| On Khushwant's death for TIMES of INDIA Mar 2014 |
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| Written by Administrator |
| Friday, 21 March 2014 09:36 |
Khushwant was a very nice man to know: Writer Jaishree MisraI met Khushwant relatively recently, given that some of his friendships stretch back nearly a hundred years.It was February 2000; my family and I had just moved back to Delhi from the UK, an experimental 'return home'. My first book had been published by Penguin in the UK and their Indian subsidiary was planning a launch party. A friend warned me about Delhi's literati - 'They can be very precious, very hawkish. A wide-eyed ingenue like you will get chewed up.' It didn't seem likely I would meet any fearsome literati anyway, given that we would be living on a farm on the edges of the city and would, for some considerable time, be preoccupied by settling in. Then a letter arrived in the post. My name and address was written on the envelope in a spiky scrawl I would come to know very well, and the letter head said Khushwant Singh, 45E Sujan Singh Park, New Delhi. Of course I recognised the name from the Illustrated Weekly of my childhood and a long-running syndicated column with the irreverent title of 'With Malice Towards One and All'. I had read 'Train to Pakistan' and knew also that Khushwant Singh had written a well-respected and voluminous History of the Sikhs. Vague memories of a few controversies stirred at the back of my mind - returning the Padma award to protest over Operation Bluestar, a legal wrangle with Maneka Gandhi who had tried to stop publication of a book - but I knew little more than this. I scanned the letter with astonishment. Khushwant Singh had just read 'Ancient Promises', and enjoyed it immensely. Would my husband and I be able to attend a small party at his flat as he would very much like to meet us and welcome us personally to Delhi. My debut novel was a small confessional story of an 18-year-old girl who loses her first love to an arranged marriage; I couldn't imagine a writer and journalist of Khushwant Singh's stature even glancing at a book like that, leave alone taking the trouble to read it and enjoy it. The small party turned out to be a gathering of about twenty or thirty writers, editors and journalists, in fact Delhi's notorious literati who, crammed into Khushwant's book-filled ground floor flat, couldn't have given me a warmer welcome as Khushwant worked his way around the room, personally introducing me. That was my first glimpse into the true nature of the man. Although he vastly preferred being known as cranky and irascible, I realised soon enough that this was one of the most generous and kind-hearted people I was ever likely to make acquaintance with. A committed family man, a loyal friend. We went again and again to 45E Sujan Singh Park many times after that. The rules - observed diligently by even VIPs - were (i) to never arrive without arranging it in advance (a sign above his front door reminded all visitors of this requirement, lest they should forget), (ii) to present themselves at 7pm on the dot and (iii) (to use Khushwant's own words) 'To f*** off please at 8pm', also on the dot, even if that meant leaving a sentence half-finished. For his part, he always had a whisky bottle on the ready (thoughtfully, beer for my husband and phalse ka juice for me and my daughter, who called him 'Cushion Singh'), unusual canapes like smoked salmon on brown bread and chicken vol-au-vents and, inevitably, a diverse array of visitors who trooped thorough his living room for the sheer pleasure of being in his small but exalted presence. Conversation, flowing around the bearded figure in the corner with ankles resting on an over-turned mooda, was always varied and interesting. Khushwant was perhaps the best raconteur I knew, witty, wise, self-deprecatory and with the most phenomenal memory for amusing anecdote. His welcome stretched even to our dog, Larry. When Kawal, Khushwant's wife, was sinking into the murky maw of Alzheimer's syndrome, he suggested we bring our new Boxer pup to visit. I was nervous, as Larry was boisterous and untrained, but - once again - Khushwant had thought of so much more. Kawal looked as though a hundred lightbulbs had been switched on inside her when Larry jumped onto her lap and proceeded to lick every inch of her face. When we moved back to England Khushwant wrote, letter after letter, always using those small blue aerogrammes to convey literary news, gossip and stories of summertime trips to Kasauli, his hilltop home that he lent so readily to friends like us. Whenever I returned to India, one of my favourite pre-holiday tasks was to visit a small specialist whisky shop around the corner from my office in Soho where I would pick up a bottle of Khushwant's favourite tipple, an Irish blend called Tullamore Dew. The man at the till grew familiar with this ritual, saying, 'For your nonagenarian friend, yes?' with a twinkle that always seemed to indicate that he didn't quite believe me. Despite the joshing, every time I left the shop with my bottle, I wondered if it would be the last one I'd have the pleasure of delivering to Khushwant. My very last visit to him was on the 13th of February last year as I was due to move to Kerala. A friend, the journalist and writer Humra Quraishi, was going to interview Khushwant for their latest book together ('The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous'), and I used the chance to slip past that stern Visitors' Warning on the door. I wished I hadn't because Khushwant was clearly tired, his fading hearing weaker than ever. But his mind, still razor-sharp, remembered all the details of people and incidents that Humra needed in order to finish the book. And, of course, nothing would compel him to let her down. Once, in a discussion about his kind of atheism that allowed for the deepest appreciation of religious texts and songs (in later life, Khushwant grew particularly fond of the gurbaani that came on TV from the Golden Temple), he concluded by stating that his true religion was work. 'Work is worship,' he said, 'but worship is not work.' Khushwant Singh would not want to be remembered as a worshipper but that's how I'll always see him, sitting in a pool of light in his armchair, writing into the night. (Jaishree Misra is the author of seven novels published by Penguin and Harper Collins) |
| Last Updated on Thursday, 07 December 2017 12:40 |