Manto and Chughtai

by Muhammed Umar Memon

  CHUGHTAI

  The Essential Stories

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  1. Communal Colour

  Kafir

  Sacred Duty

  2. Sex and Sexuality

  The Quilt

  The Net

  The Mole

  3. The Zenana

  The Wedding Suit

  Gainda

  Touch-Me-Not

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  CHUGHTAI

  M. ASADUDDIN is an author, critic and award-winning translator in several languages. He has translated Ismat Chughtai’s fiction and non-fiction, and her autobiography into English. His English version of Chughtai’s works has been the basis for their translation in other South Asian languages.

  Communal Colour

  KAFIR

  ‘Eh! Your Mahadevji looks like a monster. One is sure to get a temperature if one sees him at night,’ I told Pushkar, looking at him contemptuously.

  ‘And your Mastanshahji, the giant-like pir who comes to bless you every Thursday, looks like a highwayman. The very sight of him makes me lose my tongue,’ said Pushkar.

  ‘Pushkar, you’re a kafir,’ I told him in the manner of a maulvi. ‘You’ll go to hell. Angels will pierce your body with iron rods and lash you with whips of fire. Blood and pus will be your diet.’

  ‘You dirty girl! Your talk will make me throw up. I’ll beat up your angels. If I’m a kafir then you’re a kafirni. You told Babuji the other day that you’d marry me. Then you, too, will get a sound thrashing in hell.’

  ‘Eh—I’m a Muslim, and you’re a Hindu. Dear sir, all Muslims will go to paradise. We, too, will just saunter in. You’ll be left behind, just see for yourself.’

  ‘Left behind? I’ll go to a better place than yours. You’re a Musalmanti, you’ll go to hell and burn there!’

  ‘Pig! You dare call me Musalmanti! You’re a sweeper—you . . . you . . .’

  ‘Then you’re a sweepress and a kafirni.’

  I slapped him hard. But he was not to be cowed down. He whacked me twice. I pressed my nails on his wrist so fiercely that they pierced his flesh. Chachi ran to us when she heard the thuds of shoes and slippers and separated us.

  ‘You brat, let Babuji come. He’ll thrash you soundly,’ Chachi said, aiming her fist at Pushkar. Pushkar was sitting on the parapet, making faces.

  ‘Chachi, I can’t marry this pig,’ I said, sobbing.

  ‘Who’s going to marry a blackie like you! Ma, she wants me to drink blood and pus. Barf!’ He made a face as though he would throw up.

  ‘Hai Ram, you’ve become a Mleccha. Shut up.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. She says all Hindus will go to hell, and she is the one to go to paradise!’

  ‘No, no. Chachi won’t go to hell, nor will Bhaiya nor Babuji. But this owl will certainly be flung there,’ I said with confidence.

  ‘If I have to go, then I’ll drag you there by your legs!’

  ‘That’s some cheek! I’ll bite you so fiercely that you won’t survive.’

  Chachi laughed so much that her face became red. ‘Will your bickering continue in hell? Munni, if you kill him, he won’t go to hell.’

  ‘He’ll still go to hell, you just see, Chachi. He is so mean.’

  ‘Look Ma, if she continues like this, I’ll throw stones at her.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Babuji, as he entered the house.

  ‘Hindu–Muslim riots,’ Chachi replied, laughing.

  Pushkar, coward that he was, ran away. Chachi led me away tenderly and gave me some tasty daalmut. Chachi was a Muslim, only this Pushkar was a kafir.

  Diwali came, and Pushkar’s house was lit up with diyas. I made up with him instantly.

  We made wicks for lamps and ate toy-shaped sweets throughout the day. Chachi yelled, ‘Ai Munni, you’re rubbing the cotton into knots and spoiling it!’ But I wasn’t listening.

  In the evening Pushkar dressed up for the occasion—white billowing dhoti and purple malina kurta. He parted his hair with great care and put a red teeka on his forehead. Chachi was wearing a Benarasi sari, and her anklets rang out as she wandered about holding diyas in both hands. Pushkar was guarding every object in the house. That day he had turned into a rabid Hindu and was trying to escape my touch. He was the same Pushkar who had shared my half-eaten plums so many times. Today he was holding a kachauri out to me with an outstretched hand. I was fuming inside.

