THE SUNSET CLUB
Page 15
On the 3rd morning, in Baig Manzil, everyone is up in time for the morning namaaz, awaiting the Nawab Sahib’s loud announcement ‘Ya Allah’ as he yawns and stretches out his arms, to indicate that it’s time for everyone to get down to his or her job. But no call is heard. Begum Sakina gets down to giving instructions for the day—she gives the menus for the afternoon and evening meals, doles out cash for meat, chicken and vegetables, and orders the other servants to get on with their daily chores. So passes half an hour.
Then Begum Sakina tells a maidservant to take tea and wake up the Nawab Sahib. She goes off with the tea tray. There are sounds of the tray and cups crashing on the floor, and the maidservant screams, ‘Hai Allah, yeh kya ho gaya—oh God, what’s happened!’ Begum Sakina and the servants run to the Nawab’s bedroom. His eyes and mouth are half-open. He is dead. Begum Sakina wails, ‘Barkoo, what is this? You have left me behind!’ She beats her chest and slaps her forehead. The servants embrace each other and cry loudly. Truly had Ghalib spoken:
It is noise that turns a house into a home;
If it is not wailing for the dead,
It is songs of joy sung at a wedding
It is quite some time before Begum Sakina is able to control her emotions and get on with the job in hand. ‘Inform all relatives and friends,’ she orders. ‘Also newspapers,’ she adds. The servants get busy on the two mobile phones and the landline, giving the news to everyone they can think of.
Boota is in his cushioned chair in his heated bedroom. He has gone over the headlines of all the six newspapers he gets and is engrossed in solving crossword puzzles. His phone in the next room rings. He never answers telephone calls. It goes on ringing till Bahadur picks up the receiver and takes the message from the caller. He brings the cordless phone and says, ‘It is somebody from Nawab Sahib’s home.’
Boota takes the cordless. The voice at the other end asks, ‘Is it Sardar Boota Singhji speaking?’
‘Yes,’ answers Boota, ‘farmaaiyey—speak.’
‘Sahib, it is bad news. This morning Nawab Sahib became beloved of Allah.’
‘What are you saying?’ asks a very bewildered Boota. ‘I was talking to him last evening. He was in perfect health.’
‘Only Allah knows,’ replies the servant. ‘When a maidservant brought him his morning cup of tea, he was gone. She screamed loudly, “Hai Allah!” and all of us rushed to his bedroom. Begum Sahiba asked me to tell you that the funeral will take place at 3 p.m. He is to be buried in the family graveyard in Nizamuddin. Kindly inform Pandit Sharma.’ His voice choked as he put down the phone.
Boota shuts his eyes. Tears roll down his cheeks into his beard. He sobs and more tears come dripping down. It takes him almost half an hour to compose himself. He realizes he will not be able to convey the news to Sharma on the phone. He scribbles a note and asks Bahadur to deliver it to Panditji. It reads: ‘Just got a call from Baig’s home. He died in his sleep early this morning. The funeral is at 3 p.m. Pick me up around 2.30 p.m.—Boota.’
At 2.30 p.m. Sharma’s driver rings Boota’s doorbell. Boota gets into Sharma’s car. Sharma asks, ‘What happened? He was okay last evening.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ replies Boota. ‘His servant only said that when a maidservant took him his morning cup of tea, he was dead.’
They fall silent. Outside Baig Manzil, many cars are parked. The gates are closed. Sharma and Boota get down and are let in. The front lawn is filled with men in skullcaps and salwar-kameez. A few are in Western dress. Sharma and Boota are escorted to the veranda where Begum Sahiba is receiving women who have come to condole. Neither of them has set eyes on Baig’s wife before. She is a fair, plump woman who looks to be in her mid-seventies. Boota is reminded of the saying, ‘Ruins proclaim the grandeur of the monument that was.’ Her eyes are red with weeping but she looks in control of herself. Boota’s tears begin to flow again and all he can do is wring his hands to indicate his bewilderment. Sharma delivers a short speech: ‘We are much shocked by his sudden departure. A forty-year-old friendship has come to a sudden end. No one knows the ways of God.’
