Wife: No your honour, I said that every night he attacks me with a dead weapon.
These doctor jokes I got after the book. Perhaps I’ll publish them in a sequel.
A man saw an ad for a ‘gynae assistant’. He went in and asked the clerk for details.
The clerk said, ‘You have to help the ladies out of their underwear, lay them down carefully, wash their private parts, apply shaving foam and gently shave off their pubic hair. Then rub in soothing oils so that they are ready for their gynae examination. The salary is Rs 10 lakh per annum. If you are interested, you’ll have to go to Panipat.’
Man: Why Panipat?
Clerk: That is where the queue of applicants has reached!
A lady brought a newborn to the paediatrician with the complaint that he was not gaining weight.
The paediatrician asked, ‘Is the baby breastfed or bottle-fed?’
‘Breastfed.’
The paediatrician made the lady undress, massaged her breasts, pinched her nipples, but not a drop of milk came out.
Doctor: No wonder the child appears undernourished.
Lady: I am his grandmother but I sure am glad that I came.
The doctor was asking about the case history of an old lady.
‘How long have you been bedridden?’
The lady appeared confused and then replied: ‘Not since my husband died twenty years ago.’
I was wondering if we could meet up sometime but how do I take an appointment if I cannot talk with you on the phone and do not get replies to my letters?
I was thinking of brushing up my Khushwant memoir and give it to you for a read – i.e. if you are up to it. If you think they are good enough we could get them published.
Love
Amrinder
***
14.7.11
Dear Khushwant Singhji
I am strongly attracted to a 25-year-old boy! At an age when most women retire with their rosaries I have the temerity to fall for my dance teacher who is younger than my sons! I am his oldest student but can give anyone years younger than me a run for their money. Of course, he does not know it but his cute looks, his come hither eyes and the grace and fluidity of his movements are a joy to watch. In all probability he is having an affair with his partner, a pretty plump woman with 2 children (with her husband conveniently out of the way – abroad). I can also see that all his students are a little in love with him ranging from the 5-year-old who gets him a rose every day, to the teenagers who are all over him, to the 50-plus doctors in my group.
It all started like this: I am interested in keeping fit but not in mundane ways like walking. In summer swimming suffices. In winter I tried gymming but the loud music and the smell of communal sweat put me off. During a doctors’ party a few of my colleagues danced so beautifully and unselfconsciously that I was motivated to join this dance academy. This is how the classes go: after 20 minutes of warming up with aerobic exercises, there is dance and music, fun and frolic and we literally let our hair down. I spend the happiest hour of my day there. The instructor is lavish with his praise which makes even the matrons in my group pretty themselves for the class. I put flowers in my hair, fancy clips on my curls, anklets with silver bells and he never fails to comment on them. I am no fool and know that this is his way of ensuring that the steady flow of income is sustained but am flattered nevertheless. The coup de grace was a dance show at Shah Auditorium on the 10th of July. I was the central dancer in my group and swirled around in a deep-red-and-gold lehnga for the first time in my life. My entire family came to watch me and appreciated the effort. At a time when people give up on life I have begun to live it. I intend to continue the classes.
How are you keeping? Here are a few jokes to enliven your day.
A girl was towelling her wet pussy. She enjoyed it and started rubbing it vigorously till the pussy cried ‘meow’ and ran away. Be kind to animals and think positive.
Santa to his deaf wife: If I feel like having sex, I’ll stroke your left breast. If you feel like having sex, pull my penis once; if you are not in the mood, pull on it 62 times.
Love
Amrinder
On 15 July 2011, I finally finished editing my Khushwant memoir and got it spiral bound. I wished I could publish it as it was with all the inflammatory, evocative talk and letters, though I knew there was much in it that was not acceptable for public reading despite the changes I had made. Anyhow, it was time to contact Khushwant Singh again. Thankfully, his servant picked up the phone, conveyed to him my desire for an audience and a meeting was fixed for 4 p.m. the very next day.
85
On 16 July 2011, dressed in an onion-pink sari set off by matching pearls, I tucked a frangipani flower in my hair and set off for what would probably be my last meeting with the lovable old man. Khushwant Singh looked so frail and wrinkled that he roused my protective instincts. His hands shook uncontrollably, but his kisses were robust as ever. I kissed him right back and settled on the chair by his side.Thankfully he had worn a hearing aid, which made a conversation possible. His first remark was that I was very punctual.
‘Being the daughter of an IAF officer, I ought to be … You have lost a lot of weight,’ I commented.
