Mummy sat next to him on the bed. She truly embodied affection—she rubbed her hand over Chaddah’s hot forehead and said, ‘My boy, my poor boy.’
Chaddah’s eyes welled with tears but he tried to hold them back. ‘No’, he said. ‘Your boy is a first-class scoundrel. Get your dead husband’s pistol and shoot him in the chest!’
Mummy lightly slapped Chaddah’s cheek. ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ she said. Then like an attentive nurse she got up and said, ‘Boys, Chaddah’s sick and I have to take him to a hospital, okay?’
Everyone understood. Gharib Nawaz went and got a taxi, and we lifted Chaddah and put him in. He kept protesting that this fever wasn’t bad enough to warrant taking him to the hospital, but Mummy said that in any event, the hospital would be more comfortable.
Chaddah was admitted to the hospital, and Mummy drew me aside and said that he was very sick with the plague. When I heard this, I nearly fainted. Mummy herself was very worried, but she hoped that this setback would pass and Chaddah would soon get healthy.
Treatment continued for some time. It was a private hospital, and the doctors gave Chaddah a lot of attention. But even then many complications arose: his skin began to crack in places and his fever mounted, and finally the doctors suggested we take him to Bombay. But Mummy didn’t agree and she took Chaddah back to her house.
I couldn’t stay in Pune. I returned to Bombay and called from time to time to ask about his health. I thought he would die, but I learned that his health was slowly improving. Then I had to go to Lahore in connection with a trial, and when I returned fifteen days later, my wife handed me a letter from Chaddah in which he wrote, ‘The great Mummy saved her wayward son from the jaws of death!’
There was an ocean of emotions in those few words. Unusually for me, I got very sentimental while recounting to my wife how Mummy had cared for Chaddah. My wife was moved too, ‘Women like that are usually very caring.’
I wrote to Chaddah two or three times but received no answer. Afterwards I learned that Mummy had sent him to one of her girlfriends’ house in Lonavala, thinking that a change of scenery would do him some good. Chaddah spent a month there but got bored and came back.
I happened to be in Pune on the day of his return. He was weak from fighting off the plague, but otherwise he was his usual rowdy self and he talked about his sickness just as someone would mention a minor bicycle accident—now that it was over, he thought it pointless to talk about it in detail.
Small changes had come about at Sayeedah Cottage. The brothers, Aqil and Shakil, had left when they decided that Sayeedah Cottage’s atmosphere was not conducive for establishing their own film company. In their place came Sen, a Bengali music director, along with a runaway from Lahore named Ram Singh who had got just before Chaddah went to Lonavala and had won permission to stay. Everyone in Sayeedah Cottage ended up using the boy for their work, since he was very courteous and obliging. The boy set his stuff up in Sen’s room where there was extra space.
Then Ranjit Kumar was cast as the hero in a new film and the film company promised that if the film did well, he would be given the chance to direct. Chaddah somehow secured 1,500 rupees of his two years’ unpaid salary and all of that in one lump sum. He told Ranjit Kumar, ‘You know, if you want to get some money, pray for the plague. It’s better than being an actor or director!’
Gharib Nawaz had recently come back from Hyderabad, and so Sayeedah Cottage was enjoying some good times. I noticed expensive shirts and pants drying on the clothesline outside the garage and how Shirin’s little boy had new toys.
I had to stay in Pune for fifteen days. Harish was busy trying to win the love of the heroine of a film he was shooting, but he was scared because the heroine was Punjabi and her husband sported a big moustache and bulging muscles. Chaddah encouraged him, ‘Don’t worry about that bastard. Macho Punjabi guys are horrible lovers. Listen, for just a hundred rupees a word, I’ll teach you ten or twenty hardcore Punjabi swear words that’ll come in handy.’
At Chaddah’s rate (basically a bottle of liquor for each swear word), Harish memorized six Punjabi insults, complete with a Punjabi accent, but he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to test their effectiveness.
