The Afternoon Girl: My Khushwant Memoir

By Amrinder Bajaj

A delightful memoir that recounts the relationship between one of the most enigmatic and notorious authors in India and his mentee A brief encounter between a young gynaecologist and aspiring writer, and one of the most celebrated and enigmatic authors of her time sows the seeds for an unusual friendship which is fuelled as much by their meetings over a few dacades as the letters and ribald jokes they exchange.  Afternoon Girl celebrates a friendship that swings between love and loathing, adoration and indifference, support and abandonment, but stood the test of time and circumstances. It looks back on a world where nurturing a friendship took much more effort than putting fingers to screen or keyboard, she shares with him her most intimate secrets, he writes to her about his preoccupation with growing old and possibly infirm. With disarming honesty, the book builds and busts a few myths, and offers unexpected insights into Khushwant Singh: good- and sometimes ill-humoured mentor, garrulous yet grumply friend and saintly but outspoken old man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9789350297087

Amrinder Bajaj

Amrinder Bajaj did her MD in obstetrics and gynaecology from AIIMS. She is currently working as a senior gynaecologist and clinical coordinator at MAX Hospital, Pritampura, New Delhi. She has two regular columns in Women's Era and writes travelogues, short stories, poems and medical articles. She has authored several books too.

Book preview

1

What does one write about a life as transparent as Khushwant Singh’s? There is not much that is not known – his wisecracks, his penchant for women and whisky, his prolific writing and the intellect that shines like the sun through the cloud of the badly dyed, badly tied grey beard.

Each time I met him – invariably in the afternoon, for that was the only time I could spare from my medical practice – I found him ensconced in a chair facing the door, his feet propped on a mooda that lay sideways in front of him. It was as if he never got up in between visits. The phone, pens and the lined yellow sheets of paper lay as if forever on the table to his right. The only unpredictable thing about him was his mood and the turn our conversation would take. If I was welcomed as a long-lost friend during one visit, I would be ticked off and put in place during another.

I had learned early in our association that one had to take a prior appointment – as the intimidating notice on his door stated, though he was considerate enough to take into account my timetable before fixing the date and time – a commendable trait in a man of his stature. He did not take kindly to anyone being late. Raised in the armed forces, I was punctual by default, but there were matters beyond my control that led to occasional delay – like the time there was a diversion of traffic during the rehearsal of the Republic Day parade and I had to make a wide detour. Terrified of the scolding I received that day, I reached Sujan Singh Park fifteen minutes early for my next meeting. I dared not find out if reaching early was as much a breach of protocol as reaching late; so I spent an excruciating quarter of an hour outside his window in the furnace of my old Fiat under a merciless June sun.

Over the years, I metamorphosed from the pest he tolerated on account of my mama (who was his family physician and cousin’s husband) to a welcome visitor. Though I reached a point where I had no qualms about cracking bawdy jokes with him, I remained ever in awe of his persona – a paradox difficult to explain.

Initially, it was to kick-start my writing career that I sought an audience with him. I had won poetry-writing competitions in school and college, my short stories in the college magazine were widely appreciated, and I had begun to believe that I had it in me to become a famous author. But life forced me to downgrade my opinion of myself, for the masterpieces that emerged from the depths of my soul had no takers. Disheartened by the pile of rejection slips, I yearned for a mentor. And my thoughts turned towards Khushwant Singh, the only man of words I could approach.

He was a journalist, novelist and a columnist of no mean acclaim. He spoke his mind fearlessly and was read widely. In fact my first ‘adult’ book was his Train to Pakistan, which I still consider his best.

The first time I met him was at Mamaji’s place long ago. Having returned from a game of tennis, he was in a T-shirt and shorts. A burly Sikh with a luxuriant black beard and a well-toned body, he exuded the kind of virility from which I, a shy young virgin, shrank involuntarily. There were hush-hush stories of him being a womanizer and that he liked his women heavy-bottomed and bosomed, a notion that gained him instant notoriety, though he was to spend the rest of his life negating such insinuations.

