I had my first sexual encounter when I was around nineteen. It was 1934. After having spent the summer vacations in Delhi I had to get back to England, where I was studying. From Delhi I took the Frontier Mail to Bombay and had to spend the night there, before the ship set sail the next morning. I spent that night in Bombay’s Victoria Terminus Station. I went out to explore the neighbourhood. While I was walking around, I strolled much beyond, towards Kamathipura, Bombay’s red-light area—narrow lanes and by-lanes with women looking out of their homes, beckoning, gesturing, smiling . . . One of those women kept calling out to me and somehow I found myself responding. ‘Which way?’ I asked her. She pointed to a staircase leading up to her room. I went up the dark flight of steps. The room was dingy, lit by a single oil lamp. There was a boy sitting there. The woman came forward to receive me. She was fat, dark, middle- aged and dressed in a salwar kameez. Without a word of welcome, she said in Punjabi, ‘It will be ten rupees.’ I pulled out a ten-rupee note and handed it to her. She gave the boy a five-rupee note and ordered him to give it to her landlord. Then she bolted the door from inside. The room had no furniture save a charpai covered with a greasy durrie and a dirty pillow. There was a pitcher of water and a lota covering its mouth. She turned around to address me. ‘You Sardars are such fine-looking men; why do you grow this fungus around your chins?’ she asked running her hand over my beard. I did not reply. She sensed I was a novice and asked me whether it was my first time. Hearing me say yes, she slipped off her salwar, tucked her shirt above her waist, baring her fat bottom. She went to the pitcher, filled the lota and splashed water between her thighs and dried her middle with a dirty rag. Then, laying herself on the charpai she raised her legs, bent at the knees, to her chest. ‘Come!’ she said, stretching out both her arms. Till then I had never had a good look at a woman between her thighs. I was not sure where to enter her. As I undid my trousers and bent over her, she took my penis in one hand and directed it to its target. As I entered her, I spent myself.
The first time I saw female genitals it was a sight! It wasn’t attractive or appealing at all—on the contrary, it was appalling! Appalling! I was in my teens and there was a lunch being hosted on the lawns of the teacher’s quarters in my school. When this lady teacher tried sitting on the grass, her sari rode up and exposed her thighs and much more. That fleeting glimpse of the teacher’s private parts had revolted me but it was also then that my curiosity about a woman’s body was whetted and I would try and peep when women labourers were bathing semi-clad . . . It was with that glimpse that I first became aware of desire.
Another time, when I was recovering from yet another bout of typhoid, a nurse hired to look after me went beyond her call of duty—she did more than sponge my body. I was still young, in my teens, but that didn’t deter her from holding my penis and even kissing it. I was too young to know what was happening, and also too weak and too ill to respond, react or enjoy it.
And long before that, when I was a young child, a cousin tried exploring my body. She must have been around the same age as I was, yet we’d tried touching each other and somehow it aroused something—a strange curiosity about the female form.
I don’t think it’s only men who seduce. I find that women are often better at the art of seduction. More than me trying to seduce women, it’s women who’ve tried seducing me all these years. Right from the beginning—the very first time I was attracted to a woman, it was she who took the first move—she held my hand in the cinema hall. Even later, with other women too, it was the women, with the exception of one or two cases, who made a pass first, leading me on. I have rarely taken the lead. When I’ve been attracted to someone, I’ve had little confidence in expressing myself. And years later, when I happened to tell them how I’d felt, several of them exclaimed, ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?’ Each time I’ve had a woman make a pass at me I’ve felt flattered and have reciprocated. Looking back I wish I’d had the confidence to make the first move.
My First Love
She was a Muslim from Hyderabad who had come to Delhi to study Home Science at Lady Irwin. I must have been around seventeen; I was in college then. Ghayoorunnisa was three years older than me. She was my sister’s friend. On one of those occasions when she, my sister and I had gone to the cinema, she slipped her hand in mine. That alone meant a lot to me. I was drawn to her and the burkha she wore only added to my attraction. It made her even more alluring, romantic, even more beautiful. Ghayoor died some years ago. On hearing of her death I went to Hyderabad and visited her grave. When I had last met her in Hyderabad she was very lonely. She was not in good health and she’d spoken of death. She had even booked a grave for herself. Most members of her family had died and her daughter Fareesa had gone abroad and settled there.
Ghayoor and I didn’t end up together, it just didn’t happen. I went off to England to study and Ghayoor had gone back to Hyderabad. She got married and settled there. She married twice, actually. I met her again after thirty years, in Delhi, when she accompanied Fareesa for her admission into Lady Irwin College. I continued to keep in touch with her after that and made it a point to meet her whenever I was in Hyderabad. I was so taken with Ghayoor that it drew me to the entire Muslim community. I do believe that if you fall in love your very perception of the other person’s community changes. You begin to feel closer to that community. Before I met Ghayoor I’d had stereotypical notions of Muslims—the sort of notions that most Hindus and Sikhs are brought up with. But all that changed. And my attachment for the Muslim community increased in the years that followed. I met and was friendly with many women after Ghayoor, but with her it was different.
