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The Man Who Knew Everything:
Part IV

T. SHER SINGH

 

 

 



I have long been intrigued by how we sit by the side-lines, waiting for our heroes to give their all, enjoying and benefiting from their largesse, and then how we chew them up and spit them out, masticated beyond recognition.

Once we have rendered them powerless, we discard them -- neglected and forgotten.

Until they die.

And then, we spring into action. We then endlessly recount their exploits and proclaim them as heroes, OUR heroes, basking in the borrowed glory … so pleased with ourselves that we have remembered!

I discovered the existence of this extraordinary human trait early on, when I was but 11 or so. It was in Amritsar one summer. I was hanging around, exploring the city on my own, disappointed by the adults in my family who insisted on being hidden indoors all day from the mid-day June sun.

“How can you nap in the middle of the day,” I wondered, “while there’s a world out there, waiting …?” Especially when you travel to exotic places … such as Amritsar? 

One late afternoon, I was on a mission. Forever seeking additions to my autograph collection from the great and the famous, I had done some sleuthing and zeroed in on a kill.

Apparently, in the vicinity of the Darbar Sahib’s sprawling langar hall and the administrative committee’s secretariat across the road, in the direction of the Tower of Baba Atal, was ensconced a small brick building which may or may not be the current hangout of Master Tara Singh, the Sikh leader during the tumultuous days of the Partition of Punjab.

I remembered, through the haze of a child’s memory, seeing him address huge crowds in Patna … fiery and passionate orations, they were. But even bigger in my mind was his reputation. I had heard elders talk about his monumental achievements and his colossal failures.

He was therefore, being within easy reach, a  prime target for my autograph collection.

Armed with my sky-blue, rexine-covered autograph book in my hip-pocket, a fountain-pen in another, I headed into the Golden Temple complex. Still too young to tie a turban, I had my hair braided and dressed Swedish-style at the back of my head. And I was bare-foot; despite the searing heat, I preferred the convenience of not having to repeatedly find a spot to park my sandals.

Nosy and persistent, and through a process of elimination, I narrowed down my search to a non-descript yellow structure. I had to clang on the door handle a few times before I heard a shuffle of feet. The door swung open. A gruff, white-bearded face peered through the crack, sans turban, the kanga hanging from his joorrah precariously on one side.

“What?” he said.

“I’m looking for Master ji …”

He opened the door a bit, pointed to my right, and grunted: “Upstairs!” And slammed the door shut.

Strange, I thought. The building is  single-storey. I walked to the end of the wall and saw a rising stairwell clinging to the outer wall. Cautiously, I took the stairs.

Found myself on a flat roof. Near the back was an enclosure, a room of sorts, with a door. Outside it, in the shadow cast by the walls, was a manji (stringed cot) of the size of a hospital bed. On it was a durree, a pillow thrown on the side.

Sitting midway on the bamboo-edge spanning the length of the cot, with his bare legs and feet dangling to the floor, was a lone figure. His head was covered in a towel, bent forward, as if studying his feet.    

He must’ve heard my footfall. He raised his head, pushed the towel back a bit to peek at me, and squinted at the burst of sun into his eyes.

“Sat Sri Akal. I’ve come to see Master ji,” I managed to say, and then added, “Is he here?”

“Why?” he said.

“I’m visiting from Patna with my family, and just want to get his autograph … I collect autographs,” I replied, also in Punjabi.

He pushed the towel back further. A fully bearded face emerged, his head crowned by a small joorrah. He looked puzzled.

“A signature,” I explained, pulling out my autograph book, opening it and holding it towards him for him to see.

It hit me then that he may not understand the word ‘autograph’ and would wonder why I needed his signature. I explained.

“Is he in? Does he live here? I just need a minute, no more.”

He threw back the towel. I could see him clearly now. He was in his under-shirt and kachhera. A white cotton sheet spread across his knees.

I realized that it may be the very man I was looking for.

“Master ji?” I mumbled. “Sorry for bothering you … I can go …” My voice trailed to a whisper as I saw him motion me to approach him. He shifted towards the pillow at the end of the bed, and pointed to the other end.

