Sultana interrupted him. ‘For God’s sake do something. Steal. Commit armed robbery. But no matter what else you do, bring me the material for a black shalwar. I’ve got a qamis of white material. I’ll get it dyed black. And I’ve got a white muslin dupatta—the one you brought me for Diwali. I’ll get that dyed along with the shirt. All I need is the black shalwar, and some way or other you’ve got to produce it. Look, I’m putting you on oath. Some way or other you’ve got to get it.’
Khuda Bakhsh sat up. ‘What’s the point of going on and on about it? Where am I going to get it? I haven’t even the money for opium.’
‘I don’t care what you do. You’re to bring me four and a half yards of cloth for a black shalwar.’
‘Pray that God sends you two or three clients this very night.’
‘But you won’t do anything. You can get together enough money if you want to. Before the war you could get satin for twelve to fourteen annas a yard. Now they charge one and a quarter rupees a yard. What will four and a half yards cost?’
‘Alright, if you say so, I’ll find some way.’ He got up.‘And now forget it. I’m going to bring in some food.’
Food arrived. They sat together and somehow got it down, and then went to bed. In the morning Khuda Bakhsh went off to the holy man in the Old Fort. Sultana was left alone. She lay down for a while, slept, and wandered from room to room. After her midday meal she got out her muslin dupatta and her white qamis and took them to the laundryman downstairs to get them dyed. He did dyeing as well as washing.
Having done that she came back and read film magazines. These published the stories and songs of the films she had seen. She fell asleep while she was reading, and when she woke up she could see that it was already four o’clock because the sun had reached the drain in the yard. She took a bath, wrapped a warm sheet around her and went out onto the balcony. She stood there for the best part of an hour. It was evening now and the lamps were being lit. The road below began to look quite splendid. It grew cold, but Sultana didn’t mind. For a long time she watched the tongas and the cars going by. Suddenly she caught sight of Shankar. When he reached the point in the street beneath her flat he raised his head, looked at her and smiled. Sultana, without meaning to, beckoned to him to come up.
When he came up she felt very worried. She didn’t know what to say to him. Actually she’d beckoned to him without thinking. Shankar was completely at ease, as though he were in his own home. He put a bolster under his head and lay down, just as he had done on the occasion when he had first come. When after quite a long time Sultana had still not said anything he said,‘You can invite me up a hundred times and send me away again a hundred times. Things like that never upset me.’
Sultana didn’t know what to do. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sit down; no one’s telling you to go.’
Shankar smiled.‘Does that mean you accept my conditions?’
She laughed.‘What conditions? Are you marrying me then?’
‘Marriage? Neither you nor I will ever get married. These conventions are not for us. Don’t talk such nonsense. Say something to the point.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘You’re a woman. Say something to keep me happy for a while. There’s more to life in this world than buying and selling.’
In her heart of hearts Sultana had now accepted him. ‘Speak plainly,’ she said.‘What do you want of me?’
‘The same as the others want.’ He sat up.
‘Then what’s the difference between you and them?’
‘There’s no difference between me and you. But there’s all the difference in the world between me and them. There are plenty of questions you shouldn’t ask; you should know the answers without asking.’
Sultana did her best for a while to understand what he’d said, and then said,‘I understand.’
‘Tell me then. What are you going to do?’
‘You’ve won. I’ve lost. But I tell you to this day no one else has ever accepted a condition like that.’
‘You’re wrong... In this very quarter you’ll find women who are so simple that they won’t believe that any woman can accept the degradation that you regularly accept without even feeling it. They don’t believe it, but there are thousands of you...Your name’s Sultana, isn’t it?’
He got up and started laughing. ‘And mine’s Shankar. What ridiculous names! Come on, let’s go in.’
When they came back they were both laughing—God knows what at. When he was about to go Sultana said to him,‘Shankar, will you do something for me?’
‘First tell me what it is,’ he said.
She felt a bit embarrassed. ‘You’ll say I’m trying to make you pay, but... ‘
‘Go on, tell me. What are you stopping for?’
Sultana plucked up courage and said, ‘The thing is that Muharram is coming and I haven’t got enough money to get myself a black shalwar made. You know all about the trouble we’re in. I had a qamis and a dupatta, and I’ve taken them only today to be dyed.’
Shankar said,‘You want me to give you money so that you can get this black shalwar made?’
‘No,’ she said quickly.‘What I mean is that if you can, you should get one made for me.’
He smiled. ‘It’s only by luck that I ever have anything in my pocket. But anyway I’ll do what I can. You’ll get your shalwar on the first day of Muharram. So? Are you happy now?’Then he looked at Sultana’s earrings and said,‘Can you give me those earrings?’
Sultana laughed. ‘What do you want with them?’ she said. ‘They’re ordinary silver earrings. Worth five rupees at the most.’
Shankar laughed and said, I asked you for the earrings. I didn’t ask you what they cost. Are you going to give me them or not?’
‘Take them,’ she said, and she took them off and gave them to him. She regretted it afterwards, but Shankar had already gone.
