THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  Boota’s son pays him cash and sees him off to the door.

  ‘That was wholly unnecessary,’ growls Boota. ‘Any ass could have told you to put my bed against the wall on one side and chairs on the other to prevent my falling off. Waste of money.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ asserts his son. ‘One must not take chances of accidents at your age.’

  Friday, the 3rd of April is Ram Navami, the birth anniversary of Shri Ram. We know the day of his birth but not the year he was born. It is generally accepted that he was born in Ayodhya and was the son of King Dashratha and Queen Kaushalya. All Hindus look upon him as God incarnate and his wife Sita as the Mother Goddess, the paragon of chastity and fidelity. Ram’s younger brother, Lakshman is the prime example of a devoted younger sibling; and Hanuman the half-ape half-human is revered as a great warrior and caretaker of the divine family. To this day, people greet each other saying Shri Ramji ki jai, Jai Shri Ram or Ram-Ram. Anything left to fate is ‘Ram bharosey’, and when a dead person is taken for cremation, the leading group shouts Ram Naam Sat Hai—the name of Ram is the truth; others respond Sat Bolo Gat Hai—speak the truth and find salvation.

  Pandit Sharma and his sister are Ram Bhakts—worshippers of Shri Ram. The first thing Sharma’s sister does in the morning is to put a red tilak on her forehead. On Ram Navami, they go to the Birla Mandir to pray. On the way back Sunita buys burfi and laddoos to offer to people who call on them bringing different kinds of sweets. That day, Sharma has to deliver many lectures on Hinduism to gatherings of learned people. He tells them that Hinduism is the oldest religion in the world. He tells them Hinduism is the only religion in the world which was not founded by a prophet but evolved entirely in the quest for the Eternal Truth. He tells them that Sanskrit is the mother of all the languages of the world. He tells them Hinduism is the most tolerant religion in the world, because it believes in the principle of live and let live. And so on and so forth. His audiences are enthralled by his discourses. Many of them come and touch his feet when he finishes his lectures.

  Around Ram Navami, Sharma’s presence at the Sunset Club becomes somewhat erratic, and it’s only the other two members who find themselves on the Boorha Binch. Oddly enough, though they like and respect Sharma, they are more at ease when he is not there. Boota’s language becomes more bawdy and Baig begs him to recount some of his salacious adventures in foreign lands. Boota opens up and recounts them with great relish. It was on Baig’s farmaish that Boota came out with the story of his affair with an English lady professor in London.

  ‘I don’t remember who it was who took me to a party to celebrate the publication of a doctoral thesis on some aspect of sociology by a young lady lecturer. She had thrown an open-house party at which the invitees could bring their friends. There were nearly fifty men and women, mostly academics. They were served only red wine and cheese. I filled my wine glass and sat in a corner watching the scene. Our hostess, named Betty something, who was in her mid-twenties, looked more like a schoolboy than a grown-up woman. Her hair was cropped and barely covered her ears. She wore glasses. Her front teeth protruded out of her mouth. She appeared to be a chain smoker. She wore a brown sweater, covering her torso from neck to waist. She was very animated and had something to say to all her guests. She came and sat by me. “Who are you?” I told her who I was, what I was doing. She didn’t seem interested. She asked, “Do you do yoga?” I replied, “I find it very boring.” “You could not be more wrong,” she asserted. “It is the best form of exercise in the world. Half an hour of different asanas in the morning, half an hour in the evening, exercise both mind and body; you feel on top of the world. Give it a try and see the difference it makes. You don’t need to buy a book. I’ll give you a few lessons for free. You can buy me dinner.”

  ‘I gave her my card. She looked at it. “Good, I am not far away. The other end of King’s Road. Lots of good pubs and eateries on King’s Road. I don’t have a card. I’ll write my phone number on your card. I am usually back from college by five in the evening. Ring me up whenever you are free.”

  ‘I did not want to show my eagerness to accept her offer, so I did not ring her up for the next two days. But I thought about her all the time, and my desire to know her better became compulsive. I rang her up the third evening and invited her over to my basement flat. She accepted readily and said, “I’ll give you your first yoga lesson. You can give me dinner.” I hurried out of my flat and got a couple of bottles of vintage Bordeaux, tidied up my sitting room and waited for her.

