Company of Women

by Khushwant Singh

  I did not want to miss the sunset aarti at Har Ki Pauri. We put our luggage in the room and walked through the bazaars to the river bank. It was March. The hillsides were ablaze with the crimson red of the flame of the forest in full bloom. As the sun went over the western range, a full moon rose in the sky. It was the same scene of candelabras being waved over the stream to the chanting of shlokas and the loud clanging of temple bells. Leaf boats carrying flickering oil lamps bobbed up and down on the dark water. I realized that if there was one experience which I would get nowhere else in the world it was the worship of the Ganga at Haridwar at sunset.

  That night I was strangely at peace with myself. The bickerings with Sonu were out of my mind. All the women who had for short periods become a part of my life were also out of my mind. Even Mary Joseph whom I had been bedding off and on in different hotels ceased to exist for me. Mother Ganga had taken me in her embrace and there was no room for anyone else. I slept soundly all night.

  My father woke me up in the morning with a cup of hot tea. We went back to the ghats and bathed in the river. This time my eyes did not stray towards women bathers. Perhaps I was getting the better of my lecherous instincts!

  I spent a long time talking to my father. I told him I would visit him every full moon night and any other time he wanted to see me. I pleaded with him to come over at least once a month. I could send my car to fetch him and drop him back. He did not commit himself. ‘Let’s see,’ he replied every time I asked him to make a promise.

  I drove back at a leisurely pace through the countryside of wheat fields ready to be harvested, along the cool bank of the broad Ganga canal, through the crowded bazaars of highway towns. I was back home by the afternoon.

  Ranjit was having his long siesta. He woke up when I was having tea. He looked very happy to see me, but his eyes looked for someone else. ‘Dada?’ he asked with a question mark on his face. He went crawling round sofas and chairs calling ‘Dada, Dada’. They often played hide and seek. When he failed to find his Dada anywhere Ranjit came back to me and looked me full in the face with his large questioning eyes. ‘Dada? Dada?’ he asked. I picked him up and put him against my chest. ‘Dada’s gone to Haridwar. He will be back soon.’

  Sonu picked up our dialogue. ‘Is he planning to come back soon?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know if he will come back at all. He felt he was unwanted here,’ I replied in a huff.

  ‘Why are you always picking on me?’ she screamed. ‘He went of his own free will. I didn’t tell him to go.’

  I switched the TV on and asked the bearer to bring out the Scotch.

  I stuck to my resolve of being in Haridwar on full moon nights with my father. I insisted on his coming back with me so he could spend a few days with his grandson. One had to see them together to understand how elemental and strong are the ties of affection between grandparents and their grandchildren. Sonu accepted the arrangement of having ‘the old man’ spend four or five days of the month with us. He always brought some prasad from the ashram, a bottle full of Gangajal, and rustic toys for Ranjit.

  Sonu had other scores to settle with me. It seemed to be a part of her plan to not let me enjoy even my evening drink. One evening as I poured out one for myself and one for her (having weaned Ranjit some months ago she had started drinking sherry and at times Scotch) she asked me, ‘How many women did you take to bed before you married me?’

  I knew she was angling for a fight. I tried to be evasive. ‘A few, I don’t remember how many.’

  ‘And of course you expected your Indian wife to be a virgin. All Indian men are like that; one rule for them, another for their women.’

  I did not contradict her. It did not stop her going on with the interrogation: ‘Who was the first one?’

  I pretended I could not remember. ‘I think it was a woman called Jessica Browne, I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t remember? No one forgets the person they had sex with the first time. Who was this Jessica woman?’

  ‘Black American. She was captain of the university women’s tennis team.’

  ‘Black! You mean a habshi, a nigger?’

  ‘Nigger is regarded as a very rude word by educated Americans. They say coloured or African-American.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she snapped back, ‘I know you don’t call niggers that to their face. Behind their backs whites still call them niggers. Why did you pick on a black woman?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It just happened. I was shy of being seen with white girls. People stared at you. They didn’t if you were with a coloured woman because they took me to be coloured—which I was.’

