Lockdown With Dirilis Ertugrul

By Aminah. M

I wish I were in a different planet or dimension and this lockdown was behind us.

And I wish the moment, or the day had never taken place when my mother-in-law entered our house and saw her son sweeping the floor while his wife chilled on the bed. I wish it were something that happened so long ago that Amma no longer remembered (hopefully out of old age and dementia.)

Yikes.

A crazy-fast-paced and hilarious book.

Iram a twenty-seven-year-old housewife is obsessed with the enormously popular Turkish drama Diliris Ertugrul.

The story revolves around Iram and her husband Faizal, and their daughter Saira.
Faced with the unexpected pandemic Iram and her family muddle through the strange and unfamiliar situations that crop up during the lockdown.

Iram’s mother-in-law referred to as Amma and her sister-in-law named Rubina are Iram’s nemesis in the story and their actions usually result in their own comical downfall. Iram refers to the two women as Aytolun and Goncagul Hatun the villainous two ladies in the Turkish drama of Diliris Ertugrul.

Iram and Faizal are expecting twins and they are ecstatic about the new additions to their family.

Faizal’s mother wants to celebrate her wedding anniversary despite the
lockdown and ultimately with Rubina and her husband Javed’s, help she manages to convince the family to go for a mini-vacation to a villa located in Madh Island.

Unfortunately, the entire group of people are placed in quarantine for two weeks due to
dubious travel permit procured by Rubina’s smarmy-hustler husband Javed.

The family’s situation unravels from here and when mysterious occurrences take place in the villa a sinister plot is unearthed by Iram and her friend/sister-in-law Nayla.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aminah. M
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005333850

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I am a dead duck!

No…. No…No way is this is happening.

The morning news made my head spin.

I almost passed out on hearing the replay of the broadcast read out by the elegant lady in the mauve saree.

The news about the lockdown was aired in the ‘Midnight Special’ bulletin, so I…along with many other Indians…did not hear about it until today morning.

It was everywhere, FM, television, the newspapers.

However, when I looked outside, everything seemed ordinary…. Almost.

I could hear the brown sparrows chirping and warm sunlight streamed through my balcony windows.

But then again something seemed off, and I realized with a jolt…. There was no traffic sound. It was uncanny to wake up to a silent morning in a city like Mumbai with no sound of blaring horns blasted by rude drivers and the screech of a hastily applied brake by one of the bike riding clans.

My hands shook, I gulped in air like a fish just caught in the nets by our local Koli fisherman.

I could understand that today onwards there might be no vegetable vendors, grocery shops, and no Chaat or Pani Puri carts lining the streets.

I could even empathize with no auto-rickshaws and no yellow-black cabs. I recognized the significance of staying indoors and steering away from attending social events, shopping malls, and dining out in restaurants.

Even when the school announced there would be no more classes for my five-year-old daughter I lauded their efforts.

I could comprehend the severity and strict measures needed to control this vile virus. I truly supported the government’s decision on the lockdown.

But this was insane. A line had been crossed. Nay! Our rights had been infringed. Someone had violated the unbroken and sacred regulation of Mumbai and announced there would be no more PART TIME MAIDS, DOMESTIC HELP, BAI allowed in societies.

Whaaat??? Seriously…Who came up with such an unreasonable pronouncement?

I live in Mumbai, and there is no such thing as ‘no maid allowed in the society premises,’ in this great city.

Honestly, that phrase is taboo. When someone says my maid has not turned up today there is a gasp of consternation.

We Mumbaikars are generally peace loving and friendly people.

We visit our neighbours and even exchange our home-made biryani with each other. We go out of our way to be civil to everyone.

But hell, hath no fury if a neighbour talks to our maids. They are a precious part of our life, the thought of my maid not coming to my house for two weeks sent shivers down my spine.

In my entire life, I have never come across a situation where my maid had not turned up for an extended number of days.

Maybe a day or two days off but the entire two weeks without my loyal and can’t-do-without-her—Pushpa.

It was a catastrophe.

I deduced these two weeks would impact me in a colossal way and it would necessitate major modifications to my regular schedule.

I wondered where I was going to fit in Diliris Ertugrul.

Until two days back my day had commenced with me packing tiffin for my husband Faizal and my daughter Saira, I would then send both of them off with a kiss.

Once they had left the house, I would plonk myself on the divan, reach out for the remote and switch on Netflix. The haunting-jingling introductory music would begin of the Turkish drama Diliris Ertugrul—but now I click the button for ‘skip intro’.

