Aunty

COVER STORY

When I think of my childhood, images of snow-filled lanes in Murree, eating jamun from the trees in the backyard of our home in our Islamabad, yelling at the ‘challi-walay uncle’ on the streets for delicious, spice-doused corn and many more instances of infantile bliss fill my mind. But more than anything, remembering my childhood makes me think of Aunty. Aunty is my grandmother’s sister, but to our family she is as important and influential as the head of a tribe. My siblings and I were all born in her home, and she has been a matriarchal figure for us for as long as I can remember.

When we are children, things, ideas and people tend to float around on the surface of our consciousness without us trying to make sense of them. As a child, I thought of Aunty as a peculiar character that just existed in our home. She was this strict school principal who did not like anything out of order and would be very disappointed the day we missed a day of school. But she was also the one who would let us all sleep in her bed and tell us stories until she fell asleep and we woke her up again to tell us more. She wouldn’t let any opportunity to secretly slip us money go to waste and throughout the year she’d knit all of us sweaters to wear in winter. Aunty was just … Aunty. Nothing more, nothing less.

But, change is inevitable, and we moved out of Islamabad and Aunty’s home when I was about six years old. I grew up, and gradually perceiving what is acceptable in our society and what is not, I slowly realised how different Aunty had been – and still is – from what is considered a ‘normal’ woman in Pakistan. Now, I look at her as an elderly woman who is not married and has no children living alone in her home in Karachi, I see the visible oddities in her life. I knew that she had been married at a very young age, and that the marriage didn’t work out. I didn’t really know any more than that and it wasn’t something that is discussed frequently in our family.

Last week, I went to her home as my siblings and I often do on weekends and special occasions, but this time, I took her aside and told her I needed to do an assignment on a personality I find unique and inspiring for a class. “Don’t do it on me!” She exclaimed even before I had told her my plans. I expected this, and knew that it usually requires more than one attempt to convince Aunty of anything. She did eventually concede, but on the condition that I don’t disclose her name and refused to give her picture. That, is also a condition I expected and had to reluctantly agree on.

The two of us sat at the dining table with our cups of tea in her tiny, sparkling clean two-bedroom apartment, and I asked her to tell me whatever she wanted to about her life.

Born along with our country in 1947, Aunty was the eldest of several sisters, her family belonging to Bihar in India. “Abba used to say, ‘girls will not study’, so a maulvi would come and we would read the Quran. She said, staring into space. “All our cousins would go to school and we wouldn’t. But I did memorise five chapters of the Quran.” Aunty told me proudly.

So when did she move to Pakistan? I asked her. This changed her expression into a troubled one. “Some … things happened. When I was 12, my father fixed a marriage arrangement between me and my father’s brother’s son, who was about a decade older than me. The Nikah was held in only a few days and it was decided that I would live with my in-laws in East Pakistan until I was a bit older and then the Rukhsati would take place. My uncle was more progressive than my father, and he wanted to take me with him and educate me.” I noticed a grateful glint in Aunty’s eyes as she spoke about her uncle.

In Dhaka, Aunty was enrolled in the 6th grade. She was a diligent student and excelled in her studies. “It was all I had always wanted. My Uncle fulfilled every wish I had had as a child.” Time passed, and Aunty passed through grade after grade with stellar outcomes each time. Her husband, meanwhile, studied at university in another city. He would come occasionally, but they would rarely meet. “I passed my Matriculation and then Intermediate. My uncle was very proud of me and wanted me to study even further. I did my bachelors and after that the political situation started to worsen. In 1971, a few months before the war happened … I got a job posting in Islamabad and moved there.”

Aunty, of course, noticed my badly concealed confused looks and said, “He (her husband) was never interested in the marriage. He liked someone else and only said yes to the marriage because of his father’s pressure. He never accepted me as his wife, and married someone else. I think this is also a reason why my uncle did so much for me; he felt guilty about his son’s betrayal.”

An awkward silence resided in the air for a few moments, and I felt guilty about making Aunty recall memories that caused her pain. I tried to change the topic.

So, did she always want to be a strict school principal? I asked her light-heartedly. She laughed, her shoulders shaking. “Not a principal, but I got into teaching and loved it. I did it for years and years, and then the school I taught at made me their principal.” After moving to Islamabad, Aunty became a shining star in the family. “You start to get a different sort of respect when you earn. I wasn’t looked at as the ‘unfortunate’ girl anymore! I was providing for my family that had moved to Karachi. My mother (my great-grandmother) lived with me and I often took care of my sisters’ children. Your father lived with me most of his life. My family depended on me and cared about how I felt, so they didn’t push me to remarry too much.”

Many proposals came for Aunty. She was young, educated and well-mannered, the potential golden-bahu of any ‘civilized’ household. But she never accepted any of them. “I just couldn’t trust anyone again. I had been alone for most of my life, and every single thing worked as I wanted it to. I woke up at a certain time, got dressed, made breakfast, left for work, came back … everything was according to a precise routine that I had set. I did what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I couldn’t let anyone disrupt that.”

Dusk had almost fallen and Aunty stood up to turn on the lights of the lounge. It must have been difficult, though? I asked her. “Of course it was. People raised eyebrows, gossiped and even questioned me directly about my choices. But … it happened, what can we say?” I told her I meant how difficult it must have been for her to be alone all this time.

Another awkward silence. Aunty picked up the cups we were drinking from and started taking them to the kitchen. I stopped her and told her I’d wash them. “No, I’ll do it.” She has been like that for as long as I remember. She will only let someone help her if she wants them to. “Sometimes, I feel a sense of regret … but it is a lot of responsibility, to have a family.” She said no more about this.

Aunty retired from her position as principal in 2007, and moved to Karachi where the rest of her family resides. Here, she has lived in the same apartment for the past 14 years. The apartment is close to most of her nephews and nieces houses. So they and their families visit Aunty often.

At Aunty’s house, life is predictable. It is unchanging and runs like clockwork. When we come to stay here, we have to eat whatever she cooks, wake up whenever she tells us and sleep whenever she says. But a lot of times, a strict routine is what you need to bring discipline into a whirlwind of events and changes.

Aunty’s house is safe. It is home.