I tell him, I am not a mourner, just a
tamashbeen
(a sightseer). He gives me a dirty look and says acidly, ‘If you like this kind of
tamasha
, take my job.’
I get out of the crematorium just in time. Coming in from the other side is a hearse laden with wreaths followed by a long cavalcade of cars with military markings. Old soldiers also die.
The Coffee House is crowded. My journalist friend and our political adviser have their faces covered with their newspapers as if they are not on talking terms with each other. I join them, they put down their papers. ‘Say brother, where have you been all these days?’
I tell them of the number of relations and friends down with viral fever and conjunctivitis. And my servants.
‘You are lucky you haven’t got AIDS,’ says the Sikh journalist. ‘Knowing what you are upto with all these foreign cunts, you’ll be the first Delhiwalla to get it.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, ‘you look out for yourself. It’s sods like you who get AIDS. Straight sex does no harm to anyone.’
‘Do you have anything else besides sex on your minds?’ reprimands the politician. ‘Here in Delhi people are dying like flies and all you can think of is sodomy and fucking foreign women. Are you one bit concerned about the future of your city?’
‘No,’ we reply in a duet. ‘As far as I am concerned it can go to hell,’ I add. ‘It is no longer the Delhi I grew up in and loved. You Punjabis who invaded us in 1947 have buggered it out of shape.’
‘Be more serious,’ he advises me. ‘We had no choice in 1947 except coming to Delhi. It is the others coming in every day who are creating the problems. Do you know 70,000 pour into Delhi every year from all over India? As if Delhi is the nation’s orphanage. Where are they to be found homes, schools, hospitals? Do you know thirteen lakh Delhiwallas shit in the open because there are no lavatories for them?’
‘You start a movement restricting shitting to once a week,’ suggests the journalist, ‘I promise to put it on the wire services.’
‘It’s no use talking to fellows like you—absolute waste of precious time,’ says the politician getting up. ‘Mark my words, Delhi is a dying city. The more it has of people like you, the sooner it will die. For this prophecy, you pay for my coffee,’ he says as he strides off.
*
Life has gone by faster than I thought possible. When was it that I found Bhagmati lying on the road under the noonday sun? How many times had we lain together? Countless. And in between while she had plied her trade, I coupled with scores of women from countries known only to the Secretariat of the United Nations. Today I can recall only a few names and faces. I am not ashamed of what I did but can do no more. Bhagmati does not seem to mind my diminishing appetite for her. Her visits have become rarer and rarer. From dropping in once in two or three months when she needed money, for the last three or four years she has visited me only on Diwali. She no longer talks of her
hijda
husband (perhaps he is dead) or of sex but of Ramji and of Hindu temples and Muslim
dargahs
she visits. (Despite the years she consorted with me she has never displayed more than a cursory interest in Sikhism; she has certainly never bothered to go inside a Sikh gurdwara). She says she would like to spend her remaining years on the banks of the Ganga at Hardwar or Varanasi. At times she also talks of going on Haj (or is it Umra?) to Mecca and Medina. ‘If only I could tear myself away from the lanes and bazaars of Delhi,’ she says. ‘But I think I will die in Delhi’ Sometimes she adds ‘I hope you will take my ashes and throw them in the Ganga.’ At others she says, ‘Buy a two-yard plot of land near the mausoleum of Hazrat Nizamuddin for my grave.’ I tell her that I am likely to go before her and she should throw my body into the Jamna. Both of us know that we may not hear of the other’s demise till months after it has taken place.
Budh Singh has turned very hostile. After the incidence of ‘eve-teasing’, he sank into deep melancholia. I took him to the mental ward of the Medical Institute. The doctor gave him some electric shocks which upset him very much. He was more upset at the doctor’s suggestion that I should have him admitted to an asylum in Agra or Ranchi. Budh Singh snapped out of his melancholia and turned aggressive. He called the doctor a
bahinchod
and nearly hit me when I restrained him from hitting the doctor. He sits in front of my apartment and growls at me every time I come in or go out. He has made friends with the Bhai of the gurdwara behind my apartment and the two have devised ways of torturing me. The Bhai switches on his microphone at full blast at four in the morning and starts chanting prayers with the loudspeakers turned towards my bedroom. When I remonstrate with him, he tells me to mind my own business. Once when I reported him to the police, he told the sub-inspector that it was the wish of the
sangat
(congregation) and who was I to object? His only
sangat
was, and is, Budh Singh. When the sub-inspector left, the Bhai warned me that the next time I reported him to the police he would get Sant Bhindranwale’s followers to put me on the right path. Budh Singh yelled: ‘
Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale zindabad
!’
