N.B.:Jokes good.
***
11.6.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Welcome back to the dry and dusty Delhi we both dote upon. While you sat by a blazing fire in Kasauli, dust storms shook the very foundations of our beloved city. Trees rolled their heads like dervishes – quite a few of these noble souls were uprooted by the mighty gusts. There was grit in the eyes, hair and teeth; faces were streaked and hands smeared. Dust, omnipresent as god, smothered asthmatics and tried the patience of the most indifferent of housewives. Light rains placated somewhat the dusty fury. It will take some time getting acclimatized to the drastic change in weather. When you get accustomed to the oppressive heat and feel fit enough to have me over please let me know so that I can drop in.
The passing away of yet another contemporary, General Jagjit Singh Arora, has made you ruminate (in your column) yet again on the tantalizing mistress – death. Please snap out of your preoccupation with her. She will come when she has to – there is no stopping her, but why waste precious moments of life anticipating her visit unless you visualize your union with her as the mother of all orgasms. There is nothing seriously wrong with you, no life-threatening disease, no crippling condition that binds you to the bed. There is just an increasing frailty that makes the likes of me trip over themselves to lend you a helping hand! Enjoy the perks that come with age. Your mind is still as bright as a newly minted coin, your sense of humour is intact, lovely young girls still seek your company, and what more, you are still attracted to them. You have a lot of fizz in you yet, which is more than can be said of the youth of today who harbour an aged mind in their prime.
Sometime back, quite a few oldies in Sujan Singh Park kicked the can one after the other with Mamaji, their family doctor, at their bedside to see them off. Do not get taken in by his serious demeanour for he surprised me by saying, ‘It is only right that I see my patients off before I join them so that I have a full practice awaiting me up there!’
Love
Amrinder
Have you heard this one?
Vajpayee’s politics:
Vajpayee, Musharraf, Madhuri Dixit and Jayalalithaa are travelling in a train. It enters a tunnel and it gets completely dark. Suddenly, there is a kissing sound and then a slap. The train comes out of the tunnel. Jayalalithaa and Vajpayee are sitting there looking perplexed. Musharraf is bent over holding his face, which is red from an apparent slap. All of them remain diplomatic and nobody says anything.
Jayalalithaa is thinking: These Pakistanis are all crazy about Madhuri. Musharraf must have tried to kiss her in the tunnel. Very proper that she slapped him.
Madhuri is thinking: Musharraf must have moved to kiss me, and kissed Jayalalitha instead and got slapped.
Musharraf is thinking: Damn it, Vajpayee must have tried to kiss Madhuri; she thought it was me and slapped me.
Vajpayee is thinking: If this train goes through another tunnel, I could make another kissing sound and slap Musharraf again.
62
16 June 2005
Dear Amrinder
I was foolish enough to leave Kasauli at its best for Delhi at its worst. For the last three days I’ve stayed in my air-cooled bedroom and only left it for frequent visits to the loo. I hear that your uncle has gone off to the States leaving his patients at the mercy of a Dr Minocha. So you have no excuse to come my way – but if you do, bring your BP gadget to see if my throbbing is too high or too low.
I’ve got through a lot of work – but quite a bit remains before I declare a final exit.
I met a strange character in Kasauli – an 80-year-old Sardar Arjan Singh of Chandigarh. He recited Urdu poetry by rote non-stop for an hour and wanted a little rest so that he could continue for another session. I had to tell him politely to leave. I found him waiting for me at Chandigarh railway station. He wanted to travel with me to Delhi to continue his recitation for another three-and-a-half hours. I begged him to leave me alone. He walked off in a huff. I fear I haven’t seen the last of him.
How is your solitaire collection getting along? Is it one for each go or one for every meeting? I heard Tony Blair boasting that he can perform five times every night. I think he is lying. But I did have an Anglo boy in my office in London who told me that he did it seven times every 24 hours. I was green with envy having never done it more than three times – and felt as if I was the world’s champion fucker.
Enough of lewdness.
