Delhi (5 page)

Bhagmati is not a woman like other women. She’s told me something of her past life; I’ve discovered the rest myself.

Bhagmati was born in the Victoria Zenana Hospital near Jamia Masjid. When her father asked the doctor, ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’, the doctor replied, ‘I am not sure.’ Her parents already had three boys. So they gave their fourth child a girl’s name, Bhagmati. When a troupe of
hijdas
came to their home to sing and dance and said, ‘Show us your child. We want to see if it is a boy or a girl, or one of us,’ her father abused them and drove them away without giving them any money. The
hijdas
gave her parents no peace. Whenever they came to the locality to sing and dance at births or weddings they would turn up at their doorstep and say, ‘Show us your last born. If it is one of us, let us take it away.’

Bhagmati’s mother had two more children—both girls. Both times her father had taken Bhagmati with him to the hospital and asked the doctor to examine her and say whether she was a boy or a girl. Both times the doctor had looked at her genitals and said ‘I am not sure; it is a bit of both.’ Bhagmati was then four years old. When the troupe of
hijdas
visited them after the birth of his last child, her father gave them twenty-one rupees and said, ‘Now I have three sons and two daughters, you can take this one. It is one of you.’

The troupe of
hijdas
adopted Bhagmati. They taught her to sing, clap her hands and dance in the manner of
hijdas
. When she was thirteen her voice broke and became like a man’s. She began to grow hair on her upper lip, round her chin and on her chest. Her bosom and hips which were bigger than a boy’s did not grow as big as those of girls of her age. But she began to menstruate. And although her clitoris became large, the rest of her genitals developed like those of a woman. This time she went to see the doctor herself. He said ‘You can do everything a woman can but you will have no children.’

There are as many kinds of
hijdas
as there are kinds of men and women. Some are almost entirely male, some almost entirely female. Others have the male and female mixed up in different proportions—it is difficult to tell which sex they have more of in their makeup. The reason why they prefer to wear women’s clothes is because it being a man’s world every deviation from accepted standards of masculinity are regarded as unmanly. Women are more generous.

Bhagmati is a feminine
hijda.
When she was fifteen, the leader of the troupe took her as his wife. He already had two
hijda
wives; but such things do not matter to them. Instead of shunning her as a rival, the wives stitched Bhagmati’s wedding-dress and prepared her for the nuptial bed. They shaved the superfluous hair on her face and body and bathed her in rose-water. They escorted her to their husband’s room. They had their eyes and ears glued to the crevices in the door. Later they often made love to her. Bhagmati had small-pox when she was seventeen. ‘They gave me up for dead,’ she said. ‘They threw me in a hospital where people were dying like flies.
Seetla Mai
(goddess-mother of small-pox) spared me but left her fingerprints all over my face.’

When men came to expend their lust on
hijdas
—it is surprising how many prefer them to women—Bhagmati got more patrons than anyone else in her troupe. She could give herself as a woman; she could give herself as a boy. She also discovered that some men preferred to be treated as women. Though limited in her resources, she learnt how to give them pleasure too. There were no variations of sex that Bhagmati found unnatural or did not enjoy. Despite being the plainest of
hijdas
, she came to be sought by the old and young, the potent and impotent, by homosexuals, sadists and masochists.

Bhagmati regards a bed in the same way as an all-in wrestler regards the arena when engaged in a bout where no holds are barred. Bhagmati is the all-purpose man-woman sex maniac.

Although Bhagmati is a freelance, she continues to live with her husband and co-wives in Lal Kuan. She puts whatever she earns in the community kitty. In return she has a roof over her head, and a meal whenever she wants it. When she is ill, they look after her. When she is arrested for soliciting they furnish bail; when she is sentenced by the magistrate, they pay the fine.

How did I get mixed up with Bhagmati? That’s a long story which I will tell you later. How did she come to mean so much to me? I am not sure. As I have said before I have two passions in my life; my city Delhi and Bhagmati. They have two things in common: they are lots of fun. And they are sterile.

*

‘Where have you been blackening your face?’ I ask her flopping down on the sofa.

‘Ajee
!’ she exclaims saucily digging her finger into her chin. ‘I go blackening my face but you go riding big Cars and old, white women! What kind of justice is this?’

