Riffat Murtaza

(Author’s note: this is based on a true story. Some details were also altered a little and  names were changed. All for privacy’s sake.)

Summer afternoons are treacherous. better not rely on them.

When Nooran came to clean the house, no one was there to tell her chores of the day. First she thought she would go back and tomorrow if the Khanum enquired she would say she did clean the house and went back home. But then her good conscience scolded her for making up a lie and the resultant hell fire. She touched her ear lobes said a prayer and picked up the rag and the big broom to start her cleaning work. She was not aware someone in the house was watching her.

This was Asad. the young lad of the house who had recently joined the ranks of the “I dream of  Jeannie” brigade.  He had seen Nooran almost every day but a couple of weeks ago he saw her in a different setting, and could not get her out of his system. That historic day, she was hanging the laundry after washing it in the courtyard. Her clothes all wet, her hands stretched heaven word spreading a towel on the line, she looking interesting. She was not a “hoorie or a parie”  woman but there was something about her that day that Asad got smitten by and the venom was rushing through his veins madly. He started watching her… biding for an opportunity to be close to her. Today was his day. When she came to his room with the big broom in her hand and a folk song on her lips, he was ready.

She put down the broom and rolled her sleeves up once again and bent down to pick up the broom. Asad who was hiding behind the door, shot out of his hiding place and put his arms around Nooran and tried to turn her around towards him. Nooran, frightened at this sudden intrusion, let out a blood-curling scream and pried open the hands squeezing her and faced the culprit.

“Asad? is that you Asad?” she almost spat the words out.

“You- this and that- how dare you? You…”  She picked up the broom and started hitting Asad.

“I will give you what you were looking for… you- my husband will be happy to to give you- this, oh just you wait.  You can have all you want- all you want- your mother will be home soon- you- this and that …”

Asad forgetting his failed amorous attempt, tried to dodge the thrashing and ran out of room chased by her.

“You think you will get away with your-? Oh no, I will give you … ”

Now they were running in circles around the water pump, trash bin and a couple of weather beaten rattan chairs in the courtyard when suddenly the door opened and in came Asad’s  taya- Nasir. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his nephew being chased around the courtyard by Nooran with her big broom which had gotten loose by now- its long bristles scattered all over the courtyard.

“Hoy. Whats is this? what is going on. Why are you both running around? Stop it Nooran! What is going on? Shame on you, you are beating a Syed with a broom? no respect for a Syed? Have you lost your senses?”

“Ask your- nephew,  this syed son of a Ranjha here, ask him because I am mad, too mad. If I tell Dulla - and I certainly will - he will kill this- this…” she threw down the broken broom and started crying. “We are poor people but we are honorable people. This thug, this… tried to violate this poor woman’s honor. Look at him… he is just a lad, a chhokra. But if you look at him but inside?  He is the granddad of shaitan”  She sat down on the ground and covering her face with her dupatta, started wailing.

“What did you do Asad?” taya Nasir turned to Asad, who just stood there, looking at his bare feet.

“Hoy, I asked you something” Taya Nasir thundered.

“Nothing”  Asad confessed meekly.

“Nothing? Then why this woman is crying?”

“Don’t know taya.” Another meek answer. “Swear to God, I didn’t do anything to her.”

It was becoming difficult for Taya Nasir to contain his laughter.

“Chal ja apne kamre mein! Go to your room and wait there. I will come and talk to you later.”

From the corner of his eye, Asad looked at Nooran and went to his room. Once he was gone, Taya turned to Nooran. but before he addressed her, he put his hand in the side pocket of his kurta and seprated a few notes from the wad of currency he always carried in his pocket.

You never know when you would be in dire need of some cash… Money is the ultimate solution to every problems, was his philosophical approach that he applied to any situation he faced. It certainly helped further his political aspirations.

“I am sorry Nooran. I will take care of that stupid boy. I assure you that I will make sure he never ever dares bother you again. Just forgive him this one time. Chal uthh puttar, go home and take a day off. Don’t upset Dulla. Whats the use anyway. Asad’s parents will be upset too and you both will lose your jobs. Of course you don’t want that to happen, so what I would do is not tell them either.”

Nooran slowly got up then sat down again to collect the bristles to tie back the broom.

Go home Nooran, I will take care of that. Here, take this and buy yourself a new broom. He handed her the money. Her eyes widened when she saw the numbers, then she was out of the door in a flash.

Taya Nasir, pleased with himself, gave a little chuckle and went to Asad’s room.

