THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘I went three or four evenings. She said she had fallen in love with me and wanted me to marry her and keep her as one of my maidservants. That made me cool off her. The last time I went to her she told me she was pregnant by me. A prostitute who sleeps with a dozen men every week cannot impute paternity to any one of them. I never went back to her. That was the end of my affair with Mastaani. It keeps coming back to me and I always wanted to tell somebody about it. So I told you, Boota Singh. Now you honour your word and never spill it out to another soul. Or I will murder you.’

  ‘Never,’ said Boota.

  The sun had almost set, the park was almost empty. They bade farewell to each other.

  Baig, who is normally cool about events in the country, is very worked up on the evening of the 19th of March. He is the first to take his seat on the Boorha Binch and is impatiently tapping his shoes with his walking stick, waiting for his friends to arrive. As soon as the other two join him and have greeted each other, Baig opens up: ‘Hope you have read about the speech made by Maneka Gandhi’s launda Varun in his election campaign in Pilibhit? My Begum read it out to me. He said Muslims have frightful names like Fazlullah and other Ullahs and he will chop off our hands. That includes me because I am Barkatullah Baig.’

  ‘Ghalib was also an Ullah—Asadullah Khan Ghalib,’ adds Boota. ‘And so is that fat woman from Bombay who claims to be a niece of Maulana Azad and was caught peddling a false photograph of herself with her uncle. She was a member of the Congress Party and now the BJP. She is Heptullah. You know how she explained her conversion? She said, “In everyone’s life there comes a turn—morh aata hai,” so she took a U-turn. From being a devotee of Mahatma Gandhi and worshipper of Indira Gandhi, when she discovered she had nothing more to gain from them, she turned to Veer Savarkar and L.K. Advani. No one trusts her.’

  ‘I am sure Varun did not mean it that way,’ says Sharma gently. ‘His mother says the speech recorded was doctored.’

  ‘What else would any mother say when her child makes an ass of himself?’ asks Boota.

  Baig is not appeased. ‘It is shameful—sharamnaak. He says he does not want Muslims to vote for him. I am sure his party leaders would like to have Muslim votes. And yet none of them have condemned him. You will see, BJP will not get a single Muslim vote in the next general elections.’

  Sharma again strikes a discordant note. ‘It has a few Muslims holding important positions. One is the party secretary, another an elected MP and the fat lady you referred to is now an important leader of the BJP!’

  ‘Turncoats are a dime a dozen,’ says Boota. ‘I can make a guess: if the Muslims lay their hands on Varun, they will not chop off his arms, but something more vital.’

  That creates some laughter. Baig senses Boota is on his side and Sharma as non-committal as he always is.

  On the 23rd of March the headline news in all papers is Ratan Tata’s announcement that his company is to market a new car named Nano which will cost a mere one lakh rupees. Naturally it is the topic of debate among the members of the Sunset Club. As usual, Boota begins on an aggressive note. ‘As it is, our roads are clogged with cars at all hours and now this Tata fellow is going to add to the chaos by introducing yet another brand. Every lalloo-panjoo—riff-raff—who rides a bicycle or a scooter will get a Nano and bring traffic to a standstill.’

  Sharma protests: ‘We should be proud of producing the cheapest car in the world—cheaper than anything China has produced. And you can take it from me that anything produced by a Parsi is top-class quality. It is the job of the municipalities and state governments to widen roads and build flyovers. Don’t you agree, Baig Sahib?’

  Baig laughs and replies, ‘I entirely agree with both of you. Five years ago it used to take me five to seven minutes to get from Nizamuddin to Lodhi Gardens. Now it takes me fifteen minutes to half an hour, because the short stretch of Mathura Road is always jammed with cars. However, I have put my name on the list of applicants for a Nano. My Begum wanted me to do so. My Mercedes cost me over fifty lakh rupees; my Maruti Swift over five lakh. By comparison the price of the Nano is nothing. And Boota Singhji, I am not a lalloo-panjoo. I am Nawab Barkatullah Baig Dehlavi.’

  ‘May your Nano prove a blessing—mubarak,’ sneers Boota. ‘Why not get ten, one for each servant? You can then call yourself Nawab Nano Wala of Nizamuddin?’

  ‘Inshallah, may your tongue be coated with honey,’ says Baig, ending the debate.

