He had heard that women had been stripped naked in that storm. Their breasts had been sliced off. Everything around him seemed similarly naked and sexless.
He stood leaning against the electric pole waiting for a friend who was supposed to help him find a house. The friend had told him to wait outside Kaisar Park, near the tonga stand.
When he had come here two years ago, this had been a huge tonga stand, the busiest and biggest in the city. The smartest and most gaily decorated tongas were to be found here because it was here that the city offered every manner of delectation. The best hotels and restaurants were close by — the best tea, the finest food, and everything else besides. The city’s well-known pimps and agents were also to be found here. Money and drink flowed like water because some of the biggest companies had their offices in Kaisar Park.
He remembered having a good time here with his friend two years ago. Every night he had had the prettiest girl beside him. The war had made Scotch unavailable elsewhere, but here a dozen bottles would materialize within a minute.
The tongas were still around, but now the pom-poms, the frills and ribbons, the gleaming brass fittings were all gone. Perhaps those too had taken wing and disappeared along with everything else.
He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. It was the month of February, and the evening shadows had begun to lengthen. He cursed his friend and was about to set off towards the desolate hotel on his left to drink a cup of tea brewed, no doubt, from drain water, when he heard someone call out softly. For a moment he thought his friend had finally shown up, but when he turned around he found a stranger standing in front of him. An ordinary looking man dressed in a white cotton shalwar which had no space left for any more creases and a blue poplin shirt that was desperately in need of a wash.
He asked, ‘Well, brother, did you call me?’
The man answered softly, ‘Yes.’
He took the man to be a refugee, probably asking for some money. He said, ‘What do you want?’
The man answered in the same soft tone, ‘Nothing.’ Then, coming a step closer, he whispered, ‘Do you want something?’
‘What?’
‘A girl, maybe?’ he said, and stepped back a little.
It was as though an arrow had pierced his chest. Look at him, he thought, even at a time like this, he is going about groping and fondling people’s bodily hungers, and a mad rage against all humanity overtook him. Overwhelmed by his own feelings, he asked, ‘Where is she?’
His tone did not seem very encouraging to the pimp. He stepped back a few paces and said, ‘Never mind, you don’t seem to need it very much.’ He stopped the pimp and asked, ‘How can you tell? A man is always in need of that thing that you can provide — even when he is atop the scaffold waiting for the hangman’s noose or on the smoldering funeral pyre…’
He was about to philosophize a bit more when he stopped, ‘Look here, if it is somewhere close by, I am ready to come with you. I have asked a friend to meet me here.’
The pimp sidled up and said, ‘It is right here, very close by.’
‘Where?’
‘There — in that building right across there.’
‘There? In that big building?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A shudder coursed through him, ‘All right, then…’ He pulled himself up and asked, ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘Please do, but I shall go first,’ and the pimp starting walking towards the building in front of them.
Thinking countless self-loathing thoughts, he followed the pimp.
The building was barely a few feet away. The distance was covered in a matter of minutes. By now both he and the pimp had entered the building that bore a weather-beaten battered board. This building was more dilapidated than its neighbours — peeling plaster, gaping brickwork, broken pipes and heaps of rubbish all around.
Evening had fallen. As they crossed the threshold, it was dark inside. They crossed a wide courtyard and turned a corner. Here, construction had come to a standstill. Naked brickwork, heaps of hardened cement and mortar and small piles of gravel were scattered all about.
The pimp began to climb the half-finished stairs and turned to say, ‘Please wait here. I won’t be a minute.’
He stood, waiting. The pimp had disappeared. He raised his face to look at the top of the stairs where a bright light was visible.
Two minutes passed and he began to climb the stairs on tiptoe. At the top of the staircase he heard the pimp’s voice, loud and harsh.
‘Will you get up or not?’
A woman’s voice answered, ‘I said, didn’t I, let me sleep.’ Her voice sounded muffled, subdued.
The pimp’s voice crackled, ‘I said — get up! If you don’t listen to me, I will….’
The woman’s voice said, ‘Kill me if you want, but I won’t get up. For God’s sake, have pity on me.’
The pimp wheedled, ‘Get up, my love. Don’t be so stubborn. Just think … what will we live on?’
The woman answered, ‘Let the living go to hell! I’ll die of hunger, if I must. Don’t trouble me. I want to sleep.’
The pimp’s voice hardened, ‘So you won’t get up? You bitch! You daughter of a sow!’
The woman began to shout, ‘I won’t get up … I won’t get up … I won’t get up…’
The pimp lowered his voice. ‘Speak softly. Someone might hear … Come now, get up. You will get thirty or forty rupees.’
There was entreaty in the woman’s voice now. ‘Look! I am folding my hands before you … I have been awake for so long … I beg you, have pity on me. For God’s sake, have pity on me.’
‘It’s only for an hour or two … You can sleep later … Or else, I will have to be very stern with you.’
Silence reigned for a while. He took a few stealthy steps and peeped into the room from which bright light spilled out.
He saw a small room; a woman lay on the floor. Except for a few utensils scattered about, there was nothing else in the room. The pimp sat beside the woman, pressing her legs. After a while he said, ‘Come on now, get up. I swear upon God you will be back in an hour or two — you can sleep then.’
The woman jumped up like a rat that has been shown fire and screamed, ‘All right, I am getting up!’
