Free Delhi by Khushwant Singh

stones. Whether it is Mehrauli or Okhla you have to have a
mashooka
to share the experience: a
mashooka
in whose ears you can whisper: ‘I want to take you in the rain till your bottom is full of mud and mine full of the monsoon.’
    I hear a
tonga
pull up outside. I hear argument between the
tongawalla
and the passenger. The
tongawalla
shouts, ‘There is more money in buggery than in plying a
tonga.
’ The passenger replies in a louder voice ‘
Abey ja
! Who would want to bugger you! Nobody will spit on your dirty arse’
    Who could it be except Bhagmati!
    Before she can ring the bell I open the door. She comes in swaying her hips and abusing the
tongawalla, ‘Sala, bahinchod
! I give the sister-fucker one rupee from Lal Kuan to this place and he wants to bugger me for more. There is no justice in the world.’ She turns on me. ‘Is this a day to sit indoors like a woman in a
burqa
? I thought you’d like to take me out in your motor car to eat some fresh air and mangoes.’
    I’m waiting for an excuse to get out. There is no one I’d like to be with more than Bhagmati. But not with her dressed in that red and blue sari and her head looking like a nest of butterflies. I’ve bought her a pair of stretch-pants and an open collared shirt which she keeps in my apartment. ‘I’ll change into my
vilayati
clothes,’ she says as she strides on into my bedroom.
    She washes off the powder, rouge and lipstick. She plucks out the butterfly-clips from her hair, combs out the waves and ties it up in a bun at the back of her head. Now it is a different Bhagmati: a sprightly little gamine in a canvas kepi, half-sleeved sports shirt and bum-tight stretch-pants. Very chic! No one can tell whether she is a
hijda
or a boy who looks like a girl.
    We start with an argument. Bhagmati says, ‘It’s a day for Okhla. When it rains the entire world goes to suck mangoes by the weir.’
    ‘Not Okhla,’ I reply. ‘I don’t like crowds: least of all Punjabis. They will be a crowd there screaming, shouting, eating, making litter everywhere.’
    ‘If you are ashamed of being seen with me, I’ll stay in the motor car,’ retorts Bhagmati. It’s true. But I am not going to spoil her day. ‘I swear by the Guru that is not true! Okhla has too many people, too many monkeys, too many snakes. Once I killed five snuggling behind the water-gauge. Five! One after the other.’
    Snakes settle the argument in favour of Mehrauli.
    The road to Mehrauli has an endless procession of cycles,
tongas
, scooters, cars and people on foot. Everyone is shouting
ho, ho
or singing film songs.
    A two-wheeled open cart jammed with women in veils and children comes tearing through the crowd and passes us. The driver puts the handle of his whip on the spokes of the wheel to make them rattle. He yells to everyone to get out of his way. He almost knocks down a Sikh with his wife and four children piled on one bicycle. The Sikh is very shaken. He lets out the foulest abuse he can for a family of Mussalmans. ‘Progeny of pigs! You want to kill us?’ Out of the huddle of
burqas
rises a six-year-old David. He loosens his red jock strap, sticks out his pelvis and flourishes his tiny circumcized penis. He hurls back abuse like pellets from a sling.
‘Abey Sikhrey
!
Harami
(bastard), you want to sit on my Qutub Minar?’
    Daood
Mian’s
Qutub is a mighty two-and-a-half inches long. The other Qutub only 283 feet!
    Bhagmati breaks into a helpless giggle. ‘What a lovely little penis he has! So much nicer than the tapering things of the Hindus. Is your fellow circumcized?’
    ‘You should know.’
    ‘They all look the same when they are up. Next time 1 will look when it is asleep.’
    We get to the Qutub. The car park is full of cars, the gardens are full of people. While we are trying to make up our minds where to go there is a heavy shower and everyone scurries for shelter. ‘Not here,’ I say and drive on. We go past the ruins of Metcalfe’s mansion,