Suddenly she heard a noise—phar, phar, phar. Where was it coming from? Saugandhi looked around but didn’t see anyone. Then she realized what it was—it was her heart that was racing and not the sound of a car! What was going on? Why would it be going along fine and then suddenly begin to pound? It was like a needle catching on a worn-out record, and the music’s natural flow, ‘The night passed while I counted stars …’ turning into a one-word echo, ‘stars, stars, stars …’
The sky was filled with stars. Saugandhi looked up and exclaimed, ‘How beautiful!’ She wanted to think of something else, but their beauty only served as a nasty reminder and she thought to herself, ‘Stars are beautiful, but you’re ugly. Did you forget already how that man insulted you?’
But Saugandhi wasn’t ugly. She remembered all the recent times she had looked in the mirror, and while there was no doubt she didn’t look the same as she had five years earlier when she was living with her parents and free from all worry, in any event she wasn’t ugly. In fact she was the type of woman that men stare at. She had all the bodily attributes that men want in a woman, and was young and had a good figure. Sometimes when bathing, she would see with pleasure how round and firm her thighs were. She was also polite, friendly, and compassionate, and so it was hard to imagine that she ever disappointed any of her customers.
She remembered the year before when she had been living in Gol Petha over the Christmas season. A young man had spent the night, and when he got up the next morning and went into the next room to take his coat off the hook, he discovered that his wallet was missing. Saugandhi’s servant had stolen it. The poor soul was very upset. He had come on vacation from Hyderabad and didn’t have enough money to get back. Saugandhi felt so sorry for him that she gave him his ten rupees back.
‘What have I ever done wrong?’ Saugandhi addressed everything around her—the darkened streetlights, the iron electricity poles, the pavement’s rectangular stones, and the street’s gravel. She looked at her surroundings and then lifted her gaze to the sky, but there was no answer.
She knew the answer herself. She wasn’t bad at all but good, and yet she wanted someone to praise her, someone to put his hand on her shoulder and say, ‘Saugandhi, who says you’re bad? That person’s the bad one!’ No, there wasn’t any special need for that. It would be enough if someone said, ‘Saugandhi, you’re really good!’
She thought about why she wanted someone to praise her, as she had never before felt such a strong need for this. Why did she turn even to inanimate objects, asking them to confirm her worth? And why did she feel in her body such an overwhelming desire to give comfort? Why did she want to take the world onto her lap? Why did she want to cling to the streetlamp, putting her hot cheeks against its cold iron?
Then for a moment she felt as though everything was looking at her with sympathy—the streetlamps and the electricity poles, the paving stones, everything! Even the star-filled sky that hung above her like a milky sheet in the growing light seemed to understand her, and Saugandhi in turn felt she could understand the stars’ twinkling. But what was this confusion inside her? Why did she feel so unsettled? She wanted to get rid of the bad feelings boiling inside her, but how could she do this?
Saugandhi was standing next to the red mailbox at the alley’s corner. Sharp gusts of wind buffeted it, and the iron tongue hanging inside its mouth rattled. Again Saugandhi looked in the direction the car had gone, but she didn’t see anything. How much she wanted the car to come back just once, and … and.… But then she reasoned with herself, ‘I don’t care if it doesn’t come back. In fact, good for it! Why should I worry myself to death over it? I’m going home and I’ll sleep like a baby. What’s the point of rehashing everything? Why should I worry over nothing? Let’s go, Saugandhi, go home. Drink a ladleful of cold water, rub in a little balm, and go to bed. You’ll sleep well, and tomorrow everything will be okay. Fuck him and his car!’
These thoughts assuaged some of Saugandhi’s pain. She felt like she had emerged from a cold pond after bathing. Her body felt lighter, as she felt after praying. She began walking to her home, and was her spirits lifted, her steps seemed almost buoyant.
