Another equally ridiculous-looking tonga was coming from the opposite direction. Suddenly, I heard someone shout, ‘Hey Manto, you big horsie.’ It was Chadda, my old friend, huddled in the back with a worn-out woman. My first reaction was regret. What had gone wrong with his aesthetic sense? Running around with a woman old enough to be his mother? I couldn’t guess her age, but I noticed that despite her heavy makeup, the wrinkles on her face were visible. It was so grossly painted that it hurt the eye.
I had not seen Chadda for ages. He was one of my best friends and, had he not been with the sort of woman he was with, I would have greeted him with something equally mindless. In any case, both of us got down.
He said to the woman, ‘Mummy, just a minute.’ He pumped my hand vigorously, then tried to do the same to my extremely formal wife. ‘Bhabi, you have performed the impossible, I mean, getting this bundle of lazy bones all the way from Bombay to Poona.’
‘Where are you headed for?’ I asked.
‘On important business. Now, listen, don’t waste time. You are going straight to my place.’ He began to issue instructions to the tongawala, adding, ‘Don’t charge the fare. It’ll be settled.’
Then he turned to me. ‘There is a servant around. See you later.’ Without waiting for an answer, he jumped into his tonga, where the woman whom he had called Mummy sat waiting for rum. The embarrassment I had felt earlier was gone.
His house was not far from where we had met. It looked like an old dâk bungalow. ‘This is it,’ the tongawala said. ‘I mean Chadda sarub’s house.’ I could see from my wife’s expression that she was not overly enthusiastic about the prospects. As a matter of fact, she had not been overly enthusiastic about coming to Poona. She was afraid that once there I would team up with my drinking friends and, since I was supposed to be having a change of scene, most of my time would be spent in what was to her highly objectionable company. I got down and asked my wife to follow me, which she did after some hesitation, as it was clear to her that my mind was made up.
It was the kind of house the army likes to requisition for a few weeks and then abandon. The walls were badly in need of paint and the rooms could only have belonged to a careless bachelor, an actor most likely, paid every two or three months – and that, too, in instalments.
I was conscious that this was no place for wives, but there was nothing to do but wait for Chadda, and then move to Parbhat Nagar, where this old friend of mine lived with his wife in more reasonable surroundings.
The servant in a way suited the place. When we arrived we found all the doors open and nobody in sight. When he finally materialized he took no notice of us, as if we had lived there for years. He came into the room and sailed past us without saying a word. I thought he was an out-of-work actor sharing the house with Chadda. However, when he came again and I asked him where the servant was to be found, he informed me gravely that he himself was the holder of that office.
We were both thirsty. When I asked him to get us a drink of water, he began looking for a glass. Finally, he produced a chipped glass mug from the bottom drawer of a cupboard and murmured, ‘Only last night, sahib sent for half a dozen glasses. Now what on earth could have happened to them!’
My wife said she did not want a drink after all. He put the mug back exactly where he had unearthed it – in the bottom drawer of the cupboard – as if without this elaborate ritual the entire household would come tumbling down. Then he left the room.
While my wife took one of the armchairs, I made myself comfortable on the bed, which was probably Chadda’s. We did not say anything to each other. After some time, Chadda arrived. He was alone. He seemed quite indifferent to the fact that we were his guests.
‘What’s what old boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s run up to the studio for a few minutes. With you in tow, I’m sure I can pick up an advance, because this evening…’ Then he looked at my wife. ‘Bhabi, I hope you haven’t made a mullah out of him.’ He laughed. ‘To hell with all the mullahs of the world. Come on, Manto, get moving. I am sure bhabi won’t mind.’
My wife said nothing, although it wasn’t difficult to guess what she was thinking. The studio was not far. After a noisy meeting with Mr Mehta the accountant, Chadda succeeded in making him cough up an advance of two hundred rupees. When we returned to the house, we found my wife sleeping in the armchair. We did not disturb her and moved into the next room, where I noticed everything was either broken or in an advanced state of disrepair. At least it gave the place a uniformity of sorts.
