Bombay Stories

MUMMY

HER name was Mrs. Stella Jackson, but everyone called her Mummy. She was middle-aged and of average height. Her husband had been killed in the First World War, and she had been getting his pension for about ten years.

I don’t know how she got to Pune or for how long she had been living there. In fact I never tried to figure out where she came from. She was so immediately interesting that you never thought to ask about her past, and you never worried whether she had any relatives because she was connected with everything that happened in Pune. It’s possible I’m exaggerating a little, but it seems like each and every one of my memories of Pune include her.

I met her nowhere else but in Pune. Let me tell you how it happened.

I am extremely lazy. There are a lot of things I would really like to see, but I never get past talking about them. I might go on about how I’m going to climb Kanchenjunga or some other impressive peak in the Himalayas, and while that’s theoretically possible, it’s also likely that if by some miracle I manage to get to the top, I’d be too lazy to come back down.

You can see how lazy I am by the fact that I had been living in Bombay for God knows how many years (wait — why don’t I count? I moved to Bombay with my wife and then our boy died four years ago — why don’t we say I was in Bombay for eight years) and yet I never once saw Victoria Gardens or went to any museum. I wouldn’t have thought of going even to Pune if I hadn’t got into an argument with the owner of the film company I was working for. Then I thought it would be good to get away for a while, and Pune was the best choice as it was close and I had friends there.

I had to get to Parbhat Nagar where one of my old film buddies lived. Outside the station we had already hired a tonga when I learned it was rather far away. Slow-moving things usually irritate me, but I had gone to Pune to unwind and so decided not to let the prospect of a long ride bother me. Unfortunately the tonga was just absurd — even more so than a horse-cart in Aligarh — and we were in constant danger of falling off. The horse was in front, the passengers in the back, and after we had rambled through one or two dust-covered bazaars, I felt sick. I asked my wife what we should do, considering the circumstances. She mentioned the heat, and how the other tongas she had seen were no different, and how it would clearly be more difficult if we got off and walked. I agreed; the sun was really hot.

We must have gone about an eighth of a mile when another broken-down tonga passed. I glanced at it, and then suddenly someone yelled out, ‘Hey, Manto, you ass!’

I was startled. It was Chaddah and a haggard white woman sitting thigh to thigh. My first reaction was one of great disappointment. What was Chaddah thinking? Why was he sitting next to such a trashy old hag? I couldn’t guess her exact age, but her gaudy layers of powder and rouge couldn’t cover up her wrinkles. All in all, it was a depressing sight.

I hadn’t seen Chaddah in a while. He was a close friend. I usually would have shouted some insult in return, but seeing that woman made me hesitate.

I stopped the tonga, and Chaddah also told his driver to stop. Then he turned to the woman and said in English, ‘Mummy, just a minute.’ He jumped from the tonga and with his hand raised in my direction yelled, ‘You — how did you get here?’ Then he abruptly grabbed the hand of my shy wife and said, ‘Bhabhi jan, great job! You finally plucked this precious rose and brought him here!’

‘So where are you off to?’ I asked.

‘I’m going somewhere on work,’ he said pretentiously. ‘Why don’t you go straight …’ Then he turned to my driver and said, ‘Look here, take this gentleman to my house. Don’t charge him anything.’ He turned again to me and in his bossy manner said, ‘Go on now. There’ll be a servant there. The rest you’ll have to manage on your own.’

He turned and jumped back into his tonga where he addressed the old woman beside him as ‘Mummy’. Hearing him call her that comforted me a little, and my earlier heavy-heartedness lightened considerably.

His tonga set off down the road. I didn’t say anything to my driver, but he started up and then after about a half mile, stopped near a building that looked like an old government resthouse. He got down. ‘Let’s go, Sahib.’

‘Where?’

‘This is Chaddah Sahib’s house.’

‘Oh’, I said and then looked questioningly at my wife. Her disapproving glance told me what she thought about his house, and in truth, she didn’t want to be anywhere in Pune — she was sure that under the excuse of needing to relax I would drink myself into oblivion with my drinking buddies. I got down from the tonga, picked up my small briefcase and instructed my wife to follow. She caught on that I was in no mood to be contradicted and so silently obeyed.

It was an ordinary house. It seemed that some military people had quickly built the small bungalow, used it for a little while and then left it for good. The plasterwork was poor and crumbling in places. Inside it looked like a bachelor lived there, perhaps a film star working for a company that paid him every third month and then only in instalments.

I knew my wife was sure to feel uncomfortable in that drab setting, but I imagined that once Chaddah came, we would all go to Parbhat Nagar to my old film buddy’s, and then my wife, poor thing, could spend two or three days there with his wife and children.

Chaddah’s servant didn’t make it any better. He was useless. When we got there, all the doors were open and he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. When he showed up, he didn’t pay any attention to us but treated us as though we had been sitting there for years and were content to sit there until eternity. He walked right by. At first I wondered whether he might be some aspiring actor living with Chaddah, but when I asked him about the servant, I found out that this fine gentleman was none other than the man in question.

Both my wife and I were thirsty, and when I asked for some water he set off in search of glasses. Quite a while later he came back to pull a broken mug from underneath the wardrobe and then mumbled, ‘Last night Sahib ordered a dozen glasses, but who knows where they are now.’

I pointed at the broken mug he was holding and asked, ‘So are you going to get some oil or not?’

‘To get some oil’ is a special Bombay idiom, and even though my wife didn’t understand it she laughed anyway. The servant was puzzled. He said, ‘No, Sahib. I … I … was thinking where a glass might be.’

My wife told him to forget the water, and he put the broken mug beneath the wardrobe as if that were its rightful place, and were he to put it anywhere else, the order of the whole house would be overturned. Then he turned up his nose and left.

I was sitting on a bed, probably Chaddah’s. On the other side of the room were two easy chairs, and my wife was sitting in one and fidgeting. We sat in silence. Then Chaddah arrived, but he didn’t behave as though he had guests. As soon as he came into the room, he said to me, ‘Wait is wait … it couldn’t be helped.’ Then with his sorry apology over, he continued, ‘So you’ve come, old boy. Let’s go to the studio for a bit. If I take you, it’ll be easy for me to get an advance. This evening …’ His glance fell on my wife and he stopped. Then he laughed, ‘Bhabhi jan, I hope you haven’t turned him into a maulvi yet!’ He laughed even louder. ‘Let all the maulvis go to hell! Let’s go, Manto! Let’s let bhabi jan sit for a while. We’ll be right back.’

My wife had been angry, but now she was seething. I went out with Chaddah, as I knew that she would fall asleep after fuming for a while.

The studio was nearby and once there, Chaddah badgered his boss into giving him 200 rupees. We returned in just under an hour to find my wife asleep in the easy chair, and since we didn’t want to bother her, we went into another room that functioned like a storage room — things broken to the point of uselessness were lying about in heaps, and everything was covered in dust, a virtue insomuch as it gave the room a bohemian feel.

Chaddah left abruptly to look for his servant. When he found him, he gave him a hundred-rupee note and said, ‘Prince of China! Get two bottles of the cheapest rum — I mean XXX rum — and a half dozen glasses.’ (Later I learned Chaddah called his servant not only the ‘Prince of China’ but also the prince of whatever country came to mind.) The Prince of China took the money, and snapping the note in his fingers he disappeared.

Chaddah sat down on a bed with broken springs and smacked his lips thinking about the upcoming XXX rum. Then he said, ‘Wait is wait … so you’ve finally found your way over here.’ Suddenly he became pensive, ‘But what should we do about your wife? She’s going to get pissed.’

Chaddah was unmarried but was always considerate of others’ wives. In fact he respected them so much that he decided never to marry. He always said, ‘My inferiority complex has denied me this reward. When the question of marriage comes up, I always feel like I’m ready for it, but afterwards I think I’m not worthy of a wife and so I gather up all my marriage plans and deep-six them.’

