Saadat Manto: Naked Voices: Stories And Sketches

Days passed. Work did not start on Zaheer’s film. One day when Saeed went to meet him, he wasn’t home. He was about to go away when Bismillah called out, ‘Come in; he hasn’t gone very far.’

Saeed’s heart began to beat very fast. After a moment’s hesitation, he entered the room and sat down on a chair. Bismillah was standing beside a table. Gathering all his courage, Saeed said, ‘Please sit down.’

Bismillah sat down in a chair facing him. She remained quiet. Saeed looked into her eyes and asked, ‘Zaheer hasn’t returned as yet?’

Bismillah answered briefly, ‘He will, soon.’

Silence reigned once again. During this time, Saeed looked at Bismillah’s eyes several times. Each time a desire rose in his breast: to begin kissing those eyes till every trace of sadness gets washed away. But Saeed controlled it and said, ‘You are very keen to work in films, aren’t you?’

Bismillah yawned and answered, ‘Yes, sort of.’

Saeed suddenly began to sermonize. ‘It isn’t a good line … I mean, you hear all sorts of stories.’ And he launched into a litany of complaints against the film industry. He remembered Zaheer and changed track. ‘It is another matter if you are really interested. If one is strong of character, one can do well in any field. And, then, Zaheer is making his own film. But you must never work in anyone else’s film.’

Bismillah remained silent. Saeed did not like her silence. This was the first occasion he had had to meet her on his own, yet she had nothing to say. A couple of times, Saeed stole a few scared, searching glances at her but it had no effect. After another prolonged silence, he said, ‘All right then, so get me a paan at least.’

Bismillah rose. The considerable curves of her bosom moved beneath her silken shirt. Saeed’s eyes skittered away. Bismillah went into the other room and he began to think fearful but wicked thoughts. In a little while, she returned with the paan and stood close beside him. She handed it to him, saying, ‘Here.’

Saeed said, ‘Thank you’. His fingers touched hers as he took the paan from her and lightning coursed through his entire body. And with that the thorn of conscience pricked his heart.

Bismillah sat down once again in the chair facing him. Saeed could make out nothing from her dark-complexioned face. He thought how any other woman would have guessed by now what was going on in his mind. Perhaps she, too, knew, or guessed. Or, maybe, she didn’t. It was hard to tell anything from her poker face.

Saeed was in a dilemma. On the one hand, there was Bismillah’s disturbing presence, her large, sad eyes, and the lush fullness of her breasts. On the other hand, there was Zaheer, the prick of his own conscience. It was all very confusing! And from Bismillah — there wasn’t the slightest sign of anything. Obviously, there was no hope for the dreams Saeed was nursing. Yet, he continued looking at her with the same longing in his eyes.

He broke the long silence and said, ‘There is no sign of Zaheer; I think I should go now.’

Uncharacteristically enough, Bismillah said, ‘No, no, don’t go. Stay.’

‘But you don’t say anything,’ said Saeed and rose to his feet.

Bismillah asked, ‘So you really are leaving, are you?’

Saeed looked searchingly at her as though trying to read her true intentions. He said, ‘All right, I will stay. That is, if you have no objection to my being here.’

Bismillah yawned, ‘Why would I have any objections?’ Soon, her eyelids began to droop.

Saeed said, ‘You look very sleepy.’

‘Yes, I was awake all night.’

Saeed asked with an uncalled-for frankness, ‘Why?’

Bismillah yawned once again and said, ‘We had gone out somewhere.’

Saeed sat down. In a short while, Bismillah dozed off. The lush curves of her breasts rose and fell gently under the silken cloth of her shirt. Her large, sad eyes were now closed. Her right arm lolled to one side. The cuff of her right sleeve had ridden up her arm. Saeed saw something in Hindi lettering tattooed on her dark-brown wrist. Suddenly, Zaheer showed up.

Saeed was rattled by his sudden appearance. Zaheer shook hands with him, looked towards his wife and said, ‘Oh, she is sleeping.’

Saeed said, ‘I said I should leave but she said you won’t be long. She asked me to sit and when I did she went off to sleep.’

Zaheer laughed. Saeed, too, joined in.

‘Come on, get up,’ Zaheer patted Bismillah’s head.

Bismillah sighed deeply and opened her large, sad eyes. They looked not just sad but desolate too.

‘Get up, get up, we have to go out; it’s important.’ Zaheer turned towards Saeed, ‘Forgive us, Saeed sahab, but we have to go out for an urgent meeting. God willing, we shall meet tomorrow.’

Saeed left. The next day, as he set off towards Zaheer’s house, he prayed that he shouldn’t find Zaheer home. He reached Zaheer’s house and found a crowd gathered at the door. He found out from them that Bismillah wasn’t Zaheer’s wife. She was a Hindu girl who had got left behind during the riots. Zaheer had forced her into prostitution. The police had rescued her and taken her away just a short while ago.

Those big black eyes still chase Saeed wherever he goes.

BY THE ROADSIDE

It was this time of the year. The sky was blue like his eyes — clear and sparkling — as it is today. There was the same gentle sunlight. The earth had smelt of sweet dreams, exactly as it does now. And, lying beside him, I had given him my fluttering heart.

He had said to me, ‘My life was empty; you filled it with these moments that you gifted me. I shall be forever thankful to you, for without you I would have been incomplete … I don’t know what else to say to you … I feel sated … completely satisfied. I feel I don’t need you anymore.’ And he had gone away, forever, never to return.

My eyes had cried. My heart had wept. I had tried to plead. I had tried asking him a million times why he didn’t need me anymore when my need for him, with all its enormous urgency, had just begun. Especially after these moments that had filled the empty spaces of his being.

He had said, ‘During these moments, every single one of them, you filled and strengthened me, bolstered my being with every particle, every atom of your being. But now that is done, my relationship with you has automatically petered.’

How cruel were his words! I couldn’t take the pain of these words hurled at me like stones. I had begun to cry. But my tears had no effect on him. I had said, ‘These particles and atoms you talk of — they were once part of me. If I have given away parts of my self to you, am I not missing those fragments today? In making you complete, have I not emptied myself? Did I make you my all, my God, my idol, for this?’

He had said, ‘The honeybee sucks buds and flowers off their nectar to produce honey but it never lets the honey touch the lips of the flowers it has drained. God lets others worship Him; He never accepts another as His master. He spent a few moments alone with Adam and created the universe, but where is Adam today? Does the universe need him? Adam was like the mother who destroyed herself on the very bed on which she gave birth to Creation.’

A woman can cry but she can’t argue. Her greatest argument are the tears that flow from her eyes. I had said to him, ‘Look at me, I am crying. My eyes are raining tears. Go, if you must, but take some of my tears with you, wrapped in the shroud of your memories. I shall cry now for the rest of my life, but I shall have the comfort of knowing that you provided the shroud for the burial of at least some of my tears — if nothing else, at least to make me happy.’