Skeena

By Fauzia Rafique

Skeena is the story of a Muslim Canadian woman spanning thirty years of her life where she explores her changing environments, religious and cultural influences, and intimate relationships...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Libros Libertad Publishing
• Release date: Dec 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466122215

Fauzia Rafique

A South Asian Canadian writer of fiction and poetry, Fauzia writes in English, Punjabi and Urdu. She has published three novels: ‘Keerroo’ (insectoo) Punjabi shahmukhi (Sanjh Publications 2019 Lahore PK), ‘Skeena’ Punjabi gurmukhi (Sangam Publications 2019 Patiala IN), and ‘The Adventures of SahebaN: Biography of a Relentless Warrior’ English (Libros Libertad 2016 Surrey CA). She was recognized in 2012 by peer group WIN Canada as ‘Distinguished Poet & Novelist’ for her first novel ‘Skeena’ (Libros Libertad 2011) and the first chapbook of English and Punjabi poems ‘Passion Fruit/Tahnget Phal’ (Uddari Books 2011). Her eBook of poems ‘Holier Than Life’ was published in 2013. Earlier, she edited an anthology of writings of women of South Asian origin, ‘Aurat durbar: The Court of Women’ (Toronto 1995). In Pakistan, Fauzia worked as a journalist and screenwriter.Through creative writing, blogging and community development work Fauzia supports freedom of expression and equality. In 2013, she declined Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal to protest against Canadian Government and British Monarchy for refusing to meet hunger-striking Indigenous leaders. She publishes blogs on Punjabi literature, blasphemy and honor killings. She is a co-founder and the coordinator of Surrey Muse Arts Society (SMAS).

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Skeena

by Fauzia Rafique

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY: Fauzia Rafique on Smashwords

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To my mother, Zohra Begum

Acknowledgements

Michele Sherstan for viewing the first draft of Skeena in 2004-2005, and giving it a vigorous round of substance, style, and copy editing; Zubair Ahmad for providing valuable insights while editing Skeena in Punjabi (Perso-Arabic script) in 2006; Ben Nuttall-Smith for script evaluation and some cool suggestions in 2010; and Lisa Collins for a deep editorial glance in 2010, and for generating a publishable draft for Libros Libertad.

‘Swaying in ecstasy play-on in the inner yard, all is near to those meditating Rivers flow in this yard, thousands of millions of boats Some are seen drowning, others have reached the shore This yard has nine doors, the tenth is locked shut No one knows the door, from where my lover comes and goes This yard has a pretty curve, a hollow in the curve I spread my bed in the hollow to love my lover at night! In this yard, a wild elephant is struggling with the chain Says Hussain the Beggar of His Beloved, (the elephant) is teasing the awake’

From Punjabi poet Shah Madhu Lal Hussain, Lahore 1539 – 1599

Skeena

My name means different things in different languages. In Arabic, it is the ‘Spirit of Tranquility’ (Sakina); in Hebrew, the ‘Indwelling Feminine Face of Divinity’ (Shekhinah); and in the languages of Nisga’a Peoples, the ‘River of Mists’ (Skeena). At this time, I don’t favour one meaning over the other. They make a lot of sense together but if I met a people who associated this sound with a meaning that does not fit my scheme, I would have to pick and choose.

Contents

The Inner Yard, Village 1971

Afternoon

Evening

Night

Wild Elephant, Lahore 1981

Festival

Next Day

Standing at the Riverbank

1982

Struggling with the Chain, Toronto 1991

Morning

Night

Dawn

Teasing the Awake, Surrey 2001

Names

Fire

Noises

I Have No History

The Inner Yard

Village 1971

Our village is only fifty miles from the city of Lahore but it takes eight hours for my brother Bha to get back because the last twenty-mile chunk is on a dirt road that goes over two irrigation canals, crosses three villages, and separates many fields.

We are so close to the Indian border that hundreds of bombshells fell on us during the 1965 war but none this time. Ama Zainab, the oldest woman in the village, showed me the location where bombs had made holes in the earth; now, it’s just a huge sunken field filled with bones of dead animals and birds.

