The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous (2 page)

Later, when she heard what my wife had to say about her manners, that she had described her as a ‘bloody bitch’, Amrita told her informant: ‘I will teach that woman a lesson. I will seduce her husband.’

There were stories that Amrita had seduced many well-known characters of that time. People like the art critic Karl Khandalawala, Iqbal Singh and her nephew, the painter Vivan Sundaram, have written books on Amrita; Badruddin Tyebji has given a vivid account of how he was seduced by her—she simply took off her clothes and lay herself naked on the carpet by the fireplace. Vivan admits to her having many lovers; according to him, her real passion in life was another woman.

Unfortunately, Amrita couldn’t carry out her threat of seducing me because she died a few months later. She was not yet thirty then.

I will never understand why Balwant Gargi committed adultery and then sat and wrote about it.

I don’t recall when I first met Gargi, except that it was at the home of a good-looking lass whom he had succeeded in leading astray from the straight and narrow path of matrimony. What had she found in him? He was a short, squat man who punctuated his talk with effeminate gestures and walked with a mincing gait, like one afraid of slipping.

Gargi was said to be a good playwright; but since he wrote in Punjabi and only rarely were his plays staged, few people knew his real worth. I did not read or watch any of his plays, but I did get to read an anthology of profiles: they were the wittiest pieces of prose I had ever read in Punjabi. They were obviously designed to hurt, and succeeded in doing so. Thereafter, every time Gargi produced a book, he lost a dozen of his close friends. He made up for the loss by acquiring new admirers. He was certainly an engaging talker and had the knack of surrounding himself with attractive women, successfully persuading quite a few of them that a Dunlopillo mattress was not what was necessary to make the bed an exciting place.

In his younger days, Gagi professed communism (we all did), then jettisoned it (so did we) and landed a job to teach Indian theatre at Seattle University. He produced an excellent book on Indian theatre in English; I complimented him on writing 300 pages on a subject that did not exist. He returned from Seattle with a lovely blonde American wife, Jeannie, and all of his friends fell in love with her. It was a misalliance. Gargi’s diet was literary sarson ka saag; Jeannie was American apple pie. Gargi wanted appreciation for what he wrote; Jeannie never bothered to learn Punjabi and was therefore unable to become a part of her husband’s claque. Gargi was gregarious, open-hearted in his hospitality, with not much in his kitty to be open-hearted about; Jeannie cherished the privacy of her home and could not stomach people dropping in at all hours. She also had an enormous appetite for food, which embarrassed Gargi for the simple reason that his friends might think he did not give her enough to eat at home. It was Gargi who took the irrevocable step to break up the marriage by committing adultery.

Gargi wrote an emotionally charged account of his lustful encounter with one of his girl students in a garage, through the window of which could see his wife and children. It was a detailed and lusty account of the love-making, describing even the size of her breasts and her nipples. And that was the end of his marriage with the beautiful Jeannie.

In his semi-autobiographical novel
The Naked Triangle
, Gargi barely concealed the identity of the people he wrote about, and some were mentioned by their real names. There was the writer and film producer Rajinder Singh Bedi, recounting his affair with a nineteen-year-old girl who bared her bosom to him as a sort of introductory ‘how do you do?’—it made for nice erotica, but it does not need much imagination to know how the lady in the episode, Mrs Bedi, her children and grandchildren would react to this disclosure. The book was largely set in Chandigarh, and Punjab University’s academic circle was up in arms against him for having portrayed them with their shirts up, pants and shalwars down. Balwant Gargi was like a cactus—he hurt anyone he touched.

After his marriage ended, Gargi was a heartbroken man and lived in New Delhi under financial strain before shifting with his son to Bombay. In his later years, I was told, he was struck by Alzheimer’s disease.

In the early 1970s, I visited Pakistan twice to see how Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was doing, and how Pakistan was taking the drubbing of its army by the Indian forces in the 1971 war. The second of these visits turned out more interesting, as among the people I met was Begum Para. That meeting has remained one of my most memorable encounters.

