The Women's Courtyard by Khadija Mastur

Author:Khadija Mastur
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789353052645
Publisher: Penguin Random House India Private Limited
Published: 2018-09-03T16:00:00+00:00

16

The war continued on. Inflation had swept the house clean. In truth, Jameel’s tiny salary couldn’t have filled anyone’s stomach. How selfish everyone in the household had become. Amma’s brow was always creased. She’d come to hate the very sight of Uncle. She had a strong feeling that if the money from the shop were to come into the house, everything would be changed instantly. They would have the good fortune to eat in style. She was always threatening to leave for her brother’s house, and then Aunty would worry that this would bring dishonour to their household. Everyone would say that Uncle wasn’t even able to feed them. Meanwhile, Chammi was intent on quarrelling all the time. She’d secretly snatch Shakeel’s food from the hanging storage basket and eat it all up, and when he’d retaliate with insults, she’d laugh with glee or try to hit him. Najma Aunty would watch these altercations and turn her face away in disgust.

‘This is all the result of ignorance; if everyone were educated, would they be dying of hunger as they are now?’ she’d remark proudly as she gazed down on them from the throne of her spectacular education.

Jameel would see and hear all this and look on in helpless silence. But despite those desperate times, Kareeman Bua hadn’t changed a bit. Great droves of fakirs had cropped up thanks to the war. Kareeman Bua would mourn the grand alms given out in old days, and slice away at bits and pieces of Asrar Miyan’s meals to hand out alms to them.

Aliya felt nauseated by these shabby gifts. Oh dear, why was Asrar Miyan so pathetic? Couldn’t he at least lift a rupee or two from the shop? What would he get from his self-mortification by being so selfless and decent? After all, by behaving like this, he would hardly be called his father’s legitimate son. No matter what he did, he’d be called the child of the mistress. No one would remember him by his father’s name. Every day in this world would always remain a Day of Judgement for him.

Even after seeing the household in such a terrible state, Uncle did not have a change of heart. The arrows of his objectives had damaged him so terribly that all other sorrows and pains seemed insignificant. ‘The war has brought independence very close,’ he’d say, looking around at everyone, but no one would answer. He would grow ashamed and look down, breaking off bits of roti and eating furtively like a criminal, and then make for the sitting room.

The harsh cold of winter had abated. Aliya continued to prepare for her exam by keeping the gali window open until deep into the night and reading by the streetlight. In those days she had just completely left off thinking too hard about anything. Abba’s letters still gave her courage.

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