THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Surely, there must be an end to this tit-for-tat behaviour,’ says Boota. ‘You break my temple, I break your mosque. We had hoped that with Independence we would put the past behind us. Don’t you agree, Baig?’

  Baig simply nods his head. He senses that Boota’s abusive language for the perpetrators of the foul deed is meant to convince Muslims that there are non-Muslims who share their hurt. He is eager to tell his Begum what Boota said. It will surely please her. But he is non-committal in his reply. ‘It is true we embarked on our journey into freedom with high hopes. They have been cruelly belied. So much communal hatred and violence I have not known ever before.’

  They sit in silence, pondering over the matter. The sun has gone and it has turned chilly. Baig’s servant comes up and pleads with him. ‘Sahib, it has become very cold now. Begum Sahiba must be getting worried.’

  All three get up reluctantly and bid each other goodbye, ‘Till tomorrow.’

  Begum Sahiba is indeed somewhat worried. ‘You are late. What kept you sitting out in the cold?

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he replies. ‘We had a very interesting discussion. But first let me have a sip of my whisky. I am chilled.’

  He relaxes in his chair by the fireside. The maidservants begin to press his legs. His manservant brings a bottle of Black Label, soda and ice. Baig pours himself a stiff one. Begum Sahiba puts her dupatta across her nose to express her disapproval, but for a change sits by him and repeats: ‘So, what were you talking about this evening?’

  ‘The report on the demolition of the Babri Masjid,’ replies Baig. And proceeds to tell her what Sharma and Boota had to say about it. She makes no comment on Sharma’s explanation. When Baig ends his narrative, she speaks up loudly: ‘Not even Allah will forgive these fellows for what they have done. All these goondas will rot in jehennum. You take it from me, anyone who damages a house of prayer deserves the most dire punishment.’

  For once even the servants, who have been listening intently, nod their heads. One says loudly, ‘Begum Sahiba is absolutely right. These fellows should be flogged in public.’

  After a big gulp of whisky, Baig asks, ‘And what should have been done to Muslims who demolished Hindu temples?’

  No one replies. Not even the Begum Sahiba. They switch on the TV. There is news of bomb blasts in several cities of Pakistan, some in mosques when people were offering namaaz.

  As if there is not enough turmoil in the country, major violence erupts in Hyderabad in early December. A politician with a nose like a potato announces a fast unto death unless Andhra Pradesh is split into three parts and a new state of Telangana, which includes Hyderabad, is immediately conceded. As his fast proceeds and he loses weight, his nose gets more spud-like. And riots break out in Hyderabad. Buses are set on fire, shops are closed, students of Osmania University go on a rampage, wrecking furniture. Everyone forgets that the entire concept of dividing India into different states was based on the language spoken in the region. All of Andhra Pradesh is Telugu-speaking, so cutting off Rayalaseema and coastal Andhra is a flagrant departure from the principal of one language, one state. Nevertheless, as Chandrasekhara Rao’s health deteriorates and doctors say he won’t last long, the government panics and on the 10th of December announces its readiness to concede Telangana. As expected, overnight there are similar demands for separate states in different parts of the country. The government tries the old ruse to play for time—it sets up a committee of experts to examine the pros and cons of a separate Telangana. The turmoil subsides—for a time.

  On the 23rd, the results of assembly elections in Jharkhand are announced. No party wins a clear majority. But Shibu Soren, with a criminal past, comes to an understanding with a newly formed BJP, under a new leader. Loudly proclaiming a new political morality, it agrees to lend support to the proven-corrupt Shibu Soren. As the French saying goes, the more it changes the more it is the same thing.

  On Christmas Eve, Boota goes over to Sharma’s flat to have a quick drink and to find out how he means to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. He finds Sharma sitting by the fireside with a stack of Christmas and New Year cards on the table beside him, scribbling addresses of senders of good wishes. Across his sitting room stretch two strings making an X with cards strung on them.

  ‘What are you up to?’ asks Boota.

  ‘Look at all these,’ answers Sharma, ‘cards from all over the world. Feels good to know people still remember you. Help yourself to a drink.’

