Humra Quraishi

Yes, it is the start of February, but there’s little enthusiasm to look forward to the upcoming season of Bahaar or Spring, with Valentine’s Day splashed in its midst. Where is the excitement? Nowhere! Viruses of all hues holding sway, trampling upon even the faint traces of longing.

Not to overlook the communal virus consuming us.  Attacking our emotions, our sensitivities, our very existence. Polarisation on the housing front affects other fronts, including the love front! Tell me,  how can Hindu-Muslim love affairs take off, when there’s little interaction, when Muslims can’t get homes on rent in Hindu dominated areas and housing complexes, when Hindutva goons hang outside colleges and universities, keeping a watch!

One news report after another of sabotaged love affairs, between Hindus and Muslims. Now, of course, the so-called ‘Love Jihad’ laws, are terrorising couples. The State flaunted divisive cum destructive strategy along the ‘Love Jihad’ strain, seems to be the last nail in the coffin of our collective togetherness.

One of the biggest offshoots of this changed scenario is loneliness. One has to think a hundred times before making friends. Whom to befriend and who all to discard!

Spontaneity gets a hit. Worries compound, as scares of all hues and forms gather around, gaining momentum. And in the midst of it nobody even talks of loneliness!

I can’t  speak on your behalf but where I’m concerned I rather sit all alone than befriend a person with Right-Wing tilts.  Keeping a great distance even from any of the fence-sitters, as they are mere third-class opportunists. Yes, it’s far better to declare your lonely-status, “Yes, I’m lonely by choice as one doesn’t wish to befriend this or that rubbish!”

The other stark reality to loneliness is that till about recently nobody would dare talk of loneliness. Yes, though there’s no denying the fact that loneliness could be as lethal as corona but, here, in our country we don’t want to talk about any of the emotional realities. Nobody gives a damn to loneliness! Not even in those political speeches of the day!

How I wish candidates in the  upcoming electioneering or  political battles, focus on loneliness and how it ought to be given  some level of  significance.

Khushwant Singh would have turned 107 years on 2 February 2022

Born  in the  Undivided Punjab, in village Hadali, in 1915,  Khushwant  Singh  celebrated  two birthdays – 2  February and 15  August.

Khushwant Singh lived life at his own terms. He spoke fearlessly. He wrote along the same strain. No contradictions. Just  no  hypocrisy, no frills  and  none  of the  modern-day  complications. He hadn’t got himself a computer and nor a secretary and  definitely not a mobile.”Mere bas ka naheen hai yeh sab… I am happy   writing on a note pad.” And he ‘d  moaned when  one  of  his friends  had  got  him a  mobile. Rejecting all modern-day gadgets, keeping  to the  very  basics.

What would you say to a man who wrote for hours every single day! There were never sermons. Only subtle relays: No wasting of time in gossip or in those useless  wanderings. No facades, no tilts, no deceit and no hypocrisy. Even at the cost of sounding clichéd, he was ‘doston ka dost‘. Anything for a friend! Yes, he could do anything…

Till  about the time  his  close  friend  Prem  Kirpal died,  Khushwant  did  make  it a point to visit him almost  every week. Often , I ‘d accompanied him, and though Prem  Kirpal was stone  deaf but  would  receive us with a smile and  much hospitality followed. And when Khushwant would announce that was time to go, Kirpal looked sullen. This when  Khushwant  has  written  some  rather  provocative  passages  on  Kirpal’s  chronic  bachelorhood but then, there was  that  rapport  between the  two.

There  could   be  many whom  Khushwant  had  helped  out, though   he had  never ever dwelt on those  details… when theatre  personality Balwant  Gargi was undergoing severe financial crisis, only  one  particular  person  in this  capital  city helped  him  out, “Sardar Khushwant sahib paid  my  electricity bills… he  did  so without  letting  sardani or  any  other person  know.”

I’m   certain that   patients  lying in the  confines  of  the  Guru  Teg  Bahadur  hospital  in New Delhi  wouldn’t have an  inkling  of Khushwant’s  role  in the  building   of a   modern  and  well-equipped  dharamshala  for the caregivers accompanying  these  patients  from  far-flung  sectors. This dharamshala is a Sir Sobha  Singh project that came through  because  of  Khushwant’s persistence and  initiative. He seemed  determined that this  building  come  up  as  part  of the   hospital  bandobast   for  the hapless   patients,  in  tune  with   the  Sikh   philosophy that  one  tenth  of  the earnings  should go  to the   disadvantaged .A  philosophy  followed  by  his  parents, “My  father   always   gave one  tenth of his  earnings  to charity, now this trust is in  his  name … whenever  my  father  visited  AIIMS he’d commented  there  was  no  place  for  care givers  to   stay, particularly as  many  may  have  travelled with their  patients. He couldn’t build one in  his  lifetime. So it was  left for the  family  and to  the  Sir  Sobha  Singh  Trust to  build this  one.”

