The Dog of Tithwal

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  Harish asked my wife if she’d like to come to the studio to watch him shoot a couple of scenes. She wanted to know if a musical sequence was being filmed. When told that it would be the next day, she seemed to lose interest. ‘Why not tomorrow then?’ Harish’s wife suggested. The poor woman was sick of taking guests to the studios. She told my wife, ‘You look tired. I think you should get some rest.’

  Harish said it was a good idea. ‘Manto, you’d better come with me to see the studio chief. He has expressed an interest in your writing a film for him.’ My wife was pleased. Chadda provided the final touch to the drama. He said he was leaving as he had something important to do. We said our good-byes. When we met later on the road, Chadda shouted lustily, ‘Raja Harish Chander zindabad.’

  Harish did not come with us. He had to meet his girlfriend.

  From the outside, Mummy’s house looked like Saeeda Cottage, but the resemblance ended there. I had expected to find myself in a sort of brothel, but it was a perfectly normal, middle-class Christian household. It looked a bit younger than Mummy, perhaps because it was simple and wore no makeup. When she walked in, I felt that while everything around her had remained the same age as the day it was bought, she had moved on and grown old. She was wearing the same bright makeup.

  Chadda introduced her briefly: ‘This is Mummy the great.’ She smiled, then admonished him gently. ‘You sent for tea in such an unholy hurry that I am sure Mrs Manto could not have found it drinkable. It was all your friend Chadda’s fault,’ she told me.

  I said the tea was great. Then she said to Chadda, ‘I fixed dinner, otherwise you always get impatient at the last moment.’ Chadda threw his arms around her. ‘You are a jewel, Mummy. Of course we are going to eat that dinner.’

  Mummy wanted to know where my wife was. When we told her that she was with friends in Parbhat Nagar, she said, ‘That’s awful, why didn’t you bring her?’

  ‘Because of the party tonight,’ Chadda replied.

  ‘What party? I decided to call it off the moment I saw Mrs Manto.’

  ‘What have you done, Mummy?’ Chadda exclaimed. ‘And to think that we planned this entire charade just for that!’

  Then on an impulse he jumped up. ‘But you only thought of calling the party off. You didn’t actually call it off. As such, hereby I call off your decision to call off the party. Cross your heart.’ He drew a cross across Mummy’s heart and shouted, ‘Hip hip hurray!’

  The fact was that Mummy had called off the party. I could also see that she didn’t want to disappoint Chadda. She touched him on the cheek affectionately and said, ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  She left. Chadda’s spirits rose. ‘General Venkutrey, report to headquarters and arrange immediate transportation of all heavy guns to the battlefront.’

  Venkutrey saluted smartly and left for Saeeda Cottage. He was back in ten minutes with the heavy guns – the four bottles of Scotch – with the servant bringing up the rear. ‘Come in, come in, my Caucasian prince. The girl with hair the colour of snake scales is coming tonight. You too can try your luck.’

  I was thinking about Mummy. Chadda, Gharib Nawaz and Ranjeet Kumar were like little children waiting for their mother who had gone out to buy them toys. Chadda was more confident because he was the favourite child and he knew that he would get the best toy. The others were not altogether without hope. Every situation has its own music. The one in Mummy’s home had no harsh notes. Drinking seemed perfectly normal. It was like imbibing milk.

  Her makeup still bothered me, however. Why did she have to paint her face like that? It was an insult to the love she showered with such generosity on Chadda, Gharib Nawaz and Venkutrey…and who knew how many more.

  I asked Chadda, ‘Why does your Mummy look so flashy?’

  ‘Because the world likes flashy things. There are not many idiots around like you and me who wish colours to be sober and understated, music to be soft, who don’t want to see youth clad in the garments of childhood and age in the mantle of youth. We who call ourselves artists are actually second-class asses, because there is nothing first class on this earth. It is either third or second class, except…except Phyllis. She alone is first class.’

  Venkutrey poured his drink over Chadda’s head. ‘Snakes scales…you have gone mad.’

  Chadda lapped it up. ‘This has cooled me down.’

  Venkutrey began his long, rambling story about how much his father loved him, but Chadda was having none of that.

