A woman of substance : the memoirs of Begum Khurshid Mirza, 1918-1989 9788189013318, 8189013319

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A Woman of Substance The Memoirs o f Begum Khurshid M irza

(1918-

1989) '

Edited and Com piled by LUBNA KAZIM Foreword by G a il M

in a u l t

-zubaan.

Zubaan an imprint o f Kali for Women K -9 2 ,1st Floor Hauz Khas Enclave NEW DELHI - 110016

© Lubna Kazim, 2005

All rights reserved

Cover design: UzmaMohsin

Typeset at Scribe Consultants, B4/30 Safdaijung Enclave, New Delhi-29 Printed at Raj Press, R 3 Inderpuri, New Delhi 110012

Contents

Preface

vii

Foreword

ix

1 Growing Up in Aligarh

1

2

Papa Mian: June 1874-March 1965

20

3

Farashkhana, the Ancestral Home in Delhi

32

4

The Struggle for Female Education

44

5

Abdullah Lodge, Aligarh

57

6

My Sister, Rasheed Jahan 1905-1952

86

7

An Early Marriage

105

8

On Shikar with Akbar

120

9

Renuka Devi, my Celluloid Identity

136

10

Leaving India

160

11

My Home, a New Country

171

12

Quiet Days in Quetta

186

13

Akbar s Leavetaking

205

14

Years of Fame

214

Remembering Appi and Daddy

232

Afterword

237

For Sheikh Abdullah and Waheed Jahan Begum, Papa Mian and Alabi to generations o f girls who studied at Aligarh Muslim Girls School and College.

Preface

The autobiography of Begum Khurshid Mirza was written for the monthly magazine Herald in a nine-part serial from August 1982 to April 1983 under the tide, ‘The Uprooted Sapling*. Credit is due to the editor, late Razia Bhatti, who encouraged her to write the recollections of a rich and varied life. Later, Khurshid Mirza wanted it to be published as a book since her narrative spanned from 1857 to 1983 and provided an insight into the social conditions of Indian Muslims and the transition to Pakistan. Her biography was therefore much more than an account o f her personal life. Publishers advised her to expand the writing with more details and clarifications and further research. Since she was quite unwell at the time with her condition deteriorating each day, she was unable to take up the task and it fell to us, her daughters, and niece, Shahla Haidar, to develop and complete the manuscript. I undertook the work for over three years, consulting friends and family on my visits to Aligarh and through correspondence. I also found some documentation of the period in two books by Shaikh Abdullah: Sawatiih-i- Umri-i-Abdullah Begum, (1954), and Mushahidat wa Taasurat, (1969). Professor Shamsur Rehman wrote a biography of Shaikh Abdullah tided Hayat-e-Abdullah, (1975) that also provided me with critical background on my grandfather and his education movement for Muslim women in India. I consulted old issues of Khatun and the autobiography of Dr Hamida Saeeduzzafar where it referred to my aunt and

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her sister-in-law, the writer Rashid Jahan. 1 also read Gail Minault’s Secluded Scholars Women's Education and Muslim Social Reform in Colonial India, where she traced the efforts of various late 19th century and early twentieth century reformers to change the mindset of orthodox Muslim society and focus their attention on the need to encourage female education. For clarification, I consulted Munshi Shahid Hussain who is over eighty-years-old and still living with his family in the extended quarters of Abdullah Lodge, Aligarh, as its caretaker. Saleem Abdullah, my mother’s adopted brother, has been another mine of information, and also my cousin, Shahla Haidar. As a result, the informative chapters two, four, and five are largely mine. For reasons of preserving the continuity of the narrative, they have been included in the main text and not moved to the appendix. The photographs that my mother collected over the years, provide another source of visual documentation of the times. Some of them are reproduced here, from her films and from real life that now looks to us like a film set because none of it resembles contemporary reality. This new edition, published by Zubaan, New Delhi, is based on the earlier one ably edited by Samina Choonara, who emotionally became a part of the Abdullah family history as she steeped herself in the narrative. The back-and-forth interactions on additions and deletions were frequent and she remained considerate and thoughtful. This book would not have been here had it not been for her direction and advice. L u b n a K a z im

Lahore December 2004

Foreword

Khurshid Jahan Mirza was the daughter o f Shaikh Abdullah and Waheed Jahan Begum, the founders of Aligarh Women’s College. Her autobiography gives an intimate portrait of an upper middle class Muslim family in India and Pakistan from the early part of the twentieth century until the recent past. While reading her lively and humane story, it is important to keep in mind that although the Abdullahs were in many ways a remarkable family, they were also, in numerous other ways, typical o f the turbulent times in which they lived. The Abdullah family was unusual in several rcspccts. Shaikh Abdullah was a Kashmiri brahmin who converted to Islam and attended Aligarh College in the 1890s, while its founder, Sir Syed Ahmed Khan, was still alive..He was thus a member of Aligarh’s first generation, pioneers in western education among Indian Muslims.1 He was also a pioneer in another way: uprooted from his own faith and community by his own choice, he found a new family in the intellectual community associated with Aligarh College. He studied law at Aligarh and decided to practice his profession in Aligarh as well, in order to continue to serve the cause of Muslim education. In 1902, he married Waheed Jahan, the sister of one of his Aligarh classmates. As their daughter’s autobiography indicates, Waheed Jahan was a woman o f gentle nature and firm ideas. She observed purdah,

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but contrary to the stereotype, she had been educated. Her father, Mirza Ibrahim Beg, believed in education for all o f his children regardless of gender, so he sent his son to Aligarh and educated his daughters at home in Delhi.2 The Abdullahs formed a vital partnership, working together to overcome tremendous initial opposition to the founding of Aligarh Girls’ School, which later expanded to become Aligarh Women’s College. They ran the school as an extension of their own growing family. Begum Abdullah treated the students as her own daughters, and indeed their own five daughters were among the students over the years. The students called one another “Apa” (sister), and Shaikh Abdullah “Papa Mian” and Begum Abdullah “Ala Bi”—parental terms of endearment and respect. This familial spirit was exemplary of the unique atmosphere of Aligarh Women’s College in its first generation, down to the death of Waheed Jahan Begum in 1939. Shaikh Abdullah lived on into his nineties and remained an independent-minded and articulate spokesman for Muslim women’s education. Two of their daughters, Khatoon Jahan and Mumtaz Jahan, served as principals of the women’s college. The Abdullah family was thus a .major proponent of Muslim women’s education in the subcontinent, and active, as well, in the development of professional lives for Miislim women. Shaikh and Begum Abdullah founded an Urdu periodical, Khatun, to champion women’s education and-to chronicle women’s growing involvement in community activities. Their students went into teaching, medicine, social service, and the arts. Their eldest daughter, Rashid Jahan, became a medical doctor and an author o f short stories, one of the original members of the Urdu Progressive Writers movement.3 Khurshid Jahan, as described in her autobiography, acted in Bombay films, and later, in Pakistan, was active in radio and television productions. The women of the family exited purdah, jnot militantly, but because the fullest realization of their educational and professional lives necessitated it. In other respects, the Abdullahs were typical of the educated Indian middle class, much like their contemporaries belonging to other religious communities. The parents struggled to realize

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their goals and to pass their values on to their children. Their five daughters and two sons went to school and college, played childish pranks, engaged in sports and amateur theatricals, married, launched careers, and raised families. The men of the family went into law, civil and military service, and diplomacy. The women pursued careers, but were also bloving wives and mothers. They were transferred from post to post, but assembled for special family occasions. They were faithful to Islam without being doctrinaire; they observed festival occasions, went on pilgrimage, and helped those less fortunate than themselves. Neither apolitical nor particularly activist politically, they supported the independence movement and were buffeted by the upheavals of the partition. Khurshid and her family, who migrated to Pakistan, found themselves separated from other members of the family who remained in India. On visits back to Aligarh, she found herself more at home in the mango grove where Aligarh Women’s College and Abdullah Lodge had been built than in the housing colonies of the busding metropolis of Karachi. This sense of uprootedness and regret has been expressed by many migrants in the other direction as well, and is an eloquent argument in favour o f recognizing the similarities between Indians and Pakistanis regardless of religious community, and an argument against treating members of other religions as aliens, regardless of nationality. Khurshid Mirza’s story describes, very simply, both an extraordinary family and a family whose experiences parallel those of their generation. The Movement for Women’s Education among Indian Muslims The movement for women’s education among Indian Muslims began in the late nineteenth century among men who were intensely aware of the loss of Muslim power to the British and of the need to adapt to changing circumstances. Khurshid Mirza discusses the history of Aligarh Women’s College in chapter four, but some background to Shaikh Abdullah’s pioneering work is doubtless in order.

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Many of the leading social and educational reformers among Indian Muslims were not “westernized” in the educational sense. On the contrary, a number of them had a traditional Islamic education, and only gained knowledge of English, and British ideas and institutions, in later life. They belonged, in general, to that class of persons who had served the former Mughal empire or Muslim princely states as administrators, legal practitioners, or religious preceptors. When the British replaced the Mughals and reduced other princely rulers to subordinate status, this class of men either opposed the new rulers, or found places in the new administration. They were, in other words, a service elite whose traditional education and occupations predisposed them to government service, the law, and other literate professions.4 Among this service elite were Sir Syed Ahmed Khan (1817-1898), the founder, in 1875, of Aligarh College, the premier North Indian Muslim institution of higher learning, and two of his younger contemporaries: the novelist and administrator, Nazir Ahmad Dehlavi (1830-1912), and the poet, Khwaja Altaf Husain Hali (1837-1914). These three men belonged to an older generation, born before the revolt of 1857, and educated in the Islamic religious and literary tradition. They were involved in educational reform in the late nineteenth century and were th*e progenitors of what has become known as the Aligarh movement, concerned mainly with western, education for Muslim men, but also searching for ways to enlighten Muslim home life. Sir Syed Ahmed Khan was a member of the Mughal service elite of Delhi. His grandfather had served the Mughal emperor as vazir (prime minister), and Sir Syed himself had an Islamic education and never learned English. He joined the judicial service of the British East India Company in the 1830s, supported the British during the revolt of 1857, and thereafter concentrated his efforts on bringing about cooperation between the British and their Indian subjects. When he retired from government service, he settled in Aligarh and there started his school for the sons of the Muslim elite. He was less than enthusiastic about Muslim women's education, for men’s

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education was his top priority. He felt that educating women was premature, and any activity at Aligarh in that direction would only create hostility in the Muslim community to his own efforts for men.5 To his credit, however, Sir Syed recognized the benefits of women’s education. In the great days of early Islam, he said, in the time o f the Prophet Muhammad, women had been educated. They could inherit property and had to be able to manage it. Hence, they needed to know not only how to read the scriptures, but also how to write and figure. Islamic civilization hkd fallen on evil days, and thus the status and rights o f women had been abridged— as also their education. This was not true Islam, but the result of adherence to false custom. With the educational advancement of the men of the community, women too would benefit.6 Recalling his own mother, who had some education, Sir Syed noted that she had drilled him in his Persian lessons and had been a firm moral and ethical guide. Sir Syed would agree, therefore, that literacy among women could be the source of religious and intellectual guidance for their children.7 Others were considerably more outspoken on this score, especially Sir Syed’s younger followers, Nazir Ahmad Dehlavi and Altaf Husain ‘Hali’. Nazir Ahmad, best known as a novelist, was born in Bijnore district into a family with a long tradition o f religious learning. In fact, when he went to Delhi to seek an education in the 1840s, his father forbade him to study English. He learned it only later, when he became a Deputy Collector in the British administration. As a means of instructing his own daughters at home, Nazir Ahmad wrote a number o f didactic tales, which he later published and which were among the first novels in the Urdu language. Best known among them is M irat ui-Arus (The Bride’s Mirror), originally published in 1869. It is the story of two sisters, Akbari and Asghari. The elder, Akbari, is uneducated, and a slothful shrew. Her educated younger sister, Asghari, is her polar opposite: a paragon of patience and rectitude. She rescues her in-laws’ finances from the clutches of a dishonest servant, reforms her husband and steers him in the direction o f a high-paying post, and starts a school in her home

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for the girls of the neighbourhood. She remains in purdah, but shows how women’s education can bring light to the darkest corners of the house. Asghari remained the prime fictional model o f the domestic angel that Muslim reformers sought in their educational movement.8 The poet Khwaja Altaf Husain ‘Hali’ came from a family of minor government officials in Panipat. He ran away from home to seek poetic instruction in Delhi, and even though he later served the British as an educator and translator, never knew English Well. In 1874, he published M ajalis un-Nissa (Assemblies of Women), fictionalized conversations among women in a prosperous, urban Muslim household. The women discuss their daily routine and the necessity for women to be educated in order to manage their households, raise their children properly, maintain proper relations with all the members and servants of their families, and be understanding companions to their husbands. The example of all that a woman can be is the heroine of the book, Zubaida Khatun. Educated at home by her father, she can read Arabic, Persian, and Urdu, and keep accounts. Her mother has taught her cooking, sewing, embroidery—all the arts of household management. She is trained to be thrifty and pious and to shun unnecessary rituals and superstitious practices. She raises her only son to be disciplined and resourceful. Zubaida Khatun’s education and her influence on her son make the point that women’s instruction is essential for the regeneration of Muslim community life in a time of rapid change.9 In addition to these three reformers of the pre-1857 generation, North Indian Islam produced a school of reformist ulama in the late nineteenth century, heirs to the reforming tradition of the eighteenth-century divine, Shah Waliullah of Delhi. These reformers, who founded the Deoband school in 1867, sought to improve the quality of Islamic education, to increase personal piety, and to spread the observance of Islamic law (sharia) more widely in the personal lives o f Muslims in India. Their advocacy of a more pristine form of Islam led the Deoband ulama to champion women’s education as a way of

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ridding the culture of many customary practices and superstitions, since women were the primary practitioners of such folk rituals. The leading Deobandi work for women was the tome, Bihishti Zevar (The Ornaments of Paradise) by Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanavi (1864-1943). This book is a veritable encyclopedia of religious and family law, household management, Islamic medicine, and biographies of exemplary women. It also criticized wasteful and un-lslamic customs, though not, of course, purdah. Bihishti Zevar was frequently given to Muslim brides as part of their dowry, to take with them to their marital homes to serve as a guide to religious practice.10 The older generation was succeeded in the post-1857 period by younger men whose education was a mixture of Islamic and western, who became skilled in religious and social controversy — not only vis-a-vis other religious groups, but also against the conservatives of the^r own community. Representative members of this generation were Sayyid Karamat Husain of Lucknow (1854-1917), Sayyid Mumtaz Ali o f Lahore (1860-1935), and Shaikh Abdullah of Aligarh (1874-1965). As these younger men adapted to the increasingly competitive context o f the times, they began to find a growing gap between their professional lives and family life. The women, whether educated at home in a rudimentary fashion, or— more likely— totally uneducated, were ill-equipped to provide companionship to their husbands or guidance to their children. In addition, reformers noted that women were ignorant o f the basic tenets of their faith and tied to elaborate rituals that were wasteful of scarce resources, at a time when the emerging middle class was increasingly mindful of the need for household economy. In this, Muslim reformers once again paralleled the opinions and observations of Hindu social reformers. The tenets of the religions differed, but the attack on superstition and popular ritual were the same.11 In this reformist view, educated women would not only be better companions to their husbands, better moral and ethical guides to their children, and better homemakers, but also better Muslims.

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The post-1857 generation, consequently, needed to do something about women’s education, not just paint portraits in print of the ideal woman in fictional form. These men undertook to found associations to champion women’s education, and they founded schools for girls. They also published books and magazines for newly-literate women to read. Among them were members of Aligarh’s first generation of students, such as Shaikh Abdullah, but also some of their teachers and contemporaries elsewhere. Sayyid Karamat Husain was the first professor of law at Aligarh, and hence was Shaikh Abdullah’s teacher. He came from a family with a long tradition of Islamic learning, and with land holdings in Bara Banki district, near Lucknow. Karamat Husain lost both his parents in childhood and was brought up and given an Islamic education in Lucknow by his paternal uncle, a distinguished Shi*a divine. His education was thus totally in the Islamic classical tradition. He was in his twenties before he learned English, while teaching at a college for native princes in Bundelkhand. Thereafter, Karamat Husain served in a variety o f posts in Central India. He was appointed chief clerk to the British political agerv, and earned a reputation for efficiency and incorruptibility. In the early 1880s, he became diwan (finance minister) of the state o f Narsinghghar. While there, he expressed the desire to go to England to study medicine. The Raja offered to finance his studies, but the British agent argued that if state revenues were to be used for the purpose, Karamat Husain should study something that would benefit the state administration, namely law. So in 1886, at the age of 32, he enrolled at London’s Middle Temple. Karamat Husain became a Barrister-at-Law in 1889, returned to India, and established his practice in Allahabad, seat of the UP High Court.12 While in England, Sayyid Karamat Husain had his first contact with a society in which women played accepted social roles. He concluded that the best way for India to progress was for the women to be educated. His own family situation was a lonely one. An orphan, he had married the daughter of one of

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his teachers while still in his teens. The couple had one daughter. His wife died young, and his daughter, who lived into adulthood, did not survive him. His efforts for women’s education were thus motivated, not by any desire for personal advantage, but by deep sympathy, perhaps generated by his bereavements. When he returned to India, therefore, he worked tirelessly for the cause of women’s education. He became a member of the Muhammadan Educational Conference, proposing its first resolution in favour of women’s education at its 1891 meeting in Aligarh. He was also instrumental in establishng the women’s education section of the Muhammadan Educational Conference in 1896, headed by Sayyid Mumtaz Ali until 1902, when Shaikh Abdullah took over the position. In the late 1890s as well, Karamat Husain helped found the Crosthwaite Girls’ School in Allahabad. Meanwhile, at the Allahabad High Court in 1890, Karamat Husain had met Justice Sayyid Mahmood, the son of Sir Syed Ahmed Khan. At that time, Aligarh College was looking for a professor of law. Karamat Husain impressed Mahmood as one learned in both Islamic and British law, and thus he recommended Husain for the professorship. He taught at Aligarh until 1896, and among his students were a number of men active in Muslim political and educational life in the next generation, including Shaikh Abdullah. Thereafter, Husain returned to his legal practice in Allahabad, and was appointed a judge of the High Court in 1908. He served on the bench until 1912, when he retired. Between 1912 and his death in 1917, he devoted his time and energy to founding a Muslim Girls’ School in Lucknow, under the patronage of the Raja of Mahmudabad, a leader of the Muslim League and a prominent taluqdar (landlord). Karamat Husain’s philosophy of education, as enunciated in his writings and speeches at the time, was that for the training and health of future generations, it was more important to educate daughters than sons. Further, if women were educated, many superstitions and useless customs that had crept into the culture would disappear. His school in Lucknow provided for the observance of purdah by its students, and

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required religious instruction and regular prayers. In the original plans for the curriculum, the girls were to be taught to read Arabic and Persian as well as Urdu— their mother tongue, and English. Over the years, the school evolved into a standard intermediate, and then a degree college. After its founders death, the school was renamed the Karamat Husain Girls’ College.13 Sayyid Karamat Husain, similar to a number of reformers, came from a background in the service elite and combined Islamic and English education. He attracted a number of influential patrons, and was able to gain acceptance from religious scholars, western- educated Indians, and British administrators. He attained high judicial office and was able to champion the cause of women's education, giving it the prestige of his concern. His educational ideas echoed those of a number of reformers, and he fostered the careers of younger men involved in the women's education section of the Muhammadan Educational Conference, including Mumtaz Ali and Shaikh Abdullah. He was a pivotal figure. Sayyid Mumtaz Ali, in addition to being the first secretary of the women’s education section, as mentioned above, was the founder in 1898 of the first Urdu newspaper for women, Tahzib un- Niswan (The Women’s Reformer) of Lahore. His wife, Muhammadi Begum, became editor of the journal. They had a partnership similar to that of the Abdullahs, working together to make their cause a success. Mumtaz Ali's educational background was also a combination of Islamic and western. He came from a learned family of government officials, who had intellectual and religious ties to the Deoband school, and lands in Saharanpur district in western UP. He had his early education in Arabic, and then had studied briefly at the Deoband school, but completed his education in the Punjab, where his father was in the judicial service. He learned English and attended Lahore Government High School. As a young man, he took part in the religious debates then raging among members of different religious groups: Muslims, Christian missionaries, and Arya Samajis. This activity prompted him to correspond with Sir Syed Ahmed Khan, who encouraged Mumtaz Ali to hone his debating

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skills when addressing Muslims as well. Under the combined influences o f Deoband and Aligarh, therefore, Mumtaz Ali became adept at controversy, the author o f religious pamphlets, and in the 1890s, the proprietor of thcipublishing firm, the Dar ul-Ishaiat-i-Punjab.14 Also in the mid- 1890s, Mumtaz Ali's wife died, leaving him with two small children to raise. He had taught her to read and write, and so for a second wife, he .sought an educated women. In 1897, he married the daughter of distant relatives, Muhammadi Begum, who had been-educated at home by her father and brothers in the somewhat haphazard manner of the times: she had memorized passages from the Quran and could read Urdu. She had also learned to: write letters in Urdu and to keep household accounts, and she could cook, sew, and embroider. After their marriage, Mumtaz Ali continued her instruction at home while together they launched his publishing venture. One of the first books they published was Mumtaz Ali's treatise on women's rights in Islamic Uw, Huquq un-Niswan (Women’s Rights). From his religious, debates, Mumtaz Ali was conscious o f British criticism of Islam (and other Indian religions) for the low status they accorded to women. He also knew that the position of women in Islamic law was theoretically much higher than their status was in fact. The cause of this discrepancy, he concluded (with other reformers) was adherence to false custom. Not only did women's observance of custom have to be combatted, but so too did men's view that keeping women in ignorance and isolation was required by their religion. Such a view betrayed a lack of understanding o f Islam, as well as a mistrust of women that was injurious to family life and social progress. In Huquq un-Ni$wan> consequendy, he called upon his knowledge of the Quran and prophetic tradition {hadith) to reinterpret Islamic personal law, to champion women's education, to advocate egalitarian relations between men and women in marriage, and to condemn polygamy and easy divorce. He argued that common assumptions about women’s intellectual

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and moral inferiority were not part of scripture nor religious law. He did not advocate the abolition of purdah, but noted that modest behavior was enjoined for both sexes in the Quran; his major quarrel was with a double standard of morality. His egalitarian views on Muslim personal relations were well in advance of their times, however; thus Huquq un-Niswan had litde impact upon public opinion.15 More significant was Mumtaz Ali and Muhammadi Begum's weekly Urdu newspaper for women, Tahzib un-Niswan. Just before Sir Syed Ahmed Khan's death in 1898, Mumtaz Ali wrote to him concerning his desire to start such a publication. Sir Syed discouraged him, saying it was a thankless task, but suggested the name Tahzib un- Niswan, similar to that of his own social reform journal, Tahzib ul-Akhlaq (The Social Reformer) of Aligarh. The journal did, indeed, have an initial struggle to survive, but then succeeded and lasted well into the 1950s, under the direction of Mumtaz Ali and his descendants. It changed the lives of thousands of purdah- observing women by giving them a window on the world beyond the narrow confines o f their homes. It contained news items, useful information on household management and child-rearing, creative writing by women (poetry as well as prose), and articles on social and educational reform activities. The editor of Tahzib was Muhammadi Begum, who wrote many of the articles on such topics as nutrition, sanitation, etiquette, and personal relations. Major themes were the reform and simplification of custom, and the need to eliminate wasteful expenditure on rituals, dowry, and ornaments. Also appearing regularly were Mumtaz Ali’s discussions of women’s rights in Islamic law and the need for women's education. The weekly format made possible a lot of communication between the journal and its readers; a letters-to-the-editor section was particularly popular. Other items included notices of women's meetings, summaries of speeches, and fundraising appeals for schools. The style of Tahzib was conversational, the vocabulary clear and simple. As the years went by, the number of topics and the range of vocabulary both expanded, reflecting advances in

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women's education and their increased involvement in a variety o f causes beyond the home. Muhammadi Begum was also the author of a number of didactic novels in the Nazir Ahmad mould, and a poet. She helped make her husband's publishing venture a success, raised his two children and bore their own son, Imtiaz Ali Taj, later an influential Urdu playwright. Unfortunately, Muhammadi Begum died young, leaving Mumtaz Ali a widower for the second time in 1908.16 Completing this trio of educational reformers was Shaikh Abdullah. It is important to realize that he was not alone in his desire to improve women’s education in the Indian Muslim community, for without supporters, his venture in starting a girls' school in Aligarh could not have been successful. He was a product of the Aligarh movement, active while still a student in a number of social service organizations, and was seeking a solution to a problem that he and a number of his contemporaries and fellow students at Aligarh College felt acutely: the desire for educated wives to be companions and helpmates, and mothers of the next generation. It is also important, however, to recognize that Shaikh Abdullah was uniquely successful in a particularly difficult venture. He took over the women's education section of the Muhammadan Educational Conference in 1902 from Mumtaz Ali, who had not had much success in gaining support or patronage for a girls' school in Lahore, and who was, in any case, preoccupied with making a success of his publishing enterprise. Karamat Husain was successful in founding girls' schools in Allahabad and Lucknow, both fairly large cities with readily available clientele. But as a British-trained barrister and later high court judge, Karamat Husain also had the prestige to attract wealthy patrons. Shaikh Abdullah, on the other hand, sought to start a girls' school in a small town where the clientele was limited and patrons few, and he wished to do so in the shadow of Aligarh College —whose authorities were by no means pleased with the idea of a girls' school nearby to distract their boys. Shaikh Abdullah proved to be a superb organizer and eloquent spokesman for his cause. He was also hard to discourage, and

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capable of rallying patronage both from the middle class of the Muslim community and from princely figures such as the Begum of Bhopal. Having done that, he then went to the British authorities, and got their support as well.17 Throughout his career, his wife Waheed Jahan Begum aided him. She helped found the journal Khatun in 1904. In 1905, in connection with the annual meeting o f the Muhammadan Educational Conference, she and Shaikh Abdullah organized an exhibition of handicrafts by Muslim women and held a meeting o f educated Muslim women from all over the country, as ways o f calling attention to the talents and educational needs o f the women of their community. In 1906, her family in Delhi helped find a teacher for the original girls’ school in Aligarh town. Begum Abdullah and her sister also taught at the school. She went to the school daily to help supervise it, assuring that purdah was carefully observed, thereby helping to overcome opposition in the community. Heavily curtained transport was provided to and from the school for the students, and religious instruction and prayers were required. Shaikh Abdullah, for his part, wrote and spoke tirelessly about the need for girls o f good family to attend school, where they could get a better education than at home. A deputation of Aligarh College boys who favoured girls’ education journeyed to Bombay and collected donations from wealthy Muslims. The UP government gave a grant-in-aid after the Begum of Bhopal gave the school a monthly grant. Over the years, the school grew. At its founding in 1906, Aligarh Girls* School had only seventeen students who studied Urdu reading and writing, basic arithmetic, the Quran, and needlework. Six months later, there were fifty-six students on the rolls. By 1909, the school had approximately a hundred students and had to move to a larger building. Shaikh Abdullah then started planning for a boarding school. With a government grant and contributions raised from individuals, he was able to buy land near Aligarh College and begin construction of a hostel building that was formally inaugurated by the Begum of Bhopal in 1914. The boarding school was designed for the strict observance of purdah, with high walls, but also with plenty of space for

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exercise, in order to promote the good health of the students. This school eventually added more hostels, and grew into the Women’s College of Aligarh Muslim University, instituting intermediate classes in 1925, and degree classes in 1937. With its spacious buildings in the mango grove not far from Sir Syed’s college, Aligarh Women’s College is a fitting monument to the memory of its visionary founder, his equally dedicated wife, and their remarkable family.18 Khurshid Mirza's autobiography supplies details about life as a member of the Abdullah family and as a student at the college. Her career, too, is in many ways exceptional, but in other ways eloquent testimony to the expanded horizons and capabilities of educated Muslim women of her generation. As a personal note, 1 might add that Khurshid Mirza and her sisters in India, Mumtaz Jahan Haidar and Khatoon Jahan Qamrain, very graciously aided my research into the history of Muslim women’s education in the subcontinent.19 Khurshid Apa introduced me to many members of the Aligarh Old Girls’ Association of Karachi and to her daughters Lubna and Shabnam and their families in Pakistan. In Aligarh, Mumtaz Apa welcomed me to Abdullah Lodge, introduced me to the Indian members of the family and to the school, and gave me access to their family papers. I mourn the passing of these extraordinary women, and I am grateful for the friendship of Shahla Haidar, whose home has become my home whenever I visit New Delhi. I was greatly honoured when the family asked me to write this foreword. I hope that this brief, selective history of the movement for Muslim women’s education in India during the past century hints at the many dimensions and some of the personalities involved in this important work, and helps to put Shaikh Abdullah’s path-breaking work into its context. G a il M i n a u l t

Austin, Texas December 2004

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Notes 1. On the history o f Aligarh College in this period, see David Lelyveld, Aligarh’s First Generation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978). 2. Gail Minault, “Shaikh Abdullah, Begum Abdullah and Sharif Education for Girls at Aligarh,” in Imtiaz Ahmad, ed., Modernization and Social Chang: among Muslims in India (New Delhi: Manohar, 1983), pp. 207-236. 3* Carlo Coppola, “The All-India Progressive Writers’ Association,** and Ahmad Ali, uThe Progressive Writers* Movement and Creative Writers in Urdu,” both in Carlo Coppola, ed., M arxist Influences and South Asian Literature (East Lansing: Michigan State University, Asian Studies Center, Occasional Paper #23, Winter 1974), Vol. I, pp. 1-34, 35-43. 4. C.A. Bayly discusses the Muslim “service gentry” in his Rulers, Townsmen and Bazaars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), pp. 189-93, 346-368. $. See Sir Syed’s testimony before the Indian Education Commission, in Report o f the Indian Education Commission, App. Vol.: Report for the Northwestern Provinces and Oudh with Testimony (Calcutta: Govt, of India, 1884), p. 300. 6. Syed Ahmed Khan, M aqalat-i-Sir Syed, ed. by M. Ismail Panipati (Lahore: Majlis-e-Taraqqi-e-Adab, 1962), Vol. V, pp. 188-98. 7. C. Shackle, English Translation o f Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan’s *$irat-i-Faridiya \ Islamic Culture, 46, 3 (October 1972), pp. 307-336. 8. The English translation o f M irat ul-Arus is G.E. Ward, The Bride's Mirror (New edn. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2001); cf. C.M. Naim, “Prize-Winning Adab,” in Barbara Metcalf, ed., Moral Conduct and Authority (Berkeley: University o f California Press, 1984), pp. 290-314. 9. I have translated H alfs M ajalis un-Nissa as Voices o f Silence (Delhi: Chanakya Publications, 1986). 10. Barbara Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860-1900 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982); Barbara Metcalf has also translated parts o f Bihishti Zevar as Perfecting Women (Berkeley: University o f California Press, 1990). 11. Kenneth W. Jones, “Socio-Religious Movements and Changing Gender Relationships among Hindus o f British India,” in James W.

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12.

13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

18. 19.

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Bjorkman, ed., Fundamentalism, Revivalists and Violence in South Asia (New Delhi: Manohar, 1988), pp. 40-56. Hamid Ali Khan, Hayat-i-Maulana Karamat Husain (Lucknow: Al-Nazir Press, n.d.); cf. Gail Minault, “Sayyid Karamat Husain and Education for Women," in V. Graff, ed., Lucknow Through the Ages (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 155-164. Minault, “Karamat Husain and Education for Women.” Gail Minault, "Sayyid Mumtaz Ali and Tahzib un-Niswan: Women’s Rights in Islam and Women’s Journalism in Urdu," in Kenneth W. Jones, ed., Religious Controversy in British India: Dialogues in South Asian Languages (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1992), pp. 179-199; Files o f Tahzib un-Niswan (Lahore), 1898AF. S. Mumtaz Ali, Huquq un-Niswan (Lahore: Dar ul-Isha‘iat-e~ Punjab, 1898); Gail Minault, “Sayyid Mumtaz Ali and ‘Huquq unNiswan: An Advocate o f Women's Rights in Islam in the Late Nineteenth Century," Modem Asian Studies 24, 1 (Feb. 1990), pp. 147-72. Minault, “Mumtaz Ali and Tahzib un-Niswan.n Sources for the lives o f Shaikh Abdullah and Begum Abdullah include Shaikh Abdullah's autobiography, Mushahidat wa Ta'asurat (Aligarh: Female Education Society, 1969); and his biography o f his wife, Sawanih-i-Umri-i-AbduUah Begum (Aligarh: Privately Printed, 1954). Minault, “Shaikh Abdullah, Begum Abdullah, and SharifEducation for Girls at Aligarh." For a fuller history o f the movement for women’s education among Indian Muslims, see Gail Minault, Secluded Scholars: Women's Education and Muslim Social Reform in Colonial India (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998).

1 Growing Up in Aligarh

In the house of Shaikh Abdullah, a leading advocate o f Aligarh, a sixth child was bom on 4 March, 1918. It was a girl, unwelcome according to local Muslim custom, but Shaikh Abdullah’s soli (sister-in-law), exercising her privilege, mischievously informed him that it was a boy. Immediately, eleven shots were Bred into the air to announce the happy occasion, before it was disclosed that the child was actually a girl, and far too wide-awake for a newborn. That baby was I, named Khurshid Jahan according to the Mughal lineage of my maternal grandparents. Some of the impressions of my earliest days are indelibly imprinted in my memory. We lived in a big, rented town house behind Rasalganj Bazaar in Aligarh. Monkeys abounded in the huge neem and gooler trees around the walled-in purdah section o f our house. I must have been three-years-old at the time. One of my earliest recollections is sitting on a bare charpoy with fresh, hot jalebis in front of me since toast, butter, and tea for breakfast had not yet come into vogue, and people generally began their day with a meal of either paratha or puri and sweets or fresh fruit and milk. My B#a, or female attendant, had gone to the kitchen to fetch milk for me when suddenly, a large monkey, twice my size, descended from the gooler and, with practised ease, caught my tiny hands in one huge paw and, with the other, walked off with the leaf-wrapped jalebi most haughtily.

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I set up a wail, more through frustration than fright, as Bua ran after the monkey with a stick, but clearly these creatures were not afraid of women. Boldly, the monkey sat on the tiled roof of the kitchen eating my sweets, with a watchful eye on me. I have hated monkeys since that day. To me, they seem like loathsome caricatures of mankind and vanity prevents me, to this day, from accepting the scientific theory of evolution. Another scene emerges out of the mists of memory: I was about four-years-old, and being a spirited child, often ran out of the house to play in the grounds. There had been a spate of kidnappings in Aligarh where the kidnappers usually visited the homes of their intended victims in the guise of old beggars with flowing beards. To prevent me from playing outdoors, 1 was warned by parents and other elders that such budhayf or old men, caught little girls and put them in sacks before carrying them away. The fear of old men became so ingrained in my child's mind that it led to two hilarious incidents. My maternal uncle, Mirza Bashir Beg, often photographed the ladies of the house and developed the film himself since no male photographer was allowed where the purdah observing ladies lived. My father would tease him about this hobby because it was something of a hit-and miss-affair. Vo mamun jan musavir Jo misal nahin rakhtey Khichi jin say na ek tasvir Samoan go hain sab rakhtay. (Mamun Jan, the photographer, who remains unparalleled Is unable to take a photograph, despite all the equipment.) Some of the photographs have survived to this day but most o f them came out blurred. One of his better pictures shows his three nieces, Rashid Jahan, Khatoon Jahan, and Mumtaz Jahan standing with his nephew, Mohsin Abdullah, reclining in the foreground. The photograph was taken in 1917, where the young women are dressed in the latest Bombay fashion: lehenga, loose kurta, with a trailing dupatta that covers the head.

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On one occasion, my unde brought his big camera with its black hood to the house and called everyone to sit for a family photograph. Our family comprised Amma, my mother, my spinster aunt (Amma Jan to us), Papa, and his seven children. Rashid Jahan, my eldest sister, whispered in my ear that a budha was hiding under the black hood o f the camera. I have a vague memory of utter panic, of screaming and running to clutch my father’s legs, begging him to lift me up and save me. This fear o f old men played so heavily on my mind that my family had to clarify the position o f my elder aunt’s bearded husband! 1 was reassured that a family budha was harmless, whereas the budha in the bazaar could be very dangerous. One day, one of my father’s friends, a bearded man, came to visit him. Papa got up to ask the ladies in the other part o f the house to send in refreshments. I stood holding on to the arm of Papa’s chair prepared for instant flight if danger threatened, but also determined to find out the status of this friend. ‘A re you a fam ily budha o r a bazaari budha?’ I asked him

outright. The friend was puzzled, and when Papa returned, asked him the meaning of this question. Papa was a man who seldom showed his feelings but he could not contain his laughter on this occasion. His friend joined in and both laughed with handkerchiefs held to their streaming eyes. I was formally introduced to the friend and he assured me that he was a family budha and quite harmless. Papa was no poet, as he used to say, yet he wrote several humourous couplets on my uncle’s efforts and the episode of the budha. Yeh maina ka sa tutiana—yeh nanhi si ada teri, bata tu kis nay bakhshi hai—-yeh soorat khushnuma teri daratay hain tujhe budhay say teray meharban saaray bala say unkee dar jaay chupay ya khauf kay maray ghazab hai teri masumi—ke mehma(n) say tu ja poochay, keh ghar kay aap hain budhay—ke hain bazaar ke budhay pakar te hain mujhe budhay—jo hain bazaar se aatay gharon men jo ke rahtay hain— kis ko kab sata-tay hain.

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(This lisping like a maina, this childlike demeanour Tell me who has granted this beautiful face o f yours Your loved ones tease you to be scared o f old men Not caring if you hide though fear Or in utter innocence go and ask the visitor If he was an old man of the house or the street. ‘For they will catch me if they come from the bazaar, But who has heard of home-bound budha hurting anyone/) My childhood memories would not be complete without introducing Colonel Haidar Khan who had been a kind of foster parent to me since I was two years old. Haidar Sahibs motorcycle was a familiar sight around Civil Lines and the university area, with the tiny Khurshid perched in front o f him on the handlebars. He took me to the homes of all his English friends— the Collector, the Civil Surgeon, and the Superintendent of Police, among others. The locals often called him Pukka Sahib> and some people composed humourous rhymes about him. Each year, when it was time for Holi, the Hindu sweepers would rub chalk on their faces and imitate an Englishman. A comedy play was prepared for the festival where * the “Englishman” sang that he did not like eating local food but an English breakfast. The comedy was a hit, watched from behind the rattan blinds by the women in purdah that included Amma, women school teachers, and the hostel girls, while we, the children, stood outside in the verandah. Amidst the beat of cymbals, Lachman, who looked after the horses, sang and danced, wearing someone's cast-off suit, boots, and a bowler hat, in a parody of Haidar Sahib. H aidar Mister ho gaya hum London jan a mangta Dal-roti naheen khata Hum tosh khana mangta. (I've become like Haidar Mister And want to go to London

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5

I will not cat dal-roti But a royal English breakfast.) This extraordinary man read at Cambridge in his youth and was quite westernized in his behaviour and ideas. Colond Haidar became the Head of Department in Chemistry at Aligarh Muslim University and was one of the most popular professors. His students, many of whom are still alive, have held high civil and military posts in Pakistan. Whenever Haidar Sahib went to England, which was generally every other year, he brought me beautiful dresses and toys. He joined our family when he married my elder sister Mumtaz Jahan in 1934. 1 must have been about four when I had my first brush with the supernatural. I was ill with malaria and Amma was busy looking after the guests who had come from all over India to attend the Ladies Educational Conference. I was left in the charge of Bua in the room adjacent to the assembly hall. Several important guests came to the educational conference, including the Tayyabjis from Bombay, Abul Kalam Azad's two sisters from Bhopal, Atiya Faizi and Zohra Faizi, both well-known painters, Begum Raza Ali, and Saeed Begum from Delhi, and many other politically active and learned women from all over India. I woke up with an excruciating headache and, finding no one near me, called out to my mother. Immediately, I felt soft, loving hands applying gende pressure to my temples, caressing them, and slowly lulling me back to sleep. The next day, my fever abated and I thanked my mother, explaining to her: ‘Amma, I had such a terrible headache and no one was near me, so I called you. When you came and pressed my head, I became well again/ My mother looked at Bua quizzically and asked, ‘Did you leave Bibi for a while, Tameezan?’ Amma’s face bore a faraway expression when she picked me up and held me close. ‘Khurshid/ she explained, ‘when children are ill and alone, God sends His angels to look after them. Do you understand?’ she asked gendy. ‘I was not with you, your Bua was not with

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you, but the angels were beside you. So don’t ever be afraid. God will always look after you and never leave you alone.* My mother's words have stayed with me. As I grew older, I heard many strange things about the room in which I had Lun as a sick child. Some say the site where our house was built had been an ancient graveyard that had been dug up and levelled with all the bones interred in a common grave. There are many similar incidents recounted by people. Undoubtedly, most people scoff at them, but I believe that there was, and maybe still is, a benevolent presence there to safeguard the dwellers. By the time I was five-years-old, the women and young girls o f the family often travelled from the hostel to our house in Rasalganj in a two-horse carriage that had shutters to preserve the state o f purdah yet allow fresh air to come in. There were two other similar carriages to bring the day scholars to the Girls' School every day. These carriages served as our “school bus”, the earlier mode of transportation for the day scholars being a bullock can with fixed benches, driven by Budhu Khan. It was great fun for children because it was like a see-saw, the passengers were flung this way and that, depending on the direction in which the can lurched. We used the can (which is preserved in the archives of the Muslim Girls College in Aligarh) when the carriage was not available. I remember one incident when my spinster aunt, my sisters, cousins and I were travelling in it. A big white sheet was tied around the carriage to observe purdah. As we came onto the railway tracks the sheet became entangled in one of the wheels, and the cart could not move forward or back. My sister Rashid Jahan, always the practical one, jumped down from the cart shouting ‘Get out*. We all jumped down and ran to safety while she tugged and pulled at the sheet and managed to free the wheels before the train roared through. When we took our places in the cart again, my aunt said, *Rashida were you not ashamed to get all o f us outside, there were so many men staring at us?’ Even in face o f danger, my aunt worried more about purdah being maintained than our safery.

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Right beside the kitchen wall was a big gooler tree which provided a natural ladder to agile children. We would climb up and down the roof to get at the ripe red fruit of the gooler. The fruit looks like figs but, when split open, hundreds of tiny insects fly out. We would eat the fruit along with its insects because Amma Begum, (my eldest aunt, Sikander Jahan) told us that they were good for our eyes. A bit of a daredevil and a braggart, one day I climbed the highest branch of the neem. I was completely at ease at that height, often carrying a book up there or even something to eat. Once, while I was balancing myself on a thin branch wondering whether it would bear my weight, mother walked past right under the tree, spotting me in mid-flight. With a stick in her hand, she ordered me to come down immediately. I had torn a new kurta only a day earlier, and guessing what was in store for me, 1 swung my legs across a stout branch and hung upside down, clapping my hands and shouting, "Look, Amma, 1 can hang like a bat!’ The trick worked and Amma became so terrified that I would fall, in which case I would have surely broken my neck, that she promised she would not give me a good hiding, if only I would climb down carefully. I immediately caught a slender branch and swung down from it. Sure enough, it bore my weight, and I had to jump only about four feet to land at her feet, grinning with glee. All she said in her relief was, 'I thought you hated monkeys but you are no better yourself!’ Fifty years ago, children were brought up very differendy. Mostly, they were left to their own devices to amuse themselves in large troupes of siblings and cousins, both maternal and paternal. Suffering from boredom, *a complaint heard so frequently today, was unknown to us. There was no television at the time, no movies, and no video games. We were unfamiliar with most indoor games. In many ways, we were brought up like true children of nature. The outdoors, with the changing moods of the seasons, was our constant companion and playmate and, as children, we used all our imaginative powers to devise games to suit the season.

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With the first raindrops of the monsoon, we would scamper out of the house beating time on sticks and singing loudly: Kalay danday peelay danday barsen gay, barsaen gay, kori khet lagaen gay pani gaya khet men kori gaee rait mein. As we were growing up, there was no awareness of others who were better off than us, no concept of giving up on wholesome, home cooked meals for eating out of the house. The aangan, or the inner courtyard, was our first hockey field, where we played games with our brothers, their friends, and various cousins. Among the boys, including my brothers, I could barely hold my own in games but with the girls I easily excelled. I formed my own group and led it into all kinds of mischief. The girls’ hostel compound had three huge mango trees of which two bore fruit. Unfortunately for the tree, the fruit was never allowed to ripen because summer afternoons were mangoraiding time. When the matron retired to her room for a brief siesta after checking that the girls were not outside in the heat, it was time for us to steal out. I would climb up the tree, pick the fruit, and throw it down to my friends who waited at its foot. Then we would get together in one room and eat the unripe mangoes with salt and red pepper. Oddly* I never developed a taste for unripe mangoes and stole them mainly for my friends. One day, as luck would have it, Amma made a visit to the girls’ hostel to inquire into the health of a boarder who was unwell. It was two in the afternoon and very hot, but Amma could not rest at home in her cool, darkened room if a child was sick. The sight of her grim appearance was enough to make the girls waiting at the bottom of the tree race to their rooms but, since I was caught in an awkward position standing alone at the top of the mango tree, I was punished and had to forfeit a week’s pocket money. Saeed Jahan, whom we called Amma Jan, was a spinster aunt

GROWING UP IN AUGARH

9

who lived with us and was in charge of the food rations: she ran the kitchen of our large household. She believed in feeding children as litde as possible so they would not get cholera, particularly during the mango season. One summer, when the mango orchard was producing fruit by the bushels, we were still not allowed more than one mango at a time. This did not suit us at all and my brother, Saeed, made a plan to raid the attic where the raw mangoes were stored in hay to allow them to ripen. There was no electricity in Aligarh at the dme and in summer the hot afternoons were spent in a darkened room where the khus blinds were kept watered by the servants. This made the rooms really cool and the older members of the household usually took an afternoon nap. Amma Jan was wary of our pranks and, just to make sure we stayed indoors, she asked Biji and I to press her feet. We knew that it generally took fifteen minutes before Amma Jan was snoring loudly and we could creep out of the room to join Saeed. One afternoon, when Biji and I slipped out as arranged, we went right up to the first floor where the mangoes were stored. To our surprise and chagrin, the room was bolted from inside. The only way in was if someone walked up the ledge outside the windows to that room, broke a window pane, and opened the door from inside. The ledge outside the windows was large, about six inches wide, and extremely hot to naked feet in the afternoon sun but 1 thought it would be quite an adventure and volunteered to ‘walk the plank*. Putting my hand right through the broken window pane, I turned the lock and jumped inside to open the door to others. Very soon, we had selected some prize mangoes and were eating them, soft and runny with juice, out on the hot ledge. For all our precautions, we were caught by Amma Jan on a mere suspicion because she thought a quantity of ripe mangoes was missing. Taking me by the arm, she first tried to smell my mouth and then angrily accused me of being a thief. This sparked me off and 1 rallied a curt response: 'Amma Jan, eating mangoes from our own orchard is surely not stealing/

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My words seemed to have an electrifying effect upon her, and Amma Jan looked stricken. She immediately dragged me to my mother, threw the bunch of keys at her feet, and said tearfully: "Waheed Jahan, I have had enough of your children! Today, Khurshid has told me that 1 have no right over the mangoes, tomorrow she will announce that I have no right to live in her house/ Saying this, she burst into tears and 1 realized that without meaning to 1 had been cruel. I immediately embraced her saying, T m sorry, Amma Jan, I did not mean to hurt you, but you give us only two mangoes every day and we wanted to eat more/ Between her tears and my apologies, she asked, 4Did you put them in cold water before eating them?* 1 confessed that I had not, that we had eaten the mangoes without chilling them first. That changed the atmosphere from anger to panic and she fretted that we might have contracted cholera. Everyone was forced to drink iced milk to counter the effects of the hot mangoes and even though 1 hated milk, 1 gulped it down heroically in order to pacify my aunt. Meanwhile, my mother kept silent, not uttering a word in the tussle between aunt and niece but she quietly increased our quota to two mangoes after each meal. 1 must have been about nine when Amma allowed Saeed to escort Birjis and myself to Delhi to spend three or four days with our grandmother, Ammanbi, at Farashkhana. We left on our own without a guardian on a three-hour train journey, hoping to play all sorts of pranks on unsuspecting fellow travellers, like pretending we were orphans or runaway children escaping the persecution of a stepmother. However, none o f this ever came to pass because our old driver and retainer, Bashir, took us to the station in the car, bought our tickets, and sat us in the thirdclass compartment where there were loads of other passengers. He spoke to the simple village folk and impressed upon them that we were the children of a very important family travelling in this compartment for safety, and that it was their duty to see that we arrived unharmed in Delhi where we would be met by a family member. I am sure that my mother gave him no such

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instructions, but Bashir assumed a supervisor’s role when he was given responsibility. As a result, we had a most uneventful journey and arrived in Delhi to be met at the station and taken direcdy to Farashkhana where my widowed grandmother lived with a small retinue of women servants. Another time Amma allowed us an overnight stay was when Birjis and 1 went to Lucknow with Shahida’s paternal aunt, Pali Khalla. Shahida was my best friend and later became my sister-in-law. Pali Khalla’s brother, Syed Ainuddin Sahib, was posted as City Magistrate in Lucknow and he took us to see the famous matam procession at Tal Katora. His tent was pitched along the route taken by tazias and matam processions, and when we came out of the tent to look at the passing tazias, I heard a male voice saying, ‘Why don’t your parents put you in purdah?’ Surprised at such uncalled for rudeness, we turned to see two good-looking men in their thirties, reclining against a tree. I replied politely that we were too young to wear a burqa. ‘Not so young either,’ said one of them cheekily. ‘In our family, we put girls of eight behind purdah.’ Biji was pulling at my sleeve, urging me to come inside the tent, but I had to have the last word. ‘Do you?’ I inquired sweetly ‘Thank God, we don’t belong to your family.’ With this parting shot, we entered the tent, leaving two shocked men behind us. Although I had made light of it, the issue of purdah was a serious one and, when I was twelve, Papa Mian broached the subject with my mother. I protested vehemendy and found a supporter in Amma. She responded to my father with a sly smile: ‘Dulha Mian,’ she said, since this was the way she addressed her husband, ‘1 am in purdah and shall observe it in front of your friends till the day I die. Maybe, the elder girls will have to wear a burqa in Aligarh but these two younger ones never will, except for when they go out with the hostel girls. I have seen too much harm done to girls in purdah-observing homes. Most of them

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become tubercular through lack of fresh air. The time is gone when we put little girls like Khurshid behind purdah.’ To this day, it amazes me how my mother, who came from an orthodox Mughal family and had never travelled very far from where she was born, had ideas more modern than her husband, an educated man. After that, the question o f my wearing a burqa was dropped permanendy. In the late twenties, a few Muslim men had brought their wives and daughters out of purdah. Prominent among them were Syed Sajjad Haidar Yuldrum, Registrar of the Muslim University and a noted writer. His wife, Nazar Sajjad Haidar Sahiba, was a well- known writer whose articles in Tehzeeb-i-Niswan were read with interest and with the publication of her novel, Hirman Naseeb, she had gained recognition as an acclaimed novelist. I remember the first time I ever saw Nazar Sahiba. She was wearing a sari with the pallu round her head, fixed to her shoulder with a brooch. She was sporting a pince-nez from which dangled a fine gold chain which she clipped to her hair. Although I saw her many times after that, the first image is the one I have retained over the years. Nazar Sahiba was a close friend of my mother’s and even after she left Aligarh with her husband for Hyderabad Deccan, they continued to correspond. She never forgot to send me her love and called me her nightingale instead of a koel because, she said, in the English language the koel is either a brain-fever bird or a magpie. At the boarding school, I lived with Biji and Shahida, coming home only on special occasions and on holidays. Life was busy and interesting changes were afoot in .school with several old students now on the faculty. Being young and enthusiastic, these women introduced innovations to the curriculum and to the general management of the college, confident that they knew where to draw the line since they had been educated at the school and understood its limitations. One o f the best changes that the young staff introduced was to have a lasting effect on my life. It was a monthly programme of theatre activities that were to be organized, produced, and acted by each class in turn.

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The seeds of my acting and singing took root in school and I owe much to the generous encouragement of the teachers. The chorus group we put together became most popular and other classes started asking us to perform for them as well. We did not stop at musical performances but also composed the verses to the musical score. Gradually, we started writing and producing plays. Our litde group was given a chance to prove itself in February 1928 at the Annual Aligarh Exhibition. The annual fair, known simply as Numaish, was the highlight of the year’s cultural events. It was like a romantic dream come true in the otherwise sedate lives of the Aligarians. Aligarh had electricity and it was already in use in Abdullah Lodge but we had to wait for it to be installed in the hostel. As a result, when we were taken to the fair at night and saw the glittering gates, arches, and shops ablaze with coloured lights, 1 felt like I had entered a fairyland. All the students and the teachers were keen to go, but taking everyone at the same time was a big responsibility so it was decided by Amma and the Principal that the smaller girls who did not observe purdah could go in the day while the senior girls could go in burqa at night. To try to solve the problem of numbers and keep the groups of students manageable, staff members planned to take students from class seven upwards. Since our group was part of the sixth class, we were very upset. Jealous of those who were being taken to the Numaish, we composed unkind verses about the girls who were going, substituting our own words to the popular song, Bibi Maindki Ree. It went thus: Bibi saatvi ree, tu to hostel ki hai Rani, Anees behan ki kamar lachkay, pakray zameen Sharfan, Aagay aagay Hamida bhagay peechay bhagay Sadqan. After satirizing all the prominent girls in this manner, we ended on a note of hope for ourselves.

