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The day Mirza’s new maid Lajo entered his house there was a great commotion in the mohalla. The sweeper who was in the habit of running away after a few swipes of the broom now stayed on and scrubbed the floor vigorously. The milkman who adulterated his ware with water now brought milk thick with cream.

No one knew who gave her the name Lajo, the coy one. She was a stranger to bashfulness or the sense of shame. No one knew who begot her and left her on the street to fend for herself. She grew up on the leftovers of others and reached an age when she could snatch away things from others. When she grew up, her body proved to be her only asset. Soon she learnt the secrets of life from the village louts of her age and became a freewheeling mare.

She didn’t haggle. It was wonderful if it was a cash-down proposition; if not, it was sex on credit. And if someone could not pay even on credit, it was sex on charity.

‘Hey, don’t you have any shame?’

‘I have!’ She would blush with impudence.

‘You’ll burn your fingers some day.’

Lajo could not care less. She could take the rough with the smooth in her stride. She was a picture of innocence – with her deep black eyes, evenly set small teeth and pale complexion. Her swinging gait was so provocative that the onlookers lost their tongue and stopped in their tracks, staring at her.

Mirza was a bachelor. Kneading dough and flattening rotis had made his life miserable. He had a small grocery shop which he pompously called ‘General Store’. It kept him so busy that he didn’t find time to go home and get married. Sometimes the business would be dull, taking him to the brink of bankruptcy, while at other times, the ceaseless rush of customers would not allow him a moment’s rest.

Bakshi, Mirza’s friend, had picked up Lajo from a bus stop. His wife was at an advanced stage of pregnancy and a maid was needed. After the child was born, Lajo was turned out. She didn’t mind, accustomed as she was to being beaten and turned out. However, Bakshi had grown fond of her, but as he got a job overseas, he thought of making a gift of her to Mirza. ‘He wastes money at brothels, why not savour this dish for free?’

‘La hawla wala quwwat! … I’m not going to keep a whore in the house,’ Mirza said nervously.

‘Come on, Mian, she’ll do small chores for you,’ Bakshi tried to persuade him.

‘No, brother. Don’t foist her on me. Why don’t you take her along?’

‘They’ve sent tickets only for me, not for the whole family.’

But Lajo had already invaded Mirza’s kitchen. Her lehnga tucked up like a diaper, she had tied the broom at one end of a bamboo pole and was stomping around the house. When Bakshi told her of Mirza’s response, she did not pay any heed. She just asked him to arrange the pans on the shelf and went out to collect water from the tap.

‘I’ll take you home if you so wish.’

‘Are you my husband that you want to leave me at my mother’s? Get lost. I’ll tackle the situation here.’

Bakshi upbraided her, saying that a bastard like her should not take on airs. In reply, Lajo began to hurl such filthy abuses at him that even Bakshi, lecher that he was, broke into a cold sweat.

Bakshi’s departure took the wind out of Mirza’s sails. He ran out to take refuge in a mosque and kept thinking of the additional expenses. She might be a pilferer, for all he knew! He was really in the soup.

When Mirza returned home after the evening prayer, he had to hold his breath for some moments! As though Bi Amma, his late mother, was back! Every object in the house – the earthen pitcher, the newly scrubbed bowl, the lantern – was sparkling.

‘Mian, shall I fetch your meal?’

‘Meal?’

‘It’s ready. Please sit down. I’m fetching rotis – fresh and hot.’ She left for the kitchen without waiting for his response.

Spinach mixed with potato, moong daal laced with onion and cumin seeds – just the way Amma prepared it! He felt a lump in his throat.

‘Where did you get the money to buy these?’ he asked.

‘Got them on credit from the bania.’

‘I’ll pay you the return fare.’

‘Return?’

‘Oh yes. I can’t afford a servant.’

‘Who wants wages?’

‘But …’

‘I hope the food is not too hot?’ asked Lajo as she slipped a fresh roti onto his plate. It was as though the issue was resolved once and for all! Mirza wanted to say that he was hot all over. But Lajo engaged herself in bringing rotis one after another. She was so quick that it seemed there was someone else helping her in the kitchen. ‘Well, we’ll see about it in the morning,’ thought Mirza as he went to bed. He had a strange feeling because it was the first time he was going to sleep under the same roof as a woman. However, being tired, he fell asleep soon enough.

