Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘No, she doesn’t know so far. I started to grow my beard right after you ran off to Deolali. In revenge, you might say. It was some time later that I met Kalwant Kaur. Then, as you can see, I tie my turban so neatly that only one person in a hundred can even suspect that my hair is cut. But soon it will be all right.’ He ran his fingers through his hair to assure himself.

  Mozelle pulled up her long gown and started to scratch her fat, white thigh. That sounds pretty good…. Oh, damn the mosquitoes, they get in here, too. See how it bit me here!’

  But Trilochan looked away, in the other direction. Mozelle licked a finger and rubbed the saliva on the mosquito bite. Then, letting her gown fall back, she stood up. ‘So, when is the marriage?’

  ‘Nothing is certain yet.’ Trilochan’s voice carried a hint of worry.

  Both remained silent for a few minutes. Then Mozelle, now aware of his worried look, spoke seriously. ‘What’s bothering you, Triloch?’

  Trilochan was dying at that moment for someone’s sympathy, even if it turned out to be Mozelle’s. He told her everything, skipping no details. Mozelle burst out laughing. ‘You really are a first-class idiot. Go and bring her out from there. What’s so difficult about that?’

  ‘Difficult?…Mozelle, you don’t understand what’s involved here. But, what’s the use; these things are beyond you. You’re a careless person…full of whims. No wonder our relationship didn’t last long…though, on my part, I’ll always feel sorry for that.’

  ‘Sorry? Be damned!’ Mozelle struck with force her sandal against the water tank. ‘Silly. Idiot. Save your sorrow for your…what‘s her name? You must bring her out safely from that section. Instead here you are, shedding tears over our broken relationship. It wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. You’re rather a silly type…and very cowardly. I like only brave men. But forget it…let’s go and get that Kaur of yours out.’

  She grabbed Trilochan’s arm. He asked nervously, ‘From where?’

  ‘From there, where she is. I know each and every stone in that part of the city. Come with me.’

  ‘But listen…there’s a curfew declared in that area.’

  ‘Not for Mozelle…. Come on, let’s go.’

  And grabbing his arm she dragged him to the door which led to the stairs. She was about to open the door and rush downstairs when she stopped and carefully looked at his beard.

  Trilochan asked, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘This beard of yours,’ Mozelle replied. ‘But I guess it’s okay. It isn’t that long yet. If you come bareheaded, I think no one will take you for a Sikh.’

  ‘Bareheaded?’ Trilochan said, a little nervously. ‘I won’t go bareheaded.’

  ‘And why not?’ Mozelle asked with mocking coyness.

  Trilochan first smoothed his hair, then said, ‘You can’t understand, it isn’t good for me to go there without my turban.’

  And why isn’t it good?’

  ‘If you only try to understand. She has never seen me bareheaded. She thinks I have my full, long kesha. I don’t want her to know otherwise.’

  Mozelle kicked the door in anger. ‘You really are a first-class idiot. Big ass…it’s a question of life and death for her…whatever Kaur her name is…the one you claim to love so dearly.’

  Trilochan tried to reason with her. ‘Look, Mozelle, Kalwant Kaur is a very religious girl. If she were to see me bareheaded, with my hair not fully grown, she will hate me for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Your love be damned. I ask you: are all Sikhs as stupid as you are? Your darling’s life is in danger, but you insist on wearing your turban. And I guess you’d also like to put on that silly underwear of yours that looks like knickers.’

  ‘That I wear all the time.’

  ‘Well, you do well in wearing that, you idiot. But look at this, too: the neighbourhood where we’re going is altogether Moslem, and of those the worst type. Gangsters and hoodlums. You go there with your Sikh turban and you’ll be slaughtered in no time.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that,’ Trilochan replied. ‘But if I go with you I’ll wear my turban. I don’t want to destroy our love by not wearing it.’

  Mozelle lost her temper; her large breasts bounced violently as she trembled in rage. ‘You big ass. How’s your love going to continue for ever once you’re dead, and your …what’s the name of that hussy…when she won’t be alive either, nor her parents?…You Sikhs!… By God, you’re a real Sikh…a really stupid Sikh.’

  Now Trilochan got mad, too. ‘Shut up!’ he shouted.

