Faizabad : enfance et enlèvement

Where is the charm in any tale?
Shall I tell my own story, or the world's?

Listen, Mirza Ruswa Sahib! Why do you keep teasing me to tell it? What is there so delightful in the story of an unlucky woman like me, that you should be so eager for it? I have no hope at all that you will be pleased to hear the life of one unhappy, disappointed, a wanderer far from home, her house destroyed, a disgrace to her family, a shame in both worlds. Well then, listen, and listen carefully:

What use is it to boast of my good name by naming my father and grandfather? And to tell the truth, I don't even remember them. This much I know: my home was in some quarter on the edge of the city of Faizabad. Our house was built of brick. Round about were some mud houses, some huts, some tiled hovels. The people who lived there must have been ordinary folk: some water-carriers, barbers, washermen, palanquin-bearers. Besides ours there was one other tall house in that quarter. The owner of that house was called Dilawar Khan.

My father was in service at the tomb of Bahu Begum Sahiba. I don't know what his post was or what his pay was. I remember only that people called him Jamadar.

All day long I used to look after my little brother, and he was so attached to me that he would not let me go for a moment.

When my father came home from work in the evening, don't ask how happy we children were. I would hug him round the waist; my brother would run crying "Abba, Abba!" and cling to his coat-tails. My father's face would split with a smile of joy. He would pat me and stroke my back, take my brother up in his arms and kiss him. I remember well that he never came home empty-handed. Sometimes he had two sticks of sugar cane in his hand, sometimes a leaf-cup of sugar drops and sesame sweets. Now it was being divided up. What fun our quarrels were then! He would snatch the sugar cane; I would grab the cup of sweets. My mother would be sitting opposite under the tiled roof, cooking. He had hardly sat down when my demands began: "Abba, oh God! You didn't bring the dolls. Look how my shoe is broken! You never think of it. And my necklace still hasn't come back from the goldsmith. My little aunt's daughter is having her milk ceremony; what am I to wear? Whatever happens, I'm going to wear a new suit on Id. Yes, I'll wear a new one." When my mother had finished cooking she called me. I went and brought the basket of bread and the pot of curry. The cloth was spread, my mother served out the food, we all ate with our heads together and thanked God. My father said the night prayer and went to sleep. At dawn he rose and said his prayers; at the same moment I too woke with a start, and the demands began again:

"Abba dear! Don't forget today; be sure to bring the dolls. Abba! Bring lots of guavas and oranges this evening." After the dawn prayer my father would climb to the roof reciting his litany, let the pigeons out and give them grain, and send one or two flying into the air. Meanwhile my mother would finish sweeping and dusting and have the meal ready, for my father went off to work before the first watch of the day had passed. Then my mother sat down to her sewing. I would take my brother and go out somewhere in the quarter, or to the tamarind tree at our door. The boys and girls I played with would gather; I would set my brother down and lose myself in play. Ah, what days those were! I had not a care in the world. I ate the best of food and wore the best of clothes, for among the boys and girls I played with I saw no one better off than myself. My heart had not yet been opened to the world, my eyes had not yet been opened wide. Where I lived, no house was taller than ours, and everyone else lived in a hut or under tiles. In our house there were two halls facing each other. In front of the main hall was a tiled verandah, with two little rooms. Facing the hall was the kitchen; on the other side the stairs to the roof, and on the roof a tiled shed and two small rooms. We had more cooking pots than we needed. We had a few cotton rugs and white floor-sheets too, and people of the quarter used to come to our house to borrow such things. A water-carrier brought water to our house, while the women of the quarter drew their own water from the well. When my father went out in his uniform, people bowed low to greet him. My mother rode in a litter when she went visiting; the neighbour women trudged about on foot.

In looks too I was better than my playmates. Although I could never truly be counted among the beauties, I was not then as I am now. I had a fresh, golden complexion, and my features, thank God, were not so bad. My forehead was rather high, my eyes were large, my cheeks round and chubby with childhood. My nose, though not finely chiselled, was not flat and snub either. I was well grown for my age, though I am not so now. I was never counted among the delicate ones, then or now. Dressed in this fashion: trousers of red striped cloth with narrow little cuffs, a waistband of tool cloth, a muslin shift, a scarf of fine muslin, three silver bangles on each wrist, a necklace round my neck, a gold nose-ring in my nose, while all the other girls had silver ones. My ears had only just been pierced, and there were blue threads in them; my gold earrings had gone to be made.