‘No, Mian. I’m here to stay,’ Lajo said firmly when Mirza raised the question the next morning.

‘But …’

‘Didn’t you like my cooking?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Didn’t I tidy up the house well?’

‘You certainly did. But …’

‘Then, what’s the problem?’ Lajo flared up.

For Lajo it was love at first sight. She was in love – not with Mirza but with the house. Without a mistress, it was as good as hers. A house does not belong to a man. He is more like a guest. Bakshi, the bastard, was a stale morsel. He had kept her in a separate room that had earlier been occupied by a buffalo. The buffalo had died long ago, but it had left a deadly stench that got into her system. On top of it, Bakshi would often throw tantrums.

Here at Mirza’s house, she was the queen. She knew the moment she set eyes on him that Mirza was a simpleton. He would come quietly, much like a guest, and eat whatever was laid before him. He would leave money with Lajo for household expenses; he checked the accounts a couple of times and felt satisfied that she did not cheat.

Mirza left the house in the morning and returned in the evening. Lajo kept herself busy throughout the day fixing up things in the house and bathing in the courtyard. Sometimes she went across to Ramu’s grandma for a chat. The pimple-faced, dissolute Ramu was Mirza’s teenaged help at the store. He had a crush on Lajo at very first sight and told her that Mirza often visited courtesans.

Lajo felt a stab in her heart. Those courtesans were witches. For Mirza, it was just a waste of money. After all, what was she for? Till now, wherever employed, she gave full satisfaction to her masters in every way. But here, a full chaste week had passed! Nowhere had she felt so slighted before. She had a very large-hearted concept of the man–woman relationship. For her, love was the most beautiful experience in life. After attaining a certain age she was initiated into it, and since then, her interest had only grown. She had no mother or grandmother to teach her what was right and what was wrong. Now, she received overtures from other quarters as well, but she did not heed them. She was Mirza’s maid and could not allow others to make fun of him.

Mirza seemed like an iceberg, but a veritable volcano was burning within him. His heart was in a tumult. The carefree lads of the mohalla further added to his agony. Lajo’s name was on everyone’s lips. One day she clawed the milkman’s face, the next day she hit the paan-seller’s face with a dung cake, and so on. People offered her their hearts on a platter wherever she went. The schoolteacher would start giving her instruction if he met her on the street. The sound of her bangles would make Mullahji, coming out of the mosque, mutter ‘Ayat-ul kursi’, to ward off evil.

That day, Mirza entered the house in a foul mood. Lajo had just had her bath. Her wet hair nestled against her shoulders. Blowing into the fire had flushed her cheeks and filled her eyes with water. Lajo grinned as she saw Mirza enter, making him almost topple over. He ate his meal in silence, then went out and sat in the mosque. But he did not find peace. He was constantly reminded of the house. Unable to bear it any longer, he returned home and found that Lajo was quarrelling with a man at the door. Seeing him, the man slunk away.

‘Who was that?’ Mirza asked like a suspicious husband.

‘Raghua.’

‘Raghua …?’ Mirza did not know his name even though he had been buying milk from him for years.

‘The milkman!’

‘Shall I prepare the hookah for you?’ Lajo changed the topic.

‘No. What was he saying?’

‘He was asking how much milk he should bring from now on.’

‘What did you tell him …?’

‘I said, “Go to hell. Bring the usual measure.” ’

‘Then?’ Mirza was stung by jealousy.

‘Then I said, “Bastard, feed the milk to your mother.” ’

‘Scoundrel! He’s a rogue, this Raghua! Don’t take milk from him. I’ll bring it on my way home from the store.’

After dinner, Mirza put on a starched kurta with great flourish, stuck a scented cottonwool ball in his ear, grabbed his walking stick and went out. Lajo burnt with jealousy as she watched him mutely and cursed the courtesans. Didn’t Mirza fancy her? How could that be?

The courtesan was busy with another customer. This annoyed Mirza, who left her and sat in Lala’s shop. There he passed time talking about the rise in prices and politics. By the time he returned home, weary and peevish, it was past eleven. The water pitcher was kept near his cot, but he didn’t see it. He went to the kitchen and drank a lot of cold water, but the flame within him would not be quenched.

