Notes On the Great Indian Circus

by Khushwant Singh

  The Hindustan Times, 2 December 1995

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  Life at 100

  In this International Year of the Old have you ever pondered over what will be the state of your mind when you get close to 100? I give you an instance of a man who has scored a century. He used to pray: ‘May I live for 100 years, may I see for 100 years and may I hear for 100 years.’ Now that Bosa Ram Hassija has achieved his ambition, his mind has stopped functioning. He wants to see his elder brother, Remaldas, who went quite some time ago, and his grandfather, Khilanda Ram, who has been dead for over 60 years. He asks where his wife Bhagwan Devi has gone. She left this world 15 years ago. It is believed that when a person’s end is near, he remembers those gone before him. While living with him, he asks his servant to take him to his eldest son Lachhman Dass who has not seen him for four days. After taking his breakfast, lunch and dinner, he forgets everything except the glass of milk which he is in the habit of taking before retiring for the night. He does not even recognize his daughters or his youngest son who was always his favourite. The fellow never returned his father’s affection. He remembers only one name in the family—that of Lakshmi, his daughter-in-law, as she is the only one who serves him devotedly. He showers blessings and praises on her for her devotion and says: ‘Yeh iss ke Maan-Baap kee shiksha ko pratap hai. (All this is due to her upbringing.)’

  He has cataract in both his eyes and is also somewhat hard of hearing. His possessions are a guthri (cotton sack) in which he keeps a dhoti, a chaddar, a towel and a brass tumbler. He has no worries and is oblivious of what is going on around him.

  Bosa Ram often recalled the days when he was in what is now Pakistan. He used to wrestle with his friend Jhangi Ram. Their sons—Nathu and Lachhman—wrestled with each other. At the time he and his elder brother owned a cloth shop and a ghee store. ‘Those were the golden years: everything was in abundance—milk was sold at 5 annas a seer. There was no scarcity of food or water; no pollution.’

  He never suffered from a serious illness. If you asked him the secret of his good health, he replied with authority: ‘Tel maalish. (Oil massage.)’ It was sarson ka tel (mustard oil) then; it is mustard oil now. He does push-ups and a little jogging before sitting down for prayer to thank God for giving him a happy, healthy life.

  He wants that when he goes, his bier should be decorated with balloons and buntings and a brass band follow it. After cremation, his relatives and friends should be entertained at Preetibhoj. He has seen three generations and will leave behind, besides his two sons and three daughters, 17 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren.

  The Hindustan Times, 19 June 1999

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  Talking about Mir

  In my list of great masters of the Urdu, the name of Mir Taqi Mir (1723-1810) would be among the top five. My interest in him was not as a poet of great merit but as a chronicler of the times in which he lived. While working on Delhi: A Novel which I based largely on eyewitness accounts, I was looking for someone who had seen and written of the devastation caused to Delhi by two invaders, the Persian Nadir Shah and the Afghan Ahmed Shah Abdali.

  I found Mir Taqi Mir. He was born in Agra, spent most of his life in Delhi and its neighbourhood, and when the situation became intolerable, migrated to Lucknow where he died. Mir wrote his autobiography in Persian. Since I do not know Persian, I had to rely on its Urdu translation. He did not write very much about himself, his love affairs, his wife or children, but largely about his father, his friends, his patrons and fellow poets.

  I made up personal details of his life from my imagination and created a few scenes with the help of his poems which I translated. I knew my readers would forgive me for the liberties I took because my version was a mixture of fact and fiction. I was eager to find an authentic biography of Mir. I found the next best thing: an authentic translation of Mir’s autobiography Zikr-i-Mir translated by C.M. Naim, Professor of Urdu at Chicago University. Naim has done well to give a historical background of Mir’s childhood, upbringing, and poetical career during the period of chaos following the death of Emperor Aurangzeb in 1707 till the British took Delhi under their protection in 1803. Besides Persians and Afghans, Delhi was sacked and pillaged by Marathas, Jats, Rohillas and Sikhs till it had nothing left worth looting. So these marauders set fire to Delhi mohallas, massacred its inhabitants, abducted and raped its women. Mir drew vivid pictures of what he saw and put them on paper with tears of blood. I learnt a lot more from Naim’s translation than I knew when I created the fictional Mir for my novel. For instance, I did not realize that homosexuality was rampant and that falling in love with young boys was more common than falling in love with girls, and that holy men, fakirs, derveshs and malangs who spent most of their time in prayer and meditation, did not regard sodomy as a sin. I also did not know that it was customary for authors to append their favourite jokes at the end of their books. Naim has quite a few of Mir’s choicest, some highly obscene, at the end of his translation of Zikr-i-Mir. No editor of an Indian paper dare publish them even in a book review.

