Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2

by Khushwant Singh

  In a flash I took in the ghoulish details and immediately discovered all my faculties paralysed. I could not move, shut my eyes or scream, for something like a tennis ball was stuck in my throat. Even the heartbeats and blood flow seemed arrested. I lay frozen, inert like a corpse.

  I was awakened by the kitchen noises and Ambi’s inevitable tune the next morning. The moment I became conscious, fear surged forth renewing the onslaught on my senses. Helplessly I broke into a cold sweat and my heart thumped away as if it would burst out of the ribs.

  But with the brightening of the eastern sky logic and reason came to my help. I marshalled all the knowledge of psychology I had picked up from popular magazines and hearsay and concluded that hallucination, autosuggestion combined with Ambi’s rather delirious narrative style, inadequate food and the bleak surroundings had played tricks on my senses. So I decided that the experience of the previous night was a product of a bad dream.

  Very pleased with myself, I got up from bed. The jeep was already there tooting the horn. I had a bath and asked Ambi to get my breakfast. I chewed the toast, biting off mouthfuls, and gulped down the coffee.

  I was preparing to leave when Ambi said: ‘So now at least do you believe there are ghosts around here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, startled out of my wits.

  ‘Well, you had a look at that woman with a foetus on her hip last night. I was looking at her too and…’

  I did not stay to hear the rest. I ran like mad towards the jeep.

  TEN

  Hush

  MANOHAR MALGONKAR

  In a shabby tavern in Molem, which is the first village in Goa after you have crossed the ghats, two men sat crouched over a pint bottle of cheap Portuguese brandy. One of them was Gopal Rane, a havaldar and a post commander in the special constabulary cordoning the Indian side of the border. The other must remain nameless because not even Gopal Rane, who met him in the course of business once every few weeks, knew his name. To Rane, he was the front man for a small-time Goan smuggler whose name, as it happened, was quite well known in his department: Ranga Shenai.

  ‘It is said the Arab pushed through six hundred bars,’ the front man said complainingly. ‘And Kakulo three…’

  ‘Ehh!’ Rane gave an imitation Goan snort. ‘Don’t tell me what happens on the other routes.’

  ‘Everyone says that the other routes are far more cooperative. Here we go on sticking to the same old system.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with the old system? Only one jacket a month – a few cases of whisky. No fuss. Everyone’s happy. You – us – both.’

  ‘No fuss! We took a big loss last month. Both the watches and the whisky in two weeks. Why you had to seize…’

  ‘Watches! Whisky! Ehh! If we don’t even catch these driblets, what will they say, tell me? That we’re sleeping on the job, no? We just have to catch a couple of smugglers every month, no? And even then the new SP says we’re useless. We’re to keep him happy too, no?’

  ‘But I thought he was going on leave – to be married!’

  Rane rotated both his thumbs vigorously which made the other raise his eyebrows and ask: ‘No? Marriage gone oom-phuss!’

  ‘No, no. The CC, the chief constable, he hooked his foot! Turned down his leave. Not when he’s just arrived on transfer, the CC said…’

  ‘God, that must have made him boil. Oh, he must be wild!’

  ‘Wild? Don’t ask! Packing off post commanders right and left – on adverse reports. And since that Arab’s hundred bars were caught on the Kumbeli Road, he’s demanding why every one of us can’t make a big haul.’

  ‘Big haul? On our present volume of business?’ the front man said, smoothly bringing back their talk to the main subject.

  Rane drained his glass, made a face and said, ‘How high were you thinking of jumping?’

  The other looked very thoughtful. He said, ‘It depends – depends on the proportion of the operating losses.’

  ‘Those will have to be in the usual proportion. One in four. Fair is fair.’

  ‘One in four even for bigger volume! You want to put us out of business? You don’t know what the Arab agreed to, do you? One in three. You saw it in the papers. They seized two hundred bars.’

  ‘How he can afford it, I don’t know. One in three and then the hush money. We could never do business like that.’

  ‘Who’s asking you to? I said four, didn’t I?’

  He refilled his glass, took a large gulp and asked, ‘How much were you thinking of taking across?’

