Cauthi Ka JodaaIsmat Chughtai

Translated from Urdu

On the wooden platform (chauka) in the sihdari, again today a fresh, clean linen floor-cloth had been spread. Through the chinks in the old, broken roof-tiles, irregular slivers of sunlight spread through the whole dalan. The neighborhood women sat silent and almost trembling, as if some great event was about to happen. The mothers held their babies to their breasts. From time to time some difficult, fretful baby would announce a shortage of nourishment with a sudden cry.     "Now, now, sweetheart." The thin, puny mother would lay the baby across her knees and shake him as if she were winnowing the hulls from rice in the sun. And then, with a mumble of resignation, he would fall silent. Today, how many hope-filled eyes were staring at Kubra's Mother's thoughtful face! Two narrow breadths of twill had been joined together, but as yet no one had found the courage to mark out the pattern on the coarse white cloth. In matters of cutting and trimming, Kubra's Mother held a very high rank. No telling how many trousseaus her dry hands had decorated, how many "sixth-day presents" she had prepared, and how many shrouds she had measured out. Wherever in the neighborhood the cloth turned out to be too small, and even after a hundred tries the pattern wouldn't "sit" properly, the case would be brought to Kubra's Mother. Kubra's Mother would straighten the edges, rub away the starch, sometimes shape a triangle, sometimes make a square-- and tracing in her mind the path of the scissors, measuring out the lines with her eyes, she would suddenly smile.     "The sleeves and the front and back will come out of this; for the collar, take a cutting from my box." And the problem was solved. Having cut out the fabric pieces, she would make a make a neat bundle of cuttings and hand them over. But today the fragment of white cloth was extremely small. And everybody believed that, 'today the measuring skills of Kubra's Mother will be defeated'; thus they all, holding their breath, were watching her face. On the confident face of Kubra's Mother there was no sign of worry: with her glances she was measuring the fragment. The reflection of the red twill was blazing on her dark, swarthy face like a sunrise. Those sad, sad, deep wrinkle-lines were suddenly lit up like dark clouds, the way in thick jungle fire bursts out, and she smiled and picked up the scissors.    

From the group of neighborhood women a long sigh of relief emerged. Even the babies in their laps were put down onto the floor. The young unmarried girls with glances like birds of prey instantly threaded their

needles, the newly married brides put on their thimbles. Kubra's Mother's scissors had begun to move.In the farthest corner of the outer hall, on a light cot, Hamidah, feet dangling, chin on her palm, was thinking some faraway thoughts. Having finished the afternoon meal, in this way Bi Amma goes and sits on the wooden platform in the outer hall; and opening the box, she always spreads a net of many-colored fabrics. Seated beside the mortar, scrubbing the dishes, Kubra looks at the red fabrics in such a way that a red wave surges up in her dirty-yellowish complexion. When with her soft, light hands Kubra's Mother opens out the net of silver sequins and spreads it on her knees, her withered face suddenly glows with an extraordinary longing-filled light. The reflection of the sequins on her deep, box-like wrinkles begins to glow like tiny torches. With every stitch the gold-work quivers, and the torches flickerThere's no remembering when her [fine muslin] "dewdrops" dupattah was made, and was hung there ready-- and was sunk into the depths of the large, coffin-like wooden box. The nets of sequins faded. The rays of the gold-and-silver work became dim. The very long thread-work pieces became sad, but Kubra's wedding procession didn't come. When one outfit would become old, then it would be called a "later-visit outfit" and given away for free, and then with a new outfit there would be an opening-out of new hopes. After much searching, a new piece of satin would be selected. On the wooden platform in the outer hall a fresh, clean linen floor-cloth would be spread. The neighborhood women, paan-daans in hand and babies under their arms, with their anklets jingling, would arrive."The piece for the underwear can be gotten, but there isn't enough fabric for the bachi." "Come on now-- just think about it, sister! Will we have to have chuls of that wretched twill?" And then again all their faces became anxious. Kubra's Mother, silently, like an alchemist, measured the length and width with the tape of hereyes, and the women began to whisper among themselves about underwear, and burst out laughing. In the meantime, somebody began to sing a man-chali, somebody a suhag or a banna, somebody especially bold began to recite insults to an imaginary set of in-laws. Shameless dirty jokes and pleasantries began. On such occasions the young unmarried girls were ordered to sit under the tiled roof, far from the sihdari, with their heads covered. And when some new burst of laughter came from the sihdari, then these poor things sighed helplessly: Oh God, when would these bursts of laughter be vouchsafed to themselves?

