It took me a long time to come to terms with life without Molly. Separation is always harder on the one left behind than on the one who goes away. More so in my case as Molly had filled my life to overflowing and the emptiness she left behind was excruciatingly painful. Many a time I thought of flying to Goa and looking for her in all the hotels there. It was not an impossible task. But I held myself back. I had nothing really to offer her and my presence would embarrass her. Her family and friends would rightly conclude that her visit to Delhi was not professional but for other reasons not acceptable to them. And I remembered what she had told me on the rooftop after the best sex I had had in my life. Never try and repeat this, she had said. She would rather we never met again; she would not risk disappointment. Gradually I reconciled myself to the idea that I would not see Molly any more. Her image receded into a misty haze till it became a memory, a very sweet memory.

After I got my divorce, I felt that I had been freed of Sonu and could lead my life the way I wanted to. I had not reckoned with her vindictiveness. Whenever I went to the Gymkhana or the Golf Club, I could sense a change in the attitude of my friends and their wives towards me. They stared at me as if they were seeing me for the first time. The men made snide remarks calculated to hurt or irritate me. On one occasion a fellow slapped me on the back and said, ‘Yaar Mohan, you chhupa rustam (hidden champion), we hear you’re a tees maarkhan (one who knocks down thirty at a time); the Muhammad Ali of sex.’ I tried to laugh it off. On another evening one of the women in the circle I joined for a drink asked, ‘Mohanji, I hear you are already planning to get married again. Is that true?’

‘I haven’t heard about it,’ I retorted, ‘so it must be true.’ She got a bit flustered and went on, ‘Forgive me if I said the wrong thing. But everyone tells me you are going to marry some lady doctor from the south.’

I knew she was referring to Molly. I countered her by replying, ‘I will be obliged if you could introduce me to this lady doctor from the south. I’d like to get to know her before I marry her.’

Sonu was undoubtedly responsible for the gossip. Her servants must have got to know from mine that a woman who passed off for a lady doctor was staying with me. My sour ex-wife would not miss any opportunity to make my life public. She must have worked overtime to get the Delhi gossip mills working furiously. I went to the clubs to relax among friends. I left them more tense, with the whisky turning sour in my stomach. Sonu succeeded in giving me the reputation of a compulsive womanizer. Although many young women eyed me with a mixture of desire and curiosity, I knew they would never have the courage to step out with me. In their parents’ eyes I was simply a lafanga—a no good loafer who consorted with women of ‘loose character’. It was the loss of normal human dignity that bothered me. There was nothing dirty in what I did, but their looks and remarks made me out to be a filthy sex maniac. Gradually I stopped going to the clubs and turned down invitations to parties. I stayed at home, drank alone, listened to music or watched TV. I wallowed in the misery of one whom no one loves. For a time I quite enjoyed my loneliness.

I wondered if my experiment of taking on mistresses on a short-term basis had been successful. It might have been if Sonu had put me out of her mind and stopped persecuting me. On the other hand if it were not Sonu it could have been someone else, male or female, who resented my having a good time. But what was the alternative to the clandestine affairs I had been having? How could I openly have a woman companion whose parents, brothers, sisters, ex-husbands would accept her having an affair with a divorced man and not get upset with her? I could not think of a way out of the impasse because I needed sex on a regular basis, with a change of partners every few months. I did not relish the idea of visiting brothels or having call girls who serviced many men every day: my woman had to be exclusively mine for the time she was with me. I had no right to tell her what she should do with her life after she left me.

I also realized that the sort of relationship I sought with women made me a social outcast. I did not like that. I wanted to regain respectability, but how was I going to do that in a society which could not accept my enjoying intimacy with unattached and willing women?

During Molly’s stay in Delhi I had missed out on my monthly visits to Haridwar. I felt bad about it because the Ganga had in some mysterious way become my spiritual sustenance. My father had died by its banks; his ashes were immersed in its waters and in his later years a daily dip in the river had meant more to him than visiting temples and gurudwaras. I had inherited some of the reverence for the mother of all rivers from him. A post card from the secretary of the ashram where I had retained my father’s room enquiring about my health and asking me why he had not had my ‘darshan’ for some months helped me make up my mind. I consulted my diary which had a lunar calendar and wrote back to say that I would be there for the next full moon.

