OPTIONS FOR TITLE: QUILT OR LIHAAF

The Quilt
ISMAT CHUGHTAI
In the winters, when I pull on a quilt, its reflection on the wall beside me looms like an
elephant and, immediately, my mind races back to gambol in the pages of a world I have left
far behind. And I am reminded of all sorts of things.
Excuse me, but I am not about to launch into a romanticised account of my own quilt. In any
case, I cant associate any great romance with a quilt. I do feel that while a blanket may be
less comfortable than a quilt, its reflection can never be as terrifying as the swaying images
conjured up on a wall by a quilt. I am talking of those days when I was a little girl and would
spend the entire day fighting and playing with my brothers and their friends. Sometimes I
wonder why I was such a quarrelsome little wretch! Especially since every girl my age was
busy collecting lovers and I was hell bent on picking quarrels and getting into scrapes with
every boy and every girl I knew.
Perhaps, that was why when Amma was about to leave for Agra for a week, she left me with
a lady whom she considered as close as a sister. Amma knew well enough that there wasnt
even a baby mouse in that household and so there was no one I could get into scrapes with.
What a fitting punishment for me! So, Amma went off leaving me with Begum Jan... the
same Begum Jan whose quilt remains imprinted in my memory like the mark of a hot iron. It
was the same Begum Jan whose impoverished parents had agreed to make Nawab sahab their
son-in-law for, though ripe in age, he was an essentially decent man who stayed away from
the company of whores and dancing girls. Nawab sahab had himself been on the Haj and sent
many others on pilgrimage too.
But the Nawab sahab had one very strange pursuit. Others are known to keep pigeons, or
gamble on fighting quails or indulge in cockfights; he held all such vulgar pastimes in utter
disdain. He only had students staying over at his home fair, young boys with slender waists
whose expenses were borne entirely by Nawab sahab.
Nawab sahab had married Begum Jan, brought her home and kept her among his other
household goods and promptly forgotten all about her. And she, frail and delicate as she was,
began to melt away in the sorrow of her loneliness.
Who can say where her life began from: when she had made the mistake of being born? Or
when she came as the Nawabs bride and began her life on the ornate four-poster bed? Or,
when the stream of boys entering Nawab sahabs household increased steadily? Platters of
rich and delicious foods would be sent for the boys and Begum Jan would peep through the
cracks in the sitting-room doors and see the nimble-waisted boys with their taut calves and
sheer, scented dewy muslin kurtas, and feel as though she were rolling on live embers.

Or, did her life start when she stopped all her prayers and entreaties and admitted defeat,
when the night-long vigils ended and the tokens and talismans were overwhelmed? Has
anyone ever heard of a leech sticking to a rock? Nawab sahab did not budge an inch, and
eventually Begum Jan gave up. She turned her attention towards knowledge, but here too she
found nothing. Romantic novels and emotional poetry heightened her overwhelming sense of
defeat. A restful nights sleep deserted her altogether and Began Jan abandoned all semblance
of life and living and turned into a bundle of despair and longing.
She lost all interest in clothes and jewellery. After all, one dresses to impress someone,
whereas Nawab sahab did not spare the time to leave the dewy kurtas and come to her nor
would he permit her to go out and about. Ever since she had got married and come here, all
sorts of relatives would come and stay with her for months while she remained confined in
the house like a prisoner
The sight of the relatives enraged her all the more; they would descend in droves to enjoy the
good life, eat well and stock up on their winter beddings and quilts whereas she, despite her
quilt of freshly-carded cotton, would spend the entire winter stiff with cold. Every time she
turned and twisted on her bed, the quilt would cast shadows on the wall beside her and create
new images. And not one of those images was enough reason for her to live. Why, then,
should she live? But Begum Jan had to stay alive for as long as she was destined to live. And
so she decided to live her life, and how!
Rabbo saved her as she descended into a decline. Within no time, Begum Jans frail sickly
body began to fill up. Her cheeks shone and her beauty burst forth. Life rippled through
Begum Jan as some strange sort of oil was rubbed into her. Excuse me, but the secret
ingredients of that massage oil cannot be found in the finest of journals.
***
Begum Jan must have been forty or forty-two years old when I saw her. How elegantly she
lay propped up against the cushions while Rabbo sat beside her, rubbing her back. A purple
shawl was draped over her legs and she looked as regal as a queen. I loved to look at her face.
I wanted to gaze at her face from close quarters for hours on end. Her complexion was
extremely pale with not the slightest trace of reddishness. Her hair was black and drenched in
oil and I had never seen the parting of her hair look crooked. God forbid that a single strand
of hair would be out of place! Her eyes were black and, since her brows had been plucked of
stray hairs, they appeared to be arched. Her eyes seemed somewhat taut, their lids heavy and
slightly swollen, and lined with thick lashes. But the most remarkable and the most riveting
thing by far about her face were her lips. They were mostly painted red. The upper lip was
shadowed with a faint moustache and long strands of hair hung from her temples. Sometimes,
if one gazed at her face long enough, it began to seem strange, almost like an adolescent
boys.

