‘Let Ammi be the witness,’ Samina suggested.
‘Then one more woman will be required.’
‘Why?’
‘One man’s testimony is equal to that of two women. Why not use Shakura, the boy servant?’
‘Ammi is better than ten Shakuras put together,’ asserted Samina stubbornly.
‘Just be quiet, girl. Don’t keep butting in. Ah, here’s your father.’
‘Can I be a witness?’ asked Siddiqi Sahib suddenly.
‘Undoubtedly.’
Qazi Sahib was feeling annoyed. Residents of mansions and bungalows were so unpredictable. This man, a university professor, didn’t know a thing about his religion!
The nikah was over. Dry dates were distributed. The photographer was clicking away at every stage of the ceremony. If a close-up shot of the couple affixing the signature on the wedding documents could have been taken, it would have been enough to devastate Sethji. But there was no time for all this.
The photos were splashed prominently in the newspaper the next morning along with the information that the couple had left for Bombay by air. From there they would depart for England. God willing, they would perform hajj before they returned home.
The couple was put up at the Ashoka Hotel for the night. All their belongings were taken there. The bride’s family returned home from the hotel at about two, and everyone hit the bed immediately. Siddiqi Sahib realized, for the first time, that the marriage of a daughter was not an easy job. Parents await this day with trepidation. However, a sense of victory made him feel light-hearted the next morning. Jawwad Sahib had given a nice twist to the whole affair. The papers would be in Sethji’s hands by now. He must be in the habit of rising early for his ritual bath and prayers.
Siddiqi Sahib was pleased with himself.
‘I say, Sethji’s samdhi, can we have some breakfast?’ Jawwad Sahib bellowed from the doorway.
‘Why, it seems you’ve grown taller by six inches—you’re looking great!’
‘Not just six inches, at least a yard. By God, I’ve beaten the rogue. He must be writhing! How about breakfast at the Ashoka?’
‘Wonderful idea.’
‘What do you say, Begum?’
‘I’ll be ready in a moment.’
The three of them reached the hotel.
‘Sir, they’ve checked out,’ the clerk at the reception informed them.
‘What? Where have they gone? When?’
‘The moment you left, they called a taxi. I told them repeatedly that they could stay here till tomorrow night, but as soon as they finished talking on the phone . . .’
‘Talking on the phone? To whom?’
‘To someone at Allahabad. I got the call through. Seth . . .’
‘Seth!’ They were stunned. ‘So they’ve pulled a fast one on us.’
‘Did they say they were going to Allahabad?’
‘No, sir, they didn’t say any such thing.’
‘He’ll raise a storm again, the rogue. Did Tushar make the call?’
‘Yes sir, I mean both did, sir. Baby was with him in the telephone booth, and they talked for about twenty-five minutes. Oh, they’ve left a letter to be sent to you, sir.’
The envelope was quite heavy, or maybe Siddiqi Sahib’s hands were trembling too much to grip it. The letter was in English, written in two hands. Samina and Tushar had taken turns in writing every alternate sentence:
Dear Papa, Mummy, Uncle Jawwad:
The only decent option before us is to leave. No, not for Allahabad, for there, too, a stubborn father and a sobbing mother await us. Like good human beings, we’ve known each other for four years and fallen in love. We opted for civil marriage after a good deal of thought. I’m not very brave, but Sami is a great coward. No, that’s not really true. I had suggested to her in the beginning that we elope and get away from here to some far-off place. With this in mind, I had phoned up my father at Allahabad. He invited us lovingly to Allahabad, said that my mother was crying her heart out and that I must console her. When we reached there, he arranged this marriage around the holy fire. We thought, what’s the harm? But then he played other tricks. We put up with all that. Then, Papa, you appeared on the scene. You’re such a good actor! How you won over Papaji with your sweet talk! I was so touched that my eyes became moist. My father’s so broad-minded, I thought. Papaji played a dirty trick on us and managed to take us to Benaras with the help of his cronies. On top of it Sami makes things difficult for me. First it was Papa who waved the magic wand at us, and then you showed your generosity by forgiving us. But when you brought us to Delhi you revealed yourself as someone petty and mean. You made us do the monkey dance before you. We took all this as a big joke, this farce too. Don’t worry, we haven’t exposed you to Papa. He will explode when he gets to read the newspaper tomorrow. We’ve just said goodbye to them from here. We bid goodbye to all of you.
