Our Favourite Indian Stories (16 page)

That was all that Bishen Singh wanted to know. He turned and ran back to Pakistan. Pakistani soldiers apprehended him and tried to push him back towards India. Bishen Singh refused to budge. 'Toba Tek Singh is on this side.' He cried, and began to yell at the top of his voice
'O, parcli, good good di, anekas di, bedhyana di, moong di of Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan.'.
They did their best to soothe him, to explain to him that Toba Tek Singh must have left for India; and that if any of that name was found in Pakistan he would be dispatched to India at once. Bishen Singh refused to be persuaded. They tried to use force. Bishen Singh planted himself on the dividing line and dug his swollen feet into the ground with such firmness that no one could move him.

They let him be. He was soft in the head. There was no point using force; he would come round of his own — yes. They left him standing where he was and resumed the exchange of other lunatics.

Shortly before sunrise, a wierd cry rose from Bishen Singh's throat. The man who had spent all the nights and days of the last fifteen years standing on his feet, now sprawled on the ground, face down. The barbed wire fence marked the territory of Pakistan. In the no man's land between the two barbed-wire fences lay the body of Bishen Singh of village Toba Tek Singh.

Translated by
Khushwant Singh

Ismat Chughtai

The day Mirza's new maid ambled into his house, there was a sensation in the neighbourhood. The sweeper, who normally avoided work, stayed on and scrubbed the floor with great vigour. The milkman, notorious for adulterating his ware, brought milk clogged with cream.

Who could have named her Lajo — the coy one? Bashfulness was unknown to Lajo. No one knew who begot her and abandoned her on the streets to a lonely, weeping, childhood. Begging and starving, she reached an age when she could snatch a living for herself. Youth etched her body into bewitching curves and this became her only asset. The street initiated her into the mysteries of life.

She never haggled. If it was not a cash-down proposition, it would be sex on credit. If the lover had no means, she would even give of herself free.

'Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' people asked.

'I am!" Lajo would blush brazenly.

'You'll regret it some day.'

'I couldn't care less!'

How could she? With a face that was innocence itself, dark eyes, evenly set teeth, a mellow complexion and a gait so swinging, so provocative?

Mirza was a bachelor. Flattening and baking
chapatis
daily had flattened out his existence. He owned a small grocery shop which he pompously called "General Store." The shop did not give Mirza any leisure even to go to his home town and get married.

Mirza's friend Bakhshi had picked up Lajo at a bus stop. Bakhshi's wife was nine moths pregnant and they needed a maid. Later, when Lajo was not required, Bakhshi deposited her at Mirza's. Instead of squandering away at brothels, he thought, why not let Mirza enjoy a free dish?

'God forbid. I won't have a tart in the house!' said Mirza warily. 'Take her back!'

But Lajo had already made herself at home. With her skirt hiked up like a diaper, broom in hand, she was sweeping Mirza's house in dead earnest. When Bakhshi informed her of Mirza's refusal, it fell on deaf ears. She ordered him to arrange the pans on the kitchen shelf and went out to fetch water. 'If you wish, I'll take you back home,' Bakhshi said.

'Out with you! Are you my husband to take me back to my mother's? Go! I'll tackle the Mian myself!'

Bakhshi's departure left Mirza helpless. He ran out and took refuge in the mosque. He was not prepared to incur this extra expenditure. Moreover, she was bound to pilfer and cheat. What a mess Bakhshi had got him into!

But on returning home he held his breath. As though his late mother, Bi Amma, was back! The house was sparkling.

'Shall I serve dinner, Mian?' Lajo asked and disappeared into the kitchen.

Spinach and potato curry,
moong ki dal
fried with onion and garlic — just the way Ammaji used to cook!

'How did you manage all this?' Mirza asked, baffled.

'Borrowed from the
bania.'

'Look, I'll pay your return fare. I just cannot afford a servant.'

'Who wants to be paid?'

'But...'

'Is the food hot?' Lajo asked, slipping a fresh chapati into his plate.

'Not the food but I am certainly hot from top to toe!' Mirza wanted to shout as he went into his room to sleep.

'No, Mian, I am here for good!' Lajo threatened when he brought up the question again the next morning.

'But..'

'Didn't you like the food?'

'It's not that...'

'Don't I scrub and clean well?'

