When I was writing my story (though no one was interested in publishing the autobiography of ‘an unknown Indian woman’) I had promised myself that if we ever met again I would ask the doctor point-blank if he had ever loved me. It would set at least one demon that plagued me to rest. The opportunity arose a few days ago. I tried to keep my promise to myself and the moment we were alone I blurted, ‘There is something I have always wanted to ask you.’ Though he waited patiently, for the life of me I could speak no further. A mature woman of the world was reduced to a blushing teenager! He always did have that effect on me. All that I got out of that meeting was yet another poem. I began to doubt my fidelity towards my infidelity and wondered if I had sunk further down the slippery stairs of moral degradation. My poor husband as usual did not stand a chance.
This brings me back to my original question – can a person be in love with two people at the same time? In fact three, for I think I am in love with you too – I did not like it when you were away from Delhi entertaining pretty young editors from Penguin! I know I have no right to be jealous and you will bar me entry to your house if I started staking claims upon your affections. Strangely though my sentiments towards each of you is different. With one it is purely a physical attraction, what I feel for you is indefinable while my feelings for that doctor are sublime.
Did you get a chance to speak with KM/SM regarding the elusive contract? Please remember to send me the invitation for the book release on the 20th by Amitabh Bachchan. Your piece on Domsky was beautiful.
Love
Amrinder
***
8 July 2004
Dear Amrinder
In a compilation of essays, I contributed a piece in which I tried to explain the phenomenon of love as a tug of war, between the desire to preserve one’s inner solitude and the desire to share it with another. I believe all people are in love with more than one person during their lives. There is no monogamy in love. You can love one person, fuck another. Fuck one without being in love with him or her. And enjoy it.
There are no blacks and whites in emotional/physical relationships. There are large grey areas. However I do not believe that one can be in love without desiring physical contact. The body must be allowed to express itself as best as it can just as the mind.
I am surprised you did not blurt out your early love to your college-mate. If you had, he might as well have wanted to consummate it. There should be no sense of guilt (I fear you have, for you frequently refer to your infidelity). Express your passion without fetters imposed by society. Anyway though, you missed out on what may have been the mother of all fucks. It may make you produce a good poem.
Love
Khushwant
***
12.7.2004
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I have been experiencing what you call ‘the mother of all f**ks’ ever since I met that earthy animal with a raw sexuality. Absolutely fulfilled on that score I have no desire to complicate matters further. Confessing to having loved a man does not necessarily translate into an invitation to my bed. As you wrote there are vast grey zones in such a complex emotion and one can love different people differently with equal fervour. I would have been perfectly content to learn that I too had been loved in return and there just wasn’t enough time for the relationship to mature. Acknowledging that love 30 years too late would have erected an invisible wall of constraint between us.
Contrary to what you say, I can vouch for the fact that one can subsist on sheer emotional attachment for a lifetime. Women whose husbands have been rendered impotent do not as a rule leave them and I am not talking of the typical bharatiya naari, for one tends to think she does not have much of a choice. A living example is Reeves, a famous Hollywood film star (one of the James Bonds), who became quadriplegic after an accident. He offered to set his young wife free but she refused, saying, ‘But you are still you.’ On the other hand it is quite true that one can have sex without love as most Indian women do, with their husbands, till the end of their lives. I recently saw a movie called Unfaithful where a woman with a physically and emotionally satisfying married life could not resist the charms of a philanderer she met by chance. The story ended in murder of the lover by the husband. Though you urge me to let go without caring for social norms, what about the repercussions that could even be fatal?
I got the contract from OP Publishers soon after I sent you a letter requesting you to forward my case. I rang you up immediately to tell you that there was no need to contact them on my behalf but got no reply. I tried again in the evening but my ‘saut’ Diya picked up your phone and asked me sweetly if she could take a message for you! Please do not tell the poor innocent girl what I write of her – half in jest and half in earnest.
Though the contract was entirely pro-publisher, I signed it without hesitation and posted it. Not that I had a choice – they would not change a word to accommodate me and there wasn’t exactly a line of publishers waiting at my door. Anyway, it is yet another wobbly step into the precarious world of publishing. In the medical profession the stakes are high (human life), the operations precise and the returns immediate and gratifying. The outpourings of my pen often sink without a trace, like raindrops on desert sands. In my profession, the world revolves around the doctor; while in the business of writing, recognition is a reluctant mistress who treats those who pursue her like dirt. Attainment remains tantalizingly out of reach but I have determination and perseverance to help me so there is hope yet.
I hope you haven’t heard these before:
The wife of an obstetrician to a flirtatious patient of his:
‘My husband delivers babies. He does not install them.’
On passing her BEd. exams, a girl sent a message to her father: ‘Daddy your daughter was successful in bed.’
