True Lie

Forgive me, my dear readers, but the Babadin Syndrome would continue to surface in this autobiography or confession or, if you like, rambling narrative. That I am seeking forgiveness from you is proof enough how deep and far-reaching the social, psychological and physical ramifications of this syndrome are. Today, as I try to find a way out of this confessional maze, there are many research papers on male rape accessible on the internet. But in 1962, a twelve-year-old boy who had spent his formative years in a small town like Phaphamau along the Ganga and lived in the shadow of the Nawabi Lucknow, did not dare whisper about the subject; even today, it is believed that ‘when a male gets raped, it’s as if his entire clan has undergone the ignominy of the assault.’

Today, there are weighty expressions like RRPTSD, or Rape-Related Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shame, humiliation, the dissolution of pride and self-respect, anger, anxiety attacks, being haunted by flashbacks, depression, mood swings, changes in sexual behaviour – the list is long, showing the manner in which the social, physical and psychological world of the afflicted person is affected.

I had made my first, and a completely honest, confession in front of a highly cultured Sonakshi. At that time, she too nurtured a sincere sympathy for me. ‘I can empathize with the deep psychological scars and pain of the humiliation that you suffered,’ she had said.

But in the wake of the Van Gogh Museum quarrel, the same Sonakshi said to me, ‘No matter how hard you try to project yourself as an intellectual, the flashback of your old devil Babadin will continue to haunt you. Actually, your thinking is as backward as Babadin’s. You’re uncouth and an asshole.’

I would have been less upset if Sonakshi had given me a hard slap in the museum in full view of the visitors. But I had this abject feeling she had cut off one of my ears and I was wandering around in the museum with a bandaged wound. Of course, Van Gogh had cut off his ear himself.

After that, it was impossible for me to fall into Sonakshi’s arms. That’s the reason we returned home separately from Amsterdam. She is the one who had restored my sense of self-respect but she was also the one who had humiliated me in this fashion, calling me uncouth and an asshole. I resolved that day never again to tell a woman about Babadin and to suffer the consequences of the flashback all by myself.

In our times, the male political detainees in Egypt, Iran, Sudan, South Africa, Congo, Chile, Greece, Iraq, El Salvador, etc., have been victims of rape in large numbers. Just one statistic is enough – in El Salvador, 76 per cent political detainees have suffered the ignominy of rape. I shudder at the very thought of it.

I accept that the agony and the social, physical and mental torture for a woman victim of rape are far more terrible. But that doesn’t mean the agony of a male victim is phony or a non-issue.

Time and again, I’ve wondered who finally rescued me. My favourite Russian author Dostyevsky states that ‘Beauty is what will save this world’. But what kind of beauty? Aishwarya Rai’s beauty? Or the beauty of the arts or of the books? I, at least, was saved by books. It seems strange to realize that the Lucknow British Council saved me from the sinister horrors of lifelong humiliation, shame and flashback. Some years ago, when that library finally shut down, I remained restive and distressed for many days. I nearly cried as if at the loss of someone very close to me.

When I lived at Nepean Sea Road in Bombay in the company of Harish, who was madly passionate about books or perhaps had a kind of mythical attraction for them, I could never follow the real import of his profligacy. On the rare Sunday afternoons when our landlord Toshniwal was away at some satsang (he lived alone and had his family in Rajasthan), Harish and I would pilfer some flour, oil, salt, etc., from his kitchen and make parathas. On one occasion, Toshniwal’s daughter Radha came down to Bombay to spend some time in the city and so her father took leave from his office while she was there. The flat had two young and brawny tenants; there was no way Radha could be left alone with them floating around.

One afternoon, Toshniwal sat performing the puja after his ablutions while Radha prepared aloo parathas in the kitchen. The aroma was quite unsettling for both Harish and I. Before Toshniwal could emerge after the puja, we scurried into the kitchen humming a chorus, picked up two parathas right in front of Radha’s eyes, cadged a little pickle and hurried back to our room. We could hear Radha’s full-throated laughter on seeing this wilful act of petty larceny. And while Toshniwal sat in his room blissfully enjoying the parathas prepared by his daughter, we were enjoying them too. That’s when Radha suddenly appeared before us with two more, unbeknown to her father.

