One, particularly, keeps repeating itself. He was staying with friends in England. They had a young, attractive, English governess for their daughter. It was Christmas time. His hosts and their daughter had gone calling on friends. He was lying on a sofa when the governess brought him a glass of sherry. They exchanged ‘Merry Christmas’ greetings with light kisses on each other’s cheeks. That was the prelude. The hosts returned with a couple of their friends for the Christmas feast—roast turkey, French wine, pudding loaded with rum, followed by cognac and Drambuie. Everyone was a little tipsy by the end of the evening. He bade them goodnight and returned to his bedroom on the top floor, which was next to that of the governess. Some minutes later he heard her footsteps going into her bedroom. Sleep would not come to him. He tiptoed to her bedroom. She made room for him as if expecting him. He laid himself on her and glued his lips to hers. She opened her thighs to let him in. He entered her. They lay in silence for what seemed like divine eternity. At long last he came with violent jerks and pumped half a gallon of his semen into her without bothering about the consequences. Mercifully there were none. He concluded that those who found English women cold had never sampled one. They continued to meet in different places and made love every time.
Boota’s wife had kept an excellent table. She consulted a lot of cookery books: French, Italian, Chinese and Indian. She spent a good half-hour instructing the cook how to go about preparing various recipes. He turned out to be a master craftsman in the art of cooking. She had gone eight years ago but the cook was still with him and gave him a gourmet dinner every evening. Boota relishes good food, a glass of French wine, followed by a digestive Underberg. He swallows a dozen pills prescribed for his age for various ailments. Then he switches off for the night. He sleeps fitfully as he has to get up two or three times to empty his bladder. Nevertheless, he is up by 4 a.m. to start the day’s work.
By the time Baig’s Mercedes-Benz gets to Nizamuddin, street lights have been switched on. Hazrat Nizamuddin’s shrine, which allows worshippers of all communities, has in its complex tombs of the poets Amir Khusrau and Mirza Ghalib, as well as bazaars all around, which attract large crowds. Baig’s car leaves the main Delh–Agra road to enter the elite residential area, Nizamuddin West. The headlights of his car catch the two marble slabs on either side of the gates. One in English reads ‘Baig Manzil’, the other in Arabic ‘Hada bin Fazl-e-Rabbee—this by the Grace of God’. On top of the house is a circular marble slab with the numerals 786 in Arabic. God has certainly been good to the Baig family. The double-storeyed mansion is brightly lit. People refer to it as Baig’s daulat khana—abode of wealth; he calls it ghareeb khana—house of poverty.
Begum Sakina awaits him in the veranda. He is helped to his armchair in the sitting room. A coal fire is glowing, his armchair has a small pillow to cushion his large frame, a moorha (cane stool) in front to rest his feet, a bottle of Black Label Scotch, a tumbler, ice bucket and a plate of shaami kababs on the side table. Sakina Begum sees him settle down comfortably, orders two of her maids to press his legs and retires to the neighbouring room from where she can see him as well as the saas—bahu TV serials to which she is addicted. She does not approve of his drinking as the Koran forbids consumption of alcohol to Muslims. But she refrains from reminding her husband about it.
Baig pours himself a generous peg; his servant adds soda and two cubes of ice. He takes a big swig of the whisky-soda, bits of shaami kabab, and stretches his legs out on the moorha. The maids sit on their haunches on either side of the moorha and begin to press his legs. That’s all they do during the day for the Begum Sahiba and have become expert masseuses. First his feet. They press the insteps with their thumbs; then by turn every toe with their thumbs and index fingers. Then his legs with their palms. And back to his feet. They do not stop till told to do so. Baig is transported to another world. What more would he get in paradise than good Scotch and houris pressing his limbs: Paradise is a man-made fantasy; this is for real. He recalls Mirza Ghalib’s lines: ‘We know the truth about Paradise: it is a good idea to beguile the mind.’ However, he knows that these pleasures will also not last very long as old age robs life of the fun of living.
