In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  ‘But not everyone is like them,’ Chetan’s mother had told him one day. ‘Now that they’re married, they take care of their households.’

  ‘Really, Ma, so they don’t drink any more?’ Chetan had asked.

  ‘Chowdhry Gujjarmal doesn’t drink, but I’ve heard that Chowdhry Tejpal takes a peg at dinner time,’ Ma had said. ‘Your father says Gujjar still drinks; that he’s a coward; hides in his home and drinks, while acting like a community leader. But not everyone spends their entire lives ruining their homes.’

  Chetan never forgot a particular incident with Chowdhry Gujjarmal. One day, Chetan’s father had gone with him to Bara Bazaar so he could get him some fabric for a coat. After buying the fabric he went to see Gujjarmal at his shop for a few minutes. Chowdhry Sahib was seated as usual behind a small teapoy, applying gold leaf to a piece of jewellery set in lac on a small board. In a glass cupboard to his left lay some gold and silver ornaments. Gujjarmal set the board to one side and looked up.

  ‘Come in, Shadi, have a seat,’ he said.

  Chetan’s father did not sit down. He stayed where he was, resting his foot on the stoop, and told him he was stopping in Jalandhar for one night on his way from Banga Station to Dasuya, for Relieving; he’d come to buy cloth for Chetan, and he thought he’d drop by and see how Gujjarmal was doing.

  ‘You must be about to retire?’ Gujjarmal asked.

  ‘Yes, in two years I’ll have been in service twenty-five years, but I’m trying to make it last one more year somehow.’

  ‘You’ll be getting some kind of provident fund when you retire?’

  ‘I’ll be getting eight thousand rupees or so, but I owe three or four thousand.’

  ‘If you take my advice you’ll start a liquor shop with the rest of the money.’

  Chetan stared at him with astonishment and laughed uncomprehendingly.

  ‘And put up a signboard outside the shop—“All this is for me, not for sale!”’ And he added in Punjabi, ‘If someone comes to buy liquor, tell them—“I’m not letting anyone drink this, it’s all for me.”’

  And Chowdhry Gujjarmal laughed, his tiny eyes shining with mirth.

  Chetan’s father began cursing at him straightaway. ‘Sala, you’re a fine kind of man, your wife has made an ass of you!’ he cried, and he dragged Chetan off, cursing all the while. He continued to curse at his friend all the way to the shoe seller’s chowk. But this sentence of Gujjarmal’s stuck in Chetan’s mind: ‘I’m not letting anyone drink this, it’s all for me.’ And he imagined a liquor store with a signboard outside stating that the liquor there was not for sale, and he chuckled to himself . . . On their way there, Pandit ji had told him that Gujjarmal was his dear, dear friend. They’d played together; eaten and drunk together. He hadn’t wanted to get married, the bastard. He just wandered about, a bachelor. Pandit Shadiram was the one who arranged his marriage and now Gujjarmal had abandoned him.

  But Chetan’s mother said that those two were his only true friends. Whenever they had the chance, the two of them would pull him together and advise him to take it easy; they bore the brunt of his curses but were never offended. Neither put him up to bad deeds, and if any misfortune ever befell Ma, she’d call on them and they’d always come without making any excuses or heeding Chetan’s father’s curses.

  The second type of friend was completely selfish. Principal among these was Desraj. He was the worst lowlife of all Shadiram’s friends. He’d loan him money, give him drinks, drink himself on top of that, get him to gamble, beat him, and then keep drawing interest from him for that sum: all these were regular activities for him. Sometimes Chetan’s brothers wished they could beat him up and bash in his head, but Chetan’s mother always stopped them from committing such a ‘sin’.

  The third type of friend was the likes of Pandit Daulat Ram, Mukandi Lal, Banarsidas—the sort of people known as pichalgua in Punjabi, or ‘hangers-on’. When Pandit ji came to Jalandhar, they would all gather round—one would refresh his hookah, another would press his feet. As long as he remained in town, they’d eat and drink; then they wouldn’t show their faces again, instead swearing at him behind his back, slandering him, and making every effort to harm his family.

