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  I did not answer. I don’t think that only those who believe in God rise from rags to riches. This man has succeeded by dint of hard work, integrity and liberal doses of good luck. He has known stark poverty. Today he runs a vast business as a supplier of milk, producer of country liquor and owner of real estate. He lives in a marbled mansion and owns a fleet of imported automobiles. He has printed a brochure on himself; it is full of quotations from English and Urdu poets. Amongst them, there is one by Allama Iqbal which he believes applies to him:

  Yaqeen Mahkam, amal paiham, mohabat fatah-e-alam jihaad-e-zindgani mein hain yeh mardon kee sham-sheeren

  In life’s crusade, a man’s weapons are three: Conviction that his cause is just, courage to strive till eternity, compassion that embraces all humanity.

  I concede that this man’s faith in God and prayer has sustained him. The moral, if any, that can be drawn from his life story is capsuled in the adage:

  Himmate-mardaa madad-e-Khuda

  God helps those who help themselves.

  The subject of this true story is Nanak Singh. If he could do it, why can’t you?

  K.L. Gauba

  The initials K.L. stand for two names, KanahyaLal and Khalid Latif. Both belonged to the same man. No one knew which really applied to him. Now no one will ever know because when he died, he took both with him.

  Almost six decades ago, if the name of K.L. Gauba had been in any general knowledge examination paper, almost every candidate would have got the answer correct: eldest son of the banker-millionaire and first Hindu minister of Punjab, Lala Harkishan Lal Gauba -barrister, author, politician. A man who took his religion and his women as it suited him; much censured and much reviled for whatever he did. But a living example of ‘badnaam agar honge to kya, naam na hoga’. The world didn’t give a damn for K.L. Gauba; K.L. Gauba didn’t give a damn for the world. He left it, unsung and unhonoured as he would have liked, and as he deserved.

  K.L. Gauba made his debut in Indian society as the author of Uncle Sham, a reply to Katherine Mayo’s Mother India. As Mayo had maligned India, Gauba maligned Mayo’s motherland, the United States of America. Uncle Sham was a scissors-and-paste job consisting largely of reports of incest, juvenile prostitution, dope and drink, and all that was seamy in American life. He followed it up with another bestseller on the lives of Indian princes entitled His Highness. The book began with a memorable quote which ran somewhat as follows: ‘Some people begin their morning with a cup of tea, some with the morning paper; His Highness prefers a virgin.’ It was a scandalous account of sex orgies performed by our maharajas.

  What made Kanahya Lal Gauba the odd man out in every society is not very hard to guess. His father was the most distinguished and respected Punjabi of his times. KL, as he was popularly known, flouted social norms of the times, by going through a much publicized conversion to Islam almost entirely to hurt his father - as Mahatma Gandhi’s son had done to him. He was careful to retain his initial identity and never used his new name Khalid Latif in full. As a convert, he won the hearts of Punjabi Muslims and cashed in on his popularity by winning an election to the Punjab Assembly from a purely Muslim constituency which included Lahore’s notorious red-light district, Hira Mandi, where he had been a familiar figure even before his conversion. Although he wrote a book on the life of the Prophet Muhammad, it was common knowledge that his conversion was naam ke vastey and kaam ke vastey.

  I first met K.L. Gauba sometime in 1948 in Lahore. He was then married to a Muslim lady (cartoonist Anwar Ahmed’s sister) and lived in considerable style in a spacious bungalow along the canal bank. I devilled for him in a number of cases. Then he wrote a very scurrilous book on Chief Justice Sir Douglas Young, accusing him of womanizing and taking bribes. It was odd that KL who had renounced Hinduism only to spite his Hindu father went out of his way to malign Young who had jailed his father. He was hauled up for gross contempt of court and was sent to jail. He, however, succeeded in blackening the face of Douglas Young who was given a very cool farewell by the Lahore bar and died in obscurity in South Africa.

