Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 1

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Look, I can sleep on the floor,’ I insisted.

  ‘Without a net?... Here on the floor? Are you crazy? The mosquitoes will kill you. We are used to them,’ she said with a slight American twang and sat down on her blanket. ‘I am Carmen. I work in an office and attend evening classes at the university, I am thirty-three and unmarried. But never mind. I am also the social secretary of the YW. Now you tell me about yourself.’

  I did.

  ‘O.K.,’ she said briskly, ‘Good night. It’s very late. Go to bed.’ After which she mumbled her bedtime prayer, crossed herself and immediately went to sleep.

  At daybreak the building woke up. Girls in brightly coloured housecoats made a beeline for the bathrooms. Some strolled in the courtyard, brushing their teeth. The pleasant aroma of strong coffee rose from the verandah.

  ‘Come, I’ll show you the bathroom,’ Carmen said, jumping up from her carpet. I followed her through a musty corridor into a ramshackle cell with a leaky tap and a single peg high up near the skylight. Carmen hurried away towards the kitchen. Next door someone hummed an evocative Spanish air. Standing in the centre of the cracked floor, surrounded by mildewed walls, it occurred to me that all these years this bathroom had existed in this building, in this city, in this damp, sodden back of beyond, absolutely unaware of my existence. And today I found myself in it. It was an unnecessary, foolish kind of thought.

  When I came out after my bath, breakfast was being served in the dining hall. A number of girls had gathered round one of the tables, eagerly waiting for the Unknown Guest. They were Carmen’s friends. Like a bunch of giggly schoolgirls we became friends in no time.

  ‘Now I must ring up my friends,’ I said after finishing coffee.

  Carmen winked. ‘Sure. Now you call your big-shot friends and scram. Get lost. Who cares? Do we care, Bernarda?’ Of course not,’ The girls chorused, as they rose to leave.

  Carmen left for her office. I took out my notebook of addresses and began dialling various numbers: Major General Carlos, who had served with an uncle of mine during the War; Mrs Antonia Costello, millionairess-socialite; and Alphonso, the novelist. I had met them elsewhere.

  ‘Hello...oh, hello. When did you come? Why didn’t you inform us?... Good God, that’s a crumby sort of place.... Wait, I am coming to fetch you....’ All of them seemed to have the same reaction. In the end I rang up Señor Garcia. I had known the señor and his gracious wife in a Western capital where he had served as his country’s ambassador. Their housekeeper told me that the family was away at their house in the hills. She transferred the call there.

  After a while Mrs Antonia Costello arrived in her Mercedes. Entering Carmen’s ‘den’ she looked around and picked up my suitcase. Suddenly I realized that I was not going to desert Carmen and Bernarda and Emillia and Magdelena.

  ‘Let’s leave the luggage here for the moment,’ I said sheepishly.

  ‘But, my dear, you must be so uncomfortable,’ Mrs Costello said in dismay. I hummed and hawed and didn’t quite know how not to shift to her elegant guesthouse in Millionaires’ Row. In the evening when I got back I found Carmen and Bernarda hanging about near the gatehouse window. ‘We have gotton a separate room for you,’ Carmen gleefully announced.

  Across the dining hall another mildewed room with sagging walls contained two narrow beds. On one of them a middle-aged, sad-eyed lady sat smoking king-size Rothmans.

  ‘Hi. I am Mrs Sorel. Catherine Sorel,’ she said, beaming.

  ‘How do you do?’ I beamed back, trying to guess the branch of the Polynesian race to which she belonged. Reclining against a pillow Mrs Sorel at once embarked upon the story of her life.

  ‘I have come here from Guam,’ she said.

  Embarrassedly, I asked the whereabouts of her homeland.

  ‘It’s a small island in the Pacific. A teeny weeny island. Just a wee li’l dot on the map. It’s ruled by America. I,’ she added proudly, ‘am an American citizen.’

  Guam, I repeated to myself. Amazing, how there are so many places in the world, inhabited by people exactly like us.

  ‘My daughter,’ Mrs Sorel continued, ‘has eloped with a no-good, down-and-out, scatterbrained li’l mouse of a violinist. She is here, the so-and-so. I have come to haul her back. She is only seventeen...these modern kids.’ Suddenly she sat up. ‘I have had cancer.’

