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I write this story not because I want to, but because Abdul Khadar Sahib troubles me. He thinks that there is a great moral in it. The story is actually about his wife, Jamila Beebi.

Jamila Beebi is a graduate. Abdul Khadar Sahib has studied only up to the school-final class. Is it right for a “school-final man” to marry a B.A.-degree-holder, according to the prevailing tradition? But Abdul Khadar’s justification is that he served in the war. In olden days men used to steal women. They also used to take women bound at the end of a rope. There were several other ways of forcibly taking women in which men excelled. But Abdul Khadar, being a civilized man, did not do any such thing. He was a town rowdy, the secretary of the Beedi Factory Workers’ Union and a good soccer player. He says that he studied with Jamila Beebi from fourth form till the school-final class, and that even at that time he was in love with her. Jamila Beebi denies this as an utter falsehood.

Whatever that may be, Jamila passed her degree examination. By being able to have sufficient money from her father’s beedi factory, she could go about like a fashionable young lady. At that time, all the young men in the country were her admirers. Love poems and serenades were composed by some of those who had gifts for versification. All important young men in the place were standing in a queue before Jamila Beebi’s heart. Abdul Khadar Sahib was not in the queue. He did not try to compose poems or write love songs. He says he does not know such things. But Jamila says that he has composed one “love song” about her. Abdul Khadar denies it as an utter falsehood.

What Abdul Khadar really did was this: one day he stopped the girl in a lane and asked her, “Aren’t you Jamila Beebi?”

Jamila did not relish this question. Could there be any young man in the town who did not know her? As a proud lady, she replied in a serious tone, “What if I am?”

He then smiled. A very attractive smile. Jamila had seen it before. She liked it too. But could she reveal this liking? She did not like being belittled in the slightest degree. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular,” said Abdul Khadar. “Jamila Beebi’s father’s factory has l20 workers. I’m their secretary. My name is Abdul Khadar.”

“Very glad to know that; I’ve heard that you are a town rowdy.”

“Yes. The beedi workers are planning a strike. We’ll see that your factory is closed.”

Jamila asked, “Why do you tell me? Go and tell my father.”

“There is a reason why I am telling you, Jamila.”

“What is that?”

“I love Jamila Beebi!”

Jamila felt a coolness in the bottom of her heart. But she wanted to shame him a bit. She laughed, a laugh brimming with contempt. “I am glad,” she said. “Then what other news of the town?”

At this question, an ordinary young man in the queue would have turned completely pale. But Abdul Khadar said, as if in a challenge, “Jamila! if you don’t marry me–”

“If I don’t, what will you do?”

Abdul Khadar didn’t say, “I shall hang myself!” On the contrary, he said, “I will break your bones!”

Jamila didn’t say anything.

Abdul Khadar continued, “Jamila, you should not destroy my life! I love you! I love every inch of you! I love even the ground you tread!”

What further to say? Jamila Beebi liked Abdul Khadar. But was it right to show it? She said to him, “You stop every woman on the road and talk like this. Isn’t it so?”

“No, my Jamila! I have never talked to any other girl except you! Not even looked at one! I will not talk nor look at them! You are the light of my eyes!”

She asked, seriously, “What next?”

He replied, “Me for you and you for me!”

“Oh, I’m very happy!” said she and left the place.

That is how the struggle started. There was considerable objection by parents and important people in the community. There was also the strike. But, finally, Abdul Khadar married Jamila. They were happy; and then came about the episode of poovan pazham.

*  *  *  *  *

Time: Exactly half-past five.

Rainy season. There was sunlight; also rain. Both come unexpectedly in this season. The river nearby was rising in flood. Just to see that–and to have a bath–Abdul Khadar Sahib went down to the courtyard without putting on a shirt but with a towel. Jamila came near the door and called, “Hey- ”

Abdul Khadar thought, “She is going to ask me to put on a shirt.” Because, as soon as they began to live together, Jamila Beebi put out a few new ordinances: Abdul Khadar should become a gentleman. He should wear good clothes when he goes out. He must be serious in his behavior. He should not talk to his old, useless companions while on the road. Beedi workers, poets, porters, political workers, motor drivers, rickshaw pullers and such should not be treated as equals. Then, there should be a servant girl in the house. Abdul Khadar should not do any cooking; he must live in a dignified way.

In short, he should improve his manners.

The main object of a woman marrying a man is no doubt to change him. To put the male on the straight road, to infiltrate into all his spiritual and physical affairs, is the duty of a woman.

Anyhow, that is what Jamila believed. Abdul Khadar did not say anything about this female philosophy What could he say? And not many days had passed since the marriage. He just said, “Jamila, I am only going to have a bath. Should I put on a shirt even then?”

“Oh,” Jamila Beebi spoke as if her heart had been wounded. “You won’t listen to me, I know!”

