THE SUNSET CLUB

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Sharmaji, this is a lighter side to the drama. Women fall for VIPs. You see how many working women fall for their bosses. One boss goes, another comes and they switch their affection to him. We have no such luck,’ says Baig.

  ‘How do you think Tiwari faces his wife and children? That is what I would like to know,’ says Sharma. ‘And he is also said to have a bastard son he now disowns. How does he face the boy’s mother? These people have thick skins. They only think of their own pleasures and grabbing more power.’

  ‘When the fellow resigned from the governorship—I am sure Sonia ordered him to resign—he said he was doing so on grounds of health. The next day he arrives in his hometown Dehra Dun to a pre-arranged welcome, and announces that all charges against him are false and he has no intention of retiring from politics. What do you make of a character like him?’ says Baig.

  ‘Why pick on Tiwari? An unruly cock has been the undoing of men much greater than him. It is not for nothing that Hindus worship the lingam,’ says Boota.

  Sharma’s hackles rise. He admonishes Boota in stern tones: ‘Boota, you understand nothing about religious symbolism. A lingam is not what you think it is. It is a symbol of creativity. All religions have symbols: Christians have the cross, Hindus have the letter Om, Muslims have the crescent moon, Sikhs have their khanda-kirpan. They revere them, not worship them. For that matter, you Sikhs have the five Ks. Tell me what possible religious significance the kachha—underwear—or kangha—comb—have?’

  Baig intervenes, ‘Let’s not wrangle about religious matters. Love all human beings, says the Koran. But Muslims go on killing each other. Hardly a day passes when you don’t hear about Sunnis throwing bombs on mosques and attacking Shia processions. And vice versa. I feel sick when I hear about it. I find religious disputes meaningless and petty. I share Ghalib’s views: “I know the rewards of prayer and words of wisdom, but it is my nature to be indifferent towards them.” Sex scandals are more my cup of tea.’

  The sun goes down, it gets chilly and there is the dampness of dew in the air. Baig’s servant puts a shawl on his master’s shoulders and says, ‘Sahib, it has got very cold. Let’s get back home.’ He helps his master get into his wheelchair. As Baig waves farewell to his friends, Sharma responds with another French phrase he knows: ‘A demain, which means, see you tomorrow.’

  Back home, before Sharma can get down to clearing his Christmas mail, his sister asks, ‘Was that Boota there this evening? His servant Bahadur told Pavan he was throwing up all morning, then drinking black coffee and swallowing pills to rid himself of his headache. He must have drunk like a danger—an ox—the evening before!’

  ‘Yes, he was there, looking very ill but chirping away like a bulbul.’

  Sharma is not looking forward to a dinner of daal-rice and egg bhujiya, which is what his sister is likely to give him. He asks sullenly, ‘What are we having for dinner?’

  ‘Omelette.’

  Sharma makes a face. ‘An omelette on Christmas Day?’

  ‘I got a chocolate cake for dessert. If you wanted something special, why didn’t you tell me in the morning?’

  It puts Sharma in an even worse mood. ‘I just want a tasty dinner and some variation now and then. That’s not asking too much.’

  It ruins the atmosphere. He gets down to his whisky, she to the TV. There is no talk between them. He is back to dealing with his mail till dinner is served.

  Baig tells his Begum of Boota’s sher-o-shairee. ‘The fellow has a good memory. He comes out with the right couplets to illustrate what he is saying. He drank too much last evening and was sick in the morning. So he was quoting Ghalib on the joys of drinking in one’s youth and feeling sorry for his inability to continue doing so in old age.’

  ‘That’s what Ghalib is about: drink, women, loss of youth and death.’

  Baig does not respond, and Sakina Begum continues, ‘Janoo, am I wrong in thinking that most of our great poets were randeebaaz—whoremongers—and sharabees—drunkards? Ghalib, the greatest of them, did not write a word in praise of his wife Umrao Begum who bore him half a dozen children, all of whom died in their infancy, but he composed an elegy for his low-caste mistress. And all his love poetry is addressed to prostitutes. Where else but in a brothel would he be asking a woman to open up during drink time, or would he take liberties with her on the excuse of being drunk? And where else but in a brothel would he have indulged in dhaut-dhappa—fisticuffs?’

