I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (6 page)

On Baisakhi day Sabhrai had ordered Mundoo to stay at home to scrub kitchen utensils and heat the
water for Champak’s bath. Champak protested there was no need for hot water, but her mother-in-law had her way. ‘Hair washes better with hot water,’ she had insisted.

Champak sulked in her room. She switched on the radio and lay on her bed reading her favourite film magazine. After some time, she flung the magazine on the floor and looked out into the courtyard. Mundoo sat on his haunches scrubbing a big brass pitcher with ash. Beside him, on a smoking hearth, was a large tin canister.

‘Oi Mundoo, is the water hot or not?’

The boy patted the canister with his dirty hands. ‘No, Bibiji, not yet. It will be ready in a few minutes.’

He went down on his hands and knees and blew into the hearth. Smoke and ash whirled round the hearth and into his eyes. He stood up and wiped his tears with the hem of his greasy shirt. All he wore besides the shirt was a red loin cloth which only covered his front. His buttocks were bare except for the string which ran between them.

‘Bring it into the bathroom when it is ready.’

Champak got up, opened her wardrobe, fished out a shaving set hidden in the folds of her saris and went into the bathroom. She did not close either the door behind her or the other one which opened into the courtyard. Mundoo was not going to restrict her movements. He was just a servant and a grubby little boy at that. She decided to ignore his presence.

After a few minutes she came back to her bedroom without anything on. She put the shaving set back in its place and stood in front of her full length
dressing-table mirror to inspect the results of the operation and admire the contours of her chocolate brown body. She loosened her hair and turned round to see how she looked from behind. Her hair fell to the point at which her buttocks rose like softly rounded water-melons. There were dimples on either side of her rear waist. She turned round once more, inhaled deeply, and lifted her breasts with the palms of her hands and then ran her fingers round her nipples till they became rounded like berries. She clasped her arms above her head and wriggled her hips in the manner of hula-hula dancers. She drew her belly in as much as she could and stroked it with her hand down on either side to her knees. She studied her face and figure in all the postures she had seen in photographs of nude models. She found the reflection in the mirror to her satisfaction.

In the courtyard, Mundoo finished washing the kitchen utensils and was on his hands and knees once more blowing into the hearth. He looked like a frog with the wrong end up.

Champak smiled to herself and went back to the bathroom. She shut the door opening into the courtyard without bolting it and shouted for the bath water. She turned the tap full on into the bucket and began to hum the tune coming over the air.

Mundoo lifted the canister of hot water by the wooden rod which ran through it on the top. It was heavy; he carried it a few paces at a time. When he reached the bathroom door he put it down to regain strength to take it over the threshold. He gripped the handle with both hands, knocked the door open with
his forehead, and carried it in. He put the canister beside the bucket and looked up.

‘Why don’t you knock or call before you come into the bathroom?’

Champak hid her nakedness with her hands between her knees. Her raven black hair fell on either side of her neck. Her breasts looked out from between her arms. Mundoo stared stupidly at her without replying and then started to back out of the door.

‘What shall I mix the water in? Both the bucket and the canister are full.’

Mundoo turned off the tap, tilted the bucket a little to let some of the water run out, and began to pour the hot water from the canister with a small copper mug. His eyes never rose above Champak’s knees, nor left them. Champak remained as she was, hiding her nakedness with her hands, watching the boy’s embarrassment.

‘In future, knock before you come in. Sometimes I have no clothes on.’

‘I must tell you what happened today. My God! I nearly died of shame.’ Champak always added ‘my God’ or ‘by God’ whenever she wanted to emphasize something. She also had the habit of turning the conversation to herself. It was either some compliment paid to her, a pass made at her in the street, or someone looking at her lecherously. It invariably ended the same way, ‘my God,’ or, ‘by God,’ the embarrassment had nearly killed her. Her husband paid little attention to these anecdotes, and that evening he had matters of greater
importance on his mind so he barely heard what she had to say.

‘You should not have stayed alone in the house all day; you should have come to the fair. What a turnout at my meeting! First we had a march past of the Student Volunteer Corps. No one had seen such smartness from civilians before. The S.V.C. has come to mean something. Then I addressed the meeting. There was absolute pin-drop silence.’ ‘Pin-drop silence,’ was a favourite among his repertoire and clichés. ‘Packed to capacity,’ ‘sacrifice our all,’ ‘eschew all differences’ were some of the others which figured frequently.

