Burial at Sea

by Khushwant Singh

  They no longer talked face to face; he rested his head on her shoulder, his hands caressed her breasts. He kissed them in turns. She squeezed his balls gently and fondled his penis. Thus engaged they talked about their future. He was determined not to let go of her. She was equally determined to hang on to him as long as he could cope with her. ‘Tell me, do you do any exercise? Do you know any yoga asanas?’ she asked pinching the loose flesh round his stomach. ‘You are flabby around your middle. I’ll send our Swamiji to you in the morning. He will teach you some asanas, how to breathe properly. He will also teach you how to hold your bindu. It will restore your youth. I don’t want my lover growing old before his time. There are many different positions for sex that I want to teach you. You should be fit enough for those.’

  ~

  Swami Dhananjay Maharaj Brahmachari arrived the next morning and he turned out to be another surprise. He was over six feet tall, without an ounce of spare flesh on his body and erect as a soldier at attention. His glossy black hair curled down to his shoulders and his jet-black beard was neatly trimmed. It was difficult to guess his age—he could have been thirty-five, or perhaps forty-five. He was draped in thin see-through one-piece muslin which was both his dhoti and covered his torso. ‘Maji told me you want to learn yoga asanas,’ he said without a smile.

  ‘Yes Swamiji, Ma Durgeshwari says I am flabby in the middle,’ replied Victor patting his stomach. ‘Yoga may tone up my system.’

  ‘Let us see. Lie down on the floor.’

  Victor lay down on the floor. Swamiji took out a measuring tape from some fold of the white muslin, put one end on Victor’s right nipple and measured the distance to his right toe. He did the same from the left nipple to the left toe. ‘There is some difference between the two. Do you suffer from gas?’

  Victor was taken aback. What kind of question was that for a stranger to ask? Did he imply that he farted too much? ‘Some acidity, yes,’ he replied uncertainly. ‘I get a little wind in the stomach in the afternoons. But it settles down after I have a whisky or two.’

  ‘Gas in the stomach is bad for you. I will teach you a few asanas which will help you get rid of it without drinking whisky. Also the correct way to inhale and exhale. When would you like to start? The best time is in the morning after you have evacuated your bowels. Yoga is best on an empty stomach. And learn to sit properly, like this,’ Swamiji sat on the floor and crossed his legs in the lotus pose, padma asana. ‘Or like this,’ he sat on his legs as tailors and the Japanese do. ‘Keep the spine ramrod straight, not curving,’ he said.

  Victor tried but could not bend his knees appropriately. ‘Don’t be in a hurry. Try every morning and you’ll be able to do it.’ Swamiji demonstrated other asanas: standing on one’s head—shirsh asana—bending the body like a bow—dhanur asana. Victor watched in complete fascination; Swamiji’s body seemed to be made of rubber. ‘Breathing properly is most important,’ he said resuming the lotus pose. He shut one nostril with his finger and inhaled deeply with the other; then exhaled with a loud hiss. He repeated the inhaling-exhaling through the other nostril. ‘But to come back to your particular problem. You tell me you suffer from gas. City-dwellers who spend most of their time sitting in chairs have the same problem. I’ll teach you how to exercise your stomach muscles and expel gas out of it.’ He churned the muscles of his abdomen till they looked like ripples of waves running down from his chest to his hips. Then he raised his body on both his hands and let out a resounding fart. Victor had to hold back breaking into a guffaw of laughter. Swamiji sensed his discomfort and said, ‘Gas is no laughing matter. Please notice, my gas has no smell—it is uttam padvi, of the highest order.’ Victor wasn’t sure he wanted further demonstration of this kind. But before he could say anything Swamiji was on his back. He bent his legs and pulled them up till his knees were close to his neck. ‘Pavan mukta asana,’ he said, ‘to set the gas free.’ This time he farted long and slow, an extended musical note that ended in a melancholic whine. ‘Please notice again,’ the swami said, ‘no smell.’ Victor was dismayed. It would be a long session of farts. But the Swami surprised him by swiftly moving onto other asanas—for the spine, the neck, the eyes and the lungs.

