TRANSLATED FROM THE HINDI BY AYUSHEE ARORA

 

She was wearing a fine red churidar pyjama with a black border and a long pink kurta with green flowers. The edges of her red-bordered safflower-colored dupatta were carelessly thrown over her shoulders, revealing her broad chest and the firm roundness of her breasts in the looseness of the kurta. Holding a pestle with her long, strong, muscular wrist, she was pounding turmeric rhythmically. The thick green bangles and silver bracelets on her wrist jingled repeatedly, and to their rhythm, she was singing—

“Hular-hular milk flows from my cow… will my Munni Lal live today or not?”

There was great sweetness in her voice. Even in that scorching afternoon, the line of this rustic song sounded like drops of sugar in my ears. I stood for some time, listening from behind the terrace. She neither stopped pounding nor singing the line “Hular-hular…”

My feet started burning in the sun, so I was about to turn back when Bhabhi came up from behind and said loudly, “Khudaija, look, here is our Bibi Ji. She was secretly listening to your song.”

She immediately put down the pestle, looked up, and burst into laughter. Then, putting her hand on her forehead, she said, “Salaam Bibi Ji! It’s a great fortune to see you today.”

I felt embarrassed. It had been fifteen days since the new neighbours had moved into the house at the back. Despite hearing about Khudaija from Bhabhi many times and knowing that she wanted to meet and talk to me, I had never gone to introduce myself wondering what would I talk about with that rustic girl. To ease my embarrassment, I quickly said, “Bhabhi, you have a sweet voice; sing your song again!”

“Oh, Bibi Ji, my voice! How can my song appeal to you, a professional singer?” she replied. There was no formality in her speech, just warmth.

“No, no, go on and sing… sing the whole song,” I insisted.

Without needing any further encouragement, she began to sing again, in that same soft, sweet voice—

“Hular-hular milk flows from my cow… will my Munni Lal live today or not?

This mother-in-law’s gaze is evil, my dear… will my Munni Lal live today or not?”

I felt that she was singing in a restrained voice.

“Bhabhi, sing with your full voice,” I requested.

She turned the pounded turmeric into a sieve and, pointing down to the courtyard, said, “Auntie will fight!”

Bhabhi said, “Let Auntie go to hell. Bibi Ji, Khudaija also dances very well. Hey Khudaija, show us a dance.”

She blushed a little and started laughing, holding her dupatta in her mouth.

“Really, Bhabhi! You can dance too? Then you must show us,” I said, encouraged by Bhabhi.

However, I had no hope that she would dance. After all, when people in the city place a harmonium and tabla before us educated girls and request us multiple times to sing, we first demurely offer excuses that we can’t sing. Even when they prove that we sang at someone’s birthday or at another’s wedding, we make the excuse that our voice is not in good condition. When we see that we can’t escape, we reluctantly hum a tune and, pushing the instrument aside, say, “See, I don’t know how to sing. You are pestering me for no reason.” And thus, our singing ends.

“Khudaija, dance for us. You won’t even listen to Bibi Ji?” Bhabhi said. “Look, I’m leaving.”

Startled, she quickly sat up. “No, no, don’t go. I swear by Allah. I’ll dance, but will Bibi Ji like my dance?”

Even though the anklets on her muscular calves and ankles were tight, their number made them jingle. Covering her head with the dupatta and pulling out a small veil, she stood up. Then she looked at me, laughed, and asked, “Shall I dance?”

“Yes, yes!”

“What should I sing, Saraswati?”

“Sing anything. Sing that song—‘Latak Rahti Babua’…”

She sang—

“If I were hanging in your bungalow, dear,

If I were the koel of the gardens,

I would be singing in your bungalow, dear.”

Her dance didn’t conform to any classical style. Neither Kathak, Kathakali, Manipuri, Odissi, nor Bharatanatyam! There was no profoundness in the movements of her arms, but there was rhythm and speed in that simplicity… fast and flowing… full of life. At the turn of the stanza, she would leap two feet into the air, and as soon as her feet touched the ground, they would start dancing again, not pausing for a moment. The well-built girl, five and a half feet tall, had a figure like a nugget of pure gold—gold with a reddish hue and a bewitching suppleness.

