Company of Women

by Khushwant Singh

  He ignored his servants. He wanted it to sink into them that they had been disloyal to him by gossiping about Sarojini. Most contrite was Dhanno. Although she had been temporarily deprived of privileges she had enjoyed and had reason to be sore with the intruder, she did not want her maalik to be annoyed with her for too long. He knew she was looking for an opportunity when she would find him alone. She would fall at his feet and crave his forgiveness. He took good care to see that she did not get the opportunity—not for some days to come.

  He began to enjoy his evenings alone. A hot shower, a warm camel-hair dressing gown and woollen slippers against the growing autumn chill. Premium Scotch and an enveloping silence. He had much to ruminate over. Every evening he went over the liaisons he had had with women in his college years in the States. Besides him, those women had bedded Americans, Latinos and visiting Scandinavians, but that had never bothered him. In fact that suited him fine; it made them more inventive and uninhibited in bed. It was odd that he could vividly recollect first encounters in detail; how he had courted a particular woman, the first embrace and the love making that followed. Whatever subsequent meetings and beddings there had been had faded from his memory. It only went to prove that sex was really pleasurable only the first time with a new woman; it got less and less exciting when repeated with the same person.

  Another conclusion he drew from his many affairs was that women were as eager to have sex with men they liked as men were to fuck them. And given the opportunity they were as willing to try out different men as men were to try out different women. He had no trouble bedding the women he dated. Some were brash and readily stripped themselves for action; others were a little coy to start with. Some were quick comers; others took a long time to climax. He did not much care for the second type because they gave him a feeling of inadequacy. Otherwise they were much the same: big bosomed or small, buxom or skinny, broad-hipped or narrow—when it came to the nitty-gritty, there was very little difference. As Indians would put it, ‘Maharani or Mehtarani, same to same.’

  Some evenings he brought out the letters and photographs of the women who had responded to his ad. He scrutinized their faces and fantasized about the kind of figures they might have. And how they would respond to his overtures. But he was not ready to take on anyone for some weeks or perhaps months. He put the correspondence back in his drawer lest he change his mind.

  Dhanno was eager to catch her master alone. Mohan sensed her prowling around and took care not to give her the chance. He left home while the other servants were still around and returned when they were back on duty. After a fortnight, one morning Dhanno found the sahib sitting all by himself; the cook had gone out shopping, the bearer had gone to his quarter. He was smoking his post-breakfast cigar and was engrossed in the morning papers. He was taken unawares. He felt someone grabbing him by both his legs and putting her head between his knees. It was Dhanno. She wailed, ‘Maalik, if I have erred, please forgive me; otherwise I will kill myself.’ Mohan was familiar with the Indian habit of exaggerating everything. But he was not prepared to take on a sobbing Dhanno threatening suicide. He felt a reprimand was in order. ‘You have been gossiping about my guest and me.’

  ‘I had no right to do so,’ she conceded. ‘After all I have a man at home and yet I serviced you whenever you desired. What right had I to talk? Please, please forgive me this time. I swear by my children, I’ll never do it again.’

  That was not the end of her protestations. She continued: ‘Put your hand on my head and say you have forgiven me. I am your daasi for this life and lives to come.’ Mohan was embarrassed and wanted to put a quick end to the melodrama. He put a hand on Dhanno’s head and said, ‘It’s all right, but don’t let the servants see you behaving like this. They will make up all sorts of stories and I may be forced to dismiss you.’

  Dhanno got up, blew her nose into her dupatta. As she turned away, she added, ‘Where will I go if you dismiss me? I and my children will die of hunger.’

  Mohan had no intention of dismissing her—only of bringing her to heel. A few days later it was he who told Dhanno that he would be sending both the servants out next morning and expected her to stay after she had finished sweeping the floors.

