THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Nothing,’ replies Sharma. ‘You are not meant to do anything.’

  ‘Then why do you object to the Shiv Sainiks or Bajrang Dalis preventing shopkeepers making money by selling meaningless cards?’ asks Baig.

  ‘Because it is none of their business. It is my money and I can spend it any way I like,’ replies Sharma.

  Boota interrupts their dialogue. ‘For once I agree with Sharma. Those fundoos are Hindu Talibans; the Afghan Taliban force women to wear burqas, flog them if they wear jeans, stone them to death if they are caught making love to anyone besides their husbands. Ours rough up people, wreck their property. They don’t object to sculptures in Konark or Khajuraho which depict couples copulating—they are ancient works of Hindu art—but if someone like Husain paints a Hindu goddess in the nude, they wreck his exhibitions, file criminal suits against him and force the poor chap, perhaps India’s greatest living artist, to live in exile in Qatar. I say crush them now, or they will crush us later. I spit on their faces and spit on their bottoms.’

  ‘Cool down, Sardar,’ says Sharma. ‘This is no way of celebrating St Valentine’s Day. Go home and write a long love letter to someone willing to read it.’

  So ends the 14th of February 2009 for members of the Sunset Club.

  Half the month remains. Attendance at the Sunset Club becomes irregular. On the 15th, all three are there but the next day Boota is missing. ‘What’s happened to the Sardar?’ asks Baig. ‘No idea,’ replies Sharma. ‘I will send my servant across to find out.’ Boota is missing again the next evening. Sharma tells Baig why: ‘His elder brother died yesterday.’

  ‘Inna lillah-e-va inna Ilah-e-Rajaoon,’ intones Baig. ‘That means what God gave you goes back to God. We Muslims recite this when we hear of a death. Was he ailing?’

  ‘He was two or three years older than Boota. Was in a wheelchair for over five years. Was very hard of hearing. You could hardly understand what he was trying to say. Day and night the entire family of wife and four children were attending to him. What more can anyone ask for in one’s last years on earth?’

  ‘He must have been a good, God-fearing man,’ proclaims Baig.

  ‘Strange thing,’ says Sharma. ‘He was devoted to the one daughter he had. She was living in America—some kind of professor. When he started to sink, they sent word to her. It was mid-term but she took leave and flew back to be by her father’s side. The strange thing is that she reached Delhi about 6 p.m., got home half an hour later, was holding his hand when he breathed his last. Almost as if he had been waiting for her before he departed forever.’

  ‘I have heard other cases of the same kind—people holding on to life till they have seen the person they love most. God grants them their last wish,’ says Baig.

  Another two evenings pass without Boota. ‘How many days of mourning are slated for the Sikhs?’ asks Baig.

  ‘They have the same as we Hindus,’ replies Sharma. ‘It can be chautha—fourth day—shraadh or dahaya—ten days—when they have an antim ardas—last prayer. But Boota never believed in rituals—or so he says. You never know about him.’

  Boota takes his time and turns up four days later. Baig offers his condolences. He brushes them aside and says, ‘He was as good as dead for the last five years. It was as much a relief for him as for his family. And now Amita Malik and Victor Kiernan have also died. All within a week.’

  ‘Who was the mohtarma? Should I be knowing about her? And Kiernan Sahib?’ asks Baig.

  ‘What world do you live in?’ demands Boota. ‘Ask any educated Indian and he will tell you. Amita Malik was the best-known critic of radio and TV programmes. A Bengali Hindu married to a Punjabi Muslim. And Kiernan, the best translator of Urdu poetry, Faiz and Ghalib. A Scotsman who lived in Lahore for some years. His translations are available in all bookstores.’

  ‘My apologies to both,’ says Baig. ‘I hardly listen to the radio or switch on TV. And I read Ghalib and Faiz in Urdu. Why do I need translations in English?’

  ‘Quite right,’ says Sharma. ‘It’s chaps like you, Boota, who know very little Urdu who read translations to show off your knowledge.’

  Boota is not one to let Sharma get away with a jibe. ‘O Panditji, I at least read the books I have. You only stock them as deemak—termite—feed.’

  Baig has a hearty laugh. ‘I don’t have any English books. Deemak can’t read Urdu, so they leave them alone.’

