Absolute Khushwant

by Khushwant Singh

  Rajiv was young and charming, so the country was optimistic when he came to power. But he did very little with the massive mandate he had won after his mother’s assassination.

  History will never forget the shameful way in which he behaved after Mrs Gandhi died. That speech he made: ‘When a big tree falls, the earth is bound to shake . . .’ when Sikhs were being burnt alive in the capital—that was unforgivable! He could easily have stopped the massacres. All he had to do was go out and say, ‘This must stop’ and call in the army. But he didn’t, he almost justified the carnage with that remark. I cannot imagine his grandfather [Nehru] allowing such a thing to continue. Nehru had courage; he would have gone out and confronted the mobs. He did that during the Partition riots. That’s the difference between a leader and a novice.

  Sanjay was dynamic; Rajiv was just a boy scout.

  I think Rahul is much more talented than his father. He has a vision and that’s very important. I’m impressed with him, impressed with the way in which he’s conducting himself. He has the right attitude. Even if much of what he does only amounts to gestures, the thinking behind them is right.

  He has taken on Mayawati in her own territory. It is a brave thing to do. He himself seems to have no caste or class prejudice. What he has been doing in Amethi, staying with the lowest castes and sharing their food—I don’t think you can criticize him for that. He is not being patronizing; he is highlighting a shameful reality in our country. Even in the twenty-first century there are untouchables in our society and they live wretched lives.

  And the manner in which he took on the Shiv Sena in Bombay [February 2010]. He lambasted them for attacking non-Maharashtrians and said publicly that Bombay was for all Indians. Then he went to the lion’s den and dared them to do their worst. He walked around in the streets, travelled by local train. The Shiv Sena goondas failed completely. Hardly any Maharashtrian joined the Shiv Sena protest against Rahul. It was a very well-planned move by Rahul and his advisers. It was good theatre.

  The young Gandhi is becoming a mature leader. Maybe after the next elections [2014], if his party wins, he may agree to become PM. Or he may still choose not to. He has his priorities right—he is not concerned about position and kursi, but strengthening the Congress party.

  Rahul had telephoned sometime last year and said that he wanted to come and see me. He came at the appointed time—4 p.m.—and spent almost an hour in my home. I gave him tea—he said he’d like some tea—and we spoke of politics; about the current situation in general and other things in particular.

  I told him, ‘Your cadres are very weak. The BJP has the RSS and VHP to work for it at the grassroots level. The Congress lacks that.’ He said he agreed with me and that he was already working on this. He is seeing to it that party members are trained and the party built up. I see that he has been concentrating on young workers and has picked some very talented youngsters, many of them women. I also told him that during elections, voters have to be wooed and drawn towards the party. I said that the most important thing that he should keep in mind is to resist flatterers and to hold back from accepting any portfolio.

  We didn’t talk about his grandmother or his great grandfather.

  On Honesty

  I don’t think there are many honest people around these days. I can’t think of anyone. My ideal in this regard will always be Manzur Qadir, whom I had first met while practising at the Lahore High Court. Later, he became Pakistan’s foreign minister and then chief justice of the Lahore High Court. In all these years I haven’t met a more honest man than Qadir and that’s why I keep his photograph on my mantelpiece, where I can always see it. Qadir was so honest that the income-tax department had invariably to return money to him for he always overpaid. He was the only person I know who never told a lie and took great pains to avoid hurting people. He was a sort of litmus paper with which his friends would test their own integrity. Whenever we were in doubt about what would be the right thing to do, we’d ask ourselves, would Manzur approve?

  Manzur was most unusual. He observed the highest standards of rectitude, a rare trait, particularly among lawyers. He took his fees by cheque and when someone did pay in cash, gave receipts for the full amount.

