Death In Etawah

Early on a Friday, my parents, instead of taking me to school, drive onto the Kanpur-Jhansi Highway towards Etawah alongside the lines of Yamuna, where my mother’s people come from. It is a hot day, fervid and bright, with patches of shade lent by unkempt, dust-covered shops on the highway. We pass through the town of Auraiya where my mother stayed for a few months as a child, under the care of a distant relative in need of an unpaid servant. My mother removes the carefully draped dupatta from her face to retell the stories of her time there, helping to distract us. I shake off my bangs to pay close attention to every detail. My father tilts his head to do the same.

We are on a ten-year-old motorbike that shudders as it moves on uneven roads. It feels as though it will come apart, piece by piece, pothole after pothole. It was fun an hour ago but now we’re in pain and Amma’s stories are helping us. There’s dust, a lot of it: on my eyelashes, inside my nostrils, under my skin. Abba is annoyed, Amma is worried about his temper. I am sitting in the middle. I can feel the stiffness in his back and the clutching of her sweaty hands around my waist.

I wonder why people stare at me wherever I go, especially on main roads like this highway. Or is it I who stares at them and they simply oblige with a gawk in return? Am I pretty? I don’t think so because Amma is constantly troubled by my complexion. I wonder why we are headed to Etawah all of a sudden. Nannu does not live there anymore and my cousins are in Nagpur for their vacation. Why don’t we go on vacation? I have never bathed in a lake by a farm or hung upside down from a tree.

An eternity, it seems, passes before the bike slows and turns into a crowded, narrow lane. I know this place. It’s ‘humare nanihal ki gali’. At equal stops, three to four houses apart, different cousins live with their families. Every time, Abba goes straight to my uncle’s house, our second home. Today, he stopped in front of Shaheen Appi’s instead.

‘Abba,’ I say. ‘Why are we getting off here?’

‘Shush now and help your mother with the bag.’

I bend my body to kickstart a jump but he grasps my head and pulls it closer to his.

‘Offer a polite salaam to everyone. Don’t stare at anyone. And no questions, okay?’ Placing his hands on my shoulders, he turns me towards their door and helps me charge my jump again. I feel a shiver. Not a bad one like when my mother is upset and comes at me with thorny objects to beat me. It’s a strange, cheerful shiver. I feel loved. Like I might after all have a father in my life.

The air is sweet with the smell of fresh, hot jalebis soaking in a big pan of sugary syrup next to Shaheen Appi’s old, modest complex. My mouth, full of dust, begins to water and I hear the restless rat in my stomach growl. Amma is already in the arms of a weeping old lady we all call Shaheen Appi ki Ammi. She looks thinner, older and sadder. Or is it someone else? She opens her eyes, finds me staring at her and dislodges her face from my mother’s neck to greet me.

‘Assalamu-alikum, aunty.’

‘Wa-a-ale-kumassalam, mere bachche.’ She says with a rhythm and jogs in my direction to hug me. The shiver of love returns.

She smells like warm wood, her frail body feels like delicate cotton against mine. Her skin looks like cracked porcelain. She is on her knees because I am small and short, and I worry they might shatter. She pulls her face back for a second to get a closer look at me and hugs me again after inspection. I see a goop of white sand near her eyes where the tears start and it icks me, but not enough to pull away. Why is she being so nice to me? Why doesn’t Amma hug me like this? I had never before bothered to pay attention to her. I only cared about her daughter, Shaheen Appi. Where is she? My stomach growls louder.

‘Baaji, when did you arrive?’ Shaheen Appi’s voice approaches rapidly from the stairs. Theirs is a big house, way bigger than our one room and kitchen in Kanpur. With my family and the weeping old lady, all standing in the verandah, mingling, I can barely see her. I catch a peek of her white and indigo dupatta, then her perfectly curved feet, slightly dusty from her hurried race from the terrace.

Anxious to see her, I move around but manage only to see her shiny clean elbows struggling to keep her dupatta and modesty intact. I feel a frown on my forehead when she appears out of the crowd, especially to greet me. I am held and kissed. She stares at me glaring at her and then smiles the longest smile, one that stretches up to her eyes and ears.

