Lihaaf
or The Quilt
Ismat
Chugtai
In
the depth of winter whenever I snuggle into my quilt, its shadow on the wall
seems to sway like an elephant. My mind begins a mad race into the dark
crevasses of the past; memories come flooding in.
Begging
your pardon, I am not about to relate a romantic incident surrounding my own
quilt—I do not believe there is much romance associated with it. The blanket,
though considerably less comfortable, is preferable because it does not cast
such terrifying shadows, quivering on the wall!
This
happened when I was a small girl. All day long I fought tooth and nail with my
brothers and their friends. Sometimes I wondered why the hell I was so
quarrelsome. At my age my older sisters had been busy collecting admirers; all
I could think of was fisticuffs with every known and unknown girl or boy I ran
into!
For
this reason my mother decided to deposit me with an 'adopted' sister of hers
when she left for
This
was the lady who had been married off to Nawab Sahib for a very good reason,
courtesy her poor but loving parents. Although much past his prime, Nawab Sahib
was noblesse oblige. No one had ever seen a dancing girl or prostitute in his
home. He had the distinction of not only performing the Haj himself, but of
being the patron of several poor people who had undertaken the pilgrimage
through his good offices.
Nawab
Sahib had a strange hobby. People are known to have irksome interests like
breeding pigeons and arranging cockfights. Nawab Sahib kept himself aloof from
these disgusting sports; all he liked to do was keep an open house for
students; young, fair and slim-waisted boys, whose expenses were borne entirely
by him. After marrying Begum Jan, he deposited her in the house with all his
other possessions and promptly forgot about her! The young, delicate Begum
began to wilt with loneliness.
Who
knows when Begum Jan started living? Did her life begin when she made the
mistake of being born, or when she entered the house as the Nawab's new bride,
climbed the elaborate four-poster bed and started counting her days? Or did it
begin from the time she realized that the household revolved around the
boy-students, and that all the delicacies produced in the kitchen were meant
solely for their palates? From the chinks in the drawing-room doors, Begum Jan
glimpsed their slim waists, fair ankles and gossamer shirts and felt she had
been raked over coals!
Perhaps
it all started when she gave up on magic, necromancy, seances and whatnot. You
cannot draw blood from a stone. Not an inch did the Nawab budge.
Broken-hearted, Begum Jan turned towards education. Not much to be gained here
either! Romantic novels and sentimental poetry proved even more depressing.
Sleepless nights became a daily routine. Begun Jan slowly let go and
consequently, became a picture of melancholy and despair.
She
felt like stuffing all her fine clothes into the stove. One dresses up to
impress people. Now, neither did the Nawab Sahib find a spare moment from his
preoccupation with the gossamer shirts, nor did he allow her to venture outside
the home. Her relatives, however, made it a habit to pay her frequent visits
which often lasted for months, while she remained prisoner of the house.
Seeing
these relatives on a roman holiday made her blood boil. They happily indulged
themselves with the goodies produced in the kitchen and licked the clarified
butter off their greedy fingers. In her household they equipped themselves for
their winter needs. But, despite renewing the cotton filling in her quilt each
year, Begum Jan continued to shiver, night after night. Each time she turned
over, the quilt assumed ferocious shapes which appeared like shadowy monsters
on the wall. She lay in terror; not one of the shadows carried any promise of
life. What the hell was life worth anyway? Why live? But Begum Jan was destined
to live, and once she started living, did she ever!
Rabbo
came to her rescue just as she was starting to go under. Suddenly her emaciated
body began to fill out. Her cheeks became rosy; beauty, as it were, glowed
through every pore! It was a special oil massage that brought about the change
in Begum Jan. Begging your pardon, you will not find the recipe for this oil in
the most exclusive or expensive magazine!
When
I saw Begum Jan she was in her early forties. She sat reclining on the couch, a
figure of dignity and grandeur. Rabbo sat against her back, massaging her
waist. A purple shawl was thrown over her legs. The very picture of royalty, a
real Maharani! How I loved her looks. I wanted to sit by her side for hours,
adoring her like a humble devotee. Her complexion was fair, without a trace of
ruddiness. Her black hair was always drenched in oil. I had never seen her
parting crooked, nor a single hair out of place. Her eyes were black, and
carefully plucked eyebrows stretched over them like a couple of perfect bows!
Her eyes were slightly taut, eyelids heavy and eyelashes thick. The most
amazing and attractive part of her face were her lips. Usually dyed in
lipstick, her upper lip had a distinct line of down. Her temples were covered
with long hair. Sometimes her face became transformed before my adoring gaze,
as if it were the face of young boy.
