A tribute in verse to Khushwant Singh
At 7 o’clock this evening, though thinking of Khushwant’s death, feeling sad, and sitting in a library writing this, what came to my face was a smile — and I almost reached out for a scotch and soda, writes Vikram Seth. In pictures: Khushwant Singh, larger than life | Khushwant Singh, writer who targeted all with wit, dies at 99 | Twitter pays tribute to Khushwant Singhindia Updated: Mar 21, 2014 03:12 IST
At 7 o’clock this evening, though thinking of Khushwant’s death, feeling sad, and sitting in a library writing this, what came to my face was a smile — and I almost reached out for a scotch and soda. This was the hour when one rang his doorbell and was welcomed in — for an hour precisely — before being ‘welcomed out’ again.
When I was at his house earlier today, and wanted to go into the room where his body was lying, I couldn’t for a while because he was undergoing a medical procedure. In a typical act of generosity, he was donating his eyes.
Read:Goodbye Khushwant Singh, our favourite Sardarji
Apparently, he had been very poorly these last three or four days. But yesterday evening he had his usual drink, he enjoyed a dinner of prawns, he talked a little with his family, and he read his weekly copy of Private Eye. It is good to know that on his very last day on earth the man who gave so much pleasure to so many received a fair amount himself.
He had a full innings — a century, almost — and has left us a wealth of memories and impressions, a great range of works in many different genres, and an unsettling sense of ‘almost loss’. For surely, one feels, he is still around.
I really don’t have the heart to write a full-fledged obituary, but offer in lieu an acrostic sonnet that I wrote to him a number of years ago. The last three lines refer to “The Portrait of a Lady”, one of his most moving short pieces, which would bear comparison with anything of that length written by anyone anywhere.
King of the Columnists and prince of hosts,
Hero of cats (twenty at least) who feed
Under your aegis, trencherman of toasts —
Scotch, naturally, not French — God knows we need
Humour and courage, tolerance and wit
When hope is scarce and murder’s blessed by prayer,
And every bully, oaf and hypocrite
Nurtures his flock on hatred and hot air.
Threats to your life have not made you less bold.
Sexcess can’t spoil you. May you scatter your words
Inimitably on for decades more —
No less amused and generous than your old
Grandmother, standing by the courtyard door,
Halting her prayers to feed and chide the birds.
This is what I think of him; this is whom I will raise my glass to now and in the future, as I used to in the past:
A fearless writer; a man of great discipline yet full of zest for life; an irreverent wit and considerable scholar; a generous spirit to beings both two-legged and four-legged; a great Indian who embodied as much as he espoused our national values of affection, tolerance and understanding; and a true friend.