Mirza could glimpse Lajo’s lissom, golden legs through the door, which was ajar. Her anklets tinkled as she turned clumsily in sleep. Her legs stretched further. Mirza drained one more glass of water and, chanting ‘La hawla wala quwwat’, fell on his bed.

His body turned to a blister, tossing and turning on the bed. Constant drinking of water bloated his stomach. The thought of the enticing legs made him restless. A strange fear stifled his throat. He knew that the bitch could kick up a row, but the devil egged him on. From his cot to the kitchen he had already walked many miles. Now he had no strength to go on.

Then a harmless thought entered his mind: If her legs were not bare, he would not feel such thirst for water. This thought made him bold. If she woke up, what would she think? But Mirza had to do it for his own safety.

He left the slippers under his cot and tiptoed ahead, holding his breath. He held the hem of her lehnga and pulled it down. The next moment he felt a touch of regret thinking that she might feel uncomfortable in the heat. Unable to reach any decision, he stood for a while shaking all over. Then he seemed to harden his heart and turned back.

He could not have reached the door when there was an explosion. Lajo turned on her side and grabbed him. Mirza was dumbfounded. He had never encountered anything like this before. He went on pleading as Lajo seduced him thoroughly.

When they met the next morning, Mirza felt shy, as though Lajo was his newly wedded bride! Lajo, with the pride of a victor, was humming a tune as she smeared the parantha with layers of ghee. Her eyes did not reflect any memory of the night. She sat on the threshold as usual and kept on swatting flies. Mirza was apprehensive about whether she would now demand more of him.

There was a new lilt in her gait when she came with Mirza’s lunch to the store at noon. Seeing Lajo, people would stop by and ask the price of groceries. Some of them would end up buying something or the other. Lajo, without any cue from Mirza, would begin to weigh things and would wear a smile of coquetry as she wrapped them up. She sold in a short time what Mirza couldn’t through the entire day! However, he did not like it that day.

Now Mirza was richer than a king. He put on weight, and his looks improved. People knew the reason and felt jealous. Mirza, in turn, grew jittery. The more Lajo took care of him, the more crazy he got about her, and the more scared he grew of his neighbours. They knew of her uninhibited ways that turned one crazy. She was utterly shameless. When she brought Mirza’s lunch, she would get the entire bazaar crashing down on her. She would make fun of someone, snapping her fingers at him, challenge someone else with her raised thumb. As she reached the shop swinging her buttocks and abusing people fulsomely, Mirza’s blood would begin to boil.

He would say, ‘Don’t come with lunch anymore.’

‘Why?’ Lajo’s face would fall. She would go mad sitting at home all day long. The bazaar, with its laughter and banter, was a pleasant diversion.

The day she didn’t bring lunch to the shop, Mirza’s mind would be assailed by suspicions. He would wonder what she was up to. He began to drop in at odd hours to spy on her, and she immediately got busy looking after his comforts. Her endearing ways made him more suspicious.

One day when he reached home at an odd hour, he found that Lajo was haranguing the junk vendor, and the chap was grinning all over. Seeing Mirza, he sneaked away. Mirza leapt up, caught Lajo by the throat and gave her a few slaps and kicks.

‘What was it?’ His nostrils flared.

‘The cursed fellow would give only ten annas per seer. I said, “Bastard, give the money to your mother.” ’

The going rate for junk was ten annas per seer.

‘Who asked you to sell junk?’ Mirza thundered.

But the day he found her playing kabaddi with the lads of the mohalla, he was beside himself with rage. Her lehnga was fluttering in the wind. The lads were busy in their game, but their fathers were engrossed in her lehnga. By turn, each of them had already offered to make her his mistress, but she had spurned them all.

Lowering his head in shame, Mirza passed by silently. People were laughing at him: ‘Just look at him, as though she’s really his real wife!’

Mirza had got deeply attached to her. The thought of separation from her drove him mad. He could not stay in the shop for long now. The thought that someone could take her away with a better offer made him restless.

‘Why don’t you marry her?’ Miran Mian suggested, seeing his plight.

‘La hawla wala quwwat … How can I form such a sacred bond with this whore?’ After warming the bed of so many, she had made herself unfit to become his bride.

