Company of Women

by Khushwant Singh

  Once again I covered my face with both my hands and broke down. Jiwan Ram heard me, ‘Sahib, dheeraj dharo (control yourself). No one knows when death comes. One should always be prepared for it and take it as the Lord’s will. Be brave, God will comfort you.’

  I had heard such words spoken at every death. However hackneyed and meaningless, they gave solace to the afflicted.

  As the sun was setting we drove into the ashram. I was conducted to my father’s room. In the centre of the charpoy on which he had slept a few days earlier was a brass pot containing his ashes. It had garlands of marigold flowers twined round it. I took it in my arms and again broke down. I heard myself wailing: ‘Hai pitaji! Where have you gone without me? You did not even give me the chance to be with you when the end came!’ Ashram inmates gathered round to condole with me and Jiwan Ram let me cry to my heart’s content till I ran out of tears. My sorrow slowly ebbed away. I wiped the tears off my face. I took the urn in my arms and asked Jiwan Ram to drive to Har ki Pauri. ‘Pitaji will watch the aarti one more time with his son. Tomorrow I will immerse his ashes in the Ganga.’

  I reached the clock-tower facing Har ki Pauri a couple of minutes before the aarti. As the priests on the opposite bank started waving their candelabras and chanting hymns and the temple bells began to ring, I stood ankle deep in the stream and waved the brass urn, touching its base to the water. Each time I brought it down I felt at peace with myself and the world. I sat on the ghat till after dark, watching the leaf boats with the oil lamps glide slowly away on the water. If I sat there long enough I would see all the flames die out. That did not depress me. After a long time I walked back to the car, still clutching the urn in my arm. I refused to eat the food offered to me. I held the urn close to me all night and slept fitfully, thinking of my father. I felt he was as close to me in death as he was in life.

  Early the next morning I returned to the ghat, a furlong or so downstream from Har ki Pauri. Instantly I was surrounded by paandas waiting to help me perform the prayers of immersion and take their fees. They asked me where I came from and whose ashes I was carrying. ‘I am the paanda of your family,’ said one of them pushing the others aside. ‘I knew your father was living in the ashram.’ He rattled off names of distant members of my family. He led me to the river bank and had me sit facing him with the urn between us. He began to chant mantras in Sanskrit. Half-way through he stretched out his palm and demanded dakshina.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Whatever you think proper. I know you are a rich man and the only son of your father.’

  I handed him a hundred-rupee note. It was much more than he had expected. He resumed chanting shlokas with greater vigour. He stretched his hand towards the urn to empty its contents in the river. I grabbed it before he could touch it. ‘This I will do myself,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘No one else will touch my father’s remains.’

  He let me have my way. I stood knee deep in the stream. As the sun came up over the eastern range of hills, I poured the ashes into the river.

  There was more to be done. A barber was summoned. I sat on my haunches while he first cut my hair with a pair of scissors then shaved off the stubble with a razor. I was as bald as an egg. Everyone would know I had lost a parent.

  I returned to the ashram to settle my father’s account. There was no place for sentiments here. The director of the ashram produced a chit of paper on which he had jotted down the expenses: Rs 50 to get a death certificate; Rs 150 for wood, ghee and incense; Rs 50 to perform puja, Rs 50 for the brass urn. Total: Rs 300. ‘If you take away your father’s belongings we can rent the room to somebody else,’ the director said without any emotion. What kind of human being was he? I remembered the post card he had sent me about Father’s death. He could have sent a telegram—but why would he waste any money on a man who was merely a tenant? The ashram had many lonely men like my father.

  I gave the ashram director the money and told him I would keep the room for myself at the rate my father had paid. His things were not to be disturbed. The room would remain locked; I would keep the key with me. There were no objections; all that the ashram authorities were interested in was getting the rent. The director came back with a lock and key and handed them to me.

