Company of Women

by Khushwant Singh

  Mohan did not have much hope of anyone responding. But he was not disheartened. Dhanno was at his beck and call: a woman in bed is worth ten in one’s fantasies, he told himself.

  The first response came from an unexpected quarter. It was not through the PO Box number indicated in the newspaper advertisement but bore his name and home address. It was a one-word message: ‘BASTARD’—all seven letters in capitals. Though the message was in print, Mohan recognized his wife’s handwriting in it. He felt anger rising in him. He crumpled up the letter and with a loud oath—‘BITCH’—threw it into the waste-paper basket.

  He should have known. Gloating over matrimonial columns was Sonu’s Sunday pastime. As she read them one after another, she would giggle with delight. ‘Do you know what “Good at H H affairs” means?’ she would ask, and reply, ‘Household affairs … And “C & D no bar”?—Caste and Dowry no bar … All men want fair-skinned brides. And virgins. All virgins are maidens; not all maidens are virgins,’ she would explain. ‘No girl seeking a husband asks for a boy who has never slept with a woman.’ On more than one occasion she had replied to some ads enclosing her photographs but giving the addresses of her girlfriends. This was her idea of fun. The description Mohan had given of himself in the advertisement would have left her in no doubt that it was her ‘goonda’ ex-husband shopping for sex.

  Four days later, the first genuine response was redirected by The Times of India ad department to his home address. It was a two-page letter with a colour photograph of a woman in her mid-thirties. The photograph showed only her face: thick, black hair done up in a bun, thick-lensed glasses, small eyes, bindi on forehead, diamond nose-pin on the left nostril, a severe expression as in passport photographs. It was not possible to tell whether she was tall or short, buxom or slender. Perhaps the letter might reveal her statistics. He read:

  Dear Sir,

  This is in response to your ad in the Sunday edition of The Times of India. You are looking for a female companion on a trial basis. I too am looking for a male companion on a trial basis. You are a divorced father of two children. I am a divorced mother of an eleven-year-old boy who is in a boarding school in Mussoorie. I had an arranged marriage with a NRI from Canada. It did not last a month—I discovered he already had a wife in Toronto. Instead of facing charges of fraud and bigamy in India, he simply disappeared.

  I have a doctorate in English literature and am teaching undergraduates in a local college. I live in a one-bedroom flat in the professors’ quarters. If acceptable, I can take a couple of months leave due to me and share life with you. I am not keen to marry again as my son may not like it. I want to do the best I can for him as a single parent. Whatever you give me will be of help in getting him a better education.

  As required, I am enclosing my photograph. It is only fair that if you decide to invite me you should send me your photograph in return. A full-length picture will give me a better idea of your height and build. I am short—five feet one inch—and light-skinned.

  Although I have no religious prejudices, I would like you to know that I am a Brahmin by birth and practice Hindu rituals. I am assuming you are also Hindu. If not, please let me know.

  I have put my cards on the table. If you are interested please send me your telephone number and address. I will ring you up and make an appointment to meet with you. Perhaps it would be best if we meet in your home so that I could get an idea of your style of living and your environment.

  I look forward to hearing from you. Please mark your letter confidential and address it to me at Lady Professors’ Hostel, Flat No. 2, Government College for Women, Rewari (Haryana).

  Yours,

  Sarojini Bharadwaj.

  Mohan gazed at the photograph and read the letter a few times before he put it in his pocket. Dhanno though dark was better looking than this bespectacled lady professor. On the other hand he might find a lot in common with an educated woman than he did with his illiterate sweeper woman. He could take her to his clubs, to restaurants and the cinema without being unduly self-conscious of his companion. In any case, it would be another woman and no two women were alike in bed. In variety is spice—and this was exactly what he was looking for.

  The next morning he wrote back to the lady professor answering” her queries and enclosing a full-length photograph of himself in an open-collar shirt and flannel trousers, holding a tennis racket in his hand. He looked quite dashing. To make sure the letter reached her as soon as possible he sent it by speed-post, guaranteed to reach its destination within twenty-four hours.

