The Afternoon Girl

by Amrinder Bajaj

  ‘That’s true. The very fact that you were seen together in the vicinity of a gynaecologist’s clinic would have made people draw the wrong conclusion. When a person brings a woman for abortion to my clinic and says that he is merely a friend in need, I only pretend to believe him. What made you go out of your way and risk your reputation to help her? Maybe you were a little in love with her yourself,’ I said, my mind–mouth filter rendered defunct as usual.

  ‘No. I too was taken in by the poem she had written,’ he said, smiling shyly. It was the first time I had seen such an expression on his face.

  ‘Who was the prettier of the two, your wife or Amrita?’

  The very fact that he evaded my question was answer enough. Instead, he told me about a court case he helped her settle, ending his narrative with a regretful ‘she was always a taker’.

  I told him that I had gone to her house once with SP as he had persuaded her to write a foreword for the collection of Hindi poems I had written and he had printed – the by-product of our passion. I ended, saying, ‘The shaded lamps barely hid the ravages of age but khandar bata rahe the ki imaarat kitni buland thi …’

  He laughed and continued reminiscing.

  ‘One day Amrita rang me up and sobbed on the phone. Someone had implied in an article that her daughter was illegitimate and no one was quite sure who her father was. “My daughter is yelling at me and crying and refuses to believe me when I say that there is no truth in the article,” she said. So I told the person who had written the piece that this was just not done and he had the good grace to apologize.’

  ‘She had written about her daughter questioning her about her legitimacy in her autobiography. It’s called Rassedi Ticket, a title, she said, you suggested,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. After listening to the details of her love life which amounted to so little, I told her that her entire story could be written on the back of a revenue stamp,’ he replied, giving me the reason for the odd title.

  ‘But Imroz did stay with her till the end.’

  ‘He was utterly devoted – good enough as a slave, not the master of the house.’

  ‘He carried out the mundane activities of day-to-day living so that she could live life on an exalted plain and produce the body of literary work that she did.’

  ‘Most of it was mediocre. Just because she became famous, everyone lapped up whatever she wrote.’

  I thought the same held true for him, but did not voice my opinion.

  ‘About your poems,’ he continued, ‘poetry is not saleable. It costs about a lakh or a lakh and a half to publish a book and publishers do not like to take a chance. Moreover, I know only Penguin.’

  ‘Chalega,’ I said laughingly. ‘After all, it is only the best. The only thing saleable I have with me is our correspondence. That, I know, they will lap up.’

  ‘Do that after I am gone.’ He smiled.

  As the conversation progressed, I began taking out the bottle of Chivas Regal I had brought from the duty-free shop in London when his daughter Mala entered. I was a little embarrassed but there was nothing I could do about it. In fact, looking mighty pleased with the gift, he gave it to her for safekeeping.

  ‘But I thought I was to get it after I got the job done.’

  ‘No, this is an incentive. I have another one for later. There was a scheme at the duty-free shop that dropped the price substantially if I bought a twin pack. Here are some chocolates too.’

  ‘Look, Mala, she has brought me chocolates!’ He chuckled and introduced me as their family doctor’s niece for the nth time. ‘You could give them to Naina if you don’t eat them,’ I said, but I could glean from the twinkle in his eyes that he did.

  I took leave soon. On the way back, I stopped at a roundabout and took photographs of the lush pink chorisia blossoms, the only tree in Delhi that bloomed in winter, as Khushwant Singh had told me once. I was in the autumn of my life and desperately wanted to bloom as a writer.

  65

  9.11.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  It was nice seeing you after such a long time. there was such a rush of affection (of a type i know not what name to put) that i was overwhelmed. i loved every bit of the stimulating conversation we had, though it was chiefly about Amrita Pritam.

  Could you tell me what ravi Singh had to say about my book of poems? If only you could promote me, (consider it as a good deed that you have it in you to perform) I’d be eternally grateful. My desperation has reduced me to beg for favours.

  As usual I end with a raunchy joke.

  Old man to his penis: We were born together, lived together, enjoyed ourselves together, then why did you have to die before me?

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  11 Nov. 2005

  Dear Amrinder

  I handed over your collection to Ravi Singh. You have to abide by his decision. He takes his own sweet time and never answers telephone calls. Don’t be impatient.

  It is always a pleasure meeting you. I wish you were as forthcoming face-to-face as you are in your letters.

  I often speak to my dick in the same way. Besides having become limp and lifeless, the fellow has also become tone deaf. Why he should dangle on to me is a mystery.

  Much love

  Khushwant

  ***

  29.11.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  It is 1.30 a.m. You are an early riser and I a late sleeper especially when the literary bug gets me. I get most of my inspirations and an acute desire to write to you, at this time of the night though I know that these erratic timings will give me a migraine.

  I’ve wanted to write to you earlier but have held back for the corniest of reasons – I had no raunchy joke to tell! So I scouted about and came up with these two, which I will tell you right at the outset.

  A girl went to the doctor to get a routine urine examination done. Her report got mixed up with another’s and the doctor said, ‘You are pregnant.’

