Manto: Selected Stories

Blouse

Momin had been feeling unsettled for the past few days. His body was as raw as a boil. He felt a mysterious pain, while working, while talking, even while thinking. But had he tried to describe it, he would have been unable to.

He would sometimes start while sitting. Hazy thoughts that usually rose and vanished soundlessly like bubbles in his mind, now burst, with great fury. Ants with barbed feet seemed to crawl over the pathways of his tender mind. A tightness had arisen in his body, and it caused him terrible discomfort. When it became too much, he’d wish he was in a giant cauldron, ready to be ground down.

He felt a deep satisfaction at hearing masalas being crushed in the kitchen: the noise of metal clashing with metal ringing out like a threat into the recesses of the roof, where he stood barefoot. The vibrations would run up his bare feet, to his taut calves and thighs, before reaching his heart, which would flutter like the flame of a clay lamp in a fast wind.

Momin was fifteen, perhaps sixteen; he didn’t know his exact age. He was a strong, healthy boy whose pubescence galloped towards adulthood and it was the effects of this gallop — of which Momin was wholly ignorant — that throbbed in every drop of his blood. He tried to comprehend its meaning, but he couldn’t.

Changes in his body were also becoming apparent. His neck, once thin, was thickening; his Adam’s apple was becoming more prominent; the muscles in his arms had grown tighter; his chest had hardened, and it had swollen in places as if someone had squeezed marbles into it. Touching these lumps caused Momin great discomfort. His hand accidentally grazing them, or even his thick shirt brushing against them while he worked, would make him jump up with pain.

In the bathroom, or alone in the kitchen, he would undo the buttons of his shirt and carefully examine these lumps, massaging them lightly. Stabs of pain would shoot through him as if his body, like a tree heavy with fruit, had been shaken. And though it made him tremble, he would become absorbed in this painful pastime. Sometimes, if he pressed too hard, the lumps would puncture and release a sticky liquid. The sight of it made his face turn red to his ears. He felt that, without meaning to, he had committed a sin.

His knowledge, as far as sin and virtue went, was very limited. Anything that someone couldn’t do in the presence of others struck him as a sin. And so whenever his face reddened to his ears, he hurriedly did up his shirt and swore to himself that he would never again engage in such inane pastimes. But despite these promises, two or three days later, he’d find himself once again absorbed in this activity.

Momin was turning the corner onto one of life’s avenues, that was not as long as it was treacherous. He sometimes moved swiftly down it, sometimes slowly. The truth was that he didn’t know how to traverse roads like these. Should they be negotiated as quickly as possible, or in a leisurely manner; should he perhaps take help along the way? He seemed to lose his footing on the slippery cobblestones of his approaching manhood; he had to fight to keep his balance. It perturbed him; it was the reason why, he would sometimes in the middle of his work, give a start, and grabbing a hook in the wall with both his hands, hang freely from it. Then he would have the urge for someone to hold his legs and pull him down until he became like a fine wire. But he couldn’t understand the meaning of these thoughts, they seemed to arise from some unknown part of his brain.

Everyone in the household was happy with Momin. He was hardworking and did all his work on time so no one had any cause for complaint. He had only worked as a servant for three months, but in this short time, he’d impressed everyone in the house. He had begun at six rupees a month, but by the second month, his salary was raised by two rupees. He was happy in the house; he was shown respect here.

But now, in the past few days, he had become unsettled. The restlessness that took hold of him made him want to spend whole days wandering the bazaars, or to find some deserted spot where he could lie down.

He no longer had his heart in his work, but despite his listlessness, he hadn’t become lazy, which was why no one in the house was aware of his inner turmoil. There was Razia who spent her entire day playing music, learning the newest film songs and reading magazines. She never paid any attention to Momin. Shakeela sometimes got Momin to do some work for her and even scolded him occasionally, but for the past few days, she, too, had been totally occupied, with copying the samples of a few blouses. They belonged to a friend of hers who kept up with the latest fashions. Shakeela had borrowed eight blouses from her and was copying them onto pieces of paper. And so, for the past few days, she hadn’t paid much attention to Momin either.

