Kafayat had never seen Sarita before—it had been a while since Kishori had brought a new girl. Despite this, Kafayat showed no interest in her, perhaps because a man can only do one thing at a time and he couldn’t drive as well as turn his attention to her. Once they’d left the city and the car came on to a country road, Sarita jumped up. The car’s sudden speed and the gusts of cold air that came in lifted the restraints she had put on herself until now. Bursts of electricity ran though her entire body. Her legs throbbed, her arms seemed to dance, her fingers trembled and she watched the trees race past her on both sides.
Anwar and Shahab were now at ease. Shahab, who felt he had first rights to Sarita, gently moved his arm forward, wanting to place it around her back. The movement tickled her; she jumped up and landed on Anwar with a thump. Her laughter flowed out of the windows of the yellow car and carried into the distance. When Shahab tried again to place his hand on her back, she bent double with laughter. Anwar, hidden in one corner of the car, sat in silence, his mouth dry.
Shahab’s mind filled with bright colours. He said to Kafayat, ‘My God, man, she’s a little minx.’ With this, he violently pinched Sarita’s thigh. In reply, and because he was closest to her, Sarita gently twisted Anwar’s ear. The car erupted in laughter.
Kafayat kept turning around even though everything was visible to him in his rearview mirror. He added to the growing commotion in the back by speeding up the car.
Sarita wished she could climb out and ride on the bonnet of the car where the flying iron fairy was. She moved forward. Shahab reached for her and to steady herself, she wrapped her arms around Kafayat’s neck. Without meaning to, he kissed them. A shiver went through her entire body and she leapt into the front seat of the car and began to play with Kafayat’s tie. ‘What is your name,’ she asked Kafayat.
‘My name!’ he said. ‘My name is Kafayat.’ With this, he put a ten rupee note in her hand. She paid no further attention to his name, but squeezed the note into her blouse, brimming with childish happiness. ‘You’re a very nice man. And this tie of yours is also very nice.’
In that instant, Sarita saw goodness in everything and wished that all that was bad would also turn to good… and… and… then it would happen… the motor would continue to race and everything around her would become part of the whirlwind.
She suddenly felt the urge to sing. So she stopped playing with Kafayat’s tie and began: ‘You taught me how to love, and stirred a sleeping heart.’
For some time, the film song continued and then Sarita turned to Anwar who was sitting in silence. ‘Why are you so quiet, say something, sing something!’ With this, she jumped into the back seat again and began running her fingers through Shahab’s hair. ‘Come on, both of you, sing. You remember that song that Devika Rani used to sing? “I’m a sparrow in the heart’s jungle, singing my little song…” Devika Rani is so good, isn’t she?’
Then she put both her hands under her thighs, and fluttering her eyelids, said, ‘Ashok Kumar and Devika Rani stood close to each other. Devika Rani would say, “I’m a sparrow in the forest, singing my little song.” And Ashok Kumar would say, “Sing it then.” ’
Sarita began the song. ‘I’m a sparrow in the forest, singing my little song.’
Shahab in a loud, coarse voice answered, ‘I’ll become a forest bird and sing from forest to forest.’
And all of a sudden, a duet began. Kafayat provided accompaniment on the car horn. Sarita began to clap. Her thin soprano, Shahab’s coarse singing, the horn’s honking, the blasts of wind and the roar of the engine, came together to form an orchestra.
Sarita was happy; Shahab was happy; Kafayat was happy, and seeing them all happy, Anwar was forced to be happy. He regretted his earlier restraint. His arms began to move. His sleeping heart had stirred and he was ready now to be a part of Sarita, Shahab and Kafayat’s boisterous happiness.
As they sang, Sarita removed Anwar’s hat from his head and put it on her own. She leapt into the front seat again and gazed at herself in the small mirror to see how it looked. Had he really been wearing his hat all this time? Anwar thought.
Sarita slapped Kafayat’s fat thigh and said, ‘If I wear your trousers and your shirt and put on a tie like this one, will I become a pukka gentleman too?’
