‘Tehmul!’ said Gustad sharply. He succeeded in scaring him more completely than he expected. Tehmul screamed and jumped around, his right hand clutching an enormous erection. Now Gustad was able to see what was on the bed, while Tehmul, still proceeding with the automatic movement upon his rampant penis, ejaculated with a whimper.
Half-hidden by the bunched-up rajai was Roshan’s doll, as naked as Tehmul. Her wedding dress, petticoat, veil, tiara, bouquet of flowers, stockings and the rest were neatly draped over a chair by the bed.
‘Bay-sharam! Stop that! At once!’ Gustad was angry, embarrassed. ‘You deserve to be thrashed properly!’ he continued for lack of anything better to say, then noticed Tehmul’s striped pyjamas on the floor. He picked them up and flung them at him. ‘Put your clothes on! At once!’ He could smell a heavy vinegary odour in the wake of the pyjamas’ flight.
Tehmul started to blubber, his tears mixing with sweat. ‘Gustad-GustadGustad. Verysorry. Veryverysorry.’
‘Shut up! And put on your clothes, I said!’ He went to the window and closed it. Tehmul fumbled with the pyjamas. His hands shook with sobbing and made the task more difficult for his normally clumsy fingers. The drawstring baffled him as he formed loops, twisted and turned them, passed them through one another, only to see the bow disappear each time he pulled the ends taut.
He finished at last, and Gustad sent him to wash his hands. He examined Roshan’s doll with distaste. There was no damage done, except that its pink legs and stomach and groin were sprinkled with gobs of dry and half-dry semen. How many nights’ worth, he wondered. It would clean up easily, and Roshan would not notice any difference, but what good was that? He could not give it back to her now. It sickened him to think of his child touching this doll so violated by Tehmul. No, he would take it away and donate it to an orphanage.
Tehmul was still crying when he returned from the bathroom. He held out his hands: ‘GustadGustad. CleanhandsGustadclean. CleanwashedwithLuxveryveryverycleanLux.’ He lifted them to his nose and sniffed: ‘Veryverynicesmell,’ then offered them to Gustad for verification.
Gustad violently swept the hands away from him. Tehmul staggered backwards, cowering, his sobs rising with renewed anguish. ‘You have no shame? Stealing Roshan’s doll, doing such dirty things with it?’
‘GustadGustad,’ he cried. ‘GustadGustadtheywouldnot.’
‘They who?’
‘Theytheythewomen. GustadGustadtworupeesIpaidtworupees. Notheysaidnonono.’
He understood. The House of Cages. That night, Tehmul among the prostitutes, who had teased and taunted him.
Tehmul pointed to the doll. ‘Wantedrubbing. Fastfastfast. Good-goodfeeling. Fastfastfastrubbing.’
Gustad’s anger began to ebb slowly. Poor Tehmul. A child’s mind and a man’s urges. Shunned by the whores, turning to the doll in desperation. Somehow, it seemed a fitting solution. He imagined Tehmul undressing the doll each night, caressing it tenderly. Gustad remembered the day he had come home with the doll by taxi from Sister Constance, and met Tehmul in the compound. How gently he had patted the cheek, stroked the tiny fingers, gazed wondrously into the deep blue eyes.
Poor Tehmul. What was to become of him? Gustad tried to sound severe: ‘Why did you open the window? Your brother told you to keep everything shut.’
‘VeryverysorryGustad. Feelinghothot. Feelingveryveryhot. Open-windowcoolnicecoolcool. VeryverysorryGustad.’
Gustad wished he had the power of miracles, the power to cure Tehmul’s ills, restore to him all the rights and virtues of mortals. And as Tehmul stood there, shamefaced, tears running down his cheeks, Gustad realized he could not take away the doll. Somehow, the loss to Roshan would not be as great as it would to Tehmul. One day, when she was old enough, perhaps he would tell her what had happened.
‘I am going now.’ He cleared his throat to make the words emerge sternly, the way he wanted them to. ‘Remember, no opening the window even if you are feeling hot. Take a newspaper and fan yourself. Window always stays shut at night.’
‘AlwaysalwaysGustad. Alwaysshutalways. VerysorryGustad.’ He seemed puzzled when Gustad turned to leave, and pointed at the bed. ‘DollyGustaddolly.’
