Yạḍ Dōd

Aashna Jamal

Photo Source: Awesomecuisine

Daisy was lying in the kitchen, breathing heavily. Gaudy crewel cushions propped up her arms and feet. The curtain fluttered and she knew her son Rizwan was peeking in. He hurried away. He didn’t need to ask why his mother was lying in such an odd position.

He knew. 

Everyone in the house knew.

She could not digest wazwān any longer. Her stomach had withstood starch, lard and salt with the sturdiness of a newly built dam. Now, the traditional wedding feast had turned on her.  

When she was fifteen, the local newspaper featured a story about her talent. That’s how Farooq first heard of Daisy. ‘This is who I will marry,’ he told his mother. Farooq’s mother had laughed. ‘You should marry for better reasons.’ Farooq nurtured the possibility for six years and made his mother send a mänzimyôr as soon as he turned of age. When the matchmaker came to Daisy’s father bearing the marriage proposal, her father said yes immediately. Who would say no to a shop owner right in the middle of Safakadal? Farooq’s prospects were good, if not great, and no father’s daughter could ask for more in the late nineties. Daisy and Farooq were wedded with no pomp or glory, but an asceticism that showed both families were pious. 

A news story heroine, Daisy had big plans for her special day and was miserable when Farooq entered their bedroom that night. She made him promise, the first of many.  ‘Our children will be married with fanfare.’ Drunk on love and her celebrity, Farooq agreed. ‘You go to all the weddings we are invited for. Learn how things are done.’ Daisy smiled in relief. She had found a good one. 

Daisy was known across the seven bridges that separated parts of downtown Srinagar. One might get off one bridge and hear a wizened matriarch asking her friend if they were related to Daisy somehow. Since her teenage years, Daisy had discovered another talent. Her voice was loud but steeped in sweetness. She never needed a mic. She had a way with words and wrote her own songs. She was a sensation and had ruled the wedding roost for over twenty years. She would sing when the bride was getting ready, when the bride would enter the tent, when the groom would enter the bride’s house, when they would both leave for their new home. Old women wanted her, women her age envied  her, and young girls fantasised about hundreds of eyes on themselves as they saw trained upon her.

Like men who get the woman of their dreams, Farooq stopped appreciating Daisy. Her first talent had made her unwieldy. She could not walk in a straight line and had to be lifted off the heated hamam floor with three pairs of arms whenever she woke up from a nap. ‘Eat less or you will regret it,’ Farooq told her the day she turned forty-five. That day he ceased to be the man who, on their wedding night, had whispered sweetly, ‘I knew I had to marry the girl who ate 50 goshtāb in a row.’ Daisy had buried her faced in his hands and muttered, ‘you are making fun of me.’ 

Farooq had held her face up and said, ‘A record is a record. You are a winner, Daisy jaana. I am in awe of our will. It will move mountains.’ Daisy would never understand how the photo of her surrounded by meatballs in yogurt printed in Alsafa had electrified him. 

The evening of her forty-fifth birthday Daisy went for a mänzrāt to embalm her bruised heart with public admiration. The mänzrāt was ordinary – girls fighting with each other to get their hands hennaed, women coming in late for the feast and screeching apologies, piles of bread and sweet kahwè being passed around at the entrance of the tent in a clamour. Her voice had cracked on a song. She was plied with cups of kahwè. That was the first sign something was amiss. When she sat down to eat at the copper trạ̄m with three other women, she breathed softly. Here was something she was good at: the wedding feast, the wazwān – prepared by a battery of men cutting, pounding, squeezing lamb, before adding it to giant copper pots cooking over woodfires.

The weddings she attended had ten courses at most. Other guests would go home, lifāf in hand, packing leftovers in the plastic bag the hosts would give pre-empting their limited appetite. Not Daisy.

Unlike most of her extended family, she had attended many khojè weddings that sometimes had thirty-six courses. The rich didn’t think twice about paying thousands to put exotic morel mushrooms on the trạ̄m even as they missed loan repayments and slowly became non-performing assets in the bank books. 

Rizwan, her daughter Nida, and Farooq would look at her expectantly when she came back from these feasts. Refried meat tasted the best. A fluffy, fatty, round white goshtāb for her daughter who loved it as much as her record-setting mother, one piece of lamb in red roganjôsh gravy for her son, a piece of ābgosht, lamb cooked in milk and cardamom, for her husband – that is all they asked for. But Daisy would eat it all. She resented their expectations and their disappointed looks when she announced she had nothing for them.

That evening of her forty-fifth birthday, when Daisy sat down to eat her first bite, her stomach spasmed. She persevered. It lurched to the side. She continued. She bit into a lamb rib. Her stomach shuddered against her belly. Then the spasms took over like a gastrointestinal litany. For the first time, Daisy left a wedding feast uneaten. 

