The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

  As for the cocktail party, my husband says that it is unthinkable that I go without him. I give in to his orders not because I cannot stand up to him but because I want to conserve my moral strength to oppose him in matters that really matter.

  Though I have called myself Rosy in the book, they call me Pinky at home. I’ll be glad to be called so by you.

  Love

  Amrinder

  Perversely, he never did. The next time I visited, the talk turned to my tangled married life.

  ‘I refuse to sleep with a husband who would not set me free – my rebellions are within the confines of matrimony.’

  Khushwant Singh wondered what he did for sex.

  ‘Masturbate, perhaps,’ I replied.

  ‘But isn’t there something called physical need that forces even incompatible couples to mate?’ he wondered.

  ‘Provided one gets satisfaction out of such loveless matings,’ I replied.

  I marvelled at Khushwant Singh’s ability to enjoy the company of other women (if all those stories one heard about him were true) and keep his wife happy. I did not know then that their marital life too was not what it appeared to be.

  Khushwant Singh wore shorts instead of his customary salwar on this hot and humid July afternoon. Even as we were communicating on an exalted plane, something obscenely physical came into view. With all the self-control at my disposal, I kept a straight face. Surely he hadn’t been reduced to this – a dirty old man indulging in exhibitionism to get his kicks! I had always judged people by the way they behaved towards me and, till now, I had no reason to complain despite his carefully cultivated image of a womanizer. Later, giving him the benefit of the doubt, I wrote:

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I have an embarrassing admission to make. The other day as I tried to connect with your intellect, certain unmentionable portions of your anatomy came into view. It took all the willpower at my disposal to prevent the shock from being reflected on my face. I have mentioned the unmentionable to protect you from further inadvertent exposure in company.

  As Kasauli is out of question, I have let go of leisure and reduced my hours of rest to revise my MSS. In fact I have already added two new chapters to the novel, which I am sending for your appraisal.

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  7.7.99

  Dear Doctor

  I haven’t yet gone over the edited version of your MSS but hasten to apologize for exposing myself. Though old, I haven’t yet acquired the fetish of exposing my rusted vitals. Another lady directly alluded to the ballpoint ad – sub kuch dikhta hai. I must give up wearing shorts. It is your uncle who advised me not to wear underwear during summer months to avoid fungus of groin. The doc did not realize that I would be displaying my vital organs to his niece. You have been seeing these on the dead and living so it should not have shocked your moral susceptibilities. I’ll get back to you in a few days.

  Love

  Yours

  Khushwant

  He was referring to the naked cadavers in the dissection hall and the diseased male genitalia in my surgery posting that I had alluded to in my autobiography. How could I explain to him that there was a world of difference between observing those organs clinically in the OPD, or on cadavers and having the vitals (as he quaintly called them) of so famous a personality intrude upon my line of vision during the course of an earnest conversation? I wrote:

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I spent the entire afternoon shaking with silent laughter. I would have loved to see the expression on Mamaji’s face when he realized what far-reaching consequences his treatment had.

  I am pruning the novel ruthlessly. I do hope it meets your standards this time.

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  14.7.99

  Dear Amrinder

  Send me the next two chapters next week.

  Love

  Khushwant

  I did better than that. Over the next month, I edited the entire second volume of my novel and sent it to him by post. He rang up after a fortnight. The nurse in my clinic answered the phone, transferred it to the extension upstairs which the servant picked up and called my husband, thinking that Khushwant Singh was my husband’s patient! When I finally got to speak with Khushwant Singh, his patience was sorely frayed. Moreover, he had bad news to convey. He told me that he could not bear to read more than twenty to thirty pages of my revised MSS and wanted me to retrieve it at the earliest.

  ***

  Flushed with fear, I entered the familiar room. He was on the phone, giving his comments to the media on Nirad Chaudhuri, the prolific writer and anglophile who had died that very day. I stood by. He did not ask me to sit down even after he had finished and was rude and impatient with me.

  ‘You have disregarded my instructions. Neither have you numbered the pages, nor typed in double space. How on earth is one to comment and edit?’

  My cheeks reddened with mortification. I did not know that one had to type in double space. He had given me no such instructions after going through the first volume.

  ‘Writing is serious business,’ he continued his tirade. ‘A novel is not like writing for magazines. You cannot pursue it as a hobby in between delivering babies. As I told you before, you have to take time off and correct the entire thing in one go. But you continue to overwrite. How often do I have to tell you to understate? Repetitive use of ‘just’ is typically Indian over-usage. Such things make all the difference between acceptance and rejection by reputed publishing houses. Then you get unnecessarily hurt. It is no good … being so emotional. Tell me, how important is writing to you?’

  ‘Right now, more important than medicine; more important than anything else,’ I managed to mumble, choking on the lump in my throat.

  ‘Read the comments I have made. Take time off and go over the entire manuscript all over again. Once you are done, contact me and we’ll see what we can do about finding a publisher for you. But stay away in September and October as I have commitments of my own and cannot entertain you. Now if you will excuse me, I am expecting a TV crew.’