‘What can you expect at ninety-seven? Do you know anyone else who is ninety-seven?’
‘My father is ninety-one.’
‘Is he working?’
‘No.’
‘I am still working,’ he said proudly.
‘That indeed is commendable. What are you writing these days?’
‘My columns. I often think of giving them up, but then I will lose connection with the world and my bread and butter.’
‘Don’t stop. People look forward to your columns.’
‘I take great pains with them. I am also using jokes from your joke book. In fact I have used two already. I haven’t mentioned the book but will mention your name.’
‘You don’t have to. After all, I haven’t written the jokes; they are a compilation. Here is another one that you can add: Santa fell in love with his boss’s daughter. After much hesitation, he mustered enough courage to ask for her hand in marriage. The boss was furious and exclaimed, “How dare you? Your month’s salary wouldn’t buy my daughter’s toilet paper!” Santa thought for a while and said, “Agar itne pottia karti hai to rehan do”.’
This had him in splits.
‘It was very sweet of you to mention my joke book in your column. I was not expecting it,’ I said once he stopped laughing.
The help came in with tea and chocolate cookies. He sipped on a soft drink.
‘What is that? Whisky?’ he asked, looking at the bulky bag I had brought along.
‘What else?’
This time it was a Johnny Walker Black Label that we had got as a Diwali present. I had hoarded it for Khushwant Singh, for if anyone enjoyed his drink, it was he.
‘How many pegs do you have?’ I asked.
‘One, but a very large one.’
‘A Patiala peg? A normal peg is 30 ml, isn’t it?’
‘A peg is a measure that can be small or big.’
‘And you hold your drink well?’
‘I have never got drunk. I usually have it over a period of an hour, and enjoy it best in solitude, in the semi-darkness, but people never let me be.’
‘You can always refuse them admission to your house at that time.’
‘I can’t say “no” to most of them.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘She could drink me under the table.’
‘She began after marriage?’
‘Yes. The first time, it was in Lahore. Her mother, who was also present, got up and slapped the glass off her hand. It fell on the marble floor, but being crystal, did not break. Kaval picked up the glass, refilled it and continued drinking as if nothing had happened.’
‘She did have a mind of her own.’
‘Yes,’ he said, then continued, ‘I too have something for you.’ Then he t
ook out a copy of his book that had just come out: Khushwant Singh on Women, Sex, Love and Lust, compiled by Ashok Chopra. I was up to my gills with Khushwant Singh’s women, but accepted it graciously, adding, ‘I am jealous of all the women in your life though I have no right to.’
I took out a pen from my bag, opened the book and gave it back to him for an autograph.
‘Why is the pen in a case?’ he asked, noticing everything.
‘It’s new and I have brought it for you.’
He signed it with difficulty in a shaky handwriting:
For Amrinder
With love
Khushwant
16 July ’11
‘Did you read the Ghalib I gave you?’
‘Yes. I also heard his verses on the tapes sung by Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh. I got a book by Faiz as well – the poetry is written and translated in English.’
This made him recite by rote some Urdu shairi that I roughly understood as follows: The poet tells his beloved, ‘Don’t come if it is only to keep a promise, for it means that you feel obligated and have come under compulsion. Go anywhere you want; enjoy the company of whomsoever you want. I’ll not be jealous. Come to me only when there arises in you a burning desire to see me.’
I said, ‘That was beautiful. It is something like the one by Ghalib: “Mai bulata to hoon usko magar ai jazbai dil, unpe kuch aise bane ki bin aaye na bane”.’
He joined me in reciting the last line.
‘Suraiyya sang it beautifully in a film, Mirza Ghalib,’ I informed him.
‘I guess you sleep well.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have to get up at least thrice in the night to pee. It disturbs my sleep. It is when I am lying awake that I recite Ghalib’s couplets.’ Later he mentioned that he had recently written that the people who built New Delhi were forgotten – not even a road named after them.
‘Yes, I read that column.’
‘Soon after, I got a call from the PM who wanted to name a road after my father.’
‘That will be good … There is something I have always wanted to ask you about your father but dared not.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have heard that Sir Sobha Singh was responsible for getting Bhagat Singh jailed and is considered a traitor by freedom fighters. It is also said that he got his title for this act of betrayal.’
‘That is not true. Bhagat Singh was wanted in another criminal case, a murder for which he was to be hanged. He had come to Delhi to surrender and wanted to go with aplomb. My father was sitting in the visitor’s gallery in Parliament House when Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev threw the bomb. The police caught them and asked my father to identify them, which he did. He couldn’t possibly have lied after having sat right next to them. As for the title, he got it twenty years later.’
