A Thousand Yearnings

by Ralph Russell

  ~

  Khanam’s establishment was a huge house, with an expensively furnished room for each of the ten to eleven courtesans, each with a full complement of servants to attend on her. Khanam catered for a clientele drawn from the richest and most influential classes in Lucknow society, and her courtesans were equipped accordingly, bedecked with jewellery and dressed in the most expensive clothes. The courtesans, of course, earned not for themselves but for Khanam, although clients might sometimes give them money or jewellery without Khanam’s knowledge. Their beauty, their skill as dancers and singers, and their education to a cultural level where they could appreciate, and in some cases compose poetry, were all assets to be valued. They possessed these in varying measure. Thus Khurshid Jan was exceptionally beautiful, but danced poorly and was useless as a singer. Umrao was quite good looking, quickly developed a real talent for music and singing, and took such an interest in her education that she quickly mastered some of the classics of Persian literature, learnt elementary Arabic, acquired a good taste in poetry and herself began to write it, with Ada as her takhallus.

  The playmates of her early days there were launched in their profession before she was, and she greatly envied them and eagerly awaited the time when she too would be a full-fledged courtesan.

  She goes on to describe her own initiation and early experiences with various clients and then devotes two successive chapters to Bismillah Jan and Khurshid Jan, letting their character appear through their own words and actions. Bismillah is the complete courtesan, skilled in all the accomplishments of her profession, completely mercenary and completely callous.

  Khurshid on the other hand is not fitted to be a courtesan at all. She wants to love and be loved. She falls in love with a client, Pyare Sahib, and when his marriage is arranged she is both furious and heartbroken.

  Umrao never makes the point explicitly, but it is clear that her accounts of Bismillah and Khurshid are intended to clarify her own position. She accepts that a courtesan cannot afford to fall in love (although in fact she does fall in love on two occasions), but does not accept that she must be callous and unfeeling.

  4

  It was a late afternoon in the month of Savan. The rain had stopped and here and there sunlight fell on the tall houses and walls of the Chauk. Fragments of clouds were moving across the sky and you could see the colourful glow of the sunset spreading in the west. Crowds of people, all dressed in white, were building up in the Chauk, unusually crowded today because it was Friday and people were going off eagerly to the Aish Bagh* Fair. Khurshid, Amir Jan, Bismillah and I were dressing up for the fair. Dupattas dyed bright green were just back from the dyers, and we were having them crinkled, and combing and plaiting our hair, and getting out our heavy jewellery. Khanam Sahiba was there, reclining against a bolster. Bua Husaini had just brought her her hookah and was standing behind her. Mir Sahib* was sitting facing her and urging her to go to the fair; and she was saying,‘I feel lazy today. I shan’t go.’We were all praying that she wouldn’t, so that we could really enjoy ourselves.

  Khurshid was looking her most attractive. Her fair complexion contrasted with her bright green muslin dupatta. In her heavy purple paijama with its wide legs, and her tightly fitting kurti she looked completely stunning. She was wearing delicate jewellery on her neck and on her wrists, a diamond nose stud and gold earrings, heavy bangles, and a pearl choker, and looking at herself in the full-length mirror in the room opposite. I can’t tell you how beautiful she looked. If I had had her beauty and seen it reflected in the mirror I’d have been afraid of the evil eye.†But not her. She was bemoaning the fact that no one so much as looked at her these days. Pyare Sahib had fallen out with her, and her sadness showed in her face. But that too only enhanced her appeal. A beautiful woman is always beautiful, no matter what her mood. I can’t describe how I felt as I looked at her—as if I were savouring some passionate verse of a good poet I’d just heard.

  Bismillah was quite good-looking, with her nut-brown complexion, symmetrical features, straight nose, big dark eyes and slim figure. She was wearing a suit of heavily embroidered cloth, a moss-green crepe dupatta, with a braided border, and a heavy yellow paijama, and was loaded from head to foot in valuable jewellery. And to complete the effect, a garland of flowers. She looked just like a bride on the fourth day of her marriage.‡ Moving about in the fair with bold and mischievous words on her lips, making faces at one, making eyes at another, and once she had attracted his attention, turning away.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you that when we’d finished making up we’d been taken in palanquins to the fair.

