‘The chandals see to it that the electric crematoriums do not function so that they do not go out of business.’
‘I remember seeing their children playing hopscotch at Mamiji’s cremation. They become sensitized to death soon enough. You, I think, are obsessed with it.’
‘Not any more. I am prepared for it.’
‘It is not death that I fear, but the process of dying.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And the scriptures have the gumption to call it a mere change of chola! As if changing clothes was so painful. Do you believe in afterlife or heaven and hell?’
‘No.’
The phone rang. It was Kamna Prasad. She was translating Faiz’s poetry from Urdu to English with Khushwant Singh and wanted to come over. But Khushwant Singh told her that he had a cold and would be unable to meet her that day. He was sore with her because she had not turned up for her appointment the previous day. It was heartening to hear him tick off other women too.
Tea arrived in huge mugs with a plate of biscuits. He drank only the tea while I had a biscuit too. I left soon after. He was too ill to see me to the door, but did not forgo his customary kiss.
56
14.12.04
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I am sending a poem I wrote on you, for you. In the half-hour bits of time you allotted me over a period of years, this is the image I have formed of you. Whether I have painted a true picture of your personality or not is for you to judge. Ever the charming host I can only be grateful for the genuine interest you have shown time and again in the affairs of someone of no import like me. The gift of the gab and repartee, the power of your pen is beyond compare as I have mentioned in blank verse. The offensive bits are also true, not that they diminish in any way my fondness for you. I like you as you are and would not want you to change one bit.
SM of OP Publishers had said that he would begin work on my doctor joke book in the month of November. We are midway into December and yet no news from him. When I try to contact him he says that he is busy in a meeting and he will get back to me, which he never does. Perhaps this is the way of the publishing world, with which I am ill-acquainted. I have no choice but to wait patiently.
Love
Amrinder
P.S.: Ever wondered why women wear flower-printed panties? It is their way of saying: ‘In fond memory of those buried here!’
KHUSHWANT SINGH
The trinity he worships is
Booze, big bums and bad jokes
Though he wouldn’t like to own it now.
He cares not for religion and yet
Translates holy texts into English.
A lovable paradox, a nasty old man,
A rip-roaring raconteur, a stuffed shirt,
A stickler for time, Often pompous and rude
A charmer, a brown gentleman
Who
Calls English his mother tongue.
A connoisseur of beauty – in women, who
Hover around him like butterflies on nectar
He has no patience with god-men though
A comely sanyasin catches his attention.
There are a myriad facets to his
Kaleidoscopic persona of which
I have glimpsed but a few.
Many have capitalized on his name,
Many (like me) ride on his shoulders
The road to fame.
What he writes sells, what is
Written about him sells.
Though he has made an
‘Art of bullshitting’
The public takes it as the gospel truth.
Till they invent a ‘condom for the pen’
He will write and regale till he drops dead.
Three cheers to the grand old man
Of Indian literature and his
Deceptive aura of a dirty old fellow.
***
21 Dec. 2004
Dear Amrinder
I liked your obit on me. It is the self-image I project which does not conform to my mirror image.
I assume you wear flowered panties but you haven’t buried more than two or three chaps under them. I bet I have done better than you – and far more varied in race, religion and nationality. I could get a seat in the UN’s Security Council.
SM should be coming to see me about my 7th joke book sometime this week. I will ask him when he plans to publish yours.
Best of luck and a lot more solitaires paid for services rendered.
Love
Khushwant
57
Irang up Khushwant Singh on 1 January 2005 to wish him a happy new year. Though he did recognize me and returned my greetings cordially, we could hardly manage a conversation on account of his increasing deafness. In frustration I said, ‘I’ll write to you.’
‘Do that. I can still manage letters. My sight is better than my hearing.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye, sweetie.’
Sweetie! This was the first time he had called me ‘sweetie’ and I was pleased with the endearment.
6.1.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Wishing you a very happy, healthy, productive and satisfying (in more ways than one) New Year. I received this lovely message as an SMS on New Year and am passing it on to you – ‘Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away. Wishing you a breathtaking New Year.’
With reference to this joke that I had sent you earlier: ‘Ever wondered why women wear flower-printed panties? It’s their way of saying, “In fond memory of those buried here”, you had presumed that I wore flowered panties and had done poorly by burying just two in them!
Though I am in the habit of washing my dirty linen in your presence, this is one piece of lingerie you will never find in my laundry for the simple reason that I do not wear panties! It reminds me of a time, years ago, when you wore none under your knickers, at the advice of my uncle, your doctor, for the prevention of groin fungus and I got the most shocking view of my life! Now don’t say that, as a doctor my sensibilities would have become immune to any part of human anatomy. I have been a gynaecologist for 30 years and though the doings of a male to his female counterpart are responsible for most of my earnings I have no direct dealings with them. I had come to you for titillation of the mind and what I saw was indeed mind-blowing!