Far from this hustle and bustle, Kubra, shame-stricken, with her head bowed, stayed seated in the 'mosquito room'. In the meantime, the cutting-out had reached an exceedingly delicate stage. Some gusset would be cut backwards, and at that the women's wits too were 'cut' [so that they became superstitiously fearful]. Kubra shivered, and

peeped in from the shelter of the doorway. This very thing was the difficulty. No damned outfit could be sewed in peace! If some gusset would be cut backwards, then you can be sure that in the arrangements the Barber-woman had made, some impediment will appear. Or else some mistress of the bridegroom's will turn up, or his mother will impose the obstacle of a demand for solid gold jewelry. If the got would be cut crookedly, then take it that either negotiations will break down over the dowry, or there will be a quarrel over a bedstead with legs covered in silver-work. The omens for the fourth-day outfit are very subtle. All Bi Amma's experience and dexterity proved to be of no avail. No telling how it would happen, at the exact moment, that something the size of a mustard seed would suddenly take on importance. From the day of her "Bismillah" ceremony, the adroit mother had begun to put together the dowry. If even a little scrap of fabric was left, then she sewed a cover for an oil-jar or a bottle, adorned it with gold-thread lace, and put it aside. What can you say about a girl? --she grows like a cucumber! When the wedding procession comes, then this efficiency will prove handy. And when Abba passed away, efficiency too ran out of breath.Hamidah suddenly remembered her father. How thin and scrawny Abba was-- as tall as a Muharram pole. If he once bent over, then it was difficult for him to stand upright. Very early in the morning he would rise, break off a toothbrush-twig, take Hamidah on his knee, and think about who knows what. Then as he was lost in thought, some sliver of the toothbruth-twig would lodge in his throat, and he would cough and cough. Hamidah would grow cross and get down from his lap. She didn't at all like to be shaken by the bursts of coughing. At her childish anger he would laugh, and the cough would roughly catch in his chest. As if a pigeon with its throat cut would keep on fluttering. Then Bi Amma would come and help him. She would thump him vigorously on the back. "God forbid-- what kind of laughter is this!"Raising eyes reddened from the pressure of the coughing fit, Abba would smile helplessly. The coughing would stop, but for a long time he would sit panting."Why don't you take some kind of medicine? How many times have I told you?""The doctor in the general hospital says to have injections. And every day a quart of milk and an ounce of butter.""Oh, may dust fall on those doctors' faces! What the hell-- for one thing, a cough, and on top of it, fat-- won't it create phlegm? Go and see some hakim.""I'll do that." Abba made his huqqah bubble, and again began to cough. "May that wretched huqqah burn in the fire! It's what has given you this cough! Have you even bothered to look up and notice your grown daughter? And Abba looked at Kubra's youth with a glance that implored mercy. Kubra was grown-- who said she was grown? It was as

if ever since the very day of her "Bismillah," she had heard of the coming of her youth, and had hesitated, and stopped. No telling what kind of youth had come, that neither did fairies dance in her eyes, nor did her curls become disordered around her cheeks, nor did storms arise in her breast, nor did she ever sulk at the dark clouds of the rainy season and demand a sweetheart or a lover. That bowed-down, trembling youthfulness, that came sneaking up to her on tiptoe, no telling when-- in the same way, no telling when or where, it went away again. The "sweet year" became salty, and then turned bitter.Abba one day fell face down at the doorsill, and no hakim's or doctor's prescription could enable him to rise. And Hamidah stopped making temperamental demands for sweet roti. And betrothal-messages for Kubra somehow, no telling where, lost their way. Just take it that no one even knew that behind that sackcloth curtain someone's youth is gasping out its last breaths, and one new youth, like the hood of a serpent, is rearing up. But Bi Amma's routine didn't break down. In just the same way, every day in the afternoon she spread out in the sihdari many-colored fabrics, and continued to play dolls' games.