  The crowds were such that you could have thrown a metal tray over their heads and it couldn’t have fallen to the ground. Everywhere there were toy-sellers, and sweet-sellers, stalls, people moving about selling things from trays, fruit-sellers, people selling garlands and paan and preparing hookahs—all the things one always sees at a fair. I wasn’t interested in all this, but I’ve always been interested in studying people’s faces, especially at fairs and shows. Some are happy, some sad; some poor, some rich; some stupid, some intelligent; some learned, some ignorant; some of good family, some not; some generous, some mean. And their faces tell it all. Here was a man marching proudly along in his long coat of fine cloth and purple waistcoat and pointed hat, and paijama fitting close at the knee, and velvet shoes with raised heels. Another has tied a dupatta dyed the colour of sandalwood on his head, set at a rakish angle, and is moving around staring at the courtesans. Another has got himself to the fair, but he looks very cross; he’s frowning and muttering something under his breath as he passes us. He looks as though he’s just quarrelled with his wife, and is thinking of all the things he would have said to her if he’d thought of them in time. Here’s a man holding his little boy’s hand and talking to him as they move around. They’re talking all the time about ‘Mummy’. Mummy must be doing the cooking. Mummy isn’t feeling well. Mummy must be asleep. Mummy must just have woken up. You musn’t be naughty or mummy will have to go to the hakim.* Another has dressed up his little seven- or eight-yearold daughter in red clothes. She’s riding on his shoulders, a little nose-ring in her nose, her hair plaited tight on the top of her head and tied with a red hair ribbon. She has silver bangles on her wrists and he’s grasping them so tightly with both hands that her wrists are hurting. He’s afraid someone might slip them off her wrists and go off with them. In that case, why did he have to bring her here?

  And here are two friends vying with each other to see who can swear most colourfully: ‘Come on, have a paan!’ says one of them, and throws the money onto the paan-seller’s stall, showing his friend how rich he is, and how the odd coin means nothing to him. Then he at once calls to the hookah man,‘This way! Is the hookah ready?’Another of his friends turns up. They swear affectionately at each other as good friends do, ‘Well, get me a paan, then!’ It’s interesting to see that he is a Muslim and his friend a Hindu. When the paan-seller held out the paan he at once took hold of it, and then remembered that he shouldn’t have.* ‘Oh, I’m sorry; I forgot.’The other looked put out. He took out a coin and told the paan-seller, ‘Here you are. Give me two paans. Put some cardamom in, but not too much lime.†Then, to his friend, ‘Here you are. Now let me have a smoke.’ As soon as he took the clay bowl from the hookah the hookah man glared at him. He at once gave it back, took some money from his pocket and paid him.‡

  Gauhar Mirza§ had laid down a carpet beside the Moti Jhil.¶ We went there, moved about a bit among the trees and then decided to go back home. We’d been at the fair from early evening until well after dark. We each got into our palanquin—and then noticed that Khurshid Jan’s was empty. At first we thought that maybe she was walking among the trees somewhere. We looked for her everywhere, and sent our servants running off to look for her. Gauhar Mirza searched all through the fair for her, but in the end we had to give up and go home.

  As soon as she heard it Khanam beat her head. The whol
e house was shocked by it. I too cried all night. A servant was sent to Pyare Sahib’s house, and the poor man came running and swore a thousand oaths that he knew absolutely nothing about it, saying that he hadn’t even been to the fair; his wife was ill, and he couldn’t. And in fact there was no reason to suspect him, and after he’d sworn to all this no one suspected him any longer, because once he had got married he was so devoted to his wife that he’d stopped coming to the Chauk altogether. In fact he never went out at night at all. It was partly because of his former love for Khurshid and partly because of his regard for Khanam that he’d somehow found it in him to come.