Later, when I was in my mid-thirties (he was thirty-five years my senior), I asked Mamaji to arrange an interview with him. I knocked on his door at the appointed hour with much trepidation. The Khushwant Singh I now saw was a shrivelled caricature of his former self. The unnaturally black beard was sparse and untidy as a crow’s nest and badly needed a repeat dyeing as the white showed at the roots. He sat on an armchair facing the door with his feet up on a transverse mooda. The room was stark, with none of the expensive artefacts that one expected in the house of the rich. I saw not the quiet elegance of old money but a comfortable, lived-in place with plenty of bookshelves. There was a fireplace to his left and a low centre table stood on the bare floor. Photographs of family and friends occupied a shelf by the window and an occasional painting on the wall completed the layout of the room. Over time, as the man and his home grew on me, I realized that it was the very simplicity of the environs that set him off to perfection.

He made no effort to get up to meet a mere supplicant, though she was a lady. I sat uneasily on the edge of the chair to his right and was offered tea and toast. Little did I know that it was a rare honour, for I barely tasted another morsel at his home. He was not the average Indian host who stuffed you with snacks at any time of the day, but a brown sahib who shared with you what he ate and, more importantly, when he ate it.

Bearing his reputation in mind, I had brought a couple of short stories for his appraisal. There was one with dirty words (for I thought that was what he would like), about a childless industrialist who arranges the dowryless wedding of his idiot brother with the daughter of a poor man so that he could impregnate her and ‘adopt’ his own son; but the mousy woman shows rare spirit and defeats him in his game. The second was a sensitive tale about a beggar boy whom I had befriended at a red light crossing. Though I never gave him alms, a strange affinity developed between us. Perversely, when he stopped pestering me, I surprised him with a fifty-rupee note. With a whoop of delight, he sped across the road to tell his friends about his windfall when a speeding truck crushed him to death. The last part, of course, was made up.

Handing Khushwant Singh the short stories, I told him that I had also brought along a few poems for his appraisal. He refused to consider them, saying that poetry does not sell. I returned after a few days, eager for his opinion. He was patient and kind, asked me not to use clichés and said that the essence of a good story was understatement, illustrating his words with short stories by famous writers.

I was a good pupil and learnt quickly. I wrote a story titled ‘The Scavengers’ and sent it off to him. To my delight, Khushwant Singh approved of it and sent me a note:

3.4.86

Dear Dr Bajaj

I thought that the best way to handle your story was to rewrite it in this way. Have it re-typed (duplicate) after you have gone over my version and made whatever changes you would like to make. I think the title ‘The Way the World Goes’ is less obvious than ‘The Scavengers’. You can try the story on any magazine you like. I will be happy to take it for the Telegraph for which I select stories. Do let me know.

Yours

Khushwant Singh

N.B.: It’s best to use your full name and omit ‘doctor’.

Thus that story and, later, the one about the beggar boy found their way into the Telegraph and I received a princely sum of Rs 150 for each. The thousands I earned as a doctor did not give me as much pleasure as this paltry sum.

2

Our association has been captured in letters exchanged over a period of twenty-five years, for I have preserved every word I received from Khushwant Singh, even if it be a derogatory one-liner. In moments of solitude, they ignite memories that lie heaped like autumn leaves in the forgotten recesses of my mind. What prompted me to put our correspondence on paper was the biography of Charlotte Bronte by Lyndall Gordon. At the cost of sounding presumptive, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance in the thought process of women writers born more than a century apart. It was as if I had met my soulmate in an encounter that defied time and space.

Victorian England and present-day India seemed similar in more ways than one. Charlotte’s rebellion against norms that straitjacketed womanhood struck a chord with me. Moreover, her struggles as a writer made me take heart. She was in her thirties when she lamented to a friend that she had done nothing of import yet and life was slipping by. She feared that the pressure of earning her living would lead her to lose one faculty after the other till nothing was left. The pressure of raising a young family and tending to an exacting profession left little time for my passion as well; and, having achieved nothing worth mentioning so far, I too was in a state of panic.

It was heartening to learn that she too relied heavily on autobiographical experiences. It dawned on me much later that all fiction grows from a grain of truth.

Charlotte decided at the age of twelve that she would never marry and would dedicate her life to writing instead. At that early age, she preserved her writings in hand-sewn ‘books’ with professional layouts, including title and contents. I too wrote juvenile poetry in a similar format around the same age. Like her, I decided not to marry, though I vacillated between devoting my life to writing and medicine, influenced as I was by Florence Nightingale as well. Marriage and a family, I knew, would not allow complete dedication to my calling. I had not reckoned with a dominant mother who forced an arranged marriage upon me and harnessed me to domesticity.

