Hats and Doctors: Stories Read online

  ‘Mr Ghatpande, you should have some faith in yourself. There’s no need to go to so many sanatoriums. The treatment is just about the same everywhere. What you need to do is to make use of your will power and stick with one treatment.’

  Translated by Daisy Rockwell and Upendranath Ashk

  Formalities

  ‘Come my friend, relax and make yourself at home.’

  (This is what one sincerely feels, all the while hoping to God to avoid getting ensnared by such a friend!)

  Rashid Bhai came out on to the balcony after reviewing with his wife all the arrangements for tea and snacks. He had smoothed out the wrinkles in the rug; he had shaken out the colourful teapoy cover and spread it out again; he had rearranged the cushions on the bamboo chairs; he had cleaned the frames of the pictures hanging on the wall. Stepping back a bit, he cast a critical glance over the balcony’s simple yet engaging decorations and heaved a sigh of relief. At last, he sank into a chair and, stretching out his feet on the railing, he began to wait for Director Qadir and his wife.

  Rashid Bhai was a stout man of medium height. He was stout, but he wasn’t flabby. His cheeks, neck, arms, stomach, thighs, calves—all were fleshy for his height, but his flesh didn’t sag anywhere. Not on his round cheeks, not on his neck, not on his stomach, nor anywhere else. Perhaps this was because he possessed an unmatched work ethic, despite his weight. He wrote songs for the movies; he also wrote stories, dialogues and scenarios; when he had the chance he even acted, and he didn’t shrink from all the running around that such activities require. But despite all his dedication and labour—and despite the fact that his income continued to flow—he had not come across any suitable formula for fame. His genius—this is what he thought—was sinking into a mire of stunt films, and he devoted all his time to the effort of saving it. He longed for the chance to write the story—or if not, at least the dialogue—for some ‘social picture’. If he could just once get the chance, he hoped to escape from the mire of stunts forever. And then … Then … His dreams, like the dreams of everyone who works in the film world, would travel via directorship, and arrive at the pinnacle, producership.

  There was a knock on the door. Rashid Bhai leapt up as though rigged to a spring. A slightly ingratiating, fawning smile formed about his lips and, with a pounding heart, he opened the door. He was about to bow with a respectful greeting, when his gaze fell upon the fruit-seller, who, on seeing him, managed to produce a voice from some portion of his throat and asked, ‘Do you want oranges or bananas, sir?’

  That smile of Rashid Bhai’s, in which a sugary welcome and buttery fawning were combined in mysterious proportions, disappeared from his lips in an instant. Turning completely harsh, he looked down the hall to the kitchen and called out to the servant in a grating voice, ‘Boy, tell Mem Sahib, if she wants any fruit or anything, to come and get some.’ He closed the door and went and sank into the chair as before.

  He had first met Director Qadir at a party given on the occasion of the birthday of Miss Shameem. Director Qadir was a successful director at Ratan Limited. He had actually started out life as a professor, but he had met with success in the film line. He had four hit films to his credit and now he was in demand everywhere. The previous year, he had suddenly fallen ill with T.B. and gone off to the sanatorium at Miraj. Now that he had grown a bit healthier and had returned, he had a very full schedule before him; even in the depths of his illness, he had written stories and scenarios for three films, and as soon as he had got back he had also signed a contract with Bombay Talkies. At their first meeting, Rashid Bhai had made such an impression on him with his critical praise for his first films that Director Qadir had agreed to come with his wife to Rashid’s house for tea. And Rashid Bhai had been so pleased by Director Qadir’s acceptance that his enthusiasm and excitement had prevented him from sleeping the previous night. Again and again, he instructed his wife about what she should prepare for tea.

  ‘If they don’t come, then …’ Suddenly the thought occurred to Rashid Bhai as he sat there in his chair, and his heart froze with anxiety. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Rashid Bhai got up. The possibility of disappointment had snatched the smile from his lips, but even now there was still a trace of enthusiasm playing about them. When he opened the door, he saw Director Qadir and his wife standing before him. Rashid Bhai suddenly panicked. He forgot to lower his head in respectful greeting. He rubbed his hands together, clenching his teeth and giggling. ‘Please come in, please come in,’ he urged, as he brought them out to the balcony and positioned them in the chairs. Then he went inside and, returning with his wife, introduced them all to one another. Rashid Bhai’s wife, like him, was heavy-set and cheerful. She smiled and came and sat opposite Mrs Qadir.

