Bombay Stories Read online

  The three young men from Hyderabad sat down on the wet sand and began to drink beer, but then Sarita grabbed a bottle from Kifayat and said, ‘Wait, let me pour you some.’

  Sarita poured so quickly that the beer’s head rose over the glass’s edge, and this pleased her extraordinarily. She dipped her finger into the beer and licked off the foam, but it was very bitter and she immediately puckered her lips. Kifayat and Shahab burst out laughing. When he couldn’t stop, Kifayat had to look away to calm himself, and then he saw that Anwar too was laughing.

  They had six bottles—some they poured quickly so that the head overflowed their glasses and its foam disappeared into the sand, and some they actually managed to drink. Sarita kept singing, and once when Anwar looked at her, he imagined that she was made of beer. The damp sea breeze was glistening on her dark cheeks. She was very happy, and now Anwar was too. He wished that the ocean’s water would change into beer, and then he would dive in with Sarita. Sarita picked up two empty bottles and banged them against each other. They clanged loudly, and she burst out laughing, and everyone followed suit.

  ‘Let’s go for a drive,’ she suggested to Kifayat. They left the bottles right there on the wet sand and raced ahead to the car to their seats. Kifayat started the engine and off they went. Soon the wind was rushing over them and Sarita’s long hair streamed up, over her head.

  They began to sing. The car sped, lurching down the road, and Sarita kept singing where she sat in the back seat between Anwar, who was dozing, and Shahab. Mischievously, she started to run her fingers through Shahab’s hair, yet the only effect of this was that it lulled him to sleep. Sarita turned back to look at Anwar, and when she saw that he was still sleeping, she jumped into the front seat and whispered to Kifayat, ‘I’ve put your friends to sleep. Now it’s your turn.’

  Kifayat smiled. ‘Then who’ll drive?’

  ‘The car will drive itself,’ Sarita answered, smiling.

  The two lost track of time as they talked with each other, and before they realized it, they found themselves back in the bazaar where Kishori had ushered Sarita into the car. When they got to the factory wall with the ‘NO URINATING’ sign, Sarita said, ‘Okay, stop here.’

  Kifayat stopped the car, and before he could say or do anything Sarita got out, waved goodbye and headed to her home. With his hands still on the wheel, Kifayat was replaying in his mind all that had just happened when Sarita stopped and turned around. She returned to the car, removed the ten-rupee note from her bra and dropped it onto the seat next to him. Startled, he looked at the note. ‘What’s this, Sarita?’

  ‘This money—why should I take it?’ she said before she turned and took off running. Kifayat stared in disbelief at the note, and when he turned to the back seat, his friends were fast asleep.

  BARREN

  WE met exactly two years ago today at Apollo Bunder. It was in the evening when the last rays of the sun had disappeared behind the ocean’s distant waves, which looked like folds of thick cloth from the benches along the beach. On this side of the Gateway of India, I walked past the first bench where a man was getting his head massaged and sat down on the second. I looked out as far as I could see over the broad expanse of water. Far out, where the sea and the sky dissolved into each other, big waves were slowly rising. They looked like an enormous muddy carpet being rolled to the shore.

  Light shone from the streetlamps along the beach, and its glimmering reflection formed thick lines across the water. Beneath the stone wall in front of me, the masts of sailboats were swaying lightly with their sails lashed to them. The sounds of the waves and the voices of the beach crowd merged into a humming sound that disappeared into the evening air. Once in a while the horn of a passing car would sound loudly, as though someone in the midst of listening to a very interesting story had said, ‘Hmm’.

  I enjoy smoking at times like these. I put my hand into my pocket and took out my pack of cigarettes, but I couldn’t find any matches—who knew where I had lost them? I was just about to put the pack back into my pocket when someone nearby said, ‘Please, here’s a match.’

  I turned around. A young man was standing behind the bench. People in Bombay usually have fair complexions, but his face was pale to a frightening degree. ‘You’re very kind,’ I thanked him.

  He gave me the matches, and I thanked him again and invited him to sit down. ‘Please light your cigarette. I have to go,’ he said.