  The lesson ended after an hour and Swamiji was driven back to his ashram. Victor tried some of the asanas and breathing exercises, broke wind unashamedly and felt his health was improving. When Durgesh turned up in the evening he took her with renewed vigour.

  ~

  Victor had planned to spend only a couple of days in the holiday home. It was already his fourth; and he wanted to prolong the holiday for as long as he could. He had come up to be alone and make terms with mortality. He had hardly thought of his health and possible death since his eyes fell on Durgeshwari bathing in the Ganga. To think of it, he had neglected the two most important things in life: good health and good sex. It was not too late to make amends. At long last he had stumbled on two people who could guarantee him both; he was determined not to let go of them.

  He put it to Durgeshwari the next evening after they had finished making love (Ma Durgeshwari had insisted they do it standing up this time, which had both exhilarated and tired him). ‘Durgesh, I must return to my business and my family. But now you mean more to me than anything else in the world. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘You should not even think of losing me; I’ll be with you whenever you want me. But I have my ashram, its inmates who rely on me and my Sheroo who regards the ashram as his territory and gets ill-tempered when he is out of his surroundings unless I am with him. You should come here more often. I can come to Delhi if you send a car to fetch me. I’ve never been to Bombay; I’ve never seen the sea. I hope you will show them to me.’

  ‘Of course! And don’t worry about your ashram. Whenever you are short of money, I’ll make a guru dakshina. You’ve taught me more about life than any guru could have done. I’ll take good care of you and your Sheroo. I’ll put Swamiji on my pay roll. I think it would be a good idea if you came to Delhi for a few days to meet my mother and daughter. Bring Swamiji with you, there’ll be less gossip. He could teach Bharati yoga. She takes no exercise and is very short-tempered. Will you come with me?’

  ‘As long as you make neither a wife nor a mistress of me,’ she replied with a mischievous smile. ‘From now on you are our annadaata. You tell us to come to Delhi, we come to Delhi. You tell usBumbai chalo, we go to Bombay. But you and I must both be free, our own persons, always.’ Victor gave her his word.

  11

  * * *

  The Ganga hurtling down the mountains, Ma Durgeshwari, trishul in hand and followed by her tiger, and Swami Dhananjay Maharaj turned the Europeanized Victor’s world upside down. What he had known about his country was from his Anglicized father, seasoned by Gandhi’s patriotism. The holy river, the tantric woman and the Swami were the India he had not known. It brought change into a life that was beginning to bore him. He was besotted with the tantric sadhvi; that her response was full-blooded gave him a sense of well-being. Full of new vigour he returned to Delhi after ten days. A couple of days later he sent a large station wagon to fetch Ma Durgeshwari, Sheroo and Swamiji.

  His daughter was back from London, more cheerful than she had been for a long time. His mother was happy to learn that he had paid homage to Ganga Mai and become a bhakta of a sadhvi and was practising yoga. Only his sister and her husband were somewhat cynical about his new-found enthusiasm for what he called real India. Victor ignored them.

  The cottage once occupied by Valerie Bottomley was got ready for Ma Durgeshwari and Sheroo. A corner room in the large house was prepared for Swamiji. They arrived at tea time. Ma Durgeshwari embraced Victor’s mother; Swamiji touched her feet. The staff of the house and their friends hoped to have darshan of the visitors. But the sight of Sheroo sent them scurrying back. Ma Durgeshwari sent word that they should all come back, there was nothing to fear. She would keep her Sheroo chained, if that helped. She asked Victor to arrange for a silver chain,
which was done. The devout returned for her blessings. ‘Kaatey ga to nahin (He won’t bite, will he)?’ they asked. ‘If you don’t tease him, he is like a pet cat. You must not forget, he too is a very holy being,’ Ma Durgeshwari would reply. Bharati was the only person who had no fear of the tiger from day one. She stroked his head; he rubbed himself against her legs. They were like animals of the same species. On the second day, even Victor’s mother was persuaded to put her arms round Sheroo’s neck; he responded by licking her face. Everyone cheered.