  It was a reprieve. I did not mind being shooed away unceremoniously. What mattered was that all was not lost yet.

  On a piece of paper within the manuscript, there was a repetition of the reprimands he had so vociferously voiced in person:

  I have edited your MSS till ‘My Firstborn’. I will not be able to do more till after October as I have a lot of travel and writing assignments.

  You continue to ignore my advice. Pages are not numbered. And there is not enough space between the lines. This makes editing difficult.

  You continue to overwrite and indulge in introspection, which is not in place in the narration. I fear you are not giving it the time it needs. It may be OK for magazine articles, but not for a book by a reputed publisher. I suggest again that you take a few days off to devote entirely to revise your MSS. Otherwise you run the risk of being rejected – and hurt.

  Love

  Khushwant

  ‘He has turned nasty because you refused his offer for cocktails and a rendezvous in Kasauli,’ said SP when I poured my woes to him.

  ‘You do have a dirty mind,’ I retorted angrily. ‘He is not what he pretends to be. Moreover, I wonder if anyone can at eighty-four …’ I grinned impishly.

  ‘I hope you don’t intend to find out.’ He laughed, but I could see that he was not amused.

  14

  How I longed to do as Khushwant Singh had suggested! Live like a hermit in the Himalayas, sustained only by the desire to write! But it was not to be. A middle-class Indian woman is not the mistress of her own being. Writing was a quirk I was allowed to indulge in only during my spare time. Though my husband claimed that my practice, my home and the children would suffer on account of my prolonged absence, it was his underlying insecurity that forbade me from taking up Khushwant Singh’s offer. I was stuck in a rut and there was no way out. Even a
s I was thinking, I realized that there was no point pretending that others were obstructing my path. The real obstacle lay within.

  The time had come for me to choose between medicine and literature, between wife and mistress. Could I give up the thrill of the operation theatre for something as fickle as the written word? The adrenalin rush during a surgery, the gratitude of the cured and the financial stability of a medical practice were far too good to give up for a career in writing. I knew that Khushwant Singh had given up law to become a writer; but he had hated law, while I loved my profession. He also had his father’s money to fall back upon while I had to earn a living.

  Disregarding his advice once again, I tried to balance my profession and passion as well as I could. There were examples of writers like Munshi Premchand who went about his business during the day and devoted the night to writing.

  After two months of relentless revision, I rang up Khushwant Singh to inform him that I had finally finished the book.

  ‘Why don’t you send it directly to Penguin?’ He did have a habit of forgetting his promises.

  ‘Aren’t you one of the editors?’

  ‘I am a consultant editor. Only when they have sieved through a pile of manuscripts does one occasionally come to me.’

  ‘Can I please bring it over to you? It would make a difference if you sent it along with a note.’

  He agreed reluctantly.

  ***

  Once again, Khushwant Singh was perfunctory with me. His house was being whitewashed and I had invited myself over at an inopportune time. He baulked at the number of sheets I held in my hand.

  ‘The actual pages would work out to be half this number. You told me to double-space the lines …’

  ‘Okay, dump … put them there,’ he said, pointing to the windowsill. ‘I’ll send it across to Penguin. Contact Ravi Singh after a month and let me know what he has to say.’

  ***

  Khushwant Singh’s The Company of Women was released with much fanfare. Incidentally, it got awful reviews, boosting the sales.

  ‘Thirteen thousand copies were sold before the book even hit the stands,’ he told me, trying to hide his pride.

  ‘The reviews were appalling.’

  ‘It is a bad book. The moral of the story is that one must write a bad book for it to sell.’

  ‘How much of it is connected to your persona? Do you think if I had sent a “bad book”, an editor of repute would have accepted it?’ I asked. I was appalled at my own audacity once again.

  There was a moment’s silence, followed by an unconvincing ‘yes, he would’.

  ‘What are the trees with pretty pink blossoms called?’ I asked in order to change the topic. I had seen them at roundabouts while driving over and he had written a book on the flora of Delhi called Nature Watch.

  ‘It is called chorisia. The only tree that blooms during winter in Delhi.’

  ‘There is one in the garden. Come, I’ll show you.’

  He walked barefoot with me right out of the door, put his hand on my shoulder and, together, we gazed at the garden.

  I was perfectly happy standing thus with his arm flung carelessly over my shoulder. The dirt-filled cracks in his feet, the unkempt, badly dyed beard did not jar. Once again, I asked for a picture and this time he acquiesced easily. In fact he summoned a driver to click us together. My cup of happiness brimmed over.

  ***

  Having made rash statements about Khushwant Singh’s book without even reading it, I decided to buy a copy and judge for myself. After going through it from cover to cover, I wrote:

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  After the awful reviews (cheap jerk-off book, etc.), I expected a very bad book. I was surprised to find that it was pleasant reading. I think you deserve something from Haridwar tourism for promoting it. I have never seen the city in the fairy-light splendour you have described. My memories of Haridwar bring with them images of filth and squalor and greedy pandas that shatter its religious sanctity. As for the fantasies – I am disappointed. They are pretty tame for an octogenarian. Why, even mine are more colourful.