All bones are not old. The one I picked for myself this morning belongs to the wild boar that Bha hunted yesterday for his gora white friend Mr. Baxter.

About sixty households work for Bha but I can visit only two or three including the home of my best friend Noor Jamalo.

Afternoon

It is hard for me to do my homework when children are making so much noise. No one is disturbing me inside because SayeeN Jee is praying on the guest bed and MaaN Jee is busy sewing. Children are playing in the trenches across from my window. I try to spot my best friend Noor Jamalo, but she isn’t there. The shop outside is closed, and as late as it is in the afternoon, vultures are still circling the sky feasting over the carcass of the wild boar that Bha hunted yesterday.

After cutting the meat into pieces and stacking it in a wooden box, the men left the carcass in the field for birds, insects, and animals. The box was taken to Lahore in Bha’s Jeep, and delivered to his friend, Mr. Baxter.

Everyone who touched the animal, and I better not mention the name again because it can make my tongue impure, had to go to Maulvi Jee to become pure again. MaaN Jee gave Bha’s old clothes to the three men who had skinned the animal for them to change after bathing. Still, no one wanted to be touched by them.

Last night, I heard the wolves and wild dogs fight over the dead animal. This morning, all the kids went with Ama JeevaN to watch it. The red insects were mostly gone, but vultures and crows were still picking at the bones. I found a small bone and it is now in the seam of my dress. MaaN Jee says that if we see a bone, we should bury it back in the earth out of respect for the dead, but I did not do it this time because I need some bones for my doctor things on the roof.

I went to see a doctor with MaaN Jee in Lahore last year and there were many interesting things in his room. I really liked the stethoscope because you can hear anyone’s heartbeat, but I don’t have it at this time because Bha says I have to become a doctor to get it. It takes twenty-five years of studying to become a doctor, Bha says, and fifteen to become a teacher. I don’t know if I will be a doctor or a teacher, but I will get the stethoscope either way because if I become a teacher then Nooro will be a doctor and she will let me borrow hers because we share everything.

A fighter jet goes screeching across the bright blue sky. I know that this warplane is so speedy that the enemy cannot even see it, let alone hit it. Outside, away from my window, children are waving their fists in the air.

Hassu, Noor Jamalo’s younger brother, shouts Long Live Pakistan!, as he leads his troops out of the trenches.

Another plane flies over or perhaps the same one comes back. This time it dives a lot lower.

Hau! SayeeN Jee, who is sitting on the guest bed and praying, comes out of his prayer and looks at MaaN Jee with fear in his eyes.

Don’t worry, SayeeN Jee, it’s ours, MaaN Jee says without raising her head from sewing.

SayeeN Jee keeps trembling. For a big man, he is too afraid of warplanes, so much so that he had to leave his home in Gujranwala and come here as soon as the war began between India and Pakistan. And that is not all: SayeeN Jee is afraid of many things including dogs.

Hindus are attacking Bengali Muslims a thousand miles away and these planes are scaring us here! MaaN Jee says, slipping thread through her needle.

Tention! Hassu shouts outside. Left, Right! Left, Right!

Soon the whole line is shouting.

Oho, children are making too much noise, their mothers better be back soon, MaaN Jee says.

Ma! SayeeN Jee’s eyes are filled with tears.

SayeeN Jee, God Forbid, why are you crying? MaaN Jee says as she puts her sewing aside.

I want to go to Bibi, he sobs.

Of course, you will go home as soon as it is safe. War is nearly over in East Pakistan.

MaaN Jee, Bangladesh is the new name of East Pakistan, I say. Bha taught me the new name only last night.

What? MaaN Jee looks at me with annoyance instead of appreciation. It is Hindu propaganda, Son, how can Bengal not be in Pakistan? That is where the movement for independence began in the first place, she says as she leaves her bed. SayeeN Jee, if you keep crying, Khadija’s enemies will become sick.

Hearing my Masi’s name is enough for SayeeN Jee to start sobbing in a loud voice. Bibi-O! Bibi! he calls for my aunt as his tears fall down his cheeks.

