My Biggest Worry: Intolerance
My only worry today is the rise in right-wing fascist parties in the country.
We allowed fascism to dig its heels in our courtyard. We let them get away with every step they took and never raised a howl of protest. Today they burn books they do not like; they beat up journalists who write against them; they attack cinema houses showing films they do not approve of; they vandalize the paintings of India’s leading artist; they pervert texts from history books to make them conform to their ideas; they foul-mouth everyone who disagrees with them. We fail to hit back because we have never been a united force and do not realize the perils of allowing our country to fall into their hands.
Events such as the demolition of the Babri masjid, the burning of Graham Staines and his children and the barbaric and mindless carnage in Gujarat are events that stink of politics mixed with religion. I have always maintained that religion and politics do not go together; they must be kept apart at all cost. What in Nehru’s time were parties of marginal importance, the RSS, the Hindu Mahasabha, the Jan Sangh, the Shiv Sena and the Bajrang Dal, gathered strength and became the main opposition to secular forces. The young, the present generation, should be aware of the rise in communal politics and the dangers involved. If India is to survive as a nation and march forward, it must remain one country, reassert its secular credentials and throw out communally based parties from the political arena.
What concerns me is how narrow-minded and intolerant we Indians have become.
What has been happening in Mumbai, what the Shiv Sena is doing, is anti-national. I lived in Mumbai for nine years without understanding or speaking Marathi. At no time was I made to feel I didn’t belong. We are Indian first. To be parochial and reject people because they aren’t from the same state or speak a different language is to be un-Indian. It is alarming to see educated people express views that don’t reflect their liberal education. On the contrary, I have often found them to be the most bigoted, prejudiced, fanatic of them all.
If we love our country, we have to save it from communal forces. And though the liberal class is shrinking, I do hope that the present generation totally rejects communal and fascist policies.
My Weaknesses and Insecurities
My biggest weakness is my inability to say no. I know people, many women included, take advantage of me, yet I cannot say no. I don’t get anything out of these people who take advantage of me—absolutely nothing. And the women, they just cuddle up to me or wrap their arms around me, give me a hug and a kiss and that’s enough for me to feel good. Women have always behaved like this with me, even in front of my wife—they’d do it even when she was around. And it didn’t upset her.
My insecurities show up in my dreams. I dream that I’m lost in a place and don’t have any money. I think I have these dreams because there was a time when I had very little money and it was like that right until I took over as editor of The Illustrated Weekly and my books started getting published. My father had supported me then but that insecurity seems to have crept in.
On Work
It is work, my writing, that keeps me going. Writing is a solitary profession and you simply cannot write in a crowd or in the midst of people.
Over the years I have discovered what enormous energy silence creates, energy that socializing and useless chit chat depletes. You have got to train yourself to be alone. You have to discipline yourself to follow a slavish routine. As always, even to this day, I’m up early and the day begins with solving crossword puzzles and reading the newspapers. No matter what happens I don’t let everyday tensions come in the way of my work and the deadlines I have for the day.
I jot down my deadlines for the day in the morning itself and don’t retire till I have completed the day’s work. This includes writing, from about three in the afternoon right until seven in the evening. And answering all the letters that I receive myself. I get around thirty letters every day and they come in four languages—Punjabi, English, Hindi, Urdu. Some of these are even abusive, calling me ‘Pakistani randi ki aulad’ (son of a Pakistani prostitute) or calling me a Pakistani agent, but I see to it that I reply to even these, if the sender has sent me his address.
There’s really no substitute for work. Years ago, when I was sixty-nine and in my third year as editor of The Hindustan Times and the contract had to be renewed, the proprietor, K.K. Birla, had asked me whether I had any plans to retire. I’d told him then, ‘Birla-ji, retire toh Nigambodh Ghaat mein honga.’ (I will retire when I’m taken to the cremation grounds.)
I’ve never wasted a moment in prayers, nor in love affairs or relationships. They’re such a waste of time. I don’t even watch cricket or tennis matches on TV anymore, not even these IPL matches. I have absolutely no interest in them. I don’t know any of these new players and also all this money has taken away the fun.
