Nazia Kamali
The interview was supposed to start at ten in the morning. A worried Bushra in a cream coloured shalwar kameez paced the room in anticipation. What questions will the interviewer ask? How will she answer those questions? Will there be any tricky ones? What if she makes a mistake and speaks something stupid? What if she says something she shouldn’t? The media makes a mess out of every situation these days. They know how to twist people’s words. At first, Bushra didn’t want to be a part of this. When the newspaper approached her for the interview, she declined repeatedly. It took several phone calls and detailed discussions for the newspaper’s editor to convince Bushra to speak to a representative from their office. He promised to send someone responsible at a time and place of her choice. Finally, after almost three months of effort, Bushra had agreed to do the interview.
Shefali Patnaik was one of the best journalists who worked for the newspaper and had interviewed several dignitaries in the city of Dehradun. Two weeks back, she called Bushra Qureshi to set up an appointment for the interview. Bushra had started a venture in organic farming five years ago, which boomed into a big business in the subsequent years. She had become the talk of the town, especially among the environmentalists. The editor wanted to take advantage of the rising popularity of Bushra by being the first one in the print media to publish her interview.
Bushra kept on looking at the clock mounted on her living room wall. The day had just begun. It was eight-thirty in the morning. Even if the journalist was as punctual as the editor had said, Bushra still had one and a half hours to kill, but somehow her body refused to obey the commands of her brain. She was unable to do anything. Bushra took out her mobile phone to call her daughter Inaayat but decided against it. Inayat was studying at the London School of Economics. It would be three in the morning there. Unlike Bushra, Inayat was good at studies. She passed school with flying colours and expressed a desire to study Economics. Once she received a scholarship, Bushra agreed to send her. Everyone around asked her not to send Inaayat all alone to a distant land, but Bushra couldn’t care less. She wanted her daughter to experience life, make her own mistakes, fall, scrape her knees, get up again, and learn from that.
Shefali reached the house five minutes before ten. Bushra appreciated her punctuality. After the customary greetings, Bushra asked someone to bring tea for them. It was late autumn. Winter was about to knock at the doors of Dehradun. Sun looked delicious. Through the translucent curtains hung at the window, sunlight filtered into the room-filling its empty space with warmth. Bushra liked the comfort of her house. It was her safe haven. Before starting with her actual questions, Shefali made some small talk to put Bushra at ease. She usually conducted her interviews in a casual atmosphere. That’s what made her popular among the people she talked to. She had a familiar face and a warm smile. It was easy to talk to her. People trusted her, and hence she was able to get answers to the questions usually left unanswered. She conducted all her interviews in a neutral tone, giving enough space to the actual expression of the interviewee.
Shefali took out a voice recorder and placed it on the table before Bushra. She also held a pen and a writing pad in her hands. She liked to take note of the expressions and gestures of the speaker. It made her work easier. Bushra watched her every move as she used the long cylindrical fingers of her delicate hands to move things around. She looked meticulous in the way she placed the objects in particular places. After settling her things, Shefali asked Bushra if they should begin and asked the first question.
‘Let’s talk about your childhood. How was it?’
Bushra: ‘We were commoners. Well, I still am. (A brief smile) My father used to work at the Ordinance Factory in Raipur. He was a storekeeper there. My older brother Hamza and I studied in Kendriya Vidyalaya. Our mother stayed at home and took care of all of us. We lived with our grandparents, so there was no dearth of pampering and love. You know how grandparents are; they often overindulge. Our father never yelled at us even for our worst mistakes lest dadiamma should get angry. We had a simple life. Go to school, come back, play, study, sleep, repeat. My favourite memory is that of listening to the radio as a child. Every Wednesday, Hamza and I waited eagerly for the ‘Hawa mahal’ audio show. The announcers would narrate stories to children using different voices. We listened and imagined. That used to be the highlight of our week.’
‘That sounds beautiful. So how did your career start?’
