India without Pilot
By Khushwant Singh

WHEN old people die although we mourn their passing, we are not unduly shocked because we expect old people to die. "He had a good innings; it was time for him to go," we say. In many societies the death of an old person is regarded as a cause for celebration. They decorate the bier carrying the dead person with balloons and bunting and have bands playing music to lead the funeral procession.

The death of a person in the prime of his youth is truly untimely and causes deep hurt to his relations and friends. And if he had promise of a great future it can upset many people who are neither relations nor close friends because their vision of the time to come is tragically altered. This was the initial reaction to the death of Rajesh Pilot in a car accident. Ihad not known him for long; there was an age gap of about 30 years between us.We did not have common interests — he had been a Gujjar milkman who became a fighter pilot and then gate-crashed into politics to become a minister of state. Didn’t seek him out to ask for favours; he sought me out and unasked put me on the board of the Telecommunications Social Audit Panel run by Bhaskar Rao.With other members, I saw parts of India, including the Andamans and Lakshadweep, that I was unlikely to visit on my own. I learnt much but gave little in return. No sooner he changed portfolios, Social Audit Panel became politicised and then ceased to exist.

Mr brief contact with Pilot generated a lot of respect and affection for him. He was courteous, clear-headed and upright. He had an inborn gift of friendship.At his daughter’s wedding I noticed that he was closest to men who had served with him in the Air Force. Among others was Amarjeet Chawla who became his friend during their posting in Guwahati. They pooled their resources and got a bank to give them a loan to buy a scooter jointly. Many of his Air Force friends were present at the wedding.

A couple of times, Pilot and his wife Rama came to dine with us. They were very relaxed evenings — no politics, only gupshup and happy laughter. Twice they asked us for an evening meal. They were not relaxed; neither were we. Both times there was a crowd spread out on the lawn waiting to have their problems solved by the minister. Pilot kept darting in and out of the room. A quick sip of scotch and out to listen to their complaints, back for another sip and out again. That is the lot of all Indian politicians. I am pretty certain they don’t know how to enjoy good food in peace.Most of them probably suffer from peptic ulcers.

Rajesh was a rare phenomenon in Indian politics. He was as loyal to his party as he was to his friends.He was not a party-hopper as most have become today. They are a contemptible lot of opportunists unworthy of any respect.Whatever his differences with his party colleagues, he aired them within party circles. He spoke out candidly whenever he felt it was necessary. He was never misunderstood because he never put himself above his party or its leader. He came to be regarded as the front-runner of his party and possible choice as prime minister if and when it came to power. His going changed the political scenario of the country.

I heard the monsoon bird (Megh Papeeha) the day the monsoon broke over Delhi.Others claimed to have heard him a few days earlier. Although monsoon birds are regarded as nature’s harbingers of the season of rains, their movements are quite eccentric and therefore unpredictable. I’ve heard their calls in hot afternoons of mid-June long before clouds appear in the sky. After the rains break they can be seen flying in pairs and perching on the crests of big trees. Their courting lasts a few days. They deposit their eggs in nests of different birds and while their chicks are being hatched and nourished by unsuspecting foster-parents, they enjoy themselves till their offspring are grown up. Then they wing their way back over plains, hills and seas back to their homelands in East Africa.

Monsoons have evoked more poetry, song, dance and painting than any other natural phenomenon. The greatest bard of the monsoon was Kalidasa. Gurudev paid him homage in a few memorable lines:

(Translation by William Radice)

Another Sanskrit poet nostalgic about the rainy season was Bharathrihari:

(Translated by John Brough)

Yogeshwara, another Sanskrit poet, has an ecstatic description of peacock’s dancing in the rain:

(Translated by John Brough)

Not many people know that Guru Nanak, besides singing hymns in praise of God, also had a sharp eye for nature. In his Baramasi he writes of the monsoon:

What has happened to our poets of today? Why don’t they write about this most glorious of our seasons? It has been described as the Badmaash maussem — the season for mischief-making, of drinking and making love.

The following four lines were seen written behind a truck plying on the GT Road from Punjab to West Bengal:

(God makes the truck manufacturer

From a poor man to a millionaire;

And makes the driver of the truck

From a house-owner to a homeless wanderer)