Khushwant Singh's Book of Unforgettable Women

by Khushwant Singh

  Martha took Bannerjee’s arm to walk down the carpeted stairs. Bannerjee noticed the sniggers of the bellboys; the commissionaire turned away and exchanged a lewd remark with the nightwatchman. Martha’s voice was as loud as her dress. She heaved herself into the front seat of Bannerjee’s tiny Fiat Millicento. ‘Not meant for an oversized American,’ she exclaimed heartily.

  At home Martha fared better than Bannerjee had expected. Her unabashed compliment—‘Why you old so-and-so, where did you pick up such a lovely wife?’—made her doubly welcome. She handed out gifts: her own lipstick to Bannerjee’s daughter, a ballpoint pen to the son, a compact to Mrs Bannerjee. Mrs Bannerjee was kind and condescending; even if her husband had ever desired Martha, there was nothing physically desirable about her now. The evening passed well.

  Martha glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to get up early to catch my plane; I think I should be getting back. Can I get a cab?’

  ‘My husband will drop you at the hotel,’ insisted Mrs Bannerjee. ‘Wish you could have stayed longer.’ Bannerjee knew that if it had been an attractive woman, his wife would have ‘volunteered’ to keep him company, or asked one of her children to accompany him to ‘take a little fresh air’.

  Martha kissed Mrs Bannerjee and her children and again squeezed herself into the Fiat Millicento. ‘Nice family you have,’ she said. ‘That wife of yours is certainly pretty. Must have been quite a smasher in her time.’

  ‘She retains her youth better than I,’ answered Bannerjee, ‘some people are made that way.’

  He boldly took her arm up the stairs and to the hall porter’s desk. Martha looked at her watch again. ‘If you’d like a quick drink, I can fix you one in my room. I can make up for lost sleep in the plane tomorrow.’

  ‘For old times’ sake,’ replied Bannerjee stepping into the elevator. After the dismissal of Martha as a woman by his family, he felt it was up to him to make it up to her.

  Martha got two tumblers from the bathroom and fetched a bottle of Scotch from her wardrobe. She held it up against the light. It was almost half full. ‘Must finish it, no point taking whisky back with you. Soda or water?’

  ‘A splash of soda for me, please.’ Bannerjee got up to take his drink. They clinked glasses; Bannerjee gave her a gentle kiss on the lips.

  ‘This seems pretty familiar to me except for the follow up. Too fat for that sort of thing!’ she said smiling broadly. Her gums showed like red rubber. ‘Thank you honey, this has made my journey worthwhile. I was wondering if you’d ever kiss me again.’

  She poured out another drink, sank into an armchair and waived Bannerjee to the sofa, ‘Do sit down.’ The gesture was clearly meant to keep Bannerjee at a distance. Bannerjee noticed the gold necklace with a cross dangling between her bosom; perhaps she had become religious—or like him, just old and indifferent to sex. Bannerjee sipped his Scotch; he could hardly bare to look Martha straight in the face. And yet he did not want to do anything which would betray his disappointment, and hurt her. He poured himself a third drink and came and sat on the arm of Martha’s chair. He put his hand on Martha’s forehead. Her skin was greasy. He tried to run his fingers through her hair; it was like tangled wire gauze. He looked down at her. She had shut her eyes and seemed quite unconcerned. Bannerjee turned up her face and pressed his lips on hers. She sat impassively without opening her mouth. Bannerjee realized that the poor thing had lost all confidence. He slid off the arm of the chair and into her lap and kissed her more tenderly.

  Visions of the Martha he had known in Paris came back to him and a forgotten passion warmed his limbs. Both of them slid off the chair down onto the floor. Martha lay back—an enormous mound of flesh without any animation. Her eyes remained closed—as though she could not bear to look at herself. Bannerjee’s hands went searching for her undergarments. She protested weakly, ‘What will your wife have to say!’ Bannerjee knew he could not let her down this time.

