The Crooked Line is the story of Shamman, a spirited young woman who rebels against the traditional Indian life of purdah, or female seclusion, that she and her sisters are raised in. Shipped off to boarding school by her family, Shamman grows into a woman of education and independence just as India itself is fighting to throw off the shackles of colonialism. Shamman’s search for her own path leads her into the fray of political unrest, where her passion for her country’s independence becomes entangled with her passion for an Irish journalist.
In this semi-autobiographical novel, Ismat Chughtai explores the complex relationships between women caught in a changing culture, and exposes the intellectual and emotional conflicts at the heart of India’s battle for an uncertain future of independence from the British Raj and ultimately Partition.
The Crooked Line is the story of Shamman, a spirited young woman who rebels against the traditional Indian life of purdah, or female seclusion, that she and her sisters are raised in. Shipped off to boarding school by her family, Shamman grows into a woman of education and independence just as India itself is fighting to throw off the shackles of colonialism. Shamman’s search for her own path leads her into the fray of political unrest, where her passion for her country’s independence becomes entangled with her passion for an Irish journalist.
In this semi-autobiographical novel, Ismat Chughtai explores the complex relationships between women caught in a changing culture, and exposes the intellectual and emotional conflicts at the heart of India’s battle for an uncertain future of independence from the British Raj and ultimately Partition.
The Crooked Line
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The Crooked Line
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Overview
The Crooked Line is the story of Shamman, a spirited young woman who rebels against the traditional Indian life of purdah, or female seclusion, that she and her sisters are raised in. Shipped off to boarding school by her family, Shamman grows into a woman of education and independence just as India itself is fighting to throw off the shackles of colonialism. Shamman’s search for her own path leads her into the fray of political unrest, where her passion for her country’s independence becomes entangled with her passion for an Irish journalist.
In this semi-autobiographical novel, Ismat Chughtai explores the complex relationships between women caught in a changing culture, and exposes the intellectual and emotional conflicts at the heart of India’s battle for an uncertain future of independence from the British Raj and ultimately Partition.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781558619326 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Feminist Press at CUNY, The |
| Publication date: | 12/06/2018 |
| Series: | Women Writing the Middle East |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 335 |
| Sales rank: | 1,001,179 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
THE FIRST PHASE
1
To begin with, her birth was ill–timed. Bari Apa, whose friend Salma was to be married soon, was working briskly on a crêpe dupatta, stitching gold lace to its borders. Amma, who regarded herself as a youthful maiden despite the fact that she had given birth to so many children, was scrubbing off dead skin from her heels with a pumice stone. Suddenly, dark clouds rolled in, and in the ensuing commotion the longstanding desire to send for an English midwife came to naught, and 'she' appeared. The minute she arrived into the world she let out such a thunderous howl ... God help us!
Another addition after nine children why, it was as if the hands on the clock had moved to ten. Who had time for weddings now? Orders were to heat water for the baby sister's bath, and, shedding tears that were steamier than boiling water, and cursing at the same time, Bari Apa put water on the stove to boil. As if to mock her, some of the scalding water spilled over from the pot and seared her hand.
'May God curse this baby sister! Why won't Amma's womb close up now?'
This was the limit! A sister, a brother, then another sister and brother it seemed that beggars had found a way to their house and now there was no keeping them out. Were there not enough mouths already? Why all these newcomers? Coming in like cats and dogs, ever hungry, they had depleted the grain reserves, milk had become scarce even though there were two cows in the house, and still the bellies of these newcomers remained empty.
This was all Abba's fault. Amma was never given the opportunity to breast–feed her children. As soon as a baby arrived, the wet–nurse from Agra was sent for to nurse the infant and sit next to Amma's bed all day.
The house was more like an animal shed than a house. Why, food was always prepared in excessively large quantities, and as for drink, gallons of that too, and if you wanted to sleep, you would find every corner of the house deluged with life, ready to teem over!
And this last baby, with her diminutive nose, eyes tiny like tamarind seeds but keener than those of an eagle, when this little creature who had the face of a mouse smiled, Bari Apa and Manjhu both felt she was sneering at them. Surely she knew that the two sisters would wait on her like slaves. Amma must be worried too. All these girls will fortune smile on them? True, the family had money, but it wasn't fashionable to parade the girls before people; how long could they be kept under lock and key? What was going to happen?
