He looked at me with eyes full of tears of sad reproach. Then he left.
JANAKI
IT was the beginning of the racing season in Pune when Aziz wrote from Peshawar: ‘I’m sending Janaki, an acquaintance of mine. Get her into a film company in Pune or Bombay. You know enough people. I hope it won’t be too difficult.’
It wasn’t a question of being difficult, but the problem was I had never done anything like that before. Usually the men who take girls to film companies are pimps or their like, men who plan to live off the girls if they can get a job. As you can imagine I worried a lot about this, but then I thought, ‘Aziz is an old friend. Who knows why he trusts me so much, but I don’t want to disappoint him.’ I was also reassured by the thought that the film world is always looking for young women. So what was there to fret about? Even without my help, Janaki would be able to get a job in some film company or other.
Four days later Janaki arrived, and after a long journey—from Peshawar to Bombay, and then from Bombay to Pune. As the train pulled up, I started to walk along the platform because she would have to pick me out of the crowd. I didn’t have to go far because a woman holding my photo descended from the second-class compartment. Her back was to me. Standing on tiptoes, she started looking through the crowd. I approached her.
‘You’re probably looking for me,’ I said.
She turned around.
‘Oh, you!’ She looked down at my photo and then in a very friendly manner said, ‘Saadat Sahib, the trip was so long! After getting off the Frontier Mail in Bombay, I had to wait for this train for so long, it nearly killed me.’
‘Where are your things?’
‘I’ll get them,’ she said and entered the compartment to bring out a suitcase and a bedroll. I called out for a coolie. As we were leaving the station she said to me, ‘I’ll stay in a hotel.’
I got her a room in a hotel just opposite the station. She needed time to wash up, change her clothes and rest, and so I gave her my address, told her to meet me at ten in the morning, then left.
At ten thirty the next morning she arrived in Parbhat Nagar where I was staying at a friend’s small but newly built apartment. She had got lost trying to find the place, and I had been up late writing the night before and so had slept in. I bathed and changed into a T-shirt and pyjama. I had just sat down with a cup of tea when she showed up.
The previous day, though weary from her trip, she had been bursting with life both on the platform and at the hotel, but when she appeared that morning at Apartment #11 in Parbhat Nagar, she looked anxious and worn out: she looked as though she had just donated ten to fifteen ounces of blood or had an abortion.
As I already said, my friend’s house was completely quiet. I was staying there to write a film script. There was no one else in the apartment except an idiotic servant, Majid, the type that makes a house only more desolate. I made a cup of tea and gave it to Janaki.
‘You must have eaten breakfast at the hotel before coming,’ I said. ‘But, anyway, please have some tea.’
Biting her lips anxiously, she picked up the cup and began to drink. Her right leg was shaking violently, and her lips quivered. I could tell there was something she wanted to say, but she hesitated. I thought maybe during the night someone had harassed her. So I asked, ‘You didn’t have any problems at the hotel, did you?’
‘What? Oh, no.’
I didn’t press her to say any more. Then after we finished our tea, I thought I should say something. ‘How’s Aziz Sahib?’
She didn’t answer. She set the cup down on a stool, got up, and hurriedly said, ‘Manto Sahib, do you know any good doctors?’
‘Not in Pune.’
‘Aaggggh!’ she screamed in frustration.
‘Why? Are you sick?’
‘Yes.’
She sat down in a chair.
‘What’s the problem?’
When she smiled, her sharp lips became thinner. She opened her mouth. Again she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the courage. She got up, picked up my pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it.
‘Please forgive me, but I just can’t quit.’
I learned later that she didn’t just smoke but smoked with a vengeance. She held the cigarette in her fingers like a man and took a deep drag. In fact, she inhaled so deeply that her daily habit was the same as a normal person’s smoking seventy-five cigarettes.
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’
Annoyed, she pounded her foot on the floor like a young girl.
