Series 4 Chandni Chowk Part 1 Where roses bloom like bruises

When the bell rings, your hands are still covered with dirt from the garden. You hastily stick them under the tap beside the back door, toss the apron into the oven on your way into the hall, and swing open the front door. The neighbours, aunty number one and aunty number two, whose actual names you can never remember, are standing underneath the shade of the lemon tree. They fan themselves with their hands, their flabby arms moving up and down in an inconsequential rhythm.

Aunty number one struts inside, her salon-dyed blonde hair revealing itself through her scarf. Aunty number two follows, gripping her baby like you have seen little girls clutching their dolls. Hands limp, arms crossed, cradling the child like it was born unaffected by gravity.

You would worry for the kid, but it bothers you that neither of the aunties said hello, nor did they ask for permission to walk past your front door. They quickly make themselves at home, inviting themselves for lunch even as they unpin their abayas and unwound their chiffon scarves from around their necks.

“No one at home, sister? Company for lunch, yes?”

You glance out of the window, at the fresh patch of dirt on your otherwise immaculate lawn. Company is the last thing you want today, but you nod anyway.

It has been six months since you have known the neighbours, but you still haven’t figured out how to tell them to go away.

The aunties stay to tea that day too, slowly stirring lumps of sugar into their chai as if they have no other worldly obligations to see to. They don’t, aunty number one assures you when you ask, because she has been to the tailor already, gone shopping and is considering getting a credit card as well.

“Kyunke the redding-made clothes, na, sister, are so much better than those the darzan sews.”

(Because the ready-made clothes are so much better than the tailor-made)

“I prefer the ready-made clothes myself,” you say, placing an emphasis on ‘ready’.

Your teacup clatters against your saucer as you place it on the table. You notice the table is dusty, so you wipe it with your sleeve.

“It means less hassle.”

Aunty number one nods fervently, and you offer aunty number two some biscuits, while the former stares into her tea. The sight of her glazed eyes elicits a smirk from you; the powder she has caked onto her cheeks crinkles when she purses her lips. Perhaps she is trying to figure out the nuances of ‘redding-made’ clothes. Meanwhile, aunty number two’s six-month-old child has begun to bawl; you watch, surprised when she sticks a biscuit into his mouth.

“Teething already?” you ask.

She nods.

Both aunties nod a lot, you have noticed, in the few months you have been here, almost as much as they talk. Aunty number one shakes herself out of her stupor. She pats at her trickling margarine-esque hair, but you are half-listening as she begins to talk about keratin treatment and the latest home remedy for glowing skin she has heard.

“How interesting,”

You say in the middle of her spiel when she pauses to catch her breath.

Tea with the neighbours consists of odd “hmm’s” and “aah’s” and occasional questions. What you like about the people in Lahore is that they mind their own business, usually, and they are far too invested in their own lives to be interested in yours.

It is an added bonus that the neighbours do not understand sarcasm.

You look at the clock every now and then, waiting for it to strike four so that they can leave—finally, God—because everyone knows that four o’clock is when every decent person in the neighbourhood has a kailooluh—a nap. But the aunties take their time with the tea, decking their cups with cream and asking for powdered milk instead of the normal kind.

When it’s 4:30 pm, you are overcome with the urge to throttle the aunties and tell them firmly to leave your house. You have tired yourself out already today and you are absolutely in no mood to add another two graves to your mounting collection. There was husband number one, whom you know existed because of the letters from the bank, although you cannot recall the details of when he died, or who he was or why you married him or when. You deem it unimportant, because there are also the husbands numbered two and three; and because you cannot remember them either, aside from their graves, you think favouritism is something you ought to avoid. One cannot be expected to remember all their husbands; after all, it is much more convenient to simply forget.

You can still feel the dirt from husband number four’s grave underneath your nails.

“Ah, and how are your sons, Fatima bibi?”

Aunty number one asks you, finally exhausting the topic of makeup and moving on to the common Pakistani woman’s most revered subject—their families.

“How is your husband? Rashid just got a new job, yes?”

Your eyebrows scrunch up.

“Rashid is... fine”,

You say, and, despite yourself, your eyes flit towards the window again.

Snapping your gaze back to aunty number one, you smile brightly, and laugh.

“He’s doing well — very well.”

You bite down on your lip after delivering this lie — suddenly, you remember Rashid all too well, him, and his meticulous aim with the cutlery. There are bruises along your arms like tally-marks, reminders of his abuse, and reminders of all that he did to you, all that you have tried so very hard to simply forget.

Was he husband number one? Or two?

You cannot remember. Your memory has been playing games with you recently.

“That is good.”

Aunty number one laughs as well.

“And your sons?” she presses.

“My… Ah, sons.”

Your hands curl themselves up into fists, nails digging into the acrylic material of the old sofa.

“I do not... quite recall...”

You draw the words out slowly, struggling to remember—but the mention of the word ‘sons’ merely causes indistinguishable, blurred faces to appear in your mind. You realise, with a jolt, that you do not remember if you have any sons—didn’t you just get married a year ago?

What did you have for breakfast this morning?

If Rashid was husband one, who were two, three, and four?

Your head whirls as you try to remember and you look down at your hands, frowning. Aunty number one moves to sit next to you, a worried look on her face; you look up when she places a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Memories get like that in old age.”

“I’m not old,” you say automatically, shaking your head furiously.

Your ears feel waterlogged; suddenly, you are very, very tired.

“Weren’t you just leaving?” you ask aunty number one. “Not afraid of the husband? Or are you the kind of woman who gets into his good books by agreeing with everything he says?”

At your sharp words, aunty number one’s expression changes from sympathy to badly-veiled surprise. Her dark eyes widen and she gets up slowly, although she looks at you long and hard before she turns away.

“Yes ... yes,” she says, solemnly. “We’re just leaving.”

You nod. Sweeping your silver, wire-like curls behind your ear, you try not to fidget as the aunties drain the last of their tea—a second cup each—and stand up. They suddenly look very sorry at having to leave.

“Lovely talking, sister,” they say brightly.

You force yourself to smile at them.

“Yes, yes, it was ... lovely talking.” Even though you did nearly all of it, you add silently. “You should come again.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth do you realise the situation you have gotten yourself into, and when the aunties grin with their Colgate advertisement worthy teeth at you, you hasten to clarify,

“Someday when we’re not all so busy.”

They are shepherded out onto the front steps, their abayas half-buttoned up, scarves loosely trailing behind them as they walk down the path. You stand in the doorway and wave erratically at their retreating figures.

“Come again! Khuda Hafiz! Come again!” you call out to them brightly.

Your smile changes to a grimace as soon as you have shut the door.