The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous

by Khushwant Singh

  Begum Para had written me several letters, asking for help in returning to India; I wrote back that I would be visiting Karachi soon and we could talk the matter over.

  When I arrived in Karachi early in the evening, Begum Para and her children were at the airport to receive me. So was the chief of protocol, as I was a guest of the government. We were conducted to the VIP lounge, where the children had their fill of cakes and biscuits. Once they were sent home, Begum Para accepted my invitation to dine with me at the hotel where I was to stay the night. The chief of protocol dropped us at my hotel, and Begum Para accompanied me to my room.

  I ordered soda and ice and took out the bottle of Scotch I had brought with me. There was, at that time, no prohibition in Pakistan. I had heard stories about Begum Para’s drink problem; she had apparently been forced to cut down on it because of the price: a bottle of Scotch cost twice as much in Pakistan as it did in India.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked her, unsure whether she was still a drinking woman.

  ‘I’ll take a little,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t seen genuine Scotch for ages.’

  I poured out two stiff whiskies and handed her one. I was not even halfway through my glass when I saw that hers was empty. I poured her another one, which she tossed back instantly; I had to refill her glass once more before I resumed my own drinking.

  By the time I had finished my quota of three large whiskies, Begum Para had had nine and the bottle was almost empty. I told her then that we must eat soon as I had to catch the early-morning flight to Islamabad. Reluctantly, she got up to go with me to the dining room.

  The dining room was on the first floor and we had to climb up a spiral marble staircase to get to it. The place was crowded, but, as was usual in Pakistan, there were very few women there. People recognized Begum Para because of her appearances on television. It was quite evident that they were intrigued to see her in the company of a Sikh. She had another two whiskies before the soup was served. She had begun to slur over her words and her eyes had taken on a glazed look. She wanted to have yet another drink with her meal, but I put my foot down.

  At long last, the meal came to an end and I got up to assist Begum Para with her chair. She stood up, swayed a little and collapsed on the carpet. The waiters came running to help her get back to her feet. I took her arm to help her walk to the stairs. All eyes in the dining room had turned to us, and I was doubly careful going down the spiral staircase. I gripped her fat arm. ‘One step at a time,’ I instructed her. We finally made it to the foyer. I ordered a taxi for her and waited patiently for the ordeal to be over.

  A taxi drew up in the portico. I gave the driver a hundred-rupee note and told him to take the lady home. He recognized Begum Para and knew where she lived. I opened the rear door of the taxi and went back to help her. As she stepped forward, she missed her step and, once again, collapsed on the ground, this time with a loud fart. She had sprained her ankle and began to howl in pain: ‘Hai rabba, main mar gayee!’—Oh God, I’m dead!

  A crowd had gathered, but no one came forward to help. Being an Islamic country, no unrelated male could touch a woman. I did my best to haul Begum Para up to her feet by myself. She was far too heavy for me. I pleaded with the taxi driver for help. My advance tip came in handy—he acquiesced. Together, we got Begum Para on her feet and pushed her into the seat. I slammed the door shut and bid her a hurried farewell, swearing to forever steer clear of divas given to drink.

  That was my last encounter with Begum Para. But when I heard of her passing in 2008, I was deeply saddened, remembering only the pleasure of those shared Sunday breakfasts long ago in Bombay.

  BHAGAT PURAN SINGH

  (1904–1992)

  Sometime in 1980, I happened to be addressing a convocation of the Khalsa College in Amritsar. I noticed an old man with a scraggy long beard, an untidy white turban wrapped around his head, dressed in khadi kurta-pyjama, engrossed in taking notes on what I was saying. I could not take my eyes off him. He disappeared as soon as the convocation was over. Later, I asked the principal of the college, who was sharing the dais with me, about the old man in the front row. ‘You don’t know him?’ he asked in surprise. ‘That was Bhagat Singh of the Pingalwara.’

  ‘What was he writing while the speeches were going on?’ I asked.

  ‘He always does that,’ replied the principal. ‘If he hears anything worthwhile, he puts it in his newspaper published in Punjabi and English. In the Pingalwara, he has his own printing press.’

