Areej Kiani
A nuanced and sensitive story about a village madwoman… and her unknown past.
NB: The piece was updated to amend the title of the artwork and the spellings of the artist's name. We apologise for the oversight.
There once lived a madwoman in a village. The thing that made Mero mad, in general opinion, was that she strayed from place to place, home to home, sometimes asking for food, sometimes a pack of cigarettes. Her grey hair was shorn close to her scalp, making her look like a thin old man, and it was always left uncovered. Her long neck strained as she threw stones at the trees in a bid to hit some fruit. She spoke in short, curt responses to villagers filling her sack and never minded when children made fun of her in her presence—after all, she was the one whose name their mothers whispered at night to scare them to sleep.
Aqib's ears were attuned to the song of the birds that flew into the trees across his two-story house as he sat outside on the lower terrace, blinking his eyes at the smoke. One of the birds, the one with the more insistent shrill tone, always woke him up near dawn, but Aqib had never laid eyes on it, or if he had, he had never recognized it. The rice in the large pot over the open fire had come to a boil, but no one had bothered to come outside to check on it.
A wet clomping from the road below drew his eyes away from the pot to the solitary figure walking through mud in the direction of their stairs. He sat up straight in his chair, which was placed before the privacy grille. It wasn't until the figure was quite close that he recognized Mero. He had met her only once, at a wedding, when some young men had been giving her cigarettes and laughingly asking her strange questions. That was the only time he came close enough to see her face, but it had left an impression. Mero was different from all the women he had ever met in the village. And she was elusive. For long years, she would disappear. Then something would trigger her presence, and people would see her in every other house.
His inspection was interrupted by a strange ruckus. A group of young children had followed Mero, and their dirty hands held small pebbles. One of the kids was shushing the others as if he expected to catch her unawares. Aqib became conscious of their intentions precisely because he would have done the same a few years ago. However, as the boy threw the pebble at Mero, Aqib stood up abruptly.
"Oye! What are you doing? I know your parents. Do you want me to pay them a visit?"
The children scattered. Mero climbed up the few steps to appear on the terrace. There was a huge crust of dried mud on her right thigh, and the lower part of her sack was wet. She waited for him to say something, her eyes squinting to take in his face.
Aqib stood up and said salam to her before offering her his chair. He leaned against the grille and called out to his mother, discreetly informing her about the guest. He avoided looking at her, feeling uncomfortable and ignorant about how to treat her. If it had been any other woman, he would have asked about her health and the health of her children, but Mero didn't impart the sense of mundanity of these kinds of questions. He didn't even know if she could talk.
His mother came out, adjusting the red dupatta over her head as she delivered her greetings to the old woman. Judging from the formal way she was treating Mero, Aqib felt sure that his mother hadn't recognised her, but Mero's appearance and a certain restraint in his mother's greeting punctured his surety.
"How is everyone at home?" Ammi said, bending down to check the rice.
"They are fine."
"Did Amjad's children return from the city?"
"Yes."
"Where did you come from? The road or the well?"
"The road."
Aqib didn't let his surprise show at the soft, polite words that emerged from Mero's parched, slightly wrinkled lips, marked with a black mole that dissolved into the purple skin.
"Our buffalo just had a calf,” Aqib’s mother said. “Don't leave until you try some of our rice."
Mero nodded, bending the fingers of her hand, her eyes moving to the newcomer who had come forward and didn't bother to greet her. Aqib's elder sister Naila stared at Mero with slightly wide eyes, then met Aqib's gaze in question. Could this be the old woman whose stories they had heard since they were children? The question was clear. Aqib avoided her eyes, embarrassed at her behaviour. His mother didn't admonish her for the rudeness. This was just Mero, after all, not some respectable old woman.
Naila came to lean against the grill beside Aqib and whispered, "Let's ask her about her wedding!"
Aqib glared at her.
"Don't."
"They say that she gets angry if you speak her fiancé's name."
"That's a good enough reason not to do it."
His sister was not discouraged by his words.
