Lihaaf

I was ten years old when I first read the Lihaaf, leaving me confused.
What was so special about two women sleeping with each other under the quilt? I wondered. Didn’t I share my bed with my grandmother, cuddling to her saggy bosom, staring fixedly at the white hair that stubbornly clung to her chin, even though she sat on the verandah stool with tweezers and a mirror once every fifteen days?
I re-read Lihaaf when I was twenty. The people in the drama club raved about it. You know the kind, the ones who critique and introspect and try to find metaphors invisible to lesser mortals. I wanted to fit in, to discard my bourgeoise roots. My sheltered upbringing and logical brain once again made me miss the subtext.
It was my fortieth birthday. “Do read Lihaaf,” their soft words while handing me an anthology of stories, made gooseflesh rise on my bare arms. They had convinced me to wear a sleeveless blouse with my blue chiffon saree. Everyone noticed. Pulse quickening, I mumbled some excuse about the AC being too cold. Looking like a diva in a marigold-yellow cotton saree, they had merely smiled.
That night, before bed, the sound of rain drumming on the pavement drifted in through the window as I opened the book they had given and re-read Lihaaf.
That night, I dreamt about the two women beneath the quilt. One wore a blue chiffon saree, the other a yellow cotton.


Author’s note. Lihaaf is a short story in Urdu written by Ismat Chughtai. It was path-breaking since it talked about relationship between two women.