‘I was beginning to believe that myself – till they dragged out my past to drag him down. And a damn good job thėy made of it too.’
I was glad she herself broached the topic of the trial. I was wondering how to get around to it. ‘The recent past must be painful for you to recall. I’ve to ask you to do so to get the record straight. To begin with, it was established in court that it was Kersasp who took his daughter to the abortionist and that you acted as go-between – ’
‘What else was Kersasp to do?’ she interrupted with sudden passion. When her face flushed and her eyes lit up like that, she looked quite lovely. ‘So you are Kersasp, what do you do? Marry her to the boy who was responsible? A good-for-nothing who wears his hair so long and dances his heels off at the Mocambo. What is a doting father caught in that terrible situation to do? He suffered such agony just contemplating the dreaded alternatives. He was so frantic when he confided in me. There was no time to waste. I took her to the only doctor I knew.’
‘But the risk, the enormous risk to a young girl’s life. The papers said – and this I’ ve no reason to doubt – that her condition was critical. During the trial she had a nervous breakdown.’
‘Yes, yes, it was terrible. But how to explain to you? In these cases post-operative treatment is important. I should know. But she did not take it. I should say she could not because in the meantime her mother came to know. She was furious. She absolutely forbade her to have anything to do with the doctor, our doctor. Now it was not Kersasp’s fault, was it, that she did not confide in her mother in the first instance? Who can blame the mother also? Any mother would have reacted – ‘
‘Wait a minute. As far as I remember this fact wasn’t brought out in court. I mean, that it was she who had approached her father.’
‘No, no. The daughter was not even summoned as a witness. Kersasp was dead set against it. You see, he was like that. He never revealed the doctor’s name. It was a matter of honour with him.’ Her nostrils flared as she drew in a deep breath. ‘That suited the lawyers fine. Oh, it was a field day for them. A divorced husband, a fallen woman, a teenage daughter, an abortion – what more could they want? So as I was saying they got their facts right, but they were so cunning they twisted their sequence to make out that there was a foul conspiracy. What conspiracy? There was no conspiracy. But Kersasp, he admitted nothing, he denied nothing. He just stood there in the witness box, head bowed. Only after it was over he spoke such words that made me cry. “Christa,” he said, “truth was not spoken in that court, Christa. Truth was nowhere in the court.”’
I didn’t know what to say. After a while she said, They took everything from him except his dignity. It was not because of himself that he deplored his wife’s taking him to court. The bad publicity it brought his daughter hurt him more than anything else. In the end it was his daughter’s disgrace rather than his own that broke him – and the fact that he wasn’t allowed to see her any more.’
In a flashback I saw the queer springy walk, the quick darting movements. There were no more questions I had to ask. To enquire about her antecedents, about the circumstances that had brought her to this life in the first instance, seemed totally irrelevant. I tried to think of the questions Pesi and the others might have asked, but I couldn’t think of any. I finished my drink in silence.
‘There is one bit of good news, Mr Pavri, I must give you before you go. I hear that the daughter has quite recovered. She is such a sweet child, God bless her. Of course, she will miss her dad. She was so fond of him.’
‘And you?’
She gave me a long look. ‘How shall I put it? He was my only link with all that is decent and good in the world. He gave me something very precious – something to live for.’
I told her I’d call again. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. She made me feel strangely – disturbed? ashamed? ‘Yes? Yes. No? No’ – I found myself repeating her words, trying to mimic the curious lilt in her voice. I walked fast. The cacophony of the evening traffic, the invocations of the beggars and footpath vendors, the caw-cawing of crows echoed the chaos in my mind. Really, I cannot describe how I felt except that I was bursting with something that was too big for me, that I should have felt elated and I was depressed.
