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  Khushwant Singh

  Not a Nice Man to Know

  The Best of Khushwant Singh

  Edited and with an Introduction by Nandini Mehta

  Foreword by Vikram Seth

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Columns

  Seeing Oneself

  Why I Am an Indian

  Farewell to the Illustrated Weekly

  The Haunted Simla Road

  Me and My Filthy Lucre

  On Old Age

  Happy Families

  Prepare for Death While Alive

  Profiles

  Amrita Shergil

  R.K. Narayan

  R.K. Laxman

  Manzur Qadir

  Prabha Dutt

  Mother Teresa, Apostle of the Unwanted

  Phoolan Devi, Queen of Dacoits

  Nirad C. Chaudhuri, Scholar Extraordinary

  My Days with Krishna Menon

  Shraddha Mata: The Making of a Holy Mother

  Articles, Essays and Non-Fiction Book Excerpts

  Doomsday in Yogiland

  Holy Men and Holy Cows

  Going Gaga over Yoga

  Why I Supported the Emergency

  The Hanging of Bhutto

  The Sikh Homeland (From A History of the Sikhs)

  The Monsoon in Indian Literature and Folklore

  April in Delhi (From Nature Watch)

  Worship of the Ganga

  Village in the Desert

  Simba

  Kasauli: My Mini Baikunth

  The Romance of New Delhi

  On Happiness

  On Great Talkers

  Billo

  Translations

  Shikwa

  Bara Mah

  The Exchange of Lunatics

  The Death of Shaikh Burhanuddin

  Fiction

  A Bride for the Sahib

  The Portrait of a Lady

  Posthumous

  The Mulberry Tree

  Train to Pakistan

  I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

  Delhi

  Lodhi Gardens (From The Sunset Club)

  Play

  Tyger Tyger Burning Bright

  Jokes

  What’s So Funny?

  Heard this One?

  No Offence Meant!

  Hindlish

  Paki-Bashing

  With Due Disrespect

  Punchline

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Author

  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, Delhi, The Company of Women. His latest novel, The Sunset Club, written when he was ninety-five, was published by Penguin Books in 2010. His non-fiction 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

  Sadia Dehlvi

  Who gave me more

  affection and notoriety

  than I deserved

  Foreword

  For Khushwant: An Acrostic Sonnet

  King of the columnists and prince of hosts,

  Hero of cats (twenty at least) who feed

  Under your aegis, trencherman of toasts—

  Scotch, naturally, not French—God knows we need

  Humour and courage, tolerance and wit

  When hope is scarce and murder’s blessed by prayer,

  And every bully, oaf, and hypocrite

  Nurtures his flock on hatred and hot air.

  Threats to your life have not made you less bold.

  Sexcess can’t spoil you. May you scatter your words inimitably on for decades more—

  No less amused and generous than your old

  Grandmother, standing by the courtyard door,

  Halting her prayers to feed and chide the birds.

  Vikram Seth

  Introduction

  I first met Khushwant Singh as a college friend of his daughter Mala nearly fifty years ago. Khushwant Singh had already published the first volume of his scholarly and much-acclaimed History of the Sikhs, but nevertheless his public image was that of an irreverent iconoclast, and his second novel, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, had, according to the university grapevine, ‘some damn sexy passages, yaar’ (Mala extracted a promise from all her friends not to read Nightingale, otherwise she would be mortified each time we met her father. I kept my word, and read the novel for the first time only when selecting material for the first edition of this book, in 1992).

  But to get back to that first meeting and that first impression almost fifty years ago . . . Khushwant Singh was engrossed in a book and looked none too pleased at being disturbed when we walked in. He quizzed us sharply on our Ancient Indian history syllabus, quickly plumbed the depth of our ignorance on the subject of Asokan edicts and, with a dismissive shrug, went back to his reading. My first impression was that of a bookish and rather strict paterfamilias, with little time to waste on small talk—definitely not a hearty Sardarji.

  The next time I met him was as a junior member of his editorial staff at New Delhi magazine. Khushwant Singh had installed a special black glass partition between his office and the hall in which we worked and through this, he informed us triumphantly, he could see what we were up to, though we couldn’t see him! A constant stream of visitors went in and out of his room every morning—comely ladies with literary aspirations, elderly men pushing a worthy cause or an obscure book for review; politicians and godmen; starlets and film makers; and every foreign writer or journalist who visited Delhi. Loud guffaws issued forth, and tantalizing whispers of gossip, while we strained our ears to overhear. Here then was Khushwant Singh as the Sardarji-in-the-Bulb, raconteur par excellence of ribald jokes and malicious gossip.

  And then there was Khushwant Singh as Boss—kindly, avuncular, incredibly generous in the help and encouragement he gave younger journalists, and cheerfully taking the rap for all our mistakes. He also had, as we soon discovered, an enormous appetite for work—and no patience with shirkers.

