Maan shut his eyes but could not shut his ears.
‘Actually, it was near Bombay that I saw an amazing event which I will never forget. I’ll share it with you if you want,’ the guppi continued. He paused for a second and, encountering no resistance, continued with a story which was entirely irrelevant to what had gone before.
‘Some Marathi dacoits got onto this train,’ said the guppi, beginning calmly enough, but becoming increasingly excited as the tale continued. ‘They said nothing, they just got on at a station. The train started to move, and then they stood up – all six of them, bloodthirsty villains – and threatened the people with knives. All the passengers were terrified, and handed their money and jewellery over. The six of them went through the entire compartment, and robbed everyone. Eventually they came to a Pathan.’
‘Pathan’, like ‘Bombay’, appeared to act as yeast to the guppi’s imagination. He breathed reverently and went on: ‘The Pathan – a broad, strong fellow – was travelling with his wife and children, and he had a trunk containing his possessions. Three of the villains were standing around him. “Well –” said one of them. “What are you waiting for?”
‘ “Waiting?” said the Pathan, as if he did not understand what they were saying.
‘ “Give me your money,” cried one of the Marathi dacoits.
‘ “I won’t,” growled the Pathan.
‘ “What?” yelled the bandit, unable to believe what he was hearing.
‘ “You’ve robbed everyone,” said the Pathan, remaining seated while the gundas loured over him. “Why rob me as well?”
‘ “No !” said the dacoits. “Give us your money. Quick.”
‘The Pathan saw that he couldn’t do anything immediately. He played for time. He started fumbling with his key and the lock of his trunk. He bent down as if to open it, judged distances – and suddenly – with one kick here – dharaaam! – he knocked one of them out – then – dhoooosh! – he bashed the other two bandits’ heads together, and flung them out of the train; one he actually lifted up by the neck and the crotch and flung out like a sack of wheat. The villain bounced on the next bogey before falling onto the ground.’
The guppi wiped his plump face, which was sweating with excitement and the effort of recall.
‘Then the ringleader – who was still in the compartment – pulled out his pistol, and fired. Dhaaaaaaam…! The shot went through the Pathan’s arm and lodged in the compartment wall. There was blood everywhere. He raised the pistol again to fire. Everyone in the compartment was frozen with fear. Then the Pathan spoke in the voice of a tiger to the passengers: “Bastards! I, one man alone, beat up three of them, and no one raised a hand to help me. I’m saving your money and your wealth for you. Isn’t there any one among you who can hold his hand to stop him from firing again?”
‘Then they all came to their senses. They grabbed the bandit’s hand and stopped him from killing the Pathan – and they beat him up – dharaaaash! dharaaaash! – till he cried for mercy and wept in pain – and then they thrashed him even more. “Do it properly,” said the Pathan, and they did – until he was a mass of blood. And they threw him onto the platform of the next station, a broken pulp. Like a discarded, rotting mango!
‘Then the women were all over the Pathan: bandaging his hand, etcetera, etcetera. They treated him as if there was only one man in the whole train. Beautiful women, all filled with admiration.’
The guppi, seeking approval, looked over towards Maan, who was feeling mildly sick.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked the guppi, after a long silence.
‘Mmmmh.’ said Maan. There was a pause, and he continued: ‘Tell me, why do you tell such outrageous stories?’
‘But they are all true,’ said the guppi. ‘Basically true.’
Maan was silent.
‘Look at it this way,’ continued the guppi. ‘If I merely said, “Hello” and you said “Hello. Where have you come from?” and I said, “From the direction of Baitar. By train” – well, how would the day pass? How would we get through these boiling afternoons and hot nights? So I tell stories – some to keep you cool, some to make you hotter!’ The guppi laughed.
But Maan was not listening any longer. He had sat up at the word ‘Baitar’, as galvanized by it as the guppi had been by ‘Bombay’. A wonderful idea had struck him.
He would write to Firoz, that was it. He would write to Firoz and enclose a letter to Saeeda Bai. Firoz wrote excellent Urdu and had none of Rasheed’s puritanism. Firoz would translate Maan’s letter and send it on to Saeeda Bai. She would be astonished to get his letter: astonished and delighted! And she would write back to him by the next post.