THIS ABOVE ALL
Total confusion
Khushwant Singh

When I first went to England, I was more concerned with befriending English girls than studying law. My only apprehension was that my turban and beard would put them off. Fortunately, it was the other way round. My turban and beard made me appear a genuine Indian, while my clean-shaven colleagues were dismissed as brown versions of English boys.

There were three of us in London University. Tarlok Singh was a scholarly sardar, who later made it to the ICS and became the head of the Planning Commission. At that time he had only half a moustache. Then there was Basant Singh from Kenya, who was a keen cricketer. There was nothing to my credit except being the son of a generous father.

There was not the least resemblance between the three of us; yet, the English were always mixing us up. Tarlok was the favourite student of Prof Harold Laski, who often gave me books meant for him.

A more amusing incident was when Amarjit Singh, who was in Selvyn College, Cambridge, came to spend a week-end in Welwyn Garden City. I was living in a cottage close to the woods, which were full of rhododendron bushes, then in full bloom. Amarjit Singh decided to take a walk in the woods before returning to Cambridge.

He met an elderly lady, who greeted him as she had known him for some time. After a little chit-chat, Amarjit told her he was not the Singh she knew but a friend of his. The lady apologised and said: "I did realise you looked a little different but was not sure."

A couple of hours later they ran into each other at the railway station. The lady greeted him and said: "You know Mr Singh, I mistook you for a friend staying with you."

A memorable dialogue over sardarji’s identity took place in

Jerusalem. I was staying in King David Hotel. One evening as I went to the dining room, I found only one unoccupied table and made for it. The next table was occupied by a middle-aged American couple.

They gaped at me for a while before getting into a huddle, whispering into each other’s ears. Then the man turned to me and asked: "Excuse me, Sir, do you speak English?"

"Yes, I do," I replied. "My wife and I were wondering where you are from."

I decided to have some fun and replied: "I give you three guesses. If you get it right, I will buy you a drink." The man paused before saying: "You would not be Jewish."

"No, I am not Jewish." "Would you be a Mussalman?"

"No, I am not a Muslim." "Buddhist?" "No, I am not Buddhist."

"I give up, what are you?" "I am a Sikh." "Then you must be from Sikkim," he pronounced.

At a writers’ conference in Glasgow I found myself in the same lodging house with a few writers, including Bangladesh poet Jasimuddin. After making sure that I was not a hot-headed sardarji, he would greet me every morning: "Shordarji, aap ko boro buj gaya."

I was going over Coleman Barks’ translation of Rumi for the 10th time, reading only those passages that I had underlined. I came across one which had impressed me as a summary of my beliefs. I am not sure if I have quoted those lines earlier but even if I have, they deserve being repeated. They run as follows: