Begum

Ibn-e-Sa’id

(M.H.Askari)

Translated by Shama Askari

 

‘Draw a protective circle around yourselves.’

Begum’s dulcet, melodious voice echoed. Begum’s voice always stood apart from the others, there was a sweetness to her voice, as if in the background there was a tinkling of anklets, perhaps that was also the truth. In spite of her age, in spite of the flaccid white skin on her arms, in spite of the layer of grey covering her deep blue eyes, there was a tinkling of anklets in the background. Silver anklets which astonished most listeners.

Begum started to read the Ayatul Kursi* in a low tone, her eyelids closed softly over her deep blue eyes and a tender smile spread across her lips; all the people silently listened to her whispered recitation. At the end of the recitation, she drew an imaginary circle in the air with her index finger, and then she softly clapped her hands thrice and knocked and, for a few moments a hushed silence fell on the large hall, the only intrusion was the sound of people’s breathing.

There was a deep silence in the hall.

There was silence in the walled courtyard outside, the door of the courtyard was closed, but there was silence beyond that as well. The branches of the ancient peepul tree in the courtyard supported myriads of nests. Suddenly a bird would get startled and flutter its wings and leave its leafy shelter and dive into another one silencing the sound of the fluttering wings and the deep silence would resume.

I looked at Begum again — her eyes were no longer anxious, and her smile had deepened, but the rest of the people still seemed panic stricken. I thought to myself that Begum was a strange woman, she still seemed calm and carried a hint of a smile while the rest of the people seemed agitated. Then inadvertently I found myself calming down gazing at Begum’s face.

Begum said, ‘If you draw an imaginary circle, then everything becomes all right. The heart finds peace, it has been told that those who draw the imaginary circle are blessed by the panjtan,** one remains in the shadow of the All Mighty.’ It seemed as if Begum’s words were like balm, people drew strength from her words and for a while their worries seemed distant, and the noise that was clamouring in my mind also fell silent.

There were twenty or twenty-five people in the hall. There were many women from this neighbourhood — who sat with vacant eyes. Some women were gaudily dressed as if in their panic they had simply stepped out of their homes exactly as they were. Their clothes were embellished with tarnished gold and silver lace. These flashy, expensive clothes were now crumpled with numerous creases and seemed less bright. Constant use of makeup had left these women with dry and rough lips and cheeks, the lack of makeup making it all the more obvious. This crowd also comprised of plump young children and slender young girls who had not yet entered adulthood, but their faces carried a certain harshness. Often these boys and girls would become oblivious of their surroundings and converse amongst themselves, they would sit in corners or around the pillars in this hall and play childish games, when the women who accompanied them fell into that awful silence the children would return and huddle around them.

There were three middle-aged women squatting near Begum, their style of sitting and their mannerism made them seem common. One of them was nursing a baby, when she became animated and started gesticulating with her hands the baby would lose his grip on her breast, which in turn would make him howl and the woman would shove her nipple back into his mouth without a glance. She would gesture with her hand and say, ‘Sister I want to know what is going to happen now?’

‘You wonder what will happen,’ her companion who was sitting in a vulgar manner with her pajama’s pulled up above her knees interjected. She continued stroking her knee. ‘What will happen? Exactly what would happen here, what else?’  A third woman replied with a vulgar laugh, the other two smiled in unison, the woman continued, ‘This doesn’t concern us, we ran a business here and we will run a business where we go.’

But the nursing mother seemed uncertain and continued saying, ‘I wonder what will happen,’ and the second woman continued stroking the rough skin on her knee.

… And then what happened was, that the storm that was brewing, away from Begum’s thoughts, started writhing and suddenly exploded. One, two, three, four! Four shots were fired in rapid succession, and they skimmed the top of the peepul tree scaring the sheltering birds. The nursing mother and her companions fell silent, their indecent smiles disappeared. Immediately after the shots were fired, the sound of running feet could be heard outside as if someone was running for his life, people were chasing this man and shouting slogans. The mingled sounds of running feet confirmed that there were many people outside; we wondered who they were chasing and creating such a pandemonium, and who they would target next. The women sitting in the hall drew closer to Begum, but Begum’s face still carried a hint of a smile. She said… ‘don’t lift your shadow- Oh pure panjtan, we only have you to support us.’ Then, in a louder voice, ‘don’t panic, there is no reason to panic, this calamity will remain outside our circle.’ Nevertheless, people grew more anxious, and I thought again that these imaginary circles were useless, Begum’s incessant prayers were also worthless, at such moments when one’s mind is taken over by some demon even the great saints become ineffective. Great lions weaken, and at this moment the people who were chanting slogans and firing shots were surely possessed by some demon goddess, and the storm continued to boil and churn and flex its wings. And Begum continued to blink her velvety eyes, whispering her prayers.

