Wife: ‘Very well.’
Husband: ‘Yes, Begum, you recall my mentioning that business to you the other day.’
Wife: ‘What business?’
Husband: ‘Perhaps I did not. Yesterday, by chance I happened to find myself in our middle son’s room and found him reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover. ‘
Wife: ‘You mean that scandalous book!’
Husband: ‘Yes, Begum.’
Wife: ‘What did you do?’
Husband: ‘I snatched the book from him and hid it.’
Wife: ‘You did the right thing.’
Husband: ‘I am going to consult a doctor and ask him to suggest a different diet for him.’
Wife: ‘That would be absolutely the right thing to do.’
Husband: ‘And how are you feeling?’
Wife: ‘Fine.’
Husband: ‘I was playing with the idea of…requesting you today…’
Wife: ‘Oh, you are getting too bold.’
Husband: ‘And all because of your winning ways.’
Wife: ‘But…your health?’
Husband: ‘Health?…I feel well…but unless I consult the doctor, I won’t make any move…and I should be fully satisfied about that being all right from your side.’
Wife: ‘I will have a word with Miss Saldhana today.’
Husband: ‘And I will speak to Dr Jalal.’
Wife: ‘That’s the way it should be.’
Husband: ‘If Dr Jalal permits.’
Wife: ‘And if Miss Saldhana has no objection…Do wrap your scarf around your neck carefully. It is cold outside.’
Husband: ‘Thank you.’
Dr Jalal: ‘Did you say yes?’
Miss Saldhana: ‘Yes.’
Dr Jalal: ‘So did I…but out of mischief.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘Out of mischief, I almost said no.’
Dr Jalal: ‘But then I took pity.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘So did I.’
Dr Jalal: ‘After one full year.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘Yes, after one full year.’
Dr Jalal: ‘When I said yes, his pulse quickened.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘She was the same way.’
Dr Jalal: ‘He said to me, the fear showing in his voice, “Doctor, it seems to me my heart is not going to keep up with me. Please take a cardiogram.’ ”
Miss Saldhana: ‘That is exactly what she said to me.’
Dr Jalal: ‘I gave him an injection.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘I too, except that it was simple distilled water.’
Dr Jalal: ‘Water is the best thing in the world.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘Jalal, if you were married to that woman?’
Dr Jalal: ‘And if you were married to that man?’
Miss Saldhana: ‘I would have become a nymphomaniac.’
Dr Jalal: ‘And I would have met my Maker by now.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘You don’t say.’
Dr Jalal: ‘When we examine these high society idiots, they put some funny ideas in our heads.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘Today as well?’
Dr Jalal: ‘Today of all days.’
Miss Saldhana: ‘The trouble with these people is that these funny ideas come to them after year-long intervals.’
Wife: ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover? Why is that book under your pillow?’
Husband: ‘I wanted to see for myself how obscene it is.’
Wife: ‘Let me take a peek also.’
Husband: ‘No, I will read aloud from it; you do the listening.’
Wife: ‘That would be very nice.’
Husband: ‘I have had our son’s diet changed as recommended by the doctor after I spoke to him.’
Wife: ‘I was sure you would not let this matter go unattended.’
Husband: ‘I have never put off until tomorrow what I can do today.’
Wife: ‘I know that…And what is to be done today, I am sure you will not…’
Husband: ‘You seem to be in a very pleasant mood.’
Wife: ‘All because of you.’
Husband: ‘I am obliged. And now if you permit…
‘Wife: ‘Have you brushed your teeth?’
Husband: ‘Yes, not only have I brushed my teeth, I have also gargled with Dettol.’
Wife: ‘So have I.’
Husband: ‘The two of us were made for each other.’
Wife: ‘That goes without saying.’
Husband: ‘I will now slowly read from this infamous book.’
Wife: ‘But wait, please take my pulse.’
Husband: ‘It is fast…feel mine.’
Wife: ‘Yours is racing too.’
Husband: ‘Reason?’
Wife: ‘A weak heart?’
Husband: ‘Has to be that…but Dr Jalal had said there was nothing the matter.’
