He didn’t say anything and fell completely silent, as though he had plunged into deep waters. After he’d been submerged in his own thoughts for a long time and his silence began to weigh on me, I said, ‘Well, sir, where have you gotten lost?’
He was startled. ‘I…Nowhere. I was just thinking about something.’
‘Were you reminded of something that happened to you in the past?’ I asked. ‘Stumbled on a lost dream? Some old wounds starting to hurt again?’
‘Wounds? Old wounds? Well, not wounds. Just one – very deep and vicious. And I have no desire for more. One is enough.’ Saying that, he got up and attempted to pace inside my room. ‘Attempted’ because my place was small and cluttered with chairs, a table, a cot and what all – there was really no room to pace. He could only go as far as the table and then he had to stop. This time, though, he looked at the photograph closely and said, ‘How much she resembles her! Her face wasn’t quite as playful though. She had big eyes, the kind which can see as well as understand.’ He heaved a sigh and sat back down. ‘Death is beyond comprehension, especially when it seizes someone in the prime of their youth. I believe there’s another power besides God – extremely jealous and begrudging anyone’s happiness. But never mind…’
‘No, no, please go on,’ I insisted, ‘if you don’t mind. To tell you the truth, I thought you had probably never fallen in love.’
‘What made you think that? A few minutes ago you said I must have had quite a few affairs myself, didn’t you?’
He looked at me with questioning eyes. ‘If I haven’t loved, then why this sorrow that keeps gnawing at my heart? Why this affliction? This sadness? This state of being oblivious to myself? Why am I melting away like wax day and night?’
Ostensibly he was asking me, but in fact he was asking himself.
I told him, ‘I lied when I said that you must have had quite a few affairs. But you lied too, when you said you weren’t sad and that nothing was bothering you. It’s not easy to know what’s inside another person’s heart. There could be any number of reasons for your sadness and, unless you choose to tell me yourself, I can’t very well come to any conclusion, can I? That you’re becoming frailer and frailer by the day is obvious. Surely you’ve suffered a big shock, and I do sympathize with you.’
‘Sympathize!’ Tears rushed to his eyes. ‘I don’t need sympathy. Sympathy can’t bring her back, can’t pull the woman I loved out of the abyss of death and return her to me. You’ve never loved. No, you have not. Of that I’m certain. For you are unscathed by its failure. Look at me,’ he demanded, and looked down at himself. ‘Do you see any spot where love hasn’t left its scars? My entire existence is nothing more than the rubble of love’s crumbling abode. How can I relate this tale to you? And why should I? You wouldn’t understand. The words, “My mother died,” are not likely to affect a stranger as much as the deceased’s son. To you, indeed to anybody, my tale of love would seem commonplace. But the way it has affected me, how can anyone understand it! Only I have experienced this love and only I have borne its brunt.’
He fell silent. His throat had become dry; this was obvious from his repeated attempts to swallow.
‘Did she deceive you?’ I asked him. ‘Or was there something else?’
‘Deceive? She could never deceive. For God’s sake don’t use that word. She wasn’t a woman, she was an angel. But woe to Death that couldn’t bear to see us happy and gathered her up in its wings and took her away forever…Ah! You’ve opened my wounds. So now listen. I’ll tell you part of that distressing tale. She came from a distinguished, wealthy family. When we first met, I’d already squandered away the whole of my ancestral property on a life of debauchery. Nothing remained. I left my home and went to Lucknow. Since I used to own a car, driving was the one skill I had. So I decided to become a chauffeur. My first job was at the residence of Deputy Sahib and she was his only daughter.’
He drifted off into his own thoughts and stopped talking. I remained silent. After some time he snapped out of his reverie and said, ‘What was I saying?’
‘That you worked for a Deputy Sahib.’