Love and Marriage
Love, as the word is understood in the West, is known to only a tiny minority of the very Westernized living in the half-a-dozen big cities of India—those who prefer to speak English rather than Indian languages, read only English books, watch only Western movies and even dream in English. For the rest, it is something they read about in poems or see on the screen but very rarely experience personally. Arranged marriages are the accepted norm, ‘love marriages’ a rarity. In arranged marriages, the parties first make each other’s acquaintance physically, by exploring each other’s bodies, and it is only after some of the lust has been drained out of their systems that they get the chance to discover each other’s minds and personalities. It is only after lust loses its urgency and power and there is no clash, that the alliance may, in later years, develop bonds of companionship. But the chances of this happening are bleak. In most cases, the husband and wife suffer each other till the end of their days.
I think it’s healthy and human to think about sex, and fantasize. I firmly believe that, no matter how happily married you are, the thought of adultery is at the back of your mind. I also feel that most marriages last because spouses don’t have the energy to fight a divorce battle. All men, young and old alike, if they are honest, will admit that sex is always on their minds. Of course, my mind is still very active. Though I’m not doing it any longer, I can still write about it. Nobody has invented a condom for the pen. My pen is still sexy.
To most newly married Indian couples, the concept of privacy is as alien as that of love. They rarely get a room to themselves; the bride-wife sleeps with women members of her husband’s family; the husband’s charpai is placed alongside his father’s and brothers’. Occasionally, the mother-in-law, anxious to acquire a grandson, will contrive a meeting between her son and daughter-in-law: the most common technique is to get the girl to take a tumbler of milk to the lad when other male members are elsewhere. That’s when the boy grabs the chance for a ‘quickie’. Hardly ever does the couple get enough time for a prolonged and satisfying session of intercourse. Most Indian men are not even aware that women also have orgasms; and most Indian women, even though they go from one pregnancy to another, share this ignorance because they have no idea that sex can be pleasurable. This is a sad commentary on the people of the country that produc
ed the most widely read treatise on the art of sex, the Kama Sutra, and elevated the act of sex to spiritual sublimity by explicit depictions on the country’s temples.
These lines of Asadullah Khan Ghalib say it best:
Ishq par zor nahein
Hai yeh woh aatish Ghalib
Ke lagaae na lagey, aur bujhaaye na baney.
There is no power above love
Nor do we know what it is about
It is like a raging fire, O Ghalib
When you want to light it,
it refuses to ignite
When you want to put it out,
it refuses to die.
Kaval and I
Many who didn’t know me or my family were often under the impression that my wife didn’t exist or that she was tucked away in some village like the wives of many of our netas. This was, of course, a grievous error, as my wife was quite a formidable character who ruled our home with as firm a hand as Indira Gandhi ruled India. Unlike many modern girls of today, who bob their hair, wear T-shirts and jeans and speak chi chi Hinglish but when it comes to being married tamely surrender their right to choose husbands to their parents, my wife made her own choice over sixty years ago. It was during my stay in Welwyn Garden in my first year in England that I ran into Kaval (Malik), who had been with me at the Modern School. She had been a good-looking, light-skinned girl, a bit of a tomboy, playing hockey and soccer with the boys. When I left school she was still a gawky girl, a couple of years my junior. I had lost track of her when I moved to Lahore. When I ran into her in England, she had blossomed into a beauty and was much sought after by many boys I knew, some from India’s richest families. Meeting the girl now grown into a young woman caused me anguish, as I fell desperately in love with her and also felt that I stood little chance of winning her. Amongst other obstacles was the fact that her father was senior engineer with the Public Works Department, while mine was a builder who had to get contracts from the same. Besides, I was studying law, and lawyers, being a dime a dozen, were poorly rated in the marriage market. My only chance was to bypass the parents and approach the girl directly. It was nearing Christmas vacations and she had nowhere to go. I suggested she come with me to the Quaker hostel in Buckinghamshire. She wrote to her parents to seek their permission. To my utter surprise, they allowed her to go. I began courting her as soon as the train left London. On our way back, I asked her if I could ask my parents to approach hers with a proposal. She nodded her consent. I got married in October 1939. It was a grand affair. My wife’s father was then chief engineer of the PWD, the first Indian to rise to the position. My father was acknowledged as the biggest owner of real estate in Delhi. There were over fifteen hundred guests at our wedding reception, including M.A. Jinnah. Champagne flowed like the Jamuna in flood. It was a traditional Sikh wedding, with a brass band leading the procession. I was draped in a veil of jasmine flowers, riding on a white horse sword in hand. The Maliks lived on 1, Tughlak Road, which was barely a furlong down the road from my father’s house, 1A Janpath. We went through the ritual of being received by the bride’s relatives and I had to bear with a lot of banter and practical jokes. This was followed by a feast. I spent the night in the Malik home. Early next morning under a vast canopy we sat in front of the Granth Sahib, her face demurely covered by a veil; I in a cream-coloured sherwani and churidar with a gilded kirpan in my hand .The Anand Karaj (ceremony of bliss) was a solemn affair with ragis singing wedding hymns. I couldn’t resist the temptation of slipping my hand under her dupatta, with which she was covered, and tweaking her toes. We went round the Granth Sahib four times, I in front, she following me, holding one end of the scarf I had in my hands. We took our marriage vows— to remain faithful to each other and look upon others as brothers and sisters. It was the morning of 30 October 1939.
