Publisher’s Note

Dying to Marry & Other Stories is a compilation of nineoriginal stories by S Manzur, winner in the Golden Point AwardsShort Story Writing Contest in 2001. In this book, the authorhas spun stories from his observations of life and emotions thatwill warm the reader’s heart and give courage, especially whenevil sometimes seems so overpowering.

As publisher, we make conscientious effort toencourage local creative writings, thus doing our part inupholding the efforts of the National Arts Council to developSingapore into a distinctive global city for the arts.

We would like to take this opportunity to thank theauthor, S Manzur, for the privilege to represent him; Dr KirpalSingh for his support and review; the National Arts Council fortheir strong endorsement; and Rosalind Martin for her editorialinput. Our appreciation, too, to the production team for theirbest efforts in putting this book together.

Singapore Yarn:An Anthology of Singapore Stories14 winning short stories take you to the Singaporeheartland, Hitler’s Germany, the badminton arenaand post-war Japan.Written by Society of Singapore Writers, 144pp,ISBN 981-229-250-0.

Tides of Memories and Other SingaporePoemsA momentous anthology of poems by Singapore’sliterary talents like Arthur Yap, Lee Tzu Pheng, KangBee Kua, Catherine Lim and Edwin Thumboo.Written by Society of Singapore Writers, 160pp,ISBN 981-229-216-0.

Down Memory Lane in Clogs: Growing up inChinatownEach piece of work is a vivid snapshot of the past.Si Jing’s graphic and poetic writing is at times joyousand at times heart-rending. Her book is at once amuseum of Singapore history and an album ofintimate family moments.Written by Si Jing (See Cheng), 256pp,ISBN 981-229-174-1.Lotus from the Mud: I was a Majie’s FosterDaughterAdopted at the age of three by a majie working in aleisure house, Si Jing gives an insider’s exposé oflife in a house of decadence in Chinatown in the1930s. With her grit and the kindness of people, SiJing faced setbacks and challenges head-on.Written by Si Jing (See Cheng), 224pp,ISBN 981-229-265-9.

Creative Writing

Contents

1. Dying to Marry 1

2. The Prism 21

3. Come Rain or Shine 48

4. Athena 64

5. Tunnel Vision 80

6. Screams from the Past 106

7. The Winning Formula 120

8. The River 137

9. David’s Motto 149

1

Dying To Marry

Doctor Gupta stopped his Yamaha under the banyan tree nextto a small, single-storey building with a tiled roof. Out of habit,he looked at the signboard above the entrance to the building.The signboard, covered in red dust, read:

VILLAGE OFFICEJawahar Bagh.

After parking the motorcycle in the shade of the tree,he took out his handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat offhis forehead. It was a twenty-minute ride from his residence inDhule to Jawahar Bagh.

Jawahar Bagh was 40 kilometres from Dhule, thenearest town. It was a typical Indian village, where the mainlivelihood was farming. Govindlal, the village headman, waswaiting for the doctor in front of the office building. As usual,he wore a knee-length collar-less shirt and pyjamas, but his usualsmile was missing. He looked very worried. “Namaste,” he said,with his palms held together in front of his face to greet thedoctor in traditional Indian style.

“Namaste,” the doctor said in reply, without the handgesture.

2

3

“Doctor saheb, thanks for coming so quickly,”Govindlal said.

Everyone in the village addressed the doctor with respectas ‘doctor saheb’. Doctor Gupta liked the title ‘saheb’, onceused in colonial India to address the British bosses and Nawabs.“I left my house as soon as your messenger informed me thatyou needed me urgently. What is the matter?” Doctor Guptaasked.

“Just this afternoon, one of the women from this villagecame crying, and told me that her son is seriously ill. ImmediatelyI rushed to her house and had a look at her son. He is in a verybad state.”

“How old is the boy?”“He is a grown up lad and works in paddy fields and

does many other odd jobs. His name is Deepak.”“Let’s go and see him then,” the doctor said, as he started

the motorcycle. “Come, sit behind me and show me the way tohis house.”

