Company of Women Read online

  In his cabin he enjoyed his frugal afternoon meal of cold soup, lettuce and potato mayonnaise, stretched out on the office sofa, switched on the ‘Don’t disturb’ sign and shut his eyes. His siesta was disturbed by the thought of his children. Somehow the decision he had made and acted upon that morning seemed to have put a greater distance between his children and him. He got up and asked his secretary to get them on the line at his father-in-law’s residence. They were back from school and asked cheerfully, ‘How are you, Daddy? When are you coming to see us?’ ‘Fine,’ he said, reassured by their voices, ‘I’ll drop by on Sunday and we can go out for some ice-cream.’

  He felt lighter. He went through the office routine till it was time to shut shop. He toyed with the idea of going to the club to have a drink. Then decided against it. Somebody was bound to ask about his wife and ruin his evening. He asked his chauffeur to take him home. It no longer looked as inhospitable as it had before. The Scotch tasted mellower and the taped Western classical music was pleasanter to his ears. He had something to look forward to. That night he celebrated his newfound freedom by going down to the garden and urinating noisily into the shrubbery. This was something he had always wanted to do—piss in the open every night in different corners of the garden, like a dog marking its exclusive ownership over a piece of territory. Now that his wife and the children were not around, he could at last do this.

  There were still another four days to Sunday, when most papers carried matrimonial ads. And it would be another week or ten days before anyone could respond. Nevertheless, Mohan looked more carefully at the advertisement pages to see if any carried mid-week matrimonials. None did.

  As he sat down for his post-breakfast Havana (Romeo & Julieta—Rs 150 each) the sweeper woman came in carrying her broom, a bucket of phenyl water and a mop and asked him if she could do the floors. She had taken orders from Sonu about which room to do first: their bedroom, the children’s room and the bathrooms were given priority; the sitting-dining room came last. Without looking up at her Mohan nodded his head.

  As she sat on her haunches mopping the floor with a piece of rag soaked in phenyl, Mohan noticed her rounded buttocks separated by a sharp cleavage. He could not take his eyes off her ample behind. He had never bothered to look at her before nor did he know her name. She was just the jamadarni—the sweeper’s wife. She often brought her three children with her. He had sometimes seen them playing in the garden while their mother was busy in the house. The sweeperess stood up, turned her face towards him and brushed aside a strand of hair from her forehead. He noticed she was also full-bosomed and had a narrow waist. She was dark but not unattractive. The woman got down on her haunches again to do another part of the room. Mohan turned to his paper.

  He recalled his college days in India. One of the boys had told him that sweeper women made the best lovers; they were uninhibited, wild and hot. Apparently there was no better antidote for sore eyes than sex with a sweeperess. Mohan did not suffer from any eye ailment but he had noticed that as a class the so-called untouchable women were in fact the most touchable. What about this one in his own house? It would not be very difficult to persuade her to come to his bedroom when the other servants were in their quarters or out buying provisions. He could double her salary, give her children toys and sweets. Such master-servant liaisons were not uncommon. Poorly paid menials welcomed a second income and their spouses were not very particular about infidelity provided it brought in some money. No messy hassles with women demanding attention and presents and wanting to be taken out to parties. There was also the advantage of convenience: sex on the tap, as it were. Mohan decided to keep the sweeper woman in mind in the event of failure on other fronts. She would provide no companionship but would at least solve his most important problem.

  The next morning, when the jamadarni came to do the floors, he spoke to her for the first time. ‘What is your name?’ he asked as she hitched up her salwar and squatted a few feet ahead of him to mop the floor.

  ‘Dhanno,’ she replied, without looking up at him, but clearly expecting to be asked more questions.

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  ‘He is a sweeper with the municipality, sahib.’

  ‘What does he earn?’

  ‘One thousand rupees per month. We have three children. Even with what I earn we barely manage to feed and clothe ourselves. My husband is a sharabi, sahib, wastes a lot of money on liquor.’

