Kahani Read online

  When she was released she sat hungry and thirsty in the lane where she had lived with her lover. As night fell, she arose, weary, and went to the house of an acquaintance who had given up crime. She begged some food from him and then, stealing the stick that stood in his porch, she left.

  Night’s darkness was growing more hideous but she walked along that tarmacked road, tapping her stick, thinking who knows what and then very soon afterwards she was standing, staring at the sentry, as if to say, ‘Brother, let me walk my fill today, I’m in despair. Life feels tragic tonight. Let me walk …’

  She spent a night and a day of silence in prison. The next day when she began peeping, like a cat, through the iron railing, there was not a shadow of grief on her face. When the warden passed her cell, she called out, ‘Oi! Say something, will you? You walk around like a machine.’ The warden walked past glaring and Godfather swore like a man and guffawed.

  Locked up in solitary, she was badly in need of hashish. On her previous spells in prison there had been no shortage of it. The lack of it unbalanced her. Her body ached so much, she fell ill. The prison doctor examined her but prescribed such bitter medicine that she smashed the bottle and leapt around the cell, frightening her.

  One day Godfather tried to suck up to the volunteer prisoner who was distributing the food.

  ‘Can I get some dope somewhere, sweetie?’

  ‘No!’ the volunteer said, but took pity on her and gave her two bidis.

  ‘If you get me some, I’ll give you two rupees.’ Godfather tried bribing her with money she had managed to conceal in spite of all the searches.

  ‘No. My God, if an officer found out, I’d lose my pardon. I’ve got to get out fast. I have small children.’ The woman’s eyes filled with tears. After that Godfather never mentioned dope to her again. Instead, she began pestering the other prison workers, swearing when they refused.

  Today, a month later, Godfather had been to court to hear her sentence. She listened in silence to the proceedings but when she heard her life sentence pronounced, she clashed her handcuffs and shouted, ‘I don’t want fourteen years in prison. If I’m alive after that will the judge give me a home?’ She swore loudly as the female wardens dragged her away.

  ‘Hey, you bastard! You dog! Why are you giving me just fourteen years?’ The female guards thrust her into the car and she swore all the way to the prison. Half the day had gone by the time they arrived. She was given a prison uniform and a blanket and left in barrack no. 2. When she went in, all the prisoners were out on exercise. Wrapped in their black blankets and mattresses, she saw row upon row of aluminium cups. She swore under her breath and her face, ravaged from lack of a fix, looked vile. For a while, she paced up and down and when the prisoners returned and began to agitate in anticipation of their meal, she almost hissed with anger: ‘Hey – bastards! Shut up. Or I’ll kill someone else and get another fourteen years.’

  ‘Who do you think you are, you bitch?’ a woman responded immediately. Godfather rolled up her sleeves and the other women had to pull them apart. Godfather fought with several other women through the night, and the wardens watched her as she tossed and turned restlessly in bed.

  When they were served cold chick-peas for breakfast, she stood at the front of the queue, bright and alert. ‘Give me some more! This lot won’t even fill a corner of my belly.’ The volunteer took pity on her strapping frame and ladled out some more.

  ‘Me too, sister,’ the woman behind Godfather cooed.

  ‘If you bitches want luxury, stay at home in peace.’ The woman picked up her bucket. ‘Swear at any one again,’ threatened Godfather, ‘and I’ll smash your head.’ She lunged for the bucket and though she couldn’t get any food, she was lashed six times as an example to the other women. Then they were all sent out to work. The thrashing did not have the desired effect. The women who had fought her all of last night were making up to her now.

  ‘Sister, what have you been convicted for?’ a woman asked as she sat mending a prisoner’s clothes.

  ‘Sister,’ Godfather minced, mimicking the woman. ‘Don’t dare call me “sister”. My name is Godfather, Godfather. I curse the female species! Do you know who a Godfather is? A crime-lord. I’m not a woman, I’m a criminal. I’m here for killing someone.’

  Godfather announced it loudly. The other women looked at her in consternation.

