Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2

by Khushwant Singh

  He also said that Sundari shouldn’t mistake her Sundar for just another customer, for Sundar valued her more than his life – at the snap of her fingers he would leave his home, business, everything. Today, he said, there was but one desire in his heart: that his Sundari should stay with him like this for ever and ever! But as he was saying all this, it occurred to him that his wishes sometimes came true, so he quickly took back what he had said about leaving home and business.

  ‘Lovely one,’ he said, ‘if you stay with me, I will build a bungalow for you and give you a car. You shouldn’t think of Sundar Singh as just run-of-the-mill.’

  He thought that with this he had nullified the matter of sacrificing his business. Sundari was no longer fidgeting and Sundar Singh was slowly stroking her back. He wondered if a day would ever come when Sundari would live as his wife in his house and they would find the chauffeur standing there, holding the car door open for them. But before the Saint in his heart could confirm the matter, he suddenly modified his fantasy a little. Sundari may be beautiful, he thought, but would he want to keep her for a lifetime? He, a respectable gentleman and she, a professional bawd? Therefore, he quickly decided that, since he was a respectable gentleman, he needed a respectable girl to keep rather than a bazaar girl like Sundari.

  But no matter how hard he tried, his gentlemanliness came in the way of the fulfilment of his heart’s desires at that time. He had thought that, on that day, the hopes of forty years would be fulfilled, but it turned out that, in two and a half hours’ time, he hadn’t even been able to arrange the preliminaries to fulfilling those desires. At twelve thirty, when Harjit Kaur knocked on the door, Sundari made a wry face and pulled away from him, while he himself got to his feet sweating.

  He opened the door and pleaded with Harjit Kaur to let Sundari stay with him a little longer, saying that he would even give her double the money. But Sundari glanced at him scornfully as if, instead of a human being, he were a bottle of disagreeable medicine and then went indifferently towards the stairs. Harjit Kaur shrugged her shoulders and followed her down the stairs.

  Sundar Singh picked up his unwound turban and stood before the mirror.

  ‘Sundar Singh, you are an ass! You are an eggplant. You are a guava!’ he said, slapping himself on the face a couple of times. Then he began to bind his turban. When he had finished, he slapped himself on the face once again.

  ‘Sundar Singh, you are a turnip, a turnip! You ought to leave the restaurant and go back to pushing a cart!’

  But a few days later, when Sundari and Harjit Kaur were arrested, and everyone in the city had begun to talk about the ‘Sundari Affair’, Sundar Singh’s regard at his failure all but disappeared from his heart. He even felt that this had been the Hand of Destiny evening the score for his humiliation. Sundari had stated to the police that she was still a minor and that Harjit Kaur had forced her to take up this occupation. From this it seemed to Sundar Singh that Destiny’s Hand must have been behind his failure as well – the Vaheguru had extended his arm and saved him from becoming a participant in this crime. He said a secret prayer to the Vaheguru.

  But when he heard that the police were patrolling Civil Lines, his heart began to pound. He was confident that the Vaheguru would continue to preserve his honour in the times to come just as He had done so many times before. But it seemed to him that, if the police car suddenly turned up there and Sundari recognized him standing behind the counter, it would be difficult even for the Vaheguru to preserve his honour. Who knows, those people might come over to his restaurant and drink a cup of tea and, while there, the police might guess from Sundari’s eyes that there was something fishy, and start an investigation then and there.

  He picked up the pencil that had fallen from his trembling hands, but he couldn’t write the figures correctly in the account book. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. Leaving the counter, he signalled to the waiter, Hardit Singh, to come over. Telling him to take his place at the counter because he had a headache, he left for home by the back alley.

  When he got home, Sundar Singh locked the door that opened onto the street. He climbed the stairs, but didn’t feel like going into the room where the sweetest dream of his life had, at the last moment, been frustrated. Usually, on arriving home, he had always thrown a wistful glance at this room, but today he went straight into the kitchen and up to his wife Bhagavanti. Bhagavanti didn’t exhibit the slightest surprise at the fact that the sardar had come home early. She just sat there, silently rolling out the chapatis.

