Other beautiful faces remain trapped below
it up, my brothers, I shall now tell you the story of those Rupmatis whose beauty and youth burnt to cinders in the brothels of Hira Mandi and Foras Road and GB Road. I have seen many lovely heroines in the Bombay film industry, but none of them could leave the slightest of marks in the book of my heart. And as for the housewives posing like brides in paintings, I couldn’t even stand them. They were all the same— litanies of love on their lips but hollow inside, where there was nothing but calculations of money and gold and jewellery. For heaven’s sake, love needs madness; you cannot measure out your love. Believe me, those girls from the brothels know what ishq is. Do you know why? They sell their bodies to earn their meals, so they know the difference between love and pretence. I learnt from them that heaven exists within women; but the very same women become bloodsuckers within the confines of family and society and a cloistered existence. Don’t imagine I’m trying to ascribe greatness to them, my brothers. There’s no such thing as greatness. All there is are the fragmented truths of life, and there too, one person’s truth is of no use to another. Our lives would be much simpler if we could accept this. Their lives had become easier. Do you know why? Because they never pretended; they wanted to be seen as they actually were.
Let me tell you a story. I couldn’t eat for several days after hearing it. I felt as though I was living in a tunnel with reptiles. One evening, a man was leaning against a lamp post on the road outside Kaiser Road. No, it wasn’t me, don’t try to match my life with every story I tell. His name? I’ve forgotten, but it does help to have a name, doesn’t it? Very well, let’s call him Sajjad. So Sajjad was waiting for a friend, glancing at his watch frequently because the time for the friend’s arrival was long past. Swearing at his friend in his head, he was considering crossing the road for a cup of tea at the restaurant on the other side. Suddenly someone called out to him, ‘Sahib … sahib …’
Sajjad saw a gaunt man. He was dressed in an oil-stained shirt and pyjamas that hadn’t been washed in a long time. ‘Were you looking for me?’ asked Sajjad.
— Yes.
— What do you want?
— Nothing, huzoor. The man approached him, giving off an odour that made Sajjad’s stomach churn. —Do you need anything, janab?
— Need what?
— A woman, huzoor.
After a silence, Sajjad said, ‘Where’s this woman of yours?’
As you can imagine, Sajjad had no requirement whatsoever of a woman at the time. But he enjoyed adventures. He had just this one failing—do something new, tread the path you’re not familiar with.
— Nearby, huzoor. There, that house across the road …
— Such a big house?
— Yes, huzoor. The man smiled, revealing rotting teeth. —I’ll go on ahead, follow me.
Trailing behind the pimp, Sajjad entered the building. It was better to call it a ruin. The plaster had flaked off, exposing a skeleton of bricks. Rusted iron pipes and garbage could be seen everywhere. It was pitch dark inside. He followed the pimp up the stairs. Halfway up the staircase, the pimp turned around and said, ‘Just a minute, sahib. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Sajjad waited. The pimp was nowhere to be seen. Spotting a light at the top of the stairs, he resumed his journey. When he was near the light, he heard the pimp’s voice. ‘Are you getting up or not, you bitch?’
A female voice was heard. —I told you I won’t. Let me sleep.
— Get up. I’m warning you, if you don’t …
— What can you do? Kill me. I can’t get up now. Spare me this time.
— Get up, get up, my love. Don’t be stubborn now, how will we survive if you behave this way?
— I don’t want to survive. I’ll starve to death. Let me sleep now.
— So you won’t get up, you bitch?
— I’ve told you already. No, no, no!
— Don’t shout. People will hear. Look, get up now. How long can it take? You’ll earn forty rupees.
The woman burst into tears. —I beg of you. It’s been so long since I’ve slept. Let me sleep a little today.
— Shut up! How long can it take? A couple of hours at most. You can sleep as much as you like afterwards.
