Karma

Signboard outside Apartment No. 49-E, Sujan Singh Park -Khushwant Singh's Apartment !

"My earliest foray into the world of fiction was bragging, when I came home for vacations from England, of my exploits with English girls." - Khushwant Singh

Sir Mohan Lal looked at himself in the mirror of a first class waiting room at the railway station. The mirror was obviously made in India. The red oxide at its back had come off at several places and long lines of translucent glass cut across its surface. Sir Mohan smiled at the mirror with an air of pity and patronage.

'You are so very much like everything else in this country, inefficient, dirty, indifferent,' he murmured.

The mirror smiled back at Sir Mohan.

'You are a bit of all right, old chap,' it said. 'Distinguished, efficient - even handsome. That neatly-trimmed moustache - the suit from Saville Row with the carnation in the buttonhole - the aroma of eau de cologne, talcum powder and scented soap all about you ! Yes, old fellow, you are a bit of all right.'

Sir Mohan threw out his chest, smoothed his Balliol tie for the umpteenth time and waved a goodbye to the mirror.

He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a quick one.'Koi Hai !'A bearer in white livery appeared through a wire gauze door.

'Ek Chota,' ordered Sir Mohan, and sank into a large cane chair to drink and ruminate.Outside the waiting room, Sir Mohan Lal's luggage lay piled along the wall. On a small grey steel trunk, Lachmi, Lady Mohan Lal, sat chewing a betel leaf and fanning herself with a newspaper. She was short and fat and in her middle forties.

She wore a dirty white sari with a red border. On one side of her nose glistened a diamond nose-ring, and she had several gold bangles on her arms. She had been talking to the bearer until Sir Mohan had summoned him inside. As soon as he had gone, she hailed a passing railway coolie.

'Where does the zenana stop ?''Right at the end of the platform.'The coolie flattened his turban to make a cushion, hoisted the steel trunk on his head, and moved down the platform. Lady Lal picked up her brass tiffin carrier and ambled along behind him. On the way she stopped by a hawker's stall to replenish her silver betel leaf case, and then joined the coolie. She sat down on her steel trunk (which the coolie had put down) and started talking to him.

"Are the trains very crowded on these lines ?"'These days all trains are crowded, but you'll find room in the zenana.''Then I might as well get over the bother of eating.'Lady Lal opened the brass carrier and took out a bundle of cramped chapatties and some mango pickle. While she ate, the coolie sat opposite her on his haunches, drawing lines in the gravel with his finger.

'Are you travelling alone, sister ?''No, I am with my master, brother. He is in the waiting room. He travels first class. He is a vizier and a barrister, and meets so many officers and Englishmen in the trains - and I am only a native woman. I can't understand English and don't know their ways, so I keep to my zenana inter-class.'

Lachmi chatted away merrily. She was fond of a little gossip and had no one to talk to at home. Her husband never had any time to spare for her. She lived in the upper storey of the house and he on the ground floor. He did not like her poor illiterate relatives hanging around his bungalow, so they never came. He came up to her once in a while at night and stayed for a few minutes. He just ordered her about in anglicised Hindustani, and she obeyed passively. These nocturnal visits had, however, borne no fruit.

The signal came down and the clanging of the bell announced the approaching train. Lady Lal hurriedly finished off her meal. She got up, still licking the stone of the pickled mango. She emitted a long, loud belch as she went to the public tap to rinse her mouth and wash her hands. After washing she dried her mouth and hands with the loose end of her sari, and walked back to her steel trunk, belching and thanking the Gods for the favour of a filling meal.

The train steamed in. Lachmi found herself facing an almost empty inter-class zenana compartment next to the guard's van, at the tail end of the train. The rest of the train was packed. She heaved her squat, bulky frame through the door and found a seat by the window. She produced a two-anna bit from a knot in her sari and dismissed the coolie. She then opened her betel case and made herself two betel leaves charged with a red and white paste, minced betelnuts and cardamoms. These she thrust into her mouth till her cheeks bulged on both sides. Then she rested her chin on her hands and sat gazing idly at the jostling crowd on the platform.

The arrival of the train did not disturb Sir Mohan Lal's sang-froid. He continued to sip his scotch and ordered the bearer to tell him when he had moved the luggage to a first class compartment. Excitement, bustle and hurry were exhibitions of bad breeding, and Sir Mohan was eminently well-bred. He wanted everything 'tickety-boo' and orderly. In his five years abroad, Sir Mohan had acquired the manners and

attitudes of the upper classes. He rarely spoke Hindustani. When he did, it was like an Englishman's - only the very necessary words and properly anglicised. But he fancied his English, finished and refined at no less a place than the University of Oxford. He was fond of conversation, and like a cultured Englishman, he could talk on almost any subject - books, politics, people. How frequently had he heard English people say that he spoke like an Englishman!

