Translated from the Urdu by Huma Namal
She would soon forget the faces.
Suddenly Nimmo would remember that she had forgotten the faces of all her brothers and sisters. Were she to run into them, would she be able to recognize them? If someone asked about her older brother’s skin color, what would she answer? It was because of this that the thought of going to her maika (parents’ home) frightened her. Raza would be happy that she could not bear to be away from him. Her own family wondered how great her in-laws were that she did not miss them. And here she was! Afraid that some day, she would not recognize her mother.
She was constantly sick thinking about this weakness of hers.
It made no sense that you suddenly forgot the people who have always lived with you.
After all, it is only through a face that one knows a man. Meanwhile, even an X-ray cannot reveal the matters of the heart. What a wonderful thing a cardiograph is! Nimmo wondered many times how to convince her husband Raza to get her a cardiograph under the guise of a severe heart condition.
She wished to know whether the heart had also betrayed her along with the eyes. She had heard that the cardiography machine lay bare every hidden curve of the heart, very much like the details projected on a screen. But then she would hesitate…perhaps it would also reveal what lay hidden in her heart and would embarrass her in front of Raza.
God knows when and how this sickness began.
She remembered clearly that earlier, before her marriage, she had no trouble recognizing even the faces of strangers. If she ran into an old friend from school, she would run to them at a moment’s glance. When a neighbour visited their home, she would always greet them, addressing them with their name. She did not mistake her oldest uncle for his younger siblings when the five brothers bore such resemblance that even their own wives sometimes were confused. Moreover, she remembered the similar faces of eleven of her older sisters’ children distinctly while her sister sometimes could not tell Munnu from Chunnu or Guddu from Pappu.
But suddenly it was as if she had damaged the part of her brain where people’s faces were stored. And the sickness was such that sharing it with someone ran the risk of inviting ridicule upon oneself.
Often Raza would call on her from the drawing room, “Nimmo, look who is here!” and it was as if hell broke loose on Nimmo.
“Is ‘he’ here again?” lest something escape her tongue again… it is possible that it is Rakhshi. The vamp was always hovering over Raza before marriage.
Will she not leave us alone even now?
She would walk slowly with a heavy heart. It would upset her even more when she saw a strange woman upon entering the room.
“Who…. who is she?” She would shiver with fear. Body covered in sweat. The blood pouring from her reddened face would be apparent.
“Ah! How weak a heart do you have that cannot even contain happiness?” Nimmo would be further frightened when the woman spoke with customary laughter.
Mumani Begum. Tahir’s sister… NO, it is her own husband’s younger sister. So, should I address her as Salma? Frustrated at her own helplessness, she would break into tears in the woman’s embrace.
“Hush now! Stop! A three-month-old child is not something to kill yourself over. With God’s grace, you shall have so many children that you cannot remember the count.”
Everyone would break into laughter, and she would think frighteningly… Will I even forget my children? Will I not remember the faces of my own children? Oh, so this is choti aapa! Ya Allah! Why have you made all the faces so similar that they meld into one another even as I attempt to remember them distinctly?
Now, what is the difference between badi aapa and choti aapa (older sister and younger sister). Badi aapa is a little bit fairer, but compared to choti aapa, she is much fatter. She must weigh in tons. But for some reason, Nimmo could not tell them apart in memory. All she remembered was that choti aapa was an expert at pressing on the wounds, whereas badi aapa would not hesitate to inflict wounds of her own. Nimmo could tell them apart only when they would speak. Otherwise, she would place choti aapa’s nose on badi aapa. Sometimes she would mistake badi aapa’s eyes for choti aapa’s, and she would wonder if she should call her badi aapa or choti…
God knows how others remembered each face distinctly. How does a tiny brain have the space to fit in all the faces as though marked and arranged on shelves of a library?
Then Nimmo would think that if Raza ever found out about her weak mind, all of her in-laws would find out. Her sisters-in-law, who were already adept at making her miserable, would get even more unbearable. How Raza (to whom she has surrendered all of herself) would regret. He would have found a far more suitable match than to be stuck with an incomplete person like me! And how he loves me. It is a rare occurrence that a man smiles every time he looks at his wife.
It is also possible that all men have this habit.
