The Dog of Tithwal

by Saadat Hasan Manto

He could hardly sleep that night. It was not a small decision. However, the next day he went out to a barber in the Fort area and had him cut his hair and shave off his beard. While this operation was in progress, he kept his eyes closed. When it was finished, he looked at his new face in the mirror. It looked good. Any girl in Bombay would have found it difficult not to take a long, second look at him.

  He did not leave his flat on his first hairless day, but sent word to Mozail that he was not well and would she mind dropping in for a minute. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him. ‘My darling Tarloch,’ she cried and fell into his arms. She ran her hands over his smooth cheeks and combed his short hair with her fingers. She laughed so much that her nose began to run. She had no handkerchief and calmly she lifted her skirt and wiped it. Tarlochan blushed. ‘You should wear something underneath.’

  ‘Gives me a funny feeling. That’s how it is,’ she replied. ‘Let’s get married tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, rubbing his chin.

  They decided to get married in Poona, where Tarlochan had many friends.

  Mozail worked as a salesgirl in one of the big department stores in the Fort area. She told Tarlochan to wait for her at a taxi stand in front of the store the next day, but she never turned up. He later learnt that she had gone off with an old lover of hers who had recently bought a new car. They had moved to Deolali and were not expected to return to Bombay ‘for some time.’

  Tarlochan was shattered, but in a few weeks he had got over it.

  And it was at this point that he had met Kirpal Kaur and fallen in love with her.

  He now realized what a vulgar girl Mozail was and how totally heartless. He thanked his stars that he hadn’t married her.

  But there were days when he missed her. He remembered that once he had decided to buy her some gold earrings and had taken her to a jeweller’s, but all she wanted was some cheap baubles. That was the way she was.

  She used to lie in bed with him for hours and let him kiss and fondle her as much as he wanted, but she would never let him make love. ‘You’re a Sikh,’ she would laugh, ‘and I hate Sikhs.’

  One argument they always had was over her habit of not wearing any underclothes. Once she said to him, ‘You’re a Sikh and I know that you wear some ridiculous shorts under your trousers because that is the Sikh religious requirement, but I think it’s rubbish that religion should be kept tucked under one’s trousers.’

  Tarlochan looked at the gradually brightening sky.

  ‘The hell with her,’ he said loudly and decided not to think about her at all. He was worried about Kirpal Kaur and the danger which loomed over her.

  A number of communal incidents had already taken place in the locality. The place was full of orthodox Muslims and, curfew or no curfew, they could easily enter her house and massacre everyone.

  Since Mozail had left him, he had decided to grow his hair. His beard had flourished again, but he had come to a compromise. He would not let it grow too long. He knew a barber who could trim it so skilfully that it would not appear trimmed.

  The curfew was still in force, but you could walk about in the street, as long as you did not stray too far. He decided to do so. There was a public tap in front of the building. He sat down under it and began to wash his hair and freshen up his face.

  Suddenly he heard the sound of wooden sandals on the cobblestones. There were other Jewish women in that building, all of whom for some reason wore the same kind of sandals. He thought it was one of them.

  But it was Mozail. She was wearing her usual loose gown under which he could see her breasts dancing. It disturbed him. He coughed to attract her attention, because he had a feeling she might just pass him by. She came towards him, examined his beard and said, ‘What do we have here, a twice-born Sikh?’

  She touched his beard. ‘Still good enough to brush my navy-blue skirt with, except that I left it in that other place in Deolali.’

  Tarlochan said nothing. She pinched his arm. ‘Why don’t you say something, Sardar sahib?’

  He looked at her. She had lost weight. ‘Have you been ill?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you look run down.’

  ‘I am dieting. So you are once again a Sikh?’ She sat down next to him, squatting on the ground.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Congratulations. Are you in love with some other girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Congratulations. Does she live here, I mean, in our building?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that awful?’