Radha stayed in Bombay for only seven days. On each of those days, Harish would nag me saying, ‘Listen, why don’t you seduce her. Her dad would readily agree. You’d enjoy life listening to Mozart’s 40th Symphony on your music system, Joyce’s Ulysses in hand, while Radha made aloo parathas in the kitchen!’

I laughed loudly. The attack of mirth just wouldn’t stop. This dream of an ideal life kept me in good humour for many days. A couple of times when I saw Radha emerge from the bathroom after washing her hair, I could even see the divine beauty in her and began to wonder while I sat savouring Pandit Bhimsen Joshi’s Shuddh Kalyan, what she would be preparing for me in the kitchen. Then one night, I saw something else in my dream. Radha barges into the room in a fit of rage and without so much as a by-your-leave, switches off the radio channel where Mozart’s Night Music is playing and pumps up the volume of the other channel where Hazara Singh is playing guitar. ‘This hardcore music is what’s turned you soft in the head.’

Just as Radha fumed as she made this declaration, I woke up with a start and thanked God it was only a dream. Toshniwal was busy with his morning exercise in the drawing room. Radha had returned to Rajasthan. I recalled him telling us in his inimitable way, ‘When Radha arrives, both of you would be able to use the bathroom for only a limited time. She spends at least two hours bathing.’

Once I had fully immersed myself in the world of writing, venerable Father finally accepted that God alone could save this boy. Who’d hire him? He was even further perplexed since I hadn’t chosen Hindi literature as my subject for higher studies. ‘I notice that you want to write in Hindi, want to become a Hindi writer, but are averse to doing an MA in Hindi literature!’ he said in wonderment.

‘I have no wish to become a Hindi writer.’

‘But you do write in Hindi. I find it odd that you write in Hindi but don’t want to become a Hindi writer. What the hell do you want to become?’

‘A sumo wrestler. But for that, I’d have to go to Japan and put on weight. So, I’ve decided to write in Hindi. I hate the typical image of a Hindi writer. The “frog in the well” image…’

Father stared at me in silence for a long time. Perhaps, he couldn’t fathom the idea of me wanting to become a sumo wrestler. What a crazy boy have I sired, he must have thought. Who’d give him a job and who’d marry him? My job was Father’s worry while the responsibility of my marriage was my mother’s.

Father would often get sick of my absurd ideas. Noticing my complete lack of interest in performing any kind of puja or any other rites and rituals, he asked me one day, ‘Are you an atheist?’

‘Not at all. Who said I was?’

‘But all your actions show that you have no faith in God.’

‘You wouldn’t follow. I’m an inconsistent atheist.’

Father again stared at me for a long time. ‘What the hell is that?’

Actually, in a magazine at the British Council, I had read the response of a Polish Marxist to a query whether he considered himself an atheist.

I quite liked his reply: ‘I’m an inconsistent atheist.’

Many years later, while I was in Germany on a visit as a journalist, a waiter at a restaurant very politely asked me: ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

‘I’m an inconsistent vegetarian,’ I’d answered.

The waiter continued to look at me for some time in Father’s style until I hurriedly ordered a goulash so he’d stop staring at me. But my official escort, an ex-airhostess, began to clap. ‘I like it ... I like it. Inconsistent vegetarian!’

Once I got the job in Bombay, for the first time, Father betrayed a hint of respect for me. He walked into my room, a rather tiny one on the rooftop of the Phaphamau house. That’s where I lived. When I stayed in Lucknow, that room remained locked up. Mother would look after it. Father must have seen the inside of that room after many years.

‘Anyway, good that you’ve got a job.’ Father sat down in the chair at my writing table. Slowly, he took in the strange posters on the four walls. One huge poster showed a sumo wrestler, another had Marilyn Monroe on it and a third was the poster of Guru Dutt’s film Pyaasa. There was a portrait of the great poet Nirala as well where his face appeared to be an unusual jumble of a saint, a madman and a poet.

On any other day, Father would have given me a long lecture on my tastes and my posters. But he had read my appointment letter carefully. ‘My worries are now over. This is where your mother’s worries begin. She’s been looking around for a girl for you since God knows when.’

I kept silent. As he was stepping out, he couldn’t help rebuking me mildly, ‘Take off this ugly sumo wrestler!’

‘And not the beautiful Marilyn Monroe?’ I asked mischievously.

If Mother could have her way, she would have arranged my marriage right away. I was soon introduced to a girl from Godhra visiting a relative in the colony. There she was, all dressed up, in a beautiful sari.