Love
Amrinder
54
Iawaited the post for the promised invitation eagerly, but no card arrived. As he was getting on in years and becoming forgetful, I sent him a not-too-subtle reminder, but no invitation was forthcoming! It was humiliating; yet I tried to view the omission dispassionately. By now I had enough experience of the contrariness of human nature, more so of Khushwant Singh to realize that ‘chidiya se beeth bhi maango to voh cheeke pe chad jaati hai’. I remember a comment he once made on Indira Gandhi – ‘She could, without reason, suddenly ignore or be real nasty with people she had been on good terms with.’ Little did he realize that he too had that trait!
My sister saw the goings-on on TV and told me that Khushwant Singh was pleased with the fact that his son did not reveal as much as he expected, for he had done plenty of things to be ashamed of. She was probably hinting that if I ever wrote an autobiography, I too should not be too harsh on my parents. The next day I saw an incongruous photograph in the newspaper of father and son flanking Amitabh, who overshadowed them. While the son sported a clipped white beard, Khushwant Singh had dyed his an unnatural black. I felt a niggling hurt deep inside, but there was no point sulking. He was the way he was and I had to either reconsider the whole association or learn to make peace with his attitude.
I decided to take a break and not write to him for some time. However, I kept myself updated about his life. He had released yet another book – a collection of short stories.
23.8.04
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I am writing to you after a long time, simply because I had nothing of interest to say! There was no escaping you however. Avidly I read everything written about you and felt connected; be it your arbitrary birthday, your interview with Humra Qureshi, the release of your collection of short stories and of course your column. Yesterday I bought In the Name of the Father by Rahul Singh and might drop in some day to get it autographed. As of now I have just gone through the pictures and will savour the text at leisure.
You had mentioned once that emotions take a lot out of one and you are glad that you have no such encumbrances to distract you. This could mean that ei
ther you have grown a protective wall against hurt or time is running out at 90 and you want to devote all your energies in putting words on paper for posterity. As far as I am concerned emotion and experience are the foundations on which I build a story using words for bricks and sentences for mortar. The abstract leaves me cold; but to each his own.
I am playing a dangerous game at present. The last time I met my old flame (the one that flares up each time I meet him, albeit by chance) he asked about my writing. Proudly I whipped out the HT in which you had written my profile for him to read. After going through it carefully he said that my poem was very good. Impulsively, in a room full of people, I took out a poem inspired by his previous visit – and said, ‘This is my latest.’
It’s a love that needs no utterance
But speaks the language of silence.
A love that touches tenderly, like
The rain-laden monsoon breeze;
A whiff of fragrance in my nostrils
That perfumes my very soul.
A love that raises questions
For which, I dare not seek answers.
A love that seeks not consummation
Nor confirmation nor commitment
But wishes the loved one well
With every fibre of my being.
A love that
Subsists on chance meetings
And memories that linger
Like lengthening evening shadows.
Yet, I ask for nothing more
For, it is ordained that our,
Destinies cross but do not meet.
Did ever a man get such a declaration of love? He blushed like a girl and I could see that he was pleased. The ball was in his court now and yet days passed without a word from him. Had I come on too strong? Did I put him off altogether, losing forever even the easy banter that we shared? But no, ten days later I received an SMS wishing me ‘Happy Independence Day’. So what if the message was non-committal? It was a deliberate initiation of dialogue by him which was a first considering that all our previous interactions were by chance. I also know that I’ll retreat if he pursues further for I’m not sure what I want of him.
I have kept a new puppy, a Lhasa. Though his antics amuse and entertain, the pleasure is laced with sorrow. I try my best not to compare him with Toffee, for it would be unfair to the new one. If this is my state as regards animals I can well imagine what people who remarry might be going through. I know of a lady who had a poor sense of self-worth because she could not measure up to her husband’s previous wife in bed. He said that she was absolutely thandi while the previous one was charged with sexual energy. I was reminded of the classic Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier where the entire story is from the point of view of the second wife. Now for a silly joke.
A man went to a chemist and asked for a white condom.
‘Why?’ asked the chemist, perplexed.
‘The lady’s husband died recently and decorum demands that one wear white on such occasions.’
Love
Amrinder
***
8 Sept. 2004
Dear Amrinder
Have you ever pondered over the dividing line between lust and love? One is short-lived and not demanding emotional involvement. The other more emotional than physical. Men prefer the first and find the emotional baggage too heavy to carry. Women prefer the latter and often exploit men’s lustfulness in the vain hope that it will last forever. I suspect that you find yourself in a similar enigma. I am fortunately relieved of both and don’t miss either.
I too have a new puppy; foster-brother of the one already in the house. He is a boisterous little fellow who insists on sitting on my lap and biting my hand if I stop caressing him, and tears up my sweaters. He gives me company all day long and keeps visitors at bay.
I am busy translating my favourite Urdu poetry into English although I swore to write no more. I have two more books in the assembly line. I know of no other way to pass my time than in reading and writing.
