Kishore Singh: A toast for a clansman

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No one I know liked his drink more. Every evening, with a twirl of his luxuriant moustache, he'd sit down with a tray consisting of his favourite tipple, a container of ice and many, many glasses. Convivial company wasn't hard to come by "" my uncle had more friends than most, and then some. When he was younger, the drinking could stretch over many hours as he gossiped about shikar, or got into the murky subject of Rajasthan's living history "" who betrayed whom, whether a raja was cowardly or merely cavalier, how a war was lost but the battle won!

He wasn't too fond of books but that never came in the way of quoting chapter and verse from historic classics. Humour peppered heroic anecdotes, stirring rhyme endorsed his belief that a man was the sum of his deeds (and beliefs), and he'd hold the audience mesmerised with his well-irrigated baritone. Still, he'd be the first one up at dawn and in all the years I have known him, he never once complained of a hangover.

As the years progressed, the evening durbars shrunk in size and duration. A more emotional, less expansive side now revealed itself. "We should set aside a week for the whole, extended family to get together every year," he'd announce, "same time, same place." It was a forlorn hope. Like his children, most of his nephews and nieces too worked difficult jobs in distant places. As all of us grew into our middle ages, we had to balance fewer vacation days with choosing between a holiday by the beach and another with the immediate family. Another clan gathering would be simply impossible.

Not one to give up easily, he suggested we cobble together a family history for what it was worth. It was a good idea but who was going to write it? He looked at me pointedly "" I was the only scribe in the tribe. Logically, I could have sat down with my uncle while he went through the family branches, but that would have meant taking out more time than I, at any rate, had. Besides, given his habit of diverting off the main discussion into other yarns and incidents, it would have been a year of Sundays before we made any progress.

Since no one else volunteered, that was another project that went on to the backburner. But he was able at least to live out one of his dreams. Having retired from the insurance job that had served him well, he decided he would live not in Bikaner but, however briefly, in the village of our ancestors. And there, in the scorching desert, he built himself an extremely functional farmhouse and surrounded it with lush fields, shady trees and bursts of bougainvillea.

When last we met, he hadn't been well and was back in Bikaner. A steady stream of friends and family was interrupted by visits from doctors and physiotherapists. He still wanted us to have an annual clan get-together, he still wanted to document the family history "" and he still wanted to have a drink.

On my last evening of a brief holiday in Bikaner, he insisted I should have a drink with him "" he, of course, would abstain. I urged him not to bother as we were going out for dinner, that I would not enjoy having a drink alone, and that the next time we got together we'd both raise a toast to his health.

It was another broken promise. I never got to have a drink with him and now never will. But I hope that when the ceremonies and rituals are done, that he'll enjoy the toast I've been saving up for him. I hope he'll savour that last drink.