My marriage had been arranged with my father's sister's son. The betrothal had taken place when I was nine years old, and now his side was pressing for the wedding. My aunt was married in Nawabganj; her husband was a landholder. Her house was better stocked than ours. Before the betrothal I had been there several times with my mother. Things were on another scale there. The house was of mud, but very large. Thatched sheds stood at the door, with cows, bullocks and buffaloes tied up. There was plenty of ghee and milk, and grain in abundance. In the maize season, maize cobs came in by the basket. Sugar cane lay in heaps, piles of it everywhere; who could eat it all?

I had seen my bridegroom too (that is, the one to whom I was promised); indeed, I had played with him. My father had already got together the whole of my dowry; there was only a little more money to be found. The wedding had been fixed for the month of Rajab.

At night, when my father and mother talked of my wedding, I used to listen quietly and be glad in my heart. Wah! My bridegroom is better-looking than Kariman's (that was the name of a cotton-carder's daughter of my age). Hers is dark, mine is fair. What a great big beard Kariman's bridegroom has on his face; mine hasn't even a proper moustache yet. Kariman's bridegroom always wears a dirty old dhoti and a jacket dyed the colour of lentils; and in what style mine came on Id day: a coat of green chintz, trousers of striped cloth, an embroidered cap, velvet shoes. Kariman's bridegroom goes about barefoot with a rag tied round his head.

In short, I was happy with my lot; and why not, since I could imagine nothing better? It seemed to me that all my wishes would very soon come true.

I don't remember any sorrow I suffered as long as I lived in my parents' house, except once, when I lost a little ring from my finger playing chanda-dheri. The wretched thing was a bit of silver wire, worth no more than an anna perhaps. I say that now; at the time I had no such sense, I didn't know the value of anything. I cried so much over that ring that my eyes swelled up. I hid it from my mother all day. At last at night, when she saw my finger bare, she asked me what had happened, and then I had to tell her. My mother slapped me across the face. I began to scream and sob until I had hiccups. Just then my father came in. He soothed me and was angry with my mother. Then my heart was comforted a little.

No doubt my father loved me more than my mother did. My father never touched me even with a flower-stalk, while my mother would hit me for the slightest thing. My mother loved my little brother very much. I was beaten a great deal on account of my little brother, but still I loved him dearly. Out of spite against my mother I sometimes would not take him in my arms for hours on end; but as soon as she was out of sight, I would hug him at once, pick him up and kiss him. When I saw my mother coming, I would quickly put him down. Then he would start crying, and my mother would think I had made him cry and begin to scold me.

That was so; and yet, the moment my finger hurt, my mother was beside herself. She lost all thought of food and drink, she could not sleep at night; she asked one person for medicine, sent to another for an amulet.

For my dowry she took off all the ornaments from her own neck and gave them to my father: "Have a little silver added to these and have them made up again. Have the one or two new pieces cleaned up." Out of all the pots in the house she kept two or four and set the rest aside: "Have these tinned." My father even told her to think of her own future. My mother said, "Oh, it'll be all right. Your sister is a landholder's wife; she must see that her brother has given the girl something. Your sister she may be a hundred times over, but in-laws are in-laws. If my girl goes to them with nothing to her name, people will taunt us."

Mirza Ruswa Sahib! I have drawn you a full picture of my parents' house and my childhood. Now you can judge whether, had I stayed in that world, I would have been happy or unhappy. You can imagine it yourself. To my poor mind it seems I would have done well enough in that life.

The beginning of my wandering, the cause of my wild frenzy:
I understand it; but how shall I make the preacher understand?

I have heard people say that, as for those who are courtesans by birth, there's nothing to be said; whatever they do is little enough, for they are brought up in such homes and such circumstances that nothing but sin is ever spoken of. Mother, sister, whoever they look at, all live the same way. But these daughters of decent parents who leave their homes and go to the bad: may they be struck down where there's no water to be had!

