Bombay Stories

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  Her breasts were firm and fresh like a potter’s newly turned vessels. A shade darker than tan, they were completely unblemished and imbued with a strange radiance: just beneath the skin there seemed to be a layer of faint light giving off a spectral glow like a pond radiates light from beneath its turgid surface.

  It was a monsoon day just like today. Outside the window, the peepal tree’s leaves were fluttering. The girl slept entwined with Randhir, and her rain-soaked clothes lay in a messy heap on the floor. The heat spreading from the girl’s dirty naked body felt the same to Randhir as what he had experienced when bathing in the grimy, hot public baths during the dead of winter.

  All night the two clung to each other as though they had become one. They must not have said more than a couple of words, as what they had to communicate was accomplished by their breath, lips, and hands. All night Randhir caressed her breasts, arousing her small nipples and the nerves around her dark aureoles, and throughout the night tremors rippled up and down her body that were so strong that from time to time Randhir, too, quivered with delight.

  Randhir knew all about such sensual pleasures. He had slept holding the breasts of countless girls. He had slept with girls so untrained that after cuddling up to him, they would go on to talk about all the household things you shouldn’t mention to a stranger. He had also slept with girls who did all the work so that he could just lie there. But this girl, this girl who had been trembling beneath the tamarind tree and whom he had called up to his room, was very different.

  All night her body emitted a strange smell at once alluring and repellent. With every breath Randhir took in this ambivalent odour that came from everywhere—her hair, her armpits, her breasts, and her stomach. All night he told himself that he wouldn’t have felt that close to her if her naked body hadn’t smelled that way, if that smell hadn’t entered into his every fibre and invaded his every thought.

  For one night this odour united Randhir and the girl. They became one, descending into an animal place where they existed only in pure pleasure, a place that despite being temporary was also eternal and that while being a sort of transcendent elation was also a quieted calm. They had become one, like a bird flying so high in the sky that it appears motionless.

  This scent emanated from every pore of the girl’s body. He recognized it but he couldn’t describe it: it was like the pleasing aroma that dirt gives off after you sprinkle it with water. No, it wasn’t like that at all. It was something different. It was without any of the artificiality of perfume, but pure and real. It was as real and old as the story of men and women itself.

  Randhir hated the smell of sweat. After bathing, he would normally sprinkle aromatic baby powder under his armpits and elsewhere or use some other substance to cover up the smell. So it was amazing that he kissed the girl’s hairy armpits over and over and was not at all disgusted, but rather found this surprisingly pleasurable. Her delicate armpit hairs were damp from her sweat that gave off this scent at once evocative and yet indefinable. Randhir felt like he knew this scent—it was familiar, he knew it in his bones, but he lacked the words to explain it to anyone.

  It was a monsoon day just like today, exactly like today. When he looked through the window, he saw the leaves of the peepal tree trembling in the rain, rustling and fluttering in the breeze. It was dark and yet the night gave off a faint glow, as though the raindrops had stolen some of the stars’ radiance. It was a monsoon day just like today back when Randhir had had only one teak bed in his room, though now there was another one along with a dressing table consigned to a corner. It was a monsoon day just like today, the weather was just the same, with the same twinkling rain, and yet the sharp aroma of henna hung in the air.

  The second bed was empty. Randhir lay on his stomach, his head turned to look out of the window at the leaves of the peepal tree quivering in the rain, and next to him a fair-skinned girl had fallen asleep after struggling unsuccessfully to cover herself with her naked limbs. Her red silk pants lay on the other bed, from which hung one knotted end of her pant’s deep red drawstring. Her other clothes were strewn over the bed as well: her flowery kameez, her bra, underpants, and veil—and everything was red, bright red. And the clothes all smelled strongly of the pungent aroma of henna.

  Her black hair was flecked with glitter, and her face was covered with rouge and a sparkly make-up that dissolved together to produce a sick greyish hue. The poor girl! Her bra’s badly dyed fabric had run and stained her pale breasts red in places.

  Her breasts were the colour of milk, white with a faint bluish tinge, and her armpits were badly shaven, leaving a greyish stubble. Over and over, when Randhir looked at the girl, he felt as though he had just exhumed her from some box, as though she were a book or a porcelain vessel: just as ink spots may mar the cover of a book sent from the printer’s, or as scratches appear on porcelain treated roughly, he found the very same marks on her body.

