The car stopped. Sarita jumped out before Kafayat was able to do or say anything. She waved and walked away. Kafayat sat with one hand on the wheel, perhaps thinking back on the day’s events.
Then Sarita stopped, turned around, walked back, and from her blouse, removed a ten rupee note and placed it next to him.
Kafayat stared at it in amazement. ‘Sarita, what’s this?’
‘This… why should I take this money?’ she replied and ran off, leaving Kafayat still staring at the limp note.
He turned around eventually. Anwar and Shahab, like the note itself, lay slumped in the back seat, asleep.
Blouse
Momin had been feeling unsettled for the past few days. His body was as raw as a boil. He felt a mysterious pain, while working, while talking, even while thinking. But had he tried to describe it, he would have been unable to.
He would sometimes start while sitting. Hazy thoughts that usually rose and vanished soundlessly like bubbles in his mind, now burst, with great fury. Ants with barbed feet seemed to crawl over the pathways of his tender mind. A tightness had arisen in his body, and it caused him terrible discomfort. When it became too much, he’d wish he was in a giant cauldron, ready to be ground down.
He felt a deep satisfaction at hearing masalas being crushed in the kitchen: the noise of metal clashing with metal ringing out like a threat into the recesses of the roof, where he stood barefoot. The vibrations would run up his bare feet, to his taut calves and thighs, before reaching his heart, which would flutter like the flame of a clay lamp in a fast wind.
Momin was fifteen, perhaps sixteen; he didn’t know his exact age. He was a strong, healthy boy whose pubescence galloped towards adulthood and it was the effects of this gallop — of which Momin was wholly ignorant — that throbbed in every drop of his blood. He tried to comprehend its meaning, but he couldn’t.
Changes in his body were also becoming apparent. His neck, once thin, was thickening; his Adam’s apple was becoming more prominent; the muscles in his arms had grown tighter; his chest had hardened, and it had swollen in places as if someone had squeezed marbles into it. Touching these lumps caused Momin great discomfort. His hand accidentally grazing them, or even his thick shirt brushing against them while he worked, would make him jump up with pain.
In the bathroom, or alone in the kitchen, he would undo the buttons of his shirt and carefully examine these lumps, massaging them lightly. Stabs of pain would shoot through him as if his body, like a tree heavy with fruit, had been shaken. And though it made him tremble, he would become absorbed in this painful pastime. Sometimes, if he pressed too hard, the lumps would puncture and release a sticky liquid. The sight of it made his face turn red to his ears. He felt that, without meaning to, he had committed a sin.
His knowledge, as far as sin and virtue went, was very limited. Anything that someone couldn’t do in the presence of others struck him as a sin. And so whenever his face reddened to his ears, he hurriedly did up his shirt and swore to himself that he would never again engage in such inane pastimes. But despite these promises, two or three days later, he’d find himself once again absorbed in this activity.
Momin was turning the corner onto one of life’s avenues, that was not as long as it was treacherous. He sometimes moved swiftly down it, sometimes slowly. The truth was that he didn’t know how to traverse roads like these. Should they be negotiated as quickly as possible, or in a leisurely manner; should he perhaps take help along the way? He seemed to lose his footing on the slippery cobblestones of his approaching manhood; he had to fight to keep his balance. It perturbed him; it was the reason why, he would sometimes in the middle of his work, give a start, and grabbing a hook in the wall with both his hands, hang freely from it. Then he would have the urge for someone to hold his legs and pull him down until he became like a fine wire. But he couldn’t understand the meaning of these thoughts, they seemed to arise from some unknown part of his brain.
Everyone in the household was happy with Momin. He was hardworking and did all his work on time so no one had any cause for complaint. He had only worked as a servant for three months, but in this short time, he’d impressed everyone in the house. He had begun at six rupees a month, but by the second month, his salary was raised by two rupees. He was happy in the house; he was shown respect here.
But now, in the past few days, he had become unsettled. The restlessness that took hold of him made him want to spend whole days wandering the bazaars, or to find some deserted spot where he could lie down.
He no longer had his heart in his work, but despite his listlessness, he hadn’t become lazy, which was why no one in the house was aware of his inner turmoil. There was Razia who spent her entire day playing music, learning the newest film songs and reading magazines. She never paid any attention to Momin. Shakeela sometimes got Momin to do some work for her and even scolded him occasionally, but for the past few days, she, too, had been totally occupied, with copying the samples of a few blouses. They belonged to a friend of hers who kept up with the latest fashions. Shakeela had borrowed eight blouses from her and was copying them onto pieces of paper. And so, for the past few days, she hadn’t paid much attention to Momin either.
The deputy saab’s wife was not a severe woman. Other than Momin, there were two more servants in the house. There was an old lady who mostly worked in the kitchen; Momin occasionally lent her a hand. Deputy saab’s wife might perhaps have noticed a change in Momin’s alertness, but she hadn’t mentioned it to him. She certainly knew nothing of the upheavals in his mind and body. She had no sons and so was unable to understand the changes he was experiencing. And besides, Momin was a servant. Who could pay that much attention to the lives of servants? They covered all life’s stages on foot, from infancy to old age, and those around them never knew anything of it.
Though he was unaware of it, Momin was waiting for something to happen. For what? Just something: for the careful arrangement of plates on the table to start jumping up; for the water now coming to a boil to send the kettle’s lid flying into the air; for the tap’s lead pipe to crumple with the slightest pressure, and for a jet of water to shoot out; for his body to stretch, once and ever, so forcefully, that its every joint would come apart and hang loose; for something to reveal itself that he’d never experienced.
Momin was deeply unsettled.
And Razia was busy learning new film songs, and Shakeela copying blouse samples onto pieces of paper. When she’d finished doing this, she took the best of them and began making herself a blouse in violet satin. Now even Razia was forced to leave her radio and filmi music and turn her attention towards this.
Shakeela always did everything with great care and composure. Her posture when she was sewing suggested contentment. She wasn’t restless like her sister, Razia. Every stitch went on after careful consideration so that there was no room for error. Her measurements were always exact as she made paper cut-outs first, then used them to cut the cloth. This took more time, but the result was near perfect.
Shakeela was a large-bodied, healthy girl. She had thick, fleshy fingers, which tapered at the tips, and there were dimples at each joint. When she would work the sewing machine, they’d occasionally disappear with the movement of her hand.
Shakeela was just as calm at the machine. She would turn its wheel with two or three fingers, slowly and cleanly, her wrist gently arched. Her neck would bend forward slightly, and a lock of hair, unable to find a fixed place, would slip down. She would be so absorbed with her work that she wouldn’t push it away.