The grandmaster of wit, whisky and words

A man who spared none—neither politicians nor priests, neither men nor women—Khushwant Singh wielded his pen like a rapier, cutting through hypocrisy with wit as sharp as his scotch was smooth. If India ever had a writer who could poke fun at the world while raising a toast to life, it was him. The man who gave us ‘Train to Pakistan’ and ‘The Company of Women’ also gave us a lifetime supply of sharp humour, biting sarcasm and unapologetic honesty. Whether it was politics, poetry or people’s peculiarities, nothing escaped his incisive quill.

Born in Hadali (now in Pakistan) in 1915, Singh was the son of a builder, Sobha Singh. In an era when birthdays weren’t exactly the highlight of family records, his father conveniently picked February 2nd as his official birth date. His grandmother had named him ‘Khushal Singh’—but young Khushal had other plans. At home, he was affectionately called “Shalee”, but at school, his name became a source of endless ridicule. Other boys would mock him with the phrase, “Shalee Shoolee, Bagh dee Moolee,” (meaning, “This Shalee or Shoolee is the radish of some garden”). Tired of being likened to a vegetable, he took matters into his own hands and changed his name to ‘Khushwant’, a name he later admitted was completely “self-manufactured and meaningless”.

An incorrigible prankster, Singh had a special talent for mischief. Once, along with his brothers, he gifted his chemistry teacher a cobra, which, unsurprisingly, caused more panic than laughter, and later became part of one of his short stories. He fared poorly in academics, except in English and geography, subjects that would later help him navigate both the literary and real world.

Singh’s journey took him to St. Stephen’s College in Delhi and later to Government College, Lahore. He went on to study law in London but soon realised that the courtroom lacked the drama he craved. He briefly practiced law in Lahore but eventually took a turn towards journalism, diplomacy and what would become his true calling—writing.

His career hopscotched through various roles: working in the Indian Foreign Service, writing for All India Radio, serving at UNESCO in Paris and ultimately, settling into the editor’s chair at The Illustrated Weekly of India. There, he made it his mission to “inform and amuse” his readers. The magazine’s circulation soared under his watch, thanks to his ability to offend just about everyone with his no-holds-barred writing. His column, With Malice Towards One and All, featuring a cartoon of him inside a light bulb, scotch in hand, became legendary.

Singh’s writing was a blend of wit, wisdom, and wickedly sharp observations. His masterpiece,Train to Pakistan (1956), captured the horrors of Partition in a way few could. Based on his personal experience of violence in Lahore, the novel painted a raw and unflinching picture of communal strife. Other notable works included I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale (1959), Delhi (1990), and the delightfully controversial Sex, Scotch & Scholarship (1992).

Never one to shy away from controversy, Singh was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 but returned it in protest against the Indian Army’s siege of the Golden Temple in 1984. He was later honoured with the Padma Vibhushan in 2007, but his true badge of honour was his fearless voice that never wavered, no matter how many feathers it ruffled.

And with that, India lost its most audacious, irreverent and delightfully unfiltered writer—but his words and his whiskey-infused wisdom live on.