Story
Translated from the Bengali by Ahmed Hussain
You would be wing if you thought because he was shot and gitcity, and wa Aman would not have camall desires or he could not be susceptible to bouts of anger When waves of passion thadded at his heart, he did not feel like begging. He did not beg at the entrance to the mosque any more, for the faithful who came out ather prayers wearing pajamas and loose shirts and donning skullcaps hardly went beyond a penny or we and how could they? The way the beggars swarmed the place, it was difficult to give more, he told himself as he, after finding a line space near the supermarket, gripped on his crutch Not that he would not be able to walk without it, but he used the crunch nonetheless, which made him look even more foeloen. Ashamed he felt though to beg before the girls who come here to shop he narrowed his small eyes to fend off such feelings. But when some of them sifted through their purse to fish out a taka or two Aman’s close-set eyes refused to obey him. Trust them, these girls! And the way they dress! Things that you craved for would brush past you you would be left with this balll of flame in your body, what you would do with this was solely up to you. Red hot he was with desire, but he did not know in what lake he would take a dip to douse this flume.
It was not that he, before the accident, when he had been working in the factory, had never gone to the whores of Kandupatti. He could hardly afford to do that now, still one late evening, when the sting of the burning flame became insufferable, saving himself from being dragged by the prostitutes, he lurched down those narrow allies. The pimp like a blood-sucking leech, followed him to a hut, saying, “Very good girl, sir, you will love her.”
The girl was lying on a pallet, in a petticoat and a blouse; she got up and rearranged her hair. And after an old woman came and emptied the earthen pot that she was carrying into a bucket and left, the pimp winked at the girl and said, ‘New client, Jhumi. Take care of him.’
Jhumi did not reply, and when the pimp left, she bolted the door.
Aman saw a sense of pride in the way the girl straightened herself, he faintly recalled to have seen the same sense of pride in Anu, when she was swelling up to womanhood. Anu was from his village, four months pregnant, she killed herself, his heart sank at the thought of her, a face he had almost forgotten. The smell of stale powder, so typical of whorehouses, tickled his nose; it revived him.
Jhumi said, opening up her blouse, “You want it on an hourly basis?”
Perhaps she hadn’t taken notice of his leg, and she realised it when switching the light off she took him to the bed from the worm eaten dressing table, on which he was reclining, “Oh, you are lame!”
Aman felt as though someone had squeezed his heart out; yet when he placed his hand on her round breasts, a certain kind of hunger leaped at him; the girl took out her hairpin in one go, cascades of her hair fell, and soon it was all over. It happened so quick that he did not quite fathom what had made him feel so desperate to come here in the first place, he found no reason to stay any longer; the girl had already dressed herself; to give her the money, from his month’s income, pained him.
Two days later the same feelings visited him again. He did not forget Jhumi, the powdery smell of her breasts hovered before him. At times he had thought of her; perhaps, she too, like Anu, had a secret, why otherwise would she have to sell herself. Anu killed herself, this girl could not, this was the only difference between the two. His mind went in all directions as he limped along the blind ally of Kandupatti. The girl, perhaps because of his legs, recognised him, “Don’t come with that pimp, I have to give him commission, come alone from now on.”
Her words were unexpectedly indulgent. Like an old friend he sat on the mattress, asked for a glass of water, winter was approaching, yet he asked for the ceiling fan to be turned on. The poor girl only knew that he was a cripple, how disgusted she would be if she were told that he was a beggar. He never wanted to beg; after the accident, he had spent all his life’s income on medication, he was left with no other option but scrounge. As an old recurring nightmare, it all came back to him, those hard days. Jhumi, closing the door, switched the light off. The blouse and petticoat were laid on the floor, the blue glow that the nightlight emitted played on the girl’s bare back. But Aman felt numbed as though the flow of blood in his veins had come to a standstill. Then, she came forward, placed his forehead on her soft powdered breasts, and said, “You liked me so much that you have come back.”
On this mouthful of passion he spent all his money. Once he had thought if he could save some money, he would send for his mother and sister who lived in the village. It now seemed so distant, he died inside. He knew despair and deep down his heart he knew he could do nothing about it.
A new problem arose when going to Kandupatti became a habit. By now, throwing away the crutch, walking jerkily on his unsteady legs, he begged; a shooting pain returned every night, he slept with it. He dreamt; and then one day something happened he had never thought he would come across. He took caution to make sure that no-one found out this fact of his life, frequenting the whorehouse that is; that day he had little idea as to what was in the offing. It was Shab-e-Barat, the sacred night on which every man’s fate was fixed.
While going to the place, he stopped at the entrance to the mosque, which was not far away from Jhumi’s room, and asked for alms from someone who was giving away money to the beggars who flocked him.
