A Thousand Yearnings Read online

  It’s only two months ago—I’m talking of the time before my last miscarriage—that they decided to send for the lady doctor. Dr Ghiyas too had said that there might be something wrong inside that made me run a temperature so often, and that the lady doctor ought to look at my insides. I’ll tell you what she said about my age. She asked me how old I was. I said,‘Thirty-two.’ She smiled as if she didn’t believe me. I said to her, ‘Miss, what are you smiling at? Let me tell you I was married when I was eighteen, and I’ve had a baby every year since then—except for one year when my husband was in England for a year, and another year when we’d quarrelled. And these missing teeth that you can see—Dr Ghiyas pulled them out. Paria [pyorrhea] or something—I don’t know what it was called. It was all because when my husband came back from England he said my breath smelt.’ Poor woman, she had a good laugh at that.

  Aftab: When you talk like that who can help laughing?

  Muhammadi: Anyway the poor woman looked at my chest, and looked at my belly;and when she looked inside me she was alarmed and said, ‘Begum Sahiba, it looks as though you’re two months pregnant.’ My heart sank, and I thought,‘More trouble.’

  At this point the sound of children crying, and of shouting and bawling comes from the other room. Muhammadi gets up and shouts:

  You wretches! You don’t give me a chance to rest and sleep, or any time to talk. A houseful of maidservants, and still there’s the children making a din. Better if God strike me dead. I’d be rid of all the troubles of this world.

  The door opens, and two wet nurses come in in clean dress—striped paijama, muslin shirts and dupattas. They bring in with them two children, who are crying. Other children, older than these two, can be seen standing in the doorway. All of them are thin, pale and weak. Beyond the door the courtyard can be seen.

  A wet nurse: Begum Sahiba, the little master won’t do as he’s told. He comes into the room and teases the little ones and won’t let them play. He’s run off with Miss Nanni’s doll and the little boy’s ball, and gone straight into the men’s quarters.

  Muhammadi (furiously): Blast him! He doesn’t give any of us a moment’s peace. Takes after his father.

  She picks up the child and cuddles him, takes something out of the box and gives it to the two children to eat, and sends the wet nurse away again.

  Go! for God’s sake go. Shouting and bawling from morning to night...

  She pauses when the servants leave the door open.

  Hey! Shut the door! I’ve told you several times this morning already to shut the door when you go out.

  Aftab: Sister, in your house, God bless you, there’s always some wretched doctor there. But look at your children—poor wretches they look thin and pale and miserable and half-starved.

  Muhammadi: They’re bound to be when they’ve not had their mother’s milk. We take on any wet nurse that’s going—fat, thin, pock-marked, one-eyed—anyone. Husband’s orders. ‘When God has given us money why should you be troubled?’ he says. But it’s his own pleasure he’s thinking about. If the baby was with me he’d be inconvenienced. Doesn’t matter whether it’s day or night, he wants his wife. And not only his wife. He goes the rounds to other women too.

  Aftab: Muhammadi Begum, you blame your husband for everything, poor man. If he gets you a wet nurse, that’s wrong. And if he hadn’t, that would’ve been wrong. Sister, remember what God commands you!

  Muhammadi: Oh dear, sister. You weren’t here when Nasir died. Poor little chap, he was only four months old. I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy all that he had to suffer. Even strangers couldn’t bear to look at him. His wet nurse was quite a strapping girl. She looked quite healthy. But she had VD, and no one had the least suspicion of it. The baby caught it. He got huge blisters all over his body, and when they burst the flesh was all raw and there was pus oozing from everywhere. The same doctor, Dr Ghiyas, used to draw off whole basinfuls of it. I used to watch him from behind the curtain. They say,‘Don’t complain; give thanks to God.’Anyway, he rotted away for two months and then died. After him I’ve had three more babies. I’ve said again and again,‘I’ll breastfeed them,’ but he takes no notice of me. And he threatens that if I breast feed he’ll take another wife.‘I need a woman all the time,’ he says.‘I’m not going to stand for you spending your time fussing around children.’