‘Accha! Wonderful!’ she responded enthusiastically. ‘You will become a minister in the Government one day and we will have a flag on the top of our house; we will have an official car and peons in uniform. Then we can-dismiss this useless Mundoo of yours. Really you’ve no idea what he is like!’

‘Oh, yes, I have,’ interrupted Sher Singh impatiently. ‘He is just a poor, underpaid boy. The condition of domestic servants is one of the most pressing problems of urban society. We work them twenty-four hours of the day, underpay, underfeed, and underclothe them. Their living quarters are filthy. They are abused and beaten at will. They are dismissed without notice after a disgraceful search of their belongings. It is scandalous. It must stop. I will stop it.’ Sher Singh found it hard to switch from oratory to multitudes to talking to individuals.

‘I am sure you will. But this Mundoo . . . really.’

‘What’s wrong with him? He’s no different from other servants. The trouble is we never can see our
own faults. Whenever I have difficulty with people, I put myself in their shoes and see their point of view. It is a very good principle.’

Sher Singh and his wife were too full of themselves to listen to each other’s tales. They both abandoned the attempt.

It was hot. The ceiling fan only churned the air inside the room. Other members of the family slept on the roof in the cool of the moonlight. Even Dyer, who never left his master’s side when he was at home, refused to be in the room at night. Sher Singh had to suffer because of his wife. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve had such a tiring day.’ He put up his arms and yawned.

‘Your mother hasn’t come back from the temple. The procession could not have ended.’

‘I don’t know about her but I could hear father’s snores from the courtyard. And there is a light in Beena’s room. She must be studying.’

Sher Singh gave himself a long look in the mirror before taking off his turban and uniform. He went into the bathroom, poured a few mugs of water on his body, and came back dripping to dry himself under the fan. He saw himself in the mirror. His paunch showed no sign of reducing. He pulled it in and thought how much nicer it would be if it always stayed there. He bent down and touched his toes three times and re-examined the effect on his middle. He put on a thin muslin shirt and pyjamas. Before switching off the light he looked round the room to see if everything was in place. Champak had taken off her kimono and lay stark naked on her belly. She had the pillow between her arms, her
legs were stretched apart. Sher Singh knew what this meant. ‘My God I feel fagged out,’ he said wearily and switched off the light.

Champak stretched out her hand and caught her husband’s. ‘Now it’s dark, I can tell you about this Mundoo of yours. He’s not all that innocent, you know!’

‘Oh? What did he do?’ asked Sher Singh yawning at the same time.

‘Come over and I’ll tell you,’ she mumbled, tugging at his hand.

Sher Singh rolled over on to her bed and let her put her hand on his arm. ‘When I bathe, he keeps peeping through the crevices of the door.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know. And today he burst into the bathroom on the pretence of bringing in the hot water. I didn’t have a stitch on me. Not one thing! My God, I nearly died of shame.’

‘Why don’t you bolt the bathroom door?’

‘Never occurred to me; I thought everyone was out. In any case he should have knocked before coming in.’

‘I suppose so. He’s only a little fellow,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’ A minute later he began to breathe heavily.

Champak’s body twitched. She moaned as if in a nightmare and snuggled closer to her husband. She caught his hand and took it lower down her body. Sher Singh knew there was no way out.

‘What have you done?’

‘Just to give you a little variety.’

When the procession came back to the temple from its round of the city, it was well past midnight. Only a handful of men and women were there to welcome it back. Sabhrai and Shunno were amongst them. They had walked behind the decorated motor-van which carried the Holy Book for the first mile or so till the heat and jostling from the crowd had become too much for them. They came back to the temple to await its return. Shunno went to the open-air kitchen to help other volunteers wash and clear up the mess, over 10,000 people having been fed there that morning. Sabhrai sat beside the platform, on which there was another copy of the Granth, listening to the recitation.

By sunset the mammoth mile-long procession of the afternoon had been reduced by half; an hour later only a few hundred people remained. When it came to the temple there were just the men carrying gas lamps, some volunteers, and the five men who had marched with drawn swords all the way. A last quick prayer was said and the Granth was laid to rest.

