To my amazement, a beautifully modulated voice at the other end introduced herself as Amrita Pritam! I had nothing smart or witty to say. Like an awestruck fan, I told her what she must have heard hundreds of times before – that I admired her beauty, her guts, her prose and poetry; that I read her daring autobiography and loved it.
SP had got her number from the telephone exchange and rang up to fix an appointment. Just like that! At their very first meeting, he told Amrita Pritam that I was an amateur writer who admired her. He also told her that we loved each other very much and I had written exquisite poems proclaiming my love for him. He had got them printed and would like to present them to me on my birthday; that nothing would please me more than having a foreword from her.
Being a romantic, she was bowled over by the earnest young man’s strange request and agreed! SP had attempted the impossible and succeeded. I was over the moon! Tentatively, I told him about the novel languishing in the cupboard. Could he get that printed and obtain another foreword from her, or was that asking for too much?
Nothing he did for me was too much in those days. He became a publisher for my sake and got the book printed at quite an expense. I was alarmed when I saw the mounting bills. What did we know about publishing and distribution? What if the piles of books were of use only to the rats in the storeroom? He brushed my misgivings aside airily. He had a large circle of friends and acquaintances and no one would grudge him the small amount it took to buy a book. All would be sold in a jiffy.
‘That is not the way a book is sold. Only if it is bought and liked by the discerning public is a work considered a success; not if it is thrust upon people who owe you a favour. We could begin by seeing that it gets due publicity.’
‘But why? Isn’t the foreword enough?’
‘How will people know that such a book exists? We need to whet their appetite so that they want to buy the book.’
‘How is that done?’
It was hopeless.
‘By getting it reviewed in leading dailies, for one,’ I explained.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, I have fixed an appointment with Amrita Pritam again. I had sent her the novel for appraisal and she has written her views. We are to get it tomorrow.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, she has called both of us over.’
Carrying a little present of gratitude (a slender silver wristwatch) and a bouquet of flowers, we reached Amrita Pritam’s house. She stayed with her live-in companion Imroz – an unprecedented act of defiance for a woman of her generation. Society was unforgiving of people who struggled free of the straitjacket of set norms, but she had held her own. Having made a foray into unchartered territory myself by being with SP, I was keen to learn how she had fared. Misgivings and morality would not allow me to experiment with such a way of being. She, however, had no regrets. Given another chance, she would do exactly as she had done.
‘Your body is your own to do exactly as you please with it. No one owns you.’
‘But why do people disapprove?’
‘That is the voice of the mob. When did the mob ever speak with reason?’
I was partially reassured. But there arose the question of my children. How could I let the repercussions of my marital discord impinge upon their lives? How could I forsake them for my desires?
She hesitated a little before answering. ‘A mother can only give her children what she has got. If it is infamy, infamy they will get.’
If this was the price one had to pay for living on one’s own terms, I was not too sure I could go ahead. I loved my children above all else, and not for something as base as carnal desire could I jeopardize their happiness.
I sat in her dimly lit drawing room with strategic lighting that highlighted Imroz’s paintings. The frail, middle-aged man had devoted his entire life to her. Amrita – a thin, grey-haired woman with a dash of bright red lipstick that streaked her lips like a gash – sat on the sofa. Traces of her former beauty shone through despite the ravages of time. I came away from the meeting more confused than ever, the precious foreword clutched in my hands.
It was time to get in touch with Khushwant Singh again. I felt I had come a long way from being the vulnerable woman who had been turned away from his door. Though I had not yet reached the zenith, I was well on my way. He was cordial on the phone and invited me over with the book. He even hinted that he would mention it in his column. I was jubilant, for that would give a much-needed boost to my work.
When we met, it was as if the intervening years, the bitter parting, had never happened. He was as affable as ever and I warmed up to him. He regaled me with interesting anecdotes. While in Bombay recently, he told me, someone asked him how he managed to churn out a novel every month. ‘Because they haven’t invented a condom for the pen yet!’ he had replied. As he recounted this, he laughed heartily at his own wit.
He agreed to go through the book and let me know what he thought of it. Days extended into weeks and weeks to a month, but not a line did I receive from him. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, I made bold to contact him on the phone.
‘I do not review books published privately,’ he replied, brutally insensitive to my hypertrophied sensibilities.
‘Then why did you say that you would?’ I wanted to ask, but dared not, so tamely made do with an ‘oh!’
‘Do you want a private opinion?’
‘No.’ I put the receiver down with meticulous care. Wounded vanity prompted me to reject what would have stood me in good stead had I listened to reason. We had gone a full circle once again, though this time I wasn’t devastated, only deeply hurt.
What would I say to my sceptical admirer now? Wary of Khushwant Singh’s rumoured partiality towards pretty women, SP had forbidden me from taking favours from Khushwant Singh, but I had ignored him. To my surprise, SP was ecstatic at the news. This proved beyond doubt that Khushwant Singh was not interested in me as a woman!
In a bid to show me what he was capable of, SP decided to get my book reviewed in a leading daily in the only way he knew – through a barter of favours. Being a self-made man, he knew exactly how people functioned in the human jungle. Through his contacts in the police department, SP got the brother of a newspaper employee a job as a constable, who in turn got my book reviewed. This may be the way the world functions, but the pleasure of seeing my name in print turned to ash.