  A couple of years older than me, Manzur and I shared a love for literature. And like me, he was an agnostic. A short, balding man with thick glasses, Manzur married Asghari, a great beauty, whom the painter Roerich used as a model for his portraits of the Madonna. Manzur and I were lucky that our wives, both equally difficult, hit it off. We began eating in each other’s homes every other evening. Kaval shared Manzur’s enthusiasm for the cinema and went to the movies together at least once every week. They also shared a passion for mangoes and would, between them, demolish a dozen at one sitting. Our friendship was much talked about, especially since such close friendships between Sikhs or Hindus and Muslims were rare in those days.

  Honesty is such a rare virtue these days that awards are given to people for being honest. Sulabh International had conferred the ‘Honest Man of the Year’ award on me in 2000. I’m sure there are hundreds of honest people around but if I’m asked to point them out I’d have great difficulty in doing so.

  There are no set yardsticks to measure honesty, but I could safely say one thing about myself—I have rarely ever lied and this has been so right from my childhood. I have always been outspoken and written without fear of any kind. I’ve never lied to my wife or to my friends. This may be because I’m emotionally strong. I have never cultivated a close friend or lover. I could be dropped by friends but I’m least bothered. I have always been fearless, even as a child I was known to speak my mind. Of course, there are consequences. I was on the hit list of a certain terrorist group and my house had to be guarded for fifteen years, so there are ways in which I’ve had to pay a price.

  It is tragic that a clean man like Manmohan Singh can lose in an election whereas Phoolan Devi won. We’ve had ministers in the Centre— Murli Manohar Joshi and L.K. Advani—who’ve faced a chargesheet and yet continued to hold on to their portfolios. This alone speaks volumes. The situation is really pathetic; it cannot get worse. I drown my sorrow in a glass of whisky every evening and I feel ashamed. The average man withdraws into himself but he shouldn’t become bitter, for bitterness erodes one’s being.

  On the British

  I think the happiest phase of my life was when I was studying in England. I was carefree, and I had many friends.

  Indians have looked upon the English as unwanted rulers who exploited India, kept their distance from Indians and, as soon as tenures were over, went back to their homes in England. All victorious armies plunder, rape and kill. Some go on a rampage without the slightest concern about public opinion. The truth is that the British did it with finesse and more thoroughness than the others. It was during my years in London as a student and then with our High Commission that I saw some of the loot that the British had taken from the Punjab. There was of course the Koh- i-Noor diamond taken from the boy Maharaja Dalip Singh, youngest son of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. It was also cut into three—one piece each for the crowns of the King and Queen of England and one piece on display at the Tower of London museum. There was Ranjit Singh’s gold-leaf covered throne in the Victoria and Albert Museum. There were innumerable weapons—cannons, muskets, swords, spears, shields and chainmail shirts in the War Museum. Manuscripts, documents, miniature paintings, scriptural texts, ceremonial robes . . . you name them, they had them, looted from all parts of India while they expanded their empire from the Arakan to the Indus. More than what could be seen were priceless artefacts taken by Governor Generals, army commanders, residents and senior civil servants. They were in private collections in castles and country mansions, now divided between descendants of the plunderers. And there is little hope of our ever getting any of these back to our country, where they rightfully belong.

  It is true that the majority of the British who came here came because they could not get good jobs in thei
r own country. Many of them hated everything about India—its climate, the mosquitoes and flies, the dirt, the smell . . . Above all, they hated Indians. There were others who enjoyed the luxury of living in spacious bungalows with a retinue of servants, shikar, horse-riding, pig-sticking, drinking and dancing, but kept to themselves, not mixing or socializing with Indians. They had ‘white only’ clubs and many of them remained aloof; some even made their disdain apparent. I clearly remember seeing a specially reserved train compartment at the Delhi railway station—it had a board with ONLY FOR EUROPEANS AND ANGLO-INDIANS on it. However, there was a third variety of the English race who liked everything about India. They looked down on these racist clubs and their fellow Englishmen who kept apart, and went out of their way to befriend Indians. They maintained contact with their Indian friends even after returning to England. I was fortunate to have known quite a few of this kind—both those I met and became friends with during my long years in England and those I got to know in India. Amongst those closest to me were the Sinclairs. Sinbad was head of Burmah Shell. When in Bombay, I never stayed in a hotel—it was always with Elinor Sinclair and her family. Later, whenever I was in England, the Sinclairs’ home in London was my home. After Sinbad and Elinor died, it was the Croom-Johnsons. Henry was head of the British Council; his wife, Jane, a tall, handsome grey-eyed blonde, made it a point to reach out to Indians. She stayed with me in Kasauli, and my daughter and I stayed with her in London. Now Henry and Jane are also gone. But their children continue to be in touch with me and are friendly with Rahul and Mala, my son and daughter.