No, don’t bother about where we’re going. Papa, Tushar is indulging in sweet talk, but he’s calling you names. He also calls himself ‘medieval’ i.e., a crazy buffalo. We beg forgiveness if we’ve hurt you. No, we haven’t hurt you. Rather, you should ask us for forgiveness because you’ve made us look ridiculous. Good parents you are, to have made us dance like monkeys to any tune you like.
I’ve told Papaji and now I’m telling you that we don’t have any religion. All religions are gifts from that Supreme Being who is called Bhagwan or God. You know him only as Khuda, but we know of his thousand other names—
He who is powerful and compassionate (the Quran)
Who is within and without
Who is above and below
Who exists in darkness and in light
In presence as in absences
In negation as in affirmation (Bhagwad Gita).
The letter ended with their signatures.
Begum began to cry spasmodically. Siddiqi Sahib proceeded to make wry remarks on women’s tears.
Jawwad Sahib was scraping his pipe intently as though he were trying to escape into it. This is because he was the maker of this prescription à la Galen. No one knew which ingredient had proved uncongenial so that the prescription had lost its potency and rendered the world of two pairs of parents desolate.
Sex and Sexuality
THE QUILT
In winter, when I put a quilt over myself, its shadows on the wall seem to sway like an elephant. That sends my mind racing into the labyrinth of times past. Memories come crowding in. Sorry. I’m not going to regale you with a romantic tale about my quilt. It’s hardly a subject for romance. It seems to me that the blanket, though less comfortable, does not cast shadows as terrifying as the quilt dancing on the wall.
I was then a little girl and fought all day with my brothers and their friends. Often I wondered why the hell I was so aggressive. At my age, my other sisters were busy drawing admirers, while I fought with any boy or girl I ran into.
That was why, when my mother went to Agra for about a week, she left me with an adopted sister of hers. She knew that there was no one in that house, not even a mouse, with whom I could get into a fight. It was a severe punishment for me! Amma left me with Begum Jaan, the same lady whose quilt is etched in my memory like the scar left by a blacksmith’s brand. Her poor parents had agreed to marry her off to the nawab who was of ‘ripe years’ because he was very virtuous. No one had ever seen a nautch girl or prostitute in his house. He had performed hajj and helped several others undertake the holy pilgrimage.
He, however, had a strange hobby. Some people are crazy enough to cultivate interests like breed pigeons or watch cockfighting. Nawab Sahib had only contempt for such disgusting sports. He kept an open house for students—young, fair, slender-waisted boys whose expenses were borne by him.
Having married Begum Jaan, he tucked her away in the house with his other possessions and promptly forgot her. The frail, beautiful begum wasted away in anguished loneliness.
One did not know when Begum Jaan’s life began—whether it was w
hen she committed the mistake of being born or when she came to the nawab’s house as his bride, climbed the four-poster bed and started counting her days.
Or was it when she watched through the drawing-room door the increasing number of firm-calved, supple-waisted boys and the delicacies that were sent for them from the kitchen! Begum Jaan would have glimpses of them in their perfumed, flimsy shirts and feel as though she was being hauled over burning embers!
Or did it start when she gave up on amulets, talismans, black magic and other ways of retaining the love of her straying husband? She arranged for night-long readings from the Quran, but in vain. One cannot draw blood from a stone. The nawab didn’t budge an inch. Begum Jaan was heartbroken and turned to books. But she found no relief. Romantic novels and sentimental verse depressed her even more. She began to spend sleepless nights, yearning for a love that had never been.
She felt like throwing all her clothes into the fire. One dressed up to impress people. But the nawab didn’t have a moment to spare for her. He was too busy chasing the gossamer shirts. Nor did he allow her to go out. Relatives, however, would come for visits and stay on for months while she remained a prisoner in the house. These relatives, freeloaders all, made her blood boil. They helped themselves to rich food and got warm clothes made for themselves while she stiffened with cold despite the new cotton stuffed in her quilt. As she tossed and turned, her quilt made newer shapes on the wall, but none of them held any promise of life for her. Then why must one live? Particularly, such a life as hers . . . But then, Begum Jaan started living, and lived her life to the full.