“OK khotiya, now tell me why she was chasing you?” Then he gave a long and hearty laugh… “As if I don’t know what happened, but, I want to hear it from you. chal shabaash, ho ja shuroo…”

He gave another booming laugh and laid himself down on Asad’s bed plumping the pillow and taking a comfortable position.  He was ready to listen to an amusing ‘anecdote’.

I was alone and lonely but I think I was quite used to it now.

I was seventeen years old. Just finished my second year of college and for not getting enough marks in one subject, could not get into the third year of college. The subject in question was English language… barely passed but not good enough. I was scheduled to appear in Compartment Exams after three months and that would be September. Study time was summer with the accompanying grueling heat and discomfort. But if I wanted to go to college – which I did – I had to clear this exam. And to achieve that, I had to study, and study hard.

Now at this stage in my life and with all those years behind me, I can understand why I didn’t make it in that subject.

I was the brightest student in my class. Active participant in all the projects, ever ready to help fellow students, loved to read Shakespeare out loud while others at the first mention of this name would have an Epileptic fit. Whenever we were given an assignment to give our views on some particular piece of literature, I would have a field day. In fact that was my favorite thing and – alas – the reason for my downfall, meaning not getting enough marks in my English Lit paper to get admission in third year of college.

One question in my English lit paper was about a green door (I am sure the color was green). Let me rephrase: there was a short story in my English Lit course about a man and a green door that during the course of his life, he would suddenly see. Why was that? It was not explained in the story. I do not fully remember the whole story now but the question delighted me because it was a simple and easy question. Then I made the mistake. Instead of sticking to the point and just writing down when and where he saw that green door, I strayed in the sense that I started analyzing why he saw those doors like a psychoanalyst would probe and dig and try to go deeper down your psyche. When I reluctantly finished the “answer”, I had used up half of my allotted time. I rushed into the rest of the questions and my answers and obviously didn’t impress the person who corrected my paper. Though, I tell you, I am very proud of my treatment of that particular answer to this day. A psychoanalyst would have been impressed. Alas, the examiner didn’t share my sentiments.

Now, we go back to the beginning.

So lonely and alone, a girl was studying her English Lit course once again in the sweltering heat and humidity of a long summer. I would go in the spare room in our house and study the course with a dejected heart. I had fallen from grace and everybody ignored me. Well that’s how I took it at that time. It could have been something else, like giving me some space to study undisturbed.

My mother had stopped talking to me because she had said how inconvenient this would be for the family. It was not going to be easy to take me to another city to appear in the examination. Naturally I reacted to this comment. What do you expect from a teenager after all? So the argument between a mother and her ‘aflatoon’ child earned the child her mother’s regal wrath, I was the pariah, the social outcast of the family. I was certain my mother hated me. I resigned to this and tried not to cross paths with her.

Confined to my environments, I would sometimes miss meals, or if wanted to eat, I would go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea and toast some bread with it, or bring a banana or an apple to my room to eat later when hungry. This went on for one whole week. Then one night when the rest of the house was asleep and I was so tired of my books and everything that I, spreading my arms on the table, put my head on the open book and started crying, the last thing a very proud, sure of herself teenager would do.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my head that made me sit up and see who it may be. I don’t know who told her or how she found out but there she was standing beside me, stroking my head.

“It is hard, I know it is hard. I never went to a formal school or maybe I did, but it was just a Middle School, but I can imagine, I can think. You are going through a bad time, but it will pass.”

Then she pushed a small bowl full of almonds, on the table. You are not eating properly. How do you think you are going to remember anything if you deprive yourself of nourishment. I do not want to say more because you are an obstinate child, your father’s child. Now go to bed. You can start again tomorrow. She smiled and left the room.

So, she loved me after all. I too smiled and went to my bed.

She did it again.

But before going any further, I must mention that in two days - to be exact, she will be celebrating her sixth birthday. That is how old she is. Old or young, this sharp-witted, quick and clear-thinking child sometimes leaves people speechless. Her older sister is an angel, sweet and happy, smiling, gifted… super intelligent.

But the little one ? Well how to start and where to start; first you have to decide that.

Every one says that she has her Dadi’s looks. Does the resemblance start and end there? I sometimes wonder. I was already reading children storybooks and able to write complete sentences when I started school. Was somebody tutoring me at home? Maybe. All I know is that it was a very ‘parrhaku’, book reading family. I also got bit by the reading bug. How and when? memory does not help!

Enough said, we return to our little unpredictable wonder.

