LOOK FOR THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

Fortunate lot

Among the friends I made in my younger days, the three I miss more are Satinder Singh, Balwant Gargi and Manzur Qadir — a Sikh, a Hindu and a Muslim, respectively. I would have enjoyed their company more if they had developed their taste for literature. They had much in common.

Satinder was an ugly-looking sardar; tall but ugly to look at. He had a chubby face with sparse growth on his chin and an untidy turban on his head. He had an incredibly large repertoire of Urdu verse at his command. As a result, he was the most sought after man in the Indian Coffee House. Amongst those who fell for him was a beautiful Hindu girl, Rekha. She married him and bore him two pretty daughters. Satinder pretended to be a Jat Sikh but was, in fact, a Khatri Dhawan. One day, in a fit of temper, he hit his wife. She left him with her daughters and divorced him. He was a broken man and found solace in my home. He was a very hard drinker and my wife often forbade him from taking more. At a cocktail party in the Maurya Sheraton, he drank more than he could stomach.

We had to leave early as we were to drive to our summer home in Kasauli next morning. The next day, I read in the papers that he had been found dead in his bed by his servant, who came to tell my daughter, Mala, about it. She immediately left for his flat and found him lying in his bed with dozens of empty bottles lying underneath. She informed his brother-in-law, Inder Malhotra. A very reluctant Inder joined her. They were amongst the few who attended his funeral. Later, his daughter returned a watch and a pen he had taken from me. If he had been alive today, I would have been able to share my passion for Urdu poetry with him.

Balwant Gargi is a reputed Punjabi playwright. His play, Loha Kut, was widely acclaimed. He became a great favourite of my mother and often came to spend mornings talking to her. As visiting professor of dramatics in Washington State University, he married a very beautiful American girl. She bore him a son, Manu, and a daughter. Like most Americans of her generation, his wife too had a great appetite for food. She would polish off at one sitting what three Indians would eat. She never bothered to learn Punjabi or understand why her husband was revered in Punjab. One Christmas night, while she was teaching her children how to play the piano, he offered to drop Rani Balbir, one of his students. In the garage, the two had sex. He wrote about it in his autobiography. His wife divorced him, left her son with him, and took the daughter with her to the Unites States of America. Rani Balbir taught him a lesson. She turned up in Delhi, where Balwant lived alone in a tiny haveli behind Scindia House, and beat him up. Balwant sensed that his end was near. He came to say goodbye to me and moved to Mumbai. He died there. According to his wishes, his body was flown to Delhi for his funeral. Among those present was Inder Kumar Gujral, the then prime minister of India.

Manzur Qadir was the leading lawyer in Pakistan. He was not a practising Muslim and was a very close friend of mine. When he was in Geneva, arguing Pakistan’s case in the Indus waters dispute, I was sitting with the Pakistani team. India was represented by Nani Palkhivala. The Indian delegation was surprised and amused to see me sitting with the Pakistanis. Qadir had a great passion for Urdu poetry. My involvement with Ghalib, Faiz and Ahmad Faraz came many years later.

Hang on

I wrote to Bade Mian, whose records decide our destinies, to send for me as I was tired of living. He consulted his registers and replied: “At the moment all the cells in hell are occupied and there is no room available for you. As soon as a vacancy occurs, I will send for you. Till then, hang on and go on with whatever you are doing.” I was sorely disappointed, as I am tired of living. However, since there is nothing I can do against his wishes, I hang on.

Pickled in rum

The horse and the mule live for

30 years.

And know nothing of wines and

beer

The goat and sheep at 20 die,

And never get a taste of Scotch or

rye.

The cow drinks water by the tonne,

And at 18 is mostly done,

Without the aid of rum and gin.

The cat in milk and water soaks,