Have you ever heard of a woman who ruptured her rectum on her wedding night? And mind you, not by anal intercourse but by the good old natural method! I came across such a case a few days back and thought that you might be interested. The poor woman had the expected bleeding and pain on her wedding night and took it in her stride. It was only when she developed loose motions some days later that she noticed to her horror that she was passing stools and flatus through her vagina! A case of recto-vaginal fistula was diagnosed and treated surgically. She is as good as new now.
This led me to think back on the other interesting brides that came my way during the course of a 25-year career as a practising gynaecologist. There was a girl who was in love with a man but was marrying another under parental pressure. In defiance she went to her lover the night before the wedding and offered him her most prized possession – her virginity. He took it with such gusto that there was torrential bleeding that could only be controlled by stitches!
Finally there was a case of a newly married girl who was brought to the clinic by her agitated in-laws who wanted to know if she had had an abortion before marriage.
‘Intercourse before marriage, delivery before marriage I can tell, but it is impossible to know if a girl has had an abortion before marriage or not. Why do you ask?’
‘Her former lover rang up to give us the gory details of their affair!’
‘Did her husband have sex with her?’
‘No. He could not bring himself to do so after what he heard.’
I took the girl aside and asked her how she had landed herself in such a situation. She told me that the boyfriend, to whom she had surrendered completely, ditched her to marry a fat girl with a fatter dowry.
‘Ever since he learnt that I was getting married, he wants me back as a mistress. I refused to give in to his demands and got married. To take revenge he called up my father-in-law. I have been betrayed twice by the same man,’ said the hapless girl wiping silent tears.
I examined her, confirmed that she was not a virgin and told her in-laws what they knew already.
‘So what do you intend doing? Ask for a divorce?’
‘It’s not that easy,’ said the old man slowly. ‘People will think that my son is impotent and the girl has left him on that account. Moreover her family can complain that there was a demand for dowry and we would be behind bars. Even if we decide to brave all this what guarantee do we have that the next girl our son marries will be a virgin?’
It was a no-win situation for the girl, her husband, her in-laws – all because of a cad who deserved to be shot.
The last was the case of an impotent man who married under parental pressure, then forced his wife to have sex with his friend! Eventually, the girl divorced him, married the friend and lived happily ever after.
Has your nosebleed stopped?
Love
Amrinder
***
13 Dec. 2002
Dear Amrinder
So much gore and pain in the most pleasurable pastime of life? I don’t envy you having so many cunts to examine that have not been put to proper use. A lady friend, wife of a senior police officer, has been bedridden for a month. She confided to me that it was due to too much fucking with a condom. Man and wife are in the fifties. I should have thought that once a day is all that the fellow could manage but apparently it is both during siesta and after dinner. Can a condom damage a woman’s insides? She has two grown-up daughters, 22 and 20.
I am as well as I could be. No nose bleeding but a mild sinus headache persists. It is a nuisance but not unbearable. But I tire easily and get very stressed out by visitors. For me a drink alone by my fireside is bliss. I rarely get it.
Much love
Khushwant
***
18.12.2002
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Though a condom protects against pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, it takes the pleasure off the act – as one husband aptly put it – it is like eating a toffee with the wrapper on! Rarely, the female partner can suffer from latex allergy.
Most women in their fifties have attained menopause. The fall in female hormone levels renders the vaginal mucosa thin and dry, making it susceptible to injuries and infections. Repeated coital friction is sheer agony! This explains the condition of the police officer’s wife though why they have to use a condom at this age is beyond me. Hormonal creams help the vagina to regain its original succulent, moist and elastic state.
Tehimina Durrani too had mentioned in her autobiography, My Feudal Lord, details of an encounter with her promiscuous husband who visited her in the hospital after a hysterectomy and took her there and then with only a chilman between them and the rest of the world! Such men do not make love or even have sex. They just use women as sexual toilets and would as much ask her permission as they would of a WC before using it.
Before I end my treatise on the condom I must mention that the legendary Casanova invented the first condom by sewed strips of linen that he used over his organ to prevent impregnation. How far he was successful is anybody’s guess.
The latest salacious joke doing the rounds is about a Sikhni newly married to a granthi who uttered ‘gyani, gyani, gyani’ during the course of the act. Her husband thought that she was taking his name in the throes of ecstasy.
Afterwards, complacent about his prowess, he asked her: ‘How was it?’
‘I kept telling you “gaya nahin, gaya nahin”, but you were beyond listening.’
Love
Amrinder
40
10.2.2003
Dear Khushwant Singhji
The first anniversary of your wife’s death has come and gone fanning, fleetingly to a flare, the embers of memory. In a marriage as long as this, the personalities of the partners become so intertwined that coexistence becomes a habit that only death can break.