  Bindo

  Dalip Singh lay on his charpoy staring at the star-studded sky. It was hot and still. He was naked save for his loincloth. Even so, beads of perspiration rolled off from all parts of his body. The heat rose from the mud walls which had been baking in the sun all day. He had sprinkled water on the roof of the house, but that only produced a clammy vapour smelling of earth and cow dung. He had drunk as much water as his stomach would hold, still his throat was parched. Then there were the mosquitoes and their monotonous droning. Some came too close to his ears and were caught and mashed between his palm and fingers. One or two got into his ears and he rammed them against the greasy walls with his index finger. Some got entangled in his beard and were squashed to silence in their snares. Some managed to gorge themselves on his blood, leaving him to scratch and curse.

  Across the narrow alley separating his house from his uncle’s, Dalip Singh could see a row of charpoys on the roof. At one end slept his uncle, Banta Singh, with his arms and legs parted as if crucified. His belly rose and fell as he snored. He had had bhaang in the afternoon and slept with utter abandon. At the other end of the row, several women sat fanning themselves and talking softly.

  Dalip Singh lay awake staring at the sky. For him there was no peace, no sleep. Yet, on the other roof slept his uncle, his father’s brother and murderer. His womenfolk found time to sit and gossip into the late hours of the night while his own mother scrubbed the pots and pans with ash and gathered cow dung for fuel. Banta Singh had servants to look after his cattle and plough his land while he drank bhaang and slept. His black-eyed daughter Bindo went about doing nothing but showing off her Japanese silks. But for Dalip Singh, it was work and more work.

  The keekar trees stirred. A soft, cool breeze blew across the rooftops. It drove the mosquitoes away and dried the sweat. It made Dalip feel cool and placid, and he was heavy with sleep. On Banta Singh’s roof, the women stopped fanning themselves. Bindo stood up beside her charpoy, threw her head back and filled her lungs with the cool fresh air. Dalip watched her stroll up and down. She could see the people of the village sleeping on the roofs and in the courtyards. No one stirred. Bindo stopped and stood beside her charpoy. She picked up her shirt from the two corners which fell just above her knees and held it across her face with both hands, baring herself from the waist to her neck, letting the cool breeze envelop her flat belly and her youthful bust. Then someone said something in an angry whisper, and Bindo let down her shirt. She dropped down onto her charpoy and was lost in the confused outlines of her pillow.

  Dalip Singh was wide awake and his heart beat wildly. The loathsome figure of Banta Singh vanished from his mind. He shut his eyes and tried to recreate Bindo as he saw her in the starlight. He desired her, and in his dreams, he possessed her. In his dreams, Bindo was always willing—even begging. Dalip, condescending—even indifferent; Banta Singh, spited and humbled. Dalip Singh’s eyes were shut but they opened into another world where Bindo lived and loved, naked, unashamed and beautiful.

  Several hours later, Dalip’s mother came and shook him by the shoulder. It was time to go out ploughing while it was cool. The sky was black and the stars brighter. He picked up his shirt which lay folded under his pillow and put it on. He looked across to the adjoining roof. Bindo lay fast asleep.

  Dalip Singh yoked his bullocks to the plough and let them lead him to the fields. He went through the dark, deserted lanes of the village to the starlit fields. He was tired, and the image of Bindo still confused his mind.

  The eastern horizon turned grey. From the mango grove the koel’s piercing cries issued in a series of loud outbursts. The crows began to caw softly in the keekar trees.

  Dalip Singh was ploughing but his mind was not in it. He just held the plough and walked slowly behind. The furrows were neither straight nor deep. The morning light made him feel ashamed. He decided to pull himself together and shake off his daydreaming. He dug the sharp point of his plough deep into the earth and thrust his goading stick violently into the hind parts of the bullocks. The beasts were jerked into m
ovement, snorting and lashing their tails. The plough tore through the earth and large clods of earth fell on either side under Dalip’s feet. Dalip felt master of his bullocks and the plough. He pressed the plough deeper with savage determination and watched its steel point concupiscently nosing its way through the rich brown earth.

  The sun came up very bright and hot. Dalip gave up the ploughing and led his bullocks to a well under the peepul tree and unyoked them. He drew several buckets of water. He bathed himself and splashed water over his bullocks, and followed them home dripping all the way.

