Her comments upon my clumsiness embarrassed me, ‘I was actually there for another reason, Dhundhu.’
Dhundhu erupted in full-bellied laughter. ‘I know! Please forgive me for getting angry with you that day.’ Then he said in a friendly way, ‘But all that’s over with now.’
‘All of what?’
‘That bitch Siraj, who else?’
‘What happened?’
Dhundhu told his story, all chopped up into pieces, ‘The day she went with you, she came back and said, “I got forty rupees. Let’s go, take me to Lahore.” I said, “Bitch, what’s come over you all of a sudden?” She said, “No, come with me, Dhundhu, you have to!” And, Manto Sahib, you know I couldn’t refuse her. “Let’s go,” I said. So we got tickets and boarded the train. In Lahore we stayed at a hotel. She asked me to get her a burqa and so I did. She put it on and left immediately to wander around. Days passed. I said to myself, “Look at what’s going on, Dhundhu. Siraj, that bitch, is just as crazy as before, and, hell, now you’ve gone crazy too, travelling to such a far-off place with her!” ’
‘Manto Sahib, one day we were riding in a tonga when she asked the driver to stop. She pointed to a man and said, “Dhundhu, bring that man to me. I’m going back to the hotel.” I was at my wit’s end. By the time I got out of the tonga, the man was walking away. I followed him. Thank God I can read people easily—we spoke for just a moment but I could tell he was a playboy. I said, “I have some special merchandise from Bombay.” He said, “Let’s go right now.” I said, “No, show me your money.” He showed me a lot of money, and I said to myself, “Okay, Dhundhu, why not do some business here?” But I couldn’t understand why that bitch Siraj had chosen this man from out of all of those in Lahore. I said to myself, “It’ll do.” We got a tonga and went straight to the hotel. I told Siraj I had brought him. She said, “Wait a minute.” So I waited. A little while later I took this good-looking man inside. That bastard reared like a colt when he saw Siraj, and Siraj grabbed him.’
Dhundhu poured his cold coffee-tea into his saucer, drank it in one gulp and then lit a bidi.
‘Siraj grabbed him?’
Dhundhu raised his voice. ‘Yes! She grabbed that bastard and said, “Where do you think you’re going? Why did you force me to leave my home? I loved you, and you said you loved me. After we ran off from Amritsar, we came here and stayed in this very hotel, remember? And then you disappeared in the middle of the night and abandoned me. Why did you bring me here? Why did you convince me to run off with you? I was ready for anything, but you fled at the last moment. Come here. Now I’ve got you here again. I still love you. Come here.” And, Manto Sahib, she threw herself on him. Tears started rolling down that bastard’s cheeks. He begged for forgiveness, “It was wrong of me. I was scared. I’ll never leave you again …” Who knows what he was blabbering. Then Siraj motioned for me to leave and I went out.
‘In the morning I was sleeping on a cot when she woke me. “Let’s go, Dhundhu,” she said. “Where to?” “Back to Bombay.” “What about that bastard?” “He’s sleeping. I put my burqa over him.” ’
Dhundhu ordered another coffee-mixed tea, and then Siraj came in. Her face looked fresh and her large eyes were poised and calm.
MOZELLE
FOR the first time in four years, Trilochan found himself looking up at the night sky, and that was only because he had come out onto the terrace of the Advani Chambers to think things over in the open air.
The sky was completely clear but hung like an enormous ash-coloured tent over all of Bombay. For as far as he could see, lights burned through the night. It seemed to Trilochan as though countless stars had fallen from the heavens and had attached themselves to the buildings, which in the dark of the night loomed like enormous trees, around which the fallen stars glimmered like fireflies.
For Trilochan this was a completely new experience, a new plane of existence, to be out beneath the night sky. He realized that for four years he had lived caged in his apartment, oblivious to one of nature’s greatest gifts. It was about three o’clock, and the wind was delightfully light. Trilochan had grown used to the electric fan’s artificial breeze, which oppressed his very existence: every morning he got up feeling as though someone had been pummelling him all night long. But now he felt rejuvenated, as the morning’s fresh breeze washed over his body. He had come up to the terrace feeling anxious, but after only half an hour, the tension had eased. He could now think clearly.
