Mynas on the Wall

Tehmina Khan

How ordinary events carry on in the midst of chaos or slaughter; or a wedding just after the partition of the sub-continent.

Dehli, 1947

It has been raining. A great show of thunder and lightning. I take it as a good omen. I love storms. It is early morning. My favourite time of the day. I enjoy watching over a sleeping world as the dark lifts and the day tiptoes in. Today nerves woke me up even earlier than usual. It’s my wedding day. I open my bedroom window and offer my face so that the wind and the rain can sting kisses on it.

“Gauhar apa!” It is Yasmin. I turn around. The shock on her face transforms into a smile and then she is there beside me. I stick my tongue out to taste the rain and she does the same. We laugh.

“Our mothers will kill us if they catch us standing here like this.”

“Do you want to catch a cold and die on your wedding day?” I mimic Ama bi’s voice. Yasmin giggles.

She pulls me to her and we spin and twirl. We dance around the furniture, laughing. Thunder roars. I grin and guide her back to the window. There is a solitary myna on our low outer wall.

“Why isn’t she with the other mynas taking shelter in the trees?” I say.

“Perhaps her wings are too wet to fly any higher right now.”

I close the window.

I am sad that Sanam can’t attend my wedding. She is nine months pregnant and unable to travel, but her absence has given Yasmin and me the chance to spend more time with each other. At sixteen, Yasmin is more adult, less child, and fast becoming as close a friend as her sister. They have all come by train from Hyderabad Deccan to attend our wedding in Delhi: Raheem’s parents, and three younger siblings. His two older ones aren’t able to attend. Munno bhai cannot get leave from the Hyderabad State Police and Sanam is too pregnant.

I marvel at my luck at not only loving Raheem, my Hubbo, but his family too. His mother is more of a mother to me than my own mother. I am closer to Sanam than to my own sister and here is Yasmin by my side, drenched to the skin, shivering, and laughing. His father, Akbar khalu, is someone I like even if Hubbo refuses to speak to him properly. This is a situation I hope to mend. I am not just marrying Hubbo. I want his family as my own. I grew up watching the easy affection in their home and feeling the lack in our home where relationships are formal and often strained. Aba mian and Ama bi are forever fighting and making up, but Jamila khala and Akbar khalu seemed so perfect a couple to me. This is why Akbar khalu’s second marriage was such a shock.

Hubbo and I have waited years to get married, but now that the moment is upon us, it seems rushed and chaotic. I begin the mornings excited and joyful, only to hear Aba mian talk of some fresh disaster and my joy turns to apprehension. Ama bi bustles about complaining about how hard it is to feed so many because the servants keep returning home with this or that item missing from the shopping list.

A few weeks have passed since the Partition of India, resulting in the birth of Pakistan on the 14th of August 1947 and the independence of India on the 15th. Old Delhi is under curfew following a bomb explosion in Fatehpuri Mosque during the Juma prayers. Army troops patrol the old city and police posts appear at street corners. Policemen and soldiers have been given shoot-to-kill orders. Any proper wedding celebration is out of the question. Only those staying in my father’s home attend the nikah. We have a full house; my parents, grandfather, three siblings, and Raheem’s family. But thank Allah for children. His younger brothers, Emaad and Moyez, and my younger brothers, Hassan and Amir, are oblivious to everything and run from room to room playing pranks and raising a ruckus. Emaad has shot up this past year and looks like the gangly eleven-year-old that he is. Overflowing with energy, he races around the house with baby-faced Moyez tailing him. My brothers are younger and so always bring up the rear, but happily.

Yasmin has brought her sitar and she sets herself up on the floor of our drawing room every evening. Mumtaz apa thhmps a dholak. We huddle around them and sing wedding songs. The elders sit on sofas and applaud. Truth be told, there is something forced in the way we celebrate. A low current of apprehension runs through everything we do.

Mumtaz apa and her husband flew in from Lahore just before the flights were cancelled. They tell of the horrors playing out on the streets of that city. Muslim mobs burnt the Sikh gurudwara on Temple Road. Thousands are trapped within the city walls of old Lahore with just a twenty-year-old British captain with two hundred Gurkhas to maintain peace. Shops and houses belonging to Hindus and Sikhs are being set on fire. Lahore’s Hindu and Sikh populations are confined to refugee camps, waiting to leave for India. Refugee trains running between the two newly-birthed countries arrive at their destinations dripping blood, and from the compartments of these trains, policemen and train officials pull out dead bodies. They leave them in piles by the sides of the train stations. 

