Madho Singh had made a fortune by selling his agricultural land to Highmax Builders at the height of the realty boom. He had inherited the land from his father, who was a peasant. Earlier, he worked (or at least, pretended to work) as a clerk in some obscure government office. With the money, he bought a large farmhouse, quit his job and proclaimed himself to be a property dealer. I remember having treated his painful anal fissure a few years back with a combination of soothing creams, bogus assurances and some unpleasant fingerwork that involved fiddling with the nastiest parts of his anatomy. He used to visit my clinic riding a rickety Rajdoot of the 70’s, and often cursed the motorcycle for its hard seats. So, when one fine morning he alighted from a brand new Scorpio, I knew he was living a terribly good life.
“Namaskaar doxaab!” He greeted me in a booming voice that rattled my fragile ear drum and scattered the poor little ossicles.
“Namaskaar Madho Singh”, I replied, trying to look awfully pleased. “”New Scorpio…hmm hmm….!”
“Yes doxaab. Bought it this Diwali. My wife does not like to sit in small cars.” Madho Singh flashed an effervescent smile, flashing his stained teeth. “Also, my in laws live in Ajmer, so we often have to travel…”
“Right…right. You must do what your wife says.” I nodded in agreement. “So….what brings you here, Madho Singh?”
Madho Singh studied his palms for a few seconds, stifled a yawn and shifted on his seat.
“Doxaab…you know…you are like my brother….”
Brother? O ya….really? How about sharing the moolah with me partner? You take the Scorpio…I take the farmhouse!
“Yes, yes….I know that.” I said, oozing brotherly love for the cabbage.
“Doxaab…I am having some doubts about my son’s studies”
“What kind of doubts?” I politely enquired. I was well aware of the ethereal qualities his son possessed. He had once crept up stealthily behind his neighbour’s bull and managed to fasten a rather stout clothespeg to its testicles. The bull had then uprooted the cowshed, chased the neighbour’s wife for a good hundred metres and attempted to force itself upon a dozen odd terrified cows before bounding into the nearby fields, bellowing madly in agony.
“He doesn’t study his books.” Madho Singh stated sadly.
“Oh! Surely there must be some books which would engage his vacillating attention…!” I exclaimed. “Some profound literature to stimulate him, enlarge his horizons, help his abilities to grow and allow his faculties to stand tall and erect…!” I wondered.
Madho Singh reached inside his jacket and produced a well thumbed copy of Debonair. “This!” he exclaimed sheepishly “..is what I found in his school bag…!”
I was swept by a strong urge to grab the magazine and find out for myself the extent and scope of stimulation, enlargement and growth of sundry human qualities which the colourful pages of the journal offered.
“This….I guess is not very unnatural.” I cleared my throat. “Adolescent boys do develop such…..quests”
Madho Singh looked alarmed at my unreserved straightforwardness. “But…doxaab….16 magazines! Sixteen! I found sixteen of them in his room! Look at the variety!”
I had to agree. “Yes! It does look a little wormy. With this rate of titillation he’d soon qualify as an amateur bazoomologist.”
“Never mind.” I said shortly.
Madho Singh let out a sigh and withdrew floppily on his chair. There was a strange, dejected look on his countenance. However, after about three minutes of silence, he sat up bolt upright, eyes flashing with a steely sort of resolve “Doxaab…I have made up my mind. I will send my son to boarding school…” With that statement, he walked out in a huff leaving the Debonair spreadeagled on my table.
That was six months ago. Last Thursday, Madho Singh trooped into my clinic, sporting a broad smile. He told me he was just back from his son’s boarding school and was terribly pleased with his ward’s progress there.
“Really?” I asked, feigning admiration for the worthy lad’s achievements.
“Yes doxaab! It is a very large school with so many beautiful teachers!”
There you go. Like son, like dad!
“And there is a big swimming pool…and large ground! Every room has AC! And very good food!”
“And they also do lot of extra curry cooler activity!” Madho Singh was nearly frothing at the mouth with excitement. “My son is acting in a drama directed by famous American director…..what’s his name…sex…..”
“Yes! Sex Pear! Funny name! I strictly told my son to call him Mr. Pear!” Madho Singh let out a guffaw.
“And you know? They also teach whores riding!”
“What?? Whores???” My jaw almost dropped out of its sockets.
“Yes!” Madho Singh seemed terribly amused at my bewilderment. “They keep many healthy whores in the campus! You can ride whores one after other…very good sport!”
“Aww..ohh…indeed!” I was at my wits’ end. This was defying logic.
“Very beautiful whores. Trust me doxaab! Great body….great power……you have to run after them before you can catch them! And once you catch them, then riding them is very easy…”
I was nearly perspiring.
“At first, it looks difficult…you may fall down..or whores may fall down on you….you must hold on tightly when you are riding them!”
Then it dawned. Struck me like a sackful of pumpkins. “Horse… You mean?” I said.
“Yes..yes…whores! What else I am saying? White whores, black whores, brown whores….”
“Blond horse, brunette horse, latina horse too…I guess?” I interrupted.
“Nothing. Did you ride one, Madho Singh?” I asked him.
“Naah…not this time. But next time when I go there, I will ask headmaster to allow me to ride whores.”
Madho Singh got up, shook hands with me and left with a dreamy smile. He was already thinking of ways to mount a horse.
Oh well…A Very Happy New Year To You All.