By the time one episode got over the doorbell would chime and my faithful Pushpa—my support, my maid and my respite all rolled into one—entered with a flourish.

Two days back I was chewing my nails in consternation while Ertugrul struggled with his enemies.

Two days back I might have been totally absorbed watching the series (keeping my limit to three episodes in the morning), while Pushpa prattled nonstop.

Honestly, how much that woman could talk? I had thought.

I had responded to her by mumbling, "Uh-huh! Herb-Derb! Hamana-hamana! At least every two minutes. Could she not see I was trying to read the English subtitles while keeping up with the emotions and flow of Turkish words and to understand the next plot against the Kayi tribe?

I felt so bugged by Pushpa at times. Good thing she might no longer come to work for me.

Yikes! Did I just say that... Naaaiiiiii I need my Baaaiiiiii. (in Mumbai we call our maids Bai. Not the ‘BAE-before anyone else’ but Bai, but honestly, I cannot distinguish the many metamorphoses in the pronunciation and the translation of the two B’s)

I gulped in air when the reality struck me starting today for the next two weeks, I might have to sweep the floor, wash the vessels, and dust the furniture. The image played in my mind like a film, I saw myself scrubbing jars, crockeries, pots and pans in all shapes and sizes, even so their numbers kept increasing until they tumbled out of the sink.

A cold perspiration went down my back and my eyes got a glazed look as my imagination galloped unbridled, and the mountain of vessels kept piling up until they started to overflow from the kitchen into the living room.

I pictured myself, my five-year-old daughter Saira, and my husband Faizal jumping through the maze of pots like hopping from one boulder to another on a clifftop.

OMG! I cannot fathom the fact I might have to survive for two weeks without my maid.

I heard someone calling my name and felt a poke on my shoulder. I jumped and my eyes became fixated on my husband Faizal. He was observing me with a perplexed look on his face.

He must have been talking to me while I was lost in the murkiness of my imagination.

Are you ok? Faizal sounded concerned.

Faizal is an interior designer and partner of an architect firm known as Jaffery and Khan Associates. His partner Mohid Khan is his childhood friend and they had grown up together in Bandra.

Faizal and Mohid had taken office space in Andheri as the rents were cheaper compared to the other suburbs.

Before I could open my mouth, he resumed. Don’t worry, now that office is shut for the duration of the lockdown, I will help you with the household stuff.

Wait…. What? I only catch the few words that sounded the most vital…. ‘Office shut and help with the household.’

Wow! I had not realised Faizal’s office might be shut, I was only concerned about the maid. Now this information alters the whole situation.

If Faizal’s office had shut that means he may well perhaps be home and that deciphered into ‘I may not have to wash vessels the entire day.’

That means my hubby who has a slight OCD problem might just perhaps keep the house spic and span with or without… my assistance.

Let me lay out a scenario from three weeks back. Saira and I, we both love to read so we took a few books and a bowl of popcorn to chill out in the playroom/ Saira’s bedroom.

Faizal entered upon our ‘we-time’ and seeing the scattered books started to put them neatly in order.

To our exasperation he even began pulling the cushions from under our butts to put them back in their right places.

Well, we pulled them right back.

But you got the picture right.

All I must do now is to sit back and let my hubby’s OCD kick in.

Ahhh! I Iram Jaffery a twenty-seven-year-old housewife finally felt safe from the assault of the scouring brush thanks to my husband’s OCD.

I lived with my miniscule family in a two BHK flat in one of the lifestyle towers in Versova.

According to Mumbai standards, our twelve hundred square feet apartment is spacious, it even has a balcony in each room overlooking the Arabian Sea.

The best thing about my residential suburb Versova is the easy access to transportation.

The moment I am out of my gate I can hail an auto-rickshaw with self-opinionated drivers that can take me anywhere in the city at breakneck speed. The three-wheeler is even better than magical portals seen in movies that transfer you from one place to another in the blink of an eye.

You get the picture, no one walks or drives sedately whether people or vehicle everything is fast paced.

Mumbai is also the greatest city in the world. I have travelled in local trains late at night returning home from SOBO with my two sisters Amal, Fiza and brother Akram.

Even at eleven in the night we had jostled with people for standing space on the train.

The Mumbai trains are eternally crammed with people working for call centres, IT, not to mention youngsters going/returning from parties.

No matter what time of the night it was the compartments were always brightly lit with dazzling white tube lights and stuffed with people.

