She wanted to go home, take a long, cool drink, lie on her bed and go to sleep. She began to walk back.
However, once she was outside her kholi, the pain and humiliation came back. She just couldn’t forget what had happened. She had been called out to the street and a man had slapped her across the face. She had been looked at as if she were a sheep in a farmers’ market. A torch had been shone on her face to see if she had any flesh on her or whether she was just skin and bones. And then she had been rejected.
If that man came back, she would stand in front of him, tear up her clothes and shout, ‘This is what you came to buy! Well, here it is. You can have it free, but you’ll never be able to reach the woman who is inside this body!’
The key was where she always kept it, inside her bra, but the lock on the door had been released. She pushed gently and it creaked on its hinges. Then it was unlatched from the inside and she went in.
She heard Madhu laugh through his thick moustache as he carefully closed the door. ‘At last you have done what I’ve always suggested,’ he said. ‘Taken an early morning walk. There is nothing like that for good health. If you do it regularly, all your lassitude will disappear, also that back pain you are always going on about. Did you walk as far as the Victoria Gardens?’
Saugandhi said nothing, nor did Madhu appear to expect an answer. His remarks were generally supposed to be heard, not answered.
Madhu sat in the cane chair, which bore much oily evidence of earlier contact with his greasy hair. He swung one leg on top of the other and began to play with his moustache.
Saugandhi sat on the bed. ‘I was waiting for you today,’ she said.
‘Waiting?’ he asked, a bit puzzled. ‘How did you know I was coming today?’
Saugandhi smiled. ‘Because last night I dreamt about you and that woke me up but you weren’t there so I went for a walk.’
‘And there I was when you came back,’ Madhu said happily. ‘Haven’t the wise said that lovers’ hearts beat together? When did you dream about me?’
‘A few hours ago,’ Saugandhi answered.
‘Ah!’ said Madhu. ‘And I dreamt about you not too many hours earlier. You were wearing your flower-print sari. Yes, the same one you have on now. And there was something in your hands. Yes, a little bag full of money. And you said to me, “Madhu, why do you worry so much about money? Take it. What is mine is yours.” And I swear on your head, Saugandhi, the next thing I knew I was out of Poona and on my way to Bombay. There is bad news though. I am in trouble. There was this police investigation I botched up and, unless I can get twenty or thirty rupees together and bribe my inspector, I can say goodbye to my job. But never mind that. You look tired. Lie down, darling, and I’ll press your feet. If you are not used to taking walks, you get tired. Now lie down and turn your feet towards me.’
Saugandhi lay down, cradling her head in her arms. Then in a voice which wasn’t really hers, she asked, ‘Madhu, who’s this person who has put you in trouble? If you are afraid of losing your job and going to jail, just let me know. In such situations, the higher the bribe, the better off you are. Since you gave me the bad news about your job, my heart has been jumping up and down. By the way, when are you going back?’
Madhu could smell liquor in Saugandhi’s breath and thought this was a good time to make his pitch. ‘I must take the afternoon train. By this evening, I should slip around a hundred rupees in my inspector’s pocket; on second thoughts, perhaps fifty will do.’
‘Fifty,’ Saugandhi said. Then she rose from the bed and stood facing the four pictures on the wall. The third was Madhu’s. He was sitting in a chair, his hands on his thighs and a black curtain with painted flowers forming the background. There was a rose in his lapel and two thick books lay on a small table next to his chair. He sat there, looking very conscious of being photographed. He was staring at the camera with a pained expression.
Saugandhi began to laugh. ‘Is it the picture you find so amusing?’ he asked.
Saugandhi touched the first, the sanitary inspector’s. ‘Look at that face. Once he told me that a rani had fallen in love with him. With him!’ She pulled down the frame from the wall with such violence that some of the plaster came off; then she smashed it to the floor. ‘When my sweeperess Rani comes in the morning, she will take away this raja with the rest of the rubbish,’ Saugandhi said. Then she began to laugh, a light laugh like the first rain of summer. Madhu managed a smile with some difficulty and followed it with a forced guffaw.
