Company of Women

by Khushwant Singh

  Mohan resumed his relationship with Dhanno—once a week. Her body had lost its novelty. Sex with her was pleasant enough while it lasted but lacked the frenetic zeal of the first few encounters. In a very matter-of-fact tone he told her that there would have to be a break for some time as a cousin would be coming to stay with him.

  ‘Man or woman?’ asked Dhanno bluntly.

  ‘Woman,’ he replied tamely. ‘She is my aunt’s daughter. She has been transferred to Delhi and will stay with me till she has found her own accommodation.’

  ‘How long will she stay?’

  ‘I have no idea. I hope not very long.’ He gave her a kiss on her nose to assure her of his affection. ‘I will pay you as usual,’ he added.

  ‘It’s not your money I am after,’ snapped Dhanno. ‘What does this relation of yours do for a living?’

  ‘She’s a professor, you will have no problems with her.’

  Dhanno was not convinced. Every time she came to him, she brought up the subject of the not-so-distant relation who would deny her her maalik’s affection. Mohan made his irritation clear to her. ‘Don’t keep asking questions about her,’ he said in a sharp voice. Dhanno felt properly snubbed and did not bring up the subject again.

  Mohan and Sarojini continued exchanging letters. Twice she rang him from Rewari—a day before her son came to stay with her, once again when she took him to her parents in Dehra Dun. She confirmed that she would come by train as she had two heavy suitcases with her, one with her clothes, the other with books which she hoped to read while in Delhi. He was not to come to the railway station as one of her colleagues would be travelling with her. There might be others from Rewari who might recognize her. She would get to his house by taxi. If he was in office, he should leave instructions with his servants to let her in and put her luggage in the guest room. She would ring him up in office to inform him that she had arrived.

  Mohan made preparations to ensure the privacy of his new relationship. He had an answering machine attached to the telephone to record calls from his children and instructed his servants not to pick up the instrument when it rang. Though there were no dogs in the house, his entrance gate, which he personally locked every evening, had a large signboard saying ‘BEWARE OF DOGS’. Now he added another, equally large: ‘NO VISITORS WITHOUT PRIOR APPOINTMENT’.

  On the morning of the first of October, he checked all the items in his guest room: light switches, air-conditioner, bed lamps, pillow covers and bed sheets. The bathroom had fresh towels, new cakes of soap, tooth brush and paste, comb and brush and a bottle of cologne: everything that a five-star hotel would provide. Before leaving for the office, he switched on the air-conditioner in the room. Though it was October, it could still get uncomfortably warm in the afternoon.

  He put twenty five-hundred-rupee notes in a buff envelope with a slip of paper reading: ‘Welcome! Make yourself comfortable. The car will be at your disposal. My chauffeur, Jiwan Ram, has been instructed to take you wherever you want to go—shopping, sightseeing or visiting friends. He should pick me up from the office at 6 p.m. The cook has been told to serve you lunch (vegetarian) at the time you ask for it, and afternoon tea if you are at home. Meanwhile unpack and relax. Just let me know all is okay.’

  He sealed the envelope and put it on her pillow, then locked the room and gave the keys to Jiwan Ram, his most trustworthy employee, who was to receive the memsahib when she arrived.

  Professor Sarojini Bharadwaj arrived at the house a couple of hours after Mohan had left. Jiwan Ram and the bearer took her cases to the guest room.

  After the servants had left, she looked round the room. Her eyes fell on the envelope on the pillow. She tore it open. She felt the thick wad of currency notes. For a moment she felt ashamed of herself, then put the money in her handbag. She read the note. It said nothing about the money. He had fulfilled his part of the contract in advance; he was a gentleman, true to his word. She had no option but to fulfil her part of the deal.

  Sarojini unpacked; arranged her clothes in the empty wardrobes, laid out her books on the working table. By the time she had finished her bath, it was 10 a.m. She had toast and a cup of coffee for breakfast, then told the bearer she was going out to do some shopping and would be back in time for lunch.

