Khushwant Singh's Book of Unforgettable Women

by Khushwant Singh

  Sir Mohan’s thoughts were disturbed by the bearer announcing the installation of the Sahib’s luggage in a first class coupé next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to his coupé with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With a sigh he sat down in a corner and opened the copy of The Times he had read several times before.

  Sir Mohan looked out of the window down the crowded platform. His face lit up as he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs and walked unsteadily. Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entitled to travel only second class. He would speak to the guard.

  One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth.

  ‘’Ere, Bill,’ he shouted, ’one ’ere.’

  His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.

  ‘Get the nigger out,’ he muttered to his companion.

  They opened the door, and turned to the half-smiling, half-protesting Sir Mohan.

  ‘Reserved!’ yelled Bill.

  ‘Janta—Reserved. Army—Fauj,’ exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt.

  ‘Ek dum jao—get out!’

  ‘I say, I say, surely,’ protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent. The soldiers paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag.

  They picked up Sir Mohan’s suitcase and flung it onto the platform. Then followed his thermos flask, briefcase, bedding and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with rage.

  ‘Preposterous, preposterous,’ he shouted, hoarse with anger. ‘I’ll have you arrested—guard, guard!’

  Bill and Jim paused again. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the King’s for them.

  ‘Keep yer ruddy mouth shut!’ And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face.

  The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backwards, tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase.

  ‘Toodle-oo!’

  Sir Mohan’s feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail end of the train appeared with a red light and the guard standing in the open doorway with the flags in his hands.

  In the inter-class zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the diamond nose pin glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with betel saliva which she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared the station. As the train sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart.

  Martha Stack

  ‘This is Martha—Martha Stack. Do you remember me? We were together in Paris thirty years ago.’ The voice was creamy: unmistakably Black American.

  ‘Martha!’ shouted Bannerjee enthusiastically into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Of course I remember you! What on earth are you doing in Delhi? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

  ‘Didn’t know myself till the last minute before the plane left New York. But here I am at the Ashoka. Simply dying to see you again.’

  ‘One moment Martha!’ He put the palm of his hand on the mouthpiece, spoke to his wife, and resumed the dialogue. ‘Come for dinner and meet the family.’

  ‘Love to! Didn’t know you had a family.’

  ‘Wife and grown-up children. Boy, twenty; girl, fifteen. It’s been a long time you know—thirty years! What about you?’

  ‘No family no more. I’ve run through two husbands. Am by myself now.’ she laughed. ‘Much nicer.’

  ‘I’ll call for you at seven. I hope you will be able to recognize me, I’ve gone somewhat grey and fat.’

  ‘Don’t worry honey, we all get old and fat,’ she replied. ‘See you around seven. Namaste. Haven’t forgotten that.’

  Bannerjee put down the receiver. He tried to look bored. His wife put him out of countenance. ‘Old girl friend?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘No girl friend. A woman I met at the Sorbonne thirty years ago.’

  ‘That’s not what you told me first! Isn’t she the one in your album? Must be quite a smasher.’

  ‘Wasn’t too bad to look at; but negroid. Thick lips, fuzzy hair, that sort of thing. We were the only coloured students in the class, so we were sort of thrown together.’

  He realized his voice did not ring true. He avoided his wife’s eyes. ‘I’ll have to fetch her from the Ashoka,’ he announced and went back to his study.

  Odd, he said to himself, thirty years ago he had tried to impress his friends with his association with Martha. He had her photograph in his album. The picture of the attractive Black girl in a large straw hat worn at a coquettish angle, with the inscription, ‘Love, Martha’ invariably aroused curiosity. ‘And who is Martha?’ his friends thumbing through the album would ask. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies,’ he would answer with a smile. And now he had to pretend that she had been little more than an acquaintance. That’s what marriage does to people; they have to lie about the most innocent of relationships.

