There was a reminiscent of sweet citrus undertones in the angan. The elders had left the angan for siesta, taking refuge from the muggy dog days of June after lunch in their rooms. A little girl, off from school for another month and a half due to summer vacations, was always preoccupied and couldn’t rest. The mango tree at the far left end of the courtyard was an ever-intriguing sight, buzzing with life in all seasons.
Whether it was harvesting, bearing flowers, or the cuckoos (the brood parasites) laying their eggs in the nests of other species, singing loud pipping notes in the late summer afternoons, their calls signified the ripening of mangoes or the news of misting and drizzling soon. The girl, all astir, seized the opportunity to climb the tree. The ascent was not overly difficult, though somewhat adventurous. Holding onto a branch with both hands, which extended slightly beyond the boundaries of Nani Amma’s home, she began swinging on the fragile branch, oblivious to the vulnerability of falling. She happily called for an audience from her friend next door. Both girls, giggling and chatting in excitement, failed to realise the frailty of the situation.
Suddenly, the swinging girl fell with a loud thud, and the tree crackled in pain as the branch broke off. There she lay, lights out, flat on the ground. The pain was felt by her family as she fainted. Her khaloo (aunt’s husband) carried her inside, while Nani Amma, concerned, worried, and confused, yet angry at the girl’s insolence, tried to resuscitate life back into her granddaughter. Luckily, the fall was negligible, and the girl soon regained 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 as they narrated the incident in as many ways as there were mouths.
In winters, these angans were best used for sunbathing, massaging oil into the hair, or simply taking refuge in the warmth of the soft winter sun, leaving towels to dry after use
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 its courtyard in the middle and rooms for one purpose or another all around. After too many, yet too few, years, it brought back memories long hibernating in the grey matter of my brain.
The unbridled urbanisation, land shortages, economising lifestyles, and the constant race against time due to modernisation have forced us to compromise on space and accommodation. Adjusting to the lack of resources, we have sacrificed the luxury of expansive living. The lack of human resources and the rising costs of hiring top-to-toe management and workers have further 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, I lament how platforms like WhatsApp and Twitter, meetups on Zoom and Skype, and even emotions conveyed through suggested GIFs, emoticons, and avatars on screens in our palms have woefully taken away the more interactive, human-to-human epoch.
Curiously, I googled the word ‘angan.’ Chrome offers numerous options and meanings. Most of the time, one is amazed at how a single word can allude to deeper philosophical connotations, making one ponder in ways never before imagined. While searching for synonyms of ‘angan,’ I came across the Malay word ‘Angan,’ which means “wishful thinking” or “pipe dream.” Similarly, in Old Javanese, the word ‘angan’ means “thoughts, considerations, reflections.”
The angan was once a place of solace, serenity, natural well-being, and restfulness. In the subcontinental milieu, mornings in the angan buzzed with elders having breakfast, giving directions to household staff, cleaning spices, placing martabaans (clay and glazed pickling jars) in the sun for brining, and discussing the day’s to-do list—from what to cook for lunch to matchmaking. Heated discussions on politics, current affairs, and human rights were common, with family-like neighbours and friends seeking suggestions.
It was a melting pot of familial obligations, steeped in a social brew of dos and don’ts. Dadis and Nanis (paternal and maternal grandmothers), with pandaan in front of them, seemingly concentrated 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, a practice gradually becoming extinct. Soon, the younger generation may never know the musty scent of printed paper. Large extended families now prefer to be nuclear. Oh, and the cousins in love (those were the most popular love affairs until the 1990s) would send messages through a younger sibling, who acted as their confidante, arranging dates and meetings in the angan during 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 takhts—these trays covered with embroidered damask linen khawan posh (tablecloth)—while instructing the home staff or young children to carry them carefully, walk slowly, and not trip or tilt the tray, and to bring back all crockery in one go. On a more subliminal level, the teaching and learning of the Quran also took place in angans.
In winters, these angans were best used for sunbathing, massaging oil into the hair, or simply taking refuge in the warmth of the soft winter sun, leaving towels to dry after use. Some angans housed birdcages with parrots, lovebirds, parakeets, and the like, where the chirping never ceased. The entire household, in their respective corners, would oblige Mithu (almost every parrot was named Mithu in the ’90s) with churi, guava slices, or green chili (as the myth goes that it would make them talk like humans). At times, they would talk to the caged birds simply to appease their own loneliness.
These angans were the throbbing lifelines of their inhabitants. An angan with a swing, a huqqa (water pipe), jardinières, and planters neatly landscaping the space—big or small—was a common sight. Summer nights were spent following the moon from end to end. Lying on takhats (wooden beds) during electricity outages, counting the stars, gave the whole family quality time together. The angan was a loner’s paradise, the best retreat for the chotto of the house (the one called by everyone to help with chores)—out of sight, out of mind. It was a sanctuary for 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
The 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, for once again tears seethe
بیٹھے ہیں ہم تہیۂ طوفاں کیے ہوئے
As I have all the intent / resolution of a storm
Security concerns, a growing population, and a lack of opportunities have brought disparities to society. We cannot return to Mesopotamian times or those of the Gandhara and Roman civilisations, where town squares in the middle of cities and courtyards in homes were common. Town squares were treated as communal courtyards, and many of the aforementioned activities would take place there fearlessly. In traditional Kerala houses, a courtyard was a must, where even Puja (religious worship) was performed. Cortile, as they are known in Italy, were internal courts surrounded by an arcade, characteristic of Italian palaces, or palazzos, 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 through. 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 three meanings of ‘angan’ in three languages with a friend.