Once, Salima went for a friend’s wedding, close to the mausoleum of Shahdole Sahab. Once again she made enquiries about her Mujeeb and was disappointed. She thought he must have died and so, upon her return, decided to hold a lavish funeral prayer for him on a Thursday. The women from the neighbourhood were curious: who had died? What was all this fuss for? But Salima gave no answer.
In the evening she took her ten-year-old daughter Mujeeba’s hand and took her to her room. With a spot of kohl, she made a large black mole on the girl’s cheek and kept planting kisses on it for a long, long time.
She considered Mujeeba her long-lost son. She had stopped thinking about him. After performing his last rites, she felt the burden on her heart had lessened. She built a grave for him inside her heart which she strewed with the choicest flowers from the garden of her imagination.
Her three children went to school. Salima would get them ready early every morning. She would have breakfast prepared for them. She would herself bathe and dress each one of them. When they went away to school, for a second she would be reminded of Mujeeb. Even though she had performed the last rites and the burden on her heart had lessened, sometime she felt as though the black mole on Mujeeb’s cheek had actually gone inside her brain.
One day, her three children ran up to her and said, ‘Ammi, we want to see the tamasha2.’
She asked lovingly, ‘What sort of a tamasha?’
Her daughter, who was the eldest, said, ‘Ammi, there is a man who is showing the tamasha.’
Salima said, ‘All right, go and ask him to come. But he must show his tamasha outside; I can’t let him inside the house.’
The children ran to get the tamashawalla who performed his show much to the children’s amusement. When the show got over, Mujeeba went to her mother to get some money. Salima took a four-anna coin from her purse and came out. She reached her door and found a rat from Shahdole standing and shaking his head in the oddest possible manner. Salima laughed involuntarily.
Ten or twelve children surrounded the odd creature. They were creating such a din that you couldn’t hear a thing. Salima stretched her hand to give the four-anna coin to the creature when, suddenly, she stepped back – as though she had touched a live wire. The rat had a black mole on its right cheek. Salima looked carefully at it. Snot was dribbling down its nose. Mujeeba, who was standing close by, asked her mother, ‘Ammi, this rat … he looks like me … why? Am I a rat, too?’
Salima took the rat-boy’s hand and took him inside her house. She locked the door and kissed him. It was her Mujeeb. But he was behaving in such an odd way that the laughter that had welled up naturally inside poor, heart-broken Salima was giving way to sorrow.
She said to Mujeeb, ‘Son, I am your mother.’
The rat of Shahdole laughed loudly. He wiped a glob of snot on his sleeve, stretched his palm and said, ‘One paisa?’ The mother opened her purse but her eyes had already opened a stream of tears. She took out a 100-rupee note and gave it to the man who had turned her son into an itinerant roadshow. The man refused, saying he could not sell the only source of his livelihood so cheaply. Finally, Salima struck a deal with him for Rs 500. She paid the money and came inside the house to discover that Mujeeb had fled. Mujeeba told her that he had gone out from the back door. Salima’s womb kept calling out to Mujeeb, beseeching him to come back. But he was gone, never to return.
1 Gujarat, in the Sindh province of Pakistan, is home to many Sufi saints. The people here, though Muslims, attribute great importance to their local saints who they claim can work in mysterious ways, answering the prayers of the devout and fulfilling their wishes. People visit these shrines, tie threads, make mannat, or vow, to offer anything the saint should ask of them should their prayers be answered. Usually, the mannat takes the form of an offering of money or food. Occasionally, it can be marrying off a virgin daughter to the caretaker of the shrine. In this case, the mannat takes the form of offering the first-born to the saint, Shahdole sahab.
2 Itinerant tamashawallahs went around neighbourhoods showing spectacles ranging from dancing bears, prancing monkeys, families of acrobats, deformed babies, persons with congenital deformities or oddities. The tamasha, literally meaning spectacle, provided a crude form of amusement to the onlookers who usually threw a handful of coins, or sometimes food, sweets or fruit, for the benefit of the oddity on display and its owner. The practice continues in some parts of the subcontinent.
