Cauthi Ka Jodaa

Ismat Chughtai

Translated from Urdu

On the wooden platform (chauka) in the sihdari, again today a fresh,

clean linen floor-cloth had been spread. Through the chinks in the old,
broken roof-tiles, irregular slivers of sunlight spread through the whole
dalan. The neighborhood women sat silent and almost trembling, as if
some great event was about to happen. The mothers held their babies
to their breasts. From time to time some difficult, fretful baby would
announce a shortage of nourishment with a sudden cry.
"Now, now, sweetheart." The thin, puny mother would lay the baby
across her knees and shake him as if she were winnowing the hulls
from rice in the sun. And then, with a mumble of resignation, he would
fall silent.
Today, how many hope-filled eyes were staring at Kubra's Mother's
thoughtful face! Two narrow breadths of twill had been joined together,
but as yet no one had found the courage to mark out the pattern on
the coarse white cloth. In matters of cutting and trimming, Kubra's
Mother held a very high rank. No telling how many trousseaus her dry
hands had decorated, how many "sixth-day presents" she had
prepared, and how many shrouds she had measured out. Wherever in
the neighborhood the cloth turned out to be too small, and even after a
hundred tries the pattern wouldn't "sit" properly, the case would be
brought to Kubra's Mother. Kubra's Mother would straighten the edges,
rub away the starch, sometimes shape a triangle, sometimes make a
square-- and tracing in her mind the path of the scissors, measuring
out the lines with her eyes, she would suddenly smile.
"The sleeves and the front and back will come out of this; for the collar,
take a cutting from my box." And the problem was solved. Having cut
out the fabric pieces, she would make a make a neat bundle of
cuttings and hand them over. But today the fragment of white cloth
was extremely small. And everybody believed that, 'today the
measuring skills of Kubra's Mother will be defeated'; thus they all,
holding their breath, were watching her face. On the confident face of
Kubra's Mother there was no sign of worry: with her glances she was
measuring the fragment. The reflection of the red twill was blazing on
her dark, swarthy face like a sunrise. Those sad, sad, deep wrinkle-
lines were suddenly lit up like dark clouds, the way in thick jungle fire
bursts out, and she smiled and picked up the scissors.

From the group of neighborhood women a long sigh of relief emerged.

Even the babies in their laps were put down onto the floor. The young
unmarried girls with glances like birds of prey instantly threaded their
needles, the newly married brides put on their thimbles. Kubra's
Mother's scissors had begun to move.
In the farthest corner of the outer hall, on a light cot, Hamidah, feet
dangling, chin on her palm, was thinking some faraway thoughts.
Having finished the afternoon meal, in this way Bi Amma goes and sits
on the wooden platform in the outer hall; and opening the box, she
always spreads a net of many-colored fabrics. Seated beside the
mortar, scrubbing the dishes, Kubra looks at the red fabrics in such a
way that a red wave surges up in her dirty-yellowish complexion. When
with her soft, light hands Kubra's Mother opens out the net of silver
sequins and spreads it on her knees, her withered face suddenly glows
with an extraordinary longing-filled light. The reflection of the sequins
on her deep, box-like wrinkles begins to glow like tiny torches. With
every stitch the gold-work quivers, and the torches flicker
There's no remembering when her [fine muslin] "dewdrops" dupattah
was made, and was hung there ready-- and was sunk into the depths
of the large, coffin-like wooden box. The nets of sequins faded. The
rays of the gold-and-silver work became dim. The very long thread-
work pieces became sad, but Kubra's wedding procession didn't come.
When one outfit would become old, then it would be called a "later-visit
outfit" and given away for free, and then with a new outfit there would
be an opening-out of new hopes. After much searching, a new piece of
satin would be selected. On the wooden platform in the outer hall a
fresh, clean linen floor-cloth would be spread. The neighborhood
women, paan-daans in hand and babies under their arms, with their
anklets jingling, would arrive.
"The piece for the underwear can be gotten, but there isn't enough
fabric for the bachi." "Come on now-- just think about it, sister! Will we
have to have chuls of that wretched twill?" And then again all their
faces became anxious. Kubra's Mother, silently, like an alchemist,
measured the length and width with the tape of hereyes, and the
women began to whisper among themselves about underwear, and
burst out laughing. In the meantime, somebody began to sing a man-
chali, somebody a suhag or a banna, somebody especially bold began
to recite insults to an imaginary set of in-laws. Shameless dirty jokes
and pleasantries began. On such occasions the young unmarried girls
were ordered to sit under the tiled roof, far from the sihdari, with their
heads covered. And when some new burst of laughter came from the
sihdari, then these poor things sighed helplessly: Oh God, when would
these bursts of laughter be vouchsafed to themselves?

