Not a Nice Man to Know

by Khushwant Singh

  He also wondered at Karuna. It seemed strange to him that an otherwise educated, Westernized woman who smoked and drank openly and was seemingly free of religious bias would go about pouring milk over marble and bronze statues, expecting them to drink it up. Perhaps she was doing it for a lark. There was a news item in the papers about two girls who had offered whiskey to Ganpati. There was an uproar and the girls had to beg forgiveness. It was the kind of thing Karuna would do.

  After the episode of Ganpati drinking milk and the altercation at the paanwala’s, Vijay stayed away from Khan Market for a few days. When he went back, he resolved to walk around the market without stopping outside or entering any shop. He wanted to avoid every place where he might lose his temper with the devout and end up embarrassing himself. He even found a different paanwala for his cigarettes and paan.

  On the fourth evening after he ended his short exile, as he was walking past the less-frequented part of Khan Market occupied by a bank which closed its doors to customers, Vijay heard somebody call out, ‘Jai ho!’ He turned around and saw a bearded man with long shoulder-length hair carrying a brass plate with flowers, kumkum powder and a tiny silver oil lamp.

  ‘something for Shani devta,’ the man demanded, thrusting the plate forward. Vijay realized it was Saturday and the exalted beggar was asking for alms to appease Saturn. There were many others of his ilk around railway stations and bus stands and at road crossings, making money from the gullible. Vijay was not one of the gullible. But what the man said next before Vijay could brush him aside made him pause.

  ‘You have someone on your mind, a young lady may be. So what is the problem? She is not responding, hain? I will give you something to win her affections. Close your fist.’

  Almost despite himself Vijay clenched his fist and extended his arm.

  ‘Now open your hand,’ the man said. Vijay did so. There was a big black ring in the middle of his palm. ‘See: it is rahu, the evil planet. I can abolish him. Give me a little dakshina, say ten rupees, and I will give you foolproof advice on how to gain your heart’s desire.’ After a short pause during which the fellow transfixed Vijay with his kohl-lined sparkling eyes, he continued, ‘Janaab, I know you do not belive in jyotish or palm-reading. But I can read your face like an open book. Why not try out my predictions and formula for gaining what your heart seeks? Ten rupees won’t make you poor nor me rich.’

  Without pondering over the matter Vijay took out a ten-rupee note and put it in the man’s brass tray.

  ‘Let’s sit down somewhere where we are not disturbed by people,’ suggested the Shani-man. The only secluded place they could find was a narrow passage between the public lavatory and the market boundary wall. It was malodorous but unfrequented. The man put his tray on the wall, the ten-rupee note in his pocket and asked Vijay to hold out his right hand.

  Everyone enjoys being the object of attention. So did Vijay, even when the bearded Shani-man’s gentle prodding and squeezing of his palm, as he examined every line, thumb and finger, assumed erotic overtones.

  ‘There are two marriages in your life,’ pronounced the sage.

  ‘I had better get started soon. I haven’t a wife yet and I’m not young anymore,’ Vijay said.

  ‘A man is never too old for marriage and sex,’ the sage assured Vijay, then continued, ‘I see a large home, double-storeyed and with many motorcars.’

  ‘That’s nice to know. I live in a one-room flat and ride a motorcycle,’ Vijay lied.

  Undeterred, the man went on. ‘There is money, lots of money, name and fame.’

  Vijay snubbed him again: ‘I could do with both. My bank balance is very low and my name is not known beyond my block of flats and this little market.’

  ‘There is also phoren travel soon,’ the man went on.

  ‘When? Both the American Embassy and the British High Commission turned down my visa applications. Forget about name, fame, money and foreign travel. Can you tell me anything about my present problem?’

  ‘Date and place of birth,’ demanded the soothsayer as he pulled a pencil and small notebook out of his pocket. Vijay told him. He drew several lines, parallel and horizontal. He counted on his fingers and inserted figures in the squares and triangles he had made. Then he shut his eyes and pronounced, ‘Her name begins with K.’

