The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

Freely of its bounty.

  Even as resentment burnt

  And frustration

  Rose like gall,

  I learnt from this silent gesture

  The art of selfless giving.

  For that one day, I was Cinderella-turned-princess by the magic wand waved by my godfather. The phone rang non-stop. People dropped in to congratulate me. I was toasted in our hospital get-together. Only one person was nasty enough to hint that he was promoting me because we belonged to the same religion, which was totally unwarranted. If ever I had come across a brown sahib, it was Khushwant Singh. In fact, he was more English than the English.

  Mamaji felt vindicated. To think that a few years ago Khushwant Singh had told him to get me off his back!

  I sent Khushwant Singh a heartfelt note of thanks to which he replied:

  20 Nov. ’97

  Dear Amrinder

  You don’t have to be so profuse in your expression of gratitude. All said and done, you are an achiever. If you keep striving you will get to the pinnacle in both fields – medicine and literature. Don’t waste your time in social and religious activities. After delivering babies, take up pen and paper, lock yourself in a room without a telephone and get on with it.

  Best of luck and love

  Khushwant Singh

  P.S.: The picture has come out rather well. People might think it to be a matrimonial ad and propose.

  It was as flattering a compliment as a forty-seven-year-old woman could get.

  11

  Khushwant Singh’s word was law unto me and I followed his advice diligently. Chapter after chapter of the ‘Diary of a Gynaecologist’ series poured out. I wrote about the malpractices doctors indulged in – right from taking commission for referring patients to removing perfectly healthy gall bladders for stones that existed in the surgeon’s pocket – and incurred the wrath of my colleagues. I presented the flip side of the coin too, and wrote of patients who harassed doctors, fought over medical bills and clapped the Consumer Protection Act on us at the slightest pretext.

  One incident that became a part of my series was that of a stillborn baby. The newborn that lay in eternal sleep, before he woke up to the world, still refuses to let me sleep. The Doppler, an instrument used to record the baby’s heart, was out of order, which resulted in inadequate monitoring by the subordinate staff, and I, as the consultant in charge, was morally responsible. The wrath of the parents’ relatives snowballed into mob hysteria that broke the hospital windows and threatened me with dire consequences. The pain in the mother’s eyes, the lack of support by the hospital administration and the humiliation I suffered left an indelible mark on my psyche.

  As a means of catharsis, I poured my heart out on paper and called it ‘The Price of a Doppler’, which was published in Woman’s Era. Though I hadn’t mentioned the name of the hospital, the authorities weren’t amused.

  I was summoned to an emergency meeting where the trustees tore me apart.

  They did not stand by me when I was surrounded and threatened by the patient’s relatives for failure of their instrument and the negligence of their staff. How dare they take offence? I fumed.

  I had come prepared with my resignation and laid it on the table.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ said the head. ‘After much deliberation, we have decided to give you a second chance.’ Indeed! The condescension was more than I could bear. I had had enough. Who cared for their two-bit attachment?

  ‘I would not like to con—’ I began.

  ‘Let’s put the unpleasantness behind us and get on.’

  It was the closest they had come to an apology and I had the grace to forgive them; but it was for the first time in my life that I understood the power of the pen. They dared not let me go lest, freed of my loyalty to them, I exposed them for what they were!

  A couple of years later, the diary series died a natural death. After all, how many interesting, horrifying, scandalous true stories could a doctor rustle up?

  Meanwhile, the autobiography progressed at an even pace. Long-forgotten incidents surfaced like driftwood on the shores of my mind. An old jewellery box, an armless doll, a hand-sewn book of handwritten poems, each had a story to tell. Holding a mirror to my past made me live life all over again with renewed acuity. Though I wrote as if my life depended upon it, I was tormented by doubt as to why anyone would be interested in reading about a nonentity like me. What right had I to expose lives interlinked with mine to public ridicule? How could I do this to intensely private people who asked nothing more of life than to live and die in anonymity?

  Time enough to think about repercussions later, I’d quell my misgivings and carry on. The very act of collecting seashells from the sands of memory gave me pleasure and that was reason enough to go ahead.

  In my next letter, I gave Khushwant Singh an update on my autobiography and asked when his eagerly awaited life story would hit the stands.

  On 18 February 1998, he replied:

  Dear Amrinder

  I am glad that you have got down to writing your autobiography. The fate of mine may be decided tomorrow by the Delhi High Court.

  It is a tricky affair. No matter how much you change the names of real people in fictional characters, those close to you will recognize them and get hurt. But the risk is worth taking. It must be truthful and well written. Many doctors-turned-writers have written excellent novels, e.g., Axel Murbe (The City of San Michele) and A.J. Cronin. Wasn’t Somerset Maugham a doctor before he became a storyteller?

  You are welcome to drop in whenever you like and tell me what progress you are making.

  Love

  Khushwant

  It felt wonderful to be treated as an equal – as if the chasm of age, gender and, more importantly, fame did not exist. We were friends discussing the travails of writing an autobiography. There was a rush of emotion that I was unable to slot. It certainly wasn’t love, for I was actively involved with another. Awe, affection and hero worship amalgamated to produce a warm glow in my pericardial region.