Love
K
***
23.6.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
A few days ago a handsome young fellow came along with his girlfriend who was terrified that she may be pregnant. He was quite unabashed about the fact considering that I had delivered his wife some time back. He went on to elaborate on the marathon they indulged in during the 24 hours they had together: 10–12 times! She had inserted a tablet of ‘Today’, an intra-vaginal contraceptive pill, every one hour. It was humbling for, like you, I had thought that no one could better my record of 2–6 in a 2-hour-session.
As for the solitaires, I bought four (I trust him no longer), one each for the throat, the ring finger and the ears and asked him to foot the bill. After that it was an expensive handy cam – a movie camera, for my creative interests have diversified to photography, as you know very well. I will perhaps end up being a Jill of all trades and mistress of none.
Mamaji was never the excuse for seeing you, so his going will not make any difference. In fact it was always the other way round. I would tell Mamaji that I had an appointment with you and would like to see him too, if he was free at that time.
The only thing that is stopping me is the weather. It will be suicidal to venture out in the afternoon when even the car AC becomes defunct.
Love
Amrinder
When Marilyn Monroe, who had a prolific sex life, died, she asked to be buried next to her ex-husband.
An old lady at the funeral remarked, ‘At last they are together.’
‘You mean husband and wife?’
‘No, I mean her legs.’
Prostitute: Sardarji you have such a big c**k.
S: Ussi Punjab de hun. Saade uthe saara kuch vada hunda hai.
After entering her he exclaims: Oye tussi vi Punjab de ho!
***
30th June 2005
Dear Amrinder
Thank God, I never went beyond a peck on the cheek. My endeavour was always limited to about 20 minutes – a few times to double that time. I felt like Tarzan. I fear most of my Janes had to make do with my seductive talk and wham, bam, thank you ma’am. A two-hour session with multiple orgasms is something dreams are made of.
At long last the monsoon is here. The humidity is taking its toll – running stomach, etc. When I switch on the AC it becomes chilly. I have become a grumpy old man. Odd coincidence, H.D. Shourie had written me a long letter two days before he died in his sleep. I have used it in my tribute to him in my column. He was three years my senior. Good man.
I don’t quite understand what one means when a woman’s thing is called big. A man’s is visible, a woman’s invisible and not measurable. To the best of my recollection I found them much the same when you got going. It was the zest they put in the act, which made all the difference. Once a Tamilian nearly bit my lip off.
Look forward to your visit.
Love
K
63
30.9.05
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I have returned from a month’s holiday in America and England, richer in experience and replete with memories. Besides the usual sights in Washington, New York and London like the White House, Statue of Liberty, London Eye, I went whale-watching in a catamaran on the Atlantic, on Ducks (vehicles that can travel on land and water that were used in World War II) to Wisconsin Dells and Sherwood forest in Nottingham, with its massive oak where the legend of Robin Hood was born. I also saw Newstead Abbey, a beautiful country house with rolling gardens where geese, duck a
nd peacocks roamed fearlessly. The noted (notorious) poet Lord Byron was born here.
I walked through the literary walk in Central Park (NY) lined by American elms and statutes of men of stature in the world of literature. Chicago was one of the most beautiful cities I have set eyes upon, Boston was steeped in history and Milwaukee was dominated by Lake Michigan – a freshwater body so big that one could not see the other shore. Of course, no visit to the US is complete without taking in the misty, mighty majesty of Niagara Falls.
Here I am going on and on like the tourist I was, when you have seen it all and much more in your innumerable trips around the world. I also got an insight into human nature that I would not have got otherwise. Relationship between a set of people on civil terms for years deteriorates to pettiness, friction and frayed tempers when thrown into close proximity for a mere month!