Gradually the noise dissipated, the sound of footsteps receded, the sound of the bullets reached the horizon and drowned. Begum’s prayers were answered. Her imaginary circle once gain stopped the storm, and I thought once again that Begum was a strange woman, she had spent her life in sin, yet her prayers were swiftly answered.

*Verse from the Koran

** The five revered personages

 

Begum’s haveli was in the oldest most famous part of the city and held a certain significance. This old fashioned haveli was built at a height and stood apart from the rest of the surrounding homes. The tall gates had two plaster pillars on either side painted white, with designs of angels painted in blue, these angels were travelling in a caravan the weight of which were supported by two stone elephants, and because of these elephants the haveli came to be known as the ‘Haveli of the Elephants.’ This haveli was at a short distance from where we lived, and as a young person when I passed it, back and forth on my way to school, I would feel a flutter in my entire being which was a very strange experience.

Begum’s haveli was at a slight distance from the bazaar in a narrow lane. This bazar had old fashioned buildings on either side of the road, there were various shops on the ground floors which were crowded with businessmen trading during the course of the day, and the upper stories housed stereotypical flats with ornate balconies. These balconies were strung with long chains of beads or hung with blinds made out of thin bamboo. These rows of beads would sometimes offer a glimpse of the colour beyond them, the pedestrians would arch their necks impatiently and stare at them.

One day as I was coming back from school, I got totally engrossed in looking at the stone elephants at the entrance of Begum’s haveli, her eldest son Mumtaz came and stood next to me. We studied in the same school, but Mumtaz wasn’t allowed to enter our home. He said, ‘Come inside.’

I was dumfounded and my heart was hammering in my chest — I truly believed if were to cross the threshold of this house, the elephants would come alive and throw down those plaster pillars placed on their heads. Mumtaz was oblivious of my run-away thoughts, and he reiterated, ‘Come inside, we can play hide and seek, we have many places to hide,’ and he caught hold of my hand and took me indoors.

There was a large courtyard in the haveli with a huge peepul tree in the corner. There was a small stone pond at the foot of the tree with a small tap dripping a slow stream of water into it. There was a terrace beyond the pond and beyond the terrace were two hallways flanked by tall pillars and arches, in front of which hung curtains. There was nothing exceptional about the architecture or the layout of the haveli, it was similar to the haveli’s surrounding our house, but I still found it enchanting and strange, as if I had entered a maze. There was a low takht placed on the stone terrace, and a buxom, middle-aged woman was sitting on it, I suddenly understood that that was Begum and my heart started to race, I asked Mumtaz timidly ‘who is she?’

Mumtaz smiled and said, ‘this is my Amma Begum,’ then he raised his voice and called out to his mother, ‘look Amma Begum, we have a visitor.’

Begum had been busy looking over a book —she raised her eyes and looked at us and I realsied that she was a beautiful woman in spite of her age. Her skin was fair and clear, and her hair was curly and thick, her eyelids were heavy and drooped, the flesh on her arms was flabby yet she had an air of grandeur about her. All the while that she looked at me I had strange whistling sensation in my ears.

I spoke in a small, frightened voice, ‘perhaps I shouldn’t have come here.’

She smiled and asked, ‘why?’

‘I have always been stopped from coming here,’ I stammered in reply. Begum did not say anything. She continued to smile and continued to look at Mumtaz and myself, then she asked me to come closer and she said, ‘what class are you in?’

I replied, ‘class six, I am in the same class as Mumtaz, but I am always ahead of him.’

She smiled and pushed a book in front of me, ‘what is the name of this book?’

Divan-e-Hafiz, I spelt the name written on the slim cardboard cover of the book.

She said, ‘well-done, what is written on page one?’

I took the book from her hands, but the writing swam before my eyes and I said, ‘Persian is taught from class seven in our school, I will start Persian next year.’

She asked Mumtaz to draw closer and she said, ‘Son, what is written on the first page of this book?’

Mumtaz took the book from her hands and in a single breath read the entire poem and I was astonished because he was considered to be the quietest and slowest student in the class. And he had just read this entire poem with great speed.

I tried to hide my own embarrassment and said, ‘he has probably learnt this by heart, he does not know Persian because Persian is taught from grade seven in our school.’

Begum ignored me and continued to smile and said to Mumtaz, ‘My son, why don’t you explain, how we use this book for divination and search for a prophesy in Divan-e-Hafiz.’ And Mumtaz rattled off like a parrot and he said, ‘first you read the Bismillah, then you read the Qul thrice, then you take God’s name and open a random page of the Divan and place your finger on a verse instinctively; the meaning of that verse is the prophecy.’