  Suddenly I realized he was lying. I could tell from his tone that he was in no hurry and had nowhere to go. You may wonder how I could detect this from his tone alone, but that was exactly how it seemed. I said again, ‘What’s the hurry? Please sit down.’ I extended my cigarette pack towards him. ‘Help yourself.’

  He looked at the brand. ‘Thanks, but I smoke only my brand.’

  Believe me or not, but again I could have sworn he was lying. His tone betrayed him as before, so I took an interest in him. I resolved to get him to sit down and light a cigarette. I thought it wouldn’t be difficult at all because from his two sentences I could tell that he was fooling himself. He wanted to sit down and have a smoke, but at the same time something made him hesitate. I clearly sensed this conflict in his voice, and believe me when I say that his very hold on life seemed uncertain as well.

  His face was incredibly skinny. His nose, eyes, and mouth were so fine that it seemed as though someone had drawn them in and then washed them out with water. At times his lips seemed to fill out, but then this clarity would fade like an ember disappearing in ashes. His other features also behaved this way: his eyes were like big drops of muddy water over which his thin eyelashes drooped, and his hair was the black of burnt paper. You could make out the contour of his nose if you were nearby, but from a distance it flattened out. He slouched a little and this made him seem of average height, but when he would suddenly straighten his posture, he proved to be much taller. His clothes were ratty but not dirty. His coat’s cuffs were worn and threadbare in places. The stitching of his collar was coming undone, and his shirt seemed as though it would not last one more washing. But even in these clothes, he was trying to carry himself with dignity. I say ‘trying’ because when I looked at him again, a wave of wretchedness swept over him, and it seemed he wanted to disappear from view.

  I stood up, lit a cigarette, and once again extended my pack toward him. ‘Please help yourself.’

  I rolled it so that he couldn’t refuse. He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. He started smoking but suddenly realized his mistake. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and pretending to cough said, ‘Cavenders don’t suit me, their tobacco is so strong. They’re too harsh for my throat.’

  ‘Which cigarettes do you like?’ I asked him.

  ‘I … I …’ he stuttered. ‘Actually I don’t smoke that much. Dr Arolkar forbade it. But if I smoke, I smoke 555s because their tobacco isn’t that strong.’

  Dr Arolkar was known all over Bombay because he charged ten rupees for a consultation, and the cigarette brand he mentioned was also very expensive. In one breath he had uttered two lies, neither of which I believed, but I didn’t say anything. I’m telling you the truth when I say that I wanted to expose his deceit and make him feel ashamed so that he would beg for my forgiveness. But when I looked at him, I realized lying had become a part of his personality. Most people blush after they lie, but he didn’t. He believed everything he said and lied with such sincerity that he didn’t suffer even the smallest pinprick of conscience. Anyway, enough of this. If I go into such detail, I’ll fill page after page and the story will get boring.

  After a little polite banter, I brought the conversation around to what I wanted to talk about. I offered him another cigarette and started to praise the charming ocean scene. As I am a short story writer, I managed to describe the ocean, Apollo Bunder, and the crowds in such an interesting way that he didn’t complain about his throat even after smoking six cigarettes. Suddenly, he asked me what my name was. When I told him, h
e shot up from the bench and said, ‘You’re Manto? I’ve read some of your stories. I didn’t know you were Manto. I’m very happy to meet you. By God, very happy, indeed!’

  I wanted to thank him, but he began again, ‘Yes, I remember very well. Recently, I read a story of yours—what was it called? Anyway, it was about a girl who loves some guy, but this guy takes advantage of her and then disappears. Then there’s another guy who loves this girl too, the guy telling the story. When he finds out about the girl’s predicament, he goes to see her. He says, “Don’t think about what’s past. Build upon the memory of love and forge ahead. Put to use the joy you were able to find.” But actually I don’t remember that much about the story. Tell me, is it possible—no, it’s not about what’s possible—tell me, wasn’t that you? I’m sorry, I have no right to ask you that. But in your story, aren’t you the guy who meets the girl at the brothel but leaves when she falls asleep exhausted in the dull moonlight?’ He suddenly stopped. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you that. No one wants to talk about personal matters.’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ I answered. ‘But I feel awkward telling you everything when we’ve just met. What do you think?’