THE HUNDRED CANDLE
POWER BULB
He stood leaning against an electric pole in the square outside Kaisar Park where a few tongas stood awaiting customers and pondered over the desolation that had taken over everything around him.
Till two years ago this park had been a bustling, lively place; today it was a desolate wilderness. Where once men and women dressed in the most attractive fashionable clothes strutted about, today people clothed in abysmally dirty rags loiter about meaninglessly. There is a crowd in the market but it lacks both colour and energy. The cement buildings that ring the market have lost their sheen; they gape at each other, open mouthed and vacant eyed, like widowed women.
He is amazed by this loss of colour. Where has the bride’s vermilion disappeared? What happened to those lovely notes, those melodies that he had once heard here? It wasn’t very long ago that he had last come here – after all two years is not a very long time – when he had been enticed to come from Calcutta by a firm offering a better salary. How hard had he tried to rent a house in Kaisar Park and, despite a thousand entreaties, how unsuccessful he had been!
But now any cobbler, barber or weaver who wished to move into these flats and rooms could simply move in and take possession.
Where once a film company had had a swish office, stoves were lit. Where the city’s smartest people once gathered, a washerman now washed his filthy laundry.
What a great revolution in a mere two years!
He was surprised, yes, but he was also aware of the context and background of this revolution. Newspapers and friends who had stayed behind had told him about the storm that had hit this city. Yet he wondered what a strange storm it must have been for it had sucked the colour and shine from buildings. Men had killed men and debased women, but how had they managed to do the same to timber and mortar buildings?
He had heard that women had been stripped naked in that storm. Their breasts had been sliced off. Everything around him seemed similarly naked and sexless.
He stood leaning against the electric pole waiting for a friend who was supposed to help him find a house. The friend had told him to wait outside Kaisar Park, near the tonga stand.
When he had come here two years ago, this had been a huge tonga stand, the busiest and biggest in the city. The smartest and most gaily decorated tongas were to be found here because it was here that the city offered every manner of delectation. The best hotels and restaurants were close by – the best tea, the finest food, and everything else besides. The city’s well-known pimps and agents were also to be found here. Money and drink flowed like water because some of the biggest companies had their offices in Kaisar Park.
He remembered having a good time here with his friend two years ago. Every night he had had the prettiest girl beside him. The war had made Scotch unavailable elsewhere, but here a dozen bottles would materialize within a minute.
The tongas were still around, but now the pom-poms, the frills and ribbons, the gleaming brass fittings were all gone. Perhaps those too had taken wing and disappeared along with everything else.
He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. It was the month of February, and the evening shadows had begun to lengthen. He cursed his friend and was about to set off towards the desolate hotel on his left to drink a cup of tea brewed, no doubt, from drain water, when he heard someone call out softly. For a moment he thought his friend had finally shown up, but when he turned around he found a stranger standing in front of him. An ordinary looking man dressed in a white cotton shalwar which had no space left for any more crease
s and a blue poplin shirt that was desperately in need of a wash.
He asked, ‘Well, brother, did you call me?’
The man answered softly, ‘Yes.’
He took the man to be a refugee, probably asking for some money. He said, ‘What do you want?’
The man answered in the same soft tone, ‘Nothing.’ Then, coming a step closer, he whispered, ‘Do you want something?’
‘What?’
‘A girl, maybe?’ he said, and stepped back a little.
It was as though an arrow had pierced his chest. Look at him, he thought, even at a time like this, he is going about groping and fondling people’s bodily hungers, and a mad rage against all humanity overtook him. Overwhelmed by his own feelings, he asked, ‘Where is she?’