However, the same evening when he didn’t find her home on his return, he felt that the ground under his feet was receding. The wily Lala had been on her trail for a long time. It was no secret – he said publicly that he would offer her a bungalow. Even Miran Mian, his close friend, had made an offer to Lajo on the sly.

Mirza was sitting confused when Lajo returned. She had gone to give a massage to Ramu’s grandma. That evening, Mirza decided that he would marry Lajo, and to hell with family honour.

‘Where’s the need?’ Lajo asked, puzzled.

‘Why? Want to have flings with others?’ Mirza was annoyed.

‘Shame on you! Why should I go for flings?’

‘That Raoji says he would put you up in a bungalow.’

‘I won’t spit on his bungalow. I flung my shoe at his face.’

‘Then –?’

But the need for marriage totally escaped Lajo. She would remain his forever. And, what crime had she committed that the mian felt the need to marry her? It was a matter of luck to come by such a master. He was like an angel. Lajo had suffered at the hands of many. All her masters would fall for her, and when they had had their fill, they would throw her out after a good thrashing. Mirza, on the contrary, was very tender and loving. He had bought her two new sets of clothes and gold bangles. None of her ancestors would have ever had the chance to wear gold jewellery.

When Mirza spoke with Ramu’s grandma, she, too, was surprised.

‘Mian, why do you want to put the bell around your neck? Is she throwing tantrums? Give her a good thrashing, and she’ll be all right. Why think of marriage when a shoe-beating would do?’

But Mirza was insistent – he must marry her.

‘Hey, girl, do you have any objection to his religion?’ Ramu’s grandma asked her.

‘Not at all. I’ve always looked upon him as my man.’

Lajo was gentleness personified. She would regard even a passing customer as her husband and serve him accordingly. She was never miserly with her lovers. She didn’t have wealth. But she gave herself entirely – body and soul – to her lovers. She also extracted as much. But Mirza was a class apart. She had an entirely different experience of give and take with him that sent her heart soaring. Compared with him, the others looked like pigs. She had no illusion about herself: only virgins got married, and she could not remember when she had lost her virginity. She was not fit to be anyone’s bride.

Lajo cried and pleaded, but Mirza was obsessed with the idea of marriage. So, one night, an auspicious hour was chosen after the isha prayer, and they were married. The whole mohalla was bursting with excitement. Nubile girls broke into espousal song – one group sang for the groom, the other group, for the bride.

Mirza gave his formal consent to the marriage with a smile, and Lajo, alias Kaneez Fatima, and Mirza Irfan Beg became man and wife.

Mirza put a ban on the lehnga and instructed her to wear tight-fitting churidar pyjamas. Lajo was used to open space between her legs. Two separate legs joined by a strip of cloth were truly bothersome. She kept pulling at the strip and then, at the first opportunity, took off the pyjamas and was going to slip into the lehnga when Mirza appeared on the scene. She got so nervous that she forgot to hold the lehnga around her waist and let it fall.

‘La hawla wala quwwat …’, Mirza cried out in agony, pulled up a sheet and threw it over her. Then he broke into a lengthy oration that went over her head.

What was her fault? Previously, the same act would have made Mirza swoon over her. Now he got so incensed that he picked up the lehnga and flung it into the fire.

Mirza left, muttering to himself as Lajo sat there, crestfallen. Throwing off her sheet she began to scrutinize her body. Could it be that she had contracted leprosy? She kept wiping her tears as she bathed under the tap. The mason’s son, Mithwa, on the pretext of flying kites from the roof, used to watch her stealthily as she took her bath. She was so depressed today that she neither stuck out her thumb nor threatened to hurl her shoe at him, nor went running into the house, but just wrapped the shawl around her.

With a heavy heart she got into the pyjamas, long as the devil’s intestines. To make matters worse, the drawstring slipped into the waistband. Her frantic yells for help brought Billo running over, and the string was extracted.

‘Which sadist invented this contraption? One has to tie and untie it each time one goes to the lavatory!’ Lajo gave vent to her spleen.

The string again gave the slip when Mirza returned home in the evening. She was trying desperately to hold it between her fingers. Seeing this, Mirza felt a sudden fondness for her and took her into his arms. After a long chase, the string was located, and Lajo felt somewhat reconciled to her new attire.

