You cannot mourn a man who lived life to the full and did it on his own terms. Who never let anyone tell him how to do it, who hit 99 and missed the century by a few days. By far India’s best known journalists he gave us the cadence of words and opened the gates of the fourth estate to young people.
Wrote to his son, my friend and colleague Rahul Singh this morning, a former editor of Khaleej Times, said this: It was a great life, he touched the stars and he touched our careers. Celebrate it, my friend and know that dad would be laughing at the posturers. Tonight we pay tribute to the man who made us journalists.
And what a rat pack it was, that incredible ten years of working the Illustrated Weekly. The team was a veritable who’s who of Indian journalists: Jiggs Kalra, Bachi Karkaria, RGK, Ramesh Chandran, MJ Akbar, Raju Bharatan, the famous poetess Qurratulain Hyder, Ben D’Costa, Elizabeth Rao, Badshah Sen and Fatima Zakaria.
And he taught us three lessons of value. Research. Never steal and read hungrily, whatever it is, read it. One story took a month to write, so deep had to be our writing content. There were no shortcuts and he would discard anything short of what he thought was excellent. Nothing just went in to press till you deserved it.
He lived spartan even though he was one of the richest men in Delhi. He dressed with a carelessness that often got him into scrapes. He had a wicked sense of humor and loved being irreverent.
He had his own drummer, often the beat was a mystery to many, but he marched to its rhythm and never apologized even if it made no sense. He often stoked controversy for the fun of it rather than because of any real belief in people and events. He never forgave the partition and blamed everyone with passion. In 1971 when he dispatched me to cover the war he wrote of how a nation had been split in two when we should have been one. His book, A Train to Pakistan still sells.
He provoked people for the fun of it. Once arrived at the oh so proper Bombay Gym to give a talk dressed in sandals, a scruffy towel T-shirt and unironed slacks. They would not let him because he broke the dress code so he never gave the speech. He found it very funny and dined out on it for days.
Khushwant loathed mediocrity, he would walk away from people mentally if not physically. Often he used us to keep those ‘dull-witted rascals’ away from his office. His home was his castle and he did not want you to visit. He would literally turn you away.
If he had a weakness it was that he had severe likes and dislikes and logic sometimes took a walk. Contrary to his image he was a bit of a prude but loved to create that opposite impression.
Not many in life get the cards he was dealt and he played the game to victory. Immensely hard working, dramatically well read and very private Khushwant Singh laughed at the solitary reaper and must have delayed the departure, told him a joke when he knocked on the door.
Thanks so much for the start you gave so many of us and the mark you left on India’s journalism.