‘Are you mad at me? Sorry baba, I was on the terrace…studying. Hehe!’

I don’t say a word. I never know what to say. Amma says people like me because I am shy and quiet, unlike those shaitan children, screaming and shouting.

‘Let’s go get you some jalebis. The whole mohalla can hear your rat. Hehe!’ She takes my brown hand in her soft, snow-white hand. We turn towards the door and I see something that drags me back, as if I am in a nightmare. My eyes lose focus, I go weak in the knees before yelling out a loud scream.

‘AAAAaaaa….’ I fall to the ground. Near the door, in the corner of the hall is a huge resting chair with a big old man in it. His eyes are half shut, half open much like his mouth. They tell me he is asleep but to me, he looks dead, or as fate would have it, soon to be dead.

No way my mother leaves me alive after this.

She holds me to her side and rubs my arm like you pet a cat who rubs against your legs for food. I am quarter her size. The smell of warm jalebis is making it easier to forget the scene I created just five minutes ago. Shaheen Appi had pulled me up, dusted my clothes and rushed me outside, smiling an embarrassing smile.

‘Doctors say he is going to die a slow and painful death.

‘He keeps staring somewhere. He does not look at us or speak to us. I can’t recognize my own father, just like you couldn’t. Difference is, you’ve never seen him before.’ The light of her spotless face dims with sadness but the rubs don’t stop. It feels more of a comfort to her than to me. I don’t mind. She smells like a beautiful memory.

The halwai hands us half a kilo of sizzling jalebis trickling with sticky chaashni wrapped in an old Urdu newspaper. A gust of warm dusty wind blows. I cover the treat with my hands but dust gets through anyway. Now we’re all dirty. I think I might cry.

Inside, everyone is seated in the hall. Amma is on the sofa, Aunty right next to her. Abba and his helmet have made themselves comfortable on the diwan. Shaheen Appi’s Ammi is speaking.

‘He arrived at our door, unannounced, two months ago. He looked sick and depressed so I couldn’t refuse. No matter what he does, where he lives or whom he beds, he is my shauhar and I have a duty to fulfil.

‘If he wants to die in this house with his real family, so be it. We didn’t get his youth or happiness but if his decay is all Allah could give us, then I’ll take it. What luck I have. Beta is away in Saudi. The world keeps telling me Shaheen is coming of age. They ask me what business I have sending her to school instead of readying her for marriage.

‘Look at her, Gudiya,’ she asks my mother to examine Shaheen Appi.

‘You think she’s ready for a life of disappointment? Why should I, in good conscience, marry off my daughter to live a life as lonely as mine? Even if her husband isn’t as horrible, he will still let her down. That’s what men do.’ Seething with delicate anger, she looks at her husband.

‘I didn’t know who else to call, Gudiya. You’re the only one who can understand my predicament.’

She looks at my father the same way she had looked at her husband. Like they were both the same people. Abba looks down with a guilty face, fiddling with his helmet, trying his best to avoid the comment. He looks so young and pretty, almost like a stranger. I can see his bumpy nose. I can see where it originates and ends seamlessly into his almond-like face. He says it runs in their family. All his kids have it. Why do I have a smooth nose then? Will I grow into my bump at a certain age? If I pray enough, will I get it sooner?

Shaheen Appi and I are asked to set the table. Their kitchen looks funny, like a matchstick box. Tiny, tall and thin. Shaheen Appi adjusts her dupatta and lifts her feet to fetch a fancy tray for us. Her kurta lifts up and I can see her stomach. She is tall, thin, and fair like milk. It feels wrong to look at her bare stomach. But it also makes her real. She has a stomach just like me. My stomach is not as pretty as hers. Amma says I have too much hair for a girl and it doesn’t look nice.