  A bald head is not an uncommon sight in Haridwar. Every day scores of men arrive bearing the ashes of their parents to immerse in the Ganga. Besides paandas who recite the appropriate mantras, two other trades have been established in the place. One is the sifting the gold or silver fillings of the teeth of dead persons from their ashes. This is done by urchins who stand waist deep in the river, shining mirrors into the water to catch the glint of precious metal. They then feel the ashes with their toes and dive down to pick any bit of metal they find. They work in partnership with the paandas who make it a point to empty the urns as close to the bank as possible to make the retrieval of gold and silver easier. That was why I had refused to let my paanda touch the urn with Father’s ashes and had emptied the contents in the river well out of the reach of probing feet. If my father had any gold or silver in his teeth it was dedicated to Mother Ganga. The other trade that thrives in Haridwar is cap-making. Men don’t like what they see in the mirror after their heads have been tonsured. So they buy caps to cover their baldness. I had a healthy crop of jet black hair that curled at its ends. The women I had made love to never tired of running their fingers through my curls and paying me compliments: ‘The thing that makes you look so macho and handsome is your hair,’ they would say. It would take many months to regain my crowning glory. So I stopped by a cap-maker’s shop and after examining different varieties opted for a French style beret. It covered my skull completely and kept my head warm.

  I spent another night in my father’s room, sleeping on his charpoy. The next morning I set out on my return journey. My sorrow over losing my father turned into sour resentment against Sonu who had treated him so shabbily. I had no forgiveness left in me and resolved to lead my life as I pleased.

  The first thing Sonu said to me as I entered the house was, ‘Where have you been all these days? Not a word to inform anyone when you would return. As if we matter nothing to you.’

  ‘I went to Haridwar,’ I replied. ‘I was informed through a post card that my father had died and had been cremated. I went to immerse his ashes in the Ganga.’ I took off my beret.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.’

  ‘Why should you be? You drove him out of this house,’ I said in a burst of rage. ‘He will not bother you anymore.’

  ‘That’s a nasty and cruel thing to say. You make me out to be a murderess,’ she screamed and went sobbing to her room. I collapsed in an armchair and began to cry. Ranjit and Mohini witnessed the scene. They clung to me. ‘Papa, what has happened?’ asked Ranjit. ‘Why is Mummy so angry?’

  ‘My Pitaji, your Dada, is dead. You won’t see him again.’

  ‘Why? Where has he gone?’ he asked.

  ‘He has gone to Vaikunth.’

  ‘Where is Vaikunth?’

  ‘Far, very far,’ I replied. ‘No one comes back from Vaikunth.’

  ‘I will go to Vaikunth to see him,’ said Ranjit stubbornly. He was still too young to understand that death was for ever. Mohini was barely five and could not make any sense of what I was saying. I gathered the two in my lap. They snuggled against my chest and fell silent.

  I could hear Sonu ring up her mother to give her the news. She also told Vimla Sharma to inform the office staff and tell them not to call before tomorrow. The office should be closed as a mark of respect for the deceased, she said.

  Later that evening Rai Bahadur Achint Ram, his wife, their sons and their wives, and their domestic servants came to condole. I had just poured myself a Scotch and soda. They embraced me in turn and uttered words of solace. ‘Bahut afsos hua (We are very sorry).’ Their servants condoled with mine and sat on the floor around us. For a while they talked about the inevitability of death. ‘Only those blessed by God go s
wiftly and without pain,’ pronounced the Rai Bahadur. ‘Your revered father—I’m told by your driver that he was in good health and passed away having his morning cup of tea. What a nice way to say farewell to the world.’ I nodded my head. And took a sip from my glass of whisky.

  ‘When should we have the chautha and uthala?’ asked the Rai Bahadur. ‘We shall announce it in the obituary columns of The Hindustan Times and book a time at Mata Ka Mandir for keertan.’

  ‘You decide the date and the time. I don’t know anything about religious ceremonies,’ I said, taking another long sip of Scotch.

  The family spent an hour with me. By the time they left I was on my third glass of Scotch. I knew they did not think it was the right thing to do during the period of mourning; I did not give a damn about what they thought. The grief was mine, as well as its antidote. Sonu’s youngest brother could not resist making a nasty remark as he shook hands with me to leave. He pointed to my glass of whisky and said, ‘That’s the best thing in which to drown one’s sorrows, boss.’

