The girl’s parents rushed to the spot and, leaving the driver to die a death they thought he deserved, brought their daughter to our hospital. But she had crossed the point of no return. Her father took the official declaration of her death without a flicker of grief on his impassive face.
By now the driver’s family had managed to bring him to the hospital. The doctors did succeed in reviving him for a moment. Turning towards the dead girl on the adjoining bed in the triage, he declared ‘I love her’ and gave up the ghost. His wronged wife gave full-throated vent to her grief, for a straying husband was better than no husband at all especially if one has a young family to raise.
After that it was jitne muh utni baatein. Everyone had an opinion. I heard comments like ‘a girl who brought dishonour to her family deserved to die’. Others felt sorry for the family that would have to live with the disgrace for generations to come. Yet others blamed the father for sending his vulnerable young daughter alone with a handsome driver to college/tuition. Yet others blamed the media that keeps the young in a state of continual sexual excitement. Perhaps I was the only one who sympathized with the unlikely pair but I dared not voice my opinion. Only the ‘chosen’ few like me who have experienced a passion that churns up the senses like an in-resident tornado blinding one to reason, social obligations and good sense can understand that the two were victims of emotions over which they had no control. They deserved pity and not condemnation; not that it mattered any more. The desperation that prompted them to take their lives, the agonizing final hour together and an excruciating death conjured up a picture too stark to contemplate.
A craving beyond satiation, a longing so intense that it fears not logic, conscience or society, is a blessing and curse rolled into one. Those who have not experienced such desire have not lived at all, though the price they pay for it be death, as the Laila Majnus of yore. Have you ever experienced passion of such grand scale for any woman in your life? It would be unseemly to divulge details but you could just say yes or no.
After the diamond fiasco I have kept away from him for more than a month and he is ready to climb the wall. My rejection has made me the most desirable object on earth. Initially he accused me of having mercenary designs to which I retorted, ‘All the more reason to keep away from me.’
‘I would if my body let me.’ It felt good to be desired so at this age.
‘In that case let me live up to my reputation.’
‘What is it that you want?’
‘A solitaire for each visit.’
He gasped in disbelief. ‘A solitaire!’
‘After all I have 50 years of experience.’ I quipped at which both of us burst out laughing.
The first and perhaps the only replacement of fakes with genuine have arrived and his persistence is beginning to wear me down.
Now for the joke:
A man went to the doctor because he could not get an erection. He was asked to suckle the breast of a nursing mother to cure him of his impotence. With great difficulty he found a prostitute who had recently delivered a child and told her that he would pay her just for sucking her breast. She agreed readily enough but when he went on and on she was ready to pay him to complete the act. When he made no move to proceed further, she urged, ‘Hore vi kuch laina hai te lele. (If you want anything else, take it.)’
‘In that case can I have 2 biscuits with the milk?’ asked the man humbly.
Love
Amrinder
Though I sent explicit epistles, I refrained from using dirty words. He had no such qualms and did not baulk from calling a spade a spade – that paradoxically shocked my sensibilities.
15th April 2003
Dear Amrinder
Your letters are always a joy to read. Liaisons between chauffeurs and boss’s daughters are as old as the invention of motor cars. A whole generation of Americans were initiated into sex on the rear seats of model-T Fords. However car seats – front or rear – are not the best places to get the best out of copulation. But once a man has his pecker up and a woman’s pussy is damp with desire nothing can stop them from having a bang: in an aircraft in full view of other passengers, in tiny toilets, against walls, even on horseback. It’s only when love invades into the domain of lust things begin to go wrong. So beware of love.
I am glad you are making the bugger pay for cheating you. Stick to the motto: no solitaire, no fuck.
I’ve just had cataract surgery and awaiting the doctor’s permission to go to Kasauli. He won’t let me resume swimming and Delhi is getting too warm for walking.
Keep in touch.
Love
Khushwant
42
16.6.03
Dear Khushwant Singhji
Ever since I read about the grand aarti at Haridwar in your book The Company of Women, I longed to see it. My wish was granted this summer. En route to Mussoorie, we stopped at Haridwar for a day. The pundas, like hawkers called out to customers, selling their wares – be it blessings or prayers. After the scrupulous cleanliness of gurudwaras the filth and squalor that surrounded Hinduism was beyond endurance. I stepped into the fast flowing waters of the Ganga to get a picture taken and ended up having a ‘Ganga snan’ pat amidst men. Veiled by anonymity, I walked the streets (pun unintended) of Haridwar dripping wet. My husband almost disowned me (I wish he really had), till my clothes dried up. In the afternoon we went by trolleys to hilltops that housed the temples of Mansa Devi and Chandi Devi – though with me by his side my husband needn’t have bothered to visit the latter at least.
In the evening we sat cross-legged on the marble floor with the increasing crowd on the opposite bank of the Ganga, awaiting twilight when the evening prayers would begin. Every now and then we were asked to shift forward so that others could be accommodated. My most abiding memory of the aarti was the phlegm that god in His wisdom deemed fit to bestow upon my daaman through a generous devotee who expectorated right there! I barely managed to prevent myself from puking on the devotee ahead of me.
