| BOOKS: INREVIEW
With Malice Aforethought
By
Shailaja Neelakantan/NEW DELHI
Issue cover-dated August 8, 2002
Truth, Love & a Little
Malice, By Khushwant Singh. Viking, 450 pages, $9.24
KHUSHWANT SINGH'S autobiography, Truth, Love
& a Little Malice, has some truth and love, but a whole
lot of malice, like the popular weekly gossip column he once
wrote, "With Malice Towards One and All."
Singh, now 87 years old, is one of India's best-known columnists
and journalists. He has also worked as a lawyer and as a diplomat
(to Canada, London and later to Paris). He was a member of the
Indian parliament for six years, editor of several publications,
and a writer. Among his published work is the two-volume History
of the Sikhs.
"Do not expect too much from it," Singh advises readers
of his life story. With a good deal of self-deprecation, he
writes that it is "some gossip, some titillation, some
tearing up of reputations, some amusement -- that is the best
I can offer."
Nevertheless, the autobiography was much anticipated by Singh's
many fans as well as his detractors. His fans looked forward
to the gossip, written in vintage Singh style, while his detractors
have been drawn to this book because of Singh's close ties to
prominent politicians. For those unfamiliar with Indian political
life, this book is a light and sometimes witty introduction
to the topsy-turvy world of Subcontinental politicking.
The book was due to be published six years ago, but was delayed
because Maneka Gandhi, estranged daughter-in-law of former Indian
Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, took Singh to court for violation
of her privacy: A chapter in the book details her melodramatic
expulsion from her mother-in-law's house.
Aside from scurrilous details about the Gandhi family, Singh
has anecdotes about scores of other well-known and lesser-known
personalities. While age has not clouded his memory, it has
made his judgments more than fuzzy. So, while flagellating others
for name-dropping, currying favour and betraying confidences,
Singh acknowledges, gleefully, that he has done the same.
Singh's honesty is commendable. He admits that he looked forward
to a reward for his support of Indira Gandhi during the emergency
rule she imposed in 1975.
"I expected to be rewarded by the Gandhi family,"
he writes. "Sanjay asked me if I would be interested in
a diplomatic assignment. He had the post of High Commissioner
in London in mind. I turned it down without hesitation. Then
he offered me a nomination to the Rajya Sabha (upper house of
parliament) and the editorship of The Hindustan Times,"
both of which he accepted.
Singh's writing shows sparks of sensitivity and nuance, but
he doesn't cultivate them. The opening chapters of the book
that recount his childhood in a village called Hadali, in what
is now Pakistan, and his school years in New Delhi, are evocative,
witty and nostalgic without being mushy.
"We spent most of the day indoors gossiping, or drowsily
fanning away flies," Singh says of the long summer months.
"It was only late in the afternoon that camels and buffaloes
were taken to the tobas for watering. The buffaloes were happiest
wallowing in the stagnant ponds. Boys used them as jumping boards.
At sunset the cattle were driven back, the buffaloes milked
and hearths lit. The entire village became fragrant with the
aroma of burning camel-thorn and baking bread."
His other chapters are merely salacious gossip, not particularly
well written. His unrelenting put-downs of those he doesn't
like and constant adolescent references to bottoms and breasts
and Scotch are tiresome. His short, four-word sentences, punchy
at first, become trite. Then again, he writes in his prologue:
"I have no pretensions of being a craftsman of letters
... I did not have the time to wait for inspiration, indulge
in witty turns of phrase or polish up what I wrote. I have lost
the little I knew of writing good prose."
Too bad, because Singh was capable of good prose. His unforgettable
novel, Train to Pakistan, about the bloody partition of India,
remains one of the Subcontinent's finest novels.
"My only chance of not being forgotten when I am dead
and rotten is to write about things worth reading," he
says. Singh will not be forgotten for sure.
Shailaja Neelakantan is a writer based in India
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