Subject: a story by ghulam abbas
Date: Thu, 13 Dec 2001 10:48:07 +1100



>From a collection of stories:
The Women's Quarter & Other
Stories of Pakistan
by
Ghulam Abbas

Translated from the Urdu by Khalid Hasan


The Room with the Blue Light

It was a small room on the third floor, with a blue light that you could see
from the street. It vaguely reminded you of one of those air-conditioned
carriages that the railway people tag on to the trains in summer, giving
them such poetical names as “Silver Paradise” or “Summer Dream”.

There were just the two of them in that room.

The rainy season was almost but not quite over and those who lived in the
tiny flats and even tinier houses of the neighbourhood were at last
beginning to be rid of the stench, perspiration and humidity of summer.
Evenings had begun to get cool, but there were still insects which flew into
the room, attracted by the light, a sure sign that it might rain some more.


“This is exactly how Najma used to part her hair,” the young man said,
“nearly as far as the back of the head. She learnt it from a Bengali woman.”

Nasreen did not answer. She sat in front of the dresser in which she could
see a faint blue reflection of her face. She was combing her hair as most
women do before going to bed.

The man lay next to her, looking comfortable, face down on the divan. His
silk shirt and khaki cotton trousers looked badly wrinkled.

He waited for her to say something, but when she didn’t, he began to talk
again, “Sometimes Najmi would make a strand of hair curl up and dangle in
front of her face. It would look lovely against her pink cheeks.”

Nasreen’s face showed momentary annoyance but she did not speak. She was
thinking, what kind of a man was this who had nothing else in the world to
talk about except his wife, and here he was with a woman whom he had paid
for the evening. For the last two hours, he had talked about nothing but his
wife, a woman who was no longer even alive. She now knew everything about
his married life and its high points. He had been in love with Najma, his
cousin, since he was a boy. Her father was not in favour of their marriage
but his uncles were. Najma was tall and she liked to sing. When she smiled,
a dimple appeared on her left cheek, and henna was her favourite perfume and
she was superb at crocheting.

In the beginning, she was interested in learning about the woman out of
natural feminine curiosity but then she had got bored and since her yawns
and frequent stretching of her arms over her head had failed to change the
conversation, she had decided to say nothing at all. Her hair was now done,
and all her pins and clips were securely tucked away in one of the tiny
drawers of her dresser. She noticed that he was watching her fingers.

A few minutes passed. Nothing was said.

It was a few days ago that he had seen Nasreen for the first time and he had
noticed that she bore a strong resemblance to his dead wife. He had decided
that he had to meet her. He had no money but had managed to raise enough to
be able to pay her to spend two nights with him.

“My wife . . .” he had started talking again.

“So you really were very much in love with your wife,” Nasreen interrupted
him because obviously he was not going to give up.

“Very much,” he said spontaneously. Her slightly sarcastic tone, he had
failed to notice.

“But I don’t understand this,” she was feeling combative. “What kind of a
love was it that it has disappeared three months after her death . . . .”

She did not finish. There was no need to because she knew that he had
understood what she had said. He seemed lost for words for a few minutes;
then he raised his clear bright eyes and she saw that there was no feeling
of guilt or repentance in them. He looked at her face, then rose and sat
cross-legged on the floor. His lips trembled but he did not say anything.

They sat there for some time in silence, then Nasreen got up, stretched
herself and went out of the room.

She was away for a quarter of an hour. She had taken off her ornaments and
was wearing a plain night-dress, which was really just a length of white
cotton. She entered the room so quietly that he did not hear her. He was on
the divan, lying face down. He must have been about twenty-five or so, but
because of the dim blue light, his slight moustache and bright eyes, he
appeared much younger. He was staring at an insect that had fallen flat on
its back and was trying to straighten itself. Every time it came close, he
would push it back with a matchstick.

He noticed Nasreen and was startled.

“Oh, it is you,” he said, pushing the insect away with the matchstick.

“Your wife’s death must have devastated you?” she asked, though she was
surprised at her own question which she had not meant to ask.

“No,” he replied after a pause, “in the beginning, it did not really hit me.
You see, I just could not believe that it had happened, but then it began to
sink in and I fell ill. I was bedridden for a month and I remember my mother
and Zohri, that is my little sister, standing over me and looking at me with
great anxiety in their eyes. It was then that I decided to make an effort to
live.”

She was touched by the feeling in his voice.

They did not speak for some time.

“You said,” Nasreen asked with a touch of coquettishness, “that I resembled
your wife. What is it that I have in common with her?”

“First of all, it is your eyes,” he said, a faint smile appearing on his
lips, though he still looked sad. “Black and deep, just like hers. Then
there is your chin, finely chiselled as hers was, and the third thing....”

“You are just teasing me, aren’t you?”

“Your hair, your neck . . . .”

He was perking up and Nasreen felt uneasy.