Sultana didn’t believe for a moment that Shankar would fulfil his promise, but eight days later the first day of Muharram came, and at nine in the morning there was a knock at the door. Sultana opened it to find Shankar standing there. He gave her something wrapped in newspaper and said,‘It’s a black satin shalwar. Just take a look at it. It might be a bit too long. I’m off.’
And without saying anything else to her he went. His trousers were creased and his hair dishevelled. It looked as though he had just got up and come straight here. Sultana opened the package. It was a black shalwar, exactly like the one she’d seen Mukhtar wearing. Sultana was delighted. She had the shalwar, Shankar had kept his promise, and all the regret that she’d felt at the loss of her earrings and the ‘bargain’ she’d made was banished.
At midday she went down to get her dyed qamis and dupatta from the laundryman. She had just put on all three things when there was a knock at the door. Sultana opened it and Mukhtar came in. She looked at Sultana’s clothes and said,‘It looks as though your qamis and dupatta have been dyed; but the shalwar looks new. When did you get it made?’
Sultana said,‘The tailor has just brought it.’And as she said the words she noticed Mukhtar’s earrings. ‘Where did you get the earrings?’ she said.
‘I got them only today,’ said Mukhtar.
And for a little while neither of them could say anything.
* The Viceroy.
†George VI.
‡ i.e. for prostitutes.
* Muharram: The month of the year in which Muslims mourn the martyrdom of Husain, the grandson of the Prophet.
Love and Prudence
SHAUKAT THANAVI
It was about this time that Cupid must needs select me as a target on which to practice his skills. As a matter of fact strange feelings had been developing in my heart about a girl who was closely related to me; and now I declared them, and told my cousin Arshad Thanavi, who had now also become my brother-in-law—my sister’s husband—of my choice. Actually the girl was his sister. Arshad did not evince any deep interest in the matter, probably because
he did not think I was serious about it; he thought it was perhaps a passing, childish emotion which would not last. But the strength of my feeling grew from day to day. I don’t know about her, poor girl, but I had reached the conviction that, more likely than not, this feeling which had arisen in my heart was what they call love, and that if the outcome should not be what I wanted it to be, then God alone knew what would become of me. What had really happened was this: most of my friends were already in love, and were always telling one another about it. One would show us a love letter proving how his beloved was restless with longing for him. Another would read out the letter he was writing to his beloved or to his fiancée. Another used to carry around with him a dried flower—‘My beloved fixed this to my coat with her own hands as a memento of her love for me.’ One of my friends was so deeply in love that he was looking after an extremely repulsive, emaciated cat, and when he was asked to explain this manifestation of his sound taste, would explain that it had belonged to his kind beloved, but that when she had moved from the neighbourhood she had entrusted its care to him, so that he might experience the love Majnu felt for his beloved Laila’s dog.* In such circumstances how could I be content not to be in love? I already felt on friendly and affectionate terms with my cousin and my regard for her was completely sincere, but when these feelings took the form of love, it was undoubtedly under the influence of fashion that they did. Accordingly, I informed my friends of my love, and they showed an interest in it, because we would get together to sigh and weep over our sad state.
The nightingale laments the rose’s coldness
And we lament the wounds upon our heart.â€
My cousin, poor girl, is dead now, and may God grant me His forgiveness and not put her soul to shame, because she was absolutely without blame in the matter. All the foolishness was mine. I didn’t want to be seen to be outrun by any of my friends in this race, and so I forged letters in disguised handwriting in reply to mine, and showed them to my bosom friends, whose love letters I had seen. My object was simply to show that I too could hold up my head among them, that they must understand that I too was someone with whom beautiful girls could be infatuated—though the fact is that only a beautiful girl whose eyesight was seriously defective could be infatuated with me. The poor girl of whom I am speaking had not the remotest idea that her promising young cousin and candidate for marriage was composing forged letters as documentary proof of her passion for him. The most she knew was that I wanted to be married to her. So I went on forging these letters, and at the same time pestering my elder sister and her husband Arshad to see to it that our marriage was arranged.
In due course my father came to know of this. He refused outright to agree to the match. But, I ask you, do we true lovers succumb to such threats? I had decided once and for all that I should be married, and married to her; and if I could not marry her then I would never marry anyone. Things reached a stage where my mother tried to reason with me, and I summoned up all my courage and said that if they would not arrange my marriage with this girl then I would commit suicide. Now my resolution was at its highest pitch. I was a lover, and not afraid of anything. If one is not prepared to face disaster, if one is intimidated by opposition, then one should not fall in love. In the end I wrote a letter to my father, saying that if my marriage to this girl were not arranged I would commit suicide. My father took his revolver, loaded it with six bullets and said to the servant,‘Take this to your young master and tell him to go ahead.’ This was not at all the response I had expected. The sight of the revolver took my breath away. Meanwhile my mother was frantic.‘What are you doing?’ she said to my father.‘He’ll kill himself!’ But my father, experienced police officer and old hand that he was, replied with the utmost indifference,‘Be quiet and don’t worry. People who say they’ll kill themselves never do; and if he does commit suicide then you can rest assured that he’ll have done the right thing. In the long run, people like that either come to their senses or go on until they hang for murder.’ Anyway I picked up the revolver with trembling hands, summoned up my courage, put the barrel to my temple, recited the kalima,* fingered the trigger—and then suggested to Cupid that it would be well if he would reconsider his decision. He agreed. I lowered the revolver from my temple, laid it on the table, and at once realized that love is a pleasant pastime until such time as it puts one’s life in danger. The revolver went back to my father, and I went to fall at his feet and ask his forgiveness....