The rum came quickly and the glasses too. Chaddah had asked for six, but the Prince of China had brought only three because the other three had broken on the way. Chaddah didn’t seem to care about the broken glasses but thanked God that the alcohol was safe. Without wasting any time, he opened one bottle, poured the rum into the brand-new glasses and then said, ‘Welcome to Pune!’

We downed our drinks in one shot.

Chaddah poured another round and then got up and went to the other room. When he came back he said that my wife was still sleeping and he seemed concerned about this. He said, ‘I make so much noise that I bet I’ll wake her up. So let’s … no, wait … first I’ll order some tea.’ Then he took a sip of rum and called his servant, ‘Oh, Prince of Jamaica!’

The Prince of Jamaica came at once and Chaddah told him, ‘Look here, tell Mummy to make some first-class tea and send it over ASAP!’

The servant left. Chaddah finished his glass and poured himself a smaller shot. ‘I’m not going to drink a lot,’ he said. ‘The first four shots make me very emotional, and I have to help you take bhabi to Parbhat Nagar.’

Half an hour later, the tea arrived. The dishes were clean and arranged nicely on the tray. Chaddah took off the tea cosy, smelled the tea and exclaimed, ‘Mummy is a jewel!’ Then he suddenly started to curse at the Prince of Ethiopia, and he was yelling so loud that my ears began to throb. Then he picked up the tray and said to me, ‘Come on.’

My wife was now waking up. Chaddah gently placed the tray down on a rickety stool and respectfully intoned, ‘Your tea, Begam Sahib.’ My wife didn’t like Chaddah’s obsequious joke, but the tea service looked so good that she couldn’t refuse it. Her mood improved after she drank two cups, and in an insinuating tone she said, ‘You two already had your tea?’

I said nothing, but Chaddah bowed and then confessed, ‘Yes, it was wrong of us, but we knew you’d forgive us.’

My wife smiled, and Chaddah laughed loudly. ‘We two are very high-class pigs — nothing is forbidden to us!’ he said. ‘Let’s go, we’ll take you to the mosque.’

My wife didn’t like this joke either, and in fact, she hated everything about Chaddah. While she basically hated all my friends, she reserved a special hatred for him because he mocked social conventions. But I don’t think he ever thought about etiquette, or if he did he felt that such nonsense was a waste of time, on par with a game of Snakes and Ladders. His eyes gleamed as he looked at my angry wife, and then he called out, ‘Prince of the Country of Kebabs! Go get a tonga, a Rolls Royce one!’

The Prince of the Country of Kebabs left with Chaddah for another room. My wife and I found ourselves alone, and I tried to convince her that she shouldn’t be angry. I explained that sometimes you find yourself in circumstances you never could have imagined, but that the best way to get through them is to let things go. But as usual she didn’t listen to my Confucian advice and continued to grumble to herself. Then the Prince of the Country of Kebabs came in to announce the Rolls Royce tonga outside, and we set off for Parbhat Nagar.

It was fortunate that only my film buddy’s wife was there. Chaddah asked her to entertain my wife for a while and in doing so said, ‘Wives prefer their own company. When we come back, we’ll see how you two ladies got along.’ Then he turned to me, ‘Manto, let’s get your friend from the studio.’

Chaddah went about things in such a whirlwind that he never gave anyone time to contradict him. He grabbed my arm and led me outside before my wife could stop us. Once we were in the tonga, Chaddah relaxed, ‘Okay, that’s over with. Now what are we going to do?’ Then he burst out laughing. ‘Mummy! Great Mummy!’

I was about to ask him who exactly Mummy was when Chaddah started talking about something and I couldn’t get a word in.

The tonga returned to Chaddah’s house. It was called Sayeedah Cottage, but Chaddah called it Kabidah Cottage because he said everyone living there was depressed. And yet later I found out that this wasn’t true.

The cottage looked uninhabited from the outside, but in fact many people lived there. Everyone worked for the same film company, which paid monthly salaries every three months and then not even in full. When I was introduced one by one to everyone who lived there, I learned they were all assistant directors: some were chief assistant directors, and some were aides to these assistants and some aides to these aides. Every other person was an assistant to someone and was trying to raise cash in order to set up his own film company, though if you judged them by the way they carried themselves, you would have thought they were all film stars. Back then it was the era of wartime rationing and yet no one had a ration card, so they bought on the black market even those things you could get cheap with just a little effort. They went to the tracks in the racing season; otherwise, they gambled with predictable results. They lost money every day.

There were so many people living in the house that the garage was also used as a living space for the family of a woman named Shirin and her husband who, maybe just to break the monotony of their pursuits, wasn’t an assistant director but worked for the film company as a driver, although I never saw him there and had no idea when he came and went. Shirin was very pretty and had a little boy who was the centre of attention whenever anyone had free time, and yet she herself spent most of her time in the garage.

The best part of the house went to Chaddah and his two buddies — two actors who got roles but weren’t yet stars. One was Sayeed, whose stage name was Ranjit Kumar. Chaddah would say, ‘Sayeedah Cottage got its name from this bastard, otherwise it would be Kabidah Cottage.’ Sayeed was handsome but didn’t talk much, and sometimes Chaddah would call him ‘Tortoise’ because he did everything so slowly.

I never found out the real name of the other actor but everyone called him Gharib Nawaz. He was from a rich Hyderabadi family and had come to Pune to get into acting. His salary was 250 rupees a month, yet he had been working for a year and had received that much just once, and that time he had given it to Chaddah who was being pressured by some bloodthirsty Pathan to pay back a loan. He wrote romances for the film company, and sometimes he tried his hand at poetry. Everyone who lived in the Cottage had an outstanding debt with him.

There were also the brothers, Shakil and Aqil. Both were assistants to some assistant director and always wrapped up in impossible schemes.

The three big ones — I mean, Chaddah, Sayeed, and Gharib Nawaz — treated Shirin extremely well, but they never went into the garage at the same time. There was no fixed visiting schedule, and if they found themselves together in the house’s main room, one would go to the garage where he would stay for a while, sitting and talking to Shirin about household affairs, and the other two would busy themselves doing their own things. Those who were the assistant types did favours for Shirin: sometimes they brought things back from the market, sometimes they ran laundry errands, and sometimes they comforted her crying child.

But nobody was depressed — just the opposite. On those few occasions when they turned to talk about what was wrong with their lives, they did so cheerfully. They were really an interesting cast of characters.

We were just about to push open the cottage’s gate when Gharib Nawaz came out. Seeing him gave Chaddah an idea, and he took some money out of his pocket. Without counting it, he gave some to Gharib Nawaz and told him, ‘We need four bottles of Scotch. If this isn’t enough, you’ll have to make up the difference. If there’s change, give it back to me.’

Gharib Nawaz smiled mischievously. Chaddah laughed loudly, looked in my direction and then said to Gharib Nawaz, ‘This is Mr One Two, but I can’t let you talk to him because he’s been drinking rum. If there’s some Scotch tonight, you can talk to him then. But please go get the Scotch.’

Gharib Nawaz left and we went inside. Chaddah let out a loud yawn and picked up the half finished bottle of rum. He held the bottle up to the light, glanced to see how much was left and shouted, ‘Oh, Prince of Kazakhstan!’ When the servant didn’t appear, Chaddah poured himself a large drink and said, ‘The idiot must have passed out drunk!’

After finishing his drink, Chaddah became worried. ‘Hey, you shouldn’t have dragged Bhabhi here. I swear, it’s a big responsibility!’ But then he comforted himself. ‘I don’t think she’ll get bored where we left her.’

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘she’s okay over there. For the time being she’ll forget about wanting to kill me.’ Then I poured some rum into my glass even though the stuff tasted like rotten molasses.