After half an hour, they put out the light and lay down together. He went to
sleep shortly after, though Nasreen lay awake for quite some time, looking
at the sky through her window.

It was one of the last nights of the lunar month and the stars shone with a
strange splendour through a clear sky. She had a feeling that the stars had
come closer to earth. She had always looked at the stars. She was four when
her mother died and her father took her on a long train journey. They had
got down at a small railway station around midnight and she had felt
terrified of the half-naked fakir with blood-shot eyes standing there. She
remembered having screamed and clung to her father’s legs. They had had to
walk because there was no means of getting to the village they were bound
for. Her father had carried her all the way. That was when she had first
looked up at the stars and then she was not afraid any more and she had gone
to sleep against his shoulder. When she had woken up the next morning, she
had found herself in the house of a strange woman. She had cried for many
days but her father had not come back. He had just left her there.

She fell asleep.

Next morning when she woke up, she realized that the young man was not lying
by her side. Perhaps he was in the bathroom. She turned on her side,
expecting him any minute. When Shamman, the servant, walked into the room
for the morning dusting, she asked him, “Where is the man from last night?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, he left quite early in the morning. We must all have been asleep. He
even left the outer door open.”

“Is everything, well . . . in place?”

Shamman had already made sure that nothing had been taken away. “Yes,
everything is all right,” he answered, having guessed her thoughts.

She felt a little ashamed of having let such a thought cross her mind, but
what now began to bother her was his decision to go away without telling
anyone. Had he been annoyed by her remark about his short-lived grief? Maybe
he was hurt. Being a sensitive person, maybe he had pretended to behave
normally, but inside it had hurt badly and that was why he had left
suddenly.

She washed and was about to go downstairs to see her aunt when she heard
someone on the stairs. It was him, with a small neatly tied package under
his arm.

“I am sorry,” he said breathlessly, “I went off without telling you.
Actually, you were sound asleep. Here you are.” He handed her the bundle.

“What is in there?” she asked.

“The day’s groceries and some fresh meat from the butcher.” He smiled as if
he had played a trick on her.

“Groceries and meat, but why?”

“Don’t be annoyed. It is like this. When Najmi was alive, that is what I
used to do first thing in the morning. I would go for a walk and on my way
back, pick up the day’s groceries. We could not afford domestic help and
that was how we used to manage . . . I, taking care of outside chores and
she, keeping things running in the house. Look at this meat, so fresh and
nice, the best portions. What is more, the butcher has thrown in a kidney
for free. No servant will ever get you such nice meat. And here is that most
wonderful of vegetables, kachnal, it is actually the flower of a tree and it
has a divine taste. I have also got onions, green chillies, fresh ginger and
green coriander.”

He had also been to the barber and looked freshly shaved, though there was a
bit of soap on one of his ear lobes which Nasreen had the urge to wipe off
with her dupatta but couldn’t find the courage to do.
“You really shouldn’t have bothered, but since you have, let me send for
Shamman so that he can get a curry going,” she said.

“No, no, don’t send for him.”

“Why?”

“Because I am going to cook. When Najmi was alive, I used to cook sometimes
and there she would be, squatting in front of me on a low stool and telling
me what to do, when.”

“Our Shamman is a smart fellow and a fantastic cook,” Nasreen said.

“No sir,” the young man said in a tone of finality, “Najmi used to cook
kachnal in a very special way. Only she knew how, and so do I. Get me a fire
going and, yes, a knife.”

Nasreen did not think she should get into a discussion, so she quietly left
the room and walked downstairs.

“Come, daughter,” Nasreen’s aunt who was already munching her first paan of
the morning said, “I was telling Shamman that he should take breakfast for
the two of you upstairs to your room.”

“I don’t want breakfast; you can send him some.”

“You upset about something?”

“No . . . .”

“From his face he looks like the quiet type.”

Nasreen did not comment.

“What is he doing?” the aunt asked.

“He had gone shopping and is now getting ready to cook.”

The older woman began to laugh.

“Really!”

“That’s right.”

“It’s sort of charming.”

“He is crazy, if you ask me. All night he kept talking to me about his dead
wife. My head is still buzzing. Send Shamman to help him. I am going across
to see my friend Naubahar.”

Nasreen had planned to spend at least an hour with her friend but was back
after fifteen minutes. When she came upstairs, she found that he had got the
fire going and was now sitting on the floor peeling onions, with tears
running down his eyes. Shamman, much amused, was watching him from a
distance.

“Shamman,” Nasreen said sternly, “what are you doing there? Why don’t you
help him with the onions?”

“I have offered to do so several times but he won’t let me. All he wanted me
to do was to light the fire, which I have.”


“All right, you can go downstairs.”


When Shamman was gone, Nasreen said, “What is this cooking business? Here,
let me peel the onions and do the cooking, while you go wash your eyes.” She
took away the knife and the onions, and he let her.
In about two hours, it was all done and they sat down to eat. “I am sorry,”
he said, “that you have had to go to all this trouble on my account. The
thing is that Najmi . . . .”


