Dadi/Amma

1

It was noon. Mrs Khushboo Haque was sitting in the entrance hall, where she usually sat, in her green plastic chair. It could be said that she ruled her household with an iron fist, if not for the fact that her wrists were too delicate to make the comparison apt. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that she ruled the roost with soft skeins of imaginary thread which she spun like a spider, some of these tighter and stronger than the others, but all of them coming back to her.

Mrs Haque was waiting for her majhli bahu, her middle daughter-in-law, to bring her lunch. She hoped it was fish. She had a real hankering for fish today. But she schooled herself for disappointment. Her daughters-in-law unfortunately did not have the sense to cook the right dishes on the right days. She herself had been brought up to know that khichdi, for example, was to be cooked on Saturdays and on Wednesdays, fish should be eaten. It was just the way things had to be done. But nowadays it was complete anarchy.

It is perhaps wrong to call her Mrs Haque. The name would be foreign to her. Even her first name had long since slipped out of use. These days she was just Amma. Or Dadi. Or Nani. She wasn’t upset by it. She preferred it. There was power in these terms. Age had conferred on her an authority and a respectability which had been denied to her for most of her life.

Nicest of all, her virulent husband, prone to terrible fits of rage throughout their marriage, had mellowed down during his old age, leaving her victory complete. It was a kind of payment life had made to her, in return for the many indignities she had had to suffer for most of her life.

It was around two in the afternoon and there was still no sign of lunch. She was simmering with anger now. She had prepared to be annoyed but now her daughter-in-law would have to be treated to another chastisement. She wondered why they enjoyed annoying her so. She herself, she was sure, had never been that incompetent. Was it so hard to do things the right way? She wasn’t even dead yet, and already she was being forgotten.

2

Amma was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was unable to fall asleep. It was the height of summer, and the ceiling fan was so slow that she was drenched in sweat. She kept praying to God, Ya Allah, take pity on your humble servant. Ya Allah, take pity on your humble servant. Ya Allah…

There was a standing fan in the room that was much better, but she didn’t feel like getting up and arranging it in place. Besides, it made her sick. Still, she was grateful for the hot weather. She couldn’t stand cold weather. At all. All through the long winter months she would lie shivering in her bed, even through the thick razai she covered herself with. Her hands and feet would always get so cold, so cold. It was difficult for her to even move during the winter. She knew what the rest of her family thought – that she was lazy and should exert herself more. But they had no idea how she suffered. She was terrified of sickness. If she could just die in one clean strike, she wouldn’t mind. But she couldn’t bear the feeling that she would dying by inches.

Thankfully, she thought, pushing her hair away from herself, it had finally been cut short. Her hair. Her last beauty. Maybe even her only beauty. It was long and thick, unlike the rest of her, which had shrivelled up like a raisin. It was like she was growing inwards. She thought she could hear the sound of some of her grandchildren playing. She called one of them to switch on the fan and adjust it properly so it didn’t face her head. Present discomfort had won out over the fear of future pain.

3

Today she had decided to cook. She had already told one of her grandchildren to tell her daughter-in-law to only send rice today. She was making sabzi with sutki maach. Her eldest granddaughter loved that but her mother always refused to cook it. Something about her not being able to stand the smell. She fried a few pieces of the dried fish separately, as her granddaughter did not eat vegetables.

It was nice to do something occasionally. These days, she didn’t really have anything to do. Cooking was now merely a hobby, and besides that and television, she did not have many others. Sometimes, she would buy things with the money she told each of her sons to give her every month. Most of it, she hid in different places. She was sure no one even knew. They probably thought she spent it all on the trinkets she bought. Even if they knew, they would have thought she was being stupid for trying to save such a small amount of money, but what did men know about money?

When she was done, she put the food in different containers, and called her grandson to take them to everyone. She framed it as a request. Her grandson grumbled a little, but both knew who held the power. She had remembered to save some for her son. He was not lunching at home today, but he could have it with his dinner.

4

Oh it was terrible, so terrible. Her head hurt terribly and these people were making it worse. She had barely recovered from her illness and they couldn’t stop fighting. A terrible rage was burning in her. She both wanted it all to stop and at the same time, she wanted to join in and give them all a great tongue-lashing. On and on it went. It was the usual. Her children and their wives, and even her daughters were all fighting with each other over how they had been wronged by each other. Soon it was as if the terrible pain in her head had merged with the fury in her blood, and she couldn’t help but shout out, shaming them, putting them in their places.

But her children were no longer children. They shouted back at her furiously. She was aghast. Terrible things were being said about her, the most terrible accusations were flung at her. Her sons and daughters saying how badly she had used them. Her daughters-in-law chimed in. She couldn’t believe it. When she thought of what she had endured in their name and for their sakes … If they had to suffer, then didn’t she suffer too? Wasn’t she the most unfortunate woman in the world? All women suffer, or so her mother had told her, but wasn’t she even worse off than most women were? None of them there had ever had to suffer as she had. She had had to put up with the pain of giving birth to five children, along with the constant beatings and humiliations she underwent as a matter of course, from her terrible husband. They had all seen it with their own eyes. They had felt it too when that same terrible hand fell on them. How could they forget it all so easily?

She was crying now. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help it. No one cared about her. All through her life she had felt superfluous, replaceable, useless even. But she had never thought her own children would make her feel that way. They all wished for her to die. She was shouting now. She had given her life to them, and now they just wanted her out of the way so they could live their own lives. She wished she would die. She wished Allah would end this life of pain for her. Oh how she wished for it.

Soon, the only sound which remained was that of her sobs which were slowly reducing in volume. She removed herself to her room and cried in a corner. She refused all the awkward attempts of her grandchildren to get her to eat something. No, no, she couldn’t eat this food. She wouldn’t eat this food. She would just starve to death as that was what everyone wanted. They should just leave her alone and let her die.

She could hear one of her sons berating his wife loudly. The woman had been unfortunate enough to join vociferously in the shouting. She strained her ears and listened carefully as he blamed her for his mother crying, warning her to correct her behaviour.

A smile crept onto her face. She tried unsuccessfully to repress it. She would go to bed now, she thought. Her head was still hurting. She rubbed some balm on her forehead, and lowered her head onto her pillow. She had to get up later to say the evening prayers. She felt exhausted. And hungry. She wondered what she might get for dinner. She really was quite hungry.