Delhi Read Free Page A

Circus there is a political meeting. The speaker yells into the mike: ‘All together cry–
Jai Hind.’
The crowd obeys:
‘Jai Hind.’
The man at the mike is not happy. ‘That’s not good enough. We cannot fight those Chinese pigs with such feeble voices, can we? Let your voices be heard as far as Peking. All together
Jai Hind.
’
    ‘JAI HIND.’
    Pekinese pigs piss in your pants. With enemies like Indians you’ve nothing to lose except your piddle.
    I park my car beside the stalls of the Tibetan ‘antique’ dealers on Janpath (once Queensway). The same brand of American tourists bargain for the same kind of brass and stone bric-à-brac. The same set of Sikh fortune-tellers mumble the same kind of romances and travel to foreigners. One fellow spots my Marks-and-Sparks T-shirt. ‘You come from
phoren
, you go
phoren
again,’ he assures me. ‘One minute you give me and I tell you love-affairs. Rich, white lady passioning for you. I tell you name. I tell you how to make her and her much fortune your own.’ I speak to him in Punjabi. ‘Tell these things to the
Amreekans
, I have no money.’ He knows his victim. ‘Money?’ he sneers indignantly, ‘Money is dirt on back of hand. You great future. Much riches. Much love-affairs with
phoren
ladies. One evil star stopping you. Close palm.’ Without thinking I clench my fist. ‘Now open.’ I unclench my hand. There is a black spot in the middle of my palm. ‘See!’ he says triumphantly, ‘Black star! You give rupee one only. From
Amreekans
I take rupees ten. I tell you how conquer black star.’ I give him a rupee and am instructed in the art of seducing foreign women. ‘Sardarji, your lady love name begin with J.H.T. Yes?’ I know no woman with the initials J.H.T. He goes on: ‘When you get white lady with J.H.T. in name you remember Natha Singh, world-famous palmist-astrologer.’
    I arrive at the All India Cooperative Coffee House. More red flags. One banner says
Give us our demands.
A man hands me a leaflet listing the demands. I roll it up and return it to him with an obscene gesture. He returns the compliment. Nasty man!
    I cast my eyes over the noisy throng. Can’t see anyone I’d care to be with. I buy a copy of
Delhi Underworld
from the news-stand, grab a table just as it is vacated and tilt three chairs against it. I plunge into my weekly ration of Delhi scandals. A Minister of Cabinet (name to be disclosed next week) has impregnated his daughter-in-law. There’s nepotism for you! Free service to the son! ‘Confessions of a Connaught Circus Girl.’ Poor thing complains of misuse by the Indian staff of an African embassy. She says Africans are better endowed than Indians. They also pay more money. A college lad writes a letter complaining that his step-mother raped him while his father was out on tour. Editor appends angry footnote in italics:
‘How can you put your instrument in
the same place as your father’s which gave you birth?.....Your step
mother is disgrace to Indian womanhood.’
He promises to give advice on how to deal with such women in the next issue. I drool over drawings of ‘sex cats’ with bosoms like the protrusions on the fenders of American cars. The next issue also promises a full disclosure of goings-on in Tihar Jail (women’s section). Bhagmati has told me quite a lot about that. She’s been to Tihar many times.
    I see two of our gang come in. One is a photographer, the other a journalist. Both claim to be Delhi’s champion womanizers. They see me and advance with their arms wide open. ‘Hullo, hullo. How’s the little one?’ asks the photographer, tapping my middle. ‘Did it do its duty to the memsahibs?’ I tap his fly: ‘And how’s Delhi’s champion stud bull?’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Fifteen days no action. I stick to my motto: when you find a woman fornicate, when you do not be celibate. No self-abuse, no boys, no
hijdas
.’ That’s hitting me below the belt.
    ‘And you great pen-pusher,