Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

A white cotton shalwar was draped over the chair.

I shot up. Janaki was sleeping with Sayeed! I took the shalwar from the chair and threw it towards her.

I went to Narayan’s room and woke him. When he told me his shooting had ended at two in the morning, I was sorry for waking the poor soul. Nevertheless he wanted to chat, and so we stayed up gossiping until nine in the morning, returning often to the subject of Janaki.

When I brought up the time he had asked Janaki about her bra size, Narayan laughed convulsively. Laughing away, he said, ‘The best part about that was when I asked her, she blurted out, “Thirty-four!” Then she realized how rude my question was and cussed me out. She’s just a child. Now whenever we run into each other, she covers her breasts with her dupatta. But, Manto, she’s a very faithful woman!’

‘How do you know?’

Narayan smiled. ‘A woman that blurts out her bra size to strangers doesn’t have it in her to cheat.’

It was strange reasoning, but in a very serious manner Narayan convinced me that Janaki was sincere. He said, ‘Manto, you can’t imagine how well she’s looking after Sayeed. Taking care of such an absolutely careless person isn’t easy, but Janaki does it very well. She’s a dutiful and affectionate nurse. It takes half an hour to wake that bastard, but she actually has the patience to do it. She makes sure he brushes his teeth. She dresses him. She feeds him breakfast. And at night after he’s had his rum, she closes all the doors and lies down with him. At the studio she talks only about Sayeed Sahib, “Sayeed Sahib’s a great man. Sayeed Sahib sings really well. Sayeed Sahib’s weight is up. Sayeed Sahib’s pullover is ready. I ordered sandals from Peshawar for Sayeed Sahib. Today Sayeed Sahib has a light headache. I’m going to take him some Aspro. Today Sayeed Sahib wrote a couplet for me.” And then when I run into her, she remembers the bra thing and scowls.’

I stayed at Sayeed and Narayan’s for about ten days. During that time Sayeed didn’t say anything to me about Janaki, maybe because it had already become old news. But Janaki and I talked a lot. She was happy with Sayeed, and yet she complained about his carelessness, ‘Saadat Sahib, he never thinks about his health. He’s completely absent-minded. I worry constantly about him because he never thinks about anything. You’ll laugh, but every day I have to ask him if he’s gone to the bathroom.’

Everything that Narayan said proved true. Janaki was always busy looking after Sayeed, and her selfless service impressed me very much. But I kept thinking about Aziz. Janaki used to worry a lot about him, and yet had she forgotten him after she started living with Sayeed? I would have asked her if I had stayed in Andheri any longer. But I got into an argument with the owner of the film company where I was about to sign a contract and left for Pune in order to escape the tension. It must have been only two days later when a telegram arrived from Aziz saying that he was coming. Then, after five or six hours, he was sitting next to me, and early the next morning Janaki was knocking on my door.

When Aziz and Janaki saw each other, they didn’t show the usual excitement of reunited lovers. My relationship with Aziz had always been reserved, and so perhaps they felt embarrassed to show their love in front of me. Aziz wanted to stay in a hotel, but as my friend was doing an outdoor shoot in Kolhapur, I insisted they stay with me. There were three rooms. Janaki could sleep in one and Aziz in another. Although I should have let them share a room, I wasn’t close enough to Aziz to ask him if that’s what he wanted. Besides he had never made it clear what their relationship was.

That night they went to the movies, but I didn’t go because I wanted to start a story for a film. I had given Aziz a key so that I wouldn’t have to worry about opening the door. I stayed up until two o’clock that night. Regardless of how late I work, I always get up between three thirty and four to get a glass of water, and I got up that night too. But as soon as I got up, I realized my water pitcher was in the room I had given to Aziz.

If I hadn’t been dying of thirst, I wouldn’t have bothered him, but because I had drunk too much whisky my throat was completely dry. I had to knock on the door. After several moments Janaki opened the door while rubbing her eyes. ‘Sayeed Sahib!’ she said without looking up. Then when she saw it was me, she sighed, ‘Oh!’ Aziz was sleeping on the bed. I couldn’t help but smile. Janaki smiled too, and then made a funny face, twisting her lips to the side. I took the pitcher and left.

When I woke in the morning, there was smoke in my room. I went into the kitchen where Janaki was burning paper to heat water for Aziz’s bath. Tears were flowing from her eyes. When she saw me, she smiled and blew into the brazier. ‘Aziz Sahib catches a cold if he bathes in cold water,’ she explained. ‘He was sick for a month in Peshawar without me to look after him. How did he expect to get better when he refused to take his medicine? Just look how skinny he’s become.’

Aziz had a bath and left on some business, and then Janaki asked me to write a telegram to Sayeed. ‘I should have sent him a telegram as soon as I arrived yesterday,’ she said. ‘What have I done? He must be so worried!’ She dictated the telegram. She mentioned how she had arrived safely, but she was more interested in asking about his health and urged him to take his shots according to the doctor’s orders.

Four days passed. Janaki sent Sayeed five telegrams, but he didn’t reply even once. She was thinking about going to Bombay when one evening Aziz’s health suddenly got worse. She dictated another telegram for Sayeed and then was busy taking care of Aziz all night. It was an ordinary fever, but Janaki was overcome with anxiety, which seemed strange until I realized that a part of it was due to her concern over Sayeed’s silence. Over those four days, she said to me time and again, ‘Saadat Sahib! I’m sure Sayeed Sahib is sick, otherwise he definitely would have written back.’

On the fifth evening we were all sitting around and Janaki was laughing about something when a telegram arrived from Sayeed. It read, ‘I’m very sick. Come immediately.’ As soon as Janaki read this, she fell silent. Aziz didn’t like this at all, and when he addressed her, his tone was sharp. I left the room.

When I came back in the evening, Aziz and Janaki were sitting apart from one another as though they had been fighting. Janaki’s cheeks were stained with tears. After we chatted for a while, Janaki picked up her purse and said to Aziz, ‘I’m going, but I’ll be back very soon.’ Then she addressed me, ‘Saadat Sahib, please look after him. He still has a slight fever.’

I went with her to the station. I bought a ticket on the black market, saw her to her seat and left. Then I returned to the apartment, and Aziz and I stayed up late talking but we never mentioned Janaki.

The third day, at about five thirty in the morning, I heard the door open and then Janaki impatiently asking Aziz about his health and whether he had taken his medicine in her absence. I couldn’t hear how he replied, but half an hour later, with my eyes still heavy with sleep, I heard him speaking to her, and although I couldn’t make out his exact words, he was clearly angry.

At ten in the morning Aziz had a cold bath, ignoring the water Janaki had heated for him. When I mentioned to her that he’d left the water untouched in the bathroom, her eyes welled with tears.

Aziz left after bathing, and Janaki flopped down on the bed. In the afternoon I went to check on her and discovered she had a high fever. When I went out to get a doctor, I found Aziz putting his things into a horse-drawn carriage. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. He shook my hand and said, ‘Bombay. God willing, we’ll meet again.’ Then he sat down in the carriage and left. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him Janaki had a severe fever.