Gustad shook his head. ‘You keep her,’ he said gruffly.
Tehmul’s eyes opened wide, comprehending but not daring to believe. ‘Dollydollydolly. Gustaddolly.’
‘Yes, yes. Dolly is for you.’
Now Tehmul was certain, and dared to believe. He knew exactly what to do. He shuffled forward with his arms outstretched, and put them round Gustad. ‘GustadGustad.’ He hugged him tightly. ‘ThankyouGustadthankyou.’ Then he lifted Gustad’s right hand and slobbered a kiss on the knuckles.
Touched by the act, also repelled by the saliva glistening on his skin, Gustad was confused, uncertain about how to deal with this situation. But Tehmul was unwilling to let go his hand till he had responded. He looked perplexed, not understanding why Gustad should be embarrassed.
So, very tentatively, Gustad put an arm around him and vaguely patted his shoulder. Then, with another reminder to be good and keep the window shut, he left. He wiped his knuckles discreetly upon the worn organdie curtain while brushing it aside to pass.
After the closeness of Tehmul’s room, it was a relief to be in the compound. The night air got rid of the sweaty, musky odours that seemed to be stuck in his nostrils. The guns were quiet now, though the searchlights were still combing the night as he let himself in and switched on the torch. ‘Gustad? Everything is all right?’ Dilnavaz’s voice seemed strangely distant, disembodied, coming from under the bed.
‘Yes.’ He went to the basin and washed his hands vigorously.
‘What happened? You were gone for so long, we were getting worried.’
‘Tehmul’s window was open. I had to go up.’ He wished she would stop asking questions.
‘But so long? Was something wrong?’
‘Nosmot in frosmont of the chismildren,’ said Gustad. Then the all-clear sounded.
iii
As the Indian forces got closer to Dacca and the liberation of Bangladesh was imminent, the mood everywhere grew optimistic. People had adjusted to the blackout, the city no longer retired into gloom after dusk just because the lights were off. Gustad felt it was time he went to Dr Paymaster’s dispensary to tell him Roshan was well now, and to ask if all medication should cease. They had had their differences during the illness, but Gustad was still fond of his childhood doctor.
‘Wonderful news, wonderful,’ said Dr Paymaster. ‘And the other patient is also recovering. Wonderful.’
‘Other patient?’
‘Bangladesh.’ The waiting-room was empty, he had time on his hands. ‘Correct diagnosis is half the battle. Proper prescription, the other half. Injection of the Indian Army, I said. And so the critical moment is past. Road to recovery.’
He lowered the blinds; it was well after sunset. ‘Now if only we could cure our internal sickness as quickly and efficiently as this external sickness, we could be one of the healthiest countries in the world. Did you smell the gutters just now when you came?’
‘Terrible,’ said Gustad, wrinkling his nose.
‘Unbearable, I tell you. Does the municipality listen? Yes. Does it do anything? No. For months and years now. Problems wherever you look. Leaking, broken water pipes. Sewer overflowing. Inspectors come and inspectors go, but the gutters overflow for ever. And police corruption on top of that. They want weekly hafta from people who are using the pavements. Harassment from health inspectors also. They want baksheesh from House of Cages, even though it’s properly licensed. Everyone in this area is fed up and running out of patience.’
‘You have a prescription for the internal sickness?’
Dr Paymaster raised his eyebrows and smiled with a corner of his mouth. ‘Of course. Only one problem. Prescription is so painful, it might kill the patient before the sickness does.’ Gustad nodded, understanding the gist if not the specifics of the doctor’s remedy.
> Suddenly, through the window came the sound of a gong. Peerbhoy Paanwalla’s brass tray? Was he still telling the old stories to his customers? Curious, Gustad took his leave at a suitable break in the conversation.
