At ten in the morning Aziz had a cold bath, ignoring the water Janaki had heated for him. When I mentioned to her that he’d left the water untouched in the bathroom, her eyes welled with tears.
Aziz left after bathing, and Janaki flopped down on the bed. In the afternoon I went to check on her and discovered she had a high fever. When I went out to get a doctor, I found Aziz putting his things into a horse-drawn carriage. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. He shook my hand and said, ‘Bombay. God willing, we’ll meet again.’ Then he sat down in the carriage and left. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him Janaki had a severe fever.
The doctor examined Janaki and told me she had bronchitis. If she wasn’t careful, it might turn into pneumonia. The doctor wrote a prescription and left, and then Janaki asked about Aziz. At first I thought I shouldn’t tell her, but then I realized nothing would be gained from concealing the truth, and so I told her he had left. She was devastated. She buried her face in her pillow and cried.
The next day around eleven when Janaki’s fever dropped one degree and her health seemed a little better, a telegram arrived from Sayeed. He wrote in a harsh tone, ‘Remember, you didn’t keep your promise.’ Then in spite of her fever and my attempts to stop her, she left for Bombay on the Pune Express.
After five or six days a telegram arrived from Narayan, ‘Urgent. Come to Bombay ASAP.’ I thought he meant he had talked to some producer about my contract, but when I arrived in Bombay, I learned that Janaki’s health was very poor. Her bronchitis had in fact turned into pneumonia. Moreover, after getting to Bombay, she had fallen and scraped both her thighs very badly while trying to board a local train to Andheri.
Narayan told me that Janaki had suffered through this with great courage. But after she had reached Andheri, Sayeed had pointed at her packed bags and had said, ‘Please leave.’ Narayan said, ‘When she heard Sayeed’s icy words, she turned completely to stone. The thought must have crossed her mind, “Why didn’t I die underneath the train?” Saadat, say what you will, but no man should treat women like Sayeed does! The poor soul had a fever and then had fallen trying to board a train and only because she was rushing to see this bastard. But Sayeed didn’t stop to think about this. He just repeated, “Please leave.” Manto, he said this so coldly, it was as if he was reading from a newspaper.’
This made me very sad, and I got up and left. When I came back in the evening, Janaki wasn’t there but Sayeed was, sitting on his bed, a glass of rum in front of him, and he was busy writing a poem. I didn’t say anything but went straight to my room.
The next day at the studio, Narayan told me Janaki was at the house of one of the studio’s extra girls and that her health was precarious. He said, ‘I talked to the owner of the studio and then sent Janaki to the hospital. She’s been there since yesterday. Tell me, what should I do? I can’t go to see her since she hates me. You go and check on her.’
I got to the hospital, and she immediately asked about Aziz and Sayeed. After all they had done to her, it was impressive that she asked about them with affection.
Her health was very poor. The doctor told me that both of her lungs were inflamed and her life was in danger, and yet I was surprised by how Janaki bore all her difficulties with such manly courage.
When I returned from the hospital and looked for Narayan in the studio, I learned he had been missing since the morning. When he returned to the house in the evening, he showed me three small glass vials.
‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked.
‘No. It looks like medicine.’
Narayan smiled. ‘Exactly. Penicillin.’
I was very surprised because penicillin was in short supply. Despite the quantities produced in America and England, very little got to India and that was reserved for the military hospitals. I asked Narayan, ‘Penicillin’s so scarce. How did you get it?’
He smiled and said, ‘When I was a boy, I was very good at stealing money from our safe at home. Today I went to the Military Hospital and stole these three vials. Come on, let’s hurry. We’ve got to move Janaki from the hospital to a hotel.’
I took a taxi to the hospital and then took Janaki to a hotel where Narayan had already booked two rooms. Over and over again Janaki weakly asked me why I had brought her there, and each time I told her, ‘You’ll soon find out.’
And when she found out — meaning, when Narayan came into the room holding a syringe — she scowled and turned away. She said to me, ‘Saadat Sahib, tell him to go away!’
Narayan smiled. ‘My dear, spit out all your anger. This is going to save your life.’
Janaki got mad. In spite of her weak condition, she raised herself from the bed, ‘Saadat Sahib, either kick this bastard out, or I’m going.’
Narayan shoved her back down and said, smiling, ‘Nothing’s going to stop this bastard from giving you this injection. If you muck this up, it’s your loss!’
He grabbed Janaki’s arm. He gave the syringe to me and then wet a cotton ball with alcohol. He cleaned her upper arm and then gave me the cotton ball and stuck the needle in her arm. She screamed out, but the penicillin had already entered her arm.
Narayan released his grip, and Janaki began to cry. But Narayan didn’t care. He swabbed the injection site with the cotton ball and left for the next room.
This was at nine o’clock at night. The next injection had to be given three hours later, as Narayan told me that the penicillin would have no effect if more than three hours elapsed between injections. So he stayed up. At about eleven o’clock, he lit the stove, sterilized the syringe and filled it with medicine.
Janaki’s breathing was raspy and her eyes were shut. Narayan cleaned her other arm and again stuck the needle in her arm. Janaki emitted a feeble cry. Narayan took out the needle, cleaned Janaki’s arm, and said to me, ‘The third’s at three o’clock.’
I don’t know when he gave the third and fourth injections, but when I awoke I heard the sound of the stove and Narayan’s asking one of the hotel boys for ice since he had to keep the penicillin cold.
At nine o’clock, when we went into the room to give Janaki her injection, she was lying with her eyes open. She glared with hatred at Narayan but said nothing. Narayan smiled. ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ Janaki didn’t respond.
Narayan went over and stood next to her. ‘These injections aren’t injections of love. They’re to cure your pneumonia. I swiped this penicillin from the Military Hospital. Okay, turn on your side a little, and slide down your shalwar so I can get at your hips. Have you ever had an injection here?’
Before Janaki could protest, Narayan slid down Janaki’s shalwar and said to me, ‘Get the alcohol swab ready.’
Janaki began to thrash her legs.
‘Janaki! Stop thrashing!’ Narayan said. ‘Nothing’s going to stop me from giving you this shot!’
Narayan gave her the fifth injection. There were fifteen left, and Narayan gave them on a schedule of one every three hours. It was forty-five hours’ work.
Even though Janaki’s health hadn’t noticeably improved after the first five injections, Narayan still had faith in the penicillin’s miraculous powers. He fully believed that she would make it, and we talked on and on about this new drug. At about eleven o’clock a servant brought a telegram for me. A film company in Pune wanted me to come immediately, and I had to go.
After ten or fifteen days, I returned to Bombay in connection with work. After finishing my work, I went to Andheri where Sayeed told me that Narayan was still at the hotel, but because the hotel was in a distant suburb, I spent the night at Sayeed’s.