Manto and Chughtai

by Muhammed Umar Memon

‘Here,’ she would take my hand and place it where it itched and I, lost in the thought of the babua, kept scratching her listlessly while she talked.

  ‘Listen . . . you need some more frocks. I’ll send for the tailor tomorrow and ask him to make new ones for you. Your mother has left some dress material.’

  ‘I don’t want that red material . . . It looks so cheap.’ I was chattering, oblivious of where my hands travelled. Begum Jaan lay still . . . Oh God! I jerked my hand away.

  ‘Hey girl, watch where your hands are . . . You hurt my ribs.’ Begum Jaan smiled mischievously. I was embarrassed.

  ‘Come here and lie down beside me . . .’ She made me lie down with my head on her arm. ‘How skinny you are . . . your ribs are showing.’ She began counting my ribs.

  I tried to protest.

  ‘Come on, I’m not going to eat you up. How tight this sweater is! And you don’t have a warm vest on.’ I felt very uncomfortable.

  ‘How many ribs does one have?’ She changed the topic.

  ‘Nine on one side, ten on the other,’ I blurted out what I’d learnt in school, rather incoherently.

  ‘Take away your hand . . . Let’s see . . . one, two, three . . .’

  I wanted to run away, but she held me tightly. I tried to wriggle away, and Begum Jaan began to laugh loudly. To this day, whenever I am reminded of her face at that moment, I feel jittery. Her eyelids had drooped, her upper lip showed a black shadow and tiny beads of sweat sparkled on her lips and nose despite the cold. Her hands were as cold as ice but clammy as though the skin had been stripped off. She wore a shawl, and, in the fine karga kurta, her body shone like a ball of dough. The heavy gold buttons of the kurta were undone.

  It was evening, and the room was getting enveloped in darkness. A strange fear overcame me. Begum Jaan’s deep-set eyes focused on me and I felt like crying. She was pressing me as though I were a clay doll and the odour of her warm body made me want to throw up. But she was like a person possessed. I could neither scream nor cry.

  After some time she stopped and lay back exhausted. She was breathing heavily, and her face looked pale and dull. I thought she was going to die and rushed out of the room . . .

  Thank God Rabbu returned that night. Scared, I went to bed rather early and pulled the quilt over me. But sleep evaded me for hours.

  Amma was taking so long to return from Agra! I was so terrified of Begum Jaan that I spent the whole day in the company of the maids. I felt too nervous to step into her room. What could I have said to anyone? That I was afraid of Begum Jaan? Begum Jaan who was so attached to me?

  That day, Rabbu and Begum Jaan had another tiff. This did not augur well for me because Begum Jaan’s thoughts were immediately directed towards me. She realized that I was wandering outdoors in the cold and might die of pneumonia.

  ‘Child, do you want to put me to shame in public? If something happened to you, it would be a disaster.’ She made me sit beside her as she washed her face and hands in the basin. Tea was set on a tripod next to her.

  ‘Make tea, please . . . and give me a cup,’ she said as she wiped her face with a towel. ‘I’ll change in the meantime.’

  I drank tea while she dressed. During her body massage she sent for me repeatedly. I went in, keeping my face turned away, and ran out after doing the errand. When she changed her dress, I began to feel jittery. Turning my face away from her, I sipped my tea.

  My heart yearned in anguish for Amma. This punishment was much more severe than I deserved for fighting with my brothers. Amma always disliked my playing with boys. Now tell me, were they man-eaters that they would eat up her darling? And who were the boys? My own brothers and their puny little friends! She was a believer in strict segregation for women. But Begum Jaan here was more terrifying than all the loafers of the world. Left to myself, I would have run out into the street—even further away! But I was helpless and had to stay there much against my wish.

  Begum Jaan decked herself up elaborately and perfumed herself with the warm scent of attar. Then she began to shower me with affection. ‘I want to go home,’ was my answer to all her suggestions. Then I started crying.

  ‘There, there . . . come near me . . . I’ll take you to the market today. Okay?’

  But I kept up the refrain of wanting to go home. All the toys and sweets of the world held no interest for me.

  ‘Your brothers will bash you up, you witch.’ She tapped me affectionately on my cheek.

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘Raw mangoes are sour to the taste, Begum Jaan,’ hissed Rabbu, burning with jealousy.

