Nooran Niari

Nooran Niari
by Nadir Ali
Translated from Punjabi by Moazzam Sheikh

The old hag Nooran died at the age of ninety last Thursday. [1] My elder brother announced we'd go to the funeral and Sister added, "How lucky of her to die on a blessed Thursday of the holy Ramadan." "She died childless. How much longer did she plan on living? Once you cross eighty you might as well drop dead," I retorted. "What's the matter with you, Noor? She was our mother's friend. You were even named after her," Sister jibed.

Come to think of it, what did I have against her? When I came of age, around the year nineteen forty-six, my mother used to visit Nooran quite frequently. We were the goldsmiths, they the sand-sifters. My family had six shops in the Jewelers' Bazaar . My mother's folks were, on the other hand, ironsmiths from the city of Sialkot. The maternal side of my father's family insisted on the match (due to her good looks). My father was a romantic at heart and in order to prove just that he fathered eleven children, but the paternal side of his family never ceased branding my mother an outsider. Only Nooran the sand-sifter acted like a blood relation to her. My mother would mention her in every other conversation.

"Oye you Sialkot lass! Your parents must have thought: Be Lahore-bound/then never be found!" The old hag's voice still rings in my ears. She was a storehouse of two-liners, proverbs and poetry. And the moment she spotted my mother, she'd holler, "Mehr Bibi, the goldsmiths don't count you their own! Nizam Din and Family can't know your worth! They don't even consider us humans. They're the goldsmiths, we the sand-sifters, lowest of the lowly: tuseeN aapay aap hi saaray ho/kiyooN kehNde asi niyaray ho." [2]

She had rough but fair features, devoid of any blemish; and her eyes - big and wide, full of shine; half the time she'd let her eyes do the talking. She danced and laughed through her eyes. Newly wed, my mother spent half her time listening about the good of the goldsmiths and the bad of the ironsmiths. "Come on, you girl, don't waste your time listening to your golden in-laws ... I have already wasted my life doing that." Two days' absence was the limit and Nooran, clad in her white burqa, would descend on our house; she'd never veil her face though and the moment she entered the portico of our house she'd cast off the robe irrespective of the presence of men and women, since she considered everyone younger than her. Entering, she'd recite a couplet: "Bulliyah chal suniar de jitthe gehne ghaRiye laakh/Surat aapo aapni tooN ikko rupa aakh." [3]

As long as she stayed around, one felt caught in a tornado. The moment she left, there appeared sudden calm. "Oh God, when Nooran leaves, joy leaves with her," my mother would add.

I never took a liking to her. Even when I was a baby, I'd start wailing on seeing her. As I began to speak, I took up the habit of calling her "Nooran the bear." My mother would try to humor me. Nooran too always kept an orange or a candy with her. Yet nothing worked. As I grew up, I added "Dracula's heir" to "Nooran the bear."[4] It would reduce mother to tears. I am forced to ponder now what lay at the root of it all that bothered me so deeply. I remember the day when my maternal grandpa died. He didn't enjoy much worth in my family's eyes. However, it is only normal for a family to weep together when someone passes away. Strange, everyone at my house remained a mute spectator. My mother cried her heart out. An aunt or two would comfort my mother occasionally. My father, similarly disinterested, was not much help either when he came home. "Let me go and get the tickets for the 3 o'clock train," and with those words he sneaked out.

Nooran hugged mother tightly and warmly when she arrived at the scene. She kissed her face. She took my mother inside the room. She even went to Sialkot with her. While my family returned right away, she stayed there for seven days. "She's Meher's own blood, (don't we know that?)!" My aunts would taunt. What was my mother's relationship with her? Nothing except she loved looking after my mother. She could make Kashmiri tea in a flash and she could reciting Bulleh Shah at will. Due to the tea and poetry combination, I made up the rhyme: "Bulleh Shah/Kashmiri Chaa."