Outside the House of Cages, a larger than usual crowd had gathered around Peerbhoy Paanwalla, unmindful of the sewer stench that made Gustad cover his nose and mouth with his kerchief. But Peerbhoy was not spinning his time-honoured yarns about the House of Cages: the aphrodisiacal tales for tyros guaranteed to heat the blood, elevate flagging confidence and boost paan sales. No, there would be no more of that for a while. In deference to the mood of the country and the threat from without, Peerbhoy Paanwalla had mobilized his talents for the common good, using his skills to weave a tale that defied genre or description. It was not tragedy, comedy or history; not pastoral, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral or tragical-historical. Nor was it epic or mock-heroic. It was not a ballad or an ode, masque or anti-masque, fable or elegy, parody or threnody. Although a careful analysis may have revealed that it possessed a smattering of all these characteristics. But since things such as literary criticism mattered not one jot to the listeners, they were responding to Peerbhoy’s narrative in the only way that made sense: with every fibre of their beings. They could see and smell and taste and feel the words that filled the dusk and conjured the tale; and it was no wonder they were oblivious to the gutter stink.
Gustad had missed the beginning, but that did not matter. ‘By this time in the West Wing,’ said Peerbhoy Paanwalla, ‘the Drunkard’s tool was maggoty, withered and useless, into which not even the most potent palung-tode paan could breathe new life. His Minister of State for Sex, and his deputy, the Orgy Organizer, continued to arrange lavish spectacles. But the Drunkard could no longer participate in these Carnivals of Copulation. Vile as a serpent choking on its own venom, he watched the ecstasies of others, and drank whisky. Only whisky, in vast quantities.
‘His foul anger, his poisonous moods, his sadistic habits made life intolerable for those around him. They racked their brains to come up with a solution. How to amuse the Drunkard? How to cheer his spirits and thus deliver their own?
‘New-new remedies were attempted. They gave him Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly, and Draughts, but he was unable to remember the rules long enough to play and enjoy the games. The Minister of Imports and Exports even ordered Playboy Jigsaw Puzzles of foreign ladies with pink-pink nipples and fine blonde pubic hair. But the pieces evaded his spatial skills. He put them in his mouth, one by one, then spat them, coated with fetid, viscous spit, in the faces of his anxious sycophants. Everyone was close to despair.’
The women in the House of Cages peered outside to see if there was any sign of customers. To their dismay, nowadays the men preferred to listen to Peerbhoy Paanwalla and go home, rather than come inside.
‘Then the military made a suggestion: guns, they said, was the answer. How? asked the others. The military explained. The Drunkard’s personal pistol had putrefied and could fire no more – so simply remind him of all the other guns he possessed: fire-spewing, lead-spitting, death-dealing guns. To command as he pleased. To make him forget the failure of his own little derringer.
‘It was not surprising that the military people found the proper solution. After all, the Drunkard was a military man himself, and they knew how to cure the ills of one of their own. Especially when the cure fitted their own plans. The therapy could begin soon, for the perfect setting was ready: the East Wing, where the Bengalis were just asking for it.
‘So the Drunkard inspected his guns: the light artillery, medium artillery, heavy artillery, anti-aircraft, mortars, howitzers, tanks, bazookas. And they touched a tender corner somewhere, awakening happy memories. He began to drool. A peculiar grin came over his face, and the lackeys and toadies heaved sighs of relief. Call my Butcher, he said, and they fell over each other to fetch him.
‘My dear Butcher, said the Drunkard, I have a job for you in the East Wing. The Bengalis are forgetting their place. Those dark-skinned shorties are using big-big words like justice and equality and self-determination, which makes them feel tall and fair and powerful like us. Go there and sort them out.
‘The Drunkard himself would not journey to the East Wing, but he wanted to be kept minutely informed of how his guns were doing. The Butcher promised: he would click many pictures and write often. Hopping and skipping with excitement outside the presidential palace, he went off licking his chops.
‘At first, the Butcher and his men had a real picnic. What fun, so many guns to play with, so many live targets. But there was not much variety to their days or nights. Then the monsoon started, and their nice-nice uniforms got muddied like their minds, and big-big mosquitoes began to bite.
‘Blotting out the ideas of justice, equality and self-determination from the minds of Bengalis was harder than they expected. No matter how many Bengali skulls they shattered – one million, two, two-and-a-half million – there were always more heads to consider. More heads inside which those same troublesome ideas of justice, equality and self-determination flowered, blooming with a fragrance that drove the Butcher’s men crazy, because their noses were not used to anything stronger than the base, cowardly smells of tyranny and despotism.’
In the House of Cages the women waited restlessly. This war was no good for business, what with the refugee relief tax forcing them to raise prices; the blackout sending men home early; and now these new stories, arousing patriotic passion and national pride instead of priming lust.
