Then he drained his tea in one gulp and stood up. ‘Okay, then. I have to go. There’s something important I have to do.’
I was sure he didn’t have anything to do, but I didn’t stop him from going. I had no chance to find out his name, but at least I learned that he had serious emotional problems. He was more than sad—he seemed to be suffering from depression—and yet he didn’t want others to know about his sadness. He wanted to lead two lives: the one being that of outward reality and the other being in his head, and this second one consumed his every waking moment. That being said, he was unsuccessful in both lives, and I hadn’t figured out why.
I ran into him for the third time at Apollo Bunder, and this time I invited him home. We didn’t speak to each other on the way there, but that changed once we arrived. At first his face clouded with sadness, but then he chased it away and tried against his nature to impress me with lively conversation. This made me pity him even more: he was trying so hard to avoid reality, and yet, at times, this self-deception seemed to please him.
As we talked, he glanced at my table and saw a wooden picture frame there that held the photo of a young woman. He got up and approached it. ‘Do you mind if I look at this picture?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’
He gave the picture a cursory glance and went back to sit in his chair. ‘She’s a very pretty girl. I take it she’s your …’
‘No, that was a long time ago. I liked her, even loved her. But, sad to say, she didn’t know, and I … I … no, well, her parents married her off. The picture is a souvenir of my first love that died before it really even began.’
‘A souvenir of your love,’ he repeated, passing his tongue over his dry lips. ‘But you must have had other affairs. I mean you must have experienced real love too.’
I was about to say that I was one of those men like him who couldn’t love. But then, who knows why, I stopped and without any reason told a lie, ‘Yes, I’ve had my share. You must have had a lot of lovers too.’
He turned completely silent, as silent as the ocean’s depths. He fell lost in thought, and when his silence began to depress me, I said, ‘Hello, there! What are you thinking about?’
‘I … I … nothing. I was just thinking about something.’
‘You were remembering something? Something from a dream? An old wound?’
‘A wound … an old … wound … not any wound. I have only one, and it’s very deep, and very deadly. One is enough,’ he said and then stood up to walk around the room. But as it was small and filled with chairs, a table, and a cot, there was no space, so he had to stop by the table. Now he looked very carefully at the picture and said, ‘They look so similar—yours and mine. But her face wasn’t so mischievous, and her eyes were large and knowing.’ He sighed with disappointment and sat on a chair. ‘It’s impossible to understand death, especially when it happens to someone so young. There must be some power that opposes God, a power that’s very jealous and wants no one to be happy. Anyway.’
‘No, no, as you were saying,’ I encouraged him. ‘But, to be honest, I actually thought you’d never been in love.’
‘Why? Just now you said I must have had many lovers,’ he said and then looked questioningly at me. ‘If I’ve never been in love, why am I always sad? If I’ve never been in love, why am I like I am? Why don’t I take care of myself? Why do I feel like I’m melting away like a candle?’
These were rhetorical questions.
I said, ‘I was lying when I said I thought you’d had many lovers, but you too lied when you said you weren’t sad, that you weren’t sick. It’s not easy to know what others are feeling. There might be many other reasons for your sadness, but as long as you don’t tell me, how can I know? No doubt you’re getting weaker and weaker by the day, and obviously you’ve experienced something terrible, and … and … I feel sorry for you.’
‘You feel sorry for me?’ Tears welled in his eyes. Then he said, ‘I don’t need anyone’s sympathy. Sympathy can’t bring her back from the grave—the woman I loved. You haven’t loved. I’m sure you’ve never loved because you have no scars. Look over here,’ he said, pointing at himself. ‘Every inch of my body is scarred by love. My existence is the wreck of that ship. How can I tell you anything? Why should I tell you when you won’t understand? If someone tells you his mother has died, you can’t feel what he must feel. My love—to you—to anyone else—will seem completely ordinary. No one can understand its effect on me. I was the one who loved, and I was the one everything happened to.’
He fell silent. Something must have caught in his throat, because he repeatedly tried to swallow.
