Our Favourite Indian Stories (17 page)

Mirza left, leaving Lajo shocked and uncomprehending. Discarding the sheet, she examined her body. Maybe some repulsive skin disease had erupted overnight.

When bathing under the tap in the open, she kept wiping her tears. Mithwa, son of the mason, climbed the terrace daily on the pretext of flying kites and watched her. She was so sad today she neither stuck out her thumb nor hurled a slipper at him. She wrapped the sheet around and went indoors.

With a heavy heart she got into the long trousers — as long as the devil's intestines. To add to her misery the cummerbund got lost inside the waistband. She shouted for help. Jullu, the neighbour's daughter, appeared and the tape was located. 'Which sadist could have adapted this rifle case for a feminine dress?' Lajo wondered.

Later, when Mirza returned home, the tape played truant once again. Lajo tried desparately to catch it with her fingers. Mirza found her nervousness endearing. After a combined concentrated chase, the tape was found.

But a ticklish problem popped up for Mirza. What used to be intoxicating coquetry in Lajo now turned to brazenness in his wife. The indecent ways of a flirt are unbecoming to respectable women. Lajo failed to be the bride of his dream — one who would blush at his amorous advances, be annoyed at his persistence and feign indifference to his attention. Lajo was a mere pavement slab.

Checking her at every step, Mirza curbed her excesses and tamed the wild in her — or so he thought. Also, he was no longer impatient to get back home in the evenings. Like all husbands, he spent more time with friends to avoid being labelled henpecked.

To make up for his frequent absences, he suggested engaging a maid. Lajo was furious. She knew of Mian's renewed visits to the singing-girls. She also knew that every man of the neighbourhood went there. But, in her own home, she would not tolerate another woman! Let anybody step into her kitchen and tinker with her glistening vessels, Lajo would tear her to bits! She would share Mirza with another woman but certainly would not share her home.

Mirza seemed to have installed Lajo in his house and forgotten all about her. For weeks he spoke only in monosyllables. When she was his mistress, all men had their eyes on her. Now that she had gained respectability, she became "mother, sister and daughter". No one cast even a stray glance at the jute curtain — except the faithful Mithwa. He still flew kites on the roof, although only when Mirza was away and Lajo was bathing in the courtyard.

One night Mirza stayed away, celebrating Dussehra with friends. He came home the next morning, had a quick wash and went off to the shop. Lajo was annoyed. It was then, while bathing, that she looked up at the terrace. Or maybe that day Mithwa's stares pierced her wet body like so many spears.

Suddenly his kite snapped. The broken cord brushed sharply against Lajo's body. Lajo was startled. She got up quickly and ran into the room, absent-minded or deliberately forgetting to wrap the towel around her.

From then on, Mithwa was always found hanging around Mirza's house. Whenever Lajo wanted something from the market, she would draw the jute curtain aside and shout 'Mithwa, don't stay put like a dunghill! Get us a few
kachoris
.'

If Mithwa did not appear on the terrace during her bath, she rattled the bucket loud enough to wake a corpse in its grave. The love, of which she had given so lavishly all her life, was now Mithwa's for the asking. If Mirza did not turn up for a meal, she would never waste the food but feed someone poor and needy. Who was needier than Mithwa?

Mirza was convinced that, chained to wedlock, Lajo had become a genuine housewife. Had he not seen for himself, he would never have believed it. Seeing him on the doorstep so unexpectedly, she laughed uproariously. She could not, even in her wildest dreams, imagine that Mirza would be offended!

But Mithwa knew. Clutching his
dhoti
firmly with one hand, he bolted and stopped for breath only after he had crossed three villages! Mirza flogged Lajo so much that, had she been made of softer stuff, she would have breathed her last.

The news that Mirza had caught his wife with Mithwa spread throughout the village. People came in large numbers to watch the fun and were sorely disappointed to know that Mithwa, the hero, had fled and that the wife lay dismantled. Ramu's grandmother arrived and took her away.

