HICCUPS ARE A GOOD OMEN
In the din of the cacophony of screaming voices of news anchors parroting on the television in the room, which my husband seemed to be listening to with half an ear, Hania, my granddaughter, was playing with her slime kit gifted to her by her aunt. Her mother, Rameesa, painstakingly trying to explain to her when to use the glue, activator, and some other things which I was perhaps too old to understand.
Every instruction of Rameesa was followed by a query from the eight-year old Hania. She would keep asking questions as to how the glue and activator would turn into slime after mixing, what exactly would happen if too much activator or too less glue would be used, and why the colour yellow would best suit with silver glitters and black with golden glitters. The otherwise desultory sight of this seemingly uneventful afternoon paired with the countless questions of Hania took me back to my own childhood, Mummy and then to the times that I had Rameesa.
I was the third child to my parents, born after two boys. A middle class family living in bustling Nawa Bazar close to SMHS hospital, near to which my father had a shop where he sold medicines. My mother was a housewife and used to take care of everything in and around the house. As far as I know, I had a normal childhood like any other girl in Srinagar. Ours was perhaps a different era, where school, tuition classes, religious classes and helping with household chores were the pillars of a girl’s life.
I was good at school, diligently took notes, did my homework and readily gave answers to questions asked by the teacher as I always made sure to learn these by heart irrespective of whether I grasped it or not. Unlike Halima, who would always disrupt the class by asking questions which in turn would keep inviting the fury of the teacher. Whenever Halima would ask another question, a piece of chalk would leave the teacher’s right hand and take a flight with her head as the destination.
Occasionally she would be called to the front of the class, either to stand in the corner with her face towards the wall or to receive a few stick beatings on the open palm of her left hand. I would never behave in such a demeaning way like Halima did. Of course, I would also not understand things sometimes, and had thousands of questions in my head, but I would never utter them. I wouldn’t dare to. Propriety dictated that asking questions, and that too by a girl, was not appropriate.
Mummy would always tell me that I should finish my food because if food would be wasted, Allah would get angry and throw me into the fire instead of allowing me into His garden. Praying five times a day on time, lowering my gaze as a child of just nine-years old, covering my hair, not opening the window of my room and looking down the street in order to save myself from unwanted stares of men strolling on the road and not questioning the wisdom or validity of all that she instructed me to do and not to do, were the only foundations which could save me from Allah’s indignation and the gates of hell.
Occasionally Mummy would enforce these rules by slapping me, pulling my hair and beating me with her slippers. Hearing this, some might think of abuse and maltreatment; however anyone of my age will tell you that this was absolutely normal.
I sometimes wondered whether my Allah was different from hers, as whenever Papa would be sick, or relatives would come over telling her about the financial troubles they were facing or Fayaz uncle would yet again complain to her about the long hours he had to do at his job, she would, in a loud voice and while spreading her scarf with both her hands, invoke Allah’s mercy and His compassion, and reiterate His countless blessings.
It confused me.
Was Allah really merciful or was Allah vengeful? I don’t know, but I dreaded Allah. I didn’t follow Mummy’s instructions because I loved Allah or because I thought He loved me. I feared Allah, His vengeance and the fires of Hell. Of course, I never said this to anyone or dared to ask Mummy about her paradoxical behaviour of proclaiming Allah’s mercy to others and scaring me with His wrath. Asking questions, and that too by a girl, would only expedite the anger of Allah, I was told.
Moulvi Sahib would come home three times a week to teach the Quran to me and my brothers. I always struggled with the fact that he was very particular about the pronunciation of words. Several letters were extremely difficult for me to pronounce due to their unique sounds. All of them hard letters like kha, ha, qaf, dhad, tah which involve throaty or guttural sounds not usually found in Kashmiri or Urdu.
The fact that I did not understand a word of what I was reading, as we were reciting it in Arabic, made things only more difficult for me. Of course, Moulvi Sahib did not care about this. It had to be perfect otherwise slapping in the face, hitting with a stick and even biting arms and cheeks were ordinary punishments.