Govindlal wasn’t used to pillion riding. He sat behindthe doctor awkwardly. They made an odd-looking pair ofmotorcycle riders indeed—the young doctor in his western attireand the old timer in his traditional garb. Govindlal’s baggy clothesfluttered as they rode towards the patient’s house. In a coupleof minutes they were there. It was a small hut—fifteen feet byfifteen feet, at the most—with a thatched roof and a small yardin the front. The doctor and the headman stooped to enter thehut through a doorway, which was hardly five feet high. Exceptfor the doorway and a small window, there were no otheropenings in the walls made of clay. It took Doctor Gupta’s eyesa few seconds to adapt to the dark interior. Standing in themiddle of the room, he glanced around slowly to survey theinterior. A small wooden cabinet stood next to the window andon top of it, there was a trunk made of tin. Clothes hung fromwooden pegs embedded in the walls. In one corner, on thefloor, there was a kerosene-stove, a very short wooden stool,

4

and some utensils; in the opposite corner, the patient laidmotionless on a narrow cot. The cabinet, the short stool, andthe cot were the only furniture in the room. The doctor noticeda woman in a brown saree sitting on the floor next to the cotand sobbing intermittently. Once in a while, she waved a fanmade of palm leaf to drive away the houseflies that tried toland on the patient’s face and arms.

“This is Durga Bai . . . Deepak’s mother,” Govindlalintroduced the woman to the doctor. The doctor needed nointroduction. Everyone in Jawahar Bagh knew who he was. Hewas the roving doctor serving Jawahar Bagh and two otherneighbouring villages. His residence was in Dhule, a small city,west of Jawahar Bagh. This was his first posting since graduatingfrom medical college.

“I have to examine the patient . . . please wait outsidefor a few minutes,” the doctor said as he approached the cot.Durga Bai and Govindlal did as they were told.

By the time the doctor came out of the hut, a smallcrowd of curious onlookers had gathered. He took Govindlalaside and asked, “Any motor car or van available nearby?”

“The Co-operative Dairy Farm has a small truck. Doyou need it?”

“Yes, I need it. His condition is very serious. I have totake him to Dhule and admit him to the Government hospitalas quickly as possible. How soon can we get the truck?”

“It can be arranged quickly. It is parked just a couple ofhundred yards from here,” Govindlal said. He picked a youngsterfrom the crowd and sent him to the dairy farm with a messagescribbled on a piece of paper.

The truck arrived in ten minutes, and in the meantime,the crowd had almost doubled. News of Deepak’s mysteriousillness was spreading fast. More and more people were flockingto Durga Bai’s hut as though a free entertainment show was on.To the residents of Jawahar Bagh, anything that broke the

5

monotony of their tedious and dull life, including an inscrutableillness, was as good as an entertainment.

Some of the onlookers started speculating with recklessabandon as to what could be wrong with Durga Bai’s son, andwhat kind of fate awaited him.

“This is no illness or sickness. Some evil spirit is suckingthe life out of him. If the spirit is not appeased quickly, he willturn into a corpse,” one old woman with a shrivelled face said,in a hushed voice, to a pregnant woman standing next to her.

“How to identify the evil spirit and appease it?” askedthe pregnant woman.

“There is a holy man by the name of Sadhu Shankarji inthe next village. He will know how to go about it. If I were inDurga Bai’s position, I would have sent someone to fetch himas quickly as possible,” the old lady replied.

In that crowd, women were not the only ones indulgingin idle gossip. Ramlal, the headman’s younger brother, drew hisfriend’s attention and said, “I heard that Durga Bai’s son hadbeen to Nagpur recently and came back just a week ago.Someone must have poisoned him when he was there in thecity. You know how nasty the city folks are.”

“Then, how come he became ill three days after returningfrom the city?” the friend asked.

Ramlal was taken aback but managed to find an answer.“Oh, that . . . that is . . . because some poisons are slow to act,”he replied.