  ‘To hell with your entire family,’ he said. ‘I want to talk about Phyllis.’ He looked at Gharib Nawaz and Ranjeet Kumar, who were huddled together in a corner whispering in each other’s ears. ‘You leaders of the great gunpowder plot, your conspiracies will never succeed. Victory in battle will kiss Chadda’s feet. Isn’t that so, my Prince of Wales?’

  The Prince of Wales seemed more worried about the bottle of rum, which was getting emptier by the minute. Chadda laughed and poured him a hefty measure.

  The lights had been switched on, and outside, evening had fallen. Then we heard Mummy on the veranda. Chadda shouted a slogan and ran out. Ranjeet Kumar and Gharib Nawaz exchanged glances, waiting for the door to open.

  Mummy came in, followed by four or five Anglo-Indian girls – Polly, Dolly, Kitty, Elma, Thelma – and a young man who answered to the description that had been provided to me of Phyllis’s friend.

  Phyllis was the last to appear. Chadda had his arm around her. He had already declared victory. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjeet Kumar looked positively unhappy at this unsporting behaviour.

  All hell broke loose. Suddenly everyone was jabbering away in English, trying to impress the girls. Venkutrey failed his matriculation several times in a row. Soon he went into a corner with Thelma, offering free instruction in Indian classical dance.

  Chadda was surrounded by a bevy of giggling girls. He was reciting dirty limericks which he knew by the hundred. Mummy was busy with her arrangements. Ranjeet Kumar sat alone, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Gharib Nawaz was asking Mummy if she needed any money.

  The Scotch was brought in ceremoniously. Phyllis was offered a drink, but she shook her head. She said she did not like whisky. Even Chadda was refused. Finally, Mummy prepared a light drink, put the glass to her lips and said, ‘Now be a brave girl and gulp it down.’

  Chadda was so thrilled that he recited another twenty limericks. I was thinking. Man must have got bored with nakedness when he decided to don clothes, which is why sometimes he gets bored with them and reverts to his original state. The reaction to good manners is certainly bad manners.

  I watched Mummy. She was surrounded by the girls and was giggling with the rest of them at Chadda’s antics. She was wearing the same vulgar, tasteless makeup under which her wrinkles could be seen in high relief. She looked happy. I wondered why people thought escape to be a bad thing. Here was an act of escape. The exterior was unattractive, but the soul was beautiful. Did she need all those unguents, lotions and colouring liquids?

  Polly was telling Ranjeet Kumar about her new dress, which she had picked up as a bargain and altered at home. And now it was perfectly lovely. Ranjeet Kumar was offering to buy her two new ones, although he was unlikely to get an advance in the near future. Dolly was trying to talk Gharib Nawaz into lending her some more money. He knew perfectly well that he would never see it again, but was still trying to convince himself to the contrary.

  Thelma was being tutored in the intricacies of Indian classical dance by Venkutrey, who knew that she would never make a dancer. She knew that too, but she was still listening to him with great concentration. Elma and Kitty were drinking steadily.

  In this tableau it was difficult to be sure about the rights and wrongs. Was Mummy’s flashiness right or a part of the situation? Who could say? In her heart there was love for everyone. Perhaps she had coloured her face, I said to myself, so that the world should not see wha
t she was really like. Maybe she did not have the emotional strength to play mother to the whole world. She had just chosen a few.

  Mummy did not know that during her absence in the kitchen, Chadda had persuaded Phyllis to take a massive drink, not on the sly, but in front of the others. Phyllis was slightly high, but only slightly. Her hair was like polished steel, waving gently from side to side like her young sinuous body.

  It was midnight. Venkutrey was no longer trying to make a classical dancer out of Thelma. Now he was telling her about his father, who loved him to the point of distraction. Gharib Nawaz had forgotten that he had already lent some more money to Dolly. Ranjeet Kumar had disappeared with Polly. Elma and Kitty were sleepy.

  Around the table sat Phyllis, her friend and Mummy. Chadda was no longer sentimental. He sat next to Phyllis and it was evident he was determined to take her tonight.

  At some point, Phyllis’s friend got up, laid himself down on the sofa and went to sleep. Gharib Nawaz and Dolly left the room. Elma and Kitty said their goodnights and went home. Venkutrey, after praising his wife’s beauty one more time, cast a longing look at Phyllis, put his arm around Thelma and took her out into the garden.