Among other prim and proper habits, she never overeats. She will never eat just because there is more to eat. Once, she decides that she is full, you can’t force even a morsel on her. So one evening, when I came to the dinner table, she was still sitting there, staring at her plate where there were some peas and corn staring back. I asked why was she not finishing her food? she said she was full and could not eat more. Then, pushing her chair back she was about to leave when I said that leaving food in the plate was not good manners and we all should take only as much as we could eat.

She said what could she do, her mama gave her too much. I said OK, I will finish it. To this she gave me the sweetest smile and pushing the plate towards me said, “Ok Dadi you can finish my food. Its only a little bit.” and went towards her room.

But half-way there she turned around and looked at me with a lofty, know all style “But dadi, make sure you don’t over stuff yourself”.

All I could do was look at her royal, receding back and a spoon full of peas and corn.

Once again they were together.

After prayers, they sat down around the ‘dasterkhan’ to share the food everyone had brought for themself plus two. There were a variety of dishes and it was more than enough for everybody.

“People, who pray together and eat togather, stay together.” someone said.

“Wah, wah kia pate ki baat kahi mare yaar ne” (what my friend just said is so true) someone agreed.

Many nodded their heads.

A few minutes passed in silence; then someone asked the person sitting next to him. “How is your business doing?”

There was no response for a while. then he gave a little chuckle and said, “First you will listen to the story I am going to tell, after that we will talk about my business.”

“OK, lets hear it then.”

So the story began…

“Once upon a time there was a monkey who wanted to marry a cat. One day he decided to propose to her. She listened to him nicely but said that she would only agree if he promised to protect her children from the hungry lion who, every time she has babies, comes and eats them. The monkey promptly promised to protect her and her babies from the hungry lion.

They got married.

The cat once again had the babies but she was not worried because the monkey had promised to protect her and the babies. But when the lion came to eat them, the monkey climbed a tree and as the lion ate the kittens, the monkey kept coming down the tree then going up again. And as he was doing this up and down, up and down, the lion finished off all the babies and left.

The cat was heartbroken. She asked the monkey why didn’t he keep his promise, why did he not save her poor babies…

The monkey said didn’t she see him running up and down, hither and tither, up and down… so much running around he did to save them, but still nothing happened; the lion ate them all!

There was silence - thoughts were flying around - minds were at work.

The next day someone emailed the story to the higher up.

“Cat be neutered,” came the reply.

What could be the reason? Why was sleep so elusive? Was it because of a crossword right before going to bed or it was something on my mind- and to escape from that thought, I had picked up the newspaper and started doing the daily crossword? I don’t know. Mind has its own ways to deal with ‘thoughts’.

I have endured insomnia and have fought a losing war with it. I lived in Sakardu, Pakistan for almost over a year. Not being used to living at high altitude, I was edgy and restless at first and then developed insomnia. It was really bad. But then after a couple of months things started to improve and I was able to get some decent amount of sleep and felt refreshed. Though, I cannot say that I was completely cured. Without any warning, I would still stay wide eyed till the early hours. But I was young and healthy and a very happy and proud mother of- now, a five month old first born. What was a night or two of sleeplessness going to do?!

A friend working in the Pakistan Army was also stationed there. He had the same problem and his doctor had prescribed Valium and told him to have half a pill (I do not know the potency) at bedtime. Being a good friend he advised me to do the same. Who, me? No sir, not in a million years. Thank you very much. I have a mortal fear of tranquilizers. I weigh my options first before a final decision to even take a painkiller like Tylenol.

Anyway, that was a long time ago. We finally bade farewell to K-2 and the other snow bound mountains and came down to the land of five rivers. Sleepless nights lost reality. Only once in a while when nostalgia strikes, we still take those times out of memory bank, dust it lovingly, handling it like something precious then putting it back in the vault for other times. I even talk about my insomnia, like a good old, long lost friend.

So what happened now that robbed me of my good night sleep? I think I have found out why.

I like making crosswords. Have been doing it for years now. But always in the morning, after breakfast I go over the headlines, read, if something seems interesting - a column, a letter to the editor, editorial, some sales announcement - anything.  After that it’s the crossword on the last page and me. Once done, I am ready to embrace my day.

It was an important appointment on the other side of the town and for that I had to start early. Everything was done on the double. There was no time for a relaxed sitting with the newspaper or a game of crossword. After dinner, all things done and taken care of, I picked up the newspaper. Big mistake!

Now that I have learned my lesson, I am going to follow these two rules.

Rule # 1: Never pick up a newspaper around bedtime.

Rule # 2: No matter what, do not attempt to solve a crossword near bedtime. This will jog your brain cells too much and turn you into a night watchman - short of making you, every now and then, shout a warning to the sleeping population… “jagte raho!” (stay alert!).

