Delhi

Khushwant Singh

Description

I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress Bhagmati when I have had my fill of whoring in foreign lands Thus begins Khushwant Singh s vast, erotic, irrelevant magnum opus on the city of Delhi. The principal narrator of the saga, which extends over six hundred years, is a bawdy, ageing reprobate who loves Delhi as much as he does the hijda whore Bhagmati half man, half woman with sexual inventiveness and energy of both the sexes. Travelling through time, space and history to discover his beloved city, the narrator meets a myriad of people poets and princes, saints and sultans, temptresses and traitors, emperors and eunuchs who have shaped and endowed Delhi with its very special mystique. And as we accompany the narrator on his epic journey we find the city of emperors transformed and immortalized in our minds forever.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 01 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184751116
• Langue: English

Extrait

Khushwant Singh

DELHI: A NOVEL


Contents
About the Author
Praise for the Book
Foreword to the Paperback Edition
Delhi
Lady J.H.T.
Bhagmati
Musaddi Lal
Bhagmati
The Timurid
Bhagmati
The Untouchables
Bhagmati
Aurangzeb Alamgir: Emperor of Hindustan
Bhagmati
Nadir Shah
Bhagmati
Meer Taqi Meer
Bhagmati
1857
Bhagmati
The Builders
Bhagmati
The Dispossessed
Bhagmati
A Note from the Author
Follow Penguin
Copyright


PENGUIN BOOKS
DELHI: A NOVEL
Khushwant Singh was India s best-known writer and columnist. He was founder-editor of Yojana and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India , the National Herald and Hindustan Times . He authored classics such as Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale (retitled as The Lost Victory ) and Delhi . His last novel, The Sunset Club , written when he was ninety-five, was published by Penguin Books in 2010. His non-fiction includes the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs , a number of translations and works on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice , was published by Penguin Books 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 in Amritsar by the Indian Army. In 2007, he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan.
Among the other awards he received were the Punjab Ratan, the Sulabh International award for the most honest Indian of the year, and honorary doctorates from several universities.
Khushwant Singh passed away in 2014 at the age of ninety-nine.
Praise for the Book
Khushwant Singh has a way of telling a story that is unmatched - Times of India
Delhi is where you begin if you want to know how good a writer heis - Economic Times
Remains a landmark in Indo-English fiction - Guardian
When he wanted to, [Khushwant Singh] could write a mean novel. Delhi is like the city for which it is named: complex, multi-layered and ambitious - Time Out
Stands the test of time - Deccan Herald
A sprawling, erotic, exotic novel spiked with Rabelaisian humor - Publishers Weekly
Foreword to the Paperback Edition
I cannot yet believe that the first hardcover edition of my novel sold out before a copy was available in the book-stores. Or that a second and a third edition should have to be printed within a fortnight of the first. It is enough to turn the head of any writer. It has mine.

It took me twenty-five years to piece together this story spanning several centuries of history. I put in it all I had in me as a writer: love, lust, sex, hate, vendetta and violence - and above all, tears. I did not write this novel with any audience in mind. All I wanted to do was tell my readers what I learnt about the city roaming among its ancient ruins, its congested bazaars, its diplomatic corps and its cocktail parties. My only aim was to get them to know Delhi and love it as much as I do. The readers response has been most gratifying and gives me hope that I may achieve my object.


New Delhi Khushwant Singh
July 1990


 
 
‘I RETURN TO DELHI AS I RETURN TO MY MISTRESS BHAGMATI WHEN I HAVE HAD MY FILL OF WHORING IN FOREIGH LANDS …’
 
Thus begins Khushwant Singh’s vast, erotic, irreverent magnum opus on the city of Delhi. The principal narrator of the saga, which extends over six hundred years, is a bawdy, ageing reprobate who loves Delhi as much as he does the hijda whore Bhagmati-half man, half woman with the sexual inventiveness and energy of both the sexes. Travelling through time, space and history to ‘discover’ his beloved city, the narrator meets a myriad of people-poets and princes, saints and sultans, temptresses and traitors, emperors and eunuchs-who have participated in [and been witness to]  the major historical forces that have shaped and endowed Delhi with its very special mystique… And as we accompany the narrator on his epic journey we find the city of emperors transformed and immortalized in our minds for ever.
 
