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SOON AFTER THE WEDDING of Saliha, her only daughter, who had been somewhat over-age, her mother Sultanat Begum called the sacred vow to mind. It began to prey on her nerves. One day she asked Jannat Bi, her confidante, in the most casual of ways, “Could we get some girl in ... it wouldn’t cost much?”

     Jannat Bi was thrilled: “Certainly, why not? There are thousands of them going begging. How many do you want?”

     “Can you get me just one? I have to fulfil my pledge … I vowed to the Imam (1) that if he blessed Saliha with a suitor I would keep a virgin for him.”

     “You mean an acchooti?” Jannat Bi was a trifle surprised.

     “Yes ... and why not? There’s no harm in it, is there?” The real aim of this query, apparently made in all Innocence, was to find out people’s reactions.

     “No harm at all,” Jannat Bi replied, and she promised to help the Begum.

     Soon afterwards Sultanat Begum began to consider the possible consequences of her move. She was not quite sure whether she had been right in taking Jannat Bi into her confidence. But then, she thought, I’ll get to know what people have to say about it ... and if Jannat Bi mentions it to other relations it could prove an interesting piece of gossip. But supposing others should also decide to do the same? Well, anyway, I’ve got the pledge to fulfil; why should I care what other people think? She fell asleep whilst turning it all over in her mind.

     Jannat Bi did not come back for quite some time. Sultanat Begum began to get nervous. A number of times she dreamt that Saliha and her husband had quarrelled … that Saliha had been divorced her husband had married another girl … or else she was widowed. Waking from such horrible dreams, she would mumble, “Maula (2), bless me; have mercy on me, I beseech Thee, my Maula …” If only the girl had not remained unmarried so long: It had only been acccomplished at last after many prayers at practically every grave and shrine of the saints, named and unnamed.

     It was not that Saliha had been bad-looking or of a very dark complexion. Indeed, she could be included among the moderately beautiful. What worked against her in a highly competitive matrimonial market was a minor physical deformity: she had six toes on her left foot. Though this did not matter so much, when coupled with another weakness about which no-one talked - but about which everyone somehow or another came to know - it definitely became a difficult obstacle In her way to winning a reasonably fair-priced husband. Saliha suffered from the weakness of bed -wetting. Sultanat Begum had not minded it so much when Saliha was a child, but when this continued to an advanced age she became apprehensive and consulted various hakims (native doctors), and when no remedy worked she resorted to prayers and religious rites of every conceivable dubious nature.

     Saliha herself was sick of this weakness. Whenever someone visited the house she shared her bed with some small child, on whom the blame would fall in case of bed-wetting. But the trouble came when she herself was visiting relatives. She avoided having to stay the night at all costs, and when this was absolutely inevitable she would spend the whole night in reading a book. She managed to do this by going to the bathroom a number of times in order to wash her face and thus avoid sleep.

     Once she had gone to visit one of her closest friends, Zainub, who forced her to stay the night. They had gone to bed together and went on talking until a late hour. Then Zainub had dozed off while pretending to listen to what Saliha was saying. But Saliha had to keep awake. Whenever she felt sleepy she would prick her arm or thigh with a safety-pin. But when it was nearly dawn she too fell asleep ... and then, as usual, wetted the bed.

     Zainub rose in a hurry and at first could not make out what had actually happened. Her nightdress was wet, and the bed warm with
fresh urine. Saliha had woken and, knowing the situation, broke down and started sobbing. Zainub, however, had the situation in band. She gave Sallha a new dress to change into but, as there were a lot of guests in the house, the bed could not be changed so abruptly and without apparent reason. So she ordered tea and, in taking the cup from the hands of the maidservant, deliberately made a clumsy gesture. The cup fell on the bed so that it was covered with tea. Zainub made a great song and dance of this carelessness and then asked the maid to put the bed on the roof to let it dry. The sheets were sent to be laundered.

     When this came to the knowledge of Sultanat Begum she was wild with rage. Not only did she shout at Saliha but slapped her once or twice as well. The girl was already ashamed enough at her discomfiture, and wept long and loud. Eventually the Begum calmed down, realising her utter helplessness, and mother and daughter sobbed together.