Scraping the money together from somewhere or other, in the month of Shab-e barat she managed to buy a crepe dupattah for seven and a half rupees. The thing was that there was no way to avoid buying it. A telegram came from her brother that his oldest son, Rahat, is coming in connection with training for the police. As for Bi Amma-- well, it was as if all at once she fell into a panic. It was just as if it wouldn't be Rahat on the doorstep, but a wedding procession arriving, and she hadn't yet even ground up the gold sprinkles for the part in the bride's hair. In distraction, she lost her head entirely. Instantly she sent for her adopted "sister," Bundu's Mother: "Sister, if you don't come this moment, you'll only see the face of my corpse!"     And then they both whispered together. In the midst of it, they would both cast a glance at Kubra, who was sitting in the dalan, winnowing rice. She well understood the language of that whispering.At that time Bi Amma removed from her ears the four-mashah "clove" earrings, and confided them to her adopted "sister": "No matter what it takes, by evening, please bring me a full tolah of narrow-twisted lace, six mashahs of gold-leaf with stars, and a quarter-yard of twill for the waistband." She swept the outer-facing room and got it ready. Kubra sent for a little slaked lime, and with her own hands whitewashed the room. The room became bright, but the skin peeled off from the palms of her hands; and when in the evening she sat down to grind the spices, she recoiled, and doubled up in pain. The whole night was spent tossing and turning. First, because of the palms of her hands; second, by the morning train Rahat was coming.    

"God! My dear God, this time may my Apa's fortune open up. My God, I'll recite a hundred extra prayers in Your presence," Hamidah implored, after the early morning prayer.In the morning when brother Rahat came, Kubra had already gone beforehand and hidden in the 'mosquito room'. When he had eaten a breakfast of sivaiyan and parathas, and gone off to the baithak, then taking slow and hesitant steps like a new bride Kubra emerged from the room and took away the dirty dishes."Give them to me, I'll wash them, Bi Apa," Hamidah said mischievously.    "No." She hunched over in embarrassment.Hamidah kept teasing her; Bi Amma kept smiling, and kept stitching gold-thread lace onto the crepe dupattah. By the same road the "clove" earrings had gone, the rosettes, "leaf" earrings, and silver ankle bracelets also departed. And then two pairs of bangles too, that her middle brother had given her on the occasion of her "removing her widow-hood."Eating plain food themselves, every day parathas were fried for Rahat; koftas, pilaus diffused their fragrance. Themselves gulping down dry morsels with water, they fed rich meat dishes to the future son-in-law.   "The times are very bad, daughter," she always said to Hamidah when she saw her sulking. And Hamidah always thought, "We're remaining hungry, and feeding the 'son-in-law'. Bi Apa gets up at the crack of dawn like an automaton and sets to work. On an empty stomach, with only a swallow of water, she fries parathas for Rahat. She boils the milk, so that a thick layer of cream would form. It wasn't within her power to pull out fat from her own body and enrich those parathas. And why would she not enrich them? After all, one day he will become her own. Whatever he earns, he will place in the palm of her hand. Who doesn't water a fruit-bearing plant? Then one day when the flowers will bloom and the fruit-laden bow will bend, what a humiliating blow it will be to those women who taunt her! And with this thought alone does auspiciousness bloom on my Bi Apa's face. In her ears the shahnais begin to sound, and she sweeps Rahat's room with her eyelashes. She folds his clothes with love, as if they were saying something to her. She washes his bad-smelling, rat-like, filthy socks, cleans his stinking undershirts and the handkerchiefs besmeared by his nose. On the cover of his hair-oil-stained pillow she embroiders "sweet dream." But the affair was not falling squarely into place.Every morning Rahat devoured eggs and parathas and went out, and in the evening he came and ate koftahs and went to sleep. And Bi Amma's adopted sister whispered in a wise manner.      "He's very shy, the poor thing." Bi Amma offered a justification.             "Yes, that's fine. But bhai, something would be revealed by his aspect and manner, something by his eyes."

