With new publishers, settle for a sum to be paid outright. Indian publishers are notorious for not rendering proper accounts – so royalties are risky. Anyway how much is he willing to pay? Make it tidy.
Missing letters are delightful. I’ll try them out in my column. I have a couple of my own. Once the NY Times wrote a review of General MacArthur’s biography. The headline read ‘Pen is mightier than the sword.’ The first two words got telescoped. How true! Another headline read ‘Tension in the anal zone (meaning Suez Canal). Letter ‘C’ was missing. One close to yours was about a Padre: ‘Minister fined for kissing in public’, where the ‘l’ was missing.
This reminds me of an inquiry I am conducting. What proportion of women shave their pubic hair? I know no Europeans do. I know some Muslim women do. But in my editions of the illustrated Kama Sutra both men and women are shaved. As a gynae you must know the facts, what are they? Are Hindu brides shaved for their first encounter?
Love
Khushwant
***
9.7.2001
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Strange, the way I suffix ‘ji’ to your name and go on to discuss the most un-ji-like topics with you, but I do not know how else to address one who is a revered senior and a naughty contemporary rolled into one. You are incorrigible but I like you just the way you are. Who else but you would ever think of conducting such an enquiry? Not that I baulk at any of your queries. This time too you’ll get more than you have bargained for.
As a gynaecologist I do have first-hand knowledge about the information you seek. The clean-shaven and the unshaven come in about equal proportions, not that it matters either way to us. Just as they wear fresh underwear before visiting a gynae, most patients shave their pubis too. Others who haven’t, apologize profusely for not doing so on account of the urgency of their problem. I have to reassure them that it is all right. Yet others have never shaved and have no compunctions about the same.
Most sardarnis get their first shave at the nursing home prior to a delivery. Quite a few are excessively hairy – and horny as a study shows because the hormone testosterone that leads to increased hair growth is also responsible for one’s libido. Don’t be surprised – all women have a small amount of circulating male hormones. Indian hospitals are great ones for shaving off the pubic area of all female patients admitted for minor/major operative procedures. After seeing a video of women in Singapore undergoing MTP (medical termination of pregnancy) at a gynaecological conference, with their pubic hair intact I too began to do the same for minor procedures. Sometimes if it is long and droopy, like a walrus, it comes in the way of instrumentation. African students sometimes come to get rid of the by-products of their promiscuity. They have the same tight curly hair down there as on their crowns with deep, cavernous vaginas. The only white foreigners I got to examine were the dirty hippies when I was at AIIMS, with their unshaven pubis and urine-streaked legs.
An acquaintance once wondered how horrible it must be for us to poke our fingers whole day in that smelly area (though only those with infections smell bad). I replied, ‘Don’t say that, it is our “rozi roti”.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it is a mint with a hole,’ I replied. (In those days the advertisement for a peppermint ‘polo’ was quite popular and its USP was ‘a mint with a hole’.) Besides prostitutes, I think gynaecologists are the only ones who make a living out of it.
Another amusing incident took place when we were attending a marriage ceremony. I stood by a male cousin watching the baraatis dance and was intrigued by a dark woman with a bob who stood out amongst the fair fat sardarnis jiggling to the loud music.
‘Look at that “baal katti”,’ I said.
‘O Kallu,’ said the cousin. I could only stare at him in disbelief. I had heard thallo in the din.
Agreed that I was a gynaecologist but even I did not have the (in)sight to discern whether a fully clothed woman was baal katti from thallo!
As for the Hindu newly-weds, shaving the pubic hair is not a prenuptial ritual – some do it and some don’t. I think it is a catch-22 situation – if they do shave, the new partner may think them forward and if they don’t – ‘unclean’. Then, some men get turned on by hair and others get put off by it. It would be embarrassing to ask a husband-to-be, especially if he is an arranged one as to how he would like the pubis to be prepared for the first night. In fact only a small percentage of newly-weds come to us. Those who haven’t been able to consummate their marriage; those who have consummated it rather violently and the wife needs stitches in the hymenal area; those who have reason to suspect the anatomy/virginity of the wife and those who need contraceptive advice. Most come after they have missed their first period for confirmation of pregnancy. The unmarried sexually active females too are a mixed lot – some clean-shaven some in their natural state.
Love
Amrinder
P.S.: While in the middle of this letter, the nurse called me downstairs to examine a woman from Kuwait. As I was examining her, I observed a boil (baal tod) on her pubis which she said occurred while getting her pubic hair waxed at a parlour! Women in her country would not dream of going to a doctor with hair down there. Ugh, how painful!
I remembered another patient who was raw and red all over the local area because of a hair dye!
***
12 July 2001
Dear Amrinder
A million thanks. Your dissertation on the subject is beautifully written and informative. My knowledge is haphazard. No white woman – English, French, German, Scandinavian, American and Canadian – shaved their pubis, nor did the only Black American I knew. All the three Muslims – Gujarati, Punjabi, and Hyderabadi – did. So did the Maharashtrian. No Tamilians, nor tribal Nagas. No sardarni – though they shaved their armpits. So evidently there is no norm about it. The ritual bath that the bride got did not include removing cunt hair. So I can’t understand old paintings (you can borrow) in which all males and females are shaved.
