I’ve loved Delhi, ever since I’ve started studying history in middle school. Its culture, its history, the small noisy haunts with its plethora of fragrances and smells and the hidden ones no one knows about. But being the blunt rather acerbic person I am, I tend to call a spade a spade, and I have to say there are frequent times when I feel the need to escape from the dirty city, the crazy traffic and the people. And in those times I find refuge in Aligarh.

Aligarh is where my mother grew up. It’s a university town where my grandparents have spent the majority of their lives in a little pink villa they built and pioneered for themselves and named Aimun. A small corner of the world that belongs only to us and the team of stray kittens and puppies our age-old cook rescues and tries to hide (mostly unsuccessfully) from my grandmother. My mother then takes these little guests at Aimun back with her to Delhi. There is a small mango orchard and a front garden which Nani tends to every evening at 5 pm, walking around pruning her bougainvillaea that grows coral and pale pink, white and fuchsia. She sits on the small white wooden swing that sits on the front lawn enjoying the fruits of her hard work, her salwar kameez slightly damp. At night she sits with Nana to watch the 9 pm news, after a long day of work at the Public School.

They’re an odd pair, two intellectuals but every time they talk to each other I can see how they’ve lasted 64 years. They’re unfailingly kind, generous and loving people. They’ve had colorful lives, so much so that Nana has written six books in Urdu about his travels and adventures. Perhaps it runs in the family.

Often when we go, we get immersed in our phones and our work. But I’ve had the opportunity to hear about their lives. The vibrant characters that have populated their lives and Aligarh. Their stories. I’ll put my head on Nani’s lap, the soft cotton of her salwar kameez and I’ll say “Tell me a story?”

And so they do…

1954

“My Abba was a very open-minded man, he believed that every girl in his family must be educated. Often my brother would argue with him, he didn’t want me to study further. He wanted my father to get me married. I had actually wanted to be a doctor but my brother wouldn’t let me. But my father let me first at least get my B. Ed and then even my M.Ed. He used to tell me ‘Zakia it is most important to widen your mind and learn. You will never be dependent on any man or woman if you are educated’ He educated all six of us sisters He sent me from home all the way to Lucknow’s Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College. I had gone with my best friend Razia Sayeed. We used to take the train to Lucknow. Actually in the newspaper they printed about my father and eldest sister, that no one should marry the Adhami girls because they were getting an education!”

Sitting in the drawing-room of Aimun, the walls of which are painted a pale lemon yellow, reminiscent of summer sunshine of the lawns outside, Nani’s words come out in a rush. The upholstery is swirly beige and creamy lace, the furniture vintage and my nani, her short hair dyed an elegant black from the Loreal box, wears a blue cotton kurta with a white dupatta slung over one shoulder. As she talks about life at Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College Lucknow the room starts to turn from sunshine to sepia, as though we are being immersed in time itself.

“Lucknow was a town of great regal glamour, you know.” my Nani says, looking outside at the garden as she talks. “Everyone there was always raised with the idea that hamesha tameezdar rehna hai. Aaj kal aise kahan hota hai?” she asks me conversationally. “The city was a prime place for learning, history was everywhere, gardens and parks filled with flowers and fountains, there was art wherever you looked. Baazar mein they used to sell chikankaari suits and from Marris Music College, there was a perpetual sound of riyaaz and the rasp of harmonium.”

“The city was actually a lot like Aligarh. Different religions and castes lived together quite normally. These were years just out of partition. While we had seen the violence, we were just slightly removed from the horrors, I don’t know how we escaped the ravages that Partition wore down on the city, but it was strange to see mohalladaari in some parts of the city and hatred or indifference in other parts of the city.”

What’s mohalladaari? I ask, interrupting her train of thought, quietly.

“Arrey, nowadays, it has ceased to exist. In a way tameez aur tehzeeb kuch zyaada hi hogaya hai. In our day, all the houses used to be very close. And when we were children we could just jump from our roof to our neighbour’s roof to meet our friends or go and get something for the kitchen when our Ammi requested it, cheeni, doodh, woh sabh. Now even Khalda” (her younger sister) “calls before she comes, though she is usually on her way by the time she calls. This habit of mohalladaari has long since finished with all the formalities of today. Even when your mother was a child, all of our friends in Aligarh would just drop by without a word of warning or a proclamation. That was the essence of mohalladaari.”