  As they get up to leave for their homes, Baig says, ‘Khuda ki kasam—I swear by God—when you gentlemen don’t come to the park, I get depressed and don’t enjoy my dinner.’

  Boota replies, ‘Bhai Sahib, all of us are getting on in years. We have to prepare ourselves for the day the mehfil will be over.’ And he quotes a Punjabi verse:

  Not forever does the bulbul sing;

  Not forever lasts the spring;

  Not forever does happiness reign

  Not forever do voices in majlis ring.

  ‘Wah, wah,’ applauds Baig. ‘But we must keep meeting as long as we can. Jab tak chaalee chaley.’ And adds Bahadur Shah Zafar’s couplet:

  I asked for a long life,

  Only four days were granted:

  Two went in hoping,

  Two lost in waiting.

  3

  SPRING INTO SUMMER

  In March, death and rebirth go hand in hand. It is the time of patjhar (falling leaves) and new ones taking their place. Peepals, neems, kosams and many others denude themselves to don new garments. Shahtoot (mulberry) trees, which looked like clothless umbrellas of dry sticks, get a green fuzz by mid-February; and by Holi, which fell this year on the 11th of March, they are laden with green or purple caterpillar-like fruit, much relished by Holi revellers. It is also the time of courtship among birds. Sparrows, rarely seen in Delhi now, used to be a sight to watch: the cock strutting around his lady friend who pretended to be indifferent to his amorous advances. Then changing her mind, squatting on her legs and exposing her cloaca to let him mount her. It is the same with other species of birds. They display their plumage, dance around their females till they get roused and allow themselves to be mounted. Seeds of new life are sown.

  Somehow, a similar pattern of death–rebirth took place in human affairs. The Congress and its allies led by Manmohan Singh as prime minister ended their five-year tenure and general elections were announced. Needless to say it is the hot topic of discussion at the Sunset Club when it meets on the evening of the 2nd of March. Sharma opens the debate with a barb aimed at Boota.

  ‘So Bootaji, the five-year rule of the Sardars comes to an end and we have to choose a new government.’ Before Boota can reply, he adds: ‘Mind you, I have nothing against Manmohan Singh. He was a good scholar, a topper in every exam, got a first at Cambridge. He was a good teacher. His ambition was to be professor of economics and settle down in Chandigarh. All that changed when he got a UN job with a fat dollar salary and moved to New York. And back as governor of the Reserve Bank of India. It was Prime Minister Narasimha Rao who made him finance minister and had him elected to the Rajya Sabha from Assam. On his own he would not have won a panchayat election. It is the same now. Sonia Gandhi knows Indians won’t accept an Italian-born woman as prime minister, and her son Rahul is too young and inexperienced to be PM. So they put a harmless, unambitious man as their proxy. The real rulers of the country are Sonia and Rahul, not Manmohan Singh. Advani calls him nikamma—useless.’

  ‘Oy, oy, oy, Pandit Sharma, what world do you live in?’ retorts Boota. ‘He is the best prime minister we have had so far: scholarly, highly experienced, he’s turned around the economy of the country. Everyone is better off than he was five years ago. Remember, when he had his heart surgery a few months ago there were prayers offered in temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras all over the country, just as they were when Amitabh Bachchan had his accident and was said to be dying. We will soon see whether the people of this country think he is nikamma or that Sindhi hero of Hindu fundoos. What do you have to say, Baig?’
>
  ‘Bhai, I don’t involve myself in politics,’ Baig replies. ‘I go along with my Begum: she says Manmohan is a bhalamanas, sharif and mita hua—a good man, a gentleman and self-effacing. What more can you ask of a prime minister?’

  That is not good enough for Boota. He challenges Sharma. ‘Panditji, will you take a bet with me on who will be the next PM—Advani or Manmohan?’

  Sharma shrugs him off. ‘I don’t make foolish bets. And frankly I don’t care who wins, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other. In any case I won’t be voting. My servants do and all they tell me later is “we voted for the Hindu party”.’

  ‘That means BJP, doesn’t it?’ asks Baig. ‘I too don’t vote; too old to stand in a line for an hour or more. But my Begum, servants and their wives vote for the panja—the hand, the symbol of the Congress Party—as they have done in every election.’

