AAPA

Our Rashida Khala, younger sister of my mother, who we had always called Aapa, left us for her final resting place in July 2023. She was the last of her generation among us and we felt her loss greatly.

I met Aapa last when we visited Toronto in June 2019. We were there to attend my niece Nain’s wedding, and just a day after getting there arranged with her son Rashid to take us to his home next day to pay our respects to her. We found her sitting on a comfortable sofa in the living room and were delighted to see her in good health. We were there for over an hour conversing with Rashid and his lovely son, Ahsan, talking about everything under the sun, laughing, sharing jokes, having tea. We asked about Shahid and Salavia who we would meet a few days later. Aapa sat there mostly silent happy to see us all around her.

Was she keeping all her thoughts to herself then? I wondered where she was in her mind at that time. The older we get, the near-past gets fuzzier in our minds while the distant-past begins to emerge and assert itself in all its colourful splendour. Was she in her beautiful bungalow in Lahore with her darling husband; or was she in Lucknow, the land of her exciting and happy childhood? Who knows? So many images of her came to my mind; laughing uncontrollably with her dupatta in her mouth trying to stifle her voice; giggling and whispering to my mother making fun of an aunt; putting on mock clothes of a street sweeper to pose for a picture. What a life she had lived; so many twists and turns in her long life, enough to fill multiple lifetimes. For me who had set his eyes first on her as a small boy when she was only a girl, she had then looked like a superwoman, and indeed she was that: a superwoman.

She was too small when she lost her father – only two at that time – to feel his absence. Being the youngest, her three brothers and two sisters were there to look after and pamper her. And most of all, her loving amma, always there for her. She followed my mother, six years older, to the Kashmiri School in Kashmiri Mohalla, a well-known school for girls in Lucknow. They shared their experiences together and, as Mansoor Bhai used to recall later, mimicked the way some of the lady teachers walked and talked, giggling and blushing like little girls do.

Aapa developed a bond with my mother in those days which was to last till the latter’s dying day. Their elder sister Hameeda was much older, got married and went away to her new home when Aapa was only four years old. My mother spent most of her childhood growing up with her and would always be close to her. Aapa could share her deepest thoughts with her and confide her secrets to her, always a willing listener though not always giving an advice liked by her.

I have sometimes wondered whether there is any bond closer than between two sisters. This is a special bond surpassing all other relations. A bond between two brothers is also strong but they lack sharing the kind of intimacy and frankness existing between two sisters. A bond between brothers loses much of its shine after they get married and, though it always remains there and comes alive in times of need, it does not offer the kind of day to day support that sisters are able to provide to each other. A bond between sisters, if anything, only gets stronger after they get married. They now have much more to share and confide in, with the certain knowledge that their trust would never be breeched. And so it was between Aapa and my mother.

Aapa was fifteen years old when my mother got married, a lively and high-spirited girl then with naughtiness dancing in her eyes. My father, a newly-wed groom, introduced for the first time to the elegant and sophisticated culture of Lucknow arriving from, what must have looked to her, the backward small town of Jaunpur, was a God-given gift to her to make fun of and to play around with. She made full use of this opportunity. Aapa and her cousins started to play all kind of pranks on their brother in law on his first visit to the bride’s house.

Some of these were quite simple, like putting salt in his tea cup or chillies in the paan. Others were more elaborate, like the one which involved preparing shami kebabs made from khali ( Kh pronounced as in khilona). Khali is a fibrous material mainly used for washing hair. This was finely grounded, made into a paste and then fried as shami kebabs. It was really horrible stuff, almost impossible to swallow. Faced with such kind of mischief, my father’s reaction was simple; he would pretend as if everything was normal and he was thoroughly enjoying whatever was being served to him. While all this was going on and my father would be sitting for dinner in the strictly male company of some grave looking elderly gentlemen from the family, there would be a slight movement in the curtains at the door, faint sound of suppressed giggles and excited voices whispering something inside the house. And my father would continue to maintain a poker face. One could always argue about who was the winner in this battle of wits. My father, who could claim to have denied Aapa the satisfaction of seeing him feel acute discomfort or showing annoyance; or Aapa who did succeed after all in feeding him horribly distasteful stuff.

Three years later Pakistan came into being and Aapa, along with her mother and brothers moved to Karachi to make it their new home.  She shared a two roomed apartment situated on the fourth story of an old building in Ranchore Line, a  busy market area, with other members of her family. My elder mamoon’s family occupied one room of the apartment while she, Nanna and chote mamoon started living in the other room. This was a far cry from their house in Lucknow but spirits were high and nobody complained. After sometime, chote mamoon was allotted a small two roomed house in Martin Road Quarters, a newly built colony on Jehangir Road, and she moved there with Nanna. She joined college and eventually obtained an MSc degree in Home Economics from Karachi University; this was a newly created faculty and she was one its first students.

She used to visit us in those days in Lahore at our flat on GT Road with Nanna. These were fun days. We used to visit our other aunts and uncles with them. The memories of those days are preserved in many photographs of Aapa. There are two in contrasting moods: one where she is sitting inside a big pipe and laughing, obviously at her funny pose, and the second, where she is posing as a kind of dejected heroine clinging sadly to the side of a curtain. The lighting and ambiance is perfect in this picture.