After all, it is the similar habits shared by all men that make it difficult to tell them apart.
This is where the plot is lost!
When the family was actively talking about Nimmo’s marriage, she could not imagine any man but ‘him’. But she had lost all hope and surrendered herself.
If it was not going to be ‘him ’, then it did not matter to her who it was.
As it happened, it was not ‘him’. But he would laugh like him, talk like him. He would praise her beauty like ‘he’ did. And would also smile at her just like ‘him’.
Nimmo was certain that the habits and love of all men were alike. She would find it silly that she needlessly wept for ‘him’.
When she told this to Aftab - a close friend of hers, months after her marriage, she retorted - “It is obvious that you have forgotten him. That is just as well; it is a torturous task for a woman to keep a memory safe for a lifetime”.
“How silly! No…. no….how could I possibly forget him.”
Nimmo thought… “Aftab is jealous of me. After all, she too liked ‘him’….I think of ‘him’ at least ten times a day. But for some strange reason, whenever I imagine ‘him’, I can see Raza’s features.”
One day, she was busy sewing baby’s clothes when someone knocked at the door.
Oh dear….I wonder who it is at this time of day…She carefully managed to lift herself up, holding her belly, and asked at once - “Who…. who are you?”‘
'He’ did not answer. He hung his head and quietly turned around.
Nimmo wondered…was that him…exactly like him…but perhaps it was not ‘him’.
But why did ‘he’ leave! Perhaps it is my condition; what else could he do? But why did I not recognize him…! What happened to my eyes? Will I now forget all faces? And that is exactly what happened. From then on…until now, every face started fading from Nimmo’s mind. She would only remember the spoken word or the wounds inflicted on her heart. The faces were all the same. It is wondrous how people make out their friends and enemies through their faces. She found all the faces to be the same. She started repeating all the names known to her to etch it in their memory but could not tell their faces apart.
Nimmo was envious of others for their incredible memory who would recognize people at one glance. And then there was her…madly looking for someone everywhere. Once, her sister-in-law retorted at her incapacity to recognize herself, “Bhabi has eyes for only one person now. Why will she look at anyone else!”
Nimmo was well aware that her sharp-tongued sister-in-law was aggrieved at losing her brother and was naive enough to think that every woman had eyes only for her husband.
But Alas! Why would one look for what was in front of their eyes? Of course, she would not say this to her sister-in-law. All people cared about was taunting - “Najma Begum is now a big shot! Why would she remember us? It is difficult to remember poor people once you are covered in high-end jewels and clothes.”
“For god’s sake, do not speak such words…” she would say, wiping her tears.
I have not forgotten anyone. Something has affected my brain. Nimmo was truly suspicious that dark forces had engulfed her. ‘He’ must have put a curse on her. He would often appear in Nimmo’s dreams. She would see him all around her. Now here, now over there. Now smiling at her hidden in Raza’s photo. Upon careful hearing, he would call to her in whispers - Nimmo, Nimmo!… But when she looked, Raza would be standing in front of her, smiling.
A fearful sigh would escape her…is it ‘him’ or Raza…!
It is possible that he has disguised himself as Raza.
One day, she went to Shah ji with her sister-in-law (her brother’s wife) in the hope of finding some solace, not caring for the five rupees that was Shah ji’s consultation fee.
But Shah ji ignited further the fire that was rapidly engulfing her.
Taking a deep drag, he said, “You have insulted an elder, for which you are paying the price. The person you consider your own is not yours…” She hung a five-paisa necklace around her neck, but wept all the way at her fate.
She wondered when she might have insulted an elder. Perhaps the king of Jinns was travelling on his carpet. Spiritual, serene face, royal robe. Perhaps came into Nimmo’s home. And she disrespected him thinking he is a mere alm seeker… “You…who are you?”
It is said that one who lets the jins return empty-handed is punished severely. One who disrespects him is themselves left empty-handed.
It would make sense then that the one I consider mine is not mine.
Shah ji had handed her four balls to be kept under four legs of Raza’s bed, and a prayer to be recited at dawn and for her to blow air at Raza’s face for the prayer to take effect. It was a dangerous task in itself. As soon as she got close to him to blow air on his face, he would misunderstand her intention, and the prayer was forgotten yet again in all the giggles that followed.
