I met Yasmeen attending classes in comparative religion in the department of religion and philosophy.

I had begun to enjoy the lectures on religion by Dr Ashby, our professor. There was a motley group of students in his class from different disciplines—medicine, literature, engineering and others. Among the thirty odd who were regulars, there were two nuns and a woman in salwar-kameez in her late thirties. She wore a lot of gold jewellery and was heavily made up. Since she did not wear a bindi, I presumed she was Muslim. She sat in the front row. I always sat in the last. After each lecture, there were discussions, and some students, the Muslim woman in the front row in particular, had much to say. I took no part in them since I knew very little about any religion.

Dr Ashby took us through the world’s major religions: Zoroastrianism, Jainism, Buddhism, Judaism, Hinduism, Christianity and Islam. I was most interested in hearing what he had to say about Hinduism. Despite being a Hindu I knew almost nothing about my religion besides the names of Hindu gods and goddesses and the Gayatri mantra. Three lectures were devoted to Hinduism. Dr Ashby told us of the four Vedas, the Upanishads and the Bhagvad Gita. They made more sense to me than the other religious texts he had dealt with. ‘Worship God in any form you like, that essentially is what Hinduism says,’ explained Dr Ashby. ‘Hindus have no prescribed scriptures: no Zend-Avesta, no Torah, no Bible, no Koran. Read what moves you the most. Seek the Truth within yourself.’ And how spiritually elevating was the message of the Gita as the professor explained it—Nish kama karma: do your duty without expectation of reward. When you engage in the battle of life, do so regardless of whether you win or lose, whether it gives you pleasure or pain. There was also the Lord’s promise to come again and again to redeem the world from sin and evil-doing. Hinduism had no prophets, no one God, we were told. One could choose any deity one liked and worship him or her. By the end of that lecture I felt elated and wanted to shout: ‘I am a Hindu and proud of being one.’

It was that woman in the front row who dampened my spirits. She launched into a furious monologue. ‘Professor,’ she began as soon as Dr Ashby had finished, ‘what you said about Hindu philosophy is all very well. But tell us, why do the Hindus of today worship a monkey as a god, an elephant as a god; they worship trees, snakes, and rivers. They even worship the lingam, which is the phallus, and the yoni, the female genital, as god and goddess,’ she screeched, thumping her desk. ‘They have obscene sculptures on their temple walls. They have deities for measles, smallpox and plague. Their most popular god, Krishna, started out as a thief and lied when caught thieving; he stole girls’ clothes while they were bathing so he could watch them naked; he had over one thousand mistresses; his lifelong companion was not his wife but his aunt Radha. Hinduism is the only religion in the world which declares a section of its followers outcastes by accident of birth. Hindus are the only people in the world who worship living humans as godmen and godwomen. I am told that there are nearly five hundred such men and women who claim to be bhagwans. They believe a dip in the Ganges washes away all their sins, so they can start sinning again! What basis is there for their belief that after death you are reborn in another form depending on your actions in this life? You may be reborn as a rat, mouse, cat, dog or a snake. This is what the Hindus of today believe in, not in the elevated teachings of the Vedas, Upanishads and the Gita! Should we not examine these aspects of Hinduism as it is practised today?’

There was stunned silence. The woman had spoken with such vehemence that there was little room left for objective dialogue. Dr Ashby restored the atmosphere to an academic level. ‘This sort of thing could be said about all religions,’ he said gently. ‘What their founders taught and what their scriptures stand for are far removed from how they are interpreted and practised today. Our concern is with theory and not practice. Muslims condemn the worship of idols, yet they kiss the meteorite stone in the Kaaba and millions worship the graves of their saints.’

‘I can explain Muslim practices,’ replied the lady.

Before she could do so, however, the class was over.

‘We will resume this discussion next week,’ said Professor Ashby as he left the classroom.

I was fuming with rage. As the class began to disperse I quickly walked up to the woman and asked her, ‘Madam, why do you hate Hindus so much?’