Sir Mohan wondered if he would be travelling alone. It was a Cantonment and some English officers might be on the train. His heart warmed at the prospect of an impressive conversation. He never showed any sign of eagerness to talk to the English as most Indians did. Nor was he loud, aggressive and opinionated like them. He went about his business with an expressionless matter-of-factness. He would retire to his corner by the window and get out a copy of The Times. He would fold it in a way in which the name of the paper was visible to others while he did the crossword puzzle. The Times always attracted attention. Someone would like to borrow it when he put it aside with a gesture signifying 'I've finished with it.' Perhaps someone would recognize his Balliol tie which he always wore while travelling. That would open a vista leading to a fairy-land of Oxford colleges, masters, dons, tutors, boat-races and rugger matches. If both The Times and the tie failed, Sir Mohan would 'Koi Hai' his bearer to get the Scotch out. Whiskey never failed with Englishmen. Then followed Sir Mohan's handsome gold cigarette case filled with English cigarettes. English cigarettes in India ? How on earth did he get them ? Sure he didn't mind ? And Sir Mohan's understanding smile - of course he didn't. But could he use the

Englishman as a medium to commune with his dear old England ? Those five years of grey bags and gowns, of sports blazers and mixed doubles, of dinners at the inns of Court and nights with Piccadilly prostitutes. Five years of a crowded glorious life. Worth far more than the forty-five in India with his dirty, vulgar countrymen, with sordid details of the road to success, of nocturnal visits to the upper storey and all-too-brief sexual acts with obese old Lachmi, smelling of sweat and raw onions.

Sir Mohan's thoughts were disturbed by the bearer announcing the installation of the Sahib's luggage in a first class coupe next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to his coupe with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With a sigh he sat down in a corner and opened the copy of 'The Times', he had read several times before.

Sir Mohan looked out of the window down the crowded platform. His face lit up as he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs and walked unsteadily. Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entitled to travel only second class. He would speak to the guard.One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth.

'Ere, Bill, he shouted, 'one ere.'His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.'Get the nigger out,' he muttered to his companion.They opened the door , and turned to the half-smiling, half-protesting Sir Mohan.'Reserved !' yelled Bill.

'Janta - Reserved. Army - Fauj,' exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt.'Ek Dum jao - get out !"

'I say, I say, surely,' protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent. The soldiers paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag.

They picked up Sir Mohan's suitcase and flung it on to the platform. Then followed his thermos flask, briefcase, bedding and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with rage.'Preposterous, preposterous,' he shouted, hoarse with anger.I'll have you arrested - guard, guard !'

Bill and Jim paused again. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the King's for them.'Keep yer ruddy mouth shut !' And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face.The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backwards, tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase.

'Toodle-oo !'Sir Mohan's feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail-end of the train appeared with a red light and the guard standing in the open doorway with the flags in his hands.

In the inter-class zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the diamond nose-ring glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with betel saliva which she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared the station. As the train sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart.

What Women Want (not by Kushwant Singh but selected by him as one of the good short stories)

Young King Harshvardhan was imprisoned and sentenced to death by a neighbouring King. Instead of killing him, however, the King, moved by Harshvardhan's youth and ideals, offered him freedom in exchange for answering a difficult question. 

Harshvardhan would have a year to figure out the answer. If, after a year, he still had no answer, he would be put to death. The question was, What do women really want ? 

Such a question has perplexed even the most knowledgeable men, and to King Harshvardhan, it seemed an impossible query. But, since it was better than instant death, he accepted the monarch's proposition to have an answer by year's end. 

He returned to his kingdom and began to ask everybody - the princess, the common man, the priests, the wise men and the court jester. He asked everybody, but nobody could give him a satisfactory answer. Many people advised him to consult the old witch for only she would know the answer. 

The price would be high. The witch was famous throughout the kingdom for the exorbitant prices she charged. The last day of the year arrived and Harshvardhan had no alternative but to talk to the witch. 

She agreed to answer his question, but he'd have to accept her price first. The old witch wanted to marry Siddhraj, the most noble of ministers in the kingdom and Harshvardhan's closest friend ! 