Baittho, puttar ji.” Sit down, son.

As I sat down on the cot, I leaned towards him and handed him the book. I pulled out a pen from my pocket and put it beside him.

He flipped through the pages. He recognized Jawaharlal Nehru’s scrawl. And Indira Gandhi’s.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Clovis Maksoud,” I answered. “He is from the Arab States.”

“And this one?”

I could the scrawl even from a few feet away. “That’s Dharmanant Singh, the scholar. And on the next page … you’ll see,“ I added with a tinge of pride, “Sardar Hukam Singh.”

He nodded. He licked his finger lightly as he turned each page. And then stopped at some longer passages.

“And these?” he asked.

“Oh, these are nothing,” I said. “They are my class-mates from school.”

He picked up the pen and scribbled his name in Gurmukhi on a blank page.

Mission accomplished, I said to myself, now rearing to go home and show my mother what I had managed to get.

But he wanted to know where I came from, where I went to school, and about my family.

“Where are they from … before?”

I understood the expression; I’d heard it often. “Pakistan,” I said.

“Where?” he asked.

“I don’t know,“ I said.

He smiled as he nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You were born in Patna. Which year?“

“1949.”

He nodded knowingly.

I felt somewhat brave and, at the same time, obliged to carry on the conversation. “You live here?” I asked.

He nodded.

“And where’s your family?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “This is how it is …”

“Alone?” I asked. “Doesn’t anyone look after you?”

“The family downstairs looks after me. One of these days,” he said, “I’ll move to Chandigarh, I think. I’m getting on in years, you know …”

He didn’t look happy. Or very talkative.

I got up, thanked him in English, wished him “Sat Sri Akal”, and left.

I looked back at him briefly as I began to descend the stairs. He had pulled the towel back over his face and was preparing to lie down.

*    *   *   *   *

I’ve been haunted by that scene ever since. I remember every second of it in lucid detail. The memory has troubled me to no end. Especially since I also remember the man from his heyday, larger than life, looming big in my mind’s eye. And then, to see him like this, alone, unattended, unutilized, neglected … He would've been around 75 then.

A politician who, when he died a few years later, had not a penny to his name. Imagine, a politician who gave his entire life to the community, amassed no wealth … and asked nothing in return.

He’s not the only one.

Prof Puran Singh, whose poetry inspires us to such heights today, fared not much better. Nor did the scholar and leader, Sirdar Kapur Singh. Though both fortunately escaped abject poverty.

This predicament is not unique to Sikhs.

Rabindranath Tagore, for example -- that great poet-mystic of Bengal, hailed today by his people as ‘gurudev’ -- was much reviled by his contemporaries and oft-dismissed as a difficult and misguided soul. The Bengalis especially were his biggest detractors while he was alive. And Mohandas Gandhi. And Nehru too.

But once dead, Tagore was hailed a saint and an icon.

*   *   *   *   *

A few years ago, it struck me that Khushwant Singh was already in his 90s, with gradually diminishing health. With only a few more years to live, at best, I wondered if we as a community -- HIS community! -- had ever shown him our love and appreciation for all that he had done. Or were we waiting for him to die before we would burst into songs of praise?

When a trip to India suddenly materialized out of the blue -- I hadn’t been ’back’ for over 30 years -- I had a germ of an idea.

I telephoned my Sikh friends around the world, at least one on each continent, each a leader of his community in his/her own right. Not politically, but real, meaningful, productive leadership. And explained to them my plan.

I wanted to take a gift for Khushwant Singh and give it to him on behalf of the Sikhs of the world … in gratitude and appreciation for his life-work. Could I have their endorsement? 

My task proved to be an easy one. Everyone I called loved the idea and was unequivocal in his/her support. I explained to them that I would get an appropriate gift and have it inscribed on behalf of “The Sikhs of the World”, and that it would be presented to Khushwant Singh as a collective honour and not from any individual or organization. They were all in agreement.

I needed no money, no contribution.

The award I finally decided on was a metal (solid aluminium, polished) sculpture, about 16 inches in length, six in height and width, of a Loon, a bird associated with peace and serenity, most commonly found in the wilderness in Northern Canada. It was an exquisite work of art sculpted by the renowned Hosleton Studios in Brighton, Ontario.