Kirpal Kaur lived with her family in a neighbourhood known for its fanatic Muslims. Many houses had already been burned, and several people had died. Trilochan felt it was no longer safe for them to live there, but a curfew was in effect and no one knew how long it would last, maybe forty-eight hours. He felt he could do nothing because he was surrounded by Muslims of the most violent sort. Then troubling news reports were coming one after another from the Punjab saying that Sikhs were terrorizing Muslims. At any moment, any Muslim could very easily seize delicate Kirpal Kaur’s wrist and lead her to her death.
Her mother was blind. Her father was paralysed. And her brother was staying in Deolali to supervise his newly acquired construction contracts there.
Trilochan was very upset with Niranjan, Kirpal Kaur’s brother. Trilochan read the paper every day and had told Niranjan a full week before about the intensity of the sectarian violence, advising him in clear words, ‘Niranjan, drop this small-time contracting work. We’re passing through a very delicate time. Whatever your obligations are here, you really have to leave. Come to my place. No doubt there’s less space there, but we can find a way to get by.’
But Niranjan hadn’t listened. He had let Trilochan finish his lecture, then smiled through his thick beard and said, ‘Hey, you’re worrying for no reason. I’ve seen a lot of this sort of thing here. This isn’t Amritsar or Lahore. It’s Bombay, Bombay! You’ve been here for, what, four years? I’ve been living here for twelve years, twelve years!’
Who knows what Niranjan took Bombay to be. He must have thought the city kept some charm so that when violence broke out, it would quell itself. Or he thought it was like a mythical fort, upon which no harm could be wreaked.
But in the cool morning breeze, Trilochan could clearly see that the neighbourhood was not safe at all. He was even preparing himself mentally to read in the morning papers that Kirpal Kaur and her parents had already been killed.
Trilochan actually didn’t care about Kirpal Kaur’s paralysed father and blind mother. If they died and Kirpal Kaur escaped, it would suit him just fine. And if Niranjan was killed in Deolali, it would be even better because then no obstacle would remain. At the moment Niranjan sat like a boulder in his path, and so whenever Trilochan got the chance to talk to Kirpal Kaur, instead of calling him Niranjan Singh he would call him ‘Boulder’ Singh.
The morning breeze blew slowly over Trilochan’s close-cropped hair, pleasantly chilling it. But his worries wouldn’t subside. Kirpal Kaur had just entered his life. Unlike her brother, she was very gentle and delicate. She had grown up in the countryside but hadn’t absorbed that hardness, that wear and tear, that manliness, usually found in Sikh country girls who spend their lives moving from one strenuous labour to the next.
She had a slim figure, as if she still hadn’t filled out. She had small breasts, which would have been more pleasant if plumper. In comparison to average Sikh country girls, her skin was fair, more like the colour of raw cotton, and her body was glossy like the texture of mercerized clothes. She was extremely shy.
They were from the same village, but Trilochan hadn’t spent much time there. He had left for high school in the city, where he had begun to live permanently. After high school he had enrolled at college, and while during those years he had gone to his village countless times, he had never heard of Kirpal Kaur, probably because he was always in a hurry to get back to town as soon as possible.
Then his college days had become a distant memory. Ten years had passed since he had last seen his coll
ege hostel, and in that time many strange and interesting events had taken place in Trilochan’s life: Burma—Singapore—Hong Kong—then Bombay, where he had been living for four years.
And in these four years, this was the first time he had seen the clear night’s sky. A thousand lights glowed, and the breeze was pleasant and light.
While thinking about Kirpal Kaur, Trilochan thought of Mozelle, a Jewish girl who had lived in the Advani Chambers. Trilochan had fallen hopelessly in love with her, a kind of love he had never experienced in his thirty-five years.