The Begum replies, ‘Shukriya—thanks. He talked about you both every evening when he returned from Lodhi Gardens. You need not wait for the namaaz-e-janaza—funeral prayers. It is kind of you to have called.’
Boota is unable to utter a word but his heart is full of grief. Begum Sahiba is touched by his grief.
On the lawn, men are lining up for funeral prayers. Sharma and Boota walk past them to Sharma’s car. They drive back home without exchanging a word.
The next three days, as if by tacit agreement, neither of them goes to Lodhi Gardens. The Sunset Club would not be the same without Baig. Boota does a round of the lawn facing his flat. It is not much fun: as usual, boys and girls playing badminton and running around chasing balls, with their dogs running after them. Sharma spends his evenings going round Khan Market, peering into brightly lit shop windows. The market is perpetually being renovated. Heaps of bricks lying about force shoppers to avoid the pavements. There is no place for parking, so cars keep driving in and out of the entrance and exit gates. At places, footpaths are dug up to widen roads for the Commonwealth Games.
Sharma brings trouble on his own head. On the evening of the 10th of January 2010, as he is on his way back home, he stumbles over a large paving stone from the broken-up footpath and falls on the road. He is unable to get up as he has cracked his hip bone. Pavan drags him on to the pavement till he can get help. Shopkeepers come running to ask him if they can be of any assistance. Most of them know Sharma because he has been living in the neighbourhood for many years. A few minutes later, Sharma’s nephew arrives in his car. He and Pavan lift Sharma and put him on the back seat. They pick up Sunita and drive to Malhotra’s Nursing Home. He is examined by a couple of doctors. X-rays are taken and it is decided to operate on him next morning. Sharma is in acute pain all night and is unable to even turn in bed. Sunita, Pavan and his nephew spend the night in the nursing home. The next morning Sharma’s nephew rings up Boota and tells him of the accident and where they are.
Boota immediately drives to the nursing home. Sharma is still in the operation theatre. An hour later, Sharma is brought back to the room, still under the influence of the anaesthetic given to him. He is groaning with pain. Boota sits by his side, holding his hand. Sharma’s sister sits on the other side, holding the other hand. Sharma shakes off the numbness caused by the anaesthetic. His sister asks in a sharp tone: ‘Who told you to go walking around Khan Market at night? See the result!’
A doctor comes in and asks, ‘How are you feeling? The operation was successful. We have put your broken bones together. It will take some time for them to join properly.’
Boota speaks up: ‘Doctor Sahib, why don’t you give him a painkiller? He is in acute agony.’
The doctor gives him a withering look. ‘I am going to do that. I know my job.’
Boota leaves Sharma’s room at noon. ‘See you tomorrow. You will be okay in a few days.’
Boota spends the next two days in the nursing home and reads out the news to Sharma from a couple of papers. He goes into details of sex scandals and the philandering of so-called godmen to cheer him up. Sharma seems to be in less pain and obviously on the mend. When no one besides Boota is in the room, Sharma smiles and says, ‘Boota, you know what?’
‘What?’
‘You won’t believe me. That Lakshmi, remember her? The one who wanted to marry me? She came this morning. She is married and has two children. There was no one else in the room. She sat on my bed and kissed me on the lips. Then undid her blouse and said, “Kiss me here,” putting her breasts on my lips. Can you believe it!’
‘You lucky bugger,’ says Boota.
When the doctor comes on his round, Boota asks him as politely as he can, ‘Doctor Sahib, when will you discharge Sharmaji?’
‘As soon as we think he is fit to go home,’ replies the doctor curtly.
‘Badtameez—mann
erless!’ mumbles Boota as soon as the doctor leaves. ‘I ask him a question politely, he barks back like a dog.’
‘Don’t mind him. He is a busy man. And has done a good job on me, I hope,’ says Sharma.