The storage room had two iron-barred windows through which we could see an empty lot. From out there someone shouted out Chaddah’s name. I was startled. I looked again and saw the music director, Vankatre. I couldn’t figure out what race he was — Mongolian, African, Aryan, or God knows what else. You would be about to decide on one when you would see something that contradicted your first impression and force you to revise your thoughts again. Actually, he was Maratha, and yet, instead of having an aquiline nose like Shivaji he had this surprising apparatus, broad and pressed down, which he said was necessary for producing good nasal sounds. When he saw me, he shouted, ‘Manto! Sir Manto Seth!’

Chaddah shouted back in an even louder voice, ‘To hell with all this sir-seth business! Come on, get in here!’ Vankatre immediately came in. Laughing, he pulled a bottle of rum out of his pocket and set it on the footstool and said, ‘Hell, I went over to Mummy’s. She said my friend had come, and I wondered who the hell it could be — hell, I had no idea it was fucking Manto!’

Chaddah thumped Vankatre on his pumpkin-shaped head and said, ‘Stop fucking talking about him, would you? At least you brought some rum.’ Vankatre rubbed his head. Then he picked up my empty glass and poured himself a drink. ‘Manto, when we met today,’ he said, indicating Chaddah, ‘the first words out of this bastard’s mouth were how he felt like drinking, but I didn’t have any money and so didn’t know what to do.’

Chaddah pounded him on the head again, ‘Sit down, will you? You make it sound like you really cared.’

‘Hey, if I didn’t care, who the hell brought this big bottle? Your dad give it to me?’ Then Vankatre slugged down his rum. Chaddah didn’t pay any attention to Vankatre’s chatter but asked, ‘So what did Mummy say? Anything? When will Mozelle come? Oh, yes — the platinum blonde!’

Vankatre wanted to say something but Chaddah grabbed my arm and began talking. ‘Manto, I swear to God, she’s so great. I’d heard of platinum blondes but yesterday I saw my first. Her hair is like delicate silver threads! It’s great! I swear to God, Manto! Long live Mummy!’ Then he looked fiercely at Vankatre and snapped, ‘You idiot, Vankatre! Repeat with me—“Long live Mummy!” ’

Chaddah and Vankatre shouted together, ‘Long live Mummy!’ After several rounds of shouting, Vankatre tried again to answer Chaddah’s question, but Chaddah stopped him, ‘Okay, enough of that. I’m all emotional now.’ Then he went on, ‘You know how the beloved’s hair is usually black, like black clouds? This is something else.’ He turned to me again. ‘Manto, it’s very confusing. Her hair is like beautiful silver threads! But I can’t say it’s silver, and I don’t know what colour platinum is because I’ve never seen it. It’s a strange colour, a mixture of steel and silver.’

Vankatre finished his second shot and suggested, ‘And then add a little XXX rum to that.’

This made Chaddah furious and he shouted, ‘Don’t talk shit!’ He turned again to me with a compassionate look and said, ‘Man, I have really become emotional! Yes — that colour — I swear to God it’s unprecedented. Have you seen it? You’ll find it on a fish’s stomach — no, no, not just their stomachs — on pomfret fish — what are those things on fish called? No, no — on snakes — on their delicate scales — yes, scales — just that colour — scales — I learned that word from a fisherman. It’s such a beautiful thing and yet such an absurd word! In Punjabi we call it ‘chane’—shining — yes, that — it’s exactly how her hair is. Her hair is so beautiful, it could kill you!’ Then he suddenly got up. ‘Fuck all this! Man, I’ve got all emotional!’

Then Vankatre asked very innocently, ‘What do you mean by “emotional”?’

‘It means “sentimental”,’ Chaddah answered. ‘But you won’t understand, you, the son of Balaji Baji Rao and Nana Farnavis!’

Vankatre poured himself another shot and turned to me. ‘This bastard Chaddah thinks I don’t know any English,’ he said. ‘Hey I graduated from high school! Fuck, my father … he loved me so much … he.… ’

Chaddah interrupted him, ‘He made you into Tansen. He twisted your nose so you could make good nasal sounds. He taught you how to sing dhrupads when you were still a child. When you cried for milk, it was in Mian ki Todi, and when you cried to go to the bathroom it was in Adana and the first words out of your mouth were in Patdeep. And your father … he was a great musical guru, better than even Baiju Bawara. And now you’re better than your father, and that’s why your name is One-Up Vankatre!’ He turned to me. ‘Manto, this bastard … whenever he drinks, he starts going on about how great his father was. Why should I care if his daddy loved him? And should I tear up my BA and throw it out the window just because this fool graduated from high school?’

Vankatre wanted to fend off this storm of insults, but Chaddah wouldn’t let him. ‘Be quiet! I already said I’ve become emotional — yes, the colour of pomfret fish — no, no — like a snake’s fine scales — yes, that’s just that colour — God only knows how Mummy charmed this girl out of hiding.’

Then Vankatre said, ‘Ask for a peti. I’m going to play something.’

Chaddah laughed. ‘Sit down, will you, you idiot savant!’

Vankatre poured the rest of the rum into his glass and then said, ‘Manto, if he doesn’t get this platinum girl, Mr Chaddah is going to go to some peak in the Himalayas and become a yogi.’ And then he tossed down his drink.

Vankatre started to open the bottle he had brought and then said, ‘But, Manto, this girl’s really great.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said.

‘Actually tonight — tonight I’m going to give a party,’ Chaddah said. ‘Fortunately for me, you came and so Mr One-Hundred-Eighty Mehtaji gave me that advance, otherwise things would have been really tough. Tonight … tonight …’ Chaddah began to sing in a very coarse voice, ‘Tonight, don’t play any sad melodies …’

Poor Vankatre was about to protest against Chaddah’s awful singing when Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar came in. Both had two bottles of Scotch, which they set down on the table. I knew Ranjit Kumar well enough, but we weren’t close friends and so we exchanged only a couple words, ‘When did you come?’

‘I came just today.’ Then we toasted each other and began to drink.

Chaddah really had become quite emotional, and whatever the conversation he brought up the platinum blonde. Ranjit Kumar finished off a fourth of a bottle, Gharib Nawaz drank three shots of Scotch and everyone got drunk, except me (I was saved because I was used to drinking a lot). I guessed from their conversation that the four of them were badly infatuated with the new girl Mummy had brought in from God knows where. Her name was Phyllis. She worked in a hairdressing salon somewhere in Pune and usually went around with a boy who looked like a eunuch. Gharib Nawaz wanted her so badly that he was ready to sell his Hyderabadi inheritance to get her. Chaddah had only one thing going for him, his looks. Vankatre was sure his singing would be enough to win her. And Ranjit Kumar thought that coming on strong would be the best approach. But in the end everyone knew that Mummy herself would decide the lucky one, the one who would get Phyllis, the platinum blonde.

As they went on about Phyllis, suddenly Chaddah looked at his watch and said to me, ‘To hell with this girl! Let’s go, your wife’s probably getting upset over there. The only problem is I might get sentimental there too. Well, look after me, will you?’ He shook the last few drops into his mouth and shouted out, ‘Oh, Prince of the Country of Mummies! Oh, Prince of Egypt!’

The Prince of Egypt appeared rubbing his eyes as though after centuries of rest he had just been excavated from some tomb. Chaddah flicked some rum on his face and said, ‘Get us two tongas, two Egyptian chariots!’

The tongas arrived, and we got in and headed for Parbhat Nagar.

Harish, my old film buddy, was at home. The inconveniences of entertaining there were great because of his apartment’s far-flung locale, and yet he hadn’t overlooked the smallest detail in making sure my wife felt comfortable. Chaddah let him know with a glance where everything stood, and this proved quite useful. My wife didn’t seem upset in the least, and in fact, it looked like she had had a good time, which was likely because Harish knew how to please women with his interesting banter. He asked my wife if she would like to see that day’s shooting.

‘Are you filming any songs?’ she asked.

Harish answered, ‘No, that’s tomorrow. I think you should go then.’

Harish’s wife was tired of going to shootings, as she had ferried countless people to her husband’s sets. She quickly said to my wife, ‘Yes, tomorrow will be good.’ Then she turned to her husband and said, ‘She’s still tired from travelling.’

