City Improbable- Writings on Delhi

by Khuswant Singh

  In his opium-saturated voice, Mando the musician chipped in, ‘Chotti bai, may God protect you, what a wonderful thing you have said! I am prepared to go to Pakistan this very minute. If I die there and my bones are placed in its earth, my soul will rest in eternal peace.’

  The other musicians were also equally enthusiastic about moving to Pakistan, but since the burri bai was against the idea, no more was said about it.

  The burri bai, herself the toast of Delhi in her youth, sent a message to Seth Gobind Prakash, one of Nasim Akhtar’s ardent and rich admirers and a frequent visitor to the kotha. The message conveyed that her daughter was terrified of all this Hindu–Muslim business and would he kindly come and set her mind at rest?

  He came the next morning and Nasim Akhtar’s mother said to him, ‘Please talk to her. This girl wants us all to move to Pakistan, but I have been trying to reason with her. With such kind and generous friends as yourself, why should we leave Delhi? In fact, I have no doubt that in Pakistan we will be reduced to sweeping the streets. Sethji, I need a favour from you.’

  The seth who was only half-listening to the burri bai, as his mind was elsewhere, asked, ‘Ah, yes, what is that?’

  ‘Could you have two or three armed guards posted outside our kotha for a few days so that this girl can feel safe?’

  ‘No trouble at all. I can speak to the chief of police right away, so don’t you worry. He will post a special police guard for your place, by this very evening, I promise,’ the seth said expansively.

  ‘May God bless you!’ said the burri bai, much moved.

  ‘Perhaps I will drop in myself this evening. Wouldn’t it be nice to see our Nasim Akhtar’s mujra?’

  The old courtesan rose. ‘Yes, indeed, this is your own place and this girl is always here at your service. Also, you must dine here tonight, seth sahib.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I am on a diet these days,’ he said, running his hands over his big belly.

  After the seth’s departure, the house was given a thorough cleaning. The big floor cushions, on which the clients reclined as they sat and watched Nasim Akhtar perform, had their covers changed, new lights were installed and a special tin of scarce cigarettes was ordered for Seth Gobind Prakash.

  While the final touches were still being given to these elaborate preparations, the servant burst into the room, his face white with fear. He even had difficulty speaking, but finally managed to tell them that he had seen five Sikhs pounce on a Muslim street vendor just around the corner and stab him to death in the most gruesome manner.

  Nasim Akhtar nearly fainted when she heard what had happened. Ustad Achhan Khan made gallant efforts to reassure her but she was just too shaken by what she had heard. Finally her mother said, ‘This is not the first time a man has been killed in the street; these things are always going on. Now, child, don’t you think it is time you got ready for the evening? Seth sahib could be here any minute.’

  Although that was the last thing she felt like doing, Nasim Akhtar put on her silks and brocades, her peshwaz, painted her face, did her hair and took her customary place in the room where all the entertaining was done. But she couldn’t get over that poor Muslim street vendor lying dead in a pool of blood. She wanted to throw off her ornaments, get out of her shimmering clothes, put on something plain and beg her mother to listen to her because she was sure something terrible was going to happen to them.

  Finally she told her mother what had been going through her mind, but the old woman merely replied, ‘Why should anything happen to us? We haven’t offended anybody.’

  ‘And who had that poor vendor offended? They killed him nevertheless, didn’t they?’ Nasim Akhtar said gravely. ‘They cut him into pieces. It is the bad ones who escape and the innocent who get killed.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying,’ her mother retorted irately.

  ‘Who does, these days? All I know is that blood is flowing in the streets of Delhi,’ the young woman said. Then she rose, walked to the balcony and surveyed the street below. She saw four men with guns. She waved to Ustad Achhan Khan to come and take a look. ‘Are they the armed policemen seth sahib had promised to arrange?’ she asked him.

  ‘They don’t look like police to me; they are not wearing uniforms. They look like goondas to me,’ the old man whispered.

  ‘Goondas!’ Nasim Akhtar nearly screamed.

  ‘God only knows. They are coming towards the kotha. Nasim, I think you should take the stairs and go to the rooftop and I’ll follow you in a few minutes. There is definitely something very wrong here.’

