Maliha In Love - Part 1

Maliha hopped down the unrailed set of stairs her rubber slippers clapping against the sole of her feet eliciting a tune that only rubber slippers in consonance with smooth soles can elicit. The only thing I like about summers is crisp warm clothes, she thought as she deposited an armload of clothes fresh from nature’s oven, onto the charpoy in the verandah. White kurtas and pyjamas, colourful shalwars, jumpers and dupattas (some of them of shocking disposition) and a couple of towels, bathed in an aromatic detergent powder, caressed by water and finally kissed passionately by the sun now lay on the old charpoy retaining the shape in which they had lain on the clothesline for three or four hours. If only people were so obedient and pliable she would have moulded Rukhsana Chachi to her own liking and put her under the sun to set and dry. That way she would have saved herself, the neighbourhood and Rukhsana chachi’s husband a good deal of headaches. 

 As Maliha started the tedious task of folding away the clothes her mind strolled away to Qasim land. Just like Disney land, Qasim land was a place of thrill and excitement where dreams had the power to spring to life, and love was not held hostage by physical and moral limits. Only two people who lived in Qasim land is Maliha and Qasim, the latter utterly oblivious to his citizenship of such a place. As soon as Maliha entered the realm of Qasim land the drab real world ceased to exist.

With examination just round the corner and truckloads of syllabus unfinished Maliha began to have panic attacks. It was to counter that panic and more importantly to dilute the prospects of flunking that Maliha had started to pray regularly. She even left the comforts of her bed at the break of dawn to pray the Fajr namaz. While she prayed Fajr namaz tea leaves leached their colour and aroma in boiling water atop a stove in the tiny kitchen which her father took care of after her grandmother’s demise but which was now entirely Maliha’s domain which she maintained and protected ferociously. After being done with Fajr namaz Maliha poured tea in two cups. One she handed to her father in his room and with the other, in hand, she ascended the railing less staircase to the terrace. 

It was here on the terrace with a heavenly cup of tea in hand she witnessed a city come to life after a certain death. “It is He, Who takes your souls by night (when you are asleep), and has knowledge of all that you have done by day.” That was from Surah An’amm that Imam sahib had taught Maliha when she was ten.

Two days ago Malaiha was at her usual place, witnessing the familiar almost repetitive morning scene. A cool breeze caressed her face as she saw women emerge from a cluster of huts at the far end of her street with brooms in hands and babies on hips. Unlike the women who were alert although somewhat disgruntled, the men who followed them were sleepy and stumbling. Men who drink during the day and either beat their wives or procreate with them at night. And women who slog during the day and take the beatings at night, complacent and uncomplaining almost as if it is a virtue. The milkman cycled towards Maliha’s house, two massive milk cans balanced on each side of his bicycle. A set of siblings dressed in school uniform with powdered necks waved goodbye to their mother, a vegetable vendor with a cart loaded with fresh green red turned around the corner of Maliha’s street and vanished in the city. Invisible to Maliha a train whistled past, an immaculately dressed man, a sales executive kicked his Yamaha thunder and set out to work. Just then the world came to a standstill. Even if it didn’t to Maliha it seemed as if it has.

She heard a cranking sound behind her and instinctively turned around. Walking out of the staircase mumtee was Qasim. Tall and lean, dressed in grey track pants and a navy blue T-shirt he strolled along the length of his terrace. He was wearing a skull cap which indicated that he had just prayed Fajar. But there was something remarkably different about him today that Maliha could not pinpoint. Before their eyes met Maliha turned around with the intention to leave. Why stay and expose yourself to the dreaded possibility of being ignored. Better leave and be happy in the assumption that he was hurt and disappointed by your leaving. Plus that would give Maliha out of the league of girls who swooned over Qasim and who Qasim could not count on his finger.  

Maliha had barely reached the terrace door when Qasim called out ‘As-Salam Aley Kum Maliha’.

Hearing her name in his voice Maliha’s head spun and her heart raced and thumped against her rib cage in an attempt to escape from its prison. Maliha felt as if her whole being was about to explode. She took a moment perhaps more than a moment to compose herself before turning around to face Qasim.

‘Wale Kum As-Salam,’ she said in a flat formal tone even as her heart somersaulted in its confined space. She hoped that none of her inner state of being showed on her face. It was then that Maliha realised what was different about him that day. He had stubble, something he never had when he stepped out of the house. Seeing him thus placed Maliha in a special class of people. Maliha walked towards him casually, making a painful effort to not let her state of mind reflect in her gait or demeanour.  

