‘I will, even if you aren’t feeling well, and the swine too,’ he replied with a smile.
She hated the word ‘swine’, took immediate offence to it and often lost her cool. But it was uttered with such endearing honesty that her bitterness was instantly transformed into an indescribable sweetness and she would begin to see how the word ‘swine’ could be filled with genuine affection and love.
The rumour of an imminent war between India and Pakistan had been circulating for quite some time. Actually, almost as soon as Pakistan was established it had been taken for granted that there would definitely be a war, but when was something the inhabitants of the village couldn’t say with any certainty. If anyone asked Karim Dad about it, his short answer invariably was, ‘It will be when it will be. What’s the point of losing sleep over it?’
But whenever Jaina heard about that dreaded event, it knocked the living daylights out of her. She was a peace-loving woman by nature. Even ordinary squabbles made her terribly nervous. Besides, during the previous mayhem she’d been witness to a great deal of carnage and bloodshed. Her own brother, Fazl Ilahi, had been mowed down in one such riot. She would cringe with an unknown fear and ask, ‘Kaimay, what will it be?’
Karim Dad would smile. ‘How would I know? Maybe a boy, maybe a girl.’
Such a cheerful reply made her feel even more helpless. Soon she would forget all about the dreaded war, focusing all her attention on whatever else Karim Dad was saying. He was a strong, fearless man who loved Jaina very much. After buying himself a rifle, he had quickly become an expert marksman. These things kept her spirits up. But now and then, when she was by the waterfront and heard from a terrified girlfriend of the rumours about war being spread by the village folk, she would instantly go into a daze.
One day, Bakhtu the midwife came for Jaina’s daily check-up and brought along the news that the Indians were about to stop the river. Jaina couldn’t understand. She asked, ‘About to stop the river . . . which river?’
‘The one that waters our fields.’
Jaina thought for a while and then said with a smile, ‘Mausi, have you gone mad? Who can stop rivers? They aren’t just any old street drain.’
Rubbing Jaina’s belly gently, Bakhtu replied, ‘Bibi, I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I heard. This information has even appeared in newspapers.’
‘What information?’ Jaina was still finding it hard to believe.
Feeling Jaina’s stomach with her wrinkled hand, the old woman said, ‘The same . . . about stopping the river.’ Then she pulled Jaina’s shirt down over her stomach and said with the confidence of a seasoned obstetrician, ‘God willing, you’ll have your baby in exactly ten days.’
When Karim Dad came home, the first thing Jaina asked him about was this rumour about the river. At first he tried to evade the question, but when she persisted, he said casually, ‘Yes, I’ve heard something like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just that the Hindustan-wallahs will divert the waters of our rivers.’
‘Why?’
‘To ruin our crops,’ Karim Dad replied.
The answer convinced Jaina that rivers could be stopped from flowing. With a feeling of utter despondency she merely said, ‘How cruel they are.’
This time around, Karim Dad took some time to smile. ‘But tell me, did Mausi Bakhtu visit you today?’
‘She did,’ Jaina replied half-heartedly.
‘What did she say?’
‘That the baby will be born exactly ten days from today.’
‘Zindabad!’ Karim Dad cried out boisterously.
Jaina was furious. She muttered, ‘You’re making merry, while only God knows what calamity awaits us.’
Karim Dad got up and left for the chaupal.* Here, practically all the men of the village were crowding around Chaudhry Natthu asking him about this news of cutting off the water to their river. One man was roundly swearing at Pandit Nehru, another was cursing Indians without letting up, a third was persistently denying that the waters of a river could be diverted. There were also some in whose opinion what lay ahead was punishment for their own sins, best averted by collective prayer in the mosque.
Karim Dad sat quietly in a corner listening to their exchange. Chaudhry Natthu was the most effusive among those swearing at the Indians. Karim Dad was shifting so often in his seat that it gave the impression this sort of conversation was making him very nervous. The men were all saying with one voice that cutting off the water was a very nasty act indeed, the height of meanness, downright vile, a most horrid oppression, a sin, the very same conduct as Yazeed’s.
Karim Dad cleared his throat a few times as if preparing to say something. When another volley of the coarsest obscenities rose to the Chaudhry’s mouth, he yelled, ‘Chaudhry, don’t call anyone bad names!’
