2008: A wind-up chronicle

By Khushwnat Singh

It is New Year’s Day, 1st of January 2008. It is bitterly cold — one point above freezing point. I sit huddled by the dying embers of my fireplace and turn the pages of my diary of the year about to end. Every other page records a bomb blast in some city or the other with the numbers killed and injured along with wild guesses about organisations which might be responsible for it. Conclusion — spreading lawlessness, outrageous defiances of authority by the Thackeray trio of Mumbai, Bajrang Dal’s attacks on hapless Muslims and Christians with leaders of saffron brigades promptly speaking in their defence without bothering to get the full story. L.K.Advani’s weekly forecasts of the imminent collapse of the Sonia Gandhi — Manmohan Singh led Congress coalition; Prakash Karat’s senseless opposition to a nuclear deal between India and the USA and at the same time warning us of the perils of resurgent Hindu fundamentalism and joining hands with the same fundoos in the hope of toppling the government. All to no avail. Thank God!

Before I go over the balance of the good versus the bad, it would be proper to record the names of eminent people who passed away and therefore beyond bothering about our wretched state of affairs. In February died Russy Karanjiya, editor of the Blitz at 96, Maharish Mahesh Yogi at 91 in Holland; Baba Amte 94, Sheila Bhatia of the National Theatre and Justice H.R.Khanna at 96. In April departed the Sarod maestro Sharan Rani. In May, the Gandhian Nirmala Deshpande at 79. In June, Field marshal Sam Manekshaw at 94. In July, Chief Justice Chandrachud at 86. In August, the Industrial tycoon K.K. Birla. In September, H.Y. Sharda Prasad, life-time personal secretary to Indira Gandhi and Salauddin Qwaisi MP from Hyderabad. In November, film producer B.R.Chopra at 94 and ex-minister Ajit Panja. 

Besides these celebrities, there were many others who perished in man-made disasters. In August, a dam burst changed the course of river Kosi which drowned thousands of villages in Bihar. In a stampede in Naina Devi temple in Himachal over 150 were killed. Another stampede in a temple near Jodhpur around 250 lives were lost. We still have to learn how to get off and get in trains — so stampedes are no surprise. The Gujjar agitation cost around 50 lives. The Naxalites continued their depredations across the country attacking police posts in Uttar Pradesh, Orissa and Andhra Pradesh. They even shot down a helicopter.

Enough of disasters. We had the mildest May on record and the monsoon arrived 15 days before schedule. Six states went to the polls. The BJP extended its domain by annexing Karnataka. It looks set to win more states. However, it failed to dislodge the Congress coalition at the Centre and the Nuclear deal with America went through with Prime Minister Manmohan Singh winning the vote of confidence with flying colours. Our crowning achievement was to plant the Indian tri-colour carried by Chandrayaan-I on the moon.

Kashmir Valley had its first Railway train. Good show: was one gold and two bronzes. However, Vishwanathan Anand regained his place as the world’s Chess Champion. Jeev Milkha Singh became Asia’s Golf Champion. Our cricketers got the better of the series against Australia, England South Africa and Sri Lanka. Tendulkar became the greatest run scorer in Test cricket, Kumble and Ganguly retired from the Test Cricket. We still have Dhoni, Sehwag (he scored three centuries in one match) Yuvraj, Gambhir, Harbhajan, Zaheer, Irfan and others to keep us happy.

Aravind Adiga won the Booker Prize for his novel The White Tiger. Bhimsen Joshi was awarded the Bharat Ratna. I think this highest honour should be restricted to social workers and creative people like scientists, musicians and artists and never given to retired politicians or civil servants.

As I write this, a few weeks of 2008 remain unknown. Another six states are going to the polls. Next to cricket, we are prone to election fever. How Obama won the US Presidency without our vote, was a miracle. Next year we will have our general election. I look forward to the emergence of new leaders — young men and women with a vision of the future. I put my money on two, Rahul Gandhi and Omar Abdullah.

Obama and Mayawati

A man can do what a man had done

How about a woman ?