  Mozelle began to laugh, clear and loud. She put her arms, dusted with fine brown hair, around his neck, and said in a lilting voice, ‘As you wish, daarling. Go, get your turban; I’ll wait for you downstairs in the street.’ She started to go down but Trilochan held her back.

  ‘Aren’t you going to put on some other clothes?’

  Mozelle tossed her head. ‘No, I’m fine as I am.’

  And she went down the stairs, making a racket with her sandals.

  Trilochan listened to the noise till it reached the ground floor, then he smoothed his hair and went down to his own flat. Quickly he changed into his day clothes. The turban was lying already prepared; he fixed it carefully on his head, and locking the door of the flat, went downstairs.

  Outside, on the sidewalk, Mozelle was waiting for him …her fleshy legs set apart…smoking a cigarette, just like a man. When Trilochan came close, she mischievously blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke into his face. Trilochan went livid with anger.

  ‘You… you… you’re of the worst sort.’

  Mozelle gave him another coy smile. ‘You haven’t said anything new. I’ve been called worse things.’ Then she peered at his turban. ‘Ah, you’ve fixed your turban really well. It certainly keeps the effect of long hair.’

  The street was deserted; only a faint breeze moved through it, soft-footed, as if it too was afraid of the curfew. The street lights were still on, but now they had only a pale and feeble glow. Any other day, the trams would have started moving by this time, and also the people, filling the streets with life. But today, it looked as if not one soul had passed that way, nor ever would.

  Mozelle walked ahead of him, her sandals loud on the pavement. Trilochan cursed her silently. She could easily have put on something other than those stupid sandals. It wouldn’t have taken more than a minute, but no, not her. He felt like telling her to take them off and walk barefoot, but he knew she would never agree. He kept silent.

  Also he was frightened; even the slightest noise unnerved him. But Mozelle walked on fearlessly, puffing at her cigarette, as if she were out for an ordinary morning stroll.

  When they reached a crossing they were spotted by a policeman. He roared at them, ‘Hey you! Where do you think you’re going?’

  Trilochan was numb with fright, but Mozelle stepped forward, close to the policeman, and, tossing her hair in his face ever so coyly, said, ‘Oh, it’s you. Don’t you remember me? I’m Mozelle.’ Then she pointed towards a lane. There, over in that lane. My sister lives there. She’s so sick and I’m taking the doctor to her.’

  The policeman was still struggling to revive his memory when she pulled out from some mysterious fold of her gown a packet of cigarettes and offered it to him. ‘Here, Sergeant, have a cigarette.’ The man took one and Mozelle lit it for him with her own. Then, as he drew the first puff, she winked at him with one eye, and with the other at Trilochan. Then she walked on….khat…khat.… into the lane which they had to cross to reach the section where Kalwant Kaur lived.

  Silently following her, Trilochan had the feeling that, in her strange ways, Mozelle enjoyed breaking the curfew. She was like that, always, playing with danger. Whenever they went for a swim at Juhu, she’d worry him to death. She would go far out into the sea, fighting the waves, and he would have to wait for her on the beach, terrified that she might drown. And when she’d return, her entire body would be blue with bruises. But those things never seemed to bother her.
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  Mozelle was ahead of Trilochan, who walked behind her casting frightened glances on either side. Suddenly she stopped, and, when Trilochan came closer, she said in a calm and reassuring voice, Triloch dear, it’s not good to be so frightened. Something’s bound to happen if you keep behaving like that; I know it.’

  Trilochan didn’t say anything.

  They crossed that lane and entered another which opened into the neighbourhood where Kalwant Kaur lived. Suddenly Mozelle stopped. Some distance ahead a Marwari Hindu’s shop was being looted, and in a very calm and methodical manner. She watched in silence what was going on, then turned to Trilochan. ‘Never mind. Let’s go on.’