  Innocent? Well, almost. His mind went back to the vacation term lectures on ‘Literature Francais pour les Strangers’ at the Sorbonne. There were about thirty boys and girls in the class—mostly American with a sprinkling of Dutch and Scandinavian. He and Martha were the only coloured students in the group.

  Martha attracted attention from the very first day. She sat away from the others. She was taller than most of the men, coloured and uncommonly attractive. On the second day some boys introduced themselves to her and sat beside her. On the third, she came up to Bannerjee. ‘Do you mind if I sit next to you? I am Martha Stack, I am American,’ she said holding out her hand. ‘My name is Bannerjee,’ he replied half standing up, ‘I am from India.’

  Thereafter they had sat together in the class.

  Bannerjee was usually an early arriver. He put his notebook on the seat beside him to indicate that it was ‘taken’. He waited for Martha. Her receding hairline and fuzzy hair showed above the stream of students coming in. She walked slowly, her hips swayed rhythmically. She dropped gently into the seat beside Bannerjee. ‘And how are we this morning? For God’s sake, don’t get up each time you see me.’ The fragrance of jasmine spread about her. Why hadn’t her parents named her ‘Yasmeen’? Such a pretty name and much more appropriate than ‘Martha’. During the lessons, Bannerjee’s eyes would stray to his neighbour—her broad, powerful wrist adorned with a bracelet of gold coins which jingled as she wrote; her dark brown arms, and then her breasts, large for her bony frame but taut as unripe mangoes. When she went out, Bannerjee watched her slender form and swinging buttocks.

  Bannerjee’s admiration remained impersonal till the boys began to tease him. ‘You lucky blighter! You’re the only one she seems to notice.’ But Bannerjee could not bring himself to make a pass at her. She was too tall for him. Her dress was too loud; if he took her out, people were bound to comment. In any case, it was a bit silly to come all the way to Europe and bed a woman blacker than yourself!

  Martha took the initiative. One morning as they were walking out of the class together, she asked him casually, ‘Care to join me for a cup of coffee?’ And after the coffee when the waiter came for the bill and Bannerjee fumbled in his pocket, she took a firm grip of his wrist. ‘No you don’t! I asked you, I pay. When you take me out, I’ll let you do it.’ She kept her hand on his wrist till the waiter had taken the money from her. Bannerjee felt compelled to ask her out again. Thereafter, they had coffee together every day. Martha insisted on paying on alternate days. But this did not prevent Bannerjee from putting his hand in his pocket; nor Martha from holding it and saying, ‘No Sir, it’s my turn.’

  Martha took the se
cond step. ‘For God’s sake stop calling me Miss Stack! I am Martha. What’s your first name?’

  ‘My real name is Hiren but at home they call me Gulloo.’

  Martha pressed his hand warmly. ‘You’re Gulloo to me.’

  Bannerjee told her that he had given her an Indian name. And once again Martha pressed his hand and said, ‘That’s sweet! I like Yasmeen. And you are going to be the only one in the world to call me by that name.’ She came close to him; he felt her breath on his forehead and caught a whiff of the negroid smell he had heard his friends talk of. He found it pleasant—warm and sexy. Much nicer than the sour-milk smell of the white women.

  ‘Suppose I should get back to my French verbs: J’aime, vous aime, nous aimons …’ She laughed and turned away.

  Bannerjee wasted many hours daydreaming about the way he would seduce Martha. And yet every time she gave him an opening, he withdrew into himself. Only ten days remained for the end of term.

  Martha gave him yet another chance. ‘Last weekend!’ she exclaimed with a sigh. ‘So it is,’ replied Bannerjee laconically. ‘How time flies!’ Martha seemed determined to force the pace. ‘Let’s go some place; we may never meet again,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s get out into the open country,’ suggested Martha. ‘Somewhere up the Seine where we could bathe and lie in the sun.’