She had nearly reached her apartment when the memory of the man waylaid her again, filling her body with a throbbing pain. Her steps turned heavy, and she felt as though she was reliving the experience step by step—once again she left her room for the market, had a light shone in her face, and was insulted. She felt as though someone was pressing his thumb against her ribs, as you press your thumb into a sheep or goat to see if there is any meat beneath the hair. That rich fuck had …! By God, Saugandhi wanted to curse him! And yet what would come from that? She thought, ‘The real pleasure would come from branding his every inch with insults. The real pleasure would come from saying something to hurt him for the rest of his life. Or tearing off my clothes right in front of him, I would ask, “This is what you came for, right? Here, take it for free—take it. But not even your father could buy what I’ve inside me!” ’
Saugandhi was thinking of different ways of taking revenge. If just once she ran into him again, she would do this … no, not this, but this … she would take her revenge like this … no, not like that … like.… But when Saugandhi realized she would never see him again, she resigned herself to cursing him beneath her breath, and not even with such a bad word, just something that would stick to his nose like a fly to sit there forever.
In this bewildered state, she reached her second-floor room. She took her key out of her bra and reached out to unlock her door, but the padlock was missing! Saugandhi pushed one of the door’s panels inward, and this made a light creaking sound. Someone unlatched the chain from inside, and the door yawned open. Saugandhi entered.
Madho was chuckling. He shut the door and said to Saugandhi, ‘Today you took what I said to heart—a walk in the morning is very good for your health! If you get up and take a walk like this every morning, all your sluggishness will go away, the pain in your waist too, the pain you’ve been complaining about so much. You must have walked all the way to Victoria Gardens and back, right?’
Saugandhi didn’t answer, and Madho didn’t press her. In fact, he never really meant that she should answer his questions, and he talked only because he had to.
Madho sat down on the cane chair with the stained back, crossed his legs, and stroked his moustache.
Saugandhi sat on the bed. ‘I was just expecting you.’
Madho was startled. ‘You were expecting me? How did you know I was coming?’ Saugandhi relaxed her lips into a thin smile. ‘I dreamt about you. I got up, but no one was there. So I decided to go for a stroll, and …’
This pleased Madho. ‘And I came! Well, what do you know! Whoever said that people are connected by their hearts was exactly right. When was your dream?’
‘At about four o’clock.’
Madho got up from the chair and sat next to Saugandhi. ‘And I dreamt about you at exactly two o’clock. You were standing next to me in this very sari. What were you holding—what was it? Oh, yes, you were holding a little bag full of money. You gave this bag to me and said, “Madho, what’re you worrying about? Take this bag. My money’s your money, right?” Saugandhi, I swear, I got up immediately, bought a ticket and came here. What should I say? I’m in a lot of trouble! Out of the blue, someone filed a police report against me. If I give the inspector twenty rupees, he’ll let me go. Aren’t you tired? Lie down, and I’ll massage your feet. If you’re not used to walking, you’re sure to get tired. Here, put your feet next to me and lie down.’
Saugandhi lay down. She folded her arms behind her head for a pillow and then in a cloying tone said, ‘Madho, what bastard filed a report against you? If you think there’s a chance you might go to jail, just tell me. If you give him twenty or thirty rupees—no, even fifty or a hundred—you won’t regret it. If you get off, it’s like saving yourself a fortune. Anyway, stop that, I’m not that tired. Stop and tell me everything. Just hearing th
e words “police report” made my heart start pounding. When will you go back?’
Madho smelled liquor on Saugandhi’s breath. He thought this the opportune moment and so quickly said, ‘I’ll have to go back in the afternoon train. If the subinspector doesn’t get fifty or a hundred by the evening, then … well, there’s no need to give him a lot. I think fifty should be enough.’
‘Fifty!’ Saugandhi exclaimed.
She got up slowly and went up to the four photos on the wall. Madho’s was the third from the left: he was seated on a chair with a floral-printed curtain behind him. He sat with his hands on his thighs, and in one hand he held a rose. On the stool next to him were two thick books. Everything in the photo was so conspicuous that they all seemed to be saying, ‘We’re having our picture taken! We’re having our picture taken!’ In the photo, Madho was wide-eyed, and the whole situation seemed to make him uncomfortable.
Saugandhi started cackling, a sharp laugh that pricked Madho like needles. He rose and approached her. ‘Whose photo are you laughing at?’ he asked.
