I was very sleepy. Without taking off my clothes, I lay down on the second bed. There was a blanket at its foot that I spread over my legs, and I was just about to fall asleep when an arm adorned with bangles emerged from behind Sayeed and reached towards the chair next to the bed.
A white cotton shalwar was draped over the chair.
I shot up. Janaki was sleeping with Sayeed! I took the shalwar from the chair and threw it towards her.
I went to Narayan’s room and woke him. When he told me his shooting had ended at two in the morning, I was sorry for waking the poor soul. Nevertheless he wanted to chat, and so we stayed up gossiping until nine in the morning, returning often to the subject of Janaki.
When I brought up the time he had asked Janaki about her bra size, Narayan laughed convulsively. Laughing away, he said, ‘The best part about that was when I asked her, she blurted out, “Thirty-four!” Then she realized how rude my question was and cussed me out. She’s just a child. Now whenever we run into each other, she covers her breasts with her dupatta. But, Manto, she’s a very faithful woman!’
‘How do you know?’
Narayan smiled. ‘A woman that blurts out her bra size to strangers doesn’t have it in her to cheat.’
It was strange reasoning, but in a very serious manner Narayan convinced me that Janaki was sincere. He said, ‘Manto, you can’t imagine how well she’s looking after Sayeed. Taking care of such an absolutely careless person isn’t easy, but Janaki does it very well. She’s a dutiful and affectionate nurse. It takes half an hour to wake that bastard, but she actually has the patience to do it. She makes sure he brushes his teeth. She dresses him. She feeds him breakfast. And at night after he’s had his rum, she closes all the doors and lies down with him. At the studio she talks only about Sayeed Sahib, “Sayeed Sahib’s a great man. Sayeed Sahib sings really well. Sayeed Sahib’s weight is up. Sayeed Sahib’s pullover is ready. I ordered sandals from Peshawar for Sayeed Sahib. Today Sayeed Sahib has a light headache. I’m going to take him some Aspro. Today Sayeed Sahib wrote a couplet for me.” And then when I run into her, she remembers the bra thing and scowls.’
I stayed at Sayeed and Narayan’s for about ten days. During that time Sayeed didn’t say anything to me about Janaki, maybe because it had already become old news. But Janaki and I talked a lot. She was happy with Sayeed, and yet she complained about his carelessness, ‘Saadat Sahib, he never thinks about his health. He’s completely absent-minded. I worry constantly about him because he never thinks about anything. You’ll laugh, but every day I have to ask him if he’s gone to the bathroom.’
Everything that Narayan said proved true. Janaki was always busy looking after Sayeed, and her selfless service impressed me very much. But I kept thinking about Aziz. Janaki used to worry a lot about him, and yet had she forgotten him after she started living with Sayeed? I would have asked her if I had stayed in Andheri any longer. But I got into an argument with the owner of the film company where I was about to sign a contract and left for Pune in order to escape the tension. It must have been only two days later when a telegram arrived from Aziz saying that he was coming. Then, after five or six hours, he was sitting next to me, and early the next morning Janaki was knocking on my door.
When Aziz and Janaki saw each other, they didn’t show the usual excitement of reunited lovers. My relationship with Aziz had always been reserved, and so perhaps they felt embarrassed to show their love in front of me. Aziz wanted to stay in a hotel, but as my friend was doing an outdoor shoot in Kolhapur, I insisted they stay with me. There were three rooms. Janaki could sleep in one and Aziz in another. Although I should have let them share a room, I wasn’t close enough to Aziz to ask him if that’s what he wanted. Besides he had never made it clear what their relationship was.
That night they went to the movies, but I didn’t go because I wanted to start a story for a film. I had given Aziz a key so that I wouldn’t have to worry about opening the door. I stayed up until two o’clock that night. Regardless of how late I work, I always get up between three thirty and four to get a glass of water, and I got up that night too. But as soon as I got up, I realized my water pitcher was in the room I had given to Aziz.