Begum continued to smile with a particular expression on her face, and I continued to feel embarrassed. She asked me to come closer and she embraced me in her soft arms, I found that a bit strange, I could smell the faint scent of ittar wafting off her kurta, and I thought to myself that my mother and my sisters only applied ittar on Eid and special occasions. I continued to smell the ittar long after, the skin on her arms was cool, it seemed as if she had just taken a bath. It suddenly occurred to me that if my mother could see me now with Begum, who lived in the haveli of the elephants, who my mother referred to in whispers and whose sons were forbidden from entering our house, what difference would it make if she were to see me now?… I thought to myself as I disengaged myself from her arms, deciding that I was not going to tell a soul in my house about this meeting.

Begum asked me in her soft melodious voice, ‘are you fond of studying?’

I replied, ‘a lot.’

‘Do you want to learn Persian?’

‘But our school…’

She cut me off and said, ‘what difference does that make, if you are interested then come over with Mumtaz, I will also teach you Persian, by the time you reach grade seven you would have read Gulistan Bostaan and I will teach you how to make a prophesy from the Divan.’

I said with some trepidation, ‘how will I come here, what if my mother hears about it?’

She replied with a smile, ‘she is not going to stop you from learning Persian, a person travels to the end of the world to gain knowledge!’ there was a hint of mischief in her voice.

I replied, ‘I will come over without telling her.’

I would go across to Begum’s house with Mumtaz almost every day. Each and every room in that haveli was unique, the large hall in the haveli was adorned with fans and frills, the frills were soiled with grime and the dirt flies left behind. Chandeliers hung above the fans and during the day the sun would infuse it with all kinds of colours and at night the electric bulbs would enhance them. The walls were adorned with large, ornate, picture frames. The fans, frills, chandeliers and coloured pictures created a strange sensation in me, as if all these things were alive and that they followed me about the Haveli with their millions of eyes.

Begum would say, ‘if you want to learn Persian then you must learn the verbs.’

And I would start reciting the verbs, gender of nouns, plurals of nouns, plural past tense, plural of variety, present tense, adjectives… and much more and I would wonder how Mumtaz who was considered slow in class, who the history teacher would ask to stand on his desk the moment he entered the classroom, how could he remember all the conjugations and memorize all the Persian poems and odes. I would curse Mumtaz in my heart and Begum’s dulcet voice would echo in my ears repeating the verbs. Begum had a deep attachment to Persian, she would not get tired giving multiple examples of the complexity of the grammar and its usage, her voice would not lose its softness and musical quality, gradually I began to understand the rules of grammar. The complicated grammatical rules somehow began to unravel, and I began to translate Hafiz and Saadi, sometimes I would bring along books in Urdu or English to give my Persian addled mind a rest and Begum would say, ‘Don’t read Urdu, this language is a sign of your downfall.’

I would get agitated at her strange logic and snap. ‘I will definitely read Urdu, definitely.’

She would continue to smile without uttering a word and I would add sourly, ‘This Persian language of yours is rubbish, ‘Chunain and Chuna! Kani and Kuna!* What sort of a language is this, I won’t learn it.’

She would reply with a smile, ‘then you will remain ignorant,’ and she would recite in Persian Sher–e–Shutur and I would mumble, ‘why are you abusing me in Persian.’

And she would reply, ‘I am not cursing you; this has been said by a famous Iranian poet about those people who don’t understand Persian.’ Silent sobs would well in my heart and a while later I would be at peace and some unseen force would compel me to memorise the grammar and poems. I felt a strange bond with Mumtaz, and Begum’s sweet smile carried a hint of a challenge as if she were saying, ‘fine don’t read Persian, we shall see!’

One day Begum asked me to search for a prophecy from the Divan-e- Hafiz Sheerazi. I blurted, ‘I don’t know how to!’

She explained the procedure to me. Having understood the method I thought to myself that it was good in a way, all these small daily confusions and complications would be laid to rest, the moment any uncertainty arose a prophecy would be ready, I repeated the Qul silently in my heart thinking that Begum might ask me to prophecy and that is what happened, she said, ‘now find a prophesy.’

I asked in bewilderment, ‘a prophesy about what?’

She thought for a while and then replied in a distant voice, ‘for instance, Khan Bahadur Saheb would come today, my heart affirms this, but I have received no news.’

I was agitated. The problem was that I was familiar with Khan Bahadur Saheb, I didn’t have much information about him, all I knew was that the neighbours said strange things about him with a smile and were weary of becoming close acquaintances with him. From a distance he seemed impressive and good humoured — when I had met him for the first time at Begum’s I had seen a certain kind of majesty in his countenance, he was red like a pomegranate, his hair which was greying at the temples was soft and curly, he had a middle parting, and his thick moustache were pointed like partridge wings. Sometimes he would arrive in uniform. His uniform was adorned with ribbons and medals. When I had seen him for the first time at the haveli I had asked Mumtaz secretively, ‘who is he?’ Mumtaz had replied, ‘don’t you know him? This is Khan Bahadur Saheb.’ Khan Bahadur Saheb had smiled at me, he had been sitting next to begum as if he had complete ownership of her, and those of us who learnt Persian from her had none. I was jealous of him. Khan Bahadur Saheb would disappear for months, but when he would suddenly arrive his horse carriage would be loaded with things. He would bring countless presents for Mumtaz and his brothers, colouful shirts and socks, cricket kits, and I would think that it would have been wonderful if we had had a Khan Bahadur Saheb in our lives. My fondest memories of Begum’s haveli were those when Khan Bahadur Saheb was away. That is why I had reacted badly when Begum had asked me to look for prophesy, and I had refused, ‘I won’t look for a prophesy for him.’