Raheem’s mother reported calm in Hyderabad. Their train ride from Hyderabad to Delhi was uneventful. Punjab is in turmoil. Ours is a house divided by politics. My siblings, cousins, Ama bi, and I are Muslim Leaguers. My father is a Congressman. Aba mian never approved of Pakistan and Jinnah’s politics. He saw no reason to divide India into two separate Muslim and Hindu majority countries, but even he did not foresee the violence that has resulted from Partition.

Every day in the papers we read of the madness that has engulfed the land, growing, spreading like wildfire. Poor people walking miles, caravans of refugees ambushed along the way: murdered, robbed, and worse. The Purana Qila, Delhi Fort, is crammed with refugees in makeshift tents with scarce provisions and no choice but to move on. Those who have barely enough to begin with always lose the most. We feel uneasy but still safe in our home. The fires are burning elsewhere. Our British neighbour isn’t leaving and neither are we. In the arrogance, borne of our privilege, we have forgotten that it doesn’t take long for the winds to change direction.

Raheem’s heart is set on a honeymoon in Kashmir. My parents and grandfather advise delaying the wedding, but nothing can change his mind. His father expresses no opinion and Jamila khala’s opinions are always the same as her children’s.

“I have waited. I have waited four years and none of you seem to understand how difficult it was for me to arrange a month of leave for this wedding right now. Who knows when I will next get leave?” he says.

''Ephemeral slumber'' by Hassan Sheikh

“You weren’t the only one waiting. We were all waiting and not just waiting. We waited not knowing whether you were alive or dead or hurt or lost. We waited because you joined the army instead of medical school!” I respond before I can stop myself.

The room goes still. Aba mian and Ama bi’s mouths hang open. Jamila khala’s eyes mist over. My heart drums in my ears. I am shaking. I run out of the room and into the garden.

I am by the smelly pigeon coop when he finds me. I start shaking again. I think he is going to scream at me.

“Please forgive me. I have had years to regret leaving you, Gauhar Bano. Don’t you see this is why I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Still, there is fear in me. How could there not be fear?

I am plagued by conflicting emotions; fearful and excited. I want to be his wife. I dream of a home full of children. I imagine our life. A shared bed. Meals eaten together. The bonding experience of parenthood. I know how easily all can be lost. I know what it is to live not knowing if he is alive or not in that moment because that is how I lived when he was away playing at war. I do not want to die without having known the warmth of his body or the ardour of his kiss. I want to give myself to him. 

Yasmin and I are lying on my bed in our wet things. She hums the opening lines of Barsat Mein Humse Mile. I smile.

“Go on then. Sing it for me.”

“Barsat mein tak dhina dhin

Barsat mein humse mile

Tum sajan tumse mile hum”

The door is flung open. The song dies on Yasmin’s lips. Ama bi’s eyes rest on us, then take in the puddle by the window.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing. Yasmin was singing,” I say, sitting up straight and trying to arrange my wet kurta so that it doesn’t cling to my over large breasts.

Yasmin shoots up from the bed and haunches her shoulders. She tries a small smile.

“Go to your mother so she can help you change into dry clothes.”

As soon as the door closes behind Yasmin, Ama bi grabs me by the arm and drags me across the room to the bathroom. Her tight grip hurts.

“Are you mad? Here I am running from pillar to post arranging this wedding of yours in the middle of this nightmare Partition and what are you doing? Standing in the window, letting the rain soak you. Who knows who all got to see you making an exhibition of yourself. And not just of yourself. No, that’s not enough. You must display Yasmin too and then lie wet to the bone on your bed with her and have her sing songs to you. Well done! Well done! If it wasn’t your wedding day, I would beat you black and blue.”

Her hands remove my kurta. She tears my pajama off. 

“You are wet. Frozen. Serve you right if you catch pneumonia on your wedding day. Then we will see how you will enjoy your Kashmiri honeymoon.”

Lying beside Yasmin, I was warm. It is a warm day despite the earlier rain. But now, I begin to shiver. I try to cover myself. Ama bi has not seen me naked since I was a baby. It was Annah who used to bathe me. She pushes my hands away. She dabs my hair, pulling it this way and that way. I yelp in pain. She dries my body. Her hands are rough. I try to take the towel from her. She won’t have it. She is in a rage.

“Ungrateful. Ungrateful.”

Once satisfied with her handiwork, she throws the towel at me.

“Make yourself decent and come down but not before you have dried the puddle in front of the window. My servants are already too busy because of you, Raj Kumari.”