Young Harshvardhan was horrified. The witch was a hunchback and hideous, had only a tooth, smelled like sewage, and made obscene noises....... very unpleasant. He had never encountered such a repugnant creature. He refused to force his friend to marry her and have to endure such a burden. 

Siddhraj, upon learning of the proposal, spoke to Harshvardhan. He told him that nothing was too big a sacrifice compared to Harshvardhan's life and the preservation of the kingdom. 

Hence, their wedding was proclaimed. The witch then answered Harshvardhan's question thus, "What women really want is to be in charge of their own life." 

Everyone instantly knew that the witch had uttered a great truth and Harshvardhan's life would be spared. And so it was. The neighbouring monarch granted Harshvardhan total freedom. 

What a wedding Siddhraj and the witch had ! Harshvardhan was torn between relief and anguish. Siddhraj was proper as always, gentle and courteous. The old witch put her worst manners on display, and generally made everyone very uncomfortable. 

The honeymoon hour approached. Siddhraj, steeling himself for a horrific experience, entered the bedroom. But what a sight awaited him ! The most beautiful woman he had ever seen sat before him ! The astounded Siddhraj asked what had happened. The beauty replied that since he had been so kind to her when she had appeared as a witch, she would henceforth, be her horrible, deformed self half the time, and the other half, she would be her beautiful maiden self. Which would he want her to be during the day, and which during the night ? 

What a cruel question ! Siddhraj pondered on his predicament. During the day, a beautiful woman to show off to his friends, but at night, in the privacy of his home, an old witch ? Or would he prefer having by day a hideous witch, but by night a beautiful woman with whom to enjoy many intimate moments ? 

What would you do ? What Siddhraj chose follows below, but don't read until you've made your own choice. 

The noble Siddhraj replied that he would let her choose for herself. Upon hearing this, she announced that she would be beautiful all the time, because he had respected her enough to let her be in charge of her own life. 

The Princess of Kahin Nahin

Khushwant Singh, who celebrated his 93rd birthday on August 15, 2008, is India's best-known writer and columnist. He has been editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India and the Hindustan Times. His books include the novels Train To Pakistan and Delhi, as well as the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs.

But it is his short stories, brimming with fun, malice and vividly-drawn characters, that first established his reputation as a writer. Most of them are, as he admits, "based on real people I got to know well...people full of arrogance and self-importance, posers, gasbags, braggarts, name droppers, hypocrites. I encourage them to talk about themselves...I change their names, put them in different situations, and add some mirch masala to spice up my stories as I put them on paper."

***

 

I looked forward to her visits because she had nothing nice to say about anyone. Since I was inclined

the same way, in the hour or so she stayed and had her evening quota of Scotch we trashed the reputations of everyone known and unknown to us. It was like emptying out our bowels of their stinking contents, one of the great joys of life. As both of us were writers of sorts, our main targets were fellow-writers who had done better than us. The unending succession of book launches in five-star hotels gave us plenty of material to go for cheap publicity hunters whose books would go unnoticed if they did not ply the media with booze and snacks.

Our dialogue would begin in much the same manner. She would breeze in with a loud "Hi Khushee!", plant a kiss on each cheek, and put her handbag on the chair beside mine. "Help yourself," I would say to her. She would go to the tray on which Scotch, gin, rum, ice-bucket and a couple of sodas were laid out. She would pick up the bottle of Scotch, tilt it sideways, read the label and ask, "Haven't you got anything better?" I'd snap back, "It is Black Label, premium brand." She'd snort, "I prefer Single Malt." However, she would pour out two whiskeys and say, "You must get better glasses. These are desi imitations. Get French, German or Czech cut crystal glasses. Next time I go abroad, I'll get you some. They make all the difference." She'd pour soda and a couple of ice cubes in mine, hand it to me. Then go to the fridge, fetch a bottle of mineral water to add to her whisky and take her seat and say "Cheers". After a sip or two she would open her handbag, fish out a card and ask, "Have you got this?"

***

I took a look at the invitation card. It was to a book launch at Hotel Le Meridien, hosted by the publisher of a debut novel by a young author whose parents I knew. I expected an invitation card too. "Good drinks and canapes at the Meridien," I remarked.

"I can do better in my own home," she scoffed. "Who wants to waste an evening listening to boring speeches and readings from a nondescript novel? I don't think I'll go."

I got my invitation card the next day. I went on time and took a seat in the last row. By then the hall was only half full. I recognised some regulars: retired ambassadors and civil servants, former ministers, ex-princelings—self-styled Rajas, Nawabs, Tikkas, Kanwars—and a few others who made it a practice to grace every event where they could get Scotch, wine and tasty snacks free of charge. But for those, they had to wait till the speeches were over and the book launched to flashes of camera bulbs.