  Mohan was not sure what he paid her: her salary was paid by his office along with the salaries of other servants and was clubbed together as essential household expenses. He merely signed the cheques every month. If he wanted to give her more, it would have to be in cash. He fished out a hundred-rupee note from his wallet and held it out for her. ‘Take this. It is for your children.’ The woman took the note, touched it to her forehead and tucked it into her bra. ‘Will memsahib not be coming home any more?’ she asked directly. ‘She has taken her luggage and the children with her.’

  Mohan was taken aback by her audacity; working class people did not believe in dropping hints or being tactful: they were direct and blunt. He snubbed her. ‘Get on with your work,’ he said gruffly.

  The first few days, weeks and months are the most difficult for people whose marriage or a similar long-term relationship has ended. Not only do they have to come to terms with themselves, their parents, parents-in-law, children, brothers and sisters, they have also to satiate the appetite for detail in their circle of friends. What went wrong? Was your sex life happy? Did she want more than you could give? Was a third party involved? What about those women your wife hated because you made passes at them? And what about that fellow who was always looking lecherously at your wife … You could not ignore such people, you could not snub them and tell them to mind their own business. You had to put up with their nastiness till everyone thought they knew everything about your marriage and why it had broken down. Then they lost interest in your personal life.

  Mohan toyed with the idea of getting out of Delhi for a few days, then decided against it. It would only sharpen the appetite of gossipmongers and they would be hungry for more when he returned. He would carry on with the routine of office, club and home as if nothing had happened. Perhaps leave out the club for a few days and spend his evenings quietly at home, enjoying his Scotch, listening to music and watching TV.

  Mohan soon sensed that his office staff had somehow got to know that his marriage, which they knew to be floundering, had finally collapsed. Vimla Sharma was more solicitous when she brought letters to be signed or came in to take dictation. In all these years he had never bothered to take a good look at her. She was a spinster—technically available—but was not much to look at—a rounded face, brown hair tied in a bun, a squat figure in which her bosom, belly, thighs and behind were all a mass of pale white flesh. He now noticed a little wiggle in her behind as she went out of the room. The rest of the staff seemed more subdued than usual. And more concerned. He ignored them as best as he could. He took to working late and was usually the last to leave the office and hand over the door key to the sentry on night duty.

  One day, instead of driving back home, he decided to take a drive round the city. He had not done this for a long time. He gave his chauffeur the evening off and drove to India Gate. He got out to take in the scene. In the east rose the dark-grey walls of Purana Qila, built by Humayun, the second Mughal Emperor. Blocking the lower half of the view was the sports stadium built on the orders of a half-crazy Vicereine, Lady Willingdon, to perpetuate the name of her dynasty. This was after Lutyens had built his city. The architect could do nothing about the stadium except gnash his teeth. It ruined his vision of a broad, tree-lined boulevard running down from the Viceregal Palace through the War Memorial arch and past the stone canopy under which had stood a statue of King George VI, right up to the imposing western entrance of Purana Qila. The rulers of Free India had removed the statue of the British king, but at least the canopy looked more beautiful w
ith nothing under it. Mohan recalled that some politicians had wanted to demolish the whole structure because it was a remnant of the Raj. Bloody vandals! Fortunately they had been unable to do anything to the majestic War Memorial arch except change its name to India Gate. They kept a flame burning under it to honour those who fell fighting for India.

  The rest was much the same as Lutyens had designed it: a boulevard flanked by a succession of water tanks and flowering largerstroemia leading to the secretariats and a slight gradient to the black-domed Viceregal Palace, now Rashtrapati Bhavan. There were clouds on the western horizon. The setting sun broke through them and lit up the entire panorama of massive buildings, lawns, water tanks and flowering trees in soft amber hues. A sight for the gods, said Mohan to himself. Delhi was the only city in the world which gave him a sense of belonging. On days like this the city could even make him forget the absence of a woman in his life.

  He bought four large coloured balloons and two bricks of vanilla ice-cream from vendors, their carts bright with green and white neon lights, who clustered around India Gate every evening. He had done this before when his children were with him. What was the point of buying balloons and ice-cream when they were no longer around?

