A Few Oranges

A FEW ORANGES
(A Story)

BY ALAUDDIN AL AZAD

(Translated from the original Bengali by BASUDHA CHAKRAVARTY)

[This story from Eastern Pakistan indicates certain trends of feeling and movement in that region which are shown here as veering round Shrimati Ila Mitra, who is a real political personality.]

Murtaza came out of Khan Sahib’s Lane, and passing close by the walls of the Central jail reached the road leading to Ramna. He saw by the wall clock at a homeopathic dispensary that it was almost four. He walked swiftly. The gates of the hospital were opened at half past four for visitors. One who went a little ahead of time got an opportunity to have a talk for a while with the patient one called on. The tape on the big finger in his sandal on the right foot had got torn; that caused him difficulty in walking, but he did not allow his pace to slow down. He had kept awake on the previous night till 3 a. m. So his eyes looked red behind his spectacles, his hair was unkempt, he had not had any opportunity for bath since yesterday. His clothes and his entire appearance were dirty. Yet his sweated face evinced sweet calm. For he had succeeded in keeping his word. He had now in his right hand some oranges tied up in a handkerchief.

He had had to take much trouble to procure the few oranges. But he had forgotten his pains. He was inwardly smiling with satisfaction.

While working at the Life class at the Art School day before yesterday, he had heard a particular name uttered by a friend close by, and asked, “Is that so? Has she been released? Of whom did you come to know of it?”

“No, not released. She has only been granted the right to stay in hospital for treatment. And that for six months.”

“Is her illness serious?”

“According to doctors it is doubtful if she will live? She has got peptic ulcer. There’s a wound in her stomach. The only remedy is an operation. But she has got little blood in her body. How could she stand an operation?”

Murtaza got paint in his brush and said eagerly, “Tomorrow I must go to see her.”

At 9 a. m. next day he proceeded towards the Medical College, Hospital. He had long heard of her. He had been amazed to think of her courage. He could not now afford to miss that opportunity of seeing her.

He found a crowd near her bed. Four or five people were standing there, and another man was slightly leaning over her and talking about something. Murtaza looked through the gap between two of them and saw that her face was terribly pale. It was practically devoid of blood. The few bones were all that were left in the body. She was talking in a low voice with her big sunken eyes wide open.

Murtaza went near the railing at the rear verandah and stood silent. After all the visitors were one by one gone, he approached the bed. He found nothing to say. But there could be no meaning in his remaining standing like that. As he had come to see her, he would himself feel odd if he went away without having a word or two with her. He managed to get over his hesitation and then asked,

“How is your health now?”

“Not well. From time to time I faint.”

“What sort of care are the doctors taking?”

“On the whole, fair. But my body is very weak. I cannot stand an operation.”

“What’s your diet?” Murtaza enquired.

“My stomach can stand nothing. I have to vomit everything immediately I eat.”

“Can’t you take anything at all?”

“I can take only a little orange juice.”

“Well then, I shall bring oranges tomorrow.”

As Murtaza was coming away after saying this, he saw a sad, weary smile in her pale face.

On his way home he pondered on how to obtain money. He could not take to her less than four pairs of oranges. The present market price for that was at least a rupee and a half. He had had yesterday ten rupees from his home for paint and brush. He could not ask papa or mamma for money again on any pretext whatsoever. To ask would anger them. They would scold him for lack of consideration as to how the family were getting on. He could of course have saved something from the money for paint and brush, had he known of his present necessity earlier. It would have done to postpone purchase of one or two varieties of paint.

Murtaza returned home and to his own room. He did not remember to have kept money anywhere in the room at any time. Yet he would make a search; he might have by mistake left something somewhere.

First of all he searched the pockets of his shirts one by one. His heart leapt up in hope; he might after all get something. But up to the last he found only three one-pice pieces. He flung the shirts on the bed, drew out the drawer in his table and ransacked it impatiently. There were in it a used pencil, rubber, pastel, torn paper and such other things but not even one pice hidden anywhere. Where else would he look? Ah! There was the bed. It was his habit, if he could save anything from his monthly allowance, to turn the bed and keep it down there. There were periods of long duration when the money wholly escaped his attention. Then suddenly some day he came by it. He chanced to get it at a time when one rupee seemed equal in value a lakh. At such times he was pleased with himself for his own carelessness regarding money. But what was the matter today? It was wholly empty under the bed. It seemed his need of money had become known and that commodity had made itself deliberately scarce.