‘Yes. She was the Deputy Sahib’s only daughter. Every morning at nine I’d drive her, Zohra, to school. She observed purdah, but how long can one remain hidden from one’s chauffeur! I was able to see her face on the very second day. She wasn’t just beautiful; she had something quite special about her. She was a serious, poised young woman. The straight parting in her hair gave her an unusual aura of dignity. She…she…How do I explain to you what she was really like. I don’t have words to describe her inner and outer beauty.’
He kept reciting his Zohra’s accomplishments for a long time, making several attempts along the way to describe her in words, but failing repeatedly. It seemed that too many thoughts had crowded into his head. Now and then his face would light up in the middle of a sentence, only to be quickly clouded over by a gloom that left him talking in sighs. He told his story extremely slowly, as if relishing it himself. His story, which he recounted one piece at a time, went something like this:
He fell madly in love with Zohra. He spent the first few days looking for opportunities to steal a glance at her and working out all kinds of plans. But when he thought about it seriously, he recognized that he and Zohra were just too far apart. How could a chauffeur even think of falling in love with the daughter of his employer? That bitter realization clouded his days with unrelenting sadness. One day, though, he dared to scribble a few lines to Zohra.
Zohra! I know I’m your servant. Your father pays me a salary of thirty rupees a month. But…I’m in love with you. What shall I do? I’m so confused.
He stuck the scrap of paper inside one of her books. The next morning when he drove her to school his hands shook, and many times he very nearly lost control of the steering. But, thank God, no accident occurred. He spent the whole day in a strange state of mind. In the evening, when he was driving her back from school, she asked him to pull over. When he did so, she spoke in an extremely serious tone. ‘Look, Naim, don’t repeat this ever again. I haven’t told my father about the letter you slipped inside my book. But if you ever do this sort of thing again, I’ll be forced to report the matter to him. Understand? Okay, now drive on.’
After that, he tried to quit working for Deputy Sahib and to extinguish his love for Zohra, but he didn’t succeed. This tug of war went on for a month. One day he gathered his courage and wrote her another letter. He slipped it into her book and waited for the decree of his fate. He was sure that he’d be dismissed from his job the very next morning, but that didn’t happen. On their way back from school that evening, Zohra once again spoke to him and admonished him. ‘If you don’t care about your own honour, at least care about mine.’ She said all this with such gravity and firmness that Naim’s hopes were completely dashed. Immediately he resolved to quit his job and leave Lucknow for good. At the end of the month he wrote one final letter to Zohra by the dim light of his lantern. Filled with pain and anguish he told her:
Zohra! I’ve tried my best to act on your advice. Believe me, I have. But I cannot control my heart. This is the last time I shall ever write to you. I’ll leave Lucknow by tomorrow evening so you need not say anything to your father. Your silence will decide my fate. I’ll live far away from you…but don’t think that I’ll ever stop loving you. My heart will always be at your feet no matter where I live. I will always remember the days when I drove the car carefully and slowly in order to spare you any jolts. What else could I have done for you anyway?
This letter, too, he slipped into her book as soon as an opportunity presented itself. As they drove to her school in the morning, Zohra didn’t say a word to him. Nor did she speak to him on their way back in the evening. He went to his room utterly dejected, packed the few belongings he had and put the bundle away in a corner. Then he sat down on his cot and, in the pale light of the lantern, thought a
bout the precipitous gulf that separated him from Zohra.
He was very despondent, well aware of his own insignificance. After all, he was just a lowly servant! What right did he have to fall in love with his employer’s daughter? But the thought occurred to him from time to time that it wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen in love with her. And besides, his love was not a deception. Around midnight, as he was mulling over these thoughts, he heard a knock on the door. His heart jumped to his throat, but then he thought it must be the gardener. It was possible someone had fallen sick at his home and he’d come for help. But when he opened the door, Zohra was standing across from him – yes, Zohra – in the December chill, without even her shawl.
He was tongue-tied. He didn’t know what to say. There was a deathly silence for a few moments and then, finally, her lips moved and she said in a trembling voice, ‘Well, Naim, I’m here. Tell me what you’d like me to do. But before you tell me, I have a few questions of my own.’