‘What do you like?’ I finally managed to come up with a question considering all were being posed only by her aunt.

‘Sir, I like interior decoration,’ she replied hesitantly.

‘You see, I have got a job in Bombay, where there wouldn’t be any interior. So, what would you decorate?’

Later, Mother was angry that I talked such nonsense. One day, she said, ‘If you are having an affair, tell me now. I am not a backward person. Even a love marriage will do. I’d convince your father.’

In Phaphamau, I had a friend called Pradip. His elder sister was quite old. She had two daughters. Which means one of them, Reena, happened to be his niece. She was quite pretty but since she was a friend’s niece, I never paid her much attention fearing she might start calling me Uncle. Pradip’s sister had leukoderma patches on her neck and Pradip had them on his face too. But Reena’s face was clear.

In my long and dissolute life, I have received only one love letter – from Reena. I had stayed away from her in the belief she was my friend’s niece but as I sat down in the train to Bombay, bidding goodbye to Father, I noticed Reena approach, panting, looking for my seat number. She was holding a diary.

‘I’ve brought a diary for you. Now you must write a lot of poems in it.’ She handed me the diary with oodles of love pouring out from her eyes. I couldn’t say no to her.

Once the train started, I discovered a rather churlish love letter in the diary. There was nothing of substance in it beyond a few rather ordinary and pedestrian Urdu couplets. It concluded with the line: ‘Only yours, Reena.’ As the train picked up speed, I continued to imagine her face.

In Bombay, I’d get letters from Mother twice a week (with a new proposal every time) and ultimately, tired of her nagging, I wrote back to say she should go and see Reena at Pradip’s house. ‘I’d marry her in my own time but the engagement can be done this year itself.’

Mother seemed to be waiting for this moment and ignoring the intense heat, she immediately jumped into a rickshaw for Reena’s house and approved her as well.

In those days, it wasn’t all that easy to ring someone from Phaphamau to Bombay. Quite often, one had to practically scream into the phone to make themselves audible.

No sooner had Mother approved of Reena, she called me up on Toshniwal’s number. ‘Do you miss me in Bombay?’ This was the first romantic question Reena could formulate.

I remained silent.

‘When I watched a Vinod Khanna movie that day, I remembered you. You look just like him.’

Toshniwal was ensconced right opposite me and was in no mood to budge. What could I say? Then the doorbell rang and Toshniwal had to get up.

‘Okay, Reena, tell me one thing.’ I was quick to take advantage of the situation.

‘Ask me whatever you want. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for a question from you.’

I wanted to get the question out of my system before Toshniwal could return. ‘Okay, Reena, tell me honestly, have you ever masturbated?’

Toshniwal was back. Reena had obviously cut the phone. She wrote me a long letter. The postscript read: ‘Damn it! Can’t you ask a nice and sensible question?’

I was in the middle of Yugchintan’s cricket specials when I got this letter from Mother: ‘Sudhir, I have tried my best but it’s not working out. Reena is a good girl and I quite like her. But she is a Mangalik and knowing this, I cannot approve of this marriage.’

Later on, one evening, I got this phone call from her, ‘Reena’s mother had come home. She suggested they’d first marry Reena off to a tree and the tree will then be burnt down. The bad omen will thus be exorcised.’

I was irritated. ‘What are you saying, Amma? I can’t marry a girl who’s been married to a tree. In any case, the talk of being a Mangalik is all rubbish.’

‘You are a certified atheist. What do you know about these matters?’

That night’s dream was quite scary. I couldn’t care whether one was a Mangalik or not. But here was Reena in the dream with leukoderma patches all over her face and neck. I emerged from it totally shattered and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Following this, Mother fell ill and remained so for a long time. Sheila, the housemaid, once told me a strange story. The last time Reena’s mother left after meeting Mother, she had discovered a lock of hair under her pillow as she changed the sheets. Since then, Mother had been living under this fear and suspicion that someone had cast a spell on her. When Reena’s mother had arrived with her historic proposal of tree marriage, Mother was lying in that bed with low fever.

I tried to explain, browbeat and even pacify Mother on a number of occasions but couldn’t make her shed her fears and suspicion. That’s the world she inhabited.

