Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

But instead she kissed me on the cheek and then dragged me into the centre of the dancers. Chaddah cried out, ‘Stop — it’s time for drinking!’ Then he shouted, ‘Oh, Prince of Scotland! Bring a new bottle of whiskey.’ The Prince of Scotland brought a new bottle. He was dead drunk. When he started to open the bottle, it fell and broke into pieces. Mummy wanted to scold him but Chaddah stopped her. ‘It was only a bottle, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Forget it — there are people here with broken hearts.’

The party hit a lull, but then Chaddah got things going with his raucous laughter. Another bottle arrived, and everyone drank a strong shot. Chaddah began to deliver an incoherent speech, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you all may go to hell! Manto is here. He thinks he’s a famous writer, an expert in human psychology. How should I put it, “He penetrates the deepest recesses of human psychology.” But it’s all nonsense! People like him are just the idiots who would lower themselves into a well — it’s like lowering yourself into a well.’ He looked around the room and then began again, ‘It’s too bad that there aren’t any fishermen here. There’s a Hyderabadi who says “khaf” when he should say “qaf” and who acts like he met you two days ago even though it was really ten years. To hell with his Nizam of Hyderabad and his tons of gold and tens of millions of jewels! But no, Mummy — yes — it’s like lowering yourself into a well. What did I say but that it’s all nonsense. In Punjabi we say that fools understand human psychology better than people like Manto. And that’s what I’m talking about.’

Everyone shouted, ‘Hurray!’

Chaddah continued, ‘It’s all a conspiracy! Manto’s conspiracy! Like Herr Hitler, I signalled you all to shout, “Death! Death to you all!” But first, me — me—’ He was extremely worked up. ‘I — who that night got mad at Mummy over the girl with the platinum blonde hair — God knows what kind of Don Juan I took myself for. But, no, getting her wasn’t hard at all. I swear by my youth that in a single kiss I could have sucked all the blessed purity straight out of her! But this was wrong. She was too young, so young, so weak, so characterless … so …’ He looked at me with a questioning glance. ‘Tell me, what would you call her in high-class Urdu, or Farsi, or Arabic? Characterless. Ladies and gentlemen, she was so young, so weak, and so characterless that if she had committed a sin that night, she would either have regretted it for as long as she lived or have forgotten it completely. Regardless, she would never have remembered it as pleasurable. This makes me sad. It was good that Mummy put an end to it right there. Now I’m just about done with this nonsense. I actually intended to deliver a longer speech, but I can’t speak any more. I need another shot.’

He drank another shot. Everyone had been quiet during his speech, and they remained so afterwards. God knows what Mummy was thinking. She looked old and lost in thought. Chaddah seemed suddenly hollow. He wandered here and there, as if looking for some corner of his mind where he could safeguard something. I asked him, ‘What’s wrong, Chaddah?’

He broke out laughing and answered, ‘Nothing — the thing is that today the whiskey isn’t kicking in.’ But his laughter was spiritless.

Vankatre pushed Thelma aside and made me sit down next to him. Soon enough, he began praising his father who he said had been a very accomplished man who had held audiences spellbound with his harmonium playing. Then he mentioned his wife’s beauty and how his father had selected this girl for him to marry when he was still a child. When the Bengali music director, Sen’s, name came up, he said, ‘Mr Manto, he was a very bad man. He said he was a student of Khan Sahib Abdul Karim Khan, but that was a lie, an utter lie. Actually, he was some Bengali pimp’s student.’

It was two in the morning, and Chaddah was sullen. He carelessly pushed aside Kitty, stepped forward, slapped Vankatre’s pumpkin-shaped head and said, ‘Stop talking nonsense. Get up and sing something. But watch out if you sing a classical raag …’

Vankatre began to sing rightaway, but his voice wasn’t good and the notes weren’t crisp. But whatever he sang, he sang very sincerely. In Malkos he sang two or three film songs that made everyone sad. Mummy and Chaddah looked at each other and then turned away. Gharib Nawaz was so touched that tears sprang from his eyes, and Chaddah laughed loudly and said, ‘People from Hyderabad have weak tear ducts — they start leaking from time to time!’

Gharib Nawaz wiped away his tears and began to dance with Elma. Vankatre put a record on the gramophone’s turntable and set the needle down. The song was an oldie. Chaddah picked up Mummy again and cavorted around the room, and his voice became hoarse, like those singing women who ruin their voices by wailing away at weddings.

This tumult lasted for two more hours, and Mummy had fallen silent. But then she turned to Chaddah and said, ‘Okay, that’s enough!’

Chaddah raised a bottle to his lips. He drained it, threw it to the side and said to me, ‘Let’s go, Manto, let’s go.’

I got up. I wanted to say goodbye to Mummy, but Chaddah pulled me away, ‘Today no one will say goodbye.’

We were leaving when I heard Vankatre begin to cry. I said to Chaddah, ‘Wait, what’s going on?’ But he pushed me ahead and said, ‘That bastard’s tear ducts are defective too.’

On the way home Chaddah didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask him about the strange party, but he said, ‘I’m dead tired.’ Once we got back to Sayeedah Cottage, he lay down on his bed and immediately fell asleep.

I woke the next morning and went to the bathroom. When I came out, I saw Gharib Nawaz next to the garage’s canvas curtain. He was crying, and when he saw me, he wiped away his tears and started to walk away. But I went up to him and asked why he was crying. He said, ‘Mummy left.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘I don’t know.’ Then he turned toward the street.

Chaddah was lying on his bed. It looked as though he had not slept at all. When I asked him about Mummy, he smiled and said, ‘She’s gone. She had to leave Pune on the morning train.’

‘Why?’

Chaddah was bitter. ‘The government didn’t like her being around. They didn’t like the way she looked. They were against her parties. The police wanted to exploit her. They wanted to call her ‘mum’ and use her as a madam. There was an investigation into her activities, and finally, the police convinced the government and forced her to leave the city. They forced her out. If she was a prostitute, a madam, if her existence was a menace to society, then they should have killed her. Why did they tell her — the quote-unquote filth of Pune! — that she could go wherever she pleased as long as it wasn’t here?’ Chaddah laughed loudly but then fell silent. He began again in an emotional voice, ‘I’m sorry, Manto. With this “filth” someone pure has left, the one who set me on the right path that night. But I shouldn’t be sorry. She’s left Pune, and yet wherever she ends up, there’ll be young men like me who have the same depraved passions. I entrust my Mummy to them. Long live Mummy! Long live …’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got to find Gharib Nawaz. He must be weak from crying. These Hyderabadis have real weak tear ducts. They spring leaks from time to time.’

I noticed tears in Chaddah’s eyes. They floated there like corpses on water.

DHUNDHU was outside the Iranian restaurant across from the small park near the Nagpada Police Station, and he was leaning against the electricity pole that he manned from sunset until four in the morning. I don’t know his real name but everyone called him Dhundhu, which was fitting because his job was to find girls that satisfied his customers’ varied tastes. He had been a pimp for about ten years and in that time he had pimped thousands of girls of every religion, race, and temperament.