The next afternoon Sharma is discharged and returns home. The doctor promises to visit him in a couple of days to see if he is doing well. Boota does not call on Sharma at home as it is full of his relations and friends.
On the afternoon of the 15th of January 2010, Boota is at home in his armchair, not sure whether or not to do a round of the lawn in front, or to do a couple of rounds of his back garden. Sharma’s niece enters the room, sits down on the moorha beside his chair and takes his hand in hers. ‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘I thought I’d come myself to tell you. Uncle died a couple of hours ago.’
Boota groans, ‘No, no, no,’ and breaks into sobs. He fails to put his emotions in words and just wrings his hands in despair as he sobs. Sharma’s niece presses his hand, sits with him for ten minutes before leaving quietly.
Boota doesn’t attend Sharma’s funeral—just sits all day long staring at his walls lined with books. This goes on for a week. He reads Sharma’s obituaries in different papers. Tributes are paid to him by the prime minister and other leaders. There is also an announcement of a prayer meeting in the Chinmayanand Hall. He decides not to go for it as he knows he will make a fool of himself.
He argues with himself. He must come to terms with the realities of life—and death. Both Baig and Sharma had had good innings and lived longer than most Indians do. He is much the same age. His turn will come soon. When? No one knows.
He opens his telephone book and turns over its pages from A to Z. Every second or third entry has a line drawn down it, and beneath it one line saying D. 1981, D. 1985, D. 1987 and so on. He turns back to B, draws a line down Baig, Barkatullah and writes D. 3.1.2010; then turns to S and crosses out Sharma, Preetam and writes D. 15.1.2010. He also has his own name in the telephone book—not because he is in his dotage, but for anyone who asks for his telephone number. Against his own name he adds:
D. date?
month?
year?
Boota pulls himself out of his mood of despondency. It is the morning of Republic Day 2010. He watches the parade on TV. The parade is much the same as it was last year, and the years before it.
In the afternoon he goes to Lodhi Gardens. There is quite a crowd of people picnicking. The Boorha Binch is unoccupied. He sits down and gazes at the Bara Gumbad.
A gardener distracts his attention: ‘Sardar Sahib, you have not been seen for some days. And where are your friends?’
‘Gone up,’ replies Boota, raising his hands towards the sky.
The gardener understands the gesture: ‘Dono—both of them? I am sorry to hear that.’
Boota again raises his hand and says, ‘Bhai, who knows the ways of God?’
The gardener agrees: ‘Haan, no one knows what Bhagwan wills.’
Boota returns to gazing at the Bara Gumbad. It does resemble the fully rounded bosom of a young woman.
TAMAAM SHUD
COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Avimaraka, Love’s Enchanted World translated by J.L. Masson and D.D. Kosambi (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1970). Reproduced by arrangement with Motilal Banarsidass Publishers Pvt. Ltd as on Page 96: poem by Bhasa—‘How enchanting is the great variety of this world!’
Poems from the Sanskrit translated with an introduction by John Brough (Penguin Classics, 1968). Copyright © John Brough, 1968. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd as below:
Page 129: Poem by Amaru—‘The summer sun, who robbed the pleasant nights’
Pages 129–30: Poem by Yogeshvara—‘With tail-fans spread, and undulating wings’
Page 168: poem by Sudraka—‘Slowly the darkness drains away the sunlight’
The poems by Mir Taqi Mir on pages 74–75—‘If you like to visit a garden, go’ and ‘This is the time when fresh, green leaves’—are from The Golden Tradition: An Anthology of Urdu Poetry translated and edited by Ahmed Ali.
The poems by Kalidas on Page 151 have been translated by Arthur W. Ryder.
While every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and obtain permission, this has not been possible in all cases; any omissions brought to our attention will be remedied in future editions.
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First published in Viking by Penguin Books India 2010
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Copyright © Khushwant Singh 2010
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ISBN 978-06-7008
-519-4
This digital edition published in 2017.
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