An Ordinary Life Read online

  We don’t have his wealth but we have been told that some of us, like my youngest brother, Shamas, myself and, most of all, my daughter, Shora, have inherited his majestic genes—that it is evident in the way we walk, we turn our heads, speak, and so on. In fact, he is such an influence that I have designed much of the decor and furniture in my office—which is more of a second home where I often crash—based on his royal taste.

  Dada died an early death. He had four wives, only two of whom, the first and the last, delivered children. My Abbu, Nawabuddin Siddiqui, was the child of his youngest wife, whom he had married out of love. She belonged to a scheduled caste called Manihaar; her people were bangle sellers. Soon after my grandfather’s death, she also passed away. His stepbrother, my tau, was twenty-five years older than him. He was so awful to Abbu that Abbu had to flee to Delhi for a while where he led a harsh life—even being a child labourer—before returning to Budhana. Because he had always lived far away, Abbu never understood relationships. He did not know how to behave with his children or with his wife, or that it was normal and quite all right for a mother to spank her own children to discipline them.

  Then the Chakbandi Rule regarding land reforms came into being under Nehru. Already Abbu had inherited a lot of discrimination due to his low-caste lineage. He had also inherited endless strife and family feuds, ultimately losing most of his property, piece by piece. Tau took advantage of the Chakbandi Rule because he could manipulate documents, and acquired most of the property that legitimately should have belonged to both of them.

  My dadi’s brother used to peddle his wares in the gullies of Budhana, advertising loudly in a salesman’s pitch, ‘Bangles! Bangles! Come, get some bangles!’ Each time we heard it, a deep sensation of shame ran like a muddy river through each of us. On one side my grandfather was a zamindar, which automatically entitled us to pride and respect. On the other hand, my grandmother’s low-caste background gifted us shame. It was a cruel oxymoron for a family to exist in. For my father, this was a shadow that accompanied him everywhere lifelong, right from birth.

  Abbu tried his hand at a series of businesses one after another. He ran a bicycle shop. Then he owned an electrical shop, which sold switches and bulbs for houses. Then he became a timber merchant. His shop had an aara, a saw-like machine to cut wood, which came to Budhana from Nepal. But no matter how hard he tried, each of his businesses flopped. Naturally, Abbu was a broken man but he never showed it. Also, he never entertained us at his shop. He did not want his children to take over his business. He wanted them to study and build their own independent lives based on sound education.

  One afternoon, Ammi was busy cooking lunch. It was one of those days which belonged to the infamous loo, that hot and dry wind. I was a toddler, about two and a half years old, probably three. How we looked up to any kid who was even a teeny bit older than us! One such boy from the mohalla, a friend called Aslam, said, ‘Nawaz, let’s go to the river to bathe.’ It was tempting. He had buffaloes too. How could I resist! So in the middle of that loo, I trotted off to bathe in the river, which, in stark contrast, was completely cold. I cautiously dipped my foot in the water first while looking at the water itself. That’s when I noticed the size of the river—to my tiny self, it looked overwhelmingly humongous. The heady mixture of fear and heat made me extremely dizzy.

  Meanwhile, back at home, Abbu happened to come home for lunch and asked Ammi, ‘Where is Nawaz?’ Assuming I was playing nearby, she said, ‘Yaheen kaheen hoga.’ This threw Abbu into a rage.

  ‘Yaheen kaheen ka matlab?’ (What do you mean by here or there?)

  He did not notice how hard she was at work, cooking, and how she was way too busy. We always see what we want to see. At that moment, Abbu could only see carelessness. Furious, he stormed out, asking people around if they had seen me. The neighbours said that indeed they had seen me toddle off with the other child, Aslam. Immediately, Abbu grabbed a bicycle and pedalled speedily, fuelled by panic and anger, to the river and arrived just in time.

  He brought me back and after depositing me on a bed, he threw the food Ammi had painstakingly prepared for him. Then he beat her up badly, all the time reprimanding her, shouting at her, ‘Koi khayal hi nahin hai tumhe! Koi khayal hi nahin hai tumhe!’ (You don’t care for the child! You don’t care for the child!)