  His excitement, which had grown as he talked to me about my story, suddenly died.

  ‘You’re exactly right,’ he whispered. ‘And yet how do you know this isn’t our last meeting?’

  ‘Well, it’s true that Bombay is a huge city, but I have the feeling that we’ll meet many times. Anyway, I’m unemployed—I mean I’m a story writer—and so you can find me right here at this time every night, unless of course, I’m sick. A lot of girls come here, and so I come here to fall in love. Love isn’t a bad thing!’

  ‘Love … love …’ He wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to begin. He fell quiet like a burning rope losing its last coil.

  I had brought up love only as a joke, but in fact, the setting was so charming that it wouldn’t have been half bad to fall in love. At dusk, when the streetlights flicker on and a cool breeze picks up, a romantic quality hangs in the air and instinctive you want a woman close to you.

  Anyway, God only knows what story he was talking about. I don’t remember all my stories, especially the romances. In real life I haven’t been close to that many women, and if I write about them, it’s either to earn quick money or to indulge in some fantasy. I never think much about these stories since they aren’t serious. But I have met a special kind of woman about whom I have written some stories aside from the romances. In any event, the story he mentioned must have been a cheap romance I wrote to fulfill some desire. But now I’ve started talking about my stories!

  When he repeated the word ‘love,’ I suddenly wanted to say something more about the subject. ‘Yes, our ancestors divided love into many types. But love, whether in Multan or on Siberia’s icy tundra, whether in the winter or the summer, whether among the rich or the poor, whether among the beautiful or the ugly, whether among the crude or the refined, love is always just love. There’s no difference. Just as babies are always born in one and only one way, love too, comes about in only one way. There’s no difference if you say that Mrs Sayyidah went to the hospital to have her baby or Rajkumari went into the jungle, if you say that a bhangan stirs love in Ghulam Muhammad or a queen inspires love in Natwar Lal. Many babies are born prematurely and so are weak, and love, too, remains weak if it is rushed. Sometimes childbirth is very painful, and sometimes falling in love causes great pain. Just as a woman may miscarry, love can die before it has had a chance to grow. Sometimes women are infertile, and from time to time you’ll also find men incapable of loving. That isn’t to say they don’t want to love. No, not at all. They want to, but they don’t know how to. Some women can’t have babies, and some men can’t inspire love because they lack something emotional. You can have miscarriages of love too.’

  I was so excited by what I was saying that I forgot to check to see whether he was taking it in, and when I turned his way, he was looking out over the ocean’s empty distance and he seemed lost in thought. I stopped.

  When a car’s horn honked loudly, he woke from his trance and absent-mindedly said, ‘Yes, you’re completely right!’

  I wanted to challenge him, ‘I’m completely right? Tell me what I just said.’ But I didn’t say anything and instead gave him time to break free from his weighty thoughts.

  He remained absorbed in thought for a while. Then he said again, ‘What you said is completely right, but … well, let’s talk about something else.’

  I really liked the line of thinking I’d chanced upon, and being too excited to stop I started up again, ‘Well, I was suggesting that some men don’t know how to love. I mean, they want to love but aren’t able to act on their desire. I think this is because of some psychological problem. What do you think?’

  His face became pallid, as though he had just seen a ghost. This change was so sudden that I became worried and asked, ‘Are you okay? You look sick.’

  ‘No, not at all, ‘he said, but his distress only grew. ‘I’m not sick at all. Why did you think that?’

  ‘Anyone would say you’re sick, if they saw you right now. You’re turning terribly pale. I think you should go home. Come on, I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘No, I’ll go alone, but I’m not sick. Sometimes my heart gives me some trouble—maybe it’s that. I’ll be fine in a minute, so please keep talking.’