  ‘Oh,’ I uttered.

  ‘Breast cancer,’ she said, with immense pain in her voice. ‘Only three years ago I was – like everybody else.... Now, see...’ Dramatically she removed the collar of her nightgown. I shuddered.

  Mrs Sorel fell silent, finished her cigarette and lay down to sleep. The moon broke through the window. In the adjoining room Magdelena stopped singing.

  All of a sudden I wanted to break down and have a good cry, or simply face the moon and howl.

  For the whole of the next week I indulged in culture-vulturing. Or I spent the mornings having coffee in the fabulous villas of Señora Costello and her jet-set friends, afternoons in their country club, evenings in glittering restaurants. This must be the pale version of the kind of life lived by the Beautiful People – whoever they are.

  When I returned to the YW late at night the girls eagerly asked me about my splendid activities.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Rosa once said. ‘We belong here but never knew that some folk had so much fun.’

  ‘These outrageously wealthy people,’ Emilia asked earnestly, ‘what do they do with so much dough?’ Emilia taught nursery school. Rosa worked as a stenographer. Bernarda was a college student. Magdelena gave piano lessons. All of them belonged to what is known as the lower middle classes.

  Sunday morning Carmen was getting ready for the Mass. She asked me to look for her black gloves in the cupboard. As I pulled out the drawer with a jerk a teddy bear toppled down from above. I stood on my toes to put it back. The top of the almirah was stacked with toys.

  ‘My son’s playthings,’ Carmen said complacently, combing her hair before the mirror.

  ‘Your son’s?’ I said, surprised. Poor Carmen was an unwed mother.

  In the mirror she saw my reaction and flushed. ‘No, you’re mistaken there.’ Then she laughed gaily and from the dressing table drawer took out magazine clippings of healthy American babies. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I have such an absolute pancake flat nose. Poor ole Nick has no Grecian profile either. Let’s face it, our brat’s nose would look like nothing on earth. So, before he is born I am gonna stare -and stare real hard – at these pictures.’

  ‘You are nuts, Carmen,’ I said, amused, ‘and who is Nick, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about him, shall we?’ she said primly, blushed and frowned by turns, and proceeded to talk about him. ‘I am such a Plain Jane but Nick says, “Carmen, you have a bootiful soul. I love your bootiful soul.” (He likes baby-talk you know, just for the heck of it.) Nick has seen the world and has known so many pretty girls, but he likes poor ole me. And let’s face it, I am ugly.’

  On the way back from the cathedral, walking along the tree-lined arc of the world-famous Bay, Carmen enlightened me a bit on the subject of Nick: he was a surgeon and had gone abroad for advanced studies. That night I returned to Carmen’s den because Mrs Sorel had succeeded in getting hold of her runaway daughter who now slept in her room.

  I was busy tucking in the mosquito net, Carmen once again squatted on the floor. She sat there with the dignity of a contessa.

  ‘Nick...’ she resumed.

  ‘Where is he, at the moment?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t write to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Carmen. God requires a fairly lengthy discussion,’ I said, yawning. ‘And this is no earthly hour to unravel the problems of metaphysics. But why don’t you write to him?’

  ‘I asked you, do you believe in God?’

  ‘Yes...’ I said briefly,


  ‘O.K. Do you write to him?’

  The lights went out. The rose-patterned curtain fluttered and flapped in the breeze. I got up to push it aside.

  ‘Lovely material,’ I remarked casually, returning to bed.

  Carmen had lain down and closed her eyes. At once she got up and spoke slowly, ‘Once Nick and I went on a long drive in the hills...are you listening?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘On the way Nick said, “Let’s call on Señor Lopez.” He was a cabinet minister at the time and a great friend of Nick’s father. In their house I saw this lovely tapestry on a divan. Nick thought the rose pattern was too old-fashioned but I loved it. You see I am an ole-fashioned gal with an ole-fashioned mind...do you remember that Eartha Kitt song?... Absolutely divine.... Anyway, so I said to myself, when we have a home of our own...anyway. Then, afterwards, I saw the same material in this department store and saved a little every month and bought it. Nick said...