By then Saugandhi had pulled down the second picture and thrown it out of the window. ‘What’s this sala doing here? No one with a mug like his is allowed on this wall, is he Madhu?’ she asked. Madhu laughed but the sound was unnatural.
She pulled down the fourth picture, a man in a turban, and then, as Madhu watched apprehensively, his own, throwing them out together through the window. They heard them fall on the street, the glass breaking. Madhu somehow managed to say, ‘Well done! I didn’t like that one of mine either.’
Saugandhi moved slowly towards him. ‘You didn’t like that one, yeah? Well, let me ask you, is there anything about you which you should like? This bulb of a nose of yours! This small, hairy forehead! Your swollen nostrils! Your twisted ears! And that awful breath! Your filthy, unwashed body! This oil that you coat yourself with! So you didn’t like your picture, eh?’
Madhu was flinching away from her, his back against the wall. He tried to put some authority into his voice. ‘Look, Saugandhi, it seems to me you have gone back to that dirty old profession of yours. I am telling you for the last time…’
Saugandhi mimicked him, ‘If you return to that dirty old profession of yours, that’ll be the end. And if I find out that another man has been in your bed, I’ll drag you out by your hair and throw you out on the street. As for your monthly expenses, a money order will be on its way as soon as I return to Poona. And what is the monthly rent of this kholi of yours?’
Madhu listened in total disbelief.
Saugandhi had not finished with him yet. ‘Let me tell you what it costs me every month – fifteen rupees. And you know what my own rental is? Ten rupees. Out of that two rupees and eight annas go to Ram Lal, which leaves me with seven rupees and eight annas exactly, in return for which I sleep with men. What was our relationship anyway? Nothing! Ten rupees, perhaps. Every time you came you took away what you wanted – and the money too. It used to be ten rupees; now it is fifty.’ She flicked away his cap with one finger and it fell to the floor.
‘Saugandhi!’ Madhu yelled.
She ignored him. Then she pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket, raised it to her nose, made a face and said with disgust, ‘It stinks! Look at yourself, at your filthy cap and these rags that you call clothes. They all smell! Get out!’
‘Saugandhi!’ Madhu screamed again.
But she screamed right back. ‘You creep! Why do you come here? Am I your mother, who will give you money to spend? Or are you such a ravishing man that I’d fall in love with you? You dog, you wretch, don’t you dare raise your voice at me! I am nothing to you! You miserable beggar, who do you think you are? Tell me, are you a thief or a pickpocket? What are you doing in my house at this hour anyway? Should I call the police? There may or may not be a case against you in Poona but there will be a case against you here in Bombay!’
Madhu was scared. ‘What has come over you, Saugandhi?’
‘Who are you to put such questions to me? Get out of here…this instant!’ The mangy dog, who had so far slept undisturbed, suddenly woke up and began to bark at Madhu, which made Saugandhi laugh hysterically.
Madhu bent down to pick up his cap from the floor but Saugandhi shouted, ‘Leave it there! As soon as you get to Poona, I’ll money-order it to you.’ She began to laugh again as she fell into the chair. The dog, in the meantime, had chased Madhu out of the room and down the stairs. He came back wagging his shor
t, ugly tail and flapping his ears and sat down at Saugandhi’s feet. Everything was very still and for a minute she was terrified. She also felt empty, like a train which having discharged its passengers is shunted into the yard and left there.
For a long time she sat in the chair. Then she rose, picked up her dog from the floor, put him carefully on the bed, laid herself next to him, threw an arm across his wasted body and went to sleep.
Translated by Khalid Hasan
Siraj
THERE WAS a small park facing the Nagpara police post and an Iranian teahouse next to it. Dhondoo was always to be found in this area, leaning against a lamppost, waiting for custom. He would come here around sunset and remain busy with his work until four in the morning.
Nobody knew his real name, but everyone called him Dhondoo – the one who searches and finds – which was most appropriate because his business consisted of procuring women of every type and description for his clients.