The song ended, and she stopped dancing, panting heavily.

“Well done, Bhabhi!” I said enthusiastically, “You really dance very well.”

“Really! You liked my dance?” Her glassy eyes sparkled with excitement. She asked innocently, “Shall I dance more?”

“Yes, yes!” Even though my feet were burning from the heat behind the terrace, I didn’t want to go downstairs.

 

She wiped the sweat from her face with her dupatta and was just about to take a step when someone below said in a low but sharp, angry voice, “Hey, mare! Stop jumping! Shafiq’s father has arrived.”

Khudaija’s feet stopped, as if someone had suddenly placed a hand on a spinning top. A shadow of sadness appeared on her face, but she smiled upon meeting Bhabhi’s gaze and said, “See, the noise has started! If Auntie had her way, she would lock me in a box.” Then, humming a line from a song, she began to fan her face with the edge of her dupatta.

Her mother-in-law was climbing the stairs, saying, “Khudaija, you have lost all your modesty and shame! Are you a dancer’s daughter? You keep singing all the time like a courtesan, shameless girl…!”

Khudaija flared up. Her wheatish complexion turned a deep crimson with anger.

“Enough, Auntie, shut your mouth! You might be a dancer, your daughter might be a dancer!! If you call me a courtesan again, I’ll kill you…!”

“Oh Lord,” Auntie had come up by then. Raising both hands to the sky, she said, “May Allah’s wrath fall upon you…! May your brother’s funeral take place! You have brought shame to our family. You were the only one left for my Shafiq. Oh Allah, how insolent she is! I feel like pulling her tongue out…”

Auntie then started crying and calling out to Allah in a nasal voice. I grabbed Bhabhi’s hand and pulled her down with me. With disdain, I said, “This is your friend!”

Bhabhi said irritably, “What fault is it of my friend’s, Bibi Ji? If someone locked you in a prison and insulted your father and brothers, how long would you endure? She is a girl from a remote village in Rohtak. She doesn’t know the city culture where people are sweet on the outside but harbor malice inside. If you call her ‘tu’ (a term of address in Hindi suggesting familiarity), you will hear ‘tu’ in return! Otherwise, she is so kind-hearted that she can’t see anyone in distress. She doesn’t even know what pride is.” And Bhabhi, somewhat displeased, went outside.

The next day, after washing my hair, I went to the terrace at the back to dry it. The desire to see Khudaija was also a reason. She was sitting at her doorstep, sewing something and humming a song. I coughed lightly. Hearing the sound, she looked up. Seeing me, her face lit up with joy like a blooming rose. Immediately putting her hand on her forehead, she said, “Salaam, Bibi Ji! Are you well?”

“Salaam!” I replied and asked, “What are you sewing?”

“What should I say, Bibi Ji! Poor Auntie’s hands are itching. She has such a disease that she can’t even eat with her own hands. Her pyjama is torn, so I’m stitching it.”

I recalled yesterday’s incident. I asked softly, “Did you make up with your mother-in-law?”

Khudaija laughed and said, “What’s a fight between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, Bibi Ji! But if someone insults me, I get angry from head to toe.”

“But Bhabhi, you don’t get along with these people. Why did your father marry you off in the city?”

Khudaija’s voice became a bit heavy as she said, “Bibi Ji, my father is a poor man. Father-in-law saw me somewhere in the village and asked my uncle for me. My simple uncle got convinced by his words. How would he know that homes in the city are like prisons?”

“Was there no purdah in your village?” I asked.

“Bibi Ji, purdah is for places where there is sin. In the village, everyone is considered sisters and daughters. If we observe purdah, how will the work in the fields get done?”

“That’s why you know so many songs,” I joked, “You must have been singing in every house.”

