His mind was bursting with questions, but there were no answers. He needed sympathy, but everyone around him needed it too. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t; his tears had dried up.
Six days later, when Sirajuddin had recovered somewhat, he met a few people who were willing to help him. Eight young men equipped with a lorry and rifles. He blessed them and described Sakina to them. ‘She is fair and exceedingly pretty. She takes after her mother, not me. She is about seventeen, with big eyes and dark hair. She has a beautiful big mole on her right cheek. She’s my only daughter. Please find her. May God bless you!’
The young volunteers assured old Sirajuddin that if his daughter was alive he would be reunited with her in a few days.
The volunteers didn’t spare any effort. Putting their lives in harm’s way, they went to Amritsar. They rescued several women, men and children and brought them to safety. Ten days passed but they found no trace of Sakina.
One day they were heading off to Amritsar on their rescue mission aboard the same lorry when they spotted a girl trudging along the road near Chuhrat. The sound of the lorry startled the girl and she took off in a panic. The boys stopped the lorry and ran after her. Eventually they caught up with her in a field. She was stunningly beautiful and had a big black mole on her right cheek.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ one of the boys tried to reassure her. ‘Are you Sakina?’
The girl turned deathly pale. She didn’t reply. When the boys, all of them, reassured her gently, her fear subsided and she admitted that she was indeed Sakina, Sirajuddin’s daughter.
The young men tried everything to lift her spirits. They fed her, gave her milk to drink, and then helped her into the lorry. One of them even took off his jacket and gave it to her because she was feeling quite awkward without her dupatta, and was making repeated but futile attempts to cover her chest with her arms.
Several days went by, but Sirajuddin received no news of Sakina. He spent his days making the rounds of different camps and offices but had no success in tracing his missing daughter. At night he prayed for the success of the volunteers who had assured him that if she was alive they would find her in a matter of days.
One day he saw those volunteers at the camp. They were sitting inside the lorry. Sirajuddin rushed over to them just as the lorry was about to take off, and asked, ‘Son, did you find my Sakina?’
‘Oh, we will, we will,’ they said in unison and the lorry took off.
Once again Sirajuddin prayed for the success of these young men, which took some of the weight off his heart. That evening he noticed a hullabaloo close to where he was sitting. Four men were carrying a stretcher. Upon inquiring he was told that a girl was found lying unconscious by the train tracks. He followed them. The men handed the girl over to the hospital staff and left.
For a while he stood leaning against the wooden post outside the facility and then he slowly walked inside. There was no one in the room. All he could see was the stretcher with a corpse lying on it. Sirajuddin advanced towards it, taking small, hesitant steps. All of a sudden the room lit up. ‘Sakina!’ he screamed, spotting the big black mole gleaming on the blanched face of the dead girl.
‘What is it?’ the doctor who had turned on the light asked him.
‘I . . . sir, I . . . I’m her father!’ the words came out with a rasp.
The doctor glanced at the body lying on the stretcher. He felt the pulse and, pointing at the window, told Sirajuddin, ‘Open it!’
Sakina’s body stirred ever so faintly on the stretcher. With lifeless hands she slowly undid the knot of her waistband and lowered her shalwar.
‘She’s alive! My daughter is alive!’ Old Sirajuddin screamed with unbounded joy.
The doctor broke into a cold sweat.
FROZEN
The instant Eshar Singh stepped into the room Kalwant Kaur sprang up from the bed, walked over to the door and bolted it, glaring at him. It was midnight. The suburbs were eerily quiet.
Kalwant Kaur sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. Eshar Singh stood quietly in a corner holding his kirpan, perhaps trying to straighten out his muddled thoughts. A tense silence prevailed for some moments. Kalwant Kaur didn’t like the way she was sitting, so she lowered her legs and started swinging them. Still Eshar Singh didn’t say a word.
Kalwant Kaur was a plump woman with a heavy, broad rear and oversized, fleshy breasts projecting upward a bit too much. A bluish shadow covered her upper lip and the shape of her chin betrayed that she was no less than an Amazon.
Eshar Singh still stood in the corner with his head drooping downward. His tightly wrapped turban was beginning to come loose and the hand holding his kirpan was trembling a bit. Despite that, his tall frame and his appearance left no doubt that he was every bit the man for a formidable woman like Kalwant Kaur.