The deputy saab’s wife was not a severe woman. Other than Momin, there were two more servants in the house. There was an old lady who mostly worked in the kitchen; Momin occasionally lent her a hand. Deputy saab’s wife might perhaps have noticed a change in Momin’s alertness, but she hadn’t mentioned it to him. She certainly knew nothing of the upheavals in his mind and body. She had no sons and so was unable to understand the changes he was experiencing. And besides, Momin was a servant. Who could pay that much attention to the lives of servants? They covered all life’s stages on foot, from infancy to old age, and those around them never knew anything of it.

Though he was unaware of it, Momin was waiting for something to happen. For what? Just something: for the careful arrangement of plates on the table to start jumping up; for the water now coming to a boil to send the kettle’s lid flying into the air; for the tap’s lead pipe to crumple with the slightest pressure, and for a jet of water to shoot out; for his body to stretch, once and ever, so forcefully, that its every joint would come apart and hang loose; for something to reveal itself that he’d never experienced.

Momin was deeply unsettled.

And Razia was busy learning new film songs, and Shakeela copying blouse samples onto pieces of paper. When she’d finished doing this, she took the best of them and began making herself a blouse in violet satin. Now even Razia was forced to leave her radio and filmi music and turn her attention towards this.

Shakeela always did everything with great care and composure. Her posture when she was sewing suggested contentment. She wasn’t restless like her sister, Razia. Every stitch went on after careful consideration so that there was no room for error. Her measurements were always exact as she made paper cut-outs first, then used them to cut the cloth. This took more time, but the result was near perfect.

Shakeela was a large-bodied, healthy girl. She had thick, fleshy fingers, which tapered at the tips, and there were dimples at each joint. When she would work the sewing machine, they’d occasionally disappear with the movement of her hand.

Shakeela was just as calm at the machine. She would turn its wheel with two or three fingers, slowly and cleanly, her wrist gently arched. Her neck would bend forward slightly, and a lock of hair, unable to find a fixed place, would slip down. She would be so absorbed with her work that she wouldn’t push it away.

Shakeela laid out the violet satin and was about to begin cutting the blouse in her size, when she realised she needed a tape measure. Their own tape was faded and falling to pieces; they had a metal one, but how could she measure her back and chest with that? She had many blouses of her own, but as she’d put on a little weight, she wanted to check all her measurements again.

She took off her shirt and yelled for Momin. When he came, she said, ‘Momin, go next door, to number six and ask them for a tape measure. Tell them Shakeela needs it.’

Momin’s gaze fell upon Shakila’s white vest. He’d seen her this way many times before, but today it gave him a strange jolt. He averted his eyes, and anxiously said, ‘What kind of measure, bibi?’

‘A tape measure. This iron rod, lying in front of you, is one kind of measure. There is also another kind of measure, for clothes. Go and get it from number six, and run. Tell them Shakeela bibi needs it.’

Flat six was nearby. Momin returned in minutes with the tape measure. Shakeela took it from him and said, ‘Wait here, for a second. You can take it back right away.’ Then, addressing her sister, she said, ‘These people, if you keep anything of theirs, they start plaguing you for it back. Here, will you take my measurements?’

Razia began measuring Shakeela’s back and chest; they spoke continuously. Momin stood listening in the doorway, waiting out the uncomfortable silence.

‘Razia, why don’t you stretch it out and take the measurement. You did the same thing the last time. You took the measurements and the blouse was a mess. If it doesn’t fit right in the front, it becomes baggy round the armpits.’

‘Where to take it, where not to take it, you really give me a hard time. I start taking it in one place, you say, “a little lower”. Is it the end of the world if it’s a tiny bit too small or too big?’

