‘My husband is dead,’ Razia Bano replied curtly. Then went on: ‘So I was telling you...do not listen to gossip. Do not fraternize with the servants. Bombay is a terrible place. And these are evil times. All sorts of things happen here. Don’t get shocked. Also, my nieces are modern girls. A lot of friends come to see them. You understand?’
She did not but nodded vaguely. Mr Sabihuddin’s children also had a lot of school friends. She badly wanted tea.
‘I run a large business,’ Razia Bano continued. ‘Import-export. Various kinds of people come to see me about it. And being an enterprising woman, I also have many enemies. That is why I have had a steel door fixed outside. The police have raided us twice.’
‘The police?’ Shamshad Begum repeated with alarm.
Razia Bano laughed. ‘Don’t worry! The police often bother big business people like us. That’s why, when someone rings the bell, be very careful...’
Shamshad Begum yawned again.
‘I’ll tell the bearer to give you some tea.’
‘Thank you,’ Shamshad Begum said, getting up, and returned to her room.
She said her afternoon and evening prayers. She felt very bored. There was nothing to do. The flat was silent again. She stirred out of the room when the front bell rang. She forgot the instructions of her mistress and rushed to the drawing room. Quickly she opened the door. Two men entered. One was in a silken kurta and snow-white dhoti. There was a flash of diamonds on his fingers. He was very fat. The other was dressed like a mod film star. He was sleek and oily. Both flopped on a sofa and spread their legs.
‘Bai...where is Madam?’ the seth asked.
Shamshad Begum was horrified. What kind of language was this? Primly, she said: ‘Begum Sahiba must be in her room. May I know your august names?’
‘Forget our names! Call the chicks!’
’Sala chhokri log kidher hai?’ the oily one asked. ‘Hamare ko ye time bola.’
Shamshad Begum had heard that, in Bombay, they spoke atrocious Urdu – but this was the limit. She was about to tell them to mind their language and manners when Razia Bano came rushing in. She looked at Shamshad Begum and said: ‘Oh, Bua, please go to your room and rest. Will you?’
‘Yes, I will, thank you,’ Shamshad Begum said simply and trotted back to the corridor.
‘The woman is senile,’ Razia Bano thought irritably and turned to greet the visitors.
Back in her little room, Shamshad Begum unrolled her prayer rug and sat down to pray once again. She thanked the Good Lord who only laughs twice and Who, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, had given her shelter once again in a decent household and provided her with an honest livelihood.
(Translated from the Urdu by the author)
T W E N T Y - F I V E
A Tale of the Hijras
ABDUL JABBAR
Just as vultures spot dead animals and swoop on them, hijras living in the remotest corners of Calcutta -Tollygunge, Kiderpore, Dharamtollah, Tangra, Taltola – get to know when a child is born in one of the villages surrounding the city.
The eunuchs live in small groups and have their own beats. Young girls – both married and unmarried – cluster round them to enjoy their bawdy jokes. The hijras know who among them is pregnant and what is the probable date.
That year the prospect of harvest was very poor. There was practically no rain even in July and August. Villagers had resorted to artificial irrigation and were busy transplanting the seedlings. They believed that it was all due to the sin committed by man in setting foot on the sacred surface of the moon.
At this critical moment a band of hijras appeared from nowhere in the hamlet of Raipur. It was drizzling. The literate son of a well-to-do farmer stood on the ridge of his rice field, reading a newspaper. He wore a raincoat and gumboots. The half-bent figures of his hired labour toiled hard in the field. A transistor set had been covered with a big yam leaf to protect it from the rain. It blared out a popular Tagore song.
Suddenly the hijras materialized. The labourers looked up and began to hoot and howl in glee. Rupa, Bansri and Maina, the hijras, burst into a qawwali. Rupa played the tambourine; the other two took up the refrain. Maina beat the dholak. Bansri clapped, keeping time. Rupa was the masculine one, with a faint shadow on his chin. He had to shave daily. Bansri and Maina had no such problem. They were the ‘feminine types’. All three wore gaudy saris and loads of trinkets and glass bangles. Maina and Rupa also wore gold chains round their waists. Rupa was the leader of the group, husky-voiced, aged about fifty-five. He wore artificial breasts and he painted his lips. Maina was fair and twenty-five. She had dreamy eyes, and seemed to have been born to a respectable family. Her voice was softer than her companions’.
