‘Take a drink,’ I suggested.
‘No, I want a joint.’
I sent for one. It was easy to get. She began to drag on it like experienced hash smokers. Her eyes had somehow lost their overpowering presence. Her face looked like a ravaged city. Every line, every feature suggested devastation. But what was this devastation? Had she been ravaged before even becoming whole? Had her world been destroyed long before the foundations could be raised?
Whether she was a virgin or not, I didn’t care. But I wanted to talk to her, and she did not seem interested. I wanted her to fight with me, but she was simply indifferent.
In the end, I took her home.
When Dhondoo came to learn of my secret foray, he was upset. His feelings, both as a friend and as a man of business, had been hurt. He never gave me an opportunity to explain. All he said was, ‘Manto sahib, this I did not expect of you.’ And he walked away.
I didn’t see him the next day. I thought he was ill, but he did not appear the day after either. One week passed. Twice a day I used to go to work past Dhondoo’s headquarters and whenever I saw the lamppost I thought of him.
I even went looking for Siraj one day, only to be greeted by the old woman there. When I asked her about Siraj, she smiled the million-year-old smile of the procuress and said, ‘That one’s gone, but I can always get you another.’
The question was: Where was she? Had she run away with Dhondoo? But that was quite impossible. They were not in love and Dhondoo was not that sort of person. He had a wife and children whom he loved. But the question was: Where had they disappeared to?
I thought that maybe Dhondoo had finally decided that Siraj should go home, a decision he had always been ambivalent about. One month passed.
Then one evening, as I was passing by the Iranian teahouse, I saw him leaning against his lamppost. When he saw me, he smiled. We went into the teahouse. I did not ask him anything. He sent for his special tea, mixed with coffee, and ordered plain tea for me. He turned around in his chair and it seemed as if he was going to make some dramatic disclosure, but all he said was, ‘And how are things, Manto sahib?’
‘Life goes on, Dhondoo,’ I replied.
‘You are right, life goes on,’ he smiled. ‘It’s a strange world, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again.’
We kept drinking tea. Dhondoo poured his into the saucer, took a sip and said, ‘Manto sahib, she told me the whole story. She said to me that that friend of yours, meaning you, was crazy.’
I laughed. ‘Why.?’
‘She told me that you took her to a hotel, gave her a lot of money and didn’t do what she thought you would do.’
‘That was the way it was, Dhondoo,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘I know. I’m sorry if I showed annoyance that day. In any case, that whole business is now over.’
‘What business?’
‘That Siraj business, what else?’
‘What happened?’
‘You remember the day you took her out? Well, she came to me later and said that she had forty rupees on her and would I take her to Lahore. I said to her, “Sali, what has come over you?” She said, “Come on Dhondoo, for my sake, take me.” And Manto sahib, you know I could never say no to her. I liked her. So I said, “OK, if that’s what you want.”
‘We bought train tickets and arrived in Lahore. She knew what hotel we were going to stay in.
‘The next day she says to me, “Dhondoo, get me a burqa.” I went out and got her one. And then our rounds began. She would leave in the morning and spend the entire day on the streets of Lahore in a tonga, with me keeping company. She wouldn’t tell me what she was looking for.
‘I said to myself, “Dhondoo, have you gone bananas? Why did you have to come with this crazy girl all the way from Bombay?”
‘Then, Manto sahib, one day, she asked me to stop the tonga in the middle of the street. “Do you see that man there? Can you bring him to me? I am going to the hotel. Now.”
‘I was confused but I stepped down from the tonga and began to follow the man she had pointed out. Well, by the grace of God, I am a good judge of men. I began to talk to him and it did not take me long to find out that he was game for a good time.
‘I said to him, “I have a very special brand of goods from Bombay.” He wanted me to take him with me right away, but I said, “Not that fast, friend, show me the colour of your money.” He brandished a thick wad of bank notes in my face. What I couldn’t understand was why, of all the men in Lahore, Siraj had picked this one out. In any case, I said to myself, “Dhondoo, everything goes.” We took a tonga to the hotel.
‘I went in and told Siraj I had the man waiting outside. She said, “Bring him in but don’t go away.” When I brought him in and he saw her, he wanted to run away, but Siraj grabbed hold of him.’
‘She grabbed hold of him?’
‘That’s right. She grabbed hold of the sala and said to him, “Where are you going? Why did you make me run away from home? You knew I loved you. And remember you had said to me that you loved me too. But when I left my home and my parents and my brothers and my sisters and came with you from Amritsar to Lahore and stayed in this very hotel, you abandoned me the same night. You left while I was asleep. Why did you bring me here? Why did you make me run away from home? You know, I was prepared for everything and you let me down. But I have come back and found you. I still love you. Nothing has changed.”
‘And Manto sahib, she threw her arms around him. That sala began to cry. He was asking her to forgive him. He was saying he had done her wrong. He had got cold feet. He was saying he would never leave her again. He kept repeating he would never leave her again. God knows what rot he was talking.
