Perhaps one of the most interesting people in my life has been Mumtaz or Shimshad ki ami, as we called her. She was one of those people who seem like they have lived an eternity. No one remembers her young, not even my grandmother. She always had old, leathery skin, her thin hair were always matted to her head, her veins always stuck out and she never had a complete set of teeth. She came to my grandmother for work in 1967 and never left until she died on 1st January 2008.
She told me once about the partition and he part she played in it. I don't know anything about her childhood. She must've been a troublesome child. She lived within a Sikh community and till the very end loved them through and through. She recounted how she and others would go to fetch water and take care of the herds. People drowned in local canals and chopped their own hands in feed cutters. The village elders did not allow women to roam around outside their houses without a purpose. It was a good life, she said. Her father worked in Australia and sometimes in Canada (she called it kaneida). According to her, they had plenty of money in a bank and land too. In 1947, however, during the freezing of bank accounts and seizure of land, they lost everything. They stopped in a local village near the border till they found a permanent residence. The village folk were kind and welcomed them to their homes. She, and other girls from the village, used to go together to the canal and washed clothes. The young Mumtaz was always the kind who would never swallow their pride. She'd rather starve then borrow. In the village, there was a common wheel for grinding wheat. The women who owned it was a bitter woman and often talked ill to those who came to ask for it. Mumtaz did not like the attitude and refused to tolerate it. Even though she did not have money, she saved up and bought her own wheel. She told me she happily gave it to anyone who asked for it. After a while, a bus moved her to a new and permanent home.
She came into our lives when she moved to Sultan pura on GT road, where my grandfather and grandmother were living with their three children. I'm told that Mumtaz's four children used to come to our house to study. Later, Mumtaz came into our service as well. My dad was in metric.
When I was born in 1988, she was still there. She loved me and my brothers like her own children. Some of my earliest memories are of going out to buy groceries with Shimshaad ki ama. She was known locally as the women with the red basket. She carried this hideous plastic basket everywhere she went. With one hand she held it and with the other, she held my hand. Together, early in the morning, we went together from shop to shop, buying ration for the day. No matter how many trips to the market she took in a day, I always went with her. We never spoke or had any significant conversation during those trips, but I enjoyed it none the less.
In the summer of 1997, my mother had brain hemorrhage. She survived, but barely, so I rarely got to see her. While my mother and father ran around different hospitals in the whole country, I spent my day and night with my grandmother and Shimshaad ki ama. I'm an early riser, so was Shaad ama. She unfailingly came to our house for work and 7 in the morning. On some days I used to be hungry but everyone was asleep. Under the circumstances, Shaad ama took me to her house. There she made me what I desired. She knew I was missing my mother and consequently did all i demanded. I remember the anda parathas and meetha parathas and what not. I wore shirts then because I was hardly 11 years old. The kids in her neighborhood called me 'kuchay wali larki' (the girl in underwear!)
I was inquisitive about her past and would often ask her where she'd come from. She told me she was her first husband's 4th wife. All his earlier wives had died. I'm told that he was one of the most loving men there ever were. The stories she narrated made me fall in love with this man myself. I had never seen him though. He had died before I was born. When she got married, she instantly became sick and did not recover for another 10 years. She could not even bear her husband any children but he still loved her like a man with infinite dignity. She says she had turned into a ghost. She could not walk or do any work because of her weakness. 10 years on a bed. I can not even begin to imagine. Her husband took her to numerous doctors all over the country but nothing helped. She told me that in her desperation, she had even eaten elephant dung! One day,after many years of sickness, her husband uttered the fatal words 'yeh kia museebat hai'. She suddenly felt unwanted and a burden that had to be removed. She secretly packed her bags in the absence of her husband and went off to the train station to go back to her village. Someone called up her husband and informed him that the sickly Mumtaz had left home and gone off somewhere. He instantly remembered what he had said and could guess where his wife could be. Upon arriving at the train station and searching franticly, he found her, sitting alone on a chair. He begged and pleaded and apologized and brought her back home. When finally she recovered, she promised herself to make up for the 10 years she had lost. I must say she did what she planned.
As I grew up, I saw less and less of her because she and her family moved away. She lived with one of her sons, Shimshaad. She had 3 other sons. She refused to talk to one of them because he hadn't payed her back and was mean to her. She was strong enough to not allow him entry into her house when he called. She was a woman of principles, if something's wrong, it's wrong. I admired that so much about her. Sometimes she used to miss us and would then come over to live with us for a while. I will never forget those short lived days. She, my Grandmother and I used to sleep in one room. We all used to laugh together and so hard that often my parents in the next room would get up and scold us. She used to tell us dirty jokes and I swear I felt my insides would explode. Sometimes she used to make turbans with her dupatta and act as a boy. She would sing and act and tell stories. She had learnt this nonsensical line from somewhere and used o say it often 'Hello the bloody fuck ding ding'. To this day I don't know what it meant. One of the funniest things about her was that she was easily surprised and always on the edge of her seat. She absolutely hated snakes and mice and I sadly knew that. Once I got a toy mouse to scare her and she drove everyone insane till it was thrown out of the house. Whenever anyway scared her by throwing something at her or poking her while she was preoccupied, she swore. Loud and clear. Once she was watching national geographic and there was a show on about snakes. She was sitting inches away from the TV and i saw the perfect opportunity. I threw an empty wrapper at her and off she went, flying at least 6 inches off the seat. The profanities she uttered made me blush.
She had a severe heart problem. Two of her valves were blocked. She didn't care though. 80 years old and she'd get off the sofa faster then me. Her heart problem kept growing though. She didn't lose though. She often had insane fits when she'd fight hard to breathe. She asked me to press her heart in rhythmic beats. For about a minute, she looked like she'd die but a minute later she'd get up and proceed with whatever she was doing, like nothing had happened.
We saw her falling apart though,but she wouldn't admit it. When she went home to her village for the last time, she took to the bed immediately. On her death bed, she was restless. The dog was barking constantly and loudly. She called her son and whispered 'let this dog go, he is not letting the death angel in'. Her son went and set the dog loose. Needless to say she died instantly.
For days i dreamt she was still alive. I missed her, I still miss her. I wish she'd come back and share our laughter and achievements. A few weeks after her death, I made my grandmother call her son up. I demanded that he come to our house and bring a certain thing along. I wanted it in my possession. A few days later, he arrived. I saw in his hand instantly the thing i'd ask for; an ugly, badly stitched, red basket.
1 comment:
No posts for half a year....and then this!
More than made up for your absence. Brilliant.
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