  Boota pours out a whisky for himself and sits down. ‘What a waste of money!’ he says.

  Sharma’s sister agrees. ‘He must have blown up over one thousand rupees on the cards. And now a couple of thousand more on foreign and domestic postage stamps.’

  ‘Don’t you reply to people who wish you joy and happiness?’ asks Sharma looking up.

  ‘I don’t,’ replies Boota. ‘I simply toss the greeting cards I receive in the waste-paper basket. They are a meaningless ritual.’

  ‘Each one to his taste,’ says Sharma and raises his glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers,’ replies Boota. He gulps down his whisky. ‘Any programme for tomorrow?’

  ‘None,’ replies Sharma. ‘I’ll just clear my Christmas mail and go to Lodhi Gardens in the evening. See you there.’

  Boota pats Dabboo Three on the head and says, ‘So, happy Christmas. Cheers.’

  Boota trudges home. He has a sprig of mistletoe hanging above his entrance door, but no woman to kiss. Christmas Eve is special to him: it reminds him of the many he spent in English homes. He pours himself a single malt with soda and ice and settles down in his chair by the fireside. He switches on his tape recorder which has all his favourite Christmas carols, like ‘Silent Night Holy Night’, ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, and a dozen others, ending with a chorus singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. In between, he has a second single malt and recalls scenes of Christmas Eve parties in England. Many a sigh escapes his lips. Why on earth does he love the English so much? He is ashamed of admitting it to his Indian friends. But it is okay admitting it to himself. He shouts to his servant Bahadur to warm up his dinner and open a bottle of Barolo. Bahadur brings his dinner on a tray and puts it beside him. Boota pours the wine in the wine glass. Bahadur waits impatiently to serve him dessert and get back to his quarter. It is well past his sahib’s dinnertime. However, the sahib takes his own sweet time, relishing the Christmas pudding laced with brandy that he had specially ordered for the evening. His Christmas Eve dinner is not complete without cognac in a special balloon glass. You can sniff its bouquet before you savour it with your tongue.

  By the time he has finished with his meal, he is sozzled and heavy with sleep. He dozes off in his armchair. He is not aware when Bahadur takes his tray away and switches off the extra lights. By the time he wakes up, the fire in the grate has died down and the room has turned chilly. He goes to the bathroom to empty his bladder, keeping one hand on the wall to prevent himself from falling. And so to his heated bedroom and to bed under a quilt with a hot-water bottle. He knows he has been indiscreet and will have to pay the price for his indiscretion on Christmas Day. What the hell does it matter? Christmas Eve comes only once every year. Christmas may or may not be merry, but Christmas Eve always is.

  Christmas Day 2009. The morning is somewhat misty, as it is every Christmas morning in Delhi. The sun comes up in a clear blue sky. Dew on the lawn glistens for a while before it dries up. Church bells toll in different cathedrals and churches.

  Christmas is of no significance in Baig’s home. No doubt, like many Muslims, they revere Eesa Masih as a prophet, but attach no importance to his advent on earth. They also know that for Christians it is the Big Day—Bara Din. And many go to church at midnight to offer special namaaz, like some orthodox Muslims offer tahajjud. That’s about it.

  So on Christmas morning Baig, while sipping tea, announces to his Begum, ‘Today is Bara Din.’

  ‘I know,’ replies Begum Sahiba. ‘They enjoy themselves. Their bazaars ar
e lit up many days earlier. They squander money buying gifts for each other, drink lots of wine, eat turkeys and puddings. Few bother to go to church to give thanks to their Maker.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with having a good time once or twice a year?’ asks Baig.

  ‘Janoo, what is wrong is to forget the One who gave you life and takes it back.’

  ‘No one really knows very much about that,’ says Baig and quotes a couplet:

  All we know about life is about its middle

  We know not its beginning, we know not its end.

  ‘That sounds very clever, but in fact we do know Allah gave us life and Allah takes it back. He rewards those who do good deeds by sending them to Paradise and punishes the evil-doers by sending them to burn in hell. It’s all written in our holy book. Every word of it is true because Allah himself conveyed it to our Prophet—peace be upon Him.’

