Asmabi
Your gold bangles chime against the bristle of the leaves, tender
By the blooming verges of the winding river, your anklets sing.
Asma did not have to race against time to scribble the words on her worn out state bank of India 2005 diary this once. She knew what was coming.
Beneath the pale moonlit sky, your gentle smile shimmers
Your silken drape quivers in the soft midnight breeze.
Thaamasamenthe varuvaan praanasakhi ente munnil
What keeps you from my side, O companion of my breath!
The words were clear against the yellowing pages of the 2005 diary; unlike the last song. A broken ente swapnathin in one line, a neelathamara in the next. Perhaps the blind singer who sits by the beach will sing it another day. Or Asma will ask her to. She can fill the missing words then like an old class test.
For Iqbal doctor, Asma’s race against the blind singer’s old Malayalam songs was a class test in memory. She’s been losing it. Last Monday, Iqbal doctor asked her the names of her sisters. Asma couldn’t remember two.
The waves are strong on this side of the coast. Especially now that it is monsoon. They aren’t for the faint hearted. But who is, on this side of the coast anyway? The water is a mild brown as the waves rise, bordered by a faint white. As they hit the shore and spread, one, two, three, four, five… for around five seconds, it radiates a brilliant white. And retreats. Repeats.
What keeps you from my side, O companion of my breath!
Vappa sang it everyday almost like a dikr. On his black bajaj. No, a shade of blue; yes violet; violet it was. Asma’s memory kickstarts like her vappa’s bajaj, slowly, shudderingly.
He sang it to umma on breezy evenings after the tea was poured into steel glasses. He’d gently caress umma’s chins, almost as if to tease her. Umma turned red a few times, ignored vappa a few other times, and got angry at him another few times.
Umma called vappa her kids’ father. Husbands cannot be addressed by their names. They shouldn’t. Asma has learned it from her mother.
At the shore, a group of fishermen ready their blue nets. It is huge. It could cover her childhood home like a see-through blanket. One of the men turn their heads away from the sea towards Asma. She notices him. He is wearing a pink lungi with golden floral designs. Only the fishermen wear it here. The Malaysian lungi. He gazes at Asma from where the waves crash and whiten.
“The fishermen are beneath us”, umma had told her.
She averts her eyes from him.
The Arabian Sea, a majestic groom
The shores, a bride no less
The blind singer started her next song. Asma has to write it down. Her memory is not of much aid this time; she has to listen.
After the first two stanzas, she is tired. There is a family sitting directly in front of her, a few steps away. Two women, young. And a younger boy. They seem to be happy. Talking. Fixating on the sea as they do. One of them opens a steel water bottle and sips something hot from it. She passes it to the others. Evenings at the beach are brimming with families. Some of them are afraid of the waves. The young family however seem to be comforted by the crashing waves. People are so different.
The song is from Bhargavi Nilayam. She remembers. Vappa had taken her to the talkies. It had a lady ghost in a white saree who sang of her sorrows on a wooden swing. Asma was afraid of wooden swings for the next month.
At 6.30pm, the masjid facing the sea gives the call to prayer. Maghrib.
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
Asma tries to recollect the words that the muezzin sounds from a loudspeaker atop the minaret.
Ashahdu an ….
She has forgotten the kalima.
Hayya ala Falah? Swalah?
The sequence is confusing.
The Arabic rolls around her mouth, elusive.
La ilaha illallah
That, she knew.
***
The fisherman in the pink lungi comes to the sea everyday. He prepares the nets on some days; on others, he works on the Mary Matha boat. He steals a glimpse at Asma every now and then. She panics when the glances outnumber an upper ceiling. An accidental one or two is alright. A three or a four can still be managed. Beyond five, guards should be raised. She becomes conscious. Sometimes she contemplates leaving the beach.
The blind singer began with a peppy old number.
Perched on the kadali plantain, the raven sings invites
Come O guest, O guest, O guest!
The young family of three visits the beach everyday. They sit a few steps ahead of Asma everyday. They sip a hot beverage everyday. Today the younger boy walked up to the sea and let the waves tingle against his bare foot. The women, sisters perhaps, sit and watch. They talk. They laugh.