Then there are two others in full theatrical makeup which must have required some effort creating the effect of the characters she is portraying.  In one of them she is playing the part of a jogan, a female Hindu devotee, with her hair done in multiple thin braids holding a begging bowl in one hand and a long walking stick in the other. In the other picture, she is dressed as a street sweeper wearing a dhoti complete with a turban and a big moustache. What fun Aapa and my mother must be having imagining and then creating such characters to perfection. Aapa has that playful, mischievous look in her eyes typical of her. My view of Aapa as a superwoman was reconfirmed when I, still a small boy, would see her dressing and acting in such strange poses. These were carefree days for both the sisters and they were enjoying them thoroughly.

After a few years living in Karachi, Aapa moved to Lahore with Nanna, starting a career. Her first assignment was in a small town called Lala Musa, situated on GT Road about hundred miles from Lahore on the way to Rawalpindi. She was allotted a quarter in the officers colony and she moved there with Nanna. We went to meet here there on a weekend. It was a nice enough place, clean and fresh, away from the pollution of a big city and we enjoyed our visit very much. This was a time when single women hesitated to venture out of their homes to earn a living for themselves; moving hundreds of miles away from home to start a job was simply unthinkable. But Aapa defied all odds and set an example for others to follow her. She was a person possessing incredible courage and an iron determination, traits evident so many times in her later life.

Aapa was then transferred to Quetta, a city much further away and a place even men would have hesitated to go to. She accepted the posting without any qualms and  proceeded to join it on schedule. She used to tell us about the intense cold there and how the water pipes got frozen in the winter. As summer approached, we were much looking forward to visit her there and a program had been finalized, tickets purchased. Just a day before our departure however, my mother unfortunately fell ill and the program had to be cancelled causing us great disappointment.

Through all the freezing cold and biting winds of Quetta, Nanna was there with her too, a constant companion, and a remarkable character. Widowed when she was only in her forties with six children to care for, she lived a further forty years on her own, living an active life till almost her last day. Even in her advanced years, Nanna tried as much as possible to do all her chores herself including mending her clothes as she hated nothing more than being dependent on others. She was always dressed in a clean white gharara suit and was hardly ever found sitting idly down. By nature, she was a caring and good-natured person, attentive to each of her grandchildren, some twenty-five of them. But the apple of her eye would always be her eldest son, my barre mamoon,  whose arrival at our home would make her eyes gleam with a mixture of pride and happiness, something my mother noted with mock envy.

It was around that time that Aapa joined the man of her destiny. Mirza Khurshid Zaman, Zaman Khalu to us, was an old friend of my father who used to visit us frequently at our home before the marriage indulging in amusing conversations. His extended family, also settled in Samanabad, had been well known to us for a long time and meeting frequently at various family functions. Zaman Khalu was an exceptionally kind hearted and affectionate man. He always spoke in soft tones and usually had a smile on his face talking to others. When annoyed over something, he would rather keep quiet rather than raise his voice. At the same time, he had a highly developed sense of humour and had a vast repertoire of anecdotes to suit every occasion. He was also involved in community affairs and played an active role in getting our Samanabad mosque off the ground.

I remember an occasion of those days when he was visiting us sitting alone in the drawing room. My brother Naveed, about four years old then, was upset over something, roamed about the house teary eyed, saw Zaman Khalu sitting, went in there and put his head down silently in his lap, probably the only place he could find comfort in. This was the kind of person Zaman Khalu was.

They were married and started a conjugal home. This was the back portion of a house in Samanabad fronting the triangular park, a few houses down the road from the house where I and Tabana would set up our home many years later. It was so nice to see her  happy and proud managing her domestic affairs. It was my favourite place to visit because Zaman Khalu had brought all his astrology and palmistry books there and I loved to borrow them, this being a completely new and exciting field for me.

A short time later, they moved a short distance away to a flat built on the upper story of  a house facing the main park of Samanabad. It was a comfortable place to live, conveniently located, but had a history behind it: a husband was said to have killed his wife here some years ago. Neither Zaman Khalu nor Aapa believed in superstitions and had no hesitation in renting the place otherwise offering so many advantages. Later on,  when they were already comfortably settled there, Aapa used to tell us about a feeling she had sometimes when she was cooking dinner in the kitchen, of the silhouette of a man silently watching her. A lesser person than her would have probably got frightened out of her wits and decided to leave but Aapa, being the superwoman that she was, hardly gave it a second thought, rather enjoying the experience. In so many ways, she was remarkably different from ordinary women. Was it the ‘spiritual’ guidance of this character that turned Aapa from being an ordinary cook to a super cook, frequently experimenting with new dishes.  Helped by encouraging comments from Zaman Khalu she used to serve great dishes at her parties.

As the family got bigger, they had to move again, this time to a flat downtown in New Anarkali. It was a much bigger flat and close to the children’s schools. Aapa continued to work at her job with Pakistan Scientific & Industrial Research Institute (PCSIR) as before, doubling as a mother and housekeeper. She and Zaman Khalu ensured that their two boys received the best education possible in elite schools which were expensive but known for their quality education. With their combined savings, they started to build a house in the newly established Canal View Colony, a picturesque location facing the Lahore canal, full of trees and greenery. They moved there later on and Aapa was to spend many years here, happy and contended, in the loving company of her family. She had achieved everything one could hope for in one’s life, by sheer hard work and determination.

I was suddenly jolted in my thoughts when I faintly heard Tabana telling me to get up as it was time to go back home. I looked around, saw people slowly getting up from their seats, and realized that I had travelled far back in the past with Aapa, seeing a different person from the one sitting before me, in all her glory and glamour. How time changes people, all of us, and we are left but a shadow of our past. All the mischievous glint in our eyes gone for ever. I rose from my seat, went to Aapa and begged her leave. She nodded good bye to me silently.

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