The relentless silence raised her hackles and her patience soon ran out. She glowered at Eshar Singh but could only exclaim, ‘Eshar saiyaan!’
He raised his head and looked at her, only to quickly turn his face away from the penetrating intensity of her sharp gaze.
‘Eshar saiyaan,’ she started to scream, but quickly stifled it. Hopping off the bed, she walked over to him and asked, ‘Where have you been hanging out all these days?’
‘I have no idea,’ he replied, running his tongue over his parched lips.
‘What kind of fucking answer is that?’ she asked in a rage.
He tossed the kirpan aside and slumped down on the bed, looking as though he’d been feeling ill for some time.
She glanced at the bed, now dwarfed by his big, burly body. A surge of compassion for the man swelled in her heart. She touched his forehead and lovingly asked, ‘Jaani, what’s wrong?’
Eshar Singh was staring up at the ceiling but turned his gaze and probed the face he knew so well. ‘Kalwant.’
She could sense a distinct pain in his voice. The whole of her seemed to have gathered in her upper lip. ‘Yes, jaani?’ she said tenderly, biting her lip.
Eshar Singh took off his turban and looked at her, his eyes begging for understanding and comfort. He slapped her big, fleshy bottom, jerked his head and said to himself, ‘I’m going nuts.’
His kes came undone with the jerk. Kalwant Kaur started combing her fingers through it and asked lovingly, ‘Eshar saiyaan, where have you been all this time?’
‘At my enemy’s mother’s!’ he said, looking at her intently. All of a sudden he started kneading her fleshy buttocks vigorously. ‘I swear by Wahe Guru, you’re one awesome woman!’
She pushed his hands away indifferently and asked, ‘Tell me, on my life, where have you been? In the city?’
With a single movement Eshar Singh wound his hair into a bun and answered, ‘No.’
She lost her head. ‘Damn it, you did go there. And you stole a lot of money that you don’t want to tell me anything about.’
‘May I not be my father’s son if I’m lying to you!’
That seemed to quiet her down, but only for a while. Within seconds she flared up again. ‘But I can’t understand what got into you that night. You lay beside me after you gave me all that jewellery you looted in the city . . . you were madly kissing me all over . . . And then, abruptly, you just got out of bed, put on your clothes and dashed out.’
Eshar Singh blanched. She was quick to notice how he had paled and immediately said, ‘Look, how your face has changed. Eshar saiyaan, by Wahe Guru, something is fishy here.’
‘Nothing is fishy, I swear by your life.’
But his voice lacked conviction, which reinforced her suspicions. Pursing her lips and enunciating every word emphatically, she asked, ‘Eshar saiyaan, come clean. You’re not the man you were eight days ago.’
He sat up with a start, as if he’d been attacked. Gathering her in his robust arms, he started gnawing at her vigorously. ‘Jaani, I’m the same Eshar. Squeeze me harder, so it cools off the heat in your bones.’
She didn’t resist him, but kept up her earlier litan
y. ‘What happened to you that night?’
‘The enemy’s mother got fucked, that’s all.’
‘Come on, won’t you tell me?’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘May you cremate my body with your own hands if you don’t tell me the truth!’
He flung his arms around her neck and pressed his lips to hers. A few bristles of his bushy moustache tickled her nose and she sneezed. They both laughed.
He took off his quilted vest and ogled her lustily. ‘Come on, let’s play a round of cards,’ he said.
Tiny beads of perspiration sprouted on Kalwant Kaur’s upper lip. She rolled her eyes coquettishly and blurted out, ‘Get lost!’
He pinched her ample bottom hard, making her flinch. She withdrew to one side. ‘Don’t do that, Eshar saiyaan, it hurts.’
He went over to her and pulled her upper lip between his and started to nibble at it. She melted away. He took off his shirt and tossed it away, saying, ‘Well then, let’s get on with a round of trumps.’
Her upper lip began to quiver with anticipation. With one quick movement Eshar Singh peeled off her shirt like an experienced butcher pulling the hide right off the body of a slaughtered animal in a single perfect motion. Staring lasciviously at her naked form, Eshar pinched her arm and said, ‘Kalwant, I swear by Wahe Guru, you’re one hell of a delicious woman!’
