Bombay Stories

RUDE

WHEN I left Delhi to return to Bombay, I was upset because it meant parting with good friends and a job my wife approved of — stable, easy work that netted us 250 rupees on the first of each month. Nevertheless I was suddenly overcome by a desire to leave, and not even my wife’s crying and carrying on could dissuade me.

I know hundreds of people in Bombay and seeing my friends again after many years brought me real joy, and yet my greatest joy turned out to be meeting Izzat Jahan.

You must know Izzat Jahan — who hasn’t heard her name? If you are a Communist and live in Bombay, you must already have met her many times and know how she has spent years working for the Communist cause, and you probably also know that she just married some unknown man.

This unknown man is a good friend of mine, as I know Nasir from our student days at Aligarh Muslim University when I used to call him Nasu. Illness and a lack of funds forced me to withdraw from school, but Nasir somehow managed to get a BA and land a factory job in Delhi. Years later while I was living in Bombay, Nasir came down for another factory job. During those days we got together often, but then I was forced to leave Bombay for various reasons, and that was when I got that job in Delhi, which turned out to be a regular disaster.

Anyway, I said goodbye to Delhi after two years and moved back to Bombay, the home of many dear friends and of Izzat Jahan. I’m a Communist and have written hundreds of essays on Communism. I have also read Izzat Jahan’s essays in various newspapers, and they deeply impressed me. For God’s sake, please don’t think I was enamoured! I just wanted to meet her and talk to her — I had read about her activities, and as adolescent boys just fallen in love want to talk about their love affairs, I wanted to talk about my boundless love for Communism.

I wanted to talk about the development of Communist philosophy from Hegel to Karl Marx and to discuss the viewpoints of Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. I wanted to tell her my opinion of India’s Communist Movement and to hear hers too. I wanted to tell her stories of young men carrying Karl Marx’s books tucked beneath their arms with only one idea in mind — to impress others. I wanted to tell her about a friend who possessed every English-language book ever published about Communism but still didn’t know even its rudiments, a guy who dropped Karl Marx’s name just as frequently as people with a celebrity in the family find a way of mentioning them. I wanted to tell Izzat Jahan how my friend, despite his shenanigans, was so sincere that he couldn’t stand to hear one word said against the Communist cause.

Then I would tell her about the young men and women who become Communist as a way to meet the opposite sex. I would tell her how half the boys who join the Movement are, simply put, horny, and how they stare at the girl initiates with eyes filled with centuries of unrequited desire. I would tell her how most of the girls are rebellious daughters of fat-cat industrialists who read some introductory books then become active members just in order to stave off boredom. And I would tell her how some of these girls become mired in debauchery when they lose all respect for social and moral norms and become the sex toys of our national ‘leaders’.

To make a long story short, I thought it would be a great pleasure to discuss in detail India’s Communist Movement and its future implications. From reading her articles, I knew her incisive opinions and bold style, and I was sure we would agree on a lot.

When I got to Bombay I had to stay at a friend’s apartment for a while while I looked for a place and furnished it. My wife was still in Delhi, and I told her I would call as soon as things were arranged.

My friends are all bachelor film directors and have interesting opinions about women. They don’t want to get mixed up in a relationship with a girl on the set, and so when they feel the need, they contact any number of pimps who can supply them with what they want. My friends keep these girls for the night and send them on their way in the morning. They don’t get married because they think they could never make their wives happy. They say, ‘I’m a film director, you know. If the shooting’s during the day, I have to stay on the set all day. If the shooting’s at night, I have to stay out all night. If I work during the day, then I need to relax at night, and if I work at night, then I need to relax during the day. My wife would ask me to do things for her, but how could I when I’m all tired out? Every day a new girl is good. If I feel sleepy, I can tell her, “Get some sleep.” If I get tired of her, I can call a taxi, pay the fare, and send her on her way. As soon as a woman becomes your wife, she becomes a big burden. I’m very dutiful, so I don’t want that pressure. I don’t want to get married.’

One day I accompanied my friend in his taxi while he was looking for a girl. A pimp friend of his brought out not one but two Dravidian girls. I was confused but my friend immediately said, ‘Don’t worry. What’s the difference between one or two?’

The taxi turned back toward the apartment. After getting back, my film director friend, the two girls wearing kashta saris and I climbed the stairs to the third floor. I opened his apartment’s door and what did I see inside but Nasir sitting in front of my Urdu typewriter, inspecting it. Sitting right next to him was a woman wearing glasses, and when she turned to look in our direction, I recognized her. It was Izzat Jahan.

My film director friend was nervous, but since the two girls had already entered the room it was useless to pretend.

I introduced my friend to Nasir, Nasir introduced us to his wife, and then I sat down next to them. I wanted to say something more about Izzat Jahan to my friend and when I looked at him, I found him lighting a cigarette. ‘This is one of India’s greatest Communist women,’ I said. ‘You must have read her essays.’