If he is not entirely black, she is not exactly White

If Obama is Brilliant, Mayawati is naughty and bright

If he ousted high-end Hillary, she is taking on Mrs Gandhi

If he is calm and witty, she is catish and gritty

If he is a man of vision, creator of history

She is the mother of Taj corridor, plotting dream victory

Because mainstream parties have failed the country

For the darkened community and the downtrodden race

A minor revolution is taking place-

So, the people of India, please mind

If Obama comes, Mayawati may not be far behind.

(Contributed by Kuldip Salil, New Delhi)

Wrapped in ochre, damned in deed

Khushwant Singh

We are told that India is the homeland of sants, mahatmas, rishis and sadhus. We believe we are guided by those who have spent years introspecting or meditating to find out the truth about themselves and the world. After that, they achieve peace of mind and are qualified to become gurus entitled to preach peace and love for humanity. To show that they have no worldly ambitions, they wear saffron or ochre robes, symbolising renunciation. Does this hold good in today’s India?

I give three instances of women who wore saffron and style themselves as Sadhvis. One is Rithambra. Sudhir Kakkar, India’s leading psychiatrist has quoted her speeches spouting hate against Muslims. She is also the author of the slogan ‘ek aur dhakka’ — one more push — to bring down the Babri Masjid. On TV channels, she preaches love and understanding. She is also seen with children, to create the impression of being a loving mother. 

Then, there is Uma Bharati, who does not call herself a Sadhvi but wears saffron. She has not made up her mind whether she wants to be a politician or a spiritual leader. She celebrated the demolition of Babri Masjid by embracing Murli Manohar Joshi. She has been the Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh. She is also seen hugging cows and calves, a living image of a gau-rakshak (protector of the cow). We saw her sitting in the front row in one of Asaram Bapu’s congregations and proclaiming in English, “I love you”. That was before Bapu lost his aura and was accused of amassing property. Whatever her other achievements, she is unable to control her temper. We saw her fling her papers and storm out of a meeting of the top-brass of the BJP. And recently, in full view of thousands of her admirers she slapped an important supporter. Realising what the political outcome would be, she ran after him to apologise and kissed him (on the forehead). 

Most of all I am disillusioned by the charges laid against Sadhvi Pragya Singh Thakur. Her doctor father is a member of the RSS. She was an activist of the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP), the student wing of the BJP. She evidently has a personality problem: a girl with masculine tendencies. She wears a turban, rides a motor cycle, and ticks off strangers she thinks are making passes at girls. What she needed was psychiatric guidance. What she is accused of is being one of the gang that planted bombs in Muslim localities, which took six lives. She is in dire trouble if she fails to clear her name of this diabolical conspiracy. She has shaken my confidence about saintly men and women in saffron or ochre robes. We may have to change the name of our beloved Hindustan to Pakhandistan — the land of humbugs. 

New lingo

India and Pakistan have invented a new language that I have named IPA, short for Indo-Pak Angrezi. In Pakistan, it is English mixed with Urdu and Punjabi. In India, it is English mixed with Hindi, Punjabi and Mumbai Hindustani. In both countries, grammar is ignored, as is spelling. In India, the pioneers were the late Devyani Chaubal of Bombay and Shobhaa De of Mumbai. In Pakistan, it is Moni Mohsin. Her weekly column in the Friday Times of Lahore is the most widely read in IPA in both countries. She is the maharani of this bastard language. She made her name to fame with her novel The End of Innocence (Penguin), based in a country estate close to Lahore. Now, a selection of her articles in IPA have been published in India: The Diary of a Social Butterfly (Random House). It makes hilarious reading for those who know a little Urdu and are not fussy about spelling. I give a few samples. This one is on her organising a protest march against the US-British intrusion in Iraq and her family’s reaction. “I’ve chup karaoed everybody — The Old Bag, the Gruesome Twosome, Janoo, even Bush and his English chaprassi, ‘Tony the Phoney’ as Janoo calls him. I’ve chup karaoed them with anti-Iraq war jaloos, which has come on CNN, BBC, even Fox. After all, five thousands women and children marching through Gullberg is no joke, And all khaata-peeta khandani types who are doing it for their principles and not for the hundred rupees the rent-a-crowd types get. Nobody can say after this that we Gullberg-wallahs don’t stand out and speak out — or was it stand up and speek out ? Khair, whatever. Sab ko hum ne impress kar diya hai, and that’s that.”

