Salma

Salma was born on November 10, 1968, in Damera in the Warangal region of what was then Andhra Pradesh. Twenty years earlier, Indian troops had ended the Nizam of Hyderabad’s rule; her parents still remembered that transition, the uncertainty and then the settling. Her family spoke Telugu at home and used Urdu for prayers and songs; they were Sunni Muslims who visited local dargahs and tied vows to ordinary problems—fever, a delayed payment, a child’s cough. Her father, Abdul Rahim, lived by selling combs and matchboxes from a tray and helping at tea stalls. Her mother, Khadija Begum, earned at home, rolling bidis and doing embroidery when her eyes held up.

Salma came third. Parveen arrived in 1964 and grew up used to being the first to fetch water and answer adults. Shabana was born in 1966 and died before she learned to sit. Khadija kept Shabana’s name in the house; it came out when she lit incense before a dargah visit or when another baby’s stomach swelled with diarrhea. Salma grew into a tall child, taller than boys her age, all elbows and long legs. Adults sent her outside more than her sisters. “You can stand in the crowd,” her father said, pushing coins into her hand. She learned to push back too.

In 1972 the rains failed hard enough to change the prices in the bazaar. Abdul Rahim’s work became more uncertain. He walked to stalls across town looking for work, came home irritated when there was none, and cheerful when he brought back bruised fruit for the children. Salma started school in the middle of the decade, but she did not stay steady. She learned letters and could read signboards and bus names if she stared at them, and she picked up a little Urdu from religious lessons. Writing never became easy. She disliked sitting still with a slate when her mother needed help at home and when she wanted to watch people bargain at the market.

Khadija’s work spread across the floor: bidi leaves, thread, a tin of glue. Salma’s fingers moved quickly, but she stopped to talk. When neighbors came to borrow salt, she asked questions and followed them to the doorway. She laughed loudly, made faces at children, repeated scraps of film dialogue she heard others say. Parveen kept her voice low and corrected her. Salma snapped back, then hugged her sister five minutes later. Their fights ended fast; their memories of them lasted longer.

By the time Salma was a teenager the drought years returned. In 1984 the heat stayed in the house even at night, and arguments came faster. Abdul Rahim’s temper flared when money ran short. He hit Salma once with his open hand after she shouted at him in the lane. She held her face, stared straight back, and told him he should hit a wall instead. After that Khadija sent her out of the room when her father’s voice rose. Salma carried more errands, partly because she did not scare easily and partly because her height made people hesitate before grabbing her.

Religion was part of the day. Before dawn Khadija washed and prayed, and Salma copied her movements more often than she kept count. They fasted in Ramadan, broke it with rice and watery dal when times were bad, and sweet seviyan when a little money appeared. On Thursdays, Bibi Jaan, an older neighbor with sharp eyes, took Salma with her to a dargah outside town. They brought a green chadar, a few rupees, and sweets for children sitting near the gate. Salma touched the rail, whispered a request for safety and for money that lasted, and watched men tie threads at the lattice.

In 1986 her marriage was arranged with Ghouse Pasha. He worked across small trades and wage jobs, whatever he could find. They rented a room in a nearby town, close enough that Salma still saw Parveen but far enough that the lanes felt unfamiliar. His parents had died years earlier; his brothers lived elsewhere. She learned her new water tap, her new shopkeepers, which neighbors talked too much. Ghouse liked her energy when it brought customers and friends. He disliked it when it brought complaints.

Their first son, Irfan, was born in 1987. A year later Imran arrived. He was small and quiet, and in his third week he stopped feeding. The fever came fast. By the time Salma carried him to the government hospital, he had gone still. She sat on the floor by the empty cot after the burial and did not speak for hours. When she rose, she told Bibi Jaan she would take a chadar to the dargah and feed children there. She did it, and then did it again after other scares—fevers, a fall, a cough that lingered. Sameer was born in 1989. Nusrat came in 1991.

In December 1992, after news of the Babri Masjid demolition, tension reached their town. Men talked about routes to avoid and which lane had been stoned. Salma still went to buy supplies, but she kept her dupatta tight and returned quickly. Customers who owed Ghouse money stopped coming, afraid to be seen outside. The family ate less meat that month and paid rent late.

At home she argued with Ghouse about money and about his friends who borrowed without returning. She accused him of wasting what little they had. He shoved her against the wall after one of these fights; another time, when she called him useless in front of his brother, he slapped her hard enough that her ear rang. The next morning she went to Parveen’s house with a scarf pulled low and said nothing about why. Parveen saw anyway. She pressed turmeric paste into Salma’s hand and told her, without softness, to keep her children fed and keep a little money hidden.

