He broke out laughing and answered, ‘Nothing—the thing is that today the whiskey isn’t kicking in.’ But his laughter was spiritless.
Vankatre pushed Thelma aside and made me sit down next to him. Soon enough, he began praising his father who he said had been a very accomplished man who had held audiences spellbound with his harmonium playing. Then he mentioned his wife’s beauty and how his father had selected this girl for him to marry when he was still a child. When the Bengali music director, Sen’s, name came up, he said, ‘Mr Manto, he was a very bad man. He said he was a student of Khan Sahib Abdul Karim Khan, but that was a lie, an utter lie. Actually, he was some Bengali pimp’s student.’
It was two in the morning, and Chaddah was sullen. He carelessly pushed aside Kitty, stepped forward, slapped Vankatre’s pumpkin-shaped head and said, ‘Stop talking nonsense. Get up and sing something. But watch out if you sing a classical raag …’
Vankatre began to sing rightaway, but his voice wasn’t good and the notes weren’t crisp. But whatever he sang, he sang very sincerely. In Malkos he sang two or three film songs that made everyone sad. Mummy and Chaddah looked at each other and then turned away. Gharib Nawaz was so touched that tears sprang from his eyes, and Chaddah laughed loudly and said, ‘People from Hyderabad have weak tear ducts—they start leaking from time to time!’
Gharib Nawaz wiped away his tears and began to dance with Elma. Vankatre put a record on the gramophone’s turntable and set the needle down. The song was an oldie. Chaddah picked up Mummy again and cavorted around the room, and his voice became hoarse, like those singing women who ruin their voices by wailing away at weddings.
This tumult lasted for two more hours, and Mummy had fallen silent. But then she turned to Chaddah and said, ‘Okay, that’s enough!’
Chaddah raised a bottle to his lips. He drained it, threw it to the side and said to me, ‘Let’s go, Manto, let’s go.’
I got up. I wanted to say goodbye to Mummy, but Chaddah pulled me away, ‘Today no one will say goodbye.’
We were leaving when I heard Vankatre begin to cry. I said to Chaddah, ‘Wait, what’s going on?’ But he pushed me ahead and said, ‘That bastard’s tear ducts are defective too.’
On the way home Chaddah didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask him about the strange party, but he said, ‘I’m dead tired.’ Once we got back to Sayeedah Cottage, he lay down on his bed and immediately fell asleep.
I woke the next morning and went to the bathroom. When I came out, I saw Gharib Nawaz next to the garage’s canvas curtain. He was crying, and when he saw me, he wiped away his tears and started to walk away. But I went up to him and asked why he was crying. He said, ‘Mummy left.’
‘Where has she gone?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then he turned toward the street.
Chaddah was lying on his bed. It looked as though he had not slept at all. When I asked him about Mummy, he smiled and said, ‘She’s gone. She had to leave Pune on the morning train.’
‘Why?’
Chaddah was bitter. ‘The government didn’t like her being around. They didn’t like the way she looked. They were against her parties. The police wanted to exploit her. They wanted to call her ‘mum’ and use her as a madam. There was an investigation into her activities, and finally, the police convinced the government and forced her to leave the city. They forced her out. If she was a prostitute, a madam, if her existence was a menace to society, then they should have killed her. Why did they tell her—the quote-unquote filth of Pune!—that she could go wherever she pleased as long as it wasn’t here?’ Chaddah laughed loudly but then fell silent. He began again in an emotional voice, ‘I’m sorry, Manto. With this “filth” someone pure has left, the one who set me on the right path that night. But I shouldn’t be sorry. She’s left Pune, and yet wherever she ends up, there’ll be young men like me who have the same depraved passions. I entrust my Mummy to them. Long live Mummy! Long live …’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got to find Gharib Nawaz. He must be weak from crying. These Hyderabadis have real weak tear ducts. They spring leaks from time to time.’
I noticed tears in Chaddah’s eyes. They floated there like corpses on water.