She was taken aback. ‘I don’t hate Hindus,’ she protested. ‘I don’t hate anyone.’ She looked me up and down as if she was seeing me for the first time. It had not occurred to her that I could be an Indian. She was contrite! ‘Are you a Hindu from Bharat?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ I replied as tersely as I could, ‘and proud of being both. And I don’t worship monkeys, elephants, snakes, phalluses or yonis. My religion is enshrined in one word, Ahimsa—don’t hurt anyone.’

She apologized. ‘Please forgive me if I hurt your feelings. Perhaps one day you will enlighten me and clear the misgivings I have about Hindus and Bharat.’ She put out her hand as a gesture of friendship. I shook it without much enthusiasm.

‘My name is Yasmeen Wanchoo,’ she said. ‘I am from Azad Kashmir on a leadership grant.’

‘I’m Mohan Kumar, from Delhi. I’m in business management and computer sciences.’

Like many Kashmiri women Yasmeen was as fair-skinned as Caucasian women. She had nut brown hair, large gazelle eyes and was fighting a losing battle with fat. She had a double chin, her arms had sagging flesh and there were tyres developing about her waist. She was, as the Punjabis say, goree chittee gole matole—fair, white and roly poly. She was the first Pakistani woman I had ever spoken to, also the first Muslim. I wanted to know if there was any truth in the stories I had heard about Pakistanis hating Indians and the contempt Muslims had for Hindus. I hoped Yasmeen Wanchoo would tell me. It was not very long ago that our two countries had fought a war, their third, but I did not hate Pakistanis. Her outburst had shocked me. I have never understood hatred.

At the next class she came up to me and said, ‘No hard feelings. Come and sit next to me.’ I declined. ‘Madam, I sit in the last row, I hate being in the front.’

‘In that case I’ll sit with you in the last row. And do not Madam me, it makes me feel old. I am Yasmeen. And if you don’t mind I’ll call you Mohan.’

At the time I had no steady date so I kept company with Yasmeen. She turned out to be not as aggressive as I had thought, and I began pulling her leg often about her being anti-Hindu and anti-Indian. She told me more about herself. ‘My parents lived in Srinagar, now the capital of Indian occupied Kashmir. Our forefathers were Brahmin Pandits till they had the good sense to convert to Islam. It is the best religion in the world. My parents lived in Srinagar till the Indian army occupied it, then they migrated to Muzaffarabad, the capital of Free Kashmir. I was born and educated there. I married another refugee from India, a Kashmiri, also of Brahmin descent—though Muslims, we don’t marry below our caste. My husband is a minister in the Azad Kashmir Government. I am also active in politics and a member of the Assembly. We have two children.’ I asked her if she did not prefer the freedom she had in America to her life in Pakistan. She would not give me a straight answer. When I persisted, she got a little irritated and said, ‘I love my family and my watan. We may not have succeeded yet, but one day we will liberate Kashmir from India’s clutches and I will return to Srinagar which I have only seen in pictures.’

‘And plant the Pakistani flag on Delhi’s Red Fort,’ I quipped.

‘Inshallah!’ she replied, beaming a smile at me.

‘One day we will liberate your so-called Azad Kashmir from the clutches of Pakistan and make it a part of Indian Kashmir again.’

‘You live in a fool’s paradise,’ she said warming up. ‘One Muslim warrior can take on ten of you Hindus.’

‘So it was proved in the last war,’ I replied sarcastically. ‘The Pakistani army laid down arms after only thirteen days of fighting. Ninety-four thousand five hundred valiant Muslim warriors surrendered tamely to infidel Hindus and Sikhs without putting up a fight. In the history of the world there is no other instance of such abject surrender of an entire army.’

‘Now you are being cruel,’ she said, almost whined. ‘You Indians are cheats. You misled those miserable Bengalis to rise against their Muslim brethren. Now they hate your guts and want to regain our friendship. You see what happens in the next Indo-Pak war.’