The skin on her body was pale and smooth; it looked as though someone had stretched it taut
and tight. Often, when she bared her calves to be massaged, I looked stealthily at their
gleaming skin. She was quite tall and, because she had added some flesh to her bones, she
appeared to be a big woman. But her body was proportionate and well formed. Her hands
were large, white and smooth and her waist slender. And Rabbo would sit beside her and
scratch her back... I mean scratch her back for hours on end. Getting her back rubbed or
tickled or scratched was among the necessities of Begum Jans life, or perhaps even greater
than the necessities of life.
Rabbo had no other household chores; all she did was sit on the four-poster bed beside
Begum Jan and press her head or legs or some other part of her body. Sometimes, the sight of
Rabbo annoyed me: she was forever pressing or massaging something or the other. I dont
know about anyone else but, speaking for myself, my body would have rotted away if
someone were to touch me all the time.
As though the daily massages were not enough, God save us on the day Begum Jan took her
bath. Two hours before the bath, her body would be rubbed with fragrant unguents and
scrubs, and rubbed so much and for so long that the very thought was enough to break my
heart. The doors to her room would be closed, coal braziers would be lit and a succession of
massages would start. More often than not, only Rabbo would remain in the room. The other
maid servants would grumble and hand over anything that might be required at the doorstep
itself.
Begum Jan was said to be suffering from an itchy disease. The poor thing suffered from such
a terrible itch that thousands of different lotions and potions were rubbed into her body but
the itch remained. Doctors and hakims would say, There is nothing wrong with her; her body
is smooth and clean. Perhaps there is some problem beneath the surface.
No, no, these doctors are fools. May your enemies fall sick! It is nothing but the heat in your
blood, Rabbo would say with a smile and stare at Begum Jan with narrowed eyes. And
Rabbo... she was as dark as Begum Jan was fair, and as ruddy as Begum Jan was pale. She
had faint pockmarks on her gleaming black face. Her body was sturdy and agile, her hands
small and nimble, her belly taut and small, and her large and full lips seemed perpetually
moist and reeked of a frighteningly sickly smell. And her small, rounded hands were swift as
they darted from the waist to the buttocks or ran over the thighs and then raced towards the
ankles. Whenever I went to sit beside Begum Jan, all I wanted to see was where Rabbos
hands were and what they were doing.
Winter and summer, Begum Jan wore Hyderabadi lace kurtas. She wore dark pajamas with
her snowy white kurtas. And in summer when the fans would be working, she always covered
her body with a light coverlet. She loved winters, and I too liked being in her home in winter.
She seldom moved out and about and preferred to lie on the carpet, having her back scratched
as she munched on dry fruits.