The swear word for doing something to the lower anatomy of the Indians’ mother caught in the Chaudhry’s throat. He turned around and directed a mighty strange look towards Karim Dad, who, meanwhile, had busied himself arranging his turban on his head. ‘Huh . . . what did you say?’
In a soft but firm voice Karim Dad responded, ‘Just that you shouldn’t swear at anyone.’
The word that was caught in the Chaudhry’s throat now shot out of his mouth with incredible force. He asked sharply, ‘Anyone? Who the hell are they to you?’
Now the Chaudhry addressed the folks gathered in the chaupal. ‘You heard him, didn’t you? He says don’t rebuke anyone. Ask him: Who are they to him?’
With tremendous poise and self-control Karim Dad replied, ‘Who are they to me? Well, they are my enemies.’
Something resembling raucous laughter rose from the Chaudhry’s throat so loudly that the bristles of his moustache flew to either side of his lips from the force. ‘You heard him. They’re his enemies. So we should love them. Right, boy?’
And Karim Dad, in the manner of a deferential boy, answered, ‘No, Chaudhry, I’m not asking you to love them. I only ask that they shouldn’t be called bad names.’
Karim Dad’s bosom buddy Miran Bakhsh, who was sitting right next to him, asked, ‘Why?’
‘What’s the point of it, yaar? They want to make your fields barren and you think that all you need in order to get even with them is a few insults. That isn’t smart, is it? Insults are the recourse of people who have run out of answers.’
‘And you, do you have an answer?’ asked Miran Bakhsh.
‘Whether I have one or not is not the issue,’ Karim Dad said after a pause. ‘This matter concerns tens of thousands, indeed hundreds of thousands. A single person’s answer can’t stand as the answer for everyone. Such matters require a lot of deep thought and deliberation . . . to devise a solid plan of action. They cannot divert the course of the water in one day. It’ll take them years. And, pray tell, is your strategy simply to hurl obscenities at them for a few minutes and let out all your rage?’ He put his hand on Miran Bakhsh’s shoulder and added with genuine affection, ‘All I know, yaar, is that, somehow, even calling Hindustan mean, despicable, vile and tyrannical is wrong.’
‘Listen to this!’ Chaudhry Natthu blurted out instead of Miran Bakhsh.
However, Karim Dad continued his conversation with Miran Bakhsh. ‘It’s foolishness to expect mercy from the enemy. Once the battle has begun, lamenting that the enemy is using large-bore rifles while we have small-bore, that our bombs are fairly small and theirs are much larger . . . Tell me, honestly, is that any kind of complaint? Whether it’s a small knife or a large knife, both can be used to kill. Am I wrong?’
It was the Chaudhry, again, who started thinking, but got discombobulated in a second. ‘But the issue . . .’ he said with irritation, ‘the issue is that they’re stopping the water. They want to starve us to death.’
Karim Dad removed his hand from Miran Bakhsh’s shoulder and spoke directly to the Chaudhry. ‘Chaudhry, when you’ve designated someone as your enemy, why complain that he wants to kill you by means of hunger an
d thirst? Did you think he would send you great big pots of sumptuous pilafs and pitchers of ice-cooled fruit juice from across the border, rather than laying waste to your lush fields and crops? Did you think he would plant gardens for your enjoyment?’
The Chaudhry lost his cool. ‘Damn you, what nonsense is this?’
Miran Bakhsh, too, asked Karim Dad softly, ‘Yes, yaar, what nonsense is this?’
‘It isn’t nonsense, Miran Bakhsha,’ Karim Dad attempted to reason with his friend. ‘Just think a little: In a battle what wouldn’t one opponent do to defeat the other. When a wrestler, all set for the bout, descends into the arena, he has every right to use whatever manoeuvres he sees fit . . .’
‘Makes sense,’ Miran Bakhsh agreed, shaking his shaven head.
Karim Dad smiled. ‘Well then, stopping the river also makes sense. For us it’s an atrocity, but for them it’s entirely admissible.’
‘You call it admissible?’ the Chaudhry butted in. ‘When your tongue is hanging out from thirst, we’ll see whether such an atrocity is still admissible. When your kids are begging for a single morsel of food, will you still call it admissible?’
