Some of you may have heard this story before. It is one that has elicited either hearty laughter, or no reaction whatsoever. I remember the first time I told the meat of this story was to one of my chat room buddies over the phone. He could not stop laughing. Which was a better response from Ekhlaque than his snoring while I was talking to him (it was late night in Singapore).
It is just one of a few faux pas I have made in the Urdu language.
***
We stood facing each other in Khalaji's bedroom. Mommy and Khalaji sat on the bed, and cousins surrounded them at the edges of the gadda. No one was getting involved, yet, in the name calling that had begun between my youngest brother and I. We were poised in front of the dressing table. He had that superior smirk on his face which was so tempting to remove with a TKO. I slouched slightly, insufficiently prepared to meet gaali for gaali.
How did the argument begin in the first place? Did it matter? We fought over the smallest of things. We bullied each other most likely because we could not bully anyone else. If this was the way we expressed our love, as some suggested, it was a rather twisted way to do it. There was no "phooloN ka taaroN ka sab ka kehna hai. ek hazaaroN maiN meri behna hai . . . ." Instead there were kitchen knives and pots and pans used as shields. I doubt we would have used the knives on each other but that was how we expressed our "love".
He fired the next shot, "You're just stupid!"
I wanted to do better than that. Not with the usual "bloody bastard" which I was more afraid to say in front of Khalaji than I was in Mommy's presence. Then what? I thought of the ads painted on the old walls in the city. In beautiful Urdu calligraphy. There it was in big bold black nastaliq screaming at anyone who read it. I could never make out what the smaller print said, but I often wondered what the purpose was for having that on walls throughout the city.
It seemed to fit the occasion. It was probably not strong enough but it was different. Yes, it would have to do. He was a puny looking ass after all.
"Well you have mardana kamzori!"
Ek dum the room lit up with raucous laughter. I looked at Mommy. She had tears in her eyes. Khalaji's round body was quaking. Our cousins either beamed or chuckled. That smirk on my brother's face grew wider, more annoying. I asked everyone why they were laughing, but they still had not stopped. I turned to Khalaji.
"BatayeN na?"
Khalaji caught her breath, smiling gently, "BeTa, your brother is far too young to have mardana kamzori." And that was how far the grownups would go in explaining that to me. Grownups and their secrets. My eyes focused on him again. He looked as if he knew exactly what it meant. I doubted it.
We all moved on to something else. I did not learn what putting male together with weakness was that day. I did not even try to figure it out.
Years later, my mother and I talked about that day. I reminded her that no one told me what it was.
"Impotence." She said dully.
It was no longer as funny to her as it was then. I could still laugh about it. As we sat together, I thought about a lifetime having passed us by. A time of relatively more innocence and freedom in a place we were not truly free. At least we were all together.
No one remembers much of this story anymore. Our memories from that time are crumbled or jumbled. At least now if I ever told a man he was possessed with mardana kamzori again, at least it would be in the right context. Even if he really did not have it!
And as far as I know, my brother still does not!