I am going through a bad patch of inactivity on all fronts – little work, no fun. Just one hour in the bathing pool followed by some reclining and ogling at bosomy, fat-bottomed women. Not at all appetizing. Then back to my home and too much booze. Such is life.
Love
K
31
On 30 July 2001, I paid a visit to Pustak Mahal which had evinced an interest in my educative work. Mr Roy, the chief editor, was cordial but the final yes had to come from the proprietor Mr Ram Avtar Gupta. After an appropriate delay, as became a publisher, I was called in. His room was spacious and airy compared to the cramped cubicles of his staff. After the first few sentences, I realized that we weren’t going to gel.
Mr Roy prompted me to show the newspaper clipping to his boss. As he flipped through India Today, Mr Gupta said, ‘So they have started printing this sort of thing too?’
‘India Today always had a book page,’ I retorted, stung to the quick.
Mr Roy pushed the Indian Express with an exclusive on me towards him. Giving it a cursory glance, he said, ‘These newspapers print anything to fill their pages.’
That was it. How dare he demean the high point of my literary career! If he did not want to publish my book, it was fine by me. He need not be so nasty about it. I hadn’t come a-begging. They had invited me over. I stormed out of the room with barely concealed fury.
My meeting with Low Price Publications was scheduled for the next afternoon. After the Pustak Mahal fiasco, I expected the worst out of this meeting too. Instead, I was met by a pleasant-looking, surprisingly young man – Mr Pradeep Mittal. As far as he was concerned, the acceptance of my book was a foregone conclusion. This was indeed a salve to my bruised ego. In fact he wanted me to write a book on common childhood ailments too. Already commissioned to work on a new book! It seemed too good to be true.
A couple of days later, I spoke with Khushwant Singh on the phone.
‘Hah Amrinder, das pher kad aa rahi hai?’
he asked me warmly.
‘I had no excuse to come earlier.’
‘Why do you need an excuse? You are an interesting person and I like your company. You are welcome any time you feel like.’
‘Thank you.’ I was delighted!
‘After reading your letter over and over again, I tore it today lest it get into the wrong hands,’ he said.
‘You got more than you bargained for. I rang you up today to tell you that my book on the adolescent girl has been accepted for publication by DK Publishers.’
‘You are not paying for it, are you?’
‘No. They are offering me a 10 per cent royalty. Is that all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I come over to show you the contract before I sign it?’
‘Please do.’
On my next visit, I showed Khushwant Singh the contract. He told me to sign it, saying that 10 per cent was good enough for a paperback.
‘But it is so easy for them to cheat us,’ I mused.
‘True. Here, let me return this useless book of yours,’ he replied, handing me the Kama Sutra he had borrowed for reference.
‘It is silly to measure the genital organs to see if they are a perfect fit,’ I said.
‘One can measure the length of the male organ, but what does one use for women – a dip stick like the one used for testing oil in cars?’
I laughed at this and went on to tell him about an incident at a medical college. During the course of a lecture, a gynae professor asked an MBBS student what the length of the vagina was. At a loss for the correct answer, the poor girl replied, twelve inches. At this, the teacher turned to the boys and asked, ‘Hai koi mayee ka laal jo ise satisfy kar sake?’
He guffawed. Making him laugh always made me happy.
‘So how is life treating you these days?’
‘I have come to terms with reality. When my chapters were being posted online, I received all sorts of feedback, mostly negative. One told me that I wrote just like Khushwant Singh. It was a derogatory statement, for the person who posted the comment was no fan of yours. Another said that my writing was so horrible that he’d rather watch a Hindi movie and advised me to stick to my gynae practice. It hurt badly and I wished I was more like my sister who had no ambition at all. Ambition never gives anyone any happiness. You fix a goal and remain unhappy till you reach it; and woe is the lot of the ambitious who do not realize their dreams.’
‘My son Rahul has no ambition whatsoever. He had a good job as an editor in Reader’s Digest with a good salary but left it because he got no pleasure in reading other people’s manuscripts.’
‘That is because he has his father’s money to fall back upon.’ Once again, I had uttered words that were better left unsaid, but Khushwant Singh did not take offence and told me that he has a private income of his own.
‘After that, he was editor with the Express and left it because he did not find job satisfaction.’
‘One spends half a lifetime at one’s workplace and it is very difficult if you do not like your work.’
‘Yes. I hated law though my father sent me abroad to study it. The only good thing that came out of Partition was that I could give up law practice. I quickly gave away all my law books so that nothing could induce me to go back.’
‘I get satisfaction out of both medicine and writing, but I seem to be tilting towards the latter. Especially when I am in the middle of a story, I feel that my patients are intrusions; this despite the fact that I earn more from them than I can ever hope to from writing. Moreover, the clinic is a fertile ground for stories.’
