Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Never mind, Sardarji,’ she said, ‘don’t let your imagination get the better of you. Sure, she couldn’t resist coming to you, could she? Go and eat your supper. And if you don’t want to eat, then put out the light and go to sleep. You’ve spent your whole life dreaming.’

  ‘You don’t believe…’ Sundar Singh said in a confused yet weary voice. ‘I tell you that I have made a mistake. But what had to happen happened. You take care of the house…’

  ‘That’s enough, Sardarji, that’s enough,’ Bhagavanti cut him off. She then covered her face, lay down and said: ‘Why are you debasing your tongue with such useless talk? Get up and put out the light. I’m sleepy.’ And she turned over on her side away from him.

  Sardar Sundar Singh was furious. He got up and began to pace about the room. He pulled out the table drawer and then shut it. Then he pulled his bed a little forward. He went to the window and looked down at the street again. There was that same quietude.

  His mental agitation increased. He couldn’t figure out what he could say or do to convince Bhagavanti of the truth of what he was saying and, for once, get her to beat her forehead and cry. But even after much thought, no solution came to mind.

  A cold breeze struck him and he moved away from the window. By then Bhagavanti had begun to snore loudly.

  He looked at Bhagavanti’s sleeping body with the eyes of a ferocious animal and, turning out the light, went into the kitchen.

  (Translated from the Hindi by Barron Holland)

  NINETEEN

  The Woman at the Bus Stop

  MOHAN RAKESH

  Balo knew that it would be a long wait for the bus. Even so, she kept gazing at the road. There was not a single tree along this part of the road. The earth as hard as rock; the fields lying fallow after the harvest. It was an arid landscape of khaki earth with shimmering tarmac running through like a black ribbon. Nearby was a wooden shanty with two big pitchers and an old man who dozed away the hours. A beggar squatted in the tiny shadow cast by the shanty, his eyes were glued to Balo’s hands. Beside him was a dog also eyeing the same hands. Balo had chapatis wrapped up in her dupatta. They were for her husband, Suchcha Singh, the bus driver. She was late, the bus had left. She awaited its return so that she could hand over the tiffin to her man. Suchcha Singh must be very cross with her, she thought. She had also to bring him his dinner in time for the bus from Jullundur which came at 2 p.m. She had met these two buses all the working days of the week. Whenever she was late, Suchcha Singh had to delay the departure of his bus under some pretext. But he never spared her. ‘I am a government servant and not your father’s slave,’ he would yell.

  Today she was many hours late. She felt as if by punishing herself by waiting by the roadside, Suchcha Singh’s anger would be lessened. How was she to explain in a way which would save her from his temper? Suchcha Singh had a fiery temper, she knew. But so had Jangi. And Jangi was quick with his axe.

  Jangi was notorious. The year before he had kidnapped and sold a sweeper woman. He had killed a pandit of the same village. Everyone was frightened of him and avoided him. And now he had had the audacity to make a pass at Jindan, a mere stripling of fourteen whom he had once called his daughter.

  Jindan had gone to get wood from Nanti who lived in the outskirts of the village. It was there Jangi had accosted the girl. She had come back empty-handed, pale and shaken.

  ‘I will never go out again…that rascal Jangi asked me to come inside and have some sherbet…. He said, “You are looking very pretty today…” ’ Jindan managed to blurt out.

  Balo was furious. ‘Doesn’t he find his own whorish mother pretty? May he go blind! If he had a daughter she would be as old as you. What did you say to him?’

  ‘ “I don’t want any sherbet, Uncle.” ’ That’s what I said.

  ‘ “Just a small sip,” he pleaded, “the taste of your uncle’s syrup will linger in your memory.” Then he grabbed me by the arm. May the Guru destroy him! I had to fight to get out of his clutches.’

  Balo took the girl in her arms. ‘Did he try to do anything more?’

  ‘When I got away he said, “Daughter, I was only teasing you. If you don’t come back I will tell your sister that you do not listen to your elders.” ’

  ‘I will tell Suchcha. Doesn’t that bastard Jangi know that Jindan is driver Suchcha Singh’s sister-in-law?’