I waited impatiently for the morning to watch their reactions when I told them the true story. But they were on a different wavelength altogether. Pesi was haranguing them, what was the use of talking about shortage of foreign exchange when a representative at the UN could send for an assistant all the way from India to just draft his speech for him? Munchee listed the names of no fewer than seventeen consultants who had accompanied the prime minister on a trip abroad. Dinshaw opined that if you asked him, which nobody did, the country was going to the dogs. Putting on a serious face I enquired why he didn’t devise a scheme to safeguard the country against the Occurrence just as he did to safeguard its inhabitants.
After that they left me severely alone. My mood changed too. The story was in a sense personal to me and I didn’t feel like revealing it just then and to them. In the clear light of morning I hardly fancied myself as a modern Don Quixote getting men off their lofty judgement seats and, between you and me, I had to vacate the seat myself.
THREE
Confessions of a Dustbin
M. KARUNANIDHI
For a long time I have been doing tapasya near the double-storeyed building by the street corner. You can call it a penance although it is not aimed at any God for remission of sins or for getting his blessings. Only yesterday I came to know that kings used to do penance in order to rule the universe, demons have done penance to become invincible, sages to become so powerful as to invoke curses upon their enemies. Tapasya means sitting in a place undisturbed and without taking any food, meditating on God and asking for His benevolence if he presents Himself before the meditator. But, so far as I am concerned, except sitting undisturbed in a corner I do not show any other signs of indulging in the holy practice.
Even great tapasvis have found concentration difficult. In order to find out who was practising austerities and where, and to disturb their meditation, a contingent of fair maidens was maintained exclusively in Devalokam (Heaven). Celestial women like Rambha, Urvasi, Menaka, Tilotama were often sent down to earth to tempt the tapasvis.
The other day somebody threw me a moth-eaten volume of the Puranas. From it I learnt all about penance, its implications, stories of the people who practised austerities, etc. There were extracts such as these:
The amoral tactics adopted by Menaka to disturb the meditation of Viswamitra after the sage succumbed to her charms; how lustily she played with him, the love play and sexual acts of the two, performed on the banks of forest streams; how the sacred place turned into a site of sexual orgies; how the fingers which hold the beads fondled Menaka’s breasts; how the lips hidden beneath the beard and moustache avidly searched the delicious Menaka’s lips; the lover’s continuous act of sexual intercourse; the venerable Viswamitra lying at the feet of Menaka, tired and exhausted.
All this information and many other such gems I found in that Purana.
I was engrossed in the folio when the sound of the Corporation bullock-cart disturbed my reading: the scavenger had arrived to clean my belly.
The fellow briskly emptied the trash and moved on. I was heartbroken.
Sometimes I overflow with filth but the Corporation takes no notice, and now that I was busy reading that fascinating book, along came the scavenger and deprived me of my Puranic studies. I think some new bloke has assumed office and he might visit this area. That is why the Corporation authorities are busy cleaning the streets. As the proverb says, ‘New broom sweeps clean’. Afterwards, as usual.
A few yards away from me, there is a bhajan mandap where Puranic discourses are held. I used to hear the discourses over the loudspeakers.
After that book, I could not make out how the Bhagavathars (the people who discourse on the Puranas) have concealed so many things and quoted only certai
n portions of the Puranas in their lectures. They tactfully avoided the amoral activities of the gods.
When the husband had gone out and Lord Indra in disguise visited and indulged in sexual intercourse with Ahalya, she, instead of scolding her ravisher, said: ‘Oh, never have I enjoyed sex so much. Indra has satisfied me fully and made me reach orgasm. Oh, he has shown me many novel methods of sexual acts. This is real fun.’ I came to know of this only after reading the Puranas and not from the discourse of the Bhagavathars.
The sages of Tharugavana are more than a thousand. Their beautiful wives have enticed Lord Shiva.
One or two? Thousands! Lord Shiva tasted all the beautiful dames of Tharugavana. He sucked the honey from their lips, hugged them and played with them. They are the wives of the sages. He is Lord Shiva. He hugged them till his hands were tired. He enjoyed them till his eyes became red. He kissed them till his lips turned white.
But, do you know how the bhajan mandap Bhagavathar explained the sexual orgies of Shiva with the wives of Tharugavana sages?
