Naked Voices

by Sadat Hasan Manto

  A grubby, filthy woman lived in that house. She kept four or five young women who plied their trade with ceaseless crassness – be it in the full light of day or the darkness of night. These women worked all day and all night like the pump that sucks out filth from choked sewers. A friend had told Javed about them, someone who had buried the corpse of love and beauty innumerable times in this gross graveyard. He used to tell Javed, ‘You go on and on about women, tell me, where is a woman? I have seen a woman only once in my life ... my mother. I have seen women in purdah but I have heard a great deal about them too. Whenever I feel the need for a woman I find the choicest companion at Mai Jeeva’s brothel. By God, Mai Jeeva is not a woman; she is an angel. May God make her live till the Day of Judgement!’

  Javed had heard a great deal about Mai Jeeva and the four or five women who worked the trade under her. He knew that one of them wore dark glasses all the time because she had lost her eyes due to some disease. Another was a coal-black girl who laughed all the time. Whenever Javed thought of her, a strange picture rose in front of his eyes. ‘I want precisely such a woman ... one who laughs all the time. When she laughs, her dark lips must be opening up like the murky bubbles that form in stinking, rotting water and burst when they reach the surface.’

  There was another girl at Mai Jeeva’s place, one who, before she joined the profession full time, used to roam the streets and markets begging for a living. She had been in Mai Jeeva’s establishment for a year now, in a house where this business was being transacted for the past eighteen years. The girl used to cover her face with powder and rouge. Javed would think about her, too, sometimes: ‘Her rouged cheeks must be like bruised, slightly rotten apples … that everyone can afford.’

  Of the four or five women, Javed didn’t have any particular one in mind. ‘I don’t mind which one I get. I want to hand over the cash, and voila! … A woman should be handed over to me. There shouldn’t be a second’s delay. There shouldn’t be any idle chitter-chatter. Not the slightest polite conversation should escape anyone’s mouth, only the sound of approaching footsteps, the creak of the door as it opens, and the clink of money exchanging hands. A few sounds can be heard but mouths should stay firmly shut. And if any voice is heard, it should not be a human voice. The meeting should be one of beasts. And for a short while, when such a world comes into being, the delicate senses of smell, sight and sound should become as dull as rusty razors.’

  Javed became restless. A tumult rose within him. He had made up his mind to such an implacable extent now that, even if there had been mountains blocking his path, he could have removed those too. But the nearly dim lantern put up by the Municipal Committee, which could be snuffed out by the smallest puff of wind, presented an insurmountable hurdle before him.

  A paan shop was still open nearby. It was lit by a strong light; in its blinding glare, the variety of things stacked inside could not be made out individually. Flies buzzed around the naked bulb as though their wings had become leaden. Javed looked at the flies and his irritation grew; he did not wish to see any slow-paced creatures. The resolve, to ‘do it’, with which he had set out from his home clashed, again and again, with those flies. The impact of that collision troubled him to such an extent that a storm began to swirl inside his head. ‘I am scared … I am terrified … I am scared of the lantern … It has destroyed all my plans … I am a coward … I am a coward …I ought to be ashamed of myself.’

  He cursed and admonished himself in many ways but the desired impact failed to take effect. His feet did not move forward. The courtyard paved in a criss-cross fashion with hand-fired Nanakshahi bricks lay spread-eagled in front of him.

  It was summer. Half the night had passed but the wind had still not cooled. The crowds in the bazaar had thinned. Only a handful of shops were open. Everything was wrapped in a sheet of silence. Though, occasionally, a gust of warm wind would carry a snatch of tired music from some brothel that would soon dissolve into the dense silence.

  Some signs of life were still visible in front of Javed, that is, on the other side of Mai Jeeva’s hovel, in the rows of brothels lined above the shops in the big bazaar. Directly in front of him, a black-as-coal woman sat by a window, fanning herself in the sharp glare of an electric light. A naked bulb hung directly above the whore and looked like a white-hot ball of fire that was slowly melting and dripping over her head.

