The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

  ‘With such a history, who else would be better qualified to give a treatise on marriage?’ I said.

  ‘She first married into the rich Kilachand family but, two children later, she left him and went abroad with a foreigner who was a bigshot in Bombay. In America, she ditched him; this when the poor fellow had divorced his wife for her. Then she met Dilip De, a divorcee or widower …’

  ‘A widower, according to her autobiography,’ I prompted.

  ‘She met him at a party and he made a pass at her that put her in a rage. Later, the same guy made her heart go dhak dhak and she married him and lived happily ever after with his children, her children and their children. She also mentions that the recipe for a good marriage is good sex – the more of it the better,’ he said.

  ‘I used to hold the same opinion. That one tends to forgive and forget everything when there is pleasure and compatibility in bed; otherwise even minor faults are magnified manifold. But now I am not too sure – after the “diamond betrayal”, matters can never be the same between him and me, however much he tries to make amends.’

  ‘She also mentions that one can use aroma massage to arouse one’s partner.’

  ‘It is all a play of hormones. As long as I needed it, I would put up with anything. Now that the levels have dropped, desire has waned, and his faults have come to the fore,’ I opined.

  ‘Shobhaa De also mentions that halitosis is a great turn-off; so no lahsun or pyaaz before the act.’

  ‘I agree. In one of her books, she also mentions how the protagonist was completely put off by a partner who would belch on her face during the act! Ugh!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘She says that though doctors do allow sex during pregnancy, one should avoid penetrative sex. There are other ways of doing it. For example, the tongue can be used for activities other than talking.’

  ‘Orgasm, even if attained by “non-penetrative” means, can disrupt a pregnancy prone to disruption, for it leads to a series of uterine contractions. Though, we do not forbid intercourse during the course of a normal pregnancy. ’ I gave my medical opinion.

  ‘You must buy the Outlook and read it.’

  ‘I will. As I reached early today and had time to spare before the appointment, I bought your latest book from Bahri Sons.’ I took it out and gave it to him for an autograph. He scribbled something on it and said, ‘Now you will not be able to show it to anyone else.’

  He had written: ‘To Amrinder with lots of love and a little lust.’

  ‘Why little?’ I asked, laughing, knowing full well it was because he had little or none left.

  ‘The publishers tell me that the first edition has sold out. They are into a second print. They were the ones who suggested that we compile all the obits I had written and it is doing quite well.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I wonder if you have heard of the rani who died in UK.’

  ‘Yes, you told me that they had asked you if you knew how to tie a sari as they needed to put one on her after embalming and you said that you knew only to untie one!’

  ‘The publishers asked me to put that incident in this book too.’

  ‘It was also mentioned in your autobiography.’

  It was time now to put my proposition in front of him.

  ‘What happens when two people jointly write a book? For example, the book on the Sikhs. Raghu Rai took the pictures and you wrote the text. What about the copyright, the sharing of royalties?’

  ‘It is as mentioned in the contract. Usually it is 50–50. “Why do you ask?’

  ‘I am in the habit of writing a diary. Not in the way a diary is usually written, about day-to-day affairs. I keep different diaries for different purposes – one on my marital life or the lack of it, another on my professional highs and lows, yet another on SP and our deteriorating relationship. In a similar way, I maintain a Khushwant diary. While going over it in the last couple of days I realized it was wonderful material for publication. If we could …’

  ‘Publish it after I am gone.’

  ‘You give permission?’ I asked, vastly relieved. A great weight had been lifted off me. ‘There are so many embarrassing revelations on both sides … and the dirty jokes. If deleted, nothing remains of interest to the publisher or reader; if retained, there could be trouble.’

  Before he could add anything to which I would be committed, I asked, ‘How does one switch over from one publisher to the other?’

  ‘You ask the original publisher if he is interested in reprints. If so, he can continue doing so. If not, ask him to release you of the contract.’

  ‘The publisher of The Adolescent Girl hasn’t sold even the original print run of 1,100 copies. Of these, I sold 500 copies.’

  ‘Did you get royalties?’

  ‘Only for the copies I helped sell – Rs 2,000.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He asked me to wait till all are sold out. He talked of contacting NK so that it could be used for the chain of schools he is director of, but never got around to doing it. I have a better plan – to update and illustrate it and hand it over to NK myself so that he earns double the profit – from the publishing and the sale of the books in his own schools.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend that. You would agree with me that K.P.S. Gill’s story – especially his putting an end to terrorism in Punjab – would have made interesting reading. He signed a contract with Penguin at my house. NK heard of it and offered to pay him Rs 1 lakh. K.P.S. Gill rang me up, asking me to release him of his contract with Penguin. I refused. Anyhow, the book did not sell. I read it. There was nothing in it but boring religious stuff – like how the gurus would not have approved of terrorism.’

  ‘This when he had such an interesting story to tell. So no one stood to gain, while NK lost one lakh rupees. Good.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Where do I go, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Have you tried HarperCollins?’

  ‘You mean Rupa & Co.?’