If it is the groom who comes calling,
Sweet flatbread needs to be prepared,
A batter, some butter,
And yield O flower tailed cow, your milk!
Pathiri. Flatbread. Ummumma made it every Friday. And on eid for breakfast. You had to knead the rice dough in hot water till your arms ache. Then you shape out small balls of dough and roll it flat and thin. Ummumma spread the dough balls with her fingers, pressing each edge, squeezing the dough further apart with each thrust. It would then be called kayyorotti. Hand roti. Umma used an iron press to flatten the dough. It’d come out all thin and flimsy. For baraat raav, the 15th night of Sha’ban, the two women made dozens of pathiris and kayyorottis to be sent to the masjid. Labour, throughout the day. Asma hated it, the labour. She never attempted to learn the backbreaking art of pathiri making. Maybe with practice it becomes easier. She wouldn’t know.
Iqbal doctor says there’s progress. The songs are helping. The sea is slowly anchoring Asma.
Last month her sisters’ names came gushing back to her in a recollection. The blind singer sang an old Yesudas song. Asma used to sing it to her sisters.
A beautiful skirt and a blouse
for our sweet little bird,
Brother’s dearest, mother’s precious,
You, the pearl that adorns our lives.
Sumayya and Sainaba. She remembered. They’d dance to the song, pressing her to sing it again for them. She’d change the words to mean sister’s dearest; Asma’s dearest. Her sisters thought for the longest time that Asma made up the song for them. Until they heard it one day on the radio in Yesudas’s voice.
***
In December the sun sets half an hour early. Maghrib is at 6 pm. Asma has relearnt the kalima. The falah and swalah still confuse her; but then, who isn’t confused about it.
The fisherman wears a blue lungi now. Checked. A local lungi. All the men here wear it. He still glances at Asma almost every day, from the cover of his fishing net and the mary matha boat. She tries to ignore it sometimes. But on some days, she gets up from the bench she is perched on and shifts places. Like today. She sees the fisherman’s eyes still searching for her. Pervert.
December is when the white tourists flock the town. But not so much on this side of the coast. The sea is rough and brash here. The white tourists like the gentle blue sea lined with fancy shops on the other side of the coast. This sea here is for Asma, and the fishermen, and the families, and the blind singers. Crude.
The blind singer repeats her songs often. It works for Asma. She fills out the missing words in the state bank of India 2005 diary. Its pages are worn out.
Your kohl-lined eyes,
They, that like blooming sunflowers
Brim with the sweet nectar of love.
Asma begins to note down the words.
Why do you cast your piercing glances upon me,
Veiled behind the sly shroud of your windows
The fisherman in the blue checked lungi has figured out her new position in the beach. Their eyes meet briefly.
Why do you launch thorns, steeped in nectar
Straight into my defenseless heart
He is staring at her intently, not attempting to mask his glances like everytime.
Come to me, O darling, on the wings of a midnight dream.
He isn’t arranging the nets or working on the mary matha boat. He stands facing away from the sea, just looking at Asma dedicatedly.
This hasn’t happened before. Did she make a mistake, locking her eyes with him for a brief unintended moment?
A chill creeps down Asma’s spine. It’s been months now.
Has her lack of response encouraged him to be this audacious? Should she confront him this time and put an end to it?
But what if that puts her in more danger? These fishermen are different. You cannot predict their rogue behaviour.
Lend me the melodious intoxicants of your blue eyes
The song doesn’t make the situation any better. He doesn’t seem to flinch from where he is standing, facing her. Allah, this is so uncomfortable! This has to stop.
Asma puts her pen down. She reluctantly gets up, gathers herself, makes up her mind, and stomps towards the group of fishermen stationed near the waves.
The fisherman’s looks weaken as she approaches him. She sees his face fluster. She musters the courage.
“Have some shame”, she shouts at him, surprised at how the words flowed from her mouth. The small group of fishermen turns towards her.
“I come here to sit by the beach because I am not well”, her voice quivers. “And you come here to make me uncomfortable everyday”.
“Do you think I enjoy this? Your filthy stares?”, she did not intend for the words to come out like that.
The fisherman in the blue checked lungi reels in shock. Another man steps up and covers for him.
“Sister, we’re sorry. We’ll take care of him. He’s new here.”