  So everything got late. By the time she put the chapatis and potato curry and mango pickle into a brass carrier, it was after 3 p.m.

  ‘Sister, don’t be too long, I am scared,’ said Jindan.

  ‘Scared!’ she said with a show of bravado. ‘No one dare cast his evil eye on you. When Suchcha Singh hears about this he will swallow up Jangi alive. Bolt the door from inside and if Jangi comes and asks for me, tell him I have gone to fetch Suchcha Singh.’

  The shadow of the shanty lengthened. ‘Brother, when did the afternoon bus leave?’ she asked the beggar.

  ‘I don’t know, sister,’ he said. ‘Buses come and go. Who keeps the time here!’

  Suchcha Singh, with all his shortcomings, was her whole world. He swore at her, beat her. But he also gave her twenty rupees out of his wages each month. He often grumbled at having Jindan stay with them, but only last month he bought glass bangles and a piece of muslin for her.

  A bus raising clouds of dust came into view. Balo knew that it was not Suchcha Singh’s. Nevertheless, she went on watching it anxiously till it came to a halt by the piao. A passenger got down with a bundle of onions.

  ‘Brother, when is the next bus from Nakodar due?’ she asked him.

  ‘Buses come and go every half an hour. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t have to go anywhere. Suchcha Singh the driver is my husband. I have brought his food.’

  ‘Oh, Suchcha Singh!’ he exclaimed with a meaningful smile.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Who doesn’t know him in Nakodar!’

  His tone was such that Balo preferred not to ask any more.

  ‘Suchcha Singh may be driving the next bus,’ he said, ‘How cruel of him to make you wait like this.’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped. ‘It is not his fault that I am waiting here! I was late with the food and missed the bus. Poor man must be famished.’

  ‘Famished? Brother Suchcha?’ The man grinned baring all his teeth. Balo turned her face away.

  Another bus came trailing clouds of dust. Balo could see from Suchcha Singh’s face that he was very angry. She held aloft the brass tiffin carrier. The bus shot past and halted beyond the piao. Balo ran up to the front.

  ‘Suchcha!’ she cried holding up the carrier, ‘Suchcha Singh, please take this.’

  ‘Go away! I don’t have any time.’

  ‘Please come down for a moment and listen to me. Something terrible has happened or I would not be so late…’

  ‘Do not buk buk. Go away!’ shouted Suchcha and in the same breath asked the conductor if all was set to go.

  ‘Suchcha Singh, I have been waiting for you for two hours,’ Balo entreated. ‘Come down and listen to me… may hell devour that bastard Jangi who has done this to us. Shout at me, scold me, but do take the food. When you come home on Tuesday I will tell you the whole story.’

  ‘I have no home. On Tuesday will come your…’ with a filthy abuse he started the bus.

  ‘Just listen to me,’ wailed Balo. The bus roared away leaving Balo in a cloud of dust.

  The piao-keeper shut shop for the day. The beggar had gone leaving his dog by the roadside. The shadows had grown longer, Balo’s own shadow stretching beyond the road. From the nearby field was heard a full-throated love song sung by a youth.

  The song pierced her soul. She had heard it as a child. She heard it again as a grown-up girl. A young lad, Lali, used to sing it beautifully. Many a time she had heard him sing in the fields.

  The day she was betrothed to Suchcha Singh, her friend Paro sang many marriage songs to the beat of the dholak.


  O daughter, what kind of a groom shall I look for?

  A moon among the stars, a Krishna amidst mortals.

  She did not know what her groom looked like. But she pictured him as handsome as described in the song. On the wedding night when Suchcha Singh lifted the veil off her face, she felt that the hero of her dreams had become real. When Suchcha Singh touched her chin to raise her face, a thousand sensations vibrated through her body. Later he had taken her in his arms and said, ‘You are a sparkling diamond – a jewel!’

  ‘Balo, it is getting dark, go home,’ said the piaowallah.

  ‘Brother! When will the bus return from Jullundur?’ Balo asked, waking up to reality.

  ‘I don’t know. How long will you wait?’

  ‘I have to give him something to eat.’

  ‘If he had wanted it, he would have taken it at the first instance.’