  Bhagat Puran Singh had become a household name long before I saw him. On a subsequent visit to Amritsar, I noticed small, black tin boxes, with the word Pingalwara written in white on them, in different parts of the city. These had a slit on top, through which people could put in money. I learnt that Bhagat Puran Singh was to be seen on the steps of the Golden Temple as well, holding out the hem of his kurta for people to drop alms for his home for destitutes. It had also become a practice in many families to send money to the Pingalwara when there was a wedding in the house or in memory of a deceased family member. Neither the Punjab government nor the municipality gave him any financial assistance; it was only the people who gave him just enough to feed, clothe and render medical assistance to over 800 sick men, women and children abandoned by their families.

  I was intrigued and determined to meet him. From Delhi I wrote to him seeking an appointment to visit the Pingalwara and talk to him. I got a reply in Gurmukhi, written in his own hand, asking me to come as soon as I could. Three days later, I was back in Amritsar. I took a taxi from the railway station and arrived at the Pingalwara.

  The first thing Bhagatji asked me was: ‘How did you come here?’

  ‘By train from Delhi, then by cab from the station,’ I replied, somewhat bewildered by the question. Maybe he thought I had flown in.

  ‘You should have come by tonga or on a bicycle,’ he said quite firmly.

  ‘Where would I find a bicycle on hire at the railways station? And a tonga would have taken more than an hour to get here,’ I protested.

  Bhagatji gave me a dressing down: ‘Do you know how much poisonous gas a motor car emits and fouls the air?’ He then proceeded to give me a long lecture on global warming and what it would do to human and animal life, forests and vegetation. He thrust some sheets of his newsletter in my hand, commanding me: ‘Read this, and this, and this.’

  Clearly, he was somewhat of a crackpot. I love crackpots.

  I went round the Pingalwara. It did not answer the requirements of modern hygiene. People were lying on charpoys with flies buzzing around. Lavatory stench, mixed with the smell of phenyl and food being cooked, pervaded the air. Volunteers scurried around, doing the best they could. It was evident that there was shortage of everything—food, clothes, medicines, staff. How much could one man do to help 800 people?

  I made a nominal donation, gathered all the printed material Bhagatji gave me and retuned to Delhi.

  Back home, I wrote in my columns about Bhagatji’s dedicated service and the odds he was facing. I wrote to the Punjab chief minister and whomever else I could think of. The response was heartening. More money began to flow into the Pingalwara.

  Thereafter, whenever Bhagatji came to Delhi, he dropped in to see me. I did not chide him for coming in a taxi but made a token offering, which he accepted without counting the notes. A receipt followed some days later.

  Bhagatji’s work began to receive wider recognition. People began to make donations on a regular basis. Conditions in the Pingalwara improved and its activities expanded. No discrimination was ever made on grounds of religion or caste: the inmates included Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims; there were Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras and Harijans. Suffering knows no caste.

  The last time I met Bhagatji was a few weeks after Operation Blue Star, which had taken a heavy toll of lives and caused extensive damage to sacred property. My reaction was immediate. Within twenty-four hours of the army assault on the Golden Temple, I had retur
ned my Padma Bhushan to President Giani Zail Singh as a mark of protest. Bhagatji asked me if he should do the same with the Padma Shri he had been awarded in 1979; a week later, he relinquished the honour bestowed on him.

  When Bhagatji died, I paid a tearful tribute to him in my columns. A few years later, I persuaded my brothers and sister to make a substantial donation on behalf of the Sir Shobha Singh Charitable Trust to the Pingalwara. It was graciously accepted by Dr Inderjit Kaur, who had taken over its management. Some months later, Dr Manmohan Singh, then minister of finance, accompanied our family to Amritsar to inaugurate a new block for patients in the Pingalwara.

  It was impossible to meet Bhagatji and not feel inspired to contribute towards his mission in some manner, however modest—and his legacy of dedicated service to suffering humanity must be kept alive for generations to come. In living memory, Punjab has not produced as great a man as Bhagat Puran Singh.