  ‘Eight hundred bars.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be okay, but you’ll have to let us seize the two hundred in advance. It’ll enable the SP to get his name in the papers. Keep everyone happy; only then business prospers.’

  ‘One in four,’ the other said mournfully. ‘You people were always hard bargainers. Never a concession – not even to old friends.’

  ‘You fix the day for both,’ Gopal Rane said. ‘For our haul as well as for when you want us to be elsewhere. And remember that the hush money is in addition to – to the operational loss.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Superintendent Dhavan was making his weekly round of the outposts. The post commander stood beside his jeep, quivering like a dog in the grip of a nightmare.

  ‘I want results, and I don’t want moans, about hardships and isolation. I don’t want to see your leech bites or your tick blisters, or to know how often you’ve been laid up with shivering fits.’

  Gopal Rane, who had not complained of anything at all, merely said: ‘Sir.’

  ‘Results, see? And nothing but. Then I’ll be prepared to listen – listen to anything they have to say. And I‘ll recommend rewards too. Anyone of you catching a smuggler with a hundred biscuits, you certainly deserve that extra stripe. You’ve earned it, damn it; and I shall see that you get it.’

  ‘What happens if someone is able to catch a man with two hundred bars, sir?’ Gopal Rane asked.

  ‘In that case a straight nomination to the police college – nothing less. Promotion to officer grade.’ He started the engine and roared away. Gopal Rane gave the back of the jeep a crashing salute.

  They were sitting in the balcony of a hotel room overlooking the Arabian Sea, and they were sipping Ganges water out of silver goblets – Gomti Prasad carried a plentiful supply of Ganges water wherever he went.

  ‘The father of a daughter is a pitiable object indeed,’ Gomti Prasad complained. ‘The way dowry scales are rising. Quite absurd what they’re demanding these days – particularly government servants.’

  ‘Whatever it is, it is nothing to you, Lalaji,’ Ranga Shenai pointed out.

  ‘But a Mercedes? It costs a lakh, at least – then another lakh for the wedding itself…’

  ‘What’s a couple of lakhs to you?’

  Gomti Prasad looked pained. ‘What do others know of my difficulties? The taxation here…killing! What I had to shell out in hush just to keep my name out of the papers after the hundi raids…it nearly cleaned me out. You don’t know how lucky you’re in Goa.’

  Ranga Shenai answered by quoting a proverb: ‘The mountains always look inviting from a distance.’

  They commiserated with each other before getting down to business. ‘And now this wedding,’ Gomti Prasad said. ‘I was – I was rather depending on you to help me see it through.’

  ‘Anything – anything at all that I can do. You know that.’

  ‘If you could manage, say, five hundred bars this month, it’ll see me through.’

  Ranga Shenai pulled a long face. ‘Our hush has been geared to cover only a hundred a month – just the one jacket. Ordinarily, it’s – it’s always a risk to disturb what has worked so well, so long.’

  ‘Excessive caution is a bad business principle,’ Gomti Prasad pronounced. Then, very casually, he exposed his trump card, which was to drop the names of two other smugglers who might be interested in taking on the business. He said, ‘Do you think
the Arab or even Kakulo would make difficulties about someone putting…a little extra business in their way?’

  ‘I said, ordinarily,’ Ranga Shenai said in an even voice. ’This occasion is by no means ordinary. A wedding in your house, Lalaji, is like a wedding in mine. And if you were living in Goa, I’d have given the Mercedes myself – a present.’

  Gomti Prasad beamed and inwardly wished he had not made that reference to the other Goan smugglers.

  Then Ranga Shenai plonked down his trump card. And in a way I’ll make it up to you – make an indirect contribution that should equal the price of a Mercedes. Listen to this. You were talking of five jackets. Well, I’ll raise it to eight – eight hundred gold bars…’

  Gomti Prasad had to swallow hard to overcome the sudden spurt of saliva in his mouth. He put his hand out and the bargain was sealed.

  They toasted each other with Ganges water, and then Ranga Shenai asked, ‘When is the wedding?’

