Manto and Chughtai

by Muhammed Umar Memon

  ‘This Mewaram is a hopeless bloke. Never has a good word for me. As though he’s the only man around!’ I was so furious that I snapped off one by one all the branches of the jasmine trees that he had planted with great care. ‘This is the right punishment for such a fellow!’ I told myself and ran back into the house in tears.

  §

  Who was there to share my hurt? Bhaiya never spared a thought for me, Amma never cuddled me. The result—I became very obstinate. Because of this sense of deprivation, I made everyone my enemy. Throughout the day I wandered about aimlessly and fought with everyone. That is why, when Baaji came from her in-laws’ place to visit us, she decided to take me along with her. I regretted having to leave Gainda, but the prospect of travel was exciting and made me forget everything.

  Gainda, Bhaiya, Mewa and the memories associated with them receded into the back of my mind in two years. By the time I returned the world had changed. Bhaiya had been sent to Delhi, and his room was now used to put up guests. Mewa had died of pneumonia, obviously he had not given up his habit of messing with dirt and had caught a cold.

  It was surprising that I did not go delirious with joy and surprise when I got to know that Gainda had had a baby. But when I expressed my happiness, I was reprimanded. I couldn’t see why. However, I heard snippets of conversation such as Shaikhani’s: ‘She tried hard . . . but . . .’ I could not catch the rest.

  ‘Oh my God! He was ready for murder and mayhem. What a lot of trouble it was!’ Biwi said. ‘I sent him off to Delhi immediately. A studious boy . . . these low-caste bitches! Trap . . . the nobles.’ Though I listened to her with bated breath, I could not make any sense of it.

  ‘Gainda’s child!’ I repeated to myself over and over again in my bed. ‘But how?’ My wonder did not cease.

  ‘It would have been disastrous if Sarkar had got wind of it. That is why I turned her out without delay,’ Biwi’s voice rang out once again.

  Slowly I began to understand. Past events flashed through my mind like images on a screen, and my heart sank. I was dying to see Gainda’s child. I saw in my imagination a tiny baby, like the one we had met on the train to Lahore. We did not have children in the family, neither did they come with guests. My heart went out to Gainda’s child. In the darkness I felt as though tiny hands were touching my neck and chin. I lay still lest the little, delicate fingers moved away.

  That night, hundreds of children appeared in my dream. Some of them resembled us—me, Gainda, Bhaiya, even the dead Mewaram. Hundreds of frolicking children—bald heads, heads with hair, round heads, tiny hands. The whole universe teemed with children like countless grains of sand.

  §

  I quietly slipped away the following morning to see Gainda’s baby. Gainda was busy with some chores. Startled by my footsteps, she quickly covered herself and looked at me with fear in her eyes. When I moved closer, I saw the tiny, half-naked human form on her knees, his mouth open in wonder.

  ‘Ai, how tiny he is!’ I squatted by her side. Gainda had become thin like a stick. She was nervous and turned her face away.

  ‘What a little darling!’ I crooned with joy and sat on the floor. I felt like holding Gainda and her child tight to my heart. I don’t know why tears welled up in my eyes.

  ‘Let me hold the baby . . .’ I held out my hands. But Gainda sat quietly, wiping her tears.

  ‘You’re crying?’ My voice choked. ‘Such a darling of a baby, and you’re crying! Give him to me.’

  She kept wiping her tears and did not even touch the baby. I tried to pick him but he was like a slippery lump of flesh, and I could not lift him.

  ‘Oh Gainda, please lift him for me.’ I adopted the flattering tone with which I used to cajole her.

  Gainda peered into my eyes searching for something. She seemed reassured; as though she had found whatever she was looking for. She effortlessly lifted the baby and put him in my arms. I was amazed by the practised way she did it. The baby was light as a wisp of cotton wool.