  Baig protests: ‘Begum, why do you get so worked up when the subject of religion comes up?’

  I’ll tell you why. Satan is on the rampage. Do you know that there are buses running in London with huge placards reading: “There may be no God, so why not relax?” What could be more shameless? If there was no God, there would be no human beings. Take that from me, because it is the truth.’

  The argument comes to a close as the morning papers are delivered. Begum Sakina scans the headlines of an Urdu paper. Baig turns over the pages of the Hindustan Times. He spends a few minutes looking at pictures on the obit page to see if he knows anyone who has departed and puts the paper aside before asking his Begum to tell him what is happening in the world.

  On Christmas Day, Sharma resumes signing his name on greeting cards and putting addresses on envelopes. There is still a large number left but he has time as it is a postal holiday: he has to finish the job by next morning and post them himself. Because of this card business he has had to stay at home with his sister, which he finds tedious. So after breakfast he leaves for the India International Centre to read the papers. He sees the raunaq and enjoys the special menu prepared for the occasion. He tells his sister he has been invited by a friend to join him for lunch—which is not true. He will be back for his siesta and will go to Lodhi Gardens in the afternoon.

  Boota wakes up with a hangover. His head throbs with pain. He takes a sip of tea and is overcome by nausea. He throws up in the washbasin. He can smell his dinner, wine and cognac in the vomit. He vomits three times, and all he ate the night before is washed down the sink. The throbbing in his head gets more painful. He wipes his face with a wet towel, swallows two pills of aspirin and returns to bed to sleep off the hangover. He falls into deep slumber and wakes up three hours later—exhausted, washed out, but minus the headache. He swears never to indulge himself in this reckless manner again. He tells Bahadur to make him a Knorr packet soup and dry toast for lunch. It tastes delicious. He is back in bed and has another hour of sound sleep. Then he goes over newspaper headlines and hears the news on his TV. He has a quick shower, gets into his woollen kurta-salwar and proceeds to Lodhi Gardens.

  ‘So what’s the big news on Bara Din? asks Baig.

  ‘Nothing special,’ replies his Begum. ‘In Jharkhand that bearded fellow, Shibu Soren, who had been charged with bribery as well as murder, has once again been made chief minister. And you know how? The BJP has joined him. After all the talk of morality by the new BJP president, that fat Brahmin, Gadkari of Nagpur, has given his approval.’

  ‘Talk of high morals is for the gullible public,’ says Baig. ‘Politics knows no morality. What else?’

  ‘A lot about that police officer Rathore who molested fourteen-year-old Ruchika. And when her younger brother went to lodge a report against him, he was handcuffed and paraded in the bazaar. The poor girl took her life. It took nineteen years for the fellow to be sentenced to six months in jail and a fine of one thousand rupees. Gross miscarriage of justice. Now that there is a public uproar, and photographs of that Rathore coming out of court with a smirk on his face, he will get what he deserves. He should be flogged in public and sent to prison for life. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘These policewalas are like that—nothing new. Power goes to their heads and they do what they like. They should be taught a lesson they’ll never forget.’

  ‘And there is something about that eighty-three-year-old boorha, Narain Dutt Tiwari, governor of Andhra Pradesh, being caught on camera in bed with three prostitutes.’ Begum Sahiba turns over the pages of her newspaper and says, ‘Nothing else of much interest. The usual road accidents, thefts, rapes and all that.’

  Boota Singh is the last one to arrive at the Sunset Club meeting. Sharma gives him a withering look and says, ‘You look like a corpse! What have you been up to?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ replies Boota. ‘I’ve been very foolish; I forgot I am an old man now.’

  ‘Drank too much?’ asks Baig. ‘Did you have a woman companion?’

  ‘No such luck. Just recalled Christmas Eves of younger days.’

  He quotes Ghalib:

  Time has taken its toll on you and left you dead

  Where are the frivolities of yesteryear?

  Where has your youth fled?

  ‘Well said,’ comments Baig. ‘One should know one’s age and behave accordingly.’

  That provokes Boota to quote an earlier couplet from the same verse:

  The orgies of drinking all night are gone

  Finished are the sweet dreams of the dawn.