  She pulled at his beard. ‘Growing this on her bidding?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I promise you that if you get this beard of yours shaved off, I’ll marry you. I swear.’

  ‘Mozail,’ he said, ‘I have decided to marry this simple girl from my village. She is a good, observing Sikh, which is why I am growing my hair again.’

  Mozail got up, swung herself in a semi-circle on her heel and said, ‘If she’s a good Sikh, why should she marry you? Doesn’t she know that you once broke all the rules and shaved your hair off?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. I started growing a beard the very day you left me as a gesture of revenge. I met her some time later, but the way I tie my turban, you can hardly tell that I don’t have a full head of hair.’ She lifted her dress to scratch her thigh. ‘Damn these mosquitoes,’ she said. Then she added, ‘When are you getting married?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The anxiety in his voice showed.

  ‘What are you thinking, Tarlochan?’ she asked. He told her. ‘You are a first-class idiot. What’s the problem? Just go and get her here where she would be safe.’

  ‘Mozail, you can’t understand these things. It’s not that simple. You don’t really give a damn and that is why we broke up. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry? Come off it, you silly idiot. What you should be thinking of now is how we can get…whatever her name is…to your flat. And here you go moaning about our affair. It could never have worked. Your problem is that you are both stupid and cautious. I like my men to be reckless. OK, forget about that, let’s go and get your whatever Kaur from wherever she is.’

  Tarlochan looked at her nervously. ‘But there’s a curfew in the area,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no curfew for Mozail. Let’s go,’ she said, almost dragging him.

  She looked at him and paused. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Your beard, but it’s not that long. However, take that turban off, then nobody will take you for a Sikh.’

  ‘I won’t go bareheaded,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t understand? It is not proper for me to go to their house without my turban.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Why don’t you understand? She has never seen me except in a turban. She thinks I am a proper Sikh. I daren’t let her think otherwise.’

  Mozail rattled her wooden sandals on the floor. ‘You are not only a first-class idiot, you are also an ass. It is a question of saving her life, whatever that Kaur of yours is called.’

  Tarlochan was not going to give up. ‘Mozail, you’ve no idea how religious she is. Once she sees me bareheaded, she’ll start hating me.’

  ‘Your love be damned. Tell me, are all Sikhs as stupid as you? On the one hand, you want to save her life and at the same time you insist on wearing your turban, and perhaps even those funny knickers you are never supposed to be without.’

  ‘I do wear my knickers – as you call them – all the time,’ he said.

  ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘But think, you’re going to go to that awful area full of those bloodthirsty Muslims and their big maulanas. If you go in a turban, I promise you they will take one look at you and run a big, sharp knife across your throat.
’

  ‘I don’t care, but I must wear my turban. I can risk my life, but not my love.’

  ‘You’re an ass,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Tell me, if you’re bombed off, what use will that Kaur be to you? I swear, you’re not only a Sikh, you are an idiot of a Sikh.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot,’ Tarlochan snapped.

  She laughed, then she put her arms around his neck and swung her body slightly. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘then it will be the way you want it. Go put on your turban. I will be waiting for you in the street.’

  ‘You should put on some clothes,’ Tarlochan said. ‘I’m fine the way I am,’ she replied. When he joined her, she was standing in the middle of the street. Her legs apart like a man, and smoking. When he came close, she blew the smoke in his face. ‘You’re the most terrible human being I’ve ever met in my life,’ Tarlochan said. ‘You know we Sikhs are not allowed to smoke.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  The bazaar was deserted. The curfew seemed to have affected even the usually brisk Bombay breeze. It was hardly noticeable. Some lights were on but their glow was sickly. Normally at this hour the trains would start running and shops begin to open. There was absolutely no sign of life anywhere.

  Mozail walked in front of him, her clogs clicking on the pavement, shattering the silence. He almost asked her to take the stupid things off and go barefoot, but he didn’t. She wouldn’t have agreed.

