The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

  Love

  K

  ***

  3.12.08

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  My visit has been postponed on account of family engagements; your ‘bottled’ gift sits on the shelf waiting to be delivered into hands that appreciate it. When shadows lengthen and the night thickens and you consume it in ‘silence and solitude’, perhaps you’ll think of me once in a while.

  What is the difference between a memoir and an autobiography? I have started penning my ‘Khushwant Memoir’ and will show it to you. Only if you think it is appropriate will I approach a publisher. Parts of it verges on pornography but perhaps that will be its USP.

  I have finally asked Mr SM (of OP Publishers) to give back my MSS. Maybe Low Price Publications that published my book on the adolescent girl will publish it; they publish joke books too.

  As for the sedate jokes you asked for:

  ‘Hamare yahan aaj kal shaadi email se hoti hai,’ said a man.

  ‘Hamare yahaan toan ab bhi female se hoti hain,’ replied the other.

  A Punjabi boy was eve-teasing a girl from his rooftop: ‘Aaja kothe aaja.’

  ‘Laava jutti?’ she exclaimed in annoyance.

  ‘Ki lode hain eh gurudwara thodhi na hain?’ he replied.

  Dying for a hug and a kiss from you.

  Love

  Amrinder

  80

  I received by courier a lovely invitation card with a beautiful illustration for a book release Songs of the Gurus by Gursharan Kaur, the wife of our prime minister. So, on 20 December 2008, I wore a royal-blue sari set off by tanzanites and diamonds and left for the venue looking elegant, as people told me. I reached Le Meridien, walked past the display of beautiful paintings by Arpana Caur (she had illustrated the book) and entered the hall where the launch was to be held. Khushwant Singh was seated on an aisle chair at the back, informally dressed in a woollen cap, straggly beard and salwar–kameez with a turquoise rug on his knees. As I bent to hug him, he gave me a kiss on the cheek. When I asked him to sign my book, he said, ‘Ghar aake kara layee,’ though he merrily signed other people’s copies. This backhand invitation gladdened my heart. Soon after, Gursharan Kaur arrived in a lovely pink salwar–kameez, accompanied by Mrs Charanjit Singh, the owner of Le Meridien, who also wore a salwar–kameez that day. When Khushwant Singh saw her, he made as if to get up, but the prime minister’s wife stopped him saying, ‘Tusi kade laiyee uth rahe ho, baithe raho.’ Mrs Charanjit Singh said to the crowd at large: ‘Someone bring Khushwant Singh to the dais’ and I found myself proudly supporting Khushwant Singh down the aisle. Not too sure of my capabilities, Khushwant Singh said, ‘Main giranga te tainu ve lai giravanga.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I am strong.’ At the bottom of the steps leading to the dais he said he needed a man’s hand and the hotel staff took over.

  Diya Hazra made an introductory speech saying that, for one who claims to be an atheist, Khushwant Singh has quite a body of work related to Sikh scripture. She talked of Mala, self-effacing as ever, who preferred to remain in the background, read out a few lines from the book and handed over the mike to Gursharan Kaur who said that she felt humbled at being called upon to release the book of such a great scholar. Speaking of her trysts with Khushwant Singh at his home, she said, ‘Where else would you be welcomed with open arms and then be told to leave because your time was up? Each time I would think that Iwould leave before he asked me to, but he would pre-empt me by saying, ‘Gursharan hun tu jaa.’

  Khushwant Singh spoke from his chair and reminisced about the time when he quit a job in London to take up full-time writing. To create a niche for himself in this competitive world, he decided to translate Sikh scriptures in English. No one had done that; in fact no sardar had written in English before. He began with a translation of the Sikh morning prayer ‘which every child of my generation knew by rote but did not understand’. He did so after he had gone through its translation into simple Punjabi and acquainted himself with the language and style of the Bible, for that was the English of the scriptures. It did reasonably well and he was spurred to do more such work. He started translating hymns too.