Some time later my cousin was married to a much better man than I was...but she had not been married long when she caught pneumonia, poor girl, and departed from this world where love, like wild animals, runs away from revolvers. It was I who had threatened to die, and she who died. Truly, it takes a man to face the trials of love, and I probably do not need to throw any further light on my manhood.
* Majnu and Laila were the two most famous lovers in Arabic legend.
†In Persian and Urdu poetry, the nightingale is the symbol of the lover, who pours out his love for the rose in beautiful song. The rose is the beloved—beautiful, but totally unmoved by the nightingale’s love.
* The Muslim profession of faith.
Hellbound
ISMAT CHUGHTAI
The first part of this piece is extracted from a brief autobiographical essay, included here because it forms a good introduction to the rest. Ismat’s elder brother, Azim Beg Chughtai, was a well-known writer.
It was after we’d come to Aligarh that I became day by day more aware of Azim’s presence. God knows why he suddenly became interested in me. I’d always preferred my older brother, Nasim. Even when he hit me there was still pleasure in it because he’d also give me money and sweets. Azim gave me neither money nor slaps; he talked to me seriously. And then he began to teach me History and English. I don’t remember how it started; all I remember is that in the evenings when he came back exhausted from the day’s work, he’d go and lie on the string bed on his verandah and say to me, ‘Come on, read. Loudly.’Then he would correct my translation, and give me dictation, and after that we would talk. I don’t remember what it was we began talking about. Later on he used to tell me things about the Traditions* and the Quran. His teaching method was an odd one. He’d give me a novel and say,‘Go and translate it. From English into Urdu, and from Urdu into English.’Ten pages at a time he’d set for me to translate. For me, there were several advantages in this approach—one was that before I could translate the novel I had to finish reading it, and it’s from that time that I became so intensely absorbed in reading novels. I would lie awake the entire night reading stories and novels. But in those days they were all wasted on me—I hadn’t a clue what they meant. So I’ve had to read them all again. Hardy was the first novelist that, as Azim said, I drank to the last drop.
In those days Azim made such an impression on me that I became just an echo of him. ‘It’s Mansur’s voice,* but God who speaks.’ Whenever I opened my mouth the others in the family would tease me that it wasn’t me but Azim speaking, and Azim himself took advantage of my naivete. When there was something he didn’t want to say himself he would carefully instill it into my head, and I would immediately blurt it out. In those days the family used to say that he put me up to all sorts of things. Even before, I had already been headstrong and obstinate; and now under his encouragement I became even more uncontrollable.
At that time he was studying law, and along with that had a job in a factory. He was also writing articles. And after all that he would go on to teach me for several hours. Sometimes he had a temperature, sometimes a pain in his chest; sometimes he’d get cramps in his arms and legs. His wife and daughter would rub his chest, and he would go on teaching me. He never asked me to massage his head or feet, nor did I ever think it necessary to do anything for him. He was my older brother, after all, so it was his job to teach me. On one occasion he had a long fit of intense coughing. Two hours passed, and we hadn’t even managed to finish a few pages of translation. I got cros
s.‘I’m not studying with you, you cough far too much,’ I said angrily.
‘You stupid child, do you think I’m coughing on purpose?’ he laughed, and then promised that from now on he wouldn’t cough.
I don’t know why he came to take such an interest in my future. When I passed matric I think he was even more delighted than when his son was born.
During the holidays he invited me to his house—by now he had started practising law in Jodhpur. That was the time he helped me to read the translation of the Quran and the Traditions. And perhaps—no, not ‘perhaps’, but without doubt—it was from reading the stories that he gave me that I too began secretly to write.
As long as college dominated my life, reading and writing took up all my time, and I couldn’t give any attention to literature; and as soon as I left college I got it into my head that anything written two years ago was rotten stuff—false and uninteresting.‘The new literature’ was the literature of today or yesterday. And this ‘new literature’ made such an impact on me that God knows how many books there were that I dismissed when I’d done no more than look at their titles and written them off as worthless. And the books that seemed most worthless of all were those of Azim Beg Chughtai.‘A prophet is not without honour....’ It was a case of that.
His books were scattered all over the house, but no one except my mother and a few of my old-fashioned sisters-in-law paid the least attention to them. I used to think, ‘What’s the point in reading them? They’re not literature—nothing but clowning and buffoonery, rotten, old-fashioned love stories and the sort of stuff that it makes you cross to read.’ In other words, I’d made up my mind about them without even reading them. I myself didn’t really know why I’d not read my brother’s stories. There may have been a bit of arrogance in my attitude, priding myself that I was a ‘new’ writer and he an old one.
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