We all breathed a sigh of relief. Harish entertained everyone for a while with his witty conversation and then said to me, ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’ He looked at my friends. ‘Let them stay. Our producer wants to hear your story.’

I looked at my wife and then told Harish, ‘Ask for her permission.’

My naïve wife was caught in the trap, and she said to Harish, ‘When we were leaving Bombay I told him to take his briefcase, but he said it wasn’t necessary. Now what will he show him?’

‘He can recite something from memory,’ Harish suggested. Then he looked at me, asking for my confirmation.

‘Yes,’ I said nonchalantly, ‘that’s possible.’

Chaddah put the finishing touch on the little drama.

‘Okay, then. We’re going,’ he said. The four of them got up, said their goodbyes and left. A little while later Harish and I left too. Chaddah and the others were waiting with tongas at the edge of Parbhat Nagar. When he saw us, he cried out, ‘Long live King Harish Chandar!’

We all went to Mummy’s, except for Harish who had to meet one of his girlfriends. Mummy’s house was a bungalow, and from the street it looked like Sayeedah Cottage although inside it was clean and orderly, which reflected Mummy’s good taste. The furniture was ordinary, and yet everything was so well arranged that the house looked as if a designer had put it together. When we left Parbhat Nagar I had expected a brothel, but the house didn’t look anything like that. It was as respectable as a middle-class Christian house and somehow seemed much younger than Mummy, as it didn’t have any false touches like her make-up’s obvious attempts at deception. When Mummy entered the living room, I suddenly realized that while everything around her was actually very old, Mummy alone continued to age. God knows why, but while looking at her garish make-up, I suddenly wanted to see her young again.

Chaddah introduced me, and then he introduced Mummy, ‘This is Mummy, the great Mummy!’

Hearing Chaddah’s words, she smiled at me and then turned back to Chaddah and spoke in English, ‘You ordered tea in your usual panic — you didn’t even tell me if he liked it or not.’ Then she said to me, ‘Mr Manto, I’m very ashamed. In fact all this mischief is due to your friend Chaddah, my incorrigible son.’

I complimented her on the tea and expressed my thanks, but Mummy told me not to offer empty praise. She said to Chaddah, ‘Dinner’s ready. I made it because I knew that if I didn’t, you’d come at the last minute and make my life hell.’

Chaddah hugged Mummy. ‘You’re a jewel, Mummy! Let’s eat!’

‘What? No, you won’t!’ Mummy said, startled.

‘But we left Mrs Manto in Parbhat Nagar,’ Chaddah explained.

‘May God strike you down!’ Mummy yelled. ‘Why the hell did you do that?’

‘Because of the party!’ Chaddah laughed.

‘But I cancelled it when I saw Mrs Manto in the tonga,’ Mummy said.

Chaddah was crestfallen. ‘No, how could you! We made all these plans just for the party!’ He sat down dejectedly in a chair and addressed everyone, ‘Well, all our dreams are shattered! The platinum blonde whose hair is the colour of a snake’s belly’s delicate scales …’ He got up and grabbed Mummy’s arms. ‘You cancelled it! You cancelled it in your heart. Here, I’m going to reverse it — I’m going to write “swad” on your heart.’ Then he made the Urdu letter ‘swad’ on Mummy’s heart and shouted, ‘Hurray!’

Mummy had just said the party was cancelled, but I could tell she didn’t want to disappoint Chaddah. She patted his cheek affectionately and said over her shoulder, ‘Okay, General Vankatre, go bring the cannons in from headquarters.’

Vankatre saluted and left to carry out his orders. Sayeedah Cottage was very close, and in under ten minutes he returned with not just the liquor bottles but also Chaddah’s servant. Chaddah welcomed him, ‘Come here — come here — Prince of the Caucusus — that — that girl whose hair is the colour of snake’s scales is coming. You, too, should try your luck!’

Ranjit Kumar and Gharib Nawaz did not like the way Chaddah was opening up the competition for the platinum blonde, and they both told me how Chaddah often got out of line in this way. As usual, Chaddah kept bragging about himself while the two of them sat quietly in the corner, sipping their rum and enumerating their sorrows.

I kept thinking about Mummy. Gharib Nawaz, Ranjit Kumar, and Chaddah were sitting in the living room like small children waiting for their mother to come back with toys. Chaddah was confident he would get the best toy because he was the oldest and also his mother’s favourite, and Ranjit Kumar and Gharib Nawaz sympathized with each other because their problems were the same. Liquor was like milk in that setting, and the image of the platinum blonde was like a little doll. If every place and time has its own melody, then the melody that night was rather flat — Mummy was the mother, the others were the boys, and that was that.

My aesthetic taste had suffered a shocking blow earlier when I had seen Mummy with Chaddah in the tonga. I was sorry I had had such bad thoughts about them, but it troubled me over and over why she used so much ugly make-up. It demeaned her — it ridiculed her maternal feelings for Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Vankatre and God knows who else.

I asked Chaddah, ‘Hey, why does your Mummy use so much flashy make-up?’

Chaddah answered, ‘Because people like bright things. It’s very rare to find simpletons like us, people who like soft music and muted colours, people who don’t want to be young again and who don’t try to trick old age by acting young. People who call themselves artists are fools. I’ll tell you an interesting anecdote. It was during the Baisakhi fair in your Amritsar, in Ram Bagh where the prostitutes live. Some farmers were passing by. A strong young man raised on pure milk and butter and whose new shoes were dangling on his staff looked up at a whorehouse and saw a dark-skinned whore. She was wearing wild-coloured make-up and her oil-soaked hair was grotesquely pasted onto her forehead. Elbowing the ribcage of his friend, he said, “Hey, Lehna Sayyan, look up on the fifth floor — there’s—” ’ God knows why Chaddah didn’t go ahead and finish his sentence because he usually didn’t have any reservation about swearing. He laughed, filled my glass with rum, and said, ‘For this farmer, this witch was a fairy from Mount Caucasus, and the beautiful girls of his village were like clumsy buffaloes. We’re all fools — mediocre fools — mediocre fools because nothing in this world is high class — it’s second or third class — but — but — Phyllis is very special — like a snake’s scales—’

Vankatre raised his glass, poured rum on Chaddah’s head and said, ‘Scales, grails — you’re out of your mind.’

Chaddah licked the rum dripping off his forehead and said to Vankatre, ‘Now tell me, bastard, how much did your daddy love you? You’ve cooled me off, so tell me how much!’

Vankatre turned serious and said to me, ‘By God, he loved me a lot. I was fifteen when he arranged my marriage.’

Chaddah laughed loudly, ‘He made you into a cartoon, that bastard! May God give him a kaserail ki peti in heaven so that he can woo a beautiful bride for you!’

Vankatre became even more serious. ‘Manto, I don’t lie — my wife is truly beautiful. In our family …’

‘Your family be damned. Talk about Phyllis,’ Chaddah said. ‘No one can be more beautiful than her.’ Chaddah looked toward the corner where Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar were sitting. He yelled at them, ‘Founders of the Gunpowder Plot! Listen, no conspiracy on your part will work! Chaddah’s going to win!’ Then he turned to his servant. ‘Hey, isn’t that right, the Prince of Wales?’

The Prince of Wales was looking yearningly at the fast-emptying rum bottle. Chaddah erupted in laughter, poured half a glass and gave it to him. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar were whispering to each other about Phyllis and secretly scheming against each other.

The lights were now on in the living room, as the light had faded outside. I was telling Chaddah the latest news from the Bombay film industry when we heard Mummy’s shrill voice on the verandah. He shouted out in excitement and went outside, and Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar exchanged suggestive glances and looked toward the door. Mummy entered the room chatting with the five Anglo-Indian girls accompanying her, each one different from the others — Polly, Dolly, Kitty, Elma, and Thelma — and the boy Chaddah called Sissy because he looked like a eunuch. Phyllis came in last, accompanied by Chaddah who had his arm wrapped around the thin waist of the platinum blonde — a conquering display that Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar didn’t like.