  On Delhi

  Among the capitals of the world, Delhi is unique. It has a longer history and more historical monuments than any other metropolis. Relics discovered in and around the city date well beyond the sixth century BC. As for monuments, there are more mosques, mausolea and memorials in Delhi than in any city in a Muslim country. There are few mosques anywhere in the world that can rival Delhi’s Jama Masjid. Another mosque that remains in your mind is the Moti Masjid or Pearl Mosque in the Red Fort, as small as the Jama Masjid is big. The beauty and perfection of Humayun’s mausoleum made it the model for the Taj Mahal. Delhi has many exquisite modern buildings as well—the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Secretariats, Parliament House, India Gate.

  The river Yamuna, second only to the Ganga in sacredness, marked Delhi’s eastern boundary, and a rocky ridge, the end of the Aravalli range, its western end. Between the river and the ridge rose several cities, each one the seat of the empire of Hindustan. As its population multiplied and spilled over the river and the ridge, Delhi became, after Calcutta and Bombay, the largest city of India.

  Most of Delhi’s trees grow wild, but a succession of rulers also laid out gardens and orchards wherever they lived. Little remains of these gardens today, besides their names: Hayat Baksh, Qudsia, Roshanara, Mahaldar Khan, among others. The most significant contribution was made by the British when they included extensive planting of trees in their blueprint for New Delhi. Saplings were planted as roads were laid out—the massive, shade-giving banyans, neems, jamuns, arjuns, mahuas and maulsaris that line the avenues of central Delhi. And, after Independence, the quick-growing jacarandas, laburnums, gulmohars and eucalypti. Between the old and the new, there is not a season when some tree or the other is not in full flower. The year starts with the glorious semul (silk cotton), followed by the chorisia (silk floss), palaash (flame of the forest), amaltas (laburnum), gulmohars and jarul (lagerstroenia). The city’s greenery contributed to a rich bird life but much has changed. You don’t see many mynahs and parakeets any more and sparrows have become scarce.

  There was a time when Dilliwalas were known for their courteous speech, good food and clothes, and their interest in poetry—after all it was the city that produced Mir Taqi Mir, Ghalib, Zauq and Zafar. But all that went when the Muslim elite migrated to Pakistan in ’47. They were replaced by Sikh and Hindu refugees from West Punjab eager to rehabilitate themselves, make a quick buck and show everyone how well they had done. Ostentatious display of wealth became the culture of Delhi’s rich. And since the city is essentially one of babus and politicians, a caste system evolved quickly. A caste hierarchy of the bureaucracy where you are judged by your status in the civil service—and politicians have their own ways and means of letting people know how important they are.

  You can love Delhi or hate it, but you cannot be indifferent towards it. My attitude towards the city cannot be clearly defined. Ghalib said it better: I asked my soul ‘What is Delhi?’ and my soul replied ‘The world is the body, Delhi its life.’

  I started by loving Delhi and continued to love the city for many years. Then my passion began to wane. I have often resented living here, but since I have to spend the rest of my days in Delhi, I have had to make my peace with the city, come to terms with it.

  I have always wanted people to love Delhi as much as I do. I have learnt much about the city roaming amongst its ancient ruins, its congested bazaars, mingling with its diplomatic corps and attending cocktail parties and I’ve always wanted to share all that I’ve learnt, so that people know about this city that I hold so dear. In my writing, through my novel Delhi and my columns, I have tried telling the story of Delhi from its earliest beginnings to the present times.