  His mother was waiting for him. She brought him freshly-baked bread and spinach, with a little butter on it. She also brought a large copper cup full of buttermilk. Dalip fell on the food eagerly, while his mother sat by him fanning away the flies. He finished the bread and spinach and washed it down with buttermilk. He laid himself on a charpoy and was soon fast asleep. His mother still sat by him fanning him tenderly.

  Dalip slept right through the morning and afternoon. He got up in the evening and went round to his fields to clear the water courses. He walked along the water channel which separated his land from his uncle’s. Banta Singh’s fields were being irrigated by his tenants. Since he had killed his brother, Banta Singh never came to his land in the evening.

  Dalip Singh busied himself clearing the water channels in his fields. When he had finished doing that, he came to the water course and washed himself. He sat down on the grassy bank with his feet in the running water and waited for his mother.

  The sun went down across a vast stretch of flat land, and the evening star shone close to a crescent moon. From the village he could hear the shouts of women at the well, of children at play—all mixed up with the barking of dogs and the bedlam of sparrows noisily settling down for the night. Batches of women came out into the fields and scattered behind the bushes to relieve themselves. They assembled again and washed in rows along the water course.

  Dalip Singh’s mother came with the wooden token from the canal timekeeper that indicated that Dalip’s turn to water his field had started. Then she went back to look after the cattle. Banta Singh’s tenants had already left. Dalip Singh blocked the water exit to Banta Singh’s land and cut it open to his fields. After doing this he stretched himself on the cool grassy bank and watched the water rippling over the ploughed earth, shimmering like quicksilver under the light of the new moon. He lay on his back looking at the sky and listening to the noises from the village. He could hear women talking somewhere in Banta Singh’s fields. Then the world relapsed into a moonlit silence.

  Dalip Singh’s thoughts were disturbed by the sound of splashing water close to him. He turned around and saw a woman on the opposite bank sitting on her haunches washing herself. With one hand she splashed the water between her thighs, with the other she cleaned herself. She scraped a handful of mud from the ground, rubbed it on her hands and dipped them in the running water. She rinsed her mouth and threw handfuls of water over her face. Then she stood up leaving her baggy trousers lying at her feet. She picked up her shirt from the front and bent down to wipe her face with it.

  It was Bindo. Dalip Singh was possessed with a maddening desire. He jumped across the water course and ran towards her. The girl had her face buried in her shirt. Before she could turn around, Dalip Singh’s arms closed round her under the armpits and across her breasts. As she turned around, he smothered her face with passionate kisses and stifled her frightened cry by gluing his mouth to hers. He bore her down on the soft grass. Bindo fought like a wildcat. She caught Dalip’s beard in both her hands and savagely dug her nails into his cheeks. She bit his nose till it bled. But she was soon exhausted. She gave up the struggle and lay perfectly still. Her eyes were shut and tears trickled down on either side, washing the black antimony on to her ears. She looked beautiful in the pale moonlight. Dalip was full of remorse. He had never intended hurting her. He caressed her forehead with his large rough hands and let his fingers run through her hair. He bent down and tenderly rubbed his nose against hers. Bindo opened her large black eyes and stared at him blankly. There was no hate in them, nor any love. It was just a blank stare. Dalip Singh kissed her eyes and nose gently. Bindo just looked at him with a vacant expression, and more tears welled in her eyes.

  Bindo’s companions were shouting for her. She did not answer. One of them came nearer and shouted for help. Dalip Singh got up quickly and jumped aross the water course and was lost in the darkness.

  II

  The entire male population of the village of Singhpura turned up to hear the case of Crown? Dalip Singh. The court room, the veranda and the courtyard were packed with villagers. At one end of the veranda was Dalip Singh in handcuffs, between two policemen. His mother sat fanning him with her face covered in a shawl. She was weeping and blowing her nose. At the other end, Bindo, her mother and several other women were huddled together in a circle. Bindo also wept and blew her nose. Towering above this group were Banta Singh and his friends leaning on their bamboo poles, in constant and whispered consultation. Other villagers whiled away their time buying sweets from hawkers, or having their ears cleaned by itinerant ‘ear specialists’. Some were gathered round vendors of aphrodisiacs nudging each other and laughing.