“Jamila! Can you tell me once when I have not obeyed you?”

Having said this, Abdul Khadar went inside, put on a shirt and came out. But there were no buttons on the shirt.

Look at the indifference of the man! Jamila brought three buttons and put them in the holes provided. Abdul Khadar began walking. Jamila called, “Hey!

Abdul Khadar stopped and turned back. He thought, Yarabul alamin! I am sure it’s the problem of the cook. What can I do? Can’t we live without a cook? We must do our own work. Just because a girl has earned her B.A. degree, does it mean she shouldn’t cook? Even if she is an M.A. or a Ph.D., she should cook! If she doesn’t know how, Abdul Khadar will teach her! He knows how to prepare anything, from biriyani to tea.

“What, Jamila?” Abdul Khadar asked aloud, “Is it the problem of the cook?”

“No,” she replied in annoyance. “I took the B.A. degree to become a cook! Is that it?”

“My pearl!” Abdul said. “You don’t need to go into the kitchen. I’ll do everything. Is it all right?”

“Oh, enough, enough! Every day you say so.”

“For just today also, my queen, may I please go into the kitchen? From tomorrow on, this your servant–”

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

“Why did you call me now?”

He thought it might be to ask him to comb his hair and powder his face. But Jamila said with great shyness, love and a bit of embarrassment, “Poovan pazham!”

“What poovan pazham?” Women will not speak anything clearly and directly. He asked again, “What do you want?”

“Poovan pazham! Will you bring me two?”

“Well, after all, it’s only poovan pazham. She likes these bananas. Certainly I will bring some. They may be available in the shop by the riverside. Otherwise, I’ll go across by ferryboat and buy some from the market only two furlongs away.”

“I’ll bring you a whole bunch of poovan pazham!” he said aloud.

“Just two will be enough,” Jamila replied. “Don’t you wander about here and there. Come back soon. Don’t wait for the sun to set. I’ll be alone. I’m scared. Don‘t forget, please.”

“Certainly not.”

So saying, he went out. “Look at the woman! Shouldn’t wander about here and there!” Abdul Khadar laughed. Immediately he felt the pangs of love–after all, it is the first thing that Jamila has asked. If it were other women–Yarabul alamin–what difficult things they would have demanded of their husbands! Gold, silk, bangles, car, Dakota plane! There’s one type who would ask for two whiskers from a lioness who has just given birth; and, if that were not brought, then she would feel slighted. “After all, I have only asked for two hairs from the face of a lioness as quiet as a cat–well, that’s all that I could hope for.” Then she would sob and sob. What would the poor husband do? There is another type. She wants a piece of ice from the summit of Everest! If that is not given, she will say, “After all, you’re the man who didn’t give me even a small piece of ice! What is the use of my life? Why don’t you just kill me?” What will the poor husband do? Jamila did not demand any such thing; just two poovan pazham—

Abdul Khadar continued his reverie, “After bathing, I should go and buy a bunch of poovan pazham.” Thus he came to the riverside.

The river had assumed the color of a saffron robe. What a strong current! The trees on either bank which bent down were not to be seen. Oh, what a confusion of things are carried down the river! The river was frightening.

Abdul Khadar got into the river and had a bath, or rather, a dip. The water was as cold as ice. He dried himself quickly and rushed up to the shop. There were all kinds of bananas except poovan pazham. What should he do? He stepped on to the ferryboat. When the boat reached midstream, a strong breeze started to blow. Along with that, the whole world darkened. Somehow the boatman brought the ferry to the other side. Abdul Khadar got out and ran. When he reached half way, the rain also began to come down. He ran and entered one of the shops in the bazaar. It rained very heavily. Lights came up in all the shops. He waited for some time for the rain to stop. The wind was also fierce. He did not realize how time flew. He was talking to some of his old friends. When he got up it was nearly eight. Abdul got nervous. “Jamila Beebi will be frightened being alone!” He went out, enquired in various shops. But there was no poovan pazham! What could he do? He felt greatly disappointed.

Finally he purchased a dozen oranges. “Aren’t they better than poovan pazham? They are more expensive and have more vitamins!” Putting all of them in a paper bag he walked on. Rain and thick darkness! No light anywhere! Poovan pazham and rain are in a great conspiracy against him!

Abdul Khadar reached the ferry but no one was there. Peering into the darkness, he shouted for the boatman about twenty times. Who was there to hear it? It was no use; his voice cracked. Come what may, he decided to swim across. He removed his shirt. He bundled the oranges in the towel, put it on his head and tied both ends under his chin. His shirt and dhoti were tied over the orange bundle.

“What would she be doing? Look, Jamila. If I were not married, couldn’t I have gone into any house and slept there? See how the man’s freedom is gone! O Lord, Yarabuz alamin! I’m going to jump into the river and swim! Please save me!”

