Delhi (2 page)

I glance over the headlines and look at the pictures.

My cook-bearer enters with a welcoming grin. I give him the Japanese watch I bought for him. His grin changes into a smile. He gives me a mug of black coffee and asks me if I will be in for lunch. No. Dinner? Yes, but I may be late, so leave it on the table. What would I like? I know he’s thinking of Bhagmati because she eats only Indian food and I eat Anglo-Indian
ishtoo
or
sawset
with
kashtar
for a
putteen
. I do not know how, when or where I will find Bhagmati. But I am not going to tell him, so I reply ‘Anything.’ He goes away constipated with curiosity.

It is time to catch up with Delhi. A quick shower and I am off in my Hindustan Ambassador. More roads and roundabouts have had their names changed. The Windsors, Yorks, Cannings and Hardinges have been replaced by the Tilaks, Patels, Azads and Nehrus. There are red flags outside a petrol station with three men chanting ‘Death to petrol-stationwalla.’ Red flags outside Dr Sen’s nursing home. Six men yelling, ‘Death to Doctors.’ Red flags outside Food and Agriculture Ministry building. Four men in garlands sit cross-legged on the lawn. A placard in front of them says
Third Day of Relay
Hunger Strike.
A procession with saffron flags goes along Parliament Street chanting ‘Our religion and our country are one. The cow is our mother. Death to cow-eaters.’ On the lawns of Connaught Circus there is a political meeting. The speaker yells into the mike: ‘All together cry–
Jai Hind.’
The crowd obeys:
‘Jai Hind.’
The man at the mike is not happy. ‘That’s not good enough. We cannot fight those Chinese pigs with such feeble voices, can we? Let your voices be heard as far as Peking. All together
Jai Hind.
’

‘JAI HIND.’

Pekinese pigs piss in your pants. With enemies like Indians you’ve nothing to lose except your piddle.

I park my car beside the stalls of the Tibetan ‘antique’ dealers on Janpath (once Queensway). The same brand of American tourists bargain for the same kind of brass and stone bric-à-brac. The same set of Sikh fortune-tellers mumble the same kind of romances and travel to foreigners. One fellow spots my Marks-and-Sparks T-shirt. ‘You come from
phoren
, you go
phoren
again,’ he assures me. ‘One minute you give me and I tell you love-affairs. Rich, white lady passioning for you. I tell you name. I tell you how to make her and her much fortune your own.’ I speak to him in Punjabi. ‘Tell these things to the
Amreekans
, I have no money.’ He knows his victim. ‘Money?’ he sneers indignantly, ‘Money is dirt on back of hand. You great future. Much riches. Much love-affairs with
phoren
ladies. One evil star stopping you. Close palm.’ Without thinking I clench my fist. ‘Now open.’ I unclench my hand. There is a black spot in the middle of my palm. ‘See!’ he says triumphantly, ‘Black star! You give rupee one only. From
Amreekans
I take rupees ten. I tell you how conquer black star.’ I give him a rupee and am instructed in the art of seducing foreign women. ‘Sardarji, your lady love name begin with J.H.T. Yes?’ I know no woman with the initials J.H.T. He goes on: ‘When you get white lady with J.H.T. in name you remember Natha Singh, world-famous palmist-astrologer.’

I arrive at the All India Cooperative Coffee House. More red flags. One banner says
Give us our demands.
A man hands me a leaflet listing the demands. I roll it up and return it to him with an obscene gesture. He returns the compliment. Nasty man!

I cast my eyes over the noisy throng. Can’t see anyone I’d care to be with. I buy a copy of
Delhi Underworld
from the news-stand, grab a table just as it is vacated and tilt three chairs against it. I plunge into my weekly ration of Delhi scandals. A Minister of Cabinet (name to be disclosed next week) has impregnated his daughter-in-law. There’s nepotism for you! Free service to the son! ‘Confessions of a Connaught Circus Girl.’ Poor thing complains of misuse by the Indian staff of an African embassy. She says Africans are better endowed than Indians. They also pay more money. A college lad writes a letter complaining that his step-mother raped him while his father was out on tour. Editor appends angry footnote in italics:
‘How can you put your instrument in
the same place as your father’s which gave you birth?.....Your step
mother is disgrace to Indian womanhood.’
He promises to give advice on how to deal with such women in the next issue. I drool over drawings of ‘sex cats’ with bosoms like the protrusions on the fenders of American cars. The next issue also promises a full disclosure of goings-on in Tihar Jail (women’s section). Bhagmati has told me quite a lot about that. She’s been to Tihar many times.

I see two of our gang come in. One is a photographer, the other a journalist. Both claim to be Delhi’s champion womanizers. They see me and advance with their arms wide open. ‘Hullo, hullo. How’s the little one?’ asks the photographer, tapping my middle. ‘Did it do its duty to the memsahibs?’ I tap his fly: ‘And how’s Delhi’s champion stud bull?’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Fifteen days no action. I stick to my motto: when you find a woman fornicate, when you do not be celibate. No self-abuse, no boys, no
hijdas
.’ That’s hitting me below the belt.