  Vijay was taken aback. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s all written in your stars. She pretends indifference but she loves you. I will now give you a magic formula to make her hungry for you and you hungry for her.’ The man paused and looked meaningfully at Vijay.

  ‘I already am hungry for her,’ Vijay said impatiently.

  ‘But you must be hungrier, then she too will pant for you without shame. I can guarantee it. For that I charge fifty rupees. If my formula fails, I’ll give your money back with fifty from my own pocket. I’ll give you my card, with my name and address. If the formula fails, you send me the card by post and I’ll come and return the money.’ He fished out a grimy visiting card. It had the letter Om on top with a figure of Ganpati beneath and then his name: Natha Singh, World-famous Master of Science of Jyotish, Astrologer, Numerologist, Specialist in Love Potions.

  Now that he had let himself in for the hocus-pocus, Vijay said to himself: What the hell, let’s go the whole hog. The fellow got the girl’s initial right. He may just get her to take more interest in me.

  ‘Okay, here’s another fifty rupees, and if it does not work I’ll get the police after you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, janaab, okay. Hundred times okay. My formula is foolproof.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘All you have to do, janaab, is pluck two hairs from your jhaant and two from her jhaant, mix them up, swallow one pair yourself and give her the other pair to drink up with a cup of tea. Both of you will be on fire. Guaranteed.’

  Vijay was speechless. He looked at the Shani-man disbelievingly.

  ‘You doubt my formula?’ the man challenged him. He patted his crotch and declared, ‘Don’t underestimate the power of the jhaant. It is the strongest aphrodisiac known to man.’

  Blood rushed to Vijay’s head but he kept his cool. He did not want to create another scene. ‘What kind of love formula is this?’ he snapped. ‘If I could get close enough to pluck her pubic hair, I need no help from you. How do I get her to bare her privates before me, anyway?’

  ‘You can do that if you try,’ said the Shani-man as he picked up his brass plate and walked away.

  Vijay realized it had cost him sixty rupees to learn that he was as big a chootiya as all those people offering milk to the idol of Ganpati. He weaved his way through the closely parked cars to make his way home and walked straight into Hakim Tara Chand.

  ‘You should be careful of charlatans like that man, Lall Sahib,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘He is not really a sadhu, just a thug who exploits people’s weaknesses.’

  He had obviously seen Vijay talking to the Shani-man and handing him money. Vijay’s ears went red. He felt as if he had exposed himself in public. His humiliation was complete.

  Vijay pondered over the events of the past few days and felt very depressed. He described his mood in his diary: ‘Pissed off with the world’ and then added, ‘Pissed off with myself.’ Khan Market had lost its raunaq; he avoided going there for another few days. But the itch to have it out with Karuna got the better of him. Did she know what she was doing to him?

  After a week, one Saturday evening, he was back in the market hoping to run into her. He went around her usual haunts, the bookstores, the grocer’s and the butcher’s. She was not there. Ultimately he went to The Book Shop to get his magazines and ask the proprietress if Karuna had been around. He broached the subject very casually. ‘That lady who bought Durrell from you, has she been around lately?’

  ‘You mean Karuna Chaudhury? Yes, she came in one evening to settle her account. She said her husband had been transferred to some other city—she did not say where.’

  Vijay was lost for words. He took his magazines and sl
owly walked back to his apartment. He sensed he might never see her again. And the name Chaudhury yielded no clue. Chaudhurys could be found across the country, from Punjab to Assam, down to the Southern states, and they could be Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, even Christians. The search would be as futile as that of Majnu sifting the sands of the desert to find his Laila. And that was what he felt like—a lovesick Majnu. Which made him an old fool: he was fifty-four. He tried to console himself—that it was an infatuation that would fade away in time. There would be other women. Or there would not.