The children in the crowd were not interested in suchgossip or Deepak’s condition. They had gone there mainly tosee, feel, and smell Doctor Gupta’s Yamaha. Of course, theywould get to hear the roar of the engine too. And, with a bit ofluck, a couple of them might get a free ride on the motorcycleas far as the village office.

As there were no stretchers available, the driver of thetruck and Govindlal carried the cot with the patient and placedthem at the back of the truck. When Durga Bai saw her son

6

being carried out of her hut, she started wailing. Doctor Guptaapproached Durga Bai. “Please, don’t cry. Crying like this is notgoing to help. Instead of just sitting there and crying, tell mehow he became ill,” he said. Since he was unable to diagnose theillness by analysing the symptoms, he decided to dig into thepatient’s history to see if he could find any useful clue.

“What to tell you, doctor saheb? It must be fate! Lastweek, he went to Nagpur and returned after three days. Afterresting for a day, he went to a nearby village to work in a farmfor two days. When he returned, he looked very weak and—”

“When was that?” the doctor interrupted her.“That was three days ago. The next morning he could

not get up from his cot. He was suffering from pain in hisabdomen. I gave him two doses of my herbal medicine andapplied a poultice to ease the pain, but it was of no use. Highfever started just the day before yesterday, and that was when hestarted talking nonsense. Since yesterday, he has neither openedhis eyes nor uttered a word,” she said, wiping her eyes with thepalloo of the saree she was wearing. As towels and handkerchiefswere luxury items which very few village women could afford,the palloo—in addition to covering the bosom—sometimesserved as a towel or a handkerchief.

“You mentioned that due to high fever he started talkingnonsense. Do you remember anything that he said?”

“He started babbling something about getting a driver’slicence. Then, all of a sudden, he asked me to go to Lakshmi’shouse.”

“Who is Lakshmi?”“The girl he wants to marry. He wanted me to talk to

her parents and fix an early date for the wedding. I told him thatunless he produced sufficient cash to conduct the wedding, Iwould not go to see her parents. He told me not to worry as hehad more than three thousand rupees. When he started talkingabout thousands of rupees, I knew that he was not in his right

7

mind. God only knows what is wrong with him,” she said,dejectedly.

Doctor Gupta stood there pensively, looking at thepatient at the back of the truck.

What exactly was wrong with him and what could have startedsuch a serious illness in such a short time?

While Doctor Gupta stood there scratching his head,Govindlal came to him and reported that the truck was ready.

“Do you have any idea why he went to Nagpur?”Doctor Gupta asked Govindlal.

“I have no idea, doctor saheb. Maybe he wanted to seethe tall buildings, wide streets, bright lights, and other noveltiesthat the big city has.”

“When did he go to Nagpur and when did he return?”Doctor Gupta sounded like an insurance-fraud investigator ratherthan a physician.

“He left Jawahar Bagh ten days ago . . . on May Day, tobe exact. And, if I remember it correctly, came back early in themorning on the fourth of May,” replied Govindlal, as thoughhe had been keeping tabs on everyone in the village.

“That means, he was away for just three days. Was he illwhen he came back from Nagpur?”

“I saw him the day he returned . . . he looked quite allright. I think he became ill during the past three or four days.”

“How is his general health? I mean, has he been illrecently?”

“He is a robust young man. He has never been sick orill as far as I can remember. Not even during the past fewepidemics that affected many in Jawahar Bagh and the nearbyvillages.”

“I see,” the doctor said, nodding his head a few times.He got into the rear of the truck and sat down on a large,empty milk can next to Deepak’s cot. Smell of stale milknauseated him. He gave the signal to the driver and the truck

8

started moving. It bounced up and down a few times as thewheels rode over the undulating and uneven terrain.

Doctor Gupta waved to the crowd as the truck headedtowards Dhule. When he turned his attention to Deepak, a fewquestions arose in his mind: Why did Deepak go to Nagpur,how did the robust young fellow become so ill in such a shorttime, and what kind of strange malady was he suffering from?