Ah, yes, it was in fact Abdul Sattar, the tailor's son, who'd planted the suspicion in my heart. "Oye, Noor, have you noticed her husband? Cheema the sand-sifter looks her father's age. He is impotent. Something's fishy about Gulzar the wrestler. I think he's been sleeping around with her." "Gulzar, Nooran's yaar," I rhymed it up in my heart but could not share it with others. Finally, Sattar the Blackie added a gem of a twist, "Nooran is a munDay baaz." [5] "What the hell is that?" I asked, bewildered. "Just as men do with men. Women carry on with women." He had more to say but I couldn't understand a whit. A kind of suspicion took root in me.

1947 had arrived. The city's name had become synonymous with murder and loot. Fear reigned as far as the eye could see. The Jewelers' Market closed down. Some Hindus sold whatever they could at whatever price possible and left. Those who were still around didn't open their shops. The gold was sold mostly at night. One day curfew was imposed on the city and people sneaked in and out within their own neighborhoods with discretion. That afternoon I realized mother wasn't home. When father asked, I said, "She must be at Nooran's; I'll hop over there via the rooftops. I covered four rooftops and finally entered the house from the stairs to encounter complete silence. I went towards the courtyard. "Who is it?" Nooran jumped, alarmed. Due to the heat, she'd covered herself with a sheet as mother lay next to her. Mother sat up - she was drenched in sweat, her face flushed red.

"Your mother was scared. I said, Come lie down with me. It is I who should've been scared. Your uncle Cheema has gone to Karanchi. He must be searching for gold in the ocean." Like a lying witness, she continued to talk of her own and laugh. My mother remained tongue-tied.

"Nooran, munDay baaz!" I hollered as soon as I entered the living room of our house. My mother slapped me hard for the first time ever. I couldn't tell Sattar about the episode. He wasn't capable of keeping secrets. Nothing had changed in Nooran. 1947 was the weirdest year. A knot had formed in my stomach. After Noor Jahan's superhit Chanvay was released, Nooran would sing, "Way mundya Sialkotiya" as soon as she spotted me. She'd pinch my cheek first and then my mother's. "Her heart is full of love," my mother would say.

It must be that. But I remained suspicious. In 1971 my mother died and Nooran cried an ocean by clasping me to her body. I felt relieved. Even at the age of ninety, she had such a sparkle in her eyes. The old guard has by now pretty much died out. The rest migrated to upper middle class neighborhoods such as Garden Town and Model Town, except for Nooran and Sattar. One day I saw the old man Sattar emerging from her house. "Oye, what took you to the house of the munDay baaz?" I asked, laughing. The old man replied, "No, Noor. The old bone is a nice woman. She has helped me a lot all my life."

May God keep her in peace. She was a kind soul!

***

Translator's Notes

1. Nooran is the female gender of Noor. Niara ( from "suniara"?) is a sub-caste of goldsmiths who sift gold dust from river banks and sea shores and the garbage of goldsmith shops. Niara also means unique, hence the play on words. (back to the text)

2. "If you are the moon and the sun/Then why call us the unique one." (back to the text)

3. "Bullah, let's go to the goldsmiths where they craft a thousand ornaments/Though you see a thousand faces, you only behold the unique One." (back to the text)

4. The original phrases here are "NooraN richni" which suggests the character resembles, or acts like, a she bear, and "KHasmaaN piTni" which refers to someone who cries over the loss of her husband, the emphasis on the plural. This could denote a person with extreme bad luck. The choice of "Dracula's heir" was a tough one. It is not an exact translation but, in my opinion, conveys a sense of a person's ability to take away the life of another person. The entire story makes use of rhymes and I tried to achieve that sometimes at the cost of moving away from literal meaning of the phrases. (back to the text)

5 "MunDaybaaz" is a term used for men who sleep (or like to seduce) boys/other men. It's urdu equivalent is loNDaybaaz, loNDaa means boy/male. I have retained the original word rather than translate it literally because in the story the reference is to a lesbian relationship--translating it literally might cause some confusion, whereas translating the sense of it might move us away from the more fluid use of the term in the Punjabi text. (back to the text)

