Month: January 2014

3 cheers for Khushwant Singh!

At the very outset, I submit a column is not enough to congratulate and celebrate one of India’s finest, best-known and most prolific writer and columnist, Mr. Khushwant Singh. No matter how much I try, and nothing holds me back from penning down an accolade to honour India’s ‘grand old man of letters’.

In his book, Absolute Khushwant, he writes, rather unequivocally, about his own death. He visualizes his own obituary written in 1943 while he was still in his 20s! Where he imagines The Tribune announcing his death on its front page with a small photograph and the headline would read, ‘Sardar Khushwant Singh dead’.  We’re in 2014 and India’s most loved writer enters his 100th year of existence on planet earth with a blast! The prophecy of ‘Raj Karega Khalsa’ has come true, and abracadabra! Singh is ruling- with his fountain pen.

Having ticked off almost 100 years of celebrated existence, Khushwant Singh has been an observant bystander to the making of most public and (private) histories than most of us have ever heard or read about. An illustrious career, spanning more than half a century, he was the founder editor of Yojana, the editor of the Illustrated weekly, National Herald and the Hindustan Times. He is the man behind eternal classics like Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale and Delhi-a novel. His non-fiction comprises the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs, a number of translations and well-researched works on Sikh religion and culture, the city where his heart lies-Delhi, his passion-nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. 

Usually autobiographies tend to be particularly tiresome and drab where the writer is hell bent on putting on a ‘holier than thou attitude’ and providing justifications about his much publicized ‘colossal mistakes’. Not Khushwant Singh. Here is a man who is not ‘just what the doctor ordered’ and is only glad to admit that. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a little malice, is at it’s candid best and truly an ingenuous piece of work.

Khushwant Singh, you can hate the man or love him, but you can’t ignore him. What makes Singh so special? His style of writing-armed with impeccable repartee, splendid candor and malicious gossip, he does not apologize for what he writes. At no point does he shy away from admitting his own fears and faults. He writes straight from the heart, no wonder he is the heartbeat of millions today.   Happy Birthday, Khushwant Singh!

The name is Bond, Ruskin Bond!

The names of the prestigious and coveted Padma Awardees were flashed on the television at 9 pm primetime news. The news marquee read, “Padma Bhushan for Ruskin Bond- Literature and Education”. No, I have never met Ruskin Bond personally yet, thrilled and delighted is what I felt, after all, my favourite writer had been conferred with the high-status Padma Bhushan on the eve of the 65th republic day.  Is a middle column enough to applaud and praise one of India’s most loved and prolific story-teller? Of course not, but, as Ruskin Bond’s biggest fan ever, I can’t help but do so.

As an Indian author of British descent, Bond has played a pioneering role in the augmenting the growth potential of children’s literature in India. Most of his works are deeply influenced by his life spent in the in the foothills of the Himalayas, the hill stations of Dehradun and Mussorie. In the course of an illustrious  writing career spanning almost 45 years, he has penned down over a hundred short stories, essays, poems, novels et all.  My literary soul lost its virginity to The Room on the Roof, which was his debutant novel, written when he was just seventeen years old and it received the John Llewellyn Rhys memorial prize in 1957. Vagrants in the Valley was also written during his teen years and the story picks up from where the Room on the Roof leaves off.

What makes Ruskin Bond so special? For over half a century, he is one writer who has understood, felt and celebrated the wonder and magnificence of nature, which other contemporary Indian writers have been disastrous at. Whether he writes about his escapades in the natural world, or the encounter with the snow leopards and cheetahs in the dark streets of Mussorie, or visualizes the first pre-monsoon shower of the Himalayas, the fragrances of the petite rose-begonia, the elfin ivy veil that creeps into his room, the chorus of the insects in the shadow of the full moon. He truly yields magic with his fountain pen and paints opulent and majestic images, which we as readers can feel, experience and visualize. Like a magician, he beckons us to slip into imagination and slowly drift into the tranquil and peaceful life with nature- truly idyllic, which today most of us are unable to lead as we find ourselves increasingly trapped in the cobweb of mundane tasks and trials.

Ruskin Bond, is a writer who does not make headlines.  Quietly, he writes straight from the heart about something he cares for- his readers, his adopted family, the valleys, the mountains, the rivers and the roads, the villages and small tea-stalls, all which are a part of the India- he loves! Congratulations, Dear Ruskin Bond! 

Feathers in my Backyard

It is that time of the year again! The mellow January sunshine, crisp winter breeze and a clear blue sky- a perfect setting for an afternoon rendezvous with nature in my enviable backyard. As I sit in my gazebo, slouching on the wrought iron chair accompanied by my favorite novel and hot cup of finely brewed Darjeeling I find myself distracted.

A pair of Satin Bowerbirds catches my eye. They’re feeding on the fruit of a crimson Shrimp flower, gracefully fluttering from one flower to the next. In close proximity a number of small birds are here to bathe and drink water in the stone-carved birdbath beneath the Krishna ficus. They include grey tits and green-headed tits. They are well-mannered creatures waiting for their turn to take a dip, while some bathe, the others wait patiently on the moss-infested rim of the birdbath. They all fly away only to settle on the branches of the grapefruit tree to dry themselves.  The scissor-tailed flycatcher arrives with all its flamboyance and style and indulges in a luxurious bath, as he has the pool all to himself.

The honeybees buzz around pushing their way into the mauve chrysanthemums and abracadabra! Disappear in a jiffy only to be seen seconds later. A flight of pigeons land smoothly on the ground carefully scrutinizing their surroundings, they move stealthily towards the manji on which the wheat has been laid out. A banquet is on the cards-All are cordially invited! The impish and mischievous gangs of squirrels running in between the cane mesh supporting the sweet-peas, almost like they’re playing kho-kho. Soon they join the feast, a time-out, I presume.

Pair of rose-ringed parakeet is found romancing on the branch of the pine tree, oblivious of their surroundings. Down below on the wooden bench, two armored chameleons stay still, disguised in the backdrop of the luscious green ivy. An army of ants march across the slate table, I leave them undisturbed. Babblers and bulbuls are bustling in and out of the bougainvillea topiaries. The angry bird, I like to call it, is furiously looking for insects in the Calcutta selection.

The grasshoppers and crickets, making strange noises hop around and ultimately settle themselves on the miniature peepul bonsai, commencing their musical. The delicate butterflies, with transparent wings sat put on the marigolds like an obedient audience. I too, am all ears; it is almost liberating to listen to this cacophony-nature’s oxymoron.

Birds, insects and squirrels are expressing their delight and joy at the termination of the sultry hot weather and welcome the beautiful, satisfying winters. I take my last sip of tea, longing for more and hoping the day never comes to an end. The clock ticks 4:30 pm; the sun is staging its exit. My friends bid me farewell. But as they say, goodbyes aren’t forever, for we shall meet again. This fascinating rendezvous shall continue tomorrow and forever.