Sabhrai and Shunno came out into a deserted street. There were no tongas or taxis at the stand, so they had to walk home; the mistress in front and the maidservant a few paces behind her. One side of the narrow street was whitewashed by the moonlight; a dark shadow slanted down from the other. People slept on platforms in front of their shops. The road was occupied by stray cows placidly chewing the cud and brahminy bulls who roamed about bellowing into the stillness.

Part of their way lay through the prostitutes’ quarter, where there was some life. Several tea shops, pán and
soda pop stalls were still open. Long-haired pimps sat in groups gossiping. From some balconies came the whining of harmoniums and the tipety-tipety tum-tum of the tabla; from some others the shrill notes of singing and the jingle of bells. Farther down the street were women who did not pretend to combine dancing or singing with their real profession. They sat on their doorsteps under the lights of hurricane lamps to display their heavily made-up faces and artificial jewelry.

Sabhrai and her maidservant aroused no comment; only the pimps stopped talking and turned round to see them. (Vice responds only to vice; it seldom dares to accost virtue.) Shunno drew her veil across her nose, came alongside her mistress, and whispered an angry comment on the profession of street women. Sabhrai ignored her remark and started mumbling her prayers. Shunno dropped back. She cast surreptitious glances at the women and tried to overhear the negotiations between them and their patrons. They came out of the bazaar and its warm smell of stone and sewage to the grassy cool of the municipal garden. It was bathed in silvery moonlight; the fragrance of the lady of the night pervaded the lawns. The women quickened their pace. Save for the croaking of frogs and the challenging cries of watchmen from the roofs of neighbouring houses, it was still.

When they got home, everyone was asleep. Mundoo lay on the kitchen floor. Shunno kicked him with her bare feet till he woke up and sent him to the servants’ quarters. She went up to the roof with her mistress.

Sabhrai said another short prayer sitting cross-legged
on her bed. When she lay down, Shunno began massaging her feet and legs.

‘Go to sleep. You must be tired.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You will sleep better if I press you a little.’

Sabhrai knew that the maidservant wanted to say something. She did not openly encourage Shunno to gossip; neither did she discourage her more than to occasionally call her a gossip-monger.

‘Everyone is asleep,’ said Shunno to reassure her mistress.

‘I thought Beena was stirring,’ whispered Sabhrai to indicate that she knew what was on Shunno’s mind.

‘Beena Bibi, are you asleep?’

There was no answer.

‘No, she must be asleep. It is long after midnight,’ assured Shunno. After a few minutes, she spoke again. ‘Bibiji.’

Sabhrai mumbled inaudibly.

‘Bibiji, are you feeling sleepy?’

‘No.’

‘Bibiji,’ continued Shunno in low tones, ‘one shouldn’t say such things, but . . .

‘But what?’

‘If you don’t take it ill, this house our Bibi Beena has started going to, the one with those hairless Hindus, is not a very good one.’

‘Bus, bus, enough! You know nothing about them.’

‘I am just telling you what I have heard, it is my duty. If something happens don’t blame me for not telling you what people say.’

‘What do they say?’

‘The son is said to have bad habits. One hears he spends his time playing cricket and going to cinemas. He has other habits too. . . . One hears his wife is very unhappy.’

‘Bus bus! You are always slandering people. . . . Who told you?’

‘Who told me? All the world knows.’

‘Accha, accha! Go to sleep and don’t gossip.’ ‘Whatever I say is gossip,’ grumbled Shunno. ‘As you wish! Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal.’

Shunno heaved herself up and went down the stairs praising the Guru.

Sabhrai sat up in the bed once more and repeated the prayer for the night to wipe out the effect of Shunno’s words. She too had heard stories of Wazir Chand’s son. But Sher had made friends with him and Beena almost worshipped his sister, Sita. And Wazir Chand was a colleague of Buta Singh. Sabhrai did not know what she could do without upsetting the rest of her family. She had infinite faith in the Guru and was sure of His special interest in her husband and children. He had helped her husband to rise to the position of senior magistrate. He would no doubt get her Sher to settle down to a steady occupation and find Beena a nice husband, not necessarily rich, just well off, but a good Sikh with his hair and beard unshorn. That was not too much to ask or hope for. Sabhrai shut her eyes and invoked His blessings for her family with all the fervour she could command.