The bride lay stiff and unmoving; her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. She seemed to take no notice of the bed sliding. Keshi stole a glance at her. She turned towards him. Their eyes met. Wasn’t there just a trace of contempt in her eyes? Didn’t she look at him as if he were a little mad? An insane impulse possessed Keshi, his rational faculties vanishing into thin air. He leapt up and with one powerful blow smashed the central pane of the door. The glass splintered and fell on the other side.
The bride sat up with a start. A look of astonishment came on her face as she rose and stood by her husband. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked irritably.
Keshi did not reply. He did not even look at her. He put his arms through the broken pane and undid the latch on the other side. The door yielded as he hit the pane. Holding it with his left hand, he carefully withdrew his right arm. Even so his elbow was scratched.
Blood began to ooze through his torn sleeve.
‘Hai, what you have done!’ The girl cried. At once her voice was full of concern. She looked around to see if she could find something to bandage the cut.
Keshi paid no heed to her. He pushed the door open with both his hands and went in, switching on the light. The room was packed with wedding presents and the dowry furniture — dressing table, almirah, bundles of clothes, trays of sweets and dried fruit. The bed that had been sent in the dowry was also there. It was loaded with all kinds of garments. He picked them up in both his arms and flung them on the couch.
The bride had come in behind him. In her eyes was not bewilderment but fear. Keshi turned round and put his hands on her shoulders. He gazed into her frightened eyes; then drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth. Through her fear, she felt her husband’s indifference change suddenly to passion; she felt his hot breath behind her ears. Slowly her petrified limbs relaxed in his warm embrace and she began to fondle his hair.
Early next morning Keshi’s mother woke up and came to the bridal chamber. Alarmed to see the door open, she tip-toed in and parted the curtain. What she saw, made her gasp. The decorated room was as empty as a mausoleum. Her eye fell on the other door and the splinters of glass on the floor and her alarm grew. Was there a robber in the house? She crept forward to see for herself. On the threshold she stopped dead in surprise. The bridal pair lay fast asleep on the rough unmade bed, with just the cushions of the sofa beneath them.
happy new year
Ajeet Caur
After years of hammering away on typewriters, Kapoor’s fate came to be linked with that of the Hon’ble Minister of the Central Government. Overnight his status was elevated from plain and simple Kapoor to Kapoor Sahib: Personal Assistant to the H.M. (Honourable Minister). In those few hours his chest expanded visibly by a couple of inches. When he strutted down the office corridors his breast puffed out like that of a crested bantam cock, it seemed as if corridors were not broad enough for him. Peons who usually sat on their stools chewing betel leaf or nodding with sleep would spring to attention and salute him as he passed.
The metamorphosis took place a few days before the year was to end. In the long years that Kapoor had been a clerk he had never as much as thought of such trifles as New Year’s Eve or New Year’s day. It had never occurred to him that the year which had been young a little while ago had aged and would soon give up the ghost. The thirty-firsts of December were no different from the thirtieths or thirty-firsts of other months: days of penniless penury. The firsts of January were like the firsts of all other months when he received his month’s salary, paid off his debtors, fulfilled his childrens’ oft-postponed demands for new exercise books, new textbooks, new pairs of socks to replace the old riddled with holes, school uniforms, pencils, etc. It was a strange mixture of sensations: an imperious feeling of governing other peoples’ destinies as well as a diminution of stature which came with the realisation that before half the day was over more than half his salary would be eaten up.
After Kapoor had been transformed into Kapoor Sahib, his life style changed. How the transformation came about was very simple.
A businessman to be more exact, an industrialist who had done business with his Minister, arrived at the Ministerial residence armed with a New Year’s gift. The date, 31st of December, Time: 8 a.m. Mr Kapoor was ensconced in a room in the outer verandah and seated in the chair of the Personal Assistant to the Hon’able Minister.
The Minister took one look at the parcel and remarked: ‘Sorry, I have given up drink. You must know what the Prime Minister’s views on the subject are. PM has ordered...’