  Baig ponders over the question and replies, ‘You may be right, but that does not detract from the greatness of his poetry. It was a gift given to him by Allah.’

  Begum Sakina is silent for a while, then says, ‘Well, your Boota really is a Rangeela Sardar. He must have been quite a womanizer in his youth.’

  ‘He is good company. He spices his talk with anecdotes, quotations and improper language. One can never tell how much of what he says is true, but it doesn’t matter. I enjoy listening to him. I can’t say that about Sharma. I respect his learning but not his lectures.’

  ‘It is a long time you three have been together. More than forty years, I think.’

  ‘I’ve lost count. I don’t even remember when and how we got together. For years I passed Boota and Sharma without a nod, all three of us walking at a brisk pace for our evening exercise. Then our paces got slower. I greeted them without knowing their names. Then Sharma and I began to use walking sticks and have servants follow us. Our walks became slower and we found ourselves sitting on the same bench, facing Bara Gumbad, talking about every subject on earth. People who come to Lodhi Gardens call it the Boorha Binch, meant exclusively for us three oldies.’ Baig gives a big sigh and reclines in his chair. The maidservants sit on their haunches at his feet and begin to press his legs. His bearer brings his Scotch and soda on a silver tray. Baig helps himself to his drink. His Begum draws her dupatta over her nose and turns around to watch TV.

  On New Year’s Eve the three are sunning themselves sitting on the Boorha Binch, eyes closed and legs outstretched. They are not in a mood to talk. They yawn and take long breaths. Dabboo Three is fast asleep by his master’s side. Baig’s servants sleep on the lawn a few feet behind the bench. There are a lot of people in the park, some walking, others stretched out on the grass. Children run around. It is a peaceful, restful afternoon.

  Baig yawns again and exclaims: ‘Ya Allah, how quickly the year has gone by. It seems as if last New Year’s Eve was just yesterday. Much happened in 2009. We should ponder over that.’

  ‘Nothing special about 2009,’ says Sharma. ‘Bombs exploding in different places; prices of essential commodities going up and up; Naxalites killing policemen; policemen killing Naxalites and government spokesmen telling us all is well. India is shining, because the aam aadmi is happy. I am an aam aadmi. I am not happy with the way things are going.’

  ‘Pandit, are you ever happy?’ asks Boota. ‘We had general elections in which the fundoos got a licking. For the first time we have a government of able ministers—not one of them accused of making illicit money. We are doing better than any of our neighbours. The scene is not so bleak as you make it out to be. See the brighter side of life.’

  Baig agrees with Boota. ‘We have to concede that despite widespread corruption the country has gone ahead in many fields. Instead of always criticizing the government, if the Opposition parties occasionally gave it a helping hand we could have done better.’

  Boota again takes up against Sharma’s pessimistic outlook. ‘Panditji, you must have read in the morning papers that an Indian girl, Reeta Kaushal, reached the South Pole and planted the Indian flag there. Does it not make you feel proud of Indian women?’

  ‘Brahmin,’ says Sharma.

  Boota flares up. ‘Is that all you have to say—Brahmin? Indian girls have climbed Everest. I am not sure if any of them were Brahmins. And now we have the first woman president, the first woman speaker of the Lok Sabha and what’s more she’s Scheduled Caste. We have women cabinet ministers, chief minist
ers, governors of states, foreign secretary, commanders in the defence services, vice-chancellors of universities—some Brahmins, others not. Can you tell me of any other country which has done so much to uplift women to such heights?’

  Sharma retorts: ‘At the same time we continue to abort female foetuses, bury newborn baby girls. You should know because your Sikh Jats and Haryana Jats are the worst offenders in destroying females. Don’t be carried away by all the government propaganda—take a realistic view of things as they are.’

  In Baig’s home, New Year’s Eve is no different from Christmas Eve. There is no celebration nor any special food. When Baig reminds his Begum that it is the last day of 2009, she says, ‘I know; by the Christian calendar. We follow the Hijri. It is the 13th of Muharram. We don’t celebrate it as New Year’s Day.’

