Three days later the rains still had not relented, and the streets were like rivers. The wheels of the horse carriages turned in the water slowly, scooping up water on their wooden spokes and pouring it back on the street; occasionally the wind blew, angling the rain this way or that way, at times rocking the windows and doors fitfully.
Here and there a wall collapsed or a roof caved in. Masud remained inside his room, going out only to buy milk for tea or chappatis at the tandoor. He tried not to think too much of Nasima, of her not being here with him, or her husband. Or his voice. But once in a while the old man’s ghost appeared before him, mocking slyly, "So, sahib ji, am I going to die soon? Am I? As you put it to my wife, a guest of how many days? So soon?" He tried to dismiss the ghost as fast as possible, but sometimes it returned. "Ha ha ha! Well, if you say so...I am going to die, and you can have Nasima all to yourself. But do not forget my children, Masud saheb! Hee hee hee!"
One day as he sat in his chair, smoking a cigarette and reading the Akhbar e Jahan weekly, a sudden knock at the door jolted him. He felt a tinge of uncertainty and, nervously, stood up and opened the door, imagining it to be Nasima. With that conjecture, his longing for her exploded. But, to his surprise, a young woman of no more than eighteen, with big impatient eyes, stood at the door, and then as he lowered his eyes fleetingly he noticed her firm and inviting breasts.
"Yes? Bolo!" he asked.
"Salaam, babu ji," the girl’s voice trembled, as she tried to smile.
"Wa-alyekum...," he nodded.
"Ji, Nasima will not be able to come for a few days," her voice was beginning to gather strength, "I thought you might need... a sweeper."
He immediately wanted to tell her to go away, but ended up saying, "Huh...Oh! Yes, come in, yes. I..."
Perhaps he felt a wave of pity rising inside him. A young beautiful Christian woman fresh as a flower. Poverty and the need to prostitute her body, he thought, would turn her into a skeleton of tired bones in less than ten years. He noticed the broom in her hand. She walked in after him and placed it against the wall, closing the door behind her.
He discreetly observed her small but firm breasts. Then, he sat down and lit another cigarette. Putting out the match, he inhaled the smoke and, as he shook the match-stick, breathed out a huge silvery cloud. His eyes fell, through the obscurity of the smoke, on her feet, and the sight perplexed him. Her shalwar had slipped from her waist to the ground, covering her feet. He lifted his head, registering her naked legs, and found her absorbed in unbuttoning her shirt. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, the smoke distorting his vision, his sense of reality, but then a sudden rage overpowered his calm.
"What do you think you are doing?"
"Sahib ji," she shuddered, like a scared child.
"Yes, I asked you what you are doing!"
"She spoke reluctantly: "Sahib ji, that Jumma Khan has sent me here, he said..." They looked at each other, speechless, as if two statues placed behind glass in a museum.
Masud saw her naked legs, smooth and innocent, like running water―then her half-revealed breasts, offering solace; then dark eyes. Masud felt his anger being subdued by a familiar sense of weakness. Desire began to burn inside his veins, his limbs trembled and ached.
The woman was nervous at first, but she regained her composure. "The other sahib," she spoke with a soft voice, "who lived at the end of the hall paid me five rupees...every time I came to clean."
The smoke clouds had dissolved into the air. Freeing her legs from her shalwar, holding the open collar of kurta, she took a step closer.
He lay on his takht, next to her. Looking at her, he tried to catch the disappearing warmth of her young breath. His thoughts flashed to Nasima and back, and he realized, without much sadness, that anyone could replace the sense of comfort Nasima brought. He felt happy and light. And yet sad. Somewhere down on the street a radio played a ghazal, the sound of Farida Khanum’s voice, rising to his balcony like smoke.
He stood in the balcony door, and she, now sitting up on the takht, hooked up her brassiere, bringing her hands behind her back. He looked at her back, shiny and smooth like a bathed neem leaf, stretching and contracting, the bones of her young spine stacked neatly on top of each other. On her waist he looked for his finger prints.
She got up and put on her shalwar and shirt, rolling her shoulders and adjusting the cups of her brassiere. She caught him looking, and smiled at him.
"You have a sick husband?".
She stopped smiling, unsure of his words, "Naa, sahib ji, I am not married," she answered with a short giggle.
"A sick brother?"
"Naa, sahib ji, but I have an sick father with T.B. and my mother lost her legs years ago," she said quickly, without emotion.
He took two ten rupee bills out. Giving them to her, he said, "Come back tomorrow, if you can." She took the bills and carefully tucked them inside the elastic of her bra. But as she put the money away, she stopped, remembering.
"Oh, my God! I almost forgot to tell you, my bad memory..." she said, putting the top of her finger to her lips.
He stared at her, at her girl-like innocence.
"I forgot to tell you that Nasima’s husband, Chacha John, died last night...too much cough and fever."
Masud knitted his brows, relaxed them. It became difficult for him to breathe. He felt dizzy and held on to the back of the chair. The old man’s face appeared and disappeared from his sight.
She grabbed her broom and said, smiling, "Shukria, sahib ji, I will see you tomorrow," and left the room.
The cigarette in Masud’s hand was shaking. He walked to the balcony, and looked at Nasima’s home. He slammed the door shut and chained it. But the dark clouds hung on the outskirts, threatening to come back and drown the city with their rage.