The other maid servants disliked Rabbo, the witch, because she ate with Begum Jan and
stayed with her and, God help them, even slept with her. Begum Jan and Rabbo were the
subject of salacious gossip everywhere; whenever their names cropped up in genteel
conversation, respectable ladies erupted into peals of laughter. People cracked all sorts of
jokes about them. But the two of them did not meet anybody; only they existed in their world,
and their itch.
As I said, I was quite young then and completely infatuated with Begum Jan. She, too, was
very fond of me. As luck would have it, Amma had to go to Agra; she knew, left on my own,
I would get into scrapes with my brothers and wander about hither and thither. And that is
why she left me with Begum Jan for a week. I was happy, and so was Begum Jan.
Now the question arose: where should I sleep? Naturally, it could only be in her room. And so
a small bed was placed next to her four-poster bed. Till 11 or so, Begum Jan and I chatted and
played cards; then I went to sleep on my bed. And as I drifted off to sleep, Rabbo was sitting
there scratching her back. What a bhangan1 she is! I said to myself. In the night when I
woke up, I felt a strange fear. The room was plunged in darkness and in that darkness Begum
Jans quilt was swaying as though an elephant was trapped inside it. Begum Jan! I called out
fearfully. The elephant stopped moving. The quilt fell flat.
What is it? Go to sleep, Begum Jan spoke from somewhere.
I am scared, I sounded like a mouse.
Go to sleep... what is there to be scared about? Recite the Ayatul Kursi2.
All right, I said and tried to hurriedly recite the Ayatul Kursi but, each time, got stuck at Ya
lemu ma baina even though I knew the entire verse by heart.
Shall I come to you, Begum Jan?
No, my dear, go to sleep, she sounded stern.
And then the sound of two people whispering to each other could be heard. Oh dear, who was
this second person? I was even more scared.
1 A sweepress or one who cleaned peoples homes and latrines, and belonged to
the untouchable class; it was used as a term of abuse.
2 The Throne Verse, a verse from the Holy Quran that is recited in times of
danger or to ward off misfortune. Children are encouraged to recite it when they
are afraid. The fragment referred to here occurs, literally, in the middle of the
verse.

Begum Jan... do you think thieves have broken in?

Go back to sleep, child... what thieves? I heard Rabbos voice and quickly ducked my head
inside the quilt and went to sleep.
In the morning, I had no memory of the nights terrifying sight. But then I have always been
like that... all through my childhood I would get scared at night, wake up and mumble or run
around. In fact, people would say that I was haunted by ghosts! Therefore, I paid no heed.
The quilt looked entirely innocent in the morning. The next night when I woke up I found a
fight being resolved in great silence between Rabbo and Begum Jan on the four-poster bed,
and for the life of me I could not figure out its outcome. Rabbo cried great hiccupping sobs
and then the slurping sounds of a cat licking a bowl could be heard. Terrified, I went back to
sleep.
Rabbo had to go and meet her son, who was a great one for picking fights. Begum Jan had
done a great deal for him, even got him a shop, sent him to a village but nothing seemed to
have worked. He even stayed at Nawab sahabs house for some time. Fancy clothes were
stitched for him but, God knows why, he ran away and never ever came back, not even to
meet Rabbo. And so Rabbo had to go to meet him at some relatives home. Begum Jan did
not want Rabbo to go but what could Rabbo do; she was helpless.
All day long, Begum Jan waited anxiously. Every bone in her body ached, yet she couldnt
bear anyone to touch her. She did not eat a morsel and spent the entire day lying about
listlessly.
Shall I scratch your back, Begum Jan, I asked eagerly as I dealt the cards. Begum Jan
looked closely at me.
Shall I scratch your back... really, I mean it, I said as I put the cards down.
For some time, I kept scratching her back and Begum Jan kept lying quietly.
The next day, Rabbo was expected back but there was no sign of her. Begum Jans temper
grew steadily worse. She drank so much tea that she gave herself a headache.
Once again, I began to scratch her back... her back that was smooth as a table top. Softly,
slowly, I kept scratching. It gave me such pleasure to do this small chore for her.
Scratch a bit harder...undo the clasp, Begum Jan said. Here... ai hai...here, here, just
beneath the shoulder... wah... that is wonderful... wah... ah... ah... And in her state of ecstasy,
she began to draw long deep breaths to convey her satisfaction.
More this way.... She instructed me, even though she could well have reached there with her
own hand. She wanted me to scratch her, and I was bursting with pride to do it for her. Yes,