‘But you love your work.’
‘I do. It gives me a high when other doctors call me for their emergency cases. Moreover, the income is good. Those that make a living out of writing in India can be counted on fingertips.’
‘I earn about a lakh, my royalty and columns put together.’
I was impressed with the amount he quoted and we exchanged notes on the going rates for each other’s columns and articles.
I always made it a point to take a little something for him each time I visited. I loved to see the look on his face as he unwrapped the gift. This time it was a tiny silver pen-cum-key chain.
‘You are a very generous lady. The watch you gave me rests by my bedside. It is the first thing I see in the morning.’ ‘I am glad it is of use.’
‘This too will be quite useful, especially when I go swimming.
I will not need to carry anything along with me apart from this.
I’ll put my car keys in it.’
‘I wonder if you will find a replacement refill easily, considering the size of the pen.’
‘That should not be a problem.’
‘How is your wife?’
‘A non-person. She fell down yesterday. The doctor gave instructions that she was not to be moved but she was up and about today.’
‘Instructions are beyond her at this stage of the disease. My mother-in-law, progressively ill with Alzheimer’s, put a two-rupee note in her bra and tried to leave the narak she calls Delhi for her beloved Mussoorie. She fell down and broke her hip. There followed ICU admission, endless nursing and futile medication when it would have been kinder for all concerned if nature was allowed to take its course. I think mercy killing should be allowed – like that woman with AIDS who had come to my door asking for poison. I have written a short story on her, “The Patient”, that I want you to go through,’ I said, handing the story to him.
‘The other day, a prominent dancer who has recently received the Padma Shri rang me up and asked me to give her poison.
‘I said, “Poison bhi milega, but first come over and tell me why you want it.”
‘She came over and told me that her brother had divorced his wife and to malign their family, the ex-wife had alleged that her brother harassed her for dowry and she instigated him to do so. After getting it off her chest, I asked her: “Now tell me what sort of poison I should get – meetha zahar or …?” At which she burst out laughing.
‘It’s all right to help people tide over an acute crisis or grief, for if suicide is averted, people go on to live a long, useful life.’
Forty-five minutes had passed and I could tell from his body language that the session was over. On my way out, I noticed an inscription in Urdu on a wall.
‘What is that?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Allahu Akbar … Come here.’ He led me to the round plaque hanging in the drawing room.
‘These are the first few lines of the Koran.’
‘For all your pretence of being an atheist, you are better than all the “religious-minded” put together,’ I smiled.
I could see that he was pleased.
‘I have just finished translating the rehraas,’ he said, showing off like a little boy.
‘That’s wonderful.’
After the goodbye kiss, I fidgeted with the automatic lock at the door and succeeded in turning it the wrong way.
‘Now you have locked yourself in.’
I almost added the line from the Hindi song, ‘… aur chaabi kho jaaye’, but held my tongue.
‘Always in a hurry,’ he admonished lovingly and let me out.
***
7 Aug. 2001
Dear Amrinder
I read ‘The Patient’. It is not a story but an episode. Elaborate on it. It was nice meeting you. Make your visits more frequent.
Love
Khushwant
32
15.8.2001
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I read about the way you were hounded out of Kolkata for wounding the sentiments of the Bengalis by calling Tagore a mediocre writer. Today, as most Indians sat locked in their homes for fear of terrorist attacks I wrote a parody on one of the poems in Tagore’s Nobel prize-winning Gitanjali. That was a beautiful vision, this is stark reality. In case you do not recollect the original off-hand, it reads:
Where the mind is without fear and the head held high,
>
Where knowledge is free
And the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection,
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sands of habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father
Let my country awake.
This obscure poet of modern times would like to tell him that:
Where Independence Day is celebrated
Behind bolted doors, for red alert
And bomb scares dominate the day.
Where knowledge is obtained after
Colossal donations;
And the nation has been fragmented
Into minuscule states, where the majority
Strives to crush the minority.
Where reason is as polluted as our rivers
That, have been reduced to dirt-water drains.
Where the mind is led forward by avarice
For we have become world leaders in scams.
Where criminals are venerated as heroes.
Into that haven for wrongdoers
Our country has awoken.
Do you think you could use this poem in your column ‘With Malice towards One and All’? I do see poems by a Mr Kuldip Salil appear quite frequently in it.
Love
Amrinder
***
18 Aug. 2001
Dear Amrinder
Will use soonest.
Love
K
***
31.8.2001
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I came across an article in a medical magazine, on slowing down memory loss in the elderly, which I am sending to you. Even people of my age (between 50 and 85) have been included in the study, so don’t for a moment feel that I think you are senile. A person is as old as he feels and I have never come across a person as young for his age as you are. Brain exercises, which your profession, as it is, forces you to do, is what delays memory loss. I had begun to exasperate my children by saying ‘udhar se voh pakda do’ and they would ask ‘kidhar se kya pakdaye’? Now I make a conscious effort to call everything by its proper name.
The Afternoon Girl Page 12
