‘I agree. As for my joke book, SM has made a joke of it. He hasn’t even started working on it.’
‘You just see. There will come a time when publishers will chase you.’
Was this a prophecy or a blessing? I hoped it was both and almost believed him.
‘The only way I’ll become famous is by publishing your letters to me.’
‘Do that after I am gone.’
‘What if your family objects?’
‘Who will do so?’
‘Your son, Mala.’
‘They have not been brought up that way. Moreover, the antics of their father are not new to them.’
Mala came in just then and I told her: ‘Your father has given me permission to publish our correspondence and has assured me that no one will object.’
She merely smiled, saying nothing. Khushwant Singh gave her the Ceylon tea and the Guylian chocolates I had brought for him. I had also brought a set of bed linen. Pointing to the soft rug on his legs, he told her that a sardarni had brought it for him from the US.
‘Very warm, but made in China.’
‘Most things in the US are made either in China or Korea,’ I said.
He presented me with a couple of books besides the one on Amrita Shergill. I gave him the Illustrated History of the Sikhs to sign. He wrote: ‘To Amrinder (Sadabahar) with love’.
It had been thirty minutes since I came and reading my body language he said, ‘You seem fidgety. Do you have a professional or personal appointment?’
‘None, I thought that since my time is over I’d better leave before you shoo me away.’
‘No, stay a while.’
He did look more at ease than I had ever seen him. I was glad that he had finally learnt the art of relaxation, for the Khushwant Singh I knew was a workaholic. I too slid back in my chair and relaxed.
‘What do you do by way of exercise these days?’ I enquired.
‘I walk in my garden or in the house, but warily. I do not use a walking stick and am sacred of falling. I have had one or two nasty falls in the past.’
‘What about your manservant? Doesn’t he accompany you?’
‘He sleeps right here at night, but I am usually alone in the afternoons.’
‘That is not good.’ I clucked like a mother hen.
‘My mind is alert as ever. I can recite Urdu couplets by rote even now.’
‘That’s wonderful. One must keep one’s mind agile too.’
‘I didn’t know that you wrote in Urdu too.’ He was perhaps thinking of the Urdu couplets I had sent him in a letter some time back.
‘I do.’ I smiled and asked, ‘What time do you go for a walk?’
‘Right about now.’
‘Can I accompany you?’
‘No.’
That was Khushwant Singh for you. Contrary by nature – you express a desire for something, he refuses outright; you show an eagerness to leave, he asks you to stay. Another fifteen minutes passed, by which time both of us were ready to part. He held on to my arm, walked me through the short, dark corridor and saw me off in his usual manner. What was unusual this time was that I, a woman thirty-five years younger, put my palm impulsively on his coarsely bearded cheek and told the hardcore atheist ‘god bless you’. He did not say anything, but a pleased smile appeared on his face as he undid the lock to let me out.
70
3.4.06
Dear Khushwant Singhji
My ‘sadabahar’ friend has suddenly developed cold feet. After leading me up the garden path, he suddenly remembered that ‘all this was not good for us and our loving families’. Indeed! The coward! It wasn’t as if I was begging to be laid. It was the emotional vacuum in my life that I wanted him to fill with long-distance romance and he thought that I was coming on too strong on him. It is humiliating when, even at this age, I have no dearth of admirers.
Ashamed of sending him naughty jokes – he has a habit of taking them personally – I sent him SMSs like:
Zubaan ne is tarah benaqab kiya
Ki kud se bhi nazaren mila na sake
Sharam ka cheethda bhi na bacha
Jo, apni behudgi ko chipa sake.
Or
Maana ki tu aziz hai
Magar gairat bhi koi cheez hai
Jahan chaahat ki meri chah nahin
Jaana mujhe us raah nahin.
