by Bapsi Sidhwa
“Yes, the bastards drink alcohol!” he thought, his puritanical feelings on edge. “What Muslims!”
Scandalized and humiliated, Qasim grew venomous.
“I’ll get them tonight. Damn that Nikka. Why doesn’t he do his job? I’ll get them,” he vowed.
Qasim walked rapidly to Lawrence Road. The luxurious, moonlit neighborhood was hushed in sleep. The faint rustle of a breeze in the peepul and eucalyptus trees, the mellow midnight chimes of a clock, the protective thump of a watchman’s lathi, all hummed a lullaby of the district’s security.
Qasim slipped into the garage plot adjoining the bungalow and in a crouch he slid along the wall, startling Nikka by his sudden appearance.
“What is it?” Nikka gasped.
“Relax. The sparrow won’t come to roost till two o’clock. He’s at Hira Mandi!” Qasim told of his encounter with their target’s henchmen. Nikka was furious.
“You fool!” he hissed. “You’re sure to have my throat cut. What if they traced you?”
“I tell you it was too dark to see my own shadow. And what if they did see me? Why would they connect me with the assassination?”
“Well, thanks,” said Nikka, “but do go away now.”
Qasim obstinately settled on his haunches, his back to the wall. “I’m staying.”
Nikka knelt before him. “Qasim, for God’s sake, go! I can handle this better by myself.”
Qasim was hurt, but at last he nodded and withdrew.
He awoke late the next morning. Zaitoon had left the room so quietly he did not know she had gone. He slipped a shirt over his shalwar and hurried down.
Nikka sat cross-legged and clear-eyed. Customers were collecting their stock of cigarettes and paan for the day. The transistor, perched on the cash-box to Nikka’s right, was blaring out the news. Qasim tried to catch his friend’s eye, but handing change to a customer Nikka gave no sign of either fatigue or relief.
Suddenly the radio announced, “Sardar Ghulam Ali Hussain, landlord and politician, was assassinated this morning. The Governor has sent a message of condolence. The funeral will start from 217-A Lawrence Road at 11:00 a.m. The police . . .”
Nikka turned off the radio. Offering Qasim a small, green bundle he said, “Here, have a paan.”
Qasim popped the paan into his mouth, smiled, touched his forehead in salutation, and sauntered on.
Chapter 8
Nikka and Qasim spent the next afternoon sprucing up. Sleekly oiled and extravagantly perfumed, they rode by taxi to Hira Mandi.
Qasim fidgeted uneasily. He peered at himself in the rear-view mirror of the taxi and didn’t care for what he saw. “I look what I am—an illiterate coolie!” he thought. Scrutinizing his broad, large-nosed face, his uneasiness mounted to terror. Finally voicing his misgivings, he said, “I don’t think Shahnaz will care much for the likes of us. Let’s go to some less fancy girls.”
Nikka roared with laughter. “Good God, man! Are you afraid of a dancing girl? Don’t worry, she’ll think you are a grand fellow. This,” he said, thumping his bulging pockets, “makes us as good as anyone. You just do as I do.”
Qasim fondled the crisp bundle of notes Nikka had shoved into his pockets.
“Don’t you want to save any of it? And do I have to give all this to the girls?”
“Friend, that’s chicken feed. I’ve got more than twice that much in my pockets. She’s not one of your cheap floozies who flash their teeth from the balcony. Stop fretting.”
They paid the taxi at the entrance to the narrower Mandi lanes and walked towards the main street.
“Hold on to your money. It’s not for pickpockets.” Nikka, at least, was alert. Walking leisurely, often he stopped to ogle, bandying coarse pleasantries with the air of a veteran. Qasim, by his side, peered at the girls with his customary, moony admiration. Again he was whisked away into a world of sensuality. A benign smile settled hypnotically on his features. Had he died at that moment, that smile would have stayed.
He had a twinge of conscience when they passed the girl he had promised to visit on payday. She, rocking her jasmine-plaited hair over the balcony, didn’t even see him. “Next time,” he vowed to himself, relieved, and he looked back in the hope that she might show some sign of recognition or disappointment. But the plait of hair went on swinging, and she did not turn towards him.
A fat, sweat-drenched man greeted Nikka. “Pehelwanjee, I’ve been waiting for you,” he cried. Embracing Nikka and Qasim in turn, he led them through a small doorway. They mounted the narrow steps, and Qasim whispered, “Ah! The front entrance!”