  The very next day she rang him up from Rewari. An appointment was made for the evening of the following Saturday. She said she would take the afternoon bus to Delhi and find her way to his house in a taxi or a three wheeler. She could spend a couple of hours with him and return to Rewari by the 9 p.m. bus.

  Saturday was a half-day at the office. Mohan looked forward to a glass of chilled beer, a light lunch and a long siesta. The beer was ice-cold, the lunch frugal and tasty, but his siesta was disturbed with doubts about his new venture. What bothered him most was how he would square it with Dhanno, who had established certain rights over him. He would have to do some lying. He would tell her and the servants that Sarojini was a distant relative who would stay with him till she found her own accommodation. And of course he would keep paying Dhanno as usual. Money was not a problem. He earned more than enough—a fair proportion of it in unaccounted cash—and he was happy to get rid of it for his pleasures. It was unwise, anyway, to keep too much in his safe, lest those income tax fellows decided to raid his house.

  He got up and took a shower. He shaved a second time to erase signs of the day’s growth on his chin and upper lip, and doused himself with after-shave lotion. He put on a Lacoste sports shirt and his Levi’s jeans. At the end of it all he examined himself in his wife’s full-length mirror. He was pleased with what he saw.

  He sat in his armchair in the balcony overlooking the small patch of garden and watched an endless line of the tops of buses glide by the boundary walls of his bungalow. He could hear the hooting of cars and the sputtering of scooters. It was a weekend and government offices were closed: clerks, their wives and children were out shopping. He could hear the bearer lay out his Scotch on the table. ‘Put out two glasses,’ he ordered, ‘I am expecting a guest. And tell the cook to fry some paapad to serve with the drinks.’

  A three-wheeler pulled up at his gate. He saw a short bespectacled woman dressed very correctly in a white sari examine the number and the name on the gatepost, pay the three-wheeler driver and push open the gate. Mohan got up from his chair and went down to receive his visitor. Before she could ring the bell, he opened the door. ‘I am Mohan Kumar,’ he smiled, putting out his hand. ‘I am Sarojini Bharadwaj,’ she replied, unsmiling. She touched both his feet before shaking his hand. The gesture was so incongruous for the occasion and so completely unexpected, that it should have startled Mohan. But it did not. Somehow it seemed to belong to that moment and to the frail, average-looking woman from Rewari. As they stood facing each other, Mohan noticed her head did not come up to his shoulders.

  Mohan led the diminutive lady professor from small-town Haryana up the stairs to his sitting room with the balcony overlooking the garden. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said pointing to the chair across the table on which his bearer had laid out his Scotch, two bottles of soda, a bucket of ice and his crystal glass tumblers. Neither knew how to begin.

  ‘Well, here I am,’ said the lady professor to break the ice.

  ‘Yes, here you are,’ he responded.

  The professor took command of the situation. She took off her glasses, wiped the lenses with the hem of her sari and put them on the table. ‘You can see what I look like with and without my glasses. I told you something about my past in my letter. If you want to know more, please ask me.’

  Mohan had a good look at her. She was petite and reasonably attractive: skin the colour of old ivory, dark brown hair, broad forehead wi
th a bindi, diamonds in her ear lobes, a diamond nosepin, soft, sensuous lips with a dab of fresh lipstick, a pearl necklace which went well with her white sari. No great beauty but quite presentable.

  ‘What happened to your marriage? Why did it break up so quickly?’ asked Mohan at last.