  Aftab: Oh, so that’s it! I never knew. God save us from men like that. Even animals shrink from that. They’re worse than animals. God save a woman from falling into the clutches of men like that. Things used not to be like that. But now every wretched man you hear about is like this. Now my husband—well, he’s an old man now, but even when he was young he never went too far. (Smiling) By God, I used to keep him on tenterhooks for hours...!

  Muhammadi (sighing):We all have our own fate. What you’ve just said reminds me I didn’t finish telling you about the lady doctor. We went off onto other things. When she said I was two months pregnant, she looked at me in astonishment and said, ‘Begum Sahiba, you were telling me that you’ve been confined to bed for the last four months, and getting a temperature every evening. And Dr Ghiyas was telling me the same thing—that you’ve been running a temperature of 100 to 101 every evening. And you mean to tell me that in spite of that your husband...?’ I said,‘Oh, miss you’re all right. You earn your living, you eat well and sleep soundly. It’s not like that with us. These fellows don’t care whether they go to heaven or to hell when they die. They know what they want here. They don’t care whether their wives, poor wretches, live or die. Men want their satisfaction.’The poor woman had nothing to say to that. She said,‘You’re seriously ill...’ Poor woman—and don’t all the doctors say this?—‘How can your children be strong and healthy when, for one thing, you’re so weak, and then you have children so quickly—one after another.’ What can we do? We’d have been better off if we’d been Christians.

  Aftab: Don’t! Don’t say such wicked things! May God destroy those unbelievers! I’ve only one son and he’s gone and married a Christian. I can’t tell you how I was looking forward to arranging his marriage. I’d wanted to marry him to my brother’s daughter Vahida. I’d planned their marriage when they were children. And now my brother has got fed up and he’s got Vahida engaged. It’s agony to think that my son’s married a stranger. Better he’d never been born. As far as I’m concerned he’s dead already.

  Muhammadi: How can you have the heart to curse him like that? He’s the one who’ll support you when you’re old. He’ll come round and be all right one day.

  Aftab: Oh no, he won’t. It’s two years now, and I haven’t set eyes on him. I long to see him. He lives here in the city and he never even comes my way. I hear now that he’s getting 150 a month. I thank God that at any rate there are no children yet. My one prayer to God is that even if there is no one to light a lamp on my grave when I’m dead, He’ll see to it that this bastard Christian woman—may she die young!—never bears him a child. Anyway, sister, what’s the point of telling people your troubles? Everyone’s got troubles of their own...And, Muhammadi Begum, have you heard? Mirza* Maqbul Ali Shah has married again. Two of his wives have died. He’s even got grandchildren who have children of their own. And this new wife—how innocent she looks!—is quite a young woman, quite young; not more than twenty at the most. What rotten luck for her! But the poor girl still has six sisters not yet married. That’s why her parents, poor people....

  At this point a boy of about twelve, his paijama bottoms caked with mud, bursts open the door and runs into the room. He has a cotton reel in one hand and scissors in the other. A sturdy-looking young girl, the boy’s elder sister Sabira, in tight paijama, grubby clothes and trailing dupatta runs in after him.

  Sabira: Mummy, Mi won’t let me alone. Look (she raises her kurta), he’s cut my new paijama. I wasn’t even saying anything to him. I was sitting there quietly sewing the buttons on daddy’s achkan.* And look, he’s torn the end of my dupatta.

  She turns her face to the
wall and starts crying with frustration.

  Mirza (mimicking his sister): Boo hoo! You don’t tell her what you were doing. Sewing, were you? Shall I tell mummy you were reading trashy books? The Loving Friend, or The Lively Lad. I didn’t see properly what it was.

  Sabira (turning quickly towards him): For God’s sake don’t tell such big lies. Mummy, I swear by God I was reading Maulvi Ashraf Ali Thanavi’s Bahishti Zewar.†He pestered me to show him, and I wouldn’t, so he cut my paijama. You never say anything to him.

  Muhammadi: (Beating her forehead in exasperation, and speaking sarcastically) Well done, daughter, well done! It’s all the same to you whether your mother lives or dies. Let alone helping her, you quarrel with your young brothers and sisters. (Turning to the boy) And this pest is pestering one or other of them all day long. Get out of here!

  Aftab: Give the scissors to me, son. Look at you, pestering your big sister. How much longer will she be here with you? In a year or two she’ll be married and off to her in-laws. Then you’ll be longing to see her.

