Absolute Khushwant
Page 9
On Death
At ninety-five I do think of death. I think of death very often but I don’t lose sleep over it. I think of those gone; keep wondering where they are. Where have they gone? Where will they be? I don’t know the answers—where you go, what happens next. To quote Omar Khayyam: Into this Universe, and Why not knowing/Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing . . .’ and ‘There was a Door to which I found no Key/There was a Veil through which I could not see/Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee/There seemed—and then no more of Thee and Me.’
All my contemporaries—whether here or in England or in Pakistan—they’re all gone. I don’t know where I’ll be in a year or two. I don’t fear death. What I dread is the day I go blind or am incapacitated because of old age— that’s what I fear—I’d rather die than live in that condition. I’m a burden enough on my daughter Mala and don’t want to be an extra burden on her.
All that I hope for is that when death comes to me it comes swiftly, without much pain, like fading away in sound slumber. Till then I’ll keep working and living each day as it comes. There’s so much left to do. I have to content myself by saying these lines of Iqbal: Baagh-e- bahisht sey mujhey hukm-e safar diya thha kyon?/ Kaar-e-Jahaan daraaz hai, ab mera intezaar kar (Why did you order me out of the garden of paradise? I have a lot left to do; now you wait for me). So I often tell Bade Mian, as I refer to him from time to time, that he’s got to wait for me as I still have work to complete.
I believe in these lines of Tennyson: Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me/And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea . . . Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!/And may there be no sadness or farewell, When I embark . . .
Death is rarely spoken about in our homes, I wonder why. Especially when each one of us knows that death has to come, has to strike; it’s inevitable. This line from Yas Yagana says it best: Khuda mein shak ho to ho, maut mein nahin koee shak (You may or may not doubt the existence of God, you can’t doubt the certainty of death). And one must prepare oneself to face it.
I once asked the Dalai Lama how one should face death and he had advised meditation.
I’m not scared of death; I do not fear it. Death is inevitable. While I have thought about it a lot, I don’t brood about it. I’m prepared for it. As Asadullah Khan Ghalib has so aptly put it: Rau mein hai raksh-e-umar kahaan dekheeye thhamey/Nai haath baag par hai na pa hai rakaab mein (Age travels at a galloping pace; who knows where it will stop/We do not have the reins in our hands nor our feet in the stirrups).
I believe in the Jain philosophy that death ought to be celebrated. Earlier, whenever I was upset or low, I used to go to the cremation grounds. It has a cleansing effect, and it worked like therapy for me. In fact, I’d written my own epitaph years ago: ‘Here lies one who spared neither man nor God/Waste not your tears on him, he was a sod/Writing nasty things he regarded as great fun/Thank the Lord he is dead, this son of a gun.’
I had even written my own obit in 1943 when I was still in my twenties. It later appeared in a collection of short stories, titled ‘Posthumous’. In the piece I had imagined The Tribune announcing news of my death it in its front page with a small photograph. The headline would read: Sardar Khushwant Singh Dead. And then in somewhat smaller print: We regret to announce the sudden death of Sardar Khushwant Singh at 6 p.m. last evening. He leaves behind a young widow, two infant children and a large number of friends and admirers . . . Amongst those who called at the late sardar’s residence were the PA to the chief justice, several ministers, and judges of the high court.
I had to cope with death when I lost my wife. Being an agnostic I could not find solace in religious rituals. Being essentially a loner I discouraged friends and relatives from coming to condole with me. I spent the first night alone sitting in my chair in the dark. At times I broke down, but soon recovered my composure. A couple of days later, I resumed my usual routine, working from dawn to dusk. That took my mind off the stark reality of having to live alone in an empty home for the rest of my days. When friends persisted in calling and upsetting my equilibrium I packed myself off to Goa to be by myself.
I used to be keen on a burial because with a burial you give back to the earth what you have taken. Now it will be the electric crematorium. I had requested the management of the Bahai faith if I could be buried. Initially they had agreed but then they came up with all sorts of conditions and rules. I had wanted to be buried in one corner with just a peepal tree next to my grave. After okaying this the management later said that that wouldn’t be possible and that my grave would be in the middle of a row and not in a corner. I wasn’t okay with that— even though I know that once you are dead it makes no difference. But I was keen to be buried in one corner. They also told me later that they would chant some prayers, which again I couldn’t agree with because I don’t believe in religion or in religious rituals of any kind.
Though I’m quite fit, I know I don’t have much time left. I’m coming to terms with death, preparing myself. I only hope it isn’t very painful. And since I have no faith in God, nor in the day of judgement, nor in the theory of reincarnation, I have to come to terms with the complete full stop. I have been criticized for not sparing even the dead, but then death does not sanctify a person, and if I find the person had been corrupt, I write about it even when he’s gone.
I don’t believe in rebirth or in reincarnation, in the day of judgement or in heaven or hell. I accept the finality of death. We do not know what happens to us after we die but one should help a person go in peace—at peace with himself and with the world.
Above all, when the time comes to go, one should go like a man without any regret or grievance against anyone. Allama Iqbal expressed it beautifully in a couplet in Persian: ‘You ask me about the signs of a man of faith? When death comes to him, he has a smile on his lips.’
On Myself
‘You have only one life so make the best use of it. Don’t waste time, for time is worship and not a minute should be wasted.’