The jalebis are not so hot anymore. I unwrap them and lick the chaashni from my arm. It tastes exactly how I wanted it to be: orange, sweet and slightly burned. I can’t wait to eat the solid treat. Shaheen Appi is busy decorating the tray with namkeen and biscuits. She has heated the tea. I think she is efficient enough to be a wife. Amma says that girls should be sugadh, efficient and quick. And I am phuhadh, clumsy and weak.

She hands me the snacks and carries the tea herself. Nobody looks happy, especially the dying man and my father. I quickly grab a piece of jalebi and look at my mother staring at me. Amma has small, pigeon-like eyes. Yet when she stares at me in rage, they seem like the biggest, scariest pair of eyes in the world. Bigger than the eyes of those huge Raavan effigies at Dusshera fairs. I can see she’s furious at my hastiness. ‘Good girls from good families don’t jump at food and hog it. Hunger is a sign of poverty.’

‘So, what does he have? Is it cancer?’ Abba enquires in a manly manner, shaking the guilt off his face.

‘Yes, it’s cancer… and regrets,’ the dying man lifts his head to finally reveal that he wasn’t asleep. Everyone looks at him in disbelief. The man resumes his lifelessness. He is like those dolls with batteries. You press their stomach, they move a little, then blurt out an abrupt sentence and resume their lifeless state.

My head feels faint. Others seem bothered by the man’s statement but I have had enough. My jalebi is cold. Not fair! I finally take a bite. It’s a juicy blast of syrupy sugar, wheat, and ghee. My mouth feels like heaven. Everything disappears for a minute. No one’s dying.

Amma isn’t mad at me. Abba loves me the most in this world.

I feel drowsy, tired, and… bored. All this grown-ups’ business looks dull, sounds serious, and nobody laughs. I am not at home anymore alone with Amma. This is supposed to be fun, coming to Etawah, being around people and getting to spend time with Abba.

‘Beta, why don’t you take our Little Doll to the terrace?’ says Aunty to her daughter. Shaheen Appi picks me up in her arms. I wonder if I’m too heavy for her. She adjusts her neck to look at me. She pinches my cheeks and I am surprised at her soft hands. Why are Amma’s hands so tight and heavy?

‘Awwle. Little Doll is sleepy?

‘You’re such a cutie pie. The cutest girl in Etawah, I bet. Cheeks so full and cute, I might just cut and steak them for dinner. Hehe.’

I look at her confused. What does she mean, cook me for dinner?

‘I am kidding baba. I won’t let anyone touch you the wrong way. You are too precious.’

I don’t believe her. I want to but she is no match for Amma and her hard hands. She cannot save me, no one can.

We are welcomed by a fresh evening breeze. Kites are flying in the sky. Kids my age are running on terraces, playing and laughing. Young girls are chatting, older aunties are collecting dried snacks from bedsheets and storing them in jars. I remember how my aunty, who lives across the street from our home, dries mangoes on her roof to make pickles. Her pickles are something else: tangy, spicy, and perfectly brittle.

I see the mat on which Shaheen Appi must have been studying before we arrived. Her books are scattered, and only one is open. I see no markings on the page. I mark a lot but that’s because I am studious and get the best grades. I love Shaheen Appi but I know she’s not as smart. She will be a better wife, I bet.

‘You want to see something?’ She looks mischievous.

‘Haanji.’ I nod.

She grabs something from her pyjama and stares at me with her big, brown eyes ready to burst with excitement. I look at her unamused, impatient.

‘You won’t tell anyone, okay? It’s our sister’s secret.’

‘Who will I tell?’ I assure her. Slowly she reveals the mobile in her palm. It is small, black, and looks like a secret. A sister’s secret. She is my sister. I have a sister.

‘You got a phone? Wow, Appi!’

‘Shh… Quietly! No one knows.’

‘Why? Where’d you get it?’

‘Mmmm… He gave it to me. My… boyfriend. Hehe.’

I don’t know what a boyfriend is but I giggle so I don’t look dumb.

‘Don’t tell anyone, okay? I like him. He is very handsome and cute, like you.’

She rubs my hair out of place, smirking and reminiscing.