It was the 1st of May and the crowd at the Nagpur bus terminuswas unbelievable. There were people everywhere. Outside thebus terminus, a large group of factory workers, taking part in arally to mark the May Day, shouted Communist slogansintermittently. The express bus from Dhule entered Nagpur busterminus at 6:30 p.m. and stopped at platform No.7 with ajerk. Deepak, seated in the front row, woke up and rubbed hiseyes with his knuckles. He had been asleep for the past twohours. It was a long and tiring journey along route NH-6. Onelook through the large windshield in front of the driver’s seat,and he knew that the bus had reached Nagpur bus terminus.From the overhead rack he took out the bag containing hismeagre possessions and got out of the bus.

Standing barefoot in his sleeveless shirt and stripedpyjamas he looked around in awe. He had been to a few bigtowns in the past—Jalgaon, Malegaon, Dhule, and evenAurangabad—but this was something else. This was one of theten largest cities in India. He had never before seen so manybuses parked in one place. On top of that, buses were arrivingand departing one after another. People seemed to rush hereand there. Along the sidewalks and pavements he noticedpeddlers selling anything and everything—from toothpicks topickaxes and from peanuts to coconuts. Some of the stalls playedvery loud music to attract potential shoppers. Buses honked theirhorns incessantly and unnecessarily. The resultant din was

9

unbearable. There were hundreds of people but not a singleknown or friendly face. No one smiled at him. No one lookedat him. Quite a few bumped into him and didn’t even bother toapologise. He couldn’t help remembering the words of advicehe had received from his friends before leaving Jawahar Bagh:Be careful, the city is a cruel and heart-less place . . . full ofcrooks, con men, and rude people who think that villagers arenothing but a bunch of idiots.

A passing bus missed him narrowly. And, Deepak missedLakshmi, his sweetheart. The face of the heroine in one of thelarge cinema posters next to the ticketing booth reminded himof Lakshmi. She had the same smiling eyes and alluring lips.Suddenly, he felt terribly lonely and scared. That was when henoticed a smartly dressed man coming towards him in a hurry.“Aah, there you are! I have been waiting for you since five o’clock.What happened? You missed the first bus or something?” heasked, looking directly at Deepak. He appeared to be in hisearly forties. With his clean-shaven face and well-trimmedmoustache, he looked like a well-to-do city dweller. He had anexpensive-looking briefcase in his hand.

Deepak was uncertain as to whom he was addressing.He looked back to see if there was anyone behind him. Sincethere was no one behind him, Deepak managed to gather somecourage. “Are you talking to me, saheb?” Deepak asked, pointingto himself.

“Of course, I am talking to you. I am Ajay Kumar. Isaw you coming out of this bus. Aren’t you Amarnath Yadavfrom Dhule?”

“Saheb, you must have mistaken me for someone else.I am Deepak Chowla from Jawahar Bagh.”

“Oh my God! Not again,” Mr. Kumar exclaimed,smashing his right fist into his left palm. He looked terribly upsetand annoyed.

“Saheb, what happened?”“I have been waiting for this fellow, Yadav. He is

10

seeking employment in my company. I don’t know what is wrongwith him. Actually, he was supposed to come two days ago.Then, he sent a telegram informing me that he would arrivetoday, latest by five o’clock. But, no sign of him yet.”

“Saheb, please do not get me wrong. Maybe he willarrive on the next bus.”

“I have already wasted two hours. I cannot wait untilthe last bus arrives. He seems to be totally unreliable. I think Ishould forget him and look for someone else.”

“What kind of person are you looking for, saheb?”“Someone young, reliable, and willing to work. That is

all. Why do you ask? Do you know anyone like that?” Mr. Kumarasked.

“Saheb, I have come here, all the way from JawaharBagh, looking for employment. I am young and reliable . . . and,I am willing to work hard. I wonder if I can be of any serviceto you,” Deepak put it as politely as he could.