  ‘No, HarperCollins. Which is with India Today.’

  ‘No. All these big publishers have a “backlog” of 2–3 years and do not accommodate nonentities.’

  ‘Mr Ashok Chopra at HarperCollins is an honest person – a thorough gentleman. His wife had compiled some of my articles and got them published. I asked them to keep the royalty, for which they are highly obliged.’

  ‘Do they publish fiction?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘What is his number?’

  ‘It is easy to get. If the secretary does not let you get through, mention my name. They have published a set of nine books of mine.’

  ‘At one of your book release functions, I saw a fat volume of all your books in one cover on display at the stall. What is it called?’

  ‘Omnibus. It contains all my fiction.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I have talked with KM. His brother must have phoned you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I wonder what I would have done without you. How could they treat their authors so? I pretended that I knew nothing of your intervention on my behalf, for I did not want SM to lose face.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said that the book will be out in August when he had promised to publish it by March.’

  ‘That is still quite far.’

  ‘Maybe he started working on the book after your call. The excuse he gave was that they had already released a joke book recently and it would not be good policy to release two of the same genre at the same time. You know he also wants me to write a book called “From Conception to Birth”.’

  ‘Concentrate more on the conception part.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised, laughing.

  ‘KM does send me royalties regularly.’

  ‘That is because you are you and they dare not cheat you. It is different with people like me.’

  ‘I am sure they do cheat me too; but not to that extent. They were on the verge of closing down but started making money on my joke
book, which is quite silly. They are into the seventh joke book now and have sold several reprints.’

  ‘How many do they print at a time?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘And my publisher cannot sell 1,100!’ Then I unfolded the present I had got for him – a medium-sized green blanket with a red rose in the middle, and said, ‘I have brought this for you – light, soft and warm, like my affection.’

  ‘It is very soft,’ he replied and, flinging away the rough one over his legs, allowed me to drape it over him.

  ‘Put the other one there,’ he said, pointing to the bed. I folded it neatly and kept it on the bed. Fingering the blanket I had put on his legs he said again: ‘It is indeed soft. What is it made of?’

  ‘Fleece. It is very warm.’

  ‘What animal?’

  ‘I think it is synthetic. My daughter-in-law brought it from Singapore for me. I knew it was for you the moment I set eyes on it.’

  ‘Why do you load me with presents?’ he asked, though I could see that he was pleased.

  ‘Because it gives me pleasure. I think that in every relationship there is one that gives and one that takes – the lover and the beloved. The former gets as much pleasure in giving as the latter in taking. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘I think that is an oversimplification.’

  ‘How is your knee?’

  ‘Better. But I still feel pain, especially at night.’

  ‘Have you shown it to someone?’

  ‘I was forcibly taken to a hospital. X-rays were done and blood taken for various tests. They advised me to stop taking tomatoes as it increases uric acid levels. Tomatoes were my staple diet. I ate them in sandwiches and had tomato soup. I have stopped now. The hospital was very expensive. They charged Rs 10,000 just for the tests.’

  ‘That is not too bad.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, health care has become a flourishing business, especially in the corporate sector.’

  ‘Even your mama fleeces me … my father has given this flat to him almost free.’

  ‘You’ve told me that.’

  ‘Do you know what the rent of a flat in Sujan Singh Park is these days? Rs 60,000, 70,000, 1 lakh.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Rahul prefers to live in Bombay and has let out the one he owns in Sujan Singh Park.’

  ‘But he barely managed to get it vacated.’

  ‘At that time, there was talk about his getting married and settling down, but nothing materialized. He has rented it out to a friend for Rs 70,000 per month.’

  ‘In matters such as these, it takes no time for friends to turn foes. Is there no chance of his giving you a grandchild even out of wedlock?’

  ‘No. They have been together for thirty years. She is too old to have children now.’

  ‘People tend to stay together for longer periods when they know that they don’t have to do so.’

  ‘Do you know Brian Silas?’

  ‘The pianist? He has a Punjabi wife.’

  ‘A sardarni with two grown-up daughters. It was with great difficulty that she got her husband to divorce her. Brian comes here occasionally. When I asked him how it felt after marriage, he replied that it was much more fun when they did it in sin.’

  ‘That’s true. The guilt adds to the pleasure.’

  It was forty minutes since I had arrived but he showed no sign of tiring of me. I had to meet Mamaji briefly and leave before the evening traffic rush to reach in time for the evening OPD.

  Reluctantly, I got up.

  ‘Does your uncle know that you come here?’

  ‘Yes. It’s embarrassing to ring him up and say that I’d be dropping in because I have come to meet you.’

  ‘And he disapproves?’

  ‘He says nothing either way. My husband does not approve, but …’

  ‘You couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I laughed and got up.

  ‘Let’s see if he has lit the fire in the other room.’

  ‘No,’ said the manservant, for he did so at 5 p.m. and there were still fifteen minutes to go. However, the logs were neatly laid out. Khushwant Singh walked me to the door. I hugged him tight, kissed him on the cheek in full view of the servant and left with my face glowing, my heart singing. I had never felt so close to him before.