  ‘Sentimental little fool, I thought. And at this age! ‘Tell me, Carmen,’ I asked, a little bored by her constant drone, ‘both of you are so much in love. Why on earth didn’t you two get married?’

  ‘For ten long years, she said, in the same flat voice, I had to stay on a far-off island with my father. Earlier, we used to live over here but during the war the rest of my family was killed when the Japs...anyway. Only Dad and I survived. Dad was a schoolteacher. He got tuberculosis. We had been bombed out of our house so I put him in an expensive sanatorium and slogged and gave tuitions to pay for the sanatorium expenses and so on. Went around, from sugar estate to pineapple plantation, teaching maths to stupid brats of the rich.

  ‘It is real sob stuff, my story....’ She laughed apologetically and continued. ‘Then I met Nick at a fiesta at one of the plantations and we fell absolutely madly in love. He wanted to marry me, but, you see, I had to stay on with poor Dad – he had known so much misery in life. Then Nick had to go abroad. After Dad died I came here. Now I am also working for my Master’s degree. Nick wanted to help me out – with dough. But I have a lot of personal pride. His folks are kinda snooty. You know what I mean. If ever I come to know that Nick, too, thinks I am not good enough for him I would never see him again.... Aha, you are dozing. Good night.’

  The next morning we were at breakfast table when Mrs Sorel floated out of her room. She was grinning from ear to ear, for she was returning to Guam the same day and had allowed her daughter to marry her violinist. The suitor – a mousy little man with a toothy smile and no chin – sat in a corner of the verandah, actually twiddling his sandalled toes. There was happiness in the air. The girls were laughing their heads off for no reason at all. I, too, felt elated. This feeling of joy and perfect peace is rare and short-lived and one ought to be grateful for such unusual moments, shouldn’t one?

  Carmen left for her office. A Cadillac arrived at the gate (‘Cadillac! Wow!’ Rosa exclaimed) to take me to Señor Garcia’s palace in the mountains.

  The high whitewashed walls of the Moorish villa shimmered through a green-blue mist. In the porch I was greeted effusively by Señora Maria and the señor. Many of their children and grandchildren had grown up since I saw them last. We spent a hectic weekend. Monday evening I returned to town with Jose, the youngest son, Alicia his wife, and their two children. The senior Garcias and other children followed in the family station wagon.

  Jose stopped the car in front of the city’s five-star hotel. ‘Bye for now. See you tomorrow,’ he said, opening the car door.

  ‘Jose, I am staying at the YW...’ I told him.

  ‘In that dump? Good heavens! Why?’

  ‘Because,’ I said a little irritably, ‘I was told in Tokyo that YWs are the safest places to stay at in this part of the world.’

  ‘But you ought to have come straight to us,’ Jose said with great concern and restarted the engine.

  He had to stop the car at the corner of the lane as the entrance was blocked by a number of jeepneys. The YW was already asleep when I went in. Carmen was sleeping peacefully on her rug. The street lamp shone through the Venetian blinds of the window and faintly illumined the framed print of Carmen’s patron, St Jude. A soft breeze rustled the rose-patterned curtains.

  At four in the morning I tiptoed to the bathroom and as quietly opened the water tap which made a sudden loud noise. Carmen too had got up and was bustling around in the verandah. She had already telephoned for the taxi.

  ‘How was your trip?’ she called. ‘Lovely,’ I replied.

  ‘Some other Beautiful People you visited?’ she asked as I came out.

  I was about to tell her about the Garcias when I suddenly remembered something. Rushing back to my room I took out a Kanjeevaram sari, wrote ‘For your wedding’ on a piece of paper, pinned it to the sari and pushed it under the pillow.

  ‘The cab has come,’ Carmen called from the verandah. We came out. As I got into the taxi it occurred to me that I had not paid the bill. ‘Carmen, you didn’t give me the bill,’ I shouted.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she shouted back from behind the gatehouse window. ‘And listen, you gotta come for the wedding.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, although both of us knew that I could not come back all the way from India.

  Then I left for the airport.

  At the foreign exchange counter I heard Señor Garcia’s gentle voice. He was saying to somebody, ‘Wait a minute, Nick, let me get my cigars.’