Kalwant looked at the red welt slowly appearing on her arm. ‘You’re really a brute, Eshar saiyaan.’
He laughed through his bushy moustache. ‘So let brutality reign tonight,’ and with that he launched into more of the same. He scraped his teeth against her upper lip, nibbled at her earlobes, ravaged her voluptuous breasts, whacked her bottom resoundingly, kissed her cheeks raw, sucked her nipples so much that the drool was smeared over her entire chest, until she began to boil. But none of this foreplay helped rouse him, to create even the slightest tremor of passion. Like a beaten wrestler flat on his back, he tried all the holds and manoeuvres he knew. None worked. Taut as a string ready to be strummed, and frustrated with all these unnecessary preliminaries, Kalwant Kaur said, ‘That’s enough shuffling, Eshar saiyaan, throw the card now!’
Eshar Singh felt as though the entire deck had slipped from his hands, and plopped down on to the floor. He gasped and threw himself down beside Kalwant Kaur, his forehead drenched in a cold sweat. Kalwant Kaur made frantic efforts to instil some passion into him but failed. So far everything had proceeded without a word, but when her overheated female parts didn’t receive the expected gratification, she got out of bed in a huff. Pulling the sheet hanging from the peg, she quickly threw it around herself. Her nostrils flared and she fumed. ‘Eshar saiyaan, who’s the bitch you’ve been with who’s squeezed you dry?’
Eshar Singh remained in bed, panting, and didn’t answer.
She exploded angrily, ‘I’m asking you—who’s the whore? Your lover, your trump card?’
‘No one, Kalwant,’ Eshar Singh mumbled, his voice sounding drained, ‘No one.’
With her arms akimbo Kalwant Kaur thundered resolutely, ‘Eshar saiyaan, I’ll get the truth out of you today, I swear by Wahe Guru. Isn’t there a woman lurking behind all this?’
Eshar Singh wanted to say something but Kalwant Kaur didn’t let him. ‘Before you swear, don’t forget, I’m Sardar Nihal Singh’s daughter. If you lie to me, I’ll make mincemeat out of you. Now, swear by Wahe Guru. Isn’t there a woman behind all this?’
In great agony Eshar Singh nodded in affirmation. Kalwant Kaur went completely wild. She leapt towards the corner and grabbed his kirpan. Ripping away the sheath like a banana peel and tossing it away, she struck Eshar Singh.
Jets of fresh, warm blood flowed down his body. Still not satisfied, Kalwant Kaur started pulling his kes like a wild cat, all the while hurling obscenities at her anonymous rival.
After some time, Eshar Singh said in a tired, meek voice, ‘Let it go, Kalwant, let it go.’
The pain in his voice was heart-rending. Kalwant Kaur took a step back.
The blood spurting from his neck was staining his moustache. He opened his trembling lips, and looking at her with both protest and gratitude, he said, ‘My darling, you acted hastily, but I guess I deserved it.’
Kalwant Kaur’s jealousy flared up again. ‘Who is she—that . . .’ she screamed.
The blood had now reached his mouth. As he tasted it, a shiver ran through his body. ‘I’ve killed six men with this very same kirpan . . .’ he said.
Kalwant Kaur’s mind was completely occupied with the other woman. ‘Who is she—the bitch? I’m asking you.’
A glint appeared in Eshar Singh’s eyes, which had begun to glaze over. ‘Don’t call her bad names.’
‘I’m asking you to tell me who she is!’ Kalwant Kaur screamed again.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he began but his voice choked. He ran his hand over his neck and smiled as he looked at his fresh, warm blood. ‘What a motherfucking creature man is!’
Kalwant Kaur, waiting for his answer, yelled with impatience, ‘Eshar saiyaan, get to the point.’
His smile widened behind his blood-soaked moustache. ‘I am coming to the point . . . My fucking throat is slit . . . I can only talk slowly.’
A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he spoke. ‘Kalwant, my darling, I can’t tell you what happened with me. Man is one weird creature. When looting broke out in the city, I joined in. Whatever jewellery and money I was able to lay my hands on, I gave to you, but I didn’t tell you one thing.’