  Sarojini was not familiar with New Delhi’s shopping areas but had heard that the best saris were to be found in South Extension market. The chauffeur knew exactly where to take her. They made slow progress on the Ring Road choked with overcrowded buses and more cars and two-wheelers than she had ever seen. At the Moolchand traffic light, a fancy steel-grey car stopped next to the Mercedes. Sarojini found herself examining the woman in the back seat. She had her hair permed, had her lips painted a bright red, and rouge on her cheeks. She wore a sleeveless blouse with a plunging neckline. There was a prosperous looking man sitting next to her, with gold rings on his fingers. The man put his arm around her, pulled her to him and said something in her ear. The woman threw her head back and laughed, a manicured hand at her cleavage. ‘Slut,’ hissed Sarojini under her breath. It was only after the lights had changed and the cars were moving that Sarojini realized what she had done. She had condemned a woman who perhaps was doing nothing worse than what she herself had agreed to do. Only, she, Sarojini Bharadwaj, Professor of English, did not look the type. For the second time that morning she felt ashamed of herself. But the feeling soon died. Only a vague apprehension remained.

  The market was crowded, but the chauffeur took her to a shop where it did not take her long to find what she wanted. She bought herself a beige coloured cotton sari—beige suited her best—and a pink dressing gown. The two cost her a little over a thousand rupees. While paying for them, she counted the notes. The purchases and what remained amounted to exactly ten thousand rupees.

  She was back in time for lunch. The bearer laid out an elaborate meal of cucumber soup, vegetable pilaf, daal and vegetable curry, followed by rice-pudding. She sampled everything but ate very little. She locked herself in her room and tried to get some sleep.

  Sleep would not come to her. Her mind was agitated. She dozed off for a few minutes, woke up to check the time. Dozed off again, woke up with a start and again looked at her watch. It seemed as if time had come to a stop. She switched on her bedside lamp and tried to read, but her mind was too disturbed to take in anything. She gave up, closed her eyes and resumed her battle with sleep. So passed the restless afternoon. She heard the servants return from their quarters. By the time she came out to have tea it was 5 p.m. She found herself looking at her wristwatch every few minutes. As it came closer to 6 p.m., the time when Mohan left office, her nervousness increased. She went back to her room and had yet another bath—her third of the day. She lit sticks of agar and put them in a tumbler that she placed in front of a figurine of Saraswati, her patron goddesss, which she always carried with her. She sat down on the carpet, joined the palms of her hands in prayer and chanted an invocation to Saraswati. Her prayers said, she changed into the beige sari she had bought that morning, put a fresh bindi on her forehead and a light dab of colour on her lips, and splashed cologne on her neck and breasts. She put on her pearl necklace and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Still nervous, she went out and sat in the balcony to await Mohan’s arrival.

  The days had begun to shorten; daylight faded away sooner than in the summer months. By half past six the brief twilight had given way to the dark. The evening star twinkled in the darkening sky beside a half moon. Not long afterwards Sarojini heard the car drive up to the gate. The driver got out of the car, opened the iron gate and drove in the sleek black Mercedes with its lights dimmed. Saroj heard Mohan respond to the driver’s ‘Good night, sir’ in English. She heard him come up the stairs. ‘What’s the smell?’ he asked loudly. ‘Hello,’ said he as he walked out to the balcony and took the chair next to hers. ‘Everything okay? Lunch, tea, bedroom?’

  ‘Hello,’ she replied, standing up. ‘Everything’s fine. That’s the aroma of the
agar I lit for Saraswati. I do Saraswatipuja every evening. Do you mind the smell?’

  ‘Not at all, just not used to it. Please sit down. So what did you do all day?’

  ‘A little shopping. I bought this sari, thanks to you.’ She held up the hem of the sari to show him.

  ‘Very nice. And what else?’

  ‘Unpacked, arranged my clothes and books, had lunch, read a little, slept a little, and the day was gone.’

  They had nothing more to say to each other. Mohan got up. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll take a quick shower and change. The office is a very sweaty place. Too many hands to shake. Too many dirty files to read.’ He loosened his collar and took off his tie.

