THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  Sharma can’t help having a dig at Baig. ‘Baig, all this business of stuffing yourself before dawn, doing nothing all day and once again stuffing yourself after sunset, is not the way to fast. It is bad for your health. We Hindus have a more sensible way of fasting: we omit the kinds of food which are your daily diet and drink as much water as we can—it flushes the system. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘You may be right. That’s why I take Ramadan as I take other months of the year,’ replies Baig.

  Boota sounds a triumphant note. ‘Both Hindus and Muslims are on the wrong track. We Sikhs don’t believe in fasting, only feasting.’

  They laugh. Sharma resumes: ‘And this business of Iftaar parties. Most Hindu and Sikh politicians throw Iftaar parties, invite a few Muslim celebrities to join them. Also journalists, so they can get political mileage out of the exercise. Thoroughly dishonest, don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree,’ says Baig. ‘I am often invited. I never go.’

  Unseasonal rains take their toll of life. On the second day of the month, a helicopter carrying the chief minister of Andhra Pradesh crashes into a dense jungle, killing all its occupants. Boota reads about the incident on the front pages of all the national dailies he gets. Though well informed, he is unaware that the late chief minister and his family were Christians. Sharma reads about it in the India International Centre library and asks his friends, ‘Did you know Reddy was Christian?’ Baig’s Begum reads out the news to her husband and comments: ‘Once upon a time the state was the kingdom of the Nizams of Hyderabad. It had Muslim rulers and aristocracy—Jangs, Jahs, Dowlahs. They all spoke Urdu. Then Hindus took it over and made it Telugu-speaking Andhra. Then came the turn of Isaees to rule. Janoo, did you know the chief minister was a Christian?’

  ‘Was he?’ asks Baig. ‘There could not be many Christians in the state. How the world changes!’

  ‘Not much. Reddy’s son has announced his succession to the throne and a majority of members of the Assembly have promised support. They are sure Sonia Gandhi, who is the real ruler of the country, being Christian, will undoubtedly back him. That is the way of the world,’ says the Begum.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  The weather continues to be a spoilsport. If it does not rain, it threatens to rain. On the 10th, 11th and 12th it rains intermittently all day and night. It is only on the 15th that the sun comes out and soaks up the moisture on the ground and in the air. By then, Andhra Pradesh is old news. Sonia Gandhi put her foot down on the upstart son of the late chief minister and his opportunist supporters and ordered the Hindu Rosaiah to be acting chief minister. The big news was the death two days earlier of Norman Borlaug, winner of the Nobel Prize and father of the Green Revolution. He was ninety-five.

  Baig’s Begum did not tell her husband about it as the name meant nothing to her. For Sharma and Boota it provides another opportunity to show off what they know about the Green Revolution.

  ‘Long time no see,’ says Boota when the three meet after a couple of weeks.

  ‘What kind of English is this?’ asks Sharma.

  ‘The latest, spoken by the young generation of today. Keep up with the times. Anyhow, you must have read of the death of Norman Borlaug?’

  ‘One of the greatest of men who trod on the face of the earth,’ says Sharma in a pontifical tone. ‘By his name I thought he was some kind of Scandinavian. He turns out to be American.’

  Baig feels left out of the dialogue and protests. ‘Bhai, please tell me who this Borlaug Sahib was? My Begum told me nothing about him.’

  ‘One of the greatest men who trod the face of the earth,’ repeats Sharma, pointing his finger to the sky.

  Boota enlightens Baig. ‘Mian Sahib, if there was no Borlaug most of us would have starved to death. You ask me why and I will tell you—we had run out of wheat stocks. Both we and Pakistan were living on American charity. Then Borlaug, having experimented with a new variety of short wheat in Mexico, which was rust-resistant, arrived in India in 1963 with samples of his new crop. He trained our fellows in the Ludhiana Agricultural University and advised them to get out of their laboratories, go to the farms and teach farmers how to grow the Mexican wheat. He did the same in Pakistan. In ten years both countries were able to become self-sufficient in food because he also evolved new varieties of rice and maize. That is what we call the Green Revolution. It was a miracle. He was a miracle man, the Vishnu avatar of our times.’

