Sahitya Akademi

A Story: TOUCH ME NOT

Author(s): ISMAT CHUGHTAI, M. Asaduddin and Sunrita Basu
Source: Indian Literature, Vol. 36, No. 5 (157), ACCENT OF WOMEN'S WRITING (
September-October, 1993), pp. 90-95
Published by: Sahitya Akademi
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/23339709
Accessed: 24-02-2016 17:47 UTC

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A Story

TOUCH ME NOT

ISMAT CHUGHTAI

/ / I LAHi khair! Hail Ghulam Dastgir! Obeisance to the twelve

I imams! ... Make a move, dear ... carefully ... with steady
steps ... pull up the shalwar... easy, easy"—Bi Mughlani bellow
ed like a herald. I pulled Bhabijan up, Bhaijan pushed from the
other side and thus she, a veritable ad for amulets and talismans,
took the small step and rolled over to the chair like an inflated
balloon. "Praise be to God Almighty!" B1 Mughlani sighed with
relief and we felt a great load off our minds.
Bhabijan was not exactly born with a silver spoon in her
mouth, nor had ayahs and other ladies-in-waiting at her disposal.
Yet, before long, the frail slip of a girl became as tender as a
swollen wound. Fact is, the moment she was alienated from her
mother's bosom, she came to adorn Bhaijan's bed. Here she had
pretty little to do and blossomed like a flower, fresh and fragrant,
without any sense of life's harshness. Bi Mughlani took charge
of her from the day of her marriage. She woke up from sleep at
a leisurely hour, but remained in bed while Bi Mughlani flurried
around attending to her person. Later she would be given a choice
breakfast. Having washed it all down, she would sit around—her
cheeks resting on her hand and lips parted in a smile.
The smiles began to fade in the second year of her marriage
as nausea made her spit all the time. Finding his beautiful doll-like
bride turning into a permanently sick woman, Bhaijan began to
lose interest in her. But Bi Mughlani and Ammijan were bursting
with excitment. From the first month of pregnancy they threw
themselves wholeheartedly—stitching diapers etc with such

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 ISMAT CHUGHTAI/91

enthusiasm as though the delivery was imminent. So covered

was she with amulets that even a mole could not have peeped
through. Constant application of witchcraft and charms wore her
down. As it is, Bhabijan was never a great one for walks and
sprints, but now even if she turned on her sides herself, Bi
Mughlani would raise such a racket that the whole house would
be accumulated there. Even a half-baked clay pot was not hand
led with more care. Pirs and faqirs became permanent fixtures
in the house, ever ready to mutter prayers and ward offevil spirits.
In spite of Bi Mughlani's rigorous vigil, the shell cracked
before time and expectation belied. The blossoms withered away
and the branch remained bare. But a thousand thanks to God
that her life was saved. God is bountiful. If the mother survived,
more would come. And it did. The vigil was intensified. Yet
hopes again drew a blank. The third time round matters took a
grave turn. The poor thing was choked with pills and syrups. A
sick pallor gave her the look of a sweet potato turned bulbous.
Her evenings stretched to the early hours of dawn. Ammi Begum
and Bi Mughlani were nottoo pleased. Lying on her bed, Bhabijan
seemed to hear the Shehnai of Bhaijan's second marriage.
However, by God's grace, the pregnancy advanced quite
a bit without any mishap. This time, besides pirs and faqirs, Delhi
doctors also descended in their full armour. From the second
month she was treated as delicately as though she was a soap
bubble and provided with all comforts. No one was allowed to
sneeze or blow one's nose in her vicinity lest the bubble should
burst once again. When the doctors declared her out of danger,
Ammi Begum decided that the delivery should take place at
Aligarh. It was hardly a two-hour journey. Bhabijan was reluctant
to leave Delhi eventhough the doctors had given the go-ahead.
Her horizon was darkening. She knew that another miscarriage
would be her husband's ticket to second marriage. Now Bhaijan
could do anything in the name of progeny. God knows why the
fellow was so keen on keeping his name alive. As it is, he did
not have any name to speak of. If she failed in this one conjugal
duty, she would have to forgo all bridal comforts. She had reigned
so long on the strength of her beauty and charm. Now she was
perched on a boat her husband was prepared to topple. Where

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92/INDIAN LITERATURE : 157

could the poor thing go? She did not learn needlework for her
lack of interest in it and the little she had studied was long forgot
ten. In the absence of a provider she could resort to one thing
only—that is, to render the same service to everybody which
was, so far, exclusive to her husband. That is why she was
desperately looking forward to the delivery which would make
her life secure. If the father (of the newborn) lacked interest, the
grandfather would certainly provide for her maintenance.
As if she had not enough on her mind already, there came
Ammi Begum's imperial command to start for Aligarh and we
were thrown aflutter. A bunch of new amulets would see her
through. "Ilahi khair!" Caught unawares by the speeding train,
Bi Mughlani crashed down and Bhabijan clutched at the pitcher.
"Is this a train or a transport to hell! Hail pir Murshid, help
us ... Hail Hazrat Ali..." Holding Bhabijan'stummy, Bi Mughlani
started muttering prayers and verses from the holy Quran. Some
how we reached Ghaziabad.
The Toofan Mail, true to its name, tears along without stop
ping. The entire coach was reserved for us. Hence the threat of
jostling crowds was out. I was absorbed in the crowd in front of
the window and Bi Mughlani shielded her ears against the trains
shrieking whistle. Bhabijan nearly fainted at the sight of the crowd
from afar.
As the train chugged off, the coach door opened and a pea
sant woman moved in. The Coolie tried to pull her away but she
stuck to the handle like a lizard and would not budge. Gradually
she dragged herself to the bathroom door, despite Bi Mughlani's
constant poohpoohing, and leaned against it, panting.
"May God forgive our sins!" Bi Mughlani murmured. "Hey
you! Are you pregnant for the full term?" The panting woman
just managed to spread her parched lips in a strained smile and
nodded assent.
"By God, this girl has some cheek!" The shock was too much
for Bi Mughlani and she began to slap her own face repeatedly.
The woman did not respond. The intensity of pain made her
restless and she clutched it at bathroom door with both hands.
Her breath came in gasps and perspiration appeared on her
forehead like dewdrops on a cool ground.