I saw my lady friend come in. She surveyed the scene, walked past the front row of chairs so that everyone would notice her presence, then went to the table piled with the author's novel for anyone who wished to buy some at a reduced price. She picked up one, turned over a few pages and put it back on the pile. She found an empty seat in the front row.

I sat through the speeches and launch ceremony. As soon as they were over, I went to the long tables on which waiters were pouring out drinks. I helped myself to a double Scotch and gobbled up salted biscuits heaped with caviare. I saw my lady friend pick her company. She was choosy. She disdained the hoi polloi and only talked to men of noble birth or distinction, whom she referred to as Renaissance Men. "Very few left," she would lament. "They had class and breeding and impeccable manners. That breed of men has died out."

I had to admit my lady friend had class, right from her name to her demeanour. Her name was Rajkumari Rukmini Devi. She didn't tell me the name of the Rajwada of which she was the Rajkumari. But she did tell me about her upbringing in the strict purdah observed by Hindu aristocratic families, her English

governesses and her schooling at home. It was only after Independence that she and other lady members of her family discarded their ghoonghats, and she was allowed to go abroad for studies. She regarded herself as a very superior person. Needless to say, most people who met her did not take to her. They were jealous of her and called her a fraud. Some called her the 'Rajkumari of Chootiapuram'—a nasty innuendo, the meaning of which I leave to the readers to work out. And for good measure added, "She makes a chootia of you."

When she wanted to, as she did at wedding and embassy receptions, Rajkumari dressed up in all her state regalia of artificial jewellery: round her neck, a gold-plated brass choker which looked liked genuine gold and a necklace of glass beads that shone like pearls; a lehnga of silk striped with silver, and a see-through chiffon dupatta. Women flocked round her to admire her jewellery. "Where did you get this gold choker? It must have cost a bomb!" She would reply demurely, "Oh, I couldn't afford to buy such things; they are family heirlooms. This is from my grandmother, this was a part of my mother's dowry." And so on.

Despite her protestations and saying, "I don't think I'll go to this book launch", she was seen at every book launch in the city. I pointed this out to her, "Somebody told me you were seen at the launch of that Punjabi fellow's novel about Chandigarh." She replied, "It was at the British Council. I make an exception for their launches."

"But they have no place to park cars, and serve you miserable drops of Scotch which you have to gulp down standing up, they have no place to sit," I said. I told her I also avoided embassy cultural receptions at Max Mueller Bhawan and the American Cultural Centre. "The hosts go through the motions of hospitality like cold-blooded diplomats and impatiently wait for their guests to leave."

"I don't go to book launches to drink free whisky," she snorted. "If people like us did not go to foreign embassy receptions, they would think we are not friendly towards them."

So Rajkumari had good reasons for not wanting to go to book launches as well as for going to all of them. And she always made sure her presence was noted. People called her a name-dropper. That she was, but with a difference: while others dropped names of people they barely knew, she knew all the bigwigs whose names she dropped and only added: "I know him very well." If you said anything derogatory about them, she rose to their defence saying, "Never! He could never have said such a thing. I know him very well."

People also said she was a grabber, not a giver. That was unfair. There was a time when she entertained in the grand style of a lady holding a salon: premium brand Scotch, French wines, sumptuous dinner. She had to give that up because she was never able to keep her servants too long: some she fired for drinking her whisky or cheating on prices of vegetables; others for being uncouth or insolent.

She said she no longer entertained as she felt people would then feel obliged to return her hospitality. I was one of them, perhaps the only one of her friends who continued to see her. Most others did not bother to answer her telephone calls. She was pained by their lack of gratitude and grace. One evening she announced: "I have decided to leave Delhi. Here life has become so artificial, I can't take it any more. I have sold my flat."

I was taken back. "Where on earth will you go?", I asked. "You will regret it for the rest of your life."

"Too late!" she said with an air of finality. "I have got the cheque. Besides, I live alone. There is a murder or two every other day of people living alone. There were three last week in my neighbourhood."

I was dismayed. What would life in Delhi be for me without Rajkumari? Who would I exchange gossip with? Who would I find as well-informed about people's private lives and with whom would I now tear them apart?

I thought a lot over the matter. I asked her if she really meant it, or was it another of her ploys to get people talking about her? When I told other friends about her decision, they dismissed it. "She is gupping," some said. "Good riddance!" said others. "Why do you waste time on that sour puss?"