‘Yes, it is! It only looks good if it fits. Look at how well Surayya’s clothes fit, do you ever see a crease? Do you see how good they look? Now, come on, get on with it.’ With this, she took in a breath and pushed out her breasts. When they were suitably enlarged, she held her breath and said, ‘Come on, do it now, quickly.’

When Shakeela exhaled, Momin felt hundreds of balloons explode inside of him. He said nervously, ‘Should I take it back, bibi, the tape?’

‘Wait, one minute,’ she replied dismissively.

As she said this, the clothes measure got entangled in her arms. When Shakeela tried disentangling it, Momin saw a tuft of black hair in her pale armpits. Similar hair had sprouted in his own armpits, but something about hers felt especially agreeable to him. A quiver ran through his entire body. He had a strange urge for this black hair to become his moustache. As a child, he would take black and golden corn hair and make moustaches from them. This urge now, gave him the same sensation round his nose and mouth that he had felt then, with the corn hair tickling against his upper lip.

Shakeela had lowered her arm and her armpit was hidden once again, but Momin still saw the tuft of black hair. The image of her raised arm, and the black hair poking out, remained fixed in his mind.

Shakeela handed Momin the measure and said, ‘Go and give it back. And thank them profusely.’

Momin returned the measure and sat down in the house’s courtyard. Dim thoughts rose in his mind. He sat at length considering their meaning but nothing became clear. Without intending to, he opened his little trunk, in which his newly tailored Eid clothes lay.

The smell of new cotton reached his nose, as the lid opened, and he felt the sudden urge to wash himself, put on his new clothes and go upstairs and salaam Shakeela bibi. His new cotton salwar would crinkle and his fez… No sooner had he thought of his fez than his gaze fell on its tassel and this tassel was transformed into the tuft of black hair he’d seen in Shakeela’s armpits. He took out his new fez from under his clothes and began to finger its soft, bendy tassel when he heard Shakeela’s voice.

‘Momin!’

Momin put the hat back into the trunk, shut its lid and went back to the room where Shakeela was working. She had already cut many pieces of violet satin using her sample. She put the pieces of bright, slippery cloth to one side and turned to Momin. ‘I called for you so many times. Were you asleep?’

Momin became tongue-tied. ‘No, bibi ji.’

‘Then, what were you doing?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

‘You must have been up to something.’ Shakeela assailed him with questions, but in fact her mind was focussed on the blouse, on which she now had to put preliminary stitches.

‘I’d opened my trunk and was looking at my new clothes,’ Momin confessed with a forced laugh.

Hearing this, Shakeela laughed uproariously and Razia joined in.

Seeing Shakeela laugh gave Momin a strangely contented feeling and he wished at that moment to say or do something funny, which would make Shakeela laugh more. So, becoming coy, and taking on a girly voice, he said, ‘I’m also going to ask the mistress for some money so that I can go off and get myself a silk handkerchief.’

Still laughing, Shakeela asked, ‘And what are you going to do with this handkerchief?’

‘I’ll tie it round my neck, bibi,’ Momin said in his coy voice, ‘it’ll look so nice.’

Hearing this, Razia and Shakeela both laughed at length.

‘If you tie it round your neck, don’t forget I’ll use it to hang you with.’ Then, trying to suppress her laughter, she said to Razia, ‘The cretin’s made me forget what it was I called him for. What did I call him for?’

Razia didn’t reply, but began humming a film song she’d been learning for the past two days. In the meantime, Shakeela remembered herself why she’d called him. ‘Listen, Momin, I’m giving you this vest. Take it down to the new shop that’s opened next to the chemist, the same one you went to with me the other day, and ask them how much six vests like this will cost. Be sure to tell them that I’ll ask around and so they’d better give me a discount. Got it?’

‘Yes, bibi,’ Momin replied.

‘Now leave the room.’

Momin stepped out of the door and a few moments later the vest landed near his feet. Shakeela’s voice came from within: ‘Tell them we want something just like it, the exact same design. There shouldn’t be any difference.’