  I sat silently for a while, and it seemed he wasn’t in the right state of mind to absorb my words. But then he insisted, and I started up again, ‘I was asking what you think about men who can’t love. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be them. When I think about a certain type of woman, one obsessed with having a child, one who tearfully beseeches God for just one child, and who, when nothing comes from her pleading, tries to remedy her infertility with charms and spells, and who takes ashes from the crematorium and stays up countless nights reciting mantras given to her by sadhus, all the while continuing to beg and present offerings to God; then I imagine men who can’t love must feel the same. They truly deserve our sympathy, and in fact, I feel more sympathy for them than I do for the blind.’

  Tears came to his eyes, and clearing his throat he stood up. He looked past me and said, ‘Oh, it’s getting late … I had something important to do. Time has really flown by as we sat here, chatting.’

  I got up too. He turned around and quickly grasped my hand, and then without looking in my direction he said, ‘Now I want to go.’ Then he left.

  We met again at Apollo Bunder. I don’t usually go for walks, but this was still a month before my interest in Apollo Bunder died—that is, a month before I received a long, saccharine letter from an Agra poet who wrote in a bawdy manner about Apollo Bunder and the beautiful girls there, remarking how lucky I was to live in Bombay. Now whenever someone asks me to go there, I think of that letter and feel nauseated. But our second meeting took place when I still went in the evening to sit on the bench where masseurs were busy close by thumping sense back into their customers’ heads.

  Twilight had turned to night. The October heat lingered, and yet there was a light breeze. People were out walking, carrying themselves like weary travellers, and behind me the kerb was lined with parked cars. Almost all the benches were full. I sat down next to two garrulous men, a Gujarati and a Parsi, who had been sitting there for God knows how long. They were speaking Gujarati, but their accents were different, and the Parsi modulated his voice in a way so that when they started to talk fast, it sounded like a parrot and a mynah were fighting.

  I got sick of their endless prattling and got up. I turned to walk in the direction of the Taj Mahal Hotel, and suddenly I saw him walking in my direction. I didn’t know his name and so couldn’t call out to him, but when he saw me, he stared at me as if he had found what he was looking for.

  There weren’t any empty benches, so I said, ‘It’s been quite a while since we met. There aren’t any empty benches here, so let’s go and sit in the resta
urant over there.’

  He made some desultory remarks, and we set off. After walking a bit, we got to the restaurant and sat down on its big cane chairs. We ordered some tea, and I offered him a cigarette. Coincidentally, that very day I had gone to Dr Arolkar who had told me to stop smoking, or if I couldn’t manage that, then to smoke good cigarettes like 555s. According to the doctor’s instructions, I had bought a pack just that evening. My friend looked carefully at it, then looked at me as if he wanted to say something and yet he said nothing.

  I laughed. ‘Don’t think I bought these cigarettes just because of what you said. It’s quite a coincidence that today I went to see Dr Arolkar for some chest pain I’ve been having. He told me I could smoke these cigarettes, but just a few.’

  I looked at him as I spoke and saw that my words seemed to upset him. I quickly reached into my pocket and took out the prescription Dr Arolkar had written. I put it on the table and said, ‘I can’t read this, but it seems like Dr Arolkar has prescribed every possible vitamin.’

  He stole glances at the prescription on which Dr Arolkar’s name and address were written alongside the date, and the restlessness that had earlier shown on his face immediately disappeared. He smiled and said, ‘Why is it that writers are often undernourished?’

  ‘Because they don’t get enough to eat. They work a lot, but don’t get paid much.’

  The tea came and we started to talk about different things.

  Probably two and a half months had passed since our first meeting. His face had become even more pallid, and black circles had developed around his eyes. He seemed to be suffering from some chronic emotional problem because in the course of talking, he would stop and unintentionally sigh, and if he tried to laugh, no sound came out.

  Suddenly I asked, ‘Why are you sad?’

  ‘Sad … sad …’ he said, and a smile spread over his lips, the kind that the dying take pains to show when they want to prove they are unafraid of death. ‘I’m not sad. You must be sad.’