  ‘As promised, she arrived punctually at 6.30 p.m. She was wearing a light grey blouse and long black skirt. She gave me a peck on my cheek and surveyed the room. “Not bad,” she said, “and you too live all by yourself.”

  ‘“Yep. I like living alone. Make my own toast and coffee in the morning. Open a tin of tomato soup for lunch. Gourmet dinner. And back home before 9.30 p.m. Now, can I serve you some good wine?”

  ‘“Not just now,” she replied, “first a few yoga lessons.”

  ‘“Okay! Go ahead.”

  ‘She sat down on the carpet and did padma asan with deep breathing. Then dhanur asan, arching her neck and looking at the roof. I noticed she had a small bosom, her nipples stuck out of her blouse. “Get it?” she asked.

  ‘“I can’t bend my knees for the lotus pose. And I don’t think it is of any consequence. I tried to stand on my head—our Prime Minister Nehru did that every day. I nearly broke my neck,” I replied.

  ‘“It is easy and very beneficial,” she said. “Let me show you.” She rested her head on her palms and slowly raised her legs skywards. Her skirt fell down on her face, baring her from waist to toe. She had a sanitary towel on under her panties. “My periods,” she explained from beneath the folds of her skirt. “Another couple of days. Bloody nuisance.”

  ‘She lowered her torso, took a few long breaths and said, “I am ready for the wine.” She took out a cigarette and said, “I may smoke another cigarette before we set out. Some people don’t smoke but drink like fish.” We sat and sipped our wine. I asked her where she was teaching. She asked me what I did for a living. An hour passed. The bottle of Bordeaux was finished.

  ‘“Where shall we go for dinner?” I asked.

  ‘“Round the corner. A good pub called The World’s End—bar on the ground floor, restaurant on the first floor.”

  ‘She took my arm as we walked to The World’s End. The bar was crowded. The barmen knew her and exchanged greetings with her. We went up the stairs to the restaurant and took a table by the window overlooking King’s Road. The waitress came with the menu. She also seemed to know Betty. “Madam, what would you like this evening?” Betty took a cursory look at the menu and replied, “I leave it to you, give us what you think is best. First, a bottle of Bordeaux.”

  ‘She lit a cigarette, blew smoke out of her nostrils and reclined in her chair. “I feel good,” she said. The waitress uncorked the bottle, poured a little in my glass for approval. I took a sip, rolled it round my mouth and said, “Excellent.” She filled our wine glasses and left the bottle on our table.

  ‘“I too feel good,” I said. “You are good company.”

  ‘“Thanks, we must see more of each other,” she said.

  ‘“You are the busy one; I’ll be available whenever it suits you.”

  ‘She got out her pocket diary and made sure she had my telephone number. “Okay, the ball is in my court,” she said.

  ‘The waitress brought our dinner. Steak, potatoes, garlic bread. “Bon appétit,” she said, and left. I was hungry and the wine had whipped up my appetite.’

  Baig interrupts, ‘You mean you ate cow’s meat? Isn’t it forbidden for Sikhs?’

  ‘It is,’ replies Boota. ‘I enjoy doing what is forbidden. I bet you have never tasted pork or ham or bacon. They can be very tasty. Try them if you have the guts to do so.’

  ‘Tauba, tauba!’ says Baig holding his ears. ‘They are haram to a Muslim. Anyhow, get on with your Betty.
Then what happened after the dinner?’

  ‘Nothing much, except that when we parted she kissed me on the lips and said in French, “A bientot”, which means see you soon. It’s odd, but I stayed at home waiting for her call. She did call three days later and asked me if I was free. “I’ll bring packed dinner—Mexican—so we don’t have to go out. You get some wine. Okay?” I said, “Okay.” I got two bottles of Italian wine—a Chianti and a Barolo. And waited for her.

  ‘She arrived at 6.30 p.m., carrying a large carton of food and a rucksack on her back. I greeted her warmly with a prolonged kiss on her lips. She placed the things on the floor and told me to put the carton in the kitchen. “It will need heating up. Meanwhile yoga, and then we can have some wine.”