Momin said ‘Very well’ and picked up the vest, which had become slightly moist, as though it had been held over steam for a moment and pulled away. It was warm and sweet; the smell of her body still resided in it — and all this, was very pleasing to him.

Momin left, rubbing it between his fingers; it was as soft as a kitten. When he returned after enquiring about the prices, Shakeela had begun stitching her blouse, that violet satin blouse, far brighter and smoother than the tassel of his fez.

The blouse was perhaps being made in preparation for Eid, which was around the corner. Momin was called many times that day: to buy string, to take out the iron; the needle broke, to buy a new one. Shakeela put off the rest of the work till the next day, but pieces of string and scraps of violet satin were strewn about. Momin was called in to clear them away.

He cleared up well and threw everything away, except the shiny scraps of violet satin, which he saved for no particular reason.

The next day he took them out of his pocket and sat alone, taking apart their threads. He remained busy at this game until the little bits of string became a ball in his hand. He rubbed it and pressed it between his fingers, but Shakeela’s armpit, in which he’d seen the clump of black hair, remained fixed in his mind.

He was summoned many times that day as well. He saw the violet satin blouse at every stage. When it was still rough, it had long, white stitches all over it. Then, it was ironed and its creases vanished and shine doubled. After this, while it still had its preliminary stitches, Shakeela tried it on and showed it to Razia. In the dressing table mirror in the other room, she saw how it looked from every angle. When she was satisfied, she took it off, making markings wherever it was tight or loose. Then, she corrected its imperfections and tried it on once again. Only when it fit perfectly did she begin the final stitching.

On one hand, the blouse was being stitched, on the other, strange and troubling thoughts came loose in Momin’s mind. When he was called into the room, and his gaze fell on the bright satin blouse, he’d feel the urge to touch, not just to touch, but to caress its soft, silky surface with his rough fingers.

He had felt its softness from the scraps of satin. The threads he had saved had become softer still. When he’d made a ball of these threads, he discovered while pressing them that they had something of the texture of rubber as well. Whenever he’d come in and see the blouse, his mind would race towards the hair he had seen in Shakeela’s armpits. Would it also be soft like the satin, he wondered?

The blouse was ready at last. Momin was wiping the floor with a damp cloth when Shakeela entered. She took off her shirt and put it on the bed. Under it, she wore a white vest, exactly like the one Momin had taken to enquire the price of. She put on her hand-stitched blouse over it, did up its hooks and went to stand in front of the mirror.

Momin, still wiping the floor, looked up at the mirror. A new life had come into the blouse; in one or two places it gleamed so brightly that it looked as if the satin had turned white. Shakeela had her back to Momin, and the long curve and full depth of her spine were visible because of the close fit of the blouse. Momin could no longer contain himself.

He said, ‘Bibi, you’ve even outdone the tailors!’

She was pleased to hear herself praised, but impatient for Razia’s opinion, and only said, ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ before running out of the door. Momin was left gazing at the mirror, in which the blouse’s dark and bright reflection lingered for a while.

At night when he went into the room again to leave a jug of water, he saw the blouse hanging from a wooden hanger. No one else was in the room. He took a few steps forward and looked intently at the blouse. Then, full of trepidation, he ran his hand over it. It made him feel as though someone was running their hand, as lightly as breeze, over the downy hairs on his body.

That night he had many restless dreams. The deputy saab’s wife ordered him to smash a great heap of coal, but when he struck it with the hammer, it became a soft tuft of hair. Which were really the fine strands of a ball of spun black sugar. Then, these balls turned into many black balloons and began to fly up into the air. They went very high before starting to burst. The sky thundered and the tassel of Momin’s fez went missing. He went out in search of it. He wandered from place to place. The smell of fresh cotton greeted him from somewhere. He didn’t know what happened next. His hand fell on a black satin blouse. He ran it for some time over a throbbing object. Suddenly, he got up. For a while he couldn’t understand what had happened. Then, he felt fear, surprise and a pang. He was in a strange state. He was aware at first of a warm pain; but moments later, a cool ripple travelled through his body.