The industrialist muttered an oath. Of course, only inside himself, but one which had reference to the Minister’s relations with his own mother. He also felt apprehensive that the bugger might be trying to slip out of his grasp. However, he bared his entire denture in a broad smile and replied: ‘Not at all, sir. I’ll bring something else tomorrow or the day after. But this is New Year’s Eve and I mustn’t leave without an offering for you.’ He opened his briefcase, took out a diary and placed it on the table before the Minister. It was a miserable little specimen printed in the government press. However, in its pages was a wad of other papers also bearing the imprint of the Government of India. The Minister opened the diary, felt the thickness of the wad of notes and remarked: ‘You needn’t have taken this trouble: it wasn’t really necessary for you to put yourself out in this way.’
‘No trouble at all, sir,’ sniggered the industrialist. ‘This is only to buy sweets for the children.’
It can be established that as a person rises in the world, his children’s appetite for sweets and candies increases. The ‘candy box’ in the diary was worth more than a confectioner’s shop crammed with goodies.
The Minister gave a wan smile baring two-and-a-half of his dentures and quietly slipped the diary in the drawer of his table.
The industrialist sighed with relief. It had been a touchand-go affair. As he stepped out of the Minister’s office he handed the parcel he had brought for the Minister to Kapoor. The Personal Assistant to the Minster had also to be kept happy. All this happened so quickly that Kapoor was neither able to protest nor as much as utter a word of thanks. It was the first time in his life that someone had considered him worthy of a gift of any kind.
He was somewhat ill at ease but the industrialist’s voice as he left with a triumphant smile was most reassuring: ‘It’s a small gift for the New Year.’ Kapoor’s hands shook as he put the bottle in a drawer of his table. He felt hot all over his body.
Vashisht, the typist, shared the room with Kapoor. He had been the Minister’s typist and had sat in the same corner for many years. On the very first day that Kapoor came to occupy his new chair, Vashisht had introduced himself with a reassuring smile: ‘Do not worry sir, I will show you all the ropes. Ministers come to go; their job are not permanent. But your humble servant had been confirmed in his post and is quite familiar with the goings-on that take place in this room. I will not let any trouble come near you.’
Vashisht sensed Kapoor’s discomfiture and casually walked up to him as he took a leaf of betel out of a wrap of paper. ‘Congratulation Kapoor Sahib. The first gift is like the ceremony of removing the nose-ring of a bride. You must entertain your humble servants and thus ensure the grace of God. We will always pray for your health.’
Kapoor was novice at the game. He realised he could not drink an entire bottle of Scotch all by himself and was relieved to have someone share it with him: ‘Sure! Sure!’ he replied.
‘Fine! This evening we’ll welcome the New Year in your home as all the burra Sahibs do in big hotels. Singing and embracing each others’ wives at the midnight hour. Can I also invite Gupta on your behalf?’ Gupta was the second typist. He sat in another room which he shared with the two other clerks. Gupta was in charge of receiving and sorting out the mail; the other was responsible for the despatch.
‘Sure!’ replied Kapoor expansively.
Kapoor came home a little earlier than usual carrying the bo
ttle of Scotch in his attache case. He was not prepared for the tongue-lashing his wife gave him. ‘Did you have to bring this destroyer of families in our own home? And drink the evil stuff in the presence of children! New Year? What the hell is this New Year? Today is the thirty-first and there is neither a vegetable nor a scrap of a biscuit nor anything else to eat in the house. I am ashamed of asking the grocer for another loan. Only yesterday I told him I would not be buying anything more this month and asked him to make out our bill so that I could clear his account by the first. We already owe him hundred and eighty-three rupees. If we took another loan your guests will eat it up. They will go back merrily to their homes but what will we live on? You want us to eat at the free kitchen in the gurdwara all of the next month? New Year indeed! These fads are for the idle rich, people who frequent five-star hotels. We have barely enough to fill our bellies and never a paisa to spare. Only I know how I count every paisa to spread it out over thirty days!’
