Table Of Content

Khushwant Singh THE COMPANY OF WOMEN Contents About the Author The Secret Life of Mohan Kumar One: A New Beginning Two: Dhanno Three: Letter From Rewari Four: Sarojini Five: After Sarojini The Memoirs of Mohan Kumar Six: I, Mohan Kumar Seven: Jessica Browne Eight: Yasmeen Nine: Homecoming Ten: Getting Married Eleven: Honeymoon in the Shivaliks Twelve: Mary Joseph Thirteen: How the Marriage Died Fourteen: Molly Gomes Fifteen: Susanthika The Last Days of Mohan Kumar Sixteen: A Bai in Bombay Seventeen: A Fatal Illness Eighteen: The Death of Mohan Kumar Author’s Note Acknowledgements Follow Penguin Copyright PENGUIN BOOKS THE COMPANY OF WOMEN Khushwant Singh was India’s best-known writer and columnist. He was founder-editor of Yojana and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, the National Herald and Hindustan Times. He authored classics such as Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale (retitled as The Lost Victory) and Delhi. His last novel, The Sunset Club, written when he was ninety-five, was published by Penguin Books in 2010. His non-fiction includes the classic two- volume A History of the Sikhs, a number of translations and works on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice, was published by Penguin Books in 2002. Khushwant Singh was a member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple in Amritsar by the Indian Army. In 2007, he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan. Among the other awards he received were the Punjab Ratan, the Sulabh International award for the most honest Indian of the year, and honorary doctorates from several universities. Khushwant Singh passed away in 2014 at the age of ninety-nine. I THE SECRET LIFE OF MOHAN KUMAR For Mohan Kumar, it should have been a day of rejoicing. It was not. He had looked forward to it for twelve years. His wife had at long last decided to leave him: despite the months of bitter acrimony that had preceded it, she agreed to give him a divorce provided she had custody of their two children. He was so anxious to get his freedom, that besides the children he agreed to give her whatever else she wanted in the way of alimony: jewellery that he and his father had given her, furniture, pictures—anything she named. She wanted nothing. She seemed as eager to get rid of him as he was to get rid of her. That afternoon she had packed her things and driven away with the children to her parents’ home. She had not bothered to say goodbye. The children sensed that this was not just another visit to their grandparents. They embraced and kissed him before running out to get into their mother’s black Mercedes. The car had shot out of the gate with unnecessary speed; she had made sure the children would have no time to turn around and wave goodbye. Mohan should have been celebrating his newly won freedom from his nagging, ill-tempered wife. But as he sat in the balcony of his double-storied bungalow, his feet resting on the railing, smoking a Havana cigar, he felt empty inside and shrouded in loneliness. There was an all-pervading silence. No screaming of children fighting with each other; his six-year-old daughter rushing to him complaining of her elder brother’s bullying and he gruffly ordering them to behave and not disturb him. Their squabbles had often irritated him. Now he missed them. The house suddenly had far too many rooms, and the night too many hours. He was weary. He thought of his relations with his wife. It was what people described as a love-cum-arranged marriage. But of course it was nothing of the sort. The day after he had returned from the States thirteen years ago with degrees in computers and business management, his proud father, a retired middle-level government servant with middle-class dreams for his only son, had gone round newspaper offices with his photographs and biodata. The next morning some national dailies carried Mohan’s picture in their matrimonial pages, with captions extolling his academic achievements. Enquiries from parents of unmarried girls followed. He and his father were invited to tea, introduced to nubile girls, tempted with large dowries and offers of partnerships in business. Even after all these years Mohan was amazed at how easily he had allowed himself to be offered for sale, finally agreeing to marry Sonu. Her father, Rai Bahadur Lala Achint Ram, had made the highest bid. He owned a couple of sugar mills and considerable real estate in Delhi. Mohan succumbed to the offer more to please his father than out of any wish to settle down with a wife. Sonu was passably fair, high-spirited and convent-educated. Also a virgin eager to opt out of virginity. They had a lavish wedding and moved into a large furnished flat provided by her father. Mohan’s father moved in with them. The honeymoon went well, as it usually does with newly married couples who desire little besides the freedom to discover and devour each other’s bodies. Their first child, a son, was conceived during those early days of amatory exploration. Differences in temperament began to surface soon afterwards. Sonu was quick-tempered, possessive and wanted attention all the time. She was jealous, though she herself had no love to give him. And she began to resent his father’s presence in their home—her home, for it was, after all, a gift from her father. ‘Will your old man live with us all his life?’ she once asked in disgust. He did not like her calling his father ‘old man’ and told her so. ‘I married you, not both of you,’ she shot back. He realized soon enough that their living arrangements had to change. The garment export business he had started soon after returning from the States was bringing him good money, and he also had enough dollars saved up. Within two months of that unpleasant exchange with Sonu he was able to buy himself a bungalow with a garden in Maharani Bagh, an upper class neighbourhood of Delhi. There was enough space in the new house, and Mohan thought Sonu and his father would be able to keep out of each other’s way. But he was wrong. His father, sad and diminished, finally moved to Haridwar. This was not how Mohan had wanted it, but at least there might now be peace. He was relieved to be out of the premises provided by his father-in-law. In less than two years, Mohan had added semi-precious stones and leather