Murtaza’s face grew sour out of disgust. He reclined in a chair and tried to think out some new means of getting money. It would not do for him to give up in despair.

After sometime he sat up in his chair. He had a nice brain-wave. If he could somehow get his mother’s permission to do the day’s marketing, he could solve the problem very easily. Only he must not allow anybody to accompany him.

Murtaza sat down in the kitchen and said: “Mamma, I shall do the marketing today.”

`           “What marketing do you mean?” his mother asked.

“I mean marketing for our household. What else can I mean?”

“Do you mean marketing for the night meal?”

“Why for the night meal? Has marketing for the noon meal been done?” Murtaza asked

“What nonsense are you talking?” his mother said. “You are now going to sit down to your meal and you ask if marketing has been done?”

“That’s it,” thought Murtaza. It had been half past ten when he came from hospital. Now it could not be less than twelve. The day was Friday, the weekly holiday at the Art School. That’s why he had failed to keep track of the time.

How about asking Farida about it? As soon as the idea struck him on his way from speaking to his mother, he made for the middle room. Farida was just younger than he. Probably that was why they fell out with each other over insignificant causes. By now Farida had grown up somewhat and become very serious. Yet it was often impossible to keep out misunderstandings. It so happened as a result that they did not speak with each other for four or five days together. It did not help that Murtaza was in the final year of his school; he still remained a child. Particularly so to his younger brothers and sisters. They gave him no quarter on account of his age. Last year in the exhibition he had been awarded the Government prize for Oil Painting; his name had been printed in all the papers; but Farida had given him no importance at all.

Murtaza hesitated to approach her. Just as he had a fascination for painting since his very childhood, Farida’s hobby was music. A tutor had been appointed for her. By now she had got fair grasp of the art. Murtaza thought her to be no bad singer. She had sung at various functions and earned a name for herself in the town. But she by no means deserved all the praise that was showered on her. That morning she had been rehearsing a song on the harmonium. She would have to sing it on New Year’s Day at the Prantik Parishad. Murtaza had begun a composition; after he had begun work on it new ideas had been coming to him so that he was now in a craze over it. But there was the harmonium bleating forth in the neighbouring room. He had walked up to the room and said at the pitch of his voice: “Shut up. Shut up your cries. A fine voice that–I mean, yours and fine of you to pretend to learn music!”

Farida’s eyes were about to burst out in tears for rage. But why should she silently bear that insult? She shook her head and said, “I won’t shut up. I do whatever I like–what’s that to you?”

“Do you ask what’s that to me? Well, I shall throwaway your harmonium.”

“Dare you that? Well, just do throw it, and show your guts!”

Murtaza frowned and said, as he was going to his room, “I could have thrown it away but I won’t do that now. I am engaged on a painting.”

“I can do paintings like that with my left hand.” Farida was not the girl to be browbeaten.

They had ceased speaking to each other that day and there had been no rapprochement since. Murtaza stood hesitating near Farida’s door. There was much chance of her having some money. For, after all she was a girl and could manage such things. Her school fees and bus fare were paid personally by father, so she could not manage anything out of that money. But what about tiffin allowance? It did not of course exceed five to six annas a day, but it was certainly Farida’s own. Murtaza supposed that Farida did not spend even a single pice for tiffin; she could get along with a hungry stomach. Indeed that was how she had managed to purchase a sewing casket.

Murtaza entered the room and stood near the small table. He had put on a smiling appearance. It seemed to be an admission that he had so long wronged her without cause. Farida, her face lowered,was working on an algebraic solution in a rough exercise-book. She knew who had come into the room but did not feel called upon to turn her eyes to him. Murtaza was concerned to please her; he said, “There’s good news, Farida.”

She made no reply but went on writing with her pencil, with her face lowered.

Murtaza added: “I heard somebody praise your singing. He is a great connoisseur. He does not praise anybody if he can help doing so. But he called me to say that your voice work is excellent.”