If I hadn’t been dying of thirst, I wouldn’t have bothered him, but because I had drunk too much whisky my throat was completely dry. I had to knock on the door. After several moments Janaki opened the door while rubbing her eyes. ‘Sayeed Sahib!’ she said without looking up. Then when she saw it was me, she sighed, ‘Oh!’ Aziz was sleeping on the bed. I couldn’t help but smile. Janaki smiled too, and then made a funny face, twisting her lips to the side. I took the pitcher and left.
When I woke in the morning, there was smoke in my room. I went into the kitchen where Janaki was burning paper to heat water for Aziz’s bath. Tears were flowing from her eyes. When she saw me, she smiled and blew into the brazier. ‘Aziz Sahib catches a cold if he bathes in cold water,’ she explained. ‘He was sick for a month in Peshawar without me to look after him. How did he expect to get better when he refused to take his medicine? Just look how skinny he’s become.’
Aziz had a bath and left on some business, and then Janaki asked me to write a telegram to Sayeed. ‘I should have sent him a telegram as soon as I arrived yesterday,’ she said. ‘What have I done? He must be so worried!’ She dictated the telegram. She mentioned how she had arrived safely, but she was more interested in asking about his health and urged him to take his shots according to the doctor’s orders.
Four days passed. Janaki sent Sayeed five telegrams, but he didn’t reply even once. She was thinking about going to Bombay when one evening Aziz’s health suddenly got worse. She dictated another telegram for Sayeed and then was busy taking care of Aziz all night. It was an ordinary fever, but Janaki was overcome with anxiety, which seemed strange until I realized that a part of it was due to her concern over Sayeed’s silence. Over those four days, she said to me time and again, ‘Saadat Sahib! I’m sure Sayeed Sahib is sick, otherwise he definitely would have written back.’
On the fifth evening we were all sitting around and Janaki was laughing about something when a telegram arrived from Sayeed. It read, ‘I’m very sick. Come immediately.’ As soon as Janaki read this, she fell silent. Aziz didn’t like this at all, and when he addressed her, his tone was sharp. I left the room.
When I came back in the evening, Aziz and Janaki were sitting apart from one another as though they had been fighting. Janaki’s cheeks were stained with tears. After we chatted for a while, Janaki picked up her purse and said to Aziz, ‘I’m going, but I’ll be back very soon.’ Then she addressed me, ‘Saadat Sahib, please look after him. He still has a slight fever.’
I went with her to the station. I bought a ticket on the black market, saw her to her seat and left. Then I returned to the apartment, and Aziz and I stayed up late talking but we never mentioned Janaki.
The third day, at about five thirty in the morning, I heard the door open and then Janaki impatiently asking Aziz about his health and whether he had taken his medicine in her absence. I couldn’t hear how he replied, but half an hour later, with my eyes still heavy with sleep, I heard him speaking to her, and although I couldn’t make out his exact words, he was clearly angry.
At ten in the morning Aziz had a cold bath, ignoring the water Janaki had heated for him. When I mentioned to her that he’d left the water untouched in the bathroom, her eyes welled with tears.
Aziz left after bathing, and Janaki flopped down on the bed. In the afternoon I went to check on her and discovered she had a high fever. When I went out to get a doctor, I found Aziz putting his things into a horse-drawn carriage. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. He shook my hand and said, ‘Bombay. God willing, we’ll meet again.’ Then he sat down in the carriage and left. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him Janaki had a severe fever.
The doctor examined Janaki and told me she had bronchitis. If she wasn’t careful, it might turn into pneumonia. The doctor wrote
a prescription and left, and then Janaki asked about Aziz. At first I thought I shouldn’t tell her, but then I realized nothing would be gained from concealing the truth, and so I told her he had left. She was devastated. She buried her face in her pillow and cried.
The next day around eleven when Janaki’s fever dropped one degree and her health seemed a little better, a telegram arrived from Sayeed. He wrote in a harsh tone, ‘Remember, you didn’t keep your promise.’ Then in spite of her fever and my attempts to stop her, she left for Bombay on the Pune Express.
