THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  Baig has no problems enjoying the produce of his orchard. Nor does anyone else in his household. So every afternoon buckets full of mangoes cooled in water are brought into the large reception room and everyone takes his fill. No plates, knives or spoons, mangoes are best eaten with one’s hands—tear the skin off by biting into it, take the rest in your fingers and savour the sweet, succulent flesh, then suck the large seed, the guthlee, to the bone. A large empty basket is beside them. They toss mango skins and guthlees in it. The last act of the mango feast is the washing of hands and rinsing of mouth.

  The mango is a messy fruit to eat. That is one reason citizens of the Indian subcontinent are about the only people who relish it and call it the king of fruits.

  The month drags on and on with the scorching sun and unbearable heat. Our three characters spend their days in air-cooled rooms and only venture out to Lodhi Gardens late in the evenings for some fresh, warm air and chitchat. On the 30th of June there is a welcome shower in the morning and the dry hot air turns into humid hot air. Boota and Baig arrive at the same time. After waiting for Sharma and wondering ‘What happened to Panditji?’, they relax. He is censorious and they don’t come out with stories of the exploits of their younger days before him. When they feel Sharma is not likely to come Baig asks Boota, ‘Tell me of the most unusual encounter you had with a woman, chondee-chondee—dripping with sex.’

  Boota has often thought about it and still cannot believe it really happened. He recounts: ‘I haven’t told you that at one time, besides working for newspapers, I occasionally conducted parties of foreign tourists to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Since I had written a booklet on the historical monuments of Agra and could speak English, the Government of India’s tourist department occasionally asked me to conduct VIPs to Agra. It paid well—a thousand rupees and all hotel expenses. That was a lot of money in those days. This must have been many years ago, when I was still in my forties. General Eisenhower, the president of the United States, came on an official visit to India. There was a large party of journalists with him. Our tourism minister offered them a free visit to the Taj and asked me to escort them. A plane was chartered to fly them there and back. I did my best to tell them about Agra, Shahjahan and the Taj Mahal but the buggers were not in the least interested. When we got to the Taj all they could say was, “Jeez! That’s something! How much did it cost?” I tried to convert rupees into dollars. They were not impressed. “How long did it take the king, the guy who built it?” I was disgusted. And we flew back to Delhi in the afternoon in time for a press conference on Indo-American relations.’

  ‘Nothing chondee-chondee about that,’ says Baig. ‘You didn’t make up to a woman journalist?’

  ‘Arrey bhai, wait, I am coming to the sequel. The next afternoon I went to the tourism office to collect my fees. There was an Indian woman there; fiftyish, plump, wearing thick glasses. She spoke English like a memsahib. I noticed she had a steel bangle on her right wrist, and a small kirpan dangling by the side. I presumed she was a Sikh living in England. As I collected my fees, she asked me, “Are you a tourist guide?” I replied, “Yes madam, when I have free time I show foreign visitors round Agra.”

  ‘“What do you charge?” she asked me.

  ‘“Rs 1,000 and all hotel expenses.”

  ‘“Are you free tomorrow to show me the Taj?”

  ‘I paused—she was not appetizing and I did not like her bossiness. For some reason I said, “We will have to stay overnight in Agra. There is a lot more to see in the city.”

  ‘“That’s all right with me. We can stay the night but all I want is to see the Taj. I am not interested in other monuments. You want to be paid in advance?” she asked.

  ‘“No madam. After the visit will be okay.”

  ‘“I am staying at the Ashoka Hotel. Please get there by 8 a.m. I have hired an AC taxi for the duration of the visit. I’d like to leave early as I don’t like fast driving and I can see the countryside. Is that all right?”

  ‘“Yes madam,” I replied.