‘You’ve been gossiping with Budh Singh.’

‘That
pagal
!’ she dismisses him with a wave of her hand. ‘He lied to me. He said you would not be back for fifteen days. But something in my heart told me you were back.’ She stubs the half-smoked cigarette on my table and sticks it behind her ear. With the thumb and finger of the hand she makes a circle. She inserts the index finger of the other hand in and out of the circle and asks: ‘How was it?’

I told you she is the coarsest whore in Delhi.

‘Must you be so vulgar?’

‘Uffo!’
she exclaims, ‘Today you call us vulgar; God knows what you will be saying tomorrow!’ She comes and sits on the floor, takes off my shoes and socks and begins to massage my feet. It is very pleasant. She massages my ankles, my calf muscles and the insides of my thigh. Every now and then her hands wander up for a spot-check. Very casually she undoes my fly-buttons, plants a soft kiss on my middle and comes over me. I don’t have to do a thing except lie back and enjoy myself. I told you Bhagmati knows exactly what anyone wants at any time.

How did Bhagmati come into my life? That’s in the past tense—three years ago.

*

At the time I was engaged in writing the biography of an industrialist. I was provided with a staff of research assistants to sift through his correspondence. We were allotted a few rooms in one of the newer suburbs called Patel Nagar across the Ridge which had at one time marked the western extremity of the two cities of Delhi, the Old and the New.

It took me some time to discover that the shortest way to my office was along a road which ran atop the Ridge. It was also the most picturesque; from many places you could get a view of the two cities. On either side of the road were bushes of sesbania, vasicka and camel thorn; huge boulders of red sandstone were strewn about everywhere. There were flowering trees, flame, coral and the flamboyant
gul mohar.
Ridge Road as it was known had earned a bad name.

A car or two had been held up, there had been a case of assault or robbery. The newspapers did the rest. Pedestrians and cyclists avoided it now and cars sped by without stopping. It was usually deserted. It was on this road that I first met Bhagmati.

It is curious how the first encounter remains so indelibly printed on the mind while the affair that follows is soon blurred.

I can recall every detail of our first meeting.

It was some time in April. It was very hot. I had put in a couple of hours of work in my air-cooled office which I had heavily curtained against the glare of daylight. (I read and wrote under the orb-light of an anglepoise lamp). Suddenly the electric current was cut off: those days as now this was a frequent occurrence in Delhi. For a while I waited in the stifling dark, then decided to call it a day. It was noon with a dust-laden grey sky and a scorching hot wind blowing more dust. I drove onto the Ridge Road. Through clusters of waving sesbania I could see a dense pack of houses on either side. But no signs of life, not even a kite wheeling in the sky. A hundred yards or so ahead of me I saw two cyclists struggling against the wind. And beyond them what appeared to be a body stretched halfway across the shimmering tarmac. I saw the cyclists stare at the body, hesitate a little, and then push on. I pulled up on the side. The cyclists turned back.

It was a woman lying with her arms and legs stretched out as if crucified. Her eyes were half-open; a little froth and blood trickled down her mouth. There was a damp patch beside her sari. I looked at her bosom to see if she was breathing: the flapping of the sari made it difficult to be sure. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked the cyclists who had joined me.

They peered into the woman’s face.
‘Mirgee
! (epileptic fit)’ exclaimed one of them. He found a twig and thrust it between the woman’s teeth. ‘That will stop her from biting her tongue.’ He took off one of his shoes and placed it on the woman’s face. ‘This is the best thing for
mirgee....
the smell of old leather.’

I noticed the woman’s bosom heave. It was a very small, almost non-existent bosom, encased in a cheap, printed, artificial silk blouse. What else did I notice? Feet, very black. Toe-nails painted bright crimson. Inside of the palms, stained with henna. Very short and somewhat plump. About twenty and altogether too dark to be considered attractive by Indian standards. The little I could see of her face was pitted with pock-marks.

‘What is she doing on the Ridge by herself?’ I asked.

‘Only the Guru knows!’ exclaimed one of the cyclists.