  Sabira feels shy and bows her head at this and quietly creeps away. Mirza makes a horse out of his mother’s bolster, sits astride it a few minutes and then begins to jump about on it.

  Mirza: Well, why wouldn’t she show me the book, then?

  Muhammadi: For God’s sake Mirza have mercy on me and don’t shake me up like this. You’re making my whole body shake. My heart’s beating fast. For God’s sake go out. Go to your dad. And the maulvi sahib* will be coming. Have you learnt the lesson he set you?

  Aftab: You’ve got too many children. Bless you, the house is full of them. But all this noise wears you out. And me, I sit in the house all day like someone hired to scare the crows. He comes home to say his prayers, sits with me a few minutes and goes off to the sitting room. God shouldn’t make anyone so lonely. And all the hopes I had....

  The door opens and a maidservant comes in carrying a dish.

  Servant: Salaam, Begum Sahiba. (Turning to Aftab) Salaam, I was just on my way to your house with your share. (Turning again to Muhammadi) How are you, Begum Sahiba? And the children, God keep them, how are they?

  Muhammadi: Oh, just as usual. Is your mistress well? Are all the children well? Congratulations on the birth of the grandchild.

  That’ll be panjeri.†(Turning to her own maidservant) Here, Rahiman, take the dish and empty it. (She opens a box) Sister [Aftab], give her a paan.

  Aftab: Rahiman, I’ll take my share here too. (She begins to make up a paan. Muhammadi gives two annas to the servant who has brought the dish.)

  Muhammadi: My best greetings and best wishes to everyone. One day if I feel well enough I’ll come. I’m longing to see you all again. I very much want to see the children. And tell your mistress from me,‘It seems you’ve sworn not to come and see me.’

  Aftab gives her a paan and takes two annas from her waistband to give her.

  Servant: Begum Sahiba, my mistress too often thinks of you. She just doesn’t have time to come and see you. And these days, of course, the house is full of people. Everyone has come.

  Aftab: Give my blessing to Sultan Dulhan, and my congratulations on the birth of her grandson. God willing, I’ll come on Friday.

  The servant takes both the dishes and leaves.

  Muhammadi: Sultan is a really good manager. Her husband’s never earned more than forty rupees a month, but, God bless her, she manages so well that she’s done everything necessary—arranged the marriages of her sons, and her daughters. And now her son’s got a good job—about a hundred and twenty rupees. And prospects of promotion too.

  Aftab: Yes, he’s got a good wife too. (Sighing deeply) We all have what’s coming to us. Here’s me...Well, never mind about that now. Tell me, is there any news of your cousin Razia? Your uncle was in such a hurry to get her first engaged and then married that he didn’t even invite anyone.

  Muhammadi: No, he didn’t, but what of it? He had double and triple portions of food sent to every house. And the poor girl was married like that in a hurry, because he was afraid for his family’s good name. And God bless him for it!

  Aftab: Oh, so that was it. I’d no idea. What happened, then?

  Muhammadi: You don’t know? Well, everyone knows now. The poor girl’s no age at all—only two and a bit years older than my Sabira. It was after I was married that she was born, when my younger uncle came back from Calcutta. He’d been there for years. We were all there to welcome him back. Granny, poor woman—she had the palsy—was happier than any of us. When Razia was born I took her home with me for a while. Her mother went off to her parents and Razia stayed on with me for three or four months. And after that too she often stayed for long periods in my house. She loved us—her father’s people—and didn’t like her mother’s people at all. And it was quite natural that she should stay on. I was like an elder sister to her. I had no idea it would lead to any trouble.

  Well, eventually she went back to her mother’s house. Then one day, not long ago, she sent me a note begging me to come quickly. I don’t know how to tell you what happened next. When I got there her grandmother—you’ve seen her; you know what she’s like, how big she talks. Well, she gave me a grand welcome. Razia gave me a note when she wasn’t looking, and said quietly ‘Uncle* comes to see us every day and mummy makes a great fuss of him and talks secretly with him.’ She’s a young, unmarried girl. How could she say more than that? Poor girl, it took courage to say even that much. When I looked at the note it was one from my husband to Razia—a more passionate love letter than the ones you read in novels. I was furious. I warned her not to say anything to anyone and said I wouldn’t mention her name to anyone. I got home burning with rage. I spoke to him about it. Sister, I swear to you he looked me straight in the eye and said,‘What’s wrong with it? I’m going to marry Razia even if I have to divorce you.’ I said, ‘Are you in your right mind? Or have you completely lost your senses? She comes from a respectable family. If you so much as mention her name her father and his brother will make mincemeat of you. Don’t even think of it!’

