Khushwantnama Read online

  Khushwant Singh

  KHUSHWANTNAMA

  The Lessons of My Life

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Time for Reflection

  No Need to Retire Hurt

  Nayi Dilliwala

  The State of the Nation

  The Importance of Gandhi

  What Religion Means to Me

  Urdu Poetry, My Passion

  Ghalib, the Greatest of them All

  The Business of Writing

  What It Takes to Be A Writer

  Journalism Then and Now

  Thinking Aloud

  On Partition

  The English-Language Paradox

  To Prohibit Is to Promote

  Greed: The Deadliest Sin of All

  When It Comes to Sex

  The Qualities of a President

  The Highest Award

  Watching Nature

  Poetry is Priceless

  Dealing with Death

  Twelve Tips to Live Long and Be Happy

  Humour is A Lethal Weapon

  Epitaph

  Also by Khushwant Singh

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  KHUSHWANTNAMA

  Khushwant Singh is India’s best-known writer and columnist. He has been founder-editor of Yojana and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, the National Herald and the Hindustan Times. He is the author of classics such as Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale and Delhi. His latest novel, The Sunset Club, written when he was 95, was published by Penguin Books in 2010. His nonfiction includes the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs, a number of translations and works on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice, was published by Penguin Books in 2002.

  Khushwant Singh was a member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple in Amritsar by the Indian Army. In 2007, he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan.

  Among the other awards he has received are the Punjab Ratan, the Sulabh International award for the most honest Indian of the year, and honorary doctorates from several universities.

  To Gursharan

  In return for bouquets of lilies and roses

  This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

  —Hamlet, Act 1, Scene III.

  Introduction

  I am now in what, according to traditional Hindu belief, is the fourth and final stage of life, sanyaas. I should be meditating in solitude, I should have shed all attachments and all interest in worldly things. According to Guru Nanak, a person who lives into his nineties feels weak, does not understand the reason for his weakness and keeps lying down. I haven’t reached either of those stages of my life just yet.

  At ninety-eight, I count myself lucky that I still enjoy my single malt whiskey at seven every evening. I relish tasty food, and look forward to hearing the latest gossip and scandal. I tell people who drop in to see me, ‘If you have nothing nice to say about anyone, come and sit beside me.’ I retain my curiosity about the world around me; I enjoy the company of beautiful women; I take joy in poetry and literature, and in watching nature.

  And despite Guru Nanak’s predictions about a man who lives to my age, I do not spend a lot of time lying down—I still rise at four every morning and spend most of the day sitting in my armchair, reading and writing. All my life I’ve worked hard; I’ve been a man of habit and stuck to a disciplined daily routine for over fifty years. That has stood me in good stead into my nineties.

  But I have slowed down considerably in the past year. I tire more easily, and have grown quite deaf. These days, I often remove my hearing aid, since the noise of the TV and the chatter of visitors wear me out. And I find myself relishing the silence that deafness brings. As I sit enveloped in silence, I often look back on my life, thinking about what has enriched it, what and who have been important to me; the mistakes I’ve made and the regrets I have. I think about the precious time I wasted in pointless rituals, in socializing, and spending years of my working life as a lawyer and then a diplomat, until I took to writing. I think about the importance of kindness in daily life; the healing power of laughter—including the ability to laugh at oneself; and what it takes to be honest—both with others and with oneself.

  My life has had its ups and downs, but I’ve lived it fully, and I think I have learnt its lessons.

  October 2012

  KHUSHWANT SINGH

  Time for Reflection

  My neighbour Reeta Devi Varma has given me a one-foot-high lamp with glass on all its four sides. Inside it is a wax-lit diya. Since it is enclosed on all sides, its flame rarely flickers. At times, it waves gently and then stays still. I sit and gaze at it for hours when alone in the evening. It gives me solace and peace of mind. I am told that this is a form of meditation. But my mind is far from being still. On the contrary, if anything, it is super active.

  In my ninety-eighth year, I have little left to look forward to, but lots to reminisce about. I draw a balance sheet of my achievements and failures. On the credit side I have over eighty books: novels, collections of short stories, biographies, histories, translations from Punjabi and Urdu, and many essays. On the debit side is my character. I spend many evenings going over the evil deeds I committed in my early years. With an airgun I killed dozens of sparrows who had done me no harm. I shot a dove sitting on its clutch of eggs. It flew up, scattering its feathers till it collapsed. When I was staying with my uncle in Mian Channu, when their cotton factory was closed for a month, every evening I shot rock pigeons by the score. They were picked up by the children to be eaten. I joined shikar parties and killed many innocent birds. At one organized shooting party in Bharatpur, I shot over a dozen ducks in two hours. No one told me it was a wrong thing to do and also a sin for which there will be no pardon. I am paying the price for my actions as the memory of those innocent creatures haunts me evening after evening.

