Manto
Page 9
The dhobi straightened the folds of his dhoti and said, ‘Saab, I don’t keep accounts. I worked for Saeed Salim barrister for one year. Whatever he gave me, I took. I don’t know how to keep accounts.’
With this he was gone, leaving me to get dressed to go to Mahim.
The talks were successful. I got married. My finances improved too. I moved from the single room in Second Pir Khan Estates where I paid nine rupees a month, to a flat on Clear Road where I could afford to pay thirty five rupees a month. The dhobi also began to receive his payments on time.
He was pleased that my finances had improved. He said to my wife, ‘Begum saab, saab’s brother Saeed Salim barrister was a very big man. He lived in Colaba. When he left, he gave me a turban, one kurta and one dhoti. Your saab will also be a big man one day.’
I had told my wife the story of the picture and of the generosity the dhobi had shown me in my days of penury. When I could pay him, I had paid him, but he never complained once. But soon my wife began to complain that he never kept accounts. ‘He’s been working for me four years,’ I told her, ‘he’s never kept accounts.’
She replied, ‘Why would he keep accounts? That way he could take double and quadruple the amount of money.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You have no idea. In a bachelor’s household where there are no wives, there are always people who know how to make idiots of their employer.’
Nearly every month there was a dispute between my wife and the dhobi over how he did not keep an account of the clothes washed. The poor dhobi responded with complete innocence. He said, ‘Begum saab, I don’t know accounts, but I know you wouldn’t lie. Saeed Salim barrister, who is your saab’s brother, I worked for one year in his house. His begum saab would say, “Dhobi, here is your money”, and I would say, “Alright.” ’
One month, a hundred and fifty pieces of clothing went to the wash. To test the dhobi, my wife said, ‘Dhobi, this month sixty items of clothing were washed.’
He said, ‘Alright Begum saab, you wouldn’t lie.’ When my wife paid him for sixty clothes items, he touched the money to his forehead and headed out. My wife stopped him. ‘Dhobi, wait, there weren’t sixty pieces of clothing, there were a hundred and fifty. Here’s the rest of your money; I was just joking.’
The dhobi only said, ‘Begum saab, you wouldn’t lie.’ He touched the rest of the money to his forehead, said ‘salaam’, and walked out.
Two years after I got married, I moved to Delhi. I stayed there for a year and a half before returning to Bombay, where I rented a flat in Mahim. In the span of three months, we changed dhobis four times because they were quarrelsome and crooked. After every wash, there would be a scene. Sometimes the quality of the wash was intolerably wretched; other times, too few clothes were returned. We missed our old dhobi. One day when we had gone through all our dhobis, he showed up with no warning, saying, ‘I saw saab in the bus. I said, “How’s this?” I made enquiries in Byculla and the brander told me to inquire here in Mahim. In the next door flat, I found saab’s friend and so here I am.’ We were thrilled, and at least on the laundry front, a period of joy and contentment began.
A Congress government came to power and a prohibition on alcohol was imposed. English alcohol was still available, but the making and selling of Indian alcohol was completely stopped. Ninety nine percent of the dhobis were alcoholics. That quart or half quart of alcohol, after a day spent among soap and water, was a ritual in their lives. Our dhobi had fallen ill, then tried treating his illness with the spurious alcohol that was being made illegally and sold in secret. It made him dangerously ill, bringing him close to death.
I was incredibly busy at the time, leaving the house at six in the morning and returning at ten, ten thirty at night. But when my wife heard that the dhobi was seriously ill, she went directly to his house. With the help of a servant and the taxi driver, she put him in a taxi and took him to a doctor. The doctor, moved himself by the dhobi’s condition, refused money for his treatment. But my wife said, ‘Doctor saab, you cannot keep all the merit of this good deed for yourself.’
The doctor smiled and said, ‘Fine, let’s go halves,’ taking only half the money for the treatment.
In time, the dhobi was cured. A few injections got rid of his stomach infection and, with strong medicine, his weakness gradually went away. In a few months, he was completely well and sent up prayers for us every time he rose or sat down: ‘May God make saab like Saeed Salim barrister; may saab be able to live in Colaba; may God give him a little brood; lots and lots of money. Begum saab came to get the dhobi in a motor car; she took him to a very big doctor near the fort; may God keep Begum saab happy.’