One would think a flogging like that would turn Lajo against the very idea of Mirza. Far from it! Beating helped achieve what marriage could not. The bond was stronger. The minute she came to, Lajo enquired after Mirza. All her masters inevitably ended up as lovers. After giving her a sound thrashing, the question of pay was set aside. She slogged free and was beaten from time to time. But Mirza had always been good. Other masters had even "loaned" her to friends but Mirza regarded her as his own. Everyone advised her to run away and save her skin but she did not budge.

How was Mirza to face the world? He was no way but to kill her in order to save his honour. Miran Mian held him back. 'Why must you stick your head in the noose for a bitch? Divorce the whore and forget her!'

Mirza divorced Lajo immediately and sent 32 rupees of dower,
mahr
, her clothes and other belongings over to Ramu's grandmother.

When Lajo heard of the divorce, she heaved a sigh of relief.
Nikah
had proved unlucky. All mishaps had been due to that.

'Is Mian still angry?' she asked Ramu's grandmother.

'Shan't set eyes on you. Wants you to get lost! Drop dead!'

The news of Mirza's divorce rocked the village. Lala sent out a feeler: 'The bungalow is ready!'

'Dump your mother in it!' Lajo retorted.

After a fortnight in bed, Lajo was up on her feet again. The beating seemed to have spring-cleaned her and left her more glowing than ever. When buying
pan
or
kachori
, she took the whole bazaar by storm.

Mirza died a thousand deaths. Once he spotted her at the
bania's
arguing over something. The
bania
drooled. Mirza left, avoiding notice.

'You are crazy, Mian! Why care for what she does? You have divorced her, haven't you?' Miran Main asked.

'She has been my wife.'

'If you want the truth, she was never your wife!'

'What about the
nikah?'

'Thoroughly illegal!'

'How?'

'It was never valid. No one knows who begot her. And, I suppose,
nikah
with a bastard is not valid,' Miran Mian passed the verdict.

'So the
nikah
never came into effect?' Mirza asked.

'Never!' confirmed Miran Mian.

'And I never lost face either? My family's reputation is involved.'

Mirza felt immensely relieved. 'But what about the divorce?' he asked, worried.

'My dear Mian, no
nikah
, no divorce!'

'So the thirty-two rupees were wasted!' Mirza said sorrowfully.

In no time, news travelled all over the neighbourhood that Mirza was never married to his "wife", that the
nikah
and divorce had both been unlawful.

When Lajo heard the news she danced with joy. The night that was her marriage and divorce was over. What made her happy was the fact that Mian had not lost face, after all. She had genuinely grieved that he had lost his honour because of her. 'What a boon it is to be a bastard,' she thought. God forbid, were she a legitimate child... Even the idea of such a possibility made her shudder.

Lajo was feeling suffocated at Ramu's grandmother's. Thought of house kept her worried. Mian could not have had it swept or dusted for fear of theft. The place must be in a mess.

One day Mirza was on his way to the shop when Lajo waylaid him.

'Mian, shall I resume duty from tomorrow?'

'Damn,' said Mirza and walked away briskly. 'But I'll not have a maid sooner or later,' he thought, 'maybe this wretch if none other.'

Lajo did not wait for Mirza to make up his mind. She jumped into the house from the roof, tied up her
lehnga
and set to work.

That evening, on his return, Mirza held his breath. It was the late Bi Amma come back! The house was sparkling clean. A smell of incense filled the air. The pitcher was filled with water and over that was placed a well-scrubbed bowl.

Mirza's heart went heavy with nostalgia. He ate the roast mutton and
parathas
in hushed silence. As usual Lajo sat on the doorstep fanning the flies away.

At night, when she spread jute curtains on the kitchen floor and went to sleep, Mirza once again had a severe bout of thirst. He tossed and turned, listening to the provocative tinkle of her anklets. It clutched at his heart, as also a feeling of guilt. He felt he had been very unfair to her and had grossly underestimated the poor creature. A deep sense of regret overtook him. He lay cursing himself.

Then with a sudden 'Damn it all,' he got up, ran across and collected the housewife from the mat.

Translated by
Fatima Ali

Ajeet Cour

After years of hammering away on typewriters, Kapoor's fate came to be linked with that of the Hon'ble Minister of the Central Government. Overnight his status was elevated from plain and simple Kapoor to Kapoor
Sahib:
Personal Assistant to the H. M. (Honourable Minister). In those few hours his chest expanded visibly by a couple of inches. When he strutted down the office corridors his breast puffed out like that of a crested bantam cock, it seemed as if corridors were not broad enough for him. Peons, who usually sat on their stools chewing betel leaf or nodding with sleep would spring to attention and salute him as he passed.