While paying attention to my posture in front of Moulvi Sahib and ensuring that not a single strand of hair was visible underneath my headscarf, I often wondered while I kept reciting the Quran in a language I neither understood nor spoke, why we couldn’t learn the Quran in Kashmiri or even Urdu, both languages which I spoke and understood? Why couldn’t the Azaan be in Kashmiri or Urdu? Why couldn’t we offer Nimaaz in Kashmiri or Urdu? Didn’t Allah understand all languages? That would make me comprehend God’s words and also make me follow his diktats out of understanding and not force or fear. I don’t know, but maybe Allah would get angry if we recited the Quran or Azaan in any other language than Arabic or perhaps Allah only wanted Arabic people to comprehend His message fully. Maybe that’s why they are bathing in oil and money.
Personally, I think that Mummy was hand in glove with Moulvi Sahib and she didn’t want me to know that Allah would not throw a nine-years old girl in the fire if she would not finish her food or open the window of her room. Understanding God’s words would extinguish the fear of Allah in me and perhaps replace it with love for him, and make me question Mummy, Moulvi Sahib, Papa, my relatives, the neighbours and society. That was to be prevented. At any cost!
Kashmir, culture, honour and Islam would all be at danger lest a girl ask questions.
A person is formed by his or her surroundings and perhaps unintentionally, but naturally, Rameesa has also followed my footsteps like I followed Mummy’s. Just like Mummy, I never dared to question my husband even when I did not agree with him. I never asked why, when he would deny me permission to go to my sister’s home or meet my parents. I never said no to ironing and folding his handkerchiefs exactly the way he had instructed me although I did not understand why the white ones needed smaller folds and the beige one bigger ones. Just like Mummy, I also portrayed God as a vengeful demon to instil fear in Rameesa and she also had to recite the Quran without understanding a word and would be disciplined the same way I used to be disciplined.
Unlike Hania, Rameesa would also not utter her questions or doubts. Not even in her childhood, let alone later on. I believe that she must have also wanted to ask a thousand questions, but just like me didn’t. Or couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Perhaps for the same reasons or maybe different ones. Whatever her rationale, to me her conduct did not surprise me. After all, she was no different than me and I had been no different than Mummy.
Hania touching my ankle with slushy cold slime sticking to her whole hands and arms suddenly woke me out of my thoughts. “Nani, why are you crying?”, she asked. “Out of joy, Beta. When someone is very very happy, they sometimes tend to cry out of joy”. In her inimitable way, she said, “Why are you so very very happy, Nani? I know. Because of my yellow-coloured slime with silver glitters. I know”.
I stared at her, my whole life flashing in front of me while she kept smiling and I kept weeping out of joy. My answer, perhaps a manifestation of all the answers to all the questions Mummy, Rameesa and I could never ask, “No Beta. Not because of your slime. I am very very happy because of you. Because of you asking questions. Just you and your infinite questions”.
Hania kept laughing and started poking fun at me, telling Rameesa, “Mama, Mama, Nani is so very very happy because of me that she keeps shedding tears out of joy”.
The doorbell at the gate rang. Rameesa looked at the camera of the video doorbell and said, “Hania, Moulvi Sahib has arrived. Get ready”. Nisar, our help, was sent to open the gate and escorted Moulvi Sahib to the living room. Rameesa started washing Hania’s hands and arms and brought her black scarf and tightly covered Hania’s entire head with it and formed a triangle shape at the bottom that draped neatly over this eight-years old girl’s chest.
Instantly, the jubilant smiling and jumping girl had transformed with no questions to ask anymore. Disciplined into modesty, ready to be burdened by an alien language with no room for error or even small mistakes enforced by fear of punishment by Moulvi Sahib in this world and vengeance from Allah in the hereafter.
While looking at her I choked up and started sobbing louder while tears kept finding their way to my old, wrinkled cheeks and then to my sunken chin. While wailing, I suddenly started experiencing spasms and got hiccups. Just before leaving the room, Hania asked one last question to her mother, “Mama, Nani is so very very happy because of me that she is crying even more. But why did she suddenly get hiccups”?
Rameesa answered, “Beta, getting hiccups are a good omen. It means that someone is remembering and thinking of Nani. Now let’s go. Moulvi Sahib is waiting. Allah will get very angry if we make someone wait”.
They left and I knew exactly what Rameesa meant. While looking at ‘this’ Hania, bereft of joy and devoid of questions, indeed someone was remembering me which caused my hiccups.
Me remembering myself…
(Author is the Director of European Foundation for South Asian Studies (EFSAS) and can be reached at: [email protected])
