Appreciating western classical music
By Khushwant Singh

IN our country appreciation of western classical music is limited to a tiny section of the anglicised elite who have spent some years abroad. Even the vast majority of Indians settled abroad find it very difficult to come to terms with it. Jazz, pop and light-western,yes. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, no. Operas and Wagner, not at all. To the Indian ear it sounds like a cacophony of discordant noises with a lot dum, dum at the end; their singing like bey-sura, hee haw, like the braying of donkeys. This is a great pity because it is without doubt the West’s greatest contribution to world’s civilisation and culture. You have to take the trouble to attune your ear to it, somebody who knows about it to guide you and explain what it is all about and you will get hooked on to it. Without knowing very much about it, I have come to the stage when in a mood of quiet contemplation I prefer listen to western rather than Indian classical music. Indian music demands attention because it is improvised, and does not lend itself to orchestration. European is precisely set with no room for improvisation and is at its best when performed by large orchestras with a variety of instruments synchronised by the conduct. In western classical music, the conductor is the most important man in the orchestra. Since Indian classical music does not lend itself to orchestration, the conductor does little besides wave his arms.

As in the case of our classical music so in the western, the listener must educate himself to get the best out of it. We don’t have composers; we have gharaanas. Their music notes are written down, ours are not. As a matter of fact our notions of music are poles apart and attempts to mix them have proved dismal failures. Each can be gratifying to the music lovers, the melange becomes a tasteless khichdee.

I am convincd that exposure to western classical music through radio and TV channels with simple introduction in Hindi or regional languages would enrich our lives. It must not remain confined to half-baked brown sahibs.

Dog lovers

Once I published a joke about a Sardarji who owned three highly pedigreed dogs. Whenever he took them out for a walk, people stopped to see these beautiful animals. One evening a man stopped the Sardarji and asked him the names of his pets. "This one," replied the Sardarji, pointing to his prize Alsatian, "Is Rai Bahadur Ghanshyam Lal. And this one is Khan Bahadur Maula Baksh," he said pointing to his Boxer. "What about the small Pomeranian", asked the man. "He is Sardar Bahadur Ghansham Singh." The man was very impressed and asked, "And Sardar sahib what is your good name?"

"My name is Tommy," replied the Sardarji.

My friend Prem Kirpal had been presented with a small Apso pup. When I told him my joke of the dog-loving Sardarji, he decided to name it Sardar Gurbachan Singh. None of his friends could address the Apso by so long a name and he became simple Gucchy. He turned out to be a very short-tempered dog and visitors had to be warned not to try to befriend him. When my friend had a party at his house, Gucchy had to be chained. He howled in protest. Apart from his master and servants, the only people he was friendly with was Prem’s niece who had given Gucchy to him, his daughter, Gene Smith the head of the American Library of Congress in Delhi who was a paying guest and my family who were regular visitors to Prem’s home. Others he growled at and when they were leaving chased them to the door. I bribed Gucchy by giving him little snacks on the sly when no one was looking. We welcome friends. He could recognise my footsteps and even before I pressed the door bell, he would start barking to get servants to open the door for me. He welcomed me by jumping up at me. Then sat by my side pawing me to share paapad and nuts with him. He followed me to the dining table to sit by my chair.

Gucchy hated being bathed and his fluffy white hair always looked dirty. Once a month a nozzle was put in his mouth to prevent him from biting his bather. As soon as he saw his tub being got ready with soapy, warm water and towel, he would hide under a bed. Last year when Prem tried to get him out, he rewarded him with a bite on his lips. Poor Prem had to have stitches on his lips and get anti-rabies shots. Gucchy felt very sorry for what he had done and craved for his master’s forgiveness. He was forgiven.

When Prem fell down and damaged his pelvis, master and dog got closer to each other. Gucchy sat by Prem’s wheel chair and slept under his bed. When Prem turned 91, Gucchy turned 13 — an old age for a dog. He began to lose his vision. Then following his master who had become hard of hearing, Gucchy became deaf. When I went to call on Prem, I had to put pieces of paapad under Gucchy’s nose to persuade him to take a bite. I called on Prem a fortnight ago. Gucchy was not there. I feared what the answer to my question "Where’s Gucchy?" would be. Nevertheless I asked and got it: "He’s dead. He died two days ago. He had become blind and deaf."

Next day arrived a cable from America: "Deeply grieved to hear about Gucchy’s death. I send you (Prem) and Khushwant by condolences — Gene Smith." It reminded me of the time when my Simba died. I was in the USA. He was staying with my daughter, Mala. I received a telegram.

"Simba very ill. Return soonest." The next day there was a second cable: "Simba passed away peacefully."

Harem needs

A sheikh in his diaphanous kaffiyeh and embroidered slippers came into the women’s department of a posh emporium. The saleswoman asked, "May I help, sir?" He waved regally, "I want to inspect your garments."

"Certainly, sir," she escorted the glittering figure down the aisles of clothes racks, chattering. Finally the sheikh stopped. "Ah, this style I like. Very fetching: I’ll take this lot."

"The lot:" echoed the salesman. "Sir, there are seventy or eighty dresses in this particular style."

"Very good. Deliver them to this address." He handed the bewildered woman his card.

"But, sir, these dresses are of different sizes:"

"So are my ladies," was the sheikh’s reply.

Nawabi might

A Hyderabadi nawab married a girl from Bhopal, but three months later he divorced her. His next wife came from Lucknow, but again within three months the marriage landed on the rocks. Following the advice of a marriage broker, the nawab’s new wife came from Kashmir. To the nawab’s surprise he got along beautifully with his latest wife and they lived happily for a whole year after their marriage.

One day he happened to meet the broker who inquired about his third wife.

Everything is rosy and my married life is a complete success," enthused the nawab. "From now on I intend to marry only girls from Kashmir."

(Contributed by Judson K. Cornelius, Hyderabad.)