"Oh, God forbid! May the Lord not let it happen that my girl would cause her eyes to meet his. Nobody has seen even the hem of her garment" Bi Amma said with pride."Oh, who says she should break her purdah?"Seeing Bi Apa's well-developed pimples, she had to do justice to Bi Amma's far-seeingness."Oh sister, in truth you are very simple. When do I say this? This little wretch-- on which 'Bakrid' will she come in handy?" Looking at me, she laughed. "Well, there, you with your nose in the air! Some conversation with the brother-in-law, some joking? Come on, you silly thing!"

"Oh, what can I do, Auntie?""Why don't you talk with Rahat Miyan?""Auntie, I'm embarrassed." ="Ai hai -- he'll rip you apart and eat you, won't he?," Bi Amma used to say in irritation."No, but-- but-- " I became unable to reply. And then silence fell. After much thought and reflection, oil-cake kababs were made. Today even Bi Apa smiled several times.She spoke softly : "Look-- don't laugh! Otherwise the whole game will be spoiled.""I won't laugh," I promised."Please have your dinner," I said, placing the tray of food on the wooden platform [chauka]. Then, while washing his hands from the water-jug kept beneath the wooden board, when he looked me over from head to foot-- I fled from there.My heart began to pound: 'God forbid-- what diabolical eyes!'"Go on, you worthless wretch-- will you just get in there and see the expression on his face! Ai hai, the whole pleasure will be spoiled!"         Apa Bi gave me a single look. In her eyes there was a plea, there was the dust of looted wedding processions, and there was the faded sorrow of old "fourth-day outfits." Bowing my head, I again went and leaned against the pillar. Rahat kept eating in silence. He didn't look toward me. Having seen him eat the oil-cake kababs, what I ought to have done was that I would make a joke of it, would burst out laughing: "Bravo, hail to the 'bridegroom'! You're eating oil-cake kababs!" But it was as if someone had squeezed my throat shut.Bi Amma, growing angry, summoned me back, and under her breath began to curse me. Now what would I have said to him? --since he is eating with pleasure, the wretch."Rahat bhai, did you like the koftas?" I asked, on Bi Amma's instructions. No answer came.“Tell me, won't you?""Oh, go and ask him properly!" Bi Amma gave me a shove.

"You brought it and gave it to me, and I ate it. It must surely be tasty." "Oh, great, you boor!" Bi Amma couldn't help herself. "You didn't even realize-- with such relish you ate oil-cake kababs!""Oil-cake kababs? Why, what are they made from every day? I've become accustomed to eating oil-cake and straw."Bi Amma's face fell. Bi Apa's lowered eyelids were unable to raise themselves. The next day Bi Apa did twice as much sewing as usual, and then when in the evening I went to take the food in, he said, "Tell me, what have you brought today? Today it's the turn of wood-chips."   "You don't like the food in our house?" I said angrily."It's not that. It just seems a bit strange. If it's sometimes oil-cake kababs, then it's sometimes a chaff curry."I was overcome with fury. That we ourselves would eat dry bread, and feed him up like an elephant! That sometimes we would stuff him with ghi-dripping parathas! That my Bi Apa doesn't get medicine, and we would pour milk and cream down his throat! I was boiling, and went away.

