Shaam Ki Biathaak

“Adaab Bari Begum aapko shaam ki baithaak me bulaya hai” says the young servant to the middle-aged lady
sitting on the takht hovered over her silver paandaan busily preparing her afternoon treat. “Jeitey rahoo, apni
Begum se boulo mein thori dair mein athie houn,” she responds slowly, as she descends from the ‘takht’ while
holding forth the many folds of her gharara in order to search for her slippers. She finally finds them and exits the
room to enter the long corridor, which runs alongside the central garden to go to the other end of the home in
order to prepare for that evening’s session.

Ah, the ‘Shaam Ki Baithaak’, literally translated the ‘Evening Sitting’ or conceptually translated the ‘Evening
Tea’. In little towns of central UP where electricity comes only intermittently and thus city life is virtually
unknown, the ‘Evening Sitting’ is the one entertainment of the day. Those of you that have experienced it, know
how memorable it is. But for those of you that have not, here is an invitation to view a kaliedscopic image of this
interesting event.

Perhaps, before I proceed, I should first provide a little background of the physical surroundings in which these
social events were often held. My own childhood experiences of this were at a haveli in the northern part of
India. A place almost completely secluded from the rest of the world, where electricity came only when it
pleased and no more than 7 hours a day. Consequently, running water was still a luxury, and instead ‘gharas’
and buckets were the standard. Here, the typical 19th Century haveli homes, long corridors running alongside
central gardens with rooms situated along the perimeters, were built in a series each connected to the next by
hidden passageways. Once inhabited by wealthy Nawabs, now they are the residence of their poorer
descendants who lost most of their land and money during the 1947 upheavals, but still struggle to maintain
their rich traditions and respectability.

Well it was within one of these homes that the evening of social discourse was usually held. Bamboo-wooden
chairs and ‘takhts’ were placed in the outdoors with kerosene lanterns strategically placed to brighten the
darkness of the night. With intent to provide air circulation, standing in the corner was usually a big electric fan, in
hopes that perhaps electricity too would be kind enough to pay its unpredictable visit, unfortunately this rarely
happened. In the middle stood the center table draped with a crocheted tablecloth upon which lay the appetizers
of the evening. And of course, on the freshly ironed white sheets of the ‘takht’, surrounded by elaborately
decorated ‘gao takias’(pillows) laid the grand pandaan, seated like a queen waiting for the events of the evening
to unfold.

And so the family members began to arrive, the women usually dressed in ghararas or saris and the men in kurta
pajama, some with shervanis and some without. Within the possession of each family were three items of
necessity, a torch to navigate through the dark passageways back home, a hand-crafted fan to cool off the hot
nights and, of course, the ‘paan ka batwa’ which held extra paan condiments to add a personal touch to the
‘concoction’ (surely a dentist’s nightmare) presented throughout the evening.

Commencing the evening were the greetings, exchanges of ‘Adaab’ and Jeitey Rahoo’ were the standard here
and anything else was considered unsophisticated perhaps even derogatory to the recipient. You would never
want to be caught saying ‘Hi Pops’ here, for that would mean immediate excommunication from the community.
Of utmost importance to the elders was how you conveyed your ‘Adaab’, for you see the ‘Adaab’ ranged from
the ‘fly-swapping’ level (which was unfortunately mine) to the perfect 10, where you bent over to the exact
43.26 degrees angle from the vertical, your neck in alignment with your back, your head slightly tilted forward,
your hand moving up and down with only the hint of a gesture and of course you uttered the word ‘Adaab’ in
utmost humility to the recipient of this complex act. Needless to say I never quite mastered this art, as much as I
earnestly tried to act upon the gentle directions of my elders. Luckily half of my summer vacations were spent in
Karachi, where I quickly transitioned into ‘Salamalaikum’ with a sense of relief.

