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HhR KHAiIWa:
khfxI: afsyb: sRI mqI sLfihdf aihmd
Short Story:
THE DAUGHTER OF EVE
By G. S. Rai
She had just about come and sat next to him when someone called out from the other corner of the room, "Guddi, get me a glass of water."
Turning her gaze away from him, she looked in that direction from where the request had come, pushed her chair back, threw her cardigan over her shoulders, and went dizzying, almost like a maelstrom. What a combination of youth, health and beauty it was! Liveliness, agility and a certain inebriation appeared to be spilling out of every pore of her body.
This is not a room really, rather a hall, as much as four times the size of a room. Stuffed with something like twenty men and women. Upon the wall towards the left, there are pictures of Krishna, Durga, Guru Nanak and Kaaba. Right above these pictures in a frame is a sign of a Christian Cross. A telly set and a video are lying upon the table underneath. Towards the right is the kitchen, and in the front a huge table with plates and glasses that have to be rushed to the clients, as and when they come in. Wall-sized cupboards are lined up against it's back wall and in the front wall has large French windows with transparent glass that opens up a beautiful view outside. A large patch of green, which looks something of a well-cultivated garden, at the extreme end of which is the wooden fence, keeping the illusion of security alive.
He looked out. The council flats, peering from above the fence, had an appeal of their own. Mild drizzle was on. The rain-drops were dancing upon the green grass. It was difficult to say whether it was garbha or disco.
He would always sit with his back towards the cupboards so that he could drink in the sights that opened up to him. And every time, he would sit upon the same chair. What sense did it make if one were to spend the whole day looking into each other's eyes or talking of the same things over and over again. About illnesses, home, children, wives, daughters-in-law, daughters, hospitals and yourself. Almost everything they had to say each other was something they now remembered backwards. There was some point in talking now only if something new happened or you came across a new person.
His attention again shifted towards this new girl who had introduced herself as Parveen. She was quite attractive to look at and when she talked to everyone with a smile, she appeared all the more appealing. She would help someone put their feet upon a small stool or giving support to another walk him to the bathroom or would give someone water or another an orange juice. She would arrange dominoes by someone's side or put cards for some else to play. She would bring all the ingredients over for the women who wanted to knit small baskets. She would always be on her feet, running errands for just about everyone or anyone. It could be that she had come in very recently and so was going out of her way to win everyone's heart over. She was not here last week. Karnail had told that she had joined only the last Monday. Today is Thursday. He could have only seen her today as he comes here only on Thursdays.
Within a few days, she had bowled everyone over. Today when she came home to take him along, he was stunned completely and kept staring at her for a long time. It was Ann who used to come earlier, so what had happened to Ann? In a way, it was good that it had so happened. Ann was not there. She was there, instead, gentle, beautiful, sharp-featured and life virtually spilling over. She said, "Uncle, Good Morning! I've come to take you."
Hell with the uncle! Only Asians can forge relationships at the drop of a hat.
"You?"
"Yes, it's me. James is in the ambulance. I'm new to this day-centre."
He craned his neck out of the door. The ambulance did belong to the day-centre.
She held my hand which gave me a good feeling as she helped me to the ambulance. Only wish...."Uncle! Uncle!" He looks around with a start. Shaking him by his shoulder, she is saying, "What're you dreaming of, really ? I've been waiting for so long, asking you for tea."
Without responding to her question about the 'dreams' he asks her, "You speak very chaste Punjabi. Where did you learn it from?"
"At home and in school, where else? You want some tea?"
"Yes."
"How much sugar?"
"One spoon."
"With milk?"
"Yes.
"Toast?"
"Yes".
"White or brown."
"Brown please."
He first bites into the toast, then sipping his tea, swallows the toast up. Overwhelmed by her Punjabi, he is keen to know more about her. Even while eating the toast or sipping his cup of tea, his eyes are constantly fixed upon each and every movement of hers. How she speaks and how she goes around helping the helpless with care and compassion. Only wish .....
Switching on the telly, she put in an Asian video film; then with a folder in her hand, she came and sat upon a chair opposite him. "Uncle, I'm new to this place. So 1 want some information on all the clients here. I've met all those who came until yesterday. You've come today. So, 1 want some information on you."
"Information? All the information on us is already there in the registers of the centre. You can find out from there." He suggested, as though he wanted to evade this whole business of passing on the information to her. Refusing to budge, she said, "That's right. The day-centre has all the information on each one of you about your ailments, your diet and your medicines but as social helpers we need to understand your personal needs and problems as well which we can do only by talking to you or through personal contact."
