The Mansion of Elephants: Haveli Wale
Fauzia was born in a Muslim family of pre-independence India. She grew up in a partition-torn country, did not receive a formal education, got married, and raised four children on her own. This is her story, or rather a [true] story narrated by her.
Circa 1747, India
“I was ten years old when my mother first told me about Haveli wale.
It was a mansion made of Lakhori bricks at the edge of the provincial Northern town. It had been there for more than two hundred years. Small ventilators dotted the walls, with a dozen rooms and grandiose arched doors.
Not far off from the Haveli, in mango orchards near the canal, lived the elephants with their Mahout.
Traditionally, Haveli wale were elephant traders and supplied the elephants to the princely states of Rajasthan.
The Haveli was a gift from the Rajasthani royalty.
Hatam, my husband’s grandfather, became a renowned elephant trader. He was ambitious, and driven by his hunger for power. When he walked, you could hear the proud thud of his footsteps for a mile.
For generations, the family carried forward their business of supplying elephants to the princely states all across India. In return, men gained prestige and women — silk clothes and fine jewelry.
After Hatam’s death, the sons of the family inherited the business and the lives of women, particularly of their sister, Aisha.
Aisha had the blackest and lushest hair in the entire town. Each evening, she used to wrap her braid in a thick bun, tie the ends of her kurta around her waist, and squat down in front of the clay stove. She used to bake these fresh chapatis for her favorite elephant-calf, Mimmi. After preparing a dozen, she would carefully wrap them in a cloth with some homemade tomato chutney, and send the package off to the orchards with their servant, Chichu.
You see, we were only allowed out of our houses either before Fajr or after Maghrib, and that too through Doli wale (carriage bearers). If I had to go to my Tai’s (aunty) house, who lived next door, my abba (father) would call the Doli wale. They would set up their Doli (carriage) in front of our doors. I would quickly wear my Burqa, enter from one side of the Doli through my door, and get off it onto my Tai’s door. It was really simple! [chuckles]
Chichu too would spend evenings by the clay stove, watching Aisha labor hard with the rolling pin. After Hatam’s passing, it had become even more difficult for Aisha — her mother had retreated into Iddat and her brothers were not of much solace. She found a friend in Chichu. For her, it was comforting to know that someone shared her compassion for the elephants.
Aisha grew fond of impoverished Chichu. Nawab, the oldest of the three brothers, was enraged for it meant their carefully curated prestige would fall apart. On the night of a full moon, as Chichu was returning to his home, Nawab along with his brothers, thought of an appropriate, though unproportionate revenge. He set his hounds on him. After all, it was only fair that Chichu was to be shred to pieces for jeopardizing their family’s honor.
The brothers locked Aisha away in the roofless alley within the Haveli. She needed to learn her lesson, they said.
Dadi Murati was my mother-in-law and wife of Hatam.
She was a clever, sturdy old cow who liked to make up diseases. Perhaps the only woman in the village who was allowed to consult with the Hakim directly, sitting behind a Purdah. Each week, she would discover a new illness to suffer from — bent fingers to the Quranic headaches (the kind you get when you are forced to read the Quran).
She knew of the affair and had overheard the brothers’ scheme. On that night, as the brothers were priming their hounds, Dadi Murati grounded turmeric with milk and prepared a paste. She was not particularly fond of her daughter’s choice, but she valued justice over everything. For her, justice lied in letting Aisha live her life as she desired. Perhaps there was a tinge of anger over the imposed patriarchy by her sons who curtailed her weekly visits to the town Hakim. From being the valuable advisor to Hatam, she was reduced to a mere widow in unending Iddat after his death.
With turmeric paste in one hand and stolen key in another, Dadi Murati freed Aisha and handed her the paste for her injured lover. As the brothers came to find the empty roofless alley, Dadi Murati gibbered some nonsense and faked a stroke, clutching on to her right breast. The brother tended to the fallen widow as Aisha rushed to Chichu’s house, without waiting for a Doli.
She cared for him for days. She never returned to her brothers’ house. She did not ask for a share of the property. It was enough for her to live with Chichu away from the shadows of the Haveli.
They had a son, Aftab. I knew him; he was shot during the 1947 partition riots. Aisha and Chichu had to leave his body behind as they fled the burning town.
The reign of Haveli wale came to an end after 1947. I was married off to Akhlaq, nephew of Nawab. Haveli itself was burned and never reclaimed after the riots.
Dadi Murati lived to be a hundred after the stroke.”
About the Narrator: Fauzia, now eighty, lives in a remote farmhouse in Northern India with her sons. She spends her days tending to the plants in her garden. She wished to share the story of Dadi Murati, Aisha, and Haveli wale with the world.
Editor’s Note: These stories are the result of interviews conducted with women from diverse communities. This publication intends to reflect the lives of the women lived to the fullest, despite the circumstances. Gender equality is a long-running road, and these stories aim to contribute to that journey.
Published with due diligence and respect for the sentiments of the people involved, after seeking approval from the interviewee and their family members. Names have been changed to protect the family’s privacy. No part of this blog may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
