The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous by Khushwant Singh Read Free Book Online Page B

particularly horny mood. When he got to the lady’s flat, he was informed by her young Goan maidservant, ‘Memsahib baahar gaya.’ Madam has gone out.
    ‘Kab ayega?’ When will she return?
    The maid replied: ‘Kya maloom? Bahut late hoga.’ Who knows? She will be very late.
    So Johar simply pushed the girl on the bed and mounted her. The girl protested: ‘Memsahib ayega toh hum bolega.’ When Madam returns, I will tell her. At the same time, she opened her legs to her mistress’s paramour.
    Even more bizarre was his story of how he bedded two sisters and their mother. One sister had been his mistress for some years before she left him to get married. She introduced her younger sister to Johar and asked him to help her get into films. He not only got her a few minor roles but also asked her to stay in his flat. One evening, she came back from the studios looking very tired. Johar asked her if she would like a hot cup of tea or something stronger to cheer her up. She replied, ‘If you really want to know what I would like best, I’d like a nice fuck.’ The girl left Johar to become a star. Her mother wrote to Johar to thank him for what he had done for her daughters and asked him if she could stay with him for a couple of days when visiting Bombay. One night, she came to his bed, stark naked. ‘I did not want to hurt the old lady’s feelings,’ wrote Johar, and ‘obliged her the same way I had obliged her daughters.’
    How could I have published these memoirs without inviting the wrath of the proprietors of the journal on my head?
    Johar accused me of cowardice; I accused him of making up stories. The less work he got, the more stories he made up.
    One day, he rang up and asked me to come to his flat with a cameraman. ‘I’m getting engaged to be married later,’ he told me.
    ‘To whom?’ I asked.
    ‘To Protima Bedi,’ he replied.
    Protima had two grown-up children by Kabir Bedi. She had not yet made a name as an Odissi dancer, but had gained wide publicity by streaking on Juhu beach. The pictures of her running across the sands without a stitch on had appeared in many papers. She had a most fetching figure. Johar was at least thirty years older than her, a grandfather in daily communication with his ex-wife, Rama. However, I went along with my photographer.
    There were dozens of photographers and press people present. Johar was dressed in a beige silk kurta-pyjama, with his hair freshly dyed jet-black. Protima was decked up in a bridal sari, with a lot of gold jewellery on her. With one eye, you could see that this was a publicity lark for both of them. The next morning’s papers had them on their front pages.
    They were back in the news. No marriage followed. Johar talked no more about Protima Bedi.
    I had a farewell dinner of sorts before I left Bombay for good. It was like old times. Rama, Pheeno and me, with Johar joining us later with Chinese food. By now, Pheeno had taken to snuggling in my lap and grunting with contentment. ‘She seems to be fonder of you than me,’ remarked Johar. ‘Would you like to take her?’ I agreed to accept Pheeno. I would take her with me to Delhi to my family, every one of whom was passionately fond of animals. ‘It is like having to give my daughter away. I can’t do it,’ Johar said by way of explanation. I understood his feelings.
    I continued to communicate with Rama long after Johar went out of my life. All said and done, I was fonder of her than her ex-husband. However, I felt a pang of anguish when I read of Johar’s death in Bombay. And I wondered what became of Pheeno.

INDIRA GANDHI
(1917–1984)
    In 2009, the twenty-fifth death anniversary of Indira Gandhi occasioned a flood of literature and huge media coverage across the country. That was as it should have been because she was, in fact, the Queen Empress of India for long years and changed the face of the country by ruthless plastic surgery. She made the Congress subservient to her wishes,