The thought of crying surfaced only because a few big fat teardrops had collected in her eyes from an excess of fury and despondency. All of a sudden she confronted her eyes: Why are you weeping? Why are you shedding these tears? The answer floated for a few moments in the droplets hesitating on the edge of her lashes. For the longest time Saugandhi kept looking through the liquid screen of her tears off into the space where the seth’s car had vanished.
Thump-thump-thump . . . What was this sound? Where was it coming from? With a start, she scanned the whole area. She couldn’t see anyone around her anywhere. Ah, it was the sound of her own heart, which she had taken for the sputter of a car’s engine. What was the matter with her heart—running so smoothly and then suddenly this thump-thump-thump? Like a needle stuck on a worn-out record that keeps regurgitating the single word ‘stars . . . stars . . .’ at the end of the line ‘I spent the night counting stars’.
The sky was filled with stars. She looked at them and exclaimed, ‘How pretty they look!’ She wanted to think about something else, but as soon as she uttered the word ‘pretty’ a new thought leapt into her mind: ‘Yes, sure, the stars are pretty. But you’re not. You’re ugly. Hideously ugly! Have you forgotten that you were spurned just now?’
Saugandhi, you’re not ugly! And with this thought every one of the countless images of herself that she had contemplated in front of the mirror over the last five years flitted before her eyes. Of course, she didn’t look quite as fresh and vibrant as she had five years ago when she lived with her parents, unencumbered by any cares whatsoever. But she hadn’t exactly become ugly either. She looked like any other woman who always attracted the amorous glances of the men who passed her by. She had all the essential qualities that she thought anyone wanting to spend a few nights with a woman would want to see in her. She was young. She had a shapely figure. When her eyes sometimes fell on her thighs while bathing, she admired their round firmness. She was affable and genial. Hardly any man had come away from her place feeling dissatisfied in these five years. She was friendly and full of compassion. Last Christmas, when she was living in Golpetha, a young man had spent the night with her. In the morning he went into the other room to put on his jacket and found his wallet missing. The poor boy was terribly upset. (Saugandhi’s maid had swiped it.) He had come from Hyderabad to vacation in Bombay. Now he had no money to pay for the return trip. Saugandhi had taken pity on the lad and returned his ten rupees to him.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ she asked every single object that was in front of her: the dimmed gas lamps, the iron lamp posts, the square cobblestones of the sidewalk, and the dislodged gravel from the road. She looked at each of them in turn and then raised her eyes to the sky hanging low overhead. But none returned an answer.
The answer was there inside of her. There was nothing wrong with her, and she knew that. She was, in fact, good. Yet she wanted to hear someone praise her. Have someone, anyone, put his hand on her shoulder right now and just say, ‘Who says you’re bad, Saugandhi? If anyone calls you bad, they must be bad themselves.’ All of this wasn’t even necessary. Just ‘Saugandhi, you’re very good!’ would have sufficed.
Why did she want someone to praise her, she wondered. She hadn’t ever needed to hear this so desperately before—so desperately indeed that today she had even looked at inanimate objects with such solicitous intensity as though hoping to extract from them a confirmation of her goodness. Why was every atom of her being pining to become a ‘mother’? Why was she preparing herself to gather everything on earth into her lap like a mother? And why did she want to wrap herself around the lamp post up ahead, to rest her warm cheek on its frosty surface and take away its chill?
For a moment she felt as though the dim light of the gas lamp, the metal lamp post, the square cobblestones of the sidewalk, in fact everything around her in the still night, was looking at her compassionately. The sky overhead, now a dark grey sheet with numerous holes, seemed to understand her, just as she seemed to understand the meaning of the blinking stars. But why this tension that was churning her inside? Why did she feel like the weather just before the rains? She wanted every pore of her body to burst open and let out whatever was boiling inside. But how could that happen? How?
She was now standing by the red letter box at the end of the street. A strong gust of wind shook the metal flap hanging like a tongue in an open mouth. The ensuing rattle made her look automatically in the direction the car had sped away, but she couldn’t see anything there. How desperately she yearned for the car to approach her once again and . . . and . . .