  ‘Is there any dope around, my love?’ Godfather whispered, sidling up to a woman who had smoked bidis incessantly, through the night.

  ‘Shabratan may have some,’ the woman said, pointing to the prisoner because of whom Godfather had fielded the six blows earlier.

  ‘Any charas?’ Godfather was severely troubled for lack of it. The bidi she had begged tasted of straw.

  ‘Any money?’ Shabratan whispered back, efficiently weaving her basket.

  ‘Yes.’ Godfather produced a rupee note from her pinafore and held it out and Shabratan pulled out a reefer from the waist of her shalwar and handed it over.

  ‘A rupee for a cigarette?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Shabratan replied dismissively. Godfather lost her temper.

  ‘OK, so take another rupee.’ Godfather grabbed her hair and pulled her close. Chaos broke out among the women. Godfather grabbed back her rupee before anyone could find out the cause of the trouble. But it was with some difficulty that the others pulled them apart.

  The women in Godfather’s barrack soon acquired grievances against her. ‘She’s always picking fights.’ Several times she was reported to the assistant superintendent with a request for her transfer. But who listened to the women’s complaints? Their fights were a daily affair. Godfather was just another trouble-maker. Her workload was increased a bit. But what difference would that have made to her? She dealt with the hardest job in a pinch. Finally, to get rid of her, the women of the barrack stopped communicating with her. But even that made no difference. She jibed and tormented and forced Shabratan to supply her with free pot and though she swore she had no more, Godfather continued to freeload, threatening to report her to the superintendent. Shabratan’s friend, for whom she was enduring this year in prison, managed to get piles of dope to her by who knows what means and she got the other women addicted to it and sold it at inflated prices. But this freeloading Godfather, curse her, was a particular blight on Shabratan. Other women received visitors who secretly passed money to them and Shabratan would question her haplessly: ‘Godfather, don’t you have anyone? No lover or friend?’

  ‘I’ve got you, haven’t I? You’ll keep me supplied, won’t you?’ Godfather would extend a hand towards her shalwar and Shabratan would stand up with a start.

  Apart from the free dope, Godfather forcefully took a share of the food the women were brought during visits. She fought them for it and if she didn’t get it through force, she stole it at night. Then she shared it with women who, like her, didn’t have visitors.

  When the women saw their food had gone, they beat their breasts and cried and fought with Godfather but she didn’t care a jot. Several times, she was lashed and had her labour increased but for all her troublemaking and stealing of food, when the prison doctor visited, she lay down, groaning: ‘I’m so weak, Doctor, I can’t even manage to swallow a crust of bread. Please prescribe some milk for me.’

  Immediately, the others contradicted her: ‘Doctor, she not only gobbles every crust of her own food, she steals everyone else’s.’

  The doctor grinned and left without examining Godfather. Sometimes the frailer women were given milk and Godfather swore foully at the women who had prevented her getting any. Finally, she did get herself a week’s quota. That day she gloated, triumphant: ‘Go on, complain a bit more about me. I’ll just drink my milk.’ She laughed loudly, tormenting them.

  It was customary for Godfather to fight, grab someone’s hair, then beat someone else but she had some quiet days – so very quiet she failed to respond even to abuse. Sometimes she hid her face and cried secretly, then dried her tears, me
naced Shabratan and smoked piles of pot.

  The days passed – the women in Godfather’s barrack came and went, apart from Shabratan. Old and recent, they all knew Godfather. She still fought them for their food and drink but she protected them from the maltreatment of the wardens. Once she even beat up the superintendent for condemning a woman to four days in solitary, for insolence. She beat her in the presence of all the other women. Godfather received ten lashes for that and her privileges were revoked. Now the women confided their woes to her and at night when they sobbed, missing their homes, Godfather would comfort them with tenderly spoken swearwords, dry their tears, share their sadness and fall silent.