‘Really beautiful’ he said looking towards her. Maliha first panicked then realised that he was referring to the rising sun behind her. And before she could respond another heavenly emerged behind Qasim.

‘Hai! What is going on here?' 

Hai! What is going on here bhai?’ Rukhsana Chachi, Qasim’s next-door neighbour exclaimed as soon as she stepped on the curb of her terrace.

‘Nothing Chachi, just saying salam to each other,’ Maliha said.

‘Just Salam? Really. I thought someone was finding someone very beautiful,’ Rukhsana chichi raised an eyebrow and spoke in her signature tone.

‘Qasim thinks the sunrise is beautiful,’ Maliha said flatly and turned around to leave.

‘Going?’ Qasim called out.

‘Yes. I have to study,’ Maliha said deliberately injecting disinterest in her tone.

'Going?' Qasim asked. 

‘Yes. I have to study,’ Maliha said deliberately injecting disinterest in her tone.

‘This is what too much study does to girls,’ Maliha heard Rukhsana Chachi say as she walked down the stairs. It was unlikely that she said that to Qasim. In all probability, she spoke to no one in particular and everyone in general who was inaudible vicinity. That’s how she talked when she disapproved of things or she was too scared, or too angry or too upset. And talking she loved. She would talk to anyone for any length of time provided they listened without contradicting her. And when there is juicy gossip like a neighbourhood boy meeting a neighbourhood girl at the break of dawn and calling her very beautiful no one contradicts. Everybody listens and passes on the information as dutifully as it deserves to be passed on. Any neighbourhood is full of conscientious gossip mongers and this was no exception.

Maliha was only too aware of a scandal hatching in Rukhsana Chachi’s head. She lost the ability to concentrate on anything fruitful. Usually, she would rinse the teacups under the kitchen tap and sit down with her books but now she could think of nothing except what would go around about her in the neighbourhood in a few hours.

Maliha made a couple of attempts to dismiss the intrusive thoughts playing havoc with her peace of mind. When they proved futile she walked into her Baba’s room and sat on the edge of his bed. She saw his form rise and fall in a rhythmic pattern as he caught a few winks of sleep before going to work. Maliha looked at his nose. It was her nose, long and sleek, taking an inward turn at the most opportune point. Any delay in the turn would have made both of them the descendants of Pinoccio. The nose and a balanced, restrained and compassionate nature were the two things she had inherited from her father. The rest of her had come from a mother she never had the chance to know. Not that she missed her mother, not in the usual sense of missing at least but she wished she had a mother just like everyone else. She wished she had a mother to pull down her tight-fitting sleeves after Wazu as Iqra’s mother did.

Lost in thought Maliha did not realise when Baba stirred out of sleep.

‘What has happened Maliha? Why are you so glum?’ Baba asked reaching out for his glasses by his side. 

‘Baba, I was on the terrace, as usual, then Qasim came, I was leaving but he said Salam, I replied to his Salam, then he said that the sunrise is beautiful and just then Rukhsana chichi manifested out of nowhere like a Jinnaat and thought that it’s me Qasim is calling beautiful.’

‘Lika a jinnaat,’ Baba laughed. And when he laughed his nostrils flared, his frame vibrated and his belly danced to the vibrations.

‘Baba! Why are you laughing?’

‘I tell you, you should start writing, but you don’t listen to me.’

‘Haan and then when I clarified the situation and walked away Rukhsana chichi said something to the effect that education has spoiled me.’

‘Aaha’ Baba said.

‘See only reading has made me so terrible if I start writing doomsday will come before its time. Qayamat se pehle qayamat aa jayegi’ she said and Baba laughed again.

‘Don’t laugh Baba. I am really worried about what she will say to everyone now.’

‘Arey why do you care bhai? Let her say anything she wants to. What difference does it make to us haan?’

‘But Iqra and her Ammi and Imam sahib and Imam chichi, what will they think. They will think something is going on between me and Qasim.’

‘If they ask you anything you tell them. Any sensible person will take your word against Rukhsana bhabhi. And Iqra and her Ammi will anyways ask Qasim, not you.’

‘You think there is nothing to worry about?’

‘Absolutely nothing to worry about,’ Baba said as he got up from the bed and the bed and it creaked in relief.

'You sure there is nothing to worry about?' Maliha asked again. 

'Absolutely sure,' Baba said. 

And his mere reassurance as usual resolved every trouble in the world.