Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

I returned to Bombay. On my second day back, I read in the paper that Sen had been killed at Sayeedah Cottage. The murderer was reported to be a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy named Ram Singh. I immediately called Pune but couldn’t reach anyone.

A week later, a letter arrived from Chaddah in which he recounted all of the murder’s details. It was at night, while everyone was sleeping. Suddenly someone fell onto his bed, and he woke with a start. When he turned on the light, he saw that it was Sen, dripping with blood. Chaddah was trying to process this when Ram Singh appeared in the doorway with a dagger in hand. Immediately, Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar appeared too and soon everyone woke up. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar grabbed Ram Singh and pried the dagger from his hand, while Chaddah laid Sen on his bed. He was about to ask Sen about his wounds when the music director took his last breath and died. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar were holding Ram Singh and both were trembling. Then Ram Singh asked Chaddah, ‘Bhapaji — did he die?’

Chaddah nodded his head, and then Ram Singh said to the two men holding him, ‘Let me go. I won’t run away.’

Chaddah didn’t know what to do and so immediately sent his servant to fetch Mummy. Everyone relaxed when Mummy came as they were confident that she would resolve the situation. She told Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar to let go of Ram Singh and then she took him to the police station where his formal statement was entered into the books. For days afterwards, Chaddah and his friends were harried first by the police investigation and then the trial, and Mummy was frantically running here and there, trying to help Ram Singh’s cause.

Chaddah was confident the boy would be acquitted, and in fact his innocent manner impressed the judge so much that the lower court did so. Before the trial Mummy told him, ‘Son, don’t worry, just tell the truth.’ Then Ram Singh gave an exact account of what had transpired, the same that he had given at the police station. Ram Singh loved music and Sen was a very good singer — eventually Sen convinced him to try to become a playback singer. Swayed by the man’s promises, Ram Singh submitted to his sexual advances. But he hated Sen terribly, and time and again he cursed himself. Finally, he grew so sick of the situation that he told Sen that if he forced himself upon him once more, he would kill him. And that was just what happened.

Ram Singh offered this testimony to the court. Mummy was there providing her support, and her glances reminded him of what she had earlier said, ‘Don’t worry, just tell the truth because the truth always wins. You killed him, but what he was doing was sordid. It was depraved, a crime of unnatural passion.’

In his letter Chaddah wrote, ‘In this age of lies, there was a surprising victory for the truth, and all the credit goes to my old Mummy.’

Chaddah invited me to the party that Sayeedah Cottage was throwing to celebrate the acquittal, but I was too busy to go. The ‘brothers, Shakil and Aqil L had moved back, as they hadn’t been able to find a more suitable place to get their film company up and running. They were again assistants to some assistant in their old film company and had only a couple hundred rupees of their original capital. Chaddah asked them to chip in for the party, and they gave all of their remaining money to make the party a success. Chaddah said, ‘I’ll drink four shots and pray your film company gets on its feet.’

Chaddah told me that at the party Vankatre, quite out of character, praised neither his asshole father nor his beautiful wife. Kitty told Gharib Nawaz she needed some money, and so he lent her 200 rupees. Gharib Nawaz said to Ranjit Kumar, ‘Don’t play with the poor girls. Your intentions might be good, but as far as accepting money goes, the girls aren’t going to pay it back. Anyway, if you want, give them something, just don’t expect anything in return.’

At the party Mummy coddled Ram Singh and advised everyone to encourage him to go home. Suddenly it was decided, and the next day Gharib Nawaz bought his ticket. The day of his departure, Shirin made him some food for the trip, and everyone went to the station to see him off. As the train pulled out, everyone stood waving until it disappeared.

I learned all this about the party ten days afterwards when I had to go to Pune on some important business. Nothing had changed at Sayeedah Cottage, which seemed like a caravanserai that stays the same even after thousands of travellers have stopped there, the type of place that never grew old. When I arrived, sweets were being distributed because Shirin had given birth to another boy. Vankatre had bought a Glaxo baby carriage for her new son. Finding it had been difficult but he had managed to procure two, one of which he kept for his own family. Chaddah stuffed the last two sweets into his mouth and said, ‘So you got this Glaxo carriage — that’s great. Just don’t mention your damn father and beautiful wife.’

‘You idiot, I don’t drink any more,’ Vankatre said, before adding, ‘My wife speaks Urdu, you know — yes, by God — she’s very pretty!’

Chaddah erupted in such obnoxious laughter that Vankatre couldn’t say anything else. Then Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Vankatre turned to me and we started to talk about the story I was writing for a film company there in Pune. Then we brainstormed for quite a while for a name for Shirin’s baby. We thought of hundreds, but Chaddah didn’t like any of them. At last I pointed out that the boy’s birth was auspicious because he was born at Sayeedah Cottage and so suggested that his name should be Masud. Chaddah didn’t like this either but for the time being accepted it.

It seemed that Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Ranjit Kumar were out of sorts. I reasoned that it might be due to the change in weather or because of Shirin’s new baby, but neither of those could explain it all. Or maybe it was the traumatic memory of Sen’s murder. I didn’t know why but everyone seemed sad — they were laughing and carrying on but inside they were upset.

I was busy writing at Harish’s for a week. I often wondered why Chaddah didn’t come by; neither did Vankatre. As for Ranjit Kumar, I wasn’t close enough to him to expect him to travel out of his way to see me, and then I thought Gharib Nawaz might have gone to Hyderabad. Harish was around but he was probably over at his Punjabi heartthrob’s house trying to build up the resolve to flirt with her in the presence of her hulk of a husband.

I was writing the story’s most interesting part when Chaddah appeared from out of nowhere. As soon as he entered the room, he asked, ‘Do you get anything for this nonsense?’

He was referring to my story. Two days earlier I had received my second payment, so I said, ‘Yeah, I got the second instalment of 1,000 rupee two days ago.’

‘Where is it?’ Chaddah looked at my coat.

‘In my pocket.’

Chaddah thrust his hand into my pocket, took out four hundred-rupee notes and said, ‘Come to Mummy’s tonight, there’s a party.’

I was about to ask him the details but he left. He still seemed dejected and as though something was bothering him. I wondered what it might be, but my mind was absorbed in the scene I was writing and I soon forgot about his problems.

I updated Harish’s wife on my wife’s activities and left at about five. I arrived at Sayeedah Cottage at seven. Wet baby clothes hung on the clothesline, and Aqil and Shakil were playing with Shirin’s older boy near the hand-pump. The garage’s canvas curtain was pulled open and Shirin was talking to Aqil and Shakil, probably about Mummy. They stopped talking when they saw me. I asked after Chaddah, and Aqil said he was at Mummy’s.

When I arrived at Mummy’s, it was very loud and everyone was dancing — Gharib Nawaz with Polly, Ranjit Kumar with Kitty and Elma, and Vankatre with Thelma. Vankatre was instructing Thelma in the hand gestures of Kathakali. Chaddah was carrying Mummy in his arms and jumping around the room. Everyone was drunk and it was as if a storm had broken. Chaddah was the first to shout out his greetings to me and then there was a cannon-like burst of Indian and English voices, the echo reverberating in my ears. Mummy greeted me with genuine warmth. She took my hand and said, ‘Kiss me, dear!’