Hearing her speak Punjabi in this fluent manner, he was quite surprised. Her name suggested that she was a Muslim but she didn't appear to be speaking Punjabi the way the Muslims often do. She was using the chaste Punjabi of the Punjabis. How come? He tried to gaze into her eyes which were full of innocence, warmth and affection. Was it that she wanted to interview him? Before she could shoot another question, he asked her, "You tell me, who're you? Where have you come from? Where were you born and where did you study? And how did you come into the social service?"
She smiled, "Uncle! What's this? 1 wanted to take your interview but you've started questioning me."
He just looked at her, didn't speak a word. She understood that he was not going to talk about himself until she responded to his questions first. She said, "My name is Parveen. I'm a Pakistani Muslim. We're originally from Lahore. My abba came to Britain some twenty six years ago. 1 was born here and right now I'm only twenty three. Younger to me are two sisters and a brother." Then she threw a casual glance at the clients sitting in the hall. Turning her gaze towards Basheer who sat upon a wheel-chair in a corner, she continued with her story, 1 was born and brought up here in Britain. 1 passed five '0' and two ‘A’ levels. You'll be surprised to know that 1 read Punjabi in Gurumukhi script and cleared '0' level in Punjabi as well. In our school, we had an arrangement to teach Punjabi up to '0' levels.
Hearing about '0' levels in Punjabi, he was, at once, happy and embarrassed. For none of his sons, all of whom were born into a Punjabi family, could either read, write, speak or understand Punjabi very confidently. And look at this girl. Though she was born into a Pakistani Muslim family, she not only cleared '0' levels as she says but also speaks in fluent colloquil Punjabi. She has no hesitation, whatsoever, using Puniabi with the Asians. Then for his satisfaction she took out a paper from the folder and wrote a few words of Punjabi in her beautiful hand. He could not help patting her on the back.
"Then?"
"Then what? 1 was keen on going to the college and university for higher studies. But ......" With a heavy heart, she left the sentence unfinished.
"But what?"
Again, running her eyes around the hall to see if anyone wanted something, she focused them upon Basheer in the wheel-chair, and said, "My daddy was in a hurry to marry me off. My ammi (mum) was keen that 1 should study further so that 1 could stand on my own two feet. But these men don't ever listen to their women, you see." And then, she took a long, deep sigh. It occurred to him that she was not just talking of her own father, but all the Asian fathers across the world. Realising that he was still looking at her quizzically, she said, "You perhaps know that we marry within the family. My abba's sister was in Manchester. At the age of eighteen, 1 was married off to her son, Akram. The marriage lasted a few days and then it broke. Within a few days, 1 had had the taste of both, marriage as well as divorce."
He looked at her with sad, disconsolate eyes. And then asked, "Why did it break?"
'My husband, Akram, was in bad company. He was a drug-addict as well as a gambler. He had never done a spot of work ever in his life. He had been to jail several times over. He used to gamble away all his money, and had a white mistress to boot." She explained, pain seeping into her voice. His heart surged up with compassion for Parveen. Cautiously he asked, " Your bhua (father’s sister) must have known of his sinful ways. Why did she do this to you?"
"That is the most lamentable fact. My abba knew it just as well as his sister did. I've a feeling that even my ammi had got the scent of it somehow. That's why perhaps she was not in favour of this marriage. She had tried to resist it as well, but disregarding all her objections my abba simply went ahead and married me off. He would say that, once married, the boy would mend his ways. But do bad habits ever desert you?"
And the tears started flowing out of Parveen's eyes. Composing herself somewhat, she said, "My husband Akram, had told me within two weeks of the marriage that if 1 wanted to live with him, I'd have to tolerate her white mistress without a whimper. He'd been living in with his girl friend for over two years. 1 really cursed him, saying, "0 bastard, why did you have to ruin my life by marrying me?" He told me, "I didn't want to get married at all. It was all the doing of your abba and my ammi.
"Didn't you ask your bhua?
"I did" She said, "So what, we are allowed to have up to four marriages. He'll get better on his own."
"Then?"
