Delhi (7 page)

Bhagmati had not bothered to ask me my name. She had not enquired about the number or even the location of the block of the apartments in which I lived. How would she find her way back to get her money? I certainly had no intention of going into the
hijda
locality in Lal Kuan to look for her.

Days went by and weeks. With the passage of time I began to think that perhaps Bhagmati was not as much of a whore as I had earlier presumed. And the memory of that one night she had spent with me came back to me with pain. I lost hope of ever seeing her again.

The way Bhagmati re-entered my life made me believe that the gods had decided to have fun at my expense.

I resumed my usual routine of life; a few hours of work in the morning, a round of golf in the afternoon, a cocktail party in the evening followed by a late dinner. In Delhi one could manage a drink and dine off other people all 365 days of the year. The Diplomatic Corps was my cornucopia. I got all the canned food and liquor I needed from diplomats. Scotch which cost a hundred-and-fifty rupees per bottle in Connaught Circus was made available to me by the crate at thirty rupees each or for free. The Corps also catered to my basic needs. Delhi had over a hundred embassies, High Commissions and Legations. Diplomats in Delhi did not have much work to do. Most of their energies were directed to wining and dining officials of the External Affairs and other ministries of the Government of India, cultivating non-official locals and celebrating their independence days. It was not difficult to find a bored wife or a spinster eager to know Indians and thus ensure a regular supply of imported victual and exotic sex.

At the time I found Bhagmati on the road I had been courting a stenographer working in the West German Embassy. I had met her at a consular reception, discovered that she was a new arrival and like many newly arrived foreigners anxious to get to know Indians. She was not particularly attractive—thirtyish, grey-eyed, thin-lipped, tall and bony. She tied her hair in a bun which made her look severe.

*

Fraulein Irma Weskermann was an easy conquest. One Sunday I took her round the monuments of Delhi and had Bavarian beer in her apartment. The following weekend I took her to the
son-et-lumiere
at the Red Fort and gave her dinner at Moti Mahal. Since restaurants were not permitted to serve alcohol I carried a hip-flask and when the waiter was not looking poured a slug of Indian whisky in her Coke. I explained that this was all an Indian citizen could afford as the cost of Scotch was prohibitive. She took the hint. (This gambit always worked with the diplomats). Thereafter whenever I invited her home or took her out she brought a bottle of Scotch or wine with her.

Fraulein Weskermann did not seem very interested in sex. Being somewhat sexless in appearance she had cultivated a kind of brashness as a defence mechanism. When I first put my arm round her waist she said ‘Must you?’ I answered in the affirmative and added, ‘Because I like you.’ Thereafter, she began to put her face forward to receive a kiss on her bony cheeks. One evening I said to her, ‘Irma I am beginning to like you more than I should.’ ‘Zat’s nice,’ she replied and responded with a kiss. On another occasion I told her ‘Irma, it’s terrible but I think I am beginning to fall in love with you.’ No woman can resist that. ‘How many vomen have you said zat to before?’ she asked. And let me kiss her on her lips. The relationship progressed in the conventional way with a little more intimacy each time. Soon I was fondling her breasts. How long can any woman have her breasts fondled and resist giving herself completely? My hands began to explore further. If they got too close to her middle she would open her grey eyes and firmly say ‘No.’ But it was only a matter of time. One evening as I was feeling her between her thighs I said ‘You are ready for it.’ A shudder passed through her frame. ‘It must neffer, neffer happen,’ she said pushing my hand out of her knickers. I apologized and pretended to be hurt. ‘It’s also my fault, yah?’ she replied and made up with a kiss that made my ears burn. I had little doubt that the decks had been finally cleared and at the next encounter the Indo-Germanic affair would be consummated.

I had not reckoned with Bhagmati.

It must have been almost two months after the meeting with Bhagmati that Fraulein Weskermann was dining with me in my apartment. A certain strangeness, loud conversation and forced laughter indicated that she had made up her mind to say ‘Yah.’ Half-way through the meal we had emptied her bottle of Moselle. She agreed to try a ‘tear-drop’ of cognac with her coffee. As soon as my cook-bearer left we went to the sofa and proceeded to fondle each other. I whispered into her ear, ‘Shall we?’ She murmured, ‘If you wish. Let me prepare myself.’ She picked up her handbag and hurried into the bathroom. I repaired to the bedroom and switched on the air-conditioner. Irma Weskermann emerged draped in my dressing-gown. She looked coy. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she pleaded. ‘Switch off the light, please!’ I laughed and put my arms round her waist—’We have a saying in Hindustani “If you are pregnant you have to show your belly to the midwife.” If you are going to make love you have to bare your body,’—disrobed her and led her to my bed.