Cover photograph by Prateek Raghav
 
 



I asked my soul: What is Delhi?
She replied: The world is the body and Delhi its life.
Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
1
Delhi
I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress Bhagmati when I have had my fill of whoring in foreign lands. Delhi and Bhagmati have a lot in common. Having been long misused by rough people they have learnt to conceal their seductive charms under a mask of repulsive ugliness. It is only to their lovers, among whom I count myself, that they reveal their true selves.
To the stranger Delhi may appear like a gangrenous accretion of noisy bazaars and mean-looking hovels growing round a few tumble-down forts and mosques along a dead river. If he ventures into its narrow, winding lanes, the stench of raw sewage may bring vomit to his throat. The citizens of Delhi do little to endear themselves to anyone. They spit phlegm and bloody betel -juice everywhere; they urinate and defecate whenever and wherever the urge overtakes them; they are loud-mouthed, express familiarity with incestuous abuse and scratch their privates while they talk.
It is the same with Bhagmati. Those who do not know her find her unattractive. She is dark and has pock-marks on her face. She is short and squat; her teeth are uneven and yellowed as a result of chewing tobacco and smoking beedis . Her clothes are loud, her voice louder; her speech bawdy and her manners worse.
This is, as I say, only on the surface-like the evil-smelling oil people smear on their skins to repel mosquitoes, midges and other blood-sucking vermin. What you have to do for things to appear different is to cultivate a sense of belonging to Delhi and an attachment to someone like Bhagmati. Then the skies over Delhi s marbled palaces turn an aquamarine blue; its domed mosques and pencil-like minarets are spanned by rainbows, the earth exudes the earthy aroma of khas , of jasmine and of maulsari. Then the dusky Bhagmati glides towards you swaying her ample hips like a temple dancer; her mouth smells of fresh cloves and she speaks like her Imperial Majesty the Empress of Hindustan. Only when making love does she behave, as every woman should, like a lusty harlot. It is a simple formula: use your heart not your head, your emotion not your reason.
I make Delhi and Bhagmati sound very mysterious. The truth is that I am somewhat confused in my thoughts. What I am trying to say is that although I detest living in Delhi and am ashamed of my liaison with Bhagmati, I cannot keep away from either for too long. In these pages I will explain the strange paradox of my lifelong, love-hate affair with the city and the woman. It may read like a Fucking Man s Guide to Delhi: Past and Present but that is not what I mean it to be.
*
The plane touches down at Palam at 2100 hours, one hour behind schedule. Air-India planes used to arrive on the dot till the government took it over says someone. A voice over the speaker system orders us to remain seated. Why? I demand of an air hostess gliding past me. She confides in my ear: Health! India, mother of most diseases known to mankind, does not want to add any more to her list. We sit encapsuled in light, talking in whispers and preventing our newspapers from rustling.
Someone slaps the plane with a heavy hand: thump, thump. The steward yanks open the door. Two men in medical white waft in with a gust of hot air. They go down the aisle distributing printed forms. We busy ourselves filling in the answers: Where did you spend the last ten days? Nine days? Yesterday? One man takes a canister out of his pocket and strides up the aisle spraying us with hospital smell. We can disembark.
We file out. Near the base of the ramp attached to the first class exit stands an enormous grey Rolls-Royce bearing the President s three-faced lion insignia on its numberplate. Beside the car, stand the President s ADC and an orderly with an armful of flowers. Behind them are half-a-dozen photographers with cameras raised to their noses. A white woman carrying a fur coat on one arm and a hat-box in the other comes down the steps. Flash bulbs explode. The ADC clicks his heels and salutes. He takes the white woman s fur coat and hat-box and hands them to the orderly. He garlands the woman, presents her with the bouquets and salutes her again. She flashes her teeth at him. They get into the Rolls-Royce. The Rolls-Royce purrs away into the dark.
Who is she?
We are herded together and directed to follow an Air-India official. We shade our eyes against the glare of airport lights and showers of moths. We skirt past long-snouted bandicoots skating on their bellies and enter a door marked International. A large poster with a picture of Pandit Nehru bids us Welcome to India.
A police sergeant scrutinizes our health forms and stacks them in the out basket on his table. A sub-inspector inspects our passports, stamps them and hands them back to us. A customs officer gives us sheafs of forms to fill in triplicate. Three each for what we have bought abroad; three each for what we have in foreign currency. We spend half-an-hour filling them. Customs men eye us to see if our expressions betray undeclared items. We look bored; our expressions betray nothing.
Forty minutes later trollies rattle into the customs shed. Coolies offload cases on the floor. I locate my valise and grab a customs inspector. I have bought nothing and have no foreign currency. He does not believe me. He examines my declaration forms and my passport. He opens my valise and fires a stream of questions as he digs into my clothes.
Any whisky-shisky?
No.
No tape recorder?
No.
Transistor-shranzistor?
No.
Camera-shamera?
No.
Watch-shotch?
No.
He grabs my hand and examines the shiny new Vulcan alarm watch