Don’t be a child, SayeeN Jee, she can’t hear you in Gujranwala. MaaN Jee offers him the corner of her chiffon dopatta covercloth to wipe his tears.

That makes SayeeN Jee weep even more. Soon he begins to make mourning noises. MaaN Jee tries to hug him, but her hands do not reach around him. Even when I open my arms wide, I can only cover one side of SayeeN Jee.

Mother Dies Over You! Do you want Bibi Khadija to fall sick? MaaN Jee says as she tries to shake him by the shoulder.

Allah Forgiveness! He places his fingertips on his tongue, and then touches his ears with them. Plane will come, throw bomb on me. I will die in foreign land, far from my Bibi! he says, and then begins to recite I want to die near Bibi, want to die near Bibi!

A distance of less than a hundred miles is foreign land for you? MaaN Jee says as she holds onto him.

SayeeN Jee continues to move from side to side. Want to die near Bibi!

I have to stop writing ‘Thank You’ in my copybook because SayeeN Jee is now moving with such force that his bed is bending and creaking, making the whole room shake.

JeevaN! MaaN Jee calls out to the inner yard as she pushes back to keep SayeeN Jee from falling. O JeevaN!

I look at the wooden door of the side room expecting it to burst open and reveal Ama JeevaN’s happy round face.

Ama JeevaN does not appear and neither do Khurshedi, Bau, or Jeejoo.

Skeena! MaaN Jee calls me.

I jump and stand up on the bed with my pencil and copybook in hand.

Get JeevaN! SayeeN Jee is going into the haal transcendental-state, MaaN Jee says, trying to stop him from falling.

I jump down from the bed.

It is lucky for me that MaaN Jee was not looking in my direction because I just did something wrong. Standing on the bed and jumping down from it are not allowed.

I begin to run, and that too is wrong, but not now because it is an emergency.

SayeeN Jee’s recitation becomes louder.

I look back. His bed is banging against the wall, his eyes are closed, his arms are floating sideways above his head, and his large protruding stomach is moving on its own.

Want to die near Bibi, want to die… SayeeN Jee gains force swaying sideways, and unconscious of his surroundings, he hits MaaN Jee.

She falls on the rug, and quickly gets up.

Skeena, go! she cries back at me.

I dive into the side room, go through the next door, and step onto the raised platform of the inner yard.

Ama JeevaN is not working in the indoor kitchen to my right nor in the outdoor kitchen where I am standing. She is not sitting under the tree in the middle of the yard, nor is she standing near the bird cage by the wall.

I run to the end of the yard, open the door of the third store room, and call Ama JeevaN.

She grabs a small piece of firewood, calls out for Khurshedi, and runs along with me.

Inside, it takes all four of us to hold SayeeN Jee as he goes in and comes out of his transcendental state while Ama JeevaN places the piece of firewood between his teeth to save his tongue.

In the end, his eyes turn white and he faints.

Praise Be to Allah, he’s okay now, MaaN Jee says as she places his head on the pillow and begins to wipe his face and cheeks with her cover cloth.

SayeeN Jee is unconscious. The run-down kohl from his eyes has blotched his cheeks, and his henna-coloured white and red hair is sticky with sweat. But the scariest is his mouth where his walnut-tree-barkedorange lips are stretched around a jaw revealing sparkling white teeth over a brown horizontal piece of firewood.

Maulvi Jee begins to call for prayers. It must be only 2:30 in the afternoon. One hour to go. I start writing ‘Thank You’ in my copybook again. Cold air is making me shiver, but I do not close my window because it gets dark when I do.

Bha says I must learn to write ‘Thank You’ and to say it every time someone gives me something or does something for me. I will have to be careful. I already know how and when to say ‘Please’. It is to ask someone to get something or to do something for me. But I am a bit confused because when I said it to Ama JeevaN to ask her to give me another fried egg, MaaN Jee laughed and said that I don’t have to say it to everyone. Then I said ‘please’ to Khurshedi, asking her to let me mix soap in the big water container for laundry; she giggled and said that I don’t have to say it to her. But when I said it to Bha’s boy servant Bau to ask him to bring his hukkah smokepipe inside, Bha’s green eyes popped out, his ears became red and he said ‘Come here, Babygirl.’ I began to tremble going over to his chair. He clutched my arm, shook me, and said, Don’t ever say ‘please’ to any of my servant workers again.