“Him being new has nothing.…”, Asma gets cut off.
“We know sister, he won’t do it again. We’re terribly sorry. Please don’t worry, we will take care of him.”
Asma gulps down the rest of her words, half in disappointment of not having spoken enough, the other half in relief for not having to speak any more. The fisherman’s ebony face had already tightened in embarrassment.
She doesn’t say another word. Her eyes brim with tears that she struggles to hold back. She acknowledges the other men and slowly turns her back towards them, her face flushed red, and begins to march further away from the sea, conscious of her every movement. The fishermen must be watching her fade into the beach.
As she nears her bench, she notices the young family of three standing huddled together, looking intently at her. They must have seen. Her outburst of frustration. Her face was still red from it.
“Is everything alright?”, one of the young women enquired as Asma approached, her sharp face wrought with concern. She must be in her late twenties. They must have noticed Asma too, like she noticed them, having frequented the beach everyday for a few months now. They have not talked yet.
Asma nods.
“Do you want some water?”, the younger of the two sisters ask.
Asma nods again.
She opens her steel bottle, pours some hot water into its broad cap and offers it to Asma.
Another family approaches Asma, enquiring if things are well. People have noticed. It is a beach after all.
“Don’t you have anyone else with you?”, a woman asks her. Asma hasn’t seen her before.
Asma takes a moment.
“No, I come here alone.”
She gives the bottle cap back to the older sister.
“Your name?”, Asma enquires gently.
“Khadeeja”, the older sister replies.
Asma smiles at her gently.
“I better make my way then”, she announces, to escape any more questions from any more strangers.
The blind singer has started another song. Asma did not want to listen.
***
On some days, the sea smells a lot more like the sea, than on others. A distinct stench that intensifies with each bout of breeze.
The fisherman in the blue checked lungi still comes to work, but he has stopped bothering Asma. Her response helped. Men need an earful to behave.
The alluring beauty, you who tread among the henna shrubs,
With those elusive eyes that detonate my qalb, you destroyer!
An old Baburaj piece. He had composed it like a Mappila song, the kind that Asma had heard from the old women in her home. The ones that she sang for competitions at her madrasa for the prophet’s birthday. Althaf ustad was a good singer of Mappila songs. He probably knew this one too.
It was Althaf ustad who told her the story of Badrul Muneer and Husnul Jamal.
You the flower maiden, O Husnul Jamal!
The beevi, adorned in the golden anklets
An old ballad in Arabi-Malayalam. Husnul Jamal, the daughter of the king of Ajmeer and Badrul Muneer, the son of the king’s minister. The king of Ajmeer banished Badrul Muneer from his palace, upon hearing of his relationship with Husnul Jamal. The lovers meet in secret and decide to elope. Asma doesn’t remember more details.
Forbidden love. Vappa had forbidden a young love Asma had, she remembers. Something about vappa threatening her to be cut off from the family, if she pursued. They are different, umma had said. Asma tries to let the memories seep in slowly like a leaking pipe.
They are different. They are beneath us.
But he is Muslim, umma.
That doesn’t matter. Your child will be a fisherman’s child. That is beneath us.
Asma remembers slowly. They had tried to elope, like Badrul Muneer and Husnul Jamal. On the eve of Eid, when families were busy preparing for the next morning.
Ahmed. That was his name.
Ahmed and Asma.
When it was past sunset, she had slipped out of the house without anyone noticing, a small plastic cover with two clothes, in one hand.
Ahmed was waiting by the sea. It was just a ten-minute walk from her home. At the sea they were playing songs on loud speakers. It was the eve of Eid.
Your kohl-lined eyes,
They, that like blooming sunflowers
Brim with the sweet nectar of love.
They hugged as the Baburaj number played. And left the town. Got married.
A year later they had their first born. Khadeeja.
She whispered the name as though it were unspeakable. Her breath, palpable.
It was past Maghrib. The beach was emptying out. The fisherman in the blue checked lungi gently patted on Asma’s shoulders.
“Shall we leave Asmabi?”
The young family of three joined. Their steel bottle had become empty. Khadeeja held Asma’s hand.
My fingers are exhausted from picking the flowers,
O flower woman, for whom are these flowers?
The blind singer sang.
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