The Afternoon Girl Page 2

  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 co
ntact 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

  I t 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 poem that spoke of my heartache and feeling of betrayal at having been rejected by my mentor.

  But the real salvo lay in the end where I wrote, ‘I vow by the misery you caused/That from the ashes I will rise/And like a comet blaze past you/Across the night-smeared skies.’

  This is what I got in response:

  25.9.87

  Dear Amrinder

  Please forgive me if I have hurt your feelings. My only problem is that I am so overworked that I simply cannot take on more stuff to read and comment on. My own writing suffers terribly. I will be back in Delhi (I am off to Kasauli, then Bombay) on the 11th of October. You are welcome to ring me up and drop in for a drink. That is the only time I relax. Cheer up.

  Khushwant

  It was gracious of him to seek forgiveness. Therein lay his greatness. I forgave him readily and, in the process, laid many a demon to rest. It was the end of a chapter, nevertheless. I vowed I would contact him only after I proved myself. Never again would I beg for favours he was not willing to give.

  5

  A ll good things began happening at once. Femina published my poems selected by Kamala Das on the centre spread as the poetry of the fortnight. Incidentally, they have yet to pay me, but monetary compensation seemed of little consequence at that time. Woman’s Era began publishing my articles, stories, travel write-ups and poems on a regular basis. I was even given a fortnightly column! Egged on by my success, I started writing a novel.

  Sometime between the trough of my downfall and the crest of my success, I had written to Amrita Pritam, the beautiful queen of Punjabi literature. Though I admired Khushwant Singh, I could relate to Amrita Pritam – the defiant feminist, the lyrical poetess who translated the pain of a woman trapped in a man’s world into beautiful words.

  Dear Amrita Pritam

  You epitomize the ultimate in womanhood. You are the mould in which I would like to cast myself. I burn in a furnace of emotions and, like you, if I could emerge from the fire of purification like fine-spun gold, I would want nothing more from life.

  I am a gynaecologist by profession but writing is a passion that devours my soul. Though my work is being accepted regularly by magazines and newspapers, I crave for more. Magazines have a certain im
age to maintain and my thought process does not always fit within those confines. If only fetters such as these did not bind my words. If only I were famous enough to sell what I wrote instead of writing what sold. Your guidance would be of immense value to me.

  Regards

  Amrinder

  She did not reply. Desperate to fill the space left by Khushwant Singh, I wrote to her once again, but in vain. Meanwhile, the void in my marital life made me succumb to the persistence of an unworthy suitor – SP. Poetry cascaded from my heart in the first flush of illicit love. It was well received by the reading public. While I thought and wrote in English, my new-found love did not understand the Queen’s language. What use were my outpourings if the one who inspired them could not read them? So I began translating them into Hindi for his benefit. Though books and literature meant nothing to SP, he was flattered nevertheless. He quietly collected my offerings and got them printed privately, at his own cost. It was sweet of him, but I was dismayed when I saw the outcome, for he knew nothing whatsoever about publishing.

  ‘If only you had consulted me before wasting so much money.’

  ‘But I did it to please you.’

  ‘Well, this does not please me.’

  ‘What will make you happy?’ he was trying his best and I was being unnecessarily churlish.

  ‘Well,’ I said, fantasizing a bit. ‘There should be a foreword by Amrita Pritam and—’

  ‘Who is she? Give me her address. I will go to her at once.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘She will never entertain the likes of you.’

  He called up a week later: ‘Hello. I am speaking from Amrita Pritam’s house. She would like to speak with you.’

  ‘Don’t ever joke about my writing …’ I began.