Mummy was throwing her usual parties with Polly, Dolly, Kitty, Elma, Thelma and everyone else. Vankatre instructed Thelma in Kathakali, Tandau, and Dhani, shouting ‘one, two, three …’ to count out the measures, and Thelma was trying her best to learn. Gharib Nawaz was lending money right and left, and Ranjit Kumar (a film star at last) continued to escort girls outside to enjoy the breeze. And just like old times, Chaddah’s raunchy limericks made everyone erupt in laughter. Only one person was absent—Phyllis, the one for whose hair colour Chaddah had spent so much time trying to find the proper simile. But Chaddah didn’t look for her. Nevertheless when Chaddah’s and Mummy’s glances met, sometimes he would lower his gaze, and it seemed that he still felt bad about that one night’s craziness. After his fourth shot, he would shout at himself, ‘Chaddah, you’re such a pig!’ Then Mummy would give a sweet little smile that seemed to say, ‘Don’t be silly.’
And as usual, Vankatre and Chaddah would quarrel. Vankatre would get drunk and start to praise his father and beautiful wife, but Chaddah would cut him off as if with an enormous battle axe. Vankatre, the poor soul, would stop talking and fold his high school diploma and put it in his pocket.
Mummy was still everyone’s ‘Mummy’ and she put together the parties with her usual affection. Her make-up remained the same ugly fare and her clothes were still tasteless and flashy; her wrinkles still showed from beneath layers of powder and rouge but now it all looked sacred: her shadow had protected Chaddah, and the plague’s insects hadn’t dared touch her. When Vankatre’s beautiful wife had a miscarriage, Mummy intervened to save her life. When Thelma, because of her interest in learning Indian dance, fell into the clutches of a Marwari Kathak dancer who passed on to her a sexually transmitted disease, Mummy scolded her ferociously and was ready to abandon her for good. But seeing her tears, Mummy’s heart melted. She told her boys what had happened and asked them to get Thelma treated. When Kitty got 500 rupees for solving a crossword, Mummy forced her to give half of it to poor Gharib Nawaz because suddenly he didn’t have any money. She told Kitty, ‘Give it to him now, you’ll be able to get it back later if you want.’ During my fifteen days in Pune, she often asked me about my wife, expressing concern that we hadn’t had another child after our first son’s death. She didn’t talk to Ranjit Kumar with much interest, and it seemed as though she didn’t like his love for showing off. (In fact, she had said as much to me on several occasions.) She hated the music director, Sen, and always complained when Chaddah brought him along, ‘Don’t bring that awful man here.’ When Chaddah asked why, she would reply, ‘He seems insincere. I don’t like him.’ Then Chaddah would laugh.
I always had a good time at Mummy’s parties. Everyone drank, got drunk, and flirted. Things were full of sensual possibility and yet they never got out of hand because everybody knew where things stood.
I returned to Bombay. On my second day back, I read in the paper that Sen had been killed at Sayeedah Cottage. The murderer was reported to be a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy named Ram Singh. I immediately called Pune but couldn’t reach anyone.
A week later, a letter arrived from Chaddah in which he recounted all of the murder’s details. It was at night, while everyone was sleeping. Suddenly someone fell onto his bed, and he woke with a start. When he turned on the light, he saw that it was Sen, dripping with blood. Chaddah was trying to process this when Ram Singh appeared in the doorway with a dagger in hand. Immediately, Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar appeared too and soon everyone woke up. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar grabbed Ram Singh and pried the dagger from his hand, while Chaddah laid Sen on his bed. He was about to ask Sen about his wounds when the music director took his last breath and died. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar were holding Ram Singh and both were trembling. Then Ram Singh asked C
haddah, ‘Bhapaji—did he die?’
Chaddah nodded his head, and then Ram Singh said to the two men holding him, ‘Let me go. I won’t run away.’
Chaddah didn’t know what to do and so immediately sent his servant to fetch Mummy. Everyone relaxed when Mummy came as they were confident that she would resolve the situation. She told Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar to let go of Ram Singh and then she took him to the police station where his formal statement was entered into the books. For days afterwards, Chaddah and his friends were harried first by the police investigation and then the trial, and Mummy was frantically running here and there, trying to help Ram Singh’s cause.
