Although his name may have faded from the memories of most Indians, it remains ingrained in the minds of our Bangladeshi neighbours. He was sent out by General Yahya Khan of Pakistan to control the unrest swelling in East Pakistan. He did it in the only way he knew: let loose his predominantly Punjabi army on hapless Bangladeshis with the permission to loot, rape and kill anyone it suspected of disloyalty to Pakistan. His tenure in Dhaka was extensively covered by the world media and he was dubbed the butcher of Bangladesh. He died in Islamabad a fortnight ago at the age of 86. After Bangladesh won its independence, I went to Pakistan on the invitation of its new ruler, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. I was anxious to meet (by then retired) General Tikka Khan to get his side of the story. He turned down my request for an interview. He did not want to see any Indian, least of all a Sikh journalist. I asked my friend, Manzur Qadir, to plead on my behalf. He assured Tikka Khan I bore no ill will towards Pakistan and that I would faithfully report what he had to say about his role in the uprising in what ultimately resulted in Bangladesh. It turned out to be quite a memorable interview. Tikka Khan received me in his bungalow. I was surprised by how unmartial he looked, more like a bank clerk than a soldier. He was short, stocky and very gruff. Along with us sat his orderly, a huge pathan whose monstrous height belied his gentle disposition. The room was cluttered with family photographs and trophies which one would see in the homes of senior army officers. On the walls were quotations from the Quran, including a prominently displayed one on the mantelpiece which I recognized. The general was a very angry man. His gussa was directed entirely against Indians, not against Bangladeshis. Words like dagha (treachery), dhoka (double-dealing) and jhoot (lies) flowed like lava out of a volcano. He claimed that the sobriquet, butcher of Bangladesh, was coined by the Indian media. 'We are God-fearing Muslims,' he repeated over and over again, 'our soldiers are disciplined and do not indulge in rape and violence against innocent women.' I let him have his say and asked him as gently as I could, 'why the Pakistani army had done so poorly against the Indians?' 'Dagha', he repeated. 'The Indian army had infiltrated into East Pakistan long before we were forced to declare war.' I pointed out that there had hardly been any pitched battles. Wherever Indians came against resistance they avoided fighting and let the Mukti Bahini keep the Pakistanis hemmed in their pockets. The general's orderly who had seen the action blurted out: 'Awaam hamaaray khilaaf thaa - the people had turned against us.' The general did not like his orderly speaking out of turn and snubbed him. I pressed the point home: 'General sahib, there must have been reason for the common people to turn against you.' He parried my suggestion and repeated that it was all Indian propaganda. I let him have his say. Before taking my leave I pointed out to the quotation from the Quran embellishing his mantelpiece. He read it out in Arabic. 'Nasr min Allah, fateh un gareeb - Allah grants victory to the side whose cause is just.' 'General sahib, Allah granted victory to us Indians.' He felt I had hit him below the belt. 'Sardar sahib, I suspect you knew the quotation from the holy book.' I nodded my head, shook his hand and took my leave. Bad taste in your mouth I don't much care about dining in restaurants: the food they dish out is seldom tasty and often too expensive. In any event, anything cooked in large quantities can rarely cater to individual tastes. For me, it has to be a small party of no more than six to eight guests. The food must be cooked by the host or hostess and not by their khansamas. It should have the right wines to go with it, and above all, should be served on the dot because gourmet food has to be brought from the cooking utensil to the table exactly when it has the richest aroma and taste. Anything kept hot by spirit lamps burning under large silver-plated containers has little flavour left in it. These conditions are not observed in Delhi's elitist circles. So I rarely, if ever, accept an invitation to dine out. I am a very fussy eater. There are a few notable exceptions to the general rule of unpunctuality and tasteless food in Delhi homes. One such is Rekha Puri. She is proud of her cooking and her husband knows his wines. They never invite more than eight guests and always remind their guests to be punctual as I would also be invited, 'and you know what a fusspot he is about time.' I arrived as expected at 8 pm. Five minutes later a couple arrived. We were served our drinks with wafers and peanuts for snacks. Twenty minutes later came the second couple full of apologies: 'traffic on Delhi's roads at this hour is chaotic,' they explained. 'We left our home more than half an hour ago. It was bumper-to-bumper all the way.' They joined us for drinks and snacks. It was coming close to nine. Rekha Puri noticed the irritation on my face. 'I'll check up and see if they are on their way. Otherwise we'll get along with our dinner,' she said. She rang up. 'Their servants say they left half-an-hour ago; they should be here any moment. No drinks for them. I'll get the dinner ready.' The dinner took half an hour to be served. There was still no sign of the remaining couple. It was now 9.30 pm. I'd had more than my quota of scotch and had filled my belly with wafers, peanuts and cashew. My appetite for the dinner I had been looking forward to was gone. Rekha Puri was in a flap. The dishes she had prepared had to be served as they were cooked, and were not to be reheated. The third couple arrived at 10 pm.'Sorry, we are a bit late. We dropped in to see a couple of friends on our way here.' I controlled my temper, but could not keep from blurting out: 'You kept eight people waiting. I've lost my appetite for dinner.' It was like being at a feast following a funeral. All fun of dining together was gone. I gobbled up my food and left as soon as the dessert plates had been removed. I was in no mood to enjoy coffee and cognac in the company of the ill-mannered couple. I made a mental note of their names and swore that I would never go to any party where they were invited. Unfortunately, this has become the pattern of social life in Delhi. Unpunctuality is the norm; being on time means you don't matter. When the taxman comes calling Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax the bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke, Tax his car, tax his ass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his tobacco, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his booze, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he's good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, 'Taxes drove me to my doom!' And when he's gone, we won't relax, We'll still be after inheritance tax. (Contributed by D. N. Chaudhri, New Delhi)