Again, this is from the impending visit of the Indian Polo team to Lahore: “So much of mazza!! I’m tau going off my rocket with all the parties-sharties, shaadi-vaadis and khannas galore. And the Polo: voh tau even more better. So many polo functions, and all by special invitation only so that no aera-vagheras could get in. Serves them right, I tell you. Trying to muscle in where they don’t belong.

But what a pity keh no glam Indians showed up at the polo. Itna main look forward kar rahi thi, na, to entertaining Shahrukh Khan and Salman and Hrithik in my new sun room with its pink wall-to-wall and apple green velvet curtains. Chalo, next time.”

Gujarati common sense

One day, many years ago at a school in South London, a teacher said to a class of five-year olds, “I’ll give $20 to the child who can tell me who was the most famous man who ever lived?”

An Irish boy said: “It was St Patrick.”

The teacher said sorry Alan, that’s wrong. 

A Scottish boy : “It was St Andrew”. 

“That is not right either,” the teacher replied 

Finally, Jayant, a Gujarati boy, said, “Jesus Christ”. That is right, Jayant and the teacher gave him $ 20. But he said, “You are Gujarati, so I am surprised you said Jesus Christ.” 

Jayant replied: “Yes, in my heart I knew it was Lord Krishna, but business is business.”

 (Contributed by Vipin Buksey,New Delhi)

Good things to the Raj times

When I submitted a collection of articles written by English men and women, compiled by me over 30 years ago to Penguin-Viking under the title Sahibs who Loved India, I hoped it would make the top of non-fiction best-sellers list. It did not. Besides Lord Meghnad Desai’s favourable notice in Outlook, it only got a few patronising paragraphs in other journals. Lord Desai is a Britisher and a friend. I expected him to be kind to me. I was disappointed as I felt strongly that our historians had painted a negative picture of British Raj without giving it credit for its positive contribution to the making of India. They have a lot to say about the rapacity of men like Clive & Warren Hastings, about the diabolical massacre of innocents at Jallianwala Bagh, their racist arrogance, ‘Whites only Clubs’ and keeping their distance from Indians and the nasty things they had to say about everything Indian. However, there was the other side of the coin. Let me draw your attention to some of its salient features.

The British Raj made us conscious of being Indian. We were Punjabis, Awadhis, Biharis, Bengalis, Oriyas Andhras, Tamils, Malayalis, Maharashtrians, Rajputs — also Hindu, Muslims, Christians and Sikhs. We remained all these but also became Indians. All of us had one passport — Indian.

The British built us telegraph, connected our cities by roads, railways, laid networks of canals, dams to produce hydro-electricity. They started the process of industrialisation. They also introduced democratic institutions like municipalities, states and Central legislatures. During the British rule, there was more respect for the law. There were fewer riots, bandhs, and gheraos; blocking roads and rail traffic, burning buses and trains. Smashing of cars etc. was little heard of. There was less corruption. Rarely did English officers indulge in bribery. Now it is rare to find an honest, civil servant who can’t be bribed. Ask any Indian of my generation and he will confirm that life and property were safer in British times than in India today.

Comparison with Princely States is pertinent. Most ruling princes lived in huge palaces, had fleets of Rolls Royces, amassed jewellery, maintained harems of wives and concubines, squandered public money lavishly. Not even the Viceroys of India lived in the styles of our maharajas and nawabs.

Many Englishmen supported India’s freedom movement. The founder of Indian National Congress was an Englishman, A.O.Hume; Mahatma Gandhi’s closest disciple was an English woman, Mira Ben. Amongst his closest associates were Reverend C.F. Andrews and Polak. Two Englishmen were involved in the Meerut Conspiracy case to put an end to the Raj. There were dozens of other English journalists, civil servants, Boxwallahs who lent active support to our freedom movement. The British did not divide us to rule, as is often alleged by nationalist historians. Maulana Mohammed Ali was right in holding ‘We divide and they rule.” The British did not break up India when they left, they did their best to keep it together. It was our leaders who split it as they failed to get on with each other. The British left the country with good graces. They did not have to be pushed out as other European colonists like the French, Dutch & Portuguese. That is why many Indians have nostalgic memories of the Raj.