  ‘We’d settled on a muhurat this month but some ––––– my future son-in-law has got as his chief, turned down his leave application, can you imagine!’

  ‘No doubt you’ve written to the minister…’

  ‘Of course, I have. So we’ve found a muhurat next month, the nineteenth. And afterwards, I’ve been assured that my son-in-law will be stationed in Begwad itself. Such a fine man the minister – ’

  Salcar, a giant of a man, blushed like a girl and kept his eyes lowered and tugged at his shirt-tails, and Ranga Shenai’s front man again asked him, ‘What’s come over you?’

  ‘I won’t be able to go, baab – not next week.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My wife. She’s…she’s going to have a baby.’

  ‘Ehh!’ The front man gave a proper Goan snort. ’That’s what they’re meant for, wives – to make babies.’

  ‘Baab, the doctor – he says she’s going to have a difficult time. She’s too small where they have to be big – narrow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s bad,’ the front man clucked his tongue. ‘And yet, think of the money you’ll lose. These things cost money – these difficult childbirths. And it’ll upset things a lot for us too; you were going with seven others – in a big operation. Not alone, as usual.’

  ‘I know, baab, but I just don’t want to be away when the time comes.’

  ‘And when is that?’

  ‘That’s just it, baab. The doctor says he can’t be definite – any time after Monday.’

  That was the instant when the front man made a characteristically quick decision. He said, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll try and get a special load for you – just for yourself. You go across tomorrow, right? I’ll get someone else to take your place next week. You’ll be back by Saturday. In good time…’

  ‘No, baab. I don’t want to risk it…supposing…’

  ‘Wait till I’ve finished,’ the front man said sharply. ‘I know you need the money, so I’m helping you. I’ll double your load. You’re a strong man, you can carry two jackets, no – fifty pounds?’

  ‘I’ve carried that much before; but in whisky bottles.’

  ‘That’s what we’ll do then. You take across the two jackets, and get your double payment. And you’ll be back on Saturday. Think of the money – think how much more easy you’ll feel in your mind about…’

  ‘Well, in that case – as you say, the money will come in useful. And I’m most grateful to you, baab – not everyone thinks of the poor.’

  At the top of the ghats there was a cool breeze. The trickles of sweat running down his armpits suddenly ceased. Through the lining of the inner jacket, the double load of gold bars pressed hard against his ribs.

  Salcar left the forest path and followed a dry watercourse till he reached the bibti tree in the fold of the hill. From the pocket of the bush shirt he wore over the two jackets, he took out the bunch of ten-rupee notes held together by a rubber band. He dropped the money into a slit in the bole of the tree as you or I might drop a letter into a pillar box. That was the hush his employers required him to pay on their behalf every time he took a load for them. Then from his shoulder bag he took out his own small offering; a pint bottle of cashew feni. He knew that some time before sunset, the hush would be collected by one of the guards even though Salcar for his part had never run into a guard.

  He wedged the bottle between two roots, and began to cover it with dried leaves. That was when he heard the cough behind him which made him jump and turn all in one moment, as though jerked by a rope.

  From behind the bamboos, Gopal Rane emerged, looking official in his blue uniform, and suddenly Salcar knew that all was lost; that his protection had been withdrawn. He thought of his wife and the coming baby. Any time after Monday…the doctor had warned him.

  ‘You make an excellent photograph,’ the chief constable said with heavy sarcasm. He tapped the newspaper clipping and said, ‘Who took it?’

  ‘One of the post havaldars. I’ve recommended him for nomination to the police college…’

  ‘Oh, that’s gone through,’ the chief constable interrupted. ‘I could hardly hold up what’s come from you…not after this.’ He was smiling but his tone was still mildly sarcastic. ‘Your camera?’ he asked.

  ‘I always carry one, sir,’ Dhavan answered. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘It’s always good to have a record of one’s achievements. Quite a haul, this; one man carrying two jackets. A feather in your cap.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and may I say it would not have been possible if – if you’d granted my leave when I asked for it – two weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh well – perhaps I’d no business to turn it down. That’s what the minister seemed to think. Not when I knew that you were going to marry Gomti Prasad’s only daughter.’