  I sat on the gunny sack with the baby in my lap as Gainda recounted a hundred thousand ‘strange’ happenings. How she was beaten up for months together! Gainda, hardly fourteen or fifteen, did not herself understand many things. How could she explain them to me? We stopped invariably with, ‘How?’, ‘Why?’ ‘How strange!’

  When Bahu had had that coal-black baby who died a few days after birth, how they had sung and danced! Tons of ghee and jaggery had been forced down her gullet. And now when Gainda had such a beautiful baby, what did they do? Nothing. She was beaten to a pulp and abandoned without food. She survived somehow.

  Then, this tiny Lallu was born. He had just two shirts to beat the severe cold with, and cried all night long. Bahu cursed him saying, why didn’t he die and leave them in peace. Gainda had tied a black string around Lallu’s ankle to ward off the evil eye. She expressed the view that in the entire world, Lallu was the most lovable creature—and Bhaiya and I too. At Bhaiya’s name her eyes lit up with their old sparkle. And then she could not stop herself from talking about him.

  ‘Now he doesn’t come even during the holidays.’

  ‘He’ll come this time. Last year he had gone down to Mussoorie,’ I said, counting Lallu’s fingers.

  ‘Bibi, will you write to him?’ she asked wistfully.

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded vigorously.

  ‘Will you tell him that Lallu sends his salaam and remembers him often?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, though I knew that Lallu could not utter a syllable.

  ‘Also write that he must bring a red vest for him like the one Basanti’s son wears.’

  ‘And . . . that . . .’ her yearning gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, ‘he must come this time, at least for a few days.’ It was as though she were imploring someone. She broke into a smile and kept talking while I ran my fingers through Lallu’s hair.

  ‘Look Gainda . . . how he nibbles . . .’ I said as I felt his gums tickle my fingers.

  ‘He’s hungry.’ Gainda became bashful.

  ‘Feed him, or he’ll start crying.’

  Gainda lifted the baby in her frail arms and clasped him to her breast. Then she began to laugh, hiding her face in her sari.

  I kept looking at Lallu’s soft lips as he sucked his mother’s milk, breathing noisily. The little mother took care of him, though rather clumsily.

  TOUCH-ME-NOT

  ‘Ilahi Khair! O Ghulam Dastgir! Obeisance to the twelve imams! . . . Make a move dear . . . carefully . . . steady, steady . . . pull up the salwar . . . easy, easy,’ Bi Mughlani bellowed like a herald. I pulled Bhabijan up, Bhaijan pushed from the other side and thus she, a veritable advertisement for amulets and talismans, took the small step and rolled over to the chair like an inflated balloon.

  ‘Praise be to Allah, the Almighty!’ Bi Mughlani sighed with relief, and we felt a great load lift from our minds.

  Bhabijan was not exactly born with a silver spoon in her mouth, nor had she had ayahs and other ladies-in-waiting at her disposal. Yet, before long, the frail slip of a girl had become as tender as a swollen wound. The fact is, the moment her mother stopped feeding her, she came to adorn Bhaijan’s bed. Here she had pretty little to do and blossomed like a flower, fresh and fragrant, without any sense of life’s harshness. Bi Mughlani took charge of her from the day of her marriage. She woke up from sleep at a leisurely hour, but remained in bed while Bi Mughlani flurried around attending to her person. Later she would be given a choice breakfast. Having washed it all down, she would keep sitting—her cheeks resting on her hand and lips parted in a smile.

  The smile began to fade in the second year of her marriage as nausea made her throw up all the time. Finding his beautiful, doll-like bride turning into a permanently sick woman, Bhaijan began to lose interest in her. But Bi Mughlani and Ammijan were bursting with excitement. From the first month of pregnancy they threw themselves into the baby project wholeheartedly—stitching diapers, etc. with such enthusiasm as though the delivery was imminent. So covered
was she with amulets that even a mole could not have peeped through. Constant application of witchcraft and charms wore her down. As it is, Bhabijan was never a great one for walks and sprints, but now even if she turned on her side herself, Bi Mughlani would raise such a racket that the whole house would come rushing in. Even a half-baked clay pot was not handled with greater care. Pirs and fakirs became permanent fixtures in the house, ever ready to mutter prayers and ward off evil spirits.