Fraulein Weskermann lay on her back and parted her thighs. I entered her without much emotion. She was not a virgin; she was damp but not very excited. All she did was to let out a moan
aah
and shut her eyes. We lay interlocked without a word or movement. Neither of us seemed to be getting very much out of it. But neither seemed to have the courage to call it off. How different it had been with Bhagmati!

Through the hum of the air-conditioner I heard the doorbell. I looked up. It rang again. ‘Somebody at the door?’ asked the Fraulein a little alarmed. ‘Sounds like it,’ I replied. To reassure her I added, ‘Who cares!’

She pushed me off. ‘Might be a telegram or something important like zat.’

I got up, slipped on my dressing-gown and tiptoed to the door. I peeped through the Judas hole. It was Bhagmati.

The ringing became more insistent. I tiptoed back. Fraulein Weskermann was sitting up in bed. ‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

‘A woman,’ I replied foolishly. ‘I owe her some money.

‘What a time to visit a man!’ she said very acidly.

‘It is nothing like that,’ I protested. ‘She is a sick woman I picked up on the road one morning...’

The bell continued ringing.

‘I haf been a big fool,’ she said standing up. She picked up her clothes and went into the bathroom. She came out fully dressed. ‘Nice to have known you, Mr Singh. Good-bye and haf a naice time.’ She opened the door and looked the dazed Bhagmati up and down. ‘Excuse me, Madam!’ she exclaimed and marched out to her Volkswagen.

I slumped on my sofa and covered my face with my hands. I heard the door close and then Bhagmati’s voice pleading, ‘If your slave has been guilty of indiscretion she begs a thousand pardons.’

I refused to look at her. ‘You could have chosen a better hour.’

‘Huzoor,
your maidservant had an engagement at the
Misri
embassy. I thought I would leave some money with your honour and also offer my humble services. I see I have angered your honour. I must extract a pardon before I rid myself of your sight.’

She sat down at my feet and began to press my legs. ‘Your slave had only to turn her face the other side and you were unfaithful to her!’ Her hands stroked the insides of my thighs. ‘What was the giraffe like?’ she asked saucily.

‘I’ll show you,’ I replied and roughly hauled her up into my lap.

‘
Arre
!’ she exclaimed wagging her head, ‘All males of the species are the same. One minute one woman, next minute another.’

*

Today is the 15th of June. Delhi had its first pre-monsoon shower. It has cleansed the atmosphere of the dust that has been hanging in the air for the past three days. A fresh breeze drives snow-white clouds across the blue sky. The earth is fragrant. The air smells of more rain. How can anyone stay indoors on a day like this?

The choice is between Mehrauli and Okhla. Mehrauli has the Qutub Minar with its gardens, monuments and acres of mango orchards. Okhla has no monuments but it has lots of water. The Jamna has a weir from which a canal branches off. At monsoon time the river is an awesome sight. She is then Triyama the sister of the ruler of Hades. Delhiwallas who have a death-wish come to Okhla during the monsoons to hurl themselves into the Jamna’s muddy arms. Those who have a zest for living come with baskets full of sucking mangoes. They suck them and see how far into the river they can throw their stones. Whether it is Mehrauli or Okhla you have to have a
mashooka
to share the experience: a
mashooka
in whose ears you can whisper: ‘I want to take you in the rain till your bottom is full of mud and mine full of the monsoon.’

I hear a
tonga
pull up outside. I hear argument between the
tongawalla
and the passenger. The
tongawalla
shouts, ‘There is more money in buggery than in plying a
tonga.
’ The passenger replies in a louder voice ‘
Abey ja
! Who would want to bugger you! Nobody will spit on your dirty arse’

Who could it be except Bhagmati!

Before she can ring the bell I open the door. She comes in swaying her hips and abusing the
tongawalla, ‘Sala, bahinchod
! I give the sister-fucker one rupee from Lal Kuan to this place and he wants to bugger me for more. There is no justice in the world.’ She turns on me. ‘Is this a day to sit indoors like a woman in a
burqa
? I thought you’d like to take me out in your motor car to eat some fresh air and mangoes.’