  Sharma remarks, ‘Boota Singh is in a poetic mood of repentance.’

  Boota can’t stop himself:

  Repentance oft before I swore

  Was I sober when I swore?

  Then came Spring hand in hand

  And repentance threadbare it tore.

  ‘Wah! Wah!’ lauds Baig. ‘If every binge turns you into a poet, then forget last night’s overindulgence and let the wine flask and a cup always remain in front of you.’

  Baig now seeks his friends’ views on the news that had got his Begum so worked up that morning. ‘Did you read about the retired DG Police of Haryana, Rathore, molesting a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl and compelling her to commit suicide? Boota, you are a great authority on sex aberrations, you must have something to say about Rathore.’

  ‘I have,’ replied Boota. ‘All males are born badmashes. As soon as they see a woman, young or old, they want to ride her. And our police fellows are trained to be bullies; otherwise no one would be scared of them. I am sure this Rathore fellow is a bully, as well as a jee hazoor—a yes-sir—when it comes to important people. So he sucked up to chief ministers, they helped him win the police medal. Now he is in trouble, they pretend to know nothing of his private life. Haryana has a long tradition of lying chief ministers. As for Rathore, if it had not been for the girl’s gutsy brother, who despite this fellow having him arrested, bullied, humiliated, beaten up, did not give up, the whole case would have been hushed up and forgotten.’

  Baig protests: ‘Bootaji, I am not a badmash. Sharmaji is not a badmash. You speak for yourself.’

  ‘I am not a badmash either,’ replies Boota. ‘But can you deny that every male from the time he starts getting erections, begins to indulge in badmashi, looking for another boy’s arse, or a woman’s cunt, no matter who she is, to put it into? And the more important he becomes, the more he can get his way. Take the case of that fellow Michael Jackson, who died this summer. A great singer and dancer, worshipped by millions over the world. He was a laundebaaz, a sodomist and a catamite, and a child molester; a black man who had a nose job done, his hair straightened, and pretended to be a white woman. A total mix-up and yet hailed as one of the greatest of the great. And this golf champion Tiger Woods—another great black. He makes countless crores winning championships and through advertising. He lives in a palatial mansion, marries a pretty blonde Scandinavian, and has children through her. Then goes off his rocker, fucks dozens of blondes, crashes his car into a roadside hydrant. His teeth are smashed and he tells the world how to fuc
k up life.’

  Boota continues, ‘And look at Narain Dutt Tiwari. He must be quite a tees maar khan—a killer of thirty. He is eighty-three and has three women in bed to celebrate Christmas. At his age most men can’t get an erection—or their erections which were once like the Qutub Minar made of solid stone, now look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa made of soft wax. I say, shabash—well done.’

  Sharma responds, ‘He is a Brahmin. Brahmins can do things which other castes can’t.’

  Boota shoots back: ‘Panditji, you are also a Brahmin. Your sex exploits could be written behind a postage stamp.’

  ‘You know nothing about my sex exploits as you call them,’ retorts Sharma. ‘In any case I have better things to occupy my mind than think of women.’

  Baig intervenes, ‘I am a Pathan, but I can barely look after one woman. And even her as an old companion. I give full marks to Tiwari—he is a lusty Hero Number One. I am amazed he has got so far in life despite his preoccupation with women.’

  ‘He has always been a khushamdi tattoo—a flattering pony,’ says Boota. In his days he was known as Sanjay’s tattoo:

  Main Narain Dutt Tiwari hoon,

  Main Sanjay ki savaaree hoon

  Na nar hoon na naari hoon

  Indira ka pujaari hoon

  Narain Dutt Tiwari am I

  Sanjay’s pony also am I

  Neither male nor female am I

  Indira Gandhi’s worshipper am I.

  All three have a hearty laugh: ‘Wah bhai wah, Boota! You have a good memory,’ says Baig. ‘I had forgotten these lines long ago. I must recite them to my Begum.’

  Sharma says in a grave tone, ‘You people only think of his lust for women. Does it not worry you what will happen to our country if people at the top behave in this reckless manner? What kind of example are people like Tiwari setting?’