The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

  My thoughts were broken by the arrival of a reporter from India Today and I found myself giving my first interview with elan. Next on agenda was an interview and photography session with the Indian Express. I was vaguely alarmed at being singled out. It wasn’t as if I had won the first prize, then why me? The answer was simple enough. The article was for the Delhi edition and I was the only Delhi girl.

  I rejoined the others at lunch and the four of us got further acquainted. Talking to the self-assured, if privileged and somewhat elitist youngsters, I felt like the odd (wo)man out.

  At the prize distribution (thankfully, my cheque was for Rs 2,000), after the introductory speech and a brief talk by the chief guest, each of us was asked to say something pertaining to the competition. Later, we were besieged by journalists and it was with unparalleled joy that I saw my photographs and interviews in the dailies the next day.

  As they say, nothing succeeds like success; all good things started happening at once. Low Price Publications made haste to get me to sign the contract for The Adolescent Girl. Barely had this sunk in that I got an email from a Penguin editor who wanted me to write my next novel for them! ‘If possible, could you send us a story idea?’ Could I? I promptly sent them a story I had been toying with, against the backdrop of the 1984 Hindu–Sikh riots. They were open to the idea and the emails flew thick and fast between us.

  Having taken but a sip from the pitcher of success, I longed to quench my thirst with deep, long draughts. Yet I knew that it was too good to last; that I would be eliminated in the final round of the e-novel competition. I was totally out of sync with the modern generation quite unlike the other three winners. Only the young want to read a story on a computer. My writing would attract people my age – people who would rather curl up in bed with a novel. Spy thrillers, adventure stories and sci-fi were not my forte and not many youngsters would be interested in the travails of a modern woman trapped in medieval customs. I knew that I did not stand a chance, but was determined not to give up without a fight.

  In fact, I immensely enjoyed the days that followed. I had an incentive, a goal and a time limit. I condensed chapter after chapter, trying my best to retain the essence of my story. Apparently I hadn’t succeeded, for when the chapters appeared on the Internet, some of the remarks I got (besides a few of praise) were: ‘Stick to your gynaecology and stop writing.’

  Still, I was filled with anticipatory excitement about the final outcome. After the initial flurry of mails, the coordinators stopped corresponding, so I emailed one of the other winners only to be told that the other three had won. He tried to soften my blow by congratulating me on having my book on the adolescent girl accepted by a publisher.

  I wrote a terse mail to the organizers and let matters rest. The only good thing that came out of all this was that I got my copyright back.

  The Penguin editor too stopped corresponding after a while and my stint in the limelight seemed to be over.

  28

  Sometime between the crest of success and the trough of failure, I rang up Khushwant Singh to tell him that I had blown up all my prize money on a Chivas Regal for him.

  ‘But why on me?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘Because I had promised myself that I’ll buy one for you if I win the prize. When can I bring it?’

  ‘Will day after tomorrow do? Can you bring along a copy of the Kama Sutra as well? I must have thrown away mine after reading it. It is the most useless piece on sex I have ever read, but I need it for a novel I am writing.’

  ‘I will surely bring it along if I find it.’

  ***

  Dressed in a pale-orange chiffon sari with corals in my ears and around my neck, I went to meet him at the appointed hour. He looked dapper in an orange T-shirt and shorts. Giving him the Kama Sutra, I said, ‘There is more about protocol and matching of the sizes of sex organs than any real pleasure to be obtained from this book.’

  He agreed heartily and added, ‘The Chivas Regal, it costs Rs 4,000 more than your prize money.’

  I refrained from telling him that I got it from a contact in the customs for an amount that was less than the prize money.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said and showed him the various publications and, finally, the Indian Express that carried a large photo and exclusive interview of mine. Quoting me, it said, ‘Khushwant Singh thought I had the ingredients of a good writer.’

  ‘All this is a huge ego massage.’ He smiled.

  ‘It is a salve on my wounded ego.’

  The conversation turned to the copyright I had signed away and the lack of royalty if the manuscript was published as an e-book.

  ‘So you are losers both ways,’ he mused.

  ‘Who knows something might come out of my correspondence with the Penguin people,’ I said, showing him a copy of the mail they had sent, asking if I had any other work or even an idea that I would like to discuss.

  He read it and said he had never heard of the person who had written the letter, but he could find out. He rang up Ravi Singh that very instant and learnt that there was indeed such a person.

  ‘If only they had contacted me earlier. I would not have had to prune my manuscript of 1,30,000 words to 30,000 words and lose my copyright too. But the irony is that I had to waste those 1,00,000 words for the Penguin people to notice me.’

  ‘Hopefully, many more books will come out of you,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so too. Besides lack of royalty, what bothers me is that I have pecked at the flesh of my novel till its bones are picked clean and yet haven’t reached the 30,000-word limit. The work has been reduced to mere headlines. It’s painful. The only good that has come out of this is that Low Price Publications will be sending me the contract for The Adolescent Girl.’

  ‘I could write about it in my column once the book is published and say that it is a must-read for adolescents.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said.