And finally, lots of English people went out of their way to befriend Indians. I was lucky in knowing quite a few and felt I should do my bit in knowing quite a few of them and my bit in setting the record right. I am an unashamed Anglo-phile.

What a great fall

During the monsoon of 1960, I witnessed the most awe-inspiring, spectacular and picturesque sight of nature as its best — the majestic Jog Falls. The vast expanse of water of Sharavathi river, falling from great height as Jog Falls was composed of four distinct sub falls — Rocket, Roarer, Rani and Raja. With a perpetual rainbow across them and the sides of gorge veiled in white vapours, the scenic view and tranquil atmosphere at the government guest-house made one feel like being in paradise. The first page of the visitor’s book had the opening remark: “What a waste of Water”.

This remark was written by none other than the noted centurion, renowned engineer, able administrator, illustrious son and Dewan of erstwhile golden state of Mysore-Bharat Ratna Dr. Mokshagundam Visvesvarya.

During the summer of 1964, I again visited Jog Falls as student of college of Military Engineering, Kirkee on a study tour. With the river Sharavathi having been dammed and water diverted into penstocks for generation of hydro power, the dream of visionary Visesvarya had come true, but at the cost of leaving the mighty Jog Falls high and dry. Rocket had taken off for good, never to return; Roarer had been silenced for ever and was no more music to the ears; Ranu had deserted her beloved Raja; and the lonely and lean stream of Raja was reduced to an exaggerated version of ‘Mannikin Piss’ of Brussels.

Before endorsing my remarks in the visitors book, our of sheer inquisitiveness, I glanced the last remark written by a tourist with the popular American name Henry (neither Ford, nor Kissinger, nor Fonda, the illustrious sons of America). His ingenious and original remark read as “I know of a plumber in Texas who can repair this leak.”

(Courtesy: Col. Trilok Mehrotra, New Delhi)

Saffron has a go at history

Saffron has a go at history

I wasn’t aware that the Hindu Mahasabha and the RSS had set up many schools across the country, known as Saraswati Shishu Mandirs and Vidya Bharati Schools. The number of teachers employed runs into thousands; the number of students into hundreds of thousands. They also have a publishing house to print their own text books. I was happy to learn this as our country needs more schools — the more the better — as well as more text-books. However, when I discovered what they teach in these schools, I was sorely disappointed. It is make-believe historical fiction to boost our morale and foster suspicion and hatred against Indian-born minorities who don’t share the same kind of pride in our past, notably Muslims and Christians. 

To start with, it is assumed that Bharat Varsha is co-terminous with Aryavarta: Dravidians, who were Indians before the Aryans came to inhabit the southern half of our country, are ignored. Their role model is Adolf Hitler who purged Aryan Germany of semitic races by gassing millions of Jews and Gypsies, while Germans of today regard Hitler as the devil-incarnate and are ashamed of him. RSS & Sena leaders hero-worship him.

Buddhism and its great propagator, Emperor Ashoka, who preached ahimsa (non-violence) were, according to them, unmitigated disasters as they robbed us of our martial qualities, made us cowardly and unable to resist marauding Muslim armies wielding swords in one hand and Koran in the other: they were, according to K.B.Hedgewar, founder of the RSS, “hissing Yavana snakes”. A few examples from these textbooks are pertinent: Muslims’ greatest wish to have a darshan of the black stone, shivalinga, installed in Mecca. The Qutub Minar of Delhi was built by Emperor Samudragupta and known as the Vishnu Stambha. (The fact that it is festooned with verses from the Koran is not mentioned). 

It is asserted that the Babri Masjid was never a Masjid because namaaz was never performed in it. (Photographs of the building before demolition showed three domes and a wall facing Mecca). An outrageous statement was made by the present head of the RSS, K.S. Sudarshan, in November 2001 in which he dismissed eminent historians as ‘anti-Hindu’ Euro-Indians. 