After five or six days a telegram arrived from Narayan, ‘Urgent. Come to Bombay ASAP.’ I thought he meant he had talked to some producer about my contract, but when I arrived in Bombay, I learned that Janaki’s health was very poor. Her bronchitis had in fact turned into pneumonia. Moreover, after getting to Bombay, she had fallen and scraped both her thighs very badly while trying to board a local train to Andheri.
Narayan told me that Janaki had suffered through this with great courage. But after she had reached Andheri, Sayeed had pointed at her packed bags and had said, ‘Please leave.’ Narayan said, ‘When she heard Sayeed’s icy words, she turned completely to stone. The thought must have crossed her mind, “Why didn’t I die underneath the train?” Saadat, say what you will, but no man should treat women like Sayeed does! The poor soul had a fever and then had fallen trying to board a train and only because she was rushing to see this bastard. But Sayeed didn’t stop to think about this. He just repeated, “Please leave.” Manto, he said this so coldly, it was as if he was reading from a newspaper.’
This made me very sad, and I got up and left. When I came back in the evening, Janaki wasn’t there but Sayeed was, sitting on his bed, a glass of rum in front of him, and he was busy writing a poem. I didn’t say anything but went straight to my room.
The next day at the studio, Narayan told me Janaki was at the house of one of the studio’s extra girls and that her health was precarious. He said, ‘I talked to the owner of the studio and then sent Janaki to the hospital. She’s been there since yesterday. Tell me, what should I do? I can’t go to see her since she hates me. You go and check on her.’
I got to the hospital, and she immediately asked about Aziz and Sayeed. After all they had done to her, it was impressive that she asked about them with affection.
Her health was very poor. The doctor told me that both of her lungs were inflamed and her life was in danger, and yet I was surprised by how Janaki bore all her difficulties with such manly courage.
When I returned from the hospital and looked for Narayan in the studio, I learned he had been missing since the morning. When he returned to the house in the evening, he showed me three small glass vials.
‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked.
‘No. It looks like medicine.’
Narayan smiled. ‘Exactly. Penicillin.’
I was very surprised because penicillin was in short supply. Despite the quantities produced in America and England, very little got to India and that was reserved for the military hospitals. I asked Narayan, ‘Penicillin’s so scarce. How did you get it?’
He smiled and said, ‘When I was a boy, I was very good at stealing money from our safe at home. Today I went to the Military Hospital and stole these three vials. Come on, let’s hurry. We’ve got to move Janaki from the hospital to a hotel.’
I took a taxi to the hospital and then took Janaki to a hotel where Narayan had already booked two rooms. Over and over again Janaki weakly asked me why I had brought her there, and each time I told her, ‘You’ll soon find out.’
And when she found out—meaning, when Narayan came into the room holding a syringe—she scowled and turned away. She said to me, ‘Saadat Sahib, tell him to go away!’
Narayan smiled. ‘My dear, spit out all your anger. This is going to save your life.’
Janaki got mad. In spite of her weak condition, she raised herself from the bed, ‘Saadat Sahib, either kick this bastard out, or I’m going.’
Narayan shoved her back down and said, smiling, ‘Nothing’s going to stop this bastard from giving you this injection. If you muck this up, it’s your loss!’
He grabbed Janaki’s arm. He gave the syringe to me and then wet a cotton ball with alcohol. He cleaned her upper arm and then gave me the cotton ball and stuck the needle in her arm. She screamed out, but the penicillin had already entered her arm.
Narayan released his grip, and Janaki began to cry. But Narayan didn’t care. He swabbed the injection site with the cotton ball and left for the next room.
This was at nine o’clock at night. The next injection had to be given three hours later, as Narayan told me that the penicillin would have no effect if more than three hours elapsed between injections. So he stayed up. At about eleven o’clock, he lit the stove, sterilized the syringe and filled it with medicine.
Janaki’s breathing was raspy and her eyes were shut. Narayan cleaned her other arm and again stuck the needle in her arm. Janaki emitted a feeble cry. Narayan took out the needle, cleaned Janaki’s arm, and said to me, ‘The third’s at three o’clock.’
I don’t know when he gave the third and fourth injections, but when I awoke I heard the sound of the stove and Narayan’s asking one of the hotel boys for ice since he had to keep the penicillin cold.
