Portrait of a Lady

Khushwant Singh

Description

A Khushwant Singh short story is not flamboyant but modest, restrained, well-crafted Perhaps his greatest gift as a writer is a wonderful particularity of description London Magazine Khushwant Singh first established his reputation as a writer through the short story. His stories wry, poignant, erotic and, above all, human bear testimony to Khushwant Singh s remarkable range and his ability to create an unforgettable PBI - World. Spanning over half a century, this volume contains all the short stories Khushwant Singh has ever written, including the delightfully tongue-in-cheek The Maharani of Chootiapuram , written in 2008. Khushwant s stories enthrall [He has]an ability akin to that of Somerset Maugham the ability to entertain intelligently PBI - India Today His stories are better than [those of] any PBI - Indian writing in English Times of PBI - India The Collected Short Stories leaves the reader in a delightful, inebriated trance Sunday Chronicle He is not an ordinary short story writer [Collected Stories] is delightful reading Hindustan Times

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 20 février 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184759044
• Langue: English

Extrait

Khushwant Singh
The Portrait of a Lady
Collected Stories
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Preface
Posthumous
Karma
The Mark of Vishnu
The Butterfly
The Interview
The Portrait of a Lady
The Voice of God
A Punjab Pastorale
Kusum
The Riot
The Rape
The Memsahib of Mandla
The Great Difference
When Sikh Meets Sikh
Death Comes to Daulat Ram
The Insurance Agent
The Fawn
Man, How the Government of India Run!
The Man with a Clear Conscience
Black Jasmine
The Bottom-pincher
A Bride for the Sahib
Maiden Voyage of the Jal Hindia
India Is a Strange Country
Mr Kanjoos and the Great Miracle
Mr Singh and the Colour Bar
The Morning After the Night Before
A Love Affair in London
Rats and Cats in the House of Culture
The Red Tie
My Own My Native Land
The Convert
Paradise
Life s Horoscope
Zora Singh
Wanted: A Son
The Mulberry Tree
The Maharani of Chootiapuram
Footnote
Mr Kanjoos and the Great Miracle
Copyright Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY: COLLECTED STORIES
Khushwant Singh is India s best-known writer and columnist. He has been founder-editor of Yojana , and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India , the National Herald and the Hindustan Times . He is also the author of several books which include the novels Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, Delhi, The Company of Women and Burial at Sea; the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs; and a number of translations and non-fiction books on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice , was published in 2002.
Khushwant Singh was a member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974, but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple by the Indian Army. In 2007, he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan.
For Naina my one and only grandchild, the apple of my eye, in the hope that she will write more and better stories than her grandpa
Preface
I believe that short stories should conform to tradition: in being short, having a good beginning, middle and end-preferably a surprise ending with some message to convey. Unfortunately the tradition has long been flouted, particularly in the United States. Their leading magazines (like the New Yorker) carry stories of the size of novellas, introduce many characters and asides which have little relevance to the central theme and often conclude without a proper ending. Being published in the New Yorker is usually regarded as a hallmark of success but I find these stories highly overrated and find the stories appearing in British magazines like Granta and the London Magazine closer to my idea of what they should be. (Only one story in this collection went out of control and almost became a novella.)
My role models are Aldous Huxley, Muriel Spark, Dorothy Parker, Evelyn Waugh and Somerset Maugham. Likewise I rate highly the continental writers Mauriac, Camus and Moravia. Among Indians my favourites are Premchand, Saadat Hasan Manto, Raja Rao, Satyajit Ray, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Krishen Chander and the Pakistani, Intezar Husain. I don t know how other short-story writers choose their themes. Mine are based on real people I got to know well. Of course I had to change their names for fear of libel suits- I ve had more than my share of those. I look forward to meeting unpleasant people: arrogant, full of self-importance, posers, gasbags, braggarts, name-droppers, hypocrites. I encourage them to talk about themselves. They are never short of words. I put them in different situations, add some mirch masala to spice up my stories as I put them on paper. I have no great opinion of myself as a writer but I am different from my contemporaries as my stories are more malicious and funnier than theirs. A few of my stories may have been written fifty years ago, but they are relevant to the present times as they are reflective of the humbug that still thrives in our society. It is for no other reason than this that I appeal readers to have a look at them.
New Delhi July 2007
K HUSHWANT S INGH
Posthumous