SIRAJ
DHUNDHU was outside the Iranian restaurant across from the small park near the Nagpada Police Station, and he was leaning against the electricity pole that he manned from sunset until four in the morning. I don’t know his real name but everyone called him Dhundhu, which was fitting because his job was to find girls that satisfied his customers’ varied tastes. He had been a pimp for about ten years and in that time he had pimped thousands of girls of every religion, race, and temperament.
Since the beginning, he had been working from the same pole outside the Iranian restaurant across from the small park. It had become his symbol, so much so that the two were inseparable in my mind. Whenever I went by the pole and saw the white chuna lime and red kattha betel stains where people had wiped their fingers, I mistook it for Dhundhu chewing throat lozenges and betel paan.
Dhundhu was tall. The pole was too, and a mess of wires coiled at its top. One wire extended far across to another pole, where it merged with the entanglement of wires there. Another wire looped across to a building, and yet another went to a store. It seemed that this pole commanded a large area, and that its influence radiated out through other poles to encompass the entire city.
The Telephone Department had installed a box on the pole so that from time to time they could check to see if the wires were working. I often thought that Dhundhu was also a type of box, one there next to the pole to collect information about men’s sexual desires. He knew all the rich men, both those in the surrounding neighbourhoods and in the far-flung ones, men who from time to time (or always) wanted to have sex, either to check if their plumbing still worked or to relieve stress.
He also knew all the girls in the trade. He knew everything about their bodies, as well as their temperaments—he knew very well which one was right for which customer at which time. There was only one, Siraj, whom he couldn’t figure out.
Dhundhu had said to me many times, ‘The bitch’s crazy. Manto Sahib, I don’t understand her. She’s very moody. Sometimes she’s all fire, and sometimes she’s like ice. She cracks up laughing, and then suddenly she starts crying. The bitch can’t get along with anyone. She fights with every trick. I’ve told her many times, “Look, straighten up, or go back to wherever you came from. Your clothes are rags. You have hardly any money for food. You know, fighting and cheating’s not the way to get ahead.” But she’s a real live one. She doesn’t listen to anyone.’
I had seen Siraj once or twice. She was really skinny but beautiful, and her prominent eyes overshadowed every other feature of her oval face. When I saw her for the first time on Clare Road, I was puzzled. I wanted to tell her eyes, ‘Excuse me, please move aside a little so I can see Siraj.’ Needless to say, it didn’t happen.
She was small, and her body was like a carafe and her spirit was like liquor so strong that someone had added water, although this adulteration strangely didn’t make the liquid any less intoxicating but merely more abundant. Her body radiated allure.
Seeing her, I could guess she was upset. Her matted hair, sharp nose, clenched lips, and fingernails—which looked like the pointy tips of cartographers’ pencils—advertised her irritable disposition. She seemed upset at Dhundhu, at the pole, at the customers he brought to her, but also at her big eyes and at her thin, long fingers, perhaps because she wanted to use them like cartographers employ their pencils to make something fine and yet she couldn’t accomplish this. But this is the impression of a short story writer who in describing a tiny facial mole can make it seem as large as the sang-e-aswad in Mecca.
Listen to what Dhundhu had to say about her. One day he told me, ‘Manto Sahib, Siraj, that bitch, got into a fight with a trick again today. I don’t know what good deed God was rewarding me for, maybe it’s just that I’m friends with the officers a
t the Nagpada Police Station. Anyway, thank God for small favours because otherwise I would certainly have been locked up. She made such a scene. I kept thinking, “Oh my God, oh my God, this is it.” ’
‘What happened?’
‘The same as always.’ Then he continued, ‘Afterwards I cursed my parents for having brought me into the world. Over and over I said to myself, “You bastard, you know what she’s like—why bother? Is she your mother or sister?” I don’t get her, Manto Sahib.’
We were sitting in the Iranian restaurant. Dhundhu poured his coffee-mixed tea into his saucer and slurped it down. Then he said, ‘Actually, the thing is I’ve started to feel for her.’
‘Why?’
‘Who knows why. Hell, if I knew, wouldn’t I try to stop?’ He turned his cup upside down in his saucer and said, ‘You’ve heard, right? She’s still a virgin.’
