For as long as I had known Phuphee, nothing got under her skin as much as the fact that she had been unable to continue her education after sixth grade — but when her grandfather died there was simply no money. This explained why she came down on me like a ton of bricks whenever she felt I was complacent about my education. She would scold me severely and say, “Do you want a man to explain things to you all your life?”
I didn’t understand what she meant and often wondered why, if I remained uneducated, would a man need to explain anything to me. But as a very wise woman once said, there are years that ask questions and years that answer.
In Phuphee’s village, there was a primary school for girls that had been built after a great struggle. It was a modest building with two rooms, built on the edge of a massive field. The location meant that in the summer the little girls could play outside and have their lessons under the shade of the walnut trees. One day, the students noticed that a security bunker had cropped up right on the path that led to their school. It was a little terrifying for them to walk past the security waalaas, but there was nothing they could do.
On a hot June day, Phuphee had gone to inspect the paddy fields when she bumped into the only teacher who worked at the school. He informed her that attendance had fallen in the past few months and if things carried on like this, the authorities would probably close the school. Feeling disturbed, she went to see the villagers. Most of them refused to tell her anything, until she threatened to turn one into a chicken if he didn’t tell her the truth. It turned out that the security waalaas were harassing the girls. They would call out to them and say lewd things.
I was waiting in the kitchen when Phuphee returned home just before evening prayer. She looked exhausted. She refused to speak to anyone and went straight to bed. In the morning when I woke up, her side of the bed was empty. In the kitchen, she was instructing the gardener to buy a couple of chickens. She was going to make tchatte rass (a broth made from chicken or lamb, with fennel and turmeric). Usually it is made for children, the elderly, postpartum women, and those who are ill. Phuphee would also make it when she felt you needed a good dose of courage.
“Choosing to turn a blind eye is also a type of sickness” | Photo Credit: Illustration by Sonali Zohra
“Is someone sick?” I asked.
“Why aren’t you studying?” she snapped.
“I… haven’t even had breakfast yet,” I stammered.
“Don’t let me catch you without your books,” she said, almost hissing at me.
So, I disappeared. I was determined not to show her my face for the rest of the day, when I heard loud voices coming from downstairs. I tiptoed down the wooden stairs. From the first floor, I craned my neck to see someone in a uniform rushing towards Phuphee’s room. I ran down but by the time I got to the door, everything had gone quiet. I stood outside when I heard a man’s voice say, “I am a very busy man. What makes you think you can summon me?”
“I was not aware that a person could simply walk into your camp and ask for you,” Phuphee replied. Her voice was calm and steady. She is not afraid, I thought.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
I tried to peep through a small hole in the door, but all I could see were his knees, a small table with a bowl of tchatte rass and a spoon.
“Please, have some,” Phuphee said.
“Is it poisoned?” he asked.
“I would tell you if it were,” she replied.
I heard him start to eat. Phuphee didn’t say a single word while he ate. When he had finished, I heard her say, “I know you are aware of the primary school situation. What are you going to do to rectify it?”
“Rectify? Nothing. It is all a bunch of lies.”
“You know,” replied Phuphee, “there are only two ways to know the truth. You either witness it or you believe what you are being told. Now, you clearly believe everyone else is a liar, so...”
“But,” he replied, but Phuphee interrupted him.
“I know what you are going to ask. Here,” she said. I could see her hand push a small bag towards him. “A little courage.”
I could hear him rustling before he burst into laughter.
“I will wait to hear from you,” Phuphee said.
On his way out, I nearly fell when he yanked the door open. From inside the room, Phuphee was glaring at me. “Didn’t I tell you not to let me catch you without your books today?” she asked angrily.
“Why did you make him tchatte rass? He didn’t look sick,” I replied.
She looked at me and sighed. She sat down, took out two cigarettes from her pheran pocket and lit them. “Choosing to turn a blind eye is also a type of sickness,” she said.
A few months later, one of the villagers came running to tell Phuphee that the bunker had been moved. We were sitting in the kitchen having tea.
“You cursed the tchatte rass you gave him, didn’t you?” I gasped.
“And waste a good bowl of tchatte rass?” she replied.
“How did you do it?”
“I gave him my burka, so he could wear it and walk past the camp and see what it was really like. I guess he did,” she said.
“Phuphee, why are you so worried about the school? The girls could go to another school.”
“If this school closed, they wouldn’t be able to go anywhere else. An education diminishes the power others wield over your life. People think that when you go to school, all you learn is how to read and write, but the truth is what you really learn is how to think. The more you educate yourself, the less the world will think for you,” she said, stubbing her cigarettes out in her teacup.
“Now get up and finish your schoolwork. Do you want a man to explain things to you all your life?” she snapped.
Saba Mahjoor, a Kashmiri living in England, spends her scant free time contemplating life’s vagaries.
COMMents
SHARE