Nikka, with a deft backward kick of his heel, warned Qasim to be discreet.
The man ushered them into an oblong, soft-carpeted room that glowed with a garish coat of pink oil paint. A middle-aged woman sat on the floor near some musical instruments, an open silver paan-box spread on her voluminous lap. Chewing on her paan she smiled up at them through red, catechu-stained teeth.
“Won’t you sit down?” she invited them, pointing a fat, bangle-jingling arm towards the cushions.
Nikka and Qasim sank comfortably into the downy satin bolsters. It was a small room but it looked spacious. Besides the carpets, pink drapes, and musical instruments, there was no clutter. The woman—she called herself Shahnaz’s mother—put the betel-nut box aside and, leaning heavily on the harmonium, levered herself upright. “Can I get my lords some fresh paan? Yes? Excuse me a moment,” she smiled, and left.
“She’s the Madam,” Nikka whispered, nudging Qasim. “Must’ve been quite something in her youth! She still retains the gracious manners of a trained courtesan, doesn’t she?” Qasim, who knew even less about courtesans than he did about kings, nodded sheepishly. Nikka informed him:
“To entertain, a courtesan knows how to elicit laughter. ‘That is our destiny,’ a nautch-girl once told me. ‘We automatically smile in the presence of men. We are taught to from childhood. I’d never allow myself to be moody before a man.’”
The Madam waddled up and sat beside them. As if in league with Nikka, to prove the truth of his pronouncements, she channeled the conversation along flippant, laughter-laden lines. Ordering tea, calling for silver trays heavy with dried fruit, almonds and sweets, she put them completely at ease.
All at once she cupped her ears, intent on listening.
“It’s them,” she announced, fluttering her lids. The gesture hardly became her age, yet she carried it off with assurance. “I think we can begin now. The other guests have arrived.”
Nikka sat up. “I thought we were to be the only ones.”
“It’s just an old American: poor fellow. He is so besotted by my Shahnaz! Poor old fool . . .” she added, to appease Nikka.
“I’ll reveal a secret,” she confided, leaning forward. “Shahnaz is like a peacock. The more admirers, the better she dances!”
Two men entered through the curtains and the Madam greeted them effusively. Leading the stringy, middle-aged American by the arm, she made a place for him amidst the cushions. There was no hiding her pride. The foreigner was her prize catch. He was accompanied by a dapper Pakistani.
The newcomers settled with an air of familiarity that excluded Nikka and Qasim. They whispered occasionally in monosyllables but for the greater part maintained a disdainful silence. Nikka squirmed on the cushions. He felt slighted. After a few loud remarks addressed to the uncomprehending Qasim, he subsided into a scowling silence.
The Madam bustled about trying to ease the strain. Each guest was given some Scotch, and a fragrant, elaborately carved hookah was passed around. Two musicians appeared from the recesses. The drummer, a plump, effeminate man—a rim of long hair fringing his bald head—tapped the edge of his drums with a tiny mallet. The harmonium player, a younger man with smallpox marks, played a few careless notes on his instrument and sat back.
“Let me see if Shahnaz is ready. She shouldn’t keep such distinguished guests waiting.” Smiling apologetically, the Madam vanished.
/> The tabalchi snuggled his pair of drums closer and slapped the vibrant skin until his palms found a clear, resonant beat. The harmonium player nodded his long-haired head in approval.
Qasim sipped his Scotch and reclined luxuriously in the pink-and-golden haze. The Scotch smoothed the edge of his anticipation and he grew oblivious to Nikka’s fidgeting.
The American and his companion kept talking in English and Nikka’s resentment of their presence deepened at the alien tongue. Opening his mouth cavernously, he yawned with a yowl reminiscent of jackals baying in the wilderness. Aware of the attention focused on him, he thumped Qasim drowsily and demanded, “When does our dancing bulbul appear? I am getting fed up with these American crows cawing in my ears.”
Glancing at the strangers, he caught a satisfying flare of their resentment.
Measured, bell-tinkling steps drew near. Parting the curtains, the girl continued with the same balanced tread until she stood before the guests. She knelt, bowing her head and smiling between salaaming fingers. Her eyes, now bold, now shy—black irises shifting in languorous slits—welcomed each in turn. She stood up and walked tall towards the musicians. A thick, black plait of hair bounced on her buttocks. Folding her legs to one side, she settled by the players. She consulted them and began with a popular film song. Shahnaz’s voice was low-pitched and throaty, her expression earnest yet volatile. The whites of her elongated eyes appeared to be blue-white between heavy, black lashes. The nose, slender and smooth, flared delicately. The left nostril supported a gold nose-ring that nestled daintily on curling lips. Every now and again, she would cup her palms in an outstretched, beseeching gesture in character with the words of the song and touch the tips of her earlobes in a charming avowal of virtue.