Many years passed. The country saw many upheavals. The dhobi came and went without fail every Sunday. He was now perfectly healthy; he never forgot what we had done for him; he still sent up prayers for us. He had also given up liquor. In the beginning, he missed it, but now he didn’t so much as mention it. Despite an entire day spent in water, he felt no need for liquor to relieve his fatigue.
Then troubled times came; no sooner had Partition happened than Hindu–Muslim riots broke out. In daylight, and at night, Muslims in Hindu neighbourhoods, and Hindus in Muslim neighbourhoods, were being killed. My wife left for Lahore.
When the situation worsened, I said to the dhobi, ‘Listen dhobi, you better stop your work now. This is a Muslim neighbourhood. You don’t want to end up dead.’
The dhobi smiled, ‘Saab, nobody will hurt me.’
There were many incidents of violence in our own neighbourhood, but the dhobi continued to come without fail.
One Sunday morning, I was at home reading the paper. The sports page showed the tally of cricket scores while the front page, that of Hindus and Muslims killed in the riots. I was focusing on the terrifying similarity of both scores when the dhobi arrived. I opened the copybook and checked the clothes against it. The dhobi started laughing and chatting. ‘Saeed Salim barrister was a very nice man. When he left, he gave me one turban, one dhoti and one kurta. Your begum saab was also a first rate person. She’s gone away, no? To her country? If you write her a letter, send my “salaam”. She came in a motor car to my room. I had such diarrhoea. The doctor gave me an injection. I got well immediately. If you write her a letter, send my “salaam”. Tell her Ram Khilavan says to write him a letter too.’
I cut him off sharply. ‘Dhobi, have you started drinking again?’
He laughed, ‘Drink? Where can one get drink?’
I didn’t think it apposite to say more. He wrapped the dirty clothes in a bundle and went off.
In a few days, the situation became still worse. Wire after wire began to come from Lahore: ‘Leave everything and come at once.’ I decided at the beginning of the week that I would leave on Sunday, but as it turned out, I had to prepare to leave early the following day.
But the clothes were with the dhobi. I thought I might retrieve them from his place before the curfew started. So that evening I took a Victoria and went to Mahalakshmi.
There was an hour left before the curfew and there was still traffic on the streets, trams were still running. My Victoria had just reached the bridge when, all of a sudden, a great commotion broke out. People ran blindly in all directions. It was as if a bullfight had begun. When the crowd thinned, I saw many dhobis in the distance with lathis in hand, dancing. Strange, indistinct sounds rose from their throats. It was where I was headed, but when I told the Victoria driver, he refused to take me. I paid him his fare and continued on foot. When I came near the dhobis, they saw me and fell silent.
I approached one dhobi and said, ‘Where does Ram Khilavan live?’ Another dhobi with a lathi in his hand reeled towards us. ‘What’s he asking?’ he said to the dhobi I’d put the question to.
‘He wants to know where Ram Khilavan lives.’
The blind-drunk dhobi came close to me and pushed up against me. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me? Ram Khilavan is my dhobi.’
‘Ram Khilavan is your dhobi. But which dhobi’s runt are you?’
One yelled, ‘A Hindu dhobi’s or a Muslim dhobi’s?’
The crowd of dhobis, senselessly drunk, closed in around me with their fists up, swinging their lathis. I had to answer their question: was I Muslim or Hindu? I was terrified. The question of running away didn’t arise because they had surrounded me. There were no policemen nearby to whom I could cry out for help. Dazed with fear, I started speaking in broken sentences. ‘Ram Khilavan is a Hindu… I’m asking where he lives… Where is his room… He’s been my dhobi for ten years… He was very sick… I had him treated… My begum… My memsaab came with a motor car…’ I got so far and felt terrible pity for myself. I was filled with shame at the depths to which men were willing to sink in order to save their lives. My wretchedness made me reckless. ‘I’m Muslim,’ I said.
Loud cries of ‘Kill him, kill him,’ rose from the crowd.
The dhobi, who was soused to the eyeballs drifted to one side, and said, ‘Wait. Ram Khilavan will kill him.’