  A strange thing connected with this occured when he went to Tokyo with his wife for a teaching assignment and continued this work there in the cold winter months. He decided to translate one hymn a day and would go through the hymn to be translated the next day on the previous night over and over again till it got fixed in his mind. Then he would keep an alarm for 3 a.m. and work on it the next morning. Many a times, he thought of giving up the entire venture but one day he felt a hand on his shoulder urging him on. ‘I know it was a sort of self-delusion but it spurred me to carry on.’

  His daughter Mala wanted to get it published with Penguin. It was also her idea to get it illustrated by Arpana Caur. They had slated it for a November (Guru Nanak’s birthday) release but, again, Mala put her foot down and insisted that she did not want hurried, slipshod work.

  After finishing his discourse on the book, he thanked Mrs Charanjit Singh for her unending hospitality and said, ‘I told her that this would be the last till I remembered another compilation of mine that is due for a February release.’ As for Gursharan Kaur, like a film actress, she proved a crowd-puller, for people came to see her, not him. He hoped that she would remain the prime minister’s wife for another five years, adding, ‘not necessarily Manmohan Singh’s’. He did have a riotous sense of humour and I remembered his witticism when Nargis wanted to spend a few days at his home in Kasauli. To this, he replied, ‘Only if you let me write in my column that Nargis slept in my bed.’ About Aparna Caur, he said that it was primarily her book and he was grateful to her for allowing him to be a part of it.

  Aparna Caur, young and unassuming, came up the podium and thanked ‘dear uncle’ and Gursharan Aunty and told the gathering that she was glad to have had the opportunity to serve the Lord in this manner. ‘At first I did not feel up to the task,’ she said, ‘for illustrating what the gurus wrote needed purity and an in-depth knowledge of what they wanted to say. But as these hymns were an inseparable part of my growing up, I attempted the impossible.’

  Once the function got over, I left clutching the book and Khushwant Singh’s invitation to my heart.

  21.12.08

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  A lot of people have the Gurbani on their car stereo while going to work and a raunchy number playing while returning from work. After all both are facets of the same being. Similarly, after the wonderful book on the gurus with the beautiful illustrations, how about a sexy, scandalous, salacious book co-authored by me. I imagine myself sitting on the dais with you and making a pithy little speech. That is the stuff my dreams are made of.

  I have been redrafting my ‘Khushwant memoir’ because of a subconscious desire to get it published, but somehow it does not seem right. It would be tantamount to betrayal of confidences, some of them extremely personal, others explosive, but then that is exactly what will make it sell. My conscience does not allow me to expose to the public words spoken strictly in private, and publishing it after you are gone would be the meanest thing to do. I would not like to capitalize on the event and hit you below the belt when you are not there to defend yourself. Also, literary success, if any, I would like to share with you. Then there is always the possibility of me leaving the world before you (remember my head injury) for Death chooses people at random and not according to their age.

  I have finally found a way out of my predicament. I will ask you to go over the unedited memoir, decide what should be retained and what should be omitted and get it published jointly. If you think it is a feasible project, we could share the royalties.

  I loved the part in Gursharan Kaur’s speech when she said that you would tell her ‘Gursharan hun tu jaa’. I am much smarter and glean from your body language that my time is up and pre-empt you though at times you do tell me, ‘Now run along, I have work to do.’ Then there are those rare occasions w
hen you ask me to stay longer than the 30 minutes you usually allot me, which makes me unaccountably happy.

  Arpana Caur was surprisingly young, paints beautifully and came across as a sweet and simple person. I was surprised that she called you uncle, for though you are older than my father, I never thought of you as ‘uncle’. I wonder why? I was proud to lend you my arm as we walked down the aisle. As usual, your wit shone through when you made your speech – hoping that Gursharan Kaur remained the prime minister’s wife for another 5 years, not necessarily Manmohan Singh’s!