Chaddah was confident the boy would be acquitted, and in fact his innocent manner impressed the judge so much that the lower court did so. Before the trial Mummy told him, ‘Son, don’t worry, just tell the truth.’ Then Ram Singh gave an exact account of what had transpired, the same that he had given at the police station. Ram Singh loved music and Sen was a very good singer—eventually Sen convinced him to try to become a playback singer. Swayed by the man’s promises, Ram Singh submitted to his sexual advances. But he hated Sen terribly, and time and again he cursed himself. Finally, he grew so sick of the situation that he told Sen that if he forced himself upon him once more, he would kill him. And that was just what happened.
Ram Singh offered this testimony to the court. Mummy was there providing her support, and her glances reminded him of what she had earlier said, ‘Don’t worry, just tell the truth because the truth always wins. You killed him, but what he was doing was sordid. It was depraved, a crime of unnatural passion.’
In his letter Chaddah wrote, ‘In this age of lies, there was a surprising victory for the truth, and all the credit goes to my old Mummy.’
Chaddah invited me to the party that Sayeedah Cottage was throwing to celebrate the acquittal, but I was too busy to go. The ‘brothers, Shakil and Aqil L had moved back, as they hadn’t been able to find a more suitable place to get their film company up and running. They were again assistants to some assistant in their old film company and had only a couple hundred rupees of their original capital. Chaddah asked them to chip in for the party, and they gave all of their remaining money to make the party a success. Chaddah said, ‘I’ll drink four shots and pray your film company gets on its feet.’
Chaddah told me that at the party Vankatre, quite out of character, praised neither his asshole father nor his beautiful wife. Kitty told Gharib Nawaz she needed some money, and so he lent her 200 rupees. Gharib Nawaz said to Ranjit Kumar, ‘Don’t play with the poor girls. Your intentions might be good, but as far as accepting money goes, the girls aren’t going to pay it back. Anyway, if you want, give them something, just don’t expect anything in return.’
At the party Mummy coddled Ram Singh and advised everyone to encourage him to go home. Suddenly it was decided, and the next day Gharib Nawaz bought his ticket. The day of his departure, Shirin made him some food for the trip, and everyone went to the station to see him off. As the train pulled out, everyone stood waving until it disappeared.
I learned all this about the party ten days afterwards when I had to go to Pune on some important business. Nothing had changed at Sayeedah Cottage, which seemed like a caravanserai that stays the same even after thousands of travellers have stopped there, the type of place that never grew old. When I arrived, sweets were being distributed because Shirin had given birth to another boy. Vankatre had bought a Glaxo baby carriage for her new son. Finding it had been difficult but he had managed to procure two, one of which he kept for his own family. Chaddah stuffed the last two sweets into his mouth and said, ‘So you got this Glaxo carriage—that’s great. Just don’t mention your damn father and beautiful wife.’
‘You idiot, I don’t drink any more,’ Vankatre said, before adding, ‘My wife speaks Urdu, you know—yes, by God—she’s very pretty!’
Chaddah erupted in such obnoxious laughter that Vankatre couldn’t say anything else. Then Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Vankatre turned to me and we started to talk about the story I was writing for a film company there in Pune. Then we brainstormed for quite a while for a name for Shirin’s baby. We thought of hundreds, but Chaddah didn’t like any of them. At last I pointed out that the boy’s birth was auspicious because he was born at Sayeedah Cottage and so suggested that his name should be Masud. Chaddah didn’t like this either but for the time being accepted it.
It seemed that Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Ranjit Kumar were out of sorts. I reasoned that it might be due to the change in weather or because of Shirin’s new baby, but neither of those could explain it all. Or maybe it was the traumatic memory of Sen’s murder. I didn’t know why but everyone seemed sad—they were laughing and carrying on but inside they were upset.
I was busy writing at Harish’s for a week. I often wondered why Chaddah didn’t come by; neither did Vankatre. As for Ranjit Kumar, I wasn’t close enough to him to expect him to travel out of his way to see me, and then I thought Gharib Nawaz might have gone to Hyderabad. Harish was around but he was probably over at his Punjabi heartthrob’s house trying to build up the resolve to flirt with her in the presence of her hulk of a husband.
I was writing the story’s most interesting part when Chaddah appeared from out of nowhere. As soon as he entered the room, he asked, ‘Do you get anything for this nonsense?’
He was referring to my story. Two days earlier I had received my second payment, so I said, ‘Yeah, I got the second instalment of 1,000 rupee two days ago.’
‘Where is it?’ Chaddah looked at my coat.