  On the morning of the 25th of March there is a mild drizzle. It washes away the dust and makes trees and lawns look cleaner and greener. It also brings down the temperature by a degree or two and raises hopes that spring has not succumbed to summer’s heat. Members of the Sunset Club are in high spirits when they meet in the evening. ‘What a blessing a few drops of rain can be,’ says Baig. ‘Yeh khushbahar mausam, I hope, will last a few more days.’

  ‘Seasons do not change to please humans,’ says Sharma. ‘They are ordained by the inscrutable laws of nature.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ cuts in Boota, ‘only Panditji knows; he has a hotline communication with nature.’

  Sharma lets the sarcasm pass. Baig changes the topic. ‘You recite a poem in praise of spring, Bootaji.’

  Boota rustles his memory. ‘There is Mir Taqi Mir’s spring song. You know he lived in Delhi while Abdali ransacked the city. Ghalib acknowledges him as the master of Urdu poetry.’

  ‘So let’s have it,’ requests Baig.

  Boota goes over the lines in his mind before he recites:

  If you like to visit a garden, go

  Now, for this is the month of Spring;

  The leaves are green and flowering trees

  Are in full bloom. The clouds hang low,

  And gentle rain is falling.

  The heart feels like a throbbing wound,

  The tears have turned to one red flood;

  This crimson-faced poppy of love

  Dries up life and drains all blood

  This is the time when fresh, green leaves

  Appear upon the trees;

  And branch and twig of plant and shrub

  Are bent with bloom and seed.

  With blaze of roses’ colour, Mir,

  The garden is on fire;

  The bulbul sounds a warning note:

  ‘Go past, O sir, beware.’

  ‘Wah, wah!’ Baig and Sharma applaud.

  4

  NOW THAT APRIL

  IS HERE

  Sharma is in his armchair in the sitting room, munching cornflakes mixed with warm milk and honey, a mug of tea sits on the side table. Dabboo Three sleeps near his feet, and the servants’ children watch TV before they leave for school; it is Wednesday. Sharma finishes his cornflakes-with-honey breakfast, takes out his dentures before he has tea. The dentures are put in a bowl of water in the bathroom. Sharma’s face minus his dentures looks somewhat squashed. He takes a sip of the tea. Dabboo Three turns his head enquiringly towards his master as if to indicate: ‘I hear footsteps outside our flat, let’s find out.’ He howls and barks. Pavan follows him and picks up a letter and hands it to his master. Sharma takes a look at the envelope; it has no stamp and has been delivered by hand. He examines the handwriting; he is not familiar with it. The way he is addressed pleases him: To, The Hon’ble Shri Preetam Sharma, Scholar Emeritus of Wisdom, New Delhi.

  He tears open the envelope; it has no letterhead giving name, address or telephone number of the writer. Nor a date. The handwriting is bold and calligraphic. It reads:

  Dear Beloved Professor Sahib, you don’t know me but I know you very well. I am a college teacher, fifty years old. I have attended all your lectures wherever they were delivered. I cherish every word you said but did not have the courage to speak to you. All I want from you is permission to sit at your feet, press your legs and be close to you. I am not asking for too much, am I? If you are willing to accept me, please put a single rose in a vase by the window which can be seen from the outside and I will know the an
swer is yes. Then I will come over and disclose my identity. Or I will not bother you and admire you from a distance. With love and adoration, your great admirer.

  Sharma is perplexed. He reads the letter a second, then a third time. He recalls some of the lectures he had delivered. There were two or three women who were always present. He cannot recall what they looked like. It could be one of them. Or was it a hoax? He is pleasantly puzzled.

  On his way back after lunch at the India International Centre, Sharma stops at the florist shop in Khan Market. ‘Give me a rose, the best you have,’ he says.

  ‘Just one, sahib? No one buys a single flower. Take at least four or six to put in your vase. They’ll look nice and you can enjoy their scent.’

  ‘Today I’ll take only one,’ replies Sharma. ‘How much?’

  ‘Five rupees,’ replies the florist as he hands him a dark purple rose with a long stem. Then he turns to his boy assistants and mutters, ‘Kameena—miser. Only one flower.’

  Sharma is back home. Before he retires for his siesta, he asks Pavan to put the rose in a tumbler of water—he has no narrow vase for a single flower—and place it by the window. During his afternoon siesta he dreams about the possible outcome.