Saugandhi pointed to the first photo from the left, that of the official from the city’s Sanitation Department. ‘His—this guy’s,’ she said. ‘Look at his snout. He used to brag, “A queen once fell in love with me.” Yuhkk! Can you imagine a queen loving this nose?’
Saugandhi ripped the frame from the wall with such force that the nail came out along with some plaster. This shocked Madho, and before he could recover, Saugandhi threw the frame out of the window. It fell two floors down and hit the ground with the sound of breaking glass.
‘When his rag-picking queen comes by on her trash-collecting rounds, she can take him with her,’ she mocked. Again Saugandhi erupted in bitter laughter. It rained from her lips like embers flying from a grindstone.
Madho forced himself to laugh.
Saugandhi ripped the second frame off the wall and threw it outside.
‘What does this place mean to that bastard?’ she asked. ‘From now on ugly men are banned—isn’t that right, Madho?’
Madho again forced himself to laugh.
With one hand, Saugandhi took down the picture of a man wearing a turban, and with her other hand she reached for Madho’s photo. Madho shrank back as though she was reaching for him. Then Saugandhi ripped them off the wall, along with their frames and nails.
Saugandhi laughed loudly and then shouted, ‘Yuhkk!’ She threw both frames out the window, and after a moment, they heard the sound of shattering glass. Madho felt as though something inside him had broken. He forced himself to laugh.
‘Yes, good job,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like that photo, either.’
Saugandhi slowly approached him. ‘You didn’t like that photo?’ she repeated. ‘Why would you—is there anything likeable about you? You and your circus nose, you and your hairy forehead, you and your donkey nostrils, you and your twisted ears, you and your bad breath, you and your dirty body? You didn’t like your photo? Yuhkk! It hid all of your blemishes. You know, these days you’re supposed to be proud of your flaws!’
Madho shrank back further. When he reached the wall, he yelled, ‘Look, Saugandhi, it seems like you’ve started working again. Now for the last time I’m going to say …’
Saugandhi interrupted him. ‘If you start to work again,’ she imitated him, ‘well, then our relationship is over. If you let any guy sleep here, I’ll grab you by your hair and throw you out. I’m going to send you a money order for this month’s expenses as soon as I get to Pune. What’s this room’s rent?’
Madho was aghast.
‘I’ll tell you,’ she answered herself. ‘Fifteen rupees. Fifteen, and I charge ten. And, as you know, two and a half go to the pimp. The remaining seven and a half—seven and a half, right?—are mine. And for those seven and a half rupees, I promised to give you things I couldn’t, and you came for things you couldn’t take. What was our relationship? Nothing—just these ten rupees. We pretended, saying things like, “I need you and you need me.” At first it was ten rupees, and today it’s fifty, and you’re eyeing it and I’m eyeing it. And what have you done to your hair?’
With one finger, Saugandhi flicked off Madho’s hat. He didn’t like this at all.
‘Saugandhi!’
Saugandhi took out a handkerchief from Madho’s pocket, smelled it, and threw it on the floor. ‘This is a rag, a rag! Aghh, it smells awful! Pick it up and throw it outside.’
‘Saugandhi!’
‘No—fuck off with your “Saugandhi this and Saugandhi that”! Does your mother live here that she’s going to give you fifty rupees? Or are you some young, handsome stud I’ve fallen in love with? You son of a bitch! Are you trying to impress me? Am I at your beck and call? You fucking bum, who do you think you are? I’m asking you, “Who the hell are you? A fucking burglar? Why exactly have you come here in the middle of the night? Should I call the police? Who cares if there’s really a police report against you in Pune—maybe I’ll file one against you here.” ’
Madho was terrified. ‘Saugandhi, what’s happened to you?’
‘Go fuck your mother! Who are you to ask me that? Get out of here—or else!’
When Saugandhi’s mangy dog heard her yelling, he rose agitatedly from beneath the bed, turned in Madho’s direction, and began to bark. Saugandhi laughed loudly. Madho was scared. He bent down to pick up his hat, but Saugandhi yelled, ‘Hey, don’t touch that! You—get out of here. As soon as you get back, I’ll parcel-post you your fucking hat.’