  Boota celebrates New Year’s Eve by ordering dinner from Claire Dutt, an Anglo-Indian who does a commendable job with anything she makes. This time she says, ‘I’ll make something new. Leave it to me.’ Boota invites Sharma—he is always eager to eat tasty food and Boota is a generous host. They never invite Baig: he does not fit in in this kind of party.

  Sharma arrives, walking stick in right hand, his servant Pavan holding his left hand, Dabboo Three waddling behind them. Pavan helps his master into an armchair facing Boota’s, puts his walking stick behind him, and joins Boota’s servant in the kitchen, which is the second warmest place in the flat.

  ‘So ends another year,’ says Sharma as he plugs in his hearing aid in his ears. ‘I did not think I would last this long, did you?’

  Boota answers by quoting Ghalib about the galloping pace of life and not having one’s hands on the reins, then adds, ‘But why discuss this gloomy topic on New Year’s Eve? Single malt with soda or water?’

  ‘Neat—single malt tastes best unadulterated.’

  Boota pours two hefty pegs in cut-glass tumblers and adds soda and ice in his own glass. They raise their glasses, clink them and say, ‘Cheers, Happy New Year to you.’ Having said that, Sharma adds, ‘There is nothing to be cheerful or happy about. When I think of my friends, not one of them besides you is alive today.’

  ‘Well,’ says Boota, ‘the fact that we have outlived them is good enough reason to celebrate!’ Then he recites Thomas Moore’s nostalgic poem:

  Oft in the stilly night

  Ere slumber’s chain has bound me

  Fond memory brings the light

  Of other days around me

  The smiles, the tears

  Of boyhood years,

  The words of love then spoken

  The eyes that shone,

  Now dimmed and gone

  The cheerful hearts now broken.

  ‘There you are! Broken hearts have nothing to be cheerful about,’ says Sharma.

  Exactly at 8 p.m. Claire Dutt’s man delivers dinner with the bill. The dessert is complimentary. Boota pays him in cash, adds a handsome tip and tells his servant to heat up the dinner and serve it in another half-hour. Boota pours a second round for his friend and himself. He uncorks a bottle of Barolo and puts it near the fireplace to bring it to room temperature.

  Neither of them can recognize what the main dish is. It looks like pieces of chicken breast, corn and broccoli. It is delicious. Both have second helpings. The dessert is plum pudding. Boota pours some cognac on it and sets it on fire—a blue flame envelops the pudding. They have large helpings and there is enough left to last Boota for three more dinners.

  The mixture of drinks and food makes both men a little groggy. It is well after 9 p.m., time for old men to retire before Dilliwalas begin to make their way to restaurants and hotels to begin their New Year’s Eve celebrations. As Sharma gets unsteadily to his feet and grasps his walking stick, Boota comes out with one of his favourite quotes, from Walter Savage Landor:

  I strove with none; for none was worth my strife;

  Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;

  I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;

  It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

  ‘So am I—in more ways than one. Cheers!’ Sharma shouts, ‘Pavan, chalo; Dabboo, chalo.’ Pavan helps him up, and the three shuffle out of the room.

  After Sharma leaves, Boota continues sitting in his armchair near the fireplace. His thoughts go back to his years in England. He is filled with nostalgia. It used to be so much fun—drinking, dancing, singing and flirting. As the midnight hour struck, the entire crowd would break into singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. They bade the year goodbye by embracing each other and kissing all the girls.

  Indians tried to create the same kind of atmosphere in their elite clubs and five-star hotels. For many New Year’s Eves, Boota and his wife went to the Gymkhana Club or the Golf Club. They also drank a lot and danced a lot. At midnight, lights were switched off for a minute and you could kiss any woman who was willing to be kissed. After his wife died, Boota went to one or the other of the clubs. He drank steadily till midnight and invariably had a hangover on New Year’s Day. The last time he went to the Golf Club, he drank more than usual and tried to dance the tango with a South Indian woman whom he knew slightly and had kissed on the cheeks. As the lights were switched off, he kissed the woman on her lips. She slapped him on the face and said angrily, ‘How dare you!’ and walked off. Boota returned home much chastened and kept muttering: ‘Bitch, bitch. I’ll never see her again.’ Since then he has never been to a New Year’s Eve party.

