No words were spoken. Words were superfluous. We lay on our mattresses and let the sun dry up the oil on our bodies. We had been at it for almost three hours.
After worshipping the sun with our bodies in our own unique way, we went downstairs to cleanse ourselves of the oil on them. I fetched two loofahs and gave her one to run over her limbs after she had soaped herself. There is nothing better than a loofah to scrape oil or dirt off one’s body. I felt cleaner than ever before. I got into my woollen dressing gown, switched on the electric radiator and lit a cigar. Molly joined me a few minutes later and lit a cigarette.
‘That was heavenly,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Never known anything better in my life,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But let’s not try to repeat it.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘This kind of lovemaking in which every part of your body makes love to every part of your partner’s is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Dwell on it in your mind, never try to relive it in action. It will be a great disappointment.’
Nooran
Juggut Singh had been gone from his home about an hour. He had only left when the sound of the night goods train told him that it would now be safe to go. For him, as for the dacoits, the arrival of the train that night was a signal. At the first distant rumble, he slipped quietly off his charpoy and picked up his turban and wrapped it round his head. Then he tiptoed across the courtyard to the haystack and fished out a spear. He tiptoed back to his bed, picked up his shoes, and crept towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’
Juggut Singh stopped. It was his mother.
‘To the fields,’ he said. ‘Last night wild pigs did a lot of damage.’
‘Pigs!’ his mother said. ‘Don’t try to be clever. Have you forgotten already that you are on probation—that it is forbidden for you to leave the village after sunset? And with a spear! Enemies will see you. They will report you. They will send you back to jail.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Then who will look after the crops and the cattle?’
‘I will be back soon,’ Juggut Singh said. ‘There is nothing to worry about. Everyone in the village is asleep.’
‘No,’ his mother said. She wailed again.
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘It is you who will wake the neighbours. Be quiet and there will be no trouble.’
‘Go! Go wherever you want to go. If you want to jump in a well, jump. If you want to hang like your father, go and hang. It is my lot to weep. My kismet,’ she added, slapping her forehead, ‘it is all written there.’
Juggut Singh opened the door and looked on both sides. There was no one about. He walked along the walls till he got to the end of the lane near the pond. He could see the grey forms of a couple of adjutant storks slowly pacing up and down in the mud looking for frogs. They paused in their search. Juggut Singh stood still against the wall till the storks were reassured, then went off the footpath across the fields towards the river. He crossed the dry sand bed till he got to the stream. He stuck his spear in the ground with the blade pointing upward, then stretched out on the sand. He lay on his back and gazed at the stars. A meteor shot across the Milky Way, trailing a silver path across the blue-black sky. Suddenly, a hand was placed on his eyes.
‘Guess who?’
Juggut Singh stretched out his hands over his head and behind him, groping; the girl dodged them. Starting with the hand on his eyes, Juggut Singh felt his way up from the arm to the shoulder and then on to the face. He caressed the girl’s cheeks, eyes and nose that his hands knew so well. He tried to play with her lips to induce them to kiss his fingers. The girl opened her mouth and bit him fiercely. Juggut Singh jerked his hand away. With a quick movement he caught the girl’s head in both his hands and brought her face over to his. Then he slipped his arms under her waist and hoisted her into the air above him with her arms and legs kicking about like a crab. He turned her about till his arms ached. He brought her down flat upon him limb to limb.
The girl slapped him on the face.
‘You put your hands on the person of a strange woman! Have you not mother or sister in your home? Have you no shame? No wonder the police have got you on their register as a bad character. I will also tell the Inspector Sahib that you are a budmash.
‘I am only a budmash with you, Nooro. We should both be locked up in the same cell.’
‘You have learned to talk too much. I will have to look for another man.’
Juggut Singh crossed his arms behind the girl’s back and crushed her till she could not talk or breathe. Every time she started to speak he tightened his arms round her and her words got stuck in her throat. She gave up and put her exhausted face against his. He laid her beside him with her head nestling in the hollow of his left arm. With his right hand hand he stroked her hair and face.