Wife: ‘That was what Miss Saldhana also told me.’
Husband: ‘He examined me thoroughly before giving his permission.’
Wife: ‘I was examined thoroughly too.’
Husband: ‘Then I suppose there is no harm…’
Wife: ‘You know better…but your health…’
Husband: ‘And yours?’
Wife: ‘We should exercise the greatest care before…’
Husband: ‘Did Miss Saldhana take care of that thing?’
Wife: ‘What thing?…Oh, yes. She took care of that.’
Husband: ‘So there should be no worry on that score?’
Wife: ‘None.’
Husband: ‘Feel my pulse now.’
Wife: ‘Feels normal and mine?’
Husband: ‘Yours feels normal too.’
Wife: ‘Read something out of that scandalous volume.’
Husband: ‘Very well, but I can feel my heart racing.’
Wife: ‘So is mine.’
Husband: ‘Do we have all we need?’
Wife: ‘Yes, everything.’
Husband: ‘If you don’t mind, could you take my temperature?’
Wife: ‘There is a stopwatch around, the pulse rate should be measured.’
Husband: ‘I agree.’
Wife: ‘Where are the smelling salts?’
Husband: ‘Should be with the other things.’
Wife: ‘Yes, on the side table.’
Husband: ‘I think we should raise the thermostat as well.’
Wife: ‘I agree.’
Husband: ‘If I am overcome by weakness, don’t forget my medicine.’
Wife: ‘I will try, if…’
Husband: ‘Yes…but only if necessary.’
Wife: ‘Read out the whole page.’
Husband: ‘Get ready to listen then.’
Wife: ‘You sneezed.’
Husband: ‘I don’t know why.’
Wife: ‘Strange.’
Husband: ‘I find that strange also.’
Wife: ‘Oh, I know what happened. Instead of raising the thermostat, I lowered it by mistake.’
Husband: ‘I am glad I sneezed. That way we found out just in time.’
Wife: ‘I am sorry.’
Husband: ‘Not to worry, a dozen drops of brandy will do the trick.’
Wife: ‘Let me measure the brandy; you are prone to get the count wrong.’
Husband: ‘You are right there…why don’t you then?’
Wife: ‘Please swallow it very slowly.’
Husband: ‘Can’t do it any slower.’
Wife: ‘Do you feel restored?’
Husband: ‘I am coming round.’
Wife: ‘Take some rest.’
Husband: ‘Yes, I feel that I need to rest.’
Servant: ‘What is the matter with the mistress today? Haven’t seen her.
’
Maid: ‘Not feeling well.’
Servant: ‘The master is not feeling well either.’
Maid: ‘We knew that would happen.’
Servant: ‘Yes…but can’t understand.’
Maid: ‘What?’
Servant: ‘Nature plays tricks…both of us should be on our deathbeds, considering…’
Maid: ‘Don’t say such things…let the deathbed be theirs.’
Servant: ‘Their deathbed would be rather grand. I would want to move it to the tiny hovel they have put us in.’
Maid: ‘Where are you going?’
Servant: ‘To look for a cabinetmaker. Our bed is practically broken down.’
Maid: ‘And tell him to use more hardy wood this time.’
Translated by Khalid Hasan
Ram Khilavan
I HAD JUST KILLED a bedbug and was going through some old papers in a trunk, when I discovered Saeed bhaijan’s picture. I put the picture in an empty frame lying on the table and sat down to wait for the dhobi.
Every Sunday I would wait like this, because by the end of the week, my supply of clean clothes had run out. I can hardly call it supply; in those days of poverty, I had just about enough clothes to meet my own basic standards for five or six days. My marriage was being negotiated at the time and, for this reason, I had for the past two or three Sundays been going to Mahim.
The dhobi was an honest man. Despite my inability to pay him sometimes, he would return my clothes every Sunday by ten. I was worried that one of these days he would grow tired of my unpaid bills and sell my clothes in the flea market, leaving me with no clothes in which to negotiate my marriage. Which, needless to say, would have been very embarrassing.