Begum had been taken aback at my reaction, and she had asked, ‘why?’

I had replied sourly, ‘he won’t come back, he definitely won’t come back.’

Begum had gently placed her hand on my mouth and patted my back and said, ‘don’t say such things, he will come back, good boy please find a prophesy.’

I replied, ‘if he is going to come back then you find a prophesy yourself, I don’t even know how to do it properly.’

She insisted, ‘I will explain the procedure to you again, learn…you are the only good person in this house at this moment, your prophecy will be correct.’

I was surprised and I added, ‘you are a good person and so is Mumtaz, what is so special about me?’

She replied, ‘you don’t understand, the reason is that you are young and that makes you good, the rest of them are not good.’

I said, ‘you are also good, you offer your prayers and recite the Koran, then what is the problem?’

She said, ‘there is something, that is why I am asking you to look for a prophecy.’ Then she continued to smile in her particular way, and I couldn’t bear the effect of that smile and focused my attention on the prophesy. I paid attention and diligently followed Begum’s instructions, then I closed my eyes and opened a page of Divan-e-Hafiz and placed my finger on a verse.

I spelt it out to Begum and asked her to translate, but her face was flushed, and her cheeks were ablaze. She embraced me and the fragrance of ittar seeped into my mind and body and every vein. She spoke in her silvery voice, ‘that is fine, you have prophesized, and I will explain later.’ The next day Mumtaz told me that last night Khan Bahadur Saheb had arrived unannounced, and he had brought him the entire wicket keeper’s kit. I silently cursed Khan Bahadur Saheb, ‘You complete fraud, I made the prophesy, and you brought the wicket keepers kit for Mumtaz — Complete fraud…’

*Infinitive verbs

**********

Time passed and the locality where Begum lived also changed, slowly but surely everything changed, the ground floor shops on either side of the two-way lane changed, the storekeepers smartened their stores with tiles and floor length mirrors, and instead of the dim glow of lamps in the evenings harsh electric bulbs illuminated even the stones on the streets. Those old-fashioned latticed balconies disappeared, as well as the beaded curtains and blinds and the silk attires which could be glimpsed, but the haveli continued as it was. The colour of the plaster pillars and the elephants supporting them would often change, the colour of the great door with large brass nails would also change, but indoors everything remained the same. The chandeliers in the large halls remained the same and the electric bulbs continued to twinkle, creating colours of the rainbow.

With the passage of time Begum also changed slightly. She put on a little weight and her hair was streaked with silver, and to read Divan-e-Hafiz or Gulistan Bostaan she needed glasses. Even from behind those glasses her velvety eyes would peer at you saying, ‘there is a tremendous amount of sweetness in the Persian language, do you remember Hafiz’s poem Nako Kari Kund and Tara ri Kund.’ I had memorised many of Hafiz’s poems, pages upon pages of Gulistan Bostaan, I would get the highest marks in Persian, even more than Mumtaz and when the results would come out Begum would embrace me with great pride.

Then the War started, and an unseen revolution seeped into every aspect of life, the price of wheat went up, cloth disappeared from the market, and young men from practically every home joined the army and were sent to distant shores. Then life became intolerable. Respected elders belonging to families embroiled in this mess shed their centuries old prejudices. Educated young women gave up the purdah and got jobs in schools and colleges to support their homes. However, there was still a mild resistance towards the ‘Haveli of the Elephants’, and the boys and girls of that haveli were still not welcome in their homes, but they acknowledged each other if they met in a bazaar or a procession or in the cinema or in the restaurant. It seemed as if there was a great gulf between the residents and the people who lived in the haveli. A gulf almost impossible to overcome. No one knew where this gulf started nor where it ended. I would try and overcome this gulf, but I would find myself suspended in a vacuum.