  But which is the real Khushwant Singh? The inspired translator of Guru Nanak’s hymns or the irreverent chronicler of human foibles and vanities? The erudite historian who has written some of the most enduring books on the Sikhs and Punjab, or the best-selling author of full-blooded novels and short stories (many of them with ‘damn sexy’ passages)? The sensitive, observant nature-watcher and animal-lover, or the intrepid reporter on the trail of saints and sinners? The reflective introvert or the exuberant extrovert?

  As this collection bears out, he is, of course, all of these; but through all his different avatars run several common threads—his total lack of humbug, hypocrisy and prudishness (the ‘sexy passages’ are, I am sure, part of his long-running crusade to rid Indians of their prudery and inhibitions); the vivid, lively style which makes him compulsively readable on any subj
ect; and above all, the hugely infectious zest for life, for living and learning, that infuses all his work.

  One of the aims of this anthology is to introduce the ‘Complete Khushwant Singh’ to his readers, many of whom, alas, know him only through his weekly ‘Malice’ column. For though it is the most widely-read column in India, and guaranteed to give a hefty boost to the circulation of any journal that carries it, it simply does not do justice to the range and depth of Khushwant Singh’s talents and interests.

  A typical Malice column would contain an entertaining vignette from Khushwant Singh’s latest freebie junket abroad (‘In the last thirty-five years I have not spent a single naya paisa of my own either towards travel or hospitality,’ he confesses gleefully); a provocative comment on something in the news that week; a pithy book review; an indulgent plug for some young woman’s artistic or literary endeavours; an obituary (perhaps speaking ill of the dead); an Urdu couplet and a Punjabi joke. But as I discovered when working with Khushwant Singh at the Hindustan Times, this weekly offering is like a tray of hors-d’oeuvres that he dishes up quickly and easily, even as he labours long and hard over a rich and substantial main course—it could be a long personality profile, an essay on religion or literature, or a new novel.

  So while pieces from the Malice column have, of course, been included (among them a couple of obituaries to die for), the greater part of this book consists of selections from other genres. One of them is a lively play, Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright which lay buried and unpublished among piles of old manuscripts at Khushwant Singh’s home, until he suddenly remembered it and dug it out when I was selecting material for the first edition of Not a Nice Man to Know. Inexplicably, it has never been performed, though there are plans for its stage debut to mark his ninety-sixth birthday in August 2011. The fiction selection also includes four short stories and excerpts from four novels—Train to Pakistan, widely accepted as one of the great novels on Partition; I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale; Delhi, and his most recent one, The Sunset Club. All of them bear eloquent testimony to Khushwant Singh’s mastery of the art of story-telling—his narrative skill; his unerring ear for dialogue; his ability to create authentic, memorable characters; and his powerful evocation of time, mood and place. They also reveal a writer of depth.

  Then, there are excerpts from his translations. Khushwant Singh professes to being an agnostic but his interest in religion has given rise to some fine translations, notably of Iqbal’s Shikwa and Guru Nanak’s Bara Mah which, retaining all the poetry and passion of the originals, for the first time bring these works to life in the English language.

  The selections from Khushwant Singh’s longer articles and essays for journals and newspapers cover a wide range of subjects—from the hanging of Bhutto (he was the only Indian journalist in Pakistan on that fateful day), to a profile of Mother Teresa, written under somewhat bizarre circumstances. Some time in the eighties, when Mother Teresa lay critically ill in a Calcutta nursing home, I phoned Khushwant Singh one morning from the Indian Express where I then worked. It seemed unlikely that she would survive the night, and the paper wanted him to write her obituary for the next day’s front page. Late that night, after working non-stop all day to meet his deadline, Khushwant Singh delivered his article, and no sooner had it been typeset than Mother Teresa took a miraculous turn for the better—aided, perhaps, by his whole-hearted labour of love. The non-fiction selection also includes extracts from his autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice and from History of the Sikhs; a marvellous treatise on the monsoon and a provocative essay on religion.

  Last, but by no means least, are the jokes, selected by Khushwant Singh himself. My own favourite Khushwant Singh jokes have, alas, not been included—they are the ones he tells at his own expense. As editor of the Hindustan Times he usually came to work in a rumpled, paan-stained Pathan suit, driving his battered Ambassador himself. One evening, as he was driving out of the Hindustan Times building near Connaught Place, two attractive American women hailed him. Khushwant Singh immediately stopped, beaming at this stroke of luck, and speculating happily on why they seemed so eager to catch his attention. ‘Taxi! Taj Hotel!’ they said, rudely shattering his fantasies as they opened the back door and got in. Khushwant Singh obligingly—and silently—drove them to their destination, charged a fare of seven rupees (half the metered rate), accepted a two-rupee tip, and then sped back to the office—this was too good a story not to be shared immediately. But to really savour it, you had to have heard Khushwant Singh tell it himself—and it got better each time he retold it.