  ‘Pushkar, please put the sandal paste teeka on my forehead,’ I implored him, trying to revive old feelings.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head arrogantly, ‘you are not a Hindu.’

  ‘No, Pushkar. I’m a Hindu now. Don’t tell Amma, okay?’

  He was moved and put the paste on my forehead.

  However, I took my revenge on Id. I called him a kafir and fought with him. But when my hands and feet were decorated with henna, I began to wait for him eagerly. He came, but I sat listlessly with my hands resting on my lap.

  ‘Aha, Munni’s palms have turned crimson, show me, Munni!’ I pushed away his hands. ‘Just be off. Id is ours, not yours. Do you fast all day? The Muslims fast, that is why Id comes to them.’

  ‘And do you fast?’

  ‘Sure. I did for a few hours.’

  ‘Don’t you brag. You keep on munching things throughout the day. If this is fasting, then I can also fast.’

  ‘Eh! You’re a Hindu.’ I played the trump card.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ He was angry.

  ‘I’ll wear new clothes tomorrow,’ I said with a swagger.

  ‘I’ll also wear my new jacket.’

  ‘Eh! You’re a Hindu. Why should you wear new clothes on Id? I won’t give you our sewaiyaan either.’

  ‘Then why did you cram so many sweets on our Diwali? I put sandal paste on your forehead. You also wangled some toys from Babuji. And now you’re talking like this! What a mean liar you are!’

  I quarrelled with him and compelled him to leave. But as I changed my dress, I had to go to him to show it off.

  When I went to Pushkar, dressed up in brocades like a doll, all his anger vanished. Instead, he began to flatter me. But I explained to him time and again that he was a Hindu and he had no right to be happy on our Id.

  He was filled with despair and said, ‘Well, I’ll become a Muslim. Don’t tell anyone.’

  But he turned out to be a cheat. On Holi, he again became a kafir. It was his day, and despite my coaxing and cajoling, he flatly refused to allow me to play with colours.

  ‘You’re a Musalmanti,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, let Id come. I’ll give you such a thrashing that you’ll remember it for a long time,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Then you become a Hindu,’ said Panditji, turning his head away recklessly.

  ‘Okay. Give me the mica-mixed colour powder.’

  ‘You were telling me the other day that each part of the body where the colour falls goes to hell. Now why do you ask for the colours?’

  ‘Now I’ve become a Hindu,’ I said without artifice.

  ‘Oh, what a cheat she is! She becomes a Hindu when it suits her and then turns Muslim. First you promise that you won’t be a Muslim again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you’ll marry me, won’t you?’

  I agreed to this last condition as well. However, long before Id, I became a follower of Islam during Muharram and called him Yezid. He was, after all, a kafir and hell-bound.

  The Pandits are by nature simple-minded people, especially the Kashmiri Pandits who are like angels. I used to beat up Pushkar, but he would make up with me. He was such a coward that once when he saw a goat being slaughtered, he started crying.

  ‘Why does your family kill so many goats?’ he asked, opening his eyes wide in anguish.

  ‘You fool! This is a virtuous act.’ I replied wisely.

  ‘Virtuous act! Is the killing of goats an act of vi
rtue?’

  ‘And why not? When we go to paradise, we’ll cross Pulsirat on these goats. We’ll cross the bridge between the worlds with ease, but Pushkar, you’ll be left behind.’

  ‘I’ll cross it on my bicycle!’

  I was incensed. ‘My dear sir, Pulsirat is finer than hair and sharper than a sword. You’ll tumble down to hell and we’ll go trot-trotting on our goats.’

  ‘I’ll ride on your goat, then.’

  ‘Eh! I’ll throw you off.’

  ‘I’ll push you down.’

  ‘How dare you?’ I slapped him. Before I could react, he whacked me twice and ran away.

  My heart bled at the sight of my broken bangles, and I let out such wild screams that Babuji was compelled to take me to the market that very instant and buy me new bangles.

  God knows how many Ids and Holis have gone by since then. Times changed, so did attitudes. It was as though we had perfectly understood the philosophy of religion.

  Pushkar continued to come on Holi to drench me in colours. On the occasion of Janmashtami, he gifted me a marble statue of Krishna. Below its feet there was a photograph of Pushkar in a little frame. I kept both the statue and the photograph on my table, and quite often got lost in them.