The prescription of Bi Amma's 'sister' worked, and Rahat began to spend the larger part of the day there in the house. Bi Apa stayed bent over the stove, Bi Amma kept on sewing the 'fourth-day outfit', and Rahat's filthy eyes turned into arrows and kept piercing my heart. Teasing me about every trifle, when I was serving him food, sometimes with the excuse of wanting water, sometimes salt, and along with all this the repartee. I was mortified, and used to go and sit with Bi Apa. At hearted I wanted to someday tell her straight out-- 'whose goat, and who would give it grain and grass?''Oh Madam, this bull of yours can't be nose-ringed by me.'But on Bi Apa's tangled hair the flying ash from the stove-- no!My heart felt a shock. I hid her grey hairs beneath the tangles. May this wretched catarrh be damned-- the poor thing's hair has begun to turn grey.Rahat again, on some pretext, called for me."Unh!" I was furious. But when Bi Apa turned and looked at me like a chicken with its throat cut, I was absolutely forced to go."You've become angry at me?" Rahat, taking the glass of water, seized my wrist. I gasped, tore my hand away, and fled."What was he saying?" Bi Apa asked, in a voice stifled by shame and embarrassment. I silently began to stare at her face."He was saying, 'Who cooked this food? Bravo!-- I feel as if I want to go on eating-- I would eat the hands of the cook-- oh, not that-- I wouldn't eat them, but rather kiss them," I began to say very quickly, and took Bi Apa's rough, foully turmeric- and coriander-smelling, hand in mine. Tears came to my eyes. "These hands," I thought, "that grind spices from morning till night, that fetch water, that cut up onions, that spread out bedding, that clean shoes-- these helpless slaves are

worked from morning to night. When will their bondage end? Will no buyer come for them? Will no one ever lovingly kiss them? Will they never be adorned with henna? Will they never be scented with the perfume of happy marriage?" I wanted to scream aloud."What else was he saying?" Bi Apa's hands were so rough, but her voice was so rich and sweet that if Rahat had had ears, then-- but Rahat had neither ears nor a nose, but only an infernal stomach."And he was saying, tell your Bi Apa please not to always do so much work, to always drink her tonic.""Get along with you, liar!""Why, that's very fine-- he must be a liar, your..""Oh, keep quiet, you wretch!" She covered my mouth with her hand.     "Look-- the sweater is finished. Go and give it to him. But look-- swear by my head that you won't mention my name.""No, Bi Apa, don't give that sweater to him; you're just a handful of bones-- how much need you have of it yourself!"-- I wanted to say, but couldn't."Apa Bi, what will you yourself wear?""Oh, what need do I have for it! Near the stove, it always stays so hot anyway."Seeing the sweater, Rahat mischievously lifted one eyebrow and said, "Have you knitted that sweater?""If not, then so what?""Then, bhai, I won't wear it.."   I wanted to claw his face. The wretch, the lump of clay! This sweater has been made by hands that are living, conscious slaves. In every one of its stitches the longings of some ill-fortuned one have had their necks strangled. This is the product of those hands that have been made to rock a tiny cradle. Take hold of them, you misbegotten ass! The oars of these hands will save the boat of your life from the buffets of even the biggest typhoon, and carry you safely across. They will not be able to play a song on the sitar. They won't be able to show the gestures of Manipuri and Bharat Natyam. They haven't been taught to dance on the keys of a piano. It hasn't been their destiny to play with flowers. But in order to keep flesh on your body, these hands sew from morning to night. They submerge themselves in soap and detergents. They endure the flame of the cooking-stove. They wash your filthinesses, so that you would keep strutting around impeccably turned out, like a 'heron-saint'. Labor has made wounds in them. Bangles never clink on them. No one has ever held them with love.But I remained silent.Bi Amma says that my new, new girlfriends have corrupted my mind. What kinds of new, new ideas they keep telling me! What frightening ideas of death, what ideas of hunger and death! Ideas that cause a pounding heart to instantly become quiet.

"Please, you put on this sweater yourself. Just look-- how delicate your kurta is."Like a wildcat I clawed at his face, nose, collar, and hair, and went and threw myself on my cot.