This winter I didn’t watch Dr, Zhivago. It was a long hard winter… too cold for this sunny state of Florida.

I have always loved winters. So when winters come, on an appointed day I bundle up in my warm clothes, sat myself down in front of TV and begin the annual rite of watching Dr. Zhivago. It didn’t happen this year. Not because of winter blues or any other winter related reason. It just didn’t happen.

I was scheduled to go under my Surgeon’s scalpael and because of Holiday Season … Holiday Season? how ironic!! Anyways, because of the timing, I had to wait, I was put on hold, to wait for my turn on the assembly line. I was left with apprehensions, what ifs and… Ok, enough. I don’t want to sound bitter, which I honestly was not. I went from shock to anger to self pity to resignation and in this choppy state of emotions, I did not watch Dr. Zhivago. I didn’t want to adulterate my feelings associated with this movie. Finally the Holiday Season was over and the good Surgeon was back from his vacation. The assembly line started moving and I braced myself for whatever was in store.  By the time I came back home and started recuperating, the short lived Florida winter was almost over. I don’t mull over the loss of a rhapsody. But watching it has always been like renewal of an old promise.

Speaking of Dr. Zhivago, there was another favorite movie. Come September with Rock Hudson, Ginalollo Brigida, Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin. It was the late sixties when it came to our town. It was Rock Hudson that made all the girls skip class and head for the movie theaters. At least this is how it was in my college. Girls swooned when Rock Hudson’s name was mentioned (no one knew at that time that Mr. Heart Throb was gay). I have a friend, a University Professor whom I love and respect dearly. A while back we were talking about movies, favorite movies and not so favorite movies. Come September crept up in the conversation. HE HADN”T SEEN THIS PICTURE!  NOT EVEN HEARD THE NAME!! Sacrilege, Blasphemy are the words I am sure my friends would have uttered if they had heard him say that.  But of course he liked to watch Marilyn Monroe. We understand.

Another rage was Ben Hur. That also came out in sixties. That was also watched, vanishing from Ms. Ali’s English Lit class. Half the class feigned a stomachache. Asiya, the college canteen owner was blamed for feeding the girls her gone-bad sweet potato and chana chaat. Poor woman swore on her mother’s head that everything was fresh and as always, prepared in the morning. (sorry Asiya!) This excuse was fabricated in Bhai Sahib’s workshop. Bhai Sahib was a very tall girl who had broad shoulders and heavy arms, hence the nick name. She was  in our group and loved - to the point of addiction - watching English Films. Always telling us about which picture house was showing what. If you don’t see Bhai Sahib in our English Lit class at 11 in the morning, she surely could be found in a Cinema place watching some foreign movie.

One day, our brother came home early from the office. He had taken half day leave from work.  He had a surprise for his two college going little sisters. Would not say what the surprise was. Office transport came in the evening and the three of us left the house. After a short drive we were deposited at the gates of one of our local Cinema Houses. SURPRISE!! We had come to watch Ben Hur the second time over. But of course, he didn’t know anything about the stomach ache that would only go away if the girls watched a Certain Movie…

By the time it finished and we came out , the night had fallen. Our driver was no where to be seen. We waited for him to return from where ever he had gone but it didn’t happen. People for the next show had started forming the lines when our brother hailed a ‘tanga’ (a horse-drawn carriage) and we started our long journey home through the dark, unlit streets of the town. At one point my younger sister asked him why he was taking the back streets. He said  “shush, khamosh”…

“Why?” She was surprised at this sudden change of mood.

“Don’t you see we are cutting through the residential areas. Its late and people are sleeping.” He sounded very stern and serious.

“What about the horse’s clop, clop?” she wouldn’t stop.

“Be quiet” He beamed his search light  on her face (he never left home without his search light). My sister looked at me.

“What’s wrong with him” she whispered.

“He is scared” I whispered back. and we started giggling. Suddenly a dog barked somewhere.

“See you are waking the people up!”

“It’s a dog, Bhai!”

“Be quiet, I said be quiet” he hissed again, and again and we almost rolled off the back seat. Poor man really was scared riding through the dark by-roads with two young and beautiful girls acting irresponsibly, not listening to his commands and going into fits of laughter with each new threat. The tanga wala once or twice tried to intervene on our behalf but was rebuffed sternly, so he retreated, only once in a while talking to his horse which made our brother grumble some more… under his breath, of course!