Despite our heated arguments Yasmeen and I became friends. She could hardly be described as my date as she was almost twenty years older than me. She sought my company because there were not many men or women of her age on the campus. Though young, I was at least from her part of the world; she could talk to me in Hindustani. We often had coffee together. One day, out of the blue, she gave me a Gold Cross pen as a gift. I did not have much money to spare as I sent much of what I saved from my stipend, and what I earned doing odd jobs in the library or working in the cafeteria, to my father. However, I started looking into shop windows to find something suitable as a return gift for Yasmeen.

After a couple of weeks Professor Ashby went on to Islam. He gave us a long list of books to read—various histories of the Arabs, biographies of Prophet Mohammed, translations of the Koran, essays on Muslim sects and sub-sects. I did not bother to read any of them. What I looked forward to was Yasmeen’s comments after the lectures. She did not disappoint me.

She kept her peace during the first two lectures in which Professor Ashby dealt with pre-Muslim Arabia, the life of the Prophet, revelations of the Koran, the Prophet’s flight from Makka to Madina, his victorious return to Makka, the traditions (hadith) ascribed to him, the speed at which his message spread to neighbouring countries, the Shia-Sunni schism, and so on. It was factual information but not very inspiring. As soon as he had finished his second lecture, Yasmeen shot up from her seat beside me and delivered an impassioned harangue. ‘What you have told us about Islam is historically accurate, Dr Ashby. What you haven’t told us is why it is today the most vibrant of religions. This is because it is the most perfect of all religious systems with precise rules of do’s and don’ts which everyone can follow. It was only to Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon Him) that God Himself sent down His message for mankind. Mohammed (peace be upon Him) was the most perfect human being that ever trod the face of the earth. There must be some reason behind the spectacular success of His mission. Within a few years of His death, Islam spread like wildfire from the Pacific Coast to the Atlantic Coast of Europe; it spread all over Asia and the African continent. It overcame the opposition of fire worshippers, Jews, Christians, Buddhists and Hindus. Why does Islam gain more converts than any other religion? These are some of the questions that I would like the class to discuss.’

She sat down breathless after her speech. Only one student, a mild-mannered Jew who always wore a skullcap, took up her challenge. ‘Perhaps the lady can answer some of my questions before I answer hers,’ he said. ‘Can she deny that Islam borrowed most of its ideas from Judaism? Their greeting, salam valaikum, is derived from the Hebrew shalom alech; the names of their five daily prayers are taken from Judaism. We turn to Jerusalem to pray; they borrowed the idea from us but instead turn to Makka. Following the Jewish practice they circumcise their male children. They have taken the concept of haraam (unlawful) and halaal (legitimate), what to eat and what not to eat, from the Jewish kosher. We Jews forbid eating pig’s meat because we regard it unclean; Muslims do the same. We bleed animals to death before we eat them. Following us, so do they. They revere all the Prophets revered by Jews and Christians. What was there in Islam which was very new? Everything it has is borrowed from Judaism or Christianity.’

Yasmeen was up on her feet again to give battle to the Jew. ‘What was new was the advent of prophet Mohammed (peace be upon Him). He was the greatest of all prophets sent by Allah, and every Muslim anywhere in the world knows this. We recognize no one after Mohammed (peace be upon Him).’

The Jew did not take that lying down: ‘What about the division between Sunnis and Shias? Shias pay greater deference to the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law Ali than they do to the Prophet. And what about Muslim sects founded on sub-prophets of their own? The Aga Khan’s, Ismailies, Bohras, Ahmediyas and many others whose names I can’t even remember? And while we are at it, I would like the lady to enlighten us on why when Islam talks of giving a fair deal to women, it allows four wives to men, why many Muslim rulers maintained large harems of women and eunuchs. Why are they forever calling for jehad—holy war—with infidels and fighting against each other?’

It was degenerating into a pointless wrangle. Professor Ashby put an end to it. ‘I see we are in for another lively debate. Perhaps you can discuss these issues outside the class.’

