Boota is given to fantasizing when he is awake and dreaming when he is asleep. His fantasies and dreams have changed with the years. When he was young, he fantasized about young women he met and fancied. Often he had them in mind when he masturbated. He hoped they would reappear in his dreams and make them sweet. They never did: every time he had a wet dream it was about a woman he had never fantasized about. As he grew older, his fantasies became tinged with ambition and envy. He would score over his rivals, and receive recognition and applause when he reached the top.
His dreams also changed their pattern with age. When young he dreamt of flying unaided into space, then dropping with a thud which woke him up. Then followed insecurity dreams: finding himself taking an exam and being unable to answer a single question; being at a formal reception wearing only a kachha (underwear); losing his way, missing buses and trains; forgetting the number of his room in a hotel, having no money to pay the hotel bill. And that sort of thing. As he turned eighty, with an enlarged prostate and chronic constipation, both bladder and bowels became topics of his dreams. He dreamed of his bladder bursting to empty itself and not finding a place where he could do so in privacy; likewise he waited desperately to defecate, seated on a commode straining to get rid of a hard stool when somebody barged in. These became recurrent nightmares.
Boota is always a little sozzled by the time he switches off for the night. Yet he sleeps fitfully. He gets up twice or thrice every night to empty his bladder. Even so, he is up well before 4 a.m., and his mornings are preoccupied by asking himself, ‘Will I or won’t I be able to get a satisfactory clearance of bowels?’ He goes over what he drank and ate the evening before. No more than one large single malt followed by scrambled egg on toast, and kulfi. Was his inside rotting faster than his brain? How long would the game last? After that, what? His mind and his body would part forever. All that might remain of them would be memories in the minds of people who knew him. The night of the 8th of February is worse than others. He is up before 3 a.m. and relaxes in his armchair, hoping to doze off for an hour or so. No luck. He gives up in disgust and decides to take an early morning walk. He has not done so for many years. It is still chilly enough for him to wear a sweater. He gets into his walking shoes, picks up the keys of his car and slips out of his flat quietly lest he disturb his servant who sleeps on the floor in the next room. It is still and silent. A full moon shines in all its glory, with the morning star sparkling near it. When was it he last saw the moon and the stars? The wretched city lights have robbed people of their right to darkness. Spotted owlets sitting in the mulberry trees greet him with chitter-chitter, chatter-chatter. When was it he last heard these birds greet him?
He drives down an empty road, reaches India International Centre and parks his car in the empty car park. He sits in the car till the grey light of dawn overtakes the moonlit sky. He walks past the Kos Minar. He is surprised to see the number of people in the park at this early hour. They seem to be in a hurry: some jogging, others walking at a brisk pace, no strollers, no talkers. Boota does two rounds before he sits down on the Boorha Binch to take in the morning scene. There are lots of people doing yoga—padma asan (lotus pose), dhanur asan (bow-like pose), shirsh asan (standing on their heads), or just taking long breaths through one nostril and exhaling loudly through the other. Why can’t they do all this in their homes, wonders Boota. Why make an exhibition of themselves in public places?
More is to come. Around thirty middle-aged men and women, all looking glum as if they had recently lost their maternal grandmothers, form a semicircle in front of a man clad in a white khaddar kurta and dhoti. He raises both his arms to call for silence. He drops his arms with a jerk like a conductor ordering his orchestra to begin playing. He sets the tone with two loud ‘ha-has’. They follow with loud ha-has hee-hees, ho-hos at different pitches. Some double up in an ecstasy of laughter, others throw up their arms in sheer joy. This goes on for almost ten minutes till they are exhausted. As they break up to return to their homes, they look more relaxed, some have smiles on their faces. This is the Laughter Club of Lodhi Gardens.
Boota mutters to himself: ‘Khotey—donkeys,’ and lets his mind go back to the time when the Bara Gumbad was the city’s principal mosque. He imagines the scene as it might have been in those days: the early morning call for Fajr namaaz, Allah-o-Akbar, would rise to the heavens; worshippers would line up and go through their genuflections, murmuring verses from the Koran. And then the imam would pause and ask angrily: ‘Who are these infidel donkeys braying outside and disturbing us paying homage to our Maker? Off with their heads!’ The Laughter Club of Lodhi Gardens would have had little left to laugh about …
Must tell Sharma and Baig about it and ask them what they think of artificial laughter, says Boota to himself.