As for the number I buried in the bush, you know there were only two – which is one too many by Indian standards. Though I know of the races, religions and nationalities you have visited in this context I would like to know if any of them was a doctor – not that doctors are in any way different down there, but I am curious enough to risk your wrath in asking.
You must be aware of the fact that most gynaecologists abroad are males. Hence the following:
Gynaecology is the best profession. Where else can you tell a woman to take off her panties, touch her breasts, insert your finger in her and make her husband pay for it?’
Love
Amrinder
***
10 Jan. 2005
Dear Amrinder
No, never bedded a medical practitioner but a doctor of sociology, later on a professor and author of several books. Bespectacled, buck-toothed but very athletic, bright, ever on heat – a Canadian, great fun. Had her son stay with me on his visit to Delhi. Why am I telling you all this? Never told anyone else.
I’ve had a setback – health-wise. Got up at 2.30 a.m. to pee. On the way back, my left knee suddenly began to throb with pain. It spread from the lower thigh to the calf muscles. I could barely walk. It is mildly better but still persisting. I dread asking Kalra. He would send me for a dozen tests to his doctor friends and add to the number of pills I have to take. I have eight in the morning and six in the evening. Need I take this seriously?
Why should the darshan of my middle shock you? Was a sorry spectacle of an aged lingam. It had seen better days – and nights.
Love
Khushwant
***
18.1.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I am sorry to hear about your knee. The tentacles of age have spread to the joints. Ninety years of weight-bearing wears down the cartilage responsible for smooth movements. The bones thus exposed rub on each other and the pain can be excruciating at times.
As we are on the topic of knee joints, I will tell you a real-life incident. The head of the Dept of Orthopaedics called his junior over and asked him to get both the knees of a singularly ugly lady X-rayed. A little while later, the HOD asked the junior if his orders were carried out.
‘Yes sir, bhootnee ke X-rays ho gaye.’
‘What do you mean by bhootnee? She is my wife!’
‘But sir, I said both knees,’ the resident had the presence of mind to reply.
Speaking of jokes, did you get to talk with SM about my joke book? The contract was signed ages ago. Whenever I try to contact him (every month or so), he fobs me off with an ‘I’m in the middle of a meeting’ or ‘I’m driving and will ring you back later’. He never does. It is humiliating to be treated in this manner. Please tell me how to deal with him?
Love
Amrinder
***
22 Jan. 2005
Dear Amrinder
Thanks. You have condemned me to lameness. I tried Volini (Dr Kalra) – did me no good.
KM has not got back to me; I will ring him up today and remind him of his contract with you.
Love
K
***
31.1.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Do not worry about the change in your image that a walking stick will bring about. In fact, retired army personnel look rather distinguished when they go for their morning walk with a stick and a golf cap. Moreover it is the least of your worries – a fracture has to be avoided at all costs. Do you know that after heart diseases and cancer, fracture of the hip is the leading cause of death in the aged? The distance between the fracture and the grave is of a mere year. This is because the lungs of a bedridden person are unable to function properly. Water collects inside leading to pneumonia that is ill-tolerated. I do so want to attend your 100th birthday so please take care. How is the pain?
I’ll give you a sample of my pretty daughter-in-law’s sense of humour.
‘What were Santa and Banta doing?’
‘Feeling happy.’
‘And then?’
‘Happy left.’
Love
Amrinder
I am sending you pictures of the new love of my life – the fickleness of human nature – with Toffee not dead a year yet.
***
3 Feb. 2005
Dear Amrinder
Thanks. The knee is getting less painful on its own. Let me correct your data. My brother Bhagwant Singh is living in a wheelchair for over two years; his wife is in another wheelchair for the same reason. My friend Prem Kirpal (97) broke his hip seven years ago – and lives on. Why, I don’t know. I’d rather take Valium or cyanide.
SM’s family is away in Calcutta for the book fair. As soon as they are back, I’ll tick them off on your behalf.
Your little pet looks cute. I long for canine company.
Joke new to me – and good.
Much love
Khushwant
***
14.2.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Happy Valentine’s Day, i.e., if you believe in the theory that love should be celebrated only for a day when it ought to be a lifelong celebration. In the early days when I would offer my poems to you as the devout offer flowers to a deity, you would admonish me for rhyming the words and told me that blank verse is the call of the day. When I schooled myself to write in this way, you tell me that my sentences do not rhyme. I do not understand. I am sending two poems, one pertaining to Valentine’s Day and the other reflecting on the cycle of life – one blank verse and the other in rhyme. Please tell me what you make of them.
Mr SM is in Delhi now. Once again, he said he was driving when I contacted him. Has he given up publishing and turned chauffeur? It is humiliating to be treated like a supplicant after the contract is signed. The more I learn of publishers the more I hate this obnoxious species. It is difficult for one used to the respect due to a doctor, to be treated like dirt, time and again. Please help.