It also gave birth to the thought that because Khushwant Singh got nothing from me, he gave nothing. Yet, what could I give him that he did not already have? Fame, riches, the company of beautiful and influential people were his for the asking. He had never made a pass at me, perhaps on account of my uncle. Even if he had, I had no intention of paying in that currency.
6
Imade it a point to let Khushwant Singh know of every bit of success I achieved without his help. To this effect, I sent him a clipping of my book review. This is what he wrote back:
8.11.90
Dear Amrinder
You are welcome to see me any afternoon you choose after ringing me up. I like gutsy people like you. But you must know that when it comes to writing, no one can guide you. You have to be your own guru and judge of your capabilities. I only fear that you don’t have time to read very much and are therefore not in touch with modern styles of novels and short stories. All fiction is born out of personal experiences – like yours. Keep it up and you will develop your unique style.
Congrats for the review. Keep it up.
Yours
Khushwant Singh
I had got my own back and felt no need to maintain contact with him. He was wrong on one account, though. My novel was not based on personal experiences. The autobiographical novel came much later. As for this piece of fiction, it sank without a trace, as I knew it would, since it had little marketing and no distributor.
Though I had stopped communicating with Khushwant Singh, I read all he wrote and all that was written about him. In one of his Saturday columns, he had
written about a woman who had poured the details of her marital conflicts into his sympathetic ears. He had advised her to sublimate her pain into writing. She had done just that and succeeded in retrieving her self-worth. I was intrigued by his new role as ‘agony uncle’, for I too was sinking into a morass of my own.
My husband had swindled me of lakhs of rupees to indulge in a secret passion for gambling. In a marriage that had no love, understanding, respect or companionship, this breach of trust was the final straw. Desperate for a drop of love, my parched soul responded to the overtures of SP who had been pursuing me for years. All that I managed to achieve through this act of defiance was to exchange one form of hell for another, for SP turned possessive and overbearing; the clandestine relationship became public knowledge and my life reached its lowest ebb. My children despised me, my family spurned me and my conscience gave me no peace. My husband was willing to forgive an adulterous wife even as he hired goons to get rid of SP. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
On an impulse, I went to Khushwant Singh and poured out the gory details of my domestic problems. He heard me out patiently and did not condemn. That was solace enough. Neither did he advise, but unburdening myself and getting a sympathetic ear was therapy enough. Nothing had changed; yet I returned with a considerably lighter heart. Literary aspirations took a back seat. Life these days was lived intensely from one dramatic moment to the other. Where was the time to write about it?
Meanwhile, Mamiji agonizingly, inexorably succumbed to cancer. She was the first member of our family to be cremated at the electric crematorium and I watched the proceedings with morbid curiosity. After the religious rites, the red-hot mouth of the furnace swallowed her whole.
As we were settling down on the hard benches for the condolence meeting in the adjacent prayer hall, I saw Khushwant Singh in the conglomeration. He beckoned me to a vacant seat by him and put his hand upon my arm. It felt hot and dry upon my cold and clammy one that May afternoon.
‘You are cold-blooded!’ he exclaimed.
I gave a wan smile. We got down to discussing Mamiji and I said I was sorry that she suffered such prolonged agony.
‘That was your uncle’s doing. He prolonged my mother’s pain as well. We would tell him to let her die in peace, but he thought that it was his duty as a doctor to preserve her life.’
‘He did what he thought was right. A doctor helps save lives not take them,’ I countered, trying to defend my uncle.
‘Even if life is worse than death; even if relatives wish to withhold treatment?’
I had no answer to that.
‘Has your husband come for the funeral?’ He was curious about the person he had heard so much about. I nodded, called my husband over and introduced the two. I did not know then that Khushwant Singh too had faced a similar situation in his marital life and his sympathies, perhaps, lay with the cuckold.
7
At one point, I seriously considered divorcing my husband and throwing in my lot with my lover. My affair had become an open secret and condemnations poured forth from all quarters. My husband refused to release me; and my mother was so sure I would elope that she rang up her relatives, including Mamaji, to forewarn them! Appalled by the fact that I had confessed all to Khushwant Singh, Mamaji, a good man, in sync with our hypocritical society, hastened to tell Khushwant Singh that I had mended my ways and all was right on my marital front.
Having bared my soul, I was strangely reluctant to communicate with Khushwant Singh. Even if I wanted to, the roller coaster I had inadvertently mounted would allow me neither the desire nor time to put pen to paper. The monotonous plains of monogamy, conducive to solitary musings, were left far behind. Fuelled by sensual energy, the rickety vehicle of extramarital love was moving in fast-forward mode at breakneck speed.
A couple of years later, when ardours had cooled and acute problems turned into chronic irritants, I penned a poem on Delhi, one of the oldest living cities on earth, a city I loved deeply despite her many flaws. Knowing that Khushwant Singh shared a similar passion for the city, I sent the verse to him, to which he wrote:
1.8.94
Dear Amrinder
I wondered what had become of you. I couldn’t very well ask your uncle. The last time I had brought up the subject, over two years ago, he said that your domestic problems were sorted out and that you were once again a good girl – whatever that means.