     Sultanat Begum regarded Saliha as she was absorbed in a programme on the radio. The girl was only 29, but already well past the ideal marriageable age, All her friends were mothers already one or two, in fact, were in the way of becoming grandmothers. Saliha was now about ten years over-age. And although being 29 was not so terribly hopeless she was beginning to look a bit shopsoiled. “Oh Maula, what will happen to her …?” Sultanat Begum grew miserable with desperation and, in that moment of frustration, made the vow that if Saliha were happily married she would keep an achhooti as a gift to the Imam.

     After this things happened remarkably quickly. One of Saliha’s old classmates was posted in the town as a small gazetted officer. He had always fancied the girl and now, when he came to know that she was still unmarried, had a common friend approach the mother on his behalf. Sultanat Begum had not minded that Shaukat was not a Shi’a Muslim but a Sunni, and had contented herself with the thought that, after all, he was from a Saiyed family (3).

     Sultanat Begum had offered a thousand prayers of gratitude to all her patron saints, but then she was reminded of her vow and she found herself in a dilemma. Actually it did not appear so easy acquiring an achhooti as she had thought it would be, so she had mentioned it to Jannat Bi . . .
 
     Her friend returned a few days later, bringing with her a woman and her daughter, an emaciated girl of eleven or twelve who looked as if she might die soon.

     “Where do you come from?” the Begum asked.

     “From Gonda-jila … oh lady, there’s a terrible famine there, millions are dying like flies of starvation. Can you help me? We’re dying for a grain of food. We’ll work for you as slaves only have mercy on us. Please, Begum Sahib. May God grant you a long life and prosperity.”

     “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. We have plenty of servants. But I’ll tell you what you can do. Leave your daughter here and we’ll look after her; then you won’t have her to worry about.”

     “Yes, yes … why not? How much can we expect for her?”

     “I can give you ten rupees a month … or, if you prefer it, I’ll pay you one year’s wages in advance. But then I won’t be able to help you any more. We’ve got to look after our own interests as well, you see. How long can we go on helping the poor? We’re not so well-off ourselves …”

     Jannat Bi broke in before the woman could reply. “Oh no, Begum Sahib, don’t give her anything In advance - never make that mistake. These people are cunning, you can’t trust them.” The good lady was genuinely alarmed at the thought of this poor starving woman getting a hundred rupees out of the over-generous Begum.

     “Ask this girl to live with us, then. You can come every month to collect her wages.”

     “Couldn’t you give us something in advance? The poor girl and I have had nothing to eat for two whole days. We’re starving.”

     Sultanat Begum gave orders for the woman and her daughter to be fed, and gave the mother two rupees to be going on with. The arrangement was the only reasonable course she could think of for the moment.

     On the holy day of Friday, Sultanat Begum bathed the weak, lean girl. She burned scented herbs and spices and smoked her hair with the perfume. Then she clothed her in a fine new dress and put garlands round her neck. The eyes of the girl were painted with pure kohl, and she was taken to the imambara, an apartment a little ‘way from the main residential part of the house. There incense was burning and the atmosphere was heavy with sweet-smelling smoke. There was a touch of mystery as the Begum took the girl beneath the holy hangings and said, In a voice choked with emotion
“Oh Maula, Thou hast granted my prayers and here am I come to thank Thee with this offering. Be pleased to accept the girl as Thy betrothed, Maula, and grant to us Thy limitless bounties.”

     Sultanat Begum did not bother to enquire the girl’s name, but embraced her with a sanctified tenderness and called her ‘beti’ (daughter). Then she offered the girl sweetmeats and a glass of milk, bade her be seated on a square stool, and bowed to her in reverence. In doing this she broke down and felt a delightful content as she sobbed profusely with choking gasps. These were tears of joy at a mission completed, at the satisfaction of having performed remarkably well something that was supremely good. Her sense of achievement, together with the concomitant pride, was complete.

     The girl could make nothing of all this. At first she simply felt happy at the taste of the sweets and the milk fresh in her mouth. But when she saw the Begum sobbing she too began to weep.

     The girl’s mother came regularly the first few months to collect the payment for her daughter. Later she took to living with a man and accepted a lump sum to cover the payment outstanding. Thereafter she did not care to ask further about her daughter. She had no reason to. But, then, the girl did not care to remember her mother. At the thought of her she was reminded of the days of wretched poverty, sleeping on pavements, sleeping in sewers, sleeping with dogs and dead cats. When there were floods the two used to live in the branches of trees like monkeys as the horrid deluge swirled around them. The terrifying sound of rivers in spate, the thunder and lightning, the incessant rainfall were all fresh in her memory. And hence the mother out of mind.