It feels like all the memories my Nani has kept inside her, seem to spill over the brim as she talks about her time in Lucknow. Her experience with the city. I find myself beginning to traverse the lanes of this city, which is still a phantom to me. Perhaps completely fictional imagery has taken a grasp over my mind as I imagine Lucknow, the train station filled with people and coolies as the train khat khatoes into the station, carrying my nani and her friend Razia. They step out of the carriage, with their fathers in tow. And then they make their way to Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College, encountering open windows filled with singing that fills the air, vendors hawk chikan work at them in pristine white colors.

“What was the Women’s College like Nani?” I ask bringing her back to where we started from.

“It must have changed now.” She responds trying to evade the question.

I cajole and wheedle until she finally gives in. “I don’t remember much about the building and architecture and all if that’s what you’re looking for,” she says finally. “But I remember the people. I can tell you about all the people I met and how they shaped me.”

After an enthusiastic nod, she begins. The world seems to tilt and suddenly I find myself in Lucknow. Not the city, but in my Nani’s story, I begin sketching out the details she tells me within my mind. The sepia begins being drawn out in harsh black lines and characters begin to take shape as she describes them.

“The entire environment of the College was so friendly. I remember feeling like I was always surrounded by friends when I was there. The hostels used to be above the classrooms and every morning we would just go down for classes. But above all, I remember one thing.”

Nani braces herself, the slightest pull back in her shoulders, the tilt of her head as she slips into the pull of the past, reliving her most colorful memories, which to me in sepia seem vivid, while to her must feel like bathing in a rainbow of remembrance.

“In our College, we had a very formidable headmistress. Ms Roshan Jahan. All the girls would be very scared of her. She was this lone force, an unmarried lady in a position of power who was educating women to be like her. She was an enlightened woman. But here was the strange part. She was such a progressive lady, being the headmistress of a big women’s college and advocating for women’s education and yet she was very strict with all of us. She was very conservative. And she was very big! She used to have trouble walking and with her strict demeanour, when she entered the room she would open both doors and squeeze in and glare at us and immediately silence would fall upon us in a hush. And yet she loved us girls limitlessly. She would make food from her own kitchens to send to any girl who had fallen sick and make sure all of us were comfortable and felt happy.

I remember jab mere vaalid aaye the pehli baar college mein. He was immediately seated in the waiting room, it was his very first visit to me since I joined the College. I remember how annoyed he was when I came home from break and he told me the whole story. He had arrived at the college and asked to see Zakia Adhami. In the waiting room itself, he was asked a number of different personal questions until finally, they asked who he was there to see and why. And he told them in simple language that he was my father. Immediately Ms Roshan Jahan asked him in her bold voice.”

Nani begins an imperious imitation of the Headmistress she remembers so well. “‘Where is the proof?'” Nani quotes Ms Roshan Jahan. “‘Aap baap hai Zakia ke, yeh hume kaise maaloom. Hum kaise maan lein!?” (How would I know you are truly Zakia’s father?)

“And this was a man wearing pajama and a sherwaani! He was a lawyer! A classy man! My father was so angry he left the college premises without meeting me. And he refused to visit me again at the College! He never came back to Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College after that first visit. And I remember him calling Ms. Roshan Jahan ‘bilkuli paagal khaatoon'” she raises her hand as she translates the Urdu. “A complete mad woman!”

“Every day during class, we would have left our room doors open and Ms Roshan Jahan would walk up to the upper level and do a sweep of every room.”

“Every day!?” I asked in surprise having never faced such strictness in my own education.

“Every single day.” Nani reaffirms. “She would make sure our rooms were clean, kept organized, the bistars were made. When she used to make her rounds she used to make sure no girl was keeping anything objectionable.”

“Objectionable?”

“Arey magazines, records vaghaira.” Nani clarifies what her version of objectionable was. “Actually I had two classmates, Mehru and Jean, and they were the daughters of Nawabs. And they used to have a tape recorder, and none of us girls had it. So we used to enjoy the music that the tape recorder used to play in the hostel. We used to listen to Mallika Pukhraj a ghazal singer. And Ms Roshan Jahan found out we girls would listen to music in the evenings. After all, there was nothing much to do after games in the field downstairs, basketball and all. In her rounds, she went and opened the closet and took the tape recorder, and both Jean and Mehru got scolded tremendously!”

Suddenly she pauses, breaking off at that.

“Did you ever hear of Anand Narayan Mulla?”

