The Bridal Shalwar

Nabeer Shalla had long crossed the age of seventy. For most of his life, he had been darning shawls, and continued to do so even now. He owned a three-storey wooden house with just two windows, nestled on the banks of the Jhelum. In its enclosed balcony, one would often find him busy, thick eye-glasses perched on his nose and secured by a piece of thread, working and singing merrily:

She offered me the drink of love,
In the goblet of the night.

He had spent a major chunk of his life sitting in the balcony, and in all that time he had memorized just two songs. The other one he crooned was:

I saw her body with a peach blossom hue,
O, you not disclose, else the world will get to know.

Nabeer spoke with a distinctive lisp since childhood, and it had deepened with age, worsened by his missing teeth. He now lisped much like a small child. The little swathe of his snow-white beard made one think that he had picked the small tufts of cotton from his wife’s garment, and fixed them with gum onto his face. Despite a noticeable tremor in his hands, he worked diligently and managed to make a living. His job thrived and customers flocked to him, valuing his status as a senior artisan. They believed that one master at work was better than a multitude of novices.

More than anything else in the world, Nabeer loved his humble house and his wife, whose name was Khotan Ded. Every evening, she would press his body, caressing away the day’s fatigue. She would serve him platefuls of hot, deliciously cooked rice, and stock the chillum of his hookah whenever he asked her to. And whenever Nabeer sat in the balcony, lisping his songs and tending to the wounds of a raffal shawl, she would sit nearby, dusting and  de-hairing wool or working at her yinder, the spinning wheel.

Nabeer would often tease,

‘You’re my trainee, and I’m your master.’

To this, she would retort with a huff,

‘Why you the master and I a trainee ? No, you are the trainee.’

Khotan Ded had lost all her teeth, save for one lone tooth in the front of her upper jaw. Her lower lip had sunk in, leaving this solitary tooth jutting out like a nail. Wrinkles were etched on her face like a shrivelled turnip, her hair untidy as a soiled rag. She had borne him ten children, but it had been twenty years since she last gave birth. In this, God had been kind to her, though only two of her ten children survived—the eldest one and the middle one. The two surviving children were daughters, both now married and content in their settled lives. The first one had already seen her own children married, while the other had taken charge of her household after her mother-in-law passed away.

Now, only these two lived in this house and they managed well to make ends meet. In fact, no big calamity had befallen them in life. They had struggled with debt from their daughters’ marriages, but had slowly managed to pay it off. Khotan Ded harboured one deep sorrow—lamenting why none of her sons had survived. She often reminisced how they had been born strong and healthy and wondered whose evil eye had claimed them.

Nabeer’s supposed wealth was common gossip in the locality. People speculated that he might have a lot of money, perhaps a thousand or more. But only heaven knew the truth of the couple’s situation. They got by on their humble earnings, living hand-to-mouth.

#

Today, with his thick eye-glasses resting on his nose, Nabeer worked steadily on a piece of raffal shawl, humming his usual song. Nearby, Khotan Ded sat at her wheel, crooning softly her own hums.

The water flowing in the Jhelum was muddy. It had, perhaps, rained briefly in Maraaz, the southern region of Kashmir. But here in the city, the rain had stayed away for too long. The oppressive heat made any task feel straining and troublesome for everyone. But how could a sole earner like him afford to shirk work? Whether he felt like doing it or not, work he must.

Today Nabeer realised that it was his precious eyesight, rather than the threads he passed through his needle, that went into mending people’s clothes. He was completely bathed in sweat and he felt a growing aversion for the raffal cloth spread over his knees. On one side, the suffocating heat; on the other, this bothersome cloth on my knees, he grumbled. But what could he do? Work he must. To withstand all this, and out of sheer habit, he began humming his favourite song once again: She offered me the drink of love.

Despite all the strain, he somehow finished darning the cloth. Its unwanted tassels needed a trim now. Nabeer fumbled with his hands, looking around, but couldn’t find his scissors nearby. Finally, he asked his wife,

‘Where are the scissors?’

‘I’ve kept them somewhere ,’ she replied.

‘Fetch them here. Why you put them away?’

Standing up felt like the toughest task for Khotan Ded. She couldn’t move like she once used to; arthritis had taken hold of her legs. If it were up to her, she would have chosen not to stand up from her place for the rest of her life. But her husband had asked her, and she couldn’t refuse him. Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself up, her joints protesting. She began to search, checking the shelf— the scissors weren’t there. Then, in a small box— not there either.

Nabeer grew impatient, because all he wanted by this moment was to be done with this cloth and sit relaxed with his arms and legs comfortably stretched out.

‘Search quickly,’ he urged her.

‘I am searching,’ she replied.

She pulled down a bundle of used clothes from the shelf. It spilled open, revealing worn-out items and her children’s garments. What sadness, our children are long dead, but their clothes still here, she lamented.  Her heart felt a painful lurch as she recalled how the children had been born strong and healthy and wondered whose evil eye had claimed them.

With each layer of the clothes she put aside, a new layer of memories was unearthed. One by one, all her children appeared before her eyes, and her dried-up breasts began to tighten, experiencing a suckling tingle. In the meantime, her eyes fell on a shalwar. She stood still, feeling like a hundred hands were wrenching at her heart. This rose-red shalwar was the one she had worn on her wedding day—the only remnant of her brides-wear. Memories of her youth flashed across her mind.

She felt coy and tried her best to shield the shalwar from her husband’s view, but its red colour refused to stay hidden as it really popped to stand out among everything else.

