Aftab: Yes, I’d heard that you’d had something done so that you couldn’t have any more children.
Muhammadi: Who told you that? It wasn’t that at all. My womb and all my lower parts had fallen. I got it put right so that he could get the same pleasure again as he’d got from a newly-married wife. But when a woman has a baby every year how can she stay in good shape? It slipped down again. And then he went at me and threatened me until he got me butchered again. And even then he wasn’t satisfied.
The call to prayer is heard from the mosque nearby.
Aftab: Good heavens, it’s time now for the zuhr* prayer. I was so busy talking that I forgot everything else. (She closes the drawstring bag.) Now I’ll have to say the prayer here before I go. My husband will be expecting me, poor man.
Muhammadi: Well sister, because of you coming I’ve got a lot of things off my chest. You must come a bit more often. I’m ill, I can’t get about any more.
(Calling her servants.) Rahiman! Rahiman! Gulshabo!
Rahiman enters.
Go and see to Badi Begum’s ablutions.†And put down the prayer mat in the little room.
* Domnis: A low caste of singers and dancers who regularly provide entertainment on festive occasions.
* Mirza is a form of address (or reference) to a person of Turkish Mughal descent. It is used not only in formal contexts but in quite informal ones too, where in English one would use the person’s name.
* Achkan: A long coat that buttons up the front to the neck.
†A famous book written around 1901-1903 to teach Muslim women their religious duties. It is still very widely read.
* Maulvi:A Muslim divine, one of whose regular employments is to teach children to read the Quran—‘read’ in the sense of pronouncing the words correctly. The child does not learn what the words mean. Those who can afford it have the maulvi come to the child’s home to do this.
†Panjeri: A sweetmeat made of five ingredients—almonds, cashews, pistachios, semolina and raisins. When anyone has good news to impart to relations and friends the custom is to send sweets to them.
* Muhammadi’s husband.
* Shariat: Muslim law.
* Zuhr: One of the five daily prayers prescribed by Islam; zuhr is recited just after midday.
†Badi Begum: ‘The elder lady’—a polite way of referring to Aftab.
Kalu Bhangi
KRISHAN CHANDER
I have often wanted to write about Kalu Bhangi, but what can one write about him? I have looked at his life from all sorts of angles and tried to assess and understand it, but I could never find anything out of the ordinary on which I could base a story, or even a plain, uninteresting, photographic sketch of him. And yet, I don’t know why, every time I start to write a story I see Kalu Bhangi standing there in my imagination. He smiles at me and asks: ‘Chhote Sahib, won’t you write a story about me? How many years is it since you started writing?’
‘Eight years.’
‘And how many stories have you written?’
‘Sixty—sixty-two. Sixty-two.’
‘Then what’s wrong? Can’t you write one about me, Chhote Sahib? Look how long I’ve waited for you to write about me. I have been a good servant to you all these years—your old sweeper Kalu Bhangi. Why can’t you write about me?’
There is nothing I can say in reply. His life has been so dull and uninteresting that there is simply nothing I can write about it. It’s not that I don’t want to write about him; for ages I’ve really wanted to write about him, but I could never do it, try as I might. And so today too, Kalu Bhangi is standing there in the corner of my mind, holding his old broom, and his big bare knees, his rough, cracked, ungainly feet, his varicose veins standing out on his dried-up legs, his hip-bones sticking out, his hungry belly, his dry, creased, black skin, the dusty hair on his sunken chest, his wizened lips, wide nostrils, wrinkled cheeks, and bald head shining above the dark hollows of his eyes. Many characters have told me their life stories, asserted their importance, impressed upon me their dramatic quality, and disappeared. But Kalu Bhangi is in his old place, standing there in just the same way, holding his old broom. He has seen every character that has come into my mind, watched them weeping and beseeching, loving and hating, sleeping and waking, laughing, making speeches—seen them in every aspect of life, on every level, at every stage from childhood to old age and from old age to death. He has seen every stranger who has peeped through the door, and, seeing that they were coming in, swept their path before them, himself moved to one side as a sweeper should, and stood respectfully by until the story has begun to be written, until it has ended, until both the characters and spectators have taken their leave. But even then Kalu Bhangi has gone on standing there; and now he has simply taken a step forward and come into the centre of my imagination, so that I may see him clearly. His bald plate is shining and an unspoken question is on his lips. I have been looking at him a long time, and I just can’t think what I can write about him. But today this apparition is not to be put off...