He claimed that “in ancient India, we knew about nuclear energy and sage Bharadwaja and Raja Bhoj not only described the construction of aeroplanes, but also discussed details like what types of aeroplanes would fly and at what height.” It is not surprising that all this so-called history fabricated earlier was given respectability during the tenure of Murli Manohar Joshi as education minister in the Vajpayee-led BJP government. Joshiji also initiated astrology as a subject in universities. However, while his horoscope assured him victory, he lost the election to the Lok Sabha.

A significant outcome of the kind of history being taught in these schools is down-grading the role of Mahatma Gandhi in the freedom movement and exalting that of Veer Savarkar. Though Savarkar was acquitted on technical grounds of the charge of conspiracy to kill Gandhi, the Justice Kapur Commission later squarely implicated him as the man who inspired the foul deed. His portrait was installed in Parliament House during the rule of the BJP. Before you accuse me of anti-RSS and BJP bias, take a look at a booklet — RSS, School Texts and the Murder of Mahatma Gandhi (Sage). It is compiled by three distinguished professors of history at JNU (Aditya Mukherjee, Mridula Mukherjee and Sucheta Mahajan). The source of every quotation is given to prove its authenticity. The basic text is barely 80 pages. 

Finally, ask yourself, is this kind of brain-washing of young minds and filling them with hate good for the country? It will turn our sweet dreams of a hate-free Hindustan into a nightmare of vicious civil strife.

My angry neighbour

My next-door neighbour Reeta Devi Verma of Cooch Bihar is a very angry person. She is a Hindu-Buddhist who worked with Mother Teresa for sometime after she quit her job as an Air India hostess. She continues her association with the Sisters of Charity in Guwahati and Delhi. Her current occupation is running two mobile clinics donated to her Ila Trust by Sir Elton John and cabinet minister Kapil Sibal. She takes them to different parts of Delhi and gives free medical aid and medicines to the needy. Her latest beat includes Batla House in Jamia Nagar. 

At one time, among many of her callers was Naveen Patnaik, currently Chief Minister of Orissa. Through her I met him a couple of times. He was then busy writing about nature. I found him urbane, sophisticated, soft-spoken and cultured. Also, at the same time, effeminate. I think he wasn’t cut out to be a politician or an administrator. However, riding on the esteem his father Biju Patnaik en joyed in Orissa, he found himself at the helm of affairs of his home state. He has evidently failed to stamp out anti-Christian violence perpetrated by a rabid section of Bajrang Dal. His police pay little heed to his orders and let vandals burn churches and molest nuns. In short, he has proved to be an incompetent and effete ruler of a large and important state. So Reeta Devi lost her cool and fired off an angry letter to him . It goes somewhat as follows: “Dear Naveen: You might recall the days when you used to drop in on me. You might remember I gave you a Mother Teresa rosary because I thought you admired her and the work her Missionaries of Charity were doing. I am disappointed by your inability to put down goondagardi against Christians. I am ashamed of you.”

Why so much rain?

Q. Why is Punjab getting more rains in the last two years than ever before ?

A. Because there are three Badals (clouds) in Punjab: the Chief Minister, Finance Minister and the Head of the Ruling Party.

The many faces of Goonda Raj

The many faces of Goonda Raj

I have drawn up a list of politicians who are in urgent need of psychiatric treatment. The list gets longer by the day. I dare not publish it as I am sure if I did so, I would have dozens of cases of criminal libel slapped on me across the country — extending from Chennai to Bhubaneshwar to Kolkata, Patna, Lucknow, Delhi, Amritsar, Jaipur, Bhopal, Ahmedabad, Mumbai and Bangalore. If I hired lawyers to defend me, I would be ruined. 

What I fear more than being financially ruined is having to turn up at different places to seek bail. I know what would happen. Before I appear in court, I would be roughed up by goons claiming to be followers of the leaders I named. The police would not be able to protect me. These hoodlums regard themselves above the law of the land. State and the Central Governments are honour & duty bound to suppress these subversive elements. Or quit. A ruler must rule, not just pretend to be ruling. 

The way our governments have handled men and women who assumed they were above the law can only be described as inept and lacking in foresight. There was Bhindranwale who incited hatred and violence against Hindus. He was arrested on charges of incitement to murder. Then, he was let off on his own terms. Instead of being treated like a criminal, he became a hero. Successive governments of Maharashtra have shown the same kind of ineptitude dealing with Thackerays of the Shiv Sena. Both its founder Bal Thackeray and his son openly preached violence against non-Maharashtrians: No action was taken against them. 

