If you cannot do any of these, get yourself a vigorous massage at least once a day. Powerful hands moving over your body from skull to toes improves blood circulation.
Cut down on your intake of food and drink. Maintain a strict routine for meals. I have breakfast at 6.30 a.m., lunch at noon, a drink at 7 p.m. and supper at 8 p.m. Start your day with a glass of fruit juice. (Guava juice is better than any other.)
A single peg of single malt whiskey in the evening is good for your appetite.
Before you eat dinner say to yourself: ‘Don’t eat much.’ Try and eat alone and in silence.
Stick to one kind of vegetable or meat followed by a pinch of chooran. (Idli-dosa is a healthier option as it is easier to digest.)
Never allow yourself to be constipated. Keep your bowels clean by whatever means you can: laxatives, enemas, glycerine suppositories.
Keep a healthy bank balance for peace of mind. It does not have to be in crores but enough for your future needs and the possibility of illness or failing health.
Don’t lose your temper, and do laugh often.
Don’t tell a lie.
Give generously. It will cleanse your soul. Remember, you cannot take what you have with you.
Instead of whiling away your time praying, take up a hobby: gardening, music, helping children or those who are in need. Remember: always keep busy. Keep both your mind and hands working.
Humour is a Lethal Weapon
We Indians take life far too seriously and consider far too many things sacred. Worst of all, we don’t have the ability to laugh at ourselves. And people who can’t do that can never cultivate a genuine sense of humour. It doesn’t take much wit to be regarded as a humorist in a nation as humourless as ours. It is no surprise then that my joke books have sold more than any other of my writings and that the first item most readers of my column look at is the last one that I usually reserve for a joke or humorous anecdote. I find it funny that joke books are bestsellers in a country without a sense of humour.
However, we are not entirely without humour. While we can’t laugh at ourselves, we are quick to laugh at other people. India has a long tradition of making fun of its kings and queens, ministers and generals and other people in power. Court jesters and clowns were allowed to mock them and speak their mind. They were tolerated because this was the only way the rulers got the real picture: what was really going on in the country and what was being said about them behind their backs. And the more tyrannical the rule, the more underground humour it generated.
While the legacies of Birbal, Tenali Raman and Gopal Bhar have not been lost, the largest number of jokes in our country centre on ethnic stereotypes and communities. Interestingly, most of these are made up by the communities themselves. And while it’s funny if they narrate them, they are very touchy and sensitive if the jokes are narrated by others. The best of our jokes remain a part of an oral tradition and are rarely seen in print. We are also a cowardly nation and are very scared of lawsuits.
I’ve never taken anything very seriously, least of all myself. I wish more journalists and writers would use humour. It is the most lethal weapon. Unfortunately they tend to use anger instead. Humour—and laughter—is a leveller. It is also good for the soul. It keeps you healthy and is one of the keys to a longer life.
Once on a visit to Sweden, I was introduced to a Professor Lund who was due to go on a lecture tour of India. Lund is a common name in Scandinavia. After a few drinks I confided in him that when being introduced to Indian audiences he should be prepared for a few sniggers. He took it very calmly and replied: ‘That is very interesting. I was in a similar predicament when a lady professor from your country came here to deliver some lectures and I had to introduce her. Her name was Miss Das. In Swedish, the word “doss” means shit.’
Two friends, Santa Singh and Banta Singh, were always boasting about their parents’ achievements.
Santa Singh: Have you heard of the Suez Canal?
Banta Singh: Yes, I have.
Santa Singh: Well, my father dug it.
Banta Singh: That’s nothing. Have you heard of the Dead Sea?
Santa Singh: Yes.
Banta Singh: Well, my father killed it.
After the stock scam and the subsequent collapse of the stock market, a businessman was asked by his friend if he too had done any trading.
‘Of course I did,’ the businessman said.
‘What were you? A bull or a bear?’
‘An ass.’