‘Hai, Allah! How can I tell you?’ she asked. Then she smiled. Her teeth were extraordinarily clean and shiny. She sat down, and trying to avoid my gaze, she said, ‘The problem is that I’m fifteen or twenty days late and I’m scared that …’
Until then I hadn’t understood, but when she stopped so abruptly I thought I finally knew what was going on.
‘This happens often,’ I said.
She took another deep drag and blew out the smoke in a thick rush.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m talking about something else. I’m afraid I’m pregnant.’
‘Ah!’ I exclaimed.
She took a final drag and then stubbed out the cigarette in the saucer. ‘If I am, it’ll be a big problem,’ she went on. ‘This happened once in Peshawar, but Aziz Sahib brought some medicine from a doctor friend, and then everything was okay.’
‘You don’t like kids?’
She smiled. ‘Sure, I like them. But who wants to go through the trouble of raising them?’
‘You know it’s a crime to have an abortion.’
She became pensive. In a voice full of sadness, she said, ‘Aziz Sahib said this too, but, Saadat Sahib, my question is, how is it a crime? It’s a personal matter, and the people who make the laws know an abortion is very painful. Is it really a serious crime?’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re a strange woman, Janaki.’
Janaki also laughed. ‘Aziz Sahib says so too.’
As she laughed, tears came to her eyes. I have noticed that when sincere people laugh, they always cry. She opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, and wiped away her tears. Then in an innocent manner, she asked, ‘Saadat Sahib, tell me, is what I’m saying interesting?’
‘Very.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘Why?’
She lit another cigarette.
‘Well, maybe it’s interesting. I only know that I’m kind of silly. I eat too much. I talk too much. I laugh too much. You can see, can’t you, how big my stomach’s become from eating too much? Aziz Sahib always used to say, “Janaki, don’t eat so much!” But I never listened. Saadat Sahib, the thing is whenever I eat less, it always feels like something’s missing!’
Then she laughed again, and I did too. Her laughter was very strange. It sounded like the jingling of a dancer’s ankle bells.
She was just about to say something more about abortions when my friend came in. I introduced him to Janaki and told him how she wanted to get into acting, and then my friend took her to his studio because he was almost sure that the director he was working with would give her some special role in his new film.
I did as much as I could to find work for Janaki at the studios in Pune. At one place she had a voice test. At another, a screen test. One film company dressed her up in all different sorts of clothes, and yet nothing came from any of this. Janaki was already worried about her period being late, and she became even more stressed after suffering through these auditions for four or five days and with no result. In addition, the twenty green quinine pills she took each day to abort her baby made her listless. Then she was also worried about how Aziz Sahib was faring in Peshawar. She had sent him a telegram as soon as she had arrived in Pune and since then, every day without fail, had written a letter to him in which she urged him to take care of his health and to take his medicine on time.
I didn’t know what was wrong with Aziz Sahib, and all Janaki told me was that he loved he
r so much that he would immediately do whatever she asked. Although he often quarrelled with his wife over his medicine, he never made a fuss with Janaki.
At first I thought Janaki was just putting on a show about worrying for Aziz Sahib, but her candid talk gradually convinced me she really cared about him. Moreover, there was proof because she would always cry after reading his letters.
Her efforts to get into film companies resulted in nothing, but one day Janaki’s mood improved when she learned that her guess had been wrong—she was late, but she wasn’t pregnant.
Janaki had been in Pune for twenty days. She was writing Aziz one letter after another, and he was writing her long love letters in return. Then Aziz wrote to me, saying that if Janaki couldn’t get in anywhere in Pune, I should try the many studios in Bombay. This made sense, but it was difficult for me to get away because I was busy writing the script. I called a friend of mine, Sayeed, who was playing the hero in some film. As it happened, he wasn’t in the studio just then, but Narayan was there. When he overheard I was calling from Pune, he took the phone and shouted in English, ‘Hello, Manto! Narayan speaking from this end!’ Then he slipped into Urdu, ‘What do you want? Sayeed isn’t here right now. He’s at home separating his stuff from Razia’s.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They had a fight. Razia’s started seeing another guy.’