During her struggle to be recognized as a writer, Charlotte longed for a literary father but was rebuffed by such celebrities as Robert Southey, just the way I was by Khushwant Singh at one point. One may think that it is indeed bold of me to compare myself with the legendary writer, but I am speaking of that time in Charlotte’s life when she was a mere village woman as desperate for recognition as a writer as I am today.

I could identify with her dependence on Monsieur Heger – her teacher at the Pensionnat at Brussels, a relationship that was neither sexual nor platonic but as important as life itself – for such was my attachment with Khushwant Singh. If it was love that she felt for Heger – and I felt for Khushwant Singh – it was beyond the realms of love as it is commonly understood. Like her, I felt that ‘his mind was my library, and whenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss’.

Heger was a ‘little black ugly thing’; neither did Khushwant Singh have the looks that could entice a woman. It was the power of the mind that attracted us to our respective objects of devotion and made us respond to them in a way it was impossible to respond to anyone ever after. She cried her heart out unable to take his rebukes even as I did on account of Khushwant Singh, for I was keenly sensitive to his responses or the lack of them. Brushing aside all sense of decorum, I laid bare my heart. I got no confidences in return, no solutions to my problems, no introductions to people in the publishing world, and yet I went to him again and again, despite myself. I lived from one meeting to the next, prettied myself as I would for a lover and yet did not crave physical attention. In fact I would have taken flight had he made an overt sexual gesture. The palpitations were due to apprehension, the flush on my cheek due to excitement, the light in my eyes due to intellectual stimulation and the non-stop jabbering due to nervousness. He had the knack of drawing me out and was a good listener.

As Heger told Charlotte Bronte to ‘sacrifice without pity, everything that does not contribute to clarity’, Khushwant Singh told me to prune my work heavily, adding that the first draft of a novel even by the most eminent of writers was unreadable. One has to go over the manuscript again and again to bring it to a printable state. The one thing that measures a writer’s talent is recognition and as that eluded me, I paid heed to Khushwant Singh’s words.

M. Heger had told Charlotte that ‘genius without study, without art, without knowledge of what has been done, is strength without lever. It is the soul that is within but cannot express its interior song save in rough and raucous voice.’

Khushwant Singh too encouraged me to read the works of geniuses and learn from them when I believed that my ‘unique’ style should not be influenced by the work of others, however great.

Charlotte expressed her potential in a thinly veiled account of a painter who arrives in a foreign land with nothing to recommend him but his faith in his own genius. In a letter soliciting the patronage of the lord of that country, he states: ‘Milord I believe I have genius. Do not … accuse me of conceit; I do not know that feeble feeling …

‘Throughout my early youth, the difference that existed between myself and most people around me was for me an embarrassing enigma that I did not know how to resolve. I believed it my duty to follow the example set by the majority … an example sanctioned by the approbation of legitimate and prudent mediocrity, yet all the while I felt myself incapable of feeling and acting as they felt and acted. In what I did there was always excess; I was either too wrought up or too cast down, I showed everything that passed through my heart and sometimes storms were passing through it.

‘Milord, it is to put myself in a position to exercise that faculty that I entreat your help … I know that in the long run, true merit always triumphs, but if power does not offer a helping hand, the day of success can be a long time in coming. Sometimes indeed death precedes victory.’

It took Charlotte Bronte enormous daring to bare her indomitable conviction of her potential greatness and invite her teacher to promote it. M. Heger, usually profuse in his response, refrained from comment and made mere grammatical corrections on the margins. Similarly, I had once written to Khushwant Singh that I was a peepal sapling that had germinated in the crevice of a concrete wall. If only he would replant my talent in fertile soil, I could grow to my full potential! He too chose to ignore my poignant appeal.

I strove to pursue my passion within the constricting confines of matrimony. My father told me to persevere, for water always finds its level. How could I explain to him that I was a sports car stranded behind a bullock cart on a one-way Delhi road? I needed a free highway to drive full throttle.