  It was a hot, sunny day in August. They took an early morning train out of Paris. It was practically empty. They sat facing each other in an empty compartment. Martha had brought a pile of American magazines. Bannerjee plunged into them and paid little attention to Martha’s enthusiastic prattle about the lessons, students who had made passes at her, Paris and her folks back home. They got to their destination without getting any closer to each other. That place of the Seine was crammed with bathers.

  Martha became the centre of attraction. Her two-piece swimsuit showed her figure to advantage. Her body seemed to be made of whipcord. And she had the grace and power of Artemis. A group of young men threw a rubber football to her. She hurled it back at them like a discus thrower. It sailed over the heads of the young men and fell several feet beyond them. Martha swam, went on a ski-board and sunbathed on the sand. Bannerjee sat in the canvas chair turning the pages of American magazines.

  The train back to Paris was crowded with returning holidaymakers. They were lucky to find places next to each other. Within a few minutes people were standing in the corridors and the aisles. The compartment was full of laughter and the acrid smoke of Gaulloise cigarettes. Martha’s hand stole over Bannerjee’s knee. She twined her fingers in his.

  Many people got off at suburban stations. One station before Gare d’Orleans, Martha and Bannerjee were left to themselves still holding hands. Bannerjee was deeply absorbed in the landscape of sooty houses and railway sidings. Martha released her hand, slipped it round Bannerjee’s neck and gently kissed him on the ear. Bannerjee put down the magazine he was pretending to read and turned to Martha. She took him in her arms and pressed her thick lips on his. She kissed him on his eyes, cheeks and ears. She bit him passionately on his neck leaving a dark, lipstick-stained tooth mark. Bannerjee surrendered himself to the onslaught. He felt the girl’s hot breath all over his face and neck and smelt the wanton negroid smell of her body. The train slowed down. Martha released Bannerjee from her grasp. She took a wad of paper handkerchiefs from her bag. ‘Here, Gulloo darling, wipe your face; I’ve made such a mess of it.’ While Bannerjee scrubbed his lips, chin and eyelids, Martha repainted her lips and daubed her cheeks with rouge. The train pulled up at Gare d’Orleans.

  They had a snack at a students’ cafe. Martha stretched her arms and stifled a yawn. ‘I am tired! All this bathing and the sun and everything else. I must go home. I can fix you a drink in my room to speed you on your way.’

  Bannerjee knew what was coming. Could he cope with her?

  It was a small room with a bed, an armchair and a table. On the table was a silver-framed photograph of Martha’s family: her parents, two brothers and two sisters—all large and bony and very Black. On the floor were heaps of different kinds of American magazines. Clothes were strewn on the bed.

  Martha poured out two Cinzanos and handed one to Bannerjee. ‘Gulloo, here’s to us’, she said raising her glass—and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Here’s to us, Martha,’ replied Bannerjee—and let her kiss him again.

  Martha drained her glass in a gulp and placed both her hands on Bannerjee’s shoulders. ‘Gulloo, I am going to miss you,’ she said looking him straight in the eyes.

  ‘Me too,’ replied Bannerjee with some effort.

  His eyes dropped to her bosom. ‘What are you staring at?’ she reprimanded without taking her arms off his shoulders. Bannerjee paid his first faltering compliment. ‘You know what Martha, you remind me of the picture of Venus. Know the one I mean? By the Italian—of Venus rising out of the sea?’

  ‘Botticelli’s Birth of Venus? Why, it’s the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me. That calls for another drink.’ She refilled the glasses and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. Then she stretched herself on her bed with her hands beneath her head. Bannerjee’s eyes wandered restlessly on Martha’s body.

  ‘And now what are you gaping at, may I ask? One would think you’d never seen a woman before in your life.’

  Bannerjee cleared his throat. ‘Well, nothing like this one.’

  They fell silent. Martha swallowed what remained in her glass. ‘If you promise not to touch me, I will let you see me. I have a nice figure.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Martha got up and switched off the light. Bannerjee heard the rustle of clothes and the snap of elastic. ‘You can switch on the light now.’