I had often spoken about the aarti at sunset to my friends at cocktail parties. ‘If you want an experience of living Hinduism, you won’t get it from the sacred texts or by visiting temples, you will see it in Haridwar, in the worship of the Ganga at sunset,’ I told them. Many of them had asked me to take them along the next time I went there. Amongst them were quite a few foreigners whose idea of ‘doing’ India was confined to visiting Agra, Jaipur, Varanasi, Khajuraho and the temples in South India—all monuments, no people. At one such embassy party where I was holding forth on my pet topic, one person avidly taking in everything I was saying was a young, darkish, slightly built woman in her late twenties. I had never seen her before and could not make out whether she was Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi. She was none of these. She introduced herself: ‘Hello, I’m Susanthika Goonatilleke from the High Commission of Sri Lanka. I was very interested in what you were saying about Ganga worship. How does one get to Haridwar? Is there anywhere one can stay overnight?’

We broke out of the circle and took two chairs next to each other. I told her of the route to take, the towns she would pass on the three-and-a-half-hour journey. ‘There are a good number of bungalows and a government tourism hostel, but you’ll be more comfortable in the guest house of Bharat Heavy Electricals, which is a few miles before Haridwar. Haridwar is a holy city and there’s strict prohibition—no alcohol and no meat. But the BHEL guest house is outside municipal limits. And I’m told it has a very good cook. I’d advise you to book a room well ahead of time. I’d suggest you spend two nights there near the time of the full moon. You should not have much problem getting accommodation. If your husband writes to the the General Manager at BHEL, I’m sure he’ll be honoured to have you as his guests.’

‘I’m not married,’ she said. ‘I’m only the second secretary in the High Commission, but I’ll try to get the High Commissioner’s private secretary to speak to the GM of Bharat Heavy Electricals.’

‘It would be advisable to have a guide to escort you. The place teems with beggars, priests, paandas, astrologers and sadhus—some of them with nothing more than ash smeared on their bodies. A single young woman going about the ghats would not be a good idea.’

‘Where will I find a guide?’

‘I’d be happy to show you around. I try to go there every full moon night. I have a room in an ashram. Unfortunately the ashram does not allow women visitors. I’ve promised to take my cook and bearer with me the next time I go, but we could fit you in our car.’

‘Car’s no problem, I have one with a chauffeur. We can follow you all the way. Will your wife be going with you?’

‘I’m a divorcee. If that matters to you, I’ll find you another escort.’

She smiled and replied, ‘Your being married or divorced is of no concern to me. I’d be happy to go with you and your servants. How do I get in touch with you? I didn’t even get your name.’

I fished out a visiting card from my pocket and handed it to her. She took one of her own out of her hand bag and gave it to me. ‘I have a long unpronounceable name, so my friends call me Sue. But I’m not a Christian, I’m Buddhist.’

‘I’ve never met a Buddhist. I hope you’ll tell me something about your religion and your people.’

The full moon night was ten days away. I was in two minds about ringing up Sue whatever she was and having to explain my business to her private secretary before she put me through. I asked Vimla Sharma to inform Sue. She rang me up the next day and told me she had got a room in the BHEL guest house. I gave her details of the journey. She was to come to my bungalow in Maharani Bagh by eleven in the morning. I would be carrying a packed lunch for us to have on the way. We would reach her guest house by half past three. I would go to my ashram and send my car to fetch her around half past five and drop her back in time for dinner. If she wanted to bathe at Har Ki Pauri she could do so the next morning. She could return to Delhi whenever she wanted. I made it sound as matter of fact as I could.

Susanthika Goonatilleke’s large Japanese Toyota bearing a blue diplomatic corps number plate drew up outside Ranjit Villa exactly at eleven. Jiwan Ram opened the iron gate to let it in. We were already packed and ready to go. I instructed my one-eyed jamadarni to look after the house while I was away, to not let anyone in, nor answer the door bell.

Jiwan Ram and the servants went ahead in my car; I sat with Sue and followed them. I had instructed Jiwan Ram to pull up at some nice secluded stop at about one for lunch.

On the way we got talking about each other. I asked her why she was unmarried. Of course I threw in a few compliments with my query: an attractive, intelligent girl in the diplomatic service, etc. She accepted the compliments with good grace and replied, ‘I don’t quite know why; it just did not happen. Perhaps Mr Right did not come along,’ she said shrugging her shoulders.

‘You’ve never had anyone you were serious about?’ I asked, a little incredulous. ‘Yes, I had a boyfriend, the son of a tea planter. He believed in good living, partying, drinking and dancing through the night. There are quite a few of that type in Colombo. I knew I would not fit into that kind of life. Then I qualified for the diplomatic services and that decided things for us. Delhi is my first posting. I’ve already done a year, another two to go before I’m posted back to Colombo or sent to another embassy. Maybe London or Paris or New York—anywhere. Diplomats are like rolling stones, here today, gone tomorrow. No permanent stay anywhere. The day I marry, I’ll quit the service and settle down somewhere. And what about you? I’m told you’re quite a ladies’ man. And rich.’

