She sat down breathless after her speech. Only one student, a mild-mannered Jew who always wore a skullcap, took up her challenge. ‘Perhaps the lady can answer some of my questions before I answer hers,’ he said. ‘Can she deny that Islam borrowed most of its ideas from Judaism? Their greeting, salam valaikum, is derived from the Hebrew shalom alech; the names of their five daily prayers are taken from Judaism. We turn to Jerusalem to pray; they borrowed the idea from us but instead turn to Makka. Following the Jewish practice they circumcise their male children. They have taken the concept of haraam (unlawful) and halaal (legitimate), what to eat and what not to eat, from the Jewish kosher. We Jews forbid eating pig’s meat because we regard it unclean; Muslims do the same. We bleed animals to death before we eat them. Following us, so do they. They revere all the Prophets revered by Jews and Christians. What was there in Islam which was very new? Everything it has is borrowed from Judaism or Christianity.’
Yasmeen was up on her feet again to give battle to the Jew. ‘What was new was the advent of prophet Mohammed (peace be upon Him). He was the greatest of all prophets sent by Allah, and every Muslim anywhere in the world knows this. We recognize no one after Mohammed (peace be upon Him).’
The Jew did not take that lying down: ‘What about the division between Sunnis and Shias? Shias pay greater deference to the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law Ali than they do to the Prophet. And what about Muslim sects founded on sub-prophets of their own? The Aga Khan’s, Ismailies, Bohras, Ahmediyas and many others whose names I can’t even remember? And while we are at it, I would like the lady to enlighten us on why when Islam talks of giving a fair deal to women, it allows four wives to men, why many Muslim rulers maintained large harems of women and eunuchs. Why are they forever calling for jehad—holy war—with infidels and fighting against each other?’
It was degenerating into a pointless wrangle. Professor Ashby put an end to it. ‘I see we are in for another lively debate. Perhaps you can discuss these issues outside the class.’
The lecture period was over. Yasmeen’s face was flushed with anger and triumph. ‘Don’t you think I put that miserable Jew in his place?’ she asked me as we walked out. Instead of answering her question, I asked her, ‘Yasmeen, why are you so kattar (bigoted)? Muslims are the most bigoted religious community in the world. Their Prophet was the greatest, their religion is the best, Muslims are the most enlightened community, the most God-fearing and righteous of all mankind. If the Jews think they are God’s chosen people, Muslims think they are the choicest of the chosen. How can you be so narrow-minded?’
She was taken aback. ‘We are not bigoted,’ she retorted. ‘We follow our religious precepts in letter and in spirit because we know they are the best for humanity. You must give me the opportunity to tell you of the beauty of Islam. You don’t know what you are missing in life.’
‘I’m happy in my ignorance,’ I replied. ‘I don’t have much patience with any religion. All I say is try not to injure anyone’s feelings. The rest is marginal. Gods, prophets, scriptures, rituals, pilgrimages mean very little to me.’
She made no comment.
Yasmeen had only a week left in Princeton. Having failed to find anything more suitable to give her, I bought her a university ring made of silver with the Princeton emblem on it. At a coffee session one morning when no one was sharing our table, I took it out of my pocket and slipped it on her finger. ‘I see you wear only gold but I could not afford a gold ring. And this being a university ring no one will comment about it. You could have bought it yourself but I’m giving it to you so that it will remind you of your days with a Bharati Hindu boy in Princeton.’
She took my hand and kissed it.
A faint blush came over her face. ‘You are a nice boy. I only wish your name was not Mohan Kumar but Mohammed Kareem—or something like that,’ she laughed. ‘I am not as kattar as you think. I am just concerned about your future.’
During her last week in Princeton we met every day. We spent the afternoons walking around the campus and shopping. She bought lots of things for her husband and children and her household in Muzaffarabad. She seemed to have plenty of cash and dollar traveller’s cheques. Came her last day. She invited me for dinner. ‘Have you ever tasted Kashmiri food? It is the tastiest in the world, only very rich. I am a good cook. I can make very good goshtaba. Ever tasted goshtaba?’
I admitted that I had not.
‘You must tell me what you don’t eat,’ she said. ‘You Hindus have so many food fads. I know you don’t eat beef or veal, but believe me, it is the most delicious meat. So many of you are vegetarian; no fish, not even eggs. Some even refuse to eat onions or garlic. How can you make anything tasty without onions or garlic, I ask you?’
‘I eat everything except beef. Not that I regard the cow as sacred but because I have been brought up like that. And let me assure you that pig’s meat, which you will not touch, can be very clean and tasty: ham, bacon, pork are the staple diet of most Europeans and Americans. One reason why I don’t think Islam will spread to the Pacific islands is because their economy is based on the pig. And I know that like the Jews many Muslims don’t eat shrimps, crabs or lobsters. Muslim tribes living along the Arabian and African coast don’t eat fish because they think fish are serpents of the sea.’
‘You are a very argumentative fellow,’ she said patting my cheek. ‘Come tomorrow evening as early as you can and sample my Kashmiri cooking. I don’t drink but I’ll get some beer for you and put it in the fridge.’