  Chetan and his brothers placed Harlal and Fakir Chand in the fourth category of their father’s friends. Pandit ji entertained them no less than the others, and there couldn’t be a party at Pandit ji’s if Harlal or Fakir Chand were not present, but they never slandered him, and if Ma couldn’t find Chowdhry Tejpal or Gujjarmal in times of crisis, she would call for one of them. Since Harlal had to look after his shop, he’d just have a peg or two and go on his way, and he never gambled except on the three days of Diwali. Fakir Chand had to look after his factory as well, but whenever Pandit ji came to Jalandhar he’d go over to the factory the moment he stepped out of the station. No matter how much work Fakir Chand had to do, Pandit ji would curse him roundly and order him to get up, and Fakir Chand would leave everything to his worker, the crank boy, and go off with him; he’d stick with him for as long as Pandit ji stayed in Jalandhar; he’d eat and drink with him, visit Bazaar Sheikhan, and do anything he wished.

  Chetan had never heard him curse or speak loudly. He seemed to be the same age as Chetan’s father, but he must have been a couple of years younger, because Chetan’s elder brother called him ‘Chacha’, as did Chetan in imitation of him, and Chetan’s father loved him as he would a younger brother. Although he had a soda-water factory, he hadn’t got married until he was forty because of the defect in his eye. Then, suddenly one day, they found out that Chacha Fakir Chand had got married and his wife was coming to stay with them and she was going to have a baby (Chetan’s father was working at Dasuya Station in those days and Chetan had gone there during his vacation). The small wooden room in their quarters was vacated for his wife. She was due to have a child in the month of Kartik, and since a child born in Kartik is considered inauspicious—it brings ill fortune to the home it’s born into—Ma wanted Fakir Chand’s wife to be placed elsewhere, but Chetan’s father scolded her and swore at her, and demanded to know how he could place his sister-in-law in the servants’ quarters. Fakir Chand was dearer to him than a brother. And after lecturing Ma for half an hour, he ordered her to do as he said and arrange everything.

  Chacha Fakir Chand dropped his wife off and went away, and Chetan’s mother was forced to shoulder the burden of looking after her along with managing the household.

  The first day Chetan saw his wife, he just stared. She was so beautiful, it was hard to look at her: she was thin, of medium height, with long black hair, light dimples on her cheeks, teeth like pearls, large, round dreamy eyes, and a wide forehead. When she laughed, dimples formed on her cheeks.

  ‘Ma, how did Chacha Fakir Chand find such a beautiful wife at his age?’ Chetan had asked.

  ‘If she weren’t so beautiful, would she have become an unwed mother?’ replied Ma contemptuously. ‘When her father found out, he went looking for someone needy to unload her on to. Someone told your father and he thought of Fakir Chand. So he secretly called for him and got them married, and after they got married, he brought her straight here. When the child is born, they’ll announce the wedding in Jalandhar and bring her there.’

  The child was born in the month of Kartik and was sent off to some orphanage, and Chachi was brought to Jalandhar as a bride. Chetan’s mother’s idea was that such loose women are unlikely to stick it out in a marriage, but no one ever heard a complaint against Chachi again. After a year, a little girl was born in Chacha’s home, who unfortunately took after her father rather than her mother, but at least one could be thankful she didn’t have a cataract in one eye.

  Nonetheless, Ma was never able to forgive Chachi—especially for setting up camp in her home during the month of Kartik! Whenever some new misfortune befell their home—if Pandit ji drank too much liquor, or lost at gambling, or wasted money in Bazaar Sheikhan, Ma would blame her for saddling them with the ill fortune of that K
artik-born child.

  Whenever Chetan went to Chacha Fakir Chand’s house, Chachi welcomed him warmly. He always liked her, and he couldn’t understand what connection her having a baby in their home, much less in the month of Kartik, had with their bad luck. His father already drank, already gambled and already visited Bazaar Sheikhan before she came.

  *

  After her second child was born, Chachi fell ill. Chetan was in his FA, when one day his father told his mother, ‘Let’s go, I’m going to take you to bathe at Haridwar.’ And he applied for ten days’ leave and railway passes.

  Pandit ji had planned to accompany them to Haridwar, and then leave after ten days, and they would stay on there for an entire month. Ma was very pleased when she heard this. She pawned a large piece of jewellery and made plans for a pilgrimage. But right as they were leaving, all of her joy evaporated when she found out that Pandit ji was also bringing along Chacha Fakir Chand and his wife.