Back home he goes over the scene again. He wonders, if artificial laughter can lighten people’s minds then artificial crying must do some good as well. He has a close lady friend who is Shia. Once married to a Sunni, lived abroad for many years with him and her children; Westernized, sophisticated, erudite, knowing both Urdu and English; enjoys whisky and mild flirtation. But come Muharram, the first month of the Muslim calendar, a change comes over her. She often wears a black kurta, refuses to touch alcohol, has majlis (assembly) of Shias in her home where they recite mersias (elegies) in honour of Imam Hussain who was killed in the battle of Karbala many centuries ago. Many people break down in sobs and shed tears. Some beat their breasts in mourning. On the tenth day of Muharram (Ashura), the mourning reaches its crescendo, with Shias marching down public thoroughfares flogging themselves with nailed chains till they draw blood, and slapping their breasts crying, ‘Ya Hassan, Ya Hussain.’
‘Doesn’t make sense to me,’ said Boota to his lady friend after she had resumed taking an evening drink with him.
‘Yes, it does,’ she asserted firmly. ‘Grieving and shedding tears cleanses one’s system of meanness and pettiness.’
It still did not make sense to Boota. Dispute over the succession to the Caliphate split Muslims into two irreconcilable factions—Sunnis and Shias. They have separate mosques, rarely intermarry, abuse each other—a Shia is a khatmal (bedbug), a Sunni a pissoo (louse) or machhar (mosquito); Sunnis chant madhey sahiba (praises of the first three caliphs), Shias retaliate with tabarriaah (execrating them). They bomb each other’s mosques. In short, they hate each other more than they hate infidels.
Must ask Baig about this, says Boota to himself.
That evening, as soon as they have greeted each other and enquired whether everything is hunky-dory, Boota tells them about his morning experiences.
‘It is an ancient practice known as hasya yoga,’ says the sabjantawala—know-all—Pandit Sharma. ‘It is well known that laughter is the best medicine. It has the qualities of healing both mind and body. The Greeks also had a word for it—gelos—which means laughter, from which the English word gelotology—therapeutic laughter—is derived. Boota, I bet you don’t know that word—when you get home look it up in your dictionary.’
Boota ignores Sharma’s attempt at one-upmanship and asks, ‘Is laughter healing even if it is artificial? Why not simply get someone to tickle your armpits?’
‘No matter how you make yourself laugh, you must have a hearty laugh at least once a day,’ replies Sharma.
‘I don’t understand what artificial laughing can do when there is nothing to laugh about,’ says Baig. ‘By all means laugh when you see something comical, hear a good joke, when somebody makes a fool of himself; but ha-ha ha-ha for nothing makes no sense to me.’
‘What about people who never laugh?’ asks Boota. ‘That fellow who was Election Commissioner, what was his name? Oh yes, Seshan. He never laughed; Mamata Banerjee never laughs, Mehbooba Mufti never laughs. Something wrong with them?’
‘I have no idea,’ replies Baig, ‘but I feel uneasy in the company of such people. Don’t you agree, Sharmaji?’
‘Fully,’ replies Sharma. ‘I have no such
problem. I see Boota every day—so have plenty to laugh about.’
‘Me too,’ says Baig. ‘The evenings he is not there I feel depressed. The Almighty in His wisdom created Sardars to keep us laughing.’
Boota senses Sharma is trying to needle him; he is always making fun of Sikhs, as most Hindus do. ‘Sharma Pandit,’ he hits back, ‘you make fun of Sardars all the time. Let me tell you, only people who have confidence in themselves can make fun of themselves. Here we are today, a mere two per cent of the population, and we are ruling the country: Sikh prime minister, Sikh head of the Planning Commission, and until recently, Sikh commander-in-chief.’
Sharma is amused. ‘Baig Sahib, you know how hotheaded these Sardars can be: they may laugh at themselves but they cannot stand other people laughing at them. Ask him why he gets so worked up when somebody asks him “Baara baj gaye?”’