  For the last 2 years my novel had become so much a part of me that I now feel bereft. On account of the solitude I had cultivated, ties with the real world were insidiously broken.

  Meanwhile I eagerly await Ravi Singh’s verdict. Do I ring him up?

  With warmest regards

  Amrinder

  ***

  12.11.99

  Dear Amrinder

  Never invest too much emotion in one person – when you sense the relationship is cooling off, take the initiative to drop it. It is less hurtful. That is why I regard sex more important than love. A certain amount of love is inevitably generated when two people enter an intimate relationship – but if you keep it at the back of your mind to enjoy it as long as it lasts and not to let it linger too long you will find it easy to enter a new relationship. There is no dearth of men wanting a nice lay.

  I am off to Hyderabad. I’ll be back on the 18th. I will contact Ravi Singh for you.

  With love

  Khushwant

  He had mistaken my attachment to the book for my attachment to a man! I had no intention of flitting from man to man. One stormy extramarital relationship was more than I could handle. Nevertheless, it was sweet of him to give tips on how to prevent a heartbreak.

  When I finally did contact Ravi Singh, I was in for a rude shock. He had never heard of my book!

  ‘But Khushwant Singh forwarded it to you.’

  ‘Khushwant Singh sends manuscripts in bulk and the chief editor distributes them.’

  So he had never intended to put in a word for me!

  With a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach, I rang him up to let him know what I had learnt. Nothing he said could restore my trust.

  15

  26.12.99

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  As I sit on the milestone of the new millennium and watch time slip timelessly by I wonder:

  If I were marooned

  On an island

  Where time

  Could not be measured

  By watches and calendars;

  Would I know on which

  Dark and dreary day do I

  Mourn the death of a year,

  And on which cold and

  Foggy morn, do I cheer

  The birth

  Of a new millennium?

  Cynicism aside, I wish you longevity so that you continue to suffer the likes of me. I wish that your tongue and intellect remain as sharp as ever so that you continue to shred people to bits. I wish god grants you whatever wish that remains yet unfulfilled. In short I wish you a happy new millennium.

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  29.12.99

  Dear Amrinder

  The weather is dreary enough – you don’t have to add gloom to it by sob stuff. Cheer up girl, there is yet a lot of sunshine and flowers in the years to come. I wish you were a drinking girl and we could get lit up together. Maybe in the next millennium.

  Lots of love

  Khushwant

  ***

  4.1.2000

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I do not know what has come over me. I’ll be 50 in May and behave like a schoolgirl drooling over her first crush. I am delirious with joy when your letter arrives. You are the only one I write to. With all the others I communicate by phone or email.

  I ushered in the new millennium by ushering in a new life. After the delivery, I drove home at 1 a.m. in a cocoon of fog as if I was the only being alive. Frenzied swathes of white swirled in the powerful beam of my headlights. I have often waxed eloquent on the rain and dew but for the first time in my life, fog fascinated me.

  If you were to tell someone that I was a depressed and unhappy sort of person, no one would believe you. I am the epitome of wit and repartee in any gathering. In fact, except for my writings where I hanker for recognition, I have found contentment in
all other aspects of life.

  I have looks and brains. I live life on my own terms and unflinchingly pay the price. I have no quarrel with my husband for the simple reason that expectations have ceased. I can even find it in my heart to forgive his surreptitious vindictiveness. I have brought up strapping young sons and snapped the apron strings before they could break them along with my heart.

  I am respected by my colleagues and trusted by my patients. Most important of all, SP still thinks I am the most desirable woman on earth. He showers me with diamonds and love even after 12 years of togetherness. No matter what the future holds for us, I will remain indebted to him for teaching me to get pleasure out of a body that knew only hard work and fatigue before. We are incompatible on the intellectual plane though; but even Draupadi could not get all the virtues she wanted in a husband in one man and had to marry five of them!

  With such bounties showered upon me what else could a woman want? Fame perhaps?

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  8.1.2000

  Dear Amrinder

  It is 2 a.m. I often have a sleepless night. I am tired of tossing and turning and fantasizing in bed, I come to my sitting room, make myself a mug of tea and get down to reading and writing. No brooding, no wallowing in self-pity, no mumbling of prayers. Work is the best therapy, good Scotch the best antidepressant. And beware of putting all your eggs (emotional) in one man’s basket. It is all very well for him to keep paying you compliments and never tire of savouring your body – all that would come to an end if you got married to him. Illicit love is more enduring than one sanctioned by society – but have no illusions about its longevity. I suggest you read Protima Bedi’s memoirs published recently. She had scores of lovers, broke every social norm, lived life to the full (writes of making love six times a day), smoking pot, getting drunk, high on LSD – but full of the joy of living – and no regrets. She spent four days in my home at Kasauli after her only son committed suicide. She had shaved off her head and turned sanyasin. She came back full of smiles and laughter – and took on a new lover.