Bushra picked up a cushion, kept it on her lap and began, ‘Everything happened on its own. Our household never had a competitive environment like many homes where children are groomed to sit in competitions and go to professional colleges since their childhood. But nothing was denied either. It was a sort of a democracy, you know. I studied arts in school and college. Hamza was two years my senior. He started a shop as soon as he passed from school. I wanted to follow him but there wasn’t enough money in the family to fund another shop for me. I decided to study further and then look for work. Thirty years ago Dehradun was not what it is today. It was difficult to find office jobs here. There weren’t as many establishments in the city. So I moved to Delhi.’
Shefali’s phone rang. She excused herself, switching off the voice recorder kept on the table.
Bushra looked at the fan. It rotated at a slow speed. She was transported to the day she decided to go to Delhi. It was June. Hot as hell. Electricity was out due to a power shortage. She was fanning herself using a newspaper when her mother came into the room.
Papa has fixed your marriage…
Who is it?
Altaf Raza.
Bushra looked at Shefali. Youth is exuberant. We think we can do anything. Conquer the world. Shefali looked the same, brimming with youthful confidence. Bushra’s eyes went to the fan again.
I am not marrying that alcoholic…
They don’t want any dowry; better get ready.
Shefali was back. She apologised for the interruption. The call was important, she told Bushra.
‘Tell me about the first job you did.’
Bushra was still looking at the fan.
Your Nikaah is in two days.
I don’t want to marry him…
(SLAP) You better make up your mind. This is your fate!
Bushra remembered keeping her certificates and a few currency notes in a small bag. Her hands were shaking. Night had descended. She had to hurry. She jumped out of the window. Run. ‘I need to run, she kept on repeating. It was dark all around. Run. She had to run. She stopped to catch her breath. She had no plan.
Shefali repeated her question.
Bushra came back to reality; eyeing Shefali, she scratched her chin with the index finger of her right hand, ‘I had no professional degree like young girls today. (She smiled at Shefali). But there was this enthusiasm and a desire to do something. I clung on to that desire. My first job was that of a hotel receptionist. It was rather a small inn by the roadside. Commoners came there night and day. The first job is always special. I still remember things vividly. I lived in a storeroom behind the inn’s kitchen. There were two other girls. We woke up every morning, got ready, ate our breakfast in a hurry and scurried off to work. Everything was so exciting. The world was new to us; we wanted to experience it all.’
Bushra remembered a lot of other things too. It was a dark, scary night when she left home. There were very few people on the road. She ran and reached the bus stand. There was a late-night bus for Delhi. She hurried and got into it. Huddled up in the corner of the bus, she looked at everyone with frightened eyes. She remembered dadiamma. Allah is our benefactor and protector. He always helps the needy. She began reciting all the prayers taught at home. The conductor of the bus came and asked for a ticket. She gave him a few crumpled notes. The following day she was in Delhi.
‘How did you land that job?’
‘You want the truth? The conductor of the bus in which I came to Delhi from Dehradun recommended me. (Laughs while shaking her head slowly) Isn’t it strange how people that you don’t even know pave the way for you? I was sitting at the corner of a bench at the bus stop after getting off the bus. He came to me and asked what was wrong? I told him I had come to the city to work but had no idea where to start looking. He sent someone running to the manager of an inn nearby and asked if he needed anyone there. Luckily he was in want of a receptionist. The conductor took me there and that’s how I started working. At first I was scared. I was taught not to trust strange men but I needed work and money. There was no other place to go to either, so I kept working. In the beginning I used to keep a small pocket knife with me all the time, always ready to use it. I didn’t even talk to my colleagues for months. But they proved to be my family outside home. We still talk to each other over the phone once every month or so.’
‘You also worked for an NGO?’
‘Yes I did. Generally we work to earn money, feed ourselves and to take care of our families but some work we do to feed our soul. My work with the NGO was the same. After I left my job at the hotel, I started working in a supermarket as a cashier. Every morning I took the city bus to go to work. I met a nice girl during those rides. She was kind and had a laugh that made one want to laugh with her. We travelled together for almost forty minutes every day. We shared details of our lives during those rides and soon became good friends. Both of us were single at the time. We explored Delhi together. It was with her that I first went to that NGO. That’s how my journey with them started.’