I turned and looked up. Ram Khilavan stood over me, wielding a heavy cudgel in his hand. He looked in my direction and began to hurl insults at Muslims in his language. Raising the cudgel over his head, he advanced on me, swearing the whole time.
‘Ram Khilavan!’ I yelled authoritatively.
‘Shut your mouth!’ he barked, ‘“Ram Khilavan…” ’
My last hope had gone out. When he was close to me, I said softly, in a parched voice, ‘You don’t recognise me, Ram Khilavan?’
Ram Khilavan raised his cudgel in attack. Then his eyes narrowed, widened, and narrowed again. The cudgel fell from his hand. He came closer, concentrating his gaze on me and cried, ‘Saab!’
He turned quickly to his companions and said, ‘This is not a Muslim. This is my saab. Begum saab’s saab. She came with a motor car and took me to the doctor who cured my diarrhoea.’
Ram Khilavan tried to make them understand, but they wouldn’t listen. They were all drunk. Fingers were pointed this way and that. Some dhobis came over to Ram Khilavan’s side and fighting broke out amongst them. I saw my chance and slipped away.
At nine the next morning my things were ready. I waited only for my ticket, which a friend had gone to buy on the black market.
I was deeply unsettled. I wanted the ticket to arrive quickly so that I could go to the port. I felt that if there were any delay, my very flat would make me a prisoner.
There was a knock on the door. I thought the ticket had arrived. I opened the door and found the dhobi standing outside.
‘Salaam saab!’
‘Salaam!’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Come in.’
He came in, in silence. He opened his bundle and put the clothes on the bed. He wiped his eyes with his dhoti, and in a choking voice, said, ‘You’re leaving, saab?’
‘Yes.’
He began to cry. ‘Saab, please forgive me. It’s all the drink’s fault… and… and these days it’s available for free. The businessmen distribute it and say, “Drink and kill Muslims.” Who’s going to refuse free liquor? Please forgive me. I was drunk. Saeed Salim barrister was grateful to me. He gave me one turban, one dhoti, one kurta. Begum saab saved my life. I would have died of dysentery. She came with a motor car. She took me to the doctor. She spent so much money. You’re going to the new country. Please don’t tell Begum saab that Ram Khilavan…’
His voice was lost in his throat. He swung his bundle over his shoulder and headed out. I stopped him. ‘Ram Khilavan, wait…’
But he straightened the folds of his dhoti and hurried out.
Licence
Abu the coachman was very stylish and his coach was number one in the city. He only took regulars. He earned ten to fifteen rupees daily from them, and it was enough for him. Unlike the other coachmen, he didn’t have a taste for alcohol but he had a weakness for fashion.
Whenever his coach passed by, its bells jingling, all eyes turned to him. ‘There goes that stylish Abu. Just look at the way he’s sitting. And that turban, tipped to the side like that!’
When Abu heard these words and observed the admiration in people’s eyes, he’d cock his head and his horse Chinni’s stride would quicken. Abu held the reins as though it were hardly necessary to hold them at all, as if Chinni didn’t need its master’s instructions, and would keep his stride without them. At times, it seemed as though Abu and Chinni were one, or rather that the entire coach was a single life force, and who was that force, if not Abu?
The passengers Abu didn’t accept cursed him roundly. Some wished him ill: ‘May the Lord break his arrogance and his coach and horse land in some river.’
In the shadows cast by Abu’s thin moustache, a smile of supreme self-confidence danced. It made the other coachmen burn with envy. The sight of Abu inspired them to beg, borrow and steal so that they, too, could have coaches decorated with brass fittings. But they could not replicate his distinct style and elegance. Nor did they find such devoted clients.
One afternoon, Abu was lying in his coach under the shade of a tree, dropping off to sleep, when a voice rang in his ears. Abu opened his eyes and saw a woman standing below. Abu must have looked only once at her, but her extreme youth instantly pierced his heart. She wasn’t a woman, she was a girl—sixteen or seventeen; slim, but sturdy and her skin dark, but radiant. She wore silver hoops in her ears. Her hair was parted in the middle and she had a pointed nose on whose summit there was a small, bright beauty spot. She wore a long kurta, a blue skirt and a light shawl over her head.
The girl said in a childish voice, ‘How much will you take for the teshan?’