Then, as suddenly as she had told me of her decision to quit Delhi forever, she announced her decision to defer it for a while longer. "What happened about the sale of your flat?" I asked.

"The fellow's cheque bounced," she replied with complete nonchalance. "See what Delhi people are like? You can't trust any of them."

That was the end of Rajkumari's resolve to abandon Delhi. But she began to get away from the city more frequently than before, for Delhi summers had become unbearably hot, and winters too chilly for comfort. So she travelled—to Bombay, Bangalore or Hyderabad, Chandigarh or Calcutta. Wherever it was, she stayed at Raj Bhawans as guest of the governor of the state. She had much to say about their lack of style of living. "I don't understand from where the government picks up these lalloo-panjoos (riff-raff) and makes them governors," she said. "At one time they used to be the elite of renaissance men, who knew the art of living. It was a pleasure talking to them and exchanging views. They are dead and gone. Now we have types I would not invite to dine with me."

She was often abroad too: Paris, London, Madrid, New York, Washington. Rather than stay in hotels, she preferred staying with important people whom she described as her close friends. A few days after she was back, she would invite herself over. The first thing she would do was to open her handbag and say, "I never forget to bring something for you." She would take out two or three little pieces of cheese of the sort served with meals on every flight: "Genuine Brie and Camembert. Not Indian imitations," she would say. "And this, Single Malt Scotch," she would say, taking out two miniature bottles given free on many flights. "Try them out." So it became her party in my home.

There was something childlike about Rajkumari: she wanted to be the centre of attention wherever she was. If there were other guests in my home, she gave them the cold shoulder and insisted on talking to me as if there was no one else present. At times she was rude to them. And she loved contradicting me. I was in the habit of coming out with couplets of Urdu poetry or lines from some English poet. She would cut me short and give what she thought was the correct version. Our argument would get heated. She would put out her hand and challenge me. "Bet? A bottle of Scotch?" I would accept the challenge, and get the exact lines from anthologies of poetry in my collection, to prove her wrong. She always forgot about the bet but scored a win because she would then monopolise the entire evening. I became short with her. Once, a writer whom I had praised in my columns came to see me. She had not read anything by him but engaged him in conversation without giving him a chance to speak to me. He was as upset as I was. As I saw them off, she came back to ask, "Who is this Johnnie?" I let her have it full blast. "He wanted to talk to me, but you did not give him a chance to do so. What's happened to your manners?" "If that is how you feel," she snapped, "I won't waste my time coming to see you." I yelled back, "Don't. If this is how you are going to behave, don't come and ruin my evenings."

It was the first time we quarrelled. I told everyone about what had transpired. No one sympathised with me. On the contrary, they rubbed salt in my wounded ego. "Serve you right," they said. "She made a chootia of you."

For three months we did not meet or bother to ring each other. She said nasty things about me, which in due course our friends conveyed to me. I said nasty things about her which they conveyed to her with much relish. But just when I thought our association was over, she rang me up, "I am coming over to talk to you. There are misunderstandings between the best of friends, but they must be sorted out, the sooner the better. Friendship is sacred."

She came over, gave me the same double-kiss greeting. She poured out the Scotch without commenting on its quality or of the glasses into which it was poured. "So, it's all forgotten and forgiven," she said

raising her glass. I touched my glass to hers and said, "Amen." After a few moments of silence, she said, "There was one word people said you ascribed to me which I did not understand, except that it sounded very vulgar. In our families we never used vulgar words."

I thought about it and replied: "Perhaps it was chootia—you made a chootia of me."

"What does chootia mean?", she asked innocently.

"Cunt-born."

"Oh I see!" she said calmly, "but isn't that true of all of us?"

As he prepares to turn 98 next month, the “dirty old man of Indian journalism”, Khushwant Singh, is in an effusive mood, revealing the tricks of Life Sutra, in his Deccan Herald column.

1) If you cannot play a game or exercise, get yourself a nice massage once if not two times a day. Not a greasy oil massage, but powerful hands going all over your body from skull to toes.

2) Cut down on your intake of food and drink.  Maintain a strict routine for intake of food. Use a stop watch if necessary. Guava juice is better than any other fruit juice

3) Forget ragi malt. A single peg of single malt whisky at night gives you a false appetite. Before you eat dinner, say to yourself ‘Don’t eat much’.

4) Eat one kind of vegetable or meat, followed by a pinch of chooran. Eat alone and in silence. Idli-dosa is healthier and easier to digest.

