THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Sharma gives some money to his servants so they can have fun. He eats a lot of sweets and gets gas in his stomach. Eating and gambling is compulsory on Diwali. Much like your Eid-ul-Fitr, except you don’t gamble or let off crackers!’ says Boota.

  ‘Bootaji, you are in a bad mood this evening. Cheer up. Diwali mubarak,’ says Baig.

  11

  THE GURU’S NOVEMBER

  Fifteen days after Diwali, which lights up a moonless night, comes the most important day in the Sikh calendar—the birth anniversary of the founder Guru Nanak (1469–1539), on the night of the full moon. By then it has become distinctly cooler and people start wearing shawls or sweaters, days become shorter as evening shadows begin to lengthen soon after 5 p.m. There are not many flowering trees to be seen besides chorisias and cassias; and in the gardens of the rich, chrysanthemums of different colours.

  Let us return to the Guru. Begum Baig has instructed her husband to be sure to give mubarakbaad to Boota on his Guru’s birth anniversary. So, no sooner than he meets Boota, he says, ‘Guruji ka janamdin mubarak ho.’

  Sharma butts in, ‘Baig Sahib, the proper way is to say it in Punjabi: “Gurpurb dee lakh lakh vadhaaee hovey,” which means hundred thousand, hundred thousand congratulations on the Guru’s birthday.’

  Baig repeats the words as best he can.

  ‘Thanks,’ replies Boota, ‘but I don’t even go to a gurdwara.’

  ‘He is a cunning Sardar,’ says Sharma. ‘He writes about Sikhs and their religion and receives honours from them and at the same time pretends to be an agnostic and rationalist. He wins both ways.’

  Before it becomes a slanging match, Baig intervenes. ‘I confess my ignorance. I know very little about Sikhism besides Sikhs being monotheist, against idol worship. Like Muslims, they are ahil-e-kitaab—people of the Book—and they don’t believe in caste. They are known to be a warrior race.’

  Sharma is in an aggressive mood. ‘Let me put the record straight. Everything in Sikhism is taken from Hinduism. Its theology is based on the Upanishads but written in Punjabi. Yes, Sikhs are monotheists; so are many Hindus. Sikhs are against idol worship, but they treat their holy book like an idol. They drape it in expensive silks, wake it up in the morning—prakash—and put it to sleep in the evening—santokh. On special days they take it out in huge processions as Hindus take out their gods and goddesses. As for being a casteless community, the less said the better. All Indian communities have their own caste systems, be they Hindus, Muslims, Christians or Sikhs. It is fashionable to put the blame on Hindu Brahmins. Sikhs have three castes—Jats who are in the majority; non-Jats comprising Khatris and Vaishyas; and the outcaste Mazhabis. They don’t intermarry. Not one of the Sikhs’ ten Gurus married outside the Khatri caste. Mazhabis continue to be treated as untouchables—in many villages they have separate gurdwaras, so their claim of being casteless is a lot of bakwaas or bullshit as Boota would put it.’

  ‘But Mazhabis have access to all gurdwaras and join other castes in eating in guru ka langar,’ protests Boota. ‘It is not as bad as in the case of Hindus who neither want to let them in many of their temples nor share the same food.’

  ‘Agreed,’ concedes Sharma. ‘It is the difference between nineteen and twenty—unnis–bees ka farak. And as to being a warrior race which they boast about so much, so are the Rajputs, Marathas, Gorkhas—all Hindus. Muslims have Pathans. This warrior business is not something to boast about—it has no substance.’

  Baig tries to diffuse the situation. ‘Sharmaji, you want me to take back the lakh-lakh congratulations from Boota Singh?’

  ‘Sounds like that, doesn’t it?’ says Boota. ‘You utter a sentence of criticism against Hinduism and they are up in arms. For them Hinduism is always in danger of being polluted.’

  Sharma launches into a sermon. ‘Hinduism is the only religion in the world which is not based on the teachings of a prophet but on eternal truths spelt out in the Vedas, the Upanishads and the Gita. Religions born out of Hinduism, like Jainism, Buddhism and Sikhism, were all prophet based and emphasized some aspect or other of the mother religion. But Sikhs hate to admit that the teachings in their sacred scripture, the Adi Granth, are entirely based on Hinduism. Even its names for God are Hindu, like Hari, Ram, Govind, Vitthal and a dozen others, with only one name of its own coinage—Wahguru, which was coined by their bards.’

