Karma Khushwant Singh Full Story

Karma 

Khushwant Singh

Sir Mohan Lal looked at himself in the mirror of a first-class waiting room at the railway station. The mirror was obviously made in India. The red oxide at its back had come off at several places and long lines of translucent glass cut across its surface. Sir Mohan smiled at the mirror with an air of pity and patronage.

“You are so very much like everything else in this country—inefficient, dirty, indifferent,” he murmured.

The mirror smiled back at Sir Mohan.

“You are a bit all right, old chap,” it said. “Distinguished, efficient—even handsome. That neatly trimmed mustache, the suit from Saville Row with the carnation in the buttonhole, the aroma of eau de cologne, talcum powder and scented soap all about you! Yes, old fellow, you are a bit of all right.”

Sir Mohan threw out his chest, smoothed his Balliol tie for the umpteenth time, and waved a good-by to the mirror.

He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a quick one.
“Koi hai?”
A bearer in white livery appeared through a wire-gauze door.
“Ek chota,” ordered Sir Mohan and sank into a large cane chair to drink and ruminate.

Outside the waiting room Sir Mohan Lal’s luggage lay piled along the wall. On a small gray steel trunk, Lachmi, Lady Mohan Lal, sat chewing a betel leaf and fanning herself with a newspaper. She was short and fat and in her middle forties. She wore a dirty white sari with a red border. On one side of her nose glistened a diamond nose ring and she had several gold bangles on her arms. She had been talking to the bearer until Sir Mohan had called him inside. As soon as he had gone, she hailed a passing railway coolie.

“Where does the zenana stop?”

“Right at the end of the platform.”

The coolie flattened his turban to make a cushion, hoisted the steel trunk on his head, and moved down the platform. Lady Lal picked up her brass tiffin carrier and ambled along beside him. On the way she stopped by a hawker’s stall to replenish her silver betel-leaf case, and then joined the coolie. She sat down on her steel trunk (which the coolie had put down) and started talking to him.

   “Are the trains very crowded on these lines?”

   “These days all trains are crowded, but you’ll find room in the zenana.”

   “Then I might as well get over the bother of eating.”

Lady Lal opened the brass carrier and took out a bundle of cramped chapattis and some mango pickle. While she ate, the coolie sat opposite her on his haunches, drawing lines in the gravel with his finger.

“Are you traveling alone, sister?”

“No, I am with my master, brother. He is in the waiting room. He travels first class. He is a vizier and a barrister, and meets so many officers and Englishmen in the trains—and I amonly a native woman. I can’t understand English and don’t know their ways, so I keep to my zenana interclass.”

Lachmi chatted away merrily. She was fond of a little gossip and had no one to
talk to at home. Her husband never had any time to spare for her. She lived in the upper story of the house and he on the ground floor. He did not like her poor, illiterate relatives hanging about his bungalow, so they never came. He came up to her once in a while at night and stayed for a few minutes. He just ordered her about in anglicized Hindustrani and she obeyed passively. These nocturnal visits had, however, borne no fruit.

The signal came down and the clanging of the bell announced the approaching train. Lady Lal hurriedly finished off her meal. She got up, still licking the stone of the pickled mango. She emitted a long, loud belch as she went to the public tap to rinse her mouth and wash her hands. After washing, she dried her mouth and hands with the loose end of the sari, and walked back to her steel trunk, belching and thanking the gods for the favor of a filling meal.

The train steamed in. Lachmi found herself facing an almost empty interclass zenana compartment next to the guard’s van, at the tail end of the train. The rest of the train was packed. She heaved her squat, bulky frame through the door and found a seat by the window. She produced a two-anna bit from a knot in her sari and dismissed the coolie. She then opened her betel case and made herself two betel leaves charged with a red-and-white paste, minced betel-nuts, and cardamons. These she thrust into her mouth until her cheeks bulged on both sides. Then she rested her chin on her hands and sat gazing idly at the jostling crowd on the platform.