As evening gave way to night, the hour-long wait was little price to pay for the exaltation of seeing a myriad fiery lights reflected in Ganga maiya and hear chants intoned in exactly the same way they were chanted since the beginning of Hinduism millenniums ago.
The latest version of the saying ‘A bird in hand is worth two in a bush’ doing the rounds is ‘One in hand is worth two in a bra.’
Love
Amrinder
***
19 June 2003
Dear Amrinder
I am sorry you did not find the Ganga aarti as exciting as I do, every time I watch it. You were in the wrong company and did the wrong things like getting into the icy stream. I go as a distant spectator of a pagan ritual and am transported to another world.
I spent over a month at Kasauli, wrote a lot of pages of no great merit. All my characters young and old are impatient to get down to fucking. It is a tedious repetition of the same thing and even I get bored writing about it. Sex and death obsess me. Maybe there is something common between the two of them. Orgasms are like dying for a few moments.
The sudden change from cool Kasauli to Delhi’s inferno has taken its toll. I feel low. I guess this is what is known as heat exhaustion. I haven’t stirred out of my AC-cooled bedsitter.
Much love
Khushwant
***
3.7.2003
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I suffered from severe gastroenteritis after returning from Haridwar where the holy waters of the Ganga almost gave me a taste of afterlife! As it is, a dip in the muddy waters made me feel as if I had added on the sin of others, instead of washing away mine. Not even the devout Hindus really think they are actually cleansed after the purifying bath as illustrated by this little story.
To test the faith of their devotees, once Parvati lay the ‘corpse’ of Shiva on the riverbank and wailed: ‘My husband is dead but god has granted me a boon – if one who is free of sins touches him, he will be resurre
cted, but if a sinner touches him he too will die. You purified ones, please come forward and revive my suhaag.’
Despite a dip in the Ganga, none of the devotees really believed that they had washed away their sins, for no one dared to oblige her. Only a drunk thought that he was cleansed by the holy bath and came forward to touch the body.
Barely had I recovered from the after-effects of ‘Ganga snan’ when my father fell sick. He has excruciating backache for which, he needs bed rest and physiotherapy and I have to attend to his needs. Though I long to see you I will be able to make it only after he recovers a bit.
Meanwhile I have collected a bunch of jokes on female undergarments to amuse you.
Bra manufacturers call themselves social workers for they work for ‘mass upliftment’. As a bra manufacturer quoted eloquently:
Samaaj seva main karta hoon
Gire huon ko uthata hoon
Bichde hue ko milata hoon!
Another lamenting the poor business of the retailers of female undergarments said:
Body (bra) vich tey do mil jaande hun
Petticoat vich tey pana painda hai.
He meant money.
A man went about carrying a condom in one pocket and the Hanuman Chalisa in the other. Intrigued, a friend asked the purpose of keeping such diverse articles in his pockets. To this he replied, ‘Bhoot aur ch*** ka kya bharosa, kab mil jaye!’
Looking forward to seeing you soon.
Love
Amrinder
***
8 July 2003
Dear Amrinder
As always your letter was a treat. I am sorry to hear Ganga mai was rough with you and you had to look after an ailing parent. What are daughters for? If Mala had not been around to medicate me and look after my home I would have to hire a nurse/mistress to keep me alive.
Tell me, is too much urination to be taken seriously? I have to get up at least three times in the night to empty my bladder. It disturbs my sleep and dream sequence. I don’t want to see your uncle. He puts me through a dozen tests and adds to the number of pills I have to take morning and bedtime. Is it a symptom of high blood sugar or diabetes? I’ll pay you for your advice in the form of a book of your choice.
Love
Khushwant
***
10.7.2003
Dear Khushwant Singhji
If only I could apply for the job of a nurse-cum-mistress to you, though I know that there will be more of nursing than ‘mistressing’ to be done, as in the following joke:
A young boy asked his grandfather if he still had sex with daadi.
‘Yes,’ replied the old man.
‘What do you prefer?’
‘Oral sex.’
‘What exactly do you do?’ asked the grandson, intrigued.
‘We lie down together in bed and I whisper in her ear ‘I f*** you,’ and she replies
‘I f*** you too.’ And we put off the lights and go off to sleep.’
In fact this is what we have been doing all these years through letters – making verbal love.
Now for a bit of medical advice; excessive urination could be due to urinary tract infection or diabetes. If the stream is weak, it could be an enlarged prostrate. If the above have been ruled out, your problem could be merely due to a weak bladder for which you will have to make a conscious effort to hold your urine for longer and longer periods, till your bladder learns to obey you. It is said that the bladder is a ‘poor master but a good slave’; so don’t let your bladder get the better of you.
Love
Amrinder
***
14 July 2003
Dear Amrinder
Last night up four times. No trouble peeing. Mostly one stream uninterrupted – occasionally a spray (have mild prostrate and won’t have surgery – it gives me an occasional erection which is pleasant). Won’t see Kalra till I am laid out. Taking no exercise. Would like to swim regularly but with inclement weather have become lethargic. Eat moderately – just one mango or muesli for breakfast, soup, cheese and a slice of bread for lunch – no tea – the main meal is dinner but not heavy. I’ve lived a fulfilled life both work-wise and fuck-wise. No regrets.
