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The Sunset Club The book begins with a trip down
memory lane for each of them, one in which their exploits with the
opposite sex are reported with an ample ammunition of shocking
expletives Khushwant Singh is infamous for. Equally, Singh is bowel
obsessed, as people of that age are, and the first few pages are full
of his characters’ problematic morning ablutions. That done, the
rest of the book is about the mental peregrinations and short
commentaries of the three characters on various subjects, such as the
everyday news of the year 2009. And thus we travel through the whole
year through their conversations about mournings at funerals to death
and the departed. These commentaries go hand in hand with the
changing weather of Delhi and the ambience of the Lodhi Garden. The
moribund winter months of the north give way to spring and summer as
January loosens its grip and trees discover new leaves and blossoms.
The birds begin to twitter and sing while the reader enjoys Boota’s
easy recitation from Ghalib or Mir Taqi Mir as he gets enchanted by
spring sights and smells: If you like to visit a garden, go Now,
for this is the month of Spring; The leaves are green and flowering
trees Are in full bloom It appears that the daily chit-chat of
the three has a "hotline communication with nature". Nothing
really happens here. Yet each day brings a new twist to the lives of
these opinionated men, which become eventful because they are knitted
together with the news of the day. Though there is no plot or
intrigue, only a narration of events and casual—but scintillating—conversation,
spiced with Singh’s too-often disgusting vocabulary about sex and
bowels, the book acquires a pace when one realises that Khushwant
Singh attempts to chart a journalistic history of India in the year
2009. From the Republic Day celebrations to Christmas Eve, from Varun
Gandhi’s hate speeches against Muslims during the elections to the
Liberhan Committee findings, gradually winter gives way to summer and
the monsoons to celebrate India’s various moods, pretty or
corrupt. It is through the comments of the three men that Khushwant
Singh reveals his caustic wit. During an animated discussion of hasya
yoga or the yogic exercise of inducing artificial laughter as
therapy which Sharma advocates, Boota questions why this should be so:
"That fellow who was Election Commissioner, what was his name? Oh
yes, Seshan. He never laughed; Mamata Banerjee never laughs, Mehbooba
Mufti never laughs. Something wrong with them?" Or again , when
Baig decides to buy a Nano even though he himself rides a Mercedes,
Boota sneers: "May your Nano prove a blessing . . . Why not get
10, one for each servant? You can then call yourself Nawab Nano Wala
of Nizamuddin?" We are almost certain that the author caricatures
himself in the figure of Boota Singh. Even if the book is not for
those who are looking for life’s profundities, it remains engaging
in terms of giving us a glimpse into the minds of men in their 80s.
At one level, there is a kind of pathos available to us and a
sensitive rendering of the loneliness of the aged, which despite
Khushwant Singh’s brashness of presentation and ribald approach, is
there to see. The eagerness with which Sharma, Baig and Boota look
forward to their ‘Sunset Club’ interactions on the ‘Boorha Binch’
to discuss the love affairs of their youth and the frivolities of old
age speaks volumes for the vacuousness of the lives of people who live
a retired existence. And yet the fire of life glows warmly in their
company. While reading the book, one thinks that the profane by far
overpowers the sacred. But the sad note on which it concludes tells us
that life is not simply a banter but a tragedy of inevitable end that
has to overtake even those who once made commonplace jokes in the
vulgar idiom.
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Few authors would have
men in their mid-eighties as heroes. Trust Khushwant Singh to be among
those few to choose three men—Pandit Preetam Sharma, a Punjabi
Brahmin they call "sabjantawala" or know-all, Nawab
Barkatullah Baig, a Muslim as his name reveals, and Boota Singh or ‘Rangeela
Sardar’ as Baig’s wife calls him—as the octogenarian
grandfathers-next-door. All three have one occupation in common—taking
a walk in Delhi’s Lodhi Gardens every evening. At sunset, they sit
down on what is known as the ‘Boorha Binch’, or the old men’s
bench, to discuss every subject under the sun. All three are ridden
with problems relating to old age—hearing aids, dentures, walking
sticks and wheel chairs. We find that Boota and Sharma have extreme
moods whereas Baig is the moderate of the three. Together they are
known as the ‘Sunset Club’.