  That was when Chetan had learned that Chachi was terribly ill. She had come down with tuberculosis. Pandit ji had heard from someone that there was a vaidya, an Ayurvedic doctor, in Kanakhal who had a magic touch, and he advised Fakir Chand to get his wife treated there. Pandit ji told him that Ma would stay with him for the whole month, and Chacha ji could look after her, but Ma knew that she’d be the one shouldering all the expenses, and she’d be the one doing all the looking after. And if there were any shortcomings, Pandit ji would be baying for blood.

  When Chetan saw Chachi at the station, he couldn’t believe his eyes: How could this be that same healthy young woman, beautiful as a fairy! Her complexion had turned completely dark. She looked like a small pile of bones. Chacha had to carry her. She couldn’t stand up. She just slid to the ground when she tried to walk. She looked like a little girl. She smiled when she saw them and her pearly white teeth shone. That smile remained ever etched in Chetan’s heart—so full of fear and sorrow!

  As soon as they got down from the train, the pilgrimage priests surrounded them. One priest took down Pandit ji’s great-grandfather’s name in his ledger; that priest’s home was near Har Ki Pauri. Chetan’s mother, his brothers and his father stayed in two rooms, and Chacha Fakir Chand and Chachi stayed in one room right across from them. After taking her to the Kanakhal vaidya and arranging for medicines, Pandit ji went out in search of a bottle for the night’s entertainment. But Haridwar was completely new to him. He didn’t know where to get liquor, and he didn’t feel right about asking people at a pilgrimage site. But Pandit ji was not about to accept defeat. He took Chacha Fakir Chand and went off God knows where, to the point that they didn’t even return one night. Chachi’s insides were in terrible pain. Ma put Chetan and his brothers to bed, then went and slept in Chachi’s room herself, and she had to get up with her several times that night. The next day, around nightfall, Pandit ji and Fakir Chand returned from somewhere over by Bhimgoda, after covering pretty much the entire area, and he told Ma in a whisper that they’d gone to see Hrishikesh but weren’t able to get back and so had stayed the night. They’d gone to see Kali Kamli Wale . . . but Chetan could tell from the paper-wrapped object they gave Ma to put away which deity they’d actually gone to pay their respects to . . .

  The next day, when Ma asked him to take her to see Hrishikesh, he said, ‘Yes, we’ll go today.’ But then he went out, taking with him that same bottle wrapped in paper, and was nowhere to be seen until evening.

  And when, after ten days, Pandit ji returned to work, Ma heaved a sigh of relief. All she could think about day and night was how God would not forgive all this sin at a pilgrimage site. Now they’d come all this way, she wanted terribly to bathe just once at Har Ki Pauri but Pandit ji didn’t even have the time to take a ritual bath. He’d get up at ten o’clock, by which time Ma was done with her bath in the Ganges and her prayers, then he’d go out to drink a glass of lassi, after which no one would see his face again until evening. But despite all this, he continued to take Chacha Fakir Chand and his wife to the vaidya at Kanakhal during those ten days and he did not leave Haridwar until he’d thoroughly arranged for her medicines.

  *

  When Chachi had arrived in Haridwar, Chacha Fakir Chand had carried her down to bathe in the Ganges, but after that, Chetan noticed that she’d sit on the steps of the house and pull herself down, step by step, cross a small portion of the bazaar and make her way to Har Ki Pauri. She’d go and bathe right there on the stairs, and change her clothes and sit there for quite a while before returning. And she’d make herself up fully, despite being nothing more than a skeleton. Chetan was astonished to observe her life force. And when Chacha Fakir Chand returned after a month, Chachi’s body had filled out a bit and her complexion had changed back to a wheat colour. Six months later, when Chetan saw her looking just as healthy as she used to, he wasn’t surprised.

  *

  Mandi Soda Water Factory had three rooms, all in a row. In the very last room was the soda machine. In the middle room were two large tubs of water: the first for the empty bottles, the second for the full ones. There was also a cupboard in that room filled with small vials of essences and bottles of sharbat. The walls of the front room were lined with wooden racks, the middle shelves of which had been cut to fit the round ends of the bottles. This is where the bottles were arranged after they were filled. A small desk had been placed on a wooden platform in the same room, and this was used as a counter.