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Paydal gayay sair kamay maza kya aaya khak, motor men hum jaen gay Ala-bi kay saath. Pyaree saatvi ree, ham to motor hi per jatay. It worked! We got to see the exhibition after we sang in front of Amma, the staff members and the hostel girls. Generally, every year, during the long summer vacations that extended from the first of June to the beginning o f September, Papa took us to a hill station for a month while the law courts were closed. I had just passed class eight when Papa rented the upper portion of a big house in Simla for the season, a cool hill station set up by the British for getting away from the city heat. Khatoon Apa and Mumtaz Apa, in particular, had been working very hard and Papa wanted them to have a much-needed rest. Both my elder sisters thought it would be a good idea to admit me to an English school in Simla, so I found myself a temporary student of Air Cliff, a small school less than half-a-mile away from our house. It was very convenient because an English family occupied the ground floor of the house we had rented and their daughter, Elsie, also went to Air Cliff. So we started walking to school together, unescorted by the elders. It was at Air Cliff that I met Mrs Anwar Ahmed, who later married a government officer in Pakistan, but my special friend was Bimla Bashi Ram, with whom I shared lunch. Elsie was good fun, too, but I recall having a nasty experience while walking alone to school one day that made me realize, a trifle sadly, that I was, after all, a girl, and that there were limitations to my mobility. It was a foggy day and the roads were deserted after the rains. I was told that Elsie was not well and, since our servant had gone to the bazaar, I set off alone, thinking that it was only a brisk ten-minute walk and that I could easily make it on my own. I must have covered half the distance on the narrow, winding road when 1 became aware of someone following me. I turned

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to see if it was a neighbour but, instead, found a man in khakis walking close behind me. My heart sank even as 1 tried to bolster my courage with comforting thoughts o f home where I had played with the boys all my life and was not in the least intimidated by them. Still, 1 could not overcome my instinctive fear. I made an effort to walk at a normal pace, not wanting to show any fear, but felt the distance between the man and myself shortening as he quickened his pace. When he came within thre< yards o f me, he began chanting; ‘Girl, I love you, I love you very much; I have loved you for many days/ Gritting my teeth, and holding my attache case full of books like a weapon, I abruptly turned to face him. He was taken aback at the look of fury on my face. Before he could recover, I shouted at him: ‘How dare you talk to me like that!' While he stuttered for a response, I ran a full two hundred yards till I reached the front of the Government House where a military guard stood on duty, and 1 collapsed on the stone bench. I never went out alone after that incident. When I told Elsie about it, she laughed it off and, one day, when we accidentally came across that man riding a horse, she called out to him, much to my embarrassment: ‘Hey you, Mister! You like Missy Baba? Come give us a ride on your horse/ After a month in Simla, we would gladly troop back home to indulge in our improvised games. The huge courtyard beyond the chabootra, or covered verandah, where everyone slept in the summer nights, was our first hockey field. My elder brothers got hold of some extra hockey sticks and put together a small team of players. Saeed’s team comprised his friends, some cousins, a couple of houseboys, and me. We were ready for any match, be it hockey, cricket, football or kabbadi. The visiting team never dreamt that a girl was masquerading as a boy. My hair had been shaved off after a serious bout of typhoid and now grew in short curls. I wore a kurta pyjama, like

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Saeed, and my teammates called me ‘Abdullah* in front of the others. I was very friendly with all of them and had boyish manners. I also played hard and gave a good account of myself. Sometimes, when outside teams challenged us to a game on our big front lawn I was part of the show, but I was not allowed to leave the premises and play on other grounds. Meanwhile, I was the leader of our own girl’s group of pranksters that included my younger sister Birjis and a friend, Talat Hayat, a boarder at the school who would come to our house on weekends. Our favourite game was setting up a home theatre. I would write the script, then read it out loud to Biji, and she would add something funny that could be induded in the overall structure of the play, or fitted into it as a comic interlude. One summer, one of my older cousins, Mrs Abdul Aziz, married to Falak Palma, editor of a magazine from Lahore, came to Aligarh to visit her mother, my maternal aunt, Anwar Jahan. Mrs Abdul Aziz had five children, four girls and one son. The girls were all very talented and were later to gain acdaim in the fields of their choice. Aziz Jahan became a national level tennis player, Hafeez Jahan joined the performing arts and worked in a couple of films, Meher Nigar was fond of dassical dancing and did very well too. She also wrote a book entided Shadows o f Time. Farrukh Nigar Aziz was more public spirited and grew up to become an exponent of the arts and crafts of Pakistan. Roshanara Aziz excelled at bridge and represented Pakistan in international matches. The girls were old enough to be given important roles in our home theatre, and rehearsals began in earnest. I called some neighbour’s children to form a chorus, so we had quite a huge cast. The part of the princess went to Aziz Jahan, our ddest cousin, because she had a lovely face and the part did not call for much dialogue. Aquila, a friend and sister of Jamil Ansari of the daily newspaper, Dawn> was tall for her age and was chosen to be Prince Charming. Both these friends died young. Birjis played the jealous rival, while I was the holy man, or Faqir,

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who gave his blessings, alternating with the devil who cursed the poor girl. Hafeez Jahan, a cousin who later acted in films with me, was made the king although she was the second eldest and a couple o f inches shorter than Aziz Jahan. Try as we might, we just could not find a girl to play the Queen Mother and, in desperation, persuaded Rashid, their only brother and the third child, to accept the role. We tied a black cloth to his head, plaited to give an illusion of long hair, gave him our cast-off ghararas that glistened with tinsel stars, and borrowed a gorgeous dupatta from Amma. Smiling shyly, he made a sweet Queen Mother. My cousins had never taken part in anything so exciting and begged me to find a part for each of them. I teamed Farrukh, the fourth in line who must have been five years of age at the time, with my adopted brother, Saleem, who was also the same age. They were dressed like courtiers who remained at attention as long as royalty was on stage but mimicked them behind their backs. The couple was altogether delightful. I particularly recall a conversation between the two five-year-old courtiers. Farrukh told Saleem about someone who had slapped another person, Saleem asked: 'How did he do that?’ And Farrukh prompdy slapped him to demonstrate how it was done. Farrukh lisped as a child, so she automatically became the laugh raiser. The clothes and dialogues were ready and rehearsals had been going on for a week, entrance tickets had been made out of old Eid cards, and invitations had been sent out to the VIPs. My aunt’s family and our own parents paid one rupee each and had chairs to sit on, while the neighbourhood children and the upper servants’ wives paid twenty-five paisas each and sat on the carpet. Amma had instructed the gardeners to cut huge, leafy branches from the trees to fake a lush forest. The incongruity of apples, bananas and grapes hanging from the same branch did not worry us at all. The large, formal dining room was chosen for our theatre, with part o f it curtained off as a stage. But all was not well. The importance that we were being given made my brother Saeed very jealous and, unknown to us, he planned to sabotage our

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show with a group of his friends. A few minutes before the show was to start, a commotion arose outside when the boys tried to break in forcibly but we did not let anyone in without payment. The boys retreated sullenly and we were a bit disappointed that they wouldn’t be seeing the show. They soon reappeared peeping through the skylight, taunting and laughing at us. We tried to ignore them and continued to tie the fruit to the branches before retiring to the dressing room to put final touches to our makeup, like smearing ash on my hair, and gluing a beard to my chin. I had learnt to play the harmonium and had a tuneful although untutored voice, and Biji could accompany me quite well. The great moment had arrived, and we carried the harmonium to the stage to hide it behind the bushes from where Biji and I would lead the chorus. To our horror, we saw that the branches had been stripped of all the fruit. Frantically, we called our elder brother, Mohsin, for help. He advised us that the show must go on. Stepping outside the curtain, he announced to the audience that the “company” begged their indulgence in imagining that the tree was laden with fruit! The curtain went up and we forgot everything. My cousin Aziz jahan could not sing and the script called for a song, so 1 sang from behind the bushes and she just moved her lips. This was no mean feat for girls in their teens to initiate playback singing in home productions, a technique later used in Indian films. After the show, the culprits were called before Amma, who was really annoyed at them for being spoilsports. As punishment, they were denied fruit for two days and, instead, she gave us a five-rupee note for an ice-cream party. We shouted with glee, waving the five-rupee note in triumph like a victorious flag, to the great mortification of the boys. The money we collected was donated to charity but the tussle between the rival groups of boys and girls continued for many years, and the family enjoyed our antics. The boys would write vile verses about us with no sense of rhythm or rhyme and hang them up in the dining room to be read aloud by Mohsin to the

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whole family. The following day, our equally vicious reply would be hanging there with an instinctive sense of rhythm and a better understanding of parody. There were other batdes too, like secret raids at night on each other’s rooms to blacken the faces of the rivals. A formal challenge was sometimes thrown for an attack on a predetermined night. The terms and conditions were read out before the elders and guaranteed by them. Somehow, Amma was always part of our games, especially the midnight raids. I can see now that it was not light-heartedness but wisdom that made her share in our fun. It was an ideal way o f keeping an eye on us without being intrusive. Not once did she make us feel that there was anything wrong with girls and boys playing together. As we grew older, all of us maintained our good-fellowship but reserve and modesty now replaced our earlier, bolder friendships. From my mother I learnt to win the confidence of my children and grandchildren. 1 am fortunate to have a wonderful relationship with all of them, and the term “generation gap” does not seem to apply to us. My grandchildren, both boys and girls, can talk freely to me and consider me a confidante, more than anything else. Surprisingly, from these early friendships and rivalries, no romance resulted. I married early and went away; Biji went on to complete her Masters at Isabella Thoburn College and married Ahmad Nazir Kidwai, an Indian Civil Service officer. Manzoor, my brother Saeed’s friend, had a distinguished career in Pakistan and is now retired and a grandfather. Mumtaz lives in Karachi, has his own family and is also a grandfather. Farooq Bhai, another friend of my brother’s, died at the age of seventeen, and Saeed, my beloved brother, died at the age of twenty-two. Whenever I meet Manzoor or Mumtaz, the dear playfellows of my childhood, we recall the old days with nostalgia. We have our separate destinies and have walked the bitter-sweet paths of life with courage, leaving those who had to be left behind on the way, with a heavy heart.

2 Papa Mian June 1874-March 1965 «

I did not know much about my father, Shaikh Abdullah, his early life, where he grew up, or who his parents were, learning these things much later from my mother when I was older. But all of my childhood, I grew up wondering who our paternal grandparents were and why we had never met them. As children we did not concern ourselves much with such questions because to us he was the universe, the most powerful man in the whole world, and a kind and caring father. Every summer, when the law courts were closed for a month, my mother would persuade Papa Mian to take us away to a hill station where it was cooler, while she stayed on in Aligarh with the boarders who could not go home. Since Papa had been born and raised in Bhantani in Kashmir, he found the heat of the plains difficult to bear and loved to go trekking in the mountains. He would take us to Simla and spend a lot o f time with us playing cards, reading Shakespeare or literary articles from local newspapers to us. At night, he would talk to us about the stars, the distance between the sun and the moon and the earth. He would pull us over sharp inclines while hiking through the mountains, and would take the time to stop and show us the wonders of nature like a huge, sleepy, golden-gray owl that he took fearlessly in his hands, I remember how he assured us that

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the owl could not see in daylight so there was no need to be frightened of its sharp beak before putting him back gendy into the hollow o f the tree. Papa Mian*s grandfather, Mehta Mast Ram, had been a jagirdar or large landholder of Poonch with two sons, Mohar Singh, and Gur Mulch Singh. Papa Mian’s father, Gur Mukh, had four sons, o f whom he was the eldest and called Thakur Das, before he became known as Shaikh Abdullah after converting to Islam. Gur Mukh Singh was afflicted with polio in his childhood and was, therefore, unable to work hard on the land. The management o f the land thus rested with Mohar Singh, his elder brother, whose wife belonged to a wealthy family and was extremely haughty and ill-mannered, especially with Gur Mukh’s wife who was very beautiful but from a poor family. It pained the child, Thakur Das, to see his mother so humiliated since he loved her very much, and he learnt from an early age about the disrespect faced by those less privileged by wealth and position. Since Bhantani did not have a school, Thakur Das lived with a relative three miles away to study, coming home only during the holidays. He made these trips on horseback since he had to cross mountain tracks. One day, when he was on his way home, he met a man on the road who was looking for work. Thakur Das took him to his grandfather and suggested that he be allowed to teach the village children how to read and write. Mehta Mast Ram agreed and employed the Maulvi Sahib on a monthly salary, thus setting up the first maktab in Bhantani. In his spare time, Thakur Das sat in the company of learned men who talked to him about the history o f Poonch and o f his family ancestry. He learnt that his ancestors belonged to the Sassin branch o f the brahmin caste in Bhantani, and that one of their ancestors was Suraj Ram, who migrated to Srinagar and settled in the mohalla of Reenadari. One night, as legend goes, Suraj Ram and his brother dreamt that a holy man was asking them to pick up the boulder outside their house and carry it as far as they could. He told them in the dream that they were to

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drop it whenever it became too heavy for them and wherever the boulder landed would be the site of their future dwelling. After waking up, both brothers followed the instructions of the dream and walked with the boulder till they could go no further. The place was a wilderness but they built a temporary hut there and named it Bhan-tan, which later grew into the village of Bhantani. According to the legend, the boulder was baptized “Kul Deo” and deified. As a child, Thakur Das visited the rock with his father and grandfather and recalled goats being sacrificed in its honour. The elders o f the village told Thakur Das the story of another ancestor, Mehta Chand, who was a kind and just ruler. In Bhantani, there was a small hill blocking the path of a spring. Mehta Chand allegedly split the hill asunder so the spring water could irrigate the other side of the field making it fertile. The site, called Challain (jumping water), exists to this day and a congregation o f pilgrims gathers there for thanksgiving each year, when wandering minstrels recount the heroic deeds of the family. Among the descendants of Mehta Chand were two brothers, Mitha Ram and Kaisar Ram. The latter’s grandson was Mehta Mast Ram, the paternal grandfather of Thakur Das. In a batde between Shamsuddin Maldial and Maharajah Gulab Singh, Mehta Mast Ram helped the Maharajah with money and reinforcements and in payment he was gifted four villages, Manjhar, Kulote, Lehar and Bhantani, by the Maharajah of Kashmir. When Mehta Mast Ram’s second son, Gur Mukh Singh, was blessed with a son, Thakur Das, on 21 June 1874, pundits were called in to draw up his horoscope. They all agreed that the child had been born under extraordinary heavenly signs and was destined to become famous and perform great feats for the good of humanity. In those days, Persian was not only the court language but also the medium of literary expression. Brahmin families usually engaged Muslim scholars for their sons’ education, and Thakur Das’ thirst for knowledge made him seek out, first, Qazi

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Qutubuddin Kashmiri who taught him Persian and, later, in the maktab of Maulvi Yaseen Shah, he completed all the Persian classics like Shaikh Saadi's GuUstan and Bustan. He read the poetry of Hafiz, Jami, Faizi and other literary works o f renowned poets. He also studied English from a Bengali clerk and some Sanskrit from a pundit. In Poonch, he met Hakeem Maulvi Nooruddin, who was to change his life forever. Hakeem Sahib was Chief Physician to the Maharajah of Kashmir and had great influence at court. Maulvi Sahib lived in Jammu but visited Poonch off and on where he stayed as a guest of the Prime Minister, Mian Nizamuddin. He would visit the maktab to talk to the boys and check the depth of their knowledge and understanding. He ran a study centre in Jammu where students came from all over the country to hold debates and discussions. On one of his visits to the Poonch Primary School, Maulvi Sahib asked the young boys the difference between men and animals. One boy replied, *A man can speak, but animals cannot.* The Maulvi said: ‘A parrot can speak, so is he a man?’ All the boys gave one answer or another. When it came to Thakur Das, he said, 'A man can teach others what he learns, but an animal cannot teach other animals*. Maulvi Sahib agreed and said that the parrot could imitate human speech but could not teach another parrot. Another difference between men and animals that Maulvi Sahib pointed out was that men could change their circumstances, for instance, a son could be more learned than the father, whereas an animal could not change its instinctive nature. Thakur Das became very interested in Tibb (medicine) and borrowed several books on the subject from Maulvi Noorudin’s library whenever he was in Poonch. Seeing his interest and intelligence, Hakeem Sahib encouraged Thakur Das to come to Jammu to attend his maktab where he could teach him medicine. Hakeem Sahib spoke to the Prime Minister, Mian Nizamuddin, who convinced Thakur Das’ father to allow him to study in Jammu since there was no Hakeem in Poonch and the village was in need of one. The father agreed, confident that

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his son would return home one day after completing his studies and work for the benefit of the people o f the village. Thakur Das then went to Jammu to live at Maulvi Sahib's house and was admitted to class three. He took along his own cook since he was not permitted to eat at a Muslim's table. He continued to excel at his studies and was presented to distinguished visitors as the prize pupil o f the school. At the time, English was fast becoming an essential part of a school curriculum under the British Raj, and the Kashmir state was keen to follow these educational guidelines. One of Maulvi Sahib’s students, Maulvi Abdul Kareem Sialkoti, was well-versed in several languages. He taught enough English to Thakur Das in three months for him to be promoted to the fifth class. As a result, Thakur Das got a double promotion and.was moved to the seventh class due to his excellent results in the annual exam. Soon, news reached the Maharajah that Hakeem Maulvi Nooruddin was trying to convert a Hindu boy to Islam. Maharajah Ameer Singh's representative, Diwan Amar Singh, conveyed the message of the Maharajah to Thakur Das that he must not go to Maulvi Nooruddin’s house in future but stay in the house of Pandit Nand Lai until his father came to take him home. Despite these orders, Thakur Das continued to meet Hakeem Sahib who was then exiled from the state. He went home during the summer vacations of 1887 but, instead of returning to Jammu, he took off for Lahore to gain admission in the Government High School located in the haveli of Raja Dhyan Singh. Hakeem Maulvi Nooruddin had already informed some people of Thakur Das* arrival and asked them to look after him. He continued to visit him in Lahore at intervals. Thakur Das* Urdu teacher belonged to Delhi and spoke very highly of Syed Ahmed Khan who was trying to promote education. In 1888, when he was fourteen years old and in the seventh class, Thakur Das got an opportunity to attend the Mohammedan Educational Conference at Lahore. He accompanied his Urdu teacher and Hakeem Maulvi Nooruddin Sahib to hear several Muslim literary scholars. At one meeting,

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a Lahore editor by the name of Muharram Ali Chishti, read out a letter in which he used the harshest words for Syed Ahmed and criticized him. Immediately, the audience was in an uproar and shouted that they would neither read nor buy his newspaper. Within one week, the newspaper closed down because of the boycon. Thakur Das was deeply affected by this incident and Syed Ahmed’s influence played upon his young mind. He lived in Lahore for four years to complete his Matriculation and these four years proved to be a turning point in his life. Thakur Das had read Syed Sahib’s speeches and publications and became a great admirer of the Muslim teacher. Another profound influence on him was Maulvi Nooruddin. Thakur Das started studying the life o f Muhammad, (PBUH), and the translation o f the Holy Quran. In 1889, his mentor came to Lahore and took Thakur Das to Ludhiana where Ghulam Ahmed Qadiani had called his followers to swear allegiance. In 1890, Thakur Das accompanied Maulvi Sahib to Qadian and became a Muslim, taking the name o f Abdullah which means the same as Thakur Das, the ‘servant o f God’. Now he ate at the same table with his Muslim friends but he did not announce his conversion to his family since he was worried about its effect on his mother and the social repercussions on the family. When he returned to Poonch after having passed his matriculation examination with merit, the village celebrated his success with a grand display of joy and festivity. During his vacations in Bhantani, Abdullah discovered that his family had arranged for him to be married to a beautiful local girl. The elders of the family felt that he had studied long enough and that it was time for him to take on tjie responsibilities o f raising a family. With great difficulty, Abdullah persuaded his father to allow him to complete his Bachelor’s degree in Lahore. By now, Thakur Das had started doubting the stories about the rock called Kul Deo and the water channel called Challain. He was convinced that the tales were merely apocryphal and imaginative. He was not ready for marriage, and neither the great

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love for his mother, nor the comfort of his ancestral home, could deter him from his decision. Perhaps he knew instinctively that a larger role had been carved out for him in the drama of life, before which worldly entanglements were meaningless. In 1891, instead of returning to Lahore, Abdullah took the train to Aligarh and joined the Muslim Anglo-Oriental College with a letter of introduction and recommendation from Maulvi Sahib to Syed Ahmed. Professor Shamsur Rahman writes that Abdullah arrived at Aligarh railway station at midnight, spread out his bedding on the platform, and went to sleep. In the morning, when he found no tonga, he asked a coolie to take him to the MAO College. The coolie was as unfamiliar with the town as he was and they both walked to the Government High School, then to the Scientific Society building, before reaching the Victoria Gate of the university where he ran into an old acquaintance from Lahore, Zafar Ali Khan, who showed him in. Abdullah was admitted to the Intermediate level by the Principal, Sir Theodore Morrison. He gave his name as “Abdullah” and his guardian’s name as Hakeem Maulvi Nooruddin. The next day, he visited Syed Ahmed and gave him letters from Lahore. Syed Ahmed showed him much kindness and invited him to visit the house again. He was fortunate to have teachers like Maulana Shibli Naumani, Maulana Abbas Hussain, and Babu Chakravarti at the institution. Thakur Das came to be known as Shaikh Abdullah and became active in college sports and in the debating society while also excelling at studies. The Cambridge Speaking Prize was awarded to the best debater o f the year who spoke on a thought-provoking subject. In 1896, as a student of law, Shaikh Abdullah won the prize for his speech on, “Muslims of Hindustan are more Progressive than Muslims of other Countries”. A club was formed by Maulana Shibli Numani and Sir Thomas Arnold. Called Akhwan us Safa, the club was set up to study ancient history and literature and members had to write a brief report on the subject with the aim of developing the students' research, but since it was a highly Intellectual exercise, the number of students in the club was very

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small. Later, The Duty Society, or Anjuman al Farz, was initiated by Sir Thomas Arnold with the help of students and teachers; its aim was to collect cash donations from the community for underprivileged students and also to dispel negative propaganda about the Aligarh institution. Abdullah collected a large amount of money from Simla where he had gone to recover from an illness in 1893. Sir Arnold was very pleased with his efforts and made him an office bearer o f the club. Abdullah maintained his involvement with this club even after he had completed his studies. He wrote about his boarding house experience as enjoyable and constructive. He made many friends there. There were few students, fewer restrictions, and the teachers took a personal interest in their wards. His subjects were English, Philosophy, and Persian. Syed Ahmed was a great source of inspiration to him and Shaikh Abdullah met people like Maulana Hali, Syed Zainul Abedeen, Nawab Mohsinul Mulk, at Syed Ahmed’s house where he was received with great kindness and hospitality. After passing his Law examination, Abdullah worked as a librarian in the College and also as the secretary to Mr Beck, the Principal. He was advised by friends to set up practice either in Allahabad or in Bulandshahr since there were far too many advocates in Aligarh. When Syed Sahib heard this, he sent a message through Beck saying that Abdullah should remain in Aligarh and continue to work for the Aligarh Tehreek, or the educational reforms. Shaikh Abdullah got permission to practice law from the Allahabad High Court in January 1900, and set up his practice in Aligarh. Being hard-working and conscientious, he was soon quite successful. He remained committed to Syed Ahmed’s work and became friendly with his Hindu and Muslim friends. For six years, Shaikh Abdullah served in the Aligarh Municipality and for several years remained the Chairman of the Bar Association, then, in the second half of the twentieth century, he served as a Member of the UP Legislative Assembly in the UP Government. Within two years of living in Aligarh, Shaikh Abdullah went

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to Qadian in the summer vacations and broke his allegiance to Mirza Ghulam Ahmad o f Qadian. This led to a break with Maulvi Nooruddin, who had wanted Abdullah to succeed him as the next Khalifa. Maulvi Sahib loved him like a son, and Shaikh Abdullah was equally devoted, but he had committed his future to Syed Ahmed and his educational movement. When Maulvi Sahib lay dying, he sent for Abdullah to see him for the last time. Although it grieved him deeply, Abdullah did not go, knowing he would not be able to comply with his mentor’s last wish to become his successor. After his death, Abdullah continued to send money to his widow as long as she lived. I have seen a letter written by Maulvi Sahib’s widow to my father, confirming that she received the money that he sent her regularly after Maulvi Sahib’s death. The letter sounded most affectionate, like it was written by a mother to a long-lost son. Shaikh Abdullah always spoke of Maulvi Sahib with deep respect and love and, as a testament to his feelings, a large framed portrait o f his mentor still hangs in the main hall of Abdullah Lodge. By 1895, Syed Ahmed’s health had deteriorated greatly and he needed young men to help him fight the bigoted mullahs who were trying to hinder his educational work. A group of mullahs had issued fatwas or edicts denouncing him as a kafir, an apostate and an enemy of Islam, and a British agent. Shaikh Abdullah spent many hours with Syed Ahmed writing articles to newspapers refuting these allegations. Much later, Shaikh Abdullah wrote a pamphlet titled Kafir aur Kafir-gar in support of Syed Ahmed’s modern methods of education. Here he explained that the so-called mullahs based their verdicts not on the true teaching of Islam, but on the traditions that had emerged after centuries of inter-mingling with various cultures and religions in India that, in their mind, had taken the place of Islam. Syed Ahmad Khan died in 1898, leaving behind a worthy group o f successors to champion the cause of modern education. Nawab Mohsinul Mulk was elected to take his place. The Sir Syed Memorial Fund was founded for which Nawab Sahib chose

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Sahibzada Aftab Ahmad Khan and Shaikh Abdullah co be his chief assistants. The purpose of the Fund was to collect a minimum of ten lakh rupees and establish' Aligarh University. By 1900, Shaikh Abdullah had established a successful law practice in Aligarh and accumulated a large circle of friends. Some of his close friends, especially Khan Bahadar Ahmed Ali Khan Sahib, a sub-judge in Aligarh, suggested that it was time he thought o f getting married. Abdullah said that he had no objections and only one condition, that the family of the girl was educated and progressive. When his close friend, Bashir Mirza, heard this, he told -a mutual friend that he was surprised that Abdullah had not approached him, even though they were close friends and class-fellows, since he had two unmarried sisters and belonged to a prominent Mughal family. This message was duly conveyed to Shaikh Abdullah who asked his friend, the sub-judge, to meet the family. His biographer writes that Shaikh Abdullah agreed immediately to the proposition because Bashir Mirza used to talk to him about his family. He knew that all o f Bashir Mirza’s sisters were educated young women who were taught Urdu and Persian at home while a European lady came to their house to reach them English. This was more than could be expected in Muslim homes in the early twentieth century. Bashir Mirza had also once told his friend that his father, Mirza Ibrahim Beg, was modern enough to send his two elder daughters in a doli to the opening of the Ladies Hospital which was inaugurated by Lady Curzon, since the governor s wife wanted to meet purdah-observing women. Bashir Mirza often talked about his favourite sister, Waheed Jahan, who was gende and lively. Shaikh Abdullah requested his friend, Ahmed Ali Khan Sallib, to carry a proposal of marriage for her, even though she was the youngest sister of Bashir Mirza. In the winter break of 1901, Abdullah went to Delhi with his friends and gave a formal proposal of marriage to the family. Mirza Ibrahim Beg, the father, accepted the proposal and the marriage was fixed for 2 February 1902. In those days, it was customary in a Muslim home to segregate

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the unmarried daughter when a proposal of marriage was received for her, and relatives were informed that no one could see her till the day she was married. While Shaikh Abdullah’s proposal was being discussed in the family, Bashir Mirza was dismayed to find that his third sister, Saeed Jahan, had been segregated instead of the youngest, Waheed Jahan. Bashir Mirza was keen for Waheed Jahan to marry his friend since she was more intelligent, better educated, and had a gende temperament, besides being his favourite sister. It was a moment of crucial decision to point out the misunderstanding and request for the hand of the younger daughter. Encouraged by his friend Bashir Mirza, and contrary to all established custom, Shaikh Abdullah asked his friend Khan Bahadur to send another letter to Mirza Ibrahim Beg, specifying that his proposal was for Waheed Jahan, the youngest daughter. The letter arrived and set off a hue and cry in the Mirza household. People wanted to know who told him the name of the girl, how he knew there were other girls in the family, and so on, Zamani Begum, Mirza Ibrahim’s wife, preferred to follow tradition rather than take a controversial step and was for an outright refusal of the proposal. Meanwhile, Bashir Mirza convinced his father that Waheed Jahan was more suited to his friend’s temperament and that he should accept the proposal since he would not find a better husband for her. So, after much persuasion, Shaikh Abdullah’s proposal for Waheed Jahan was accepted and she was segregated until the wedding, instead of her elder sister. Shaikh Abdullah had become alienated from his relatives ever since he converted to Islam but, he writes in his biography Sawanih-i- Umri-i-Abdullah Begum, dedicated to his late wife, that his friends made all the arrangements for the wedding, going to the extent of getting new shenuanis tailored for the occasion, just like real brothers. The bridegroom’s party arrived in Delhi on 2 February 1902 and stayed at Zeenat Manzil, the property of the Maharajah of Patiala, which was reserved for them by the manager of the estate who was a friend. Among the notables who attended the wedding ceremony were Maulana Shibli, Syed

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Zainul Abcdin, Sir Sultan Ahmad, Nawab Mohsinul Mulk, Sahibzada Aftab Ahmad Khan, Sajjad Haidar, and Syed Bunyad Hussain. They formed part o f Shaikh Abdullah’s barat and never once let him feel the absence o f his own family. A group picture taken on the occasion has survived the years and tells the story quite well.

Farashkhana, the Ancestral Home in Delhi

Farashkhana, my mother’s ancestral home in Delhi, was bought for my great grandfather, Mirza Neena Beg, for five hundred rupees after the disturbances of 1857. This house originally belonged to a Hindu moneylender and it was generally believed that there was vast hoard o f treasure secretly buried under it. According to popular superstition, the buried treasure could turn into Maya, an evil spirit that thirsted after human blood. Travelling underground from house to house, from verandah to courtyard, from kitchen to bedroom, the spirit jingled gold coins to tempt the inmates with promises of untold wealth in exchange for the life of their first-born son. Rajo and Peenan Bua, my grandmother’s maidservants, swore they heard the jingling of coins, as well as groans, and enticements and, according to their mistress’ instructions, responded prompdy with a broom or a shoe, beating the ground and calling out: ‘Go away, you churail (witch), no one wants you in this house!’ According to the servants, this would frighten Maya away. This superstition held sway over the minds of the ignorant and they really believed in its existence. It could just as likely have been the creaking sounds of the crumbling wooden beams and the occasional thud of falling plaster. Still, when the house was sold after my grandmother’s death in 1929, the neighbours

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reported that the new owner found a big degchi full of gold guineas, but that the same night their eldest son died of cholera! Another superstition concerned the habits o f trader rats, locally called ghoons. These rats dug labyrinths under the mud-packed floors of houses that were built close together. I clearly recall the first time 1 saw a monster rat peeping out of its hole, 1 screamed and called Peenan Bua to kill it but she refused, saying: 'No Bibi, the visit of a ghoon is a lucky omen and if it is pleased with you, then it will bring you gold ornaments/ Each night, bits of food were left at the mouth of the rat-hole but 1 never saw any gold jewellery in the morning. Now, looking back, 1 can see how these rodents may have come upon buried jewellery in bundles and simply thrown it out of the nearest hole. 1 have read about trader rats and their peculiar habit of transporting articles from one place to another but the simple minds of the people credited the rare finding of valuables to the goodwill of the rats. My mother’s paternal grandfather was named Mirza Neena Beg, and his father was called Mirza Abdullah Beg. He worked in the service o f Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor of India. Neena Beg's son was Mohammed Ibrahim Beg, who married my maternal grandmother, Zamajii Begum. They had ten children o f whom only five survived, one son and four daughters. Bashir Mirza, their only son, studied in the same school as Shaikh Abdullah and was his good friend. The eldest o f Zamani Begum's daughters, Sikander Jahan, an expert needlewoman, was divorced. Anwar Jahan, the second daughter, was grandmother to some of my more renowned cousins Rashid, Aziz jahan, Hafeez Jahan, Mehrunnisa, Farrukh Nigar and Roshan Aziz. Saeed Jahan remained unmarried, while the youngest, Waheed Jahan, later became the wife of Shaikh Abdullah. My maternal ancestors were hearty, upper class Mughals dedicated to military service, with both the virtues and vices of their times. Their history reflects the decaying traditions,

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customs, and the moral code of an era when the last Mughal Emperor was about to be ousted from Delhi. Our family tree had the names of many renowned soldiers who served in the armies of Taimur and Babar and, later, the East India Company. Mirza Azeem Beg, my mother's maternal grandfather, participated in the Afghan War and was awarded the tide o f Sardar Bahadur, a gold medal, and a pension of five hundred rupees a month. Mirza Neena Beg, my mother's paternal grandfather, was a wealthy man. He owned a few houses in Delhi as well as shops that were rented out. He also owned property in Panipat and Hissar. Like other well-to-do members of society, he had several means of transportation for himself and for his family. There was the doli, a chair with a dome-like contraption around it from which hung sheets to completely cover the purdahobserving lady sitting in it. It was carried on poles resting on the shoulders o f the four carriers who walked to their destination. Brides were usually carried to their husband's homes in a decorated doli. A palki, or palanquin, was similar to the doli but could accommodate more than a single woman. Behli was a cart that was pulled by decorated bulls and could seat seven or eight people at a time. A phaeton was a carriage pulled by horses and men preferred to use this means of transport. Along with this display of prosperity, a concubine was an invariable part of the entourage, and the legitimate wives accepted her with resignation. Mirza Neena Beg also had a few concubines but one among them, Laddan Bai, was his favourite; her daughter, Gheesi, lived with her in a small house adjoining the big haveli. An interesting anecdote about the relationship between the trio was recounted by my eldest aunt, Amma Begum, who had heard the story from an old maidservant, Dudda, and then by, Rajo, who had witnessed the events. Mirza Neena Beg enjoyed the life of a wealthy man. His wife, too, belonged to an affluent family and had inherited property, the management of which she had entrusted to her husband.

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The only thing she kept in her possession was her jewellery because it gave her a sense of security. Mirza Neena Beg and his wife had a nine-year-old daughter, Zamani Begum. Since the times were uncertain, she was married off to his young nephew, Mirza Mohammed Ibrahim Beg, at an early age. They later became parents to my mother and lived in Neena Beg's huge haveli all their lives. The settled and comfortable life o f this menage was disrupted when Bahadar Shah Zafar, who had retired from public life and was content to live on a royal pension from Queen Victoria writing poetry, reluctandy agreed to become the leader of a patriotic army ro eject the firangi, or foreigners, from India. Zafar was a very old and ineffectual king and soon gave up the fight, retiring to Humayun’s tomb while the British sacked the city o f Delhi as retribution for the attempted insurrection. Patriotic forces dwindled to a lawless rabble and were no longer able to face an organized army. As a consequence, they started murdering isolated Englishmen and their families. One such English family took refuge in Mirza Neena Beg’s house. Despite the fact that Mirza had joined the patriotic army against the British, military honour forbade him from murdering innocent women and children. Accepting the inevitable, he gave the fugitives sheets to cover themselves and asked them to sit in the baithak, or receiving room. He gave the man a tasbih (prayer beads), telling him to repeat “Allah-o-Akbar”, the Muslim name of God. Then he went on a mission of mercy, hoping to seek out his cousin and get a permit from Lai Qila (Red Fort) for the fugitives to leave Delhi safely. When he arrived at the Qila, he found that the British army had already ransacked it, killing his cousin along with many other Muslim freedom fighters. While Mirza Neena Beg was away, the cleaning woman who had her eyes on the silver spittoons and the silver legs o f the beds, informed rebel soldiers that a firangi family was hiding at M ina Sahib’s house. About a dozen soldiers entered the house with drawn swords, shouting to the purdah-observing ladies not

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to come out. Dudda, the old maidservant and a witness to the event, recalled: ‘We could hear the screams of the victims, the man begging, “Main Musalman” but the purbiya dragged them outside and slit their throats.’ When Mirza Neena Beg returned and found out what had happened, he ordered the immediate evacuation of his family from the neighbourhood, knowing that the British High Command would soon issue orders for the mohalla to be torched and the inhabitants massacred. Neena Beg’s wife and her confidante Dudda held a quick consultation on whether the jewellery should be taken out of the house amidst the chaos and uncertainty, or if it should be left hidden inside the house to be retrieved later. Not realizing that they would never be able to return, they quickly removed some bricks from the floor of the mud stove, put the bundle of jewellery in the crevice, and replaced the bricks re-plastering it with mud. Then they spread dying embers and ash on top so it looked like the stove had just been used for cooking. Their destination, Panipat, was thirteen miles away and Mirza Neena Beg’s concubine, Laddan Bai, and her daughter, Gheesi, accompanied them. The news from Delhi was very disturbing, and discreet inquiries revealed that twenty men had been shot for the murder of the English family. Whether they were guilty or not didn’t matter, it was enough that they were residents of the area. Under the circumstances, returning to their house was impossible, and Neena Beg informed his wife that the property was now lost to them. His wife knew that he would soon be asking for her jewellery so he could sell it to purchase a small house. She kept her peace for the moment, but started thinking of ways through which the jewellery could be retrieved. It was then that Dudda came up with a brilliant solution. The two women located a young mashki, a water carrier, who had been brought up on Mirza Sahib’s estate and had known the Begum as a child. He recalled her kindness to his widowed mother and himself and swore to recover the goods at the risk

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o f his life. He set off with his goatskin of water and the traditional bowl for the thirsty, returning in three days with a bundle he had hidden in the water bag. Today, it is hard to imagine such devotion and honesty! Neena Beg’s wife’s was happy for the recovery o f her jewellery but feared that her husband might force her to sell the ornaments. So, once again, she conspired with Dudda to hide it. One moonlit night, the two women stepped outside the house stealthily and buried the bundle under a huge tamarind tree. Unfortunately for them, Gheesi saw them and, equally stealthily, mother and daughter removed the bundle from its hiding place. After all, they had to look out for themselves since Mirza Neena Beg’s reversal of fortunes. Since they could not keep the gold in their possession, they requested a respected Hakeem Sahib who lived in the mohalla to guard the jewellery for them. Hakeem Sahib’s wife immediately recognized the ornaments as those belonging to Neena Beg’s wife, but Hakeem Sahib was powerless to return them to the rightful owner since someone else had entrusted them to his care. Through Dudda, the news was conveyed to her that her jewellery was safe and that she would be summoned when Gheesi and her mother came to collect it. So, Mirza Neena Beg’s wife bided her time. Meanwhile, one of Mirza Neena Beg’s friends purchased a spacious haveli for him in the respectable locality of Farashkhana for a meagre sum of five hundred rupees. Most abandoned property was sold for a pittance, and Mirza Beg was lucky to lose one haveli and gain another. While arrangements were underway to shift to Delhi, Gheesi and her mother decided it was time to retrieve the stolen goods. When Laddan Bai arrived at the Hakeem’s house, she counted all forty-one items and confirmed them in the presence o f the Hakeem. ‘Yes, Hakeem Sahib, everything is here.’ Neena Beg’s wife, who had been standing behind the curtain, then emerged along with the indomitable Dudda and picked up her prized possessions from under her rival’s nose. That is how the jewellery stayed with the rightful owner and my great

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grandmother was able to pass on some pieces to her daughters in dowry and leave some to her granddaughters. As children, and then later, wc often visited our widowed grandmother, Zamani Begum, whom we called Ammanbi, at Farashkhana where she lived with her small retinue o f female servants. No male servant was allowed inside the house, and even the water-carrier who came in with his goatskin to fill the water pitchers called out from the outer gate for the ladies to go behind the bamboo partition before he entered. The mashki wore a red bandana on his forehead that half-covered his eyes so that he was only able to see the ground when he walked in. One of Ammanbi’s trusted female attendants, Peenan Bua, had been with her since she was a child. After my grandfather’s death, she took on the responsibility of going to the bazaar in her burqa every morning to buy the provisions. Soon, she became adept at managing money and dealing with the outside world for Zamani Begum. On one of our visits to Farashkhana, we found our grandmother unwell. A hakeem was called in to see her. Two maidservants, Ghafooran (Ayah to us) and Naseeban (Peenan Bua), stood in front o f the bed holding a sheet behind which Ammanbi lay, while the hakeem, a good-looking man in his thirties who called my grandmother “Mumani”, inquired after her health. He could not see her and she even refused to speak in his presence since she observed strict purdah so, when he inquired about her symptoms, Peenan responded with Ammanbi’s complaints. ‘Mian, Bari Begum gets palpitations and cannot sleep and has lost her appetite.’ Hakeem Sahib asked to feel her pulse, and a thin pale hand emerged from under the sheets and was speedily withdrawn. Hakeem Sahib reassured her. ‘There is nothing to worry about, Mumani. I shall send a soothing syrup and some tonic. Just eat a phulka soaked in broth, for a few days, avoid milk and cream. You can eat jam an and fab a (fruit known to be good for the liver), if you fancy them. Let me know in three days how you are progressing.’

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Ammanbi retired to her small room, the sheet was removed, and Pcenan Bua brought out a paan (betel leaf) and two shining silver rupees on a silver tray. Hakeem Sahib ate the paan and put the rupees in his sherwani pocket saying: ‘There was no need for this trouble/ Then, saying ‘Adaab, Mumani\ he left. Zamani Begum’s youngest daughter married the young lawyer Shaikh Abdullah in 1902, and left for Aligarh. They had seven surviving children, most o f whom left their mark in their chosen fields. Shaikh Abdullah was the head o f a large household. His wife’s two sisters, Sikandar and Saeed Jahan, lived with them, helping with the children's upbringing and later, in the girls' school established in Balai Qila, that they founded in 1906. Sikandar Jahan, my mother’s eldest sister who was seventeen years older to her and divorced early in her life, adopted Rashid Jahan while Ammanbi, our grandmother, adopted Khatoon. Her spinster sister, Saeed Jahan, adopted Mohsin and then later, Birjis. Extremely conscious o f women's rights, Shaikh Abdullah not only provided for this vast family but looked into their welfare in other ways too. He would arrange moonlight picnics for the family where his wife, her sisters, the small children and the maidservants could enjoy the night air outside the house, walk around, and relax. Quantities of food and carpets were taken along so the ladies could sit in comfort to eat and rest after taking their exercise. Papa often related the amusing incident when my mother was caught stealing fruit from an orchard on one of these midnight picnics. Amma was very fond of the fragrance and flavour of a type of melon called phoot. She saw a ripe one and plucked it from the vine. Suddenly, a man emerged from behind the vines, probably the caretaker of the garden, and hollered: ‘Have you no shame to be stealing while wearing a burqa?* Mortified, Amma threw the melon away in disgust, but not without a bitter repartee. ‘Here, take it back. I only pulled it out because I have never seen it growing in a field.*

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The man picked up the fruit and presented it to Papa, who gave him a rupee, (when one rupee could buy fifty phoots). The man was ecstatic and invited them to pick as much fruit as they liked, but Amma, in her pique, did not touch another one. T o be honest, phoot is an inferior kind of melon, bland in taste, which can only be eaten with ground sugar. Besides, it is not safe for children or for people with delicate stomachs. My father had a successful law practice but the passion of his life was to bring education and enlightenment to Muslim women who were not aware of their legal rights. Women observed strict purdah and were completely dependent on their husbands’ or fathers* whims for their maintenance, even if they were wealthy in their own right. Generally speaking, women from affluent homes were uneducated and spent their time gossiping and planning trousseaus for their daughters while lazing on couches and gao takias, large, reclining bolsters, while their legs were massaged by their numerous maidservants. They took no part in the important decision-making o f the household and their conversation consisted of finding ways and means of accumulating as much gold jewellery as possible. In our house, Munshiji, my fathers accountant, brought monthly rations. He also supervised the unloading o f sacks of flour, rice, pulses and other grains, directing the male servants to put the sacks in their assigned place in the stores. Then Munshiji paid the wages o f all the servants in the outer office. He purchased cloth twice a year, to be sewn either by seamstresses or the ladies o f the house. Papa must have started giving Amma a generous allowance to run the household because I remember cloth merchants coming to the house and the servants running in and out of rooms carrying yards of cloth to be inspected and selected. Other items of daily necessity such as sewing needles, thread, bangles and lace were also purchased at the door, and a shoe-maker was called into the house to take our measurements and make shoes out of choice leather. Papa had shifted many domestic responsibilities on to my mother’s shoulders. She would go out to the bazaar, at first in a

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carriage, and later in the car. She had the authority to purchase anything she needed for herself or for the family by simply signing her name to the bill. The emancipation of Muslim women had started not only in theory, but in practice too, at least in our household, as early as 1902, when women were encouraged to think and act for themselves and to make important decisions for their families. Mother loved music. Where and how she developed an ear for it, I don’t know, because she never had a music teacher nor did she ever attend a musical function. There was not even a radio in our house and certainly no gramophone or records. My guess is that she picked up a few tunes when she attended Milad Shareef in Delhi, where women probably heard religious sermons and rutat recited by men, as they sat in purdah. Amma had a soft, tuneful voice and by the time I was fiveyears-old she had taught me a number of naat, Persian ghazaby and verses from Mussaddas-e Hali. I had a good ear for music and had developed a powerful voice so it became almost a ritual after dinner, which was always early in the evening to escape the onslaught of mosquitoes and moths, when I would sing verses from the Mussaddas that were Papa’s favourite. Papa was a mild mannered man and had a difficult time disciplining his children or the house help. Whenever it was necessary to reprimand someone, he would fumble for words to express his displeasure. ‘Fool...(pause)...idiot...(pause)...owl!’ He was unable to use curse words any harsher than these. His pleasure was shown more by smiles than by outright laughter and his keen displeasure was demonstrated by corrective advice. Only once did I see him really angry when my brother, Saeed, threatened to beat me with a stick. Saeed was four years older to me but a sickly child not half as sturdy as I, so I squared up to him often. 1 had twisted the handlebar o f his precious bicycle and was being naughty when he caught me by the arm and decided to teach me a lesson. 1 started screaming, which, in retrospect, seems very unsporting of me, and while I was trying to put up a fight, my father entered the room. He thought that Saeed was giving me a thrashing with

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the stick. I saw him turn red with anger, snatch the stick from Saeed’s hand, and gave him two bold strokes with it. ‘How dare you raise your hands against a girl?* he thundered. ‘You, who are meant to protect and nurture them!* This summed up his attitude towards women, and I witnessed the devotion with which he attended to Amma in her last days, when I visited Aligarh in 1939 as she lay ill with tuberculosis. The love she received from total strangers was commendable. Dr Dorab, a Parsi lady doctor, left her nursing home in Agra and came over to Aligarh for ten days to nurse Amma, remaining at her bedside day and night for the time she was there. Dr Azhar and his wife Kishwar visited Amma morning and evening, massaging her aching shoulders. Icchan Apa (Mrs Sajida Zubair), came every day after school to help my sisters Rasheed Jahan and Mumtaz, and took her turn at Amma's bedside. The school and college teachers also came daily to inquire after her health. Icchan Apa and Zohra Behan, who had lived with us since they were young girls, could not stop crying at Amma’s condition. Amma had given Zohra the devotion o f a real mother and she now refused to let the servants wash Amma's glass or hold a basin for her to wash her face in, since she wished to serve her. Amma died on 18 August 1939. Her last bath before burial, ghusal, was given by her closest friend, Pali Khalla, whom we assisted. Her grave was made in an area in the orchard that she had picked out some years earlier. Papa had taken special permission from the Municipal Board to bury her on the property. Prepared for the final journey, her body lay in the large hall, and relatives, friends, hostel girls and servants entered through one door, walked past the bed on which she lay as though smiling in a dream, and left from the opposite door. Immediately after her doath, I started helping Papa write his memoirs, especially the joint effort with his wife to set up the women's school and college. He called it, Sawanih-i-Umri-iAbdullah Begum (The Life o f Abdullah Begum). This sad month welcomed some newborns into the Abdullah household. Arif was born to Khatoon Jahan and Lais Qamarain on 10 August 1939. Amma was alive at the time, although

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seriously ill. She heard the news and smiled with pleasure. Tariq was born to Shahida and Mohsin on 15 August. He was their second son and his birth helped Shahida overcome the loss o f her firstborn Kamal, who had died at the age of two-and-a-half years. By then, Amma was already in a coma and the news didn’t register with her. My aunt, Ammajan, came from Bombay with Shahida and her child Tariq, and Khatoon Jahan followed with her son, Arif, accompanied by Peenan Bua. Two weeks after Amma’s death, on 6 September 1939, my third daughter, Sumbul, was born. She was a beautiful child, small-boned and delicate. Sadly, we didn’t know at the time that she had been born with Down’s Syndrome and would live neither a long nor a very healthy life. A brooding sorrow hung over Abdullah Lodge after Amma passed away, but Papa’s involvement in writing her biography and his reminiscences about their mutual struggle for Muslim women’s education distracted him somewhat from his grief. Although we were together as a family, each person grieved in his or her own way, but then, life’s call is urgent and we all responded to it one by one.

The Struggle for Female Education

Professor Shamsur Rahman records in Hayat e Abdullah, his biography o f Shaikh Abdullah, that during an outbreak o f plague in the 1850s, the government removed the sick from their homes to the infirmaries to quarantine them and provide medical treatment. Surprisingly, Muslim men opposed this move saying that this was a ruse of the firangis to force their women to remove purdah. There was an uproar in Kanpur that became so violent that the police resorted to firing to control the crowds. Several people were killed and many more injured. Syed Ahmed wrote an article in support of the protesters holding that even if their women were sick with plague, they should not be taken out of the seclusion of their homes. ‘I will join the protesters and risk my life for my principles,* he said on that occasion. In 1887, in an address to the faculty and students of Allahabad University, Syed Ahmed observed that young men from Hindu families had joined the educational institutions established by the British, learned their language and were given preference for jobs in government offices. Among the Indian Muslims, on the other hand, were hardliner groups who opposed education per se. They were suspicious of the British, their system o f education and their language. In his address, he stressed that unless Muslim men learnt English they would remain at a disadvantage.

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Syed Ahmed toured and lectured extensively, wrote articles trying to convince the hardliners that it was imperative for the new generation o f Muslim men to learn English so that they could keep pace with the boys of the Hindu community who were making headway in academia. He decided to set up parallel centres o f learning for them. In 1864 he started a school in Moradabad for teaching Persian. This was taken over by the government and upgraded to a district school. He also laid the foundation of a joint school for both Hindus and Muslims in Ghazipur where, for the first time, English was included in the curriculum. Persian, Sanskrit, Arabic and Urdu were taught along with English. Syed Ahmed was transferred to Aligarh, and the responsibility o f the school was handed over to a Hindu gentleman, one o f Ghazipur’s eminent citizens. In 1872 he established a Madrassah-e- Ubom in Aligarh and in 1874, he approached the United Provinces government for finances to construct the schopl building. Sir John Strachey, the Lieutenant Governor, laid the foundation stone of Strachey Hall which is one o f the landmarks of Aligarh University. In 1885, Syed Ahmed Khan went to Lahore, to address the annual Mohammedan Educational Conference. He received a letter from a women’s delegation in which they lauded and appreciated his efforts in promoting modern education among Muslim men. They expressed the hope that he would be able to help Muslim women too. In his reply, Syed Ahmed assured them that he was not oblivious of their problems or their desire for improvement, but he believed that exposure to new ideas and a new system o f study would be harmful for them. He praised them for adhering to the age-old traditions of their grandmothers where a pious lady from the locality was chosen to visit their homes to give lessons in the Quran to young girls and instruct them in behaviour and deportment. He advised the ladies to develop good character, a kind heart,. keep the management o f their homes in their control, and above all, to tolerate everything without complaint. He requested their financial help in supporting the poor boys who were studying at the madrassahs.