I feel strange. A little angry. But she’s happy and I don’t want to ruin her mood.

‘Is he in your class, Appi?’ I enquire.

‘Mmmm. Actually no, he isn’t. He is older. He saw me outside school one day. He has a bike, you know? A big, expensive bike. He told me he’ll take me for a long drive someday.’

I look at her, trying my best not to make faces or show judgement. I don’t get these things. I don’t get boys. I find it annoying when girls run after them. Boys are mostly ugly, even the ‘pretty’ ones. I don’t get why they have more freedom than us to do things and roam about. Probably because they are useless otherwise.

‘He got me this phone so we can talk and message. He is so funny and sweet. I wish to marry him, you know?’ She blushes.

Marry him? I realise this is not a conversation for me. I drift away.

Drifting away comes easy to me. Amma talks a lot about a lot of things. Happy things, exciting things, gossip and idle chatter. Since she is mostly sad or angry, I have to listen to a lot of unpleasant things. Most of what she says I don’t understand. Some are complaints against Abba, his other wife and their kids. Most of it is very hurtful and directed at me. She tells me I am the reason for every bad thing that has happened to her. That I am why Abba doesn’t like her much and I am the reason they fight and draw blood. I am the reason why she hurts me and draws blood.

I don’t like that. I only want her to be happy, the happiest in fact. And I want Abba around more.

An hour or two passes. The sun has set and the kites have all fallen. I can hear the rat in my stomach awaken. From the terrace, I can see Abba go to a small shop, the adult’s shop. I know what he is doing. He is buying those devil cigarettes to smoke. They’ll kill him, Amma says.

I keep looking at him, from a distance. I like to watch him. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here. Like there’s another set of people waiting for him and his time. Maybe another kid my age could not tell so much from this far but I can. I know these things.

Amma has changed clothes, Abba is back from his cigarette outing. Aunty seems more energetic and freer from her misery. The hall is warmly lit. There’s a chandelier in the hall. One of the walls has built-in racks gated with glass. All sorts of fancy, opulent items are stacked on the racks. A golden Quran-Shareef; show-pieces of Mecca-Medina in glass, marble, stone and plastic; wall hangings spelling ‘Allah’; a waxy-looking greenish vase; a big hourglass with all its sand on the bottom, like there’s no time left. It makes me anxious. Everything looks foreign and pristine. We don’t have such nice things in our house. Only my stuffed monkey with velcro hands and cheap plastic toys.

Shaheen Appi’s Ammi is roaming around their verandah, discussing dinner, giving orders.

‘Gudiya, I am going to cook some chicken saalan and roti.

‘Shaheen, help our Little Doll change her clothes.

‘Suhail, should I cook something else?’ She questions my father.

‘And do you want something?’ She asks the unmoved man, her husband.

He refuses by shaking his head. She sighs and heads to the kitchen. Amma accompanies her.

Abba sits on the sofa and sneakily stares at the man running out of time.

I am taken to the bedroom, my eyes heavy with dust. Their bedroom is dark, the warm light of the verandah coming in through the windows. I want to sleep but the rat in my stomach wants to be fed. I curl up. Shaheen Appi takes out my clothes and handles me to an upright position.

‘I know how to change my clothes. You don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.’ I tell her.

‘I know you are a smart little doll. Very smart indeed. But I am your big sister. Also, I can use the practice, if you know what I mean.’ She winks at me. I give in. Gently, she removes my uniform and puts me into the night pyjamas. No slaps, no tsks, no frustrations, nothing. She didn’t bend and hurt my arm in the process. She didn’t force my legs open or tap my head in anger. It was a smooth and delicate procedure. I pretend to be sleepier so I can get more of this, whatever this is.

‘Bitiya, have you changed? Come sit with Papa.’ Abba calls for me.

My drowsiness disappears and I prance from the bed, run into the hall, and jump into his lap right under the chandelier.

‘Shabaash! Look at this tip-top kid?’ He says with a full smile. I can see his perfect teeth. He has a deep smell. Like lemon, sweat, and cigarettes. He hugs me, plays with my stomach and juggles me in his lap. I laugh and laugh and laugh.