  On the partition of the country, Khalid Latif Gauba did not stay on in Muslim Pakistan but migrated to India with other Hindus and Sikhs. A few months later I ran into him in Simla. He had acquired a very lovely, young, burqa-clad begum from Hyderabad. After some time the Hyderabadi begum vanished and was replaced by another lady and later yet another. KL settled down in Bombay but his practice never picked up. He moved from big to smaller apartments and then to a lodging house. He tried to add to his meagre income by writing articles and books. He churned out another scissors-and-paste job listing atrocities committed against Indian Muslims which, though entirely unauthenticated, provided plenty of propaganda fodder to Pakistan. KL gradually sank into poverty and spent his last years living on the charity of his step-brother, M.L. Gauba, and his generous-hearted Sindhi wife, Gopi.

  In his later days KL could be seen in his sola topee and tattered clothes, shuffling along Flora Fountain towards the Asiatic Society where he spent all his days reading magazines and sleeping in armchairs. The last time I saw him, he was sitting on the pavement outside a Parsi fire-temple munching parched gram out of a paper cup. It was a pathetic sight: the story of rags to riches in reverse; from a palatial Punjab mansion to the pavement of Pherozeshah Mehta Road. Fifty years ago, K.L. Gauba’s cortege would have been followed by half the city of Lahore; last week he did not have a dozen to mourn his departure.

  Politics

  I have said a lot of things on a lot of subjects, particularly Punjab, and have been constantly misunderstood . . . Let me add, and finally put on record: I never have, nor do, nor ever will compromise with anyone who in any way insults the Constitution of this country I never have, nor do, nor ever will have any foreign flags, whether they be made here or made outside. I never have, nor do, nor will ever compromise with anyone who talks about dismembering this country Let that go on record once for ever

  (Khushwant Singh, in his

  farewell speech in Parliament,

  18 March 1986)

  My Years in Parliament

  One afternoon in April 1980 when I was editor of New Delhi, a fortnightly journal of the Ananda Bazar Group, I got a call from Giani Zail Singh who was then home minister in Mrs Indira Gandhi’s cabinet. ‘Congratulations! Your name has been recommended for nomination to the Rajya Sabha,’ he said. And added as a leg-pull, ‘I trust you have no objection to accepting it. I have yet to get the president’s consent.’

  I had been expecting the call for some days. Two days earlier Mrs Indira Gandhi had wanted me elected from Maharashtra. I missed the chance because my name was not on Maharashtra’s electoral rolls. This time I had been assured of the nomination by Sanjay Gandhi. He never broke his word.

  I had no illusions of being either a distinguished writer or an editor. There were many writers and poets more distinguished than I. And although I had earned a certain amount of notoriety as editor of The Illustrated Weekly of India, there were journalists enjoying greater public esteem. However, I was as happy as a child given a whoppingly expensive birthday present. I rang up my wife. She rang up my son and daughter. I shouted out the news to my office colleagues and shook hands with all of them. I told everyone I met in the corridors of the PTI building from managers, clerks, liftmen and chaprasis. I drove to my aged, ninety-year-old mother and woke her up from her siesta to tell her. ‘Your father would have been very happy to hear this,’ she said with tears of joy flowing down her cheeks. My father had been member of the Upper House half a century earlier.

  By the evening when the names of new members were announced on All India Radio, my telephone began to ring incessantly and congratulatory telegrams began to pour in. I knew I would have no peace for the next few days. Early next morning I got out of Delhi and drove away to my summer villa in Kasauli.

  The swearing-in ceremony came more than a month later. The only thing that marked me out as different from other new MPs was that, while they
took their oaths in the name of God, I, being an agnostic, made an affirmation. To my great delight I found myself seated next to my college days’ heart-throb, Nargis Dutt.

  I had planned not to open my mouth in the first session but to watch the proceedings, familiarize myself with the way the House conducted itself and get to know other members. My self-imposed vow of silence was rudely shattered within the first week. As I arrived in the House one morning, I found a note from R.K. Dhawan awaiting me saying that Mrs Gandhi wanted to see me urgently. I hurried to her office. Dhawan handed me a cyclostyled copy of the speech made by Bhupesh Gupta the afternoon earlier and a small book of rules with relevant passages marked in ink. Bhupesh had described me as Mrs Gandhi’s sycophant. Mrs Gandhi wanted me to rebut the charge.