  Balo decided to await the return of the bus. She also decided not to tell Suchcha Singh anything about Jangi. They might kill each other. He had said he would not return on Tuesday. What if he really meant what he had said and never returned?

  A shiver ran through her. Lotu Singh had abandoned his wife and run away from the village. The wife had a miserable time. Eventually she had ended her life by jumping into a well.

  Balo squatted on the piao as her feet were getting sore. It became dark and still. A bus came and went. And another. Only one more was due from Jullundur. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue and sleep. Every now and then she opened them with effort and saw the dark shadows growing darker. At the slightest stir she apprehended the arrival of the bus and sat up. In her half sleep she began to dream: Someone was knocking at her door. A frightened Jindan was crouching in a corner, her face terribly pale and she was saying, ‘Sister, do not go away, do not go away leaving me alone…’ The oxen incessantly going round the Persian wheel, the bells chiming and the voice of the youth singing the love song sitting under the peepul tree…

  A heavy storm blew. The brass tiffin carrier slipped out of her hands…with her hair scattered wildly over her knee. Jindan wails – ‘Why did you leave me alone?’

  Suddenly a touch on her shoulder broke the trance. ‘Suchcha Singh!’ She woke up rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Still here?’ he asked sitting next to her.

  The empty bus was parked right in front of the piao.

  ‘I thought I would wait on till I handed over your food. I fell a-napping. What a misfortune! Hope you have not been waiting here for long?’

  ‘I have come just now. You are such a fool waiting for me all this time!’

  ‘What could I do? You said you will not come home,’ she said blinking her eyes to hold back her tears.

  ‘Give me the carrier and go home. Jindan must be scared.’ He got up patting her arm.

  As she picked up the carrier she noticed it was very light. There were no chapatis or curry in it. The beggar’s dog had eaten everything.

  Balo cursed the dog.

  Suchcha Singh laughed, ‘God is great!’

  Balo’s eyes were wet again. She pressed the empty vessel close to her bosom and stood looking helpless.

  ‘Now what are you waiting for?’ he put his hand on her back and advanced towards the bus.

  Balo went quietly with him. Suchcha Singh jumped on to his seat. When he was about to start the bus, she asked nervously: ‘Suchcha Singh! I hope you will be coming home tomorrow!’

  ‘Yes. Do you want anything from the town?’

  ‘No, I don’t…’

  As the bus began to splutter she stepped back. Suchcha Singh caressed his beard and moustache, belched and turned to her, ‘Yes, what was it you were saying about Jangi?’

  ‘Nothing. You will be home tomorrow. Won’t you?’

  ‘Hurry back home. You have a long way to go …’

  ‘Suchcha Singh! Tomorrow is the Guru’s birthday. I will bring some karah pershad for you.’

  ‘Sat Sri Akal.’

  And the bus sped forward enveloping Balo in the dust. She wiped her eyes with her pallu and went on staring at the trailing red lights until they were out of sight.

  (Translated from the Hindi by MM. Jain)

  TWENTY

  The Accident

  BHISHAM SAHNI

  You must have your dinner with me before you go. It won’t take me long to cook the meat and the leafy spinach – we call it saag meat. It’s so delicious. I’ll cook and you watch. That way you’ll also know how it is cooked – and it will be ready in a jiffy for you to eat. So you’ll stay, won’t you?

  My husband loves his meat this way, specially when he invites friends to dinner. It’s the star item on the menu. As for Jagga, poor soul, he’s gone for good! Saag meat used to be his speciality. He would cook the whole thing in curd and lace it with garlic, adding god knows what other ingredients to it. It was an act of dedication with him. Three tins of pure ghee are clean gone every month, not to talk of Dalda, meant for the servants. But one can never rely on servants, can one? For all I know, these wretches may be feeding themselves on pure ghee and shoving the Dalda down our gullets! I can’t keep everything under lock and key. I just can’t do that. I tell myself, let them have a field day and do their worst for all I care. After all, there is a limit to what they can gorge themselves on.