A jab of sharp pain made him groan in agony. Kalwant Kaur paid no attention to him and asked ruthlessly, ‘What was it?’
He blew away the specs of clotted blood from his moustache and continued, ‘The house we broke into had seven people inside. I killed six of them . . . with this very same kirpan you’ve . . . But never mind. Listen . . . There was a girl . . . ravishingly beautiful . . . I threw her over my shoulder and . . . walked away with her . . .’
Kalwant Kaur listened attentively. Once again Eshar Singh blew the blood off his moustache. ‘Kalwant jaani, I can’t begin to tell you how staggeringly beautiful she was. I would have killed her too, but I thought, “No, Eshar saiyaan, you enjoy Kalwant Kaur every day, have a taste of this fruit too.”’
Kalwant Kaur only muttered, ‘Huh!’
‘I slung her across my shoulder and kept walking. On the way . . . What was I saying . . . yes, on the way, near the riverbank, I put her down under some cactus bushes. I first thought to shuffle her some, but then I changed my mind . . .’ His throat went completely dry.
Kalwant Kaur swallowed nervously and asked, ‘What happened then?’
He could hardly get the words out in his faltering voice, ‘I threw the trump . . . but . . . but . . .’
His voice sank.
Kalwant Kaur shook him violently. ‘What happened?’
Eshar Singh laboured to open his eyes and stared at Kalwant Kaur, her whole body quaking with rage. ‘She was dead . . . a corpse . . . a hunk of cold flesh . . . Give me your hand, jaani . . .’
Kalwant Kaur put her hand on his, which was colder than ice.
Sex and Sexuality
SMELL
It was a day during the rainy season—a day just like today. Outside the window, the leaves of the peepul tree stood drenched in the rain. A young woman from the hills, a ghatan, was lying curled up against Randheer on the spring mattress of the teak bed, which had now been moved away from the window a bit.
Beyond the window, the rain-washed leaves quivered like earrings in the milky darkness of the night, very much like the shivers the girl clinging to him sent coursing through his body.
Randheer had been reading an English-language newspaper the whole day and had been through not just every news item but practically all the ads as well. Towards evening he stepped out on to the balcony to amuse himself a bit and spotted the girl under a tamarind tree, shielding herself from the downpour. She probably worked in the neighbouring rope factory. He clea
red his throat and coughed a couple of times to draw her attention and, after a while, he motioned to her to come up.
He’d been feeling quite despondent for the past several days. With the war going on, nearly all the Christian girls in Bombay, who could be had at a bargain price, had enlisted with the Auxiliary Force. Some had moved to the Fort area and set up dancing schools, which only gora soldiers were allowed to enter. Randheer was feeling quite miserable. One reason was that the Christian girls were no longer readily available. Another was the colour of his skin—although enviably suave and well mannered, educated, in good health and more handsome than most young men, he was barred from practically all the brothels of the Fort area. After all, he was not a gora.
Before the war came along he had physical relationships with umpteen Christian girls around the Nagpara and Taj Hotel areas. He was far more adept in matters of the flesh than any of the Christian boys with whom those girls conducted fleeting affairs just to appear chic until eventually settling down with some fool or other.
He had called the ghatan over to get even with Hazel who had recently acquired this air of mannered haughtiness. Hazel lived in the flat below his. Every morning, outfitted in her army uniform, her khaki cap set at a rakish angle over her short-trimmed hair, she marched out of her place with such a swagger as if she expected everyone to roll themselves out as a carpet for her to walk on.
Why in the world did he feel so drawn to Christian girls?—he’d often wondered. Well, yes, they did show off all the seductive assets of their bodies to good effect, spoke unabashedly of their irregular periods and even their former love affairs, and swayed their legs the minute some dance tune or other drifted into their ears—but any woman could just as easily boast of these qualities, couldn’t she?
When Randheer gestured to the ghatan to come up he had no thought whatsoever of getting into bed with her. Noticing how thoroughly soaked she was, he feared the poor thing might catch pneumonia, so he said, ‘Take off those wet clothes! You’ll catch a cold.’
Manto and Chughtai Page 2