I have put aside my most lavish production of the Kama Sutra for you. You may find it embarrassing to explain where it came from. It’s up to you to take it or regret it.
As I keep saying your letters are a joy because of the oral sex content – and good writing. So keep writing and drop in when you can.
Love
Khushwant
I kissed the little yellow envelope with the spiky ECG-like writing and read the letter over and over again. As for the ‘your letters are a joy to read’, I could never have enough of that statement. The time had come to meet him once again.
43
On 21 July, I rang up Khushwant Singh in the morning. It was pouring outside, but rain would be no deterrent if he called me over.
As usual, I dressed up carefully in an embroidered navy-blue salwar–kameez and understated jewellery. It smote me afresh that I was prettying myself for Khushwant Singh as I used to for SP once. The rain had stopped and Delhi had been washed anew. The roads had turned into shallow streams and potholes into tiny ponds. I precariously ferried my valiant Zen through the rough terrain with a song on my lips.
Khushwant Singh looked dapper in a cool, blue, cotton kurta and white pyjamas, though there was not much he could do about his unkempt beard. He kissed me on the cheek and with his arm around me, escorted me in.
‘Your jokes have me in splits,’ he said. ‘Some are absolutely unforgettable. I jot them down in a little notebook I keep by my side and tell them to my friends. We have a hearty laugh.’
I glowed at the appreciation.
‘There’s a tame joke that I’d like to tell you. It is even publishable. Like the crows in your backyard, a crow shat upon a sardar. When his wife handed him a tissue to wipe the mess, he asked: “Hoon kidi poonja? Kaa te ud gaya hai (Whose bottom should I wipe now? The crow has flown away.).”’
He laughed heartily.
‘Now tell me which of the diamonds you are wearing is real?’ ‘None. My stock of real diamonds has dwindled to such a meagre quantity that I have taken to keeping them in the locker.’
‘These look real enough to me.’
‘Sometimes even jewellers can’t distinguish the fakes from the real ones because very good quality zircons look almost like real diamonds.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘My brother had come from England and decided to buy diamonds for his wife. So we took him to a jeweller. On a whim, I asked the salesgirl how much the solitaires I was wearing were worth.
‘“You must be joking,” said the salesgirl. “These are not real.”
‘“How can you say that?” I asked, aghast.
‘“Let me prove it.”
‘I handed her my ring. She touched it to the tip of an instrument. With real stones, the light turned green, while with others, it remained amber. All my pieces tested amber while the tiny stone on my sister-in-law’s ring glowed green! The humiliation in front of my relatives was more than I could bear.’
‘Were does one get such an instrument?’
‘I don’t know, but every major jeweller has one. Some have a buzzer that rings when it comes in contact with the hardest stone in the world.’
‘Your Kama Sutra is on the windowsill. Take it.’
As I was doing so, he said, ‘It is the largest ever print of the text. More of a sampler’s copy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How will you explain it?’
‘No explaining at all. By the time I reach home, my husband would have left for his clinic. I’ll read it when he is not around.’
‘It can be a ground for a divorce.’
‘I have given him reason enough for a divorce but he refused to grant me one.’
‘Doesn’t your husband claim his conjugal rights?’ This was one question he asked each time I visi
ted him.
‘No.’
‘What does he do for sex? Does he have a girlfriend or a mistress?’
‘I don’t think so. Not that I am jealous.’
‘You have no business being jealous.’
Then he asked what he always did: about my writing and the going rate for my articles. I told him about the two columns in Woman’s Era that I submitted every fortnight and the articles and short stories I wrote whenever the mood overtook me.
I also told him that I was occasionally asked to write on specific topics like HRT – hormone replacement therapy – which was once considered the elixir of youth, but research showed that it offered no protection against the problems it had been said to protect – heart attacks and Alzheimer’s.
‘I lived with Alzheimer’s for five years.’
‘I know.’
‘The medicine was very expensive – a tiny bottle was for Rs 5,000 and she needed two bottles each month. Besides this, she needed two nurses, which I did not grudge her. It was a necessity. Mala managed the household and supervised everything; she couldn’t have possibly done the nursing too. But the medicines were useless.’
‘If you remember, I had told you that no medicine helps in Alzheimer’s.’
‘But that is outright cheating. The doctors should have told us.’
‘What did she die of, finally?’
‘She was sitting on a chair, snoring loudly. When I asked her, the nurse said there was nothing amiss. Little did we know then that it was a death rattle. When I emerged from my shower, she snored no more. Your uncle was summoned and he declared her dead. It was a tremendous relief. There were no religious ceremonies after her death, for she wanted it that way.’
‘I have always wanted to ask why you turned atheist.’
‘I gave up religion after reading the scriptures – and not just the Guru Granth Sahib, about which I wrote extensively. I taught comparative religion for a while and so got to read the Koran, the Bible and the Upanishads. Sikh religion is basically the Upanishads.’
The Afternoon Girl Page 16
