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  Ram Khilawan

  Saadat Hasan Manto, the most widely read and the most controversial short-story writer in Urdu, was born on 11 May 1912 at Samrala in Punjab’s Ludhiana district. In a literary, journalistic, radio scripting and film-writing career spread over more than two decades, he produced twenty-two collections of short stories, one novel, five collections of radio plays, three collections of essays, two collections of personal sketches and many scripts for films. He was tried for obscenity half a dozen times, thrice before and thrice after Independence. Some of Manto’s greatest work was produced in the last seven years of his life, a time of great financial and emotional hardship for him. He died several months short of his forty-third birthday, in January 1955, in Lahore.

  Muhammad Umar Memon is professor emeritus of Urdu literature and Islamic studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He is a critic, short-story writer, translator and editor of the Annual of Urdu Studies. He has translated the best of Urdu writers. His most recent translation is Collected Stories, a selection of stories by Naiyer Masud.

  Saadat Hasan Manto

  Ram Khilawan

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  Ram Khilawan

  After executing a slew of bedbugs, I was looking through some old papers when, suddenly, Saeed Bhaijan’s photo popped out. An empty frame was lying on the table so I inserted the photo in it and then sat down in a chair and began waiting for the dhobi—my Sunday ritual.

  I usually ran out of my stock of clean laundry by Saturday evening. I shouldn’t say ‘stock’ because in those destitute days I barely had enough clothes to maintain the pretence of respectability for six or seven days.

  Negotiations for my marriage were under way and this had necessitated that I make many trips to Mahim over the past several Sundays. My dhobi was a decent fellow; whether he got paid or not, he regularly delivered my freshly washed clothes on Sunday at exactly ten o’clock. Still, I was afraid that one day he might get tired of not being paid and sell my clothes in the bazaar where stolen merchandise is traded. I might then be forced to participate in my marriage negotiations without anything on my body, which, obviously, would be highly unseemly.

  My kholi was reeking of the stench of dead bedbugs, but just as I was looking for a way to ventilate the room, the dhobi showed up.

  He greeted me with ‘Sab, salaam’, opened the bundle of fresh laundry, took out my few items of clothing and deposited them on the table. As he was doing so his eyes fell on Saeed Bhaijan’s photo. He seemed surprised and, upon taking a closer look, let out a startled ‘Huh?’

  ‘What’s the matter, dhobi?’ I asked.

  ‘This is Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar,’ he replied, his eyes still riveted on the photo.

  ‘Why—you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Two brothers. Their bungalow there . . . in Colaba. Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar. Washed their clothes.’

  This must have been two years ago, I concluded. Before they left for the Fiji islands, my elder brothers Saeed Hasan and Muhammad Hasan had practised law for about a year in Bombay. I said to him, ‘You mean two years ago?’

  He again nodded vigorously. ‘When Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar leaving, he gave me pagri, dhoti, kurta, all new. Both very good. One had beard . . . very big.’ He indicated the length of the beard with his hand and, pointing at Saeed Bhaijan’s photo, continued, ‘This one younger. Had three bawa log, boy and girl . . . played with me lot. He had big bungalow . . . very big . . . in Colaba.’

  ‘Dhobi, they’re my brothers,’ I told him.

  He made a strange sound, as if he was perplexed, ‘Huh? Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar?’

  Attempting to allay his confusion I explained, ‘This is Saeed Hasan Bhaijan’s photo. The one with the beard is Muhammad Hasan—our eldest brother.’

  The dhobi gawked at me and then looked around my kholi, taking notice of the filth in the dingy little room that had only a table, a chair and a cot made of gunnysack meshing that was full of bedbugs, and no electric light. He was having difficulty believing that I was Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar’s youngest brother. But when I related certain things about Saeed Bhaijan he shook his head and said, ‘Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar lived in bungalow; you live in kholi.’

  ‘This is how the world is,’ I said philosophically. ‘Not all fingers of the hand are alike.’

  ‘Yes, Sab, you speak truth.’ With that he picked up his bundle and made to leave. I remembered about paying my account. I had only eight annas in my pocket, hardly enough even for the fare to and from Mahim for my marriage negotiations. I asked him to hold on, just so he would know my intentions were good, and said, ‘Dhobi, you’re keeping the account? God knows how many washes I owe you for.’

  He adjusted the fold of his dhoti around his crotch area and said, ‘Sab, don’t keep account. Washed Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar clothes for whole year. Took whatever he gave. Don’t know what account is.’

  He left and I started to get ready for Mahim.

  The negotiations were successful. I got married. My situation also improved so I moved from my nine-rupees-a-month kholi on Sekend Pir Khan Street to a flat on Clare Road at thirty-five rupees per month and started paying the dhobi regularly.

  He was happy that my situation was now relatively better so he said to my wife, ‘Begum Sab, Sab’s brother Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar big man. Lived there, in Colaba. When left, gave me pagri, dhoti, kurta. Your sab become big man one day.’