  Pushkar left for Benaras for his studies, while I went to Aligarh. Our school holidays fell at different times, so we could hardly meet, even on Id or Holi. May God shower His blessings on the month of December which always brings good tidings for everybody!

  I was lying down on the veranda and reading something when the call of ‘Musalmanti’ declared Pushkar’s arrival. I greeted him by yelling back, ‘Kafir!’ He rubbed colour on my face.

  ‘Do you want to play Holi in December?’ I asked, pushing him away.

  ‘Yes, I saved this colour for you from Holi. Won’t you give me sewaiyaan?’

  ‘No, because you’re a kafir.’

  ‘And you’re a kafirni. Do you remember the promise you made on Holi?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Again! Didn’t you promise to marry me?’

  ‘Shut up, you scoundrel.’

  ‘How phoney you are!’

  Both of us broke into laughter.

  ‘I hear that Mussolini is causing you great trouble.’ Pushkar missed no chance to make a dig at my dark colour.

  ‘You white mouse, be on your guard. I’ve heard there’s a reward of one anna per mouse,’ I made a dig at his fair complexion.

  As we began discussing communal riots between Hindus and Muslims, I told him, ‘Run away from here. You’re a Hindu. What can I do if you decide to stab me with a knife or something?’

  ‘It is you who are the butcher. I’m a coward. You’ve crammed hundreds of goats in your tummy.’

  ‘But Pushkar, you’re a bull, not a goat.’

  He gripped my arms so hard that I writhed.

  ‘If you weren’t as dark as soot, I’d have certainly married you!’

  ‘Pushkar, you’re unfair. I’m not so dark.’

  ‘So, I should marry you!’ exclaimed he, his eyes shining.

  ‘Shut up, kafir!’

  ‘Do you know in what sense poets have used the word “kafir”?’

  ‘That kafir is different, you Hindu donkey!’

  ‘Are Hindu donkeys different from Muslim donkeys? And how about Jewish donkeys?’

  We had great fun debating how to classify donkeys on the basis of religion.

  Time wore on. Pushkar became a deputy collector in our neighbouring district. On Sundays he would come in his car. Several times he would remind me of my promise made on Holi. But I told him it was sheer nonsense and asked him to never mention it.

  ‘Will you keep threatening me like this? I’ll broach it with Ma today. Let there be a battle, I don’t care. You coward!’

  ‘Pushkar, you’ll be thrashed with shoes. Abba will rip apart your tummy.’

  ‘I’m not scared at all. How long should we wait in the hope that someone will descend from the heavens and help us?’

  ‘Pushkar, we’re talking rubbish. There’s a gulf separating us—religion.’

  ‘To hell with such religions. Are they meant to help us or make martyrs of us?’

  ‘Think of the long-lasting friendship between Abbu and Chacha. Think of the disgrace they will face if we get married. Newspapers, starved of interesting subjects, will publish the chronicle of our love along with photographs and put the whole blame on the modern education system. They’ll make our life hell. An interfaith marriage is not a crime, but it is an open invitation to trouble. Boys of our community are allowed to marry Hindu or Christian girls, but we are not allowed to marry boys from other religions. They declare proudly that Muslim girls should not marry Christian boys. I don’t know how far that pride is valid.’

  ‘Well, I’m ready to become a Muslim.’

  ‘What difference does it make? Moreover, I don’t approve of it. As for me, your becoming a Muslim does not change anything because you’ll continue to be as mischievous as you are. Religion has nothing to do with like or dislike.’

  ‘Then you become a Hindu.’

  ‘Be careful of what you say. If I tell the people of the mohalla that you’re trying to make me an infidel, they’ll make mincemeat of you. If I become a Hindu, my nose won’t be safe even if I get one made of rubber. Pushkar, we are slaves. We’ve no control over our lives. Society dictates it. It can do with us whatever it wants. We can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘This is nonsense. I can’t understand it. Your brother brought a European mem even though he had a wife at home. She’s Christian. I’ve seen her going to church regularly. Your brother, too.’

  ‘Pushkar, she’s a mem, and you’re a Pandit. I am, as you call me, a Musalmanti. Do you see the difference?’

