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It was a muggy evening of July, 1993, when, I got some unexpected visitors from my village, Rehanpur. They were none, but the close relatives of one of the friends of my elder sister, Bilqees Bano. She studied in the village Middle School until class seven together. After that, both had parted their ways as it was their helplessness to do so. There was no longer any high school in my village. And, village people would hardly allow their sisters and daughters to go to any far-flung schools for higher education. Another impediment was that they were dead set against sending their wards to any co-education schools. Nevertheless, luckily, some four kilometres away, there was a girl's high school, in a Hindu dominated area, from which, village …show more content…
My father always lived away from us, in different towns and cities, doing his work in the Electricity Department as a junior engineer. He would not find compatible most of the time to keep his family along with him, because, he had many other obligations at home to fulfil. He had six brothers and two sisters, all married, except, one who was pursuing his PhD from a central university in Delhi. His name was Asrarul Haq. He was a budding Urdu poet and critic. He was also very much dependent on the dole of my father for continuing his …show more content…
Why were they looking so closely at me? Were they unaware that my eldest sister, Bilqees had gone back to her husband’s house? Or have they just paid a customary visit? I knew that they were not that kind of persons. They would rarely visit to anyone. I knew about them that how disciplined they were, and how smart in guarding their privacy.
My grandfather’s brother, Mohammad Mustaqim was also married to one of the daughters of that family. She was the daughter of one of their uncles. Her name was Zahira Khatoon. She would constantly tell us in a mystifying way that how that family lived and guarded their secrets. They were considered one of the finest families of the village, the most educated and cultured. There was an aura of mystery always surrounded about them, which made them more enigmatic and strange, and at the same time, chary. I reached the kitchen. My three aunties were busy in preparing the food for the family on the hearth. It was the only way to cook and feed the entire clan. We had not any gas connection then, and the village had not yet got that
It was a muggy evening of July, 1993, when, I got some unexpected visitors from my village, Rehanpur. They were none, but the close relatives of one of the friends of my elder sister, Bilqees Bano. She studied in the village Middle School until class seven together. After that, both had parted their ways as it was their helplessness to do so. There was no longer any high school in my village. And, village people would hardly allow their sisters and daughters to go to any far-flung schools for higher education. Another impediment was that they were dead set against sending their wards to any co-education schools. Nevertheless, luckily, some four kilometres away, there was a girl's high school, in a Hindu dominated area, from which, village …show more content…
My father always lived away from us, in different towns and cities, doing his work in the Electricity Department as a junior engineer. He would not find compatible most of the time to keep his family along with him, because, he had many other obligations at home to fulfil. He had six brothers and two sisters, all married, except, one who was pursuing his PhD from a central university in Delhi. His name was Asrarul Haq. He was a budding Urdu poet and critic. He was also very much dependent on the dole of my father for continuing his …show more content…
Why were they looking so closely at me? Were they unaware that my eldest sister, Bilqees had gone back to her husband’s house? Or have they just paid a customary visit? I knew that they were not that kind of persons. They would rarely visit to anyone. I knew about them that how disciplined they were, and how smart in guarding their privacy.
My grandfather’s brother, Mohammad Mustaqim was also married to one of the daughters of that family. She was the daughter of one of their uncles. Her name was Zahira Khatoon. She would constantly tell us in a mystifying way that how that family lived and guarded their secrets. They were considered one of the finest families of the village, the most educated and cultured. There was an aura of mystery always surrounded about them, which made them more enigmatic and strange, and at the same time, chary. I reached the kitchen. My three aunties were busy in preparing the food for the family on the hearth. It was the only way to cook and feed the entire clan. We had not any gas connection then, and the village had not yet got that