  The following morning Dhanno came in a little later than usual. The sahib was ordering a special meal for the evening as he had invited some friends for dinner. He told the cook what to get from INA market. He gave the bearer a list of items he wanted from m.r. Stores—cheese crackers, savouries and a box of liqueur chocolates. The two servants finished their chores and left on their errands. Mohan latched the two doors from the inside and came up. Dhanno continued mopping the floor, pretending she had not noticed him. Mohan bent down, caught her by the waist and hoisted her to his bed. He stripped her of her salwar-kameez and mounted her. After such a long gap a body he had known so well seemed to have regained its newness. And Dhanno was more than eager to please him. He pounded into her and she kept begging for more, for that was what he wanted to hear. It proved to be a successful reunion.

  Dhanno got up from the bed. As she slipped on her clothes, she asked, ‘Sahibji, tell me the absolute truth: was your professor memsahib better than I? I know you liked her only because she could git-pit in English and I can’t.’

  With Sarojini back in Rewari, and no one to keep him tied to home and routine, Mohan Kumar found himself frequenting the clubs and parties that were an essential feature in the lives of Delhi’s rich and able. Delhi had its Young Achievers Club (YAC)—which soon changed to the Young Millionaires Club (YMC)—of which Mohan was one of the founder members. It did not have a constitution nor office bearers, no premises, not even a list of members. Everyone knew everyone else because only a dozen regarded themselves eligible for membership. It was understood that if you made your first million before you were forty, you were welcome to dinner parties arranged in each other’s homes. The inspiration for this club came from the Yuppies of the United States of America. AllYMC members were products of US colleges. Not one came from a British University. Americans were money oriented and money was what mattered to young Oriental millionaires, regardless of how it was made.

  Of supreme importance was the style of living. You had to have a bungalow in one of New Delhi’s posh residential localities and, preferably, a farm house a short distance from the city centre. Three cars were a must: a Mercedes Benz or a Toyota for the boss; a Maruti, or a Fiat for the memsahib; and a third one as a spare. Keeping dogs of high pedigree added to the owners’ stature. German shepherds were fine, but they were regarded as watch dogs. Dalmatians, Red Setters, Cocker Spaniels, boxers, labradors were okay. But a huge Saint Bernard for the sahib, a tiny Peke or a Chihuahua for the memsahib gave you class.

  Membership of the top clubs of the city was of consequence. On top of the list was the Golf Club. Although its membership was restricted, if one paid in foreign currency, it made admission easier, as had happened in Mohan’s case. Now Mohan was at the club almost every evening, drinking at the bar, entertaining or being entertained in the restaurant.

  Of course, he was spouseless now. Everyone made a point of missing Sonu. She was the perfect wife for a young millionaire—at least outside the home. She had learnt how to adorn herself in a style becoming her husband’s wealth. Nothing as flamboyant as heavy south Indian or Benares saris; light silks or chiffons of sober colours showed better taste. The diamonds she wore in her ears or as nose pins had to be small but sparkling. Her perfume or cologne had to be French. Mohan recalled that she never missed her weekly visit to a five-star hotel beauty parlour for a hair wash, hair dressing, facial, waxing of legs and arms, removing hair growth on the upper lip and the chin. The total came to a paltry Rs 1000 a visit. She gave him no peace, not even good sex, but made the most of his money. Spoilt bitch.

  After a long time, Mohan got back onto the dinner circuit. He had half-enjoyed it once—all the care and planning. What set the young millionaires apart from other rich people was their style of ent
ertainment. The Scotch had to be premium brand: Blue or Gold label Johnnie Walker, Royal Salute, Chivas Regal or Something Special. The wines had to be vintage French. The vodka had to be Russian, the gin English, the sherry Spanish, the liqueurs English or French. Extra care was taken over preparing menus and outside caterers were briefed on what was to be served and at what time. The crockery had to bear ancient names like Spode or Royal Doulton; the cut-glass, Lalique; the cutlery, Sterling Silver. The waiters had to be in uniforms and wear white gloves. Sonu had enjoyed these parties, chattering with the other memsahibs about the diplomats they had befriended and the troubles they had with their servants.