Khushwant Singh and I had a number of mutual friends. I phoned a couple of them and asked them if they could contact him on my behalf, explain my mission, and ask him if he would be willing to accept the award, and if so, was it possible to do in person, during my planned visit in a few weeks.

His response was gracious and gratifying. He said he felt deeply honoured. And added that, given it was late Fall and early Winter, he wasn‘t going anywhere … he‘d be in Delhi.

My next chore was to find a fitting personage to give the award.

We were limited by the fact that the ceremony would have to be done in Delhi, by someone easily available within hailing distance. I didn’t want any petty politician or self-important windbag. The ideal person, I thought, would be the Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh -- primarily because he was representative of a mass of humanity, and himself a man I admired more than most who peopled that land.

I tapped into my contacts and received word within a few days that it was “do-able”. But we’d have to play it by ear, with increased certainty only with the approach of the actual day -- which couldn’t be finalized yet, given all the vagaries and contingencies.

Off I went, with the special Loon in my baggage. Lahore was my first stop -- with my mother -- on a long and meandering journey on the subcontinent, involving a return to India after a lengthy, self-imposed exile that had spanned for a major part of my life.

On a previous holiday in Pakistan, I had found my mother’s village and home -- the one she and my father, both newly married -- had fled from six decades earlier and had never seen again. And promised to take her ‘home’ and then to see my father’s village across the river in Kashmir.

Once I had completed my travels in Pakistan, my mother headed home to Canada, I to Amritsar … and New Delhi.

Soon after I arrived in India’s capital, I visited Khushwant Singh to let him know I was in town, and to work out the details of the ceremony.

I was finally able to meet the legend! But more about it later … first, the Loon.

I didn’t tell him that it was a loon. All he wanted to talk about was Canada. It was where he had had his first posting as a diplomat, and where he had embarked on a life of writing. He had stories galore of Canada in the early 50s and his discovery of the Sikh-Canadian community which was already several decades old, mostly concentrated in Vancouver and the string of ‘Sikh Towns’ of British Columbia.

We discovered a number of mutual acquaintances. One of them, a beautiful and charming young woman -- his description, not mine! -- he fondly remembered; his eyes turned mischievous and he became coy, not sure if he could trust me with details.

Instead of giving me her name outright, he offered a few clues. He’d forgotten I was a lawyer, adept at cross-examination by dint of my trade. As he played with me, throwing tid-bits of information, I was busy doing a quick mental calculation. A poet. A novelist. A screen-writer. A journalist. His contemporary.

And then, he gave me the clincher. He said: “She was hanging around with this guy … a poet and writer. A lawyer, and a politician too …”

“P.K. Page!” I blurted.

He was dumbfounded. He sat there, frozen but grinning sheepishly, as I explained: I knew her well, and had just met her again past September. I was involved heavily with The Eden Mills Writers’ Festival close to where I lived. One of the leading ones in North America, it attracted poets and writers from all over. We not only had close mutual friends but she was also an annual fixture at our festival.

“She’s alive?” he gasped.

Very much so, I assured him, though frail and in her 90s now. By now considered one of the most important poets around in the country.

And, and … I added excitedly. There’s more. I told him I’d known of her for decades -- and that’s the key clue he had given me -- she had been a dear friend, muse and companion to one of my greatest heroes, F.R. Scott.

Khushwant Singh nodded. Yes, I know, he said -- I met him and admired him too.

But, as I said, more of all this later.

First, the Loon.

We got word the next day that the PM couldn’t make it … something urgent would keep him tied up. So, now what?

I mulled around the problem with my friends. Who could we muster up at such short notice, someone who would do justice to the occasion?

I knew I had triggered some fond memories of Canada for Khushwant Singh, which gave me a brainwave. I called the Canadian High Commission and asked if they’d allow me to use their facilities for the ceremony. If we couldn’t do it in the Prime Minister’s House, we needed something as grand.

I explained the nature of the ceremony to the bureaucrat on the phone. She said she’s have to check with the High Commissioner. Fine, I said, but can I please wait on line while she checked?