  One evening while doing a round of Lodhi Gardens, Boota noticed a few flame of the forest trees in bloom near Muhammad Shah Sayyid’s tomb. And three corals in flower behind Sheesh Gumbad. Both have a very short span of blossoming—hardly a week or ten days. So Boota decides to take a drive along the Ridge where they grow in profusion.

  Having had his morning mug of tea, he drives to the Ridge. At that early hour there is very little traffic—some morning walkers, doodhwalas with cans of buffalo milk dangling from the bars of their cycles, and paperwalas distributing daily newspapers in different localities. The Ridge is deserted but on either side he can see flames and corals in flower. He can now tell his friends and impress them about being a nature lover. On his way back he goes past the roundabout on Sansad Marg facing Parliament, to see if the jacarandas are in flower. There is a cluster of them on the roundabout, which turn lavender blue when they are in full bloom. No flowers yet. Since there is hardly any traffic on the usually busy Sansad Marg, he drives to Connaught Circus which has a lot of gulmohars in its Central Park. Shops are closed. Only some morning walkers. He drives back to his home, pleased with having done his duty by nature. As he opens the door, he sees a letter lying on the floor. He examines the handwriting. He cannot recognize it. The honorific is designed to flatter him: ‘The Right Hon’ble & Most Respected Sardar Boota Singh Ji, World Famous Writer, New Delhi.’

  It brings a smile to his lips. He wishes it was true. He settles down in his armchair. Bahadur brings his tray with a glass of warm milk, carton of Isabgol and a bowl of sugar. He mixes his dosage of bowel-cleaner and tears open the envelope. It reads: ‘Most respected Sardar Sahib, you don’t know me. I am a humble teacher in a girls’ college. But I have read every word you write in your weekly column. I preserve them as a sacred treasure. You write so beautifully, your ideas are so fresh and thought-provoking. You should have been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.’

  Boota is flattered. He agrees with everything the lady teacher has written but he has not even been shortlisted for the Booker or the Pulitzer, nor even the Gnanpith or Sahitya Akademi awards.

  He continues to read: ‘It is my life’s ambition to be close to you and be your chelee. I ask for nothing more. If you are willing to consider me as a pupil, just put a single rose flower in a vase and put it alongside your window so that it can be seen from the outside. If it is there I will knock at your door. If not, I will pray to God to grant you a long life to enlighten the human race.’

  The letter is unsigned.

  Boota muses over it for a long time. Was somebody pulling his leg? How did he or she read his mind? Whatever it was, there was no harm in giving it a try.

  After his breakfast Boota walks over to the florist in Khan Market and asks for a single rose. ‘What’s happened to rose-lovers today?’ wonders the florist. ‘Nobody buys one flower—take at least six, it is boni—my first sale of the day.’ Boota agrees to buy six and pays thirty rupees for them. Back home he puts five in one vase on the dining table and places the remaining one in another vase by the window.

  There is no response the next day. The following day both Boota and Sharma find a note slipped under their front door. It has only one word inscribed on it in bold letters: ‘Chootia’.

  It then occurs to Boota that the day he got the first letter was Wednesday, the 1st of April—All Fools Day.

  In the evening Sharma and Boota arrive at the Boorha Binch before Baig. Boota asks Sharma if he had received a love letter on the 1st of April. ‘Yes,’ replies Sharma. ‘I took no notice of it. Very childish to play such pranks on old people. What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replies Boota. ‘I saw through the game.’

  Baig joins them. They tell him about the mysterious letters they received and the footnote that followed. Baig guffaws with laughter and says, ‘It was one of the viceroys of India, I think it was Lord Curzon, who said there are three kinds of fools: ordinary fools, damn fools and bloody fools. You can choose which category you belong to. Since you made fools of yourselves only one day of the year you are damn or bloody fools. Don’t mind my saying so!’

  Boota looks forward to evenings at home when his son is on his annual visit to Delhi, ostensibly ‘to look after my old man while my sister is away’. But he hardly has time to talk to his old man. He spends his afternoons playing golf, and evenings catching up with his pals. He is rarely back before 2 a.m., and gets up around 10 a.m. Once in a while he joins his father at lunch, when they exchange a few words. And once in a while Boota realizes his son is back earlier than usual, as in his half-sleep he can hear voices coming from the TV set.