Though M. Heger ignited the passions of his female pupils through intimate looks and provocative statements, he withdrew when it impinged on his domestic life. When Charlotte left the Pensionnat on account of his suspicious wife, who saw more in their relationship than they cared to admit, she subsisted on the letters they exchanged. She’d tell Monsieur Heger time and again that the letters were her life. The fortnightly exchange of epistles was drastically cut down to a letter in six months by the wife, who once pieced together the fragments of a letter from her husband’s dustbin and did not like what she read. Day after day, Charlotte waited for the post as one waits for vital sustenance. As his correspondence became scantier, she disobeyed the restriction imposed and begged him to write even if to reprimand her. All she craved was a letter – a crumb from a rich man’s table; but his silence continued interminably.

I could well understand her desperation, for there was a time when my heart saw no difference between literature and my reluctant literary master. Those days, I lived from letter to letter till Khushwant Singh had to ask me to slow down to one letter a month as he had better things to do! Mortified beyond words, I resolved never to write to him, but before the month was over, there arose in my breast such a strong desire to communicate with him that it broke through the dam of shame and pride and I poured my heart out in yet another epistle.

When Charlotte lost all hope of receiving a letter from her master, she courageously resolved to turn deprivation into gain in the form of a novel and wrote to Heger once again, stating, ‘… do you know what I should do, Monsieur? – I should write a book, and I should dedicate it to my literature master – to the only master I ever had – to you, Monsieur.’

She wrote an autobiographical novel based on her experiences at the Pensionnat, The Professor, that was rejected six times. Uncannily, I too had written an autobiographical novel and dedicated it to Khushwant Singh much before I read this book. It is yet to find a publisher.

The failure of her first published Poems  – which sold two copies – and repeated rejections of The Professor failed to daunt her. Her resilience is apparent in the statement: ‘Ill-success failed to crush. The mere effort to succeed had given a wonderful zest to existence; it must be pursued.’

I too intend to emulate her in thought and spirit. So help me god!

3

In the early years of our acquaintance, Khushwant Singh came across as a thorough gentleman. Though he still did not consider me important enough to receive me, he began to do me the honour of seeing me to the door with an arm flung casually over my shoulder. There was no sign of the lecherous old man he was made out to be. For someone whom I associated with some degree of crudity, he insisted that I write with decorum in a style that was simple and lucid. He gave me a signed copy of his own short stories, and asked me to read the works of masters to learn the art of writing from them. Among the modern authors, he strongly recommended Camus and Graham Greene. I dared not tell him that I loved old classics.

I sent an article called ‘Silent Cry’ to Woman’s Era.  It was a stark narration of the way a foetus meets its end during an abortion, as captured on an ultrasound; no hired assassin murders his victim in as gruesome a manner as we gynaecologists do with equanimity, day in and day out. Not only was it published, it raked up a raging controversy. Public opinion was sought and prizes offered to the three best letters for and against medical termination of pregnancy (MTP). Strongly worded letters poured in from across the country. After all, the MTP Act was brought into force to protect women from mortality and morbidity that resulted from clandestine abortions performed in unhygienic conditions. An abusive letter from a forensic expert had me smarting under the assault. In retrospect, I realize that such vicious criticism so early in my literary career sensitized me to similar reactions. More acceptance and favourable feedback followed and I was drunk with success that had not been gained with the help of Khushwant Singh. This ruled out the sneaking suspicion I had that he had got my stories published to please his doctor. Much later was I to learn that he did nothing to please anyone.

Glowing with new-found success, I returned once again to Khushwant Singh with my trophies – a copy of the magazine and a fan mail! I wanted him to know that my work had been appreciated without his help but added, ‘All this happened because I followed your advice.’

‘I merely brushed up what you already have. I do not bother with people who do not have that something in them.’

I flushed with pleasure. So enamoured was I with my chosen ‘guru’ that I let my imagination run riot. He had been provided security cover on account of the threats he had received from Sikh terrorists for writing against them. I would conjure up images of extremists barging in to riddle his body with bullets when I happened to be there. My timely intervention as a doctor would save his life and, from then on, the doors of his home and heart would remain open to me. Forever!

Bringing myself back to the present, I enquired, ‘Why hasn’t your column appeared in the Hindustan Times this week?’