There were many other details that Bushra couldn’t bring herself to recount. How one day, that friend suddenly stopped coming to the bus stop. How her absence made Bushra worried sick. How she went to her room and was stunned by what she saw. Her friend was lying in the dark. Bruised and crushed. Bushra’s heart throbbed in her throat as she approached her. After a long silence, she found her voice back and gathered the courage to ask what had happened. Her friend kept quiet. Bushra understood Everything. She felt sorry for her friend. The girl stayed all alone by herself in a working women’s hostel. Her family lived in Jabalpur. There was no one to take care of her or hold her hand and tell her that Everything would be alright. No one asked who did this to her? Where? When? No one told her they were on her side, no matter what happened.
When Bushra came out of the room, the hostel warden asked her to take the girl away. She suspected the same as Bushra, sexual assault. She was not ready to keep ‘such a girl in her hostel. ‘They ruin the atmosphere, she said. Bushra asked for some time and left. For a while, she couldn’t breathe. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t tell anyone. Assaults have always been taboo. You can’t talk to people about them. The victim is looked at with contempt and disgust. She sympathised with her friend, but society would not. It was then that they took refuge with the NGO. They had no courage to go to the police station and file an FIR or talk to a lawyer about the incident. They were both young and afraid of the questions that would follow.
‘And you met your daughter for the first time at the same NGO?’
Bushra touched the neatly made bun on her head. (She is my friend’s child born due to the assault. She was someone her mother never wanted but couldn’t get rid of due to her ill health.) ‘Yes I did. I was there the day she was born. Actually I was the first one to hold her. (She looked at her hands with a reminiscing expression on her face) Her mother was one of the beneficiaries of the NGO. She died when Inayat was very little. For a few years she stayed with one of the officials of the NGO. None of us wanted to send her to an orphanage. I fell in love with the child during those years. And then one day I read about Sushmita Sen’s case in the newspaper. Her battle in the Supreme Court to adopt a girl despite being single gave me courage. I was earning well by then. So I talked to the in charge of the NGO. (Also after her mother hanged herself to death one day, the child had become an orphan for real. I couldn’t leave her alone. She was my best friend’s daughter.) It was a long journey but I got what I wanted.’
‘How did your parents react to the adoption? They must have wanted you to get married and have children of your own.’
Bushra poured a glass of water and took a few sips. She felt tired. There were things in the past she hadn’t told Inaayat yet. She was too scared to tell her the truth. There are stories in every person’s life that can’t be shared with others. It scared Bushra to even think of Inaayat’s reaction regarding the matter. She had felt time and again to talk to Inayat about her birth mother but could never muster enough courage. Bushra took a deep breath. Silence hung in the air. Her parents had discarded her like waste many years ago. Bushra had lost all her relations the day she ran from her wedding. When she tried to contact her parents a few years later, there was no response.
Once when she went home, they threw her out. She spent the night on the road. She sat in front of the house, hoping that at least her mother would feel pity and open the door. The night grew dark. Cold fog enveloped the surroundings, but no one bothered. When she woke up in the morning, Bushra found two dogs dozing near her. Maybe they had recognised her. She went to a hotel nearby with her luggage. For six days, Bushra tried to get inside her parents’ house and talk to them. But neither the house nor the people who lived there were hers anymore. Finally, on the seventh day, she packed her things, checked out of the hotel and went back to Delhi. How was she supposed to tell all this without breaking down?
‘It’s okay if you do not want to answer. Let’s move on to the next question.’ Shefali’s tone was sympathetic. She knew when to push the interviewee and when to retreat.
Bushra looked at her thankfully.
‘You were doing great work with the NGO.’