‘These are bad times,’ said the other. He removed his shoe from the woman’s face and slipped it on his foot. ‘She’ll be all right in a few minutes.’ Then without giving me a chance to say anything the two rode off.

The woman began to moan and shake her head. She raised her hand and drew a circle with her finger.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.

She nodded her head. I wiped the bloody froth on her mouth with her own sari and helped her to her feet. She smelt of sweat and urine.

‘Chukkur,’
she explained, again drawing a circle with her finger. ‘Be kind and take me to a bus-stand.’ It was a hoarse, masculine voice.

I hesitated. Was it a trap? I had heard of people being black mailed in this way. But I had little choice. And my conscience was clear. I helped her into the rear seat of my car. She slumped down and closed her eyes. I passed the cyclists. In the rear-view mirror I saw them dismount and one of them write something in his pocket-book. It was obvious he was taking down the number of my car. What had I landed myself into?

‘Where would you like to be dropped?’

No answer. I looked back. She was fast asleep—or perhaps having another fit. What was I to do? Take her to a hospital? They’d ask questions and send for the police. Take her to a police station? Oh no! Not the Delhi police! Not in a thousand years!

I drove past Lohia Hospital towards the Parliament and headed down Parliament Street towards Connaught Circus. Then it struck me that I was being very foolish! At any traffic light someone might have noticed the woman lying in a state of collapse and started a riot. I turned back towards the Parliament and took the broad road to Palam airport. At a deserted spot I pulled up to see how she was. I felt her forehead. No fever. I shook her gently by the shoulder. She opened her eyes and mumbled, ‘Let me be! I am very tired.’ And went back to sleep.

I drove about for an hour before I turned back to my apartment. I parked the car where I usually did alongside my window. The Guru was merciful. None of my neighbours or their servants were about. I opened the rear door and boldly dragged the woman out by her shoulders. ‘Come along!’

She allowed herself to be helped out. ‘You can sleep here till you feel better,’ I said as soon as we were safely indoors.

‘Your slave has had enough sleep,’ she replied. ‘If
huzoor
can show me where to wash, your maidservant will be most grateful.’

I was startled by her florid Hindustani. I showed her the bathroom and explained how the hot and cold water taps operated. I gave her a clean towel, my Princeton T-shirt and a pair of trousers. ‘I have no woman’s clothes, but you can wear these till your sari is dry.’

She spent a long time in the bathroom bathing and washing her soiled clothes. She waddled into the sitting-room with the Princeton T-shirt hanging loose on her shoulders and holding up the trousers with her hands. My clothes were many sizes too big for her.

I smiled. A blush spread on her pock-marked dark face. ‘Too big for me,’ she said looking down at the trousers. I poured her a Coke and asked her to help herself to the plateful of mangoes on the dining-table.

‘I am very hungry,’ she said taking a mango. ‘I have not had anything to eat since yesterday.’

‘What were you doing on the Ridge at noon?’

‘I was on my way home from Tihar.’

‘Tihar?’

‘You know! The jail! They let me out last evening. I did not have a paisa with me. I spent the night outside a labourer’s hovel. They would not let me in. Then I started to walk home. Tihar is a long way away from the city.’

‘What took you to Tihar?’ I asked her.

She fixed her eyes on me and waggled her head saucily in the manner of a dancer. ‘Vagrancy, what else? I am a prostitute.’

‘What is your name?’

‘What will you do with my name? Your slave is known as Bhagmati.’ I had a vague suspicion that there was something besides her flat chest and masculine voice which made her different from other women. ‘Where is your home?’ I asked her.

‘Wherever the dusk overtakes me, I spread my carpet and call it my home. My roof is studded with the stars of heaven.’ She had retained all her tartish tartness. ‘Your slave’s abode of poverty is in Lal Kuan.’ My suspicion got stronger. In Lal Kuan was the hermaphrodites’ quarters. My curiosity was roused. I’d never known a
hijda
, only seen them go about in groups of fours and fives, sing in their unmelodious male voices, make ungainly movements they called dancing and clap their hands with the fingers stretched backwards. I had heard strange stories of their sex-life and the shapes of their genitals. Despite my curiosity to find out more about her, I asked her if she would like to be dropped home.