I have been the recipient of honours like the Padma Bhushan and Padma Vibhushan, but it will be my lasting regret that I never achieved the eminence of a George Bush, P. Chidambaram or L.K. Advani to have had the honour of having a shoe flung at me.
When Bhindranwale was on a rampage in Punjab, I wrote articles criticizing him and warning Sikhs against the spurious demand for Khalistan. He put me on his hit list but his sopariwala failed to get me. But I received a lot of hate mail. One letter from Canada became a memento. It had the foulest Punjabi abuse, accusing me of all manner of incestuous relationships. It was written in Gurmukhi. Only the address was in English: ‘Bastard Khushwant Singh, India’. I was most impressed by the efficiency of the Indian postal service in locating the address of the one and only bastard in the country. I went around showing it to all my friends with great glee until my wife tore it up in utter disgust. What a loss!
But the Oscar of all the hate mail I have received goes to Uma Bharati. She was very gussa with me. She has a volatile temper and this time I was at the receiving end. I had ascribed the venomous utterances of four ladies (including her) against Muslims, to sexual frustration. In a letter written in florid Hindi she accused me of misogyny. I wish that was true because it is my liking for women which has made me notorious. I have little doubt that if I had been anywhere near her, she would have given me a resounding slap on the face, as she once did to one of her supporters in a fit of uncontrolled rage—and would not have bothered to make amends by kissing me as she did her supporter. Instead, with the letter she sent a vial of gaumutra (cow’s urine) to drink. I don’t subscribe to urine therapy. The very thought of taking urine, be it Morarji Desai’s, hers, my own or that of the sacred cow, brings vomit to my throat. I flushed it down the toilet.
When Babu Jagjivan Ram was the minister for railways, he once piloted a bill suggesting free rail travel for MPs’ spouses. Atal Bihari Vajpayee, the bachelor MP, asked the minister if a bachelor was allowed to take a companion with him for free. Jagjivan Ram’s reply: ‘The Honourable Member forgets that the legislation is for spouse, not spice!’
A man goes to the doctor complaining of loss of hearing. The doctor examines him and says he wants to fix the fellow with a new hearing aid.
‘This is the finest hearing aid now being manufactured. I wear one myself,’ the doctor said.
‘What kind is it? the man asked.
‘Half past four.’
She: Here’s your ring. I can’t marry you because I love someone else.
He: Who is he?
She (nervously): You’re not going to try and kill him?
He: No, but I’ll try to sell him the ring.
President Zail Singh was operated on in the same Texan hospital as his predecessor, Sanjiva Reddy. When taken to the operating theatre, the chief surgeon asked the President: ‘Are you ready?’
‘No, I am not,’ he replied. ‘I am Zail Singh.’
A couple was celebrating the birth of their first child, a son. After the party was over, the husband turned to the wife: ‘My dear, I think one son is enough for us. So if you don’t mind I’d like to have a vasectomy. What do you think?’
‘Do as you wish,’ the wife replied. ‘You have your vasectomy now. I’ll have my tubes tied after I have my third child.’
The late Pakistani President General Zia, while driving around Islamabad, came across long queues of Pakistanis outside several embassies, waiting for entry permits and visas to go abroad. He got out of the car and join
ed one of the queues to find out why so many people were wanting to leave the country. No sooner did they see their President with them than they left the queue and returned to their homes. President Zia asked them why they were leaving. They said: ‘If you are leaving Pakistan, there’s no need for us to go.’
‘I am the most unfortunate man in the world! My kismet is ruined!’ cried Lala Dhani Ram, slapping his forehead.
‘Why, Lalaji? What’s the matter?’
‘My daughter’s gone and married that good-for-nothing fellow who doesn’t know how to drink or gamble.’
‘You call that bad kismet? You should consider yourself lucky to have a son-in-law who doesn’t drink or gamble!’
‘Who said he doesn’t drink or gamble? He does both. He just does not know how to do them.’