  I picked up a coffee-tabler from his centre table and leafed through it. It was on Sikh history and had beautiful pictures by Raghu Rai.

  ‘Raghu Rai was once my sister’s tenant.’

  ‘He is an excellent photographer. He is good-looking and quite a ladies’ man. He married thrice. First was Usha Rai, with whom he had two children. She wrote a beautiful middle on her divorce by mutual consent in the Times of India: “We went there as husband and wife and returned as strangers.” His present wife is a beautiful lady, thirty years his junior. I told him that you give her children as soon as possible because later you might not be able to do it. She has two now. Do you want to come for the release of this book? Or will your husband not allow you to attend the cocktail?’

  ‘He will let me come if he is invited too.’

  ‘Bring him along.’

  ‘When is it and where?’

  ‘At the Meridien, on the twenty-third of June.’

  ‘Despite being an atheist, I think you have done more for the Sikh religion than anyone else I can think of.’

  ‘There was a lady in Washington who was very kind to me when I was there. She even used to cook my evening meal. She was a devout sardarni and kept a darbar sahib even in her tiny little flat. When she came to Delhi, I asked her if there was anything I could do for her.

  ‘“Take me to Bangla Sahib,” she replied.

  ‘So I took her there and told her that as I cannot cross my legs, I will sit on the steps by the sarovar while she finished her prayers. I was surrounded by people within seconds. It was nice at first, with the men and women wanting to be photographed with me. Then two men came up to me and one said, “What are you doing here?”

  ‘“This is the house of god. Anyone is free to come here,” I responded.

  “‘But you do not believe in god,” they retorted.

  ‘“So?”

  ‘“So tell us, what you have done for the Sikh religion?”

  “I have done more for the Sikhs than all of you put together. If the West knows anything at all abou
t Sikh history, it is thanks to me,” I replied.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask him what he has done for the Sikhs?’ I asked.

  He laughed and said, ‘I am also translating the rehraas into English. Some words are quite untranslatable, like sayyam.’

  ‘Sayyam means control.’

  ‘And balihari guru aapki.’

  ‘There is no expression like balihari, sadke java or balbal java in English,’ I agreed.

  ‘I am also a sort of agony aunt for the Tehelka people. I get letters like “I love a girl who is from a different caste and my people are not allowing me to marry her. What should I do?” What can I tell him except “go and fuck her”?’

  ‘I too have a column in Woman’s Era called “Child Challenges” in which I get questions like “my son doesn’t like mathematics”. I feel like responding to them with a “so does mine”. Or “my eight-year-old son gets an erection while watching steamy scenes on the TV”. Parents do not want to acknowledge their children’s sexuality.’

  ‘Once, this comedian whom you might have seen on the silver screen sent me a sort of autobiography in which he mentioned that he stayed with his chachi for a while when he was eleven. As he got scared at night, he took to sleeping in her bed and would get an erection whenever he dug his face in her bosom. Though he could not ejaculate, one day he tried his level best to pump into her bottom and received a slap. The next day, the chachi decided to bathe him. As she was soaping his middle, he got an erection. This time, she guided him to the right hole and they made a daily affair of it.’

  We had passed a happy three quarters of an hour together. The usual time limit was half an hour.

  I glanced at my watch. ‘What time do you go for a swim?’

  ‘Around four. It is so refreshing. Even the whisky tastes so good after a swim. I can feel it going right to my toes.’

  ‘I go between five and six.’

  ‘Women with big bottoms come with towels wrapped around their middle right up to the edge of the pool and swiftly drop into the water. You have a nice bosom, though.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said unthinkingly, since that’s what you say in response to a compliment, then blushed as realization dawned.

  29

  On 22 June, I wore a grey georgette sari with a silver border, complimented by diamonds set in white gold. A spray of Christian Dior and a sprig of jasmines in my hair completed my look.

  Tall, slim and dark, with a balding head, Raghu Rai was the first to arrive. Khushwant Singh and the chief guest, Arun Jaitley, came soon after and took their seats at the podium, as did Mr Pramod Kumar, the publisher of Roli Books. My husband herded me to the first row.

  Mr Pramod Kumar spoke briefly about the book and went on to announce that he had commissioned Mr Khushwant Singh’s biography by his son, Rahul Singh.

  This was followed by speeches by Khushwant Singh and Raghu Rai, who informed the audience that he had done a coffee table on the Sikhs with Roli in the 1980s when he was a raw photographer, struggling to get a foothold. He was unhappy with those pictures now and wanted to wash away his sins by clicking them all over again.

  Arun Jaitley released the book and said that as a lawyer as well as a politician, he had a predilection for prolonged speeches but would abide by Khushwant Singh’s request to not keep the guests thirsty for long and therefore keep his speech short. He remembered the time when a huge political controversy arose during a lathi charge when J.P. Narayan was allegedly hit on the head. There were vehement denials till a photograph by Raghu Rai in the Statesman gave clinching evidence. ‘He must be hanging somewhere between heaven and earth to get such a photograph,’ laughed Jaitley.