The goods train engine whistled twice and with a lot of groaning and creaking began to puff its way towards the bridge. The storks flew up from the pond with shrill cries and came towards the river. From the river they flew back to the pond, calling alternately, long after the train had gone over the bridge and its puff-puffs had died into silence.
Juggut Singh’s caresses became lustful. His hand strayed from the girl’s face to her breasts and her waist. She caught it and put it back on her face. His breathing became slow and sensuous. His hand wandered again and brushed against her breasts as if by mistake. The girl slapped it and put it away. Juggut Singh stretched his left arm that lay under the girl’s head and caught her reproving hand. Her other arm was already under him. She was defenceless.
‘No! No! No! Let go of my hand! No! I will never speak to you again.’ She shook her head violently from side to side, trying to avoid his hungry mouth.
Juggut Singh slipped his hand inside her shirt and felt the contours of her unguarded breasts. They became taut. The nipples became hard and leathery. His rough hands gently moved from her breasts to her navel. The skin on her belly came up in goose flesh.
The girl continued to wriggle and protest.
‘No! No! No! Please! May Allah’s curse fall on you. Let go of my hand. I will never meet you again if you behave like this.’
Juggut Singh’s searching hand found one end of the cord of her trousers. He pulled it with a jerk.
‘No,’ cried the girl hoarsely.
A shot rang through the night. The storks flew up from the pond calling to each other. Crows started cawing in the keekar trees. Juggut Singh paused and looked up into the darkness towards the village. The girl quietly extricated herself from his hold and adjusted her dress. The crows settled back on the trees. The storks flew away across the river. Only the dogs barked.
‘It sounded like a gunshot,’ she said nervously, trying to keep Juggut Singh from renewing his lovemaking. ‘Wasn’t it from the village?’
‘I don’t know. Why are you trying to run away? It is all quiet now.’ Juggut Singh pulled her down beside him.
‘This is no time for jesting. There is murder in the village. My father will get up and want to know where I have gone. I must get back at once.’
‘No, you will not. I won’t let you. You can say you were with a girl friend.’
‘Don’t talk like a stupid peasant. How …’ Juggut Singh shut her mouth with his. He bore upon her with his enormous weight. Before she could free her arms he ripped open the cord of her trousers once again.
‘Let me go. Let me …’
She could not struggle against Juggut Singh’s brute force. She did not particularly want to. Her world was narrowed to the rhythmic sound of breathing and the warm smell of dusky skins raised to fever heat. His lips slobbered over her eyes and cheeks. His tongue sought the insides of her ears. In a state of frenzy she dug her nails into his thinly bearded cheeks and bit his nose. The stars above her went into a mad whirl and then came back to their places like a merry-go-round slowly coming to a stop. Life came back to its cooler, lower level. She felt the dead weight of the lifeless man, the sand grits in h
er hair, the breeze trespassing on her naked limbs, the censorious stare of the myriad of stars. She pushed Juggut Singh away. He lay down beside her.
‘That is all you want. And you get it. You are just a peasant. Always wanting to sow your seed. Even if the world were going to hell you would want to do that. Even when guns are being fired in the village. Wouldn’t you?’ she nagged.
‘Nobody is firing any guns. Just your imagination,’ answered Juggut Singh wearily, without looking at her.
Faint cries of wailing wafted across to the riverside. The couple sat up to listen. Two shots rang out in quick succession. The crows flew out of the keekars, cawing furiously.
The girl began to cry.
‘Something is happening in the village. My father will wake up and know I have gone out. He will kill me.’
Juggut Singh was not listening to her. He did not know what to do. If his absence from the village was discovered, he would be in trouble with the police. That did not bother him as much as the trouble the girl would be in. She might not come again. She was saying so: ‘I will never come to see you again. If Allah forgives me this time, I will never do it again.’
