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Authors: Meira Chand
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the room.
*
Mr Watumal scratched his chest and stretched upon the sofa. A smell of frying came from the kitchen.Through the open door he watched Lata turn potato patties in a pan. She wore a faded flowered kurta and loose, matching trousers. The angle of the light made her double chin even more pronounced than usual. She was twenty-nine and looked middle-aged; she was the younger of his daughters.
Sunita lay on the floor at his feet, absorbed in a magazine; next week she would be thirty-one. A sudden panic filled him, as it did often nowadays when he thought of his daughters. Soon both girls would have no choice but to marry widowers, or divorcees. Mr Watumal passed a hand over his brow in distress. If there had been money for plentiful dowries, both girls would have been married already. They were good natured; they knew how to cook and sew. They should be thickening with children and contentment, instead they swelled with frustration. They tended to fussiness in the selection of husbands, and fussiness was not possible for plain girls without substantial dowries. Mr Watumal sighed, his heart bled when he looked at them both.
Things had been good in the beginning; Mr Watumal had done well at first in Bombay. His wife had dreamed of dowries then, and diamonds and opulent interiors, and indulged herself as she could. In Sukkur Mr Watumal had been an importer of glass and chinaware , sold from a small shop above which he lived with his family. When business was slow he left the shop to his brother, loaded a cart with boxes behind a horse, and travelled the area about Rohri and Sukkur, selling from door to door. In his younger days he was a tall, fleshily handsome man, who joked familiarly with the women before whom he spread his wares; bone china from England, Irish crystal, painted glass from Italy and France.
Warehouses of fine goods all over Sind were left to looters at the time of Partition, but Mr Watumal hadbeen lucky. As a travelling salesman he had an ear to the ground, and profitable entry into both Hindu and Muslim homes. He became aware early on of the approaching cataclysm, sold out to a Muslim colleague, and was one of the first to leave Sukkur. He had always wanted to go to Bombay. Many laughed in his face. Lokumal Devnani refused to believe Mr Watumal’s warnings, and even bought a smallholding of land from him, certain Partition would never come. Mr Watumal had time to wire his money to Bombay, and follow it there with his family. He suffered none of the distress that accompanied other departures.
In Bombay, Mr Watumal decided to enter industry. The title Industrialist had a ring to it that the common term Trader could not match. He invested his money in a pen nib factory, and prospered quickly from the start. Hoardings for his pen nibs appeared on bus shelters and bridges in Bombay. He also invested in a home in Sadhbela, happy to settle amongst his old acquaintances. His only disappointment was to discover that the people before whom he had once spread his chinaware still thought of him as a trader. They refused to show the appropriate respect, and this cut Mrs Watumal deeply.
It was difficult to say when or why things deteriorated . As blight hits a fine crop, it hit Mr Watumal’s factory. No doctoring or blood-letting could slow its decline. On the sofa, waiting now for his lunch, Mr Watumal sighed and scratched his chest. He watched Lata dish out some rice in the kitchen; the potato cakes were piled on a plate. To lose a fortune to the ravages of war seemed a more bearable destiny to Mr Watumal than shameful obliteration by bad luck. He sighed again and turned his head to observe his son Mohan, crouching beneath the glass-topped table, immersed in a work of repair. He blamed himself sometimes for his son’s lethargy; the boy might feel stimulated if businesswas thriving. Instead, it was difficult to coax him to the factory. A deep shame overwhelmed Mr Watumal. His own bad luck had erased bright
*
Mr Watumal scratched his chest and stretched upon the sofa. A smell of frying came from the kitchen.Through the open door he watched Lata turn potato patties in a pan. She wore a faded flowered kurta and loose, matching trousers. The angle of the light made her double chin even more pronounced than usual. She was twenty-nine and looked middle-aged; she was the younger of his daughters.
Sunita lay on the floor at his feet, absorbed in a magazine; next week she would be thirty-one. A sudden panic filled him, as it did often nowadays when he thought of his daughters. Soon both girls would have no choice but to marry widowers, or divorcees. Mr Watumal passed a hand over his brow in distress. If there had been money for plentiful dowries, both girls would have been married already. They were good natured; they knew how to cook and sew. They should be thickening with children and contentment, instead they swelled with frustration. They tended to fussiness in the selection of husbands, and fussiness was not possible for plain girls without substantial dowries. Mr Watumal sighed, his heart bled when he looked at them both.
Things had been good in the beginning; Mr Watumal had done well at first in Bombay. His wife had dreamed of dowries then, and diamonds and opulent interiors, and indulged herself as she could. In Sukkur Mr Watumal had been an importer of glass and chinaware , sold from a small shop above which he lived with his family. When business was slow he left the shop to his brother, loaded a cart with boxes behind a horse, and travelled the area about Rohri and Sukkur, selling from door to door. In his younger days he was a tall, fleshily handsome man, who joked familiarly with the women before whom he spread his wares; bone china from England, Irish crystal, painted glass from Italy and France.
Warehouses of fine goods all over Sind were left to looters at the time of Partition, but Mr Watumal hadbeen lucky. As a travelling salesman he had an ear to the ground, and profitable entry into both Hindu and Muslim homes. He became aware early on of the approaching cataclysm, sold out to a Muslim colleague, and was one of the first to leave Sukkur. He had always wanted to go to Bombay. Many laughed in his face. Lokumal Devnani refused to believe Mr Watumal’s warnings, and even bought a smallholding of land from him, certain Partition would never come. Mr Watumal had time to wire his money to Bombay, and follow it there with his family. He suffered none of the distress that accompanied other departures.
In Bombay, Mr Watumal decided to enter industry. The title Industrialist had a ring to it that the common term Trader could not match. He invested his money in a pen nib factory, and prospered quickly from the start. Hoardings for his pen nibs appeared on bus shelters and bridges in Bombay. He also invested in a home in Sadhbela, happy to settle amongst his old acquaintances. His only disappointment was to discover that the people before whom he had once spread his chinaware still thought of him as a trader. They refused to show the appropriate respect, and this cut Mrs Watumal deeply.
It was difficult to say when or why things deteriorated . As blight hits a fine crop, it hit Mr Watumal’s factory. No doctoring or blood-letting could slow its decline. On the sofa, waiting now for his lunch, Mr Watumal sighed and scratched his chest. He watched Lata dish out some rice in the kitchen; the potato cakes were piled on a plate. To lose a fortune to the ravages of war seemed a more bearable destiny to Mr Watumal than shameful obliteration by bad luck. He sighed again and turned his head to observe his son Mohan, crouching beneath the glass-topped table, immersed in a work of repair. He blamed himself sometimes for his son’s lethargy; the boy might feel stimulated if businesswas thriving. Instead, it was difficult to coax him to the factory. A deep shame overwhelmed Mr Watumal. His own bad luck had erased bright
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