Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

Since the beginning, he had been working from the same pole outside the Iranian restaurant across from the small park. It had become his symbol, so much so that the two were inseparable in my mind. Whenever I went by the pole and saw the white chuna lime and red kattha betel stains where people had wiped their fingers, I mistook it for Dhundhu chewing throat lozenges and betel paan.

Dhundhu was tall. The pole was too, and a mess of wires coiled at its top. One wire extended far across to another pole, where it merged with the entanglement of wires there. Another wire looped across to a building, and yet another went to a store. It seemed that this pole commanded a large area, and that its influence radiated out through other poles to encompass the entire city.

The Telephone Department had installed a box on the pole so that from time to time they could check to see if the wires were working. I often thought that Dhundhu was also a type of box, one there next to the pole to collect information about men’s sexual desires. He knew all the rich men, both those in the surrounding neighbourhoods and in the far-flung ones, men who from time to time (or always) wanted to have sex, either to check if their plumbing still worked or to relieve stress.

He also knew all the girls in the trade. He knew everything about their bodies, as well as their temperaments — he knew very well which one was right for which customer at which time. There was only one, Siraj, whom he couldn’t figure out.

Dhundhu had said to me many times, ‘The bitch’s crazy. Manto Sahib, I don’t understand her. She’s very moody. Sometimes she’s all fire, and sometimes she’s like ice. She cracks up laughing, and then suddenly she starts crying. The bitch can’t get along with anyone. She fights with every trick. I’ve told her many times, “Look, straighten up, or go back to wherever you came from. Your clothes are rags. You have hardly any money for food. You know, fighting and cheating’s not the way to get ahead.” But she’s a real live one. She doesn’t listen to anyone.’

I had seen Siraj once or twice. She was really skinny but beautiful, and her prominent eyes overshadowed every other feature of her oval face. When I saw her for the first time on Clare Road, I was puzzled. I wanted to tell her eyes, ‘Excuse me, please move aside a little so I can see Siraj.’ Needless to say, it didn’t happen.

She was small, and her body was like a carafe and her spirit was like liquor so strong that someone had added water, although this adulteration strangely didn’t make the liquid any less intoxicating but merely more abundant. Her body radiated allure.

Seeing her, I could guess she was upset. Her matted hair, sharp nose, clenched lips, and fingernails — which looked like the pointy tips of cartographers’ pencils — advertised her irritable disposition. She seemed upset at Dhundhu, at the pole, at the customers he brought to her, but also at her big eyes and at her thin, long fingers, perhaps because she wanted to use them like cartographers employ their pencils to make something fine and yet she couldn’t accomplish this. But this is the impression of a short story writer who in describing a tiny facial mole can make it seem as large as the sang-e-aswad in Mecca.

Listen to what Dhundhu had to say about her. One day he told me, ‘Manto Sahib, Siraj, that bitch, got into a fight with a trick again today. I don’t know what good deed God was rewarding me for, maybe it’s just that I’m friends with the officers at the Nagpada Police Station. Anyway, thank God for small favours because otherwise I would certainly have been locked up. She made such a scene. I kept thinking, “Oh my God, oh my God, this is it.” ’

‘What happened?’

‘The same as always.’ Then he continued, ‘Afterwards I cursed my parents for having brought me into the world. Over and over I said to myself, “You bastard, you know what she’s like — why bother? Is she your mother or sister?” I don’t get her, Manto Sahib.’

We were sitting in the Iranian restaurant. Dhundhu poured his coffee-mixed tea into his saucer and slurped it down. Then he said, ‘Actually, the thing is I’ve started to feel for her.’

‘Why?’

‘Who knows why. Hell, if I knew, wouldn’t I try to stop?’ He turned his cup upside down in his saucer and said, ‘You’ve heard, right? She’s still a virgin.’

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘A virgin!’

‘I swear.’

‘No, no, Dhundhu,’ I said, trying to get him to reconsider.

My disbelief upset him and he said, ‘I’m not lying to you, Manto Sahib. She’s really a virgin. Want to bet?’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Why?’ Dhundhu asked full of confidence. ‘Girls like Siraj can spend their entire lives as prostitutes and never get laid. The bitch doesn’t let anyone touch her. I don’t know that much about her, but I do know she’s Punjabi. She was living with a madam on Lamington Road until she got kicked out for fighting with her tricks. She had managed to stay there for two or three months only because there were so many other girls. But, Manto Sahib, no one’s going to feed you for free forever! The madam kicked her out with no more than what she was wearing, and she went to live with another madam on Faras Road. But she didn’t listen to anyone there either, and she lost her shit in front of a trick. She stayed there for two or three months. But the bitch is still full of fire. Who’s going to take the time to cool her off? God save her. Anyway, she went to live in a hotel in Khetwadi, but she made a scene there too. The manager got so fed up with her that he sent her packing. What should I say, Manto Sahib? The bitch doesn’t think about food. Her clothes are full of lice, and she doesn’t wash her hair for two months or more at a time. If she gets a joint or two from somewhere, she smokes them right up or goes to stand near some hotel so that she can listen to the film songs filtering out.’

These details are enough. I don’t want to tell you what I thought because it’s not relevant to the story. Just to string the conversation along, I asked, ‘If she doesn’t like what she’s doing, then why don’t you send her back? I’ll even buy the ticket.’

‘Manto Sahib, it’s not about the fucking money!’

‘So why don’t you send her back?’

Dhundhu fell silent. He took a cigarette stub from behind his ear, lit it, and blew the smoke strongly through his nostrils. ‘I don’t want her to go.’

Then I understood. ‘You love her?’

Dhundhu reacted immediately. ‘How can you say things like that, Manto Sahib?’ He pulled on his earlobes to show he was telling the truth. ‘I swear on the Koran that I’ve never had any of those dirty thoughts. I only …’ He stopped. ‘I only like her a little.’

‘Why?’

Dhundhu gave the best answer possible. ‘Because … because she’s not like the others. All the other girls worship money — those are the bitches to watch out for. But this girl, she’s really different. When I go get her, she never refuses. We agree on a price. We get into a taxi or the tram. But, Manto Sahib, tricks come for pleasure. They spend a little money and so they want to feel her up. Naturally they go for her breasts. Then she goes crazy. She starts hitting. If the guy’s not the fighting sort, he leaves immediately. If he’s drunk — or a bastard — then all hell breaks loose. I always have to go clean up her mess, give the guy his money back and grovel for forgiveness. I swear on the Koran I’d do this only for Siraj. And, Manto Sahib, I swear my business has been cut in half because of this bitch.’

I don’t want to tell you what I thought about Siraj, and yet what Dhundhu said didn’t square with my impression of her.