“Come on, let’s eat.”


“It is delicious,” he said, as he tasted the food, “just like Najmi’s
cooking.”


“Don’t tease me. The chapatis are all wonky, aren’t they?”


“Najmi couldn’t make them either. I used to get fresh rotis
from the tandoor on the street.”


“I hate rotis baked in clay tandoors.”


“Sometimes we would employ a cook at a low salary but they never stayed more
than a couple of weeks.”
They finished eating.
“You said you were now staying with a friend?” she asked.


“Yes, after Najmi died, I sent my mother and Zohri to the village and moved
in with my friend who is also by himself. We share the house and expenses,
including a servant.”


“You send half your salary to your mother?”


“Yes, but she always keeps sending me some money back, sometimes for a pair
of trousers she thinks I need, or perhaps a pair of shoes.”


Nasreen thought that his mother must be very fond of him.


“How old did you say your sister was?”


“Ten years; she is a lovely child.”


“Goes to school?”


“No, but there is a maulvi sahib who comes to the house and gives her
lessons, meanwhile her grandmother is instructing her in sewing. She has a
pet goat, my sister. It is white as milk, not one black hair. She feeds it
herself and takes her out to the stream which runs beside our village so
that she can wash and drink. One day while the goat was lapping up water, a
big dog appeared and barked at her. The poor goat was so scared that she
fell into the water and was swept away. Zohra was inconsolable but it turned
out that a farmer had rescued the goat downstream and next day he brought
her back, to Zohra’s delight.”


Nasreen was fascinated by this simple story.


He was getting drowsy. He put his head on a pillow and was suddenly asleep.
Nasreen rose, looked for her white muslin dupatta in the wall cupboard and
began to stitch an ornate border along its length, but soon she got bored
and lay down.


Later in the afternoon, a rickshaw was sent for, as he wanted to buy her a
present. He had told her that he had twenty rupees which she was free to
spend on whatever she liked. More than that, he did not have.


“While it is true that nothing worthwhile can be purchased with so little
money, I want to leave you a present, even if it is of little value,
something you will remember me by.”


Nasreen agreed to go and though the aunt raised an objection, she relented
because Nasreen seemed keen and also, the young man looked nice and
harmless. She was quite sure the girl would be safe with him.


Nasreen, wearing a blue burqa, sat next to him as the rickshaw took to the
road. They were one couple among thousands on the streets and nobody could
have guessed that they were not husband and wife. They got down from the
rickshaw and walked around the bazaars, he walking slightly in front of her
to clear the way as it were, and to make sure that she was not jostled. He
was very protective as if she was some sacred object which no one was
supposed to touch. In every shop he would invite her to buy with such
affection, that to the onlookers they must have appeared a newly married
couple, very much in love.


Nasreen did not get anything expensive, just odds and ends for everyday use,
some of which she really needed, such as a bit of false hair to make her
ponytail look longer, crocheting needles, one picture frame, three kinds of
rouge and all for less than twenty rupees. Every time she would buy
something she would ask him charmingly, “And what are we left with?”


On the way back, they stopped at a restaurant where he ordered soft drinks
and tea and lots of things to eat. She didn’t want to eat but he forced her
to. When they got home, it was nearly dark and the aunt was beginning to get
worried, but once she saw them, her relief was apparent on her face.


Shamman had been told that they would not be eating. After some time, they
walked up to their room and locked the door which stood at the top of the
stairs. As she had, the night before, Nasreen sat in front of the dresser
and began to comb her hair in the pale blue light. The young man lay down on
the divan.


“Nasreen,” he said, “I have told you many things about Najmi, but there is
one thing I haven’t.”


His tone was so sombre that Nasreen reacted immediately. “What?”


He was quiet for a few moments then he said, “She was not faithful.”


“What’s that mean?” Nasreen was taken aback.


“It means . . . that she loved someone else.”


“That can’t be true.”


“No, it is the truth.”


“Did you have proof?”


“Yes, once by mistake I opened a letter that had come for her,” he said
sadly, his head down.


“And you kept loving her?”


“Yes, it couldn’t be otherwise.”


They were silent for a long time.


“Did she know that you knew?” Nasreen asked.


“No, I never let her suspect anything. A few minutes before she died, I had
a feeling that she wanted to say something to me but couldn’t. I was trying
not to look into her eyes. I just kept saying she was going to be all right
until she had drawn her last breath.”


They were silent for another few minutes. “What would have been the point
anyway?” he said.


They switched off the light even earlier than they had the night before. He
was soon asleep and Nasreen kept looking at the stars through her window.


In the early hours, she was woken up by his rapid breathing. She raised her
head from the pillow, looked at his face and felt like a mother who clasps a
child when he is having a bad dream. Then she put her arm around him and
pulled him close.



© The Estate of Ghulam Abbas

© Khalid Hasan for English translation




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