My cook-bearer went on his annual leave and never came back. I have to fend for myself. Living alone is not so hard as I thought it would be. Between an electric kettle and a toaster I make tea, boil eggs and eat toasted sandwiches. The Bhai’s loudspeaker wakes me up at 4 a.m. I make myself a mug of tea and go into my study where the Bhai’s unmelodious voice cannot pursue me. I switch on the BBC news at 4.30 a.m. Thereafter I can choose between the Bible Societies Service in Hindi or the morning service from the Golden Temple in Amritsar. I usually opt for the Golden Temple because I am familiar with the morning hymnal. Perhaps suppressed religiosity is rearing its head. Perhaps I will make my peace with the Great Guru as the time of confrontation with Truth draws near.
As the light comes on I go for a walk in Lodhi Park. Most of the walkers here know each other. Some deign to answer my
namaskar
. Back in my apartment I make myself another mug of tea and a couple of pieces of toast. I read the papers while the sweeper woman sweeps the floor. Then I do not know what to do. I cannot afford to run my rickety old car more than a couple of miles a day; but I have to drive it a little to keep the battery going. At times I run it to the Coffee House. It is not much fun to hear people say: This old man has been coming here for over fifty years.’ I spend my afternoons at the India International Centre library of which I fortunately took a life membership in my more affluent days. Sometimes someone asks me to join him over a cup of tea. There is always some lecture, cinema show or dance-recital which I can attend free of charge. So pass the long evenings. On my way back to my apartment I buy
chop suey
or
seekh
kabab
from a take-away joint in Khan Market. The only thing I really look forward to is whisky (now, alas, Indian stuff) which I sip listening to old tapes of
ghazals
of Mehdi Hassan or Iqbal Bano or Farida Khanum. I sleep badly. I am beset by nightmares. What will happen if I am taken ill? There is no one to look after me. It would be nice if I went one night in my sleep and next morning the sweeper girl found me dead in my bed. She could take everything she wanted from my flat: transistor radio, cassette player, watches, clocks, ball-point pens, cash and deposit them in her home before she came back and screamed that the old man was dead and would somebody do something about him. It wouldn’t be too bad if a thug broke into my flat and did me in. It would save a lot of people a lot of trouble. And save me all the bother of finding a bed in a hospital and paying doctor’s bills.
*
Days go by. I am less and less awake when I get out of bed and drag myself to my study. One morning I kicked the stool on which I keep my electric kettle. I was lucky—only a few drops of boiling water fell on my foot. At times I doze off listening to the
keertan
from the Golden Temple. It is becoming a bore. I listen to it because at that hour there is nothing better to tune into. Ever since that fellow Bhindranwale started spouting hateful words against Hindus from the precincts of the Golden Temple, something seems to have gone out of the
keertan
. The Bhai and Budh Singh call him a saint. I feel a lesser Sikh because I think he is a
bhoot
(incarnation of Satan).
On the first of June 1984 the morning service from the Golden Temple is somewhat erratic. I am not sure whether the
tabla
drums have been put too close to the microphone or it is something else. The beat sounds like gunfire. Papers say that the army has been ordered to get Bhindranwale dead or alive; perhaps it is trying to frighten him to surrender. Mrs Gandhi has been assuring the Sikhs that she will never order the army into the Temple. Sensible woman! She knows that mounting an invasion on the temple will turn it into a bloody battlefield. No Sikh will ever forgive her.
I read newspapers more carefully. And listen to the morning service more intently. The 3rd of June is the anniversary of the martyrdom of the builder of the temple. Thousands of pilgrims have come from distant villages to bathe in the sacred pool.
I can hear the hubbub of their voices behind the
keertan
. And the crying of babies roused from their slumbers. And their mothers bribing them with their breasts to keep silent. Roars of
Wah Gurus
! during the invocation include women’s voices. Foolish people! What are they doing in the temple with Bhindranwale’s men and the army trading shots! Curfew has been imposed on the city. The Punjab has been handed over to the army and sealed off from the rest of the world. On the morning of the 5th of June I hear gunfire more clearly than the
keertan
. The next morning there is silence. Papers carry triumphant headlines: ‘Tanks of the Indian army blast Bhindranwale’s stronghold.’ The BBC says well over a thousand including Bhindranwale have been killed. The bullet-ridden corpses of women and infants-in-arms float in the sacred pool. What made Indira Gandhi do such a stupid thing?