‘Where did you pick up that gossip?’ I asked. ‘Just because my marriage didn’t work out doesn’t make me a no-good philanderer. I come from a lower middle-class family. I started from scratch and made whatever I have myself.’

She put her bony little hand on mine. ‘Don’t take my words seriously. I was teasing you. You were at Princeton and the only one to get a summa cum laude in your final examination. Right?’

‘Right. How did you dig up all that information?’

‘I didn’t have to do much homework. Just about every Indian I met at the embassy parties seemed to know about you and hold you in high esteem.’

‘That’s nice to know. All I hear is nasty gossip about my broken marriage.’

‘Envy, that’s for sure,’ she remarked. ‘A handsome young man from a poor family who becomes a topper in a prestigious American university and earns a million before he’s forty is bound to rouse a lot of jealousy and rancour. I wouldn’t bother with such types.’ Once more she put her bony, cold hand on mine. I noticed how thin her wrists were. She was even more slightly built than I had first thought. High cheek bones, thin dark lips, small breasts and a smaller behind. Her head would just about reach my chin. But her eyes sparkled as she spoke. She was highly intelligent and animated.

Jiwan Ram pulled up under a cluster of mango trees a few yards off the main road along the Ganga canal. The sun was right above us. It was uncomfortably hot. A gentle breeze blew over the canal towards freshly harvested wheat fields. There was a village at a distance but no sign of humans or cattle. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could. Jiwan Ram opened the hamper he had brought. It had a variety of sandwiches and cans of chilled beer. ‘I don’t usually drink in the daytime but I’m hot and thirsty,’ she said accepting a can from me. She gulped the beer down and exclaimed, ‘Delightful! Nothing could be better than ice-cold beer on a dry hot afternoon.’

We munched our sandwiches. Jiwan Ram and the servants sat on the canal bank gobbling parathas and potato bhujia. Sue and I resumed our dialogue.

‘Are you a practising Buddhist?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t know what you mean by practising,’ she replied. ‘I rarely go to a temple and I don’t pray very much. But I’m a Buddhist because I like what I’ve read about the Buddha’s teachings. To me it makes more sense than the teachings of other great masters. All the world’s religions have taken something from Buddhism. I’m sure there must be as many non-Buddhists who revere the Buddha as do practicing Buddhists.’

‘I attended classes on comparative religions at Princeton,’ I told her, taken back over fifteen years to those days. ‘Our professor laid a lot of stress on Dukkha—sorrow, all-pervading sorrow—in the teachings of the Buddha. His way of overcoming it was to overcome desire: desire for food, sex and the good things of life. I found that hard to accept. The strength of Hinduism lies in the fact that it is a happy religion. Our rituals allow lots of fun and frolic, drinking, dancing, gambling, flirting. I go by that rather than fasting, penance and that sort of thing.’

‘You call having fun and frolic religion?’

Before I could answer her, Jiwan Ram came to pack up the hamper. It was another hour’s drive to Haridwar.

‘We’ll continue our argument another time,’ I said standing up and brushing the dust off my trousers. She held up both her hands for me to haul her up to her feet. She could have got up herself; I guessed it was a gesture of friendship. I went further and brushed her posterior of dust and dried grass that had stuck to her sari. ‘Thanks,’ she said giving me a winsome smile. We got into her car and followed Jiwan Ram to the BHEL guest house.

The caretaker was awaiting the arrival of the VIP guest. He was impressed by the size of the car and its diplomatic corps number plate but was evidently not impressed by the diminutive dark lady who looked like any college girl from the south. Her bossy manner put him in his place. ‘Driver, put my bag in the room allotted to me,’ she ordered. Then to the caretaker: ‘Can I have some tea?’

I did not go to inspect Sue’s room. I simply shook hands with her and said, ‘My driver will come for you at five-thirty—about two hours from now. Pick me up from the ashram and we can have an hour strolling along the ghats and then watch the aarti at sunset.’

She did not protest against being left alone.

At the ashram I had my room opened and everything in it dusted. I was served highly sugared tea in a brass tumbler. I had a lota bath and changed into fresh clothes and awaited Sue. Jiwan Ram was a stickler for time. He drove in exactly at five-thirty. Sue’s driver was also in the car. ‘He insisted on coming with me to have Ganga darshan. He also wants to come in the morning to bathe. I hope you don’t mind.’ Sue had a camera slung on her shoulder.

‘The more the merrier,’ I remarked.