  Javed was about to seriously begin thinking about that coal-back woman when he heard some coarse voices shouting the most obscene slogans from the far end of the market, the end that was not visible to him from where he stood. A short while later, three men appeared – dead drunk and swaying on their feet. The three planted themselves under the coal-black woman’s window and Javed’s ears heard such obnoxious things that all his plans shrank into a tiny ball inside him.

  One of the three drunks, who seemed more drunk than the rest and could barely walk, snatched a kiss from his moustache-coated lips and flung it towards the coal-black whore with such a graphic obscenity that it shattered whatever little remained of Javed’s determination. In the brothel, the coal-black woman sitting in the light of the naked bulb, laughed, her lips opening in a horrific cackle. She returned the lewd remark tossed at her by the drunken man as though she was flinging down a basketful of filth. On the street below, a fountain of coarse laughter erupted and Javed saw the three drunks climb up the brothel. In a matter of minutes that space where the coal-black woman sat, became empty.

  Javed began to despise himself more than ever. ‘You … you … you … what are you? I ask you … after all, what are you? You are neither this nor that … you are neither human nor beast … your education, your intellect, your ability to tell good from bad – it has all come to naught. Three drunken men arrive. Unlike you, they have come with no clear plans. But without any fear or hesitation, they talk to the whore, they laugh, they cackle and they climb up to her den, as simple as that … as though they are going up to fly a kite. And you … you … you who know well enough what you should do, stand like a fool in the middle of the bazaar scared of a lantern! Your intention is so clear and transparent, yet your feet refuse to take you forward … Shame on you!’

  For a minute the thought of taking revenge upon himself rose within Javed. His legs shook and he moved, crossed the sewer in one leap and began to move towards Mai Jeeva’s brothel. He was about to reach the stairs when a man came down. Javed stepped back quickly. He tried his best to hide himself but the man coming down the stairs paid him no heed.

  The man had taken off his mulmul kurta and placed it on his shoulder. On his right wrist he had wound a string of fragrant motiya flowers. His body was drenched in sweat. Unaware of Javed’s existence, the man hitched his tehmad up to his knees with both hands, crossed the brick-paved courtyard, leapt across the sewer and went away. Javed began to wonder why the man had not even glanced in his direction.

  Meanwhile, he looked at the lantern that seemed to be saying to him: ‘You will never succeed in your plans because you are a coward. Do you remember last year, during the rains, when you had tried to declare your love to that Hindu girl, Indira, how your body had lost every ounce of strength? How scared you had been and how you kept imagining the most terrifying things? Remember, you had even thought of Hindu- Muslim riots and how that thought had scared you? You forgot all about that girl because you were scared. And Hamida … you could not love her because she was related to you and you were scared that your family would view your love with distrust. The things you would imagine and the illusions you laboured under! And then, you had tried to love Bilquis but one look at her and all your hopes were dashed and your heart remained a wasteland, as always … Do you not realize that you have always viewed your own innocent love with distrustful eyes. You could never fully comprehend that your love was pure and good … You have always been scared. You are scared now, too. There is no question of girls or women from good families here. Nor is there any fear of Hindu-Muslim riots in a place like this. Yet yo
u will never be able to climb the stairs to that brothel … I shall see how you drum up the courage to do so.’

  Whatever remained of Javed’s resolve dissipated. He began to feel that he was truly a first-class coward. Past incidents began to flutter through his mind, like the pages of a book in a sharp gust of wind and for the first time he realized with utter certainty that a certain irresolution lurked in the bedrock of his very being and that had turned him into a pitiful coward.

  The sound of someone coming down the stairs shook Javed out of his reverie. The same girl, the one who wore dark glasses and the one about whom he had heard a great deal from his friend, stood on a platform at the foot of the stairs. Javed became flustered. He tried to sidle away when she called out in a coarse voice, ‘You, there, won’t you stay for a bit … Don’t be scared, my love … come … come.’ And then she called out, louder this time, ‘Come on … come on.’