“What’s that to you?” was Farida’s angry outburst.

“You are still angry with me, I see.”

“Why should I not be angry?”

Murtaza sought excuses. “Well, let me admit I have made a mistake. Is that any reason for us to carry on like we have been doing? Can’t you pardon an elder brother’s immaterial remark?”

“Better stop at that. It won’t do for you now to play the elder brother.”

“Please pardon me. Well, listen, I have something urgent to tell you.” Murtaza placed one ofhis hands on his sister’s rough book and said, “Can you get me about a rupee and a half?”

Farida now understood why he had been trying so long to please her. She said, “No!”

“But it is not for myself I want the money. You can’t realize how much I need it.”

Murtaza explained in detail why he wanted the money. He spoke the truth to his sister but rarely, but spoke not in slightest exaggeration that day. After she heard all that, Farida forgot all her anger and her face showed seriousness. She said with concern, “But I have already spent out today what money I had, on wool.”

“Haven’t you got even a rupee?”

“No”

Murtaza’s appearance grew pale out ofdismay. He said: “What’s then tobe done? Do you think youcan get something from mother?”

“How can I? I shall only be rebuked if I ask her formoney and so I can’t do that.” Farida was silent for a while and then felt encouraged to say, “We can do one thing. If we could sell the fan I have made ofthread…”

Murtaza took his glasses off and wiped them with the end ofhis shirt while he thought over the proposal.

Farida asked: “Can you sell it?”

“Well, I think that can be tried.”

Though he said so, he felt no support for his statement from his mind. The design looked well and it would probably not take long to sell the fan if he took it to Sadar Ghat. But how was it possible? If he met there anybody known to him, he would die for shame. To sell something on the open road was a humiliating thing to do. People would know from his very appearance that he was not a real hawker, but would not know the real reason for his going there to try to sell a fan made ofthread. They would surmise that he was trying to sell a household article because he was in want.

Farida had immediately hurried to the bedroom. Without her mother’s knowledge she got the fan from the cane-made basket and packed it up in a newspaper. She handed it over to Murtaza and said, “Now go out warily.”

Murtaza’s doubts and hesitations made his face look small. He now felt that he could not do it even at the stake of his life. But he could not make any objection when Farida brought the fan and handed it over to him. He came out on the street cautiously so that no one else at his home should know.

Farida had put in many days’ labour to make the fan for her father. He was a self-forgetful man who took no care at all for his own comfort and convenience. He was so oblivious of himself that when he was ill, he had to be reminded that he was ill. He was occupied day and night with studies. He said that it was no child’s play to teach the boys and girls who constituted the future of the country. The seeds of real manhood had to be injected into them and therefore a professor must have to be a real worker. The gardener who wanted to grow a plant into a mighty tree could not afford to be a sluggard. True, the professor’s job fetched him only a few hundred rupees. It was difficult to manage with that sum the household of a family of six to seven people. Yet money was not the last thing in the world. Were it that, the world would be a place only for dogs and jackals to live in. Farida liked her father particularly because he held such views on life. Her mother could not always attend to his needs because she was otherwise busy. That was why so long as he was at home, Farida kept as far as possible close to him. She rushed to him as soon as she heard him call her. Sometimes he got very much into a temper, but that was wholly superficial.

She had completed two days ago work on the fan. It was Farida’s contemplation that she would present it to him during a period of rest so that it would be to him a surprise. But now that was not to be.

Still there was no reason forregret. She would soon make a new fan.

Farida was getting ready to go for bath with her younger brothers and sisters when Murtaza entered the room. She asked straightaway, “Could you sell it so soon? How much have you got for it?”

Murtaza looked sad. He raised his hand which held the fan and said, “I could not sell it. Here it is.”

“Why? Is it that nobody wanted to buy it?”

“I did not try to sell,” Murtaza explained. “After I went out I thought there was a friend of whom I could get money. So, there was no need to sell a thing which you had taken so much trouble to make.”

Farida understood that it was only a lame excuse. For she had on finger-tips all the details of her dear brother’s nature. He had felt ashamed to sell the thing in full view of so many people. There could be no other reason for his coming .