  This evening a very young, slim woman was brought into Godfather’s barrack, carrying an infant, barely two months old. The moment she arrived, the mother sat down on the ground, put the baby to her breast and began weeping. The prisoners gathered round her and asked why she was here. What was her crime? The mother didn’t answer, crying more and more intensely. The women offered her water and calmed her – only Godfather sat at a distance, glowering. When the mother, exhausted from crying, grew silent, Godfather edged over to her: ‘Wonderful, my little bridie, commit a crime, then cry. If you were so frail-hearted, you should have sat at home prim and proper.’

  ‘What’s my crime?’ The mother flared up, then resumed crying. ‘I’ve been framed.’

  ‘Framed how?’ Godfather asked with a bit of sympathy.

  ‘My husband married again within a year of our wedding,’ the mother began telling her story. ‘I wept and cried but then I contained myself so that I would not deprive my unborn baby of his father. I lived like a servant in my own home. That wasn’t enough for my husband. He would say, “I want you, personally, to make up the bed for me and my new wife.” I placed a stone on my heart and did it.’ She sighed and dabbed her tears.

  ‘Even after that I was a thorn in his new wife’s side. One day she lay down and started to scream that she had been poisoned. The whole neighbourhood gathered round. When the doctor examined her it turned out that she had taken too much opium. When the police arrived she told them I had poisoned her. The house was searched, so was I, and some opium was discovered tied in my dupatta. I don’t know when she put it there. The police took me to the station and from there to prison. I’ve been in another barrack since then. My father was winning the case, then goodness knows how he lost, and I’ve received a six-month sentence, suspended for three months because of the baby. I’m a good woman – how will I show my face when I leave here? My father’s honour has been sullied.’ She started sobbing again.

  ‘Hunh, but you ass, why did you live like a slave in your own husband’s home? You should have got out the same day and got another lover and you wouldn’t be here today,’ Godfather said passionately. Then she tugged the sleeping baby’s leg and cleared her throat. ‘You’ve dragged along this pup. You should have hurled him in his father’s face and said, “You look after him.” Here, give him to me for a bit.’ Godfather took the baby tenderly in her arms.

  ‘And here, you smoke this,’ she offered a half-smoked reefer to his mother.

  ‘I don’t smoke. And look here, don’t swear at my child again. I’m here because of him or I would have jumped from the roof of my home and killed myself.’

  ‘“My baby, my baby”. Who do you think you are, you mother you? Take him back.’ Godfather lifted the child as if he was a mouse and thrust him at his mother. Then she cursed him, secretly, for hours.

  That night Godfather tossed and turned, looking at the child and burbling who knows what, when usually she slept deeply, snoring, oblivious to the bites of the fleas in her blanket.

  Godfather suddenly reverted to the state she had been in when she first came to prison, fighting, causing trouble, being foul-mouthed. She was particularly hostile to the woman with the baby. She would snatch the baby from her then shove him back unceremoniously.

  ‘“My baby”. Who do you think you are, just because you have a baby?’, Godfather would growl and the woman looked at her, perplexed, and hugged the child close, crying so broken-heartedly that all the women cursed Godfather. If the baby woke in the night, crying, Godfather paced the floor: ‘Shut the little whelp up. You’ve dumped him on us to blight our sleep.’

  ‘Look, Godfather, you’re picking a fight for no reason. Which child doesn’t cry?’, some woman tried reasoning with her.

  ‘Then let them cry but why destroy my sleep? Let our little bride suppress the baby’s voice.’

  ‘And wouldn’t I rather suppress your voice,’ the mother retorted, trembling with fury, then sobbing helplessly. ‘Hai! Hai! My mother.’

  Godfather fell silent but while the other women slept at night, she tossed and turned. One day the baby developed a slight fever. His mother was beside herself with tears. Tenderly, Godfather begged to be allowed to hold the baby. But when the doctor came, she immediately ordered Godfather to hand the baby back, insisting she would hear his symptoms from his mother. Godfather obliged but her blood began to boil. The mother wept as she spoke: ‘Doctor, my baby’s terribly ill. He was unconscious all night – he didn’t open his eyes, my jewel, his forehead was blazing like a fire.’

