“Ratti – a beginning of a journey”

 

The song filled her ears. The whirring of her thoughts had subdued; but that too for mere seconds. Coiled near the barred window, she waited for her fate to be decided. Was it the same song played at Teejri Festival? Or had she heard it somewhere else before? Her mind was blank. She hung onto its every word, trying to drone out the uncontrollable sobs emitting from her battered self. She had lost count of the days spent in that small, dark room. She had lost count of when she had last eaten or drank. May be that is why her throat seemed parched and dry. The rattling of the door knob derailed her train of thoughts yet again. A man in his early twenties entered her enforced abode.   

“Get up! Maulvi Saab is here,” he barked, grabbing her roughly, “and shut up! I’ve had enough of this stupid song.”  

Ratti stopped singing. As if in a flash, the memories linked to her favorite song trespassed her mind. Even though she had forbidden herself to remember her happy time, her mind played it all in front of her eyes while she was being dragged by the nameless intruder into a whole new ordeal. And in that moment, she drifted months back to her little group of friends, clustered at the rim of Ranasir in Chelhar.  “Those crossing Umerkote have made 

the fields fertile and fair... 

O God, may ever you on Sindh bestow abundance rare; 

Beloved! all the world let share thy grace, and fruitful be.” 

[Sur Sarang, Shah Jo Risalo – Shah Abdul Latif Bhattai] 

 

The small audience erupted into a spatter of applause. 

“You sing like a lark, Ratti!” piped one of the girls, her eyes shining with appreciation for the girl with the soulful voice. They were perched at the edge of the pond, lost in light banter when the sun began to peek over the horizon, making the sky turn cotton-candy pink. Ratti looked at the sky, making a mental calculation of the time she had spent near the pond.  

“I have to go now,” Ratti declared as she shot towards her Chounra (hut), her dupatta (scarf) flowing at her back as she sprinted across the shrub strewn sand. 

As soon as she entered her home, her mother reprimanded her for being out till after sun rise. “It’s almost time!” she scolded, “school won’t wait for your antics.” 

Ratti hastened to pull out the faded blue uniform from the trunk, smoothing its creases with her hands. She carefully placed it on the charpouy (the bed). She knew she was already late so she grabbed all the books strewn across the room and stuffed them into the small jute bag. The sizzling of the pan told her that breakfast was almost ready. Ratti holstered the bag onto her shoulder, walking towards the dainty outdoor kitchen where her mother was busy cooking. Soon, her elder brother Ravi came out too, clad in the faded blue uniform, calling at Ratti to bring him breakfast and his bag that she had readied. She complied. 

“Adaa (brother), will we continue my sabaq (lesson) today if you have time after school?” She looked at him with envy as he nodded slightly, stuffed the flatbread into his mouth, and left for school.  

Hanging on to that slight nod, Ratti starting helping her mother with the chores. She spent the day anticipating her brother’s return so that she could study too, even if it was at home. Ratti, aged twelve, was born in the Maheshwari community living in Chelhar, a small village near Mithi, Sindh. Her mother, Misra, was a housewife who spent most of her time growing vegetables in the kitchen garden at the back of their Chounra. The father, Devchand, a middle aged man, managed a small grocery shop which was set up with the help of Thardeep Rural Development Programme (TRDP) after the Tharparkar Flooding in 2003. Together, they had a built a small livelihood for their family. They were not aware of the urban luxuries; they were comfortable.  

The day went on like any other one. After running a few errands for her mother, Ratti whiled away the wait with her friends at the nearby Murlidhar Mandir, putting up green and white colored buntings on the pillars of the Mandir, for the upcoming Pakistan Day Celebration, which was due in two days.  

“Do you know there is a new all-girls school in Bittra?” exclaimed the know-it-all Meena as she laced her fingers with the gooey homemade glue and plastered it on the mini flag bunting. This piece of information piqued Ratti’s interest. “What? How far is Bittra though? I wish we could enroll ourselves there!”  

To Ratti’s utter dismay she found that Bittra was fifteen kilometers away from Chelhar. The said school had been initiated by a differently abled young girl Hasna who was adamant to help those abject to poverty. Especially females. However, the idea of school in Bittra seemed improbable to Ratti. She could already hear the conversation with her mother reeling in her head. However, that didn’t stop her from trying. Ratti lived a simple, contented life. She worked all day with her mother, starting from the break of dawn; but she was happy. She envied her brother for being able to go to school; but she was happy. She had to count on her brother to homeschool her; but she was happy. Their progress was really slow; but she was happy. She belonged to the minority; but she was happy. Her dreams were often swept away by the harsh desert wind; but she was happy. Happiness, it seemed, had shrouded her completely.   

