Manto and Chughtai

by Muhammed Umar Memon

  When Begum, his wife, heard this, she almost passed out.

  There was just one thing to do—go to Allahabad and shoot them both. But Begum panicked at the mention of the word ‘gun’. Ah! Her darling, her only daughter! God’s curse on the worthless fellow! How innocent he looked when he came on Sundays and had tiffs with Samina as they both raised a racket! When did this blasted love intrude? How ungrateful the children had become to get married on the sly in this way, giving no one the slightest inkling! How he would hug her and call her ‘Mummy’—indeed the rogue had ended up making her his mummy. A generation of such deceitful youths!

  No, we had nothing against the Hindus. No one ever bothered about who was Hindu or Christian at Paplu’s Sunday parties. Women had fancy nicknames. Pammy Deshmukh, for instance—was she Razzaq Deshmukh’s wife or Chander Deshmukh’s? Begum always thought Lily to be a Christian till she discovered one day that she was Laila Razdan. The Razdans made it all the more confusing. Tirmila Razdan—who called herself Nikki, swore in English at the slightest provocation and sprinkled her conversation liberally with invectives like ‘shut up’ and ‘hell’ (she was hell-bound, for sure)—was from a highly respected Shia family. As for Razdan Sahib—Mohammad Ismail Razdan—he had performed hajj thrice already. Nikki, too, was a haji. What beautiful saris and cosmetics she had brought back from Mecca this time! She brought us a gift of the holy water zamzam and rosaries along with an inch-long snippet of the sheet that covered the Kaaba. She had used the nail scissors expertly to rip off that swatch, and the folds fell so neatly that no one suspected it.

  They sat late into the night, calling people on the phone and sending telegrams to all invitees to tell them that Samina was down with pneumonia. That she was in intensive care. The wedding had been postponed for the time being. If she survived, they would be informed about the future programme.

  How to kill the daughter and the son-in-law? There wasn’t even a sharp knife in the house! They had to forget about the gun. A licence was hard to get. How were they to know? Otherwise they could’ve procured one beforehand. They had good connections. Now by the time the licence would come through, the couple might even have a child born to them. The very thought of a child made their blood curdle.

  Well, God had blessed them with two hands, which were enough to wring the daughter’s neck. They would have to lie in ambush behind some shrubbery near the house of her in-laws. No one knew if there was any in the vicinity where the villains lived. This was like demanding the river to be full before one jumped into it to drown. If their luck had not run out, their daughter wouldn’t have run off, bringing them disrepute.

  But it would be sheer injustice to let that scoundrel Tushar, who had seduced their daughter, escape without severe punishment. The screwdriver, properly sharpened, would do. The sharpening man used to sit in front of the gate every day. He was threatened with police action and ordered to sit elsewhere. What a horrible grating noise the grinding stone made! As though one’s teeth were cutting through a handful of sand.

  Such a delicate matter could not be shared even with friends. But Jawwad was like a member of the family. He had a thriving practice in Allahabad. They called him on the phone and sought his advice. He promised to come at teatime the following day.

  Meanwhile a bomb exploded.

  A newspaper was sent to them from Allahabad that had splashed the wedding photographs of Samina and Tushar. A civil marriage was not considered enough by Seth Sahib, Tushar’s father. He had arranged a ceremony according to Arya Samaj rituals, complete with a havan and a pandit.

  Snapshots were taken showing the rituals, the girl changing her faith, taking a dip in the Ganges at Allahabad where she had been flown. The girl was so shameless that even after all this she was smiling and looking demurely at Tushar.

  Siddiqi Sahib got himself into such a rage that he very nearly had a heart attack. Had Jawwad Sahib not arrived at the right moment, something disastrous might have happened. Tushar’s father had taken such an unfair advantage of the situation. He was a rabid Mahasabhai. By getting those photographs printed with such gusto, he had added to Siddiqi Sahib’s abject humiliation.

  Now, the entire family deserved to be blown up with a bomb. But where could one get a bomb? Siddiqi Sahib who used to get upset even by the fireworks at Diwali and Shab-e-baraat was totally shattered by this explosion. This was a nation of Hindus, no doubt about that!

