Keep going. I have lots of letters waiting to be answered.
Love
K
18
17.6.2000
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I recently saw a tender English movie called You’ve Got Mail where a relationship more intense than anything physical is forged on email. I read of a correspondence between Kahlil Gibran and a female Egyptian writer – soulmates who had never met. More than a thousand letters bridged the seas that separated them. Then there was Charlotte Bronte who, like me, existed for the letters from her mentor, M. Heger and went into depression after he stopped writing.
I am glad that you are one of the fast-declining breed of people who have kept the art of letter writing alive. Emails are impersonal; telephonic conversations perish and telegrams, the dramatic one-liners have been killed by cellphone. Letters bring memories to life; they live on beyond the writer, can be cherished and reread.
Moreover people tend to reveal more in letters than during personal contact. I have preserved all your letters (even the abrupt one-liners) ever since the beginning of our erratic acquaintance.
Love
Amrinder Bajaj
***
21 June 2000
Dear Amrinder
Your ‘love me but don’t touch me’ letter received. It’s OK by me but I don’t see how affection can be expressed without physical contact. It’s like going to the sea only to be seasick. Let’s see how it works out.
Love
K
I was aghast at his misinterpretation. Perhaps he thought that I took offence at being hugged and kissed the last time we met. So I hastened to clarify my stance.
24.6.2000
Dear Khushwant Singhji
You have got me all wrong. ‘Love me but don’t touch me’ was not the message I wanted to convey. I am all for physical contact. In fact my definition of nirvana is complete physical, mental and emotional union between man and woman – instead of renunciation as advocated by the spiritually inclined. Only a stupid person would go to the sea to be seasick.
The message I wanted to convey was that incredible joy can be obtained from a few words written by a loved one on a piece of paper. Moreover, those who subsist on the pleasures of the written word do so because physical contact is not possible. Distance was the obstacle in the path of Kahlil Gibran and his Egyptian friend while a suspicious wife came between Charlotte Bronte and her beloved professor.
Love
Amrinder
***
28.6.2000
Dear Amrinder
I tried to get you on phone ****298. Woman said, ‘No Dr Bajaj here.’
Just to tell you that the poem you sent me has been published in my Tribune column and other papers. My secretary confirmed it.
Love
K
I rang him up immediately to let him know that he had the wrong telephone number.
‘Pher kad aa rahin hai?’ he asked.
‘Whenever you say. I am always trying to find reasons to meet you.’
‘You are an interesting person. I like your company. Why do you need a reason to meet me?’
The words were music to my ears.
***
A cocktail of apprehension and excitement swirled in my breast as I drove to Sujan Singh Park. I longed to meet him but hoped that he had not misconstrued my statement on physical love. It was my opinion on physical love per se and did not bear any relation to him.
He asked almost as soon as I walked in: ‘What news from your literary agents?’
‘Not much. They only confirmed that they have received the contract and the cheque and are working on my project. I wonder if they mean business or are out to swindle the gullible.’
‘You never know with these Americans. They can be quite devious – resorting to flattery and getting nothing concrete done.’
‘They did not flatter me. Right now, all I can do is wait till my time runs out and start all over again – perhaps in England, where people are more honest.’
His next question took me off guard: ‘Is it possible for a man and woman to be perfectly healthy and yet not have children with each other?’
‘Yes. It is called unexplained infertility.’
‘And can another man impregnate the woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am writing a novel on such a situation and wanted to know.’
‘What about your autobiography?’
‘Still held up by the stay order. My lawyer is having problems of his own. His wife died a few days ago.’
‘Is she the same lady whose photograph I saw in the obituary column?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she was based in America, right?’
‘She was in the Indian Foreign Service. She sent me her manuscript for evaluation. I told her what her problem was – same as yours. Being busy with her work, as you are with delivering babies, the text was disjointed. The last letter I received from her stated that she would heed my advice and resign from her job. Then she developed cancer and died. The disease was fulminating and progressed rapidly. How serious is cancer of the breast?’
‘Depends upon the stage at which it is detected.’
‘Another lady I know has developed breast cancer. She has sent me her reports from America. Can you tell me what to make of it?’
The report was inconclusive as the biopsy was from a necrotic area and a proper diagnosis was not possible. I told him so.
‘But the doctors said that she would have to get her breast removed.’
‘That can be quite traumatic. By the way, how is your wife’s Alzheimer’s?’
‘They have started her on a new drug.’
‘Nothing can reverse the disease’, I interjected.
‘The new medicine is the latest and is said to stop further deterioration. It is very expensive.’
‘We have given up on my mother-in-law. She is gone too far and suffers from a host of other problems.’
‘Is it a common ailment?’
‘Well, my father-in-law is ninety-four, with almost all his faculties intact.’
‘Ninety-four!’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be meeting your uncle?’
‘I usually do, but not today. I have to perform an operation.’