I was only seven years old when I first saw Kalu Bhangi. Twenty years later when he died he looked exactly the same. Not the slightest change. The same knees, same feet, same complexion, same face, same bald head, same broken teeth, same broom. His broom always looked as though he had been born with it in his hand, as though it were a part of him. Every day he used to empty the patients’ commodes, sprinkle disinfectant in the dispensary, and then go and sweep out the Doctor Sahib’s and the Compounder* Sahib’s bungalows, after which he would take the Doctor Sahib’s cow and the Compounder Sahib’s goat out to graze. Towards evening he would bring them back to the hospital, tie them up in the cattle-shed, go off to prepare his food, eat it, and go to bed. I watched him at these tasks every day for twenty years—every day without fail. During this whole time he was never ill for so much as a single day, which was something to wonder at—but still not so wonderful that you can write a story about it. Well, I’m writing this story under pressure. I’ve been fobbing him off for eight years, but the old man wouldn’t let me alone. He kept on pressing me to write a story, and that was unfair both to me and to you—to me because now I’m having to write it, and to you because you’re having to read it—this in spite of the fact that there is nothing much in him to justify all this labour. But what can I do? I am compelled to go on writing, though even as I write I keep on thinking,‘What can I write about a life such as his?’ He’s kept cropping up in my imagination continually for the last eight years—God knows why. I can’t see what that proves, except his obstinacy. Even in the days when I was writing romantic stories, painting scenes of silvery moonlight, when my outlook on the world was a very milk-and-watery one—even then Kalu Bhangi was standing there. When I got beyond romanticism, and seeing both the beauty of life and its bestial passions, began to see its falling stars, then too he was there. When I looked down from my balcony and saw the poverty of those who give us our food, and when I saw rivers of blood flowing on the soil of the Punjab and realized that we are savages, then too he was standing on the threshold of my mind, silent and mute. But now I shall surely get rid of him; now he’ll have to go; now I’m writing about him. Please, listen to his dull, flat, uninteresting story, so that I can send him packing and be rid of his unclean presence. If I don’t write about him today and you don’t read about him, he’ll still be there another eight years hence—perhaps, indeed, for as long as I live.
But what bothers me is the difficulty of knowing what to write. Kalu Bhangi’s father and mother were sweepers, and I should think that all his ancestors were sweepers too and lived in this same place for hundreds of years just like him. Kalu Bhangi never got married, never fell in love, never travelled very far—in fact, believe it or not, he never even went out of his own village. All day he would work, and at night he would sleep, and next morning get up again to busy himself with the same tasks. And from his very childhood this is what he had done. Oh yes, there is one quite interesting th
ing about him. He used to love to get some animal, a cow or a buffalo for example, to lick his bald head. I have often seen him at midday under the blue sky, sitting on his heels on the low earthen wall of some field near the hospital in the bright sunshine, with the green velvet carpet of grass behind him, and a cow licking his head, again and again, until the soothing feeling has sent him off to sleep. I used to feel a curious thrill of pleasure whenever I saw him sleeping like this, as though I had caught a glimpse of the drowsy, languid, all-pervading beauty of the universe. Why I don’t know, but never in any other scene have I felt such innocence, such beauty and tranquillity, as I used to feel when I was seven years old and that field used to seem so huge and the sky so blue and clear, and Kalu Bhangi’s bald head shone like glass, and the cow’s tongue, gently licking his head as though to soothe him, made a dreamy rustling sound. I used to feel like getting my own head shaved like his, so that I could sit beneath the cow’s tongue and drop off to sleep like him. In fact once I tried it out, and what a thrashing I got from my father! And Kalu Bhangi got it even worse. My father thrashed him so hard that I was afraid he would be kicked to death, and cried out in alarm. But he suffered no ill effects at all, and next day turned up as usual, broom in hand, to sweep our bungalow.
