Sex,Scotch and Scholarship
Page 18
(Raga Suhi)
Religion lieth not in the patched coat the yogi wears,
Not in the staff he bears,
Nor in the ashes on his body.
Religion lieth not in rings in the ears,
Not in a shaven head,
Nor in the blowing of the conch-shell.
If thou must the path of true religion see,
Among the world’s impurities, be of impurities free.
Not by talk can you achieve union
He who sees all mankind as equals
Can be deemed to be a yogi.
Religion lieth not in visiting tombs
Nor in visiting places where they burn the dead
Not in sitting entranced in contemplation
Nor in wandering in the countryside or foreign lands
Nor in bathing at places of pilgrimage.
If thou must the path of true religion see,
Among the world’s impurities, be of impurities free.
When a man meets the true guru
His doubts are dispelled
And his mind ceases its wanderings;
Drops of nectar pour down on him like rain.
His ears catch strains of Sahaj’s celestial music
And his mind is lit up with knowledge divine.
If thou must the path of true religion see,
Among the world’s impurities, be of impurities free.
Sayeth Nanak, if thou must be a real yogi,
Be in the world but be dead to its tinsel values.
When the lute strikes notes without being touched
Know then that thou hast conquered fear.
If thou must the path of true religion see,
Among the world’s impurities, be of impurities free.
From Raga Vadhans
Mori run jhun laya, bhaine savan aya
(Raga Vadhans)
Sweet sound of water gurgling down the water-spout
(The peacock’s shrill, exultant cry)
Sister, it’s Savan, the month of rain!
Beloved Thine eyes bind me in a spell
(They pierce through me like daggers)
They fill my heart with greed and longing;
For one glimpse of thee I’ll give my life
For Thy Name may I be a sacrifice.
When Thou art mine, my heart fills with pride,
What can I be proud of if Thou art not with me?
Woman, smash thy bangles on the bedstead
Break thy arms, break the arms of the couch;
Thy adornments hold no charms
Thy Lord is in another’s arms.
The Lord likes not thy bangle-seller
Thy bracelets and glass bangles He doth spurn
Arms that do not the Lord’s neck embrace
With anguish shall forever burn.
All my friends have gone to their lovers
I feel wretched, whose door shall I seek?
Friends, of proven virtue and fair am I
Lord, does nothing about me find favour in Thine eye?
I plaited my tresses,
With vermilion daubed the parting of my hair
And went to Him
But with me He would not lie.
My heart is grief-stricken, I could die.
I wept, and the world wept with me
Even birds of the forest cried,
Only my soul torn out of my body shed not a tear,
Nay, my soul which separated me from my Beloved
shed not a tear
In a dream He came to me
(I woke) and he was gone.
From Asa-di-Var
Daya kapah santokh soot jat gandhi sat vat
I wept a flood of tears.
Beloved I cannot come to Thee,
No messenger will take my message;
Blessed sleep come thou back to me,
That in my dreams my Lover I again may see!
Nanak, what wilt thou give the messenger
Who brings thee a message from thy Master?
Ill sever my head to make a seat for him;
Headless though be, I’ll continue to serve him.
Why then do I not die? Why not give away my life?
My Husband is estranged from me and has
taken another wife!
Jalao aisee reet jit mai pyara veesrai
(Vadhans-di-Var)
Ritual that makes me forget my Beloved Lord shall
I burn.
O Nanak, that love is best that in the Lord’s
eyes doth merit earn.
The body is like a wife in her home,
When her Lord is away
She pines for him.
If her intentions are pure, she’ll be reunited
any time any day.
O Nanak, unless there be love,
False and futile is all talk.
Man who calculates good
In the spirit of give and take
Even for the good he does
He doth its virtue vitiate.
From Asa-di-Var
When making the sacred thread, the janeu,
See that following rules you pursue
Out of the cotton of compassion
Spin the thread of tranquillity
Let continence be the knot
And virtue the twist thereon.
O pandit, if such a sacred thread there be
Around our neck, we shall wear it willingly.
A thread so made will not break
It will not get dirty, be burnt or lost.
O Nanak, thou shall see
Those who wear this shall blessed be.
For four cowrie shells this thread is bought
A square is marked for the ceremony.
The Brahmin whispers a mantra in the ear
And thus becomes the guru and teacher.
But when the wearer dies, cast away is his thread
And threadless he goes on his voyage ahead.
About the Author
In this anthology, which comprises some of Khushwant Singh’s best writings, you can look forward to some talk of sex, a little of Scotch and much scholarship. The collection attempts to mirror the author’s concerns and passions — his love of nature, his anguish over the situation in Punjab, his interest in religions of the world and his scholarly research on the one into which he was born, Sikhism. You will find here a beautifully written piece on Guru Nanak, as well as translations of some of his hymns, a lyrical chapter on nature, as well as an analytical and perceptive article on Khalistan, a concept to which Khushwant has always been vehemently opposed. The author’s years as a Member of Parliament are amusingly documented in his characterstically fearless style. Pen-portraits of a number of people — some famous, others totally unknown — bear the same stamp. And then there is Khushwant Singh, the globe-trotter, uninhibited, often unashamedly lecherous, always at his humorous best.
The highlight of this book, however, is the expansive, autobiographical opening piece written in Khushwant’s characteristically candid style and perhaps the most complete self-portrait he has yet painted. To complete the picture, the anthology includes two brilliant short stories.
Quite simply, quintessential Khushwant.
Khushwant Singh is easily the most widely read author in India today. His weekly columns are reproduced by over fifty journals in all the regional languages of the country. He has done different things at different times: practised law, diplomacy and politics; taught comparative religion at Princeton and Swarthmore; and edited The Illustrated Weekly of India and The Hindustan Times. He has written regularly for several European and American journals including The New York Times. He has also edited and translated a number of literary works.
Author of eighty-nine books, Khushwant Singh is best known for his work of fiction, Train to Pakistan, and his two-volume History of the Sikhs, which is still considered the most authoritative writing on the subject. His acerbic pen, his wit and humour, and, most of all, his a
bility to laugh at himself, have ensured him immense popularity over the years.
He was a Member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. Among other honours, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 by the president of India (he returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the Union government’s siege of the Golden Temple, Amritsar).
He lives in New Delhi.
Rohini Singh, who has edited other selections of Khushwant Singh’s writings, is also the author of seven books on cookery published in the US, the UK and India.
HarperCollins Publishers India
a joint venture with
The India Today Group
Copyright © Khushwant Singh 1992
© Introduction, selection and arrangement Rohini Singh
Khushwant Singh asserts the moral
right to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1992
Fifteenth impression 2011
ISBN 13: 97-88-172-23-660-1
Epub Edition © March 2012 ISBN: 9789350292426
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