  ‘Baig, I really wanted to call off the deal but that snobbish Sikhni intrigued me. So next morning I dutifully reported at the Ashoka on the dot of 8 a.m. She was waiting on the steps of the main entrance, with a Mercedes-Benz taxi and liveried chauffeur. I greeted her with “Sat Sri Akal” to convey to her that I knew she was Sikh like me. She simply nodded her head. I took the front seat beside the chauffeur while she occupied the rear seat. And we set off—out of Delhi, past Faridabad. When I turned back to tell her about the places we were driving through, she was reading from a pocket gutka—prayer book. Even when we came to Sikandra and I asked her if she would like to see Akbar’s tomb, she shook her head and replied, “No, I just want to see the Taj.”

  ‘So we got to Agra, and to a five-star hotel near the Taj. She booked two rooms next to each other. It was lunchtime. She ordered her meal to be served in her room, and ordered me, “3.30 for the Taj.”

  ‘The hotel people knew me and did not charge me for my food or drinks as I often brought foreign tourists to them. So I had my beer and lunch in the restaurant, rested for a while in my room and at exactly 3.30, I was waiting for her, chatting with the chauffeur. “Chalo,” she said, speaking Hindustani for the first time. I opened the rear door for her and took my seat next to the driver. A couple of minutes later we arrived at the Taj. In those days there were no entrance charges so we just went through the gate. She stopped to gaze at the snow-white marble mausoleum. “Beautiful!” she said. “Now I can tell everyone in England I’ve seen the Taj.”

  ‘We walked up to the main building. The steps were too high for her so she asked me to lend her a hand. I took her hand, warm and clammy, and helped her up the stairs. I took her inside and showed her the two tombs and around the building. “I am tired,” she said. “Anywhere we can sit down for a while?” I took her to the rear where there was a stone bench and you got a view of the Yamuna and the countryside across the river.

  ‘“You speak English very well,” she said. “Where did you pick it up?”

  ‘“In England,” I replied.

  ‘“What were you doing in England?” she asked.

  ‘“I was in college,” I replied.

  ‘I can’t tell you how suddenly the woman’s attitude changed. “I am sorry I did not realize this,” she said. “I thought you were just a government tourist guide. Why do you do this?”

  ‘“It’s fun once in a while. Get to meet interesting people. Lots of middle-aged women. Very friendly.”

  ‘“You have fun with them?”

  ‘“Some; they ask for it.”

  ‘“Do you charge them extra for it?”

  ‘“Madam, I am not a gigolo. But they leave me presents. Mainly ballpoint pens. I have quite a collection of Parkers, Mont Blancs and Cross pens.”

  ‘She seemed disgusted. But she had to take my hand again going down the steps. She also asked me to sit beside her on the rear seat. By the time we got back to the hotel, it was dark. She ordered dinner to be served in her room an hour later, after she had said her evening prayers. I went to the bar and ordered a large single malt and soda. Then a second one. Had a hefty meal—beef steak and French wine followed by a cognac. All on the house. I was quite tipsy by the time I went to the reception desk and asked for my room key. The fellow looked up at the board with room keys and said, “Sir, it seems the madam you are escorting has taken the keys of both rooms.”

  ‘To say the least I was foxed. Why on earth had she taken my key? Had I to go and beg her to get into my own bedroom? Anyhow, when I got to her room I found the door ajar. I pushed it open. She was lying in bed, with the table lamp on. Without her glasses, she looked less forbidding. She spread out her bare arms and said, “Come! Shut the door behind you.” I did as ordered and went to her bedside. “Lie with me for a while,” she ordered. Those days I could get an erection without bothering about what the woman looked like. I pulled down my trousers and lay beside her. She was stark naked. “Not even you
r kachha?” I asked. “No, not even my kachha or kirpan. Smear some cream on your thing, I am dry.” I smeared the cream lying beside her table lamp on my laura. I entered her. She intoned, “Wahguru,” and shut her eyes. You know, when you are not emotionally involved with a woman you can hold out much longer than with one you love. Longer if you are drunk.

  ‘So it seemed to go on for an eternity. After what seemed an hour, I felt her shudder beneath me, and scream, “Hai mar gayee! Wahguru! Wahguru!” I pumped my seed into her hairy cunt. She was flattened out and murmured, “That was nice, now you can go to sleep.”