  * * *

  As the years pass, age differences matter less and less. But in childhood even the difference of a few months is sacrosanct, bursting with unsaid superpowers and bullying privileges if you are older, or painfully empty of them if you are younger. There is one brother younger than me, after whom comes Almas. He has always been a miser, hoarding pennies and planning what he would do with them. When we grew up, he would save and keep planning on how much more he needed to save to buy a car. When we were little, the ambitions were simpler but probably more gratifying. Our roof at home was made of wooden beams called kadiyan, upon which lay tiles made of clay. The kadiyan in our storeroom, which we call kothri, was the safe place where Almas used to hide his secret stash. One day, Faizi saw Almas climb up quietly and add to his little savings account. Since Faizi was much younger, Almas did not think of him as a threat and ignored him. But what he did not realize was that in spite of our six-year age difference, Faizi and I were the best of friends. Immediately, Faizi came to me and revealed the great sight he had just witnessed. When the two of us went to perform this little bank robbery, we discovered about 40 or 50 rupees. Back in 1985, this was a neat amount, especially to a teenager in the eleventh grade. ‘Fifty-fifty!’ we said as we split the amount equally between us. Since then, every time we passed each other, Faizi and I greeted each other with a ‘fifty-fifty!’ instead of a hello. Everybody, including Almas, wondered what this mysterious code was about. They wondered if it was a secret game just the two of us played. Not quite understanding the details but not wanting to be left out of this cool little gang, Almas too started saying ‘fifty-fifty!’

  Two days later, Almas went to the kothri when nobody was there, quietly removed the kadiyan in great excitement, probably to add to his fund, salivating at what he could buy with it . . . until he noticed the empty space staring at him. His dreams shattered, his heart broke, and instantly his mind put two and two together to make ‘fifty-fifty!’ He screamed, ran to us, pushed us to the floor. A massive fight ensued with great hue and cry. He ran to Abbu to complain. Instantly, Abbu paid Almas from his own pocket. Surprisingly, everybody, including Abbu, found this entire incident hilarious and extremely cute. So he did not beat us. We got so, so lucky.

  In fact, I was always in Abbu’s good books. I was always the good, disciplined lad who never talked back to his elders. Outside of the household though, I picked quarrels frequently. Then I would go home and complain to Abbu that this guy had beaten me up, a completely false allegation. Children often do this and parents often believe them. And due to my wonderful reputation, Abbu did not suspect me even once. He would instantly don his kurta and walk briskly to those hooligans to question why they had beaten up his docile, goody-goody boy. In fact, Abbu picked many such quarrels this way.

  * * *

  Abbu never doted on me or pampered me openly or cuddled me the way Ammi did. He loved me dearly but he had a strange way of showing his affection. I loved rasgulla and one day, threw a tantrum late at night that I wanted a rasgulla. It was almost midnight, so naturally the shops were shut. Ammi tried to pacify me. But Abbu took me to the halwai’s shop. He woke up the shopkeeper and made many polite requests until he relented and opened the shop to only give me rasgullas. Abbu made sure I had my wish fulfilled. As I gobbled up the little moon-like sugary balls, I was over the moon.

  Abbu was always like that. He was a strange sort of a foodie, strange in the sense that he wanted the treats to be all around, not as much for himself as for his loved ones. Every year, there would be an abundance of whatever fruit was in season. So if it was the rainy season, there would be buckets upon buckets of Langda, my favourite variety of
mango, which would soon be replaced by Dussehri, which arrives at the very end of the monsoon.

  * * *

  In the late afternoons when Abbu returned from his aara machine shop, he would hang his kurta by the door and rest for a bit. Ensuring that I was invisible to him, and to anybody else, I would go to his room with feline dexterity and my fingers would creep into the depths of his pocket. Only to a small child’s hands would the pitiful contents inside seem like Ali Baba’s treasure. There would be a few currency notes, totalling to maybe 40 rupees or less, accompanied by some coins. I was always clever to take only a meagre amount, like 2 or 5 rupees, so that it would not be missed. But then came the fateful day when there was only the scant sum of 5 rupees, in the form of cold coins. It was a massive blow to me. To a little boy, his father is his hero. Moreover, Abbu had never told us about his economic woes. It was hard to know at that age because we lived in abundance, enjoying the best food and so much love. What more do children need? Only then did I realize how awful the situation really was and how crushed he actually was beneath that veneer of pride. And I had stolen from this man, not just stolen, but had turned it into an everyday routine.