Karim Dad ran his tongue over his parched lips and replied, ‘Yes, Chaudhry, even then. Why do you only remember that he’s our enemy and conveniently forget that we’re just as much his enemy? If we had it in our power, we would cut his food and water supply too. Now that the enemy is able and about to do that, we’ll certainly have to think of a way to counter his move. And futile name-calling won’t do that. The enemy won’t send rivers of milk flowing your way, Chaudhry Natthu! If he could, he would poison every drop of your water. You call it plain inequity, plain bestiality because you don’t like this way of killing. Isn’t it a bit odd that even before the war has begun you’re setting up conditions, as if it is a marriage contract and you have the freedom to set down your conditions? To tell the enemy, “Don’t kill me by starvation and thirst, but, by all means, kill me with a gun that is of such and such bore.” This, in fact, is the real nonsense. Think about it with a cool head.’
This was all that was needed to send the Chaudhry to the height of his irritation. ‘So bring some ice and cool my head!’
‘This too is my responsibility now.’ Karim Dad laughed tapping Miran Bakhsh on the shoulder, and then got up and walked out of the chaupal.
Just as he was stepping inside the deorhi of his house, he saw Bakhtu coming out. A toothless smile appeared on her lips when she saw Karim Dad.
‘Congratulations, Kaimay. You’ve got a boy, the very image of the moon. Now think about a nice name for him.’
‘Name?’ Karim Dad thought for a moment. ‘Yazeed . . . that’ll do, yes, Yazeed.’
Bakhtu the midwife was stunned, her face dropped, while an overjoyed Karim Dad barged into the house shouting jubilantly. Jaina was lying on the charpoy, looking paler than before, with a cotton-ball of a little baby boy beside her, sucking away at his thumb. Karim Dad looked at the baby with a mix of affection and pride. He tweaked the baby’s cheek playfully with his finger and muttered, ‘Oh my Yazeed!’
A shocked scream escaped from Jaina’s lips, ‘Yazeed?’
Looking closely at his son’s face and its features, Karim Dad affirmed, ‘Yes, Yazeed. That’s his name.’
Jaina’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, ‘What are you saying, Kaimay—Yazeed?’
He smiled. ‘So what’s wrong with it? It’s just a name.’
‘But whose name . . . Think!’ was all she could say.
Karim Dad replied in a grave tone of voice, ‘It isn’t necessary that he should turn out to be the same Yazeed, the one who cut off the water; this one will make it flow again.’
Ram Khilawan
After executing a slew of bedbugs, I was looking through some old papers when, suddenly, Saeed Bhaijan’s photo popped out. An empty frame was lying on the table so I inserted the photo in it and then sat down in a chair and began waiting for the dhobi—my Sunday ritual.
I usually ran out of my stock of clean laundry by Saturday evening. I shouldn’t say ‘stock’ because in those destitute days I barely had enough clothes to maintain the pretence of respectability for six or seven days.
Negotiations for my marriage were under way and this had necessitated that I make many trips to Mahim over the past several Sundays. My dhobi was a decent fellow; whether he got paid or not, he regularly delivered my freshly washed clothes on Sunday at exactly ten o’clock. Still, I was afraid that one day he might get tired of not being paid and sell my clothes in the bazaar where stolen merchandise is traded. I might then be forced to participate in my marriage negotiations without anything on my body, which, obviously, would be highly unseemly.
My kholi was reeking of the stench of dead bedbugs, but just as I was looking for a way to ventilate the room, the dhobi showed up.
He greeted me with ‘Sab, salaam’, opened the bundle of fresh laundry, took out my few items of clothing and deposited them on the table. As he was doing so his eyes fell on Saeed Bhaijan’s photo. He seemed surprised and, upon taking a closer look, let out a startled ‘Huh?’
‘What’s the matter, dhobi?’ I asked.
‘This is Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar,’ he replied, his eyes still riveted on the photo.
‘Why—you know him?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Two brothers. Their bungalow there . . . in Colaba. Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar. Washed their clothes.’
This must have been two years ago, I concluded. Before they left for the Fiji islands, my elder brothers Saeed Hasan and Muhammad Hasan had practised law for about a year in Bombay. I said to him, ‘You mean two years ago?’