On Being A Writer
I have never taken anyone too seriously, least of all myself. I have always been a nosy person, forever probing into other people’s private lives. I love to gossip and have an insatiable appetite for scandal. When I landed my first job as editor of Yojana, over fifty years ago, I discovered I could exploit these negative traits to my benefit. Readers were amused by what I wrote and asked for more. An editor of The Times of India had scoffed at me as he remarked, ‘You have made bullshit an art form.’ I was flattered.
I resumed my column when I took over as editor of The Illustrated Weekly of India in 1969. I wrote on subjects other editors considered beneath contempt. I wrote on why some monkeys have red bottoms, on the refined art of bottom pinching, shop lifting without getting caught, the joys of drinking, mocking politicians, godmen, astrologers and my favourite target— name droppers. Mario Miranda designed the logo that accompanied my column, of me in a bulb with a pile of books and a bottle of whiskey beside me. I use it even today. It has become my trademark.
Soon after I began my writing career, I took a conscious decision to write on specific subjects. Hardly any Sikh had written anything in English on Sikh history or Sikhism. I knew the Sikh morning prayer Japji by heart and translated it verse by verse. I wrote it down and had it published in London by Arthur Probsthain. It was an instant success and, thanks to the Sikh community, was a sell-out. Later, when I wrote A History of the Sikhs, I felt my life’s work was done. It was my opus exegi. The two volumes were first published in 1963 and I dedicated them to my parents Sardar Bahadur Sir Sobha Singh and Lady Viran Bai.
I have never rated myself very highly as a writer. I can tell good writing from the not-so-good and first-rate writing from the passable. I know that of Indian writers or those of Indian origin the late Nirad Chaudhuri, Naipaul, Rushdie, Amitava Ghosh and Vikram Seth handle the English language better than I. I also know that I can and have written as well as R.K. Narayan, Mulk Raj Anand, Malgaonkar, Ruth Jhabvala, Nayantara Sahgal and Anita Desai. Unlike most I have never claimed to be a great writer. Almost every Indian writer I have met lauds his or her achievements. You have to be born a writer. No school or classes can teach you how to become one. There has to be something in you. And you have to keep at it. You are lucky if you can write both fiction and non-fiction with equal ease and prowess. Writers have different styles and each writer is unique. They can be temperamental, have their quirks and eccentricities. They can be moody and dislikeable; they can be warm and kind human beings. Usually, writers are an interesting and colourful bunch—though I can think of a few who are crashing bores. Salman Rushdie is a great womanizer and has one relationship after another; Vikram Seth has openly declared that he is gay—he didn’t have to publicize something that is so private—it was unnecessary; V.S. Naipaul’s biography shows us a very ugly side of him. It’s not about visiting prostitutes—lots of people go to prostitutes—there’s nothing unusual in that. Maybe he didn’t have the confidence to cultivate a friend. It’s the way he treated his wife and mistress. It was terrible. I’d met both of them here in Delhi when they came to meet me and e
ven took them out for dinners and went with them whenever I was invited. I’m not quite sure whether Naipaul approved of all this being written about in his biography, because he is a shy, aggressive man.
Two writers who had a huge impact on me when I was young were Aldous Huxley and Somerset Maugham. Their work left a deep and lasting impression on me. Amongst today’s writers I admire several: Salman Rushdie—but only his earlier works—Vikram Seth, Amitav Ghosh and Arundhati Roy.
The world of writers and publishers has changed beyond recognition. The pioneers of Indians writing in English—Mulk Raj Anand, R.K. Narayan and Raja Rao either had patrons who helped them find publishers or organizations which sponsored their works. They made some noise in literary circles but not much money. Literary agents were little known. The only one I’d heard of then was Curtis Brown. It was said that if the agent took up your work, they would find you a good publisher and take their cut on royalties due to you. Today a literary agent has become a powerful factor in publishing: the best writers use them because it is the agents who get publishing houses to cough up huge sums as advance royalties. The whole business resembles a whorehouse. Publishers can be compared to brothel keepers, literary agents to bharooahs [pimps] who find eligible girls and fix rates of payment; writers can be likened to prostitutes. Newcomers are naya maal [virgins] who draw the biggest fees for being deflowered. I for one never went through a literary agent—nor did I have problems finding a good publisher. I was happy with the 8 to 10 per cent they gave me on the sales of my books.