Tactfully he remarked, ‘Oh, Lord Shiva blessed the wives of the Tharugavana sages by personally appearing before them and giving them divine prasadam.’ The pious audience appreciated Shiva’s divine gesture. They polished off the prasadam distributed in the bhajan mandap and threw the empty leaves to me.
One of the bhaktas who had eaten the prasadam threw me a paper. Probably the prasadam had been wrapped in a piece of paper. It was the torn leaf of a book. Casually I glanced at it, but suddenly I got a sort of a feeling. I blushed. Yes, its contents made me blush. Even though I am a dustbin. You may ask, what made you feel shy? I will tell you. The text reads: A lamp is burning. We can make out that it is night. A woman is praying to her Lord.’ Then comes the next scene.
There is a cot near the lamp and a smooth mattress is spread over the cot. Jasmine, rose and lily have been sprinkled over the mattress. Lamp, cot, a smooth mattress with flowers thrown over it. A fine setting! But something is missing. Even if there are thousands of stars in the sky and there is no moon, the sky would look desolate. The sky is luminous only if there is a moon. Just like the waxing moon a lovely wench lies on the bed. Her name is Nappinnai.
A cot, a mattress and a beautiful dame – this will not complete the scene. What more is wanted? A young man? Yes. As expected, a young man is lying over there. Where? On the maiden! He is hugging her and his broad chest is pressing her plump breasts. Their hands and legs are intertwined. Who is he? Is he a man? No. He is a God. Yes, that dame’s Lord.
The woman who is praying is Andal. She is requesting her Lord for his grace. While praying she has not invited him to her place, but she goes to his bedroom. And then comes the above description in verse form.
I saw this verse on that torn leaf. Oh! How I wish this gutter around me changed into a cosy bedroom. Let a female dustbin come near me. How I shall spend my time, speaking lovingly to her. I shall call her ‘Darling Dustbin’ and embrace her. We’ll have such fun.
Andal’s verse has kindled such thoughts in me. Poor woman, that Andal! She was a foundling. An Alwar (Vaishnava sage) brought her up. I wonder why she prayed so lustily to God. If a single verse of hers has made me so uncomfortable, I don’t know what will happen to me if I read all her poetry. I may go nuts.
Once in a blue moon I receive such books and torn pages. Otherwise my usual fare is plantain leaves, banana skins, orange pips and peels, left-over food, etc. Sometimes dead rodents. Then I wait breathlessly for the arrival of the Corporation van.
Often a servant from the house at the street corner comes out at midnight. He looks around cautiously, throws empty whisky and brandy bottle corks at me and runs back. It worries me all night, the police may think I have violated prohibition rules, and they can put me behind bars. But then I realize that it makes no difference to me, for I am only a dustbin, aren’t I?
Once a gentleman who lives down the street tore off a letter and flung the pieces at me, as he passed by in a car. Avidly I deciphered the letter. But it had been torn in such a way that I could only deduce the following: a fellow had promised a girl a teacher’s job and had taken three hundred rupees from her. And he has not helped her, but swallowed that money. I could not find out his name nor that of the girl’s but I understood that it belonged to my department: WPB. The person to whom this letter was addressed for redressing the grievance had not bothered to look into it. He simply tore it and threw it away.
What happened to that girl? I wouldn’t like to see her. Not only her; but the whole of mankind. They are a disgusting lot. I don’t like them. They are careless, heartless, mad and jealous. I want to say all these things about mankind, if I meet that fellow who let down the poor girl.
One day he came limping towards me. He was shivering, and he smelled. I questioned him about himself and he said, ‘Can’t you see? I am one of the maharajas of this country. I have come to rule my kingdom and I’ll take shelter under you.’
‘I am not a tree to give you shelter. But you can curl up beside me and rule over your kingdom,’ said I.
That fellow stayed with me for ten days. He sat there, slept there and ate there. From there he ruled over his ‘kingdom’. He would grin at passers-by and ask for alms. The coins thrown at him were the tax paid to him to rule his country.