Following the greeting phase everyone situated themselves, the men usually on chairs, the women on the ‘takhts’
and the kids interspersed everywhere. Of course, there was only one woman that was granted the privilege of
sitting in front of the paandaan, she
was usually the nice cheerful lady with teeth more brown than white and a doctorate in paan-making. So, the
conversation began, usually with the men discussing issues of politics, philosophy, ancestral history and the likes
in rich Urdu intertwined with Farsi and poetic phrases - I often felt I was sitting in the middle of a literary
competition. Despite the fact that I couldn’t understand 80 percent of the conversation, due to my limited
vocabulary at the time, I prided myself in sitting in the company of such intellectuals, hoping that perhaps some of
their intelligence would accidentally transmit to me. Luckily, every once in a while the men would break into
English conversations and with a sigh of relief I felt I was back above the water, finally saved from drowning.
However, once I
finally understood their conversation, I realized the topics were far too deep for me and the women’s discourse
seemed much more enticing.

The women’s conversations were truly enlightening - enlightening of the family’s past secrets that is, and so I
would climb into the lap of one of my aunt’s to educate myself about these mysterious ancestors. Fooled by my
innocent gaze, little did my
female relatives know that I understood far more Urdu than they expected, and so I got quite well-educated in
this family’s history. As I laid upon my aunt’s lap with a naive look in my eyes, I heard stories of intense jealousy
and greed amongst ancestors over land, of
forced and unhappy marriages, of illicit affairs and of tragic deaths due to devastating diseases. In retrospect
losing all the family money was probably a blessing, for it is often said ‘it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of
a needle than for rich men to enter paradise.’ Despite all the bad elements in the family, there were also just as
many admirable stories of highly principled ancestors that lived respectable lives and of noble ancestors who
donated much of their wealth to charitable funds and renounced their titles to live only simple existences.

Most fascinating to me, however, were the stories of Jinns and ancestral spirits that still lurked within the Haveli.
Stories of good Jinns that helped the family in times of need, of slightly wavered Jinns that captured the souls of
some of our forefathers and of ancestral spirits that returned from the dead to resolve family disputes were, in my
humble opinion, highlights of the night. A story I remember in particular is of a great grandfather, who being an
avid hunter once killed a black crow flying in the air. Well that
night he dreamt that the crow spoke to him (never knew they could speak) and told him that his soul had been
captured for fifteen years. Consequently he remained totally paralyzed and bed-ridden until his death fifteen
years later. As to how true these stories
are - I honestly don’t know, nonetheless they were great bedtime stories for a young gullible child.

Beyond the enchanting physical surroundings and the enlightening and mysterious conversations, there was one
thing that definitely always had a very strong presence at the ‘Shaam Ki Baithaak’ and that was familial love.
Despite the fact that there were family tensions passed from generation to generation it was the belief in blood
ties that kept these people together. Superstitious expressions of love were common, such as the elder women
who showed their affection by stroking our faces with their fingers and then trying to crack their knuckles against
their own head. Somehow this was supposed to rid me of all my omens and transfer to them instead. However, I
don’t think they tried hard enough to crack those knuckles, and so needless to say these omens still lurk within
my life. More importantly though were the reserved expressions of love, which I cherished, the tender look in the
eyes of the elders to their younger descendants, the gentle pat on the head, or the loving kiss on the forehead.
Although this type of love externally may not seem to have much strength, internally it is everlasting.

Well years later, after having graduated from college and working for a few years I recently returned to this
place as a young adult and was quite saddened by the changes I saw. Many of the lively relatives that once
dominated the evening conversations have
since passed away and their children have moved to the bigger cities of Delhi, Lucknow, Aligarh and the likes
leaving only abandoned and desolated homes behind. The homes, which once hosted these evening get togethers
have slowly fallen apart, the roofs have caved in at various points, the hidden stairwells and ‘taikhanas’
(underground basements), where we once played have long since been closed up due to infestation by bats and
the rooftops where we often went to fly kites are now inhabited by aggressive baboons. For those that still live
here, life is no more a life of luxury and ‘Shaam Ki Baithaak’s’, but rather a life of much hardship. Despite all
this, I somehow am still magnetized to this place mainly because it is a connection to my roots. Perhaps, humans
are not much unlike plants, which once separated from their roots soon wither away and so we continue to try to
connect to our past, which sometimes maybe nothing more than a memory or just a mystery. Ah, but indeed the
beauty of God often lies in mystery alone.