When I received an invitation to the launch of The Last Sunset: Rise and Fall of the Lahore Durbar by Amarinder Singh, I wondered who this new historian of the Sikhs was. He could not be the scion of the Patiala ruling family and ex-chief minister of the Punjab because the latter usually added the honorific to his name. Besides, he was so deeply embroiled in the Punjab’s messy politics that he could not have had the time to research and write a book of 347 pages. My doubts were set at rest the following day when Captain Amarinder Singh, accompanied by a very pretty girl I presumed to be his daughter, and the publisher, Pramod Kapoor, dropped in with a copy of the book. My first question to him was how could a descendant of the ruling family of Patiala, which along with all the other Phulkian States comprising Nabha, Jind and Faridkot as well as Kapurthala, had aligned themselves with the British to save themselves from being swallowed up by Maharaja Ranjit Singh, be regarded as the rightful possessor of a Sikh kingdom. The captain smiled and said no more than “You’ll find the answer in the book.”

Then I asked him where he found the source material and the time to look into it and put it on paper. He replied: “I had a couple of years with not too much to do. We have a sizeable library in the palace and I had access to the archives in Chandigarh.”

After they had left, I turned over the pages of the book chapter by chapter. It was evident that he had assistants to help him put the material in order but the writing was entirely his own. As expected of a military man, he has paid great attention to Ranjit Singh’s army: infantry, cavalry and artillery comprising Sikhs, Muslims, Dogras, and Gorkhas drilled by the European officers in his employ. He succeeded in building up a united Punjabi fighting force — the most powerful in India next to that of the British and their Indian mercenaries. To the best of my knowledge, no other historian has dealt with this subject in as much detail, nor described the many battles fought with the British in the two Anglo-Sikh wars with maps explaining the strategies adopted. He has even listed the kinds of trees growing on the battlefield.

He is also very particular about lineages. So we have family trees of the Shukerchakias (Ranjit Singh’s ancestors) and descendants: Nalwas, Jind, Sandhawalias, Attariwalas, and Majithias.

There are a few notable omissions. The author has overlooked biographies of Ranjit Singh in Punjabi and English — one written by Patwant Singh, and Navtej Sarna’s authentic biography of Ranjit Singh’s youngest son, Dalip Singh, who was put under British guardianship when they annexed the Sikh kingdom in 1849. He converted to Christianity, led a dissolute life of drink and debauchery, and died a miserable death in Paris.

Captain Amarinder Singh has also not referred to any of my works on the subject — not my two volumes on Sikh religious history, my biography of Ranjit Singh, or my version of the Anglo-Sikh wars in English and Punjabi. I do not make to his select bibliography or even the index. I had developed an inflated ego in the belief that no work on the Sikhs could ignore me. He has succeeded in deflating that belief.

In the end

I had not heard the name of Haruki Murakami till Jyotsna Varma, who is now posted in Manila with the Asian Bank, asked me if I had read anything by him. When I told her I had not heard the name, she said, “You’ve missed something; he is great reading. I’ll send you one of his books.” That very evening a collection of short stories titled Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman was dropped in my apartment.

There was a time when I tried to read every book of Japanese fiction translated into English: I was on a three months’ teaching assignment in Tokyo. I confess I was not unduly impressed by any of the novels or stories I read.

Murakami was a revelation. Once started, I could not put him down. The amazing thing about his stories is that they really have no point to prove, but, nevertheless, I went on from one story to the other. One is that of a fellow who makes it a point to visit a zoo whenever there is a storm. So what? I asked myself. In another story, a couple read about a newborn kangaroo and decided they must see it before it grows up and sits in the mother’s pouch. A month later they visit the zoo. The baby kangaroo is hopping about with the grown-ups. It obliges the visitors by getting into the mother’s pouch. So what?

A third story is about a young couple of the same age, in the same class at school and college. They are deeply in love and do whatever other lovers do, except having sex. The girl insists that she will only surrender her virginity to her husband who must be a few years older than her, but promises to have sex with her boyfriend after she is married. She gets married and has a couple of children. He also gets married and has a family. After many years, he drops in to see his old sweetheart. True to her promise, she offers to sleep with him. He tries but fails. On his way back home, he visits a brothel to get rid of his sexual frustration. In the end, it is the reader who is left frustrated.

And so it goes on from one story to the other. There are graphic descriptions of people and places, much smoking and drinking, some profound observations on life — then you are left hanging in the air like a gas balloon tied to a piece of furniture. However, I am determined to read all I can find of Murakami .