Reena’s story doesn’t end here. One day in 1995, as I was waiting at a bus stop in the Mehrauli area of Delhi, a small car stopped by and a familiar figure climed out. It was Pradip. He saw me and immediately rushed forward to hug me. He had some business in Dehra Dun. ‘Tell me, where should I drop you?’ he asked.

He took me up to the Badarpur border. On the way, he spotted some fresh red watermelons and, keen on enjoying a slice, asked the driver to stop. At this moment, I took courage and asked him, ‘Where is Reena nowadays? She must be having kids now … How’s she doing?’

Pradip guffawed. ‘What should I tell you … She’s a strange person. She never married. After completing her studies, she started to teach in Sitapur. She’s now the principal of a girls’ school there.’

I took her phone number from Pradip. And one day phoned her somewhat cagily. She was quite familiar with my writings and works. For a long time I spoke to her in a meandering fashion, in the manner of making jalebis. She really had become a principal – tough and rule-bound headmistress. What kind of thoughts inspired a spinster principal in a place like Sitapur?

‘If you don’t mind, shall I ask you a question?’

‘Please stop this nonsense. You haven’t changed, Sudhir. I know what you’re going to ask me. Such third-rate questions can’t be answered. Now you are nothing more than a good writer–journalist for me who I knew at one stage in my life. I have also seen you on the TV many times. You wouldn’t recognize me if you suddenly ran into me but I would know you. You and your dirty mind!’

This was my last interaction with Reena. Pradip had also told me she suffered from asthma. And that she never developed leukoderma patches. ‘As you can see, even my patches have disappeared thanks to the homoeopathic treatment. But the medicine didn’t work for my sister.’

After Reena’s ‘tree marriage episode’, despite her sickness, there was no let-up in Mother’s strong desire to bring home a daughter-in-law. I married on 25 June 1975 – the day Emergency was imposed. Obviously, it had no link with Mrs Gandhi’s move but merely an odd coincidence.

A staff member in our office library, Sunil Bhatnagar, was both famous and notorious for arranging life partners for the bachelors in the company. On numerous occasions, he had cornered me to say he had a very good girl for me among his contacts and wanted to introduce her to me in some restaurant.

‘Bhatnagar Saheb, I have a very high regard for you. My mother has been sick for a long time. She is desperate for a daughter-in-law. But I don’t want to meet any girl in a restaurant.’

‘You tell me then. Where would you like to meet her? Let’s meet at a cinema theatre. Amitabh’s Zanjeer is a hit nowadays. If you say, I can arrange for tickets.’

‘Bhatnagar Saheb, do you really believe her family will allow us to meet in the dark? Let’s do it this way. You come with the girl to the ticket window of the Churchgate railway station. We could meet this Saturday at 3.45 if you like.’

‘I’m sure you’ve consulted an astrologer about the time. No problem, we shall meet at the appointed hour on Saturday.’

This is how I first met my Emergency wife Sudha, among the crush of passengers at Churchgate. There was complete hubbub at the station. Bhatnagar insisted we sit in a restaurant but I told him there was no need. ‘I have to ask just one question from Sudha.’ And I put it to her: ‘Would you be able to live at home without a TV?’

‘We don’t have a TV at home anyway,’ she said with a smile. ‘I have to go to the neighbour’s whenever I want to watch Chitrahaar.’

There and then, in the middle of the din, I told Bhatnagar, ‘I like Sudha. And don’t you worry, my parents will readily agree. They wouldn’t even see the girl. They’d say yes as soon as they get my letter.’

But Sudha’s father rejected the proposal. ‘This boy seems to be a crackpot,’ he said. ‘What did he mean by asking Sudha about the TV?’ He had another nice boy in mind, perhaps a front-desk manager in a hotel. But for some reason Sudha remained adamant that she’d only marry a writer.

Sudha and I were engaged at a simple ceremony on 7 October 1973. The marriage was on 25 June 1975 since I wanted to settle down and have a steady job first. If you ask me, I also wanted a few more days of freedom as a bachelor.

After exchanging rings at the ceremony, I took Sudha into a corner and said, ‘May I ask you a question? Will you answer it truthfully?’

‘Oh yes, go ahead. Why should there be any formality now?’

‘Tell me honestly, have you ever masturbated?’

‘Haven’t you?’ asked Sudha, and began to giggle. ‘You silly boy, I have done it many times.’

Mother looked in my direction, oozing with affection. She’d got a good daughter-in-law who was already busy exchanging banter with her son.