He had been in the trade for the last ten years and during this period hundreds of women had passed through his hands, women of every religion, race and temperament.
This had always been his hangout, the lamppost facing the Iranian teahouse which stood in front of the Nagpara police headquarters. The lamppost had become his trademark. Often, when I passed that way and saw the lamppost, I felt as if I was actually looking at Dhondoo, besmeared like him with betel juice and much the worse for wear.
The lamppost was tall, and so was Dhondoo. A number of power lines ran in various directions from the top of this ugly steel column into adjoining buildings, shops and even other lampposts.
The telephone department had tagged on a small terminal to the post and technicians could be seen checking it out from time to time. Sometimes I felt that Dhondoo was also a kind of terminal, attached to the lamppost to verify the sexual signals of his customers. He knew all the seths living in the area who needed their sexual wires, loose or taut, restored to perfect working condition from time to time.
He knew almost all the women in the profession. He had intimate knowledge of their bodies, since they constituted the wares he transacted, and he was familiar with their temperaments. He knew exactly which woman would please which customer. But there was one exception – Siraj. He just had not been able to get a handle on her.
Dhondoo had often said to me, ‘Manto sahib, this one is off her rocker. I just cannot make her out. Never seen a chhokri like her. She is so changeable. When you think she is happy and laughing her head off, just as suddenly she bursts into tears. She simply cannot get along with anyone. Fights with every “passenger.” I have told her a million times to sort herself out, but it has had absolutely no effect on her. Many times I have had to tell her to go back to wherever she first came from to Bombay. Have you seen her? She has practically nothing to wear and not a penny to her name, and yet she simply will not play ball with the men I bring her. What an obstinate, mixed-up piece of work!’
I had seen Siraj a few times. She was slim and rather pretty. Her eyes were like outsize windows in her oval face. You simply could not get away from them. When I saw her for the first time on Clare Road, I felt like saying to her eyes, ‘Would you please step aside for a minute so that I can see this girl?’
She was slight and yet there was so much of her. She reminded me of a glass goblet, which had been filled to the brim with strong, under-diluted spirits, and the restlessness showed. I say strong spirits because there was something sharp and tangy about her personality. And yet I felt that in this heady mixture someone had added a bit of water to soften the fire. Her femininity was strong, despite her somewhat irate manner. Her hair was thick and her nose was aquiline. Her fingers reminded me of the sharpened pencils draughtsmen use. She gave the impression of being slightly annoyed with everything, with Dhondoo and the lamppost he always stood against, with the gifts he brought her and even with her big eyes which ran away with her face.
But these are the impressions of a storyteller. Dhondoo had his own views. One day he said to me, ‘Manto sahib, guess what that sali Siraj did today? Boy, am I lucky! Had it not been for God’s mercy and the fact that the Nagpara police are always kind to me, I would have found myself in the jug. And that could have been one big, blooming disaster.’
‘What happened?’
‘The usual. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I must be off my head. It is not the first time she has got me in a spot and yet I continue to carry her along. I should just wash my hands of her. She is neither my sister nor my mother, yet I’m running around trying to get her a living. Seriously, Manto sahib, I no longer know what to do.’
We were both sitting in the Iranian teahouse, sipping tea. Dhondoo poured from his cup into the saucer and began slurping up the special mixture he always blended with coffee. ‘The fact is that I feel sorry for this sali Siraj.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows why. I wish I did.’ He finished his tea and put the cup back on the saucer, upside down. ‘Did you know she is still a virgin?’
‘No, I didn’t, Dhondoo.’
Dhondoo felt the scepticism in my voice and he didn’t like it. ‘I am not lying to you, Manto sahib. She is a hundred per cent virgin. You want to bet on that?’
‘How’s that possible?’ I asked.