There was silence after this. Sajjad tiptoed his way to the room where the conversation had been taking place and peeped through a crack in the door. A young woman was lying on the floor of the tiny room. There was nothing else in the room besides a set of utensils. The pimp was sitting next to her, massaging her feet. Laughing, the pimp said, ‘Get up now. You’ll be back in a couple of hours, after all. You can sleep as much as you want after that. I won’t disturb you anymore, my love.’
— My love? The woman laughed. —Bloody swine. She jerked upright.
Sajjad tiptoed back downstairs. He wanted to run away from this city, this country. But go where? And why should he go? Who was this woman? Why was such cruelty being inflicted on her? What power did the pimp have over her? When he peeped in, the light had seemed very bright for such a small room. At least a hundred watts. Even after he returned to the darkness the intensity of the light seemed to prick his eyelids. Sajjad wondered how anyone could sleep in such bright light.
He heard footsteps a little later. A pair of shadows appeared beside him. ‘Check for yourself, sahib,’ said the pimp with a smile.
— I have already.
— She’s all right, isn’t she?
— All right.
— Forty rupees.
— Taking the notes out of his pocket, Sajjad tucked them into the pimp’s hand. —Count them.
— Fifty, huzoor.
— Keep fifty.
— Salaam, sahib.
Sajjad wished he had a large rock at hand to crush the pimp’s head with.
The pimp mumbled, ‘Take her, sahib. But don’t hurt her too much.’
Without answering, Sajjad went out on the road with the woman. There was a tonga nearby. He climbed into it with her. He heard the pimp’s voice again, saying, ‘Salaam, sahib.’ Sajjad wondered why he hadn’t found a large rock.
Sajjad took the woman into a hotel room. For the first time, he scanned her from head to toe. Her eyelids were puffy. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. She seemed like a dilapidated old building which would collapse at any moment.
‘Look at me,’ said Sajjad.
— What do you want?
— Nothing. Talk to me.
Her eyes were a fiery red. She stared at Sajjad with eyes that said nothing.
— What’s your name?
— I have no name.
— Where are you from?
— Where would you like me to be from?
— Why are you talking this way?
The woman seemed to wake up suddenly. —Do what you have to quickly. I have to go back soon.
— Go where?
— Where you brought me from.
— You can go right now.
— Do what you want to. Why do you talk so much, sahib?
— I want to understand you.
She flared up. —There’s no need to understand me, sahib. Do what you have to so that I can leave.
Sajjad sat down next to the woman and put his hand on her head. She threw it away with a jerk. —Don’t needle me, sahib. I haven’t slept in a long time. I haven’t been able to sleep since the day I came here.
— Go to sleep here.
Her eyes grew redder. —I didn’t come here to sleep. This isn’t my house.
— That house, is that your home?
— Spare me your bakwas, sahib. I have no home. Do what you have to. Or else take me back and get your money back from that fucker.
There was no more conversation. Sajjad took the woman back to the building.
No, my brothers, the story doesn’t end here. Does any story ever end so easily? Even the story has a demand of its own, doesn’t it? It’s not an orphan who can be abandoned anywhere you want to.
The ne
xt evening, Sajjad was telling his friend about the previous day’s events over a cup of tea at a restaurant near the same Kaiser Park. Very upset, the friend asked, ‘Was she young?’
— I don’t know. I didn’t even get a good look at her. All I keep wondering is why I didn’t get a heavy rock from the road and smash the pimp’s head in.
Sajjad didn’t enjoy his friend’s company that evening. He had not yet been able to shrug off the previous day’s incident. After his friend left, he went out and stood on the pavement, looking around for the pimp. The dilapidated building was directly across the road. Sajjad entered, climbing the stairs on tiptoe. Eventually he reached the spot outside the room with the dazzling light. There was no sound anywhere. Sajjad peeped in through a crack in the door. Blinded by the brightness of the light, he saw a woman lying on the floor, her face covered by a scarf. Was she dead? Entering the room, Sajjad realized she was sleeping. And then he saw the man, lying on the floor nearby in a pool of clotted blood. A bloodstained brick lay next to him. Blood was still oozing from his head.
