Babajan

III.

Farhat Phupo arrived in Abbottabad next, purportedly to supervise me and help my mother.

I stood half-hidden behind my mother as she welcomed Farhat Phupo. I surveyed this large lady, wrapped in a lurid fuchsia duppatta[9] that did not flatter her sombre, sallow face, who was to stay indefinitely with us.

“Phupo, I can’t thank you enough…” my mother’s voice trailed off as she squeezed Farhat Phupo’s arm, which, I was interested to note, was even larger than Salim’s waist.

“Now, now, Amna, there is nothing to worry about. You go tend to my poor, dear nephew. I can only be glad that his parents aren’t alive to see him in this state.”

My mother tilted her head warningly at me. Farhat Phupo smoothly steered the conversation into more pleasant waters. “Oh don’t you worry about Danial. My brother’s grandson will be in good hands. He reminds me of Ali, you know, my eldest nawasa[10]. We will get along just fine.” She turned to me, planting a wet kiss on my forehead and ruffling my hair. “Haina, Danial[11]?”

Repulsed, I drew back, staring at her warily and then looking at my mother, whose face seemed more relaxed than I had seen since I had come here.

The first couple of days with Farhat Phupo made me long for Nasreen Aunty’s house. Farhat Phupo was the worst of great-aunts. She did not coddle. She did not indulge. Her idea of expressing affection was to roughly pinch my already thin cheeks, and then lament how skinny I was.

She sat on the large rocking chair that was my favourite, because it was the only one that could accommodate her bulging flesh, and made me sit opposite her, while she moralised for what seemed to be hours on end. She made me fetch her water, fetch her reading glasses, no, her other glasses, “Beta, duur ki nazar walay chashmay[12]”, fetch this book and that newspaper. She interrogated me about school and studies. She boasted about how her grandson Ali had recently topped his class. She rarely let me out of her sight.

“Danial, if you must play, do so in the back lawn where I can see you.”

“Danial, I can’t believe the state of your hands! Do you even wash them? Just look at the dirt under your nails. Now, Ali never has dirty fingernails.”

“Danial, go call Salim. This chicken is too bland, again.”

I watched, transfixed, as she picked the bones clean from what appeared to be the fifth chicken piece she had consumed at lunchtime. She let out a hearty belch.

“Bad manners,” I spoke without thinking.

She scowled. “What? What did you say to me?”

“I…I… Sir Zahid always said that burping out loud were bad manners.”

“And who is this Sir Zahid?”

The first couple of days with Farhat Phupo made me long for Nasreen Aunty’s house. Farhat Phupo was the worst of great-aunts. She did not coddle. She did not indulge. Her idea of expressing affection was to roughly pinch my already thin cheeks, and then lament how skinny I was.

“The Principal at my old school,” I mumbled, immediately afraid of the glint in Farhat Phupo’s beady black eyes.

She grunted. “What would he know? All these principals and teachers nowadays, they’re just upstarts.” She sat back and yawned suddenly.

“What’s an upstart, Phupo?”

“Hmm, what?”

“That word you said, upstart. Does it mean being good at something? Sir Zahid had five trophies in his office, you know.”

There was a snore in response. I had discovered that Farhat Phupo was prone to falling asleep in the blink of an eye. One moment, she would be extolling the virtues of her grandchildren, and the next she would be in a state of repose, snoring liberally.

She also took blessedly long naps in the afternoons. I learnt to time these, waiting for my digital wrist-watch to show that it was almost half past three in the afternoon. I would then sneak out of the house under cover of the sounds of Farhat Phupo’s snores and Salim’s bawdy songs playing on his radio.

The three hours that followed were a blessed respite from the confines of Farhat Phupo’s disapproving eyes. I never dared to venture too far, but usually found something that engaged my interest and made the day more exciting.

On one of my explorations, I caught sight of newborn kittens sheltered under the metal sheet covering the roof of the empty house at the end of the lane. There was a ladder propped up next to the roof that I would use to spy on them. I smuggled bits of chicken fat and bread to give to the mother cat and hurried there in anticipation every day for a week.

One afternoon, to my dismay, there were no kittens in sight. I climbed down the ladder and searched around, calling out to them. I heard a faint mewling from behind the double hedge that enclosed our lane and served as a boundary to the sprawling lawn of the house adjoining the one where I was hunting for the kittens. Afraid that the kitten was hurt, I desperately sought a way to the other side. There was a space dug out in one part of the ground alongside the hedge, as if done by a dog. I was thin enough to squeeze through.

“Kitty, kitty,” I called out lovingly, my voice almost as high-pitched as the mewling that answered.

“Oye, hey!” came a yell from the direction of the house.

The setting sun was blazing straight into my eyes as I squinted to see who had called out. I heard more loud voices and made a cautious retreat back to the gap in the hedge. I saw an ample female figure approach me against the glare of the sun, her head covering forming a menacing hood. I could not see her face and in my panic to get away, got stuck in the hedge.

I gasped when she drew close and I saw that she was smiling reassuringly. “It’s all right, bachay[13]. Just come inside. Khan Sahib wants to see you.”

It was so that I met Babajan.

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[9] A length of material worn around the neck and also used as a head-covering or veil by women from South Asia, as part of their native dress.

[10] Daughter’s son.

[11] “Right, Danial?”

[12] Glasses for nearsightedness

[13]A term denoting the word “child”.