  ‘Bhagavanti,’ Sundar Singh said as he sat down near her on a bench.

  Bhagavanti stopped rolling and lifted her eyes towards him, as if to say that, if he had something to tell her, he should get it over with quickly so that she could get on with her work.

  ‘Bhagavanti, an idea struck me today.’

  Bhagavanti became a little wary. In fifteen years of married life, whenever he had spoken tenderly in this way, some ulterior motive always lay behind it. The time when he had wanted to open the restaurant he had spoken to her in this way and asked for her jewellery. Then, when he needed money to expand the business, he had, with similar words, persuaded her to mortgage the house that she had inherited from her father. Now, except for a few silver bowls, she had nothing left in the way of property. And even these had been part of her dowry. She had told him once before that under no circumstances would she allow him to sell her silver. Her eyebrows became slanted and her forehead wrinkled up.

  ‘Bhagavanti, until now I have never done anything for you!’

  As Sundar Singh said this, his eyes moist, the rolling pin slipped from Bhagavanti’s hands. It was to her entirely unnatural for Sundar Singh to admit a thing like that. Picking up the rolling pin, she gave him a sharp glance, as if wondering what, after all, the hidden purpose of all this could be.

  Sundar Singh took off his turban, put it on a shelf and pulled his knees up towards him: ‘Bhagavanti, I want to have some gold bangles made for you.’

  Bhagavanti took a deep breath, put a flattened chapati on the griddle and said that, if he wanted it hot, then she would get his plate ready. As for the gold bangles, she had already worn plenty of them in her time.

  ‘Bhagavanti, you haven’t looked into Sundar Singh’s heart! If you did, you‘d see that Sundar Singh amounts to something too!’

  As he said this, he put on his turban and stood up.

  Bhagavanti said nothing but only asked whether he‘d eat his meal now or later. What he had really wanted was to sit beside her and talk for a long while and, having eaten his food, go with her into the sitting room. He also thought that, if he got an opportunity, he’d tell her the whole story and the idea that, if Sundari told the police his address and they came to his house, then only Bhagavanti could defend him. But when he saw Bhagavanti’s disinterested attitude, he couldn’t say anything at all and, declining the food, he left the kitchen.

  Not once did Bhagavanti entreat him to eat something before he left. She just sat there, puffing up the chapatis and buttering them. Sundar Singh was vexed by the thought that his life had been virtually ruined on account of this woman. If he were arrested today, it would be because of her. But even then she would probably continue to roll out her chapatis and fiddle with the coals.

  He went into his room and lay down and, every now and then, anger at Bhagavanti would surge up within him. Until now he had always treated her in a gentlemanly manner and that’s why she considered him totally spineless. After all, it was his gentlemanliness that had prompted him to send her to her parental home on the day he brought Sundari to the house. What he should have done was to have held the performance in the house, right in front of her, so that at least once she would have realized that he wasn’t as stupid as she thought he was. Right now she treated him as if he were a lump of clay instead of a man.

  Sundar Singh started as he heard the sounds of some people walking out in the street. His heart lurched and he regretted having left the
light on in his room. He felt that, in a few minutes, there would be a knock on the door and, shortly thereafter, perhaps the police would be taking him handcuffed towards the station. But the sound of footsteps soon dwindled and finally stopped entirely.

  The window grating was very cold and the street deserted. Sundar Singh’s heart became filled with a strange sense of disappointment. In those few minutes, he had prepared himself for the whole scene that would have taken place with the police. Not only weren’t the police there, there wasn’t so much as the shadow of a man on the street. He went back and lay down on the bed.

  During the day, he had heard several versions of how Sundari had gone to several people’s homes and about the many things she told the police. People just marvelled at Sundari’s memory and were surprised at the way in which she had managed to lay bare the secrets of so many homes.