There was dust on everything, an essential touch to the bohemian character of Chadda’s lodgings. From somewhere, he found the elusive servant, handed him a hundred rupees and said, ‘Prince of Cathay, get us two bottles of third-class rum, I mean, 3-X rum and six new glasses.’
I later discovered that the servant was not only the Prince of Cathay, but the prince of practically every major country and civilization in the world. It all depended on Chadda’s mood of the moment.
The Prince of Cathay left, fondling the money he had been given. Lowering himself on the bed, which had a broken spring mattress, Chadda ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation of the rum he had ordered and said, ‘What’s what. So you did hit Poona after all.’ Then he added in a worried voice, ‘But what about bhabi? I’m sure she’s bloody upset.’
Chadda did not have a wife, but he was always worried about the wives of his friends. He used to say that he had remained single because he felt insecure when dealing with wives. ‘When it’s suggested to me that I should get married, my first reaction is always positive. Then I start thinking and in a few minutes come to the conclusion that I don’t really deserve a wife. And that’s how the project gets thrown into cold storage every time,’ was one of his favourite explanations.
The rum arrived, and with it, the glasses. Chadda had sent for six, but the Prince of Cathay had dropped three on the way. Chadda was unconcerned. ‘Praise be to the Lord that at least the bottles are unharmed,’ he observed philosophically.
Then he opened the bottle hurriedly, poured the rum into virgin glasses and toasted me: ‘To your arrival in Poona.’ We downed our drinks in long swigs. Chadda poured more, then tiptoed into the other room to see if my wife was still asleep. She was. ‘This is no good,’ he announced ‘Let me make some noise so that she wakes up…but before that let me organize some tea for her. Prince of Jamaica,’ he shouted.
The Prince of Jamaica materialized at once. ‘Go to Mummy’s place and ask her to kindly prepare some first-class tea and have it sent over. Immediately.’
Chadda drank up, then poured himself a more civilized measure and said, ‘For the time being, I am watching my drinking. The first four drinks make me very sentimental and we still have to go to Parbhat Nagar to dump bhabi.’
The tea came, set on a nice tray. Chadda lifted the lid of the teapot, smelled the brew and declared, ‘Mummy is a jewel.’ Then he sent for the Prince of Ethiopia and began screaming at him. When he was sure that the racket had awakened my wife, he picked up the tray daintily and told me to follow him. He put it down with an exaggerated flourish on a table and announced, ‘Tea is served, madam.’
My wife did not appear too amused by Chadda’s antics, but she drank two cups and said, not so ill-humouredly, ‘I suppose the two of you have already had yours.’
‘I must plead guilty to that charge, but we did it in the secure knowledge that we’d find forgiveness,’ Chadda said.
My wife smiled, encouraging Chadda to continue. ‘Actually, both of us are pigs of the purest breed who are permitted to eat every forbidden fruit on earth. It is therefore time that we took steps to move you to a holier place than this.’
My wife was not amused. She did not care for Chadda. The fact is that she did not care much for any of my friends, especially him because she thought he was always transgressing the limits of what she considered correct behaviour. I don’t think it had ever
occurred to Chadda how people reacted to him. He considered it a waste of time, like playing indoor games. He beamed at my wife and shouted, ‘Prince of Kababistan, get us a Rolls-Royce tonga.’
The Rolls-Royce tonga came and we left for Parbhat Nagar. My friend Harish Kumar was not at home, but his wife was, which we found helpful. Chadda said, ‘As melons influence melons, in the same way, wives influence wives. We are off to the studio now, but we will soon return to verify the results.’
Chadda’s strategy was always simple. Create so much confusion that enemy forces get no opportunity to plan theirs. He pushed me towards the door, giving my wife no time to object. ‘Operation successfully accomplished. What now? Yes, Mummy great Mummy,’ Chadda declared.
I wanted to ask him who this Mummy of his was, daughter of what Tutankhamun, but he began to speak about totally unconnected matters, leaving my question to wither on the vine.
The tonga took us back to the house which was called Saeeda Cottage. Chadda had christened it Kabida Cottage, the abode of the melancholy, as it was his theory that all its residents were in a state of advanced melancholia. Like many of his other theories, this one too was not quite consistent with the facts.