Whenever there was a milad *in the neighborhood or a majlis** the women would unwillingly invite Begum and her daughter Akhtar. Akhtar was Begum’s youngest daughter, in spite of her young age there was an air of sorrow around her, as if she were possessed, perhaps that was the shadow of Begum’s personality. Whoever had seen Begum in her youth commented that Akhtar was her spitting image. It seemed as if time had rolled back twenty or twenty-five years, and Akbari Jaan from Faridabad with her buxom body and velvety eyes had been reborn. But Akhtar’s voice did not have the same dulcet sweetness as Begum’s, instead there was sorrow. Whenever I went to the haveli I would feel as if Akhtar was contemplating something deep and she would absent mindedly keep twisting her dupatta. She hardly ever spoke to me; she would greet me distractedly and fidgeting with her dupatta disappear in some great hall. The neighbours would invite Begum and her daughter to all the milad and majlis because they had melodious voices, and because of them such occasions would come to life. Begum in her loud sorrowful voice would present the ‘bayan’ and the incense sticks would slowly burn down to ashes. The old women covered in black or white dupattas would sob like young girls, and Begum’s voice would echo, it would dip and soar and sometimes an old woman would elbow her neighbor and say, ‘the damned woman has such sorrow in her voice, what power.’

Then Akhtar would start a Marsia*** or a Noha**** in her plaintive, gentle, supple voice. And the young women’s attention would be drawn to her, and each one of them would pray for a voice like hers and they would whisper along with her, for hours the samaa would hold. And when the spell would break a doddering old woman would wipe tears of her wrinkled face and say, ‘the wretched girls,’ and she would glare at all the wretched girls trying to copy Akhtar’s style of rendition. In spite of all the meetings at processions and milad the gulf remained. Perhaps this gulf was truly deep and ancient. This gulf could not be ignored, incorrect perceptions of society, nor the changing status of homes could bridge this gap.

One day, all of a sudden Akhtar disappeared with a boy from the neighbourhood. She left for Bombay and started immediately hunting for a job at a gramophone company. Begum faced this deception with dignity and busied herself looking for prophecies in the Divan-e-Hafiz. But the women of the neighbourhood had a priceless topic to discuss.

My mother said, ‘See, it all boils down to blood. Whatever is in your blood, one day becomes apparent.’

I got agitated and I said, ‘blood does not matter, don’t girls from other homes marry of their own choice?’

My mother did not seem to agree with my logic, and I realized that it was impossible to bridge this gulf. It was better to let it remain.

*Event honouring the Prophet (PBUH)

** An assembly in Moharram

*** dirge,elegy

****lamentation

**********

One night we were all sound asleep. There was a deep silence around us, the rooftops and courtyards were full of sleeping people, whenever there was a light breeze the branches of the old trees would rustle, it would seem as if they were stirring with new signs of life, the criss crossing lights of the streetlamps would enmesh these branches in their web and a game of hide and seek of light and shadows would ensue. We had finally fallen asleep after having tossed and turned in the warm night, then from a distance a sudden noise like the buzzing of flies arose, in the in between time of waking and sleeping I felt as if I were living in a nightmare, a giant swarm of poisonous bees were moving towards me, and it was impossible for me to save myself. I woke up and I could still hear the distant buzzing, and as the breeze picked up the noise grew closer, when we focused on the noise, we realized they were slogans, mixed slogans which unseen people were chanting in the dark of night.

Miles away was a group which was chanting provocative slogans, whenever the noise grew it would seem as if it was getting closer and would soon reach us. People started congregating on rooftops, women, men, and children who had been woken up by this chanting, lights had also been switched on illuminating the worried faces, these people had drawn closer to the edges of the roof, they seemed half dead, they seemed afraid even when speaking amongst themselves, they only whispered. The breeze was stirring the leaves and agitating the birds, the people on rooftops spoke in low voices to their neighbours, they spoke about terrible things.

‘I have heard that there are thousands of people near the fort.’

‘Will they attack the city at three in the morning?’

‘… what is the time?’

‘It’s almost three.’

‘Dear God — please let the morning come in peace! When I hear the Azaan I will do a niaaz* in honour of the Great Pir.’

‘What difference will a niaaz make?’

‘… there has been bloodshed and violence in other cities, the same thing will happen here.’

‘Dear God, God the cherisher.’

‘Let the daybreak.’

‘Let the daybreak.’ This phrase was infused with hope for all the people. They were consciously and subconsciously waiting for morning. As if the morning light would carry some magic which would dispel the terror of those chanting voices. But the morning would not come. In the silence of the night some unseen demon had trapped the feet of time. Time had reached a point now and stood still.

‘How long for daybreak?’

‘Why is there no call for prayers?’

‘I have heard that the area around Jama Masjid has been attacked, who will give the Azaan?’

‘Dear God, please let the daybreak.’

… And then time slowly released itself from the unseen demon’s clutches and the call to prayers echoed in the neighbourhood and a pale light started to spread beyond the treetops and the noise also drowned in the distance. The next day rumours abounded in the city, people frightened and disturbed roamed to and fro, they were afraid to venture far from their homes, they could not determine who had instigated the fearful chanting in the night, where had the unseen crowd disappeared to? Everyone would ask, ‘what will happen now?’