  ‘Sure, Dad.’ It was Jose’s voice.

  I turned round, Jose sauntered towards me, grinning widely. ‘We did manage to come on time, didn’t we? Alicia and Mamma...’

  ‘Jose,’ I asked slowly, ‘do you have a nickname too?’

  He looked surprised by an unnecessary question so gravely asked. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Daddy calls me Nick, when he feels extra-affectionate. Why?’

  We proceeded towards the lounge.

  ‘What were you doing in the States, Jose?’ I asked with a sinking feeling.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand. Something complicated in surgery. I told you about it, didn’t I?’

  My feeble ‘of course’ was drowned by the multilingual announcements over the loudspeaker.

  From the tobacconist’s Señor Garcia came rushing towards me. Father and son bade me an affectionate goodbye.

  As the plane taxied round on the runway I caught a flash-like glimpse of the friendly Garcias at the railing, eagerly waving their handkerchiefs.

  Thousands of miles away, on the typhoon-infested eastern seas, there sprawls a lush green archipelago called the Philippines. In a dreary bylane of sprawling Manila, there lives a homely, snub-nosed girl in a dilapidated old building. With the innocence of saints (I know now why her St Jude is called the Patron of the Desperate) she patiently collects teddy bears. And waits....

  (Translated from the Urdu by the author)

  T W E N T Y - T H R E E

  My Aunt Gracie

  QURRATULAIN HYDER

  Nasir Chacha was a pirate catcher. When he was a young man, he used to take his gun and go out into the dark night in his high-powered speedboat. He returned in the early hours and slept till noon.

  He was my father’s boyhood friend and was the son of a nawab of Patna but never deigned to use the title. Only his son’s Goan ayah, Gracie Pereira, insisted on addressing him as Nawab Sahib.

  We had come from Lucknow to spend a month in Bombay with Nasir Chacha and were being looked after with tremendous enthusiasm by Gracie, who had styled herself as the Nawab Sahib’s housekeeper. She was about thirty-five, had been widowed at the age of twenty and had devotedly served Nasir Chacha’s wife who died a few years ago, leaving little Asghar in her care.

  Gracie mothered Asghar to distraction and bossed over the servants. She spoke pidgin English and reigned in the house like an autocrat.

  Gracie, the battle-axe, certainly had a presence. She wore saris of bright colours, which made her look darker. She was sturdy and plain but looked attractive when she grinned from ear to ear, flas
hing her pearly white teeth. Now, my ayah back home was different. She was thin and languid and was always dressed in a snow-white, starched ghagra. She spoke better English and was very very pucca and polite. Gracie was short-tempered, quarrelsome and a chatterbox.

  One morning she volunteered to recount to my mother the story of her life. ‘My husband,’ she began, wiping her face, ‘was a big man, Memsahib. He was assistant cook at Taj, working under English head cook. He died in accident.’ She stopped for a while and continued:

  ‘My brother Patrick, he steward on P & O liner. He also dead. My Papa, Mama, both dead long long time. I had very bad time after my Joe died. Memsahib. When I came to my Memsahib’s service I got roof on my head first time after my Joe’s death.’ She sniffed and wiped her tears with the corner of her purple sari.

  ‘My Memsahib, she God’s own angel. For her sake I am going to look after Asghar Baba and Nawab Sahib till I kick the damn bucket.’

  ‘Gracie,’ said Nasir Chacha that afternoon to my mother, ‘has a heart of gold. But the trouble is that she has become terribly possessive about Asghar, And have you heard the atrocious language he speaks? I send him to the best English school, but at home he has poor old Gracie as his mentor. I could get a highly refined Mughlani-bi from Patna to look after him, but I just don’t have the heart to turn Gracie out. Begum – may her soul rest in peace – on her deathbed literally entrusted the child to Gracie. I don’t know what to do.’

  Frankly, I had no sympathy with Asghar. I could not get on with him, although he was about my age. Gracie had turned him into a thoroughly spoilt brat, and he was also a bully.

  Nasir Chacha and I had become great friends.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he would say in a feigned conspiratorial tone, ‘we go to Juhu. There you wallow in the sea and have lots of ice cream afterwards.’