The metamorphosis took place a few days before the year was to end. In the long years that Kapoor had been a clerk he had never as much as thought of such trifles as New Year's Eve or New Year's day. It had never occurred to him that the year which had been young a little while ago had aged and would soon give up the ghost. The thirty-firsts of December were no different from the thirtieths or thirty firsts of other months: days of penniless penury. The firsts of January were like the firsts of all other months when he received his months's salary, paid off his debtors, fulfilled his childrens' oft-postponed demands for new exercise books, new textbooks, new pairs of socks to replace the old riddled with holes, school uniforms, pencils, etc. It was a strange mixture of sensations: an imperious feeling of governing other peoples' destinies as well as a diminution of stature which came with the realisation that before half the day was over more than half his salary would be eaten up.

After Kapoor had been transformed into Kapoor
Sahib
, his life style changed. How the transformation came about was very simple.

A businessman to be more exact, an industrialist who had done business with this Minister, arrived at the Ministerial residence armed with a New Year's gift. The date 31st of December. Time: 8 a.m. Mr Kapoor was ensconced in a room in the outer verandah and seated in the chair of the Personal Assistant to the Hon'able Minister.

The Minister took one look at the Parcel and remarked: 'Sorry, I have given up drink. You must know what the Prime Minister's views on the subject are. PM has ordered...'

The industrialist muttered an oath. Of course, only inside himself, but one which had reference to the Minister's relations with his own mother. He also felt apprehensive that the bugger might be trying to slip out of his grasp. However, he bared his entire denture in a broad smile and replied: 'Not at all, Sir. I'll bring something else tomorrow or the day after. But this is New Year's Eve and I mustn't leave without an offering for you.' He opened his briefcase, took out a diary and placed it on the table before the Minister. It was a miserable little specimen printed in the government press. However, in its pages was a wad of other papers also bearing the imprint of the Government of India. The Minister opened the diary, felt the thickness of the wad of notes and remarked: 'You needn't have taken this trouble: it wasn't really necessary for you to put yourself out in this way.'

'No trouble at all, sir' sniggered the industrialist. 'This is only to buy sweets for the children.'

It can be established that as a person rises in the world, his children's appetite for sweets and candies increases. The "candy box" in the diary was worth more than a confectioner's shop crammed with goodies.

The Minister gave a wan smile baring two-and-a-half of his dentures and quietly slipped the diary in the drawer of his table.

The industrialist sighed with relief. It had been a touch-and-go affair. As he stepped out of the Minister's office he handed the parcel he had brought for the Minister to Kapoor. The Personal Assistant to the Minister had also to be kept happy. All this happened so quickly that Kapoor was neither able to protest nor as much as utter a word of thanks. It was the first time in his life that someone had considered him worthy of a gift of any kind.

He was somewhat ill at ease but the industrialist's voice as he left with a triumphant smile was most reassuring: 'It's a small gift for the New Year. ' Kapoor's hands shook as he put the bottle in a drawer of his table. He felt hot all over his body.

Vashisht, the typist, shared the room with Kapoor. He had been the Minister's typist and had sat in the same corner for many years. On the very first day that Kapoor came to occupy his new chair, Vashisht had introduced himself with a reassuring smile: 'Do not worry sir, I will show you all the ropes. Ministers come to go; their jobs are not permanent. But your humble servant had been confirmed in his post and is quite familiar with the goings on that take place in this room. I will not let any trouble come near you.'

Vashisht sensed Kapoor's discomfiture and casually walked up to him as he took a leaf of betel out of a wrap of paper. 'Congratulation Kapoor Sahib. The first gift is like the ceremony of removing the nose-ring of a bride. You must entertain your humble servants and thus ensure the grace of God. We will always pray for your health.'

Kapoor was novice at the game. He realised he could not drink an entire bottle of Scotch all by himself and was relieved to have someone share it with him: 'Sure! Sure!' he replied.