Far from this hustle and bustle, Kubra, shame-stricken, with her head
bowed, stayed seated in the 'mosquito room'. In the meantime, the
cutting-out had reached an exceedingly delicate stage. Some gusset
would be cut backwards, and at that the women's wits too were 'cut'
[so that they became superstitiously fearful]. Kubra shivered, and
peeped in from the shelter of the doorway. This very thing was the
difficulty. No damned outfit could be sewed in peace! If some gusset
would be cut backwards, then you can be sure that in the
arrangements the Barber-woman had made, some impediment will
appear. Or else some mistress of the bridegroom's will turn up, or his
mother will impose the obstacle of a demand for solid gold jewelry. If
the got would be cut crookedly, then take it that either negotiations
will break down over the dowry, or there will be a quarrel over a
bedstead with legs covered in silver-work. The omens for the fourth-
day outfit are very subtle. All Bi Amma's experience and dexterity
proved to be of no avail. No telling how it would happen, at the exact
moment, that something the size of a mustard seed would suddenly
take on importance. From the day of her "Bismillah" ceremony, the
adroit mother had begun to put together the dowry. If even a little
scrap of fabric was left, then she sewed a cover for an oil-jar or a
bottle, adorned it with gold-thread lace, and put it aside. What can you
say about a girl? --she grows like a cucumber! When the wedding
procession comes, then this efficiency will prove handy. And when
Abba passed away, efficiency too ran out of breath.
Hamidah suddenly remembered her father. How thin and scrawny
Abba was-- as tall as a Muharram pole. If he once bent over, then it
was difficult for him to stand upright. Very early in the morning he
would rise, break off a toothbrush-twig, take Hamidah on his knee, and
think about who knows what. Then as he was lost in thought, some
sliver of the toothbruth-twig would lodge in his throat, and he would
cough and cough. Hamidah would grow cross and get down from his
lap. She didn't at all like to be shaken by the bursts of coughing. At her
childish anger he would laugh, and the cough would roughly catch in
his chest. As if a pigeon with its throat cut would keep on fluttering.
Then Bi Amma would come and help him. She would thump him
vigorously on the back. "God forbid-- what kind of laughter is this!"
Raising eyes reddened from the pressure of the coughing fit, Abba
would smile helplessly. The coughing would stop, but for a long time he
would sit panting.
"Why don't you take some kind of medicine? How many times have I
told you?"
"The doctor in the general hospital says to have injections. And every
day a quart of milk and an ounce of butter."
"Oh, may dust fall on those doctors' faces! What the hell-- for one
thing, a cough, and on top of it, fat-- won't it create phlegm? Go and
see some hakim."
"I'll do that." Abba made his huqqah bubble, and again began to cough.

"May that wretched huqqah burn in the fire! It's what has given you
this cough! Have you even bothered to look up and notice your grown
daughter? And Abba looked at Kubra's youth with a glance that
implored mercy. Kubra was grown-- who said she was grown? It was as
if ever since the very day of her "Bismillah," she had heard of the
coming of her youth, and had hesitated, and stopped. No telling what
kind of youth had come, that neither did fairies dance in her eyes, nor
did her curls become disordered around her cheeks, nor did storms
arise in her breast, nor did she ever sulk at the dark clouds of the rainy
season and demand a sweetheart or a lover. That bowed-down,
trembling youthfulness, that came sneaking up to her on tiptoe, no
telling when-- in the same way, no telling when or where, it went away
again. The "sweet year" became salty, and then turned bitter.
Abba one day fell face down at the doorsill, and no hakim's or doctor's
prescription could enable him to rise. And Hamidah stopped making
temperamental demands for sweet roti. And betrothal-messages for
Kubra somehow, no telling where, lost their way. Just take it that no
one even knew that behind that sackcloth curtain someone's youth is
gasping out its last breaths, and one new youth, like the hood of a
serpent, is rearing up. But Bi Amma's routine didn't break down. In just
the same way, every day in the afternoon she spread out in the sihdari
many-colored fabrics, and continued to play dolls' games.