These rallying cries could be heard every night, these chants were the prelude to the storm. The dreadful storm clouds had been hovering at the horizon for a while now, people had their eyes glued to them in terror. Then this storm moved from the horizon towards us. Moment by moment it was drawing closer to us, and all of us felt that this time the storm cloud would burst, and when it burst what would happen? What would happen to the nighbourhood, the settlements, the centuries old boundaries, the women, men, and children whose minds were already occupied worrying about this storm. Whose hearts were already filled with dread and suspicion? Everyone would pose this question, but no one was prepared to answer it.

One day someone was murdered on the main road in our neighbourhood. At dusk three men had surrounded a young boy in a narrow lane with blood curdling cries, in sheer terror the boy had tried to escape, he had been stabbed in the back, the police had arrived at night and taken his body away for a postmortem.

The maulana of the neighbourhood mosque had disappeared one night, when the early morning worshippers arrived at the mosque, the door had been locked shut, which had never happened before, on the third day, maulana’s body was found in a ditch near the fort.

A few days later there was a skirmish between two groups near the fortress ramparts, first they came to blows with sticks, and then knives were drawn. Three were killed, six injured, the police arrived and took away the dead, and the injured were taken to the hospital.

A hand grenade exploded in a newspaper office.

Two cars were set on fire on the main road.

The Pathan guard at the petrol pump was stabbed in his sleep.

Countless incidents like these came to light in many localities. There was fear and panic everywhere, rumors abounded and then the centuries old barriers began to break. People abandoned their centuries old ancestral homes and moved to other localities where they could identify their compatriots, where they would make groups and roam around. Every morning you could witness the droves of people fleeing, men with their belongings on their heads, the women with their burqas on their heads and small bundles in the crook of their elbows, clutching small children, moving swiftly, breathless from one lane to another, from one neghbourhood to another neighbourhood, from one area to another area, from one city to another city. A caravan with no beginning, an exodus of people with no destination.

Most of the houses in our neighbourhood emptied out. Every night the chanting voices grew louder and each morning the houses grew emptier. Abandoned homes, devoid of women’s voices and the sounds of crying children and the rattling of pots and pans. When curfew was imposed the silence became even more oppressive. When curfew was lifted people would venture out in twos and threes and converse amongst each other in fearful voices, new rumors would abound, they would console themselves with lies and return home even more uncertain, even more afraid. The homes which had been abandoned remained empty for a few days, but then one day a mob broke the locks and smashed the windows, they piled up the belongings on the road outside and set fire to it. When the flames leapt to the sky it infused the mob with a new life, their chanting grew louder, some of them would ferret what they needed from these burning pyres and, these pyres continued to burn.

The storm clouds had gathered on our heads, the remaining people in the neighbourhood were sending their women and children to other localities. What was strange, that in spite of being in the eye of the storm, in the centre of this fear and uncertainty, Begum’s haveli remained an island of calm, whenever I found the time and visited Begum the same smile would dance around her lips, her eyes held no terror like the eyes of the women around her, like the eyes of my mother and sisters, even now she would calmly sit on her takht and look for prophecies in the verses of Divan-e-Hafiz, and whisper prayers under her breath, and the peace on her face and her eyes would remain constant.

My mother said, ‘Begum seems content, she is certain that there will be an admirer in the blood thirsty mob who will spare her.’

I replied, ‘that is very unfair, maybe her heart is at peace and that is why she remains so calm.’

‘Hunh,’ my mother grunted and continued, ‘when is your heart at “peace?”’

I replied in agitation, ‘she prays, she recites the Koran and that is why she is at peace.’

My mother was not convinced, and she said, ‘we all do the same, but if there is something to fear then one is afraid.’

Our old cook interjected, ‘I have heard, that her grandmother became a repentant and spent her time at a shrine, perhaps the saint of the shrine has his shadow over her.’

My mother was still not convinced.

When the entire neighbourhood emptied out, the few remaining people which included my mother and sisters gathered in one place. They agreed that Begum’s haveli seemed the most peaceful and safe and that they should take shelter there. Many of the upper-class women who would shudder crossing Begum’s gate found this advice strange, however, the fear of death loomed larger, and that old barrier did not prove strong enough and they moved into Begum’s haveli. Begum saw them and said, ‘with your coming my unfortunate home will be blessed.’ They made themselves at home in Begum’s house as if they had a right over it. Begum continued to recite the Koran blowing her prayers over them, she continued to read the Aytul Kursi creating imaginary circles around them.

A few women had already taken shelter in Begum’s haveli. These were the women from behind the latticed balconies and bead partitions, whose sweat smelled of makeup, when the area was cleaned up, they were removed from their balconies and sent to a remote area into multi storied buildings. When even their locality was not spared, some women disappeared, and some found shelter with Begum. In spite of living in the same house, surrounded by the same fear, the upper-class women remained aloof from these women, and the ancient gulf remained.