With the arrival of the girls, the party broke into full swing. All of a sudden everyone was talking English so quickly that Vankatre couldn’t keep up, and yet he did the best he could. When none of the girls paid any attention to him, he sat down on a sofa next to Elma’s older sister, Thelma, and asked her how many more Indian dance steps she had learnt. He started explaining Dhani, and as he kept time out loud—‘one, two, three!’—he choreographed some steps. On the other side of the room, the other girls were gathered around Chaddah as he recited dirty English limericks from his trove of thousands. Mummy was ordering some soda and snacks, Ranjit Kumar smoked and stared intently at Phyllis, and Gharib Nawaz kept saying to Mummy that if she needed any money, she should just ask.

The Scotch was opened and the first round of drinking began. When Phyllis was called in, she gave her platinum blonde hair a light shake and then said that she didn’t drink whisky. Everyone insisted, but she didn’t listen. Chaddah pouted, and so Mummy poured Phyllis a small drink and raised it to her lips saying sweetly, ‘Be a brave girl and drink it up.’

Phyllis couldn’t refuse. This made Chaddah happy, and in his good mood he raced through another few dozen risque limericks.

Everyone was having a good time. Suddenly it occurred to me that people must have started wearing clothes all those millennia ago when they got sick of their nakedness, and similarly, people run to nakedness nowadays when they get sick of their clothes. Modesty and debauchery reach a balance, and debauchery has at least one virtue in that it momentarily frees people from the boredom of routine. I looked toward Mummy sitting arm in arm with the young girls and laughing at Chaddah’s limericks. She was wearing the same trashy make-up beneath which you could still see her wrinkles, and yet she was happy. I wondered why people consider escapism so bad, even the escapism on display right then. At first it might appear unseemly, but in the end its lack of pretension gives it its own sort of beauty.

Polly was standing in a corner talking with Ranjit Kumar about her new dress, telling him how it was due to her cleverness alone that she had got herself something so nice for so cheap, as she had transformed two worthless pieces of cloth into a beautiful dress. And Ranjit Kumar replied in earnest, promising to have two new dresses made for her despite the fact that he worked for a film company and so could never hope to receive the needed money in one single payment. Dolly was trying to get Gharib Nawaz to lend her some money, promising him that once she got her salary from the office she would repay him, and while Gharib Nawaz knew that this wouldn’t happen just as it hadn’t in the past, he nonetheless accepted her promises. Thelma was trying to learn the very difficult steps of Tandau dancing, and while Vankatre knew she would never succeed, he kept instructing her. Thelma, too, knew she was wasting their time, and yet she was memorizing the lesson with passionate concentration. Elma and Kitty were quickly getting drunk and talking about some Ivy who last time at the racecourse had placed a bad bet on their behalf in order to take revenge for God knows what. Chaddah was putting Phyllis’s blonde hair in the golden Scotch and drinking the liquor. Sissy kept digging a comb out of his pocket to tend to his hair. Mummy went around the room, talking here and there, ordering a soda bottle to be opened or broken glasses picked up from the floor, and she was watching over everyone like a dozing cat that keeps track of her five kittens through half-opened eyes, always knowing where they are and what mischief they are up to.

What part — what colour or what line — was wrong with this picturesque scene? Even Mummy’s make-up seemed like a necessary part of the whole. Ghalib says, ‘The prison of life and the chains of grief are one. / How can people escape grief before death?’ If the prison of life and the chains of grief are truly one, what law prevents people from trying to escape a little suffering? Who wants to wait around for the Angel of Death? Why shouldn’t we be allowed to play the interesting game of self-deception?

Mummy was praising everybody profusely, and she had a motherly affection for everyone. It occurred to me that perhaps she wore so much make-up so people won’t know the truth about her — that she couldn’t be a mother to everyone and so had chosen just a handful of people to lavish her affection on while leaving the rest to fend for themselves.

Mummy went into the kitchen to fry some potato chips and so wasn’t around to see Chaddah give Phyllis a strong shot of liquor right in front of everyone. Phyllis became drunk, stumbling drunk.

Midnight passed. Vankatre moved on from teaching Thelma how to dance to telling her how much his father loved him — while he was still a child, his father had arranged his marriage, his wife was very beautiful and so on. Gharib Nawaz had already forgotten about the money he’d just loaned to Dolly, and Ranjit Kumar had taken Polly somewhere outside. Having exhausted their topics of gossip, Elma and Kitty were tired and wanted to lie down. Mummy, Phyllis and Sissy were sitting near a stool, and next to them sat a subdued Chaddah. It was the first time Phyllis had ever been drunk and Chaddah was eyeing her as though he wanted to eat her up, and yet Mummy didn’t notice.

A little while later, Sissy got up and stretched out on the sofa where after combing his hair for a minute, he fell asleep. Gharib Nawaz and Dolly got up and went off together. Elma and Kitty were talking about some Margaret when they said goodbye to Mummy and left. For the last time Vankatre mentioned his wife’s beauty, cast an amourous glance first at Phyllis and then at Thelma, who was sitting next to him. Without further ado, he grabbed Thelma’s arm and took her out to the lawn to show her the moon.

God knows why, but suddenly Mummy and Chaddah were yelling at each other. Chaddah’s speech was slurred, and like a rebellious son, he started to curse her. Phyllis tried gently to calm them down but Chaddah was too worked up to listen. He wanted to take Phyllis with him to Sayeedah Cottage but Mummy was against this. She tried to get him to understand why he shouldn’t do this but he wouldn’t listen. He said over and over, ‘You’re crazy! You old bitch — Phyllis is mine — ask her!’

Mummy withstood his curses and then explained what was what, ‘Chaddah, my son, why don’t you understand? She’s young. She’s very young.’ Her voice quavered with both entreaty and rebuke. It was a frightening scene but Chaddah just didn’t understand. He was thinking only about Phyllis and how to get his hands on her. I looked at Phyllis and for the first time realized how young she was — not more than fifteen. Now she seemed upset, and her fair face trembled.

Chaddah grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. He clutched her to his chest like a film star, and Mummy screamed in protest, ‘Chaddah, let go of her! For God’s sake, let her go!’

When Chaddah didn’t release Phyllis, Mummy slapped him on the face. ‘Get out! Get out!’ she yelled.

Chaddah was stunned. He pushed Phyllis away, stared furiously at Mummy and then left. I got up, said my goodbyes and followed Chaddah.

When I got to Sayeedah Cottage, Chaddah was lying face down on his bed with all of his clothes on. I didn’t say anything but went into another room and fell asleep on a big desk.

I woke up at ten o’clock. Chaddah had gotten up early and gone out though no one knew where. Coming out of the bathroom, I heard his voice coming from the garage. I stopped. He was saying to someone, ‘She’s beyond compare. I swear to God, she’s beyond compare. Pray that when you reach her age, you’ll be that great.’

His tone was strangely bitter, but I couldn’t tell whether his bitterness was directed at himself or the person to whom he was talking. I didn’t think it was right to linger and so I went inside. I waited for about half an hour and when he didn’t come inside, I set off for Parbhat Nagar.

My wife was in a good mood. Harish was not at home, and when his wife asked about him, I said he was still sleeping at Chaddah’s. We had had a good time in Pune, and so I told Harish’s wife that I was ready to go back to Bombay. She made a show of trying to stop us, but in coming from Sayeedah Cottage I’d already decided that the night’s events had been more than enough for me.

We left and on the way to the station, we talked about Mummy. I told my wife exactly what had happened, and she suspected that Mummy had fought with Chaddah because Phyllis was either her relative or else she wanted to give her to a good customer. I didn’t say anything as I didn’t really know.

Several days later Chaddah sent a letter in which he mentioned the events of that night, and he had this to say for himself, ‘I turned into an animal that night — what an ass!’