It was Rabbu who rescued her from the fall.
Soon her thin body began to fill out. Her cheeks began to glow, and she blossomed. It was a special oil massage that brought life back to the half-dead Begum Jaan. Sorry, you won’t find the recipe for this oil even in the most exclusive magazines.
When I first saw Begum Jaan, she was around forty. Reclining on the couch, she looked a picture of grandeur. Rabbu sat behind her, massaging her waist. A purple shawl covered her feet as she sat in regal splendour, a veritable maharani. I was fascinated by her looks and felt like sitting by her for hours, just adoring her. Her complexion was marble white, without a speck of ruddiness. Her hair was black and always bathed in oil. I had never seen the parting of her hair crooked, nor a single hair out of place. Her eyes were black and the elegantly plucked eyebrows seemed like two bows spread over the demure eyes. Her eyelids were heavy and her eyelashes dense. The most fascinating feature of her face, however, was her lips—usually coloured with lipstick, with a mere trace of down on her upper lip. Long hair covered her temples. Sometimes her face seemed to change shape under my gaze and looked as though it were the face of a young boy . . .
Her skin was white and smooth, as though it had been stitched tightly over her body. When she stretched her legs for the massage, I stole a glance, enraptured by their sheen. She was very tall and the ample flesh on her body made her look stately and magnificent. Her hands were large and smooth, her waist exquisitely formed. Rabbu used to massage her back for hours together. It was as though the massage was one of the basic necessities of life. Rather, more important than life’s necessities.
Rabbu had no other household duties. Perched on the couch she was always massaging some part or the other of Begum Jaan’s body. At times I could hardly bear it—the sight of Rabbu massaging or rubbing at all hours. Speaking for myself, if anyone were to touch my body so often, I would certainly rot to death.
But even this daily massage wasn’t enough. On the days when Begum Jaan took a bath, Rabbu would massage her body with a variety of oils and pastes for two hours. And she would massage with such vigour that even imagining it made me sick. The doors would be closed, the braziers would be lit, and then the session would begin. Usually Rabbu was the only person allowed to remain inside on such occasions. Other maids handed over the necessary things at the door, muttering disapproval.
In fact, Begum Jaan was afflicted with a persistent itch. Despite the oils and balms, the stubborn itch remained. Doctors and hakeems pronounced that nothing was wrong, the skin was unblemished. It could be an infection under the skin. ‘These doctors are crazy . . . There’s nothing wrong with you,’ Rabbu would say, smiling while she gazed at Begum Jaan dreamily.
Rabbu. She was as dark as Begum Jaan was fair, as purple as the other was white. She seemed to glow like heated iron. Her face was scarred by smallpox. She was short, stocky and had a small paunch. Her hands were small but agile, and her large, swollen lips were always wet. A strange sickening stench exuded from her body. And her tiny, puffy hands moved dexterously over Begum Jaan’s body—now at her waist, now at her thighs, and now dashing to her ankles. Whenever I sat by Begum Jaan, my eyes would remain glued to those roving hands.
All through the year Begum Jaan wore white and billowing Hyderabadi jaali karga kurtas and brightly coloured pyjamas. And even when it was warm and the fan was on, she would cover herself with a light shawl. She loved winter. I too liked to be in her house in that season. She rarely moved out. Lying on the carpet, she would munch dry fruits as Rabbu rubbed her back. The other maids were jealous of Rabbu. The witch! She ate, sat and even slept with Begum Jaan! Rabbu and Begum Jaan were the subject of their gossip during leisure hours. Someone would mention their names, and the whole group would burst into loud guffaws. What juicy stories they made up about them! Begum Jaan was oblivious to all this, cut off as she was from the world outside. Her existence was centred on herself and her itch.
