Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2

by Khushwant Singh

  Not so loud? Well, in the afternoon in our house even the right hand does not know what the left hand is doing. A sleeping man is akin to a dead man. And not a sparrow stirs in the house. Something may happen at the back of the house and I may be none the wiser for it. How can I know about others when I can’t even take care of my own body? God’s truth, that afternoon when I got up from my bed to go to the toilet I heard faint footsteps near the outhouse as if someone was going to Jagga’s room. Well, how should I know who the person was? Then, as if in a moment of intuition, several questions flashed through my mind. It couldn’t be Jagga, for he went to my husband’s office in the afternoon to prepare tea for him.

  I looked out of my bedroom window and my heart missed a beat. Good heavens, it was Vikki, of all persons – my husband’s younger brother. He was wearing a dark suit. Walking stealthily, he disappeared into Jagga’s room. I was stunned. What sort of business took him to Jagga’s room at this time of the day? And why was he walking so stealthily?

  My first impulse was to go out and ask him. But I was not up to it. Even to carry my own body is a drudgery to me. I turned away from the window and lay down on the bed. But my mind was still hovering around that room. What was going on there, I wondered. Such things are not done in respectable families. And those who stoop to such things – why don’t they get married? Why wreck others’ lives?

  You had seen Jagga’s wife, of course. A simple, innocent-looking girl, and so fair that even a touch would have tarnished her skin. My husband’s brother had been playing truant from office on one plea or the other and hobnobbing with the girl. A village girl and so timid at that – it was difficult for her to escape the clutches of that black-faced rogue.

  I know I should not speak so loud. But there’s no escaping the facts. A streak of promiscuity seems to run through the family. My husband is the only exception, it seems. His uncle had two keeps. His aunt, fast advancing in years, was still carrying on with a servant. Every afternoon after lunch she would call him to press her legs. I had seen it myself. She would retire to her room and that burly Shankar would slip in soon after.

  It does not take long to take the lid off such goings-on. That afternoon Jagga happened to come home to fetch a thermos and his eyes landed on Vikki who, looking dapper in a dark suit, emerged from his room. I saw it all as I again went to the window to watch.

  ‘Vikki babu!’ Jagga exclaimed and then trailed into silence. He just kept watching Vikki with a blank expression as the villain slunk away without facing him. My heart pounded. I said to myself that the fat was now in the fire and there would be fireworks, so to say. Jagga would beat his wife black and blue. He may even do her to death. One never knew with these people. But not even the sound of a whisper emerged from Jagga’s room.

  I don’t know how long Jagga stayed in his room, much less if he demanded an explanation from his wife. I decided to have a word with my husband in the evening. He should either get rid of Jagga or send his wife away to her village.

  Though I feared to hear the sound of crying from Jagga’s room any moment, his room remained steeped in silence. I said to myself that one should not be so simple as not to be able to keep his wife on leash. A few slaps and she would have mended her ways. There are scores of ways of keeping a woman on the right path. But this fellow did not seem capable of anything.

  I felt so nervous that I had to go to the bathroom several times. I suffer from constipation. Every night I have to take isabgol husk with milk. It’s only then that my bowels move in the morning. Once I remained constipated for five days at a stretch. My husband made fun of me and said that when I went to the bathroom the sweeper would have quite a job cleaning up the mess. Hare Ram! I can’t even laugh. When I laugh, I have to struggle for breath. As you know I suffer from piles too. I have to cope with so many ailments that I seem to be living on pills.

  The doctor advises me to go out for morning walks. But he forgets that it is not easy to walk with such a bulky body. A few steps and I get out of breath.

  The doctor has also advised me to cut out sweets but I just can’t hold back my hand at the sight of sweets. The pity is that even if I put a small piece of barfi in my mouth, my stomach starts rumbling. But life is no fun without sweets. I tell the doctor to make me well just as I am – no walks and no restriction on sweets. If I have to take to walking, why spend on doctor’s fees at all? Walks! Does he take me for a labourer that I should go about exerting myself?