‘Absolutely. Delhi is always bustling with people. The then Chief Minister, late Madam Shiela Dixit was doing her best to make Delhi safe for women. Our NGO had women from all ranks who worked there as volunteers, full time employees as well as part timers. There were civil servants, professors, writers, journalists and then there were common women like me. The high ranking officials made efforts to meet the CM, discuss ideas and put forward a plan for their implementation. We received funds from various sources to execute the proposals that were approved. My job was to keep track of all the donations received and their investments. In a way I was the ‘money – woman.
Then there was also a lot of other work to do at the NGO. The most tasking job was to convince women to raise their voices against domestic violence. Most women believed and still believe that it’s okay for men to abuse their wives. They have seen it happen to their mothers, aunts, friends and relatives. They think it is their job as a wife to submit to the tyranny of their husband. Those who resent violence usually keep quiet for the sake of their children, to protect their marriage or to protect the honour of the man who thrashes them every night.
It takes a lot of effort to make these women understand that they need to stand up for their rights. This was something I was good at. When I wasn’t handling money, I met the survivors of violence and abuse. We were a team of three people, a mental health counsellor, a legal advisor and I. We met women and explained to them in detail their options. The counsellor helped bring women out of depression, regain their confidence, and become alive again. I helped these women realise that we have the right to live according to our choice. My parents lived in Dehradun. I never married. I was raising an adopted daughter as a single mother. These things worked in my favour. I could confidently tell those victims that women are not the weaker sex. We can do anything and Everything.
We never asked these women to leave their husbands or end their marriages. But we did ask them, counselled them, and advised them to raise their voice. We pushed them to demand to be treated like a fellow human being, like a partner and not property. We tried to make these women understand that the same cycle would follow if they kept quiet in their children’s lives. Their daughters would get beaten, and their sons would beat their wives. This is not a future worth waiting for. Of course, many women didn’t agree with us, but we had our own success stories. Overall it was a gratifying job. I felt alive; I felt useful.’
‘That sounds inspiring. Then why did you leave it all and come to Dehradun?’
Bushra blinked her eyes twice before replying… ‘I missed my hometown. Whatever the case may be, Dehradun is the place I was born and raised in. I wanted my daughter to know the place like I do. I wanted her to know her relatives and family friends more closely. Dehradun also has a great education system. Its schools are ranked among one of the best in the country. Pollution in the city is less as compared to Delhi. So overall you can say that the charm of Dehradun called me back here.’
(That’s not entirely true. No one I knew in this town ever wanted me, but being a single mother scares me at times. The dreaded case of Nirbhaya happened on December 16, 2012. Bushra was sipping a mug of hot tea in her apartment with Inaayat when someone from the NGO called. She rushed to the office. There was chaos all around. Officials were angered by the incident. They were angry at the police, the public, and our society. Everyone was frantic. Bushra wanted to help, but she collapsed and fell into a chair. Someone rushed to hold her. Her mind went back to Inayat. Her little girl was all alone in the apartment. She would go to school on her own and come back on her own. What if something happened to her one day? Bushra called Inaayat’s phone. She was on her way to school. There was nothing else Bushra could think of. The entire morning was a blur. The afternoon came, and she left for home, too scared to leave Inaayat alone in the apartment. Her mother had already suffered the unspeakable. That day Bushra made up my mind to return to Dehradun for good. She decided to look for a job there. They would spend less, wear the same clothes for long, eat simpler food but live a safe life.)
Shefali tapped Bushra’s shoulder slightly with the tip of her fingers and asked, ‘are you alright Ms. Qureshi? You look pale… Let’s take a break… shall I get you something?’
Bushra sighed and shook her head, telling Shefali that she did not need anything. She just wanted a few minutes to gather her thoughts. It was a hell of a ride from Delhi to Dehradun. After Inaayat’s finals in March, they shifted to Dehradun. Inayat was angry. Delhi was her home. She was born and raised there. Delhi was where all her friends were. To Inaayat, Dehradun was an alien city she had heard of from her mother. Bushra knew all that, but she was too scared to continue living in Delhi alone. She had started looking for a job and a house in Dehradun much earlier. Gathering enough courage, Bushra had called her brother one day. Their father had been dead for three years, and their mother was nearing her end. Despite Hamza’s severe objections, their mother asked Bushra to come home one last time.