  They started forward. A man came running away from the shop with a huge brass tray on his head; he ran into Trilochan and the tray fell with a loud clang. The man peered suspiciously at Trilochan. Trilochan looked what he was: a perfect Sikh, complete with beard, turban, everything. The man’s hand flew to his waist to draw the knife, but by then Mozelle was towering over the scene. She pushed him away with her body and spoke in a voice feigning intoxication. ‘Hey, you…what are you doing? Going to kill your own brother? And just when I’m taking him home to marry him?’ Then she turned to Trilochan. ‘Karim, get up and put this man’s tray on his head.’ The man removed his hand from his waist and looked with lustful eyes at Mozelle; then, nudging her large breasts with his elbow, he said, ‘Have a good time, you; have a good time.’ And recovering his tray, he vanished into one of the lanes.

  Trilochan was muttering under his breath, ‘That damn bastard…what a low thing to do.’

  Mozelle ran a quick finger over her swinging breasts to smooth the dress. ‘What low thing? It’s all the same. Come on, let’s go.’

  She now walked faster, Trilochan still following her. They crossed that lane and entered into Kalwant Kaur’s immediate neighbourhood. Mozelle asked, ‘Which lane now?’

  Trilochan whispered, ‘The third one; the first house on the corner.’

  She started walking in that direction. Around them everything was silent. Ordinarily it was considered a densely populated area but now not even the cry of a baby was to be heard.

  When they reached the mouth of the lane they could see that something suspicious was going on. A man ran out from the corner building and disappeared into the one across from it. Then three more men came out of the first building and rushed into the other. Mozelle stopped where she was, and motioned Trilochan to move back into the dark; then she spoke very quietly, ‘Triloch dear, take off the turban.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll never do that.’

  Mozelle was in no mood to argue. ‘Okay, damn it, as you wish…but don’t you see what’s going on here?’

  And it was happening right in front of their eyes. Clearly there was some trouble, and of the most frightening kind. When two men came out of the building on the right, with large gunny sacks on their backs, even Mozelle felt a shiver of fright. Something thick and dark was dripping from those sacks. Mozelle bit her lips, trying to do some fast thinking. As the two men disappeared at the other end of the lane, she spoke to Trilochan. ‘Look, let’s do it this way. I’ll start running towards the corner building. You come after me, as if you are trying to catch me…understand? But we’ll have to do it very quickly.’

  Then, without waiting for his reply, Mozelle gave a shove to his turban and started to run, knocking her sandals on the paving. Trilochan rushed after her, turban gone, hair flying. A moment…and they were in the building. They paused near the stairs; Trilochan was panting but Mozelle showed no effect of her effort. She asked, ‘Which floor?’

  Trilochan passed his tongue over his dry lips before replying. ‘Second floor.’

  There was no time for anything else. ‘Let’s go.’ And she began climbing the stairs. They were spotted with blood. Trilochan was trembling with fear as he followed behind her. On reaching the second-floor corridor, he walked ahead and knocked lightly at a door. Mozelle remained on guard at the stairs. Trilochan knocked again; then putting his mouth to the keyhole, he called softly, ‘Mahnga Singhji, Mahnga Singhji.’

  A frightened voice asked from the inside, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Trilochan.’

  The door opened; Trilochan motioned to Mozelle, who came running, and both entered the flat. Mozelle saw in front of her a thin, slender girl, ever so pale with fright. Mozelle looked at her carefully. The girl had delicate features, but her pretty and pert nose ran with a cold. Mozelle embraced her to her wide bosom, and pulling up the hem of her gown, wiped the girl’s nose. Trilochan turned crimson with embarrassment. Mozelle was saying to the girl, ‘Don’t lose your courage. Trilochan is here. He will get you out.’

  Kalwant Kaur looked at Trilochan with frightened eyes and slipped out of Mozelle’s arms. Now Trilochan spoke to her.

  ‘Tell your father to get ready…and also your mother. But hurry, we don’t have much time.’

  Just then, from the floor above, a lot of noise was heard. Someone shrieked; it sounded like a fight was going on. A cry of fear escaped Kalwant Kaur’s mouth. ‘They got him. They got him.’

  ‘Whom?’ Trilochan asked.

  But before Kalwant Kaur could answer, Mozelle pulled her by her elbow into the corner.

