bhaibaldeep

He was one of ’em whom I had pledged never to meet for reasons I vaguely remember. Then I met for I had to arrange an interview of his for an archive. We met two days in succession – we sang both days together. He told me of his favourite singers – his all time favourite composition – from Gurbani actually. I began to sing and he began, to sing along. 
He had once said there isn’t a condom yet manufactured for his pen. Finally, there was one made – exactly fitting – just for his pen. When I helped carry his body inside the electric crematorium, his arms would keep setting themselves free – at least three times until I secured them with the shawl. He wore a grey coloured track suit. Barefoot. No pen. No paper. No glasses. Having donated his eyes to a very fortunate anonymous recipient who would now see politicians, women and scotch, the Khushwant way! His hands though kept the shape well. I have seen it before with some of the old school musicians. His left still held a paper as if, his right, a pen albeit one sans any form, shape or colour. Wanting to write on.

He rides on.
He writes on.
I was glad I met him. He’d said he was glad to have met me.

Delhi cries old man – for you. I could never meet Mirza Ghalib. But I guess, he must have been another good old bastard just like you 😉

It has been another honour after Patwant Singh’s, to have been there to bid adieu – to help offer your body back to the elements all five.

Rest in piece.
Rest in sarcasm.
Rest in laughter.
Rest in single malt.
Rest in jokes all vulgar.
Rest in happiness ever after.
I thank you for being you.

I had started this sketch three days ago. Without realising it was you in it all along! Pardon me for the absence of your single malt for it ain’t a PM 7 yet. Hope you’d like the caption I wrote just for you:

God The Pen.
God The Writer.
God The Ink.
God The Kondum.

Sketch — Khushwant still not done