The flotsam that this journey across the seas washed on the shores of my mind, I present to you in the form of a couple of poems. Speaking of poems, my brother in Nottingham took me to a poetry meet where a host of Asians sang songs and recited poetry. I was pleased to note that my poems were vastly appreciated. This has fanned my vanity and made me bold enough to blatantly beseech you to help me get my poems published by Penguin – that is, if you think they are good enough. I am quite willing to bribe you with gallons of premium Scotch; in fact I have brought a bottle of Chivas Regal for you from the duty-free shop at London airport. I am equally prepared to take no for an answer for this bottle is a gift of love for one I remembered even when engrossed in wondrous tours abroad.
Would like to meet you soon.
Love
Amrinder
A blonde to another in a movie theatre: ‘Look, look that man is masturbating.’
‘Ignore him,’ said her friend.
‘I can’t. He is using my hand!’
Q: What’s the difference between stress, tension and panic?
A: Stress is when wife is pregnant, tension is when girlfriend is pregnant, and panic is when both are pregnant.
If Adam and Eve were Chinese, we would still be in paradise because they would have ignored the apple and eaten the snake.
***
4 Oct. 2005
Dear Amrinder
Welcome back. Forgive the smear. My journey back exhausted me and I am in bed. Regarding the poems – the best I can do is to meet Ravi Singh, editor of Penguin face-to-face. They are shy of touching poetry because there are not many takers and they can’t break even. You can’t blame them!
Give me a few days to recover – then get back to me.
Love
Khushwant
64
On 2 November 2005, the roundabouts in Delhi were bursting with the pink of chorisia but I had no time to stand and stare. I reached Khushwant Singh’s door on the dot, surreptitiously took photographs of the daunting notice on his doorway and rang the bell. He opened the door in person and welcomed me as he always did, with a hug and a kiss. When I reciprocated with equal enthusiasm, he was emboldened to plant another wet kiss near my right ear. Then, leaning heavily on me with his left hand, he put the fingers of his right into his mouth to take out bits of chewed supari to drop them in the grate!
Settling down, he remarked, ‘You are looking very good.’
‘Thanks,’ I blushed. ‘And how are you?’
‘Better now. I did something foolish. Spent 4–5 weeks in Kasauli, hoping to enjoy the sun but it rained continuously and I had to spend my days in front of the heater indoors. So I came back and was unwell for quite a few days. How was your trip?’
‘Good but hectic.’
‘I was invited to Toronto – airfare, board and lodging all paid for, but I did not go. With all that fuss about the visa and all that, it was not worth it.’
‘I agree. We were terrified at the prospect of a visit to the visa office and prepared for it as if for an exam. To top it, the interview was on 7 July 2005 and marred by the London bomb blasts, but I got a ten-year, multiple-entry visa anyway. All they want is to be assured that we have reason to come back and there is someone to support us in their country if we run out of funds.’
‘Yes, they think we all want to settle in their country,’ he mused.
‘I for one would not want to. I have become so accustomed to being waited upon by help that I cannot envisage devoting a large chunk of my time and energy to household chores.’
‘Neither would I. Moreover, I cannot sleep during a journey even on a train.’
‘Yes, one is cramped and cooped up for long hours in a plane. It is difficult for people my age. Must be doubly uncomfortable for someone your age,’ I agreed.
‘How is your solitaire collection going on?’
‘I am wearing all the solitaires I’ve got,’ I said, pointing to my ears, my nose pin, my neck and my hand. ‘I wear them all the time, for they make a muted status statement. I have become wiser after the diamonds fiasco. These days, I buy the diamonds myself and make SP shell out the cash. He has no option but to comply, for he has been caught in his own trap. He pretended that he was the one who was duped by the jeweller who passed off zircons as diamonds. I played along because it suited me (and you advised me to do so) and told him that since he was so gullible, I might as well do the shopping myself.’
This amused Khushwant Singh mightily.
‘So Amrita Pritam has gone,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘I don’t know – lung cancer, perhaps. She has been telling me that she is going to die for the last twenty years, but she was in a very bad shape for the last four years. She was totally bedridden and her lover would carry her to the toilet, wash her bottom and put her back.’
‘His name is Imroz? Is he a Parsi or Muslim?’
