Khushwantnama: The lessons of My life
Author : Khushwant Singh
Publisher : Penguin, Rs399
The book is essentially a series of reflections, penned by a man who has earned the right to be read even when he talks about the mundane and the quotidian, writes DEBRAJ MOOKERJEE
If Khushwant Singh were to learn his lessons in life, even at the age of 98, he would leave a nation aghast, and might I add, also disappointed. Every society needs its standard-bearer apologist, one who will nudge opinion inevitably towards the centre of everything, urge moderation, and quite simply help keep things together. More importantly, every society needs its Khushwant Singh, who, with malice towards one and all, will continually turn the mirror on the myriad hypocrisies that disguise the willing suspension of disbelief necessary for congenial social co-existence. Occasionally, he will also turn the mirror onto himself.
I reviewed Singh for the first time a few years back when he published what many imagined to be his final work, The Sunset Club, a personalised narrative recounting the stories shared among four friends (including Singh) who took their morning sojourn at the lodhi Gardens in New Delhi. Here I am reliving the privilege of reviewing his latest production — without daring to suggest, albeit suggestions in that regard are made by the author himself, that it is his last. Entitled Khushwantnama — The lessons of my life — Singh’s work is a compendium of wisdom drawn from life. From flatulence to constipation, from the changing foliage in his garden to the lilting notes of birdsong, from the social to the personal, from reflections on poetry to the finality of death, Singh’s book covers a wide range.
It is not the range that surprises. Given Singh’s age, and the rich experiences of his life, and not to mention the fact that he has never been chary of freely expressing his opinion without regard for the pleasure of those on whom his acerbic pen poured its venom, it is natural to expect so much of this and that in the book. What surprises is the complete absence of the need to address the other in the book. There is no imagined reader. There is no stance, no pretence, no clever attempts at authorly disguises. His words flow without pause, without the encumbrance of mortal constraints. It is as though his soul’s journey is complete; the body, which Singh has nurtured with such care over the years and which has been the site for so many sensual pleasures, is simply waiting — without too much eagerness, but also without fear.
Given Singh’s status in the world of letters, and also given the fact that he took to writing late in life (when he was around 50) after having abandoned his careers as lawyer first, and diplomat later, we are fortunate to have him write for us for close to 50 years. The hand may be a trifle unsteady, the sight somewhat dim, and hearing almost gone, but the mind remains as sharp as nails, driving hard at the weak spots of all that surrounds him. Khushwantnama is set in relief by a quote from Hamlet: “... to thine own self be true... Thou canst not then be false to any man.” Ironically, the quote does not preclude being false to any woman. But Singh reminds us in the very first page of his book that whereas he has entered the sanyas phase of his life, he enjoys his ‘single malt whiskey’ (sic, since in the Scottish tradition, as opposed to the Irish, the drink being referred to is spelt ‘whisky’, without the ‘e’), not to mention that he also realises “tasty food and look(s) forward to hearing the latest gossip and scandal”.
The book is essentially a series of reflections, penned by a man who has earned the right to be read even when he talks about the mundane and the quotidian. There is a section on Delhi and its history, with the claim that “I am almost as old as the city I have lived in for most of my life.” His memory stretches farther than that of most living men, and so he is able to tell us that “living in New Delhi was gracious till Independence”, until it played host to the refugee rush. On the state of the nation, his ideas are old-fashioned. He agrees with Sanjay Gandhi’s Malthusian anxiety over the population explosion, believing “coercive methods will have to be introduced”, including the disenfranchisement of all couples with more than two children.
On religion however, Singh is decidedly modern. He is aesthetically drawn to the beauty of religious iconography, but is forthright in claiming he is an agnostic. He spends a few chapters on poetry, and then describes what it takes to be a writer. The chapters are short and staccato-like in tone, the words clipped and terse, with little attention to embellishments or flourish. The book has the mark of one who has ‘been there, done that’, as it were, and would rather lay down the pen and not brandish it for mere effect. When the battle’s won, the soldier lays down to rest, not quite forgiving his foes, but perhaps finally shorn of the desire to flay his sword. Khushwant Singh still holds the gun, but would rather not aim. The gun’s loaded though, and the gunpowder dry, just in case you think of letting your guard down.
The reviewer is Associate Professor, University of Delhi