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘A virgin!’
‘I swear.’
‘No, no, Dhundhu,’ I said, trying to get him to reconsider.
My disbelief upset him and he said, ‘I’m not lying to you, Manto Sahib. She’s really a virgin. Want to bet?’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Why?’ Dhundhu asked full of confidence. ‘Girls like Siraj can spend their entire lives as prostitutes and never get laid. The bitch doesn’t let anyone touch her. I don’t know that much about her, but I do know she’s Punjabi. She was living with a madam on Lamington Road until she got kicked out for fighting with her tricks. She had managed to stay there for two or three months only because there were so many other girls. But, Manto Sahib, no one’s going to feed you for free forever! The madam kicked her out with no more than what she was wearing, and she went to live with another madam on Faras Road. But she didn’t listen to anyone there either, and she lost her shit in front of a trick. She stayed there for two or three months. But the bitch is still full of fire. Who’s going to take the time to cool her off? God save her. Anyway, she went to live in a hotel in Khetwadi, but she made a scene there too. The manager got so fed up with her that he sent her packing. What should I say, Manto Sahib? The bitch doesn’t think about food. Her clothes are full of lice, and she doesn’t wash her hair for two months or more at a time. If she gets a joint or two from somewhere, she smokes them right up or goes to stand near some hotel so that she can listen to the film songs filtering out.’
These details are enough. I don’t want to tell you what I thought because it’s not relevant to the story. Just to string the conversation along, I asked, ‘If she doesn’t like what she’s doing, then why don’t you send her back? I’ll even buy the ticket.’
‘Manto Sahib, it’s not about the fucking money!’
‘So why don’t you send her back?’
Dhundhu fell silent. He took a cigarette stub from behind his ear, lit it, and blew the smoke strongly through his nostrils. ‘I don’t want her to go.’
Then I understood. ‘You love her?’
Dhundhu reacted immediately. ‘How can you say things like that, Manto Sahib?’ He pulled on his earlobes to show he was telling the truth. ‘I swear on the Koran that I’ve never had any of those dirty thoughts. I only …’ He stopped. ‘I only like her a little.’
‘Why?’
Dhundhu gave the best answer possible. ‘Because … because she’s not like the others. All the other girls worship money—those are the bitches to watch out for. But this girl, she’s really different. When I go get her, she never refuses. We agree on a price. We get into a taxi or the tram. But, Manto Sahib, tricks come for pleasure. They spend a little money and so they want to feel her up. Naturally they go for her breasts. Then she goes crazy. She starts hitting. If the guy’s not the fighting sort, he leaves immediately. If he’s drunk—or a bastard—then all hell breaks loose. I always have to go clean up her mess, give the guy his money back and grovel for forgiveness. I swear on the Koran I’d do this only for Siraj. And, Manto Sahib, I swear my business has been cut in half because of this bitch.’
I don’t want to tell you what I thought about Siraj, and yet what Dhundhu said didn’t square with my impression of her.
One day it occurred to me that I should meet Siraj on my own. She lived near Byculla Station in an extremely dirty neighbourhood dotted with garbage heaps that served as an open toilet. The city had built tin shacks there for the poor, and I won’t mention the nearby high-rises because they have nothing to do with this story, only that in this world there will always be the rich and the poor.
Dhundhu had told me where her shack was, and I went to find it, feeling self-conscious about my nice clothes.
Anyway, I went. There was a goat tied up outside, and it began to bleat as soon as it saw me. An old woman came out, propping herself up with a cane, just like in the old stories when an old madam emerges from some hellhole. I was just about to turn away when I saw a pair of large eyes looking out from behind a sackcloth curtain full of holes. Her eyes looked sad, and I looked over her face and got angry. I don’t know what she had been doing inside, but when she saw me she immediately came out, not even bothering to look at the old woman, and asked, ‘How did you find me?’
‘I wanted to meet you.’
‘Come in.’
‘No, come with me.’
When she heard this, the horrid old woman said coldly, ‘It’ll be ten rupees.’
