My grandfather had friends from diverse backgrounds. This was kind of a huge deal and extremely progressive for those days when almost everybody around him was an orthodox Muslim. In fact, there were quazis who were so notorious that if a person from a lower caste happened to walk in front of them adorned in new clothes or new shoes, even if it was for a wedding, they would beat him up. Naturally, such routine tyranny exasperated a liberal like my grandfather. He decided that being a powerful person, he could use his position to break this cruel tradition by marrying into lower castes.
We don’t have his wealth but we have been told that some of us, like my youngest brother, Shamas, myself and, most of all, my daughter, Shora, have inherited his majestic genes—that it is evident in the way we walk, we turn our heads, speak, and so on. In fact, he is such an influence that I have designed much of the decor and furniture in my office—which is more of a second home where I often crash—based on his royal taste.
Dada died an early death. He had four wives, only two of whom, the first and the last, delivered children. My Abbu, Nawabuddin Siddiqui, was the child of his youngest wife, whom he had married out of love. She belonged to a scheduled caste called Manihaar; her people were bangle sellers. Soon after my grandfather’s death, she also passed away. His stepbrother, my tau, was twenty-five years older than him. He was so awful to Abbu that Abbu had to flee to Delhi for a while where he led a harsh life—even being a child labourer—before returning to Budhana. Because he had always lived far away, Abbu never understood relationships. He did not know how to behave with his children or with his wife, or that it was normal and quite all right for a mother to spank her own children to discipline them.
Then the Chakbandi Rule regarding land reforms came into being under Nehru. Already Abbu had inherited a lot of discrimination due to his low-caste lineage. He had also inherited endless strife and family feuds, ultimately losing most of his property, piece by piece. Tau took advantage of the Chakbandi Rule because he could manipulate documents, and acquired most of the property that legitimately should have belonged to both of them.
My dadi’s brother used to peddle his wares in the gullies of Budhana, advertising loudly in a salesman’s pitch, ‘Bangles! Bangles! Come, get some bangles!’ Each time we heard it, a deep sensation of shame ran like a muddy river through each of us. On one side my grandfather was a zamindar, which automatically entitled us to pride and respect. On the other hand, my grandmother’s low-caste background gifted us shame. It was a cruel oxymoron for a family to exist in. For my father, this was a shadow that accompanied him everywhere lifelong, right from birth.
Abbu tried his hand at a series of businesses one after another. He ran a bicycle shop. Then he owned an electrical shop, which sold switches and bulbs for houses. Then he became a timber merchant. His shop had an aara, a saw-like machine to cut wood, which came to Budhana from Nepal. But no matter how hard he tried, each of his businesses flopped. Naturally, Abbu was a broken man but he never showed it. Also, he never entertained us at his shop. He did not want his children to take over his business. He wanted them to study and build their own independent lives based on sound education.
One afternoon, Ammi was busy cooking lunch. It was one of those days which belonged to the infamous loo, that hot and dry wind. I was a toddler, about two and a half years old, probably three. How we looked up to any kid who was even a teeny bit older than us! One such boy from the mohalla, a friend called Aslam, said, ‘Nawaz, let’s go to the river to bathe.’ It was tempting. He had buffaloes too. How could I resist! So in the middle of that loo, I trotted off to bathe in the river, which, in stark contrast, was completely cold. I cautiously dipped my foot in the water first while looking at the water itself. That’s when I noticed the size of the river—to my tiny self, it looked overwhelmingly humongous. The heady mixture of fear and heat made me extremely dizzy.
Meanwhile, back at home, Abbu happened to come home for lunch and asked Ammi, ‘Where is Nawaz?’ Assuming I was playing nearby, she said, ‘Yaheen kaheen hoga.’ This threw Abbu into a rage.
‘Yaheen kaheen ka matlab?’ (What do you mean by here or there?)
He did not notice how hard she was at work, cooking, and how she was way too busy. We always see what we want to see. At that moment, Abbu could only see carelessness. Furious, he stormed out, asking people around if they had seen me. The neighbours said that indeed they had seen me toddle off with the other child, Aslam. Immediately, Abbu grabbed a bicycle and pedalled speedily, fuelled by panic and anger, to the river and arrived just in time.
He brought me back and after depositing me on a bed, he threw the food Ammi had painstakingly prepared for him. Then he beat her up badly, all the time reprimanding her, shouting at her, ‘Koi khayal hi nahin hai tumhe! Koi khayal hi nahin hai tumhe!’ (You don’t care for the child! You don’t care for the child!)
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As the years pass, age differences matter less and less. But in childhood even the
