Nooran stifled her sobs.
‘Beybey, don’t let him be too long.’
‘He will hurry for his own sake. If he does not get you he will have to buy a wife and there is not a pice or trinket left with us. He will get you if he wants a wife. Have no fear.’
A vague hope filled Nooran’s being. She felt as if she belonged to the house and the house to her; the charpoy she sat on, the buffalo, Jugga’s mother, all were hers. She could come back even if Jugga failed to turn up. She could tell them she was married. The thought of her father came like a dark cloud over her lunar hopes. She would slip away without telling him. The moon shone again.
‘Beybey, if I get the chance I will come to say “Sat Sri Akal” in the morning. Sat Sri Akal. I must go and pack now.’ Nooran hugged the old woman passionately. ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ she said a little breathlessly again and went out.
Jugga’s mother sat on her charpoy staring into the dark for several hours.
Beena
‘Will any of you have the time to go to the temple today?’ Sabhrai asked.
‘I have to see the Deputy Commissioner first,’ answered her husband. ‘On days like these there is always danger of Hindu-Muslim riots; all magistrates have to be on duty. I will go if I have the time.’
‘I have to be there,’ replied Sher Singh. ‘We have organized a meeting outside the temple.’
‘Visit the temple before you go to your meeting,’ snapped his mother.
‘And,’ added Buta Singh with indulgent pride, ‘don’t say anything which may cause trouble. Remember my position. I do not mind your hobnobbing with these Nationalists—as a matter of fact, it is good to keep in with both sides—but one ought to be cautious.’
‘Oh no, no,’ answered Sher Singh. ‘I know what to say and what not to say.’
It was not customary to consult the girls. Beena was expected to go with her mother unless there were good reasons for not doing so. She knew her only chance of getting away was to bring up the subject while her father was still there. ‘There are only a few weeks left for my exams. I had promised to go to Sita’s house to work with her. We help each other with the preparation.’
‘Why can’t she come here?’ asked Sabhrai. She had been getting more and more difficult about Beena going to Sita’s house. Her sharp tone made Buta Singh react adversely. He came to his daughter’s rescue.
‘Let her go to Sita. There will be nobody in the house today to give her lunch or tea. Sita, I will drop you off at Wazir Chand’s house.’
That ended the argument. Buta Singh’s word was never questioned. The only one left was Champak. Sabhrai was not very concerned with her daughter-in-law’s plans. If she came to the temple, she would not say anything. If she decided to shut herself in her room with her radio at full blast as she often did, she would still say nothing. Nevertheless, Champak felt that the situation demanded some explanation from her. ‘I haven’t washed my hair for a long time. If it dries in time, I will go in the afternoon—if I can find someone to go with. Otherwise I’ll stay at home and put away the Granth after evening prayers.’
Buta Singh looked at his wristwatch. ‘I must be going,’ he announced with a tone of finality and stood up. ‘Get your books and things, Beena.’
Wazir Chand’s home was very much like Buta Singh’s except that it was Hindu instead of Sikh and not so concerned with religion and ritual. As a matter of fact, the only evidence of religion in the house was a large colour print of Krishna whirling a quoit, on the sitting room mantelpiece. Wazir Chand’s wife occasionally put a garland of flowers round it and touched the base of its frame as a mark of respect. She did the same to a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi which was kept discreetly away in the bedroom.
The real ‘God’ in Wazir Chand’s home was the son, Madan. He was a tall, handsome boy in his early twenties. Being the only son, he had been married off as soon as he had finished school and had become a father in his second year at college. He had not made much progress in his studies, but had more than compensated for that shortcoming by his achievements in sports. His promotion from one class to another had to be arranged by the college authorities. He was doing his sixth year at the college and had not yet taken the degree which normally took four. But the mantelpiece of every room in the house displayed an assortment of silver trophies that he had won in athletics and other team games. He had been captain of the University cricket eleven for three years and had played for his province against a visiting English side. His performance at this match had made him a legend in the Punjab. There were few days in the year when the sporting columns of the papers did not carry some reference to his activities. This was a matter of great pride to his parents. They gave in to every one of his whims; they practically worshipped him.