‘I am annoyed with them for writing offensive things about me. Unless they apologize, I will not write for them.’

‘But you  write anything you like about anyone without bothering about their feelings.’

Aghast at my own cheekiness, my hand flew to my mouth. But the words were out and there was no way that I could recall them. To my relief, he did not take offence and replied with surprising honesty: ‘I can get away with it. They can’t.’

I read avidly every word that Khushwant Singh wrote. After getting to know him personally, each word from him felt as if he were talking directly with me. When he went abroad and his columns ceased for a while, I felt bereft; as if a beloved visitor had stopped visiting me. I envied my uncle – his physician, relative and neighbour – who had easy access to his exalted world, while I existed on the fringes. Little did I know that this too would cease and I’d be shooed away like a stray pup whose slobbering tongue and wagging tail amused Khushwant Singh no more. He had begun to rue the day when, out of misguided kindness, he had thrown a morsel my way. As of now I was perfectly happy, and quite like the mongrel, gave unstinting loyalty in exchange for an affectionate pat on the head. I hero-worshiped him and even wrote a childish poem to that effect. I also asked him about the fate of the stories he had sent to the Telegraph and got a cordial reply.

26.8.87

Dear Doctor

You are a sweet girl! I was most touched by your homily. I am glad that despite medical compulsions, you are able to write articles and stories for journals. You have the gift. All you have to do is to polish it like gems are polished.

I sent your story for publication over three months ago. I will have them sent to your uncle as soon as it appears.

My health is declining rapidly and I want to finish a couple of books remaining in my system before it is too late. I am taking 15 days off to Kasauli to get one out of the way.

Khushwant Singh

I read his letter over and over again and was suffused by the warmth of those wonderful words. As advised, I began to ‘polish’ my work and send it to him on a regular basis. He would pencil in his remarks in the margins and inform me which story he thought was good. I basked in the glow of his appreciation and doubled my efforts to please him. I made deeper and deeper forays into the magical world of words and Khushwant Singh’s inputs gave an impetus to my writing.

He had told me to meet him whenever I wanted after fixing an appointment on the phone. To discover the fate of the six short stories I had sent him, I drove hungry and thirsty (an emergency operation delayed me and I did not have the time to stop for sustenance) twenty-five kilometres across the city. I barely made it to his place in time, only to be stopped at the door by the guard who handed me my manuscripts and said, ‘Sahib has taken ill and will not be able to see you.’ It was sheer agony to stand at his door and be denied a glimpse, especially when he was sick and me a doctor! Trying hard to quell my disappointment, I drove back with a dry throat and wet eyes. He had taken pains to go through my manuscripts and made relevant corrections.

Unaccustomed to the ways of the world, I did not realize that his illness was but a ruse for not seeing me! Why, he was famous and busy and could tell me that he had better things to do than to play nursemaid to a cub writer. When I rang him up a few days later to enquire after his health, he said that he had got a tooth extracted and was in no position to talk with anyone. The explanation seemed genuine enough, but when this was followed by ‘I have a radio programme this afternoon’ or ‘I have to leave for Poona today. Why don’t you contact me after a week?’ I was filled with misgivings. Was he avoiding me? If I wasn’t welcome any more, why did he keep my hopes alive? Was I so obtuse that I did not understand gentlemanly rejections when they stared me in the face? But didn’t he say that I was to contact him after a week? Moreover, the need was mine. So, giving him the benefit of doubt, I rang him up once again. This time his wife answered the phone.

‘He has gone to Bhopal. I do not know when he will return.’

Fair enough, but that evening I was in for a nasty surprise. My uncle rang up to say that Khushwant Singh had told him that I was not to contact him again, for he was a very busy man. It was as if my uncle had dropped a jagged stone on my heart, ripping it apart.

‘Oh! I did not know I was being such a nuisance. I am sorry to have caused you so much embarrassment.’

‘In fact he had told me so a couple of times before as well; I did not know how to tell you.’

‘I wish you had told me earlier. I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself,’ I replied, my voice a hoarse whisper.

Mamiji, Khushwant Singh’s cousin, was on the parallel line. Not being one to mince words, she added that Khushwant Singh had told them point-blank to ‘get her off my back’!