  ‘May his soul rest in peace,’ says Baig. ‘I will tell my Begum about him. But if we go on breeding recklessly, as we are, we will again be going round from door to door with our begging bowls.’

  By the last week of September the monsoon disappears but there is a nip in the air morning and evening. It presages the onset of autumn and cooler days to come. Kalidas, who was a keener observer of nature than other ancient poets, described the onset of autumn lyrically:

  The autumn comes, a maiden fair

  In slenderness and grace,

  With nodding rice-stems in her hair,

  And lilies in her face

  In flowers of grasses she is clad

  And as she moves along,

  Birds greet her with their cooing glad

  Like bracelets’ tinkling song.

  Kalidas also wrote about the post-monsoon period as the beginning of the season of fulfilment:

  Over the rice-fields, laden plants

  Are shivering to the breeze;

  While in his brisk caresses dance

  The blossom-burdened trees;

  He ruffles every lily-pond

  Where blossoms kiss and part,

  And stirs with lover’s fancies fond

  The young man’s eager heart.

  A significant step against encroachments made by different religious communities on public land was taken when this practice was roundly criticized by the Supreme Court. Like many of its other pronouncements, it was another pious platitude, of which no one was going to take any notice. Hindus and Sikhs would continue to take out huge processions through bazaars and force shops to close down. Muslims would continue to block roads to offer namaaz on their auspicious days. Peepal tree boles would continue to be smeared with red and shrines go up round them. Mountain tops would continue to have temples built on them, myths spread about their origin, and about miracles that happened there, and can happen again so that priests and preachers of religion can fill their bellies and feel good.

  The members of the Sunset Club have different views on the subject: ‘Do what you like but with moderation,’ says Baig.

  ‘Why should it become such an important issue that the Supreme Court has to pronounce on it? It is for the administration to decide limits of encroachment,’ says Boota. ‘I would put a blanket ban on misuse of public places for religious purposes, but people have great respect for bogus religiosity.’

  10

  GANDHI’S OCTOBER

  The two nicest months to be in Delhi are February and October. In February the winter chill loosens its grip, the sky is a clear blue, it is cool and soothing. And signs of spring are in the air. It is the other way round in October. The summer’s heat and the dampness caused by monsoon rains evaporate. The skies are a cloudless blue, the sun no longer scorches and pleasant autumn breezes blow. Consequently, there are more people to be seen in Lodhi Gardens during these two months than at other times of the year.

  If you happen to be in the garden during these months, sitting on the Boorha Binch, fix your gaze skywards. You may see a bewitching spectacle connected with the change of seasons. In February you will see a wavering V-shaped flight of geese, or maybe ducks, calling each other, flying from east to west, from India towards the Himalayas, to their summer abodes in Central Asia. In October you will see the same band of wavering V-shaped flights of geese or ducks calling to each other, flying from west to east, from Central Asia to the wetlands, rivers and lakes of India. You may even spot a lone cuckoo calling kooh-ku, kooh-ku, as it flies overhead, making its way to the hills for
the summer months, and in October flying back to spend its winter in the plains of India.

  While the weather in Delhi during these two months is predictable, it is not so in other parts of the country. October 2009 begins with heavy rains and rivers in spate in Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka. Even in Delhi there was a mild drizzle on the 6th and the sky was clouded the next day which was Karva Chauth, the day when Hindu and Sikh women observe a day’s fast for the health and longevity of their husbands. It meant nothing to members of the Sunset Club: Sharma is a bachelor, Boota a widower and Baig a Muslim.

  The 2nd of October, being Gandhi’s birthday, is a gazetted holiday. Political leaders once again make their way to the Gandhi Samadhi at Rajghat, to be photographed strewing flowers on the slab of black marble marking the site of his cremation. Most people listen to his favourite soul-stirring hymns: ‘Know him as the man of God who feels another’s pain,’ and ‘Ishwar and Allah are thy names, may the Almighty bless us all.’ Then they go to the gardens and parks for a day’s picnic. Lodhi Gardens is the most favoured spot for those who live near it.