  ‘Tell me, are you feeling better now?’ asked Rashid Bhai, for the purpose of starting the conversation.

  ‘I am fine,’ Director Qadir said. ‘But if either we or Miss Shameem don’t move somewhere else soon, I’m sure to get worse.’

  Rashid Bhai’s mouth dropped open with surprise. After a moment, he asked, ‘But the house where Miss Shameem is staying is yours, isn’t it?’

  Director Qadir laughed, despite his seriousness. ‘Yes it is,’ he said, ‘but we can’t get her to move out. You are aware of whatever drawbacks the house may have. Even when I was sick I continued to pay the rent and I didn’t let anyone else move in. Shameem came to see me in Miraj. She had just come from Lahore. She was having a great deal of trouble finding a house. I mistakenly suggested to her—who knows why—that if she couldn’t find a house for some reason, she could just stay at our place. And now I’m paying for that bit of formality. When she returned from visiting me in Miraj, she went straight to my house, and to this day she hasn’t budged.’

  At this stage, Mrs Rashid got up to see about serving tea to the guests.

  ‘But surely Miss Shameem has made some arrangements for you?’ Rashid Bhai asked.

  This time it was Mrs Qadir who answered. She was a serious woman of medium height, lean yet vigorous. She had a B.A. and a B.T. If Director Qadir still looked a professor, she looked no less than the headmistress of some school.

  ‘Made some arrangements!’ she exclaimed in a bitingly sarcastic tone. ‘What could she give us out of a three-room flat? We have one room. How can we be comfortable like that? And He is ill. He needs a separate room all His own!’

  ‘Even if there isn’t more than one room,’ said Director Qadir, running his hand over his balding head, ‘there should be some peace and quiet. Over there, we feel as though we were sitting in a fish market twenty-four hours a day!’

  ‘All day long we hear nothing but “Ha ha, hee hee, ho ho”,’ said Mrs Qadir, building her case. ‘Shameem has created such an impression since coming here to Bombay that the whole town is gaga over her. Dancing, singing, parties, flash and rummy drives! There’s not a moment of peace. And He has to work, too. What does she have to do? Just go to the set, say four words the wrong way and come home. The real tragedy is for Him; He has to consider the story, scenario, shots, dialogues and even the camera and sound. For such matters, one does have to think a little. And there’s not even a moment to hear oneself think there.’

  Director Qadir kept quiet. But the lines of helplessness on his face grew more pronounced. At that moment, Rashid Bhai felt as though there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him; if he could, he would huff and puff until a house appeared into which Mr Qadir could move with his family, and all their troubles would be over. ‘I have only these two-and-a-half rooms,’ said Rashid Bhai, ‘that is, if you could call this balcony a room; otherwise I would have asked you to come here.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your kindness!’ said Mrs Qadir, smiling. ‘It’s not a matter of space, it’s a matter of peace and quiet. If a person is good, polite, then forget about a room, one can easily make do with a storeroom. But what can one do when no part of the camel stands straight!’ Miss Shameem was a tall, languid young lady. Mrs Qadir smiled wh
ile comparing her to a camel, and then continued, ‘For the sake of appearances, Her Highness has set up a dining table, but she doesn’t know even the ABC of table manners. She dresses as though she had just graduated from college, but at the dining table she’s worse than a peasant. While drinking or eating, she makes such a noise, God help me! She gets gravy all over her hands and face. And then all kinds of tabla, sitar and sarangi players and new-money businessmen come and sit at the table, and eat in such a way that one begins to feel nauseated. Sometimes there’s such an uproar, one feels like simply dashing one’s head against the wall!’