What was poor Kapoor to do? If you put your head in the jaws of a crocodile you cannot hope to escape without a scratch! He tried to explain in his softest tone: ‘My good woman! This New Year is an English festival exactly like our Baisakhi or Diwali.’ But the good woman was beyond reasoning and refused to understand.
Exactly at quarter to eight the two men arrived accompanied by their wives and their brood of children. The women and children went into the inner room. Normally, children could be expected to create an uproar, but being clerks’ offsprings they clung to their mothers’s aprons and whimpered like little pups. In any case it was very cold evening, and their mothers could not get rid of them by ordering them to go out to play.
In the sitting-room the men were gathered around the bottle of Scotch. With it they nibbled salted peanuts. Inside, their women folk compared the prices of potatoes.
‘In any event Kapoor Sahib owed us a feast for his promotion,’ remarked Vashisht. Kapoor expanded like an inflated balloon. However, he pulled a long face and replied, ‘What kind of promotion, yaar! Promotion is when there is an increase in one’s salary. All I have got is increase of work. I used to get to the office at 10.30 in the morning and leave at 4:30 in the evening. Now I have to report at the Minister’s residence at 7.45, and stay upto 8 or 9 p.m. I don’t have to tell you all this.’
‘To hell with the work, Mr Kapoor! Your sphere of influence has increased, your status risen to new heights!’ remarked Gupta. ‘Lots of things happen to people who occupy your chair. You recall that fellow called Sood? Narinder Sood was his full name. He used to sit in the same chair. It must have been about eight years ago when a licence applied for by a Bombay firm got stuck somewhere in the files of the Ministry. The firm’s chaps had been going round and round for weeks but the Minister was like a duck which would not let a drop of water stay on its back. Utterly defeated, these Bombay Johnnies came to Sood’s house and fell at his feet. This Sood fellow performed such jugglery that before the month was over, the licence was cleared. It was entirely Sood’s handiwork. The Bombay people worked out that each visit to Delhi cost them five to six thousand rupees. So why not employ Sood to do the work for them? They persuaded him to resign his job and made him their Resident Executive Director in Delhi. They gave him an air-conditioned office and a spacious apartment. Now Mr. Sood and his pretty private secretary travel in a chauffeur-driven car. They make the rounds of different offices handing out invitation cards for dinner. He dines out every night with officials at swanky hotels like the Oberoi, the Taj or the Maurya. Every month lakhs of rupees pass through his hands; everyday he wears a new suit made of imported textiles.’ Vashisht narrated the story of Sood’s achievements as though they were blood-brothers.
‘And banda parwar (protector of the poor) you must know that every currency note has a little glue stuck to it. As they are passed along from hand to hand some get stuck to one hand, some to another. You are a man of the world, you must know all this,’ said Gupta.
Kapoor’s third eye was beginning to catch a glimmer of light.
‘My good friend, all I know is one basic fact. These eighty-four lakh species of lives that our holy books talk of are in fact one that of a clerk. A clerk goes through all the incarnations: cat, dog, scorpion, turtle, jackal, pig and everything else. And just as a person goes through the eighty-four lakhs of incarnations before he takes birth as a human to rule the world, so once in a millennia a clerk is fortunate enough to be appointed personal assistant to a minister.’ Vashisht was well-versed in the holy texts.
‘That may well be so,’ conceded Kapoor with a halfhearted laugh, ‘but there is no escaping from the fact that the work-load becomes much heavier. Your sister-in-law (my wife) has been going at me for the last ten days.’
‘She is not sparing you!’ sniggered Gupta.
‘Why don’t you put some sense in her head? Tell the good lady that by the grace of the chair you occupy all the four horizons will soon light up. Then she will cook halva full of dry fruits and glasses of milk laced with almonds before she sends to you to your office,’ Vashisht roared happily.
‘This bottle of Scotch is the first ritual — the sort of gift you give a bride when she first unveils her face,’ added Gupta.
