THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  Baig ponders over the request. ‘It would be better if you did not ask me. I have done something which I am too ashamed to admit. If anyone got to know about it, my face would be blackened forever. I am sure if my Begum got to know she would never talk to me again, perhaps ask for talaq.’

  Boota’s curiosity increases. ‘It’s not about some murder you committed that I want to know—only about your sexual encounter. I promise to keep it to myself,’ he assures Baig.

  ‘You swear by God? Put your hand on your heart and say my tongue be clipped if I tell anyone about it.’

  Boota puts his right hand on his chest and says, ‘May my tongue be clipped if I reveal Baig Sahib’s secret to anyone.’

  Baig puts his head back and shuts his eyes. ‘Well, it is like this. My father has a cousin a few years younger than him. He owns hundreds of acres of land not far from Bareilly. He is married to my mother’s cousin who is a lot younger than him and my mother. They had no children and treated me as if I was their adopted son. His only interest in life was shikar. During the winter season he was out from the early hours of the morning, shooting duck in jheels. When the sun came up, he shot partridges, quails, doves and starlings. After the midday meal he went after deer. He returned home late in the evening, his jeep stacked with what he had shot. I used to spend my winter days with him and often accompanied him on shikars. I enjoyed myself in their home and thought of it as my own. Every night my aunt—mausi, as I called her—brought me a glass of milk laced with almonds and saffron. Delicious! What was more delicious is that before leaving she would kiss my forehead, and while doing so, her breasts would brush my nose. Some nights she kissed me twice or thrice and my nose felt the soft touch of her bosom. That gave me bad thoughts about her. I got erections. I did my best to put bad thoughts about her out of my mind. After all, she was my mausi and called me beta—son.

  ‘Fate conspired against me. On one of my visits, my uncle had left for shikar, for a distant jungle in the foothills. This time, he did not take me along. On the very first night, when my aunt brought me my glass of milk she bolted the door from inside. After kissing my forehead, she kissed me on the lips. I was wild with frenzy. I pulled her into my bed. I was barely fourteen and had never slept with a woman. She directed my member inside her. I went for her like a maniac and pumped gallons of my seed into her. She stayed on. A few minutes later I was at it again. I must have done it to her at least six times—each time longer than the last. We finished just before dawn. I got up at mid-morning, had a hot bath and some breakfast. Then I went to the garden to bask in the sun. She asked me if I had slept well. “Like a log,” I replied in English. “Take some more rest after lunch,” she advised. “You will need it.” I guessed what was on her mind. She spent the next two nights doing the same thing without giving a thought to what the consequences could be.

  ‘I stayed on in Bareilly a week after my uncle returned from shikar. He was very pleased with his success, having shot deer and wild boar and dozens of partridges. He talked about it all the time. I got back to Delhi and rejoined school. It must have been a couple of months later that my Bareilly uncle wrote to my father giving him the good news that after eight years of marriage his wife was expecting a child. My parents were very pleased at the news. There was a lot of property involved and it was good to have an heir to inherit it. Seven months later, my Bareilly mausi came to Delhi to stay with her parents for the delivery. It was a son. There was a lot of rejoicing in our extended family. Now Boota Singhji, if you repeat a word of my story to anyone, I swear by the name of Allah I will kill you.’

  ‘Baig Sahib, don’t worry. I will not break my word. But all said and done, lots of men begin their sex lives bedding their aunts, cousins or maidservants. Nothing unusual about it. But tell me, what do you call the haramzada, bastard—Chhota Bhai, little cousin, or Beta, son?’

  So July drew to a close with just a couple of short showers and people talked of severe drought and famine. To confirm their fears that worse was to follow, there was a solar eclipse on the 22nd of July. It was the longest in duration that many people had seen, and in some parts of the country, like a total blackout. In a country where ninety-nine per cent of the populace, including its lady president, most ministers of the government and chief ministers of states, believe in astrology, this was enough to cast gloom from the Himalayas down to Kanyakumari.

  Baig enjoys Sharma and Boota going for each other on issues on which they are at variance. He is sure the solar eclipse is going to be one of them as they get together on the 22nd evening. Baig casually brings it up and asks Sharmaji, ‘You must know a lot about astrology; you think a total solar eclipse forebodes evil?’