  Instead of making my debut with a speech on a matter of national importance, I had to defend Mrs Gandhi nominating someone undeserving as a member of the Rajya Sabha. My problem was how to avoid beating my own trumpet and yet effectively put across that I was neither wholly undistinguished and undeserving nor simply a chamcha of the Gandhi family.

  I did the best I could. I quoted people like L.K. Advani for my having pleaded for the release of the leaders held in captivity during the Emergency and having been even-handed in my praise and blame of political leaders irrespective of their political bias. I said that it was unfair of Bhupesh Gupta to have maligned me when I was not present in the House but if he withdrew the offending remark, I would be happy to shake hands with him and call it quits. Bhupesh replied: ‘I am a communist. We never withdraw our words.’ I lost my temper and let loose a string of Punjabi epithets reflecting on the morals of his female relatives. There was an uproar of protests from communist MPs. My volley of abuse was struck off the record. No matter, I had said what I wanted and felt lighter. It was not a very auspicious beginning of my career as a parliamentarian.

  It did not take me very long to size up my fellow MPs. Gupta had a great reputation as a parliamentarian. But since I had suffered the sting of his forked tongue, I never got to like him nor ever spoke to him. He was a sick man and died soon after.

  I was impressed by Piloo Modi. He was a good orator and a ready wit. Unfortunately, he could not resist acting the clown and keeping a running commentary going through the proceedings. He had many clashes with the overloyal and loud J.K. Jain. Piloo scored over Jain every time. Piloo’s sudden death deprived the house of a lot of laughter.

  Among the opposition members there were a number of excellent speakers, notably L.K. Advani, Jaswant Singh, Hukum Narain Dev Yadav, Ladli Mohan Nigam and Dinesh Goswami. Among newcomers there was Jayalalitha. Besides being a classic beauty, she was a hard-working girl and a gifted speaker. Only she did not take the Rajya Sabha seriously and was often absent. Another equally impressive woman speaker was Margaret Alva. Somehow, no sooner than she switched over from the opposition to the treasury benches, much of the fire went out of her. The same happened to Satyapal Malik when he quit the Lok Dal. I was not particularly impressed with any of the Congress party backbenchers save Chaudhary Sultan Singh, Rafiq Zakaria, Saroj Khaparde and later G.L. Bansal. They had and have a number of lady members but most of them made their presence felt by barracking opposition speakers. Amarjeet Kaur, who has the making of a good parliamentarian continues to read prepared texts. Manners of some members left much to be desired. The pachydermatous Kalpnath Rai, who was later elevated to a ministerial post, was often ticked off by the chairman for unseemly behaviour. His friend Sita Ram Kesri (picked up, put down and picked up again) could often be crude beyond words. We also had a large number of irrepressible windbags. There was Rameshwar Prasad Singh who was perpetually raising vyavastha ke prashna (points of order), getting into hot arguments with the very gentle and tolerant Hidayatullah and staging walkouts. His place was taken by a much abler Suresh Kalmadi who knew his facts and often took on the ruling party single-handed. He was loud, aggressive, but also impressive, and about the only member that the then chairman, Venkataraman, could not subdue.

  There was something ill-omened about my presence as one after another people allotted seats next to mine were ‘called to their heavenly abodes’. First, it was the beautiful Nargis Dutt. Her place was taken by the poet Bhagwati Charan Verma. He had been there long before me but treated the House as a pleasant place for a peaceful snooze. He used to arrive at the end of the noisy question hour and zero hour, exchange namaskars with me and then doze off. Once I asked him the name of a member who was speaking. With a beatific smile on his face, Vermaji replied: ‘Naam vaam to main kisi ka nahin janta [I don’t know anyone’s name or anything].’ After a few months, he too died. During my last session, my neighbour was the ninety-year-old ornithologist, Salim Ali. How I wished Allah would transfer some of my years to him!