  ‘She went through the usual asanas, and once again her skirt fell down and covered her face. But this time she wore no underwear. From the tips of her toes down to her waist including her cunt and belly button, she was exposed to me. I got the message. She got back on her feet and sat next to me. Her hand rested on my middle. She felt my erection and said to me, “I see you liked what you saw.” And without further ado divested herself of all her clothes. We made love on my sofa. After we finished, she did not put on her clothes but sat stark naked, smoking and sipping wine. “You warm the dinner while I take a shower.” She went to the bathroom, leaving her clothes on the sofa. She took a shower and came back. She sat down on the sofa, lit another cigarette and sipped more wine.

  ‘Before we ate our dinner, we had a second round of lovemaking. This time I lasted much longer, and she shivered and moaned as she climaxed. We had the Mexican dinner she had brought. She stayed naked. We finished the second bottle of wine. We were both somewhat drunk and tired. She lay alongside me on the sofa for a long time till we were heavy with sleep. Without clearing the table I led her to my bedroom and, like her, divested myself of all my clothes. She slept naked in my arms. Early next morning we made love again and she had yet another orgasm. I gave her coffee and buttered toast for breakfast. She left for her college, promising to return in the evening.

  ‘It became a routine. I had a month left before I returned to India. All that month she stayed with me. We drank wine and made love every day. She liked to stay naked. She said clothes are for going out, at home one should stay naked. Her naked, boyish figure haunts me to this day.

  ‘Baig, imagine a stark naked girl around you all day, all night. And upside down twice a day. I tell you, Baig, neither long, curly jet-black hair, nor almond eyes or scarlet lips, not even the hairy cunt which is his main target, can excite a man’s lust as much as buttocks seen from the rear, beautifully rounded and dimpled.’ Boota cups the palms of his hand and outlines fulsome curves to demonstrate what he means. ‘They make an impotent man get an erection. And I was not impotent at that time. She drained every ounce of semen I had in my body.’

  ‘Did you keep in touch with her?’ asks Baig.

  ‘For some time. Then she got married to some professor and had a couple of children. Then the marriage broke up. I heard from a mutual friend that she gave up teaching and writing books, to become a full-time yoga teacher. I heard she came to India once to do an advanced course in yoga at some ashram in Poona. She did not bother to get in touch with me. That was the end of the Betty story.’

  ‘Good story,’ says Baig. ‘I must tell Sakina Begum when the servants are not around. She will love it.’

  ‘She must have a very low opinion of me,’ says Boota.

  ‘Not at all,’ replies Baig, ‘she calls you Rangeela Sardar—colourful Sikh.’

  In the Orient, footwear is regarded as a symbol of contempt; it is the lowest thing a person wears and is often subjected to dust and dirt. One is expected to take off one’s footwear before entering a place of worship, and in the Indian subcontinent people leave their shoes and sandals outside the doorstep when they call on friends or relatives. So it is logical that when men fall out, they instantly take off their footwear to belabour their adversary; it is known as jootey ki pitaaee (shoe beating). It is the ultimate form of insult. If the adversary is not within one’s reach or is well guarded, one can achieve the same result by hurling one’s shoe from a distance. This is what an Iraqi journalist did to President Bush while he was addressing a press conference in Baghdad. He wanted to register his protest against Americans invading Iraq on the pretext that it was manufacturing weapons of mass destruction. The American government later admitted that it found no evidence of Iraq being engaged in such nefarious activity.

  Hurling shoes to register a protest is expensive. The hurler throws one of his pair of shoes. It is immediately confiscated to become an exhibit at the hurler’s trial for assault and battery. He has to buy another pair and keep the lone one as a memento of what he did.

  A similar incident took place in Delhi on the 7th of April 2009. At a press conference being addressed by Home Minister P. Chidambaram, a long-bearded young Sikh journalist named Jarnail Singh, working as a reporter for the Hindi newspaper Dainik Jagran, hurled one of his shoes at the minister. The fellow was no marksman—he missed his target. He was promptly arrested and fired from his job—as he well deserved. The minister generously forgave him, saying he shared the hurt of the shoe-thrower’s community. Jarnail Singh immediately became a hero of the Sikhs. And what is more, though he missed hitting the minister, he hit the bull’s eye of the real target he had in mind. He became the chief topic of conversation in the capital and the country. And needless to say, a topic hotly debated by members of the Sunset Club.

