Mable and Me

Mable was in Girls College. We had one class common at the Cambridge University where we used to come across each other quite often. We were friends and we used to share many interests together. She was fond of pictures and music and I claimed to be an expert in them. We used to go to the galleries and the concerts together quite frequently. Both of us were students of English Literature and we had the occasions to discuss books regularly. If either of us had discovered a new book or a new author, the other would be informed of it naturally. And then we would rate the book or the author, good or bad, accordingly.

In spite of our mutual harmony and common inclination, we had an essential disagreement as well in our temperaments. Even though we were the products of the twentieth century and believed, to some extent, in the equality of genders, we also used to falsify it occasionally by our thoughts and actions. Mable claimed certain concessions, as a matter of right, under some circumstances, which the weaker sex seemed to deserve. At times I would assume the role of a domineering leader, which was supposed to show that it was indeed my duty to be so, as a man.

The realization that Mable was more widely read than I, was particularly galling to me; this wounded my male esteem. Occasionally, the Asian blood of my ancestors would urge me from inside and my mind would rebel against the modern culture and suggest to me that man was indeed the noblest creation of God. Mable, on the other hand, would stress the equality of genders with an exaggerated emphasis. So much so, that sometimes she would impress as if the women were the leaders of the whole universe and the men were no more than mere gnats and moths. But how could I ignore the fact that Mable would buy a dozen of books, read them within a week and throw them with a flourish into my room saying we would discuss them after I had done with them.

Firstly, it was nearly impossible for me to read ten to twelve books in such a short time. Supposing it were possible for me to read them after burning mid-night oil, for preserving my male ego, there were surely a couple of books among them on philosophy and critical appreciation which required much longer time for me to comprehend. As a result, I had to invariably admit my defeat to a woman even after very hard work at the books during the week. All the time that Mable used to be in my room, I had to helplessly hear her discourse while she harangued with her raised eyebrows, in a very scholarly manner. Whenever I opened the door for her, or lit the matches for her cigarette, or even offered my most comfortable chair for her to sit in, she would accept my courteous offers not by virtue of her being a woman but feigning as if it was her well deserved right as a teacher.

After her departure, my sense of shame would gradually turn into fury. Sacrificing life and limb was easy. But to protect ones honor, even the gentlest soul would sometimes choose to resort to ill means, if necessary. You may consider it my moral degradation but this indeed was what eventually happened to me. Next time, when I met Mable, I began discussing even those books, which I had not read, although with a certain degree of circumspection. My critical comments were superficial and I deliberately avoided going into any detail. With great shrewdness and an air of wisdom, I dressed my opinion in the garb of modernity. If for instance, Mable asked me about a certain novel, I would say with an air of indifference, "Yes, its good but not so much. The author has failed to show the modern view even though there are some unusual ideas in it. Not bad, not bad".

I would then glance stealthily at Mable to see if she had detected my hypocrisy. About drama, I would comment, "Yes Ive read it but have not yet determined if the reader will still retain his impressions when its staged. What do you think?"

In this way, I was able to maintain my dignity while shifting the burden of further conversation on to Mable. I would comment on the books on criticism by saying, "The author seems to be influenced by the critics of the eighteenth century, although imperceptibly and only here and there. His posture towards poetry is interesting  very interesting indeed".

I was able to gradually hone this art of deception to perfection. I used to wonder myself at my skills with which I could talk at length about the unread books. This gave a certain amount of soothing to my emotions.

Now Mable did not overawe me at all; she too would acknowledge the comprehensiveness of my knowledge. If, for instance, she had read some ten books in one week, I was able to comment on them within a couple of days only. Now I didnt have any reason to feel small in her presence.

My male ego felt uplifted due to a feeling of preeminence. Now when I offered my chair or lit her cigarette, it was with a sense of superiority like that of a strong and healthy young man who was protecting a weak and innocent baby girl.

Those who walked a straight path might not have appreciated my deviousness but I did expect adulation from the male groupies. The women surely would curse me for deceiving a woman by cunning and subterfuge. However, I would like to assure them that I myself did not feel good about it and accused myself whenever I was alone. So much so that sometimes I hated myself for doing so. Also, it became difficult to forget that I had asserted my knowledge without reading a thing. Mable, on the other hand, who had read all those books, was certainly more knowledgeable than I was. True, that I managed to hide my inadequacy behind my subterfuge; the fact however remained that I hadnt read any of those books. I knew my own ignorance even if she didnt. This thought would rob the comfort of my heart and I again felt so small and worthless.Heretofore, I had acknowledged her as a knowledgeable person only; now she looked to me more like a goddess of purity and truthfulness also.

It happens that when I fall sick, I usually become softhearted and emotional. In this condition, even a cheap and ordinary novel moves me quite easily to tears. However, I laugh at my weakness after recovering To my misfortune, I had a bout of influenza. It was in no way fatal or even serious nor was it very discomforting. However, due to my sickness, all the lapses of my past life got magnified into great sins, in my perception. When I thought of Mable, my conscience berated me, with the result that I kept tossing in my bed with a sense of great sorrow. Mable brought some flowers in the evening; she asked about my well being, gave me medicine and put her hand on my forehead. At this I was totally melted and my tears started falling in drops and my voice became hoarse. I said, "Mable, for Gods sake, do forgive me". I confessed to my sins. And for self-chastisement, I described my trickery in sufficient detail. I named every book on which I had given long-winded lectures like a great scholar, without having read it. I said to her, "Mable, the three books that you had given me last week and I had debated with you about them  the truth is that I hadnt read even a word out of them. Surely I might have said something that had betrayed my lie".

She responded, "No, not really".

I said, take the novel for instance, "I hadnt read it at all. All that I had said about its characters was only my invention".

She said, "No, it was not all that wrong".

I said I had commented on its plot and said that it was loose. "Was that correct too?"

She said, "Yes, the plot is somewhat loose at certain places". After this, both of us had a good laugh at my past trickery. When she was about to leave, she enquired, "Should I take these books away?"

"At least give one more chance to a repentant sinner", I said. "I havent read any of these books but now I intend to read them. Please leave them here with me. You have read them all, havent you?" I asked.

She said, "Ye-es, of course I have read them. Well, Ill leave them here", and she went away.

I opened those books for the first time after she had left. I discovered that the pages in all the three books were still uncut. Mable had not read any of those books either.

I was now convinced indubitably of the equality of genders.

(Mable and Me is translation of Pitrus Bukhari’s Urdu essay "Mable aur Mein". Pitrus’s real name was Ahmad Shah Bukhari.Pitrus taught English Literature at the Government College, Lahore, and later became Principal there. He was the Director of All India Radio.also. After the creation of Pakistan, he was appointed Representative of Pakistan at the United Nations. He died in New York and is buried there. Among some of his celebrated students were the Indian Film Actor, Balraj Sahni, Urdu writer and educationist, Kannihya Lal Kapur, and Urdu writer, Agha Babar. Iqbal’s poem "Aik Syed Zadey kay Naam" was in fact addressed to Pitrus Bukhari. Pitrus wrote only one Urdu book, i.e., "Pitrus kay Mazameen" which is considered to be part of the Urdu classic literature.)