'It's not that....'

'Then what is it?' Lajo flared up.

She had fallen in love, not with Mirza, but with the house. Bakhshi, the bastard, had once rented a room for her. Its previous occupant had been Nandi — a buffalo. The buffalo was dead and gone to hell but had left behind his stench and Bakhshi did not treat her well either. Now here she was, the unrivalled mistress of Mirza's house. Mirza was uncomplicated. He would sneak in, softly and quietly, and eat whatever was served.

Mirza, for his part, checked the accounts a few times and was satisfied that Lajo did not cheat.

At times she went across to Ramu's grandmother for a tete-a-tete. Ramu was Mirza's dissipated teenaged help in the store. He fell for Lajo the minute he saw her. It was he who told her of Mirza's frequent visits to the singing girls.

This hurt Lajo. After all, what was she for? Wherever employed, she had served well in every capacity. And here a full chaste week had passed! She had never felt so unwanted before. Several offers came her way but she was Mirza's maid. She rejected one and all, lest Mirza should become a laughing-stock. And here was Mirza—an iceberg, or so he appeared. Lajo could not see the volcanoes erupting within him. He kept away from home deliberately.

Lajo's name was on every lip — today she slapped the milkman, yesterday she had aimed a dung-cake full in the face of the
bania
and so on. The schoolmaster insisted on educating her. The
Mullaji
of the mosque burst into prayers in Arabic, beseeching God to ward off impending danger!

Mirza came home annoyed. Lajo had just had her bath. Strands of wet hair clung to her shoulders. Blowing into the kitchen fire had flushed her cheeks and filled her eyes with water. She ground her teeth at Mian's untimely entry.

Mirza almost toppled over! After a silent, uneasy meal, he picked up his walking-stick, went out and sat in the mosque. But he could not relax. Ceaseless thoughts of home made him restless. Unable to hold out any longer, he got back and found Lajo on the threshold, quarrelling with a man. The man disappeared the moment he saw Mirza.

'Who was that?' Mirza's tone was that of a suspicious husband! 'Raghava!'

'Raghava?' Mirza had been buying milk from him for years and yet did not know his name.

'Shall I prepare the
hookah, Mian?'
Lajo changed the subject.

'No! What was that man up to?'

'Was asking me how much milk he should bring from now on.'

'What did you say?'

'I said: May God hasten your funeral! Bring the usual measure.'

'Then?' Mirza was furious.

'Then I said: Bastard, go, feed the extra milk to your mother and sister!'

'The scoundrel! Don't let him set foot here again! I will myself fetch milk on the way home from the store.'

That night, after dinner, Mirza put on a starched, freshly laundered
Kurta
, stuck a scented piece of cottonwool in his ear, picked up his walking and walked out.

Jealousy wrung Lajo's heart. She cursed the singing-girl and sat dumbfounded. Was Mirza really indifferent to her? 'How could that be?' she wondered.

The singing-girl was haggling with a customer. This upset Mirza. He turned away and made for the Lala's shop. There, he cursed inflation, rising prices, national politics... and returned home at midnight, spent and irritated. He drank a lot of cold water but the fire in him continued to blaze.

A part of Lajo's smooth golden leg was visible from the open door. A careless turn in sleep tinkled her anklets. Mirza drained another glass of water and bundled up on his cot, cursing everything under the moon.

Ceaseless tossing in bed reduced his body to a blister. Litres of cold water bloated his stomach. The roundness of the leg behind the door was irresistible. Unknown fears strangled him. But the devil egged him on. From his bed to the kitchen, he had walked so many miles but now he couldn't move a step.

Then an innocent idea crossed his mind. Were Lajo's leg not so exposed, he wouldn't be so uncomfortable...Gradually, this idea took strength and so did Mirza. What if she woke up? Yet he had to take the risk — for the sake of his own safety.

He left his slippers under the cot, held his breath and tiptoed across, gingerly lifted the hem of the skirt and pulled it down slowly. He stood a while indecisively and turned away.

With one quick move, Lajo grabbed him. Mirza was speechless. He struggled, pleaded, but Lajo wouldn't let him go!

