MALICIOUS
GOSSIP
Khushwant Singh
Compiled and Edited by
Rohini Singh
To my friend of half a century
P.N. KIRPAL
lover of all things beautiful, loved by
everyone, and somewhat of a bore
Contents
Preface
Introduction
TO PAKISTAN WITH LOVE
Pakistani Cocktail
From the Death Sentence to the Gallows
Pakistan: Sweet and Sour
Pakistan: Dream and Reality
Plane to Pakistan
War and Cricket
MANY FACES
Rajiv Gandhi
Sanjay Gandhi
Jag Parvesh Chandra
V.P. Singh
Balwant Gargi
Dhiren Bhagat
Sahir Ludhianvi
DISCOVERING INDIA
Snake River
Ludhiana: The Filthy Rich
Why Isn’t Aditi Married
Himachal
In Karnataka
Delhi-Bombay-Delhi
AROUND THE WORLD
With Persis to Bahrain
Indonesian Fortnight
Polonaise
Ugandan Memories
Blossoms
Homecoming
Return to Delhi
A Bangladesh Diary
In Yankee Land
Korean Diary
Korean Courtesans
India and Thailand
Turkish Delights
Papua New Guinea
German Honeymoon
In Gaddafi Land
A Globe-Trotter’s Diary
Preface
This is the second of Khushwant Singh’s books that I have had the pleasure of editing. At both times, though I have thoroughly enjoyed reading his writings, I have faced one major problem—the selection of pieces to be finally included in the book has cost me many sleepless nights. This is not only because Khushwant’s effortless prose spiked by his characteristically acerbic wit and spontaneity makes many of his pieces worth preserving but also because his writings span such a vast range. His columns are a happy blend of some topical event, an introduction to some very well-known or perhaps totally unknown personality a review of a book read, a seminar, dance or music recital attended, a travelogue, or perhaps a description of some facet of nature, one of Khushwant’s loves. I must admit at the outset that this book lays no claim to containing all his best written works—to include all of them would have needed many such volumes. I have taken the easy way out by confining this book to three subjects close to Khushwant’s heart—Pakistan, people and places. The selections have been taken from his columns, “With Malice Towards One and All”, “Gossip: Sweet and Sour” and “This Above All”, and from his writings in The Illustrated Weekly of India and New Delhi.
Khushwant’s writings on Pakistan are impassioned and emotional. As one who was born there and who feels the pull of his roots, he has always fervently sought to remind his readers, particularly in the bad times, of the enormous fund of goodwill that exists between the two peoples. He has just as fervently believed that they can never be “divided” by boundaries, wars, and political machinations. As he says in one of his articles, “I am notorious for my bias in favour of Pakistan and am proud of it. But my pro-Pak leanings come from the conviction that friendship with Pakistan must take top priority in India’s international dealings, because an inimical Pakistan not only retards progress in both our countries but also slows the pace of integration of Indian Muslims into the mainstream of Indianism. I am convinced we can win back the goodwill of Pakistan by showing more understanding of their problems and anxieties ... I have paid the price for airing my views by being dubbed by stupid people as a Pakistani agent.” He portrayed the traumatic times of the Partition days in his successful novel, Train to Pakistan. Since then, he has been back often—in good times, sad times and changing times. He was the only Indian delegate present at the Quaid-e-Azam’s birth centenary celebrations, and was present in Pakistan on the day Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was hanged. Exhaustive accounts of those tension-filled days were published on his return, in the Illustrated Weekly. With details gathered from people who were eyewitnesses to the final scenes in the life of Bhutto, including versions of two men who actually saw the hanging, the article probes behind the “facts of history” into the cell and the mind of Bhutto the man—desperate, brave, condemned. This article is included in this collection along with accounts of other visits, including one particularly sentimental one, in which Khushwant mourns the passing away of Manzur Qadir, one of his closest college friends, the successor to his home in Lahore and the man who rose to become Pakistan’s Foreign Minister and Chief Justice. His obituary is one of the most emotional Khushwant has ever written.
In the section comprising personalities, there are some more obituaries. On rereading the pieces I had selected, I realized that, quite unwittingly, I had picked on more of the dead than the living. Refreshingly, in Khushwant’s characterizations, death does not imbue the departed with virtuous perfection. Khushwant writes about them as they really were, warts and all. He brings them to life, if one could call it that. Perceptive of human foibles, observant of details, Khushwant’s caricatures of people he has known, befriended, or fallen out with, have the ring of truth. I am sure many have irked and annoyed, but if there is one person who can afford to be “malicious”, it is Khushwant, for he often turns the same telescope on himself. If he knows how to enjoy a laugh at other people’s expense, he also does it with just as much mirth at his own.
Reading travelogues is much like looking at other people’s photographs—you flip through them hastily, feigning a polite interest, unable to identify with the distant people in far-away places. Khushwant’s travelogues are an exception. Though he admits that he is now weary of travelling and feels that there is little worth seeing that he hasn’t seen already, his pieces throb with the curiosity of a tourist eager to see, hear, and discover as much as he can. His pieces bring you the feel, the sights, and the sounds of a place with details of its economy its flora and fauna, and the eating habits, hobbies, and cultural diversions of its people. He quotes their poetry and describes their art. What makes his pieces most readable, however, is that he candidly tells you of his own experiences, be they bizarre, humorous, pleasurable, or lecherous. One section in this book includes Khushwant’s descriptions of his travels in India and abroad.