I nod, dress myself, dry the puddle and make my way down the stairs. My heart feels heavy thinking of what Yasmin must be thinking about Ama bi, me, our family. Did she hear Ama bi screaming at me after she left my room? Did she stand by my door and hear it all before going to change her clothes? Please Allah, I pray, don’t let her look at me with pity.

Jamila khala is seated on a takht in the veranda of our house. The wedding clothes she has brought for me are spread around her. Each suit is wrapped in red muslin with gold piping. Ama bi and Mumtaz unwrap the bundles and admire the outfits. Mumtaz is keen on an orange and green Hyderabadi jora with its extravagantly long net duppatta. I have eyes only for my wedding gharara. It consists of a silk light pink shirt which ends above my knees when I wear it. The velvet farshi gharara is a matching shade of pink. The flare of the gharara begins where the shirt ends, revealing delicately embroidered silver grape clusters on the train of the pants. The gharara trails behind me when I walk. It makes a swishing sound when I walk. Identical grape clusters are embroidered on the pink silk dupatta which covers my head. 

A year back, Hubbo, Sanam, and Jamila khala drove up from Hyderabad to Delhi. Jamila khala handed me a large sum of money to buy clothes and jewelry for our wedding. She remained in Delhi with my parents. Sanam, Hubbo and I drove to Bombay. We stayed at the Grand Hotel for a week of shopping and eating. It was a carefree time, unlike the present. Something must have shown on my face because Jamila khala embraces me. She sighs.

“Focus on Hubbo and your happiness. The world will not stop its troubles for you. You must not pause your happiness for it. My Nani and Dadi used to speak of how they had to flee Delhi for Hyderabad when the British confiscated their property in 1857. They had young children and elderly parents to care for, and if the Nizam had not taken them in and given their men employment, they would have died begging on the streets of this city, but look, here we are. The family survived. Troubles come and go but life must go on, my sweet child. I know how my Hubbo has been counting each day till your wedding. It would be cruel to make him wait further.”

I blush at her words, but I am comforted by them as well. And so, with the warmth of her words in my heart, I dress for my wedding.

It is evening. The solitary myna on the wall has flown away. The sky is glowing brightly in preparation for lights out. The birds have begun their ritual of circling the trees in our garden.  Mynas, sparrows, green parrots and crows cry out as they circle lower and lower settling into the dark of the foliage. I turn away from the window and I sit before Ama bi’s three-mirrored dressing table. Mumtaz apa paints my face. Rouge, lipstick, and a little kohl. I usually wear my hair in a braid, but today, Yasmin arranges it in a bun. Our gardeners have made a thick rope of jasmine freshly plucked from our garden. She winds this around the bun. I return to the window. The birds have stopped their earlier chatter. A light breeze rustles the leaves and brown pods of the tamarind tree. The bougainvillea and pink oleander bushes shiver in the moonbeams. The train of my farshi gharara sweeps over the emerald tiles. Shush, shush, it whispers. The silver grape clusters glitter in the light. I turn back to admire myself in the three mirrors of the dressing table. I am beautiful.

After the nikah, we have a feast. Murghi ka korma, malai kofte, hyderabadi biryani, bhigarai baigan, sheermal, and kheer served in earthenware bowls. Yasmin and Mumtaz apa guide me to the drawing room. They fuss with my duppatta and gharara before seating Raheem next to me. The family gathers around. A duppatta is draped over us and we are handed a mirror. I smile at his reflection. He grins back.

“Your Mumtaz has stolen my shoe.”

I laugh. Once the dupatta and mirror are removed, the bargaining begins. Mumtaz and my brothers ask for larger and larger sums. They dangle his shoe before him. He tells them to keep the shoe. Yasmin sometimes sides with Hubbo, but then abruptly switches sides and starts asking him for more money which Mumtaz, my brothers, his brothers and her will split between them.  

“I won’t take any money from bhai,” says Moyez. His ears have turned red.

“I will!” pipes Emaad. Everyone laughs.

Then comes the moment I have spent years dreaming of. He picks me up in his arms. This is a family tradition. The bride’s feet must not touch the ground when the groom takes her away from her parents’ home. He is only allowed to take her if he has the strength to carry her. Hubbo doesn’t just carry me out of the drawing room, he carries me up the long flight of stairs and down the corridor to my room. Emaad, Moyez, Amir and Hassan run along beside us, shouting and cheering and opening doors. Mumtaz apa materializes at the door of my bedroom. Another tradition. She will only let us through after he pays her off. Yasmin removes an envelope from Hubbo’s sherwani pocket and hands it over. Mumtaz examines the amount, arches her eyebrows, and removes herself from the doorway.