  ‘My room key was on the table by the bedside lamp. I put on my trousers and staggered to my room. I was too tired to wash and change into my night pajamas. No sooner had I put my head on the pillow, I was lost to the world. Baig, you will find it hard to believe, I did not even know her full name—just Miss Singh. Neither did she bother to ask me my name. I was just Mr Singh, the tourist guide.

  ‘The next morning we drove back to Delhi. Though we sat next to each other on the rear seat, she was busy reading her gutka. She dropped me at Connaught Place and said, “It was nice knowing you.” She gave me a sealed envelope bearing the name of the Agra hotel and said, “Your fee, and thanks again.” She got back to her hotel and took the night flight back to London. It was only back in my flat that I tore open the envelope. It had two thousand rupees—one thousand for my fee as a guide, and one thousand for my services. I never heard from her again—I have no idea whether she is alive or dead.’

  ‘So she did treat you like a gigolo,’ remarks Baig.

  ‘Not a bad profession,’ replies Boota, ‘provided the gigolo can choose his woman, and not the other way round!’

  It is the end of June and so far it has rained only three days in the month. ‘What has happened to the kambakht monsoon?’ asks Baig.

  ‘Vagaries of nature,’ replies Pandit Sharma gravely. ‘Some years it rains too much and we have floods and villages are washed away. Some years there is very little rain and we have drought. But people don’t die of hunger in India these days. We have canals and tube wells to irrigate our fields. We have huge reserves of wheat and rice which are put in the market or given away at throw-away prices.’

  Baig is not convinced. ‘Take it from me, if it does not rain soon there will be kahat—famine. My Begum says so. She is stocking up grain and rice and pickles against the eventuality.’

  They fall silent for some time.

  A flock of black and white birds flies overhead and perches on the top of trees, calling to each other. ‘You know these birds?’ asks Boota. ‘They come all the way from Africa, taking advantage of monsoon winds, and usually arrive at our western shores by early June. It is known as the monsoon bird; it is the megha papeeha, harbinger of the monsoon. So don’t lose hope.’

  7

  CRY OF THE PEACOCK

  In July, monsoon clouds cover Delhi’s skies. Stormy moisture-laden winds shake trees and send their branches swirling like dancing dervishes. There is lightning, thunder and rain. People run out into the streets to get drenched and dance in the rain. In parks and gardens, peacocks fan out their tails, their wings palpitate with lust, they strut around their chosen peahens, raise their heads to the sky and scream paon, paon.

  July 2009 begins with grey clouds spread over the city. People look up longingly and pray for rain. Not a drop falls. However, all the three members of the Sunset Club decide not to take any chances against a heavy downpour and give their evening tryst in Lodhi Gardens a miss.

  On the 2nd of July, the Delhi High Court pronounces a verdict that hereafter sodomy by mutual consent will no longer be a punishable crime. It is nothing new for the Western world where even gay marriages have been legalized, but it remains unacceptable in the Orient, particularly in Islamic countries. It is also not acceptable to most religious-minded people, be they Hindu, Muslim, Christian or Sikh; nor even to the common man in the street, though he himself may have indulged in laundebaazi—making love to boys. Any adult who has access to women and yet continues to engage in sex with his own gender is known as gandoo—bugger.

  On the 3rd of July, the Delhi High Court judgment makes headline news in all the national dailies, and is the top item on all TV channels. They carry interviews with celebrities, soliciting their opinions. It is the topic of debate at the Sunset Club meeting that evening.

  ‘What do you make of the high court judgment permitting homosexuality?’ asks Baig, as the three are seated.

  ‘I think it is a mistake, a big mistake,’ says Sharma. ‘It is against the order of nature, all religions forbid it as sinful. We simply follow the West, so as to be counted amongst advanced nations. No doubt Boota will disagree with me.’