  No, I can’t keep watch on everything. How can I when I can’t even watch my own health? This fellow Mathra, my new servant, eats seven chapatis in the morning and seven at night – he counts each one of them! In between he twice regales himself with tea and keeps an eye on all the sweets of which he demands a share. But I tell myself, let him go on working his jaw all day if that’s what makes him stick on with us. It’s some consolation, indeed. Of course, you know what domestics are like these days. One moment here and the next moment gone. ‘I’m off!’ They fling the words at you without batting an eyelid and then disappear for good.

  My husband, too, is of my way of thinking. He says if you let a dog hold a bone between his teeth he won’t be able to bark at you. I had engaged this fellow, Mathra, at seventy rupees a month and now I’m giving him hundred. Even so there’s always a scowl on his face. Jagga, of course, was not like that. He was a mild sort of fellow and very devoted, always alert even to the slightest wishes of my husband. You know, my husband is very kind to servants. When a servant is in need of money, out comes his purse. Be it fifty or hundred, he hardly ever gives the matter a moment’s thought. Neither does he keep an account of what he gives – he won’t even jot down the figure anywhere.

  When Jagga married and brought his wife with him, my husband had two salwar–kameez sets made for the girl and a woollen coat for Jagga. I told my husband not to squander money on servants like that. They do not know what gratitude is. If they get five rupees more elsewhere they just turn their back on you. ‘Don’t try to teach me,’ he would reply. ‘A well does not dry up just by drawing water from it. Jagga cooks excellent saag meat. You can’t get a better bavarchi in the whole city.’

  I can vividly recall the day when Jagga first came to our house. My husband called out to me from outside, ‘See what I have brought for you – a servant!’

  To look at, Jagga was as docile as a deer. With his big eyes he would keep looking around at everything in wonderment. My husband had predicted that Jagga was a safe bet and so he was. He fell in love with the place. It happens like that with very young people. Those hefty, rough-hewn servants whom you see roaming about on the roads are a different lot – hard-boiled, devoid of any sentiments. But you can twist these young chaps any way you like. When animals can be trained, why not they? But there are ways and ways of taming them.

  You remember Jackie, don’t you? No? Oh dear, how could you forget Jackie, my pet dog? A friend had given him to my husband. He would keep barking at everyone. But I don’t know what spell my husband had cast on him that he would keep circling round his legs. We have cars passing outside our house at all hours of the day. But Jackie knew the sound of his master’s car. In the e
vening when it was time for his master to return home, Jackie would keep his ears perked up and run out to meet him as soon as he arrived. Poor fellow, one day he was run over by our own car! Sometimes love can be a curse.

  Where did you have these earrings made? They look beautiful. How much did the diamonds cost? They are real, I hope. Everything is so costly these days, almost beyond our means. My nose stud, for instance. As you can see, it has a small diamond set in the middle. Do you know how much this diamond cost me? I had to shell out seven hundred rupees for the diamond alone! I’m afraid of wearing it now. When Jagga was here my jewel box would lie about in the house, unlocked. Not a thing was ever lost. Not even an article costing two paise. You know how forgetful I am. I leave my gold necklace anywhere – in the bathroom, on the tea table. But Jagga always picked it up and returned it to me. But the servants these days! Oh, what a different lot they are! Hare Ram! I have put all my jewellery in the bank locker.

  Why don’t you eat? You haven’t even touched the plate. Would you care to have some hot tea? This must have gone cold. Have a piece of cake. I bought it from the confectioner, but it’s not bad. Kamala’s mother-in-law makes beautiful cakes. Each more delicious than the other. A cake from Wengers’ these days costs eighteen rupees but she bakes a similar cake for five. It has all the ingredients – eggs, milk, butter, sugar, raisins, almonds and all the other things. I can’t make a cake. It’s too much for me. How can I when I’ve to exert so much even to carry my own weight? Jagga also made lovely cakes. But his luck was out otherwise you could have sampled one of them.

  But who could have guessed that he would make such an inglorious exit from this world? Even to this day I have a feeling that he would not have met a sad end if he had divulged the facts. But what can one do? To each his own, as they say. He refused to open his mouth before my husband for fear of hurting his feelings. What else could the reason be? My husband was completely in the dark about the cause of his death though I knew about it from the beginning. But that fellow never gave even an inkling of it to my husband.