Delhi by Khushwant Singh Read Free Book Online Page A

enjoy myself. I told you Bhagmati knows exactly what anyone wants at any time.
    How did Bhagmati come into my life? That’s in the past tense—three years ago.
    *
    At the time I was engaged in writing the biography of an industrialist. I was provided with a staff of research assistants to sift through his correspondence. We were allotted a few rooms in one of the newer suburbs called Patel Nagar across the Ridge which had at one time marked the western extremity of the two cities of Delhi, the Old and the New.
    It took me some time to discover that the shortest way to my office was along a road which ran atop the Ridge. It was also the most picturesque; from many places you could get a view of the two cities. On either side of the road were bushes of sesbania, vasicka and camel thorn; huge boulders of red sandstone were strewn about everywhere. There were flowering trees, flame, coral and the flamboyant
gul mohar.
Ridge Road as it was known had earned a bad name.
    A car or two had been held up, there had been a case of assault or robbery. The newspapers did the rest. Pedestrians and cyclists avoided it now and cars sped by without stopping. It was usually deserted. It was on this road that I first met Bhagmati.
    It is curious how the first encounter remains so indelibly printed on the mind while the affair that follows is soon blurred.
    I can recall every detail of our first meeting.
    It was some time in April. It was very hot. I had put in a couple of hours of work in my air-cooled office which I had heavily curtained against the glare of daylight. (I read and wrote under the orb-light of an anglepoise lamp). Suddenly the electric current was cut off: those days as now this was a frequent occurrence in Delhi. For a while I waited in the stifling dark, then decided to call it a day. It was noon with a dust-laden grey sky and a scorching hot wind blowing more dust. I drove onto the Ridge Road. Through clusters of waving sesbania I could see a dense pack of houses on either side. But no signs of life, not even a kite wheeling in the sky. A hundred yards or so ahead of me I saw two cyclists struggling against the wind. And beyond them what appeared to be a body stretched halfway across the shimmering tarmac. I saw the cyclists stare at the body, hesitate a little, and then push on. I pulled up on the side. The cyclists turned back.
    It was a woman lying with her arms and legs stretched out as if crucified. Her eyes were half-open; a little froth and blood trickled down her mouth. There was a damp patch beside her sari. I looked at her bosom to see if she was breathing: the flapping of the sari made it difficult to be sure. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked the cyclists who had joined me.
    They peered into the woman’s face.
‘Mirgee
! (epileptic fit)’ exclaimed one of them. He found a twig and thrust it between the woman’s teeth. ‘That will stop her from biting her tongue.’ He took off one of his shoes and placed it on the woman’s face. ‘This is the best thing for
mirgee....
the smell of old leather.’
    I noticed the woman’s bosom heave. It was a very small, almost non-existent bosom, encased in a cheap, printed, artificial silk blouse. What else did I notice? Feet, very black. Toe-nails painted bright crimson. Inside of the palms, stained with henna. Very short and somewhat plump. About twenty and altogether too dark to be considered attractive by Indian standards. The little I could see of her face was pitted with pock-marks.
    ‘What is she doing on the Ridge by herself?’ I asked.
    ‘Only the Guru knows!’ exclaimed one of the cyclists.
    ‘These are bad times,’ said the other. He removed his shoe from the woman’s face and slipped it on his foot. ‘She’ll be all right in a few minutes.’ Then without giving me a chance to say anything the two rode off.
    The woman began to moan and shake her head. She raised her hand and drew a circle with her finger.
    ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.
    She nodded