The only thing in common between the tall and broad Madan and his slim, small sister, Sita, was their good looks. He was bold and easy with strangers; she, almost tongue-tied and shy. His obsession for games was matched by her aversion to any form of sport. He avoided books; she spent all her time with them. He had barely scraped through the exams he had passed; she had won the highest scholarship for girls in the University. The combination of the athletic prowess of one and the academic distinction of the other and the looks of both had made them the most sought-after couple in the University circles. It was after several months’ abject admiration and hanging around her that Beena had succeeded in getting to know Sita.
Beena’s anxiety to please Sita made her gushing and enthusiastic about everyone and everything in Wazir Chand’s home. She addressed Sita’s parents in English as ‘Uncle’ and ‘Auntie’. Madan and his wife she addressed as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ in Punjabi. She spent hours playing with their son and teaching him to call her’ Auntie’. Sita was just Sita; but Beena repeated her name as often as she could in every sentence almost as if she feared losing her if she did not.
Madan had just returned from an early morning practice at the nets when Beena came in. His shirt was drenched in sweat and clung to his body displaying a broad hairy chest. Although it was hot, he carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder. Its outside pocket bore the insignia of the University with rows of letters in old Roman embossed in gold thread beneath. He was playing with his son who was trying to walk in his father’s cricket boots. The scene was too overpowering for Beena. She rushed to the child, picked him up and covered him with kisses.
‘Ummm, ummm. Little darling wants to wear Papa’s shoes. Namaste Bhraji.’
‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied Madan without getting up or removing the cigarette from his lips.
Beena hugged the child and wheeled him round and round; her pigtails flew in the air. The child began to whimper. She thrust him into his father’s lap. ‘He likes you more than he likes me. Bhraji, where is Sita and Lila sister and Auntie and Uncle?’
‘Father has gone to see the Deputy Commissioner. Mother is in the kitchen. Sita is studying. Lila is in her room; she is not feeling too well. And yours sincerely is at your service.’ Madan got up and bowed.
Beena ignored his pleasantry. ‘Hai! What’s wrong with Lila sister?’ she asked with exaggerated concern; she frequently used ‘hai’ to express it. ‘Nothing serious, I hope. I must go and see her.’
‘No, no, it’s nothing really; nothing. Just a little out of condition,’ answered Madan. ‘She is in her room.’
Beena picked up the child once more and hurried to Lila’s room. Lila explained that she was not really ill; the feeling of nausea came on only in the mornings. When Beena persisted in her enquiries, Lila patted the back of her hand and said she would understand better when she was married. Beena understood and blushed with embarrassment. She sat with Lila till Sita came to take her away. ‘Madan says he can take us to a matinee show this afternoon. We can work for two or three hours and then go with him. Lilaji, you will be all right by the afternoon, won’t you?’
‘I’d better not go. The stuffy atmosphere of the cinema will make me sick and your broth
er will get cross with me. You two go with him.’
Beena suffered a twinge of conscience. Studies were considered sacred enough to excuse going to the temple. But in her home the cinema was still associated vaguely with sin. The only time the family went to the pictures was to see the life of some saint or other or some story with a religious theme. Regular cinema-goers were contemptuously described as tamasha-lovers. If her mother learned that she had spent the afternoon at a cinema instead of the temple, she would use it as an excuse to stop her from coming to Sita’s house altogether. ‘No, I really could not. I haven’t asked my mother,’ said Beena quickly.
‘She would not object if you came with us. I am sure she would not,’ assured Sita.
‘And yours sincerely is not going to invite you every day,’ added Madan in his half-baked stage manner as he came in. ‘Besides, we won’t tell anyone. We will go in when the show has started and you can cover your face during the intermission.’ He drew his hand across his face to imitate a woman drawing her veil.