  ‘Oh god!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘Aaj kal to gaajar ka bhi bharosa nahi!’

  A teacher went to school with the zip of his pants inadvertently left open. The students kept giggling and paid no attention to what he was teaching. Furious, he exclaimed: ‘Chup raho, nahin to main bahar nikal ke khada kar doogna!’

  Thanks for giving my MSS of poems to Ravi Singh. I am quite willing to wait patiently. SM of OP Publishers has tried my patience beyond the limits of patience. Despite a contract signed a year back he is still sitting on my joke book. I do not know what to make of this peculiar subspecies of human being called publishers. What do I do next? Please advise. Sorry to trouble you time and again with my literary woes.

  Love

  Amrinder

  3 Dec. 2005

  Dear Amrinder

  I loved the carrot joke; will retell it as my creation. I’ll ask Ravi when he drops in next time – likely in the next 4–5 days. I hope SM sticks to his word about the joke collection. I will remind KM.

  Put 12 January 6 p.m. in your diary. The PM will release my Illustrated History of the Sikhs (OUP) at the Meridien. I said no to the release in his house. No celebration without liquor. Card will follow. Security regulations will require you to produce it.

  I’ve lit a fire in my grate. Most cosy. I have hot-water bottles to sleep with. Can there be any truth in the assertion that men who have been buggered never have enlarged prostrates? A Pakistani told me that. He told me that he had been regularly sodomized in school, enjoyed it and has no anus or gland problems. He is 73. Anyhow too late in the day to think of it as therapy.

  Much love

  Khushwant

  ***

  14.12.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  This is the first I have heard of such a thing. Must ask someone to conduct a survey on homosexuals. I am not too sure about the prevention of anal problems – though a dilated sphincter is less prone to piles and fissure. I do know of a 12-year-old boy who was operated for large,
moist, cauliflower-like growths around his anus, called condylomata. His mama had been buggering him regularly and had sexually transmitted the disease to the poor boy. I do not know if I should be saying this, but a lot of ‘celibate’ priests – fathers and brothers are homosexuals. My son’s friend had been subjected to this sort of abuse from fifth standard onwards by the principal of a prestigious convent and he was envied for being the principal’s pet!

  I would like to ask you a question that has been bothering me for quite a while and I can ask no other. Do women scream while having an orgasm? I for one don’t but one keeps reading about it in books or seeing it in movies? If they do proclaim their pleasure so vocally, it would wake up and embarrass an entire household – children, in-laws, servants!

  I have never seen a fire in a grate in a Delhi household. I would love to sit by the fire in your company but it is usually lit by 5 p.m. and I have to leave around that time for my evening clinic. If ever I get down to writing my memoirs in relation to you I would call it ‘Afternoon Girl’.

  For want of something better I am sending this joke. A man complained to the Almighty that ‘Zindagi mein bahut kasht hai’ because people kept putting his organ in their mouths, between their breasts and in orifices lower down. To this the Almighty replied, ‘Tu akda kam kara kar.’

  Love

  Amrinder

  ***

  19 Dec. 2005

  Dear Amrinder

  My recollections of the few I roused to orgasmic explosions – two of them (one Indian Muslim, the other Canadian)– is that they began to moan which lasted over a couple of minutes before they collapsed like corpses while I was still hammering on. It gave me a great sense of triumph. Another, American, began to bray like a wild boar and made an agonizing noise, which could be heard down the street. I was very put off. Yet another, a sardarni, who had laid supine in earlier encounters once went berserk, got on top till she had a violent convulsion and having exhausted herself, fell off the bed with a thud and hurt herself. Others did nothing and I presume did not have orgasms. Why are you so interested?

  Another title for your memoirs could be Distant Copulations.

  Keep 12 Jan. 6 p.m. Hotel Meridien in your mind and diary. A card will follow. I expect there will be a huge crowd for free liquor, canapés, and a darshan of the PM and his wife.

  It’s got very chilly. I spend most of my time in my heated bedroom listening to Western classical music on my satellite radio, reading and scribbling. As far from the world as possible.

  Love

  Khushwant

  ***

  29.12.05

  Dear Khushwant Singhji

  On the eve of the New Year I wish you all the best along with this humble prayer.

  May you cross the hundred mark. May your wit scintillate like sparklers on moonless nights. May your pen win the race against time and may your name glow forever on literary horizons. May the affection of real friends warm your winters like the blaze in your grate, like the liquid fire of your sundowner. Let peace and contentment seep in your soul to calm, like Western classical music.

  Don’t let your bladder make a slave of you; don’t allow your legs to wobble and your knees give way. Don’t let your BP shoot up at the slightest disturbance for, if your fantasies are as vivid as an adolescent, if your mind is as sharp as a man in his prime, if your tongue can yet tickle many an ear (don’t take that literally), if your words spread the gift of laughter, you can, if you want, get the better of age. There are many more book releases in you yet.