This had him all in a twitter, begging for forgiveness and taking the blame for starting it all. I have had enough and it will do him good to stew in his own juices for a while. An unlikely fallout of this fiasco is renewed respect for the present one, the fake diamonds notwithstanding. I should not hold them against him forever for he has more than made up the loss. He had the guts to woo a woman from a higher social strata, pursue her relentlessly and keep herin a state of bliss for years. Besides this, even now, with his contacts, he gets me out of lots of tricky situations, be it with the tenants or the police, and is a handy man to have around.
The other day when I met you, you expressed surprise that I wrote in Urdu too. Well I do. Anyway, I have written one on you, sounding like an utter sycophant! It must be quite an ego massage to have paeans composed in your praise by a lady!
Jinke dost ho raja, doot, wazir
Jinki mashoori ho desh videsh,
Jinka har pal ho anmol
Zeh naseeb hamara
Jo nikalte hai voh,
Waqt, is nacheez ke liye
Sitaron ki sohbat mey
Rahene wala chand,
Karta hai purnur,
Chandini se is zarre
Ko bhi, kabhi kabhi.
Bithake mujhko apne kareeb
Poochte hai adab se mera haal
Aur dete hai tawaju meri
Har choti badi baat par.
Jawan hai is kadar unka man, ki
Umr ke phasle nazar aate nahin.
Jab haste hai voh meri koi baat pe
Toan khil utha hai mera rom rom.
Jab jhooth mooth ka sahara lekar
Meri baah ka, chalte hai voh, toan,
Uthti hai, khushi ki leher rag rag mey.
Jab pyar se gale lagate hai voh
Aur dete hai gaal pe ek meetha chumbhan,
Toan
Aisa hota hai gumaan ki shayad
Lagaav hai thoda, unko mujhse bhi.
Now for the standard denouement:
The lights of a girls’ hostel suddenly went off. The matron rang up the electricity department repeatedly to no avail. Exasperated she gave a final call and said, ‘Hurry up and send your boys. My girls have to make do with candles.’
Muth maarne ke phayeede:
Choice of lady.
Time ki bachat.
Self-service.
No crime.
No risk of AIDS.
No special place.
Love
Amrinder
***
Kasauli
8 April 2006
Dear Amrinder
I can hardly believe your Urdu shairi is meant to describe me. I will keep it to lighten up my darker moments.
Quite a few good books by Indians released this fortnight. I can recommend three – Edna Fernandes’s The Holy Warriors, M.J. Akbar’s Blood Brothers and Kiran Nagarkar’s God’s Little Soldier. All three quote prose from me on their jackets. I can always lend them to you.
Though it has warmed up, I rarely switch on the fan unless visitors are around. It must be old age and thinning of blood. The cold hurts me harder than the heat.
If you ever feel like coming up for the weekend, you will be welcome. But no baths and soda water for washing bottom. Acute shortage of water in summer.
Love
Khushwant
***
16.4.06
Dear Khushwant Singhji
A weekend in heaven in the vicinity of my god would be divine. No baths – no problem in the cold, soda water fizz tickling my ample behind – an utter novelty. But I would either have to tag my husband along (which would negateany pleasure I
could obtain from the ‘trip’) or sulk at the thwarting of yet another dream. Anyway, let me know for how long you intend to stay in Kasauli, in case my luck turns. Coming to think of it, even with him around I could get to see you in your natural milieu, visit Kasauli, which I have never seen, and bring home a thousand memories. What do you say to that?
I am glad that you appreciated the verse I wrote on you. Every single word was the truth welling from the bottom of my heart.
As for the standard denouement …
Why do Indian women cover their breasts with a dupatta?
Traditionally hum khane peene kei cheezon ko dhak ke rakhte hai.
A girl takes off her jeans and tells the boy, ‘Mujhe aurat hone ka ehsaas dilaao.’
Boy takes off his jeans, flings them at her along with the ones she took off and says, ‘Jao inhe dho kar lao.’