Her
skin was fair and moist, and looked like it had been stretched over her frame
and tightly stitched up. Whenever she exposed her ankles for a massage, I stole
a glance at their rounded smoothness. She was tall, and appeared taller because
of the ample flesh on her person. Her hands were large and moist, her waist
smooth. Rabbo used to sit by her side and scratch her back for hours
together—it was almost as if getting scratched was for her the fulfilment of
life's essential need. In a way, more important than the basic necessities
required for staying alive.
Rabbo
had no other household duties. Perched on the four-poster bed, she was always
massaging Begum Jan's head, feet or some other part of her anatomy. Someone
other than Begum Jan receiving such a quantity of human touching, what would
the consequences be? Speaking for myself, I can say that if someone touched me
continuously like this, I would certainly rot.
As
if this daily massage ritual were not enough, on the days she bathed this
ritual extended to two hours! Scented oils and unguents were massaged into her
shining skin; imagining the friction caused by this prolonged rubbing made me
slightly sick. The braziers were lit behind closed doors and then the procedure
started. Usually Rabbo was the only one allowed inside the sanctum. Other
servants, muttering their disapproval, handed over various necessities at the
closed door.
The
fact of the matter was that Begum Jan was afflicted with a perpetual itch.
Numerous oils and lotions had been tried, but the itch was there to stay.
Hakims and doctors stated: It is nothing, the skin is clear. But if the disease
is located beneath the skin, it's a different matter. These doctors are mad!
Rabbo used to say with a meaningful smile while gazing dreamily at Begum Jan.
"May your enemies be afflicted with skin disease! It is your hot blood
that causes all the trouble!"
Rabbo!
She was as black as Begum Jan was white, like burnt iron ore! Her face was
lightly marked with smallpox, her body solidly packed; small dextrous hands, a
tight little paunch and full lips slightly swollen, which were always moist.
Those puffy hands were as quick as lightning, now at her waist, now her lips,
now kneading her thighs and dashing towards her ankles. Whenever I sat down
with Begum Jan, my eyes were riveted to those roving hands.
Winter
or summer, Begum Jan always wore kurtas of Hyderabadi jalli karga. I recall her
dark skirts and billowing white kurtas. With the fan gently rotating on the
ceiling, Begum always covered herself with a soft wrap. She was fond of winter.
I too liked the winter season at her house. She moved very little. Reclining on
the carpet, she spent her days having her back massaged, chewing on dry fruit.
Other household servants were envious of Rabbo. The witch! She ate, sat, and
even slept with Begum Jan! Rabbo and Begum Jan—the topic inevitably cropped up
in every gathering. Whenever anyone mentioned their names, the group burst into
loud guffaws. Who knows what jokes were made at their expense? But one thing
was certain—the poor lady never met a single soul. All her time was taken up
with the treatment of her unfortunate itch.
I
have already said I was very young at the time and quite enamoured of Begum
Jan. She, too, was fond of me. When mother decided to go to Agra she had to
leave me with somebody. She knew that, left alone, I would fight continuously
with my brothers, or wander around aimlessly. I was happy to be left with Begum
Jan for one week, and Begum Jan was equally pleased to have me. After all, she
was Ammi's adopted sister!
The
question arose of where I was to sleep. The obvious place was Begum Jan's room;
accordingly, a small bed was placed alongside the huge four-poster. Until ten
or eleven that night we played Chance and talked; then I went to bed. When I
fell asleep Rabbo was scratching her back. "Filthy wench", I muttered
before turning over. At night I awoke with a start. It was pitch dark. Begum
Jan's quilt was shaking vigorously, as if an elephant was struggling beneath
it.
"Begum
Jan", my voice was barely audible. The elephant subsided.
"What
is it? Go to sleep". Begum Jan's voice seemed to come from afar.
"I’m
scared". I sounded like a petrified mouse.
"Go
to sleep. Nothing to be afraid of. Recite the Ayat-ul-Kursi".
"Okay!"
I quickly began the Ayat. But each time I reached Yalamu Mabain I got stuck.
This was strange. I knew the entire Ayat!
"May
I come to you, Begum Jan?"
"No
child, go to sleep". The voice was curt. Then I heard whispers. Oh God!
Who was this other person? Now I was terrified.
"Begum
Jan, is there a thief here?"
"Go
to sleep, child; there is no thief". This was Rabbo's voice. I sank into
my quilt and tried to sleep.
In
the morning I could not even remember the sinister scene that had been enacted
at night. I have always been the superstitious one in my family. Night fears,
sleep-talking, sleep-walking were regular occurrences during my childhood.