  April in Delhi is a neither-here-nor-there month. You are not sure if winter and spring are over and summer is there. One day it can be as chilly as in December; the next day it may be like a day in June. Also, one day you may get rain and even a hailstorm, the following week hot desert winds and a dust storm. The weather not only plays games with humans but also with nature. Semuls shed their pods, which burst and cover the ground with blobs of cotton. The palas has its short run of glory and returns to its drab cloak of leaves. Corals follow suit. But jacarandas are out in full bloom, and by the month’s end roadsides and roundabouts are ablaze with fiery orange and yellow gulmohars and krishna siris.

  The unpredictability of April is beautifully captured by the Sanskrit writer Bhasa in his Avimaraka, Love’s Enchanted World:

  How enchanting is the great variety of this world!

  Gone is the heat of the day as earth dresses for night;

  The evening breeze of this strange world gently the body touches

  Slowly she removes the sun from her forehead,

  Quietly puts around her neck a garland of stars

  Scatters the brave throughout the sleeping city

  And joins together the bodies of young lovers.

  Baig was looking forward to bringing up the story of the shoe-thrower with his friends. He sensed it would rouse the hackles of both Sharma and Boota as the matter involved conflict between Hindus and Sikhs. And he being Muslim could be a neutral listener. And so it turned out to be.

  ‘Brothers, tell me what provoked the young Sardar journalist to hurl his shoe at the home minister, who had nothing to do with the massacre of Sikhs which took place so many years ago?’

  Sharma responds with alacrity: ‘Sardars are known to be slow-witted, it takes a long time for them to react to any event. They are also known to be hot-headed: once they lose their cool, they go berserk and hit out at any thing or person within easy reach. I was not a bit surprised when I read about it. I said to myself, all said and done, he is a Sardar.’

  Boota feels he must put Sharma in his place. ‘Oh Panditji, did it not occur to you that the fellow missed hitting the home minister and yet hit the real target he had in mind? The Congress Party had put up two people who had taken part in the killings of Sikhs as its candidates for parliamentary elections. His act roused the conscience of the people. There were protest meetings all over the country, and the Congress Party has been forced to withdraw the names of both men. Does
that sound slow-witted and ill-timed to you?’

  There’s a lull in the angry exchange between Sharma and Boota, and they begin to cool off. Baig has not had his fill of fun, so he provokes Boota again: ‘Bootaji, how long will you harbour this gussa against Hindus? Why not forgive and forget?’

  ‘It will be as long as the criminals are not punished!’ replies Boota. ‘Do you know that of the thousands who went on the rampage against Sikhs, barely twenty have been convicted. We have every right to be angry at the miscarriage of justice. And Hindus go on telling the world that they are a peace-loving people. Give them a chance and see how peaceful they are! You are a Muslim, you should know. How many Muslims have they killed since we gained independence? Tell me.’

  ‘Many thousands,’ concedes Baig. ‘We have got used to being killed. A few thousands after they pulled down the Babri Masjid; another few thousands after a train compartment caught fire at Godhra railway station. As I said, we have got used to it.’

  Sharma feels the two are ganging up against him, so he takes them head-on: ‘Bootaji, please tell us how much did you protest when Bhindranwale said every Sikh should kill thirty-four Hindus and his goons went around dragging Hindus from buses and shooting them? Did one Sikh leader say a word against him? No, they were dead scared of him because he thought nothing of having his critics eliminated. And now he is dead, you worship him as a saint and a martyr.’ Then he turns to Baig. ‘You Muslims wanted Pakistan and got it. And yet more of you are living in India than in Pakistan. If we did what Pakistanis did to Hindus and Sikhs, you would all be driven out of this country. We form over eighty per cent of the population of this country and yet we have a Sikh prime minister, a Sikh head of the Planning Commission, Sikh and Muslim cabinet ministers, chief ministers of states, governors of provinces. And all we get in return is ingratitude. Is this fair, I ask you?’