here... ouch... you are tickling me... wah... she laughed. I kept talking as I scratched her
under her clothes.
I will send you to the bazaar tomorrow... what will you buy? That doll that sleeps and wakes
as it opens and closes it eyes?
No, Begum Jan, I dont buy dolls...Do you think I am a child?
So, if not a child, are you an old woman? she laughed. All right, buy a boy doll then... let
me put on my clothes... I will get you lots of clothes, all right? she said and turned to the
other side.
All right, I answered.
Here, she held my hand and guided it to the spot that was itching her. Wherever she felt the
itch, she would take me hand and guide it and I, lost in my thoughts of the boy doll, kept
scratching her like a mindless machine. And all the while, she kept talking to me ceaselessly.
Listen, you dont have enough frocks... I will send for the tailor tomorrow. I will ask him to
stitch frocks from the cloth your mother has left with me.
I dont want that red cloth... it looks like the material worn by the chamars 3! I was busy
talking nonsense and my hand went from God knows where to where! Begum Jan was lying
flat on her back... Arre... I quickly snatched my hand back.
Uii, girl... cant you see where you are scratching... you are poking my ribs out, Begum Jan
smiled mischievously and I became flustered.
Come here, and lie down beside me, and she made me lie down with my head pillowed on
her arm.
Aii hai, you have become so thin... your ribs are sticking out, and she began to count my
ribs.
Owooo... I bleated.
Am I going to eat you... someone has knitted such a tight sweater! And you are not even
wearing a warm woollen vest... I began to wriggle.
How many ribs do we have? she asked, changing the subject.

3 Chamars were one of the untouchable community, now called dalits.

Nine on one side and ten on the other, I answered taking refuge in what had been taught to
us in the Hygiene class in school... that too ill-remembered.
Move your hand... yes... one... two... three...
I wanted to run away. But she held me tightly.
Owww... I trembled. Begum Jan began to laugh loudly. Even today when I recall her face as
it looked then, I feel a strange disquiet. Her eye lids looked heavier and more weighed down
and the shadow on her upper lip appeared darker. Despite the cold, tiny droplets of sweat
gleamed on her lips and nose. Her hands were cold, but also soft and smooth as though their
skin had been peeled off. She had taken off her shawl and her body, visible through her thin
lacy kurta, shone white like freshly kneaded dough. Heavy, bejewelled gold buttons swung on
one side of her kurta. Evening had fallen and the room was darkening. An unknown fear held
me in its grip. Begum Jans deep, dark eyes looked at me. I began to cry inwardly. She was
holding me as though I was a toy made of clay. Her hot body was making me nervous. But
she was like a woman possessed and I, I was in such a state that I could neither scream nor
cry.
After some time, she fell back exhausted and spent. Her face became pale and wan and she
began to draw long deep breaths. I thought she was about to die any minute, and so I quickly
got up and ran away as fast as I could.
Thank God Rabbo returned that night. I quickly got under my quilt and pretended to sleep.
But I couldnt fall asleep; I just lay there quietly for hours.
My mother was showing no sign of coming back. I had begun to fear Begum Jan to such an
extent that I would spend the entire day sitting beside the maids. I was terrified of setting a
foot inside her room, but who could I share my fear with? In any case, what could I say? That
I was scared of Begum Jan? The same begum Jan who adored me?
***
Today, Begum Jan and Raboo have had another fight. You can call it my bad luck, or
something else, but I was scared of their tiff because it caused Begum Jan to suddenly
remember that I was roaming around in the cold outside and that I might die of pneumonia.
Girl, will you cause me no end of shame? If something were to happen to you, I will be the
one in trouble. And she made me sit down beside her. She was rinsing her mouth and hands
in a basin. Tea was kept on a low stool beside her.
Pour the tea... give me a cup too, she said as she wiped her face on a towel. Let me change
my clothes till then.