  The other day when I went to the club I heard Harcharan’s wife saying that she took seven different kinds of pills every day. I saw no point in her bragging like that. One should not be vain but I am telling you the truth. I’ve taken as many as fifteen different pills a day. Even now you’ll find a dozen phials of medicine arranged on my dining table – tonics, digestives and so on. Jagga knew which medicine to give me at what time. With his going the whole routine has been upset. Have something…you’re eating nothing.

  That evening when my husband returned from office he sent for Jagga and told him that he would be having guests for dinner and that he should set about preparing the food which should of course include saag meat. Jagga stood before my husband in stony silence, his face pale like that of a corpse.

  ‘Jagga, why are you looking so downcast?’ my husband asked. ‘Any bad news from the village?’ But Jagga stood silent. He neither hummed nor hawed. How could he tell my husband that his brother was blackening his face with his wife? You know my husband – the temper he can get into.

  When Jagga still stood before him mute as a stone, my husband lost his temper and started bawling at him. Jagga went away to the kitchen, looking very sullen. When I went there after some time I found him standing in the middle of the room like a statue.

  At night when the guests were gone…of course, Jagga cooked the dinner and he made an excellent job of it… yes, he remained mum all the time. He did not utter a word. My husband was pleased with Jagga and announced a raise of ten rupees in his salary in the presence of the guests. ‘Jagga, you may go and rest,’ he said. ‘I have overlooked your misdemeanour. Rai Saheb says the saag meat was very delicious.’ You see my husband is a great one for it. He can be generous to a fault. He has a big heart, boundless like the ocean.

  When the guests had gone and I was alone with my husband I could not help unburdening my mind to him. I reminded him that Vikki was now past the age of adolescence and it was time that we got him married. ‘Why are you so exercised over his marriage?’ he said. ‘He’s still a child. Even the mother’s milk has not dried on his lips.’

  I said that if he was not married soon he could break his tether and run about like a bull putting his mouth in every manger. You see, I had warned my husband through vague hints, hoping that he would not miss their implications. But he’s very fond of Vikki and is not prepared to hear anything against him. So when I again broached the subject he made light of it and said that the boy had not even done his B.A. yet, and when the time for it came he hoped to rake in at least forty thousand rupees through his marriage.

  You see, men are very shrewd. Unlike us, they have the knack of considering all aspects of a question. I could say nothing more except that he should keep tweaking Vikki’s ears. ‘You know the saying: Lusty youth…’

  My husband was annoyed, ‘Do you know anything specific against him?’ he flared up. ‘If so, tell me. Don’t beat about the bush.’ His tone was so harsh that I withdrew into my shell, leaving the discussion to a more propitious moment. But little did I know that that moment would never come and the morrow would unfold a sordid story.

  At about eight in the morning I was sitting in the back veranda, drying my hair. We get plenty of sun in the back veranda and it is just the place for drying the hair. Yes, it was about eight o’clock because the Frontier Mail passes by our house just about that time. The rail track, as you know, runs along the back of our house. If the outer signal is not down all the trains stop there and then proceed slowly. Except the Frontier Mail, w
hich rarely stops there.

  Jagga must have planned the whole thing in advance. At the same time as I heard the distant rumble of the train I saw him emerging from his room. As he passed by the veranda I asked him to send his wife to me. But he did not seem to have heard me. Then he ran down the backyard and jumping across the wall started climbing the abutment. Not once did he look back towards the house. How foolish of me! I am really thick-brained not to have asked myself why he was running towards the rail track. After he climbed the abutment I lost sight of him.

  Why should I tell a lie, specially at the time of sundown? Believe me, I completely lost sight of him. It did not occur to me even when the train came hurtling down and suddenly screeched to a stop. One can clearly make out the screech of wheels as they grind to a stop. Can’t one? But I took no notice of the train because almost all of them stop here as a matter of routine.

  Then I saw our mali rushing away. ‘I hear there has been an accident!’ he shouted back to me, as he jumped over the wall. Even then I suspected nothing till I heard the servant of our neighbours shouting. ‘Jagga is dead! He has been run over by the train!’

