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Whom to Tell My Tale:
An Autobiography
The title of the book, its faade draped in shades of sepia, the kind furrowed face of a nonagenarian with forgiving eyes on the cover say it all. Kartar Singh Duggal, a well-known face in the field of both journalism and literature, certainly has a long tale to tell. Born in the Pothoar region of the pre-partitioned Panjab, his memories of a simple rustic life speak of an era that has melted forever in history. His education at the local school, his college days in Gordon Mission, Rawalpindi, his first love, his golden days at AIR, Lahore, Peshawar and Jalandhar and his tryst with other departments tell only of the rise and rise of a talented young man who trusted his guts, explored the limits of unknown territories and validated the axiom—‘fortune favours the brave’. But that is not the only tale he is here to tell you about. He talks of politics—at the national, state and departmental levels—sometimes in hushed tones, but mostly with a definite ‘hear, hear’ ring to it and one can’t but sit up and take notice. As when witness to a riot and looting during the Partition at the Connaught Place in Delhi, he sees Nehru arrive at the scene in a jeep, shout at, slap and shame the hooligans and after a short speech, restore sanity all around. He talks fondly of the efforts of the DG, Rehabilitation, Sardar Tarlok Singh and Dr M. S. Randhawa in rehabilitating the refugees. He also talks of the famous and infamous cliques, trios and ‘couples’ of the literary circles of his times and a lot of skeletons tumble out of the cupboard. And he reveals how tantriks and fortune-tellers literally ruled the offices of chief ministers and other politicians. But the most touching tale of all is naturally his own—his infatuation for a Muslim doctor, his marriage to her against all odds and his abiding love for her despite continuing persecution because of his irreverent attitude and non-traditional beliefs. Second only to that, it seems, is his poignant recollection of the fury of Partition—a word that has a capital ‘P’ branded into it for eternity. The only peril in relishing this long tale or bunch of tales is the language, which seems to be a rather quaint literal translation of the Pothoari dialect of Punjabi into English. A deft editor as comrade-in-arms would certainly have redeemed the autobiography. The book resonates with fond memories of a sepia-tinted past. K.S. Duggal comes across as a man who has tided over the vicissitudes of life successfully and yet never stopped creating. At 90, with all his frailties, this book is a just tribute to himself.
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Tohmatein
chand apne zimme dhar chale, jis liye aye the, so hum kar chale/ Zindagi
hai ya koi toofan hai, hum toh is jeene ke hathon mar chale... (I have
borne all accusations with grace, Summoned, I contested and won the
race/Living’s been nothing but all strife, I have met death at the
threshold of life — Mir Dard)