  Naim has in the appendices written of Mir’s concept of love. Like his father, Mir wrote a lot about ishq but most of it was Ishq-i-haqeeqee—divine love—and not as much about Ishq-i-majayi, earthly love. He evidently had a couple of affairs with married women whose identities remain unknown. These are frustrating lacunae in Mir’s autobiography. I filled the gaps using my imagination. May Mir Sahib forgive my encroachment into his private life.

  I was hoping to see some translations of Mir’s poems in the appendices. Alas! Naim has restricted himself to translating only couplets that appear in the text of Zikr-i-Mir. Seeing the way he handles the English language, I am sure he would have done an excellent job (much better than mine) in rendering at least a few of Mir’s popular compositions. I have taken the liberty of quoting a couple of my efforts in my novel. This first one is on drunkenness: Yaaro Mujhey maaf karo, mein nashey mein hoon:

  ‘Friends forgive me! You can see I am somewhat drunk

  If you must, an empty cup let it be,

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  As the flask goes round, give me just a sip—

  Not full to the top, just enough to wet my lip;

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  If I use rude words, it is all due to drink

  You too may call me names and whatever else you think,

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  Either hold me in turn as you hold a cup of wine

  Or a little way come with me, let your company be mine,

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  What can I do, if I try to walk I stumble,

  Be not cross with me, please do not grumble;

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  The Friday prayer is always there, it will not run away

  It will come along with you if for a while you’ll stay

  For I am somewhat drunk.

  Meer can be as touchy as hell when it is his whim

  He is made of fragile glass, take no liberty with him;

  For he is drunk.’

  The second known by rote to lovers of Urdu poetry was composed after his first appearance in a mushaira in Lucknow. The audience apparently laughed at his ungainly appearance and shabby clothing and wanted to know where he came from. Mir replied:

  ‘You men of these eastern regions

  Knowing my beggarly state you mock me;

  You snigger amongst yourselves and ask me

  Where on earth can you have come from?

  Let me tell you!

  There once was a fair city,

  Among cities of the world the first in fame;

  It hath been ruined and laid desolate,

  To that city I belong, Delhi is its name.’

  The Hindustan Times, 3 July 1999

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  The Master Builder

  When we talk about the builders of modern India, we tend to restrict our list to eminent politicians and social workers: Tilak, Gokhale, C.R. Das,
Gandhi, Nehru, Sarojini Naidu and a few others. Not many of the present generation of north Indians even know the name of one who deserves the first place on the list of men who changed the face of India in more ways than one: he was Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Aiyar.

  In the ten years he was Dewan of Travancore, he initiated the scheme of compulsory primary education; he was the leader of Dalits’ entry into temples; he was a builder of dams, canals, hydroelectric works, fertilizer plants. He was a member of the Viceroy’s Executive Council, a close friend of Annie Besant, legal adviser of Motilal Nehru and many nationalist leaders. He was vice-chancellor of three universities, delegate at the third Round Table Conference and much else.

  I first saw him when he came to deliver the convocation address of the Punjab University at Lahore. He was a strikingly handsome man, fair-skinned, with aquiline features and large drooping eyes. He also had the gift of words. It was rumoured that Lady Willingdon was besotted with him. He took adoration in his stride. At the Lahore convocation he raised a lot of laughter when he said memsahibs who could not pronounce the word ‘Dewan’ called him ‘Dear one’.