We crowded into my car and proceeded to the point nearest Har Ki Pauri. I assumed the role of guide and protector. I shooed off beggars, paandas, and subscription collectors. On the main ghat the servants stayed a discreet distance behind us. Sue had her camera ready all the time: temples, sadhus, paandas, cows, pilgrims, river, landscape—it was snap, snap, snap all through. She had no time to talk to me. I found her behaviour somewhat off-putting.

Sue noticed my irritation and put her camera in her bag. ‘These pictures will remind me of my pilgrimage to the Ganga. I must take some of you with the river in the background.’ I did not say anything.

The sun had gone over the western range of hills. It was time to find a good spot near the clocktower facing Har ki Pauri. I led her with my arm round her shoulders and with a succession of ‘excuse-me’s’ we pushed our way through to the front row—in such places size and ‘Sahib English’ command obedience. The pageant of lights and sounds began. I kept a protective arm round Sue’s shoulders throughout the waving of candelabras, the chanting of shlokas and the clanging of bells. She did not seem to mind: on the contrary, she rested her head against my chest. And when the aarti ended she looked into my eyes and mumbled, ‘Bewitching! Thank you ever so much for letting me come with you.’

The crowd began to disperse. We stayed by the river for a while, strolled on the ghat, enjoying the moonlight and cool breeze. We went through the brightly lit bazaar to reach the car. ‘What next?’ asked Sue as we took our seats.

‘I to my ashram; you to your guest house. No women allowed in the ashram. Nor any alcohol in the holy city.’

‘Both allowed in the guest house. You told me it is off limits. I’ve brought a bottle of Scotch and some soda, would you care to join me?’

‘Can I have a rain check on that?’ I asked. ‘I would like to get up early and take a dip in the river in memory of my father. He never missed the opportunity to wash away his sins. Mine need a lot more washing.’

‘Why can’t I come too? I may not bathe, but I would like to see the spectacle,’ she said.

‘Sure! If you can join me at the ashram at five tomorrow morning I’ll take you along. But no photography allowed.’

I and my servants got off at the ashram. Jiwan Ram drove Sue and her chauffeur to the BHEL guest house. I felt bad at having turned down Sue’s invitation so brusquely. I had not told her that I had my own Scotch and soda in my room—prohibition or no prohibition.

Early the next morning she arrived at the ashram to pick me up. Daylight had just begun to lighten the sky. She was in salwar-kameez and carried a sling bag with clothes. ‘I decided to give the holy Ganga a chance to wash away my sins. I’m not a Ganga worshipper, but she may extend her cleansing properties to me,’ she said with a laugh.

We were at different sections of Har Ki Pauri. I could see Sue divest herself of her salwar and wrap a towel round her waist. She took off her kameez, but kept her bra on. Some women had less on them than her. She was the smallest of the lot. I turned my gaze away. I recalled my father offering water to the rising sun and submerging himself in the water a few times. He used to name the people for whom he was performing the ritual by proxy. I offered two palmfuls of water to the sun and ducking into the stream I could only think of a few people who had been close to me: Jessica, Yasmeen, Sarojini, Molly, my father and my children—seven dips in all. It was very refreshing. I turned around to see how Sue was getting along. She had put on her petticoat and had a towel round her shoulders, covering her breasts. Clearly she had got bolder and taken her bra off before the dip. With a second towel she was rubbing herself between her legs. She felt secure among the many women in different stages of nudity. She towelled her small breasts and slipped on her bra.

Then she draped her sari round her, Sinhalese style. We found our way to our cars. I wasn’t sure if Sue meant to return to Delhi or spend another day in Haridwar. I asked her. ‘I booked the rooms for two nights and days. I thought I’d see all there is to see around here and go back with you,’ she replied.

‘It will be too hot to do any sightseeing,’ I said. ‘It would be wiser to stay in your air-conditioned room during the day. I have to make do with an old ceiling fan which only churns up hot air. We can go to the ghats again in the evening. This time without a camera. And if I may, I’ll join you for a drink in the evening.’

We returned to our respective abodes.

I gave my servants money to take Sue’s driver with them to a film on some religious theme showing in a local cinema and for their evening meal in a dhaba. Soon after sunset I drove to the BHEL guest house and was shown to Sue’s room. She had Scotch, soda and a bucket of ice cubes laid out on the table. She was smoking a cigarette. She had not smoked on the way, not even after the picnic lunch by the canal. She was obviously doing so to soothe her nerves. She got up from her chair and instead of shaking hands greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘This is to thank you for bringing me with you. It was a memorable experience. It will stay with me for the rest of my life.’

She stubbed her cigarette out and said, ‘You do the honours while I rinse my mouth and get the awful cigarette smell out of it.’