Mr. Kumar appeared to be pleasantly surprised. “Well,you caught me by surprise. I do not know how to put it. To befrank, I do not know anything about you and you do not knowwhat will be required of you. I think we should discuss thismatter properly before making any decision.”

“I fully agree with you, saheb,” Deepak said in asubmissive tone. The dialogue seemed to forge a newrelationship—that of employer and employee, master andservant.

“Well, let me hear something about you and yourbackground,” Mr. Kumar said.

“I come from a small village called Jawahar Bagh, nearDhule,” Deepak started off.

“What do you do for a living?”“I work mostly in paddy fields in and around my village

and sometimes in our Co-operative Dairy Farm.”“Can you drive any vehicle?”“Yes, saheb . . . tractors, vans, and trucks.”

11

“What type of driver’s licence do you hold? Light vehicleor heavy vehicle?”

“Driver’s licence? In the village who needs a driver’slicence, saheb? As long as one knows how to start the vehicleand move it from one place to another, nobody bothers aboutthe licence.”

“In other words, you don’t have a driver’s licence. Allright, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”“Married?”“No, saheb, not yet.”“Don’t tell me you have not found the right girl yet.”“I have found the girl. Her name is Lakshmi and we

like each other very much,” Deepak said with a shy smile andstarted blushing. “And, I am dying to marry her.”

“Then why don’t you marry her?” Mr. Kumar asked.“The daily wages that I get in the village are just enough

to feed my mother and myself. How can the wedding take placewithout spending a few thousand rupees, saheb? Actually I havecome here, leaving my loved ones and the security of my village,just to earn a couple of thousand rupees so that I can go backto my village and marry her. Saheb, if you give me a job, nomatter what job it is, I will be grateful to you all my life. If I donot get a job within a day or two, I will have to go back to myvillage, in shame.” The shy smile and blush gave way to a sadexpression.

“It is my boss who will decide whether to give you ajob or not. But, I can recommend your case. I will take you tohim tomorrow morning.”

“Saheb, as you can see, I am new to this city. I am notsure where to spend the night.”

“There is a small hotel. It is just a couple of hundredyards from here in that direction,” Mr. Kumar said, pointing tohis right. “It is a bit noisy and the rooms are quite small. But the

12

rates are very reasonable and you will be safe. I suggest that youbook a single room for one night. You will have to pay for theroom in advance. I will meet you in front of the hotel at nine inthe morning. Is that all right with you?”

“Perfectly all right, saheb.”“Well, that is settled. Now, before I leave, let me write

down the address of the hotel. Will you hold this briefcase whileI write the address for you?” Mr. Kumar said.

“Certainly, saheb,” Deepak said, and took the briefcasefrom Mr. Kumar’s hand. It was the most elegant and stylishobject he had ever held in his hands. He ran his fingers over thebriefcase made of fine leather—soft and smooth like a woman’scheek. The spring-loaded locks at the sides and the numericallock in the middle glittered like gold jewellery. The briefcasereminded him of Lakshmi.

Mr. Kumar took out a piece of paper from his shirtpocket and started writing the name and address. As he stoodadmiring the briefcase, Deepak felt a sudden push from behind.He lost his balance and fell forward. He let out a yell just beforehitting the narrow sidewalk. But he did not release his grip onthe briefcase.

“Deepak, what happened?” Mr. Kumar came rushingto Deepak’s aid as he was trying to get up.

“I got poked from behind with a sharp object.”“Are you sure? I mean, you did not trip over anything?”“I am sure, I did not trip over anything. I was poked

and pushed at the same time. I can feel a sharp pain in my back. . . here,” Deepak said, pointing to the right side of his back.

“Someone might have accidentally poked you with hisumbrella. This place is so crowded,” Mr. Kumar said.

“It must be something sharper than an umbrella, it reallyhurts,” Deepak winced with pain.

“Come here, this way. Let me take a look at your back,”Mr. Kumar said, and guided him to a less crowded spot behinda telephone booth. He lifted Deepak’s shirt and examined his