  59

  The very next day, I got the letter he had written on 17 February. Most of it was what we had already discussed during our meeting the previous day.

  Dear Amrinder

  I did speak to KM about your book. He promised to have his brother talk to you. I hope by now he has done so.

  Read your poetry. What I objected to was forced rhyming. Either write free verse (no objection) – or better rhyme lines properly. I liked your poems this time.

  Wasted a morning at the hospital. Bullied by my daughter and two lady admirers. Had the indignity of being pushed around in a wheelchair. Have a needle put in my ass and blood taken out of a vein. X-ray clear. Blood OK, but added 4 extra pills to Kalra’s dozen. Hence less pain. Money – Rs 10,000. You doctors are as bad as lawyers.

  You must come over as soon as you can. Since you do not drink, the best time for me would be around 5 p.m. when I leave my heated bedroom and answer telephone calls.

  Love

  Khushwant

  ***

  1.3.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I hope the wrap of my affection keeps you snug and warm in the winter of your life. The afternoon spent with you a few days ago will be counted amongst the most pleasurable ones in my life. I never felt so happy, so at ease in your house. It was as if an invisible glass barrier shattered silently. Even the simple task of folding the blanket and putting it on your bed gave me a feel of intimacy, as if I had been doing it all my life; as if I belonged.

  To the uninitiated, a ladybird swaying gently in a spider’s web would appear as a lady of leisure swinging on a silken hammock. How is one to know that, entangled in a web of deceit lies the hollow carcass of Love sucked dry of its last drop?

  I do not think that SP is being unfaithful to me with another, but the cheap tactics he adopts to keep me beholden to him sicken me. His tongue weaves lies with a deftness that would put the storyteller in me to shame. If there is anything I abhor above dishonesty, it is the pathetic attempt to cover tracks. Whenever I try to make a clean break, there follows a cacophony of abuses and threats followed by whines and meaningless endearments. The noise (I have long stopped paying attention to the words), like the traffic at ITO crossing during peak hours, gives me a splitting headache. I wonder at my stupidity – trying to douse a dying fire when all it needs is time to extinguish spontaneously.

  Even he realizes that the essence of the relationship is lost, yet he refuses to let go. It is said that ‘there is nothing more dead than dead love’; having killed it effectively, he now makes futile attempts to revive it. This negates Shobhaa De’s theory that great sex translates into great relationships. I too prescribed to the same school of thought till I had a surfeit of sex and nothing else to keep the two of us connected. It is all a play of hormones perhaps. Decreasing levels of desire have brought to fore the negative traits that existed all along, like boulders at the bottom of a drying lake.

  I seem to have given you a surplus of metaphors in this letter but my mind throws them up like flotsam when agitated – there I go again. I haven’t got down to reading your latest book yet, for I am in the middle of the extremely engrossing The Life of Pi – winner of the Man Booker Prize 2002. I bought the Outlook and read your riotous review of Shobhaa De’s book.

  It is 2 a.m. I have an operation early in the morning; though I need to be fresh, I am unable to sleep – thought might as well send you a few laughs.

  Sardar drops a bar of soap while bathing. Bends to pick it up and sees his ass in the mirror and tells his penis: ‘Baith ja saale, apni hi hai.’

  Reliance guy opens bra of Airtel girl and says, ‘Aisi azadi aur kah
an?

  Airtel girl opens his trousers, puts her hand inside and says, ‘Kar lo duniya mutthi mein.’

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  15.3.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I have just finished reading Shobhaa De’s Spouse: The Truth about Marriage – there was not much in it that I did not know already; the point is how one practises what she sagaciously preaches. I ended up feeling sorry for myself with no one to cuddle me during the cold winter nights, no one to rub my back when I am tired or cheer me up when I am low.

  The one thing I learnt from you is that self-pity is counterproductive. So I tried to look at the positive aspect and thought of how wonderfully I had adapted to my circumstances. This made me write lines like:

  We share a roof

  But not a bed.

  We share the kids

  But not our dreams.

  We share social space

  But not our privacy.

  We share household expenses

  But not a home.

  We share small talk but

  Do not communicate.

  And yet I do not complain

  For haven’t we

  Managed to convert

  A failed marriage into

  One of convenience?

  Writing as always has been the only form of psychotherapy I ever needed, so I went a step further and wrote:

  So what if I hug a pillow at night

  It does not suffer from halitosis

  And belch or pass foul wind.

  It moulds itself any which way I want

  And does not want to change sides

  When I am comfortably settled.

  It does not force itself on me

  When I’m not in the mood;

  And leaves me awake

  When I need to be needed.

  It does not

  Snore like a rattlesnake

  With its tail on fire and

  Does not keep me awake,

  Watching late night TV

  Which is more than can be said

  Of a long-standing husband!

  I wonder how Shobhaa De would react if she were to know that her book has spawned a spate of poems – a most unlikely by-product! Does she look as glamorous as her pictures or is she merely photogenic?