Hearing this, Shahab couldn’t decide what he should do. He yanked Anwar’s arm: ‘You’ve been a complete idiot.’ And for a moment, Anwar believed he was right.
Kafayat asked Sarita, ‘What is your name?’
‘My name!’ Sarita replied, slipping the hat’s strap under her chin. ‘My name is Sarita.’
‘Sarita,’ Shahab said from the back seat, ‘you’re not a woman; you’re a livewire.’
Anwar wanted to say something too but Sarita began to sing in a high voice.
‘In love town, I’ll build my house… forgoing all the worrrrrrld.’
And bits of that world flew around them. Sarita’s hair, no longer bound by her plait, broke free and scattered like dark smoke dispersed by wind; she was happy.
Shahab was happy; Kafayat was happy and now Anwar, too, was ready to be happy. The song ended; for a few moments everyone felt that it had just been raining hard and had now abruptly stopped.
‘Any more songs?’ Kafayat asked Sarita.
‘Yes, yes,’ Shahab said from the back, ‘let’s have one more. One that even these film people won’t forget!’
Sarita began again. ‘Spring came to my house. And I, I hit the road, a little drunkenly.’
The car also wove drunkenly. Then the road straightened and the seashore came in sight. The sun was setting and the sea wind brought a chill in the air.
The car stopped. Sarita opened the door, jumped out and began to run along the shore. Kafayat and Shahab ran behind her. In the open air, on the edge of the vast ocean, with the great palms rising up from the wet sand, Sarita didn’t know what it was that she wanted. She wished she could melt into the sky; spread through the ocean; fly so high that she could see the palm canopies from above; for all the wetness of the shore to seep from the sand into her feet and then… and then for that same racing engine, that same speed, those blasts of wind, the car honking—she was very happy.
The three young Hyderabadi men sat down on the wet sand and opened their beers. Sarita snatched the bottle from Kafayat’s hand. ‘Wait, I’ll pour it.’
She poured it so that the glass filled with foam. The spectacle of it excited her. She put her finger into the brownish foam, then into her mouth. She made a face when she tasted its bitterness. Kafayat and Shahab laughed uncontrollably. Still laughing, Kafayat looked over at Anwar and saw that he was laughing too.
They went through six bottles of beer; some entered their stomachs; some turned to foam and was absorbed by the sand. Sarita continued to sing. Anwar looked in her direction and thought for a moment that she was made of beer. In the sea’s moist air, her dark cheeks had become wet. She felt a deep contentment. Anwar now, was happy too. He wanted the sea to turn to beer; to go diving in it; and for Sarita to join him.
Sarita took two empty bottles and banged them together. They made a clatter and she laughed. Kafayat, Anwar and Shahab laughed too.
Still laughing, Sarita said to Kafayat, ‘Come on, let’s drive the car now.’
Everyone rose. Empty beer bottles lay strewn on the wet sand. The party ran to the car. Once again, the wind began to blast, the horn honked, and Sarita’s hair scattered like dark smoke. The singing resumed.
The car plowed through the wind. Sarita continued to sing. She sat in the back between Anwar and Shahab. Anwar’s head dropped from side to side. Sarita mischievously began to comb Shahab’s hair with her fingers and he fell asleep. When she turned back to Anwar, she saw that he was also fast asleep. She lifted herself from in between them and lowered herself into the front seat.
In a whisper, she said, ‘I’ve just put both your friends to bed. Now, I’ll put you to bed too.’
Kafayat smiled. ‘Who’ll drive the
car then?’
Sarita, smiling as well, replied, ‘It’ll keep running.’
For a long time, they spoke among themselves. The bazaar reappeared. When they drove past the wall with the small board that read, ‘It is forbidden to urinate here’, Sarita said, ‘Just here is fine.’
The car stopped. Sarita jumped out before Kafayat was able to do or say anything. She waved and walked away. Kafayat sat with one hand on the wheel, perhaps thinking back on the day’s events.
Then Sarita stopped, turned around, walked back, and from her blouse, removed a ten rupee note and placed it next to him.