Then Bal Thackeray’s nephew Raj set up his own splinter party which forced thousands of Biharis, Oriyas and Uttar Pradeshis to flee Maharashtra. He showed his contempt for the law by threatening to molest outsiders if they did not abide by his fiats. After much prodding Raj Thackeray was arrested. Then promptly let out on bail. As in the case of Bhindranwale, he has turned from a villain into a hero.

The violence let loose by the Bajrang Dal against Christians and Muslims should have been crushed a long time ago. Instead of doing so, its spokesman Sharma goes about challenging the government to do its worst “Dhajjian uda deyngey — we will tear it to shreds.” He goes scot free. Meanwhile, mobs of lunatics set fire to trains, buses, cars and public buildings. It is time our Central and State governments put down these lawless elements with a firm hand. The only language goondas understand is the language of the danda (stick).

Fear of death

Thanatophobia, derived from Greek, is the fear of death or dying. It is a disease which afflicts all living creatures. Human beings are especially prone to it because they are capable of thinking — and they think about it frequently. No one is immune to it: a person in good health and enjoying life puts it aside for a while. But when his health begins to fail, he is per force reminded of it. Everyone dreads its coming: those who deny being afraid of it and put up a brave face when they see it, are liars. In fact, they are as scared of it as a man being led to the gallows.

Much has been written about the fear of death by thinkers including those who have suffered short cardiac arrests but survived to relate their experiences. None of these accounts have solved the mystery of death. It remains the veil beyond which we cannot see, the door to which no one has yet found the key. All religions have theories of what happens after death. None of them adduce evidence in support of their theories. No rationalist can accept a day of Judgement, heaven, hell, resurrection, re-incarnation or re-birth, because there is not an iota of evidence to support any of them. We face a blank wall of total ignorance of the subject.

The latest book on the subject is Julian Barnes’ Nothing to be frightened of (Knopt). He is an atheist turned agnostic. (I construe agnostic as an atheist with an open mind). Barnes begins by admitting: “I don’t believe in God, but I miss him.” He admits that despite his belief that death is nothing, he thinks about it day and night and is dead scared of it. 

Mirza Ghalib said the same thing: Maut ka ek din muayyan hai, neend raat bhar kyon nahin aatee (one day you must die, why then do I have sleepless nights thinking about it)?

We have to be an oaf not to think about death. There is an epitaph on an unmarked grave in England which runs as follows:

Gaily I lived, as ease and nature taught

And spent my life without a thought;

And am amazed that death, that tyrant grim

Should think of me, who never thought of him.

The moral of the tale of death is simple: you can’t put it out of your mind and dread its coming but you need not brood over it, become melancholic and forgo the fun of living.

Mis-heard prayer

A Hindu in the US suffered a heart attack on the road and was picked up by an ambulance. Being religious, he kept repeating — Hari Om, Hari Om, Hari Om.

When the ambulance pulled into his driveway, his wife came out and screamed to the paramedics: “Why didn’t you take him straight to the hospital ?” They replied, “because he kept saying hurry home, hurry home!”

For the love of food

For the love of food

As a person ages, of his five senses, four decline with the years; only one, the sense of taste for food outlasts the others. I know this to be true in my case. The older I grow, the more I think of what I will eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Of the three meals, the first two are nominal: a buttered toast with a mug of tea in the morning, a bowl of soup or dahi (yoghurt) at mid-day but dinner, I insist, must be a gourmet’s delight. It comprises of only one main dish with a salad to match, topped off with pudding or ice-cream. I have also discovered that in order to enjoy that one meal I must be hungry and have a clean stomach. It is best enjoyed alone and in complete silence. Dining in company or with members of the family may help bonding friendships and keeping the family together, but it takes away much of the taste out of tasty food. Talking while eating, one also swallows a lot of air with the food. This is how our Hindu ancestor patriarchs ate their evening meals. They had good reasons for doing so; I follow the precedent set by them. I also have the pattern of drinking and dining from my role model Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. He took a bath every evening and got into fresh clothes before he fished out his bottle of Scotch Whisky, poured out his measure in a tumbler, added scented surahi water to it — and drank in absolute silence while writing immortal couplets in praise of wine and women. He does not record what he ate for dinner. 