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Syed Ahmed justified his position by saying that no nation in the world puts the progress of its women ahead of its men, and once the men are civilized and trained for a profession, the women will automatically get their rights and privileges. That is why he was concentrating on the men so they could acquire western education and English language skills which would help them maintain a social position and get employment to earn a living for their families. In conclusion, he thanked the Christian and Hindu women for helping their Muslim sisters. Whenever Shaikh Abdullah heard his mentor discussing the importance o f learning English for Muslim men, he heard him reject it for women, holding that it was of no importance to women or that it was yet too early for women to learn the modern languages* In an attempt to understand Syed Ahmed’s controversial position, Shaikh Abdullah's biographer, Professor Shamsur Rahman, writes that it is pos-ible that Syed Ahmed did not understand the importance of women's education because by the time he came to espouse these ideas the two women who could have had any influence over him, his mother and his wife, had both passed away. By 1902, Sahibzada Aftab Ahmed, had replaced the Secretary for Female Education, Shamsul Ulema Mumtaz Ali Khan Sahib. The latter gentleman had not called a meeting nor developed any proposal to be presented at a conference. He did not seem interested in pursuing the matter. The annual conference was arranged in Delhi in 1902, but before that, an informal discussion took place at Shaikh Abdullah's house where it was felt that, although in the last conference fiery speeches were heard and several resolutions were passed, nothing practical had been done after the event. Those present at this informal meeting discussed various areas where work needed to be done. When Abdullah brought up the issue of women’s education, his friends suggested that he take over the responsibility to push the matter forward. Abdullah agreed, on condition that a committee was formed and that he was made its Sccrctary. At his request, Shaikh Abdullah was elected Secretary of the Female Education section of the All India Mohammedan

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Education Conference in Delhi in 1902. He immediately began to work towards creating an atmosphere for the formal education o f Muslim women, and decided to test his ideas by sharing them with concerned women. Since his wife, Waheed Jahan, enthusiastically supported his plans, she invited her educated women friends in Delhi to her parents’ house where Shaikh Abdullah put his ideas before them. Many women attended the meeting and endorsed Shaikh Abdullah's ideas. The minutes of the meeting were printed and distributed in various residential areas where Muslims lived. Immediately, the orthodox Muslims were up in arms saying that now western ways are being promoted for women who would be encouraged to attend schools with their faces uncovered! Despite the initial hostility, Shaikh Abdullah was confident that he was on the right track and that he had a helpmate in his wife who could always muster the support of educated women for the cause. He oudined a plan and wanted the subject of women’s education to be discussed formally and informally amongst the Muslim classes. He began writing for newspapers and magazines in favour o f women’s education. ‘I was convinced that women needed to be educated to liberate them from social oppression. To educate men and not offer the same facility and exposure to women was like having sunshine in one section of the house and darkness in the other. 1 firmly believe that when women acquired meaningful knowledge they would be better equipped to protect themselves from exploitation.’ Almost at once, strong objections were raised to his ideas. Some people wrote that it was against their tradition, that nowhere were there instances during the Muslim monarchies in India where madrassahs were opened exclusively for women. Some women wrote back saying that purdah safeguarded their respectable position in society and that women were likely to lose it by opting for modern education. Further rebuff came from aristocratic families who objected to their daughters studying with common, low-caste girls. From 1903 onwards, Shaikh Abdullah held meetings of his own after the annual educational conferences with ‘women’s

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education1 as the sole agenda, but only men attended the department meetings. In December 1903, women were allowed to listen to speeches for the first time at the annual conference in Bombay from behind bamboo partitions. The same year The Aligarh Monthly published an article by Maulana Abul Kalam Azad who wrote that the Muslims needed to be aware that their progress was as dependent on the education of their women as it was on their men, because only an educated mother could provide a suitable domestic environment to her children. In 1904 the Educational Conference resolved in favour starting a school for girls in Shaikh Abdulah’s marriage to Waheed Jahan, an educated lady and an equally dedicated activist for education, provided him with a partner for the realization of his plans. They began to consider concrete ways to promote education for Muslim girls and also the possibility o f starting a primary school themselves in Aligarh for the daughters o f their neighbours and friends. Waheed Jahan and her sisters could instruct until a professional teacher was found. Solutions were to be found for other problems, among them, appropriate purdah arrangements, both at the school and while transporting the students to and from home. They would have to provide for religious instruction and namaz prayers at required times, plus training in such skills as needlework and household management. In this way, they may be able to persuade their friends that not only the three ‘R’s but also Islamic religion would be taught. There were many more obstacles to overcome. They needed patronage— private and/or government financing to hire teaching staff, a building, and transport. Even more, they needed clientele. If parents were unwilling to send their daughters to school, there could be no school. (Khatun, 1906: 12-14) Shaikh Abdullah realized that his programme had litde chance o f success unless women themselves participated in the effort. To provide a platform for women to discuss and present their

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viewpoints, he edited an Urdu monthly magazine called Risala Khatun in 1904. The purpose o f the publication was to bring awareness to the women reminding his readers about the Quranic injunctions for education and their rights guaranteed by the Quran. Khatun came with a new voice and new articles on religion, stories with a message, and how ignorance can kill people. In December 1911 a story was written where a mother-in-law seeks a cure for her daughter-in-law from fake peers instead o f a hakim and she dies. Similarly, another story had a message about ignorance, where a boy dies through lack of proper medical attention. This magazine was available to women and they could write to the editor expressing their opinions. Shaikh Abdullah requested friends to encourage their wives to write for Khatun, inviting both enlightened men and women to write on social and domestic issues. Begum Abdullah and her sisters were regular contributors to the journal, addressing subjects like Muslim ceremonies, personal hygiene, modesty in clothes, and on the need for education. Maulana Hali’s famous poem, Chup ki dad (Homage to Silence) was written at the request o f Shaikh Abdullah. Begum Abdullah gave an occasional speech or wrote about the management o f the school. In one speech at a gathering of Muslim women in support o f women’s education, she mentioned that in Turkey and Egypt women were being educated and this had been beneficial to their societies: When women meet among themselves, there is more solidarity. Now there is a division between the educated and uneducated women. Uneducated women, who do not go out, think that respectability is confined to the four walls of the houses. They think that people who live beyond those walls are not respectable and not worthy of meeting, but God has ordained education for both men and women, so that such useless ideas can be gotten rid of. 0Khatun, January 1906: 7-8) Gail Minault wrote in her research paper in the journal Manushi (no. 44 1988), published in Delhi, “Khatun provides

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important documentation for the history of women’s education.” The journal contained much discussion of educational matters, curricula, the pros and cons of teaching English to women, the need for improved textbooks, women students’ need for fresh air and exercise, (maintaining purdah behind the high walls of the institutions), reports of women’s associations and school committees, and speeches by Waheed jahan or the chief patron of the Aligarh Girls’ School, the Begum of Bhopal, Her Highness Sultan Jahan Begum. According to Gail Minault, “Women’s views on education appeared in its pages, but Khatun was mainly addressed to the members and patrons of the Muslim educational conference, that is, the educated elite of the Muslim community, largely men. Shaikh Abdullah wrote clearly and persuasively in Urdu but without many concessions to the need for a simplified style to reach a newly literate readership.” Khatun had a great impact on the Muslim middle classes and created awareness about the condition of Muslim women and the need for improvement in their lives. Soon, articles started arriving in the mail, some of them under pseudonyms but mosdy bearing real names. Many cultured men started contributing to the magazine and buying subscriptions, but the cost o f the printing was borne mainly by Shaikh Abdullah. The next significant impetus to Muslim women’s status came in 1905 with the Crafts Exhibition, which was organized by Zohra and Attiya Fyzee. Begam Abdullah and her friends requested women to send in their embroidery, sewing, and other handicrafts which would be sold to raise funds. In the first year, two hundred articles were sold and, subsequendy, thousands of pieces of needlework started arriving. People appreciated the talent and enterprise of the women who could produce such beautiful work. The Abdullahs’ circle of supporters, friends, and well-wishers kept growing. A meeting of Muslim women was held to coincide with the 1905 Muhammadan Educational Conference in Aligarh. The exhibition was a huge success, and examples of fine embroidery, needlework, calligraphy and painting were donated for display,

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including some work from the Begum o f Bhopal herself. There was a great deal of opposition, and permission to use one of the buildings on the campus was refused. At the last minute an affluent Parsi friend of Shaikh Abdullah offered his house in Aligarh town. Forty women attended and it was o f great historical importance, because it was the first time that purdah-observing Muslim women from different parts o f India met to discuss their problems. They were housed with purdah observing ladies of Aligarh. The women passed resolutions praising the Abdullahs’ efforts and favouring the founding of a girls’ school in Aligarh, and spoke enthusiastically in support of the proposal that called for Muslim women to be educated like the men o f their family. A resolution was passed unanimously and Shaikh Abdullah printed the proceedings of the meeting and distributed a thousand copies amongst the people o f the area. (Khatun 1906, 3-5) There were many dissenters too, who argued that after exhibiting their embroidery and home crafts, women would start exhibiting their faces. They insisted that only household skills were important for women. Other concerns were also voiced, for instance, some people asked whether women could be educated without discarding purdah, if Christian teachers would be employed in schools, and if their daughters would study in the company o f girls o f other religions, or common girls. By 1906, the Aligarh Girls’ School had been set up by Shaikh Abdullah and Waheed Jahan and by 1914 they had raised the money to build a hostel for girls. Waheed Jahan devoted her energies to running the school and supervising the hostel. Initially, the school struggled to survive but later grew into the Women’s College o f Aligarh Muslim University, which survives to date. Shaikh Abdullah’s success was pardy the result o f his own and his wife’s energies, and pardy o f the backing he had received from powerful members of the Aligarh establishment. In particular, he lauded the efforts o f the delegation o f Aligarh students who had visited Bombay to raise money for the girls’

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Normal School. He noted that additional patronage had been granted by the Begum of Bhopal. With the opening of the hostel, the Abdullahs had a lot on their hands and so Khatun ceased publication in 1914. All through 1903, Shaikh Abdullah listened carefully and developed detailed plans for a school without disclosing it to anyone. He heard arguments in favour of a teacher training school for Normal Levels where teachers could visit the female students in mohallas. Abdullah could foresee that this would be a short-lived programme because Normal Schools were meant for the middle or secondary levels whereas it was more important to establish primary schools. There was general acceptance for the idea of a teacher training school but it needed official sanction. The Normal School proposal was found unsuitable for Aligarh because it had the largest boarding facility for boys. Shaikh Abdullah agreed to select another city for the pilot project and some donauons were collected for the school. By 1905, the money had been spent in organizing the exhibition of ladies’ handicrafts. The editors of Tchzecb-l-Niswan, Maulvi Mumtaz Ali, and the editor o f Paisa Akhbar> Mahboob Alam, both from Lahore, were initially in favour of the teacher s school being set up in Lahore. Shaikh Abdullah agreed to advise them in his capacity as the Secretary. The two editors suggested that Shaikh Abdullah should start writing officially to their newspapers and promised to raise funds for the project. However, when there was no further action on the project, even after repeated reminders from Shaikh Abdullah, the two gentlemen declared their inability to take responsibility and asked him to choose another city and other people for the job. This suited Shaikh Abdullah because he knew he could rely on the help of his wife and her sisters if the school was planned for Aligarh. At this crucial juncture, an incident occurred which finally decided the issue, despite much opposition. Shaikh Abdullah reasoned that he needed the patronage o f the head of a princely state to put his plan into action. The Begum of Bhopal was the only Muslim woman ruler in India and gready inclined to women’s education in her state. Two months ahead

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of the Lucknow Conference, Shaikh Abdullah wrote her a letter explaining his plan to set up a girls’ school in Aligarh, appealing to her for monetary and moral help. On 21st December 1904, he received her reply encouraging him and assuring a monthly stipend of one hundred rupees per month from the day the school started functioning. Shaikh Abdullah was jubilant for the first sign of recognition and encouragement and when he told his wife, she gave a prayer of thanks and congratulated him. The next day, he left Aligarh to attend the Lucknow Conference and visited Raja Jahangirabad’s house to meet Nawab Mohsinul Mulk and showed him Begum Bhopal’s letter. To Sahikh Abdullah’s surprise, the Nawab reacted most violendv by throwing his headgear on the floor, saying that the orthodox amongst Muslims were already critical of the establishment of the boys’ college and when they would hear of Abdullah’s plan to open a girls’ school in Aligarh they would surely be enraged. Raja Sahib of Jahangirabad advised Abdullah that as a younger man he should listen to the advice o f his elders who were more experienced. Shaikh Abdullah picked up the Nawab’s headgear and put it on the table in front of him without saying a word. Nawab Mohsinul Mulk took it and proceeded toward his carriage, followed by Shaikh Abdullah. In private, Abdullah asked the Nawab for a clarification since he knew him to be a supporter of women’s education, telling him that if the younger generation thought the Nawab was against women’s education they would stop believing in him; Upon hearing this, Nawab Mohsinul Mulk smiled and said, ‘You carry on with your work* I have done mine. I want people to know that I am not in favour of establishing a girls’ school in Aligarh. We are both right in our own way.’ Then Shaikh Abdullah told him that he planned to present his proposal that evening at the conference. Nawab Sahib advised him against it and told him to get it ratified at his department meeting. In 1905, the Department for Female Education held their conference at the MAO College in Stratchey Hall with Mohsinul

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Mulk as the Secretary and Khalifa Syed Hussain, the Wazir of the state o f Patiala, in the Chair. According to his biographer, it is quite probable that Shaikh Abdullah disclosed his design for the school and college to the Chairperson and asked him to bring it on board as though it were his own idea, for Shaikh Abdullah knew it had a better chance that way. In his keynote address, the Chairman said that he envisaged a plan for the girls’ school and college with a boarding house facility within an enclosed compound. The girls would be taught household management along with regular curricula and they could bring a lady from home to live with them. Then, as the Secretary, Shaikh Abdullah presented his annual report. He reminded the participants that the department for women’s education had been set up in the time o f Syed Ahmed Khan and spoke about the ladies.handicraft exhibition that had become a regular annual feature, after the Bombay conference in 1903. After the Lucknow conference in 1904, eleven hundred rupees had been collected from the sale, and ladies from five royal families had also sent in their embroideries. He also explained the difficulties he faced in publishing Khatun but was pleased to announce that now the readership had risen to four hundred, among whom were ladies from illustrious and learned families who appreciated the prospect of a girls’ school. Then he mentioned the generous support o f the Begum o f Bhopal who had promised one hundred rupees per month for the school. In the gathering were three or four dissenters who had come with the express purpose of heckling the proceedings. The first one to stand up was Mumtaz Ali Khan who had earlier indicated his inability to establish the Normal School in Lahore. He said that Syed Ahmed had nominated him as the Secretary of Women’s Education in 1886 since he was very interested in the subject and had started educating his wife, hoping to start a magazine for women. He was not able to hold discussions or call an assembly while he was Secretary and it broke his heart when Aftab Ahmad Khan replaced him. He said that his wife died soon thereafter and after marrying again, he began educating his second wife and after some years was able to start publishing

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Tehzeeb I Niswan. He said that in Lahore one could find female students as well as teachers and he was quite willing to open a Normal School there. Next, Shaukat Ali stood up and said that the idea of women’s education was his. ‘Shaikh Abdullah has flown away with my idea and prints his magazine, holds meetings, and ladies' handicraft exhibitions for his own acclaim. The Normal School idea was mine, too, that is why this must be set up either in Lahore or in Aligarh but my personal opinion is that Aligarh should be the choice.' People started laughing. Then Mohammed Ali stood up and had much to say. ‘H ie Secretary of Female Education has wasted his time in organizing ladies' handicrafts exhibition. Instead, he should have spent all his efforts in setting up the teachers training school. Why hasn't he started one yet? I will need a teacher in five years. Where will I find one? He should leave everything else aside and concentrate only on establishing the teacher's school.' Sahibzada Aftab Ahmad Khan listened to the hecklers in surprise, and then he rose in defense and spoke at length about the exhibition as a valuable tool to involve women and get their support for the education programme. He said the Secretary had been collecting money for the school by appealing for donations in Khatun and holding the Ladies Handicrafts Exhibitions to raise funds, 'That Shaikh Abdullah travels to distant places, corresponds with numerous people, and through his paper generates public interest in women's education is commendable work. Even so, he is accused o f doing nothing. I know he does his work with his heart and soul and we should be grateful to him'. People were impressed by the speech but a companion of Shaukat Ali, Mustapha Hussain, spoke next, accusing Shaikh Sahib o f neglecting the Sir Syed Memorial Fund of which he was the Secretary. He said the committee was dead and that he should resign from this position. Hearing this, Nawab Mohsinul Mulk said that this was an incorrect statement. He was the President o f Sir Syed Memorial Fund and would be equally to

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blame if it were a dead committee. He declared that it had been estimated that Rs 10 lakhs would be enough to set up the University but already Rs 10 lakhs had been collected. He added that he had full faith and trust in the ability o f Abdullah Sahib. In conclusion, Khalifa Mohammed Hussain gave a vote of thanks and expressed a wish that the people should applaud Shaikh Abdullah’s efforts. Hearing this, one thousand people stood up and clapped loudly. This enraged Shaukat Ali and, the next day, at the end o f the session, he strode past, pushing everyone aside and reached Shaikh Abdullah whom he whacked hard on his back with the words, ‘You take the credit for everything without doing anything and get people to praise you. I feel like giving you such a beating that would make you forget all this/ He raised his hand to strike him again as Shaikh Abdullah recoiled in surprise, but the people restrained him. After this incident, people were furious at this unseemly behaviour and boycotted the evening session that then had to be cancelled. A meeting was held at the house of the Sub-Trustee of MAO College, Nawab Fayyaz Ali Sahib, where it was decided to remove Shaukat Ali from the trusteeship because of his unbefitting action. He was the representative of the Old Boys and was given the option either to resign or be to be removed from the old boys list. He chose to resign.

5 Abdullah Lodge, Aligarh

Abdullah Lodge, the family home, was built in 1923 in proximity to the school, so life became much easier for my mother, who had found the daily commute to the school tiring and inconvenient. She would often stay back at the hostel to look into management affairs and was able to come home only on weekends. Our new home was a sprawling, three-storied house with approximately six acres of land surrounding it. Papa must have had the orchard planted several years earlier, because I remember the trees were already quite tall and bearing fruit when we moved in. Shifting to Abdullah Lodge was an adventure for us children. After school, it became a favorite pastime to run up and down the numerous roofs, discovering niches and tucked-away lofts that were ideal for a game of hide-and-seek. It was tremendous fun climbing up the sloping roof of the women-servants* quarters that were built in a line alongside the godam and the kitchens, with one kitchen outside the zenana section and one inside the main house. Abdullah Lodge has twelve stately rooms on the ground floor, divided by a wide gallery that was used as an entrance. This gallery began from the verandah that encircled two-thirds o f the house. The covered verandah ran in front of the bedrooms and was connected to an uncovered verandah, the chabootra, which jutted out in the centre and had three circular steps going down

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to the inner, enclosed compound or aangan that was large enough to accommodate five hundred beds. The family slept in the open courtyard on summer nights and when sometimes it rained unexpectedly, we would pick up our beds and bedding and run for cover to the verandah. When it stopped raining, the servant boys helped carry back the beds of the older family members. Abdullah Lodge was open house to several o f Ammas women acquaintances and friends. Parents who came to admit their daughters to the hostel or those who came to inquire after them invariably stayed at Abdullah Lodge. The teachers and the girls looked forward to being invited to a meal whenever they came to pay Amma a visit and, o f course, there were the old servants attached to the household who could not be dismissed. I remember my father complaining to my mother that the household expenditure was running too high. Ammas reply was that it couldn’t be helped because the running o f such a large household was quite complex and demanding, with unexpected overnight guests, friends, nieces, and nephews over for their vacations, and students and teachers arriving at all odd hours. Amma had, therefore, handed over the kitchen management to her sister Saeed Jahan, who supervised the cooking and the distribution of food, fruit, and provisions, while maintaining a strict account o f the expenses. She had a team o f servants to assist her, men servants for the heavy work and women who worked indoors. I remember the first time my grandmother, Zamani Begum, saw men servants in the house she was quite distraught, more so because my elder sisters walked around in front of them without a burqa. One day, she exclaimed in disgust: ‘Ooi, Waheed Jahan, is this a home or a bazaar?" Saeed Jahan was elder to my mother by two years. She lived with us all her life and never married. To the children she was “Amma Jan”. She had adopted Mohsin as a son but when it came to me, she was most perturbed that I was not docile enough for a girl. Tired o f my childish pranks when she caught me climbing trees or jumping over walls or playing cricket with

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the boys, she often made ominous predictions about my future. She would frequendy would get angry with me and shout half in despair. ‘Go on, break your leg if you like, no one will accept a langri (lame) wife, remember that!' I would laugh from the treetop: ‘Who wants to get married, anyway?’ At other times, seeing me deeply tanned from playing in the sun, she would remark: ‘What do I care, get as black as coal if you like. Your mother does not seem to have any control over you, but I’m telling you no one wants to marry a black girl!’ With time, we came to accept Amma Jan for who she was. It was clear to me that she did not understand the simplest thing about children. For instance, the gendeness and understanding o f my mother had a far greater impact on me than all o f Amma Jan’s threats and disciplinary action. She was like a soldier who performed her duty diligendy, sparing neither herself nor others. God bless her soul, she was a great lady in her own way. Although my mother had seven years experience o f managing a day school in Balai Qila, running a girls’ hostel along with a school demanded a lot o f her inner resources. There must have been thirty or forty boarders when 1 was about five-years-old. Each senior girl above the age of fourteen was entrusted with the care o f a younger child o f six or seven years, keeping account of the child’s pocket money and supervising her hygiene and her punctuality. Amma was a mother figure to all thirty o f them, along with us, and attended to everyone’s health. She was also everyone’s confidante and counseled the girls when they did not feel comfortable discussing their problems with their own mothers. All mail was censored other than that from family members o f the girls. Each Sunday, Amma would wash the children’s hair and clean it o f lice with the help o f two maidservants. Kerosene oil for lanterns and coconut oil for the hair was supplied by the management. Students who could afford to pay the full fees were required to pay thirteen rupees a month, which included a

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breakfast o f two fat biscuits, popularly termed bhainsa (buffalo) biscuits, a lunch cooked in pure ghee, and a wholesome dinner. Vegetable oil was unknown at the time. Students whose parents could afford it, paid extra for their daughters to have milk, butter, and eggi. Amma took the girls for outdoor walks and picnics. Initially, both the teachers and the students called her “Begum Sahiba”, but soon she became “Alabi” to everyone. In his book, Sawanih-i-Umri-i-Abdullah Begum, Shaikh Abdullah writes that his wife’s small nieces could not pronounce the “kh” sound clearly so “khala” turned into “Ala”. This tradition continued and all the khalas became Alas. Khatoon Jahan, (Manjhli Apa to us) became Nimi Ala to her nieces; Mumtaz Jahan was simply Ala; and Birjis was Biji Ala. Alabi would select half a dozen older girls to help her cook the picnic lunch while the women servants hovered around to do the odd jobs. The younger girls were asked to shell peas while the older ones peeled potatoes, in this way combining pleasure with work. My mother made sure that the growing young women acquired some household skills. The girls in the hostel observed purdah and, in theory, do so to this day. All the work inside the hostel was done by women servants while men servants cooked the food in the outer kitchen, swept the roads inside campus, and maintained the gardens inside and outside the hostels. Whenever a male water carrier brought the water supply in to fill the clay pitchers and utensils inside the hostel, a woman servant would call out to the girls to get into their rooms. Some girls observed purdah even from the sweepers and the water-carriers. The oldest servant was Mir Sadat Ali, a proud Syed who stood guard at the main gate, and did not recognize any authority other than that of my parents. His living quarters were near the gate so he was always around to open the gate in the morning to allow the girls from the hostel to cross over into the school building. He would stay at the gate all day, checking everyone who arrived and left, before locking the gates for the night. Lanterns were brought to him every evening and he would trim

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the wicks and fill them with kerosene oil before lighting them. Then, he would sound the azaan for evening prayers and a woman servant would come out and carry the lanterns to the girls' rooms inside the compound. Mir Sadaat Ali was an indispensable member of the school campus and, to this day, his portrait hangs in the Assembly Hall of the hostel building. I remember Miss Me Collough was the first headmistress of the school. After her, three other Christian teachers were employed to teach English* Arithmetic History, Geography and Hygiene, while religious instruction was given by Begum Abdullah, and sewing classes were taught by her eldest sister, Sikander Jahan, an accomplished needlewoman. The number o f students was increasing daily and a proper timetable was developed on the pattern of other government schools. All the Christian teachers lived in the hostel and followed a similar code o f behaviour as prescribed for the Muslim students. It was sometime in 1927 that the school was granted the status of an Intermediate College. From High School to an Intermediate College was a short step and, in 1927, the girls started taking the university exam. Many o f the students who completed their Matriculation took on jobs in the school while others went on to do higher studies. Gradually, as the demand for teachers increased, the school's own ex-students, or ‘Old Girls* as they were called, because part of the faculty. On 7 November 1927, the first annual function o f Founders Day was celebrated with fervour. For me, personally, the appointment of Miss Miles as our English teacher that year was a turning point. She not only taught us English nursery rhymes but also encouraged us to act them out. Miss Miles was my first introduction to drama. For the anniversary celebrations, she chose a scene from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We staged it under the full moon in the hostel compound, surrounded by evergreens, fragrant shrubs o f motia and jasmine, and the huge mango trees. It was an ambitious production but Miss Miles worked hard at it. The costumes were fashioned from borrowed saris donated by Amma and her friends. Sarwat Apa, a brilliant senior student, played Oberon while Miss Miles

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played Titania. When Miss Khan wore her donkey’s mask as Bottom, we all fell about laughing. When I was given a small part of a fairy, I almost burst with pride when a shiny pink dupatta was gathered in the middle and pinned on to my back with its edges tied to my wrists so that when I lifted my arms it appeared as if I had wings. I knew my lines well and when the time came for my entry, I glided in with confidence, the moonlight picking out the tinsel in my hair and making my silver wand sparkle, swaying to the recital of: Over hill over dalet through bush through brier... To this day, I get a thrill from reading these lines that is far greater than all the scripts that 1 have worked on and memorized in my acting career. After the success of A Midsummer Night's Dream, it became a tradition to produce a full-length play, usually a translation, for Founder s Day celebrations each year. My teachers were becoming good at these translations, especially Icchan Apa, (Mrs Sajida Zubair, later Principal of Karachi College for Women). She developed remarkable skill in translating dramatic dialogue and was ably assisted by my brother, Mohsin. In 1931, the translated script o f Shakespeare’s As You Like It was completed and preparations for its production began. Shahida (later “Neena”, of Indian films), being the prettiest girl in school was chosen for the female lead. She was to play Celia, while I got to play Rosalind, which meant wearing boys’ clothes in many scenes. For the first time, a proper stage was set up. Curtains that could be pulled up from both wings were strung up and strong gaslights were provided for the stage. We were sitting in a room inspecting our costumes when Miss Jeremy came in with Mumtaz Apa. They gave us a small tin of talcum chalk and told us shyly, ‘Use it before you go on stage’. Our teachers expected us to use stage make-up but no one had any idea how it was to be put on since neither students nor teachers used make-up in those days. One Punjabi girl, already initiated into the mysteries of cosmetics, came to our rescue. She mixed glycerin and water with chalk and smeared it on our faces.

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The lotion dried up in a few minutes and we looked like chalky-white ghosts. Then, she moistened pink paper and rubbed it on our cheeks and red paper on our lips. We looked like painted puppets and, as a finishing touch, she singed a stick in fire and with the blackened end drew dark bold eyebrows over our already dark and naturally shaped ones. We must have looked awful and were very self-conscious when the curtain went up, but we were soon reassured when we heard the audience comment audibly that the girls were looking as lovely as fairies. The show was a great success and Shahida and I were acclaimed as the loveliest and most talented artistes, respectively, in the school. After Shakespeare, we did the story o f Abul Hassan from A Thousand and One Nights. Another school production was called The Lost Star or Gumshuda Parveen in translation. The play became such a hit that it was repeated two or three times in subsequent years. All the ladies o f Aligarh were invited to watch since the only cinema in the city was located in the main bazaar and few women ever ventured there. So it came to be that our annual play became the greatest show in town for women. It was here, at the school, that I met Rana, the wife o f the future Prime Minister o f Pakistan. Rana had come to visit her friend Miss Miles, and stayed with her at her cottage on the campus. She substituted for her friend for three days when Miss Miles came down with flu. I remember her as a small-boned, diminutive young woman who smiled most of the time. Much later, when I met her again in 1947, this time as Prime Minister Nawab Liaquat Ali Khan’s wife, she was all graciousness. She referred to me endearingly as, ‘Khurshid, the curly top’. It was since that memorable day when Lady Porter laid the foundation stone o f the school, that 7th November became a marker of great festivity in the Girls School and College. Shaikh Abdullah, “Papa Mian” to the girls, would address the students each year. At first, he did so from behind a screen because some girls observed purdah, then later, after Ismat Chughtai wrote scathingly that it was shameful that daughters were observing

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purdah from their father, the screen was removed and Papa spoke directly to the girls. His speech always started with, ‘Do you realize, my daughters, that this place where you see your school* and college buildings now and where you study and play without fear was once the abode of snakes and scorpions and a den of thieves and robbers?’ In 1930, Mumtaz Jahan, my elder sister, was appointed lecturer and our class teacher. I was in the seventh class at the time and considered to be a senior girl but I had been, up till then, quite an average student. Under my elder sister s inspiring tutelage, I developed a passion for reading and a desire to excel, particularly in English, Geography, Indian History, and Composition. My grades started improving each term, so much so, that from the ninth class onwards, I never allowed any other girl to wrest the first position from me. I owe my special interest in mythologies of the world, in classics of English literature, and in the history of the subcontinent, entirely to Mumtaz Jahan. Along with academics and drama, we were also encouraged to participate in outdoor games. Mumtaz Apa played basketball in Isabella Thoburn College and introduced the game in our school. It soon became a great favourite with the students. The spirit of healthy competition, both in games and in studies, which we learnt from her, became an integral part of the school activities. The students played four games, basketball, volleyball, baseball and badminton, without the benefit of a trained coach. The school team had already been to Lucknow to play friendly basketball and badminton matches with the Muslim School team but, unfortunately, they were unsporting girls and took their defeat badly. The following year, we entered the inter-school Lady Haley Tournament that was to be held in the Isabella Thoburn College playground with American women professors as umpires. The year passed quickly and we had regular practice in preparation for the tournament. Since there were to be four matches and a relay race and one girl could participate in three events, our Games Committee chose thirteen girls in all. I was

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chosen Captain and, with Mumtaz Apa’s help, selected members and appointed sub-captains for each team. In February 1933, the first school team left Aligarh to compete in the Lady Haley Cup at Lucknow. There was great excitement am on^ the boarders who were on the team. We were given brand new tennis shoes although we were used to playing barefoot! Our uniforms— white shalwar and kameez—were sewn by the teachers and the senior girls, and powder blue dupattas were dyed in the hostel compound with the younger girls helping to dry them by holding on to the two ends and running with them. Amma, Mumtaz Apa, and Miss Jeremy accompanied us as chaperones but since they were travelling second class, while we were booked in the third class compartment with a woman chaperone, the journey was quite eventful. We kept our burqas on till everyone setded in their compartments but when the train started moving, we threw them off like escaped convicts, sang at the top of our voices, and planned some mischief for the first stop at the train station. It was a small station with no one selling anything, not even peanuts, but we did see a man selling paan and cigarettes. The poor man came running to our compartment, flattered by the attention of so many young and eager faces, and sold us thirteen paans for seventy-five paisas and a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches for another twenty-five paisas. That meant one rupee gone out of the three that were given to us to spend during the sports tour. Everyone was ecstatic for the next half an hour that was spent smoking, coughing, and chewing paan. To us, it was a most thrilling crime that we were committing. Completely over the top, we invited three Hindu women into our compartment who were apparently on a pilgrimage. We told them we were Hindu too, going to bathe in the River Ganga. They were simple women and they not only believed us but allowed us to eat from their plates and drink from their glass. One o f them looked at me pointedly and said, ‘The moment I saw you, I knew you were a Kashmiri Pundit*. Later, to ourselves, we laughed ourselves silly, thinking it was the joke o f

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the year, not knowing how dose to the truth the woman actually was. We stayed as guests o f the Muslim Girls’ Hostel and had two days to get acquainted with the other teams. Soon enough, many girls started forming deep friendships that generally result from meeting under happy circumstances. We were taken around to see the historical sights o f Lucknow in our free time, and felt quite grand about it. The next day when we went to Isabella Thoburn College for the matches, there were only four teams to compete with and we soon defeated them all. The new friendships evaporated into thin air and, with sullen faces, some of our defeated opponents grumbled that the umpires favoured the team from Aligarh. The Lai Bagh team was considered good in baseball but lost their games to us. We did not let them make a single run, our fielding was that good, but they were sporting enough to invite us the following year so they could even the score! The year 1928 saw the appointment of my cousin Hameed Jahan as Principal, ths first old student to hold such an important post in the College. Unfortunately, she joined government service soon after and we were left without a Principal for a while. She was the first Muslim woman to be sent by the United Provinces government to Oxford University to specialize in education. My sister Khatoon Jahan, who was at Leeds University on a grant from the UP Government, interviewed Miss Beecroft in England and offered her the position of the Principal o f the Aligarh Girls’ School. Miss Beecroft came to India in 1930 to take up her post. She was a young, attractive, and well-qualified woman who worked hard to bring the standard o f our education ac par with the institutions in her own country. She bccamc very fond o f my mother and father and spent Christmas vacations at Abdullah Lodge, wrapped in a lovely dulai, or warm coverlet, that my mother made especially for her. Mr Marsh, an Englishman, was the Collector of Aligarh, and it was inevitable that he and Miss Beecroft should fall in love. Within two years of her arrival, we lost our Principal amid

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wedding bells. The entire staff and students were invited to the Collectors house for the wedding which was quite unusual since it was not customary for the English to mix so freely with Indians. Very soon, Mr Marsh was made Commissioner of' Meerut Division, and his wife left with him, but both o f them remained on close terms with my family and, when she was expecting her first child, Miss Beecroft or Mrs Marsh, asked Amma to be with her, relying on her like she would on her own mother. The school curriculum was modeled along modern lines and we studied all the science subjects that were necessary for higher classes. I was in the third class and remember Miss Alice, our Hygiene teacher, giving us a lecture on the care of our teeth. ‘Girls, as you know, God has given us thirty-two teeth.’ I quickly counted mine, and raised my hand. ‘Miss Alice, I only have twenty-six.’ She was taken aback but rallied quickly enough, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get the rest in time. As I was saying, since we have thirty-two teeth, we must masticate each morsel thirtytwo times.’ After that lecture, each time I ate, I would count each movement o f the jaw before swallowing my food. I counted loudly, to the annoyance of everyone at the table, which made me very slow to finish the food on my plate till the servants began fidgeting, waiting to remove the dishes. When Amma noticed, she told me very casually to masticate quickly and not to count out loudly. It was typical o f our parents never to contradict our teachers but try to modify behaviour that caused inconvenience to others. To this day, I eat my food very slowly, chewing each morsel and counting to myself. How the tide had turned! The same families that had earlier been opposed to Muslim women’s education, now begged my mother to let their daughters into the school because now Muslim families were looking for educated girls for their sons, and it was almost impossible to get an illiterate daughter married off. One father was so desperate that he requested my sister Khatoon Jahan, who was Principal at the time, to allow his daughter, who was in the fifth class, to sit for the Matric exam

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because even if she failed, she would be considered “educated” by prospective families, for being a ‘Matnc-faiT was better than not being educated at all, and it would help him marry her off advantageously. Professor S. Bashiruddin wrote in his article, ‘Life and Work of Begum Abdullah/Waheed Jahan Begum 1884—1939* published in the centenary number of the A.M.U. Women’s College magazine, “Little could she have realized at the time that she was destined one day to be the pride of Muslim womanhood in India through her union in wedlock with Shaikh Abdullah. In a tribute to his wife, in Saivanih-i-Umri-i-Abdullah Begum, Shaikh Abdullah acknowledged that the success and realization of his mission would have been impossible without the selfless devotion, total identification, tact and perseverance of an exceptionally gifted woman like Begum Abdullah. She took the mothers into her confidence, visiting them in their homes and explaining the need and importance of their daughters* education. She also invited them into the school and her home, where through discussion and persuasion, she convinced them of the benefits of education for their daughters. Her sister lived in the hostel for three years and she herself also lived with the girls to give confidence to the parents. She taught the Quran and Urdu writing to the students. She shared her lunch with the girls who were too poor to bring extra food for themselves. This routine o f self-denial began to affect her health, and frequendy drove her to the sick-bed. She believed that ‘once a responsibility has been assumed, it is not fair to shirk it, whatever the consequences.* Waheed Jahan was fortunate in her elder sisters who took over many responsibilities. The eldest, Sikander Jahan Begum a widow, taught home-crafts to the girls. The other, Saeed Jahan Begum managed the kitchen and custodial staff in her sister’s home and school. Orphans were given shelter, food and education. Begum Abdullah gradually succeeded in winning over the critics and opponents of the school and when the number o f students in the school rose to fifty, the premises were shifted from Balai Qila to Mohalla Bani Israel in 1910.

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While her husband negotiated grants and donations to meet the increasing cost o f the expanding institution, Begum Abdullah worked at confidence-building with the women. “Shaikh Abdullah writes, ‘There were nine girls in the hostel when it opened, and except for the watchmen and dogs at night, no one else lived in the neighbourhood. Begum Abdullah and a couple o f teachers decided to live with the students and if a child was ill she would stay up all night reassuring her. This arrangement meant leaving her teething children in charge o f servants and mamas* but it gave a sense of security and confidence to the parents/ She took special interest in the cuisine and the dining hall, ensuring cleanliness. She gave instructions to the cook about the menu for lunch and dinner, and would taste the food before it was served to the students. She herself was an expert cook and could prepare delicious dishes in a short time. The kitchen was neat, orderly and clean. The women servants had to be dressed properly and tidily. In her personal life she was God-fearing without being intolerant, rigid or aggressive. Religion was a strictly personal affair with her. Professor Bashiruddin writes, that to him “the sight o f a family, presided over by old repecters o f times, old values, surrounded by young radicals and social rebels in an atmosphere o f perfect peace and harmony, was elevating as well as amusing. Begum Abdullah played the major role with her gift of flexibility. This rare gift in her was a valuable factor in winning over a large circle of friends and sincere admirers. She treated her employees humanely and kindly. She would give a wedding dress and some money when they were married, and also gave her car for the bride-groom to go to the bride’s house. She met students and people as people, without attaching any label on them. There was no religious or social prejudce and all were treated with the same kindness and compassion. Despite her involvement she did not neglect her obligations towards her husband, her children and relatives. Never of a robust constitution, her physical frame began to crack and betray symptoms o f weakness, fatigue and ennui as she got on in age.

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Undeterred by the signs o f failing health, she continued to work as hard as before, ignoring advice for rest and relaxation.” Khatoon Qamrain, Sheikh Abdulla's second daughter, recalled in ‘Remembering Papa and Alabi*, published in the annual issue o f the college magazine, that she was closer to her father than her mother She was sent to live with her grandparents in their huge haveli, Farashkhana, when the small school was started in Balai Qila a suburb o f Aligarh. She was very lonely being the only child there, and she missed her sisters and brothers and the company o f her peers. As long as the grandfather lived, he spent time playing with her, bringing her toys, and taking her out sightseeing. Papa came often to Delhi in connection with his cases and would console her that when the school was established in Aligarh, he would take her home. Still, she cried when he left and the grandparents were saddened. In 1914, the Waheedia Hostel was ready. Classes were held in one half of the building and the other half was used as a boarding house. When Khatoon was eight-years-old, she came to Aligarh and was among the first seven boarders. She and her sister, Rashid Jahan, were admitted to the fourth class. Three girls occupied a room, where an older girl was in charge of the younger girls. Khatoon was serious and sober unlike her sister Rashid Jahan, so Papa marked her out for service in the school and gave her many responsibilities. When she was twelve or thirteen-years-old, she was told to disburse the Eidi of Rs 125 among house servants, college servants and Papa’s official helpers, calculating for each, according to his status and to give an account. The children were to get Rs 2 each. At the end of the day, she was three rupees short. Papa said it would be deducted from her Eidi, but when Alabi saw she was depressed she quiedy gave her the money. During the summer when the law courts used to be closed for a month, Papa spent a lot o f time with the children playing cards, picnicking, reading Shakespeare and other literary articles out to them. At night he would talk about the stars— the distance between the earth and sun, moon and the earth. In the holidays professors were invited to give speeches, and requests

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were brought to Papa. Khatoon was called to his office to write responses, as she had neat writing, good spelling, and good diction. Her sisters teased her about being Papa's secretary. She was the first girl who matriculated with one other student in 1921, a year earlier than Rashid jahan. As yet there were no Intermediate classes in Aligarh, but with Alabi’s persuasion, Khatoon was allowed to go to Lucknow and study in Isabella Thoburn College. Other sisters and cousins followed her. Another supportive gesture from Alabi was that she discarded purdah in the University for her lectures. Her Hindu colleagues did not hide themselves behind blinds and were left alone but remarks were passed against her, such was the prejudice against Muslim girls. Papa recalled, ‘that there were some wicked persons who hired youngsters to hide, then pounce upon the palanquins as they reached the school, pull the curtains apart and run away clapping and shouting.' Sheikh Abdulla hid in ambush, and sprang upon the boys with a whip in hand and gave them such a beating that they dared not show up again. Mohsin Abdullah, tided his entry in the collcge magazine’s Centenary Number, 'Papa-Alabi. Scattered Pearls of Memory*. He observed what colour and fragrance meant to his parents. uAmman (mother) doted on fragrant flowers. Wherever she lived, in her mother’s house in Delhi, in her Russelganj kothi (house) boarding house, (Waheedia Hostel) or Abdullah Lodge there was always an abundance of bushes o f moria, chameU, juhi, btla, and jhars (bushes) o f har-singhar, mulsrt and such others. Another favourite of hers was mehndu There were clumps of mehndi bushes in all the homes she lived in. Even today, rows of mehndi bushes planted by her stand guard near her grave. In summer when we used to sleep in the aangan (large courtyard) under our mosquito nets, Amman would put a handful o f motia and chameli flowers next to our pillows. The aangan was first thoroughly sprinkled with water by the saqqa (water carrier) to cool the earth. Papa’s passion was a large garden full o f flowers and greenery, a neat well-trimmed lawn and shady trees. All around the house many varieties o f potted plants were grown. Roses were his

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special favourites and all our lives we had a profusion of roses in dozens of varieties, shades and fragrance surrounding us. Fruits were his other obsession. His Kashmiri blood craved both fruit and flowers. He had planted a large mango grove in the grounds of Abdullah Lodge, and some o f those mango trees still stand around his grave and pay silent homage to his memory. Papa had always insisted on fresh vegetables for the cable and had a large part of the grounds sown with seasonable vegetables. We always had lovely salad on the table in the season, mooli (radish), gajars (carrots) and beetroots and hara dhania (coriander), podeena (mint) and green chillies in plenty. In winter peas were sown and I and my friends used to have frequent picnics in the pea-patch itself, when we would pick the peas, shell them and fry them on the spot on an ingeethi (portable stove).” He wrote, “Papa was born with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. He was a voracious reader and his tastes were catholic. In his old age when his eyesight weakened he asked others to read out to him. Munshi Shahid Hassan did most o f the Urdu reading, and other young people read out the daily papers and books on subjects that interested him in the English language. All his long and eventful life he spoke and wrote on the subject of educating people, in particular the neglected section of society, the womenfolk. He believed that without the light o f knowledge brightening the minds of the future mothers o f the nation the country cannot progress and emerge into the modern era of science and reason. He said that more than the father, a mother shaped the mind and the future of her children, and her own education was of paramount importance. According to him, ‘a mother is the first teacher of her child. What she teaches the child, will influence the course of its whole life, and thereby the cumulative lives of the whole community. A mother can teach only what she herself knows best, so let her know the best there is.* Papa had collected a large library on such divergent subjects as religion, mythology and legends of various regions and beliefs,

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successive civilizations, history, travel, astronomy, evolution of man, books o f general knowledge, philosophy, fiction, biographies of great men and women; and as his mind continued to grow and his vision broadened, he added books on scientific subjects, even nuclear science. Magazines, papers and journals in Urdu and English were subscribed to in large numbers. On his desk he kept his favourite books; among them were the translation o f the Holy Quran, Bible, Gita, Shakespeare, Mussadas-c-Hali and many others. Chamber's English Dictionary and Urdu Lughat (dictionary) and a World Adas were always handy for ready reference. His collection o f law books was extensive and the best in Aligarh. I graduated as a law student but did not pursue the profession, much to the disappointment o f Papa. It now seems to me that Papa had collected his books for the library not only for his own reading and enlightenment but also for his growing children in whom he wanted to create a thirst for knowledge so they may become better human beings.” Mohsin also wrote about the effect his father’s conversion had back home. “I went to pay my respects to my last paternal uncle Tara Singhji, Papa’s youngest brother at Kathwa in Jammu district where the clan was setded. He told me that the madrassah which was flourishing and providing education to the village children, was closed down after Papa converted to Islam, out o f fear that education results in a ‘revolt against the traditional beliefs.* Everyone withdrew his child and all further studies were stopped. It took 20 years before the boys of the family were once again sent to school. We had a strictly puritan upbringing. Papa did not smoke, intake o f alcohol was considered one o f the seven mortal sins. T o tell a lie was to burn in the fires o f hell. We were a happy, healthy and wholesome family unit. Our rights as individuals were respected and we respected the rights of others, particularly the servants and the women dependents of Abdullah Lodge.” Birjis Kidwai, the youngest daughter o f Papa and Alabi, too wrote her recollections in the magazine, under the title, ‘My Father’. She wrote that Sheikh Abdullah was deeply interested

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in astronomy, and would take his children outside to the garden in the evenings. He would point out the stars in the firmament, and describe their differences, shapes and numbers. He was especially interested in the North Star, 4Qutub\ and explained that it is this star that showed travellers the way even before the compass was invented. The ships at sea and travellers on the ground found their directions with its help. “He taught us the names o f the stars and what their influences were on earth. He always had time for visitors. He would put away his book to listen, problems were discussed and solved. He asked students what their favourite games were, their best subjects and asked about their families.” Birjis’ Nepalese maidservant Aasho delighted in his company. He’d ask her about her country, about Kathmandu, the mountains and rivers in her country, and the way o f life there. When Birjis returned to Shillong, where she lived with her husband, this maidservant would tell friends that there was no person greater than Papa Mian. Birjis recalls that Papa Mian asked Maulana Hali to write a poem addressed to women, so they would know that their contribution could make a better society. Hali then wrote his famous long poem, *Ai Maaon behnon beteeyon, Quman ki izzat turn say hat (Oh mothers, sisters, daughters, The Nation’s hope and respect lies with you). Birjis remembers the beds in the courtyard in the moonlight, and Papa requesting Khurshid to recite the poem. Five-year-old Khurshid, her tiny frame silhouetted against the night, would then stand up on her bed and recite the poem in her melodious voice. Papa would ask her to repeat some lines or couplets when he felt moved. He was very fond o f the poem. Birjis writes that Papa was very concerned about litde birds. Swallows had nested under the stairs, dirtying the floor underneath. When the family wanted to destroy the nest, Papa would not allow it. He said that he could not drive away the helpless birds who had taken refuge in his home, as these birds would become prey for the hunters. Birjis recalls that the nests became bigger and the floor dirtier. Alabi spent all her time in the school in the beginning, and

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shared her lunch with the poor girls who weren’t able to get food from home. Birjis writes that they had buffaloes at home> and therefore there was always a surplus of milk and butter. Every morning before going to school, she would see the sweeper s daughter or the water-carrier’s son with their utensils waiting to get buttcr-milk. Initially they would get wheat-bread, butter and sugar to eat, but then their pails were filled with butter-milk too. Soon the children o f the neighbour’s servants1 started arriving with their pails, and there was a little army of children waiting near the buffaloes. Alabi would quiedy gave cash gifts to old ladies who were already receiving a pension from the government, but still expected hand-outs. Biji realized that her mother helped them secredy. “Whenever Papa visited old palaces and mansions, he was amazed at the way stone and lime was so strongly packed. He would copy the designs and bring his craftsmen around to study them. Some of these designs he copied in his hostel. He would study the placement of Sultania Hostel in relation to the masjid, the walls were two and a half feet high and we loved to climb on them and play. In the late evenings we would see our mother dressed in white praying at the foot of the wall. Papa told me that whenever Rashid Jahan came home for the holidays, she stitched clothes for the servants’ children, especially for winter. We understood that holidays weren’t only for fun, that time should be used to help the less fortunate.” Enid Jeremy, a teacher in the Intermediate College from 1928-1938 contributed an article in the same centenary issue entided, *A Personal Appreciation of Begum Abdullah’. “I joined the staff in 1928, the Intermediate College had only a few buildings, the combined school and college building for classes and another for their hostel, the teachcr’s kothi and the Principal’s bungalow. The rest o f the land was rented out as fields, mosdy vegetables. Across the fields was Abdullah Lodge where Alabi lived. It was she who had brought the school into being. She used to describe the difficulties she faced at the beginning and how much effort it took to get the Muslim ladies

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o f position to become interested, so that a Board o f Governors could be inaugurated. Though her home was near the school, she herself lived with the girls in the hostel to create confidence in parents regarding the safety of their daughters. She had a great capacity for enjoyment and it was such fun going out with her. She used to plan all kinds o f outings: a picnic to a canal bank; a trip to Norora head-works; and once an early morning picnic to a singhara (water chestnut) covered pond where we bought and ate them freshly gathered. In those days Aligarh was a quiet sleepy town. It woke up once a year in February during the Numaish (Fair) where Alabi would sometimes escort groups of girls or us teachers. She was such a sport, there were days when she made two trips, walking there and back. One day we went shopping in Delhi, I wore a burqa to be less conspicuous, and roamed freely in Chandni Chowk. Alabi’s charm was largely due to the fact that she was not at all aware o f it. Her manners were most gracious, her bright eyes danced when she laughed, and her smile was quite spontaneous. She dressed most simply, generally in white in the simplest kurta and divided skirt. The top button of her kurta was always open, and her white dupatta used to rest in folds over her head. She never wore jewellery, she did not need to for her attractive personality covered her as a jewel.” Professor Shahnaz Hashmi, wrote in the brochure for the National Seminar on Sheikh Abdullah held under the auspices o f Female Education Association from 9th-11th February 2001 in Aligarh tided, Sheikh Abdullah—A Memory. “Papa Mian, as we all called him, played many roles in his life. Educator, administrator, social reformer, crusader and above all, a father-figure to girls everywhere. Many are his achievements and considerable are the awards bestowed upon him. He was one o f the lucky ones who enjoyed glory and success in his lifetime. But what a fierce struggle he had to make and what ferocious opposition he had to face before he was rewarded with fame and fruits o f fortune! In 1904 the Female Education Association was founded by

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Shaikh Abdullah. Shaikh Sahib was the pioneer of women's education and it was from this forum that he launched the movement for girls* education and founded the Girls* High School and AMU Women’s College. Since then the Association has been quiedy engaged in promoting the cause of women’s education. The aims and objectives of the Association are to foster education among girls, to provide monetary help to the students of the girls* high school and Women’s College, AMU and other institutions with similar aims and objectives. The Association gives award, prizes and stipends to the meritorious and needy girls of the school and college every year on 2nd February, the Founder’s Day of the Women’s College AMU under the aegis o f the society. It is a registered body and the membership is open to those who agree and endorse the aims and objectives o f the association. The life membership is only Rs 200. Papa Mian had an Honorary Doctor o f Law degree from Aligarh Muslim University. He was honoured with the Padma Bhushan in 1964 by the Government of India. Mr. Badruddin Tyabji garlanded him on the occasion. Despite all this, Sheikh Abdullah remained essentially a simple and unassuming person. His days were filled with ideas for the progress o f the College and University. Even on holiday, Papa did not rest. He would dictate letters to be posted to AMU officials on matters of importance. In Papa Mian*s frail frame was hidden a stable mind, a strong sense of purpose and a clear vision. Sir Syed was a pioneer of education for boys, so was Sheikh Abdullah for girls. We are grateful to both. I cannot say that Papa Mian is no more for he is with us more and more from moment to moment.” The brochure also had Shaikh Abdullah’s address to the Girls of the Women’s College and High School. “I have a satisfactory feeling that I helped my government from the early days, its progressive step of educating the girls of our country* When I decided to launch my crusade at the beginning o f the century for the education of girls, both Hindus and Muslims were opposed to the idea of modern education for

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their girls. They feared it would lead to immorality among them. When, after innumerable odds we came out of the darkness it was found that education had the same bright effect on them as silver polish has on pots and pans. Educated girls have illuminated our society.” Every summer Alabi used to persuade Papa to take the children to a hill station where it was cooler. She knew that Papa being from Kashmir, found the heat of the plains very difficult to bear. She herself stayed on in Aligarh, as she had boarders from Aden and Basra, who could not go home every year. Towards the end of his life Papa started a Nursery School for his servants’ and retainer’s children in his compound. In 1962 I saw that two quarters and the frontage were joined, and there were swings and slides. Papa would ask us every morning, ‘Did you go to see the children? What did you give them?’ He’d be pleased when we told him that we gave them sweets, chana, and sugary candy. He taught us that it is our duty to do any small work that benefitted the poor. When Papa decided to give away Abdullah Lodge to the University, he consulted his children and we Sajida Zubair, ‘Icchan’ was another girl who had been brought up with the Abdullah girls. She also reminisced about her youth in the magazine in an article entided, ‘Everyone’s Papa*. Alabi had convinced her mother, Pali Khalla, to admit her in the hostel when she was just six-years-old. She remembers that Alabi was in the hostel all the time. Papa would visit his wife, daughters, and nieces on his return from the law courts but as purdah was strictly observed, he did not enter the hostel. A chair would be placed at the gate at the entrance o f Waheedia Hostel, and his family would go and meet him. The place where he sat was called 'the window’. Since Sajida was not a blood relative, she couldn’t go out to meet him. She goes on to recount that Rashid jahan was the leader of the children’s gang while Khatoon was very serious and sober, whom all respected, and Mumtaz was her dearest friend. “Every winter picnics were arranged twice by Papa and Alabi. Peanuts

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cost Re 1 for eight seers (nearly a kilo) and we took two rupees worth o f them, sixteen kilos. It was great fun preparing for the picnic in the hostel kitchens. We would shell them, salt them and fry them. We also took along gajak, guavas, wheatbread, btr (berries). Sometimes we took hot jaggery straight from the cooking pot and ate it with bread.” Sajida remembered that Papa helped her in the marking out o f the plot, the building of house and also dealt with the mason and workers. Munshi Shahid Hussain wrote in the magazine that “Abdullah Lodge was registered for Waqf on 23rd Wednesday May 1951. As Papa entered his home he said to it, ‘My dearest house, you were mine and now 1 have handed you over to God. I pray that it serves its purpose and human beings may prosper under its protection and bring pride to it.' ” In 1949, all the birds that had flown from Abdullah Lodge gathered together with their children for a grand family reunion. I had migrated to Pakistan in 1947 and wanted my three daughters to get to know their grandfather, their aunts, uncle, and particularly their cousins more intimately. At the family headquarters, we left the children alone to organize their own activities so that we could enjoy each other’s company and spend time with Papa Mian. Rashid Jahan was the first-born child o f the family who later became a medical doctor better known for her fiction writing and for her left-wing politics. Khatoon Jahan was second in line. She returned from Leeds in 1931 after specialization in Education to become the new Principal at Muslim University Girls’ High School and later the College. Ismat Chughtai wrote a nostalgic account o f her student days in ‘Women’s College Aligarh kay Shab-o-Roz. Here she mentions how Khatoon Jahan used to enter the classroom on tiptoe to check on the proceedings. Her dealing with the students was very informal and friendly since she was basically an introvert, averse to harsh disciplining. Khatoon Jahan worked in her father’s institution for five years before being transferred' to Calcutta to the Sakhawat Jahan

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School in Entally, near Calcutta, where her uncle, Bashir Mirza, was settled. He traded with Japan and brought gifts for the family on his visits to Abdullah Lodge. Saleem Abdullah, my adopted brother, remembers the Japanese toys that he was given, and Farrukh Nigar Aziz, his niece, still has the china plates that he gave his sister, her grandmother. Mumanijan, who was from Bengal, made falsa sherbet for her husband from the small purple fruit that grew in abundance in the orchards o f Abdullah Lodge, and used the residue of the fruit to make soap. To this day, Saleem remembers her purple soaps! Khatoon Jahan stayed, with them in Calcutta where Bashir Mirza passed away. Khatoon Apa had been brought up at her grandmother’s house in Delhi where Peenan Bua was a foster mother to her. After Khatoon Jahan married Lais Qamarain, an executive in the Reserve Bank of India, Peenan Bua went to live with them to help out with the children, Arif and Razia, who called her “Ammanji”. Peenan Bua died in Aligarh and is buried there. Khatoon Jahan was widowed suddenly very early in life and had to bring up her two young children on her own. Friends and colleagues obtained a position for her in All India Radio and, later, when the Board of Central Social Welfare Department was being set up, she was appointed the Inspection Officer. Khatoon Jahan arranged for the Board to finance the school that Papa had started in the servant’s quarters within the compound of Abdullah Lodge. This school is still functional and provides free education to less privileged children. Mumtaz Jahan, the third daughter in the family, joined the school as a teacher in 1930 after obtaining an MA in English from Isabella Thoburn College. Mumtaz was an energetic, creative woman who made many innovations in the curriculum. I was one of her students and can vouch for the inspiring effect her presence had on us. She was a sportswoman and taught us baseball, badminton, volleyball and basketball in which we excelled and won prizes in school and college competitions. Mumtaz Jahan married Haidar Khan, the professor of Chemistry at Aligarh University, and they had two children, Shahla and Salman. She lived in Aligarh, following her sister Khatoon Jahan

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as Principal and served for a record thirty-two years in this capacity. The fourth child in the Abdullah household was a boy, Mohsin, whom we called Mian, who was the eldest son of the house. He grew up to become a handsome and brilliant man who was a loving brother to all o f us. Mohsin Bhai’s three inseparable friends, Professor Ahmed Ali, Syed Hamid Hassan, and Syed Mohammed Oyama were welcomed in Abdullah Lodge as part o f the family and Amma did not observe purdah from them, nor did the daughters. Mohsin married my closest friend, Shahida, and they had two sons, Kamal and Tariq. Unfortunately, the elder child died at the age o f two and-a-half-years and, for a long time, Shahida was not able to come to terms with the loss. Mohsin and Shahida worked in the Bombay film industry with Mohsin writing scripts while Shahida transformed into the beautiful film actress, Neena. It was because of them that I went to Bombay, much later, to join the film industry under the pseudonym Renuka Devi. While Mohsin was studying at the University, he visited Kathva in Jammu, and met his cousins who had converted to Sikhism. One o f them, Mohan Singh, studied at the Aligarh University. He would come to pay his respects to Papa. The family in Kathva treated Mohsin with deference, all the family members rising from their chairs when he entered the room since it was their custom to show their visitor the utmost respect. Saeed (Bhaijan) came next in line. He had three very close friends, Syed Manzoor Hussain, Mohammed Farooq, and Mumtaz Qureshi who were nearer our age. They were our childhood playmates as well as deadly rivals of the girls’ team. After graduation, Saeed wished to go into business so, along with Munshi Shahid Hussain, he opened a shoe store in the city. Saeed did not keep good health and died of kidney failure in his early twenties. Munshi Shahid Hussain recalls the sad day when Mian (Mohsin) came to the shop to fetch him because, all of a sudden, Bhaijan took a turn for the worse and died. From that day, Munshi Shahid gave up the business, unable to carry on alone without his childhood friend.