I know I am an ugly man. But physical ugliness has never bothered me. Nor has it inhibited me. I have never been concerned with my outward appearance—my untidy turban and unkempt beard. What lies beneath—the real me—is conflicted by emotions of love and hate, general irritability and occasional equipoise, angry denunciation and tolerance of another’s point of view, rigid adherence to self-prescribed regimen and accommodation of others’ convenience.
Am I a likeable man? I don’t know. I’ve had very few close friends because I’ve never set much store by friendship. I get easily bored with people and would rather read a book or listen to music.
The one constant in my life has been my love for dogs and children. They’ve always given me great happiness. I also enjoy food— I’ve always liked trying different kinds of cuisines and continue to do so in spite of having to use partial dentures. Mughlai and Punjabi food are too heavy for me and I can no longer handle anything too rich. But about twice or thrice a week I order Italian or Chinese or Thai food from restaurants nearby, and the food’s delivered to the house.
Lately, my love for Urdu poetry has grown to such an extent that besides the books that I have to review, which are in English, I read only Urdu poetry. I keep Ghalib on my bedside table and an anthology of Urdu poetry on the table beside me where I sit the entire day.
I’ve always had a great interest in nature—in flowers and trees and in birds. I enjoy identifying the different birds that visit the gardens in both my homes—in Delhi and in Kasauli. I planted many fruit trees in Kasauli but the monkeys kept destroying them. Most of the trees in my garden in Sujan Singh Park have been planted by me—kadam, kusum, a bush of gardenia, a couple of jasmines, a raat ki rani and some avocado trees. I placed a bird bath at one end of the garden which has been shared, over the years, by sparrow, crows, pigeons, mynahs and a dozen stray cats that have made my home theirs. There was a time when I’d walk every day in the Lodi Gardens, which is so close to
my house. But now I’m more or less confined at home so I sit in my garden and spend my time writing or reading, doing the crossword or just enjoying the peace and quiet of being alone.
I think the turning point in my life was when I decided to quit my job as a diplomat. It was a big risk, giving up that job and deciding to make a living by writing.
I think the image of ‘dirty old man’ and the reputation that I have of womanizing come from the fact that I have always written openly and frankly about sex. Most of the sex in my novels are fantasies—after all, I wasn’t much of a lover! But I do love the company of women— especially beautiful women who are lively—and they seem to enjoy mine.
I would like to be remembered as someone who made people smile.
Postscript
Was it Worthwhile?
I have been writing columns for Indian and foreign papers for over sixty years. For the last forty years I have written two columns a week which are reproduced in scores of papers in India, in English and in regional languages. My purpose: to inform, amuse, provoke. It has paid me handsome dividends. I am also somewhat of a missionary preaching secularism and denouncing religious fundamentalism. I was perhaps the only journalist who wrote against Bhindranwale and the demand for Khalistan. He put me on his hit list and assigned the killers of General Vaidya, who had eluded the police, to eliminate me. One of them followed me up to Kasauli but was nabbed by police within two miles of his target. After he was interrogated, I was provided police protection round the clock for over ten years. I was taken to court for libel by Jagjit Singh Chauhan, founder of the Khalistan movement. He was awarded one penny as damages by the London Court and the case against me in Chandigarh died with him. I have reason to believe I had a role in killing the demand for Khalistan which I felt was suicidal for the Sikhs and fatal to India.
My present mission is to warn readers against the dangers posed by Hindu fundamentalists. I used to admire L.K. Advani till he launched his rath yatra from Somnath to Ayodhya and had the Babri Masjid destroyed. Since then I have been his bitterest critic. I will continue to oppose fundoos of all religions till the last. Maybe my efforts will be futile but I will persist no matter what the outcome may be. When asked if what I have been doing will be worthwhile, in my reply I quote an Urdu couplet:
Kya poochho ho haal merey karobaar ka
Aaeeney bechta hoon andhon ke sheher mein
You ask me about my business, what I have in mind
I sell mirrors in the city of the blind.
With Jasjeet Singh and E.N. Mangat Rai (extreme right), college students in England.
With my college mates, King’s College, Oxford.
My parents (seated) in Kasauli.
Kaval and I on our wedding day.
Kaval and I.
Kaval and I on a picnic with Mrs Sheila Bharat Ram.
With Manzur and his wife Asghari.
Kaval and Rahul.
Kaval and Mala.
Rahul and Mala.
Feeding pigeons at Trafalgar Square, London, with Kaval and Mala.
With our son-in-law Ravi Dayal.
Kaval and my only grandchild Naina, the apple of our eye.
Krishna Menon, the Indian High Commissioner in London, with his Press Officer.
The first Commonwealth Prime Minister’s Conference, London.
A portrait of Gandhi, true prophet and my role model.
Mother Teresa, the only woman I have admired.
With Sanjay Gandhi, whom I admired and owe a lot to.
Interviewing President Zia-ul Haq shortly after Bhutto was hanged.
With S. Radhakrishnan and M.S. Randawa.
With Giani Zail Singh when he was President of India.
Our house in Kasauli, Raj Villa, named after my mother-in-law.
Watching television at home, Sujan Singh Park.
THE BEGINNING
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First published by Penguin Books India 2010
www.penguinbooksindia.com
Copyright © Khushwant Singh 2010
Photographs copyright © Rahul Singh and Khushwant Singh
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ISBN: 978-0-143-06871-6
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75278-6
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