But my friend had no interest in Communism, and afterwards I learned he didn’t even know what the word meant. He gestured to the young women that they should go into the other room and then said, ‘Please excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Izzat Jahan was staring at my friend’s two companions and inspecting their clothes, their comportment, in short everything about them. The girls went into the other room, and my friend brazenly excused himself and closed the door behind him.

Izzat Jahan turned to me and said, ‘I’m very happy to meet you. Every day Nasir used to say, “Let’s go meet Manto, let’s go meet Manto.” But I was very busy then. And …’ Then something broke her train of thought and she started a new line of conversation. ‘You’re going to be living here, right? This house isn’t bad at all!’ She looked around the room and nodded.

‘Yes, it’s nice. There’s a breeze.’

‘It’s breezy and clean.’

‘If you open the middle door, you get a good breeze.’

‘Oh, yes, there was a little earlier.’

We had been chatting for about half an hour about this and that, but I sensed that Izzat Jahan was distracted. She was probably trying to figure out why my friend hadn’t returned as he had promised. Then suddenly she requested a glass of water.

The apartment had two hallways, one in the front and one in the back. I didn’t think it was a good idea to disturb my friend, so I brought the water back by the long way. When I got back to the room, I saw that Nasir and Izzat Jahan were whispering to each other.

Izzat Jahan took the glass. ‘You went to a lot of trouble.’

‘No, it was no trouble at all.’

She drank the water, contracted her eyebrows behind her thick glasses, and in order to make conversation, she noted how the apartment had two hallways.

We chatted again for a while, and when the conversation turned to Communism, both Izzat Jahan and I got excited. I set out to make my views on Communism known.

‘Communism says that all human institutions — religion, history, politics and so on — are rooted in economic conditions. In the present system, with the division between the rich and the poor, the instruments of production are all in the hands of the elite who then use these instruments for their benefit alone. When this order is overturned, according to you, the Communist Age will begin and the tools of production, which determine our economic conditions, will be in the hands of the common people.’

‘Yes,’ Izzat Jahan confirmed.

‘And then there will be a special executive body to represent the people’s power.’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s worth considering how even under Communism, power will be restricted to a select group. This group, in accordance with the Communist doctrine, will act for the good of all the people and will have nothing to do with personal interests and profiteering. But who can say beyond the shadow of a doubt that this group, which is supposed to be for the people, won’t turn into something capitalistic and seek to oppress others? Won’t they abuse their power? After ruling for a while, won’t these people begin to act out of personal motives?’

Izzat Jahan smiled. ‘You sound like you’re Bakunin’s brother.’

‘I admit that Bakunin always fought with Marx and couldn’t come to accept certain points, and that despite his sincerity he couldn’t develop a logical and organized philosophy of his own. But he said this, and it wasn’t a lie, that even democracy is a euphemism for a government in which a larger group oppresses a smaller one. I’m all for any political system that frees society from all rules and oppression.’

Izzat smiled again. ‘So you want anarchism, which is impractical? Your Bakunin and Kropotkin can’t make it work.’

I interrupted her, ‘Communism was impractical, and people thought it was a crazy dream. But Marx presented it in the form of a practical social system. It’s possible that anarchism, too, will get its Marx.’

Izzat Jahan looked at the closed door, and then as if she hadn’t heard what I had just said, she asked, ‘Why hasn’t your friend returned?’

I decided to tell her the truth. ‘Earlier he was just being polite. He didn’t plan on coming back.’

‘Why?’ Izzat Jahan asked innocently.

I looked at Nasir and smiled. He was beginning to find our conversation interesting.

‘He has two girls with him. Why would he leave them for our boring company?’

‘Are they actresses?’

‘No.’

‘Friends?’

‘He just met them today.’

Little by little I told her everything, including my friend’s views on sex. She listened carefully and then pronounced her verdict, ‘This is the worst kind of anarchism. If everyone thought like your friend, then the world would be depressing. Men and women would see each other only as sexual partners, right? I don’t care who your friend is, what does he think women are? Sliced bread, cake, or biscuits? A warm cup of coffee or tea, so he can drink as much as he likes and toss the rest? Damn those women who put up with this disgraceful behaviour! I can’t understand why some people think sex is so important, or why your friend can’t live without women. Why does he need to sleep with a woman every night?’

I said what I thought, ‘Men have a special need for women. Some feel it more, and some feel it less. My friend is the type that wants to sleep with a woman every night. If food, drink, and sleep are important to him, then a woman is just as important. Maybe he’s wrong to think like this, but at least he doesn’t pretend.’