     She knew perfectly well that her mother had gone away and would never be back. She also knew that she had been sold to the Begum. She had learned that she would never be able to marry. She would never leave this long corridor known as the imambara. She understood that for the sake of Saliha’ s peace and happiness she would remain a virgin all her life. But she did not mind it at all. She was enjoying the life that had been arranged for her. She dressed well, she was well fed ... and what else could an adolescent girl wish for or aspire to?

     The womenfolk of the whole neighbourhood gathered here Thursdays or Fridays. They arranged Majlises (religious gatherings) in which the woes and sufferings of the Iman were related In the most tragic manner. Then they all sobbed as they mourned the tragedy of Karbala. The centre of all the weekly, monthly or yearly gatherings was always the achhooti. In this household she was revered because she was offered to the Imam as his spiritual concubine. The women made offerings to her, Implored her to bless their ailing husbands or children. They sprinkled perfumes on her and put garlands around her neck, and when she smiled out of her mysterious silence the women were pleased and thought that their desires would be fulfilled.

     As soon as they had all gone away the achhooti would devour everything with a glutton’s greed. She never had enough of the delicious sweets, rich food and fruits. And she had the most expensive dresses to wear. Sometimes she was frightened that someone might steal her food and clothes and would try to hide everything beneath her bed and under her pillow.

     So several years passed for the achhooti, always in the same imambara. She left it only twice a year in Moharram, the time of mourning for the martyrs of Karbala. When she went out to bless the two important ‘majlises’ the Begum followed her like a page behind some queen, maintaining a respectful distance and addressing her as if a priest to his deity. The achhooti would not normally talk, and when she spoke It was to recite some verse from the holy books. The extravagant respect accorded her had made her conscious of her special status compared with any ordinary folk.

     Once, during the summer vacations, one of Sultanat Begum’s nephews came to stay with her. He was young, cheeky, and terribly popular with the girls. They flocked in from near and far about the town upon his arrival at the usually deserted mansion. A number of other young students and petty young men about town also made a point of attending the fun and games going on there. They all enjoyed life to the full, visiting the mango groves or going on the river to other unknown and sometimes dangerous places for picnics. They loved fun and laughter, sang all the obscenely suggestive songs, swam, rowed, and kicked up a continual shindy.

     The achhooti grew restless. She wanted to join them, to laugh like them, to tease the goodlooking youths as other girls of her age did. But she was bound to the hallows of sanctity about her. The other girls respected her, as did the boys, they all treater her with an awe in which was mingled fear of the Begum. But Mansur was different. He even tried to cheek the Begum and had the courage to tease the achhooti, the most respected person in the district.

     At first the achhooti felt a little uneasy, but then she began to enjoy the strictly-rationed amount of fun that Mansur was generous enough to allow her. For hours she would watch from the end corner of her corridor as the young and carefree people, born more fortunate than her, enjoyed themselves. Sometimes she pined to go out into the gardens and groves and under the bushes like the other young girls in their merrymaking, but whenever she ventured near them they would all become silent, apprehensive, feeling an unknown embarrassment, and would start moving away from her vicinity in twos and threes. The achhooti was left with the grim realisation that all fun and happiness was not meant for her. She was born to read prayer books all her days, and to meditate the dreadful woes and sufferings of the Imam whose concubine she would be hereafter.

     Once she was sleeping in the imambara, the verandah was deserted, and the hot wind of early June was blowing with an eerie sound. The blinding, scorching sun shone all around, and nothing could be seen without the help of coloured glasses. Moment by moment the ceilings of the imambara were growing hotter, despite the wooden beams under them. All the young people had probably gone for a cooling swim. There were thick curtains and coverings all about her long, mercifully shadowed hallway, yet the heat was intolerable and the achhooti was restless even in sleep.

     Soon she got up and tried pulling her bed into a cooler corner of the room where the coverings were still wet with the fresh water sprinkled on them. Becoming aware of a hissing and whispering she went to her station at the end of the corridor, curiosity prompting her to pull the curtain aside. There she saw Mansur kissing and embracing Laila, so lost in their passion that they were careless of everything at that moment.