‘Then Siraj asked me to leave the room. I lay on a bare cot outside and went to sleep at some point. When she woke me up, it was morning. “Dhondoo,” she said, “let’s go.” “Where?” I asked. She said, “Let’s go back to Bombay.” I said, “Where is that sala?” “He is sleeping, I have covered his face with my burqa,” she replied.’
Dhondoo ordered himself another cup of tea mixed with coffee. I looked up and saw Siraj enter the hotel. Her oval face was glowing, but her two big eyes looked like fallen train signals.
Translated by Khalid Hasan
The Wild Cactus
THE NAME of the town is unimportant. Let us say it was in the suburbs of the city of Peshawar, not far from the frontier, where that woman lived in a small mud house, half hidden from the dusty, unmetalled, forlorn road by a hedge of wild cactus.
The cactus was quite dry but it had grown with such profusion that it had become like a curtain shielding the house from the gaze of passersby. It is not clear if it had always been there or whether it was the woman who had planted it.
The house was more like a hut with three small rooms, all kept very spick and span. There wasn’t much in it by way of furniture, but what there was was nice. In the backroom was a big bed, and beside it an alcove where an earthen lamp burned all night. It was all very orderly.
Let me now tell you about the woman who lived there with her young daughter.
There were various stories. Some people said the young girl was not really her daughter, but an orphan whom she had taken in and raised. Others said she was her illegitimate child, while there were some who believed her to be her real daughter. One does not know the truth.
I forgot to tell you the woman’s name, not that it matters. It could be Sakina, Mehtab, Gulshan or something else, but let’s call her Sardar for the sake of convenience.
She was in her middle years and must have been beautiful in her time. Her face had now begun to wrinkle, though she still looked years younger than she was.
Her daughter – if she was her daughter – was extremely beautiful. There was nothing about her to suggest that she was a woman of pleasure, which is what she
was. Business was brisk. The girl, whom I will call Nawab, was not unhappy with her life. She had grown up in an atmosphere where no concept of marital relations existed.
When Sardar had brought Nawab her first man in the big bed in the backroom, it had seemed to her quite a natural thing to have happened to a girl who had just crossed the threshold of puberty. Since then it had become the pattern of her life and she was happy with it.
And although, according to popular definition, she was a prostitute, she had no knowledge or consciousness of sin. It simply did not exist in her world.
There was a physical sincerity about her. She used to give herself completely, without reservations, to the men who were brought to her. She had come to believe that it was a woman’s duty to make love to men, tenderly and without inhibitions.
She knew almost nothing about life as it was lived in the big cities, but through her men she had come to learn something of their city habits, like the brushing of teeth in the morning, drinking a cup of tea in bed and taking a quick bath before dressing up and driving off.
Not all men were alike. Some only wanted to smoke a cigarette in the morning, while others wanted nothing but a hot cup of tea. Some were bad sleepers; others slept soundly and left at the crack of dawn.
Sardar was a woman without a worry in the world. She had faith in the ability of her daughter – or whoever she was – to look after the clients. She generally used to go to bed early herself happily drugged on opium. It was only in emergencies that she was woken up. Often customers had to be revived after they had had too much to drink. Sardar would say philosophically, ‘Give him some pickled mango or make him drink a glass of salt water so that he can vomit. Then send him to sleep.’
Sardar was a careful woman. Customers were required to pay in advance. After collecting the money she would say, ‘Now you two go and have a good time.’
While the money always stayed in Sardar’s custody, presents, when received, were Nawab’s. Many of the clients were rich and gifts of cloth, fruit and sweets were frequent.
Nawab was a happy girl. In the little three-bed mud house, life was smooth and predictable. Not long ago, an army officer had brought her a gramophone and some records which she used to play when alone. She even used to try to sing along, but she had no talent for music, not that she was aware of it. The fact was that she was aware of very little, and not interested in knowing more. She might have been ignorant, but she was happy.
What the world beyond the cactus hedge was like, she had no idea. All she knew was the rough, dusty road and the men who drove up in cars, honked once or twice to announce their arrival and when told by Sardar to park at a more discreet distance, did so, then walked into the house to join Nawab in the big bed.
The regulars numbered not more than five or six, but Sardar had arranged things with such tact that never had two visitors been known to run into each other. Since every customer had his fixed day, no problems were ever encountered.
Sardar was also careful to ensure that Nawab did not become pregnant. It was an ever-present possibility. However, two and a half years had passed without any mishap. The police were unaware of Sardar’s establishment and the men were discreet.
One day, a big Dodge drove up to the house. The driver honked once and Sardar stepped out. It was no one she knew, nor did the stranger say who he was. He parked the car and walked in as if he was one of the old regulars.
Sardar was a bit confused, but Nawab greeted the stranger with a smile and took him into the backroom. When Sardar followed them in, they were sitting on the bed, next to each other, talking. One look was enough to assure her that the visitor was rich and, apart from that, handsome. ‘Who showed you the way?’ she asked, nevertheless.
The stranger smiled, then put his arm amorously around Nawab and said, ‘This one here.’ Nawab sprung up flirtatiously and said, ‘Why, I never saw you in my life!’ ‘But I have,’ the stranger answered, grinning.
