THE MAHARANI OF CHOOTIAPURAM - Bobby

THE MAHARANI OF CHOOTIAPURAM

I looked forward to her visits because she had nothing nice to say about anyone. Since I was inclined the same way, in the hour or so she stayed and had her evening quota of Scotch we trashed the reputations of everyone known and unknown to us.

Our dialogue would begin in much the same manner. She would breeze in with a loud 'Hi Khushee!', plant a kiss on each cheek, and put her handbag on the chair beside mine. 'Help yourself,' I would say to her. 'Cheers!'

After a sip or two she would open her handbag, fish out a card and ask, 'Have you got this?'

I took a look at the invitation card. It was to a book launch at Hotel Le Meridien, hosted by the publisher of a debut novel by a young author whose parents I knew. I expected an invitation card too. ' Good drinks and canapes at the Meridien,' I remarked.

'I can do better in my own home,' she scoffed. 'Who wants to waste an evening listening to boring speeches and readings from a nondescript novel? I don't think I'll go.'

I got my invitation card the next day. I went on time and took a seat in the last row. By then the hall was only half full. I saw my lady friend come in. She surveyed the scene, walked past the front row of chairs so that everyone would notice her presence, then went to the table piled with the author's novel for anyone who wished to buy some at a reduced price. She picked up one, turned over a few pages and put it back on the pile. She found an empty seat in the front row.

I sat through the speeches and launch ceremony. As soon as they were over, I went to the long tables on which waiters were pouring out drinks. I helped myself to a double Scotch and gobbled up salted biscuits heaped with caviar. I saw my lady friend pick her company. She was choosy. She disdained the hoi polloi  and talked only to men of noble birth or distinction, whom she referred to as renaissance men. 'Very few left,' she would lament. 'They had class and breeding and impeccable manners. That breed of men has died out.'

I had to admit my lady friend had class, right from her name to her demeanour. Her name was Rajkumari Rukmini Devi. She didn't tell me the name of the rajwada of which she was the rajkumari. But she did tell me about her upbringing in the strict purdah observed by Hindu aristocratic families, her English governesses and her schooling at home. It was only after Independence that she and other lady members of her family discarded their ghoonghats, and she was allowed to go abroad for studies. She regarded herself a very superior person. Needless to say, most people who met her did not take to her. They were jealous of her and called her a fraud. Some called her 'Maharani of Chootiapuram' — a nasty innuendo, the meaning of which I leave to the readers to work out. And for good measure, added, ' She makes a CHOOTIA of you.'

When she wanted to, as she did at wedding and embassy receptions, Rajkumari dressed up in all her state regalia of artificial jewellery: round her neck, a gold-plated brass choker which looked like genuine gold and a necklace of glass beads that shone like pearls; a lehnga of silk striped with silver, and a see through chiffon dupatta. Women flocked round her to admire her jewellery. 'Where did you get this gold choker? It must have cost a bomb!' She would reply demurely, 'Oh, I couldn't afford to buy such things; they are family heirlooms. This is from my grandmother, this was a part of my mother's dowry.' And so on.

Despite her protestations and saying, 'I don't think I'll go to this book launch', she was seen at every book launch in the city. I pointed this out to her. 'Somebody told me you were seen at the launch of that Punjabi fellow's novel about Chandigarh.' She replied, 'It was at the British Council. I make an exception for their launches.'

'But they have no place to park cars, and serve you miserable drops of Scotch which you have to gulp down standing up, they have no place to sit,' I said. I told her I also avoided embassy cultural receptions at Max Mueller Bhawan and the American Cultural Centre. 'The hosts go through the motions of hospitality like cold-blooded diplomats and impatiently wait for their guests to leave.'

'I don't go to book launches to drink free whisky,' she snorted. 'If people like us did not go to foreign embassy receptions, they would think we are not friendly towards them.'

So Rajkumari had good reasons for not wanting to go to book launches as well as for going to all of them. And she always made sure her presence was noted. People called her a name-dropper. That she was, but with a difference: while others dropped names of people they barely knew, she knew all the bigwigs whose names she dropped and only added: 'I know him 
very well.' If you said anything derogatory about them, she rose to their defence, saying, ' Never! He could never have said such a thing. I know him very well.'

There was a time when she entertained in the grand style of a lady holding a salon: premium brand Scotch, French wine, sumptuous dinner. She had to give that up because she was never able to keep her servants too long: some she fired for drinking her whisky or cheating on prices of vegetables; others for being uncouth or insolent.

She no longer entertained as she felt people would then feel obliged to return her hospitality. I was perhaps the only one of her friends who continued to see her. Most others did not bother to answer her telephone calls. She was pained by their lack of gratitude and grace. One evening she announced: 'I have decided to leave Delhi. Here life has become so artificial, I can't take it any more. I have sold my flat.'

I was taken aback. 'Where on earth will you go?' I asked. 'You will regret it for the rest of your life.'

'Too late!' she said with an air of finality. 'I have got the cheque. Besides, I live alone. There is a murder or two every other day of people living alone. There were three last week in my neighbourhood.'