‘Did she take advantage of your trust? Or did something else happen?’
‘Take advantage of me? She wasn’t capable of taking advantage of anyone. For God’s sake, please don’t say that. She wasn’t a woman but an angel. I curse death, which couldn’t stand to see us happy! It swept her away under its wings forever. Aghh! This is too much! Why did you have to remind me of all this? Listen, I’ll tell you a little of the story. She was the daughter of a rich and powerful man. I had already wasted all of my inheritance by the time I met her. I had absolutely nothing and had left my hometown and gone to Lucknow. I had a car, so I knew how to drive, which is why I decided to become a driver. My first job was with the Deputy Sahib, whose only child was this girl—’ All of a sudden he stopped. After a while, he emerged from his reverie and asked, ‘What was I saying?’
‘You got a job at the Deputy Sahib’s house.’
‘Yes, Zahra was the Deputy Sahib’s only child, and I drove her to school every morning at nine o’clock. She kept purdah, and yet you can’t keep hidden from your driver for long, and I caught a glimpse of her on the very second day. She wasn’t just beautiful. I mean there was something special about her beauty. She was a very serious girl, and her hair’s centre parting gave her face a special kind of dignity. She … she … what should I say she was like? I don’t have the words to describe her.’
At great length, he attempted to enumerate Zahra’s virtues. He wanted to describe her in a way that would bring her to life, but he didn’t succeed, and it seemed like his mind was too full of thoughts. From time to time his face became lively, but then he would be overcome by sadness and start sighing again. He told his story very slowly and as though he found pleasure in its painful recitation.
It went like this. He fell completely in love with Zahra. For several days he kept busy devising different strategies to catch a glimpse of her, but when he thought about his love with any seriousness, he realized how impossible it was. How can a driver love his master’s daughter? When he thought about this bitter reality, he became very sad. But he gathered his courage and wrote a note to Zahra. He still remembered its lines:
Zahra,
I know quite well I’m your servant and that your father pays me thirty rupees a month. But I love you. What should I do? What shouldn’t I do? I need your advice.
He slipped this note into one of her books. The next day as he took her to school, his hand trembled as he drove, and the steering wheel kept slipping from his grip. Thank God he didn’t have an accident! He felt strange all day, and while he drove her back from school in the evening, Zahra ordered him to stop the car. He pulled over, and Zahra spoke very seriously, ‘Look, Naim. Don’t do this again. I haven’t told my father about it—I mean the letter you slipped into my book. But if you do this again, I’ll be forced to say something. Okay? Let’s go. Start the car.’
He told himself he should quit his job and forget his love forever. But this was all in vain. A month passed without his resolutions were his dilemma being solved, and then he mustered the courage to write another note, which he stuck into one of Zahra’s books just as before. He waited to see what would happen. He was sure he would be fired the next morning, but he wasn’t. As he was driving Zahra home from school, she once again asked him to refrain from such behaviour, ‘If you don’t care about your honour, then at l
east think about mine.’ When she spoke in this stern way, Naim lost all hope. Again he decided to quit his job and leave Lucknow forever. At the end of the month, he sat down in his room to write his last letter, and in the weak light of his lantern, he wrote:
Zahra,
I’ve tried very hard to do as you wanted, but I can’t control my feelings. This is my last letter. I’m leaving Lucknow tomorrow evening, and so you won’t have to say anything to your father. Your silence will seal my fate. But don’t think that I won’t love you just because I live far away. Wherever I am, I will always love you. I’ll always remember driving you to school and back, driving slowly so that the ride would be smooth for you, for how else could I express my love?
He slipped this letter into one of Zahra’s books. On the way to school she said nothing, and in the evening she said nothing as well. He lost all hope and went directly to his room. There he packed his few possessions and set them to the side, and in his lamp’s weak light he sat down on the cot and fell into thinking about his hopeless love for Zahra.
