Aasia died despite a burka

She had always lived her life cautiously. The caution began when as a child, her parents did not have enough money to buy her a good brand of watercolours. She persevered with the cheaper one. The colours were still pretty and bright, what if the quality was not the same. And anyway they say it’s not about the tools, but the skills.

Life went on and SLRs turned to DSLRs and those too were out of her range. She lived on. Wanting more out of a picture than what the other person desired. And the picture kept on getting blurred for lack of money. Pictures were blurred, life was dull in cheap paint, and without going to an expensive school, earning good money was out of question.

"Isn't life unfair," she asked Laila, her elder sister. Her friend recently bought a high end professional camera and she had to make do with a point and shoot.
Laila only smiled. Being the older one, she was more accustomed to accepting defeat when it came to affordability of things and life. Pads were expensive and old cloth, even if it caused infection was far cheaper, she thought.

"Why don't you sell some of your work and buy a better camera Naina?" she asked her little sister. Naina was 20 now, not little by any standards. She had bloomed into a beautiful woman, and so many who came from the marriage market to judge Laila as a potential mate for their sons, preferred Naina.

"Baji, but it is still not fair that Nilofer can buy whatever she wants and whenever she likes. Abba could have worked harder," Naina said licking off the final speck of chocolate from the wrapper. "I know Nilo's father is in the same office as Abba, but they have a bigger house and so many people who help her mother in the house. She doesn't have to do the cooking and cleaning like Amma does. And Nilo never has to help with anything in the house, it is always the maids, chef, and drivers."

Laila smiled her patient smile. She knew the works of Nilofer's father. If he had a chance, he may even sell his daughter to the highest bidder and throw in his wife as a bonus. Did he not pimp his wife out to the boss to get an extension before his retirement?

In this little world of theirs, life was such. The black hearted lived a better life. It was fate, maybe karma, or perhaps just god.

"Abba is too old to work now Naina, maybe when you find a very good job, you can buy all the things you have ever wanted," she told the younger one.

Jobs in the market were hard to find. As a good looking woman, she often received offers of a different kind when her resume reached the desk of a Seth looking for some receptionist or secretary. May they rot in hell, she thought to herself before turning back to her book.

Naina has to be ignored a bit. She will learn, as I did, she thought to herself as she moved on to the next chapter. But Naina had other thoughts. She snuggled up to Laila and whispered if she knows the boy who lived in house number 38.

"His eyes follow me and it is very scary," she whispered to Laila, who almost jumped out of her skin.

"You did not talk to him, did you? Did he ask for your phone number? Don't accept his request on Facebook if he sends one. And don't ever send a picture to him on WhatsApp," the agitated sister said.

These men are lechers; he couldn't have a chance with me so now he is trying for my little sister. She thought of teaching such men a lesson.

In her mind she had punished the man several times. From complaining to his mother to chopping his genitals off. None of this will work though. She thought miserably. Naina needs to be protected, and she will have to do that. Their mother was too inspired by the resident alima of their neighbourhood to do much. At the most she will stop Naina from going to the university and make her do all the housework as punishment for giving the opportunity to men.

Laila did try complaining to her mother about the man from house number 38, and it did not work out well. She recalled the conversation.

"Amma, aunty Farhat's son stares at me a lot." And that was the end of her.

"Junaid is such a nice boy. He can never do that. Maybe if you wore a burqa, such things won't happen with you. Farhat's daughter never has a problem even though she goes in public buses to the university. Only girls who do not wear a burka face this problem. Had Zarina maasi (maid) ever complained of harassment?" the pious mother asked. Zarina was the only maid they had ever been able to afford. A beautiful woman of 40 years with pale eyes and dark-black curls. She used to wear a black burka and came from the nearby katchi abadi.

Laila could not help but think of the often black and blue Zarina. Once she came with a purple eye shedding tears of blood. The maid always said it was her fate. “It is the destiny of the woman to be a subordinate. That is how god ordained it. If this did not happen, we will all go to hell; have you not heard the prophet (pbuh) saw mostly women in hell? For, it is in our nature to be sinful,” Zarina maasi declared, perhaps even happily that her beatings were a way to avoid hell.

What was her story, Laila wondered, forgetting all about her own stories of poverty and abuse. She remembered Zulekha, Zarina’s daughter, who often came with the mother and played with her. She stayed until it was time for the duo to go home.

Zulekha and Laila were the same age. Laila went to school, whereas Zulekha went to a madrasa. She was not even allowed to visit them once she was nine years old, and it all ended abruptly.

