Dead Sea Scrolls

KHUSHWANT Singh has a more interesting resume than most people alive in the country today. One of the early writers of Indian fiction in Eng...

KHUSHWANT Singh has a more interesting resume than most people alive in the country today. One of the early writers of Indian fiction in English, he has also been a successful magazine editor, a scholar with a two-volume history of the Sikhs to his credit, a man of outspoken views for which he has braved censure, ridicule and death threats. His discipline, his sincerity, his capacity for hard work have all been remarked upon. And as his popular column revealed, regardless of his own propaganda, he has always been quite a nice man to know, one who enjoys the good things in life be they a bottle of Scotch or the birds in his beloved Kasauli.

Why would a person of such potential waste his time writing a Burial At Sea? It’s a question one cannot help but ask. This slim novella is the story of Victor Jai Bhagwan, son of a successful advocate Krishan Lal Mattoo and friend of Mahatma Gandhi, though he does not agree with his economic views. Victor studies in England and returns to become Indian’s biggest business tycoon. There is a best friend Madhavan Nair, a daughter Bharati, and inevitably there is sex. Mattoo sleeps with Victor’s nanny, Bharati with Nair and a muscular yogi, and Victor with prostitutes and a tiger-loving tantric.

The narrative is poorly conceived, the writing trite and the characters cardboard cutouts. The whispers following the book’s release tell us that Victor and Bharati are veiled portraits of Nehru and Indira; and one can presume Nair to be a sort of amalgamation of Krishna Menon and M O Mathai. But apart from the slight humour the business world might derive from the characterisation of Nehru as an industrialist, the political resonances do not add much to the story, mostly because this is old ground.

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And the question still remains : why did Khushwant Singh write this book?

The answer is perhaps because he could not help it. As anybody who has ventured beyond the formidable signboard barring appointment-less visitors to his ground floor flat in Sujan Singh Park will testify, if there is one thing the country’s best known Sardar cannot resist, it is a good yarn.

Combine this with his enduring fascination with the Nehru-Gandhi family — he has been the family’s sutradhar, having edited the National Herald, eulogised Sanjay, written much about the soap opera fight between Indira and her younger daughter-in-law — and it is tempting to speculate that Khushwant concocted this poppycock tale about an industrialist who lived on a ship just because he was… pssst… bursting to share the bizarre story of a powerful, westernised, old man bedding a sexy, young tantric.

To be fair, his account of their encounters is the kind of stuff that makes for brisk sales at railway stalls. There is also the fact that when someone of Khushwant Singh’s stature delves into such areas, it provokes some discussion into real-life incidents — and a little reflection on the personal lives of our leaders is not such a bad thing if it makes them seem less godlike and more human. At the same time one regrets the writer has no distance from his gossip. A strong dose of irony, some insight into human foibles might have elevated the book.