  When Mohan got home Dhanno was going over the floors once again: in Delhi you had to dust everything at least twice a day. Her children were, as usual, playing in the garden, waiting for their mother to finish. They eyed the balloons but knew they were not for them. Sahib had never brought anything for them. Mohan handed over the balloons and the ice-cream to Dhanno: ‘These are for your children,’ he said as he switched on the TV.

  A minute later Dhanno brought in her children, each holding a balloon. ‘Touch the sahib’s feet,’ she ordered them. ‘He has also brought you ice-cream.’

  The children touched his feet and ran out as fast as they could. Had Dhanno got the message?

  He got his answer the next morning. She was later than usual—after the cook had left for the bazaar to buy the day’s groceries and the bearer had gone to his quarter to have his bath. She wore a freshly washed and ironed salwar-kameez and had kajal in her eyes. She said nothing and got down on her haunches to mop the floor. She seemed to sense the sahib’s eyes on her. Twice she turned round and caught him staring at her behind. She blushed coyly, turned her face away to get on with her job. Mohan concluded the answer was yes.

  He decided not to hurry matters. He must first weigh the pros and cons of taking on his cleaning woman as a mistress. There were fewer hassles than in having an affair with a woman of his own class. There would be less talk. No doubt his two male servants would soon suspect that something was going on between their sahib and the sweeperess. To them she was an untouchable: they never let her enter the kitchen. They avoided physical contact with her, and when she came to get the leftovers, they dropped daal-roti or whatever had not been eaten by their master into utensils she brought with her. If they smelt something, they would tell the neighbours’ servants, who in turn would tell their employers. Dhanno was not likely to confide in her husband, but if he had any sense he would begin to suspect his wife’s behaviour. Perhaps the extra money she brought in would keep him quiet. Perhaps it would not. But all these anxieties weighed little against the great advantage of being able to have sex whenever he wanted—she would not expect more than a little extra, nor lay any claims to his emotions or his time.

  His mind became obsessed with the possibility of taking Dhanno. She hovered before his eyes in the office, at home. He wanted to make sure he did not slip up on any detail. The next morning he asked her when her husband left for work. ‘He leaves very early in the morning, sahib. I pack a paratha and some sabzi for his afternoon meal. He returns quite late in the evening. The first few days of the month, after he has got his pay, he drinks with his cronies and doesn’t return till midnight.’

  ‘And what about your children? Do you always take them with you wherever you work?’

  ‘No, sahib. Many mornings I ask other servants’ wives to keep an eye on them. When I am at home, I look after their children.’

  Dhanno sensed what was on the sahib’s mind. She let him choose the day and time for their tryst. She did not have to wait long. Two days later she heard him tell the cook to get him fresh fish from INA market. ‘Everything in INA market is fresher and cheaper than elsewhere,’ he was explaining, ‘fish, crabs, prawns, vegetables, fruit, everything. All the people I know shop there for their daily needs.’ The INA market was almost an hour by bicycle from Maharani Bagh. Going, coming and shopping would keep the cook away for at least three hours. Then the sahib wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to the bearer. He had run out of cigars, he said. The kind he smoked were only available at MR Stores in Connaught Circus. He had put the name on the paper. The bearer was to take a bus to Connaught Circus and get a box for the sahib. He handed the bearer several hundred-rupee notes. ‘Be sure to get a receipt,’ he added. The bearer would also be away for a couple of hours.

  Dhanno took good care to leave the house while the other two servants were still there. Back in her quarter she took a second bath, soaping herself vigorously and scrubbing her body. She saw the servants leave on their errands and quietly slipped back into the house.