A couple hired a new chauffeur. The woman asked him to take her out shopping and she was very shaken by the experience. When she returned home she pleaded with her husband, ‘Please, dear, you must sack him at once. He is so rash, he nearly killed me three times this morning!’
‘Darling, let’s not be so hasty,’ the husband replied. ‘We should give him another chance.’
It all started during my recent summer vacation in Kasauli. I woke up one night with a queasy feeling in my stomach. Half asleep, I tottered to the loo to rid myself of my sleep-breaker. When I got up from the lavatory seat to flush out the contents, I was shocked to see I had passed a lot of blood with my stool. ‘Shit!’ I said to myself, suddenly wide awake. The rest of the night was wasted in contemplation of the end. I had had a reasonable innings, close to scoring a century, so no regrets on that score. Was I creating a self-image of heroism in the face of death? That vanished on the following day as more blood flowed out of my belly.
I asked my friend Dr Santosh Kutty of the Central Research Institute (CRI) to drop in for a drink in the evening. Over a glass of Scotch, he heard me out. When I finished, he asked me: ‘Have you been eating chukandar?’ I admitted I’d had beetroot salad the day before.
‘It could be that,’ he suggested. ‘It is the same colour as human blood. Or it could be nature’s way of reducing high blood pressure—bleeding through the nose or arse. Or it could be a polyp, or piles, or …’ He did not use the word but I understood he meant cancer. ‘Let me examine your rectum.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I rasped. ‘I’d rather die than show my rectum to anyone.’ He paused and continued, ‘It would be wise to have an endoscopy. It will clear all doubts. We don’t have the facility in Kasauli. You can have it done at PGI in Chandigarh or in Delhi. The sooner the better.’
I opted for Delhi, to be with my family. And rang up my friend Nanak Kohli to send up his Mercedes Benz to take me down. I looked up my dictionary to find out exactly what polyp and endoscopy meant. One is a kind of sea urchin–like growth in the lower part of the intestine, the other an instrumental examination of one’s innards. I spent the rest of the day drafting in my mind farewell letters to my near and dear ones. Nothing mawkish or sentimental, but in the tone of one who couldn’t care less about his fate, something they could quote in my obituaries: he went like a man, with a smile on his face, etc.
The next morning, my son Rahul and I drove back to Delhi. The first thing I did was to ask Dr I.P.S. Kalra, who lives in the neighbouring block, to come over. Dr Kalra is a devout believer of miracles performed by Waheguru. He has been our doctor for over half a century and has treated several members of my extended family in their last days on earth, until their journey to the electric crematorium. Since I am a lot older than him, he addresses me as Veerji (elder brother). He took my blood pressure; it was higher than normal. He heard my bloody tale and straightaway fixed an appointment with Dr S.K. Jain, Delhi’s leading endoscopist.
The next evening, accompanied by Kalra, Rahul and my daughter Mala, I presented myself at Dr Jain’s swanky clinic in Hauz Khas Enclave. All white marble, spotlessly clean, and with the obligatory statuette of Lord Ganapati with a garland of fresh marigold flowers around his neck sitting above the receptionist’s desk. Since I was the first patient of the many he had to examine that evening, I was conducted immediately to his operating room.
I can tell you that endoscopy strips your self-esteem and any dignity you may have. I was ordered to take off my salwar-kameez, given an overall to wear, and ordered to lie down. Dr Jain took my BP and proceeded to insert an endoscope up my rectum. At times the pain was excruciating. It went on for an hour. When it was over, Dr Kalra ordered me: ‘Veerji, pudd maro—kill a fart, you’ll feel easier.’ I refused to oblige and instead went to the lavatory to get rid of the wind the nervous tension had created inside me.