"He said?" When Bi Apa couldn't stand it any more, with a pounding heart, she asked."Bi Apa! This Rahat Bhai is a very bad man." I had thought that today I will tell everything."Why?" she smiled."I don't like him --- just look, all my bangles are broken," I said, trembling."He's very mischievous," she said in a 'romantic' voice, with embarrassment."Bi Apa --- ! Listen, Bi Apa, this Rahat is not a good man," I said, growing heated. "Today I will tell Bi Amma.""What happened?" Bi Amma said, spreading the prayer-carpet.             "Look at my bangles, Bi Amma.""Rahat broke them!" Bi Amma sang out joyously."Yes.""He did well. After all, you tease him a great deal. Ai hai, why do you make such a fuss? Have you turned into a wax doll, such that somebody lays a hand to you and you melt?" Then she said coaxingly, "Then take revenge during the 'fourth-day' ceremony. Wreak such vengeance that Miyan-ji will never forget it." With these words, she began her prayers.    

Then a conference with her adopted 'sister' took place; and seeing that matters were proceeding in a hope-inspiring direction, smiles of extreme satisfaction appeared."Ai hai, you're a real good-for-nothing! Ai, I swear by the Lord, we used to torment our brothers-in-law half to death!"And she began to tell me techniques for teasing brothers-in-law-- how only through the unerring arrows of teasing that she prescribed, she had arranged the marriages of her two nieces whose hopes of getting their boats across [into marriage] had long since been lost. One of them was a Hakim-ji. Whenever the girls teased him, the poor thing began to blush with shyness and suffer attacks of shame. And one day he said to Mamu Sahib, 'please take me into servitude'.The other was a clerk in the Viceroy's office. When they heard that he had come to the outer rooms, the girls used to begin to tease him. Sometimes they filled a paan with chili-peppers and sent it to him; sometimes they put salt into [sweet] vermicelli and fed it to him.           "Ai lo, he began to come every day. A windstorm might come, rain might come-- what power did they have, [to assure] that he wouldn't come? Finally, one day, he spoke up. He said to an acquaintance of his,

'Arrange my marriage in that household'. When the friend asked 'With whom?' then he said, 'Arrange it with anybody'. And may the Lord not cause me to tell a lie-- the older sister's face was such that if you see it, then it's as if a witch is coming along. And the younger-- may God be praised! If one eye is in the east, then the other is in the west. The father gave fifteen tolahs of gold, and in addition gave him a job in the Big Sahib's office.""Indeed, sister], the one who has fifteen tolas of gold and a job in the Big Sahib's office-- how long will it take him to find a boy?" Bi Amma said with a sigh."It's not like this, sister. Nowadays a boy's heart-- well, it's an eggplant on a tray. Whichever way you tilt it, that's the way it will roll."               But Rahat isn't an eggplant, he's a great big mountain. In making him bow down, may I not be the one who's crushed, I thought. Then I looked toward Apa. She was sitting silently on the doorsill, kneading dough, and listening to everything. If she had had the power, then she would have split open the breast of the earth and, taking with her the curse of her virginity, hidden herself within it.Does my Apa hunger for a man? No, before she felt any hunger she was already fearful. The picture of a man didn't well up in her mind like a longing. Rather, it welled up in the form of the question of bread and clothing. She is a burden on the breast of a widow. It will be necessary to shove this burden off.

But despite hints and suggestions, neither did Rahat Miyan himself let out a word, nor did any message come from his home. Worn out and defeated, Bi Amma pawned her ankle-bracelets and held a ceremony in honor of Pir Mushkil-kusha ['difficulty-opener']. All afternoon the girls from the muhallah and the neighborhood kept making a great commotion in the courtyard. Bi Apa, shy and embarrassed, went and sat in the 'mosquito-room' to have the last drops of her blood sucked. Bi Amma, feeling weak, sat on her stool and sewed the last stitches on the 'fourth-day' outfit. Today there were signs on her face of the long road she'd traveled. Today the 'opening of difficulties' has taken place. Now only the 'needles in the eyes' have remained. They too will come out. Today in her wrinkles torches were again flickering. Bi Apa's girlfriends were teasing her. And she was pressing into service [for a blush] her last remaining drops of blood. Today, after some days, her fever had still not gone down. Like a tired and exhausted lamp, her face flared up once, and then went out. With a gesture, she called me to her. Lifting her sari-end, she pressed on me a dish of the cake used in the ceremony.               "Maulvi Sahib has breathed on this." Her hot breath, burning with fever, fell on my ear. Taking the dish, I began to think. Maulvi Sahib has breathed on it. This sanctified cake will now be cast into Rahat's oven, the oven that for six months has been kept warm with splashes of our blood. This breathed-upon cake will fulfill

