Fence

2014

One

It was time for that tiny, hidden dream to acquire a form and a shape.

The thought of making it come true was an audacious one. She dared not do it. And yet, there was a lot she did dare – after all, she was Fateema Lokhandwala, a young woman of courage. It had taken a great deal out of her to simply travel down the bumpy and potholed roads of life. She hadn’t had time to even think. But perhaps this was the time – the perfect time – to indulge in a little fantasy.

Every morning, she left the house early. By the time the sun began to silver the grass, she’d already be on her way to work. She lived in a noisy area – clamouring children, bleating goats, cackling hens, ferocious fighting women queuing upto fill water from a common tap.

As pots and words banged and clanged against each other, her two-wheeler would whizz past everything, leaving it all behind. Main road, Mashallah! Like an electric current, the city coursed through her body with the energy of all those people heading out to work – the buses and cars, the heady spirit of urban life! At times like this, Fateema seemed to exist in the future as well as the present.

Despair, loneliness, the deaths of loved ones – everything would recede. On her two-wheeler, she became one with the flow of the city. At Navprabhat College she could look forward to a day filled with tenderness and affection – this knowledge sustained Fateema as she zipped along through the rush and bustle of the awakening city.

Recently, she’d changed her route to work. These days she preferred to ride along the riverbank so that she could see the new buildings coming up away from the city centre. Housing estates were springing up, like this one – Sonkamal Housing Society – which was almost complete. The city’s rich had already started to move in.

The buildings had such beautiful names. Sonkamal, the golden lotus. Between two towers was a garden studded with colourful flowers, how beautiful! Ramniya, as they say in Gujarati. Ramniya…yes, that was the word for ‘pleasing.’ She had learnt this from Gaekwad Sir when she was in the tenth grade.

Fateema noticed wooden benches that had been set out for senior citizens next to the building, and slides and a merry-go-round for the children. If this is what Sonkamal was like on the outside, what would it be like inside, she wondered.

The two-wheeler whizzed past several construction sites. Some carried notices advertising one- and two-bedroom apartments for sale.

Fateema’s heart lurched. She could hardly wait to go over to the property agent’s offices. But then she reminded herself that she didn’t have the means to buy anything – yet.

She scanned the brick and sand debris and the half-built pillars. Then she tore her eyes away and headed determinedly towards the college. Once classes were over, she’d head straight to the library – she had been thinking of pursuing a doctoral degree.

All this was Fateema Lokhandwala’s penance, her tapasya. That was Chandan’s favourite word. Fateema’s closest and childhood friend was a Jain. She would refer to the fasts her grandmother observed as ‘Dadima’s tapasya.’ Once, she’d even spoken of Fateema’s and her studies as a form of tapasya. Fateema quite liked the word. Giving up fun and games to achieve a goal is what Chandan had meant by tapasya.

When Fateema used such words in class, her students found it quite surprising. One day, a bright boy named Manish Dave came up to talk to her after class.

Ben, you are a Muslim, aren’t you? he said.

Yes?

And yet you look like us, you talk like us. His voice betrayed disbelief.

She laughed. "Arre Manish, I am like you. I’m one of you! My teachers and friends are also… She paused, and then continued, My religion is different, but I am not."

Another day, a girl had come up to her holding a strip of stick-on bindis in her hand. Ben, she said, stick one of these on your forehead. From Fateema you will turn into Falguni. An amused Fateema had taken the strip and put it in her handbag.

She had said to the girl, Anuja, if I were to carry on being Fateema, wouldn’t you like it?

Anuja thought for a bit. I don’t know about liking or not liking it, she said. I like you, but my mother says… She couldn’t finish the sentence.

There was no need to. The chasm that lay between the two religions could not be bridged so easily. Fateema had a sense of what Anuja’s mother would have said.

I’m sure she must be good, your teacher, though… How much unsaid was contained in that word, ‘though’. It reminded Fateema of her brother, Kareem, and how he’d he’d slapped her that day. Her cheek still stung at the memory.

Bitch! You’ve become an infidel by hanging out with infidels! Mark my words, Islam will conquer the entire world one day.

Was this the same Kareem who used to salute the Indian flag? Who would cry out ‘Jai Hind!’ and have all the students respond ‘Jai Hind!’ in turn?

Fateema sighed. Mumbling, If Allah wills it, she gathered her things up.

Sailing past new homes and colourful gardens, she finally arrived at her college. The wistfulness was turned into a ball and thrown away. Fateema was back to being a teacher. At least her qualifications in History were beyond dispute.

Meanwhile, the dream continued to grow.

Fateemaben, you have been confirmed as full-time, permanent faculty. You must treat us to a party, Niruben exclaimed as she entered the staff room.

Yes, how about giving us tea, Vinodaben added, or some cold drinks?

Oh no, surely this deserves more than just tea? A sudden silence fell in the staff room. Fateema might invite them to her house. Perhaps to eat there? Or would that be over-familiar? Whatever. They were treated to a party.