Naim was silent.
Zohra asked, ‘Do you really love me?’
Naim was hurt. His face flushed. ‘Zohra,’ he said, ‘you’re asking a question which would debase my love if I attempted to answer it. Instead, let me ask you: Don’t I?’
Zohra didn’t respond. After a brief silence she said, ‘My father has a lot of money, but I don’t have a single paisa to my name. Whatever is said to be mine is, in reality, not mine but his. Without wealth would you still love me as dearly?’
Being an overly sensitive man, Naim felt as if the question was an affront to his dignity. In a voice weighed down by sorrow, he said, ‘For God’s sake, Zohra, please don’t ask questions whose answers are so commonplace that you can even find them in third-rate romance novels.’
Zohra stepped into the room and sat down on the cot. ‘I’m yours,’ she said, ‘and always will be.’
She kept her word. After she and Naim moved to Delhi, married and set themselves up in a small house, the Dipty Sahib came looking for them. As Naim had already found work, he wasn’t home. The Dipty Sahib scolded Zohra, accusing her of sacrificing her honour. He wanted her to leave Naim and put all that had happened behind her. He was even willing to pay Naim as much as two or three thousand rupees. But Zohra wasn’t ready to leave her husband, no matter what. She said to her father, ‘Daddy! I’m truly happy with Naim. You could never have found a better husband for me. We don’t ask you for anything. But if you can, give us your blessing; we’ll be grateful for that.’
The Dipty Sahib became very angry when he heard these words. He threatened to have Naim arrested. Zohra, however, asked him matter-of-factly, ‘But Daddy! What is Naim’s crime? The truth is we’re both innocent. We love each other and he’s my husband. This isn’t a crime. And I’m no longer a minor.’
The Dipty Sahib was a shrewd man. He quickly realized that he wouldn’t be able to prove Naim guilty when his own daughter was a willing partner. He left Zohra forever. Later on he tried to put pressure on Naim indirectly through other people and even tried to buy him off, but failed in that as well.
Zohra and Naim were living happily, even though Naim’s salary was dreadfully small and Zohra, who’d been brought up in great comfort and luxury, now had to be content with wearing homely clothes and doing all the household chores on her own. But she was happy and found herself in a new world where she continually discovered fresh dimensions of Naim’s love. She was pleased, very pleased, and so was Naim. But one day, as God had willed it, Zohra felt a severe pain in her chest and before Naim could do anything about it, she passed away, leaving his world dark forever.
* * *
—
It took him four hours to recount this story. He had spoken haltingly, as if relishing every word he uttered. By the time he finished, his face no longer looked pale. It was flushed, as though blood had been injected into him slowly, but his eyes had tears in them and his throat was dry.
His tale told, he got up quickly, as if in a terrible hurry, and said, ‘I made a big mistake. I shouldn’t have told you the story of my love. I made a terrible mistake. All this about Zohra should have remained sealed inside my heart, but…’ His voice became hoarse. ‘I’m alive and she…she…’ He couldn’t say anything more. He shook my hand quickly and left the room.
I never saw him again. Many times I went to Apollo Bunder with the express purpose of looking for him, but I never found him there. I did receive a letter from him six or seven months later in which he wrote:
Sir!
You will recall that I told you the story of my love at your place. It was only a story, an untrue story, for there’s no Zohra, nor is there a Naim. Although I do exist, I’m not the same Naim who was in love with Zohra. One day you said there were people who were truly barren of love. I am one of them, someone who has spent his entire life merely deluding his heart. Naim’s love for Zohra was a distraction and Zohra’s death – I still don’t understand why I killed her – it’s quite possible that that too had something to do with my inner darkness.
I don’t know if you believed my story to be true, but let me tell you something very strange. I, the creator of that story, believed it to be true, to be based completely on reality. I believed that I had really loved Zohra and she had really died. It might surprise you even more to hear that the story became increasingly real to me as time passed. I could clearly hear Zohra’s voice, even her laughter, ring in my ears, and I could feel her warm breath on my body. Every little detail of the story came to life and so, in a manner of speaking, I dug my grave with my own hands.