the purpose. In my ears shahnais began to sound. I am running from the room to see the wedding procession. Over the bridegroom's face a longish sahra is hanging, that is kissing the horse's mane ---- Wearing the brilliant "fourth-day outfit," loaded down with flowers, awkward with shame, slowly measuring every footstep, Bi Apa is coming ---- the gold-threaded "fourth-day outfit" is glittering. Bi Amma's face has bloomed like a flower ---- Bi Apa's shame-weighted eyes rise one time. A tear of gratitude slips out, entangles itself on the sparkling gold like a lampshade."This is all the fruit of your labor alone," Bi Apa's silence is saying ---- Hamidah's throat filled [with tears]."Go, won't you, my sister." Bi Apa awakened her, and with a start she advanced toward the threshold, wiping her tears with the end of her orhni."This ---- this malidah," she said, bringing her pounding heart under control. Her feet were trembling as if she might have entered a snake's hole. And then the mountain stirred ---- Rahat opened his mouth. She took a step back. But somewhere far off the trumpets of the wedding procession shrieked as though someone were choking their throats. With trembling hands she shaped a morsel of the holy malidah and extended it toward Rahat's mouth.With a jerk, her hand was steadily sinking into the cave in the mountain, down into the depths of an immeasurable cavern of fetidness and darkness. And a single tallish peak swallowed up her scream. The plate with the consecrated malidah slipped, and fell on top of the lantern; and the lantern fell onto the ground, gave a few gasps, and went out. Outside in the courtyard, the daughters-in-law and daughters of the muhallah were singing songs in honor of Mushkil-kusha.

By the morning train Rahat, expressing his thanks for the hospitality, set out. The date of his wedding had already been decided, and he was in a hurry.After this, in that house eggs were never fried, parathas were never warmed, and sweaters were never made. Tuberculosis, which for some time had been pursuing Bi Apa, running after her from behind, made a single pounce and seized her. And she silently confided her unfulfilled existence to its embrace. And then in that same sihdari, on the wooden platform, a fresh, clean linen floor-cloth had been spread. The daughters-in-law and daughters of the muhallah gathered. The white, white coarse cloth of the shroud, like the mantle [anchal] of death, spread out before Bi Amma. From the burden of endurance, her face was trembling, her left eyelid was fluttering. The empty wrinkles of her cheeks were terrifying, as if in them hundreds of thousands of serpents would be hissing.

Having aligned the weave in the cotton, she folded it into a square, and in her heart countless scissors began to move. Today on her face was a terrifying peace and a verdant conviction. As if she might feel absolute confidence that unlike the other outfits, this "fourth-day outfit" would not be discarded.Suddenly in the girls seated in the sihdari began to twitter like birds. Hamidah, having flung the past far away, went and joined them. On the red twill ---- the look of the white cloth! In its redness, the marital happiness of no telling how many innocent brides has been created; and in the whiteness, the whiteness of the shrouds of how many unfulfilled maidens had sunk itself, and welled up! And then they all suddenly became silent. Bi Amma, having made the last stitch, broke off the thread. Two fat teardrops began to crawl slowly, slowly, down her soft, cottony cheeks. From within the wrinkles on her face rays of light burst forth, and she smiled. As if today she had come to have confidence that her Kubra's brilliant wedding outfit had been made and was ready, and in a few moments the shahnais would begin to sound.