The Crooked Line by Ismat Chughtai

Author:Ismat Chughtai [Chughtai, Ismat; Naqvi, Tahira]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781558619326
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY

32

Shaman found it extremely tedious to spend her time chatting aimlessly all day long while waiting for the results of her exams. Because she had been living in the hostel the house seemed like an inn to her now. For the first time after her BA she had the opportunity to examine the world around her with leisure. The number of children in her family had increased four–fold. Her brothers were busy working while her sisters–in–law were engaged in adding to the progeny. It seemed as if everyone was busy dragging life along as if it were a rickety cart. No one wanted to stop for repairs. The joints were loose, the slats were ready to slip, the roof had disappeared, and the base was full of holes like a sieve, but the yoke on the oxen’s neck was strong and the prodding with the stick continued. If you wanted to stop someone and ask, ‘Listen, where are you headed?’ the answer, offered in bewilderment, would be, ‘Nowhere.’ Once you come into this world, where can you go except towards the grave? Stumbling, foundering, everyone is headed in that direction in the hope that’s where heaven will be, that once they’ve arrived there they won’t have to worry about the office, they’ll get female attendants and palaces studded with jewels. Amass whatever you can with both hands for that life. Once you get there stuffed with all that’s needed, all will be well. So what if the world becomes hell in preparation for heaven?

During the holidays she received letters from Anwar, Barkat, Abbas and Satil. Alma and Iftikhar maintained silence. Shashi’s husband returned from England quite the westernised businessman. Miss Boga undertook research in philosophy. And Shaman? After getting her results she didn’t know what to do with this new Shaman. There were several fashionable slats available to help pull the carriage of life but some had a weak axle, others a loose rudder. Jobs in the civil service were limited, in the police fixed, and the forestry department was saturated. Observing the turbulent times, Miss Shamshad accepted a job as headmistress of a national school.

The school’s building was an abandoned bungalow built some years ago by a man of wealth for his favourite courtesan, the construction situated on the outskirts of the town so that people would not harass him. Unable to cope with lizards and mosquitoes, no tenant stayed here for long. The furniture in the school, comprising benches and a few tables, was a donation from another wealthy man, while yet another rich and important personage, whose ancestors had an interest in literature, insisted on providing a library. Because the municipality wasn’t forthcoming with a pit for disposing of garbage, all the worthless and trashy books imaginable, which in addition to their authors only the publishers must have read, arrived in a state of horrifying decrepitude.

As for the students, the number of girls registered on paper was more than the total number of girls ever born. There

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