But there was a fresh problem. Lajo’s coquetry that had seemed enchanting before marriage now seemed objectionable in a wife. Such sluttish ways did not become decent women. She could not become Mirza’s dream bride – one whom Mirza would beg for love, one who would blush at his advances, one who would feign anger and one he would coax into submission. She was like a stone slab on the road; she could not become a flower for offering on the altar. Mirza’s constant chastisement had put restrictions on her freewheeling ways, and eventually she was tamed and reformed.

Mirza felt contented that he was able to make a decent woman of her. Now he didn’t feel any urge to get back home in a hurry. Like other husbands, he spent time with his friends so that no one could call him henpecked! A man can do anything to please his mistress, but the wife is altogether a different kettle of fish.

To make up for his absence, he suggested employing a maid. Lajo glared at him. She knew that the mian visited courtesans; all Mirza’s male neighbours did. But she could not share the house with another woman. If anyone dared to enter her kitchen or touch her sparkling vessels, she would break her legs. She could share Mirza with another woman, but as far as her home was concerned, she was the undisputed mistress.

Having installed her in the house, Mirza seemed to have forgotten about her existence. For weeks he would speak only in monosyllables. As long as she had been his mistress, everyone had had an eye for her. Now that she was married to a decent person, she became ‘mother’, ‘sister’ and ‘daughter’. No one cared to throw a glance at the jute curtain. Except Mithwa, the mason’s son. He was still loyal to her, flying kites on the roof. After Mirza left in the morning, Lajo would finish the daily chores and then go for her bath under the tap. The tap was fixed to facilitate observance of purdah, and Lajo would not even look at the terrace now.

One night Mirza stayed out, celebrating the festival of Dussehra with friends. He returned in the morning, took a quick bath and left for the shop. Lajo was left fuming. That day Lajo’s eyes went up the terrace once again. She saw that Mithwa’s eyes were piercing her wet body like spears. The lad’s kite snapped, and the broken cord brushed against Lajo’s bare back. She gasped and, either unconsciously or deliberately, ran for the house without wrapping the towel around her. It was as though a lightning flashed and thunder fell on Mirza’s house. Then she remembered that she had left the tap running and returned there hurriedly.

After that day, whenever Lajo drew aside the jute curtain and looked for someone to be sent to the halwai’s, she always found Mithwa loitering around Mirza’s house.

‘Hey, Mithwa, don’t stay put like a dunghill all day! Get me some kachauris. Ask the fellow to put enough pepper in the pickle.’

Mithwa was now more drawn towards her. If he forgot to appear on the terrace while she was taking her bath, she would rattle the bucket loud enough to wake up corpses in their graves. The love of which she had always been generous was now available to Mithwa. If Mirza skipped a meal, Lajo would not throw away the food but give it to a needy person. And who was more deserving of her generosity than Mithwa?

Having bound her in the fetters of wedlock, Mirza felt confident that he had made her a housewife. So he would not have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Seeing Mirza at such an odd hour, she could not help breaking into a smile. She could not imagine that he would be so incensed by what he saw. But Mithwa knew. Picking up his dhoti, he ran for his life and paused only after he had crossed three villages.

Mirza beat Lajo so severely that she would have died had she not been made of sterner stuff. The news spread like wildfire through the village that Mirza had caught his wife with Mithwa and that he had beaten them to death. Mirza was humiliated. His family honour had bitten the dust. People came in droves to see the fun, but they felt sorely disappointed when they found that Mithwa had bolted and Lajo was beaten up but alive. ‘She’ll live. Ramu’s grandma will bring her round,’ they said.

One would have thought that Lajo would begin to hate Mirza after such a severe beating. Far from it. Rather, it made the bond stronger. The moment she came to, she asked after Mirza. All her masters would, sooner or later, turn into her lovers. After that there was no question of wages. On top of it, they would give her a thrashing now and then. They would even lend her to their friends. Mirza had always been so gentle. He had come to regard her as his own – and asserted his right over her. For her, this was an honour. Though he didn’t make use of her anymore, she was still dear to him. Even in that condition, her heart yearned for Mirza. All advised her to run away to save her life, but she didn’t listen to them.

The least Mirza could do now to save his family honour was to kill Lajo. But Miran Mian restrained him. Lajo had survived, and he had lost face. How could he face the world now?