  Mohan had two couples for dinner about a fortnight after Sarojini had left. They knew that he had parted company from his wife. So there would be no tension on that score. As they came up he shook hands with the men and kissed their wives on both cheeks. Kissing wives was de rigueur: cheeks if the husbands were looking, lips when they were not. ‘So, you old bugger, how are you enjoying your bachelorhood?’ asked Jas (Jaspal).

  ‘No complaints,’ replied Mohan (Mo to fellow YMC members, for they followed the American custom of using nick names for each other). ‘It’s more peaceful. No nagging, no quarrels. There is much to be said in favour of a broken marriage.’

  ‘Particularly if you find a companion to share your loneliness,’ added Jas’s wife Satty (Satnam) with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘So you’ve been listening to gossip,’ remarked Mohan.

  ‘Delhi is a small town. Things get round sooner than you think,’ added Malik, who had no abbreviation for his name. ‘Usually the people concerned are the last to hear what is being said about them.’

  ‘How true,’ everyone agreed. They went on to affairs of their other friends and how their businesses were doing. They bitched and gossiped. They drank and ate. They had coffee and liqueurs and lit their cigarettes or cheroots. The bearer removed the plates and glasses. Suddenly Dhanno made her appearance to collect the leftovers of the dinner party. All eyes turned to her. ‘And who may this lady be who visits you at this late hour?’ asked Satty.

  ‘Oh, she!’ answered Mohan tamely, ‘she’s the jamadarni. She’s come to take the leftovers for her husband and children. She has a quarter at the back of the house.’

  ‘Not bad for bad purposes,’ remarked Jas.

  ‘O for God’s sake!’ exploded Mohan. ‘She’s a sweeperess. I’m not a sex maniac to go after every pussy around.’

  It was past midnight when they broke up, yawning and stretching their arms. Mo saw them off to their cars. The party had been a success.

  II

  The Memoirs of Mohan Kumar

  I am Mohan Kumar, the man you have been reading about. My friend, Khushwant Singh, who has begun to write a novel based on my life, knows me well, but not well enough. I have persuaded him to let me speak for myself. I had never imagined I would ever need or have the time to record my life. But now that I am unwell and suddenly alone, I seek solace in memory, in thoughts of all the women I have known.

  I was the only child of my parents. My mother died giving birth to me. I never knew a mother’s love for her son; I have heard that it is a very special love, more so if the son is also the first born. Perhaps. My father sent for a wet nurse from Agra to breastfeed me for six months. My dead mother’s unmarried sister looked after me for two years, then she got married and I became a single parent child.

  My father was a superintendent in the office of the Northern Railway. We lived in the clerks’ quarters close to New Delhi railway station. There was a young maidservant who cooked for us and kept our quarters clean. During the day, when my father was away at work, she kept an eye on me as I played with the neighbours’ children. Sometimes, when we were alone and if I pestered her enough, she would lift her kameez to her neck and let me suck her breasts. I was a child then, but I have a good memory—I remember her breasts were smooth and firm and large. In the summer, they glistened with sweat and tasted salty.

  When I was five years old, my father got me admitted into a government primary school. My teachers discovered that while I did reasonably well in most subjects, I got every answer to every question in arithmetic right. It was the same in high school; I got full marks in arithmetic, algebra and geometry. That usually put me on top of my class. My father had me take Sanskrit as a special subject. All I was required to do was to mug up original texts and their Hindi translations. I was gifted with a good memory, so I had yet another subject in which I could score full marks. I did well enough in high school to win a state scholarship to DAV college.

  Nothing of consequence happened in college, except that I continued to do well academically. Though only sixteen when I entered college, I was already almost six feet tall, a couple of inches taller than my father. It was probably a gift my mother left in my genes. But I was not much interested in sports. The only exercise I did was surya namaskar and some yoga asanas including sheersh asana (head-stand) in the mornings and evenings. That kept me fit without making me muscular. Despite my father being a devout Arya Samaji and the fact that I was studying in an Arya Samaj college, I did not take to religion. Apart from occasionally reciting the Gayatri mantra I said no prayer, nor did I go to the college temple.