After this, the towering demonic clouds of this storm hovered multiple times over our heads and exploded, but Begum’s imaginary circles kept them at bay. Whenever there was commotion on the streets with people chanting at a feverish pitch, the sounds of gunshots being fired mingled with screams, then every terrified person in Begum’s house would believe that the magical circle would break, and the storm would enter the haveli. But the storm would abate, and the noise would die down and the smell of gunpowder would be carried away by the breeze and everyone would think, ‘Begum is a strange woman, God has bestowed her prayers with such power!’ Then the upper-class women would gather and sit apart in some corner and eye the rest of the women with suspicious eyes, whose clothes were embellished with tarnished lace and their faces were ruined with too much makeup. I would find this interaction amusing at times and at other times disgraceful, I would often feel that it would be better if this storm broke, because it would bring down these useless barricades and bridge this gulf.

*Offering

**********

There was a deep silence on the road and an unpleasant smell wafting off it.

A few days ago, there had been an attack where the horse carriages were stationed and in the dark of night many horses had broken their tethers and fled, the sound of their pounding hooves had echoed frighteningly off the walls. These runaway horses had disappeared, one had however crashed into a wall near Begum’s haveli, it had broken its fore legs and injured itself, the horse lay in agony on the street and its blood seeped into the tarmac. Its heavy body still lay there, and the smell of the rotting corpse spread far and wide and the people in the haveli inhaled it constantly.

There was complete silence on the road, the streetlamps stood like skeletons with their arms out spread. Things had been calmer for the last two days; the curfew was still in place, but the sound of chanting had quietened down and the sounds of gunfire had also subsided.

A woman who had been squatting shoved her flabby breast into her child’s mouth and said, ‘I believe seats are now available on aircrafts to escape this hell.’

‘Yes, that’s what I have heard, but who will listen to us?’ A woman sitting close to her said. ‘Why won’t somebody listen to us? Till we have blood in our bodies and there is heat in our blood, someone is bound to listen to us,’ and they smiled in a knowing manner. Their smile seemed alien in this atmosphere and the rest of the women gathered around — my mother and the rest looked on enviously.

The woman with the baby repeated what she had said, ‘I have heard you can get seats on an aircraft.’

‘Yes, we have also heard, think of a way out.’

‘Yes, you must try with conviction.’

‘We own the world if we remain alive, hiding in this haveli will get us nowhere.’

Begum heard them and drew close to them and said, ‘Why are you in a rush, let the riots die down, you will find seats on a plane.’

‘Fine, we are in no rush,’ the woman with the baby replied sarcastically.’

‘I have two young lives with me,’ another added.

‘It will make no difference to you Begum, your time has gone, even Akhtar has found a place for herself. You could remain here or there, we are worried about our future, if we escape this hell, we can restart with our lives.’

The women’s pointed remarks left a momentary sadness on Begum’s face, and a bitterness lurked briefly in her smile. The women continued speaking amongst themselves ignoring Begum, and my mother eyed these common women with envy.

The woman with the baby and the rest of them continued whispering all day and by the evening their faces were glowing as if they had reached a decision and they were content. The restlessness and worry that had been lurking in their eyes had vanished. The next morning the woman with the baby got up and got dressed, she drew a line of kohl in her eyes, she palmed the baby off to her friend and left the haveli after the curfew had been lifted. Her friends accompanied her to see her off, I also walked to the gatehouse, she turned back and looked at her friends and said, ‘I am terrified, I have never stepped outdoors during the day.’ They all laughed in a vulgar manner. The woman’s high heels clicked on the surface of the road, and she disappeared from view. She remained away the whole day and her baby whimpered the whole time, she had not returned by the evening and by this time the baby was crying with full force. The curfew which had been lifted was back in place, the last rays of the sun circumambulated the peepul tree and vanished, but she did not come back. Fear and uncertainty spread amongst her friends, they fell silent, each one of them would pass the baby around, sing to it and pat him to sleep. The baby continued to howl and search for some unknown thing.

The next morning there was a loud pounding on the gate, which jolted us. The women looked at each other with concern and Begum answered the door. A truck was parked outside full of young men, the woman was seated amongst them, her face was flushed as if she had applied makeup and her clothes were crumpled. She was sitting at the back of the truck and smiling calmly and the men sitting with her were laughing coarsely. Those women with their common bearings and plain faces clutched their belongings, grabbed their children, and clambered into the waiting truck. Before they departed Begum drew a protective circle around them at which the women laughed in a disgusting way. One of them said, ‘of what use is this now?’

The other piped up, ‘now there are only blessings in Begum’s house, we are leaving, only the pure remain behind.’ They laughed and the truck departed. Begum seemed a little dazed and she closed the door of the gatehouse. And my mother kept gazing at the door longingly.