That night, when the family gathered outside their hut for dinner, sitting under the starlit sky, Ratti told her parents about the prized new school, but even the little flame of hope she had allowed kindling in her heart died right away. Her parents, though they wanted to educate their daughter, could not think of sending her away so far every day. It had to be a no. 

Days passed by. Ratti’s mornings were often gone with the wind. The evenings ticktocked sluggishly; spent waiting for the ill-scheduled classes with her brother or with her friends singing in sync to the flute of the old man at the Mandir. It was only when the old man offered Ratti to sing along with him at the Teejri Festival scheduled after two weeks in the mid of August in Mithi that she squealed in delight, wringing Meena’s arm in excitement until all Meena could feel was a tingling numbness. She knew it would take a great deal of convincing and pleading for her parents to let her embark this journey. Yet, she could feel that things were going to go her way. 

Alas, if only this dream of hers could have been swept away by the harsh desert wind too. 

She was hurled back into the present when the man shoved her onto the ground ruthlessly. It seemed as if she had left that part of her existence far behind. A translucent drape was thrown over her head like a veil. It was red. Yet, it did little to hide the reality unfolding in front of her eyes. She was being given off in marriage to the nameless intruder. Growing up in Pakistan, she had heard of forced conversions. Her naïve little mind had always considered them as made up stories to scare her away from her Muslim friends. Her naïve little mind still found it difficult to wrap itself around what had happened to her since after the Teejri Festival in Mithi. She was with her father, wasn’t she? Had she not insisted to run to the jewelry stall to get a souvenir for her mother while they waited for the bus, she would not have parted from her father even for a minute. However, it was in that moment that her life skyrocketed downwards. She had been kidnapped on her way back, inflicted with pain and torture as an attempt to prise her away from her beliefs. With the new horrors being unleashed upon her every hour, she succumbed to the agony and was now a convert. And at this instant, was being married to a man almost twice her age. 

The nameless intruder, her husband, was apparently called Burhan. The Maulvi Saab patted him on his back for his amazing feat, promising him heaven and hoors in the afterlife. Could he be a true believer? This reality contrasted drastically with what she had experienced throughout her life. Why wasn’t this man emanating the warmth as that of Chelhar’s Maulvi Saab?  

Ratti was tossed into a new life she could never have imagined. She was kept in bars. Her days and night were all the same. The same old room where she once sang to keep herself company seemed like her eternal abode; an enforced eternal abode. She was fed and watered. She was given clothes to wear. Yet, she no longer knew who she was. Was she even Ratti anymore? Was she still a follower of Shankar Bholay Nath (Indian god)? Why was she not allowed to pray with her hands clasped together anymore? Did it really make a difference? The truth was all lost on her. It was as if her true identity slipped through her fingers like sand as she unclasped her hands to form a crescent for dua.  

Her little heart was overwhelmed with emotions; fear, hurt, worry, desolation. She wondered if she would ever get to see her parents again. She wondered how they would react to what she’d been through. Did they even know that she was abducted? These were some questions she feared she’d never get the answers to. But it was only after a week that her wondering came to an end.  

In the past month she had gotten familiar with that obnoxious room furnished unelaborately with a small bed and a single chair. She sat at the edge of the bed, memorizing the pattern-less wall when she heard sirens blaring. She paid no heed to them until there was a clamor right outside her door. It all happened in a matter of seconds that her room’s door was unhinged and three armed men barged in. She shot to cower behind the bed when she spotted her father raking the room with his eyes until they halted on her. His face was a picture of relief; so was hers.  

She was home. Her parents had managed to retrieve her from Umerkot. Even she had not known she was in Umerkot. She remembered running straight to her father. She remembered getting home and sobbing in her mother’s embrace. Everything else was hazy and blur. All of which that did not matter now. However, her little heart was being pinched consistently by the question. Would she be able to live her previous life again? The happy life of the free lark Ratti. 

Hours swept to days, days to weeks. Ratti lived a new life with her old people. Her parents treated her with caution, like china glass, waiting for her to break into pieces at the slightest touch. Her friends evaded her. The neighbors had stopped pouring into their home as they occasionally did before. It was as if she was now the Black Death. It was only her Adaa who would often sit by her side telling her tales of his school, bringing her books and urging her to study. She would listen to all his stories wordlessly.  

“Adaa, do they think I am lying?” 

He looked at her; clearly her question had caught him off guard. 