I nod my head at the mention of the poet. “His daughter used to teach me English. That is only one example of one of the behtareen teachers I had and she was soooo beautiful. Some of the best teachers. And then I had Razia Sajjad Zaheer as my Urdu teacher. Her father was a communist and was a big freedom fighter. She married Raj Babbar you know. At any rate, she was a very educated woman. She used to give me Urdu novels to read. Stories! One of the books was named, ‘Zaalim Mohabbat'” Nani waves her hand like the Queen of Genovia about to giving an over-enthusiastic wave before providing the unnecessary translation. “A Sinful Love!” She clarifies.

“Zaalim Mohabbat was written by a woman actually, Hijab Imtiaz Ali. At any rate,” the story finally starting to loop back. “There were two girls to one room, so I had just gotten this book, Zaalim Mohabbat, from Razia Sajjad Zaheer and it was lying in mine and my friend, Razia Sayeed’s, room. Razia Sayeed was my very best friend, I met her in Karamat Hussain only! I remember both of us would sit and cry together, because of how homesick we were. We are still friends today, she lives in London, Razia does.”

Nani pauses looking at the bougainvillaea blooming outside, the fuschia bright against the lemon walls of the room. I wait for her to remember everything until she is ready to continue to recount.

“Anyway, Ms Roshan Jahan did her rounds and found the book lying on my table. She confiscated it and as soon as classes were over Razia and I were called to her chambers. And there she asked us in her sternest voice, who had given us the book. She asked us ‘Is this the kind of book to read? The name itself is sinful’ she said. We responded timidly that Razia Zaheer Aapa had given it to us to read. Immediately Razia Zaheer had judgement passed upon her.” Nani took on the imperious voice of Ms Roshan Jahan again.

“‘So it is Razia Zaheer who is spoiling my girls'” Nani imitates. “Immediately Razia Aapa was called, and a scolding was soundly administered to Razia Zaheer Aapa alongside a warning that she was never to give us such a book again.”

“But what was her problem with the book?” I asked Nani, having books confiscated by my own teachers before.

“Oh, she simply didn’t like the name. A Sinful Love, it was the name that was problematic for her.”

I let this information sink in, astounded by the revelation, that books could be confiscated on such grounds. But Nani doesn’t wait long. She is grasped by the flow of the memory she is in and she continues on.

“Aise hee there was a film. You know by that famous actor…” Nani pauses to remember the name. “Dilip Kumar!” Her whole body jolting in excitement. “Dilip Kumar ki nayi film! Deedar!” she pauses again, recounting the incident in her mind, methodical storyteller that she is.

“All us girls had wanted to see his new film. We went together Ms Roshan Jahan’s office to ask her if we could go and see the film. We couldn’t go alone you see, we were always taken by one of the teachers or one of the school wardens to the theatres, or anywhere for that matter. And I remember her answer still word for word. ‘Bilkul bhi nahi, iss qism ki khurrafaat filums dekhne ki aap logon ko koi zaroorat nahi, aap apne ghar baithiye.'” (Absolutely not! No one will watch rubbish films like this, sit at home!)

“What problem did she have with Dilip Kumar now?” I asked curiously.

“Arrey, why would she have a problem with Dilip Kumar?” Nani asks in exasperation as though I evidently haven’t grasped the concept that was Ms Roshan Jahan yet. “She had a problem with the name of the film! Deedar!”

“Deedar?” I ask, confused.

“It means to meet someone,” Nani says with an accompanying wiggle of eyebrows and a wavy sort of shake of her head, as though the meaning should be clear to someone as Hindi challenged as me.

“‘Kiska Deedar karogi?'” Ms. Roshan Jahan asked. And then she promptly took us for all kinds of English films, to widen our minds.”

“Then what?” I asked, waiting for the story to continue.

“What, then what?” Nani says with a finality, “Then I came to Aligarh Women’s College to study, what else?”

“Did you meet more teachers like Ms. Roshan Jahan?” I asked.

“Arey no, no.” she says leaning back, the room fading back into reality as my mind begins to leave my imagined Lucknow filled, now, with posters of Dilip Kumar, Zaalim Mohabbat and an overweight lady in a chikankari suit with a heart of gold running rampant through the inky streets with a tape recorder grasped over her head. The lemon walls and swirly upholstry come back into focus. “She was one of a kind.” Nani says with a sigh, clasping her wrinkled hands over her lap.

[This interview was originally told in Urdu]