I got out my wallet and gave the old woman the money. Then I said, ‘Come on, Siraj.’
For a moment Siraj’s large eyes relented. Her face opened up and again I saw how beautiful she was: it was a reserved beauty, a preserved beauty, like something protected for centuries in a grave, and I felt almost like I was in Egypt ready to excavate the old treasures there.
I don’t want to get into the details, but Siraj was with me at a hotel. She was sitting in her filthy clothes right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop looking at her eyes. They seemed to protect not just her face but her entire being—they cut her off from me and I had no idea what she was thinking. I had already given the old woman her money, but I gave Siraj forty rupees more. I wanted her to fight with me in the way I had heard she fought with others, and so I didn’t say anything complimentary. And at the same time her eyes were frighteningly intense and penetrating, as though they could not only see right through me but through everyone.
She said nothing. In order to provoke her, I was going to have to force myself to do something nasty, and so I drank four shots of whisky. Then I came on to her in the offensive way that an ordinary trick would, but she didn’t do anything to stop me. Then I did something very bad. I thought it would make her explode, but I was surprised to see it only calmed her. She got up and said, ‘Get me a joint.’
‘How about a drink?’
‘No, I want a joint.’
I got her a joint, and she smoked it like a real addict. When she looked at me again, her eyes had lost their effect, and her face seemed like a ransacked empire, a ravaged country. There was a sense of desolation in everything about her, but what had brought it about? She seemed like a city attacked by invaders, a city so new that its walls, built up to only a yard in height, were left in incomplete ruins.
I was confused, so confused that it’s best not to remember. I didn’t want to know whether Siraj was a virgin or not, and yet I caught a glimpse of something in her sad and glassy eyes that was beyond description. I wanted to talk to her, but she wasn’t interested at all. I wanted her to fight with me, but she disappointed me here too. I took her back to her house and went home.
Dhundhu was very angry when he found out about my secret mission. His feelings of friendship, as well as his sense of professionalism, were badly injured. He didn’t give me a chance to explain but said, ‘Manto Sahib, I didn’t expect this from you.’ Then he walked off.
When I didn’t see him at his spot the next evening, I thought he might be sick, but he wasn’t there the next day either.
A week passed. I thought of Dhundhu each morning and evening when
I passed by the pole. I also went to look for Siraj in the filthy neighbourhood next to Byculla Station, but I found only the old madam. I asked about Siraj, and she tried instead to entice me in a sickening manner. Through her toothless grin she said, ‘She’s gone, but there are others. Do you want me to get one for you?’
I wondered why Dhundhu and Siraj were missing, and just after my secret meeting. I wasn’t worried about whether I would see them again but only puzzled about their whereabouts. I didn’t think they were in love. Dhundhu was above these things—he had a wife and three kids and loved them very much. But how was it that they disappeared at the same time?
I thought Dhundhu might have suddenly decided that Siraj should go home. Before he had been reluctant to consider this, but perhaps he had decided she should.
A month went by.
Then one evening I saw Dhundhu next to his pole, and I felt as though the electricity had come back after a long power outage, as though the pole had come alive and the telephone box too. Even the tangled wires seemed to be whispering in every direction. I walked up to him and he smiled.
We went to the Iranian restaurant. I didn’t make him explain anything, and he ordered a coffee-tea mixture and a cup of tea for me. Then he positioned himself as though he were about to tell me something important, and yet instead he said, ‘So what’s new, Manto Sahib?’
‘What’s there to say, Dhundhu? Life goes on.’
Dhundhu smiled. ‘Isn’t that the truth—life goes on and will keep going on. But, hell, it’s strange how life does that. To tell you the truth, everything about this world is strange.’
‘I agree.’
The tea came and we started to drink. Dhundhu poured coffee-mixed tea into his saucer and said, ‘Manto Sahib, Siraj told me everything. She said, “Your rich friend is crazy.” ’
I laughed. ‘Why?’
Dhundhu answered, ‘This is what she said, “He took me to a hotel and gave me some money. But he didn’t act like a rich man.”‘
Bombay Stories Page 17