  By 9.30 p.m., Boota is in bed with his hot-water bottle. At midnight he is woken up by the bursting of crackers and boys shouting on the streets. He knows 2009 is dead, 2010 has been born. He falls asleep.

  The year 2009 is called the Year of the Blue Moon because in December it had two full moon nights, one on the 2nd and the other on New Year’s Eve. It is a rare occurrence which most people believe is a good omen. But in December there was also a lunar eclipse which most people believe is a bad omen. So no one knows how 2010 will turn out: it’s in the lap of the gods, if there are any.

  13

  THE SUNSET HOUR

  We began our story on the 26th of January 2009, we should end it on the 26th of January 2010. Not much difference in the weather of the two Januarys. Bitterly cold and foggy in the mornings, pale sun which takes long to warm the chill out of one’s bones. The well-off have electric radiators, log fires, whisky, quilts and hot-water bottles to keep them warm. The not-so-well-off lie on footpaths through the nights. Many succumb to the cold and are counted in the newspapers.

  The New Year began on a sad note for both India and Pakistan. In Peshawar, a Talibani exploded a bomb at a volleyball match. He killed thirty-two spectators and maimed over seventy. And lost his life as well. When will this madness end? On the same day India lost its most famous wildlife protector, Billy Arjan Singh. He was ninety-two and lived alone in his bungalow in the midst of tigers, leopards and other wild beasts. None of them harmed him, because he had befriended them. A unique character, he was. Born in the Christian branch of the Kapurthala family, he was evidently impressed by the life of St Francis of Assisi and proved to the world that if you give love to animals and birds, they will give you as much love in return. There are not many of his kind living today.

  On a cold, foggy morning arrived Sheikh Hasina, prime minister of Bangladesh, on an official visit. She was warmly received in Delhi. Relations between the two countries had cooled to near hostility after her father and other members of her family were shot dead by pro-Pakistan assassins. Her father, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, affectionately called Banga Bandhu, was the founding father of independent Bangladesh. India had gone out of its way to help him, and the freedom fighters, Mukti Bahini, to inflict a humiliating defeat on the Pakistan army. Bangladesh and its rulers after Sheikh Mujibur Rahman showed gross ingratitude by siding with Pakistan in its disputes with India. Sheikh Hasina turned the tide in India’s favour. There was good reason to give her a warm welcome.

  Two days later, on the 12th of January, a violent earthquak
e devastated Haiti’s principal city Port-au-Prince, taking a toll of over twenty thousand, one of the worst earthquakes in world history. What had the Haitians done to be punished like this? Where was Almighty and Merciful God?

  Perhaps He had gone to Hardwar to have a holy dip in the icy-cold waters of the Holy Ganga during the Kumbh Mela. Was He washing away the sin He had committed in Haiti? As expected, there was a huge crowd at the Kumbh Mela, running into millions. But He saw to it that this time there was no stampede to take the lives of innocent people, as He was among them. In any event, He organized a solar eclipse to express His regrets for what He had done.

  On the 17th died Jyoti Basu, ex-chief minister of West Bengal. He had been ailing for a long time, which gave many opportunities to leaders of the country to come and enquire about his health. They came in droves, from the prime minister down to chief ministers and other netas who longed to be photographed by his bedside. He had been chief minister for twenty-three long years. He did not do much for his state and let trade unions destroy many industries by going on strikes and gheraoing businessmen at their residences. But he managed to hang on to his post for a record time. The people of Kolkata gave him a grand funeral, ending with soldiers firing guns in the air and comrades giving him clenched-fist salutes.

  Fog and cold continued day after day. It was particularly dense on the morning of the 24th, raising fears that it might ruin the spectacular parade on Republic Day. Many plane and rail services had to be cancelled. Fortunately, on the morning of Republic Day the fog lifted before 8 a.m., and the president of South Korea, who was the chief guest, saw with his own eyes what India is capable of doing to nations which cast their evil eyes on it.

  We have strayed from our main topic. What happened to the Sunset Club? It met as usual on the afternoons of the 1st and 2nd of January. Its members discussed events of the first two days of the year.