  Earlier, Randhir had untied the string fastening her bra, which had left deep lines on the tender flesh of her back and beneath her breasts. Her waist also bore the mark of her tight drawstring. Her necklace’s heavy and sharp-edged jewels had left scratches across her chest that made it look as though she had torn at her skin with her nails.

  It was a monsoon day just like today, the sound of the rain on the peepal tree’s tender leaves was exactly the same, and Randhir listened to it throughout the night. The weather was wonderful, and the breeze was pleasantly cool, but the overpowering aroma of henna lay thick in the air.

  Randhir continued to caress the girl’s milky white breasts. His fingers felt ripples of pleasure run up and down her tender body and faint tremors coming from its deepest recesses. When Randhir pressed his chest against hers, he felt every nerve in his body vibrate in response to her passion. But something was missing: the attraction he had felt to the ghatin girl’s scent, the pull more urgent than a baby crying for his mother’s milk, that instinctive call surpassing all words.

  Randhir looked through the iron bars on the window. Nearby, the leaves of the peepal tree were fluttering, and yet he was looking beyond this at the distant overcast sky where the clouds cast an eerie glow that reminded him of the light of the ghatin girl’s breasts.

  A girl lay next to Randhir. Her body was as soft as dough made with milk and butter. The aromatic scent of henna rising from her sleeping body seemed to be fading little by little. Randhir could barely stand this poisonous, gut-wrenching odour: it smelled acidic, the strange type of acidity he associated with acid reflux—a sad scent, without colour, without exhilaration.

  Randhir looked at the girl lying by his side. Feminine charm touched her only in places, just as drops of spoilt milk fleck water. In truth, Randhir still longed for the ghatin girl’s natural scent, so much lighter and yet so much more penetrating than the scent of henna, the scent that was so welcome, that had excited Randhir so naturally. Trying for the last time, Randhir ran his hand over the girl’s milky skin, but he felt nothing. Even though she was a respected judge’s daughter, had graduated from college, and had hundreds of her male college classmates crazy about her, Randhir’s new wife couldn’t excite him. In the dying scent of henna, he tried to find the scent of the ghatin girl’s dirty naked body that he had enjoyed when outside the window, the leaves of the peepal tree had glistened in the rain, exactly like today.

  BABU GOPI NATH

  I MET Babu Gopi Nath in 1940. In those days I was the editor of a weekly newspaper in Bombay. One day I was writing an article when Abdur Rahim Saindo entered the office along with a diminutive man. Saindo yelled out his greetings in his peculiar way and then introduced his companion, ‘Manto Sahib, meet Babu Gopi Nath.’

  I got up and shook his hand. As was his habit, Saindo began to heap praises on me, ‘Babu Gopi Nath, you’re shaking hands with India’s number one writer. When you read what he writes, ding-dong-dang . . . vah! He writes with such topsy turvulence that it clears your mind. What witticism was it that you wrote recently, Manto Sah
ib? ‘Miss Khursheed bought a new car: God is a great car salesman!’ What about that, Babu Gopi Nath? Chingy ching, right?’

  Abdur Rahim Saindo had a completely unique way of putting things—‘ding-dong-dang’, ‘topsy turvulence’, ‘chingy ching’—words he invented and then slipped spontaneously into conversations. After introducing me, he turned to Babu Gopi Nath, who was standing there in awe.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Babu Gopi Nath, a great good-for-nothing. After sitting around doing nothing in Lahore, he decided to grace Bombay with his presence, and he brought a Kashmiri dove with him.’

  Babu Gopi Nath smiled.

  Abdur Rahim Saindo felt he hadn’t said enough and so went on, ‘If there’s an award for the world’s biggest fool, you’re looking at the winner. People fill his ears with lies and take his money. Just for talking to him, I get two packets of Polson butter every day. Manto Sahib, I can say only this—he’s an anti-flow-Justian kind of guy. Please come by his apartment this evening.’

  God only knows what Babu Gopi Nath had been thinking when something startled him back to reality. ‘Yes, yes, you must come by, Manto Sahib,’ he said. Then he asked Saindo, ‘Hey, Saindo, does he partake of you-know-what?’