Even if Zohra isn’t fiction. I am. She’s dead, so I must die too. This letter will reach you after my death. Farewell. I will find Zohra, I’m sure. But where? Of that I’m not so sure.
The only reason I’ve scribbled these lines to you is that you’re a writer. If you can turn all of this into a story you may be able to sell it for seven or eight rupees, since you once said you can make that much from a story. That will be my gift to you. Goodbye.
Your acquaintance,
Naim
Naim created Zohra for himself and died. I created a story for myself and lived. It’s not fair.
Translated by Muhammad Umar Memon and Moazzam Sheikh
Licence
ABU THE COACHMAN was very stylish and his coach was number one in the city. He only took regulars. He earned ten to fifteen rupees daily from them, and it was enough for him. Unlike the other coachmen, he didn’t have a taste for alcohol but he had a weakness for style and fashion.
Whenever his coach passed by, its bells jingling, all eyes turned to him. ‘There goes that stylish Abu. Just look at the way he’s sitting. And that turban, tipped to the side like that!’
When Abu heard these words and observed the admiration in people’s eyes, he’d cock his head and his horse Chinni’s stride would quicken. Abu held the reins as though it were hardly necessary to hold them at all, as if Chinni didn’t need his master’s instructions, and would keep his stride without them. At times, it seemed as though Abu and Chinni were one, or rather that the entire coach was a single life force, and who was that force, if not Abu?
The passengers Abu didn’t accept cursed him roundly. Some wished him ill, ‘May the Lord break his arrogance and his coach and horse land in some river.’
In the shadows cast by Abu’s thin moustache, a smile of supreme self-confidence danced. It made the other coachmen burn with envy. The sight of Abu inspired them to beg, borrow and steal so that they, too, could have coaches decorated with brass fittings. But they could not replicate his distinct style and elegance. Nor could they find such devoted clients.
One afternoon, Abu was lying in his coach under the shade of a tree dozing off, when a voice rang in his ears. Abu opened his eyes and saw a woman standing below. Abu must have looked at her only once, but her extreme youth instantly pierced his heart. She wasn’t a woman, she was a girl – sixteen
or seventeen; slim, but sturdy; her skin dark, but radiant. She wore silver hoops in her ears. Her hair was parted in the middle and she had a pointed nose on whose summit there was a small, bright beauty spot. She wore a long kurta, a blue skirt and a light shawl over her head.
The girl said in a childish voice, ‘How much do you charge for the teshan?’
Mischief played on Abu’s smiling lips. ‘Nothing.’
The girl’s dark face reddened. ‘What will you charge for the teshan?’ she repeated.
Abu let his eyes linger on her and replied, ‘What can I take from you, fortunate one? Go on, get in the back.’
The girl covered her firm, already well-concealed breasts, with her trembling hands. ‘What things you say!’
Abu smiled. ‘Go on, get in then. I’ll take whatever you give me.’
The girl thought for a moment, then stepped onto the footboard and climbed in. ‘Quickly. Come on then. Take me to the teshan.’
Abu turned around. ‘In a big hurry, gorgeous?’
‘You…you…’ The girl was about to say more, but stopped mid-sentence.
The carriage began to move, and kept moving; many streets passed below the horse’s hooves. The girl sat nervously in the back. A mischievous smile danced on Abu’s lips. When a considerable amount of time had passed, the girl asked in a frightened voice, ‘The teshan hasn’t come yet?’
Abu replied meaningfully, ‘It’ll come. My teshan and yours are the same.’
‘What do you mean?’
Abu turned to look at her and said, ‘You’re not such an innocent, surely? My teshan and yours really are the same. They became one the moment Abu first set eyes on you. I swear on your life, I’m your slave; I wouldn’t lie.’
The Dog of Tithwal Page 9