  What lucrative jobs were offered to him in Pakistan! He had rejected all those because of his progressive leanings—sheer stupidity! ‘I can’t leave my own country. I’ll be buried in the land I was born,’ he had asserted using the Hindi word janam for birth. What a shame! Janam was not to be uttered by someone from a respectable Muslim family with pronounced religious feelings.

  Jawwad Sahib had a hard time pacifying him. Both of them had a prolonged tête-à-tête behind closed doors. Then the scheme was revealed to Begum who was simply thrilled. What a crafty man this Jawwad Sahib was! Although a Shia, he had been Siddiqi Sahib’s friend for years. A Siddiqi–Jafri alliance may seem improbable, but there never appeared any chink in their friendship in spite of the traditional Shia–Sunni conflict. Often a man’s faith comes in the way of his friendship, but it is mostly love and friendship that triumph. Life is full of contradictions that can make it tragic. But principles easily fall victim to love and friendship.

  Siddiqi Sahib asked the driver to wait and rang the doorbell. After a few moments, his dear daughter was clinging to him, smiling through her tears. A daughter is deeply anguished when she acts against the will of her parents and doesn’t find peace until she is forgiven. It was at her parents’ home that Samina had discovered Tushar’s love, which gradually overwhelmed her. Had her parents been not enlightened, would they have allowed Tushar to pay court to her under their own roof?

  And Tushar was standing there grinning shamefacedly. He hadn’t liked the newspaper stunt his father had pulled off. But he was the only brother of four sisters, and one day he would have to perform the funeral rites of his father. Sethji would remind him of this duty time and again. His sisters, all older to him, were well settled with families of their own. Nirmal, the youngest, had fallen for a dark-complexioned Christian professor. Sethji had manoeuvred to get him sent to England on a government scholarship. The fellow had left the arena of love without protest. Sethji was known to have made the career of many politicians. Although he had never accepted any position himself, many of his protégés were members of various state assemblies and committees. He was a successful ‘kingmaker’. He didn’t align himself with any particular political group and would be seen supporting the party in power. He played his part in the rise and fall of these parties. His was a multifaceted personality.

  Jawwad Sahib’s advice acted like magic and transformed Siddiqi Sahib. He was a new person, his heart beating within his chest in a new rhythm. In high-flown and chaste Hindi, studded like diamonds with Sanskrit words, Siddiqi Sahib conveyed to Sethji how grateful he was to him for relieving him of a great burden, that of an unwed daughter, and was thus obliged to him for generations. All faiths are sacred, he said, and the greatest one consists of the love and affection that an enlightened father-in-law bestows on his daughter-in-law. To be able to give one’s faith to one’s daughter-in-law and one’s son was a noble act. And Ganga was everyone’s mother, be he a Hindu, a Muslim or a Christian. Her holy waters made no distinction between a Brahmin and an untouchable but quenched everyone’s thirst.

  Addressing Sethji as ‘Sayyid Sahib’, he said, ‘I’m a human being. I’ve inherited the religion I profess and gathered knowledge from books. Your Bhagwan and my Allah are two names for the same power.’ He quoted profusely from the Bible and the Gita besides the Quran. Sethji was highly impressed. His wife got her neighbour, Miss Rosa, to make a sumptuous murgh musallam for the guest. Everyone was very excited. Sethji’s samdhi, a great scholar and of scrupulous principles, came to bless his daughter and son-in-law. How liberally he doled
out those fifty-rupee bills to the servants!

  Siddiqi Sahib was invited to lunches and dinners, where he refused to eat chicken. ‘Meat is not conducive to knowledge and austerity,’ he proclaimed.

  ‘You have fulfilled your wishes,’ he said to Sethji, ‘now you must allow me to do the duty I owe to my friends and relatives. The girl’s mother has been crying her heart out though the photographs provided her some relief.’ (Actually Begum wanted the photographs to be torn to shreds and thrown into the fire.)

  Sethji’s wife didn’t want to hand over the diamond necklace to the daughter-in-law at the time of her departure. Sethji admonished her, ‘Don’t be mean. Our samdhi is a wise and generous person. See how gracefully he has overlooked all our unfair acts. And here you are, crying over a few pieces of glass!’

  Siddiqi Sahib brought his daughter and son-in-law to Delhi with great fanfare. He had phoned up friends and relatives, who were present at the station with bouquets and garlands. For good luck, Jawwad Sahib had accompanied the party from Allahabad.