  ‘How many times did you have this Jessica woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few times. It didn’t last long. She started going out with white boys and it ended.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘For God’s sake stop this cross-examination! It’s all in the past and finished. Why go on and on about something that’s over and done with?’ I said angrily. ‘Must you always ruin my evenings by starting arguments?’

  I helped myself to another drink, switched on the TV.

  She had yet to interrogate me about why I was late from office some evenings and smelt of whisky. I knew she would soon start doing that. And she would do it every evening. I realized I could not go on seeing Mary Joseph for too long. Meeting her in hotel rooms was risky. Someone was sure to recognize me and ask me questions. Or her, as she must have attended to hundreds of patients in her nursing home or as a private nurse. Fortunately for me, it was she who terminated our clandestine meetings. She rang me on my direct number in the office and told me she had to return to her village as her husband was reported to be very sick. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver, what else!’ she said. ‘No one to look after my son. Saar, I will write to you and tell you all about it.’

  I did not see Mary Joseph again. She wrote only once to tell me that her husband had died and that she had been appointed senior matron of the village health clinic. She sent me the blessings of Lord Jesus Christ.

  Sonu and I realized that our marriage was not working out. What concerned us most was what other people would say. Nobody bothers about marriages which hold; everyone is deeply interested if things go wrong. Whenever I dropped in at the Gymkhana or the Golf Club for a drink, my friends and their wives would ask, ‘Do you keep Sonu in purdah now? Why don’t you bring her with you?’ These were loaded questions.

  I told Sonu.

  ‘You never ask me to come with you. You go off on your own from the office. We pay subscriptions to three clubs; I haven’t been inside one for almost three years,’ she said.

  We were heading for another unpleasant argument; I cut it short: ‘I’ll ask the chauffeur to pick you up first and then collect me from the office. I agree that we should be seen together oftener than we are.’

  ‘We’ve hardly ever been seen together except at home,’ she said.

  Thereafter, at least twice a week, we began going to the Gymkhana or the Golf Club and spent an hour or more drinking with friends. Occasionally we joined them for dinner on special nights when exotic food was served. It was on our way back that she would pick on me. ‘You find that Chopra chap’s wife—what’s her name—attractive?’

  ‘Mrinal? Passable. She’s very vivacious.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anyone else at the party. It’s not good manners to pay attention to only one person in a party.’

  ‘She happened to be sitting next to me. I didn’t have much choice. On my other side was that fat woman—what’s her name—who has hardly anything to say about anything.’

  ‘Sheila Goel. I find her very interesting. She’s very knowledgeable about Hindi movies and light classical music. I’m told she has a lovely voice.’

  ‘You are welcome to her. I’m not interested in Hindi films nor in pakka raag. There is so much happening in the world; one should know something about it and have one’s own opinions. That Goel woman has no
clue about what’s going on in the world around her. When I asked her what she thought of the election results in Delhi, she shut me up by saying she had no interest in politics. She has no interest in sports either. Or for that matter in anything else.’

  That was good enough to start a slanging match; I fighting for Mrinal Chopra, she for Sheila Goel. This sort of thing was repeated every time we returned from a party with a little alcohol inside us. With every passing year it got worse. Sometimes she would force me to stop in the middle of the road, get out and walk away shouting that she could not bear to be with a womanizer. The first few times I would park the car by the side of the road and wait for her to return. Then I stopped bothering and left her to find her way back home in a taxi or on her own two feet.

