It was for this very reason that nothing you said shocked me. In the early days of our association you had asked me if I was a virgin at the time of my marriage. When I had replied in the affirmative you had said, ‘What a pity!’
Over the years, perhaps like your other women, I took to talking freely with you on matters I would never dream of discussing with my husband. As for a liaison, all I can say is that we met too late in life.
Religion:
Living in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the armed forces, religion was certainly not a strong point with us – especially not ritualistic religion. The only time I was forced to keep an ‘akhand paath’ was when my mother-in-law died. Bored granthis droned the text to an unenthusiastic or absent audience. Keeping their fat tummies filled with rich food round the clock was a pain in the you-know-what.
As for the Guru Granth Sahib, I am reminded of an irreverent joke. A Hindu, intrigued by the air conditioner in the granth’s enclosure, asked a Sikh what it was all about.
‘We treat our granth as our eleventh guru and not merely a holy book.’
‘What do you do in winter?’
‘We cover it with a blanket.’
‘And if it gets still colder?’
‘We put a blower in the room.’
‘And if that does not suffice?’
‘We put it with your Gita!’ said the exasperated sardar.
This highlights the fact that, though the Sikhs revere the granth as their eleventh guru, they conveniently don’t set much store by its teachings.
Death:
As for the end that must come to all of us, it is not death I fear but the process of dying. I would not like it to be prolonged and painful. I am also terribly afraid of dying before I have made my mark as a writer. If only the world recognized my talent or I recognized my lack of it I would be at peace.
I hope you will forgive me for giving an unasked-for review of your book. Besides critics, newspapers and friends, I think it is important to receive a feedback from the public for eventually they are the ones that matter.
Love
Amrinder
***
1 March 2001
Dear Amrinder
You are right. There is nothing v. new about my auto – most of it has appeared before. I could not invent fresh episodes in my life.
I hope you are going ahead with your writing and will soon emerge as a major writer.
Love
Khushwant
36
The ground gave way from under my feet when I learnt from Karan Thapar’s interview in the HT that Khushwant Singh’s wife had been unfaithful to him for years! And I had been feeling sorry for his wife for having such a philanderer for a husband! To think that I gave him explicit details about my infidelity! I thought that Khushwant Singh would feel nothing but contempt for a man who insisted on keeping a wife who preferred another. Little did I know that he too was in the same boat.
Never did he confess his predicament to me. Perhaps I did not belong to that group of associates with whom he could exchange confidences. It was perhaps because of this that he had spent that agonizing night at Gurudwara Bangla Sahib which turned him into an atheist. Perhaps it was to keep the family unit intact and yet stay away from her that he spent so many years in Bombay.
***
11.3.2001
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I was shocked to read about your wife’s perfidy in Karan Thapar’s ‘Sunday Sentiments’. Yet, isn’t it amazing how one’s perspective changes depending upon whose side you are. Though I am in no position to give an opinion on this matter, though it is no concern of mine, I could not tolerate your wife’s betrayal!
To think that I went on and on about my unhappiness that led me to seek solace in the arms of another, when you could actually empathize with my husband. And not a word from you.
As a Khushwantophile, I could not comprehend the fact that anyone could think of you as a moorkh as you mentioned in your autobiography. When the entire educated populace of India swears by your intellect, when your words are lapped up (even though someone did say that you have perfected the art of bullshitting) faster than food in famine, to be thought of as a fool is beyond comprehension. But then ghar ki murgi is always dal barabar.
Love
Amrinder
***
22 March 2002
Dear Amrinder
I am no one to complain about infidelity. She saw the text before it was published and changed it.
Love
K
37
16.6.02
Dear Khushwant Singhji
The other day after taking an antenatal class at Max Medcentre, I mingled with the pregnant ladies and their spouses during refreshments. In the process I struck up a conversation with a journalist from Asian Age and his heavily pregnant wife. He told me that Asian Age was the most scandalous place to work in. That is why he insisted that his wife leave the place before he married her! Curious to learn what ‘insiders’ thought of you, I said, ‘Are the hush-hush stories one hears about Khushwant Singh true?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ said the head of Max Medcentre who was also part of our small group. ‘He only writes that way for effect.’
‘I have heard rumours of his escapades with women when he was with the Illustrated Weekly,’ I persisted.
‘He has never forced himself on a woman which is more than one can say of others,’ said the know-all journalist. I glowed with happiness at your gentlemanly behaviour and added, ‘I did read somewhere that the only hot thing he takes to bed is a hot-water bottle!’
How are you keeping these days? I haven’t met you since the launch of your book and would like to do so some day. I lent my copy of Truth, Lies & A Little Malice to my father and he reminisced that as law students in Lahore, along with his friends, he would rush to the canteen where your wife met you at noon to catch a glimpse of her flawless beauty!