  Before Boota can get a word in, Sharma continues his sermon, this time directing his words to Baig. ‘All Western religions are prophet based—Zoroastrianism on Zarathustra, Judaism on the Old Testament prophets, Christianity on Jesus Christ, Islam on Prophet Mohammad and the Koran revealed to him by Allah’s messenger. Most of its practices are borrowed from Judaism. To pray, Jews turn to Jerusalem and go on pilgrimage there. Muslims turn to Makka and Madina and go there on Haj or Umra. The names of all their prayers are borrowed from the Jews. Jews bleed the animals and birds they eat and call it kosher. Muslims do the same and call it halal. Jews consider pigs unclean and do not eat pork or bacon. Muslims also consider the pig unclean and believe its meat is haram—forbidden. Jews circumcise male children; so do Muslims and call it sunnat—tradition.’

  Baig and Boota listen to Sharma’s sermon to the end. Baig is evidently upset but tries not to show it. ‘Panditji, if I may be permitted to ask you two questions. I would like to know, if Hinduism is the first and the greatest of all religions, why do more people subscribe to Christianity or Islam? And secondly, why is Islam today actually said to be the fastest growing religion?’

  Before Sharma can reply, Boota butts in: ‘And allow me to add one more question to Baig’s. If all you say is true, why are Hindus more ridden with superstition than any other people? Why is the Ganga holy? Like other rivers it is made of melted snow and rain. Why is a dip in its dirty waters regarded as holy, to cleanse the body and the soul? Its waters, which get dirtier and dirtier as it flows along, soil the body. And as for the soul, no one knows about it …’

  Sharma does not deign to respond. He feels he has made his point, and that as his friends ponder over what he has said, they will concede he is right. He decides to return home early to celebrate his victory over Boota with an extra drink.

  Boota feels a bit frustrated having Sharma score over him. There is still light; November sunshine can be luminous. A clear blue sky lights up with a silvery hue as the sun goes down. Boota decides to take a round of Sikandar Lodhi’s tomb before returning home. He bids Baig ‘Khuda Hafiz’ and slowly walks down the slope to the moat bridge and up towards the western wall of Sikandar Lodhi’s tomb. There used to be holes in the wall where spotted owlets could be seen taking in the sun with their eyes shut. If anyone stopped to look at them, they sensed it and opened their eyes, then bobbed their heads up and down before withdrawing into their holes. The wall had come down and was rebuilt without holes. This evening, a couple of owlets are sitting on the parapet, and Boota stops to gaze at them. They make their usual menacing gestures before flying off to the rear side of the tomb. Boota recalls Sudraka’s lines:

  Slowly the darkness drains away the sunlight.

  Drawn homewards to their nests, the crows fall silent.

  And now the owl sits on the hollow tree,

  Bolder, neck sunk inside his body,

  And stares; swivels his head; and stares.

  He goes round the tomb walls. On the northern side are a few saptaparni (seven-leafed) trees. He can’t see any flowers but catches their cinnamon-scented fragrance as he goes past, walking towards his car. He resolves to settle scores with Sharma as soon as he can.

  Baig is left alone. His servant puts a shawl round his shoulders and reminds him, ‘Sahib, your friends have left; we should get back. It is getting chilly.’

  Baig gets up reluctantly and is pushed in his wheelchair to his car. His Begum greets him with a broad smile. ‘You are early this evening. Didn’t your friends turn up?’

  ‘They did. And for once Sharma got the better of Boota Singh.’

  �
�About what?’

  ‘Well, I congratulated Boota for Guru Nanak’s birth anniversary. Before Boota could say anything, Sharma delivered a lecture on how everything in Sikhism was borrowed from Hinduism and they are as caste-ridden as other communities. And that sort of thing.’

  ‘There is some truth in what Sharma says. All of us have caste differences of our own. There was our holy Prophet Hazrat Mohammad—peace be upon Him—who told us we were all equals and chose a Habshi, a Negro, Hazrat Bilal, to be our first muezzin. And look at us now. Allama Iqbal wrote about Sultan Mahmud and his slave Ayyaz standing shoulder to shoulder when offering namaaz in the mosque. But no sooner were they finished than Mahmud became the Sultan and Ayyaz his slave. We are told that Islam means peace and acceptance of God’s will. And look at Muslims now. Every day you hear of bombs blowing up mosques in Pakistan, Mussalmans killing Mussalmans in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan. What’s left of true Islam, you tell me?’