  I walked away with tears of great guilt and enormous shame.

  * * *

  As you probably know, Muslims have a religious tradition of qurbani, of offering a doomba, which could be a goat, sheep or any other cattle. The idea is that you fall in love with the animal, that you are gifting to God the life of a beloved, one that is a part of yourself. We had our own cattle, especially buffaloes. That year, Abbu decided that this one particular baby buffalo be sacrificed. Everybody tearfully protested, crying in chorus: ‘No, no, please don’t, we love him so much.’ It was way too painful. Somebody suggested buying an animal from elsewhere, one that we did not have a bond with, and sacrifice it instead. Abbu declined. Being the patriarch, his word was final. We went on with our tasks with heavy hearts. We understood how difficult this decision was for Abbu too, because among all of us, the calf loved him the most. So much so that every time he saw Abbu he would walk up briskly to him, curl up at his feet and roll lovingly like an affectionate dog, until he had had his share of snuggles.

  One of those days I took the calf and its mother out for a bath in the river. After passing the bazaar, we had to take a tricky turn, which was flanked by the highway on one side and Abbu’s aara machine on the other, the blade of which was sharper than a sword’s. The river was a few steps away. We were making the turn when the calf saw Abbu and ran like crazy towards him. Can you imagine a baby animal leaving its mother to run to a human being? And there was no way the mother would stay still without its young one. Seeing it run, she followed. I tried as hard as possible but there was no way I could match the strength of the hefty beast, even more so when it was being propelled by strong emotions.

  Worried, Abbu ran towards them too, to cut their dangerous trip short and avoid an accident on the highway or death by the aara machine. The drama ended in minutes, with the angelic calf rolling at Abbu’s feet snuggling him with his muzzle and its mommy doting over it. Abbu and I heaved sighs of relief. The river was in plain sight but these two would just not budge. Buffaloes are addicted to water. And here they were ignoring it altogether.

  After this, there was no way Abbu could bring himself to make that qurbani. The next day was Eid. When all of us got home, there was unanimous agreement on buying a doomba from the market and that was just what we did. The calf and its mummy lived happily ever after with us, but more importantly for them, with Abbu.

  * * *

  On nippy days, we would gather on the terrace, huddling around a coal-powered angeethi for warmth, listening to entertaining tales. Abbu loved telling us stories about his adventures, most of them imaginary. But then, for children there is little difference between imagination and reality. So it did not matter to us whether his tales were true or false; we listened wide-eyed with wonder, believing every word that fell on our ears. Like the one about his meeting with Amitabh Bachchan, who in those days had just become a member of Parliament. Abbu used to visit Delhi frequently those days for work. During his latest trip, he narrated how he had met the superstar in Parliament. It did not strike us then that a small farmer from a village would not even be allowed to enter the gates of Parliament, leave alone walk right inside and meet an MP, not just any MP, but Mr Bachchan himself!

  ‘I walked in and I told Amitabh Bachchan . . .’ Abbu said.

  ‘What? What did you tell Amitabh Bachchan, Abbu?’ we begged in suspenseful chorus.

  ‘I said, “Now you won’t be able to do films, Bachchanji, right? You are in politics now.” Amitabh Bachchan replied instantly, “Arrey, Nawab Saheb, ab kahaan filmein. Bas ab to sirf politics! ”’

  I latched on to every word, awestruck. If my Abbu could meet Amitabh Bachchan, then he could do anything. However, as I grew up and became mature, the falseness of his anecdotes began to strike me the moment he would begin narrating. What a small man my father is, I would think. He tries to become a big man based on lies. Soon though, I realized how desperate he was. And instead of hating him, I began to love my father even more for his lies. All Abbu wanted was to be a hero in the eyes of his children, even if he was a failure in his own eyes and in the eyes of the world. It was such an endearing attempt; it’s hard not to melt into tears.

  Something strange was also happening. It can only be described as a miraculous side effect of this concoction of our naïveté and his fibs. We believed his false tales as truth. These instilled in all of us an enormous confidence. Because, if a petty, insignificant farmer could meet India’s greatest superstar, then we could do anything. It allowed us to dream big, it allowed us to feel we were limitless. And perhaps that is why all of us became who we are today.