When he encountered Lajo the next morning, she blushed like a bride! Lajo, the victor, went about her chores boldly, humming a
kajri
. Not a shadow of the night's happening flickered in her eyes. When Mirza sat down to breakfast, she sat on the doorstep, as usual, fanning the flies away.

That afternoon, when she brought his lunch to the shop he noticed a new lilt in her gait. Whenever Lajo came to the shop, people would stop by and enquire about the price of groceries. She sold in a short while what Mirza couldn't during the entire day!

Mirza began to improve in his looks. People knew the reason and sizzled with envy. Mirza, in turn, grew nervous and ill at ease. The more Lajo looked after him, the more he was enamoured of her and the more afraid he was of the neighbours. She was utterly brazen. When she fetched his lunch, the entire bazaar throbbed with her presence.

'Don't bring lunch any more!' he told her one day.

'Why not?' Lajo's face fell. Staying home all by herself bored her. The bazaar was an interesting break.

Having stopped her from coming, many doubts assailed Mirza. He dropped in at odd hours to spy on her and she would insist on rewarding him fully for his attentions!

The day he caught her at a game of
kabaddi
with street urchins, his anger knew no bounds. Her skirt was billowing in the wind. The boys were engrossed in the skirt. Mirza passed by, holding his head high with affected indifference. His discomfiture amused the onlookers.

Mirza had grown fond of Lajo. The very idea of separation drove him crazy. He was unable to concentrate on his shop. He feared that some day she might desert him.

'Mian, why not marry her?' Miran Mian suggested.

'God forbid!' he shouted. How could he form so sacred a relationship with a slut?

But that very evening, when he didn't find her at home, Mirza felt lost. The confounded Lala had been long on the wait. He had offered her a bungalow! Miran Mian, a friend from all accounts, had himself made a proposition to Lajo on the sly.

Mirza was losing hope when suddenly Lajo appeared. She had just gone across to Ramu's grandmother!

That day Mirza made up his mind to take Lajo for a wife even at the cost of his family's pride and prestige.

'But why, Mian?' Lajo asked, surprised at his proposal.

'Why not? Want to have a fling elsewhere?' he asked crossly.

'Why should I have a fling?'

'That Raoji is offering you a bungalow.'

'I wouldn't spit on his bungalow!'

But the need for marriage completely escaped her. She was and would be his for life. A master like him was not easy to come by. Lajo knew what a gem Mirza was. All her previous masters inevitably ended up as her lovers. They would first have their fill, then beat her up and kick her out. Mirza had always been tender and loving. He had bought her a few clothes and a pair of gold bangles. No one in seven generations of Lajo's family had ever worn ornaments of pure gold.

When Mirza spoke of his plan to Ramu's grandmother, she too was surprised.

'Mian, why tie a bell around your neck?' she asked. 'Is the slut making a fuss? A sound thrashing will set her right. Where beating up can do, why think of marriage?'

But Mirza was obsessed with the idea.

'You there, are you hesitating on account of the difference in religion?' Ramu's grandmother asked Lajo.

'No, I've always regarded him as my husband.'

Lajo looked upon even a passing lover as a passing husband and served him well. Riches were never showered upon her, yet she gave of herself fully — body and soul. Mirza was an exception, of course. Only Lajo knew the pleasure of the give-and-take game with him. Compared to him the others were pigs.

Also, marriage was for virgins. How did she qualify to be a bride? She begged and pleaded, but Mirza was bent upon entering into a legal contract of the
nikah
.

That day, after the evening prayer,
nikah
was solemnised. Young girls of the neighbourhood sang wedding songs. Mirza entertained his friends. Lajo, renamed Kaneez Fatima, became wife of Mirza Irfan Ali Beg.

Mirza imposed a ban on lehngas and prescribed
churidar pyjamas
. Lajo, however, was used to open space between her legs. This new imposition was a big irritant. She could never get used to it. One day, at the first opportunity, she took off the pyjamas and was about to get into the
lehnga
, when Mirza turned up. In her confusion, she forgot to hold the skirt around her waist and dropped it to the floor.

'The devil take you!' Mirza thundered a Quranic curse. He hurriedly threw a bedsheet over her.

Lajo could not understand his annoyance and the grandiloquent oration that followed. Where had she erred? This very act had taken Mirza's breath away so many times in the past. Now he was so upset. He picked up the
lehnga
and actually fed it to the fire.