He was miserable. He understood his position. He knew he was a servant and had no right to love his master’s daughter. And yet he couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t love her—after all, he wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. Around midnight, when he was still ruminating upon this, someone knocked at his door. His heart skipped a beat. Then he reasoned it must be the gardener. Someone had probably fallen ill at home, and he was coming to ask for help. But when he opened the door, it was Zahra. Yes, Zahra—without a shawl, she was standing there in the cold December night! He couldn’t find any words to say. For several minutes they stood there in funereal silence. At last Zahra opened her lips and in a quavering voice said, ‘Naim, I’ve come. Now, tell me what you want. But before I enter your room, I want to ask a few questions.’
Naim remained silent.
‘Do you really love me?’ she asked.
Naim felt as though someone had just hit him. He blushed. ‘Zahra, how can you ask me that question when answering it will only belittle my love? Can’t you tell I love you?’
Zahra didn’t say anything. Then she asked her second question, ‘My father’s rich, but I’m worth nothing. Whatever they say is mine isn’t really mine but his. Would you love me even if I weren’t rich?’
Naim was a very emotional man, and this question, too, stung him deeply. ‘Zahra, for God’s sake, please don’t ask me questions whose answers you can find in trashy romance novels.’
Zahra entered his room, sat on his cot and said, ‘I’m yours and will always be yours.’
Zahra kept her word. They left Lucknow for Delhi, got married, and found a small house.
The day when the Deputy Sahib came looking for them, Naim was at work. The Deputy Sahib scolded Zahra sharply, telling her she had destroyed his honour. He wanted her to leave Naim and forget everything that had happened, and he was even ready to pay Naim 2,000 to 3,000 rupees. But his strategy didn’t work. Zahra said she would never leave Naim. She told her father, ‘Dad, I’m very happy with Naim. You couldn’t find a better husband for me. We don’t want anything from you. If only you could give us your blessings, we’d be very grateful.’
Zahra’s father became incensed. He threatened to have Naim thrown in jail, but Zahra asked, ‘Dad, what crime has Naim committed? If you want to know the truth, we’re both innocent. Anyway, we love each other and he’s my husband. This isn’t a crime, and I’m not a child.’
The Deputy Sahib was smart and quickly understood that if his daughter had consented to marry Naim then he couldn’t bring any charges against her husband. He left Zahra once and for all. Then after a while, the Deputy Sahib tried to intimidate Naim through some people he knew and also tried to bribe him. But nothing worked.
The married couple was happy, even though Naim didn’t earn much money and Zahra, who had never had to do anything for herself as a girl, had to wear cheap clothes and do housework. Zahra was happy that she had entered a new world, one in which Naim’s love revealed itself anew each day. She was truly very happy, and Naim was too. But one day, as is God’s will, Zahra had severe chest pains and before Naim could do anything she died. That is how Naim’s world became shrouded in darkness forever.
It took him about four hours to get through his story, as he told it slowly and with evident relish. When he finished, the pallid hue on his face lifted, and his face glowed, as though someone had given him a blood transfusion. And yet his eyes were full of tears, and his throat was dry.
When he finished telling his story, he got up hurriedly, as though he had somewhere to go. ‘It was really wrong of me to tell you this story. It was really wrong of me. Zahra’s memory was not meant for anyone but me. But … but …’ His voice quavered as he fought back tears, ‘I’m living, and she … she …’ He couldn’t continue and so quickly shook my hand and left.
I never saw Naim again. I went to Apollo Bunder many times to find him but was never successful. After six or seven months, I got a letter from him, which I’ll copy below.
Sahib!
You must remember the love story I recited at your house. It was completely false. All lies. There’s no Zahra and no Naim. I’m real, but I’m not the Naim who loved Zahra. You once said there are people who can’t love, and I’m one of those—someone who wasted his entire youth trying to love. Naim’s love for Zahra was something I made up to amuse myself, just as Zahra’s death was. I still don’t understand why I killed her in my story, although it probably has to do with how everything I touch ends up cursed.