  Six weeks after Khurshid had disappeared a man walked straight into my rooms, and sat down at the edge of the carpet. He was dressed in the style of the young bloods of Lucknow. Nut-brown complexion, slim, a large shawl tied around his waist and another around his head. I guessed he wasn’t quite a gentleman, or at any rate was new to cultured society, and hadn’t often visited courtesans. I was alone at the time, and I called Bua Husaini. As soon as she came into the room he stood up, somewhat familiary took her hand, took her aside and said something to her. I only heard snatches of their conversation. Then Bua Husaini went to Khanam. When she came back they talked again,and finally she said,‘You’ll have to pay for a month in advance.’ He took a bag of rupees from his waistband. Bua Husaini opened her knees and he threw the coins into her lap.

  ‘How much is that?’ said Bua Husaini.

  ‘I don’t know. Count it.’

  ‘I can’t count.’

  ‘I know how much there is. Seventy-five rupees. Maybe one or two more or less.’

  ‘And how many is seventy-five?’

  ‘Three twenties and fifteen. Twenty-five short of a hundred.’

  ‘Twenty-five short of a hundred. So how many days’ pay is that?’

  ‘Fifteen days. I’ll bring the other seventy-five tomorrow. That’ll be a full hundred and fifty on the nail.’

  When he said ‘on the nail’ I didn’t like it at all. I was convinced now that he was a very ordinary sort of man. But courtesans can’t please themselves. They get their orders from someone else. What was I to do?

  Bua Husaini went off and took the money to Khanam. Khanam must have been in a good mood that day, because she at once agreed to what he had said. I was surprised. Normally she’d make no concession even for a moment, not even to the richest noblemen; and here she was agreeing to a day’s delay.

  When all this had been settled he stayed the night with me in my room. About three hours before dawn it seemed as though someone knocked at the door below my room. He got up at once. ‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back tonight.’ As he left he gave me five gold coins and three rings, one of gold set with a ruby, one diamond ring and one of turquoise.‘Keep these for yourself,’ he said.‘Don’t give them to Khanam.’ I was very pleased. I put the rings on and admired how they looked on my fingers. They looked really beautiful. Then I opened my box and put them and the five gold coins in the secret drawer.

  The next evening the same man came again. I was practising singing with my teacher at the time. He sat down at the edge of the carpet and listened. Then he gave the musician five rupees. My teacher and the sarangi player began to flatter him. My teacher was after the shawl tied around his waist, and when hints had no effect, he asked for it outright. But it was no good. He wouldn’t give it to him.

  ‘Ustad ji he said, ‘You can have money and anything else you want, but not this shawl. It’s a keepsake from a friend.’

  The ustad ji couldn’t say anything.

  When the lesson was over he handed over the other seventy-five rupees to Bua Husaini, and gave her five rupees for herself. She went off, and when he and I were left alone in the room I asked him where he had seen me, that he favoured me in this way.

  ‘Two months ago,’ he said,‘that Friday at the Aish Bagh fair.’

  ‘And it’s only now you’ve come—two months later?’

  ‘I was away. And I’m going away again now.’

  At that I began to practice the courtesan’s wiles. ‘So you’re going to leave me?’

  ‘No, I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘My house is in Farrukhabad. But my work brings me here a lot. In fact I really live here. I go away for a few days and then come back.’

  ‘And this shawl. Whose keepsake is it?’

  ‘No one’s.’

  ‘Oh yes! I understand. It’s your lover’s.’

  ‘No it’s not. I swear to you I haven’t got a lover. Only you.’

  ‘Give it to me then.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that.’

  I was very put out, but he at once produced a necklace of large pearls, with emeralds hanging from it, and a pair of diamond-studded bracelets and two gold rings and laid them down in front of me. I was very pleased. I picked them up and opened my box to put them away. But I wondered why he casually gave me all these things, which were worth thousands, but wouldn’t give me the shawl. The fact was I didn’t particularly like the shawl, that I should press him to give it to me. I knew what I was about.

