For good reason, the most popular place in the park is the extensive lawn on the southern side of what must have been the main mosque, the Jami Masjid, built in 1494. The reason for its popularity is its dome, which is an exact replica of a young woman’s bosom including the areola and the nipple. Most mosques and mausolea have domes but they have metal spires put on top of them which rob them of their feminine charm. Not the Bara Gumbad, the Big Dome. You can gape at it for hours on end and marvel at its likeness to a virgin’s breast. You will notice that men sprawled on the lawns have their face towards it; their womenfolk sit facing the other way. It also has a bench facing it. Regular visitors to the park call it Boorha Binch, old men’s bench, because for years, three old men have been sitting on it after they have hobbled round the park. While they talk, their gaze is fixed on Bara Gumbad. English-speaking Indians call them the ‘Sunset Club’ because the three men who occupy the bench are seen on it every day at sunset. All three are in their late eighties, the sunset years of their lives.
Let me introduce you to the members of the Sunset Club. First Pandit Preetam Sharma, because he is the eldest of the three. He is a Punjabi Brahmin, an Oxford graduate who served as cultural counsellor in London and Paris and rose to the highest position in the ministry of education before he retired. He is well preserved, bald in front but with white locks flowing down his skull and curling up around his shoulders. They give him a scholarly look. He is in good health but needs glasses to read, hearing aids to hear and dentures to eat. He believes in Ayurveda and homeopathy. Although there were a succession of women, foreign and Indian, in his life, he narrowly escaped marrying one. He lives with his spinster sister, Sunita, who is almost twenty years younger than him and works with an NGO. They live in a ground-floor flat close to Khan Market. It has two bedrooms and two bathrooms, a large drawing-dining room, a study and two verandas.
One wall of the drawing room has a bookshelf packed with books which he has not read, nor intends to read. They create the impression that he is a man of learning. Other walls have paintings he made after he retired from service. No one except he understands what they are about but they do create the impression that he is a man of culture. He writes long poems in blank verse. He has them printed in Khan Market and gives copies freely to his visitors. Having risen to the top in the ministry of education, he is chairman of many cultural and social organizations and school boards. He makes a very good chairman as he makes profound statements like ‘Culture knows no frontiers; all religions teach truth and love’, etc., etc. He has no enemies. All the men and women who know him love him. For company he has had a succession of Apsos named Dabboo One, Two and Three. He has a car and a chauffeur provided by a school whose chairman he is. It takes him, his servant Pavan and Dabboo Three to the northern entrance of Lodhi Gardens. He does a round of the park followed by Pavan and the dog before he takes his seat on the Boorha Binch. His servant and dog sit behind him on the lawn.
Second is Nawab Barkatullah Baig Dehlavi. He is a Sunni Mussalman whose Pathan ancestors settled in Delhi before the British took over the country. They combined soldiering with the practice of Yunani (Greek) medicine. They were granted land close to what is today Nizamuddin. Barkatullah’s father set up a chain of Yunani dawakhanas (pharmacies) in the old city but preferred living in his large house in Nizamuddin. It is a spacious mansion named Baig Manzil. It has many rooms, verandas, a large garden in front and staff quarters at the back. Baig does not believe in amassing books; he finished with them after school and college. He has a few diwans of Urdu poets and an impressive collection of artefacts from Mughal times which are on display in his sitting room. He is a powerfully built six-footer with grey-white hair, a handlebar moustache and a short clipped beard.
Like all good Muslims from well-to-do families, Baig went to Aligarh Muslim University before he took over his father’s business and, on his demise, his mansion. He is married to his cousin Sakina. They have a brood of children. But for occasional visits to Chawri Bazaar, the courtesans’ street, and bedding his wife’s maidservants in his younger days, he has been a faithful husband. After the partition of the country in 1947, he stayed on in India, joined the Congress Party and is a supporter of the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty. For over forty years he has been a regular stroller in Lodhi Gardens. The chauffeur of his Mercedes-Benz drops him at the southern entrance of the park. He does his rounds of the monuments followed by a servant pushing a wheelchair, before he takes his seat on the bench facing Bara Gumbad. Even in his eighties, Baig is in good shape: no glasses, no hearing aids, no false teeth, though he is occasionally short of breath.