Shaman's navel didn't get infected, nor was she ever sick, and with each passing day she became healthier and plumper. The first two or three babies had been pampered and coddled, but now even Bari Apa had had her fill and was exhausted. However, the wet–nurse was still around, so Shaman was well taken care of.
Unna, the wet–nurse, was very young, sixteen or seventeen perhaps. Sometimes at night Unna continued to sleep while Shaman lay wrapped in soiled nappies. It wasn't easy to awaken Unna, but she certainly had plenty of milk to offer. And when Unna's lover hitched Shaman on his shoulders and ran around pretending to be a horse, Shaman, forgetting all her sorrows, chortled and giggled. Unknown to other members of the household, the three of them often retreated to the barn where the hay for the cows was stored. Here Unna rolled on the hay and her lover tumbled after her while Shaman crawled around the two of them, mirthfully clapping her hands. But seeing him fight with Unna distressed her and she began whimpering. She hated quarrels. Whenever she saw two dogs tangled in a ferocious tussle, her whole body trembled fearfully and she screamed and screamed until the dogs, alarmed by her shrieks, abandoned their scuffle and made off. No one could touch Unna while Shaman was awake. If Unna's lover tried to tease her by holding Unna's hand and saying, 'She's mine,' Shaman immediately let out a sharp cry of protestation.
But she was soon punished for her brazenness. One day, while the three of them rolled around in the hay as usual, she fell asleep and was soon lost in a world of innocent dreams. In front of her, behind her, all around her she saw Unnas and more Unnas; mad with joy, she leapt eagerly from one lap to the next. Then, suddenly, all the Unnas disappeared. Her spirits drooped and, sniffing around like a hungry bitch, she began looking for Unna. Finally she found her. On a pile of thatching grass, fleshy and ripe like a mango, was her soft, warm Unna. She cooed and burrowed herself into the rounded softness, her lips moving, the veins in her throat throbbing as if she were gulping down great quantities of milk. She gagged. And when she reached out her chubby hands a monster pushed her away and, grabbing Unna, wrestled her down. She screeched fiercely as though she had been bitten by snakes, her childish eyes dazed by the revolting scene before her. Hearing her scream and howl, the water–carrier, the sweeper and the cook made a hurried dash to the shed, and the offenders were apprehended.
Shaman stared at Unna's face in consternation, her eyes questioning, 'You're not hurt, are you? I saved you, didn't I?' But Unna didn't seem to be in a good mood and, instead of displaying amusement at her pranks, she kept pushing her away roughly. Shaman used all the innocent and feeble tricks she knew to charm her, but she couldn't make her laugh. If only there was some way she could ask Unna why she was annoyed with her, but today Unna refused to comprehend what was in her eyes.
That same night Unna was sent back to Agra by train. Shaman felt as if she had been orphaned. For many days and nights she gazed about her with a wide–eyed, fixed stare, sobbing and moaning. Everyone gathered at her bedside, but she would not be pacified. How was she going to find the Unna whose soft, warm bosom provided the comfort she had experienced in her mother's womb? She went into a fit as soon as she was given the bottle. How could this horrible, glass bottle compare to the soft–complexioned, cuddly Unna? But the burning intensity of her hunger eventually forced her to accept the worst and, when Manjhu took her in her lap, gave her the bottle and a few drops of milk slunk down her throat, she became calm. But every now and then she would suddenly reject the bottle and cling to Manjhu, snuggling in her clothes like a puppy, looking for her Unna. Alarmed by her behaviour, Manjhu would put her down on the bed, and complain to Bari Apa that Shaman had taken to tickling her in a most unbecoming manner.
Experience proved to be an effective teacher and, just as cows and buffaloes mechanically chew cud, Shaman too gulped milk down, but her hands continued to wander. Gripping the smooth, slippery surface of the bottle with her hands, she often clasped it to her breast and sometimes, while she was drinking from the bottle, she thought she saw Unna's eyes, her nose, her tiny nose–ring, her ear–bobs; her heart welled up and, taking her mouth away from the teat, she would begin to cry in a mournful voice. But within minutes, compelled to vigilance by hunger, she would stop crying.