Farida took the fan into her hands and said, “If you get money that way, so much the better. Are you then going to your friend?”

“Yes, I am going there right now”

He felt uneasy to think that his younger sister had understood the bent of his mind. He had had an idea that he would have his bath and meal, and then go out again. But now that could not be done. He drank a glass of water and went out.

He had any number of friends. He would look up every one of them if possible. The first man he remembered was Akhtar. Akhtar was a frank chap of nice temper. If he had any money, he was sure to lend Murtaza a rupee and a half for a few days. But in view of the rate at which he smoked cigarettes, it would be a wonder if he had any spare money. Some of his well-wishing friends rebuked him for having such reckless habits though he was otherwise quite considerate; and that made him burst into laughter. He used to say that even Emperor Akbar had had to depart from this world, and wisdom lay in blowing off this life in cigarette smoke. But, he added, one must not on that account neglect one’s duty; for there was joy in doing work after one’s own heart and joy was life. His mother was at their country house, his younger brother was studying Economics with Honours at the University and he had, without thinking of himself, taken admission into the Art School in order to qualify himself enough to look after them. For he had a deft hand in landscape painting and pottery.

Akhtar’s den was very far. It was on the road that led close by the market at Santinagar to Bailey Road. Due to the bursting of a tyre Murtaza’s cycle was not usable; he would have to cover the whole distance on foot.

When after a walk with the strong midday sun over his head, he reached the verandah of ‘Varsity Students’ Lodge, sweat was pouring all over his body. It was a four-shedded room of corrugated iron with walls of wood. So the name was relatively very pretentious. The notable fact about the place was that no university student lived there. A few clerks and Akhtar were all the inmates of the room. A servant had been engaged for cooking their meals.

Murtaza heard Akhtar’s voice near the southern door of the room even before he entered: “Where is my meal?”

“No allotment of rice was made for you today.”

“What does that mean? Am I to starve?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the servant said, “please speak about it to the Manager.”

When asked about it, the Manager said, “Please tell me how long I could manage like that. You were to make your payment a week ago.”

“Do you think I could run away without paying?”

“No, you won’t do that. But there’s a limit to our ability to manage. We all get limited amounts as salaries.”

Murtaza entered the room and fell flat on Akhtar’s bed. When the latter returned and saw Murtaza, he forgot everything else. He became effusive in a moment.

He had often asked his friends to visit his lodge, but till then, nobody had come. It was also Murtaza’s first visit. Akhtar opened out for him a packet of cigarettes from which to pick.”

“Well, how did you make up your mind to come here?”

“Nothing particular. Today is a holiday, you know.”

“Oh!” Akhtar lit a cigarette and said,

“I have made some new clay models. Would you like to see them.”

“Let me first take a little rest.”
Murtaza had become dismayed at the conversation he had overheard. It made him feel there was no chance of his getting anything there either. He took off his spectacles, lit a cigarette, and began to draw rings of smoke over his face.

But what could be done next? He remembered his friends by their names, and thought about possibilities of getting money out of them. But it did not seem anyone among them could give anything. Then what could next be done? He had bragged to his sister about help from some friend. A way must now be found.

“I have seen some nice spots near about Shahjahanpur. Would you like to go that side in the afternoon to do some sketches?” he was asked by Akhtar who was looking at him.

“Off with your sketching!” Murtaza let go a puff of smoke, and said in a lifeless voice, “Life is more valuable than painting.”

“But what is the occasion for making that remark suddenly now?”

“I made that remark for its own sake. If we must paint, we must paint man. Not nature. We must express in line and colour how man lives from day to day, how he just manages to live. Nature has her place in such expression, but not as the chief motif.” He added, as he rose from the bed, “However, I am now off.”

“Off? What do you mean?” Akhtar was surprised. They were used to spending hours together when they met; he found no reason why Murtaza should be leaving so soon.

“I have something urgent to do,” Murtaza explained.

“What’s it?”

“It won’t yield much fruit if I inform you of it.”

“How do you know that?” Akhtar asked in an aggrieved tone.

“Simply by surmise,” Murtaza said. “Anyhow, as you insist on knowing, I shall tell you. Can you lend me about two rupees? The money is very urgently needed.”