  Hearing these words, Javed became convinced that if he were to stay here any longer he would sprout a tail, a tail that would wag at the woman’s bidding. He looked fearfully towards the platform where the woman stood. The whore wearing dark glasses from Mai Jeeva’s brothel moved her body in such a way that all of Javed’s plans fell, like a ripe fruit from a tree. Again, she cooed, ‘Come, my love, come on now.’

  Javed ran. By the time he leapt across the sewer and reached the bazaar he heard loud laughter, terrifying in its horrendousness. He shivered.

  When he reached home, a voice writhed out from the chaotic jumble of his thoughts and reassured him thus: ‘Javed, you have been saved from a very great sin. You should be thankful to God.’

  THE RAT OF SHAHDOLE

  Salima was twenty-one years old when she got married. Five years later, she still had no baby. Her mother and mother-in-law were extremely worried, particularly her mother who fretted that Najeeb, Salima’s husband, might bring home a second wife. Several doctors were consulted, but nothing happened.

  Salima herself was quite concerned, too. After all, there are few girls who, soon after marriage, don’t expect a baby. Salima sought her mother’s advice and did her best to follow her instructions but, still, nothing happened.

  One day a friend, who had been declared barren, came to meet her. Salima was amazed; her friend had a bonny baby in her lap. Salima asked her, ‘Fatima, how did you get this baby?’

  Fatima, who was five years older, smiled and said, ‘It is with the blessings of Shahdole sahab1. A woman told me, if you truly want a baby, go to the shrine of Shahdole sahab and make a vow. Make a pledge that if a child is born to me, I shall bring him here and offer him to you.’

  Fatima then went on to say that if such a vow is made at the shrine of Shahdole sahab, then the first-born has a head that is very small. Salima didn’t quite fancy the idea of a baby with a tiny head. Moreover, the very thought of abandoning her first-born was unbearable.

  She wondered at mothers who could do such a thing. A mother doesn’t abandon her baby at the garbage heap if the child is born with a tiny head or a flat nose or bleary eyes. Yet she desperately wanted a baby and, so, she eventually agreed to her friend’s coaxing.

  Salima was a native of Gujarat, where the hospice of Shahdole sahab was located. She went to her husband and said, ‘Fatima is urging me to go to the shrine of Shahdole sahab. I want to go there, with your permission.’ Salima’s husband had no objection. He said, ‘Go, by all means, but come back quickly.’

  And so Salima set off with Fatima.

  The shrine of Shahdole was not a typical, ornate, marble encrusted mausoleum. In fact, it was quite a nice place and Salima liked it very much. Yet when she looked around, and in the milling crowd spotted the rats of Shahdole – with snot dribbling from their noses – a shiver ran down her spine.

  She came face to face with a young girl, nubile and brimful with youth, yet behaving in the oddest possible way. Her behaviour could make the soberest of men smile. Salima looked at her and, for a minute, laughed – but her laughter was followed almost immediately by tears. She began to wonder about the girl and what the future held for her. She knew the owners of the shrine would sooner or later sell her off. Her buyer would travel all over the country, making her dance like a monkey to earn money.

  The girl had an inordinately small head. But Salima thought – a small head need not spell a small fate. The rat-girl, however, had a beautiful body. Every limb, every part of her body was near perfect. Looking at her, it seemed as though her mental faculties had been deliberately snuffed out. She moved and talked like a wound-up doll. Salima felt as though she had been turned into one.

  Yet Salima still went ahead, and at the urging of her friend Fatima, prayed to the saint to grant her a baby that she would offer the saint in lieu.

  Salima returned home. She continued seeing doctors and taking their counsel. Within two months, she was delighted to discover that she was pregnant. A beautiful baby boy was born to her in due course. There had been a lunar eclipse during her pregnancy and so the child was born with a small black mole on its right cheek, but the mole didn’t make the baby look ugly at all.

  Fatima came to see the baby and announced that the infant should be given away to Shahdole sahab right away. Salima had agreed to this, yet now she looked for ways to buy some time. The mother in her could not come to terms with the decision to dump her darling baby at the saint’s doorstep.