Your poem on Delhi was evocative. You will understand why I chose a ‘hijda’ as the main character in my novel on Delhi. It is a sterile society we have in our city.
Drop in whenever you want to unburden yourself. But do ring up first.
Love
Khushwant
This was the first letter in which he had sent his love and signed his first name. It was a salve on frayed nerves. Being an outsider, he did not have to share the disgrace of my family, but an outsider’s point of view was exactly what I needed at that point. I had to know if I was as bad as I was made out to be. Was it sinful to opt out of a relationship that had become unbearable?
I went to Khushwant Singh, tore apart my uncle’s veneer of false respectability and told him that if it meant wilfully chaining my liberty, I had no intention of being a good girl any more. It was perhaps after this declaration that Khushwant Singh began to look upon me as an individual with an identity separate from my uncle’s. I had a sneaking suspicion that he even began to like me for my disgusting honesty.
Given the time, it is amazing what a human mind can get used to. I mastered the art of tackling my home and the relationship with SP and returned to the written word. I sorted out my poems, polished them one last time and solicited the interest of publishers. All I got in return was an increasing pile of rejection slips. HA Publications was the only one that seemed interested. I was called over to discuss the details. Everything remotely connected with publishing seemed to be situated on the other end of the city which was the size of a respectable state. Spurred by hope, I braved the traffic to meet NK, the owner of this publishing house.
‘What is it that you have written?’ he asked without preamble.
He did not even know! Literary details, perhaps, were dealt by the editorial department.
‘Poetry.’
‘Poetry does not sell.’
‘You could have sent the rejection by post. I wouldn’t have had to travel across Delhi to receive it.’
‘We have not rejected your work. I have an offer to make. If you are willing to buy copies of your book worth Rs 15,000, it will cover our production cost. In this way, we will suffer no losses and your work will see the light of day.’
‘Give me time to think.’ It would take a while to digest this, I thought.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll let you know in a week.’
‘If the answer is in the affirmative, you will have to give me in writing that you are willing to buy a hundred copies for Rs 15,000.’
‘I’ll do that.’
The interview was over.
What if a hundred copies were all that he printed? I went over the conversation again and again as I manoeuvred my vehicle through the thickening evening traffic. Yet, what was 15,000 rupees to a practising gynaecologist? I spent so much more on jewellery. Didn’t people spend lakhs on their ‘shauk’, be it races, alcohol or whores? Why couldn’t I spend money on something that gave me pleasure – seeing my name in print?
However much I tried to convince myself, I knew in my heart that there would be no sense of achievement if I went ahead with the proposal. It would be a business deal, plain and simple, and that did not seem right for something as exalted as poetry. Yet, SP had succeeded in getting me what I wanted through sheer business sense. It was better to pay a reputed publisher to get my work printed than getting it printed by SP for no gain! I decided to answer in the affirmative. I typed out the required document, pledging to buy a hundred copies for Rs 1,500 and posted it before I changed my mind.
After the deed was done, d
oubts began to raise their ugly heads. I rang up Khushwant Singh to find out what he thought of it.
‘Never give money to get your work published,’ he stated categorically.
It was an advice I had sought too late and I told him so. Strange that I could tell him things I could never tell others. He had the good sense not to state the obvious, which a lesser human would have surely done. What was done was done. Fifteen grand gone down the drain! There was no getting over the feeling that I had made a bad move. And then I got a letter from HA Publications. There was a minor mistake in my document – I had written Rs 1,500 instead of Rs 15,000. Could I correct the mistake and send it back? Providence had wrought a minor miracle! I rang up Khushwant Singh to tell him what had happened.
‘Tell them this is all they’ll get. Take it or lump it.’
I gurgled with delight.
8
Idecided to put together all the shocking, scandalous, humorous cases I came across in my gynae practice and called it ‘Diary of a Gynaecologist’. As an offering to my ‘literary god’, I sent the first one to Khushwant Singh.
INNOVATION
Rupali, as the name suggested, was beautiful. Slender, tall and fair, her face had the radiance of the moon on which an accomplished artist had sculpted the features of a woman. Her arms were supple stalks on which grew lily-white hands. Her eyes were dark brown. As was her hair that hung in a loose plait down to her well-rounded hips. It was as if god had made her exclusively for love. The gold-bordered heavy sari proclaimed her newly wedded status as did the red-and-ivory choora that covered her forearms. She had come to the clinic with her mother-in-law who, besides her diamonds, wore an expression of barely concealed antagonism. The hostility was on account of the fact that, since her marriage a month back, Rupali had consistently denied her beloved son his conjugal rights!
‘Doctor,’ said the portly matron, ‘matters have progressed far beyond the traditional bashfulness of a new bride. Whenever he comes near her, she runs out of the room. If he locks the door and tries a bit of persuasion, her screams can be heard down the hall!’ Her chest heaved in outrage, while Rupali gazed at me with the eyes of a frightened doe.
The Afternoon Girl Page 3