  A little incident however left a bad taste in my mouth. After I had bought the book at the Penguin counter, I asked for a receipt which was but natural, but I got as an answer, ‘What do you think this is, a book shop? We are the publishers.’ A gentleman named Mr Mehndiratta intervened on my behalf and said, ‘She has asked you a simple enough question.’ At which the odious man turned unctuous and replied, ‘If you want a receipt you’ll get one from the head office.’ Besides the unwarranted rudeness towards a customer this also means that he did not have an official record of the copies sold at the book release.

  Love

  Amrinder

  And here’s a joke for your enjoyment.

  A man was travelling by plane when a beautiful lady came and sat next to him. He struck up a conversation with her and asked whether she was travelling for business or pleasure.

  ‘Business,’ replied the bewitching lady. ‘I am a sexologist and have come to deliver a lecture.’

  His excitement increased by leaps and bounds.

  ‘You know, surprising facts have emerged from a survey.’ She continued, ‘The French are not the best lovers in the world, the Bengalis are. Also it was thought that the Africans have the longest tools in the world. That no longer holds true; statistics have shown that men from Andhra are best endowed and the most surprising fact that has emerged is that overall the sardars are the best.’

  Suddenly she blushed. ‘Here I am jabbering nineteen to the dozen and we haven’t even formally introduced ourselves.’

  ‘Well, I am Venkat Banerji but my friends call me Surjit Singh.’

  81

  The pending visit to Khushwant Singh’s home had been playing on my mind for quite some time. With the geriatric problems of my parents who were with me, my jethani’s knee-joint replacement surgery, my children’s annual visit and our Sri Lanka tour, I had not a moment to spare. The bottle of Chivas Regal stood accusingly in a corner of my cupboard and I would guiltily shut it out of sight. When I finally found time to ring him up on 2 March 2009, I was in for a rude shock.

  ‘I have stopped meeting people,’ he said. ‘Whatever work you have, drop me a line. I will do it.’

  It was a slap on my face. How could he forget that I had met him a number of times just for the sake of his company? Sometimes the work was but an excuse to meet him; but ever since he told me that he found my company interesting, I would drive halfway across Delhi to see him. Moreover, he had refused to sign my copy of Songs of the Gurus at the book release, asking me to ‘come home to get it signed’.

  ‘I have no work. I just wanted to give you the bottle.’

  ‘I cannot hear you.’

  ‘The bottle, bottle!’ I shouted into the earpiece.

  ‘Main dora ho gaya hoon. Drop me a line. I will do whatever you want me to do,’ he repeated and that was that.

  After he asked Mamaji repeatedly why I had stopped going over, I thought I was lagging in my duty towards him and felt guilty about not visiting him. And now this totally unwarranted snub! Later, I learnt through one of his columns that he said this to everyone who rang him up for he was literally deaf and could communicate better through letters than the phone. As of now, I was deeply hurt.

  3.3.2009

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  So this is the final goodbye. I wish I could have seen you at least once in person before bidding adieu. My sensibilities were offended when you thought that I was coming to you for a selfish motive. I did so in the initial years but soon realized that like all writers I would have to find my own space. Not you, not anyone else could help me. Despite this I continued to meet you for I had become genuinely fond of you.

  I have no favour to ask. It’s just that at your book release you refused to sign my copy of Songs of the Gurus saying that I must come over to get it signed so I presumed …

  Also, as usual whenever I go abroad, the duty-free shops tempt me with but one thing – a Chivas Regal for you! You do not realize what pains a lady belonging to a teetotaller family has to take to surreptitiously buy liquor because you like it. So that my last gift of love does not languish in my cupboard, let’s meet just once.