A deep depression enters my soul. I ask myself over and over again, am I Sikh? I am certainly not the Bhindranwale brand nor the gurdwara Bhai brand. Bhindranwale was loonier than Budh Singh. I cannot remember when I last went to a gurdwara. I have not prayed in fifty years.
On the morning of the 6th of June I go to the gurdwara behind my apartment. There is quite a crowd. Many are in tears. Their tears bring tears to my eyes. I am one of them. At the end of the service, the Bhai makes a short, fiery speech. ‘We Sikhs never forget or forgive. Remember what we did to the Afghans and to Massa Ranghar? We desecrated their mosques and cut off Massa’s head. That’s what some son of the Guru will do to these demons. You wait and see,’ he says. Great boasters, these Sikhs! They live in the past and refuse to understand that in a civilized society you don’t desecrate mosques or cut off people’s heads.
The Bhai and most Sikhs seen on the road have taken to wearing black turbans. After a few days I also have a couple of my turbans dyed black. Yes, I am one of them.
Budh Singh has turned more rabid. Every time a Hindu passes by my apartment he yells: ‘
Sant Bhindranwale zindabad
.’ They laugh at him. If he is too absorbed in himself, they provoke him: ‘O son of Bhindranwale! Let’s have the slogan again!’
So passes the hot summer. And the torrid months of rains and clouds we call the monsoon. September gives way to October. And comes the autumn season of festivals.
*
It is the last day of October. I am in low spirits. No reason whatsoever. Slept soundly. Long relieving fart while peeing. Pee no longer a powerful jet but an intermittent spray. Enlarged prostate. To be expected when you are seventy. A mug of hot Ginseng and bowels as clean as the inside of a gun barrel. News no worse than other days. Weather has changed for the better—neither too warm nor too cool. Fragrant
madhumalati
and hibiscus about the windows in full flower. Two chorizzias on the lawn covered in pink and white. Moon- beam hedge along the face like a green wall speckled with stars as in the milky way. Dew on the grass sparkling like diamonds in the early sun. What more can Allah do to assure me that He is up there in His heavenly abode and pleased with His handiwork?
My spirits refuse to lift. Read the headlines of papers and toss them in the grate. Stretch my legs on a
moorha
and doze off. Dream of Bhagmati. Since she has become a once-a-year visitor she makes up by often coming into my dreams. We haven’t had sex for the last ten years but in my dreams she is still very bawdy and very lusty. I wake up with a start. Bell rings non-stop; thumping on the door. Bhagmati? I run up and open the door. It’s Budh Singh. Eyes madder than ever; nostrils flared. He yells in my face sending a spray of spit from his beard to mine: ‘Indira Gandhi shot dead! Long live Sant Jarnail Singhji Bhindranwale!’
Budh Singh is becoming impossible. I try to shut the door. He sticks out one foot and prevents me from doing so. ‘You think Budh Singh mad? You think Budh Singh lie? Listen to radio BBC.’ He turns about and marches off swinging his arms and yelling: ‘
Khalistan zindabad
!
Indira
Gandhi murdabad
!
Sant Bhindranwale amar rahey.’
I switch on my transistor. All India Radio stations merrily play film music, programmes for farmers, youth of the land. Half-an-hour later I get the BBC. Indira Gandhi has been shot by her Sikh bodyguard and has been rushed to the All India Medical Institute. There will be no official statement on her condition till President Zail Singh and her son Rajiv Gandhi return to Delhi. Indira is unlikely to survive the volley of stengun fire and pistol shots pumped into her frail body etc. etc.
I sit in my chair. Head between hands. Dazed. Look blankly from bookshelves to ceiling, ceiling to bookshelves. The bell rings again. I tiptoe to the door and peer through the Judas hole. Not Budh Singh but the Bhai of the neighbouring gurdwara. I open the door. He dips his hand in a bowl he is carrying and takes out a palmful of flour pudding. ‘
Pershad
’ he says, ‘the desecration of the Golden Temple has been avenged. The Sikh
Panth
has won a victory. Indira
kutti
(bitch) is dead.’