Unlike many famous men, Khushwant did not excel or show any special inclination towards writing in his early years. Like many famous men, he was an academic failure. He dreaded school, often bunked it and barely managed to scrape through his yearly exams. His record remained much the same at St Stephen’s College and Government College, Lahore, except that at the latter, “at the annual college debate, instead of being hooted, as most speakers were, he was heard with rapt attention, his jokes evoked a lot of laughter and he got away with the first prize, the only one he ever won in any university”. He passed his BA in the third division and decided to qualify for the bar at King’s College, London, which, in those days, “required no more than dining at the Inns of Court for three years and paying a fee which gave you a licence to practise law in any court”. He got it but no clientele to go with it. He returned to India, married, but his practice never picked up. In 1947, when India and Pakistan were partitioned, he left Lahore, never to return to live again in his ancestral house or to ever practise law. Back at Delhi, he joined the Foreign Service but it soon bored him and he left it to turn to serious writing.
Khushwant maintains that his earliest foray into the world of fiction was bragging, when he came home for vacations from England, o
f his exploits with English girls. His first works appeared in print, however, in the Canadian Forum, Saturday Night and Harper’s. Soon after, his first collection of short stories, The Mark of Vishnu, was published by Saturn Press. Later, he translated the Japji, the Sikh’s Morning Prayer for Probsthain and also wrote a short history of the Sikhs for Allen and Unwin. This was to later earn him an offer from the Rockefeller Foundation to do a more definitive work on the same theme, the publication of which made him recognized as an authority on the subject. His lectures on Comparative Religion delivered at Swarthmore and Princeton universities were published under the title Vision of India. It was at Swarthmore that he was offered the editorship of the Illustrated Weekly—an assignment which made him the most-talked-about editor in the country, which took his writings to thousands of Indian homes and which raised the circulation of the Weekly from 40,000 to 410,000. He was honoured with the Padma Bhushan. Though he was finally asked to quit when the Janata Government came to power, he had by then become something of a cult figure and was flooded with offers. He edited the National Herald, the New Delhi magazine and, finally, the Hindustan Times. In 1980, he became an MP. Today, he writes his immensely popular column, “With Malice Towards One and All” for over 50 newspapers. It is translated in all the regional languages. He is the Consulting Editor of Penguin India.
In his autobiography written for the Contemporary Authors Series, he writes in his characteristically candid style, “I have packed my latter years with a lot of activity. I have been round the world many times, staying in the best of hotels, without having to pay for my travel or hospitality. I have drunk several swimming pools of hard liquor and wine. I have known the affection of dozens of women of different nationalities and still manage to be surrounded by the prettiest girls in town, most of them younger than my children. I am working longer hours than ever before and making more money than I did as the highest paid editor in the country. I have reason to believe that I am more widely read than any other Indian journalist. I am recognized wherever I go in India, sought after by fans and pestered by autograph hunters. All this is vastly flattering to my ego. I am also aware it will not last very long. My inkwell is fast drying up, and many of my readers find that I am getting progressively boring. I also have symptoms of old age creeping up on me: my hair is silver white (I dye my beard), I have four false teeth and may soon need to replace all the others with dentures, I suffer from frontal sinus, high blood pressure and mild diabetes. Every day I swallow dozens of pills of different shapes and colours. I know that one setback—a fall on the tennis court, a bad cold, or a slip on the bathroom floor—and I will be into decrepit old age.”
I am sure all Khushwant’s readers (in whatever language they read him) join me in wishing him continued good health, a steady vision and no slipping up.
Rohini Singh
Introduction
I find it hard to believe that there are people who like reading what I write and would like to have yet another anthology of selected articles in book form. From the voluminous correspondence I receive—an average of 50 letters a day—I am unable to comfort myself that I enjoy an admiring readership. More than half the letters are critical or outright abusive; and many of the others that have kind things to say contain requests for help to find publishers of the correspondent’s articles, short stories or poems. I share my critics’ view of my writing and marvel at the fact that editors of so many journals are happy to publish any rubbish I write and pay me handsomely for it. Who says the age of miracles is over? Without appearing to indulge in self-praise or false modesty—both of which I regard as the ultimate in venial vulgarity—I would like to give a few words of advice to aspiring columnists, because the freelance columnist has never had it as good as he is having it today. A decade ago if a freelancer made a couple of thousand rupees a month, he had reason to feel pleased with himself. Today, at least a dozen freelancers make between 10,000 and 20,000 rupees a month and at least three, whose articles are syndicated, between 30,000 and 40,000 rupees a month. This is many times more than the salary of the highest paid editor in the country. Moreover, a freelancer does not have to stand the kind of nonsense an editor has to from his employer, nor waste precious time sorting out ego problems of the staff working under him. Above all, he reaches out to an infinitely larger audience than the editor of the most widely circulating national newspaper. He can in fact become a more effective opinion-maker than any politician. The late Mr Kingsley Martin, distinguished editor of the New Statesman and Nation, had the right assessment of the role of a journalist. Since his advice was often sought by the then Labour Party Prime Minister, Mr Clement Attlee, and members of his Cabinet, I asked him why he had not become a Member of Parliament. “An M.P.? What on earth for?” he scoffed. “My opinion matters more than that of ten members of the House of Commons.” The New Statesman and Nation never had a very large circulation—about 120,000 at its peak. A freelance columnist whose articles are syndicated is read by several million people. Unfortunately in India, it has been monopolized by old, retired editors or those who failed to make the editorial grade. Their writing lacks the vigour of youth and fresh approach to problems: their pens are as limp as their penises.