Continue to "Rain, Doors, Windows"


home about contact policies submissions feature archives audio visual writing reviews forums art film & television food literature music society & culture elsewhere desilit parabaas sasialit sawnet upper stall	Nooran Niari by Nadir Ali Translated from Punjabi by Moazzam Sheikh The old hag Nooran died at the age of ninety last Thursday. [1] My elder brother announced we'd go to the funeral and Sister added, "How lucky of her to die on a blessed Thursday of the holy Ramadan." "She died childless. How much longer did she plan on living? Once you cross eighty you might as well drop dead," I retorted. "What's the matter with you, Noor? She was our mother's friend. You were even named after her," Sister jibed. Come to think of it, what did I have against her? When I came of age, around the year nineteen forty-six, my mother used to visit Nooran quite frequently. We were the goldsmiths, they the sand-sifters. My family had six shops in the Jewelers' Bazaar . My mother's folks were, on the other hand, ironsmiths from the city of Sialkot. The maternal side of my father's family insisted on the match (due to her good looks). My father was a romantic at heart and in order to prove just that he fathered eleven children, but the paternal side of his family never ceased branding my mother an outsider. Only Nooran the sand-sifter acted like a blood relation to her. My mother would mention her in every other conversation. "Oye you Sialkot lass! Your parents must have thought: Be Lahore-bound/then never be found!" The old hag's voice still rings in my ears. She was a storehouse of two-liners, proverbs and poetry. And the moment she spotted my mother, she'd holler, "Mehr Bibi, the goldsmiths don't count you their own! Nizam Din and Family can't know your worth! They don't even consider us humans. They're the goldsmiths, we the sand-sifters, lowest of the lowly: tuseeN aapay aap hi saaray ho/kiyooN kehNde asi niyaray ho." [2] She had rough but fair features, devoid of any blemish; and her eyes - big and wide, full of shine; half the time she'd let her eyes do the talking. She danced and laughed through her eyes. Newly wed, my mother spent half her time listening about the good of the goldsmiths and the bad of the ironsmiths. "Come on, you girl, don't waste your time listening to your golden in-laws ... I have already wasted my life doing that." Two days' absence was the limit and Nooran, clad in her white burqa, would descend on our house; she'd never veil her face though and the moment she entered the portico of our house she'd cast off the robe irrespective of the presence of men and women, since she considered everyone younger than her. Entering, she'd recite a couplet: "Bulliyah chal suniar de jitthe gehne ghaRiye laakh/Surat aapo aapni tooN ikko rupa aakh." [3] As long as she stayed around, one felt caught in a tornado. The moment she left, there appeared sudden calm. "Oh God, when Nooran leaves, joy leaves with her," my mother would add. I never took a liking to her. Even when I was a baby, I'd start wailing on seeing her. As I began to speak, I took up the habit of calling her "Nooran the bear." My mother would try to humor me. Nooran too always kept an orange or a candy with her. Yet nothing worked. As I grew up, I added "Dracula's heir" to "Nooran the bear."[4] It would reduce mother to tears. I am forced to ponder now what lay at the root of it all that bothered me so deeply. I remember the day when my maternal grandpa died. He didn't enjoy much worth in my family's eyes. However, it is only normal for a family to weep together when someone passes away. Strange, everyone at my house remained a mute spectator. My mother cried her heart out. An aunt or two would comfort my mother occasionally. My father, similarly disinterested, was not much help either when he came home. "Let me go and get the tickets for the 3 o'clock train," and with those words he sneaked out. Nooran hugged mother tightly and warmly when she arrived at the scene. She kissed her face. She took my mother inside the room. She even went to Sialkot with her. While my family returned right away, she stayed there for seven days. "She's Meher's own blood, (don't we know that?)