Then she laughed even louder. She sat down on the cane chair, and her dog chased Madho out of the room and barked him down the stairs.
When he came back, he was wagging his powerful tail. He sat next to Saugandhi’s feet and shook his head, flapping his ears against his cheeks. Saugandhi suddenly felt the frightening stillness that surrounded her, something she had never before felt. It seemed as though a train full of passengers had emptied station by station and now stood desolate beneath the last tin awning. It was a painful hollowness. Saugandhi tried to dispel this feeling, but she couldn’t. All at once a rush of thoughts passed through her mind, but it was as though her mind were a strainer and all her thoughts caught inside it.
For quite a while she stayed in the cane chair, but even after thinking things over, she couldn’t find any way to soothe herself, so she picked up her mangy dog, put him on one side of her wide teak bed, lay down next to him and immediately fell asleep.
SMELL
IT was a monsoon day just like today. Outside the window the leaves of the peepal tree were glistening in the rain, just as they were now. On this very teak bed, now pushed back a little from where it used to rest next to the window, a ghatin girl was nuzzling against Randhir’s side.
Outside the window, the leaves of the peepal tree were shimmering beneath the overcast night sky just as if they were flashy earrings, and inside the girl was trembling and holding on to Randhir. Earlier, after reading each and every section of an English newspaper (even its ads) throughout the day, Randhir had gone out onto his balcony to relax a little as evening approached. The girl, probably a worker at the neighbouring rope factory, was then standing under the tamarind tree to escape the rain. Randhir had cleared his throat to get her attention and then signalled with his hand for her to come up.
He had been very lonely for a number of days. On account of the war, almost all the Christian girls in Bombay, ones he was used to getting cheap, had been conscripted into the Women’s Auxiliary Forces. Many had opened ‘dancing’ schools in the Fort where only British soldiers were allowed. Randhir was depressed. He could no longer get these Christian girls. Even though he was more cultured and attractive than the soldiers, he wasn’t allowed into the Fort’s whorehouses, simply because he wasn’t white.
Before the war he had slept with many Christian girls, both in Nagpada and in the area around the Taj Hotel. He knew he was far more familiar with the intricacies of such relationships than the Christian boys with whom the girls pretended to b
e in love, only to lure one of those fools into marriage.
To be honest, Randhir had called the girl up to his room just to take revenge on Hazel for her new and arrogant indifference to him. Hazel lived in the apartment beneath his, and each morning she would put on her uniform, place her khaki hat crosswise over her military-style haircut, and go outside to strut down the pavement as though she expected everyone in front of her to fall to the ground, sacrificing their bodies to provide her with a carpet to walk across.
Randhir wondered why he was so obsessed with those Christian girls. Of course they were good at showing off all their assets, they talked about their periods without hesitating at all, they talked about their past love affairs, and they loved dance music so much that they started tapping their feet whenever they heard it. This is all true enough, and yet other women could be like that too.
When Randhir motioned for the girl to come up, he didn’t imagine that he would go to bed with her. But when she entered his room, he saw her soaked clothes. He feared that she might get pneumonia, so he said, ‘Take those off. You’ll catch cold.’
She understood, and her eyes flashed with shame. When Randhir took off his white dhoti and offered it to her, she hesitated a moment and then unwrapped her dirty kashta sari, placed it to the side and quickly flung the dhoti over her lap. Then she began trying to remove her skin-tight bra that was tied together in a knot stuck between her cleavage.
She kept trying to loosen the knot with the aid of her nails but the rain had tightened it. When she got tired of this and admitted defeat, she turned to Randhir and said in Marathi, ‘What can I do? It’s stuck.’
Randhir went to sit by her and try his luck with the knot. After vainly trying for some time, he grabbed one edge of her bra’s neckline in one hand, its other edge with his other hand, and yanked roughly. The knot broke. Her breasts sprung out, and for a moment he imagined himself as a skillful potter who had shaped her breasts from finely kneaded clay.
Bombay Stories Page 6