The arrival of the train did not disturb Sir Mohan Lal’s sangfroid. He continued to sip his Scotch and ordered the bearer to tell him when he had moved the luggage to a first-class compartment. Excitement, bustle, and hurry were exhibitions of bad breeding, and Sir Mohan was eminently well-bred. He wanted everything “tickety-boo” and orderly. In his five years abroad, Sir Mohan had acquired the manners and attitudes of the upper classes. He rarely spoke Hindustani. When he did, it was like an Englishman’s—only the very necessary words and properly anglicized. But he fancied his English, finished and refined at no less a place than the University of Oxford. He was fond of conversation, and like a cultured Englishman, he could talk on almost any subject—books, politics, people. How frequently had he heart English people say that he spoke like an Englishman!

Sir Mohan wondered if he would be travelling alone. It was a cantonment and some English officers might be on the train. His heart warmed at the prospect of an impressive conversation. He never showed any sign of eagerness to talk to the English, as most Indians did. Nor was he loud, aggressive, and opinionated like them. He went about his business with an expressionless matter-of-factness. He would retire to his corner by the window and get out a copy of The Times. He would fold it in a way in which the name of the paper was visible to others while he did the crossword puzzle. The Times always attracted attention. Someone would like to borrow it when he put it aside with a gesture signifying “I’ve finished with it.” Perhaps someone would recognize his Balliol tie, which he always wore while traveling. That would open a vista leading to a fairyland of Oxford colleges, masters, dons, tutors, boat races, and Rugger matches. If both The Times and the tie failed, Sir Mohan would “Koi hai” his bearer to get the Scotch out. Whisky never failed with Englishmen. Then followed Sir Mohan’s handsome gold cigarette case filled with English cigarettes. English cigarettes in India? How on earth did he get them? Sure he didn’t mind? And Sir Mohan’s understanding smile—of course he didn’t. But could he use the Englishman as a medium to commune with his dear old England? Those five years of gray bags and gowns, of sports blazers and mixed doubles, of dinners at the Inns of Court and nights with Piccadilly prostitutes. Five years of a crowded, glorious life. Worth far more than the forty-five in India with his dirty, vulgar countrymen, with sordid details of the road to success, of nocturnal visits to the upper story and all-too-brief sexual acts with obese old Lachmi, smelling of sweat and raw onions.

Sir Mohan’s thoughts were disturbed by the bearer’s announcing the installation of the sahib’s luggage in a first-class coupe next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to his cope with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With a sigh, he sat down in a corner and opened the copy of The Times he had read several times before.

Sir Mohan looked out of the window down at the crowded platform. His face lit up as he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs, and walked unsteadily. Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entitled only to travel in second class. He would speak to the guard.

One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth.

“’Ere, Bill” he shouted. “One ‘ere.”

His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.

“Get the nigger out,” he muttered to his companion.

They opened the door, and turned to the half-smiling, half-protesting Sir Mohan.

“Reserved!” yelled Bill.

“Janta—reserved. Army—fauji,” exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt.

“Ek dum jao—get out!”

“I say, I say, surely,” protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent.

The soldiers paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag.

They picked up Sir Mohan’s suitcase and flung it onto the platform. Then followed his thermos flask, bedding, and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with rage.

“Presposterous, preposterous,” he shouted, hoarse with anger. “I’ll have you arrested. Guard, guard!”

Bill and Jim paused. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the King’s for them.

“Keep yer ruddy mouth shut!” And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face.

The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backward, tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase.

“Toodle-oo!”

Sir Mohan’s feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail end of the train appeared with a red light and the guard, standing in the open doorway with flags in his hands.

In the interclass zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the diamond nose ring glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with betel saliva that she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared the station. As the train sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart.

Alias Jimmy Valentine

By: O. Henry

A guard came to the prison show shop, where Jimmy Valentine

had been working for the ten months of his stay.

“Warden wants you in the front office,” said the guard, taking

Jimmy’s arm. “Looks like you’ve got your pardon from the governor.

“About time,” said Jimmy.

A man with as many friends “on the outside” as Jimmy

Valentine had was never in prison for long. Ten months was the most

time he’d ever done.

The Warden didn’t hand him the pardon right away. As always,

he gave him strong words of advice first.

“You’ll go out in the morning, Valentine, and this time I have

you to make an honest man of yourself. You’re not a bad fellow at

heart. Just stop cracking safes, and go straight.”

“Me?” said Jimmy, in surprise. “Why, I never cracked a safe in

my life.”

The warden laughed.

