SHORT STORY 𝒃𝒚 Khalid Farhad Dhariwal

May God forgive Munni’s father; when he was alive, I held certain significance. It has faded now. The daughter-in-law doesn’t give me any importance, and my son is the master of his own volition. They both do as they wish, and I’m an odd one out in their affairs. Who is there to ask after me now, besides? I spend my days, sitting here on this cot, engaging my grandchildren in play.

I desired to meet Munni. Her visit was expected by the end of January, but spring has almost passed, and she has not yet showed her up. When I had been in good health, I visited her myself. But now, it is difficult to bear with the din of the buses with this oldness. I had entreated my son to go and ascertain Muni’s wellbeing. He did go to his sister-in-law’s but he had no time for visiting Munni.

I feel so much for Munni. How affectionate I’m for her! How couldn’t I be, I am a mother after all! Do all mothers not love their daughter in the same way?

The reason for this affection is not just our mother-daughter relationship; one major reason is the fact of us both being women.

Whenever I visited my own ancestral village, my mother — now in heaven —chided me, “Why have you come after such a long time?” I remember I used to say, “As if you have only awaited my arrival all this while.” Then my mother would tenderly kiss my forehead and reply, “What else do you think?”

Now that my heart goes out for my own daughter, I can fathom the depths of my mother’s love.

Munni has been married for fifteen or twenty years now, yet it feels like only yesterday when she used to frolic in this very yard. When it came to Munni’s marriage, her father — God forgive us — had remarked, “Indeed, daughters grow rapidly like Persian lilac trees; how quickly she has attained youth.” He would, then, heave a sigh, and say, “If God had not written it in their fates to belong to some stranger, parents would not give even a single hair of theirs’ to him.”

I intervened to break the seriousness of the situation, “We, too, were the heartthrobs at our parents once, you know!”

A couple of days prior to the day of visit of Munni’s prospective in-laws, her engagement was quite conspicuous in the house. Together with her sister-in-law, she swiped the entire house clean. Once the house had been tastefully decorated, its beauty was unforeseen. It seemed as very different from what it had been before. Afterward, she had stayed in her room accompanied by her friends for quite a long time. Nothing was discernible from the outside; but I knew well what had been transpiring within the closed door. I knew that Munni’s friends were in earnest consultation to select her attire for the following day.

On the day they visited for the matchmaking, Munni overcame by an unfamiliar sensation. While walking about in the porch, she had been conscious all the time that their gaze was fixed upon her. They had been assessing her demeanor against the standards set by them. Poor Munni! — She had been moving around in her own house, having draped a shawl of modesty around herself. I felt much pity for her that day (Surely, my mother must have had similar feelings for me.) Then arrived the moment — the decisive moment — before the guests’ departure when a girl, free from any bond, exists only as a woman (If someone was to see her as a daughter or a sister at that time, how would they point out her mistakes?) Alongside the hope of appreciation lingers the fear of rejection. And when, finally, Munni’s mother-in-law-to-be placed a rupee upon Munni’s palm and bestowed her blessings upon the latter, tears welled up in my eyes. I was not sure whether those tears meant joy or sorrow!

When Munni had not been married, she meticulously attended to the upkeep of this house. Not a thing was ever found out of place. Had there been a disorder, she would swiftly spring into action to tackle it. This often led to her arguments with her sister-in-law. I would often try to explain it to Munni, “Why do you bother yourself with this house? Let the owners decide if they wish to take care or not?” She always vehemently argued, “Why? Is this my house not mine?”

After her marriage, I once questioned Munni, “Tell me something.” She asked, “What?” I expressed my concern, “Now, whenever you visit, there are layers of dirt in the rooms. Things lie scattered here and there. Why don’t you take care of these things, now?” She replied, “Oh Mom! I feel scared.” I asked, “What are you afraid of?” She said, “Of the family. They might assert that it is their house. Whether they take care of it or not, why should I interfere?”