I swear I had nothing more on my mind than spending a pleasant evening with Yasmeen. Things did not turn out that way. I took her a bunch of dark red roses. She kissed my hands as I gave them to her and embraced me warmly. While I was casually dressed in a sports shirt and slacks, she wore a silk salwar-kameez with gold borders, a gold necklace with a medallion on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, gold earrings and gold bangles. She had a lot of make-up on and had doused herself with French perfume. Besides beer in the fridge she had put a half bottle of Scotch, a tumbler and a pitcher of water on the centre table. ‘You help yourself to Scotch or beer while I say my evening namaaz.’
She went to her bedroom, put her prayer mat on the floor and stood facing Makka. I poured out a Scotch for myself. While I sipped it, I saw her going through her genuflections. She sat a long time on her knees with the palms of her hands open in front of her face as if reading their lines. I could see her lips moving but could not hear what she was reciting. She looked serene. She turned her face one way, then the other, brushed her face with her hands and stood up. She rolled up her prayer mat and tucked it under her bed.
She went into the kitchen to make sure the goshtaba was cooking nicely and lowered the flame so that it could cook slowly. Then she came and joined me. ‘How’s the drink?’ she asked. ‘Very nice,’ I replied. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Tauba! It is haraam. You will make me a sinner, will you? You can fetch me a coke from the fridge.’
I got out a can of coke. Before I could open it, she took it from my hand and put it on the table. Then she held my hands in hers and looked into my eyes till I had to lower my gaze, embarrassed. Suddenly, she put her arms round my neck and said, ‘It is our last evening together. Make love to me. Something to remember you by for the rest of my days.’
To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. This was the last thing I had expected of the evening. Besides, Yasmeen had never appeared sexually desirable to me. But she did not give me a chance to protest. She took me by my hand and led me to the bedroom. She took off everything save her jewellery. Her skin was soft but flabby. Her big breasts sagged and she had shaved her pubic hair. None of the girls I had bedded shaved their privates. I was surprised to see that a woman so large who had borne two children, had such a small vagina. It looked vulnerable. While I gazed at her figure, she took off my shirt and pulled down my trousers. She gasped at what she saw. ‘Mashallah! What have you got there? Do all Hindus have orga
ns of this size? It must be their reward for worshipping the phallus.’ She fondled it for a while with her pudgy hands, her lips glued to mine.
She pulled me over her and stretched her thighs wide to receive me. I entered her. She moaned with pleasure and locked her legs behind my back. She ate up my face with bites and passionate kisses. We came together.
She lay back exhausted. Then she pushed me off her and went into the bathroom to wash. She came back and put on her kameez. ‘That goshtaba must be ready by now. It must not get overcooked. You wash yourself and I’ll lay the dinner on the table.’
I did as I was told. She was like a political boss in full command of the situation. We sat down to eat. I noticed she had not put on her salwar. Her kameez hung down to her knees, exposing her broad thighs when she stood up or sat down. I understood she had not finished with me and expected another session after dinner. I was not sure if I would be up to it with her. But I let myself in for it by a thoughtless gesture. While she was washing the dishes and I was drying them with a piece of cloth, I put my right hand under her kameez and stroked her huge buttocks. They were like two gourds of a taanpura joined together—massive, rounded, smooth. She beamed a smile and kissed me on the lips. ‘You want to do it a second time? So do I. We will make it different this time.’ That did it.
For a while we sat holding hands and chatted away. She told me of her daily schedule in Muzaffarabad. ‘With both my husband and I being in politics we hardly have a moment to ourselves. It is like a public durbar from sunrise to sunset. Wherever we go we are surrounded by men and women with petitions. For me being here is like being on a holiday. I wish I could extend it but my grant is over and my family will want to know why I am not taking the first flight back to Karachi and home.’
She stood up and stretched her arms above her head and stifled a yawn. ‘Time for bed,’ she said taking me by the hand and leading me to her bed. She gently pushed me on it. ‘This time you relax and I’ll do all the work!’
She pulled off my trousers and fondled my limp lingam till it was ready for action. She sat astride my middle, spread her ample frame over me and directed my phallus into her. She was wet and eager and my penis slid in easily. Her breasts smothered my face. She held each in turn and put its nipple in my mouth, urging me to suck it. She kissed me hungrily and noisily on my nose, lips and neck, leaving her saliva on me, while she heaved and thumped me with her huge buttocks. ‘I haven’t had sex for six months. I am famished,’ she said as her movements became more frenzied. ‘Fill me up with all you have, you miserable kafir,’ she screamed. And with a spectacular shudder and a loud ha, ha, ha she collapsed on me like a lifeless corpse. She did all the fucking. I was simply fucked.
‘Wouldn’t it be nicer if we settled Pak-India problems this way rather than by abusing each other and fighting?’ she asked after a while.
‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘And with Pakistan always on top?’
‘Of course! Pakistan must always be on top.’
I was exhausted and wanted to get away.
She clung to me and begged, ‘Please stay the night with me. I’ll feel very lost if you go away. I promise I won’t bother you any more.’
I agreed to spend the night with her and see her off at the bus stand the next morning. I could not resist asking her a few awkward questions. ‘You must tell me how you square your belief in Islamic values with what you and I have been doing.’