After the truck had departed, the people in the haveli also began to seem like lost souls, it appeared as if they were lacking something, the fear and restlessness was no longer visible in their eyes it had been replaced by an emptiness. It appeared as if they were questioning each other, ‘what will happen to us? Those women found a way out.’  Even Begum seemed a little quieter amongst these women, she was surrounded by them, yet remained apart. I would think that Begum was now alone on the other side of the gulf which had existed from time immemorial. We were well aware that Begum could have departed with the women and boarded the truck and escaped from this hell. For some unknown reason she had chosen to remain alone on this side of the gulf. Her particular smile had also become pale in comparison, she seemed preoccupied. The people in the haveli spent the next two days after the truck had left in this daze, but no one was prepared to speak openly. When I woke up on the third day, I saw that Begum was seated in the courtyard adorning herself.

The makeover completely changed Begum’s personality, the silver streaks in her hair had disappeared, she had perhaps applied hair dye the night before, her wavy dark hair was now embellished with colourful clips, and her cheeks glowed like the rosy bloom of flowers.

I had seen Begum adorn herself for the first time and I inadvertently remembered the Parsi girls from forty years ago who were the stars of theatrical companies like Baliwala and Great Alfred. When Begum completed her makeover, she elegantly stepped in front of the full-length mirror, looked at her reflection and placed a red bindi in the centre of her forehead. Her full body seemed slender in a closely draped sari.

I had never before seen Begum so dressed up. This makeover had transported her into the past of twenty years ago. The Begum of twenty years ago was undesirable in spite or her being exceedingly attractive. There was something common about her which I had never been aware of, she no longer seemed like the Begum whom I had known for such a long time — she had transformed completely. A character whose house I wasn’t allowed to step into, for whom Khan Bahadur Saheb arrived laden with gifts and I understood that these barriers which had existed for centuries were in place for a reason. These were not imaginary barriers — these were real, and it was better if this gulf remained firmly in place.

My mother and the rest of the women were speechless when they saw Begum. They understood in one glance Begum’s new stance. They never said anything amongst themselves but continued to look at her with reproof; whenever Begum felt their disapproving gaze, she tried to busy herself elsewhere.

When Begum had completed her makeover, she said, ‘All of you should remain here, I am going out.’ My mother looked at her with pleading eyes, as if she wanted to say a lot of things to her but lacked the courage to do so.

There was regret in the eyes of the women and I felt extremely annoyed at their helplessness.

In my heart, in agitation, I said to Begum, ‘If you had wanted to walk out looking like this, you should have left with the others.’ I knew that Begum would pick up on the sarcastic, harsh tone of my voice but at that point I didn’t want to conceal it. For a few moments she continued to look at me with her particular smile — I turned my face away in scorn— I did not want to see this transformation of the Begum I knew, to the Begum she was twenty years ago.

Begum spoke after a brief silence, ‘you are very silly, you are so much older, but you are still incapable of thinking. If I remain sitting here, then for how long are we going to continue living like prisoners? What will happen to us?

I remained silent; I was still perplexed. My mother and the rest of the women were silent, and their helplessness was hammering at my mind, Begum continued speaking, ‘we gain nothing from sitting at home, we have no idea for how long the atrocities are going to continue.’

I spoke up, ‘but what can you do?’ and I could feel tears choking my throat.

She replied, ‘what would you know? You are still a child, after all, that woman had also figured things out, I will venture forth.’

I was speechless, there was a hint of defeat in Begum’s voice, but she was trying to smile victoriously, as she moved towards the gatehouse she looked at my mother and the rest of the women and said, ‘I don’t want you to worry, I feel this terrible omen lifting, I have drawn the circle around you…If you draw the protective circle then… you remain under God’s shadow.’

I accompanied her to the gate house, and she asked in a whisper in her musical voice, ‘do you still remember how to find a prophesy from Divan-e-Hafiz?’ I replied in a choked voice, ‘Yes, I remember.’

She said, ‘wonderful, you are a good boy. That day you had found a prophesy for Khan Bahadur Saheb, please have a great prophecy ready for me, I should be back soon. May God be with you.’

I remained silent and worried as Begum stepped outside. The elephants were still there, silent and eternal, shouldering the heavy pillars. I could hear the sound of Begum’s feet echoing on the road, then the sound slowly faded away and I shut the door and returned indoors.

Begum’s makeup was strewn across her dressing table in the courtyard, in the middle of this mess lay the leather-bound Diwan-e-Hafiz, with Begum’s name engraved in gold on it. I picked up the Divan and flipped through the pages, my mother came and stood beside me, and she asked, ‘are you looking at this book?’

I replied, ‘Divan-e-Hafiz, Begum always looks for prophesies from this book.’

My mother smiled — now there was a look of contentment in her smile. She said, ‘Yes I have heard that the prophesies from Divan-e-Hafiz are always accurate and divinely inspired, come, lets search for a prophesy.’

 

The 2022 Jawad Memorial Prize- India

(Runner-up)