  Ma Durgeshwari had arrived with minimum baggage: a small attaché case which contained all her change of clothes—a spare sash to cover her bosom, a saffron lungi to change into—and three copper bowls for Sheroo: one for milk and boiled rice and one for boiled beans and daals, which was his staple diet, and the third for water to drink. While Durgeshwari herself decided to stay with her old habit of sleeping on the floor and spread a tiger skin for the purpose in the bedroom, Sheroo had other ideas. He sniffed around in the cottage and settled himself on a sofa in the main room. This would be his favourite perch.

  Victor went to the cottage on the first evening itself. He took Durgesh in a tight embrace and murmured in her ear, ‘The three days in Rishikesh were like 300 years in swarg (paradise).’

  ‘Fillum bahut dekhta hai (you watch too many movies),’ laughed Durgeshwari.

  ‘I haven’t seen a Hindi movie in ten years. They are so unreal. My love for you is real. Let’s not waste time. Ma is expecting you to join her for dinner; she eats early.’

  ‘I’m not clean. Love-shove will have to wait for another two days. But we can talk love and do other loving things.’

  Victor was disappointed but understood. So they settled down to doing other loving things. With merely the sound of her voice, as she described to him the most incredible feats possible in tantra sex, Durgeshwari gave Victor a raging erection. A servant knocked on the door to tell them Maji was waiting for them to join her for dinner. Before they left, Durgeshwari put her hand on Victor’s crotch and to his amazement he ejaculated instantly.

  At Shanti Bhavan it was a changed dinner table. No plates, forks, knives or cut-glass tumblers. Instead, there were silver thaalis with silver katoris and silver tumblers. The food was saatvik, pure vegetarian, with freshly fried pooris, potato bhaaji, daal, a variety of vegetables, boiled rice and curds, followed by kheer for dessert. Everyone ate with their fingers. Victor did this badly but with great enthusiasm. Bharati seemed to relish the changed menu and dinner etiquette; the Swiss education hadn’t wiped out her childhood habits. Victor’s mother was most pleased with the change. She even gave Sheroo some pooris; he gulped them down with relish. Only Victor’s sister and her ICS husband seemed out of place and hardly ate.

  Swamiji was asked to conduct yoga classes: in the mornings at home for the family and servants, in the evenings in the business premises for the office staff. Victor attended both and had the enthusiastic support of his daughter who did the same, because she could see that it was doing her Papi good and she wanted to ensure that he stayed with it. After a week of practice Victor was able to sit in the lotus pose and do the headstand with the help of Swamiji. Bharati being much younger and more supple did not find it too hard to master the simpler asanas. Swamiji paid special attention to the young daughter of his benefactor, correcting her posture, and the angles of her hands and legs. Sometimes he let his hands rest for longer than necessary on her legs and hips, so much like a boy’s. He was strongly attracted to this lean, tough-looking girl. There was something distinctly masculine about her aura that added to her unusual beauty. What would it feel like to have her long legs wrapped around his, he wondered. But he wasn’t a rash man. He wouldn’t risk disrepute and the loss of Jai Bhagwan’s patronage. Besides, she intimidated him—though this too excited him. He thought it best to concentrate on being a good yoga teacher for the moment.

  Both Victor and Bharati were happy with Swamiji and agreed that it would be a good idea to engage him as a yoga instructor for their companies on a good salary and have him visit their mills and factories by rotation. They put the proposition to Ma Durgeshwari. ‘So you’re going to steal Swamiji from me, hain?’ she smiled. ‘I don’t mind, provided you make sure he spends at least four months of the year with us in the ashram. That is where he belongs.’

  Swamiji was overjoyed. His life’s mission to take the message of yoga to the whole of India would be fulfilled. And he would save enough to live in comfort for the rest of his days.

  Thus Ma Durgeshwari, Sheroo and Swami Dhananjay Maharaj Brahmachari became an integral part of the Mattoo family. Even Victor’s sisters and their families reconciled themselves to the change.