Surprised, Nawab asked, ‘When and where?’ The stranger took her hand in his and said, ‘You won’t understand; ask your mother.’ ‘Have I met this man before?’ Nawab asked Sardar like a child. By now Sardar had come to the conclusion that the tip had come from one of her regulars. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you later,’ she said to Nawab.
Then she left the room, took some opium and lay on her bed, satisfied. The stranger did not look the kind to make trouble.
His name was Haibat Khan, the biggest landlord in the neighbouring district of Hazara. ‘l want no men visiting Nawab in future,’ he said to Sardar on his way to his car after a few hours. ‘How’s that possible, Khan sahib? Can you afford to pay for all of them?’ Sardar asked, being the woman of the world she was.
Haibat Khan did not answer her. Instead, he pulled out a lot of money from his pocket and threw it on the floor. He also removed a diamond ring from his finger and slipped it on Nawab. Then he walked out hurriedly, past the cactus hedge.
Nawab did not even look at the money, but she kept gazing at the ring with the big resplendent diamond. She heard the car start and move away, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.
When she returned, Sardar had picked up the money and counted it. There were nineteen hundred rupees in bank notes. One more, and it would have been two thousand, she thought, but it didn’t worry her. She put the money away, took some opium and went to bed.
Nawab was thrilled. She just couldn’t take her eyes off the diamond ring. A few days passed. In between, an old client came to the house, but Sardar sent him packing, saying she anticipated a police raid and had therefore decided to discontinue business.
Sardar’s logic was simple. She knew Haibat Khan was rich and money would keep coming in, as before, with the added advantage that there would be only one man to deal with. In the next few days she was able to get rid of all her old clients, one by one.
A week later, Haibat Khan made his second appearance, but he did not speak to Sardar. The two of them went to the backroom, leaving Sardar with her opium and her bed.
Haibat Khan was now a regular visitor. He was totally enamoured of Nawab. He liked her artless approach to lovemaking, untinged by the hard-baked professionalism common to prostitutes. Nor was there anything housewifely about her. She would lie in bed next to him as a child lies next to its mother, playing with her breasts, sticking his little finger in her nose and then quietly going off to sleep.
It was something entirely new to Haibat Khan. Nawab was different, she was interesting and she gave pleasure. His visits became more frequent.
Sardar was happy. She had never had so much money coming in with such regularity. Nawab, however, sometimes felt troubled. Haibat Khan always seemed to be vaguely apprehensive of something. It showed in little things. A slight shiver always seemed to run through his body when a car or bus went speeding past the house. He would jump out of bed and run out, trying to read the number plate.
One night, a passing bus startled Haibat Khan so much that he suddenly wrested himself free from her arms and sat up. Nawab was a light sleeper and woke up too. He looked terrified. She was frightened. ‘What happened?’ she screamed.
By now, Haibat Khan had composed himself. ‘It was nothing. I think I had a nightmare,’ he said. The bus had gone, though it could still be heard in the distance.
Nawab said, ‘No, Khan, there is something. Whenever you hear a noise, you get into a state.’
Haibat Khan’s vanity was stung. ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ he said sharply. ‘Why should anyone be afraid of cars and buses?’
Nawab began to cry, but Haibat Khan took her in his arms and she stopped sobbing.
He was a handsome man, strong of limb and a passionate lover, who ignited the fires in Nawab’s young body every time he touched her. It was really he who had initiated her into the intricacies of love-making. For the first time in her life, she was experiencing the state called love. She used to pi
ne for him when he was gone and would play her records endlessly.
Many months went by, deepening Nawab’s love for Haibat Khan, and also her anxiety. His visits had of late become somewhat erratic. He would come for a few hours, look extremely ill at ease and leave suddenly. It was clear he was under some pressure. He never seemed willing or happy to leave, but he always left.
Nawab tried to get to the truth many times, only to be given evasive answers.
One morning his Dodge drove up to the house, stopping at the usual place. Nawab was asleep but she woke up when she heard him honk the horn. She rushed out and ran into Haibat Khan at the door. He embraced her passionately, picked her up and carried her inside.
They kept talking to each other for a long time about things lovers talk about. For the first time in her life, Nawab said to him, ‘Khan, bring me some gold bangles.’
Haibat Khan kissed her fleshy arms many times and said, ‘You will have them tomorrow. For you I can even give my life.’
Nawab squirmed coquettishly. ‘Oh no Khan, it is poor me who’ll have to give her life.’
Haibat Khan kissed her and said, ‘I’ll return tomorrow with your gold bangles and I’ll put them on you myself.’
Nawab was ecstatic. She wanted to dance with joy. Sardar watched her contentedly, then reached for her opium and went to bed.
Nawab rose the next morning, still in a state of high excitement. This is the day he will bring me my gold bangles, she said to herself, but she felt uneasy. That night she couldn’t sleep.
She said to her mother, ‘The Khan hasn’t come. He promised and he hasn’t come.’ Her heart was full of foreboding.
Had he had an accident? Had he been suddenly taken ill? Had he been waylaid? She heard cars passing and thought of Haibat Khan and how these noises used to terrify him.
The Dog of Tithwal Page 17