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The last two children in the family were girls, I and my sister Birjis, born two years later. Biji was my constant companion in all the games, sports matches, and in our home-theatre productions. We share almost all childhood memories. Biji married Ahmed Kidwai, an Indian Civil Service officer, and went away to live in Shillong, Assam. Biji and Ahmed Kidwai had two children, Shahnaz and Rasheed. Biji was the only one to be married after our mother passed away, but all o f us sisters rallied round and tried to take mother’s place. Abdullah Lodge was the pivot around which revolved several lives and much activity. Apart from the extended family members, a host o f other women and men made it their home. Among my mother’s many devoted friends and supporters was Wajida Begum, known universally as Pali Khalla. She was married to a much older man, a Superintendent o f Schools, and was widowed after only six years o f marriage, with three small children to bring up. She shifted to Aligarh where her eldest brother, Syed Zainuddin, was a senior government official, and took care of his home while he provided her with a place to live in. Pali Khalla was very close to my mother. A huge, hefty woman, we called her Amma’s strong arm. She would just as easily pick up a shoe and beat a servant who stepped out o f line, as pick up a stick and kill a snake before the men could be called. The daughter o f Syed Zainul Abedin, a close friend o f Syed Ahmed Khan, she remained beside Amma, aiding her in the management of the hostel or the house help, sorting out matters that Amma was too polite or too embarrassed to son out herself. As children, we feared Pali Khalla’s sharp tongue and forceful nature but, for all her aggressiveness, she had an extremely gende heart. Although uneducated herself, Pali Khalla appreciated the value o f education and admitted her three children to the school. Sajida, her only daughter, was the same age as Mumtaz and they became firm friends, while her son, Hamid, became a life-long friend o f my brother, Mohsin. When Sajida, or “Icchan”, completed her primary schooling, her uncle wanted her to discontinue her studies, opposing higher education for women. Pali Khalla took a bold step and moved

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out o f his house, even chough she did not have a regular income o f her own. She told her sons to supplement their meagre income by going to work. Alabi proved to be an anchor for the family, helping them in any way she could, treating Icchan like her own child. Sajida was among the first four girls who became boarders. After finishing college at the same institution, Sajida became a teacher and, later, her three daughters received their education from the same institution. After the partition o f India, she migrated to Pakistan and became Principal o f Karachi Central College for Girls, from where she retired. Pali Khalla’s children spent a lot o f time at Abdullah Lodge where Papa would tell them stories from history around the dining table. Funnily, Pali Khalla called my father “Papa Mian” and he called her “Pali Khalla” even though all her life, she observed purdah from him. Zohra Begum was another lady devoted to Alabi and a part o f Abdullah Lodge. Zohra took refuge with some Methodist missionaries after her father died suddenly, leaving her to the mercy o f her stepmother. She was brought to the house through Kathleen and Louise Clancy who studied with Khatoon and Mumtaz Jahan in Isabella Thoburn College. Zohra Behan stayed with Alabi who arranged for her to be married to her childhood betrothed, Fakhar Husain, from Abdullah Lodge. When Zohra Begum was expecting her first child, Fakhar Husain had to rush to Gujranwala to visit his ailing father, leaving his wife in the care of Alabi because o f her advanced pregnancy. Their son, Saleem, was born in 1924. Fakhar Hussain did not return and it was learnt much later that he had remarried. So Saleem became a part o f the Abdullah household with Alabi adopting him as her own and keeping him by her side till he was three-years-old. All of us loved him like a brother. All the while that Zohra Behan lived in Abdullah Lodge, she was devoted to Alabi and became an asset to her in the management o f the large household. She was a foster mother to my second daughter, Lubna, whom I had left behind in Abdullah Lodge in the care o f my mother. During my mothers last illness, Zohra Behan was the one closest to her. She helped give the last bath

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to my mother before her burial. Zohra Begum passed away in 1982 and is buried in Lahore. Naseeban, or Peenan Bua, as we knew her, was another Abdullah Lodge retainer. She came to live with us after my grandmother died. She was devoted to my brother, Saeed, and saved money from her meagre resources to buy gold bangles that she hoped to give his bride. When Saeed died at the age of twenty-one, she was completely shattered, so much so, that she sold the bangles and gave away the money to charity. Peenan Bua was the model for my role as “Akka Bua” in the hit television series Zer Zabar Pesh. Munshi Shahid Hussain, another loyalist, came to Abdullah Lodge at a very young age. He had lost sight in one eye due to chicken pox, but was sharp-witted and had a keen mind. He became Papa’s secretary when he grew up and helped transcribe his memoirs. Shahid would accompany Papa to the University and College functions and was a constant help in Papa’s advancing age. Papa gave him a plot of one thousand yards in Aligarh for his years of service. Shahid Hussain remembers the first day he came to Abdullah Lodge as a young boy. Nobody was home since everyone had gone to the railway station to receive Khatoon Jahan who was returning from England. The family came home'hot and tired from the journey and, upon seeing Shahid, Saeed Bhaijan asked him for a glass of cold water. Shahid Hussain replied brusquely ‘Get it yourself, I am not your father’s servant.’ He recalls that hearing this, Saeed Bhaijan started laughing, and he joined in too, and they became good friends after that. Munshi Shahid became the caretaker of Abdullah Lodge after Papa’s death, and is still living, a grand old man of over eighty years with his children and grandchildren in the quarters he occupied during Papa”s lifetime. Waheed was the other devoted young boy who grew into manhood in Abdullah Lodge. He was nicknamed “Havai” because he could run like the wind, and often started running before the instructions being given to him were complete. He would then run back to ask for clarification, and rush away again! When he grew up, he was married from Abdullah Lodge

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and had several children. Havai looked after Papa with unparalleled devotion. He became the cook, the caretaker, and attended to Papa in his extreme old age when he was unable to walk. One day, in the hot summer afternoon when Papa was asleep, the jam adam i (cleaning woman) was washing the floors. She had flooded the room with water to cool it. Havai picked up the wire o f the portable fan to clear it off the floor and was instandy electrocuted. H ie woman ran out screaming for help, but Havai was gone. His family was given a plot of a thousand yards and his widow still lives with her grandchildren in the Abdullah Lodge quarters. His grandson runs a small shop on a part o f the land Today, Abdullah Lodge hums with activity. It has been divided into two portions, one half being occupied by the Abdullah Nursery School, which has progressed from Nursery up to the Primary Level, with three hundred and fifty students studying on subsidized fees. This school was presented to Dr Shaikh Abdullah on the occasion o f his 80th Jubilee by the Old Girls Association. The large area comprising the servants’ quarters outside the main house was converted by Papa Mian into another smaller primary school which is now managed by the Social Welfare Centre for the children whose parents serve in the school and college. The other half o f Abdullah Lodge is still maintained as family property.

My Sister, Rashid Jahan 1905-1952

My first vivid impression o f Rashid Jahan (my eldest sister) and one that has withstood the passage of time, is when she returned from Delhi after undergoing an appendix operation. Apabi must have been about nineteen-years-old at the time. I remember she wore a long kurta over a tight pyjama with a muslin dupatta, and looked very pale and thin. Her jet-black hair curled around her face and I thought she looked utterly lovely and fragile. In a gush of affection, I ran up to her and boasted, ‘I can lift you up*. Amid loud protestations from everyone, I caught her round the hips and swept her clean off the floor, wrenching my back. I remember I hardly reached up to her torso at the time and, after performing this Herculean feat, I ran out of the room laughing but, upon reaching my room, I rolled on the bed in agony. No one ever knew the damage I had done to my spine. I was a child then and the pain did not bother me, but now the frequent discomfort in my back evokes the lovely image of my sister. By the year 1905, the Ladies1 Conference had passed a resolution in favour o f starting a school for Muslim girls. Many men stoudy opposed this bold resolution, but a forward-looking section o f Muslim men was on the rise, and Sheikh Abdullah’s hand was strengthened. It was in this atmosphere that Rashid

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Jahan was born. Her friend and sister-in-law, Hamida Saiduzzafar, recalls in her autobiography how Rashid Jahan had once remarked casually, ‘We have slept on the mattress of women’s education and covered ourselves with the quilt of women’s education from our earliest consciousness.’ “ It is thus obvious that hers was not the ‘traditional’ Muslim home,” writes Hamida, but one where there was purposeful activity and enthusiasm for a cause, o f which she became a part. The school came into existence in 1906 in a house in Aligarh city where Rashida, as the family called her, went every morning in a covered palanquin to study when she was old enough. She read all the Urdu magazines and pamphlets that Shaikh Abdullah received from all over the country. Her father was also a keen reader of Shakespeare and used to recount some o f the stories o f the plays, especially King Lear, to his children. An important influence on the minds o f these young schoolgirls, including Rashida, was that o f Miss Hazra, the young headmistress, who was a Christian Bengali graduate from Calcutta. She opened new vistas for the girls, such as swadtshi, or home-rule movement, the Bengali revolt against the 1905 partition of Bengal, and introduced the girls to the writings o f Tagore, Bankim Chatterji, and others. When Bi Amma, the mother of the nationalist leaders Maulana Mohammad Ali and Shaukat Ali, came to Aligarh, Rashida was only fourteen but she begged to be allowed to go and see her. She was permitted to go with a young teacher, and returned full o f enthusiasm for Gandhi and for khadi. She promptly declared that she would wear nothing but khadi in the future, which she did for a very long time, even in college in Lucknow, and the family had no objection to this. Apabi left the house very early, while the rest o f us were still children. She studied medicine and later specialized in gynaecology, though she gained fame for her fiction writing and for her left-wing politics. In the year 1927, we were given the rare treat o f going to visit

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our grandmother in Delhi without a chaperone. Saeed was thirteen-years-old at the time, I was nine, and Birjis was seven. Wc were puc on che train from Aligarh to Delhi, a diree-hour run, and were to be met by a servant at the railway station. Apabi came to visit us and took us to a Jackie Coogan film. I was completely awestruck when I first heard my sister enter into an argument with the Anglo-Indian manager o f the cinema, demanding students’ concessions for us. To my bewildered ears, she spoke flawless English! We had only started learning to read and write the language in school, but to actually talk and speak in the magic tongue enthralled us no end. I remember how my sides ached with laughter at the way the macaroni kept slipping off Jackie Coogan's fork until he finally put the entire contents into a funnel to help it slither down his throat. Watching silent films was an amusing experience. I saw my first silent English film at the age of seven. Captions in English were flashed across the bottom of the screen but, since the majority of the audience could not read English, an interpreter who had memorized the movie, scene by scene, kept up a running commentary in Urdu. ‘Now che hero is going to save the heroine who is tied to the railroad tracks.*... Zoom! A motorcycle rider would flash across the screen and people would clap and shout, ‘Hurry up, the train is coming.' That one experience was enough to convince me that the commentator himself could not read the English captions because, at times, he would translate a sentence out of place and someone from the audience would correct him. It was possibly the same year, or maybe a year later, that Apabi came home for the weekend. My mother lamented the state of our lice-ridden hair because it was difficult to run a fine-toothed comb through it. Apabi always tackled a problem efficiently and with confidence. She immediately embarked upon the task, saturating our hair with kerosene oil and promptly cut off our long, thick, curly tresses. She had her hair bobbed by then and we admired it tremendously. After our hair was washed and fluffed out, Biji and I could not keep away from the big mirror in Papa’s bathroom, admiring and giggling at our images. From

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that day, we said goodbye to tightly plaited hair. It was freedom at last! I remember one night Apabi suddenly arrived from Delhi with a young girl. She held a secret conference with Papa and Alabi and, putting the girl in their charge, left the next morning by the early train. We learnt many years later that the girl had been a victim of physical and sexual abuse in her house. My father arranged with the authorities for her to be allowed to stay in the girls’ hostel, even though the girl’s father put up a great deal o f resistance. Later, when he was reconciled to the idea he sent his two other daughters to the hostel. After that incident, I came to appreciate my parents even more, knowing that they provided asylum to girls who were mistreated and who could not afford to study with the regular tuition-paying students. No one was wiser to their secret or to their status. It also showed me the courage and the compassion of my eldest sister who was always willing to help others.

Very slowly, Muslim women’s lives were changing in India, and they were gaining greater freedom to express themselves and to participate in social events. Shaikh Abdullah gave his daughters the freedom to study abroad. Khatoon Jahan, (Manjli Apa) studied at Leeds University in England on a scholarship from the UP Government, Rashid Jahan (Apabi) went to Lady Hardinge Medical College, Delhi, and Mumtaz Jahan (Choti Apa) studied for a Masters in English from Isabella Thoburn College, Lucknow. I remember three families came out of purdah as we were growing up. My elder sisters were not chaperoned by any male member of the family and usually accompanied these ladies in a mixed gathering, such as at a cricket or tennis match, to listen to a lecture by some renowned speaker, or to attend the musical evenings o f the University Union. A mixed club in the university was founded much later. Many orthodox Muslims considered indulging in music to be immoral, but it was gradually finding acceptance in many

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modern Muslim homes. One day, a poor, unemployed musician by the name o f Ashiq Hussain came to our door for help. He told us that he played the harmonium to provide background music to silent fdms. Musicians with a harmonium and a tabla sat below the screen on the stage and played to suit the scenes. In an action scene, the beat got louder and faster but when there was a sad scene the harmonium whined dolefiilly. Ashiq Hussain was employed at Abdullah Lodge for ten rupees a month, with meals. He was given a servant’s quarter to live in and, with a harmonium bought for Rs 15> Amma set up our music lessons. Mumtaz Apa arid I had tuneful voices and soon picked up a number of tunes. During our very first lesson, Papa heard the tabla and came out of his room to investigate. He expressed his displeasure to Amma so, after that, we always sang without the tabla when he was at home. Ashiq Hussain was introduced to other families who wanted their daughters to learn the art and, since he used to say that he had three “toosans” (tuition), we named him “Toosan Sahib”. We learnt the scales from him but very soon it became clear that his skill was limited to a couple o f tunes that he already knew. Whenever Amma heard a new song on the gramophone, (which had come into our home), she wanted him to teach us the song, but Ashiq Hussain would take so long to grasp it that, in exasperation, I would snatch the harmonium from him and, in a few minutes, play the tune and scan picking up the words from the record. He was a good man and stayed in our house for nearly five years till he found another benefactor. After Toosan Sahib left, we still had the harmonium. I sang regularly at our school socials and Amma encouraged me to learn new songs from anyone who would teach me, for instance, from Syed Shahid Hussain, an undergraduate student at Aligarh Muslim University and a good friend of my future brother-in-law, Akhtar Mirza. Although my elder brother, Mohsin, was much younger to them, they were good friends. Shahid Hussain and Akhtar Mirza visited Abdullah Lodge often since their families knew Papa and Amma, and because some girls from their families were studying at the school.

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Shahid Bhai had learnt music on his own and had later joined the Music College in Lucknow. He was gradually losing his eyesight but, perhaps as God's compensation, his hearing had become extremely acute. He was always happy and willing to teach me a song whenever he came to Abdullah Lodge. He teased his brother, Iqbal, and his friend, Akhtar Mirza, that a child could learn a difficult tune in one evening whereas they couldn’t master it in one week. Shahid Bhai would compose lovely tunes. I also learnt some thumri from the wife o f Nawab Ismail Khan o f Meerut, a close friend o f Ammas. Music as an an form was now acceptable in many respectable homes and educated families, but the majority of Muslim homes still condemned it so it was not included in the school curriculum. However, in the Elementary section, the teachers translated nursery rhymes and we sang them in Urdu to the same English tunes while acting them out. For instance, instead of, ‘Here we go gathering nuts in May/ we sang, ‘Ham phoolon ko dhoondnay jatay hain I don’t recall how and when Allama Iqbal's tarana, *Saray jahan say achcha Hindustan hamard became an essential part of our programme, but it was sung at every function. O f the entire family, Apabi was the only one who could not carry a tune, nor could she recite poetry with correct emphasis on the rhythm. I remember hearing her sing just once when a procession was passing under her window and she joined enthusiastically in the national song hanging out from her window, oblivious to the discordant noise she was producing! Independence was the essence of Apabi’s nature, and she wanted it for everyone. To her, the word charity meant to give o f oneself without any expectation. While she was in the Medical College she learned to knit and, from then on, our house was full o f cheap wool and homemade needles. Everyone was taught to knit baby garments that she took away for the poor children in the hospital. Apabi would stitch and knit garments for her friends’ and sisters’ children since she adored babies. Apabi never used make-up and wore the simplest o f clothes.

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She did not smoke or drink. I heard my third aunt Amma Jan, foster mother to Mohsin and later to Biji, relate an incident when she was at Apabi’s house in Dhera Dun. On the festival of Holi, some Hindu friends had made the traditional milk shake with a little bhang (cannabis leaves) in almond milk. Apabi took one gulp, realized what it contained, and promptly spat it all out. But the mischief had had its effect. She kept eating and asking for more roti till my aunt scolded her. Apabi then burst out crying, ‘I work so hard and no one lets me eat.' Apabi kept weeping and eating till she fell asleep. Bhang is purported to have has this effect on the uninitiated: it induces insatiable hunger. One aspect of Apabi’s nature that I did not understand till I was old enough to discuss it with her, was her preferential treatment o f other siblings and her coldness towards me. For no apparent reason, she showed a marked preference for my younger sister Birjis, to the extent of deliberately hurting my feelings. Once she brought tennis shoes for Birjis, and nothing for me. For children who played barefoot all day, tennis shoes were something of a novelty. I inquired timidly of her, ‘Apabi, have you brought a pair for me?* She replied with unprovoked anger, ‘Why should I? Alabi (Amma) loves you so much/ I was completed taken aback since I never considered myself Alabi's favourite. Instead, I was the one most often rebuked by her for my wild ways. Besides, what had my mother’s love to do with the lovely pair of tennis shoes given to Biji? My mother, too, was stung at the injustice of the remark and said to me, ‘So this is the sister you love the most?’ I still recall the deep humiliation and pain I felt at the time, but my pride kept me in check and I replied nonchalandy to my mother, ‘I love her whether she buys tennis shoes for me or not/ After having made that grand delivery, I climbed the thirty-three stone steps to reach my own refuge from the world to weep there and let the hard core o f resentment melt away. Apabi embraced me twice that day for no particular reason and whispered, ‘I shall bring you tennis shoes the next time I come/

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Unfortunately, by then, the magic of the shoes had faded, but I refrained from telling her that. Perhaps Apabi’s resentment came from being given away as a child to the care of my aunt, Sikandar Jahan, whom we called Amma Begum. Since the foster mother was seventeen years older to our mother, Alabi dared not interfere in anything the elder sister did. But Apabi craved her blood mother's attention and wished to be treated as Alabi’s own child. This yearning resulted in some display o f anger. For instance. Amma Begum was an expert needlewoman and sewed and embroidered exquisite clothes for Apabi for festive occasions, but her niece hated the clothes and told me later that she wanted to tear up Mumtaz Jahan’s clothes to shreds because they had been stitched by Alabi. But such moods came and went, and it was not in Apabi’s nature to brood. She loved us all but her protective nature was reserved for Khatoon and Birjis, since they had all been adopted by other members o f the family, one by my grandmother and the other by an aunt. Apabi was our father's favourite child and rose to the status of a son o f the family after she qualified as a doctor. I remember one summer Apabi took Biji and me slumming to the bazaar across the railway bridge that divides Aligarh into two distinct parts. On one side were located the Civil Lines, Marris Road, and Aligarh Muslim University and the Girls’ School and College. Across the bridge was the bazaar with the winding, narrow lanes of old Aligarh. We had barely crossed the bridge when a desperate woman came to our horse-driven carriage and begged us for help. She told us that her daughter had given birth to a baby and was bleeding profusely. Biji and I gave her some money and wanted to continue on our way, but Apabi got down from the carriage and asked us to carry on with our programme. She was gone all day and returned home quite late, hungry and exhausted, but very happy to have arranged for the sick girl to be admitted to Lady Dufferin Hospital. She had promised to pay for all the food, milk, and medicine. The next morning, Apabi coaxed, cajoled, and bullied us into contributing whatever we could, so she could keep her promise to the girl.

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Biji and I grumbled a bit, but we couldn’t refuse our largehearted sister. Another particularly touching incident was when a young, married girl was diagnosed with spinal tuberculosis and confined to a hard bed. It was advised that her long hair be cut. It was a traumatic decision for the young woman, but she agreed if Dr Sahiba cut her hair personally. We arrived to find her hair washed and spread out around her head. In my estimate, it was at least four feet long. Very gently, Apabi picked up each lock and, while snipping it close to the girl’s head, kept charting with her patient to keep her occupied. At the end of it she remarked. ‘See, now you look like me. I will ask someone to curl it for you.’ The girl smiled and said, ‘Dr Sahiba, I want you to have my hair.’ She wanted her locks wrapped in silk and given to the doctor as an offering of love. Apabi accepted it then but returned the hair to the girl’s mother. “Rashida felt more at home with simple people than with the upper classes,” writes Hamida Saiduzzafar. “She could sit for hours and chat with some of the purdah-observing women just as easily as she could with women who were not in purdah. She detested insincerity and hypocrisy, she didn’t ask for payment from her poorer patients and they could pay her in cash or in kind. She felt the important thing was that they feel responsible for the medical help. She always asked her wealthier patients for fees when she made house-calls, even though she disapproved of their attitude. She used to say, “Why should I bother with these people who are so fussy and don’t follow my advice? They can afford to call in any doctor. I’d rather give my time and energy to those who need me and appreciate my services.’ ” Rashid Jahan was a doctor who went beyond the call o f duty. Extremely generous and open-hearted towards those in need of help, she not only got patients admitted into hospitals but also looked into their general welfare. Often, she would persuade the poorer people she visited to allow their daughters to attend school and college. She was responsible for encouraging Muslim girls to go into nursing, which was very difficult then, as it is now.

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Apabi could not resist going to places where crowds gathered, for example, to fairs, exhibitions, or even religious festivals. What was important to her was to be in touch with people. Once, she asked her sister-in-law to observe how women were treated at the fairs due to their ignorance. She mingled with the people and caught the mood of different crowds. ‘Look, this is a happy crowd, people are relaxed and have come for a good time to this fair, but other crowds are different. There are religious crowds, where people are more thoughtful, where they collect with one sort of idea; then another crowd may be a political gathering, and people there are of many classes and communities, and the crowd may be an angry or an excited one.* “Rashida always had a rebellious spirit,” writes Hamida Saiduzzafar in her autobiography. “Quite early in life, she was aware of the social injustice and inequality in society. As a practical person, the diagnosis was not enough for her; she wanted a treatment, a cure. O f all the people of her class and her generation, Rashida had the least difficulty in identifying herself with, or relating to, the ‘common people*. One reason for this was in her family background, of course, where servants were treated as members of the family, and where class differences had been reduced to a minimum. In this respect, I believe that Rashida’s mother, Begum Abdullah, was a pioneer among the women of her time. The other reason was that she came into contact with all sorts of people in the course of her medical studies, and she made it a point to treat her patients not only medically but also psychologically which, of course, is half the batde. Rashida was a very successful doctor and there were probably two reasons for this. One was her acutc sense of observation and judgment, as well as her cool nerves. The other was this quality of letting people feel she was one of them so they came to her not only as a doctor but also a friend. They brought their personal problems to her with confidence and she was always prepared to discuss them and to give advice. When she went into peoples’ homes, she made it a point to know all

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about them, their family circumstances, and their taboos, what sort o f food they ate, and so on. She didn’t speak to patients casually like many medical doctors tend to do, but gave a lot o f instructions and advice about diet and hygiene. She spoke very naturally about family planning, a topic that people did not discuss and the women listened and followed her advice. As a young woman, Apabi became a sympathizer o f the communist ideology. It was around this time that I decided I wanted to marry Akbar, much against the wishes of my family who would have preferred that I wait a couple more years until I was older. Apabi stood up for me, trying to convince my mother, ‘Let her get married. Akbar is a nice fellow, and she is mature enough for her sixteen years. I am sure she will be able to manage well.’ The same year, in 1934, Apabi married Mahmuduz Zafar. Mahmuduz Zafar was born in Agra in 1908 and was educated in an imitation o f British aristocracy first at home with a governess, then in a private English school in Nainital. At the age of twelve, his father, a Professor of Anatomy at King George’s Medical College in Lucknow, took him to England where Mahmud completed his schooling in Dorset, carrying on from there to Oxford. By the time he returned to India after graduation, Mahmud had become an active nationalist and insisted on wearing only khadi and discarded European dress in favour o f kurta-pyjama. He refused to sit for any competitive exams such as the Indian Civil Service for a government post. At the time o f their marriage, Mahmuduz Zafar was a Professor in Amritsar MAO College. Around 1931—32, Mahmuduz Zafar, Sajjad Zaheer, Ahmed Ali, and Rashid Jahan got together in Lucknow, where Rashid Jahan was working as a young doctor in the Provincial Medical Service. These young intellectuals were socialists and wrote fiction to express the injustices in society especially towards women. Mahmud and Rashida fell in love and were married. Rashid jahan had started writing at Isabella Thoburn College,

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Lucknow, in her freshman year. One of her stories, ‘When the Tom-Tom Beats* was published in the college magazine. Later it was translated into Urdu under the tide, ‘Salma*. Papa Mian had interesting books in his study that the children had Rill access to. A cousin of ours, a student o f English literature, brought books by the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen and Apabi wanted to read them all at once. Apabi’s appetite for reading was so great that whenever she came home, she would send a houseboy to fetch cheap Charles Garvis’ books from the railway platform for a few annas. About Apabi’s literary career Hamida Saiduzafar writes, “She introduced me to Russian authors— Chekov, Gogol, Tolstoy, and Pushkin— about whom I knew nothing earlier. She was also quite enthusiastic about French authors such as Flaubert, Balzac, Maupassant, and others. She loved to read plays and short stories, but I think she preferred novels, on the whole. As for poetry, I don’t think Rashid read much English poetry, and Urdu poetry in the “Gul-o-Bulbul” tradition held no attraction for her. She was attracted to the new wave poets such as Majaz, Ali Sardar Jafri, Kaifi Azmi, Makhdum, and others of the ilk. In fact, she would get very emotional when she felt their talent was not being appreciated.” Mahmud and Apabi had no children. Their house was a meeting place for leftist intellectuals, writers, poets, and political workers, where endless meetings and intellectual gatherings were held. The couple chose a hard path of deprivation and renunciation, and had the courage to remain committed to it all their lives. Apabi worked day and night and could afford only basic food on the meagre allowance that the Party sanctioned her. Yet, khichri and chutney were always available at her table for the unexpected visitor. I knew nothing of Apabi’s political activities, except that she would arrive suddenly at the house for a day or so, collect all the clothes, bedding and cash that I could spare, and take them away for the poor. When she and Mahmuduz Zafar setded in Lucknow, Apabi set up a successful private practice, but most of her earnings went to the Party. Her health broke down in later

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years under the pressure of work. She sat up writing late into the night, sending short stories and plays about the plight o f the underprivileged to the radio, partly for political reasons and also, to bring in some extra cash. Writes Hamida Saiduzzafar, By the time she was married, Rashida had completely “declassed” herself and, what was more remarkable, she had learnt to detach herself from material things— property, money, personal gain. Things ceased to have sentimental value for her and she could happily give away any or all of her possessions without the slightest sense o f loss. Her house was a living example of a commune where there were no barriers o f class, religion, or caste. She had a Chamar boy working in her kitchen who was asked to wash and change into clean clothes every morning when he arrived from home. When some Hindu friends found out and objected, Rashida responded, “Well, he's cleaner than many high-caste Hindus. If you don't want to, you needn't eat in my house.” Rashida had an amazing capacity for feeling at home with people o f all classes and of every community and, as a result, everyone felt at home with her. This attitude towards life came out in her writing as well. She felt that men dominated women far too much in Indian society and that it was time this was publicly articulated. She often said that women deserved much more out o f life than being a child-bearing machine for the pleasure of men. In her stories and plays, she portrays the plight of women but In real life she provided solutions for them whenever she could. I met Apabi for the last time in 1951 in Aligarh, on one of my visits from Pakistan. She had undergone major surgery for cancer o f the uterus. Courageous and jovial as ever, she told me, T have one more year to live, so let’s make the most of it.' Apabi turned up in the middle of a cold December night at the room that Biji and I shared, to enquire, ‘Do you have something to wrap around Mahmud’s head?’ He was bald and had caught a

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chill. She took away one of our shawls, piled all her own blankets on Mahmud, and then returned to our room. Biji and I were sleeping on thick mattresses that we had spread on the carpet. Apabi snuggled in with us and sighed with satisfaction, ‘How nice and warm it is in here, I hate the cold/ She slept, but I could not, since it was the day when she had told us she was going to die within a year. Although she had known for some time that she was dying o f cancer, Apabi’s thoughts were for others. She told Hamida just before her departure to Moscow for treatment, ‘I don’t think they’ll be able to do anything for me now, but I’m going because it’s a very good opportunity for Mahmud to sec Russia.’ The government was not issuing passports to communists to visit what was then the USSR, but through the personal intervention of a family friend, Raja Ahmed Kidwai, the visa was granted on medical grounds. I wrote to Apabi offering to join her from Pakistan, but in a brief and friendly letter, she declined the offer. On another occasion she said, ‘Well, even if they can’t cure me, I don’t mind if they try some experiments on me. If my body can help medical science, that would be a good thing.’ Unfortunately, it was too late even for that, and Apabi died within three weeks o f arriving in Moscow. She was forty-seven. Apabi lies buried in one o f the cemeteries of Moscow. Apabi didn’t see anything of Russia except the walls o f her room at the hospital, but she wanted Mahmud to see things for her, and he was able to fulfil that wish. After her death, Mahmud published a book Quest for Life, based on the diary of his trip to Moscow with Rashida, when she was in the terminal stages of cancer. Mahmud was invited to stay on for a few months and was given an opportunity to go around and visit many places in Russia.

All o f Shaikh Abdullah’s daughters became pioneers in their chosen fields. I had noticed in 1932, the summer that I spent with Apabi, that my sister’s patriotic zeal had taken a firmer hold

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upon her. She had impressed upon me from early childhood chat wearing frocks was aping the English rulers who would never consider us their equals, no matter how much we tried to be like them. She taught me to say: ‘I am a non co-operative*. This was a few years before the non-co-operation movement was launched in India. I refused to wear frocks after the age o f five, to the great disappointment o f our Christian tcachcrs who loved to dress my curly, dark-chestnut hair with ribbons, bows, and decorative hair-bands to match with my western clothes. Dr Rashid Jahan was better known as a progressive writer than as a medical practitioner. The writers’ group that she was pan of, comprising Mahmuduz Zafar, Sajjad Zaheer, and Prof. Ahmed Ali, wrote against social conventions and the false interpretation of religion that had become the monopoly o f a particular class of Muslim scholars. These precocious young intellectuals brought about a cultural as well as an artistic revolution in Muslim society because of their ability to see things clearly. They wrote stories without mincing their words and meanings, choosing sensitive topics that were not discussed. Their style was contrary to the literary traditions o f Urdu. Their unique and bold style o f writing and vocabulary gave a new impetus and vitality to Urdu literature. Rashid Jahan’s writing was appreciated in literary circles for being energetic and lively, and for the introduction of colloquial speech into the narrative that made it immediately accessible to the reader, breaking with the conservative and formal mode of earlier writing. Later, Ismat Chughtai perfected this style in her literary works. Their little book of stories called Angaray or ‘Flames’ was published in 1931-32, and offended Muslim traditionalists, sending ripples of anger that increased to a roar of disapproval and shock. The book was banned and reprints are not available even to this day, but the original stories have been reprinted in various journals. Rashid Jahan’s first story was called D illi K i Sair (SightSeeing Trip to Delhi). It is a simple story revolving around two characters, a man and his wife, who live in Faridabad, near Delhi. One day, in a mood of generosity, the man offers to take

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his wife to see the city. They take off on a train, but when they get there the man meets a friend. He tells his wife to stay with the luggage and goes off with his friend. The wife obediently stands by the luggage in the stifling heat, wrapped in a burqa, feeling most uncomfortable on the railway platform with the crowds milling around her. Some young men start passing rude remarks, asking her to lift her veil and show her face. She sits patiendy for a couple o f hours till, finally, “Sahib” comes back, twirling his moustache, and remarks, ‘Oh, here you are! Well, 1 suppose I’d better get you something to eat. 1 had my lunch with my friend.’ To this, the wife replies softly but firmly: “No, thank you very much. I think you’d better get me into the next train home. I've seen enough o f Delhi.” This surprises Sahib, and he says with some disappointment, “ Well, all right; I thought I'd show you around Delhi, but if you don't want to go, it can't be helped.” And then they return home. The story is poignant in its depiction o f men's complete lack o f concern for women's feelings. The other piece is a one-act play, Parde kay Piche (Behind the Veil). Here again are two characters, both women, and the play is mostly a conversation between them. It underscores men's utter disregard for the women in their lives and describes accurately the goings-on in the middle-class Muslim household of the 1930s. Mahmuduz Zafar's story in Angaray was called ‘Jawanmard’ (Manliness), and portrayed a man who returns from abroad in a fit o f homesickness, after he receives a sad letter from his wife for whom he has no real love, telling him about her illness and loneliness. Once he is back in his old environment, he is stifled by everything around him and all his good intentions to change begin to evaporate. Finally, in order to justify his own useless existence and to display his “manliness”, he impregnates his wife, although he knows that she is ill with tuberculosis. As was expected, she dies during childbirth. “Rashida and Mahmud encouraged each other in all activities, writing included,” writes Hamida Saiduzzafar. “Rashida first read her stories to Mahmud and they would argue about them and polish them together, it was a wonderful team. She not only

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wrote stories and plays, but also produced some of her plays for radio as well as for the stage. Mahmud was her enthusiastic helper. Her stage adaptation of Premchand's story, 'K afari (Shroud) was produced several times, and it always had a terrific impact on the audience.” Whenever the historical background of Urdu literature is discussed, it is impossible to ignore the impact this small booklet had on future short story writers, among them major writers like Ismat Chughtai, (old student of Aligarh College), Krishan Chander, Manto, Bedi and a score of others, including Hajra Masroor and her sister Khadija Mastoor. When Angaray came out, I was involved in preparing for the annual examinations and had no idea of the public reaction. There were defamatory articles written against the writers in the Muslim press every day. One day, as I was climbing the steps of the verandah after a strenuous game of badminton, a girl called out loudly to another one as I was passing by: 'Do you know, a vulgar book called Angaray has come out. Rashida Apa has also written in it and the Muslims have threatened to chop off her nose/ My lovely sister's face minus her nose swam before my eyes, everything blacked out for a minute, and I sank on the steps in a dead faint. 1 must have passed out for a few seconds, because I heard a girl calling to the others with urgency in her voice: 'Khurshid fainted when she heard that Rashida Apa’s nose has been cut off/ At this, I came round quickly enough, venting my anger on the girl: 'Who said her nose has been cut off? Who dared?' The frightened girl avoided the issue and said lamely that she had only heard that people were threatening to cut off her nose. I was relieved to hear that it was only a threat and not a fa it accompli but in an agitated frame o f mind, 1 requested a day scholar to get the book for me. I read Angaray with a group of students and sighed with relief. There was nothing vulgar in Apabi’s stories, and so 1 did not bother to finish the book. My parents had faced public threats all their lives. First, when Shaikh Abdullah changed his religion from a Kashmiri brahmin to a Muslim. Then, later, when he advocated education for

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Muslim women in India and alienated even Syed Ahmed Khan, whom he respected gready. Then, providing hostel accommodation to young Muslim women became a bitter controversy, although it facilitated education for women who came from all parts o f India. So, when it came to the agitations over Angaray, my parents were angry but unfazed by the threats. A blackmailer by the name of Ahrari decided to exploit the situation and targeted Shaikh Abdullah as the father o f one of the writers o f Angaray. All through the year, 1933, he kept writing scurrilous articles in a local newspaper saying that the morals of the girls in Shaikh Sahib’s school were questionable and that the daughters o f Shaikh Abdullah were setting a bad example by writing “filthy” stories. He pleaded that the Trusteeship o f the Muslim Girls College be taken away from him. Ahrari, we learnt later, was a dismissed employee o f the university. This man sent his emissaries to Papa demanding a bribe o f Rs 2,000 to contradict his own accusations. O f coursc, Papa was not going to give into coercion, and refused to pay. This was around the time when I was betrothed to Akbar. He received typed letters in the mail warning him that he was marrying a girl o f “bad” character. I also received letters that read, ‘For your own and God’s sake, look before you leap into the abyss o f matrimony.’ Akbar’s only comment was that he wished he had been posted in Aligarh as the Deputy Superintendent of Police so that he could have dealt with the swine himself Papa had planned to go abroad in 1934, and all the arrangements had been made but he cancelled his departure at the last minute to file a defamation case against Ahrari. Questionnaires were given to all of us from his defense counsel. I was extremely angry when Vishvanath, a senior Indian Civil Service officer who later became a friend, presiding as the Magistrate, asked me questions like, ‘Were you ever abducted by the university boys and violated?’ Ahrari lost his case and was awarded sixteen months o f hard labour in jail, plus a fine o f about Rs 5,000. The defamation case caused a setback to Papa’s finances. His law practice

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dwindled as he stopped taking cases that would take him out of Aligarh. He was completely preoccupied with the affairs of the Girls’ College, trying to collect money to make a trust fund for the college to make it financially independent. Through some friends, he had invested the greater part of his own savings in business but, unfortunately, instead of increasing his capital it was constandy being depleted. Unaware of Papa’s financial problems, we continued living comfortably, but I am sure my mother could not have produced even a couple of hundred rupees at short notice if cash was needed in an emergency. Sajida Zubair, late Principal o f Central Women’s College, Karachi and an Old Girl of Aligarh summed up Rashid Jahan’s life in a magazine : Rashid Jahan, (1905-1952), is remembered by people for various reasons: her charismatic personality that won her friends and admirers as well as enemies and detractors, her empathy for the underprivileged, especially poor women, her capacity for hard work both as a doctor and political organizer, her considerable charm and beauty, and as a writer of Urdu short stories and plays. In the latter capacity, she was a member of the Angaray Group and thus one of the founders of the progressive writers’ movement, probably the most important literary trend in Urdu literature in the middle of the twentieth century. “Considering that Rashid Jahan was the first woman writer in Urdu who addressed herself squarely, consistendy, and forcefully to the myriad problems of the middle- and lower- middle-class woman in Indian society, she can rightly be called Urdu literature’s first ‘angry young woman’,” writes Hamida Saiduzzafar in her autobiography.

An Early Marriage

In the summer of 1932, my mother took Biji and I to Lucknow for the vacations where Rashid Jahan, by now a doctor of medicine, was posted at Lady Dufferin Hospital. It was there that I met Akbar, my future husband. Although I knew everyone from his immediate family since school, Akbar was the only one whom I had not met before. I knew his elder brother, Akhtar Mirza, from childhood, and his three sisters had been in our hostel. Our fathers knew each other quite well, and I had also met his mother when she came to leave her daughters at the hostel. Akbar had several siblings, Akhtar, Imtiaz, Sikandcr, Nawab, Sughra, Asghari, Maqbool and Zafar, four boys and five girls. The Mirza clan had known my family because Akhtar studied at Aligarh University and Asghari was my class mate. She became a very good friend and was instrumental in arranging our marriage. When I first met Akbar, he was a police officer and, being nine years older to me, could contemplate marriage in the near future, whereas I was preparing to sit for Matriculation and had not even started dreaming o f such a big change in my life. He showed a marked interest in me and tried to smuggle in a note or two between the pages of a book that he had lent me to read. I kept the brief notes, re-reading them a thousand times, excited to be able to share such a secret with my friends when school re-opened, but I did not answer them. Akbar often arranged for

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us to go riding on policc horses and, when he saw me ready to jump from the saddle, he would invariably catch me before I hit the ground. It made me feel quite fragile and feminine, and all the three months of that summer vacation, his interest in me grew. My mother had gone back to Aligarh, and Apabi was completely taken up by her work in the hospital, so no one gave this attachment the importance it deserved. Only Biji was aware of it, and hated Akbar because she feared a rival in him for my affections. I really didn’t know if I fell in love with Akbar or even what it meant to say one fell in love. I only knew that I liked him very much and that the touch of his hands when he helped me down from the horse made me feel as if I were something special, singled out by a man I admired. Akbar had won the Athletic Championship in thirteen colleges in his student days and was a noted hockey player, but what attracted me most to him was that he was completely different from the boys I had grown up with. Having been educated in an English school, Akbar s sense o f humour was different from ours, and thus unique for me. He once slipped his snapshot between the pages of a book with the message, “For my Baby Darling”. I still have that snap and the message looks as silly to me today as it did in 1932, so alien to my eastern sense of romance. I never actually promised to marry him, but he took it for granted and that was my intention too, all along. Akbar's snapshot was framed and put on my shelf. Now I enjoyed a special prestige among my friends, especially Shahida and Rafia, who were very impressed. I think it was in the month of December that I was asked to present myself before the Principal, Khatoon Apa. Amma was also sitting in the office and their faces were grave. Khatoon Apa gave me a letter and asked me to open it in front of her. I nearly passed out with fright because I recognized Akbar’s handwriting on the envelope. With trembling fingers, I opened the letter. God be praised, what a relief! The letter was from Asghari (Begum Asghari Rahim) and was full of irrelevant gossip. She was visiting her brother Akbar and was thoroughly enjoying learning how to ride. I gave the

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letter to Khatoon Apa who returned it without reading it. She merely remarked that girls were not allowed to correspond with boys while in the hostel. I replied with great pride at my selfrestraint that I had not once written to Akbar. When we visited Isabella Thoburn College for the Sports Tournaments, Asghari was waiting for me, having learnt of our arrival. I was excited to get news o f Akbar. His parents had already sent a formal proposal o f marriage to my family but had received an ambiguous answer to the effect that I was too young, and that my Matric examinations were too near to allow for a decision, but it was clear to me that 1 would marry Akbar some time in the future. Asghari came to welcome the team since she was an (01d Girl* of the school. She brought a tin of prunes, a couple of chocolate slabs, and a big bunch o f flowers, ostensibly to wish the school team good luck in the coming matches, but in reality to tell me that her brother would like to have a word with me. I told her that it was impossible since I had to direct my team from the grounds when all eyes would be focused on me. But Asghari was, and still is, a very resourceful lady. She quickly took out a pair o f scissors from her purse and, totally oblivious to my protests, cut a fairly big lock of my hair, assuring me that it was necessary to convince her brother that she had relayed his message or else he might not believe her. Ever since I started feeling that I was soon to be married, my oudook on life underwent a complete change. I considered peeping out o f bamboo blinds at University boys quite childish and, for the 1933 women's crafts exhibition, I automatically took on the role of a self-appointed chaperone. Seeing my serious frame o f mind, the teachers began to trust me far more than they did the older girls. Mumtaz Apa had invited Akbar to visit us after my examinations and I was looking forward to the day when he would visit Abdullah Lodge as a future son-in-law. I desisted from writing to him, so jealously did we guard our hostel’s reputation. As a family, we had been brought up to gladly sacrifice personal joy in order to safeguard and uphold the institution that my parents had built so painstakingly. 1 did very

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well in the exams but I knew I could have done even better if my mind had not been diverted by the prospect of marriage. I stood first among girls and my position was second in the university. When the results were announced, I was really annoyed with myself. My absent-mindedness cost me five marks in Math which made me lose the first position. To this day, I feel guilty when people who saw my photograph in the paper refer to the news that I had topped the list in the examinations. The day that my high school exams ended and I returned to the hostel holding the last question paper, a grand surprise awaited me. I caught a glimpse of Amma’s smiling face, and then Ismat Apa (Ismat Chughtai the well-known writer who was in the Intermediate year at that time). Amma pounced on me and almost lifted me up in her arms. My friends must have been in on the secret but no one had breathed a word to me. They now clustered around me, laughing and singing wedding songs. There was a dholak beating and I was made to sit and play it and sing my own wedding songs impromptu with my friends. I was not a bit shy but only exasperated at the secrecy o f it all. Apparently, the girls had been pestering Amma to get a dholak party organized before most o f them finished school and moved out of the hostel. They doubted if they could return to attend the wedding. Amma could never refuse a logical request, particularly if it came from her adopted children. She arranged for several kilos of sweetmeats, and we all sang and ate together. My mother loved songs and dholak parties and she even invited some lecturers to join in later. It is traditional to sing songs teasing the groom's family members and since Asghari had been an old student, she became the target of the fun. We sang for hours adding our own funny bits to the existing songs. I went back to Abdullah Lodge and now a tussle between Akbar’s party and mine started in earnest. Akbar visited us in May, but he was very unlike an ideal son-in-law. He would meet all the guests but had few social graces. He wished to be with me all the time which was not possible, so he sulked. From very early onwards, I learnt to deal with his moodiness and how to pacify him and to make him

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come round to my ideas in a tactful manner. O f course, I was not at all happy to be forced into a position where I had to say something 1 did not mean because that was entirely against my nature, but I had chosen my man and there was no going back for me. After that one invitation to Abdullah Lodge, Akbar kept making trips to Aligarh whenever he could get away, even for two or three days. I could see that Amma and Papa were not too pleased because this meant that the marriage would have to take place earlier than they had planned. Every month, my mother-in-law, undoubtedly goaded by her son, came from Delhi to visit us, and my poor mother would sit on her prayer mat even after finishing her namaz till Pali Khalla was sent for to handle the situation. Akbar visited us in May, then in July and in September. I was to join Lady Irwin College in Delhi for a year to learn housekeeping, sewing, cooking and other subjects that are taught in home economics colleges. It was a great victory for Akbar that Amma had agreed to this one-year course instead o f the four years o f a regular college. Amma also felt that she had gained some respite and that one year could make a lot o f difference to a girl’s way o f thinking. In the meantime, some other proposals of marriage had come for me from boys in better jobs and financial circumstances but my family knew it was futile to try to distract me. I had been in college for only a month when I was taken ill with malaria for twenty days and had to return to Aligarh. Akbar came again in December and reassured my mother that he was aware o f my tender age and that he would take full responsibility for marrying me. Amma decided, against her better judgment, that since I was not planning to do anything else, she might as well get me married and send me to my new home. My marriage was fixed for 11 February 1934, and it was to be the first wedding at Abdullah Lodge. Elaborate arrangements were made both for the entertainment and for the accommodation o f the wedding guests. Six large tents were erected in the huge orchard for the male barati (members o f the

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groom’s family) and a house was booked for the ladies. Akbar’s father was very happy. The barat came from Delhi, eighty miles away, some by car and others came by train. Biji and Shahida, my sister-in-law-to-be, locked the door o f the room where I was sitting with my friends. They had brought an excellent professional singer and a dholak player and danced the Ituidiy (a simple movement in a circle, dapping the hands to the beat of the dholak) to the great amusement o f the women guests from Lucknow who had never before seen such a spectacle. Then Asghari asked Amma, 'Alabi, is Khurshid going to hide from me too?’ It was customary not to see the bride’s face before the nikah> or wedding vows. Amma pointed to the room and said, ‘It is between you and Biji.* Asghari, no less a tomboy than I, climbed the windowsill, broke the glass pane and jumped in. I laughed, 'I have absolutely no wish to sit inside like a meek bride; I want to go out and enjoy myself with everyone else.’ My bridal jora, or wedding dress, was simply awful, a shapeless red and gold ensemble which could accommodate two girls at the same time. My other sister-in-law, Nawab, also an old girl from school, wanted to apply make-up on my face but that I absolutely refused to do. I could never feel natural with layers o f powder and lipstick on my face and lips. People said 1 made a lovely bride, although I am sure, by present standards, I must have looked awfully plain, without eye make-up or lipstick. My eldest aunt, Amma Begum, rubbed a whole botde o f some exotic scent on my body that I had to wash off when my beloved husband whispered to me, 'Please change and wash,* because he added not too politely, ‘You smell awful’. After the wedding, I went to Delhi to live with my in-laws for a week. Life in Delhi was not so different from my own house since I already knew Akhtar Bhai, Akbar’s elder brother, my sisters-in-law, and two younger brothers-in-law, Maqbool and Zafar. Maqbool had acquired a box camera and, one day, when I had shed my sari and was dressed only in a sleeveless

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blouse and a petticoat, he decided to take a photograph. Akbar insisted that he be included too, and promptly put his head on my lap. People have often asked me which movie that snap is from. I laugh and tell them that no film hero of mine ever got that close to me. Zafar was the youngest of Akbar’s siblings and was about nine-years-old at the time we got married. He would bring fireworks for me and both of us would climb the wall to the roof to set them off. My mother-in-law once gendy suggested that people might think it strange for a bride to jump over high walls or play with fireworks on the roof, but Akbar answered nonchalandy, ‘Let her enjoy herself, she has always been a tomboy.* My father-in-law, whom I called “Abbaji” loved to indulge me too, and 1 was left to follow my own inclinations. In a short while, 1 had developed a deep friendship with both my younger brothers-in-law, which grew over the years and remains strong to this day. Akbar was a Deputy Superintendent of Police posted in Azamgarh, a small town in those days. There was an Officers* Club where I played tennis for a while but soon gave it up when I started feeling the discomforts of the first stages of pregnancy. Luckily, the old club library was full of interesting books and I was never lonely when Akbar went to work or to the dub for tennis or bridge. I must have read at least a hundred English classics, travel and adventure tales, and British thrillers. 1 became an ardent admirer of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Although English plays were still beyond me, I enjoyed prose. Akbar never read fiction; his interest was in biographies, travel writing, war memoirs, and in history. We also had a purdah (women's only) club and I tried to put some life into it by arranging a fancy dress evening. I was surprised at the number of purdah-observing ladies who turned up either as sweepers or dhoban> (washerwomen). I wore a Uhnga, and went as Rani jodhbai, (Emperor Akbar’s wife and Emperor Jahangir’s mother). I won the first prize but returned it to be made into an annual trophy for the club members. There was an Australian mission in Azamgarh and, whenever

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we felt like an outing, Akbar and I would attend the Church service after which the Padre and his wife invariably invited us to a simple dinner. Most o f our friends were Hindus, their wives didn’t observe purdah and we could mix freely with them. Akbar did not like to meet anyone who kept his own wife secluded in purdah, the only exception being Syed Najmul Hasan Sahib, Deputy Collector, and a friend of Akbar’s. His son, Anwar, married .my second daughter, Lubna, in Pakistan in 1957, and the fact that he was Najamul Hasan Bhai’s son went a long way towards our acceptance o f his marriage proposal. Azamgarh, as I later learnt, was the cradle o f intellectuals. Such distinguished names as Shtbli Nomani, Syed Suleman Nadvi, and many other literati sprang from its soil. People there spoke a simple and sweet purbi, a local dialect, which I could not learn in such a short time. There was no electricity then in Azamgarh and we used gaslights or kerosene lamps at night. After the first few discomfiting months o f pregnancy, I was soon well enough to ride pillion on Akbar’s motorcycle and went as far as twenty miles on rough roads when he went to inspect some chowki or small police station. I was quite prepared to face the dangers of my first delivery at the Mission Hospital in Azamgarh but Akbar was categorical: ‘Nothing doing, you’d better go home.’ So I went back to Abdullah Lodge for my first delivery. Later, when I had lived longer with Akbar, it dawned on me that he was a coward as far as physical ailment was concerned. I often hear women covering up for their husbands or brothers by saying that so-and-so loves his wife so much that he cannot bear to see her suffer and leaves the house when she is in pain. 1 say it is all rubbish. Men are either too selfish to care or too cowardly when confronted by the suffering of their spouses. On the contrary, it is wonderful to see how strong women are; they have greater physical as well as moral courage, not only in their ability to bear pain but also to try to alleviate other people’s suffering by remaining near them and showing them that they care. My marriage brought luck to the Abdullah family because,

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o n e after another, there were four marriages in Abdullah Lodge in 1934. In February I got married, Mumtaz Apa married C olonel Haidar Khan in November, and in December there was a double wedding. Mohsin Bhai married Shahida, my childhood friend, and Rashid Jahan married Mahmuduz Zafar. Amma believed that Akbar was nek kadamy a good omen, because he h a d brought good fortune to her family. My first daughter was born in December, amid jubilation on the night the Ramzan m oon was sighted and although I named her Shabnam, my mother always called her, Chand Bibi, child of the moon. I felt I had grown very beautiful while carrying my first child. Friends agreed, and my father-in-law confirmed it when he wrote to Akbar. ‘Khurshid was a mere child when you married her. You should see her now, she is a vision of loveliness/ All those compliments were gratifying but I had had enough of restrictions placed on my movement and was very keen to enjoy a game of basketball or baseball with my friends. One day, Meherunissa, a neighbourhood friend, said that women do not play sports after childbirth. I took this as a challenge and, when Shabnam was only thirteen-days-old, I slipped out and joined the girls on the baseball field. It was sheer bravado and I still remember waves of black dizziness rising to engulf me, but I pushed them back through sheer will power. I batted and hit a long shot but, after completing the round, I did not push my luck any further and went home, telling my team that I had come without Alabi’s permission and would get into trouble if she discovered I was on the playing field. O f course, Amma came to know but, instead of scolding me, she gave Rs 5 in charity to a poor woman as thanksgiving and made me promise I would not go out for at least another month. I was more or less content to stay on at home in Aligarh with no responsibilities. Amma looked after Shabnam with the help o f a couple of girls who lived with us. I played games in the evenings, wrote letters to Akbar, made pretty clothes for my baby, and read books. I had left Akbar three months before our child was due and after her birth, I stayed on for another two months because Akbar had been transferred to Gorakhpur and