  As he got off the podium, Khushwant Singh gave me a hug and shook hands with my husband. Then my husband and I proceeded to nibble the food and ogle at the celebrities. After this, we went to meet Khushwant Singh who was seated on a sofa in the lounge, enjoying his wine and women. I was impressed by his range of acquaintances as, seated beside him was a large-built, grey-haired woman belonging to the royal family of Patiala. After she left, Khushwant Singh made me sit beside him. To his left was a beautiful woman with plaited brown hair whom he introduced as Kamna Prasad who had helped him write a book on love in four languages.

  The press pressed around him aiming questions that he deflected deftly. All this while women came up, hugged and air-kissed him and complimented him on how well-turned-out he was. Like me, perhaps, they too were used to seeing him in his unkempt state.

  Nalini Singh sauntered over to invite him for dinner. I felt a stab of jealousy but there were too many contenders and I was not even in the fray. Everything was so easy-going amidst people belonging to the same fraternity, while I remained what I have always been – a rank outsider.

  Khushwant Singh’s manners were impeccable though, for he took care to make me feel at home, introduced me to all who came to him and offered me the snacks that people tripped over each other to bring for him. As a girl refilled his glass, he asked me what I was drinking. When I showed him the pineapple juice, he grimaced and for the umpteenth time asked me why I did not drink.

  ‘And you?’ he asked my husband and was gratified to see the glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘This is the first time she has come, though I have invited her innumerable times,’ he told my husband. ‘I have also told her repeatedly to avail of my house in Kasauli for her writings, but she won’t go.’

  ‘I just might,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Intimate me well in time,’ he smiled.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘It tends to get lonely up there at times,’ he warned.

  ‘Never mind, I enjoy solitude,’ I said, already imagining myself up there.

  When Mr Pramod Kumar came over to discuss something, I asked Khushwant Singh with a twinkle in my eye if I could give him our correspondence.

  ‘Only if you don’t betray me!’ he chuckled.

  At around half past eight, someone reminded him that it was past his bedtime. He took my support to get up and I was reminded of a conversation in which he had confided to me that he used his age to latch on to beautiful women. I for one did not mind.

  It was only when he was leaving that my husband uttered his first sentence: ‘A cherished dream has been realized today. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.’

  That night, I slept hugging the pillow of pleasant memories.

  30

  23.6.2001

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  Thank you so much for your kind invitation. It was a pleasure seeing you in formal attire on a formal occasion, giving a formal address. I felt proud and fortunate to know you.

  I expected to be lost in a crowd of bigwigs but was pleasantly surprised at your graciousness in sparing time for me. It was an honour to be seated next to you with all those people (chiefly women) fawning over you.

  Your letters are my prized personal possessions and not for anything will I give them to that roli poli publisher of Roli Books.

  Love

  Amrinder

  P.S. Here are two more jokes for your exclusive repertoire:

  A woman found out that her husband was having an affair with his junior officer’s wife. Enraged, she called the junior officer over and apprised him of the situation. Tearing off her clothes, she said, ‘Take revenge, take revenge!’ He complied readily enough. She so enjoyed the session that she urged him to ‘take more revenge’, to which he replied, ‘No hard feelings left.’

  The heads of France, Russia and America got together for a summit. With their husbands busy at the conference, the wives sat together for a gossip session. One thing led to another and they asked each other what they called their husband’s private organ.

  ‘I call it the curtain,’ said the French president’s wife, ‘because it falls after the act.’

  ‘I call it the patriot missile,’ said the Russian first lady, ‘because he fires it one way and it goes the other.’

  ‘And I call it a rumour
,’ said Hillary Clinton, ‘because it goes from mouth to mouth!’

  ***

  27 June 2001

  Dear Amrinder

  It was nice meeting you in the Meridien. I suspect your husband was somewhat awed by me. Assure him I am very sadharan and seedha sadha as you know. A bit of a badmash but so is the mausam. What can you do during sawan bhadon when the sky is overcast and it pours except fuck – or dream of doing so. Most frustrating.

  Don’t pass on my letters to anyone as long as I am around. You can make a bonfire of them after I am gone.

  Love

  Khushwant

  ***

  28.6.01

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  The weather is indeed ideal for what you said it is for (funny that I convey the most lewd messages and that holds true for my jokes too, without using a single dirty word) but you need the right person available at the right time. One of my unlived fantasies is to do it in the pool while it is pouring but ‘he’ does not know how to swim and I go there during ‘ladies time’.

  Yesterday I got a call from a Mr Roy, editor, Pustak Mahal, asking me to write a book on health issues. And either take a lump-sum payment or get 8% royalty after deducting 40% from the sale price of the book. Is that how it is done?

  Love

  Amrinder

  P.S.: A few words about the printer’s devil.

  ‘Rukmini Devi Pubic School will open today.’ When it should have been ‘public’.

  Printed on the door of a classroom FART class when it should have been F. ART where F was short for ‘fine’.

  ANUS Boutique (I wonder what they dressed – haemorrhoids?) when it should have been ANU’s Boutique.

  ***

  1st July 2001

  Dear Amrinder

  Ever tried bathing in the nude? I have at night and alone, felt like a randy merman.