  Suddenly a loud argument developed between Mummy and Chadda. He was drunk, angry and foul-mouthed. He had never spoken to her like that. Phyllis had given up her feeble efforts to make peace between the two. Chadda wanted to take her to Saeeda Cottage and Mummy had told him that she would not permit that. He was screaming at her now. ‘You old pimp, you have gone mad. Phyllis is mine. Ask her.’

  ‘Chadda, my son, why don’t you understand? She is young, she is very young,’ Mummy said to him, but Chadda was beyond reason. For the first time it occurred to me how young Phyllis was, hardly fifteen. Her face was like a raindrop surrounded by silver clouds.

  Chadda pulled Phyllis towards him, squeezed her against his chest in a passionate B-grade movie embrace. ‘Chadda, leave her alone. For God’s sake let her go,’ Mummy screamed, but he paid no attention to her.

  Then it happened. She slapped him across the face. ‘Get out, get out!’ she shouted.

  Chadda pushed Phyllis aside, gave Mummy a furious look and walked out. I followed him.

  When I arrived at Saeeda Cottage, he was lying on his bed, face down, fully clothed. We did not speak. I went to my room and slept.

  I got up late the next morning. Chadda was not in his room. I washed and as I was coming out of the bathroom I heard his voice outside. ‘She is unique. By God, she is great. You should pray that when you reach her age you should become like her.’

  I did not want to hang around much longer. I waited for him to come back to the house, but after about half an hour I left for Parbhat Nagar.

  Harish hadn’t returned home. I told his wife that we had had a late night, so he had decided to sleep at Saeeda Cottage. We took our leave and on the way I told my wife about the night’s incident. Her theory was that Phyllis was either related to Mummy or the old woman wanted to save her for some better client. I kept quiet.

  After several weeks I had a letter from Chadda. All it said was, ‘I behaved like a beast that evening. Damn me.’

  I went to Poona a few months later on business. When I called at Saeeda Cottage, Chadda was out. Gharib Nawaz was playing with Shireen’s son. We shook hands. I learnt from him that Chadda hadn’t spoken to Mummy after that night, nor had she visited Saeeda Cottage.

  She had sent Phyllis back to her parents. It turned out that she had run away from home with that young fellow. Ranjeet Kumar – who had just walked in – was confident that had Phyllis stayed on, he would have scored. Gharib Nawaz had no such illusions, but he was sorry she was gone.

  They said Chadda had not been well for some time, but refused to see a doctor. As we were talking, Venkutrey rushed in. He looked very nervous. He had met Chadda on the street, found him feeling groggy and put him in a tonga to get him home, but Chadda had fainted on the way. We ran out. Chadda lay in the tonga looking very ill. We brought him in. He was unconscious.

  I told Gharib Nawaz to get a doctor. He consulted Venkutrey and left. They returned a little later with Mummy. ‘What has happened to my son?’ she asked. ‘What kind of friends are you? Why didn’t you send me word?’ she said.

  She immediately took charge. ‘Get hold of some ice and rub his forehead. Massage his feet. Fan his face.’ Then she went out to get a doctor. Everyone looked relieved, as if the entire responsibility of bringing Chadda back to health was now Mummy’s.

  Chadda had begun to regain consciousness when Mummy returned with the doctor. The doctor examined him, then took Mummy aside. She told us there was no cause for worry. Chadda was still a bit disoriented. He saw Mummy. He took her hand in his and said, ‘Mummy, you are great.’

  She ran her hand gently over Chadda’s burning face. ‘My son, my poor son,’ she said.

  Tears came to Chadda’s eyes. ‘Don’t say that. Your son is a scoundrel of the first order. Go get your husband’s old service revolver and shoot him.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ she said. She rose. ‘Boys, Chadda is very ill. I’m going to take him to the hospital.’

  Gharib Nawaz sent for a taxi. Chadda could not understand why he was being taken to hospital, but Mummy told him that he would be more comfortable there than at home. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  He was laid up for many days, with Mummy spending most of her time with him. However, he did not seem to be getting better. His skin had become sallow and he was losing strength. The doctors were of the view that he should be taken to Bombay, but Mummy said, ‘No, I’m going to take him home and he’s going to get well.’

