This Above alL
A gifted story-teller
Khushwant Singh 

THERE are authors who, no matter on what topics they write, I find tedious to read. Some of them make it to the top of bestsellers lists, win coveted awards and are lionised by literary circles. I do my best to read their new works and abandon them half way, simply in order to confirm my bias against them. On the other hand, there are also authors who, no matter what they write — novels, short stories, biographies or travelogues — I find difficult to ignore.

In this category my latest addition is MG Vassanji. I first read his novel, The Gunny Sack, and was charmed by it. Next I read his last novel, The Assassin’s Song, about the anti-Muslim pogroms in Gujarat, which confirmed my opinion that Vassanji is a good story-teller. His latest offering is a travelogue — A Place Within: Re-discovering India (Penguin-Viking). It has re-confirmed my opinion that whatever Vassanji writes makes good reading.

First, a few words about the author. He is an Ismaili Khoja, whose Gujarati grandfathers on either side migrated to Dar-e-Salam (East Africa), where he was born. The Gunny Sack is about his community, which is a harmonious blend of Islam with Hindu traditions. Even their names are a mixture of Muslim and Hindu. When Kenya gained its independence, Vassanji moved to England, and then to Canada. He lives in Toronto with his wife and two sons, now all Canadian citizens.

Vassanji first visited India in January, 1993. It was the beginning of his rediscovery of the land of his ancestors. He had the advantage of speaking Gujarati (Kutchi style), Hindi and English. He travelled the length and breadth of the country from the Himalayas (Shimla) to southern-most Kerala, from Kolkata to the Gulf of Canbay, visiting historical sites, temples, mosques and homes in which his great parents had lived.

He made copious notes, read all he could about the places he visited, met and befriended people in different walks of life and professions. I was one of them. He had read what I had written about him and wanted to thank me. Unfortunately, among my guests was an ill-mannered lady who hogged his attention, and all we could exchange were greetings and goodbyes. The next time he came I took care not to invite the lady. The great merit of Vassanji’s travelogue is that Indian readers are also able to re-discover their own country. He tells us about its people, their history, their customs, their peculiarities. His characters come alive, his depictions of rural landscapes, congested cities and squalor become personal experiences. It makes more absorbing reading than Jawaharlal Nehru’s Discovery of India, because it is in fact a re-discovery and written by one who wields a gifted pen.

Holi

This year’s Holi was about the most colourless and quiet that I have lived through. It was also chilly. There was time when I looked forward to Holi. Ahead of time I amassed ammunition of gulaal, pichkarees and a plastic bucket to fill with coloured water on Holi day. I and my brothers set out soon after sunrise to paint the town red. During school years our venue used to be Lala Raghubir Singh Jain’s mansion in Kashmiri Gate. There were between 30 and 40 boys, girls and elders. Since it was free-for-all, it was one day in the year we could take liberties with girls, smearing their cheeks with gulaal. After a couple of hours in colourful indulgence, we had a shower, got into the fresh clothes and sat on the lawn to be served bhojan of hot poories, aaloo subzi and soojee ka halwa. We returned home very tired and very happy. All that is past history.

For the last 10 years or so I celebrate Holi sitting out in my back garden, admiring the beauty of the latest love in my life, my kosum tree. I planted it some 15 years ago. Now it is over 60 feet tall. Most of the year it has a thick cluster of broad green leaves to screen a variety of birds which come for shelter—crows, babblers, barbets, bulbuls, doves and many others.

They prefer it to the mango, which also has thick dark green leaves. I haven’t found out why. My love for the kosum is roused in February when it begins to shed its leaves. At first, one or two at a time. The tempo increases. They come down by the dozens. If there is a gust of wind, it becomes a shower with the ground below a rough carpet of dried leaves. By Holi most of the tree is stripped naked to its bare branches with only a few clusters of yellow leaves drooping, clinging on to life.

Just about the same time new leaves begin to sprout. Much to my surprise and joy, they first appeared on the top which I had to have hacked off at the behest of the people living above my flat. They are of red colour and glow like live embers when the sun comes up. For a few days the tree looks like a pyramid ablaze with flames rising to the skies. I sit mesmerised for hours gazing at it because I can’t recall seeing anything more beautiful.

In its own mysterious way, kosum also tells me the story of life, death and re-birth. It occurred to me that the colour of re-generation is red. At Holi time palaas, semual (silk cotton) and coral also come into flower. All of them are of deep red colour. It is nature’s way of celebrating the festival of colours with its own brand of gulaal made of red leaves and flowers.

Why

Q: Why do we have so many temples if God is everywhere?

A: Sir, air is everywhere, but we need a fan to feel it.

(Courtesy: JP Singh Kaka, Bhopal)

Q: What is odd about the names of Ghulam Nabi Azad and Parkash Singh Badal?

A: Their first names contradict their last names.

(Contributed by KJS Ahluwalia, Amritsar)

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