Perhaps the least talked-about — and most enjoyable — side of Khushwant Singh’s long, colourful, and stubbornly active life was how effortlessly he balanced brainwork with bodywork.
While many thinkers treated the body like an optional accessory, Singh gave it equal billing with the mind. To him, intellect without movement was like wearing shoes without socks.
Unlike most contemporary writers who lived neck-deep in books and deadlines, Khushwant Singh understood that mental gymnastics and physical exercise should share the same daily timetable. One sharpened the mind; the other oiled the joints. Together, they kept the man ticking well into his late nineties.
In one of his final columns, written at the ripe age of 98 and still sparkling with his trademark mischief, he casually laid out his daily routine and diet. This included, without apology, a couple of shots of single malt. These, he suggested, were essential for the right saroor — that gentle kick-start needed to enjoy simple food and an unhurried evening. Consider it culinary foreplay, Singh-style.
He was also a strong believer in massage — twice a day, no less. Since strenuous exercise becomes a distant dream in advanced age, he argued, massage steps in as the loyal understudy, keeping muscles alive, blood circulating, and the body politely cooperative.
Then came his advice on bowel health, delivered with the same fearless honesty that defined his writing. He recommended the occasional enema and, in his delightfully irreverent way, invoked Mahatma Gandhi, who reportedly administered enemas not just to himself but to his female aides as well. With Singh, even digestion came with a side of satire.
Food-wise, he preferred meals that were kind to the stomach. South Indian idlis and sambar topped his list. But upma? Absolutely not. That bland, pudding-lookalike dish stood no chance against the sweet-loving Punjabi palate of Khushwant Singh, who would rather flirt with halwa than settle for wheatmeal compromise.
His physical activities once included tennis, which he eventually gave up — not out of laziness, but seniority. Walking, however, remained non-negotiable. He was a familiar, friendly presence on morning walks, chatting cheerfully with neighbourhood companions, proving that gossip, too, counts as exercise.
Much has rightly been written about his towering contribution to Indian literature and his lucid, widely read columns. But another gift of his to popular culture deserves equal applause: the creation of Santa and Banta. Those legendary jokes — often silly, sometimes sharp — lifted him from the pedestal of intellectual elitism to the warm, accessible rank of a fun-loving aam aadmi.
In the end, Khushwant Singh didn’t just write about life — he squeezed it, stirred it, spiked it, and laughed all the way through.
