Meinh, Boohay te BaariaN
Rain, Doors, and Windows
by Zubair Ahmed
Translated from Punjabi by Moazzam Sheikh
It is still pouring hard and Miss Kuwait rushes past our house. Miss Kuwait's house is in the back of Sister Naseem's. She has only one son and he is in Kuwait. All alone in a huge big house - not even a servant! Originally, she comes from a village. Every once in a while a man or a woman shows up at her house and leaves after spending few days. Miss Kuwait's only son is still unmarried. She's been on the hunt for quite some time. Every year her son visits and returns without getting married. Long, long time ago Miss Kuwait's house used to be locked up (since the time of the Hindus) and a rumor had it that ghosts lived there. When during the festival of Basant loose kites fell on her roof, no one dared go after it. One day Miss Kuwait arrived on a tonga and the house lit up. When she announced her son was in Kuwait and that she's looking for a bride, many mothers of young girls busied themselves being nice and doing things for her. But when even after four years her son didn't marry anyone, the mothers stopped talking to her and started spreading all kinds of tales. I know Miss Kuwait is going to cook rice with brown sugar or deep fry puffy bread and bring some to our house because she's friends with my mother. Every Thursday, real early in the morning, they walk all the way to Data Saheb's shrine, wearing a white dupatta and holding its edge between their teeth, meditating on the rosary, "Allah hoo, Allah hoo."
The son of Miss Kuwait kept coming for many years and then he stopped. Many years have passed since she died and I don't even know who lives their currently. The rain keeps coming down, the rain keeps ... and I am still perched by window ... what else can I do?
To the right of Sister Naseem's stands Syed Ali Hyder Wasti's abode. Hyder Wasti is employed by the same college as I but he hangs out with a different group. He's got two elder brothers and three elder sisters. His father is a scholar and has authored a few books too. But he's bed-ridden for the last several years. His wife keeps on giving him medicine, keeps on giving him medicine but he has no intention of getting well. The elder sisters have studied up to the university level and are now working. The brothers work too. In the beginning they, the sisters, didn't like the prospective partners and now no one comes pleading at their door. It seems as though the three sisters are angry with themselves; with time; with brothers; with parents and who else, only God knows! The brothers say they won't marry as long as the sisters are not married. The sisters never come and stand by the windows, they never watch the rain or bath in the verandah, never talk with anyone, they are just angry. All the brothers and sisters keep on working and just keep on working, getting old, getting old . . .
Syed Ali Hyder Wasti has now demolished the house and constucted a market instead; because their walls touched the bazaar from the other side. But where are they themselves? They have left no clue. I have neither run into him, nor spotted him from a distance.
The rain hasn't let up yet. From the second story window of my house, past Sister Naseem's house, slightly to the left, at the end of the alley, I can see Ryaz the postman sitting by the window of his house.
Ryaz the postman has been retired for many years. Renting the lower portion, he lives in the upper two room all by himself. He's built this house over a long period of time by gathering every single brick. Whatever he saves by pooling money into the neighborhood committee, he spends on his house.
I have heard that his wife was a knockout: thin nose, dark skin, medium height and voluptuous behind. She ran away with Khursheed, taking all her four kids with her. That is not the complete truth. She did run away with Khursheed but she didn't settle with him. She only used Khursheed to reach her lover. Khursheed was a rickshaw driver. One day Ryaz was at work when Khursheed entered the house without knocking. People first heard the wife' hollering and then saw Khursheed running away. Khursheed was quite tall and strongly built. No one had the heart to block his path. This episode repeated itself a few days later. Gradually, Khursheed would enter the house in broad daylight but no protest would emerge from her mouth. Ryaz found out and beat her up. People heard the children cry all over the neighborhood. Finally, she walked off with Khursheed one day. She gathered her children, prepared a couple of bundles, collecting all the money and gold, and left in Khursheed's rickshaw to never return. The old men of the neighborhood still recollect and praise her beauty.
Khursheed reappeared a few days later. Ryaz had filed a case against him at the police station, but they let him go the same night. He explained that she had left him too for her friend-before-the-wedding and has settled in Karachi. After the wife's disappearance, Ryaz used to cry thinking of her and the children. Later he tried to get married many times but the matchmakers only milked him and he remained unmarried. He's been such a simpleton all his life.
Ryaz the postman knows everyone in the old neighborhood. He retired after forty years of service. Since our government started changing names of the roads, neighborhoods, alleys and all, Ryaz has found new work since he's the only one who knows the old names. On top of that, he knows each and everyone in every house. Even postmen come to him for help regarding letters with old addresses like "Arjun Road, Shivaji Street, Krishna Alley." Ryaz lives alone and cooks his own food. Whenever we see him he's got some problem or other or he's ill. It appears as if he exists outside of time. Time doesn't pass for him, nor does it shrink; rather he steps outside of time and watches it roll away and he just keeps on watching time roll away. Quietly sitting for many years now he gazes at the boys playing carromboard or bandar killa, doing kite fights during the festival of Basant, staring at the pigeons, watching people walking in the alley, the rain, he just keeps on watching, just keeps on watching.
The rain has let up a bit and a silvery evening has descended on the bathed, coal-tarred road.
It'd be great if Zafari showed up. He's got to be carrying a packet of cigarettes as well.
All the friends will gather at Boota Tea Stall and as usual we'll return home late into the night. It is the end of the month of Bhadon and Amjad saheb has put on his crumpled, half-sleeve sweater even before the Winter has set in and is now dodging water puddles on his way to get milk, holding a container.
It would've been nice if Zafari had come. He lives a few lanes from here. Shouldn't I go and find him? But his father's going to say he's not home. Moreover, he'll deliver a few taunts as well.
Soon the night, like Sister Naseem's huge, dark eyes, will come knocking. A cool breeze will blow at night; the hazy moonlight, sneaking into our lives through doors and windows, will make visible the slithering snakes the breeze is going to create on the puddles in the street. These colors seen through the window at night never pale – the colors of night, rain and evening. Only the silence ... beneath the lone, pale street light of the alley! The light of Syed Ali Hyder Wasti's house is going to remain on for a long time and a sweet sound of voices from Bushra's house will waft our way. Many will have glued their ears to Ryaz the postman's radio playing old Hindustani songs.
I'll be sipping tea with friends at the Tea Stall and Taqi and Professor will bore the rest getting stuck on some worthless issue and I'll be thinking of Gulabo. Rain or no rain, I'll whittle away my time by the open window. The lovely thing is that Gulabo lives downstairs and water doesn't gather in front of her house. You'll certainly ask why I haven't said a word about Gulabo. What can I say to you about Gulabo? I wish I knew where the hell she's vanished!