‘It’s not as bad as that,’ answered Beena laughing. ‘If I had asked first, it would have been better.’ Before she could check herself in her imaginary flight to freedom she heard herself say: ‘Of course I’ll go with you but we must work first.’
During the time that Beena went over her notes and textbooks in Sita’s room she was bothered by what she would say when she got back. If she said nothing and her parents found out, it would take many months to re-establish her credibility. Perhaps she could mention it casually as something she had been compelled to do. She was seventeen and wasn’t going to be bullied by her illiterate mother any more. The pictures could be instructive; maybe this one would have a religious theme and she could persuade her mother to see it too. By the time they left the house, her mind was a muddle of fear and rebellion.
A tonga was sent for the two girls. They took their seats in the rear while Madan rode on his bicycle behind them. He wore a new silk shirt with short sleeves and carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder; the gold crest and rows of initials glittered in the sun. He kept up a loud conversation with the girls in-between nodding and waving to the many acquaintances he met on the road.
The cinema was crowded. Peasants who had turned up for the Baisakhi festival from neighbouring villages were mulling round the cheaper ticket booths and around the stalls that sold soft drinks. The tonga made its way through the crowd and drove up to the porch. Two cinema assistants rushed to take Madan’s bicycle. He was a regular visitor and had admirers all over the city. Besides, he was the son of a magistrate; and magistrates, policemen, their friends and families, had privileges which went hand in hand with their power.
The manager of the cinema came out to welcome them and show them to their seats. Madan took out his wallet and pulled out a ten-rupee note. The manager caught his hand and pressed the note and wallet back into Madan’s pocket. ‘No question of money,’ he protested. ‘It’s on the house.’ Madan whispered in his ear that the other girl was Buta Singh’s daughter. The manager turned to Beena with an obsequious smile. ‘How is your revered father?’ he asked, rubbing his hands. Beena replied politely that he was well. ‘So glad to hear it. We pray to God he should always remain well. Do convey my respects to him. And any time any of your family wants to come to the cinema, please ring me up. It will be an honour for us—a great honour.’ Beena promised to convey the information to her father.
The party was conducted to a box reserved for VIPs and pressed to have something to eat or drink. The manager withdrew after extracting a promise that his hospitality would be accepted during the intermission.
Madan took his seat between the two girls. He lit a cigarette and the box was soon full of cigarette smoke and the smell of eau de cologne with which he had doused himself.
The lights were switched off and the cries of hawkers of betel leaves, sweetmeats and sherbets, and the roar of hundreds of voices died down. First came a series of coloured slides advertising soaps, hair oils, and films that were to follow. The literate members of the audience read their names loudly in chorus. Then the picture started and the few recalcitrant talkers were silenced by abuses hurled loudly across the hall.
Madan stubbed his cigarette on the floor and lit another one. In the light of the flame he saw his sister completely absorbed in the film. He held his cigarette in his left hand and put his right hand lightly on the arm of Beena’s chair.
Beena’s mind was still uneasy about the consequences of the escapade. She tried to drive away unpleasant thoughts by concentrating on the film and enjoying the feeling of being with Sita and her brother. He looked so dashingly handsome in his silk shirt, flannels, and sports blazer; he smoked with such compelling nonchalance and exuded that heavenly, cool, and clean fragrance of good eau de cologne.
Madan’s hand slipped down the arm of the chair and came in contact with Beena’s elbow. For a moment she held her breath. He seemed to be engrossed in the film and could not have realized how far his hand had travelled. She did not remove her elbow lest the gesture offend him. It was pleasant to have him so close. His hand stayed where it was till the lights came on for the intermission. He casually smoothed his hair and began discussing the film with his sister.
The manager reappeared followed by a relay of bearers carrying trays of soda pop, ice-cream, and potato chips. He started talking to Sita. Madan turned to Beena. ‘You know, your brother and I have become great friends. For so many years we have been in the same University and it is only now that we have got to know each other. He is the most popular man in the students’ circles.’