  The only one who did not approve of the new entrants into the charmed circle was Nair. He had been elected to Parliament as a Congress candidate and divided his time between Delhi and Bombay. In both places meeting Victor was becoming increasingly difficult; he was frequently busy with his new friends. When he finally got some time alone with Victor, he did not mince his words. ‘Victor, who are these weirdos you’ve got into the family? I am told there’s a naked lady who carries a spear and rides a tiger. And a bearded fellow who teaches people how to stand on their heads. Are you going nuts?’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Victor laughed. ‘You meet them and you’ll also go nuts. The kind of education we had can be very limiting. You shouldn’t have a closed mind. You’ve become a black Englishman.’

  ‘Good of you to remind me who I am,’ sneered Nair. ‘I prefer to walk on my legs than on my head. And I really don’t need to know the right way to break wind, thank you very much.’

  He was more disappointed with Bharati’s reaction. He assumed he had established the right to reprimand her. ‘What are you doing with this savage with long hair and black beard? I am told he is teaching you how to contort your body in weird postures. You’re being a bloody idiot, young lady.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Nair,’ she snapped. ‘Swamiji’s a wonderful yoga teacher and the most wonderful man I have met. You won’t understand him because he speaks only Hindi—India’s national language, I might remind you. You can’t say a single sentence in Hindi. But for the blind support our mill workers gave you, you would not have got into the lavatory of the Parliament House Annexe.’

  Nair was taken aback. Was this the same girl he had deflowered only some months ago!

  ‘Bitch!’ he hissed with all the venom he had in him.

  She glared at him with her large eyes and said in a cold, even voice, ‘You repeat that word and I’ll slap you across your beggar’s face. Now get out!’

  ~

  A month later, workers of Jai Bhagwan Textiles in Bombay, the biggest of the company’s many ventures, went on a day’s strike with the threat that if their demands were not met they would close down the mill. Victor asked Nair to meet them and discuss their demands. Nair expressed his inability to do so as the mill workers were in his constituency and there would be clash of interests. He further suggested that since Bharati was to take over charge in due course of time, she should get experience of labour problems. Victor agreed and asked Bharati to look into the matter. Bharati did her homework. She got figures of salaries paid by other mills and compared them with those of Jai Bhagwan Textiles and the extra benefits provided for them. She called a meeting of workers in the mill compound. She took Swamiji with her because all of them attended his yoga sessions. Dressed in a simple grey cotton sari, her head covered with the pallu, she sat on a platform behind a table with a microphone. Swamiji sat beside her. Another microphone was put up on an adjoining table for the workers’ representative. There were several thousand workers and their wives in the assemblage. Bharati opened the proceedings with a short speech. ‘Bhaiyon aur behno, I am told you have some grievances against the company. I want you to tell me what they are and I will try to sort them out for you right here. Let me hear what they are.’

  A man got up and came to the second microphone. He had a sheaf of p
apers in his hand. ‘Madam Bharatiji,’ he started after clearing her throat. Bharati interrupted him. ‘Please first introduce yourself. Which section of the mill are you working in?’

  ‘I am not a mill worker, I am the leader of a trade union which represents workers of many mills in Bombay including yours. I want to present our demands—’

  Bharati interrupted him again. ‘I don’t want to hear you; I want to hear what our own workers have to say. Please, brothers and sisters, don’t you have anyone amongst you to tell me what is wrong?’ She held aloft a sheet of paper and continued, ‘Here I have figures of salaries paid by us and those paid by other mills. With benefits like free housing, free medical services, free schooling for your children and annual paid holidays, what we give you is almost twice as much as other mills. You have been lied to. I am like your sister, and it hurts me that my own brothers and sisters should trust an outsider more than me and my father. Please tell me who has put you up to this mischief. Together we will—’

  The union leader cut her short and shouted into the microphone: ‘You will allow this spoilt brat of your exploiter insult one of your own? This chit of a girl dares to call me a mischief maker! I will teach her a lesson she won’t forget for the rest of her life. I will …’

  Bharati shot up and spread her arms out towards the crowd of workers. ‘Brothers, will you sit and watch your younger sister be threatened? I know what kind of lesson he means to teach me. Will you tolerate such vulgarity, my brothers!’