  From the kitchen, the sound of chapatis being rolled could still be heard. Sundar Singh turned over and thought to himself that, if the police really did come there with Sundari and handcuffed him, then surely Bhagavanti couldn’t continue to question his masculinity and she’d learn to appreciate him. He saw the whole scene as if it were actually happening.

  There is a knock on the door and Bhagavanti opens it. She is aghast to see Sundari and the police officers.

  ‘Is this the residence of Sardar Sundar Singh?’ one officer asks.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Sundari says. ‘He is in the room next to the stairs. Inside, to the left, is his bed. Let’s go up.’

  Bhagavanti nervously makes way for them. They all come upstairs. Bhagavanti too, rather fearfully follows them. Sundari comes up to him and grasps his hand.

  ‘This is Sardar Sundar Singh,’ she says. ‘Handcuff him!’

  ‘Put out your hands, Sardarji!’ an officer says and begins to clap the handcuffs on him. ‘You’ve had your fling, now come and get a whiff of the lockup!’

  He draws himself up and says that he is totally innocent in this affair. He can swear by the Vaheguru that he is completely innocent, that this girl is accusing him for no reason at all.

  Bhagavanti comes between him and the officer and says they cannot arrest her husband. Her husband could never be a criminal! The poor fellow would never so much as lift his eyes to look at another woman! He is as gentle as a cow, a gentleman among gentlemen!

  When he got this far, Sundar Singh felt that something was wrong in the plot. If Bhagavanti saved him from the clutches of the police, he would sink even lower in her esteem. And what he wanted was to stamp into her heart the idea that he was not a nitwit but rather a real man of strength and courage. That he couldn’t find it in his heart to love her was another matter. So he began to plot the whole business of the police coming upstairs in another way.

  When the officer puts the handcuffs on him and says, ‘Come and get a whiff of the lockup, Sardarji!’, he throws a dark glance at Bhagavanti and puts out his hands. Bhagavanti comes up and grasps his arm.

  ‘Oh, Sardarji,’ she says in a tearful voice, ‘why are these people putting handcuffs on you? Oh, how will I live alone in the house without you?’

  Sundari grabs Bhagavanti’s arm, pulls her aside and says that she should have stopped her husband from doing his dirty work before instead of crying when it was too late. Bhagavanti goes into a corner and begins to sob, while Sundari takes his shoes from under the bed and his turban from the closet and gives them to him.

  ‘Sardarji, put on your shoes and tie up your turban – then have your handcuffs put on!’ she says.

  After he has the handcuffs slipped on and is ready to go, Sundari takes a handkerchief out of the closet and puts it in his pocket.

  ‘All right, Bhagavanti, I’m going. Take care of the house,’ he says and goes off with the police. Bhagavanti tearfully keeps repeating: ‘Sardarji, don’t go! Don’t go and leave me alone in the house! Oh, how can I live alone in the house without you!’

  When they all arrive downstairs, the driver of the police car opens the door for them and Sundar Singh feels a renewal of confidence in the Saint in his heart as he sees the plan that had been revealed to him being fulfilled to some degree.

  Having seated himself in the police car, Sundar Singh could make his imagination go no further.

  He turned over a few times, then lay on his back. Bhagavanti was putting out the fire. As the water fell on the hot wood, it made a sizzling sound. There was no sound coming from the street. He got up, went to the stairs and stood there a few moments, looking down. Then he called out to Bhagavanti that he was going out and began to descend the stairs noisily. He had hoped that perhaps Bhagavanti would call out to him that, if he had to go, he should eat before he left, but Bhagavanti didn’t even answer and went on throwing the extinguished wood into the corner.

  Most of the shops in the bazaar were already closed when Sundar Singh went out. He went strolling down the street towards his restaurant. There were no customers there. The waiters were cleaning up and getting ready to go home.

  ‘Is your headache better now, Sardarji?’ Hardit Singh, the waiter, asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s better,’ he said and, casting a glance at the empty tables and chairs, he asked whether anyone had been around asking about him while he had been away.

  ‘No, Sardarji, no one came by,’ Hardit Singh answered.