She took a long time in her bathroom. I was not sure what she had in mind but as a precaution latched the door from the inside. I poured out two whiskeys and waited for her to join me.

‘So what did you do all day?’ she asked as she came out.

‘Nothing much,’ I replied, ‘it was too hot to go out. I read papers, magazines, ate and snoozed, and the day was gone. And you?’

‘I had the driver take me around Haridwar and up the higher reaches of the Ganga. He didn’t know his way about. So we came back. I loafed in the bazaar for a while to see if I could buy something. There was a lot of junk. And shopkeepers would not believe I can’t understand Hindustani. I had to point to myself and tell them, “From Sri Lanka.” The invariable response was, “Oh, Lanka: land of Ravana.” That’s all that most Indians know about my country.’

‘That’s all I know too, besides of course that Sri Lankan Tamils are fighting for Eelam and cursing us Indians for not supporting them … I don’t understand why people of different nations hate each other so much. Do you hate us?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘The Buddha said hate kills the man who hates. I don’t hate you, you don’t hate me. That’s all that matters.’ She took my hand and put it against her lips. In return I drew her bony hand towards my mouth and kissed it.

‘That’s like signing an India-Sri Lanka Peace Treaty,’ she said with a soft laugh.

I did not let go of her hand; she did not try to withdraw it. After a while she said, ‘Mr Kumar, I’m told most women find you irresistible.’

‘Do you?’

‘Well, I’m not quite sure. You’re a handsome chap and have a way with women. I don’t blame them if they fall for you.’

‘You haven’t told me if you have fallen for me.’

‘Why do you think I invited myself to Haridwar? But I don’t know if I am the kind of woman you fall for. I’m not much to look at. Too dark and too skinny for the tastes of most Indians.’

‘I’ve seen more of you than you know. I had a quick look at you when you were changing from your salwar-kameez into a sari. Everything in miniature but in the right proportions. You have quite a nice figure.’

‘Thank you. I thought you went to the holy river to cleanse yourself of libidinous thoughts.’

‘Also to seek her blessing for success in a new venture.’

She put her glass of whisky aside, came over and sat in my lap, put her arms around my neck and kissed me. We stayed that way for some minutes. Then I took over. I placed her head on my right shoulder, made her open her mouth to let my tongue explore. I put my hand inside her bra. It was very tight. The buttons at the back snapped and her breasts were freed of their confines. I took her small, firm breasts in my mouth, first one, then the other. She put her head back, shut her eyes and ‘aahd’ and ‘oohd’ with pleasure as she kept ruffling my hair with her fingers. She felt my member rise and throb under her. She stood up and tapped it with her bony hand. ‘He’s getting impatient for action. Come.’ She took my hand and led me to her bed. She lay down on her back and pulled her sari up above the waist. She wore no panties. She had planned it all. I was surprised to see how big her cunt was. She had obviously had plenty of sex. As I mounted her, she expressed no surprise about the size of my penis as most other women had: she simply guided it in with her fingers and said, ‘It feels like Ashoka’s pillar entering me. I like it. Put in all you have.’

I did. She squirmed with pleasure. As she felt her climax coming, she asked, ‘Don’t you have a condom?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘I didn’t expect to use one on this visit.’

‘Then for God’s sake don’t come inside me. I can’t risk a pregnancy. I know it won’t be much fun for you, but this time, for my sake.’

She climaxed with her teeth dug into my neck and her hands clutching my hair. I pulled out just in time and squirted my semen on her thighs.

‘My thighs are sticky, my sari is crumpled, and you’ve snapped the buttons of my bra, but it was worth it.’

After showering herself she came out and lay naked on the bed beside me. She took my flaccid member in her hands and said, ‘It’s massive. No wonder women fall for you. We’d better get dressed. I’ll order dinner to be brought to the room.’

We got into our clothes. She rang for the bearer, told him to serve dinner.

While waiting for dinner I thought I’d get to know a little more about Sue. I asked her, ‘I know very little about you except that you’re a diplomat so you must be very clever. And you’re a liberated woman, of course.’

‘Well, I come from a large family: tea planters. I was a clever cookie, so I passed the civil service exam and opted for the foreign service. As for being liberated, yes I have no hang-ups about sex. If I like a chap and he likes me we get into bed. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘When two people want to get close to each other, sex should be their top priority. When did you lose your virginity?’