She woke up at home. Twelve-year-old Nida had put a cold-water compress on her forehead. Farooq’s curse has done me in, she thought. Her crusty eyelids parted slowly and her son Rizwan’s face came into focus. Understanding dawned on her like a winter moon. She had spent years at weddings, singing, dancing, making a name for herself. But she had forgotten the promise of her wedding night. She had forgotten her responsibility. It was staring down at her, annoyed at making him miss his cricket match. She had forgotten to get Rizwan married.

‘Will you stop it,’ Rizwan snapped at her as she stared at him, sizing up his potential. ‘Why do you keep looking at me these days?’

‘I am your mother, who else will I look at? What are you doing?’ 

He continued to look intently at his phone. 

‘What are you doing?’ She yelled now.

‘Playing.’

‘Playing, playing all the time,’ her anger spiked. ‘Government has given 4G again and you are still playing. They should have banned Garena Free Fire along with Tik Tok. The Chinese have taken over Ladakh as well as my son’s mind.’ 

He rolled his eyes at his mother, used to her tirades. ‘What will you have me do?’

‘Study. You are not even preparing for any exams.’

Rizwan, now irritated, shouted back. ‘What do you expect me to do? Banking exam postponed. KAS postponed. Everything postponed. Where do you expect me to find a job? Do you know what the unemployment rate is?’

He banged his cup of nun chāi on the saucer and left the room. She had taught Rizwan Saeb better she thought. He should have at least put it in the sink. She never expected him to wash it.

Daisy had a problem at hand. Her unemployed son was not going to win big. Fancy, her friend of fifteen years, came visiting in the evening and she recounted her woes. She thought she could do better than Fancy, but Fancy was loyal and filled the afternoons when Daisy had nothing better to do.

‘Count your blessings. Girls are the best. At least your daughter is doing something,’ she told Fancy.

‘She earns five thousand only as a cleaner in a gym. These rich people throw towels on the floor and walk off. Rizwan Saeb won’t do something so small. He will get something.’

‘I keep trying to get him to join his father’s shop at least but he doesn’t. Farooq won’t even talk to him.’

‘Baji, be careful. Don’t put so much pressure also. You don’t know how these young ones are getting misled these days. You only have to go till Malkha to see. Rizwan Saeb needs all our support.’

Daisy had read the papers. Malkha, the famous stretch of graveyards, was full of peddlers now. Her son would never do drugs. They had taught him better. He was the best in dargah, Moulvi Saeb always used to say. He became a hafiz at twelve, memorising the Quran in its entirety. 

‘Even today he remembers thirty hadees on the tip of his tongue,’ she told Fancy. Knowing stories of the actions and words of the Prophet Muhammed PBUH set forth in the hadees set him apart from a young age.

Hadn’t he come and told her once her singing and dancing was haram? She had been so proud. She did not pay heed to what he said, but it was good he was learning to take responsibility for the women in the family.  

If she had to trace when he became belligerent, she only had to think for a second to find that point in time. She had let him out of the house at fifteen to play with friends. She regretted not policing him for longer, she had lost him when he unlatched the front door the first time and stepped out.

Fancy stayed silent as Daisy reminisced. Peace of mind was a rare commodity in Kashmir and she did not want to rob Daisy Baji off what she had. 

Daisy’s stomach was trembling while she spoke. Farooq had ceased to be a confidante. She tried Fancy. Fancy’s sombre face rearranged into a smile. Laughter racked her diminutive frame. Daisy glared at her openly, her trust shattered by one more person.

‘Baji it is impossible to get indigestion from guilt. No one is counting the wazwān you are eating and blaming you for not giving one. How would anyone get married without you? The young girls only know some gyawun songs, but you are better than them at even that. No groom can depart the bride’s house without you leading us in singing the wanvun.’

‘Gyawun, wanvun. What do these songs matter when my mind is not at peace,’ said Daisy.

Daisy knew that Fancy was wrong.  Worse, she was disingenuous. Hadn’t she heard her tell  Zamrooda at her daughter’s wedding, ‘It’s good that you are done marrying off your daughter. It’s an obligation one must finish.’

Daisy saw her off vowing never to have her over again. Fancy left knowing she had broken something sacred. She snaked her way through the narrow lane towards her house. She had basked in Daisy’s reflected brilliance ever since she had come to this mohalla as a new bride. Her primary schoolteacher’s words came to her mind, and she slapped her thigh and muttered, ‘Fancy, you really never know what to say when.’ 

Fancy’s laughter rang in Daisy’s ears long after she left and reminded her that neither friend nor husband could be relied on in the darkest of times. She would have to look after things herself, as always. She did not need Farooq’s permission to start the matchmaking process, but she had to tell him. It would be just like him, smoking near his shop, spitting in the face of a prospective bride’s relative. These well meaning relatives always swung by to make some queries.