‘I don’t get incensed,’ protests Boota. ‘Some years ago I was at a conference in Scotland. Among the invitees was the Bangladeshi poet Jasimuddin. Every morning at breakfast he would ask me in his Bengali-accented Hindi: “Shordarji, aap ko boro boj gaya?” And I would reply, “Mera boro boj gaya.” Then he would explain: “It is beeg joke in my country.” The poor fellow never caught on that I was mimicking his thick Bengali accent, so I was the one who had the last laugh.’
‘Why has it got stuck on Sardarjis and no one else?’ asks Baig.
I’ll tell you,’ replies Boota. ‘One version is when the Sikhs finally succeeded in blowing up the walls of Multan fort and capturing its rulers, the news reached Lahore a couple of days later at noontime. Maharaja Ranjit Singh was overjoyed and ordered cannons to be fired and gave his victorious soldiers the freedom to rape any woman they liked—which they did. That is why “baara bajey” rankles in the minds of non-Sikhs to this day.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Sharma angrily. ‘I’ve taught Punjab history for some years; never heard of it. You have made it up.’
‘But there must be something to it,’ protests Baig. ‘It could not have dropped from the air.’
‘I can give you the answer,’ says Boota. ‘I stumbled on it by accident when I happened to be visiting Turkey. I was given two Turkish students to escort me. I asked them to tell me some Turkish jokes. Most of them were like ours, about foolish rulers, cuckolded husbands, mothers-in-law, etc. Then one of them told me that many of their jokes were about a peasant community called Laz living along the Caspian Sea. They are simple-minded peasants who lose their cool at noon. I am sure it must be Turkish soldiers in Muslim invaders’ armies, maybe your ancestors, who brought the “baara bajey” joke and planted it on the Sikhs who are mostly simple-minded peasants.’
‘Bootaji, koi Sardarji joke ho jai—some Sardar jokes please. Chondee-chondee, dripping with smut as you Punjabis say,’ says Baig.
It is the opportunity Boota has been waiting for, to get even with Sharma. ‘It is very non-vegetarian,’ says Boota. ‘Sharma won’t like it.’
‘Go ahead,’ says Sharma, ‘I won’t mind.’
So Boota goes ahead. ‘Once a Sardarji applied for a job. He was asked to come for an interview. There were three members of the interview board, all three Punjabi Hindus. They decided to make a chootia of the Sardar.
‘As he sat down to face them, the first man said, “I will make a sound. You have to tell us what it is: koo, chhuk chhuk, chhuk.”
‘“It is a railway train,” answered the Sardar.
‘“Quite right,” said the board member. “What is it, Rajdhani or Shatabdi?”
‘“Rajdhani.”
‘“Wrong. It is a Shatabdi.”
‘The second member asked him, “I will make a sound, you tell me what it is: bhow, wow, wow.”
‘“It is a dog barking.”
‘“Quite right. Is it a spaniel or an Alsatian?”
‘“Alsatian.”
‘“Wrong. It is a spaniel.”
‘And so it went on till their questions were finished. Finally, the Sardarji turned to them and said, “You have asked me a lot of questions. Can I now ask you one?”
‘“Yes, of course,” they replied. “Go ahead.”
‘The Sardarji picked up a piece of paper from the table in front of him, drew a picture of the middle of a woman and asked, “Can you tell me what this is?”
‘“Sure,” they replied. “It is a choot or what you Sikhs call a phuddee.”
‘“Quite right,” said the Sardarji, “now tell me, is it your mother’s or your sister’s?"’
Baig explodes into guffaws. Sharma remarks, ‘Not very funny. I’ve heard it many times before from you.’
Baig continues to roar with laughter. Three hijras who periodically go round Lodhi Gardens to pester lovers cuddling behind bushes till they shell out money to be left alone, hear the loud laughter from the Boorha Binch. They recognize Baig because they have often sung and danced at his gates at weddings and births. They go to the bench and start clapping their hands and gyrating. Baig loses his cool. He pulls out a hundred-rupee note, hands it to the leading hijra and says firmly ‘Dal fay ain ho jao—Get lost. If you ever come here again I’ll have you thrashed the next time you come to my house.’ They bless him and go away.
Boota can’t hold back. ‘So Nawab Sahib, you also enjoy this diversion?’