  ‘Achha, achha, Begum, I have heard you repeat this again and again. Don’t ruin the taste of my whisky.’

  ‘Also forbidden by the Koran. You are a naklee Mussalman.’

  ‘Ameen. So be it.’

  Two days later Gandhi’s name again becomes the topic of debate at the Sunset Club. And for a totally different but valid reason. Madhu Koda, chief minister of Jharkhand, is charged with corruption on a massive scale. He comes from a poor family of small farmers. Within a month of taking up office, he becomes a multi-billionaire by mortgaging the assets of the state he rules. His predecessor and successor, Shibu Soren, had also been charged with moneymaking and murder.

  ‘That’s what remains of Gandhi,’ says Sharma. ‘Men like Soren and Koda pay homage to Gandhi twice a year and spend the other 363 days stealing public money.’

  ‘How can you blame Gandhi for the rampant corruption in our society?’ asks Boota.

  ‘I am not blaming him,’ replies Sharma. ‘All I am saying is that he has become irrelevant.’

  ‘I can tell you that no one who makes money by illicit means can be at peace with himself,’ says Baig. ‘Haram ka paisa hazam nahin hota—you cannot digest money earned by cheating others.’

  ‘Baig, that is a myth,’ says Boota. ‘Khoob hazam hota hai—it is most digestible. If you have lots of money, no matter where it comes from, you can enjoy the best of food, live in comfort, enjoy holidays in the hills during summer and get the best of doctors and medicines when you fall ill. And if, unfortunately, you are caught taking a bribe, you can get away by giving bigger bribes. You might have noticed that the corrupt do not die young. They manage to cross eighty.’

  ‘Like the three of us,’ adds Sharma with a broad smile, ‘that is, assuming that none of us is corrupt!’

  Begum Baig has more to say about corruption after she hears what her husband and his friends had to say on the subject. ‘You say that nothing disturbs the sleep of the corrupt, but you don’t say why they snore peacefully through the night. I’ll tell you why. Because they have no zameer—conscience. Only those who have a conscience feel guilty when they have done something wrong.’

  ‘True,’ adds Baig. ‘I suppose it is the same with pickpockets, thieves, robbers and murderers. They have no sense of shame. So they never suffer from pangs of guilt.’

  ‘Allah be thanked, no one in our family has wrongfully deprived another of his property,’ says Begum Sahiba. ‘That is why Allah has been good to us.’

  ‘That is the reason why I approve of Gandhi’s teachings,’ says Baig. ‘Don’t hurt anyone and you will be rewarded. I know I am not a good Mussalman but I have never done anyone any harm. I only want to enjoy life as long as I can, a bit like Emperor Babur, who said, “Enjoy life to the full because you have only one life to live: Babur ba aish kosh, kay zindagi do baara n’est.”’

  Autumn rapidly gives way to winter. On the 11th there is a drizzle which brings the temperature down by a few degrees. A week later chilly winds blow across the city. People wear woollen caps, mufflers, sweaters during the day. After sunset they wrap themselves in quilts. The well-to-do have log fires, watch TV. There is a Doordarshan programme on happenings in Pakistan—bombs exploding in Peshawar, Kohat, Rawalpindi and Lahore. And they thank their lucky stars they are living in India.

  12

  DECEMBER OF THE

  BLUE MOON

  So we come to the last month of the year 2009. Most mornings begin with mist, fog or smog. The temperature begins to drop rapidly as snow falls on the Himalayas, barely a hundred miles away as the crow flies. The only flowers in bloom are chrysanthemums, marigolds and roses. It is a good month for the young who can enjoy the bracing cold breeze because their blood is warm. It is a sad month for the old because their blood is cold; they catch colds, get sore throats and respiratory problems, cough with phlegm. Many get pneumonia and pass away. More old people die in December and January than in other months of the year.

  On the 1st of December, Baig is the last to arrive in Lodhi Gardens, and he is in a bad temper. ‘It took me an hour to get here,’ he says. ‘Traffic was held up by the police because Sonia Gandhi and the prime minister had to go to the Electric Crematorium. Some big shot must have died this morning. My Begum told me nothing about it.’