  Aftab: That means her mother must have fixed it all up secretly. That’s why he came out with it so boldly.

  Muhammadi: Of course! God forgive her, she’s always hated mummy and me. Even when mummy was ill she’d tell her to her face, and swear to it, that she wouldn’t rest until she’d ruined me. And it wasn’t only us. She had the same grudge against mummy’s elder brother. And since Razia’s engagement had been fixed with a boy in her father’s family—our side of the family—there were quarrels every day, with her mother insisting that she wouldn’t marry her daughter to anyone in her enemies’ family.

  Aftab (laughing): And, sister, what makes your husband such a wonderful catch? He’s got a wife and children. Granted, he has money. But the family she was to be married into isn’t badly off either. Have respectable families ever done this? Those wretched Punjabis will marry off two of their daughters—two sisters—to the same man, but we never do that. Well, in these days anything can happen...

  Well, what happened then?

  Muhammadi: When I got angry and swore at him he began to implore me.‘I’ve fallen in love with her. For God’s sake help me. It’s your duty to help me.’He’d sit down and open the Holy Quran and read out verses telling me all that would happen to me in the next world if I didn’t help him. But could hell fire be any worse than this fire that I burn in all the time? Well, he kept telling me all the time that he’d go mad. He’d shut himself in his room and lie face down and cry ‘Razia! Razia!’And I’d sit there listening to it all. By God, I was in such a state that I thought,‘All this money is a curse. I wish we had only dry bread, and happiness.’ Sister, give me a paan. All this talking’s made my mouth dry.

  She pours water from the pitcher and drinks it. Aftab eats a paan and gives Muhammadi one.

  Anyway, things went on like this, with him using lovers’ language about that poor innocent girl and me listening to it all and feeling all choked b
y it. And the girl’s mother’s still making the same fuss of him.‘Razia, your uncle has come to see you. Give him a paan. Give him some cardamoms.’

  Aftab: So all this was her doing.

  Muhammadi: Of course. The girl would cry for hours together, and if I chanced to see her she’d pour out her heart to me. For a month I said nothing. Then one day both my uncles came to see me and I said, ‘Well uncle, has Razia’s engagement fallen through?’ They both panicked. I’d restrained myself all this time and now I told them the whole story. They must have talked to each other about it, because three days later Razia was married.

  Aftab: My God!

  Muhammadi: But for six months after that he never came near me—was off in Chawri all the time. That suited me fine. As God’s my witness,the day he goes off somewhere I sleep soundly at night. But every day it’s, ‘You’re always ill. How long am I to put up with it? I’m going to marry again.’And on top of that,‘You must arrange a marriage for me. The shariat* allows a man four wives; so why shouldn’t I marry again?’ I told him,‘Go ahead. Sabira’s due to be married in a year’s time. You can get married at the same time. You’ll be able to take your grandchild and your new wife’s baby on your knee at the same time.’ Then he starts to row with me.‘What do women know about it? God didn’t give them feelings.’ I said, ‘And it seems to me that He gave you the feelings of all men put together for your share.’

  Aftab (flaring up): Muhammadi Begum, wherever you look these days you see this going on everywhere. The men win either way, every time. It’s too much! He not only wants to marry again: on top of that his wife, poor wretch, is to arrange it for him.

  Muhammadi: And that’s what burns me up and makes me pray for death. I’m ill all the time. Then the children are always falling ill. Well, the eldest boy, bless him, is quite strong; but the little ones are always ailing. And all this means that there’s no longer any joy in living. And I know that he’ll marry again. No doubt about it. And I live in fear all the time. God take me away before I have to see the face of a co-wife. And I can’t tell you all the things I’ve done from fear of that. I’ve had myself operated on twice.