  Then, Begum Jaan had a fit. The gold necklace she had offered me moments ago was flung to the ground. The muslin net dupatta was torn to shreds. And her hair parting, which was never crooked, became a tangled mess.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ she screamed between spasms. I ran out.

  Begum Jaan regained her senses after a great deal of fuss and ministrations. When I peered into the room on tiptoe, I saw Rabbu rubbing her body, nestling against her waist.

  ‘Take off your shoes,’ Rabbu said while stroking Begum Jaan’s ribs.

  Mouse-like, I snuggled into my quilt.

  There was that peculiar noise again. In the dark Begum Jaan’s quilt was once again swaying like an elephant. ‘Allah! Ah! . . .’ I moaned in a feeble voice. The elephant inside the quilt heaved up and then sat down. I was mute. The elephant started to sway again. I was scared stiff. But I had resolved to switch on the light that night, come what may. The elephant started shaking once again, and it seemed as though it was trying to squat. There was the sound of someone smacking her lips, as though savouring a tasty pickle. Now I understood! Begum Jaan had not eaten anything the whole day. And Rabbu, the witch, was a notorious glutton. She must be polishing off some goodies. Flaring my nostrils I inhaled deeply. There was only the scent of attar, sandalwood and henna, nothing else.

  Once again the quilt started swinging. I tried to lie still, but the quilt began to assume such grotesque shapes that I was shaken. It seemed as though a large frog was inflating itself noisily and was about to leap on to me.

  ‘Aa . . . Ammi . . .’ I whimpered.

  No one paid any heed. The quilt crept into my brain and began to grow larger. I stretched my leg nervously to the other side of the bed, groped for the switch and turned the light on. The elephant somersaulted inside the quilt which deflated immediately. During the somersault, a corner of the quilt rose by almost a foot . . .

  Good God! I gasped and sank deeper into my bed.

  THE NET

  ‘Attan, Safiya . . . where on earth are you?’

  ‘Ji, ji, . . .’ Attan’s voice came from a distance.

  ‘Coming, Bi,’ yelled Safiya from the dark room at the extreme corner of the veranda. Both the girls rushed out like two kittens. Attan’s shirt ripped noisily as it caught the nail, Safiya’s shoes got stuck in the doorway, and she fell on her knees near the spittoon. The spittoon had not been emptied for several days, and as it toppled over, Safiya’s knees got stained with patches of thickened paan spit.

  ‘Why don’t you take care? Have you no shame? . . . Even on a Sunday you’re acting crazy!’

  ‘Look at the dupatta . . . it’s never on their head!’

  Safiya wiped off the paan spit and rushed into the bathroom.

  ‘Did you recite the Quran this morning?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Attan was nervous.

  ‘I asked—did you read the Quran this morning?’

  ‘Unh . . . Safiya . . . ah . . .’ Attan was wringing her fingers.

  ‘I’m not asking about Safiya, but you. You didn’t care to perform the isha namaz last night either. Your mother tried to wake you up, but you just slept like a log.’

  ‘In fact she . . .’ Attan wished she could disappear under the bed. Khala Bi looked her up from top to toe, nudged Bi meaningfully, and whispered something into her ear. She nodded, waving the nutcracker, and both seemed to arrive at some suitable conclusion.

  ‘N
ow get lost.’ Then she addressed Khala Bi: ‘Well, how do I know? They’re still so small—wretched girls.’

  Attan bent over and walked zigzag to the store room. Noon, they sat with their heads close together and chatted away for several hours in semi-articulate sentences. Sitting in that dark room smelling of rat piss, they stitched two odd shaped vests out of an old pair of pyjamas. They felt suffocated as they wore them. It was as though a roadroller had passed over them. Yet they felt satisfied. Oh, what a great time Bhaiya had! He would take off his shirt and go about only with his pyjamas on. Attan had prickly heat all over her back which stung her like needles.

  Attan wished she were dead, and so did Safiya. They would read sentimental stories in the dark room, get worked up on them and fall into each other’s arms.

  ‘Bajju, I feel my heart is going to burst.’

  ‘Suun . . .’ Attan sobbed.

  The heroines of those stories were lucky that they died. If only these two could die like them! Then Bi, Khala and Mullani would beat their breasts and cry their heart out.