  Begum was boiling with rage. ‘Kill him. His body will make good compost for the garden,’ she said about the son-in-law.

  ‘Are you crazy? Just wait and see what drama unfolds. Tushar is Samina’s husband now. Proposal and acceptance—whatever the language and whoever the persons present—has already made them man and wife. And both are dear to us.’

  The marquee was set up in the afternoon, and guests in the city were invited with utmost haste over the telephone or by visiting them in person.

  Tushar was unnerved for a few moments when he was asked to convert to Islam. He looked fearfully at Jawwad Sahib and Siddiqi Sahib and was probably planning to jump out of the window.

  ‘Abbaji, what’s this nonsense? First it was Papa who forced me to become a Hindu, got me to take a dip in the Ganga and compelled me to chant mantras that sounded like gibberish. And now you want us to go through this farce. We won’t submit to your petty politicking. When we return to Allahabad, we’ll be required to take dips again, and photographs will be taken and . . .’

  Begum started crying. Siddiqi Sahib was confounded.

  ‘There’s just one way out,’ he said, clasping his wife’s hand. ‘Let’s go and drown ourselves in the Jamuna.’

  ‘How can you drown, Papa?’ asked their daughter. ‘You know how to swim. You’ll drown Mummy and come out of the river safe and sound. Good for your girlfriend Miss Farzana.’

  ‘Shut up, Sami,’ Tushar admonished her. ‘Papa, I mean Siddiqi Sahib, I’m ready to become a Muslim.’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot. I’m not prepared to be reconverted. Don’t you remember how lovingly Mataji had put the mangalsutra around my neck? These are diamonds, you know. How beautiful they are!’

  ‘You can wear the mangalsutra as a Muslim, too!’ Tushar admonished her once again.

  ‘Kill the two, and that’s the end of it. God’s curse on them!’ Begum said. ‘What an ungrateful daughter! He’s ready to become a Muslim, but she’s spoiling the case.’

  ‘Will you shut up, you chatterbox?’ Tushar snubbed Samina. ‘When I had refused to obey Pitaji, you opposed me tooth and nail and threatened to jump out of the window. Did you know that there was a mouse burrow under the window where a fat mouse lives? If it had been surprised out of its hole, you would’ve got a heart attack!’

  ‘Look, Maulvi Sahib has been waiting a long time. He hasn’t even taken a cup of tea, says he’ll have breakfast after performing the sacred duty of conversion. He’s a glutton, for sure,’ said someone.

  ‘I’m ready. Two slaps across her face, and she’ll agree. Darling, did you lose anything by becoming a Hindu? Why are you being so obstinate?’

  ‘Oh . . . and what about the aarti I performed and the nice mangalsutra you gave me? But what stinking socks you wear! Your feet smelled awfully when I bent down to touch them.’

  ‘What’s this nonsense!’ Siddiqi Sahib roared. ‘Everything is a big joke to you. Tushar, are you ready to embrace Islam and thus become Musharraf?’

  ‘Musharraf? You mean Musharraf Hamidullah who is a crook and a mean pilferer? He always cheated in the exams to get through. Do you remember, Samina, how when Sir caught him cheating, he pulled out a knife?’

  ‘You’re the pampered son of a seth. He’s the son of a poor orderly. What injustice! Have you ever cared to know how he manages to survive, you bloody capitalist bloodsucker?’

  ‘Look Mummy, she’s calling me names. I’ll hit her.’

  ‘They’ve perished, those hitters. Hunh!’

  ‘How long will this farce continue?’ Begum asked. ‘Good God, I forgot the pudding in the oven.’ She leapt towards the kitchen.

  ‘Oh dear, these kids are driving me mad. Brother Jawwad . . .’ Siddiqi Sahib sounded desperate.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jawwad who had been listening to the exchanges quietly all this while and smiling to himself.

  ‘I’m acting according to your instructions. Now tell me what to do.’

  ‘Convert me to Islam and hurry, please. We’ve booked seats for the matinee and must reach the cinema hall by three.’

  ‘And here the maulvi is starving and cursing us. Skip the matinee. We’ve arranged for an “at-home” in the evening.’

  ‘But that’s at eight.’

  Siddiqi Sahib’s plans were going awry.