Manjhu took charge of her after Unna's departure. Who knows why she felt affection for her? Perhaps she first took pity on her when she burrowed her face in her clothes looking for Unna. When she finished drinking from the bottle, Manjhu clasped her to her breast and stretched out in bed with her. If Manjhu wasn't beside her she couldn't sleep; lying next to her, she felt the same warmth she had known in Unna's lap, and with her small fingers she stroked Manjhu's neck and her cheeks, something Manjhu didn't seem to mind at all.
Then one day, while Manjhu was bathing, Shaman walked in without any warning. 'Apa, do you hear me, get her out of here!' Manjhu screamed.
'I say, what does she understand, she's just a little thing.'
But Shaman stared at Manjhu so strangely she made her blush. As if in a daze, she continued staring at her. 'Get out, do you hear!' Manjhu scolded her, picking up a ladle–jug to cover herself.
But she seemed to be drawn to Manjhu as if led by a magnetic force. Panicking, Manjhu chided her again and, when she continued to advance, her eyes twinkling and lit with a meaningful expression as she smiled, Manjhu doused her with a handful of water.
Being smacked with water proved to be unnerving; Shaman began to whimper and quickly crawled out of the bathroom. That day she didn't drink her milk properly, nor did she smile or chatter; she stared at Manjhu with a wounded expression in her eyes, as if Manjhu had done her great harm, and again and again she broke into tears.
When Manjhu got into bed with her that night and pulled the quilt over them, she gazed at Manjhu silently.
'What is it?' Manjhu asked lovingly, and Shaman smiled sadly. Slowly she raised her hand and touched Manjhu's neck, her eyes fixed on the small mole glistening on Manjhu's left cheek.
'Now don't be naughty.' Manjhu took her wandering hand and patted it down. Shaman started sobbing and gave Manjhu such a pleading look that her heart softened and, placing her hand back on her neck, she held her close and fell asleep.
Manjhu stitched beautiful frocks and hats for Shaman. She bathed her frequently, applied missi to her teeth and kohl to her eyes, and Shaman submitted to everything without a word of protest. But woe to anyone else who dared touch her; if Manjhu accidentally got some soap in her eyes she reacted with only a whimper. Manjhu was Manjhu, after all.
But as Shaman grew, older she began to find Manjhu's cleaning routine tiresome. Manjhu dressed her up, gave strict orders that she was not to allow one hair to get out of place or else she'd be dead, but she was powerless; she had no control over her restless legs which longed to run about. For a little while she remained still. Then, as soon as Manjhu's back was turned, she slipped out of the house, and reappeared in the evening looking like a mad bitch who had just finished tossing about in an earthen platter filled with sludge. The once billowing frock resembled a dead rat's skin, its surface decorated with a shower of fine dust; her hair, eyes and face would be blanketed with a thick layer of dust, her nostrils so densely packed with snot and muck they reminded one of doors walled in with cement. Plastered over everything was a covering comprised of secretions and seeds from mangoes, guavas, berries, or whatever fruit happened to be in season. To crown it all, she emitted an odour that one could only associate with a plague–ridden rat.
The first thing Manjhu did was to brush off as much dust as she could with smacks, pummels and punches while Shaman continued to bray like a calf. The sand caught between her eyelashes was washed out with her tears, while the salt in the tears helped unclog her nose with the swiftness of a blocked drain being unplugged with acid. Then, to the accompaniment of thunderous thwacks and slaps, she was given a bath. Dressed again in a clean frock, she became acutely aware of her mistake and, begging forgiveness for her past sins, she repented and made a promise to stay on the straight and narrow path, avowing never to go near mud and sludge, promising she would never again roll in the dirt. At that moment her face shone with the mystical light that radiates on the face of an ascetic who has renounced the material world and his own body with it. Her eyes, ordinarily sharp as an eagle's, suddenly became timid like a pigeon's eyes and drooped sleepily.
But times were bad. The next day, exactly at the same moment, in the same deplorable condition, glimmering in a cloud of starry dust, she walked in like an inebriated drunkard. Those who saw her were confounded and, when the dust was shaken from her, the earth and the sky shuddered.