  In 1992, when I was preparing the first edition of Not a Nice Man to Know, Khushwant Singh declared that his life’s work was done, that he was living on borrowed time, and that apart from his autobiography he was unlikely to write anything more of substance. Over the last two decades, he’s had to eat those words many times over (no doubt chasing them down with shots of his favourite Single Malt). His prolific and sparkling output since 1992 includes new collections of essays, translations and short stories, and no fewer than three novels; the last one, The Sunset Club, written in 2010, when he was ninety-five. All of them remain bestsellers. At ninety-six, he continues to follow a punishing daily schedule, rising at dawn and working without a break until sunset, turning out two weekly newspaper columns, apart from regular book reviews and essays. Last year, as he handed me the completed manuscript of The Sunset Club, he said he was thinking of starting on a new novel, set in Sujan Singh Park where he lives, and with characters based on some of his neighbours. With an impish twinkle in his eye, he added: ‘I think I’ll call it “Love Thy Neighbour”.’

  Of the original selection of thirty-three pieces in the first edition of this book, we have retained thirty, and added as many as eighteen new ones. Still, there is much that I reluctantly had to leave out for reasons of space; and many readers will, no doubt, complain that some of their own favourites are missing from this collection. We’ll include those in the next edition of this book, that we hope to bring out to celebrate his 100th birthday.

  Nandini Mehta

  April 2011

  Columns

  Seeing Oneself

  The gods in their wisdom did not grant me the gift of seeing myself as others see me. They must have thought knowing what others thought of me might engender suicidal tendencies in me and decided to let me stew in my own self-esteem. Now I am up against the formidable task of having to write about myself.

  It is a daunting assignment. Have you ever tried to look at yourself squarely in the eyes in your own mirror? Try it and you will understand what I mean. Within a second or two you will turn your gaze from your eyes to other features—as women do when they are making-up or men do when they are shaving. Looking into the depths of one’s own eyes reveals the naked truth. The naked truth about oneself can be very ugly.

  I know I am an ugly man. Physical ugliness has never bothered me nor inhibited me from making overtures to the fairest of women. I am convinced that only empty-headed nymphomaniacs look out for handsome gigolos. They have no use for the likes of me; I have no use for the likes of them. My concern is not with my outward appearance, my untidy turban, unkempt beard or my glazed look (I have been told that my eyes are those of a lustful budmaash) but what lies behind the physical, the real me compounded of conflicting emotions like love and hate, general irritability and occasional equipoise, angry denunciation and tolerance of another’s point of view, rigid adherence to self-prescribed regimen and accommodation of others’ convenience. And so on. It is on these qualities that I will dwell in making an estimate of myself.

  First, I must dispose of the question which people often ask me: ‘What do you think of yourself as a writer?’ Without appearing to wear the false cloak of humility, let me say quite honestly that I do not rate myself very highly. I can tell good writing from the not so good, the first rate from the passable. I know that of the Indians or the Indian-born, Nirad Chaudhuri, V.S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie, Amitav Ghosh an
d Vikram Seth handle the English language better than I. I also know I can, and have, written as well as any of the others—R.K. Narayan, Mulk Raj Anand, Manohar Malgonkar, Ruth Jhabvala, Nayantara Sahgal or Anita Desai. What is more, unlike most in the first or the second category, I have never laid claim to being a great writer. I regard self-praise to be the utmost form of vulgarity. Almost every Indian writer I have met is prone to laud his or her achievements. This is something I have never done. Nor ever solicited awards or recognition. Nor ever spread false stories of being considered for the Nobel Prize for literature. The list of prominent Indians who spread such canards about themselves is formidable: Vatsyayan (Agyeya), G.V. Desani, Dr Gopal Singh Dardi (former Governor of Goa), Kamla Das and many others.

  Am I a likeable man? I am not sure. I do not have many friends because I do not set much store by friendship. I have found that friends, however nice and friendly they may be, demand more time than I am willing to spare. I get easily bored with people and would rather read a book or listen to music than converse with anyone for too long. I have had a few very close friends in my time. I am ashamed to admit that when some of them dropped me, instead of being upset, I felt relieved. And when some died, I cherished their memory more than I did their company when they were alive.

  I have the same attitude towards women whom I have liked or loved. It does not take much for me to get deeply emotional about women. Often at the very first meeting I feel I have found the Helen I was seeking, and like Majnoon sifting the sands of desert wastes my quest for Laila was over. None of these infatuations lasted very long. At times betrayal of trust hurt me deeply but nothing left lasting scars on my psyche. The only lesson I learnt was that as soon as you sense the others cooling off, be the one to drop them. Dropping people gives you a sense of triumph; being dropped one of defeat which leaves the ego wounded. I do not have the gift of friendship. Nor the gift of loving or being loved.

  Hate is my stronger passion. Mercifully, it has never been directed against a community but only against certain individuals. I hate with a passion unworthy of anyone who would like to describe himself as civilized. I try my best to ignore them but they are like an aching tooth which I am periodically compelled to feel with my tongue to assure myself that it still hurts. My hate goes beyond people I hate. I drop people who befriend them. My enemy’s friends become my enemies.