  Khushwant Singh was older than my father, but I did not harbour daughterly feelings towards him. Though I looked up to him, I did not venerate him. Full of failings that he did not care to hide, I knew he would abhor veneration.

  I could speak freely with him. He appeared genuinely interested in what I had to say and did not stand on judgement. I took every word he uttered as the gospel truth. Though I doubt he would have measured his words even if he knew of the influence they had on me.

  Curious about his new novel, I asked him what it was all about. He had originally given it the intriguing title of ‘The Sexual Fantasies of an Octogenarian’ and that had whetted my appetite. He replied from Kasauli:

  11th of May ’98

  Dear Amrinder

  The theme of the novel I am working on is lust on either side – unlike love – but more novelty. No difference between the genders. It is getting too sexy. With years, sex travels from the middle to the brain. I am 85 – have senile fantasies.

  Will be back mid-September.

  Love

  Khushwant

  After two long years of hard work, I finished my autobiographical novel and wrote about it to Khushwant Singh:

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  At last my story is over – complete and unabridged – and I am horribly afraid. If and when it is published, there will remain not a friend or relative who will not despise me. I have damned my family and myself – to what purpose I cannot fathom. How would the life story of someone as ordinary as me be of interest to anyone? Then why have I exposed lives that have touched mine to public ridicule?

  My only excuse is that I had to get it out of my system as if I must, like a woman in labour who could not but expel her offspring or die in the process. Like a mother I could only conceive, deliver and nurture my child. I cannot write its destiny. That is for you, the publisher and the reading public to decide. I only hope that it is not taken as cheap sensationalism of intensely p
rivate matters but as the poignant tale of a woman who valiantly fought a losing battle; who made mistakes and paid dearly for them; who saw her family disintegrate in front of her eyes and could not do a thing about it. It is the story of someone who finally realizes that you can depend upon no one but yourself to go through the painful process of living.

  Not only have I dedicated the book to you, I have written it as if I was narrating the entire tale to you. Make what you must of it and give me your honest opinion. I will take your criticism unflinchingly and praise, if any, with gratitude. Please find time to go through it and let me know if it will find a market.

  With warmest regards

  Amrinder

  P.S.: I could present it as a novel to protect the others or in a cowardly fashion publish it under a pseudonym.

  12

  Ihad gone to meet Khushwant Singh after a long, long time. It was as if he had never left the chair on which I left him two years ago. He wore his usual yellow patka and shabby beard, and greeted me cordially and demanded an update on my life.

  I don’t know why, but I always told him secrets I wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. Other women of his acquaintance did the same. Such candid confessions amazed his wife.

  ‘I never tell you anything,’ she pronounced.

  Well, for that matter the women who bared their souls to him never told their husbands anything. Khushwant Singh was different.

  I once read in his column that Shobhaa De and her husband had brought him a bottle of Chivas Regal when they came for dinner. The brand name rolled pleasantly on my tongue and conjured up images of royalty, riches and chivalry. Impulsively, I made bold to buy him one too, though the price was a bit steep and I wasn’t as rich as the aforementioned lady. I could almost hear the ice tinkle in a crystal glass filled with the fiery fluid, and taste every sip that Khushwant Singh swirled in his mouth with relish before he let it glide down his throat. I sincerely hoped that it would not be construed as a bribe. Little did I know then that Khushwant Singh could take ‘bribes’ and yet not deliver the goods. He was evidently pleased and asked me if I drank.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a pity.’

  ‘It isn’t as if I haven’t tasted hard drinks. I even visited the Glenfeddich brewery in Scotland. We saw the entire process. After the tour, every visitor was offered a peg in crystal glasses. I almost puked. It was terrible!’

  ‘Whoever drinks for taste?’

  ‘But how does one swallow something so unpalatable?’

  ‘You do not know what you are missing.’

  ‘Does your wife drink?’

  ‘She used to, more than me; but not now.’

  ‘Have you ever passed out or behaved badly in general after you have …’ As always, words better left unsaid escaped and as usual they did not offend.

  ‘No, never!’

  Returning to the purpose of my visit, he said, ‘I’ll send your manuscript to Penguin.’

  My face fell. I wanted him to read it first and give his opinion, but I dared not ask him to do so.

  ‘When shall I contact you?’

  ‘You will not contact me. I will ring you up.’

  And that was that.

  As I was leaving, Khushwant Singh’s wife asked me if had become a good girl again.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your uncle said that you have got over your bad phase and have returned to the righteous path.’

  ‘Did he? I wonder why? I am as bad as ever, but see no reason to update him.’

  Though I had let dear uncle down by tearing apart the cloak of respectability he had covered me with, I could see that I had risen considerably in Khushwant Singh’s esteem. In a later letter, I also had the temerity to tell him that ‘though my uncle was the epitome of goodness and I respected him, you, who are so delightfully wicked and brutally honest, are the man after my heart’.