I end with another of my naughty ones – A man sitting by a woman in a bus was staring at a photograph when it slipped from his hand and fell at her feet. Very politely he asked, ‘Zara aap sari uthaenge? Photo leni hai!’
Love
Amrinder
***
Kasauli, 22 June 2002
Dear Amrinder
Yes we have not met for a long time. I have been in Kasauli for a month working on another novel. Will be back in Delhi early July for a couple of months and return to Kasauli Sept.–Oct. Do ring me up and drop in.
Love
Khushwant
***
30.9.2002
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I rarely read about you in the newspaper; you seem to have become a bit of a recluse these days. Has age finally caught up with you or has the zing gone out of your life after your wife’s death. After all, half the pleasure of doing something naughty is to have someone forbid you to do it.
How is your latest novel coming up? As for me, I have been reduced to writing what people want instead of what I want. Mr Vishwa Nath of Delhi Press who gave me my first break as a writer, died this May. His place has been taken by his dynamic grandson Mr Divesh Nath who has modernized Woman’s Era to a slick glossy magazine that enjoys a readership of over 25 lakh! Besides giving me another column in his magazine he actually takes my opinion on certain matters and asks me to do lead articles on topics of medical interest. At least I get recognition – which I failed to get as a novelist.
Please let me know when you are free to meet me. I long to see you.
Love
Amrinder
***
10th Oct. 2002
Dear Amrinder
I have finally decided to retire from life – naari parasth leading to sanyas. No going out – drastic cut-down on visitors. I am more at peace with myself just reading, writing, watching TV or doing nothing. But you will be more than welcome whenever you care to come. Just let me know.
Love
Khushwant
> ***
14.10.2002
Dear Khushwant Singhji
It’s time you decided to do ‘just nothing’ once in a while. You have been a workaholic/alcoholic for far too long. As for taking retirement from being a naari parasth what if some Maneka (not the freckled one we have at present) took it as a challenge? Would you be game?
I hope you haven’t lost your zest for hearing a raunchy joke once in a while. The latest I heard was about a young man who took a bunch of red roses on his first date with an older woman. The seasoned lady duly took off her clothes and opened up her legs. ‘Are there no vases in your house?’ asked the bewildered young man.
Another is about a middle-aged sardar who heard the doorbell ring when he was in the bath. Hurriedly wrapping a towel around his middle he rushed to open the door. As the knot was loosely tied the towel opened and fell on the floor.
‘How come the hair on your head is grey and dark down there?’ asked the puzzled visitor.
‘Yaar utte te soocha hi soocha, thale mauja hi mauja!’
Attached with the letter was a story, ‘The Silver Hookah’, that I had written based on one of the anecdotes that my father, a retired air commodore, often regaled us with about his days in the armed forces.
27.10.2002
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I had to defer my plans for meeting you as my father-in-law, a nasty 95-year-old hypochondriac, decided to finally give up the ghost in Mussoorie, even as his elder son was making plans to foist him on us like his mother whom I nursed for two long years till she died. Not to be outdone by any quirk of nature, my brother-in-law decided to bring the mortal remains to Delhi for cremation. He preferred being cloistered with a decaying dead body for eight hours in the hearse than have a horde of relatives ascend upon them for the last rites!
It was with a sense of déjà vu that I went about the arrangements, having gained knowledge and experience with my mother-in-law’s death two years back. Granthis took turns at indifferent readings of the Guru Granth Sahib, depleting my larder in the process while the biradri converged to make a social event of it. At times I had to remind myself that they had come for a funeral and not a wedding. I wish I could follow your example and do away with rituals completely.
Hoping to meet you soon.
Love
Amrinder
***
31st October 2002
Dear Amrinder
I hugely enjoyed the bawdy jokes and ‘The Silver Hookah’. I am not sure which paper you should place the hookah in as it falls between a ‘middle’ and a short story. Perhaps the Statesman would be your best bet. Good circulation in Calcutta, modest in Delhi. Pays well.
I have gone slightly deaf and get serious headaches. Your uncle is on chuttee for over a month and I do not like to consult his substitute. Self-medication is doing me good.
Drop in whenever it suits you. You will have to sit closer to me – so I can hear you better.
Love
Khushwant
38
Khushwant Singh was losing his allure. Though I prettied myself out of habit for our meeting on 13 November, where was the excitement? I had erroneously thought of him as my anchor in the publishing world. I was still adrift and, frankly speaking, I had ceased to care.
Like my mindset, the decor of his drawing room too had changed. A carpet graced the floor that had always been bare and the sofas were drawn closer.
‘The room looks quite cosy,’ I remarked.
‘Yes, doesn’t it? The carpet was laid a few days back. In the evenings, the fire that blazes in the fireplace makes it cosier.’
‘Oh, I thought the fireplace was defunct,’ I said, since it was hardly used in Delhi. But on a closer look, I could see soot lining its walls.