  ‘No one at all?’ he asked again.

  ‘No.’

  Pressing down the hair of his beard, Sundar Singh went out and roamed the streets for a little while. He went through the Company Garden towards the Training College. Returning from there, he gathered courage and even went by the police station. It seemed as though no one else in the world besides himself was aware of the arrests that had taken place, and were taking place, in the Sundari case. There was peace and quiet everywhere. On the way home, he passed by the office of the daily paper, World News. Inside, the printing machines were clanking away.

  At this very moment, he thought, those machines were printing the news: ‘Fifteen prominent citizens have been arrested in the Sundari affair!’ In the morning, people all over the state would be discussing those arrests. The names of those arrested would be on every tongue! Maybe the photographs of a few people would be printed. Those people would remain before the eyes of the populace for months to come. Many people would secretly envy them. But the name of Sundar Singh Talvar would not be among them!

  He took a deep breath. A peculiar restlessness came over him. He didn’t know for sure whether he was relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t been turned in by the accused. After listening to the sound of the machines for a while, he went off towards his home.

  Before he got to his street, he began to hope that there would be a commotion in front of his house and that his house would be in the process of being searched. He hoped that Bhagavanti was being intimidated and interrogated as to where she had hidden her husband or where he had run off. But the street was just as deserted as it had been when he had left. The light he had left burning was now out.

  ‘Bhagavanti!’ he yelled as he climbed the stairs.

  Bhagavanti was lying with her face coverd. She softly mumbled that she had put his food in the box. If he hadn’t eaten at the restaurant, he should take the food out of the box and eat it.

  Sundar Singh’s irritation turned to anger. He sat on his bed, jerked his shoes off and said: All you care about is food. If someone’s life were in danger, what would you care?’

  Bhagavanti slowly got up but she kept sitting on the bed, with her head and face covered.

  ‘What’s this about life being in danger?’ she asked. ‘Did you lose some money gambling again?’

  ‘Yes, I gamble every day, don’t I?’ Sundar Singh muttered. ‘I don’t even know what might happen in a minute from now – and all she can do is chatter!’

  ‘Well, why did you do whatever you did that you don’t know what might happen in a minute from now?’ Bhagavanti said in a low disinterested voice. ‘Did you murder somebody?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes, I murdered myself!’ Sundar Singh said in the same angry tone.

  He took of his turban and walked over to the mirror. While standing there, he said that the police would be coming to get him at any time and so, from now on, she would have to look after the house.

  ‘Why would the police be coming to get you?’ Bhagavanti said, now actually a little upset. ‘Why, was some liquor confiscated at the restaurant?’

  Sundar Singh was pleased that his arrow had at last struck home. ‘Don’t you know that today arrests were being made in town?’ he said, still retaining the irritation in his voice.

  ‘What kind of arrests?’

  ‘What kind of arrests?’ Sundar Singh returned to his bed. ‘What kind of arrests are there?’ The police are arresting all the people whose names that girl gives them.’

  ‘Who is this girl who is reporting names to the police?’ Bhagavanti’s nervousness had died down and her voice took on a peevish tone. ‘Have you been drinking again today?’

  ‘The whole world is talking about Sundari today and I have to tell her who she is!’ Sundar Singh put his arms behind his back with an air of importance. ‘I am telling you to get the house in order, because the police may stage a raid here this very night.’

  ‘But what reason do the police have to stage a raid here?’ Bhagavanti gave him a searching look.

  ‘If she gives my name to the police, will they raid our house or not?’

  Sundar Singh thought that, since he had now revealed the matter to her, Bhagavanti would start to cry and beat her breast. But Bhagavanti sat as impassively as before.

  ‘What has she to do with your name?’ she asked.

  Suppressing a smile with difficulty, Sundar Singh said: ‘After all, she came here one day.’

  But when he saw that his trump card, too, had no effect on Bhagavanti, Sundar Singh experienced a deep disappointment. On the contrary, in Bhagavanti’s eyes, there appeared an expression of contempt.