FICTION
Same old obsessions
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`I have nothing at all against popular fiction; on the contrary. But I do have something against popular fiction which masquerades as something else.'
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I MUST confess at the outset that I am more familiar with Khushwant Singh's journalistic pieces than his fiction. I liked The History of the Sikhs a great deal. I read his weekly column with pleasure, and marvel at how incisive he is. Like the rest of India, I see him as the grand old man of Indian letters. However, Singh has also long been seen as an enfant terrible, an incorrigible rouι. There is something gratifying about such an image, and I don't particularly judge him for cultivating it.
But there is a reason I have not wanted to read his fiction and why I steered clear of The Company of Women, one of his last works, after reading extracts in weeklies and newspapers. I can't read his work seriously because I find in his juvenile imaginings of the sexual act and his puerile objectification of the female body something deeply offensive. Thrusting, grunting, heaving, Singh's protagonists are continually enthralled by rudimentary sex. Sample this passage about the protagonist of Burial at Sea: "Soon a shiver of thrill (sic) ran through his body as he pumped his hot seed into her." Even more objectionable are his mostly gratuitous descriptions of generously endowed women, reinforcing every last stereotype of the female body.
So besides the scotch, and sex, what do we have in Burial at Sea, Singh's latest work? Jai Bhagwan, the hero of this novel, is obviously modelled after Nehru, and his daughter, Bharati, after Indira. Jai Bhagwan's vision for his country is that it should become an industrial superpower, in the process providing employment to millions. In this he is not in agreement with Gandhi (who appears as himself). However, Gandhi encourages him, only cautioning him not to get too mired in luxury to forget the "real" India. Jai Bhagwan's father, the lawyer Mattoo, has a British mistress, Valerie, who arrives as his children's governess and stays on. It is she who guides Jai Bhagwan through the initial minefields of his stay in England, where he attends Eton.
His own marriage is short lived: his wife — chosen by his long-suffering, "traditional" mother — dies soon enough. He brings up his daughter, Bharati, with the help of his mother. Bharati is headstrong and self-assured; her stint in a school in Switzerland is not to her liking. Soon she begins to help Jai Bhagwan with his business empire. He sends her abroad to learn more about it; in the process she is deflowered by Nair, his closest friend and associate.
However, all is not well. Jai Bhagwan begins to feel the sadness of mortality: he is 50. Enter Ma Durgeshwari, the tantric, accompanied by her tiger Sheroo. Ma Durgeshwari is not a tantric for nothing; she and Jai Bhagwan embark on a sexually obsessive liaison. Meanwhile Bharati gets yoga lessons and a little more from Ma's associate Swami Dhananjay. While father and daughter disport themselves, textile unrest grows. Jai Bhagwan gets on the wrong side of the unions. Nair betrays him. Tragedy threatens, he dreams of escape forever on his luxury yacht.
And there we must leave him, (with some of the tale untold) and I hope that this description ensures that you are captivated by the simplicity of the tale. Because I was. I read it in one sitting, the way I would a slim Harold Robbins (or do I do Robbins a disfavour?). It required nothing of me and that was heartening. I have nothing at all against popular fiction; on the contrary. But I do have something against popular fiction which masquerades as something else. And this is the problem with Burial at Sea. It masquerades as an attempt to come to terms with important figures in this nation's history. It masquerades as satire: on fake religion, on known public figures. But successful satire, while often crude (some of the best satire has been amazingly, childishly crude) is never less than serious, never contents itself with mere caricature, though it can include that, and often does.
I have a feeling that, were Singh to put behind him his obsessions — both with particular dynasties and with voyeurism and wish fulfilment — he would have a lot of very interesting things to say, as he does otherwise. But the problem is, he can't. He is wedded to these ideas. Fiction is always the embodiment of one's own obsessions. It is our misfortune that these happen to be Khushwant Singh's.
IRA SINGH
Burial at Sea, Khushwant Singh, Viking Penguin, Rs.275.
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