  I had the privilege of having him over for dinner in my home in London some time in 1950. By then he was an old man and had to be escorted by his son. But he was lively as ever. I got to know four generations of the family. In Bombay I met his granddaughter, Shakuntala Jagannathan, Director of Tourism of the western and central regions and author of books on Hinduism. Then I met Shakuntala’s daughter, Nanditha Krishna. The last time I was in Chennai, she invited me to lunch at their ancestral family mansion, ‘The Grove’, standing among sprawling acres of ancient trees. Both mother and daughter have inherited their looks from Sir C.P. Nanditha is a ravishing beauty and author of several books. Brains and beauty make a lethal combination.

  Shakuntala Jagannathan has written about her grandsire in Sir C.P. Remembered. It is a collection of reminiscences of an adoring grandchild of this great patriarch. She says Thatha (Tamil for Dadaji) was born on Deepavali of 1879 at Wandiwash. His father had his horoscope cast by a European and an Indian astrologer.

  Both predicted that he would not pass any exams. Thatha proceeded to top the list in every examination he sat for and came to be known as the ‘Prize Boy’. He was a voracious reader. Tamil, Sanskrit, English and French were grist to his all-devouring mill. He also loved mathematics.

  He did not want to be a lawyer but his father coaxed him into the legal profession. Tamilian superstition was that no new venture should be undertaken on a Tuesday. Thatha chose to join the Madras Bar on a Tuesday. All he made in the first year of his practice was Rs 104. Six years later he was earning more than any other lawyer. He was offered a place on the Bench. He turned it down with contempt. He wrote: ‘I prefer, Mr Chief Justice, to talk nonsense for a few hours each day than to hear nonsense everyday and all day long.’

  His rise was meteoric. His most creative years were in the service of the Maharajah of Travancore. Kerala owes its 100 per cent literacy to the moves initiated by Thatha. Also the agricultural and industrial prosperity that came to the state and its neighbours through the schemes initiated by him. He was fiercely loyal to his Maharajah and on the eve of Independence, pleaded for an independent Travancore. His favourite hero was Hanuman and he often quoted Milton in his support: ‘Unshaken, unseduced, unterrifled/His Loyalty he kept.’

  Thatha wanted to retire in Ooty. That was not to be. He was sought after by Nehru for advice and sent to the United Nations to argue India’s case on Kashmir. If Krishna Menon had let Thatha do so instead of hogging the limelight for himself, we would not be in the predicament we find ourselves in today. Once when Thatha returned to Travancore, the citizens turned out in thousands to welcome him and an attempt was made on his life. Shakuntala does not tell us what the motives of the would-be assassin were or what happened to him. My friend P.R. Krishna Narayanan, retired press officer of Lakshwadweep in an article, ‘The Omniscient C.P. Ramaswami Aiyar’ (New Swatantra, November 1988) was of the opinion that it was not an attempt to kill him but to disfigure him. It failed on both counts. Thatha recovered from his injuries without the sign of a scar on his handsome face. He died in London at the ripe age of 87.

  The Hindustan Times, 17 July 1999

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  Chetan Anand

  In the two years I was in the government College, Lahore, I got to know a lot of people who later made it to the top, or near the top, in the film industry.

  Two years senior to me was Balraj Sahni. His younger brother, Bhisham, B.R. Chopra and Chetan Anand were in the same class with me. A few years junior were Dev Anand and Uma Kashyap, who as Kamini Kaushal, rose to the top. Another junior contemporary was I.S. Johar who was in Forman Christian College. Most of these men and women re-emerged in my life in later years. But the closest to me during my Lahore days was Chetan Anand. He was quite a character.

  Chetan Anand was a pretty boy with curly hair and soulful eyes. He was much sought after by tough lads who fancied effeminate males.

  Chetan avoided them like the plague and attached himself to me. Although tongues wagged, there was nothing homosexual about our relationship. We walked from our hostel to college together, sat side by side in our classes, played tennis and went to the pictures.

  Like me he too aspired to get into the ICS and came to England to sit for the exams. Neither of us made the grade.

  I returned to Lahore with a law degree. He had no more than the BA he had taken from the Punjab University. He was desperately looking for a job.

  He spent a summer in my apartment. I saw another side to Chetan then. Women found him very attractive and he had a unique approach of ingratiating himself in their favour. On the hottest days in June he would go out wearing his overcoat, a stubble on his chin and with a single flower in his hand, call on his lady friends. Inevitably the dialogue opened with the young lady asking him why he was wearing an overcoat. ‘This is all I possess in the world,’ he would reply as he presented her with the single flower in his hand. He had phenomenal success.