Ghalib was a man after Baig’s own heart: hard drinker, lover of women, only prayed on Fridays, never fasted during Ramadan. And yet, not only Muslims but all Urdu-knowing people of the world swear by his name as one of the greatest poets of all time. Baig recalls one of his favourite Ghalib couplets:
Where are the frivolities of yesteryear?
Where has your youth fled?
Where indeed had his youth fled? He recalled the early days of his married life. He was eighteen, Sakina sixteen. They had played together as children, teased each other in their early teens. He had noticed her bosom take shape and her buttocks get rounder. They had got down to real business on the first night they were left alone. She had called him Barkoo Bhaiyya and he had called her Sakki. Overnight, he became Janoo—sweetheart—and she became Begum.
What a volcano of passion she had in her little frame! They were at it every time they were on their own—at times, six times in one day. She found him too heavy and suggested she come on top. He found that even pleasanter and lay on his back with his massive circumcised penis up like the Qutub Minar. She mounted him, directed his erect member inside her till it disappeared between her thighs. She did most of the work, kissing his eyes, his lips, heaving up and down. It was her groaning with ecstasy that brought him to a climax. What bliss it was! As expected, she was pregnant by the second month. She had morning sickness and went back to her parents for a week’s break.
That was too long for Baig. Sex had become compulsive. So he took her maids to bed in turn: one when she brought his early morning cup of tea, the other when she brought him the glass of hot milk he took before retiring for the night. The girls took it as a part of their duty. He didn’t have any qualms of conscience. He repeated the exercise whenever his wife was far gone in her pregnancy and went to her parents for the delivery.
Occasionally he visited courtesans in Chawri Bazaar to watch their mujra and dance. The evening ended with his having sex with one of them. He tipped them handsomely. Sakina had a woman’s sixth sense about her husband’s infidelities but never questioned him. As long as he did not bring in a second wife, it was okay by her. That was the way of nawabs, rajas and rich businessmen. He was both a nawab and a man of substance.
Baig’s reverie is disturbed by his wife’s gentle query, ‘Khana?’
‘Haan,’ he mumbles in reply.
Whisky, soda and tumbler are removed along with the side table. A larger table is brought with a couple of plates on it. Sakina Begum joins him.
‘What was the gup-shup about this evening?’ she asks.
‘Not for your ears, Begum. That Sardar uses language not proper in polite society. Most of it is about his exploits with women.’
‘Chheeh! Chheeh! Why do you talk to him?’
‘He can be quite entertaining. Knows a lot of Urdu poetry.’
Dinner is laid on the table by a relay of servants: mutton biryani flavoured with saffron, three kinds of mutton and chicken curries, baghaara baigan (aubergines cooked in Hyderabadi style), chapattis and naans. Every night it is a royal feast. Sakina piles biryani on his plate till he says ‘bas—enough’. Mutton curry? Chicken curry? She heaps his plate till he raises his hand to say no more. Sakina spreads a napkin on his lap and hands him his plate. He waits for her to fill her plate and sit down. ‘Bismillah,’ he intones. They eat with their fingers: spoons and forks rob food of its taste.
Every evening large quantities of food are removed from the table. It is never wasted because the entire staff of six servants and their families are fed. So are beggars from Nizamuddin who cluster round the entrance gate. For dessert there is phirni covered with silver varq in an earthen cup, kulfi, ice cream and a variety of fruits of the season. Both take phirni—this time scooped up with spoons. The fruit goes untouched.
&n
bsp; A servant brings a jug of warm water, soap, towels and a basin. They wash their hands, rinse their mouths and spit the contents into the basin. Baig lets out a loud dakar (belch) to express thanks for the delicious meal. The servants remove the table and put back the side table with a box of Romeo y Julieta cigars, clipper and lighter on it. Baig clips the end of his cigar and lights it. Sakina disapproves of smoking as much as of drinking, and quietly retires to another room.