Your condom joke is stale. Actually he asked for a black condom because he was in mourning. The joke was originally in French. When asked why black he replied, ‘Pasque mo femme est mort – because my wife is dead.’ The seller replied, ‘Quelle delicatessen!’
I will be back in Delhi on 1st Oct.
Love
Khushwant
***
13.09.04
Dear Khushwant Singhji
If I could be that pup on your lap for one day and enjoy the caresses he demands so aggressively! All I can hope for is a reply to my letters for which I wait on tenterhooks, often receiving one for two but I am grateful even for that.
As of now I am busy preparing for my son’s wedding to a tall, lovely Brahmin girl he has been going around with for seven years. I liked her so much that when my friends asked me if he was serious about her, I said, ‘I don’t know about my son. I am serious about her.’
She too has a sense of humour that gels with mine. These are latest I heard from her:
Q: Why do men ask for a woman’s hand in marriage?
A: Because they are tired of using their own.
First folded hands
Then hand in hand
Then hand in that
Then that in hand
Then that in that.
Love
Amrinder
***
21.9.04
Dear Amrinder
I answer every letter you write the same day. This is the second from Kasauli. Your son’s wedding is good news. Is he keshdhaari?
I have been v. busy meeting my commitments. In addition I had to do an article for TIME (US) on Gujarat and a review for Outlook. It is a grind from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. But fulfilling. I like to return to Delhi with a clean slate.
I liked your jokes this time. I hope the marriage goes off well. Maybe by next year you will be a grandma. You should have your name entered in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most fuckable grandma in India.
Love
Khushwant
After all that talk about men believing in lust and women in love, this was the best compliment a man could pay a woman. But I was shocked nevertheless!
55
The wedding was over, the guests had departed and my son had left with his wife for their honeymoon. I could finally afford the luxury of a stimulating conversation with the contradictory gentleman whom I had developed a genuine fondness for and rang up to fix an appointment. He answered in a rasping voice: ‘I have a terrible cold.’
‘In that case, you rest,’ I responded, disappointed.
‘Why, you wanted to come over?’
‘Yes. But it does not matter.’
‘Come anyway. You will make me feel better.’
Delighted, I set off for his home and found Khushwant Singh riveted to his favourite chair.
I told him that I did not presume to invite him to my son’s wedding, for I knew that he would not come.
I gave him a boxful of pistachios and adding, ‘Shaadi pe auron ka muh meetha kiya, socha aapka kadva kar doon,’ I handed him a bottle of Blender’s Pride that I had filched from the wedding stock.
‘It’s Indian.’ He seemed disappointed. I had spoilt him with the Chivas Regals.
‘I know nothing about whisky brands. This is what I could salvage from the wedding. You don’t drink Indian brands?’ I asked diffidently.
‘Of course I do. Thodi pi, zyaada pi, achchi pi, buri pi/ jaisee mili sharaab pi.’ He reeled off the couplet and asked, ‘Is your son a keshdhaari?’
‘No. He chopped off his long, luxuriant hair a couple of months ago, perhaps to please this Brahmin girl.’
‘What is in the other bag?’ he asked eagerly. It contained no more presents but books I had brought along for his autograph.
Though Rahul Singh had written In the Name of the Father, Khushwant Singh signed it for me, stating proudly that the book was doing well. ‘He has written other biographies too, but they haven’t done so well.’
‘That is because this is about you,’ I said with staunch loyalty.
‘But it is written quite well.’
I had to concede to that. Being an ardent Khushwantophile, I got to know more about Khushwant Singh from this work than from any other source. The talk turned to Rahul Singh and his Parsi girlfriend.
‘What is her name?’
‘Nilofer.’
‘They have been together for quite a while?’
‘Twenty years!’
‘Then why haven’t they got married?’ I could slap myself for poking my nose in other people’s affairs, even if Khushwant Singh himself shamelessly pried shameful secrets from me.
I expected to be scolded roundly, but he simply said, ‘Because she does not want to. I even went to her father with the suggestion that the two get married. He has no objections. “Persuade my daughter and I am with you; but she refuses to lose her independence,” he said.’
‘Is she working?’
‘Yes, she holds a very high position in the Indian Express.’
‘Parsis put the dead in the tower of silence for vultures to pick their bones clean of flesh?’
‘Only in places where there is a large conglomeration of Parsis. In other places, they bury their dead.’
‘They have one in Bombay, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I heard that the number of vultures have decreased due to the painkiller diclofenac that vets inject in animals and that dead bodies are putrefying in the tower.’ I gave a shudder of horror and continued: ‘Cremation is the most hygienic method of disposal of the dead. Now that electric crematoriums have come up, I’m glad that trees will not have to pay with their lives for human deaths.’
The Afternoon Girl Page 21