Obviously, my two sisters and I sat in the ladies’ compartment where I could see countless women travelling to their destination.

I mean to say this must be the safest city in the entire wide world.

The array of travelling women fascinated me in the train compartment (most of them on their phones with their ears plugged in and non-stop chatter about their workplace/home/boyfriend/husband/in-laws/neighbours/friends.

I found it super interesting to get an insight into their lives and their conversation with a faceless person (for me) on the other end of the phone.

But the real talent lay in picking out the right kind of channel of communication, it is akin to fine-tuning into your favourite radio channel while filtering out the rest of the faffing that floated in the air.

My preference was to hear office gossip and how the politics played out. (After all, I was nearly done with college and planned to take up a job soon, I considered this kind of eavesdropping as an educational drill for the real world to come)

Say, if I met with one of the obnoxious characters who stooped so low to put their names on my presentation (err! I heard the girl in the lavender top with the high ponytail tell her friend on her handphone about it) I should act shrewd and mark my presentations with my name and bcc it to another team member.

I felt so indignant on behalf of lavender top girl I wanted to barge into her office and call out on her cheating-lying-loathsome-head-of her-department-BS boss.

But miss lavender top got down at Santacruz and I had to be on the train until Andheri station and that was two stations later.

I felt Versova was a gem in the crown of Mumbai, unlike my mother who grieved for her Bandra life.

Until I was eight years old, we had lived near Elco Arcade in Hill road-Bandra. The place was teeming with people. Mom loved all the hustle-bustle of cars and people on the street. My mother Shagufta adored Bandra better known as queen of burbs. She loved Hill Road, Bandstand and Carter road.

My mom took us all to Bandstand every Saturday evening and kept a watchful eye for Galaxy building where the Bollywood megastar Salman Khan resided with his family.

Each time our autorickshaw passed the Galaxy edifice mom viewed the terrace flat wistfully hoping to catch a glimpse of Salman (minus his shirt of course) much to the annoyance of my father.

Abbu would cluck irritably and comment scathingly on behaving like star-struck sightseers coming from rural India.

My mother tended to disregard my dad’s cribbing, and kept her eyes peeled on the first-floor terrace while our auto-rickshaw gradually sputtered to the dome stand.

When I reached the wise old age of nine my father lost his job as the only earning member of the family. We sold our one BHK flat on Hill Road and moved to Versova.

My mom hated the place, she felt it was oh-so-dead after the dynamic pulsating energy of Bandra with all its glittery stars practically in its backyard. (We went past Mannat too hoping to catch a glimpse of Sharukh khan.)

But everything had come crashing down with my dad’s redundancy.

Eighteen years back there were no hip places in Versova, only a South Indian restaurant named Appointment near the famous Bonbon shoe shop and Stomach II an Indian Chinese diner in a quiet undescriptive lane.

The lane had another insignificant track shaded by trees on both sides, and that was a place I loved unequivocally.

I recalled the moments spent with my sister Amal and the intense discussions about our dreams, aspirations for the future during those heart-to heart we had in that shaded lane.

But mom could barely hide her dissatisfaction of leaving Bandra to settle down in Versova.

Nonetheless, mum was stoic like Mother Hayme, and she presently adapted to her new community and paved the way for us and for our many friendships.

We had moved to Kalyan Complex near the main road and one rainy day I was sitting placidly near the window and looking out at the greenery.

I adored the place but out of loyalty to my mom pretended that this was oh-so-dead-and-banal compared to Bandra.

But to be frank I never much liked Bandra for the reason that I genuinely have low tolerance for all overcrowded places and high-traffic areas.

I desired serenity to popularity.

If you ask me what character I might like to be if I lived in Ertugrul age I would say Ibn Al Arabi the saint.

Wow! I mean wow, it must be so amazing to be that peaceful and away from all the politics and stress of being the head of a tribe or the sultan of the state.

I would love to walk on isolated roads with just nature for company and that is another reason why I value the character of Ibn Arabi, you get to walk and explore new places. I mean to say that is so……me.

Mom was darning a button on my school shirt and Fiza was playing with her dolls, Amal had gone out with my father to get an electrician to do some basic work.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, I hopped off my perch at the window and opened the door to a girl who must be close to my age, she had a dish in her hand covered with a salver and she spoke shyly, Hi I am Mona and your next-door neighbour. Mom has sent Kheer-Puri for you all.

I opened the door wide to welcome Mona inside, I took her to where my mom sat darning my shirt button and introduced her to Mona.