‘Now you’re being very nosey. But I’ll tell you. I was sixteen. Nothing romantic about the deflowering. My own uncle, my father’s younger brother. The usual thing, you know, a close relative whom you trust. It seemed harmless enough at first—kissing and cuddling, that sort of thing. Then he thought he’d got me worked up and started playing with my breasts and stroking my crotch. I got frantic and before I knew it he had me under him on the floor and tore into me. I almost told my parents but held back because I realized I had led him on. I taught the fellow a lesson by seducing his fourteen-year-old son, my cousin. The boy got so besotted with me he started writing me love letters and poems. I let him to do it a few times but then he wanted to marry me. He went and told his parents that we were in love and wanted to get married. His old man quickly took the boy away from Colombo and put him in a boarding school far from the city. It’s not very difficult for a girl to seduce a man. I know I can get any man I want because men are ever willing for sex. I got you.’

‘We got each other,’ I countered. I told her about Molly who was also ‘deflowered’ by her uncle when only fourteen. ‘It’s amazing how many girls are initiated into sex by their older relations or their parents’ friends,’ I observed. ‘Well, it’s the same for boys,’ said Sue. ‘They’re seduced by their aunts or older maidservants. When the sexual urge becomes too strong in young people and it’s obvious that they can barely contain it, an experienced older person finds it easy to exploit them.’

‘And are you experienced?’ I asked bluntly. ‘I mean, have you had many affairs?’

‘Quite a few. And I had a steady boyfriend for some years. I’ve told you about him. Neither of us wanted to get married, so there was no heartburn on either side. What about you?’

‘I was a virgin till twenty. It was a black girl at university who initiated me into sex. Thereafter I had many affairs. Sex is the greatest thing in a human’s life. The more varied it is, the more enjoyable. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes and no. I don’t think one-night stands count. A relationship has to be of reasonable duration with the same person to be fulfilling. Both can sense when the excitement has gone out of it. Then it’s time to call it quits and take on a new partner. I hope we’ll be able to meet off and on while I’m posted in Delhi.’

‘I hope so too. We haven’t really begun. You can’t really enjoy it if you’re scared of being interrupted, found out, or afraid of getting pregnant.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said taking my hand. ‘The next time I promise you more satisfaction.’

We left Haridwar early the next morning. We could have gone in our own cars and at different times, but we decided to travel together. I in her car, the servants in mine. Occasionally she stretched her hand towards me and we entwined our fingers tightly. After we crossed the Yamuna, she kept carefully noting landmarks which led to Maharani Bagh and my house. Her car pulled up outside the gate. She did not want to come in. ‘I’m late for office. I must go home, change and get to work. Don’t ring me up at the High Commission or my flat as all calls are monitored. It you have a direct line in your office I’ll get in touch with you. I don’t want to ring up your home, your servants will recognize me.’

I gave her my direct number at work. She rang me up the next day. ‘Hi there! Know who this is?’

‘Sue—something, something unpronounceable! What can I do for you?’

‘What are you doing next Saturday? We have the day off.’

‘I have a lunch date with a lady from the Sri Lankan High Commission. We work half day on Saturdays and I’ll give the servants the afternoon off. I’ll be home in the afternoon by one-thirty.’

‘Okay, okay. Expect your Sri Lankan date at one-thirty sharp.’

Saturday morning I told my cook to make something cold and put it in the fridge as I might be later than usual. I also gave Jiwan Ram the weekend off. When I got back home at noon, the house was quiet as a tomb. I switched on the bedroom air-conditioner and checked the contents of the fridge. Fish, potato and cucumber salad. Also several cans of beer.

Sue was punctual. She did not come in her embassy car but in a taxi. From the balcony I saw the cab slow down outside Ranjit Villa and pull up in front of my neighbour’s. I saw Sue pay off the driver, open her parasol to cover her head against the midday sun and gingerly walk back into Ranjit Villa. Before she could ring the bell, I opened the door to let her in. ‘Hi there!’ she said as she folded her parasol and put it in the coat stand. ‘It’s hot as hell; I’m sweating all over. Thank God your house is cool.’

‘I’ve switched on the AC in the sitting room.’ I led her by the hand into the cool sitting room. Besides the AC, the ceiling fan was on at maximum speed. She collapsed in an arm chair, stretched her hands behind her and said, ‘Let me cool off.’

‘Glass of iced beer?’ I asked.

‘That would be nice.’

I opened two cans of chilled beer, poured their contents into crystal glass tumblers and handed her one. She turned the frosting glass in her hand and exclaimed, ‘Lalique, tres chic! Mr Kumar, you are a man of expensive tastes.’

‘Yes, ma’am. You see, it results from the company I keep.’

‘Flatterer!’ she screeched. ‘I bet you say the same kind of thing to all the women you entertain with we-know-what designs.’

‘Not solely my designs,’ I protested, ‘mutually-agreed-upon designs.’