  She had been told that whosoever asks Shahdole sahab for a baby has one with a tiny head; yet her child had a normal-sized head. Fatima admonished her, ‘Don’t look for excuses! Your child belongs to the saint; you have no right over it. If you go back on your solemn word, mark my words, some terrible calamity shall befall you and you shall regret it for the rest of your life.’

  Poor, heart-broken Salima travelled all the way to the hospice and handed over her bonny baby with the black mole on its cheek to the caretakers of the shrine.

  She came home and cried so much that she fell ill. For one whole year, she swung between life and death. She just could not forget her baby boy. The black mole on his right cheek, which she had kissed so often, haunted her memories. She had loved it so; it looked so endearing there on his cheek.

  All through her illness, her boy did not leave her thoughts even for a minute. Strange dreams tormented her. The saint of Shahdole would appear before her, looking distraught. With his sharp teeth, he would tear off pieces of her flesh. Agonised beyond endurance, she would scream out loud and tell her husband, ‘Help! Save me! See – see that rat, he is eating away my flesh!’

  Sometimes, her over-wrought brain would imagine that her boy was about to enter a rat’s hole. She is pulling, pulling at his tail with all her might. But the big rats inside the hole have caught her baby’s snout in a vice-like grip. And she can never pull him out!

  And, sometimes, that girl – the one she had seen at the shrine of Shahdole sahab, the one who had been in the full bloom of youth – would appear before her. Looking at the girl, Salima would begin to laugh; but just as quickly, she would start crying. And she would cry so much that her husband, Najeeb, would be at his wit’s end worrying how to stem her tears.

  Salima saw rats everywhere – on the bed, in the kitchen, inside the bathroom, running on top of the sofa, even deep within her heart and inside her ears. So much so, that sometimes she felt she too had turned into a rat. That snot was dribbling down her nose. And that, in the milling crowd that surged around the shrine of Shahdole sahab, she too is going about holding her tiny head on her frail shoulders and behaving in such an odd manner that all those who see her are holding their sides and doubling up with laughter at her odd antics. Truly, Salima was in a pathetic state.

  Wherever she looked, she saw black moles. The universe, for her, had turned into a giant cheek and the sun had broken into fragments and got pasted on its surface like black moles. Eventually, her fever broke and she became somewhat better. Najeeb sighed with relief. He knew well enough what ailed his wife. He was a man with a grave disposition. He
wasn’t the slightest bit put out by his son being given away as a pledge. In fact, he considered the child to be not his but the saint’s.

  When Salima recovered and the storms raging in her mind and heart abated somewhat, Najeeb said to her, ‘My dearest, forget the baby. He wasn’t yours; he was an offering to the saint.’

  Salima answered in a voice laden with sadness, ‘I don’t believe that. As long as I live, I shall not be able to forgive myself. How could I, as a mother, commit such an unpardonable sin? How could I abandon my baby, the apple of my eye, leaving him at the mercy of the shrine’s caretakers? They can never be his mother; they can never look after him as I would.’

  One fine day, she disappeared. She went straight to the saint’s hospice. She stayed there for over a week, made enquiries about her son but could find nothing about his whereabouts. Disappointed, she returned home and told her husband, ‘I shall not remember him anymore.’

  Of course, she continued to remember him, but she did so secretly now, in her heart. With time, the mole on the baby’s right cheek became a scab on her heart.

  A year passed and a daughter was born to her. The girl resembled her first born, but there was no mole on her right cheek. She named the baby Mujeeba because she had thought of naming her son Mujeeb. When the baby became two months old, Salima took her in her lap and, made a big black mole on her cheek by dabbing a spot of kohl. And she remembered her Mujeeb and began to cry. But as the tears began to fall down her cheeks, she wiped them with her dupatta, controlled herself and began to smile instead. She wanted to forget her sorrow.

  Later, two sons were born to her. Her husband was very happy now.