It takes nearly half an hour for Baig to finish his Havana cigar, each costing around five hundred rupees. It is worth every paisa as it gives him time to digest his dinner. He tosses the butt into the grate of dying embers and growls ‘chalo—let’s go’. Two servants help him go to the bathroom to brush his teeth, urinate, change into his night kurta-pajama and get on his bed. He takes two pinches of digestive chooran made of pomegranate seeds. He switches on his table lamp, reads a few couplets of Ghalib which he knows by heart. By then he is heavy with sleep. He switches off the table lamp, lays his head down on his pillow and begins to snore. That is one reason Sakina has given up sharing his bedroom. She sleeps in the next room where her husband’s snoring does not disturb her, yet assures her all is well with the world.
The outside lights are kept lit throughout the night. The chowkidar keeps strolling between the entrance and exit gates, thumping his lathi on the tarmac surface, thak-thak, shouting periodically Khahardar raho—remain alert!
For old people, mornings are an ordeal. No matter what age-related ailments they suffer from, it is usually in the mornings from sunrise to noon that they succumb to them. More old people die during these hours than at others. This is a blessing in disguise as in tropical climates relatives dispose of their dead before sunset. And many deaths are related to bowel movements because they weigh heavily on their minds. Some have to strain at their stools, which takes a toll on their hearts. Others have breathing problems and are short of breath; their exertions on the commode also strain the heart till it gives way.
Though Sharma never had problems with his bowels he had an enlarged prostate which blocked his urine. Medical examination showed early stages of cancer. He was operated on in good time. He got rid of the cancer but it made his bladder uncontrollable. He has to get up twice or thrice at night to empty it in the pisspot that is kept under his bed.
Boota Singh is bowel-obsessed. He takes laxatives, enemas, glycerine suppositories up his rectum. For the last few years he has been taking three heaped teaspoonfuls of Isabgol in a glass of warm milk every morning. Sometimes he has a good clearance. But more often nothing works.
Baig, though he eats richer food, takes little exercise, and is overweight, has no complaint about his bowels.
Sharma gets up after daylight, stretches out his arms and loudly intones Hari Om Tat Sat a few times, coming down to just Hari Om, Hari Om. He goes to the bathroom to urinate and rinse his mouth. Then he downs a tumbler of warm water and a mug of tea. He goes on to recite the Gayatri Mantra at the top of his voice:
Almighty God: Creator of the Earth and the firmament
Blessed be Thy Name
And blessed be the Sun that gives us light and life
May thou endow me with similar qualities
May such thoughts enlighten my mind.
He waits for a few minutes till pressure builds up in his bowels. Thereafter he has his bath and gets into fresh clothes. He has a good breakfast of cereal, a couple of fried eggs, and is ready to face the day. He does not believe in subscribing to newspapers as he can read them all in the library of the India International Centre. Soon after his sister leaves for her office, his driver takes him to the Centre. He spends his mornings there, has a bite in the coffee lounge and returns home for a long siesta.
For Boota mornings are, as he says, a pain in the arse. He is up before 4 a.m. He swallows a couple of pills with a tumbler of orange juice. He sits down on a well-cushioned armchair. He says he does not believe in prayer but he prays for his bowels to move smoothly: ‘Aum Arogyam.’ He repeats the mantra many times. He keeps looking at the three table clocks in his bedroom and his pocket watch lying on the table. He looks through the window to see if dawn has come. From 5.30 a.m. newspapers start arriving. He subscribes to six. In the Hindustan Times and the Times of India he only reads the headlines and turns the pages of their supplements to see the tits and bums of Bollywood starlets. His morning preoccupation is solving crossword puzzles. With breakfast of a tumbler of warm milk with Isabgol he takes eight more pills prescribed for his fluctuating blood pressure, enlarged prostate, wind in the stomach and other age-related ailments. If his fake prayers and the pills do what they are meant to and he succeeds in filling the toilet bowl with his shit, he hears koels calling from the mango groves. If not, it is the kaw-kaw of crows all day long.