‘It is time Rizwan Saeb got married. We need to get his parchè ready and share it with the mänzimyôr.’

‘His what?’

“His biodata – his qualifications, your qualifications, our business, your uncle’s business, your uncle’s granduncle’s business.’

‘Go ahead. I’m sure you will find some illustrious gems hidden in our family tree,’ said Farooq.

Daisy was not amused. Clutching her Gelusil bottle she swayed uncertainly. ‘You have a farz,’ she thundered.

‘What responsibility do I have?’ he asked.

‘You are making no effort to find your son a match.’

Her husband looked at her wearily. ‘I had to close half day because of a crackdown two kilometres away from the shop. I made 300 rupees in sale. How many gold pöndd will that buy?’ 

She knew this was a dig at her. She had arrived without any gifts for her mother-in-law when she first came to the house. Some gave jewellery as hashkênth, the first gift from the bride to the mother-in-law. She had been ridiculed for not even having one gold pöndd to offer. Farooq’s family had not been able to cough up this gold coin, emblazoned with King Edward’s face, for his sister’s wedding. But they still made sure to remind her of her shortcomings. 

Daisy had saved money from the early days of her marriage so that her children could offer a few gold pöndd to their in-laws. But the shop had burnt down in 2015 and all that money had gone towards rebuilding it.

‘Money is not everything,’ she said. She had come prepared. ‘Pedigree is.’

‘I am from a simple shopkeeper family,’ he said. ‘How will we acquire pedigree? Not from your side. Let’s be realistic. Your son has no future either unless there is a championship in video gaming.’

Daisy chafed at his words. She would show Farooq. She invited all the mạnzimyạ̄r' –matchmakers like Gulla mänzimyôr, then Rekha, then Bilquees. One of them simpered spitefully, another one chuckled, and really, the worst was Ramzana who had walked away without a word, leaving behind the carefully curated parchè Daisy had put together. 

Rizwan had prospects but the matchmakers were no fan of Daisy. After matchmaking they would also go the wedding, sing and dance, stop the wedding if they were not given an extra something. Daisy had taken away their business. This lumbering woman would perform for free, so keen on showing off her skill in dance and music that she forgot they actually depended upon it for a living. 

Self-absorbed as she was, Daisy could not understand that her efforts were being hurt by professional rivalry. She felt a sense of gloom and nothing could arouse her from it – not even laddoos. Her perpetually irritated children knew their behemoth of a mother was fading when they found a sweet round orange laddoo in the dustbin. Rizwan was in no hurry to get married. He weighed the pros and cons and realised he should let his mother be. Nida was too small to do anything, though she worried the most. Farooq was moved but they had been distanced for far too long, and he did not know how to comfort her. And so, the three of them stood stiffly to the side as Daisy sank into the marshes of failure. 

Daisy had all but given up. A few weeks later, there was a commotion in their narrow, cobble-stoned lane. A police car was parked at the mouth. A man stepped out, flanked by PSOs, and asked for her husband Farooq. 

Her heart was struck with terror. ‘Why do you want him?’ 

‘Bhabhi you don’t know me. It’s been many years. I am Zahoor. His mother was my död mòj. We have not met for years but my father reminded me of Zahoor. I knew I had to invite him to my son’s wedding.’

Daisy had not known her mother-in-law had suckled other infants at her teat, to help another mother whose milk had gone dry. Zahoor’s story was plausible. If her mother-in-law had fed Zahoor, she was his död mòj, his mother through the bond of milk. Her shoulders eased with relief. She asked him inside for a cup of tea. He was a busy man, but years of separation dictated a polite cup of tea to make up for his abandonment of his död mòj family.  

Daisy told him all about her family, her son, his work, her efforts for his marriage. Zahoor was getting late. Daisy had trapped him for an hour. His SP was calling him incessantly. He put his cup down in haste and said to her absently, ‘send Rizwan to me. He can use my reference for matchmaking. After all, he is like my own son. Am I not his Chacha?’

Daisy took this to heart. Indeed, was he not his uncle?

Fancy came by in the evening. ‘We saw a police car. Is everything okay?’

‘Rizwan Saeb’s chacha was visiting,’ said Daisy. 

‘I didn’t know he had another uncle.’ Fancy had memorised Daisy’s family tree.

Daisy explained how close they were. ‘Rizwan Saeb was his favourite growing up. He is just like his own son.’

‘Why haven’t we seen him before?’ Fancy eyes narrowed. 

‘The political situation, you know. He couldn’t come visiting us for security reasons all these years. He’s Jammu and Kashmir Police. We had to go to his place. But you know what he said?’

What?’ Fancy asked, now entranced.

