Aasiya–Translation from the Urdu

Here is an excerpt from another story from Bilal Hassan Minto’s Model Town:

There are people who might have felt the neighborhood was against Apa Sughra  just like that, without a reason. They could have wondered how anyone could be against a woman so devout that she had fired her cleaning lady Alice on a matter of principle when she found her drinking water from glasses reserved for Apa Sughra’s Muslim household. A woman so righteous that she had summarily dismissed Susan because her husband supplied alcohol to a Muslim. But such people who question our hatred of Apa Sughra are ignorant of the facts.

We had not always been against her. When she rented the house next door, Ammi sent her both meals that first day because her kitchen wouldn’t be ready. So obviously, we hadn’t hated her from the very beginning. Quite apart from all the terrible things we found out later, what she did to her own daughter Pari, soon after moving to our neighborhood, was enough for us  to condemn her, vilify her, and treat her with hostility. Pari was not at all to blame for the incident. Whoever heard of it said “What did the poor girl do wrong?” Naveed Bhai had been really angry and said Apa Sughra needed to be taught a lesson but Ammi strictly forbade him, saying there was no need to mess with that witch. It’s a different matter that I suspected Naveed Bhai didn’t have any way to do anything to Apa Sughra even if Ammi hadn’t said so. I thought he was just boasting.

Ever since Apa Sughra began living in our neighborhood we had noticed she didn’t allow her twin daughters, Fari and Pari, out of the house at all. Meeting us was out of the question; they weren’t even allowed to play with the neighborhood girls. We always thought the poor things were locked in the house after school. What did they do all day? Did they play with each other or was that not allowed either? And if they were so constrained, why did Apa Sughra even send them to school? Why was she educating them?

Miss Nabiha’s school was very close to Fari-Pari’s house. It must have had a name but I only remember everyone calling it Miss Nabiha’s school. This might have been because Miss Nabiha was a tall, very fair woman who always wore red lipstick and drove a Mazda. Such women, as everyone knows, were rarely seen in those days so Miss Nabiha stood out. There were all types of schools everywhere but there were few modern and striking women like Miss Nabiha. That may have been the reason people referred to her school by her name. Obviously a righteous woman like Apa Sughra couldn’t have sent her daughters to a school run by a modern woman like Miss Nabiha. Fari and Pari went to the Model Girl’s School, a little further up the road, and in keeping with Apa Sughra’s strict instructions they would quicken their pace and lower their heads when they passed by Miss Nabiha’s.

In Model Town at the time, water ran along the roads in small unbricked channels. Perhaps they were made to irrigate the vegetation outside the houses. Neither they nor the vegetation exist anymore. But back then, the channels were full of water and there was a lot of greenery. These naalas had a place in Fari and Pari’s lives,because as soon as school let out they had to walk home along one of them. There was no margin for deviation. As soon as school ended, they had to put on their burqas and head back, walking along the naala even though many girls would mill around for a while. Some were waiting for their rides while others stayed to chat with friends. These girls would buy various things to eat from street vendors: gross chickpeas, colorful ice lollies, and local candies. On Saturdays, there would be more of this because school ended early, at 11, and the next day was the weekly holiday so the girls would loiter around the school and enjoy themselves. But, even on Saturdays, Fari and Pari put on their black burqas and walked home along the naala.

This might have happened on a Saturday. Fari and Pari came out of school and headed home, walking briskly. Nearby, on the side of the street, a girl grabbed a roasted corn from another girl’s hand and started running. It was just a lark.  The second one began chasing after her to get her corn back.  They caught up to Fari-Pari and the girl who had snatched the corn began running around them to avoid being caught. The victim proved quicker and managed to lay her hand on the other’s arm for a second. The corn thief, not knowing what to do, grabbed Pari, pulling her towards herself for protection. She couldn’t grab the unfortunate Pari’s arm but got hold of her burqa. It ripped with a shearing sound. Poor Pari was unnerved.  The tugging and unraveling of her burqa made her stumble. She bumped into the poacher.  The two girls tumbled into the naala.

The naala wasn’t a dangerous naala, only two or three feet deep, so falling into it didn’t pose any risk of drowning or being hurt. All that happened was that the girls’ clothes got completely soaked and covered with mud. For Pari, the greater tragedy was that her burqa was ripped and was hanging loose  exposing the wet, dirty kameez of her school uniform. On seeing the ripped burqa and the wet shirt, Fari began screaming semi-hysterically from the edge of the naala:

“Hai Pari, Hai Pari! Burqa, Burqa! Hai Allah, Hai Allah! Kameez!”

At this moment, the math teacher, Miss Tayabba, was heading out of the school gate in their direction. Seeing what was happening she hurried over. The poacher had picked herself out of the naala and was standing grinning.  But Pari was still sitting there, stunned.  Miss Tayabba offered her hand but Pari didn’t move. Miss Tayabba grabbed a part of her burqa and pulled, ripping it some more. Exasperated, she caught Pari by the hair and began dragging her out.

Pari did come around a little when her hair was yanked, but more than the pain she was overwhelmed by the ripping of her burqa.

“My burqa! My burqa!” she cried.

Miss Tayyaba smacked both girls on their heads and grabbed their hair in her two fists. Fari was still standing apart and screaming. Miss Tayyaba shook her by the arm and said angrily:

“Why are you screaming? What happened to you?”

“Miss, burqa! Hai Miss! Pari’s burqa!” Fari said, in tears.

“The burqa is torn,” Miss Tayyaba said. “It’s useless.” She pulled it off Pari and threw it on the road.