  I have also come to the sad conclusion that I have always been a bit of a lecher. From the tender age of four right to the present when I have completed ninety-seven, it has been lechery that has been uppermost in my mind. I have never been able to conform to the Indian ideal of regarding women as my mothers, sisters or daughters. Whatever their age, to me they were, and are, objects of lust.

  Two years ago, I decided it was time for me to withdraw into myself. Some people would describe it as retirement. I chose a hallowed Indian word, sanyaas. But it was not sanyaas as it is commonly understood, as total withdrawal from the world—I wanted to stay in my comfortable home, enjoy delicious food and my single malt, hear good music and indulge my senses, whatever remains of them. I began with a partial withdrawal: I refused to appear on TV or radio programmes. The next step was to drastically cut down on the number of visitors. Here, I have not been successful. Though much reduced in comparison with the past, they continue to drop in. I welcome those I know well but beseech them not to bring their friends with them. They think I have become swollen-headed and think too much of myself. That is not true; I simply cannot take the strain of conversing with strangers. I no longer give interviews to newspapers and magazines. However, some manage to turn our conversations into interviews. I realize that when, at the end, I am asked ‘Do you have any regrets in life?’ it is the stock last question. Instead of getting angry at the way I am manipulated to give an interview, the question makes me ponder: ‘Do I really regret things I did or did not do?’ Of course, I do!

  I was
ted many years studying and practising law which I hated. I also regret the years spent serving the government abroad and at home, and the years with UNESCO in Paris. Although I saw places and enjoyed life, and, having little to do, started writing, I could have done a lot more of what I was best at. I could have started my writing career much sooner. However, my greatest regret is that I did not have more to do with women I admired but didn’t have the courage to have an affair with. So it was six on one side, half a dozen on the other. As Ghalib aptly puts it:

  Na karda gunahon kee bhee hasrat kee miley daad

  Ya Rab! Agar in karda gunahon kee zazaa hai.

  (For sins I wanted to commit but did not, give me credit

  O God, if you must punish me for those I did commit.)

  And since I can’t relive lost years, the best I can do is to forget them. Why cry over spilt milk?

  As a person ages, of his five senses, four decline with the years; only one, the sense of taste for food, outlasts the others. I know this to be true in my case. The older I grow, the more I think about what I will eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Of the three meals, the first two are nominal: a buttered toast with a mug of tea in the morning, a bowl of soup or dahi at midday; but dinner, I insist, must be a gourmet’s delight. It comprises only one main dish with a salad to accompany it, topped off with pudding or ice cream.

  I have also discovered that in order to enjoy that one meal I must be hungry and have a clean stomach. The meal is best enjoyed alone and in complete silence. This is how our Hindu ancestor patriarchs ate their evening meals. They had good reasons for doing so, and I follow the precedent set by them. Dining in company or with members of the family may help in bonding friendships and keeping the family together, but it takes away much of the taste from tasty food. Talking while eating, one also swallows a lot of air with the food. I also follow my role model Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib in his habit of drinking and dining. He took a bath every evening and got into fresh clothes before he fished out his bottle of Scotch whisky, poured out his measure in a tumbler, added scented surahi water to it—and drank in absolute silence while writing immortal couplets in praise of wine and women. He does not record what he ate for dinner.

  When I drink alone on an empty stomach, I can feel the whisky warming its way down my entrails. I do not get that feeling when drinking in company. Likewise, when eating in company, I scarcely notice the taste of what I keep shovelling in my mouth. When eating alone, I shut my eyes and turn my inner gaze to what I am chewing and munching bit by bit till it dissolves and goes down my throat. I feel I am doing justice to my food, just as the food I eat is doing justice to me. Never be in a hurry to finish your meal; take your time over it and relish it.

  I was, and am, a meat-eater. I believe vegetarianism is against the order of nature because besides herbivores, all animals, birds, reptiles and fish live off eating each other. I like to vary my food. Chandan, my trusted cook of over fifty years, is now too old to try his hand at new recipes. So I keep handy menus of eateries that deliver food home. I try them in turn—Chinese, Thai, French, Italian, south Indian. I also have the telephone numbers of ladies who specialize in different kinds of food they cook in their homes and cater to people who place orders in advance. Ms Arshi Dhupia makes excellent Quiche Lorraine and chocolate cakes. And Claire Dutt does an outstanding job of making anything I fancy, from stuffed roast chicken to plum pudding with brandy butter.

  ‘Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you what you are,’ claimed the famous French gastronome, Brillat-Savarin. If I told him the varieties of food I eat, he would probably call me a pig. But I do not hog. What I take is in measured quantities. I fully endorse what Brillat-Savarin claimed: ‘The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of man than the discovery of a star.’ Like Lord Byron I look forward to my evening meal as I used to look forward to meeting my dates in younger days:

  That all-softening, overpowering knell

  The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.