  True to his word, Khushwant Singh rang up after a few days. He had read the first part of the novel and asked me to come over to discuss it. My face was flushed and my throat dry as I perched my rear on the edge of the sofa. His wife sat some distance away. It was rumoured that she was jealous of the stream of pretty visitors he received and tried to be around as much as possible. I had no intention of flirting with her husband, but I couldn’t speak freely in her presence. They were having tea and Khushwant Singh asked if I would like some.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water first?’

  I drank half a glass and began to sip my tea.

  ‘You have wasted the water,’ accused his wife.

  I felt as if I had been slapped. With reddening cheeks, I apologized profusely.

  ‘I’m sorry. I did not know …’

  ‘We do not drink tap water.’

  The day had begun on a bad note and Khushwant Singh’s announcement that he had good news and bad news for me did nothing to allay my apprehension. I swallowed hard and waited for him to proceed.

  ‘Whenever I go through a manuscript, I look for three things – the English, the matter and manner of presentation. The good news is that you have good material. You write well. In fact better than me.’

  Indeed!

  ‘Your writing is almost lyrical in places.’

  Considering the number of poems I had dissolved into prose, my writing had to be lyrical.

  ‘The bad news is that you will have to rewrite it. It is full of trivia that needs to be heavily pruned. No good publisher will take it in the present state. Moreover, a pseudonym is out and you cannot present this as a novel. It has to be converted into a novel or presented as an autobiography.’

  ‘But most first novels are autobiographical.’

  ‘They are heavily fictionalized. You will have to do the same. I have written my comments on a piece of paper inside the first volume. Go through it. There was no point reading the other volumes before the correction. It would be an unnecessary waste of time.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I think you should take a month off from work and concentrate on your writing. Do nothing but correct it. My house in Kasauli is at your disposal.’

  Even as I was ingesting this wonderful piece of information, he asked, ‘Does your husband drink?’

  ‘Only when he gets it free.’ Again, like a true sardarni, I had spoken without thinking.

  ‘You know, I have been awarded an honorary doctorate. Even I am a doctor now. There is a cocktail party in my honour at Le Meridien. Coming Monday. Will you come?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Too many good things were happening all at once, but I was wary. What would an unescorted woman, a teetotaller, a nonentity, do in a party of eminent ‘drinking’ people? Perhaps he had asked about my husband’s drinking habits to invite him too; but he did not say so.

  I had brought a camera along and, pushing my luck, I asked if I could get myself photographed with him.

  ‘No.’

  It was the second slap on my face within a span of twenty minutes. I furiously blinked back my tears. Seeing my face crumble, he relented. When I handed the camera to his wife to take the picture, it was her turn to refuse. I left, burning with humiliation.

  My petty vengeance resurfaced. I hoped that there would come a day when he would ask to be photographed with me. As for his wife’s meanness over a glass of water, I felt like emptying a tankard of chilled mineral water over her head. Had the brown sahib and his lady forgotten the basics of Indian hospitality or was it reserved only for those that mattered? Only when the likes of Khushwant Singh and his snooty wife stopped looking down their noses at me would I know that I had arrived.

  13

  Back home, I went through his notes, penned on lined yellow sheets of paper. They more or less stated the same things he had told me verbally. As I had called myself Rosy in the novel, he addressed it to her:

  Amrinder (Rosy)

  You have no problem with the language except occasionally lapsing into Indianism. Some paras stand out for their lyrical quality.<
br />
  This is not a novel; it is an autobiography and a very personal one. Not all of it is of interest to readers who do not know you. If you want to make it a fiction you will have to reconstruct it as a novel. If an autobiography, prune it as there are too many characters and trivia, which do not add to its readability. In any event you should prune it heavily.

  Two of your poems are OK. The last one, ‘The Sale’, could be deleted. The rhyming pattern is laboured.

  Minor alterations like professor for sir and mummy and daddy beginning with capital letters are required. There are a lot of spelling mistakes that need correcting. Don’t ever use words like brilliant for yourself. It may be true but in bad form.

  You have evidently written this in your spare time. The revision should be done as a whole-time preoccupation. Take a month away from Delhi (my house at Kasauli will be at your disposal). Go alone and do nothing but polish up your MSS. I have read only part one. Will read the rest after you have gone over it. You have good material and can write well. Don’t give up.

  Best of luck and love

  Khushwant

  When I told my husband about Khushwant Singh’s generous offer, he forbade me from accepting either of the invitations – an act seconded by my parents. I had spent a decade trailing the man and been dismissed perfunctorily every so often; and now that he was being so magnanimous, everyone doubted his intentions! Reluctantly, I wrote:

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I cannot thank you enough for your generous offer. It would have been bliss to spend a fortnight in Kasauli doing what was dearest to my heart but it was not to be. I am bound to the pillar of convention by the ropes of middle-class mentality. Even at 49, a woman who can take decisions pertaining to life and death in the operation theatre, a woman with a substantial independent income that contributes to the family kitty, is not allowed to make decisions about her own life. Even at the age of 84, you have been given the dubious distinction of a seducer. Take it as a compliment if you wish.