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was trying to find accommodation for us. He was managing alone in a small house that he called a hovel and was trying to save up. He sold his motorcycle for Rs 500 and with another five hundred that his father had given him, he was able to buy a second-hand Fiat car in fairly good condition. Gradually, I felt a change coming over Akbar. His love for me had changed and deepened in some ways. I felt that he now loved me differendy, in a romantic, almost poetic way. Akbar, a man who said he hated writing letters, was now sending four to six page letters practically every day, pouring out his loneliness and heartbreak at this forced separation. One day, when my baby was just over two-months-old, I received a letter from him in which he quoted some poetry. I still remember the lines. O Man in the moon, hearken to me, Tonight my love looks out to thee Tell her I love her, Kiss her with thy silvery beams As she dreams, Tell her I miss her... That same day, 1 packed my bags. House or hovel, it did not matter. I could not wait any longer. L asked Amma to arrange for help for me till I found a woman to look after baby Shabnam and to inform Papa that his car would be needed to take me to the railway station the following morning. Life as a government officer’s wife was very pleasant, although we lived literally from hand to mouth. Initially, I could not understand why, despite so much comfort both in my parents* home and in my husband’s house, we were always short of cash. Pay scales were low at the time but they were balanced by the low cost o f living. For a rupee, you could buy more than a kilo of ghee, or for a rupee purchase eight kilos of milk, straight from a buffalo. Food was even cheaper in the villages and although we fed our house staff strictly at our own expense, we were always a couple of hundred rupees richer at the end of the month, which was all the saving we could put away for a rainy day. A poor woman’s set of clothes could be made with two

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rupees, while clothes for her husband cost even less. On Akbar’s salary of Rs 350, we maintained a staff o f servants that included a cook, an ayah, a masalchi boy who helped the cook, a gardener, and a sweeper. All of them lived within the compound of the house in the servants* quarters and ate from our kitchen. I grew vegetables in the back garden to stretch the food budget. We also had a couple o f police orderlies who lived in the servants* quarters but did not eat with us. They were assigned as night watchmen. Winter was always looked forward to because the officers went on inspection tours of their respective sub-divisions or police thana, combining work with shikar. The daily travelling allowance helped swell the finances. Corruption among gazetted officers was unknown at the time and even tehsiUar and SHOs posted in the interior of the district were frightened to take bribes openly for fear o f their upright superiors. The daily routine o f an officer’s life was to attend office at nine o’clock and return home for lunch at one p.m. The evening was for the club— to play tennis, table tennis, badminton and dans, and indoor games like bridge and carom after dark. This congregation broke up around nine at night when everyone would return home. Life was pleasant and, in a way, monotonous as there were no scandals, no violence, and the only excitement 1 recall was the touring season. Dinner parties were rare and I do not remember women discussing the latest in clothes, so remote were we from the world of fashion. Even marriage ceremonies were fairly simple affairs. I had been married two years and bore another daughter, Lubna. My brother Saeed, in frail health since childhood, was critically ill with a kidney disease and not expected to survive. His death at the age o f twenty-one was devastating for Amma and she went into a deep depression. When Lubna was barely six-weeks-old, I sent her to Aligarh to help ease Amma*s pain and to divert her from her grief. 1 knew that a little child to care for would give Amma a reason to go on and, as we expected, Lubna’s joy and playfulness brought a smile to her lips. Lubbo, as we nicknamed her, started talking when she was about nine-

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months-old and became the darling of everyone at Abdullah Lodge with her constant chatter. I had a responsible woman to look after Shabnam and could safely leave her at home when I accompanied Akbar on hunting trips but, on longer tours, she came along. I was leading a fairly contented life but Akbar was slowly getting into the habit of staying away from home and playing poker or bridge with a group o f friends. The people he mixed with were government officers but their lifestyles were totally different to ours. They had married while still in college and their mothers, sisters, and wives were illiterate. They accepted the joint family as a norm, where the male members were entitled to do as they pleased, while the women had no more rights than to be fed, clothed, and given a roof over their heads. It was inevitable that the company in which Akbar spent his time influenced him into thinking that he was giving in too much to his wife. Meanwhile, it was unacceptable to a woman of my nature to stay up till three in the morning, hungry and resentful, waiting for him to return. Akbar had forgotten that his wife came from an enlightened family where the women were educated and treated with as much respect and equality as the men and, even though I loved him very much, I could not tolerate being treated like a doormat. Akbar soon realized that I wasn’t happy and, fortunately for us, joined another group of like-minded friends, when we moved to a new complex o f houses. It was a lovely new house, we had Yezdi Gandavia, an Imperial Civil Service (ICS) officer as our neighbour, and his wife Rokshi and I got along fairly well. We often went driving through the forest in search of man-eating panthers and if we didn’t encounter one, we would be content to have a picnic dinner at one of the rest houses. The villages in the districts were isolated and the population was sparse and scattered, which made the panthers hunt the area boldly. Yezdi was full of life and would arrive with his wife at friends’ houses after everyone had gone to bed, honking and singing, persuading them to join them in a wild drive through the town. One night, we had a convoy of four cars, and went honking and yelling through the heart of the town that the pontoon bridge

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was broken and the town was about to be submerged in flood-water. No one recognized us, and panic spread in the colony. Both Yezdi and Akbar had the reports brought to their respective offices in the morning, which they had to deal with a straight face as they reassured the locals that it must be the work o f mischievous rumour-mongers. Those were the days of utter peace and tranquility, and these larks were dismissed with a chuckle by the higher authorities. No one could ever imagine that responsible officers had set off the panic themselves. In 1938, Akbar was transferred to Saharanpur, a district famous for growing delicious fruits o f all kind. The green forests were full of game— from quail, panridge, jungle fowl, duck, plover, snipe to tiger, panther, leopard, sambhar, cheetal, wild boar and— funnily enough, a special type of jackal that a cenain tribe ate with relish. The local people called the tribe Bengalese but I suspect that they belonged to the Chamar class. We lived in a house that thirty years earlier had belonged to an indigo-exponing company. The company went bankrupt when a synthetic dye was discovered, and the house was abandoned. No government officer wanted to live there because of superstitions connected to the place, so it was in a state of utter neglect when we moved in. The three-acre property had six large rooms, a verandah both in front of the house as well as at the back, but the plinth had sunk almost to the level of the ground. We engaged two gardeners at Rs 10 per month and started cleaning up the place. There were about fourteen servants’ quaners with a barn for livestock. We had five private servants including the two gardeners, two orderlies, and three civic guards, who were assigned to us by the Police Department. Around that time, the Second World War had broken out and these civic guards kept falling over each other trying to find something to do around the house so they would not have to return to the barracks. They didn’t have any specific duties until Akbar gave one of them the job of catching the numerous frogs that lived on the grounds, and attracted poisonous snakes. He was christened Mendak (frog) Major. From morning till he went off duty, this man caught frogs on the property and put them

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in a covered bucket to be thrown in a nullah, about two hundred yards away from the house. To bring the neglected field under cultivation, we accepted two bullocks from a neighbouring landowner. The bullocks were too old to work in the regular fields but fit enough for the light work we had in mind for them. We purchased an old plough for Rs 11 and our land came under the plough! All o f us worked hard through winter. The unused well under the tall peepal tree was cleaned and the Persian wheel that was still hanging in the well, rusted and broken in places, was repaired. Fields were marked out and waterways constructed to channel water from the well to the plants. By February, we were ready to plant our summer vegetable garden, and flowers of a hardy type that would bloom throughout the summer and the monsoon months. The Persian wheel started working and I would sit with my daughters at the side of the water channel with our feet dangling in the water while Akbar sometimes sat in an armchair and watched and chatted with us. He went off for a bird shoot every Sunday, but 1 was too busy with the house to accompany him, content to cook and eat the game he brought home. The climate in Saharanpur was extreme, with biting cold winds called dhaJoo by the locals, changing to loo as soon as April ended, and the long and difficult summer began. The worst of my fears were the cobras that came out o f their holes in search of frogs, despite Mendak Major*s efforts. 1 had six menservants living in the quarters but as soon as they saw a cobra they would shout the alarm to Akbar, ‘Sahibji, sanpV ( Snake! Sir) Akbar would then have to pick up his sawed-off polo stick and run after the reptile, sometimes barefoot, in case there wasn't time. So true was his eye and aim that one stroke would break the reptile’s neck. He killed seven cobras on the ground the first year, and shot one down from an old date tree in the compound. People believed all kinds o f superstitions about the tree snake: that it was over a hundred years old; that it took on a human form at times, that it was originally a jogi (holy man) punished by the gods and changed into a tree snake, and so on. Although

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this sort of chatter did not bother us, that snake certainly was the longest and the most fearsome that I have ever seen. Seven feet long, with gray hair on its head, it was possibly very old, and had been around for a couple of generations so the people assumed it belonged to the supernatural. Akbar taught me to shoot with a .38 revolver by nailing a rotted wooden board to a tree and making me fire from a distance o f five yards to begin with, later increasing the distance to ten, then to fifteen yards, as my hands became steadier. Living in the area infested with dangerous animals and snakes, he wanted me to be able to protect the children and myself, if it ever came to that. Without telling him, 1 always carried that trusted little weapon in my purse when we went big game hunting, just in case Akbar’s rifle jammed or something. I considered myself a fairly knowledgeable shikari, although I had hardly ever shot anything more exciting than green pigeons or an occasional sitting duck! Akbar’s marksmanship was improving with continuous practice and he would shoot not only while hunting in the forest but would often bag a couple of partridges on our walks through the scrubby jungle near the nullah, with no other beater but yours truly. But even I was surprised when he shot a running muskrat with his .38 revolver inside our living room. I had my share of exterminating vermin from our grounds, the wasps that had made huge nests in the mud walls of the woodshed and the bam. As a child, I had the experience o f burning wasp nests with Saeed, so I tied some rags at the end o f a pole, saturated them with kerosene, and set to work. The servants watched me from a safe distance while I burnt a couple of thousand wasps, greatly impressed by the feat.

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Pmrious pagr. Young Khurshid. Top: 1931-32. Kneeling left: Shahida Ainuddin, standing right: Khurshid Jahan Lfjv. The influence o f Bombay fashion, 1917. L-R: Mumtaz Jahan, Rashid Jahan, Khatoon Jahan and Mohsin Abdullah. Photo taken by Mamun Bashir Mirza. Right. Khurshid Mirza aged 15.

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Extrem e top left. Shaikh Abdullah (Papa Mian) Extrem e top right. Begum Shaikh Abdullah (Alabi).

Top left. Wiheedia Hostel, 1914. Named after Waheed Jahan (Alabi). Top right. Papa Mian with his devoted Waheed (Havai). 1964.

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Top left: Akbar M in a and Khurshid Jahan after their marriage, 18 February, 1954. Top right. Khurshid and hunting trophies. Left: Khurshid Mirza with her daughters Shabnam and Lubna, Saharanpur, 1939. Facing page top-. Khurshid Mirza and children on picnic in Nainital, 1945. Standing: Khurshid with servants Hashmat and Shanti. Sitting back row: Razia Quamarain, Dr Hameeda, Khadija, Sumbul. Front row: Shahla, Lubna. Arif and Shabnam. Facing page bottom-. Exhausted after a long shoot. Khurshid and Akbar Mirza, 1941.

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8 On Shikar with Akbar

I must have been married about two months, when Akbar and I went on a shoot at Dohri Ghat in Azamgarh, where Akbar was on inspection. We stayed at the government Rest House, or Dak Bungalow, from where we left early the next morning on a boat to shoot ducks. This being my first time ever, I was excited and shot and killed a crow. Akbar was after some crocodiles and soon spotted a place where they came to sunbathe. Bringing the boat near the shore, we crept out and climbed over an incline from where the crocodiles were about two hundred yards away. Akbar fixed his telescopic sight to the rifle and, just before firing, let me have a look through it. He whispered in my ear that unless he hit the animal behind the ear and paralyzed it immediately, it would slip into the water and attacking fish would ruin the skin. Akbar got his crocodile the first time round, and the boatmen rowed swiftly to tie it to the boat since it was easier to drag it through the water than to carry it overland. This species was seventeen feet long when stretched out in the verandah of the Dak Bungalow. It had a big snout with a ball at the end of its nose and, since it did not make a meal of humans, the villagers had no aversion to dining on it. We left the skinning to them, as they were adept at it. Akbar had planned on spending the Christmas holidays in Nichlol Jungle that was quite far from Gorakhpur. He had invited his brother, Akhtar Mirza, and his brother-in-law,

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Kanwar Sadaat Ali Khan, to join him. Birjis was studying at Isabella Thoburn College, Lucknow, at the time and she came along to spend her vacations with us. Our group comprised a couple o f zamindars, and an English Assistant Superintendent Police who had no previous experience o f hunting. Nichlol's boundaries touched those o f Nepal and, from our end, we could see four or five of the Himalayan peaks quite clearly. At that time, the District Magistrate in Nepal was called “Teen Sarkar” (thrice elevated ruler). One of his favourite hobbies seemed to be catching “Mughal” spies. If an Indian citizen happened to cross over into Nepal chasing stray cattle, he was prompdy arrested and put in stocks with no provision for food. The local villagers would contribute to keeping the poor man alive until his relatives could be informed and were able to obtain a permit to bring food and clothes to the prisoner. Sometimes, the man remained in stocks for years, with his petition forgotten in the Teen Sarkar's office either because the dignitary was away in the capital, or because he had died and a new man had not been appointed. The prisoner could, however, go home for important events like family marriages, deaths, or a religious festival, provided his brother replaced him. The Rana class who considered themselves superior to the local people ruled Nepal. I heard an amusing anecdote about an American missionary, a woman who visited Kathmandu and sent an official request to pay her respects to the Queen of Nepal. She was given a permit to enter the palace and was ushered into an elaborately decorated room where a pretty woman sat on a high chair with a footstool under her tiny feet. The visitor bent to pay her respects and looked around for a chair to sit on when she was informed by the interpreter that she could only sit on a stool so as to remain at the foot level o f the “ Panch Sarkar s Lady”. (Panch Sarkar was five times elevated ruler, the title of the Prime Minister.) Indignantly, the missionary asked, 'Am I not in the presence of the Queen?' 'Certainly not,' said the interpreter, ‘you are far too humble to receive an audience from Her Majesty. You should be grateful that Panch Sarkar has allowed his lady to receive you.'

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I learnt with time that on our big game hunts, it fell upon me to feed the entire camp, the families, our guests, the help, the stenographer, and the police sepoys accompanying us. This party also included the local villagers who rented out their animals and carried the packs for us. On days the men did well and we had game for meat, all went well. Otherwise, potatoes, lentils and rice sufficed along with locally bought vegetables. On my first hunt, Akbar spotted a weed-covered lake full of game, ducks and snipe but we could not take the risk o f hunting on foot because the swamp was an uncharted area. So, trained elephants were requested, from the local landowners who kept the animals as a status symbol. Four elephants arrived early in the morning, and we set out with our guns, boxes of cartridges, and our lunch boxes. Feeding the elephants in that dense forest was no problem. The first day’s shooc was very disappointing because the Englishman, through sheer inexperience, kept shooting whether the bird was in range or not, disturbing the entire party. Disappointed, we were on our way back to camp empty-handed, when a para was spotted. The para is a local species of deer that likes to live near swamps, and that day it provided us with a hearty meal. Giving the ducks a day of rest to settle down, Akbar attended to some paper work. We set out at four the next morning on the third day without the Assistant Superintendent of Police who decided to return to Gorakpur for Christmas and we had an excellent shoot without him. At one point, the elephant I was on took a step forward and immediately sank up to his neck in water. His maboot, (keeper) who was constandy on the alert for such traps, steadied him immediately, calling: ‘Back, Back!’ hitting him all the while with a spike called ankas. The animal pulled his trapped leg from the mire with great difficulty. Some ducks fell into inaccessible spots and had to be abandoned, but the villagers whose services had been hired at twelve paisas per day recovered most o f them. They also served as beaters where the ground was comparatively firm and flushed the swamp o f partridges that Akbar and his brother shot. The

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beaters got two partridges each that the locals called kakair. It was the first time that they had shot partridges o f this kind and they were thrilled to bits. Duck shooting was a popular sport, particularly at a place called Dhani Lake that belonged to a zamindar. We were invited for a day trip to Dhani and caught an early morning train to reach the spot. The train stopped at a small station where we found elephants waiting for us. After a full twenty miles on the elephants, when we reached our destination, it was already ten o’clock with our host waiting impatiendy for us at the edge of the lake with three canoe-like boats. Dhani was a huge lake and we could see hundreds o f ducks sitting in animated groups o f twenty or thirty. I have never seen such wily wild ducks in all my years of duck shooting. They would skim way ahead of us, keeping a distance o f about a hundred yards at all times. We tried to corner them by sending one boat to the left and another to the right, but they gave us ' no overhead shot and circled far out to alight again a couple of hundred yards away. We did not get to fire even one shot and returned with our host to have lunch. He treated us to fruit from his orchard— the finest small bananas called Mohan Bog, and fresh sweet lime. I remember how juicy, sweet, and fragrant they were. As soon as the sun went down, we went to the edge o f the lake to witness the ingenious, if cruel, method employed by local villagers to get their ducks. In the lee of the embankment that separated our host’s property from the neighbouring zamindar, about twenty young men were posted to stand in the shallow water with sticks in their hands. These sticks were about two feet long and not very thick. As the sun went down, we could hear the sound of flapping wings and a splash in the water. Later, the villagers collected nine wounded birds that were immediately put out of their misery and presented to us to take home. We learnt that while the ducks hovered over the embankment each night to feed on Dhani Lake, the zamindar would catch as many of them as he wanted by posting boys to throw sticks blindly up

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into the air. These sticks inevitably hit the birds, breaking their wings. The Government Forest Officials had dedared panthers man-eaters and it was ordered that they were to be hunted down. They were the scourge o f the village, carrying away livestock and even babies. In Gorakpur, we often went looking for them at night. With the hood o f the car down and a searchlight fixed in front, we would slowly cruise through the forest. One night, as I shifted the searchlight, we saw the tip of a head and froze. Akbar was standing in the backseat with his loaded twelve bore double-barreled shotgun. We waited patiently. After about fifteen minutes, the panther became restless and lifted his head clear off the ground. Akbar fired once and the head disappeared. We knew it was the moral duty of a hunter to finish off a wounded animal so it would not suffer, but Akbar could not follow his blood trail at night. We returned home remorsefully, driving back early the next morning to the spot to find him stone dead. He was so near the car that the shot that Akber had used had entered his head and killed him instantly keeping the wound clean without spoiling the skin. I think it was in the year 1940, that Akbar shot his first tiger, a declared man-eater, at Badshahi Bagh. Akbar’s sister, Nawab, was married to a landlord, Shah Nazar Hussain, who was a politician o f sorts. His owned some property near Badshahi Bagh, and when Akbar was called to hunt the tiger down, we went to the Forest Rest House which was on top of a hillock, surrounded by a green canopy of trees and very tall elephant grass. Akbar, his brother Akhtar, and their young friend Saeed, went bird shooting after a young buffalo was tied where the pugmarks of a tiger had been uncovered. Akbar enjoyed his hunt and instead of stalking the tiger, he went for the ducks and the partridges along the way. Early next morning, Juman, our shikari reported that the tiger had taken the bait and, after devouring the calf, was asleep in a thicket only three miles away from the Rest House. Since this was going to be Akbar’s first tiger, he left with the beaters to sit on a machariy an upturned string cot, tied by its legs to a tree

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about eight or ten feet high. The beat began slowly so that the animal was not startled into running back in confusion instead o f going forward. When they brought in the dead tiger to the camp, I asked Akbar how he felt about the episode. ‘Well, I was excited at first,’ he remarked, ‘but I think with the arrangements we had made for him, the poor devil didn’t have a chance. He came out yawning and dropped dead at the first shot. I fired an extra shot into him just to make sure that he was dead/ Akbar had used the double-barrel rifle given to him by his father. Each hunt, whether it was for big game or for birds, had its own set o f stories o f adventure and misadventures and a whole book could be written about the times I shared with crack shots like Akbar and his brother, Akhtar. Often enough, a near tragedy turned into an amusing anecdote to be recounted around a bonfire. This particular incident took place on a regular panridge shoot. The shooting party was standing more or less in line, in positions where they could just see each other but were not in the range o f fire. The beaters were coming nearer, and the animals and birds started crossing the line while we waited for the partridge to rise. A big herd of wild pigs, comprising many sows and piglets, rushed out of the waist-high grass where we stood. Immediately, Akbar loaded a shot in one of the barrels in case a big male charged us. Wild boar can be very dangerous when disturbed and are usually allowed to cross the line. Suddenly, we saw one o f our friends running backwards at a terrific speed and when he yelled and disappeared into the grass, we rushed to his aid. With the choicest of curses he got up and we learnt that a young male boar had somehow gotten between his legs and carried him a good fifty yards in its mad rush to escape. No wonder we thought that he was running backwards! He was very lucky that the young boar did not return to rip his stomach open with its sharp tusks. Then there arc other recollections, too, not necessarily to do with hunting. It was late April and Akbar had heard that a tiger was prowling in a certain area and making off with the villagers1

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cattlc. He wrote to his brother Akhtar, and the three o f us started for the Rest House in the Beri-Bara part of the forest. April and May were the crudest months in the jungle when it was burnt out and dry. The small streams dried up and the animals prowled around, panting, looking for water holes. Ants, wasps, and scorpions abounded, and it was impossible to eat after dark with a lighted lamp because of the horde of fireflies and moths that the light attracted. There was no electricity in any o f the forest rest houses at the time. One afternoon, Akbar went out by jeep to the water hole while Akhtar and I were playing cards. All o f a sudden, we heard screams from the servants* quarters. I called Kundan, our personal attendant and major-domo, and asked him what had happened. Apparently, Khan, the orderly, had been stung by a black scorpion and was screaming in pain that he would die in this jungle without even a decent burial. Kundan asked me to help him except that I was hardly equipped for it. I asked him to wash the wound and reassure Khan that I would come shortly. As it happened, I had been spending my spare time reading and, one day, while browsing through a second-hand bookshop, I came across a tattered tome whose pages were crumbling in my hands. It was in Urdu and had hundreds of old prescriptions for curing disease. Since all of them were home-remedies, it caught my interest. 1 could not recognize the names o f most of the oriental herbs except for common ones like mint, cardamom, and coriander, or cilantro. It was there that I had read that the mango blossoms rubbed in the palm of the hand with a prayer of thanksgiving for first sighting the flower would bestow healing powers against scorpion poison for one year, and, after a person was cured some money should be given in alms in the name of the saint who had given this prescription to the people. I have forgotten the name of the saint, but there were some blossoming mango trees in our garden and, half out of curiosity, as soon as the first blossoms appeared, I rubbed them well into both my Sheepishly, I told my brother-in-law about the curative powers of the mango blossom for scorpion poison. I could see

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derisive laughter bubbling up in him. Still, he followed me to the grounds where Khan lay in pain with the rest o f the servants trying to reassure him that people do not die of scorpion poison. 1 felt far from confident and, more than anything else, 1 dreaded becoming the object of ridicule in the eyes o f my husband and brother-in-law. But, seeing the agony of the man, I forgot my inhibitions and silendy prayed to God to give me healing power. I then asked Khan how far had the poison travelled, and where he felt the spasmodic pain recurring. He put his finger under his knee and I put my hand on that spot bringing it down to the toe where the scorpion had stung him. I returned to the rest house aware o f a strange radiance within myself but Akhtar said something like, ‘Wait till Akbar gets back, we’re going to have some fun at your expense.' I stared into space and prayed for the poor man's health. Fifteen minutes later, we saw Khan carrying in the tea tray, and when I asked him how he felt, he said the pain had gone completely and only a little soreness remained at the tip of his toe. Akbar returned soon afterwards, and when his brother recounted the incident to him, he replied carelessly, ‘Khan must have staged this drama to be allowed to go back home. He has certainly not been stung by a black scorpion, because he would still be in agony.' I said nothing, because my heart was too full o f humility and gratitude to God. Another scorpion-related memory is when we camped at Mohand, on the borders between Dehra Dun and Saharanpur. We killed about a dozen scorpions every day as they fell from the roof of the verandah that had a covering of dry vines over a framework of wooden planks. It was too hot to sleep inside the room. The Mohand rest house was built on top of a natural mound with roads on either side, one going to Saharanpur, and the other to Dehra Dun. Despite the proximity of traffic, we found the pugmarks o f a panther within thirty feet of the cemented yard where we slept. After that discovery, Akbar and Akhtar kept their shotguns at hand, and I slept with a .38 revolver under my

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pillow to the great amusement of the men who considered it a toy against a panther. While we were at Mohand, a party o f army officers and soldiers approached us one day to tell Akbar that an English major in their party who had been sent to Dehra Dun to recover from war fatigue on the Burma front, was missing in the forest and could he do something about it? Their party had gone for exercises and the major had got a heat-stroke so they had left him under a tree and returned to base to get a stretcher to carry him back. When they came back, they could not find him. The first question that Akbar asked them was whether they had left enough water with the major to which they replied that their own canteens had been almost empty at the time but they had left as much water with him as they could spare. The major had been missing for thirty-six hours and Akbar told them that it was highly unlikely that he was still alive in the deep jungle with a heat stroke and worse, without water. Akbar organised two search parties, one led by his brother, and the other by himself. They went with the soldiers and Akbar found the major dead, some hundred yards away from where they had left him, with half his face devoured by vultures. A man in the party remarked ruefully, ‘What a God-forsaken place for an Englishman to die/ Another time, I joined Akbar when he was camping in Haldwani, a sub-division o f Nainital, in the Himalayas. Alamgir Khan, a school mate of Akbar’s, was posted there as the Forest Officer and had arranged for two elephants to take us to Lai Kuan for a jungle-fowl shoot the following morning- We went about fifteen miles by jeep and disembarked where the elephants were waiting to take us on the second leg of our journey. Elephants were necessary because we had to cross three miles of bhang forest (bhang is the plant from which opiates and medicines are made), to reach the hunting grounds. I have never seen bhang grow so abundant and so high for even perched on elephants, we could barely see each other’s heads. The smell was overpowering, perhaps because it was the flowering season. My head was swimming and I felt nauseous by the time we

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cleared the patch. I waited a while before going ahead. The spot where we intended to shoot had a pool of accumulated rainwater and was typical tiger country with dense foliage clinging to the overhanging rocks surrounding the pond. There was also dense undergrowth all around, providing excellent camouflage both for the tiger as well as for the birds. Usually, all species o f deer clear out o f such areas if a tiger is around. When we saw a male spotted deer accompanied by many doe and their young, we were sure that the ground was safe to hunt on foot. So, we formed a chain, with Akbar and Alamgir on either end, and I with three villagers who accompanied Alamgir, in the centre, beating up the ground with sticks. We shot eleven birds at this spot, before 1 decided that that was enough because we had no way to preserve them and shooting more would have been a waste. Akbar and Alamgir wanted to carry on, but I sat in the jeep and refused to budge. To be honest, it broke my heart to see the magnificent male birds rise from the grass with their gorgeous tails trailing behind. It was rather unusual to get so many males at one spot and eight males and three females fell to our guns. Alamgir and Akbar shot a few more and we sent them off to our friends in Nainital. Within a few days of our arrival, a noted shikari, Abdullah Khan, who, incidentally, has also been mentioned in the wellknown book Man-eaters o f Kumaon by Jim Corbett, told Akbar that a tiger was lifting cattle from a village at Kaladungi, not very far from our camp. Arrangements were made for a calf to be purchased and tied up as bait. Wlien the tiger had taken the bait, we went to the jeep, waiting for the beast to return to his kill at dusk. We walked about a hundred yards and were very near the spot where the carcass of the calf had been left when, suddenly, the tiger roared behind us and all of us froze on the spot. I kept sitting with the orderly and the villagers on the upturned charpoy which we had brought to be tied to a tree as a machan, while Akbar and that grand old man, Abdullah Khan, went step-by-step towards the remains of the calf. This tiger must have been quite young because he remained at his kill,

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exposing his ears and a flailing tail, and roared just like a dog would growl over a bone. When the hunters were within twenty yards of him, he took off under complete cover and we breathed a sigh o f relief. The machan was tied about ten feet above the ground to a tree, and a rope ladder was dropped for us to climb up. Once we settled in, everyone else left us and we waited for the tiger to return. We must have been sitting for an hour with Akbar facing the half-eaten bait, when I spotted the tiger approaching from the right. I kept my silence but poked Akbar with my knitting needle to alert him. O f all the stupid mistakes we could have made, this was the limit! The rope ladder had been left hanging and, instead of going towards his food, the tiger came to our right, sniffing every bush till he was direcdy under us. Finding the rope ladder dangling before his hungry eyes, he looked up and stared straight into our eyes. We froze just as he froze. Akbar couldn’t swing his rifle because of the ropes. After what seemed an eternity, he shifted his position, pulling the rifle inside and, just then, the tiger turned and ran away. Thank God for that, because we were completely defenseless and for a tiger to jump ten feet is nothing spectacular. By the time Akbar was ready, the tiger had already gone two hundred yards, and a futile shot was all that he could manage. How grand the tiger had appeared when he entered the glade, like the king of the jungle, and how small and insignificant he seemed when he ran away, like a running jackal. I started laughing, because now I could see the funny side of the whole thing. At any rate, he was the one who got away! Winter was camping time for police officers. As part of their inspection tours, the base camp was set up at Haldwani, which is in the foothills o f Nainital. We visited many hunting grounds with Akbar s brother, Akhtar, and his wife Sharaf. Some spots were really remote and quite spectacular. For instance, at Tanak Pur along the famous Sarda River we went to the head waterworks from where the Sarda emerges, branching into several smaller canals,'suitable for fishing. Akhtar took great

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pride in his formal fishing gear, while the rest o f us managed with poles, twines, and hooks. One day, we decided to drive in deeper and explore the area. We arrived at Chceni, and a more desolate place would be hard to find. We were told that the shed in front o f the rest house had been destroyed by wild elephants and, while trying to get our bearings o f the place, we spotted a huge elephant standing very close to us. It was only when he moved his ears that Akhtar remarked: ‘Akbar, that rogue of an elephant is hardly hundred yards away, and we have brought only our shot-guns.* We had heard o f an elephant having killed a grass-cutter just two days earlier, so the animal was capable of charging at any rime. Since no one had a license to shoot elephants, we sat quiedy in the jeep and, skirting the dangerous area, returned to Tanakpur. From there, Akbar filed a report to the Conservator o f Forests about the rogue elephant. It must have been in October 1944, when we went on an inspection tour o f Gargia and Mohan, two o f the loveliest spots in Nainital Division. Mohan Rest House was at a height from where the Sarda River rushes down over rocks and gravel at terrific speed and, although it wasn't deep at all, the river was extremely dangerous because of its speed. Sharaf and I often went down to the water’s edge to do our washing, but we did not venture beyond the shallow water to sit on a safe rock. Only once, we tried to go a litde further in that ice-cold water holding on to each others hands for support with the other hand catching any rock that was nearby, but we realized that we only had to lose our foothold to be swept away by the current if we weren't careful. In the glades and vales o f the Sarda River, jungle fowl had a natural habitat and our men could bring in as many birds as were needed for the table. One day, Sharaf was supervising the cooking and the men had gone on the trail o f the spoor o f a tiger that had been discovered nearby. Since the women were not taken along on excursions through the dense jungle, I felt I could do with a litde exercise. So I picked up an axe and started splitting firewood to streamline my waist. Akhtar still teases me about the time the men returned

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and found me swinging an axe wildly, with a scarlet face, making loud groaning noises. Akbar could spend as many days as he wanted on these inspection tours, and the winter lay ahead. Meanwhile, Akhtar returned to Delhi. Our next trip to the wilds was planned in February 1945. Kaladhunga lay several miles away from Kaladhungi, where we had missed the tiger and where Jim Corbett had shot a man-eater. A man among his hunting party had wounded a tiger and left it to die, a dangerous and cruel act that most professional hunters were careful to avoid. In rage and in great pain, the tiger waited, pouncing on the next human being who came near him. It was, unfortunately, one of Mr. Waddell’s Gurkha orderlies, a man who couldn’t handle a gun. Mr. Waddell had been Akbar’s superior officer and recounted the incident to us. Akbar was moved to action and wished to travel to Kaladhunga. We started from Tanakpur with four mules to carry our belongings and three calves to be tied as bait at different places. After going for about twelve miles, we discovered that the road had been swept away by the Sarda River and that we had to make a detour through the mountains to reach our destination. Going up the bridle path on our mules, we came across a stream of pilgrims walking to the holy temple of Kalpa Devi at the top of the hill. We also crossed polluted streams and sadhus meditating in caves or begging for alms on the roadside. The filth everywhere was appalling and a strong stench rose from rotting food and human and animal offal. Tunnias, the litde village around this place was just as filthy, and we hurried past it after purchasing small supplies of salted gram, cigarettes, matches, tea, and such like. Now we stood at the foot of the toughest part o f our journey. The mules had to be dismounted since the bridle paths were very narrow and overlooked deep chasms on one side where the cliff face kept eroding with every hoof-beat. To remain on the mules was to endanger our lives as well as those of the animals. This meant that we had to walk practically straight up to the summit of a hill, hoping to find level ground to catch our breath.

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We went up the summit, down to the very bottom o f the hill and up again enduring fourteen miles of this agonizing journey. My legs trembled with the effort, and our faces were flushed with the exertion and the heat of the sun. I have never in my life undertaken such an impossible journey on foot, with no place to rest, no shade, and exhausting ascents followed by a rough descent. Two calves refused to go any further and had to be left behind. Later, they were sent back through a longer and gentler route that we, too, took on our return journey. No officer had visited Kaladhunga for the last eight years, ever since the jeepable road was washed away. A lonely Forest Guard lived there by himself, making the journey on foot to the nearest post office to collect his pay each month. The Sarda river was half a ihile away and the Rest House was on a high ground from where we had a view of a triangle of fairly level water on one side, Nepal across the shoreline, and the course of the river on the third side. We had travelled with almost no food supplies from Tanakpur since both Akbar and Akhtar found my concerns regarding food laughable. They assured me that they would put meat on the table and asked me to carry only wheat-flour and cooking oil to make rods. On our first day in Kaladhunga, the men went out on a reconnaissance and returned empty-handed, reporting that the entire jungle had been given over to grazing cattle and there were hundreds of buffaloes around with bells hanging from their necks to frighten away the tigers. Shamelessly, the two brothers asked me what we were having for dinner! I had a good mind to feed them only paratha, morning and evening for the three days that we intended staying here but, taking pity, I employed all my resourcefulness and located the roots of an edible vine that grew in profusion in the jungle and tasted like yams. I took some gram out of the mules* grain sack and had lentils ready so that, when the men returned, we ate well. A shikari reported that two tigers had been sighted and one o f them had tried to stalk the buffaloes but when the males defended the herd, the tiger ran away. The next day, Akbar and

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Akhtar followed the trail of one o f the tigers arriving unexpectedly at a lair where a tigress with her half-grown cub had taken shelter in the shade of a protruding rock. The tigress heard them approach and climbed up on the rock above them to investigate. She was about to spring when Akhtar looked up and fired at her. Akbar saw her twitching tail and knew the danger to his brother so he, too, fired. Both bullets found their mark, Akhtar s bullet went through the shoulder to her heart, and Akbar’s bullet got her at the base of the skull. They were wondering where the tigress had sprung from when they saw her cub on the rock and realized, to their sorrow, that they had shot a nursing mother that was against forest rules. That tigress must have been on the move and had probably arrived in this area a few hours earlier since her pugmarks had not been sighted by the trackers. The cub, too, was killed, for he would have perished without his mother. When their bodies were brought to the forest bungalow, I wept when I found her teats still full o f milk. The tigress had been killed unwittingly and in self-defense. Akbar had to sort it out later with the Forest Officer, but whenever we talked about this, particular incident, both of us felt very sad. It was inevitable for our children, nieces, and nephews to be inspired by our hunting tales. They heard stories of tiger shoots from us and their imaginations were fired by the deeds o f valour that they, too, could perform. Once, when all the children were at home on the last weekend of the month and I sat listening to Papa Mian reading out Shakespeare’s Tempest to me, we noticed the children rushing around with sticks of all shapes and sizes in their hands. Apparently, they were planning a tiger hunt. When I asked them where, they said there was a jungle near our house and I realized they meant the Government House grounds! Armed with sticks, the children debated their strategy, the first part of which was to use four-year-old Razia, my sister Khatoon’s daughter, as bait. Razia was very excited to be allowed to join in the games o f the older cousins, even as bait. She was asked to sit under a bush armed with a stick to defend herself if the tiger arrived before her cousins did. Everyone was

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determined to get the tiger first because the first hit would mean the tiger skin. I told them to go fully fortified since sometimes one had to wait a long time for the tiger to come out o f hiding. 1 helped them find stout sticks and also armed them with sandwiches in their pockets and instructions to stay together at all times. The little party o f six children set off on their grand adventure. My daughter, Shabnam, was ten-years-old at the time and the eldest o f the pack. Lubna and her cousin, Shahla were nine, Salman, Shahla*s brother was almost seven, and Arif, Razia’s brother, was six. I deputed a police orderly to follow them at a distance to keep an eye on the children. Soon, he reported that the guard standing at the gate o f the restricted area refused to give the children permission to enter but when they assured him with great fervour that they were out to kill the tiger and make the grounds safe for everyone, he started laughing and let them pass, telling them that they should whack the tiger hard on the head with their sticks when they saw it and to be careful, otherwise one of them would surely be eaten up. After two hours, the children returned, tired but exhilarated, sure that the tiger was hiding out there but was too afraid of them to come out. They planned to flush him out another time.

9 Renuka Devi, my Celluloid Identity

The years from 1939 to 1983 were possibly the most productive and creative ones of my life, when I was most intensely involved in the visual and performing arts. My work developed from writing, acting, and producing radio plays, to scripting short stories, documentaries and finally, to acting in television plays where I portrayed the grand dames of a bygone era. It all began in 1939, when a number o f coincidences combined to facilitate my entry into films. It was actually a variety show organized by some o f the better-educated and socially conscious wives o f government officers to collect money for flood victims. Akbar was part of the organising committee to which all the British officers and their wives were invited. Although Rs 10 was the minimum donation fixed per person, the British families gave generously. Akbar had always enjoyed theatre, and arranged for folk dance performances by recruiting from among the Pathan and Gurkha sepoys, who were accompanied by the police band. Mr Sinha, the Divisional Superintendent of Railways, had a charming daughter who gave a dance performance. I played the sitar and we put on a couple o f tableaux. The show was a success and we managed to collect some money. It was at thjs moment that Mr Hobart, the District Commissioner, who attended the show with his wife, remarked: ‘Khurshid is excellent on stage, she could easily go into films if

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she liked'. Everyone treated the chance remark as a joke, but it put an idea into my head. Around this time, I heard from Mohsin who said that along with his wife, Shahida, he had visited Bombay and because of his friendship with Khwaja Ahmed Abbas, the noted scriptwriter and author, they had spent the day at Bombay Talkies where the latter worked. Mohsin wrote about the professional atmosphere at the studios and about the charming Mr Himansu Rai and his wife, Devika Rani, an established actress. Mr Rai was the founder, managing director, and producer of the company Bombay Talkies. I was impressed and, without telling Akbar, wrote to him mentioning my acting experience in school plays and my enthusiasm for dramatic art, enclosing a snapshot of myself. After about ten days, Akbar asked me after dinner if I had written to Mr Himansu Rai. I knew immediately that a reply must have come and Akbar had opened the letter and read it. Throughout our married life, I tried to impress upon Akbar that opening letters addressed to other people amounted to moral theft, but that never deterred him. In retrospect, there were some sound reasons for this irritating habit. One, he belonged to the Criminal Investigating Department and had to censor outgoing and incoming letters so this insatiable curiosity must have come naturally to him through his professional training; second, Akbar never wrote letters himself and wanted to experience the thrill o f opening someone else’s mail. Anyhow, I learnt to snatch my unopened letters out of his hands whenever I was nearby, which served my purpose quite well. Akbar evaded my question at first but finally gave in to my badgering about the letter. ‘Well, it was a decent sort of letter inviting both of us, at their expense, to visit Bombay to see how films are made and, if we weren’t satisfied with the set-up, there was no compulsion to work.’ ‘How wonderful, darling, we can have a free trip to Bombay!’ I replied.

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But Akbar said there was no question of our going to Bombay so I left it at that. A sequel to this incident came from Mr Robinson, Police Superintendent and Akbar s boss. Mr Robinson lived alone and considered us “civilized enough” to mix socially with the British. He was a friend o f my father-in-law and frequendy invited us over for dinner. On one such occasion, I told him about the offer from Bombay Talkies. He was delighted and told Akbar, 'My dear fellow, have a nice trip. I shall give you leave, and I know the set-up is all right because the Queen’s cousin, Sir Richard Temple, is one of the Managing Directors and lives in Malad.' After this prompting, Akbar reluctandy agreed to take up the idea of a free trip, but forewarned me that he was not bound to let me work in fdms. I promised to be guided by his discretion, and that is how we went to Bombay. Akbar had been educated in an English school, Philanders Smith, in Nainital and had great regard for the British. He was loyal to the regime that he served and Mr Robinson’s response made him receptive to the Bombay trip. Khwaja Ahmad Abbas was sent to meet us at the station and I could see strict disapproval writ large on his face. Perhaps it was the likely social consequences of my joining the film industry and its effects on my family that disturbed Khwaja Sahib. We met Mr Himansu Rai and were invited to dinner that evening at his house. A picnic cottage was booked for us at Versova beach and a car was placed at our disposal. Both Akbar and I were charmed and won over by Mr Himansu Rai, his wife, Devika Rani, and Sir Richard Temple. Richard Temple invited us to have dinner with him at the Taj Hotel over the weekend and the conversation became as familiar as at home. Akbar discussed his shooting excursions with relish, to which Richard Temple added his own accounts. My daughters fascinated Himansu Rai since he and Devika had no children, and Devika was most interested to hear about the plays we had staged at school, laughing at my account of how we set it up and our amateurish stage make-up.

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Akbar returned to Versova much reassured but lay awake all night, listening to the crashing waves at the rocky beachfront. He made me promise again that 1 would not insist on working in films if he did not like the filming schedule. The next day was my screen test which I passed with flying colours and was given a small part in Devika’s next film, Jervan Parbax, in which she starred with Kishore Sahu. One day, I returned from the set and was surprised to find Akbar in make-up, wearing a dhoti and kurta. Devika had persuaded Akbar and Ansar Harwani, the poet Majaz’s brother who was visiting, to act in a scene with the hero while he sang a song, and to ad-lib a few words here and there. Akbar had to smoke a cigarette and being a non-smoker, he had a tough time lighting a fresh cigarette each time for a retake and trying to smoke it down to maintain the continuity o f the next shot. We stayed in Bombay for a couple o f weeks, before returning home with empty pockets since Akbar had decided against my taking up a film career. 1 had adopted a film name, Renuka Devi, to escape recognition but it did not mask my identity. Soon after our return, criticism and prejudice reared its ugly head and articles began to appear in local journals about Muslim girls from educated families setting a bad example to others. The newspapers were particularly vicious about Shaikh Abdullah, who was advised to stop his daughter from any further work in films. My father had to make a public statement to the effect that the responsibility for the behaviour of a married woman lay upon her husband and not on her father. My mother wrote asking me not to visit Aligarh until the hue and cry had died down. As a result, I did not meet my family for nearly two years. A question was raised in the Provincial Assembly whether government officers were allowed to work in films. Mr Robinson answered the allegations in person, asserting that neither Akbar nor his wife had received any remuneration for their work. I was in excellent health except for the occasional miscarriage brought on by my hectic lifestyle, running off to accompany my husband on shikar, or playing strenuous tennis at the club. Dr Lehri, our family doctor, gave a clear warning that another

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hemorrhage might cost me my life and that I should be sent to my mother’s home to rest for a while. At this crucial time, a letter arrived from Mr Himansu Rai requesting Akbar to allow me to star in his forthcoming motion picture Bhabi, promising that the work would not exceed beyond three months. Mohsin was working in the Laboratory Department o f Bombay Talkies and I knew that 1 could stay with him and Shahida while the company paid my boarding and lodging expenses. Mr Rai commented that it was unfair that I should not receive any remuneration for my work and offered to pay me Rs 600 per month, along with my travel and boarding expenses. A car with a driver was put at my disposal on free days. Akbar raised many objections to this, maintaining that accepting money for work would make me a professional, which he did not want. I pointed out that at least this way I would get some rest, as Dr Lehri had advised. It was settled then that 1 would not sign any more contracts, meet distributors, or attend parties outside the studios, and that I would be accorded the same respect and regard as Devika Rani. Meanwhile, I would live at my brother s house. I had three weeks before work on Bhabi was to begin. It was still under production and 1 made use of that time by attending music lessons under Miss Hamji’s guidance. I was photographed from every angle while the make-up man was instructed about shading and lighting effects. Mr Franz Osten, the director, and Mr Weisching, the cameraman, were German and very thorough. They filmed the scenes where I did not need to make an appearance so as to give me time to get acclimatized to the new routine, while I was able to rest and recover my strength. Mr Himansu Rai often took me to see the rushes in the projection hall to familiarize me with the technique and guided me in presenting certain angles to the camera at particular moments. When I finally went on the set, I was more knowledgeable about the process of filmmaking than earlier and did not feel the least bit self-conscious. My leading man, Jairaj, a veteran of many films, was very kind and did his best to make me laugh when I had to on the sets, but without success. Natural

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laughter, when repeated over and over again during rehearsals, becomes forced and mechanical, and 1 always found that more difficult than weeping before the camera. Most artistes were on the payroll of one studio or another and received their salary irrespective of whether they were working or resting. Pay scales were very low and even Ashok Kumar, who was “resting” received Rs 350 per month, while Mr Mukerjee, the sound engineer, was paid Rs 300 per month. The same rule applied to music directors, scriptwriters, and songwriters. Mr Kashyap was both dialogue and songwriter for Bhabi. They were all part o f the crew of Bombay Talkies and lived in the suburbs o f Malad, which was fast turning into a film colony. Mr Bannerji had written the story o f Bhabi, originally calling it “Poison Smoke" because the climax depended on the scandalous whisperings of friends and neighbours. But “Bhabi” had a sweeter sound to it and, since the story revolved around the misunderstanding between the hero and his friend's widow, (Bhabi was played by Maya Devi), the title was eventually chosen to replace the original one. Mr Desai played my neurotic father and was a natural as an endearing comic figure. I became very fond o f him and we did some hilarious scenes together. I remember there was a scene in the picture where the heroine faints and has to be carried to the sofa by the hero. I requested Mr Rai to change the scene as Akbar would disapprove of it. Although Mr Rai was surprised that a make-believe scene could cause embarrassment, he nonetheless obliged and rewrote it. Bhabi was a super hit, and I returned home with Rs 500 in my pocket, after having bought presents for everyone. Things cost so little at the time that I was able to buy pure English wool, imported leggings, cardigans, underwear, socks and clothes for my daughters, as well as a Tan Sad perambulator for Lubna, and a pedal driven car for Shabnam. Proudly, I presented my husband with an English tweed combination suit and sent off saris to my sisters. For myself, I was content to buy two French chiffon saris that cost Rs 9 each with blouses, shoes, and bags to match.