  Abdur Rahim Saindo erupted in laughter. ‘Yes, he participates in all sorts of amusements. So, Manto Sahib, don’t forget to come by this evening. I’ve also started drinking—after all, the booze is free.’

  Saindo wrote down the apartment’s address, and I showed up at about six in the evening as promised. It was a sparkling three-bedroom apartment with brand-new furniture. Saindo and Babu Gopi Nath were in the living room and with them were two men and two women. Saindo introduced me to them.

  One was Ghaffar Sayyan, a pure Punjabi holy man wearing a cummerbund and a rosary with big beads. Saindo said, ‘This gentleman is Babu Gopi Nath’s legal advisor, get what I mean? Each and every Punjabi man with a snotty nose and drool dribbling from his mouth becomes a saint, and this gentleman, too, has either attained or is about to attain this revered status. He came with Babu Gopi Nath from Lahore because he had no hope of meeting any other such idiot there. At Babu Sahib’s expense he smokes Craven A cigarettes, drinks Scotch, and prays for a happy end.’

  Ghaffar Sayyan smiled as he listened to this.

  The second man’s name was Ghulam Ali. He was a tall and well-built young man with smallpox scars on his face. Saindo said, ‘This is my disciple who is trying to follow in my footsteps. In Lahore, a famous courtesan’s young daughter fell in love with him and in order to trap him, a lot of topsy turvulence was done. But he said, “It doesn’t matter what you do or say, I’m not getting married.” He met Babu Gopi Nath at a holy shrine drinking and bullshitting and has been clinging to him ever since. Every day he gets food and drink and a pack of Craven A.’

  Ghulam Ali smiled throughout this introduction.

  There was also a round-faced woman with a ruddy complexion. As soon as I entered the room, I understood that she was the Kashmiri dove Saindo had mentioned at my office. She was very clean and tidy. She had short hair that looked like she had cut it when in truth she hadn’t. Her eyes were clear and sparkling. She looked inexperienced and innocent. Saindo introduced her, ‘Zinat Begam. Babu Gopi Nath’s pet name for her was Zinu. A very crafty madam plucked this apple from Kashmir and brought her to Lahore. From his CID people Babu Gopi Nath found out about her and then one night managed to take off with her. The madam filed a suit against him. The trial lasted two months and the police enjoyed themselves to their heart’s content, but in the end Babu Sahib won the case and brought her here—ding-dong-dang!’

  Now only one person remained, the woman with the dark complexion sitting silently and smoking. She had a depraved expression that was concentrated in her bloodshot eyes. Babu Gopi Nath made a sign in her direction and said to Saindo, ‘Tell us something about her too.’

  Saindo slapped this woman’s thigh and said, ‘Sir, this is Tinputi Falfuti, Mrs Abdur Rahim Saindo, alias Sardar Begam. She was also born and bred in Lahore. We fell in love in ’36. Within two years, she did a ding-dong-dang on me. Then I fled. Babu Gopi Nath called her here so I could feel at home. She also gets a pack of Craven A, and every evening she gets a two and a half rupee injection of morphine. Though she’s dark-skinned, in fact, she’s a tit-for-tat-type woman.’

  Sardar gave him a coquettish glance that said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ It was exactly the type of glance used by prostitutes.

  After introducing everyone, Saindo set out in his usual manner to sing my praises, but I interrupted him, ‘Come on, stop, Saindo. Let’s talk about something else.’

  Saindo yelled to the servant, ‘Hey, boy—whisky and soda!’ Then he turned to Babu Gopi Nath.

  ‘Babu Gopi Nath, we need some cash.’

  Babu Gopi Nath reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip full of hundred-rupee notes, sheared one from the stack and handed it to Saindo. Saindo took the note and rustled it in his fingers. Then he said, ‘Oh, God! Oh, Lord of All Worlds! When will I be able to throw money around like this? Ghulam Ali, go get two bottles of Johnny Walker Still Going Strong!’

  The liquor arrived and everyone started drinking. We kept it up for two or three hours, and as usual Abdur Rahim Saindo talked the most. He downed the first glass in one swig.

  ‘Ding-dong-dang, Manto Sahib, that’s what I call whisky! From my throat to my stomach, it washed down crying out, “Long live the revolution!” ’ He turned to Babu Gopi Nath, ‘God bless you, Babu Gopi Nath, God bless you!’