  In spite of Bi Mughlani’s rigorous vigil, however, the shell cracked before time and expectations drew a blank. The blossoms withered away and the branch remained bare. But a thousand thanks to Allah that her life was saved. Allah is bountiful. If the mother survived, more could come. And did. The vigil was intensified. Yet hopes again drew a blank. The third time round, matters took a grave turn. The poor thing was choked with pills and syrups. A sick pallor gave her the look of a sweet potato turned bulbous. Her evenings stretched to the early hours of dawn.

  Ammi Begum and Bi Mughlani were not too pleased. Lying in her bed, Bhabijan seemed to hear the shehnai of Bhaijan’s second marriage.

  However, by the grace of Allah, the pregnancy advanced quite a bit without any mishap. This time, besides pirs and fakirs, Delhi doctors also descended in their full armour.

  From the second month, she was treated as delicately as a soap bubble and provided with all comforts. No one was allowed to sneeze or blow their nose in her vicinity lest the bubble should burst once again. When the doctors declared her out of danger, Ammi Begum decided that the delivery should take place at Aligarh. It was hardly a two-hour journey. Bhabijan was reluctant to leave Delhi even though the doctors had given the go-ahead. Her horizon was darkening. She knew that another miscarriage would be her husband’s ticket to a second marriage. Now Bhaijan could do anything in the name of progeny. Only Allah knew why the fellow was so keen on keeping his name alive. As it is, he didn’t have a name to speak of. If she failed in this one conjugal duty, she would have to forgo all bridal comforts.

  She had reigned so long on the strength of her beauty and charm. Now she was perched on a boat her husband was prepared to topple. Where could the poor thing go? She hadn’t learnt needlework because of lack of interest in it, and the little she had studied was long forgotten. In the absence of a provider, she could resort to only one thing—that is, to render the same service to everybody which was, so far, exclusive to her husband. That was why she was desperately looking forward to the delivery which would make her life secure. If the father of the newborn lacked interest, the grandfather would certainly provide for her maintenance.

  As if she did not have enough on her mind already, there came Ammi Begum’s imperial command to start for Aligarh, and we were thrown aflutter. A bunch of new amulets would see her through.

  ‘Ilahi khair!’ Caught unawares by a particularly strong jolt of the speeding train, Bi Mughlani crashed down and Bhabijan clutched at the vessel by her. ‘Is this a train or a transport to hell! O Pir Murshid, help us . . . O Hazrat Ali. . .’ Holding Bhabijan’s tummy, Bi Mughlani started muttering prayers and verses from the holy Quran. Somehow, we reached Ghaziabad.

  The Toofan Mail, true to its name, tore along without stopping. The entire couch was reserved for us. Hence the threat of jostling crowds was out. I was intently watching the crowd in front of the window, and Bi Mughlani shielded her ears against the train’s shrieking whistle. Bhabijan nearly fainted at the sight of the crowd from afar.

  As the train chugged off, the couch door opened and a peasant woman moved in. The coolie tried to pull her away but she stuck to the handle like a lizard and would not budge. Slowly she dragged herself to the bathroom door, despite Bi Mughlani’s constant chiding, and leaned against it, panting.

  ‘May Allah forgive our sins!’ Bi Mughlani murmured. ‘Hey you! Are you pregnant for the full term?’ The panting woman just managed to spread her parched lips in a strained smile and nodded assent.

  ‘By Allah, this girl has some cheek!’ The shock was too much for Bi Mughlani, and she began to slap her face repeatedly. The woman stood mute. The intensity of pain made her restless, and she clutched at the bathroom door with both hands. Her breath came in gasps and perspiration appeared on her forehead like dewdrops on cool ground.