  CHETAN ANAND

  (1921–1997)

  During the years I spent at Government College, Lahore, in the early 1930s, I got to know a lot of people who later made it to the top—or near the top—in the film industry. Two years senior to me was Balraj Sahni; his younger brother Bhisham, B.R. Chopra and Chetan Anand were in the same class as me. Of them, closest to me was Chetan, who was quite a character.

  Chetan was a pretty boy with curly hair and soulful eyes. He was much sought after by tough lads who fancied effeminate males; Chetan avoided them like the plague and attached himself to me. We walked from our hostel to the college together, sat side by side in our classes, played tennis and went to the pictures. Although tongues wagged, there was nothing homosexual about our relationship. Like me, Chetan too aspired to get into the ICS and came to England to sit for the exams. Neither of us made the grade. I returned to Lahore with a law degree; he had no more than the BA he had taken from Punjab University. Desperately looking for a job, Chetan spent a summer at my apartment. It was then that I saw another side to him.

  Women found Chetan very attractive, and he had a unique method of ingratiating himself with them. On the hottest days in June, he would go out wearing his overcoat; with a stubble on his chin and a single flower in his hand, he would call on his lady friends. Inevitably, the dialogue would open with the young lady asking him why he was wearing an overcoat. ‘This is all I possess in the world,’ Chetan would reply as he presented her with the flower. He had phenomenal success with this approach.

  In due course, Chetan succeeded in winning the heart of the most sought-after girl at the university, Uma Chatterji—though she was a Christian, she defied her parents and agreed to marry a Hindu boy who had no job. I threw a large party to celebrate their engagement, and discovered the fickleness in Chetan’s character: he flirted outrageously with all the other girls at the party! The next morning, when I reprimanded him and called him a ‘haraami’, he smiled disarmingly and brushed away my protests. Chetan and Uma were married and had two children. But Uma could not take his philandering after a point and left him; she later married the producer and arts collector Ebrahim Alkazi. Chetan, in the meantime, shacked up with a Sikh girl young enough to be his daughter.

  Chetan and I kept in touch over the years. I wrote to him about his films (he only made one good one), and he produced the son-et-lumière programmes at the Red Fort in Delhi, based on a script written by me. I heard from others that he had claimed to have written the text as well, but when I questioned him he denied ever having made such a claim. Later, of course, there were others who made similar claims.

  When I moved to Bombay to take up the editorship of The Illustrated Weekly of India in the late 1960s, I was eager to renew my acquaintance with friends from my Lahore days, who had by now become big names in the film world. Most of all, I was looking forward to reconnecting with Chetan, since he had enjoyed my hospitality on innumerable occasions and had been one of my closest friends. I spent many weekends at Balraj Sahni’s villa in Juhu; B.R. Chopra asked me to his home a couple of times, as did Kamini Kaushal; once a week, I dined with I.S. Johar and his ex-wife, Rama Bans; even Dev Anand invited me to his large cocktail parties. But Chetan Anand, whom I had expected to see more than anyone else, remained mysteriously unwelcoming. He only rang me up a few times, when he wanted publicity for something he was doing. Usually, he ended the dialogue with a vague ‘Kabhi humare ghar aana.’ I was very disappointed and angry.

  A few months before I was due to leave Bombay, I ran into Chetan and his lady friend at a party. ‘Why haven’t you come to our home?’ she asked.

  I exploded: ‘Because I have never been asked by that kameena friend of yours!’

  People can be divided into givers and takers, suckers and spongers—Chetan Anand was the biggest taker and sponger I have met in my life.

  DHIRENDRA BRAHMACHARI

  (1924–1994)

  I first met Dhirendra Brahmachari when he had recently installed himself in Delhi as teacher of ‘hatha yoga’ and was eager to cultivate people in high positions. A senior official from the ministry of education (he was seeking a grant from the ministry for his ashram) brought him to my apartment, and he instructed me on the appropriate asanas for the imaginary ailments from which I have always suffered.

  I was very taken with Dhirendra Brahmachari’s unusually handsome appearance: tall, ramrod–straight, with the cleanest and clearest eyes I had ever seen. His gossamer-thin dhoti worn on the coldest day of the year could not fail to impress anyone about his physical fitness—he was the living example of what he taught and practised. He had more charisma than any other yogi, sadhu or swami I had met.