If I were to tell you only as much of my story as I have told so far, and then say that after this I went astray, you would think the wretched girl was wanton: her marriage was delayed, she gave her heart to someone and ran off with him, he abandoned her, she took up with another, that didn't last either, and so little by little this became her trade. Truly, that is often how it happens. In my life I have seen and heard of many wives and daughters going to the bad, and there are many reasons for it. One is that they grow up and their parents do not marry them. Another is that they are not married to their liking: their parents throw them in wherever they please, without regard to age, without looking at looks, without asking about temper. They don't get on with their husbands, and they run away. Or in the midst of their youth the sky falls on their heads and they are widowed. But me, wretched, ill-starred creature, fate and chance forced me and left me in such a wilderness that there was no road out of it but the road to ruin.

Dilawar Khan, whose house was a little way from ours, was in league with dacoits, curse him. He had spent years in prison in Lucknow, and about this time, I don't know on whose recommendation, he had been released. He bore my father a bitter grudge. The reason was this: when he was arrested in Faizabad, people from the quarter were summoned to inquire into his character, and my father was among them. My poor father was simple of heart and truthful of tongue in any case; and on top of that, the officer in charge put the Quran into his hands and asked him, "Jamadar, tell the truth: what sort of man is he?" My father told plainly what the man was. That grudge had stayed in his heart. This time, when he was released from prison, he took to keeping pigeons to spite my father. One day he caught one of my father's pigeons. My father went to fetch it back, but he would not give it up. My father offered four annas; he demanded eight. My father went off to work. At dusk, heaven knows why, I had gone out of the house; and what should I see but Dilawar Khan standing under the tamarind tree. He said, "Come, child, your father left the money; come and take the pigeon." I fell into his trap and went with him. When I got there I saw there wasn't a soul in the house; the place stood empty. The moment I stepped inside he bolted the door from within. I wanted to scream, but he stuffed a rag into my mouth and bound both my hands tight with a handkerchief. The house had another door on the far side. He sat me down on the ground, went and opened that door and called out, "Pir Bakhsh!" Pir Bakhsh came in. Together they put me on a bullock cart, and the cart set off. I was struck dumb, my breath stuck in my throat. What could I do? I was helpless, in the clutches of a brute. Dilawar Khan sat inside the cart holding me down with his knees, a knife in his hand, blood in the wretch's eyes. Pir Bakhsh was driving the cart, and the bullocks seemed to fly along. Soon evening fell and darkness spread all round. It was the cold season, and an icy wind was blowing. Every bit of me was shaking with cold; I thought I would die.

Tears poured from my eyes like rain. The thought kept coming to me: oh, what disaster have I fallen into! My father will have come home from work and be looking for me. My mother will be beating her breast. My little brother will be playing; what does he know of the disaster his sister is in? My mother, my father, the hall of our house, the courtyard, the kitchen: everything was before my eyes. All these thoughts on one side, and on the other the fear for my life. Every moment Dilawar Khan showed me the knife. It seemed to me that any moment now that knife would go through my heart. The rag was no longer in my mouth, but I was too frightened to make a sound. That was my state, while Dilawar Khan and Pir Bakhsh laughed and chatted together, cursing my parents and me at every other word.

Dilawar Khan: You see, brother Pir Bakhsh! A soldier's son takes his revenge after twelve years. How that ...... must be writhing now!

Pir Bakhsh: Brother, you've certainly made the proverb come true. It must be twelve years since you were put in prison?

Dilawar Khan: Twelve full years, brother! What miseries I've suffered in Lucknow! Well, that ...... will remember this for a while. This was only my first blow; I'll kill him yet.

Pir Bakhsh: You mean to do that too?

Dilawar Khan: What do you take me for? If I don't kill him, I'm no true Pathan.

Pir Bakhsh: Brother, you're a man of your word; what you say, you'll do.

Dilawar Khan: You'll see!

Pir Bakhsh: And what will you do with her?

Dilawar Khan: What should we do? Kill her somewhere around here and bury her in a ditch. Then home by night.

When I heard this I was sure I was going to die. The tears stopped in my eyes, my heart gave a lurch, my head dropped and my limbs went limp. Even seeing me like this, the hard-hearted wretch felt no pity; he struck me so hard on the chest with his fist that I cried out and nearly fell over.

Pir Bakhsh: You'll kill her, and what about my money?

Dilawar Khan: Up to my neck in water.

Pir Bakhsh: Where will you get it from? I thought you had something else in mind.

Dilawar Khan: Just get home. If I can't find it anywhere else, I'll sell my pigeons and pay you.

Pir Bakhsh: You've no sense. Why sell your pigeons? Shall I tell you something?