“Are you mad? Why will I add him on Facebook or send a picture on WhatsApp? He did ask for my phone number but I ran away,” Naina looked at her elder sister. She was much smarter than Laila, who was an introvert and hardly shared much. Naina knew Laila was harassed by aunty Farhat’s son, even though she never shared with her.

“I know he is not a nice man Laila, he bothers every other girl in the neighbourhood. Remember Aasia? She committed suicide because of him. Junaid told her he will marry her, but he never did. He was only playing with her. Aunty Farhat only wanted a burka clad daughter-in-law and Aasia did start wearing a burka to please her,” Naina disclosed to her ever quiet older sister, whose eyes began shimmering at the tragedy.

“Do you really think Naina that a burka will help us be safe from these eyes?” Laila asked thoughtfully.

“No, not ever, or Aasia would be still alive,” Naina said.

“But was she not already tainted?” Laila inquired.

“No Laila aapi, nobody gets tainted without someone tainting them, burka or no burka,” Naina said forcefully before storming out of the room in anger.

Naina had seen Zarina maasi the other day in the market. A shopkeeper was gesturing with his crotch at the burka-clad-old Zarina when she passed by his shop.

“How does wearing a burka change any of that,” she had thought.


Zulekha's story: http://andaleeb-rizvi.blogspot.com/2012/09/zulekha-wore-burka.html

Baba

We only knew him as Baba. He was my paternal grandmother's house help. A World War I and II veteran, who lost his family in India to a plague in the 1930s, came to Pakistan in 1947, and met my grandmother in 1950. (I'll have to confirm the dates with my mother - it was the year my uncle was born and my grandmother, who was a school teacher had to rejoin her job after maternity leave)

When he knocked on the door, he looked very frail, so Ammajee tried to offer him food. But he refused. His self respect was great and he felt insulted by her 'charitable' offer. Instead, he asked her for work. My grandmother needed a nanny and a house help, so she asked Baba if he can cook. He responded in affirmative to cooking, cleaning and taking care of a newborn. Hence, he was hired.

His life, from what I have heard revolved around my uncle, whom he took care of for 16 years. One day, Baba disappeared and nobody was able to trace him. My grandparents lived in Jacoblines Quarters - one of the many areas inhabited by Urdu speaking migrants, apart from Martin Quarters, Jahangir Road Quarters, Abyssinia Lines and other neighbourhoods in the old city. In the 70s my grandparents resettled and later the quarters were demolished to make way for family residential apartments, measuring merely 45 square yards.

My mother tells me that one day, while my father was passing through the area, he found Baba living in a hut near some rubble. He had broken his leg, and had taken to begging. He also was suffering from some memory loss and chanted 'Allah hoo' almost all the time. My father brought him home, where his condition, despite visits to doctors deteriorated, and he continued to beg in our neighbourhood.

I remember as a kid, many people told my parents to hand him over to Edhi, since he was not even a relative, but a ‘mere old servant’, who begged and made everyone feel ashamed. However, my parents persevered. He stayed with us, despite his cursing and hurling insults at my mother and aunt for not giving preference to ‘boys’, for not taking enough care of children, and for not getting him the desired ‘tambaakoo wala paan’ in 25 paisas. He loved paan, apart from begging to save for his ‘funeral’.

Often, his demands were to buy him two Zahoor Rajajani Tambakoo Paans in 50 paisas. Even though, we told him countless of times that Baba, a paan costs 75 paisas now, and not 25. Since he never listened, we always used to cover up for the missing money. Baba loved feeding us kids ‘nihari roti’ with the money he begged. And of course, we loved eating it with him too - despite our runny noses and hiccups.

Baba was an era, almost a century, who left us when he was 95 years old. That was the first time when I found his last rites had to be performed in a different way. My chacha went to a Sunni maulvi to find out if he could be taken care of at an Imambargah, since we were not keen on sending him to Edhi. At that time, Sunni mosques were not equipped to deal with dead bodies. This was early 90s. He was a Hanafi Sunni, who had no trouble eating niaz, nazar or giving fateha. He had already bought a white shroud from begged money, which he had, a few months ago given to my mother with instructions for his burial.

Baba wished to be buried the Sunni way, and his grave was to be left un-cemented. With permission from a relevant Sunni maulvi, Baba was bathed and shrouded at an Imambargah, amid a mixed Shia and Sunni funerary gathering. He was buried the Sunni way, with the help of the Sunni side in our family. Nobody had a problem with the way it happened. Nobody had trouble setting foot in the Imambargah at that time, and nobody asked if he was a Deobandi, Ahle Hadees, Barelvi or Wahabi. We were tolerant then!