Kafayat stared at it in amazement. ‘Sarita, what’s this?’
‘This… why should I take this money?’ she replied and ran off, leaving Kafayat still staring at the limp note.
He turned around eventually. Anwar and Shahab, like the note itself, lay slumped in the back seat, asleep.
Blouse
Momin had been feeling unsettled for the past few days. His body was as raw as a boil. He felt a mysterious pain, while working, while talking, even while thinking. But had he tried to describe it, he would have been unable to.
He would sometimes start while sitting. Hazy thoughts that usually rose and vanished soundlessly like bubbles in his mind, now burst, with great fury. Ants with barbed feet seemed to crawl over the pathways of his tender mind. A tightness had arisen in his body, and it caused him terrible discomfort. When it became too much, he’d wish he was in a giant cauldron, ready to be ground down.
He felt a deep satisfaction at hearing masalas being crushed in the kitchen: the noise of metal clashing with metal ringing out like a threat into the recesses of the roof, where he stood barefoot. The vibrations would run up his bare feet, to his taut calves and thighs, before reaching his heart, which would flutter like the flame of a clay lamp in a fast wind.
Momin was fifteen, perhaps sixteen; he didn’t know his exact age. He was a strong, healthy boy whose pubescence galloped towards adulthood and it was the effects of this gallop—of which Momin was wholly ignorant—that throbbed in every drop of his blood. He tried to comprehend its meaning, but he couldn’t.
Changes in his body were also becoming apparent. His neck, once thin, was thickening; his Adam’s apple was becoming more prominent; the muscles in his arms had grown tighter; his chest had hardened, and it had swollen in places as if someone had squeezed marbles into it. Touching these lumps caused Momin great discomfort. His hand accidentally grazing them, or even his thick shirt brushing against them while he worked, would make him jump up with pain.
In the bathroom, or alone in the kitchen, he would undo the buttons of his shirt and carefully examine these lumps, massaging them lightly. Stabs of pain would shoot through him as if his body, like a tree heavy with fruit, had been shaken. And though it made him tremble, he would become absorbed in this painful pastime. Sometimes, if he pressed too hard, the lumps would puncture and release a sticky liquid. The sight of it made his face turn red to his ears. He felt that, without meaning to, he had committed a sin.
His knowledge, as far as sin and virtue went, was very limited. Anything that someone couldn’t do in the presence of others struck him as a sin. And so whenever his face reddened to his ears, he hurriedly did up his shirt and swore to himself that he would never again engage in such inane pastimes. But despite these promises, two or three days later, he’d find himself once again absorbed in this activity.
Momin was turning the corner onto one of life’s avenues, that was not as long as it was treacherous. He sometimes moved swiftly down it, sometimes slowly. The truth was that he didn’t know how to traverse roads like these. Should they be negotiated as quickly as possible, or in a leisurely manner; should he perhaps take help along the way? He seemed to lose his footing on the slippery cobblestones of his approaching manhood; he had to fight to keep his balance. It perturbed him; it was the reason why, he would sometimes in the middle of his work, give a start, and grabbing a hook in the wall with both his hands, hang freely from it. Then he would have the urge for someone to hold his legs and pull him down until he became like a fine wire. But he couldn’t understand the meaning of these thoughts, they seemed to arise from some unknown part of his brain.
Everyone in the household was happy with Momin. He was hardworking and did all his work on time so no one had any cause for complaint. He had only worked as a servant for three months, but in this short time, he’d impressed everyone in the house. He had begun at six rupees a month, but by the second month, his salary was raised by two rupees. He was happy in the house; he was shown respect here.
But now, in the past few days, he had become unsettled. The restlessness that took hold of him made him want to spend whole days wandering the bazaars, or to find some deserted spot where he could lie down.