  Before the advent of Rajiv Gandhi, the Rajya Sabha was indeed the House of Elders. The average age of members was well over fifty. Half a century of striving in sedentary jobs essential to bring them into the realm of possibles for the Rajya Sabha had played havoc with their digestive systems. A fair proportion of them were diabetic or dyspeptic and suffered from constipation, piles and other diseases of ageing, notably flatulence. Besides natural infirmities that come with age, we Indians are singularly insensitive about others’ feelings. Belching loudly is almost an accepted form of expressing gratification. Breaking wind in public, though frowned upon, is condoned. I had to put up with at least three shameless farters given seats not far from mine. One was in the row behind mine and sat next to H.L. Kapur. He was a rotund, cherubic member from an eastern region and believed in expressing himself from his rear end. This could be most disconcerting to anyone who was speaking. Once he broke wind so loudly that even the ever-suffering Kapur turned to me and asked, ‘Does this amount to contempt of the House?’ I thought to myself that one day before I retired, I would ask Chairman Venkataraman for a ruling on the permitted decibels allowed for this form of expression. Also to request him to install a stinko-meter which records the pungency of malodorous vapours a member is allowed to emit per session. It was my misfortune that for two years the seat once occupied by the lovely Nargis Dutt was occupied by a member who believed in the Christian principle of keeping his right- and left-hand neighbours guessing the source of his benevolence: he believed in gupta daan of the most malodorous intensity while pretending to be deeply absorbed in the debate.

  Nominated members are harijans of the House of Elders, treated more as decorative trimmings and expected to maintain a golden silence. When they want to speak, they have to await their turn till representatives of all the political parties have had their say. This is usually late in the evening when the House is almost empty and the press gallery left with only correspondents of the two major news agencies. Being frustrated at this state of affairs, I joined a group of seventeen consisting of representatives of Congress (S), the National Conference, Socialist and Republican Party and a couple of Independents. We chose S.W. Dhabe as our leader and Ghulam Rasool Mattoo as deputy leader. The chairman agreed to consider us as a party and allot us precedence and time according to our strength. At the time, Akali members resigned from both Houses and affairs of the Punjab started coming to a boil. Willy-nilly, I became the spokesman of the independent but anti-government point of view on the Punjab. Although I spoke on many other topics, particularly those concerned with foreign affairs (notably relations with Pakistan on which I usually defended Pakistan), information, broadcasting and the media, education, railways and cultural problems, it was on the Punjab, Sikhs and Akalis that I was listened to with a certain amount of attention as an expert. I soon found myself in the ranks of the opposition. Thereafter, the Congress party had its own guns lined against me.

  The tragic succession of events brought out whatever I had in the way of oratory within me. I was as outspoken in condemning Bhindranwale as comrade Harkishen Singh Surjeet. When the government broke its word, given many times, that it had no intention of ordering the invasion of the Golden Tem
ple by the army, I not only returned my Padma Bhushan but also mounted single-handed the most blistering attack on Mrs Gandhi on what I denounced as ‘a grave error of judgement’. I had the entire House, including the opposition, against me. Mrs Gandhi did me the honour of referring to my speech as being ‘against national interests’. I became India’s villain number one. That did not deter me. I continued to press for the immediate release of Akali leaders and reopening a dialogue with them. I pleaded for compassionate treatment of Sikh soldiers who deserted their regiments following Operation Bluestar. I was dubbed as a Sikh communalist by the entire media of the country.

  A few months later came Mrs Gandhi’s assassination. I sought special permission from the chairman to pay her tribute. I did so with all the eloquence at my command because, despite all my differences, I loved and respected her. My tribute was more sincere and therefore better worded than any paid to her in the House. This is what I said:

  ‘I thank you for giving me this opportunity of paying tribute to our departed leader Indira Gandhi. I speak of her in four capacities. First, as one who for a brief period had the privilege of her friendship and to whom I owe my presence in this august assembly today. Second, as a critic of her policies, particularly in so far as they concerned the Punjab and earned her displeasure for doing so. Third, as a Sikh and a member of the same community to which her assassins belonged and bearing the stigma that many of my countrymen have imprinted on us. Finally, and above all, as an Indian who feels passionately that the most befitting tribute we can pay this great woman is to strive to achieve her unfulfilled dream of creating a united, strong, prosperous and happy India.