Izzat Jahan’s tone became even more bitter. ‘Just because he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t make it right. If prostitutes consent to selling their bodies, it doesn’t mean it’s natural. It’s because our way of doing things is wrong and it’s unnatural that there are prostitutes. Your friend’s nervous system isn’t sound. That’s why he can’t tell the difference between women and food. You can’t live without food, but surely you can live without sex!’

‘Sure, you can live,’ I said. ‘But when did it become a matter of life and death? You know, not every man can get a woman, but all those who can, do.’

Nasir wasn’t at all interested in our conversation. ‘Okay, enough of this. It’s late, and we have nineteen miles to go. Let’s go, Izzat, shall we?’

Izzat didn’t listen to Nasir, but said to me, ‘Whatever you say, but, really, your friend is very rude. I can’t believe the three of us were sitting here chatting and in the next room he — lahaul wala quwat!’

Nasir was sleepy. ‘All right, for God’s sake, stop talking about it! Let’s go!’

Izzat got mad. ‘Look … look … now you’re finally starting to act like a real husband.’

I couldn’t help but laugh, and Nasir laughed too. When Izzat Jahan saw us laughing, a smile stole across her lips.

‘How else can I put it?’ she asked. ‘This is exactly what husbands are like — I mean he’s trying to bully me.’

Nasir and Izzat stayed for a bit and then left. Our first meeting was very interesting. Although I wasn’t able to talk to her in any detail about the Communist Movement, she still impressed me, and I imagined that future meetings would provide a lot of food for thought.

Then I found an apartment, and my wife joined me. One day Izzat came by, and the two of them took to each other immediately. From then on Izzat Jahan would often come by our apartment in the evening on her way home. I wanted to discuss with her every aspect of Communism from Hegel, Marx and Engels to Bakunin, Kropotkin and Trotsky, but she and my wife would go off to the other room and lie down on the bed and talk about who knows what. If I happened to mention the effects of Stalin’s current war policy on Communist theory, she would ask my wife the price of white wool. If I said anything about the hypocrisy of M.N. Roy, she would praise some song from the movie Family. And if I got her to sit down next to me and was able to begin a conversation, she would get up after several minutes to go into the kitchen to peel onions for my wife.

Izzat Jahan worked all day at the Party office. She lived twenty or twenty-five miles from there, and her commute was an hour by train each way, so she would return home tired every evening. Nasir worked in a factory, and every month he had to work fifteen nights as an overseer. But Izzat was happy. She repeated to my wife, ‘The meaning of marriage is not just a bed, and the meaning of a husband is not just someone to sleep with at night. People were not made just for this.’

My wife liked these words very much.

Izzat Jahan put a lot of herself into her work, and so I didn’t mind that she was too tired to talk to me. Nor did I mind that she spent more time with my wife, as it was clear she enjoyed her company more than mine. Nonetheless I was curious to see if Izzat would change my wife’s thinking — which was an average middle-class capitalist perspective — into her own.

One day I came back from work early, probably around two. I knocked on the door, but instead of my wife opening it, it was Nasir. Straightaway I went to put my bag on my desk as I usually did. Nasir lay down on my bed, pulling a blanket over him. Izzat Jahan was lying on the sofa on the other side of the room.

‘I think I’m coming down with a fever,’ Nasir said.

I looked in Izzat Jahan’s direction and asked, ‘And you?’

‘No, I’m just lying down.’

‘Where’s Ruqaiya?’ I asked.

‘She’s sleeping in the other room,’ Izzat said.

‘What’s this? Everyone’s sleeping?’ Then I called out for my wife, ‘Ruqaiya! Ruqaiya!’

‘Yes!’ her sleepy voice answered.

‘Come here. How long are you going to sleep?’

Ruqaiya came into the room, rubbing her eyes, and sat down next to Izzat. Nasir was still lying with the blanket pulled over him. I sat in a chair next to my wife, and we talked for a while about deep sleep because Ruqaiya always slept like a baby. Then Izzat and my wife began talking about needlework. In the meantime tea was made. Nasir drank a cup in bed, and I gave him two aspirins for his fever.

Izzat Jahan and Nasir stayed for a little less than two hours and then left.

When I lay down on my bed that night, I folded the top pillow in half as I always do, and what did I see but the bottom pillow did not have a pillowcase. Ruqaiya was standing next to me changing her clothes. ‘Why isn’t there a pillowcase on this pillow?’ I asked.

Ruqaiya stared at the pillow, and in a tone of surprise said, ‘Well, where did that pillowcase go? Oh, yes — it was your friend.’

Smiling, I asked, ‘Nasir took it?’

‘How should I know?’ Ruqaiya said defensively. Then she relented. ‘Oh, it’s so embarrassing! I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I was sleeping in the other room and they were — your friend and his wife — damn them! They turned out to be very rude.’

The next day we found the pillowcase underneath the bed, and rats and cockroaches had soiled it. In addition to that, we also found the aspirin tablets I’d given to Nasir to relieve his fever.