"I just want to see if it's true. People say all kinds of things."
Aqib had heard the strange tales that the people told, but the details were hazy. Had her fiancé died on the wedding day? Something about a fire. It had been a long time since anyone had mentioned Mero, and now all of a sudden she had appeared out of thin air.
When his mother took hold of the rags to take the pot off the fire, he went to help. It was heavy enough for two people, and he stumbled under its weight as they drained the water. Mero, in the meantime, was watching them quietly. It was not every day that Aqib came across madwomen, but there was an intelligence behind her gaze that disconcerted him. He would have assumed that there would be some mannerisms that would set her apart from normal people. Yet, except for Mero's appearance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
It had already happened in their minds, the illusion so strong that an eyewitness account was almost unnecessary. All repressed childhood fears came to the fore as Aqib turned around. How dangerous could a madwoman be?
Things were moving serenely when disaster struck. It was when Aqib and his mother were busy with the rice that his sister decided to ask the question. She had sneaked off to stand before the old woman. Aqib heard her clear voice behind him.
"How is Rehman?" Naila's nervous tone was completely at odds with her insensitive question.
He saw an uncomfortable expression contorting his mother's face, wrinkling her forehead. It was the mirror of his own. The sound of a crash filled the terrace. Resounding. Abrupt. He and his mother stood up in a puppet-like dance, in anticipation of the worst, of seeing Naila hurt, of seeing Mero throw something at her. It had already happened in their minds, the illusion so strong that an eyewitness account was almost unnecessary. All repressed childhood fears came to the fore as Aqib turned around. How dangerous could a madwoman be?
Naila stood to the side, her body unhurt, the whites of her eyes big. On the ground lay Mero's upturned chair and her sack with rations spilling out of it. The peace of her earlier expression was abandoned, and she was breathing heavily as she glared at Naila.
"Naila! Run inside!" His mother shouted in a sudden burst, a mixture of anger and helplessness.
Naila didn't wait to be told twice and Aqib wouldn't have minded running after her—Mero looked like she could murder someone. He was just wondering if the woman would hurt his mother when Mero turned abruptly and left without a word. He and his mother looked at each other with faces changing between confusion and relief. A moment passed. His mother covered her head again with the dupatta that had fallen off, took the pot, and heaved it into the house. Aqib's breathing came back to normal.
He went to right the upturned chair, his foot stepping on a hard shell. It was a walnut, fallen out of the sack that Mero had left behind. He rushed to the grill boundary of the terrace and could just about see a grey head moving in the fields some distance away. Her posture was different, a hunch to the shoulders that hadn't been there when the kids threw the stones. Now, she truly looked old. Pity filled his heart. A prickling of shame reddened his ears. It required courage to humble oneself before another human. Hospitality was important to Aqib. It made a person human. Mero had been their guest. He looked at her fallen sack. She had just come to have some food. Her relatives, the ones that his mother mentioned, must not treat her very well if she had to beg for food.
He stood there quietly for a few moments, his eyes tracking the movement of the old woman restlessly, before making a decision. He collected her sack off the floor, and went inside the house. He gathered some flour and rice from the kitchen, while his mother handed him a plate.
"Give this to Tariq Sahab. He was upset the last time we invited his brother's family to the dawat, but not him."
Aqib had trouble holding everything at once: the rice freshly cooked with the milk of a buffalo that had just delivered a calf, Mero's sack, and the little bags of flour and rice that he was going to offer her. Still, his young man's body was faster than Mero's.
When Aqib had caught up with her, his steps slowed to match the old woman's pace. She must have felt his presence but did not acknowledge him. They walked in silence for some time, passing grazing cattle in the fields and colourful sloping houses, the mud squelching under their feet.
When he was sure that the danger of her attacking him was very little, he decided to speak.
"Mother gave this for you."
He held the small bags of flour and rice out, fully expecting her to ignore him and continue walking, but surprisingly she stopped and turned to him.