Sajjad was never seen near Kaiser Park again. He had to be admitted to a lunatic asylum later. I have no idea what happened to him eventually.
The women of the kothas are very strange. Even after all they went through, survival was like a drug for them. What was Saugandhi’s life like? Madhava had betrayed her day after day; when she realized this, she kicked him out, but she didn’t try to kill herself. Why should she? No one had offered her even a bit of love—she was simply in love with her own life.
What’s that, my brothers? Ah yes, you want to hear Khushia’s story. That’s true, I didn’t tell you about her. I was thinking of telling you Saugandhi’s tale. Very well, let’s talk about Khushia instead. I was quite interested in him. Why did he misunderstand Kanta? To find out, I visited Kanta one day in her kotha, alone.
— Ah, it’s Manto sahib! But where are your friends today?
— You told me to come alone.
Kanta laughed. —Did I tell you to come alone? But what do I have left to give you?
— You have so much, Kanta. How many girls can twirl their waists like you?
Kanta burst into laughter. —So you’re here to see me twirling my waist?
Running my hand over her stomach, I said, ‘This gosht has a unique taste.’
— Stop your nonsense. All you’re good for is words.
— I can’t help it, Kanta. These one-second episodes don’t fulfil me. I want long stories, which will go on for a long time, robbing me of my sleep and rest.
— Then why do you come here, Manto sahib?
— In search of stories. You’ll tell me Khushia’s story today.
— Khushia?
— That’s why you asked me to come alone. Don’t you remember? Send for the drinks, and let’s listen to Khushia’s story over a glass or two.
We went up to the terrace.
— Khushia was very nice. I couldn’t even have imagined that he would behave so strangely.
— What did Khushia do?
— He was the one who used to get hold of clients for me. He’d happily do anything I asked him to. I had only just entered this business. Sometimes he’d stare at me in a way that made me think he was suffering because of me. I felt sorry for him too. Such a lovely boy—he couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight—forced to survive by pimping for a brothel. How well Khushia could tell stories.
— What stories did he tell?
— It was he who told me the story of Yusuf and Zulekha.
— Hmm. And then?
— What?
— Go on, Kanta.
— One afternoon there was a knock on my door. I was bathing. Who is it, I asked loudly. Khushia, it’s me, Khushia. Oh, Khushia. But why at this hour? This isn’t the time for clients. Wrapping a small towel around my wet body, I opened the door. Khushia’s eyes changed when he saw me. ‘What is it, Khushia?’ I asked. ‘I was having a bath. Oh no, don’t go away, come inside. You could have brought a cup of tea since you were coming. Ramu ran away this morning.’ Khushia couldn’t look at me, but he didn’t know where to look either. That was how simple he was, Manto bhai. After standing there a long time, staring at the floor, he said, ‘Go finish your bath. How could you open the door? I could easily have come back later.’
— You were embarrassed too, weren’t you, Kanta?
— No. Why should I be embarrassed? It was only our Khushia. Why should I be embarrassed by him?
— Had Khushia ever seen you this way?
— No. But Khushia was one of us. He wasn’t a client, after all.
— And then?
— Do you think Khushia went mad, Manto bhai?
— Why?
— He went away. Evening became night, but Khushia didn’t come. I had no client that day. Suddenly someone knocked on the door. When I opened the door I found a stranger. ‘Will you come?’ he asked. ‘Sahib’s waiting in the car outside.’
— Bring him here.
— He won’t visit a kotha.
— Why not?
— I told you, he doesn’t visit kothas. Come along if you want to. How much? Advance payment.
— Did you go? I asked Kanta.
— What could I have done? No Khushia, no clients. I had to earn, didn’t I? Those who won’t visit kothas actually pay more. What choice did I have? The taxi was parked on the main road. The pimp helped me in and took his cut immediately. The taxi began to move.
I didn’t recognize him at first in the darkness inside the vehicle. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw it was Khushia. —You? Khushia?
— Have you got your money?