  ‘I do,’ says Boota. ‘Homosexuality is not against the order of nature, as you say. Making it into a crime by man-made laws is against the law of nature. When sexual urges manifest themselves they find whatever outlet they can. All of us go through a phase of homosexuality. Most get over it when they get access to women. However, a minority remain homosexual and call themselves Gay. If you look carefully, it exists among animals as well. I have noticed it among young dogs and monkeys. Sharmaji, your Dabboos must have tried to hump your legs. Am I wrong?’

  Baig ponders over the matter and says, ‘I agree with Boota that all of us pass through a phase of homosexuality. Maybe that is the order of nature. But why then do all religions condemn it? Remember, the Bible has the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Koran also condemns it. I don’t know about what Hinduism or Sikhism have to say on the subject. Sharmaji, you must know.’

  Before Sharma can respond, Boota says, ‘The answer is simple. At the time these religions were founded, all countries were sparsely populated, and people were exhorted to multiply. Now many countries, especially ours, are grossly overpopulated; we can’t afford to multiply any more. Legalizing homosexuality will make a marginal difference.’

  ‘By this logic, the state should also provide brothels in all mohallas. Men can have all the sex they want and satisfy their lust without adding to the population,’ says Baig.

  ‘I am for legalizing prostitution,’ says Boota. ‘All brothels should have condom-vending machines, provide weekly medical check-ups for prostitutes and a reasonable pension for them from fifty onwards. No pimps, no fleecing by the police.’ He has a look of triumph on his face. ‘Baig, what do you have to say?’

  ‘I am confused,’ admits Baig. ‘In my boyhood I fooled around with boys, later some whores as well. But now I am a happily married man and think both buggery and whoring are bad. So I keep my mouth shut.’

  It is getting late. Their servants come and plead with them to get home. ‘Sahib, bahut machhar hai—mosquitoes are biting us.’ It is true, the servants are not as well clad as their masters. They all get up. Sharma is worried about what he will tell his sister when she asks what they talked about. He will not be able to tell her what Boota said. It is the same with Baig. He cannot repeat Boota’s opinions favouring buggery and prostitution. His Begum would explode and ask, ‘Have you nothing better to talk about than dirty things?’ Both Baig and Sharma have to make up something to keep the women calm. Only Boota is pleased with himself. He must polish up his ideas and put them across in his columns. He loves to provoke his readers and make them react by writing letters to editors—double publicity.

  We are ten days into July and there is no sign of the monsoon. Perhaps it will arrive on the first of Sawan which falls on the 16th. We believe the Vikrami calendar to be closer to the seasons than the Roman. Sawan arrives but lets us down. However, five days later there is a shower. Our hopes revive. Girls make swings under trees, sing songs about meetings of lovers. Boys fly kites from rooftops.

  Indian poets have written more on the season of rains than on any other topic. Here are a couple of examples. Amaru (ninth century AD) writes of the prelude:

  The summer sun, who robbed the pleasant nights,

  And plundered all the water of
the rivers,

  And burned the earth, and scorched the forest-trees

  Is now in hiding; and the black clouds,

  Spread thick across the sky to track him down,

  Hunt for the criminal with lightning flashes.

  Yogeshvara (first century AD) has this beautiful description of peacocks dancing:

  With tail-fans spread, and undulating wings

  With whose vibrating pulse the air now sings,

  Their voices lifted and their beaks stretched wide,

  Treading the rhythmic dance from side to side,

  Eyeing the rain cloud’s dark, majestic hue,

  Richer in colour than their own throats’ blue

  With necks upraised, to which their tails advance,

  Now in the rains the screaming peacocks dance.

  On the last day of the month, Sharma fails to turn up. Baig asks Boota, ‘What happened to Panditji? I hope he is well.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with him,’ Boota replies. ‘He rang me up this morning. He likes to go to shraadhs, havans and condolence meetings. He does not tell me about them lest I think he is superstitious. I suppose he has gone to attend some such function.’

  Sharma’s absence gives Boota the opportunity to know more about Baig’s past. ‘Baig, you made me tell you about the most bizarre sexual encounters I had and I told you all I remembered in great detail. Now it is your turn to tell me of another one of yours—the most bizarre one. It is only fair.’