I had first met Begum Para through Rukhsana Sultana, who was her niece and married to my nephew. One-time super-vamp of the Indian screen, Begum Para had put on a lot of weight after she married Nasir Khan (brother of superstar Yusuf Khan, a.k.a, Dilip Kumar). She had borne him two lovely children—a daughter and a son—and I had met them several times in Bombay when she was living there. Many a Sunday morning, the family would join me at the Gymkhana Club bathing pool to swim and have breakfast.

When Nasir died, he left behind very little besides a flat in Bandra and a couple of films. Now, Begum Para felt that she had a right to some of the millions that her brother-in-law was making; however, this was to no avail. So she frequently brought up the question of money: if anyone could loan her forty or fifty thousand rupees, she would say, she could have her old films rescreened and make a fortune. I didn’t take the hint.

In sheer desperation, Begum Para eventually abandoned Bombay for Pakistan, where she had a considerable inheritance waiting to be claimed. But it didn’t take her long to discover that her relatives were not willing to part with anything, and she was on weak ground, having earlier opted for India. She earned a little by flogging films she had brought with her and appearing on television. Her children too were unhappy; after the free and easy atmosphere of Bombay, the girl, who was rapidly growing into a beautiful young lady, found the puritanical atmosphere of Pakistan particularly stifling. They wanted rather badly to return to Bombay.

Begum Para had written me several letters, asking for help in returning to India; I wrote back that I would be visiting Karachi soon and we could talk the matter over.

When I arrived in Karachi early in the evening, Begum Para and her children were at the airport to receive me. So was the chief of protocol, as I was a guest of the government. We were conducted to the VIP lounge, where the children had their fill of cakes and biscuits. Once they were sent home, Begum Para accepted my invitation to dine with me at the hotel where I was to stay the night. The chief of protocol dropped us at my hotel, and Begum Para accompanied me to my room.

I ordered soda and ice and took out the bottle of Scotch I had brought with me. There was, at that time, no prohibition in Pakistan. I had heard stories about Begum Para’s drink problem; she had apparently been forced to cut down on it because of the price: a bottle of Scotch cost twice as much in Pakistan as it did in India.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked her, unsure whether she was still a drinking woman.

‘I’ll take a little,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t seen genuine Scotch for ages.’

I poured out two stiff whiskies and handed her one. I was not even halfway through my glass when I saw that hers was empty. I poured her another one, which she tossed back instantly; I had to refill her glass once more before I resumed my own drinking.

By the time I had finished my quota of three large whiskies, Begum Para had had nine and the bottle was almost empty. I told her then that we must eat soon as I had to catch the early-morning flight to Islamabad. Reluctantly, she got up to go with me to the dining room.

The dining room was on the first floor and we had to climb up a spiral marble staircase to get to it. The place was crowded, but, as was usual in Pakistan, there were very few women there. People recognized Begum Para because of her appearances on television. It was quite evident that they were intrigued to see her in the company of a Sikh. She had another two whiskies before the soup was served. She had begun to slur over her words and her eyes had taken on a glazed look. She wanted to have yet another drink with her meal, but I put my foot down.

At long last, the meal came to an end and I got up to assist Begum Para with her chair. She stood up, swayed a little and collapsed on the carpet. The waiters came running to help her get back to her feet. I took her arm to help her walk to the stairs. All eyes in the dining room had turned to us, and I was doubly careful going down the spiral staircase. I gripped her fat arm. ‘One step at a time,’ I instructed her. We finally made it to the foyer. I ordered a taxi for her and waited patiently for the ordeal to be over.

A taxi drew up in the portico. I gave the driver a hundred-rupee note and told him to take the lady home. He recognized Begum Para and knew where she lived. I opened the rear door of the taxi and went back to help her. As she stepped forward, she missed her step and, once again, collapsed on the ground, this time with a loud fart. She had sprained her ankle and began to howl in pain: ‘Hai rabba, main mar gayee!’—Oh God, I’m dead!