  Sharma ends the debate with words of advice. ‘It is best to wait till the time to decide is near. Weigh the pros and cons of the contesting parties, their past performance and the promises they make. At every election, ghareebee hatao—banish poverty—they say. But poverty is very much there. They promise roti, kapra and makaan—food, clothing and a roof over their heads. After sixty-two years, half the population goes hungry, all the kapra it has is a langoti and most people live in mud huts or hovels. And corruption is rampant. We are counted among the most corrupt nations of the world. We make big claims when we should be hanging our heads in shame.’

  Sharma is impressed by his own words. As usual Boota punctures his ego. ‘I have a bright idea to solve all our country’s problems. Let us ignore Advani and Manmohan Singh and elect Pandit Sharma as the prime minister of India. What do you say, Baig?’

  ‘Hundred per cent okay if Sharmaji is willing.’

  Sharma maintains a dignified silence before delivering the punchline. ‘It is no use wasting one’s breath on people like you. You think elections are just a tamasha enacted every five years. Good night.’

  They get up from the Boorha Binch to return to their homes.

  After the end of the first week, attendance at the Sunset Club becomes somewhat erratic. On the 9th evening Baig announces, ‘Bhai, I will not be able to come tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Khair to hai—all is well?’ asks Sharma.

  ‘Allah ka shukar hai—God be thanked,’ replies Baig, raising both hands. ‘Tomorrow is Eid-e-Milad-un-Nabi. Our holy Prophet died on his birthday; that is why we also call it Bara Wafaat.’

  ‘So do you celebrate his birthday or mourn his death?’ asks Sharma.

  ‘We do both. It symbolizes the oneness of births and deaths—where there is birth, death is bound to be, they go hand in hand. My Begum insists I stay at home all day to receive callers who come to exchange Eid greetings; I go to the mosque for afternoon prayers and to the Nizamuddin Dargah to make offerings for the langar—community kitchen. It is zakaat—charity—which is obligatory in Islam.’

  Boota needles him, ‘What I know about Mussalmans celebrating is they get into new clothes, hug each other three times, offer namaaz on the roads and eat a lot of dates and vermicelli pudding. Am I right, Baig Sahib?’

  ‘More or less,’ replies Baig, tmt unlike you Hindus and Sikhs we do not take out huge processions with bands, elephants, gatka players, singers, etc., which bring city life to a standstill. Shops have to close down, daily wagers earn nothing. People miss their flights and trains; the sick can’t get to hospitals in time. You are welcome to your celebrations at other people’s inconvenience.’

  ‘Touché,’ says Sharma, using one of the eight words of French he remembers. He explains: ‘In fencing—you know fencing? Mock fight with blunted rapiers, when one man hits the other, he scores a point and the referee shouts “touché” and grants him victory. I say touché in favour of Baig. He scored over us.’ And after a short pause he adds, ‘Incidentally, I will not be coming day after tomorrow; it is Holi and I expect my friends and relatives will drop in to greet me.’

  ‘Not Holi, but hullarbaazi, rowdyism. Throw coloured water on people, rub red powder on girls’ cheeks and feel their breasts, gamble and drink bhang,’ remarks Boota. ‘What is religious about it?’

  Sharma retorts, ‘You only see the ugly side of everything. Take some good bhang in a glass of warm, sweetened milk and you will sleep like a log for twenty-four hours.’

  The three have a hearty laugh. ‘We will resume our sessions after the festivals,’ says Baig as they part company.

  On Holi evening Sharma is missing from the Boorha Binch. ‘He must be enjoying his bara peg of bhang,’ says Boota to Baig.

  ‘Have you ever tasted it?’ asks Baig.

  ‘Occasionally,’ replies Boota. ‘It is like taking several sleeping tablets. Sound sleep. No hangover. Nihangs are addicted to it. They make a concoction of almonds, milk and bhang and call it sukkha parshad—the peace giver. They are big braggarts who do no work—nikhattoos.’

  ‘Sounds like opium, it has the same effect. A little taken occasionally does no harm. If one becomes an afeemchee, an addict, then one becomes useless. I say moderation in everything, be it alcohol or drugs. Preachers of prohibition make too much noise.’

  ‘They can go bugger themselves,’ says Boota with an air of finality.