When I drink alone on an empty stomach, I can feel the whisky warming its way down my entrails. I do not get that feeling when drinking in company. Likewise, when eating in company, I scarcely notice the taste of what I keep shoveling in my mouth. When eating alone, I shut my eyes and turn my inner gaze to what I am chewing and munching bit by bit till it dissolves and goes down my throat. I feel I am doing justice to my food as the food I eat is doing justice to me. Never be in a hurry to get over your meal; take your time over it and relish it. 

I like to vary my food. My trusted cook of over 50 years is now too old to try his hand at new recipes. So I keep menus of eateries that deliver food handy. I try them in turns — Chinese, Thai, French, Italian, South Indian. I also have phone numbers of ladies who specialise in different kinds of food they cook in their homes and cater to people who place orders in advance. So I have a Mrs Dhupia who makes excellent Quiche Lorraine and chocolate cakes. And I have Claire Dutt who makes excellent anything I fancy. 

“Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you what you are,” claimed Savarin. If I told him of the varieties of food I eat, he would probably call me a pig. But I do not hog myself. What I take is in measured quantities. For me it is the same as Savarin claimed : “the discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of man than the discovery of a star." Like Lord Byron I look forward to my evening meal as I used to look forward to meeting my dates in younger days. To quote: “That all-softening, over powering knell//The tocsin of the sod - the dinner bell.’ 

One final word of caution: make sure you never over-eat. An upset stomach ruins the pleasure of eating. 

Nature’s Emissary
There was a time when during winter months I used to get up well before dawn, arm myself with a pair of binoculars, Salim Ali's book on Indian birds, a flask of hot coffee and egg sandwiches and set out with a small party of bird-watchers to a chosen site: it could be near Tilpet along the Yamuna or Sultanpur Jheel in Haryana. I also spent weekends in the Keoladeo bird sanctuary near Bharatpur. I picked up a smattering of information on birds but that did not deter me from claiming as an expert, writing a book called Nature Watch and doing a series for Doordarshan on natural phenomenon in and around Delhi in collaboration with Sharad Dutt. In short, I became an imposter and show-off. Although my birdwatching is now limited to my backyard patch of greenery with a few trees and a birdbath, I have a shelf full of books on birds, trees, butterflies and insects. I manage to keep up the pretence of being a know-all. 

One thing I can say in my defense is that I read whatever I can find on these subjects. Most are reference books with names in Greek and Latin, their equivalents in Indian languages, habitats, identification signs, calls, nesting, rearing their broods etc. It does not make exciting reading. Rarely do I come across a book that grips me because of the author’s emotional involvement with birds and animals. Gerald Durrell is a good example of such writing. The best I have read so far is a collection of articles by Ranjit Lal, Wild City: Nature Wonders Next Door (Penguin). It is about birds, animals, and insects seen in and around Delhi. He writes in a beautiful lyrical style, evidently knows the subject well and is in love with everything he writes about including jackals, wasps, spiders and ants. 

The only trouble is that he expects his readers to be interested and reasonably well informed. That is asking for too much and is the reason why he is not as well known, as he deserves to be. In my opinion he is A-1. In this book, he gives an example of the hazards of bird watching: Many years ago, I used to photograph the sea gulls that flock to Mumbai’s Marine Drive, right opposite a hostel for women. I hung around the place for hours, armed with binoculars, a camera with telephoto lens et al. If any police constable had asked me what I was doing opposite a women’s hostel equipped thus, I would have had to tell him the truth: ‘ I’m photographing gulls.’ You can well imagine the response! ‘Photographing girls? ‘Abbe saala, sharam nahin aata hai? (Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ?) Come with me to the lock-up! 

I have often tried to reproduce calls of birds and frogs in print— and usually failed. I recall a pair of mynas that used to visit office in Broadcasting House. One of them kept up a monologue that I tried to put in human sounds. But I was unable to do so. Ranjit Lal has got it right: ‘Keek-keek-churr-churr-churr- kok-kok-kok keek-churr?’