At last our brother’s ordeal was over and we reached home safe and sound. We both jumped off the tanga and ran inside the house and into our room. we were rolling on the bed when we heard our brother complaining to our mother…

“… and mother, I promise, I, never, ever am going to take them out anywhere … again. there is no use doing anything good for them. ungrateful…” which sent us into new fits of laughter.

PS: does any one remember a very old song Those were the days, my friend… We thought would never end …. it was Mary Hopkins… or was it?

So, finally I got around and took care of my Urdu Stories. For a start there are three stories there now for my visitors to read.  I have not sent my creative work anywhere in a long time. Reason unknown or maybe its something I would like to address some other time.

Anyways, here we are with three new issues. I hope you enjoy reading these stories. I would wait for your comments.

Today I sat myself down and read N.M. Rashid out loud to myself… in a clear, loud voice like I was at some poetry recital, a mush’irah, and there was a room full of people sitting in front of me. Afterwards I felt fulfilled and satisfied with my performance. The best thing is, that nagging feeling of loss went away leaving me happy and relaxed.

When I was doing my Masters in Urdu Literature and Language, N.M.Rashid was our favorite - I loved Jilani Kamran too but he was my late night companion. When everybody was in their beds and the house had settled down for the night, I would pick up his collection of poems, “Astanze” and read the poems I could read without opening the book or turning the page. That was me, just for me.

And N.M.Rashid? He was for everyone. Between classes, suddenly Zafar Iqbal would start reciting Rashid which would lead to his “Hasan, Kooza gar” (Hasan, the Potter) and suddenly we would have an impromptu poetry recital. Hasan the Potter, everybody’s favorite!! If Shehzada Hasan was on the grounds and spotted a small, passionate group doing “wah, wahs” he would be there, joining us in no time… time to watch out for reading mistakes. He was a stickler for spelling and pronounciation.

Oh blessed are the days when we were young and such “aflatoons” (self-appointed intellectuals).

A few years back someone sent the English translation of “Hasan, Kooza gar.” It was amazing how the translator had captured the inner beauty, the essence the pain and longing in the original poem. I asked who the translator was, but my friend didn’t know. It was just perfect. Flawless. As if it was actually written in English. I had to know who was so good in this field. I mentioned it on my web site and asked if anybody knew. After some time I got an email with this information: Dr. Frances Pritchett ». She teaches in Columbia University and she had translated this poem. Shabash Ms. Pritchett, well done, hats off to you!! I had the privilege of talking to her a couple of times in the past, but that was a long time ago and though I wanted to call her again and talk about her excellent work, I never did.

Now for some time I was again under Hasan Kooza gar’s » spell. I wanted to read it. I can read. Yes sure I can read but I didn’t want to read it alone, I wanted to share it. Who with?

Chunan qeht saali shud ander Damishq

Good old Sa’di… “this year the famine in Damascus was so bad…”

So today I read “Hasan Kooza gar” to a room full of invisible people…

Our five year-old strikes again.
The other day she was playing with her mama’s fake fur slippers. She started pulling small wisps of fur and soon the carpet was covered with these small pink balls of fur.

Realizing that she has made a mess in the family room and her mama would not be happy to see that, she went to the garage to get a cleaning brush and a dust pan. Her Dada who was also watching, told her to get the broom with hard bristles. That was the only way to pick the fur. She went and brought the broom. Then Dada told her again to put the dust pan and the brush back where she got them from as they were getting in her way.

She paused and slowly turned towards Dada, poised on one foot, holding the broom twice her height and said, “Dada, there is only one ‘me’. I cannot be here and there too. Let me finish this first.”

Here is another one about our five years old who is very smart for her age. I am not talking about some academic achievements because she has not shown any particular interest in this field but she can take her own sweet time for that. There is no hurry. And in any case, she thinks her older sister is smart enough for both of them. If her Aapa (older sister) is good in her reading and writing, math and other such stuff its only because she is doing that for both of them.

Right now she is in the ‘reigning princess of the house’ mode.

I am talking here about her intelligence and how fast her brain works to grasp the gist of a comment. You ask her something and you will get an immediate reply. A keen observer that she is, she always have sharp and witty comments. Like the other day dada - her grandfather - asked her if she would like to walk with him to the mailbox which was a few houses away. She said yes why not and holding his hand went out with him. While walking back home, a red car passed them by.

“Oh dada that was just like chacha’s car.” She observed.

“Yes, that was just like his car.” her grandfather agreed.

“I like my chacha’s car.” she added.

“Ok, and bibi, what kind of car would you like to buy when you grow up” her dada, asked.

“I don’t know dada, because I am not grown up yet” was her quick response.