Once again she repented, took an oath ... but only to forget it all. Satan tempted her. No sooner did she appear all dressed up and clean than everything around her seemed poised to attack her spotless clothes. The red mud in the fields and the whispering sand on the edge of the pond tantalised her, the moist, fragrant grass in the stables pursued her with open arms, the dirty, foul–smelling chicken coop drew her to itself as if it were a bride's flowery bed. She forgot everything. The pledge she had made repeatedly with her conscience, her promise to Manjhu and, most importantly, her pride which was being crushed by these daily blows. Her struggle to turn away from these evil splendours left her exhausted. They continued to beckon her and finally, like a kite cut off from its cord, she fell into the pit of sin, an act for which she paid with daily suffering and pain.
In a short while she was covered with spittle and blood again. Round silky balls of mud, tiny mounds of sand, brown like fried farina, a small broom constructed from the hay in the stables, feathers that had fallen off from a hen's tail, all this and Peena this was her world. And Peena, her closest friend, the sweeper's daughter: next to Manjhu, Peena was everything to her. The two girls went behind the cow's stall and strolled with their arms wrapped around each other. Sometimes they tossed about in the sand like rolling pins. Then they pitched fistfuls of sand as if it was water they were scooping up in their hands, until finally the two of them began to resemble grotesque mud statues. Sand penetrated their very beings, but still they had not had enough of sand and mud. Making spoons out of dried leaves, they scooped up sand and swallowed mouthfuls; they devoured it as if it were delicious caudle. Like pregnant women, they relished the aroma of mud. Who can say what sons were being nurtured in their swollen, melon–shaped bellies?
In time they began to resemble women who are pregnant. Their smooth, ruddy complexions grew sallow and a white mould spread over their tongues. Yellowish streaks appeared in their eyes, and Peena's waistband became so tight it finally stayed open in the front. They became lethargic, a foul taste lingered permanently in their mouths. The use of nails and teeth in the course of a fight became more frequent, and they constantly whined, as if they were a pair of witches imprisoned in a cage. That was why she was given the name 'witch'.
When everyone teased her by calling her 'witch', she rolled her eyes like a witch and growled. Like a cat she attacked her enemy, scratching and drawing blood with her nails, and, when she bit somebody, her teeth clamped together forcefully on her enemy's flesh.
Apparently the son growing in her belly was drawing her to the aroma of mud. The elders sprinkled salt on her tongue, rubbed her tongue with quinine, but no one could come up with a punishment that would end her craving for mud. 'Burn the witch's tongue!' someone suggested. 'Prick her tongue with needles, the wretch!' came more advice from another quarter. But there was no treatment that could cure what ailed her. When Manjhu caught her nibbling on clay, she slapped her until her lips bled, but she chewed on charcoal if she couldn't find any clay, or scraped lime from the walls with her nails and ingested that instead.
One day, while she and Peena squatted on the toilets busy chatting and defecating at the same time, the son she had been nourishing in her belly appeared. With a heart–rending scream she bolted from there and went straight to Manjhu.
'A snake!' She hid between Manjhu's legs. Manjhu pushed her away. After an investigation by the doctor it was revealed that she had roundworms in her stomach. But she would not believe what the doctor said. All night she was screaming, 'Snake!' Snake!' She felt there were innumerable clusters of snakes looping about in her stomach, the way they do in a snake–charmer's basket, creating havoc inside her, slithering after each other, thousands of them, playing hide–and–seek.
That was the day she stopped meeting Peena to gulp down sand in spoons shaped out of dried leaves. She gazed longingly at the sand particles until suddenly they turned into tiny snakes, their eyes rotating as they leapt towards her. She would scoop up some sand in her fist and hold it lovingly against her stomach. She wished she could take all of the world's mud and collect it under her tongue, mix it with her spittle and then let the viscous curds glide down her throat. But just then the snake in her stomach began stretching and, behaving like a lunatic, she hurled fistfuls of sand in the air, rolled on the ground and rubbed her cheeks on the cool mud. Her body arched like a fishing rod and she was consumed with the desire to pierce her way into the bowels of the earth. When her frenzy subsided somewhat, she banged her head slowly on the ground.
'Open the door,' her forehead pleaded, but the earth remained stubbornly still. Why did she love the earth so much? She wanted to disappear into its bowels. Whenever someone caught her the sand was immediately dusted off, but as soon as she had the opportunity she again tried to immerse herself in sand and mud.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Crooked Line"
by .
Copyright © 1995 heirs of Ismat Chughtai.
Excerpted by permission of Feminist Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
THE FIRST PHASE,
THE SECOND PHASE,
THE THIRD PHASE,
Glossary,
Afterword,