Kalu Bhangi was very fond of animals. Our cow was devoted to him, and so was the Compounder Sahib’s goat, although goats are very fickle creatures, worse even than women. But Kalu Bhangi was a special case. It was he who watered them, fed them, took them to graze, and tethered them in the cattle-shed at night. They could understand his every sign as well as a man understands a child. On several occasions I have followed him. Whether in the open or on the road, he used to let them loose, but they would still walk along beside him, suiting their pace to his, as though they were three friends out for a walk. If the cow stopped to take a mouthful of green grass, the goat would stop too and begin to nibble the leaves of some bush; and as for Kalu Bhangi, he would pluck a leaf and start eating it—eating it himself and feeding it to the goat too, and talking to himself. Not only to himself; talking to them too. And the two animals would join in the conversation, grumbling, flapping their ears, shuffling their feet, lowering their tails, curvetting—in all sorts of ways. I’m sure I couldn’t understand what they used to talk about. Then after a few moments, Kalu Bhangi would start off again, and the cow too would leave off grazing, and the goat would leave his bush and go along with him. If they came to some little stream or spring, Kalu Bhangi would sit down there and then, or rather lie down, and put his lips to the surface of the water and begin to drink, just like an animal does. And the two animals would begin to drink in just the same way, because after all they weren’t human and didn’t know how to drink from their hand.
Then if Kalu Bhangi lay down on the grass, the goat too would lie down by his legs, drawing her legs in and going down on her knees as though she were saying her prayers; and the cow would sit down near him with such an air that you would think she were his wife and had just finished cooking the dinner. A sort of tranquil, homely air showed itself in every expression which passed over her face, and when she began to chew the cud she looked to me for all the world like some capable housewife settling down to her crotchet or to knitting Kalu Bhangi a pullover.
Besides this cow and goat there was a lame dog with whom Kalu Bhangi was very friendly. Because of his lameness he couldn’t roam about much with other dogs and would usually get the worst of it in a fight. He was always hungry and always getting hurt. Kalu Bhangi was always busy tending his wounds and generally dancing attendance upon him—bathing him in soap and water or getting the ticks out of his coat, or putting ointment on his wounds, or feeding him on bits of dried maize bread. But the dog was a very selfish creature. He’d only show up twice a day, once at midday and once in the evening, when he would eat his meal, get his wounds dressed, and be off again. His visits were always very brief and would absorb all of Kalu Bhangi’s attention. I didn’t like the animal at all, but Kalu Bhangi always received him with great affection.
And then, Kalu Bhangi knew every living creature of the forest. If he saw an insect at his feet his would pick it up and put it on a bush. He would answer the mongoose with its own cry. He knew the call of every bird—the partridge, the wood-pigeon, the parrakeet, the sparrow, and many more. In this respect he was more learned than Rahul Sankrityayan* and, at any rate to a seven-yearold like myself, the superior even of my own parents.
He used to roast corn on the cob beautifully, parching it carefully over a low fire so that every grain would gleam like gold and taste like honey and smell as fragrant and sweet as the fragrance of earth itself. He would roast the cob slowly, calmly, expertly, looking at it repeatedly on every side as though he had known that particular cob for years; he would talk to it like a friend, treat it as gently and kindly and affectionately as though it were some kinsman, as though it were his own brother. Of course other people used to roast cobs, but who could compare with him? Their cobs used to be so half-baked, so tasteless, so altogether ordinary, that they scarcely deserved the name. And yet the self-same cob in Kalu Bhangi’s hands became completely transformed, and would come off the fire like a new bride gleaming with gold in her wedding dress. I think that the cob itself would get an inkling of the great love which Kalu Bhangi bore it, otherwise where could a lifeless thing acquire such charm? I used to thoroughly enjoy the cobs which he prepared, and would eat them secretly with great delight. Once I was caught and got a real good thrashing. So did Kalu Bhangi, poor fellow, but the next day there he was at our bungalow as usual.