I have often been asked how one becomes a good writer. I’d say that one has to slog and be totally honest and fearless. Always speak out. One might face problems, but one mustn’t give in. Along with hard work, read whatever you can—whether it’s classics or fairytales or even nonsense verse. Reading—reading as much as you can—will make you capable of distinguishing between bad and good writing. Also, one should never be pretentious or have pretences; be honest and not show off by using difficult words. That comes in the way of communicating with the reader. Always do your homework. A writer’s responsibility— whether you’re an essayist or a novelist—is to inform your reader while you provoke or entertain him. The challenge is to tell your reader something he doesn’t know. Don’t talk down to the reader; level with him. Above all, don’t be afraid to be yourself.
If you write fearlessly and candidly you have to be prepared to pay the price. And there’s no point writing if you’re not honest. It’s because of my writing that I have got the reputation of being a dirty old man but it’s never bothered me. I’ve always written what I felt and believed to be true. I bared all in my autobiography—if I hadn’t it wouldn’t have been honest, and there wouldn’t have been any point in writing it.
If you write then you also have to be prepared for criticism. Every day I get several letters which are full of gaalis. Most accuse me of being pro-Muslim and an anti-Hindu, and this is mostly because I write against the communal cries of some political parties. I have even received death threats—when I wrote against Bhindranwale I was on the Khalistani hit list— but none of this has ever bothered me, really. I have never felt like giving it back to my critics, because I’m not vengeful. Not even when people I considered friends, people whom I have helped at various stages, have taken me to court. It’s just not in me to take revenge.
My autobiography was a tell-all—I concealed nothing; there’s no secret I kept to myself. I write what comes to my mind and at times this has upset people. I know I’m often misunderstood as a sharabi-kababi type because I write openly about my love for alcohol, women and four-letter words. But I’ve never been bothered by my reputation.
Those I Respect and Admire
In the study in my cottage in Kasauli, I have two pictures of the people I admire most— Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa.
I admire Bapu Gandhi more than any other man. Of all the other prophets of the past, we have no knowledge. Almost everything about them is myth or miracle. With Gandhi, we know—he walked among us not long ago and there are many people alive, like me, who have seen him. He was always in the public eye. He bared himself; no one was more honest.
I don’t accept his foibles. He took a vow of celibacy in his prime, but without consulting his wife, which I think was grossly unfair. He would sleep naked beside young girls to test his brahmacharya. He could be very odd. But these are small matters. His insistence on truth at all times made him a Mahatma. And the principle of Ahimsa: not to hurt anyone. Ahimsa and honesty should be the basis of all religion, of every life.
I’ve been a regular drinker all my adult life. I celebrate sex and cannot say that I have never lied. I have not hurt anyone physically but I think I’ve caused hurt with my words and actions. And sometimes there is no forgiveness in me. But I consider myself a Gandhian. Whenever I feel unsure of anything, I try to imagine what Gandhi would have done and that is what I do.
I became a Gandhi bhakta at a young age. I first saw Bapu when I was six or seven years old, when I was studying in Modern School. He had come on a visit. All of us children— there were very few students in the school those days—sat on the ground in the front row.
He bent down and tugged my uniform playfully.
‘Beta, yeh kapda kahan ka hai?’ he asked.
‘Vilayati,’ I said with pride.
He told me gently, ‘Yeh apne desh ka hota toh achha hota, nahin?’
Soon after, I started wearing khadi. My mother used to spin khaddar, so it was easy. I continued wearing khaddar for many years. Before I went London to attend university, I took some khaddar to our tailor because I had been told I would need a proper English suit. The tailor laughed and told my father, who asked me to stop being a khotta!