Jhumi’s was a stone-throw distance away; she lived on the first floor, from which one could notice everything that went on in the streets– the trishaws, the people, the bazaar.
Kandupatti was eerily silent, there were only some stray dogs lying idle on the ally. beside them, a makeshift shrine for Khawja Baba, an Indian saint, was erected, at which Jhumi was staring. She sat in the veranda; it was the other prostitute with whom she was having bread and halvah who noticed Aman first: after stumbling in the crowd, he had just got to his feet and leaned on the wall; as the person who was giving alms moved away, Aman’s uneven steps could be seen from a distance; the woman said, “The cripple! That cripple has come!”
As a rule, on days like this, or on such sacred nights, clients did not come to the brothel: the girls did not go out either. In the darkness of the wispy ally two dogs sniffed at him; panting heavily, he stood before her door, she had also come down from the first floor, at the foot of the stairs they met, she said, “Why have you come today? We are whores, but we also believe in God.”
“I came here to see you,” he said and from his tattered bag he took out a plastic box and gave it to her.
“What is it?”
You once told me that nothing was more delicious than halva and bread. Today everyone is having them, so I thought I would bring some for you…”
“Did you beg for it?”
“Why would I beg for it?”
Jhumi straightened herself. A flicker of irony played in her eyes, in her life she had seen many a young man, but that she had made love to a beggar, that she had given herself to a pauper disgusted her; she said, “So what you are crippled? Can’t you get some work? You beg the whole day and come here to fuck?”
Her words, like a machete, chopped him into pieces. She said, “My father had just kicked the bucket, there was no food at home, my sisters and brothers were starving, my freaking mother cried away the whole day, there was only darkness around me, and standing in that darkness, did I go around begging? I sold myself, never begged. You motherfucker, you son of a bitch, why do you have to beg?”
Lying on the mat in his thatched hut, Aman started at the corrugated iron ceiling; through several holes that it bore from rust and age came spots of moonlight, they made a pattern on the floor. He stumbled upon an idea, an idea so overpowering that it took his sleep away: with Jhumi as his partner, he would start his own little business; they would rent a house, a proper house and would pretend to be husband and wife; he would get her clients… would she agree? What if she didn’t?
A few days later when he went to her, Jhumi could not but say yes. As a prostitute she had become independent a few years ago, she only needed to pay the rent, but, this freedom had also earned her a few enemies; and these people, some of whom were her friends, had stolen her jewellery, everything that she had saved over the years. She had been looking for an escape; she had been looking for ways to become truly free.
To run such a business, in a place where the gentlefolks lived turned out to be difficult, impossible almost. Every day a set of new people visited them, this comings and goings cast a shadow of suspicion on the minds of the neighbours. They changed places. Aman threw away the crutch, and, in his crisped pyjama, loose shirt and skullcap, resembled more a Sufi than a pimp. When she went out with him, Jhumi wore a black burka. She liked the smell of attar he wore. Aman, on the other hand, was lost in a dream, and why should not he be? The goings were good; a new girl had just arrived, she was not much sought after though (Who would want Aklima when there was Jhumi at hand?), but, he knew, soon she would soon learn the skill; then again, who needed skill, when the old fogies, who formed their clientele, were desperate just to have a quick fuck? Swimming in that tide of hope, he thought, a few more days, and he would leave this motherfucking business, he would set up a shop, would marry Jhumi, would send for his mother and sister. Of the people who came, a certain client, whom Jhumi introduced to the outside world as her brother-in-law, disgusted and scared him. This brother-in-law flirted with her in front of Aman, which made him grow restless. This guy came on alternate days, and he never came alone; he brought in a group of friends, making it obvious before the young thugs of the area, who barged into the house one day and started interrogating them. Faced with this, Jhumi, experienced that she was in facing such situations, remained unperturbed. She said, “My brother-in-law comes to my house, my uncle comes here. Should our relatives not call on us? My sister is young, my husband is crippled; that doesn’t mean that you people will take us for a ride…” Her words shut them up for the time being, but they continued to harass them.
They had to shift to a new house for the second time. The inevitable happened after that, it was meant to happen; did he see it coming? Not really. He was not home, Aklima, the new girl broke it to him after he came back– Jhumi had left with her belongings with the brother-in-law, where she went the girl was not told, she only knew Jhumi would not return. Aman wept like an animal shot through its heart. It was dusk, the sun was about to set, Aklima knelt down and clutched at Aman’s groaning face, and in that twilight, what would she do, now that the bare touch of her naked powdery breasts tormented him?
Parvez Hossain : Fictionist in Bangla Literature
Ahmed Hussain: Translator
Illustration : Satabdi Zahid