Third is Sardar Boota Singh. He is a stocky Sikh with a paunch. The unshorn hair on his head is snow-white. Instead of tying a six-yard-long turban he has taken to wearing a cotton or woollen cap. He dyes his beard and looks younger than his eighty-six years. He suffers from many ailments: chronic constipation, incipient diabetes, fluctuating blood pressure, enlarged prostate and periodic bouts of gout. He has been wearing glasses since his schooldays, half a denture as all his lower teeth are gone, and for some years, hearing aids as well. He professes to be an agnostic sybarite, but every morning when he gets up around 4 a.m. he prays for his health and repeats Aum Arogyam many times, followed by the Gayatri Mantra and a Sikh hymn designed to keep sorrows at a distance:
May ill-winds not touch me, the Lord is my Protector.
Around me Rama has drawn a wall to protect me;
No harm will come to me, brother.
The True Guru, who put the Universe together
Gave me Rama’s name as panacea against all ills;
Meditate on Him and Him alone.
He saves those who deserve saving; He removes all doubts
Says Nanak, the Lord is merciful. He is my helper.
He explains the contradictions in his agnosticism and hedonism by saying: “Who knows! They say prayers can work miracles. No harm in trying them out.’
Prayers seldom help him, so he supplements them with a variety of pills from dawn to after dinner.
Boota had his higher education in England and served with Indian missions in London and Paris before he returned to Delhi and took to writing for newspapers. He lives in a flat close to Sharma’s. The walls of his sitting room are lined with books: works of fiction, anthologies of poetry, biographies and books banned as pornographic. His favourites are books of quotations and anthologies of poetry, both Urdu and English. He has memorized quite a few and comes out with them at every opportunity. People think he is a man of learning but he knows he is a bit of a fraud.
Boota is a widower with two children. His son has migrated to Canada. His daughter, who is widowed, lives close by with her daughter. Though he lives alone, he is never lonely; he has a constant stream of ladies visiting him in the evening when he opens his bar. He is a great talker and a windbag. He makes up salacious stories of his conquests, which keep his audience spellbound. He uses bad language as if it was his birthright. When he is tired of company, he simply says, ‘Now bugger off.’ If he disapproves of a person, he calls him ‘phuddoo’, which is Punjabi for fucker. And every other person including himself is a ‘chootia’—cunt-born. Every evening he drives down to the India International Centre. He spends an hour there sipping coffee, then enters Lodhi Gardens through its eastern entrance past the Kos Minar. He too takes a couple of rounds of the park before he joins the other two on the bench facing Bara Gumbad.
How the three men got to form the Sunset Club is a long story. Sharma and Boota knew each other since their days in Lahore; by coincidence, both happened to be posted in London and then Paris at the same time. Back in Delhi both met in Lodhi Gardens every evening. Sharma was interested in meeting important people, Boota in trees and birds. Baig did not know either of them. For years he passed them as he did others. After some time they began to raise their hands in recognition. And still later, when they found themselves sitting on the same bench, introductions were made. They became friends and the Su
nset Club came into being.
On the afternoon of the 26th of January 2009, Lodhi Gardens is more crowded than on other days. On its many lawns men and women lie sprawled on the grass. Around each group is a debris of paper plates and cups, with stray dogs wagging their tails, begging for leftovers.
One after another the three members of the Sunset Club arrive and take their seats on the Boorha Binch. Each one in turn puts out both hands with palms open as if pushing something—an all-India gesture asking if all is hunky-dory. After they have greeted each other with aji aao (come, come), sab theek thaak (is all okay?), Sharma replies: ‘Bhagwan ki daya hai—God is merciful.’ Baig says: ‘Alhamdulillah—Allah be praised.’ Boota says: ‘Chalta hai—life goes on.’ Baig opens the dialogue: ‘Ganatantra Divas mubarak ho—congratulations for Republic Day.’ Sharma returns the greetings in the same words: ‘Aap ko bhi mubarak ho.’ Boota strikes a sour note: ‘What is there to be congratulated about? We have made a bloody mess of our country. Murders, massacres, rapes, corruption, robberies like nothing we have ever seen before. Shame on us.’