Her expression was indiscernible except for the slight tightening of her lips as she looked at her sack and the additional bags of food in his hands. She squinted at his face again, hesitatingly moving her hand toward the offerings. Feeling somewhat relieved, Aqib handed them over slowly, as if any quickness on his part would startle her. Now the only thing left in his hands was the plate of the rice.
They walked more, and still their paths were the same. Mero's destination seemed to be in a similar direction to Tariq Sahab's house, where Aqib had to deliver the plate of rice. Trying not to be awkward, Aqib first waited for Mero to walk some distance away from him so they didn't have to walk side by side, but after only a few moments he would be parallel with her again. He could have easily overtaken her, but that felt rude. So, they had to walk side by side. To his surprise, Mero started glancing at him. He didn't catch her inspection directly but could feel it at the side of his face. When she did not stop, he turned and held her gaze.
She didn't lower her eyes or get embarrassed. Old women rarely did. She just looked at him as if she were trying to remember something.
Aqib looked away again.
"He didn't die in a fire."
His eyebrows rose, and his steps slowed to a stop. Mero had just spoken to him! Or had he imagined it?
She cleared her throat, wiping slight perspiration from her forehead, her voice hoarse. "We were going to get married in spring, when the mountains were fragrant with jasmine. In those times, the preparations would start a month before the wedding. Every night women from all around the village would gather in the house of the bride and sing songs."
The words came from somewhere calm, if hesitant. Aqib had a strong intuition that Mero had recalled them time and again but never said them aloud. It seemed incongruous, this madwoman who was speaking the same way as his grandmother would. Usually, no one had time for her old tales.
She put the sack over her shoulder and smiled. "My father didn't want to give me away. But I was fourteen. My mother had insisted that it was difficult to have a nice proposal after the marriageable age had passed. Contrary to what people say, it was not a love affair. I had never even seen his face."
They resumed walking again, Aqib's ears alert to her every word.
"I used to be a very lively and, some would say, a childish girl. When the proposal was accepted, I tried to talk my parents out of it. I did not want to leave my mother. In response, they gathered some of our relatives, and everyone sat down to admonish me and make me understand. As the days passed, I started to give up my reservations and became more amenable to the wedding. The attention I got from everyone was something I was starved for. It felt good when everyone gathered at night just for me, and I didn't have to cut grass and take care of the cattle when my brothers and sisters had to. It felt good that I didn't have to clean the house, do the dishes, or make chapatis. As my wedding neared, all those chores were assigned to someone else."
Aqib felt himself getting pulled into the story, and he waited patiently as she continued. "Even amid all this, one thing I didn't like was covering up my hair. I had beautiful black hair reaching down to my knees. When I was very young, my mother forbade me from going out of the house without a chadar covering my head. When I grew a little more, she forbade me to come before my father without covering my head. After some time, even my brothers were exempted from the list of people who could see me without my chadar. Secretly, I never liked this. How could something so insignificant even matter? That was what I asked myself every time I had to cover up. As time passed, I became used to it. I no longer fought with my mother over it. I no longer got defensive about the comments from my brothers. I no longer wanted to listen to old women making me understand. So it was all buried in the past. Until my wedding came."
"What happened then?" Aqib asked, still reeling from surprise at having her talk.
"On my wedding, my old defiance reemerged. As the days passed and girls were busy beautifying me by rubbing me with turmeric and ubtan, putting kohl in my eyes to make them bigger, and reddening my lips, something gave me confidence. I thought that whatever I did in those few days would not draw ire from anyone. After all, I was leaving them. It was the last chance I had. It was the day before my baraat that I tried testing this idea.
"All of us were preparing for the main event that was to occur the next day, when I would meet the groom and marry him. They were putting henna on my hands. In those days, there was not much care for the clothes of the bride. The importance of the wedding lay in the gatherings and coming together of everyone. The only wedding suit that I got to wear was on my baraat. So I was sitting in the veranda with others, getting my hands painted, when the chadar fell from my head. My hair was pulled back so it didn't get in my eyes. I had an excuse too, that I couldn't ruin my hands by putting the chadar back in place.
