 "'He was what he wanted to be'")
I loved him dearly. He was a special person who stood apart from the rest because he was what he wanted to be and shunned all that was expected of him. When I first encountered Khushwant Singh I was a curious teenager and he, a friend of my aunt Romila (Thapar) and of my parents, Romesh and Raj Thapar. In those days life was uncomplicated and friends met regularly for an evening drink followed by a potluck dinner, a forgotten ritual. Khushwant and his pals had added another dimension to their 'socialising' by organising walks into the historical hinterland of Delhi to explore forgotten ruins of past empires, carrying a picnic with them and also, inviting visiting friends to join their strenuous wanderings. Every Sunday morning Romila, who lived with us in the sixties, would head off for a 'walk' with a group of friends led by Khushwant, christened the 'Intellectual Marchers.' It was a walking adda. Romila recalls how, during those long walks around the outskirts of Delhi, Khushwant would invite all kinds of wonderful people to join the core group like Erik Erikson of Gandhi's Truth and his wife; Guy Wint, who was then an ace commentator on India and Asia; the iconic economist Joan Robinson from Cambridge university and others, who talked, walked, exchanged ideas and remained friends over time. Exhausted after eight or sometimes 10 kilometres of walking - thankfully not on the dreary treadmill of today - the group would rest and picnic on homemade sandwiches and chilled beer. This weekly exercise left a huge influence on me. I felt left out of a fun day laced with great conversation. And so, many decades later, as the editor of The India Magazine, I organised a series of historic walks and invited Khushwant to lead some of them, particularly one through the spectacular ruins of Tughlakabad, followed by a picnic lunch washed down by chilled Bloody Mary's!
Khushwant knew I was very close to my grandfather. I will never forget what he did for me the day grandad died in December 1965. It was the first 'death' in the family that I had to deal with. He arrived at the house, bundled me into his car and drove me into what is today Haryana, telling me the story of a new type of wheat, Mexican wheat, that was going to yield more than the traditional Indian strain and how agricultural productivity was beginning to get revolutionised, and more. He had pulled me out of the 'mourning', and away, telling me without saying so, that beyond death, life goes on.
And then, in 1971, I married Tejbir, his elder brother's son. He became 'chachaji' overnight. He was the only senior in-law I knew and was comfortable with, in the early years of my marriage, as I navigated the many relationships I had to forge. He and his wife Kaval were a delight, engaging, amusing, forthright and opinionated, all the traits of personality that I was familiar with, that were intrinsic to my family as well. He became a fixture in my life. A mentor. A role model of sorts. Then a 'pal' in the garb of a chachaji, an in-law, with whom I could have outlandish conversations over a whisky, more often than not two double drinks, and many energetic arguments, political and other, where we would agree, albeit vociferously, to disagree. He knew well how to puncture the ego with a definitive laugh, almost a guffaw. Apart from History of the Sikhs and Train to Pakistan, for me, his best essay was 'End of India', and how prophetic it was.
Our caring for each other never diminished even as we were wildly judgmental about people and things when we met over a drink. We talked and talked without any malice, savouring the great joy that comes with a good gossip session.
Khushwant knew I was very close to my grandfather. I will never forget what he did for me the day grandad died in December 1965. It was the first 'death' in the family that I had to deal with. He arrived at the house, bundled me into his car and drove me into what is today Haryana, telling me the story of a new type of wheat, Mexican wheat, that was going to yield more than the traditional Indian strain and how agricultural productivity was beginning to get revolutionised, and more. He had pulled me out of the 'mourning', and away, telling me without saying so, that beyond death, life goes on.
And then, in 1971, I married Tejbir, his elder brother's son. He became 'chachaji' overnight. He was the only senior in-law I knew and was comfortable with, in the early years of my marriage, as I navigated the many relationships I had to forge. He and his wife Kaval were a delight, engaging, amusing, forthright and opinionated, all the traits of personality that I was familiar with, that were intrinsic to my family as well. He became a fixture in my life. A mentor. A role model of sorts. Then a 'pal' in the garb of a chachaji, an in-law, with whom I could have outlandish conversations over a whisky, more often than not two double drinks, and many energetic arguments, political and other, where we would agree, albeit vociferously, to disagree. He knew well how to puncture the ego with a definitive laugh, almost a guffaw. Apart from History of the Sikhs and Train to Pakistan, for me, his best essay was 'End of India', and how prophetic it was.
Our caring for each other never diminished even as we were wildly judgmental about people and things when we met over a drink. We talked and talked without any malice, savouring the great joy that comes with a good gossip session.