‘I thought you delivered babies.’
‘That is but a part of my job. I also deal with infertility, remove tumours, uteri and ovaries, and perform minimal access surgery.’
I could see that I had risen in his esteem.
‘Your uncle is quite a fanatic.’
‘At least he had something to hold on to – though, ironically, god has betrayed him time and again.’
During the conversation, he asked me if I do ‘paath’, the Sikh prayer. I told him that I am not into ritualistic religion. ‘What is the point in chanting morning and evening something I do not understand,’ I added by way of explanation.
‘Would you like to have a copy of my translation of Japji Sahib?’ Japji Sahib was the Sikh morning prayer.
‘That would be very nice,’ I replied. ‘One of the reasons I don’t do paath is that there is no point chanting what I don’t understand … But imagine writing an entire granth in verse!’
‘You know Guru Nanak has written in the Japji Sahib that the sembul (silk cotton tree) is of no use to anyone?’
‘Why? The silk cotton makes the softest pillows!’
‘And the wood is used to make matchsticks.’
The talk turned to nature, the Indian myrtle now in bloom, monsoon frogs whose numbers had rapidly declined, cuckoos and cuckolded husbands. I also mentioned a little temple near Ramghat that was manned by an unkempt foreign pundit with matted hair.
‘What is his nationality?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There must be quite a story there.’
Before I knew it, it was time for me to leave. It was the first time that I had stayed for over an hour. The first t
ime my commitments had forced me to leave.
19
Having won the ‘Most Honest Man of the Year’ award, Khushwant Singh was much in the news. He said he did not deserve it because, if being honest meant speaking the truth and not coveting other people’s property, he was guilty of both. He had a habit of flicking pens whenever the occasion arose and was not averse to telling a lie now and then. It was the Rs 10 lakh that accompanied the award and the fact that it put him on par with people like Atal Bihari Vajpayee and Manmohan Singh that made him accept it.
22.7.2000
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Congratulations on being awarded the title of ‘Most Honest Man of the Year’. Contrary to what you say, you undoubtedly deserve it. I am so glad for you.
I did not know that you have a penchant for pens. I get scores of them from medical reps and could collect them for you – though perhaps, receiving pens will not be half as pleasurable as robbing them. My fetish is pins. I have to pick up one or two from wherever I find them.
I read in your column about the sardarji who came crying to you after his daughter committed suicide. You told him that he was as responsible for his daughter’s suicide as her in-laws, for he had closed his doors on her when she needed his support. I remembered the time I turned to my parents to help me out of my miserable marriage. My father told me to go back to where I came from and solve my problems myself. He conveniently forgot that he had chosen my ‘problem’ for me. As for my mother, she lamented, ‘If I knew you’d shame us in this manner, I would have killed you at birth.’
I felt like retorting, ‘You would have saved us all a lot of trouble if you hadn’t given birth to me in the first place.’ But I kept mum. A weaker person would have indeed ended her life at that point of time, so I agree completely with your opinion.
Love and regards
Amrinder
P.S.: I am writing a booklet, The Adolescent Girl, to educate this section of society on reproductive health.
***
25.7.2000 Dear
Amrinder
My admitting that I was a pen thief has brought me a bumper of ball pens. I would like to add some of yours. Is pen a phallic emblem? So Freud would say. I also like watches – which he says represent female genitalia. You would know better.
Adolescent female sexuality is a good topic. I just read and reviewed a good book by Pinki Virani on child sex abuse, Bitter Chocolate. I can let you have my copy. She is very free with her language: fuck, cunt, shit, etc. She is a Muslim married to a Brahmin. He chants shlokas in one room and she does namaz in the other. She did a very good first book, Aruna’s Story, of a nurse raped over twenty years ago and is still living in a state of coma in a Bombay hospital. Then another Once Was Bombay of what mafia gangs have done to her city.
Hope to see you soonest.
Love
Khushwant
***
Dear Khushwant Singhji
You are incorrigible. Now I will never be able to look at a watch without thinking of its significance. By the way what sort of a watch is it? A wristwatch, a timepiece or a wall clock – perhaps it depends upon the woman’s age and reproductive history. And what does my compulsion to steal pins signify – a prick? We seem to have sex in our minds all the time – perhaps the whole world does – we are just more vocal about it.
I can imagine what a darling you must look – sitting as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth with all those pens in your pocket, with the organizers knowing full well what you have been up to and unable to do a thing about it.
How soon is soonest? I have collected four ballpoints and a watch for you. When can I come over to deliver them?
Love
Amrinder
***
9 Aug. 2000
Dear Amrinder
Soonest means sooner than soon. Just ring me up and tell me when.
Yours
Khushwant
***
6.9.2000
Dear Khushwant Singhji
A century seems to have passed since I saw you last. Do not think I perversely delayed my visit because you wanted to see me ‘soonest’. My sister-in-law (nanad) died in Chandigarh, even as her mother languishes in no-man’s-land in my nursing home. Whatever her travails at the hands of Alzheimer’s it has spared her the sorrow of a daughter’s death – a fact her mind is unable to register.