  There is a common belief that children cement a marriage. There is little doubt that children need both parents to give them a sense of security which is necessary for their mental stability. However, my experience does not support the belief that this also reduces the tensions in a marriage. On the contrary, the birth of our son had produced more discord than harmony. Admittedly we had not planned to have him; he came because we could not hold ourselves back from exploring each others’ bodies and were foolish enough not to use contraceptives. It was not our child who generated any resentment between us. Both of us were devoted to him and made a lot of fuss over him. But even as a baby he reacted to our quarrels by turning to my father for company and comfort. This turned Sonu against my father. She made him feel unwelcome in our home. Being a proud and self-respecting man he decided to move permanently to his ashram in Haridwar. Little Ranjit missed him and turned to his ayah rather than to his mother for company. Sonu did not like that. She fired one ayah after another on the flimsiest of excuses: she steals my things, she is very lazy, she spoils the child, and so on and so forth. Ranjit could not come to terms with the succession of maidservants. He looked forward to my coming home in the evenings and clung to me till it was time for him to have supper and be put to bed. He insisted on my telling him stories till sleep overtook him. Sonu now had something more to hold against me. She began to resent our son’s preference for me rather than her. She was convinced I was turning the child against her. ‘Will you please leave him alone and let him get proper sleep? He has to get to school in the morning,’ she would shout if our story-telling sessions went on longer than she liked.

  Sex became a dutiful ritual performed once or twice every month (though even this was irregular) in the hope that Sonu would not suspect that I had found alternatives to the matrimonial bed. Indeed, I had found other outlets, but there was always the apprehension of being found out and so the affairs were not as pleasurable as those I had had in my bachelor days. I could not think of any way out of the impasse except to somehow win back my freedom through separation followed by divorce. The thought often came to my mind after a particularly nasty quarrel, but I never voiced it. It was, in fact, Sonu who suggested it: ‘We can’t go on like this for much longer,’ she said angrily once. ‘We make each other unhappy; it would be better if we lived apart.’ She awaited my response. I did not react. She said the same thing again some days later, and this time I agreed: ‘Yes, we should break up. I have had enough of this matrimonial bliss.’ She was taken aback and lapsed into a sullen silence. This sort of exchange happened more than a few times. It was always she who broke the icy silence that followed. It formed a pattern. After some days of not talking to each other, at night she would stretch her hand across to me. I would come over to her and without a word of affection being exchanged she would part her legs and I would mount her. There being no great urgency on my side, I could hold out as long as I liked, switch the woman lying under me from Sonu to one of the many that came to my mind: Jessica one night, Yaasmeen the second, Mary Joseph on the third …

  Life was becoming a bore. Boredom was written all over my face. Life should be interesting and exciting otherwise what is the point in going on? The clubs or parties we went to were useless. We met the same kind of people, who drank the same kind of liquor, indulged in the same kind of small talk and bitching. All trapped in the meaningless quest for money, creature comforts and hankering for social respectability. We frittered away the best years of our lives in banalities. The world had so much more to offer than we were taking from it: beautiful places, beautiful people. Beautiful paintings and sculptures for the eyes to behold. Beautiful music and songs. The fragrance of flowers; the aroma of the parched earth when the first drops of rain fall on it. Tasty food and wines to tickle the palate; roasted nuts with premium Scotch; avocado pears with chilled Pouille Fusse; wild rice with creamed mushroom sauce and juicy steaks with rich Barolo or Burgundy; trifle followed by sips of Drambuie, Cointreau, orange Curacao, Grand Marniere or Cognac. And after a good meal, a Havana cigar.

  But more than sights, sounds, smells and tastes, it was the sense of touch that mattered most to me. More than the feel of silk and velvet, it was the feel of the female body that produced the ultimate thrill. Passionate lips to kiss; firm rounded breasts to caress and suck; well-rounded, smooth buttocks and softer-than-silk thighs to stroke. Most people regard these preoccupations as crude, vulgar, obscene. For me they are the things that make life worth living—all the rest is marginal and of little consequence.