‘More popular than you, Bhraji? I don’t believe it. We have all seen you play cricket; so has everyone in the world, my God!’
‘Cricket is nothing,’ said Madan with disdain. ‘Our brother, Sher, will go far. He is almost certain to be elected President of the Students’ Union. He is the best candidate and I am getting all my friends to vote for him.’
‘Your name alone should win him the election. Everyone in the city knows you. We were at the match when you scored your century against the English eleven. I … everyone … was so proud of you. Sixer after sixer. Oh, it was wonderful!’
‘It is nothing. You could be a good cricketer if you tried. You have an athletic figure.’
Beena blushed. That was the first time anyone had paid her a compliment, and it was Madan, the Madan. ‘Oh Bhraji, I am no good. I couldn’t see the cricket ball coming towards me at that speed.’
‘Yes, you could. With those eyes of yours you could hit anything for six,’ said Madan, bending close to her to avoid the manager or his sister overhearing.
‘Hai Bhraji, you are really terrible. Making fun of a girl like me.’
The conversation was interrupted by the bearers coming to collect the empty glasses and plates. The manager was still rinsing his hands with invisible soap. He took his leave promising to appear again at the end of the show.
As soon as the lights went out, Madan put his hand on the arm of Beena’s chair. This time she knew it was not an accident. She could hardly believe that anyone, let alone Madan, would want to make a pass at a plain and simple girl like her. It was unbelievably flattering. But he was married and it was obviously wrong. Beena had no doubt about Madan’s intentions as his fingers closed around her elbow. Would he get angry if she withdrew? What would Sita say if she saw? Madan began to caress her arm. Beena did not move. Then his hand brushed against her breast. She shrank away into the farthest corner of her chair. Madan calmly lit another cigarette and took no further notice of her.
When they came out of the cinema, the road as far as one could see was a jostling mass of peasants, tongas, bicycles, and hawkers. Around the ticket booths, men were clustered like bees around a hive. Streams of weary, blinking people poured out from the many exits; newcomers stood around impatiently for their turn to go in.
A tonga was waiting for them in the porch and a cinema attendant had Madan’s bicycle ready. The manager wa
s there bowing, smiling, and still rubbing his hands. He bade them farewell after many reminders that they were to consider the cinema as their own. They went through the crowd with the tonga driver shouting at the pedestrians loitering on the road. Madan cycled slowly behind. Whenever the tonga stopped, he put his foot on the ground and then cycled on with a slight push. Throughout the journey he did not talk to or even look up at Beena.
Beena was dropped home first. She said a hurried ‘namaste’ and disappeared inside the house. Fortunately for her, only Champak was in and she seemed too taken up with the radio programme to bother. Beena went to her room and bolted it from the inside. She flung herself on her bed and lay there in the heat. When it got dark she switched on her table lamp and continued crying on her bed staring blankly at the ceiling.
Champak
Buta Singh’s home had made some concessions to Western notions in the matter of privacy. There were separate bedrooms for everyone, with the married couple having a bathroom of their own. Champak spent as much time as she could in her own room with her radio. She was also given to taking a long time at her bath. On religious holidays, because everyone went out, she stayed at home. She could then stroll about the courtyard in her dressing gown with her hair loose about her shoulders, and she could also sing loudly to herself.
On Baisakhi day, Sabhrai had ordered Mundoo to stay at home to scrub kitchen utensils and heat the water for Champak’s bath. Champak protested there was no need for hot water, but her mother-in-law had her way. ‘Hair washes better with hot water,’ she had insisted.
Champak sulked in her room. She switched on the radio and lay on her bed reading her favourite film magazine. After some time, she flung the magazine on the floor and looked out into the courtyard. Mundoo sat on his haunches scrubbing a big brass pitcher with ash. Beside him, on a smoking hearth, was a large tin canister.
‘Oi Mundoo, is the water hot or not?’
Khushwant Singh's Book of Unforgettable Women Page 15