  ‘Is it your first pregnancy?’ Bi Mughlani asked angrily, piqued by her lack of experience. The woman could not reply as fits of pain swept over her. Her face turned pale and tears trickled down her dilated eyes. Bi Mughlani kept up her litany of lament as the woman continued to writhe in tearing pain.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, looking on like that? No dear, look the other way; you’re still a virgin maid.’ I turned away. But the heart-rending cry of the woman made me turn back involuntarily. Bi Mughlani was incensed—‘Allah’s curse! As though she’d achieve salvation if she sees a child being born!’ Bhabijan, her face wrapped in her dupatta, kept on staring. Bi Mughlani’s burkha dropped to her nose and she badly smeared the floor of the couch with her constant spitting.

  All of a sudden it seemed that the world shrank on its axis and twisted itself. So intense was my reaction that my ears began to burn and tears welled up automatically. ‘This is the end,’ I thought. But the tension in the atmosphere melted abruptly. The burkha slipped from Bi Mughlani’s nose as a lump of red flesh dropped near Bhabijan’s royal shoes, the Salimshahis. I cried out in surprise and joy and bent down to look at the tiny wonder that broke all hell loose by letting out a full-throated yell.

  Bi Mughlani raged on. Bhabijan clung to my pallu as I handed over a pair of nail-cutting scissors to the woman. She was my age, maybe a few months older. I was reminded of field animals like sheep and goats who bring forth their offspring as they graze along, without any fuss and not caring for the help of lady doctors, and then tidy up by licking them with their tongue.

  Elderly people prevent young girls from watching a delivery, saying that when Zebunnisa saw her sister giving birth to a baby, she was so shocked that she never got married. So much for old folks and their old wives’ tales!

  Zebunnisa’s sister must have been as fragile as my Bhabijan. If she had witnessed this woman’s delivery, she would have been convinced like me, that people make a lot of fuss for nothing. Giving birth is as easy a job for women as getting on or off the train is for Bhaijan. After all, this is not something to be ashamed of. Far more revolting is the gossip between Bi Mughlani and Amma about fellow women, which falls like hot embers on my ears day in and day out, making them burn.

  For some time the woman tried to breastfeed the child in her clumsy way. Her tears had dried up, and she broke into occasional fits of laughter as though someone was tickling her. Bi Mughlani’s chiding subdued her somewhat. She wrapped the baby in a rag, put it under the seat and stood up. Bhabijan let out a scream. Bi Mughlani soothed her. The woman fetched water from the bathroom and began to clean the couch. Rubbing off the stains from Bhabijan’s brocaded shoes, she left them standing in a corner. Then she picked up her child and sat leaning against the bathroom door with the air of one who, having finished the day’s chores, sits down to relax. As the train drew to a halt, she stepped down.

  ‘Where’s your ticket?’ asked the ticket collector. She held out her dupatta with a flourish as though she was exhibiting jamuns that she had plucked stealthily. Too shocked to speak, the ticket collector stood transfixed while she turned away and vanished in the crowd.

  ‘Allah’s wrath on all these harlots! They go on breeding bastards . . . the witches!’ Bi Mughlani muttered to herself. The train gave a lurch and chugged off. Bhabijan’s smouldering sobs abruptly turned into a searing scream. ‘Oh Allah! What’s wrong, Begum Dulhan?’ Bi Mughlani’s heart came to her mouth as she looked at the Begum’s terror-stricken face. Writ large on it was the vision of her husband’s second marriage:

  Thus does fate play with us

  Shows the shore and capsizes the boat.

  The unborn child got cold feet and wilted away before its entry into th
e world. My flower-like Bhabijan felt so unnerved after witnessing the bizarre delivery in the train that she had a miscarriage once again.

  THE BEGINNING

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  This collection published 2019

  Copyright © Muhammad Umar Memon & M. Asaduddin 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Jacket images © Devangana Dash

  This digital edition published in 2019.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05588-2

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