He crossed paths with Mozelle the very day he got an apartment on the second floor of the Advani Chambers through the help of one of his Christian friends. At first she seemed frighteningly crazy. Her bobbed brown hair was in irremediable disarray, and her lipstick, cracked in spots, clung to her lips like clotted blood. She was wearing a loose white gown whose open collar revealed a generous view of her breasts, large and marked with blue veins. Her upper arms, which were bare, were covered with a dusting of extremely fine hairs as though she had just come from a beauty salon where during her haircut these hairs had fallen onto her arms to stick like crushed nuts on sweets. But more than anything, her lips held his attention: they weren’t that thick, but she had smeared burgundy lipstick across them in such a way that they seemed as fat and as red as chunks of buffalo meat.
Trilochan’s apartment was directly opposite Mozelle’s and only a narrow corridor separated their doors. Trilochan was walking towards his door when Mozelle came out from her apartment wearing wooden sandals. Trilochan heard their sound and stopped. Through her dishevelled hair, Mozelle looked at him and laughed, and this unnerved Trilochan. He took the key from his pocket and quickly started towards his door, but as they passed each other Mozelle slipped and fell on the slick cement.
Before Trilochan realized it, Mozelle was lying on top of him with her long gown at her waist and her naked, fleshy legs on either side of him. Trilochan tried to get up, but in his embarrassment he only entangled himself further with Mozelle, as if her body were coated with a soapy lather and he couldn’t find a grip.
Panting, Trilochan apologized earnestly. Mozelle adjusted her gown and smiled, ‘These sandals are completely worthless.’ Then she recovered her lost sandal, fit it between her big toe and the toe next to it, got up, and went down the corridor.
Trilochan thought it might not be easy to get to know Mozelle, but she opened up to him very quickly. And yet she was very self-centred, and she gave no weight to what he said or did. He bought her food and drinks, treated her to movies, and stayed with her all day when she went swimming at Juhu Beach. But when he wandered beyond her arms or lips, she scolded him. He became so subservient that he waited on her hand and foot and catered to her every whim. Trilochan had never been in love. In Lahore, Burma, and Singapore, he had gone to prostitutes, but he had never imagined that as soon as he reached Bombay, he would fall deeply in love with a careless, self-centred Jewish girl. Whenever he asked her to the movies, she would immediately get ready. But after they reached their seats in the theatre, she would start glancing through the crowd and if she spotted any of her acquaintances, she would wave vigourously and without asking for Trilochan’s permission go and sit by them.
On other occasions they would be at a restaurant, and Trilochan would order a huge spread just for her. But if she saw one of her close friends, she would leave in the middle of eating, and Trilochan could only watch and fume.
Mozelle would often infuriate him when she would callously leave him to go out with her close friends and then not come back for days, sometimes on the excuse of a headache, and sometimes an upset stomach, although Trilochan knew hers to be as strong as steel.
When she ran into him again, she would say, ‘You’re a Sikh. You can’t understand these delicate matters.’
Trilochan would burn with anger. ‘Which delicate matters? Your ex-lovers’?’
Putting her hands on her wide hips, Mozelle would spread her powerful legs and say, ‘Why do you keep on bringing them up? Yes, they’re my friends and I like them. If you’re jealous, then be jealous.’
In a pleading manner, Trilochan would ask, ‘How long will we last like this?’
Mozelle would laugh loudly. ‘You really are a Sikh! Idiot! Who told you we were together? If you’re so concerned about having a lover, go back to wherever you’re from and marry some Sikh girl. I don’t care what you say, I’m not changing.’
Trilochan would yield. Mozelle had become his big weakness, and he always wanted to be with her. And yet she often humiliated him in front of worthless Christian boys. While the usual reaction to humiliation and insult is revenge, for Trilochan this wasn’t the case. Many times he made himself forget what she said and forgive her for how she acted. It didn’t matter because he loved her—not just loved her, but as he had told his friends over and over he was completely head over heels in love with her. There was nothing left to do but relinquish himself heart and soul to love’s quagmire.
For two years he suffered like this. At last one day, when Mozelle was in a giddy mood, he threw his arms around her and asked, ‘Mozelle, don’t you love me?’
Mozelle shook herself free, sat down in a chair, and began looking at the hem of her gown. Then she raised her big Jewish eyes, batted her thick eyelashes and said, ‘I can’t love a Sikh.’
Trilochan felt as though someone had tucked a bunch of burning coals into his turban. He flew into a rage.