  Nasim Akhtar slunk out of the room. The old woman had not noticed. Ustad Achhan Khan came soon after. Nasim Akhtar’s heart was sinking. ‘What is going on?’ she asked the old man.

  ‘Just what I had feared. The four men came up as soon as you had left the room. They said they had been sent by Seth Gobind Prakash to fetch you to his residence since he couldn’t make it himself. Your mother was pleased and said it was very kind of him. She thought you were in the bathroom. She told the men she would have to come along too, but one of them said, “We don’t want you, you old hag. We have come for the young one.” ‘When I heard that, I slipped out and rushed here to warn you,’ the old man said breathlessly.

  ‘What should we do?’ Nasim Akhtar asked desperately.

  Ustad Achhan Khan scratched his head. ‘Let me think of something. Perhaps we should get out of here as fast as we can.’

  ‘And my mother?’ she asked.

  ‘God will protect her, but we should escape while there is time,’ he replied after a pause.

  The adjoining roof, a few feet lower, was that of the local laundry. Without much difficulty, they jumped on to it. Luckily, there were stairs leading from the roof to the street and in a few minutes they were safely out. They walked a block or two and found a tonga owned by a Muslim who agreed to take them to the railway station.

  On their way, they saw an army truck with Muslim soldiers who were evacuating people from Hindu areas and taking them to the station where special refugee trains for Pakistan were being run. They got a ride and were in time to board a train going to Lahore in Pakistan, where they arrived the next morning.

  They were taken to a refugee camp in a place outside the city called Walton. They lived there for a few weeks and then Ustad Achhan Khan sold some of Nasim Akhtar’s jewellery and they moved to a small, inexpensive hotel. After a few days, the old man rented a kotha in Hira Mandi, Lahore’s famous ‘red light’ courtesan district.

  One day Ustad Achhan Khan said to her, ‘I think we need to invest in some purchases, I mean musical instruments, floor cushions, that sort of thing and, with God’s blessings, we can take up where we left off in Delhi.’

  But to his surprise, Nasim Akhtar replied, ‘No, Khan sahib, my heart is not in that sort of thing any more. I don’t even want to live in this neighbourhood. Please find me a small place in some nice, normal locality. Delhi is behind me. That life for me is finished. I just want to live like a normal woman.’

  ‘What are you talking about, girl?’ Achhan Khan asked.

  ‘That was all a long time ago. I don’t even want to think about those days. Please pray for me; may God give me the strength to make a break from my past.’ Nasim Akhtar’s eyes were full of tears.

  Over the next few days, Ustad Achhan Khan tried his best to talk her out of her strange resolve but her mind really seemed to be made up. One day she said to him, ‘I would like to get married, that is, if someone would have me; otherwise I will remain a spinster.’

  Achhan Khan could not understand what had happened to her.

  Was it the partition of the country that had unhinged her? Women in this profession were not like this. But he soon gave up on her. She really had changed. He found her a small house in a quiet locality, far away from Hira Mandi; but he moved back to the area himself, where he felt at home, and was hired by a rich and popular courtesan as her music teacher.

  Nasim Akhtar was happy. It wa
s a hard life, but that was what she wanted. A young boy-servant did her shopping and helped her around the house. The money from the sale of the rest of her ornaments was enough to keep her going for some time yet. She had become very religious, praying five times a day, and abstaining from food and drink during Ramadan.

  Over the last couple of months, an old woman called Jannatey had begun to visit her off and on. Nasim Akhtar was grateful for her company; what she did not know was that this woman was a procuress who enticed young girls and sold them into prostitution. If they had a talent for song and dance, they became rich courtesans; otherwise they became part of Hira Mandi’s infamous flesh trade.

  One day, while Jannatey was out in the courtyard, she heard Nasim Akhtar singing most beautifully as she washed her hair. She had not sung for a long time and even now was not conscious of the fact that she was singing. By instinct and experience the old woman knew the moment she heard the singing that this strange girl from Delhi who never talked and lived alone could find a place in Hira Mandi, where she could become one of Lahore’s leading singing girls. The question was how to go about it.