  Pushkar began to pace up and down restlessly. ‘I’ll rip apart this society into pieces. Listen, let’s have a civil marriage today.’

  ‘What’s the use of all this fuss? You know Abba will get a severe shock. And your community will make you an outcast.’

  ‘What should I do then? Tell me honestly—are you going to get married to that bloke Hamid and ditch me? I’ll get him thrashed so severely that he’ll forget everything. Look, if we continue to remain afraid of the society, we cannot live our own lives.’

  ‘You’re really crazy. Let me think over it. Maybe God will show us some way.’

  ‘God has done that already, I’m telling you. Let’s get out by the kotwali to the right. There’s a straight road from there.’

  ‘And on return, there will be the shoe beating by Abba!’

  ‘Why return? From there we’ll proceed on a journey.’

  ‘Then people will say that I’ve eloped.’

  ‘No, they will say I’ve eloped with you. Get up, quick. And yes, do you want to be paid mehr or whatever you call it? I’ll get the registration done.’

  ‘I’ll give you mehr! My salary is only slightly less than yours.’

  ‘Okay, get up and let me have it.’

  ‘But whenever we want, we can get a divorce!’

  ‘That won’t be wise. You pick up a quarrel every minute. You’ll divorce me seven times in an hour. Hurry up. Change your sari.’

  ‘And the rubber nose?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll fetch you a sharp one. Yours is very flat as it is.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ I said clutching at the door.

  ‘You can’t have it your way.’ So saying, he dragged me along.

  Soon we were walking down the big, straight road to the right of the police station.

  ‘Let’s go back. There’s still time,’ I whispered into Pushkar’s ear.

  ‘Really?’ he asked in a serious tone.

  I nodded—God knows whether to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Pushkar shook me thoroughly by my shoulders.

  ‘Kafir!’ I exclaimed and dug my nails into his wrist.

  ‘Of the poets.’

  I nodded—this time, to say ‘yes’.

  SACRED DUTY
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br />   The tiny bit of paper fluttered away from Siddiqi Sahib’s hand and fell on his lap like a half-dead moth. He brushed it off as though its poisonous fangs would get stuck to his very being.

  His wife was supervising the hanging of chandeliers and coloured lanterns outside. Sitting on a heap of rugs, she was reading congratulatory telegrams and letters from faraway lands and from Delhi and other places inside the country on the occasion of their daughter’s marriage. Samina was very dear to her parents and had passed BSc that year with the highest honours.

  The groom worked in Dubai on a monthly salary of twelve thousand, had free board and lodgings and was allowed a free vacation every year. Developments in the Arab world had opened up fortunes for many a nubile girl. The sudden spurt of wealth had brought prosperity to many a family. The boy was from a decent household and without much family encumbrances. The match had been settled over the phone. He was not very handsome and was a bit short as well. But the girl was not going to put her husband up for auction. One shouldn’t bother about a man’s physical features; it is his qualities that matter. Twelve thousand mattered a lot and ensured total comfort.

  The daughter was delicate as a flower. She wanted to go in for higher studies, but an opportunity like this did not come every day. So she was silenced with a sharp reprimand. What benefit was to be had by doing an MSc or becoming a doctor?

  Samina didn’t demur. On the contrary, she became absolutely quiet. These girls throw such tantrums, reflected the mother, as she put aside the letter she was reading. Well, she would go to see her daughter in Dubai in the month of Khali and, God willing, would perform hajj on her way back.

  Siddiqi Sahib, in a dazed state at the moment, was staring in disbelief at the wretched bit of paper that had pulled his world from great heights into a bottomless abyss.

  Papa, Mummy—I regret that I can’t agree to this match. I’m going to Allahabad with Tushar Trivedi to his parents’ home. We’ve been married in court. I’ll consider myself fortunate if you can forgive me.

  Your daughter,

  Samina Trivedi.

  May God help us! Siddiqi Sahib was a progressive, a supporter of education for girls and their freedom of choice in marriage. He also attended Id prayers, though he had not yet been called upon to participate in a crusade over Islamic principles or make any sacrifices for religion. Free from prejudices he lived a life of respectability among liberal-minded people. But that didn’t mean that his blood wouldn’t boil if his daughter went astray.