If I had wanted to, I could have said that you always used to argue that this is your house too, but now… But I kept quiet. Perhaps, I didn’t want to add to her worries.

On her third visit to the parental home, I inquired, “Are you happy with your in-laws?”

She smiled a bit and replied, “Yes, but the ambience of my dreams still matches this house.”

I reminisce about Munni’s childhood. Once, there was a wedding in the neighborhood. In the late afternoon, as we were bidding adieu to the bride with welling eyes, “Why are all of you crying?” Munni asked innocently, clinging to my leg. I gently replied, “Because Rajji is departing for her home.” Munni asked, “But if she is going to her own home, why is she crying then?” I reiterated, “Because Rajji is departing for her home.” Upon hearing this, Munni, too, repeated her question, “If she’s going to her home, why is she crying?” Instead of satisfying her with another reply to her question, I tenderly lifted Munni into my arms and showered her with my affectionate kisses, embracing her tightly.

Munni was only a child when once she had come running and asked, “Mom! Should I tell you something funny?” I replied, “Go ahead.” She began by saying that Auntie had gone somewhere as a guest. Curiously, I asked Auntie, “Where have you come back from?” “From my village,” replied Auntie. I asked her, “Whose village this one is, then?” She replied, “Your uncle’s.” Munni couldn’t control her laughter, telling me this.

In a world where by simply repeating the word ‘talaaq’(divorce) three times, a woman can be exiled from a place — at any stage of her life  —where she has been living at, how can she ever claim that place to be her own? Though this thought obsessed my mind, but I refrained from sharing it with Munni, because I didn’t want to dampen her joyous spirits with perplexing thoughts.

When it had not been much time after Munni’s marriage, I would ponder over the idea of asking her to stay with us for six months during her next visit. But, I always dismissed my whim with a chuckle. What right do we hold over her now? Then I would sing a folk saying:

Parents

Nurture their daughters with love,

To, one day, distance themselves.

And I would think that… It was now solely the discretion of her owner — whether he allows her to stay or not. Nevertheless, is it not a great blessing for daughters when they thrive in their in-laws’ house?

Once Munni’s father-in-law came to take her back home. Coincidentally, Munni’s childhood friend Salma also arrived from her in-laws’ house. Now, Munni yearned to spend a few days with Salma to sit together, and to listen and share each other’s stories. Munni wanted us to refuse and not send her away with her father-in-law just then. But her father-in-law had come to take her for the first time; we couldn’t return him alone, like that. So, Munni had to go along.

Once Munni’s aunt had been visiting us and Munni also arrived. Her aunt insisted, “Munni should come with us this time.” Before I could have responded, Munni is now another’s possession, we cannot send her, Munni said, “I would have gone, but I haven’t taken permission to go to aunt’s place. If I go anywhere on my own, my in-laws get angry.”

Now, on her arrival, I exclaim, “What kept you away so long?” She replies that she doesn’t get any free time due to household chores. In anger, I retort, “God only knows what kind of work are you stuck with?”

Although, on the inside, I feel satisfied that she has been busy taking care of her own household.

Daughters should be given some gifts when they leave back for their in-laws’ home. They should never be sent away empty-handed. Although they, by no means, are dependent on these gifts, but daughters do have expectations from the parental home. They always take pride in the things they are gifted from their parents. Last time, when my daughter was about to leave after having hugged me, I said, “Wait, Munni! Take some jaggery from here.” While saying it, I glanced at my daughter-in-law, indicating her that she should go and get something in a small bag. But, she kept seated, unmoving. And when I got up to go inside, Munni said, “No, Mom… Let it be. How will I carry the weight of it with me?” And she stepped out of the threshold.

Perhaps, Munni had sensed something…

This house, which I was once the sole possessor of, now belongs to my daughter-in-law. Like Munni, even I feel scared now. I think many times before I touch anything here!

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(Translated  from Punjabi by Eesha Narang )

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