  Bannerjee rose from his chair. His eyes remained glued to the nude dimly visible in the glow of the street lamp; his trembling hands caressed the wall. He found the metal knob and pressed it. The light flooded back into the room. He was hypnotized by Martha’s large bosom and very black and oversized nipples. With difficulty he forced himself to look lower—to the fuzz of her pubic hair and the broad flanks of her muscular thighs.

  ‘Do you like me?’ She clasped her hands above her head and slowly pirouetted round on her toes like a ballet dancer. ‘How’s that?’

  Bannerjee gulped the spittle that had collected in his mouth. ‘Beautiful,’ he mumbled. He reclined with his back to the wall.

  ‘Come and kiss me.’ Martha held out her arms to him. Bannerjee advanced with uncertain tread and took Martha in his arms. She had made him promise that he would not touch her; and now … He kissed her passionately on her breast, her flat belly and navel. Martha grabbed him by his hair and turned his face towards her. ‘Patience,’ she commanded. Her legs twined about his and she hungrily took his mouth in her own. Passion welled up in Bannerjee’s frame and drained out of his system. He went limp in Martha’s embrace. Her breath and the odour of her body began to smell unpleasant to him.

  ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ asked Martha stepping back.

  ‘This is too much for me. I must go home.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what you wish.’ She wrapped her dressing gown around her and lit a cigarette. There was a scowl on her face.

  ‘No, no, Martha, it is not like that,’ he protested. ‘It’s best, if you don’t wish to … you know.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  They sat in silence. Bannerjee took her hand. It was cold and unresponsive. She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I am tired, honey,’ she said getting up. ‘Thank you for the nice day.’ She kissed him coldly on the forehead and almost pushed him out. He heard her lock her door behind him.

  Three days later, he saw her off on the boat train at Gare St Lazare.

  That was thirty years ago.

  For many years the vision of Martha standing stark naked in the centre of the room had acted like an aphrodisiac. Although he had failed her and was often mortified by the memory, he invoked her assistance to meet his wife’s demands. And more often th
an not, it was Martha Stack and not Manorama Bannerjee who received the bounty of his ultimate passion. The tropics and the tedium of an eight-hour day, six days a week played havoc with his constitution. However, as the years rolled by, even the figure of the chocolate nude with its oversized, black protruding nipples and fuzzy pubic hair failed to arouse him. He tried to recall when he had last been cajoled to make love to his wife—months, if not a year—and what a job it had been!

  ‘Don’t worry honey, we all get old.’ That’s what Martha had said.

  He did not see a Black woman in the lounge of the Ashoka and rang up Martha’s room. ‘I’ll be down in a second. We’ve just come back from sightseeing and I thought I’d change for dinner. Won’t be long,’ she replied.

  He watched the elevators come down, disgorge groups of American tourists and shoot up for more. At long last came one with only one passenger; it could not take any more. Filling the entire cage was the form of Martha Stack; six feet tall and broader than any woman Bannerjee had ever seen. She waddled out and held out her fat, fleshy arms to greet him. ‘Honey, you’ve gone fat,’ she exclaimed pointing to his little paunch. Bannerjee held out a limp hand. ‘Martha, I can’t say you haven’t changed.’

  Martha put her arms on her ample waist. ‘Now that’s not a very nice thing to say to an old friend, is it?’ She roared with masculine laughter. ‘I’ve put on a bit of weight, haven’t I? I am going to shake it off before I get home. Let me drop my room key.’

  She wheezed up to the hall porter’s desk. The metamorphosis staggered Bannerjee. Her behind was one enormous mass of hulking flesh; her waist had assumed the same proportions as her bosom and her posterior. Even her neck which had been so slender had accumulated fat. And her once athletic legs were stumpy, like those of English charwomen. She was like the picture of Aunt Jemima advertising good, wholesome, instant pudding.