She paused a long time, fixed me with her large eyes. ‘What I did was sinful,’ she admitted.
‘A sin punishable with death by stoning?’
She was quiet for a long time.
‘Doesn’t your conscience bother you?’ I asked.
‘The body has its compulsions,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it has, but that’s the easy way to square your conscience.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘I have no idea. But surely there must be something in your religion that allows you to absolve yourself of your sins by going on a pilgrimage?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said evasively.
‘Like the Hindus being forgiven if they take a dip in the Holy Ganga?’ I teased.
‘O shut up!’ she shouted angrily. ‘Don’t spoil my last night with you.’
She put her head on my right arm and nestled against me. ‘You are more curious about things than is good for you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, all those questions about my religion and my conscience.’
I laughed and pulled her close and kissed her passionately.
We were soon fast asleep in each other’s arms.
I don’t know when she slipped out of bed. When I awoke I saw her saying her morning namaaz on the prayer mat by the bed. She had bathed and dressed without my hearing anything. I did not interrupt her prayer and went to her bathroom to take a shower. I had not brought anything with me. I brushed my teeth with her wet tooth brush, and shaved my chin with the razor she had used to shave her pubic hair. When I came out she had finished her prayer and was laying breakfast on the table. The fragrance of fresh coffee filled the apartment.
I took her in my arms and held her in a tight embrace. When I released her I saw her eyes were damp with tears. We had our toast and coffee in silence. She asked me to ring up for a taxi and gave me the key to her apartment to hand over to the caretaker after she left. I offered to accompany her to New York and then to Kennedy Airport. She was quite firm in turning me down. ‘The Pakistani Consulate is sending someone to meet me at the Port Authority bus terminal and drive me to the airport. Many Pakistanis know me from my pictures in the papers and appearances on TV. Some of the staff of Pakistan International Airways are sure to recognize me. Being seen off by a Bharati Hindu would not be a very bright idea,’ she said.
I took her suitcases down. A taxi pulled up as soon as I had put her three bags on the kerb. The cabby helped me put them in the boot. ‘Bus stand for New York bound buses,’ I told him as we got into the rear seat. She let me hold her hand. We had no words left to say to each other.
I paid off the taxi. Five minutes later the New York bus pulled up. I put her cases in the back of the bus. I took her in my arms once more without bothering about who was looking and kissed her passionately on her lips. She hurried into the bus, adjusting her hair. She took her seat. She did not turn to look at me or wave goodbye. I saw her bend down and put her face in her hands.
That was the last I saw of Yasmeen Wanchoo.
But I thought of her often. Every time I met a Muslim, man or woman, she came back to my mind. Every time anyone brought up the subject of Indo-Pak relations or the continuing tension over Kashmir, I was reminded of Yasmeen Wanchoo. Although it was not I who had taken the lead but she who had manouvred me into having sex with her, and despite the fact that our copulation was by no means an earth-shattering experience because neither of us was in the slightest way emotionally involved with the other, it had somehow drained out whatever anti-Muslim and anti-Pakistan prejudices I had imbibed during my school and college years in India. Whenever anyone said anything against Muslims, my hackles rose because I had been made love to by a Muslim woman. Whenever anyone said anything against Pakistan, I strongly defended that country because I had been made love to by a Pakistani woman. It was not love but lust that proved to be a great healer.
I finished my final year at Princeton and stayed another year to do an advanced course in finance. The six years I spent at Princeton were the happiest and the most fruitful years of my life. I had done well in my studies. As a sophomore I was the only one in my class to be admitted to Phi Beta Kappa, and in my final exam I was the only Princetonian to earn a summa cum laude, the highest academic distinction anyone could earn in any American university.
During those years I had also bedded scores of women of different races and ages and enjoyed every one of them. While still in university, I was offered highly paid jobs by multinational corporations. But I was not interested; I had
earned and saved up a lot of money coaching students and from lectures I was invited to deliver in colleges all over the country. At the end of my course I was offered a lecturer’s job in the department of mathematics at Princeton. It should have been easy to get a Green Card and later become an American citizen. However, much as I liked living in the free and easy atmosphere that prevailed in the States, with all the creature comforts it provided, and despite finding Americans the easiest people to befriend, I did not have a sense of belonging to the country or its people. I was Indian, belonged to India, wanted to make my mark in India and nowhere else.
During my sojourn in the States I met scores of my countrymen living in distant parts of the country. There were the old settlers, mostly Sikhs in California, who owned large farms and lived in luxury. There were the latecomers—doctors, engineers, teachers, hoteliers—all doing much better money-wise then they could ever have in India. Even the latest arrivals—mostly factory workers and cab drivers—earned enough in dollars to be able to send decent money back home to ensure that their children went to public schools and their wives lived in comfort in their villages, while the men themselves had women—American, European immigrants and Latinos—to cook, keep house and warm their beds. With everything going for them, they talked of their watan, ate Indian food, listened to Indian film music and often cried in their sleep. Their common theme was, ‘Once I have made enough dollars, I will go back to my village.’ Hardly any did.
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