Saturday, April 1, 2006

THIS ABOVE ALL
The art of fine living
Khushwant Singh

AT one time, the Jantar Mantar road — from its junction with the Ashoka road to Sansad Marg with the planetarium on one side, Free Church on the other — was the abode of the five top building contractors of New Delhi, commonly known as Panj pyare (the five beloved first followers of Guru Gobind Singh) because they were Sikhs. All of them are dead. But for one house belonging to Tavleen Singh’s grandfather, none of the others are recognisable. One earlier building named Baikunth has become Kerala House and buzzes like a beehive of clerks, typists and minor babus. One facing it has been converted into multi-storeyed flats of which one belongs to Nalini Singh of TV fame.

Much the largest of these houses built of beige and red sandstone belonged to Dharam Singh Sethi who had the virtual monopoly of supplying stone and marble for the buildings of the new capital. He became very rich, and had a large family of sons and daughters.

As often happens with sons of newly rich, most of them were wayward and devoted to high living. Dharam Singh Sethi’s palatial mansion is today cluttered with offices of political parties and business houses. He left a sizeable portion of his assets to The Guru Nanak Vidya Bhandar Trust.

After his death, his son-in-law Arjan Singh managed its activities. And after his demise, his son Gurpreet Singh took over its running. He is married to my first cousin Kushal, the youngest daughter of my uncle Ujjal Singh, once a minister in the Punjab Government, later Governor of Punjab and Tamil Nadu. Gurpreet oversees the running of Sikhya, a school run by the Trust in Chandigarh for the poorest of the poor: no fees, free exercise books and a wholesome meal at midday.

I did not get to see much of my cousin, her husband and their children except at marriages and deaths in the family. I heard he was doing very well money-wise and had a big house with a large garden in the heart of New Delhi but away from the noise of traffic. Then I started getting invitation cards round the end of February. They were unlike any other invitation I received.

You could choose any evening of the three suggested and bring any friend you wanted from 5p.m. to 8 p.m. I heard about them from my daughter. "You’ll never see a party like theirs; you must come this time," she insisted. So I did. I can vouch for the uniqueness of the Gurpreet-Kushal idea of a party.

Delhi is at its blossomy best in the first week of March. You can see it in miniature on their garden: roses, cinnerari as pansies, chrysanthemums, trees covered over by lush purples of bougainvilleas — a riot of fragrance and colour. Soft music of the harmonium, gourmet snacks from all parts of India and abroad choicest wines and spirits. Most regulars at their parties looked very well-fed.

When shades of the evening got darker, strings of electric bulbs hung around trees and bushes lit up. It was like being in fairyland. Every single item had been carefully chosen and timed by the hosts. You don’t get this kind of thing by hiring events managers or getting professional caterers. I have never experienced such hospitality in my life. Nor at 92 am likely to do so.

It’s all gas

Scholars pick up odd subjects for research; the oddest Ihave ever heard of is the incidence of flatulence:what causes it; what are its constituents and risks involved in exposing oneself to it.

One such field survey has been recently carried out, appropriately in the region popularly called the underside of the earth — Australia and New Zealand.

Breaking wind or farting as it is commonly known is too delicate a subject to be discussed in polite society.

Nevertheless, our Sanskrit-speaking ancestors drew up a list of their varieties from Uttam padvi (the best kind) to Gupt daan (silent, stinking gift). Arabs regarded it as a social sin and ostracised men and women who did it in public.

On the other hand, there was a Frenchman who made his living blowing off a candle from a foot’s distance by a violent expulsion of wind from his derriere.

A newspaper clipping from an Australian daily sent to me by a friend living there summarises his findings. Both men and women break wind on an average of 14 times in 24 hours; wind-producing foods include beans, cabbage, cheese, eggs and fizzy drinks; a fart comprises 59 per cent nitrogen, 20 per cent hydrogen, 9 per cent carbondioxide 7 per cent methane and 4 per cent oxygen. They can travel at a speed of three metres per second. What makes some farts stink is hydrogen sulphide which contains sulphur and is less than 1 per cent of its constituents. It is believed to be inflammable. Research scholars are testing it by putting match sticks close to their ends to see it is correct. Setting one’s bum on fire is a small price to pay for discovering the truth.

Similarly dissimilar

(Courtesy: G.C. Bhandari, Meerut)