Fateema immediately ordered tea and biscuits and everyone fell on them with gusto. Then, they began to disperse, congratulating Fateema as they left one by one.

Fateema felt somewhat wistful. If only she had a little house of her own, she could have invited them over.

She found herself back on that familiar road, gazing at all those new homes. It was nothing but an illusion, a sweet dream, an attempt to put aside sorrow and fill the gap with a fantasy built out of words like ‘bhoomi pujan’ and ‘building under construction.’ If only she had bought a house earlier, Ba would have been able to leave the village and come and live with her.

Fateema was born in what had once been a princely state, tucked away in the corner of Saurashtra. Long before her birth, the state had vanished from the map – merged into the new nation. The names and even the memories associated with its royal past – the fort, the gates – had faded to become village lore. And the village itself had swelled into a town.

Along with such changes came the Panchayat, and some government offices, followed by a school, established by the Navprabhat Trust, that went from Grade 1 to Grade 10, ensuring free education for the children of the village regardless of caste, creed and religion.

Fateema’s father, Maajidbhai, whom she called Baapu and her mother, Khatijabi, whom she called Ba, would say, This school is Allah’s mercy.

Overcoming their initial hesitation, the villagers began to enrol their children into what they called ‘iskool’, ‘nishaal’, or ‘high school’. They wanted their children to receive the blessings of the goddess of knowledge. They dreamed of their children becoming engineers and doctors.

Of Maajidbhai’s four children – Fateema, Kareem, Jamaal, and Saira – two would manage to reach the school ‘tame-sir,’ or on time. The younger ones were still very small, and often fell sick.

Arre… arre… who is this? The words fell on Fateema’s ears. She was a grade three student then. She was busy playing thikdi during recess. Fateema, Chandan, Minal – all of them had mastered the art of playing thikdi. The younger children crowded around and watched in admiration as the girls took unerring aim with the thikdi – a tiny piece of stone – and hurled it at the home base. They then hopped on one foot, using the other to bring the stone back. The words ‘who is this?’ hit Fateema with the accuracy and sharpness of a well-aimed thikdi. She straightened up, mid-hop. They had come from Smitaben, a tenth-grade teacher who had recently joined school. She lived in a nearby town, and travelled to work by bus every day.

Fateema was petrified.

You study here? the teacher said, looking her up and down.

Yes, third grade.

You come to school in such rags? Hair not combed? Just look at your clothes.

Ben, she’s Muslim, Minal explained.

"So what? Cleanliness is dear to every God. Cleanliness is… Realising that the children would not understand English, she switched back to Gujarati. Bathe, wear clean clothes, get your Ba to rub oil in your hair and comb it and then come to school, do you understand?"

Fateema looked at her. And then, aiming a thikdi into the distance, replied, I can only wear the clothes I have. My Baapu isn’t going to buy a new dress just for me.

What does your Baapu do?

He collects lokhand, scrap iron, from villages nearby on his bicycle, Fateema said emphatically.

"That’s why, Fateema Lokhandwala," one of the girls explained, helpfully.

Does he take your hair with him when he goes?

The girls giggled. Fateema looked down. Smitaben continued, It doesn’t matter, ok? It’s never too late. Try looking neat and clean from tomorrow.

Smitaben left. Fateema’s careful mask slipped. She abandoned the game and headed home.

We are what we are, she muttered to herself. If they could hear the way I can recite a Gujarati poem – fast and fluent – they’d eat their words.

All mornings are not alike. Living in the corner of a village in a fragile mud-baked house that could fall any moment, Fateema, her siblings and parents knew this truth. This was no profound revelation, but the stuff of everyday life.

Their home was not much more than mud walls topped with a tiled roof. It had two rooms, one without a window. A small-cooking space, a narrow verandah or osri in the front and then a small open courtyard, or faliyu. The faliyu was an all-purpose place for the children – this is where they slept, played, chased cockerels, studied. In fact, that’s all they had.

There were three string cots; the rest made do with rag-like mattresses. Fateema and her siblings slept in the osri. Their mattresses were often damp and smelt of mud. But Kareem and Fateema were lost in their respective worlds. They lost themselves in the world of books, and by the age of eight or nine regularly borrowed library books which they read by the hazy light of petromax lamps.

Kareem would bring home books on cricket. Fateema would read fiction and stories about the outlaws in Saurashtra.

Jamaal and Saira would simply play and create mischief. They would chase slivers of moonlight that fell through the cracks in the roof tiles. If Jamaal laid his hand first on the sliver, Saira would throw a fit.

An exhausted Ba would mutter, Now go to sleep, you wretches. Enough is enough.

Look at this Kareem, Ba, he is taking the lamp away.

The light would grow dimmer. The family did not have the means to even add oil to the lamp. Darkness would engulf the house. Realising the moonbeams were gone, the two little children would settle down. On such nights, Fateema’s stomach would rumble with hunger. She would drink some water and go back to sleep. She would notice through half-shut eyes that Ba gave her own share of food to feed Kareem and Saira, while she herself filled her stomach with a piece of darkness. This did not happen every day – only when Baapu’s legs hurt and he missed going to a couple of villages.