"Then what? A few months passed by, wailing and crying. 1 begged my husband, even tried to win him over with love. But he just didn't want to be mine alone. I would often cry my heart out in the silence of the night. Finally, 1 was convinced that with the exception of Allah Mian no one could possibly save me from this torture. After all, how long could 1 suffer all this? 1 asked my husband for a divorce, but he refused. He said that he was not going to divorce me and 1 could do what 1 wanted. Being a woman, what could 1 do. Quietly, 1 came back to my parent's house. When my mother learnt of it, she wasn't able to bear the brunt of this trauma. She had a nervous breakdown. She'd be lost all the time, soaked in my sorrow. Both the sisters were very young, and the brother was younger still. So, 1 decided that with this stigma of a 'deserted wife' on my forehead, the only choice for me was to stay with my parents, tend to my mother and look after the younger siblings. 1 would serve my mother, reassure her as well. But abba, who knew all the facts, continued to blame me for the entire situation. My uncle and aunt came twice or thrice but 1 refused to accompany them till such time as Akram agreed to mend his ways and leave his mistress as well. Now this was almost impossible. Then 1 did a part-time course in social service and took up this job at the day-centre. That's what my story is all about."He could not muster enough strength to even look up at her. Looking up at her watch and saying, 'we'll talk about it another time,' she busied herself with the demands of other clients. Perhaps she had to take the two sisters on the wheel-chair to the toilet or give them a bath and change their clothes. While pressing the button of the "Tens" machine for soothing pain in his knees, he started thinking about the oppression of women and the atrocities of men on them. Strange are these thoughts for they carry you off so far within minutes.
As he sat reflecting, the time just slipped away. It was lunch-time. The table-cloth was spread on the table and the plates were arranged on it. Everyone was brought to the dining-table. After having served the meals, Parveen got her plate, came and sat right opposite. He thought that today, she won't stop chasing him around. She was definitely much more solemn now than she had been earlier on in the day. But he could sense that she still wanted to talk to him. So without giving her the opportunity to cut the ice, he asked her himself, 'Parveen ji, what happened then?"
"What was to happen, then. That was the end of the story."
"Did you divorce him?"
"That doesn't really matter. If you were to say 'talak', 'talak' 'talak' thrice, the divorce is as good as through. But this right to give 'talak' is something that again rests with man. The woman can stay away from man but can't seek divorce from him on her own. Man alone has the right to it. In Islam, a woman has to stay away from man for, at least, five years, then the divorce is binding on both."
"Since how long have you been living separately now?"
"In March, we've completed five years."
"Does it mean your divorce is through, then?"
"Yes, according to shariat, it's through."
"Then."
"Then what?"
"Then, you're still young and attractive. You have your entire life ahead of you. Why don't you re-marry?" He didn't know how he had unwittingly used an informal 'you' rather than a formal, respectful one. This was certainly not quite in keeping with his habit. She looked at him in such a manner as though she wanted to say, 'you're really naive.'Rather than answer his question, she shot another question: "Marriage? With a divorcee, a deserted wife?"
Running his tongue over his lips, he asked,`Why? Can't a divorcee get married, again?"
"It's certainly not forbidden by the Asian religions. So, legally she can but not in real, practical terms."
"I haven't really understood this bit about the 'legal' and the 'practical."
"According to our Asian religious traditions, such women can always re-marry. But in our situation where it's difficult to find boys for the unmarried ones, who'd find a match for someone like me. Had you not been married, would you have offered to marry me knowing that 1 was a divorcee."He was stunned. What could he say? He thought to himself. perhaps no. But told her, "I don't really think you have a reason to despair, really. By now your father must also be regretting that he neither bothered to listen to you nor to your ammi. So please do talk to him through your mother and ask him to find a suitable match for you. If there's no dearth of bad and ill-intentioned people in this world, there isn't any dearth of good, well-meaning people, either."
She dragged in such a deep sigh that his heart, filled with its smoke and stench, nearly trembled.
"How does it matter if abba were to regret it, now?" She mumbled and then her entire body convulsed, as if in pain of a scream that could not escape her lips. It was as though the words had failed her completely. She simply gestured towards Basheer's wheel-chair and said, "Uncle! I've two younger sisters, one brother and this paralysed abba.. Along with the mother now, I've to bear his burden as well. Will he look for a match for me? What do 1 do with his regret?"
In an effort to read the horoscope of this 'daughter of eve', sometimes he looks at Parveen and sometimes at Basheer. His eyes glazed, he is unable to see anything clearly.
(Translated into English by Dr. Rana Nayar, Punjab University, Chandigarh)
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likhari: Punjabi Likhari Forum-2001-2003