  I began to get disenchanted by the city on 15 August 1947, the day of India’s independence. My disenchantment had nothing to do with the British leaving our country but with what our new rulers did to the city I loved. Muslims who formed almost half the population of Delhi were forced out of the city, thanks to Partition. They took Urdu with them and the city’s rich cultural life. The British had carefully planned New Delhi for a limited population. They left old monuments untouched. Independent India’s new rulers did not have time to plan for the future. Huge parts of the old city wall were pulled down to make way for bazaars. New colonies sprang up everywhere, smothering ancient monuments—our new rulers did not believe these were worth preserving. It was heartbreaking. More than roads perpetually clogged by vehicles of all sorts, it is the murder of some of our past heritage that saddens me most.

  I rarely go out these days. The last time I stepped out was to visit the dentist last year. But apart from bad traffic and many more cars on the road, I found the streets of Delhi haven’t changed much. In fact, the city looked greener in some parts and cleaner.

  On Partition

  Just as world history is divided into two distinct eras—BC (Before Christ) and AD (Anno Domini, ‘in the year of our Lord’), for millions living in the Indian subcontinent, it is divided into BP (Before Partition) and PP (Post Partition).

  15 August 1947 marked the divisive moment when Pakistan in the north-west and Pakistan in the east, which later became Bangladesh, were separated from India. In fact, long before Jinnah had come up with the two- nation theory, it was people like Keshav Baliram Hedgewar, Bal Gangadhar Tilak, Lajpat Rai and V.D. Savarkar who had come up with the Hindu-nation theory. Lajpat Rai had even drawn a map of divided India, dividing the country into two parts along religious lines. It was a botched-up surgical operation. India’s arms were chopped off without any anaesthesia, and streams of blood flooded the land of the five rivers known as the Punjab.

  War broke out between Muslims on the one side, and Hindus and Sikhs on the other. It was not like other wars in which armed men battle with each other, but one in which one side, armed with swords, knives and staves, slew the other side, unarmed and unresisting. Over ten million were uprooted from their homes. In a couple of months a million were slaughtered in cold blood. Almost overnight, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs, who had co-existed amicably over centuries, became sworn enemies.

  The aftermath was more barbaric than anything beasts could have done to each other.

  From March 1947 the exodus had begun. The two communities had already started moving and by April riots had broken. By August it was a full-fledged movement.

  I was in Lahore till the 6th or 7th of August. There was a Parsi home n
ear ours which had ‘Parsee ka Makaan’ scrawled on its boundary walls. A Christian home had put up the cross on their front gates. But I’d stayed on with Kaval and the children. In fact, Jinnah, who was very close to my father, had told him that I could stay on in Lahore and he’d also told my father that he’d make me a judge at the Lahore High Court. So I stayed on even though there was an apparent air of tension. Then, one day, the CID Chief—a British named Chris Everett who had studied with me in London—came over and told me that it was dangerous for me to stay there any longer. So I sent the children to their grandparents in Kasauli and, escorted by six Baluch constables, my wife and I took a train to Kalka.

  As Kaval and I were heading towards the railway station we met Manzur Qadir. I handed him the keys to our home. We were sure that once the tension settled down we’d come back. That was not to be.

  We first reached Kasauli and from there I drove to Delhi. There wasn’t a soul in sight on the 200-mile stretch. I drove non-stop carrying a pistol with me—I didn’t even know how to fire one. I realized then that things were not okay.

  I arrived in Delhi on August 13, 1947. The next night I was among the crowd outside Parliament House, chanting Bharat Mata ki jai. We heard Sucheta Kripalani’s voice over loudspeakers singing Vande Mataram; then Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech.

  When my wife and I realized we could never go back, Manzur Qadir took great pains to have all our household things delivered to us— these included even half-empty whisky bottles— he had them sent across the border through a man named Bhagwan Das, a sessions judge at Ferozepur. This man drank the whisky and sent the furniture and other items. Two or three of my books, part of my prized collection, the then establishment in Pakistan did not allow to be sent across were Chughtai’s translation of Ghalib’s verse and an encyclopaedia of Islam (a Dutch publication).