He no longer had his heart in his work, but despite his listlessness, he hadn’t become lazy, which was why no one in the house was aware of his inner turmoil. There was Razia who spent her entire day playing music, learning the newest film songs and reading magazines. She never paid any attention to Momin. Shakeela sometimes got Momin to do some work for her and even scolded him occasionally, but for the past few days, she, too, had been totally occupied, with copying the samples of a few blouses. They belonged to a friend of hers who kept up with the latest fashions. Shakeela had borrowed eight blouses from her and was copying them onto pieces of paper. And so, for the past few days, she hadn’t paid much attention to Momin either.
The deputy saab’s wife was not a severe woman. Other than Momin, there were two more servants in the house. There was an old lady who mostly worked in the kitchen; Momin occasionally lent her a hand. Deputy saab’s wife might perhaps have noticed a change in Momin’s alertness, but she hadn’t mentioned it to him. She certainly knew nothing of the upheavals in his mind and body. She had no sons and so was unable to understand the changes he was experiencing. And besides, Momin was a servant. Who could pay that much attention to the lives of servants? They covered all life’s stages on foot, from infancy to old age, and those around them never knew anything of it.
Though he was unaware of it, Momin was waiting for something to happen. For what? Just something: for the careful arrangement of plates on the table to start jumping up; for the water now coming to a boil to send the kettle’s lid flying into the air; for the tap’s lead pipe to crumple with the slightest pressure, and for a jet of water to shoot out; for his body to stretch, once and ever, so forcefully, that its every joint would come apart and hang loose; for something to reveal itself that he’d never experienced.
Momin was deeply unsettled.
And Razia was busy learning new film songs, and Shakeela copying blouse samples onto pieces of paper. When she’d finished doing this, she took the best of them and began making herself a blouse in violet satin. Now even Razia was forced to leave her radio and filmi music and turn her attention towards this.
Shakeela always did everything with great care and composure. Her posture when she was sewing suggested contentment. She wasn’t restless like her sister, Razia. Every stitch went on after careful consideration so that there was no room for error. Her measurements were always exact as she made paper cut-outs first, then used them to cut the cloth. This took more time, but the result was near perfect.
Shakeela was a large-bodied, healthy girl. She had thick, fleshy fingers, which tapered at the tips, and there were dimples at each joint. When she would work the sewing machine, they’d occasionally disappear with the movement of her hand.
Shakeela was just as calm at the machine. She would turn its wheel with two or three fingers, slowly and cleanly, her wrist gently arched. Her neck would bend forward slightly, and a lock of hair, unable to find a fixed place, would slip down. She would be so absorbed with her work that she wouldn’t push it away.
Shakeela laid out the violet satin and was about to begin cutting the blouse in her size, when she realised she needed a tape measure. Their own tape was faded and
falling to pieces; they had a metal one, but how could she measure her back and chest with that? She had many blouses of her own, but as she’d put on a little weight, she wanted to check all her measurements again.
She took off her shirt and yelled for Momin. When he came, she said, ‘Momin, go next door, to number six and ask them for a tape measure. Tell them Shakeela needs it.’
Momin’s gaze fell upon Shakila’s white vest. He’d seen her this way many times before, but today it gave him a strange jolt. He averted his eyes, and anxiously said, ‘What kind of measure, bibi?’
‘A tape measure. This iron rod, lying in front of you, is one kind of measure. There is also another kind of measure, for clothes. Go and get it from number six, and run. Tell them Shakeela bibi needs it.’
Flat six was nearby. Momin returned in minutes with the tape measure. Shakeela took it from him and said, ‘Wait here, for a second. You can take it back right away.’ Then, addressing her sister, she said, ‘These people, if you keep anything of theirs, they start plaguing you for it back. Here, will you take my measurements?’
Razia began measuring Shakeela’s back and chest; they spoke continuously. Momin stood listening in the doorway, waiting out the uncomfortable silence.
‘Razia, why don’t you stretch it out and take the measurement. You did the same thing the last time. You took the measurements and the blouse was a mess. If it doesn’t fit right in the front, it becomes baggy round the armpits.’
‘Where to take it, where not to take it, you really give me a hard time. I start taking it in one place, you say, “a little lower”. Is it the end of the world if it’s a tiny bit too small or too big?’
Manto Page 4
