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THIS ABOVE ALL
No friend of mine
Khushwant Singh
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Khushwant Singh
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My seven years in
Lahore (1940-47) for making a living as a lawyer were a dismal
failure. I continued to live on my patrimony to the last day. I
philosophised that living on other peoples’ quarrels was not
worthwhile. When I was driven out of Lahore and returned to
Delhi, I gifted away my law books, black gown and lawyer’s
collar tabs. However, I lost many Muslim friends who had no
problem in my staying on.
I also met one man
who looked down on me, and never lost an opportunity to belittle
me. This was Veer Sawhney. Like me, he also failed to make a
living as a lawyer, and lived on his patrimony. This included a
spacious bungalow with a garden not far from the High Court.
From the first day we met, he decided to dislike me. I returned
the compliment. So it went on day after day.
He was a shameless
name-dropper, and claimed to be close to VIPs, including the
Prime Minister of Punjab, Sir Sikandar Hayat Khan. When he died,
Veer was there for the funeral, embracing other mourners and
wailing loudly. He entertained in nawabi style.
 His
wife returned to her parents. He stood for elections for the
secretary to the High Court Bar Association. I put my name up
for the only reason of giving him a drubbing. And I did. Our
fortunes changed on Partition. I returned to the comforts of my
father’s home. He had nowhere to go to. The last I met him was
when he was wandering around Connaught Circus.
It was quite a
surprise when after 70 years, I received three collections of
poems with a letter from his son Ashok Sawhney. The letter
claimed that the books were published in London and India. I am
pretty certain they were Vanity publications, paid for by
himself because there are very few takers for poetry. I refused
to meet him.
A few days later
another letter with two poems in English and couplets in Urdu
came by post. I was in for a surprise. It was good stuff in both
languages. By way for apology and appreciation, I publish one of
the poems, I Dream :
I dream of ancient
times, I do;
Of Greeks, Romans
and Xanadu;
Of Kubla Khan and
his pleasure dome;
Of coins in the
fountain;
In the heart of
Rome;
I dream, I do;
Vision I see of
eons gone by;
Arjuna’s plea
and his fervent prayer;
To the Master of
the universe;
And Krishna’s
response in warrior’s verse;
I dream, I do;
Of the Prophet I
dream, and the holy tablet;
Of Allah and his
eternal decree;
I dream of things
of long ago;
Was I there, did I
know?
I dream, I do;
Of the masters of
the written word;
Of Shakespeare,
Shelley and others I’ve heard;
I dream of Ghalib
with relative ease;
I dream of
philosophy and Socrates;
I dream, I do;
I dream of
evolution and modern man;
Of Darwin and how
his theory ran;
Of what I was to
be an ape;
Because I live, I
gape;
I dream, I do;
Gautam Buddha and
renunciation;
Gabriel and
Annunciation;
Myriad are the
dreams I dream;
Divinity and sea
bream;
I dream, I do;
I dream of Christ
on the Cross;
Pilloried and at
total loss;
To understand the
likes to me;
Natural destiny?
I wonder, I do.
Bitter romance
My friend Amir C.
Tuteja often sends me some interesting pieces from Washington to
entertain my readers. Here are some entries to a Washington
Post competition, asking for rhyming lines, with the first
part romantic, and the second part least romantic:
Roses are red,
violets are blue;
Sugar is sweet,
and so are you.
But the roses are
wilting;
The violets are
dead;
The sugar bowl’s
empty;
And so is your
head.
I want to feel
your sweet embrace;
But don’t take
that paper bag off your face.
I love your smile,
your face, and your eyes;
Damn, I’m good
at telling lies.
My love, you take
by breath away;
What have you
stepped in to smell this way?
My feelings for
you, no words can tell;
Except for maybe
"Go to Hell."
What inspired this
amorous rhyme?
Two parts Vodka,
one part lime.
Khushwant Singh is indisposed. His column
will not appear next week
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