Mom was pleased to see a guest in our home, and she promised to return the bowl the next day.

Ha! That is another custom in India, if your neighbour sends a bowl filled with delicacy, you do not send an empty bowl back. You send back the pot filled with some special food that you made at home, the next day being a Sunday, I knew it was going to be chicken Biryani.

Mona seemed nice, and at least I might have someone to hang out with.

Shortly, Mona’s mother Seema aunty and my mom became super close, and Mona and I became bff.

Mona’s brother Arif and my big bro Akram sealed their friendship, and it was a kind of sweet brotherhood they shared (they were like Turgut and Bamsi).

On the other hand, mom, and Seema aunty secretly planned Amal and Arif’s wedding, they gossiped and conspired together. Both mothers felt exceedingly disheartened when Amal told mom she planned to get married to Rehan who was part of her friend’s group.

But Arif seemed relieved to be let off the hook (somethings are just not meant to be).

Hang on, if I am like Ibn Arabi, Arif and Akram like Turgut and Bamsi, while I feel Faizal is a lot like Abdul Rahman (quiet and dependable) who was the Ertugrul of my family?

After a lot of thinking and painstakingly connecting the eccentricities of my family members I established that the only one who could be Ertugrul was my younger sister Fiza. She seemed to be the most qualified out of all of us to be the Bey (Chief) of our family.

Fiza was the one who wanted to fight for justice by joining the UN and migrating to the UK (I compared it to migrating to new territories).

Fiza wanted to fight for the environment, women’s rights, children’s rights and start an animal shelter. She was the only one amongst us who had the qualities of a Margrave.

While my dear Amal was the sensible sidekick Dogan.

On the other hand, looking back to my younger days, I am not sure whether to categorize Fiza as Ertugrul or the fiery Selcan Hatun.

Hmmm! Only time will tell.

CHAPTER 2

Once I passed my tenth grade and completed my high school, I joined National College because I had a leaning towards Arts.

Mom looked thrilled when I broke the news that I had procured admission in national college which was on the main road of Linking Road-Bandra, between her daughters I was the creative one while Amal was the practical one.

If I thought my mother was exultant for my academic achievements then I might as well be living in a bubble, of course, she felt proud at my attaining a degree, however, I knew what images might have been running through her mind, she thought I might perchance meet a guy who lived in Bandra and we would marry, have a dozen kids, and settle into her favourite suburb.

That would allow her to visit the place more often.

I did meet a Bandra guy but then Faizal much to my mother’s disillusionment was interested in Versova rather than Bandra.

My mother pinned all her hope on Fiza for I had botched her dreams.

Today I feel that is the best thing that happened to me that I did not have to leave my precious Versova.

There were so many benefits of living in Versova, chiefly…

1) I am so near my family.

2) My best friend and sister Amal too got married to Rehan who lived on seven bungalows, a spitting distance from Versova.

In the end mom deduced it was two down and one to go, one last hope- my sister Fiza.

However, Fiza was neither interested in Bandra nor Versova. She had developed a microscopic vision and at the end of the tunnel she could only visualize one place on earth she wanted to live in – The UK.

Amal and I were nearer in age, Amal was older than me by two years and Akram was one year older to Amal so that makes him three years older to me.

Fiza was born when I was five years old, till then Amal and I had bonded strongly so we treated Fiza like the pesky younger sister she was.

I was the quiet type while Amal was strong headed and the leader between us. But Fiza was a world apart.

She was demanding, and she made Amal look like a weak helpless chick. By the time Fiza was fourteen years old she was taller than me, she wanted to join the UN and work as an activist for environment control.

Fiza’s dream was to migrate to the UK and change the world. Amal would scoff at her dream, UK, why of all the places? Fiza would smirk and say, Because they are progressive, educated and if not for them we would never have learnt to speak English, nor would we have Victoria Terminus or other British iconic buildings.

Incensed Amal would snap at Fiza, They bloody enslaved us.

Fiza brushed it off with tosh, that is history and walk away airily while Amal fumed at Fiza’s total disregard for her country’s turbulent historical past.

If you ask me, I preferred harmony, so I pretended to read a book while Amal did her best to drag me into their fracas.

Once Amal nearly succeeded in involving me in their spat, Amal, Fiza, and I shared one room between us, while I was in the process of cleaning my wardrobe, folding my clothes, and wiping the dusty shelves Amal and Fiza started their India versus UK war.