  Just then the servant came in behind Mrs Rashid, carrying the tea and snacks; and Mrs Rashid, with her simple smile, began to pour out tea for the guests. Rashid Bhai took advantage of this opportunity to bring up the topic of himself; how he himself had had a good deal of trouble finding a house; how when the ship had crashed in Bombay and people had begun to flee for fear of an attack by the Japanese, he had acquired this beautiful seaside flat. Talking about his flat, he brought up his experiences in the film world and told Director Qadir which films he had worked on, and for which he had written stories, dialogues and songs. Not finding this topic interesting, Mrs Qadir, after drinking one cup of tea, went with Mrs Rashid to look at the flat. Rashid Bhai took advantage of this lull to praise Director Qadir’s genius: he expressed his opinion that if Director Qadir gave him an opportunity to work with him, he would meet with success in the film world, and so on and so forth.

  Director Qadir listened to what Rashid Bhai was saying with great seriousness, an unfathomable smile playing on his lips; eventually, he made one of those vague promises to the effect of: ‘Why not, why not, I’ll definitely help you, why don’t you write a story and show it to me.’ Then he called out to his wife that it was getting late; Producer Vadilal was coming to meet with him and they should go soon.

  When Mrs Qadir came back on to the balcony her face was radiant. ‘Oh my! Your flat is so beautiful and so open!’ She said to Rashid Bhai, ‘It has made me so happy to see it!’

  Rashid Bhai stretched out his hands in a dramatic fashion and exclaimed, ‘Please, your wish is my command!’

  For an instant Mrs Qadir stared at him silently, and then, realizing what he meant, she laughed, saying, ‘You are so very kind! I was just admiring your flat.’

  ‘No, if you like it, please come. It would make us so happy to live with you, even if we occupied only the balcony. And here, even if there were other inconveniences for you, at least there would be no mental disturbance. Really!’

  Mrs Qadir only laughed gratefully in response. As she walked down the stairs, she suggested to her husband that he get Rashid Bhai to write the dialogue for his new picture. And when Director Qadir got into the taxi he shook Rashid Bhai’s hand and promised him that he would propose Rashid Bhai’s name for the dialogue right away when he met with Producer Vadilal.

  When Rashid Bhai returned from seeing them off, he ran up the stairs, taking not one, but two and three at a time. He hugged and squeezed his wife enthusiastically and announced to her that, God willing, he himself would write the dialogue for Director Qadir’s next picture; he wanted praise for his cleverness.

  ‘You can’t even imagine how cleverly I extracted a promise of work from Director Qadir. In the film world, no one cares about qualifications. I’ve learned that secret after years of getting kicked around. You have to have cleverness and dexterity to go along with qualifications. There are actually plenty of people who aren’t qualified at all, but are only aware and clever. Now, you tell me, if I hadn’t invited Mrs Qadir to come here and live with us, would I have got this job? Never! But I know what should be said, where and when! Those people would hardly leave a nice flat like theirs and come to live with us, but this small offering of mine did have an effect on them and I have just tasted its fruit …’

  And leaving his wife astonished at his savvy and dexterity, Rashid Bhai set off enthusiastically to meet with the producer of his company so he could impress him with this news and get a good contract from him for the next picture.

  When Rashid Bhai returned in the evening he was a little drunk. He couldn’t meet with his producer, so he had gone and grabbed his friend, the stunt film hero, Shahbaaz. When Shahbaaz had seen him a bit happier than usual and wanted to know the reason, Rashid Bhai made him promise first that he would not tell anybody; then he whispered in his ear that he was going to write the dialogue for Director Qadir’s next picture. And then, without Shahbaaz even saying anything, he promised him he would try his best to get him a role in the picture—preferably the hero’s and, if not, then of the second hero or the villain. To celebrate, Shahbaaz took him to Dadar Bar and the two of them tossed back two small pegs of scotch each. Shahbaaz was short of cash, otherwise Rashid Bhai would have had to be escorted home by friends. But he invited Rashid Bhai to meet him at Dadar Bar after one week and assured him that in the meantime he would arrange preferably for a bottle of scotch, but if not, a bottle of dry gin.