  I had already told my wife about the photo incident and the magnanimity with which the dhobi had treated me in my impoverished days. He took whatever I gave him whenever I gave it and never complained or made a fuss. But the dhobi’s indifference to keeping an account of the wash soon began to get on my wife’s nerves. ‘Look,’ I said to her, ‘he’s been washing my clothes for four years now; he’s never kept an account.’

  ‘Why would he, indeed, when this way he can charge double, even quadruple.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You don’t know,’ she said, ‘they take advantage of the ones who don’t have wives to watch over them.’

  Almost every month she squabbled with the dhobi about not keeping an account, and each time he answered with his characteristic simplicity, ‘Begum Sab, don’t know how keep account. Don’t lie to you. Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar, your sab’s brother, worked for him whole year. His Begum Sab say, “Dhobi, you get this much,” I say, “Fine.”’

  One month a total of two hundred and fifty items of clothing were given to him to wash. Just to test his honesty my wife said to him, ‘Dhobi, you washed sixty pieces this month.’

  ‘Fine. Begum Sab, know you won’t lie to me.’

  My wife paid him for sixty pieces. He thanked her with a salaam, touching the money to his forehead. As he was leaving, she stopped him, ‘Wait, dhobi, it was not sixty, but two hundred and fifty items. Here, take the rest of your money. I was just joking.’

  His only answer was ‘Begum Sab, you won’t lie to me.’ He touched the additional money to his forehead, said salaam, and went on his way.

  I moved to Delhi two years after my marriage, lived there for a year and a half and then decided to return to Bombay where I found accommodation in Mahim. We went through four dhobis in three months. They were dishonest and cantankerous. A veritable argument broke out after each load of washing. Either it fell short of the number of items or the quality of the washing was atrocious. We started to miss our old dhobi. We had nearly given up hope of finding a good dhobi when one day our old dhobi showed up out of the blue. ‘I saw Sab in bus one day and said myself, “How can that be? Sab mov
ed Delhi.” I inquired in Byekhalla.* Press-wallah told look for you here in Mahim. Sab’s friend live nearby. I asked him and here I am.’

  We felt relieved, as did our laundry.

  When the Congress party assumed power, alcohol was banned. Imported liquor and wines were still available, but home brews could neither be made nor sold. Now, about ninety-nine per cent of dhobis were habitual drinkers. They spent the whole day standing knee-deep in water and their evenings drinking anywhere from a quarter to half a bottle. Liquor had, in a way, become part of their lives. Our dhobi fell ill. He treated the illness with the home-brewed poison that was made illegally and sold surreptitiously, with the result that it ruined his stomach and brought him near death.

  I was unusually busy with work in those days. I left early in the morning, at about six, and returned around ten or ten-thirty in the evening. When my wife learned about our dhobi’s life-threatening illness, she took a taxi and went to see him. She had the servant and the taxi driver carry him to the taxi and brought him to a doctor. The doctor was impressed by her concern for the dhobi and refused to accept his fee, but my wife insisted. ‘No, Doctor Sahib, you can’t claim the whole reward by yourself.’

  The doctor smiled and said, ‘Well then, let’s split it fifty-fifty.’

  He accepted half the fee.

  The dhobi received proper medical treatment. A few injections took care of his stomach ailment. Nutritional supplements gradually restored his strength. Within a few months he had completely recovered. He was grateful and invoked God’s blessings on us all the time. ‘Bhagwan make Sab like Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar. Live in Colaba. Have children, lots money. Begum Sab came visit dhobi in car, took him to kila to see big doctor, who has mem. Bhagwan keep Begum Sab happy . . .’

  Many years, full of political upheavals, went by, yet the dhobi came every Sunday without fail. He was in robust health now. A long time had passed since his illness but he still remembered the care we had given him and never failed to invoke God’s blessings on us. He had given up drinking completely. Initially he did reminisce about his drinking days, but not at all now. He no longer felt the need for liquor after standing all day in water.

  The situation in the country was deteriorating rapidly. Hindu– Muslim rioting followed Partition. Muslims were being slaughtered in Hindu areas and Hindus in Muslim neighbourhoods—not just in the darkness of the night but also in broad daylight. My wife left for Lahore.

  When the situation grew even worse I told the dhobi, ‘Look, dhobi, you’d better stop work now. This is a Muslim neighbourhood. God forbid that someone should kill you.’

  He smiled. ‘Sab, nobody kill me.’

  Our neighbourhood witnessed several killings but the dhobi came regularly.

  One Sunday, I was at home reading the newspaper. The sports page carried the cricket scores and the front page the tally of Hindus and Muslims murdered during the rioting. I was still wondering about the frightening similarity between the two counts when the dhobi showed up. I started checking the washed items against the notebook entry. Meanwhile, the dhobi kept chattering away light-heartedly: ‘Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar good man. When he go he give pagri, dhoti, kurta. Your Begum Sab also good person. Gone away, right? Her country, right? When you write her, give my salaam. She come my kholi . . . in car. I had bad diarrhoea. Doctor put needle. Right away I good. When you write her, give my salaam. Say Ram Khilawan want you write him letter—’

  I cut him off, rather sharply. ‘Dhobi, have you started drinking again?’

  He laughed. ‘Drinking? Sab, find no drink now.’

