The Afternoon Girl
Page 33
As I did not want such a long association to end abruptly, I decided to give him one last chance and rang him up on the morning of 28 July 2009. His manservant picked up the phone, conveyed my message to Khushwant Singh and, wonder of wonders, he came to receive my call. He was very cordial and readily agreed when I asked if I could come over at 3.30 p.m.
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I dressed in a maroon georgette sari with a flowery print, adorned my ears and throat with garnets and set off for what could be my last visit to Khushwant Singh. I rang his bell at the appointed hour and waited patiently to give his old limbs ample time to reach the front door. After a decent interval, I rang the bell again to no avail. The humidity was making me sweat, so I fanned myself with a letter addressed to him that I had picked up from the alcove with the Ganesh statue outside his house and surveyed my surroundings. There were cats everywhere; one was suckling a pair of kittens almost as big as herself. Another was snoozing on her back. As the door hadn’t opened yet, I went towards the back of the house, but the veranda was locked. As a last resort, I rang him up from my mobile phone and apprised him of my predicament. Soon after, he opened the door himself, saying that he had asked the servant to stay back, but the fellow had disappeared.
‘Eh haal hai, dora ho gaya hun.’
‘Hearing aid nahin lagande?’
‘I tried one that a German lady got for me, but my voice echoed in my own ears, so I took it off. I use my deafness to fend off unwelcome visitors.’
‘I know from first-hand experience. On the one hand, I receive messages through Mamaji that you would like to meet me and on the other, you tell me on phone that you do not receive visitors. I was hurt.’
‘I must have mistaken you for someone else.’
‘You don’t answer my letters any more.’
‘But I do. You really never got any?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think your husband destroys them?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘I answer every letter of yours soon after reading it.’
I could not tell where the fault lay and let it pass.
He autographed a book Not a Nice Man to Know and gave it to me, saying, ‘It is a collection of my articles, some naughty, some not so naughty.’
I thanked him and took out a volume of the Songs of the Gurus for his autograph. Next, I took out my book, Sailing Smoothly through Pregnancy, and showed it to him proudly. He was more impressed by the fact that Elsevier was an international brand and perhaps they had given me a large signing amount and paid me in dollars. I told him that this was their Indian division and I had received only around 7,000 rupees as royalty since its release the previous November.
‘Why are you wasting this book on me? What will I do with it?’
‘I brought it to show you.’
‘Is it a textbook for doctors?’
‘No, for pregnant women, written in the Indian context with special reference to yoga and Indian myths,’ I said, keeping it back.
He enquired about my solitaire collection and I told him that it had slowed down by choice.
I handed over a sheaf of papers on which I had printed the jokes I knew he would relish and also gave him the Chivas Regal I had bought for him months ago.
‘I relish my drink alone in silence, but visitors hardly let me be. Of the blended brands, this is the best. But I have a penchant for single-malt whisky.’
I told him that I had actually seen Glenfiddich being made in Scotland.
‘The original ones are made in Scotland while fakes made elsewhere do not measure up,’ he mused.
‘At the Glenfiddich plant, they told us that this whisky owed its special flavour to the waters of the Robbie Dhu in the vicinity.’
‘Do you know Urdu?’ he asked abruptly.
‘I do know lot of Urdu words.’
‘Ghalib is all praise for “meh” and desired to remain in a semi-drunken state night and day.’
‘Do you read Hindi?’
‘Fairly well.’
‘Here is another book for you – Ghalib in translation, with meanings of words in Hindi. I have Ghalib in Gurmukhi by my bedside.’
‘I know only a smattering of Gurmukhi though I intend to rectify this omission. What are you writing at present?’
‘I have started another novel. I wonder if I will live to complete it.’
‘Of course you will.’
‘I do not know … at my age. The columns take up a lot of my time. I had taken two weeks off and written one chapter. Sometime later I will take some more time out to write the second chapter. Meanwhile, I jot down notes.’
‘I have so much fiction bottled up within me but there are no takers.’
‘There are plenty of takers. You don’t make the effort.’
‘I made plenty of effort on this pregnancy book. I would get up early or sleep late.’
‘What time in the morning?’
‘Not as early as you.’
‘I get up at 4 a.m. and do not waste time in paath, etc.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘I had given you an opportunity to write for the Outlook but you did not avail of it.’
I did not answer. Instead I asked, ‘Can I write about my interaction with you, these long years?’
‘Go ahead. It isn’t as if there was any intimacy between us.’
‘Thank you.’ I wanted to ask him to give his permission in writing but dared not.
‘Now run along, I have work to do.’
Now that I knew he said this even to the prime minister’s wife, I did not mind.
He kissed me at the door and let me out, saying, ‘Come again.’
31.7.09
Dear Khushwant Singhji
It was a pleasure meeting you after such a long time. When you did not respond to my letters and were brusque on the phone I thought sadly, ‘What a sorry end to such a long association.’ With a deep sense of loss I closed this chapter of my life. Your message conveyed through Mamaji infused new blood in a dying relationship and thankfully I got to meet you.