  She tried a number of ruses, made some indirect, some direct references to the possibility, but none of them worked. Finally, one day, she threw her arms around Nasim Akhtar and kissed her on the forehead affectionately. ‘Daughter, I beg of you, don’t misunderstand me. I was only testing you, but you are a young woman of great piety and virtue, and not for you those things. I am sorry.’

  Nasim Akhtar was taken in; she even told the old woman that she wanted to get married to a nice and simple man as it was not safe or advisable for a young woman to be living all alone without anyone to look after her.

  This was just the opening Jannatey had been looking for. ‘You leave that to me; I will find you the perfect husband, a man who will worship you.’

  In the next few days, the old procuress brought Nasim Akhtar a number of fake proposals, making none of them sound too good, until one day she burst into the house announcing that she had found the man she was looking for. He was not too old, had a lot of property, was of a fine, upright moral character, and if Nasim Akhtar would trust her, she would go right ahead with the arrangements.

  Nasim Akhtar was mentally prepared for any proposal that sounded good, more so because she had complete faith in the old woman. So she said Jannatey could proceed with the arranged marriage. She did not need to see or meet the man.

  A date was set and a simple ceremony took place and Nasim Akhtar was married. She was happy that she had found a good husband who would look after her. However, her happiness was not to last beyond twenty-four hours, because the very next day she overheard her husband talking to two old courtesans from Hira Mandi. They were haggling over her price. She was being sold off. Jannatey was the mediator.

  Nasim Akhtar rushed into her bedroom, tears running down her cheeks. She cried for a long time, then she dried her eyes and unpacked the clothes she had brought with her from Delhi, the ones she had been wearing that last evening, and quietly walked out of the house, making straight for the kotha where Ustad Achhan Khan was employed.

  Winter Morning

  KAMLESHWAR

  This is an extract from the short story ‘Dilli Mein Ek Maut’, translated by Gordon C. Roadarmel.

  A shroud of fog covers everything. It is past nine in the morning, but all of Delhi is enmeshed in the haze. The streets are damp. The trees are wet. Nothing is clearly visible. The bustle of life reveals itself in sounds, sounds which fill the ears. Sounds are coming from every part of the house. As on other days, Vaswani’s servant has lit the stove, and it can be heard sizzling beyond the wall. In the adjoining room, Atul Mavani is polishing his shoes. Upstairs the Sardarji is putting Fixo on his moustache. Behind the curtain on his window a bulb gleams like an immense pearl. All the doors are closed and all the windows are draped, but throughout the building there is the clamour of life. On the third floor, Vaswani has closed the bathroom door and turned on the tap.

  Buses are rushing through the fog, the whine of their heavy tyres approaching and then fading into the distance. Motor rickshaws are dashing along recklessly. Someone has just flipped down a taxi meter. The phone is ringing at the doctor’s place next door, and some girls heading for work are passing through the rear alley.

  The cold is intense. On the shivering streets, cars and buses, their horns blaring, slash through the clouds of fog. The sidewalks are crowded but each person, wrapped in fog, seems like a drifting wisp of cotton.

  Those wisps of cotton advance silently into the sea of haze. The buses are crowded. People huddle on the cold seats amidst figures hanging almost like Jesus from the cross—arms outstretched, with not nails in their hands but the icy shining rods of the bus.

  In the distance a funeral procession is coming down the street.

  This must be the funeral I just read about in the newspaper: ‘The death occurred this evening at Irwin Hospital of Seth Diwanchand, the renowned and beloved Karol Bagh business magnate. His body has been taken to his home. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock the funeral will proceed by way of Arya Samaj road to the Panchkuin cremation ground for the last rites.’

  This must be his bier coming up the street now. Walking silently and slowly behind it are some people wrapped in mufflers and wearing hats. Nothing can be seen very clearly.

  There is a knock at my door. I put the paper aside and open the door. Atul Mavani is standing there.

  ‘I have a problem, friend. No one showed up today to do the ironing. Could I use your iron?’ Atul’s words are a relief. I was afraid he might raise the question of joining the funeral procession. I immediately give him the iron, satisfied that he plans to iron his pants and then set off on a round of the embassies.