‘True. The fly inviting herself into the spider’s web.’

We finished our beer. ‘Would you like a bite? The cook’s left some fish mayonnaise and cold salad in the fridge.’

‘Are we not getting our priorities mixed up? Lunch can wait.’

She stood up. I took her by the hand and led the way to my bedroom. ‘I’m sticky with sweat. I’d like to get out of these clothes first and take a shower.’

‘Not a bad idea. I’ll join you.’

We stripped and went into the bathroom. I turned on the shower, took a cake of scented soap and rubbed it over her body—face, neck, breasts, stomach, between her thighs, on her small buttocks, down to her ankles. Under the cascade of water she gently took my member in her hands and remarked, ‘You really are the biggest I’ve ever seen. I did not notice it in Haridwar. Let me soap it for you.’

She wasn’t tall enough to soap my neck, so she concentrated on my middle—rear and front. It was exquisite. We rubbed each other dry, tossed the towels on the floor, went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

‘Get me a few cubes of ice from the fridge, I’ll show you the Sri Lankan boob trick,’ she said.

I did not know what she was up to, but got her a tray of ice nevertheless. She put some cubes in a handkerchief and asked me to rub it against her breasts. As I did so, her breasts began to stiffen and her nipples turned into hard black berries.

‘I know you men like them hard,’ she said. ‘Now you can warm them with your mouth.’ I did so, kissing and sucking and biting till she slid up and pressed her lips hard onto mine. We were lying on our sides; she put one leg over mine and with one bony hand guided me into her. I could not enter her fully in that position. ‘Come over me,’ she ordered as she lay flat on her back and raised both her legs. I went into her again. ‘All of it,’ she cried hoarsely, again and again. ‘All of it. ‘Nothing to worry about this time.’

I rammed into her. She was small but had no problem taking all I had. Every time I plunged into her she thrust her pelvis up to receive me. I bit her little breasts savagely. She egged me on. ‘Bite them harder and give me all you have.’

I did. We came in a furious frenzy. ‘By God, that was the greatest fuck I’ve had in my life,’ she said lying back exhausted. ‘And you?’

‘It was great,’ I replied. I did not want to be disloyal to women who had given me as much pleasure, most of all her predecessor, Molly Gomes. ‘It was great,’ I repeated. Perhaps she understood that it was not the greatest.

We set up a regular schedule of meetings. Our code word was ‘Operation Colombo’. She came over almost every Saturday—a holiday for her, a half-day for me. I would give my servants a half-day off and tell them not to return before five as I might be having a late siesta. Mid-week she would get me on my direct line and ask, ‘Okay for Operation Colombo?’ and I would reply, ‘All set.’ By the time I got back home, the servants would have left. I would be on the lookout. A taxi would stop next door. A small lady would step out, open her parasol and walk into Ranjit Villa. Her greeting was invariably the same: ‘Hi there!’ The only variation we made in our weekly meetings was whether it would be chilled beer and a cold snack before bed or bed before chilled beer and a cold snack. We would shower together in the nude and dry each other. I would then pick her up in my arms—she was a feather weight—and lay her gently on the bed and stretch out beside her. We made love at a leisurely pace—almost an hour of foreplay till she said, ‘Come, I’m ready.’ I would enter her and steadily work her up till she clawed my neck and head with her nails. I would then let her have all I had stored up during the week. Almost invariably we climaxed at the same time. We would have another clean-up shower and get back into our clothes. She would stay with me while I smoked my cheroot. I would drop her near a florist at the entrance to Shanti Niketan where she lived in a flat rented by her High Commission. She would step out of the car, open her parasol and glide out of view. She never invited me to her apartment.

Occasionally we ran into each other at diplomatic receptions. She kept a straight face when we were introduced to each other: ‘This is Miss Sue Goonatilleke of the Sri Lankan High Commission. This is Mr Kumar, a businessman.’ She would greet me with a namaste and always add, ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Kumar.’ And if we shook hands only a gentle squeeze, invisible to all others, betrayed the fact that we knew each other better, much better.

It was amazing that our two-year-long intimacy did not become a topic for gossip. The credit for this goes entirely to Sue. Most in my circle of friends came to the conclusion that at long last I was going straight. It was a simple formula: if you fucked and were found out you were debauched, a goonda, unacceptable to society; if nobody got to know about it, you were a respectable citizen. In the two years I had sex with Sue, my image changed from that of a sex maniac who paid all kinds of women for their services to a man of impotent respectability.