‘To hell with it! What do I care! No point making my life miserable! Let’s go home and take a long, restful nap. Nothing will be gained by engaging in this kind of thinking. Get moving, Saugandhi, go home and have a mug of cold water, rub on a dab of balm, and doze off. You’ll have a good sleep, absolutely first rate. Everything will be all right. To hell with the seth and his car . . .’
Suddenly she felt light. It was as if she had just emerged from a dip in the refreshingly cool waters of a pond. It was the same lightness she always felt after puja. It caused her steps to falter a few times as she started walking home.
As she was nearing her place, the entire episode shot through her heart like an obdurate pain and spread over her whole being. Her steps began to feel heavy once again and the memory of how a man had sent for her, slapped her with the beam of his torch, and insulted her in the middle of the bazaar a short time ago came back to haunt her and made her feel absolutely miserable. The very thought made her feel as if someone was poking at her ribs with his hard fingers, as though she were a sheep or a goat and he wanted to check whether the animal had any flesh at all. ‘That seth, may God . . .’ Saugandhi thought of cursing him, but stopped short. What would be the point? She would have enjoyed it far more if he had been standing in front of her and she could curse every single part of his being, from top to bottom, using such foul, abrasive language that he would be writhing in agony for the rest of his life. She would have torn her clothes and stood in front of him stark naked, saying, ‘This is what you came for, didn’t you? Here, take it! Take it for free! But whatever I am, whatever lies hidden inside me, you can’t buy it, no one can buy it—not you, not your father, not anyone—not for all the money in the world!’
Ever-changing methods of exacting revenge were insinuating themselves into Saugandhi’s mind. If only she could come face to face with that seth again . . . she would do this to him . . . no, not this, but that . . . avenge herself like this . . . no, like that. But realizing such an encounter was next to impossible, she contented herself with a single invective, a small one, which she wished would stick to the lout’s nose like a pesky fly, never to leave it for as long as he lived.
Absorbed in this back and forth with her inner self, she had climbed up to her second-floor kholi. She took out the key from her bra and reached to unlock the door. The key turned in the empty air. There was no padlock on the door. She gave the door panels a gentle push and heard them creak softly. Someone unlatched the door from the inside. The panels yawned open and she stepped in.
Madho laughed through his moustache. Closing the door after Saugandhi he said, ‘Good, you finally took my advice. An early morning walk is good for your health. If you keep it up, you’ll be cured of your sluggishness. And the back pains that you keep complaining about all the time, they’ll disappear too. Guess you must have walked up to the Victoria Gardens, right?’
Saugandhi didn’t answer, nor did Madho show any desire to press on. When he talked, it never required her participation. They talked only because they thought they had to.
Madho plunked down into the wickerwork chair; its backrest had a big grimy stain left by his heavily oiled hair. He crossed his legs and started stroking his moustache.
Saugandhi took a seat on the bed and said, ‘I was expecting you today.’
Madho lost his bearing. ‘Expecting me?’ he said. ‘How in the world did you know I was co
ming today?’
Her tightly pressed lips parted a little and a wan smile appeared. ‘I dreamt about you tonight. When I woke up, you weren’t there. So I told myself, “Let’s go somewhere for a stroll.” And . . .’
‘And I showed up,’ said Madho, beside himself with delight. ‘So, after all, the sages have said it: Caring hearts reach out for each other. When did you have this dream?’
‘At about four,’ she replied.
Madho got out of the chair, walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. ‘And you know what? I saw you in my dream at around two, in a floral sari, exactly like the one you have on, standing before me, holding, yes, a bag full of money. You put the bag in my lap and said, “Madho, why do you worry? Here, take it. After all my money is your money.” Would you believe it, Saugandhi, I swear by your life, I got up right away, bought my ticket and headed your way. Oh, what can I tell you? I’m in a terrible mess. Somebody has lodged a court case against me for no reason at all. If only I had twenty rupees to bribe the inspector with, I could perhaps buy my way out. You aren’t tired, are you? Come, lie down, I’ll massage your feet. Surely a person feels tired when they’re not used to taking walks. Here, extend your feet towards me.’