  Bhabiji’s House

  RUSKIN BOND

  This extract is taken from The Lamp Is Lit, Ruskin Bond’s autobiography.

  My neighbours in Rajouri Garden back in the 1960s were my Punjabi friend Kamal and his family. This entry from my journal, which I wrote on one of my visits in 1970, after I had moved to Mussoorie, describes a typical day in that household.

  At first light there is a tremendous burst of birdsong from the guava tree in the little garden. Over a hundred sparrows wake up all at once and give tongue to whatever it is that sparrows have to say to each other at five o’clock on a foggy winter’s morning in Delhi.

  In the small house, people sleep on; that is, everyone except Bhabiji—Granny—the head of the lively Punjabi middle-class family with whom I nearly always stay when I am in Delhi.

  She coughs, stirs, groans, grumbles and gets out of bed. The fire has to be lit, and food prepared for two of her sons to take to work. There is a daughter-in-law, Shobha, to help her; but the girl is not very bright at getting up in the morning. Actually, it is this way: Bhabiji wants to show up her daughter-in-law; so, no matter how hard Shobha tries to be up first, Bhabiji forestalls her. The old lady does not sleep well, anyway; her eyes are open long before the first sparrow chirps, and as soon as she sees her daughter-in-law stirring, she scrambles out of bed and hurries to the kitchen. This gives her the opportunity to say: ‘What good is a daughter-in-law when I have to get up to prepare her husband’s food?’

  The truth is that Bhabiji does not like anyone else preparing her sons’ food.

  She looks no older than when I first saw her, ten years ago. She still has complete control over a large family and, with tremendous confidence and enthusiasm, presides over the lives of three sons, a daughter, two daughters-in-law and fourteen grandchildren. This is a joint family (there are not many left in a big city like Delhi), in which the sons and their families all live together as one unit under their mother’s benevolent (and sometimes slightly malevolent) autocracy. Even when her husband was alive, Bhabiji dominated the household.

  The eldest son, Shiv, has a separate kitchen, but his wife and children participate in all the family celebrations and quarrels. It is a small miracle how everyone (inc
luding myself when I visit) manages to fit into the house; and a stranger might be forgiven for wondering where everyone sleeps, for no beds are visible during the day. That is because the beds—light wooden frames with rough string across—are brought in only at night, and are taken out first thing in the morning and kept in the garden shed.

  As Bhabiji lights the kitchen fire, the household begins to stir, and Shobha joins her mother-in-law in the kitchen. As a guest I am privileged and may get up last. But my bed soon becomes an island battered by waves of scurrying, shouting children, eager to bathe, dress, eat and find their school books. Before I can get up, someone brings me a tumbler of hot sweet tea. It is a brass tumbler and burns my fingers; I have yet to learn how to hold one properly. Punjabis like their tea with lots of milk and sugar—so much so that I often wonder why they bother to add any tea.

  Ten years ago, ‘bed tea’ was unheard of in Bhabiji’s house. Then, the first time I came to stay, Kamal, the youngest son, told Bhabiji: ‘My friend is angrez. He must have tea in bed.’ He forgot to mention that I usually took my morning cup at seven; they gave it to me at five. I gulped it down and went to sleep again. Then, slowly, others in the household began indulging in morning cups of tea. Now everyone, including the older children, has ‘bed tea’. They bless my English forebears for instituting the custom; I bless the Punjabis for perpetuating it.

  Breakfast is by rota, in the kitchen. It is a tiny room and accommodates only four adults at a time. The children have eaten first; but the smallest children, Shobha’s toddlers, keep coming in and climbing over us. Says Bhabiji of the youngest and most mischievous: ‘He lives only because God keeps a special eye on him.’

  Kamal, his elder brother Arun and I sit cross-legged and barefooted on the floor while Bhabiji serves us hot parathas stuffed with potatoes and onions, along with omelettes, an excellent dish. Arun then goes to work on his scooter, while Kamal catches a bus for the city, where he attends an art college. After they have gone, Bhabiji and Shobha have their breakfast.