The Khushwant Singh of Our Times

I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress Bhagmati when I have had my fill of whoring in foreign lands. Delhi and Bhagmati have a lot in common. Having been long misused by rough people they have learnt to conceal their seductive charms under a mask of repulsive ugliness. It is only to their lovers, among whom I count myself, that they reveal their true selves.

To the stranger Delhi may appear like a gangrenous accretion of noisy bazaars and mean-looking hovels growing round a few tumble-down forts and mosques along a dead river. If he ventures into its narrow, winding lanes, the stench of raw sewage may bring vomit to his throat. The citizens of Delhi do little to endear themselves to anyone. They spit phlegm and bloody betel-juice everywhere; they urinate and defecate whenever and wherever the urge overtakes them; they are loud-mouthed, express familiarity with incestuous abuse and scratch their privates while they talk.

It is the same with Bhagmati. Those who do not know her find her unattractive. She is dark and has pock-marks on her face. She is short and squat; her teeth are uneven and yellowed as a result of chewing tobacco and smoking beedis. Her clothes are loud, her voice louder; her speech bawdy and her manners worse.

This is, as I say, only on the surface—like the evil-smelling oil people smear on their skins to repel mosquitoes, midges and other blood-sucking vermin. What you have to do for things to appear different is to cultivate a sense of belonging to Delhi and an attachment to someone like Bhagmati. Then the skies over Delhi’s marbled palaces turn an aquamarine blue; its domed mosques and pencil-like minarets are spanned by rainbows, the earth exudes the earthy aroma of khas, of jasmine and of maulsari. Then the dusky Bhagmati glides towards you swaying her ample hips like a temple dancer; her mouth smells of fresh cloves and she speaks like her Imperial Majesty the Empress of Hindustan. Only when making love does she behave, as every woman should, like a lusty harlot

These are the opening lines from Khushwant Singh’s ‘Delhi’ that was published 35 years ago. Singh was never acknowledged as a ‘writer’ by the gatekeepers of high culture since his writing was crude, blunt and often ‘obscene’. After reading Manu Joseph’s ‘Why the Poor Don’t Kill Us’, I had this epiphany that Joseph is probably the Khushwant Singh of our times. Being a regular reader of Joseph’s weekly columns, most of the pieces in this book had a familiar ring to it. With his characteristic sarcasm and wit, Joseph wonders why is it that the poor never take up arms against the rich. And in answering it, he exposes the hollowness of our ‘culture’, our politics, our municipal governance, our ‘class’ and the sheer stupidity of the middle class in India.

Sample these lines:

• India has to be the only society in the world whose educated upper-middle class does not speak any language with complete mastery.
• All of the exotic issues of Indian politics exist not because Indians so love their culture. They exist because it is easier to demolish a mosque or build a temple than it is to enforce standardized intelligent road design across the nation.
• When people who eat avocados talk of conscience, it is as though no one else has conscience.
• Hours after the Indian government introduced its own tablet computer, as though in tribute, Steve Jobs died.
• A few times, when I have thought that a group of drivers under a tree are watching porn, it has turned out that they are only watching a clip of Ravish.
• Malegaon is a vast enchanting land with bright green rivulets and undulating pastures where lovers romp as food keeps falling from the sky. But this is from a pig’s point of view.

Despite all the criticism, flak, and mockery thrown at him, Joseph is an important voice who has shaped my understanding of Indian society. He should be widely read.