I feel afraid when Bha gets angry because he can injure me without knowing it like he did last month. My arm kept hurting for two days, and stopped only when Noor Jamalo gave me an Aspro that she stole from her father who uses it every night for back pain. So now I get to say ‘please’ to no one because everyone who does something for me is Bha’s servant or someone who is working Bha’s land, and that is one and the same thing.

I look out from the window. Two wild dogs are sniffing the ground at the gate of our yard. One of them looks at the window and sees me behind the black iron bars.

Dogs! I shout as I jump from the bed landing on the floor with my copybook in hand.

The dog looks at the raised platform below my window and then turns back to the gate again.

Skeena, keep your mind on your work. The village is full of servants, someone will run them out, MaaN Jee says from her bed where she is now resting.

I want— some water, I say.

Be sure to not waste any time, MaaN Jee says without lifting her head.

I put the copybook on my pillow, walk over to the side room, and then run outside to get to the birds ahead of the dogs.

MaaN Jee does not know that Bha had told Gamu to cut the feathers of my female parrot, Toti, to make sure that she could not fly away. Now she is defenseless against all enemies including dogs.

The dogs are already in the middle of the yard. Hens have shoved the chicks inside the cage with pigeons and parrots and are blocking the door with the turkey, but my Toti is not in the cage.

Crows are squawking and flying over us.

Ohoho! Ama JeevaN waves her wooden sandal from the covered verandah of the outside kitchen, and throws it at the dogs.

Both dogs pause to see the sandal fall away from them, and then continue on to the hens and the bird cage.

Armies Charge! I shout to get help from the kids playing war in the trenches outside before grabbing a frying pan from the rack.

"Khalsa Sajje, Khalsa Khabe: Pure Man Right, Pure Man Left!" Kids enter the yard and charge at the dogs with sticks, dried cakes of cow dung, and mud balls. Soon we chase the dogs around the yard, and out.

It is impossible for me to follow because MaaN Jee can see me from the window.

I look around for my Toti again. She is not in the tree nor on the edge of the roof. Maybe someone left the gate open and she walked out and became lost.

I go over to the gate.

Come away, Bibi, Ama JeevaN tells me to not stand by the gate.

Ama JeevaN! Khurshedi brings a basket of onions, garlic, ginger, and tomatoes. Are these enough? she asks.

So many! Is it your wedding party tonight? She grabs the basket from her.

Khurshedi giggles.

Khurshedi, did you see my Toti? I ask her.

Your Toti? Khurshedi giggles again. The poor mouse is hiding in the outside kitchen.

It’s not her fault; Bha had her feathers cut, I tell Khurshedi even though she was the one who had brought MaaN Jee’s scissors from her sewing basket for Gamu.

Let me open the gate, Bibi, women are coming back from the fields, Ama JeevaN says, moving me aside.

I let her open the gate and then stand on my toes to see if Masi UmraN, Noor Jamalo’s mother, is coming too. I count twenty-nine women walking down the road with big bushels of corn on their heads and backs, but no Masi UmraN.

Row upon row of eucalyptus stand silver without leaves. I can see the chimney of the tubewell all the way at the end of the dirt road, and the water gushing out of its square cemented reservoir on the right side. I like winter because then I can see far.

Bau is sweeping the ground for Bha’s outdoor sitting area. He will place the beds, spread the sheets and put quilts and pillows on them, but the best thing is to watch him start the bonfire that keeps going the whole night.

Soon the yard is filled with chatter and a strong aroma of fresh-cut corn. Under the tahli tree, husk is separated from wheat, cotton is fluffed and pulled into yarn, juice is extracted from the sugarcane, vegetables and fruits are washed, weighed, and bundled to be sent to the market in the nearby town of Pattoki. In the mornings, children learn to read, write, and count in Urdu. Young or sick women learn to cut, sew, and embroider in the early afternoons.