  My heart started pounding. You know I had a soft corner in my heart for that fellow and my husband treated him like his own son. And that I think was his undoing. For fear of hurting his feelings he concealed the facts from my husband – and that corroded his heart from within. Had he opened out to my husband his life would have been saved. My husband would have certainly set things right. He is very resourceful that way – and very clever. But that fellow kept mum all the time.

  I had a horrible time that day. How horrible, words just fail to describe. The telephone bell kept ringing almost all the time and the police inspector descended on us three times. After having a word with my husband he would peep into Jagga’s room. Don’t I know why? On the plea of assessing the situation, the inspector wanted to feast his eyes on that evil-minded girl. Men always look at women like hungry wolves. And that woman was lying unconscious on the floor. She had been having fits since morning.

  As for me, my condition was worse. I was feeling utterly distraught. When I can’t take care of my own body how can I look after others? The situation was getting too much for me. Not that I did not think of visiting that room just to see things for myself. But my husband would not let me go there. ‘Keep clear of that room,’ he warned me. ‘It may turn out to be a criminal case.’

  Men, you know, are very shrewd. They know the world for what it is. When the police questioned him he professed complete ignorance. He said a man had no business to poke his nose in the private life of his servants. Later when I suggested that he should send Vikki away for a few days, he immediately brushed aside my proposal, and for a very good reason too. It would have aroused the suspicion of the police. Well, such things can only occur to men.

  Have one more crispie. Come on, have it. You’ve hardly eaten anything. How will you sustain yourself without eating? Eat you must. Only take care that you do not put on weight. Not fat like me. Obesity is indeed a curse. See, how time has passed! Your company provides me with some diversion. Do drop in some time. You don’t live far. If it’s any trouble I can send my car to fetch you. I feel so lonely in the house. It frightens me out of my wits.

  From the office my husband goes straight to the club. He does not feel happy unless he has played bridge for a couple of hours. A pack of cards is my rival – a co-wife, if I may say so. From the day I entered this house as a bride this co-wife has been tormenting me day and night. Every evening she seduces him to the club. Hai, I can’t even laugh. My breathing gets laboured and my lungs start wheezing. I tell him not to waste time on cards as it’s bad for health. And do you know what reply he gives? ‘It’s because of cards that I manage to wriggle out of so many difficulties. I had Jagga’s case hushed up because the police chief is my partner at cards. A case of suicide leads to a lot of harassment.’ I was impressed. You see, we women are such ignoramuses compared to men.

  When the whole affair had finally been laid to rest I casually asked my husband if he knew about Vikki’s escapades. ‘Of course, I knew. I knew every bit of it,’ he said. I was so shocked at his confession that I kept gaping at him.

  ‘What’s so surprising about it?’ he said. ‘In youth everyone sows his wild oats and so did Vikki.’

  ‘But you should have pulled him up, all the same,’ I said.

  ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘He was not going about whoring. Nor did he catch VD. What’s happened has happened. I’m sure he’ll watch his step in future.’

  I did not like the light-hearted manner in which my husband dismissed the whole affair. ‘Jagga lost his life because of Vikki,’ I said.

  ‘So you wanted me to hand my brother over to the police – have him sent to the gallows?’ he flew at me. ‘Would that have pleased you?’ Then his voice softened and he said, ‘One can never know whether Vikki went to that woman on his own or she tempted him to walk into her trap. You can’t clap with one hand. If a woman as much as throws a hint a raw youth is sure to lose his head. There’s a jute curtain hanging over Jagga’s door. Maybe she had been making gestures to Vikki from behind the curtain. If the woman was not game for it, Vikki wouldn’t have dared even to look in the direction of her room. Can one walk into a woman’s room just like that? If she was so chaste why didn’t she keep her room bolted from inside, specially when her husband was away? Or, she could have come and sat in your room. I’m sure you wouldn’t have stopped her from doing so.’