At this, she seemed to be touched by a pleasant memory. “Bibi Ji, during the month of Sawan, we girls used to set up swings on the neem trees, swinging and singing until midnight. During weddings, there would be singing and dancing all night under the moonlight. Daughters-in-law and daughters would sing, and the elders would listen in the courtyard.”

“Did daughters-in-law also not observe purdah?”

“Purdah!” she covered her face with her dupatta, “Like this, the purdah is done… but no one stops talking. They would pull the veil and keep on singing.”

“Really!” I fell silent. Indeed, I felt great pity for the head constable’s daughter-in-law. The poor girl was trapped in a terrible situation.

“Bibi Ji, shall I sing a song?”

“Sing,” I said happily.

Forgetting everything, she reached the highest pitch and sang—

“In a room atop the house, where the oven burns,

I count and bring the bread, my eater is far away,

The bangle of my youth, let me weave it into a plait…!”

“Hey Khudaija,” her mother-in-law called from below, “You wretch! Let your lover come, and I’ll have him fix you… when Shafiq returns from his tour tomorrow, I’ll have you sorted.”

And then, the argument between the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law began again.

The next day, I did not go to the terrace. But when, in the afternoon, Bhabhi came down and told me that Khudaija was sitting on the terrace, crying because her husband had beaten her with a stick the previous night, I couldn’t hold myself back. I went upstairs and saw Khudaija lying on a cot under the roof tiles, crying.

“Bhabhi!” I called her softly.

She sat up quickly. Seeing me, she laughed through her tear-filled eyes, “Long life to you, Bibi Ji. I was just thinking of you. Salaam.”

Responding to her greeting, I asked, “How did the night go?”

“How would it go?” she said in an irritated voice, “Your brother came. Auntie must have taught him something. As soon as he arrived, he grabbed a stick,” her voice softened, and there was a hint of laughter, “Bibi Ji, without saying a word, he hit me twice with the stick,” and she showed her back, which was bruised near the spine.

Sympathetically, I said, “Oh my, what a brute!”

Khudaija laughed. “Bibi Ji, what should I tell you… I was ashamed of what people would say if they found out that I hit my husband. Otherwise, I would have pinned him down with the stick between my legs… he wouldn’t have been able to utter a word. All his manliness would have evaporated,” and she demonstrated twisting with her strong hands.

I didn’t feel like leaving Khudaija. The straightforward and simple way she talked had a mesmerizing effect on my mind. Even in the silence of midnight, the sweetness of her voice echoed in my ears. If only she could be taught music for a few days. Suddenly, I realized that talking to me might lead to her getting scolded for not singing, so I quickly said, “I’ll be back,” and hurried downstairs.

As I was leaving, I heard her calling out, “By Allah, Bibi Ji, come back soon! Bring your instrument too. I want to see how it plays.”

For several days, my Bhabhi was ill, and my little niece Kusum suddenly caught a cold and had a high fever. Women from the neighbourhood would come to visit them. All the housework fell on me. Because of this, I couldn’t even think about going for a walk, let alone going to the terrace. Khudaija sent her little brother-in-law several times to call me to the terrace, but despite wanting to, I couldn’t go.

In the evening, her mother-in-law came, wearing a burqa and bringing the younger boy with her. The boy first asked if there were any men in the house, and then she reluctantly entered the room.

“How is your health, daughter-in-law?”

“I’m feeling a bit better now,” Bhabhi replied. “Please come in—Bibi Ji, please bring a chair.”

“Believe me, daughter-in-law, you’ve cast a spell on Khudaija,” Auntie said, sitting on the chair. “Since she heard about you, she’s been restless like a fish. She insisted on coming here, and it was difficult to stop her… You know, daughter-in-law, among us, it’s not like the Hindus who go around with a sheet draped over them, visiting houses. Those who do that get a bad reputation. Anyway, we have become like family to you. I’ll bring her tonight.”

“Auntie, the daughters of wealthy families also come and go like us,” Bhabhi said softly.

“Curse those people! How can a Muslim woman allow a strange man to see even the nail of her foot? City manners are like this, forget about the lowly and rustic people.”