     A strange sensation ran through the achhooti. She tiptoed up to the couple and surprised them. Laila, taken aback, jumped up and ran away, but Mansur was flustered and could not make up his mind what to do. He just stood there looking at the achhooti and sometimes in the direction in which Laila had fled.

     “Well …?” she said to him; but could get no answer. Then she continued, as if talking to herself, “I’ll have to tell the Begum.”

     “Oh no, please, I beg of you...” Mansur implored her.

     Without any premeditation the achhooti suddenly sprang at Mansur and seized hold of him with the entreaty, “Kiss me, please; kiss me too. I want you to kiss me the same way.”

     The achhooti was young, blooming and untouched. Although Mansur had not thought of her in this manner formerly, he now realised that of all the girls about she was the most beautiful and full of youth’s charming naivity. He was attracted to her in a purely natural and human way. There was no shred of mystery or sanctity attached to her - for him, at least. And now, as the achhooti held him in her embrace he could not resist hugging and kissing her with all the violence of passion.

     The achhooti was finding a new meaning in life; she was enchanted, captivated; her eyes closed and she sobbed and wished for death at this moment of supreme ecstasy. But Mansur pushed her aside gently and quietly walked away.

     That night the achhooti could not sleep. She had not even taken anything to eat or drink. She was all the time trying to recapture the pleasure of those short moments with Mansur in which he had Initiated her into hitherto unknown mysteries of life. Then she thought of Laila, who had what every girl in the world longs for - a man to love, and to love her in return. As for the achhooti, what would happen to her? When it was time for the Iman to take her in his embrace she would be dead. She grew upset. The mere thought of death chilled her. Whatever was coming to her, she wanted it now, she was not Interested in the reward after death.

     Until that warm and lonely June afternoon, happiness for her had meant fine clothes and plenty of delicious food, fresh fruit and flowers. But now, she realised, there was something else in the world ... and this something else was definitely much better and more desirable than the food and articles of clothing she was once content to amass.

     That was her night of initiation, No longer was she a pure and lily-white goddess; she had become truly a woman. She had changed, and the change was reflected on her face. When Sultanat Begum came to wish her good-morning the next day she noticed something different; the achhooti’s face was white as if drained of blood, and she was running a temperature. Jannat Bi went to a ‘hakim’ and brought back some concoction which the girl swallowed quietly.

     As the day advanced and the long June afternoon was approaching with the quiet stealth of a snake that rears in the grass and waits to attack, the achhooti grew restless. She went to the main part of the house, but there people were already preparing for the siesta. The long rooms where they slept or gossipped together were already darkened by the thick coverings, and the old blind women were stationed at their duties pulling the strings of the ceiling fans whose rhythmic sound was like a lullaby. She looked around, but there was no sign of the frolicsome young people. She longed for Mansur, but in this absolute silence of hot desert winds there could be no hope of anyone coming out into the open.

     The loneliness of noon afflicted her like a disease. Her nerves were tensed, and vague longings tortured her. She wandered in the wilderness like a sleepwalker. She paced the imambara, and when it became unendurable embraced the tall warmth of a marble pillar, winding it in her arms with sobs and kisses.

     Mansur did not mention his adventure to anybody. In fact, he tended to avoid Laila, his thoughts centred all the time upon the achhooti, and though he kept in mind the aura of sanctity that surrounded her, he felt something different as well. It was for this reason mainly that he refrained from seeking her out again and trying to tease her. All his old innocence and indifferent frankness had vanished the moment he took her in his arms.

     The achhooti saw Laila in the next few days and asked after Mansur. Laila thought she was teasing her and asked the achhooti not to mention her affair with Mansur to anyone, otherwise there would be a terrible scandal. All this was unnecessary, since the girl never spoke to anybody and there was, therefore, no question of her Indulging in gossip. But the achhooti asked Laila to send Mansur to her when she met him. Laila told Mansur and added, “Perhaps she is annoyed with us. She has seen us together, and to her this might be a sin.”

     Mansur said nothing. Laila could not understand his silence and forgot it. It was not for more than a fotflnight that Mansur passed through the imambara section of the palatial house. He had no intention of confronting the achhooti, but was on his way to the nursery garden, about the care of which he was very particular as the time of the monsoons grew near. On his way back he was forced to shelter there as it had already started to rain. The whole house was silent. The children had returned to their schools and the girls who had flocked there had returned to the city when their colleges reopened. Only Mansur stayed on a little longer until his university term began in September.