Baig changes the subject. ‘Did you watch the parade on TV? I never miss it.’
‘Nor do I,’ says Sharma. ‘Grand display. Makes you feel proud of being Indian.’
‘It is the same thing year after year, crores of rupees down the Yamuna,’ snarls Boota.
‘It is not the same year after year,’ protests Baig. ‘This is the first time our Prime Minister was unable to attend as he was in hospital after heart surgery. It is the first time we have had the President of Kazakhstan as our honoured guest.’
‘Did you notice how bored he looked?’ asks Boota. ‘Most of the time he had his eyes shut as if falling off to sleep.’
‘Arrey bhai,’ protests Baig, ‘he did not have his eyes shut. He is Mongoloid; they have narrow eyes like the Chinese.’
‘Boota, does it never occur to you that this is one event in the year that everyone across the country watches every year? It generates a feeling of oneness in people of diverse religions, languages and races,’ says Sharma raising his voice.
‘Okay, okay bhai, you win. Two against one. Happy Ganatantra Divas to both of you,’ responds Boota in a voice loaded with sarcasm.
‘So what’s new?’ asks Baig.
‘What’s new is that last night I had a wet dream. You are a hakeem. I wanted to ask you if it is okay for a man of my age to have wet dreams.’
Before Baig can reply Sharma breaks in: ‘That’s because you have dirty thoughts. What you can’t do, you imagine you are doing. I bet you can’t even get an erection any more. Anyhow, who was it who wet your pajamas?’
‘I won’t tell you. You know her very well. And I sought Hakeem Sahib’s opinion, not yours,’ Boota snaps back.
Baig ponders over the matter before he replies, ‘You must be constipated. Constipation often induces night discharge of semen.’
Boota is taken aback. ‘I’ve always had problems with my stomach. I have been taking laxatives since I left college.’
‘You have a problem of gas in the stomach?’ asks Baig.
‘Yes, lots. I can’t do anything about it.’
Boota tells Baig only half the truth. The truth is that Boota does not want to do anything about it because he enjoys farting. His wife’s death relieved him from the bondage of good manners. When alone, he lets himself go—bhoom, phatas, phuss. And he revels in inhaling the stink he produces. ‘My stomach is full of gas till the evening. When I take Scotch it seems to subside,’ he adds.
‘I don’t like telling you this, but you could not have been a great performer. People who have gas problems don’t make great lovers. They rarely succeed in bringing a woman to her climax. Am I right?’
Boota winces. He recalls that in his earlier years in college in England, he often came in his trousers while kissing girls passionately. Even later it was only when he was a little drunk that he lasted fifteen to twenty minutes, and once in a while brought a woman to a climax.
‘Talk about something else,’ says Sharma. ‘Don’t always have sex on your mind. It’s bad for your health, particularly when you are old and can’t do anything.’
‘Okay bhai, we will postpone it till tomorrow evening. Let’s talk about god and life hereafter of which we know nothing,’ replies Boota.
By that time the sun has gone down behind Bara Gumbad. It has begun to turn chilly. Lights on footpaths have been switched on, Bara Gumbad lit up. Baig’s servant puts a shawl on his master’s lap. ‘Sahib, it is getting cold. We better go home,’ he says in a tone of authority. ‘See, most people have already left.’
All three get up. Sharma says, ‘Cheerio,’ Boota says, ‘Sleep well,’ Baig says, ‘Allah Hafiz—God protect you.’ They go back the way they came.
Sharma gets back to his ground-floor apartment followed by Dabboo Three and his servant. Dabboo Three announces their return with a couple of barks, Sharma’s sister Sunita lets them in with her usual words of welcome: ‘You are back.’ Sharma makes no response. He puts his walking stick in its usual corner and sits down in his padded armchair. There is a roaring log fire in the grate—he likes to keep warm. His servant takes off his shoes and slips his woollen bedroom slippers on to his feet.
‘Who-who was there?’ asks Sunita.
Sharma’s temper rises. ‘How many times have I told you not to say who-who? One who is enough.’
Sunita protests, I did not go to Balliol. I was in Hindu College. Who-who for kaun-kaun. What is so wrong with it?’