I writhed in tearless misery. Humiliation dripped acid on raw nerves, splintered my soul and crushed my spirit. It rasped in my throat like brambles and squeezed the air from my lungs with icy fingers. It throbbed in my temples and hammered in my heart. It took my appetite and swallowed my sleep. It was a live thing that took hold of my life and wouldn’t let go.

Yet, how could I be that naïve? How could I think that because I  had chosen Khushwant Singh as my guru, he would accept me as his shishya? And what of guru dakshina? He seemed to have everything and I had nothing to offer.

Now, with the wisdom of hindsight, I realize what a pest I must have been to a person of his stature and have found it in my heart to forgive him. What I cannot excuse is that my uncle was made to do the dirty work. My mortification would have been no less had Khushwant Singh rebuffed me directly; but I would have been saved the shame of public degradation.

4

It wasn’t as if I was a novice at pain management. I had borne greater blows with equanimity. The betrayal of trust by a loved one, the falling to pieces of my marriage, the appropriation of my firstborn by my in-laws … these were torments that I had learnt to live with. It’s just that I was yet to grow a protective hide around this bit of vulnerability. Get her off my back. The words lay embedded in my heart like porcupine quills. I knew time would dilute this poison too … if only amnesia could benumb my feelings till then. On second thoughts, I’d rather live through each excruciating moment till the pain burned itself to ashes from which, one day, phoenix-like, I would rise.

During my earlier visits, I had it in my heart to feel sorry for Khushwant Singh. The guards at his door made me wonder what use fame and riches were if one’s privacy was invaded by impersonal protectors. Why, he couldn’t even take a walk without a couple of bodyguards trailing him! Usually I’d pray that he live a hundred years to guide me. Now, in a fit of petty vindictiveness, I wished a bullet right through the heart of this grisly Sikh for causing no less damage to mine. A part of me, however, wanted him to live. Of all the people in the world, I wanted to flaunt my success to Khushwant Singh when I achieved it.

To soothe my wounded vanity, I decided that his writings were mediocre. The one talent he had was to remain in the news with his notoriety and outrageous statements. Yet, there must have been someone who had taken the risk of making his work public, so that its worth could be judged. But he lacked the grace to offer the same help to somebody who was trying to get a foothold.

‘I am not done with you, Mr Khushwant Singh.’ I shook an imaginary fist at him. ‘So what if you have flicked me off like a worm? As of now, I squirm. Soon I’ll retire into a pupa to lick my wounds. When the time is ripe, I will emerge a butterfly and fly past your window to glory and fame without a glance at the wizened old man imprisoned behind the bars of his own words.’

Why, recovery has already begun, I thought, marvelling at the wonderful resilience of nature.

On 12 September 1987, I wrote to him:

Dear Khushwant Singhji

It is with trepidation that I pen this letter to you but if I don’t write it now, I never will. I have to let you know that even a nobody appreciates being treated with consideration and even a personality as famous as yours is not above courtesy. Perhaps I am over-reacting. Perhaps you will dismiss these outpourings as gall a frustrated writer has used in place of ink. Perhaps I was being presumptive in making demands on your precious time. I am sorry for being such a nuisance but such was my dependence upon you that, I would be lying if I said that I was not shattered by your rejection. The pain will ease by and by and the wound will shrink and scar with time.

I am sorry to have inflicted my unwelcome presence upon you time and again. I understand your desire not to see me but what hurt was the backhanded manner you went about it.

You, whom I admired for being forthright, did not leave me the grace of saving face in front of my uncle and aunt, especially my aunt who gloats over my degradation.

You do not know how difficult it is for me to pursue my passion for writing. I have a hectic gynae practice and a young family to raise. I have a home to keep, guests to entertain and worst of all I have a husband who thinks writing a waste of time – time that could be put to better use darning socks! The pounding of the typewriter keys irritate him. You cannot even begin to realize how much your encouragement and criticism meant to me. Gladly I braved my husband’s ire, the Delhi traffic, hunger, thirst and the vagaries of the weather to drive across the city to imbibe whatever advice you had to give. For that I remain eternally indebted. I will trouble you no more, my reluctant guide. I hurry to post this letter before reason restrains audacity and courage fails me.

Regards

Amrinder

For good measure, I included a