Baig’s household are early risers. As the call for the Fajr prayer, Allah-o-Akbar, wafts across from the mosque in Nizamuddin, Begum Sakina and all the servants turn towards Makka, raise their hands to their ears and offer namaaz. Nawab Sahib’s day begins much later. He announces it by stretching his arms wide with a loud cry, ‘Ya Allah.’ It is a signal for the household to get down to their daily chores. He goes to the bathroom to urinate and rinse his mouth. As he sits in his armchair by the fireplace, Sakina joins him with the greeting, ‘Salaam Alaikum. Did you sleep well?’ He replies: ‘Valaikum Salaam. Allah be praised, I slept soundly.’ A servant greets his master likewise, brings a silver tray with two Spode china cups on saucers, with silver spoons, a bowl of sugar cubes and a silver teapot covered by a tea cosy to keep it hot. Sakina pours tea, milk and sugar in the two cups, and hands one to her husband. She takes her seat with cup in hand. ‘What is the programme for the day?’ she asks.
‘The same,’ he replies. ‘Some business, meeting people, eating the air in Lodhi Gardens and back home. Comes the morning, comes the evening and the day is done. This is the way in which our lives end.’
The tea tray is removed. Another servant brings an ornate silver hookah with an earthenware bowl full of live embers and fragrant tobacco. Baig takes a few pulls and utters a loud ‘ah’ at the end of each puff. A few puffs of his hookah is all he needs to activate his bowels. He doesn’t care a fig about what goes on in the world. He gets one English paper, the Hindustan Times, for no better reason than that his father used to get it. He scans the headlines and the obituary columns and puts it aside. He used to subscribe to the Urdu journal, Qaumi Awaaz. Since it closed down, he gets Roznama Rashtriya Sahara, Hindustan Express and Sahafat. Also several magazines—Nai Duniya, Sahara Times and Pakeeza Aanchal. He never reads any of them; Begum Sakina goes over every one of them before she passes them on to her servants, all of whom can read Urdu. Baig gets his news second-hand from his wife, with suitable comments: Besharam! (shameless), Goonda kahin ka! (no-good thug), Naalaik (stupid) or just Thoo! Her wah-wahs are reserved for tennis star Sania Mirza and Muslims in India’s Cricket Eleven.
Members of the Sunset Club do not normally meet on the evening of Beating Retreat. All three watch the spectacle on their TV sets. This year it was cancelled as a mark of respect for ex-President Venkataraman who had died two days earlier—all public ceremonies were cancelled for eleven days and flags flown at half-mast.
Indians have enormous respect for the dead. If the head clerk of an office dies, the entire office staff takes the day off. They have different ways of expressing their grief. Some take their families to the cinema, others take them to the zoo or for picnics to the Qutub Minar or to Okhla, where there is a barrage from where the Yamuna canal takes off. The next day they have a meeting. The boss makes a short speech, extolling the qualities of head and heart of their departed colleague. They stand in silence for a minute with their heads lowered. Then they go back to their desks and shuffle files, drink relays of tea or coffee. And gossip.
That afternoon there were lots of picnickers in Lodhi Gardens. As they took their seats, Baig remarked, ‘There is a lot of raunaq in the garden today.’
�
��Has to be,’ says Boota, ‘Venkataraman died the day before yesterday. So there have to be shok sabhas—condolence meetings. This is as nice a place as any to hold one. Let’s forget Venkataraman. What do you make of the Chandra Mohan-Anuradha affair in Chandigarh? The papers are full of it.’
Sharma is the first to answer: ‘Shameful! A Brahmin girl from a respectable family marrying a married fellow with two children. And a Bishnoi at that. The founder of the sect, Guru Jambeshwar, was a noble soul, a visionary, a century ahead of his time, the first environmentalist. Don’t kill trees, don’t kill animals, don’t hurt people, don’t tell lies—that’s what he preached. He even sanctioned selecting handsome, healthy males to service married women whose husbands could not impregnate them. That’s the reason why the Bishnois are a handsome people. And see what happened to them. At one time the British intended to declare them a criminal tribe. They have a very high rate of murders and violent crimes. And we had this fellow’s father Bhajan Lal who was once chief minister of Haryana. Overnight he changed sides and bribed MLAs to join him. Now his son has gone one better than his father—he deserts his family to have illicit relations with an upper-caste woman.’
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 46