“What about the haggling?” Ama bi objects from somewhere behind us.

“There is no need,” says Mumtaz apa, a smile on her face. There are exclamations and dithering behind us. I blush and hide my face deeper in his neck. I sense the smile on his face. The door opens. We step in and he turns around and wishes everyone goodnight. I am further embarassed by this. The custom is that my sister and mother would enter the room with me and help me undress. Our family obediently trickles away. He kicks the door shut and places me on my bed.

“Hello, Mrs Gauhar bano.”

I smile. We had already spoken about how I wished to keep my maiden name.

“Hello, Mr Gauhar bano.”

He laughs.

“This jewellery is killing me. You will have to help me remove it.”

He is gentle and methodical. He lays out the tikka, the jhumar, the various sets on tissue papers.  He organises it all and puts it away in my cupboard. He lingers there. I get the feeling that he is judging the mess I keep my cupboards in.

“I like it like that.” I say.

A clipped smile in response.

Then he helps me with the zipper at the back of my kurta and I slip into the bathroom to change into the nightdress Mumtaz apa made for my wedding night. When I return to the room, I see that he has folded the duppatta. I have always known of his fastidiousness because everyone in his family speaks of it and because you can’t be around him and miss it, but I didn’t expect it to extend to the care of my things. I am touched. But I am also nervous. The gown Mumtaz apa stiched for me is silky and black. It is too tight across my chest. My arms are bare. Raheem is looking intently.

“You should change too,” I say.

His eyes travel to my face and whatever he reads there, softens his expression. He nods and disappears into the bathroom.

I remove the bedcover and lie down. How strange that only hours back I was lying here in the same space with his sister. He turns the lights off and lies down next to me. There is silence. Finally, he moves closer and holds me by one finger. We lie like this for a long time. Just our fingers intwined.

“You don’t have to be scared. You must be tired. We will just sleep.”

“What?” I didn’t mean to say that. I am mortified.

He is laughing.

Now, I am in his arms and I am laughing too. I have waited so long for him to touch me.

The whispered confidences shared by the women of our family have not prepared me for the desire my body feels when he kisses and caresses me. My moans fill the room. He is now on me. His body covers mine. He is so much bigger. Heavier. I turn my face sideways so that I can breath easier. His hands adjust my legs and then there is unbearable pain. I shout. He kisses my forehead in response. He tells me that the pain will pass. But it doesn’t. It is burning now and he keeps moving. Faster and faster. What is he doing? When will he stop? I wait. He kisses me on my mouth. And then he sighs and it is over. I nudge him and he rolls off.

“It will get better,” he says and reaches for my hand.

I nod into the dark of my room. There is something wet under me. I move close to him where it is dry and he wraps me in his arms and that is how I wake up the next morning when the birds begin their chattering again. There is a burning feeling between my legs. I am a married woman.

When I open the window, there are five mynas sitting on the wall. He is snoring. His mouth hangs open. There is drool on the pillow. I smile. He looks as he did when he was a boy. Sweet. A little foolish. Mine.

---

Tehmina Khan was born in Karachi, Pakistan, and holds degrees from Kinnaird College, Lahore, and Faculté des Sciences Humaines et Sociales de Tunis. She spends her time between Toronto and Karachi. Mawenzi House published her collection of short stories, Things She Could Never Have, in the fall of 2017. Tehmina’s writing has appeared in The Blue Minaret, ShedoestheCity, and The /temz/ Review, amongst others.

Hassan Sheikh is an interdisciplinary visual artist and curator currently based in Lahore, Pakistan. He completed his BFA in Miniature Painting from the National College of Business Administration and Economics. Hassan’s artistic practice spans across photography, illustration, and installation work, focusing on themes of identity, cultural narratives, and social harmony. He has exhibited his work both locally and internationally, participating in numerous group shows at prestigious venues. Hassan also participated in collaborative art initiatives such as the ‘Rivers of the World’ project by the British Council and served as a Production Assistant for the Lahore Biennale Foundation in 2020. Hassan Sheikh has made significant contributions to the art education sector, serving as a Lecturer of Fine Arts at Hunerkada, Lahore, and teaching at LACAS Canal Boys Campus. Currently, he is the Managing Director at COMO Art Museum, Lahore, where he continues to foster and promote contemporary art practices.