The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous Read Free

considerable inheritance waiting to be claimed. But it didn’t take her long to discover that her relatives were not willing to part with anything, and she was on weak ground, having earlier opted for India. She earned a little by flogging films she had brought with her and appearing on television. Her children too were unhappy; after the free and easy atmosphere of Bombay, the girl, who was rapidly growing into a beautiful young lady, found the puritanical atmosphere of Pakistan particularly stifling. They wanted rather badly to return to Bombay.
    Begum Para had written me several letters, asking for help in returning to India; I wrote back that I would be visiting Karachi soon and we could talk the matter over.
    When I arrived in Karachi early in the evening, Begum Para and her children were at the airport to receive me. So was the chief of protocol, as I was a guest of the government. We were conducted to the VIP lounge, where the children had their fill of cakes and biscuits. Once they were sent home, Begum Para accepted my invitation to dine with me at the hotel where I was to stay the night. The chief of protocol dropped us at my hotel, and Begum Para accompanied me to my room.
    I ordered soda and ice and took out the bottle of Scotch I had brought with me. There was, at that time, no prohibition in Pakistan. I had heard stories about Begum Para’s drink problem; she had apparently been forced to cut down on it because of the price: a bottle of Scotch cost twice as much in Pakistan as it did in India.
    ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked her, unsure whether she was still a drinking woman.
    ‘I’ll take a little,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t seen genuine Scotch for ages.’
    I poured out two stiff whiskies and handed her one. I was not even halfway through my glass when I saw that hers was empty. I poured her another one, which she tossed back instantly; I had to refill her glass once more before I resumed my own drinking.
    By the time I had finished my quota of three large whiskies, Begum Para had had nine and the bottle was almost empty. I told her then that we must eat soon as I had to catch the early-morning flight to Islamabad. Reluctantly, she got up to go with me to the dining room.
    The dining room was on the first floor and we had to climb up a spiral marble staircase to get to it. The place was crowded, but, as was usual in Pakistan, there were very few women there. People recognized Begum Para because of her appearances on television. It was quite evident that they were intrigued to see her in the company of a Sikh. She had another two whiskies before the soup was served. She had begun to slur over her words and her eyes had taken on a glazed look. She wanted to have yet another drink with her meal, but I put my foot down.
    At long last, the meal came to an end and I got up to assist Begum Para with her chair. She stood up, swayed a little and collapsed on the carpet. The waiters came running to help her get back to her feet. I took her arm to help her walk to the stairs. All eyes in the dining room had turned to us, and I was doubly careful going down the spiral staircase. I gripped her fat arm. ‘One step at a time,’ I instructed her. We finally made it to the foyer. I ordered a taxi for her and waited patiently for the ordeal to be over.
    A taxi drew up in the portico. I gave the driver a hundred-rupee note and told him to take the lady home. He recognized Begum Para and knew where she lived. I opened the rear door of the taxi and went back to help her. As she stepped forward, she missed her step and, once again, collapsed on the ground, this time with a loud fart. She had sprained her ankle and began to howl in pain: ‘Hai rabba, main mar gayee!’—Oh God, I’m dead!
    A crowd had gathered, but no one came forward to help. Being an Islamic country, no unrelated male could touch a woman. I did my best to haul Begum Para up to her feet by myself. She was far too heavy for me. I pleaded with the