When I woke up in the morning, the book was by my side. Having enthusiastically read two chapters at one go, I mulled over taking a day off from work and continuing the reading spree.

“Today I am applying for sick leave,” I announced loudly enough for Sandra to hear.

Varun entered the room, while trying to fix his tie. When I struggled to sit up straight, he sat by my side.

“Don’t worry too much, dear! First you finish the book. We will decide on further course of action later. Sandra is really anxious about you.”

“I have started reading, Varun. But the going is very slow… After reading a bit, I find myself lost in thoughts…”

“No worries, take your time. Let me leave now. Take care.” Patting me affectionately on my shoulder, Varun left the room.

Of course, I know the three Emirati women – Mariam, Soraiyya and Shamsa. I have been to Bait Al Banat. No doubt, that was only after the house was turned into a museum, a women’s museum! When I stepped into it for the first time in 2017, the laughter, tears and peeves of the three women had risen like water vapour from the walls and enveloped me. Though there was no picture of the trio, I imagined their faces based on the objects they owned. With great accuracy, I inscribed within myself all the love that they had given and received. The man who had taken me to the house had sworn that nobody would be able to understand the women as much as I would.

Sandra made some sandwiches before leaving for office and placed them on the table.

“Make a cup of tea for yourself, Naz. I am sure you’ll be on the bed grappling with this book even when I return in the evening.”

I curled up tighter, avoiding her gaze.

I was sinking into the warm familiarity of a lap. My face pressed against the yellow flowery polyester dress. Someone was caressing the tendrils of my hair. Her long fingers, adorned with many rings, were exploring my forehead. They gave off the scent of ittar and curry spices.

I could hear a slow hum…

Aap jaisa koi meri zindagi me aaye
Toh baat ban jaaye…

The famous song by the Pakistani singer Nazia Hassan.

I opened my eyes, and Rukhiyami stopped singing. It was my aunt Rukhiyami, or Rukhia Sultana, sister of my father, who named me Nazia Hassan. “Rukhiya Mami” had coalesced into “Rukhiyami” right at the beginning. Like the girls in Bait Al Banat, I too had lost my mother very early in life. Rukhiyami was everything to me, and she had found the name for me. She was an ardent fan of the Pakistani singer and had cassettes of all her Hindi songs. When Nazia died of cancer on 13 August 2000, Rukhiyami had lamented deeply. She had shed tears as if I had died when my namesake passed away.

My parents had wanted to name me “Sumiya”. Complaining that it was a name ridden with termites, Rukhiyami started calling me Nazia, without seeking anyone’s permission. Soon, everybody followed suit. My father had to enrol me in school under the same name. Vappa had acquiesced unaware that Nazia Hassan was a teenage girl popular for singing disco songs. Else he would never have granted his only daughter the name of a girl who sang pop music on stages across the world, with her head uncovered. Truth is, my name itself is a tad tricky!

On the days Vappa wasn’t at home, Rukhiyami and I would sway to the tunes of Nazia Hassan’s music. After dancing around to the song “Disco Diwane”, we would be brimming with wild energy. Rukhiyami’s husband Taha and my Vappa were business partners. Whenever they travelled to Ceylon and Tamil Nadu for procuring raw material for their business, the women would be left alone at home. My Umma was a silent creature. Probably that’s why I did not miss her presence later. Or was it because Rukhiyami was always there by my side with the lusciousness of an eternal spring? I have no idea.

Rukhiyami is now aged, and stays with her son in the family home. In between, she travels to Qatar to stay with her daughter. When I asked her why she chose to name me Nazia instead of bestowing it on her own daughter, she smiled, “You are the one with light.”

I sat on my bed, nibbling the sandwich Sandra had made. The curtain stayed in its place; I would rather not have light today. I love chewing on my childhood memories in the dark. Inside the family home with a low-tiled roof and small windows, darkness was rampant. The only light Rukhiyami could see was perhaps me! Most of us tripped over objects inside the rooms. Mice, cats, lizards and cockroaches encountered us regularly. Nobody could ever discover their hideaways.

Rukhiyami and I slept together on a cot, and most nights would be cacophonic with mice orchestra. Rukhiyami would quip: “A house-warming ceremony of a mouse is happening underneath this cot. Madam mouse is serving payasam pudding to her honoured guests! Now, one little mouse starts puking. Unfortunately, he has eaten the sweet with strains of rat poison! Now his mother and relatives are carrying him off to the hospital…” That was how Rukhiyami began her fabulous stories. It began from any random thread, travelled through miscellaneous ways, and I would often slip into sleep before it culminated somewhere. She would refuse to divulge it the next day! She took delight in weaving a new story every night.

How can I, used to that storytelling, read a book? After reading two pages of any story, I complete it in my own imagination. When I return from my ruminations to the book and read the real story, I get flabbergasted at the different turn it has taken! I would have packed off the characters mostly to other places. Having merged someone’s story into my own, I would stand baffled, unable to separate the twain.

The distance between Shamsa and Rukhiyami is very short. The writer who took me to the women’s museum, the same writer once commented that I had woven Shamsa from Rukhiyami. Maybe if my mother were alive, I would not have been so intimate with Rukhiyami.

When I was twelve, one night, I asked my aunt whether my Ummi too narrated stories. ‘Not all mothers are alike. There are mothers different from yours and mine,’ she had replied. And followed it up with yet another story.

Excerpted with permission from The House of Girls, Sonia Rafeek, translated from the Malayalam by Ministhy S, Rupa Publications.

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