“Of course not! Amma and Baba are just worried for you. They want you to…” 

“Not them. The people. Our friends!” she cut in. Ravi hung his head in response, knowing the answer would hurt her little sister. He knew the little lark had been through a lot. Her face was always stoic, but the gaunt eyes and bruises and burns peeking from beneath her shirt’s sleeves told a story of their own. A story he could not bear to listen. But what she did not know was how her family suffered in her absence. He had seen it all. He had seen how their friends and family would come to tell his parent that Ratti had run away with someone. Eloped!  

“She was such a disgrace,” they would insist, “If I were you, I would forget I even had a daughter!”  

“She ought to be burnt alive! Bloody daughters! He must be a Muslim I tell you…”  

His parents would weep silently, unable to respond to those monsters. But they did not give up on their search for their little nightingale. And glad he was for their persistence.  

“What happened to Burhan?”  

Ravi grimaced, “Burhan and that fake Mullah are both undergoing trial. Don’t worry. They’ll be punished. We even have some NGO walay by our side. All the legal stuff will be taken care of. He won’t ever come anywhere close to you now.” 

But Ratti knew her woes were far from over. She was treated like an infection wherever she went. The streets where she had spent her childhood seemed to sneer at her fate. She had always felt that despite being a girl, she was safe. Though she was denied her basic rights, she never thought that her identity would become questionable. Yet, it had all dawned upon her that womanhood was in great danger in her homeland. She didn’t blame her abductor. She did not blame the fake Mullah who had hypnotized young Muslims with false promises of the afterlife. How could she? When her own society had started to point fingers at her. Yet, it was eerily unnerving how a girl’s life could be so easily gnawed at, torn to shreds, labeled as disgrace. It was only the support extended by her family that kept her going. She knew she could not give up on them. Yet, she had almost given up on life beyond her Chounra. She had done what Burhan failed to do. She had become her own captivator. 

“Ratti, you have a visitor,” whispered her mother gingerly from the doorway. Ratti made her way outside, curious to know who was trying to break through her social exile. A young woman sitting on a wooden stool gave her a warm smile. Ratti, however, did not recognize the lady. 

“This is Yasmeen Bibi, she is the daughter of the Maulvi Saab of the nearby Masjid.” 

As her mother introduced the visitor, Ratti remembered the bearded old man she’d often see on her way to the pond or the mandir. She remembered his kind smile. Or perhaps it was always a sneer, was it? She eyed her guest warily, her fear taking control of her nerves. What could she want? Did they still consider her a Muslim? Would they force her to leave her home? Could they? Her mind was a nervous wreck. She wanted to run back into her room, but her manners told her otherwise. 

The lady began to talk. She was soft. It turned out that upon hearing the news, she was sent by her father to check on little Ratti. The lady kept chatting tenderly with the mother-daughter duo, making the two of them forget their ordeal for a while. It had been a while since their small yard had become a hub for chit chat. The woman was divorced after five years of wedlock, for she could not bear a child. She now lived with her father, teaching Quran to young girls for a living. There was no remorse or self-pity in her demeanor. Ratti knew that she’d have been shunned by her people too. She’d have been excluded from the society too. Yet, the girl exuded positivity. Ratti felt it was contagious; she felt empowered. Yasmeen Bibi’s visit had broken Ratti’s shackles, her two months of self-inflicted confinement. Her journey might be a difficult one too, but looking at Yasmeen, she knew she’d make it fine. It wasn’t just her who had been victimized by the society; there wasn’t just one Burhan out there. There were plenty of them. But every atrocity brought forward people like Yasmeen and Ratti who swore to themselves to leave behind the sulking and move on.  

Since that day, Ratti had a new found appetite for her lessons with Ravi. They were more scheduled. She stopped hiding herself from people. She was done doing that. She had found a new friend in Yasmeen, a friend who she could share her anxiety with. They lived different lives, they had different beliefs, yet they both were corralled by a similar fate. They became solace for each other, for humanity had failed them yet again. Ratti knew there were still monsters unleashed in Pakistan who were a threat to many girls. May be it was their sealed fate or the failure of their state, her little mind could not fathom. The slightest of things would often still trigger her panic. That too, was fading like the bruises on her body. She knew she could not let her fear get the better of her. Ratti sat at the edge of the pond, poring over her book of numbers. The coolness of the air indicated that winter was on its way. She adjusted her drape snugly across her shoulders to keep the cold out. Pushing back her stray hair from her eyes, she continued her work.  

Here was yet another woman in Pakistan, thwarted by the maligning ways of society. Inadvertently second to her brother, devoid of education, she had become a pawn for misinterpreted religious skirmishes. Married without consent and marked with a broken relationship, she crossed paths with other ill-fated ones like her, yet nothing pulled her back. Things, certainly, did not seem as bad to her as before now.