Chadda was not the only resident of Saeeda Cottage. There were others, all actors, and all working for the same film company which paid salaries every third month – in the form of advance. Almost all the inmates of the establishment were assistant directors. There were chief assistant directors, their deputies and assistants who, in turn, had their own assistants. It seemed to me that everyone was everyone’s assistant and on the lookout for a financier to help him set up his own film company.
Because of the war, food rationing was in effect, but none of the Saeeda Cottage residents had a ration card. When they had money, they used to buy from the black market at exorbitant prices. They always went to the movies and, during the season, to the races. Some even tried their luck at the stock exchange, but no one had so far made a killing.
Since space was limited, even the garage was used for residential purposes. It was occupied by a family. The husband was not an assistant director, but the film company chauffeur, who kept odd hours. His wife, a good-looking young woman, was named Shireen. She had a little boy who had been collectively adopted by the residents of Saeeda Cottage.
The more liveable rooms in the cottage were occupied by Chadda and two of his friends, both actors, who had yet to make the big time. One was called Saeed, but his professional name was Ranjeet Kumar, a quiet, nice-looking man. Chadda often referred to him as the tortoise because he did everything very, very slowly.
I do not now remember the real name of the other actor, but everybody called him Gharib Nawaz. He came from a well-to-do family of the princely state of Hyderabad. He had come to Poona to get into the movies. He was paid two hundred and fifty rupees a month, but since being hired a year earlier had been paid only once – an advance against salary. The money had gone to rescue Chadda from the clutches of a very angry Pathan moneylender. There was hardly anyone in Saeeda Cottage who did not owe money to Gharib Nawaz.
Despite Chadda’s theory, none of them was particularly melancholy. In fact they lived fairly happily, and even when they talked of their straitened circumstances it was in an offhand, cheerful manner.
When Chadda and I returned, we ran into Gharib Nawaz outside the front gate. Chadda pulled out some money from his pocket and gave it to him – without counting – and said, ‘Four bottles of Scotch. If I’ve given you less, then I know you’ll make up for it. If I’ve given you more, I know I’ll get it back. Thank you.’
Gharib Nawaz smiled. ‘This is Mr – one two,’ he said to him, meaning me. ‘Detailed discussions are not possible at this stage because he has had a few rums. But wait until the evening when the Scotch begins to flow.’
We went inside. Chadda yawned, picked up the half-empty bottle of rum, took stock of its contents and shouted for the Prince of the Cossacks. There was no answer. ‘I think he is drunk,’ he observed, pouring himself another drink.
Chadda’s room was like an old junk shop. However, it had a window or two, through one of which I now saw Venkutrey the music director, another old friend of mine, peeping in. It was difficult to tell by looking at him what race he belonged to – whether he was Mongol, Negroid, Aryan or something completely unknown to anthropology.
While one particular feature might, for a moment, suggest certain origins, it was immediately cancelled out by another feature, pointing at entirely different possibilities. However, he was from Maharashtra. His nose, unlike that of his famous forebear, the warrior Shivaji, was flat, which he always assured people was a great help in reproducing certain notes.
‘Manto seth,’ he screamed when he saw me.
‘The hell with seths,’ Chadda said. ‘Don’t stand there. Come in.’ Venkutrey appeared, put a bottle of rum on the table and said he was at Mummy’s when he was told that one of Chadda’s friends was in town. ‘I was wondering who that could be. Didn’t know it was sala Manto the old sinner.’
Chadda slapped his head. ‘Shut your trap. You’ve produced a bottle of rum, that’s enough.’ Venkutrey picked up my empty glass and poured himself a large measure. ‘Manto, this sala Chadda was telling me this morning, “Venkutrey, I want to get drunk tonight. Get some booze.” Now I was broke and I was wondering where I was going to get the money.’
‘You are an imbecile,’ Chadda said.
‘Is that so, then where do you think I managed to get this big bucket of rum from? It wasn’t a gift from your father, I can tell you that.’ He finished his glass. ‘What did Mummy say?’ Chadda asked. ‘Was Polly there, and Thelma…and that platinum blonde?’