The group came face to face with the elderly village priest who was on his daily round worshipping the family deities of his clients. He jumped up at the ugly sight of the three hijras, and shouted ‘Ram! Ram!’ They were inauspicious.
Rupa laughed. He croaked, ‘We are unlucky faces! Eh? We have spoilt your day, haven’t we, Pandit? By the way, where is Hari Ghoshal’s house? Are we on the right track, Pandit Moshai?’
The priest retained his frozen, dignified silence and walked on. Maina ran after him, lifting her petticoat right upto her thighs. She shouted, ‘Hey, man! Have a dekko -what?’ She didn’t know it was Hari Ghoshal himself.
Rupa should have recognized Hari Ghoshal but didn’t. He had avoided Raipur for many years and that too because of Maina. She had been born in this very village.
They reached the house of Hari Ghoshal. Soon they were surrounded by swarms of children. The elderly wife of Hari Ghoshal came out of the house. Three months ago her youngest daughter had given birth to a son. No sooner was it brought out, Rupa snatched it, threw it up in the air, caught it again like a ping pong ball and handed over the crying infant to its mother Ramala.
Then the three hijras resumed their song-and-dance act. ‘See, the moon has come down to earth. This one is better than the one above. Golden and spotless, born out of sacred wedlock.’
The youthful audience blushed. At times the hijras lifted their saris and exposed their bottoms in order to scare away the male spectators.
The girls encircled the good-looking Maina. Rupa cracked bawdy jokes and teased the married girls. He felt their bellies to see who would be their possible targets in the near future. He tickled the giggling young matrons and restarted the qawwali.
All eyes were now turned towards Maina. Didn’t she resemble Hari Ghoshal’s youngest daughter Ramala? Some of the girls began to whisper.
The hijras sang qawwali rather well. The girls threw them small coins. The hijras were tired. They stopped singing. The crowd gradually melted away.
Hari Ghoshal’s wife stood inside the door, looking vacant. The leader of the hijras waddled up and bowed to her from a distance. ‘Oh Ma! Your grandson shall become a big man. Even the president of India. At least a minister. He will be a tycoon.’
‘You are Rupa, aren’t you?’ Mrs Ghoshal asked. Rupa thought for some time and said: ‘Yes, you seem to remember me.’
Hari Ghoshal’s wife sighed. Then she went in and brought back a basket full of rice, five rupees, some paan, betel nuts and sweets and placed them on the floor of the verandah. Then she leaned against a pillar and began to weep.
‘What has happened, Mother? What makes you weep?’ Ramala asked her, surprised.
‘Ramala, didn’t you notice that fair hijra? I had given birth to one and this very Rupa took the poor baby away. Exactly twenty years ago.’
‘Kamala? My didi?’
Her mother nodded, sobbing, ‘An unwanted creature of God whom society would not have accepted. Nobody gives them shelter in their homes. They have a cursed life. But I am her mother. How can I ever forget her?’
Ramala called Rupa inside. Rupa sat down on the steps and spread one end of his sari to receive the gifts. Mrs Ghoshal wiped her tears. Pouring out the rice she asked Rupa, ‘Be honest. Is not this Maina my K
amala you had snatched away from me?’
‘Of course not. Poor Kamala is dead. Died in an epidemic.’
‘Speak the truth, Rupa! You can’t dupe a mother. I have recognized her.’
Rupa felt cornered. He realized that he should not have come to Raipur. At last he yielded, ‘Yes, Ma, she is your Kamala.’ Mrs Ghoshal burst into tears once again.
Ramala rushed out of the house and dragged in a bewildered Maina who did not know what it was all about. Bansri continued to sit outside, enjoying her beedi.
Hari Ghoshal’s wife ran towards Maina and began to kiss her face, her head, her cheeks. ‘Kamala! My poor Kamala!’ she wailed aloud.