People often said that I seemed to be haunted by evil spirits. Consequently I
blotted out the incident from memory as easily as I dealt with all my imaginary
fears. Besides, the quilt seemed such an innocent part of the bed.
The
next night when I woke up, a quarrel between Begum Jan and Rabbo was being
settled on the bed itself. I could not make out what conclusion was reached,
but I heard Rabbo sobbing. Then there were sounds of a cat slobbering in the
saucer. To hell with it, I thought and went off to sleep!
Today
Rabbo has gone off to visit her son. He was a quarrelsome lad. Begum Jan had
done a lot to help him settle down in life; she had bought him a shop, arranged
a job in the village, but to no avail. She even managed to have him stay with
Nawab Sahib. Here he was treated well, a new wardrobe was ordered for him, but
ungrateful wretch that he was, he ran away for no good reason and never
returned, not even to see Rabbo. She therefore had to arrange to meet him at a
relative's house. Begum Jan would never have allowed it, but poor Rabbo was
helpless and had to go.
All
day Begum Jan was restless. Her joints hurt like hell, but she could not bear
anyone's touch. Not a morsel did she eat; all day long she moped in bed.
"Shall
I scratch you, Begum Jan?" I asked eagerly while dealing out the deck of
cards. Begum Jan looked at me carefully.
"Really,
shall I?" I put the cards aside and began scratching, while Begum Jan lay
quietly, giving in to my ministrations. Rabbo was due back the next day, but
she never turned up. Begum Jan became irritable. She drank so much tea that her
head started throbbing.
Once
again I started on her back. What a smooth slab of a back! I scratched her
softly, happy to be of some assistance;
"Scratch
harder, open the straps", Begum Jan spoke. "There, below the
shoulder. Ooh, wonderful!" She sighed as if with immense relief.
"This
way", Begum Jan indicated, although she could very well scratch that part
herself. But she preferred my touch. How proud I was!
"Here,
oh, oh, how you tickle", she laughed. I was talking and scratching at the
same time.
"Tomorrow
I will send you to the market. What do you want? A sleeping-walking doll?"
"Not
a doll, Begum Jan! Do you think I am a child? You know I am…"
"Yes…
an old crow. Is that what you are?" She laughed.
"Okay
then, buy a babua. Dress it up yourself, I'll give you as many bits and pieces
as you want. Okay?" She turned over.
"Okay",
I answered.
"Here".
She was guiding my hand wherever she felt the itch. With my mind on the babua,
I was scratching mechanically, unthinkingly. She continued talking.
"Listen, you don't have enough clothes. Tomorrow I will ask the tailor to
make you a new frock. Your mother has left some material with me".
"I
don't want that cheap red material. It looks tacky". I was talking
nonsense while my hand roved the entire territory. I did not realize it but by
now Begum Jan was flat on her back! Oh God! I quickly withdrew my hand.
"Silly
girl, don't you see where you're scratching? You have dislocated my ribs".
Begum Jan was smiling mischievously. I was red with embarrassment.
"Come,
lie down with me". She laid me at her side with my head on her arm.
"How thin you are… and, let's see, your ribs", she started counting.
"No",
I protested weakly.
"I
won't eat you up! What a tight sweater", she said. "Not even a warm
vest?" I began to get very restless.
"How
many ribs?" The topic was changed.
"Nine
on one side, ten on the other". I thought of my school hygiene. Very
confused thinking.
"Let's
see", she moved my hand. "One, two, three…"
I
wanted to run away from her, but she held me closer. I struggled to get away.
Begum Jan started laughing.
To
this day whenever I think of what she looked like at that moment, I get
nervous. Her eyelids became heavy, her upper lip darkened and, despite the
cold, her nose and eyes were covered with tiny beads of perspiration. Her hands
were stiff and cold, but soft as if the skin had been peeled. She had thrown
off her shawl and in the karga kurta, her body shone like a ball of dough. Her
heavy gold kurta buttons were open, swinging to one side.
The
dusk had plunged her room into a claustrophobic blackness, and I felt gripped
by an unknown terror. Begum Jan's deep dark eyes focused on me! I started
crying. She was clutching me like a clay doll. I started feeling nauseated
against her warm body. She seemed possessed. What could I do? I was neither
able to cry nor scream! In a while she became limp. Her face turned pale and
frightening, she started taking deep breaths. I figured she was about to die,
so I ran outside.
Thank
God Rabbo came back at night. I was scared enough to pull the sheet over my
head, but sleep evaded me as usual. I lay awake for hours.