It was an arduous task to protect the four legs of the bed. Nimmo’s mother-in-law was hell-bent on moving all the beds from their place to clean under them and would insist that the maid do it every time. As if missing a day’s cleaning would invite the end of the world. One can only wonder why people are obsessed with keeping their surroundings clean, when an inward look would reveal the vile collected in their hearts.
Gradually, Nimmo was enveloped in another fear - what if she forgets Raza? What would happen then? She would be utterly lost. Here is a person who would sacrifice his life for her, shares his happiness and weeps with me in my sorrows. And me, what if suddenly one day I cannot even recognize him?
She started taking all sorts of precautions to commit the details of his face to her memory. When he would take out his scooter to leave for work, she would stare at him closely.
“What is the matter?” Raza would ask in a confused state. Having received no answer, would hand her a five-rupee note.
“Oh, so you have planned yet another trip to the theatre with Salma? By all means, go and have fun. God has favoured you and written all the joys in your fate; who am I to negate God’s will!”
Nimmo would silently take the five rupees and wish that she could return the favour with a smile. But her inner torments would not allow her. She would keep staring intensely at Raza as he left.
A scar on the right cheek…a black mark on the neck…
In the evening, she would run to the window, leaving all her chores aside. Even after stressing her memory, she could not remember if Raza wore white pants today or black.
Clothes were, after all, a very apparent identifying mark of a person.
If he left wearing black pants, then he would return wearing the same black pants. She had figured out an easy way of recognizing him.
Nimmo ran to the cupboard and checked. The black pants were nowhere in sight. She was satisfied that today she could identify him from the far end of the street. Black pants, white shirt, a scar on the right cheek…below the neck…Almighty! Will I forget all these details…? Now with only 10 minutes left. She was running around the house as though expecting bad news.
The horn of the scooter echoed at the gate. Nimmo would run to the door and enter the home holding the scooter. His joy knew no bounds. If occasionally a chore given by her mother-in-law kept her from running to the door, he would be upset.
Nimmo ran to the door today…but turned back upon seeing the strange legs in white pants from under the curtains.
“What is the matter? Why do you turn away from me today?”
Nimmo immediately turned upon hearing his voice…a scar on the right cheek and below the neck…
“Oh, it’s you! I thought it was someone else,” she was frightened.
"Will I have to introduce myself all over again?” Raza said flirtingly but that only frightened her more…Ya Allah! What now? What if he figures out that I did not recognize him!
Raza came out having changed out of work clothes and looked at her.
“Why is your face covered in marks today? Are you so occupied with chores that you did not do your hair? Nor have you changed your clothes. I have repeatedly told you that churidar pajama and shirt is the current look, but you are always in the same old boring saree,” he went into the bathroom rambling.
The next day Nimmo dressed herself laboriously and put on makeup…this churidar pajama and tight shirt does not suit me, it is for young girls. Perhaps he wishes to see me in different forms.
She was still in front of the mirror when Raza’s voice startled her “Oh, Rakhshi has come today to light up my world.”
Nimmo turned around. Raza froze as if he had been slapped unexpectedly.
“Tauba! Forgive me…I forgot you…I thought…Rakhshi…”
Raza broke into laughter, but Nimmo started crying.
No no…he does not recognize me either. He is forcefully putting on an act as well. Shah ji was right. One whom I consider mine is indeed not mine…now this is what he will chant for the rest of his life…”Oh, Rakhshi has come today to light up my world…I have forgotten you, Nimmo!”
Jeelani Bano [1936 - 2026] was a prolific Urdu short story writer and a novelist who has written extensively about Hyderabad and the Deccan culture. Her stories are as earthy as they are thought-provoking. Having grown up around the founders of the Progressive Writers’ Movement such as Sajjad Zaheer, Makhdoon Mohiuddin, and Jigar Moradabadi among others, the movement’s influence on her writing is unmistakable. She writes about class struggle and women’s issues, or as she prefers to call it - about humanity - with ease and all the while not missing a beat in connecting with modern Hyderabad’s culture and lived experience.
Huma Namal is a Philosophy research scholar who has an enduring fascination with poetry, literature and the Urdu language.