The fairest of them all became my favourite. I wanted to impress her; I wanted her to think highly of me. So I got a fairness cream, which in a tiny, far-flung village like ours, was a duplicate version of the famous Fair and Lovely cream. Of course, it did not make me fair. On the contrary, it stood out like a light layer of white paint on my dark face, which made her burst into peals of laughter.
Once, the father of these lovely lasses had to visit somebody, I believe a relative, in a neighbouring village for some days. The girls were all alone. Remember, ours was a village in the land of gehu, ganna aur gun (wheat, sugar cane and gun). It made women feel safe if they were in the company of a man. So I was asked to stay with them.
It was a winter night. There were charpoys scattered everywhere, with one girl lying here, another there. I went to lie on one charpoy, near the youngest one. Of course, I was thrilled. My heart longed to sleep near her but then I was put near the oldest, the teenager didi, under the same quilt. For the first time a new feeling was aroused in me: I felt the concept of ‘touch’, something I had never felt before, and I was like ‘fuck!’ So I stuck closer to her and slept, with a feeling that this would be the most beautiful sleep of my life. She was about seventeen; but she had no such thoughts. To her, I was a child, almost a little brother. I knew this. So later, whenever she would come to our house, which was all the time, my head would hang in shame for the wrong I only knew I had done.
They shifted houses soon after.
But going down memory lane, I remember another incident.
The third of the daughters was extremely fond of singing and dancing to Hindi film songs. In fact, she was rather filmi herself. One evening, Ammi had gone to visit one of our relatives next door. So we were by ourselves for a few hours. This girl, she shut the door. I was there with my brother and another boy from the neighbourhood. She was there with a couple of girls, including a friend. She locked the door, removed her burqa and danced and sang for us. It was a popular number, a Hindi classic: ‘Jhumka Gira re, Bareilly ke Bazaar Mein’. She performed with complete ‘heroine-like’ dramatic expressions and gestures. This was an act of rebellion but it was so innocent and so joyful.
She was about fourteen and I was about eight or nine. Par tab hi se dil mein dhadakne shuru ho gayee thi. (From then on, my heart began to flutter.)
When they left and moved to another house, we were all very sad. There was so much fun and laughter when they were there. Their mirth, their chirpiness brought about a spring-like ambience, as if life was an endless festival. In their wake, all of that was replaced with emptiness. I’ve noticed since then that wherever girls are present, there is ronak, cheer, jollies, jubilation. Is it that girls are attracted to ronak, so they are present wherever there is ronak? Or is it that the ronak is created because of their presence? I have not been able to figure out which way that equation works.
* * *
I had an extraordinary aunt, whom I affectionately called Tai Amma. She was a widow with half a dozen daughters, each one exquisitely beautiful. A few of them got married and lived happily ever after in Pakistan. One got married in Delhi, at the Nizamuddin dargah. Actually, she is the unofficial queen of the Nizamuddin area in Delhi. All the offerings from the Nizamuddin dargah go to their household. So they live like royalty, without having to earn a penny. In fact, according to conjecture the very name Nizamuddin most likely comes from their ancestral lineage.
Tai Amma herself was stunning, timelessly beautiful like a thin willow tree, 5 feet 11 inches tall, and had flowing white hair and a thick neck. She was striking in her attire of a widow’s white burqa made of cotton, with a slit in the front.
There was nobody quite like her in the world, or at least none that I had met. Her storytelling skills were unparalleled. The kind of command she had over words, over Hindi and Urdu, and the kind of stories she narrated were incredible.
‘Arrey, Nawab ki Bahu!’ she would call my mother and recite tales on our terrace as we kids lay around napping or pretending to nap.
‘Arrey, Nawab ki Bahu, do you know what happened today when I woke up at four in the morning?’
Then she would take a long pause.
‘Do you know what happened?’
Another pause, a shorter one.
‘The moon, the stars were all shining brightly. In the ebony sky, the moon resembled milk and it seemed like this milky moon was staring at me, just at me. You won’t believe it, Nawab ki Bahu, but those stars, they came so close to me; it was as if they were touching me. I tingled and blushed so much due to this intimacy that I almost became water. While I was doing wazoo—the morning ablutions of washing the hands and face—a star came and sat on my peshani, my sleeve. You won’t believe it, Nawab ki Bahu, you won’t believe it. I could not make up my mind. Main sitare ko dekhoon ki apne aap ko dekhoon? Main sitare ko dekhoon ki apne aap ko dekhoon, Nawab ki Bahu? (Should I look at the star? Should I look at myself? Should I look at the star? Should I look at myself, Nawab’s Wife?) I couldn’t help but blush. You see, Nawab ki Bahu, you won’t believe me but you must. Because I have not met a star like