  ‘Not only daughter. There’s another. Already married.’

  ‘Dowry? Oh, no, sir.’ Dhavan shook his head several times. ‘I was most particular about – about not doing anything that might reflect on the good name of the forces. If he wants to he can give his daughter – anything he wants. That I cannot prevent.’

  ‘Of course, of course. And what present did he give his first daughter?’

  ‘I believe it was a Mercedes.’

  ‘Ah, he can hardly do less well by the second daughter now, can he?’ the chief constable said. ‘Well, I expect you’re just dying to get away now. Marriage – honeymoon – a transfer to headquarters afterwards…’

  ‘Transfer, sir? I didn’t know about that.’

  ‘Well it is a – what shall I say – a small token of appreciation from the minister himself.’

  ‘It’s always most gratifying, sir,’ Dhavan said very solemnly, ‘to see one’s efforts being adequately appreciated.’

  ELEVEN

  Palace Orders

  MANOHAR MALGONKAR

  As the train entered the bowels of the city, he was overcome by a sense of futility. He knew within himself that he would never get the job. Why had he let his grandfather bully him into making the journey?

  His grandfather, who had been an elephant trainer in the Udaipur palace, had brought him up and sent him to college; the family still lived in the warren of rooms behind the now-empty elephant sheds.

  ‘Your fare is being paid, isn’t it?’ he had argued. ‘You can see the capital free. You make your fortune there. Hundreds have become lakhpatis in Delhi. Then you come back – by air – there is a daily service nowadays from Udaipur. And I shall wait for you with a garland. Who knows, some day you will take me to Delhi by air. People will say, “Look, the grandfather never gave the boy an elephant ride, but the boy took the old man in a hawai-jahaj!”’

  It was a complicated thought process, feudal in origin. To make a trip to Delhi by air was a part of his grandfather’s dream, and to make that dream come true, he was now being sent to the capital. The letter from the Shamendra Yogashram had been signed by the director himself. It said that the director had heard him on a Yuva Vani broadcast and would like to consider him for
the post of an assistant manager.

  He was sure that they must have called up at least another hundred university graduates; there had never been less than a hundred at any of the interviews he had been to. But, even if they had called up only the dozen who had participated in the programme he had been on, there would still be no question of his being chosen above any of the others. He remembered with a jab of shame that he had barely contributed a couple of sentences to that discussion; some of the others had made long speeches.

  He was much better prepared for this interview than he had been for any of the earlier ones. When he had applied for a clerical post in the local octroi department, he had got hopelessly muddled when asked to list the Five Points. Now he could rattle off the full Twenty and the Five, recount the wonderful benefits of the Emergency, and he had made a close study of Khushwant Singh’s weekly hymns of praise of Mrs Gandhi and her son.

  And in his pocket was that document thought to be indispensable for all males between seventeen and seventy venturing into the capital: a vasectomy certificate. His grandfather had paid a whole hundred rupees for it, though of late the going price had dropped to fifty.

  The train made it on the minute; nowadays they were never late. He left his battered tin suitcase in the cloakroom and got into a rickshaw.

  He was awed by the city’s immensity, by its glitter and its poverty and, above all, by its surging humanity. The empty feeling in his stomach rose to his chest and throat and he wanted to yawn constantly.

  He heard a shrill whistle. The rickshaw veered to one side and came to a halt. Pedestrians were suddenly galvanized into attitudes of reverence, bowing and folding their hands. A jeep passed, with two turbaned men in the front seat, followed by a car driven by a fleshy-faced and balding young man with side whiskers and glasses. Beside him sat a bearded man who was draped in folds of white muslin. Both men were laughing as if at a joke.

  The Sikh rickshaw driver muttered something in Punjabi and spat as he went into a burst of speed. About ten minutes later he stopped before a tall grey building which did not look like an ashram or any kind of an office. But the address was right: 1301 Golcha Marg. In the lobby was a board which indicated that the Shamendra Yogashram was on the third floor. Not knowing how to work the lift, he took the stairs.