I’m waiting for an excuse to get out. There is no one I’d like to be with more than Bhagmati. But not with her dressed in that red and blue sari and her head looking like a nest of butterflies. I’ve bought her a pair of stretch-pants and an open collared shirt which she keeps in my apartment. ‘I’ll change into my
vilayati
clothes,’ she says as she strides on into my bedroom.

She washes off the powder, rouge and lipstick. She plucks out the butterfly-clips from her hair, combs out the waves and ties it up in a bun at the back of her head. Now it is a different Bhagmati: a sprightly little gamine in a canvas kepi, half-sleeved sports shirt and bum-tight stretch-pants. Very chic! No one can tell whether she is a
hijda
or a boy who looks like a girl.

We start with an argument. Bhagmati says, ‘It’s a day for Okhla. When it rains the entire world goes to suck mangoes by the weir.’

‘Not Okhla,’ I reply. ‘I don’t like crowds: least of all Punjabis. They will be a crowd there screaming, shouting, eating, making litter everywhere.’

‘If you are ashamed of being seen with me, I’ll stay in the motor car,’ retorts Bhagmati. It’s true. But I am not going to spoil her day. ‘I swear by the Guru that is not true! Okhla has too many people, too many monkeys, too many snakes. Once I killed five snuggling behind the water-gauge. Five! One after the other.’

Snakes settle the argument in favour of Mehrauli.

The road to Mehrauli has an endless procession of cycles,
tongas
, scooters, cars and people on foot. Everyone is shouting
ho, ho
or singing film songs.

A two-wheeled open cart jammed with women in veils and children comes tearing through the crowd and passes us. The driver puts the handle of his whip on the spokes of the wheel to make them rattle. He yells to everyone to get out of his way. He almost knocks down a Sikh with his wife and four children piled on one bicycle. The Sikh is very shaken. He lets out the foulest abuse he can for a family of Mussalmans. ‘Progeny of pigs! You want to kill us?’ Out of the huddle of
burqas
rises a six-year-old David. He loosens his red jock strap, sticks out his pelvis and flourishes his tiny circumcized penis. He hurls back abuse like pellets from a sling.
‘Abey Sikhrey
!
Harami
(bastard), you want to sit on my Qutub Minar?’

Daood
Mian’s
Qutub is a mighty two-and-a-half inches long. The other Qutub only 283 feet!

Bhagmati breaks into a helpless giggle. ‘What a lovely little penis he has! So much nicer than the tapering things of the Hindus. Is your fellow circumcized?’

‘You should know.’

‘They all look the same when they are up. Next time 1 will look when it is asleep.’

We get to the Qutub. The car park is full of cars, the gardens are full of people. While we are trying to make up our minds where to go there is a heavy shower and everyone scurries for shelter. ‘Not here,’ I say and drive on. We go past the ruins of Metcalfe’s mansion, Jamali-Kamali’s mosque and enter Mehrauli town. I pull up in the car park alongside Auliya Masjid. The shower turns into a downpour. The Shamsi Talab, becomes a part of the cascade pouring into it. We sit in the car playing with each other. Bhagmati slithers down the seat and parts my legs. I am nervous. Any moment someone may peep in the window and want to know what she is up to. ‘Not here’ I tell her, pushing away her head. ‘We’ll try Jahaz Mahal.’

I take the car a few feet further up the road and park it alongside Jahaz Mahal. We make a dash for the building. There is a crowd of rustics—obviously caught by the rain on their way home. They make way for us. I take Bhagmati down the stairs to the floor which is almost level with the water of the pool. Not a soul. I take Bhagmati in my arms and crush her till she can’t breathe. ‘You want to break my bones? You want to murder me?’ she protests.

‘If you die here you would go straight to paradise. The waters of the Shamsi Talab have been blessed by many saints.’

‘
Acchaji
! Now you want to finish me! I’ll go and tell them I was murdered by my lover. Allah will forgive my sins. In my next birth I will be born as Indira Gandhi and become a famous daughter of India.’

We resume our flirting. But when you have only one ear, one eye and half-a-mind to spare for sex and have to keep the other ear, eye and half-of-the-mind to confront anyone who suddenly bursts upon you, it is not much fun. Twice we try to have a quickie but both times we are interrupted by voices coming down the steps. In that light no one can tell whether Bhagmati is a boy or a girl—or both. Indians are very understanding about boys amusing each other. Only when it comes to straightforward fucking do they get censorious. We pretend we are deeply interested in archaelogy, history, architecture. I light matches, examine the tiles and try to decipher inscriptions on stones.