  It was still too early for his sundowner. Nevertheless, he poured himself a stiff one and switched on his TV to divert his mind to things other than a woman who had slipped out of his hands; a woman he should have left well alone. He pressed the buttons of the remote control and tried one channel after another. Nothing held his attention for more than a few seconds. Suddenly the lights went out and the entire complex of apartments was plunged in gloom. The sun had set but through the twilight he could see the outlines of the mulberry tree, already beginning to lose much of its foliage. The sudden darkness prompted a pair of spotted owlets perched on its branches to break into their pointless racket, chitter-chitter-chatter-chatter.

  Most residents of the apartment complex slept late the next morning. It was a Sunday. There were only two old ladies out in the lawn when Vijay returned from his walk in Lodhi Gardens. They saw him drive in and park Annie in her old spot under the mulberry tree.

  Train to Pakistan

  First published in 1956, and now regarded as a classic of modern Indian fiction, Train to Pakistan is set in the summer of 1947 in a Punjab village, Mano Majra, where Sikhs and Muslims have always lived peaceably together. Then one day a train comes over the bridge, full of dead bodies, and Mano Majra too is engulfed in the violence and bloodshed of the Partition. The extract below reflects the novel’s moving portrayal of the human dimensions of this momentous historical event.

  The peasants thought about their problem. They could not refuse shelter to refugees: hospitality was not a pastime but a sacred duty when those who sought it were homeless. Could they ask their Muslims to go? Quite emphatically not. Loyalty to a fellow-villager was above all other considerations. Despite the words they had used, no one had the nerve to suggest throwing them out, even in a purely Sikh gathering. The mood of the assembly changed from anger to bewilderment.

  After some time the lambardar spoke.

  All Muslims of the neighbouring villages have been evacuated and taken to the refugee camp near Chundunnager. Some have already gone away to Pakistan. Others have been sent to the bigger camp at Jullundur.’

  ‘Yes,’ added another. ‘Kapoora and Gujjoo Matta were evacuated last week. Mano Majra is the only place left where there are Muslims. What I would like to know is how these people asked their fellow-villagers to leave. We could never say anything like that to our tenants, any more than we could tell our sons to get out of our homes. Is there anyone here who could say to the Muslims, “Brothers, you should go away from Mano Majra”?’

  Before anyone could answer another villager came in and stood on the threshold. Every one turned round to see, but they could not recognize him in the dim lamplight.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked the lambardar, shading his eyes from the lamp. ‘Come in.’

  Imam Baksh came in. Two others followed him. They also were Muslims.

  ‘Salaam, Chacha Imam Baksh. Salaam Khair Dina. Salaam, salaam.’

  ‘Sat Sri Akal, lambardara. Sat Sri Akal,’ answered the Muslims

  People made room for them and waited for Imam Baksh to begin.

  Imam Baksh combed his beard with his fingers.

  ‘Well, brothers, what is your decision about us?’ he asked quietly.

  There was an awkward silence. Everyone looked at the lambardar.

  ‘Why ask us?’ answered the lambardar. ‘This is your village as much as ours.’

  ‘You have heard what is being said! All the neighbouring villages have been evacuated. Only we are left. If you want us to go too, we will go.’

  Meet Singh began to sniff. He felt it was not for him to speak. He had said his bit. Besides, he was only a priest who lived on what the villagers gave him. One of the younger men spoke.

  ‘It is like this, Uncle Imam Baksh. As long as we are here nobody will dare to touch you. We die first and then you can look after yourselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ added another warmly, ‘we first, then you. If anyone raises his eyebrows at you we will rape his mother.’

  ‘Mother, sister and daughter,’ added the others.

  Imam Baksh wiped a tear from his eyes and blew his nose in the hem of his shirt.

  ‘What have we to do with Pakistan? We were born here. So were our ancestors. We have lived amongst you as brothers,’ Imam Baksh broke down. Meet Singh clasped him in his arms and began to sob. Several of the people started crying quietly and blowing their noses.

  The lambardar spoke: ‘Yes, you are our brothers. As far as we are concerned, you and your children and your grandchildren can live here as long as you like. If anyone speaks rudely to you, your wives or your children, it will be us first and our wives and children before a single hair of your heads is touched. But Chacha, we are so few and the strangers coming from Pakistan are coming in thousands. Who will be responsible for what they do?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the other, ‘as far as we are concerned you are all right, but what about these refugees?’