‘Then why?’
‘Advani has spread such rumours. He has never forgiven me for putting him down for demolishing the Babri masjid and has tried to get back at me in this way.’
‘Oh!’
‘How is your solitaire collection?’
‘Decreased drastically though SP is still very much around. He has his uses, however, especially in matters relating to property, rent and tenant management, supplying a driver and car for long-distance travel, etc.’
‘Aren’t you more generous in distributing your, your ….?’
‘My favours?’ I provided the right word and added, ‘goodness gracious. No!’
With a pounding heart, I set out to do what I had come for in the first place.
‘In fact, I have a favour to ask of you.’ ‘What is it?’
‘I have finally completed my Khushwant memoir. I would like you to go through it and cut out what is objectionable so that people don’t get offended.’
‘I care a damn about what people think.’
When I took out the spiral-bound manuscript, he baulked at the size.
‘I will not be able go through this.’
‘I have brought it especially for you to read. Later, I would not like it to appear as if I capitalized on your …’ I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘death’.
‘Give it to a publisher – Penguin, HarperCollins.’
I showed him what I had written for the publishers.
Dear Publisher
You have extracted the last drop from the lemon called Khushwant Singh. If you squeeze the rind further, all you will get is bitterness. I have preserved some fresh ‘Khushwant’ juice in the bottle of memory out of which, if you wish, we can make some tangy lemonade to quench the desire of people thirsting for more.
He approved and added, ‘Why don’t you write your autobiography?’
‘I have already written it, but publishers will not give me time of the day until I am known which, hopefully, will happen after this.’ I smiled.
‘You have it in you. Mark my words.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now run along. I need to rest frequently.’
It saddened me to think that earlier it was ‘Now run along, I have work to do’. I had been with him for forty-five minutes and was more than satisfied with the time he gave me. He did not forget his farewell kiss, though. Impulsively, I placed my hands on his sparsely bearded cheeks and said, ‘God bless you.’
EPILOGUE
This story is not over yet,
For
The end has yet to come.
If his comes before mine
I’ll try not to cry, for he
Wouldn’t want me sad;
I’ll try not to pray, for he
Did not believe in god.
I’ll try not to mourn him
But
Celebrate his zest for life.
I’ll try to catch a final glimpse
That is if i’m allowed amidst
The rich and famous, for did I
Love him any less because
I was not well known? And as
The world goes on an overdrive at
Such a momentous eventuality
I’ll
Clutch his letters to my heart
And
Give vent to my silent grief.
If I go before him, perhaps
He’ll write an obit on me
And cherish fond memories
Of the brief but beautiful
Moments spent together or
Think of me in solitude as he
Downs his evening drink, or
Maybe surrounded by others
Who fawn over him, he will,
Let me pass on, unmourned.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Had it not been for Dr I.P.S. Kalra, my uncle and Khushwant Singh’s physician, this book would not have seen the light of day.
My heartfelt thanks to V.K. Karthika for the SMS that changed my life: ‘Had fun reading the MSS. Would love to publish it.’
I am grateful to Mr Rahul Singh for allowing me to publish the naughty exchange of letters with his father and bearing with me when I troubled him time and again regarding trivia.
I cannot but thank my stars for the fortuitous meeting with Mr Sukumar at an event during the World Book Fair. He was instrumental in removing any roadblocks that came in the path of the publication of this book.
God bless Jas for presenting me the lightweight notebook that I could carry everywhere to write, revise and proofread my manuscript.
And Deep, for not just changing my Internet connection to one that works but also sponsoring the new connection.
Last but not least, I would like to thank Prema Govindan for bringing my manuscript to its present state.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amrinder Bajaj did her MD in obstetrics and gynaecology from AIIMS. She is currently working as a senior gynaecologist and clinical coordinator at MAX Hospital, Pitampura, New Delhi. She has two regular columns in Woman’s Era and writes travelogues, short stories, poems and medical articles. She has authored several books too.
First published in India in 201
3 by
HarperCollins Publishers India
Copyright © Amrinder Bajaj 2013
ISBN: 978-93-5029-707-0
Epub Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9789350297087
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Amrinder Bajaj asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by her, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.
The names of certain persons and organizations have been changed to protect their identities.
All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.
Cover design: Arijit Ganguly
Cover photograph: Shutterstock
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The Afternoon Girl Page 34