I hope you relished the jokes with your evening drink. Some of them are mild yet humorous; you could use them as the tailpiece in your columns. In fact I have added some more to my repertoire and am sending them to you.
Santa fondling his wife’s breast: Eh sakhat honde te bra di lor nahin hondi.
Santa’s wife holding his organ: Eh sakhat honda te bhra de ki lor nahin hondi.
Matha tek ke bibi boli: Babaji koi shub vachan bolo, koi mat deo.
Babaji: Bibi bra pa k aya kar. Mamme hilde dek k saadi matt maari jandi hai.
Love
Amrinder
***
6.10.09
Dear Khushwant Singhji
It is by the jokes that appear periodically in your column that I learn my letters reach you. Once again I got no reply though I waited eagerly for days on end.
I would not like to lose contact with you – through letters at least. I will try not to impose my presence upon you for I understand and respect your desire for solitude, though I would like to attend your 100th birthday.
Now for the jokes.
Indian: Sir, Pakistan se 16 inches ke condom ka order mila hai.
Manager: Voh hume depress karna chahate hain. Order tayyar karo aur likh do, ‘small size’.
Dad: Kal raat ko tum phir der se aye the.
Son: Kya batau dad, sab galat sangat ki wajah se hua hai … 6 dost, 6 beer aur unme se saale 5 peete hi nahi!
Ek mannya hoya sharabi di gaddi de picche likhya se ‘Daaru pe, banda ban. Roti te kutte ve khande hun.’
Love
Amrinder
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29.12.09
Dear Khushwant Singhji
What better way to start a new year than with a few laughs. I do not care if you have stopped replying to my letters; there were a few naughty jokes that I had to tell you which, with your earthy sense of humour, I knew you will appreciate.
‘Can you beli
eve that they are still together after all the shit that happened between them all these years?’
‘Who?’
‘Your butts.’
Aishwarya coke pi rahi thi jab usme ek macchar gir gaya. Macchar ke baap ne Aishwarya se aisa kya bola jo voh behosh ho gayi?
‘Aishwarya tere coke me mera bachcha hai!’
A lady was crossing the road with her blouse open and a boob exposed. When a policeman reprimanded her, she exclaimed, ‘Hai o rabba, munna tey bus vich hi reh gaya.’
As for my doctor joke book, I gave up on SM of OP Publishers for he did not honour the contract. Another publisher is in the process of publishing it. No marks for guessing to whom I have dedicated it.
To the master raconteur of our times
Khushwant Singh
I will bring it over once it is published, i.e., if you still feel like seeing visitors. I wish you a very happy, healthy and fruitful new year. May you live to be a hundred years and beyond.
Love
Amrinder
***
9 Jan. 2010
Dear Amrinder
For the 100th time I repeat I have answered every single letter from you, the very day I have got it. It is v frustrating.
Jokes good but unprintable. I keep them for private retelling.
The weather is almost killing me. All day wrapped in a razai, with a hot-water bottle by the fireside. And I … [could not decipher the last line]
Love
Khushwant
***
13.1.10
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I cannot tell you how happy I am to finally receive a letter from you. I wonder what happened to the ones you wrote in between.
I wish you had a warm body instead of a hot-water bottle to thaw the cold that has frozen your very bones. As my husband used to say in the early years of our marriage:
Eh maheena ha po
Jiyange oh
Je painge do.
Nowadays I too make do with a hot-water bottle at my feet and my little dog in my arms. My workplace is centrally heated and uncomfortably warm which makes the contrast between outdoors and indoors all the more injurious to health.
If possible, could you please give in writing that it is all right with you if I publish our correspondence? You had told me verbally that you had no objection to it.
Happy Lohri!
Love and a warm hug
Amrinder
Let me brighten up your mood with a dollop of earthy humour.
A sardar went to Kolkata for the first time and was surprised to hear people add ‘da’ after every name e.g. Kishoreda, Manishda, etc. On enquiring, he learnt that is was a sign of respect. Not to be outdone by the Bengalis, he said, ‘We too say saurida, phudida in Punjab!’
Teacher: What is the difference between a problem and a challenge?
Student: 1 bed, 3 boys, 1 girl – problem; 1 bed, 3 girls, 1 boy – challenge.
Virginity in females: sign of purity.
Virginity in males: lack of opportunity.
Love
Amrinder
***
8.3.11
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I just finished reading Absolute Khushwant and felt as if I was talking with you. Memories of the innumerable half-hours I spent in your company flooded my mind and I was filled with a nostalgia so acute, that I had to write to you.
I would have written earlier but was waiting for my publisher to give me a copy of joke book I had dedicated to you. The printing is in the final stages. As it is not ready yet, I will send it along with my next letter. I envy Humra Qureshi the time she spent with you going over the manuscript. In fact most of it was revision of what I knew except for the bit about your wife’s infidelity that she had forbidden you to mention in your autobiography during her lifetime. The reproduction of pictures, however, were of poor quality as compared to those your son Rahul had published in his book for Roli.