  Right until he became old, very, very old, Abbu kept narrating his tales. He repeated them hundreds of times. And we listened with the same wide-eyed wonder each time. Our bewilderment was unreal but our respect and love were 100 per cent genuine. Because, now we listened for different reasons—we did not want to break his heart or let our old man feel let down even a little bit.

  4

  Ammi

  My Ammi’s parents named her Mehrunnisa. They must have been psychic because the name’s meaning—a lady who showers love—is exactly what Ammi is. Everyone called her Mehrun for short. She came from a village called Gairana, which was even smaller than ours. So her dream of me becoming something in life was even bigger. But she was well educated for those circumstances, for those times. There was a tradition of education in her family. Aur yahan awaragardi ka mahaul tha—children in our village often did not bother to complete their studies and went straight to work. Ever since I can remember, she kept pushing me to study, wanting me to become something and get out of Budhana.

  During Eid and other festivals, like most women, Ammi too wanted to wear bangles. Those were days of brisk business for Dadi’s brother and he would also bring Ammi bangles. But we would not even let him enter our house. Ammi would simply let her hand out of a window or the front door, leaving the rest of her unseen, and he would make her wear bright glass bangles, first in one hand, then in the other. He seemed like a simple, loving man, and even as a child I knew that he loved me a lot. However, I never went to his house. Nor did we ever let him enter our house, all because he was a Manihaar.

  In fact, everybody would tease me about my dadi’s background. It was a joke to them, but gosh, did it sting! I’d put up a brave front as if unaffected by their harsh words and ask these bullies to fuck off. But later at home, I’d run and hug Ammi, wailing and complaining about how hurtful it was. I’d keep telling her, let’s all move out of this shitty place. What was here anyway! So you see, Ammi and I both wanted me to leave my home town for all sorts of reasons.

  I would always wake up around 5.30 a.m., even during the freezing wintertime when the rest of the kids lay snuggled up in what was to us the greatest luxury in the world at that time of the year: he
avy, cosy, warm quilts. Ammi had put this habit in me—not so gently either—and to this day, I remain an early riser. All of us children slept in one room. Only the little ones slept with the parents in the other room.

  As soon as I woke up, I would feed the buffaloes their breakfast. They ate a special type of fodder called khal which were the leftovers from making mustard oil. It’s like we eat dry fruits which have so much warmth and good fat in them in the winter, similarly, the cattle ate khal. After much grinding, the fibre, peels, etc. were soaked overnight to soften in a bucket of water. Sitting out all through the wintry night, this mixture would become as cold as ice and one would shiver just touching it. I used to mix it with dried bhusa, wheat straw, before feeding it to our pet buffaloes. Then I’d quickly perform my ablutions, go to a tutor for my science tuition and only when I returned home for breakfast would the other kids be awake.

  By the time I was in the ninth standard, I began teaching my younger siblings. I would also help them get dressed for school. Soon, they too became early risers. The things that Ammi taught me, I taught my younger brothers, like how to part their hair and how to dress.

  To say that Ammi was obsessed with cleanliness would be an understatement. Not just our house, but we ourselves had to look meticulously prim and proper all the time. Children used to wear their shoes, and then take them off, wear chappals for greater comfort, go barefoot, and so on. But not us, the Siddiqui kids. We were seven brothers and two sisters. All nine of us would wear our shoes for school and go about our day and take them off only at bedtime. How we longed to kick our shoes off and run free in the street on naked feet! But Ammi would have none of it. She stringently ensured that our feet were spotless at all times. Not just our feet, our toenails, our fingernails. No speck of treasure could hide beneath them. Every now and then, Ammi would fill tubs with warm water and put neem leaves in them to give our feet a detailed antifungal, antibacterial cleansing, followed by vigorous foot massages. She was so obsessed with hygiene that she herself used to bathe us once a week even when we were teenagers. The rest of the time, we bathed by ourselves but on that one day her sanitary dictatorship would prevail. She would wring us like laundry. Then she would massage us almost brutally with a mixture of turmeric and fresh butter; this was a sort of an insurance to guarantee that we did not take after some of our hairy relatives. It did not matter whether we were boys or girls—all of us got kneaded like stubborn, glutinous dough. And boy, did her nuskha work! Till today, we have very little body and facial hair. Almas barely has any facial hair. And good luck to you if you’re trying to convince Shamas to grow a beard—plants might sprout faster in fallow land.