Three months later, I had to go to Pune on some important business, and after getting there I went straight to Sayeedah Cottage. Chaddah wasn’t there, but I met Gharib Nawaz when he came out of the garage, playing with Shirin’s young boy as would an affectionate uncle. He greeted me very warmly and we went inside. A little while later Ranjit Kumar came walking in as slow as a turtle and sat down without saying a word. When I tried to make conversation, he barely responded, but I learned that Chaddah had not gone back to Mummy’s house and that Mummy had not come by Sayeedah Cottage. The day after the party, Mummy had sent Phyllis back to her parents. Ranjit Kumar was upset because he had been confident that if Phyllis had remained in Pune for a few more days, he would have won her over. Gharib Nawaz didn’t have any similar regret and was only sad that she had left.

Then I learned that Chaddah’s health had been poor for several days. He had a fever but hadn’t gone to the doctor and instead wandered pointlessly around town all day. When Gharib Nawaz began to tell me this, Ranjit Kumar got up and went outside and through the iron-barred windows I saw him head toward the garage.

I was just about to ask Gharib Nawaz about Shirin when Vankatre entered in an extremely agitated state. He told us Chaddah had just lost consciousness in the tonga as the two were coming back to Sayeedah Cottage. We all ran outside to see the tonga driver propping him up. We lifted him out, carried him inside and laid him down. I put my hand to his forehead — his fever must have been at least 106 degrees.

I told Gharib Nawaz that we should immediately call a doctor. He discussed this with Vankatre and then took off, saying he’d be right back. Then he came back with Mummy who was huffing and puffing and trying to catch her breath. As soon as she entered, she looked at Chaddah and screamed, ‘What’s happened to my son?’

When Vankatre told her that Chaddah had been sick for several days, Mummy yelled, ‘What kind of people are you? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Then she gave us our orders: one had to rub Chaddah’s feet, another had to get some ice, and the third had to fan him. When Mummy saw how weak Chaddah was, she was beside herself with worry. But then she gathered her strength and went to get a doctor.

I don’t know how Ranjit Kumar found out in the garage, but he came back as soon as Mummy had left and asked what was going on. Vankatre recounted how Chaddah had fallen unconscious on the ride over and how Mummy had just left to get a doctor. Hearing this last bit of news, he visibly relaxed. In fact the three of them looked relieved, as though Mummy’s involvement had absolved them of their responsibility for Chaddah’s ill health.

They rubbed Chaddah’s feet and put ice packs on his forehead in accordance with Mummy’s instructions, and by the time she returned with the doctor, Chaddah had regained some degree of consciousness. The doctor took his time examining the patient, and his grave expression made it seem as though Chaddah’s life was in danger. Once he was done, the doctor motioned to Mummy and the two left the room. I turned to look out through the iron-barred windows and saw the garage’s sackcloth curtains swaying in the breeze.

A little while later, Mummy returned. One by one she told Gharib Nawaz, Vankatre, and Ranjit Kumar not to worry. Chaddah was listening with opened eyes, and when he saw Mummy, he didn’t react with surprise and yet he did seem confused. But when he realized why Mummy was there, he took her hand, squeezed it and said, ‘Mummy, you are great!’

Mummy sat next to him on the bed. She truly embodied affection — she rubbed her hand over Chaddah’s hot forehead and said, ‘My boy, my poor boy.’

Chaddah’s eyes welled with tears but he tried to hold them back. ‘No’, he said. ‘Your boy is a first-class scoundrel. Get your dead husband’s pistol and shoot him in the chest!’

Mummy lightly slapped Chaddah’s cheek. ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ she said. Then like an attentive nurse she got up and said, ‘Boys, Chaddah’s sick and I have to take him to a hospital, okay?’

Everyone understood. Gharib Nawaz went and got a taxi, and we lifted Chaddah and put him in. He kept protesting that this fever wasn’t bad enough to warrant taking him to the hospital, but Mummy said that in any event, the hospital would be more comfortable.

Chaddah was admitted to the hospital, and Mummy drew me aside and said that he was very sick with the plague. When I heard this, I nearly fainted. Mummy herself was very worried, but she hoped that this setback would pass and Chaddah would soon get healthy.

Treatment continued for some time. It was a private hospital, and the doctors gave Chaddah a lot of attention. But even then many complications arose: his skin began to crack in places and his fever mounted, and finally the doctors suggested we take him to Bombay. But Mummy didn’t agree and she took Chaddah back to her house.

I couldn’t stay in Pune. I returned to Bombay and called from time to time to ask about his health. I thought he would die, but I learned that his health was slowly improving. Then I had to go to Lahore in connection with a trial, and when I returned fifteen days later, my wife handed me a letter from Chaddah in which he wrote, ‘The great Mummy saved her wayward son from the jaws of death!’

There was an ocean of emotions in those few words. Unusually for me, I got very sentimental while recounting to my wife how Mummy had cared for Chaddah. My wife was moved too, ‘Women like that are usually very caring.’

I wrote to Chaddah two or three times but received no answer. Afterwards I learned that Mummy had sent him to one of her girlfriends’ house in Lonavala, thinking that a change of scenery would do him some good. Chaddah spent a month there but got bored and came back.

I happened to be in Pune on the day of his return. He was weak from fighting off the plague, but otherwise he was his usual rowdy self and he talked about his sickness just as someone would mention a minor bicycle accident — now that it was over, he thought it pointless to talk about it in detail.

Small changes had come about at Sayeedah Cottage. The brothers, Aqil and Shakil, had left when they decided that Sayeedah Cottage’s atmosphere was not conducive for establishing their own film company. In their place came Sen, a Bengali music director, along with a runaway from Lahore named Ram Singh who had got just before Chaddah went to Lonavala and had won permission to stay. Everyone in Sayeedah Cottage ended up using the boy for their work, since he was very courteous and obliging. The boy set his stuff up in Sen’s room where there was extra space.

Then Ranjit Kumar was cast as the hero in a new film and the film company promised that if the film did well, he would be given the chance to direct. Chaddah somehow secured 1,500 rupees of his two years’ unpaid salary and all of that in one lump sum. He told Ranjit Kumar, ‘You know, if you want to get some money, pray for the plague. It’s better than being an actor or director!’

Gharib Nawaz had recently come back from Hyderabad, and so Sayeedah Cottage was enjoying some good times. I noticed expensive shirts and pants drying on the clothesline outside the garage and how Shirin’s little boy had new toys.

I had to stay in Pune for fifteen days. Harish was busy trying to win the love of the heroine of a film he was shooting, but he was scared because the heroine was Punjabi and her husband sported a big moustache and bulging muscles. Chaddah encouraged him, ‘Don’t worry about that bastard. Macho Punjabi guys are horrible lovers. Listen, for just a hundred rupees a word, I’ll teach you ten or twenty hardcore Punjabi swear words that’ll come in handy.’

At Chaddah’s rate (basically a bottle of liquor for each swear word), Harish memorized six Punjabi insults, complete with a Punjabi accent, but he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to test their effectiveness.

Mummy was throwing her usual parties with Polly, Dolly, Kitty, Elma, Thelma and everyone else. Vankatre instructed Thelma in Kathakali, Tandau, and Dhani, shouting ‘one, two, three …’ to count out the measures, and Thelma was trying her best to learn. Gharib Nawaz was lending money right and left, and Ranjit Kumar (a film star at last) continued to escort girls outside to enjoy the breeze. And just like old times, Chaddah’s raunchy limericks made everyone erupt in laughter. Only one person was absent — Phyllis, the one for whose hair colour Chaddah had spent so much time trying to find the proper simile. But Chaddah didn’t look for her. Nevertheless when Chaddah’s and Mummy’s glances met, sometimes he would lower his gaze, and it seemed that he still felt bad about that one night’s craziness. After his fourth shot, he would shout at himself, ‘Chaddah, you’re such a pig!’ Then Mummy would give a sweet little smile that seemed to say, ‘Don’t be silly.’

