A Qureshi family lived next door to us. The Qureshis belong to the caste of butchers. Many change their profession, while many stick to it. Our neighbours ran a slaughterhouse. It isn’t that all houses of butchers are unhygienic, but theirs was. It was always buzzing with flies. Ammi had forbidden me from going there not just due to their lower caste but also due to the lack of cleanliness. But I went there all the time. The wife of the butcher made the most delicious tahri I have tasted in my entire life. It was out of this world! It was so addictive that I went there despite knowing that I’d be getting a generous helping of Ammi’s beatings for dessert. I went there all through my childhood. I went there even when I was studying at drama school and came to visit. And I continue to go there even today, only for that tempting tahri.
During the day, it was common for our house to be filled up with about twenty girls. They were all Ammi’s students. She would teach them Arabic and the Quran Shareef. In return, they did some of our housework, like cleaning, sweeping and making rotis. They also helped with babysitting all of their teacher’s children. Every single one of us siblings had an older student to watch over us and take care of us for a few hours. Naturally, we were very fond of these didis. Even though they were in charge, they were different from the adult authority figures. The girl who watched over me was called Sarvo. Once she made me lick salt, perhaps from a salt-laced fruit. I was just two and a half years old at the time and could not take it. I threw up instantly. Not anticipating this, Sarvo was surprised, scared and guilty all at once. After all, she was just a child herself. Perhaps it was food poisoning, perhaps a tummy bug, perhaps a mild infection. I fell sick and kept vomiting. Naturally, Ammi was very upset with Sarvo, but the worry over her sick child distracted her from lashing out at my juvenile caretaker.
Ammi must have educated close to 150 girls in total. In fact even today, Ammi can be found teaching four or five girls. Her voice can be heard across the corridors correcting the pronunciation of simple words like Raheem and stressing over the phonetic perfection of the ‘r’ and the ‘z’ sounds. Naturally, she taught me Arabic as well. I am so fluent that I understand Middle Eastern films perfectly, I don’t need subtitles.
Ammi used to beat me a lot. I would stay out all day, playing all kinds of games—kanche (marbles), gilli danda and my favourite, flying kites. Ammi wanted me to study while I just wanted to play.
There was this one time when Ammi got really furious with me. I had been flying a kite almost all afternoon. It was no small feat. I was on cloud nine with happiness. Then Ammi quietly came up to the terrace. Without a word, she pulled the string from my hand, instantly leaving the kite I had manoeuvred with so much love to its fate. I was completely crushed. Watching the kite leaving felt like my heart was leaving me.
I had what can only be described as a mad passion for flying kites. If I was ever on the terrace flying kites in the afternoon, it was pretty much guaranteed that I would stay there until dusk, until the last ray of sun and I could not see the kite any more. Already, I was very skinny and weak. Sometimes, without realizing how exhausted I had gotten in the hot sun, I would simply faint.
I remember for about two to three years, I was in a haze of fear. All of that sun and exhaustion and Ammi’s beatings made me so afraid that I had begun to hallucinate—wondering if the walls were swaying, curving, dancing. When I slept at night, the roof’s kadiyan too kept turning round and round like prayer wheels in a monastery. The fear that had created these crazy visions stayed with me for a few years due to Ammi’s pitai.
Sometimes she hit me with an electric wire; sometimes with a chimta, a pair of tongs; and sometimes, her asbestos hands were enough. I was beaten for many, many years, until I was about sixteen years old. But at the same time, she loved me fiercely, always wanting something greater for me than Budhana had to offer.
My gang comprised Naadra, Nehraz and Ayaz, and an assortment of cousins, relatives and friends. One day, Ayaz and I went out with some of them, spent time at their house and returned home very late. Fat iron rods jutted very high out of a wall in our house that served for purposes like hanging clothes. But that day, Ammi tied both our hands to them with ropes, not unlike the scene in Sholay where the villain Gabbar Singh hangs several of the lead characters by their wrists with ropes. I had enough guile to free my arms, pretending to be tied only when Ammi was close by. Ayaz, though, was not as cunning and kept screaming in pain. Ammi wondered why I was