All the  years  in  my  interactions  with him  I  hadn’t  ever  heard  him  raising  his  voice. On   several  occasions  I’d   seen   young   enthusiastic  writers  barging  in  unannounced and he  looking  totally  taken  aback,  saying that  he doesn’t  meet  without a   prior  appointment. The intruders still about lingering on. With that, he looking upset but somewhat relenting, “Okay sit, okay have a drink.”  Yes, he could look upset or  irritated, but, then, nothing  beyond. Even  if   guests   lingered  on ,  that  is  beyond  8  pm, he    comes   up  with  rather gentle   reminders, “bhai… ab   tum  jao .”

There was  that  look  of impatience in his eyes but, then, he was   not  the  one   who could  ever get  rude. Call  it strange  or   call  it  by any other  term  but  all those  years I’d  seen  him sitting   on the  same  chair  and  amidst  the  same  settings. In  fact, years   back,  when  his  spouse  Kaval was   battling the Alzheimer’s  disorder, he’d be  sitting   on  the   sofa   chair   placed   across   to where  she’d sat  his  eyes  moving  from  the   notepad  he’d  be writing  on, towards  her. Had  been seeing   him in that   role,   mind you,  not  just  one  evening, but for   months  at a  stretch.

During that   phase I used to  visit  him almost  every day, as the  two  of us would walk  towards the Lodi Gardens.  Once there he’d walk for a  while before being   surrounded  by many  of  his   admirers. And  when we’d  reach   the  side  gates to this  garden, we’d  part  ways – in the  sense  I  would  take   the   full  round, and  he ‘d   walk along  the stretch  facing  the   ‘gumbad ‘ situated  in the  very  heart  of these gardens. The meeting point, to walk back, was those  steps  leading  to the   ‘gumbad’ .  Invariably, I found   him sitting   on the steps  leading  to   the  ‘gumbad’ with  at least  a   dozen  fellow walkers  also  sitting  on those  steps.  Chatting with him, asking  for his views  about  the   various   political   aspects   and current happenings. And along with them there’s to  be  a channa seller who’d  always   come along to wish  him. Not that   Khushwant  bought  any   of  his wares  but  did  make  it a   point   to   exchange  a  sentence  or  two, followed   by  polite  nods.

“Don’t you   get   irritated  with all these  people   coming up  to you,  not  leaving  you even  whilst  you ‘re walking?” I  couldn’t  help asking  him and  he’d   smile,  implying  it’s  all  okay, part  of  everyday  life… No, not once I’d spotted rudeness or arrogance   in his attitude. And if  one were to ask  him what  he’d   utterly disliked, he’d  said, “Can’t  stand   arrogance, can’t   stand  rudeness   and  those who  are   fake… in  seconds  I can  see through  those flatterers.”

Then why so many have been taking advantage of him? So many trying to get close to him, by faking and super-faking?

He  did   realise   people  taking  advantage  of  him  but   came in  way  his  inability to  say  no. He   couldn’t say no.  And  in one of  those  introspective  moods  he  would offload details  of  the   who’s  who, who’d not  just wasted  his   time  but  had   even  taken  him  to court. Looking  upset  he   recounted     the  many   times  he   has  been  let down   by close   friends,  yet not  one  of those   to  have   thought  of   revenge  or avenging. “No, that’s not in me… I immediately withdraw and that’s about it.”