  Sharma pronounces, ‘Astronomy is a science first studied in ancient India. They knew all about the movement of the sun, moon, stars and about lunar and solar eclipses. Astrology as a science was developed by them later.’

  As expected, Boota blows his fuse. ‘Astronomy is a science but astrology is not a science. It is simple hocus-pocus. Only chootias believe in it. Unfortunately there is no shortage of chootias in our country. Most Hindus have horoscopes cast at birth; they call it janampatri. They preserve them and occasionally have them interpreted by pandits. All very vague generalities, many of them meaningless and wrong. Then we have a Bhrigu Samhita which is said to have everyone’s life recorded in it. And bhavishya vanis—future forecasts—periodically fabricated to suit one’s own purpose. And much else. Fortune tellers, palmists flourish in the country. Papers carry columns on what the stars foretell: Aries, Virgo, Leo, Scorpio, etc., etc. There is absolutely nothing to it. Baig Sahib, if I had my way I’d put all the astrologers, palmists, vaastu experts, tarot card readers and others behind bars.’

  ‘Calm down, Boota Singh,’ says Sharma. ‘And do not pronounce judgement on issues about which you know nothing. What do you know about astrology?’

  ‘Nothing, because there is nothing to know,’ retorts Boota. ‘But you are a sabjantawala. You recall the Ashta Graha in 1963 when eight planets were in conjunction? All the astrologers predicted the end of the world. Hundreds of crores went up in smoke as the superstitious organized havans and fed the fires with pure ghee. Trains went empty, planes flew empty, babus did not go to their offices. Life came to a standstill. What happened? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only, the rest of the world laughed at us. Sharmaji, tell me if what I am saying is wrong?’

  ‘I don’t remember the details,’ replies Sharma. ‘I certainly did not abstain from work. The attendance in offices was poor but some of us did our duty.’

  Boota resumes his diatribe. ‘What do you make of auspicious time and Rahu Kalam—inauspicious hours—when Saturn is up to some mischief? Chief ministers don’t come to office till Rahu Kalam is over. Jayalalitha, who is riddled with superstition, adds another “a” to her name to become Jayalalithaa. To what effect? And the writer Shobha Dé, now married a third time, preaches the virtues of monogamy and adds an “a” to her name to become Shobhaa. Baig, does any of this make sense to you?’

  Baig turns peacemaker. ‘Bhai Boota, all of us have a few superstitions. Don’t single out Hindus. I am sure you must be having your own. We Muslims don’t go in for horoscopes but we too have astrologers, najoomis. Some believe in them, others do not.’

  The debate on the occult remains inconclusive.

  8

  NOTHING TO

  CELEBRATE IN AUGUST

  August is one of the four months known as Chaturmasa, beginning with the full moon of July called Gurupurva, and ending with the full moon night following Diwali. During these three months Lord Vishnu, Preserver of Life, descends to the bottom of the ocean and goes into deep slumber. This period is called Pralaya—chaos. It is wise not to celebrate during this time. No Hindu marriage takes place during Chaturmasa.

  The rainy season is at its height in August. The skies are overcast and there is a shower or two every other day. At times it rains continuously for three or four days. This is when frogs, who
live in muddy ponds and stagnant pools in our parks, really find their voice. Of all animal and bird noises, that of frogs is the most difficult to reproduce in words. The Greek poet Aristophanes got close to it in his play The Frogs, where the noise is described as brek-ek-ek, koax, koax, brek-ek-ek koax! The simple Americanism—Newark! Newark!—could do for the song of the single croaking frog.

  August 2009 was different. In the first week there was not a drop of rain, and no chorus of croaking frogs. Clouds came and went, the air was damp, the atmosphere unwholesome. Mosquitoes, flies, cockroaches multiplied, to add to human misery. Delhi’s lifeline, the river Yamuna, usually bursts its banks in August and on days looks like a sea. It assumes its earlier incarnation of Triyama, sister of Yama, Lord of Death, and sweeps away villages along its banks, drowning humans and cattle. This year, its waters began to rise in the first week of August, flushing away the excreta and filth that Dilliwalas dump into it. If you don’t believe me, take a trip to Okhla where a barrage accumulates its water, to pour some into the Yamuna Canal which takes off from there. It used to be a favourite picnic spot. Now the fetid smell of human shit is all-pervasive.