  ‘Hai, I couldn’t see the sehra on Attan’, ‘Hai, I couldn’t see Safiya a dulhan.’

  The desire to die before becoming a dulhan brought tears to their eyes, and they felt a lump in their throat. In the mohalla when Bhori’s daughter died as a spinster her funeral was a sight to behold. Long, scented sehras were put from one end of the bier to the other. The red brocade dupatta that she longed to touch while alive was spread over her. Bhori, who used to reprimand her all the time, was dying for her. Instead of the usual filthy abuses, she now used the most endearing terms for her. If Attan and Safiya died, Bi would groan and wail like Bhori: Khala Bi would curse herself. Mullani Ma would tear her hair, the thought of which inevitably made them grin with pleasure. How she pulled their locks! They would get immense pleasure imagining her covering them in their shrouds and leaping into their grave to chide them.

  On Sundays they were given a bath which was no less than the ritual bath before burial. Then a bowlful of khali would be ground and soaked in water. This khali was made of linseed and pepper, which killed lice. When chickens got infected, people applied paraffin oil, and though it made their skin peel off, it killed the lice. The khali was used as a substitute for paraffin oil. When the khali, soaked in water, swelled up, Mullani Ma rubbed it on the heads of Attan and Safiya so vigorously that their heads almost touched the ground, their buttocks leapt into the air and the stools fell over. And . . .

  ‘Why are you tottering down? Don’t you have any strength in your shoulders?’ Mullani Ma would growl, and their tears, mixed with khali grains, would hurt their eyes and sting their noses. Their temples would almost burst.

  Why did God, in His infinite wisdom, think of growing hair on the head, and then why did he bestow such strength to Mullani Ma’s hands? Those who were bald did not have to worry about either oil or comb, nor did they have to put up with such deadly rubbing. Once when Attan was afflicted with pox, her hair was shaved off, and she roamed about with a lightness of spirit. Of course she had to forgo the teeka jhumar in the bargain. Safiya and Aapa would wear the teeka with gusto, but she looked silly with her shaven head.

  ‘Pour four lotas of water on the right shoulder, four on the left’—this was Mullani Ma’s recipe to purify oneself. In winter it was painful to pour four cupfuls on one’s body, not to speak of four lotas. But in summer they would sit under the tap and let the cool water cascade down their body. The gurgling stream of water would flow down their shoulders, run between their thighs and into the drain. It was as though someone was pouring down wine . . . and they would begin to doze off. Also, the bathroom was a place that gave them Swaraj, as it were. Liberation! Liberation from all inhibitions.

  They ran about uninhibitedly from the stool to the tap, from there to the heap of dirty clothes and then to the almirah to look for the soap or besan in its upper shelf. They would frolic and gambol. The air would beat against their bodies. All their limbs would feel light. As they rubbed the soap, their smooth hands turned slippery as though someone had covered them in silk cloth. They would rub the besan and savour the light, pleasant sting and inhale the sweet smell of half-ground gram. They liked to go on stroking slowly with their fingers and longed for some abrasive object to rub against their body to cure the continuous tickle . . .

  ‘Hey, haven’t you finished your death–bath yet?’ This growl would startle them out of their reverie, and they would try to embrace the current of water one last time and look balefully at the grotesque vests which acted like a roadroller on their bodies. Being the only ones used, they were always soaked in sweat and emitted a hideous burning ghat stink. The girls were not orderly enough to wash the vests quietly at night, hang them to dry and pick them up early morning. One day when Bhaiya laid his hand on one of the wretched things, he went around showing it to everybody. No one could guess what it actually was. Eventually, Bhaiya decided that it belonged to Nanwa, and that he used it to apply filthy medical potions.

  ‘Sahib, may worms eat my body if it’s mine. It must be Deen Mohammad’s.’ But Deen Mohammad disowned the object right away and began to curse its owner.

  Lowering their heads, Attan and Safiya kept reciting the Quran. Sometimes their eyes met, and their lips fluttered. After this incident it became a norm . . . when the vests began to rot and disintegrate like old paper, the accumulated dirt on them began to hurt, and they no longer served the purpose for which they were made, the girls rolled them up into a ball, threw them into the lavatory and buried them under a heap of ash.