Saugandhi lay down, supporting her head on her folded forearms like a pillow and, in a tone that wasn’t her own, said, ‘Madho, who is this rogue suing you? They won’t put you in prison, will they? Just tell me if that might happen . . . What are twenty or thirty rupees? Fifty, even a hundred to warm the hands of the police in such a predicament is worth it. One can make millions as long as one’s life is saved! Enough! You can stop now. I’m really not that tired. Stop massaging and tell me everything. My heart has been thumping violently ever since I heard the word “case”. When do you have to go back?’
Madho smelled liquor on Saugandhi’s breath. He thought the time was right and blurted out, ‘By the afternoon train . . . I’ll have to. If by evening I don’t unload fifty or hundred on the sub-inspector of police . . . No need to give him more, I think fifty will be plenty to do the job.’
‘Fifty it is!’ Saugandhi said calmly, rising slowly from the bed and proceeding quietly towards the wall with the four photographs. The third from the left was Madho’s. He was sitting on a chair in front of a curtain with a large floral print. His arms were stretched out along his thighs and he was holding a rosebud in one hand. Two fat books sat on a tea table nearby. He was so overwhelmed by the thought of being photographed that everything about him was spilling out and screaming: ‘I’m having my picture taken! I’m having my picture taken!’ In the photo he was glaring at the camera so intently it seemed as if he was in the throes of some incredible ordeal at the time.
All of a sudden Saugandhi broke into peals of laughter. It was so sharp and pointed that Madho couldn’t help feeling needles poking deep into his flesh. He got up from the bed and walked over to Saugandhi. ‘Whose picture is making you laugh like this?’
She pointed at the first photograph on the left. ‘His, the city’s sanitary inspector. Just look at his stupid face. He says a rani fell in love with him. A rani—huh! Not with a face like that!’
As she said it she pulled the frame off the wall with such force that even the nail came out and with it a fair chunk of the plaster.
Madho had still not quite gotten over his initial surprise when Saugandhi threw the frame out of the window. It fell down two floors and crashed noisily on to the pavement. ‘When the sweeper woman Rani comes to collect the trash in the morning,’ Saugandhi said through the splintering echo of the glass, ‘she’ll pick up my raja too.’
Once again, a burst of the same sharp, pointed laughter began to spew from her lips, as though she was sharpening a knife blade on it.
Madho smiled. And then he laughed too, ‘Hee-hee-hee . . .’ but with considerable difficulty.
Saugandhi plucked the second frame off the wall and flung that out of the window as well. ‘What’s this saala doing here? No ugly faces are allowed! Isn’t that right, Madho?’
Once again Madho smiled, and then snickered, but with no less difficulty than the time before.
With one hand Saugandhi grabbed the frame that held the photo of some guy flaunting a turban. She stretched out her other hand towards Madho’s frame while he stood there cringing, as if her hand was coming towards him instead. In a split second, the frame with his photo was off the wall and in her hand, nail and all.
Saugandhi let out a booming laugh, exclaimed ‘huh’, and tossed both frames out of the window. When they crashed on the pavement two floors below, Madho felt as though something had exploded into pieces inside him. With tremendous difficulty he laughed and said only, ‘You did well; I didn’t like it either.’
‘Oh, you didn’t like it either?’ she said, edging closer to him. ‘But what I would like to know is this: Is there anything about you that someone could like? Your big fat nose, like a pakora? This hairy forehead? These puffy nostrils? These twisted ears? Your awful breath? Your filthy body? You didn’t like your photo? How could you, since it hid all your faults? Can’t be helped, for such are the times: If you conceal your faults, you’re damned.’
Madho stepped backwards, until he was flat against the wall. Then, injecting some firmness into his voice, he blurted, ‘Looks as though you’re back to turning tricks. I’m telling you for the last time . . .’