“Oh no. Of course not. Then how come you got sent up on that

Springfield job? Was it just a mean old jury that had it in for you?”

“Me?” Jimmy kept on looking surprised. “Why, warden, I never

was in Springfield in al my life!”

“Take him back, guard,” said the warden, “and fix him up wit a

new suit and shoes. Have him in my office at seven in the morning.

And Valentine: better think over my advice.”

*****

At quarter past seven next morning, Jimmy stood in the

warden’s office. He had on a cheap, shiny, badly fitting suit. On his

feet were stiff, squeaky shoes.

The warden gave him a railroad ticket, a five-dollar bill, a cheap

cigar, and a handshake. He also gave him yesterday’s advice all over

again, and wished him luck.

Mr. James Valentine, no longer Prisoner Number 9762, walked

out into the sunshine.

Not even glancing at the trees, the birds, the flowers, Jimmy

went right to the nearest restaurant and had the biggest breakfast he’d

had in ten months. He finished it off with a far better cigar than the

warden had given him.

*****

Then he walked to the railroad station and boarded a train.

Within three hours, he was in a little town near the state line. He

went at once to a bar owned by an old pal, Mike Dolan. The two shook

hands.

“Sorry we couldn’t make it sooner, Jimmy,” said Mike, “but the

governor was a tough one. How are you?”

“Fine,” said Jimmy. “Got my key?”

He got his key and went upstairs, unlocking the door of a room

at the rear.

Everything was just as he had left it, even the collar button on

the floor, the one he had yanked from the shirt of Detective Ben Price,

the man who had come to arrest him.

From the back of the closet, Jimmy pulled his dusty old suitcase.

He opened it and stood staring happily at the finest set of safecracker’s

tools anywhere in the Midwest.

There were drills, punches, clamps, even a few special pieces

designed by Jimmy himself. The whole set was worth nearly a thousand

dollars.

When he went downstairs again, Jimmy was dressed in a

handsome, well-fitting suit. He was carrying his cleaned, dusted

suitcase.

“What’s up this time, Jimmy?” Mike wanted to know “Got

anything in mind?”

“Me?” Jimmy looked surprised. “Just off to do an honest day’s

work, Mike. I’m the new sales manager for the finest cookie and biscuit

company in the Midwest.”

Mike laughed so hard he nearly dropped the glass he was

drying”

*****

A week after the release of Prisoner Number 9762, three safe

burglaries were reported to the police. Not a clue was left to any of

them, except that they were all done in the same manner.

“That’s Jimmy Valentine,” declared Ben Price.

He knew Jimmy’s habits. The jobs were clean, neat, easy. No

trace of the burglar was ever left behind.

“He’ll no his full sentence this time,” vowed Ben. “No more

pardons for Jimmy Valentine!”

*****

One afternoon, Jimmy climbed off the train in an small town

called Elmore, carrying his heavy suitcase. He looked so handsome in

his fine new suit, he might have been a college student home for a visit.

A lovely young lady crossed the street, passed him a the corner,

and walked up the steps of the Elmore Bank.

Jimmy Valentine took one look at her, forgot who he was, and

became a new man.

Shyly, the young lady returned his glance. Young men of

Jimmy’s style and good looks were scarce in Elmore. Then she looked

quickly away and hurried into the bank.

A little boy was loafing on the steps. Jimmy tossed him a dime.

“Beg pardon,” he said, “but wasn’t that, um, Miss Polly Simpson

that just went into the bank?”

“Nope,” said the boy, “but I know who it is. Got another dime?”

Three dimes later, Jimmy found out that the lady was Miss

Annabel Adams. Three more dimes and he knew that she was the bank

owner’s daughter.

Jimmy Valentine, the new man, needed a new name. At the

local hotel, he signed in as Mr. Ralph D. Spencer.

He also needed a new means of earning a living. There was only

one thing he knew as much about as safecracking.

“I’m planning to settle in Elmore,” he told the hotel clerk. “I

was thinking about opening a shoe store. Are there any others in

town?”

“Not a one,” said the clerk. “We could really use a good shoe

store. I’m sure you’ll be a success, Mr. Spencer.

*****

Mr. Spencer was a success. The shoe store did well from the

start, as did its handsome and charming owner. Soon he had many

friends in Elmore. Among those was Miss Annabel Adams.