After my unsolicited criticism, I will update your stock of jokes – both printable and non-printable and try my best to make up for lost time.
Dear mother-in-law, don’t try to tell me how to raise my children. I am married to one of yours and believe me there is room for improvement.
Manmohan Singh and Obama were having a discussion in a bar. A guy walks in and asks them what the discussion was about.
Manmohan: We are planning to kill 18 million Pakistanis and Angelina Jolie.
Guy: Why Angelina Jolie?
Manmohanto Obama: See, I told you no one would care about the 18 million Pakistanis.
Q: What is old age?
A: When you start turning off the lights for economical instead of romantic reasons.
Size zero translated in Hindi: ‘Na bum na seena, phir bhi haseena.’
Q: Why did Pamela Anderson never become a schoolteacher?
A: Because every time she moved to write something on the board, the words got rubbed without a duster.
How are you keeping? I often ask Mamaji about your health and am glad to learn that you are as fit as you can be at your age – the rigorous routine and diet control are paying dividends. I hope and pray (someone has to pray for the agonist) that you live to be at least a hundred year old with wit and pen flowing full and strong.
Love
Amrinder
***
1.4.11
Dear Khushwant Singhji
The only way I know that my letters reach you is by seeing one of my jokes in your column. I cannot fathom why your letters don’t reach me when you have told me again and again that you always answer every letter you receive. If it is not too much of an expense could you send at least one letter by courier to see if that reaches me?
The joke book that I had dedicated to you is finally out and I am sending you a copy – a gift of laughter to someone who is merriment personified. I am also sending you a rather longish joke that I enjoyed thoroughly.
Haroldis 80 and lives in a Senior Citizen Home. Every night after dinner, Harold goes to a secluded garden behind the Home to sit and ponder his accomplishments in his long life.
One evening, Mildred, aged 79, wanders into the garden. They begin to chat and before they know it, several hours have passed.
After a short lull in their conversation, Harold turns to Mildred and asks, ‘Do you know what I miss most of all?’ She asks, ‘What?’
‘Sex!’ he replies.
Mildred exclaims, ‘Why you old fart! You couldn’t get it up if I held a gun to your head!’
‘I know,’ Harold says, ‘but it would still be nice if a woman could just hold it for a while.’
‘Well, I can oblige,’ says Mildred, who unzips his trousers, removes his manhood and proceeds to hold it.
Afterwards, they agree to meet secretly each night in the garden where they would sit and talk and Mildred would hold Harold’s manhood.
Then one night, Harold doesn’t show up at their usual meeting place. Alarmed, Mildred decides to find Harold and make sure he is OK.
She walks around the Senior Citizen Home and finds him – sitting by the pool with Ethel, another female resident, who is holding his manhood!
Furious, Mildred yells, ‘You two-timing creep! What does Ethel have that I don’t have?’
Old Harold smiles happily and replies, ‘Parkinson’s.’
And here is another poem on death. Both of us seem to be obsessed by death and orgasms.
WHEN I DIE
When I die
Put flowers in my hair and
Dancing shoes on my feet.
A pen in one hand and
A book in the other for
This is all the heaven
I’ll need
In afterlife where, I hope
To find a devoted dog
A tree on a mountain
By a river for that’s all
I’m going to miss.
The man I shared intimacies with
The friend I shared secrets with
The children I loved and reared
Were the pleasures of the earthly kind
That I leave behind with some regret.
On the other hand,
I cannot wait to leave the cauldron
Of tensions and tears, stress and fears
And the treachery of those you trust.
I know not where I go from here
Neither do I care; for I have lived
A life worth my while and like a
Valiant soldier will move on
When my marching orders come.
Lots and lots of love
Amrinder
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On 17 April 2011, I was surprised to read a short note on me in his weekly column. The profile enumerated my literary and academic successes. Khushwant Singh went on to write about our exchanges and the fact that I was the source of a lot of the bawdy humour sprinkled across his columns. My book of doctor jokes found a mention as well.
19.4.11
Dear Khushwant Singhji
What a pleasant surprise. Thank you so much for the wonderful ‘review’ of my book in your column. I was so happy that I could hug you for this. I rang you up but your servant Bahadur answered the phone and said that he would convey my thanks to you. I hope he did.
I had bought fifty copies of my joke book from the publisher at subsidised rates which were sold off in a jiffy. So it is 10% royalty and the income from the 40% discount – a new source of income – way less than what I earn as a doctor but one that gives me more pleasure.
What about the real naughty jokes that you and I have a large stock of? I hope some publisher is brave enough to publish them.
Here are some more to bring a smile to your lips.
The origin of the word ‘politics’ is quite apt. It’s Latin and made up of 2 words:
Poly – many
Tics – blood-sucking creatures
Judge to a wife seeking divorce: Did you say that every night he attacks you with a deadly weapon?