It must have been more than thirty years ago that I was asked to do a profile of Mother Teresa for The New York Times. I wrote to Mother Teresa seeking her permission to call on her. Having got it, I spent three days with her, from the early hours of the morning to late at night. Nothing in my long journalistic career has remained as sharply etched in my memory as those three days with her in Calcutta.
Before I met her, I read Malcolm Muggeridge’s book on her, Something Beautiful for God. Malcolm was a recent convert to Catholicism and prone to believe in miracles. He had gone to make a film on Mother Teresa for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). They first went to the Nirmal Hriday (Sacred Heart) Home for dying destitutes close to the Kalighat temple. The team took some shots of the building from outside and if its sunlit courtyard. The camera crew was of the opinion that the interior was too dark, and they had no lights that would help them take the shots they needed. However, since some footage was left over, they decided to use it for interior shots. When the film was developed later, the shots of the dormitories inside were found to be clearer and brighter than those taken in sunlight. The first thing I asked Mother Teresa was if this was true. She replied, ‘But of course. Such things happen all the time.’ And she added with greater intensity, ‘Every day, every hour, every single minute, God manifests Himself in some miracle.’ She narrated other miracles of the days when her organization was little known and always short of cash. ‘Money has never been much of a problem,’ she told me, ‘God gives through His people.’ She told me that when she started her first school in the slums, she had no more than five rupees with her. But as soon as people came to know what she was doing, they brought money and other things. The first institution she took me to was Nirmal Hriday. It was in 1952 that the Calcutta Corporation had handed the building over to her. Orthodox Hindus were outraged. Four hundred Brahmin priests attached to the Kali temple demonstrated outside the building. ‘One day I went out and spoke to them, “If you want to kill me, kill me. But do not disturb the inmates. Let them die in peace.” That silenced them. Then one of the priests staggered in. He was in an advanced stage of galloping phthisis. The nuns looked after him till he died.’ That changed the priests’ attitude towards Mother Teresa. Later, one day, another
priest entered the Home, prostrated himself at Mother Teresa’s feet and said, ‘For thirty years I have served the Goddess Kali in her temple. Now the Goddess stands before me.’
On my way back, Mother Teresa dropped me at the Dum Dum Airport. As I was about to take leave of her she said, ‘So?’, wanting to know whether I had anything else to ask her. ‘Tell me how can you touch people with loathsome diseases like leprosy and gangrene? Aren’t you revolted by people filthy with dysentery and cholera vomit?’ She replied, ‘I see Jesus in every human being. I say to myself, this is hungry Jesus. This one has gangrene, dysentery or cholera. I must wash him and tend to him.’
I wrote a humble tribute to her for The New York Times and put her on the cover of The Illustrated Weekly. Till then she was little known outside Calcutta; after that more people got to know about her work. She sent me a short note of thanks which I have in a silver frame in Kasauli. It is among my most valued possessions: ‘I am told you do not believe in God. I send you God’s blessings.’
I have often thought about those three days I spent with Mother Teresa in Calcutta. We walked through crowded streets, rode in trams to visit her various hospitals, creches for abandoned children and homes for the dying. I still remember how she tended to a very ill man who was dying. She was with him, looking after him all the time telling him to say ‘Bhogoban achhen’ (There is God). The way in which Mother Teresa went about looking after and tending to the sick, the dying, the hungry—it was the same with Bhagat Puran Singh. I heard of his pingalwara in Amritsar and persuaded members of my family’s charitable trust to donate some money for the inmates there.
Some years later, during one of my trips to Calcutta, I’d asked her to meet me but she declined, saying that she wouldn’t come to my hotel room. It was okay by me, because I respected her. I saw her last when she was in Delhi. She had come here when H.S. Sikand (of Sikand Motors) had gifted a van for her Missionaries of Charity, but this time she didn’t seem to recognize me. I’d smiled and greeted her and though she did smile back, she did so in the way you do when you don’t really recognize the person.
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