At the end of a year, the two were engaged to be married. Mr.

Ralph D. Spencer was warmly welcomed into the Adams family.

One day Jimmy sat down and wrote a letter to an old friend in

St. Louis.

“Dear Billy,” the letter read, “I have a gift for you. I want you to

have my kit of tools. I have no need for them now. I’m going to marry

the finest girl in the world in two weeks. She believes in me, Billy, and

I wouldn’t do another crooked thing for the world. Meet me in Sully’s

Bar on Tuesday night. I’ll have the tools with me. Your old pal,

Jimmy.”

On the very day he wrote this letter, Ben Price came to Elmore.

From the drugstore across the street from Spencer’s Shoe Store, he got a

good look at its owner, Mr. Ralph D. Spencer.

“Aha!” said Ben to himself. “Marry the banker’s daughter, will

you, Jimmy Valentine? We’ll see about that!”

*****

On Tuesday morning, when Jimmy was to leave for St. Louis,

Annabel’s father asked him to stop off at the bank for a moment, along

with the rest of the Adams family. He wanted to show off to them all

his brand-new bank vault.

They were a large, happy party: Annabel, her married sister and

two small daughters, Mr. Ralph D. Spencer, and Mr. Adams.

Laughing and talking as they went into the bank, they didn’t

notice Ben Price. His back was turned to them, he was leaning against a

wall outside the room they were entering.

The shiny new vault was a marvel, with a time-lock that had to

be turned this

way and that to make the heavy door close.

Since the vault was no yet in use, the door stood open now. The

little girls were more interested than anybody. They looked inside,

listening and watching as Mr. Adams explained its workings.

And then, all in a moment, the bigger girl playfully pushed her

little sister inside and slammed the door shut. She turned the knob, just

as she had seen Mr. Adams do. Then she smiled, proud of what she had

done.

Inside the vault, her sister screamed in terror.

Mr. Adams was terrified, too. So were the child’s mother and

everyone else in the room.

“I can’t open the door!” cried Mr. Adams, pulling at the handle

just the same. “The time-lock hasn’t been set yet! There isn’t a man

nearer than a hundred miles from here who can do it! And there isn’t

much air in that vault!”

*****

“Oh, Ralph!” Suddenly Annabel was pulling at the sleeve of the

man she loved, certain that he, above all men on earth, would be the one

to perform a miracle. “Oh, Ralph, isn’t there something you can do?”

He looked at here with a strange smile on his lips. All at once,

Mr. Ralph D. Spencer was gone from the room. In his place stood

Jimmy Valentine.

In a flash, he threw off his coat. Then he set his heavy suitcase

on a table and opened it. He took out his tools, one by one, and set them

out.

Then he went silently to work. In a minute his pet drill was

biting into the heavy door. Within a few minutes more, breaking his

own speed record, Jimmy opened the door.

The frightened child, unharmed, fell into her mother’s arms.

*****

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, packed up his tools, and

walked to the front door. Ah he went, he thought he heard a faraway

voice that he once knew calling out “ Ralph! Oh, Ralph!” but he never

stopped walking.

At the door, a big man stood in his way.

“Hello, Ben,” said Jimmy, still smiling his odd, sad smile.

“Here at last, are you? Well let’s go. Can’t see that it makes much

difference now.”

And then Ben Price did a strange thing.

“You must be mistaken, sir. I don’t believe I know you.”

Without another look, he turned away and strolled down the

street.

O’Question Sheet:

Complete the following questions in a new word processing document

and save it in your personal folder (not on the desktop). Lost files will

not receive marks, so I would recommend saving it on a USB key or emailing

your answers to yourself in case of a problem.

1) Summarize the end of the story, from the time the girls were locked

up in the bank vault in 2-3 sentences.

2) Were you surprised to read about Jimmy’s interaction with Detective

Ben Price at the end? Explain why you were or were not surprised,

using details from the story to support your opinion.

3) Identify each of the following parts of this short story using complete

sentences to describe each point in the story and why it relates to the

particular element you have identified:

1. Exposition

2. Rising Action

3. Climax

4. Falling Action

5. Resolution

4) Do you think that people can really change? If no, why not, and if

yes, why? Defend your answer with evidence from the short story and

from your life. Please respond in paragraph form.