‘It is not English and when speaking English, use English; when speaking Hindi, speak Hindi. Don’t make a khichdi of both.’
‘Achha bhai, who was there?’
‘Boota and Baig.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘This and that.’
Sunita senses he is not in a mood to talk to her. I hope that Boota does not barge in. He is always one for a free drink. He also uses dirty language. His servant says he doesn’t bathe for two-two, three-three days. He must smell.’
‘Again two-two, three-three days! You will never learn.’
Sunita decides to end the debate. ‘You take it from me, this is the kind of English we Indians will speak—Hinglish.’
Pavan pours out whisky, soda and two cubes of ice in a tumbler and places it on the side table beside his master’s chair. A bowl of peanuts is already there. Sunita turns her back and joins the servants, their wives and children to watch a serial on Zee TV.
Sharma takes a couple of sips of whisky-soda, stretches his legs and shuts his eyes. He goes over Baig’s analysis of Boota’s wet dream. He has never suffered from constipation. As a matter of fact, he often boasted to Boota how his stomach worked like clockwork: two motions every morning, one before and another after breakfast. Every time, he announced it to everyone around in French, using two words he had picked up in his six years spent in Paris: deuxieme fois—second time. And yet, his first intimate contact with a female was little short of a disaster. It was monsoon time. He was later than usual working in his office to dispose of some urgent files to be sent to his minister. By the time he finished, it was dark. As he was leaving the Secretariat building he saw one of his lady deputy secretaries in the crowd, waiting for the rain to stop. He had often exchanged flirtatious dialogue with her.
‘Lakshmi, can I give you a lift? It’s drizzling,’ he asked. She beamed a smile and replied, ‘Please. I don’t want to get drenched.’ A chaprasi opened his umbrella and escorted the two to Sharma’s office car. Sharma was tired. He sat with his legs stretched and his right arm resting on the back of the seat above Lakshmi’s head. By accident his arm fell on her shoulder. She turned her face to him and kissed him on his lips. He was taken aback but responded passionately. They kept their lips glued together for a long time. He got a hard erection. He could not hold back and slipped his hand up to the middle of her thighs. ‘Not today,’ she whispered, ‘I am not well. I have my periods.’ He did not know anything about periods a
nd thought she was making excuses. He pushed his hand further, found a padded obstruction, oozing blood. I told you so, darling. Be patient. You can have as much of it as you like after we are married.’
That is as close as Sharma ever got to having sex. Later in the evening he went to consult Boota on the subject. ‘I thought she was making excuses to keep me off till I marry her. But she was really wounded and bleeding.’ The only comment Boota made on his friend’s misadventure was, ‘Phuddoo! Chootia! How old are you?’
Sharma feels drowsy, his head droops on his chest. Sunita notices it and asks, ‘Will you eat here or at the table?’
‘Here.’
His servant brings a bowl of boiled rice, dal, a couple of karelas, and puts the food beside the bowl of peanuts. Sharma does not relish the food his sister gives him but has stopped complaining, because she then reminds him of the adage he often uses—‘simple living, high thinking‘. So she gives him a tasteless but belly-filling bhojan. Sharma gulps down the whisky, gobbles up the food, goes to the bathroom to rinse his mouth, urinates and goes to bed. His evenings have become deadly boring.
Boota returns home to a brightly lit fire, his single malt whisky, soda and bucket of ice cubes on a tray. He pours himself a double Patiala in a crystal cut-glass tumbler he uses only for himself, adds ice and soda. He munches some wasabi peas and cashewnuts, then fills his mouth with whisky and rolls it round with his tongue before letting it trickle down his throat. He wants to see if he can feel it go down to his intestines. When his stomach is clean, he can; when it is not, he cannot. He switches on the TV for a few minutes, watches cheetahs chasing deer, and some Australian wrestling with crocodiles and pythons, then switches it off, shuts his eyes and lets his mind drift back to his affairs with women in his younger days. He was never a great performer but the variety he performed with is impressive: whites, browns, blacks, Canadians, Americans, Germans, French, and of course Indians from all communities and parts of the country: Christians, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs. Only a few encounters have stayed in his mind, others have faded from his memory.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 45