The vile, unmistakable stench of dead bedbugs filled my room. I was wondering how to dispel it when the dhobi arrived. With a ‘salaam saab’, he opened his bundle and put my clean clothes on the table. As he was doing so, his gaze fell on Saeed bhaijan’s photograph. Taken aback, he looked closely at the picture and emitted a strange sound from his throat, ‘He, he, he, hein?’
‘What’s the matter, dhobi?’ I asked.
The dhobi’s gaze fastened on the picture. ‘But this, this is barrister Saeed Salim!’
‘You know him?’
The dhobi nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes, two brothers. Lived in Colaba. Saeed Salim, barrister. I used to wash his clothes.’
Saeed Hassan bhaijan and Mahmood Hassan bhaijan, before immigrating to Fiji, did in fact have a practice in Bombay for a year, but this would have been a few years ago.
I said, ‘You’re referring to a couple of years ago?’
The dhobi nodded vigorously again. ‘When Saeed Salim, barrister left, he gave me one turban, one dhoti, one kurta. New. They were very nice people. One had a beard, this big.’ He made a gesture with his hand to show the length of the beard. Then pointing to Saeed bhaijan’s picture, he said, ‘He was younger. He had three little runts…they used to like to play with me. They had a house in Colaba, a big house!’
I said, ‘Dhobi, they’re my brothers.’
The dhobi made that strange ‘he, he, he, hein?’ sound again. ‘Saeed Salim, barrister?’
To lessen his surprise, I said, ‘This is Saeed Hassan’s picture and the one with the beard is Mahmood Hassan, the eldest.’
The dhobi stared wide-eyed at me, then surveyed the squalor of my room. It was a tiny room, destitute of even an electric light. There was one table, one chair and one sack-covered cot with a thousand bedbugs. He couldn’t believe I was barrister Saeed Salim’s brother, but when I told him many stories about him, he shook his head incredulously and said, ‘Saeed Salim, barrister lived in Colaba, and you in this quarter?’
I responded philosophically, ‘The world has many colours, dhobi. Sun in places; shade in others. Five fingers are not alike.’
‘Yes, saab. That is true.’
With this, he lifted his bundle and headed to the door. I remembered his bill. I had eight annas in my pocket, which would barely get me to Mahim and back. But just so that he knew I was not entirely without principles, I said, ‘Dhobi, I hope you’re keeping accounts. God knows how many washes I owe you for.’
The dhobi straightened the folds of his dhoti and said, ‘Saab, I don’t keep accounts. I worked for Saeed Salim, barrister for one year. Whatever he gave me, I took. I don’t know how to keep accounts.’
With this he was gone, leaving me to get dressed to go to Mahim.
The talks were successful. I got married. My finances improved too. I moved from the single room in Second Pir Khan Estates where I paid nine rupees a month, to a flat on Clear Road where I could afford to pay thirty-five rupees a month. The dhobi also began to receive his payments on time.
He was pleased that my finances had improved. He said to my wife, ‘Begum saab, saab’s brother Saeed Salim, barrister was a very big man. He lived in Colaba. When he left, he gave me a turban, one kurta and one dhoti. Your saab will also be a big man one day.’
I had told my wife the story of the photograph and of the generosity the dhobi had shown me in my days of penury. When I could pay him, I had paid him, but he never complained once. But soon my wife began to complain that he never kept accounts. ‘He’s been working for me four years,’ I told her, ‘he’s never kept accounts.’
She replied, ‘Why would he keep accounts? That way he could take double and quadruple the amount of money.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You have no idea. In a bachelor’s household there are always people who know how to fleece their employer.’
Nearly every month there was a dispute between my wife and the dhobi over how he did not keep an account of the clothes washed. The poor dhobi responded with complete innocence. He said, ‘Begum saab, I don’t know accounts, but I know you wouldn’t lie. I worked for one year in the house of Saeed Salim, barrister, who is your saab’s brother. His begum saab would say, ‘Dhobi, here is your money’, and I would say, ‘All right.’
One month, a hundred and fifty pieces of clothing went to the wash. To test the dhobi, my wife said, ‘Dhobi, this month sixty items of clothing were washed.’