Love
Amrinder
***
20.4.06
Dear Amrinder
I don’t think bringing your husband along will be a good idea. Since Mala and Rahul will be taking turns to keep an eye on me there will be only one cramped bedroom, bathroom for the two of you. Besides that, I don’t know him at all and our being together will be awkward for both of us. Think it over again and decide. It will be fun having you around and talking openly about anything on earth. His presence will cramp your style – and mine. Let me know – my telephone number in Raj Villa is 01792 – ****701. I expect to stay there till the last week of June.
Love
Khushwant
***
12.5.06
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I belong to that strata of society where secret trysts with lovers are acceptable but anything that disturbs the veneer of respectability is out of question. Though I do not indulge in hypocrisy I have taught myself to live with it forthere is no escaping it in our social milieu. This seemingly out of the blue observation pertains to your invitation to Kasauli.
If someone had asked me what I wished for my birthday (not that anyone does) – it falls on the 15th of May – I would have unhesitatingly asked for the weekend with you in Kasauli. The sole other option would be to overtly defy my husband but that I could dare only if I did not have to return to him. I have nowhere else to go and no other source of income, so I don’t even bother asking him to‘allow’ me to go and face certain refusal. Isn’t it a strange world where a 55-year-old educated lady who manages a home, a profession, who drives alone for cases to distant hospitals in the middle of the night and contributessubstantially to the family kitty, cannot do what pleases her without the consent of an incompatible husband! As of now I have my hands full. My second son, a pastry chef with the Kempenski group in Tanzania came home on a visit, dislocated his shoulder and fractured his arm in an accident! We will be leaving with him for Dar es Salam on the 25th and then on a safari to Serengeti and Zanzibar. I had seen Serengeti on Discovery Channel and did not dream that I would actually visit it one day. I will be back on the 8th of June. Have you read this one?
A new priest at his first mass was so nervous he could hardly speak. After mass he asked the Monsignor how he had done.
The Monsignor replied, ‘When I am worried about getting nervous at the pulpit, I put a glass of vodka next to the water glass. If I start to get nervous, I take a sip.’
So next Sunday he took the Monsignor’s advice. At the beginning of the sermon, he got nervous and took a drink and proceeded to talk up a storm.
Upon his return to his office after the mass, he found the following note on the door:
Sip the vodka, don’t gulp.
There are 10 commandments, not 12.
There are 12 disciples, not 10.
Jesus was consecrated, not constipated.
Jacob wagered his donkey, he did not bet his ass.
We do not refer to Jesus Christ as the late J.C.
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are not referred to as Daddy, Junior and the spook.
David slew Goliath; he did not kick the shit out of him.
David was hit by a rock and knocked off his donkey; don’t say he was stoned off his ass.
We do not refer to the cross as the ‘Big T’.
When Jesus broke the bread at the last supper he said, ‘Take this and eat it for it is my body.’ He did not say, ‘Eat me.’
The Virgin Mary is not called ‘Mary with the Cherry’.
The recommended grace before a meal is not: Rub-A-Dub-Dub. Thanks for the grub,
Yeah god.
Next Sunday there will be a taffy-pulling contest at St Peter’s not a peter-pulling contest at St Taffy’s.
Love
Amrinder
71
21.6.06
Dear Khushwant Singhji
It is a sad day indeed when a father sits down to write an obituary on his daughter’s husband! I was shocked to learn of the untimely demise of your son-in-law through your column in the Hindustan Times. I was away on an African safari at the time of his death. I contacted Mamaji andlearnt the details – Ravi Dayal’s habit of chain-smoking, his smoker’s cough, asthmatic attacks, lung cancer and when he seemed to be recovering from the surgery, the heart attack that came like a bolt from the blue and took his breath away! Mamaji held him in high regard and told me that he was one of the finest people he had known.
Please accept my condolences and convey the same to Mala and Naina. May god grant you and your family the fortitude to bear with the loss and the courage to carry on, for that is what life is all about.