Well, that’s all; there’s nothing else of interest to be said about him that I can recollect. I grew up from boyhood to youth and Kalu Bhangi stayed just the same. Now he was of less interest to me; in fact you may say of no interest at all. True, his character occasionally attracted my attention. Those were the days when I had just begun to write, and to help my study of character I would sometimes question him, keeping a fountain-pen and pad by me to take notes.
‘Kalu Bhangi, is there anything special about your life?’
‘How do you mean, Chhote Sahib?’
‘Anything special, out of the ordinary, unusual?’
‘No, Chhote Sahib.’
(A blank so far. Well, never mind. Let’s persevere. Perhaps something may emerge.)
‘All right, tell me then, what do you do with your pay?’
‘What do I do with my pay?’ He would think. I get eight rupees. I spend four rupees on atta, one rupee on salt—one rupee on tobacco—eight annas on tea—four annas on molasses—four annas on spices. How much is that, Chhote Sahib?’
‘Seven rupees.’
‘Yes, seven rupees. And every month I pay the money-lender one rupee. I borrow the money from him to get my clothes made, don’t I? I need two sets a year; a blanket I’ve already got, but still, I need two lots of clothes, don’t I? And Chhote Sahib, if the Bade Sahib would raise my pay to nine rupees, I’d really be in clover.’
‘How so?’
‘I’d get a rupee’s worth of ghee and make maize parathas. I’ve never had maize parathas, master. I’d love to try them.’
Now, I ask you, how can I write a story about his eight rupees?
Then when I got married, when the nights seemed starry and full of joy, and the fragrance of honey and musk and the wild rose came in from the nearby jungle, and you could see the deer leaping and the stars seemed to bend down and whisper in your ear, and someone’s full lips would begin to tremble at the thought of kisses to come—then too I would want to write something about Kalu Bhangi, and I would take a pencil and paper and go and look for him.
‘Kalu Bhangi, haven’t you got married?’
‘No, Chhote Sahib.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m the only sweeper in this district, Chhote Sahib. There’s no other for miles around. So how could I get married?’
Another blind alley. I tried again.‘And don’t you wish you could have done?’ I
hoped this might lead to something.
‘Done what, Sahib?’
‘Don’t you want to be in love with somebody? Perhaps you’ve been in love with someone and that’s why you don’t marry?’
‘What do you mean—been in love with someone, Chhote Sahib?’
‘Well, people fall in love with women.’
Fall in love, Chhote Sahib? They get married, and maybe big people fall in love too, but I’ve never heard of anyone like me falling in love. And as for not getting married, well I’ve told you why I never got married. How could I get married?’
How could I answer that?
‘Don’t you feel sorry, Kalu Bhangi?’
‘What about, Chhote Sahib?’
After that I gave up, and abandoned the idea of writing about him. Eight years ago Kalu Bhangi died. He who had never been ill suddenly fell so seriously ill that he never rose from his sick bed again. He was admitted to the hospital and put in a ward of his own. The compounder would stand as far away as he could when he administered his medicine. An orderly would put his food inside the room and come away. He would clean his own dishes, make his own bed, and dispose of his own stools. And when he died the police saw to the disposal of his body, because he left no heir. He had been with us for twenty years, but of course he was not related to us. And so his last pay-packet too went to the government because there was no one to inherit it. Even on the day he died nothing out of the ordinary happened; the hospital opened, the doctor wrote his prescriptions, the compounder made them up, the patients received their medicine and returned home—a day just like any other day. And just like any other day the hospital closed and we all went home, took our meals in peace, listened to the radio, got into bed and went to sleep. When we got up next morning we heard the police had kindly disposed of Kalu Bhangi’s body, whereupon the Doctor Sahib’s cow and the Compounder Sahib’s goat would neither eat nor drink for two days, but stood outside the ward lowing and bleating uselessly. Well, animals are like that, aren’t they?
A Thousand Yearnings Page 7