  ‘As I explained in my letter, he lived in Canada and had advertised for an Indian wife. My father answered the ad. The man flew over and came to see me at our house in Dehra Dun. A week later we were married. My parents and I knew nothing about him except what he told us. We went for our honeymoon to Mussoorie—all paid for by my father. He took my virginity; he had all the sex he wanted for fifteen days and nights. Then he said he had urgent business to attend to in Toronto and would return in a week to take me back with him. I got a Canadian visa. And waited. He never wrote or came back for me. I discovered I was pregnant. My father was furious and wanted to have him put in jail, especially after he heard from a friend that the fellow had a white woman living with him in Canada. I decided if the man was such a rascal I did not want to have anything to do with him. Some months later I had a son. He’s in a boarding school now. And I have a permanent job in a college. Anything more you want to know about me? I know nothing about you.’

  ‘I spelt it out in the ad. Thirteen years of stormy married life which yielded two children but no happiness. So we decided to call it a day. You will get to know more if you decide to take up my offer. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied firmly. ‘I live in Haryana where there is strict prohibition; a woman seen smoking or drinking is looked upon as a whore. So no smoking, no drink. You drink every day?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I also smoke. I look forward to my couple of Scotches every evening and I enjoy my cigars—four a day. Any objections?’

  ‘None! It’s your life. Who am I to object to anything you like.’

  ‘I expect you are vegetarian,’ said Mohan.

  ‘I am. But I don’t object to others eating what they like.’

  ‘And eggs?’

  ‘No, not even eggs. I hope that doesn’t make me a poor companion.’

  ‘Eating habits have nothing to do with companionship,’ he replied with a smile.

  A silence descended on them. Again it was the lady professor who broke it. ‘Can I take a look round your house? It looks quite posh from the outside.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he replied, standing up. ‘I’ll take you round on a conducted tour.’ He poured himself a drink and glass in hand took her from one bedroom to another—the master bedroom that he had shared with his wife, the children’s room, and the guest room which she would occupy if she accepted his offer. All had air-conditioners. The bathrooms had marble tiles and were spotlessly clean. ‘Downstairs I have my study and reception room,’ he explained. ‘Does my humble abode meet your requirements?’ he asked in a tone of mild sarcasm as they returned to the sitting room.

  ‘You live in style,’ she replied. ‘But I did not see a single book in any room. Don’t you read at all?’ Her tone was professorial.

  ‘Not since I left college. I do not have the time or the patience to read books. I get a lot of magazines and newspapers, but I only read the captions to pictures and the headlines. I get all my news, information and views from TV. I’m sure as an academic you don’t approve of that. Perhaps you will educate me.’

  She gave him a wistful smile and took her seat.

  ‘Can I offer you a cold drink?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Mohan shouted at the bearer to get his guest a Campa-Cola and paapad.

  ‘What next?’ she asked in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You must have received offers from other women.’

  ‘So far you are the only one. And I am game,’ he replied. ‘When would it be convenient for you to move in?’

  Again there was a long silence before the lady professor, her gaze fixed on her feet, asked, ‘I expect you will want to have sex with me?’

  Mohan was taken aback by her bluntness. Less than half an hour ago, when she came in, this woman had touched his feet. He took his time to answer. ‘It is part of the deal. If you have any reservations, you must tell me right now.’

  She continued looking at her feet. ‘In that case I should first see a doctor. I don’t want to take the risk of getting pregnant again. Children must be born in wedlock, not of a temporary relationship.’

  Mohan made no comment.

  She paused a long time before she spoke again. ‘It’s a big gamble for me. My self-esteem might get very bruised. But I’m willing to give it a try. I have to give my college a month’s notice to avail of the leave due to me. I also have to spend some time with my son during his school vacations. I’ll let you know as soon as I get back to Rewari and have a talk with my principal.’

  She got up to leave. ‘Will I be able to get a scooter or a taxi to drop me at the bus stand?’

  ‘My chauffeur will drop you there. I would have done it myself but I don’t like driving after dark. Car headlights dazzle my eyes and traffic on Delhi roads is very chaotic.’

  The Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Mohan opened the rear door to let her in. He was not sure whether plans for the future entitled him to embrace or kiss her. He put his arm round her shoulder as she got into the car. ‘It was nice meeting you. Keep in touch. If you have a telephone where I can reach you, send me the number.’