And as usual, Vankatre and Chaddah would quarrel. Vankatre would get drunk and start to praise his father and beautiful wife, but Chaddah would cut him off as if with an enormous battle axe. Vankatre, the poor soul, would stop talking and fold his high school diploma and put it in his pocket.

Mummy was still everyone’s ‘Mummy’ and she put together the parties with her usual affection. Her make-up remained the same ugly fare and her clothes were still tasteless and flashy; her wrinkles still showed from beneath layers of powder and rouge but now it all looked sacred: her shadow had protected Chaddah, and the plague’s insects hadn’t dared touch her. When Vankatre’s beautiful wife had a miscarriage, Mummy intervened to save her life. When Thelma, because of her interest in learning Indian dance, fell into the clutches of a Marwari Kathak dancer who passed on to her a sexually transmitted disease, Mummy scolded her ferociously and was ready to abandon her for good. But seeing her tears, Mummy’s heart melted. She told her boys what had happened and asked them to get Thelma treated. When Kitty got 500 rupees for solving a crossword, Mummy forced her to give half of it to poor Gharib Nawaz because suddenly he didn’t have any money. She told Kitty, ‘Give it to him now, you’ll be able to get it back later if you want.’ During my fifteen days in Pune, she often asked me about my wife, expressing concern that we hadn’t had another child after our first son’s death. She didn’t talk to Ranjit Kumar with much interest, and it seemed as though she didn’t like his love for showing off. (In fact, she had said as much to me on several occasions.) She hated the music director, Sen, and always complained when Chaddah brought him along, ‘Don’t bring that awful man here.’ When Chaddah asked why, she would reply, ‘He seems insincere. I don’t like him.’ Then Chaddah would laugh.

I always had a good time at Mummy’s parties. Everyone drank, got drunk, and flirted. Things were full of sensual possibility and yet they never got out of hand because everybody knew where things stood.

I returned to Bombay. On my second day back, I read in the paper that Sen had been killed at Sayeedah Cottage. The murderer was reported to be a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy named Ram Singh. I immediately called Pune but couldn’t reach anyone.

A week later, a letter arrived from Chaddah in which he recounted all of the murder’s details. It was at night, while everyone was sleeping. Suddenly someone fell onto his bed, and he woke with a start. When he turned on the light, he saw that it was Sen, dripping with blood. Chaddah was trying to process this when Ram Singh appeared in the doorway with a dagger in hand. Immediately, Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar appeared too and soon everyone woke up. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar grabbed Ram Singh and pried the dagger from his hand, while Chaddah laid Sen on his bed. He was about to ask Sen about his wounds when the music director took his last breath and died. Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar were holding Ram Singh and both were trembling. Then Ram Singh asked Chaddah, ‘Bhapaji — did he die?’

Chaddah nodded his head, and then Ram Singh said to the two men holding him, ‘Let me go. I won’t run away.’

Chaddah didn’t know what to do and so immediately sent his servant to fetch Mummy. Everyone relaxed when Mummy came as they were confident that she would resolve the situation. She told Gharib Nawaz and Ranjit Kumar to let go of Ram Singh and then she took him to the police station where his formal statement was entered into the books. For days afterwards, Chaddah and his friends were harried first by the police investigation and then the trial, and Mummy was frantically running here and there, trying to help Ram Singh’s cause.

Chaddah was confident the boy would be acquitted, and in fact his innocent manner impressed the judge so much that the lower court did so. Before the trial Mummy told him, ‘Son, don’t worry, just tell the truth.’ Then Ram Singh gave an exact account of what had transpired, the same that he had given at the police station. Ram Singh loved music and Sen was a very good singer — eventually Sen convinced him to try to become a playback singer. Swayed by the man’s promises, Ram Singh submitted to his sexual advances. But he hated Sen terribly, and time and again he cursed himself. Finally, he grew so sick of the situation that he told Sen that if he forced himself upon him once more, he would kill him. And that was just what happened.

Ram Singh offered this testimony to the court. Mummy was there providing her support, and her glances reminded him of what she had earlier said, ‘Don’t worry, just tell the truth because the truth always wins. You killed him, but what he was doing was sordid. It was depraved, a crime of unnatural passion.’

In his letter Chaddah wrote, ‘In this age of lies, there was a surprising victory for the truth, and all the credit goes to my old Mummy.’

Chaddah invited me to the party that Sayeedah Cottage was throwing to celebrate the acquittal, but I was too busy to go. The ‘brothers, Shakil and Aqil L had moved back, as they hadn’t been able to find a more suitable place to get their film company up and running. They were again assistants to some assistant in their old film company and had only a couple hundred rupees of their original capital. Chaddah asked them to chip in for the party, and they gave all of their remaining money to make the party a success. Chaddah said, ‘I’ll drink four shots and pray your film company gets on its feet.’

Chaddah told me that at the party Vankatre, quite out of character, praised neither his asshole father nor his beautiful wife. Kitty told Gharib Nawaz she needed some money, and so he lent her 200 rupees. Gharib Nawaz said to Ranjit Kumar, ‘Don’t play with the poor girls. Your intentions might be good, but as far as accepting money goes, the girls aren’t going to pay it back. Anyway, if you want, give them something, just don’t expect anything in return.’

At the party Mummy coddled Ram Singh and advised everyone to encourage him to go home. Suddenly it was decided, and the next day Gharib Nawaz bought his ticket. The day of his departure, Shirin made him some food for the trip, and everyone went to the station to see him off. As the train pulled out, everyone stood waving until it disappeared.

I learned all this about the party ten days afterwards when I had to go to Pune on some important business. Nothing had changed at Sayeedah Cottage, which seemed like a caravanserai that stays the same even after thousands of travellers have stopped there, the type of place that never grew old. When I arrived, sweets were being distributed because Shirin had given birth to another boy. Vankatre had bought a Glaxo baby carriage for her new son. Finding it had been difficult but he had managed to procure two, one of which he kept for his own family. Chaddah stuffed the last two sweets into his mouth and said, ‘So you got this Glaxo carriage — that’s great. Just don’t mention your damn father and beautiful wife.’

‘You idiot, I don’t drink any more,’ Vankatre said, before adding, ‘My wife speaks Urdu, you know — yes, by God — she’s very pretty!’

Chaddah erupted in such obnoxious laughter that Vankatre couldn’t say anything else. Then Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Vankatre turned to me and we started to talk about the story I was writing for a film company there in Pune. Then we brainstormed for quite a while for a name for Shirin’s baby. We thought of hundreds, but Chaddah didn’t like any of them. At last I pointed out that the boy’s birth was auspicious because he was born at Sayeedah Cottage and so suggested that his name should be Masud. Chaddah didn’t like this either but for the time being accepted it.

It seemed that Chaddah, Gharib Nawaz, and Ranjit Kumar were out of sorts. I reasoned that it might be due to the change in weather or because of Shirin’s new baby, but neither of those could explain it all. Or maybe it was the traumatic memory of Sen’s murder. I didn’t know why but everyone seemed sad — they were laughing and carrying on but inside they were upset.

I was busy writing at Harish’s for a week. I often wondered why Chaddah didn’t come by; neither did Vankatre. As for Ranjit Kumar, I wasn’t close enough to him to expect him to travel out of his way to see me, and then I thought Gharib Nawaz might have gone to Hyderabad. Harish was around but he was probably over at his Punjabi heartthrob’s house trying to build up the resolve to flirt with her in the presence of her hulk of a husband.

I was writing the story’s most interesting part when Chaddah appeared from out of nowhere. As soon as he entered the room, he asked, ‘Do you get anything for this nonsense?’

He was referring to my story. Two days earlier I had received my second payment, so I said, ‘Yeah, I got the second instalment of 1,000 rupee two days ago.’

‘Where is it?’ Chaddah looked at my coat.

‘In my pocket.’