His tone did not seem very encouraging to the pimp. He stepped back a few paces and said, ‘Never mind, you don’t seem to need it very much.’ He stopped the pimp and asked, ‘How can you tell? A man is always in need of that thing that you can provide – even when he is atop the scaffold waiting for the hangman’s noose or on the smoldering funeral pyre…’
He was about to philosophize a bit more when he stopped, ‘Look here, if it is somewhere close by, I am ready to come with you. I have asked a friend to meet me here.’
The pimp sidled up and said, ‘It is right here, very close by.’
‘Where?’
‘There – in that building right across there.’
‘There? In that big building?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A shudder coursed through him, ‘All right, then…’ He pulled himself up and asked, ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘Please do, but I shall go first,’ and the pimp starting walking towards the building in front of them.
Thinking countless self-loathing thoughts, he followed the pimp.
The building was barely a few feet away. The distance was covered in a matter of minutes. By now both he and the pimp had entered the building that bore a weather-beaten battered board. This building was more dilapidated than its neighbours – peeling plaster, gaping brickwork, broken pipes and heaps of rubbish all around.
Evening had fallen. As they crossed the threshold, it was dark inside. They crossed a wide courtyard and turned a corner. Here, construction had come to a standstill. Naked brickwork, heaps of hardened cement and mortar and small piles of gravel were scattered all about.
The pimp began to climb the half-finished stairs and turned to say, ‘Please wait here. I won’t be a minute.’
He stood, waiting. The pimp had disappeared. He raised his face to look at the top of the stairs where a bright light was visible.
Two minutes passed and he began to climb the stairs on tiptoe. At the top of the staircase he heard the pimp’s voice, loud and harsh.
‘Will you get up or not?’
A woman’s voice answered, ‘I said, didn’t I, let me sleep.’ Her voice sounded muffled, subdued.
The pimp’s voice crackled, ‘I said–get up! If you don’t listen to me, I will….’
The woman’s voice said, ‘Kill me if you want, but I won’t get up. For God’s sake, have pity on me.’
The pimp wheedled, ‘Get up, my love. Don’t be so stubborn. Just think … what will we live on?’
The woman answered, ‘Let the living go to hell! I’ll die of hunger, if I must. Don’t trouble me. I want to sleep.’
The pimp’s voice hardened, ‘So you won’t get up? You bitch! You daughter of a sow!’
The woman began to shout, ‘I won’t get up … I won’t get up … I won’t get up…’
The pimp lowered his voice. ‘Speak softly. Someone might hear … Come now, get up. You will get thirty or forty rupees.’
There was entreaty in the woman’s voice now. ‘Look! I am folding my hands before you … I have been awake for so long … I beg you, have pity on me. For God’s sake, have pity on me.’
‘It’s only for an hour or two … You can sleep later … Or else, I will have to be very stern with you.’
Silence reigned for a while. He took a few stealthy steps and peeped into the room from which bright light spilled out.
He saw a small room; a woman lay on the floor. Except for a few utensils scattered about, there was nothing else in the room. The pimp sat beside the woman, pressing her legs. After a while he said, ‘Come on now, get up. I swear upon God you will be back in an hour or two – you can sleep then.’
The woman jumped up like a rat that has been shown fire and screamed, ‘All right, I am getting up!’
He stepped aside. Actually, he was a bit scared. On tiptoe, he climbed down the stairs. He thought of running away – running away from this city, from this world. But where could he run?
Then he thought: who is this woman? Why is she being subjected to this cruelty? Who is the pimp? How is he related to the woman? And why do they live in that room lit with a bulb that is certainly not less than a hundred candle power? How long have they been iving here?
The light from that strong bulb still pierced his eyes. He couldn’t see anything around him. But he was thinking: how can anyone possibly sleep in that dazzling light? Why such a big bulb? Couldn’t they have put a smaller bulb – maybe fifteen or twenty candle power?
As he stood lost in thought, he heard a footfall. He turned around to see two shadows standing close beside him. One shadow, which belonged to the pimp, spoke up, ‘See for your self.’
He said, ‘I have seen.’
‘All right?’
‘All right.’
‘It’ll cost you forty rupees.’