  In due course he succeeded in winning the heart of the most sought-after girl in the university, Uma Chatterjee. Though she was Christian, she defied her parents and agreed to marry a Hindu boy who till then had no job.

  I threw a large party to celebrate their engagement. I discovered fickleness in Chetan’s character. He flirted outrageously with other girls in the party. Next morning when I reprimanded him and called him a harami he smiled disarmingly and brushed away my protests. They were married and had two children. Uma could not take his philandering any longer and left him for Alkazi. Chetan shacked up with a Sikh girl young enough to be his daughter.

  We continued to see each other. I wrote to him about his films. He only made one good one.

  He produced the son et lumière programmes on the Delhi Red Fort based on the script written by me. I heard that he claimed to have written the text as well but when I questioned him, he denied ever having made the claim.

  When I moved to Bombay to take up the editorship of The Illustrated Weekly of India, I looked forward to renewing acquaintance with friends from my Lahore days who had become big names in the film world. And most of all with Chetan Anand who had enjoyed my hospitality on innumerable occasions and been closest to me.

  I spent many weekends in Balraj Sahni’s villa in Juhu. B.R. Chopra asked me to his home a couple of times as did Kamini Kaushal. Once a week I dined with I.S. Johar and his ex-wife Rama Bans. Even Dev Anand invited me to his large cocktail parties. But Chetan Anand whom I expected to see more than anyone else remained mysteriously silent.

  He rang me up a few times when he wanted publicity for something he was doing and usually ended the dialogue with the vague ‘Kabhi hamare ghar aana. (Drop in some time.)’

  I was disappointed and angry. A few months before I was due to leave Bombay, I ran into Chetan and his lady friend at a party. She asked me, ‘Why haven’t you come to our home?’ I exploded: ‘Because I have never been asked by t
hat kameena friend of yours.’ Chetan tried to make light of it. ‘Sardar you are very angry with me. When will you come?’

  I couldn’t take it any more. ‘Never!’ I yelled back. ‘You are a besharam matlabee (shameless self-seeker). It never occurred to you to return the months of hospitality you enjoyed.’

  People can be divided into givers and takers, suckers and spongers. Chetan Anand was the biggest taker and sponger I met in my life.

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  Balwant Gargi

  I cannot recall when and where I first met Balwant Gargi. It was sometime during my Lahore days between 1940 and 1947. I was trying to catch up on my Punjabi which I had learnt to read in my village, Hadali, and kept up to be able to read and write to my mother who knew no other language. Of its literature I knew next to nothing except a few scriptural texts which we were forced to memorize in order to be able to say our prayers. I did not understand what they meant. On my return to India I tried to read Bhai Veer Singh’s poetry.

  While I found some of his short poems quite enchanting, I could not bring myself to share the enthusiasm Punjabi litterateurs had for his long epic poems in blank verse. His novels like those of the celebrated Nanak Singh (and believe it or not the Akali leader Master Tara Singh), I found uniformly second rate. Surely there was more to Punjabi literature than these works?

  Having almost no legal work in hand, I spent more time reading classical poets and novelists of English, Urdu and Punjabi than I did my law books. As far as Punjabi was concerned, I started with the poet Mohan Singh, then professor in the newly opened Sikh National College. I found his poems far superior to those I had read.

  I invited him home. He became a regular visitor. He introduced me to Professor Teja Singh who wrote books in Gurumukhi and English and to Kartar Singh Duggal. I expect Gargi was introduced to me by one of these men as an up-and-coming playwright and prose writer. There were not many Hindus who wrote in the Gurumukhi script in those days. He came from a Bania family of Bhatinda and knew the Jat and the lower-middle-class urban community very well. He handled the Punjabi language better than most writers of prose and spiced his narrative with wit, sarcasm and acid humour. Or I might have met him in the leftist circle of Lahore. He was closer to the Communist Party than I. He was perhaps a card-holder; I was a fellow traveller. I parted company with the communists much earlier than Gargi, and turned into an angry critic. Gargi took his time to reject communism. We had quite a few things in common.