  The first thing he did was to turn on his answering machine. It had recorded no incoming calls. He shaved himself, took a shower and splashed on some after-shave. He got into a sports shirt and slacks and joined Sarojini on the balcony. The bearer brought out his Scotch, soda and the bucket of ice cubes. ‘Have you never had a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean alcohol? My husband-for-a-month made me try whisky. I didn’t like the taste and spat it out. Then he gave me some kind of sweet wine which I did not mind. It didn’t do anything to me.’

  ‘It must have been sherry. I have some very good Spanish Oloroso, a ladies drink. You’ll like it.’

  He got up and pulled out a wine glass and a bottle of Oloroso from his drinks cabinet. He poured out the sherry for her and a stiff Scotch for himself.

  ‘This is not at all bad,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘I hope it won’t make me drunk.’

  ‘A couple of glasses will do you no harm. There’s hardly any alcohol in it,’ he replied.

  Their conversation became stilted.

  ‘So, tell me some more.’

  ‘No, you tell me more about yourself. I have done nothing really interesting today.’

  And so on.

  Sarojini kept pace with Mohan’s drinking and felt she was floating in the air. Mohan felt she was drinking to fortify herself against what was to come. They had dinner (vegetarian for both) without exchanging many words. The servants cleared the table, had their meal in the kitchen and left for their quarters. Mohan got up to lock the doors. Sarojini saw him chain and lock the front gate and then disappear into the house to lock the servants’ entrance door. He came out into the front garden, faced a hedge and unbuttoned his flies. She heard the splash of his jet of urine on the leaves. ‘Curious fellow!’ she said to herself. She went into her bedroom, took off her sari, petticoat and blouse and slipped on the new silk dressing gown. She was a little unsteady on her feet and slumped down in her chair. Mohan latched the rear door and came up to join her. He took her hand in his and asked, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes. Only a little tired. I should not have drunk all that sherry. I’m not used to alcohol. I’ll sleep it off,’ she said standing up.

  ‘Let me see you to your bedroom,’ he said putting his arm round her shoulder and directing her towards her bed. She put her head against his broad chest and murmured, ‘Be gentle with me. I have not been near a man for eleven years. I’m scared.’

  He took her in a gentle bear hug to reassure her: ‘There’s nothing to be scared of; I’m not a sex maniac. If you don’t want it, we won’t do it. Just let me lie with you for a while and I’ll go back to my room.’

  Sarojini felt reassured but clung to him. Mohan laid her on the bed and stretched himself beside her. She dug her face in his chest, clasped him by the waist and lay still. He slipped his hand under her dressing gown and gently rubbed her shoulders and the back of her neck. Then her spine and her little buttocks. The tension went out of her body and she faced him. ‘Switch off the table lamp,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t want me to see your body?’ he asked as he switched off the lamp.

  ‘There is not much to see,’ she replied. ‘I’m like any other woman of my age. Only plainer. And not as well endowed.’

  ‘Let’s have a dekho,’ he said as he undid the belt of her gown and cupped one of her breasts in his hand. Indeed, she was not as well endowed as his wife or Dhanno or any of the other women he had bedded. The difference made her more desirable. He kissed her nipples and took one breast in his mouth. She began to gurgle with pleasure. ‘Don’t neglect the other one,’ she murmured. He did the same to the other breast. He unbuttoned his trousers and she felt his stiff penis throb against her belly.

  ‘My God you are big!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘This thing will tear me to pieces.’ She clasped it between her thighs to prevent it piercing her. ‘Promise you won’t hurt me. Remember I’m very small and have had no sex for a very, very long time.’

  He felt elated, powerfully macho and grandly overpowering. And more patient than he had been with other women. He sensed she was ready to receive him. She spread out her thighs and he entered her very slowly. ‘Oh God, you will split me into two,’ she said clasping him by the neck. She was fully aroused. In a hoarse voice she whispered urgently, ‘Ram it in.’ He did as he was told.

  She screamed, not in agony but in the ecstasy of a multiple orgasm. She had never experienced it before nor believed it was possible. Her body quivered, relaxed … Then a fit of hysteria overtook her. She clawed Mohan’s face and arms and chest and began to sob. ‘I’m a whore, a common tart! I’m a bitch,’ she cried. Mohan held her closer and reassured her, ‘You are none of those; you are a nice gentle woman who has not known love.’