  I was subdued. Indeed, there was a point in what my husband had said. Who was the culprit? She or Vikki? God only knew.

  To cut it short, my husband smoothed out the whole matter to everyone’s satisfaction and no harm was done. He is very shrewd and full of understanding. There is one great thing about him, he always plays it cool. Another person in his place would have lost his head and made a hash of the whole thing. When Jagga’s brother came from his village and started wailing over his brother’s death my husband gave him one hundred rupees. He also gave money to Jagga’s wife’s father.

  ‘It’s all over and done with,’ I said to my husband. ‘What’s the point in squandering money like this?’ He said that Jagga had served him for ten years and he could not wipe out his memory from his mind so easily. Besides, a little money to a poor man went a long way in keeping his tongue from wagging. You see, my husband is very kind. He thinks well of everybody.

  Do you mind pressing the bell button? These servants are awful. They know it’s getting dark but they won’t care to switch on the light. One has to ring the bell again and again. They just keep their ears plugged with cotton wool. Now that you are here you must have your dinner with me. My husband usually comes late and often dines out. No, I won’t let you go unless you dine with me. Your company is so diverting. We haven’t talked about ourselves. We’ll sit together and have a nice chat. You asked me about saag meat and that set me talking about the wretch, Jagga. No, no, you must have your dinner before you go.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Agnostic

  KHUSHWANT SINGH

  The argument went on the lines it had gone many times before.

  ‘So you don’t believe in God! Is it only for the sake of an argument .or you really and truly do not?’ asked the host. ‘So help you God!’

  ‘No, I really and truly do not believe in God. So help me Satan!’ answered the visitor.

  ‘Then where does all this come from?’ demanded the host, warming up and waving his arms around. ‘These trees, these human beings, these animals, this world and everything that’s in it?’ Being a politician, he was given to rhetoric. His family always voted for him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied the visitor. And before they could checkmate him with a ‘There!’, he continued: ‘Nor do you. Nor did any of your Prophets and Messiahs and Avatars. Nor does anyone else. All your religions are a mumbo-jumbo of children’s fairy…’

  ‘I know where everything comes from,’ interrupted t
he ten-year-old son of the host who never let an argument go without voicing his opinion. ‘Everything comes from God. So there!’ He snapped his thumb and finger in the visitor’s face. ‘It’s God, God, God. And if you believe in Satan, you have to believe in God.’

  ‘Who said I believe in Satan! He is as much a creature of sick minds as God.’ To make it simpler for the young lad, he added: ‘Your God is a Gas Balloon – or like that red rubber ball you boys kick around in your garden.’

  The family was aghast. ‘Oh please! For God’s sake, don’t destroy my children’s faith with this kind of blasphemy!’ pleaded the hostess. ‘I pay a maulvi sahib to come and teach them to read the Quran and say their prayers. And you ruin it all.’

  She turned to her children: ‘Don’t you believe a word he says. Now go and do your homework. Off with you!’ The children were reluctant to go; a quarrel between elders was too good to be missed. But a bit of bribery and lots of cajoling made them get up and drag their feet to their room. The youngest one left with a parting exclamation and a laugh: ‘God is a Red Rubber Ball.’

  ‘Look what you have done!’ despaired the hostess. ‘They will say this kind of thing in their school – a Catholic institution – and be thrown out. They will not fast during Ramzan and stop saying their prayers. They will not have any faith left – not even as a prop or a crutch to fall back on. Do you want them to become dropouts and misfits?’

  The visitor continued needling her. ‘In that case you should not expose your children to people like me. Don’t invite me to your home; just have your maulvi sahibs and Catholic fathers and superstitious God-fearing uncles, aunts and cousins stuff their brains with all the poppy-cock of Allah-in-Heaven-Adam-Eve-Day of Judgement-Reincarnation-Nirvana. Don’t let them think, okay?’

  ‘Achha! Achha! No need to get so worked up,’ said the host to restore peace. ‘Let’s go for a walk. That’ll help you both cool down.’