  I taught myself to hold my temper when Sonu lost hers. When she went on a spree of nagging, I kept my cool. It made her uneasy. She felt I was slipping out of her grasp. She feared that the next time she brought up the subject of separation or divorce, I would call her bluff. She did not bring it up again. Whether it was her own idea or whether it was suggested to her by her mother, she hinted that being the only child Ranjit was getting too much attention. Without more being said we stopped using contraceptives. It did not take long for Sonu to conceive her second child. She reverted to being ratty and quarrelsome. After the sixth month of her pregnancy she moved to her parents home to be nearer her gynaecologist and the nursing home. I made it a point to drop in to see her on my way back from office. Her parents and her brothers made no attempt to be friendlier towards me. For them I was still an educated upstart who assumed fancy airs. They could not accept the fact that I was not dependent on them and was doing well on my own. I was the pillar of the young millionaires’ club; neither of Sonu’s brothers had made it to the charmed circle.

  Our daughter was born six years after Ranjit. Since my father was away in Haridwar, I let Sonu decide on a name for her. She and her parents settled for Mohini: perhaps as a concession to me because my name was Mohan. Ranjit was thrilled with his baby sister. My father was also very happy to get the news. He wrote back saying he would come over after the child came to her own home. Clearly he felt as uncomfortable in Achint Ram’s household as I did.

  Sonu spent another month with her parents before she came home with Mohini. This time she brought only a night nurse and an ayah. My father came from Haridwar to bless the child; he spent more than a week with us. By now he was fully aware of Sonu’s hostility towards him and kept out of her way as much as he could. But Ranjit would not let him alone. He would get home after school and head straight for his Dada’s room to play hide and seek and, though already six, sit in his lap and demand to be told stories. Sonu would shout at him to come for his meals. ‘I want to eat with Dada,’ he would scream. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she would shout back. ‘Come at once or I will give you a tight slap.’ There were scenes every day. My father ate alone in his room; a sobbing, sulking Ranjit kicked up a shindig and had to be force fed by his mother or the servants.

  ‘I can’t enforce any discipline in the home when your old man’s around,’ Sonu complained every evening when I returned from the office. I said nothing. I stuck to my resolve to not let her come between me and my father. After my father left for Haridwar I went to see him every full moon night and spent a couple of days with him each time. I sent my car to fetch him whenever he agreed to come over.

  And so it went for another five
years without our getting any closer to each other. I loved the children, and for their sake I tried to keep the marriage going. Perhaps Sonu did too. Mohini became a great comfort. I looked forward to getting back home in the evenings when my little daughter would come running to me and insist on being taken for a drive. I would drive her around the neighbourhood myself. But this made Sonu more sullen. How could the children love a man she did not? I knew in my heart that I could not endure this loveless life for ever. I did not anticipate its dramatic end.

  One morning in my mail was a post card written in Hindi. It was from Pitaji’s ashram and had been posted two days earlier. It read: ‘It gives me great sorrow to inform you that your revered father left for Vaikunth this morning. He was in good health and went to Har Ki Pauri for his morning snaan in Ganga Mata. On his return from the snaan he complained of chest pain and asked for a cup of tea. While he was having his tea, the cup slipped out of his hand and he was no more. We could not find your telephone number to inform you immediately. Hence this card. We also could not keep his body too long and cremated it according to Arya Samaj rites. His ashes have been put in an urn for you to come and immerse in the Ganga.’

  I was stunned. For many minutes I sat with my head in my hands. There was no one around with whom I could share my sorrow. I asked my secretary to tell Jiwan Ram to fill the petrol tank as I would be leaving for Haridwar. ‘My father is not well,’ I told her. ‘Also ring up home and tell them I will not be back for a couple of days.’

  Half an hour later I was on the road to Haridwar—the road on which I had driven many times with my father. After we had got past Ghaziabad Jiwan Ram asked me, ‘Sahib, Sharma memsahib told me Pitaji is not in good health. Is it anything serious?’

  ‘No longer, he died two days ago. I’m going to collect his ashes.’

  ‘Harey Ram! Harey Ram! He was such a noble soul! I never heard an angry word escape his lips. He will find an honourable place beside the lotus feet of the Lord.’