The lecture period was over. Yasmeen’s face was flushed with anger and triumph. ‘Don’t you think I put that miserable Jew in his place?’ she asked me as we walked out. Instead of answering her question, I asked her, ‘Yasmeen, why are you so kattar (bigoted)? Muslims are the most bigoted religious community in the world. Their Prophet was the greatest, their religion is the best, Muslims are the most enlightened community, the most God-fearing and righteous of all mankind. If the Jews think they are God’s chosen people, Muslims think they are the choicest of the chosen. How can you be so narrow-minded?’

She was taken aback. ‘We are not bigoted,’ she retorted. ‘We follow our religious precepts in letter and in spirit because we know they are the best for humanity. You must give me the opportunity to tell you of the beauty of Islam. You don’t know what you are missing in life.’

‘I’m happy in my ignorance,’ I replied. ‘I don’t have much patience with any religion. All I say is try not to injure anyone’s feelings. The rest is marginal. Gods, prophets, scriptures, rituals, pilgrimages mean very little to me.’

She made no comment.

Yasmeen had only a week left in Princeton. Having failed to find anything more suitable to give her, I bought her a university ring made of silver with the Princeton emblem on it. At a coffee session one morning when no one was sharing our table, I took it out of my pocket and slipped it on her finger. ‘I see you wear only gold but I could not afford a gold ring. And this being a university ring no one will comment about it. You could have bought it yourself but I’m giving it to you so that it will remind you of your days with a Bharati Hindu boy in Princeton.’

She took my hand and kissed it.

A faint blush came over her face. ‘You are a nice boy. I only wish your name was not Mohan Kumar but Mohammed Kareem—or something like that,’ she laughed. ‘I am not as kattar as you think. I am just concerned about your future.’

During her last week in Princeton we met every day. We spent the afternoons walking around the campus and shopping. She bought lots of things for her husband and children and her household in Muzaffarabad. She seemed to have plenty of cash and dollar traveller’s cheques. Came her last day. She invited me for dinner. ‘Have you ever tasted Kashmiri food? It is the tastiest in the world, only very rich. I am a good cook. I can make very good goshtaba. Ever tasted goshtaba?’

I admitted that I had not.

‘You must tell me what you don’t eat,’ she said. ‘You Hindus have so many food fads. I know you don’t eat beef or veal, but believe me, it is the most delicious meat. So many of you are vegetarian; no fish, not even eggs. Some even refuse to eat onions or garlic. How can you make anything tasty without onions or garlic, I ask you?’

‘I eat everything except beef. Not that I regard the cow as sacred but because I have been brought up like that. And let me assure you that pig’s meat, which you will not touch, can be very clean and tasty: ham, bacon, pork are the staple diet of most Europeans and Americans. One reason why I don’t think Islam will spread to the Pacific islands is because their economy is based on the pig. And I know that like the Jews many Muslims don’t eat shrimps, crabs or lobsters. Muslim tribes living along the Arabian and African coast don’t eat fish because they think fish are serpents of the sea.’

‘You are a very argumentative fellow,’ she said patting my cheek. ‘Come tomorrow evening as early as you can and sample my Kashmiri cooking. I don’t drink but I’ll get some beer for you and put it in the fridge.’

I swear I had nothing more on my mind than spending a pleasant evening with Yasmeen. Things did not turn out that way. I took her a bunch of dark red roses. She kissed my hands as I gave them to her and embraced me warmly. While I was casually dressed in a sports shirt and slacks, she wore a silk salwar-kameez with gold borders, a gold necklace with a medallion on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, gold earrings and gold bangles. She had a lot of make-up on and had doused herself with French perfume. Besides beer in the fridge she had put a half bottle of Scotch, a tumbler and a pitcher of water on the centre table. ‘You help yourself to Scotch or beer while I say my evening namaaz.’