Oh, let me stay in purdah—don’t lift my veil.
If my purdah is removed . . . my mystery is betrayed.Allah . . . forbid! Allah . . . forbid!
My veil has ten thousand eyes.
—Yet you cannot see into mine.
But if you raise my veil even a bit—
Beware! you’ll burn.
So . . . let me stay in purdah—don’t lift my veil.Allah—meri Toba! Allah—meri Toba!
Oh God—who can have made me?—
Whoever it is—even he doesn’t know me . . .
Man worships me—Angels have bowed their heads . . .
If my purdah is removed—my mystery is betrayed.Allah forbid!—Allaaaah—forbid!
Allah forbid!—Allaaaah—forbid!
Next she sang a few romantic ghazals by Iqbal and Faiz.
The traditional rhythm of the famous verses pulsated in hypnotic monotony to the tempo of the tablas. The tabalchi’s head rocked in rhythm, his oily fringe flaring to the beat. The musicians watched the singer incessantly. At the climax of a particularly well-worded stanza, they looked at each other in wonder. “Ahha—Ahha” they groaned, rolling their eyes in appreciation. The sensual rhythm, the wistful delicacy of the girl, the swaying musicians, all wove a spell. Infected by the atmosphere the guests, too, moaned “Ahha, Ahha, great! great!” in the age-old manner of ecstatic orientals.
The suave Pakistani held out a ten rupee note as a more tangible sign of his appreciation. The girl stood up and without discontinuing her song, collected the money. The American held a note between his teeth and kissed Shahnaz’s fingers as she plucked it. Qasim stuck a note on his turban and blushed unbearably when Nikka shouted, “Tweak his hair! Pinch his cheeks!”
One, five, and ten rupee notes peeped out of hip pockets and shirt fronts. Nikka held a ten rupee note between his crossed thighs and Shahnaz knelt prettily amongst the men, until she could sing no more. Sitting there, laughing, teasing, she charmed more and more money off them. The chiffon chaddar with its silver border framing her face slipped from her head and lay back. The Madam joined the circle. Their conversation in subtle, expressive Urdu, was rich with nuance; intimate as moist tongues mingling. Laughter, Scotch and the hookah caused an inane merriment in which all animosity, all cares, were forgotten.
After a while, adjusting her bells, Shahnaz began to dance. The tablas lashed the air with a savage, resounding beat, commanding the dancer’s precise movements.
“Tha, tha, taka-tha! Ta dhin, dhin, na! Taka tha! tha! tha!” The girl’s sinuous arms obeyed the beat, her fingers now fanning out in imitation of the fronds of a palm, now undulating like ripples on water. The bells round her ankles jingled to the stamp of her feet, dictating the sedate movement of her neck and eyes. “Tak-a-tha, Tak-a-tha.” Slowly she faces away beating one toe on the carpet. The plait of hair sways severely—side to side. Tablas explode faster. Faster the rhythm of the harmonium: and twirling on flying toes, she slips with relish into the less classic, more becoming dance of the dancing girls—lips smiling, eyes roguish, silver toe-rings twinkling on hennaed feet. A shimmer of payals swirls beneath the long tight sweep of golden churidar pajamas—and under the flaring skirt, the shape of each thigh flashing. The uplifting of silk-cupped breasts, the blue-black electricity of plaited hair, the sparkle of silver fringes and silver ornaments on a writhing, sinuous body, all induce a mystic gyration. She dances on the money beneath her feet and through the money being pitched feverishly at her. In a blur she sees the Pehelwan hold up a note. “Why doesn’t he throw it?” she wonders, until she notices its value. Salaaming, smiling, she withdraws with it, dancing.
Nikka held up another hundred rupee note and then tossed a wad of ten rupee notes at the retreating dancer. At that, Qasim surfaced from his lascivious stupor. He scrutinized Nikka’s profile in alarm.
The girl spun closer. Kneeling, she touched the money to her forehead. She resumed her dance, her lissome body suggestive, her eyes luminous slits flashing under heavy lashes.