People say that one needs companionship more in old age than in the first flush of youth (one has more exciting things to do then) so that solitude and loneliness do not become synonyms. My parents keep fighting day in and day out, my parents-in-law were not on speaking terms, so I guess companionship is what is carried forward of the compatibility that existed earlier and does not develop suddenly in old age. My husband and I have become more tolerant of each other and do not infringe on each other’s space. If our interests are in complete variance, if communication has been reduced to the barest minimum, it does not matter for, with the children gone to lead lives of their own, the mere presence of another human in the vicinity is strangely reassuring.
I tried hard to convince myself that I was perfectly content writing for magazines but failed. There is no creativity involved and yet paradoxically there are no takers for my ‘creativity’ which causes unmitigated anguish. I try to remind myself that I have much to be grateful for – family and friends, love and looks, brains and brats, home and health, a satisfying profession and financial security – yet melancholy persists.
As for your column, ‘With Malice towards One and All’, I am sad to say, it has deteriorated to the mundane. It seems as if you have nothing much to say and try to fill up the space with bad verse from obscure sources. Let me tell you that, this is not being taken kindly by your fans who feel that you are losing your touch. Please take the feedback in the spirit with which it was offered, from one who has your welfare at heart.
I end once again with the ribald.
An elderly couple, eager to know what a ‘honeymoon’ was all about, followed a pair of newlyweds to a hill station. They booked a room with a peephole adjacent to the couple’s room. After freshening up, the newlyweds went to the market and bought some grapes.
‘Buy me some apples,’ said the old man’s wife.
‘No,’ said the husband. ‘Grapes they have bought and grapes it will be for us too.’
That night they observed the new husband put the grapes one by one on his wife’s private parts and retrieve them with his tongue. When the older c
ouple tried to do the same, in went the grape beyond retrieval.
‘I told you to buy apples, didn’t I?’ admonished the wife.
Love
Amrinder
Included with the letter was a poem that divided people into three categories – the mediocre, with no ambition whatsoever; the achievers who have attained their goals; and the wretched, like me, tormented by an eagle in the breast that neither flaps its way to freedom nor folds its wings in captivity but tears the heart to blood and gore and embeds talons in the soul.
15 Feb. 2003
Dear Amrinder
Your poem is A1; any poetry magazine would be happy to publish it. I only take doggerels on contemporary affairs with dollops of malice or humour. I agree that they are second-rate. I also agree that my work is ageing as I am. I was planning to stop my column this year but the temptation of staying in circulation and the money induced me to defer the date. But I have taken sanyas in my home. I do not go out or suffer visitors. It is very peaceful.
I have adjusted to being a widower. My daughter takes v. good care of me.
I trust you are a good sleeper.
Love
Khushwant
As if to prove me wrong, on 8 March, he wrote a touching piece in his Saturday column in the Hindustan Times. Here is an excerpt:
My India is now confined to my little backyard. I spend most of my day from sunrise to sunset watching life go by. No one misses me; I miss no one. My patch of garden tells me how things are going in the country. Seasons change with alarming suddenness. One day I am trying to find a sunny spot to absorb as much sun as my body can take; a couple of days later I look for the shade of a huge tree in my compound to shelter myself from the sun.
For a couple of days a string of yellow jasmines hangs down over my verandah and cherry trees come into blossom. They fade and the fragrance of orange blossom pervades the atmosphere, puffs of pale white flowers sprout on my mango trees. I sense that the long hot summer months have arrived. I pray that the cold lasts till Holi and deter urchins of my locality from indulging in hullarbazi by dousing everyone they see with coloured water and mud and damaging cars. These fellows are the Shiv Sainiks and Bajrangis of our mohalla.
My companions are birds of different species. Some, like our politicians, make their presence felt by the noise they make. There are flocks of babblers who never cease babbling while hopping about among fallen leaves and garbage. They are my Congresswallahs. Equally noisy are the parakeets which fly screeching in to perch on my fruit trees and nibble away everything that is nibbleable. They are my ambitious young men willing to scream about any issue to draw peoples’ attention.
The nosiest are the crows. They insist in making a racket in the thick foliage of the tree under which I sit. If I try to shoo them off they retaliate by targeting my head with their droppings. I wonder why birds of different shapes, sizes and colours, despite consuming different kinds of food have droppings of the same lime-white, oozy paste. For me they represent politicians of all parties.
My little Garden of Eden has high-rise buildings on three sides. Two are occupied by upper-middle class families and one by their servants. All are equally noisy and lean over their balconies to watch me. What do I scribble on my yellow pad all day long? Surely it is not a healthy thing for an old man to do!
