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READING BY FARZANA HASSAN
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Ma was a perfectionist and
liked to do things herself. She washed
her hands several times before cooking. Then she washed the rice and
lentils thoroughly, checking almost every speck for dirt. She kept the
house immaculately clean, though it was tiny, and after sweeping it
several times during the day, Ma would turn around and check the room
for any omissions on her part.
Of course, Ma would let me help her when her childhood friend,
Aunt Asha, paid us her annual visit in the summer, along with her two
children. Aunt Asha came loaded with presents from Katmandu. They were
usually ready-made garments for Ma and Buva, and books and electronic
toys for us. This, according to Ma, was Aunt Asha's way of flaunting her
wealth. Weeks before their arrival, Ma would be scrimping, trying to
save every penny so that she could extend her opulent friend the
hospitality that was due. It usually turned out to be a very nervous,
lavish, hectic, contradictory and hypocritical week of the summer. In
spite of Ma's efforts, Aunt Asha never refrained from making comments
about our economic condition—all of course with the best of intentions.
The grass is a vibrant
green and dandelions sprout between it. And from amidst this
yellow-green soil, grow tall rhododendron trees with blood-colored
blossoms that bloom in the spring. The entire hillsides look red then.
In the distance, snow clad peaks rise high, almost touching the heavens,
as the sun seeks shelter behind them. Our people call them "Place of the
Eternal Snows." Everything is the same as it was when I left five years
ago. It is as though I had never been away, except for the bitter
reality that separates the past from the present. Yet, it is only here
that I can forget my sorrow. These surroundings have that power. I can
still feel the warmth of the summer air stroking my skin, as it
transports me to a past that can never be reclaimed.
Those were happy times. I
can still picture my father, working on the small piece of land that we
owned. Situated beside our tiny hut, it lay at the foot of the mountain,
somewhat sequestered from the rest of the village. Buva regarded that
land as sacred, since it kept us from perishing altogether. Day and
night he toiled, to provide us with our daily sustenance, which was
usually a bowl of rice topped with lentils. "Daal bhat" is what our
people usually eat, as they are very poor, and this is the cheapest food
available. Buva grew rice on the land and he bought lentils from the
market whenever he could afford it. For dessert we ate wild berries that
grew on the mountain. But there were times when the berries were all we
ate. Ma put us to bed early on those days when there was no food.
Those eventful hours of the summer
would go by much too fast. Winters on our hillsides replace the summers
very quickly and are long and bitter cold. Nature then vents its fury on
humankind for abusing it. We spent our winters huddled around the fire
in an attempt to escape its wrath, for going outside would have been
suicidal, as both Rajan and I had very few warm clothes and a torn pair
of shoes, which we both shared. Our single room hut, which was made of
mud bricks, stones, rocks and wood, provided some insulation from the
chill. Yet the floor felt cold for it was made of packed mud. The roof
too, was built only of thatch, and although on the outside it was
protected by cow dung, we often felt the icy breeze pierce through the
cracks.
When the monotony of remaining
indoors in a single room muddy hut became unbearable, my little brother
and I ventured out just to convince ourselves that we were still alive
and not buried in a tomb. The snow on the evergreens reminded us of the
cotton wool that Ma kept in her little sewing box. We thought it looked
really pretty when it was fresh. On those rare occasions when Rajan and
I stepped outside,
we carved snow people out of it. We never went near it though, when it
turned an ugly dirty brown from being trod upon. On the deciduous trees
the snow often froze when the temperature dropped. It then looked like
sparkling diamonds that hung from the trees, especially with the sun
shining on it. For many hours, I would gaze at the "diamond trees" as
Rajan called them, sitting by my window on those frigid days.
A few minutes later Chowla Bai
entered the room. She was dressed in a red brocade sari and high-heeled
shoes, and I wondered how such a hefty woman kept her balance. She had a
large aquiline nose that jutted right out from between her two eyes. She
wore her hair in a long braid, with yellow and red flowers woven in it.
The flowers were different from the dandelions and rhododendrons that
grew on the mountainside. She had a stern look on her face, or perhaps
her forehead was permanently furrowed. I knew at once that I did not
like her much, for I felt a quiver of distress, similar to an electric
current, throughout my body, as I saw her expression.
"So are these the two new girls you have brought us?" she asked Kishan
as she looked at us disdainfully.
"Yes," said Kishan. "Aren't they the finest?"
"Oh, they'll do. You know that it really does not matter what they look
like as long as they are healthy and capable of work. But yes. This one
is pretty," she said, pointing towards me.
"Lets get to the point. How much have we decided for the two," she
asked, her tone uncompromising. Pooja and I looked at each other in
horror. It appeared as if we were being sold like commodities. "Ten
grand Chowla ji. Not a penny more, not a penny less. We have gone
through a great deal of trouble bringing them here."
"You must be out of your mind," Chowla Bai said angrily. "Ten thousand
is far too much. I will not pay more than three thousand for the two of
them."
"Consider the business they will fetch for you," argued Kishan.
"They are young, healthy and beautiful. You will be able to recover your
price soon."
But the argument, which soon became acrimonious on both sides, went on
endlessly. Pooja and I still stood on our aching feet and legs. "I
haven't got all day, Chowla Ji. Give me five thousand rupees for both of
them and I'll be off. If not, I have another bidder waiting