  For the next three days no food was cooked in my home. It was sent by the Achint Ram family. Custom required that no fire be lit in a home where there had been a death. The Hindustan Times carried the announcement of Pitaji’s demise in Haridwar and the chautha-uthala ceremony in Mata Ka Mandir. The Achint Ram family was prominently mentioned under the heading ‘Grief Stricken’, facing my name, Sonu’s and the children’s.

  I had a stream of callers from sunrise to sunset: my office staff, friends, their wives, and most of all friends and relatives of the Achint Ram’s. What time-wasting customs we Indians have evolved! Although I did not attend office during these days, I asked Vimla Sharma to see that everyone else did and to report to me every evening and bring up all the correspondence with her. I spent half an hour every afternoon with her in my study dictating replies.

  The coming and going of people came to an abrupt end after the prayer meeting at Mata Ka Mandir. Gloom enveloped my home. The children and servants talked in subdued tones. Sonu and I kept a distance from each other, fully aware that a nasty confrontation was in the offing. She had been stung by my remark that she had driven Father from the house. She was not the kind of person who would let such an observation pass as something uttered in grief. One day she would have it out with me. And I was not the kind of person who would apologize for the sake of peace. We stored up ammunition to fire at each other when battle lines were drawn. I was reluctant to fire the first shot. She looked for an opportune moment to open hostilities.

  We stopped talking to each other. I began going to the club straight from the office and returned late. By then Sonu and the children had finished supper and gone to bed. I ate my dinner alone. I resumed sleeping in my study downstairs. My morning tea was brought to me, I bathed and dressed downstairs. Ranjit and Mohini came to see me in the mornings and spent some time chatting with me as I turned over the pages of the morning papers and smoked my cigar. I gave up breakfast as it would give Sonu the chance to question me. We both sensed we were coming closer and closer to a showdown.

  Sonu bided her time to let a decent interval elapse after my father’s death before she decided to settle scores with me. A month after the obsequial ceremonies were over she sent me a note through the bearer who brought me my morning cup of tea. It read: ‘I want to discuss something with you—today. Kindly come home on time—Sonu.’

  I could not put off the day of reckoning any longer. I drove back from the office fortified with arguments, determined to keep my cool but not give an inch. My nerves were on edge.

  I went upstairs and took my usual chair. Sonu came out of her bedroom and asked the ayah to take the children to play in the garden.

  She opened the assault. ‘Is this a civilized way to behave towards one’s wife?’ she asked.

  I ran my hand over the new hair sprouting on my pate and did not reply.

  ‘You hate my guts, don’t you?’ she said firing the second salvo.

  ‘I don’t hate anyone’s guts,’ I replied calmly.

  ‘Why did you accuse me of throwing your father out of the house? Answer me. You know there is no truth in the accusation. He left of his own free will. You said it because you wanted to hurt me. Is that true or not?’

  ‘Not true,’ I replied, anger staining my words. ‘You cannot deny you made my father—old man, as you called him—feel unwelcome in the house. He was a man of dignity and felt it would be better if he lived elsewhere. How can I forgive you for doing this to the only relation I had on this earth!’

  ‘As far as you are concerned, I can do nothing right. I am always in the wrong!’

  ‘I did not say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.’

  ‘You think I am a bitch! You want me out of your way so that you can start fucking other women,’ she said in a shrill voice.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I won’t shut up. I’ll settle this matter one way or the other, once and for all.’

  ‘Do as you please,’ I replied. ‘I have nothing more to say.’ She glowered at me for a few moments, then walked off in a huff to her bedroom. I went downstairs to my study and asked the bearer to bring my Scotch and dinner downstairs. I thought the first round had gone to me.

  The second was fought the next day.

  Sonu opened the attack. ‘I have thought over the matter. I think we should live separately.’

  ‘If that is what you want, you can have it. If you want me to move out, I will do so as soon as I can. If you want to go back to your parents, you can do that.’