‘Okay.’
‘Give it to me now.’
By now he was no longer capable of rational thought. He thrust his hand in his pocket, pulled out a few notes and handed them to the pimp.
‘Count them, how many are they?’
The rustling of currency notes could be heard.
The pimp said, ‘There are fifty here.’
He said, ‘Keep fifty, then.’
‘Salaam, sahab.’
He thought of picking a huge stone and hitting him on the head with it.
The pimp said, ‘Take her. But please don’t trouble her too much and please do bring her back after an hour or two.’
‘All right.’
He stepped out of that big building on whose front had once hung a board that he had read countless times.
A tonga stood outside. He began to move towards it, with the woman following.
Once again the pimp raised his hand to salaam. Once again he was overcome with the urge to pick a huge stone and hit him on the head with it.
The tonga started. It took him to a seedy little hotel nearby. Somehow, he pulled himself out of the anxiety that had engulfed his brain and looked at the woman. She was wasted – from head to toe. Her eyelids were swollen. Her eyes were downcast. In fact, the entire upper part of her body was bent forward like a building that was about to topple over any second.
He said to her, ‘Raise your head a bit.’
With a terrible start she said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing. All I had said was, say something.’
Her eyes were bloodshot. They were red, as though someone had flung red-hot chillies in them. She remained quiet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Her tone burnt like acid.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Wherever you want me to be from.’
‘Why are you so curt?’
By now the woman had woken up fully. She looked at him with her chilly-bright eyes and said, ‘You get on with your job; I have to go.’
He said, ‘Where?’
The woman answered in a dry couldn’t-care-less tone, ‘Where you got me from.’
‘You can go now.’
‘You do what you have to do; why are you troubling me?’
Filling his voice with all the pain in his heart, he said. ‘I am not troubling you. I sympathize with you.’
This infuri
ated her. ‘I don’t need any sympathizer.’ And then, nearly shouting, she repeated, ‘You get on with your job and let me go.’
He came closer and attempted to pat her head, but she flung his hand away with a jerk.
‘I tell you – don’t trouble me. I have been awake for so many days. I have been awake ever since I have come here.’
He began to sympathize with her again.
‘Go to sleep … right here.’
The woman’s eyes became redder. In a sharp tone, she said, ‘I haven’t come here to sleep; this isn’t my home.’
‘Is that your home – where you have come from?’
The woman grew more agitated.
‘Uff! Stop this nonsense. I have no home. Why don’t you get on with your job! Or else take me back and take your money from that … that ….’ And she bit back a terrible obscenity.
He thought it was futile talking to the woman while she was in that state, or even showing her any sympathy. So, he said, ‘Come, I will take you back.’
And he took her back to the big building.
The next day, sitting in a seedy hotel in Kaisar Park, he narrated the entire incident to his friend. The friend was suitably sympathetic. He expressed the deepest shock and disgust and asked, ‘Was she young?’
He said, ‘I don’t know; I didn’t really see her properly. All I could think of was why didn’t I pick up a stone and crush the pimp’s head with it.’
The friend said, ‘Truly, that would have been a great mercy.’
He couldn’t sit in the hotel for very long with his friend. The previous day’s incident weighed on his mind. So he finished his tea and took leave of his friend.
The friend walked towards the tonga stand. His eyes searched for the pimp but couldn’t find him. It was past six. The big building loomed ahead, barely a few yards away. He walked towards it and soon was inside it.
People milled past him, but he reached the stairs quite easily. He saw the light spilling down the staircase. He looked up and began to climb the stairs on tiptoe. For a few minutes he stood silently at the topmost stair. Dazzling bright light spilled out of the room, but there wasn’t a sound to be heard. He crossed the landing. The door of the room was ajar. He looked around and peered inside the room. Before he could spot the bulb, its piercing light jabbed his eyes. He turned around to face the darkness outside and allow his eyes to get used to that dazzling light.
Naked Voices Page 10