  They fall silent for a few moments till Boota comes out with something that has been on his mind for a long time. ‘Baig, we—Sharma and I—have told you everything about ourselves, but you keep everything to yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean! What do you want to know about me?’

  ‘Your sex life. It can’t have been limited to your Begum.’

  ‘So you can tell the world about it with the beat of a drum?’

  ‘No, no,’ assures Boota, ‘I won’t even tell Sharma. Khuda ki kasam.’

  ‘I will tell you, but if a word leaks out, I’ll have nothing more to do with you. What do you want to know?’

  ‘The most memorable sex encounter you have had in your life.’

  Baig looks around to make sure no one is close by. ‘It was many years ago; Begum Sakina had gone to her parents as she was expecting a child. I was anxious to get some distraction. I had heard of a courtesan who called herself Noor Mahal. She had retired from her profession but had found very beautiful girls from royal families, who had fallen on hard times. She had trained them to dance and sing at her set-up in Chawri Bazaar, behind the Jama Masjid. I decided to go there. I told my chauffeur to drop me in the open square behind the Royal Mosque and wait for me. I walked to the kotha and went up the stairs. I was welcomed by the Madame. She recognized me as a fellow Muslim. When I mentioned my name, she guessed who I was and was gushing in her welcome. “We are honoured, our kismet has woken up,” and that sort of thing. There were three men before me—all rich. The mujra was on. We exchanged salaams and I sat down on the carpet and reclined on bolsters. The Madame asked me if I would like a whisky, and whether I had any farmaish—request—for a song. I replied, “Let them sing what they like best.”

  ‘It was after I had had a few pegs of whisky that I had a good look at the dancing girls. All of them were good looking but one stood out. She was tall as a cypress, slender, with almond-shaped eyes, full-bosomed, with a slim waist and beautifully rounded buttocks. Her black hair fell to her waist. I swear she looked like a houri come down from Paradise. I could not keep my eyes off her. She noticed the adoration in my eyes and gave me a winsome smile. I sat through two mujra performances, threw hundred-rupee notes at the girls and the sarangi and tabla players. I’d had three whiskies when the Madame came and whispered in my ear: “Nawab Sahib, would you like any of the girls for a more intimate relationship?”

  ‘I whispered back, “The tall one, if she is willing.”

  ‘She took me by the hand and led me to a room at the back. It had large mirrors, a double bed and vases full of roses. A minute later the girl came in and bowed an aadaab to me. The Madame introduced her as Mastaani. I am sure that was not her real name but a professio
nal pseudonym. The Madame left us and shut the door behind us. Mastaani put up the latch and took off the bells from her ankles. She spoke to me, “Nawab Sahib, how did your benign eyes fall on this humble maidservant?”

  ‘“Mashallah—Allah be praised. He has bestowed you with such beauty. I could not take my eyes off you. How did you land in a place like this? You should be living in a palace.”

  ‘She slapped her forehead with her palm and replied, “My fate. If Allah wills, I may find a rich husband and become a respected Begum.”

  ‘She blushed a deep red. She took off her shirt, threw it on the carpet and covered her eyes with both hands. “That is not enough,” I said, pulling her closer to me. With a quick movement I pulled the cord of her salwar. It fell around her feet. She had shaved off her pubic hair—I find pubic hair very off-putting—she was like a white marble statue without a blemish on her body.

  ‘I laid her beside me on the bed. Then I began to kiss her from her eyes, cheeks, neck, bosom, belly, pubis, thighs, legs, down to her feet and back to her forehead. She stretched her hand and undid my trouser belt and felt my penis. “Lord, help me!” she exclaimed. “It’s huge—the biggest I have ever seen! It will rip me apart. Be gentle with me.”

  ‘I was flattered—all men are flattered when a woman praises the size of their tool. So I was very gentle when I put it in her. She gripped it firmly with her inner muscles and began to milk it as if it were a cow’s udder. I told her to stop because I did not want it to come to an end so quickly. I stayed in her till she had two orgasms and cried out in ecstasy. And a third one when I began to thrust in with great vigour and poured my seed into her. Bootaji, I have never enjoyed sex as I did that evening.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Boota.

  ‘I gave her three thousand rupees. She protested that it was too much but accepted it.’

  ‘Did you go to her again?’ asked Boota.