Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

Trilochan’s apartment was directly opposite Mozelle’s and only a narrow corridor separated their doors. Trilochan was walking towards his door when Mozelle came out from her apartment wearing wooden sandals. Trilochan heard their sound and stopped. Through her dishevelled hair, Mozelle looked at him and laughed, and this unnerved Trilochan. He took the key from his pocket and quickly started towards his door, but as they passed each other Mozelle slipped and fell on the slick cement.

Before Trilochan realized it, Mozelle was lying on top of him with her long gown at her waist and her naked, fleshy legs on either side of him. Trilochan tried to get up, but in his embarrassment he only entangled himself further with Mozelle, as if her body were coated with a soapy lather and he couldn’t find a grip.

Panting, Trilochan apologized earnestly. Mozelle adjusted her gown and smiled, ‘These sandals are completely worthless.’ Then she recovered her lost sandal, fit it between her big toe and the toe next to it, got up, and went down the corridor.

Trilochan thought it might not be easy to get to know Mozelle, but she opened up to him very quickly. And yet she was very self-centred, and she gave no weight to what he said or did. He bought her food and drinks, treated her to movies, and stayed with her all day when she went swimming at Juhu Beach. But when he wandered beyond her arms or lips, she scolded him. He became so subservient that he waited on her hand and foot and catered to her every whim. Trilochan had never been in love. In Lahore, Burma, and Singapore, he had gone to prostitutes, but he had never imagined that as soon as he reached Bombay, he would fall deeply in love with a careless, self-centred Jewish girl. Whenever he asked her to the movies, she would immediately get ready. But after they reached their seats in the theatre, she would start glancing through the crowd and if she spotted any of her acquaintances, she would wave vigourously and without asking for Trilochan’s permission go and sit by them.

On other occasions they would be at a restaurant, and Trilochan would order a huge spread just for her. But if she saw one of her close friends, she would leave in the middle of eating, and Trilochan could only watch and fume.

Mozelle would often infuriate him when she would callously leave him to go out with her close friends and then not come back for days, sometimes on the excuse of a headache, and sometimes an upset stomach, although Trilochan knew hers to be as strong as steel.

When she ran into him again, she would say, ‘You’re a Sikh. You can’t understand these delicate matters.’

Trilochan would burn with anger. ‘Which delicate matters? Your ex-lovers’?’

Putting her hands on her wide hips, Mozelle would spread her powerful legs and say, ‘Why do you keep on bringing them up? Yes, they’re my friends and I like them. If you’re jealous, then be jealous.’

In a pleading manner, Trilochan would ask, ‘How long will we last like this?’

Mozelle would laugh loudly. ‘You really are a Sikh! Idiot! Who told you we were together? If you’re so concerned about having a lover, go back to wherever you’re from and marry some Sikh girl. I don’t care what you say, I’m not changing.’

Trilochan would yield. Mozelle had become his big weakness, and he always wanted to be with her. And yet she often humiliated him in front of worthless Christian boys. While the usual reaction to humiliation and insult is revenge, for Trilochan this wasn’t the case. Many times he made himself forget what she said and forgive her for how she acted. It didn’t matter because he loved her — not just loved her, but as he had told his friends over and over he was completely head over heels in love with her. There was nothing left to do but relinquish himself heart and soul to love’s quagmire.

For two years he suffered like this. At last one day, when Mozelle was in a giddy mood, he threw his arms around her and asked, ‘Mozelle, don’t you love me?’

Mozelle shook herself free, sat down in a chair, and began looking at the hem of her gown. Then she raised her big Jewish eyes, batted her thick eyelashes and said, ‘I can’t love a Sikh.’

Trilochan felt as though someone had tucked a bunch of burning coals into his turban. He flew into a rage.

‘Mozelle, you always make fun of me. But it’s not me you’re making fun of, it’s my love!’

Mozelle got up and, in her alluring way, shook her well-trimmed brown hair. ‘Shave your beard and let your hair down. If you do this, guys are going to wink at you — you’re beautiful.’

This spurred Trilochan into action. He strode forward, brusquely drew Mozelle to him, and pressed his lips against hers.

‘Don’t!’ said Mozelle, as she pushed him away, disgusted. ‘I already brushed my teeth this morning. Don’t trouble yourself.’

‘Mozelle!’ Trilochan cried out.

Mozelle took out a small mirror from her purse and looked at her lips where she saw scratches on her thickly laid lipstick. ‘I swear, you don’t know how to put your beard to good use. It could really clean my navy blue skirt. I’d only have to apply a little detergent.’

Trilochan became so angry that he gave up. He sat down calmly on the sofa, and Mozelle came and sat beside him. She let down his beard, sticking the pins one by one between her teeth.

Trilochan was beautiful. Before his beard had started to grow, people always mistook him for a striking young girl. But now his beard hid his features beneath its bushy mass. He knew it obscured his beauty, but he was obedient and respected his religion. He didn’t want to lose those things that showed his faith was complete.

After Mozelle finished letting out his beard, Trilochan asked her, ‘What are you doing?’

With the pins between her teeth, she smiled. ‘Your beard is very soft. I was wrong to say it could clean my navy blue skirt. Triloch, shave it off and give me the clippings and I’ll weave them into a first-class coin purse.’

Trilochan could feel his face turning red with anger beneath his beard. In a deliberate voice, he said, ‘I’ve never made fun of your religion, so why do you make fun of mine? Look, it’s not nice to do that. I would never tolerate it except I’m helplessly in love with you. Don’t you know this?’

Mozelle stopped playing with his heard. ‘I know.’

‘And so?’

Trilochan drew his beard together neatly and took the pins from between Mozelle’s teeth. ‘You know my love isn’t nonsense. I want to marry you.’

‘I know.’ Giving her hair a light toss, she got up and began looking at a painting hung on the wall. ‘And I’ve nearly decided to say yes.’

Trilochan jumped up. ‘Really?’

Mozelle’s red lips grew into a broad smile, and her white teeth sparkled for an instant. ‘Yes.’

With his beard half folded, Trilochan squeezed her to his chest and said, ‘So — so — when?’

Mozelle pushed herself away. ‘When you cut your hair and shave.’

Trilochan was resigned to his fate. Without thinking, he said, ‘I’ll get it cut tomorrow.’

Mozelle began to do a tap dance. ‘You’re talking nonsense, Triloch. You’re not that courageous.’

Suddenly religion was the last thing on his mind. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I will see,’ Mozelle repeated. Quickly she came up to Trilochan, kissed him on his beard, and left, grimacing.

It is impossible to describe how much Trilochan suffered that night as he thought about getting his hair cut. The next day in a Fort barbershop he got his hair cut and beard shaved. He kept his eyes clamped shut throughout the proceedings. When the business was finally over, he opened his eyes and stared for a long time in a mirror — now he would draw the attention of even the most beautiful girls in Bombay!