  ‘I have heard that some villages were surrounded by mobs many thousands strong, all armed with guns and spears. There was no question of resistance.’

  ‘We are not afraid of mobs,’ replied another quickly. ‘Let them come! We will give them such a beating they will not dare to look at Mano Majra again.’

  Nobody took any notice of the challenge; the boast sounded too hollow to be taken seriously. Imam Baksh blew his nose again. ‘What do you advise us to do then, brothers?’ he asked, choking with emotion.

  ‘Uncle,’ said the lambardar in a heavy voice, ‘it is very hard for me to say, but seeing the sort of times we live in, I would advise you to go to the refugee camp while this trouble is on. You lock your houses with your belongings. We will look after your cattle till you come back.’

  The lambardar’s advice created a tense stillness. Villagers held their breath for fear of being heard. The lambardar himself felt that he ought to say something quickly to dispel the effect of his words.

  ‘Until yesterday,’ he began again loudly, ‘in case of trouble we could have helped you to cross the river by the ford. Now it has been raining for two days; the river has risen. The only crossings are by trains and road bridges—you know what is happening there! It is for your own safety that I advise you to take shelter in the camp for a few days, and then you can come back. As far as we are concerned,’ he repeated warmly, ‘if you decide to stay on, you are most welcome to do so. We will defend you with our lives.’

  No one had any doubts about the import of the lambardar’s words. They sat with their heads bowed till Imam Baksh stood up.

  ‘All right,’ he said solemnly, ‘if we have to go, we’d better pack up our bedding and belongings. It will take us more than one night to clear out of homes it has taken our fathers and grandfathers hundreds of years to make.’

  The lambardar felt a strong sense of guilt and was overcome with emotion. He got up and embraced Imam Baksh and started to cry loudly. Sikh and Muslim villagers fell into each other’s arms and wept like children. Imam Baksh gently got out of the lambardar’s embrace. ‘There is no need to cry,’ he said between sobs. ‘This is the way of the world—’

  Not forever does the bulbul sing

  In balmy shades of bowers,

  Not forever lasts the spring

  Nor ever blossom flowers.

  Not forever reigneth joy,

  Sets the sun on days of bliss,

  Friendships not forever last,

  They know not life, who know not this.

&nbs
p; ‘They know not life, who know not this,’ repeated many others with sighs. ‘Yes, Uncle Imam Baksh. This is life.’

  Imam Baksh and his companions left the meeting in tears.

  Before going round to other Muslim homes, Imam Baksh went to his own hut attached to the mosque. Nooran was already in bed. An oil lamp burned in a niche in the wall.

  ‘Nooro, Nooro,’ he shouted, shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Get up, Nooro.’

  The girl opened her eyes. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Get up and pack. We have to go away tomorrow morning,’ he announced dramatically.

  ‘Go away? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Pakistan!’

  The girl sat up with a jerk. ‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ she said defiantly.

  Imam Baksh pretended he had not heard. ‘Put all the clothes in the trunks and the cooking utensils in a gunny bag. Also take something for the buffalo. We will have to take her too.’

  ‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ the girl repeated, fiercely.

  ‘You may not want to go, but they will throw you out. All Muslims are leaving for the camp tomorrow.’

  ‘Who will throw us out? This is our village. Are the police and the government dead?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl. Do as you are told. Hundreds of thousands of people are going to Pakistan and as many coming out. Those who stay behind are killed. Hurry up and pack. I have to go and tell the others that they must get ready.’

  Imam Baksh left the girl sitting up in bed. Nooran rubbed her face with her hands and stared at the wall. She did not know what to do. She could spend the night out and come back when all the others had gone. But she could not do it alone; and it was raining. Her only chance was Jugga. Malli had been released, maybe Jugga had also come home. She knew that was not true, but the hope persisted and it gave her something to do.