Chadda didn’t wait for his answer. ‘Manto, what a bundle of goods that one is! I had always heard of platinum blondes, but by God I had never set eyes on one, that is, until yesterday. She’s lovely. Her hair is like threads of fine silver. She is great, Manto. I tell you she’s great. Mummy zindabad. Mummy zindabad.’ Then he said to Venkutrey, ‘You bloody man, say Mummy zindabad.’
Chadda grabbed my arm. ‘Manto, I think I am getting very sentimental. You know in tradition the beloved is supposed to have black hair like a rain cloud, but what we have here is an entirely different bill of fare. Her hair is like finely spun silver…or maybe not…now I don’t know what platinum looks like. I have never seen the bloody thing in my life. How can I describe the colour! Just try to imagine blue steel and silver mixed together.’
‘And a shot of 3-X rum,’ Venkutrey suggested, knocking back his.
‘Shut up,’ Chadda told him. ‘Manto, I am really going bananas over this girl. Oh, the colour of her hair. What are those things fish have on their bellies, or is it all over? The pomfret fish. What are those things called? Damn fish, I think snakes have them too, those tiny, shimmering things. Scales, that’s right, they’re called scales. In Urdu they’re called “khaprey”, which is a ridiculous name for something so beautiful. We have a word for them in Punjabi. I know it. Yes…“chanay.” What a lovely word. It sounds right. It sounds just right. That’s what her hair is like…small, brilliant, slithering snakes.’
He got up. ‘To hell with small, brilliant, slithering snakes. I’m going out of my mind. I’m getting sentimental.’
‘What was that?’ Venkutrey asked absent-mindedly.
‘Beyond your feeble powers of comprehension, my friend,’ Chadda replied.
Venkutrey mixed himself another drink. ‘Manto, this sala Chadda thinks I don’t understand English. You know I’m matriculate. My father loved me. He sent me to…’
‘Your father was mad. He made you the greatest musician in the world. He twisted your nose and made it flat so that you could sing flat notes. Manto, whenever he has had a couple of drinks, he starts talking about his father. Yes, he’s a matriculate, but should I then tear up my BA degree?’
I drank. ‘Manto,’ Cha
dda said, ‘if I fail to conquer this platinum blonde, I promise you Mr Chadda will renounce the world, go to the highest peak in the Himalayas and contemplate his navel.’
He said he was throwing a big party that night. ‘Had you not hit town, that rascal Mehta would never have given me the advance. Well, tonight is the night.’ He began to sing in his highly unmusical voice. Before Venkutrey could protest at this most foul murder of music, the door opened to reveal Gharib Nawaz and Ranjeet Kumar, each holding two bottles of Scotch. We poured them some rum.
It turned out that the name of this jewel was Phyllis. She worked in a hairdressing salon and was generally to be seen with a young fellow, who, everybody assured me, looked like a sissy. The entire male population of Saeeda Cottage was infatuated with her.
Gharib Nawaz had declared that morning that he might rush back to Hyderabad, sell some property, return with the proceeds and sweep her off her feet. Chadda’s only plus was his good looks. Venkutrey was of the view that she would fall into his lap the moment she heard him sing. Ranjeet Kumar was in favour of a more direct approach. However, in the end, it was clear that success would depend on whom Mummy favoured.
Chadda looked at his watch. ‘Let the bloody platinum blonde go to blazes. We have to be in Parbhat Nagar, because I am sure by now Mrs Manto is angry. Now, if I get a sentimental fit in her presence, you’ll have to look after me.’ He finished his drink and called for the Prince of Egypt, the land of mummies.
The prince appeared, rubbing his eyes as if he had just been disinterred from the earth after hundreds of years. Chadda sprinkled his face with some rum and told him to conjure up two royal Egyptian chariots.
The chariots came and soon we were on our way to Parbhat Nagar. My friend Harish Kumar was home and my wife seemed to be in a good mood. Chadda winked at him as we entered to indicate that something was on the cards for the evening.
The Dog of Tithwal Page 22