Hardly any of the editors and writers of edit-page material have much time to read books. Most of their reading is confined to national newspapers or magazines from which they cull material for their own writing. As a result their choice of topics is usually the same, the facts on which they pronounce are also the same. Since they have never bothered to improve their writing, their vocabulary is very restricted and often the same as that used by their fellow-editors. What they churn up day in and day out is rarely read because it is unreadably boring. Most of it is on politics. And even their politics is not an incisive study of major issues but footling concern with factionalism, on the ups and downs of politicians: Who is closest to the Prime Minister? Whose wife is invited to tea by Sonia Gandhi? Who are the godmen and astrologers patronized by people in power? Who was the retired Foreign Secretary who Pamella Bordes claims to have bedded? Who paid her for the favour she granted? And so on. After a while readers get sick and tired of reading the same stuff over and over again.
There is much in India that remains unwritten because its leading scribes wear blinkers which restrict their vision to political tittle-tattle. There is the world of nature, an inexhaustible reservoir of things beautiful; there is history, religion, customs, traditions, folklore; there are humble people in pursuit of excellence in their crafts; there are laughable people inflated with self-esteem who need to be punctured. I can add to the list. I have exploited some of these topics with considerable benefit to myself. Much remains unexplored and unexploited. I hope the younger up-and-coming generation of writers will do the job better than I have done.
My earlier collection of articles published under the title “Malicious Gossip” were largely taken from the column “With Malice Towards One and All”, published by the Hindustan Times and reproduced in three English and over fifty papers in regional languages. The present collection is made by the same selector-editor, Rohini Chopra (ne’e Singh), who has spread her net wider and taken what she liked from two other syndicated columns I write: one entitled “Gossip: Sweet & Sour” for Sunday of the Ananda Bazar group of papers, and the other entitled “This Above All...” for the Tribune of Chandigarh and its language editions, the Sunday Observer of Bombay and Delhi and the Khaleej Times of Dubai. In addition, she has taken some pieces from the New Delhi magazine of the Ananda Bazar group which I edited for two years, 1980 to 1982, and the Illustrated Weekly which I edited from 1969 to 1979. I left the selection entirely to Rohini as I have complete faith in her judgement. I would like to express my gratitude to her and the publishers of the present anthology for preserving some of my work from oblivion that is the fate of most that appear in the daily press.
New Delhi
1989
Khushwant Singh
TO PAKISTAN WITH LOVE
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“I go to Pakistan as a Hindu goes to Varanasi, a Muslim to Mecca. It is my teerthasthan where I perform my haj and my umra. This is where my roots are. I have nourished them with tears of nostalgia and sheltered them from venomous winds of hate with my bare hands.”
The essays on Pakistan were written between 1977 and 1987
Pakistani Cocktail
The Pakistan International Airlines flight from Bombay to Karachi flies into the setting sun. An hour later you can see the lights of Karachi scattered below. It seems as if a bare fifteen minutes have passed since the handsomely statuesque Zeenat Peerani had wished us an Assalam Alaikum and promised that “if God willed (Inshallah) we shall be in Karachi by 7.30 p.m.” And now she is telling us to refasten our seat belts for landing.
The hour has contracted into a few minutes because the gentleman beside me is Mr Abbas Mirza, a bon viveur, bursting with goodwill and Sardarji jokes. PIA treats him like royalty. Zeenat is particularly attentive to him. She gives him a double Scotch-on-the-rocks and lots of smiles; all I get is tepid champagne and a flash of the diamond in her nose-ring.
“You must be Punjabi,” I interrupt their dialogue, hoping she will take it as a compliment. “No, I am not,” she snaps and continues talking to Mirza. I persist: “Peerani—then you must be a Kutchi Memon.” The second pass also misfires. “No, I am not,” she replies firmly and withdraws her graceful presence to order us in very pucca British accents to refrain from smoking and remain seated till the aircraft comes to a halt.
“Old boy!” exclaims Abbas Mirza (we were on “old boy” terms by now), “if you must know, she is an Aga Khani Khoja. But what you really want to find out is not her sect but her address and telephone number in Karachi, don’t you?”
I protest: “Tauba! Tauba! What would an ageing Sikh want to do with a pretty Pakistani air hostess?”
Malicious Gossip Page 1