  Mohan was waiting for her. When she came upstairs, he got up from his chair and gently guided her by her shoulders into his bedroom and bolted the door from the inside. He kissed her on her lips and fondled her breasts. She responded vigorously. He slipped his hand inside her kameez to feel her breasts. They were firmer than his wife’s and the nipples much harder. Dhanno slipped her shirt off over her shoulders and coyly looked down at her feet. Mohan undid the cord of her salwar and let it fall to the floor. Dhanno was stark naked. ‘Not like this, sahib,’ she murmured. ‘You must be like me.’ She unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down. She gasped. ‘Sahib, I have never seen anything so big!’

  ‘How many have you seen?’ asked Mohan with a leer as he took her hand and put it on his penis. Dhanno blushed as she tried to correct herself. ‘Only my husband’s. His is less than half your size. I haven’t seen any other man’s—Saunh Rabb dee (I swear by God).’ Mohan knew she was lying. Dhanno knew that the sahib knew she was lying. But why waste time on trivial details?

  Mohan took off his shirt, then pushed her onto his bed. He started making love. When he tried to slip on a condom, she held his hand. ‘After my third child I had nasbandi; you will enjoy me more without this thing on you.’

  Each time Mohan made love to a new body, it was like exploring a new landscape. Women were much the same in their essentials but enchantingly different in detail. Dhanno’s body had a musky odour unlike his wife’s which always smelt of French cologne. Mohan could not hold out very long. He lay back defeated. Dhanno was patient with him. She massaged his body gently from head to foot till he was roused once more. This time she came a lot quicker than he.

  In the frenzy of orgasm she dug her nails into his scalp, bit his lips before she collapsed with a long gurgle like an animal being slaughtered. Mohan felt triumphant and proud of his manliness.

  They washed together in the bathroom. And dressed together in the bedroom. Mohan took two one-hundred-rupee notes from his wallet and pressed them into Dhanno’s hands. ‘There is no need for this,’ she said, tucking the notes into her kameez between her breasts. ‘I am your baandee. Whenever you want her, your slave will be at your service.’

  Dhanno slipped out of the house unnoticed. Mohan lit his morning Romeo & Julieta and felt all was right with the world. Dhanno was not the sort of companion he had advertised for in the papers. But lust was also an aspect of love—perhaps its most important constituent. When mental and emotional companionship were not available, it was as good a substitute as any that a man could want.

  Morning sessions with Dhanno became a bi-weekly affair. She was docile, ever willing to cater to his needs. He grew familiar with every contour of her body, down to the large sunburn mark on her right thigh
which he always felt with his fingers and kissed before he kissed her eyes and lips. Sex, though still pleasurable, began to lose its novelty. She resisted his attempts to change postures. When he tried to reverse the roles and asked her to get on top, she demurred—‘No, sahib! I will never have you beneath me. You are my maalik (lord).’ He did not persist. He had made a good bargain and Dhanno was fulfilling her part.

  On Sunday Mohan scanned the matrimonial columns of The Times of India and The Indian Express. Both had four to six pages with headlines to indicate castes and callings. Hindus were the most numerous with different columns for Brahmins, Kshatriyas and Vaishyas. The emphasis was on sub-castes. There were Jains, sub-divided into Digambars, Swetambars and Sthanakvasis. Sikhs into Jats, Khatries, Aroras. Christians into Catholic, Methodist, Syrian Christian, Presbyterian. A few Muslims as well—Sunni, Shia, Bohra, Khoja, Ismaili. The smaller the community, the the more sub-castes it had. On top of the matrimonial ads were NRIs (non-resident Indians) flaunting their sterling, dinar and dollar incomes translated into rupees. They too sought girls of their own community and caste. Preferably virgins.

  Where did he fit in these columns? He did not offer marriage, only a concubinage of sorts. But there he was—at the end of the endless columns of both papers was a boxed item entitled ‘Miscellaneous’. His was the only entry. It would undoubtedly attract more attention than the others. Many would be scandalized that in a tradition-bound country such advertisements were accepted and published. Indians regarded marriage as a sacrosanct bonding for life. Mohan wondered what his father would have made of it, were he alive. What would Lala Achint Ram say, and his fat Christmas-tree wife? And how would Sonu react to this ‘sacrilege’—inviting women for temporary companionship?