— Khushia …
— Shut up! Now that you’ve got your money you must do as I tell you.
— What did Khushia do?
— Nothing. After we had driven a long way, he made me get out of the taxi.
— And then?
— I had no idea where I was. I stood there by myself. I fell asleep on the road. When it was morning, I returned to the kotha. Can you tell me why Khushia behaved this way with me, Manto bhai?
I couldn’t explain to Kanta that evening. I often thought of Khushia afterwards. Vengeance is a primal instinct for human beings. Khushia wanted revenge. He might have been a pimp for a brothel, but he was a male too. Kanta’s view of him as her pimp had made her forget this truth, which was why she could be practically naked in his presence and still say, ‘But you’re our Khushia, why should I be embarrassed?’
The male ego is a terrible thing, my brothers; when it rears its head it wants to destroy the very world. Do you know why? Because it’s a glass doll. Throw it on the floor and it’ll shatter. So it becomes furious at the slightest threat. Don’t imagine it’s limited to men; women have it too. Do you know what the male ego is: I’m the last word, nothing can be greater.
For heaven’s sake, who gave you the authority to have the last word? You want to have the last word in a world whose beginning or ending we have no idea of? That was why I couldn’t tolerate the progressive writers. They had seen nothing of life, they would make up their stories, and then claim theirs was the last word. Are you a renowned prophet whose statement I must accept as the last word on life?
21
How much longer of this vagrant’s life?
Why live like this, why not die?
’m telling you what Indra, the king of the Gods, told young Rohit; listen closely. This is about giving up everything and taking your life out to the road. How many people can actually do this? If we can do it even once, Manto bhai, the opaque film before our eyes will be cleared. And then we’ll know the kind of divine sport, the leela, that we’re part of. Yes, let me tell you about Indra, the king of the Gods. ‘Remember,’ he told Rohit, ‘he who cannot leave his home and go out on the road will never find happiness. A prolonged existence within human society turns even good men into sinners. That is why I say, make the road your home; discover your life through travel.
The voyager’s feet are like flowers, his soul blooms every day and gives birth to a bounty of fruits. The weariness of the road purges all his sins all the way down to the roots. So, travel, Rohit, do not stop.’
My life was also enriched with fruits and flowers during the three years that I travelled, away from Shahjahanabad. I suffered in no small measure during this time, and swallowed a good deal of humiliation as well. Eventually, I couldn’t even settle the matter of my pension. But still I spent these three years in a wonderful picture gallery. I was a different man when I returned to Dilli; do you know why? Before this, I had blamed other people, even the lord himself, for my misfortunes. But the Ghalib who came back to Dilli after travelling across different lands had realized that you must accept life in whatever manner it comes to you. If you have to die like a worm, die that way, but complaining will not fetch you anything extra.
No, don’t become restive, my brothers, I am going to tell you the tales of my travels now. At times I thought of writing an account of this period in Farsi. But I didn’t get the time. More significantly, after returning to Dilli I was ensnared in so many different webs that my fingers refused to move when I considered writing. But had I been able to write about those days, I could have opened up a new horizon in Farsi prose. Come, let me also taste Mirza’s account of his travels once more with all of you.
The spring of 1827. Mirza Ghalib left Shahjahanabad in search of his fortune. His ancestors used to travel with a company of horsemen, raising a cloud of dust, whirling their swords—the journey of valiant soldiers. And Mirza Ghalib was only going to Calcutta to plead for his pension, accompanied by just two or three servants. He lumbered on, sometimes on horseback, sometimes in a bullock cart. Spend the night at an inn, and if you don’t find one, you must make arrangements to pitch tent by the road and camp right there. The days passed somehow, with the road stretching endlessly before him, but the nights were a mass of black, with no trace of the road visible. How long can you converse with your servants? So you speak to yourself. And you know what talking to yourself means, my brothers. With each of your sentences you will deceive yourself, erecting towers of dreams that will crumble the very next moment.
Dozakhnama Page 18