‘He said I don’t care what happens to me. I couldn’t have let you come to my son’s wedding without personally inviting you. Allah won’t forgive me.’

Fancy left impressed. Daisy Baji had connections. That too in JKP. Very useful indeed.

Daisy called another matchmaker the next day to discuss her son’s parchè. This one lived in Budgam and had not heard of Daisy before. Nida could hear the stranger matchmaker sound more interested than any of the others before. 

A few months later, at Rizwan Saeb’s wedding, Zahoor found himself paraded everywhere. ‘This is his uncle. He has been here throughout, helping us in the wedding. He helped us find the tent man, supervised it being erected so that it is comfortable for all the guests.’ Daisy parroted this to each guest before they even had the chance to take off their shoes to enter the tent. 

Zahoor did not go against her word. Why would he say that he had not been around helping when everyone was giving him credit for it. His PSOs sat lazily on plastic chairs at the tent entrance. One of them was put on handwashing duty. The personal security officer had been told by his father, an erstwhile PSO himself: a PSO must be ready for any role – personal security, confidante, caretaker, babysitter, now handwasher.

‘Zahoor and Farooq Saeb don’t seem to talk that much,’ Fancy said on the mänzrāt

function, stepping on a henna cone.

Daisy was prompt to silence this doubt as she handed her a napkin to wipe off the orange stain on her foot. ‘Their relationship is one of respect and not frivolity.’

Zahoor had the biggest role in the baraat. Daisy would not take no for an answer. Her husband, Farooq, was relegated to the side-lines, and he did not mind. When the baraat left, Rizwan sat in the car wedged between his father and Zahoor. It was Zahoor who told him to pocket his phone when they reached the bride’s house. 

Farooq added, ‘the video game can wait.’ He had turned more irrelevant than he wanted to be. As his son stepped out, his turban askew, Farooq realised his life was bent similarly.  The bride rode back to her husband Rizwan’s house in a gloomy car.

They came back with the bride in the wee hours of the morning. Zahoor’s PSOs giggled as he yawned all the way back to his house in Bagh-e-mehtab. Zahoor’s wife was waiting, frowning. Daisy’s size was the only reason she did not suspect her husband. Zahoor always said he liked them thin like poplars. Perennial dieting had saved her marriage whenever it tipped at the edge of a precipice. Other womens’ girths expanding through childbirth, cholesterol and diabetes had only made it easier for her. She stayed static as they ballooned. She let in Zahoor with no comment.

Daisy was happy to see Zahoor go after the wedding. A relative in JKP was a useful connection, but in her part of Srinagar not everyone shared the same thought. She had seen some smirks and heard some growls. She was glad that things were back to normal. Rizwan’s wife was competing with his mobile for his attention. Daisy knew an intervention would be needed soon. 

But first she had to complete what she had set out to test. She looked at the wedding card for the afternoon. Today was the Walima function: 1 Ladies per family allowed. She spent time getting ready. Her chignon dupatta was creaseless, just like her flowery suit. The crease in her salwar was impeccable. 

She arrived at the tent and sat for four hours until lunch was served. She didn’t complain about the delay at all. She was waiting for the big moment. Bismillah, she said the loudest, and dug into the meth' māz on the plate. She bit into the tabakhmāz, juicy lamb ribs, and revelled in the taste of fat dissolving on her tongue. She used the bone from the lamb ribs to cut the paneer cooked with tomato. She asked for extra gravy with the goshtāb and mixed it with yogurt, one sordid mess. She ate it all. She had nothing to put into her lifāf. She left the plastic bag in the tent completely empty. 

She walked back home gingerly unsure of what she had done. She cautiously sat down in the kitchen. No belch was forthcoming. The  wazwān was not rearing its head, trying to find escape through either end of her body. Then she lay down for a nap. The wind rustled the curtain lulling her to sleep. The breeze came and went in silently caressing her. She woke up after an hour, craving some nun chāi. 

Nun chāi, she thought, and then her eyes widened. She was craving salty tea, her afternoon cup of nun chāi, and not Gelusil.

She beamed with the unimpeachable knowledge of one who has been proven right. She had been correct. It was not indigestion. Her duty had been incomplete. Now that it was done, she could eat as much as she wanted. Just like old times. 

At least until it was Nida’s turn.

***

About the Author

Aashna Jamal is a writer from Kashmir. She was a 2022 South Asia Speaks fellow, and has stories in Fountain Ink, Muse India, Caravan, Inverse Journal, the Diplomat, and Bebaak Jigar- Of Dry Tongues and Hearts, a print anthology that featured fiction from India. She is working on her debut novel. She is currently an economic advisor to the government in Somalia.

The author would like to thank Arbeena Riyaz for her help with Kashmiri phonetics.

Instagram: aashnajamal, Twitter