More children came through the 1990s. Aftab in 1993. Sohail in 1995. Nadeem in 1997. Riyaz in 1999. Faisal in 2001. Saba in 2004, when Salma was thirty-five and already tired of being pregnant.

Abdul Rahim died in 1998. Salma traveled back for the burial and helped Khadija sort through his things—a tray, a tin box with coins and scraps of paper, a pair of sandals he had resoled twice. She stayed three days, then left. Years later she still thought of things she meant to tell him.

Ghouse’s health failed in 2001. He had coughed for months, then lost weight, then could not stand for a full day’s work. Doctors in government hospitals wrote things Salma could not read. She watched for the one detail she understood: the cost. They borrowed from a moneylender, then from Ghouse’s brother in Hyderabad, then from the man who sold groceries on credit. Ghouse died in 2002. After the prayers and visitors left, the debts stayed. That year the drought returned and prices climbed. Salma pawned her bangles and then sold her last piece of gold. Irfan left school and worked for wages. Sameer ran errands for a shopkeeper. Salma kept Nusrat home to help with the younger ones and fought with her for it. She cried that night in a corner, then woke before dawn and cooked anyway.

She began taking work where she could. First it was sewing and mending for neighbors. Then she set up a small stove and sold tea and fried snacks outside a cluster of shops. She combined it with tailoring: a needle, a box of thread, and cheap fabric stacked under plastic. She made quick friends with vendors and laughed loudly, but she also snapped at customers who tried to bargain too hard. Shankar, who sold vegetables from the next stall, lent her a tarp when hers tore. Rafiq, a supplier, brought tea leaves and sugar. She told him his prices were robbery and then served him the first cup when he sat down. He kept coming.

Running a stall brought her into the orbit of municipal rules. In 2006 a local inspector, Munna—Mohammad Munir—came by, asked for papers, and hinted at a fine. Salma smiled, poured him tea, slipped a note into his hand, and said she would “settle it properly” next time. She never did. She learned to say her daily sales were lower than they were. When sugar prices jumped, she used a slightly smaller cup. She shorted change now and then, fast, with practiced fingers. At home she defended it with quick words and a shrug. Some of her children copied her way of talking; others hated it.

Through the late 2000s and into the 2010s, the stall kept her going. Irfan married in 2009 and moved to a room across town with his wife. Sameer followed in 2011. The house emptied of older sons and filled with their occasional visits, their requests for loans, their children crawling on Salma’s floor. Nusrat married in 2012 and moved to her husband’s family’s house, though she came back often enough that Salma kept a mat ready for her. The younger children—Aftab, Sohail, Nadeem, Riyaz, Faisal, Saba—grew into teenagers and young adults, some working, some drifting between jobs. Salma kept track of who owed her money and who had borrowed from whom.

Khadija died in 2014, the year Telangana became a separate state. Salma attended the funeral back near Damera and argued with Parveen over who had done more for their mother. They sat together afterward anyway, eating rice from the same plate, talking about old neighbors.

Between 2014 and 2020 the days repeated: mornings at the stall, afternoons mending, evenings cooking. Aftab married. Sohail took over dealing with wholesalers and argued with Salma about quantities and prices. Nadeem found work at a warehouse and sent money home when he could. Riyaz finished school and drifted between jobs, restless in a way that reminded Salma of her father. Faisal stayed close, helping at the stall, running errands. Saba grew into a teenager who wanted a phone and new clothes and rolled her eyes when Salma talked about saving. Grandchildren appeared—Irfan’s son, then Sameer’s daughter—and Salma held them with hands that knew how to quiet a crying baby.

During the COVID-19 lockdown in 2020, the market shut down and police chased vendors away. Salma’s tea stove sat cold. The family ate smaller meals. She took credit from Rafiq and paid him late. Shankar shared onions when her supply ran out; she gave him sugar when his did. She yelled at Riyaz for wasting phone data, then asked him to show her messages from customers who wanted stitching done when restrictions eased. When business resumed, she served tea again, wiped down the bench, and listened for gossip about illness.

By late 2025 Salma still lived in town, widowed, tall even when her shoulders slumped with age. She visited the dargah on Thursdays when she could, carrying a small cloth, incense, and sweets. She ran her stall in a reduced way now—more mending, fewer snacks—and let her sons handle bigger purchases. In the evening she sat near the doorway with a cup of tea she had made herself, calling out to passing neighbors, laughing at something Saba said, and then scolding a grandchild for stepping on a spool of thread.