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THIS ABOVE ALL
Portrait of a marriage
Khushwant Singh
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Khushwant Singh
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If
there was a marriage doomed to fail, it was that of Minoo
Masani and Shakuntala Srivastava. Ironically, it was a love
marriage between a Parsi and a Hindu Kayastha. No sooner had
they married, than they began to drift apart. They stopped
talking to each other, and then filed a suit for a mutually
agreed divorce. Their only child, a son named Zareer, who is
proud of being gay, has written about how love turned into dire
hate within a matter of months. And All is said: Memoir of a
Home Divided (Penguin Viking) narrates his parents’
break-up in beautiful prose. Minoo was deep into politics. He,
along with C. Rajagopalachari, founded the Swatantra Party and
won an election to the Lok Sabha. However, the Swatantra Party
was a non-starter and soon faded out of existence.
Shakuntala became
an ardent admirer of the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi.
Since then, husband and wife were at opposite ends of the
political pole. There was little chance of their holding
together. I befriended Shakuntala. She used to spend her summers
in London as a lodger with an English family living in a suburb.
On two successive summers, I also happened to be in London on
writing assignments. We got close to each other. She came to my
hotel every evening. We had a drink or two in my room. Then went
to the pictures, usually The Curzons, in Mayfair, a small cinema
house which showed foreign films. We dined together in a French
or Italian restaurant. Last summer, when I did not go to London,
she was taken ill. It was something serious like cancer. After
suffering acute pain, she succumbed to the disease a few weeks
later. I was heartbroken. I keep gazing at her photograph with
her husband on the jacket of the book. I say to myself, "It
can’t be true. I will not let you desert me". I had a
strange feeling that her picture gave me a smile.
Return post
The Prime Minister’s
wife, Gursharan Kaur, occasionally sends flowers to my
grand-daughter Naina, who lives across the corridor, Reeta Devi,
who lives in the neighbouring block, and to me. I promptly send
her a letter of thanks in an envelope marked
"personal" at the Prime Minister’s residence on Race
Course Road. On two occasions, my letters have been returned to
me with the note "addressee unknown". I had to send
them back by hand. However, I marvelled at the efficiency of our
postal service shabash.
Homeless in
winter
 Against the icy
winds and the
bone-chilling cold
When the skies are
freezing or frozen
When under the
blanket
Or quilt we shiver
And need a hot
beverage every hour
They sleep in the
open
Because it is a
lot of fun
On the pavements
and roadsides
of the city
Rows upon rows you
see
Obviously,
sleeping most peacefully
They come to the
hospital
Bewildered and
aghast
And bear the
wintry blast
And because of
cold
Not lack of
treatment
Breathe their last
Not only a nation
great
We are a welfare
state
A land of equality
and plenty
Where starvation
is a thing
of the times old
And nobody can die
of cold
(Courtesy:
Kuldip Salil, Delhi)
Definitions
Fire fighter —
fired
Tennis player —
deserved
Belly dancer —
belted
Sex-kitten —
sent to kitchen
Swine flu — pig-loo
Shoe salesman —
defeated
Wine drinker —
deported
Oil driller —
engulfed
Cardiologist —
heart-mart
Playboy — jilted
Comfort home
A popular device
in China and Japan to give comfort and delight to one’s life
is the cricket house — a small wooden box screened with fine
netting and containing a little sand, stone and one or two
crickets. The aged, sick, and those who have to stay home can,
with a little effort, have a joyous string-playing morning, noon
and night. The upkeep involves a few breadcrumbs, and
occasionally a lettuce leaf. One small biscuit will keep the
cricket happy for months.
(Contributed by
Reeten Ganguly, Tezpur)
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