‘But what’s there to sort out?’
‘Man, Sayeed is really awful,’ Narayan said. ‘He’s taking back all the clothes he ever bought for her. Anyway, enough of that. What’s going on?’
‘Actually, the thing is one of my good friends in Peshawar has sent a girl who wants to get into acting.’
Janaki was standing next to me. I realized I hadn’t explained things quite right. I was about to correct myself when Narayan shouted, ‘A woman? From Peshawar? Hey, send her quick! I’m a Qasuri Pathan too!’
‘Don’t be silly, Narayan. Listen, tomorrow I’m sending her on the Deccan Queen. Either you or Sayeed will have to go to the station to pick her up. Tomorrow, on the Deccan Queen. Don’t forget.’
‘But how will I recognize her?’
‘She’ll recognize you. But listen—try to get her into some studio or other.’
The conversation lasted only three minutes. I hung up and said to Janaki, ‘You’re going to Bombay tomorrow on the Deccan Queen. I’ll show you photos of Sayeed and Narayan. They’re tall and handsome young men, and so you’ll have no problem spotting them.’
I showed Janaki a bunch of photos of Sayeed and Narayan, and she stared at them for a long time. I noticed that she looked at Sayeed’s photos with greater attention.
She put the album aside, and trying to avoid my eyes, she asked, ‘What kind of men are they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what kind of men are they? I’ve heard that most men in films are bad.’ There was a tone of serious inquiry in her voice.
‘You’re right. But why does the film industry need good men?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are two types of people in the world—those who understand pain from their own suffering and those who see the suffering of others and guess what pain is. What do you think—which one truly understands the essence of pain?’
She thought for a moment and then answered, ‘Those that suffer themselves.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Those who know from personal experience are good at acting. Only someone who has experienced heartbreak can portray this feeling well. A woman who spreads her prayer mat five times a day, or a woman who thinks she doesn’t need love, when she tries to portray love in front of a camera, how can she be anything but a disaster?’
Janaki thought for a moment. ‘You mean that before getting into films a woman should know everything?’
‘That’s not necessary. She can learn after she gets into acting.’
She didn’t think seriously about my statement but returned to her original question. ‘What kind of men are Sayeed Sahib and Narayan Sahib?’
‘Do you want details?’
‘What do you mean by details?’
‘I mean which of them will be better for you?’
This upset Janaki. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Just what you want to hear.’
‘Never mind,’ she said and then smiled. ‘I won’t ask anything else.’
I smiled too. ‘When you ask, I’ll recommend Narayan.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a better person than Sayeed.’
I still think so. Sayeed is a poet, a very heartless poet. If he catches a chicken, he won’t slaughter it but will wring its neck. Once he’s done with that, he’ll pluck out its feathers and make soup. Once he’s drunk the soup and gnawed on the bones, he will retire to a corner to write a poem about the chicken’s death, crying profusely as he writes.
He drinks, but he never gets drunk. This irritates me as it defeats the very purpose of drinking. He gets up slowly in the morning, and his servant brings him a cup of tea. If there’s any rum left over from the night before, he pours it into the tea and drinks the mixture in slow gulps, as though he has no sense of taste.
When he gets a sore, he lets it fester until pus forms. There’s the risk of developing a serious condition, but he will never look after it and will never go to a doctor. If you tell him to go, he responds, ‘Sometimes disease becomes a part of your body. If it’s not bothering me, why do I need to treat it?’ Then he looks over his wound as if it were an impressive couplet.
He will never be able to act because he lacks sensitivity. I saw him in a film that was very popular because of the heroine’s songs, and there was a scene in which he had to hold his beloved’s hand and declare his love. I swear he took her hand as if he were grabbing a dog by the paw! I’ve told him on many occasions, ‘Stop dreaming about being an actor. You’re a good poet. Go home and write some poems.’ But he’s obsessed with acting.
