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Mauj Mela ....Fresh faces/ snow, the changing weather/ newspapers/ dog/ dualism/ bathing, swimming/ understanding/ writing, gardening/ wanderlust/ entertaining friends.... (Joys by Brecht)
Which brings us to the question, why has the author so carefully cultivated the image of a dirty old man through the many insipid weekly column he contributes to newspapers. An Ernest Hemmingway wearing an overtly tough exterior to conceal the sensitive writer within? Or a Prem Chand mirroring the debased (and debasing) social realities of his times through his writings? Either way, Khuswant Singh’s niche is taken and sealed. He writes about sex in family newspapers. His endless talk of wine and women brightens up the Saturday faces of many dailies. Popular and a populist, forthright and generous, malicious and seller-of-secrets, he is a perfect example of what a 20th century writer should and shouldn’t be. He can soak in experiences of travelling and meeting people all over the world and put them down in Chekhovian prose. And then leak his best friend’s domestic drama details to press agencies. Damned if you know him, damned if you don’t. Here is the tale, well told, of a man you can hate and revere in one breath. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth (and one that served him well for the better part of his youth), Khushwant Singh has known the joys of being privileged, the pain of pink slips and the emptiness within. His childhood, adolescence and youth outline the picture of an introverted child, son of a rich father, husband of a beautiful and richer woman, a man who wasn’t meant to be the lawyer he was brought up to be, carrying on with the motions of life and always, always obsessed with sex. Partition terminates the chapters of innocence. The fires without and the fires within mould him into a new avatar. A writer-to-be struggling in his cocoon. (Silver) spoon-feeding continues with postings abroad where begins the fight with his demons. A book here, an article there and lots of writer friends feed his soul but don’t bring food on the table yet. Ergo, more ego–shedding, disciplining, looking within. The crucible yields prose of the sparkling variety. Thanks to the fine translation the bubbles are intact even when the cocktail is served in a kade-wala glass. The story sizzles with an insider’s view of the scoops (and coups) in politics and literature, viz the bitterness of Partition, the Indira-Maneka feud, the staggering fifth-column, the dog-eat-God situation in Akali politics et al garnished with Khuswant Singh’s imitable rustic humour, and generous dollops of (sometimes titillating) poetry. The book is a connoisseur’s delight. Some photographs, better editing and a saner cover would have been pleasant hors d’ oeuvres. Nevertheless the gourmet Sikh knows his scotch well. I shall leave you to savour the main course at leisure. Bon appetite. |
NINE decades of living in one of the most happening
centuries since the dawn of mankind. Four hundred and forty-six pages of
lucid polished prose. A canvas covering events and personalities in
various fields all over the globe. The book is much more than truth,
malice, fun, loving, living or lying. Brecht and Khushwant Singh’s
sources of joy may be the same. The serving on the platter looks, feels
and tastes different.