  After a couple of showers, Delhi’s woes multiply. Ants and snakes are flushed out of their holes. Some people get bitten to death. Rats and mice invade homes as they have nowhere else to go. Incidence of malaria and dengue fever increases. The change of atmosphere also afflicts some people, among them Boota Singh. Every change of season brings on sneezing, sore throat, running nose, cough and phlegm. No matter that he takes pills of Vitamin C, doses of cough syrup and pastilles, his throat is choked. It takes a week or ten days to get rid of his ailments.

  During these days, he is unable to step out of his flat or even talk to anyone on the phone. The lump in his throat is the size of a golf ball and hurts whenever he opens his mouth. He croaks to his servant and sits in his chair, wrapped in misery. His doctor, who has a clinic in the neighbouring block, is informed that Boota is down with a bad cold and sore throat. Half an hour later, the doctor arrives, wearing a white mask to cover his nose and mouth. He takes Boota’s pulse, puts his stethoscope on his chest and back, takes his blood pressure, blood sample, and asks if his bowels have moved. Boota shakes his head.

  ‘Have you phlegm? What colour is it?’ he asks.

  ‘Pale.’

  The doctor takes out his pad and scribbles names of pills Boota has to take three times a day. That is routine: every visit entails an additional pill or two. Boota is tired of taking pills, two and a half first thing in the morning, eight with breakfast and nine before switching off for the night. Total nineteen, plus three to make it twenty-two and a half. The doctor assures him: ‘These pills are not medicines; they are meant to improve your health. At your age you must not take any risks. If your phlegm turns yellow, you must send for me at once. I don’t want you to get pneumonia. You may have to be hospitalized. Just take these pills three times a day, and by the grace of Wahguru you will be all right in a couple of days.’ He always invokes Wahguru’s help when prescribing pills.

  The very idea of being in hospital frightens Boota. He’d rather die than have to shit in a bedpan and have his bottom wiped by a nurse. The next time the doctor mentions hospital he’ll send his servant to get a capsule of cyanide from the chemist.

  For two evenings Boota is missing from the Sunset Club. Baig asks Sharma, ‘Panditji, what’s wrong with Boota Singh? It’s not much fun without him. You live near him. Why not find out?’

  ‘I rang his number this morning, but no one picked up the phone. I will drop in on him on my way home,’ replies Sharma.

  So he does. He goes through the servants’ entrance at the rear with Dabboo Three trailing behind him. He sees Boota slouched in his chair with a handkerchief pressed to his nose. A glass of rum mixed with hot water, lemon juice and honey is on the table beside him.

  ‘Oy buddhey, what’s the matter with you?’

  Boota shakes his head, points to his throat and croaks: ‘Throat, cold, cough.’

  ‘Send for the doctor,’ advises Sharma.

  ‘Have,’ replies Boota.

  ‘Baig was enquiring after you. I’ll tell him,’ says Sharma.

  Sharma beats a hasty retreat. Boota may be an old friend, but that’s no reason to expose himself to catching a cold.

  By the time he staggers to his bed, Boota is very drunk. He is not used to drinking rum. And three large helpings laced with honey are more than he can cope with. He recalls Ghalib’s lines on balghami mizaj:

  Drink as much as you can lay your hands on

  It is the best for anyone with phlegmatic disposition

  His nose is blocked, his mouth wide open, as he tries to recall the last time he had as vicious an attack of cold and cough as this one. It was more than forty years ago. He was staying in a small cottage an hour’s drive from Paris. He was desperately trying to write a novel. The widow who owned the cottage worked in his office in Paris and only came to the cottage on weekends, to see her ninety-year-old mother. She had taken on a young German as an au pair to feed her mother and empty her bedpan. She had a part-time gardener to mow the lawn and look after her apple and pear trees. The German girl had a room next to the old woman. Boota was on the ground floor and had the lady’s terrier bitch as a companion.