Rupa sat there, a mute spectator, his head bent. His tears drenched the ground. Ramala was also weeping. Maina still had no idea. She was being hugged and crushed like a tender herb tossed by the powerful waves of a natural love she had never known before.
When Mrs Ghoshal stated in unequivocal language that she was her mother and that Rupa had taken her away, Maina realized the truth. She cried bitterly and shrieked and rubbed her face on the ample bosom of her mother.
After a few moments she sat down on the ground and fell into a swoon. Her mother and sister sprinkled cold water on her face.
‘Rupa, all of you have your lunch here and go back in the afternoon. Leave my child alone with us till lunch is ready.’ Mrs Ghoshal said.
Rupa obliged. He came out and disclosed everything to Bansri.
‘May your blockhead be struck by a thunderbolt. Why did you come here at all? Poor Maina has lost her peace of mind for ever. You bloody idiot,’ Bansri hissed.
‘Believe me. Bansri! I thought they will not be able to recognize their child after such a long time.’
‘A mother will not recognize her own child? Is it a Hindi film?’
Rupa realized how stupid he had been. He pressed some coconut fibre into a ball, lighted a small chillum of ganja and started puffing. When some urchins were attracted to this curious sight – smokers in saris – Rupa winked, ‘Like to have a puff?’ The boys pushed one another and ran away, giggling.
Ramala took Maina inside the bedroom. Maina took her tiny nephew on her lap. She realized that had she been a girl like her sister, she too would have had a home, a husband and children. But now she lived in a slum in Tollygunge where she could hardly sleep at night because of the bugs and mosquitoes. Rupa beat her up occasionally. He also earned money by forcing her to be intimate with perverts.
Her mother asked her many things, and wept bitterly and incessantly. Ramala combed her hair and gave her half a dozen saris and blouses.
Hari Ghoshal returned home as usual at noon, after having worshipped all the family deities in his charge. To his utter surprise he found the same group of hijras he had encountered in the morning. Ramala told him all that had happened and dragged Maina before him. Maina was frozen. This was the same elderly gentleman she had chased away with her obscene gestures in the morning.
She hung down her head in shame.
Her father’s voice choked. At last he cleared his throat, and said, ‘Do not be ashamed of your indecent behaviour, my child. It is all due to our Karma. Oh God!’ He could not finish. He shut his eyes with both hands and rushed out to conceal his tears.
At noon, Mrs Ghoshal gave them the heartiest meal they had had in their lifetime.
Dusk was falling. It was time to depart. Maina’s parents and sister started crying once again.
At last Rupa caught hold of Maina’s hand and forcibly dragged her out. Maina had no strength or desire to go, ‘Oh Mother!’ she shouted and bit his hand. Rupa gave her a few blows.
‘Don’t be a damn bloody fool. What will your poor parents do with you? Who will marry you? Has god given you the necessary requisites for marriage? People would have loved and longed for you, if you had them. However beautiful a woman may be, if she is not fit to be a mother, her husband is sure to throw her away, despite all her qualities. Even a prostitute has a place in society. What is our worth? Not even a naya paisa. We are the curse of humanity.’
Maina calmed down. Rupa continued, ‘I was also wellborn like you. In a respectable Muslim family of Murshidabad. They still possess a pucca building there. My elder brother is a thanedar. But would I ever go there? Certainly not. My brother will lose his prestige if I visit him. Your mother loved you only for a few hours. Would she agree to keep you in her house for a couple of months or weeks or even days? Oh no, never! Nobody on earth thinks seriously about the hijras.
‘The language is reluctant to find a suitable word for us. Religion has not thought about us. The scriptures are silent as to where we would go after death – Heaven or Hell? If a murder is committed before us nobody calls us to a court of law to give evidence. Even the courts have not issued any verdict whether we are cent per cent human. But in one sense men are kind and sympathetic to us, for they do not beat or handle us roughly. Probably they are afraid that we might curse them to have sexless children like us. We have no society, no friend, father, mother, husband or wife. We are just hijras.
‘But the naked truth is that we also have bellies which we must fill, we must eat, we also feel the pinch of hunger and thirst, have our ailments, heat and passions.
