Seemi Choudry In her podcast, Jasmine Garsd recollects that when she was a child, she never confessed to her friends how she slept next to her grandmother so they could hold hands and dream together [1]. Khawab mein is Urdu for “in my dreams” or “while dreaming”. ***** Looking back, I wish I had held Barri Ammi’s hand while sleeping next to her so we could dream together. We would dream of her life in India–travel to Rampur, to her life before it was partitioned. Like the Mughals, she lived a dignified life and carried herself with the utmost grace. As a young girl, she fantasized about marriage and traveling outside of her hometown. In our dreams, we come upon the night of her marriage to my grandfather. Him: a Zamindar [2], Her: a Dhulhaan [3]. Wearing a modest embroidered dress, she slowly walks toward him while her whole family (and village) watches. Somehow, I am there too and can feel her excitement mixed with complete fear. After their marriage is officiated, they both look into a mirror placed in front of them and smile. The traditional “mooh dikhai” ceremony is the first glance between the newlyweds, through their reflection. Our dreams then transported us to the night Nazirah was born, my eldest aunt and my grandparents’ first child. Barri Ammi had that same peaceful smile–it had a tranquilizing effect reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. Within a few months of Nazirah’s birth, they had to decide: Pakistan or India. Since my grandfather’s lands were all on the Pakistan side, Barri Ammi would bid farewell to her home–to what was familiar. I’ve switched positions in bed but my hand still grasps Barri Ammi’s tightly. Then, we are taken to the Wagah Border. A border that divides India from Pakistan located in Lahore. My father, Tauseef, is in his early twenties accompanying his mother, Barri Ammi, on her first visit back to India since the Partition. I observe them both as he diligently holds their identification cards and papers. I can tell he is nervous. He approaches the border patrol soldier and hands over all documents requested. The soldier looks up at Barri Ammi. Then, he looks at my dad. He stamps their papers and gestures for them to pass through. My father takes a sigh of relief and Barri Ammi smiles. We then rewind and are in the home my grandparents settled in immediately after the Partition, their home in Faisalabad. Barri Ammi just put Nazirah and my father to bed, one a toddler and the other a newborn. Suddenly, she sees the shadow of a man walking down the corridor in her peripheral vision. The door down the hallway slams shut. My grandfather is not at home so any movement is suspicious, perhaps even clandestine. Barri Ammi’s faith is more prevalent than her fright. She comes to her knees, holds her hands next to each other, palms touching, and starts speaking in Urdu. “I know this home is not ours, we are only visitors,” she begins. “We are believers, we believe in The Almighty. This home used to be yours, we came here because it is safe and I want to raise children in a peaceful place. They are innocent, as are we. Please do not harm us. We promise to take care of your home.” Did she see a jinn [4]? I wonder as I witness Barri Ammi talk alone aloud. I assume that the home used to be inhabited by Hindus since her hands are in the namaste position. As usual, her tenacity carries her through the most uncertain times. ***** Looking back, I would insist on holding Khala Ji’s hand while we both sleep so we could accompany one another in our dreams. While she wasn’t my grandmother, she was the closest person to a maternal grandmother as Nanni Ammi’s sister [5]. Khala Ji became a surrogate mother to all her nieces and nephews after her older sister passed away. In our dreams, we travel to the night that she defies her family by refusing to stay in a marriage she never agreed on. I watch her execute a plan to leave her husband’s home only a month after they marry. Determined, she sneaks out while her husband is away and sets out for her family home by foot. On the path, her father spots her as he deboards the incoming train. They catch each others’ eyes and his expression is immediately filled with anger. She throws herself in front of the train, to make a point. She would rather risk her life than be wed to a man she’s not interested in. My great grandfather runs to her quickly enough to save her from being trampled but not quick enough to salvage her hand. That night, she lost her hand but regained her life. She prevailed. I wake up because I can hear Khala Ji snoring. After nudging her a little, I find a cozy spot but still manage to grab a hold of her hand while she’s in a deep slumber. As I drift away, Khala Ji takes me to the scullery of the Sabzazar home–the same home that my mother and her ten siblings were born, raised and married in. With one hand, she’s packing something. I look closer and it looks like some herbs, perhaps hashish with tobacco. Sure enough, I follow her through the back where she continues to prepare her hookah with the packed drugs. In spite of having only one hand, Khala Ji was far more efficient than any of us–even the youngest in our family. Smoking hookah was her only vice, her downtime. Suddenly, two of her nieces (my aunts) and cousin appear. Caught, there’s no way they would let Khala Ji smoke alone. Khala Ji then took me to her last night. I’m sitting with the paramedics in a dinky bus as they navigate the backroads of Sargodha. Even during her final moments, she guided the driver on the right path to get to the local hospital–scolding him to take this road rather than the other. As I sat at her bedside, her eyes are flickering, opening and closing, but they suddenly open wide when she sees a presence invisible to everyone else in the room. “Tusi aah gaya?,” She questioned. Khala Ji then read the shahada and took her last breath. A woman so strong, she wasn’t scared of death. In fact, she was prepared for it. Footnotes: [1] La Última Copa/ The Last Cup https://www.npr.org/transcripts/1134746529 [2] a Landlord [3] a bride [4] A spirit that can take human and animal forms [5] Nanni Ammi: what we lovingly called my maternal grandmother Seemi Choudry is a Pakistani-Venezuelan-American writer who believes literature is meant to liberate.
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September 2024
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