The same evening my father arranged cocktails and a dance party on the spacious lawns in front of his house. Among the guests was M.A. Jinnah, who lived across the road and occasionally dropped in to inspect my father’s rose garden. We were allowed to retire at midnight to consummate our marriage. I was later told that one of the drunken guests had run his car over a telegraph peon on his way to deliver congratulatory telegrams. I was not told of this at the time. The wedding night is something every couple looks forward to. On ours I discovered that my bride was a virgin. We had never talked of sex till then, nor had she allowed my hands to go exploring beneath her waist. She pleaded with me to be patient. I gave in. The next evening we left for our honeymoon. Mount Abu had been my choice for no other reason than that the entrance of Welwyn Garden City railway station displayed a large poster depicting the marble temple legend with the words ‘Visit India: Dilwara Temples at Mount Abu’. My English friends had asked me whether I had seen the place. I had admitted I had not but would do so as soon as I returned home.
A spacious bungalow of the CPWD overlooking the Nakki Lake had been reserved for us. The night was made for loving. We returned to Delhi still hungering for each other’s bodies.
I was married for over sixty years. It wasn’t a happy marriage. In fact, things had got so bad— we were both in our fifties—we had even contemplated divorce. But when you have a family you have to make compromises, you have to keep up appearances.
I think right from the start my wife felt I didn’t match up to her previous suitors; I didn’t come anywhere close. She was very possessive and aggressive, and resented it when I, even very casually, met a woman friend. She would sulk. This, in spite of the fact that my wife had, from the very beginning of the marriage, probably from the very first year, got close to one man in particular. Their relationship carried on for about twenty years and this was something that affected me deeply, snapping something inside me, changing something within me forever. I didn’t react to her relationship even though I was unhappy. I didn’t want to interfere. I never thought of having any affairs myself; neither did I have any on the rebound. I felt I could no longer respond emotionally and had nothing left to give. Emotionally, I felt totally bankrupt.
My Regrets
I regret having started my writing career late. Had I begun earlier, I could have written much more.
My father, though himself a contractor, was keen that I become a lawyer. So much so, that after my second year of college at St Stephen’s studying history, economics and philosophy, he sent me to the Lahore Government College. And later, much in accordance with his wishes, I started out at the Lahore High Court. And though I practiced there for seven years, I wasn’t successful. It was during those years that I started writing short stories. I wrote ‘The Raj’, ‘Karma’, ‘The Mark of Vishnu’ and several others, and sent them to some publications in the US and the UK. They were published, and the reviews they got were very good. That’s how I came to take my writing more seriously.
It was in the ’50s that I wrote my first novel Mano Majra—I later changed this title to Train to Pakistan. I got my break in journalism in 1965, when The New York Times asked me to write on Indo–Pakistan relations. I remember the title they had given the story was ‘Why Hindus and Muslims Speak Hate’ and had splashed it on the front page. I took up writing rather late in life, after wasting seven years practising law, and I regret that. In any case, lawyers live off other people’s quarrels. That’s what lawyers do.
My other regret is that I could have played a bigger role in my battle against the fundoos, religious fundamentalists. My columns have a vast readership, and I should have written more against fundamentalists. My battle is against fundoos from all communities. I have spoken out against the Muslim fundamentalists, against Hindu fundamentalists, and though I have no personal quarrel with Advani I believe he has changed the entire map of this country.
He is the one man who has done more damage to the country than any other. He recreated Islamophobia. The tearing down of the Babri Masjid was the single-most horrendous act and we haven’t had peace since then.
When I’d first met Advani, years ago, I’d thought him to be
a man of integrity and honesty; I even admired him. I’d found him to be a clear-headed thinker and a powerful orator. We’d kept in touch. He came over to condole when my father died and I visited his home a few times. I was charmed by the congenial atmosphere—the family welcomed anyone who dropped in and I always felt very comfortable. When Advani stood for the Parliament elections after 1984, he sent across BJP candidate Vijay Kumar Malhotra to ask if I would propose party President Advani’s name and I did so quite gladly. The Sikhs were determined not to vote for the Congress. The 1984 massacre of Sikhs that followed Mrs Gandhi’s assassination was fresh in our minds and I had not recovered from the hurt and anger at the Congress message that they had to ‘teach the Sikhs a lesson’.
But the day Advani launched his rath yatra, I was disillusioned. The man was sowing the seeds of hatred between two communities and destroying the spirit of the entire nation. I never expected to see the sort of communal hatred and madness that I’d witnessed during Partition but he’s fanned those flames again. I hold him responsible for the destruction of communal harmony in our country today.
Absolute Khushwant Page 2