Scraping the money together from somewhere or other, in the month

of Shab-e barat she managed to buy a crepe dupattah for seven and a
half rupees. The thing was that there was no way to avoid buying it. A
telegram came from her brother that his oldest son, Rahat, is coming
in connection with training for the police. As for Bi Amma-- well, it was
as if all at once she fell into a panic. It was just as if it wouldn't be
Rahat on the doorstep, but a wedding procession arriving, and she
hadn't yet even ground up the gold sprinkles for the part in the bride's
hair. In distraction, she lost her head entirely. Instantly she sent for her
adopted "sister," Bundu's Mother: "Sister, if you don't come this
moment, you'll only see the face of my corpse!"
And then they both whispered together. In the midst of it, they would
both cast a glance at Kubra, who was sitting in the dalan, winnowing
rice. She well understood the language of that whispering.
At that time Bi Amma removed from her ears the four-mashah "clove"
earrings, and confided them to her adopted "sister": "No matter what it
takes, by evening, please bring me a full tolah of narrow-twisted lace,
six mashahs of gold-leaf with stars, and a quarter-yard of twill for the
waistband." She swept the outer-facing room and got it ready. Kubra
sent for a little slaked lime, and with her own hands whitewashed the
room. The room became bright, but the skin peeled off from the palms
of her hands; and when in the evening she sat down to grind the
spices, she recoiled, and doubled up in pain. The whole night was
spent tossing and turning. First, because of the palms of her hands;
second, by the morning train Rahat was coming.
"God! My dear God, this time may my Apa's fortune open up. My God,
I'll recite a hundred extra prayers in Your presence," Hamidah
implored, after the early morning prayer.
In the morning when brother Rahat came, Kubra had already gone
beforehand and hidden in the 'mosquito room'. When he had eaten a
breakfast of sivaiyan and parathas, and gone off to the baithak, then
taking slow and hesitant steps like a new bride Kubra emerged from
the room and took away the dirty dishes.
"Give them to me, I'll wash them, Bi Apa," Hamidah said
mischievously. "No." She hunched over in embarrassment.
Hamidah kept teasing her; Bi Amma kept smiling, and kept stitching
gold-thread lace onto the crepe dupattah. By the same road the
"clove" earrings had gone, the rosettes, "leaf" earrings, and silver
ankle bracelets also departed. And then two pairs of bangles too, that
her middle brother had given her on the occasion of her "removing her
widow-hood."
Eating plain food themselves, every day parathas were fried for Rahat;
koftas, pilaus diffused their fragrance. Themselves gulping down dry
morsels with water, they fed rich meat dishes to the future son-in-law.
"The times are very bad, daughter," she always said to Hamidah
when she saw her sulking. And Hamidah always thought, "We're
remaining hungry, and feeding the 'son-in-law'. Bi Apa gets up at the
crack of dawn like an automaton and sets to work. On an empty
stomach, with only a swallow of water, she fries parathas for Rahat.
She boils the milk, so that a thick layer of cream would form. It wasn't
within her power to pull out fat from her own body and enrich those
parathas. And why would she not enrich them? After all, one day he
will become her own. Whatever he earns, he will place in the palm of
her hand. Who doesn't water a fruit-bearing plant? Then one day when
the flowers will bloom and the fruit-laden bow will bend, what a
humiliating blow it will be to those women who taunt her! And with this
thought alone does auspiciousness bloom on my Bi Apa's face. In her
ears the shahnais begin to sound, and she sweeps Rahat's room with
her eyelashes. She folds his clothes with love, as if they were saying
something to her. She washes his bad-smelling, rat-like, filthy socks,
cleans his stinking undershirts and the handkerchiefs besmeared by
his nose. On the cover of his hair-oil-stained pillow she embroiders
"sweet dream." But the affair was not falling squarely into place.
Every morning Rahat devoured eggs and parathas and went out, and
in the evening he came and ate koftahs and went to sleep. And Bi
Amma's adopted sister whispered in a wise manner.
"He's very shy, the poor thing." Bi Amma offered a justification.
"Yes, that's fine. But bhai, something would be revealed by his
aspect and manner, something by his eyes."
"Oh, God forbid! May the Lord not let it happen that my girl would
cause her eyes to meet his. Nobody has seen even the hem of her
garment" Bi Amma said with pride.
"Oh, who says she should break her purdah?"
Seeing Bi Apa's well-developed pimples, she had to do justice to Bi
Amma's far-seeingness.
"Oh sister, in truth you are very simple. When do I say this? This little
wretch-- on which 'Bakrid' will she come in handy?" Looking at me, she
laughed. "Well, there, you with your nose in the air! Some conversation
with the brother-in-law, some joking? Come on, you silly thing!"