  I topped the university in the degree examinations. The principal of my college suggested I apply for a scholarship to an American university. He got me the forms from the American embassy and helped me fill them out. I got offers from six universities. My principal advised me to opt for Princeton, where Einstein had taught mathematics and made his home. A senior member of the embassy staff who was an old Princetonian gave me letters of introduction to some professors he knew and showed me pictures of the campus.

  In late September, 1975 I took an Air India flight from Delhi to New York. My father was the only one to see me off at Palam Airport. I remember well his parting advice: ‘Puttar (Son), do whatever you like in America, but don’t marry a white woman and never touch bada maas (beef).’ I was embarrassed, as at the time the idea of marriage was nowhere in my mind, and I was revolted by the idea of people slaughtering cows for meat.

  An hour’s bus ride from New York brought me to Princeton. Unlike in Indian colleges where old students make it a point to be nasty to newcomers, I was immediately made welcome. A senior student had been deputed to familiarize me with the campus. He met me at the bus stop, took my suitcase from my hand and showed me to my room in the hostel where I was to stay. He showed me where the loos, the showers and the cafeteria were located, then brought me back to my room and told me where I could find him if I needed further help.

  Before I unpacked, I recited the Gayatri mantra. I took a shower and changed my clothes. The student who had taken me round the campus took me with him to the cafeteria. There was a long queue of boys, girls and teachers waiting for their turn to be served. My guide pointed to several distinguished professors, two of them Nobel Laureates, who stood in line behind us. I was not familiar with the kind of food being served but I knew Americans were cow-eaters, and I could not tell beef from other kinds of meat. So I stuck to vegetables, mostly mashed potatoes, carrots and beans, which were all quite tasteless.

  We shared our table with other students. Introductions were made. Since they found my name, Mohan Kumar, too much of a mouthful, from the very first evening they began to call me Mo. They assumed that since I had a full scholarship, I must be bright. After dinner a group of them including a couple of girls who were also newcomers were taken round the campus. What beautiful buildings! Some looked as ancient as the Cambridge and Oxford colleges that I had seen pictures of, others seemed to be made of steel and plate glass. There were tennis courts, baseball stadia and football grounds. And everywhere stood huge trees—oaks and beeches. The maple leaves had begun to turn a copper colour. I knew I was going to love the place.

  I found Americans very easy to get on with. They were open, frank and aggressively friendly. They were without guile and only lied to
avoid hurting people’s feelings. I soon discovered that as a nation Americans had more to them in inventiveness than any other people I had known. There was a six-storey building in Princeton, designed by a Japanese architect. When they found it was too close to the road, they simply raised the entire structure from its foundations and placed it in its new site without disturbing even the furniture and fittings. Near one of the students hostels there was a lot of vacant land. They thought it would look nicer if it was a forest. No problem. They excavated huge pits and planted half-grown pine and fir trees in them, and in a month they had their forest. A month later birds were nesting in the trees. Which other people could do such things?

  Princeton offered a lot of courses. Since business management and computers were my main subjects, I was left with many options. I decided on international affairs and comparative religion as additional subjects. I was expected to attend these classes once a week. The rest of the time I could concentrate on my main subjects.

  Within a few months of joining the university, I had made some good friends. As I have said, I had no great interest in sports, but my American friends were determined to reform me. They persuaded me to take up games. I gave in, and decided to try my hand at tennis. What followed the first game changed the course of my life.

  After sweating it out on the tennis court, I went along with the boys to take a shower. I was shocked to see them strip naked and exchange obscenities about the sizes of their penises as they soaped themselves. I had never exposed myself to anyone before. Very reluctantly I took off my shorts, wrapped a towel around my waist and stood under a shower.

  ‘Hey ho! what are you hiding behind the towel?’ yelled one of the boys. ‘Or don’t you have anything there?’ Very gingerly I undid my towel and quickly positioned myself under the shower, hoping for some cover in the spray of water.