  I didn’t think it was right to say anything more. He gathered the dirty laundry in a bundle, said salaam, and left.

  Conditions grew really critical over the next few days. A barrage of wires descended from Lahore making urgent pleas that I drop everything and head straight there. On Saturday I made up my mind to leave the next day. I wanted to leave early in the morning but my clothes were with the dhobi. I decided to go to his place and collect them myself before the onset of curfew. In the evening I set out for Mahalakshmi in a victoria carriage.

  The curfew was an hour away. Traffic was still flowing in the streets and trams were rumbling on. When my carriage approached the bridge a commotion erupted and a stampede broke out. It looked as though bulls had come to blows. When the crowd thinned, I saw a whole bunch of club-wielding dhobis in the distance, dancing and making loud noises near the buffaloes. I was headed in that direction but the coachman refused to go. I paid him and started walking. When I came close to the dhobis they abruptly stopped their hullabaloo.

  I stepped forward and asked one of them, ‘Where does Ram Khilawan live?’

  Another dhobi, brandishing a club, came swaying his head and asked the one I had talked to, ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Wants to know where Ram Khilawan lives.’

  This other fellow, completely inebriated, staggered forward and literally bumped into me in his drunken gait. ‘Who are you?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘I? . . . Ram Khilawan is my dhobi.’

  ‘Ram Khilawan’s your dhobi. And you’re the offspring of which dhobi?’

  Some of the others in the group yelled, ‘A Hindu dhobi or a Muslimeen dhobi?’

  All the dhobis, drunk to their teeth, gathered around me, ominously pumping their fists and swinging their clubs. I had to answer only one question—was I Muslim or Hindu?

  I was frightened to death. It was impossible to get away as they had me completely surrounded. There wasn’t even a policeman anywhere in sight whom I might have called for help. I was at a complete loss, so I started babbling in disjointed sentences: ‘Ram Khilawan is Hindu . . . I’m asking where he lives . . . show me his kholi . . . he is my dhobi for ten years . . . he was very ill . . . we treated him . . . my wife . . . my memsahib came here . . . in a car . . .’

  My babble had gone only this far when I felt an immense wave of self-pity wash over me. Embarrassment gripped my heart; how low a man could sink to save his skin. The thought gave me the courage to say, ‘I’m Muslimeen.’

  ‘Kill him! Kill him!’

  The dhobi who was dead drunk threw his glance to one side and shouted, ‘Wait! Let Ram Khilawan kill him!’

  I turned around only to find Ram Khilawan standing behind me holding a stubby club in his hand. He looked at me and let loose with a tirade against Muslims, hurling the coarsest obscenities at them in his peculiar dhobi dialect. Raising the club above his head and mouthing abuses, he advanced towards me.

  ‘Ram Khilawan!’ I called out to him in a commanding voice.

  ‘Shut up!—you Ram Khilawan’s . . .’ he thundered.

  My last hope quickly ebbed away. When he was literally upon me, my throat went dry and I said in a hushed voice, ‘Ram Khilawan, don’t you recognize me?’

  He raised his club higher to hit me. All of a sudden his eyes narrowed, dilated and narrowed again in quick succession. He let the club fall from his hand, came nearer, gaped at me and then shouted, ‘Sab!’ He turned to his people and accosted them, ‘No Muslimeen. He my Sab . . . Begum Sab’s Sab. Come to me . . . in car . . . took to doctor . . . he made my diarrhoea good.’

  He reasoned with his fellows at length. But would they listen to him? Drunkards all. Soon they were arguing heatedly. A few sided with Ram Khilawan and the brawl escalated into fisticuffs. I quietly slipped away from the scene.

  By nine o’clock the next morning my bags were packed and ready, only my boat ticket, which a friend had gone to buy on the black market, needed to arrive.

  I was feeling anxious. Strange thoughts were colliding inside my mind. I wanted the ticket to fly over to me so I could set out for the pier at once. Even the slightest delay and I was convinced my flat would take me prisoner for life.

  There was a knock at the door. My ticket has arrived, I thought. I quickly opened the door and who do I see—the dhobi.

  ‘Sab salaam!’

  ‘Salaam!’

  ‘May I come
in?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He walked in very quietly, took out my clothes from the bundle and laid them on the bed. Then he wiped his moist eyes and said in a voice hoarse with emotion. ‘You leaving, Sab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He started to cry. ‘Sab, forgive. It’s liquor doing. Liquor . . . these days . . . free. Seth log give . . . free . . . say drink and kill Muslimeen. Nobody not take free liquor, Sab. Forgive. I drunk. Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar kind man . . . gave pagri, dhoti, kurta . . . Begum Sab save my life. Dying from diarrhoea. Come to me . . . in car . . . took to doctor . . . spent money . . . big money. You go your country, Sab . . . don’t tell Begum Sab . . . Ram Khilawan . . .’

  His voice choked. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and made to leave. I stopped him, ‘Wait, Ram Khilawan.’

  But he walked out quickly, arranging the front fold of his dhoti.

  * Byculla.

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  Copyright © Muhammad Umar Memon, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  This digital edition published in 2018.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-387-62569-3

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.