He slipped this letter into one of Zahra’s books. On the way to school she said nothing, and in the evening she said nothing as well. He lost all hope and went directly to his room. There he packed his few possessions and set them to the side, and in his lamp’s weak light he sat down on the cot and fell into thinking about his hopeless love for Zahra.
He was miserable. He understood his position. He knew he was a servant and had no right to love his master’s daughter. And yet he couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t love her — after all, he wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. Around midnight, when he was still ruminating upon this, someone knocked at his door. His heart skipped a beat. Then he reasoned it must be the gardener. Someone had probably fallen ill at home, and he was coming to ask for help. But when he opened the door, it was Zahra. Yes, Zahra — without a shawl, she was standing there in the cold December night! He couldn’t find any words to say. For several minutes they stood there in funereal silence. At last Zahra opened her lips and in a quavering voice said, ‘Naim, I’ve come. Now, tell me what you want. But before I enter your room, I want to ask a few questions.’
Naim remained silent.
‘Do you really love me?’ she asked.
Naim felt as though someone had just hit him. He blushed. ‘Zahra, how can you ask me that question when answering it will only belittle my love? Can’t you tell I love you?’
Zahra didn’t say anything. Then she asked her second question, ‘My father’s rich, but I’m worth nothing. Whatever they say is mine isn’t really mine but his. Would you love me even if I weren’t rich?’
Naim was a very emotional man, and this question, too, stung him deeply. ‘Zahra, for God’s sake, please don’t ask me questions whose answers you can find in trashy romance novels.’
Zahra entered his room, sat on his cot and said, ‘I’m yours and will always be yours.’
Zahra kept her word. They left Lucknow for Delhi, got married, and found a small house.
The day when the Deputy Sahib came looking for them, Naim was at work. The Deputy Sahib scolded Zahra sharply, telling her she had destroyed his honour. He wanted her to leave Naim and forget everything that had happened, and he was even ready to pay Naim 2,000 to 3,000 rupees. But his strategy didn’t work. Zahra said she would never leave Naim. She told her father, ‘Dad, I’m very happy with Naim. You couldn’t find a better husband for me. We don’t want anything from you. If only you could give us your blessings, we’d be very grateful.’
Zahra’s father became incensed. He threatened to have Naim thrown in jail, but Zahra asked, ‘Dad, what crime has Naim committed? If you want to know the truth, we’re both innocent. Anyway, we love each other and he’s my husband. This isn’t a crime, and I’m not a child.’
The Deputy Sahib was smart and quickly understood that if his daughter had consented to marry Naim then he couldn’t bring any charges against her husband. He left Zahra once and for all. Then after a while, the Deputy Sahib tried to intimidate Naim through some people he knew and also tried to bribe him. But nothing worked.
The married couple was happy, even though Naim didn’t earn much money and Zahra, who had never had to do anything for herself as a girl, had to wear cheap clothes and do housework. Zahra was happy that she had entered a new world, one in which Naim’s love revealed itself anew each day. She was truly very happy, and Naim was too. But one day, as is God’s will, Zahra had severe chest pains and before Naim could do anything she died. That is how Naim’s world became shrouded in darkness forever.
It took him about four hours to get through his story, as he told it slowly and with evident relish. When he finished, the pallid hue on his face lifted, and his face glowed, as though someone had given him a blood transfusion. And yet his eyes were full of tears, and his throat was dry.
When he finished telling his story, he got up hurriedly, as though he had somewhere to go. ‘It was really wrong of me to tell you this story. It was really wrong of me. Zahra’s memory was not meant for anyone but me. But … but …’ His voice quavered as he fought back tears, ‘I’m living, and she … she …’ He couldn’t continue and so quickly shook my hand and left.
I never saw Naim again. I went to Apollo Bunder many times to find him but was never successful. After six or seven months, I got a letter from him, which I’ll copy below.
Sahib!
You must remember the love story I recited at your house. It was completely false. All lies. There’s no Zahra and no Naim. I’m real, but I’m not the Naim who loved Zahra. You once said there are people who can’t love, and I’m one of those — someone who wasted his entire youth trying to love. Naim’s love for Zahra was something I made up to amuse myself, just as Zahra’s death was. I still don’t understand why I killed her in my story, although it probably has to do with how everything I touch ends up cursed.
I don’t know whether you believed my story. But I’ll tell you something strange. I thought — I mean, while I told the story — I thought it was completely true! One hundred per cent true! I felt I had loved Zahra and she had truly died. You’ll be even more surprised to hear that as days passed, the story seemed more and more real, and Zahra’s laughter began to echo in my ears. I started to feel her warm breath. Each part of the story came to life, and thus I … I dug my own grave.
Even though she was imaginary, Zahra was more real than me. She died, and so I, too, should die. You will get this letter after my death. Goodbye. I’m sure I’ll meet Zahra somewhere, but where?
I’ve written to you only because you’re a writer. If you can make a story out of this, you’re welcome to the seven or eight rupees. (You once told me you get seven to ten rupees for a story.) This is my gift to you.
Well, goodbye.
Yours,
‘Naim’
Naim made up Zahra and then died. I’ve written this story and live on. This is my life’s boon.
THE INSULT
AFTER an exhausting day, she lay down on her bed and immediately fell asleep. The official from the city’s Sanitation Department whom she called ‘Boss’ had just fucked her and left for home in a drunken stupor. He could have stayed the night, but he professed great concern for his lawfully wedded wife who loved him very much.
The money she had earned from the official in exchange for her bodily labours was slowly slipping from the top of her tight, saliva-stained bra, and these coins clinked together in rhythm with her breathing, a sound that dissolved into that of her heart’s irregular beating. In fact, it seemed as though the coins were melting right into her blood! Heat was spreading through her chest, caused in part by the brandy, a small bottle of which the official had brought, and in part by the beora, which they had drunk with water after the soda had run out.
She was lying face down on her long and broad teak bed. Her arms were bare up to her shoulders and spread out like a kite’s bow. Her right armpit’s shrivelled flesh was nearly blue from having been shaven over and over; it looked like a chunk of skin from a plucked hen had been grafted there.
Her room was small and messy and things were strewn about everywhere. Underneath her bed, her mangy dog had propped his head on top of three or four withered sandals and although asleep, was baring his teeth at some invisible something. The dog’s fur was so patchy that if someone saw him from a distance, they would mistake him for the folded piece of sacking used to wipe the floor.