He has lived life on his own terms
Khushwant Singh

ABOUT the most unusual character that came into my life a few years ago is a middle-aged (53) Pakistani Muslim with an unusual Hindu-Sikh name, Preetam Giani. He was studying English literature in Cambridge University when he was expelled for practising and preaching homosexuality. He got a job in a factory, was fired for the same reason and deported from England. He made his home in Islamabad, opened an art gallery and gave private tuitions in English but refused to come to terms with the strictly conservative Pakistani society. He flouted rules of the Shariat, changed his name from a Muslim one to one distinctly non-Muslim, worshipped Goddess Lakshmi (she did not repay him for the homage he paid her), got into trouble with the police and spent some time in jail. He carried on unconcerned.

With every letter he wrote to me, he sent his translations of couplets of Ghalib. He paid a brief visit to Delhi accompanied by his gentleman friend. I took an afternoon off to show them the sights of Delhi. He was not interested in ancient monuments or meeting people. He wanted to visit Ghalib’s tomb and the academy. He presented a set of his translations to the Secretary of the Academy, had himself photographed in front of the poet’s tomb but did not recite the fateha nor bothered to enter Hazrat Nizamuddin’s dargah or see Amir Khusrau’s grave. Strange character, I said to myself. Highly sensitive, as most homosexuals are, but unconcerned about the ways of the world. For him there was no difference between India and Pakistan; he talked of migrating to India and living in his ancestral home in Srinagar. After he returned to Islamabad, his letters became more frequent. Besides Ghalib translations, he sent extracts of poems which had moved him. His main concern was his mother’s health. She had been Principal of a girls’ school in Abbottabad, where she was spending her years of retirement. He always referred to her lovingly as Mata Hari. She was afflicted with Alzheimer, the same disease which took my wife. It results in complete loss of memory and inability to look after oneself. We had much advice to give to each other. Ultimately, he decided to move to Abbottabad to look after her. His sister in America and money left by his mother helps him to keep afloat. As usual, his new ventures do not bring in any money. His last letter is written in a mood of deep despair. I quote the first paragraph:

"I could put a bullet through my head using my licensed revolver — that, I suppose, is my most drastic option, and not one without anything to be said for it: instant escape from my present set of formidable problems; pre-emption of the horrors of senile decrepitude such as I see in my mother; and even a sense of adventure in discovering what, if anything, lies beyond death. However, the cons of this course of action seem to far outweigh the pros. It would negate my contention that I haven’t been beaten yet; it would involve self-murder; it would devastate my mother; it would mean leaving my Ghalib translation incomplete; it would render impossible the post-mortem study of my brain that I’d like to be carried out, with the particular aim of discovering any features accountable, if only partly, for my homosexuality; it could mean letting down Tariq, who may never have turned to overt homosexuality if it hadn’t been for me, and now possibly needs my help in making some sense of it; it would mean letting off the hook no fewer than seven individuals and two organisations that I have court cases against in Islamabad and Abbottabad. In short, I’d better not opt for this option."

With the letter he has appended two poems by D.H. Lawrence. In The Ship of Death, the poet exhorts people to prepare for the long journey that lies ahead:

Lawrence rejected the idea of suicide as a means of escape from the world’s woes:

Lawrence accepted "piecemeal the body dies". But in the last verse of the poem Shadows, he talks of rebirth in a new dawn.

To me all this sounds very poetic, but without any logical basis. He does not tell us the kind of provisions we should store up on the ship of death for use on the long voyage that lies before us. Nor where and when the ship will reach its final destination.

Advent of spring

Though a Punjabi, there is little of the Punjab countryside that I find attractive. Ever since Punjab parted with Haryana and Himachal, it lost the Shivaliks and the snow-clad Himalayas beyond. All that was left to it and Haryana was flat, khaki dust —blown expanses. No doubt, during the short winter, the fields growing wheat and sugarcane are green and the mustard in flower is like a sea of canary yellow. But this scene lasts no more than a few weeks and we are back to being a region of dust and hot winds. How can a country be beautiful without green hills, big lakes and thick forests? For a beautiful countryside I would take any other state than my native Punjab. However, Mohan Kishore Diwan, writer and artist, in his new collection of poems So Be It (Writers workshop) has, for reasons best known to him, gone lyrical on Punjab on Baisakhi day (13th April):

Howzatt!

(Contributed by G.C. Bhandari, Meerut)