He said, ‘All right Begum saab, you wouldn’t lie.’ When my wife paid him for sixty clothes, he touched the money to his forehead and headed out. My wife stopped him. ‘Dhobi, wait, there weren’t sixty pieces of clothing, there were a hundred and fifty. Here’s the rest of your money. I was just joking.’
The dhobi only said, ‘Begum saab, you wouldn’t lie.’
He touched the rest of the money to his forehead, said ‘salaam’, and walked out.
Two years after I got married, I moved to Delhi. I stayed there for a year and a half before returning to Bombay, where I rented a flat in Mahim. In the span of three months, we changed dhobis four times because they were quarrelsome and crooked. After every wash, there would be a scene. Sometimes the quality of the wash was intolerably wretched; other times, too few clothes were returned. We missed our old dhobi. One day when we had gone through all our dhobis, he showed up with no warning, saying, ‘I saw saab in the bus. I said, “How’s this?” I made inquiries in Byculla and the brander told me to inquire here in Mahim. In the flat next door, I found saab’s friend and so here I am.’ We were thrilled, and at least on the laundry front, a period of joy and contentment began.
A Congress government came to power and a prohibition on alcohol was imposed. English alcohol was still available, but the making and selling of Indian alcohol was completely stopped. Ninety-nine per cent of the dhobis were alcoholics. That quart or half quart of alcohol, after a day spent among soap and water, was a ritual in their lives. Our dhobi had fallen ill, then tried treating his illness with the spurious alcohol that was being made illegally and sold in secret. It made him dangerously ill, bringing him close to death.
I was incredibly busy at the time,
leaving the house at six in the morning and returning at ten, ten thirty at night. But when my wife heard that the dhobi was seriously ill, she went directly to his house. With the help of a servant and the taxi driver, she put him in a taxi and took him to a doctor. The doctor, moved by the dhobi’s condition, refused money for his treatment. But my wife said, ‘Doctor saab, you cannot keep all the merit of this good deed for yourself.’
The doctor smiled and said, ‘Fine, let’s go halves,’ taking only half the money for the treatment.
In time, the dhobi was cured. A few injections got rid of his stomach infection and, with strong medicine, his weakness gradually went away. In a few months, he was completely well and sent up prayers for us every time he rose or sat down, ‘May God make saab like Saeed Salim barrister; may saab be able to live in Colaba; may God give him a little brood; lots and lots of money. Begum saab came to get the dhobi in a motor car; she took him to a very big doctor near the fort; may God keep Begum saab happy.’
Many years passed. The country saw many upheavals. The dhobi came and went without fail every Sunday. He was now perfectly healthy; he never forgot what we had done for him and still sent up prayers for us. He had also given up liquor. In the beginning, he missed it, but now he didn’t so much as mention it. Despite an entire day spent in water, he felt no need for liquor to relieve his fatigue.
Then troubled times came; no sooner had Partition happened than Hindu–Muslim riots broke out. In daylight, and at night, Muslims in Hindu neighbourhoods, and Hindus in Muslim neighbourhoods, were being killed. My wife left for Lahore.
When the situation worsened, I said to the dhobi, ‘Listen dhobi, you better stop your work now. This is a Muslim neighbourhood. You don’t want to end up dead.’
The dhobi smiled, ‘Saab, nobody will hurt me.’
There were many incidents of violence in our own neighbourhood, but the dhobi continued to come without fail.
One Sunday morning, I was at home reading the paper. The sports page showed the tally of cricket scores while the front page gave the numbers of Hindus and Muslims killed in the riots. I was focusing on the terrifying similarity of both scores when the dhobi arrived. I opened the copybook and checked the clothes against it. The dhobi started laughing and chatting. ‘Saeed Salim, barrister was a very nice man. When he left, he gave me one turban, one dhoti and one kurta. Your begum saab was also a first-rate person. She’s gone away, no? To her country? If you write her a letter, send my “salaam.” She came in a motor car to my room. I had such diarrhoea but the doctor gave me an injection and I got well immediately. If you write her a letter, send my “salaam”. Tell her Ram Khilavan says to write him a letter too.’
The Dog of Tithwal Page 12