  The Sunset Club meets as usual a couple of hours before the sun goes down. Baig opens the dialogue by remarking, ‘Lots of raunaq today.’

  Sharma explains, ‘It is Gandhi Jayanti. All offices and shops are closed in his memory. He was the greatest of the great who trod the face of the earth.’

  ‘You said the same words about Norman Borlaug,’ Boota points out.

  Sharma hates being snubbed, especially by Boota. He retorts, ‘Both great men in their own ways; one catered to the body, the other to the soul.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ says Boota scornfully.

  Baig intervenes to restore peace. ‘You will agree that he was the prophet of modern India. Not only did he get us independence from the British, he won respect for India all over the world. All through preaching love and renouncing hate.’

  ‘He was murdered by an Indian Brahmin, a jaat bhai of Sharmaji. He could not have killed Gandhi if he had not hated him,’ says Boota.

  As expected, Sharma is provoked to retaliate. ‘Why bring caste into a criminal act?’ he asks. ‘Many great people were murdered by mad men—Abraham Lincoln, Kennedy; and Indira Gandhi was killed by Boota’s jaat bhais, her own Sikh bodyguards.’

  To stop his friends wrangling with each other, Baig has to intervene again. ‘Forget those unimportant details. You will agree that Gandhi profoundly influenced the lives of all Indians. And to the world outside, India is known as the land of Gandhi. He should be our role model. We should try to follow his example, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘No one does,’ retorts Boota. ‘He was for prohibition and had it included in our Constitution. If he had had his way, none of us would be enjoying our evening drinks. Now there is no prohibition in India except in his home state, Gujarat. And Gujjoos have liquor flowing like the river Sabarmati. And more die from drinking spurious hooch there than anywhere else in India. For that matter, he was also a vegetarian and regarded killing animals for food a sin. Yet all three of us are meat eaters.’

  Sharma corrects him, ‘Actually, four things were not allowed in his ashram—no meat, no alcohol, no tobacco and no sex.’

  ‘Our friend Boota disagrees with everything we say,’ says Baig. ‘Is there anything else you find wrong about Gandhi?’

  ‘I do. His views on sex. Without as much as consulting his wife, he took a vow of celibacy. Then he fought a lifelong battle to control his libido. He had women to massage him. He had young girls sleep stark naked on the floor on either side of him, gave enemas to them, bathed naked with them, just to make sure he did not get dirty thoughts and erections. Then he had wet dreams and told everyone about them. All three of us have had sex in our younger days. No regrets. If we could, we would have it today, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ replies Sharma. ‘I am content to attain brahmacharya.’

  ‘But I am sure you have sex on your mind. Don’t deny it,’ says Boota.

  ‘Arrey bhai, sex is on everyone’s mind,’ adds Baig. ‘Some more, some less, but it is there.’

  ‘I have a theory about it,’ says Boota. ‘If you would like to hear about it, I will be happy to spell it out for you. But you may not approve of the vocabulary I have to use.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ says Sharma. ‘Nothing you say shocks us any more.’

  Boota spells out his theory. ‘It is like this. Sex is the most potent force in our lives and governs most of our actions. In the case of males, it is centred on the appendage in his middle. It goes through four stages of development, all beginning with the letter L. First it is a lullee, the size of one’s little finger. A male child is hardly aware of it besides it being the conduit of his pee-pee, soo-soo. Only his ayah or maidservants, if any, play with it when bathing him. By the age of five it becomes a lull and begins to get erections. Boys of that age try to find other boys or girls to stick it into their bottoms. Nothing comes out of it. The third stage is reached around twelve or thirteen when it becomes a lulla or laura or lund. Curly hair begins to sprout round its base and the urge to stick it in a male’s bottom or a female’s middle becomes irrepressible—it may be a friend, boy-servant, maidservant, cousin or aunt. If none is available, he takes matters in hand and masturbates and wastes his seed in the air. Then he gets himself a wife and goes into her as often as he can till she becomes pregnant. Then he looks out for other women available to him, and so it goes on into the seventies and early eighties. The fourth and last stage it becomes a limpoo. Then it rarely gets a full erection—only a halfhearted raising of its head—and is waxen-soft. All sex which found expression through it moves to his head. But it never leaves the male till the last day of his life. Does this make sense to you?’