  ‘He’s not had a fever or anything, Doctor,’ Godfather butted in, resentfully. ‘He howled all night and she claims he was unconscious.’ The doctor motioned Godfather to silence, examined the child, then wrote a prescription and had it administered in her presence. Today the woman’s father was visiting and he brought some clothes and little toys for the baby. The woman looked pleased.

  ‘My father says he’s organized my divorce and I’ll be marrying his brother’s son,’ she said happily. ‘My cousin has always been in love with me. He wouldn’t marry after losing me. And everything else apart, he’ll take my baby to his heart.’

  ‘Oh, so you have a lover,’ Godfather interrupted. ‘This love thing is short-lived, you know. Don’t fantasize, it won’t last.’

  ‘Don’t let it last – at least I have a son. He’ll sustain me for the rest of my life. What’s it to you?’ The woman was put out and sulked silently.

  Tomorrow the mother and baby will be released. Today, Godfather tried forcefully to hold the baby but the woman wouldn’t let her touch him once. Nor did she respond to her baiting. She was so happy, she could hardly sleep at night. She sang lullabies and kissed her baby and Godfather looked wretched.

  ‘Shut up and go to sleep, you accursed creature,’ Godfather screamed again and again but the woman ignored her and didn’t sleep until past midnight.

  When she was deeply asleep and silence filled the barrack, Godfather sat up in her bed. She looked around stealthily. A light bulb shone down on her from far above. ‘Barrack no. 1, Barrack no. 2. Everything’s fine – Everything is fine.’ Outside the voices of the wardens called to each other. Godfather crawled softly to the bed of the mother and baby.

  At dawn, the blanket was removed from Godfather’s mattress. There was an uproar. The prison officers gathered round and the baby’s mother beat her breast, screaming, smashing her face with stones, falling on the floor from an upright position. Godfather’s shirt was tied tightly around her neck and the baby, lying on her breast, held her milkless teat in his mouth. Their eyes protruded from their orbs and their bodies were cold and stiff.

  Translated by Shahrukh Husain

  HIJAB IMTIAZ ALI

  Tempest in Autumn

  As I was coming home from Begum Najam’s annual festival of dance and music, an autumn tempest caught me. It’s the fifth anniversary of Zulfie’s wedding, I thought: Why don’t I take the chance to stop by and celebrate with her?

  Zulfie had cut herself off from her friends after the failure of her love marriage. But now and again, by chance, our paths would cross. Today, after what seemed like an age, I reached her house and knocked at her door. Zulfi opened it and greeted me. ‘Roohi! You!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Have you lost your way?’

  I ignored her sarcastic remark. ‘Actu
ally I don’t like to intrude on anyone’s privacy,’ I said, ‘but I’d thought I’d drop by and wish you a happy anniversary.’

  ‘Come in, come in. I can hardly hear what you’re saying. The gale is blowing your words away.’ She led me in and made me sit down by a writing table on which a candle flickered. ‘A stormy autumn night,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Spring’s been over for ages. But I thought you might be celebrating your anniversary.’

  ‘So all of you thought,’ she said with a pale smile. She changed the subject. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘At one of Begum Najam’s soirees. A sarod recital.’ I shrugged my gold-embroidered shawl off my shoulders, and took out my little bottle of cologne from my handbag. I sniffed at it to steady my nerves. An uncanny gloom engulfed us. From outside, we could hear the seagulls’ shrill cries.

  ‘Oh, Begum Najam’s annual do.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘I wonder how many lives have been disrupted by this festival. Did anyone talk about me?’

  ‘There were whispers …’

  ‘That I made the wrong match?’

  ‘And shot yourself in the foot!’ I completed the sentence for her.

  ‘Who can stop people’s tongues from wagging?’

  ‘Moral integrity can, Zulfie.’

  A silence followed our exchange. It was one of those Asian autumn nights, dark and desolate. The gale and the sea were setting up a fearful wailing on the beach. The rustle of dead leaves were reminders of the pleasant season’s end. The oppressive atmosphere was making me listless. I opened my bag, took out a tranquilliser and swallowed it.