I like Narayan a lot. He made up a list of principles for working in a studio, and I like them a lot too.
1) An actor should never marry during his acting career. If he marries, he should stop acting and open up a yoghurt business. If he’s famous, he’ll do well.
2) If an actress addresses you as ‘bhayya’ or ‘bhai sahib’, immediately ask her in a whisper, ‘What’s your bra size?’
3) If you fall in love with an actress, don’t waste time dilly-dallying. Go meet her in private and recite the line, ‘I, too, have a tongue in my mouth.’ If she doesn’t believe you, then stick the whole thing out.
4) If you fall in love with an actress, don’t take so much as a single paisa from her. That money’s meant for her husband or her brothers.
5) Remember, if you want to have a child with an actress, hold off until after independence!
6) Remember that an actor has an afterlife too. From time to time, instead of preening before a mirror, get a little dirty. I mean, do some charity work.
7) Out of all the people at the studio, give your highest respect to the Pathan guard. Greet him when you get to the studio in the morning. Something good will come of this, if not in this world then in the next, where there are no film studios.
8) Never get addicted to liquor and actresses. It’s quite likely that Congress will suddenly outlaw them both.
9) A shopkeeper can be a Hindu shopkeeper or a Muslim one, but an actor can never be a Hindu actor or a Muslim one.
10) Don’t lie.
These are ‘Narayan’s Ten Commandments’ that he keeps in a notebook. They reveal his character. People say he doesn’t obey them all. Maybe. But he abides by most of them. This is a fact.
Without Janaki’s asking, I managed to get across what I thought about Sayeed and Narayan. In the end, I told her directly, ‘If you go into acting, you’ll need a man’s help. I think Narayan will prove to be a good friend.’
She listened to my advice and then left for Bombay. The next day she came back very happy becaus
e Narayan had got her hired at his studio for a year on a salary of 500 rupees a month. How did she get this job? We talked about this for quite a while. When she finished, I asked her, ‘You met both Sayeed and Narayan. Which one did you like more?’
Janaki smiled mischievously. She looked at me tentatively and said, ‘Sayeed Sahib!’ Then she became pensive. ‘Saadat Sahib, why did you go to such lengths to praise Narayan?’
‘Why?’
‘He’s so sleazy. In the evening, he sat down outside to drink with Sayeed Sahib. I called him ‘bhayya’, and then he leaned over and asked me my bra size! God knows how furious that made me! What a despicable man!’ There was sweat on Janaki’s forehead.
I laughed loudly.
‘Why’re you laughing?’ she asked sharply.
‘At his foolishness.’ Then I stopped laughing.
After complaining for a while about Narayan, Janaki began going over her worries about Aziz. She hadn’t received a letter from him for several days, and all sorts of fears tormented her. She hoped he hadn’t got a cough again. He rode his bicycle so recklessly that she hoped he hadn’t had an accident. She worried about whether he would come to Pune, as he had promised her when she left Peshawar, ‘I’ll show up when you’re least expecting me.’ After she had expressed all of her misgivings, she calmed down. Then she began to praise him, ‘He cares a lot about his kids. Every morning he makes sure they exercise, then he bathes them and takes them to school. His wife is really lazy, and so he has to deal with the relatives. Once I got typhoid and for twenty days straight he took care of me just like a nurse would.’ And so on and so on.
Then she thanked me in the nicest possible words and set off for Bombay, where the door to a new and glittering world had opened for her.
In Pune I finished my film script in about two months. I collected my pay and left for Bombay where I needed to sign another contract.
I arrived in Andheri at the bungalow that Sayeed and Narayan were sharing, at about five in the morning. When I entered the verandah, I found the front door locked. I thought, ‘They must be sleeping. I don’t want to disturb them.’ There was another door in the back usually left unlocked for the servant, and so I went around and entered there. Inside there were two beds. Sayeed was sharing one with a woman, her face hidden beneath their quilt.
Bombay Stories Page 9