He sang film songs and folk songs and we enjoyed ourselves. One night he brought with him a woman. I pretended to be fast asleep. She kept saying that it was getting late.
‘Don’t be in a hurry. Come on, take this,’ he said and gave her fifty paise.
I had closed my eyes, but could overhear their conversation.
‘Oh, darling.’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Oh, my Rani.’
‘Oh, my Raja.’
In hushed tones they carried on lustily.
A few moments later, I opened my eyes. He was lying all alone. No. The emperor was taking his rest. The empress was not there. She might have gone to some other kingdom to satisfy some other maharaja.
Next day I saw him with a couple of police constables. Then my friend came towards me and said, ‘Don’t be afraid of the police. They have not come to arrest me. They have come to beg of me. Yes. Some foreign dignitary is visiting this city. So they have requested me to give darshan to the VIP.’
Wonderstruck, I asked him, ‘Where will you see this foreign dignitary?’
‘I will be in my usual place inside the jail. He will come and see me. You may also see him. He’ll pass by this route.’ After this he went over to the policemen and hopped into their van.
A minister from a foreign country did pass by in a procession. But that friend of mine never came back. He is one of the kings of this country, you see. So he might have taken shelter near some other dustbin. In my dull life I have seen many things. How many marriage invitations have I not seen! What lovely food have I not eaten! How many love letters have not been torn and thrown at me! I have read them all and smiled to myself. Those which are rejected, those which are despised and those which are considered filth have all found a place in my heart.
I am far better than the sages who bear their troubles and tribulations with a smile.
In this country a lot of people are hungry. But my belly is always full.
Oh! While I was talking to you, I missed that woman who has stealthily come near me. Now she looks around cautiously and approaches me. Please hide behind me and observe.
She has a baby in her hands. A newborn infant. Its neck is still covered with blood. It is a dead baby. Its neck has been strangled. She must be the mother. She is going to throw that baby into my belly. Oh no! She has thrown it and has started running. God. I have to answer to the police for her foul deed.
Why did she do this? I remember. While she came closer to me to throw in the child I noticed that she had no thali (sacred thread signifying marriage) round her neck. Now I understand.
(Translated from the Tamil by V.R. Madana Gopal)
FOUR
&n
bsp; The Corpse
KAMLESHWAR
The city had acquired a new look. Gates were erected at different points on the main roads. Flags fluttered on the electric poles. There were posters everywhere on the walls. Volunteers had been distributing handbills in the city for the last few days. Preparations for the big morcha were gathering momentum. It was feared that train, bus and air services might come to a standstill. There would be a complete hartal in the city and people would muster in their lakhs to join the procession.
A new township had sprung up in a suburban field. Batches of visitors were arriving from distant places. Some had come in buses bedecked with flags. The banners carried the names of the tehsils from where the delegates arrived. Some batches consisted of women and children singing marching songs.
People were rehearsing new slogans coined by the central committee. Confusion prevailed in the community kitchen. All the cheap hotels and dharamshalas of the city and residential houses were packed with demonstrators.
Two months ago, tailors had been given the contract for making the flags and the caps. Seven presses were printing the handbills and the posters. The police were busy making the bandobast. The traffic cops had issued notices for the convenience of the public: certain roads should not be used on the day of the morcha, car owners should park their cars at safe places.
Judging the strength of the morcha the police commissioner had called the Central Reserve Police. Armed police had been posted all along the procession route. Baton-wielding policemen stood on either side of the road.
The police commissioner informed the chief minister about the security arrangements. The chief minister showed no signs of worry or distress. He looked as cheerful as ever. The police commissioner gave the details: two thousand was the local force, five hundred Central Reserve Police men and four hundred belonged to the Railways, eighty jawans picked up from jail, two hundred comprised the Home Guards. Out of these, eight hundred were armed. Every police post had been equipped with tear-gas shells. Sixteen hundred lathis had been kept ready at hand. Four hundred and fifty was the civilian force…
Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2 Page 3