Dilawar Khan: Go on.

Pir Bakhsh: Man, take the girl to Lucknow and sell her for cash.

Ever since I had become sure I was going to die, I could not properly hear what those two brutes were saying. It seemed as if someone were talking in a dream. Hearing Pir Bakhsh say this, my heart took some hope of life again, and inwardly I began to bless him. But now I waited to see what the other brute would say.

Dilawar Khan: Well, we'll see; for now, let's keep going.

Pir Bakhsh: Shan't we stop here a moment? There's a fire burning under that tree; if I fetch a little fire we can fill the hookah.

Pir Bakhsh went to fetch the fire. Then the fear came over me that before Pir Bakhsh came back the man would finish me off. The fear of death is a terrible thing. All at once I screamed aloud. The moment I screamed, Dilawar Khan struck me two or three hard slaps across the face: "Bastard girl! Won't you keep quiet? I'll stick the knife in you this minute. Making a scene ......"

Pir Bakhsh: (he can only have gone a little way) No, brother, no! Don't do such a thing, I swear on my head! Man, at least let me get back.

Dilawar Khan: All right, go and fetch the fire.

Pir Bakhsh went, and after a while came back with the fire. He filled the hookah and gave it to Dilawar Khan.

Dilawar Khan: (after a pull at the hookah) So how much will she fetch? And who'll sell her? Let's not get caught; that would make things worse.

Pir Bakhsh: Leave that to me; I'll sell her. Man, the way you talk! Who's going to catch us? In Lucknow this sort of business goes on day and night. You know my brother-in-law?

Dilawar Khan: Karim?

Pir Bakhsh: Yes! That's how he earns his bread. He's carried off dozens of boys and girls and turned them into hard cash in Lucknow.

Dilawar Khan: Where is he these days?

Pir Bakhsh: Where? He'll be in Lucknow. His in-laws live across the Gomti; he'll be there.

Dilawar Khan: Well, what do girls and boys sell for?

Pir Bakhsh: Depends on their looks.

Dilawar Khan: Well, what will she fetch?

Pir Bakhsh: A hundred, a hundred and fifty; depends on your luck.

Dilawar Khan: The way you talk! A hundred, a hundred and fifty! What's there in her looks? If we get even a hundred, that's plenty.

Pir Bakhsh: Well, what does it matter? Just take her along; what's the use of killing her?

After this Dilawar Khan leaned over and whispered something in Pir Bakhsh's ear that I did not hear. Pir Bakhsh answered, "I'd guessed as much; you're not such a fool as that."

All night the cart went on. My life hung by a thread; death hovered before my eyes. I had no tears left; my body had gone numb. You must have heard that one can sleep even on the gallows. After a while my eyes closed. Pir Bakhsh, out of pity, put the bullocks' blanket over me. Several times in the night I woke with a start; my eyes would open, but I lay still for fear. At last, very fearfully, I pushed the blanket off my face and looked, and found I was alone in the cart. Peeping out through the curtain, I saw some mud houses in front and a grain-dealer's shop. Dilawar Khan and Pir Bakhsh were buying something. The bullocks were eating chaff under a banyan tree in front. Two or three villagers sat by a fire warming themselves; one was smoking a clay pipe. Meanwhile Pir Bakhsh came up to the cart and gave me a few roasted chickpeas. I had been hungry all night and began to eat. A little later he brought me a pot of water. I drank a little and lay quiet again.

The cart stood there for a long time. Then Pir Bakhsh yoked the bullocks, Dilawar Khan filled the hookah and came and sat beside me, and the cart set off. That day I was not treated so harshly. Dilawar Khan's knife did not come out, nor did I get any blows or scoldings. At place after place Dilawar Khan and Pir Bakhsh filled the hookah and smoked, and talked on and on. When they were tired of talking, they began to sing. One would sing while the other listened in silence; listening, or rather thinking what to bring up next. Then some subject would come up. Often in the course of this talk they would fall to abusing each other, roll up their sleeves and tighten their belts; one would jump down from the cart, the other was ready to strangle him on the spot. Then over some word both would cool down, the matter would pass, they would make it up and talk like friends, as if they had never quarrelled.

One: What quarrel is there between you and me? It was just talk.

The other: What was it about, anyway?

The first: Well then, let it go.

The other: Let it go.