THIS ABOVE ALL
Defence against depression
Khushwant Singh

IN the last couple of months I have lost quite a few relatives and friends. I have evolved my own defence mechanism against depression, saying to myself: "Sooner or later, death comes to everybody. Why cry over it? Your turn will come soon". Nothing very profound about this formula but it worked, and I was able to cope with the grief their departure evoked.

However, when on one single day I learnt of three deaths of people who mattered to me, I was shaken out of my smugness. In the morning a disciple of Kripaluji Maharaj came to tell me that his guruji’s wife had died in Vrindavan, and he had been told to inform me. I did not know the lady nor her husband but had made it a point to listen to her pravachans on TV. They made good sense to me.

I wrote a letter of condolence to him, and hoped in one of his discourses he will enlighten us on the mystery of death. People like me do not believe in swarg (heaven), nark (hell), pichhla janam (previous birth) or aglaa janaam (next life). There is no proof whatsoever to back these speculations. I would like to have Kripaluji’s views on the subject as last year he was solely enthroned jagat guru (world teacher).

Later in the day my son came and told me: "Auntie Chand died this morning. I have just come back from her cremation". This was a bit of a shock because auntie Chand was my wife’s sister-in-law Chand Ujjal Singh, mother of Vikramjit, who won India’s golf championship more than once, and a very pretty daughter Soni. She was a frequent visitor to my home. She lived alone in a spacious farmhouse near the Qutab Minar, growing exotic varieties of roses and vegetables and feeding peacocks which flocked to her garden morning and evening.

She was a devout Sikh. At every Gurpurb she turned up with basin full of kadah parshad. She knew I was not a gurdwara-going Sikh and would eat it as halva. She made it of sooji with almonds, raisins and a touch of saffron so that I could enjoy it as a dessert after dinner. She came to every book launch I had, bought a few copies and dropped in to have me sign them and enjoy a gossip session.

She never came empty handed—always with a box of chocolates laced with Scotch and biscuits drenched in rum. Barely an hour after coming to terms with Chand’s loss, the telephone rang. It was Ranju Kohli from Washington. In a choked voice she sobbed: Mama chalee gayee (mother has gone). Mama being Dr Surjit Kaur, who I befriended over 20 years ago. She migrated to the US largely to be near her only child Ranju. She had no problem finding a good job as she was a recognised sociologist and became an American citizen.

She bought a small flat in Falls Church, not very far from Sterling where Ranju and her family lived. When I was in Wilson Centre, she helped me getting research material from the Library of Congress to update my History of the Sikhs. I saw her everyday as she brought the stuff she had collected to my flat in Arlington. She often cooked me a Punjabi dinner before she left. Although she lived in America, her heart was in Punjab. Even in Washington, she spent Sunday mornings at the local gurdwara. When in Delhi, she preferred staying at the YWCA because it was close to Gurdwara Bangla Sahib, and she could be there morning and evening. She was determined to spend the last years of her life in Punjab and bought herself a flat in Zirakpur.

That was not to be. Last year she was stricken with cancer of the liver. Despite chemotherapy, it spread to her pancreas. She wrote to me at least once a week. I wrote back asking her never to give up hope. Then her letters stopped. I sensed her condition had deteriorated. Ranju’s phone call confirmed my worst fears. She was gone.

So how did I feel that evening? I can’t put it in words. A kind of mental numbness, better described as nothingness. And I don’t know what nothingness means.

To Varun

And peace at a low price

(Contributed by Sami Rafiq, Aligarh)

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