  ‘You should write a thesis on the subject,’ says Sharma. ‘Perhaps some university may confer a Doctorate of Lullology on you.’

  ‘Boota Singhji, I am on your side. I agree with your analysis of male behaviour. But how will I be able to tell my Begum about it? She always asks me what we talked about.’

  ‘Tell her we discussed the Gandhian legacy,’ suggests Sharma.

  Boota changes his tune and says, ‘I’ll tell you why I respect Gandhi despite all his eccentricities. He never told a lie. He was a living example of Nanak’s exhortation:

  Truth above all

  Above truth

  Truthful conduct

  ‘He translated this into a practical code of living. So he forged his powerful weapons, satyagraha and ahimsa, to fight the strong. And he won his battle without firing a shot.’

  Even Sharma is impressed. ‘It is like the devil quoting the scriptures,’ he says. ‘Bhai Boota, this is the first time I have heard you talk sense.’

  Baig concedes, ‘Now I can give my Begum a learned discourse on why Gandhi was great. Thanks, Bootaji.’

  Boota acknowledges the compliments by salaaming both his friends in Muslim style.

  On that happy note they part for the day.

  However, the topic comes up again in the homes of Sharma and Baig.

  Sharma’s sister asks him what they talked about in the park. He tells her in one word: ‘Gandhi.’

  ‘Gandhi! How boring! What is there to say about Gandhi which has not been said a thousand times before? And all that remains of him are bhajans at his birth and death anniversaries.’

  ‘To the outside world India is known as the land of Gandhi,’ repeats Sharma.

  ‘Sheh!’ she scoffs. ‘In the land of Gandhi no one follows his teachings.’ She goes back to watch TV with the servants’ children.

  Baig’s Begum asks her husband the same question and gets the same one-word answer: ‘Gandhi.’

  ‘Nothing remains of Gandhi anywhere in the world, except his name,’ she says. ‘Look at all the violence in our own country. Marxists, Naxalites killing policemen in tribal areas. Hindus killing Muslims in his home state of Gujarat, now ruled over by that anti-Muslim chief minister, Narendra Modi. In Pakistan, bombs exp
loding in Peshawar, Kohat, Lahore; Sunnis killing Shias. In Afghanistan, Muslims killing each other by the dozen. And in Yemen, Iraq, Iran—everywhere. Gandhi has become a legend. Now all that Gandhi means is good intentions without the desire to practise them.’

  Baig interrupts her harangue: ‘Achha, achha, Begum. Now let me enjoy my whisky in peace.’

  ‘We Indians have a genius for making beautiful things as ugly as possible,’ Boota tells Baig on the evening of the 17th of October. Sharma is missing.

  ‘What is bothering you now?’ asks Baig.

  ‘Here we have Diwali, the most important and beautiful festival of India. And what have we done to it?’ asks Boota.

  ‘I had forgotten it is Diwali today. Sharmaji must be busy entertaining his relatives this evening,’ says Baig.

  ‘How can you forget it?’ asks Boota. ‘They start reminding you of its advent a week before by bursting crackers. I have to use earplugs to prevent explosions bursting my eardrums. Tonight it will sound like a full-scale war with cannons booming, bombs exploding till after midnight.’

  ‘Don’t you Sikhs also celebrate Diwali?’ asks Baig.

  ‘We celebrate every Hindu festival and with even more noise,’ replies Boota. ‘My daughter is married to a Hindu. She and her daughter light candles and oil lamps in their apartment and mine. I just step in to see the lights. I can tell which flat is Hindu or Sikh because they have rows of candles on their windows. Those that don’t have them are occupied by Muslims or Christians. Or there has been a death in the family. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘We don’t have many bombs exploding in our locality; all our neighbours are educated. They light candles only, let off sparklers. Even my Begum keeps a few diyas on the gates so that we don’t appear different,’ says Baig.