  ‘It was S.K. Singh, governor of Rajasthan,’ Boota tells him. ‘Good, honest and able fellow, and not too old. But that is no excuse to block all traffic. Anyway, did you read about the four generals being named for making illicit money on the sale of public land? They draw high salaries, live in rent-free bungalows, eat free in the Officers’ Mess, enjoy free medical treatment and medicines and draw handsome pensions. That is not enough for some buggers so they make money on the side. And when caught, bring disgrace to the armed forces.’

  ‘My Begum did not tell me about them either,’ says Baig.

  In the middle of the month Boota Singh goes down with yet another cold. It is the sixth time in the year. He has done nothing wrong to bring it on. On the contrary, he has been regularly chewing Haliborange tablets, sipping Limsip, gargling with Listerine. Every time it reoccurs, it is worse than the last. It must be in his genes; he thinks he is meant to die of pneumonia.

  For three days and nights his nose is blocked; every time he coughs, he brings up phlegm. And he coughs incessantly. Sharma hears about it from Boota’s servant and advises him to tell his master to consult his doctor: ‘Us gadhey ko kaho daktar bulaye.’

  Baig hears about it from Sharma and says: ‘He is always going down with colds; doesn’t look after himself.’

  The afternoons on the Boorha Binch become shorter and more formal; both Baig and Sharma return to their homes well before sunset.

  Begum Baig is surprised at her husband’s returning early from Lodhi Gardens. Baig explains: ‘It is not much fun when Boota is not there. Sharma has little to say unless he is provoked.’

  ‘Bechaara—poor fellow,’ says Begum. ‘I will send him some yakhni.’

  After six days, there is a drizzle. The temperature drops by a couple of degrees. Boota fears his cold and cough will get worse. Exactly the opposite happens: his nose clears, he stops coughing. He is eager to exchange views with his friends.

  The drizzle does not last long. The sky is a clear blue. The sun lightens up the world. Boota reads the report of the Liberhan Commission on the destruction of the Babri Masjid, seventeen years after the event and at a cost of over seven crore rupees. That should be enough for a lively debate.

  Boota turns up at the Sunset Club looking very cheerful. Sharma is also in high spirits and says: ‘O buddhey, what happens to you every fourth day?’

  ‘Bhai, this time I really thought my end had come; I told my servant if anything happens to me, divide my stock of liquor equally—send half to Sharma, half to Baig.’ He quotes an Urdu couplet:

  No one knows when his death is due.

  He hoards for a hundred years,

  Of his tomorrow he has no clue.

  ‘Wah, wah! exclaims Baig. ‘So you still have enough to last you a cen
tury.’

  They have a good laugh. Baig brings up the Liberhan findings. Sharma remarks: ‘Whenever our government is in trouble, it appoints a commission. Commissions take their own sweet time. Good salaries, free house, free travel, etc., etc., for the members. By the time they hand over their reports, people have forgotten what it was all about. Remember the commissions to find out whether or not Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose had really been killed in an air crash or was still alive? And the half a dozen commissions on the anti-Sikh riots of 1984? There must be dozens of others gathering dust in the archives.’

  ‘Surely this one is a more scandalous waste of money than any commission before it,’ says Boota. ‘We saw the whole drama enacted on TV: BJP netas sitting on the dais watching the tamasha. Shiv Sena goondas mounting the dome of the mosque with axes, spades, etc., and knocking it down. It must have been known to that Kalyan Singh, chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, and that spineless prime minister, Narasimha Rao. We saw Uma Bharati hug Murli Manohar Joshi when the task was done. No one tried to stop the shameless bastards from knocking down a place of worship. Advani, who started the whole mischief, became the most powerful minister in the BJP government. He now calls it the saddest day of his life. He has never apologized for doing what he did. A senior IPS officer, Anju Gupta, who was assistant superintendent of police, Ayodhya, during the demolition period, and was assigned as Advani’s personal security officer, has deposed before the special CBI court, saying the speech made by Advani at Ayodhya shortly before the Babri Masjid was demolished was inflammatory. He repeated many times that the Ram Temple would be constructed at the very site where the mosque stood.’

  Boota continues, ‘As for that mukhota—double-faced—Vajpayee, you never know what goes on in his mind. For him, heads I win, tails you lose.’

  Sharma protests mildly, ‘I agree breaking the mosque was shameful. But so is breaking of temples. Muslim invaders destroyed hundreds of Hindu temples—the most important being Somnath, which Advani chose to be the starting point of his Rath Yatra. Memories of destroyed temples still rankle in the minds of millions of people. It is human nature.’