"Our many relatives entered and left, and no one chastised me. A well opened in my heart filling it with sweetness. It was the taste of something unrecognizable. There was a sudden noise from outside. Someone moved, and taking the edge of the chadar, covered my head. I turned to her and jerked my head. It fell down again. The girl took hold of it and repeated the action. I jerked my head again and glared at her. Immersed in this silent battle, I didn't notice the silence that fell over the crowd. My eyes scanned the room and met the gaze of the woman who was to be my mother-in-law. She stood there with tight lips, watching me.
"This time my mother came forward and repeated the action of the girl. It had become a reflex now. Something took hold of me, and I jerked my head again. The woman's eyes widened."
Aqib's mouth fell open. This would have been disrespectful behaviour, unacceptable to the elders even now, let alone several decades prior, when Mero would have been even younger than him. "But what about the fire? Didn't your fiance die in it?"
Aqib realised the stupidity of the question when it had already escaped his mouth. This was the same question that he had requested his sister not to ask. But surely things had changed. Mero was the one who had initiated this topic. Nevertheless, his heartbeat didn't slow until she replied to him.
"There was a fire, but not as you would imagine. After the incident, I regretted what I had done. My mother scolded me, but it was kept from my father and others. I was afraid that my mother-in-law was going to punish me. She had seen me misbehaving. Maybe she would take it into her head to improve my manners. The prospect was daunting, as I remembered the harshness of her features.
The next day, everyone was too busy with preparations to give much thought to it. I also forgot it, suppressing the anxiety in my stomach. The house was decorated with fresh flowers. Food was made in large pots. Tents were set up in the shorn fields. Musicians were also called with their drums and flutes. It was decreed that no stone should be left unturned in the hospitality of the guests, who would come with the groom, since it was a matter of honour. When everything was done and I had donned my red bridal dress, we waited. And waited. The groom did not come."
Aqib's eyes widened at this turn of events. "Was the wedding called off?"
Mero’s lips twisted. "They didn't give us the courtesy of calling it off." There was a pause. "They simply didn't come."
Aqib felt a sense of loss at this revelation. "What about your parents? How did they react?"
Her eyes hardened. "They didn't take it well. My mother locked me in my room for several hours. There was a lot of noise and shouting. Except for the closest relatives, the villagers started leaving. When my door opened, I wished it hadn't. I had never seen my father so angry." There was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Of course he beat me. What father wouldn’t, under the circumstances? I was the one at fault. It was because of me that the wedding was called off. But that didn't stop me."
"Stop you from what?"
She shook her head in regret. "From setting the wedding tent on fire."
It was a shock to hear these words, and he stared at her.
She gave a small laugh. "I was headstrong. After that, I ran away."
Aqib didn't ask what happened afterwards. He had already reached his destination, and Mero was staring at the house with tight lips. Aqib could imagine why she seemed a madwoman to the village and why her relatives would not help her. However, there was still one query.
"What about your bethrothed? If he didn't die in the fire, what happened to him?"
Mero's eyes flicked to his hands. "I imagine he will enjoy your rice today."
And with a final, strangely tender look at Aqib's surprised face, Mero hoisted the sack on her head and walked on, their paths finally diverging.
Areej Kiani is a master’s student of English Literature and Linguistics in Pakistan. Her works usually feature realistic characters in a Pakistani setting, exploring cultural problems and scenarios of the country.
Khadijah Rehman is a visual artist based in Lahore, Pakistan. She graduated with a BFA in Painting from the National College of Arts and works in both traditional and digital mediums. Her work has been on display in galleries around Pakistan. Her paintings have been published in Vasl Artists’ Association’s anthology Between Quarantine and Quest and The Lahore Biennale’s online exhibit The Body is Present. Rehman’s works range from gouache paintings and embroideries to digital illustrations. Her practice is influenced by figures and motifs found in South Asian miniature paintings, and delves into the otherworldly quality of night-time introspections, particularly ephemeral scenes and instances where women exist as if within dreamscapes, caught within the reminiscences of everyday moments of love or longing.
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