  This time I had gone to Sri Lanka of all the places but once we passed the heavily guarded city of Colombo, it was paradise. We bottle-fed milk to orphaned elephants at Pinnewala Elephant Sanctuary, rode one bare-backed (I mean the elephant was bare-backed!) and scrubbed a pachyderm with a coconut husk, in a green pool. When it was my turn to have a bath I sat on the back of an elephant seated in the pool and he squirted water over me with his trunk. From the cool climes of Nuwara Eliya (Little England) lush with tea estates, we descended to the beaches of Bentota after a precarious rafting expedition past jutting rocks on the Kelani river where the famed film Bridge on the River Kwai was shot. We also saw the tsunami-ravaged stretches on our way to the fortress city of Galle and we saw the poverty of this war-torn country. Before I begin to sound like a tourist guidebook I will end my discourse on this lovely country.

  My writing is doing great. The pregnancy book has been liked by the readers though a bit of marketing by the publishing house would have helped. They are toying with the idea of commissioning me to write another book. A textbook on midwifery for nurses by a publishing house as illustrious as Elsevier is an offer not to be frowned upon though this was not the type of work I had in mind when I longed to become an author.

  ‘Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn and loudly proclaiming, “Wow, what a ride!”’

  Isn’t this apt?

  Professor: Give me an example of complete business failure due to negligence.

  Santa: A pregnant prostitute.

  An optimist is one who looks forward to marriage; a pessimist is a married optimist.

  The blue whale ejaculates over 40 gallons of sperm when mating but only 10% enters the female and you wondered why the sea tasted so salty.

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  21.4.09

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  In a desperate bid for a final contact with you I asked Mamaji to find out why you have stopped replying to my letters. I find it perplexing that though you insist that you reply to every letter you receive I got none for three I wrote to you in as many months. There was a movie I saw ages ago where Dev Anand and Nutan are two parted lovers trying to maintain contact through letters. A wily vamp intercepts their correspondence creating a lot of misunderstandings and heartburn. I wonder …

  In case you have not received my previous letters I would like to tell you that I have a bottle of Chivas Regal for you – a final parting gift. I even tried asking Mamaji to give it to you but he told me that as a doctor he forbids you alcohol and couldn’t possibly carry one for you. When I begged him to tell you of my predicament, he chose the wrong time – in front of Mala and Naina who ticked him off roundly. So I am left holding a bottle that I cannot consume and cannot give to anyone else. Could you please grant me a final audience?

  You may be a grandpa to the new gynaecologist in your life (I read about her in your column) but, for me, despite the age difference of 35 years, you will always remain someone to whom I can open my heart, my soul; in fact all my body parts, except my legs.

  Love and warm regards

  Amrinder

  Received this message on ‘Women�
�s Day’: Practice makes a man perfect.

  What about women? Any guesses?

  ‘They are born perfect.’

  The first testicular guard was used in cricket in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974. It took one hundred years for men to realize that the brain is also important.

  Santa: Biwi se ladai khatam hui?

  Banta: Ghutne tek kar mere paas ayi thi.

  Santa: Ghutne tek ke usne kya kaha?

  Banta: Yehi ki bed ke neeche se nikal aao, kuch nahin kahungi.

  Mallika went to a swimming pool in a bra and panty.

  Guard: Two-piece costumes are not allowed here.

  Mallika: Kaunsa utaroon?

  Too much beer, sexy babes, extramarital affairs and hot and wild sex are man’s worst enemies but a man who runs away from his enemies is a coward!

  Despite the old saying, ‘Do not carry your problems to bed’, every man sleeps with his wife.

  Decent ladies open a few buttons in a hot atmosphere but smart ladies open a few buttons to make the atmosphere hot.

  A notice in a factory for girl employees: If your skirt is long, protect yourself from the machine; if it is short, from machine operators.

  Mamaji told me that Khushwant Singh enquired after me every time he visited him, but when he learnt that I was complaining that he had stopped replying to my letters, Khushwant Singh reiterated that he replied to every single letter on the day he received it. He even knew my address by heart, which he recited aloud correctly! He said that he would like to meet me. This baffled me and I asked Mamaji: ‘In your capacity as his doctor, do you think Khushwant Singh has become senile and forgetful? After all he is getting on in years.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear so. Thanks to his writings, his mind is quite alert.’

  ‘Then why does he make such contradictory statements?’