Saadat Manto - Bombay Stories

Those days I left for work early in the morning and didn’t return until ten at night, and when I got back I would quickly eat and go straight to bed. Living like this, how could I meet Mammad Bhai? I often resolved to skip work and stay in Arab Alley looking for him, but work heaped up and I couldn’t carry out this plan.

I was thinking about how I might meet him when suddenly I got the flu so bad I began to fear for my health. One Arab Alley doctor told me there was a danger it would worsen into pneumonia. I was all alone. The man living next door had got a job in Pune and wasn’t around. My fever was roasting me alive, and despite how I drank water continuously, my thirst never slackened.

I am a very tough person. Usually I don’t need anyone to take care of me, but I didn’t know what kind of fever it was — the flu, malaria, or something else. It crushed me flat. It was the first time in my life I wished for someone to comfort me, or if not that then just to show his face for a moment so that I would know that at least someone cared.

For two days I lay in bed tossing and turning, but no one came. And who could have? How many friends did I have? Just a handful, and they lived so far away that they wouldn’t even know if I had died. Like I said, who in Bombay cares about anyone? No one gives a damn if you live or die.

I was in a very bad state. The hotel’s tea boy told me Ashiq Husain’s wife was sick and that he had left for home. Who could I call? I was very weak. While I was thinking about dragging myself down to a doctor’s, there was a knock at the door. I thought it was the tea boy, the ‘bahar vala’ in Bombay slang. In a lifeless voice, I said, ‘Come in.’

The door opened, and a thin man entered. I noticed his moustache first. In fact the moustache was what distinguished him, and without it no one was likely to notice him at all.

Adjusting his Kaiser Wilhelm adornment with one finger, he came up to my cot. Several men followed him in. I was stunned. I couldn’t imagine who they were or why they were visiting me.

The skinny guy with the Kaiser Wilhelm addressed me in a tender voice, ‘Vamato Sahib, what have you done? Hell, why didn’t you tell me?’ Changing Manto to Vamato was nothing new, and I wasn’t in the mood to correct him. I weakly asked, ‘Who are you?’

‘Mammad Bhai.’

I shot up. ‘Mammad Bhai … so you’re Mammad Bhai … the notorious gangster!’

I immediately felt awkward and stopped. Mammad Bhai used his pinkie to press his stiff moustache hairs up and then smiled. ‘Yes, Vamato Bhai. I’m Mammad, the famous gangster. I learned from the hotel’s tea boy that you were sick. Hell, what were you trying to do by not telling me? It pisses Mammad Bhai off when people hide things.’

I was about to say something when Mammad Bhai addressed one of his companions, ‘Hey, you there — what’s your name? Go get that doctor, whatever-his-name-is, you know who I mean? Tell him Mammad Bhai needs him. Tell him to drop whatever he’s doing and come at once. And tell the bastard to bring all the medicine he has.’

The apprentice left immediately. I was looking at Mammad Bhai, and all the stories I had heard about him were swirling around in my feverish mind, but each time I looked at him these images got confused and all I could see was his moustache. It was intimidating but also very beautiful, and it seemed to me that he had grown it out expressly to make his naturally soft and elegant features threatening. I came to the conclusion in my feverish mind that he really wasn’t as tough as he made himself out to be.

As there wasn’t a chair in the room, I invited Mammad Bhai to sit on my bed, but he refused curtly, ‘We’re fine. We’ll stand.’

Then he began pacing, although there was hardly enough space in the room for that. He lifted his kurta’s hem and drew out his dagger from his pyjama’s waistband. The dagger must have been made of silver, and its dazzling blade was beyond description. He passed it over his wrist, cleanly shaving off the hairs there. He grunted with satisfaction and began to trim his fingernails.

His mere presence seemed to have reduced my fever by several degrees. Now with a steadier mind I said, ‘Mammad Bhai, your dagger’s so sharp. Aren’t you scared to keep it tucked next to your stomach?’

Mammad Bhai neatly cut back one of his nails, ‘Vamato Bhai, this knife’s for others. It knows this. It’s mine, for fuck’s sake. How could it hurt me?’

He spoke about his knife just as a mother would talk about her son, ‘How could he raise his hand against me?’

The doctor arrived. His name was Pinto, and mine was Vamato. He was Christian and greeted Mammad Bhai in keeping with his religion’s way. He asked what the problem was. Mammad Bhai explained quickly, and his tone carried the threat that Dr Pinto should watch out if he couldn’t manage to cure me.

Dr Pinto did his work like an obedient boy. He took my pulse and used his stethoscope to examine my chest and back. He took my blood pressure and asked all about my sickness. Then he turned to Mammad Bhai and said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about. He has malaria. I’ll give him an injection.’

Mammad Bhai was standing nearby. He listened to what Dr Pinto had to say, and while shaving his wrist said, ‘I don’t want to know the details. If you have to give an injection, go ahead. But if anything happens to him …’

The doctor shook in fear. ‘No, Mammad Bhai, everything will be fine.’

Mammad Bhai tucked his dagger back into his waistband. ‘Okay, fine then.’

‘So I’m giving the injection,’ the doctor said, opening his bag and taking out a syringe.

‘Wait, wait,’ Mammad Bhai interrupted him. He was nervous. The doctor quickly replaced the syringe in the bag, and in a whiny voice asked, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s just that I can’t watch anyone getting stuck with a needle,’ Mammad Bhai said and then left with his companions in tow.

Dr Pinto gave me a quinine injection. He did it very skilfully, as otherwise a malaria injection is very painful. When he was done, I asked how much it was.

‘Ten rupees,’ he replied.

I took my wallet out from underneath my pillow and was giving him a ten-rupee note when Mammad Bhai walked in. He looked at us with a furious expression. ‘What’s going on?’ he thundered.

‘I’m paying him.’

‘What the hell! You’re charging us?’ Mammad Bhai asked the doctor.

Dr Pinto was terrified. ‘When did I ask for any money? He was giving it to me.’

‘Hell, you’re charging us. Give it back.’ Mammad Bhai’s tone was as sharp as his dagger’s blade.

Dr Pinto gave me back the note, packed his bag, apologized to Mammad Bhai and left.

Mammad Bhai twisted his thorny moustache with one finger and then smiled. ‘Vamato Bhai, I can’t believe that he was trying to charge you. I swear I would have shaved off my moustache if that bastard had taken your money. Everyone here is at your service.’

There was a moment of silence. Then I asked, ‘Mammad Bhai, how do you know me?’

Mammad Bhai’s moustache twitched. ‘Who doesn’t Mammad Bhai know? My boy, I’m the kingpin here. I keep track of my people. I have my own CID. They keep me informed — who’s come, who’s left, who’s doing well, who’s doing bad. I know everything about you.’

‘Like what?’ I asked, just for fun.

‘Hell, what don’t I know? You’re from Amritsar. You’re Kashmiri. You work in the newspapers here. You owe the Bismillah Hotel ten rupees and so never go by there. A paan seller in Bhindi Bazaar is after you because you still haven’t paid him the twenty rupees and ten annas you owe him for some cigarettes.’

I could have died from shame.

Mammad Bhai stroked his bristly moustache again. ‘Vamato Bhai, don’t worry. Your debts have been cleared, and you can get a fresh start. I told those bastards to make sure never to mess with Vamato Bhai, so, God willing, no one will bother you again.’