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 ISMAT chughtai/93

"Is it your firstpregnancy?" Piqued by her lack of experience,

Bi Mughlani asked angrily. The woman could not reply as fits of
pain swept over her. Her face turned pale and tears trickled
down her dilated eyes. Bi Mughlani kept up her litany of lament
as the woman continued to writhe in tearing pain.
"What do you think you're doing, looking on like that? No
dear, look the other way; you're still a virgin maid." I turned
away. But the heart-rending cry of the woman made me turn
back involuntarily. Bi Mughlani was incensed: "God's curse! As
though she'd achieve salvation if she sees a child being born?"
Bhabijan, her face wrapped in her dupatta, kept on staring. Bi
Mughlani's burqa dropped to her nose and she badly smeared
the floor of the coach with her constant spitting.
All of a sudden it seemed that the world shrank on its axis
and twisted itself. So intense was my reaction that my ears began
to burn unbearably and tears welled up automatically. "This is
the end", I thought. But the tension in the atmosphere melted
abruptly. The burqa slipped from Bi Mughlani's nose as a lump
of red flesh dropped near Bhabijan's royal shoes, the Salimshahis.
I cried out in surprise and joy and bent down to look at the tiny
wonder that broke all hell loose by letting out a full-throated yell.
Bi Mughlani took hold of my plaits and shoved me into the
corner and began to rage against the woman once again. Through
tearful eyes, I saw that the woman had not died. Instead her torn
and parched lips were slowly parting in a smile. The constant
clamour of the newborn forced her eyes open. She turned side
ways to take it to her bosom and began to tidy it up with her
inexperienced hands. She tore a strip from her dupatta to tie up
the umbilical cord and then looked
about her helplessly. Seeing
me absorbed in her, she burst out laughing—"Have you got a
blade or knife, Bibiji?"
Bi Mughlani raged on. Bhabijan clung to my anchal as I
handed over a pair of a nail-cutting scissors to the woman. She
was my age, may be a few months older. I was reminded of field
animals like sheep and goats who bring forth their offsprings as
they graze along, without any fuss and not caring for the help of
lady doctors and then tidy up by licking them with their tongue.
Elderly people prevent young girls from watching a delivery

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94/indian literature : 157

saying that when Jebunnisa saw her sister giving birth, she was so
shocked that she never got married. So much for old folks and
their old wives tales! Jebunnisa's sister must have been as fragile
as my Bhabijan. If she had witnessed the delivery of this woman,
she would have been convinced like me that people make a lot
of fuss for nothing. Giving birth is as easy a job for women as
getting on or off the train for Bhabijan. After all this is not some
thing to be ashamed of. Far more revolting is the gossip between
Bi Mughlani and Amma about fellow women which fall on my
ears day in and day out like hot embers and make them burn.
For sometime the woman tried to breastfeed her child in her
clumsy way. Her tears had dried up and she burst into occasional
fitsof laughter as though someone was tickling her. Bi Mughlani's
chiding subdued her somewhat. She folded the baby in a rag,
put it under the seat and stood up. Bhabijan let out a scream.
Bi Mughlani soothed her. The woman fetched water from the
bathroom and began to clean the coach. Rubbing off the stains
from Bhabijan's brocaded shoes, she left them standing in a
corner. Then she picked up her child and sat leaning against the
bathroom door with the air of one who, having finished the day's
chores, sits down to relax. As the train drew to a halt she hopped
down.

"Where's your ticket?" asked the ticket collector. She held

out her dupatta with flourish as though she was exhibiting wild
berries that she plucked stealthily. Too shocked to speak, the
ticket collector stood transfixed while she turned away and van
ished in the crowd.
"God's wrath on all these harlots! They go on producing
bastards ... the witches!" Bi Mughlani muttered to herself. The
train gave a lurch and chugged off.
Bhabijan's smouldering sobs abruptly turned into a searing
scream. "Oh God! What's wrong, Begum Dulhan?" Bi Mughlani's
heart came to her mouth as she looked at the Begum's terror-stric
ken face. Writ large on it was the vision of her husband's second
marriage :

Thus does Fate play with us

Shows the shore and capsizes the boat

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 ismat chughtai/95

The unborn child got cold feet and wilted away before its
entry into the world. My flower-like Bhabijan felt so unnerved
after witnessing the bizarre delivery in the train that she had a
miscarriage once again.

CHHUI MUI

Translated from Urdu by M. Asaduddin & Sunrita Basu □

Hema Guha

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