‘Mozelle, you always make fun of me. But it’s not me you’re making fun of, it’s my love!’
Mozelle got up and, in her alluring way, shook her well-trimmed brown hair. ‘Shave your beard and let your hair down. If you do this, guys are going to wink at you—you’re beautiful.’
This spurred Trilochan into action. He strode forward, brusquely drew Mozelle to him, and pressed his lips against hers.
‘Don’t!’ said Mozelle, as she pushed him away, disgusted. ‘I already brushed my teeth this morning. Don’t trouble yourself.’
‘Mozelle!’ Trilochan cried out.
Mozelle took out a small mirror from her purse and looked at her lips where she saw scratches on her thickly laid lipstick. ‘I swear, you don’t know how to put your beard to good use. It could really clean my navy blue skirt. I’d only have to apply a little detergent.’
Trilochan became so angry that he gave up. He sat down calmly on the sofa, and Mozelle came and sat beside him. She let down his beard, sticking the pins one by one between her teeth.
Trilochan was beautiful. Before his beard had started to grow, people always mistook him for a striking young girl. But now his beard hid his features beneath its bushy mass. He knew it obscured his beauty, but he was obedient and respected his religion. He didn’t want to lose those things that showed his faith was complete.
After Mozelle finished letting out his beard, Trilochan asked her, ‘What are you doing?’
With the pins between her teeth, she smiled. ‘Your beard is very soft. I was wrong to say it could clean my navy blue skirt. Triloch, shave it off and give me the clippings and I’ll weave them into a first-class coin purse.’
Trilochan could feel his face turning red with anger beneath his beard. In a deliberate voice, he said, ‘I’ve never made fun of your religion, so why do you make fun of mine? Look, it’s not nice to do that. I would never tolerate it except I’m helplessly in love with you. Don’t you know this?’
Mozelle stopped playing with his heard. ‘I know.’
‘And so?’
Trilochan drew his beard together neatly and took the pins from between Mozelle’s teeth. ‘You know my love isn’t nonsense. I want to marry you.’
‘I know.’ Giving her hair a light toss, she got up and began looking at a painting hung on the wall. ‘And I’ve nearly decided to say yes.’
Trilochan jumped up. ‘Really?’
Mozelle’s red lips grew into a broad smile, and her white teeth sparkled for an instant. ‘Yes.’
&n
bsp; With his beard half folded, Trilochan squeezed her to his chest and said, ‘So—so—when?’
Mozelle pushed herself away. ‘When you cut your hair and shave.’
Trilochan was resigned to his fate. Without thinking, he said, ‘I’ll get it cut tomorrow.’
Mozelle began to do a tap dance. ‘You’re talking nonsense, Triloch. You’re not that courageous.’
Suddenly religion was the last thing on his mind. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I will see,’ Mozelle repeated. Quickly she came up to Trilochan, kissed him on his beard, and left, grimacing.
It is impossible to describe how much Trilochan suffered that night as he thought about getting his hair cut. The next day in a Fort barbershop he got his hair cut and beard shaved. He kept his eyes clamped shut throughout the proceedings. When the business was finally over, he opened his eyes and stared for a long time in a mirror—now he would draw the attention of even the most beautiful girls in Bombay!
Trilochan felt the same strange coldness he had felt after leaving the barbershop. He began to pace back and forth on the terrace over to where there were a number of water pipes and tanks. He didn’t want to remember the rest of the story, but he couldn’t stop himself.
The first day after getting his hair cut, Trilochan didn’t leave his apartment. The second day he sent a note to Mozelle through his servant saying he was sick and asking if she could come by for a moment. Mozelle came. Seeing Trilochan, she stopped short. ‘My darling Triloch!’ she cried out before throwing herself onto him and kissing him so much that his face turned red from her lipstick.
She stroked Trilochan’s soft, clean cheeks, ran her fingers like a comb through his short English-style hair, and began babbling in Arabic. She was so emotional that her nose began to run. When she noticed this, she took up her skirt’s hem and used it as a handkerchief. This embarrassed Trilochan, and he drew her skirt down and reproached her, ‘You should really wear something down there.’
Bombay Stories Page 18