  Chacha Fakir Chand went inside, picked up an empty bottle from the tub and asked Chetan, who had followed him in, what flavour he’d like—banana, orange, malted, vetiver or rose?

  In those days, Chetan loved the light fragrance and sweet taste of rose. ‘Rose!’ he replied.

  Chacha Fakir Chand then measured some sharbat into the bottle, and some essence, and went into the back room to place it in the machine. Chetan went and stood fearfully by the machine. As a boy, he’d loved watching the bottles filling with soda. He used to stand and watch it for hours in Bhairon Bazaar on his way home from school. Chacha Fakir Chand and the Khatri from Chetan’s own neighbourhood, Shanno Chachi’s brother-in-law-turned-husband, Chacha Mukandi Lal, had set up a soda machine there together. Soda machines were new to Jalandhar in those days. Chetan’s father was the one who had arranged for the money and suggested his two friends form a partnership.

  On his way home from Qila Mohalla primary school, Chetan would stop at the front step of the factory and watch the bottles filling with soda. Lala Mukandi Lal ran the machine. Chetan liked watching his pale arms and legs (his dhoti hiked up to the knees; his sleeves rolled up to the elbows) and his pale face, red with effort. Then one day, a bottle had burst while Chetan was standing nearby watching. In those days, soda bottles had a glass marble inside them, and Chetan’s father considered it a mark of bravery to press down the marble in the neck of the bottle with his thumb and open it with just one smack of the other hand. Bets were placed at his parties as to whether or not the bottle could be opened in just one try, and a couple of rupees would always change hands. But since the marble couldn’t come out of the bottle without breaking it, the bottles burst if they had just a tiny bit too much gas in them—especially in the hot season—and the task of filling them was fairly perilous. Although Lala Mukandi Lal had been turning the wheel of the machine, and Chetan had been standing down below in the bazaar, when the bottle burst, a piece of glass tore into Lala Mukandi Lal’s cheek, leaving a large wound, and the marble hit Chetan on the forehead and bruised him. From that day on, Lala Mukandi Lal stopped cranking the handle and Chetan stopped watching the machine run.

  Actually, usually when the bottles burst, Chetan and his friends were secretly extremely pleased—for one thing there’d be a loud explosion, and for another, the marble would pop out, and as it was of no use to the factory any more, they got to play with it. But he’d never imagined that his forehead could get busted by the marble when he’d stood so far from the machine, and from that day on, he’d always feared standing too close.

>   The crank boy began turning the handle of the machine. Chetan’s heart pounded as he remembered that incident from his childhood. He felt fearful that the bottle might explode. But in just a moment a loud hissing sound came from the machine as the bottle was filled with gas; then it was filled with water, and Chacha Fakir Chand turned the machine and removed the bottle. He told the crank boy to run and get a paisa’s worth of ice, and he himself filled a few more bottles in front of Chetan.

  When the ice arrived, Chacha opened the bottle, poured it into a glass and gave it to Chetan. The tiny soda bubbles flew up his nostrils. He loved their sharpness and fragrance. But he sneezed hard and the glass nearly fell out of his hand. Then he stepped outside the shop, holding the glass in his hand. When he looked up, he started—Hunar Sahib, Ranvir and Nishtar were all standing down in the bazaar by the steps to the factory.

  24

  Chetan laughed slightly and remarked by way of explanation, ‘I was feeling a bit thirsty. I saw the sign for Chacha ji’s factory, so . . .’

  ‘But we feel thirsty too!’ interrupted Hunar Sahib with a chuckle.

  ‘Come, come! Climb on up!’ cried Chacha Fakir Chand enthusiastically. He turned to Chetan and said, ‘Tell your friends to come on up!’

  Without waiting for his response, he called out to the crank boy in Punjabi, ‘Hey, you bastard, go get two more paisas’ worth of ice, and open up three bottles of the rose for these guys!’

  Hunar Sahib had already climbed the steps. ‘No, no, I was just joking,’ he said. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself.’

  But before saying this, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if the crank boy had already gone to get the ice.