"Oh, what can I do, Auntie?"

"Why don't you talk with Rahat Miyan?"
"Auntie, I'm embarrassed." =
"Ai hai -- he'll rip you apart and eat you, won't he?," Bi Amma used to
say in irritation.
"No, but-- but-- " I became unable to reply. And then silence fell. After
much thought and reflection, oil-cake kababs were made. Today even
Bi Apa smiled several times.
She spoke softly : "Look-- don't laugh! Otherwise the whole game will
be spoiled."
"I won't laugh," I promised.
"Please have your dinner," I said, placing the tray of food on the
wooden platform [chauka]. Then, while washing his hands from the
water-jug kept beneath the wooden board, when he looked me over
from head to foot-- I fled from there.
My heart began to pound: 'God forbid-- what diabolical eyes!'
"Go on, you worthless wretch-- will you just get in there and see the
expression on his face! Ai hai, the whole pleasure will be spoiled!"
Apa Bi gave me a single look. In her eyes there was a plea, there
was the dust of looted wedding processions, and there was the faded
sorrow of old "fourth-day outfits." Bowing my head, I again went and
leaned against the pillar. Rahat kept eating in silence. He didn't look
toward me. Having seen him eat the oil-cake kababs, what I ought to
have done was that I would make a joke of it, would burst out laughing:
"Bravo, hail to the 'bridegroom'! You're eating oil-cake kababs!" But it
was as if someone had squeezed my throat shut.
Bi Amma, growing angry, summoned me back, and under her breath
began to curse me. Now what would I have said to him? --since he is
eating with pleasure, the wretch.
"Rahat bhai, did you like the koftas?" I asked, on Bi Amma's
instructions. No answer came.
“Tell me, won't you?"
"Oh, go and ask him properly!" Bi Amma gave me a shove.
"You brought it and gave it to me, and I ate it. It must surely be tasty."
"Oh, great, you boor!" Bi Amma couldn't help herself. "You didn't
even realize-- with such relish you ate oil-cake kababs!"
"Oil-cake kababs? Why, what are they made from every day? I've
become accustomed to eating oil-cake and straw."
Bi Amma's face fell. Bi Apa's lowered eyelids were unable to raise
themselves. The next day Bi Apa did twice as much sewing as usual,
and then when in the evening I went to take the food in, he said, "Tell
me, what have you brought today? Today it's the turn of wood-chips."
"You don't like the food in our house?" I said angrily.
"It's not that. It just seems a bit strange. If it's sometimes oil-cake
kababs, then it's sometimes a chaff curry."
I was overcome with fury. That we ourselves would eat dry bread, and
feed him up like an elephant! That sometimes we would stuff him with
ghi-dripping parathas! That my Bi Apa doesn't get medicine, and we
would pour milk and cream down his throat! I was boiling, and went
away.