The two men treated Kapoor like a neophyte about to have its ears pierced before he is accepted by a Guru as his disciple. ‘When my wife looked at this bottle, it seemed all hell would break loose,’ said the new convert Kapoor.
Vashisht interrupted him by pleading in a mewling voice. ‘Please, please explain all this to our bhabhi. Put some divine wisdom into her head.’
Gupta added his voice in support. Tell her how everyone in the Customs Service is eager to be posted at Palam or Santa Cruz airports and gets all sorts of influential people to speak for him. Every traffic constable, every sales tax officer does his level best to be posted in Chandni Chowk, Sadar or Chawri Bazar. How many shoes do they have to polish with butter before they get these postings? What is more, these big hospitals, when a doctor is put in charge of the wing reserved for VIPs his colleagues are burnt up with envy. Such posts do not go abegging. The work load is undoubtedly doubled. But just think: the bigger the head, the bigger the headache.’
‘Now take the case of the Prime Minister,’ said Vashisht, ‘the poor thing works 18 to 19 hours everyday. During the elections the PM runs from one village to another. What booby prizes does the PM get for all this trouble?’
‘Quite right! All these Ministers and leaders of political parties do not run around for the heck of it. Time will come when your wife will be singing and dancing with joy. She will take your big head in her lap and kiss away all its aches,’ said Vashisht laughing.
The bottle was nearly empty. The peanuts had been nibbled away. Gupta glanced at his watch. ‘Friends, it is nearly 9.30. Let us have something to eat. We will not get any buses after 10.30. And we are not ministers who can order our cars...’ Kapoor got up and went inside. A little later Kapoor’s children trooped in carrying bowls full of lentils cooked in onion and potato curry. The three men ate in the outer room; their wives and children in the room inside. Kapoor’s wife was busy baking chappaties; her children ran around the two rooms serving them hot to the guests. By 10.15 the guests departed.
Kapoor felt like a criminal. He started making the beds in the rooms. He could hear his wife grumbling away as she rinsed the cooking pots and plates. ‘New Year indeed! To hell with such festivals in this biting cold. They may suit white people. We have our own Diwali and Baisakhi, both in fair seasons. Only Lohri is in winter and people light bonfires to warm themselves. And I have to rinse all this garbage with icy cold water. To hell with this New Year.’
At long last the lights were switched off. The children were fast asleep. But Kapoor’s wife went on nagging and grumbling. After a while she said: ‘This New Year be damned! Why doesn’t it fall on the 2nd of January? By then you will have drawn your salary.’
Kapoor kept silent.
His wife’s voice flitted about in the d
ark like a bat going round and round the room. And then found a perch on some wall.
At the hour of midnight when lights in all the five-star hotels were dimmed so that men could embrace and kiss other men’s wives and burst into singing ‘auld lang syne’ to usher in the New Year, the Kapoors were fast asleep with their backs to each other.
one passenger ho!
Santokh Singh Dhir
Baroo, tonga-wallah, rose with the sun, harnessed his horse to the tonga and was the first to arrive at the stand outside the railway station. ‘Anyone for Khanna?’ he shouted, ‘for Khanna, ho!’
Baroo knew that there was little chance of finding a passenger in the early hours of a winter morning. But nothing would daunt him. Even on frosty, winter mornings when his body shivered in the cold, his one thought was to be first at the tonga stand.
Baroo turned his face towards the bazaar and yelled at the top of his voice for a passenger — as if it was just one more he awaited. But not even that one he sought emerged from the bazaar. He turned towards the footpaths leading to different villages and called in the direction of each one. Not a sign of life! As if all the passengers of the world had been bitten by snakes. Baroo joined a hawker sitting by the side of the road and lit a bidi.
His horse showed signs of restlessness. It snorted a couple of times, swished its tail and took three steps on its own. ‘Patience, Son! patience! Won’t be long now! Let’s wait for someone with a full purse and an empty brain and we’ll be away.’ Baroo leapt up, and tied the reins to the shaft.
Land of Five Rivers Page 14