‘And you great pen-pusher, what’s your Qutub Minar been up to?’ I ask the journalist. He’s a big fellow with pubic-sized growth on his face. He also replies in verse. ‘When I get a woman I copulate. When I don’t, I masturbate. No complaints. The great Guru is in His Heaven and the
mashooka
in my bed!’ He plucks a hair out of his beard and examines it with philosophic detachment. A third friend joins us. He is an Upper Division Clerk in the Ministry of Defence. He is utilizing his unutilized sick leave. He disapproves of this kind of talk! ‘Five million Indians are dying of hunger in Bihar and all you fellows can think of is women.’ He shakes his foot, then jerks his legs like the arms of a nutcracker. He puts his feet on the chair and continues to amuse himself. A fart escapes his fat arse:
poonh
. He is embarrassed. He puts his feet down and apologizes: ‘Sorry, it was a slip of the tongue.’

Another of our cronies comes along. He is a politician of sorts and our political expert. He made a name during the last famine by organizing a ‘miss-a-
chappati
-a-week’ movement. Now he is contemplating a similar campaign for family planning based on the slogan ‘If you want good luck: In one week only one...’ The slogan hasn’t got off the bed yet. We return to sex and corruption and inefficiency and five million starving in Bihar. We drink many cups of coffee and nibble many plates of cashewnuts. So passes the morning.

A heavy depression overtakes me. I take leave of my coffeehouse friends and drive along the Ring Road which skirts the old city. I pass along the Mughal city wall and Zeenat Mahal’s mosque. I slow down at the electric crematorium. No customers, no smoke. I move on through the arches of three bridges to Nigambodh Ghat cremation ground on the Jamna. I park my car and go in.

What’s happened to the Delhiwallas? They are not even dying as they used to! Only one pyre burning and three heaps of smouldering ashes. No mourners. I walk up to the edge of the bank to see if there is any life there. Quite a scene!

Down the steps running into the river is a corpse draped in a red shroud. A dozen men and women are screaming and beating their breasts. A Brahmin priest pushes them aside, chants Sanskrit mumbo-jumbo and sprinkles water on the body. A middle-aged man uncovers its face. It’s a young girl—very waxen and in deep slumber. The man stares at her face, moans and shakes his head in disbelief. A woman on the other side of the corpse smacks her forehead many times and clasps the dead girl in her arms. Other people gently remove the wailing couple and cover up the face of the corpse. The priest puts out his palm. Somebody gives him a rupee. He looks at the silver coin with disdain, then clip-clops up the stairs in his wooden sandals. The mourners lift the bier and follow him. They put the corpse on the ground and begin to make a platform of logs. The middle-aged couple resume their mourning. The woman throws dust in her hair and smacks her head with both her hands screaming.
‘Hai! Hai!
Hai!’
The man again uncovers the dead girl’s face, gazes intently for a minute and then groans,
‘Hai Rabba!’
He cannot take his eyes off the dead child. He presses her arms and legs, massages the soles of her feet. The pyre is ready. The corpse is lifted and placed on it. More wood and pampas stalks are placed over the body and a brass
lota
full of clarified butter emptied on it. A man lights a stick with a bundle of rags soaked in kerosene and takes the torch round the pyre. It bursts into flames. Another man takes a sharp-pointed bamboo pole, prods the flaring, crackling pyre to locate the dead girl’s head and then lunges into her skull.

The parents bury their faces in the dust, slap the ground and wail. The Toofan Mail from Calcutta rumbles over Jamna’s iron bridge towards Delhi railway station.

I leave Nigambodh Ghat with the heat of the flames on my face and the helpless cry of the stricken parents ringing in my ears. There is real grief! It stabs through the heart like a needle. There, but for the grace of God, it could have been I pouring dust onto my head to mourn the death of my child! Here, by the grace of God, I am driving my Ambassador back to my apartment! What are my irritations, envies and frustrations compared to the sorrow of the people I have left behind! They will go home and miss their daughter. I’ll get home and drink my Scotch.

Budh Singh awaits me. He presents arms with his stave. I refuse to be embarrassed. He comes closer and confides. ‘Excuse me, sir, your
hijda
came to see you. I told her you have not come back from
phoren
. I hope you not angry with me. Take a woman, take a boy, but a
hijda...
’

I could slap Budhoo Singh across his bearded face. Instead I gently shut the door behind me and fix myself a drink.

That’s Delhi. When life gets too much for you all you need to do is to spend an hour at Nigambodh Ghat, watch the dead being put to the flames and hear their kin wail for them. Then come home and down a couple of pegs of whisky. In Delhi, death and drink make life worth living.