‘In my pocket.’
Chaddah thrust his hand into my pocket, took out four hundred-rupee notes and said, ‘Come to Mummy’s tonight, there’s a party.’
I was about to ask him the details but he left. He still seemed dejected and as though something was bothering him. I wondered what it might be, but my mind was absorbed in the scene I was writing and I soon forgot about his problems.
I updated Harish’s wife on my wife’s activities and left at about five. I arrived at Sayeedah Cottage at seven. Wet baby clothes hung on the clothesline, and Aqil and Shakil were playing with Shirin’s older boy near the hand-pump. The garage’s canvas curtain was pulled open and Shirin was talking to Aqil and Shakil, probably about Mummy. They stopped talking when they saw me. I asked after Chaddah, and Aqil said he was at Mummy’s.
When I arrived at Mummy’s, it was very loud and everyone was dancing—Gharib Nawaz with Polly, Ranjit Kumar with Kitty and Elma, and Vankatre with Thelma. Vankatre was instructing Thelma in the hand gestures of Kathakali. Chaddah was carrying Mummy in his arms and jumping around the room. Everyone was drunk and it was as if a storm had broken. Chaddah was the first to shout out his greetings to me and then there was a cannon-like burst of Indian and English voices, the echo reverberating in my ears. Mummy greeted me with genuine warmth. She took my hand and said, ‘Kiss me, dear!’
But instead she kissed me on the cheek and then dragged me into the centre of the dancers. Chaddah cried out, ‘Stop—it’s time for drinking!’ Then he shouted, ‘Oh, Prince of Scotland! Bring a new bottle of whiskey.’ The Prince of Scotland brought a new bottle. He was dead drunk. When he started to open the bottle, it fell and broke into pieces. Mummy wanted to scold him but Chaddah stopped her. ‘It was only a bottle, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Forget it—there are people here with broken hearts.’
The party hit a lull, but then Chaddah got things going with his raucous laughter. Another bottle arrived, and everyone drank a strong shot. Chaddah began to deliver an incoherent speech, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you all may go to hell! Manto is here. He thinks he’s a famous writer, an expert in human psychology. How should I put it, “He penetrates the deepest recesses of human psychology.” But it’s all nonsense! People like him are just the idiots who would lower themselves into a well—it’s like lowering yourself into a well.’ He looked around the room and then began again, ‘It’s too bad that there aren’t any
fishermen here. There’s a Hyderabadi who says “khaf” when he should say “qaf” and who acts like he met you two days ago even though it was really ten years. To hell with his Nizam of Hyderabad and his tons of gold and tens of millions of jewels! But no, Mummy—yes—it’s like lowering yourself into a well. What did I say but that it’s all nonsense. In Punjabi we say that fools understand human psychology better than people like Manto. And that’s what I’m talking about.’
Everyone shouted, ‘Hurray!’
Chaddah continued, ‘It’s all a conspiracy! Manto’s conspiracy! Like Herr Hitler, I signalled you all to shout, “Death! Death to you all!” But first, me—me—’ He was extremely worked up. ‘I—who that night got mad at Mummy over the girl with the platinum blonde hair—God knows what kind of Don Juan I took myself for. But, no, getting her wasn’t hard at all. I swear by my youth that in a single kiss I could have sucked all the blessed purity straight out of her! But this was wrong. She was too young, so young, so weak, so characterless … so …’ He looked at me with a questioning glance. ‘Tell me, what would you call her in high-class Urdu, or Farsi, or Arabic? Characterless. Ladies and gentlemen, she was so young, so weak, and so characterless that if she had committed a sin that night, she would either have regretted it for as long as she lived or have forgotten it completely. Regardless, she would never have remembered it as pleasurable. This makes me sad. It was good that Mummy put an end to it right there. Now I’m just about done with this nonsense. I actually intended to deliver a longer speech, but I can’t speak any more. I need another shot.’
He drank another shot. Everyone had been quiet during his speech, and they remained so afterwards. God knows what Mummy was thinking. She looked old and lost in thought. Chaddah seemed suddenly hollow. He wandered here and there, as if looking for some corner of his mind where he could safeguard something. I asked him, ‘What’s wrong, Chaddah?’
Bombay Stories Page 16