Mischief played on Abu’s smiling lips. ‘Nothing.’
The girl’s dark face reddened. ‘What will you take for the teshan?’ she repeated.
Abu let his eyes linger on her and replied, ‘What can I take from you, fortunate one? Go on, get in the back.’
The girl covered her firm, already well concealed breasts, with her trembling hands. ‘What things you say!’
Abu smiled. ‘Go on, get in then. I’ll take whatever you give me.’
The girl thought for a moment, then stepped onto the footboard and climbed in. ‘Quickly. Come on then. Take me to the teshan.’
Abu turned around. ‘In a big hurry, gorgeous?’
‘You… you…’ The girl was about to say more, but stopped mid-sentence.
The carriage began to move, and kept moving; many streets passed below the horse’s hooves. The girl sat nervously in the back. A mischievous smile danced on Abu’s lips. When a considerable amount of time had passed, the girl asked in a frightened voice, ‘The teshan hasn’t come yet?’
Abu replied meaningfully, ‘It’ll come. Yours and my teshan is the same.’
‘What do you mean?’
Abu turned to look at her and said, ‘You’re not such an innocent, surely? Yours and my teshan really is the same. It became one the moment Abu first set eyes on you. I swear on your life, I’m your slave; I wouldn’t lie.’
The girl adjusted the shawl on her head. Her eyes showed that she understood Abu’s meaning. Her face also showed that she hadn’t taken his words badly. But she was mulling over this dilemma: Abu and her station might well be the same; Abu was certainly smart and dressed sharp, but was he faithful too? Should she abandon her station from which, in any case, her train had long departed, for his?
Abu’s voice made her start. ‘What are you thinking about, fortunate one?’
The horse was prancing along happily; the air was cold; the trees lining the street raced by; their branches swooned; there was no sound except the ringing of bells. Abu, head cocked, was fantasising about kissing the dark beauty. After some time, he tied the horse’s reins to the dashboard and with a jump, landed in the back seat next to the girl. She remained silent. Abu grabbed her hands in his. ‘Put your reins in my hands!’
The girl said only two words. ‘Enough now.’
But Abu immediately put his arms around her. She resisted. Her heart was beating hard and fast, as if it wanted to leave her and fly away.
‘I love this horse and carriage more than life,’ Abu said in a soft, loving voice, ‘but I swear on the eleventh pir, I’ll sell it and have gold bangles made for you. I’ll wear old, torn clothes myself, but I’ll keep you like a princess! I swear on the one, omnipresent God that this is the first love of my life. If you’re not mine, I’ll cut my throat this minute in front of you!’ Then suddenly, he moved away from the girl. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me today. Come on, I’ll drop you to the teshan.’
‘No,’ the girl said softly, ‘now you’ve touched me.’
Abu lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake.’
‘And will you honour this mistake?’
There was a challenge in her voice, as if someone had said to Abu, ‘Let’s see if your carriage can go faster than mine.’ He raised his lowered head; his eyes brightened. ‘Fortunate one…’ With this, he put his hand on his firm chest and said, ‘Abu will give his life.’
The girl put forward her hand. ‘Then take my hand.’
Abu held her hand firmly. ‘I swear on my youth. Abu is your slave.’
The next day Abu and the girl were married. She was from Gujarat district, the daughter of a cobbler; her name was Nesti. She had come to town with her relatives. They had been waiting at the station even as Abu and she were falling in love.
They were both very happy. Abu didn’t sell his horse and carriage to have gold bangles made for Nesti, but he did spend his savings on gold earrings and silk clothes for her.
His heart danced when Nesti appeared before him, her silk skirt swishing from side to side. ‘I swear on the five pure ones, there’s no one in the world beautiful like you are.’ With this, he would press her against his chest. ‘You’re the queen of my heart.’
The two were immersed in the pleasures of youth. They sang; they laughed; they went on walks; they swore fidelity to each other. A month passed like this when suddenly one morning the police arrested Abu. A kidnapping case was registered against him. Nesti stood by him firmly, unwaveringly protesting his innocence, but despite that, Abu was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. When the court gave its verdict, Nesti wrapped her arms around Abu. ‘I’ll never go to my mother and father,’ she said as she wept. ‘I’ll sit at home and wait for you.’