‘Let’s meet when you come shopping in the evening.’
‘Let’s see.’
Television had just arrived in Budhana. Those were the days of the old, bulky television sets, which sat protected in their royal wooden cases like a precious gem sitting proudly in a jewellery box. They had huge knobs, almost the size of door knobs, and like those had to be turned. Like most of Budhana, Shahana too was smitten with TV. One evening, we finally had a moment together, but she was in a massive rush to reach the village’s community television because it was time for the classic Indian farming show Krishi Darshan to air. ‘Wait!’ I held her hand and begged firmly. ‘Wait with me, Shahana.’ She got very upset and wriggled her wrist away from my grasp and said, ‘But I have to run now to watch TV.’ I was furious and told her, ‘One day I will be on TV. Just you wait and watch.’ I released my grip and let her go. I have no idea from where those words had come.
Some years later, like all of us kids, Shahana too grew up some more. She was beautiful. She and her three sisters wore that specific type of burqa which covered every centimetre of the body and the face, barring the eyes. Amidst all those countless constraints, I’d look at their eyes and try to guess which one was Shahana’s. Worse, the moments for this guessing game itself were fleeting. During the village mela, when all of them were there, I changed my strategy to a more efficient one: I recognized my beloved instantly, by her feet adorned in simple, golden, strappy sandals.
A rather filmi incident happened one day. Abbu asked me to go to Muzaffarnagar to get some forms, which, if I remember correctly, were application forms for enrolling in the police or some such government job. We respected our district so much that we rarely referred to it by its name. We simply said, ‘Sheher ja rahe hain.’ (We are going to town.) This was because it was a very big deal to go there, only the very brilliant went there.
It was peak afternoon and so the streets, true to Budhana’s nature and weather, were practically empty. This was the first time I could talk to Shahana in person. Imagine my excitement! Petrified of being caught, one of us walked on one side of the street, the other on the opposite side. As an extra precaution, she did not exactly match my steps, but walked a few steps behind.
‘I am going to town.’
She remained silent.
‘What can I get for you? What would you like?’
‘Nothing,’ she said softly. ‘Just that you return safe and sound. Come back quickly.’
It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. We were so excited, so ecstatic and yet so afraid.
Life took its course and though our feelings remained, our minimal interaction faded into nothingness.
Circa 2000, the gods melted a bit and placed a few episodes for a TV serial in my lap for the first time. Immediately, my mind travelled in time, remembering that I had told her, just like that, that I would be on television someday. And twelve years later, I was. The realization sliced through me like a knife. My insides stung with desperation. Oh God! My first love who loved TV more than me, simply must know that I was on TV. I called Budhana immediately and sent messages: ‘Somebody please tell her. Somebody please tell Shahana that Nawaz is now on TV.’
I discovered from my friend who lived right ahead of Shahana’s house that she had been married off to a typical maulana type of a man who had a typical maulana beard, and was extremely orthodox. He was three times older than her and already had six children of his own from a previous marriage. She had one child of her own. He was so conservative that he did not allow her to watch TV or even listen to the radio. I felt awful. What kind of a man was this! The very next day I called my parents and asked them that no matter what happened, they absolutely must not discontinue the education of my sisters, they must not pressurize them about anything and they must let them be free. Women in the village, especially, have it tougher and having grown up in the village, we had no exposure either unless we went to the city or saw how different things were. That was the turning point and I became liberal about women’s issues.
Soon after Shahana, I began to like a distant relative of mine called Farhana. But she liked another guy. The three of us were between the ages of seventeen and nineteen; we loved with a shy, raw tenderness that only teenagers possess. Neither of us expressed our liking but the love triangle was so obvious. Farhana went on to marry some random man and moved to another village called Jhinjhana. The boy she had liked also moved to another village after getting married. I went to Haridwar to study science and eventually from there to Delhi. We forgot about one another completely.
Twenty-five years later, I saw her again. She had come to our house to visit some relatives, accompanied by her five or six little children. The lines of sorrow on her face and the roughness of her aura gave away that her life had been anything but a bed of roses. Barring the regular mundane greetings that formality required of us (‘How are you?’ ‘What about your better half?’ ‘How about work, children?’ ‘What’s your new place like?’), we did not utter anything to one another. But strong undercurrents of silence ran between us and conveyed our tremendous regret. Hers that she was not with me. Mine that she should not be like this, that she should be happy. While leaving, she simply said how much she and her children loved my work.
* * *
Shahana remains