I sipped my tea as she changed her clothes. Usually, when she sent for me to run some errand
for her as the barbers wife soaped her back, I would enter her bathroom with my head bent
low. And I would run out as soon as I could. Now, my heart turned over as she changed her
clothes in front of me. I kept sipping my tea with my head tucked in.
Hai, Amma! my heart cried out with a sniffle. After all, how much can you punish me for
fighting with my brothers... My mother had always disliked my habit of playing with boys,
as though boys were lions or cheetahs who would gobble up her darling daughter? And which
boys, after all? My own brothers and a few of their wretched little friends! But no, my
mother believed in keeping women locked up under seven locks. And here I was... more
terrified of Begum Jan than I would have been of all the rogues in the world. If I had my way,
I would have run out on the street and not stayed there a minute longer. But I was feeling
abandoned. I sat there helplessly with my heart feeling as heavy as a stone.
She changed her clothes and embarked on an elaborate toilette with all sorts of warm
unguents rubbed into her skin. Having turned into a live hot ember, she turned to shower her
attention on me.
I want to go home... I said in response to all her overtures, and began to cry.
Come, come near me... I will take you to the bazaar... Listen... listen to me...
But I was past caring. All the toys and sweets lay forgotten. I only wanted to go home.
Your brothers will beat you up... you witch! and she slapped me affectionately.
Let my brothers beat me... I said to myself and kept sitting there rigid and angry.
Unripe mangoes are tart, Begum Jan, the resentful and caustic Rabbo offered her opinion.
And Begum Jan erupted into a seizure. The golden necklace that she was cajoling me to wear
just a short while ago, broke into pieces. Her dupatta, made of the finest gauze, was torn into
shreds. And her hair, that I had always seen as immaculate and perfectly coiffed, turned into a
wild, straggly bush.
Ow, ow, ow... she began to shout jerkily. I dashed out of her room.
With great difficulty, Begum Jan regained her senses. When it was time for me to sleep, I
tiptoed to peek into her room and saw Rabbo sitting beside her and rubbing her body.
Take off your shoes... she said as she scratched Begum Jans ribcage and I ducked under my
quilt like a little mouse.
Surr Surr phutt kuchh... Begum Jans quilt was again swaying in the dark like an elephant.

Allah! Aa... I let out a faint squeal. The elephant under the quilt hopped and sat down. I too
fell silent. But the elephant went on rampage again. Every pore in my body quivered.
Tonight, I had resolved to gather my courage and switch on the light bulb beside my bed. The
elephant was flapping about and seemed to be trying to sit down in a squatting position. The
slurping sound of someone eating could be heard... as though someone was licking a lipsmacking chutney. Aha! Now I understood... Begum Jan had not eaten a thing all day. And
that wretched Rabbo was forever greedy for food. Surely she is gorging on some delicacy. I
flared my nostrils and sniffed the air, Sooo, sooo! But I could smell nothing except the
warm scent of sandal oil and henna.
The quilt began to surge once again. I tried my best to lie quietly. But that quilt began to
make the strangest of shapes and I trembled with terror. It seemed as though a gigantic toad
was making the oddest of sounds as it was blowing its chest and, any minute now, it would
leap on top of me.
Aaaa... n... Amma, I gathered my courage and snuffled. But it had no effect. The quilt
seemed to have entered my brain and was billowing away. Terrified though I was, I put my
feet down on the other side of my bed and, feeling my way in the dark, switched on the light.
The elephant under the quilt turned a cartwheel and subsided. But as it flipped over, it raised
one edge of the quilt by a foot or so. Allah! I ducked into my bed without another word.
--Translated from the Urdu by Rakhshanda Jalil