Khushwant – Namesake

What is in a name ? A rose is a rose is a rose.

My father, like every other, wanted me to be happy and blessed me with the name Khushwant, or so I thought. On a tete-a-tete, he confessed that while his intentions were because he wanted to see me happy, the secret for my naamkaran (#nomenclature) was my namesake, writer by the name.

#nomenclature – should have been namenclature – when it is about name, why complicate.

Papa had made his passport, like many of our countrymen, without a journey overseas in sight. Quite long ago – but still waiting to get a tappa (stamp) on it. To him, English, like sex, is blissful ecstasy – it runs through the veins, and so he wants to visit this country once. Sex is taboo, especially for those of us from this subcontinent. English too is so, to a vast majority. Do I still need to tell you that I am Indian.

Papa was always fond of English and found to be wanting khush, He read and did a lot like angrez (English). He had gone beyond the collection of books, started gathering snippets and editorial columns the former used to write for newspapers and magazines. With all of these my namesake could occupy nearly half his library.

Papa has spent many dinners discussing my namesakes’ works.  In spite of having repeated so many times, he would still bore us by talking about this author.  Train-to-Pakistan, Truth-Love-and-a-Little-Malice, and The-Sunset-Club would have been torn apart, even if cast in metal, for so much of wear and tear.  I started hating the author but couldn’t express because of the name.

One day, some six years ago, I saw Papa sad and sullen, sitting in his easy-chair, with moist eyes. That day, my namesake had died. Looking at Papa, I felt very sad for him and soon I too mourned the author’s death. As days passed by, and since the namesake had passed away, I revived his works through my discussions at home. I started reading his books, and couldn’t believe myself, they were indeed a class apart.  Each one would take us to a period, into that life and settee, one might even smell the soil.

Earlier, when Papa would invite, coax, coach, chide me to read, he had kept one book always out of my sight, which I realised. At last, one fine day, I found this book, which was kept sandwiched between large manila envelopes. Unable to hold my curiosity further, I had flipped and read some random pages from the book. Only then did I really understand, why he held his Company of Women so close to his Chest. It spoke so widely and wildly about sex, huh aplenty, as if to find prominence in porn literature.  At first I discarded the book as an old man’s fantasies for sex.

I learnt from my mother, that this book in particular was a gift to him from someone amongst his childhood friends. If I expected Papa to say this friend’s name, seeing the way he has kept this very book away from me for so many years, I must be a fool. Yet, I did ask him and got him miffed.

I am in late-twenties, and am in no hurry to rush into any serious relationships. Somewhere I read, what is the fun in living long, when it is your old-age that gets extended. Live with the times. Life without sex is like candle without wax – just the wick. Then, not just once, I read this book thrice. It would be a blatant lie, if I said I read it only for its sexy story. I started liking this (b)old man’s lucid style. Soon, reading all of his books in Papa’s collection, I too have become a fan of this old man.

For those who are not so fond of reading, don’t judge. My namesake, the former, had indeed written many wonderful books, and known to have been the best of his times. Been a lawyer, member of parliament, Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan and yet critical with toughest politicians of those times, all of this without much airs.

Whether I live such reputation like my-namesake, I can’t say. But I have decided to do what my Papa really wanted me to be, Happy.

Khushwant !