‘Will you shut up or do I have to smack your face?’
The girl began to sob. She found it hard to believe this was the same man who had been making love to her a moment ago.
‘Quiet! There is someone coming,’ whispered Juggut Singh, putting his heavy hand over her mouth.
The couple lay still, peering into the dark. Five men carrying guns and spears passed within a few yards of them. They had uncovered their faces and were talking.
‘Dakoo! Do you know them?’ the girl asked in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ Juggut said, ‘The one with the torch is Malli.’ His face went tight. ‘That incestuous lover of his sister! I’ve told him a thousand times this is no time for dacoities. And now he has brought his gang to my village! I will settle this with him.’
The dacoits went up to the river and then downstream towards the ford a couple of miles to the south. A pair of lapwings pierced the still night with startled cries: ‘Teet-tittee-tittee-whoot, tee-tee-whoot, tee-tee-whoot, tit-tittee-whoot.’
‘Will you report them to the police?’
Juggut Sing sniggered. ‘Let us get back before they miss me in the village.’
The pair walked back towards Mano Majra, the man in front, the girl a few paces behind him. They could hear the sound of wailing and the barking of dogs. Women were shouting to each other across the roofs. The whole village seemed to be awake. Juggut Singh stopped near the pond and turned around to speak to the girl.
‘Nooro, will you come tomorrow?’ he asked, pleading.
‘You think of tomorrow and I am bothered about my life. You have your good time even when I am murdered.’
‘No one can harm you while I live. No one in Mano Majra can raise his eyebrows at you and get away from Jugga. I am not a budmash for nothing,’ said he haughtily. ‘You tell me tomorrow what happens or the day after tomorrow when all this—whatever it is—is over. After the goods train?’
‘No! No! No!’ answered the girl. ‘What will I say to my father now? This noise is bound to have woken him.
‘Just say you had gone out. Your stomach was upset or something like that. You heard the firing and were hiding till the dacoits had left. Will you come the day after tomorrow then?’
‘No,’ she repeated, this time a little less emphatically. The excuse might work. Just as well her father was almost blind. He would not see her silk shirt, nor the antimony in her eyes. Nooran walked away into the darkness, swearing she would never come again.
Juggut Singh went up the lane to his house. The door was open. Several villagers were in the courtyard talking to his mother. He turned around quietly and made his way back to the river.
Before going round to other Muslim homes, Imam Baksh went to his own hut attached to the mosque. Nooran was already in bed. An oil lamp burned in a niche in the wall.
‘Nooro, Nooro,’ he shouted, shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Get up, Nooro.’
The girl opened her eyes. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Get up and pack. We have to go away tomorrow morning,’ he announced dramatically.
‘Go away? Where?’
‘I don’t know … Pakistan!’
The girl sat up with a jerk. ‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ she said defiantly.
Imam Baksh pretended he had not heard. ‘Put all the clothes in the trunks and the cooking utensils in a gunny bag. Also take something for the buffalo. We will have to take her too.’
‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ the girl repeated, fiercely.
‘You may not want to go, but they will throw you out. All Muslims are leaving for the camp tomorrow.’
‘Who will throw us out? This is our village. Are the police and the government dead?’
‘Don’t be silly, girl. Do as you are told. Hundreds of thousands of people are going to Pakistan and as many coming out. Those who stay behind are killed. Hurry up and pack. I have to go and tell the others that they must get ready.’
Imam Baksh left the girl sitting up in bed. Nooran rubbed her face with her hands and stared at the wall. She did not know what to do. She could spend the night out and come back when all the others had gone. But she could not do it alone; and it was raining. Her only chance was Jugga. Malli had been released, maybe Jugga had also come home. She knew that was not true, but the hope persisted and it gave her something to do.