  ‘If they got him, it’s just fine. Now take off your clothes.’ And without giving her a chance to think, she pulled off her shirt and threw it on the floor. Kalwant Kaur clasped her arms across her breasts, too shocked and frightened to resist. Trilochan turned his face away. Then, pulling off her gown, Mozelle made the girl put it on. She herself was now entirely naked. Quickly she undid the knot of Kalwant Kaur’s baggy shalwar and pulled it off, too. Then she turned to Trilochan.

  ‘Get going…take her out. But…wait a second.’ And she let Kalwant’s hair loose. ‘Now, get out of here quickly.’

  Trilochan said to Kalwant Kaur, ‘Come along, let’s go.’ Then he stopped and turned to Mozelle, who stood naked as a jaybird, the hair on her body standing up from cold.

  ‘Why don’t you leave?’ Mozelle asked angrily.

  Trilochan could only whisper, ‘What about her parents?’

  ‘They can go to hell…you run along with her.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll leave after you.’

  But just then a number of people were heard rushing down the stairs. On reaching the door they began to pound at it, as if they intended to break it down.

  Kalwant Kaur’s blind mother and invalid father began to moan in fear in the next room. For a moment Mozelle remained deep in thought; then giving her hair a toss, she said to Trilochan, ‘Listen, I can think of only one way out now…I’ll open the door…’

  Kalwant Kaur cried out in fear. ‘Open the door?’

  Mozelle continued, not paying her any attention, ‘I’ll open the door and rush out. You come running after me. I’ll run up the stairs…and you shall too. These people at the door will forget everything else and come after us…’

  Trilochan interrupted. ‘Then?’

  ‘Then? Then this: your…what’s her name…must escape from here in that confusion. No one will question her in that dress.’

  Trilochan hurriedly explained all that to the girl.

  Mozelle let out a wild scream, then, opening the door with a jerk, she fell upon the people gathered outside. They were flabbergasted at the sight of her nakedness. She got up and ran towards the stairs and Trilochan jumped after her. Instinctively the people stepped aside to let him through. Mozelle kept blindly climbing up the stairs, her wooden sandals making a wild racket. When they got over their initial surprise the people at the door rushed after her too. Then, as she reached the top set, her sandal slipped and she fell. Slowly she came tumbling down; rolling, striking against the iron railing, all the way down to the stone landing. Trilochan watched her tumble by and in a daze ran down the stairs after her. The people were gathered around her. No one asked how it happened. Everyone was silent. Every eye was fixed on her white and na
ked body, now covered with bruises and scratches.

  Trilochan shook her by the arm and called, ‘Mozelle, Mozelle!’

  She opened her big wide Jewish eyes; they were red as butcher’s meat. She smiled. Then she winked at him and as she spoke, beads of blood frothed to her lips.

  ‘Go and see if my underwear is still there…you understand me?’

  Trilochan understood her perfectly but didn’t want to move away.

  Mozelle flared up. ‘You really are a Sikh! Go and look for it.’

  Trilochan stood up and went to Kalwant’s flat. Mozelle looked at the people around her with her dimming eyes and said, ‘He is actually a Muslim, you know, and a rough and rowdy type; that’s why sometimes I call him a Sikh.’

  Then Trilochan came back and his eyes told Mozelle that everything was all right. He had also brought up his turban which he spread over her. She sighed with relief, but in the effort a lot of blood spilled out from her mouth. ‘Oh, damn it,’ she said, wiping her lips with her hair-dusted arm; then she turned to Trilochan, ‘All right, darling, bye-bye.’

  Trilochan tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. With an effort, Mozelle threw away his turban from her body.

  ‘Here, take it away…this religion of yours.’

  And her arm fell back lifeless over her large breasts.

  (Translated from the Urdu by CM. Nairn)

  SIXTEEN

  Siraj

  SAADAT HASAN MANTO

  Close to Nagpada police station, in front of an Irani restaurant, slouching against a lamppost, was Dhundu.

  His nickname Dhundu (the finder) fitted him like a glove. Pimping was his profession. He could find a girl to suit every requirement. For ten long years, he had been a pimp. He had traded in countless girls. Of every religion, description, and colour.

  This had always been his favourite spot – close to Nagpada police station, across the park, in front of the Irani restaurant, against the lamppost. In my mind the lamppost was completely associated with him. I could not see it without picturing Dhundu against it, chewing paan.