She went to her bedroom, put her prayer mat on the floor and stood facing Makka. I poured out a Scotch for myself. While I sipped it, I saw her going through her genuflections. She sat a long time on her knees with the palms of her hands open in front of her face as if reading their lines. I could see her lips moving but could not hear what she was reciting. She looked serene. She turned her face one way, then the other, brushed her face with her hands and stood up. She rolled up her prayer mat and tucked it under her bed.

She went into the kitchen to make sure the goshtaba was cooking nicely and lowered the flame so that it could cook slowly. Then she came and joined me. ‘How’s the drink?’ she asked. ‘Very nice,’ I replied. ‘Would you like one?’

‘Tauba! It is haraam. You will make me a sinner, will you? You can fetch me a coke from the fridge.’

I got out a can of coke. Before I could open it, she took it from my hand and put it on the table. Then she held my hands in hers and looked into my eyes till I had to lower my gaze, embarrassed. Suddenly, she put her arms round my neck and said, ‘It is our last evening together. Make love to me. Something to remember you by for the rest of my days.’

To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. This was the last thing I had expected of the evening. Besides, Yasmeen had never appeared sexually desirable to me. But she did not give me a chance to protest. She took me by my hand and led me to the bedroom. She took off everything save her jewellery. Her skin was soft but flabby. Her big breasts sagged and she had shaved her pubic hair. None of the girls I had bedded shaved their privates. I was surprised to see that a woman so large who had borne two children, had such a small vagina. It looked vulnerable. While I gazed at her figure, she took off my shirt and pulled down my trousers. She gasped at what she saw. ‘Mashallah! What have you got there? Do all Hindus have organs of this size? It must be their reward for worshipping the phallus.’ She fondled it for a while with her pudgy hands, her lips glued to mine.

She pulled me over her and stretched her thighs wide to receive me. I entered her. She moaned with pleasure and locked her legs behind my back. She ate up my face with bites and passionate kisses. We came together.

She lay back exhausted. Then she pushed me off her and went into the bathroom to wash. She came back and put on her kameez. ‘That goshtaba must be ready by now. It must not get overcooked. You wash yourself and I’ll lay the dinner on the table.’

I did as I was told. She was like a political boss in full command of the situation. We sat down to eat. I noticed she had not put on her salwar. Her kameez hung down to her knees, exposing her broad thighs when she stood up or sat down. I understood she had not finished with me and expected another session after dinner. I was not sure if I would be up to it with her. But I let myself in for it by a thoughtless gesture. While she was washing the dishes and I was drying them with a piece of cloth, I put my right hand under her kameez and stroked her huge buttocks. They were like two gourds of a taanpura joined together—massive, rounded, smooth. She beamed a smile and kissed me on the lips. ‘You want to do it a second time? So do I. We will make it different this time.’ That did it.

For a while we sat holding hands and chatted away. She told me of her daily schedule in Muzaffarabad. ‘With both my husband and I being in politics we hardly have a moment to ourselves. It is like a public durbar from sunrise to sunset. Wherever we go we are surrounded by men and women with petitions. For me being here is like being on a holiday. I wish I could extend it but my grant is over and my family will want to know why I am not taking the first flight back to Karachi and home.’

She stood up and stretched her arms above her head and stifled a yawn. ‘Time for bed,’ she said taking me by the hand and leading me to her bed. She gently pushed me on it. ‘This time you relax and I’ll do all the work!’

She pulled off my trousers and fondled my limp lingam till it was ready for action. She sat astride my middle, spread her ample frame over me and directed my phallus into her. She was wet and eager and my penis slid in easily. Her breasts smothered my face. She held each in turn and put its nipple in my mouth, urging me to suck it. She kissed me hungrily and noisily on my nose, lips and neck, leaving her saliva on me, while she heaved and thumped me with her huge buttocks. ‘I haven’t had sex for six months. I am famished,’ she said as her movements became more frenzied. ‘Fill me up with all you have, you miserable kafir,’ she screamed. And with a spectacular shudder and a loud ha, ha, ha she collapsed on me like a lifeless corpse. She did all the fucking. I was simply fucked.