‘I come from a Muslim family. I used to fast during the Ramzan. I offered tearful prayers. Well, I have stopped all that. What has God done for me? Nothing. There cannot be any religion for us hijras. Don’t you see, Maina – I pose as a female. But for what? Do I get the slightest satisfaction? No!
Anyway, forget it. I am happy that I could show you the faces of your parents. I have been able to pay off an old debt that I owed you.’
Bansri interrupted, ‘But you have not shown me my parents, Rupa.’
‘You were born in a low-caste Hindu family. Your parents died during the famine of ’50.’
All three sat down for a cup of tea in a shop. The moment they entered the shop young men started cracking lewd jokes. The sullen Maina was apparently their main target. Rupa knew how men go haywire when they are roused. They would hardly care about what they get.
A crowd of men could be seen approaching. Young men carried red banners and were shouting slogans. One of them declaimed: ‘The heroes who have now set foot on the moon are none else than those who had showered atom bombs on the Japanese. Those who escaped instant death are still alive – losing their hair, eyes and limbs year after year, like dry autumn leaves. Down with America!’
Rupa nodded in appreciation. Suddenly he also shouted: ‘Inquilab Zindabad!’
But it was greeted not by applause but by jeers. Rupa grew nervous. He realized that even his slogan had no value.
The voice or vote of a hijra has no meaning: they are unwanted even by politicians.
Rupa got up and led his protégés to the bus stop. They boarded the bus for Calcutta.
Maina cast a wistful glance at the fleeting landscape and began to weep. She was leaving her place of birth, her family, everything that she could have called her own. Ramala had told her that they also had a brother who worked as a clerk in Calcutta. She had never met him and would not be able to recognize him even if she saw him. If he met Maina, he would probably shrink away in disgust, just as her father had done that morning in the village lane.
Upon reaching their destination in Calcutta, Rupa bought some chapatis and kababs from a nearby Muslim hotel. Maina left her share untouched. She covered herself from head to foot in one of the saris Ramala had given her. She could still feel the perfumed and tender touch of her mother’s and sister’s affectionate hands.
She heard the grunts of swine who were in search of food in the dirty lane outside. Some prostitutes lived next door. Maina could hear their usual obscenities. There was no sleep for her. Both Rupa and Bansri had finished eating and were snoring.
Suddenly Maina sat up. She had made up her mind! She must escape from this prison. For the first time in her life she felt as though this hovel was a steel cage. Cautiously she pushed the do
or and got out. Her mother and sister had given her a few rupees which she had concealed in the waistband of her petticoat.
She walked quietly for some time till she reached the main street. Then she boarded an Esplanade-bound tram. It was almost empty at this late hour. Nobody took any notice of her. At Esplanade she got down and boarded the last suburban bus that went via Raipur. It was past midnight when she reached her village.
The roads were dark and deserted. She crawled through the bushes and reached her home. On the way, she suffered some nasty falls in the pits and nullahs and was badly bruised. But she couldn’t care less. She had come home.
The entire village was fast asleep. She wanted to call out to her relatives but felt as if some unseen hands were throttling her. Her voice choked. She sat down on the doorsteps. After some time sleep descended on her weary eyes.
Suddenly she woke up. Somebody was coughing. It must be her father. Ramala’s child started crying. She continued to sit there like a statue.
The thick pall of darkness was gradually melting away. She found herself standing on her legs again. She felt that she had undergone a sudden change. She argued with herself. Why did my parents let me come away with Rupa? Now I will be welcome for a couple of days at the most and then will be asked to quit. Nobody will send for Father to perform the puja. I must go away, never to come back again.
She wiped her tears and started walking briskly till she found herself in front of the gushing, noisy river which was then in full tide. She had decided to end her life. Nobody would see her corpse. It would be washed away. Nobody would know or care.
But she felt that she could not muster enough courage to kill herself. Why are people afraid of death, she asked herself and started weeping again. In dawn light she could see some figures at a distance. She came back to reality and instinctively started walking back. She reached the main road and got into a bus going back to Calcutta. The bus stopped at the Esplanade corner. She got down, boarded a tram for Tollygunge and returned to Rupa’s hovel.
Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 1 Page 21