Chaddah thrust his hand into my pocket, took out four hundred-rupee notes and said, ‘Come to Mummy’s tonight, there’s a party.’

I was about to ask him the details but he left. He still seemed dejected and as though something was bothering him. I wondered what it might be, but my mind was absorbed in the scene I was writing and I soon forgot about his problems.

I updated Harish’s wife on my wife’s activities and left at about five. I arrived at Sayeedah Cottage at seven. Wet baby clothes hung on the clothesline, and Aqil and Shakil were playing with Shirin’s older boy near the hand-pump. The garage’s canvas curtain was pulled open and Shirin was talking to Aqil and Shakil, probably about Mummy. They stopped talking when they saw me. I asked after Chaddah, and Aqil said he was at Mummy’s.

When I arrived at Mummy’s, it was very loud and everyone was dancing — Gharib Nawaz with Polly, Ranjit Kumar with Kitty and Elma, and Vankatre with Thelma. Vankatre was instructing Thelma in the hand gestures of Kathakali. Chaddah was carrying Mummy in his arms and jumping around the room. Everyone was drunk and it was as if a storm had broken. Chaddah was the first to shout out his greetings to me and then there was a cannon-like burst of Indian and English voices, the echo reverberating in my ears. Mummy greeted me with genuine warmth. She took my hand and said, ‘Kiss me, dear!’

But instead she kissed me on the cheek and then dragged me into the centre of the dancers. Chaddah cried out, ‘Stop — it’s time for drinking!’ Then he shouted, ‘Oh, Prince of Scotland! Bring a new bottle of whiskey.’ The Prince of Scotland brought a new bottle. He was dead drunk. When he started to open the bottle, it fell and broke into pieces. Mummy wanted to scold him but Chaddah stopped her. ‘It was only a bottle, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Forget it — there are people here with broken hearts.’

The party hit a lull, but then Chaddah got things going with his raucous laughter. Another bottle arrived, and everyone drank a strong shot. Chaddah began to deliver an incoherent speech, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you all may go to hell! Manto is here. He thinks he’s a famous writer, an expert in human psychology. How should I put it, “He penetrates the deepest recesses of human psychology.” But it’s all nonsense! People like him are just the idiots who would lower themselves into a well — it’s like lowering yourself into a well.’ He looked around the room and then began again, ‘It’s too bad that there aren’t any fishermen here. There’s a Hyderabadi who says “khaf” when he should say “qaf” and who acts like he met you two days ago even though it was really ten years. To hell with his Nizam of Hyderabad and his tons of gold and tens of millions of jewels! But no, Mummy — yes — it’s like lowering yourself into a well. What did I say but that it’s all nonsense. In Punjabi we say that fools understand human psychology better than people like Manto. And that’s what I’m talking about.’

Everyone shouted, ‘Hurray!’

Chaddah continued, ‘It’s all a conspiracy! Manto’s conspiracy! Like Herr Hitler, I signalled you all to shout, “Death! Death to you all!” But first, me — me—’ He was extremely worked up. ‘I — who that night got mad at Mummy over the girl with the platinum blonde hair — God knows what kind of Don Juan I took myself for. But, no, getting her wasn’t hard at all. I swear by my youth that in a single kiss I could have sucked all the blessed purity straight out of her! But this was wrong. She was too young, so young, so weak, so characterless … so …’ He looked at me with a questioning glance. ‘Tell me, what would you call her in high-class Urdu, or Farsi, or Arabic? Characterless. Ladies and gentlemen, she was so young, so weak, and so characterless that if she had committed a sin that night, she would either have regretted it for as long as she lived or have forgotten it completely. Regardless, she would never have remembered it as pleasurable. This makes me sad. It was good that Mummy put an end to it right there. Now I’m just about done with this nonsense. I actually intended to deliver a longer speech, but I can’t speak any more. I need another shot.’

He drank another shot. Everyone had been quiet during his speech, and they remained so afterwards. God knows what Mummy was thinking. She looked old and lost in thought. Chaddah seemed suddenly hollow. He wandered here and there, as if looking for some corner of his mind where he could safeguard something. I asked him, ‘What’s wrong, Chaddah?’

He broke out laughing and answered, ‘Nothing — the thing is that today the whiskey isn’t kicking in.’ But his laughter was spiritless.

Vankatre pushed Thelma aside and made me sit down next to him. Soon enough, he began praising his father who he said had been a very accomplished man who had held audiences spellbound with his harmonium playing. Then he mentioned his wife’s beauty and how his father had selected this girl for him to marry when he was still a child. When the Bengali music director, Sen’s, name came up, he said, ‘Mr Manto, he was a very bad man. He said he was a student of Khan Sahib Abdul Karim Khan, but that was a lie, an utter lie. Actually, he was some Bengali pimp’s student.’

It was two in the morning, and Chaddah was sullen. He carelessly pushed aside Kitty, stepped forward, slapped Vankatre’s pumpkin-shaped head and said, ‘Stop talking nonsense. Get up and sing something. But watch out if you sing a classical raag …’

Vankatre began to sing rightaway, but his voice wasn’t good and the notes weren’t crisp. But whatever he sang, he sang very sincerely. In Malkos he sang two or three film songs that made everyone sad. Mummy and Chaddah looked at each other and then turned away. Gharib Nawaz was so touched that tears sprang from his eyes, and Chaddah laughed loudly and said, ‘People from Hyderabad have weak tear ducts — they start leaking from time to time!’

Gharib Nawaz wiped away his tears and began to dance with Elma. Vankatre put a record on the gramophone’s turntable and set the needle down. The song was an oldie. Chaddah picked up Mummy again and cavorted around the room, and his voice became hoarse, like those singing women who ruin their voices by wailing away at weddings.

This tumult lasted for two more hours, and Mummy had fallen silent. But then she turned to Chaddah and said, ‘Okay, that’s enough!’

Chaddah raised a bottle to his lips. He drained it, threw it to the side and said to me, ‘Let’s go, Manto, let’s go.’

I got up. I wanted to say goodbye to Mummy, but Chaddah pulled me away, ‘Today no one will say goodbye.’

We were leaving when I heard Vankatre begin to cry. I said to Chaddah, ‘Wait, what’s going on?’ But he pushed me ahead and said, ‘That bastard’s tear ducts are defective too.’

On the way home Chaddah didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask him about the strange party, but he said, ‘I’m dead tired.’ Once we got back to Sayeedah Cottage, he lay down on his bed and immediately fell asleep.

I woke the next morning and went to the bathroom. When I came out, I saw Gharib Nawaz next to the garage’s canvas curtain. He was crying, and when he saw me, he wiped away his tears and started to walk away. But I went up to him and asked why he was crying. He said, ‘Mummy left.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘I don’t know.’ Then he turned toward the street.

Chaddah was lying on his bed. It looked as though he had not slept at all. When I asked him about Mummy, he smiled and said, ‘She’s gone. She had to leave Pune on the morning train.’

‘Why?’

Chaddah was bitter. ‘The government didn’t like her being around. They didn’t like the way she looked. They were against her parties. The police wanted to exploit her. They wanted to call her ‘mum’ and use her as a madam. There was an investigation into her activities, and finally, the police convinced the government and forced her to leave the city. They forced her out. If she was a prostitute, a madam, if her existence was a menace to society, then they should have killed her. Why did they tell her — the quote-unquote filth of Pune! — that she could go wherever she pleased as long as it wasn’t here?’ Chaddah laughed loudly but then fell silent. He began again in an emotional voice, ‘I’m sorry, Manto. With this “filth” someone pure has left, the one who set me on the right path that night. But I shouldn’t be sorry. She’s left Pune, and yet wherever she ends up, there’ll be young men like me who have the same depraved passions. I entrust my Mummy to them. Long live Mummy! Long live …’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got to find Gharib Nawaz. He must be weak from crying. These Hyderabadis have real weak tear ducts. They spring leaks from time to time.’

I noticed tears in Chaddah’s eyes. They floated there like corpses on water.