He stepped aside. Actually, he was a bit scared. On tiptoe, he climbed down the stairs. He thought of running away — running away from this city, from this world. But where could he run?
Then he thought: who is this woman? Why is she being subjected to this cruelty? Who is the pimp? How is he related to the woman? And why do they live in that room lit with a bulb that is certainly not less than a hundred candle power? How long have they been iving here?
The light from that strong bulb still pierced his eyes. He couldn’t see anything around him. But he was thinking: how can anyone possibly sleep in that dazzling light? Why such a big bulb? Couldn’t they have put a smaller bulb — maybe fifteen or twenty candle power?
As he stood lost in thought, he heard a footfall. He turned around to see two shadows standing close beside him. One shadow, which belonged to the pimp, spoke up, ‘See for your self.’
He said, ‘I have seen.’
‘All right?’
‘All right.’
‘It’ll cost you forty rupees.’
‘Okay.’
‘Give it to me now.’
By now he was no longer capable of rational thought. He thrust his hand in his pocket, pulled out a few notes and handed them to the pimp.
‘Count them, how many are they?’
The rustling of currency notes could be heard.
The pimp said, ‘There are fifty here.’
He said, ‘Keep fifty, then.’
‘Salaam, sahab.’
He thought of picking a huge stone and hitting him on the head with it.
The pimp said, ‘Take her. But please don’t trouble her too much and please do bring her back after an hour or two.’
‘All right.’
He stepped out of that big building on whose front had once hung a board that he had read countless times.
A tonga stood outside. He began to move towards it, with the woman following.
Once again the pimp raised his hand to salaam. Once again he was overcome with the urge to pick a huge stone and hit him on the head with it.
The tonga started. It took him to a seedy little hotel nearby. Somehow, he pulled himself out of the anxiety that had engulfed his brain and looked at the woman. She was wasted — from head to toe. Her eyelids were swollen. Her eyes were downcast. In fact, the entire upper part of her body was bent forward like a building that was about to topple over any second.
He said to her, ‘Raise your head a bit.’
With a terrible start she said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing. All I had said was, say something.’
Her eyes were bloodshot. They were red, as though someone had flung red-hot chillies in them. She remained quiet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Her tone burnt like acid.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Wherever you want me to be from.’
‘Why are you so curt?’
By now the woman had woken up fully. She looked at him with her chilly-bright eyes and said, ‘You get on with your job; I have to go.’
He said, ‘Where?’
The woman answered in a dry couldn’t-care-less tone, ‘Where you got me from.’
‘You can go now.’
‘You do what you have to do; why are you troubling me?’
Filling his voice with all the pain in his heart, he said. ‘I am not troubling you. I sympathize with you.’
This infuriated her. ‘I don’t need any sympathizer.’ And then, nearly shouting, she repeated, ‘You get on with your job and let me go.’
He came closer and attempted to pat her head, but she flung his hand away with a jerk.
‘I tell you — don’t trouble me. I have been awake for so many days. I have been awake ever since I have come here.’
He began to sympathize with her again.
‘Go to sleep … right here.’
The woman’s eyes became redder. In a sharp tone, she said, ‘I haven’t come here to sleep; this isn’t my home.’
‘Is that your home — where you have come from?’
The woman grew more agitated.
‘Uff! Stop this nonsense. I have no home. Why don’t you get on with your job! Or else take me back and take your money from that … that ….’ And she bit back a terrible obscenity.
He thought it was futile talking to the woman while she was in that state, or even showing her any sympathy. So, he said, ‘Come, I will take you back.’
And he took her back to the big building.
The next day, sitting in a seedy hotel in Kaisar Park, he narrated the entire incident to his friend. The friend was suitably sympathetic. He expressed the deepest shock and disgust and asked, ‘Was she young?’
He said, ‘I don’t know; I didn’t really see her properly. All I could think of was why didn’t I pick up a stone and crush the pimp’s head with it.’
The friend said, ‘Truly, that would have been a great mercy.’
He couldn’t sit in the hotel for very long with his friend. The previous day’s incident weighed on his mind. So he finished his tea and took leave of his friend.
The friend walked towards the tonga stand. His eyes searched for the pimp but couldn’t find him. It was past six. The big building loomed ahead, barely a few yards away. He walked towards it and soon was inside it.
People milled past him, but he reached the stairs quite easily. He saw the light spilling down the staircase. He looked up and began to climb the stairs on tiptoe. For a few minutes he stood silently at the topmost stair. Dazzling bright light spilled out of the room, but there wasn’t a sound to be heard. He crossed the landing. The door of the room was ajar. He looked around and peered inside the room. Before he could spot the bulb, its piercing light jabbed his eyes. He turned around to face the darkness outside and allow his eyes to get used to that dazzling light.
Once again he approached the door, but in such a way that he remained outside the piercing pool of light cast by the bulb. He peered inside. He could see a woman lying on a mat. He craned forward for a closer look; she appeared to be asleep. A dupatta covered her face. Her chest rose and fell with her breaths. He stepped closer and nearly screamed. He controlled himself and saw — a short distance away from the woman, a man lay on the uncovered floor. His head was smashed into pieces. A blood-smeared brick lay close by. He saw everything in the blink of an eye and rushed towards the stairs. He slipped and fell several times but heedless of his injuries tried his best to hold on to his senses. With great difficulty, he managed to reach home and spent the night having the most terrifying nightmares.