Out of obligation, Bechu said, ‘Munshiji, how can I ever refuse you? But the thing is that there are so many weddings these days that customers are also getting impatient for their clothes and sending for them two or three times a day. It shouldn’t happen that while I give you the clothes here, the owner shows up at the door asking for them.’
Munshiji answered, ‘What’s the big deal in delaying delivery for two or three days? You could easily delay them for weeks if you wished—not put them through the furnace yet, not ironed them yet, the washing ghats are shut—you don’t have any dearth of excuses. Won’t you even do this much for your neighbour?’
‘No, Munshiji, I would give my life for you. Come and choose your clothes so I can run the iron over them once more and make them fresh. At worst, I’ll have to hear the abuses of my customers. So even if I do lose a couple, that’s nothing to mope about.’4
Munshiji reached the wedding in style. His Benarasi turban, silk achkan, long coat and shawl created such an impression that people thought he was some wealthy nobleman. Munshiji took Bechu along with him, and made sure he was taken care of. He got him a bottle of liquor and a plate of food when he went in to eat. He would keep calling him Choudhury instead of Bechu. After all, this pomp and show was all thanks to him.
It was past midnight. The revelry and celebrations were over, and people were preparing to retire for the night. Bechu was lying next to Munshiji’s cot under a sheet. Munshiji took off his clothes and carefully hung them on a line. The hookah was ready. As he lay down and began to smoke, an atai from the troupe of musicians accompanying the wedding party suddenly came and stood before him, and asked, ‘May I ask you where you got this achkan and turban from, sir?’
Munshiji looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that both of these belong to me.’
Munshiji then somewhat recklessly ventured to say, ‘So in your opinion, no one can possess a silk coat and turban other than you?’
‘Why not? He whom Allah gives to wears it. There are so many of them here, each greater than the last. I hardly come in that reckoning. But both these things are mine. If you can find another man in this city who possesses the same achkan, I’ll pay you whatever you ask. There’s no other craftsman in the whole city like him. He cuts clothes with such finesse that one could kiss his hands. My insignia is on the turban—I can show you if you bring it here. All I want to ask is where did you procure these garments from.’
Munshiji realized that this was not the place to argue. If things got out of hand, it could be humiliating. Diplomacy wouldn’t work here. So he said humbly, ‘Bhai, do not ask me that; this is not the time or place to tell you these things. Your honour and mine are one and the same. Just think that this is the way the world goes around. If I had to get such clothes made, I would have spent thousands right now. I just had to attend the wedding somehow, that is all. Your clothes will not get spoiled, I take full responsibility. I’ll take better care of them than if they were mine.’
‘I’m not concerned about the clothes. By your grace, Allah has given me plenty. May He protect the rich; thanks be to Him, all five fingers are immersed in ghee. And neither do I wish to malign your good name. I am a slave at your feet. All I want to know is who gave you these clothes. I had given them to Bechu Dhobi to wash. So is it that some thief whisked them away from Bechu’s house, or did some other dhobi steal them from him and give them to you? Because Bechu certainly would not have given these clothes to you with his own hands. He does not do such things. In fact, I too had wanted to make such an arrangement with him once. I even put money into his hands. But, sahib, he picked up the money and threw it away, and he gave me such a talking-to that I was stunned out of my wits. I don’t know what the understanding is here, because thereafter I’ve never even mentioned something like that to him. But I find it hard to believe he has stooped so low. That is why I ask you again and again, from where did you get these clothes?’
‘Your surmise about Bechu is absolutely right. He is indeed a selfless man. But neighbours also have some rights. He lives in my neighbourhood, we are part of each other’s lives. He saw my need, and gave in. Bas. That is all. And I would do the same for him.’
The atai had neither put money into Bechu’s hands, nor had Bechu given him a talking-to. The atai had exaggerated Bechu’s selflessness. But this little exaggeration had a far greater impact on Bechu than if he had merely spoken the truth. Bechu was not asleep. He had heard every word the atai had spoken. He felt as if his soul had just awoken from a deep sleep. The world sees me as such an honest, true and deceitless man. And I . . . I am such a fraud and a cheat.