‘Wouldn’t it be nicer if we settled Pak-India problems this way rather than by abusing each other and fighting?’ she asked after a while.

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘And with Pakistan always on top?’

‘Of course! Pakistan must always be on top.’

I was exhausted and wanted to get away.

She clung to me and begged, ‘Please stay the night with me. I’ll feel very lost if you go away. I promise I won’t bother you any more.’

I agreed to spend the night with her and see her off at the bus stand the next morning. I could not resist asking her a few awkward questions. ‘You must tell me how you square your belief in Islamic values with what you and I have been doing.’

She paused a long time, fixed me with her large eyes. ‘What I did was sinful,’ she admitted.

‘A sin punishable with death by stoning?’

She was quiet for a long time.

‘Doesn’t your conscience bother you?’ I asked.

‘The body has its compulsions,’ she said.

‘I’m sure it has, but that’s the easy way to square your conscience.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘I have no idea. But surely there must be something in your religion that allows you to absolve yourself of your sins by going on a pilgrimage?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said evasively.

‘Like the Hindus being forgiven if they take a dip in the Holy Ganga?’ I teased.

‘O shut up!’ she shouted angrily. ‘Don’t spoil my last night with you.’

She put her head on my right arm and nestled against me. ‘You are more curious about things than is good for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, all those questions about my religion and my conscience.’

I laughed and pulled her close and kissed her passionately.

We were soon fast asleep in each other’s arms.

I don’t know when she slipped out of bed. When I awoke I saw her saying her morning namaaz on the prayer mat by the bed. She had bathed and dressed without my hearing anything. I did not interrupt her prayer and went to her bathroom to take a shower. I had not brought anything with me. I brushed my teeth with her wet tooth brush, and shaved my chin with the razor she had used to shave her pubic hair. When I came out she had finished her prayer and was laying breakfast on the table. The fragrance of fresh coffee filled the apartment.

I took her in my arms and held her in a tight embrace. When I released her I saw her eyes were damp with tears. We had our toast and coffee in silence. She asked me to ring up for a taxi and gave me the key to her apartment to hand over to the caretaker after she left. I offered to accompany her to New York and then to Kennedy Airport. She was quite firm in turning me down. ‘The Pakistani Consulate is sending someone to meet me at the Port Authority bus terminal and drive me to the airport. Many Pakistanis know me from my pictures in the papers and appearances on TV. Some of the staff of Pakistan International Airways are sure to recognize me. Being seen off by a Bharati Hindu would not be a very bright idea,’ she said.

I took her suitcases down. A taxi pulled up as soon as I had put her three bags on the kerb. The cabby helped me put them in the boot. ‘Bus stand for New York bound buses,’ I told him as we got into the rear seat. She let me hold her hand. We had no words left to say to each other.

I paid off the taxi. Five minutes later the New York bus pulled up. I put her cases in the back of the bus. I took her in my arms once more without bothering about who was looking and kissed her passionately on her lips. She hurried into the bus, adjusting her hair. She took her seat. She did not turn to look at me or wave goodbye. I saw her bend down and put her face in her hands.

That was the last I saw of Yasmeen Wanchoo.

But I thought of her often. Every time I met a Muslim, man or woman, she came back to my mind. Every time anyone brought up the subject of Indo-Pak relations or the continuing tension over Kashmir, I was reminded of Yasmeen Wanchoo. Although it was not I who had taken the lead but she who had manouvred me into having sex with her, and despite the fact that our copulation was by no means an earth-shattering experience because neither of us was in the slightest way emotionally involved with the other, it had somehow drained out whatever anti-Muslim and anti-Pakistan prejudices I had imbibed during my school and college years in India. Whenever anyone said anything against Muslims, my hackles rose because I had been made love to by a Muslim woman. Whenever anyone said anything against Pakistan, I strongly defended that country because I had been made love to by a Pakistani woman. It was not love but lust that proved to be a great healer.