A crowd had gathered, but no one came forward to help. Being an Islamic country, no unrelated male could touch a woman. I did my best to haul Begum Para up to her feet by myself. She was far too heavy for me. I pleaded with the taxi driver for help. My advance tip came in handy—he acquiesced. Together, we got Begum Para on her feet and pushed her into the seat. I slammed the door shut and bid her a hurried farewell, swearing to forever steer clear of divas given to drink.

That was my last encounter with Begum Para. But when I heard of her passing in 2008, I was deeply saddened, remembering only the pleasure of those shared Sunday breakfasts long ago in Bombay.

Sometime in 1980, I happened to be addressing a convocation of the Khalsa College in Amritsar. I noticed an old man with a scraggy long beard, an untidy white turban wrapped around his head, dressed in khadi kurta-pyjama, engrossed in taking notes on what I was saying. I could not take my eyes off him. He disappeared as soon as the convocation was over. Later, I asked the principal of the college, who was sharing the dais with me, about the old man in the front row. ‘You don’t know him?’ he asked in surprise. ‘That was Bhagat Singh of the Pingalwara.’

‘What was he writing while the speeches were going on?’ I asked.

‘He always does that,’ replied the principal. ‘If he hears anything worthwhile, he puts it in his newspaper published in Punjabi and English. In the Pingalwara, he has his own printing press.’

Bhagat Puran Singh had become a household name long before I saw him. On a subsequent visit to Amritsar, I noticed small, black tin boxes, with the word Pingalwara written in white on them, in different parts of the city. These had a slit on top, through which people could put in money. I learnt that Bhagat Puran Singh was to be seen on the steps of the Golden Temple as well, holding out the hem of his kurta for people to drop alms for his home for destitutes. It had also become a practice in many families to send money to the Pingalwara when there was a wedding in the house or in memory of a deceased family member. Neither the Punjab government nor the municipality gave him any financial assistance; it was only the people who gave him just enough to feed, clothe and render medical assistance to over 800 sick men, women and children abandoned by their families.

I was intrigued and determined to meet him. From Delhi I wrote to him seeking an appointment to visit the Pingalwara and talk to him. I got a reply in Gurmukhi, written in his own hand, asking me to come as soon as I could. Three days later, I was back in Amritsar. I took a taxi from the railway station and arrived at the Pingalwara.

The first thing Bhagatji asked me was: ‘How did you come here?’

‘By train from Delhi, then by cab from the station,’ I replied, somewhat bewildered by the question. Maybe he thought I had flown in.

‘You should have come by tonga or on a bicycle,’ he said quite firmly.

‘Where would I find a bicycle on hire at the railways station? And a tonga would have taken more than an hour to get here,’ I protested.

Bhagatji gave me a dressing down: ‘Do you know how much poisonous gas a motor car emits and fouls the air?’ He then proceeded to give me a long lecture on global warming and what it would do to human and animal life, forests and vegetation. He thrust some sheets of his newsletter in my hand, commanding me: ‘Read this, and this, and this.’

Clearly, he was somewhat of a crackpot. I love crackpots.

I went round the Pingalwara. It did not answer the requirements of modern hygiene. People were lying on charpoys with flies buzzing around. Lavatory stench, mixed with the smell of phenyl and food being cooked, pervaded the air. Volunteers scurried around, doing the best they could. It was evident that there was shortage of everything—food, clothes, medicines, staff. How much could one man do to help 800 people?

I made a nominal donation, gathered all the printed material Bhagatji gave me and retuned to Delhi.

Back home, I wrote in my columns about Bhagatji’s dedicated service and the odds he was facing. I wrote to the Punjab chief minister and whomever else I could think of. The response was heartening. More money began to flow into the Pingalwara.

Thereafter, whenever Bhagatji came to Delhi, he dropped in to see me. I did not chide him for coming in a taxi but made a token offering, which he accepted without counting the notes. A receipt followed some days later.

Bhagatji’s work began to receive wider recognition. People began to make donations on a regular basis. Conditions in the Pingalwara improved and its activities expanded. No discrimination was ever made on grounds of religion or caste: the inmates included Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims; there were Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras and Harijans. Suffering knows no caste.