“Oh, is that all?” Akhtar said, as he put on his shirt. “Let us go!”

“Where?”

“We have to go out a little.”

There was a small tea-shop in a shed on the other side of the road. Probably it did not pay to sell only tea; so the shop displayed some stationery as well. The two friends went in and sat on a stool. Both felt hungry. Akhtar ordered the shop-keeper boy:

“Give us something we can eat. Also two cups of tea.”

“Have you brought your dues?” the boy demanded to know.

“Well, my chap, I have brought them sure enough. Now give us what we want.”

Though the boy did not believe him fully, he got some biscuits and cookies in a dish, and placed these on a bench before them. Then he went to fan the oven. They were silently looking outside and chewing biscuits.

They finished tea within half an hour and started to leave. Akhtar wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and approached the boy whom he asked, “Say, what were my outstanding dues?”

The boy had the figure by rote. He said, “Eight rupees.”

“Eight rupees, and now are added eight annas. That makes it eight rupees and a half. Well, then, give me a rupee and a half. That will make it full ten rupees.”

“Please give me the note,” the boy said.

Akhtar searched his pockets with a busy air, and said, “Well, that’s it. I forgot to bring it by mistake. It is in the pocket of some other shirt. Give me a rupee and a half, and it would then be convenient for me to give you a ten-rupee note.”

“I cannot do it unless you give me the note first. If I do it, the proprietor will beat me when he knows of it.”

They came into the road. Akhtar asked his friend, “You need the money very badly. Isn’t it so?”

“Had it not been so, would have walked all the way to you at noontime?”

“Then, was it on this account you came to me?”

“Yes, on this account,” Murtaza informed him.

“Let us see,” said Akhtar, as they proceeded towards the one-storied building on the opposite side. “The Inspector Sahib purchased of me two clay models. He has not paid for them. It would help if he pays now.”

But when they called at the Inspector’s house, they were told that he was sleeping after his lunch and was not then available.

Murtaza now bade good-bye to Akhtar, and walked to town. Tea had killed his hunger, but he was feeling desperately tired. The portion of his shirt had got so wet with sweat as to be almost affixed to his body. Sweat had gathered over his whole face and throat, and, dust from the road being added to it, made his body unclean.

He was in this situation when afternoon came, and he went to Sadar Ghat, and seated himself on a concrete seat towards the west. The sun seemed in going down to have poured lac-dye over the water. The boats were receding into shade. There were many scenes to see, provided there was the will to see, to paint, or to study. But he was not inclined that way. Now he thought that a man’s whole existence was meaningless without money. Yet he had never learnt to give money so much importance as that.

As he was looking at the gleaming flow of the river, he came to remember Mahbub Chemical Works. Three days ago the manager of the Works had come to his house and asked him tomake a design for the label of a new oil made by them. Murtaza, however, had summarily told him that he did not accept commercial jobs.

That was no mere verbal boast. It had been his resolve from the very start that he would not dabble in commercial art. He would spare himself artistic practices of that sort even if he had to starve two or three days at a stretch, at the period before he could establish himself as a creative artist. One could not even perceive how such practices destroyed one’s creative talent by degrees. He would make creative, not commercial, art his profession, though as yet the idea was pure moonshine. His view on the matter was that, without self-sacrifice, one could not establish oneself to succeeding generations.

But it seemed he could not maintain his resolve. He knew by instinct that he could have the job even now if he tried. The firm was a growing concern; so it would pay well enough.

It seemed to him he had at last found a solution to his problem. Murtaza got up and walked fast. It was no use bothering himself about what might or might not happen in future.

He crossed Chawk Bazar to reach a lane, and found the shop open. The manager immediately asked him, “What’s the matter? What made you come so late at night?”

“I shall do that job of yours for a label.”

“But I have commissioned somebody else to do it. You raised objections.”

“Whom have you commissioned?”–Murtaza asked.

On the manager stating the name, Murtaza found that the man was a friend of his. He thought over the matter a little, and said: “Well, suppose I manage to secure the work from him, would you have any objection?” 

“What objection can I have? I am concerned only to get the work done.”