  Throughout the proceedings Babu Gopi Nath, the poor soul, didn’t say anything other than to chime in with an occasional ‘yes’ to whatever Saindo was saying. I thought, ‘This guy doesn’t have any opinion of his own. Whatever anyone says, he agrees to it.’ The proof of his gullibility was Ghaffar Sayyan. Saindo had said he was Babu Gopi Nath’s legal advisor although he actually meant that Babu Gopi Nath revered him. Regardless, I learned in the course of our conversation that back in Lahore, Babu Gopi Nath often spent time with fakirs and dervishes. I noticed that Babu Sahib looked lost in thought, so I decided to ask him a question.

  ‘Babu Gopi Nath, what are you thinking about?’

  My question startled him. ‘Oh … I … I … nothing,’ he said. Then he smiled and cast a loving look in Zinat’s direction. ‘I was thinking about beautiful women like her. What else is there for a man like me to think about?’

  ‘He’s a great good-for-nothing, Manto Sahib,’ Saindo interjected. ‘Yes, a great good-for-nothing. There wasn’t a courtesan in Lahore that Babu Sahib didn’t topsy turvulence.’

  ‘Manto Sahib, now I have no stamina like that,’ Babu Gopi Nath admitted with an awkward humility.

  Then the conversation turned racy and to counting all the brothels of Lahore. Who was good, who was bad. Which girl was working under which madam. Which virgins had Babu Gopi Nath slept with and at what price. And so on and so on. Sardar, Saindo, Ghaffar Sayyan, and Ghulam Ali carried on in the rarefied dialect of Lahore whorehouses, and although I didn’t catch some expressions, I understood enough.

  Zinat remained sitting silently. From time to time she would smile at something, and yet I sensed that the conversation didn’t interest her. She drank from a glass of diluted whisky but without evincing any pleasure. She smoked without relish, and yet the irony was that she smoked more than anyone else. Was she really in love with Babu Gopi Nath? It didn’t seem so. It was clear, however, that he took great care of her and provided her with every comfort. Nonetheless, I sensed a strange tension between them. I mean, instead of being close they seemed to hold each other at a distance.

  Sardar went to Dr Majid for her morphine injection at about eight o’clock. Ghaffar Sayyan drank three shots of whisky, picked up his rosary, and lay down to sleep on the carpet. Ghulam Ali was sent to a restaurant to pick up some food. After Saindo had stopped his nonsense for a while, Babu Gopi Nath, now drunk, turned to Zinat. Looking at her with a loving expression, he asked me, ‘Ma
nto Sahib, what do you think about my Zinat?’

  I didn’t know what to say. I looked at Zinat, and she blushed. ‘I think she’s good,’ I said casually.

  Babu Gopi Nath liked my answer. ‘Yes, Manto Sahib, she really is good. I swear to God, Zinat isn’t into jewellery or anything else. So many times I’ve said, “My dear, shall I build you a house?” And guess what she says? “What would I do with a house? I’m all alone.” ’ Then he asked, ‘Manto Sahib, how much does a car cost?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Babu Gopi Nath was surprised. ‘What’re you saying, Manto Sahib! You don’t know how much cars cost? Impossible! Tomorrow come with me, and we’ll buy Zinu a car. I’ve realized you have to have a car in Bombay.’

  Zinat’s face remained expressionless.

  Then Babu Gopi Nath got very drunk. With his emotions running high, he said, ‘Manto Sahib, you’re a very decent man, but I’m a total ass. Tell me, how can I be of service to you? Yesterday when I was talking to Saindo, he brought up your name. I immediately hailed a taxi and said to him, “Take me to Manto Sahib.” Forgive me if I’ve said anything rude. I’ve committed many sins.’ Then he asked, ‘Should I call for some more whisky?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I’ve already had plenty.’

  He became even more emotional. ‘Drink some more, Manto Sahib!’ Then he got out his wad of hundred-rupee notes and started to separate one. Before he could finish, I grabbed the clip and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘What happened to the hundred rupees you gave Ghulam Ali?’

  In truth, I had begun to feel some sympathy for Babu Gopi Nath. How many people had latched like leeches onto this poor soul! Really, he was such a fool, and yet he understood what I was asking. Smiling, he said, ‘Manto Sahib, whatever change Ghulam Ali gets is sure to fall from his pocket or …’