  The tide was coming in. The waves advanced and collided with those returning from the shore, a sort of a wall of foam continuously forming in both directions for a long way off. A slice of moon among the stars in the sky cut a shining Milky-Way-like path into the vast bosom of the sea with its light. Rashid Bhai felt slightly buzzed. He wanted to wander about on the beach in this pale brilliance; to get wet, to stand on the sandy beach and gaze at that path of light illuminating the sea as far as the eye could reach; to go and sit on the covered cement cylinder drains pouring the Dadar water into the sea; to stretch his feet out above the waves of the advancing waters—just high enough so that the spray from the waves hitting the drainage cylinders would sometimes splash on his legs. Just then he felt a cold gust of wind. Rashid Bhai recalled his warm soft bed. The thought of his bed reminded him of the warm, soft, ripe body of his wife and, abandoning the allure of wandering on the beach, he went upstairs, climbing the steps, not one, but two and three at a time. He then impishly extended one finger and pressed the bell for a long time.

  He imagined that his wife would come and open the door—her flapping, Gujarati ghaghra-like dress dragging along the floor as she made unsuccessful attempts to hide her voluptuous bosom in her dupatta. Fretting but smiling, she would scold him sweetly, ‘Stop it, stop it! Why are you pressing the bell like a child? I’m not deaf!’ But Rashid Bhai jumped back a step in alarm when, instead of his wife, Mrs Qadir opened the door and, piercing him through with her naked sword of a gaze, she said harshly, though she was trying unsuccessfully to be gentle, ‘Oh, it’s you! I thought some urchin boy must be making trouble! Do you ring the bell like this every day?’ Then she softened her voice and made room for Rashid Bhai to come inside. ‘So, we’ve come,’ she said, laughing. ‘After fixing things up for you with Producer Vadilal at the studio we arrived home to find an incredible hullabaloo. People from who-knows-where-all had come to congratulate Miss Shameem on her birthday, believing in “Better late than never”. And He is ill. And then I just started feeling so suffocated by the uproar. I called for a taxi, packed a few essential items and we came here. This will be an inconvenience to you, but …’

  In the midst of this, Rashid Bhai’s buzz had evaporated. His facility for reason had returned; his hesitant steps had moved forward and the high-flying kite of his imagination had received the shock of reality and touched the earth. Laughing foolishly, he responded, ‘Heh, heh, what inconvenience? As I said just this morning, this is your home … heh, heh, this home is yours. Have you all eaten already? Where is Suraiya?’ Suraiya was the name of Rashid Bhai’s wife.

  ‘We waited for you until quite late. But—’ and here Mrs Qadir spoke very softly—‘you know, He is a sick man; He should eat and sleep on time. We have eaten. Mrs Rashid is probably in the kitchen.’ And directing Rashid Bhai’s attention towards the kitchen, she added, ‘For now we’ve settled in just this room; why don’t you eat? I’ll go take care of His sleeping arrangements. Don’t worry, I
don’t believe in standing on formalities. I have taken everything I need and will continue to do so—and I won’t hesitate to cause you any inconvenience either.’

  With this, she went into the inside room.

  In only one week, Rashid Bhai found out that Mrs Qadir was in no way one of those people who say one thing and do another. She literally did exactly whatever it was she had said she would. In those seven days she did not stand on formalities whatsoever and she did not hesitate the least from causing inconvenience to Rashid Bhai and his wife. In Rashid Bhai’s absence she had already taken over the larger of the two rooms as soon as she arrived. Under her own supervision, she had Rashid Bhai’s bedding and belongings set up in the middle room, which was Mrs Rashid’s dressing room. She was extremely helpful to Mrs Rashid in setting up the room so that two beds could fit into it, as well as the ladies’ and gents’ dressing tables, and not even look bad. With great informality, she had dinner cooked without even waiting for Rashid Bhai. She showed absolutely no hesitation in instructing the servant as to how many eggs should be in the omelette or the halwa, and which vegetable should go into the curry with the meat. In fact, she planned the menu for how many times her husband should have milk, eggs and soup starting from the next day—‘Eating is the only important thing with a lung condition, that’s why!’ She had ordered the servant to bring food to her in the room, eaten it and busied herself with her husband’s sleeping arrangements.

  Up to this point, well, Rashid Bhai hadn’t experienced too much inconvenience. When he regained his composure after the initial shock, he felt honoured and proud to find Director Qadir in his home, knowing that he had not only relieved his favourite director of heavy mental stress, but had met with the opportunity he had sweetly imagined for years as well. To his wife, sitting in the kitchen with her head resting on her knees, he presented scores of arguments, explaining that Director Qadir’s arrival in their home was a wonderful opportunity for them both in every way.