‘No, a “mona” Sikh. He was totally devoted to her. Have you met Amrita?’
‘Yes, a couple of times.’
‘I knew her from her Lahore days. She came from a very ordinary family. Her father was a pracharak and she was beautiful. The family she was married into was more well-off than hers. In fact, her father-in-law thought he was doing something noble by taking a gariba di thi, who was lovely and wrote poetry, which was dedicated to the gurus in those days. Her father was very happy, for she was his only child, and motherless at that. She was an average writer. Just one poem – a few lines about Waris Shah – shot her to fame on both sides of the border. “Aaj akhaan Waris Shah nu kito kabraan vichon bol. Te aj kitab-e-ishq da koi agla varka phol.”’
‘What did her husband do?’
‘They had a shop in Anarkali Bazaar, no larger than the size of this room. And as in every shop, her father-in-law and then her husband sat on the takhti at the entrance while the servants attended the customers at the back. It was the only shop of its kind in the bazaar. They sold handkerchiefs, socks, etc., and we used to buy our things from there. Her husband was a soft-spoken, mild-mannered person and when she told him that she broke out in a rash whenever he touched her, he gave her a divorce without much ado. Then she came here and turned non-Sikh with a vengeance. She cut off her hair and began to chain-smoke and, according to rumours, took plenty of lovers.’
‘I saw her partner Imroz when I went to their house. I thought he was an artist and illustrated the covers of her books.’
‘He was a painter and besotted by her. I have one of his paintings in my study. He painted a portrait of hers. He loved her eyes and if you have been to their house, you must have seen that the door of their house is painted with eyes.’
‘Yes, I’ve been to her house in Green Park. Her son occupies the ground floor with his family while she lives upstairs with Imroz. How come they could afford and maintain such a big house when Imroz had no head for business, as she stated in her autobiography, and she hardly wrote any more?’
‘First, it is not too big a house. Secondly, she got a lot of award money, royalties, etc. Thirdly, once a person becomes famous, no matter how mediocre her output
later on, she continues to be felicitated by politicians. She has always been a taker, never a giver. I have helped her time and again over the years, but she cares only for what she can get out of you. I have translated one of her books in English.’
‘Pinjar, The Skeleton,’ we both said in unison.
‘Have you read the English version or the one in Punjabi?’
‘The one in English.’ I dared not tell him that I could barely read Punjabi. ‘It is a beautifully crafted story. Recently, a film was made based on it, in which Urmila Matondkar and Manoj Bajpai acted very well.’
‘She was obsessed with getting her books made into films. I took no royalty, nothing for translating her book, but asked for only one payment – the true story of her love life.’
‘You truly are incorrigible.’
‘She would come day after day, sit here for hours telling all.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘All the rumours linking her to various men were false. The one person she really fell in love with was Sahir Ludhianvi and that too mainly through correspondence.’
‘He wrote beautiful poetry,’ I put in.
‘During the course of their correspondence, he told her that he was coming to Delhi. Despite the fact that she was staying with her lover, she prepared for the meeting and to spend the night with Sahir. The room of the five-star hotel was lit with candles and decorated with flowers, and she emerged from the bathroom in an alluring nightie; but the sozzled Sahir could not get it up!’
‘So perforce she remained faithful to her love!’ I laughed.
‘Once she rang me up and started crying on the phone. She had conceived a child from Imroz and wanted to get it aborted,’ he said.
‘But why did she ring you up? Maybe she did not want Imroz to know lest he force her to keep it …’ I mused.
‘Imroz was good only for certain things, but no use as a man for matters such as these. She reminded me that I had once told her that I had got my wife aborted of an unwanted pregnancy and knew how to go about it. “That was years ago in Lahore,” I protested, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Abortion was illegal in those days but I took the risk of helping her out. I waited for an hour in the car till the procedure was completed. While I was sitting there, it dawned upon me that if something had happened to her, there was no way I could extricate myself, for no one would believe that I had nothing to do with it.’
The Afternoon Girl Page 25