I don’t know whether you believed my story. But I’ll tell you something strange. I thought—I mean, while I told the story—I thought it was completely true! One hundred per cent true! I felt I had loved Zahra and she had truly died. You’ll be even more surprised to hear that as days passed, the story seemed more and more real, and Zahra’s laughter began to echo in my ears. I started to feel her warm breath. Each part of the story came to life, and thus I … I dug my own grave.
Even though she was imaginary, Zahra was more real than me. She died, and so I, too, should die. You will get this letter after my death. Goodbye. I’m sure I’ll meet Zahra somewhere, but where?
I’ve written to you only because you’re a writer. If you can make a story out of this, you’re welcome to the seven or eight rupees. (You once told me you get seven to ten rupees for a story.) This is my gift to you.
Well, goodbye.
Yours,
‘Naim’
Naim made up Zahra and then died. I’ve written this story and live on. This is my life’s boon.
THE INSULT
AFTER an exhausting day, she lay down on her bed and immediately fell asleep. The official from the city’s Sanitation Department whom she called ‘Boss’ had just fucked her and left for home in a drunken stupor. He could have stayed the night, but he professed great concern for his lawfully wedded wife who loved him very much.
The money she had earned from the official in exchange for her bodily labours was slowly slipping from the top of her tight, saliva-stained bra, and these coins clinked together in rhythm with her breathing, a sound that dissolved into that of her heart’s irregular beating. In fact, it seemed as though the coins were melting right into her blood! Heat was spreading through her chest, caused in part by the brandy, a small bottle of which the official had brought, and in part by the beora, which they had drunk with water after the soda had run out.
She was lying face down on her long and broad teak bed. Her arms were bare up to her shoulders and spread out like a kite’s bow. Her right armpit’s shrivelled flesh was nearly blue from having been shaven over and over; it looked like a chunk of skin from a plucked hen had been grafted there.
Her room was small and messy and things were strewn about everywhere. Underneath her bed, her mangy dog had propped his head on top of three or four withered sandals and although asleep, was baring his teeth at some invisible something. The dog’s fur was so patchy that if som
eone saw him from a distance, they would mistake him for the folded piece of sacking used to wipe the floor.
Her beauty products were stored in a small niche in the wall—rouge, lipstick, powder, a comb, and the iron pins she used to put up her hair in a bun. A cage hung nearby in which a green parrot slept, its face hidden in the feathers of its back. The cage was filled with pieces of raw guava and rotten orange peels, and around this foul-smelling fruit hovered small black flies and moths. There was a cane chair with a grease-stained back next to the bed, and to the right of this chair rested a beautiful stool on top of which was a portable gramophone made by His Master’s Voice. A tattered black cloth was draped over the gramophone, and on the footstool and everywhere else in the room, rusty needles were littered. Four picture frames hung on the wall above this stool, and each held a man’s photo.
At a short distance from the photos—I mean, just as you entered the room and in the corner on the left—there was a brightly coloured picture of Ganesha that she had probably ripped off a bolt of cloth and framed, and both fresh and withered flowers hung over its frame. In that incredibly oily niche, she kept a cup of lamp oil, and to its side was a small lamp, its flame standing erect like a flick of paint on a devotee’s forehead in the room’s torpid air. Burnt-out stumps of incense soiled the niche.
When she made the day’s first money, she would hold it out before her, touch it to the statue of Ganesha, and then touch it to her forehead before stuffing it in her bra. Her breasts were large, so there was no chance the money would fall out, but when Madho came on vacation from Pune, she had to hide some of it in the small hole beneath the foot of her bed that she had hollowed out just for this purpose. Her pimp, Ram Lal, had told her how to keep her money from Madho. When he heard that Madho came from Pune to sleep with her, he said, ‘How long have you been seeing this bastard? What a strange love affair! The asshole doesn’t spend anything but gets to sleep with you, and then he makes off with your money? There’s something wrong with this picture. You must really like this guy. I’ve been a pimp for seven years, and I know all you girls have weaknesses.’
Bombay Stories Page 4