  One final word of caution: make sure you never overeat. An upset stomach and indigestion ruin the pleasure of eating.

  No Need to Retire Hurt

  What preoccupies the minds of men past their middle age after they have done their day’s work and have nothing else to do? Based on introspection, I have come to the conclusion that they think of three things whose proportions vary with age but which are concerned with the basic needs of survival, then with procreation, and after that reflections on their past years and uncertainty about the future.

  If they are still working, they first think of how their work is progressing and what remains to be accomplished. They are concerned with their bread and butter, the instinct of survival. Then they think of sexual affairs they have had or wanted to have—that is, basically, the instinct to procreate. And finally, they go over their past—friends they’ve had, misunderstandings or deaths that ended relationships; and what the future holds for them.

  Mohammed Rafi Sauda (1713–81), poet laureate of the Mughal court, thought along the same lines:

  Fikr-e-maash, ishq-e-butaan, yaad-e-raftgaan

  Is zindagi mein ab koi kya kya karey?

  (Concern for livelihood, love for women, memories of the past

  What else is there left to man in his life?)

  Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib had much the same thing to say, except that he was obsessed with impending death. He craved for fursat—a break from the all-consuming business of making a living, in order to indulge his mind on other things:

  Jee dhoondta hai phir vahi fursat ke raat din

  Baithey rahen tassavur-e-jaanaam kiye huay

  In later life, a man spends less time thinking of his livelihood. Recollections of affairs with women recede into the background, as do memories of departed friends. He begins to worry more about his unknown future. I wonder why nature does not provide a fixed period of time for people to enjoy all that life has to offer before they go. Most people are in reasonably good shape until their seventies. Then the body begins to show signs of deterioration—life becomes a burden to oneself and those around one.

  Women go through a change in life around their late forties, early fifties. Menopause can take several months, over which they become edgy, lose interest in sex and put on weight.

  Male menopause is accompanied by low testosterone levels, low libido, and usually occurs when men are in their fifties. It is of very short duration, therefore more dramatic and, unless men prepare themselves in advance, can play havoc later in their life.

  Visualize the plight of a man in government or private service. His working life is time-bound. He wakes up at a specified time, spends the day at work and returns home in the evening. That becomes his routine for about forty years or so. On his retirement, a farewell party is organized for him, laudatory speeches are made, his bosses give him a memento like a wristwatch and say goodbye to him. He is back home slightly later than his usual time. He gets up the following morning but has nowhere to go and nothing to do because he has been retired. He is still in good health. What is he to do all day long? How does he cope with the time on his hands?

  With the defence services, the day of retirement can be more brutal. Unless a soldier gets promotions, he is retired in the prime of his youth with a miserable pension he cannot live on. He has to find another job or an alternative source of livelihood.

  Retirement is a difficult point in a working person’s life and a crucial time of transition. Those who have not thought about what they will do after retirement have time weighing heavily on their hands. It is therefore important to plan for retirement carefully. There are two key things one needs to think about: health and financial stability. It is wise to start planning early so that one is comfortable post-retirement. Instead of brooding and feeling sorry for oneself, one should use time profitably. Many take to attending congregational prayers in temples or gurdwaras and find spiritual solace and peace of mind. Some descend on friends and relatives for gossip
sessions. They murder time. And time is precious. There are hundreds of options open to retired people. If they are short of money, they can take up some kind of business or trade which brings in cash. If they are comfortably off, they can take up a hobby or cultivate an interest: take to gardening or learn a language or take art lessons; or engage themselves in some activity in the service of society, for example, teaching children from poor families, looking after stray animals, volunteering to help the old and sickly.

  But to do nothing is to become nothing, and a sure way of hastening the end.

  Nayi Dilliwala

  Ihave been a Dilliwala since my childhood, and the city has become an inextricable part of my life. These days, I often think about how Delhi has grown and changed. I am intrigued at how Dilliwalas have been showing more attachment to their city in the last few years than they have ever done since the partition of the country in 1947. I suspect it is due to the change in the nature of its population.

  During the British rule, Muslims accounted for 40 per cent of the population. After Partition, over 30 per cent of them left for Pakistan, but more than that number were replaced by Hindus and Sikhs from Punjab, NWFP (North-West Frontier Province) and Sindh. These new migrants had no emotional attachment to Delhi—all their nostalgia was for the towns and cities that they had been forced to leave. Delhi was merely a temporary refuge for them, and they thought they would soon go back to where they had come from. It was not the same with their children and grandchildren. They cultivated a sense of belonging to the city, an attachment helped by the fact that most schools and colleges organize trips to historical sites in the capital on a regular basis. Over the years there have been many coffee-table books on Delhi with excellent photographs. Around the time of the Commonwealth Games, many publishing houses brought out books and publications on Delhi. These have all led to a keener awareness of the city.