<p>I first read Khushwant Singh’s story, The Portrait of a Lady, about his grandmother, as a teenager about 50 years ago. After a few years, I became addicted to his writings in the then-renowned magazine, The Illustrated Weekly of India, of which he was the editor at the time. I devoured everything he wrote until his death.</p>.<p>Around the World with Khushwant Singh was the first book by him that I purchased at a bus stand in Chandigarh for Rs 10 and finished during the bus journey from Chandigarh to Nahan. I enjoyed the preface by the author more than the book itself. He wrote something to that effect in the introduction, which has remained etched in my memory all these years: “I have travelled the world over, always as a guest of somebody, never spending a penny from my own pocket. That must be a sort of national record in the art of sponging. I’ve enjoyed life thoroughly; however, there comes a time in life when the most sparkling of champagnes, instead of elevating your spirits, upsets your stomach. I think I’ve been too long in the picture gallery, and it’s time for me to depart.”</p>.<p>He lived – and lived well – for about 30 years after that book and wrote prolifically as the editor of Hindustan Times, a syndicated columnist for various other magazines and newspapers. His writings seldom skipped my attention. I found him to be a consistently engaging writer, using precise and simple language.</p>.<p>Although he described himself as an agnostic, I was intrigued when he wrote about having a 10-minute spiritual orgasm while sitting at Har ki Pauri in Haridwar, feeling the hand of Guru Nanak on his shoulder while translating Japu Ji Sahib, or getting emotionally overwhelmed by Gurbaani. When a famous newspaper baron called him Raand Ka Saand in conversation, which he narrated in one of his columns, I could not help but admire his self-deprecating candour.</p>.<p>I liked him immensely for many reasons, but the most potent reason was his apparent freedom from caste, communal, or religious prejudice – a rare quality in a human being, particularly in the times we live in. One regret remains: he had promised to leave his ‘unmentionable literature’ in his library for me in his will, but he never did.</p>.<p>A man whose actual date of birth remained speculative certainly died on March 20, 2014. This is a belated tribute to the unique journalist and author Khushwant Singh on his eleventh death anniversary. A literature festival organised in his memory at Kasauli has now become an annual event.</p>
<p>I first read Khushwant Singh’s story, The Portrait of a Lady, about his grandmother, as a teenager about 50 years ago. After a few years, I became addicted to his writings in the then-renowned magazine, The Illustrated Weekly of India, of which he was the editor at the time. I devoured everything he wrote until his death.</p>.<p>Around the World with Khushwant Singh was the first book by him that I purchased at a bus stand in Chandigarh for Rs 10 and finished during the bus journey from Chandigarh to Nahan. I enjoyed the preface by the author more than the book itself. He wrote something to that effect in the introduction, which has remained etched in my memory all these years: “I have travelled the world over, always as a guest of somebody, never spending a penny from my own pocket. That must be a sort of national record in the art of sponging. I’ve enjoyed life thoroughly; however, there comes a time in life when the most sparkling of champagnes, instead of elevating your spirits, upsets your stomach. I think I’ve been too long in the picture gallery, and it’s time for me to depart.”</p>.<p>He lived – and lived well – for about 30 years after that book and wrote prolifically as the editor of Hindustan Times, a syndicated columnist for various other magazines and newspapers. His writings seldom skipped my attention. I found him to be a consistently engaging writer, using precise and simple language.</p>.<p>Although he described himself as an agnostic, I was intrigued when he wrote about having a 10-minute spiritual orgasm while sitting at Har ki Pauri in Haridwar, feeling the hand of Guru Nanak on his shoulder while translating Japu Ji Sahib, or getting emotionally overwhelmed by Gurbaani. When a famous newspaper baron called him Raand Ka Saand in conversation, which he narrated in one of his columns, I could not help but admire his self-deprecating candour.</p>.<p>I liked him immensely for many reasons, but the most potent reason was his apparent freedom from caste, communal, or religious prejudice – a rare quality in a human being, particularly in the times we live in. One regret remains: he had promised to leave his ‘unmentionable literature’ in his library for me in his will, but he never did.</p>.<p>A man whose actual date of birth remained speculative certainly died on March 20, 2014. This is a belated tribute to the unique journalist and author Khushwant Singh on his eleventh death anniversary. A literature festival organised in his memory at Kasauli has now become an annual event.</p>