  Banta Singh had hired a lawyer to help the government prosecutor. The lawyer collected the prosecution witnesses in a corner and made them go over their evidence. He warned them of the questions likely to be put to them by the defence counsel. He introduced the court orderly and the clerk to Banta Singh and made him tip them. He got a wad of notes from his client to pay the government prosecutor. The machinery of justice was fully oiled. Dalip Singh had no counsel nor defence witnesses.

  The orderly opened the courtroom door and called the case in a sing-song manner. He let in Banta Singh and his friends. Dalip Singh was marched in by the policemen but the orderly kept his mother out. She had not paid him. When order was restored in the courtroom, the clerk proceeded with reading the charge.

  Dalip Singh pleaded not guilty. Mr Kumar, the magistrate, asked the prosecuting sub-inspector to produce Bindo. Bindo shuffled into the witness box with her face still covered in her shawl and blowing her nose. The inspector asked her about her father’s enmity with Dalip Singh. He produced her clothes stained with blood and semen. That closed the case for the prosecution. The evidence of Bindo corroborated by the exhibits was clear and irrefutable.

  The prisoner was asked if he had any questions to put forward. Dalip Singh folded his handcuffed hands.

  ‘I am innocent, possessor of pearls.’

  Mr Kumar was impatient.

  ‘Have you heard the evidence? If you have no questions for the girl, I will pass orders.’

  ‘Thou of the pearls, I have no lawyer. I have no friends in the village to give evidence for me. I am poor. Show mercy. I am innocent.’

  The magistrate was angry. He turned to the clerk. ‘Cross-examination—nil.’

  ‘But,’ spluttered Dalip Singh, ‘before you send me to jail, emperor, ask her if she was not willing. I went to her because she wanted me. I am innocent.’

  Mr Kumar turned to the clerk again.

  ‘Cross-examination by accused: Did you go to the accused of your own free will? Answer …’

  Mr Kumar addressed Bindo: ‘Answer, did you go to the accused of your own free will?’

  Bindo blew her nose and wept. The magistrate and the crowd waited in an impatient and irritated silence.

  ‘Did you or did you not? Answer. I have other work to do.’

  Through the many folds of the shawl muffling her face Bindo answered.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jean Memsahib

  John Dyson dismounted on the summit of the hill and surveyed the scene. The red brick rest house was situated in the centre of a small clearing in the jungle. On all sides where the hill sloped down was a high wall of trees with creepers climbing from the trunks and spreading out like cobwebs among the branches. The only opening was on the side from
which the road led down to the valley. One could see a densely wooded valley stretching away for several miles.

  The baggage had already arrived and lay piled in the veranda. Near the servants’ quarters, the coolies were sitting on their haunches smoking by turns, a small clay hookah. The overseer sat on a steel chair talking to them.

  The hookah party at the servants’ quarters broke up, and the overseer walked over to meet Dyson.

  ‘Lovely garden,’ said Dyson, addressing the overseer. ‘Who’s been looking after it?’

  ‘There is an old mali, sahib. He’s been living here some fifty years—as long as the house has been here.’

  A skinny old man pushed his way through the crowd and bowed to Dyson with folded hands. ‘Gareeb purwar (defender of the poor), I am the mali. I have been a mali ever since I was fifteen. Jean Memsahib brought me here and now I am sixty. Jean Memsahib died here. I too will die here.’

  ‘Jean Memsahib? Would that be Cotton’s wife?’ asked Dyson, turning to the overseer.

  ‘No, Sir, no one knows much about her. She was a social worker—or a teacher—or a missionary or something. She built this bungalow and had a school for children. Then she died suddenly and no one seems to know anything about her. The Government took over the building and converted it into a forest officers’ rest house.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the shouts of coolies coming up with the palanquin chairs carrying Mrs Dyson and her daughter Jennifer.

  ‘Old mission school’ said Dyson, waving towards the house. ‘Not a bad spot, is it?’

  The family surveyed the scene in silence. The setting sun lit the house, the lawns, the flower beds and the teak forest with its creepers, in a haze of golden light. It was quiet and peaceful. The distant murmur of the stream in the valley emphasized the stillness of the evening.