  ‘You seem very eager to get rid of me.’

  ‘It is your suggestion, not mine.’

  ‘You want to put me in the wrong all the time.’

  The wrangling went on for half an hour. And ended the same way: she went off to her bedroom, I to my study to have my drink and dinner in comparative peace.

  I thought the second round had also gone in my favour.

  We retired to our entrenched fortifications—for a fortnight or more. The cold war became colder by the day. One Sunday when I had no excuse for going to the office and was peacefully watching TV, Sonu stormed in, switched off the TV and stood facing me. Her face was flushed with anger. ‘How can you go on day in and day out ignoring my presence in the house—as if I was piece of dirt. That whore Mrinal takes good care of you, doesn’t she? Why would you need a wife!’

  ‘For God’s sake shut up and let me watch TV.’ I put out my hand to switch on the TV. She slapped the back of my hand and screamed, ‘You will do nothing of the sort. I’ll teach you how to behave like a gentleman, you filthy lecher!’

  I lost my cool and slapped her. I had never before descended to violence. She was stunned. ‘You dared raise your hand against me!’ she hissed through her teeth, trembling with rage and humiliation. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget for the rest of your life.’

  I knew I had lost the third round, and the battle for supremacy.

  It was that day that she reported me to the police and effectively put an end to our turbulent marriage of almost thirteen years.

  When I returned from the police station, she had gone off to her parents with the children. I did not bother to visit or call her. She came back over a month later. I ignored her. When I hugged and kissed the children, she said I had no right to do that. I kept quiet. ‘You have no right. You did not bother to come and fetch them and their mother,’ she said. ‘Yes I did not,’ I said, looking straight at her. ‘I love the children, but I am happier without you.’ ‘I know that, you bastard,’ she shouted. ‘But if you want the freedom to bring whores to this house, you cannot keep the children.’ It was difficult, but after a few more months of quarrelling, I gave up. I told her I needed a divorce and she could keep the children. Two days later, she took the children and three suitcases full of her things and drove off.

  After Sonu left with the children, I felt lonely and disoriented, till I decided to advertise for paid lady companions. It was an extraordinar
y decision. But I am glad I made it because it brought me many moments of joy. My friend, the writer, has already written about my first lady companion, Sarojini Bharadwaj. There is nothing more I can add to that; he has faithfully reported what I told him.

  After Sarojini, only Dhanno remained. She served me well whenever I wanted her. But she was no company. We hardly exchanged more than two words. When the coast was clear, I would say chalo—come. She would follow me like a lamb to the bedroom, slip off her salwar-kameez and lie down on the bed. I would do my job to my satisfaction and dismount. ‘Bus, sahib—you’ve had enough,’ she would say at the end, wash herself, collect her money and slip out of the rear door. I could not take on another woman till Dhanno was around, and I had no reason to sack her. She opted out of my life in a most unexpected way.

  One evening when I returned from office I saw a couple of policewomen and a male sub-inspector sitting in my garden. They had ordered chairs to be laid out for them. A woman was sitting on the ground with her head tucked between her knees. The sub-inspector and the policewomen stood up as soon as I entered. The bearer brought a chair for me. ‘What is all this about?’ I asked. ‘Sir, a complaint was lodged in the police station about thefts in two houses where this woman was employed. We raided her quarters and recovered a lot of stolen property. Stand up and show your face to the sahib,’ ordered the sub-inspector.

  The woman stood up and uncovered her face.

  It was Dhanno.

  ‘Sir, this woman also swept floors in your house. Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes, she is the jamadarni. She comes here twice a day to do the bathrooms and floors. Her name is Dhanno.’

  ‘Have any things been missing from your house? Ishwari, open the bag and show him the items that have not yet been identified by other complainants.’

  The woman constable laid out bottles of French perfume and nail polish, a pair of gold earrings, two pairs of ladies’ shoes, a couple of saris, two pairs of silk salwar-kameez and a Cartier gold pen. I recognized the pen which I had misplaced somewhere; all the other items were Sonu’s. She had accummulated so much that she did not know when something went missing.