THIS ABOVE ALL
Art of writing letters
Khushwant Singh

AT school, one of the things Maulvi Shafiuddin Nayyar, my Urdu teacher, made me mug up was how to write letters to my parents. On top were the sacred numerals 786. I recall the preliminaries: address ran somewhat as follows: Mukarrami Muazzami Mohtaram Valid Sahib, daam zillekum or Zille hoo and ending in edaab or assalaum u Valeikum. That took care of the first paragraph. The second was asking about their health and welfare and prayer to Allah to give them good health and many long years of life. The third para was to assure them that because of Allah’s fazal, I was in good shape studying hard and doing well at school. That took almost a whole page.

The real business, usually asking for an increase in my pocket money, was mostly put in a short paragraph at the end of the letter. As it happened, my mother could not read Urdu and my father was taught by a Sikh giani who could not understand the opening paragraphs and preferred my writing in English. Maulvi sahib’s efforts to guide me in letter-writing went waste. He did not teach me how to write to my mehbooba or mashooqaa.

Now I know more about how not to write letters than how to word them correctly. I have to deal with between 12 and 20 letters written in English, shudh Hindi, florid Urdu and theith Punjabi everyday. The length of the letters vary: many are postcards (at times seven in the same day from the same person); others run into three to four pages, one writer is more expensive and takes 50 pages of neatly written Urdu to say what he thinks needs to be said.

The pattern has not changed much. The first paragraph begins with "Respected Sardar sahib, SSA (Sat Sri Akal), or Salaam Alaukum, followed by enquiries about my health and prayers that I may live 100 years by the grace of the ooperwala (Almighty God who lives above). The next is devoted to fulsome praise of qualities of my head and heart and pen. That is followed by a self-introduction usually beginning with I have been a fan of yours ever since I read Train to Pakistan (often getting the title wrong i.e. Last Train or Night Train to Pakistan).

(Having done makkhan lagaaoing, they get on to the real item: "Can I get him a suitable job in Hotel Meridien, put in a word to the Prime Minister or the Cabinet Minister concerned. By the time I have finished reading the letter I have run out of patience. I scribble a two-line reply on a 10-paise postcard "Thanks, I cannot get you a job. I don’t have one myself. I am 91". I would like to add an adage "brevity is the soul of wit." We Indians do not know what brevity is, nor appreciate it. My favourite example of brevity is the doggerel in Urdu-Punjabi-English penned by a boy to his teacher on missing school.

{ It rains heavily

I slipped and fell down

Therefore I (fidoi-applicant) cannot come.}

Despite my pretensions of being a letter-writing expert, I was stymied when a young woman sought my advice on how to answer a matrimonial inquiry of a young man who had spelt out his caste, status and requirements of a bride. Should she send him her curriculum vitae? She had high academic qualifications and earned a good salary as a Hindi journalist. I asked her if she was a good cook. ‘‘Guzaarey laik, I can make do", she replied. "I heat up morning’s leftovers or go to restaurant. I live alone." I advised her not to mention the subject. I asked her if she knew whether he lived alone or in a joint family. She did not know. "You may have saas or sisters-in-law problems. Find out." So it went on and on. "What does he look like?" I asked. She had no idea except that he had described himself 5’-6" tall and in good health. "Why not meet him and talk to him? I suggested. "Baap ray bap", she exploded. "In our families, it is not done. "I was at my wits ends. "At least exchange photographs," I suggested as the last resort. "You can’t send him your vital measurements as they do in the West. He’ll get an idea seeing your picture." She did not like the idea. "He will show it to his friends. Some may recognise me as I appear in Kavi Sammelens. They will think I have put myself up for sale naak kat jayegee," I gave up. "In that case stop writing to him. He may show your curriculum vitae to his friends."

I am not clear about the distinction between sympathy, empathy and compassion. We have an Urdu word for sympathy — hamdardi.We have a Hindi word for compassion — karuna. But what exactly does empathy mean?

The question was triggered off by a letter from Preetam Giani, who lives in Abbotabad (Pakistan). He was born Muslim and later changed his name to a distinctly non-Muslim Hindu-Sikh one. He is a rebel outspoken champion of rights of gays. Product of Cambridge University, expelled from England and now ekes out a living tutoring young Pakistanis in English. His letters usually have a few annexures: translations of some Ghalib couplets and his own thoughts on different topics. The last one had this paragraph reading: "Sympathy, empathy and compassion — what is the precise difference between the three? Sympathy is basically being in emotional accord with another person, especially in suffering. Empathy requires identifying oneself mentally with the other person as well. Compassion is a deeper form of sympathy, as red is a darker shade of pink. It is more direct and spontaneous than sympathy or empathy, and does not depend on either emotional accord or mental identification with a person or persons for whom it is felt but can strangely enough co-exist with feelings of disgust and revulsion for them."

I pondered over Giani’s analysis but my mind remained unclear about empathy. I consulted the dictionary — Concise Oxford. It reads: "It is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another," I put it to my evening mehfil for enlightenment. I asked if there was a word for empathy in any of our languages. No one seemed to know. I put to Wataru Nishigahiro, who translated my Delhi-A-Novel (Penguin) into Japanese and was on a short visit from Tokyo. He replied that there was a Japanese word meaning "Concern for another’s welfare." Come to think of it Narsi Mehta, composer of Vaishnav jan to tainey hee kahiye, jo peer paraayee janey ray, which became Bapu Gandhi’s favourite hymn and was sung at his prayer meetings. The basic words are jo peer parayi jaaney — one who feels another’s pain. Any comments.