***
8.3.2003
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Your column this weekend was excellent, the allegory to politicians superb but I wish you would speak only for yourself when you say that ‘no one misses me, I miss no one’. Though my life touched but the fringes of yours – briefly, infrequently – I do miss your stimulating company. It is only because you have made it amply clear that, in your state of semi-retirement (in-resident sanyas) visitors are unwelcome, I have refrained from imposing my presence upon you. I would love to see the paradise in your backyard. After all a mind filled with ideas, a pen filled with ink, a page filled with words and solitude amidst nature is all the heaven an author can ask for. I too have a similar paradise in my home. The terrace on the first floor is dominated by the leafy crown of a jamun tree that allows the right amount of sunshine to filter through. It gives me an unhampered view of the world even as it ensures complete privacy. It shakes with silent laughter when tickled by the breeze and orchestrates the song of birds on its boughs. New leaves in spring, tiny white flowers in summer, purple fruit in the monsoons, tell me the months as if I were reading them off a calendar. One wall is lined by rows of potted cacti for nothing else will grow in the sun-facing façade of my home. People tell me that cacti bring bad luck but I cannot bring myself to discard them on this account. The ephemeral blooming of these age-old companions (some as old as 20 years) is one of the prettiest sights I have ever seen – like an unexpected smile on the face of a nettled old man.
These days I am shattered by the betrayal of one by whose constancy I could swear upon. It is by sheer chance I learnt that the solitaires so generously bestowed upon me by you-know-who were not genuine! I was devastated not because the jewels were worthless (after all I had paid nothing for them) but because the one who gave them was worthless and I had invested dearly in my relationship with him. I feel like a prostitute after she discovers that she has received a fake 500-rupee note for her services.
When the initial attraction waned, I saw him for what he was – uncouth, calculating, dominating, possessive, ruthless – yet I put up with everything, for he was the only person in the world who loved me above all else. Trapped in a loveless marriage I needed love as much as I needed air to breathe. With my siblings having priorities of their own, my children away exploring a future in which I had no place, I braved contempt and disgrace for the one person who cherished me. The duplicity that has shocked me has nothing to do with the actual prices of the stones – in fact I am relieved of the fear of losing them. It is about what I was worth to him for it was by this measure that I measured my self-worth. Would I have loved him less had he not given these useless trinkets? I had already given him my most prized possession – my honour; what else did he hope to attain by this? Did I ever ask him for anything? Then why did he demean and cheapen me so? Being a veteran at the study of the despicable species of Homo sapiens perhaps, you could throw light on such abominable behaviour. The betrayal of trust is the worst blow one human can inflict upon another. I writhe in tearless misery – just deserts as some would say for betraying the sanctity of my own marriage vows.
The smart-ass is trying to wriggle out of this one by pretending that he has been cheated by his business partner – the diamond merchant and he would make amends.
Nothing but nothing can take away my sense of bawdy humour and here is the latest:
A couple of bored executives decided to while away their time by holding a fake interview. A sardar was called in. One interviewer made the sound of a moving train and asked him: ‘What is this?’
‘A train.’
‘Tell me whether it was the Shatabdi or the Rajdhani.’
‘Shatabdi.’
‘No. It was the Rajdhani.’
For the heck of it, the other executive barked and asked: ‘What is this?
‘A dog.’
‘Is it a Dobermann or a Pom?’
‘A Dobermann.’
‘You are wrong again. It is a Pom.’
And so on and so forth it went on till in exasperation the sardar said, ‘Now can I ask you a question?’
‘Yes.’
He drew a picture of the female genitalia and asked them what it was.
‘Ch*t,’ they chorused, highly amused.
‘Na,’ said the sardar. ‘Ai dus ki ai tere maa di hai ya teri bhain di!
Love
Amrinder
***
16 March 2003
Dear Amrinder
It is always a joy to hear from you; the ribald joke kept me in splits of laughter all morning.
I am sorry to hear about the great betrayal. You must have suspected th
at they were fakes otherwise you would not have taken them to a jeweller. Besides, it may be true that he did not know that they were fakes. Call his bluff and ask him to replace them. After all he had access to your body for many years and evidently had a thoroughly good time – as did you. That is enough compensation. But don’t allow the fellow near you till he has made amends.
I just had cataract surgery. The doctor fellow assures me I can now see much better. I have not noticed any improvement in my vision but have resumed my dull routine of reading, writing and being shat upon by crows. About the only cheerful person in my life now is my granddaughter who breezes in and out twice a day. And when her parents are away for dinner, dines with me. I continue to have people run along in for a free drink in the evening – most of them with something to do with publishing. I have nine reprints of nine books due in the next two months. So I have little to grumble about.
Take care of yourself.
Love
Khushwant
41
9.4.2003
Dear Khushwant Singhji
You must have given a perfunctory glance at the news in the papers about a driver and his 20-year-old maalik ki beti who took their lives in a Lancer. For me it was more than mere statistics for there is a vast difference between reading about such things and witnessing them. I saw the gory scene enacted in front of my eyes at the hospital I work in. The place swarmed with policemen, their khaki uniforms in stark contrast with the white coats that flitted about in a flurry of activity. Anesthetists, physicians, duty medical officers were trying hard to stave off death that mocked their endeavours.
Stories abounded. At first it was thought that the two cases of poisoning were unrelated, for the young girl belonged to a well-to-do family and was brought in a good 20 minutes before an unconscious man. In fact the man was the family driver and the two had taken poison in a suicide pact for it seemed to be the only way out of a liaison that had no future. As they awaited a painful, lingering, messy death, they rang up their respective families.
The Afternoon Girl Page 15