He again nodded vigorously. ‘When Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar leaving, he gave me pagri, dhoti, kurta, all new. Both very good. One had beard . . . very big.’ He indicated the length of the beard with his hand and, pointing at Saeed Bhaijan’s photo, continued, ‘This one younger. Had three bawa log, boy and girl . . . played with me lot. He had big bungalow . . . very big . . . in Colaba.’
‘Dhobi, they’re my brothers,’ I told him.
He made a strange sound, as if he was perplexed, ‘Huh? Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar?’
Attempting to allay his confusion I explained, ‘This is Saeed Hasan Bhaijan’s photo. The one with the beard is Muhammad Hasan—our eldest brother.’
The dhobi gawked at me and then looked around my kholi, taking notice of the filth in the dingy little room that had only a table, a chair and a cot made of gunnysack meshing that was full of bedbugs, and no electric light. He was having difficulty believing that I was Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar’s youngest brother. But when I related certain things about Saeed Bhaijan he shook his head and said, ‘Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar lived in bungalow; you live in kholi.’
‘This is how the world is,’ I said philosophically. ‘Not all fingers of the hand are alike.’
‘Yes, Sab, you speak truth.’ With that he picked up his bundle and made to leave. I remembered about paying my account. I had only eight annas in my pocket, hardly enough even for the fare to and from Mahim for my marriage negotiations. I asked him to hold on, just so he would know my intentions were good, and said, ‘Dhobi, you’re keeping the account? God knows how many washes I owe you for.’
He adjusted the fold of his dhoti around his crotch area and said, ‘Sab, don’t keep account. Washed Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar clothes for whole year. Took whatever he gave. Don’t know what account is.’
He left and I started to get ready for Mahim.
The negotiations were successful. I got married. My situation also improved so I moved from my nine-rupees-a-month kholi on Sekend Pir Khan Street to a flat on Clare Road at thirty-five rupees per month and started paying the dhobi regularly.
He was happy that my situation was now relatively better so he said to my wife, ‘Begum Sab, Sab’s brother Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar big man. Lived there, in Colaba. When left, gave me pagri, dhoti, kurta. Your sab become big man one day.’
&
nbsp; I had already told my wife about the photo incident and the magnanimity with which the dhobi had treated me in my impoverished days. He took whatever I gave him whenever I gave it and never complained or made a fuss. But the dhobi’s indifference to keeping an account of the wash soon began to get on my wife’s nerves. ‘Look,’ I said to her, ‘he’s been washing my clothes for four years now; he’s never kept an account.’
‘Why would he, indeed, when this way he can charge double, even quadruple.’
‘How?’
‘You don’t know,’ she said, ‘they take advantage of the ones who don’t have wives to watch over them.’
Almost every month she squabbled with the dhobi about not keeping an account, and each time he answered with his characteristic simplicity, ‘Begum Sab, don’t know how keep account. Don’t lie to you. Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar, your sab’s brother, worked for him whole year. His Begum Sab say, “Dhobi, you get this much,” I say, “Fine.”’
One month a total of two hundred and fifty items of clothing were given to him to wash. Just to test his honesty my wife said to him, ‘Dhobi, you washed sixty pieces this month.’
‘Fine. Begum Sab, know you won’t lie to me.’
My wife paid him for sixty pieces. He thanked her with a salaam, touching the money to his forehead. As he was leaving, she stopped him, ‘Wait, dhobi, it was not sixty, but two hundred and fifty items. Here, take the rest of your money. I was just joking.’
His only answer was ‘Begum Sab, you won’t lie to me.’ He touched the additional money to his forehead, said salaam, and went on his way.
I moved to Delhi two years after my marriage, lived there for a year and a half and then decided to return to Bombay where I found accommodation in Mahim. We went through four dhobis in three months. They were dishonest and cantankerous. A veritable argument broke out after each load of washing. Either it fell short of the number of items or the quality of the washing was atrocious. We started to miss our old dhobi. We had nearly given up hope of finding a good dhobi when one day our old dhobi showed up out of the blue. ‘I saw Sab in bus one day and said myself, “How can that be? Sab moved Delhi.” I inquired in Byekhalla.* Press-wallah told look for you here in Mahim. Sab’s friend live nearby. I asked him and here I am.’
My Name Is Radha Page 19