Again, I feel my mother’s eyes on me coming straight from the kitchen. As if I am creating a nuisance. I mute my laughter. She doesn’t like it when I play with Abba. She doesn’t want me forming a habit that he cannot accommodate. Abba sees her and settles down. The room feels awkward again and my eyes feel heavy. I look up at him. I feel this is an important moment.

He is looking at the sick man, waiting for him to say something.

‘So Iftikhar miyan!’ He says to the man.

‘What has happened? The other wife kicked you out or what?’ Abba smirks in an awkward, unnatural manner.

All goes quiet. Aunty stops in the middle of rolling her roti; Amma pauses her cooking; Shaheen Appi freezes and I keep revolving my head to see everyone. Abba rubs his nose and adjusts his hair to battle the silence.

The old man grumbles in his arm chair and shakes his head, as if trying to wake himself from a deep sleep.

‘Uhm,’ a moan escapes his throat and he is already out of breath. He looks at the backs of his creased hands, then turns them over to look at the colourless palms.

‘What about me? I am a ghost who has come back to haunt his wife and daughter. I am a corpse, a liability.’

He shifts in his seat with all his strength.

‘Ya Waris, what about me? I am the fruit of my own indecison,’ he lifts his head and speaks at the emptiness above him. He groans and grows lucid with an intense frown.

‘Your gudiya fell on the floor, screaming at the decaying, speckled sight of me. And I deserve it. When your time comes, and mark this, you’ll deserve it too, Suhail Miyan.

‘We men like to have all five fingers dipped in ghee and call it fortune. Astaghfirullah! There’s no greater ruin than wrecking the homes we build. There’s maatam everywhere, the ones we choose, the ones we leave, no one’s happy to see you. No one to pray for your soul. Three wives, two daughters, four sons, and all I can ask for is the mercy of death, allah miyan, some fortune!’

The man says all this and goes quiet like he never spoke at all. He has a frail, raspy voice. He sounds like a ghost if ghosts could talk. I don’t understand much of what he said but I know he stirred something in my father. I am still in Abba’s lap. I can hear his heart beat louder and louder till he abruptly lets me down and walks out of the house. Amma runs after him like it’s something urgent.

I wear my slippers to follow them but Shaheen Appi stops me.

‘Arey, where do you think you’re going? Who will have all this dinner? I can still hear your rat, you know? Hehe.’

Aunty sets the dastarkhwan and they both set food on it. I am anxious. I want to know what’s happening.

‘Chalo, open your mouth.’ She stuffs me with a good-sized bite of hot chicken gravy wrapped in fresh roti and rubs my stomach comically.

She will make a great mother if not a great wife, I think. I take my mind away from my parents’ quarrel and focus on the food I have in front of me. It is perfect in taste. The gravy is not too spicy or thick, and not too bland and wet. It has just the right amount of oil and the chicken melts in my mouth. Aunty is such a good cook. I could live here if they let me, I think.

I smile constantly as I eat. My stomach is full but my heart has not had its fill. They both look at me with satisfaction and… pity. I don’t mind it. In fact, I agree.

‘Well, you’re not the fairest child in the world, are you? Not as pretty as one would hope.’ The man on the chair remarks out of the blue.

I have food in my mouth but my throat hardens and begins to choke. My nose flares up and eyes burn. I focus my brain like I do when Amma acts mean to me.

‘I have heard his other kids are very fair with snake-like eyes, like their mother’s. Is that true?’ He continues.

I look away and stare at the warm light in the verandah. My eyes fill with water but I don’t let it slip. Only weak girls cry. I keep chewing my food and wait for my throat to relax so I can gulp it.

‘You have no shame whatsoever, hai na? You think you can do whatever you want, say whatever you want and people should just let you. Why? Because you’re a man?’ Shaheen Appi bursts into a frenzy.

‘And one hell of a man you are. Bullying a little girl!’