‘La haul billah Quwwat Allah Billah!’ exclaims Baig. ‘But if you want to add to your experiences, I’ll send these fellows to your daulat khana. I’ll pay their fee.’
They bid each other goodbye.
The discussion on the pros and cons of artificial mourning is taken up the next evening. Boota tells them about his Shia lady friend and what she had to say on the subject. Baig responds first. ‘We are Sunnis, not Shias. We also mourn the martyrdom of Imam Hussain at Karbala but we do not beat our breasts or torture ourselves.’
‘We have our martyrs too—all communities have a few. We honour them on their death anniversaries but do not make public demonstration of grief. Shias must be the only people who do so,’ adds Sharma.
‘That is not quite correct,’ breaks in Boota. ‘I recall in my village in Punjab whenever there was a death, groups of mirasi women would arrive on the scene and beat their breasts crying hai-hai, hai-hai along with chanting the name of the dead person. It was quite frightening, but that was customary. They had to be paid to go away.’
‘That’s not the same thing,’ cuts in Sharma. ‘Grief has to be spontaneous, not artificial. When anyone close to you dies, you break down and shed tears. If you don’t, there is something wrong with you. These whites think that breaking down and crying is bad form. They bottle up their grief—cry when they are alone. Some wear black armbands or black ties for a few days. Even that practice has been given up. You take it from me, if you suppress sorrow and refuse to give expression to it, you have psychological problems. That is one reason why so many Westerners consult psychiatrists regularly. Don’t you agree with me, Baig Sahib?’
‘Shia Muslims are not the only ones nor the first to make mourning into a ritual,’ interrupts Boota. ‘Long before them the Jews had their Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, just below the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque occupied by Israel. To this day it is a place of pilgrimage for them. They face the wall and cry their hearts out. Crying does lighten the heart.’
‘Yes and no,’ says Baig. ‘Ghalib often mentions the nauhagar—a professional mourner. He says if he could afford it he would always have one with him. He also writes about the cleansing effect of weeping copious tears—you shed them and you feel washed clean and become paak—pure. Bootaji, I am sure you know these lines by heart.’
As one who never misses an opportunity to show off, Boota recites: ‘Itney dhoye gaye ke bas paak ho gaye. Okay, we are all agreed crying is as good for one as laughing,’ says Boota. ‘Now let us get back to our homes and cry heartily.’
On the evening of the 14th of February, Sharma is in an unusually jovial mood, bursting to tell his friends news of great importance. No sooner than they greet
each other and take their seats, he says, ‘You know what?’
‘What?’ says Boota dutifully.
‘I received four St Valentine cards today; four women declaring their love for me.’
‘So did you make love to them?’ asks Boota.
‘I went to Khan Market and got four Valentine’s Day cards. I tell you it was quite a problem. They keep them hidden in their drawers lest these goondas of the Shiv Sena and Bajrang Dal smash up their shops. They think it is against Indian culture and should be put down by force, if necessary. The fellow sold me the cards because he knows me. I sent them by courier to all the four ladies.’
‘Please enlighten me about St Valentine. I have never heard of the gentleman,’ says Baig.
Boota enlightens him and tells him of the practice of sending cards, which is prevalent in the West. ‘What you are shy of putting in words, you do by post. Don’t you read any English paper, Baig? Page after page full of messages of love in simple or code language. It is a multi-crore business. We Indians have a genius for picking up the worst habits of Westerners. Don’t you agree, Sharmaji?’
Sharma feels uneasy as he is a great champion of India’s traditional values. ‘It is a harmless practice. Makes some people happy to know they are loved. It does less harm than writing names with drawings of hearts pierced by arrows on walls of ancient monuments and on tree trunks.’
‘Both are asinine,’ declares Boota. ‘If you love somebody, go and tell him or her “I love you”. They won’t mind. Some may even respond. But this love by Speed Post or courier is beyond my comprehension.’
‘This is not ishq, it is ishtiharbaazi—advertising,’ says Baig. ‘Love is something personal, strictly private, not to tell the world.’
‘Ghalib writes about namabars—message carriers. But they only carried love letters because postal services were non-existent,’ adds Baig. ‘Anyway, Sharmaji, what did you do with the ladies to whom you sent these expensive greeting cards?’
THE SUNSET CLUB Page 4