Nooran went out in the rain. She passed many people in the lanes, going about with gunny bags covering their heads and shoulders. The whole village was awake. In most houses she could see the dim flickers of oil lamps. Some were packing; others were helping them to pack. Most just talked with their friends. The women sat on the floors hugging each other and crying. It was as though there had been a death in every home.
Nooran shook the door of Jugga’s house. The chain on the other side rattled but there was no response. In the grey light she noticed the door was bolted from the outside. She undid the iron ring and went in. Jugga’s mother was out, probably visiting some Muslim friends. There was no light at all. Nooran sat down on a charpoy. She did not want to face Jugga’s mother alone nor did she want to go back home. She hoped something would happen—something that would make Jugga walk in. She sat and waited and hoped.
For an hour Nooran watched the grey shadows of clouds chasing each other. It drizzled and poured and poured and drizzled alternately. She heard the sound of footsteps cautiously picking their way through the muddy lane. They stopped outside the door. Someone shook the door.
‘Who is it?’ asked an old woman’s voice.
Nooran lost her nerve; she did not move.
‘Who is it?’ demanded the voice angrily. ‘Why don’t you speak?’
Nooran stood up and mumbled indistinctly, ‘Beybey.’
The old woman stepped in and quickly shut the door behind her.
‘Jugga! Jugga, is it you?’ she whispered. ‘Have they let you off?’
‘No, Beybey, it is I—Nooran. Chacha Imam Baksh’s daughter,’ answered the girl timidly.
‘Nooro? What brings you here at this hour?’ the old woman asked angrily.
‘Has Jugga come back?’
‘What have you to do with Jugga?’ his mother snapped. ‘You have sent him to jail. You have made him a budmash. Does your father know you go visiting strangers’ houses at midnight like a tart?’
Nooran began to cry. ‘We are going away tomorrow.’
That did not soften the old woman’s heart.
‘What relation are you to us that you want to come to see us? You can go where you like.’
Nooran played her last card. ‘I cannot leave. Jugga has promised to marry me.’
‘Get out, you bitch!’ the old woman hissed, ‘You, a Muslim weaver’s daughter, marry a Sikh peasant! Get out, or I will go and tell your father and the whole village. Go to Pakistan! Leave my Jugga alone.’
Nooran felt heavy and lifeless. ‘All right, Beybey, I will go. Don’t be angry with me. When Jugga comes back just tell him I came to say “Sat Sri Akal”.’ The girl went down on her knees, clasped the old woman’s legs and began to sob. ‘Beybey, I am going away and will never come back again. Don’t be harsh to me just when I am leaving.’
Jugga’s mother stood stiff, without a trace of emotion on her face. Inside, she felt a little weak and soft. ‘I will tell Jugga.’
Nooran stopped crying. Her sobs came at long intervals. She still held on to Jugga’s mother. Her head sank lower and lower till it touched the old woman’s feet.
‘Beybey.’
‘What have you to say now?’ She had a premonition of what was coming.
‘Beybey.’
‘Beybey! Beybey! Why don’t you say something?’ asked the woman, pushing Nooran away. ‘What is it?’
The girl swallowed the spittle in her mouth.
‘Beybey, I have Jugga’s child inside me. If I go to Pakistan they will kill it when they know it has a Sikh father.’
The old woman let Nooran’s head drop back on her feet. Nooran clutched them hard and began to cry again.
‘How long have you had it?’
‘I have just found out. It is the second month.’
Jugga’s mother helped Nooran up and the two sat down on the charpoy. Nooran stopped sobbing.
‘I cannot keep you here,’ said the old woman at last. ‘I have enough trouble with the police already. When all this is over and Jugga comes back, he will go and get you from wherever you are. Does your father know?’
‘No! If he finds out he will marry me off to someone or murder me.’ She started crying again.
‘Oh, stop this whining,’ commanded the old woman sternly. ‘Why didn’t you think of it when you were at the mischief? I have already told you, Jugga will get you as soon as he is out.’
Khushwant Singh's Book of Unforgettable Women Page 14