Thinking this Abdul Khadar walked about a furlong towards the east along the bank. The river flows from east to the west. “If I swim straight, the current will perhaps take me a furlong down.”

Abdul Khadar stepped into the river with all courage. “Supposing I drown? But it is for Jamila Beebi!”

Water came up to his waist. His legs became unsteady in the current. He started swimming. Only his head was above the water. He paddled with his arms and moved on. He did not know where he was going. It was utter darkness. He had only a vague sense of direction. When he would reach midstream and when he would reach the bank, he just did not know. His limbs became tired. But finally he got a grip on something. The current was dragging him with great strength. Still he did not relax his grip. He drank two or three mouthfuls. Abdul Khadar discovered that he was clinging to a bamboo branch. Disregarding the opposition of many thorns and branches, he reached the bank where he sat down and shivered. He remembered and shuddered. What was the use of sitting like that? He walked among the thorns and the thicket. He was stark naked. He had lost both his dhoti and his shirt. Only the towel and the oranges were safe, as they had been tied securely. He pulled a branch from a bush and stripped a few twigs from it to make a staff. Presently, in the lightning, he saw a plantation grove, also a house. This gave him his bearings. He had come down half a mile.

After passing the gate of that house, he crossed a creek, balancing on the trunk of a coconut palm and proceeded. Then a dog barked; along with it, another. Then all the dogs in the village barked. “They may be barking in the name of morals,” he thought, but what could he do? After crossing several bridges and lanes, somehow he reached his home.

“Havu! There is light there!” thought Abdul Khadar. “Darling Jamila has not gone to sleep! A wife who loves her husband!”

He did not say, “Open the door.” That could be done after using the towel to cover his nakedness. He stepped on to the verandah and looked through the window. Even though he was shivering in the cold, he could not but laugh. An interesting scene it was! A burning light was on the table. Two big plates were near it. Both were covered with two other plates. Nearby there were four or five smaller plates. Each was properly covered. These evidently contained rice and curries. The wife waiting for the husband! She had a fierce chopping knife in her hand. After having got tired sitting on the chair, Jamila was sleeping, resting her head on the table.

Not only that. There were other things worth noting. The front door had been closed and the wooden latch fastened securely. But supposing some thieves came and pushed open the door? To avoid that eventuality, a table had been dragged near the door. As if the weight of the table were not sufficient, a rock was also placed on it.

“See the intelligence of women!” Thinking so, Abdul Khadar was about to call Jamila and wake her up. Then he observed another interesting thing. Through the kitchen door, clear light shone on the courtyard! Why was that? He went there. In her excitement, Jamila had forgotten to close the kitchen door. All the thieves in the world could have entered in a procession!

Abdul Khadar got in without making any noise, closed the door and bolted it. He left the stick he had been carrying in the kitchen. He entered the dressing room. His body had cuts and bruises in many places. Blood was oozing out. “Jamila! How much blood I have shed for you! Look!” He took the fragrant powder which she usually used and applied it on his body. Next he put on some clothes, combed his hair and placed the oranges on a table in the same room. Then, when he was about to call Jamila, he remembered the duty of prayer. After completing the formality of thanking Yarabul alamin for saving his life for Jamila’s sake, he arranged the oranges on two plates and called out to Jamila. “O my queen!”

Jamila was startled at this and opened her eyes, in her hand the chopping knife.

“Don’t kill him!” said Abdul Khadar. “He is not a thief but a poor and foolish man–the real Abdul Khadar!”

“After wandering about everywhere, you’ve finally come!” Then she looked at the door and asked. “How did you get in?”

“When this boy comes, all doors automatically open–all hearts–”

“Don’t be silly! Tell me how–”

“I came through the kitchen.”

“You must have used a stick to remove the bolt, didn’t you? If some thieves have seen it, they’ll come like that too! How can I stay in this house now with peace of mind?”

“You damned fool! You didn’t close the door!”

“Oh! Please talk in a civilized manner. You mean I hadn’t closed the door?”

“Yarbul alamin!” Abdul Khadar thought. “Is it at all possible to make women agree that they have done a wrong thing?”

So he asked, “Have you finished your evening prayers?”

“Yes,” she said. And, while getting up, she saw the oranges. Her face turned red. She got angry. She wanted to say, “The stuff that you have brought–will anybody eat this?” She looked at the oranges with great contempt; she felt like throwing them into the fire. But still she didn’t say anything.

Abdul Khadar said, “Poovan pazham is not available anywhere.”

Jamila did not utter a word. What was there to say about the stuff that he has brought!

She brought water. Both washed their hands and had dinner.

“The food is good,” Abdul Khadar said. But, as a matter of fact, it was almost inedible. In some cases there was not enough of salt; in others it was too hot. “But is it good to blame the spouse?”

