Delhi by Khushwant Singh Read Free Book Online Page B

her head. I wiped the bloody froth on her mouth with her own sari and helped her to her feet. She smelt of sweat and urine.
    ‘Chukkur,’
she explained, again drawing a circle with her finger. ‘Be kind and take me to a bus-stand.’ It was a hoarse, masculine voice.
    I hesitated. Was it a trap? I had heard of people being black mailed in this way. But I had little choice. And my conscience was clear. I helped her into the rear seat of my car. She slumped down and closed her eyes. I passed the cyclists. In the rear-view mirror I saw them dismount and one of them write something in his pocket-book. It was obvious he was taking down the number of my car. What had I landed myself into?
    ‘Where would you like to be dropped?’
    No answer. I looked back. She was fast asleep—or perhaps having another fit. What was I to do? Take her to a hospital? They’d ask questions and send for the police. Take her to a police station? Oh no! Not the Delhi police! Not in a thousand years!
    I drove past Lohia Hospital towards the Parliament and headed down Parliament Street towards Connaught Circus. Then it struck me that I was being very foolish! At any traffic light someone might have noticed the woman lying in a state of collapse and started a riot. I turned back towards the Parliament and took the broad road to Palam airport. At a deserted spot I pulled up to see how she was. I felt her forehead. No fever. I shook her gently by the shoulder. She opened her eyes and mumbled, ‘Let me be! I am very tired.’ And went back to sleep.
    I drove about for an hour before I turned back to my apartment. I parked the car where I usually did alongside my window. The Guru was merciful. None of my neighbours or their servants were about. I opened the rear door and boldly dragged the woman out by her shoulders. ‘Come along!’
    She allowed herself to be helped out. ‘You can sleep here till you feel better,’ I said as soon as we were safely indoors.
    ‘Your slave has had enough sleep,’ she replied. ‘If
huzoor
can show me where to wash, your maidservant will be most grateful.’
    I was startled by her florid Hindustani. I showed her the bathroom and explained how the hot and cold water taps operated. I gave her a clean towel, my Princeton T-shirt and a pair of trousers. ‘I have no woman’s clothes, but you can wear these till your sari is dry.’
    She spent a long time in the bathroom bathing and washing her soiled clothes. She waddled into the sitting-room with the Princeton T-shirt hanging loose on her shoulders and holding up the trousers with her hands. My clothes were many sizes too big for her.
    I smiled. A blush spread on her pock-marked dark face. ‘Too big for me,’ she said looking down at the trousers. I poured her a Coke and asked her to help herself to the plateful of mangoes on the dining-table.
    ‘I am very hungry,’ she said taking a mango. ‘I have not had anything to eat since yesterday.’
    ‘What were you doing on the Ridge at noon?’
    ‘I was on my way home from Tihar.’
    ‘Tihar?’
    ‘You know! The jail! They let me out last evening. I did not have a paisa with me. I spent the night outside a labourer’s hovel. They would not let me in. Then I started to walk home. Tihar is a long way away from the city.’
    ‘What took you to Tihar?’ I asked her.
    She fixed her eyes on me and waggled her head saucily in the manner of a dancer. ‘Vagrancy, what else? I am a prostitute.’
    ‘What is your name?’
    ‘What will you do with my name? Your slave is known as Bhagmati.’ I had a vague suspicion that there was something besides her flat chest and masculine voice which made her different from other women. ‘Where is your home?’ I asked her.
    ‘Wherever the dusk overtakes me, I spread my carpet and call it my home. My roof is studded with the stars of heaven.’ She had retained all her tartish tartness. ‘Your slave’s abode of poverty is in Lal Kuan.’ My suspicion got stronger. In Lal Kuan was