social relations.
I do not claim to know the body of her work, and I am but a fledgling translator. However, I chanced upon ‘Dain’ in the course of my current research on representations of witch bodies in South Asian literature. Since it wasn’t yet available in English translation, I decided to undertake the task myself.
Shakeela Akhtar was born into a zamindar family in Ardal, near the river Son in Bihar. The river features prominently in this short story and the author was evidently well-acquainted with the vicissitudes in the lives of fishing communities in the region. While I have not read Akhtar’s own memoir, I have read Balmiki Ram’s Shakeela Akhtar Bahaisiyat Fiction-nigaar (Kitabi Duniya, Dehli, 2014). Ram was a Junior Research Fellow at Patna University when he wrote this analysis of Akhtar’s fiction, and it includes basic biographic details about the author.
Akhtar’s date of birth is uncertain. Ram’s book suggests that different scholars have mentioned the years 1912, 1914, 1919 and 1921 while 1916 has been mentioned on the website Rekhta.org. Her first story ‘Rehmat’ was published in 1939 in the journal Adab Latif, Lahore. Elsewhere, Ram mentions that her first story ‘Mothers’ was published in Adab Latif. There are disputes too over the claim that her first collection was first published by Maktaba Urdu, Lahore, when she was just eighteen. However, it is known that she was married to Dr Akhtar Urainvi in 1933 and that her literary life began soon thereafter. According to Ram, her first published book was Darpan (likely published in 1940), the second was Aankh Micholi (1948), third collection was Dain aur Doosre Afsane (1952); fourth was Aag aur Paththar (1962); the fifth book was a set of three novelettes, published as Tinke ka Sahara (1975) and the sixth was Lahu ke Mol (1978) for which she received an Urdu Akademi award. Her last book was Aakhri Salaam (1982). Shakeela Akhtar died on 10th February, 1994.
Translator’s note: The story was hard to translate partly because it made significant use of local dialects, spoken in the region around the river Son in Bihar. It is set in a time when zamindars or landlords were treated as local kings or rulers. The workers, agricultural or otherwise, were ‘rayyat,’ which literally means people and in this story is used in the sense of subjects or workers. However, in order to avoid confusion for readers in English, I have used the word tenant since it is a more accurate description of their status. In Urdu, the fisher-women address the landlord and his family as ‘maalik,’ which literally means ‘master’ and I have translated it as such. The relationship is essentially feudal but it is not that of owner and slave as ‘master’ might suggest in the western context.
The original text had very erratic punctuation, with quotation marks often missing or placed incorrectly. I have added these where required, but have stuck to the original tenses and first/third person speech as in the original.
I must profusely thank Musharraf Farooqi who was instrumental not only in my learning to read and write the Urdu script but who has also offered valuable feedback on this, my first attempt at translating Urdu prose. I must also thank Professor Abdur Rasheed for helping with a sentence in Bhojpuri or Magahi that I was struggling with.
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Annie Zaidi is the author of City of Incident, Aleph Book Company, 2022, Prelude to a Riot, Aleph Book Company, 2019, Bread, Cement, Cactus: A memoir of belonging and dislocation, Cambridge University Press, 2020. She is also the editor of Unbound: 2000 Years of Indian Women’s Writing, Rupa Publications, 2016. Other published works include the novella Gulab, Harper First Edition, 2014, one collection of short stories Love Stories # 1 to 14, HarperCollins, 2012, and a collection of essays Bantering with Bandits and Other True Tales, Aleph Book Company, 2023. She also writes scripts and won The Hindu Playwright Award (2018) for her script Untitled 1. Her work has appeared in several anthologies and literary journals including The Griffith Review, The Aleph Review, The Massachusetts Review, The Portside Review, The Missing Slate and Out of Print.