At nine o’clock, when we went into the room to give Janaki her injection, she was lying with her eyes open. She glared with hatred at Narayan but said nothing. Narayan smiled. ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ Janaki didn’t respond.
Narayan went over and stood next to her. ‘These injections aren’t injections of love. They’re to cure your pneumonia. I swiped this penicillin from the Military Hospital. Okay, turn on your side a little, and slide down your shalwar so I can get at your hips. Have you ever had an injection here?’
Before Janaki could protest, Narayan slid down Janaki’s shalwar and said to me, ‘Get the alcohol swab ready.’
Janaki began to thrash her legs.
‘Janaki! Stop thrashing!’ Narayan said. ‘Nothing’s going to stop me from giving you this shot!’
Narayan gave her the fifth injection. There were fifteen left, and Narayan gave them on a schedule of one every three hours. It was forty-five hours’ work.
Even though Janaki’s health hadn’t noticeably improved after the first five injections, Narayan still had faith in the penicillin’s miraculous powers. He fully believed that she would make it, and we talked on and on about this new drug. At about eleven o’clock a servant brought a telegram for me. A film company in Pune wanted me to come immediately, and I had to go.
After ten or fifteen days, I returned to Bombay in connection with work. After finishing my work, I went to Andheri where Sayeed told me that Narayan was still at the hotel, but because the hotel was in a distant suburb, I spent the night at Sayeed’s.
I reached the hotel at eight the next morning and found the door to Narayan’s room ajar. I entered but the room was empty, and when I opened the door to the next room, guess what I saw?
When Janaki saw me, she hid underneath a quilt. Narayan, who was lying next to her, saw me leaving.
‘Hey, Manto, come in!’ he called out. ‘I always forget to shut the door. Come over here, buddy! Sit over there. But first hand over Janaki’s shalwar, will you?’
PEERUN
THIS happened back when I was dirt poor. I was paying nine rupees a month for a room that didn’t have water or electricity. The building was horrific. Gnats fell from the ceiling in thousands, and rats were everywhere, bigger than any I’ve ever seen, so big the cats were scared of them.
There was only one bathroom in the chawl and its door was broken. The women of the building—Jewish, Marathi, Gujarati, and Christian—would gather there in the early morning to fill their buckets with water. The women would get together first thing in the morning and go to the bathroom where they would form a wall in front of the door and then one by one, they would bathe.
One day I got
up late. I went to the bathroom and started bathing when the door suddenly opened. It was the woman who lived in the room next to mine, and she had a water pitcher under her arm. I don’t know why, but she stood there staring at me for a moment. Then she abruptly turned around, and the pitcher slipped to the ground and began to roll down the hall. She ran away as though a lion was chasing her. I laughed a lot and then rose, closed the door, and continued bathing.
But soon the door opened again. It was Brij Mohan. I had already finished bathing and was putting on my clothes. He said, ‘Hey, Manto. Today’s Sunday.’
Then I remembered that Brij Mohan had to go to Bandra to meet his friend Peerun, whom he met every Sunday. She was a Parsi girl that Brij Mohan had been in love with for about three years.
Brij Mohan asked me for eight annas every Sunday for the train ride. Once he got to Peerun’s house, the two of them would talk for half an hour, Brij Mohan would give her the answers for the Illustrated Weekly’s crossword, and then he would come back. It was pointless. All day he would labour to solve the crossword for Peerun, and though he had won some small prizes, they all went to her, each and every one.
Brij Mohan had countless photos of Peerun—Peerun in a shalwar kameez, in tight-fitting pyjamas, in a sari, in a sundress, in an outfit she wore to weddings, in an evening gown. He must have had over a hundred photos. Peerun wasn’t pretty at all, and in my opinion she was just the opposite, and yet I never told Brij Mohan what I thought. I never asked about her—who she was, what she did, how he met her, how he fell in love, or whether he planned to marry her—and Brij Mohan never talked to me about her. But every Sunday after breakfast, he would ask me for eight annas, go to meet Peerun in Bandra, and then come back in the afternoon.
Bombay Stories Page 10