I am in bed with fever. It is not serious. In fact, it is not serious at all, as I have been left alone to look after myself. I wonder what would happen if the temperature suddenly shot up. Perhaps I would die. That would be really hard on my friends. I have so many and am so popular. I wonder what the papers would have to say about it. They couldn t just ignore me. Perhaps the Tribune would mention it on its front page with a small photograph. The headline would read Sardar Khushwant Singh Dead -and then in somewhat smaller print:
We regret to announce the sudden death of Sardar Khushwant Singh at 6 p.m. last evening. He leaves behind a young widow, two infant children and a large number of friends and admirers to mourn his loss. It will be recalled that the Sardar came to settle in Lahore some five years ago from his home town, Delhi. Within these years he rose to a position of eminence in the Bar and in politics. His loss will be mourned generally throughout the Province.
Amongst those who called at the late Sardar s residence were the PA to the prime minister, the PA to the chief justice, several ministers and judges of the high court.
In a statement to the press, the hon ble the chief justice said: I feel that the Punjab is poorer by the passing away of this man. The cruel hand of death has cut short the promise of a brilliant career.
At the bottom of the page would be an announcement:
The funeral will take place at 10 a.m. today.
I feel very sorry for myself and for all my friends. With difficulty I check the tears which want to express sorrow at my own death. But I also feel elated and want people to mourn me. So I decide to die-just for the fun of it as it were. In the evening, giving enough time for the press to hear of my death, I give up the ghost. Having emerged from my corpse, I come down and sit on the cool marble steps at the entrance to wallow in posthumous glory.
In the morning I get the paper before my wife. There is no chance of a squabble over the newspaper as I am downstairs already, and in any case my wife is busy pottering around my corpse. The Tribune lets me down. At the bottom of page 3, column 1, I find myself inserted in little brackets of obituary notices of retired civil servants-and that is all. I feel annoyed. It must be that blighter Shafi, special representative. He never liked me. But I couldn t imagine he would be so mean as to deny me a little importance when I was dead. However, he couldn t keep the wave of sorrow which would run over the Province from trickling into his paper. My friends would see to that.
Near the high court the paper is delivered fairly early. In the house of my lawyer friend Qadir it is deposited well before dawn. It isn t that the Qadirs are early risers. As a matter of fact, hardly anyone stirs in the house before 9 a.m. But Qadir is a great one for principles and he insists that the paper must be available early in the morning even if it is not looked at.
As usual, the Qadirs were in bed at 9 a.m. He had worked very late at night. She believed in sleep anyhow. The paper was brought in on a tray along with a tumbler of hot water with a dash of lime juice. Qadir sipped the hot water between intervals of cigarette smoking. He had to do this to make his bowels work. He only glanced at the headlines in bed. The real reading was done when the cigarette and lime had had their effect. The knowledge of how fate had treated me had to await the lavatory.
In due course Qadir ambled into the bathroom with the paper in one hand and a cigarette perched on his lower lip. Comfortably seated, he began to scan it thoroughly and his eye fell on news of lesser import. When he got to page 3, column 1, he stopped smoking for a moment, a very brief moment. Should he get up and shout to his wife? No, he decided, that would be an unnecessary demonstration. Qadir was a rationalist. He had become more of one since he married a woman who was a bundle of emotions and explosions. The poor fellow was dead and nothing could be done about it. He knew that his wife would burst out crying when he told her. That was all the more reason that he should be matter-of-fact about it-just as if he was going to tell her of a case he had lost.
Qadir knew his wife well. He told her with an air of casualness, and she burst out crying. Her ten-year-old daughter came running into the room. She eyed her mother for a little while and then joined her in the wailing. Qadir decided to be severe.
What are you making all this noise for? he said sternly. Do you think it will bring him back to life?
His wife knew that it was no use arguing with him. He always won the arguments.
I think we should go to their house at once. His wife must be feeling wretched, she said.
Qadir shrugged his shoulders.
I am afraid I can t manage it. Much as I would like to condole with his wife-rather widow-my duty to my clients comes first. I have to be at the tribunal in half an hour.
Qadir was at the tribunal all day and his family stopped at home.

Not far from the city s big park lives another friend, Khosla. He and his family, consisting of a wife, three sons and a daughter, reside in this upper-class residential area. He is a judge and very high up in the bureaucracy.
Khosla is an early riser. He has to rise early because that is the only time he has to himself. During the day he has to work in the courts. In the evenings he plays tennis-and then he has to spend some time with the children and fussing with his wife. He has a large number of visitors, as he is very popular and enjoys popularity. But Khosla is ambitious. As a lad he had fancied himself as a clever boy. In his early youth his hair had begun to fall off and had uncovered a large b