I have already mentioned that I was very young at that time and was in love with Begum Jaan. She, too, was fond of me. When Amma decided to go to Agra, she left me with Begum Jaan for a week. She knew that if left alone at home, I would fight with my brothers or roam around. The arrangement pleased both Begum Jaan and me. After all, she was Amma’s adopted sister. Now the question was . . . where would I sleep? In Begum Jaan’s room, naturally. A small bed was placed alongside hers. Till ten or eleven at night, we chatted and played ‘Chance’. Then I went to bed. Rabbu was still rubbing her back as I fell asleep. ‘Ugly woman!’ I thought to myself.
I woke up at night and was scared. It was pitch dark and Begum Jaan’s quilt was shaking vigorously, as though an elephant was struggling inside.
‘Begum Jaan . . .’ I could barely form the words out of fear. The elephant stopped shaking, and the quilt came down.
‘What is it? Get back to sleep.’ Begum Jaan’s voice seemed to come from somewhere else.
‘I’m scared,’ I whimpered.
‘Go back to sleep. What’s there to be scared of? Recite the Ayatul Kursi.’
‘All right . . .’ I began to recite the prayer, but each time I reached ‘ya lamu ma bain . . .’ I forgot the lines though I knew the entire Ayat by heart.
‘May I come to you, Begum Jaan?’
‘No, child . . . Get back to sleep.’ Her tone was rather abrupt. Then I heard two people whispering. Oh God, who was this other person? I was really afraid.
‘Begum Jaan . . . I think a thief has entered the room.’
‘Go back to sleep, child . . . There’s no thief.’
This was Rabbu’s voice. I drew the quilt over my face and fell asleep. By morning I had totally forgotten the terrifying scene enacted at night. I have always been superstitious—night fears, sleepwalking and talking in my sleep were daily occurrences in my childhood. Everyone used to say that I was possessed by evil spirits. So the incident slipped from my memory. The quilt looked perfectly innocent in the morning.
But the following night I woke up again and heard Begum Jaan and Rabbu arguing in subdued tones. I could not hear what the upshot of the tiff was, but I heard Rabbu crying. Then came the slurping sound of a cat licking a plate . . . I was scared and went back to sleep.
The next day Rabbu went to see her son, an irascible young man. Begum Jaan had done a lot to help him out—bought him a shop, got him a job in the village. But nothing really pleased him. He stay
ed with Nawab Sahib for some time. The nawab got him new clothes and other gifts, but he ran away for no good reason and never came back, even to see Rabbu . . .
Rabbu went to a relative’s house to see her son. Begum Jaan was reluctant to let her go but realized that Rabbu was helpless. So she didn’t prevent her from going. All through the day Begum Jaan was out of sorts. Every joint ached, but she couldn’t bear anyone’s touch. She didn’t eat anything and moped in bed all day.
‘Shall I rub your back, Begum Jaan . . .?’ I asked zestfully as I shuffled the deck of cards. She peered at me.
‘Shall I, really?’ I put away the cards and began to rub her back while Begum Jaan lay there quietly.
Rabbu was due to return the next day . . . but she didn’t. Begum Jaan grew more and more irritable. She drank cup after cup of tea, and her head began to ache.
I resumed rubbing her back, which was smooth as the top of a table. I rubbed gently and was happy to be of some use to her.
‘A little harder . . . open the straps,’ Begum Jaan said.
‘Here . . . a little below the shoulder . . . that’s right . . . Ah! What pleasure . . .’ She expressed her satisfaction between sensuous breaths. ‘A little further . . .’ Begum Jaan instructed though her hands could easily reach that spot. But she wanted me to stroke it. How proud I felt! ‘Here . . . oh, oh, you’re tickling me . . . Ah!’ She smiled. I chatted away as I continued to massage her.
‘I’ll send you to the market tomorrow . . . What do you want? . . . A doll that sleeps and wakes up at your will?’
‘No, Begum Jaan . . . I don’t want dolls . . . Do you think I’m still a child?’
‘So, you’re an old woman then,’ she laughed. ‘If not a doll, I’ll get you a babua . . . Dress it up yourself. I’ll give you a lot of old clothes. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I answered.
Manto and Chughtai Page 11