Are you serious, she exclaimed … this usually takes days, if not weeks. Of course, I said, I understand but, you see, I’m heading back to Toronto by the end of the week; we need to do this in the next couple of days. P-L-E-A-S-E, could you please check now?

I waited on the line for ever. Finally, a voice again.

“High Commissioner!” she said.

“Are you sure … is this the High Commissioner?” I mumbled.

I told her my story, including the cancellation by the PM. And, on a whim, threw the bait: “And, we’d love you to do the honours! It will be fabulous if YOU will do the presentation!”

She didn’t hesitate a moment. “For Khushwant,” she said, “it’ll be MY honour!”

With this in the bag, I went back to Sujan Singh Park to see what Khushwant Singh had to say about the change of plans. He was thrilled! It’s even better, he said. I hadn’t told him of the Loon yet.

He asked me if he could invite some of his friends. Of course, I said, keeping in mind that the security at the High Commission is very tight -- 9/11 was still fresh on people’s minds -- and wanted a limit of 40 invitees, all the names would have to be submitted to them in advance by the next morning. So, I added, if he could invite, say 10, or so, would that suffice?

How about 20, he asked.

Sure, I said, as long as I can get the names a couple of hours before-hand for the security clearance.

The next morning, when I arrived at the Canadian High Commission, it was total mayhem at the gate. The Head Security Officer was fuming, as he took me into the innards of the complex. He pointed to the window: “There are a hundred people out there saying they’re here for your event. And all I have notice for is 40 guests. No space. No food. No way.“

I went out to see who all these people were.

Apparently, Khushwant Singh had called every good-looking woman he knew in the city and had invited her. I surveyed the scene: every socialite in town was standing there. Waiting for the Grand ol’ Sardar to arrive.

I threw up my hands. I’m in India, I give up, I muttered to myself.

Security called the High Commissioner. She just laughed and said: Let them in! And move the venue outdoors to the verandah.

Khushwant Singh arrived a few minutes later. As is. That is, exactly the way he had been when I had seen him the previous night. Same chhoti puggree, same kameez, complete with dribbles in the front , and the same salwar. The entourage of women circled him and the procession sailed through the gates, completely oblivious of the commotion they had caused.


Continued next week …

April 15, 2014  

    
 

Conversation about this article

1: R Singh  (Canada), April 15, 2014, 7:02 PM.

This is one of the best tributes to the man!

2: Sangat Singh  (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), April 16, 2014, 6:41 AM.

An equally loony, appropriate reception for a man who would immensely enjoy such a surprise script. The man used to walking the corridors of power with ease and without trying. Waiting for the next loonier episode, especially contrived by no other than Sher himself. What a deadly combination.

3: Kaala Singh (Punjab), April 17, 2014, 7:51 PM.

Our handicap during the Partition was that we were led -- or allowed ourselves to be led -- by an unsophisticated leadership.

4: Sarvjit Singh (Maryland, USA), April 18, 2014, 9:00 AM.

I am becoming addicted to this website. This is probably the only Sikh/Human focused site with multiple contributors. Sher Singh ji, you are no less than Khushwant Singh ji when it comes to capturing the reader's attention. Perhaps you should write a book of your observations from childhood experiences around social, political misfortunes of the 50s and 60s.

5: Dya Singh (Melbourne, Australia), April 18, 2014, 8:15 PM.

Sher - you step up a notch every time I read you. Your first bit of Master Tara Singh is a lesson in itself. You can include this as a comment. It is actually just for you!

6: Sunny Grewal (Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada), April 20, 2014, 1:09 PM.

Sher ji, did you ever fulfill your vow to take your mother and father to their ancestral village in Pakistan? If you have time perhaps you can write an article detailing the event.

7: Hardarshan Singh Valia (Highland, California, USA), April 23, 2014, 10:55 PM.

You are so right, Sher Singh ji. One way to honor the Prides of the Sikh Community, while they are still alive, is to honor them in to a "Hall of Fame." The inductees should be brilliant minds from Science, Art, Technology, Commerce, Sports, and Politics modeled along the lines of the Noble Prize.

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Part IV "









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