Jamila announced, “I am going to bed!”

“You may go to sleep after eating the oranges. Poovan pazham is not available everywhere! I had to swim across the river to bring you these!”

She said, “Don’t tell me such stories! I don’t like oranges! Those who brought them may eat them!”

And, turning up her nose, she got up and walked towards her bed in an upright manner and flung herself upon it.

Abdul Khadar peeled the oranges and filled a plate. Then he called, “Jamila!”

“I don’t want any!”

“You don’t?” Abdul Khadar thought, “Soon after the marriage, I should have given her half a dozen spankings!” But aloud he said, “Jamila! Get up quickly and come here!”

“I feel sleepy.”

“Is that so?” He approached her calmly and said, “Jamila, I’ve brought these after going through great difficulties. Look! Supposing I had been drowned while swimming across?”

But Jamila Beebi only pressed her face against the pillow.

“Jamila!”

Jamila turned her face slightly. “What I wanted was poovan pazham!” she replied.

“In the whole place there is no poovan pazham! Tomorrow I’ll bring some young poovan plantain trees from somewhere.”

“Oh! When those bear fruit and ripen, then I shall eat!”

“All right. But eat the oranges now. They have a lot of vitamins.”

She asked haughtily, “If I don’t eat, will you make me?”

She got up and sat on the bed.

“Right!” Abdul Khadar thought, “That is a good idea.” He quickly
went into the kitchen and broke off two twigs from a stick. Jamila saw the twigs. She sat doubled over.

He said, “Get up!”

“I won’t!”

“You won’t, eh?” He picked up the chopping knife.

Jamila Beebi straightened herself with a jerk.

“Come!” he commanded.

“I won’t!” she said.

“Is that so?” He administered two strokes with the twigs on her thighs. Then he brandished the knife and said, “Next it will be a chop!”

With eyes full of tears, she got up.

Those tears–what to say? Abdul Khadar’s heart broke when he saw them. After all, is he not a man? When he sees the tears of a woman he must feel pity. But still for some time he converted his heart into a piece of stone.

“Jamila, don’t waste your tears! If necessary, you may collect them in a jar. I’ll then bathe in them! Do you hear?”

Jamila Beebi asked, in a broken voice, “Are you–are you going to kill me?”

“Yes!” he said. “I’ll cut you into pieces and cook a biriyani out of the flesh!”

He proceeded to lead her into the room before the plate of oranges.

“Take and eat!” Abdul Khadar ordered.

Jamila remained there, like a statue.

“So you won’t obey your husband?” He gave her six good whacks.

She took a segment of orange.

“Not enough! Take again!” he shouted, brandishing the knife once more. “See this! I will finish you! Come on–eat!”

She ate one segment after another, quickly.

He said, “There is no hurry. Don’t swallow the seeds.”

Thus Jamila Beebi, shedding tears, continued eating the orange after separating the seeds.

Abdul Khadar Sahib asked some questions, as if to settle certain pending matters, “How am I related to you?”

“I don’t know!”

“See this knife! Who am I?”

“My husband!”

“Do you see this knife? Will you try again to change me? Say ‘No’ quickly! See this knife!”

“No!”

“What are you eating?”

“Oranges!”

“See this knife! Say it is poovan pazham!”

“Poovan pazham!” she repeated.

“Do you want a cook? Say you don’t! Do you see this knife?”

“I don’t want one!”

“Are you a lady? Say this–you are just my wife. Isn’t it so?”

“Yes!”

“Can I treat on equal terms motor drivers, rickshaw pullers, poets, porters, politicians and beedi workers? Say I can! See this knife!”

“You can! You can!”

“What are you eating?”

“Poovan pazham!”

After dropping the knife and the sticks, Abdul Khadar held Jamila in tight embrace. “My sweet!” He kissed her many times. When he felt the welts on her thighs and buttocks, Abdul Khadar’s heart melted completely.

“My darling, did it hurt you much?”

“No,” she said heaving a long sigh.

But still he felt very, very sorry. After all, was he not a man?

*  *  *  *  *

Thus that night passed. The day dawned. Days became years. The river flooded several times. Jamila Beebi gave birth nine times. Many changes came about in the world. Empires crumbled. Two world wars were over. New ideas gained acceptance. Humanity progressed considerably. Abdul Khadar Sahib and Jamila Beebi became very old. All their teeth bade goodbye and they became grey and bent. An old man and an old woman, grandfather and grandmother! But still they remembered some of the old things. Abdul Khadar would smile and ask Jamila Beebi, “O queen! Years ago, when you wanted poovan pazham, what did I bring at night, swimming across the river?”

She would reply smiling, “Poovan pazham!”

“How was that?” he would ask.

“Round like an orange!” She would reply.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Laughing, he would again ask, “What did I bring?”

And she would reply, “Poovan pazham!”