For the first time in my life I was an integral part of the death rites in a Sikh household. I watched with curiosity the akhand paath by granthis more interested in the rich repast than in the task at hand, the wailing on cue at the arrival of every fresh batch of mourners, subjecting the departed to the final ignominy of the ritualistic bath. Stripped of dignity and modesty she lay with her swollen belly and pubic hair sticking out. She had died of renal failure and had swelled to twice her original size. Her face looked hideous with its puffy cheeks, sunken eyes and protruding tongue. Gold bangles were cut off her oedematous arms. I shuddered at the thought of people mutilating my nose after death for the sake of my diamond nose pin.
‘Don’t worry, Mami,’ said her daughter. ‘We’ll take it off before your die.’ Such a macabre sense of humour prevailed in the face of death as if the fragility of life was mocking the finality of death.
Her hair was washed with curd and water. A minuscule bit of gold was stuffed between her teeth, new clothes were draped over her (it was impossible to get her stiff, swollen limbs into them) as were the innumerable shawls by various relatives and she was ready for her final journey to the pyre.
I tried ringing you up when I returned but no one would pick up the phone at your end. I was reluctant to ask Mamaji about your whereabouts lest he wonder how it was that I always visited him only when I came to you when he was the relative and a dear one at that. Finally I did muster enough courage to ask him and hence this letter addressed simply to:
Khushwant Singh
Kasauli.
I hope it reaches you.
Rest when we meet.
Love
Amrinder
20
Irang up Khushwant Singh after he returned to ask if he had received my letter.
‘Which letter?’
‘The one I sent to Kasauli. As I did not have your address, I just wrote “Khushwant Singh, Kasauli”.’
‘Kasauli is a small place. It should reach me. Did you get my postcard? In which I had asked you to meet me soonest?’
‘Yes, and I had written to tell you why I couldn’t come soonest.’
‘Okay, now tell me when you are coming.’
‘Any time that suits you, today, tomorrow …’
‘Make it Wednesday, 3 p.m.’
Armed with the pens I had promised him, I rang his bell at the appointed time. He received me with a warm hug and a kiss and held on to my arm as we made our way inside.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Fine. And you?’
‘I am all right but she is not well,’ he said, referring to his wife. ‘Her memory is deteriorating and she has lost bladder control. The doctor says that from this point on, she will only go downhill.’
‘Those expensive medicines were no good, but you did your best.’
Once we had settled down, I handed him the letter I had sent to Kasauli. It had been returned.
He read the address and laughed out aloud. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that Kasauli is in UP! It’s in Himachal.’
‘My geography was never any good.’
‘What news about your book?’ he asked.
‘Nothing positive so far. Ten publishers have rejected it, but my agent has told me not to lose heart. Replies are awaited from many more. You have also started a new novel, right?’
‘Yes, I have written about five chapters, but it is not going anywhere yet.’
‘Why?’
‘Lack of time. I can’t write here, what with the phone ringing, people dropping in, my columns, the media … In fact, a TV team will be coming in a s
hort while. Each time I say no more TV appearances, someone or the other I know puts in a request that I am unable to refuse.’
‘Oh!’
‘What are you writing now?’
‘A booklet for the adolescent girl. Our teenagers are going haywire. With the decreasing age of puberty and the increasing age of marriage, most of them indulge in risky sexual behaviour.’
‘A lady conducted a survey and found that most girls even in a state like Haryana are not virgins,’ he agreed.
‘About 55 per cent have had premarital sex. I know because I have to consult various journals before stating facts. You know the joke about the girl from Haryana? She was married to a city-bred boy who spoke mysteriously about the joys of a honeymoon. When they returned home, she asked: “What about the promised honeymoon?” “This was the honeymoon.” “This? This is what I routinely did in the fields with the boys back home!”’
He laughed heartily. ‘What is in that packet on your lap?’
‘The pens I promised you some time back and a watch.’
Soon, the pens, including one of antique silver, were on his lap and the watch on the mantlepiece. In turn, he gave me his latest book.
‘It is a compilation of all the women I have known, written about and fornicated with.’
‘Good, good. I’ll enjoy reading it.’
Soon, the TV crew arrived. Khushwant Singh introduced me, saying, ‘This is Dr Amrinder Bajaj. She has brought me a number of pens after learning about my habit of stealing them.’
‘Not that this will stop you.’ I laughed as I got up to go. Despite pressing commitments, Khushwant Singh was gallant enough to see me to the door and bid me goodbye with a moist kiss.
***
21.9.2000
Dear Amrinder
It was good to see you after so long a break. I am using one of your pens, your clock sits by my side as I get up often at night and want to know what time it is.
The Afternoon Girl Page 8