"Khurshed, bring Beghum Sahb’s hukkah smokepipe," Ama JeevaN calls, dusting MaaN Jee’s low wooden chair with her cover cloth.

MaaN Jee has come out into the yard. Now I have to hide behind the tahli tree and wait for an opportunity to get to the kitchen without being seen by her.

"Assalama laikam: Peace Be Upon You," women murmur.

"Wa ‘alaikumus Salam: And Upon You Is the Peace," MaaN Jee says as she sits down on her chair.

Ama JeevaN hands her a cup of tea.

I go on my hands and knees, becoming a small dog set to go from the tree to the mud pillar. I move so fast that it is impossible for MaaN Jee to recognize me. From behind the pillar I can see everyone but her, Ama JeevaN, and Khurshedi.

Inside, my Toti is shivering in a dark groove of thatched roof. Below, all the pieces of berries I brought for her this morning are still lying on the floor.

Ibra, you start, MaaN Jee calls Ama Ibra.

Ama Ibra divides her corn into eight portions. One for her, one for Maulvi Jee, two to send back to the land, and four for Bha. Meanwhile, MaaN Jee has noticed Uyo’s dopatta cover cloth and is now talking to her.

Nee Uyo, when you were weighing the rice for the cook this morning, you were again walking like a road roller, dangling your breasts for everyone to see. Why can’t you keep your dopatta in place?

Beghum Sahb, it’s difficult when carrying two containers of rice on the head and one on the hip, Uyo mumbles.

It’s difficult only for you. Every other girl can keep it there even with three on the head and two on both sides, but you decide to flaunt it when your husband is away fighting to save us from the terrible Hindu enemy.

Look at this, Beghum Sahb. Uyo spreads out her dopatta that is half the size of a normal one.

No wonder. Such a small cloth cannot cover an adult body, MaaN Jee says and turns away from Uyo.

I don’t have any other cloth, Uyo says, shaking with anger. It has been a year since he sent me any money. I am feeding my family on the charity of other people.

Enough. Have mercy on your mother-in-law who was widowed at sixteen, and is known for her piety since. JeevaN, find Uyo my old clothes after work tonight, and remind the Munshi to send one month’s ration to her home.

I don’t need — Uyo begins to say something when Nacho nudges her to shut up as she takes a glass of tea from Ama JeevaN.

Nee Nacho, MaaN Jee turns on her. Don’t you have any sense? Let SaidaaN drink first, she’s With the Stomach.

Me, too, Nacho says as she hides her face in her chaadar large- cover cloth.

Really? MaaN Jee turns to Ama Ibra. Nee Ibra, your daughter-in-law is With the Stomach?

Yes, Masi Ibra says with a wide grin on her face. Allah took mercy on us after many years.

As Is the Will of Allah. Is your son Makhan happy now?

Yes, all we wish for is a male fruit.

Allah will turn your One into Eleven, MaaN Jee says.

Your word is as good to me as if it has already happened, Ama Ibra says.

JeevaN, MaaN Jee turns to Ama JeevaN. Did you even send the rice to the mosque?

"Yes Jee, I sent the container before the Azaan call-for-prayer."

You sent it all? I told you to keep some for the women and the Munshi’s new wife.

The wall between Munshi Jee’s front yard and our inner yard is tall, and his wife Boa Majeedan has to stand on an empty wooden crate to see us. Everyone likes Boa Majeedan because she’s the newest bride in the village after Nacho, and because she has come all the way from Karachi. Also, she is the only woman here who has seen the huge Arabian Sea that even MaaN Jee has not yet seen.

Begum Sahib, it was delicious. Thank you. Boa Majeedan’s pleasant Urdu voice comes from across the wall.

I am glad you liked it, Daughter Majeedan, MaaN Jee says in Urdu, but gets back to Punjabi fast. Did anyone taste the sweet rice JeevaN made to celebrate the life and teachings of the Exalted Saint Ghaus-e-Azam?

"Beghum, not