  5

  His name was Faiz Ali. He used to come quite late at night, sometimes not till midnight. Sometimes he’d leave an hour or two before dawn. During the month to six weeks he came to me I would sometimes hear a knock at the door or a whistle, and he’d at once get up and go. By that time my box was full of jewellery, plain and jewel-studded, and of gold coins and rupees more than I could count—some ten to twelve thousand worth of things that Bua Husaini and Khanam knew nothing about.

  I didn’t love Faiz Ali, but I didn’t hate him either. Why should I? He was not bad-looking. And when you’re constantly being given presents it has a remarkable effect on you. I tell you truly that I would watch the door for his coming... People who used to come to me had gathered that I now had one particular client. So they’d leave early, and if any of them looked like staying on, I’d find some excuse to get rid of him.

  I forgot to say that search was made everywhere for Khurshid, but no trace of her could be found.

  In those days Faiz Ali really came to love me, and if my heart had not been given elsewhere I’m sure I would have come to love him too and given my heart to him. As it was I did all I could to please him, and to all appearances nothing was lacking. I’d convinced him that I was in love with him, and the poor man was well and truly trapped. No one else had the slightest knowledge of all the things he’d given me. Sometimes, on Bua Husaini’s and Khanam’s intructions, I had to ask him for gifts, and these demands too he regarded as his duty to fulfil. He wasn’t bothered about money. I’ve never encountered so generous a man, not even among nobles and princes.

  At this point Rusva interrupted her.‘Naturally,’he said,‘what you get free you can give away freely. How could anyone compete with him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.‘What you get free?’

  ‘Do you think then that it was his mummy’s jewellery he was giving you?’ he asked.

  ‘How was I to know?’ she said.

  Among those who used to come to me in the evening was one Panna Mal Chaudhry. He would stay for an hour or two and then leave. He liked company, and if he received due attention, wasn’t bothered by others coming and going too. He paid two hundred rupees a month in cash, and presents as well. During the days Faiz Ali was coming to me he came less often. Before that he’d come every day, but now he was coming only every second or third day. Then he didn’t come for two whole weeks. When he did come he looked thoroughly depressed. He’d give short answers to your questions and then fall silent again.

  ‘Haven’t you heard the news?’ he asked me.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘I’m ruined. The house has been robbed. All our ancestral wealth has gone.’

  I was startled.‘Good God! How much was stolen?’‘Everything. There’s nothing left. Jewellery worth two hundred thousand.’

  In my hear
t of hearts I was laughing at him. Everyone knew that his father Chutta Mal was a millionaire. Two hundred thousand is a lot of money of course, but to them it was nothing. But I put on an expression of regret.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.‘There’s a lot of thefts in the city, these days. Nawab Malika-e-Alam has been robbed. And Lala Prashad. Things are really bad. They say the thieves come from outside the city. Mirza Ali Beg,* poor man, is at a loss what to do. He summoned all the known thieves in the city. None of them could tell him anything. They all swore it wasn’t them.’

  The following day I was sitting in my room when I heard a great uproar down in the Chauk. I went and stood by the screen. I could see a good crowd had gathered there.

  Someone said,‘They’ve caught them, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said another. ‘What a man! He’s the kind of kotwal you want!’

  ‘Have they traced any of the loot?’ said someone else.

  ‘Yes, a lot of it. But there’s still a lot more.’

  ‘Have they caught Miyan Faizu too?’

  ‘Here he is, coming now:’

  And I could see for myself that there was Miyan Faizu, with his arms pinioned, being brought along under guard, with crowds pressing in on all sides. He’d covered his face with a dupatta, so you couldn’t see what he looked like. All this happened during the morning.

  Faiz Ali, as usual, came late at night. He and I were alone in the room. He at once said,‘Today I’m going away. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Listen, Umrao Jan. Don’t let anyone know what I’ve given you. Don’t give it to Bua Husaini and don’t show it to Khanam. It’ll be useful to you. I’ll be here the day after tomorrow without fail. And now tell me: can you come away with me for some days?’

  ‘You know very well that that’s not up to me. It’s up to Khanam. You’ll have to ask her. If she agrees then of course I don’t object.’