!" My aunts would taunt. What was my mother's relationship with her? Nothing except she loved looking after my mother. She could make Kashmiri tea in a flash and she could reciting Bulleh Shah at will. Due to the tea and poetry combination, I made up the rhyme: "Bulleh Shah/Kashmiri Chaa." Ah, yes, it was in fact Abdul Sattar, the tailor's son, who'd planted the suspicion in my heart. "Oye, Noor, have you noticed her husband? Cheema the sand-sifter looks her father's age. He is impotent. Something's fishy about Gulzar the wrestler. I think he's been sleeping around with her." "Gulzar, Nooran's yaar," I rhymed it up in my heart but could not share it with others. Finally, Sattar the Blackie added a gem of a twist, "Nooran is a munDay baaz." [5] "What the hell is that?" I asked, bewildered. "Just as men do with men. Women carry on with women." He had more to say but I couldn't understand a whit. A kind of suspicion took root in me. 1947 had arrived. The city's name had become synonymous with murder and loot. Fear reigned as far as the eye could see. The Jewelers' Market closed down. Some Hindus sold whatever they could at whatever price possible and left. Those who were still around didn't open their shops. The gold was sold mostly at night. One day curfew was imposed on the city and people sneaked in and out within their own neighborhoods with discretion. That afternoon I realized mother wasn't home. When father asked, I said, "She must be at Nooran's; I'll hop over there via the rooftops. I covered four rooftops and finally entered the house from the stairs to encounter complete silence. I went towards the courtyard. "Who is it?" Nooran jumped, alarmed. Due to the heat, she'd covered herself with a sheet as mother lay next to her. Mother sat up - she was drenched in sweat, her face flushed red. "Your mother was scared. I said, Come lie down with me. It is I who should've been scared. Your uncle Cheema has gone to Karanchi. He must be searching for gold in the ocean." Like a lying witness, she continued to talk of her own and laugh. My mother remained tongue-tied. "Nooran, munDay baaz!" I hollered as soon as I entered the living room of our house. My mother slapped me hard for the first time ever. I couldn't tell Sattar about the episode. He wasn't capable of keeping secrets. Nothing had changed in Nooran. 1947 was the weirdest year. A knot had formed in my stomach. After Noor Jahan's superhit Chanvay was released, Nooran would sing, "Way mundya Sialkotiya" as soon as she spotted me. She'd pinch my cheek first and then my mother's. "Her heart is full of love," my mother would say. It must be that. But I remained suspicious. In 1971 my mother died and Nooran cried an ocean by clasping me to her body. I felt relieved. Even at the age of ninety, she had such a sparkle in her eyes. The old guard has by now pretty much died out. The rest migrated to upper middle class neighborhoods such as Garden Town and Model Town, except for Nooran and Sattar. One day I saw the old man Sattar emerging from her house. "Oye, what took you to the house of the munDay baaz?" I asked, laughing. The old man replied, "No, Noor. The old bone is a nice woman. She has helped me a lot all my life." May God keep her in peace. She was a kind soul! * Translator's Notes** 1. Nooran is the female gender of Noor. Niara ( from "suniara"?) is a sub-caste of goldsmiths who sift gold dust from river banks and sea shores and the garbage of goldsmith shops. Niara also means unique, hence the play on words. (back to the text) 2. "If you are the moon and the sun/Then why call us the unique one." (back to the text) 3. "Bullah, let's go to the goldsmiths where they craft a thousand ornaments/Though you see a thousand faces, you only behold the unique One." (back to the text) 4. The original phrases here are "NooraN richni" which suggests the character resembles, or acts like, a she bear, and "KHasmaaN piTni" which refers to someone who cries over the loss of her husband, the emphasis on the plural. This could denote a person with extreme bad luck. The choice of "Dracula's heir" was a tough one. It is not an exact translation but, in my opinion, conveys a sense of a person's ability to take away the life of another person. The entire story makes use of rhymes and I tried to achieve that sometimes at the cost of moving away from literal meaning of the phrases. (back to the text) 5 "MunDaybaaz" is a term used for men who sleep (or like to seduce) boys/other men. It's urdu equivalent is loNDaybaaz, loNDaa means boy/male. I have retained the original word rather than translate it literally because in the story the reference is to a lesbian relationship--translating it literally might cause some confusion, whereas translating the sense of it might move us away from the more fluid use of the term in the Punjabi text. (back to the text) Continue to "Rain, Doors, Windows"