I was dismayed. What would life in Delhi be for me without Rajkumari? Whom would I exchange gossip with? Whom would I find as well-informed about peoples' private lives and with whom would I now tear them apart?

I thought a lot over the matter. I asked her if she really meant it, or was it another of her ploys to get people talking about her? When I told other friends about her decision, they dismissed it. 'She is GUPPING,' some said. 'Good riddance!' said others. 'Why do you waste time on that sour puss?'

Then, as suddenly as she had told me of her decision to quit Delhi forever, she announced her decision to defer it for a while longer. 'What about selling your flat?' I asked.

'The fellow's cheque bounced,' she replied with complete nonchalance. 'See what Delhi people are like? You can't trust any of them.'

That was the end of Rajkumari's resolve to abandon Delhi. But she began to get away from the city more frequently than before - to Bombay, Bangalore and Hyderabad, Chandigarh and Calcutta. Wherever she went, she stayed at the Raj Bhawan as guest of the governor of the state. 'I don't understand from where the government picks up these LALLOO-PANJOOS (riff- raff) and males them governors,' she said. 'At one time they used to be the elite of renaissance men, who knew the art of living. It was a pleasure talking to them and exchanging views. They are dead and gone. Now we have types I would not invite to dine with me.'

She often went abroad too: Paris, London, Madrid, New York, Washington. Rather than stay in hotels, she preferred staying with important people whom she described as her close friends. A few days after she returned, she would invite herself over. The first thing she would do was open her handbag and say, 'I never forget to bring something for you.' She would take out two or three little pieces of cheese of the sort served with meals on every flight: 'Not Indian imitations,' she would say. 'And this, single malt,' taking out two miniature bottles given free on many flights. 'Try them out.' So it became her party in my home.

There was something childlike about Rajkumari: she wanted to be the centre of attention wherever she was. If there were other guests in my home, she gave them the cold shoulder and insisted on talking to me as if there was no one else present. At times she was rude to them. And she loved contradicting me. I was in the habit of coming out with couplets of Urdu poetry or lines from some English poet. She would cut me short and give what she thought was the correct version. Our argument would get heated. She would put out her hand and challenge me. 'Bet? A bottle of Scotch?' I would accept the challenge, and get the exact lines from anthologies of poetry in my collection, to prove her wrong. She always forgot about the bet. Once, a writer whom I had praised in my columns came to see me. She had not read anything by him but engaged him in conversation without giving him a chance to speak to me. He was as upset as I was. As I saw them off, she came back to ask, 'Who is this Johnnie?' I let her have it full blast. 'He wanted to talk to me, but you did not give him a chance to do so. What's happened to your manners?' *** 'If that is how you feel,' she snapped, 'I won't waste my time coming to see you.' I yelled back, 'Don't. If this is how you are going to behave, don't come and ruin my evenings.'

It was the first time we quarrelled. I told everyone about what had transpired. No one sympathized with me. On the contrary, they rubbed salt in my wounded ego. 'Serves you right,' they said. 'She made a CHOOTIA of you.'

For three months we did not meet or bother to ring each other. She said nasty things about me, which in due course our friends conveyed to me. I said nasty things about her which they conveyed to her with much relish. But just when I thought our association was over, she rang me up. 'I am coming over to talk to you. There are misunderstandings between the best of friends, but they must be sorted out, the sooner the better. Friendship is sacred.'

She came over, gave me the same double-kiss greeting. She poured out the Scotch without commenting on its quality or of the glasses into which it was poured. 'So, it's all forgotten and forgiven,' she said raising her  glass. I touched my glass to hers and said 'Amen.' After a few moments of silence, she said, 'There was one word people said you ascribed to me which I did not understand, except that it sounded very vulgar. In our families we never used vulgar words.'

I thought about it and replied: 'Perhaps it was CHOOTIA — you made a CHOOTIA of me.'

'What does CHOOTIA mean?' she asked innocently.

'Cunt-born.'

'Oh I see!' she said calmly. ' But isn't that true of all of us?'

(From "THE MAHARANI OF CHOOTIAPURAM" in THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY Collected Stories, by Khushwant Singh, RAVI DAYAL/PENGUIN BOOKS. This fascinating story is written in the riveting style of the very famous Russian short story writer Chekhov. - G)

*** Reminds Me of how fucking aliens PF and NL desperately tried to prevent WF from communicating with Me but WF and I exchanged brief silent smiling meaningful glances at each other at the UIUC university hospital years ago, I believe. We have outsmarted pathetic alien swine Satan/Kr. (late), NL, PF etc.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

Bobby

If, perhaps, you say "Bobby is a bad boy," you haven't told us a thing about Bobby. You have merely given us a tip on your personal code of ethics and morals. (Dr. Wilfred Funk: "25 MAGIC STEPS TO WORD POWER", Chapter 5, THE MIRACLE OF COMMUNICATION, page 36.)

Kishalay Sinha [G]