Saugandhi interrupted him and finished the rest in his own style: ‘If you ever go back to turning tricks, it will be over between us, and if I ever catch you with another man here, I’ll drag you by your hair and throw you out . . . And yes, I’ll send you this month’s expenses by postal money order as soon as I get back. Now, what’s the rent for this kholi?’
Madho’s head began to spin.
Saugandhi kept going: ‘I’ll tell you . . . fifteen rupees a month for the kholi and ten a night for the use of my body, of which, as you already know, my pimp takes away one quarter. As for the remaining seven and a half, I had promised to give what I have no power to give, and you had come to take what you can’t take. What was there between us? Nothing! Nothing at all, except these ten rupees. So we decided to do something else—something that would make us need each other. Until now it was ten rupees that jingled between us, now it’s fifty. You can hear their jingle, and so can I . . . What have you done to your hair, anyway?’
With a quick movement of her finger, Saugandhi flipped the cap off Madho’s head. He was pissed off. ‘Saugandhi!’ he said sternly.
But she yanked Madho’s handkerchief out of his pocket, sniffed it, and tossed it on the floor. ‘This filthy rag . . . how awfully smelly it is. Throw it out! Come on . . .’
‘Saugandhi!’ Madho yelled.
‘Saugandhi ke bachche!’ she yelled back, even more sharply. ‘Why have you come here in the first place? Why? Does your mother who’ll dish out fifty rupees to you live here? Or are you some strapping young man who’s stolen my heart? You pig, you wretch. Look at you, ordering me around! Am I under your thumb or something? Moocher, what do you think you are? A thief, a pickpocket—what? Why have you come here at this hour? Should I call the police? Whether you have a court case against you in Puna or not, I’ll definitely drag you into one here!’
Intimidated, Madho could only mumble, ‘Saugandhi, what’s come over you?’
‘Who are you to ask, you stinking bastard? Get out of here, or else . . .’
Her screams made her mangy dog, sleeping with his head resting on her weather-beaten chappals, wake up with a start. He got on his feet, raised his snout and began barking, eliciting a bout of hysterical laughter from Saugandhi. Madho was petrified.
When he bent over and reached for his cap, Saugandhi thundered, ‘Don’t you dare touch that . . . Leave it there and get out. As soon as you’re back in Puna, I’ll send it to you by postal money order.’
With another cackle, she plopped down into the wickerwork chair. With his ferocious barks, her mangy dog sent Madho scurrying out of the room and down the
stairs. When the dog returned, wagging his stumpy tail, and sat at her feet flapping his ears, Saugandhi was startled. She felt a terrifying stillness around her, a stillness she had never experienced before. A strange emptiness engulfed everything, and she couldn’t help thinking of a train standing all alone in its metal shed after disgorging every last one of its passengers. This feeling of emptiness which had suddenly arisen weighed heavily on her. She made repeated attempts to fill the void but failed. She was trying to stuff her brain with countless thoughts all at once, but it was like a sieve. As fast as she filled it, everything filtered out.
She sat in the chair for the longest time. When she couldn’t find anything to distract her mind with even after a long and desperate search, she picked up her mangy dog, put him down beside her in the spacious teakwood bed, and went to sleep.
Janki
Just as the racing season was getting under way in Puna, Aziz wrote from Peshawar: ‘I’m sending Janki, an acquaintance of mine. Do find her work in some film company in Puna or Bombay. You’re well connected in the film world. Hope it won’t be too much of a bother for you.’
The timing wasn’t the problem; the problem was that I had never done anything of the kind before. Usually the men who took women to film companies were ones who sought to live off their earnings. So, obviously, the proposition made me quite uneasy. Then I thought, I really shouldn’t disappoint him. He and I had known each other for a long time and he was sending her with such confidence in me. Besides, the thought that the doors of any film company would be open for a young woman reassured me to some degree. Why fret, she would find a job in some film company or other without my help anyway.
My Name Is Radha Page 7