Mornings would be quite nice and cheerful though. Ba would wake up early. She would go to the public toilet built by the Panchayat on the outskirts of the village. She would return with a lota of milk.

Ba would remove a couple of cowdung cakes pasted to the wall of the faliyu and use them as fuel for cooking. She would first put water to boil for tea.

The children would wake up and play with water. Tea and roti appeared like a delicacy. Maajidbhai would be ready to set off on his ramshackle bicycle. Chalo, who wants to fill air in the tyres?

Kareem and Jamaal would get started on the job, although it’d take a while for the cycle to be ready for use. The children would sometimes go beyond the village boundaries to go to ‘the bathroom’ but usually they would simply squat near the hedges behind Aalam chacha’s house.

It’s time for iskool, you wretched fellows, hurry up! Ba would give them clothes which were often dirty and torn. Then there was the battle between Ba and Fateema’s long, dry, entangled ponytail.

Ba…aa! You’re pulling my hair! Forget it, I don’t want it brushed.

Let me at least run a comb through it.

It hurts! Fateema would just flee.

Wait! Fatee… Oh, she’s run away. Look at the forest on her head, but who can tell that girl anything? An angry and grumbling Ba would return to her housework.

Ba’s morning would begin even before Aalam Miyan’s rooster crowed. In fact, Fateema’s family used to have a few hens and roosters. Some of them got stolen and finally they stopped keeping them.

To hell with them. Someone keeps stealing them. We will just have to eat daal and roti like the rest, an exasperated Maajidbhai had declared.

As for Ba, her morning began with fetching water, lighting the cooking fire, making rotis for everyone, getting the children ready for school, collecting cowdung from wherever she could, going from house to house in the village asking for torn quilts to sew, and when the children got back from school, providing them with rotis and onions, and at times, khichdi-kadhi.

When the children studied late in the evening, she would watch them with hope in her eyes.

It took Fateema many years to understand that what her parents did to raise them, make them ‘Allah’s people’, was tapasya, their penance. Back then it was Smitaben, rather than Ba, who had seemed the ideal role model. After Smitaben’s intial rebuke, Fateema had gone to school with her hair neatly plaited.

School began with the children singing ‘Vande Mataram’ or ‘Ai Maalik tere bandhe ham.’ Gaekwad Sir, Jaani Sir, Smitaben, Gitaben and other teachers would pray with everyone else, their hands joined together. Fateema would stand upright and confident. So what if her clothes were unwashed and crumpled, she stood first in class, no?

Two

Like any child of eight or nine, Fateema was not particularly interested in understanding her life and family or the conditions in which they lived. Her Baapu wore a chequered lungi, at least when he was home. Ba sometimes wore a sari, but most often a loose salwar kameez, her head always covered with a dupatta. When other women in the village fasted and participated in festivals, Ba would be busy grinding. This did not seem strange to Fateema. On one or two occasions, Fateema had asked her parents if she could go to the temple for the evening aarti with her friends Naveen, Vinay, Indira and Jeenal. Her Baapu had simply said, No. It’s just not done.

Our religion is different, that’s the way it is, he had added. Not everyone is alike. Are all trees the same? Some are tall, some are not. These are Allah’s miraculous ways.

Fateema understood then that her other classmates Jayant, Martin, and Sumitra were also different. Chandan had whispered in her ear: something to do with Dalits.

They are from a different caste.

What do you mean, ‘different’?

Chandan was confused. "My mother says they have to be admitted to school. Really speaking…"

Never mind. At their age, who can be bothered with reasons? It was enough to know that, despite being different, Chandan and Fateema, were friends. Best friends, in fact. It had begun like this. The school had re-opened at the beginning of the new teaching term. Chandan walked in through the main entrance of the school holding her father’s hand. Following her was Fateema, holding Khatijabi’s hand. There were many other children, younger ones, howling away. But the two girls were quite cheerful. They looked at each other. Chandan was wearing a dress with a flowery pattern, while Fateema was in a long shapeless frock with blue dots. Chandan’s hair was oiled and slickly tied, while Fateema’s braids branched out like a banyan tree, tied up untidily with an old piece of cloth.

Fateema lost no time in asking, What’s your name? Chandan looked at her, dumbstruck. Her papa gently nudged her, Go on Chandan, tell her your name. Fateema giggled, You just said it. So your name is Chandan, na?

Khatijabi pinched her daughter, Stop giggling. It’s disrespectful. Drawing the dupatta firmly over her head, she led Fateema away, towards the school. Fateema turned back to Chandan, My name’s Fateema. We are friends, ok? Since that day the two had become inseparable. They sat next to each other in class, they would eat together at break: Fateema would share her chana, and Chandan her golpapdi.

By the time Fateema got to fourth grade, she had acquired quite a reputation. She was not a big girl, how could she be? But she had a confident voice and a great love for words. She could recite poetry flawlessly.

Look how quickly she’s learned to read! Khatijabi would proudly remark. "You should teach that Saira something, or she will remain