  I had to leave Poona, but I phoned from Bombay every other day. I had started to lose hope, but slowly, very slowly, Chadda began to come round. I had to go to Lahore for a few weeks. When I returned to Bombay there was a letter from Chadda. ‘The great Mummy has reclaimed her unworthy son from the dead,’ he had written. There was so much love in that line. When I told my wife, she observed icily, ‘Such women are generally good at these things.’

  I wrote to Chadda a few times, but he didn’t answer. Later, somebody told me that Mummy had sent him to the hills to stay with friends. He was soon better – and bored – and returned to Poona. I was there that day.

  He looked weak, but nothing else had changed. He talked about his illness as if he had had a minor bicycle accident. Saeeda Cottage had seen a few changes in his absence. A Bengali music director called Sen had moved in. He shared his room with Ram Singh, a young boy from Lahore who had come to Bombay, like so many others, to get into films.

  Ranjeet Kumar had been picked up to play the lead in a movie. He had been promised the direction of the next one, provided the one under production did well. Chadda had finally managed to raise an advance of one thousand five hundred rupees from the studio. Gharib Nawaz had just come back from Hyderabad and the general finances of Saeeda Cottage were in good shape as a result of that. Shireen’s boy had new clothes and new toys.

  My friend Harish was currently trying to seduce his new leading lady, who was from Punjab. He was, however, afraid of her husband, who had a formidable moustache and looked like a wrestler. Chadda’s advice to Harish had been sound: ‘Don’t worry about him at all. He may be a wrestler, but in the field of love he is bound to fall flat on his face. All you need to learn are a few heavyweight Punjabi swear words from me. I’ll settle for one hundred rupees per lesson. You’ll need them in awkward situations.’

  Harish had struck a deal and, at the rate of a bottle of rum per choice Punjabi swear word, had learnt half a dozen of them. However, there had been no occasion to test his new powers. His affair was doing well without them.

  Mummy’s parties had been reconvened and the old crowd – Polly, Dolly, Elma, Thelma etc. – was back. Venkutrey had still not given up his efforts to induct Thelma into the mysteries of Indian classical dance. Ghari
b Nawaz was still lending money and Ranjeet Kumar, who was about to hit the big screen, was using his new position to ingratiate himself with the girls. Chadda’s dirty limericks were still flowing.

  There was only one thing missing – the girl with the platinum blonde hair, the colour of snake scales and blue steel and silver. Chadda never mentioned her. Occasionally, one would see him looking at Mummy, then lowering his eyes, recalling the events of that night. Off and on, after his fourth drink, he would say, ‘Chadda, you are a damned brute.’

  Mummy was still the Mummy – Polly’s Mummy, Dolly’s Mummy, Chadda’s Mummy, Ranjeet Kumar’s Mummy – still the wonderful manageress of her unique establishment. Her makeup was still flashy, and her clothes even flashier. Her wrinkles still showed, but for me they had come to assume a sacred dimension.

  It was Mummy who had come to the rescue of Venkutrey’s wife when she had had a miscarriage. She had taken charge of Thelma when she had caught a dangerous infection from a dance director who had promised to put her in the movies. Recently, Kitty had won five hundred rupees in a crossword puzzle competition and Mummy had persuaded her to give some of it to Gharib Nawaz, who was a bit short. ‘Give it to him now and you can keep taking it back,’ she had advised her.

  There was only one man she didn’t like: the music director Sen. She had told Chadda repeatedly, ‘Don’t bring him to my house. There is something about him that makes me uneasy. He doesn’t fit.’

  I returned to Bombay carrying with me the warmth of Mummy’s parties. Her world was simple and beautiful and reassuring. Yes, there was drinking and sex and a general lack of seriousness, but one felt no emotional unease. It was like the protruding belly of a pregnant woman: a bit odd, but perfectly innocent and immediately comprehensible.

  One day I read in the papers that the music director Sen had been found murdered in Saeeda Cottage. The suspect was said to be a young man named Ram Singh.

  Chadda wrote me an account of the incident later.