The prescription of Bi Amma's 'sister' worked, and Rahat began to

spend the larger part of the day there in the house. Bi Apa stayed bent
over the stove, Bi Amma kept on sewing the 'fourth-day outfit', and
Rahat's filthy eyes turned into arrows and kept piercing my heart.
Teasing me about every trifle, when I was serving him food, sometimes
with the excuse of wanting water, sometimes salt, and along with all
this the repartee. I was mortified, and used to go and sit with Bi Apa. At
hearted I wanted to someday tell her straight out-- 'whose goat, and
who would give it grain and grass?'
'Oh Madam, this bull of yours can't be nose-ringed by me.'
But on Bi Apa's tangled hair the flying ash from the stove-- no!
My heart felt a shock. I hid her grey hairs beneath the tangles. May this
wretched catarrh be damned-- the poor thing's hair has begun to turn
grey.
Rahat again, on some pretext, called for me.
"Unh!" I was furious. But when Bi Apa turned and looked at me like a
chicken with its throat cut, I was absolutely forced to go.
"You've become angry at me?" Rahat, taking the glass of water, seized
my wrist. I gasped, tore my hand away, and fled.
"What was he saying?" Bi Apa asked, in a voice stifled by shame and
embarrassment. I silently began to stare at her face.
"He was saying, 'Who cooked this food? Bravo!-- I feel as if I want to go
on eating-- I would eat the hands of the cook-- oh, not that-- I wouldn't
eat them, but rather kiss them," I began to say very quickly, and took
Bi Apa's rough, foully turmeric- and coriander-smelling, hand in mine.
Tears came to my eyes. "These hands," I thought, "that grind spices
from morning till night, that fetch water, that cut up onions, that
spread out bedding, that clean shoes-- these helpless slaves are
worked from morning to night. When will their bondage end? Will no
buyer come for them? Will no one ever lovingly kiss them? Will they
never be adorned with henna? Will they never be scented with the
perfume of happy marriage?" I wanted to scream aloud.
"What else was he saying?" Bi Apa's hands were so rough, but her
voice was so rich and sweet that if Rahat had had ears, then-- but
Rahat had neither ears nor a nose, but only an infernal stomach.
"And he was saying, tell your Bi Apa please not to always do so much
work, to always drink her tonic."
"Get along with you, liar!"
"Why, that's very fine-- he must be a liar, your.."
"Oh, keep quiet, you wretch!" She covered my mouth with her hand.
"Look-- the sweater is finished. Go and give it to him. But look--
swear by my head that you won't mention my name."
"No, Bi Apa, don't give that sweater to him; you're just a handful of
bones-- how much need you have of it yourself!"-- I wanted to say, but
couldn't.
"Apa Bi, what will you yourself wear?"
"Oh, what need do I have for it! Near the stove, it always stays so hot
anyway."
Seeing the sweater, Rahat mischievously lifted one eyebrow and said,
"Have you knitted that sweater?"
"If not, then so what?"
"Then, bhai, I won't wear it.."
I wanted to claw his face. The wretch, the lump of clay! This sweater
has been made by hands that are living, conscious slaves. In every one
of its stitches the longings of some ill-fortuned one have had their
necks strangled. This is the product of those hands that have been
made to rock a tiny cradle. Take hold of them, you misbegotten ass!
The oars of these hands will save the boat of your life from the buffets
of even the biggest typhoon, and carry you safely across. They will not
be able to play a song on the sitar. They won't be able to show the
gestures of Manipuri and Bharat Natyam. They haven't been taught to
dance on the keys of a piano. It hasn't been their destiny to play with
flowers. But in order to keep flesh on your body, these hands sew from
morning to night. They submerge themselves in soap and detergents.
They endure the flame of the cooking-stove. They wash your
filthinesses, so that you would keep strutting around impeccably
turned out, like a 'heron-saint'. Labor has made wounds in them.
Bangles never clink on them. No one has ever held them with love.
But I remained silent.
Bi Amma says that my new, new girlfriends have corrupted my mind.
What kinds of new, new ideas they keep telling me! What frightening
ideas of death, what ideas of hunger and death! Ideas that cause a
pounding heart to instantly become quiet.
"Please, you put on this sweater yourself. Just look-- how delicate your
kurta is."
Like a wildcat I clawed at his face, nose, collar, and hair, and went and
threw myself on my cot.