5) Never allow yourself to be constipated. Keep your bowels clean by whatever means you can: by lexatives, enemas, glycerine suppositories.

6) Keep a healthy bank balance for peace of mind. It does not have to be in crores, but enough for your future needs and possibility of falling ill.

7) Never lose your temper.

8) Never tell a lie.

9) Cleanse your soul, give generously. Remember you cannot take it with you. You may give it to your children, your servants or in charity.

10) Instead of whiling your time praying, take up a hobby: like gardening, helping children.

Bonus suggestion: If you can afford it, get yourself some nice genes.

Full text:

Secret of my longevityKhushwant Singh

Sweet and sourComing on to 98 years and still earning more than I did in my younger days, people ask me how I manage to do it. They regard me as an expert on longevity. I have pronounced on the subject before: I will repeat it with suitable amendments based on my experiences in the past two years.

Earlier I had written that longevity is in one’s genes: children of long-living parents are likely to live longer than those born of short-lived parents. This did not happen in my own family. My parents who died at 90 and 94 had five children, four sons and a daughter.

The first to go was the youngest of the siblings. Next went my sister who was the fourth. My elder brother who was three years older than me went a couple of years ago. Two of us remain. I, who will soon be 98, and my younger brother, a retired Brigadier three years younger than me and in much better health. He looks after our ancestral property. Nevertheless, I still believe gene is the most important factor in determining one’s life-span.

Devise ways

More important than analysing longevity is to cope with old age and make terms with it. As we grow older, we are less able to exercise our limbs. We have to devise ways to keep them active. Right into my middle eighties, I played tennis every morning, did the rounds of Lodhi gardens in winter and spent an hour in the swimming pool in summer. I am unable to do this any more.

The best way to overcome this handicap is regular massages. I have tried different kinds of massages and was disappointed with the oil drip and smearing of oil on the body. A good massage needs powerful

hands going all over one’s body from the skull to the toes. I have this done at least once a day or at times twice a day. I am convinced that this has kept me going for so long.

Equally important is the need to cut down drastically one’s intake of food and drink. I start my mornings with a glass of guava juice. It is tastier and more health-giving than orange or any other fruit juice. My breakfast is one scrambled egg on toast. My lunch is usually patli kichri with dahi or a vegetable. I skip afternoon tea. In the evening I take a peg of Single Malt Whisky. It gives me a false appetite! Before I eat my supper, I say to myself “don’t eat too much”.

I also believe that a meal should have just one kind of vegetable or meat followed by a pinch of chooran. It is best to eat alone and in silence. Talking while eating does not do justice to the food and you swallow a lot of it. For me no more Punjabi or Mughlai food. I find south Indian idli, sambar and grated coconut easier to digest and healthier.

Never allow yourself to be constipated. The stomach is a storehouse of all kinds of ailments. Our sedantry life tends to make us constipated. Keep your bowels clean by whatever means you can: by lexatives, enemas, glycerine suppositories —whatever Bapu Gandhi fully understood the need to keep bowels clean. Besides, taking an enema every day, he gave enemas to his women admirers.Impose a strict discipline on your daily routine. If necessary, use a stop-watch. I have breakfast exactly at 6.30 am. lunch at noon, drink at 7 pm, supper at 8 pm.

Try to develop piece of mind. For this you must have a healthy bank account. Shortage of money can be very demoralising. It does not have to be in crores, but enough for your future needs and possibility of falling ill. Never lose your temper. It takes a heavy toll and jangles one’s nerves. Never tell a lie. Always keep your national motto in mind: Satyamev Jayate - only truth triumphs.

Give away generously. Remember you cannot take it with you. You may give it to your children, your servants or in charity. You will feel better. There is joy in giving. Drive out envy of those who have done better than you in life. A Punjabi verse sums up:

Rookhi sookhy khai kay Thanda paani peeNa veykh paraayee chonparian Na tarsaain jee

(Eat dry bread and drink cold waterPay no heed or envy those who smear their chapatis with ghee.)

Do not conform to the tradition of old people spending time in prayer and long hours in places of worship. That amounts to conceding defeat. Instead take up a hobby like gardening, growing bonsai, helping children of your neighbourhood with their homework.

A practice which I have found very effective is to fix my gaze on the flame of candle, empty my mind of everything, but in my kind repeat Aum Shanti, Aum Shanti, Aum Shanti. It does work. I am at peace with the world. We can’t all be Fawja Singh who as 100 runs a marathon race, but we can equal him in longevity, creativity. I wish all my readers long, healthy lives full of happiness.