She picks me up, puts one hand on my head and the other on my back, like she wants to shelter me from a falling meteor. She walks swiftly into the dim bedroom and starts walking around the room patting my back.

‘You can cry now, little doll. We won’t see the bad man now. I won’t tell your Amma you cried.’

I don’t cry. I ask for some water to gulp down my overly chewed morsel.

‘Here you go. Such a brave little girl you are, aren’t you? The bravest cutie pie in Etawah.’ She tries to smile.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘You know, if I ever have a child, I want her to be like you. Exactly, one hundred percent like you.’ She hugs me and rubs the back of my head.

It takes me a while to understand what she meant. I know she wasn’t lying. She smells like roses steeped in aab-e-zamzam. She smells like a mother. Warm and everything nice in the world. I let my eyes loose and start crying. She hugs me tighter and cries with me. I feel… for the first time… truly loved.

Amma wakes me up the next morning and drags me away from Shaheen Appi’s embrace. It feels like a nightmare. She roughly changes my clothes, does not say a word and heads to the main door. The hateful, old man is still on his chair, his eyes half open, half closed, much like his mouth. He must be asleep but to me, he looks dead. Dead as a ghost.

Aunty appears from behind to bid us farewell.

‘I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon. Inshallah, we shall meet soon, alright beta?’ She enquires.

Amma nods as I search for Shaheen Appi to rush and stop them from taking me away. I keep my eyes fixed on the verandah, but nothing.

Abba has stacked our bags at the back of his bike. He looks at us impatiently and hurries my mother to come seat herself. I am still drowsy and very confused.

‘Why did we leave so quickly? What about the dying man? What about Shaheen Appi?’ I ask.

Nobody answers. The sun is scorching bright. The jalebi shop is not open yet. I feel like a luggage bag squished between two concrete walls. The air feels heavy and dirty. I lay my head on Abba’s stiff back, it bounces me to sleep. A little while later, Abba stops the bike.

‘Chalo, get off, the two of you.’ He orders us both.

Amma helps me get off the bike. I rub my eyes open and cannot believe what I see. We are on a narrow road somewhere in a village. To the right, there is a brownish corn farm, the crops are swinging like a smooth wave to a sweet song and to the left, an open green meadow with fresh grass blades complimenting the blue sky. My eyes slowly wander over it and land on the small lake at the end. The air is slightly warm but also breezy cold. I feel awake, fresh and clean.

‘Run along then!’ My father puts his hand on my shoulder to help charge my comical jump.

“Run! I am right behind you.’ He says laughing with his perfect teeth and flowy hair.

Amma too is smiling.

I run along the grass, fall midway and roll down like a potato for the rest of my way. I land near the lake and turn back to see where they are. I see them trotting slowly towards me, hand in hand, laughing, their faces red with glee.

Water from the lake throws a strong cold breeze in my face. I am too excited to stop. I take off my shoes and rush like a young crab into the lake. I jump and jump and laugh and smile. Abba rolls his sleeves and pants to join me in the lake. Amma dips her bare feet by the rim, her salwar tucked up, her silver pazeb shining under the sunlit water.

I spot a huge tree with a tyre swing on it. I run towards it with a ferociousness I didn’t know I had in me. I jump on the tyre, hold the strings and push it with my weight to bring about the best first swing. I feel happy. Happier than I have ever felt. All is right with the world. Amma is drying Abba’s hair with her dupatta. He is looking at her with love in his eyes. She looks at me like a loving mother looks at her child with not a single mean bone in her body. She looks young, relaxed. Abba starts playing with her braid.

Maybe the dying man was right. Maybe he wasn’t all that mean. After all, he made Abba pick a side. We are a family. He picked us. He chose me. Finally, I am loved.

A horn blares, my ears start to ring a shrill, painful peeeee and I turn around to see.

We are on the bike, in the middle of traffic, waiting for a train to pass. My head is burning, it hurts and swells, and my eyelids are stuck together with dust. Abba’s voice is muffled by his helmet. He is scolding my mother for wasting his time and making him late.

I miss Shaheen Appi. I know the rotting man is dead.