Peerbhoy Paanwalla cleared his throat, spat, and wiped his lips. ‘So, my brothers,’ he continued, adding ‘and sisters’ after waving at the barred windows, ‘in the end, despite the many women still unravished and the numerous mass graves still left to fill, the Butcher and his men turn their backs and run for home: to their polo clubs, cricket-fields and swimming-pools. Especially since the Indian Army is drawing closer, and they can hear the strains of “Jana Gana Mana” playing in the distance.’
The listeners cheered spontaneously, clapping and shouting ‘Sabaash!’ and ‘Bharat Mata ki jai!’
While waiting for the applause to die and the audience to settle down, Peerbhoy got busy with his hands. He had recently introduced a new product that was selling extremely well, called the Patriotic Paan. Instead of folding betel leaves into their usual triangles, he made little rectangular trays of each leaf. Then he filled them with tobacco, chunam, and other ingredients, arranging the colours in three horizontal bands: saffron, white and green. A little round seed at the centre completed the representation of the Tricolour.
‘Now, my fellow-countrymen,’ continued Peerbhoy, ‘let us remember’ – he paused to stick a cheroot in his mouth – ‘this is not the end, nor is it the beginning of the end. But it is the end of the beginning.’ Those who got the joke broke into applause again: Too good, yaar, they said. But many had never heard of the cigar-smoking fat man, and were left in the dark.
Gustad looked at his watch and reluctantly tore himself away from the group. Ever since the blackout had begun, Dilnavaz had got into the habit of fretting, despite his repeated explanations that traffic was slower than usual because of the darkened streets.
*
Tehmul was on his hands and knees in the compound, running his fingers frantically over the pebble-studded brown earth. ‘Gustad-GustadGustad. DarkdarkGustaddark. Odarkdarkdark.’
‘What’s wrong, Tehmul?’
‘LostGustad. Lostlostindark.’ He continued rooting in the dirt, distraught, mumbling to himself. Gustad clicked on his pocket torch.
Tehmul was enchanted by the beam. A radiant smile spread over his face and dislodged his agitation. Still kneeling, he reached an inquiring finger towards the source of luminescence and gently touched the lens. ‘GustadbrightbrightshinyGustad. GustadGustad-lightsobright.’ The rays played upon his beaming face, upon the innocent joy he displayed for the rusty old torch’s meagre light. Sadness and affection filled Gustad’s heart. In t
his pose, with his blissful smile, he thought, Tehmul’s picture would fit right in among the others upon the black wall.
With the help of the torch Tehmul soon spotted what he was looking for: the little beaded bracelet from the doll’s wrist. ‘Found-foundfound. FoundGustadfound.’ He was exuberant with gratitude. ‘ThankyoufoundGustad. Thankyouveryveryverymuch.’
Gustad switched off the torch. ‘Lightgone,’ said Tehmul sadly. ‘Lightgonedarkdarkdark.’ Gustad patted his shoulder and speeded him on his slow, tedious climb up the stairs.
iv
After the euphoria of flags, banners, and victory parades had passed; after the crowds’ last cheers for the Jawans and the Prime Minister had faded; after the enemy’s unconditional surrender had wiped out rankling memories of ignominious defeat at Chinese hands nine years ago, and 1965’s embarrassing stalemate with the death in Tashkent of Shastri, the big little man; after the billboards and hoardings were divested of wartime exhortations; after the blackout was lifted and cities returned to light which, after long darkness, seemed like Republic Day illuminations: after all this, Gustad still did not remove the paper from his windows.
Darius and he dismantled their air-raid shelter and pushed the four-poster back to its original position. The phials of iodine and mercurochrome were replaced in the sideboard along with the gauze bandages. The empty biscuit tin went back to the kitchen. The light bulbs were allowed to shed their cardpaper cones. But the windows and ventilators were left untouched.
Dilnavaz was patient for one more day, then asked, ‘What about the black paper? Or are you waiting for another war?’
‘Why the big rush? I’ll do it when I have some time.’ Gustad went outside, and saw that the pavement artist had finished building his little lean-to at the far end of the wall. Inside were a few clothes, his sleeping mat, the Petromax, and painting supplies. His old crayon boxes were also there, for though the artist had come to regard these with fond condescension, relics of a time outgrown, he did not have the heart to throw them away.