Fari started screaming loudly.

“Miss, burqa! You have taken off Pari’s burqa! Ammi will be angry!” Hearing this Pari began sobbing.

“So you were going to go home in a ripped and muddy burqa?” Miss Tayyaba asked. “Your mother won’t say anything. Go home. And if you are so concerned about the burqa, then here, take it with you.” She picked up the torn burqa from the street, shoved it in Pari’s hand and walked off.

Miss Tayyaba didn’t know Apa Sughra.  At times, she acted first and asked questions later.  When the two girls returned home a bit late because of the accident, Apa Sughra was standing at the gate. She didn’t ask why they were late nor why Pari had removed her burqa. She just slapped her firmly on the face. At that moment, the street was full of children on their way home from school, some alone and some with parents or servants, some on foot and some on bicycles.The children stopped, waiting to see what would happen next.

In that moment, something snapped. A rebellious streak flickered in Pari or she just lost control.  As soon as her mother slapped her, she ran madly down the street. She dumped her bag and burqa and started running without looking where she was going.

Apa Sughra was enraged. “Come here, bitch! I will tear you to pieces.” She ran after Pari. Passersby watched as Pari ran off, with Apa Sughra in pursuit.

“Catch her! Catch her!” Apa Sughra kept screaming. “That’s my daughter, ulloo ki patthi! She is running away from home. Catch her! Catch her!” She couldn’t keep up with Pari because she was fat and old.

Pari had gotten quite far ahead. The foolish girl couldn’t figure out that every step only increased her mother’s fury. Just then, Apa Sughra saw her mali biking slowly towards her. When Pari sped by him, he also stopped to watch the spectacle, one foot on the bike pedal and the other on the ground, the way people often stop on bicycles. Pari raced by him, followed a little while later by her cruel screaming mother.

“Mali, are you blind? Why are you standing there like that? Catch Pari and bring her back.”

“What happened, Begum Sahib? Bibi has dumped her burqa and is running away from home?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Mali. I ‘ll have your hide! Go and catch her. Get on your cycle.”

However far Pari could run, where could she go? The mali pedeled rapidly and caught up with her. That  fifty-year-old show-off was speeding along to impress the spectators. Across the street, Pari continued to run along the naala. The mali leapt off his cycle and ran towards her. No real skill was involved because he had a ladies’ bike, one without a bar from the seat to the handle. I could dismount more swiftly from a men’s bike — Aqib and Talat too.

The mali’s ladies bike rolled forward a little ways on its own, then toppled over,  its rear wheel spinning.

“Pari, the mali’s coming! The mali’s coming,” Fari yelled in warning but in a few moments the mali caught hold of Pari.

“Bring her here! “Bring her here!” Apa Sughra began to scream, advancing towards Pari. The passersby were now standing in complete silence, watching. Many were residents of Model Town — school children, neighbors, servants– some of whom had heard of Apa Sughra and her two burqa-clad daughters.

The mali had Pari by the arm and was pulling her gently to accompany him, but she wouldn’t move. He wasn’t pulling hard perhaps  because he feared that using more force would be considered inappropriate. By then, Apa Sughra had reached Pari herself and grabbed her hair in her fist.

“Come home! I’ll teach you!” She started dragging Pari by the hair. Pari anchored her feet to the ground but Apa Sughra was very strong. There was nothing Pari could do. But then, after a few steps, she sat on the ground.

“Mali, grab her arm” And then, she said to Pari, “Just you get home!”

Seeing that Pari had been caught, Fari ran inside the gate  and waited on the lawn. She was trembling from fear and apprehension. Such a horrible incident — Apa Sughra’s orders being disobeyed,  the frightening sight of Pari unveiled in public— had never been witnessed before.

“Get lost!” Apa Sughra said to the passersby on reaching her gate.  She went inside and locked it behind her. Then she told the mali to find her a stick. Most people had left after her scolding but some children — myself included — climbed  the wall and peeked inside.  Pari’s screams could be heard from most of the houses on the street. The stake that had just been supporting the sunflower plant was now coming down hard on Pari. We kept watching, silent, and somewhat frightened.

Pari should have borne the thrashing quietly because after all the running around  Apa Sughra would have soon gotten tired of beating her.  But who knows why, perhaps because she was in a lot of pain, she suddenly got up and began running again.  Apa Sughra’s fury knew no bounds, and she ran after her, almost hysterical. Pari had just unlocked the gate and pushed it open slightly, when that stick that had been bearing down on her, came from behind and hit her in the head. We saw that it didn’t fall to the ground immediately but remained joined to her skull  for some moments.  A scream escaped Pari’s throat. The pointed end, which had been in the ground when it was supporting the sunflower, had penetrated Pari’s head.  Soon blood began dripping on the kameez of Pari’s school uniform.

Even Apa Sughra was taken aback a bit on seeing the blood, but only momentarily. For about two seconds, she stared at Pari as if gauging the extent of the injury. Then she quickly moved towards her. “Blood! Blood!” Fari screamed. “Pari’s bleeding!”

“Shut up!” Apa Sughra turned and said to Fari. She switched back  to Pari.  “Being dramatic! I will just fix you right now!”

What drama? We could all see that Pari was bleeding from the head. The few boys watching the spectacle from the wall were so intimidated that they climbed down quietly and went home.  Apa Sughra reached Pari and was about to hit her again when even the mali spoke up:

“Bibiji… let it go!”

Apa Sughra ignored his remark and grabbed Pari by the ear. She had just started pulling when Pari wobbled and lost consciousness.