It was also strange that though Sue and I enjoyed each others’ company neither of us used the word love in our endearments. Our bodies craved to be locked into each other, her yoni ached to receive my lingam—the cosmic union! Our bodies spoke to each other—endearing words of how loving and lovable the other was. Perhaps at the back of our minds was the knowledge that our relationship was not for ever and could soon come to an end.

The end came sooner than I expected. Sue’s third year in the Delhi posting was about to finish. She hoped her ministry in Colombo had forgotten about her posting in Delhi. It had not. She received orders of transfer to the Sri Lankan consulate in New York. She was given a month more in Delhi, following which she would need to return to Colombo for another month for briefing before proceeding to her new posting. She told me this as casually as saying, ‘I will not be able to make it next Saturday.’

‘What will we do?’ I asked in dismay.

‘We will make love as long as we can,’ she replied calmly. ‘It was good being with you. We knew it was not for ever. We must have no regrets.’

We made the best of the three Saturdays that remained to us. Our love-making was more intense, the last one deliberately prolonged as if it was for eternity. When she was about to leave I gave her a pearl necklace and a gold ring with a blue sapphire. She made me put the necklace round her neck and slip the ring on her third finger. Her eyes brimmed with tears. I kissed them away.

‘You will keep in touch, won’t you?’ I pleaded.

‘Of course I will. I’ll write to you when I can and may be ring you up from New York to tell you how I’m doing. You must write to me as often as you can.’

When I dropped her at the Shanti Niketan turning after our last meeting, her parting words were: ‘Operation Colombo, complete success.’

Bless her!

Sue rang me the day she arrived in Colombo, and again when she left for New York, and then from New York the day she moved into her own apartment. I did not ring her up. Perhaps her calls were monitored even there. We wrote to each other every week. We used words of love we had not used while making love. So it went on for some months. I felt closer to her than I did when she was living only a few kilometres from me and was available once a week. Then I began to miss her calls and her letters became shorter and less frequent. She always had a valid excuse: she had to go to Washington for a briefing or she had far too much work. Six months later she informed me that she was engaged to marry a fellow Sri Lankan diplomat posted in Washington and we should stop writing or calling each other on the phone. She assured me that she would for ever keep a secluded corner in her heart for me, and love me as she had from the day we first met.

It would not be honest to say I was devastated. But I was deeply saddened. Eventually, I reconciled myself to losing her: losing a woman is not the end of all there is. While there is life, there is hope. I was not yet fifty and had much to look forward to.

A strange feeling of lassitude bordering on lethargy overtook me. I did not want to do anything. I lost interest in my business. It went on nevertheless. I had no desire to go to Haridwar anymore. The two persons with whom it had come to be closely connected in my mind—my father and Sue—had gone out of my life. I wrote to the ashram secretary, saying that I would not need the room any more and it could be let out to anyone who wanted it. I posted the key of the room to him.

About this time I wanted to see my children more often. They were not receptive to my advances. Sonu had thoroughly brainwashed them. I was a bad man who had done the dirty on their mother. They were allowed to come over to see me whenever I asked but I could see that they did not enjoy their visits and wanted to get back as soon as I let them. I gave them expensive gifts; they accepted them without enthusiasm. I asked them how they were doing at school. The usual answers were ‘Okay’ or ‘So, So’. Ranjit had not inherited any of my mathematical gifts and often failed in his arithmetic, algebra and geometry exams. Mohini showed a little more affection for me but was scared of her brother sneaking to her mother. Once I asked Ranjit what he wanted to do when he grew up. He replied, ‘I don’t know. Something or the other.’ I told him I had a running business which he could take over. He replied, ‘If I go into business, I will start something of my own.’ When I told him that the house was registered in his name and would become his after me, he just looked around with disdain. ‘Daddy, what are you going to give me?’ asked Mohini. ‘The same as your brother, paisa for paisa. Shares in my company, cash and jewellery for your wedding. If you want a house, I’ll buy you one before you are twenty.’ She was satisfied. ‘Can we go home and tell our Mummy?’ I knew they wanted to get away. I let them go.

The idea of inviting another woman to be my mistress no longer appealed to me. I scanned the photographs and letters of the remaining six or seven who had responded to my invitation and tore them up.

I had become irregular in my surya namaskar and had begun to develop a paunch; my hair started turning grey. I often forgot to recite the Gayatri mantra. I became like a rudderless boat adrift in an endless ocean.

To fight the feeling of emptiness and the restlessness that came upon me in the evenings, I took to recording the events of my life. This is what you have read—not exactly as I put it down, because I’ve asked my writer friend, Khushwant, to tinker with these words a little; I am no writer. He can do what he likes with these pages; I have been comforted by the memories of the women I have loved in my own way. That much is enough.