"He said?" When Bi Apa couldn't stand it any more, with a pounding
heart, she asked.
"Bi Apa! This Rahat Bhai is a very bad man." I had thought that today I
will tell everything.
"Why?" she smiled.
"I don't like him --- just look, all my bangles are broken," I said,
trembling.
"He's very mischievous," she said in a 'romantic' voice, with
embarrassment.
"Bi Apa --- ! Listen, Bi Apa, this Rahat is not a good man," I said,
growing heated. "Today I will tell Bi Amma."
"What happened?" Bi Amma said, spreading the prayer-carpet.
"Look at my bangles, Bi Amma."
"Rahat broke them!" Bi Amma sang out joyously.
"Yes."
"He did well. After all, you tease him a great deal. Ai hai, why do you
make such a fuss? Have you turned into a wax doll, such that
somebody lays a hand to you and you melt?" Then she said coaxingly,
"Then take revenge during the 'fourth-day' ceremony. Wreak such
vengeance that Miyan-ji will never forget it." With these words, she
began her prayers.

Then a conference with her adopted 'sister' took place; and seeing that
matters were proceeding in a hope-inspiring direction, smiles of
extreme satisfaction appeared.
"Ai hai, you're a real good-for-nothing! Ai, I swear by the Lord, we used
to torment our brothers-in-law half to death!"
And she began to tell me techniques for teasing brothers-in-law-- how
only through the unerring arrows of teasing that she prescribed, she
had arranged the marriages of her two nieces whose hopes of getting
their boats across [into marriage] had long since been lost. One of
them was a Hakim-ji. Whenever the girls teased him, the poor thing
began to blush with shyness and suffer attacks of shame. And one day
he said to Mamu Sahib, 'please take me into servitude'.
The other was a clerk in the Viceroy's office. When they heard that he
had come to the outer rooms, the girls used to begin to tease him.
Sometimes they filled a paan with chili-peppers and sent it to him;
sometimes they put salt into [sweet] vermicelli and fed it to him.
"Ai lo, he began to come every day. A windstorm might come, rain
might come-- what power did they have, [to assure] that he wouldn't
come? Finally, one day, he spoke up. He said to an acquaintance of his,
'Arrange my marriage in that household'. When the friend asked 'With
whom?' then he said, 'Arrange it with anybody'. And may the Lord not
cause me to tell a lie-- the older sister's face was such that if you see
it, then it's as if a witch is coming along. And the younger-- may God
be praised! If one eye is in the east, then the other is in the west. The
father gave fifteen tolahs of gold, and in addition gave him a job in the
Big Sahib's office."
"Indeed, sister], the one who has fifteen tolas of gold and a job in the
Big Sahib's office-- how long will it take him to find a boy?" Bi Amma
said with a sigh.
"It's not like this, sister. Nowadays a boy's heart-- well, it's an eggplant
on a tray. Whichever way you tilt it, that's the way it will roll."
But Rahat isn't an eggplant, he's a great big mountain. In making him
bow down, may I not be the one who's crushed, I thought. Then I
looked toward Apa. She was sitting silently on the doorsill, kneading
dough, and listening to everything. If she had had the power, then she
would have split open the breast of the earth and, taking with her the
curse of her virginity, hidden herself within it.
Does my Apa hunger for a man? No, before she felt any hunger she
was already fearful. The picture of a man didn't well up in her mind like
a longing. Rather, it welled up in the form of the question of bread and
clothing. She is a burden on the breast of a widow. It will be necessary
to shove this burden off.