HIS  EMOTIONAL  CONNECT  WITH  HIS  PLACE  OF  BIRTH/HIS  ROOTS Not  really  bothered  what  others  comment; some  even calling  him  “Pakistani  rundee  ki aulad “, he  kept  his   home  open to   anyone landing   from   the  place  of  his  roots, Pakistan . There  was   that   smile   ever widening   on  his   face when  he  spoke  with  Pakistanis  landing  at  his   doorstep.  In  fact, tradition  has  been  that  High Commissioners   of  Pakistan coming  on  a  posting  to India   would   call   on him within the  first  few  days  of  their  reaching  New Delhi.  Many of the   ordinary travellers   from  the   neighboring  country   making  it  a  point to   meet   him .And  he’d   be there  asking   details   of  his   ancestral  village in Pakistan,  along  with  several  of the   basic  queries .Yes, with  them he’d  break  into  Punjabi, with  ample English and  Hindustani words   thrown  in for our  sake , the   non- Punjabis  sitting  around ,trying  to  grasp each word. And it’s  in  his  home   I ‘d  first  met   Minoo Bhandara   – Bapsi Sidhwa’s  brother, owner  of  Murree  Breweries  and also   a  former  member   of  Pakistan’s National  Assembly…Minoo   had  travelled to   his  village  Hadali (in  Pakistan ‘s Sargodha  district)  and   clicked  pictures … there were   tears  in  Khushwant’s  eyes  when  he’d  asked  Minoo who was  living  in  his  ancestral   home  and   more along  the  strain .And for  what  seemed  minutes he’dkept looking at  his  home,in  those  photographs, saying ,” Last   I  had  visited  my  village  was several  years  back, when  I  was  in  Pakistan .It was a  very  emotional experience with a   reception   held  for  me  and  people coming to  meet  me …ours  was a  huge    haveli  and today  it   lies  occupied   by three  refugee  families  who  had  gone from  Rohtak. It was  touching to  see the  gurdwara   in the  village  still  intact… even during  the  Partition  chaos , nobody  touched  the  gurdwara   though the   village    population was 90  per cent  Muslims and  there only few  Sikh and  Hindu   families. Then this  village   has the  distinction  of  sending   the  largest  number  of  men for  World  War  1  … have  several  memories  of  my  village  – how  my  grandmother  would take  me along  to the   different families  she’d  visited  in the  village , and  how she’d  tell  the  time  of the   day ; there was  no  clock or  watch , during  the day  my  grandmother  would  tell the time by the shadow of the  sun  on the wall and  at  night  by the  stars.”

A  LOYAL  FRIEND  There were  who’s who  of this   city   who’d  come to  his  homefor advice  No ,not  at the  usual  slot  –  7   to  8  pm , but  either   an  hour  before  that , or   even earlier during the  day,  towards  noon. Many confided   in  him  and  many  more  asked  for advice . And , mind you,  his   advice was   invariably along the  conservative strain .Not  just  conservative   but  very  conservative ,  if  I  may so   say. It might  come as some  sort of surprise tohear this  but this  is so .Then why  that   image  of  him, sitting  with  women amidst   those  hackneyed frills  around?

“All that  is  because  I speak  out, talk  openly, write…if  I  like a woman’s  looks  I  say  so  but say so  right  in front  of  her  husband .” The basic  reality  is, as  he  himself proclaimed rather  loud and  clear that  no  woman,  however   beautiful, can   sit  more  than  fifteen  minutes, for by  then  she’d  had   read the  impatience  in his  eyes. Though  not  a  loner  in   the   actual  sense  of the term  but, then, he  seems   to  be  at  ease  in  solitude.  On  that  one   week end  I ‘d  visited   him ,whilst he  was  in  Kasauli, he   looked   so  relaxed  being  by  himself. ,that   I  felt some  sort   of an  intruder .For  most  part of the day,  he ‘d  kept sitting on  the  front stretch, reading  or writing  .Keeping  himself   away from the   lone  landline   and there  seemed   no trace  of  a television set . Its only in the evenings that  visitors had  dropped  in. There’s   was something   along the old world charm, as his neighbours and friends  got   together, discussing and chatting over dinner. The guests included  Churamanis, Prashers  (if  I am  not  mistaken  Mrs  Prasher  has  been  India’s  number  one  Badminton player), Baljeet  Virk, Anil &Sharda   Kaushik and the   then   Scottish   principal   of the  Lawrence  Sanawar  School.-  Andrew   Gray.And the   next  afternoon, as   Khushwant  and  I  had  walked   to  the   Kasauli   market,  he   knew  several  of  the  shopkeepers .No,not  mere  formality    ridden sessions ,  but   as though  he’d cared ,asking  them about their  children and work.

HIS VIEWS ON DEATH: “I’m not  scared  of   death , there  are  no   fears.  Death  is  inevitable, no  brooding  about  it , be  prepared for  it ,  as Asadullah  Khan  Ghalib has  too aptly put  across – ‘rau  mein hai  raksh -e-umar kahaan  deykheeye thammey /nai  haath  baag  par hai nah pa  hai  rakaab  mein  ( age  travels  at a  galloping  pace /who  knows  where will  it stop  /we do  not  have the  reins  in  our  hands  /we do  not  have  our feet in the  stirrups.)”