Stripping down an ugly man
- Khushwant Singh unravels a life lived enviously well
The face looks anything but glamorous. Old age clings to the face in folds and winkles, in the cottony wisps of hair sprouting from head, brows, chin. The overall image is of something unkempt, un-put-together, resembling a crazed heron let loose on city streets, or a frazzled, hunger-stricken crow. The overall image is of something almost not human.
As book covers go, this one atop Absolute Khushwant looks uninviting unless you’re hoping for some freakish, senile, incomprehensible jibber jabber. But we’ve all been taught not to judge any book by its cover. And upon opening the book and reading into the first few pages of this eponymous work by Khushwant Singh, you will notice how fast the pages turn as you get sucked into a lucid narrative borne of a nonagenarian mind.
Singh has earned fame as novelist and journalist to become one of the most well-respected Indian writers of the 20th century. His body of work include novels of gravity such as the historical Train to Pakistan as well as columns he’s contributed to numerous Indian newspapers that have earned him both fame and notoriety. In the autobiographical Absolute Khushwant, Singh reviews, with contentment, 95 years of life lived in the backdrop of a dynamic, turbulent, even shape-shifting India. Having lived through virtually all of the 20th century and having rubbed shoulders with historians, politicians, diplomats, writers and artists of his time, Singh’s history is a colourful kaleidoscope through which the larger history of India can be glimpsed.
Within a slim volume of 189 pages, Singh captures the serpentine length of adventures, mischief and philosophies collected through a life lived to the fullest. He chronicles the details of everyday living with the same intensity that he maintains while recalling the most important events in his life or while dispensing his advice on happy living. In loosely knit, free-flowing prose, we are informed of what sets his bowels in motion, his life-long fear of ghosts, his first sexual encounter with a prostitute, the fraught nature of his relationship with his wife, and of an equally fraught history of partition that changed the course of his life. The most memorable of his anecdotes includes his meeting with Mother Teresa—the only woman who he claims has truly inspired him. Upon visiting Calcutta to interview her for a New York Times feature, Singh finds himself tripping with awe at her dedication. “Tell me how you can touch people with loathsome diseases like leprosy and gangrene?” he asks to which she replies, “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.”
It is a strange combination of truths that one of the strongest advocates of secularism in India is so deeply moved after an encounter with a Catholic nun who is driven into pure altruism due to her love for Christ. Equally strange is his blatant distaste
for religions that comes combined with his love for scriptures across religions. Or his dismissal of superstitions that are followed by confessions of the comfort they bring. Singh makes no excuses, hardly tries to justify the inherent contradictions in his experiences and realisations. He humbly accepts the inconsistencies that add up to make up the person he is. Such honesty adds poignancy and depth to Singh’s narrative, earns him respect and admiration.
More than once, we are brought face to face with Singh’s ruminations on death—an event that is closing in on him with more certainty with each passing day. He approaches death with the same casualness as he has for topics such as sex. His unabashed, undiscriminating way of writing whatever comes to mind with honesty has earned him the rather misleading title of ‘dirty old man’ in a subcontinent that writhes with discomfort at the mention of what are undoubtedly fundamental-to-life things. What characterises and salvages both writing and author is simplicity—of style as well as intent.
Singh may be aging, but his spirit is an agile one; a soul still intact and whole continues to live inside a now withering body. The book, like himself, embodies old age in a way that liberates it from the usual gloom that surrounds it. Singh refuses to let his age incapacitate him, stating more than once how his ‘work’— writing—will end only when his life ends. With the earnestness and enthusiasm of a child, he sets out to write every day.
And boy, does writing pour out of him. It is a shame, however, that a leading publishing house such as Penguin along with writer Humra Quraishi have sprinkled what is a joyful book with editorial blunders that even a fifth grader could
have easily spotted. In affirmation of his love for writing—and in playful retaliation to the end of his sex life—he says, “My pen is still sexy.” We will grant him that. Not only is his pen sexy, but also wise, witty, transparent, humble, profound—and editorial faux pas do not override the delicate penmanship of this solitude-seeking writer.
“I know I am an ugly man,” claims Singh—who doesn’t seem to have garnered very positive feedback on his looks throughout his life—towards the end of the book.
A second glance at the cover upon reading the final pages brings forth a different image. Tucked between wrinkles, eyes loaded with intensity dart your way, at once fragile and fierce. An elusive smile catches hold of lips swarming with moustache and beard coated with wisdom. A hand that rests partly on the forehead lends leathery fingers that seem eager to hand over to you a piece of his mind.
Mr Singh, you will not fool me into thinking you are an ugly man. Absolutely not!
It is not such a bad idea, after all, to judge a book by its cover.
Posted on: 2012-02-04 10:25
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