  She knew his words meant nothing but they were strangely soothing. She rested her head on his arm and was soon snoring softly. Neither of them felt the need to wash and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Many hours later it was Sarojini who shook Mohan awake. ‘Better go to your own room and make your bed look as if it has been slept in.’

  Mohan staggered out of her room. He did not know what time it was. He undid the latch of the servants’ entrance door and lay down on his bed. He was fast asleep within minutes.

  Mohan was an hour later than his usual waking up time. He quickly brushed his teeth, got into his dressing gown (he had slept in his sports shirt and slacks) and came out for his morning tea. Sarojini was already there, calmly sipping from her cup and turning the pages of the morning paper. She looked neat and relaxed. He had expected to see her hair dishevelled and her lips bruised. She beamed a smile at him; she looked radiantly happy. Mohan was reminded of what some psychologists had said—that when it came to sex, women were much stronger than men. She was her bossy professorial self. ‘Bearer, get the sahib a fresh cup of coffee,’ she ordered. She put aside the paper and asked him, ‘How do you feel after last night?’

  ‘Grand! Top of the world. And you?’

  ‘Transported to seventh heaven. Back to earth with a thud. Do you come home for lunch?’

  ‘Only on weekends and holidays,’ he replied. ‘On working days I get something from the office canteen and doze on my sofa for half an hour. Often I have to entertain my business partners, I take them to the Gymkhana Club or the India International Centre. You can get reasonably good food at modest prices. It all goes as business expenses. The only meal I normally have at home is dinner.’

  ‘What would you like for dinner? You don’t have to suffer eating vegetarian stuff because of me. I can tell the cook to make you fish or chicken or whatever you fancy. I can eat what the servants cook for themselves,’ she said.

  Mohan did not like her taking over the household. He administered a slight snub. ‘The cook knows what I like and from where to get it. I give him money every morning to buy provisions. He renders accounts to me. You don’t have to worry about the servants or my food. Just order whatever you like for yourself.’

  Sarojini felt she had been put in her place.

  They had breakfast together. He left for his office. The car came back and was at her disposal for the day. She decided to stay at home in the morning to do some reading and get to know the servants. She went to the kitchen to chat with the cook. She stood at the entrance to the kit
chen for a while, watching him clean up. She felt like an intruder. For all the discord, Mohan’s marriage had lasted thirteen years. There had been a mistress of the house who had managed his life—ordered the servants about, supervised the cooking and bought things for the house. Sarojini felt a sense of loss and regret taking hold of her. Mohan was right to snub her. She was a pro tem mistress, not mistress of the house. The cook saw her and asked if she needed anything. ‘No, I was just looking around, khansamaji,’ she replied. ‘What are you giving the sahib for dinner?’

  ‘Fish, memsahib. He likes fish and chicken on alternate days.’ The cook thought she looked a little nervous, and to make her feel at home, he spoke a little longer. ‘The sahib also likes king prawns and crab. I get them from INA market. It’s a long way from here but I like to keep the sahib happy. He’s a very kind master.’

  The bearer was less communicative. He was gruff in his replies to her questions about his duties and made it clear that he resented her as an outsider. The jamadarni proved more difficult than the male servants. As she came in with her broom, pail of phenyl and a mop, she greeted Sarojini: ‘Namaste, bhainji.’

  Sarojini responded and asked her name. ‘Dhanno,’ she replied, without looking at her. ‘I do the floors and the bathrooms. Memsahibji, how are you related to the sahib?’

  ‘I am his cousin,’ she replied, keeping up the lie Mohan had told her about.

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I teach in a college. I’ve been transferred to Delhi. I’m here till I find a place of my own.’

  The two women sized each other up. Sarojini noticed that the untouchable woman was a lot more desirable than herself: large protruding breasts, narrow waist and large hips. She was dark, poorly clad, but sexy. Dhanno saw the college teacher as a rival: sexless but brainy. She had everything Dhanno had but in smaller measure. Men were not discriminating, they took whatever was available. This woman he called his cousin was available to the sahib round the clock. Men set little store by fidelity. They soon tired of having one woman and went looking for another. Bastards, all of them.