  ‘Look here, children . . .’ Jawwad Sahib cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes, uncle,’ Tushar responded promptly.

  ‘Did you have a civil marriage?’

  ‘Yes. The certificate has been put in a safe by Mataji at Allahabad.’

  ‘Did you read the forms carefully before signing them?’

  ‘Yes, I did. But Samina was too nervous to read them. I asked her to sign quickly and be done with them.’

  ‘How could I sign quickly with your terrible pen? You can buy dozens of shoes, can’t you buy a decent pen?’

  ‘Just see her manners! . . . We’ve been married twice—first the civil marriage and then a Hindu one. I had refused it straightaway, but she found it romantic to be led around the sacred fire. She opposed all my moves just so she could please my parents.’

  ‘Yes, it was romantic like the marriage of fishermen. The pandit was chanting mantras, “shutram, shutram”, and Papaji was pouring spoonfuls of pure ghee into the fire. It was as though someone was frying carrot halwa. Wonderful!’

  ‘Baby, have you ever smelt pure ghee burning in a funeral pyre?’

  ‘You bloody sadist! Just shut your trap.’ Samina folded the newspaper and pounded Tushar’s head.

  ‘Oh God, it’s crazy!’ Siddiqi Sahib was losing his bearings.

  ‘What a calamity! How long will this farce go on?’ Begum asked as she entered the room.

  ‘Let me handle this,’ Jawwad Sahib came forward and said in a gentle voice, ‘Listen to me, children, and don’t interrupt while I’m talking. It’s bad manners. I’m asking you a very important question. Before the civil marriage, did you read the clause in the form which states that neither of you professes any religion?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but that doesn’t matter. I have always acted according to my parents’ instructions. As a matter of fact, I’ve never pondered much over questions of faith. Religion is for the elderly. In the convent we were Christ’s lambs. In Mathura, Krishnaji reigned supreme. Once Musharraf took me to a dargah where, imitating him, I cupped my hands in prayer and moved my lips.’

  ‘Does that mean that you’ve never thought seriously about Ishwar or Allah?’

  ‘Hmm . . . Have you ever thought about Dilip Kumar?’

  ‘Well, Mataji was his fan at one time. As for me, I prefer Amit, Mithun and . . . ’

  ‘That’s enough! Now this means that no other ceremony has any validity unless your civil marriage is dissolved first.’

  ‘So the circumambulations were no good?’ Tushar asked excitedly.

  ‘Nonsense! Tushi, it won’t help you harping about them. You can divorce me if you want, but I
’ll never return the mangalsutra.’

  ‘Ugh, what a mean girl you are! We’re discussing serious matters and you’re obsessed with the mangalsutra. Tell me the truth—if Mataji hadn’t shown you the mangalsutra and the rest of the jewellery, would you have agreed to go around the fire?’

  ‘You’re so mean, Tushi! You think I’m so greedy, you scoundrel? Papa, marry me off to any dumb fool. I took this idiot as my protector, touched his feet covered in stinking socks . . . this . . . this . . . oh my God!’ Samina clenched her fists and leaped towards Tushar. It would have led to a serious scuffle had Begum not threatened them with an attack of hysteria.

  ‘Jawwad, I don’t agree with you at all on this new point.’

  ‘But perhaps the law . . .’

  ‘To hell with the law! I’ve to give an appropriate answer to Sethji’s superciliousness. We must have the nikah even if I’ve to go to jail or be hanged for it. He made me appear a fool before the whole world, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.’

  ‘Will someone tell me what’s the problem now when both are ready to become Muslims?’ Begum asked impatiently.

  ‘My wife’s right. After all she’s the daughter of a maulvi.’

  ‘And she beats everyone at rummy, too,’ Samina piped in.

  ‘Shut up, wicked girl! Don’t interfere in everything.’

  Qazi Sahib arrived. Samina stopped grinning and covered her head. The photographer offered Tushar his karakul cap recently brought from Pakistan. Samina’s eyes lit up when she saw Tushar so handsomely turned out.

  Both received the honour of embracing Islam. Both had difficulty reciting verses from the Quran. Tushar was in a cold sweat. Maulvi Sahib was very gentle, the atmosphere was just right. Jawwad Sahib was ready to act as both counsellor and witness. One more witness was required.