“If I deliver the matter to you tomorrow morning, would you pay me?”

“Why should I not pay if I get the thing I asked for?”

He did not tarry there another moment but went to Raschid. It was then nearly nine. He presented himself before Raschid, had the order explained to him and left. He did not give Raschid time to put a single question about the matter.

Farida was anxiously looking towards the door. Why, she wondered, should her brother not have returned home as yet? Papa and Mamma had got angry. There was cause at the of their anger. Munir, their elder boy, dabbled in politics, and had been imprisoned in the Language Movement.¹ For two years before that his parents had never been sure of his whereabouts, of when he came home or of why he did not come. Only on the day he was arrested they realized what the matter was, and it was outside their knowledge. Since then the boys had particular orders that, wherever they might be in the afternoons, they must return home at eve-fall; else they would get a severe hiding.

Murtaza remembered that all right, but he was not particularly anxious on that account. For, he had several times till then been compelled to disobey that injunction. Was it after all possible for any member of a decent society to stay indoors, particularly in the evenings?

As soon as he entered the room, Farida asked: “What’s the news? Have you got it?”

“No, but I’ll have a word with you.”

He whispered something in the ears of Farida who immediately went to another room. Murtaza came to his own room with a hurricane lantern, and set about getting his paint and brush in order.

Farida appeared with a plate of rice along with dal and curry obtained from the kitchen, and also a glass of water. She said to Murtaza, “Here it is; have your meal first.”

Mother, who had got scent of all this movement, came and asked, “Where were you so long?”

“I was here sure enough, and working.”

“You say you were here. How is it you do not feel deterred from telling a lie to your mother? You are going beyond limits these days. Better take care. Else, you are fated to suffer much.”

After mother was gone, Murtaza hurriedly took some food and sat down to work. He had covered the lantern on one side with an exercise-book. His father would be angry if he saw the light kept burning till a late hour of the night.

Farida had put out the light and slipped into bed just to let mother think that she had gone to sleep. But she had not a wink of sleep in her eyes. As soon as the jail bell announced one o’clock, she got up noiselessly. She opened the door in such a way that nobody could know of it.

She had, before slipping into bed, got the stove and other necessary things ready. Now she kindled the stove, and asked, “How far have you progressed?”

“It will take about two hours more,” Murtaza said. “Give me tea quick!”

It was three o’clock when he finished drawing the tricolour label. He had taken tea thrice in those hours. Farida was unable to sit up any longer, her eyes almost shut with sleep. Murtaza took hold of the brush, placed it on the table, and said: “You go now. Go and sleep.”

He got up at eight, and did not wait for the opening hour of the shop. He had noted the manager’s residential address. He proceeded to the address with the design for the label in his hands. There he delivered it, and took payment of a five-rupee note. With that money he picked and purchased four pairs of oranges from the fruit-shop.

Murtaza went up the stairs to the first floor, and stood near bed No.4 in the Female Ward. He had walked fast, and sweat was pouring from his body. He had, however, arrived in good time. There was no crowd of visitors yet.

“I hope you recognize me.”

“Yes; you came yesterday, didn’t you?” There was silence for a while, followed again by words in a weak, female voice: “My head reels very much, I cannot recognize anyone all at once. There’s also a great burning sensation in my chest. I had a fit today.”

Murtaza placed before her the oranges tied in a handkerchief. At their sight there was again the sad, faint smile in her pale, bloodless face. Nobody knew what was behind that smile; nor did Murtaza. Was it the pain from long imprisonment and torture, or was it something else? Murtaza looked steadily at her, and saw that death had cast its pale shadow over her two eyes. He seemed to hear its faint steps in the movement of his own blood. He had a feeling of shiver. He did not know what to say. What should he say? What indeed could he say?

“Still surely I won’t die,” said Ila Mitra, looking afar beyond the window. Her gaze was steady, motionless. “Her voice was now more distinct. “And if I live, I shall remember you all.”

Murtaza could not say anything. As he was coming away, after taking leave of her, he was struck by the idea of a painting. He decided that on returning home he would that very night compose a Still Life. He would make a composition of the skull of a man–and a few oranges beside it.

¹ Movement for recognition of Bengali asa State Language.