Further discussion was pointless. Bhabhi changed the topic.

At ten at night, Khudaija came. Auntie, both brothers-in-law, and sisters-in-law were with her. She immediately hugged Bhabhi, then me. She wouldn’t leave Kusum alone. “Oh, my little Munni Lal, what evil eye has affected you? My dear Kusum… Why, Saraswati, did you make the girl sick?”

 

“Hey Khudaija! Speak softly,” Auntie growled in a low voice. “Kusum’s father is sleeping in the meeting room.”

“What’s wrong, Auntie!” Khudaija snapped. “Your constant whispering has worn me out. Should I speak into the pot now?”

“God forbid!” Auntie swallowed her anger.

Khudaija had developed a passion for reading. She started learning Urdu alphabets from her younger brother-in-law. Whenever she was on the terrace, she would call me to ask questions. But she couldn’t remember the letters. She learned the tunes of songs faster than the alphabets. If Auntie happened to visit a relative, Khudaija would start a storm of singing and dancing on the terrace, even if it led to fights and beatings in the evening.

She couldn’t memorize the alphabet. Studying from such a distance wasn’t possible. She also had a lot of household chores because, seeing her healthy and strong, Auntie and her delicate city girls wouldn’t do anything. I, too, had my studies and household duties. Besides, I was also involved in some social and political activities. A procession was about to take place in the city, and I was going.

“Bibi Ji, where are you going?” she called from the terrace.

“To the procession!” I quickly replied. “Today there will be a massive procession.”

“Oh, Bibi Ji! How can I escape this prison?” There was anguish in her voice.

“Alright, salaam!” I raised my hand and walked away. But her words echoed painfully in my mind, “How can I escape this prison…!”

When I returned home at ten after the procession and meeting had ended, I heard a lot of commotion in the backyard. Bhabhi opened the door and said, “Bibi Ji, who knows what will happen to Khudaija today. Auntie had gone to her uncle’s place. Khudaija secretly went to see the procession with my little one, lured by four paise.”

Bhabhi couldn’t say much more due to her anxiety.

I was also scared. We both stayed on the terrace, listening intently. Her father-in-law kept saying, “Today she has trampled my honor underfoot… she has completely spoiled after coming to this neighborhood. I’ll leave this house tomorrow. This time I’ll have to get a house with a double door.”

Two days later, the house in the backyard was vacated. Khudaija left us, crying. Even in the palanquin, she was crying loudly.

There was no news of Khudaija. Four or five years passed. By then, I also had a little daughter. I was a mother. I roamed around less, not because of restrictions, but because of household responsibilities and taking care of the child. Still, this time, I managed to take a little break and visited Delhi. I went to the Red Fort. In the royal hammam, I saw some women in burqas.

“Bibi Ji!” Suddenly, one of them softly touched my shoulder.

I looked in surprise; it was Khudaija! Tall, pale, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes – it was Khudaija.

“Oh Bhabhi, it’s you, wow…!” I grabbed her hand.

“May you always be happy, Bibi Ji! So, you got married? Congratulations,” she whispered.

And just to identify herself, she had lifted her burqa and then put it back, even though there were no men around at that time. I was surprised by Khudaija’s behavior. The once free-spirited, frolicking doe was now a tethered goat.

“Wow, now you’ve become a complete closed cabbage, Bhabhi!”

“I can’t remain a fool forever,” she replied softly. “Now I’ve gained some sense.”

“Oh, you’ve gained some sense? Now you’ve become quite proficient in Urdu. I still haven’t gained any sense. I still wander around freely…”

She looked through the mesh once and then lowered her eyelids. Her companions had already reached outside. The little boy, who had now grown to about twelve or thirteen, called out like a rival, “Bhabhi!”

And Khudaija, looking back repeatedly like a prisoner sentenced for life, walked away.

 

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Also, read The Lindens’ Perfume by Luigi Cannillo, translated from The Italian by Paolo Belluso, Published by The Antonym.

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