There was a reminiscence of sweet citrus undertones in the angan. The elders had left the angan for a siesta, taking refuge from the muggy dog days of June after lunch in their rooms. A little girl was off from school for another month and a half because of summer vacations. Always preoccupied, she couldn’t rest.
The mango tree at the far left end of the courtyard was always an intriguing sight, with life buzzing on it in every season. Whether it was harvesting, bearing flowers, or the cuckoos (the brood parasites) laying their eggs in the nests of other species, singing loud piping notes in the late summer afternoons, the tree was always alive with activity. Their call signified the ripening of the mangoes or the news of misting and drizzling that might come soon.
The girl, all astir, seized the opportunity to climb the tree. The ascent was not that difficult, though adventurous. Holding a branch with both hands, which spread a little outside the boundaries of Nani Amma’s home, she started swinging on the fragile branch. She did not consider the vulnerability of falling off the tree. She happily called her friend from the neighbor’s house. Both girls, giggling and chatting in excitement, didn’t realize the fragility of the situation. The swinging girl fell with a loud thud; the tree crackled in pain as the branch broke off.
There she was, lights off, lying flat. Pain was felt by her family as she fainted. Her khaloo (aunt’s husband) carried her inside. Nani Amma, all concerned, worried, and confused with anger over the girl’s insolence, tried to resuscitate life back into her granddaughter. Luckily, the fall was negligible, and the girl was soon restored to consciousness without much ado.
In the evening, when the girl’s parents came to pick her up after a long day’s work, the whole family gathered in the angan, sipped chai, and nibbled on hot potato samosas, laughing at the misadventure, narrating the incident in as many ways as there were mouths.
Visiting my friend’s home in Karachi, which was built in 1951, probably the very first house in the society, reminded me of my Nani Amma’s house with a courtyard in the middle and rooms for one purpose or another all around. After many years, it brought back memories long hibernating in the grey matter of my brain.
The unbridled urbanization, land shortage, economizing lifestyles, and the constant race against time due to modernization, have led us to compromise on space and accommodation issues. The lack of human resources and the hiring prices for top-to-toe management and workers have also affected the affordability of such expenses.
Flooded with memories of hangouts in the angan at my Nani Amma’s home before the advent of social media— which has taken conversations (WhatsApp and Twitter), meetups (Zoom and Skype), and even emotions with all those suggested GIFs, emoticons, and avatars on a screen in our palms—social media has woefully taken away the more interactive human-to-human epoch.
Curiously, I googled the word ‘angan’. Chrome gave me numerous options and meanings. Most of the time, one is amazed at how one word can allude to more philosophical connotations, making you cogitate in fashions you were never aware of.
While looking for the word ‘Angan’ in a quest to find more synonyms, I came across “Angan” in Malay, which means “wishful thinking” or “pipe dream.” Similarly, in Old Javanese, the word ‘angan’ means “thoughts, considerations, reflections.”
Aangan was once a place of solace, serenity, natural well-being, and restfulness. In the subcontinental milieu, in the morning, it’s buzzing with elders having breakfast, giving directions to the household staff, cleaning spices, placing martabaans (clay and glazed pickling jars) in the sun for brining, and soliciting a to-do list for the day, from what to cook for lunch to match-making, heated discussions on politics, current affairs, and human rights, seeking suggestions from family-like neighbors/friends. It was a melting pot of familial obligations, with its social brew of dos and don’ts.
Dadis and Nanis (paternal and maternal grandmothers), with pandaan in front of them, seemingly concentrating on snipping chaliya (betel nut) with a sarutaa (sharper than a nutcracker), were actually keeping an eye on the incoming and outgoing human traffic. Dadas and Nanas (paternal and maternal grandfathers) read newspapers. Sadly, the papers are gradually getting extinct.
Pretty soon, the young ones won’t know the musty scent of printed paper. And large extended families now prefer to be nuclear. Oh! And the cousins in love (those were the most popular love affairs till the ’90s) sent messages through a younger sibling, who was their confidante for fixing dates and meetings in the angan during the long, warm, and boring summer afternoons.
Sparklers, the sun bursting on the night of Shab-e-Miraj, Shab-e-Qadr, or Shab-e-Baraat, and laying out niaz trays on takht. These trays were covered with embroidered damask linen khawan posh (table covers), while instructing the home staff or young children to carry them carefully, walk slowly, not trip, or tilt the tray, and bring back all crockery in the same go. On a more subliminal level, the teaching and learning of the Qur’an were carried out in angans.
In winters, these angans were best used for sunbathing, massaging oil into the hair, or just taking refuge in the warmth of the soft winter sun, leaving the towels to dry out after use. Some of these angans would have birdcages with parrots, lovebirds, parakeets, etc., where the chirping never ceased.
The whole household, in their respective recesses, would like to oblige mithu (bird; almost every parrot was named mithu in the ’90s) with churi, guava slices, and green chili (as the myth goes that it would make them talk like humans), and at times, just to appease their own loneliness, would talk to the caged birds.
These angans were the throbbing lifelines of the inhabitants. An angan with a swing, a huqqa (water pipe), jardinières, and planters landscaping the small/big angan neatly. Summer nights were spent following the moon end to end. Lying on takht (wooden bed) during electricity outages, counting the stars would give the whole family quality time. The angan was a loner’s paradise… the best retreat for the chotto of the house (the one who is always called by everyone to help with their chores). Out of sight, out of mind. A sanctuary for the dreamers.
It reminds me of “Angan Terah” by Anwar Maqsood Sahab. Ghalib must have composed this ghazal in his angan, perhaps….
پھر جی میں ہے کہ در پہ کسی کے پڑے رہیں
The heart wants to lay itself at someone’s door once again.
سر زیر بار منت درباں کیے ہوئے
Head bowed in prayer at the mercy of the usher.
جی ڈھونڈتا ہے پھر وہی فرصت کہ رات دن
Heart once again seeks leisurely days and nights.
بیٹھے رہیں تصور جاناں کیے ہوئے
Where I sit with thoughts of the beloved.
غالبؔ ہمیں نہ چھیڑ کہ پھر جوش اشک سے
Ghalib, do not tease me that once again tears seethe.
بیٹھے ہیں ہم تہیۂ طوفاں کیے ہوئے
As I have all the intent/resolution of a storm.
Read, write, soliloquize, tête-à-tête with your own thoughts, in complete secrecy.
Security concerns, growing populations, and a lack of opportunities bring disparities in society. We cannot go back to the Mesopotamian times or those of Gandhara and Roman civilizations, where, in the middle of the city, there would be a town square, existing as well as courtyards at homes. The town squares were also treated as courtyards, and some of the above-mentioned activities would fiercely take place in town squares. In traditional Kerala houses, a courtyard was a must, where even Puja (religious worship) is performed.
Cortile, as they are known in Italy, were internal courts surrounded by an arcade, characteristic of the Italian palace, or palazzo, during the Renaissance and its aftermath. The sound is gone; they want to own the light. The misty sun rising has only a window to shine in. The rapid changes in city life echo a long-lost fairytale that we once lived!
“You are my angan,” I was told today when I shared all the three meanings of “Angan” in all three languages with a friend.
Also Read: Intersection of Climate Change and Social Justice