  ‘No telephone,’ she replied, ‘I’ll write. Driver, please take me to the Inter-State Bus Terminal.’

  She waved a bangled hand as the car drove out.

  While drinking his evening quota of Scotch Mohan thought about the prospect of having the lady professor share his life for a few weeks or maybe months. His cook and bearer could be expected to accept his explanation—even if they did not believe it—that she was a cousin who had been transferred to Delhi and who would stay with him till she found accommodation of her own. But Dhanno would be more difficult to convince. She had got used to being invited to his bedroom once or twice a week when the other servants were out. With another woman in the house all day, this arrangement would have to be put in abeyance till the lady professor left. Since he himself locked the front and rear entrances to the house before retiring to bed, neither Dhanno nor the other servants would know what went on indoors at night. But women, he knew, had an uncanny sixth sense which warned them of the presence of rivals claiming the attention of their men. Married women could sense their husband’s extra-marital affairs without having any tell-tale evidence to substantiate their suspicions. Married men were so absorbed in themselves that their wives could cuckold them for years without being suspected of infidelity.

  But then, Dhanno had no moral right, really, to sulk or quibble; she was cheating on her husband. Mohan could be as unfaithful to her as he liked since she was neither his wife nor a concubine—just a pro tem sharer of his bed, for which she was duly compensated. In any case, why brood over it now? He’d see how things developed and deal with problems as they arose.

  When he retired for the night, he fantasized about what the lady professor would be like in bed. Would he go to her bedroom or bring her to his own? She appeared somewhat prudish and might insist that the lights be switched off before she lay with him … And almost certainly he would have to do a lot of persuading to make her strip and see her as God had made her. What gave him confidence was that she was small and frail and he towered over her. He could impose his will on her. He fell asleep; but when it came to dreaming it was not the lady professor he saw but the sweeper-woman, Dhanno, standing naked before him, arms akimbo, and berating him for being unfaithful to her.

  Three days later he got a letter from Professor Sarojini Bharadwaj. She addressed him as ‘Dear Mohan Ji’. She informed him that the leave she had asked for had been sanctioned. Her son would be with her for a part of his summer vacation; she would then leave him with her parents in Dehra Dun who would take him back to his boarding school in Mussoorie. It was now mid-August; she
could join him in mid-September or any time later that suited him. She was retaining her flat in Rewari as she was not sure how long or short her stay in Delhi would be. She ended her letter: ‘With love, yours, Saroj.’ There was a ‘PS’ beneath her signature: ‘Please reply as soon as you can. Please do not talk about our arrangement to any of your friends.’

  Her handwriting was masculine and bold. Mohan wondered whether under the mask of femininity she was a bossy woman in the habit of talking down to people as she undoubtedly did to her students.

  Mohan replied to her letter the same afternoon. He wrote that he had some out-of-town business to attend to in September. If it was all right for her, he would expect her on the first of October. He could pick her up at the railway station or the bus terminal if she gave him the exact timings, and assured her of complete secrecy over their arrangement. He also ended his letter with ‘Love, ever yours, Mohan.’

  In the course of the next week he received more letters from women showing interest in his offer. They were from distant cities—Coimbatore, Goa, Vishakhapatnam, Bombay, Hyderabad, Bhubaneshwar, Calcutta and Guwahati. Five were from Hindu women of different castes, three from Christians, one from a Parsee, one from a Muslim. When he put in the ad he had little hope of receiving any replies, and here within a space of ten days he had eight takers from different parts of the country, belonging to different communities. Most of them were divorced or living separately from their husbands; one was a spinster. All were educated, working women: teachers, nurses, steno-typists. The photographs they enclosed made them look quite attractive. And all of them asked for his photograph in return. He wrote them a standard reply: he was going abroad on business for a few months and would get in touch with them as soon as he returned, and enclosed copies of the same photograph he had sent Sarojini Bharadwaj. He locked up the letters in the desk drawer in his study. He looked forward to the new life he had planned for himself.