Qasim pressed against Nikka. “Enough! Stop it now,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I know what I’m doing! Something special for my simple Pathan friend.”
Nikka was up and before Qasim could restrain him, he staggered across the small room. His lumbering presence shattered the scintillating atmosphere and the air grew tense. The man who had received them in the street materialized from nowhere and stood at the entrance, looking in. His sweat-drenched shirt outlined the menace of his muscles. Qasim blanched. He missed the reassuring pressure of his pistol against his thigh and wished he hadn’t left it behind. He knew these people were not to be trifled with. Nikka would be no match for these Mandi pimps.
They thought the Pehelwan, intoxicated with Scotch, was about to rough up the girl. Shahnaz, her face pale, backed cautiously, but Nikka veered from his course. He moved towards the Madam.
Instantly she stopped chewing on her paan. Her puffy features congealed into a haughty mask. She appeared to be bracing herself for the stock remark: “Shahnaz is a dancing girl, not a prostitute. We are a respectable house!”
She tilted a defiant ear when Nikka sat down by her.
Qasim prayed that his friend would accept the inevitable rejection amiably.
Nikka whispered something, and as though in answer to Qasim’s prayer a smile softened the Madam’s features. She laid an affectionate arm on the pehelwan’s shoulder and leaned closer. Nikka crushed some money into her enveloping palms. She nodded, as if giving in with great reluctance—indulging a difficult favor. Nikka strode across the room and settled amidst the cushions with a grand mysterious smile.
“What’s up?” whispered Qasim.
“You’ll see. Just sit back and watch.”
The American wiped his forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I thought those bastards were going to louse up the show.” His voice was limp with relief. He sucked in a long draught of Scotch and his unperturbed companion nodded agreement.
Shahnaz and the Madam joined the circle, and their laughter, lacing the room with merriment, instantly restored a sense of delicate abandon. The American often caught Shahnaz’s flitting hands, kissing her fingers, his eyes tremulous and pleading.
Despite the lev
ity, the presence of the dancing girl, the Madam, and the nature of the establishment, a certain over-gallant, flowery decorum was maintained.
Nikka rubbed his palms together and looked around with the air of a Moghul conqueror about to relish the spoils of his victory. The musicians were ready and once again the measured chhum of the dancer’s tread approached. She continued through the curtains as before and bowed before the four men, salaaming Nikka for almost a full minute. The tabalchi set up a slow sharp beat. His fingers flew across the taller drum vibrating the background for the hollow, almost metallic “tha! tha! tak-a-tha!” of the wider, shorter tabla. The dancer flexed her knees in the classic pose of the Kathakali dance, thighs sloped sideways. She lifted her bent knees, stamping the floor in a heavy, rocking tread. The thick band of bells round her ankles struck in time to the staid whip of the tabla. She turned, thighs wide, and then, facing the men, danced to a quickening tempo; now straightening, now spreading her thighs open. Her arms rippled and swayed, controlling the fanning, tapering fingers.
Keeping to the stylized classic movements, she removed her chiffon chaddar and flung it floating to the floor. Next she removed the black velvet waistcoat that edged the swell of her breasts.
At last the nature of Nikka’s mission to the Madam dawned on Qasim. The American and his companion cast inquiring glances. “How far will she go?” Nikka, his eyes fixed on the girl, encouraged, “Ahha, Ahha, Great! Great!” and the men surmised she would go pretty far.
Leaning forward, Qasim gawked at each movement, astonishment wreathing his face. Four pairs of protruding eyes locked on the girl’s body.
The dancer’s movements still follow the classic beat, but they grow more sinuous. Clothes lie scattered at her small, bejeweled feet. The body barely reveals its ribs, its spine—it is draped in color. Her flushed skin glows like molten, pliant copper, flaming in the pink haze that highlights the voluptuous flow of long dark thighs and the soft swell of perfect breasts lightly swaying. Shadows accentuate the in-curving areas, the opulent hollows. While the feet move, her arms rise above her head stretching the body in all its marvelous perfection. No melody. Only the staccato resonance of the drums and the echoing chhum of bells on her ankles. Bending, a soft breast touching one knee, she removes one payal, then the other. Now she is free of the tyrannical bells. Her feet twinkle, she sways unrestrained, while the black reptilian plait of her hair flays her body. She curves her back until the plait rests on the floor. She is bent back like a bow, her nipples smooth and firm as carved mahogany, gazing at the ceiling.