‘Why not? A girl like Siraj. I tell you she could stay in this profession the rest of her life and still be a virgin. The thing is she simply does not let anyone so much as touch her. I know her whole bloody history. I know that she comes from the Punjab. She used to be on Lymington Road in the private house run by that memsahib, but was thrown out because of her endless bickering with the passengers. I am surprised she lasted three months there, but that was because Madam had about twenty girls at the time. But Manto sahib, how long can people feed you? One day Madam pushed her out of the house with nothing except the clothes she was wearing. Then she moved to that other madam on Faras Road. She did not change her ways and one day she actually bit a passenger.
‘She lasted no more than a couple of months there. I don’t know what is wrong with her. She is full of life and nobody can cool it. From Faras Road she found her way into a hotel in Khetwari and created the usual trouble. One day the manager gave her marching orders. What can I say, Manto sahib, the sali doesn’t seem to be interested in anything – clothes, food, ornaments, you name it. Doesn’t bathe for months until lice start crawling over her clothes. If someone gives her hash, she smokes a couple of joints happily. Sometimes I see her standing outside a hotel, listening to music.’
‘Why don’t you send her back? I mean it’s obvious she’s not interested in the business. I’ll pay her fare if you like,’ I suggested.
Dhondoo didn’t like it. ‘Manto sahib, it’s not a question of paying the sali’s fare. I can do that. Won’t kill me.’
‘Then why don’t you send her back?’
He lit a cigarette, which he had tucked above his ear, drew on it deeply, expelled twin jets of smoke from his nostrils and said, ‘I don’t want her to go.’
‘Do you love her?’ I asked.
‘What are you talking about, Manto sahib!’ He touched both his ears. ‘I swear by the Quran that such a vile thought has never entered my head. It is just that I like her a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s not like the others who are only interested in money – the whole damn lot of them. This one is different. When I make a deal on her behalf, she gives the impression that she’s willing. I put her in a taxi with the passenger and off they go.
‘Manto sahib, passengers come for a good time. They spend money. They want to see what they are getting and like to feel it with their hands. And that’s when the trouble starts. She doesn’t let anyone even touch her. Starts hitting them. If it’s a gentleman, he slinks away quietly. If it’s the other kind, then there’s hell to pay. I have to return the money and go down on my hands and kn
ees. I swear on the Quran. And why do I do it? Only for Siraj’s sake. Manto sahib, I swear on your head that because of this sali my business has been reduced by half.’
One day I decided to see Siraj without Dhondoo’s good offices. She lived in a no-good locality near the Byculla station, dumping ground for garbage and other refuse. The city corporation had built a large number of tin huts here for the poor. I do not want to write here about those tall buildings which stood not too far from this dump of filth because that has nothing to do with this story. This world after all is but another name for the high and the low. I knew roughly through Dhondoo where her hut was located. I went there – feeling apologetic about the good clothes I was wearing – but then this is not a story about me.
Outside her door a goat was tethered. It bleated when I approached. An old woman hobbled out, bent over her stick. I was about to leave when, through a hole in the coarse length of tattered cloth which hung over the door and served as a curtain, I saw large eyes in an oblong face.
She had recognized me. She must have been doing something, but she came out. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to meet you.’
‘Come in.’
‘No, I want you to come with me.’
The old woman said, ‘That’ll cost you ten rupees.’
I pulled out my wallet and gave her the money. ‘Come,’ I said to Siraj.
She looked at me with those big window-like eyes of hers. It once again occurred to me that she was pretty, but in a withdrawn, frozen kind of way, like a mummified but perfectly preserved queen.
I took her to a hotel. There she sat in front of me in her not-quite-clean clothes, staring at the world through eyes which were so big that her entire personality had become secondary to them.
I gave Siraj forty rupees.
She was quiet and, to make a pass at her, I had to drink something quickly. After four large whiskies, I put my hands on her like passengers are expected to, but she showed me no resistance. Then I did something quite lewd and was sure she would go up like a keg of gunpowder but, surprisingly, she did not react at all. She just looked at me with her big eyes. ‘Get me a joint,’ she said.
The Dog of Tithwal Page 16