Love
Amrinder
As promised, attached were the two poems I had mentioned in the letter.
SM rang up the very next day (I’m sure at Khushwant Singh’s behest) and said he was driving when I rang up, and that he is available in office only in the mornings or late in the evening, after six.
‘But you are busy in meetings then. All I’ve been trying to do is know about the status of my book. You said it will be out in March.’
‘We have just published a joke book and it would not be a good idea to bring out another one so soon.’
‘When should I expect it?’
‘It’s already with the artist for the cover and will be out by August.’
‘That is all I wanted to know.’
58
Ever since I had begun redrafting the diary I kept on Khushwant Singh, I knew that it was because of a subconscious desire to get it published; but somehow it did not seem right. It would be tantamount to betrayal of confidences, some of them extremely personal, others explosive, but then that was exactly what would make it sell. I had ceased to be too upset by rejections. In fact, I had stopped sending my manuscripts to publishers, secure in the knowledge that I had a bestseller in hand. I hadn’t reckoned with my conscience though. It weighed heavily on my mind till I found a way out of my predicament. I would ask Khushwant Singh to go over the memoir with me and edit it. No point getting it published after he was gone. For one, it would be capitalizing on the event and, secondly, the one person I wanted to share my literary success with was Khushwant Singh and that certainly wouldn’t be possible after his demise. As of now, we would share the limelight, the copyright and, as was befitting, the royalties. Vastly relieved at solving a moral problem, I drove to his place with his latest – Death at the Doorstep – to get it signed by him.
When I visited him on 23 February 2005, Khushwant Singh was pleasantly surprised to see me enter his bedroom, which in turn surprised me, for, as usual, the appointment was fixed beforehand. Perhaps he forgot; perhaps he had mistaken my voice on the phone for another since he was hard of hearing. His face lit up with a smile of welcome and I bent to kiss him on the cheek. He returned it with equal warmth. The room was tidy and clean; in sharp contrast to the last time I had seen it. The bed was made and the books neatly aligned and dusted. The photos above the fireplace had changed though. One was of a black-bearded Khushwant Singh in his younger days and the other of him with Manmohan Singh.
He looked good in an olive-green salwar suit with a matching cardigan. His foot resting on a chair peeked out of the small, rough blanket covering the lower half of his body. This had prompted the choice of the present I had brought.
His servant came in asking if I wanted tea. I nodded. Meanwhile, Khushwant Singh switched off the cassette he was listening to, saying, ‘My latest passion – English classical music. Having lived abroad for such a long time, I have developed a taste for it.’
‘I have one of Mozart, but cannot fathom its beauty.’
‘Tell me about your love life.’
‘As of now, you are the only love in my life.’
‘But that is platonic.’
‘Not by choice. It is because we cannot help it.’ I smiled. I could take such verbal liberties with him because I knew I was ‘safe’.
‘No affection between man and woman can be platonic,’ he said, contradicting his earlier statement.
‘The sexual undercurrents add spice to “platonic” relationships. The situation is fraught with possibilities and walking on the edge gives a wonderful high,’ I replied, surprised at my frankness.
‘I al
ways keep your letter by my side,’ he said, and to prove it, he rummaged through the pile by his side and fished out my last letter. I was touched.
‘Give me your phone number,’ he said.
I remembered he had tried to contact me once and was annoyed at having to go through the nurse, servant, and my husband before reaching me, so I gave him my cell number.
‘You have a mobile?’ he asked, jotting it down.
‘A doctor cannot possibly do without one.’
‘Someone presented me a mobile once. I could never use it but have to keep it nearby as I live alone. Mala and Naina want to keep in touch.’
‘That is wise, though sometimes it can be annoying. Besides patients plaguing me with trivial questions, the telemarketing business gets on my nerves. I was fast asleep one afternoon after staying awake the previous night when a lady called up and said, “Main so-and-so se bol rahi hoon. Aap ko loan ki requirement hai?” Instead of ticking her off as I usually do, I said, “Main gynaecologist bol rahi hoon. Aap ko abortion ki requirement hai?” which offended her no end.’
He laughed at my gift of repartee and said, ‘Do you read the Outlook?’
He would often question me thus at a tangent and I’d wait patiently to discover the reference to context.
‘Occasionally.’
‘Have you read the latest?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I have made fun of Shobhaa De’s latest book, Spouse: The Truth about Marriage. At the book launch, no one was paying attention to the panel discussion on marriage. Everybody was busy drinking. And journalists kept pestering me for comments. I tried to back out, knowing her history – nau sau chuhe kha ke billi haj ko chali. Even that was announced! The Outlook would not take a “no” from me and I ended up lampooning her in the magazine.’
The Afternoon Girl Page 22