I was struggling with an exceptionally lengthy Dupatta, I tried to fold it but somehow the corner just plainly stuck out, I knew I needed someone to hold the other end and help me with the disobliging angles, but I could hear Amal’s heated voice berating Fiza’s pigheadedness about the superiority of the British.

I groaned and decided to ignore the stuck-up corner of the folded scarf and thrust it inside the shelf I had lined with newspaper.

I felt a prickle run down my back, the same way you feel when someone stands directly behind you and drills their eyes into your back.

I slowly twisted my head and there stood Amal with a thunderous look on her face, hands on her hips and droplets of spit flew from her mouth when she shrieked, what does she think about herself and her stuck up ideas about the United Kingdom, if not for us they would never have the money to pay their debts, even our Kohinoor is in their bloody museum. Iram, try talking sense into your younger sister.

I felt rattled and I hemmed and hawed, uh-huh, Amal maybe you two should let it go and settle in the country of your choice. I said feebly.

Amal scowled, You don’t want to take sides do you Iram. You chicken out so easily, but I know what I want and what my roots are, unlike some members of my family and I am proud of my heritage." Amal yelled the last sentence of her rant like a military general and stormed out of the room, I flinched as I heard the front door open and then bang shut.

I exhaled and wiped my nose on my sleeve cuffs.

I hated these face-offs between Amal and Fiza, why could they not accept each other’s lives’ choices and leave alone the controversies.

Later the two made up and I finished cleaning my wardrobe but for the next few days I walked on glass shards around Amal, I feared she would snap at me and deride me for deserting her.

However, Amal soon forgave me and we went back to our close-knit-sisterly camaraderie.

Ahh! But the fights never stopped between Amal and Fiza, I would say blame it on the British.

CHAPTER 3

Once I had procured my college degree, I was all set to start my career as an illustration artist, I had responded to an opening on LinkedIn that had come for a children’s book publication house and cleared the interview, but then along came Faizal, and yours truly drowned in his deep brown eyes.

I still remember it like yesterday, Faizal had visited Mona’s brother Arif at his home.

I rang the doorbell of Mona’s home to borrow sugar (I know, pretty cheesy, but our maid had not turned up that day and we were out of the white crystals, my mum told me to run down to the store, but I decided to hop over to Seema auntie’s home with a bowl to fill in the sugar).

Oh, poor me! I was totally oblivious the way my life was about to change the moment the door opened to my BFF’s house.

Faizal stared unabashedly at me while Arif introduced us.

I felt slightly flustered, it did not help that Mona noticed the awkward way we both greeted each other.

Like a total loser, I stood in Seema auntie’s doorway holding a white Corelle bowl, while my cheeks flamed a bright pink making me blush under Faizal’s gaze.

A week later I was sitting cross legged on Mona’s bed in her room, together we had decided to apply online for jobs.

The front doorbell chimed, Mona was halfway through her application, and she looked at me and implored me with her eyes to get the door.

I swung my feet down from the bed and padded in my bare feet to open the door.

On the way I had to pass Mona’s brother Arif’s room, he was fast asleep sprawled on the mattress (his snores were rattling the china in the kitchen cabinet…ugh)

I turned the latch and jerked open the door and felt a light waft of breeze ruffle my shoulder length hair. I looked at Mona’s unexpected visitor and sucked in my breath, standing before me was the hot guy with the brown eyes, he was wearing a cap with ‘cool’ written on it (just like Salman Khan, come to think of it, his chiseled features did resemble the most eligible bachelor, especially his ‘blown by the wind hair’ appearance).

The door lay half-open, my hand was on the carved iron handle and my fingers slowly traced the etchings while I stood dumbfounded.

At that moment Mona entered the living room wondering why I was taking so long to open the door but sizing up the situation and seeing my flushed face she burst out laughing. (remind me to change my best friend).

I turned around feeling downright humiliated, I gave Mona a dour look that would have shriveled a lesser mortal, but not Mona.

As Salaam Alaikum Faizal, so good to see you again, have you met my friend Iram. Mona chimed as a way of apology.

Then turning in my direction, she introduced Faizal, neither of us corrected her that her brother had already introduced us. "Iram this is Arif’s friend Faizal Jaffery, he is an architect.

Faizal said a quiet hi.

I replied with a quieter hello.

Mona took my arm and propelled me towards the sofa, she asked Faizal to take a seat while she went inside to wake up her brother.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Faizal asked me if I was studying, I shook my head and said I had just cleared my finals.

Faizal leaned back and crossed his