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When Bhabi was first screened, my sisters-in-law, especially my childhood friend, Asghari, asked her mother, Ammaji, to escort the girls to the cinema. Unsuspectingly, Ammaji went along. Halfway through the movie, Ammaji was incredulous, and she remarked that the heroine looked just like Khurshid. The girls giggled and said that she was mistaken. Ammaji insisted that it was Khurshid and was furious with her daughters for not telling her about her daughter-in-law working in films. Abbaji was equally shocked and even though he wasn’t pleased at all, he said philosophically that it was a matter to be sorted out between his son, Akbar, and his wife. A close friend and dassfellow of my brother-in-law, Maqbool Mirza, came to their house to find the family sitting somberly looking down at the carpet, deep in shock and shame after what they had just heard. Sardar Daljit Singh, Jeeti, sat down next to his friend, who whispered in his ears, ‘Very bad news. Bhabi has become an actress.’ Jeeti joined the family in their display of disapproval by staring down at the carpet. My eldest sister-in-law, Imtiaz Jahan, Bi-jan to us, was visiting and wanted to be taken to the shrine of a saint, Makhdoom Allauddin Ali Ahmed Sabir Sahib at Kalyar Sharif, twenty-eight miles from Saharanpur. 1 was keen to go with her and Akbar arranged for a driver to take us there. On the way, Bi-jan spoke to me about her belief in the saint’s powers and the mirades that were attributed to him. My family did not believe in piri-mureedi and in visiting shrines, neither did my husband, who had a more westernized outlook. He referred to such cults as mumbo jumbo because he had come across many criminal cases involving fake peers. I told Bi-jan that I would believe in the powers of the saint if Akbar let me work in the next film, Naya Sansar, and I could return home after completing it in peace. We arrived at Kalyar and I immediately had a sense of dtjh vuy as if I had been there before and was visiting a benevolent host. This was my first trip to the shrine and over the years, 1 have developed a deep and vital link to this saint. I have been there over a dozen times and have always left feeling happy, with

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the knowledge that the saint was as happy to see me as I was to have met him. When I came home, 1 was surprised to learn that Akbar had had a change of heart and was willing to let me go to Bombay for four months. I left with my three daughters and three servants. At the studios, they had rented a cottage for me at Rs 50 a month so I could have an independent establishment and my children could stay with me. They arranged for us to have excellent folding beds, a dressing table, and a few chairs and tables at nominal cost. We were fully setded within a few days. Since my first film, Bhabi> made two years earlier, many large orchards in Malad had cut been down by their owners and small two-bedroom cottages had been built in the cleared space. The rural atmosphere had been retained although modern indoor plumbing had been installed in the cottages. 1 lived with my three daughters in one such cottage. The team o f Naya Sansar was lively and keen, comprising professionals who had no other commitment than the work at hand, to which they gave everything. The team worked on one picture at a time. There was no competitiveness and a feeling of goodwill pervaded the production. We met each day for work and the families who lived in Malad joined us for meals on Sundays. Everyone shared his or her special favourite. Madame Azurie, who was playing an important role as a dancer in the film, often brought Madrassi Rasam and fish cooked in a special sauce. My contribution was roasted duck in applesauce. We sat on carpets under the trees and, sometimes, the women sat inside to catch up on their sewing while the men played cards. Such festive occasions aside, most of us generally ate simple and nourishing food supplied by the studio canteen at moderate rates. It was like a well-run school or college; the gong was rung at 9:00 a.m. and everyone who was scheduled to work that day arrived on the sets ready with make-up and with rehearsed dialogues. Mubarak Merchant and David, both of whom had important roles in the films, knew Yezdi Gandavia, our dear friend back home, and that made me their friend, too. David called me “Baray Bhai”, or elder brother, because I was in the

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habit o f arguing my point of view until my opponent was convinced. He would often say at such occasions, "All right, Baray Bhai, you win.’ The name caught on, and everyone started calling me “Baray Bhai”, except Devika, Ashok Kumar's wife Shoba, and Sati, his sister, who was married to S Mukerjee. Azurie called me Renuka. Ashok Kumar had a strange sense of humour. One day, his wife Shoba came to me in tears and said, 'Khurshid, your brother (Ashok) tells me that he has to take part in an accident scene in which a truck is going to run him over and his life is in danger. Is it true?' I knew Ashok would be annoyed with me for letting the cat out of the bag but her state was pitiful, so I took Shoba to the Property Section where I showed her an effigy of her husband fixed to a cycle that was to be used for filming the scene. During the festival o f Holi, Ashok was like a mischievous litde boy. He smeared my face with some oil from the kitchen and with coloured ink and, when Shoba tried to intervene, he threw the rest of the ink on her. His sister, Sati, did not escape his ink-throwing either. Akbar came to Bombay on fourteen days’ leave when the film was about to be completed. The date of release had been announced and we were working day and night to meet the deadline. On the day the film was released, a box had been reserved for my family and me and the studio car took us to the cinema house. Ashok Kumar, Devika Rani, S Mukerjee, Rai Bahadur Chunni Lai, and the distributor were standing on the landing upstairs and the public was gathered around, shouting the names o f the celebrities as soon as they arrived. When I appeared with my husband and two elder daughters in tow, a cry went up, “Re-nuka! Re-nuka!”, and this was accompanied by clapping. When the distributor put a garland around my neck, my elder daughter Shabnam turned round to me and said, ‘No garlands for me?’ So I gave her mine, and Ashok Kumar immediately took off one of his own and put it around my younger daughter, Lubna’s, neck. My girls felt like they were the most important people there and ate ice-cream

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right through the film, ruining their brand new satin shalwar kameez suits. Akbar had bought a practically new Vauxhall for Rs 2,600. Inflation had not yet begun to make people’s life a misery, and a big Studebaker cost only Rs 6,000. The price of *daily commodities was going up but the best o f meat, butter, milk and fruit were still affordable for most of us. I always returned home with great joy, all charged up to make some home improvements. When I came home from shooting Naya Sansart I started embroidering the table-mats that I had ordered from England the previous year. The fabric was Irish linen and the cutout mats had the patterns already traced on them; they were accompanied with embroidery silk and instructions and, all in all, it cost me only Rs 7 in postal charges. In 1942, Mr J P Advani approached me with an offer to work in Sahara. He was the cousin of a friend o f ours who was the District Judge. Mr Advani planned to shoot the film in Pancholi Studios, Lahore, and offered me Rs 5,000 a month, plus a suite o f rooms in Elphinstone Hotel, (now Indus Hotel on the Mall), along with visits back home. Lahore was only a few hours away from Saharanpur by train, the offer was good and through a respectable contact and, by now, Akbar was confident that he wasn’t going to lose his wife to the films, so I signed the contract with his consent. Working at Pancholi Studios in Lahore was a contrast from working in Bombay Talkies, and I did not feel deeply involved in the film. A hired studio did not have the warmth and camaraderie that generates team work Often, the studio was not available to us and the artistes did not see each other for ten days at a time. We lived our own private lives with no social interaction and so, even on the- sets, I felt we were not on the same wavelength. Each actor or actress rehearsed his or her scenes individually and there was no feeling of cohesion to it* Some of the more famous artistes worked in several films at the same time living in a small home on wheels with a bunk for sleeping, a small kitchenette for meals, a wardrobe, and a make-up section

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These artistes would give an allotted number o f hours to each film. When they came on the sets of one producer, the first questions the star asked was: ‘Which film is it?’ ‘How has the story gone so far?' This was completely alien to my style o f working. I preferred to work on one project at a time, where I could work on the scene as the writer had conceived it, and do justice to my role. The writer, producer, and director, Mr Advani, was a gendeman and gave me all the respect and co-operation that I expected o f him. He believed in the Sohrab Modi style o f lending grandeur to the screenplay through powerful dialogue. Mr Narang, who played opposite me, had just completed his medical studies and was doing a house-job at Mayo Hospital. He admitted Kundan, my help, to the hospital when he fell ill. Pran, the well-known actor, knew my brother-in-law Maqbool in Delhi and called me 'Bhabi Khurshid*. 1 could talk to him freely and he told me about some film scandals like a leading lady eloping with a director and other bits o f gossip that I was totally unaware of. While working in Lahore, I noticed with dismay the disrespect with which the rich producers treated the artistes, especially the extras. Their chaperones as well as the studio hands bullied the girls equally because they and the madam who accompanied them, were desperate to get into the films to earn a regular income. My aloofness, along with Akbar’s stern presence, terrified them and apart from wishing me a very respectful “good morning”, they steered clear of me. I suspect they were afraid o f annoying me because of my husband’s police badge. I remember one instance when we were shooting a marriage scene. A number of “extras” were called in to create the atmosphere of a wedding. A young girl was giyen a dhol and asked to play it, synchronizing her lip movements to the words o f the song. The poor girl did not know the technique of playback singing, nor did anyone explain it to her. After the song was replayed a couple of times, the “madam” who had accompanied the girls, snarled: ‘If you make a mistake again, I’ll

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give you such a beating with my shoe, you’ll never forget it for the rest o f your life.’ Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes, and 1 felt I had to intervene. I requested Advani Sahib to get all those people who didn’t belong to the sets out o f the hall, and he acquiesced. After the “madam” had left, I told the girl that it did not matter if she could not sing well, all she had to do was synchronize her words and pretend to sing while playing on the dholak, without even matching the beat and rhythm because it was a long shot and no one would know the difference. She gave a perfect shot the next time, smiling joyfully and forming the words without actually singing. This was the first film in which 1 did not sing my own songs. Playback singing had come into vogue, and I sat and listened to Zeenat Begum’s voice before 1 agreed to have her playback for me. Sahara was a moderate success, which at least saved my name from being linked to a flop. In the meantime, WZ Ahmed had founded his own company, Shalimar, in Poona and had already made a few successful pictures starring Neena (Shahida), Mohsin’s wife. Shahida invited me to Poona to work with them and I was overjoyed because the timing suited Akbar and besides, my brother was writing the script and directing the film. I also received an offer from Jayant Desai Productions in Bombay to star in their costume film that was to start in two months. Both offers were tempting, and Akbar was in an agreeable mood. He was being transferred to the head office in Allahabad from a desk job that he did not like, with the prospect of being transferred to Nainital within a few months. On my arrival in Poona, 1 discovered that not even the bare structure o f the story had been put together. I had come prepared to work with Mohsin since I wanted to see my brother firmly established as a film director, but was dismayed to learn that he had already left for Bombay without a word to me. Mohsin and Shahida’s marriage was on the rocks and their incompatibility was taking its toll on their work. This was just a prelude to their eventual break-up. Akbar warned me not to get involved in the family tangle, for we had seen signs o f this

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break-up years earlier. I had hoped to patch up their relationship, at least till Mohsin completed the film, but our efforts failed and, finally, even Ammajan, my aunt, who was like a mother to Mohsin, accepted the inevitable. She was living with Shahida and her son Tariq in Poona, and advised Shahida to go ahead and produce the film on her own, without Mohsin. The responsibility fell on Ahmad Sahib to write and direct Ghulami that was to be a publicity film showing the Japanese in a negative light. In those days, every producer had to make a publicity film to get an extra government quota of celluloid. Ahmed Sahib had rare qualities as a director, if only he could have confined himself to that and not tried to be a financial wizard as well as a public relations officer, a storyteller, and the sole manger of Shalimar Studios. It had taken more than two months to arrive at the decision that Ahmed Sahib must complete the story. The family feud had caused tremendous losses to the company that was surviving on the royalties of Mun ki Jeet. Although I stayed in Poona for nearly three months, work on Ghulami had not yet started. Then, I received a phone call from Jayant Desai Productions to attend the mahurat ceremony o f their costume film, Samrat Chandragupta. Earlier, I had signed a contract with them and they intended to begin shooting immediately. I told Shahida not to let Ahmad Sahib slacken and to go ahead with Ghulami without me, promising her that I would try and work on both films simultaneously, as best as I could. I was pleasandy surprised at the congenial and professional atmosphere at Jayant Desai Studios. Jayant Bhai was a family man, and most o f the young boys he employed were educated and from respectable homes. Samrat Chandragupta was an extravaganza with grand sets and mythological concepts o f honour and punishment. Chandragupta’s struggle against Alexander’s General Selukes Nikotar had parallels with the struggle of the Indian Congress against the British, both trying to drive out the foreign invader from their land. One song in it was composed on the theme of the banned anthem Vande

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Mataram and had the same metre, content, and even the tune. Naturally, it became an instant hit with the audience. My role was that of Helen, the daughter of General Selukcs Nikotar, while Mubarak Merchant played the Greek king. A lot o f labour and research went into designing both the Indian and the Grecian costumes. It is a historical fact that Chandragupta defeated Selukes, who had to give his daughter in marriage to him and provide six thousand elephants as tribute to the Indian king. Ishwar Lai played opposite me as Chandragupta. It was the general practice then for artistes not to memorize their lines and to repeat them after someone else read them out. In Chandragupta, I would deliver my lines and instead of Ishwar Lai, Munshi Dil would respond, then Ishwar Lai would repeat the lines after him. Hearing two responses totally confused me and became the' cause of several re-takes. Mubarak was concerned but could do nothing as he, too, had been trained in this manner and was quite comfortable with it. I asked him if I should speak to Jayant Desai about it but he thought that it would only create unpleasantness. So I held my peace but felt that 1 could not give my best with this unnatural style of delivering dialogues. There was a scene in Chandragupta that mystified the audience and I am often asked how it was shot. In the story, Chandragupta voluntarily becomes a captive of Selukes to learn the technique o f war from the Greeks, disguising his real identity. Helen, the General's daughter who often visits the prisoners, is charmed by the good looks and dignity of the Indian king but she is conscious of her superiority to the extent that, when Chandragupta speaks to her as an equal, she whips him lest he forget that he was their prisoner of war. Chandragupta falls in love with Helen and wins her heart and, one day, saves her from a charging elephant. This scene was actually the result of an excellent patchwork from an old film, Hannibal* which Jayant Desai had purchased for Rs 200 in which Greek soldiers were shown fighting Hannibal's elephants. Long shots of Greek soldiers were used where they resembled the characters in the film. A sensational scene in which I was

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lifted up in the trunk of an elephant was nothing more than a model head and trunk of an elephant. I was shutding between Poona and Bombay by the Deccan Queen, a luxury train, which took three hours to cover a hundred-and-twenty miles. The compartments were clean and had very comfortable seats. A call bell was fixed under the table and I could entertain friends in the same way as in a restaurant with snacks, coffee, tea, and even spirits, if one was so inclined. The bathrooms had shower curtains and clean towels. This was a special train where the seats had to be booked in advance and no passenger was allowed in after all the seats had been taken. The tickets cost nearly double the regular fare but it was well worth it, and I have never since experienced such comfort in travelling. I felt very much at home in Poona. I worked the whole day, getting away for a little while during the lunch hour to play a few games o f badminton with Shahida and, at night, I ate at her place where Ammajan cooked quail for me. Meanwhile, Akbar had taken a month’s leave from his desk job awaiting a transfer to Nainital, and came to spend the time with us. He had a small growth in one eye and I was keen to consult Dr Duggan in Bombay, a well-known eye surgeon who had been knighted for his skill as well as for his humanitarian work among the poor. During a break in work, we went over to the doctors clinic. He charged only Rs 100 and assured us that it would only be a minor operation and that Akbar could leave for home after halfan-hour. Akbar had told Dr Duggan not to let me enter the operating theatre and I waited anxiously in the lounge. After about twenty minutes, the doctor emerged and told me to go inside. Akbar was sitting in an easy chair with a bandage over his eye and a drop o f blood oozing out. He was as pale as death but not a sigh escaped his lips. I almost collapsed on the carpet and, putting my head on his lap, tearfully asked him if the doctor had given him something to alleviate his pain. He ruffled my hair, and said, ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt so much when you are near me.’ I took him foi;a change of dressing three days after

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the operation, and Dr. Duggan assured me that the wound was healing well but the dressing would have to continue for a few more days. I had to leave for Poona and left Akbar in Mohsin’s care with strict instructions to Akbar not to neglect his dressing and to join me in Poona within a week. To my horror, he followed me after two days with a black patch over his eye, looking like a pirate! I could have boxed his ears in exasperadon when he told me complacently that Dr Duggan had said that hi* eye could now be dressed at home. How does one explain the selfishness o f a beloved husband who has to be reassured all the time that he has the priority in his wife's life, despite her professional commitments? With resignation, 1 clipped off my long nails, removed the varnish, and dressed his eye each morning before leaving for work. Akbar maintained a strange attitude towards my work. He enjoyed the benefits the money brought us, such as a new car, expensive game-hunts, and pleasure trips to fashionable Mussoorie in summer and excellent schooling for our children. And, yet, he treated my work as a hobby, instead o f giving it its due importance. Although he was supportive of my work in cinema even in the face of opposition from his family and mine, I sensed that Akbar would not mind in the least if some o f my films flopped because that would mean an end to my career. I worked with people who were either friends or relatives of friends and, because o f Akbar, no one dared take advantage of me. Producers and directors were deferential in his presence and treated him with such respect that it made my position quite unique in the film industry. I had almost completed work on Chandragupta except for some patchwork here and there. Akbar’s leave was coming to an end and he had heard that the Inspector General of Police had granted his request for a posting to Nainital. Akbar was looking forward to this transfer since Nainital was a beautiful place where he had spent his childhood studying first in the Diocesan Boys* School and then at Philanders Smith College from where he completed Higher Senior Cambridge in 1926, at the age of seventeen years. We were both keen to go because Akbar

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wanted me to see the landmarks o f his childhood, the buildings and the playing fields where he had won several prizes in athletics. However, unfortunately, Ghulami was nowhere near completion. One day, when Akbar was still in Poona, his black eye-patch having been replaced by dark glasses, he came to the sets to witness a hilarious scene being shot for Ghulami. In Poona, wells are deep, pond-like water reservoirs called baolis that are at times 120 twenty feet wide at ground level containing 30 feet o f water. Ahmed Sahib had a platform suspended from above and perched on it with the camera unit. The sound mike was left dangling from the hands of a studio help who stood on a ladder placed on a jutting ledge about four feet under water that was a foot wide. The ledge gave us an excellent resting place between takes. My male lead and I had to remain inside the well for nearly four hours after completing the scene which was a continuation of a romantic sequence in which some tender dialogue is being exchanged between the lovers as they fill their buckets with water by the well. Both o f them accidentally fall into the well while still talking to each other. When a villager comes to fill his bucket, the hero puts his beloved in it but, as soon as her head emerges out of the well, the terrified villager lets go of the rope, shrieking, 1Bhoot! BhootV Ahmad Sahib had given me instructions in private to catch Masud Parvaiz my leading man, by the neck and give him a good dunking before allowing him to rescue me. I was dropped into the water from ten feet and made a great splash. When Masud came near me to help me out, I grabbed him around the neck and pulled him down into the well. He must have swallowed a lot o f water but managed to deliver his dialogue perfecdy amidst all the spluttering, gasping, and coughing. The scene was shot experdy, showing our half-drowned faces. Meanwhile, around the well sat a big crowd of spectators, among them Akbar, Shahida, Ammajan, my two elder daughters, our servant, Kundan, josh Malihabadi Sahib’s family, and about a dozen studio hands. My daughters were afraid that I would drown and kept asking questions and fretting about me.

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Soon after, Akbar left for Nainital and, after taking over charge, went on to Haldwani at the foothills of the hill station for the winter. I settled down to finish some work, waiting to join my husband. Ahmad Sahib had to leave on business trips quite often and had appointed Mr Wadhwani in his place, a man unsure o f his abilities as a director and who lacked confidence. There was a particular scene between two Japanese soldiers and me. The soldiers had caught me smuggling arms to the Indian freedom fighters and were now threatening me, demanding that I give them information. According to the story, instead o f cringing and begging for mercy, I deliver a ringing slap to the one nearest me. During rehearsals, Mr Wadhwani insisted that I slap the guy as hard as I would in the actual take. I tried to reason with him but to no avail, and the poor extra also asked to be hit according to the instructions o f the director. I slapped him eight times till my palm was tingling, but even then Wadhwani didn't accept the take. He would always discover some flaw in the shot; either the angle was not correct or the teasing dialogue by the soldiers was not delivered correctly. Pack-up time arrived and the shot was left for the following day. When we resumed work the next day, I saw another actor play the soldier in place o f the one who had received the slaps a day earlier. When I asked what had become o f him, I was told quietly so Wadhwani wouldn't hear, that he had suffered a mild stroke of paralysis in his face. The next day, Ahmed Sahib returned, which was a relief to all of us, and I told him o f the previous day’s episode. I gave him an ultimatum to either direct the scene himself, or I would refuse to hit the man except in the actual take. He knew I normally didn’t make trouble for the director but he also knew that I was really angry and would not carry out Wadhwani’s orders. After that, Ahmad Sahib personally directed most of my scenes and the work picked up momentum. We felt that the story was finally in Ahmad Sahib’s grasp and, to everyone’s satisfaction, many important scenes had been shot, songs had been recorded, and most of them filmed as well.

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The outdoor work with the guerillas and the soldiers was being shot so 1 managed to take time off to go to Bombay and get my children’s uniforms ready for their new school, Wellesley, in Nainital, where they were to become boarders the following term. While in Bombay, Shahida and 1 went on a shopping spree and decided to visit the Max Factor Free Demonstration Centre. These big, western companies sure knew how to make an impact on visitors. There were three salesgirls who worked as make-up artists: one was a blonde, another a brunette, and the third, a redhead. Although not very pretty, they made everyone else look dowdy in comparison with their chic outfits and their overt selfconfidence. We got ourselves made up and looked presentable enough in the neonlight but as soon as we came out in daylight, the make-up appeared garish and we hurriedly wiped off our too-pink cheeks, too-red mouths, and too-hlack eye shadow. Shahida and 1 never used false eyelashes, even in films and, except for the screen make-up while working, both of us used make-up sparsely. We were both blessed with good looks, but preferred to look natural. Whenever 1 was with Mohsin in Bombay, I went swimming in the mornings and, sometimes, Mubarak would join us for a swim and for breakfast. My daughters were on holiday and lived with either Mohsin in Bombay or with Shahida in Poona. Like all bachelors, Mubarak thought that he could advise a young mother on the correct way of bringing up her seven and eightyear-old daughters. He thought I was too firm with them. One day, he invited Shabnam, Lubna, and me to have lunch with him at Ambassador Hotel. He warned me not to interfere and to leave the disciplining to him. He was very fond of my girls and they loved “Mubarak Chacha” too. I knew the unpleasant surprise that awaited Mubarak over lunch but I did not warn him and sat by to enjoy the unfolding scenario. As soon as we sat down to eat, Mubarak asked the girls in a charming voice, 'Honey, what will you drink?’ to which they replied, ‘Aren’t we going to get any grub?’ Patiendy, the host explained to his tiny guests that it is customary to drink juice before eating, and ordered tomato juice for both o f them. They

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refused it after one sip and ordered fresh orange juice that they gulped down. The drinks had been served in small cut-glass goblets, too delicate for growing young girls who had just returned from boarding school and were ravenously hungry all the time. They asked Mubarak point-blank why all the uninteresting items were being served first instead o f some good, solid food. With a sigh o f resignation, Mubarak ordered fish and the girls went for it with delight, lavishly buttering slices of bread and eating so many o f them that Mubarak was afraid that they would not be able to do justice to the rest of the things on the menu. Then he suggested gently, *Darling, you must not eat so many slices of bread or your stomachs won’t have any place for the next course’, to which he received a ringing response: ‘Oh, are we going to have seconds too?* The meal was not going the way Mubarak had planned it, and it was over far too soon for him to indulge in gracious conversation, with his guests. Nor was his occasional “honey” and “darling” having any edifying effect on my girls who were far too busy eating the chicken and pulling the wishbone between their little fingers to ask for anything. I let them enjoy themselves while Mubarak and I ate our food like civilized people. I liked to let the girls have the experience of eating in a restaurant without cramping their exuberance. Finally, when they thought that the meal was over and were about to rise from the table, Mubarak asked them whether they would like to have ice cream or fruit and jelly for dessert. They looked at him happily and replied, ‘Both*. As we drove back to Dadar in the taxi, 1 sat in the back seat with my daughters on either side of me, and Mubarak in front. Suddenly, an inexplicable ripple of laughter went through all three of us. Mubarak turned round to inquire what the joke was but there was nothing for me to tell him since it was a moment o f oneness between a mother and her daughters. Increasingly, as the girls grew up, we enjoyed each other’s company. New Year was coming round and we planned to celebrate it in Poona where I still had a few takes and a song to film. It was to be a fancy dress gala night and an Honours List was prepared

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for everyone. Shyam, Masud Parvaiz, and I took the responsibility of preparing this list, with appropriate gifts o f toys to which a New Year’s List was pinned. We started with Josh Malihabadi, who was working for Shalimar as a songwriter. Everyone knew of his penchant for recounting tales of romance in which he was the conquering hero. Since old age was creeping up on him, this bragging seemed ludicrous. We had a doll dressed up as a bride to give him as a New Year’s gift, with some romantic lines from Ghalib pinned on it. I had to think up costumes for my three girls, as well as for WZ Ahmad’s son Sami, who was spending Christmas holidays with his father in Poona. On the war front, the Japanese were losing and were now using their Kamikaze planes in a desperate bid against the Allies. In keeping with the times, I told Sami to put on khaki shorts and shirt, put his arm in a sling, and to instruct the make-up department to smear red paint on his bandages. He came to the gala as a wounded soldier and Lubna was the Red Cross nurse with him. Ahmad Sahib had an excellent illustrated version of the Arabian Nights, and Shahida and I put together the costume of Baba Mustapha for him. He was to be brought in blindfolded by Morgiana. It was wonderful to see him arrive last of all, with bent back, stick in hand, led by Shabnam, who made a lovely Morgiana. Shahida was dressed as Kasim’s wife while I put on whiskers and was Kasim. My baby, Sumbul, was not forgotten either. I dressed her up in an overcoat, a Swati cap, and shalwar to keep her warm. She looked like a sweet Swati Pathan boy with her pink-and -white complexion. We had also arranged to play “Lucky Dip” on a one-rupee coupon. I was requested by the make-up and wardrobe departments to include small botdes of rum in the surprise treats. Rum bottles cost Rs 4 in the market and they wanted to get the rum for a rupee. This was treading on dangerous ground, for Ahmad Sahib had stricdy forbidden spirits and gambling in his studio. Shyam and Masud Parvaiz were for it, so I asked Shahida for advice. We agreed that since it was a festive holiday we ought .to be more openhearted, so it was decided that the tub

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containing rum would be kept in a separate place from the one that contained more innocuous gifts and only those people who drank alcohol would be asked to play on condition of maintaining absolute secrecy. Ammajan, Shahida, and my two girls were given the task of wrapping gifts like notebooks, pencils, erasers, toy pistols, diaries, whistles, dolls, tin openers, and so on. Shyam and Masud wrapped the classified cargo and smuggled it in with the other gifts in a separate tub. After the speeches were over, prizes were given out for the best costumes. I think Shyam was the master of ceremonies, announcing the honours list. One special chamcha was presented with a packet of butter and made to eat it. I was given a toy telephone with the tag on it reading “Short-cut to Nainital”, Ahmad Sahib was given a peg measure and dice to emphasize his puritanism. Everyone took these jokes in good humour. Josh Sahib laughed at his doll-bride and read out a poem he had written for the occasion on the lines of Akbar Allahabadi’s Delhi Durbar. I had now been working off and on in Poona and Bombay for six months and had got to know many people. Social life outside the studios was neither sought after nor entertained, but I had a chance of meeting Baburao Patel and his wife, Shushila Rani, once when they came to lunch at Ahmad Sahib's place. Baburao Patel was the founder and editor of the magazine Film Indian and film stars cultivated his goodwill for publicity to boost their careers. He had a corrosive pen and could lynch any film personality without any scruples. In his opinion, readers were not interested in the good character of people in the film industry and only scandalous gossip sold his magazine. Baburao Patel had a grudging respect for our simple life and left us alone. Among my fellow artistes on the sets of Ghulami, David had become a friend with whom I could discuss life’s problems. Masud Pervaiz was another friend, a highly educated man and a poet. He was often in a reverie and particularly loved Waris Shah's Heery often singing parts o f it to us. Much later, after he migrated to Pakistan, he produced the Punjabi film Heer Ranjha in Lahore that was a super hit.

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There was about three weeks’ work left for me, if shooting was to continue smoothly. Unfortunately, the tempo slowed down alarmingly because Ahmad Sahib was rushing around meeting distributors, fixing the date of the release, and choosing cinema halls. In the meantime, I was working with Mr Wadhwani at a very slow pace with breaks which gave us plenty of time to sit around, have tea, listen to Masud Parvaiz's rendering of the folk ballad, and gossip. One day, Masud mentioned that a certain Mr X, an assistant director whose name I do not recall, had been starving himself for two days doing penance because I had smoked two cigarettes on the sets. This Mr X was a sensitive type, a well-behaved young man, and had started looking upon me as a role model, an epitome of virtue, almost a devi. I am a non-smoker in general but I may have puffed on two cigarettes out of sheer boredom of sitting out delays in shooting. I could not even remember the occasion because smoking tends to trigger my asthma, so I avoid it. I was worried because I had heard that in the grip of such fixations people are capable of harming themselves or others, so I invited Mr X to tea and sandwiches with the cast and spoke to him of the error of doing penance on someone else’s account. David came by and whispered in my ear, * Don’t worry, Baray Bhai, he’s doing this only to draw your attention. He did the same thing in the picture where Shobhana Samarth was the heroine.’ I was reassured and was able to talk to this young man quite firmly and naturally. David was such a comfort and had so much faith in my abilities as an artiste. While I was still hoping that Ahmad Sahib would stay on in Poona and complete my scenes, a telegram arrived from Akbar that dropped like a bombshell. ‘Leave positively by Wednesday. Going for Shoot’, it read. Wednesday was only three days away and, naturally, there was consternation all around. 1 told Ahmad Sahib that at the most I could ask Akbar for one more week if he took over the responsibility of completing the work within the ten days that were still remaining. I requested him to put on a double shift of cameramen, sound engineers, and even

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directors. I told him that I was willing to work round the clock with both shifts. Ahmad Sahib also realized that unless he directed the long and important scenes himself he would never complete the film even in a month, and so the mad rush to meet the deadline began. How I managed to work under such pressure, 1 cannot fathom even now. I ate in my chair and slept in my chair, whenever 1 had an hour's respite between takes. The make-up man would spray ice-cold water on my face after each short nap and I washed my eyes with rose water to get things in the right perspective, otherwise everything merged into a blur in front of my eyes. My colleagues started calling me “President of the Suicide Squad”, and “President” for short. Ahmad Sahib worked fast and his comprehension of each shot was clear and determined which infused confidence in me. 1 really enjoyed working with him. Shahida tried to keep up with me on the sets, providing me with nourishment from time to time. I was determined to meet the deadline of “Next Wednesday”, just as Akbar had wanted it and, with the help of God, we made it. It was in the month o f February 1944 that I said goodbye to films forever, and have never looked back on that decision.

10 Leaving India

I left the film industry in February 1944 at the age o f twentysix, with many years o f stardom ahead of me. The immediate reason for the decision was my prolonged absence from home, especially for Ghulami> which lasted over seven months. I felt I could not neglect my home and children for such protracted periods of time especially since the children's education was likely to be seriously compromised if I decided to pursue a film career. The second reason was the prospect of being weeded out o f stardom in a couple o f years by a new type of heroine. This female character professed eastern virtues but danced and behaved like a temptress, a courtesan. Working in several films simultaneously was gradually becoming popular and this was likely to make competition very keen. I would have had to harden myself to survive in the jungle. In retrospect, I realize that it was excellent timing on my part to retire from the cinema when I did, while I was still in demand. In March we arrived in Nainital, where Shabnam and Lubna joined Wellesley Girls’ High School as boarders along with their cousin Shahla, Mumtaz Apa’s daughter, who was already there. Life was returning to normal with Akbar walking to office in the morning, while I kept myself busy around the house. We lived at Kenfield Cottage which was a hundred yards from the girls' hostel, so I could visit them three times a week, taking

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homemade cookies to them and having them stay overnight at home for the last weekend of each month. Nainital is seven thousand feet above sea level and thus ideal as a summer resort. It was the seat o f the Uttar Pradesh government in the summer months. According to legend, the huge lake in the middle of town was the abode o f the goddess, Naini Devi, who allowed the town to flourish in exchange for human sacrifice by drowning some people in the lake from time to time. On one side, the lake touched the wooded hills that became more populated with official and commercial buildings like the Government House, the Secretariat, and new boys* and girls’ schools coming up. Rich rajahs and nawabs purchased property at this end for their palaces. A grand golf course was also being laid out in an open and spacious site. On the other side o f the lake, a fairly level road was flanked by green mountains on which houses were built at different levels. This road led to the main business centre where the Boat Club, the Officer’s Club, the tennis courts, and a hockey field were located. The Flats, as this area was called, was the dividing line between the lake and the main bazaar. I understood the legend of Naini Devi the first time we went boating. Apart from a small area in front of the Boat Club, the entire lake was choked with weeds that reached up to a foot above the surface in some places. No swimmer, however good, could escape once he or she was entangled in the tentacles of the weeds. No one swam on this side of the lake, and very few people went boating since the foreboding of skimming just out o f reach o f this monster of the deep was most unpleasant. Initially, I was not much impressed by the paradise of Akbar’s youth, but as 1 started exploring the heart of the wooded hills, the wonder of its beauty unfolded before my eyes. Every fifty yards or so was a grassy spot with rose bushes covering the rocks where you could choose a picnic spot. Occasionally, you even saw huge orchids dangling from the rhododendron trees that grew to great heights in this climate with their scarlet flowers studding the lush green grass below. Sometimes, I would take the two elder girls, nieces, and nephews on a wild fruit hunt and

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we would collect strawberries and blackberries in abundance to make dessert with the addition o f sugar, cream, and condensed milk. Kenfield Cottage was built on an incline levelled at one spot for the construction o f the house that had solid foundations and brick walls, except for the roof, which was made o f galvanized iron sheets under which wooden planks were fitted to make a false roof. The space between the outer and inner roofs served as a loft where we could store extra luggage. On one side of the house ran the regular road, but on the other side were huge boulders and unexplored caves. One night, within the first fortnight of my arrival from Poona while it was still cold and the summer visitors to the hill station had not yet started arriving, we heard a commotion and Akbar ran to the room where we had tied the two puppies for the night. We found the window splintered and one pup gone. In the morning, we followed the trail of blood until we came to the mouth o f a cave. Akbar sent for lanterns and torches and, with the help o f our two male servants, we went at least fifty yards into the cave but it seemed futile to go any further since there seemed to be no end to it. A panther had carried away our cocker spaniel from inside the house. He had jumped from the gravel walk that was at a much lower level than the windows, broken through the pane, entered the room and, with the pup in his mouth, had jumped out again. This made us feel very vulnerable in the house and, for the next two days, Akbar sat on the roof with the other pup in the room to shoot the panther but, cunning beasts that they are, the panther never returned. We realized that the location of our house with the unexplored caves nearby made it very dangerous in winter. I still refuse to believe that this house was haunted, but a succession of inexplicable incidents left me wondering. Sometimes, while waiting in the bedroom for Akbar to return from his friends* place where he would be playing bridge late into the night, I would notice that the door that I had bolted was ajar. Once I actually saw the bolt turning and slipping down, and I stepped outside to check if there was a breeze, but found

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it calm and quiet. The house help had gone to sleep and my youngest daughter, Sumbul, was asleep in her room with her nanny, Shanti. 1 was puzzled, but did not pay much attention to it. Then, 1 also recall switching off the lights twice and dozing off on my divan while reading but waking up to find the light blazing in my eyes. When I told Akbar about it, he reasoned that the light switch was probably loose and a lizard's movement had caused it to turn on. The mystery o f these inexplicable incidents stayed with me for ten years until one day, by chance, 1 met a woman in Pakistan who had lived in Kenfield Cottage for some time before us. She said she had had visions of a woman running through the house then turning to look in terror at a man chasing her. She said that they were probably the ghosts of a couple who had lived there a long time ago. Apparantly an Anglo-Indian man had murdered his wife in a fit of jealousy. Fortunately, we never saw any ghosts and, except for the bolts turning and lights turning on and off on their own, we lived a reasonably peaceful life in Nainital! The two summers and two winters that I spent in Nainital with Akbar, remain among the happiest memories of my life. My sisters, Khatoon and Mumtaz, came to the hill-station in the summer and rented a place barely fifty yards from Kenfield Cottage. My father came for a month and Rashid Jahan visited with Mahmuduz Zafar, for a week. The children were growing up fast and in Nainital we had plenty o f time to interact with each other and make lifelong bonds o f love and shared experiences. I no longer resented Akbar s long tours because I was so busy with the family. When Colonel Haidar came to see us, Akbar often organized bridge parties at home because they shared the addiction. I savour a picture from the time in Nainital that shows Khatoon Jahan, her son and daughter, my three girls, Dr Hameeda, the two servants, and I barely thirty yards from the house on a picnic spot. I loved the jungles around Nainital Division and, in our last winter there, Akbar booked a forest house to hunt his last tiger. He donated the mounted head and skin to the Staff College in

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Quetta where it hangs to this day with a smal* placard reading: “ Donated by AH Mirza, PSP”. The year 1946 saw us in Prayag, near Allahabad, where Akbar was transferred. Prayag is where the rivers Jamuna and Ganga have a sangam, or confluence. I visited the site once and was wonderstruck at the black water o f the Jamuna intermingling with the yellow waters o f the Ganga. For miles, as far as the eye could see, I could discern the dividing line of the yellow and black currents distinctly until the greater volume of the yellow river achieved ascendancy and the final mixing of the waters took place resulting in a vast muddy expanse. This union o f the rivers was a holy place for Hindu pilgrims who came from all over India to pay homage. When Akbar was transferred to Allahabad, his services were loaned to the Defence Ministry. He was posted as the Commandant o f the Third Special Armed Constabulary with the rank o f a Lt Colonel. This force was created during the second World War by the Defcncc Department to safeguard bridges and to help the local administration maintain law and order. It was a semi-military organization with full army facilities. To me, this meant that we could buy English biscuits, jam, butter, chocolates, knitting wool, and other imported household items at subsidized rates from the army canteen. These things had practically disappeared from the market during the war. I arrived in the house allotted to us and found the garden dug up under the “Grow More Food” campaign. Not a flower bloomed in the garden, but we were given three gardeners and a pair o f bullocks to work the Persian wheel in the well. Munni Lai, the head gardener, had learnt his trade under the watchful eye o f an Englishwoman, an avid gardener. I worked with him, learning the names of the flowers, the seasons for planting them, the types of manure required for each, and where to purchase them. I sent for gardening catalogues, flower seeds from England, sweet peas from Sydney and, in the first season, I competed in the Annual Flower Show winning sixteen prizes that year and twenty-two the following year. For all my gardening skills, I remain indebted

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to Munni Lai who was such an encouragement with his hard work and his knowledge o f plants. As the Commandant’s wife, I assumed the responsibility o f instructing junior officers’ wives in civic duties. We discussed the best healthcare for the children, where to go for help in times of distress, and the advantages o f getting together for various community projects. We shared with each other specific skills like sewing and knitting for orphans, growing seasonal and nutritious vegetables and, of course, exchanging recipes. The British government was now visibly crumbling in India, and it seemed inevitable for the subcontinent to be partitioned into India and Pakistan, although the timeframe had not yet been decided upon. Some British officers planned to stay on under the new government, hoping they would be required for their expertise but the majority of them decided to collect their compensation money, pack up, and leave for home. As the head of a government unit, Akbar interacted both professionally and socially with the highest military and civil command. We became friendly with General Gould, the area commander, and his wife with whom I shared a passion for gardening. She left me ten potted geraniums as a parting gift when her husband was transferred out of Allahabad. I met Brigadier Sarfaraz who later played an important part in the 1965 war between India and Pakistan. We also became friends with Inamullah Sahib and his wife who later became Justice Inamullah in Pakistan. My cousin, Dr Nasim, was a barrister and lived in his house in Allahabad. I often visited him, particularly to pay respects to my aunt, Anwar Jahan. Since I led a very sheltered life, we were not aware of the widespread unrest and political agitation in the country. I rarely read the newspapers and was completely engrossed in gardening, reading all the books I could on the subject. Akbar’s father died in February 1946, leaving a tidy sum for each of his children. Added to this were my own earnings from films that were also in Akbar*s possession. I saw insurance men and stockbrokers hounding him and I could see that he was flattered, investing money recklessly in shares about which he

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had no knowledge. 1 was alarmed and asked him to put aside something from my savings, at least Rs 20,000 for each of our daughters in fixed deposits, but he passed it off with a laugh and, foolishly, I did not pursue the matter. He was convinced that he was a financial wizard and could double our capital. Unfortunately, he did not read or keep himself informed o f market reports that could guide him. Akbar must have lost over Rs 1 lakh in impulsive buying and through business ineptitude. 1 learnt o f this state o f affairs only after we arrived in Pakistan with very little cash and all our savings tied up in shares. My faith in the integrity o f British officers, although we had known some excellent ones, diminished as 1 heard o f the killings in neighbouring areas. Our orderly reported a police officer named Pansy Wood who surrounded a village in Basti district and had twelve men shot for blowing up a culvert. During the War, the government often took such extreme measures but, in my opinion, the punishment far exceeded the crime. It was reported that the same officer looted the villages, allowing his men to take silver, livestock, household goods and even women for themselves, while he took the gold. My resentment against the foreign rulers reached such a pitch that I was actually elated when I heard that the Japanese had humiliated British officers by using them as rickshaw-drivers on the Burma front. I recalled the attitude of children o f British officers when we were small. I must have been about ten or eleven when we had rented a house in Dehra Dun for the summer. Saeed, Biji, and I were chaperoned by Mumtaz Jahan, our elder sister. One evening, the three o f us had gone for a walk and passed two English children accompanied by their fat ayah. Without any provocation, the six-year-old and her younger brother started pelting us with stones. I pointed a finger at her and said in my halting English, ‘Don’t throw stones*. She shouted back, ‘You black dog, shut up!’ I was completely taken aback and could not think o f a rejoinder in English. Saeed prompted me from behind, ‘White pig’, I shouted back, ‘You shut up, white pig!’

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At this, their ayah strutted towards us telling us that these children were the Collector’s B ata Log, and threatened that if the children reported the incident to their mother it would mean trouble for us. Undaunted by this, we argued heatedly with her till she said in a somewhat mollified tone, *Bibi, forget what has happened, these are very naughty Baba Log and really, it is not their fault since they only repeat what they hear from our Sahib Log.* We reported the matter to Choti Apa, (Mumtaz), who wrote to the Collector’s wife that her children threw stones at the people on the road. 1 don’t remember if a letter of apology ever came from her but, if nothing else, the lady must have been unpleasandy surprised at the audacity of the locals for daring to complain about her children. Akbar sat for the Indian Police Service exams in 1931, the only year when the Congress government declared it an open competition, but the nomination o f a Muslim as the first ranking boy was withdrawn and Akbar, who topped the list o f Muslim candidates, had to join the provincial police. In 1946, his name had already been approved for the Indian Police Service and he was awaiting confirmation, but the orders were withheld due to the uncertainty of the times. I am not sure whether, given a choice, he would have opted for Pakistan since his family seemed well-setded in Delhi and mine would certainly not desert the Muslim Girls College, which was my father’s lifetime work. Nor was it Mr Jinnah’s policy to order all Muslim officers to migrate to Pakistan, since a large minority of Muslims would remain in India due to various constraints. No one could have predicted the conditions after Partition, and none of us foresaw the mass migration of Muslims from India, and Hindus and Sikhs from Pakistan, as an imperative. We first heard of disturbances in Delhi after August 1947, but the newspapers were censored and we only knew that curfew had been imposed over the city and that the military was deployed to escort refugees across the border. Radio stations in Lahore and Delhi arranged for daily broadcasts from people who had safely crossed the border to their relatives at the other end.

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A Special Armed Constabulary platoon had been sent to guard the Jamuna Bridge, and Akbar decided to go to Delhi to see how his family was faring amidst the rioting. I packed a big box of groceries, vegetables, dry milk powder, and chocolates, and Akbar left in a jeep, followed by armed guard in an army truck. He returned after five days, bringing his brother Maqbool with him, and Akhtar Bhai’s car in tow. He told me that all the women in his family had already left for Karachi by air and that some o f the men would follow by train with older members of the family and children. The train would take them to Lahore. Maqbool described the bloodbath that Delhi was going through and it appeared that people who were once sane had gone crazy. All through the massacres, there still remained some God-fearing people who assisted their neighbours and friends to get to safety. Among them was Sardar Daljit Singh, a childhood friend and schoolmate of my brothers-in-law, Maqbool and Zafar. He became personally involved in the evacuation of the Mirza family from their home “Radio House” in Connaught Place to the refugee camp and continued to provide food and essential items of daily use to them till they left for Pakistan. Our friendship has survived over the years, and we have kept up the tradition of attending the marriage ceremonies o f each other s children. In the same category came Akbar’s relatives in Peshawar who saved the lives and property of the Prithviraj Kapoor clan. When I visited Bombay in 1953 to meet Mohsin, Prithviraj, his father and aunt Kaushaliaji, called on me and related the incident and sent greetings to Akbar’s cousin, Baji Gul, in Peshawer, who had befriended them in their hour of need. Rashid Jahan had warned us that the British government would plunge the country into chaos before they left, but we did not see her very often and Akbar teased her about her beliefs by calling her a “Bolshi” because her husband was a member of the Communist Party and Rashid was a sympathizer, both of them dedicated to their work. Many of the early communists came from rich and educated families but had the courage to sacrifice personal comfort and material gain for their beliefs. Communist

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volunteers did admirable work during the riots and helped save the lives o f both Hindus and Muslims. In February 1947, we had a last reunion o f the extended family at Abdullah Lodge before the Partition of India was to separate us forever. Two years in Nainital had brought the family closer and my sisters were keen to have a get-together when our children returned from boarding school for their winter vacations, which lasted from December to March. We decided to use the occasion to get the girls' ears pierced to enable them to wear earrings, and held a kanchatdan ceremony for them and a sunnat for the boys. We collected in Abdullah Lodge in Aligarh for the joint celebration. The photograph taken on the last get-together shows Shaikh Abdullah proudly seated among his daughters, sons-in-law, and the grandchildren. He is sitting in the centre with his five daughters on chairs around him, and his eldest sister-in-law, Sikander Jahan, at the end of the line. Behind him stand his three sons-in-law, Akbar Mirza, Col. Haidar Khan, and Lais Qamrain. Birjis and Rashida's spouses weren’t able to attend. On the ground are seated the children of the family. Akbar had still not received his confirmation from the Central Indian Police Service because of the extreme pressure on the government to maintain civic order. If he were to migrate to Pakistan, there was only one option: to resign from service and move with his family. He could then negotiate for a continuation of his service records in Pakistan or face an uncertain future. Akbar decided to play it safe by asking for fourteen days* casual leave and taking the children and me out o f danger to Karachi where he could look into the prospects himself. 1 was in a confused state of mind, not knowing if this move was to be temporary or permanent. Akbar sent an Anglo-Indian Inspector of Police, Mr Melzer, to Nainital to fetch Shabnam and Lubna from Wellesley, accompanied by a police party. The girls were very surprised to be called out from their classes and be told that they were leaving for home in the middle of the year. I packed only my jewellery, a small case of rare china, and clothes according to the season,

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leaving behind all our winter clothing, crockery, cudery, and our priceless silver heirlooms, brass decoration, all the furniture, and our shikar trophies. Our party consisted of Akbar, myself, our three daughters, Maqbool, and a servant named Hashmat who had replaced Kundan some years earlier. Akbar sent a telegram to Mubarak Merchant in Bombay to book our air passages to Karachi. He had forgotten to give the name o f Hashmat as a passenger, so Mubarak bought his ticket with a name that caused a lot of amusement, Faltoo, or ‘Surplus* Mirza. Hashmat was an orphan and could not be left behind. Mohsin was married to Veera at the time and she welcomed us in her house. Jeeti, (Sardar Daljit Singh) came from Delhi to say goodbye. Akbar also arranged to have six of the children in boarding schools in Mussoorie to be brought safely to Bombay under police escort. They were his sisters* and brothers* sons and daughters, one of them being Rehana Ali Shah Ashhad, the daughter of a family friend, the well-known founder of the Blind Association of Pakistan, Dr Fatima Ali Shah. Mubarak Merchant arranged for them to stay with Durga Khote, a renowned artiste o f her time and a very cultured lady, while we stayed with Mohsin and Veera. We were in Bombay for just two days and I don’t remember any tales o f horror being recounted. The atmosphere was calm and we felt that we were going on a holiday to Karachi instead of breaking our ties with our homeland. The only worry I had was whether we would receive a loving welcome in our new home. We left by air, and the children’s party left by ship in the company of Inamullah Sahib’s family.

11 My Home, a New Country

We landed at Karachi airport on the afternoon o f 4 October 1947, not knowing that October is a hot and humid month there, a son of second summer. My heart sank at the gusts o f loo, or hot, dry winds, blowing across the rough and broken patches o f tarred roads lined with thorny scrub that was gray instead o f the lush green 1 had known in my previous home. Wc were taken to Victoria Road where some relatives had found lodgings. Our first day in Pakistan was on the first floor o f a building opposite Metropole Hotel. The hotel had not been constructed at the time, and even Bohri Bazaar, the congested and busding market, was only a row o f shops on one side of the tamarind tree which served as a landmark In front o f the tree, enterprising refugees had already started selling fruit, nuts, and deep fried snacks like pakoras and samosas. Elphinstone Street was the widest road o f the bazaar and not the commercial centre that it has since developed into. Altogether, thirty-four members of our family had taken refuge in the flat on Victoria Road. 1 came to admire the courage and optimism o f my in-laws who were not daunted by the loss o f every comfort they had ever known in their lives, sprawling bungalows, large incomcs and businesses. As a matter of fact, they were already full o f plans for the future. All o f us had brought along some jewellery, which gave us a sense of security. The remaining part o f Akbar’s family, including his mother,

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grandmother, his youngest brother Zafar, and some children who had left Delhi by train, arrived in Lahore and were allotted a huge bungalow that was fully furnished. The previous owners had obviously left in a hurry, taking with them only what they could carry in their hands. The Mirza family elders felt uncomfortable occupying a house with someone else’s belongings, so they left for Karachi to join the rest of the family, leaving everything as they had found it. Akbar met several government officials to plan his police career in Pakistan. Among them was Mr Khurro, the Chief Minister of Sindh, who assured him of a continuation o f his services with respect to seniority, leave, and pension if Akbar resigned and came over. He was allotted a double-storeyed house in Amil Colony where he shifted us and his elder brother Akhtar Bhai’s family before returning to India to resign honourably and leave India forever for his new home. As time went by, 1 fell in love with Pakistan. My two sistersin-law, Imtiaz Jahan, the eldest, and Asghari Rahim} my childhood friend, had joined the Muslim League in India and participated in party congregations, banner-raising, and sloganchanting. They inspired me to start working in the refugee camps. There was so much to be done with helpless refugees streaming in, that several women joined in the rehabilitation programme to get the new country on its feet. The conditions of some families were truly pitiable, particularly those that observed strict purdah. The women had never left the four walls of their homes and now looked helplessly through torn dupattas, devoid o f all emotion except for unguarded tears. 1 was quite short with an old woman who boasted of being from such pure stock that no nd mehram or unrelated male had ever seen her face. She lamented that now, with this misfortune, she could not preserve the tradition of purdah. I retorted, ‘Bibi, so many na-mehrams have already looked at your face, so it will do you no good to wail about it. Tell me what are you going to do about these two children who are crying because they are hungry? Get up and fill this tin with

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water and wash their faces and your own till your relatives come to claim you.* She looked at me as if though I were a tyrant but got up and attended to her children's needs. Only then did I give her fruit and biscuits, telling her that a Muslim should have the courage to face all hardship. I said, ‘Thank God that you and your children are safe and alive in your own land, so make sure that you are not a burden on anybody.* Akbar was in India to hand in his resignation and I was very worried for his safety. Diwali and the Ram Leela were approaching and he was deputed to maintain order in the city when it took place. His assistants were devoted to him, irrespective o f religion and, with such an upright and loyal force behind him, no rioting was allowed during this time. After that, Akbar began systematically dismantling our home. His shikar trophies went to the police headquarters and to the mess hall of his Third Special Armed Constabulary. Expensive, fur-lined imported jackets went to his Gurkha company commanders; our furniture, to the Police Club. He gave away trunks full of clothes and cooking utensils to the orderlies, the gardeners, and the sweepers. His expensive decoration pieces to Hindu bridge friends. I remember Mr Gupta tried his best to dissuade Akbar from leaving but when they saw that he was adamant they did their best to get him the best prices for Akhtar Bhai’s car, his rifles, and the shotguns. Even so, these expensive purchases were sold at throwaway prices. Akbar gave our loved dog, a German shepherd, Sheroo, to Mr Gupta as a parting gift and our police driver asked for Peter, the fox terrier. Akbar gave everything away that we had collected in thirteen years of married life. Had he been more worldly wise, and with a greater presence o f mind, he could have sent our expensive carpets, cudery, and the crockery to Abdullah Lodge to be stored. In some ways, Akbar was childish and endearing and did things that left me speechless with wonder and exasperation! When he returned to Karachi, he brought me a small case which contained my glass bangles and proclaimed loudly, ‘Look, I have brought back your bangles!’

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He told me that after disposing of everything, he had gone to Lucknow and met the Chief Minister, Mr Govind Vallabh Pant, who was all praise for his services during the festival Then, Akbar submitted his resignation, saying that his faith had been shaken in the Indian government so it would neither be fair to the government, nor to him, to continue his service in India. In Pakistan, he was given charge as Assistant Commandant o f the Sindh Police Rangers in Hyderabad, Sindh, which was a big come-down for him but he accepted the job humbly in order to feed his family, although he felt humiliated and unhappy. We shifted to an allotted government house in Hyderabad and I tried to bring some comfort and continuity to our lives. I rented purely functional furniture from the government department but I needed to get the kitchen going. Some Hindu families were leaving in a panic and selling their houseware very cheap on the roadside but Akbar advised me not to buy from them since it would appear that we were taking advantage of their misfortune. Other more fortunate Hindu families in Sindh were lucky because their Muslim friends helped them. Finally, I bought furniture and basic household items from Miss Samtani, the inspector of a school, who was leaving for Bombay and wanted to dispose of her things quiedy to decent buyers at better prices. In Hyderabad, I joined the Ladies Club and became an active member, organizing the Women's National Guard and practising marching to a rhythm. Tahira Agha, WZ Ahmed's niece, and I became good friends. I also made a number of friends with the educated Sindhi women of the district and, out o f sheer love between our families, adopted an intelligent and attractive young girl, Maryam, who was a little older to Shabnam and belonged to a Baloch clan. Today, she is Mrs Abdur Rahman Baloch, working in the Education Department as Deputy Director of Colleges in Hyderabad. Shabnam and Lubna were enrolled in St Mary's Convent as boarders. They were soon joined by their cousins from Karachi who also became boarders. The girls bonded well with their paternal cousins in Hyderabad, as they had earlier with their

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maternal cousins in Nainital. This made them close to all their cousins. Very soon, Akbar got into the bad books o f some senior officers o f the police force when he apprehended smugglers crossing the border into India. Akbar was offered his share of the money, along with excellent reports, but he was not one to condone subversive activities for personal gain. He was transferred to Karachi with such remarks as “tactless” and “inefficient” that hurt him deeply but, since we had no political support, no family connections in the new country, and could not appeal to the courts either, he swallowed the bitter pill and we moved to Karachi, leaving the girls in the boarding school. Akbar’s parents and his married sisters had settled in Karachi and could provide him the moral and emotional support he needed in these trying times. His conscience was clear but these adverse reports cost him his seniority. He was given the post of Assistant Inspector General of Police in the Criminal Investigation Department, (CID) and organized the department when Karachi was separated from Sindh in 1954. It became even more difficult for us to make ends meet. We had no savings since our investments in stocks and shares had been wiped out by the division of India. I had to run the house and my youngest daughter, Sumbul, needed expensive medical treatment and home tutoring. Since Sumbul needed round-theclock care, I hired a Pathan woman to be with her at all times. As for our two elder daughters, their boardingschool fees were heavy. Meanwhile, Akbar was doing badly. He started playing bridge with friends that gave him some measure of relief but, unfortunately, he got involved in poker and started losing big money. I became desperate when a cheque o f a hundred rupees was returned from the bank with the remark that there were no more funds in the account. Then began the period when I started selling pieces of jewellery, gold bangles and necklaces at whatever price I could get in the market just so that the bills could be paid. Hashmat, my house help who had come with us from India, was deputed to sell the gold in the Suha bazaar (gold market.) I took an

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appointment from Mr Zuberi, ^the editor o f the English newspaper Dawn, and he suggested that I start writing a film review for the paper regularly. That is how I became Dawns English film critic, and started doing the weekly column. 1 was given passes to the local cinemas to watch the movies as many times as 1 liked so as to recommend them to the public. To add to my knowledge, 1 started reading film magazines to develop a style of writing. The payment was minimal but it helped me gain some self-confidence and a litde bit o f economic independence. More help came from an unexpected quarter. A South African businessman, who lived direcdy across the street from us, met Akbar to get a police clearance to import Max Factor products for which he had a license. He suggested that I start an advertising agency to popularize the product. I did not know anything about running a business but 1 agreed. I consulted a lot of people before renting an office near City Railway Station and registered my one-woman business called Sheba Advertising Agency. There were many hurdles in the way due mosdy to my inexperience in the field. Then, towards the end o f the year, Akbar was transferred to Quetta. Now I had to divide my time between Karachi and Quetta, covering the long distance by train, whenever 1 could get away. The highlight of my work around this period was a chance encounter with Sadequain, who was then a struggling artist. He came to me looking for work and I assigned him a film poster to be placed on the cinema house showing WZ Ahmed’s film Waada. I remember the eminent painter was paid Rs 150 for his trouble! Soon 1 had to wind up business because it was getting more and more difficult for me to cope on my own. I wanted to be with Akbar in Quetta. Although the advertising agency was not a very successful venture, it generated sufficient income to keep me solvent. 1 was able to pay my bills and keep the girls in the hostel till both of them completed High School. Interestingly, the women of the Mirza family proved to be both enterprising and resourceful in their changed financial status after migrating to Pakistan, finding ways to supplement their husbands* incomes

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since there was no property to fall back on. Not one o f them had completed their schooling. Imtiaz Jahan, a keen needlewoman, got together a group o f refugee women and started kashida-kari, embroidery and sewing, on a commercial basis, working from home. Sikander Jahan rented a shop in Elphinstone Street in partnership with a friend and managed it efficiendy. Asghari Rahim first rented a food stall called Karavan in the International Industrial Fair, then opened a tailoring and embroidery shop in Hotel Metropole called “Suzankar”. She became so well-known that visiting foreign dignitaries ordered clothes from her shop. When Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan became Prime Minister o f Pakistan, his wife Rana, whom I had met in school in Aligarh when I was very young, became active in organizing women workers. I remembered Rana as a slim, small-boned girl who smiled a lot when she visited Abdullah Lodge. Much later, in 1947, when I met her again she had bloomed into a gracious, self-assured woman in Karachi as the wife of the Pakistani Prime Minister. She recognized me from the old days and addressed me as, ‘Khurshid, the curly top*. Rana founded the All Pakistan Women's Association, (APWA), as a voluntary women's organization for helping the displaced women arriving from India, destitute and traumatized. I worked under Rana's guidance in APWA for twenty years and always found her pleasant, friendly, and totally devoted to the cause o f protecting Muslim women's rights. A stream o f refugees was coming through Khokrapar, Sindh, and soon volunteers from our Association, led by Begum Mohammed Ali, left for Khokrapar. We were accommodated at the Residency at Umerkot, after being inoculated against cholera and smallpox, the two dreaded diseases that were raging in the Old Hur Camp where the affected refugees were in quarantine. The Government o f Pakistan had already opened depots from where daily rations were distributed to the displaced refugees, but more than that the women needed a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, someone who could understand the trauma of losing a country. The APWA women fulfilled this function. We visited

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the camps with a lady doctor and a nurse to inoculate the women and children and to give them certificates o f inoculations. We collected clothes, dried milk, dried fruit, medicines and bedding to be distributed among them. Some local Sindhi ladies sent food cooked from home to break the monotony of the government rations of dal, rice and flour. In Karachi, many active women and young girls had joined the Women’s National Guard with enthusiasm and learnt to march and handle rifles. There was also a band accompanying the marchers with drums. It was a proud day for us when our contingent took part in the March-Past Parade on 14 August, 1948. I was chosen to lead the contingent carrying a baton. We wanted to proclaim to the world that we were “soldiers” o f Pakistan, ready to serve and die for it, if necessary. Begum Liaquat Ali Khan had a well thought out plan. She wanted to make the Association self sufficient and open branches in every big city and town. Rana needed to ensure a steady income-generating scheme for the welfare projects that she envisioned. This had to be planned on a fairly large scale to supplement the charity from philanthropists and government institutions. Various projects for fund-raising were discussed and initiated. APWA started functioning at a social and cultural level, too, organizing mushaira, poetry reading, stage shows by prominent artistes, and donation collections for temporary schools for displaced children. APWA volunteers ran the schools till the children moved out of the camp. I was in charge o f a school at the Old Exhibition Ground, with Safia Wahaj and Enayat Nazir assisting me. We started this school under a thatched roof, sitting on the ground on rush matting. Women contributed their time and energy in any way they could, responding to the challenge of nation-building. In 1950, as part of our fund-raising drives, we staged a play, The Return o f Anarkali on a grand scale. The late Agha Khan was invited as the Chief Guest, accompanied by the Governor-General Khwaja Nazimuddin, and Prime Minister, Liaquat Ali Khan. Begum Liaquat had sent invitations to Ministers and prominent dignitaries of the city, charging them

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Rs 100 for the front scats and Rs 25 for the back rows. No one was allowed in without payment, not even if they were VIPs in government service. The play was written by Shaukat Siddiqui. ZA Bukhari as Director o f Radio Pakistan, arranged for the orchestra to play the musical interludes and deputed Qayyum Arif Sahib to train the ladi’s in dialogue delivery. Clothes and jewellery were collected from every possible source. One jeweller loaned a big diamond ring that cost about Rs 10 lakh to be worn by the lady playing Emperor Jehangir. Security arrangements were deputed to Akbar, who put a few extra plainclothes men around the stage since jewellery worth millions was on display. Fortunately, everything went well. We collected about a lakh for APWA and all the borrowed jewellery and clothes went back to their owners without any mishap. My sister-in-law, Asghari, played Emperor Jahangir, Zeenat Haroon was chosen to play Anarkali, while I played Nur Jahan. Although it was an all-female cast, the Agha Khan was impressed and shouted 'Bravo! Bravo!* twice, declaring that he had never seen such a grand private show before. He donated Rs 25,000 to the APWA fund which was a vast sum in those days. It was quite grand how the audience appreciated the dramatic presentation as a charity show for refugee rehabilitation. This was, no doubt, due to Rana Liaquat Ali*s position as the wife of the Prime Minister. Many important events took place during 1949-51, but they overlap somewhat in my memory. I remember there was conflict on the Kashmir border and the APWA women organised a Pamposh Week, mainly to provide shoes to the Kashmiri Mujahideen. Another charity show was organized around Shibli NomanTs long poem called, ‘The Justice o f Jahangir*. Asghari Rahim was again chosen to play Jahangir since she was superb in that role, and this time Nur Jahan was played by my sister-in-law, Qaiser, wife of my brother-in-law, Maqbool, and an old student of Aligarh Muslim Girls* College. I chose the washerwoman’s role for myself. The story unfolds when Nur Jahan kills a washerman by mistake, and in order to uphold the

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justice that Emperor Jahangir was so famous for, he condemns his beloved wife, Nur Jahan to death. The play was memorable for the amusing public incident that it led to. My mother-in-law had come to see the dress rehearsal which was also a special show for school children and their teachers. After the Empress mistakenly kills the washerman, his wife, being played by me, starts wailing, and cursing Nur Jahan, swearing that she may be widowed too. Suddenly, loud protestations were heard from the audience. The play was stopped and I caught sight of my mother-in-law leaving the hall and shouting at her daughter, Asghari, in Hindko-Punjabi dialect: ‘Did you bring me here to see one daughter-in-law cursirxg another one, calling each other widows? Take me home immediately.' To the delight o f the children, I jumped off the stage and ran after her. Catching her by the arm, I embraced her and assured her that this was only make-believe, and meant nothing to our family. My dear mother-in-law returned to her seat after Asghari and I promised her that there would be no more cursing. The APWA ladies were busy opening schools, medical centres, maternity homes, handicraft classes, and training women to generate income for themselves. Generally speaking, the APWA women were wives o f high-ranking government officials and they could give of their time without expecting monetary compensation. A vilification campaign was started against them in the newspapers by people who called them the “APWA Sisters” who wore gorgeous ghararas and were happy to pose for photographs to show how they worked for charity. These allegations were baseless, since I have been a part o f this team for 20 years and had seen these women working in refugee camps and at emergency medical centres. These volunteers were who they were: well-dressed upper middle class women who lent their support to the rehabilitation effort. Often they enlisted family members in their mission, using even their coffee parties to collect donations. Begum Rana Liaquat Ali Khan remained our calm, efficient, and friendly guide. The welfare centres were getting ahead with their work when,

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suddenly, on 16 October 1951, Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan was shot dead when he was about to address a vast gathering of people in Rawalpindi. Said Akbar, the hired assassin, was conveniendy killed on the spot, thus eliminating all leads to the people who had instigated the crime. The newspapers hinted that an intelligence agency was behind it because a few thousand rupees were found on the lifeless body of the assassin. Investigations revealed nothing, although experts were called in from Scodand Yard. The murder of Shaheed-i-Millat, as Liaquat Ali Khan was known to the people, remains an unsolved mystery to date. When I heard the news, I rushed to the Prime Minister s house. Nawab Liaquat Ali Khan’s body lay outside on a bed covered in a shroud, and Begum Sahiba was sitting next to the body, her eyes swollen with weeping. Nawab Siddique Ali Khan, his close friend was also weeping and crying aloud: 'Look at this Shaheed’s body who died in the service of his country!’ Soon, wailing women and men thronged the Prime Minister’s house. After her bereavement, Begum Rana Liaquat Ali Khan was sent abroad by the government in an ambassadorial position. APWA went on with its welfare activities but, for me, it was time to respond to the creative urge. Around this time, 1 auditioned for Radio Pakistan and my voice was approved. There were some people there from Aligarh who guided and encouraged me. I began participating regularly in radio plays, talks, and discussions. After a while, my standing as a radio artiste in the ‘A* category was confirmed and I was soon writing talk shows, short plays, and full length plays for Radio Pakistan, Karachi, while also acting in them. The work I most value from this period was the collection o f songs sung by old women o f the family at special occasions like birth or marriage. For this, I went to women in the refugee camps who came from United Provinces. It was the first time that Radio Pakistan broadcast a series o f documentaries accompanied by songs. There was bad news o f trouble breaking out across the border in Kashmir and the Civil Defence Authority was quick to

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respond to the crisis. Their personnel were conducting courses for the women in Air Raid Precaution (ARP) both theoretically and practically. I attended lectures given by the Director, Durrani Sahib, and other experts and participated in practical demonstrations. After completing the course at the Civil Defence Training School in Karachi, a few o f us served as voluntary lecturers for other groups of students. I became one o f the volunteers. ARP training had been made mandatory for every government employee, and men and women came from every department. We also taught ARP to illiterate women in different sectors o f Karachi, giving them basic information, assistance, and training in fire-fighting drills. 1 was appointed chief of the fire-fighting squad for women and received a certificate of extraordinary merit on 9 November 1951, qualifying as a Civil Defence General Instructor. Meanwhile, Shabnam and Lubna finished their schooling in Hyderabad in 1950 and, in 1952, they were admitted to Kinnaird College, Lahore. My maternal nieces, Aziz, Hafeez, Farrukh, Mehro and Roshan, had studied at the college and strongly recommended it. They had been prominent in dramatics, and my two girls followed in the tradition, becoming the President of the Drama Society in their college in turn. I always made it a point to visit Lahore to see their annual play and stayed with Shahida, her second husband, WZ Ahmed, and my nephew, Tariq. Several o f my cousins and nieces were already in Lahore at the time of Partition, but no one from my immediate family had moved to Pakistan. Akbar realized how much I missed them, so he arranged for my daughters and me to visit Delhi, Aligarh, and Bombay to touch base with Abdullah Lodge. These occasions were very dear to everyone, with Papa, aunts, cousins, sisters, uncles filling up the empty rooms of Abdullah Lodge to recount old times and store memories for the children. On one such trip in 1953, Birjis, who used to come down to Aligarh from Shillong where her husband was the Chief Secretary in Assam, wished to accompany me to Bombay since she had never visited the city. Neither one of us had money to spare so we decided to take the Junta Express which had only ‘third class’ compartments.

