Some writers carve a niche not with the timid chisels of literary politeness but with the bold strokes of unfiltered candour, sardonic wit, and unapologetic irreverence.
A man as famous for his literary prowess as for his fondness for whisky and wicked humour, Khushwant Singh was a raconteur par excellence—a chronicler of history, an astute observer of human follies, and perhaps, India’s most unrepentant provocateur in print.
Born on 2 February 1915 in Hadali (in present-day Pakistan’s Punjab province), Khushwant Singh’s life spanned nearly a century, witnessing the twilight of colonial India, the horrors of Partition, and the rise of a post-independence nation still grappling with its contradictions.
He was born into privilege—his father, Sir Sobha Singh, was one of Delhi’s prominent builders, credited with much of the imperial architecture in the capital.
Yet, privilege never dulled Singh’s penchant for questioning authority, be it political dogma, religious orthodoxy, or societal hypocrisies.
His academic pursuits led him from Government College, Lahore, to King’s College, London, and finally to qualifying as a barrister from the Inner Temple.
But the legal profession, much like the clerical rigidity he detested, failed to ignite his passions.
It was the written word that seduced him, and he succumbed with fervour.
Wielding words like weapons
Khushwant Singh’s literary oeuvre is as diverse as it is provocative.
His magnum opus, Train to Pakistan (1956), remains one of the most searing narratives of Partition, eschewing nationalistic platitudes for an unflinching portrayal of communal violence and human depravity.
Unlike many contemporaries who romanticised the struggle for independence, Khushwant sahab's lens remained brutally honest, exposing the moral rot beneath the veneer of patriotism.
His History of the Sikhs (1963-66) is a scholarly masterpiece, meticulously chronicling Sikh history with academic rigour, while his memoir, Truth, Love & a Little Malice (2002), is a candid, often scandalous reflection of his own life—replete with personal anecdotes, confessions, and irreverent commentary on public figures.
Khushwant Singh’s prowess wasn’t confined to fiction or history; his essays, columns, and editorial stints, especially at The Illustrated Weekly of India, reshaped Indian journalism.
Under his stewardship, the publication shed its conservative skin, embracing boldness in content and form—a reflection of Singh’s own unorthodox spirit.
Accolades and accolades amidst avarice and anarchy
For all his irreverence, Khushwant Singh’s contributions earned him accolades that even he couldn’t dismiss with a trademark smirk.
He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974, which he famously returned in 1984 to protest against the Indian government’s siege of the Golden Temple during Operation Blue Star—a gesture emblematic of his principled defiance.
Later, he accepted the Padma Vibhushan in 2007, perhaps a rare moment where the establishment and the iconoclast found common ground.
Khushwant Singh’s life is peppered with anecdotes as colourful as his literary overture.
A man of routines, he began his day at 4 a.m., writing with monk-like discipline, only to switch to more hedonistic pursuits by noon—whisky in hand, relishing the pleasures of company, conversation, and often, controversy.
He was known for his bawdy humour and unabashed love for all things sensual.
Khushwant Singh’s columns, notably With Malice Towards One and All, were a cocktail of satire, self-deprecation, and sharp social commentary.
In one such piece, he described himself with delightful irreverence: "I am a short, ugly, balding Sikh with an exaggerated opinion of myself. I drink, I smoke, I eat meat, and I do not believe in God."
Yet beneath this veneer of mirth and malice was a man deeply sensitive to human suffering.
His writings on Partition bleed empathy, his essays on ageing are tinged with existential melancholy, and his reflections on mortality—especially in his later works like The Sunset Club (2010)—are disarmingly poignant.
A life lived in full measure
Khushwant Singh passed away on 20 March 2014, at the age of 99.
But death, much like decorum, failed to diminish his influence. His legacy endures—not just in his vast body of work but in the intellectual courage he embodied.
He taught readers that literature need not be embalmed in piety; that truth, however inconvenient, must be spoken; and that life, in all its flawed, fleeting glory, deserves to be lived unapologetically.
In an age increasingly allergic to offence, Khushwant Singh remains a reminder of a time when writers didn’t just reflect society but also rattled it—one irreverent sentence at a time.