Khushwant Singh The Gossip-Master Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

The old sardarji, the grand old man of letters, Khushwant Singh,
Writing novels, stories, histories and autobiographies not,
But the journo,
I mean the columnist, the feature writer
The interest of ours
Making us bubble with humour,
Tickling and entertaining
With his lively jokes, funs, puns and voice imitations,
Taking lassi not, but beverage
Through a straw pipe and saying the things of his own,
Doing the caricature and saying

The old man with a turban sometimes looking very normal,
Sometimes dyeing the hair and beards
To look youngish-youngish,
The son looking older and he himself younger than,
What an age has come, you see it, people saying,
The portrait of the artist as a young man
With the bottles of whiskey, brandy, rum and beer,
Even vodka in the cupboard
And the books on the shelves

And he reading and writing on contemporary times and literature,
Art, history, society, culture and politics,
Enjoying ghazal, shayari and quawalli,
Thumri and khayals,
Translating love lyrics
With the book Train to Pakistan into the hands
Sitting in the Samjhauta Express and going to Pakistan,
Hearing the talks of the Hindustanis and the Pakistanis
Patiently with a heavy heart of his
And writing about with a sigh

As a Lahorian he was born and brought up at Hadali,
Leaving for England to do his B.A. and to pursue studies in law,
But after practicing in Lahore, came back to Delhi with the family,
Marking the situation in the aftermath of the partition to dwell in,
Which he reflects in his memoirs and sketches
With the whole century in the memory card
And he remembering and telling
The voucher cards finishing, but his talks
Finishing not and he telling about
Many a thing unrecorded, unregistered,
Many a thing of the dynasty, family, heritage and life-style.

Just like the Mariner of Coleridge, he holds the hands
And tells the story
And we spell-bound feel forced to hear
Though late it is,
But the story never-ending,
A gossip-master he can do charming jokes and talks
Sitting by the fireside,
A Punjabi so hale and hearty,
An old man, but not with the old heart,
Gossiping and poking the fire into a blaze

And to see him, feel we why are we looking so aged and old
And he so young, so spirited and gay
That talks he,
Without caring for anything
And passes his time
In the mood and joy of his own,
So nice of him,
So good of him,
In his good humour and spirit,
A Jack of all trades, but master none not

He even failing it, a Jack of all trades of course, bur a master of many too,
With a command over
History, geography, language, literature,
Economics, astrology, astronomy,
Cinema studies, fashion and apparel designing,
Modern art and dance, politics and politicians,
Wild life, games and sports,
Theatre and opera,
Whose love-affair with whom,
What can he not write about

An old man, a centurion,
Without wielding the bat, already a century,
An octogenarian,
He can bluff the age and ageing
And can give tips to it
In health-keeping and health-management
By jogging in the park in the bermuda
And doing yoga,
Giving lessons as for the joy of living

A long-distance runner
Covering a long distance,
A long way,
He can say about how to take rest
Under the shade of the tree,
Hand-fan yourself,
Cool down by taking a drink,
What to take during the summers,
How to beat it

He can stun with his ready wit, humour, joke and personal criticism,
The ex-editor of the Illustrated Weekly,
The Yojana and the Hindustan Times,
A former Rajya Sabha member,
He can even turn down the honour
If the feelings are hurt,
Dealing with the history of the Punjab,
The Sikhs and Sikhism
And the tongue clicks in favour of
The freedom of speech and expression,
Can fight cases for justice.

What can he not, about the Parsis, Sindhis and the Jews,
The samadhis, mazars and dargahs,
The red light and the green light,
The sahib, bibi aur gulam playing cards
In the bungalow
With the cheroot or cigarette
Or an Indian beedi,
South Indian names longer,
The shorter and taller mismatches
Even being the tailor master,
The daru, deshi or vilayati,
Mahua buds made or rotten rice prepared

Not the dirty man doing dirty jokes,
Talking about daru, ladki and shayari,
But a very, very funny man
Keeping you in good spirits,
Go and meet him
As he knows the art of living
And can give tips in it,
As for how to keep healthy and fit

Giving tips in health and happiness,
How to keep fit,
How to live long,
Taking tadaka and litti,
Reading books and passing time,
Taking seasonal fruits,
Lichi, mango, custard apple,
Apple, orange
And refreshing

Through the art of humour,
The art of satire,
Speaking ironically,
Wittily,
In the imitation,
Copying the voice of
And regaling

A Rajya Sabha member from 1980 to 1986,
A recipient of Padma Bhushan in 1974
And Padma Vibhushan in 2007
And a popular columnist of
With Malice Towards One And All
And This Above All,
He had the guts of speaking his mind,
Undeterred by politics and politicking.

Last but not least, I do not know if the lions are
There in the Punjab or not
Or the forests lie they deserted and cleared,
But he is definitely the lion of the Punjab,
The sole lion growling
And the rest of India hearing the growl, the roar
After Maharaja Ranjit Singh.