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This journey made the two of us travel back in time to the carefree days of our childhood and we became firmer friends. Out of the window went our privileged status, since no one knew us there. We ate peanuts, station sweets, and chatted in our childhood lingo, Ta-Ta-Ta. The compartments in each bogey were divided only by planks for a back-rest and rough trellis work higher up. One man, puzzled by our ta-ta-ta, enquired politely which language we were speaking, and Biji replied with a straight face, ‘Zulu. The man shook his head in admiration and wonder. When Biji’s friends had come to see us off at the Old Delhi railway station, they were scandalized by our shabby travel arrangements. Moreover, I was carrying a dhol which 1 had bought from the Aligarh Exhibition for Sumbul who had stayed back with Akbar and her maidservant. We were met in Bombay by Khwaja Ahmed Abbas, his wife Mujji, Mohsin, and his second wife, Veera, and Mubarak Merchant. They advised me to leave the dhol in the train as it was undignified to be seen around with it. 1 refused, because it was a gift for Sumbul and would travel to Karachi with me by air. Friends threw parties for us and Khwaja Ahmed Abbas took us to the sets of his under-production film. We sang to the beat of the dhol at home; Mujji particularly wanted to listen to the folk songs from Aligarh. After a week, Biji and 1 both went our own ways, she returned, to Delhi while 1 flew back to Karachi. Along with my myriad social activities and welfare work, I had my hands full at home. Sumbul had been born with Down’s Syndrome and needed maximum attention to develop mentally and physically. We had migrated to Pakistan in 1947 when she was eight-years-old. Initially, I thought that she was, perhaps, a “ late developer**, and optimistically hoped that she would catch up with the cousins in her age group. 1 continuously sought help from doctors, professionals, child specialists, in fact, anyone who could help us and our child. All the child specialists in Bombay and Karachi whom 1 visited with Sumbul, told me that she. would not achieve full adult status mentally but could live a happy life if given protection and love. 1 gradually accepted that God had meant her to be this way because everything in the

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universe has its place. Sumbul’s loving presence in the house went a long way in creating harmony in our busy lives. The family learnt to be gentle and caring, mindful of people less gifted than them, and nothing was allowed to threaten Sumbul’s sense o f security. My cousin Dr Nasim’s family had also migrated from Allahabad. Sarah, his wife, was a great help with Sumbul and provided home-schooling to her on a one-to-one basis, helping her achieve simple goals in reading, addition, subtraction, reciting nursery rhymes, and simple crafc like sewing to develop her motor skills and co-ordination. 1 reinforced the concepts at home. Then, seeing that she responded so well to music, 1 began collecting the family children and house help for evenings o f music and song. Sumbul was overjoyed to see the dhol that I had brought from the Aligarh Exhibition for her and we spent many happy hours singing and dancing to its beat. Sumbul had natural grace and an inherent sense of timing so, while 1 played the dholak and sang songs from my childhood, including those sung at weddings, she danced to the beat with her younger cousin, Shahnaz Mirza. We taught her Urdu and English songs in which we would all join in. I never gave up hope that one day Sumbul would be able to have a normal life so, in the years that she was with us, 1 tried to enrich her life by creating activities that delighted her while continuing with her education at home through various private women tutors. On 18 December 1954, at the age of fifteen years, Sumbul died suddenly after an inexplicable three-day illness. I was numb with shock, unable to grasp the terrible truth that she was gone. For several years I was unable to function normally since Sumbul had been the focus of my life. After her death, 1 felt there was nothing I could do that was worthwhile and my family worried for my sanity. To jolt myself out of depression, self-pity, and grief, I decided to resume my interrupted studies. At the time o f my marriage I had only completed High School. By now my eldest daughter Shabnam had graduated and was working in a school in Karachi

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while Lubna was in third year at Kinnaird College in Lahore. I started reading their course books and found that they were easy enough to understand. In 1953, Akbar built a house for us on Abdur Rahman Street in Garden East, Karachi. He had been given a building loan from the government, and had sold some of our shares at a loss to make up the deficit o f funds needed to complete the house. He named it “Khurshid Villa”, even though I often joked with him that the house might have my name but it still belonged to him. He would laugh and say, 'Silly girl, it belongs to the government until I pay off the loan/ Khurshid Villa had fifteen hundred square yards of land, enough to plant fruit trees, vegetables, and flowers. Karachi was then the capital o f Pakistan, and in the hub of political pressures. This made Akbar’s work very difficult, for he was often asked to carry out orders that were unfair and victimized a political opponent. Akbar’s maternal cousin, Salahuddin Qureshi, was an Inspector General of Police in Pakistan, so Akbar requested a transfer to Quetta where he could live in peace with his conscience. We had been in Khurshid Villa only a week when the transfer orders came through for Akbar’s posting to Quetta as the Senior Assistant Director, Intelligence Bureau. Since our house was centrally located, we were able to rent it out easily, not knowing that it would be a long while before we could return to reclaim it.

12 Quiet Days in Quetta

On the first visit, Quetta may appear barren and uninteresting and only slowly and gradually does the beauty o f this rugged region and the grandeur o f the stark hills unfold to bewitch the onlooker. As the Bolan Mail struggles uphill through the mountains that lead to the capital of Balochistan, a passenger looking out o f the train window may be dismayed by the utter barrenness on either side o f the track. Nothing but solid, naked rock confronts the eye and you start wondering if the desolation is ever disturbed by nature’s cycle. Suddenly, a brilliant patch of white may arrest your eyes and, as the train passes along, you may catch a glimpse of a tiny bush hanging from the sheer drop that is entirely covered by small white flowers. If you look carefully, you may catch a speck of the yellow gold o f wild daffodils and the crimson red of wild poppies. In vain, you can try to find the crag that the roots hold on to and to discover how Nature finds the means to paint this picture with the sure hands o f an artist. Even the rocks appear to have shapes carved into them by the patient, winding river that probably covered this land a long time ago. This one with the red tint appears to be shaped by human hands some thousands of years ago, and that one looks like a half finished statue. The deep cave with ochre streaks running parallel to the burnt sienna o f the main rock furnishes the decoration for this natural entrance. The

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passenger may then be awed by this magical landscape and give up thirsting for green mountain ranges forever. Three main tribes, the Pushtoons, Baloch and the Brahvis, populate the Quetta-Kalat region. Akbar and I loved the place and often went touring to nearby villages to acquaint ourselves with the people and the land. We were equally friendly with the Sardars of the Pushtoon and Baloch tribes and enjoyed their hospitality whenever we happened to be passing through their villages. Primarily, this is agricultural land, although it is called Khushk Aba, which literally means “no water” since it is completely dependent upon winter rains. Wherever irrigation is possible, the soil is excellent and can yield much more than it does at present. Deeper into the villages, away from the main towns, people prefer to till their soil and raise crops like they learnt from their elders. They are shy of trying out new crops or new methods and when they lose a crop through a plant disease they blame it all on fate that ordained it, instead of trying to see how they can protect their yield. The people who live near the towns and can benefit from the knowledge of pesticides are gradually losing their fears and changing some age-old cultivation patterns. Even in the first five years that I moved to Quetta, I could see the changes taking place in the outlook of the villagers. Earlier, the villagers were scared of vaccinations and o f going to the hospital for injections against rabies and snakebite. I remember very well a time when a virulent form of gastroenteritis spread like wildfire and reports o f mounting casualties started pouring in. Cholera vaccine was administered on a large scale by the local government but women and children would run and hide as soon as they heard that a doctor had come to their village. To allay their fears, the social welfare workers had to be inoculated in front of them. Within a fortnight, the results were obvious. In the villages that received the precautionary medication, there was not a single case of cholera, while from other villages, reports o f deaths continued to come in. One simple and effective measure against the outbreak was to

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persuade the villagers to drink boiled water because the tribals living nearby with their animals had contaminated the karez water, even though it came from an underground spring. To this day, this unhygienic way of drinking water from an open karez results in frequent cases of people suffering from roundworm. Fortunately, whenever an epidemic is reported to health centres or to hospitals, the response is immediate and inoculations are administered to keep it in check. I observed that perhaps out of sheer helplessness, the people were superstitious and feared the supernatural. Their fears were compounded by the fake medicine men who diagnose every sickness as the result of some jinn or bala. As a result, charms to ward off the evil spirit were sold like any other commodity in the market, with the inferior grade charms costing a few rupees, while the pukka charm sold for anything between Rs 20 to Rs 100, depending on the financial status of the patient. I also noticed that whenever there was a voluntary social welfare centre nearby* the hold o f these medicine men weakened. Unfortunately, the villages in the remote areas, cut-off from hospitals and health centres, remained in the clutches of these dangerous quacks. The problem was further compounded by illiteracy which made the local people put the blame o f a disease on a supernatural power over which they had no control. Religion and tribal loyalty unite the Baloch, even though a great majority docs not reccive religious instruction. They tend to be devout Muslims and one does not find a single child above the age of nine not keeping a fast during Ramzan but, in their social interactions, the Baloch are guided more by their riwaj, or traditions, even if it conflicts with the law o f the land. For instance, a man may marry any number o f times provided he has the money. He has to pay some cash agreed upon between the parties concerned, presumably to enable the bride’s father to furnish the girl with clothes, jewellery, linen, utensils, bedding and such-like, but there is no obligation on the father to do so. If he uses the entire sum or pan of the money on the wedding expenses, the bridegroom and his relatives praise him. If he

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doesn’t, well, there is just nothing they can do about it and it is accepted as bride money. It has always amazed me how, all over die world, people who live in deserts and savannahs instinctively compensate for the lack o f natural colour in their surroundings by choosing the brightest colours for their dresses. Surely, the gorgeous colour schemes these women work out in their embroidery is proof of that. Reds, blacks, greens, bright pinks, yellow-gold and sparkling blues are chosen with extreme care and taste, and the effect is aesthetically quite beautiful. No matter how many colours are woven into the intricate patterns, they always appear harmonious. Mirror work glitters on the men’s caps and jackets and on the front o f the women’s loose shirts as well as on the outfits of the children. In needlecraft, these unlettered women have a natural sense of colour and a surprising sophistication in their stitches. Each stitch has a separate name, the Balochi zuroto work, and the Pushtoon khamak being two o f them. The APWA Centre, Quetta had three industrial centres where about a thousand women were trained to make handbags, cushion covers, tray cloths, and to embroider linen for the middle class housewife. Here women were quick to learn modern embroidery and different colour combinations and to work on specific orders. They were equally at ease with the designs traced for them by the staff of the industrial centres, whether it was a Chinese dragon or a European pastel. Mrs Rustomji and Mrs Hodiwala supervised the main industrial centre on Club Road and, very soon, the Quetta branch o f APWA was making Baloch handicrafts popular all over Pakistan. We had a dedicated group of APWA committee members in Quetta, among them Ijazi Moizuddin, the commissioner’s wife, Safia Yousuf, Mrs Marker, who has always been a committed philanthropist and, Sajila Aslam, the energetic secretary. I was managing cultural affairs, bringing out the APWA newsletter and producing women’s programmes on Radio Pakistan, Quetta. To collect funds for APWA medical centres at Killi Ismail and Hudda villages, 1 arranged stage shows where women acted in comedies. My daughters participated in them too, whenever they

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were home on vacations. The stage show proved to be the highlight of the season with all APWA members and their daughters participating in the production or helping out by putting together the costumes or by selling tickets. Akbar and I were quite actively engaged in Quetta’s social life. Both of us felt that this quiet place would be ideal for us to setde down in after retirement. We acquired a two-and-a-half-acre farmland in Samungli, a couple o f miles outside the city limits, on the way to the airport. This was evacuee property and had belonged to some Sikhs before Partition. Akbar claimed it against his share of his father’s property in Roorkee, India. Since it was located outside the municipal limits of the city in a deserted area, no one wanted this land that comprised a brokendown cottage, several godowns, six servant’s quarters, and a press for manufacturing alcoholic drinks. The place had stayed abandoned for over a decade, and robbers and poisonous snakes had taken over. Friends warned us about living so far away from the city in the vicinity o f proclaimed offenders but I was not afraid and actually looked forward to having a place o f my own and developing it into a home and a farm. Retirement was still several years away, so we had plenty of time to make it more habitable. Akbar and I began our preparations by employing a local man, Faiz Mohammed, as a gardener and chowkidar. He brought along his wife and they occupied one of the larger quarters at the back. Faiz Mohammed turned the soil and marked the fields for cultivation. The well required cleaning, so pipes were placed inside it and connccted to a motor. The land was barren except for a few almond trees that had miraculously survived ten years of neglect. In 1956, while Akbar was still in service, he had to travel to Iran on an official tour for three weeks and decided to take me along. We were to go by jeep, so I packed bedrolls, gasoline tins, water containers, and a small suitcase containing clothes that we shared between us. We were accompanied by one man who could speak Persian fluently. Kirman was our first stop where we visited the carpet-weavers of Naeen. Here we saw women and

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children busy working the knotted carpets in rooms that were at least fifteen feet below the ground. I was amazed at how they could work so deftly in the dim light. In Baam we came across a date orchard and ate juicy black dates straight from the trees. Our next stop was Isphahan, where 1 gazed in wonderment at the tile work of Masjid-e-Shah. The huge dome o f the mosque was surprisingly symmetrical although it was much smaller at the

top than at its base, the tile work was done so masterfully that the gradual narrowing o f the structure could not be detected and appeared to be the same size all over. Turbat-i-Haidariah was famous for its chib kabab, although I didn’t enjoy meat so much. To me, the dish appeared to be a piece of steak on which a heap o f hot rice was piled along with a raw egg and butter. I preferred the food at the wayside inns, particularly their abgusht, in which excellent mutton is cooked for hours with white gram in goat-milk butter. On the whole, Irani food did nor appeal to me, so I made do with the cheap and fresh western food: beef salami with pickled gherkins or mutton chops cooked in their own fat. I was surprised that pork and ham were eaten in the big cities like Teheran, whereas the village people abstained from it altogether. We also tried their local drink, araq, and found it to be a spirit of great potency and not the fruit drink we had assumed it was. But the times were bad and even as tourists we could not stay unaware of the turmoil. One day in Turbat, we heard a great commotion and wondered if it was a festival being celebrated. I was shocked to learn that it was the day when the previous year’s conscript soldiers were released to be replaced by their brothers. We were also informed that there were no less than fourteen generals to a single division in Turbat. On the way from Zahidan back to the Pakistan border, we crossed a Landrover carrying an expedition o f students from Cambridge and Oxford. Once we entered the border o f Pakistan at Dalbandin, we invited them to share a meal with us and volunteered to take them around to see some local customs. The boys were proceeding to Quetta, and Akbar telephoned ahead to make preparations to put them up at our house. This group

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returned in 1958 and presented us with their travel book, The First Overland. Meanwhile, home life had gone through several major changes. Sumbul had returned to her Maker, Shabnam had been awarded a scholarship and was studying in the American University in Beirut, while Lubna had graduated and was teaching temporarily in the Quetta convent. My daughters were o f an age when I needed to think of their marriage. 1 accepted the proposal of a railway mechanical engineer Syed Anwar Kazim for Lubna. He was the son of a friend known to my family in India. Marrying our younger daughter before the elder one put me in a quandary, but Shabnam was firm and insisted that we proceed with the wedding since she still had two to three years to finish her degree. We announced the engagement at a simple tea party and Anwar was allowed to meet Lubna since we all went to the Quetta Club for badminton and table tennis almost daily. Anwar had been the Karachi University badminton champion, and helped to improve our game. In December 1956, I had some work in Karachi and left Quetta for a week. In my absence, the house caught fire and everything was burnt to ashes. The government house had been built hurriedly after the devastating earthquake in 1936 that had razed the city to the ground, and the new construction was made o f asbestos and plywood sheets that were certainly not fireproof. In the snowy winter, it was necessary to light the mammoth contraption, the Quetta Stove, with coal to keep from freezing in the sub-zero temperatures. Apparendy, the sparks began inside the stove and spread to the rooms. The destruction of the house was a severe blow to me because I had collected Lubna’s trousseau bit by bit, but the thought that it might have been worse if Akbar, Lubna, or Anwar were injured steadied me. Armed with warm clothes, coverlets, and linen offered by Akbar’s family, I returned to Quetta to find my daughter as courageous as I would have wished. The Commissioner, Mr Moizuddin, wrote to the government that the cause o f the fire was not due to carelessness on the part of the residents but the faulty repair of the fireplaces

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by the official maintenance services whose duty it was to keep the hot stoves surrounded by heat-resistant brickwork. He also wrote that Akbar M ina had been put to a great loss because his daughter’s trousseau had been destroyed along with the cosdy teak furniture and items o f daily use, including clothes and bedding. We received a letter o f sympathy from the government with regrets that no compensation was made in such cases. They said that we didn’t qualify for any monetary recompense so, once again, I set about rebuilding a home, literally from the ashes. We were provided with another government residence where I rented some basic, functional furniture, bought inexpensive but attractive heavy material for the curtains, and soon we were all set, without losing too much of our sense o f reality and of humour. I remember we attended the New Year’s party at the Quetta Club, wrapped in a lovely dulai that Akbar’s mother and sisters had quickly stitched for us. Later, 1 bought khaki goose-down filled combat trench coats from the Army Disposal Unit and mine served me for several years in the dry, Quetta cold. The night the house burnt down, Akbar had arranged a bridge party for his friends. Everyone was busy in the game and it was only when odd banging noises were heard, which was probably the crackling and crashing of the wooden beams, that Akbar rushed to the bedroom to find the walls aflame. As soon as his friends realized that the house was on fire, they ran out of the house to drive their cars away to safety, not one of them staying to help. Lubna, Anwar, and Akbar tried to drag out whatever they could. Akbar took down his precious hand-knotted carpets from the walls and scorched his hands. And when they opened the doors to take whatever they could outside, the cold air rushed in and, with a loud roar, the house burst into flames. Some carpets, boxes of clothing, and bedding were saved. The fire brigade arrived and did their best to douse the flames but it was too big to control. Akbar had brought the dog outside before going in again to salvage something else, but the faithful animal

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followed him in and, frightened by the leaping flames, hid under the divan. His charred body was found the next morning. Lubna told me how the parrot saved Mushtaq, the cook. She saw the distraught man with the parrot in the cage, hysterically accusing her as the house burnt down. The cook shouted above the roar of the fire, ‘What is happening? Nobody woke me up. I would have been burnt to death if Mithu hadn’t raised an alarm.’ Meanwile, Mithu, the parrot, kept shrieking, ‘Kaun haiV Kaun haP.' The parrot had been with us for years, ever since we arrived in Karachi and started living in Amil Colony. His cage was kept near the entrance during the day where I would sit sewing or knitting on the verandah. Whenever there was a knock on the door, I would call out, *Kaun hai?’ So Mithu picked up these words and called out very clearly, ‘Who’s there?’ whenever he heard a knock. People mistook his response for mine and prompdy gave their names. It became an amusing game for the children and they teased Mithu mercilessly. They would knock and he would call out, ‘Who’s there?’ first, in a dignified tone, then, as the knocking continued, his tone would become shrill. If the children persisted in teasing him, Mithu would become angry and, when he had had enough, he would go into a sulk and not respond at all. The children adored Mithu and whenever they were home they carried his cage around with them. He was a part of their group and continually joined in their chatter and laughter in the pitch of the different voices. One of my nieces, Zakia Mirza, had a very loud voice. Whenever she laughed out, sure enough, Mithu would cackle loudly, then, when the cousins roared with laughter at her discomfiture, the parrot would respond with a raucous imitation of their joint merriment. One day, a stray cat got near him and tried to push at the bars of the cage. Terrified, Mithu kept screeching, ‘Kaun hai, Kaun hai?’ Alerted by this, I ran from the bathroom, just in time to throw a shoe at the cat. We did not leave him unprotected after that. Mithu came with us to Quetta and Mushtaq, the cook, became very attached to him. He kept him in the kitchen

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all day and by his bed at night. Alter the fire incident, Mushtaq and Mithu became inseparable and when Mushtaq decided to leave us to go back to his family in die village, I asked him about the parrot. He pointed to his heart and said, ‘Mithu is my heart. He saved my life, I cannot live without him. I don’t ever want to part from him/ So Mithu went with Mushtaq to his village. After the traumatic episode of the fire, I took Lubna to Aligarh for the winter and with the help o f my sisters and friends started preparations for her wedding. My childhood friends rallied round to help me. Akhtar, (Ismat Chughtai’s sister-inlaw) stood by me like a rock with her advice and helped stitch joras for Lubna's trousseau. Her sister, Jamila, arranged for the wedding party to stay at her house and took full responsibility for arranging the wedding dinner. Anwar’s parents were still in India, where his father had setded in Lucknow after retirement. It was easier for them to arrange the wedding ceremony in India where they had a home and family support, rather than in Quetta, where there was no family. My father was also keen that Lubna should be married from Abdullah Lodge where my mother had brought her up. I agreed to the idea and wrote to Akbar to get a suit o f clothes ready for Anwar in Quetta and to pack him off to Lucknow at the right time so that he could come to Aligarh along with the wedding party. Some o f the age-old wedding rituals lend such joy to the wedding and are so inexpensive that, in my view, they need to be retained as part of our tradition. One such custom is called the dholki where mothers, aunts, sisters, and close friends sponsor a musical evening playing the small drum or dhol, with the hostess serving light refreshments. Young friends of the bride dance and sing to the dhol that is played by the women of the house. In this way, there are several get-togethers o f family members who share the expenses o f the celebrations that stretch over a week. These are informal occasions and invitations are conveyed verbally. Since my mother wasn’t with us anymore, Mumtaz Jahan announced that the first dholki would be on her behalf. The

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following day, my childhood friends brought the dhol along with food from their house. Then, the teachers of the school and college presented their gift: a beautifully painted dhol with trays o f artistically decorated sweets and savoury dishes made by Raunaq Apa. The employees of Abdullah Lodge and the girls* college sponsored one dholki. I joined them in singing wedding songs while a number of ladies dexterous with the needle sewed gota on the dupattas and tacked the outfits together. The memory of such love and affection by relatives, friends, and distant acquaintances made the scars of the recent trauma we had suffered heal very quickly and I still recall the affection o f these people with my heart full of gratitude and nostalgia. After the wedding, Lubna and Anwar went to Lucknow for a week. On their return, we left for Pakistan together. In Quetta, Anwar lived in a railway bungalow, a hundred yards from our house and spent the maximum amount of time with us, so I did not feel like I had lost Lubna, my only child in the country. Then, the couple left for Karachi for a week to meet Akbar’s family where they were given a warm wclcomc and rcccivcd salami, or wedding gifts, from everyone. We gave a reception at Quetta where we invited our friends and official acquaintances. I missed Shabnam very much since we were such a small and close family, but priorities are necessary even at the expense o f emotional sacrifices. I visited Karachi the same year and found that the United States Information Service (USIS) had installed a television unit in the international exhibition for a few weeks. I was interested in this new medium and went to see Mr Dunham, in charge o f the unit. I asked him if I could produce a couple of short, experimental plays on television. When he agreed, I approached Shamsuddin Butt of Radio Pakistan and requested him to manage the filming since he had recently returned from America after training in television production. I included SM Saleem, Zafar Siddiqui, and Ghazala Rahman in the team and wrote and produced an adaptation of The Dear Departed. We also recorded a song and dance number called, Dhobi Ghat in which Shabnam, my nieces, and some young men, including the now well-known

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television and radio artiste, Mahmood Ali, took part. I remember Mahmood Ali telling me, ‘But Apa, I don’t know how to dance!’ to which I replied, ‘No one in the group knows how to dance, but Shabnam and my nieces will lead, and you just follow them.’ Only the girls put bells on their feet. Thus we made history since this was the first television play in Pakistan. Later, after an extended tour o f other countries, Mr Dunham wrote to me from the US asking if I thought whether the new medium would be popular in Pakistan. I wrote back immediately saying that, in my opinion, the sooner Pakistan had television, the better, for it would be ideal for mass education and dissemination of information for a largely illiterate population. Around this time, I struck a valuable friendship with Shafique Bano an ‘Old Girl* from Aligarh, who was now Principal of Government College for Women in Quetta. I met her quite often and, one day, she asked me why, with all the knowledge I had acquired through private reading in these past twenty years, I did not try to complete my education and get an academic degree. So, the next time that application forms were being filled out by her students for the intermediate exams, I filled mine out as a private candidate. 1 asked Ms Minhaj, Shafique Bano’s superior, for permission to stay in the hostel for the duration of the exams. Then I left for Hyderabad to join Akbar, returning to Quetta a month before the exams to stay in the hostel with the girls and sit for the papers. As soon as that was over, since I was not doing any radio work, 1 started studying Hadith-e-Nabvi, (SA) in Arabic under the tutelage o f Maulana Hashim Fazil Shamsi. I owe him my heartfelt thanks for the religious knowledge that he imparted to me, and will always remember him with gratitude and good wishes. In I960, I passed BA and in 1961, Shabnam returned from the American University of Beirut after completing her post-graduate studies in Education. She was then married to Shamim Zafar, an advocate and the son of an old family friend. Now that both our daughters were married, I wanted to return to the farm house in Quetta and live there and develop the place.

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In 1961, the year that Shabnam was married, Akbar wrote to the government requesting a transfer back to Quetta until his retirement in 1964, since he was not interested in either an extension or a promotion. The government acceded to his request and he was posted again as the Senior Assistant Director in the Intelligence Bureau, Quetta. I felt that finally we had a home again. I called it “Sumbulistan”, in memory o f my lost child. I knew that God had chosen this place for me where I could find peace and be in a position to help others. The house was barely a mile away from the APWA centre in Ismail Killi and I would walk over or have the staff nurse or midwife come to me if anything needed my immediate attention. I became familiar with the customs of the local people, and attended their weddings and also interceded in their disputes. It was a great breakthrough when the local men began to ask me to get their wives admitted to the Dufferin Hospital where Dr Bano and Dr Ahmad Jan worked. When there was an outbreak o f cholera or smallpox, a whole group brought their children to Ismail Killi to get them inoculated. Sick women from villages as far away as three miles would walk to the centre to receive medical aid. People who, a decade earlier, did not trust the hospitals or doctors and preferred local medicine men, now requested treatment for their families. They had enough trust in me to prescribe medicines for them. Although I did not have a medical degree, with the hands-on experience of bringing up my own children and with patent medicines carrying all the instructions, it was not difficult for me to handle simple cases o f gastroenteritis, influenza, malaria, or dressings with, antiseptic ointments. For serious ailments, I would consult with Dr Bano and Dr Ahmed Jan since they were very helpful and treated the poor families sympathetically. Mrs Marker donated a substantial sum to APWA each year and, along with the bundles of old clothes, flour, dry milk, and cooking oil, which Unicef and other charitable sources donated, we could look after the well being o f our charges. I remember two distinct incidents that helped me win the confidence of the villagers.

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I used to hold weekly talks with the workers of the APWA industrial centre impressing upon them that treatment with modern medicines and the prayers o f their pin or local soothsayers went together to heal an ailment and that there was no conflict between the two. I had to choose my words carefully, since they were quick to take offence at any belittling of their riwajy customs and culture. The first incident occurred during a particularly virulent outbreak o f gastroenteritis that claimed many lives, especially amongst the weaker children. Stories went around that a vicious bakt (evil woman) was roaming the area killing people. One of the influential men in the huts adjoining my property Bai Khan, declared that he would call a skilful murshid, a wise man, to come from Kanak village and tie up the witch. 1 listened to him without comment because I knew the people were terrified and needed reassurance through their beliefs. However, as a precaution, 1 stopped the free entry o f the women to my compound and told them not to fill water from my well for some days since my litde grandson, Najam, was with me. I cautioned them that if anything were to happen to him, his father would kill me. They understood this logic and did not take offence. The wise man held some sessions among his devotees and told them that he prayed and made the bala helpless by tying her to a tree, claiming that now everyone was safe. In gratitude, the men presented him with a silk shirt and an expensive turban. The third day after his departure, the host s son, an eleven-yearold boy, Isa Khan, fell ill with acute gastroenteritis. Bakhtawar my gardener’s wife, came to me with the bad news late in the evening. I went to Bai Khan immediately and found the boy with blackened lips, sunken eyes, very shallow breathing, and a thread-like pulse running at 160 beats a minute. I told them to take the boy to the hospital but they would not agree. In desperation, 1 told them that I had a special medicine from my own pir and we might be able to make the boy well again if they followed my instructions without question. I ran back home and

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ground some tablets into powder to make six doses, plucked some aniseed and mint from my garden, boiled it with a couple of cardamoms, and was back at the sick child's side within a quarter of an hour. I advised the mother to give the boy lots o f liquid to drink and only what I had boiled for him. After the second dose, Isa Khan’s vomiting and diarrhoea stopped. I added a little glucose into the mixture and told them not to give him anything to eat or drink. 1 felt so emotionally drained by this life-and-death situation that I fell weeping on my pillow, begging God to spare the child’s life, as it would mean freedom from superstition for this group of people. Akbar woke up and came to console me, saying that I had done what was in my power and that I should try and get some rest. Early next morning, I was walking in the garden very tense and worried about Isa Khan, when the boy’s father came up to me with his face beaming. He wanted to know what kind of food he should give his son since he was hungry and asking for something to eat. Controlling my tears o f joy, I told him that I would make him something. I cooked a thin gruel and gave it to the father. On the third day, the boy was up and about and his father brought me a rock-melon from Mastung, a nearby town, as a token o f his gratitude. I refused it, saying that I would lose the power of healing given to me by my pir if I accepted any gifts in payment. I echoed the words in their logic, and they understood. The second breakthrough came when a rabid dog bit the cherished grandson of a woman who had earlier lost her daughter. By the time I heard about it, they had taken the boy to a shrine forty miles away. The old woman returned after a month and told everyone that the child had been given a health bath by the pir and that the pir had accepted a turban and a black goat for the cure. One week later, the child died foaming and frothing at the mouth. I told the woman gently that prayers and treatment went together and that she should get seven anti-rabies injections for herself because she had been touching and cleaning the boy’s saliva and could have become infected. Only then did the old woman understand what I had been trying

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to tell her all along, that no wise man would be angry if sensible treatment was given first and the patient was taken to him for prayers and blessings later. In this way, we made a compromise between the murshid and modern medicine. My friends warned me that I should be careful since I was putting the “wise men” out of business. Every summer, both my daughters would comc to Sumbulistan for a visit with their children. Lubna came with her three children, two boys and a girl, and Shabnam came with her two, a boy and a girl. Before their visit, I would plant potatoes, tomatoes, cabbage, and especially peas. The children loved them, going into the field to pluck the pods, eat their sweetness, and move on to another plant. I enjoyed watching them till the day when I got a big scare. We knew there were snakes in the area but thought they were harmless. Actually, there were some varieties of viper and cobra, along with other harmless species. Bakhtawars brother, a handsome young man who had been married a year earlier, was bitten by a snake in his village which was a mile-and-a-half away from our house. When I heard this I rushed him to the Civil Hospital where Dr Moin Hussaini attended to him. The venom could not be identified and the man suffered for six days. Faiz Mohammed told us that wherever the needle was put into his vein for blood transfusion, a lot more blood would ooze out. According to him, the blood seemed to have turned thin like water. When the young man died, Bakhtawar cried and said that now the widow’s parents would be very happy to sell her to another man! After this dreadful incident, I cleared the ground around the smaller cottage o f vegetation where the children played, and told them not to venture into the fields. Even so, snakes found their way in and Akbar shot them with his shotgun. Apparently, they came out in the hot afternoons to drink water and proliferated as the years went by. I became very nervous and restricted the freedom of the children to the lawns between the two cottages. Gardening had become a passion for me but not on the same scale as it used to be in Allahabad. Quetta has extremely dry weather all year round and not many varieties of flowers flourish

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there unless they are watered copiously to keep the soil moist. Faiz Mohammed, a farmer, only knew how to get cash crops from the soil. He would look at me toiling in the flower patch with regret that I was wasting so much energy on plants that bore no fruit and no grain but only flowers, most of which did not even have fragrance. One day, I called him to take particular note of a rose bush that had sixty gorgeous flowers on it after de-budding. I asked him to see the glory of God manifested in the exquisite colour and the velvety texture o f the petals. He was wonderstruck, for once, and said scratching his beard, ‘Subhanallah!1 (God be praised). Akbar and 1 loved dogs and we always had one or two in the house. My granddaughter, Batool, has inherited our love for animals. 1 remember an incident when she was three and visiting us with her mother and brothers. We had a huge pawinda dog, Darky, who was gende enough but I thought he was too huge to allow the children to play with him since his sheer size could hurt them. I told her not to go near Darky who was kept tied till he got used to her. Batool lifted her beaming face to me and said, ‘But Appi, I am so small, how can he hurt me?’ She ran fearlessly to Darky and put her tiny arms around his neck. Darky could not help whining with joy. Her love of animals remains to this day and, when Batool was older, she considered taking up veterinary medicine as a profession till she realized that there wasn’t much scope for women in this profession in Pakistan. My grandchildren were growing up, and Lubna’s eldest, Najam, and Shabnam’s eldest, Numair, were old enough to climb fruit trees and pluck apples, plums, apricots and cherries. In a sense, for me, it was a dream come true. I had prayed to God when I planted these saplings to let me see the day when my grandchildren would be old enough to climb these trees. Like in all tales told by grandmothers to grandchildren, 1 used to tell them how all good people, including good animals, went to heaven and all bad ones went to hell. One day, the boys found a dead sparrow and buried it asking me whether it will go to heaven or not. Absent-mindedly I replied, ‘O f course,’ and

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forgot all about it. The next day, the boys took the sparrow out of the ground screaming that it had not gone to heaven but was still in the ground. I was taken aback and had to reassure them that the bird had eaten peaches from our tree without taking permission from us and if the boys prayed for her that night, she would be forgiven and then reach heaven. So a prayer meeting was called for the night in which my two tiny granddaughters participated, with heads covered piously. 1 removed the bird that night, and the children were overjoyed next morning to discover that the bird had been forgiven for her theft and was now in heaven. Whenever my daughters came to Quetta in the summer they got involved in helping me out with APWA’s social welfare activities, such as visiting Ismail Killi and meeting the women there. They were always good with helping me organize the annual variety show. Shabnam had some basic sense of folk dance and taught three girls the steps of Manipuri dance as well as the luddi. Radio Pakistan, Quetta loaned us the services of Pairana, a noted tabla player, to play Manipuri and correct the style and rhythm o f the dancers. He was an artist and of great help to us, giving lessons to many children who were interested in Manipuri. Lubna took a lead pan in Ismat Chughtai’s play Nanruiy but I don't think we have any photographs to record the event. From I960 onwards, I was involved in several literary activities, writing shon stories regularly for the prestigious Urdu literary magazine, Saqi, published by Shahid Ahmad Dehlvi Sahib. He encouraged me to continue and, in all, I contributed seventeen or eighteen shon stories to Saqi. One of my favourite ones was ‘Mehru Id Bachee*. Mehru was an orphaned kitten whom I had adopted when she was so little that I had to feed her with an eyedropper. She looked upon me as her mother. She grew into a lovely cat but, responding to nature, would go off with tomcats and would not obey my commands to stay inside at those times. I was inspired to write a shon story symbolizing the cat as a young girl. Later, I compiled all my shon stories with the cover title ‘Mehru ki Bachee/

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I was also running the women’s programme for Radio Pakistan, Quetta for which I wrote short and full length plays. When we visited Karachi to get away from the bitter months o f January suid February in Quetta, I wrote for Radio Pakistan, Karachi. I also composed religious verse under the pseudonym “Shola” and sermons for the milad meetings. Blessed with a powerful and tunefid voice, I became active in conducting Milad Sharif and compiled my religious writings in a small book,

Milad-i-Mubarak. Around this time, I was extremely fortunate to meet Professor Karar Hussain, an eminent scholar who headed the English department, when the boys’ college in Quetta was raised to the level of a university. I decided to complete my Masters in English under his guidance attending only those lectures that 1 felt I needed help in and studying the rest on my own. I passed MA English in 1963.

13 Akbar’s Leavetaking

Akbar took a long leave preparatory to retiremenc in 1964, and we visited relatives and friends abroad after performing Umra, from where we went on an extended tour of various countries. Having been a student of mythology, I felt that the statue of Raineses II and the Sphinx were familiar sights to my eyes. We visited the famous sarcophagus of Tutankhamen and I noticed how young the king must have been when he died. Some paintings depict him as a boy of about seventeen, along with his lovely wife who must have been about fourteen, both rowing a boat. The gold ornaments that were on display were neither heavy nor very beautiful, and what interested me more than the stories of Tutankhamen's Sabulous gold was how advanced that culture was in his time. 1 went around looking at the cases containing rice, maize, cotton wool, wheat, peas, lentils, olives and olive oil. There were herbal preparations for cooking and beautifying the skin. We also saw pieces of cloth and shreds of coloured fabric that must have been part of a royal garment. The elaborate frescoes on the walls and painted panels were a source o f inspiration to modern students of art who could be seen carrying their sketchbooks and charcoal, studiously copying the drawings. Prominent among the figures was the head o f Queen Nefertiti, which has so influenced commercial art. Undoubtedly, Egypt had attained a high degree of civilization and a refined way o f life, four thousand years before its European neighbours.

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We visited the amazing Vatican City in Rome and its famous Sistine Chapel which took Michelangelo sixteen years to complete, marvelled at other statues carved out o f stone and marble that were so immense yet lifelike: the statue o f Moses, the Duomo and the Pieta in Milan, all of them executed by Michelangelo. 1 was enamoured of the stained glass windows o f the churches and we posed for photographs in front o f them. The treasures collected in Rome over the centuries were phenomenal. I enjoyed England more than any other country because my nephew, Salman Haidar, Mumtaz Jahan’s son, was in the Foreign Office in London and drove us to the countryside every weekend. England seemed familiar compared to the other countries we had visited since we knew the language and were familiar with the pattern of life. My cousin, Nasim, had setded in England and had bought his own house. He was away in Karachi while we were there, but his wife, Sarah, welcomed us warmly and we spent a night and a day at her place while her teenage children amused us with the latest disco rave, the shake. It looked like a pantomime, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I knew some friends from Radio Pakistan who were now working for the British Broadcasting Corporation. On our travels, I had started writing a humourous short play that I called A Tourist's Dilemma. I wanted very much to discuss it with my old colleagues at the BBC but, unfortunately, Akbar opposed the idea adamantly and did not let me make contact with them. He refused to take me there or allow me to use the Tube. I did not insist, even though it was very dear to my heart to talk to my colleagues from earlier times. I generally allowed Akbar to dictate the day’s programme, which 1 would then be content to follow but, to this day, I regret not having done the one thing I wanted to do in London. I felt strongly about A Tourists Dilemma but threw it away in frustration and perhaps with some anger. Akbar wanted to visit Whipsnade Zoo, 35 miles out o f London, and Salman volunteered to drive us there. We spent an enjoyable day watching pheasants and other animals in their artificially created habitat. I realized that the English were great

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animal lovers, frequently visiting the zoos, cspccially Kensington Gardens, since it is located within London. We had such a variety of food on our travels that it takes me a while to figure out what was special about each place. The lamb chops and fresh cider served at a wayside inn in England were excellent, and the hors doeuvre in Geneva. We made a special trip to Genoa to visit our friends, the Moscatellis, who had once rented Khurshid Villa in Karachi. I took gifts for the family and they invited us to a sumptuous meal, where I particularly remember the fish that was so well cooked. I also recall excellent continental food at some friends' houses, but we were conventional people and did not try too many unfamiliar dishes like baby octopus, frogs’ legs, and snails, which are considered delicacies in European cuisine. After enjoying the hospitality of the Moscatellis in ’Genoa, we took a flight to Milan which was only a short distance away, since I wanted to see the Duomo. After spending two days there, we went to the booking office to catch a flight to Geneva. A porter came up to us, and when I asked him if he knew English, he replied, ‘Yaas’, so I gave him our suitcases and we followed. He marched ahead o f us and, before I could catch up with him, he had already booked our suitcases for Geneva by train. The train was about to leave and no one understood a word of English. We were pointing helplessly at our suitcases, shaking our heads, pointing at the train and saying, 'No, no, we are going by air’. After futile attempts to make him understand our plight, 1 quickly performed a public mime imitating the engine noise, spreading my arms to take off like a plane. Among the bewildered onlookers, including my admiring husband, was one man who understood me, ‘Alitalia?’ he asked. I could have hugged him with relief and said, ‘Ya, ya, Alitalia!* We were rushed to the Italian airline office fifty yards from us and were able to catch the airbus just in time. Akbar had not been looking well at all. One o f his eyes was red and there was a swelling on his knee. We decided to cut our journey short and return home, giving up our plans to visit other countries. On the return journey, we stopped at Beirut where

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Shabnam had spent two years studying for her degree and wished to meet her friends. All of us were proud to learn that our daughter was remembered by her friends with such warmth and affection. Naeem Atye sent a botde of fresh olive oil for her from his village Amyun, while his sister Helena invited us to dinner. I wanted to visit the mosque at Aqsa and other holy places in Jerusalem during the day before catching the flight to Karachi in the morning. Mr Shaikh, in charge of Pakistan International Airlines’ Middle East zone, was very helpful and arranged for us to be shown around. We were very fortunate to see the historical and religious places since they are now under Israeli occupation. Before reaching home another litde adventure awaited us, the kind that can only be imagined by tourists in foreign lands. When we arrived at Beirut Airport for our onward flight to Jordan, there was a crisis on hand. Apparently, the entry into Beirut hadn’t been stamped due to the oversight o f an immigration officer, and the authorities were not allowing us to proceed until the papers were fixed. The plane was ready to take off, each moment was precious, and my inadequate, classical Arabic confused the officials even more than it clarified our situation. They stared at me in amusement since I must have appeared like a desperate pilgrim on the point of collapsing if not allowed entry into Jordan. With a guffaw, one of them stamped my passport and waved to let me through. I wasn’t about to leave Akbar behind, so I ran to the tarmac shouting: ‘ 21ouj, Zouj’ (husband, husband) in order to prevent its take-off. The steward understood my predicament but told me that the plane would take off in five minutes, with or without a husband. Then I decided to do something as foolish as it was brave. I ran out in front of the plane, daring them to fly without my husband. I created such a ruckus that the exasperated Captain sent one of his boys to get Akbar through, and we boarded the plane together. I chatted with the crew all the way to our destination and made them laugh with my travel tales. When we returned to Quetta, I wanted Akbar checked out by our friend, Dr Moin Hussaini. Even though it was obvious that his health was deteriorating, Akbar continued to deny that

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he was unwell, refusing a medical checkup. This left me in the unenviable position of becoming his doctor by proxy, since I had to consult Dr Moin Hussaini in private, explain Akbar’s symptoms to him, and ask him to prescribe medication. Moin was cooperative and did not insist on Akbar coming in to see him, so between my accurate reports and Moin’s treatment, we kept Akbar from a serious breakdown for several years. After a hectic but rewarding tour of the continent, it was soothing to return to our home in Quetta. I counted thirty almond trees in the compound and discovered that one tree bore bitter fruit. Upon inquiry, I learnt that a sweet almond tree never bears bitter fruit. So how is it that we get bitter almonds when we buy quantities of sweet almonds, I asked myself? It was then that I came to know that it was the wholesalers in the market who mixed bitter fruit that is cheaper with the sweet almonds to make a profit. In 1968, our new tenants in Karachi, the Argentinean Consulate, wrote to us saying that since the capital o f Pakistan was shifting from Karachi to Islamabad, their Consulate would follow, and that they would like us to take possession of our house. In another twist o f fate, the smaller cottage where my girls used to stay with their children on their visits to Quetta caught fire in the middle of the night due to a short circuit and burnt down. We decided that this was an omen for us to move out. Besides, Akbar’s health was deteriorating fast and living so far out o f town away from medical assistance began to worry me. All o f Akbar’s brothers and sisters lived in Karachi and they welcomed our decision to move. With a heavy heart, I negotiated the. sale of Sumbulistan, consoling myself that I had done all I could in Quetta and now I needed to attend to my husband’s health. Besides, I told myself, there was an APWA centre in Karachi where I had worked earlier, and some o f my friends were still there. I arranged the sale of the house with Mr Tan Dung, who ran a Chinese restaurant in the city. Before leaving, I gave a generous cash bonus to our gardener, Faiz Mohammed, as well as several bits o f furniture that would be surplus for us in Karachi. I suggested

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to Mr Tan Dung to retain our trusted servant since the house was outside city limits and he could do with some local help. Mr Tan Dung was happy to employ him. Before we left for Karachi, I held a Milad Sharif at the APWA Killi Ismail Centre at my own expense. More than two hundred women attended, including those who did not work in the Industrial Branch and came only to get free medicines. I had held Milad earlier too, to teach the local women to recite naat in praise o f God and Prophet Mohammed (PBUH). We said goodbye to each other with tears in our eyes. One pious woman, Taj Bibi, sobbed on my shoulder and said, ‘ If not in this world, surely I will meet my Begumji in the other world.* Returning to Karachi in 1968 after spending so many years in Quetta, was quite difficult at first. It took me a while to understand the soil and climate of our new home, and my first planting in October was all wrong for the season. I had started planting an orchard of mangoes, guavas, bananas, custard apples, and some citrus trees that did not do well at all. Then, as I learnt by trial and error, I planned out my orchard, vegetable patch, and flower garden. I sent for mango plants from Nawabshah, bananas from my adopted daughter Mariam’s farm in Oosri that, incidentally, had received the first prize at the annual fruit exhibition. A friend brought me papaya seeds from the Far East, and I bought the guavas and custard apple seeds from the local nurseries. I sq^ved corn from seeds that came from Mardan, and a friend of Shabnam sent me gherkin seeds from Beirut. There was plenty of land for the trees in the 1500 square yards called Khurshid Villa, although nowhere near our two-and-a-half acres in Quetta. I began serving luscious bananas and papayas within eighteen months of planting them, and guavas and custard apples within two-and-a-half years. Papayas and bananas bear fruit within fifteen months of planting, and take three more months for ripening. Guavas bear fruit after two years o f planting and, although the mango trees were full o f blossoms in the third year, we did not allow the fruit to ripen the first year so as to keep it healthy. Akbar needed my company more than ever after his

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retirement, but once we were settled in Karachi, his sisters and brothers came over often to our house and kept him company so 1 could devote some time to my artistic pursuits. One day, Mr Burhanuddin, the news editor of Karachi Television, came to call on us. He wanted to do a short documentary film on my life, starting with a brief introduction o f my parents’ work in India, my interest in drama from school, and my brief sojourn into films. The outdoor scenes were taken in my own garden, showing me at work in the flower patch and playing with our beautiful collie, Jessica, who came and shook hands with me. I received many appreciative letters and phone calls from friends, acquaintances, and viewers who had liked the programme and, in particular, our collie. Justice Farooqui, who often came to play bridge with Akbar, paid me a great compliment by saying that, taking into account that 1 only had a part-time gardener, he had not seen a lovelier private flower garden, or such a well-stocked vegetable patch. I started visiting Radio Pakistan, Karachi, and did a couple of plays. Mr Kirmani, the Assistant Regional Director, asked me to host a women's programme for a few months and I was happy to be back in my creative element. 1 noticed that if I did not write for a long time, the knack of writing flowing dialogue was lost, and it took me a couple of weeks to plan the programme. My assistant was Shafqat, the wife of poet Zia Jallundhri, and we enjoyed ourselves tremendously while reading out the listeners’ letters. Some of them were very intelligent but some were from immature women and young girls. They wrote about the unhappy story of their lives and, although we could not read their letters in their entirety, we read out some relevant details. I realized that this gave our listeners, the women, some sense of self-worth that was obviously being denied them in their domestic lives. I had not visited Karachi Television yet, and waited to see how they responded to my presence in Karachi. There were other reasons for staying at home. Akbar needed round-the-clock care to monitor his blood pressure, otherwise he would ignore the necessity of medication. The other reason was that Lubna's

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husband had been transferred to Karachi and I saw my daughter and the grandchildren quite often. Shabnam and her children were also visiting, and I had my hands full, but the moment was approaching fast when I would return to the screen, and I bided my time. I had already faced television cameras in 1956 at the International Exhibition in Karachi when the USIS had installed the first television unit in Pakistan for the exhibition. I therefore did not feel self-conscious when my life was being filmed in Khurshid Villa. After this experience, I wrote and acted in three short plays for a television programme called, Khartum (Lady), produced by Shireen Khan. The year was 1970 when Akbar’s health took a sudden turn for the worse. His blood pressure rose alarmingly and his kidneys stopped functioning. With Colonel Najeeb’s timely treatment and my extended home care, we managed to save his life. I gave up the radio and television work to devote all my time to him, helped by Akbar’s sisters, especially Sikander Jahan, who came over often and stayed with us. She kept Akbar occupicd and entertained with anecdotes of their childhood but, unfortunately, Akbar hated all the medical attention and was convinced that his time had come. He was very worried about me and said that Khurshid Villa was too spread out and unmanageable for a single woman to live in and persuaded me to sell our lovely house in Garden East and move to a small rented house ofFTariq Road while we looked around for a suitable home to buy in the locality. Finally, a convenient two-bedroom cottage between main Tariq Road and Khalid Bin Walid Road was located which lay quite near the shopping area where I could walk down to buy the daily provisions. This left us with some cash that Akbar invested so that I would not be left destitute after him. He told me that his pension would end with his demise, since he had been drawing it for seven years. After the sale deed was complete and all the dues were paid up, Akbar visited the house once again as the owner. The chowkidar gave him the keys and Akbar called some Pathan day-labourers with donkey carts to empty the house o f the junk

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and to transport it to the address of the last tenant. The Pathans gladly took the stuff and dumped it at the man’s gate for a generous payment. The man came out immediately in a towering rage, accompanied by two henchmen. He threatened Akbar and said that this was a matter between the owner and himself. Akbar, ill and weak with minimum kidney function but always a fearless man replied, ‘I am the owner now. I have bought the house, and I plan to live here’. The man must have seen that his unlawful occupation of the house was over, so he said, 'You have made a big mistake in buying this house. The water tank leaks, the toilets do not flush, and the rain water floods the inside o f the house.’ Akbar was amused at the man’s cowardice and remained undaunted. Four months later, I lost Akbar on 31 December 1971, after two weeks in hospital with renal failure. I do not wish to go into the details of his illness except for a grievance against jinnah Hospital’s neglect o f the Urology Department. There was a Dialysis machine lying there unused because no one had been trained to operate it. After Akbar, I wrote a letter to Dawn newspaper complaining about this state of affairs, hoping that something would be done about it. Perhaps, by now, a newer model of the machine and trained staff has been put in place to save patients’ lives.