     The rain soon turned into a steady downpour. Mansur looked about, his thoughts turning to the achhooti. He peeped into the room where she was asleep and caught a glimpse of the healthy body provocatively uncovered. He dared to look again. At the same time the silence of the place was shattered by loud thundering. If Mansur was alarmed, the achhooti woke in terror. Her nervousness was the fear of a child. Looking up she saw Mansur there. He did not try to hide himself, but remained standing where he was, and the girl unconsciously relaxed.

     Rising, she glanced indifferently in Mansur’ s direction and then looked up at the sky. It seemed as if the rain would continue for an age. She moved towards Mansur and stared at him. He was silent as her, and a little nervous. Then the achhooti came up to him and put her arms around him. Mansur kissed her tenderly, and then, just as in those scenes in cheap films, lifted her up and carried her into the room.

     The rain was exceptionally torrential that season. It continued for days without respite. Violent storms left behind them a trail of damage and the little pond behind the imambara had turned into a lake.

     The achhooti was utterly changed in her womanhood. These days she suffered from a new kind of loneliness. And she heard strange voices which sometimes seemed to be whispering to her. She mentioned it once to Jannat Bi, who replied cheerfully, “Perhaps the Imam approves of you. He’s waiting for you.”

     The voices became unbearable. Sometimes, as the whispering started upon her loneliness, she would become mortally afraid. The torture became so great that once she screamed and fainted. Sultanat Begum called in a doctor. He was an Anglo-Indian who knew nothing of the mystery and piety that surrounded an achhooti and told everything with brutal frankness.

     The Begum was trembling.with rage. She goaded the achhooti, tortuously worming the truth out of her, and forced her to confess everything connected with Mansur.

     “But you were meant for the holy Imam. I spent a lot of money on you and ... and now see what you’ve done to me, you bitch”

     “But I dreamed the Imam told me I was of no use to him because I’m of low caste.”

     Sultanat Begum was shocked. This thought had never crossed her mind. A low-caste girl offered to the holiest of the holy Saiyeds She felt treacherously cheated. Had it not been for fear ~f the scandal among her rivals she would have strangled the girl then and there.

     The Begum controlled her wrath, however, and called Jannat Bi to her again, offering her ear-rings in exchange for practical advice. Jannat Bi put the trinkets in her handbag nonchalantly, chewed a betel leaf, tasted a sprinkling of snuff, and began to shift her bag about. This was a sign that she was in the mood to ponder deeply. Sultanat Begum could rest assured.

     Rain continued all day, and a violent storm developed later. As night fell the secluded imambara presented a frightening picture. The alleys were in darkness, and when it thundered and lightning flashed across the sky, the whole scene was nightmarish.

     “Come, my child, let’s go and have a talk in there. It’s very dark and damp out here,” said Jannat Bi to the Achhooti. She was pale with the unknown fears and forebodings of her loneliness, but cheered up at the thought of having the woman’s company on this exceptionally dreadful night.

     They went onto the balcony together and leaned across the balustrade. Jannat Bi had promised to tell her a story, old but true, about the origin of the imambara. The girl moved a little closer to her.

     “There was once a dark and stormy night not unlike this one ... So she began her true story, but her manner of relating it was gruesome and frightened the achhooti who was, after all, an impressionable girl of seventeen and easily scared. She trembled from head to foot and Jannat Bi moved nearer. As. she did so, a long and blinding streak of lightning flashed down the sky, followed seconds later by such thunder as if thousands of cannon were roaring in unison. The achhooti quivered, and Jannat Bi gave her a skilful push so that she fell over backward. She tried to help herself by hanging onto the narrow cornice protruding over the balustrade.

     “Save me, Jannat Bi. Pull me up, or I’ll fall!”

     Her heartrending plea made no effect on Jannat Bi who, methodically precise, took one step forward and kicked her hands off the edge. There was a desperate scream and then the sound of something heavy striking water. Jannat Bi made sure that the girl was safely drowned, and then began to wail and beat her breast as if Moharram had come.

     People heard the screams and the wailing of Jannat Bi and came running to find out what had happened. When they learned of the disaster they, too, lifted up their voices and wept bitterly, bemoaning the ill-luck which had deprived them of the presence of that noble and pious being among them.

     And as she sobbed and cursed her misfortune, Sultanat Begum was busy thinking of some way in which she could rid herself of that woman Jannat Bi.