  Tarlochan felt scared, but Mozail was walking ahead of him nonchalantly, puffing merrily at her cigarette. They came to a square and were challenged by a policeman. ‘Where are you going?’ Tarlochan fell back, but Mozail moved towards the policeman, gave her head a playful shake and said, ‘It’s you! Don’t you know me? I’m Mozail. I’m going to my sister’s in the next street because she’s sick. That man there is a doctor.’

  While the policeman was still trying to make up his mind, she pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her bag and offered him one. ‘Have a smoke,’ she said.

  The policeman took the cigarette. Mozail helped him light it with hers. He inhaled deeply. Mozail winked at him with her left eye and at Tarlochan with her right and they moved on.

  Tarlochan was still very scared. He looked left and right as he walked behind her, expecting to be stabbed any moment. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Tarloch dear, it is not good to be afraid. If you’re afraid, then something awful always happens. That’s my experience.’

  He didn’t reply.

  They came to the street which led to the mohalla where Kirpal Kaur lived. A shop was being looted. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she told him. One of the rioters who was carrying something on his head ran into Tarlochan and the object fell to the ground. The man stared at Tarlochan and he knew he was a Sikh. He slipped his hand under his shirt to pull out his knife.

  Mozail came tripping over as if she were drunk and pushed him away. ‘Are you mad, trying to kill your own brother? This is the man I’m going to marry.’ Then she said to Tarlochan, ‘Karim, pick this thing up and help put it back on his head.’

  The man gave Mozail a lecherous look and touched her breasts with his elbow. ‘Have a good time, sali,’ he said.

  They kept walking and were soon in Kirpal Kaur’s mohalla. ‘Which street?’ she asked.

  ‘The third on the left. That building in the corner,’ he whispered.

  When they came to the building, they saw a man run out of it into another across the street. After a few minutes, three men emerged from that building, and rushed into the one where Kirpal Kaur lived. Mozail stopped. ‘Tarloch dear, take off your turban,’ she said.

  ‘That I’ll never do,’ he replied.

  ‘Just as you please, but I hope you do notice what’s going on.’

  Something terrible was going on. The three men had reemerged, carrying gunny bags with blood dripping from them. Mozail had an idea. ‘Look, I’m going to run across the street and go into that building. You should pretend that you’re trying to catch me. But don’t think. Just do it.’

  Without waiting for his response, she rushed across the street and ran into Kirpal Kaur’s building, with Tarlochan in hot pursuit. He was panting when he found her in the front courtyard.

  ‘Which floor?’ she asked. ‘Second.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ And she began to climb the stairs, her wooden sandals clattering on each step. There were large bloodstains everywhere.

  They came to the second floor, walked down a narrow corridor and Tarlochan stopped in front of a door. He knocked. Then he called in a low voice, ‘Mehnga Singhji, Mehnga Singhji.’

  A girl’s voice answered, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tarlochan.’

  The door opened slightly. Tarlochan asked Mozail to follow him in. Mozail saw a very young and very pretty girl standing behind the door trembling. She also seemed to have a cold. Mozail said to her, ‘Don’t be afraid. Tarlochan has come to take you away.’

  Tarlochan said, ‘Ask Sardar sahib to get ready, but quickly.’

  There was a shriek from the flat upstairs. ‘They must have got him,’ Kirpal Kaur said, her voice hoarse with terror.

  ‘Who?’ Tarlochan asked.

  Kirpal Kaur was about to say something, when Mozail pushed her in a corner and said, ‘Just as well they got him. Now take off your clothes.’

  Kirpal Kaur was taken aback, but Mozail gave her no time to think. In one moment, she divested her of her loose shirt. The young girl frantically put her arms in front of her breasts. She was terrified. Tarlochan turned his face. Then Mozail took off the kaftan-like gown she always wore and asked Kirpal Kaur to put it on. She was now stark naked herself.

  ‘Take her away,’ she told Tarlochan. She untied the girl’s hair so that it hung over her shoulders. ‘Go.’