How
I wished Ammi would return. Begum Jan had become such a terrifying entity that
I spent my days in the company of household servants. I was too scared to step
into her bedroom. What could I have said to anyone? That I was afraid of Begum
Jan? Begum Jan, who loved me so dearly?
Today
there was another tiff between Begum Jan and Rabbo. I was dead scared of their
quarrels, because they signalled the beginning of my misfortunes! Begum Jan
immediately thought about me. What was I doing wandering around in the cold? I
would surely die of pneumonia!
"Child,
you will have my head shaven in public. If something happens to you, how will I
face your mother?" Begum Jan admonished me as she washed up in the water
basin. The tea tray was lying on the table.
"Pour
some tea and give me a cup". She dried her hands and face.
"Let
me get out of these clothes".
While
she changed, I drank tea. During her body massage, she kept summoning me for
small errands. I carried things to her with utmost reluctance, always looking
the other way. At the slightest opportunity I ran back to my perch, drinking my
tea, my back turned to Begum Jan.
"Ammi!"
My heart cried in anguish. "How could you punish me so severely for
fighting with my brothers?" Mother disliked my mixing with the boys, as if
they were man-eaters who would swallow her beloved daughter in one gulp! After
all who were these ferocious males? None other than my own brothers and their
puny little friends. Mother believed in a strict prison sentence for females;
life behind seven padlocks! Begum Jan's "patronage", however, proved
more terrifying than the fear of the world's worst goondas! If I had had the
courage I would have run out on to the street. But helpless as I was, I
continued to sit in that very spot with my heart in my mouth.
After
an elaborate ritual of dressing up and scenting her body with warm attars and
perfumes, Begum Jan turned her arduous heat on me.
"I
want to go home!" I said in response to all her suggestions. More tears.
"Come
to me", she waxed. "I will take you shopping".
But
I had only one answer. All the toys and sweets in the world kept piling up
against my one and only refrain, "I want to go home!"
"Your
brothers will beat you up, you witch!" She smacked me affectionately.
"Sure,
let them", I said to myself annoyed and exasperated.
"Raw
mangoes are sour, Begum Jan", malicious little Rabbo expressed her views.
Then
Begum Jan had her famous fit. The gold necklace she was about to place around
my neck, was broken to bits. Gossamer net scarf was shredded mercilessly. Hair,
which were never out of place, were tousled with loud exclamations of "Oh!
Oh! Oh!" She started shouting and convulsing. I ran outside. After much
ado and ministration, Begum Jan regained consciousness. When I tiptoed into the
bedroom Rabbo, propped against her body, was kneading her limbs.
"Take
off your shoes, she whispered". Mouse-like I crept into my quilt.
Later
that night, Begum Jan's quilt was, once again, swinging like an elephant.
"Allah", I was barely able to squeak. The elephant-in-the quilt
jumped and then sat down. I did not say a word. Once again, the elephant
started convulsing. Now I was really confused. I decided, no matter what,
tonight I would flip the switch on the bedside lamp. The elephant started
fluttering once again, as if about to squat. Smack, gush, slobber—someone was
enjoying a feast. Suddenly I understood what was going on!
Begum
Jan had not eaten a thing all day and Rabbo, the witch, was a known glutton.
They were polishing off some goodies under the quilt, for sure. Flaring my
nostrils, I huffed and puffed hoping for a whiff of the feast. But the air was
laden with attar, henna, sandalwood; hot fragrances, no food.
Once
again the quilt started billowing. I tried to lie still, but it was now
assuming such weird shapes that I could not contain myself. It seemed as if a
frog was growing inside it and would suddenly spring on me.
"Ammi!"
I spoke with courage, but no one heard me. The quilt, meanwhile, had entered my
brain and started growing. Quietly creeping to the other side of the bed I
swung my legs over and sat up . In the dark I groped for the switch. The
elephant somersaulted beneath the quilt and dug in. During the somersault, its
corner was lifted one foot above the bed.
Allah!
I dove headlong into my sheets!!
What
I saw when the quilt was lifted, I will never tell anyone, not even if they
give me a lakh of rupees.
Acknowledgement:
The above text has been reproduced with the permission of the late Ismat
Chugtai’s family.
Previously
published in: Ismat Chughtai. The Quilt & Other Stories. New Delhi: Kali
for Women. 1996, pp. 7-19 (3rd edition). Translated by Tahira Naqvi and Syeda
S. Hameed.
Kali
for Women
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1/8 Hauz Khas,
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Delhi 110016, India