Dr Jain pronounced the verdict: ‘No polyp, no cancer, only internal piles which bleed because of high BP. It is nature’s way of bringing it down.’ As a parting gift, he gave Mala a filmed version of all that had transpired—from my bottom being bared to the muck inside my belly. As if that was not enough, when asked about his father’s health, Rahul told everyone, ‘Pop has piles.’ There is something romantic about cancer; polyp is like a plop sound produced by a frog leaping into a stagnant pool; but haemorrhoids have no romance attached to them; they are simply a miserable man’s piles. Many well-wishers called to enquire how my endoscopy had gone and how I felt about the whole exercise. My reply was standard: ‘I feel buggered.’
Epitaph
On Independence Day 2012 I turned ninety-eight. Being aware of my state of health, I know that I will not write another book. Even the chances of my continuing with my biweekly columns, which I have been doing without a break for almost fifty years, appear bleak. The truth is that I want to die. I have lived long enough. Whatever I wanted to do in life, I have done. So what is the point of hanging on to life with nothing whatsoever left to do?
How would I like to be remembered when I am gone? I would like to be remembered as someone who made people smile. A few years ago, I wrote my own epitaph:
Here lies one who spared neither man nor God
Waste not your tears on him, he was a sod
Writing nasty things he regarded as great fun
Thank the Lord he is dead, this son of a gun.
—Khushwant Singh
Also by Khushwant Singh
The Sunset Club
The Sunset Club is Khushwant Singh at his best—as a storyteller, a chronicler of our times, a nature lover and an irreverent sage.
Meet the members of the Sunset Club: Pandit Preetam Sharma, Nawab Barkatullah Baig and Sardar Boota Singh. Friends for over forty years, they are now in their eighties. Every evening, at the sunset hour, they sit together on a bench in Lodhi Gardens to exchange news and views on the events of the day, talking about everything from love, lust, sex and scandal to religion and politics. As he follows a year in the lives of the three men Khushwant Singh brings his characters vibrantly to life, with his piquant portrayals of their fantasies and foibles, his unerring ear for dialogue and his genius for capturing the flavour and texture of everyday life in their households.
Interwoven with this compelling human story is another chronicle—of a year in the life of India, as the country goes through the cycle of seasons, the tumult of general elections, violence, natural disasters and corruption in high places. In turn ribald and lyrical, poignant and profound, The Sunset Club is a deeply moving exploration of friendship, sexuality, old age and infirmity; a joyous celebration of nature; an insightful portrait of India’s paradoxes and complexities.
Fiction
Rs 250
Absolute Khushwant: The Lowdown On Life, Death and Most Things in Between
‘I would like to be remembered as someone who made people smile.’
One of the great icons of our time, Khushwant Singh, 95, is a man of contradictions. An agnostic who’s well-versed in the holy scriptures; a vocal champion of free speech who supported the Emergency; a ‘dirty old man’ who sees ‘the world in a grain of sand and beauty in a wild flower’.
Born in
1915 in pre-Partition Punjab, Khushwant Singh has been witness to almost all the major events in modern Indian history and has known most of the figures who have shaped it. In a career spanning over six decades as writer, editor and journalist, his views have been provocative and controversial, but they have also been profound, deeply perceptive and always compelling. Khushwant Singh has never been less than honest.
In Absolute Khushwant, India’s grand old man of letters tells us about his life, his loves and his work. He writes on happiness, faith and honesty. And, for the first time, about his successes and failures, his strengths and weaknesses, his highs and lows. He tells us what makes him tick and the secret of his longevity; he confesses his deepest fears and what he holds dear. He writes about sex, marriage, worship and death; the people he’s admired and detested. With personal anecdotes and rare photographs, Absolute Khushwant is uncompromising, moving and straight from the heart.
Non-fiction
Rs 250
Classic Khushwant Singh
This omnibus edition brings together all of Singh’s novels—four classics of modern Indian literature: Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, Delhi and Burial at Sea.
First published in 1956, Train to Pakistan is a timeless classic of modern Indian fiction.
I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale is widely acclaimed as Khushwant Singh’s finest novel.
Delhi is Khushwant Singh’s bawdy, irreverent magnum opus, about an ageing reprobate who travels through time, space and history to ‘discover’ his beloved city.
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