‘Come on, do you want to stick your head in the noose for a bastard?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Divorce the whore, and get rid of her,’ Miran Mian advised him. ‘Had she been from a decent family, it would be different.’

Mirza divorced her right there. He sent the thirty-two rupees mehr money and her other belongings over to Ramu’s grandmother’s.

Lajo heaved a sigh of relief as she heard about the divorce. It was as though a heavy load was off her shoulders. Marriage did not suit her. All this happened because of it. Good that it was over and done with.

‘I hope Mian is not angry?’ she asked Ramu’s grandma.

‘I don’t want to see your face. You’ve disgraced us; now leave this place.’

The news of Mirza’s divorce spread through the village. Immediately, Lala sent a feeler –

‘The bungalow is ready.’

‘Put up your mother there,’ Lajo sent her reply.

Out of the thirty-two rupees of mehr money, she gave ten to Ramu’s grandma for providing her food and lodging. She sold the tight-fitting pyjamas to Shakur’s mother for a small sum. In a fortnight she was on her feet again. It was as though she had been spring cleaned after the beating, which left her complexion glowing more than ever before. There was a new magic in the swing of her hips. When she made forays into the market to buy paan or kachauri, she took the whole place by storm. Mirza’s heart would ache.

One day she was quarrelling with the paan-seller over cardamom. The paan-seller was drooling. Mirza passed by quietly, trying to avoid the scene.

‘Mian, you’re crazy. Let her do what she wants. Why give a damn? You’ve divorced her. What’s she to you now?’ Miran Mian argued with him.

‘She has been my wife. How can I overlook that?’ Mirza fumed.

‘So what? She’s no longer your wife. And if you ask me, she never was your wife.’

‘How about the nikah?’

‘Absolutely impermissible.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The nikah was not valid, brother. No one knows whose illegitimate brat she was. Nikah with a bastard is haram – strictly forbidden.’ Miran Mian declared the verdict.

‘You mean, the marriage didn’t come into effect?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Later, Mullahji also confirmed that marriage with a bastard was not valid.

‘So, I haven’t lost my honour?’ Mirza smiled. A heavy load was off his head.

‘Not at all,’ Miran Mian reassured him.

‘Great! So, there was no divorce?’

‘My dear brother, there was no nikah, so there’s no question of divorce.’

‘So, my thirty-two rupees of mehr went down the drain,’ said Mirza with a note of regret.

This news also spread soon throughout the village, that Mirza’s marriage with Lajo was not valid, and there was no divorce, though Mirza had lost thirty-two rupees in the bargain.

Lajo began to dance when she came to know of it. The nikah and the divorce were nightmares that were now over. She felt greatly relieved. However, what made her the happiest was that Mirza had not lost his face after all! She would have felt very bad if he had. Being a bastard served her in good stead! God forbid, if she had been the legitimate child of her parents, she would have faced the music now!

Lajo felt suffocated at Ramu’s grandmother’s. Never before in her life had she got the opportunity to become the mistress of a household. She missed the house. Mirza would not get anyone to sweep it for fear of pilferage. The place must be in a mess.

Mirza was going to the shop. Lajo stopped him on the way.

‘Mian, shall I come along tomorrow to resume work?’ Lajo said with coquetry.

‘La hawla wala quwwat …’ Mirza lowered his head and passed her quickly taking long strides. ‘I must employ a maid. If the bitch wants to come, let her.’ So ran his thought.

Lajo didn’t wait till the next day. She ran over the roofs and jumped down into the house. She tucked up her lehnga and began to work.

When Mirza returned in the evening, he felt as though his late mother was back! The house was spic and span. The smell of incense filled the air. The water pitcher was new, and a well-scrubbed bowl had been placed over it … Mirza’s heart brimmed with emotion. He began to eat the stewed meat and the roti quietly. As usual, Lajo sat on the door sill, fanning away.

At night when she spread two curtains on the kitchen floor and lay down, Mirza once again felt severe bouts of thirst. He kept on tossing and turning on the bed as he heard Lajo’s anklets tinkling.

A nagging feeling that he did not value her worth overwhelmed him.

‘La hawla wala quwwat …’ He got up from his bed abruptly and gathered the homemaker in his arms.