But despite hints and suggestions, neither did Rahat Miyan himself let
out a word, nor did any message come from his home. Worn out and
defeated, Bi Amma pawned her ankle-bracelets and held a ceremony
in honor of Pir Mushkil-kusha ['difficulty-opener']. All afternoon the girls
from the muhallah and the neighborhood kept making a great
commotion in the courtyard. Bi Apa, shy and embarrassed, went and
sat in the 'mosquito-room' to have the last drops of her blood sucked.
Bi Amma, feeling weak, sat on her stool and sewed the last stitches on
the 'fourth-day' outfit. Today there were signs on her face of the long
road she'd traveled. Today the 'opening of difficulties' has taken place.
Now only the 'needles in the eyes' have remained. They too will come
out. Today in her wrinkles torches were again flickering. Bi Apa's
girlfriends were teasing her. And she was pressing into service [for a
blush] her last remaining drops of blood. Today, after some days, her
fever had still not gone down. Like a tired and exhausted lamp, her
face flared up once, and then went out. With a gesture, she called me
to her. Lifting her sari-end, she pressed on me a dish of the cake used
in the ceremony. "Maulvi Sahib has breathed on this." Her hot
breath, burning with fever, fell on my ear. Taking the dish, I began to
think. Maulvi Sahib has breathed on it. This sanctified cake will now be
cast into Rahat's oven, the oven that for six months has been kept
warm with splashes of our blood. This breathed-upon cake will fulfill
the purpose. In my ears shahnais began to sound. I am running from
the room to see the wedding procession. Over the bridegroom's face a
longish sahra is hanging, that is kissing the horse's mane ---- Wearing
the brilliant "fourth-day outfit," loaded down with flowers, awkward
with shame, slowly measuring every footstep, Bi Apa is coming ---- the
gold-threaded "fourth-day outfit" is glittering. Bi Amma's face has
bloomed like a flower ---- Bi Apa's shame-weighted eyes rise one time.
A tear of gratitude slips out, entangles itself on the sparkling gold like a
lampshade.
"This is all the fruit of your labor alone," Bi Apa's silence is saying ----
Hamidah's throat filled [with tears].
"Go, won't you, my sister." Bi Apa awakened her, and with a start she
advanced toward the threshold, wiping her tears with the end of her
orhni.
"This ---- this malidah," she said, bringing her pounding heart under
control. Her feet were trembling as if she might have entered a snake's
hole. And then the mountain stirred ---- Rahat opened his mouth. She
took a step back. But somewhere far off the trumpets of the wedding
procession shrieked as though someone were choking their throats.
With trembling hands she shaped a morsel of the holy malidah and
extended it toward Rahat's mouth.
With a jerk, her hand was steadily sinking into the cave in the
mountain, down into the depths of an immeasurable cavern of
fetidness and darkness. And a single tallish peak swallowed up her
scream. The plate with the consecrated malidah slipped, and fell on
top of the lantern; and the lantern fell onto the ground, gave a few
gasps, and went out. Outside in the courtyard, the daughters-in-law
and daughters of the muhallah were singing songs in honor of Mushkil-
kusha.

By the morning train Rahat, expressing his thanks for the hospitality,
set out. The date of his wedding had already been decided, and he was
in a hurry.
After this, in that house eggs were never fried, parathas were never
warmed, and sweaters were never made. Tuberculosis, which for some
time had been pursuing Bi Apa, running after her from behind, made a
single pounce and seized her. And she silently confided her unfulfilled
existence to its embrace. And then in that same sihdari, on the wooden
platform, a fresh, clean linen floor-cloth had been spread. The
daughters-in-law and daughters of the muhallah gathered. The white,
white coarse cloth of the shroud, like the mantle [anchal] of death,
spread out before Bi Amma. From the burden of endurance, her face
was trembling, her left eyelid was fluttering. The empty wrinkles of her
cheeks were terrifying, as if in them hundreds of thousands of serpents
would be hissing.
Having aligned the weave in the cotton, she folded it into a square,
and in her heart countless scissors began to move. Today on her face
was a terrifying peace and a verdant conviction. As if she might feel
absolute confidence that unlike the other outfits, this "fourth-day
outfit" would not be discarded.
Suddenly in the girls seated in the sihdari began to twitter like birds.
Hamidah, having flung the past far away, went and joined them. On
the red twill ---- the look of the white cloth! In its redness, the marital
happiness of no telling how many innocent brides has been created;
and in the whiteness, the whiteness of the shrouds of how many
unfulfilled maidens had sunk itself, and welled up! And then they all
suddenly became silent. Bi Amma, having made the last stitch, broke
off the thread. Two fat teardrops began to crawl slowly, slowly, down
her soft, cottony cheeks. From within the wrinkles on her face rays of
light burst forth, and she smiled. As if today she had come to have
confidence that her Kubra's brilliant wedding outfit had been made and
was ready, and in a few moments the shahnais would begin to sound.