‘So how is life treating you?’ he asked.
‘Depends upon how you take life.’
‘How are you taking it?’
‘Positively.’
‘Good.’
‘And how is life treating you?’
‘I have started getting nosebleeds off and on. I called your uncle over and asked him that of the twelve odd tablets he makes me take daily, which one could be responsible for the nakseer. He told me to stop taking aspirin but that hasn’t helped. I do not know whether to take it seriously. I haven’t told my daughter yet, for she panics. A specialist did see me though.’
‘What about the deafness you mentioned in your letter? You wanted me to sit closer so you can hear me all the better, like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood?’
He laughed and said, ‘It was the weather in Kasauli. It rained continuously and was damp and I could not go out. I decided to return and got these sinus headaches and deafness.’
‘What about the novel you were writing?’
‘It wasn’t coming up as per my expectations. The chapters I had written read more like a collection of short stories than a novel. So I’ve decided to abandon the project for now.’
I marvelled at the effort he put into his work while I knew only to grovel and snivel without trying to improve.
‘You must read this novel,’ he said, picking up a fat book and handing it to me.
It was White Mughals: Love & Betrayal in Eighteenth Century India by William Dalrymple. I had read the review in the Hindustan Times and told him what little I knew about it.
‘Englishmen in those days had harems of their own,’ he informed me.
‘They were not averse to adopting Indian traditions when it suited them.’
‘This Englishman – Kirkpatrick – wore a spotless white kurta–pyjama, smoked a hookah and attended the court of the Nizam of Hyderabad where he was posted as the British resident. The prime minister’s daughter, Khairunnisa, whose portrait is on the cover of the book, all of fourteen years, fell in love with him. Aided by the female members (to further their family influence), she took to visiting his chambers every alternate day after getting her pubic hair shaved each time. When she realized that she was three months pregnant, it became necessary that she marry the white man. It was all right as long as she merely slept with him, but marriage meant that he had to be converted to Islam. He even had to undergo circumcision, which must be quite painful as an adult.’
I shuddered. ‘Some countries, like Sudan, even get their women circumcised. This includes removing the clitoris, the seat of female sexual excitement, so that they do not fall prey to lust. Gynaecologists have a tough timed delivering their babies as the upper part of the vulva is scarred. They have to make a cut on top along with the episiotomy lower down and stitch both once the baby is out. Even if they did not get an orgasm, these women could use sex as barter and sleep around, so I think the ritual was counterproductive. In fact I did discuss the matter with a Sudanese woman. She said her father was a minister there and created a revolution of sorts by not getting her and her sister circumcised despite the dictates of their customs.’
‘I have a Muslim friend in Chicago who is gay and has a Sikh boyfriend. He rang up to tell me that the local qazi was annoyed, not because he was a homosexual but because he had chosen a partner from another religion,’ he said.
‘What about your collection of ribald jokes? When are you going to publish them?’ I asked.
‘They enliven cocktail parties at present. You know Bubbles of Le Meridien? Though she looks quite prim and proper, she has a vast repertoire of bawdy jokes but doesn’t know how to tell them properly. She’ll begin giggling right in the middle of the joke and replace naughty words with “you know what”, spoiling half the fun.’
Not to be outdone by this new threat who could potentially topple me in this game of bawdy jokes, I told him one of my own:
A woman was travelling in an overcrowded bus. She quite enjoyed the fact that her breasts were being squashed inadvertently by the man in front. Scared that she might take offence, he said, ‘Aapke santre dab rahe hain.’
‘Tujhe isse kya, santre mere hain,’ came the reply.
‘Magar juice to
mera nikal raha hai!’ he protested.
Khushwant Singh guffawed at this. Pleased, I told him another one:
Two sets of parents were discussing an alliance between their offspring. Said the prospective groom’s mother: ‘Sada putar che, saath hazaar di naukri karda hai par upper di kamai batheri hai.’
Not to be outdone, the girl’s mother replied, ‘Sadi dhi naukri te nahin kardi par thalle di kamai batheri hai!’
He found this hilarious and laughed uproariously. ‘Tell me about your love life,’ he half choked.
‘It’s getting stale. There is no mental or emotional rapport and, you wouldn’t believe it, but I have tired of sex and diamonds. Moreover, I am scared of losing them and of owning assets more than my income.’
‘How often do you meet?’
‘Once a week or fortnight.’
‘That’s not too often.’
‘The physical attraction has waned and there was never anything beyond that to hold us together.’
‘What about your family?’
‘If they like to pretend that nothing is amiss, it’s fine by me. Moreover, what anybody else thinks has ceased to matter.’
I had spent a full forty minutes with him, about ten minutes more than the time he usually allowed me. I was ushered out a happy woman.
39
11.12.2002
Dear Khushwant Singhji
The Afternoon Girl Page 14