Bushra took Inaayat with her. In secret, she told her mother that Inaayat was her dead friend’s daughter, whom she took in. Her mother held both Inaayat and Bushra tightly in her arms and wept for a long time. She had left Bushra a small plot as an inheritance. Hamza was against it, but their mother knew what she was doing. She died the next day; Bushra left for Delhi a day later. She had frequented Dehradun after that. Unable to find a satisfactory job in the city, Bushra decided to do something on the land her mother had left.
It was deep inside Harrawala, a suburban area on the outskirts of Dehradun with very little commercial value. The land would have fetched her nothing sustainable if sold. So she talked to a friend in Delhi who knew a horticulturist. He agreed to take a look at the land. He suggested to Bushra that she try organic farming. The idea was becoming popular in India those days. If Bushra could grow enough produce, he promised to talk to a buyer. So, at an age when most people settle and live a routine life that has fallen into a certain rhythm, Bushra began a new journey.
Shefali came back into the room. Bushra hadn’t even noticed that she was not there. She asked if they could start again. Bushra nodded in silence. It was past one p.m. already.
‘So how did the venture start? Had you already planned it when you left Delhi?’
Bushra smiled at the monotony of her own answer. ‘Like Everything else in my life, this too was unplanned. Ammi had left me some land as a part of my inheritance. A friend suggested organic farming, and I followed. Trust me, things are never as easy as they sound. I had no experience in farming. I knew no one who had. But I had Inayat. She needed a good education, a house to call home and a mother who could not give up. All that led to the venture. It took us three years to produce enough for buyers. Before that, we sold vegetables and fruits at a low price in the local market. We even sold fruits on the highway in a makeshift shop. Once we had enough experience with growing herbs and vegetables using organic farming methods, we were able to save our products from perishing. We also increased our yield. Then, we started selling to larger buyers.
With increased income, I was able to buy some more of the surrounding land, and as of last year, we have started our own supply chain. We also plan to branch out and create our own food processing factory. Talks are in progress. Let’s see where we reach. But I was not alone in all this. Many people stood with me; my friends in Delhi kept tabs on me and encouraged me. They also provided me with professional opinions, which felt like a boon, especially in the first year when I feared that nothing worthwhile would actually come out of all this. I would eventually have to move back to Delhi with Inayat. But by God’s grace, the land was productive, and we came into Business right after the first season.
However, the greatest help I received was from Vijay, a childhood friend of mine. I had no idea; he lived in the area. We met accidentally when I went to Harrawala for the first time. He took me to his house and introduced me to his wife and children. From there on, that family never let us feel alone. They were always there to celebrate our success as well as our failures. They have been helping us through thick and thin for the past six years. So I would like to take this opportunity to thank them for all they have done for Inayat and me.’
Shefali mimicked a silent clap. ‘That is truly a success story. You must be proud of yourself. I always admire women like you. Now let me ask one last question. What’s next? What do you want to do in the coming years of your life?’
Finally, there was a question for which Bushra had a well-rehearsed answer. ‘This one I have already figured out. I want to hand over the Business to Inaayat. She is studying in the London School of Economics right now. She has a good hold over Business as a subject. I am sure she will take the venture to great heights. That’s all I want from life now. See my Inaayat succeed.’ (And maybe one day I will tell her the entire truth about our lives and hope to God that she will understand the predicament of her ageing mother and not be as angry as I think. Maybe we will find some peace after all.)
‘That was a great session. Thank you very much for your time Ma’am. It was a pleasure to talk to you.’
‘The pleasure was all mine, dear.’
They shook hands, after which Shefali collected her things and left.
The light from the afternoon sun lit Bushra’s entire room with radiance. She took out her phone and began dialling Inaayat’s number.