  He got on very well with the German girl, a few inches taller than him, golden blonde hair, blue eyes and a full bosom. After she had helped the old woman with her toilet, given her breakfast and put her back in bed, she would come and sit with him in the garden where he sat working on his novel with the terrier bitch sitting near his chair. She could speak English and French fluently. The gardener had a crush on her and began to resent her paying attention to the weird-looking Oriental with a beard on his chin and a turban on his head.

  Then Boota went down with a cold. That was a good excuse for the German girl to visit him in his bedroom to enquire about his health. On the third day, his running nose became a clogged nose. He coughed all day and night and spat out phlegm. On the fourth day, when the German girl came to see him, she kissed him on his lips. ‘You poor thing! I hope you feel a little better,’ she said.

  Boota warned her against catching his cold. ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘I never catch colds.’ Later, she brought their dinner to his room and they ate together. At night she came again to bid him: ‘Guten nacht—schlafen sie wohl!’

  Having bidden him a good night’s sleep, she lay beside him in his bed. They had sex. The next morning, Boota was rid of his cough and cold. The German girl was sneezing.

  The following evening Sharma tells Baig: ‘Boota is always catching colds. The fellow drinks too much—whisky, rum, vodka, gin, feni, anything. And suffers from chronic constipation. That’s asking for trouble, isn’t it?’

  Baig is more sympathetic. ‘Both constipation and cold are controllable. We have some good Yunani herbal medicines for them. I’ll send them to him through the servant.’

  Back home, Baig tells his Begum about Boota’s problem. ‘It’s not much fun without him. Sharma is too serious; Boota livens up things. I’ll send some Yunani medicine to him.’

  ‘I will have some yakhni soup and kwargandal halwa made. Both very good for cold and other problems,’ says Begum Baig.

  Next morning Baig’s servant delivers the medicines, the broth and the halwa at Boota’s flat and tells him what time he is to take them. Boota asks the servant to convey his thanks to his master and mistress.

  Boota adds Baig’s medicine, broth and halwa to his daily intake of food and liquor. On the sixth day the worst is over. He can breathe easily, clears his bowels twice a day and feels the whisky going down his entrails to his belly. And knows all is well with him. He is not sure who to thank: his doctor for giving him twenty-two and a half pills and Wahguru, or Baig and his wife. Maybe none of them. The cold has run its course and will no doubt return when the season changes.

  9

  SUMMER MERGES

  WITH AUTUMN

&
nbsp; The Sunset Club does not meet in the first days of September for the simple reason that the rains due in August decided to come a month later. There are intermittent showers for the first four days, and after a break of two days it thunders, but does not rain. A week later, there is a heavy downpour for two days, followed by a day of light drizzle. The daily schedule of the three friends has to change. Sharma spends longer hours at the India International Centre. His mornings are in the library, rummaging through the pages of newspapers and magazines. He has a coffee break, long chit-chats with friends till noon. He has a light south Indian meal and is back home for his siesta.

  Boota drives out to take a look at flowers, trees, birds and the Yamuna. The madhumalti creeper on his outer walls is in full bloom. Flowers have begun to appear on the chorisia tree on the lawn facing his flat. The lawn is either under water or dew-washed. He drives to Nigambodh Ghat cremation ground on the right bank of the Yamuna. Three pyres are lit under tin-roofed sheds, with relatives and friends clustered round. The Yamuna is in spate with the waters of melted snows and monsoon rains. Boota spends a good half-hour gazing at the turbulent waters before he returns home in time for a glass of beer and an egg sandwich.

  The change in schedule in Baig’s household is more radical. Ramadan, the month of fasting and feasting which began in August, continues for another three weeks in September. The Begum Sahiba and the servants are up well before dawn to prepare for the morning meal which has to be eaten before sunrise. Adults eat and drink nothing till sunset. Children are exempted from the ordeal. So is the Nawab Sahib. Others gorge themselves in the morning, to be able to fast all day. Baig gets up at his usual hour, has his tea and cigar, lunch and whisky and dinner. Year after year he repeats Ghalib’s words: When the poet was asked how many days did he not observe the fast, he replied, ‘Not one single day.’ It could mean he had fasted all the month or not fasted for a single day. He laughs when he repeats the joke. Everyone laughs as if they were hearing it for the first time.