  Now for the last joke of this year: Women are the best engineers. They accept any size of pistons, are self-lubricating, start up with a finger and have an automatic oil change every four weeks.

  Love

  Amrinder

  66

  2.1.06

  Dear Amrinder

  Thank you. ‘Bless you’. After the 12th find your way towards Kalra’s flat and stop a few paces short of your ‘destination’.

  A v. happy 2006 and the years to come.

  Love

  K

  The letter arrived on the fifth, along with a bulky courier – the manuscript of my poems that Penguin had returned. It weighed heavier on my chest than in my hands. I was destined to live and die a failed writer. The familiar ache spread from my core in the form of a tingling numbness to my fingertips. I had persuaded myself to believe that 2006 would prove to be a fruitful literary year. Though deeply disappointed, I was surprised to learn that after repeated cycles of hope and despair, the mourning period for a rejected manuscript had decreased considerably.

  A couple of days later, I received the invitation I had waited eagerly for weeks. I was tickled to read that it was addressed to: Dr Amrinder Bajaj (and husband).

  And husband did not need much persuasion to bunk his clinic this time. I dressed in a turquoise sari, tucked a rose in my hair and set off for our rendezvous with the PM and the incorrigible old man of Indian literature. After an elaborate security check, we settled in chairs arranged formally in front of a dais. Achievers from various fields were all around, but I had eyes only for Khushwant Singh who was seated on a sofa in the front centre corner, awaiting the PM. He could not see me and I did not deem it fit to disturb him just then.

  The PM arrived with his wife at six. After the opening address by Manzar Khan, managing director of Oxford University Press india, Khushwant Singh made a witty speech that was punctuated by laughter from the audience. Here is a portion of his speech: ‘This is the first time I am meeting Manmohan Singh after he became PM. As I was going through my book of quotations, I came across this line written by John Young: “To be published by Oxford University Press is like being married to a duchess. The honour is as intense as the pleasure.” As I have been repeatedly published by OUP, I have had the honour of owning a harem of duchesses. Each time I get published, I add another duchess to my harem. This time, with the PM releasing the book, it feels as if I am marrying a grand duchess.

  ‘When it was suggested to ask the PM to release the book, I did not think it would be possible, but his secretary managed to arrange it somehow. Manmohan Singh would have liked to release the book at PM house. No doubt Gursharan Kaur would have served you tea, coffee, samosas and pakodas, but that was not my idea of a celebration. So they graciously agreed to come here only after Gursharan Kaur extracted a promise from me. No liquor would be served till the PM was here. So ladies and gentlemen, bear with me.’

  He went on to give us the salient features of the Illustrated History of the Sikhs. He had been commissioned by the British High Commission to write it way back and had done so after collecting data from all over, including the Smithsonian centres in America. After he had finished writing it, he had ended the book with two words in Latin which meant ‘my life’s work is done’. That was thirty years ago. As so much had been added to the history since the first edition came out, he was asked to update it. He covered the dark period around 1984, the militant Bhindranwale phase that led to Operation Blue Star, the assassination of Indira Gandhi and the massacre of Sikhs. He said that the Hindu–Sikh divide that was the intention of the entire exercise did not come about and it was to the credit of the Sikhs that they had once again been integrated into the mainstream. With a Sikh as the PM, a Sikh at the head of the army and Sikhs leading in various other fields, he felt that the prophecy of the gurus had come true.

  Khushwant Singh was all praise for the PM and described him as being more erudite than all our previous prime ministers put together. He also elaborated on Manmohan Singh’s humility and integrity.

  Speaking with a distinct Punjabi accent, the PM’s speech was short and sweet, followed by Mrs Charanjit Singh’s vote of thanks.

  To my surprise, Khushwant Singh disappeared with the PM and was not to be seen again at his own book release. No book-signing spree as on earlier occasions.

  As we knew no one, we left after buying a copy of the book.

  67

  14.1.06

&n
bsp; Dear Khushwant Singhji

  I attended your book release on the 12th. It was a very formal occasion, with intense security but that is to be expected with the PM as the chief guest. Your speech was one of the finest I have heard and so was the prime minister’s, though he did speak with a distinct Punjabi accent ‘jaain’ for ‘join’ and ‘sail’ for ‘soil’. I had met him earlier at a previous book release when he was the finance minister and a more unassuming person I have yet to see.

  Though we had our fill of the lavish spread, I regret not meeting you at your own book release. The book appears lifeless without your signature, but never mind I can come over to get it signed whenever you are free.

  Penguin returned my poems as fast as a bullet (as far as MSS go), and the pain was as intense and brief as a gunshot wound. Though it reiterated the fact that I was destined to die a failed writer my recovery period after a rejection has shortened considerably. The fact that I do make Rs 25,000–30,000 pocket money a year writing for magazines is placating but I do wish I could rise as a novelist of repute. Thanks for your help anyway.

  I was in splits over a joke told to me by a colleague of mine. A very fat man and a woman met at a party and agreed for a one-night stand. After it was over, the woman said, ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  Love

  Amrinder