How are you keeping these days? When is a good time to visit you for I would like to bring over the present I brought for you from Tanzania – a bottle of Amarula – South African liquor that looks like milky coffee and has to be taken with ice. I would also like to draw your attention away from sombre thoughts and regale you with tales of the bush (African). The diversity and the multitude of beasts in the unending plains of Serengeti have imprinted an indelible image in my brain. I have only to look inwards to visualize the remnants of heaven on earth as yet undestroyed by man.
A dip in the calm, clear, turquoise, azure and bluing – a word I have coined for the various shades of blue merging into one another – waters of the Indian Ocean off the coast of Zanzibar, snorkelling on coral reefs, was another bit of paradise on earth that I experienced. I must have been a fish in my previous birth, a whale most probably if one went by size. Though I tanned a deep brown, it was small price to pay for the pleasure of wallowing in the warm waters in the primeval womb of the earth. It was the first time that I swam in the sea and will cherish the memory as long as I live.
I have so much to share with you. Please let me know when you are ready to receive visitors. I know that you value privacy and solitude above all, especially in these circumstances and I respect your wishes but it seems ages since I have seen your beloved face.
Love
Amrinder
***
23 June 2006
Dear Amrinder
Thanks. It has been a grievous blow. Mala and Naina are putting a brave face in front of the unending stream of callers.
If Friday 30th June at 5 p.m. suits you, come. I’d like to hear about Serengeti.
Love
K
I received the letter on 1 July – a day after I was supposed to meet him – and hastened to clarify my situation on phone. The date for another appointment was fixed.
When I took my usual chair on my next visit, I was surprised to see the book, Spy Princess, on his centre table. The review in the HT had been intriguing and he magnanimously told me to take it.
As soon as we had made ourselves comfortable, he asked me to tell him about Serengeti. And I gushed forth – the geology, the animals I saw there and how it was the hippo and not the lion that was the most aggressive animal in the bush. As lions had enough game for their meals, they hardly bothered about humans; but hippos, though jostling amicably in crowded waters, do not like to have their paths crossed on land
.
‘I know someone who lives in Kenya and he told me that hippos are indeed a menace. But a 6-inch barbed wire fence is enough to ward them off as they cannot jump even that high!’
I told him about mating lions and delivering wildebeest and he asked me to put it all down in an article for Outlook.
‘But I have already sent one to Woman’s Era.’
‘Outlook pays more. In fact I always read their last page first. Why don’t you go through a couple of copies and see what they want? Add a dash of humour along with the facts, the bit about copulating lions and send it to me. I’ll forward it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How are Naina and Mala coping with their loss?’
‘Badly, especially Naina, now that it has finally sunk in. It did not register in the beginning. And when I came down from Kasauli, mother and daughter, all concern for me, began asking why I came down in the heat and all that. Not expecting me, they had cremated the body before I arrived.’
‘It does take a while to sink in. Mamaji told me the details of the death. When he insisted on an X-ray of the chest, Ravi Dayal had replied, “Meri pol khul jayegi.” Those were his exact words and, sure enough, there was a coin shadow of lung cancer.’
‘There is so much that has to be sorted out. The hospital bill was around Rs 1 lakh. Mala did not want to continue Ravi’s publishing house and there was much sorting out to be done. Her brother-in-law who was in the UN came every day and sifted through the manuscripts, some accepted, some being read and the many papers.’
‘So tedious and sad.’
‘Have you met Ravi?’
‘I met him at one of your book releases.’
‘He smoked bidis and drank only desi liquor. Even when he came here, he would bring his own glass, though I would offer him fine Scotch whisky time and again.’
‘Like you mentioned in your column, his one fault was reverse snobbery.’
The heat was killing and he asked me if I would like a glass of thandai or panna. I opted for the latter.
I took out the two bottles of Amarula from my bag and gave them to him explaining, ‘This liquor is made using the fruit of the marula tree mixed with fresh cream. It is also called the elephant tree because its fruit is a favourite with the elephants.’
The Afternoon Girl Page 28