  Tarlochan pushed the girl towards the door, then turned back.

  Mozail stood there, shivering slightly because of the cold. ‘Why don’t you go?’ she asked.

  ‘What about her parents?’ he said.

  ‘They can go to hell. You take her.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  They heard men running down the stairs. Soon they were banging at the door with their fists. Kirpal Kaur’s parents were moaning in the other room. ‘There’s only one thing to do now. I’m going to open the door,’ Mozail said.

  She addressed Tarlochan, ‘When I open the door, I’ll rush out and run upstairs. You follow me. These men will be so flabbergasted that they will forget everything and come after us.’

  ‘And then?’ Tarlochan asked.

  ‘Then, this one here, whatever her name is, can slip out. The way she’s dressed, she’ll be safe. They’ll take her for a Jew.’

  Mozail threw the door open and rushed out. The men had no time to react. Involuntarily, they made way for her. Tarlochan ran after her. She was storming up the stairs in her wooden sandals with Tarlochan behind her.

  She slipped and came crashing down, head first. Tarlochan stopped and turned. Blood was pouring out of her mouth and nose and ears. The men who were trying to break into the flat had also gathered round her in a circle, forgetting temporarily what they were there for. They were staring at her naked, bruised body.

  Tarlochan bent over her. ‘Mozail, Mozail.’

  She opened her eyes and smiled. Tarlochan undid his turban and covered her with it. She smiled again and winked at him. Spewing tiny red bubbles from her mouth, she said, ‘Go…see whether my underwear is still there…I mean…’

  ‘This is my lover. He’s a bloody Muslim, but he’s so crazy that I always call him a Sikh,’ she said to the men.

  More blood poured out of her mouth. ‘Damn it!’ she said.

  Then she looked at Tarlochan and pushed aside the turban with which he had tried to cover her nakedness.

  ‘Take away this rag of your religion. I don’t
need it.’

  Her arm fell limply on her bare breasts and she said no more.

  Translated by Khalid Hasan

  The Return

  THE SPECIAL TRAIN left Amritsar at two in the afternoon, arriving at Mughalpura, Lahore, eight hours later. Many had been killed on the way, a lot more injured and countless lost.

  It was at ten o’clock the next morning when Sirajuddin regained consciousness. He was lying on bare ground, surrounded by screaming men, women and children. It did not make sense.

  He lay very still, gazing at the dusty sky. He appeared not to notice the confusion or the noise. To a stranger, he might have looked like an old man in deep thought, though this was not the case. He was in shock, suspended, as it were, over a bottomless pit.

  Then his eyes moved and, suddenly, caught the sun. The shock brought him back to the world of living men and women. A succession of images raced through his mind. Attack…fire…escape…railway station…night…Sakina. He rose abruptly and began searching through the milling crowd in the refugee camp.

  He spent hours looking, all the time shouting his daughter’s name…Sakina, Sakina…but she was nowhere to be found. Total confusion prevailed, with people looking for lost sons, daughters, mothers, wives. In the end Sirajuddin gave up. He sat down, away from the crowd, and tried to think clearly. Where did he part from Sakina and her mother? Then it came to him in a flash – the dead body of his wife, her stomach ripped open. It was an image that wouldn’t go away. Sakina’s mother was dead. That much was certain. She had died in front of his eyes. He could hear her voice: ‘Leave me where I am. Take the girl away.’

  The two of them had begun to run. Sakina’s dupatta had slipped to the ground and he had stopped to pick it up and she had said, ‘Father, leave it.’

  He could feel a bulge in his pocket. It was a length of cloth. Yes, he recognized it. It was Sakina’s dupatta, but where was she?

  Other details were missing. Had he brought her as far as the railway station? Had she got into the carriage with him? When the rioters had stopped the train, had they taken her with them? All questions. There were no answers. He wished he could weep, but tears wouldn’t come. He knew then that he needed help.