  We struck up a passing acquaintance and I met him on several occasions. He even sent me the manuscript of his book Yogasanas for corrections. I spent a New Year’s morning at his ashram to interview him and his patients for an article for the New York Times. By then, he had become a prosperous and powerful man. Despite being a semi-literate yoga instructor from Bihar, Dhirendra Brahmachari had managed to acquire considerable influence with Indira Gandhi and was one of her advisors and confidantes on domestic affairs. He had his own aircraft, imported cars, a herd of Jersey cows, a gun factory and other real estate. He was even cited as a co-respondent in a divorce case.

  To be fair to him, though, Dhirendra Brahmachari did not exploit his chelas, only the people who exploited him to forward their own interests. However, it was clear as daylight that he had his feet in two different boats, the spiritual and the material, and would inevitably come to grief. I believe that it was this ambivalence in his character—the desire to get the best of both the worlds—that roused people’s ire and jealousy. They rejoiced when he was taken off television and chortled with pleasure when they read of the seizure of his gun factory. Many of us felt that his fortune was undeserved.

  My New York Times piece on sadhus was a rather critical one. Soon after it was published, Dhirendra Brahmachari called me and said, ‘Aapne kuchh aisa likha hai, ki chott lagai hai’—you have written something that has hurt me. But I did not give a damn, for his stuff was all humbug.

  DOM MORAES

  (1938–2004)

  Dom Moraes’s interest in poetry was born very early in his life. In his preface to a collection of his poems, he wrote, ‘I was about ten years old when I started to read poetry… I had an instinctive feel, even at that age, for the shape and texture of words.’ By the time he was fourteen, Dom—Domsky to his friends—had begun to write poetry himself, and he learnt French in order to be able to read Villon in the original. Poetry became a lifelong passion and he continued to write till the end of his life.

  Dom was my friend from his years at Jesus College, Oxford. He was a complex character who disliked everything about India, particularly Indians—the only exceptions he made were the good-looking women he took to bed. Although he was born in Bombay and dark as a Goan, Dom considered himself English, spoke no Indian language and wished to be buried in the churchyard of Odcombe, a tiny village in Somerset. Never a practising Christian, he
selected Odcombe because one Thomas Coryate, who hailed from the village, had travelled all the way from England to India in the seventeenth century and died in Surat, where he is buried—and Dom went to Odcombe with Sarayu Srivatsa, his companion during the last decade and a half of his life, to collect material on Coryate’s background for his biography. Despite his distaste for India, however, Dom’s descriptions of the Indian countryside—of the heat and dust storms of summer, of the monsoons—were lyrically beautiful. His characters too came alive in his writing; notwithstanding his ignorance of the Indian languages, Dom was able to comprehend what people said in their dialects and in Indian-English.

  Like his father, Frank Moraes, Dom was a heavy drinker. Because of his love for the bottle, Dom could not be depended on for meeting deadlines or sticking to the subject he was commissioned to write on. Ram Nath Goenka of The Indian Express sacked Dom for spending his time in a Calcutta hotel, drinking and consorting with a lady, instead of going on his assignment to the Northeast. His friend R.V. Pandit fired him for drinking in his office in Hong Kong. The Times of India appointed him editor of a magazine they intended to bring out, but they fired him before the first issue came out; Dom vented his anger on poor Prem Shankar Jha, who was appointed in his stead, by grabbing his tie and demanding: ‘Fatty boy! What do you know about journalism?’

  I had got Dom an assignment from the Dempos, shipping magnates and mine-owners of Goa; Dom produced a very readable book on Goa without mentioning the Dempos—I had to add four pages on the family. He was commissioned by the Madhya Pradesh tourism department to do a book on the state’s historical sites; he did a creditable job of describing the beauty of the landscape and the state’s full-bosomed tribal women, without bothering about historical sites. Dom never allowed facts or truths to stand in the way of his writing. He did not write reference books; instead, he painted pictures in vivid colours to the songs of flutes.