  Attan and Safiya were not born as twins, but circumstances had thrown them into the same pot. In the world they were each other’s only friend and support. When Attan had a searing waist pain and she writhed like a slaughtered chicken, it was Safiya who fetched her the hot water bottle and massaged her waist for hours together. And when Safiya’s shins throbbed in pain, Attan would tie her dupatta tightly around them and stop the convulsions. Thus they were each other’s mainstay on this earthly journey.

  However, this partnership would break at school as they attended different classes. So, according to the code agreed upon, Attan had to have a crush on Miss Charan and Safiya on Miss Hyder. Even by mistake Safiya wouldn’t comment on Miss Charan’s rough, snake-dark complexion and her flat nose, nor would Attan taunt Safiya about Miss Hyder’s artificial locks and her sari worn awkwardly above the ankle.

  They were like sisters and on the whole friendly with each other. Whenever Bhaiya had a chance encounter with those much-suffering teachers, he would raise a storm. One day Attan and Safiya took Bhaiya’s camera with great difficulty, loaded the film and took several photographs of Miss Charan and Miss Hyder in different poses. When Bhaiya got the film developed and brought the photographs home, he made such fun of their features before everyone that Attan and Safiya once again longed to die like the heroines of sentimental stories. That would make Bhaiya feel sorry. He would bang his head against the wall while their corpses would smile nonchalantly.

  These were not all. They had a million other aches that made them miserable. Life had spread itself like a net—Khala was its warp, and Mullani the weft. Every step was a snare, every breath a gasp. What of the others—Anwar Bhai, Rasheed Bhai, Qutab Bhaiya—and one does not know how many other ‘bhais’ came, but all of them came to gaze at the aapas and baajis!

  ‘Attan, girl, take this to Sarwari. Quick . . .’

  ‘Saffu darling, we’ll give you a nice gift . . . Go and hand it over to Kubra. And mind, give it to her secretly. Khala Bi should not see it, you understand.’

  ‘What gift will you give?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever you like—a doll, a net covering for the pillow. Now, run . . .’

  And she would run. Every other day she had to carry bundles and envelopes across to the enemy camp, hiding them from the eyes of Khala Bi and others. But she would burn inside . . . Everyone was ready to give her dolls.

  ‘I hate these wretches . . . I’ll
pass them over to Bannu.’ Attan would flare her nostrils. As if she needed only dolls! Why don’t they give dolls to their admirers? But that was just an act. The girls would talk in the closed room for hours. They wished they also had someone to tease them in the stairways and galleries. Envelopes and packets should also come for them which would bring a flush on their face and make them run inside and throw themselves, face down, on the bed. Well, that was all wishful thinking. Their lot was confined to carrying the messages across and to soiling their hands as happens in the business of coal.

  But their worst moment arrived when they betrayed the trust and opened a bundle. They turned it upside down for some time but could not make head or tail of it. It was an intricate web of delicate silk laces. Fine pink netting border and thin silk and elastic threads. Oh! Embarrassed, they quickly hid it in the almirah where they kept old clothes, and rushed out of the room. Their hearts were beating wildly.

  They were out of breath as they came out and engaged themselves in sifting wheat grains like maids devoted to housework. But their minds were constantly working on the bundle. Heads lowered, they ostensibly sifted the grains while a pink web spread itself wide and then disintegrated in their mind’s eye. They looked at each other meaningfully and broke into a smile. This tiny, harmless secret was burning in their hearts like a flame that made their faces flush. As though they had brought back something from the land of fairies and jinns, and no one knew what treasure was hidden amidst those old rag skeins. After their meal when they passed by the almirah, Attan broke into a guffaw, so did Safiya. Unable to suppress laughter they ran towards the dark room.

  ‘God’s fury on you! Grown-up girls hopping like mares!’ Mullani Ma muttered because while running Attan stumbled on her bedpost. Trying to suppress laughter, they fell on each other. This tickled them further, and they began to roll on the floor.

  ‘Bajju . . . ho, ho . . .’

  ‘Ha, ha . . .’ Attan responded.

  Now wherever they sat the pink netting would begin to spread itself. Lace would begin to flutter all around. Fine elastic silk threads would tighten round them from all sides, and they would be panting so much that their tattered, smelly and grotesque vests would nearly burst at the seams.