Shyness overtook Khotan Ded and triggered a blush; a fiery redness tinting her face, like that of a maiden. Her heart began to flutter. For a moment, she was a newly-wed bride again, and Nabeer her youthful groom. Images of her chaperone leaving the bridal chamber floated before her eyes. It was as if it were her first night with Nabeer in the chamber once more. She cast a discreet glance at Nabeer, who stood watching her; was smiling and lisping his familiar tune: I saw her body with a peach blossom hue…

To her, Nabeer now once again looked like a young lad clad in an exquisite phiren, with a pashmina dussa draped over his shoulders, and a premium muslin turban crowning his head. There he was, the groom dismounting his horse; here she was, the bride resting on her bridal-seat with her head down, all aflutter weaving a net of naughty ideas and shyly anticipating Nabeer’s advances: Now he will speak to me. How will I gather the courage to answer? Won’t I feel shy!

Khotan Ded now heard a voice, she was sure it was Nabeer’s. He was coaxing her in his peculiar lisp,

‘Talai yaag, just wear it.’

She felt embarrassed, pretending she didn’t hear him, unsure of what to say.

‘Hey, wear the shalwar,’ he cajoled again. He put aside the shawl from his knees, dropped the dussa off his shoulders and came close, coaxing her.

‘Come on, put it on now.’

‘You have gone crazy’, she said, wiggling her body like a cheeky maiden.

‘Tell me, why.’

She sat still; she found it difficult to lift herself up. She couldn’t move her neck, not to mention getting up.

‘Asaa ma yaag, okay, don’t wear,’ Nabeer said; and shuffled out of the room and went downstairs.

A sort of calmness whooshed through Khotan Ded. She quickly gathered the clothes into a bundle, but the rose-red shalwar tugged at her heart. She looked longingly at it, secretly wishing she could wear it. However, she suppressed her desire, feeling embarrassed and perhaps thinking it wasn’t appropriate. Finally, she hid the shalwar under the pile and tossed the bundle onto the shelf.

She looked around, now wondering where Nabeer had gone. Why had he gotten up so soon and left so suddenly? Deep inside, she felt a twinge of regret. Why hadn’t Nabeer insisted more on having her wear the shalwar?

Much later, Nabeer returned, and the gate creaked open. He entered the yard, humming a tune. Khotan Ded was again in a tizzy. She now felt a rush of embarrassment every time she thought of her bridal shalwar. She wondered if she would have the courage to wear it  if he asked? Yes, I will; no, I won’t, this is impudence, she vacillated.

Nabeer came up the stairs, singing softly. Holding a pound of mutton wrapped in paper in his hands, he approached her, handed the mutton to her, and asked,

‘You wore the shalwar?’

After a brief pause, he added, ‘How stubborn you are! Why don’t you?’

‘Have some decency!’ she chided.

‘What decency between husband and wife?’

‘What will we do with this mutton?’ Khotan Ded asked.

‘We’ll cook it, yes.’

She knew she had only one tooth left, and Nabeer had none. How can we eat this? she thought.

‘Stew it well until it’s softer. It’s been so long since we’ve had mutton,’ he said, ‘and yes, you go and wear the shalwar…come on…’ he  pleaded like a child, refusing to let go. While Khotan Ded dithered, and kept refusing; he kept insisting.

At last, they came to a decision. Khotan Ded would wear the shalwar—but on the condition that Nabeer stepped out of the room.

Nabeer left and descended the stairs, carrying the mutton in his hand. Khotan Ded closed the door and latched it from the inside. Then she trudged towards the shelf, pulled down the bundle, unpacked it, threaded the string through the shalwar, and slipped it on.

She was all a-quiver as she began to descend the stairs. This time her legs didn’t hurt. She forgot her arthritis. She climbed down, nervously anticipating her encounter with Nabeer. What if someone sees the two of us? Husband and wife—O, God! What is this happening? Her heart raced with each thought.

She entered the kitchen stealthily and moved with slow steps. Nabeer was tending to the mud-stove, singing and blowing on the fire. He was cooking the mutton in a pot over the raging flames. Khotan Ded tried to sit down quietly without him noticing, but her toe caught in the rope of the cattail mat, sending her crashing to the floor. Seeing her sprawled on the ground, he rushed over, his voice filled with worry. But Khotan Ded raised her chin and smiled bashfully, and he helped her up from the floor.

‘Are you hurt anywhere?’ he asked. She shook her head coyly, her eyes downcast.

‘Get up now,’ he urged. She again jerked her head, still not raising her eyes.

He insisted—stand up she must. Khotan Ded resisted. Nabeer stood firm; he began pulling her up playfully, and then they started teasing and touching each other amorously, like a newlywed couple.

In that moment, Khotan Ded forgot that she was a grandmother; Nabeer the fact that even his son-in-law was an old man now. They lost themselves in each other, oblivious to the present—the wife holding her ground while the husband tugged at her arms, shoulders, or whatever he could touch.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Somebody coughed. Nabeer quickly moved aside and sat apart, pretending as if he was doing nothing. Khotan Ded was stuck to the spot, completely drenched in shame. At the door stood their eldest son-in-law,  flustered, who had witnessed the whole scene.

‘Salam alaikum,’ Nabeer promptly greeted him. ‘Yes, come in.’

But the son-in-law didn’t respond. He stormed out, his face seething with anger.

Khotan Ded wallowed in embarrassment, like someone caught in the act of theft. She cast a mortified glance at Nabeer, and, assuming a combative stance, he blustered,

‘Have we committed any theft at all! Everyone is the ruler of their own respective life.’