  It was one of those rare evenings: his son was at home, sipping a mixture of lime juice and vodka from his large tankard. Some kind of cricket match was on TV and he was glued to it. Boota poured out a large single malt for himself in his crystal cut-glass tumbler, added soda and three cubes of ice and relaxed in his armchair. He could see the cricket in which he had no interest, and because of his growing deafness was not disturbed by the commentary. He sipped his Scotch, munched some wasabi peas and caviar on biscuits. He felt elevated and a little drowsy.

  Exactly at 8 p.m. he signalled to Bahadur, ‘Khana.’ His son said to Bahadur, ‘For me, later.’ So Boota ate his solitary meal of prawns cooked in mustard in Bengali style, followed by a slice of chocolate cake. As usual, after the meal he asked himself, ‘Did I eat too much?’ And answered, ‘I should not have taken all those canapés and cake.’ He begins to nod with sleepiness. With great effort he gets up from his chair and without bidding his son goodnight makes his way to the bathroom, gargles and goes to his bedroom. He swallows ten pills, puts eye drops in his eyes, takes some chooran and reads a few couplets of Ghalib; he has read them a hundred times before. Then he switches off the bedside light. He is not sure whether he is in a stupor or really asleep. But he is transported to the land of dreams.

  It is a rude awakening. He has fallen off his bed and is lying on the hard, cold cement floor. He has bruised a side of his forehead, shoulder, elbow and one knee. He feels his limbs to check whether he has broken a bone. Bones, though they appear hard, become brittle with age and snap easily. With old people they can seldom be rejoined. And if it is the pelvic bone, they can be sure of spending the rest of their days in a wheelchair before coming to an agonizing end. Having made sure he has not broken a bone, he crawls along the floor past his bed to clutch something to help him get up on his feet. It’s no use. He can hear the TV and shouts for his son to come to his aid. His son can’t get him up and calls a security guard to help him. The two haul him up. He thanks them and says, ‘I am okay. I’ll get back to bed. What time is it now?’

  His son looks at his watch and replies: ‘12.30 a.m. Shall I send for the doctor?’
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br />   ‘No,’ replies Boota and repeats: ‘I am okay. I’ll go to bed.’ He tries but sleep eludes him. He gives up and in the bedroom relaxes in his armchair and shuts his eyes. He broods. It was a narrow escape. If he had broken a bone, or worse, fractured his skull, it would have been the end. Does the mind perish with the body? If not, where does it go? Nowhere. He recalls faces of friends, mainly women he was close to. As their faces flash in his mind’s screen, he asks, ‘Honey, where are you? Celia, where are you? Elinor, where are you?’ And so on. They give him winsome smiles but no one answers his question. Even they do not know where they are. No one has ever known what happens to a person when he dies. All this talk of rebirth, Day of Judgement, heaven or hell, are mere figments of man’s imagination. Myths never die; they are passed on by one generation to the next. Myths are eternal. Having talked to himself for an hour or two, sleep overtakes him and he dozes off in his armchair. He is woken up by Bahadur bringing his morning mug of tea around 5 a.m.

  At 7 a.m., Dr Malhotra, who has a clinic across the road in Khan Market, arrives to examine him. He has been summoned by his son who did not consult his father before doing so. Doctor Sahib opens his bag, takes out his stethoscope, his BP measuring machine, and gadgets to take a blood sample. Boota protests, ‘Doctor Sahib, I only fell off my bed. I don’t need all these tests.’ Dr Malhotra ignores his remark and proceeds to check his chest and back, makes him take long breaths as he moves his stethoscope to different points of his chest and back. Then he takes his BP and pronounces, ‘130 by 80. Okay.’ He pricks his forefinger and takes blood and pronounces, ‘250. A bit on the higher side. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replies Boota. ‘I fell off my bed at midnight.’

  ‘I see,’ replies the doctor and makes him wave his arms and legs before pronouncing, ‘No bones broken.’

  He has a look at Boota’s bed and pronounces the prescription to Boota’s son. ‘Put the bed next to the bookshelves so that there is no space to fall in. And two chairs on the other side so that he cannot fall on that side either.’ He puts his gadgets back in his bag and tells his son: ‘Rs 1,500. My fee for outside calls is Rs 1,500.’