14 Years of Fame

I am very grateful to friends in television, in particular to Shireen Khan, for persuading me to join Pakistan Television. After Akbar, it was especially good for me to return to a working life. My first serial was Kiran Kahani, written by Haseena Moin and produced jointly by Mohsin Ali and Shireen Khan. In many ways, I was still in bereavement and I often felt that my performance in this serial was slighdy off-key. The next serial, again by the same writer, produced by Zaheer Khan and Shireen Khan this rime, saw me at my best. It was called Zer Zabar Pesh and in this I played foster mother to Roohi Bano who was in the lead role. Haseena asked me to develop some traits for the character and it brought back memories o f my grandmother’s house where Peenan Bua’s position was somewhere between a friend and a servant. I also remembered my spinster aunt, called Akka-bi by her contemporaries in Abdullah Lodge, and described her to Haseena. She grasped the idea immediately and wrote me in as Akka Bua, a combination of Akka-bi and Peenan Bua, a television screen name that I have been associated with ever since. We had a great team in Zer Zabar Pesh with Qazi Wajid playing the stuttering houseboy with whom I had a number o f hilarious interactions on screen. Shakeel and Roohi Bano were in the lead and Zeenat Yasmeen and Jamshed Ansari played the other romantic pair. Jamshed frequendy misquoted Shakespeare to

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impress Zeenat, the intellectual, drawing much laughter. Qayyum Arif as the eccentric grandfather was adorable, and Arshe Munir as Laddan Khala was her inimitable self. Mahmood Ali had a small but memorable pan as the parchoonwala, the local grocery store salesman. I remember a delightful scene between Shakeel, who played a rich young man masquerading as a servant, and 1, the all-important retainer. 1 tell him to fetch me the spittoon. Aghast he asks me, 'What?* and 1 answer, 'Are you going to lose your noble zat (birth) by picking up the spittoon?’ Such sharp and witty dialogue about caste and class differences made the show very popular amongst viewers. Haseena Moin had the gift of turning trivial domestic scenes into brisding and entertaining encounters. Roohi Bano had a photogenic face and her diction was good. In the serial Kiran Kahani, Manzoor Qureshi played the male lead against her. lie was slim at the time and cut quite a romantic figure, and the pair generated some electricity between them. Throughout my television career, my one grievance was that appropriate props were not supplied to any of the sets. In Kiran Kahani, for instance, a nawab’s family (ours), is visited by Manzoor’s uncle, himself a nawab, to ask for the hand o f the daughter in marriage. He is served tea in three chipped cups from the canteen with some horrible mixture in it. There was no teapot, no milk jug, and no sugar bowl on the table and only one tin spoon on the tray. For light refreshment, we had one plate in the centre piled with bananas, apples, and perhaps three kinnoo. I requested them to get a box of sweets at least, but the answer was that there’was no time to waste till the sweets arrived. This weakened production values, especially since, according to the script, both the parties were engaged in bragging about their wealth and noble ancestry. The lack o f interest in creating a proper set with attention to detail was quite disturbing to me. Producers, designers, and cameramen had several meetings to outline the structure of the house, various doors, and the windows and so on, but the details that lend authenticity to the scene and make for quality

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production were conveniendy sidelined. I remember in the serial, Portrait o f a Lady based on the novel by Henry James which was translated as Parchainy Sahira and Rahat Kazmi played the romantic lead. There was a scene where a rich, westernized family is shown having breakfast. I took along my own cudery to get the setting right and asked the producer to put some real food on the table: fried fish or at least fried potatoes to look like fish fingers, some toast in a toast rack, and a proper tea-set. After my constant nagging, a new tea set was purchased for the studios, and the responsibility o f arranging the breakfast was assigned to someone. It was a scene in which the mother, son, and the niece appear in dressing gowns reading the morning papers and talking casually over cups of tea where the rhythm o f casual conversation, the pouring out of tea, and eating from the breakfast table had to be synchronised. On the day of shooting, there was nothing on the table, not even plates, and it looked like breakfast was just over. A layman might think that o f no consequence and, I think, so did the designers and producers of the show. Freshness and authenticity can be infused in a shot only when the dialogue, costume design, the sets and adequate props all converge into a particular moment making it pulsate with life. Anyway, despite all the handicaps, Parchain remains one of the best television productions in which I worked. It cenainly merited a repeat telecast, but did not get it. I was in Lahore visiting my daughters when Shireen called, asking me to come back. She was waiting to introduce a character into her current serial, called UncU Urfi. It was written by Haseena Moin and was being joindy produced by Shireen and Mohsin Ali. UncU Urfi remains one of the most popular PTV plays to this day. Shakeel as Uncle Urfi sponed a beard and did away with his wig for the first time. He was a smash hit and Shahla, in the female lead, gave an excellent debut performance. And who can forget Ghazi Apa (Azra Sherwani), and Shaheed Bhai (Qurban Jeelani)! Imtiaz Ahmed started his Big Bad Wolf roles from UncU Urfi. My role was that o f a sweet

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old lady from east UP who prefers to live alone in her village instead o f with her son, Qurban Jeelani. Although outwardly cut-off from the affairs of the world this woman remains a law unto herself where her son's family is concerned. She is a strong-willed woman who is ready to give shelter to a girl who goes against convention. Jamshed Ansari rose as a star with the nervous Hasnat Bhai and his catch phrase, *Chakoo hai meray paas\ I was planning to visit my family in India in March, so I made it clear to the producers that if they could finish my scenes before that time, I would be very happy to work for them. After completing my part in Uncle Urfl in March 1975, I left for Aligarh, straight from the sets, stopping in Delhi for two days

before proceeding for Aligarh together with Biji. Lubna and her children were living with me at the time, and I could take a holiday for three months. I needed the rest and a change of pace because I was not keeping good health. Apart from these serials, I acted in a special play called M assi Sherbate, written by Fatima Surraiya (Bajia) and produced by Shireen. I don’t want to sing my own praises, but the work was widely appreciated. Babra Sharif had not joined the film industry at the time and had done a small role in Kiran Kahani. She was cast as an innocent village belle with Manzoor playing the male lead and Qazi Wajid was a very convincing villain. I played the central character, a widow, who loses her husband and children when their mud house catches fire, but yet the courageous woman chooses to remain in the village to which she was brought as a bride. She dedicates her life to helping others, but some evil people especially the hakim (Qazi Wajid), resent her importance to the community. He collects some people who are willing to give false evidence against this saintly woman for selling illicit liquor. The panchayat (Council of Elders) sits in judgment and requests her to say something in her defense. Maasi Sherbate is amazed to see that the people who have known her all their lives believe such tales about her. She absent-mindedly draws patterns on the ground with a twig, thinking about her late husband in whose lifetime no one would

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have dared make such an accusation against her. Then she lifts her eyes, brimming with tears, but she is too proud to let them fall. Both the writer and the producer brought the story to a successful climax, and 1 am grateful to God for giving me the insight and ability to lift Maasi Sherbate from the realm o f the imagination to a flesh and blood character. Ishrat Hashmi, a fine artiste herself, paid me great tribute by saying, ’1 could not bear to look at Apa when 1 had to say such nasty things about her, because every time I looked at her sweet face, 1 wanted to burst into tears.* It is at times like these that you realize how important it is to be generous with praise, especially when it comes from fellow artistes. I cannot recall when we started Roomi. Farzana, who had done good work in Gurya, was the central figure, with Yasser a close second. This long serial caught the imagination of both young and old and remained on top of the popularity chart for weeks. The story revolves around Qayuum Arif and me, the dada and dadi or paternal grandparents who bring up their grandchildren in the absence of their parents who are away in England studying and are about to return. The play was about the differences between generations and portrayed a humorous attempt at reconciliation. The elderly couple expect the daughter-in-law to be a modern young woman, so they dress to please her. As a result, the grandmother wears a flowery sari and is uncomfortable in this unfamiliar dress; likewise, her husband wears a suit and tie and feels quite unhappy and self-conscious in it. The children are instructed to behave themselves and to treat their mother with the respect due to an England-returned scholar. This misunderstanding creates many amusing incidents that confuse the mother who is bewildered by everyone’s unfamiliar behaviour. In December 1974, I was persuaded by Bajia and Ishrat Ansari to work in a long stage play in Rawalpindi called, Moments Will Live, written by Bajia. My niece, Yasmeen Raquib, was in ‘Pindi at the time so I had a place to stay, but it was dreadfully cold and the delay in production kept us “ice-bound”

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for three weeks. We travelled with the play to other cities, and I was able to visit my daughters in Lahore. The script was well written but I thought that the canvas of the story was too vast to be cramped into one long play. The same plot was adapted for radio, spread over sixteen episodes, and became a smash hit. I was not satisfied by the result o f the television version where the camera work was poor and, probably due to the extreme cold, the outdoor scenes had to be dropped. Ishrat Ansari had litde control over the extras that had been called for the pan of bearers for the banquet scenes. They would run in front of the camera excitedly and kept disturbing the shooting. Finally, 1 had to speak extemporaneously to one such extra, ‘You have passed the dish three times already. Put it on the sideboard and wait there till 1 call you/ Bajia had worked so hard to prepare exotic cuisine for the banquet but the producer and cameraman did not take the trouble to move the cameras around the table with the result that only certain pans of the table with some guests could be seen clearly. To be honest, it is impossible for me to remember in chronological order all the names of the radio and television plays in which I have worked. There were so many of them, some morfe popular than others. I can relate only what comes to my mind as 1 write, and any impressions that remain. I recall, for instance, that I had just returned from Aligarh after visiting my family, and the next serial I was offered was Shama. Fatima Surraya had the ability o f putting together a congenial family atmosphere and in Shama the preparations of a girl’s trousseau being organized by the family members sitting together, stitching gota on dupattas, and decorating the mehndi on trays was altogether realistic and enjoyable. I shared this delightful experience with her three times, first in Shama, then in Agahi and finally in Afihan. I got the Best Actress Award for Afihan in 1982. The plot of Afihan reminded me of Shakespeare’s King Lear in which moral law is opposed to the law of the jungle. The forces of good and evil are in constant conflict, but finally the forces of good overcome evil at great cost and after much

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suffering. I think the evil forces embodied in a fake pir, (Majid Ali) and his daughter Haleema (Ishrat Hashmi) were great performances, and their maidservant, Shajjo (Najia Khatoon) outdid herself. They definitely had the edge over the good forces as far as the standard of acting was concerned. Our hero, (Javed Sheikh), in his first romantic role, was self-conscious and nervous but when I worked again with him in Agar Nama Bar Milay, I realized that his talent was for comedy and I told him so. Ghazala Najam played Shama and looked lovely but was not much of an actress in her debut role. The forces of good definitely lacked acting ability, despite Zaheen Tahira and Nafees Hasan who gave adequate performances. There were some flashback scenes in Shama where I was shown as a young married woman. According to the plot, a snake was put in my paandan in an attempt to kill me, but my husband discovers the plot and prevents me from reaching out for it. I was made up to look young and, since the contours of my face were still quite firm, a mid-shot taken from a three-quarter angle gave me a youthful look. I had also taken the precaution of keeping a gauzy dupatta in front of my face to serve as a diffuser, and the deception was quite successful. Qasim Jalali was producing this serial and he was so taken by the rising neck of the cobra that hissed and looked around for a victim that he gave a lot of footage to the reptile. I hate reptiles and, besides, I was wearing my daughter s wedding ensemble for the shot. I had to run away delicately from this horror, exclaiming in a shrill, feminine voice, ’Ooi Allah,’ but the camera was fixed on that wretched cobra and the effect of the farshi gharara trailing behind me was lost. Aagahi, an original story by Fatima Surraya, tackled the many social problems in rural areas that arise due to absentee landlordism when rich feudals start living in the city, leaving their lands and their tillers to merciless munshsis (caretakers). The story was divided into two distinct parts. Mohammed Yousaf played the role of the idealistic Pesh Imam of the village mosque who wants his son to follow in his footsteps but, like other youngsters, the young man wants a taste of the fast life o f

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the city. He returns to the village after going through a period o f disillusionment. I particularly appreciated Zahoor Ahmad in the role of a retired Christian schoolteacher. The other part of the story is set in the city, where I played the landlord’s wife, the actual owner of lands in the village, who lives with an ambitious son, played by Rizwan Wasti, and his hysterical wife, acted admirably by Azra Sherwani. In the city, the family sets up factories but they, too, are operating inefficiently because of absentee owners and the dishonesty of those running the show. Bajia very shrewdly portrayed a well-known social butterfly in the role of Asmat Omar, who looked lovely and true to life. Shakeel played my determined grandson who announces to everyone that he wishes to return to the village to attend to their property and to root out corruption. I thought that the writer had involved Shakeel’s character in too many problems and that it decreased the dynamism o f his role. I played an energetic old woman who wants her son to attend to his duties and responsibilities as a landowner but, when he refuses her, she decides to leave the city to look after the land herself. For the play, the character is required to inspect the lands on horseback. I could manage to ride on a gentle horse, since I had gone on cross-country rides with my husband in India, but I was certainly no ace rider. The shooting was planned at a site a few miles out o f Karachi where there was a farm and a tubewell that could provide some authenticity to the backdrop. I was exhilarated at the prospect o f riding a horse after so long but, when I saw the horse, my heart sank. The poor creature was decked up in finery as if a bridegroom were to ride him in a wedding procession instead of a feeble old woman inspecting her fields. They had draped a lovely rilli on the horse’s back that was tied down with colourful string. The plumes on his head and the bells on his feet danced and made an impressive jingle whenever he moved, but no proper saddle, bridle, or rein was in sight. I asked the owner if it was safe to ride him because there was no way to control him without proper reins and he replied confidently, ’Don’t worry, Ammaji, my horse is as tame as a lamb.’

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I had to get on the horse by climbing on to a cart since there were no stirrups to provide a foothold. A huge crowd of onlookers had gathered around the sets, joined by children who had been let off school for the half-holiday of Friday. Seeing the television crew in their village, they became excited and started clapping and shouting encouragement to me. The horse became restless and started walking sideways, tremors running through his body as though he were trying to shake me off his back. I am sure, had 1 stayed on for a few more minutes, he would certainly have thrown me and the rilli, off his back but I jumped down in time and continued with the inspection of the fields on foot, with the owner of the horse leading the animal behind me. Impromptu acting saved me from the fall but I was very disappointed since the glamour of the scene was lost. The two plays that I particularly remember working on for Pakistan television were written by Shahid Kazmi and produced by Shahid Iqbal Pasha. In those days, detective plays and mystery serials was catching on and Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap was adapted for PTV. I remember I had to “die” sitting in an armchair in such a way that my death would not become apparent for some time. I had taken off my expensive dark glasses and left them on a table while I was draping myself suitably on the chair. One o f the memories tied to this mystery serial is that when shooting was over, my glasses had disappeared! Haseena Moin wrote an adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s novel, My Cousin Rachel, calling it, Dhund or fog. Shireen was to produce it, but she asked for a postponement as she had to go to Lahore urgendy for some work. Her request was denied and, after one episode, she left for Lahore. Manzoor Qureshi was unwillingly saddled with the job of completing it. Since he had not been present at the outset when the serial was being planned, he was not aware o f the importance of each character. Haseena Moin, too, seemed to have lost interest in it somewhere. So the characters started disappearing without any logical sequence and the play was engulfed in a sort of dense fog. Viewers were left wondering why a particular incident took place or how a certain character developed and then evaporated into thin air.

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The other play I worked in around the same time was Khizar Kharty a costume or a historical play, something I had not done earlier, so I was pleased when Bakhtiar Ahmad asked me to join the team. The script centred on the struggle o f the Muslims during the disturbances of 1857. Later, I worked in another play o f the same kind called N adir Shah. I did my own research for this play and visited museums to find out the kind of clothes worn by the ladies o f Mughal families before Babar conquered India. Qasim Pasha produced the play and I was happy to have been allowed to design my own costumes. I was particularly fond o f the green, jewelled skullcap that the ladies wore to keep their headgear in place. I had intended to ask the producer to lend me the cap after the recording so I could copy it for myself but it disappeared from under our noses while we were shooting another scene! A humorous serial, Shosha, comprising independent episodes, was written by Anwar Maqsood and launched by Mohsin Ali. I was invited to participate in the pilot episode. Mohsin Ali was a man who did not waste words, cspccially when it camc to praise, so when he said, *1 must have Aunty in the first episode to ensure its success,' I was flattered and realized how highly my producer thought of me. I always enjoyed Mohsin Ali's works and consider most of them to be quite superb. The first episode o f Shosha revolved around the trials o f a . regular family with a saas or mother-in-law played by me, the bahu or daughter-in-law played by Nilofer Abassi, while Mahmood Ali played the father-in-law. Jamshed Ansari played the ghar damad or son-in-law. The homebound son-in-law is harangued and bullied by everyone. It was a humorous play that became quite a hit and was telecast a number of times. Bajia was working on AR Khatoon's novel Ajshan and had collected all her favourite artistes from Shama and Aagahi and was writing roles for each of them according to the development o f the story. Zaheer Khan had to shoulder the responsibility of the production and, soon, his office turned into a workshop with tables and chairs for fellow technicians in one corner while we, the artistes sat on the carpet. We were surrounded by colourful

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cloth, tinsel, dupatta that had been dyed in the old way and everyone was busy putting everything together under Bajia’s instructions. Elaborate and traditional marriage ceremonies are an integral part of Bajia’s stories, and anyone who has seen the grand spectacle of lovely young girls carrying beautifully decorated ghara (clay pots) and thaal (trays) on their shoulders in a mehndi procession cannot deny the detailed choreography of the spectacle. It was inevitable for a play on the plight of the Afghan refugees to be written and telecast because the times were hard and the war in Afghanistan had had major repercussions on Pakistan. Refugees were streaming into Pakistan from across the border, having lost their families and all possessions, with only hope to sustain them. Shahzad Khalil planned his long story with Shahid Kazmi, calling it Pannah and started selecting the cast. The play was brilliantly written, produced, and acted. I had a difficult role of a woman who seems to be in a state of shock and, without uttering a single intelligible word, keeps muttering to herself I had neither the support of my fellow artistes nor the relief o f saying something intelligible to define my feelings. Meanwhile, Uzma Gilani, Talat Hussain, Najeeb (a newcomer), Khalida, and even the small children who are shown running around the place hungry but proud, gave excellent performances. I remember rehearsing the scene when Talat is killed in the play and the women of the house sit and weep for him. I started talking to the children before the cameras started rolling and said, ‘Now our only protector is gone, what will become o f us?’ Tears started falling from my eyes, and also from the children’s eyes! We mourned this catastrophe as one family without glycerin or any other gimmick. I was very impressed by the children. I really feel that Pannah deserved the award for the best long play of 1982. I continued to work in television plays occasionally. Razi Akhtar Shouq, a very enthusiastic radio play producer, liked nothing better than to sit and rehearse with artistes over *iid over again, giving them unbounded appreciation when a role was well performed. I did an adaptation of Agatha Christie's famous

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thriller Ten Little Niggers for him. I also acted in a radio version of the novel Afihan. Qamar Abassi had written it with an entirely original interpretation of my character, so I did not feel that my role had been duplicated in any way. In the television version, I played a real Begum, while in the radio version I am a cheerful old lady who jokes with her grandchildren and enjoys their confidences. Her way of guiding them is to become a partner in their mischievous schemes, while she sees to it that their jokes keep within the limits of decency. This role-playing reminded me of my own mother who took similar delight in our pranks as children but acted as a chaperone and moderator. I was happy working for television but the downside of it was that I would be accosted in the street and be expected to give my autograph there and then. Signing autographs has always been a big trial for me because, some time ago, I developed writer’s cramp in my right hand. So now, when fans ask for an autograph, I do not wish to disappoint them even though it is such a painful exercise for me to write in longhand. I once lost a valuable ring that I took off for just such an autograph for one aficionado. At home, when I have to type all my correspondence, plays, and speeches, I do it very slowly, with two fingers. My grandchildren have become my greatest critics and admirers. My three grandsons had a hard time admitting that friends o f theirs were fans of mine and wanted to meet me. As growing young men, perhaps it is difficult for them to accept public admiration for the women of the family, but my two litde granddaughters Batool and Raheel have always voiced unstinted praise for my acting, going into detailed discussions with me over the merits and demerits of each play. I have been invited twice to the PTV awards ceremony where I was met at the airport by an official, taken to a comfortable hotel, escorted back and forth from my hotel to the venue, and treated with utmost consideration and regard, but if someone were to ask me what I had seen of Pindi-Islamabad, I would say, ‘My room, the dining hall, function hall, and, of course, the airport*. Various colleges and schools have, over the years, asked me to

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be their chicf guest at an official function. I enjoy being with young people and interact quite happily with them. My only regret, as I mentioned earlier, is the difficulty I face in signing autographs because of pain in my wrist but once I explained this, people are very understanding and do not insist. Over the years I have won several acting awards for my performances, and I treasure them. VIP’s Best TV Star Gold Medal in 1981; The Magic Stone Award for Afihan, 1981; Aizazi Sanad-e-Namzadgi in May 1982; a Certificate of Merit Award from the Association of Business, Professional and Agricultural Women for Drama in 1983, an award for the Shama series; Old is Gold award souvenir for Uncle Urfi 1975 by the Karachi Services Club; Television Pride o f Performance Award for years of excellence, 1975-1987 The Graduate Awards for Excellence in Drama and finally the President’s Pride o f Performance Gold Medal Award on 23 March 1985 with a cash prize o f Rs 25,000. The President of Pakistan gave the award at the Independence Day celebrations in Islamabad. It was in 1982 that Razia Bhatti, the editor of the monthly magazine Herald, invited me to write my recollections of earlier times for the magazine. It was a difficult task to collect photographs dating back to 1902. The group photograph of my father at his wedding ceremony was taken from the album o f Sardar Yar Jung. His son, Ubaidur Rahman Khan Sherwani Sahib, gave it to my brother, Mohsin Abdullah, who was a collector of old photographs. Mohsin got copies made of some old pictures from Doctor Hamida Saiduzzafar’s albums. It took me quite a while to remember incidents from such a busy and constandy changing life. To write my autobiography, I lived in a state of detachment from the present, sinking gradually into my childhood to the extent that when I wrote my impressions at the age of three, I actually re-lived that part of my life. Only then did the true picture start emerging from the deep well of forgetfulness. Once I willed myself to reach down into the well to explore my past it became easier to make the connection with the present. I called my column in the Herald, T he Uprooted Sapling’.

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After the first two instalments were printed in August and September 1982, I agreed to work in a radio play again. In January 1983, 1 rcccivcd an invitation from the Aligarh Girls’ College to be their chief guest at the Founder’s Day Celebration on 2 February 1983 in Aligarh, India. This was the day that my father had married my mother in 1902 and it meant a lot to me to be able to be present for the occasion. I worked really hard for a fortnight, getting my February and March instalments ready before leaving for what I still call home. I had not been working in any television serial for six months because no suitable role had been found for me, and I was selective about the roles I chose to perform. Immediately after completing my autobiography, Fatima Surraya Bajia invited me to work in an original play for which I later received the President’s Award for Pride o f Performance. The play was called Ana or The Ego. The cash prize that came along with the award, all of Rs 25,000, was a godsend. My grandson, Najam, was getting married from my house which was in quite a state and badly needed some renovations and a paint job to make it presentable. I did not have the funds, nor the time in over six years to make any home improvements so, as soon as I got the cheque, I ran to the upholsterers, carpet shops, etc., and, in twenty days, the small house looked good with a new lick of paint, a neat litde garden front, freshly upholstered sofas and chairs, and even brocade curtains. My daughters, sons-in-law, and a whole lot of grandchildren came from Lahore and we slept on beds, the takht, and even on the ground, eating buffet-style from one small dining table, yet the cup of joy was filled to overflowing for me. God has always provided for me in the nick of time I had not visited Aligarh in the seven years since Akbar died. While he was alive, I was able to visit family every two years. After seven years, I met many childhood friends and found that two o f the teachers had retired from the college and been provided with accommodation on campus. Abdullah Lodge looked great even after seven years o f absence! I was fascinated by how huge the neem trees had grown that stood tall and stately

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with their branches laden with blooms, reaching down almost to the ground like gigantic umbrellas. The gulmohar was ablaze with colour and the haunting fragrance of the mimosa brought back memories of my dear mother who had been so found of looping these small, yellow hollow flowers through her earrings. 1 hoped to taste delicious lartgra mangoes o f Aligarh, although only nine trees were left where once a hundred had filled the orchard. I went in search o f the trees under which I had played as a child in the hostel and found two stunted mango trees that were now barren but which reminded me of the time I had been caught on top of one o f them and had been chastised by Amma. Two new hostels had been added to the original building, and a few more cottages had been built to house the teaching staff. An impressive auditorium, the science labs, the canteen, and the under-construction library, proclaimed the prosperity o f the place and the march of time. Above all, I couldn't stop admiring the various flowering climbers and bushes everywhere. Mumtaz jahan, (Choti Apa), in her long tenure as Principal, had taken interest in importing flowering shrubs from New Zealand and had every bare wall covered with these vibrandy coloured climbers. She had retired a short while back, and 1 found Razia Khan, one o f the old students, running the College quite efficiendy. Another ex-student, Mahmooda, was Principal o f the school section and Mahmooda’s sister, Abida, was married to Fakhruddin Ali Ahmad Sahib, who later became the President of India. Far from the public eye at Abdullah Lodge, I lived a quiet life that mosdy revolved round the Women's College and the compound school which now had over a hundred-and-fifty students. This particular school was given a grant from the Social Welfare Department through the efforts of Khatoon Jahan, (Manjhli Apa), and was for the students whose parents could not afford to pay the fees. Papa used to pay the first teacher Rs 50 a month when there were 30 children in class. Now, this primary school is run by a dedicated young woman, Safia Bilgrami, who spends her honorarium of, I think, Rs 150 a month on the poor children.

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We had our usual family reunion photographs taken to add to earlier ones. Many loved ones had departed from this world and many youngsters had now become adults! Abdullah Lodge and the surrounding property that belonged to my father was gifted away by him to the Muslim University Girls* High School and College and became a part of the huge campus known as Abdullah Hall. The domestic help who had served the family for many years were gifted the quarters they were living in and, to this day, their grandchildren occupy the place. Abdullah Lodge held so many memories for three generations o f Shaikh Abdullah’s family where many children took their first steps, formed their first words and, while growing up, bonded with the older generation. On my last visit to Aligarh in 1983, I was struck by the enduring loveliness of the red brick house that looked like a ruby amid the verdure of the area. My parents' graves are within the orchard site where a women’s mosque was planned with residential rooms for visiting old students and guests. I have visited Aligarh many times after Partition, and Papa Mian’s constant concern has been the literacy rate in Pakistan. He wanted to know whether his daughters were doing something to improve the status o f their less fortunate sisters by opening schools or doing social work. He continued to receive letters from many ‘old girls’ in Pakistan, assuring him that they had not forgotten their training at their alma mater and were justifying their beloved Papa Mian’s and Alabi’s trust in them. A very active Aligarh Old Girls’ Association is run by the old students in Karachi. The Association celebrates the arrival of any ex-student visiting Karachi from any part o f the world. I was in Lahore when one of our most famous ‘old girls’, Ismat Chughtai, (later Ismat Shahid Lateef,) visited Karachi and received a grand reception from the Association. Later, she visited Lahore and was given an equally befitting reception in several of the members’ homes. We also organised an official function to celebrate Ismat Apa’s outstanding contribution to Urdu literature. All the television plays were done while I lived alone in my little house off Tariq Road in Karachi that Akbar had purchased for me four months before his death. But other than this, he left

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me with no running income from business or rented property because he was a conscientious officer in the Police department. I had no colour television set in the house, no air conditioner, no deep freezer, not even a second-hand car, because I could not afford these luxuries. But I was happy and content with congenial neighbours, loving in-laws, good friends, and a devoted family. After Ana, which was a long serial, I felt my health failing alarmingly. I also had a sense of satiation from being in the public eye and wanted to leave it for good. In 1985,1 announced my retirement, sold the house, and moved to Lahore to be with my daughters and their children. This was a decision I have not regretted. Looking back, I am happy to say that my children and grandchildren are busy, working people with strong values that have been inculcated in them from childhood. Both my daughters chose to teach in schools where their children studied. Among the grandchildren, Najam completed his Masters in Economics from the University of Karachi. His wife, Zubina, is also a Masters in Economics and plans to go back to teaching once her three sons are old enough to go to school. Batool was in the fourth year of medical college when she was married but has since completed her studies and is a specialist in psychiatry. Numair, Shabnams son, completed his Masters in History, and joined a bank. Raheel, Shabnam’s daughter, is still in college, and Akbar, Lubna's youngest son, is studying in Seatde in the United States. I helped design the wedding outfits or joras for Batool, and Raheel, whenever she gets married. I have welcomed five great­ grandchildren in the world so far, Najam’s two sons, Batoors two, and Numair's daughter. My nieces and nephews are as dear to me as my own children. I am very proud o f them, and we are more like friends than relatives who are generations apart. Mumtaz Apa and Khatoon Apa’s sons, Salman Haidar and Arif Qamarain, joined the Foreign Service and stayed abroad most of their lives. Salman and his wife, Kusum, have two children, a daughter, Naveena and a son, Nadeem. Salman’s

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sister, Shahla Haidar, also joined government service in the Information Department and keeps in touch with her mother’s friends and pays a stipend to the servants who worked for Mumtaz Apa. She is actively involved in women’s education. Khatoon (Manjhli Apa’s) daughter, Razia, is an entrepreneur and went to the US for her degree. She has two children, Nirad and Naira. Birjis Kidwai's daughter, Shahnaz, married and moved away to the US and has two daughters. Biji’s son, Rashid Kidwai, is married and works in India. All the children are professionally qualified and working. Mohsin and Shahida’s son, Tariq Abdullah, left Lahore to study in Canada at a very early age and settled there. He has two children, Yasmeen and Hassan. As I write, I can say that I am spending a semi-invalid, retired old age with my children, grandchildren .and great grandchildren, and that I am satisfied with what God has given me. I owe it to Razia Bhatti’s encouragement that I was able to write these recollections and leave a legacy of the social history o f my time for the generations to come so that they may become acquainted with the lives of people who came before them. The dream of an unselfish and enterprising couple, Shaikh Abdullah and his wife Waheed Jahan, who started a tiny vernacular school in Balai Qila in 1906, which ultimately became the Aligarh Muslim Girls School and College, a great educational institution for women and for Muslim women in particular. I can say that I am proud to have been their child. Karachi, 1983

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Previous page. In Chandragupta, 1945. Khurshid (Renuka Devi) as Helen. Top: In Naya Sam ar with co-star Ashok Kumar, 1941. Bottom-. In Ghulami with co-star Masud Pcrvcz, 1944.

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Top: Aligarh O ld Girls' Association celebrating the visit o f Ismat Chughtai seated third from right. Bottom-. Shaikh Abdullah at Abdullah Lodge in 1947 with daughters and sons-in law.

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Top". Shaikh Abdullah and his grandchildren. 27 .Khurshid Mirza leading the band at the march past parade. 14 August, 1948.

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Top-. 1982 Begum Liaqat Ali Khan unveiling che photograph o f Shaikh Abdullah, in a function in PECH S College Karachi. bottom:. APWA play The Return o fAnarkali. Karachi, 1949. Khunhid as Noor jahan and Asghari Rahim as Jahangir.

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Top: Appi with her daughters and grandchildren, 1969. L-R: Shabnam, Najam, Raheel, Akbar, Batool, Numair and Lubna. Bottom: 1969: The proud grandmother with Najam, Numair, Raheel, Akbar and Batool.

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Top Ufr. Akbar Mirza and Khurshid in Rome, 1964.

Extreme top righr. As Akka Bua in Zer Z ahar Pesh, 1974.

Top right middle. In Parchain for PTV. Top right bottom: In Pannah, 1981. U fr. Khurshid Mirza and Akbar, February 1955.

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Extreme top-. Prize o f Performance Award from Gen. Zia, 1985.

Top le ft. Salman and Kusum Haidar visit Appi in Lahore during her last illness, 1988. Top right. Prize o f Performance Award. Left. Khurshid with some o f her trophies in Karachi. 1981.

Remembering Appi and Daddy Sa l m a n H a i d e r

Appi was everyone’s favourite aunt. We, her nephews and nieces, laid special claim to her but there were many others who were drawn to Appi and came to bask in her radiance. Her glamour and appeal magnetized a multitude wherever she went. She managed to find time for all, making each of us feel special in her company. I can recall her visits to Aligarh when I was no more than a lad. Appi came trailing clouds of glamour from the film world o f Bombay. Abdullah Lodge, her parental home, suddenly shed its staid routine and became intensely alive. People flooded in, friends and acquaintances of varying degrees o f remoteness, all claiming their share of the visiting star. Appi may have made it to the marquee of tinsel town but to Aligarh she never ceased to be the local girl everyone knew. They reveled in her success, crowded around and partook of her aura. Those heady days, only dimly glimpsed by me, were not to last. Appi was at her peak as a film actress when Partition changed our lives forever. Alone among her siblings, she took the route to a new life in Pakistan, compelled by circumstances to abandon the Bombay film world and to move away from her family. Initially, this was not as great a deprivation as it may seem today. There was no Iron Curtain between the two countries in those days; travel from one to the other was readily

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managed. Thus the winter ritual of a family gathering in Abdullah Lodge home continued more or less uninterrupted, Appi and her brood joining the others as they had always done. Gradually, this fell away as circumstances changed, but not before the first wedding of the new generation, that of Appi’s daughter Lubna, took place in Aligarh. Well into the 1950s, that was still where the family was centred. It was during these early years when Appi was a frequent visitor that her Indian nieces and nephews, then in their school and college days, came to know her. Family ties were close and our winter gatherings were cheerful occasions. Appi’s two elder sisters were sober, steady, dedicated women, each of whom had headed the women’s college founded by their parents. By comparison, Appi had a bursting vitality and joie de vivre. Not for her the trodden path that led through school and college and then back to teaching in Aligarh. She had too much energy and talent for that, and a convent existence held little appeal for her. At a very young age, when her sisters were still devoted to nothing outside the college, Appi cur loose and got married to Akbar Mirza of the UP police. It was to be a long and successful marriage. But if Appi was not designed by nature for the cloisters of Aligarh Women’s College, neither was she made for the obscure provincial life of a police officer’s wife. Her vivacity and talent for the performing arts, which managed to flourish despite the austerities of her parental home, marked her out for other things. It was not long before opportunity came her way; a brilliant group o f creative writers and artists who had been educated at Aligarh and were establishing themselves in the new world of Bombay films drew her in and put her before the camera. Appi rapidly climbed the ladder to stardom and shone brightly in that setting. It was all too brief, however, for Partition put an end to her film career when she was still in the ascendant. Yet the memory lingered, as we often saw for ourselves when strangers in restaurants or shops in Bombay or Delhi came up to greet her as the Renuka Devi they had seen in the cinema. It was only much later that I came to realize how bold a move

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it had been for Appi to chince her luck in Bombay. In those days, film acting was not regarded as a particularly respectable profession. Young girls from prim and staid backgrounds did not head for the studios to seek their place in the sun. Appi was fortunate that her family, especially her husband, was supportive, else a film career would not have been conceivable. Yet it was she who was on the line, and she had the boldness to take up the challenge. One would like to think that her pioneering plunge into the big, bad Bombay world encouraged others from a similarly conservative background to follow. Pakistan in its early days was a stage too small for her. The film industry was yet to develop and television was not even a wisp on the horizon. Appi's dynamic and unconventional personality was of necessity confined to the everyday world o f officialdom and friends. She was deeply engaged, as ever, and contributed to many worthy causes, especially for the benefit o f women, but it seems that her special talents were dormant in these years. Through our intermittent contact, I became aware of the way Appi was changing in these middle years. For one thing, she became quite religious in her way of life. She was drawn by the spirit, not the form, of religion and became something of a Sufi. She sang and composed devotional pieces for milads, and enjoyed visiting the dargahs of renowned saints. Kaliyar Sharif in Saharanpur was a special favourite. Not that the devotional side of her overwhelmed everything else: Appi was too down-to-earth for that. Later still, a further change took place in Appi, as Renuka Devi metamorphosed into Begum Khurshid Mirza. The small screen gave a renewed opportunity for the expression of her theatrical talents and she became one o f Pakistan's best-known television characters. This was no more the vivacious and glamorous star of the Bombay days but a mature artiste and a rich human character. It was a fitting climax to her acting career. A word about Akbar Mirza: he was ‘Daddy' to all of us, in imitation of his children who addressed him so in place o f the more familiar ‘Abba’. In the mode of the times, he was anglicized

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in style and manner. A man’s man, he was a shikari and a sportsman, a powerful, vigorous figure. He must have represented an exciting world outside the secluded life of Abdullah Lodge when he came to pay court to Appi, and no doubt he swept her off her feet. We saw very litde of him after the very early days, for as a police officer he was not able to visit India. As small children, wc were terrified of him, for he could be forbidding and certainly didn’t like small brats in his path. It was only much later, when I was posted in London as a young bachelor and Appi and Daddy came on a visit —his first - that I got to know him better. He had retired from service by then. For his generation, London and England had a special, sometimes very strange, place in their scheme of things. Daddy reached London with three main items on his agenda - a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, a visit to Whipsnade Zoo, and a good supply o f tinned asparagus. He was able to indulge in all three o f them, so he enjoyed himself hugely. Old sporting injuries to his knee had slowed him down but he remained fairly brisk and active. I was enthralled to see how the terror o f our childhood was in fact a courdy, gracious gentleman. Sadly, this was to be my last contact with Daddy, just when I had got to know him, for he died prematurely not long after. Appi remained active and engaged in her numerous activities for many years still. She came to Delhi in 1965 when her father died at a ripe old age. As it happened, I was married at around that time and she was part o f my barat. There were other occasions for us to meet but visits became less frequent with time. India and Pakistan did all they could to make travel difficult, and even Appi slowed down with the years. Eventually, her kidneys stopped functioning and she had to depend on dialysis for survival. My Lahore-born wife and 1 went to that city to see her and I recall that her spirit was undimmed by the troublesome and uncertain treatment she was obliged to take. With more advanced medical facilities, Appi would no doubt have completed a much fuller span of years but, sadly, such treatment was not available. Appi passed away just a month after

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our visit, mourned by her relatives and by great numbers o f others who had been touched by her luminous personality. Appi's creative energies did not falter till the end and her final metamorphosis was as a writer. It is fortunate indeed that she set down a series of autobiographical articles in one of Pakistan’s noted monthly journals. These made absorbing reading when they came out and rapidly acquired a substantial readership. Now her daughter Lubna has gathered them together in one volume. They are a valuable record of Appi’s early days in a family that contributed much to the education and progress o f women in the subcontinent. More than that, Appi's autobiography is an account of the life of an altogether exceptional woman who achieved much in many fields and who remains a much loved figure to those who were fortunate enough to know her.

Afterword L u b n a K a z im

My mother, Begum Khurshid Mirza, Appi to all of us, passed away on 8 February 1989. In 1985, after the long serial Ana, Appi made the wise decision to move to Lahore. Her small house in Karachi was sold and my daughter Batool accompanied Appi to Lahore, while I followed in a couple of days. My sister, Shabnam, then went to Karachi to complete the transaction. According to our mother’s instructions, Shabnam gave away Appi’s furniture to her servant, along with a cash gift. Shabnam’s most difficult task was taking Peter, our father's dog of fourteen years, to the veterinarian to be put to sleep. In Lahore, Appi regained her old optimism, getting involved in the lives o f her children and grandchildren. She became fully engrossed in designing the trousseaus and wedding ensembles of Batool and Raheel, planning the colour and the zari work on all the outfits. At the weddings, she played the dhol and led the old wedding songs that all of us joined in. My mother was a “doer", and hated inactivity. A keen needlewoman, she began making batwas (small drawstring clutch bags) that were presented to the children and other family members as keepsakes. She also made delicate, lightweight comforters, dulais, that are made by hand and are elaborately worked. She also warmly welcomed half a dozen great

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grandchildren, Najam's two sons, Batool’s two sons, and Numair’s daughter. Najam and Zubina had another son, Batool a daughter and Numair had two other daughters after she passed on. Akbar, my younger son, had a daughter in November 1999 and Raheel had a son in 2002. Appi was diagnosed with end stage renal disease and yet, in her intermittent trips to the hospital for dialysis and blood transfusions, she was a source of cdmfort and delight to the patients, their attendants, and the staff and the doctors, who would rush to surround her, chattering excitedly, ‘Akka Bua! Akka Bua!’ This was the price she had to pay for being a public figure. Once, when she was in a great deal of pain she said exasperatedly: ‘I am not on public display, I can’t even die in peace’. In the last year of her illness, Appi was gratified by the love and concern o f her several nieces and nephews who came from all over Pakistan, England, and India to see her. Anyone visiting Lahore came to inquire after her health. Her colleagues and friends from television visited her whenever they were in Lahore, including Ishrat Hashmi, Azra Sherwani, Anwar Maqsood, and Bajia. Once, when Appi’s condition was quite severe, Shakeel telephoned when he was in Lahore, asking if he could see “Aunty”.When he was informed that she was very ill, he said, ‘In that case, I won’t come. I want to remember her as she was.’ I did not encourage visitors in her room. ‘This is a sick room,* she told me, ‘not an entertainment chamber. When family members visited, I would usher them out of her room within a few minutes unless I saw that she was feeling better. Appi appreciated her privacy. Perhaps other people came to see her that I know nothing about since I was usually in school. Amna Bibi, my retainer, who was deputed to be her constant attendant, received them. The sister-in-law dearest to Appi, Asghari Raheem, and her children were very close to her. The youngest son, Tariq, would visit Appi frequendy in Karachi giving her good cheer and updating her on family gossip. When she needed to visit a doctor or a dentist, he was always around to drive her there. My cousin, Billo, came with her mother and stayed with us on and off,

AFTERWORD

sharing our concern for Appi and providing us with emotional support while they provided Appi with diversion. She probably found it easier to confide her fears to them that she kept from us. Salman Raheem, the elder son, telephoned from London to say that he was coming to see her when he heard about the nature of her illness. To this, Appi replied, ‘Sallu, don’t come especially to see me. You’re coming in December for a wedding. I understand how you feel but, Insha Allah, I will still be here when you come, and if I’m not, don’t feel sad. Remember, I’ve had a good life, and 1 know that you love me.’ Salman says he is grateful to God that he was able to see her and she was well enough to talk. Salman’s wife, Sarosh, another one o f Appi’s favourites, would sit quietly in Appi’s room keeping her company and responding only if she wished to talk. Appi’s sister-in-law, Sharaf Mirza, came three times from Karachi. Salman Haidar and his wife, Kusum, came from Delhi on leave and stayed with us for a week in December. Her niece, Shahla Haidar, took leave from work in Delhi and spent ten days with us, taking over her care from us. Khalda Qaseem, Icchan Khala’s daughter, used to hold an annual Milad Sharif, followed by a fabulous dinner that was attended by many Aligarh old girls in Karachi. Appi would recite her own naats in her melodious voice and read religious sermons from her published booklet, Milad-i-Mubarak. The year that she stayed with me, Khalda Apa rang from Karachi to inform her of the milad. I heard Appi saying, ‘Khalda I will not be able to come. I am very sick. You’ll have to get someone else.’ Khalda Apa was so worried that she took a train and came to Lahore. Appi and she were able to spend some quality time together before she took a turn for the worse. Khalda Apa returned to Karachi to arrange for her milad and annual dinner, and kept in touch over the phone. She visited Lahore again to see Appi and, even though by then Appi’s condition had worsened, she was very happy to meet her. Khalda Apa travelled by train since she was afraid of flying. She passed away in Karachi a couple of years after Appi. To cope with my fears, I read Dr Kubler-Ross’ book On Death and Dying to understand my role during my mother’s

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illness. The book advises care-givers to keep a terminally ill person as involved as possible in family matters and not to isolate them for being an invalid. Consequently, we sought Appi’s counsel in servants* wrangles, when the children were going through their difficult years, when the grandchildren were sick, or when the school administration was giving me a tough time. But, despite the book's advice, I could not bring myself to tell Appi some things that 1 knew would cause her grief. One such news was the death in a car accident in Delhi of the young Indian journalist Dhiren Bhagat. He was acquainted with our family in Delhi and came to Pakistan to cover the elections and other political events for his newspaper. Appi became very fond o f him and he brought her cardamom individually wrapped in silver varq in a red felt drawstring bag. I would often invite him to stay for lunch or dinner and Appi and he would talk exchanging news and views. When Salman Haidar and his wife visited, 1 asked them not to tell her about Dhiren’s Bhagat's death. Unknowingly, Appi sent him a book as a gift. Another shock that I kept from her was the passing away o f her cousin Rafia Anwar Ali. They were in school together and I heard them chatting over the phone many times. Shahida Khala and WZ Ahmed were frequent visitors. When Shahida Khala suffered a stroke and was hospitalised, Appi missed her and remarked, ‘I don't know why Shahida hasn't come to see me for so long. Is she offended at something I said?' Since the news was not that terrible, I told her that she had suffered a stroke and would come as soon as she could manage. Saleem Abdullah, her adopted brother and his wife Shamo, came very often to be with Appi. Since I had deputed Amna Bibi, who has been with us for twenty-five years, to be with Appi at all times, especially when I was in school, Appi would often say in deep irony, ‘Amna beti> you are like my daughter, say the Kalima out loud when I close my eyes. Shabnam and Lubna will not be with me. One will be in her classroom, and the other one at a meeting, but you will be with me. So pray loudly so I can hear you as I go.' As it happened, all of us were around her when Appi closed her eyes.

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She had given us verbal instructions to give Amna Bibi Rs 5,000, the dhoban whom 1 had deputed to spend the nights in her room, Rs 1,000, and Shauky, the sweepress and also a day attendant, Rs 1,000. They were also paid daily wages while they looked after her. Amna Bibi was the overall in charge of the staff. The women were given a new suit of clothes and a shawl each in addition to the money. Even so, the female staff started squabbling over the brand new white Kashmiri shawl that a friend had draped over Appi’s body. Appi always had her own money and used it to benefit others. The young doctors at the hospital were starry-eyed over such a popular television personality being in their charge, and enjoyed her company immensely. In her illness, she instructed us to buy full-sleeved warm sweaters for them since it was winter. The young doctors accepted their gift with surprise and pleasure. There are some harsh observations that I wish to make and put on record regarding the state of hospitals. When the dialysis machines in our regular hospital went out of order, we were told to look for another place that would accept outpatients. In a panic, Shabnam and I made desperate calls to people we knew in the medical profession, making the rounds o f several hospitals, trying to locate a machine but they were all booked for regular patients. Finally, we were able to locate one where the wife of the doctor in charge had been Appi’s student in the Government Girls College, Quetta. The husband and wife did us a favour and were kind enough to make special arrangements for Appi’s treatment. After a couple of weeks, we were informed that the machines in our regular hospital had been repaired and that we could bring the patient back. I noticed there were no familiar patients in the ward but a couple of new ones. When we inquired after them, a young doctor at his house job informed us cheerfully, ‘All the patients died.’ Another young doctor snapped two ribs of a very sick lady while resuscitating her heart, not realizing how much pressure he was putting on her frail bones. He was feeling remorseful and said with some sorrow, ‘ I became panicky and didn’t realize I was applying so much pressure.’ The patient was in coma and

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died the following morning. The episode frightened me a great deal and I realized how vulnerable my mother was, even in the hands of trained doctors. Appi had invested money from the sale of her house in Khas Deposit Certificates,, along with Shabnam and me. Due to her illness, her signature changed and the bank refused to accept checks signed by her, so Shabnam and 1 had to sign her checks in her place. The dialysis apparatus cost over a thousand rupees for each treatment, and most of the patients received theirs from the Zakat Fund. We would buy ours privately and telephone the hospital to let us know when a machine was available. The duty doctor would hold one for us and inform the waiting patients that the machine was being disinfected. The other patients soon caught on and were very resentful of this special treatment. ‘Just because your mother is a paying patient you get preference over us on the machines/ said a young man whose wife had left him after he fell ill. ‘Your mother is an old woman; it doesn't matter if she dies, she has lived her life. 1 need the machine more than she does. 1 am young, and have to live/ he added bitterly. An attending wife told us ruefully that it was her husband's turn on the machine but we were being accommodated out of turn and that it was not fair. Our depressing trips to the hospital were made worse because they were tinged with guilt, and patients who had earlier been friendly looked away from us in anger. One of Appi’s long-lasting fears was that she would oudive her savings and often she would ask me with her eyes wide with chagrin, ‘Is my money finished?' She asked us to apply for the Zakat Fund but we could not subject her to that, so she tried something else and said that she wanted to leave money for us, so why waste it on the dialysis units. When we told her that we were using the interest from the Khas Deposits and that her capital was still untouched, she was reassured and left us alone. An elderly patient who had obviously been abusive to his wife, used to yell and curse at her when he was on the machine. She looked on stoically then turned to me and asked, ‘Why doesn't

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your mother complain? Is she not in pain?’ I told her she was more distressed at the effect her illness was having on us. In the beginning, Appi made light o f these visits and, to cheer us up, she would tell us to treat it like a picnic so we would not be bored. We would take along light- snacks with us and sometimes even cooked food to share with the other patients. The dialysis treatment would take from four to eight hours at the machine, and since there were only three machines available, sometimes a whole day would go by before one machine was disinfected for the next user. This procedure had to be repeated every alternate day to cleanse the blood of urea and other toxic elements, but Appi would only agree to one day a week and that too on Saturdays, when Shabnam and I were off work. While she lived in Karachi, three o f Appi's grandchildren stayed at different times with her. Najam, who was at Karachi University studying MA Economics, stayed with her for over two years and was married from her house. Numair went for his first job to Karachi and stayed with her, and Raheel worked for a diploma in Montessori schooling and lived with Appi. My mother bonded with each grandchild, sharing their sense of humour, their work pressures, and the tales o f their romantic attachments. In Lahore, when she was ill and with me, my husband, Anwar Kazim, gave generously of his time and attention. He had retired from Pakistan Railways in January 1989 and changed his routine to have breakfast with Appi in her room, while I rushed off to school early in the morning. Appi used to say to Anwar that her daughters did not accept the fact that she was dying, and asked him to arrange for oxygen in case she needed it. Anwar spoke to the railway doctor who said he would arrange it in an emergency and this pacified Appi. Numair stopped by daily at Mayo Gardens where we lived, ^o see Appi on his way back from work. He often donated blood* when she needed transfusion. She looked forward to his visits and, on the last night of her life, he was sitting chatting her up,

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shelling peanuts and offering them to her, the two o f them laughing together. Batool had two infants on her hands and was also struggling to complete her medical degree. She became our unofficial consultant and we often asked her what was going on with Appi’s illness. Batool would consult senior doctors and try to reassure us but, much later, when she left for the US, Batool wrote to say that only now she understood how much Appi must have suffered without letting us know. Initially, Appi had refused the dialysis treatment, saying she had lived long enough but Batool argued with her that it would improve the quality of her life. Since she was always receptive to logic, Appi agreed, but only if it was once a week. I remember one day when I returned from school, I heard the sound of her moaning, ‘Hai H ai/ I immediately confronted her: ‘Appi, are you in pain?* She replied, ‘N o’. ‘Then,* I said cruelly, dealing with my own terror, ‘why are you moaning?* Appi retorted, ‘Because I want to.* ‘Please don*t say “hai hai** when I am here/ I went on, ‘It frightens m e/ 'All right/ she acquiesced, even in pain. After that I would call out before entering her room, so she would know that I was coming. Even when I heard her moaning to herself she would stop to spare me since she knew I could not help her medically. Appi was an intelligent woman and aware that her illness was terminal. She made trips in the car to Mian Mir graveyard and chose the place for herself. I asked her once where she would like to “go**, Karachi or Lahore. She replied calmly that she had caused enough trouble to us already and wanted to be buried in Lahore where we could visit her grave easily. She had planned to be beside her husband in Karachi but I am glad she chose Lahore. Appi passed away at 10:30 a.m. at home on the morning of 8 February 1989. Numair made all the arrangements for her final resting place and buried her. In the last fifteen minutes of her life, Batool was sitting on Appi*s bed, fingers on her pulse, and Amna Bibi and all of us were reciting the Kalima. After Appi died, everything became a blank in my mind.

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Appi died as graciously as she had lived. Always a resilient, independent woman, she was raised by the Abdullah clan, her mother and her sisters, to temper both her strengths and her weaknesses. She took her screen success with as much restraint as the debilitating disease of her final years. In losing her, we, her daughters and her nieces and nephews lost a dear friend who was much more than a mother figure to all of us.